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.