2 + 8 = a perfectly imperfect score

It's been over a month since I've written, well, anything. I'm not sure what I really want to say in this entry, which is always a risky way to start -- so "bloggish" -- which I hate. Nonetheless, Virginia Woolf, hear my cry, and may this stream of consciousness find its own theme. 

~~~~~

My dad called me last night to wish me an early happy birthday, and as we wrapped up our conversation, he said, "Well, it was about this time, twenty-eight years ago that your mom and I were headed to the hospital...." I think I've heard him say some version of this phrase nearly every year; yet this year, for some reason, it made my throat tighten more than it usually does during those moments that say "I love you" better than any "I love you" ever could. What a memory to have and then to relive on each child's birthday. We all have them. Several of them. The "this time last week" or the "this time a year ago" or the " it was the summer of . . ."

                                                                            ~~~~~

I was trying to teach the words retrospective and nostalgic to a student the other day by using the phrase "that's so retro." He got it, and even laughed at my lame joke about cassette tapes; yet I thought, "Buddy, you have no idea. Not yet, anyway." I feel nostalgia so keenly (which is largely due to my grudgingly-admitted romantic nature), and I haven't even hit the big 30 yet. Sometimes I think that's what will kill me in the end -- the emotions of remembrance. 
                                                                            ~~~~~
It's not that I really want to go back in time; rather it's more a fierce wish to hold on to the vividness of it all. It always feels like a small death (not THAT little death, you dirty minds, you) when I realize that a significant moment in my life has some mold growing over the edges of it, threatening to cover it in grey fuzz. Eventually we cast out the moldy items, don't we? Maybe that's how we survive "death by memory," after all. I dunno....I know I fear the fuzz, though.
                                                                           ~~~~~
At my last birthday party, a dear friend said "27's your year. I know it." In many ways it was. I've certainly learned more about myself this past year than any other, and I certainly hope that becomes a pattern each year. I have fit quite a bit in -- quite an amazing bit. A bit that, as I look back, will probably end up being the catalyst for the best elements of my life. Every year is "your year" in a way, though. 
                                                                           ~~~~~
I don't dread my days, anymore. I haven't for awhile, but as I've started new job ventures, I was fearful that the sheer relief of the summer would once again be quelled by the demands of supporting "living." Though I probably have more stressors in my life at the moment, the fact that I actually wake up and anticipate the day does wonders for handling the minutiae -- which is really all those stressors are in the grand vista of it all.
                                                                           ~~~~~
Minutiae. How it gets in the way. How it creates vast misunderstandings, starts wars, kills moments, worships deafness, defies stick-to-it-ness. How it reveals. How it IS nuance, complexity, diversity, and individuality. How.
                                                                            ~~~~~
It is midnight now. I'm 28. It's my year this year, too. And so the page turns . . . poems to come. Thanks for reading again.

Home

I've been home a week now. Yesterday I was recounting to someone what I had done with my summer and his response was "Gosh, I bet you hate being back." I don't -- far from it. Of course I would have relished staying longer, and of course I don't like the fact that I have to come home to bills or laundry or the stark reality at the moment that I am unemployed. Yet, despite the fact that there will always be some wanderlust in me, I know I will always be happy to come home. I was almost ten when we left Ghana, and I think my child's memory of those goodbyes has imprinted a strong sense of "homebodiness" on me. Somewhere deep in my young unawareness was the knowledge that I would never see most of these people again -- people who had been a part of my home since my first memory. Now, somewhere deep in my adult awareness is the fear of saying those types of goodbyes. I still tear up when I pull away from my grandmother's or nana's house after a trip up to see them. I still get a bit misty when either one of my parents leaves the country for a bit. I cried talking to my nana right before I took off for Paris, and I was on the verge of tears saying goodbye to my hosts in Paris. Goodbyes will always be hard for me, even if they are simple, temporary ones. Yet, the emotion of leaving just makes the joy of returning even sweeter, and for that I am thankful. 

So, the grand question is, "Now what?" I quit my job, I left the country, I've come home, so now......what?

Since I resigned, it has been interesting to listen to friends' comments and suggestions regarding the next stage of my life. I realize that I have done something that many people wish they had done or could do at some point - quit their job and leave the country. I've done that, but now I'm back home and I think it is very easy to continue romanticizing what should happen next.

"Why didn't you just stay and teach in Paris?" "Why don't you teach overseas?" "Have you thought about relocating?" "You should start your doctorate!"

What is most interesting to me is not these suggestions (all of which I've of course considered - some for years on end -- and they do bother me a bit, because in the suggesting is the insinuation that I've not seriously considered them -- give me some credit, folks!), but the fact that they don't seem to quite buy my response, which at this point is simply to say "I've thought about that, but it doesn't feel quite right, and I have too many other doors here that I don't want to close just yet." Once this comes out of my mouth, I can see the ticker-tape in their heads clicking with she just isn't ready to really take a big risk, she is so tied to that church performing arts program, she is just too afraid to go it alone and really see what the world holds, she just isn't driven, she really fears true independence, she isn't taking advantage of the opportunities outside the world she has created here...

I know this all stems from a love for me and a desire for me to have and do what's best. I get that and appreciate it. I want that too, and for now I think "the best" is manifested in simpler things - things that may not measure up on a global scale of success. (What's also interesting, too, is the suggestions above usually come from friends who have at some point traveled extensively and/or lived overseas, relocated several times either for a job or for the adventure of doing so, or climbed the degree ladder and/or pursued their career to a higher level of "prestige.") We really do only know how to advise based on our own experiences or regrets of not having certain experiences....

What was so wonderful about this trip was the time of quiet I had -- even admist a tourist-bustling Paris. In this quiet, I was able to take the time to mentally wittle down all the possibilities, far and near, to what I really want at this point.

• I want to find a job that enables me to contribute positively to society w/o having to compromise my ethics or sit in front of a computer screen all day, that enables me to make enough money to cover the basics....and still have the occasional treat or trip if possible, and that enables me to devote the time I'd like to give to growing artistically.
• I want to be as near as I can to the people I love.
• I want to finally be confidant enough in what I offer to the world so that whoever becomes a part of my life is not a missing piece of the puzzle, but rather someone who admires the fact that I put the puzzle together myself and now wants to start putting together a new puzzle - with me.
• I want to finish a collection of poems before the year ends.
• I want to direct a play sometime in the nearish future.
• I want to continue voice lessons.
• I want to get involved in some acting classes and writing workshops.
• I want to be preparing for a theatre or musical production as often as I can.
• I want to be open to the unexpected, even if that means not having or doing some of the above.

I'm not discounting living in another country or city or getting my doctorate, but it is just as wonderful and just as valid that I am here and might stay here. I will always want to travel, and I will always want to know more, but I do know, now more than ever, that I will always want to come home.

Below was today's Writer's Almanac poem. I needed it after a week of being back in the "real world" and the certainty of my uncertainty.

The Real Work

by Wendell Berry

It may be that when we no longer know what to do
we have come to our real work,

and that when we no longer know which way to go
we have come to our real journey.

The mind that is not baffled is not employed.

The impeded stream is the one that sings.

"The Real Work" by Wendell Berry, from Standing by Words.

Omega Sorbet

Ah, endings and beginnings. Circles. I leave Paris today -- longing to stay longer, but rested and ready for the next phase. Paris has been a beautiful bookend to each side of the last decade of my life. Ten years ago I left Paris, wide-eyed, naïve, uncertain of the college experience waiting for me, and horribly "in love" with my high school crush. Ten years later I am leaving Paris again, still able to widen my eyes, wiser, again uncertain of what lies ahead, and wonderfully experienced in a host of ways I never would have imagined ten years ago.

I finished my Paris journey yesterday at La Place de Contrescarpe, just around the corner from Hemingway and Hadley's flat. I drank a beer and let the past week, then month, then year, then three years, and then decade wash over me, each period marked by its own wave of salt and sand and water.

Paris has been a deliciously refreshing palate-cleanser -- a sorbet that sits on the edge of your tongue, so good and so cool that you just want to hold it there until it starts to burn a bit, then melt. The choice is either to swallow or spit. The next course is waiting -- and if you swallow, you'll get to taste every aspect of what that dish holds. Today, I'm swallowing. Au revoir, Paris!

~~~~~~~~~

I haven't posted this week because I've just been doing, doing, doing. So below is the list w/ commentary - enjoy!

Saturday - workshop at Shakespeare and Company: I read "The Mango Tree" in a library, over-looking the Seine and Notre Dame, received wonderful feedback and good thoughts to consider, met wonderful, new and extremely talented people, had beers with said people, and then met Anja to go to a jazz club. A yummy day.

Sunday - I slept in and had a beautifully lazy day lounging on the top of a roof during a BBQ hosted by new friends. At some point in my life, I would like to live where I can have a rooftop garden...enchanting.

Monday - wandering, lots of walking (partially due to train malfunction), cello concert in front of Shakespeare and Company, eating of best falafel EVER, evening at Au Chat Noir café for Spoken Word Paris - an open mic night for anyone who wants to try out their stuff in front of an audience.  I read a new poem (below) for the Ghana collection, and chatted and drank the hours away with some of the people I had met on Saturday until they kicked us out of the bar at 2.

Tuesday - rented a bike and spent the days roaming the old hunting grounds of Versailles. Beautiful. Much of the time, it was just me, my bike, the sunshine and a sheep or horse. Ate lunch with my feet cooling in the canal as I watched the rowboats and swans float by.

Wednesday - explored the chic side of Paris with new friend Gabriella. Walked in Hermès, drooled, bought the best macarons in the world at Ladurèe, lunched in a cafè...later that night saw Batman!!! Loved it. Just loved it.

Thursday - farewells to all previous and current locations of Shakespeare and Company, wandering of favorite streets, lunch with Sharon and Ricky Nuckols and two grandsons (friends from Dunwoody), final drink, fixing of farewell and thank you dinner for Andrea and Anja, evening stroll looking at lovely French houses, started the packing feat.

Here is the poem I read - not sure about it yet, but since I read it already, I figured I'd post it. It is still untitled, and very much a draft.

[Untitled]

on the hottest days

near Christmastime

i'd hop

on one foot then the other

until my burning soles

could take no more

then i'd run on tip-toe

to the veranda

and sinking against

the outer wall lean

to press my cheek

to the ceramic

and soak 

up the cool

then if the heat didn't press

me

inside I would climb

our compound wall

and sit on top

under the fire tree

below

our housekeeper sold

groundnuts

sweets

verbena-scented

hand-salve

i would strip the fan-

like branches

and toss

them into the still

hot air

pretending

they were snowflakes

i'd never seen

and i was the angel

who made it snow

whenever little children

prayed

Moments that come. . .

Today I went to Le Centre Georges-Pompidou, France's national modern art museum. This just might be my second favorite museum ever -- second after Le Rodin, of course. The architecture of the building is really something to behold, and it has what I think is the best view of Paris in Paris. Their reigning temporary exhibit is one of Gerhard Ritcher's works -- a fascinating artist (I've included a picture of his painting "September" below -- the subject is the attack on the Twin Towers). Next to each stage of his exhibit, there were quotes by him about his work or art in general, and one that caught my attention, which of course I did not think to write down in the moment, was something to the effect of letting art be a reflection of "what comes" and not something that is forcibly "created." This struck a chord with me, for I feel so keenly that forced creativity is quite obvious: perhaps, and unfortunately so, not always to the artist, but certainly to the audience. This is something I fear in all of my own creative ventures. For example, I can feel the moments on stage when I'm actively "acting" versus the ones when I'm truly present in my circumstances as a character. The ones when I'm conscious of acting are the devastating moments in my life on  a stage. How can I expect an audience to believe me if I am aware that what I'm portraying is an "act?" I cannot. Yet, I think most things in life are true to this sentiment. Whenever we say something we don't really mean, but rather, forcibly create in order to obey convention or propriety or to hide our own insecurity of not knowing what to say, the forcedness of the comment is seemingly always evident. I thought today that the world might be a very different place if humanity consistently created based on what naturally came to us, through our unique experiences, versus creating what we want or what we know others expect of us.

Over the past three days, I've had some amazing moments. Moments that I very much hope I will let something "come" out of, even if it is a merely a memory that doesn't fade as quickly as the rest.

Instants à se rappeler (Moments to remember)

- saying a quiet "thank you" and placing a flower on the graves and memorials of Oscar Wilde, Maria Callas, Gertrude Stein, Molière, Chopin, and Edith Piaf (at Cimitière Perè LaChaise)

-staring at Dalì sculptures - ones I'd never seen nor knew existed

-eating apricots on the lawn in front of Sacre Coeur

-having my portrait sketched on the streets of Montmartre . . . Story: I knew it was a scam when he said "a mee-lee-on booocks" when I asked how much it cost. Of course he had already began sketching and I thought, Why the hell not? So, yes the price was ridiculous, but I received a very lovely sketch (an investment, he said - ha) and two fabulous compliments from him. The first was in French -- he said I had a "bouche sensuelle" ( which he made sure to clarify as "non sexuelle, sensuelle"  -- I assured him I took it as a compliment). The second came after I had talked him down to half his asking price in which he told me, in English, that I was a "good beezness wooman." And his name was Robert.

- writing in a couple cafès and feeling good about what I was able to put down on paper

- being fully aware in the moment that I just might be eating the best pastry I will ever place in my mouth (it is called a Paris Brest and the chic shop from whence it came had won the prize for making the best of these)

- savoring the last dregs of a St. Bernardus (Belgian brew) on the Rue de l'Odéon

-walking down a cobbled sidewalk by an old man and his old dog, recalling the words to "Autumn Leaves" as he played it on his old clarinet:

The falling leaves drift by the window,
The autumn leaves of red and gold.
I see your lips, the summer kisses,
The sun-burned hands I used to hold.
Since you went away the days grow long,
And soon I'll hear old winter's song.
But I miss you most of all, my darling,
When autumn leaves start to fall.

"September" by Gerhard Ritcher

Antypocots

I have discovered two new loves today: fresh apricots and Montmartre. Today was a beee-yew-tee-ful day, and I was finally able to wear one of my sundresses! O, the joy good, clean sunshine and breezes un-laden with rain can bring!

Below is another old poem of mine that will be included  in the collection on which I'm currently working (along with "The day . . ." and "The Mango Tree"). It expresses the antithesis of today's weather.

Miasma

For a third of every year growing up, the sun was brown.

Harmattan would descend on the West African coast

as the Sahara reached her arms across grasslands

to dip her fingers in the sea.

She slipped past cracked windows

and squeezed through screens,

layering surfaces with a coarse film.

Nothing stayed clean for long.

In the middle of these days, I would squint

against gritty breezes, to see the sun squinting back.

Once the rains came, the sand ran down drains and out to sea

or sank into the mud, mixing the desert with cocoa soil and gold.

I would put on my swimsuit and stand under the carport,

watching the rain rinse the grime from my red tricycle.

I knew that when the rains stopped, I could look out my window,

and see a polished sun unrolling pearl-colored ribbon

onto bananas, ripe in the morning’s green.

Tonight the storms will come—with another sort of rain.

I’ll watch behind candles and sliding screen doors,

knowing that tomorrow’s sun will rise behind a haze.

- Emily Anne Decker (2009)

Disclaimer: (my vanity speaks)

I've been doing some re-reading of these posts, and I must insert a brief disclaimer about the numerous typos I've seen. I have become more adept at typing on a French keyboard (many key things, like the period and the 'a', are in different places - hehe, pun intended), but I still have to fix several typos at the end of each post. In re-reading, I see my editing skills are also on vacation a bit. Please forgive the errors; I shall try to fix them as I come across them.

At a loss...

If I had posted on Thursday, I would have titled it "Waiting for Death and Transportation." If I had posted Friday, it would have been "Helmut." Yesterday would have been "Où est le Bastille?" So today, I really have no idea what to title this post. Titles are important to me - they have to symbolise a great deal in a small amount of text and not solely represent the subject of the text; it must go beyond. . . For example, if I were to write about my breakfast this morning, "My Breakfast" would be, in my opinion, the drabbest of titles. On the other hand, "Toast" is a fabulous title. There are just so many directions one could take with "Toast." But now, I've waited too long to encompass everything in the past four days into a meaty post, and therefore I'm at a loss for a decent title. So, I'll choose one topic, and then for those of you who are reading for a vicarious experience and just want to know what I've done, I'll provide a list of my activities at the bottom.

Grr, grr, grr...

He finished his cappuccino with a quick toss back of his head, folded his English map of "Discovering Paris"  and stuffed it in his back pocket, hoisted his  R.E.I. backpack and his shopping bags (yes, a bit of an oxymoron, which means he was probably fabulously interesting), and, with a quick glance back at me, strode out of the café. I had said nothing to him. I was waiting for a friend who was late -- I had finished my cappuccino, and had been looking at my map, and had been slyly glancing in his direction . . . and I said nothing. It would have been the easiest phrase ever uttered just to  say, "Are you in Paris for long?" or "Are you here on vacation?" or "Would you like to see my map?" Nothing. He was four feet away, he was alone, he was cute, he spoke English, he looked like he needed/wanted some conversation, he was dressed too butch to be gay, he seemed a few years older than me ... I can't help but feel that I lost an amazing opportunity. Or at least one in which to be nice to someone.

Of course, he didn't speak to me and so was just as gutless as I. But I do have to say that when I am unsure and on my own, I think I have this ability to take on an aura of unapproachability that really only the most unaware or arrogant of men would have the nerve to puncture. 

This was Friday. So now I have lived all weekend (in which fireworks and bars and dancing were all factors) being the 3rd or 5th or 19th non-French-speaking wheel, churning with the what-ifs, what-onlys, god-i-wish-i-hads, and all manner of self-deprecations. This experience exposed a characteristic of mine that I have been and am desperately trying to improve, if not annihilate altogether: my perpetual second-guessing of my gut. I've got good instincts. I get people. I'm a good listener. I see. And yet, stepping out on a limb sometimes is like asking me to jump down a dark hole of unknown depth and destination. Even if every nerve-ending in my being says do it. It's your chance. It's now or never. It's not a pit of vipers; it's a front row seat to the rest of your fabulous life, baby, I still opt for never too many times. 

Grr...grr...grr.

So. Now, I must let this go. I have two weeks to improve upon this trait, and I shall try to do thusly. Just had to air my frustration.

Thursday - "Waiting for Death and Transportation"

- after standing in line for two hours,  descended the depths of the Catacombs. Eerie and fascinating.

-mastered the French transportation system by riding two buses and four different trains to arrive at my destinations and not once wound up in the wrong place

-went to Père LaChaise. Was rained out after 20 minutes and decided to shell out the bucks on a sunnier, warmer day for a guided tour. LOTS of famous graves, ya'll. And they ain't easy to find. (Guided tour is on Tuesday)

Friday - "Helmut"

- slept in, went to Helmut Newton exhibit -- ah-freakin'-mazin'

- had experience which has been foretold, 

- went shopping with Anja (host) on Rue de Rivoli

- went to a b-day party in a bar -- It: crowded, hot, loud, Me: 19th wheel, trapped in corner unable to converse with younger-than-me strangers I probably would have never spoken to first based on my behavior during the experience which has been foretold.

Saturday - "Où est le Bastille?"

- slept in, breakfasted, Saturday house chores

-went to open air market/festival and bought a CUTE skirt

-jumped out of the car (it had stopped) to photograph the steps on which Edith Piaf was born

-drove by where the Bastille used to exist -- in my ignorance, I forgot that it was destroyed the night of the revolution and so asked where it was

-lovely dinner with hosts

-longingly looked at fireman hosting a dance 

- with older hosts and too late, so we zoomed off to a hotel to watch the fireworks

-fireworks started before we reached destination, so jumped out of car and stood on a wall and peered over a chain-link fence with little French children crowding in around me to ooh-and-aah in our universal tongue

Today - "Sole"

-went to Sunday market to purchase ingredients for lovely Sunday dinner of sole - C'est magnifique.

-went to Rodin's house in Meudon where he is buried. beautiful. house for sale next door. want to buy it. very much.

-afternoon champagne with friends of hosts and their ah-dorable two-year-old

Beaux Arts

The weather here, though gloriously cool, has been on the gloomy side . . . yesterday and today especially were, so I thought they would be good museum days. Upon my encountering the line to get in to the Musée d'Orsay, I decided to buy a  2-day museum pass, a handy ticket that allowed me to skip the lines and have unlimited access to most of the major museums and monuments in Paris . . . for two days. I calculated that if I went to at least four museums in those two days, the price would even out, and I would still get to skip the lines. So yesterday I went to the Orsay and the archeological crypt of Notre Dame, and today I went to the Orangerie and the Louvre. Folks, I have crammed in more famous art than you can imagine. I realize that I'm here for an extended stay and could have tackled these at a leisurely pace, yet there is SO much to do, and though I do like art and museums, I would much rather wander a Paris street than a Paris museum. Nonetheless, one cannot come to Paris without seeing the masters and their masterpieces, no? It has been wonderful, but it also feels like I've eaten just a bit too much of something very rich and, as a result, lost the savory quality of the experience towards the end. Over the past few days I've sampled Monet, Manet, Renoir, Cézanne, Soutine, Picasso, Gauguin, Matisse, Rodin, Van Gogh, Modigliani, Da Vinci, Michaelangelo, Botticelli, Lippi, Vermeer, Delacroix, Van Eyck and many more whose names I cannot recall at the moment. I'm stuffed. The beauty is, if I want to go back and taste something again before I leave, I can. I just have to wait in line and pay the entrance fee . . .

L'Orangerie was my favorite . . . small and on the edge of the Tuileries, it features a fabulous collection of Modern artists and Monet's vast Water Lily panels in rooms he designed just for those paintings.

On another note, I solidly decided just this morning,  to add on to the poems set in Ghana that I've already written, and compile a collection entitled (this is a working title, ya'll, so have mercy) Gossamer and Ghanaian Fruit: A Collection of Poems. I don't think I'll post many of my poems up for a bit, but in the interest of the theme of this blog and in honor of my past two days, below is a poem by W.H. Auden.

Musée des Beaux Arts
About suffering they were never wrong,
The old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position: how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.