raiding book collections

at my friend tom's house for christmas -- and his book collection is a godsend. it's been a while since i've been surrounded by so many books in english.

he is completely anal about his collection but for good reason. it's quite intense. so i have to finish these books before i leave on the 29th.

currently on my to read list from his collection:

the paper house - dominguez

our ancestors - calvino

of mice and men - steinbeck

satori in paris - kerouac

long good bye - chandler

after many a summer - aldous huxley

a farewell to arms - ernest hemingway

tender is the night - fitzgerald

pantagruel - rabelais

down and out in paris and london - george orwell

the illustrated man - ray bradbury

more to be added i'm sure. i can't get through all of them, but i can try.

tomorrow is christmas eve - and we've decided it's reading and wrapping day.

and both of us are completely excited for it.

perfect friendship right here.

notes taken from a parisian dame

according to my great-aunt

from 1947-1957 -
my grandfather studied in france
she loved him dearly.
he loved to draw, he was always drawing, he was a gentle soul
he never looked back to art after deciding to go into engineering
a true appreciation for the arts never left him though
he loved music.
london for a music festival,
had everything stolen
and hitchhiked back.
those were the days,
when you could trust people to hitchhike.
his favorite opera? carmen.
he stayed at hostels.
yeah, they existed back when.
i always thought, my grandfather's hearing left him because of his age.
i just assumed everyone lost their hearing after they were old.
but this time around, i learned
he lost his hearing because of the beatings he received
for trying to leave Vietnam
to be with his children in the states.
there's more to that history,
but that's for another time, over tea

my greataunt calls blackberry's - des petits machines
-- yes, that's adorable.

she's a proper lady - born in the 1930s.
to an aristocratic family
everything about her
screams elegance
class, and elitism
a nazi about etiquette
a woman who denied the 10 year old me from going to the bathroom
because it wouldn't be proper to just walk into a cafe
just to use the bathroom, without sitting down
and ordering, eating, then paying

she's fiercely french
i mean, really.
this is a lady that drops 80 euros on 2 kilos of cheese.
this is a lady that was in better shape at 80, than i was at 8.
this is a lady that has a baguette and camembert for breakfast.
this is a lady that spares no expense when it comes to wine.

she was an optometrist.
she was a traveler.

she made all of her children learn french and german -
before they ever learned vietnamese.
actually, i speak vietnamese better than my aunts and uncles.
languages is all about discipline, she says very seriously.
you can't really argue with a gal like her.

she doesn't seem to realize that i get extremely confused
about whether or not
i should use french or vietnamese
when she switches from language to language
i don't think she even realizes she switches language

my studies. how are my studies?
she wants me to go to the London School of Economics
she can rattle off enough facts about LSE for me to write the grad school application
i know she's proud of me.
in fact, every time we're out she brags about me.
my niece, just came from Chine -- she was studying Chinese, with a scholarship!
they look at me, eyes popping. wait, aren't you Chinese?
i try not to roll my eyes

she also happens to know taxi drivers around the city,
and they know her.
and offer her madeleines
because they know they're soft enough for her teeth
she doesn't need to tell them the address, 31 rue st. jacques
because they know all the shortcuts to get there already

she goes on to carry on grand conversations with them about everything
from politics - to immigration - to what restaurant has the best couscous in town
she knows the name of every monument on every corner,
and the date when they were erected

this woman is a living history book
this woman is a character.

she has a taste for moroccan tea, and loves indian food
she admires the english for their pedagogy
and the japanese for their health

she's been so scarred by the war --
that she will never be a socialist in france.
conservative, traditional, and nationalistic.
liberté, fraternité, égalité

she embodies what it means to be french.
my aunts and uncles -- completely integrated into french culture
my uncle?
a neurologist like his father,
accepted into the legion of honor for his work
my aunt?
speaks more languages fluently than i'm currently learning.
my cousins?
half tunisian half vietnamese -- fully french.

they go to see plays, operas, exhibitions, and concerts almost weekly
there's an apartment in the 5th arrondissement and a house in the countryside for holidays.

my great aunt - is excited about her trip to Stalingrad, Russia this upcoming April.
my great aunt - i remember from my summers in France, as this strong independent woman.

my aunt so desperately embraces french culture.
that i can't help but wonder - am I less because I'm Vietnamese?
but redeem myself
- because of my language skills.
- because of my education
- because of my obvious love for travel

i love her.
but
when did she age so quickly...
when did i begin to worry...

flabbergasted

you know the word.
it comes up in all types of books.

flabbergasted -- to be overcome with astonishment.
never thought i'd be able to use it.

it's not shocking or a sense of astonishment.
it's when there is simply sensation, without thought.
neither good, nor bad.
just slight horror and suspicion...
that someone has to be lying.

i'm simply flabbergasted.
what a goddamn small world.

i'm not disappointed.
who am i kidding?
i probably am.
i wanted
to not
know
now.

screw it.
let's not think.
i have too much to do
and not enough neurons
to wrap my head around this

i feel
odd(ly)
annoyed.

who cares?
god save the queen.
i'm london-bound tomorrow.
see you all back in the states in two weeks.

today's soundtrack

and furthermore, i want to express my utter distaste for french keyboards.

yes, yes, and yes.

i guarantee you don't have the time for it.
but it'll be worth your time.
does that make any sense whatsoever?

Youtube & Ridley/Tony Scott: Life in a Day

http://youtu.be/JaFVr_cJJIY

in other news -- I have my ticket back to the states!
January 5th, Istanbul -> NYC, Kennedy -> NYC, Kennedy -> Boston 9:47 PM.

rainy days in paris

are perfect for going to museums.
not-so-secret guilty pleasure.
i can spend entire days in an art museum
just leave me there, and i'll be fine
by myself, without an itinerary

which is strange to some people.
because aren't all museums, well, touristy?
snapping pictures. illegal flashes
iphones and blackberries
too many goddamn Asians.
tour groups with tour guides
flags, audio devices, and maps
with too many languages
and at times,
overly hyped up pieces of art?

this is all true.

but museums in the morning,
when you catch a moment,
by yourself.
with the rain outside...

there's you and a soul.
born into
a sculpture
a painting
a photograph

there's a thought
that criss crosses into your mind
a connection, to your life.
and that artwork,
belongs to you
for that split second

and even in the hubbub of the afternoons?
people are there from all over the world.
there's not only art, but people.
watching people appreciate art
watching people run through the maze of portraits
watching people fall asleep in the too comfy chairs of the Louvre.

and no matter where you're from,
what you see is the same.
translated, with invisible subtitles

time is a bit unnecessary

don't you think?
I looked through pictures today.

On facebook of course.
Because who actually owns pictures you can hold?
Snapshots of a moment in time.

And...
I realized that while I've been gone,
people have changed. Over time.
I realize I'm stating an obvious fact
that escaped me.

But honestly,
when did we grow up(art)?
when did we stop talking?
you see those pictures?
those were the times
irrelevant.
iridescent.

Some would consider me a bad friend...
God knows, I'm terrible at keeping in touch.
But you have to realize... time stood still when I left.
At least, it was supposed to.

I've always thought - the best types of friendship,
are the ones you can pick up again.
as if nothing has happened.
But, I forget people
don't agree.

My close friends, I still consider close friends.
But could they say the same of me?
I never forgot them.
but in a sense I did.
Because I wanted to forget
me, then. back when.

I guess what I'm trying to say, is that it's not you it's me.
I didn't outgrow you, I outgrew me.
I wanted to leave.
I needed to leave.
It was time.

And I grew up,
not by choice.
Not really.
Timing.

Forgive me?

I just wanted to go to somewhere,
where no one knew me.
And I know I wasn't
there. Perhaps.
At the time.
But can you?
- please -

I'll be home in exactly a month.
Let me come home, finally.
After two years,
of wandering.
It's time.

Atonement.

snow & a cup of tea.

I hope it snows in Paris before I leave.
Or if not, I hope I come home to snow.

http://8tracks.com/dismantled47/coffeehouse-jazz

why I'm still single

according to jesse:

Sent at 6:41 AM on Sunday

within 100 miles of the guy semi permanently

1000 miles and planning on Nepal doesnt work

the perfect guy for you... in my mind...

first, no matter what you say he HAS to be at least cute

in a very particular way

like lean, slightly longer hair, artistic... not bohemian though, modern man kind of image

that... combined with the type of personality you generally click with.. is hard
and the problem is that any guy that cute can generally get girls much cuter or equally as cute as you who are much dumber, for far less effort

so we'd need to catch one when theyre at the point where theyre sick of that shit and want to settle down lol

hardly easy
on top of that, given where you are in life

he needs to be cool with uncertainty,
especially the possibility of long distance

thats a shitty sell

so more likely than not, you'll be stuck with guys who are willing to fake it just long enough to get laid, OR crazy desperate guys, OR theyll say no
just an overall wrap up, any guy willing to put enough effort into their appearance, to the point where you'd be interested, is at least going to be a little self centered, if not a downright player or douche... I don't see your dreamy sandy haired half Belgian half Malaysian boy in a leather jacket sitting at a god damn Borders bookstore in the poetry section, unless its to pick up girls like you

or its for his english class... or hes there on mandatory com service

the best we can hope for is that you find said guy

but he isnt into thinking long term

so you guys can start with what anyone else would call a fling

and hopefully it metamorphosizes into something more

at least for now

ugh Im done, go write in your damn blog

lmao, and there you have it.
apparently.

autobiographical recap through cars

i hate traffic, but
i love listening to it when i don't have to suffer through it.

sitting in reid hall and disecting the sounds.
listening to everything together - as a symphony.
after everyone else has already left.

the vacillant bursts of rain that peters out into a drizzle -
... an unremarkable exit, at best.
the contralto hum of the professor's lecture next door -
... peering inside the somberly lit room only to see a man in battle with his eyelids.
withered autumn leaves scraping the courtyard floor -
... that fail to crunch quite as crisply as the maple leaves in new england.
the wind brushing by rudely with not so much as a "hello"
... yes, even the wind is Parisian here

and then listening intently.

like the electric bass that is often times overwhelmed,
or the clacking of heels in a crowded hallway,
and the sound of a bubble popping,

there are distinct sounds, that you can separate one by one.
you just need to listen closely for it.

the sounds of a car beeping, doors squeaking shut, a yell, and the purr of a motorcycle; more distant and removed from my immediate surroundings. i'm looking for a rhythm in the anarchy of it all.

fun fact, i get incredibly pissed if i have to sit in traffic
probably because my worst car trips have been
in traffic jams that were at a standstill
at the end of the new jersey turnpike, waiting to pay a toll.
on the george washington bridge, where there's only one lane for cash...

in a black saab convertible, two-door sedan
with the august heat in my passenger seat
cursing, melting, and thrumming the steering wheels with my fingers -
without AC or even the radio.
because i was too lazy to get it fixed beforehand,
due to procrastination.

the end of summer usually creeps up like that.
that was freshman year of college.

i remember -

my first car.
a death trap on wheels.
a 1990 something plymouth voyager.
automatic. minivan.
it was high school. no one had cool cars, except that one kid with the thunderbird.
looked a little bit like a Lego car with some upgrades. a block, stoic car.
burgundy, with brakes that screeched to a stop -- at 20 miles an hour.

i used to hate that car, but now i'm a bit nostalgic.

the radio didn't work in that car either -- and i used to get incredibly bored driving. too poor to buy an iPod at the time (actually, i still have never owned one) i found other ways to entertain myself.

driving with one hand at the base of the steering wheel, my left knee tucked up onto the chair. driving with my knees. or if i was really daring? i let go of the steering wheel, for seconds, before grabbing it again. i remember i took the seats out of the back, to save on mileage and to lug couches around town. sometimes, we'd just pop open the back door - sitting with a pint of kimball's ice cream in the back of the car. once we crammed up to eight people in the back - who had to crouch low whenever there was a police car.

one day, she just died. god bless her.

then there was my red Ford pick-up truck.
she was a gem, with terrible mileage. a compact little truck.
i fancied she was like "the little engine that could" - completely overshadowed by the other trucks on the road. her suspension so off, that i felt like i was sitting on a teetering barstool every time i drove. i think at one point i had to physically pull the steering wheel to the right, to keep the car driving straight. but in that car? i was invincible.

i remember drives up to the haystack observatory - i'd turn on the parking lights to drive up, not wanting to piss off the avid part-time astronomers. i'd park, climb into the bed of my truck, spread a blanket, lie down gingerly, and watch my breath disappear in front of me.

a hop and a skip forward?

sophomore year of college.
that was a nice upgrade.
camille. her name was camille.
i remember the first time i laid eyes on her,
new hampshire police auction.
not the most romantic encounter.
but love at first sight, nonetheless.
mercedes c230 coupe -- custom paint color? copper gold.
she was a wonder.
beautiful suspension.
silent, graceful pauses.
smooth steering, amazing handling.
she glided. elegance.
and a cheap date -
mileage, i mean.

hitting 120 was a thrill.
icy cold rush of air and speed.
through dark winding roads in connecticut -
where if i'm caught by the cops there, i'm screwed.

god, i miss driving.

up"date"

i don't care,
if it wasn't even a date.
i'm all smiles.

wish i knew what french etiquette dictates.
he could just be a gent.
he could just be parisian.

it's been a while since i've had a really long conversation,
between almost-strangers
with a language barrier. i
forgot how fun it was.
the awkwardness.
the blank stares.
the hesitance.
and laughs.

overall?

i appreciated his company,
the comfortable silences,
and the memory.

smile. (:

first date?

butterflies.
you remember what those are, right?

that unexpected text that makes you smile,
uncontrollably. stupidly.
am I high?

you want to skip across the room,
you're floating.
gloating,
goddamn -
soaring.

but you're twenty one,
so it's just another date.
just another guy.

you're no longer a teenager.
get a grip.

nothing to be excited about.
it might not even be a date to him.

just meeting a guy,
over drinks.
over coffee.

hell
i'm still not sure what we're doing.

what's the worst that could happen?
at the end of the night -

you can call a fairly good-looking parisian,
a friend.

so why...
don't I have anything to wear?
is my hair a mess?
am i nervous?

just meeting a friend for drinks.
i'm not spazzing or anything.
or the least bit attracted to him.

right.

nervous laugh *
keep telling yourself that.

here's to my date tomorrow.
here's to a funny story.

London.

plane. Luton Airport.
train. countryside.
retrouvaille.
lunch. park. residual shock.
econometrics.
a few beers. introductions.
night view on the thames.
japanese noodle soup.
scalping tickets...
foster the people.
luck level one.
adrenaline. lights.
goosebumps. ecstasy.
high on music.
failed jazz hunt,
ending with cheesecake.
exploration, adventure.
221B Baker Street.
Vanilla Chai Latte.
lions. determination.
Van Gogh, Monet.
top of the world,
on a bus.
"never lose that twinkle"
strangers. warmth.
sleep and happiness.
luck and life.
my life.

Thanksgiving

My brother's birthday is on Thanksgiving this year...

It's going to be my second Thanksgiving away from home.
And my second Christmas away from home.

God, I miss my family.

I sometimes prefer...

to watch movies alone.
to bake while no one's home.
to listen to music in an empty room, and
to go to museums by myself.

I already have ADD (this is fact) -- so when I want to fully appreciate something.
Or when I need time away from my life.
Or when I'm frustrated. Stressed.

I strive to focus.
On anything, but now.

Which is how I happened into le "Musée Marmottan Monet" at 2, rue Louis Boilly, 75016, Paris. Just a few hours ago. At around 11:30 AM. By myself.

It just happened to be on the same street where I was babysitting. And I just happened to have a few hours to kill. So I made a detour -- looked both ways, walked across the street, and stood in line. 5 euros later, camera and phone in coat check; I found myself in one of the most elegant galleries I've ever been in.

I really had no idea what to expect -- some Monet pieces, bien sûr... and with the current "Neo-Impressionism" exhibition, Matisse and Seurat would be sure to be in attendance.

What I never imagined was that I would come face to face with -

"Impression, soleil levant"



... arguably one of my favorite Monet pieces.

The piece that gave the "Impressionist" movement its name.
Impressionists -- marked by their obsession with the accurate depiction of light and movement.

Out of all the slides we saw in my art history classes (and I've taken quite a few - did I mention I originally wanted to go to art school?) -- this one particular piece always held me captive. Why?

This is where I say,

"Did you know...."

That the sun in this painting is actually of the same brightness as the sky around it?
At first glance, it seems as if the sun is the brightest part of the painting.

When I stood in front of it - literally one foot away - it still seemed to me like the orange of the sun was the brightest part of the painting. The contrast of the sun to the background was so stunning that I stood there for what must have been ten minutes just reeling from shock.

I knew what was fact, but I was standing in front of what my eyes told me was reality.
The fact? The sun is as bright as the sky around it.

What does that mean? Well, if you were to take a black and white photograph of this painting -- the sun wouldn't show up at all. It's actually one of the more realistic interpretations of the sky.

So why is that?

Because we can appreciate color.

Unlike other animals...
The world is not black and white.
A small fact.
That makes us very human.
Philosophize that.
A nice reminder.

The ability to distinguish, admire; color - richness - art.

If humans ever lost the ability to perceive color, thousands of years from now -- they'd look at some art pieces with the strangest expressions.

"They called THIS art?"

Because all they would see is a blank canvas.

Take that. Savor it. And digest.

p.s. Fun fact -- I have a print of this Georges Seurat piece in my house. I actually never knew it was a print of a famous painting yet I've always grown up with it. Walking past it everyday. My father's favorite....And to come face to face with the real painting at the museum today.... well, I guess that's what they call luck.



p.p.s. I remember useless facts about art but forget random facts I need to know for my European Politics class. Should have switched classes when I had the chance.

rest in peace, dear

Grief is a funny thing.
Or I guess, based on its definition - it’s the exact opposite of funny.

I’ve never been able to figure it out if it’s the excess of emotion, or lack thereof.
Am I emotionally handicapped if I can’t express it?

I used to be able to.
Bawl myself to sleep.
Heaving. Crying.
Sniffling.
Redden.
Grieve.
Verb.

And now?

Did I lose my ability to grieve?
Not one tear.

How do I know if I’m upset?
I eat without flavor. Robotically.
My appetite, appeal – missing.
Between thought and a void.
A chore. Check...

Detatch

But grief can be confused with shock.

Numbness.
I.

Carry on.

I dedicate this post...

to the news.

Read it.
Qaddafi is dead.
If you don't know who that is, you've been living under a damn rock.

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/10/21/world/africa/libyan-fighters-say-qaddafi-stronghold-has-fallen.html?hp

http://english.aljazeera.net/news/africa/2011/09/20119493450743624.html?utm_content=automateplus&utm_campaign=Trial6&utm_source=SocialFlow&utm_term=tweets&utm_medium=MasterAccount

And if you find the time -- I recommend looking into the Occupy Wallstreet Movement. And who the potential Republican candidates are for the presidential election in 2012.

Politics. One of the only reasons I wish I was back home in the States instead of Paris. Someone have a debate with me, please.

you always...

know a band is good, if the bassist is good. fact.

familiar strangers

sometimes when i'm procrastinating (i.e. right now)...
i find myself reading other people's blogs. not my friend's or my cousin's.
just a stranger's.
it's interesting -- to read a thought in progress.
because isn't that what we all are?

google. random articles. links.
usually, i just stumble upon them.
or sometimes, i click from one facebook page to another, until i find a random stranger's livejournal, tumblr, blogspot. a friend of a friend of a friend of someone's mother's daughter's son in law's twice removed cousin.

by the time, i find one i like -- i've completely forgotten the process as to how i got there. like getting lost, and finding the perfect reading spot. i imagine, it's a bit like blacking out and waking up somewhere comfortable the next morning. not that i would know, as i've yet to black out...

i don't know how i've found some of my favorite blogs. i just know -- i was meant to find them.

i actually have a list of ten blogs that i've bookmarked... that i sift through, periodically, randomly, once in a blue moon, everyday, quotidienne...for inspiration. because of curiosity. because i need a break -- from my life, from yours, from something comfortable. because i like to romanticize.

and i find myself wondering. what would it be like? to sit down and meet any one of them.
a familiar stranger.

currently, i've found myself perusing through one particular blog -- mainly because he's kept it for the last five or six years. there's so much to explore. it's still a mystery. it's still novel. sifting through. i don't claim to know him because of words or phrases. i just have snapshots. i don't know who he is -- nor do i want to know. i simply love his thoughts. his entries serve as a companion of sorts. a penpal? i imagine i know him as well as i would know someone from another lifetime -- reincarnation, if you believe in that type of stuff. because... what i have is just a collection of emotions that have been evoked, memories that have been stirred, experiences from not my own life -- but from his. experienced vicariously through images made of words. do you understand what i mean?

i take my time choosing a post each day -- an arbitrary process -- an autobiographical process. choosing dates that have some relevance to me. other times... i just keep clicking, from one post to another.

and i imagine. a face. any face. would i like his thoughts more in person? i wonder. if i were to ever reach out and invite this face to coffee -- what would happen? in a random city in some other country. i'd probably be disappointed. once i meet him, what if i couldn't view his thoughts in the same way anymore? a tragedy. a comedy. i'd be upset. or would i be pleasantly surprised? who knows. perhaps i'll never know.

to add onto my 100 things to do before i die list -- meet a random stranger, whose thoughts i already am familiar with.

this post will not be edited.

writer's block

i admit.

sometimes i think putting on my glasses will help me write better.
or a cigarette.
or damien rice.

i'm trying all three right now.

nope, still nothing.

fml.

cheating.

too lazy to actually write a blogpost. so here's something i actually laughed out loud to.

to my best friend

because I know you're reading this.

http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/this-is-why-youre-my-best-friend/

my morning anthem

These are the days of endless dreaming,
Troubles of life are floating away like a bird in flight.

so do me a favor

and picture me this --

after spending a day;

eating. tasting. drinking. and just loving

the most exquisite cheeses, sausages, and wine.

almost constantly;

catching a whiff of heaven.

aroma after aroma

double take after double take.

with gluttonous eyes

followed by moans of appreciation

completely content with;

meandering aimlessly through tents --

sipping on rums and juices.

eating slices and savoring.

mumbling through bread and foie gras.

while taking small sips of wine
and dashing

without risking a glance back or asking

la fête des vendanges à Montmartre

and then.

imagine;

a good bottle of red wine

sitting on the steps in front of the Sacre Coeur

the city of paris sprawled out in front of us

centre pompidou in the distance -- unsubtle

the eiffel tower just past the trees, to our right

at our feet, eyes stepping down to

-- a singer, singing off tune

-- every step space completely covered with laughter

night closes in on us, around 9

apartments twinkle into life

one after another -- not suddenly

but we're caught by surprise. it's 10.

four figures huddled together,
arms awkwardly interlaced.

music commences, over the din of hundreds of people

can you feel it? the bass.

then fireworks brush the air.

slowly, working it's way, to the finale.

a sizzle, the smell of something burning, singed.

a whistle, and a burst.

if you put that together -- it's a bit of a swizzle and a !snap

trails of brightness, and dusts of gold

bits of magic and whispers of light

brilliant, then fading into a quiet crackling

sparkling between gentle and exuberant

arching across and fainting

a toast.

and with a shiver, it's over.

we smile.

a breath.
satisfied.

for a split second,

afraid to move.

here's to paris.

and just for kicks --

here's to being born... in the USA.

to Sarah, Rachel, and Sam.
one of the best memories so far.

Normandie & Bretagne

A pilgrimage across a wet desert...

Mont Saint-Michel is in the distance, just a blue-grey haze in front of us. The sun exists only to accentuate the contrast between light and dark. Delirium playing with the water and the two dimensional landscape.

One slow step after another. At times, water rushes to fill in our footprints -- chiding us gently.

And at other times?

The sand breathes out, pushing up against our steps. Like walking across the skin of a living creature, a sea monster. I create patterns with my eyes. The terrain perfectly molded to replicate the scales of the animal underneath. The receding water effortlessly chisels the ground before me.

I press my feet deeply into what seems like charcoal-colored cobblestones - to reassure myself that it isn’t stone, but sand – not paved, but natural. The sea’s own handiwork.

A stampede of footsteps is the only indication that it’s safe to proceed. Translucent blobs of jelly remind us that just a few hours ago we could see nothing but water here. We march through rivers, stamping adamantly through puddles, and side step pools of muddy water. Deteriorating mountains of sand...decay beneath us.

Walking perpendicular to the current of different rivers, our bodies hindered. Struggling against the pull of the tide, we push on... only to forget how to walk once our legs surfaced from the water. Clambering onto the banks of damp, packed sand – our legs seem to float onwards without us. Free of their watery chains, they move a bit too quickly – rejoicing in freedom. Like stepping off a treadmill – basking in the ease of movement.

I remember breathing in, the wind was only slightly scented of salt. How strange... I taste the spray of water in my mouth. Yes, I accepted; it was salty. I breathe in again. Lost in thought.

We’re walking across the bottom of the ocean.

But it’s been transformed.
The scenery coruscating and beckoning to us as I surrendered to imagination.

Trekking across a moment in a fairytale, journey, quest, adventure -- to save the princess, kill a dragon, or possibly uncover some arcane treasure trove. The way clearly etched out if we listened intently to words blown from somewhere ephemeral.

grateful

Periodically through my day, every day -- I find myself repeating in my head;

you're in paris
you're IN paris
you're in PARIS
YOU are IN paris

in different pitches
with different stresses on syllables
ar-tic-u-la-ting the words
saying it fast
three times fast
saying it s l o w l y
in a sing song voice
punctuating my words
with bravado
almost yelling
quietly
thoughtfully
letting the words slip through
dreamily
matter. of. factly.
almost out of breath
after a pause
with a laugh
with a shake of my head
in confusion
in awe
as a question?
or with deadpanned seriousness --
but never angrily

Why can't I convince myself?
Why is it so hard to absorb?
You should probably be concerned with the fact that I'm talking to myself so much.

I finished my "European Politics" class this afternoon, strolled out onto the small side street and adjusted my sunglasses. Walked a few blocks, grabbed lunch -- a rare steak, that was practically raw -- and passed a parade of teachers on strike. I made my way further down St. Michel and browsed through books at Gilbert-Jeune. Then I finally wandered one street over and found myself people and pidgeon watching -- in front of the Notre Dame.

This is real life.
But I can't convince myself that it is.
I don't remember it being this hard in China.

Maybe it's because I've been to Paris before. Maybe because it's more Western, a highly developed country, and in a million different Hollywood movies. Maybe it's the pre-stages of culture shock. Maybe subconciously I've accepted it. Maybe I'm already just too Parisian (yeah, right).

I'm waiting for the awe to hit me. For my breath to be taken away. At the fact. Because it is.... in fact, a fact... I'm in Paris.

I remind myself so often in my head that it's become a chant of sorts. A rally cry. Under my breath. Hoping to make it a fact, to myself.

I'm incredibly lucky.
And above all, I'm incredibly grateful.

jealous, much?

Let's do a recap of my day:

Getting a presentation over with? .... Nice.
Grabbing a drink after class and people watching?.... Great.
Dinner with my cousins in their apartment in Paris? .... Awesome.
Getting ready to spend my birthday at Oktoberfest in Munich, Germany?.... Amazing.
Booking flights for my fall break trip to Hungary, Austria, and the Czech Republic.... Winning.

Oh, hot damn.
This is my life.

Offrez moi la Tour Eiffel, j'en ferais quoi?

Next big girl crush...? Yes, please.



Donnez moi une suite au Ritz, je n'en veux pas !

Des bijoux de chez CHANEL, je n'en veux pas!
Donnez moi une limousine, j'en ferais quoi?
Offrez moi du personnel, j'en ferais quoi?
Un manoir a Neufchatel, ce n'est pas pour moi.
Offrez moi la Tour Eiffel, j'en ferais quoi?

Je Veux d'l'amour, d'la joie, de la bonne humeur, ce n'est pas votre argent qui f'ra mon bonheur, moi j'veux crever la main sur le coeur papalapapapala allons ensemble, découvrir ma liberté, oubliez donc tous vos clichés, bienvenue dans ma réalité.

J'en ai marre de vos bonnes manières, c'est trop pour moi!
Moi je mange avec les mains et j'suis comme ça!
J'parle fort et je suis franche, excusez moi!
Finie l'hypocrisie moi j'me casse de là!
J'en ai marre des langues de bois!
Regardez moi, toute manière j'vous en veux pas et j'suis comme çaaaaaaa (j'suis comme çaaa)

Je Veux d'l'amour, d'la joie, de la bonne humeur, ce n'est pas votre argent qui f'ra mon bonheur, moi j'veux crever la main sur le coeur
Allons ensemble découvrir ma liberté, oubliez donc tous vos clichés, bienvenue dans ma réalité!

Quick translation for those who don't "French":
Give me a room at the Ritz, I don't want it.
Jewelry from Chanel, I don't want it.
Give me a limousine, what would I do with it?
Give me servants, what would I do with them?
A manor at Neufchatel, it's not for me.
Offer me the Eiffel Tower, what would I do with it?

I want love, and joy, and a good time.
It's not your money that will put me in a good mood.
I want to die with my hand on my heart, together with you.
Discover my freedom, and forget all your clichés.
Welcome to my reality.

I'm sick of your good manners, it's not for me.
Me, I eat with my hands because I'm me.
I talk too loud and I'm blunt, excuse me!
Done with hypocrisy, I'm taking a break from that.
I'm sick of bullshit
Look at me, I don't want all that you are, because I'm me.

I want love, and joy, and a good time.
It's not your money that will give me a good time.
I want to die with my hand on my heart.
Let's discover my freedom together, forget all your clichés, welcome to my reality!

the French diet

I'm losing weight not because I don't eat, but because I can't afford to eat. Fact.

Rambling, rants, and ridiculousness

I told myself I wouldn't write in this blog until I finished my rough draft for the Truman -- but I have writer's block.... Shit, merde... Fuck. (I hate swearing but sometimes this word is necessary. No word quite as concise, succinct)

They say it's easiest to write about yourself. Some of the greatest pieces of literature are autobiographical to a certain extent -- take Sorrows of Young Werther, David Copperfield, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, On the Road etc. A fold of the writer's personality. A fragment of their life they wrote to get out of the way, that needed to be shed, told to anyone listening...we're all inherently narcisstic after all.

Wrapped in our own little worlds. Moving forward and forgetting to look back, or pause the present. Completely self involved. Our problems, worries, and anxieties consuming our daily existence. Being fired, broken up with, and having that deadline hanging over our heads -- all seems to be apocalyptic.

Some writers, you can tell immediately, just like hearing themselves talk -- so to speak, err type. For some, it's therapy. For me, everything I write in this blog works as a bit of a rough draft. Thoughts I want to use for later -- for what? Who knows. I sure as hell don't.

So, here I find myself -- listening to jazz, chain smoking, rereading old entries for inspiration, and thinking procrastinating -- in a small apartment in Paris. I keep looking outside wishing my rough draft would spontaneously start typing itself.

I guess the reason why it's hard to focus is because I'm not writing about myself -- but about the person I want to be. The person I should be. This imaginary person who has yet to come into existence, five to seven years after graduation (that's the prompt I'm working on now). But who on earth ever knows who they want to be at any given point in time?

I try my best not to lie -- but I need to write as if I know what I want to do with my life.

Bahumbug.

In reality, I have dozens of plans -- and I'd be happy with following any of the paths once I get to that bridge, crossroad, moment, point. I have enough trouble deciding what word I want to use in a sentence, let alone choosing a career path. Making a decision now seems meaningless at best. It's so far in the future!... That's not true, but that's how I feel right now. Am I lazy? Unmotivated? Bullshit.

People who seem completely confident, know what they want to do -- I promise, it's all a bluff. Or at least, I think it is. It would surely make me feel better to think that it's all an act.

I want to go explore the city damn it! It's my second day here for god's sake... but I can't justify leaving until I have at least 4,000 characters written.

Where is my muse? Is she exploring Paris now without me? Come back to me. Save me.

Sorry for this half-baked entry. It'll get better. Promise.

Paris.

13 hours of horrible sleep later.
on an overly air-conditioned flight from Kuala Lumpur.

I find myself waiting in line.
blue passport passed around. stamped.
no more than a "merci" passes my lips.
followed by a walk through frosted-glass doors.
towards baggage claim.
I grab my rucksack and small duffel bag.
hesitate towards a 60-year old woman with a placard --
my name hastily scrawn across a piece of paper
Thérèse Vu.
introductions ending with another "merci"
small talk, car, and then the highway --
as my gaze turns to the Eiffel tower in the distance.

am I really in Paris right now?

my host mother interrupts my reverie
"... and I smoke."
she says this almost timidly.

I reply (a bit sheepishly) back --
"ah...well, me too."

(which is half the truth.
i used to.
okay fine --
it wasn't that long ago.
Beijing was bad for my health... but
don't we all relapse at points?)

she breathes out in relief,
"well that makes things easier..."
a pause.
"welcome to paris" she says,
as she hands me a cigarette.

i can't think of a more parisian welcome.
yes, this is paris.

.....so... about how I quit smoking...
i'm doomed.
that's a factual statement.

do all parisians smoke?
or did i just get (un)lucky?

oh, paris. how i've missed you.