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.