Fuss. Ain't it ever.
Finer Feelings. Spoon. Man, I'm getting so good at this link thing. I kind of don't like the explicitness of it though.
This song makes me want to do so many things. Dance toute seule down French streets is coming to mind right now. On days like today, it's nice to have a song that says things better than I could. Spoon has this knack for ambivalent lyrics set to some of the happiest beats I know. It's like they put you on that brink of getting emotional with how much they ring true but don't let you because your feet can't stay still long enough. They never fail me.
Don't Make A Move. But I Can Still Change My Mind Tonight. I Gotta Change My Mind Somehow. Oh And Everything Hits At Once. If The World Could Sit Tight For One Night. Believing Is Hard. Believing Is Art. Why's It The Same Thing Every Night. We Go Through All The Same Lines Or Sell Out To Appease. But Go To Sleep In A Bed Of Lies. I Made My Own More Than Once Or Twice. Imagination Ain't Kind On Us Tonight. My Mathmatical Mind Can See The Brakes. Small Stakes Tell You That There's Nothing Can Do. Can't Think Big, Can't Think Past One Or Two And Awlright. You Gotta Make Me Shut Up. Gimme Something To Look Forward To. But I, I Hear The Call of a Lifetime Ring. Felt The Need To Get Up For It. I Wanna Forget How Convention Fits. But Can I Get Out From Under It? Can I Cut It Out Of Me? That's The Way We Get By.
This is not meant to be a dedication to Spoon. If I were to attempt such a thing, I would not do so tonight. I owe them that much. They are just the perfect words almost every day of the year but especially today and for a me who is too tired to find them for myself right now.
So yeah, back to the life. And the fuss. And the finer feelings.
I'm too tired to write anything more by way of explanation. The point is that all of these things have brought me to one conclusion: Walden.
Tomorrow, though technically today, I'm starting my search for some clarity the drastic way: no phone, no facebook. The truth of the matter is that there are not enough hours in the day and that either I learn to control the hours or they will learn to control me.
I have considered filtering out this blog, movies, books and even music for the week. I think that music would be the hardest but sometimes I think I use it as an emotional crutch. Case in point being this entry. So we'll see how that goes and what I decide. Anyhow, wish me luck.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Because I don't want to get up and wash my face and brush my teeth and can't go to sleep without doing those things first: a most vicious cycle.
So I started this to do list. On it was "Finish at least one of your unfinished blogs and publish it".
I don't have the energy for that. My mind's been working overdrive these past few days. Naturally, I'm going to make another to do list. And maybe if I publish it I'll heed it.
Get enough sleep. Failing as we speak.
Stop worrying about how everyone else in this world is going to find happiness. It feels too much like judgment and not enough like hope.
Stop being obsessed with the idea of happiness. Period.
Do something to make the world a better place. Everyday.
Work hard. Warning: this may cause discomfort.
Live.
Forgive.
Don't stop believin'. Hold on to that feeling!
I don't have the energy for that. My mind's been working overdrive these past few days. Naturally, I'm going to make another to do list. And maybe if I publish it I'll heed it.
Get enough sleep. Failing as we speak.
Stop worrying about how everyone else in this world is going to find happiness. It feels too much like judgment and not enough like hope.
Stop being obsessed with the idea of happiness. Period.
Do something to make the world a better place. Everyday.
Work hard. Warning: this may cause discomfort.
Live.
Forgive.
Don't stop believin'. Hold on to that feeling!
Monday, July 5, 2010
Lie # 3
Oh the
Glory
that the Lord has made
and the
Complications
you could do without.
Sufjan Stevens: Casimir Pulaski Day. Decided if I'm going to hide behind song lyrics I should at least properly reference them.
Incidentally, the original post by this name includes another lyrics from 500 day of Summer soundtrack. Pretend to be surprised.
Randomly, I had never before this day known what Sufjan Stevens looked like. I love it when the people whose music I like end up being hot and knowing that that had no influence whatsoever on my liking their music beforehand but that now I can enjoy it all the more and make it an exclamatory point to see them in concert.
Glory
that the Lord has made
and the
Complications
you could do without.
Sufjan Stevens: Casimir Pulaski Day. Decided if I'm going to hide behind song lyrics I should at least properly reference them.
Incidentally, the original post by this name includes another lyrics from 500 day of Summer soundtrack. Pretend to be surprised.
Randomly, I had never before this day known what Sufjan Stevens looked like. I love it when the people whose music I like end up being hot and knowing that that had no influence whatsoever on my liking their music beforehand but that now I can enjoy it all the more and make it an exclamatory point to see them in concert.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Quintessential
Quintessential (kw
n
t
-s
n
shl) 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
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, May 24, 2010
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:
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.
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.