Marseille. This is for you.

For the record, I'm skipping over I want to say 3 unfinished, in-the-works, posts. This is coming to you thanks to the antics of my good friends Ctrl C and Ctrl V.

A year ago today I was in an airplane. France. Second time.

I want to say it changed my life. I'm sure that I wanted it to be pivotal. The sad truth of it is, in a mere 365 days a lot of it has become a blur. I guess that's what you get when most of what goes on in any given day goes on in your head and you don't keep a journal documenting. As if I could possibly even attempt.

I am grateful for the people I met, the conversations that were had, the laughs. I may not feel changed and I may not remember the half of them, but I think about these people, those moments often. I guess the truth of it is, it was a wish fulfilled and it didn't fail me. I think the contentment is still carrying me through what would otherwise be an unabated restlessness.

Sometime in my last week or so in Marseille I was heading home, likely from saying goodbye to someone. I was caught in one of those perfect Marseillais sunsets.

I got home. In the forty five minutes that took me, dusk had come and gone. I sat down. Wrote without pausing to think or edit. And now, a year later, it brings me back. This, my ode to Marseille. To France. To foreign skies. To space. To time. To freedom.

City of masts, like skyscrapers. Not to mention the fishing poles, propped up most of the time, sometime held; the urban trees of this city. Cathedrals-la Major-crowning the building facades that contour the port. And other towers, spires. Rooftops. The personality of the city defined by where it touches the palleted sky. People walking the boardwalk, stopping for the sunset. Some taking pictures. Crowds of people on the sidewalk, dining at cafes, restaurants, smoking, sitting. They think they’re watching you when it’s you watching them. The lights hanging by wires from the buildings, a hanging sidewalk suspended in the middle of the streets. Follow the yellow brick road. The bus-people, we of the transport commun. That says it better. For a moment, we share road, breathe the same air, the same 150 square feet. The doors open and we file out, cross paths, bump into each other until we become dispersed amongst the sidewalkers. Like spiders. Dusk. Sunset. Half light, cool breeze, the light smell of the sea, of the air from the middle of the ocean. First by bus, then on foot, to Noailles. The soundtrack changes the the bumping of headphone wires becomes the percussion since the sound of feet have been muted by music. Run by Leona Lewis-almost brings me to tears-becomes Come as you Are by Nirvana. Pick up the pace. People watch me, walking fast. But I can’t hear them and it’s like walking through shadows. La Cure Gourmande-the window covered by shutters and the bum laying down in front, in what would be a picture perfect moment only I don’t have the heart to take his picture. Leaning on a small bag against his sign, on his back, knees bent, he looks just like he is resting, breathing the city in just like me; he breathes a bit deeper I think. Descent into the tramway and after a ten minute wait the tram breaches the concrete surface; the dark night makes a tunnel. Off the tram, music again and I’m looking for the moon to dance to. In my head, perfect turns, on tiptoes. Not ideal in sandals. Or with a backpack. Or with headphones. No moon but I sing anyway. People from their windows, maybe watching, but are they the same that watched before? I like to think so. That they will miss me, the dancing, singing, lost or half drunk shadow who in the daylight dreams of rescuing lost lop-eared bunnies but doesn’t have the courage. Or a home. Still no moon, no ocean panoramic. Yet I feel small. Because one day my feet will be here and the next they will not. The pavement, the cobblestones, the straightbacked wretchedly uncomfortable tram seats, the resounding wall lined sidewalked lined with shards of glass, these things will remain unchanged. It won’t be any different than getting off the bus, off the train. One minute we are together, the next we are going a hundred different ways. Like a spider caught by a powerful gust of wind, I will fly across oceans, a thread flying out from Marseille.

Quintessential

Quintessential (kwnt-snshl) adj: When the way that things are is just how they should be. A perfect state, or quality.

I could make a hobby out of nostalgia, you know. I was explaining (or trying) to explain how Hendry's are kind of obsessed with goodbyes. I won't go into my pseudo psychoanalysis as to why (mostly because I lack the authoritative education) but it has been my general observation that when it comes to change, we Hendry's tend to glorify "what once was and will never be again." It's like a sick and twisted and almost naive version of the "grass is greener" syndrome. Emphasis on the 'naive'. And the 'almost'.

And so, in true Hendry fashion, I anticipated nostalgia. I planned well for it. I took some pictures and I will now write this blog.

Because the truth of the matter is, I am finally quitting the nest. And for most other 26 year olds, I think this would be just like any other rite of passage. But for me who has left to knowingly come back now 3 times, I have built up a consciousness of all that home is to me. And all that I will really be leaving behind. And it's remarkably harder than I thought it would be. The weird thing is, when I am home I just lock myself up in my room. Like I'm pretty antisocial. and hermetic when I think about it. So it really doesn't make a lot of sense. Talking to my mom, it makes even less sense.

I have noticed in looking back, especially at my poetry, that some of my most poignant (a wonderful word of French derivation: poignant, the present participle of poindre to prick, to sting) writing I think doesn't actually involve people as the subject matter. If I want to evoke feeling from my memories, I remember. Things. Places. Songs. But strangely enough not people. My feelings are often faceless. I have written about stairwells. About sidewalks. Metros. The Walls of my bedroom. Where my car was parked when that song came on. And, as the blog title indicates, bell towers. But if the timing is right and such a place floats to the surface of my visual memory, these images can bring me straight to tears. Maybe that is where the wanderlust comes from: a longing to recapture the places that keep my feelings hostage or because the more I travel, the more those places take on meaning. The point is, I have an affinity for memories of the tangible. Of course it's the people that give the memories meaning but it's the the tangible which grounds that meaning.

And so, before leaving for Colorado in what is a huge step towards the beginning of the end, I took pictures of the tangible. Of the things that hold that which, for me, is home. And for those things, just as for home, there are no words.

SoIrememberthewaythingslooked

Ladiesandgentlementthishasbeentwothousandtenaprettygoodyear

A weekend. No vampires. Sort of.

Subheading: The first of several posts I started writing but didn't get around to posting.

Road trip 2010 #1: Vegas.

No ticket: check
No accidents: check
No breakdowns: check
No drama: check
No going over budget: check

By all accounts an utterly successful trip. Except for one casualty: me.

Two days post return finds me in a ball on the carpet of my room in front of my laptop which is resting on a chair. Not in bed. Because my stomach is killing me from the inside out and while I would prefer death while sleeping I'm not ready for it now. So here I am.

Honestly though, Vegas was just what the doctor ordered (minus of course, the obvious food contamination/flu/whatever is ailing me).

Here's a shout out to my GIRLS. The Gemini THREE.

And before I embark on another road trip I want to document. Because forgetting comes so easily.

Some highlights:

Horchata. By Vampire Weekend. The song that would become the theme song of our trip. And probably now, of my summer. Driving with my knees so that my hands could beat out a rhythm. "HERE COMES A FEELING YOU THOUGHT YOU'D FORGOTTEN / CHAIRS TO SIT ON, SIDEWALKS TO WALK ON". Don't ask me to explain why that line rings so true that it evokes the kind of bubbling happiness that could result in the rain coming through the corner of my eyes.

Laughing with just the right tone so that Mer knew that I saw right through her. Fits of laughter that followed.

The volleyball net.

Do it. Do it do it real good!

Rocking out in bikinis to Rock N' Roll, Tony the Beat, and Portions for Foxes and other such scandal. Which yes, would involve me jumping on the bed and falling to my knees, in true Rock Star fashion, to play some mean air guitar. Isn't that what nice hotel beds are for?

The 3 minutes of pain during our 5 minute massage. And the ensuing next-day aches.

Ayyy, MAMACITA!

The korean ladies in front of the Bellagio who wanted to take thumbs up pictures. The frenchies on the other side of them.

The sight of Liz with all her shopping bags. She makes girl scouts and Mary Poppins pale in comparison.

And lastly, of course, the all encompassing question: Did you ENJOY yourself?

Vegas is quite far from being one of my favorite places in this world. But in answer to that question, yes, yes I did. Viva Las Vegas.

Going on 3 hours of sleep can sometimes bring you here. Not such a bad place.

Some days I feel very alive. My heart rate has little to do with this. I pulse all the same. But some days it's like I'm more aware. More glad of it. More scared of it. And yet.

Days where I think, "you know, if it ended here, how could I not say I was happy?"

I remember once, being sixteen and driving home from work and listening to music (there is always music) in my car (there is often a car). And it hit me (it possibly being hormones, to be perfectly honest. I mean come on here, what kind of hypochondriac would I be if I didn't try to chalk it up to some bodily malfunction). I started to cry I was so happy. And I remember feeling lucky. Because some people wake up afraid or they have trouble catching their breath or opening their eyes to face what's waiting for them; but not me. I got to wake up happy and I had nothing to do with it.

I made up my mind then to never judge another person for the chemistry they were subject to. Not that it excused the consequences. But I wouldn't judge them.

Now I still hold to that resolution, more or less. But I've also recognized patterns that chemistry can't speak for. And it would be silly of me to deny that happiness, while it may come in waves as a result of too little or too much estrogen, dopamine, or heaven knows what else, is also cultivated, whether consciously or not.

I've had a series of five star days. Bursting at the seams days. Hold back the tears notbecausetheyarebadbutbecausetheyaregoodfornoreason days. And I've decided to make a list of foolproof things that make me feel:

• A song I can sing along to, with an unsupressed smile, on my way to work. And back.
• Time that I have to read for pleasure. Time that I have to write for pleasure. Or better yet; time for both. Emotional and intellectual indulgence.
• Being able to run: not away and not to. Just run. Barefoot. Because it feels like freedom.
• A conversation in French.
• Food that I make for myself when I am not already starving. Especially when it is healthy. Or not. Like, really not.
• Looking or thinking about someone or even something (puppitos or Cat-face) and being filled with love. Because it means that somewhere, under the layers of selfishness, that God is in my heart and I can't be all that hopeless.
• Not letting my kids get under my skin. All day. (It's not easy)
• Not being annoyed at boys.
• The warmth of Cat on my feet when I wake up.
• When one of my kids gives me a surprise hug.
• The purchase of a bar of chocolate all for me.
• Time for a nap.

I'm not saying I still don't have it easy; that I still don't have it good. I do, I really do.

But when I don't or when I don't remember, this list can serve as a reminder that that all if not most of these things are almost always within my reach. So that I can consciously cultivate or at least be grateful for the highs.

Now off to bed because one of the most sure ways to ruin a perfectly good tomorrow is with lackofsleep grumpiness. So bonne nuit.

Everything's holy-everything, even me

So I finally finished reading Grapes of Wrath. I actually finished about 3-4 weeks ago and have since read Boy in the Striped Pajamas. Had to make up for lost time.

So Steinbeck is incredible. I would say that I can't get enough of him but that's not entirely true because I have lists of unread books that I won't let him get in the way of. But honestly, it was an inspiring tale. The night I finished it I spent probably two to three hours online reading reading guides and character/plot/historical analyses. It felt like being 17. Delicious. Especially because I didn't have to write a ten pager afterward: I could be affected by the writing but free from the task of forming my own conclusions.

In my reading I marked some of my favorite passages. I had intended to type them up anyway, since the book I marked isn't actually mine. Then the other night I was going through some of my writings. I have a few word documents that are kind of the equivalent to moleskin notebooks (which I love but never use because they are so beautiful. too beautiful.) in that they are depositories of verbal sketches; I usually only resort to them when I have some itch to get stuff out before I forget. The stuff is pretty raw and it usually stays that way. And I forget often enough about half of what I wrote.

So, I stumbled into this. And it is interesting because even though I wasn't yet reading the text of Grapes of Wrath, while typing up the quotes, I noticed some serious parallels between what I wrote and was trying to express and what Steinbeck wrote and did express. And beautifully. No surprise really that I loved it so much.

Given the parallels, I thought I'd present my writing alongside what I thought were kind of complementary quotations. Any other quotes worthy of mention will serve as a finale.

Written sometime in December, maybe the end of November:

Today I went back to the room whose clutter had lain untouched during the years I went from a child to an adult. It was recently hallowed out, had gone back to its skeleton frame. And I walked in, picked up scraps of sheetrock and started to haul them away. My size hasn’t changed much in the past 10 or so years. I’d like to think I’ve gotten stronger but it was hard to say. I didn’t want to overdo things so I hauled in small loads, much like I probably did back when work was being done in my room, those long years ago. But my gait, my grip, even my step as I took to the stairs, had a different energy to it. Call it purpose if you will. It was clear to me in a hushed kind of way that this time around it wasn’t about my room, wasn’t about me at all. Though my house is still my home, it is not my universe.

Today, I was helping my parents with what was theirs: our house, yes, but their universe. Somewhere, in a hundred different moments, I had lost ownership in that purpose. I understood as I did not or perhaps could not then, that building a house was more than slabs of sheetrock, putty, paint, trim and the perfect shade of carpet and furnishings. It was about building something, about creating. We all live in houses. We clean them, maintain them. And there is something to be said for that. But me, I grew up with my house.

I was flooded with memories of shovels, blisters, and hot summer days. Of cement trucks, nails, and the smell of sawdust. Of grubby clothes, some of the workers and their cute sons that I never managed to talk to for several reasons; one being those same grubby clothes. And how the sound of hammering or sawing on a Saturday morning was often the alarm clock I slept through because they were just the sounds of home.

As I worked I realized that my hands still remembered how to swing a hammer, drive a screw and that I knew the order of finishing things. I don’t know what most girls grow up learning. I imagine some of them, most of them maybe, learn about cooking. Even though I didn’t realize it, I had my own kind of education. And today I came to find that it had kinda stuck with me.

"How can we live without our lives? How will we know it's us without our past? No. Leave it. Burn it.

They sat and looked at it and burned it into their memories. How'll it be to not know what land's outside the door? How if you wake up in the night and know-and know the willow tree's not there? Can you live without the willow tree? Well, no, you can't. The willow tree is you. The pain on that mattress there-that dreadful pain-that's you."- Ch. 8

I am reading Steinbeck’s “Grapes of Wrath” right now. To tell you the truth, I’m still stuck in the introduction. In it, the writer explains Steinbeck’s drive to write, saying that he lived for it and that it was, for him, a redemptive or transformative act. I couldn’t help today but think of that explanation. I wish I had the same drive for writing but I’m no Steinbeck and that’s okay with me. But I think that writing is just another way of creating something out of nothing. Or of putting together the right pieces. Building a house, or building anything else for that matter, feels the same way to me. There is something so fresh, albeit exhausting at times, in the working of it.

"The last clear definite function of man-muscles aching to work, minds aching to create beyond the single need-this is man. To build a wall, to build a house, a dam, and in the wall and house and dam to put something of Manself, and to Manself take back something of the wall, the house, the dam; to take hard muscles from the lifting, to take the clear lines and form from conceiving. For man, unlike any other thing organic or inorganic in the universe, grows beyond his work, walks up the stairs of his concepts, emerges ahead of his accomplishments. This you may say of man-when theories change and crash, when schools, philosophies, when narrow dark alleys of thought, national, religious, economic, grow and disintegrate, man reaches, stumbles forward, painfully, mistakenly sometimes. Having stepped forward, he may slip back, but only half a step, never the full step back. This you may say and know it and know it.

This you may know when the bombs plummet out of the black planes on the market place, when prisoners are stuck like pigs, when the crushed bodies drain filthily in the dust. You may know it in this way. If the step were not being taken, if the stumbling-forward ache were not alive, the bombs would not fall, the throats would not be cut. Fear the time when the bombs stop falling while the bombers live-for every bomb is proof that the spirit has not died. And fear the time when the strike stops while the great owners live-for every little beaten strike is proof that the step is being taken. And this you can know-fear the time when Manself will not suffer and die for a concept, for this one quality is the foundation of Manself, and this one quality is man, distinctive in the universe."- Ch. 14

I know that there are more factors than the walls of my house, but today I became aware of that transformation in me; that what I was building was no longer mine even though it is a part of me just as I am a part of it. It made me kind of emotional, which seems weird, I know. But that feeling you get when you’re outside, in the mountains, in the country, on a boat or anywhere in nature where you feel embraced or where you feel like embracing it all or maybe it’s the same feeling altogether-that is the feeling I get from my house.

"No-the stars are close and dear and I have joined the brotherhood of the worlds. And everything's holy-everything, even me." -Ch 23

Those walls have so many memories in them that weird as it is, sometimes, I just want to lean against them, hug them, even.

And so today, in a very poorly articulated way, I am especially grateful for what my parents have built and have created. If it makes it any more simple, I could just say that I am grateful for my house. For the work they put into it, the work they taught me and the pieces of their universe that they have given to me in the building of it.

*************************************

There is some serious food for thought here, (and can I just say I love how Steinbeck views women, he's so right on) but I won't get into it. I'll just whet your pallet with the following words:


"I figgered about the Holy Sperit and the Jesus road. I figgered, "Why do we got to hang it on God or Jesus? Maybe," I figgered, 'maybe it's all men an' all women we love; maybe that's the HOly Sperit-the human sperit-the whole shebang. Maybe all men got one big soul ever'body's a part of.' Now I sat there thinkin' it, an' all of a dussent-I knew it. I knew it so deep down that it was true, and I still know it." p.24


"An' I got thinkin', on'y it wasn't thinkin', it was deeper down than thinkin'. I got thinkin' how we was holy when we was one thing, an' mankin' was holy when it was one thing. An' it on'y got unholy when one mis'able little fella got the bit in his teeth an' run off his own way, kincin' an' draggin' an' fightin'. Fella like that bust the holiness. But when they're all wornin' together, not one fella for another fella, but one fella kind of harnessed to the whole shebang-that's right, that's holy. An' then I got thinkin' I don't even know what I mean by holy." He pause, but the bowed heads stayed down, for they had been trained like dogs to rise at the "amen" signal. "I can't say no grace like I use' ta say. I'm glad of the holiness of the breakfast. I'm glad there's love here. That's all." p. 81


"Ain't you thinkin' what's it gonna be like when we get there? Ain't you scared it won't be nice like we thought?"
"No," she said quickly. "No, I ain't. You can't do that. I can't do that. It's too much-livin' too many lives. Up ahead they's a thousan' lives we might live, but when it comes, it'll on'y be one. If I go ahead on all of 'em, it's too much. You got to live ahead 'cause you're so young, but-it's jus' the road goin' by for me. An' it's jus' how soon they gonna wanta eat some more pork bones." Her face tightened. "That's all I can d. I can't do no more. All the rest'd get upset if I done any more'n that. They all depen' on me jus' thinkin' about that." p.124


The men were silent and they did not move often. And the women came out of the houses to stand beside theirn men-to feel whether this time the men would break. The women studied the men's faces secretly, for the corn could go, as long as something else remained.


I'll be ever'where-wherever you look. Wherever they's a fight so hungry people can eat, I'll be there. Wherever they's a cop beatin' up a guy, I'll be there. If Casy knowed, why, I'll be in the way guys yell when they're mad an'-I'll be in the way kids laugh when they're hungry an' they know supper's ready. An' when our folks eat the stuff they raise an' live in the houses they build-why, I'll be there. See? -Chapter 28


"Woman can change bette'n a man. Woman got all her life in her arms. Man got it all in his head. Don' you mind. Maybe-well, maybe nex' year we can get a place"

"We got nothin', now," Pa said. "Comin' a long time-no work, no crops. What we gonna do then? How we gonna git stuff to eat? An' I tell you Rosasharn ain't so far from due. Git so I hate to think. Go diggin' back to a ol' time to keep from thinkin'. Seems like our life's over an' done."

"No, it ain't," Ma smile. "It ain't, Pa. An' that's one more thing a woman knows. I noticed that. Man, he lives in jerks-baby born an' a man dies, an' that's a jerk-gets a farm an' loses his farm, an' that's a jer. Woman, it's all one flow, like a stream, little eddies, little waterfalls, but the river, it goes right no. Woman looks at it like that. We ain't gonna die out. People is goin' on-changin' a little, maybe, but goin' right on." Chapter 28


The women watched the men, watched to see whether the break had come at last. The women stood silently and watched. And where a number of men gathered together, the fear went from their faces, and anger took its place. And the women sighed with relief, for they know it was all right-the break had not come; and the break would never come as long as fear could turn to wrath. Tiny points of grass came through the earth, and in a few days the hills were pale green with the beginning year. -Chapter 29

So I held her hand: the worst date ever according to a boy.

This is the honest to goodness transcript of a voice message left on my sister's phone by a 24 year old (correct me, Lis?) guy friend that she had set up with one of her girl friends. Blind date, yes. I would maybe feel a twinge of guilt for publishing this except that anyone who leaves this long of a message on someone else's phone is a) asking for it and b) suffering from an overgrown ego. When I heard this, I knew it had to be documented. And shared.

Guess I'm glad to have reinforced the fact that when it comes to boys, they never cease to amaze. Or to reach new lows. But they never cease to entertain me either, so the love/hate relationship is perpetuated:

So the date with X. Hmmm. Hmm. Alright, let’s lay this out straight- you and I can jam. Um. Huh. I might have given her some signals… that I was interested in her; BUT, I wasn’t interested in her. Now-why would I give her signals then? It might have been to keep her from talking. I know that sounds so mean, and it sounds so bad, but (don’t ever let her hear this. Delete this) because that was probably, no, not probably: that was the worst date I have ever been on.

I don’t blame you. When two people don’t hit it off-it was just-oh man, our personalities. She, she wouldn’t stop talking. Oh man, that, this is gonna sound so bad but she had no concept of physical space-personal space. She kept running into me and I realize that she wanted to be close to me but I wasn’t really interested in her because she kept on talking and she then kept talking during the movie. And I realized she was nervous and you know she did this whole thing with her hand and I could tell she wanted me to hold her hand and I was hoping it would make her stop talking. So I held her hand. And she stopped talking. And it was nice.

And then on the ride back home, we pretty much cuddled a little bit in my truck as I drove. But it kept her from talking! It sounds so bad. Um… So now the plan to let this roll off easy is, I’m gonna be nice to her in text and then I’m gonna talk about like a conflict of interest and how you know-oh I didn’t know then but she was in highschool. And she came out with it at the end of the date so I’m gonna use that and say like “how I have like I can’t date a girl in highschool and I don’t want this like 18 year old girl but it’s gonna be nicer than that. And it’s just gonna be me wanting to hang out with her then having plans and then slowly fading away. Huh. Is that bad? Am I a bad person? Whatever…. Whatever. You would have done the SAME if you were in my situation. Guaranteed. ..Guaranteed…. Guaranteed! ….Maybe. Also, I went out on a date with the girl who um pretty much turned on me over new years . Yeah I went on a date with her and we cuddled in the basement. Again. Agh. I know. I‘m weak. I fold. Oh well. She was good looking enough and I figure that if all I am is some boy toy to her when she’s lonely then I’m some boy toy to her when she’s lonely. But then, am I, am I willing to accept being a boy toy? I don’t know?Oh man, I’m so confused right now! Um, what should I do, that’s a good question. I’m still looking for a job, if you know any openings that would be cool.

So this is me scratching: a collage of thoughts I found undeserving of their own post.

Dear Google and all subsequent 'g' entities,

You are a godsend. I think I might love you, you and your autosave versions of everything. Your spell check, I also love your spell check. It's just more attractive than Word's. Less menacing? I can't explain it. Love is just like that.

Yours truly,
Buns

***********************

My brain has been going a million miles an hour lately. I think I might have to make this a daily thing. Not necessarily the posting thing, but the writing. The more I do this, the more natural it comes. The more natural it becomes, the more it starts to feel like a journal.

Samuel Lover wrote, "When once the itch of literature comes over a man, nothing can cure it but the scratching of a pen. But if you have not a pen, I suppose you must scratch any way you can."I should confess that I have about 5 posts I am in the process of writing. Only half of them will see the light of day. You see, a journal.

I could never have a journal any other way but this way. And by this way, I don't mean electronically. I've tried a Word document and it just wasn't doing it for me. And writing on a page requires so much commitment; I can't just jot notes to make coherent later. Like I said, it's hard to explain.

But I attended this thing last week about family history and it made me realize that even if all I do is quote lyrics that speak to me, I want to leave something behind, for family, for posterity, for me. And sometimes what speaks to you can speak volumes about who you are. If I believe that art, literature, history can shape a person, a character, and an entire culture, then if all I do here is talk about music, books, and my present, well, that can't be a complete waste of gigabites. And if the saying proves true that you are what you think about, well, this will give an honest representation of how little I really am because most of my thoughts, like my actions, aren't great. Maybe this will help me to better filter. Qui sait?

***********************

Remember how 2010 was supposed to be my YEAR? Yeah, well, I don't even know where it's gone. May already, are you even serious?!? And I think it (2010) will be over before anything monumental happens.

Not that it has to be monumental to be good.

But I do quite enjoy monuments. I like crossroads and turning points and cruciality. Which is not a word and I don't know why it isn't because it is nice and it should be.

I want to say that I have a good feeling about Colorado this summer. (Oh yeah, I'm nannying for a French family in Colorado Springs starting June 6th). But I have good feelings about a lot of things and I have had good feelings about a lot of things and good feelings rarely add up to monumental.

However, in my experience, the most crucial moments of my life were the least monumental. If that even makes sense.

So I guess that means one thing: 2010. You're still my year.

***********************

I've been to Barnes and Noble and libraries a lot recently. Every time I do there I have this insane desire to simultaneously abandon everything and read or to abandon everything and write. Except that my writing improves with the quality of the books I currently read.

But honestly, the dreamer in me is awakened with a vengeance and I repeatedly promise myself "One day, you'll see your name in print on a hardback". Because hardback books are the ones with real life to them. Don't even get me started on that though; I could write a dedicatory poem to hardback books.

Well the other day I was visiting with a friend's sister in law and she had maintained a blog and then had it printed. Hers was more concise and related to events and not nervous ramblings but still, there it was, her words: in hardback.

And I decided then and there that if all other dreams failed me, having my blog in print would probably do the trick.

***********************

I heard one of my second graders pass by me after school saying with authority to his friend, "Doctors recommend a square of chocolate a day".

He has undeniably captured the essence of the French that I like best: their ability to enjoy the little things in life. If I had doubts as to the success that he would have in life, they were instantly dispelled.

It was a little thing that made me smile.

***********************

A live version of U2's "In the Name of Love" just played on my itunes. I don't think I ever really listened to it, or it I did I never could get Ewan McGreggor out of my head and his "one night in the name of love". Cuz see, I never knew it was about MLK Jr. or Christ or anything metaphoric like that. I also thought the lyrics were "women" every time it actually says "one man", making women the martyrs of the entire song. Which is of course why I liked it.

Not only does my newly acquired knowledge change everything but it shows how egocentric I am.

***********************

I tutor for a lovely, talented girl named Clara who has four musically gifted brothers, also known as Les Sages. Their CD just came out and I was reading the little blurp on how positive it is and all and I realized that if I were to write songs they would probably be like my poetry: themed in irony, lined with sarcasm, and saturated with general angst.

And I can't figure out why I can't write fully positive, happy things. Why I don't like to read that bubbly stuff unless there's a lot of conflict between the fluff. Why my happiest music, at best, takes on a sort of "I've been looking in on the good life I might be doomed never to find" effect when I listen to it. And that's what makes me feel more alive.

Some people just come like that. And me, I am what I am (and it ain't that bad).

Or at least I hope so.

***********************