Singledom, swingers and cultural differences.

I am wary of general statements, expecially concerning America. I lived in the Midwest for a year, but apart from that I have no idea about how most of Americans live. Yet when I was in Chicago, I was flabbergasted by some of the things I learnt there.

So, dating. In France, we know about American dating, but we don't understand it. To us, when you date someone, unless you discuss it beforehand, it's understood that it's exclusive. Even in the tentative first weeks. Once you've slept together, if you decide to continue to see each other, you are considered to be a couple. These are general guidelines.

In America, people seemed to be OK with seeing more than one person at a time. Going to movies, having dinner, all that stuff. It was completely foreign to me. In the same way, casual sex is far less taboo for Americans than for us.Naturally it happens, but you wouldn't discuss it with your girlfriends. It's not something to celebrate, or to bemoan, it's a fact of life.

So when you say you are "single", this is French for "celibate". In America, "single" could mean celibate, but it could also mean other things, like "enjoying life".

So when I am asked if I have a boyfriend and I answer that I'm single, I get pitying glances from the French (because it means I now lead an immaculate life) and high fives from the Americans in my study program. The reactions go from "I'm sure there's the right guy out there for you..." to "Go get 'em girl."

I am amused by this. I find it funny that French people, with the most ouh la la reputation in the world, are so much more prudish than puritanical America.

I read blogs written by swingers, and I'm also struck by the difference in mentality. In Paris, we have many famous swinger clubs. Famous people are outspoken about their swinging habits. It's not a big deal.

So I guess we are more comfortable with cheating politicians and swingers, but less with the idea of American dating.

Funny, no?

Business class babies

When my aunt V had her babies, she didn't want anyone in the family to get near them (she's a bit neurotic) for fear that we would give them germs. Anyway...I don't know anything about babies partly because of this, so it was fun playing with baby Sym, but even more fun to hear my mother sound off on baby rearing techniques and how they change all the time.

On babies who are always regurgitating their milk: "I used to get naked in the shower, feed your sister, wait until she was sick, and then we'd have a shower together.Your father sometimes joined us. Stop smiling."

On babies and crying: "Babies sometimes cry to get attention, you musn't spoil them by always catering to them. Let them scream when they've already been fed and changed.Also Mozart works perfectly on angry babies.Not the Magic Flute. But chamber music for sure."

On baths and babies: "When your grandmother was young, they advocated three baths a day, to occupy all those stay-at-home mothers. When I was pregnant with you, I thought that I would do my best, but ignore strict guidelines. I had fun inventing my own rules."

On doctors and weight gain: "I was always criticized by your doctor because of how fat you were. What was I supposed to do? Put a baby on a fucking diet?"

On people who criticize baby names: "For Heaven's sake. Give the baby a boring middle name and if later he hates being called Montana, he can revert to Paul."

In France, babies are not supposed to be a public nuisance. Don't bring your baby to a movie. Don't bring your baby to the museum. DON'T BRING YOUR BABY TO THE OPERA. Terrible situations. French audiences do not enjoy babies. They will make remarks.

No one complains about babies in planes, since it's not like the poor parents had a choice. They're stuck with the howling baby too. But once I got upgraded to business class on a Paris-Chicago flight, and I offered my upgrade to a lady who was travelling alone with her baby, thinking it would be nicer for her to relax a bit with some Champagne and a lot of leg room. The baby was as quiet as a mouse.

So maybe babies belong in business?

N.B: Thank you for your comments on my last post. As usual an outside perspective works wonders! You are very kind.

Family trouble

I've just come back from a lovely lazy day spent with my friend Am, her husband Vic and their cute baby Syméon. They are my age and PhD students, yet they make this parenting thing work. They've been married for some time now, and their parents have been married for a really long time as well. It made me think about my own family and my relationship to families.

Obviously I have a lot to say on this topic, as would anyone. We are molded by our childhoods and most people can be separated in two groups: those who are very close to their parents and those who break ties almost completely. It's hard to stay in the middle.

I'm in a tricky situation.When I tried to kill myself, I hurt my family for ever. They did not read this as my own struggle, my own battle: it was a reflection on their performance as parents or sibling. I understand this completely. If I did not have depression I would read the same mute accusations in my behaviour than they did.

So now I feel I have this huge debt towards them. Although I know that I won't ever try again, I can't take away the worry and the guilt they feel. All the love I can show won't erase their pain.

That's the way life goes, doesn't it? We try to be perfect in our relationships, we try to be in the right, to be the person who's behaving well. And then we're the bad guy. And there may well be no way to make that change.
What has been difficult for me is to accept that I have hurt my family and made them go through hell, but that I need to move on from that. I can't change what I did, but I don't have to obsess about it.

And spending the day with a baby reminded me how free I am. I'm single and childless: the world is my oyster! All the ties I have are my own choice: I choose to love and respect my family and treat them in the best way possible, but I want it to be a choice, not the consequence of something I did three years ago. So while I hope one day they forgive and forget, in the meantime I'll discover the world and become a happy person. In the end, that's what they also want for me.

Before Copenhague

I don't talk much about my environmental concerns. First of all, I don't believe in preaching. If anyone is interested and wants to ask me a few questions, I'll buy them coffee gladly. But I won't bother people who don't care.

However, I would like to say a few words about the environment before the summit on climate change in Copenhague. This is what I'm studying after all.

1°Climate change is happening. Whether you believe that scientists worldwide are conspiring together to destroy capitalism or that man is the origin of 100% of global warming, that doesn't change facts. The earth is getting warmer.

2°We don't know what that means. Anyone who tells you that we have scientific proof about the consequences of global warming is lying. Scientists can make projections and there are a few things that seem statistically probable like sea levels rising etc. But these models remain models. Some are very optimistic, some are very pessimistic. In the end, we have no certainties.

3°Something is certain though: Western countries are not going to suffer as much as developping countries. We're talking overpopulation, droughts, famine, disease here. I'm not judging people's habits: we could all be more environmentally friendly, or frugal. I'm just saying: why do I deserve a better life than someone in THailand or in Sudan?

4°There is something you can do: get informed. Sure, if every American car respected European regulations you would save the equivalent of enough energy for 1 billion people in developping countries. Sure, eating less meat, eating local, using energy-saving light bulbs are good ideas. But there is no black or white: doing these things does not mean you are a "good" person. Sometimes environmental behaviour is counter-intuitive: if you stop drinking coffee because coffee cultivation is the cause of so much deforestation, you are also depriving developping countries of a chance to offer a better life for their people. It's not simple. But read about it. Read conflicting opinions. Ignorance is never the right choice.

Nothing is going to be decided in Copenhague. Why? Because China and India won't reduce their carbon emissions unless the US does as well. And do you think the US congress will vote such an unpopular reform anytime soon? Maybe if people petitionned their representatives, but I'm not seeing that happening either. In France President Sarkozy wants us to pay a carbon tax and no one is happy about that either.

I truly believe there are ways to make changes without coercion or treating people like stupid children. That talking honestly, without scare-mongering tactics, is the best policy. We've all seen pictures of polar bears dying or of children in Africa eating mud because water supplies are polluted or dried up. Newsweek is full of them. I'll see them, feel terrible, and go on with my life. Emotional blackmail is no way to change the world.


I'll get off my soapbox now. But if anyone has any questions, coffee's on me...

The Rules

My grandmother has strived to teach me some rules in life. Now I have to say that she is not your typical granny, in flannels and spectacles. She was one of the reigning beauties in Paris in the 60s and 70s and was elected in the Best Dressed Hall of Fame. Having failed to interest my mother in anything related to her world, she tried to mold me into a young lady of distinction. Let's see how she did, shall we?

The Challenge: "Keep your back straight."
Everytime I slouch, I hear those dreaded words and the harsh gesture that accompanied it.
Success rate: 99%.
I'm no sloucher. I now have good posture and at almost 5 ft 10, I'm quite tall for a Frenchwoman, but I've never been anything else but thrilled that I towered over some of my countrymen (two of my aunts are 6ft3 so I'm still considered a short thing in the family).

The Challenge:"If you don't have perfect manners, you're never be a lady"
This includes table manners, etiquette and small talk techniques as well as the usual Ps and Qs.
Success rate: 90%
I'm polite. I know which cutlery to use to eat shrimp or how much to tip people. This is at such odds with my poor student lifestyle that I often astonish my friends with displays of wordly (and frankly not useful to someone in my income range) wisdom. Small talk is another matter, but since I'm genuinely interested in a variety of topics, I like talking to almost everyone, and usually learn from all these conversations.

The Challenge: "Always dress the part."
Success rate: Low.
I know that I don't dress well, but I'm too lazy to do anything about it. I'll always dress up for concerts, definitely. But according to my Grandmother, a woman should always wear good shoes and a good bag, meaning not something fashionable but timeless. My sneakers are timeless, if you mean so old they defy time. Sometimes I feel bursts of dressiness and wear skirts, heels and nice cardigans, but who am I to argue with a nice pair of jeans?

The Challenge: "Behave with men like a Geisha"
Success rate: Ha!
"Men don't like to feel unintelligent with a woman, men need to be catered to, men need to be treasured and made to feel like gods, learn what men like, look at them worshipfully etc."
I've heard these rules all my life and to be honest, I think they are more insulting to men than to me. My grandmother did make me practice pouring out drinks with a worshipful look, but I suspect my subsequent successes with the opposite sex were due to the drinks more to the gaze.

Do you think I'm sexist?

Hello, kids! Today we’re going to learn about discrimination in the business world.

I’m usually annoyed by this entrepreneurial class, but mostly I find it ridiculous. I happen to always get interested in things I don’t know or understand, so I thought this course would be useful in understanding how businesses are made and unmade, meet entrepreneurs and broaden my leftist views on finance and marketing.

Not so much.

The problem is twofold: on the one hand you have a class which seems obsessed with money, power, prestige, things that are not on top of my priority lists. On the other hand you have a teacher who is gifted with a giant ego. After he ran the New York marathon, he started our class with a power point presentation of how he had done as “a metaphor on business”. He looks down on researchers. (Stupid, since technical innovation is a huge motor of business creation, but hey! He’s the one who did Harvard Business School, I’m just a lowly lit girl.)He keeps boasting about his success as an entrepreneur.

Last week’s class summed up my problem in a nutshell. Topic: women in business. Numbers: pretty bad. In France, only 1% of business administrators are women, as opposed to 4% in the USA. The usual power point crap: a giant graph showing how many women have a top rank in France’s biggest firms.

“This is shocking,” says the teacher, strutting around the class room. “I mean, it’s understandable that no women belong to [Huge Aeronautics Company] or [Giant Arms Dealer]. But it’s very surprising that there are no women working for [Big Food Industry] or [World Famous Cosmetics Company]. “

My hand shoots up.

« So what you’re saying is that women can only understand baby food and makeup ?”

“I knew someone would overreact during this class, it happens every year. You don’t have to take everything so personally.”

Another hand shoots up, my neighbour’s, an accountant major.

“How many women work in your company?”

Teacher looks vexed. My neighbour is a man, so he can’t accuse him of being an overreacting woman.

“Only one, but my company is focused on sport and the internet, so it’s not very interesting for women.”

The worse part of this class is that a few people came to see me at the end to ask me why I had been so aggressive with the teacher. “He’s trying to highlight the problem.”

But he also is the problem. His sexism is so deeply ingrained, he doesn’t even realize how sexist he is. There are about 50 women attending this seminar, and only one reacted, the one who won’t become an entrepreneur.

Hugs

I just want to hug anyone who's going through a rough patch at the moment, be it family, health or finance-related. I don't know if I'm the only one who gets comforted by hugs, but I'll try anyhow.

HUGS.

It's good to remember that we are not alone, and to reach out when the going gets tough.

And thank you to everyone who has ever helped me when my going is rough.

Merci beaucoup.

Things change

Things change, baby.

Almost seven months after the break-up, I'm calling my ex my friend, because he is. I'm going on dates and trying to feel single again. As predicted in May, I'm no longer in the noisy despair stage: pain happens, but the main mode is numbness and quiet indifference.

So a lot has changed in a way. Has it?

Depression makes you wary of trying to define yourself by your behaviour. I am not my depression. It is a part of me, but I don't want it to define me. I want my good traits to define me, but depression makes it hard sometimes to define those.

When I was X's girlfriend, he would often complain about my tendency to "fish" for compliments. I did. I needed an exterior eye to correct my deformed inner one. I am acutely aware that my vision of myself is flawed. But see, I am flawed too. And this break-up has made me realize some things that I always feared to articulate, in case they would be self-fulfilling prophecies.

I was always scared that "the real me" would be repulsive to others (friends, family, boyfriends). And then I met X. He loved me despite my defects. I told him about my depression, my eating disorder, my insecurities and yet, he loved me.

Until he didn't.

I entirely accept what happened, and in a way, this acceptance is my problem. Because if a man tells me that I am too dark, too heavy, too difficult, he will be telling me what I already feel, what I already know. That ultimately, my good qualities cannot compensate for the bad ones. When X told me he felt trapped, I understood that I was the problem. When, you know, it's always more complicated than that.

So as I gingerly dip a toe in the murky waters of flirtation and seduction after years of coupledom, I've consciously or not defined what is palatable and what is not. It's OK for me to complain laughingly about feeling under the weather and then switch the topic to something general. It's not OK to say what I really feel. Because that would be scary. And in the end, it's my own fucking responsability, no one else's.

At the moment, someone must have given me a Love Magnet, because I am being propositioned all the time. My stock is up. Yet something holds me back-and that something is the fear that once again, I am misleading these people into something they may not want to handle. I told X about my problems, but he didn't believe me, as he later admitted. Damned if I show my true colors, damned if I don't.

It's exhausting to live with demons on your shoulder. We all have those, although they may differ. Jealousy, greed, anger, sadness. Pick your poison. It's so exhausting to pretent they don't exist.

I knew I wasn't going to react to this break-up the way it was expected of me. My anger was short-lived. My bitterness almost non-existent. My affection and respect for my ex did not dissolve into ether, they morphed into something else.
I came to see myself as a list of pros and cons, the way X saw me, with the column of cons outweighing the pros.

Sometimes I still do.

And I want that to change.

Stuff I like doing during autumn

Matching my lipstick to my hair. Or is the reverse?

Nooooo!!!

Ireland has lost against France and will not go to the Football World Cup! I always root for the underdog.

Memory, interrupted

"So, would you say it's better to have love and lost, than never to have loved at all?", my ex-boyfriend asks with a straight face.

I sometimes wonder if I'm too sensitive, or if he is an alien robot, albeit a wonderful one.


This house used to belong to my family. Now we've given it to the State, since it is too expensive to repair and keep up. We are allowed to go there a few weeks a year, but restoration will make that impossible for some time. I'm only here for the day, to attend the board meeting. Weird feeling.



I'm walking in the woods of my childhood paradise. Through the russet leaves, you can see the house. I'm breathing in the smells: wonderful scuttling noises make the hedges tremble. Rabbits and hedgepigs frolicking. I'm home.
I sit in the grass. The board meeting will begin soon. If we lose this place, will I bear the memories of it? My sister and I learning how to ride a bike and a horse, playing tennis with our cousin, snuggling on the couch to listen to the stories of my aunt, endless book-reading in the park. I miss my sister here, she is part of this.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. If I could erase memories...

Definitely the time I wore baggy jeans to class for a presentation and they fell to my knees when I stood up.

The unforgivable time I read X's diary in a pathetic bid to discover "the truth" after our breakup, and I learnt how miserable I had made him and how the evening after the "talk" he had kissed the person I hated most. "Kissed Emilie,small mouth, nice arse". Never snoop, children. It's shitty behaviour. I would do anything to erase that memory, both to forget the shame of my action and the pain provoked by the words.


The grass is dry and the lake shimmers. I feel at peace. I remember how X and I took pictures of ourselves together in front of it. In the snapshots, he is beautiful and gold-skinned. I am rosy-cheeked. We were in love. We went biking together, and I was so happy to share my favorite place with my favorite person.

Oh, it's better to have loved and lost! I will love our memories forever.

But as I look up at the house that has given my family so many hours of happiness, I feel great pride that I can participate in its new life, in its restoration.

It's better never to have lost at all, really.

Disaster movies

I have lowbrow tastes.
Let me rephrase that: I love trashy movies. Especially disaster movies. The kind where a divorced father reclaims the love of his children by saving them during the apocalypse/an alien invasion/underwater monster attacks etc. The kind where strippers with a heart of gold rescue stray puppies or adorable little girls. The kind where you always have a black president/pilot/general/secretary of state to make up for the stereotypical wisecracking black single mother.

The kind where only American people matter, because although you always see CNN reporting on foreign countries the heroes are American and the American president always saves the day. I'd like to say here that Transformers 2 shows the Eiffel Tower being wrecked IN THE WRONG PART OF PARIS. Michael Bay? It's called research.

To complete my enjoyment, there must be many scenes in the Pentagon, with computers and giant screens showing trajectories. Someone picks up a phone and whispers impressively:"The President on line 1."

So 2012 should be right up my alley. Disaster movie directed by Roland Independance Day Emmerich. The world is destroyed because of a vicious Mayan prediction and unscientific science babble. RUN, people, RUN!

On the other hand, I went with my bestie M. to see a wonderful franco-russian movie called "Le Concert", about a bunch of Russian musicians who were fired from the Bolchoï under Brejnev who trick their way to Paris to play Tchaikovsky's violin concerto. It was broad comedy. Russians and Frenchies were painted with a heavy brush. It was about how music brings us together, a hokey message. However, it was moving and uplifting and funny.

So I won't go to see 2012, because I know the end and all the plot twists. But why not meld the genres? Here's to a disaster movie with loads of CGI about Russian musicians who save the world with a glorious soundtrack.

Can you imagine how wonderful that would be? And maybe Anna Netrebko could have a cameo and sing Puccini for the survivors.

Shy

The boom-box is destroying my ears. I'm wearing my best jeans, battered sneakers and a plain T-shirt. I knew none of the writhing teenagers would care about how I looked. I'm in Hessen Germany, partying with underage locals.
I always do the same thing at parties. I find someone who looks as shy as me and I try to strike up a conversation.
I scan the room. Most of the girls are in denim minis and leather boots. They are trying so hard to look older. I remember how we used to cover up our faces with insane amounts of makeup. There's enough mascare here to paint a ceiling.
The guys are drunk. To my ageing eyes, they look like a throw-back to the grunge era, except they don't know it's a throw-back. All plaid shirts and holes. They can't dance and they were born in 1993.
One youth is propping up the impromptu bar. Alone? Check. Shy-looking? Yup. I advance towards him. The DJ is playing some ode to grinding. I pour myself some water and smile way up at him. He's tall. He wears braces. He's eighteen.

This is pretty funny.

As I speak with him in German, he answers timidly at first, but with more aplomb as the conversation advances. A drunk crony of his crashes into me. I force water down him, and let him cry on my shoulder.
When he goes off to lie down, my tall German sits next to me. He's pegged me down as an eccentric, worldly, older French girl. He confesses that he's never kissed a girl and that he can't wait to get his braces off. We drink to their removal. He asks me about France. His hands inch towards me, then retreat.

I'm five years older. I know all the moves, baby.

I dance, lost in the weirdness of the situation. Sweaty Germans merge hazily. The Tall German comes up to me. His hand clumsily clasps my waist, clumsily draws me towards him. His eyes are full of sadness, fear, desire and resolution. And I remember every single one of those emotions. I remember being a teenager.


I stare at him, watching him stare back. I'm surprisingly moved. I want to kiss him because I never got the nerve to kiss all those other boys, when I was sixteen. I want to kiss him because he wants me to. I know I won't.

He watches me leave the improvised disco. As I gather my stuff, I know how he feels, and as I walk into the cool autumn dawn, I see how pretty the mist is. My T-shirt clings to me. As I cross a shop window, a pink face is watching me with haunted smiling eyes, filled with forgotten anguish, and everlasting shyness.

Hard to please

I tentatively went on another "date". It wasn't a date in the French way- it was a pizza with a guy from my economics class. But I know he's interested. So in a way it was a date.
Anyhow, it went well compared to my Groping Misadventure. He's polite and well-spoken. He helped me in and out of my coat. He pulled my chair back for me. He opens doors. He gave me a ride home. He asked me thoughtful questions about political topics; we're both history nerds and he is a musician. We even like the same kind of rock and roll.

So why am I complaining?

I'm not. He was nice. But he had no edge to him. He was too slow for me. It felt like driving a Moped after being used to a Yamaha. He didn't see ahead in the conversation, didn't see the jokes, wasn't funny or witty. I was in control of the evening, and I like being surprised once in a while.

Anyhow, definite upgrade from last time. He invited me to go to an open-mike jazz evening where he will be playing with his band. I may go.

But I'm hard to please, clearly. X is a hard act to follow.

Rant

Damn it.
I am so tired of judgemental people.

How do they find the energy? I find it difficult enough to walk around deciding what I want to do, without making to-do lists for every Jack and Sally I meet.

"You should..."
"If I were you..."

If these sentences have not been preceded by "What should I do?"or "Give me some advice, please, oh ye friend of great acument and perception", shove it, stranger. Oh, you say you mean well? Well that makes it dandy, then. I don't know you, you don't know me, so your opinions are entirely relevant to me.

Example:

In the subway. Morning. Grey faces, everyone is tired, someone is listening to their mobile really loudly, and French hip hop is...bad.

Random person: "You shouldn't carry around so many things, it's bad for your back."

....

Thanks? I have seen the light!

This rant includes: people who give unsollicitated advice to pregnant ladies. People who criticize homeless people because they are "lazy" in front of them.

And these are the same people who just sit there and don't move when someone gets physically assaulted because "it's not their business."

I need Alan Rickman to comfort me with his exquisite drawl.




Rant over.

Bitter/sweet

My sweet, my heart.

These words leave me with reluctance. Whispered endearments.

My sweet my heart my own darling.

Some words have texture. I remember staring at a Flemish painting, marvelling at how the stately futures were weighed down by rigid panels of cloth, and how each depicted jewel brought under the skin of my fingers the remembrance of stones and metal. So much flat reality.

Some words are both flat and textured. I repeat them, finding comfort in their triviality, but they are like poison. A phone against my lips, a spring morning filled with bitterness, washed away by rain.

My own darling, my dearest love.

You discover endearments in every language.

French is my mother tongue. It moves me. I believe wistfulness is its best mode. We have strong consonants, vibrant fricatives, butthey taper off into mellowness, giving an impression of relectance and abandon, quite unlike the watchfulness of German. You cannot really let a sentence drift away in German, or if you do, you are speaking it like a foreigner.

But yes, it took falling in love in English to really love English. In fact, being in love with a grammar Nazi, a high-stickler, gave me freedom to explore the recesses, the dirty corners and bring back forgotten treasures, ready to be laughed away or fiercely protected. His English is better than mine because beyond its accuracy, it is English. Mine is a hamper of toys. I feel no protectiveness towards it, the way I do towards my French.

My love, my delicious darling. Such flatness! I acknowledge their well-worn smirk, unavoidably sickening.To me, though, they are just broken in. I still feel these words and recognize them for the treacherous friends they are. All I've found within them, their music, the rumble of syllables finally meaning something. All I've lost.

In between the lost and the found, the texture of these words: an elusive, delicious texture that brings a smile, and an almost smile, as I say them.

Choices, choices

I hate this armchair, but I try to settle comfortably. I am paying for this, after all.
"So let's pick up where we stopped last week. Why don't you want to have children?"
I look at him. He's scratching his nose, not looking like an inquisitor at all. I smile.
"I don't want anyone to have my genes."
"What's wrong with your genes?"
"I'm chronically depressed." I wave an airy hand. And all that. I also have really bad blood circulation and asthma. But those don't count. They aren't life-threatening. They don't make you want to die. Or try to die.
"Do you believe depression is genetic?"
"I believe that it is, yes. And even if it's not, how could I bring up someone if I'm sad a lot? Wouldn't it be unfair on the child?"
I was brought up by someone with addiction. I know what it feels when your love is not enough for someone to change, not enough to make them happy. When you are a child, you don't know happiness is something you make for yourself. You think it's your fault.
"Why do you believe it's genetic?"
"I don't want to believe I had a choice in this."
I didn't choose to be alive. A lot of the time I wish I weren't. I'm stuck here for the best and for the worse. And my best is amazing. And my worse is soul-killing.
"I don't want to believe that I chose depression for myself."
"You've been through a lot."
"No, I haven't. And even if I had, it wouldn't change anything to the fact that it's my responsability to go beyond my bad experiences to make something of myself. If it's something wrong in my genome, my stumbles don't make me feel so guilty."

I choose to not be angry; I choose to forgive and forget, I choose to fight for what I care for.

"Maybe everything is a choice."
"Life isn't."
"Yes it is. You're here. You're choosing to remain alive. You're choosing to see me. You're choosing to get better. Every morning you go running to pump some endorphins in yourself and make yourself happier."
I can't see through my tears.
"Sometimes I feel no one knows what this feels like. How bloody hard it is. That no one cares."
"Don't you think I care?"
"I don't know."
My family cares. My friends care. But in the end, the shrink is right.

I choose this struggle, and I will run again tomorrow, and I'll think of the things I love and am passionate about. I'll see my friends and family. I'll cuddle with the cats and make really stupid jokes.

Whatever is coming, I may not be ready, but I choose to pretend I am. Give it to me, and watch me take it.

I choose to be a grown-up.

A moment of bliss

Today, or is it yesterday, I heard a wonderful concert. José van Dam sung a beautiful cycle of Schumann lieder, which got me crying after about five minutes. There's something about Schumann, the poetry he chooses, the piano's soft and furious interpretation, the waves of emotion and pain, that gets me every time. Then we had some lovely French chansons. Normally I'm not too fond of French songs, because the lyrics sound so corny. The way people used to speak changed, yet the chansons keep the same distribution of syllables over the notes. It's slightly perturbing when you are trying to listen to the music. But here the poetry was by Baudelaire or Verlaine, so you're pretty much enjoying the best of French poetry.
He concluded with Poulenc's cycle of bawdy Renaissance songs. Watching van Dam, who will always be for me the most dashing Leporello, winks and makes suggestive gestures while the audience howl with laughter was a great moment indeed.
So I cried, I laughed, and I clapped my hands raw.

I was sitting next to X. We were enjoying it together, as friends. Music has always been something we both love intensely, though in entirely different ways. (He's never liked Baroque so much either). But it was part of the pleasure to be there with him, after all that we've been through together, building a new chapter in our lives, yet still able to smile at each other or mistily grin when we were moved. Here is a man who held my hand when my father was terribly sick for months on end. Here is a man who taught me how to enjoy so many things in life, a good meal with friends, a glass of perfectly dry white wine. And this is the man who once loved me and now cares for me, and wants only the best for me, and who knows that I wish him everything he could possibly want.

So as I cried during the Schumann, I still felt like a very lucky person indeed.

Pretentious manifestos

I am currently writing an essay on Hakim Bey's seminal work, TAZ (Temporary Autonomous Zone), which may well be the most pretentious manifesto in the world.

"No, listen, what happened was this: they lied to you, sold you ideas of good & evil, gave you distrust of your body & shame for your prophethood of chaos, invented words of disgust for your molecular love, mesmerized you with inattention, bored you with civilization & all its usurious emotions.

There is no becoming, no revolution, no struggle, no path; already you're the monarch of your own skin--your inviolable freedom waits to be completed only by the love of other monarchs: a politics of dream, urgent as the blueness of sky.

To shed all the illusory rights & hesitations of history demands the economy of some legendary Stone Age--shamans not priests, bards not lords, hunters not police, gatherers of paleolithic laziness, gentle as blood, going naked for a sign or painted as birds, poised on the wave of explicit presence, the clockless nowever."

Contrast with this delightful Futurist Manifesto written in 1909 by Marinetti: "We will glorify war—the world’s only hygiene—militarism, patriotism, the destructive gesture of freedom-bringers, beautiful ideas worth dying for, and scorn for woman. We will destroy the museums, libraries, academies of every kind, will fight moralism, feminism, every opportunistic or utilitarian cowardice."

Reading this crap makes me want to crawl into a hole and never pick up an art book again, which, coming from me, is the proof of despair.

Disguises

I'm wearing my grown-up dress. It's got a big skirt and a slim top, and I pair it with a blazer and some heels. I'm wearing this dress because I spent all day whoring myself out at the Sciences Po Business convention, giving my CVs and asking for money.Ironically, this took place in the Paris House of Chemistry. It feels quite strange, that this is a thing people do every day, when they ask for grants, for scholarships, and yet I find it so difficult. Give me!Money! On my shoulder you can see my big bruise-scratch that I got from tripping over a branch while running with the track team. Stupid. I also have a couple of beauties on each of my knees. I'm clumsy. Here's the thing: I've been covering up a lot of my bruises and of my hurts recently. On the one hand I deal with them better if I pretend they're simply not there. On the other, I know that they will hurt even more when I attend to them. Scary prospect. All these thoughts collided when I had lunch with my friend L from Lyon today. I felt a rush of nostalgia for all the good times we had together and I loved hearing about all the things she is doing. She admired my outfit and told me how old-ladyish I looked. I took off my top and showed her some of my AMAZING SPORT injuries. She giggled. "I guess some things don't change." I'm so used to people asking me to change, to always improve, that I found something wonderful in that shedding of my disguise.