General Life Update

My Room
12:36
Just woke up, lazy bum
Need coffee, cigs, among other things
Ireland this weekend, Amsterdam the next
I know, I know, but can really you blame me for going back?


General Life Update

It's been too too long since I've just unloaded my mind, taken the time to think seriously and in writing about my life. Now's the time Part of that was NaNoWriMo, part of it being moderately sick, part of it my computer's well needed sojourn to the Mac store. But now, all my excuses have fallen to the floor as I remember the times when I updated almost every day. I know I kid myself that there is anything resembling an "audience" that reads this with any sort of regularity or alacrity. If there is, I apologize for my lack of posting: sometimes you have to live life -- it demands no less! -- not write about it.

I have coffee. I have a hand rolled cig. I have pajamas, lots of homework, and appropriate music for musings. Let's begin

NaNoWriMo. Okay, so I only wrote about 2,500, which is lame by most standards. But more importantly, I not only realized but accepted and began to actualize the hidden literary wants of my soul. I want to write a book, and I found a format in which to do it. I'm going to continue to twirl my memories and current events into chapters. Not only have I received many lovely compliments and hopes for more, but it feels good to me. I have so many multi-faceted memories that deserve to be see something else but the inside of my head. Writing what I did showed me that I have areas that need work: personal descriptions, dialogue. All in all, I say NaNoWriMo was successful.

I have $16.34 in my back account. That' s in dollars so I can't even get 10 euros from the machine. My mom said she was sending me money, but I am yet to see it. Damnnit. You know what's frustrating? Not only having to ask your parents for money, but until that happens, being ass broke IN EUROPE. I've been financially independent, minus school expenses, since I was 16. To not have a job -- two for that matter -- is so disconcerting. I remember when I got my last paycheck of the summer thinking, "For the next 4 months, all I'm going to be doing is spend money, with none coming in." It floored me then, and floors me now. I want income. Maybe I secretly have a Protestant work ethic, but shit son. I may also be looking at getting another loan when I get back. When you already have $12,000 debt, what' another $10,000 right?

On that note, I'll be working at the University Community Service Center. The people that work there, that organization in general, have had a profound impact in my life. I walked in there my first year wanting to give back: there were so many people who helped me get into college, maybe I could help someone else. Not only did David Hayes personally help me find job listing, write a resume and cover letter, but took the time to get to know me personally. Who would of thought that that interaction would lead me to devote my life to service? Now, I can't imagine doing anything else. I'll only 5 hours a week for Winter Quarter, then possibly more in the Spring, but I'm glad that it's not much at first. That gives me the time to start a tutoring company at Merit, which also fails me with glee. I've worked for some poorly run tutoring companies, and being able to start my own taking the good and the not so much from my old less then stellar jobs is exciting. Creating a organization that helps children learn, get into college. What an awesome responsibility. And, I was offered a bar tending job at Jimmy's before I left. That might have been because that dude wanted to sleep with me. But then I cashed out his register for him, and I think I won him over. Alii and I will have to get all dolled up and go back and see if I can become gainfully employed. I miss the food service industry. The people, the easy cash, the havoc of it all. I need a bit of that in my life: it's the absolute best outlet for mania.

Dublin this weekend. You know what that means? IRISH WHISKEY. Oh, shit son. It's going to be ridiculous. Lauren and I realized that it's the best of both worlds: she can drink he gross dark beers, and I can drink whiskey! Oh god bless the Irish. Plus we can speak English when we're drunk. Not that we'll be able to understand the Irish accents, but that DOESN'T MATTER. Just talk to me Irish Boy, just talk. Wait, let me drink more whiskey. . .

I miss the states. I do, I do. Europe is a little to cold, to old, to settled in her ways. Consequently, I'm calmer, more introspective here under the weight of history. But that's not what I want forever. At least not yet. I want to eat a taco, hug my dad, speak English, go back to real school, cuddle with my roommate, sleep in my huge bed. Don't get me wrong, Paris and all therein has been amazing, and I know I'll be back. But there's something about home. In fact, I even miss Tyler. I haven't missed it for one solitary minute since I fled two years ago, but now I'm looking forward to the three days I'll be there at Christmas. Longer then that might lead to an untimely death. Not of me, but let someone tells me I'm going to hell for my Subversive SUV and I WILL KILL.

I'm changing my major. Philosophy. This may come as a shock to some, but in truth, it's been a long time coming. I took philosophy classes in high school, then again my first year. Coming to Paris, studying the Enlightenment again, finding myself lecturing about Rousseau to Lauren, I decided to face the facts. I've wanted to do this for a long time, so why deny it? Why fight it? Why not? I still want to save the world -- my life plans haven't changed, it's just a question of what do I want to do with the next year and a half of my life. In some ways it feels a bit selfish -- studying the theories of life of brilliant past philosophers instead of studying society with an aim to better it. Since the Summer of My Head, I've been questioning the world, not being able to accept it on surface appearances. This search for meaning as I learn to live with the possibility that any day I could Lose My Mind has lead me back to philosophy. If I want to solve the big problems, I need to learn to ask the big questions. Plus Logic classes! Classes on Reasoning! Oh joy! I'm going to attempt to swing a minor in French as well. I only need another four classes, which seems doable. And they offer lit classes in what has caused this life shift: le Lumieres. So, for the third time and fourth times, this winter I'll be studying Enlightenment philosophy in French, and English.

I have a date tonight. I went all the way to France to date a dude from Ohio. It's kinda like that time I drove 300 miles to make-out with a dude who graduated from my high school. But, he's sweet and moderately dorky, and doesn't have his shit completely together. Sounds like my type exactly, right? He's also lived here for so long that he speaks English like a Frenchman, which is quite possibly the cutest thing imaginable. And it makes me feel better about my French: it's badness is endearing, n'est pas? We were supposed to go out last night, but he thought we'd said Wednesday. I have the text message that he sent that says Tuesday, but I decided to not be my mother and forward it to him. I hate hate HATE dating. The tension, the awkwardness, the anticipation. Yuck. But it could be worth it, one day hopefully it will be worth it. I just sincerely doubt that I'm going to fall in love with someone I meet randomly at a bar -- it just insults my sense of aesthetics.

The other night, Jesse, Lauren and I hung out with Jesse's friend Heather. We were in my room, drinking, talking, etc. I decided to change the mood, and switched from whatever the hell Jesse had on to some of my favorite music: The Hudsons, Problem Song. All of a sudden, Heather freaks out. SHE KNOWS THE HUDSONS. In fact, she loves them. She heard them randomly at some party (she didn't remember who) and found some for herself. She even sent them email asking them to come to Chicago. I of course earned major cool points when I told her about the time we all got drunk at Emo's and that other time when they had a keg of Shiner. What a small musical world. Lauren: TELL THE HUDSONS! They've got loyal fans, even as far away as Paris.

And HARRY POTTER IS TONIGHT AT MIDNIGHT. I know, this is not news to ya'll. I'm sure some of you have seen it multiple times by now, but you can kiss my ass. It comes out at midnight tonight here and I am so excited. And I get to see it in Paris, so there.

I called my dad last night, and I quote, "I keep watching the riot footage, because I figured I'd see you standing in the back ground, smoking a cigarette, flashing a peace sign." I love my Daddy; he knows me oh so well.

Chapter 2: The Horizon

Chapter 2
The Horizon

In the Lobby of the Cité Universitaire
Should Go Meet with my Prof
But, well . . .

I should be in class. Or at least heading that way -- even taking advantage of the flexible relationship the French have with time, it would be in my best interest to meet with Professor Barash.

Jeffery Adam Barash, professor of French History and Philosophy, US ex-patriat, generally given to rambling until the point that one ceases to pay attention. Then, if you manage to hang on, he makes brillant succint statements about horribly complex arguments, and with that one small shift, the entire metaphysical structure will shift perfectly into place. It's as if the Enlightenment everyone seems to be clamoring about can be seen clearly and distinctly for a short, brief moment. Yes, I should go have tea with this kindliy grandfatherly man -- not mine, but someone else's, complete with plaid sweater vests, glasses and kind eyes.

Always ready to give out travel information, taking long strings of lost American students on winding walks through the streets of Paris to the homes of earth shattering writers, or snaking along a canal in search of water lillies in the North of France. Either way, we trail along like ducklings as he forgets his point, rambles around to it again, finishing his location specific lectures just as the last of his brood catches up, while J.A. Barash moves on. He seems to be followed by confused students asking each other, "Wait, what was that? Was that important?"

Because of this soft-spoken, genuinely engaged man, I am being thrown into a bit of an existential crisis.

Once, long ago, at least emotionally speaking, I thought I had the mental clarity, fortitude and inclination to be a philosopher. I at least had a strong desire to figure out what I believe and studying the thought structures of others seems the most efficient way to do this.

But then, I may have changed my mind.

Society seems more important. Groups of people more in need of guidance, understanding and my time then figuring out a seemly perspective, conviently label for my personal belief system. Waiting to enact change, this seems the most direct way to do so.

But then the edges of my reality flitter.

But then I find myself again searching for my own answers in the pages of revolutionary text, devouring their conclusions, weighing their rationality against mine in the a modern context.

Same questions, deeper insight. And now, the same desire.

What could I discover by burying myself for the next two years in the metaphysical terrain hiked by these thinkers? For me, classes haven't been boring, irrelevant, or outdated. They've been life changing. Maybe.

For the first time in years, I'm not certain which way to lead my life, comme de faire ma vie. The end results haven't changed, but I may take a different route, evvn if it feels a bit selfish at first.

If I want to solve the big problems, shouldn't I attempt to ask the hard questions, seeking my own answers?

This weekend, Lauren and I went to Cannes, carrying a bounty of Western Thought in our baggage, setting up a miny library of revolutionary literature in our tiny sea-side hotel room: Locke, Hobbes, Rousseau, Leibniz, Spinoza, Kant.

As I sat on the end of an eddy, surrounded by the vesiteges of the yearly envasion of the Rich and Pretensious, contrasted to the Great Unknown, I thought about these questions, my own constant search for Enlightenment.

It suddenly hit me:

" I won't sit with my back to a room if I can help it: the not seeing of the life around me makes me feel anxious, unknowing, ill informed, and therefore jumpy. Yet, I gladly turn my back on all of humanity to peer into the unknown, the uncharted horizon." -- from my pocket notebook


I'm water seeking. Always have been. Maybe it was the small stream we bordered the back of my lawn as a child and my daily adventures on it's banks. The Beach, the Creek, the Pond, the Rain -- all of these form one entity in my mind, as complete, real, well known and multi-faceted as the brother or sister I could have had. Water: sans corporal body, yet just as changing, continuous, influencial as any solid entity, my dear personal confident.

Lauren and I are in our favorite snack shop near the university center -- not meeting with Barash today it seems. I'm glad it got my lazy ass out of the house. I should be working, but something about sitting in a cafe, drinking coffee and talking about philosophy already seems a bit much. I won't add more to it by expounding on Rousseau to Lauren. She's heard it enough and no one else cares.

Lauren goes to buy a coke. They're expensive here and once a common commodity is now a precious resource. "For after I finish reading, " she announces, setting goals and providing self reward. I finish my coffee, smile at the man who works there -- he knows me and my ham sandwiches by now, pain au chocolat. Diet cokes for me too on the hard to endure days.

My mom loves to sail, and as she was the figure head of the ship of our family, her need for the open space of water, momentarily controlled and harnessed far more close then I or my father would ever be.

I remember our first boat as idyllic. Once, we sailed on a Sunday, leaving our house early, having to trailer our 15 foot Hobie-Catamaran to the nearest worthy body of water. My dad raised the mast, as I stayed out of the way, marveling at his strength, searching for sparkling pieces of broken glass on the burning asphalt of the boat ramp parking lot. Bit of green, teal, amber. Fragments of startlingly clear bottles, contents now gone. The rare blue bit, reflecting the color of the water. My mom asked why I was gathering what to her were potential injuries, while my dad handed me more jewels for my collection. Worn smooth from the sun, feets, water and time, I would cup my small handfuls in my hand, feeling the run over each other, watching them reflect the sun.

With our diet cokes, sandwiches and red delicious apples, long sleeve white tee-shirts, unfashionable hats, and faded shorts, we climbed onto the boat as Mom steered us away from shore.

Et maintenant, I still go to water for solace, for comfort, trying to find a sense of direction. Cannes was perfectly timed, the le mèr deeply needed.

From then, the memories of sailing -- all the hundreds of time -- became wrapped in one over all impression of wind, light, water and pure joy. Small snatches move forward, only placeable in time by the progression of yearly swim wear fashion.

I remember once, before it became old hat, before my family broke, before we
moved, I hit puberty, or anything remotely fundamental changed, I once slept. I had curled up after a lunch of warm, somewhat soggy tuna sandwiches, pillowing my head on orange life jackets. I remember the lullaby the water mad as it slapped the hulls, hot Texas wind and blinding sun encircling my body better then any quilt. My parents talked as I watched the lines move against the mast, the water rush past through the lacing of the my canvas bed.

I awoke later, wrapped in the smell of my fathers shirt, still warm from the setting sun, with a drowsie certainty that I was the luckiest, safest little girl in the whole world.

Cannes in the off-season is beautiful and quaint with an air of a pointless existence. No rich people to photograph, no whiny movie-types judging everything on "aesthetics," everyone trying to out cool everyone else. No, it's small chapels, markets with glorious fruit pilled like a pirate bounty, sand beaches full of fashionable tanned Europeans, gently sloping hills light up like a movie producers offensive portrayal of a uninhabited island, and the horizon.


When I was even younger, my dad and I would go the beach when it rained to watch my two favorite forces of nature either play to disccoradant symphony or a harmonious hymn. He'd push me on the swing, my parka saving me from the cool air, or we'd walk near the water. I would always become wetter then we had forseen, Dad always weary of Mom's insistence of certain pneumonia.

Mom never understood our rainy day trips to the beach, our fall sejourns to empty stretches of sand, lonely gulls, sweatshirts required. Yet, when I think of the beach I think of that, perfering the beauty, the raw power and magnitude of the Future to the known existence of sand castles and body surfing. I think my dad felt it too

Our first night in Cannes, after devouring much Fruit du Mer, Lauren and I walked through a storm. The kind of storm that isn't malicious, and spiteful, only intent on it's purpose: getting everything completely wet. We wound our way drunkenly through cobble stone streets that twist and turn upon themselves, splitting and meeting like water drops running down a window sills. The edges of the narrow streets slant down towards the edges of the shops and restaurants, creating tiny white water rapids and a serious hazard for the ankles of drunk, clumsy girls in fashionable shoes.

And now? Now I still crave the water. The unknown. Finding myself standing on deserted beaches in abandoned life guarding towers, learning the moods of Lake Michigan. How humble we American are; were it Europe, it would be a sea.

Lauren and I stood in the street amongst the awning, raining pouring down, coursing down my back, pooling in my poor unfortunate mocassins. My feet were green for days. Despite the seeming bad luck, the wetness we'd later regret, we stopped, craning our necks, soaking up the water and the quaintness of it all. Lauren says, "It's pouring, but everything is adorable. " Unbearable adorable as I strive to not destroy my ankles in the gutter or my dignity by walking barefoot.

My last day in Chicago after my first fateful, half-wasted year in the Ivory Tower, Ayse and I headed to the Point. I made iced tea which we used to hide the whiskey. Moving out of the dorms had meant I was obliged to finish the remnants of my liquor store. For some reason unknown or at least unacknowledged, others asked me to help them finish theirs as well: jewish passover wine, sips of shitty vodka, cherished saved swallows my tennessee whiskey, the odd imported beer. As if this wasn't enough, I'd a celebratory bottle of wine and Dirty Tim, in typical fashion, had come over to be in the way, bringing Olde Style as always.


I'm in my classroom, and hour early. The others mill around, searching for food, being overly excited by abandoned bread, promises of coffee or wine. I type, well equiped with a thermos and the apples I will forever associate with the fall in Europe. I have to go buy cigs.

After the last drinks, the good byes, the rediscovery of lost sock, pens, previous lives, Ayse and I burst forth, stumbling towards the water. I had visited all year, and now nous allons.

We reach the inland sea, drunkenly making our way onto the broken concert slabs that serve as break waters, doing our best to not fall. The waves roared -- a storm was coming -- and we yelled back, asserting our existance, claiming our lives. In response, the waves rose, soaking our lower bodies and covering us in laughter as we threaded our way back to land, shivering, but happy.

As I sat on the peer, contemplating my future, not flashes of insight struck me, not brillant revelations, not clarity of understanding. Yet, I'm happy. Yet, I'm not worried, assured that no matter what, the horizon will be there, waiting for me. No matter how loud my head is, how uncertain my immediate future, I can always find comfort in the unwavering security of the unknown.

Chapter I: Yellow Notebook

Chez Moi
Coffee Brewing
Bowl Loading
Story Writing
NaNoWriMo: Chapter I

Yellow Notebook


Everyone has opinions about writing: what is glorious, life changing, what is shit. Popular culture tells us we can learn anything is we find the right written manual. Attempting to get a liberal arts education is like being a mountain climber, scaling mountains of past thought, in book form of course, eating shitty food, not sleeping enough, hoping to emerge on an unknown peek to newfound world fame.

Some say write what you know. Write what you don't know. Be plot driven. Character development. Set the scene. Some advise to steer clear of the whole thing, prefeering their prepackaged television reality.

In kindergarten, I always sat at the special table. At least that's what I called it. : Special in the very best way possible. When you walked into the door of Sunny Side Up Kindergarten and Day Care, there was a row of book shelves to the right of the make-shift hallway, crammed with the paraphenalia of childhood: books, blocks, blankets, puzzles, parkas, and hand-drawn pictures of the highest quality. A few feet down, there was an alcove near the big picture window that looked over the emense yard. A few feet farther, the bookshelves fell away, opening into the kindergarten room, leaving the walker two steps from another hallway leading to the rest of the Future of the World, in descending age order. Babies were the very back of the converted Victorian House.

But who are these writers? These people that have the awesome task of recording the present for the future, for providing guidance, humor, insight to the world we live it. What makes a classic? A NYT bestseller? Oprah's Book Club? What makes some books grab you by the heart, the throat, the life -- and refuse to let go. Others get mentally grouped as "generic fiction" and forgotten, found again in the free book box outside Powell's.

Every morning, we had to journal. I remember my digging my yellow spiral out of the heap, running to the table by the window on my stubby toddler legs, waiting for the day's assignment, my mind racing.
What were you for Halloween?
What's your favorite thing to do with you Daddy?

Since I and whatever friends were able to join me couldn't see the date written on the board, Ms. Katie would bring us a slip of paper to situate us in time. Fat pencil in hand, I would concentrate on trying to make the letters perfect -- towering Ns for cold Novembers, looping Js for January -- always my favorite, festive Ys for sunny Mays. I watched the seasons change as surely as the retirement of my favorite pink snow suit after the first big melt.

Each day had a topic to "write" about, our literary exercise consisting mainly of, shall we say, a more picturesque portrayal. Yet, at the end of our morning contemplation routine, Ms. Joanne would come over and ask us about our drawings, and write subtitles, Titles, commentary, descriptions on our daily masterpieces. Sometimes, if I was extra adorable, Ms. Joanne would write my request -- even then a bit wordy and sometimes purposely obtuse -- on the slip near the date, allowing me to write myself.

My signature is proudly under the proclamations I wrote myself.

To this day, I still love to watch my hands form letters, fly over keys, hold the paint brush, disembodying myself from the words being produced instead focusing on the process itself.

My signature still looks the same. Exactly. The. Same.

And by God, how do Writers, capital W, do it without being trite, cliche, escape entrapment in the discarded journal of every teenage girl who thought, one day, I'll tell the truth, I'll write a book?

Can I?

When I moved out, my mother loosened her annal retentive grip on my life just enough to give me precious vestiges of the Life of Her Only Child, with strict warning that if I fucked these memories up (like I do with everything, right Mom?) I would one day be sorry. I didn't really listen, partially because I've heard it all before and still think most of it blatant slander of my good name, but also because I spotted it.

Again, I dug out the now battered, still holy yellow notebook, abounding with dreams, ideas, words, signatures of me.

Upon rereading the masterpiece, I discovered that we're all very much the same as we were at the age of 6. Maybe the edges get blurred, sharpened, extended but the secrets of the heart, desires, goal, life view: a lot of that solidifies at 6 between naps and snack time.
At least that's how it is for me. It's all there in the Yellow Notebook.

"If you would stop and notice how we number everyday, but allow the many moments left uncounted slip away. You don't have to count them, just enjoy them one by one, and things will take a different hue and sparkle in the sun."

Phish seems to have some advice for my nostalgic ass.
A Point? Yes, I swear I have one.

I want to be a writer. Always have. I''m the dock keeper of unique harbor full of secret desires. I think one day, someone will publish my journals, kidding myself that many people read this very blog. You know how at the bottom of long editions of Kant, Rousseau, anything old and highly studied really -- there are miles of tiny type talking about nothing in particular, needing a code to fully decipher the abundance of abreviations. There you'll find it: numbers and dates saying that this this bit of wisdom, insight, glory came from the personal correspondences of Mr. Genuis to Mr. History Forgot. One day, that'll happen to me, to me, to me whisper the tiny waves that lap the quite boats in my harbor.

What better place to be self indulgent, then Paris.
What month better suited for contemplation of personal history the November.
Some may say that I'm too young to write a Memoir, or a travelogue of any worth, of lasting integrity. And they may be right.

Let's see, shall we?