living in a second language

views

2011-12-04T21:24:00.001+01:00

Blackest darkness, harshest rain, most penetrating fog - these are dangers you know. You have known them long enough to call them familiar, they are cigarettes you've smoked a thousand times. And as many times afterward you have wondered which ones you have actually enjoyed, which one was actually a pleasure.

In the dark on the way there and in the light on the way back, the view is really the same. It is you who are not.

Turn left

2011-11-04T21:12:00.001+01:00

I've been living in France for 14 years. I'm not sure what that means, other than the fact that I arrived in 1997. But it seems like it should mean something. Two cycles of 7 or something like that.

It feels like I should be completely at home or at least completely something after that much time.

And yet.

I am here, 14 years later, much less sure of anything that I was when I got here.

So. What do I do now?

Turn left and move forward, wherever that is.

Subtitles

2011-10-01T15:03:00.000+02:00

You speak, clearly even, everyone tells you so. Your words are careful and thoughtful and precise, like you are.

It's surprising not to be understood. But the day comes, doesn't it always - even if you never thought it would, when you meet someone who doesn't take your words at face value.

Subtitles. There is talk of subtitles.

And as someone who has spent a lifetime gauging the accuracy and the reliability of subtitles, weaving in and out of cultures, making temporary homes in the honeycomb of language, you find yourself in the delicate position of having to evaluate your own.

Turn on a bright light, the full spectrum kind, the kind made of rainbows our eyes can't see.

You will see it here, a shadow that is wiser and more substantial than you, saying the words you cannot. Speaking of dreams you think you must not have and desires you believe you must not follow. Silent subtitles you never knew were there.

You will realize you've been living in a second language for longer than you thought. You will understand why feeling foreign feels like home.

What can you say to the person who saw them, spoke of them? Nothing really. In cases like this, it is best to let the shadow speak.

Shadows, not just time, take care of things we cannot.

To love is to bury

2011-09-04T21:27:00.003+02:00

Bury in the dirt. And to decide what goes with it. Acknowledge what mattered, keep the gifts, and then render the rest to its owner. Burn it all, watch the fire from beginning to end. That part is important. Watch your intention while you're at it.

Then pack your things, take only what you really need. Leave and don't say goodbye.

Hear this

2011-06-04T21:33:00.001+02:00

Be quiet and write, she said.

Tell the tales of how you won, battles and wars of epic scope. Tell the stories, the ones we all know but never say out loud. Stories of silent violence, purple rivers of blood and truth in every bruise you wear. Tell the family history, more darkness there than any one generation could bear, an ivy that climbs and clings and slowly tears down the walls. Tell the story of every bridge you burned, every boundary you crossed.

Acknowledge error of perspective and translation. Blow the candles out when you’ve finished. Words, once spoken, once written, are no longer yours.

Oh my

2011-05-24T20:28:00.002+02:00

It has been many years since I've lived in the south. Any south.

The south has existed for me forever - my mother's south. It was the south of my vacations - the beach, the heat, the family I both knew and didn't know.

I lived there for a few years a long time ago and while I enjoyed most of my time there, I remember swearing as I left North Carolina to move to Seattle, I'll never move back to the south. Too hot.

Twenty years later, exactly, I am back in the south. It's a different south, one that is unfamiliar to me - the south of lavender fields and olive groves and vineyards. But it's still really hot.

And by really hot I mean in the upper 80s this week kind of hot.

I have grand hopes of adjusting.

Map this

2011-03-27T11:49:00.002+02:00

You and your maps. Intricate, beautiful works of art. Lifetimes of exploration and study behind every curve and line. Not like a tourist though, your map isn't just for beginnings and ends.

But even with those maps in hand, you have always used a compass, haven't you?

There is a shadow on every compass. Have you ever noticed?

Cast by the needle on that compass you have spent years - decades - following. There are those who might suggest the pull comes from that shadow and from nothing else. Do you really know how a compass works? Losing north feels so much better than you might expect.

Have you ever seen the space within limits? It is infinite. You can resist it, hate it, and call it names. You can even call it out.

Do it in a valley. The echos are better there. They will come back to you and whisper gentle truths you could not hear the first time around.

One cup

2011-03-12T20:42:00.005+01:00

If you are one sword, one cup is what you seek.

A chalice. A quest, perhaps, but one that begins when you find it, instead of ending. In seeking it, you agree to prepare yourself to find it, that's the real quest, allowing yourself to become someone who could find it.

Sacred and beloved, this cup stands, despite its weight. It is substantial. Heavy with symbol, precious metals and jewels, it is the only quest you've ever sought, the only cup you've ever really wanted to drink from, whether you knew it or not.

Your mind does not know if you will ever find it, doesn't even know if it exists. But your heart finds beauty in believing and not knowing. Nothing tragic, just the crisp clarity of faith.

This cup has your name written on it.

The remains of the day

2011-03-10T18:49:00.002+01:00

Yesterday I spent 8 hours on the train. And half of that was on regional trains. In France if you say regional trains what you're really saying is SLOW trains.

I don't know if it's the season or the time or the route, but all of the towns we rolled through looked so sad. Black slate roofs and pale stone and bare trees. That's really all I saw. Towns where old family money and industry have long gone.

I was relieved when we got back to the colors of the south. I have always resisted belonging to the south. Thankfully, the south has never resisted belonging to me.

Kiss my soul

2011-03-08T09:00:00.000+01:00

A quiet tug. Persistent but there.

It turned into a yank and then could not be ignored. Some things are like that. First felt as a lack, a missing you could not fathom or explain. You asked the appropriate question, you're good at that. And you got a most unexpected answer. Really.

You were disappointed, of course you were. The eternal optimist, you were certain of a different outcome. Not even one that involved you, just one that involved some authenticity. Instead you got a glimpse into the darkest of rooms, one you were certain contained mystery and invitation. In this case, however, that is not where the darkness comes from. Shoe boxes line the walls you were certain would be covered with something plush. Chaos, your constant companion, is mastered here. Ordered shelves where you expected to find dark velvet. It would have been purple velvet - the color from your favorite mix of red and blue, your truest friends, blood and truth.

You do not know what will come of this, probably nothing. But that, in itself, is something.

Where it should be

2011-03-06T21:20:00.003+01:00

You've always had a thing for blood. It has made you sick and made you faint but you're fascinated still. And it's not a vampire thing. It's something closer to the ground than that.

You've watched it swirl and gush and pool. These are all things you do.

You realize now, today, tonight, that you've always had a thing for blood not because of when you saw it, but because of when you didn't.

It is the witness we cannot bear to be.

That is why you have a thing for it. Because blood tells the story you can't.

Innocence

2011-03-04T08:35:00.003+01:00

Lost is not forgotten.

A road was taken, or maybe a path. You'll never know. Maps were not consulted in this case.

If you take one thing away from this, it is that. You will never know. You do not know what was meant to be, you do not even know what was. You only know what is. And even that you must work hard to accept.

You do, however, know about shadows. You've seen them before, been close to them even. Close enough to feel them.

You will take the time to remember it all. You will take note of everything. You will be the eyes and ears and you will take it all in. You will keep it all safe and when the lines blur and the shadow can speak, it will all be there, ready.

You know very little, you know that too. It would be arrogant to think otherwise.

But you do know that lost is never gone.

Let me tell you what I know

2011-01-31T21:12:00.002+01:00

There are tablets somewhere. Marble tablets. Marble - hot, cold rock - beautiful because it is impure. Those swirls and veins, those things that make it look alive, are born out of random specks of minerals who lost their way. Or found it.

The truth is written on those tablets, truth that is not influenced by time or tendency or preference. It is not a version or a perspective.

Let me tell you what I know. Let me tell you what is etched in stone. It is not what you think.

You won't like it. Not because it's bad, but because it isn't. Anyway, it is neutral, as the truth always is. But it can only be seen through the eyes of innocence. And that is the part you will not like. You will not like what you will have to give up to be able to see it.

1000 reasons

2011-01-17T19:14:00.002+01:00

An incredible scene of colors. Graceful smudges and smears. This is your painting. Destiny in every stroke - nothing could be changed.

Grand and noble and bigger than you, that's what it is. Of course you're standing too close to it, you know this, the colors are just so beautiful and they take you so far in. You finally take a step back, museum distance. It's not as intense, but it's still beautiful. It is art.

And now? You're across the room. It's smaller, life-size. It's not the centerpiece, it's not what draws your attention when you walk into the room. It's still beautiful but not for the same reasons.

You had only ever imagined one reason. You found an army of reasons. Ranked, ready to fall back into line when the exercise is over.

You won't take it off the wall, it's still art. But you have a whole collection now.

Silent Siblings

2011-01-16T18:07:00.002+01:00

Invisible members of the family. Not like real brothers and sisters. You know what those are like, no such thing as a half or a whole. They are always there, even when they are not. No, these siblings are unheard and unseen and unclaimed. Still there since you can remember - although you would've call them something else at that time - you know they cannot be your invention. They must have belonged to someone, been someone's responsibility. And yet they are clearly uncared for. Your mistake, or maybe not, was realizing that you were related. You can't go back from that. You can't unrelate yourself. Believe me, I've tried.

So now you need to listen, you have to see. And while they don't talk about you, they do.

You're back in 5th grade, it's your first dissection. But now you are the frog. You are both horrified and fascinated as you watch the scalpel open you up. You observe and realize that even observation is participation.

Idle hands

2011-01-01T19:25:00.004+01:00

It is a threat you have known very well for a long time. You have brought it to its knees many times over - not because you are a skilled warrior - you are not - you are rudimentary at best. But simply because you were shown how, you were given the tools, so long ago. So long ago that the weapons you use feel like a part of you and the ritual kill feels like home. Metal and stone your skin and bones. Blood and the silence that follows a fire in the hearth.

You once saw a storm in a single raindrop. And must now accept that it is possible, probable even, that this threat may not be as dangerous as it appears. The danger, you realize, is your own. But you cannot imagine what you will do with your hands if they are no longer holding weapons.

On the nature of nougat

2010-12-15T21:36:00.002+01:00

Because I can't live in Montélimar, the WORLD'S nougat capital, and not write at least one post about nougat.

I've always liked nougat so that part is working out well. The only real disadvantage to living the world's nougat capital is that you get used to nougat. And by that I mean you get used to having it around. And by having it around I mean eating it every day. I can honestly say that I have had at least one piece of nougat every day since I moved here. You'd think I'd get sick of it. But no. And now it's a little difficult to imagine an entire day without eating at least one little piece.

But as I've gotten used to the nougat and used to eating the nougat regularly, I've also gotten really particular about it. Whereas before I might have been a nougat slut, I've now become a nougat snob. I'd rather not have nougat than have bad, or even mediocre nougat.

I haven't completely worked out all the criteria, despite endless quality audits, but I'm working on it. Quantity and variety of nuts, texture, honey to sugar ratio - this is as far as I've gotten. I will no longer eat the ones given with coffee at a restaurant near work - chalky and bland. The best pastry and chocolate shop in town, Escobar, makes delicious chocolate covered nougat - of which 2 varieties are excellent - the chocolate and cacao one and then the praline one. The chocolate and powdered sugar one is very disappointing and will never cross my lips again. The ones from DuLac, another lovely pastry and chocolate shop on the main market square, is interesting. Really. It's stickier than most, wetter almost, and the texture of the nuts is influenced by its surroundings.

I'll stop here, you've probably heard more than you ever wanted to about nougat.

So are you in or are you out?

2010-12-14T21:16:00.002+01:00

New city? Well, we live here so that's an in. New job? Well, I'm still doing it and I like it so that's another. The new life? That's a bit more complicated. Time is different in this new life. We're getting acquainted, this new life and I. I like it here, I like where I am, but the parts that are missing, the space between those parts and me seems infinite.

Anyone know what kind of bridge I'll need to cross infinity?

Darkness returns

2010-11-13T20:06:00.003+01:00

Colorless darkness, familiar now. The shade - both deeper and darker - of sand after a wave has washed over it. It's still sand, just darker.

So we agree then, the essence hasn't changed?

This will not be the first time you've lived in the dark, you keep reminding yourself of that. And maybe this time you will actually live there.

It would appear

2010-10-28T22:11:00.002+02:00

That I fell in. No, seriously, that would be a fair assumption. And in some ways, I did. A free fall into a new life, or at least that's what it has felt like at times.

I will feel at home soon.

Another river city

2010-09-19T17:15:00.003+02:00

That's actually another windy city. That is surrounded by the widest, bluest sky I've ever seen. We've been here for a few weeks now.

What have I learned so far? The space between two places is filled with so much, really. And Montélimar has reminded me often enough that nothing is ever permanent here, the wind makes sure of that.

A few boxes remain, the mezzanine is still a mess and my habit of being barefoot whenever I'm at home means my feet have been dirty every day since we got here because the dust and boxes are more efficient than I am.

Last week was easier than the week before that and I'm hopeful I'll feel the same way next weekend. I would just like to know the names of the hills I see every day, and the mountains beyond them.

Briefly

2010-09-10T09:15:00.002+02:00

The new job is fantastic, the new region is spectacular, the new apartment is coming along, and the new city is welcoming.

Time to get everything done and boxes that aren't unpacked yet are my biggest challenges these days. Along with the fact that I still don't have internet access at home and won't for another two weeks.

However, the boys and I have found the best place for ice cream in the city and that's really all that matters, right?

What I've got

2010-08-12T06:56:00.002+02:00

An apartment in Montélimar that I rented from pictures.

A house full of boxes of varying degrees of emptiness and fullness.

A lot of stuff.

Many, many toys.

Four more days to pack it all up - just this weekend and next weekend.

Genuine concern that I won't be able to do it all it four days.

I've been giving away as much as I can - drive by my house this weekend and you'll see stuff on the sidewalk all the time. Whatever I put out there disappears within minutes, occasionally with a softly spoken "thanks" on the other side of the gate.

In the end

2010-08-09T22:09:00.002+02:00

You could've predicted this, you might have predicted this. You could say should but should is just so irritating.

Instead, you wait patiently for the fallout. How could there not be any? The risks you take, the tales you tell, they all lead you to exactly this spot.

A beautiful umbrella, that's really all you've got. You hold on to it and hope this is another one of those times when a storm is only a drop of water.

In the morning, some morning, this will only be a painted memory.

When will you get good at this?

2010-08-05T20:43:00.002+02:00

Or we could call it this: some things cannot be helped.

You can be well-informed, years of documentation gathered and archived and filed away for future reference (yeah, right). You can know, without a doubt, exactly what you are doing, what it will do to you, and what it will cost you, damages both familiar and shocking.

It would be helpful, perhaps, if you could identify that part of yourself that makes you so willing to put yourself in harm's way.

Or maybe not. Maybe resolution will come another way. Maybe harm will be a friend one day. Maybe you'll be able to remember the silent battles you lost to harm with the gentleness of acceptance, honor the casualties instead of mourning them, recognizing them as parts of yourself you were meant to leave behind.

Until then, however, harm has no other name.

Where I`m headed

2010-08-04T14:39:00.003+02:00

Or we could also call this how to box up a life.

Montélimar is where I′m headed. I don`t know much about it other than what Google and Wikipedia have told me. It′s not a palindrome city though, and I′ll be very interested to discover just what kind of city it is. It feels sort of strange to say city for a place with a population of 40,000, but town doesn′t work either. It′s in a part of the country that I have never visited before.

I have an apartment there for the boys and me, an apartment, like the region, that I′ve only seen in pictures.

So, how do you box up a life?

You take stock, you sort, you only take what you treasure, everything that is no longer useful you give away or throw away. You leave the breakables to the professionals, as well as the driving. You cross the country, leaving landscape you know, and look for yourself on the map.

The other post about feet

2010-08-03T09:03:00.003+02:00

Putting your foot in your mouth, it would seem, is not an expression that is directly translatable into French. As with most expressions, there is usually something similar or at least something that means more or less the same. And I know this.

But sometimes I forget or get lazy or start speaking too quickly or whatever.

The French equivalent of putting your foot in your mouth is mettre les pieds dans le plat. To put your feet in the dish, although originally plat referred to low still waters and not food.

So at a dinner party recently, when I mentioned that I had a habit of putting my foot in my mouth, the guy sitting next to me looked at me with the oddest expression on his face. Clearly trying to gauge how flexible I would have to be in order to have such a habit or how clean I would have to keep my feet in order to have such a habit. He looked a little disappointed when he realized that I only put my feet in dishes and/or low still waters.

Begin again

2010-08-02T11:59:00.002+02:00

Alright then, I will.

This will be a month of beginnings and endings, more than I can count.

I will change jobs, I will move to a different region. I will say goodbye to the end of the life I have had in Laval for the past eleven years.

I will learn the second language of the south, heat. That should be interesting, given how I feel about heat. I will live in another small city, discover it and explore it in my usual way - one cafe, wine bar, restaurant, bakery at a time.

I will hold my breath when I arrive, waiting to see how I will be welcomed there.

A couple of posts about feet

2010-07-08T09:05:00.002+02:00

Je ne sais pas sur quel pied danser...I don't know which foot to dance on.

Which actually means to not know how to react or which side to take, which decision to make with regards to someone or something.

I like it in French - it sounds just a little bit whimsical. And of course it calls up an image. French is good for that, colorful expressions that easily lend themselves to images. There's actually an adjective that means just that - imagé - colorful but not in the full-of-color way. You know what I mean.

Anyway, back to dancing on one foot. Or the other. I've been doing it lately. And while I love to dance, I'd like to stop.

And on the same day

2010-07-05T22:15:00.003+02:00

I got a letter in the mail from the Ministry of the Interior. That's generally a bad sign, or at least it has been for me.

I live here legally of course. And I have provided France with two adorable little French (and American) citizens, so I don't usually worry about getting kicked out of the country or things like that. But you never know.

I opened the envelope with a certain amount of fear. And was considerably relieved when I saw that it was about the speeding ticket I got last October. As the car was still in the ex's name, it had taken them - with our help - this long to update the information about who was driving the car. Mind you, they cashed the 90€ check I wrote to them to pay for the fine months ago. Anyway, the letter was to inform me that it had been "revealed to them" (duh, the ex and I sent them a letter telling them I had been driving) that I had, in fact been driving the car and would lose a point from my driver's license. Which is fine, I now have 11 out of 12 remaining. And if I behave myself, I'll get that one back in a year. If I don't, it'll take me three years to get it back.

So as I read the letter, I thought, oh man, I've got to be really careful all the way until next July? Pain in the ... and then, the French administration amazed me. They started the year countdown from the time of they were told I was the driver. Not the day they sent me the letter. Which is shockingly efficient and fair. Two words I don't always associate with government agencies or ministries. I need to work on that.

When you see a '98 Punto driving carefully down the street from now until April 2011, you'll know it's me.

Drive on

2010-07-02T14:45:00.003+02:00

I spent the day with the French administration.

First there was the whole car title thing. The car's been in my ex's name since we got it and I never bothered to get it switched over to mine after the divorce. But after a speeding ticket (oops) led to all sorts of administrative hassles, it became necessary. I had to provide all sorts of pieces of paper proving all sorts of things that they already know, given that it's the same building where I got my resident's card and my driver's license. But assuming any kind of interdepartmental communication would be silly of me. So I proved where I live and I proved that I have the right to live there and I proved that I'm divorced and I proved that the car was declared mine in the divorce. I also had to prove the car had passed inspection in the past six months. It had been eight months and inspections are actually valid for two years but I had to have it inspected again because the car was changing owners. Hoops! I love jumping through hoops. You might be thinking that all of this sounds like a lot of work for a '98 Fiat Punto. You would be right. So, a few hours and 141.50€ later (112 - inspection, 2.50 - title, 27 - license plates), I officially own the car I've been driving since 2003.

That place

2010-07-01T09:40:00.005+02:00

I went to see my acupuncturist this week. She did the stuff that acupuncturists do, felt all the pulses on each wrist, looked at my tongue, asked 20 questions. She sighed and let her hands fall to her side. She suggested I try to avoid weeks like last week. Or at least letting myself get into such a state after a week like last week. And she's right, of course. It's not what happens, it's the story we tell ourselves about what happens.

The ear tack wouldn't even help this time. Drastic measures.

There are really only two acupuncture points that I HATE having needled. Given how many there are, that's nothing. The first is Kidney1, which is in the middle of the sole of your foot. Hurts like hell. Seriously. And I never say that about acupuncture. I love acupuncture. The other, I discovered this week, is Governing Vessel 26. Which is about one third of the way towards your nose up from your lip, in the middle of that little groove. Which probably has an official name. It's an amazing point and stimulating it clears the senses and promotes resuscitation. Which I definitely needed.

It's also a beautiful point. With lovely acupuncture names. It's the first of thirteen Ghost Points. I have no idea what that means but I like the way it sounds. This point is also known as Ghost Palace or Water Channel. See what I mean? There's also a sweet story about that groove in French. It's said to be an angel's fingerprint, left when s/he gently presses a fingertip to a newborn's lips, to remind the baby not to reveal to the world the mysteries of the universe, which it is born knowing and learns to forget.

Lovely names and stories aside, given the pain that needle inflicted, I have vowed to no longer visit the state that led me to it.

And now

2010-06-29T12:45:00.003+02:00

Back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Seriously. No, really, I swear.

I'll start with a story. Those of you who know me on facebook may have heard the beginning.

So. I was on my way out the door for a meeting. Boy2 asked if he could call me while I was out. I told him he could, if it was an emergency. He asked, "Is a bad mood an emergency?"

I said no, of course. Otherwise I would've gotten three calls during my meeting. At least. Not that he's given to bad moods, he isn't, not generally. But bad moods were in the air yesterday.

In the end, we found a solution. I asked him to hand his bad mood over to me. I told him I would keep it in my purse while I was away. He looked horrified. "I don't want it back - you should just get rid of it." He stood on the terrace and watched me toss it in a storm drain next to the garage as I left. We both agreed it would eventually make it to the river and be carried away forever.

On being a woman

2010-06-09T20:07:00.003+02:00

In France.

Honestly, in some respects, it's easier here. Less...nonsense. Really, I have no other word for it. And more good sense.

And any place that considers wearing nice lingerie a sign of self-respect and not just about pleasing the man who's going to see it is my kind of place.

I don't ever hear anyone talking about age-appropriateness. You either look nice or you don't. I've seen 60 year old women here in short skirts that look elegant and attractive. Their age is not a factor in what they choose to wear, although the shapeliness of their legs most definitely is.

And while I would not say that women have achieved equality here, far from it when it comes to pay, I would say that they have had to make fewer compromises on their way. Equal doesn't mean same here, it just means equal.

Decent maternity leave, parental leave if you want it, Wednesdays off to be with your kids - not everyone can manage the last two, but every woman gets the first. And ten postpartum physical therapy sessions, paid for by social security.

I like being a woman here.

Un stylo plume

2010-06-07T20:55:00.005+02:00

A feather pen, which, obviously, is no longer really a feather pen, but a fountain pen. I have always loved fountain pens. I got my first one when I was in high school, maybe 13 or 14. It was a big and black and fairly messy but I loved it. I practiced calligraphy and discovered I was no good at it or that it required far too much practice so I just used it as a regular pen.

Then for my 21st birthday, I was given a beautiful fountain pen. A Montblanc. It absolutely lived up to its reputation, it was lightweight and a pleasure to write with. I carried it in my bag for years and used it on a daily basis until it was stolen. It was replaced by a Waterman, not quite as nice, but still nice.

When I moved to France, I got a couple more. And then I had some clients who worked for Waterman. They invited me to visit the factory, which I did and they very kindly offered me a high-end fountain pen at the end of the visit.

Over the years I've bought a few more - they kind of float in and out of my life, lost or stolen or just misplaced for a year or two and then found on a raining Monday in June. A Rotring, some Italian brand, several Waterman, two Pilots. I still miss my Montblanc though.

Anyway. I learned from Boy1 (when he was in 3rd grade!) that you're never supposed to let anyone use your fountain pen. They started doing certain homework and in-class assignments with fountain pens that year and they were told that the nib adapts to the user's positioning and pressure and becomes personalized. If you let someone else use your fountain pen it will never write the same. (I have to say that this gave me consider comfort when I think of my stolen Montblanc in the hand of another.)

Of course I believed him, Boy1 can be quite serious, especially about things he has been told at school. But I wasn't quite sure how widespread this knowledge was. Until recently. I was in a meeting, the person sitting next to me needed to borrow a pen. I opened my bag and took out the only two pens I had - both fountain pens. She laughed and said, "Lovely but useless to me Nicole. Don't you have anything I can't ruin?"

I'm quite certain this says something very interesting about the place I live.

I learned today

2010-05-25T20:45:00.002+02:00

Which is a good thing to be able to say about any day, I should think.

A new word. Retors. As in "Il est retors." Which is an unfortunate thing to have to say about anyone. But which, on occasion, is true. Whether it needs to be said or not is an entirely different subject.

The dictionary says crafty but it's a bit more pejorative than that. Maybe dipping a toe into shrewd or malicious. In any case, sly and probably underhanded.

Really, nothing you'd want to be around. But at least we know what it's called.

From the rooster to the donkey

2010-05-23T10:09:00.002+02:00

Passer du coq à l'âne. I love this expression, probably because I do it from time to time.

It's when you're talking about one subject and then you jump to a completely unrelated subject with no transition at all.

To be truthful, there is always a link for me, it just may not be apparent to everyone. And I am usually able to loop it back around so that, in the end, it all makes sense. I have a few friends who have similar conversation styles so they trust my sense of direction. Those who don't usually smile and watch me draw swirls.

Conversations are spirals and swirls, as opposed to straight lines, aren't they?

The things I don't know

2010-05-21T17:44:00.001+02:00

Cannot be counted. Some of them probably can't even be imagined.

No longer waiting to live, I'm trying to live while waiting. Don't ask me what I'm waiting for, I have no idea. If I did, it would be anticipation, not waiting. Right?

My France

2010-05-10T20:41:00.002+02:00

I suppose there are stages to living in a foreign country. An early stage where you compare many things and judge a few of those. A stage after that where you notice and resist. Another where you notice and accept. And another where you don't notice any more.

I suppose that's why I haven't written about France in a while, I don't really notice so much any more. Which may be because my energy has been focused on those same stages but within my own life. Or it may be because I'm in circumstances unlike any I knew at home. And so now I have nothing to compare it to. France is the only place I've been divorced, or a single mother or quite so completely alone. And the only place where I didn't know what would happen next.

So here I am, in a France that's new for me. In a life that's new for me. The newness of my life, mercifully, has come gradually, one change at a time. And while I have longed for faster and/or more, time has been treating me with a kindness I have not.

This France, my France. There is affection in that possessive - how could I feel otherwise for a place that has been so patient and gracious a witness? There is a tolerance, deep and quiet, in this land. I feel it everyday when I walk by the river. But there is also a pledge in that possessive. I will walk barefoot on the land that has been so gentle with me and I will ask it to remember the path my footsteps took.

Map this

2010-05-03T21:37:00.002+02:00

Map the lines you've crossed, all of them, they will be the scale. Every map needs a point of reference.

Map what you've lost, it matters, the way a neighboring country matters - best to have good relations, but that's enough. Peace between borders.

Map what you know, it's precious little, but precious still. It is the ever changing landscape. Time and season always take care of what you cannot.

Map what you've learned, a mountain range. Hard to get to but majestic views worth the risk.

Map what it cost you to learn, the valley nearby, carved by glaciers of hard truths.

Map the grace that melted glaciers into a river of acceptance whose beginning and end cannot be mapped.

A battle of wills

2010-05-02T17:54:00.000+02:00

Lights on or lights off? As you will.

On a quest for answers, hows and whys, a mortar and pestle are your only tools. Grinding river stones down to nothing, searching for traces of water, the only thing that could have made them so smooth. Well, that and time. There must be some in there, mustn't there?

In the land of answers, you knew you would find blood. How could you not, given your questions? But you make friends with swords and find a home in the shadows, nothing sinister there. Honey where you were expecting blood.

Walk on

2010-04-22T20:33:00.004+02:00

Though you would not have thought of yourself as respectful of those kinds of traditions, you did what was expected. Like the family heirloom, this tradition has been your responsibility, to carry and then to pass on, a war whose origins no one remembers. You fulfilled it mindlessly in the beginning, quietly, it is simply what must be done. It's a painful tradition though, you grew to resent it. Passing it on became inconceivable, intolerable. You decided it would end with you. Through blood and tears and ultimate sacrifice, it did. Not won, just over. You did not do it alone, or without help.

After death, flowers. Offerings to those who came before you, those whose collective dedication to tradition brought you to this place. A field of poppies, gifts for the dead, spread out behind you, infinite red and green. Healing green and grounding red, everything you will ever need to let go without forgetting where you came from. Those poppies wave behind you, offering blessings and whispered goodbyes - your freedom is also theirs.

There are times

2010-04-20T09:06:00.000+02:00

I live in a palindrome city. And while I've joked about that before, I'm going to be serious now.

I'm not sure how I feel about it, or even if I should feel about it. But I do.

There's something about it. Visually, it's pretty, all symmetrical and balanced. To hear it pronounced, it's the same - well, symmetrical at least.

But I'm quite sure its linguistic infinite nature has an effect on the place it represents.

I remember the first time I came to Laval. A sunny Saturday in the month of December. I spent a few hours in the city center, bought something at the Saturday market in front of the cathedral, had lunch and then coffee. I remember thinking I could live here. And so I have, for 11 years. 11 - also symmetrical and balanced, when it's written like that.

I believe I'm ready for someplace new.

What we don't know

2010-04-12T21:23:00.002+02:00

There was no real reason for it to happen that night.

But something about going to the grocery store up the street, where we went at least once a day for beer or brownies made him mad. You pushed, he pushed back. He got ugly then, his face a mirror of tragedies unfaced. You knew that though, going into it, what he hadn't faced, it was inscribed into his skin. Probably picked him because of it. And you did pick him, regardless of how he told the tale. That first kiss in the elevator? All yours. His tragedies made him easier to manage, and even weakened you could make him spin if you had to.

After the ugliness you left, went to a friend's house to sleep. You woke up early, calm, before dawn.

You walked back to the apartment, armed with hot coffee and a night spent in a girlfriend's bed. You quietly gathered your things together, the important things. The rest you left for later.

You did not kiss his sleeping lips before you left.

Tapestries

2010-04-07T21:22:00.002+02:00

I was a marble statue on a stone bench when he walked out, his pack of cigarettes already in his hand as he opened the door. He sat down next to me, our thighs touching, remembering. We smoked and he told me himself what I had heard around the department.

He told me gently, with regret. I laughed at him, also gently. I knew where his wife was from and I knew what the South could do to its women. His situation, all bittersweet poetry and wilting flowers for him, was actually all pragmatics and strategies, southern style. As familiar to me as the smell of pine trees on the way to the beach on vacation.

He told me he loved me then. He didn't, but I knew what he meant. And I knew what he wanted from me, even if he didn't. I accepted the part with a farewell kiss, still more bittersweetness for him and just a kiss for me.

I played my part well though. It was my parting gift, to make up for my gently mocking laughter. Electric glances and accidental touches and suggestive sighs to help him add sweet tragedy to his bitter comedy.

Past in present

2010-04-06T17:12:00.000+02:00

When the young girl thought of the grandmother, she remembered the grit of the raspberry seeds in her mouth. Fresh raspberries she picked herself, not even as tall as the bushes she conversed with, asking and thanking for each berry, a bowl in her hand, her bare feet gently bathed in dew. She chose each one carefully as it was offered, picking off the tiny insects and imperfections she saw. She brought her bowl inside, full, and held it out to be covered in fresh cream.

The food was always better at the grandmother's house, how could it not be? Food was not prepared there, it was managed, just as the family was, without its consent or cooperation, giving in only to the cemented lack of choice.

The young girl watched this woman's hands make everything. Shape pie crust into girlish swirls and flutes, this harsh specimen of a grandmother. The grandmother was generous only with food, gray memories of summer weeks filled with her steady disapproval mercifully colored by bubbling fruit pies too perfect to have been made from bitterness and scorn alone.

The grandmother preferred boys, had little time for girls, or even anything feminine. The dark red lipstick she wore when she went into town, 5 blocks away, was the only concession she made to femininity. But it played out as mockery more than anything else, her broken teeth and cruel smile outlined with the blood she drew when she spoke.

And yet the young girl returned, was even anxious to go there. To sit on the cracked steps in front of that big house filled with hidden passages and round windows and a black basement that coiled around its own darkness and waited.

The grandmother died there, in that waiting basement, among her canned vegetables and the clutter of a life she never went through.

Seen And Unseen

2010-04-01T17:17:00.002+02:00

I sat in that office everyday. It must have been something else before, a shop or something. I never asked, but why else would there have been a window like that? Floor to ceiling, wall to wall. It was like working in a fish tank.

My desk didn't face the window, it was next to it. I watched people walk by occasionally, but mostly I just did my job. Papers, computer, phone. I had replaced someone very competent and thought I had much to prove. I suspect I may have been hired for reasons other than my cv. I was an odd mix of young and old at that time and often spoke of foreign cities I had visited. My smile was genuine but my eyes were not.

I looked up from my desk one day to see that a photographer had set up a tripod on the sidewalk across the street from my window. He was older than me but young still and had that artist look - hungry, but for art, not food.

Since when was I art? I looked down at myself, sitting in my chair. Little black sweater and pearls, straight out of the 50s, minus the hope.

We had a conversation of gestures during which he told me he wanted to take a picture of me in that fish tank, but working, not looking at him. I tried to do that. I went back to my tasks and he started his. But he gave up quickly. Because even though I wasn't looking at him anymore, I wasn't the same woman.

He packed up his stuff and left without taking any pictures or saying goodbye. I could not go back to never having seen.

The watch stops

2010-03-23T18:39:00.002+01:00

That happens, right?

You are a bit like a watch yourself, very reliable. Until, apparently, you're not anymore - or at least that's the way it is with the watch.

One more time, one last time, you'll try to tell time differently.

And what about the watch? Nothing. It was a reminder of what you left before you left.

It cannot be fixed. Not this time.

The morning after

2010-03-17T17:03:00.003+01:00

The time has come, as it always does, to clean out the yard. Despite fatigue and cold, you clear it out. Leaves and bark and broken pieces of terra cotta and pine cones and who even knows what else. You make an impressive list of all that you find, all that you left for nature to deal with. Apparently nature needs more time than just one winter. Or maybe you didn't really leave things so that she could.

So you actually do the work that you do not like to do. Clearing the way. All things natural in a small pile under an ancient maple. All things unnatural disposed of. You relinquish a mess, a mess that you didn't even see as it piled up.

You do not awaken to an empty yard as you thought you would. It has become, overnight, a field of grace. A place where flowers you cannot name will grow.

Oh the places you'll go

2010-03-15T05:58:00.001+01:00

Dessert now.

Cream, liquid and hot. Poured over dark broken pieces of chocolate. The cream is for texture and aspect, I do not want gloss. I want something to dive into, not see myself in. Wait, stir, taste, long for more. Don't we always? Sweet, when clear headed, begs for spice.

Cinnamon to show me how to recognize beauty in confusion, nutmeg to illustrate how sweetness must be layered, black pepper to teach me to always expect the unexpected, cloves to remind me to find balance - that more is not always better.

And salt, fleur-de-sel, flower of the salt. Salt that was hand-raked by someone who knows more about salt than I know about anything.

I peel an orange. Blood, by chance. Organic and pure. Its red not the color of blood but of a perfect Bourgogne, tales to tell in that shade that dances between lands.

Peeled and sliced, full of sweetly sour juice, covered with warm, spiced liquid chocolate. A dessert made to show me where I can go.

And so it begins

2010-03-12T20:53:00.003+01:00

It began with onions, thinly sliced. Garlic too, three cloves. Pancetta, olive oil. Salt and then pepper. Chicken thighs, skin intact. A long pour from a bottle of Quincy, Loire bred. Things simmered. Too pale, too something, a few peeled tomatoes were needed. More salt, more pepper, herbs and spices.

We've all heard of a maître saucier, a master of sauces, we've eaten his work, noticed, even, how he is too dependent on his skill. This leads him to ignore the basics on occasion. In mastery there is control, domination. His sauces make you forget what you're eating.

In the steam of my kitchen, I knew I did not want to master. I had had no recipe that night, only random ingredients and cold weather that made me want the comfort and warmth of a deep sauce.

I would not control, I would not dominate. Being a master is not for me. A mistress, however, that I could be.

Is she controlled, is she controlling? One can never really say. With a mistress, you never know who holds the power or if she even cares.

Rebirth that night, as every magical meal is.

But this one in particular. I had made many, countless even, sauces before. But this was different. I found myself.

A mistress of sauces.

The color of your chains

2010-03-11T20:33:00.003+01:00

Gold is the one you pretend not to see, you ignore it most days, it's only the light you read by. Artificial but necessary for the tasks you've given yourself, so you think. You could live without it. Could actually live without it, but you pretend not to see that either.

Silver is the one you have named, although you call it something else. It is, in fact, a dog's leash. Long enough to let you think you can go anywhere. And you do, almost. But you're still on a leash. You forget that most days. Dog days.

Orange is the one you cannot live without. The orange of desire and promise and sour and sweet. Its links are an elaborate pattern of time and dream weaving in and out of purest hopes and darkest fears. You accept its presence but not its reasons.

You've grown accustomed to the weight and the sound of your chains.

This too shall pass

2010-03-09T11:47:00.002+01:00

So, you've been working with this architect. Nice, professional, competent, works for a huge firm. You hired him yourself, although you don't really remember the interview, you were so busy at that point. You must have been pretty vehement about what you wanted, or at least what you didn't want. You didn't pay much attention to the demolition crew, they moved in one by one and quietly.

Now you're in that uncomfortable phase, there is dust everywhere. Nothing looks like it did before. In fact, it doesn't look like much at all. You try to clean around it, which you hope will make it bearable but it doesn't.You try to imagine something beyond the mess that you're living in and you can't.

An artist's vision is required for situations like this. You are not an artist. You are just someone who was whimsical enough to hire an architect and give him free license to make something beautiful out of something that wasn't.

Give until it hurts

2010-03-01T20:36:00.004+01:00

Donnant - donnant. Giving - giving. Used in situations where we would use give and take. Or tit for tat.

I have to say that I find it very interesting that the French express that concept in such a generous and optimistic way. And I only say that because they usually admit to being a glass-half-empty kind of culture. Sometimes I wonder if there wasn't a corner that led to the turn that led to the place they are now, a turn that required the loss of optimism. A revolution or something along those lines. Anyone who knows more about French history than me (that would be most people) - please feel free to name that corner.

And I wouldn't say that it's a selfish culture either. The S word is tossed around quite a bit - solidarity - but more as an accompaniment to hand gestures and grand theories than anything else. The fact is that solidarity is legally required here every day from nearly everyone, so spontaneous gestures of generosity are no longer commonplace. Which is not, of course, to say that French people aren't generous. Oh why oh why do I write posts that require qualifications and reassurances?

Anyway, giving and giving. I don't know. It just sounds a bit off. Is it very American of me to want it to be giving and getting?

Animal kingdom

2010-02-26T20:26:00.002+01:00

There is a snake. Waiting in the basement, or maybe just lying there. Around the countless corners, oddly shaped rooms, paths that lead nowhere. Dark with eyes, coiled around itself. For company - a persistent odor, neither pleasant nor disagreeable, just everywhere. Dampness and darkness and time weigh heavy in this air.

You do not know how long it has been there. You do not even know why it came in the first place. You have gotten used to seeing it there, or maybe used to ignoring it.

What do you do when you realize the snake is in you?

You lean in, foolish and fearless, and try to hear what's behind the hiss.

1000 Strings

2010-02-15T22:37:00.002+01:00

The most beautiful, complicated musical instrument that ever was. A string instument, of course. Imagined, designed and faconed by the greatest of masters. Unimaginable music, the kind that takes your breath away. And it did. Vibrations, of endless varieties, on a thousand strings. To be plucked, bowed, or struck, depending on the day.

You watch, at first in horror but now with calm curiosity, as one by one those strings break or are snipped, depending on the day.

What will remain when all those strings are gone? An echo or a memory, depending on the day.

Reminders can be gifts, depending on the day.

On the nature of damage

2010-02-12T22:08:00.002+01:00

Layers, webs, nets - all tight and densely woven - surround a seed. Peel away, untangle, unravel - do what you must to get to it. Take a close look, unhurried and objective. You will not find a truth, you will find a belief. A belief that took seed next to a truth.

Problem is, the truth was a raindrop. It glistened and fell and made something dry, wet. That is all.

The belief was a storm - an epic storm. It downed lines and flooded basements and ripped tiles off roofs.

Do you know what you did? You took shelter - lifetimes of shelter - from a storm that was only one raindrop.

It is still there, you can see it, still just a raindrop. Wipe it with your finger, bring it to your mouth. It will taste clean as you swallow the storm whole.

Graffiti on your walls

2010-02-08T21:39:00.003+01:00

Lines, grooves, edges, curves. Messages, signs, symbols, signatures.

You can never know if what you're seeing, what you're reading, is what was intended. You can never know if it is irreverent art or spiteful desecration. You are unsettled either way.

Vandal or artist, depending on the day. Either way, you are uncomfortable knowing they were here. This is not a public space. Access is difficult, challenging even.

What did they see as they left their mark? That, you try not to imagine.

More disturbing still, what did they take away?

You must accept what they left behind, bleach will not work, nothing will. These walls, your walls, they live and breathe. Marks made, lines drawn, they are a part of you now.

As within, so without

2010-02-01T12:11:00.003+01:00

There is a map on you. A road map of shining silver outlining everything but the edges. No one really knows where it ends, this map. Or even where it begins. It was made without boundaries or borders. If that was intentional, you can't imagine why.

No one has ever read this map, most people haven't even seen it. Which makes you wonder how useful a map it really is. There is no key, no scale, not a single point of reference. Distance cannot be measured, neither can altitudes. You try to believe it could help someone get somewhere, or at least help someone figure out where here is. You're doubtful though.

Dreaming out loud, you picture it as a tattoo. You imagine someone dipping a finger in an alchemist's silver and swirling shining liquid metal on you, the silent canvas.

Time and time again

2010-01-29T09:41:00.003+01:00

There is a place, a no man's land. Neither desert nor deserted, it is simply uninhabited. It is neither foreign nor familiar, no matter how long you stay or how long you stay away when you leave. It is an oasis, a lure, an illusion - depending on the day. It is a full moon - but behind moving clouds.

It is the part of you that belongs to someone else. Given or taken, you do not recall. Does it matter? Does it make a difference?

You want to name this place, draw it on the map, give it a governance. But you can't. Some days you can't even believe it still exists. With reason - some days it doesn't. But that doesn't last.

As much as you would like never and forever to exist here, they do not. You are forced to make do. And yet, you cannot.

At arm's length

2010-01-25T22:04:00.004+01:00

It was an ordinary day, or at least it acted like one. But it ended unlike any other. You can still feel the heat, black and infinite, of your act.

Despite what you thought, your hands were never tied. But how could you remember that? So long ago, you made the smallest gesture, the gesture of a child. Arms behind your back to hide something from the world, a big secret for a small child - fingers crossed, hidden behind you. Both hands.

One for the lies you knew you would have to tell. And one for the hope, the wish, the silent plea, that what was would no longer be.

Travel far and wide

2010-01-17T19:14:00.005+01:00

It is the voyage of truth. The truth that begins as a secret.

Held first by the highest of priestesses, it could only have been trusted with her. Not only did she keep the secret, guard the truth, but she didn't even tell you she knew of its existence.

Split apart, fact from fiction, its next stop was into the hands of Justice, lifetimes later, when the time was right. The past on one side of the scale, the future in the other.

Its final stop, twenty, using Roman numerals, Judgment. Neither fact nor fiction here, an X for both, the truth is found in the middle. No interpretation. Only release and the grace that follows.

It's about time

2010-01-15T16:29:00.003+01:00

Unwilling to draw certain conclusions, unable to face certain consequences, you seek out a second opinion. Logical.

Months later, years later, you've got a full collection of second opinions. They are your coin collection, your butterfly box. Shimmering objects whose value is estimated by time and circumstance and rarity. But in the end, despite all those different worths, different species, different colors and shapes and sizes, they are all still coins, just butterflies. In the end, their only value is the truth they held for you.

So what do you next? Every angle of entry has taken you to the same place, every formula has given you the same answer. What do you do when you cannot accept the place, cannot tolerate the answer? There's no choice really. Not when you realize you cannot, will not, spend another day collecting.

You do it. You draw the blasphemous conclusion. You face the heinous circumstances. Bled dry and gutted, you realize you are still whole. The butterflies fly out of the box while the coins melt and pool at your feet.

On loan

2010-01-12T11:37:00.003+01:00

It is your favorite place to go. It is a magical land where your choices have no consequences and your responsibility remains suspended, mid-air.

You started coming here when you started telling stories. Good stories, woven expertly in the richest fabric. Tapestries, large enough to be hung on the rough stone walls inside a castle. Colors, dyes, organic nuances to paint the illustrations of life and death and love and betrayal seen through your shaded eyes. Flowers and berries and woods and plants, transformed into pure color essence, silent and knowing witnesses to the weave and to the boundaries of blood shed and tears wept.

Nothing here is really yours, not even your experiences. The stories you tell are only that, stories. Meant to entertain and enthrall and then lull to sleep. Do not believe them, no matter how beautiful they are.

It is a land of borrowed time.

Reception

2010-01-06T18:12:00.004+01:00

You have been welcomed home. There's a wreath on the door, crystals that shine even when it's cloudy. There's a fire inside, you can see the smoke coming out of the chimney. A light is on. You do not know who is home or what they are doing - maybe reading - but you do know you'll go inside.

You don't knock, why would you? This is your home now.

The first thing they say to you when you walk through the door?

Lay down your troubles.

And you do. You lay them down, suitcases of suffering you leave at the doorway. They disappear as you walk towards the kitchen.

On the nature of moments

2010-01-03T15:16:00.003+01:00

You have felt the pace of your life, measured in days and weeks and months and years. Saw it in your mind. You've often asked friends that question, how do you visualize time? It has revealed aspects of their nature, beauty in how they see it, whether their system be organized and linear or intuitive and spiral.

But now you have moved on to moments. Or back. Wherever you are now. The moments feel outside of the pace. Or very deep inside. Wherever they are now.

Lemon slices of time on the rim of your glass.

Another last supper

2009-12-30T17:38:00.002+01:00

Course after course, you've never left the table. You've eaten every color, every flavor. Enjoyed some more than others, but appreciated them all.

The plate is clean, or almost. A trace of sauce remains, that heady mix of blood and wine. If you were not in mixed company, you would lick that plate. As it is, you wipe it with your finger. Miles away from polite, you suck it off.

You are ready for dessert. Smooth, rich, sweet. Not something you need, something you want.

Burn this

2009-12-28T19:43:00.003+01:00

It begins with yellow, this tale of a trial by fire. Yours. Though you've been dipping your toes in yellow, it's a color you've never really liked. Do you realize that you've never lived in a home that didn't have a yellow room? You never once painted those walls, never chose that color.

Closer to the flames, orange will follow. The orange where the longing lives. It still seems far away, a beautiful sunset on a foreign horizon. But it is drawing closer.

Red, this will be your final stop. The red you never wear. The red that burns the fear away.

Lost times

2009-12-21T20:33:00.005+01:00

It's winter now. Your first real winter in a very long time. Maybe ever.

You've lost your certainty, but that's a good thing. That's the only certainty you have left. Just enough.

But that is what winter is for, isn't it? This you know now too. There's only so much room in the cellar and you've only got so much salt. Do you know what salt is? It's crystallized hope.

Not candy striped, wishful thinking hope. A cherished desire watercolor of hope, framed in the solid, hand-carved wood of expectation.

The essentials will be preserved and that is more than enough. This you do not hope for, this you know. This is the one thing you know.

An update on the whole bilingual children thing

2009-12-14T22:11:00.004+01:00

I had planned on doing this at regular intervals. And I suppose I do. If once a year or every two years is regular.

The boys are 9 and 6 now. They're in CM1 (4th grade) and CP (1st grade) in a private French school. There are no international schools around so we make do with what we've got.

They both still speak only English to me, although they pepper some sentences with Frenchisms if they can't quickly come up with the word they're looking for in English. They usually speak English to each other. This may or may not have something to do with the fact that I yell, "LANGUAGE!" if I hear them speaking French to each other if I'm not in the room. If I'm around, they don't do it.

I realize I could be a bit more relaxed about that, but it's so important to me that they speak English well and so much of their time is spent in French. French school days are incredibly long and the majority of their waking hours are spent in French. So I get a little worried sometimes about how their English will hold up over time.

Some things reassure me. They're comfortable in English most of the time. They tell jokes and laugh at mine. They say things like, "I so totally hate gymnastics." "Tell me how many days until Christmas vacation. Precisely." Boy1 has an accent, but it's cute. I'm sure he'll use it to his advantage at some point in his life. Boy2 has less of one, but he's had the benefit of growing up hearing me talk with his brother. I'm sure he'll find something else to use to his advantage.

Two swords

2009-12-08T11:16:00.005+01:00

Let me tell you the story of where you have been, she said. And I'll tell you about the two swords you used to get there.

Lost for two years, you saw it all. Mountain, plain, desert, valley, forest, field. You watched the landscape change, the colors go by.

We watched you then, all the while, through every color of every rainbow whose path you crossed. We watched you as you did not move. Seated, quiet, eyes covered in softness, two swords in hand. Taken up as weapons you were certain you would need. One to fight, one to protect.

That is not how you used them. I can tell you that story too.

Two swords for balance. They were your sun and moon while your eyes remained shielded against true light and dark. They were your heaven and hell while you traveled middle ground. Your fire and water, your air and earth, while those elements were out of your reach.

At the end of the your travels, you put your swords down, you freed your eyes from their protection. We watched you do that too.

Do you know what you learned? In that moment of voluntary blindness? Because two years is nothing if not a moment.

If one is essence, two is existence.

One Sword

2009-11-30T05:29:00.001+01:00

Let me tell the story of how you were made, she said. It is not what you think, no fairy tales exist here.

You were mined first, unwilling, you were taken from the depths of the darkest, richest earth. You didn't want to leave, but there are rules. You know that now.

Once mined, your forming began. It was a long process; you were meant to be hard and flexible at the same time. You can imagine how difficult it is to achieve that state. We prepared you for massive shocks, gave you the strength to withhold and the flexibility to absorb. Breaking is unacceptable. You know that now.

Blade smiths came, sword smiths too. Their professions are sometimes assimilated. Not here. Each hand that touched you was an expert in a very precise field. Only the best for you. You know that now.

You were heated first. Then hammered, pounded, filed, ground, cut. There was violence in every gesture. But violence is sometimes necessary. You know that now.

Fullering next. To give you ridges. Have you seen the ridges on your edge? They are not random, they are not decorative. They strengthen your structure, flowing math determining the ideal relationship between power and mass. Each ridge a careful calculation. Something you can count on. You know that now.

Ah, normalizing. Careful, even heating. Slow cooling. An attempt to remove the stresses, inevitable - some might say - that you gathered when you were forged. They cannot remain, they are unnecessary weaknesses, their purpose long outlived. You know that now.

Heat treating - a challenge. Trial by fire, some might say. That was not our intention. You were meant to be balanced here, hardened, tempered. And you were. You know that now.

You were sharpened next, that was a pleasure. Giving you your greatest gift. Strong but not brittle, as sharp and pure as the truth. Have you used your greatest gift? Have you ever even seen it? We don't believe you have, but you will. You know that now.

You were decorated, jewels and engravings, to tell the story of where you've been and where you'll go. Colors, the deepest and richest we could find. Swirls, arabesques, breathtaking grace in simple lines that are not straight. This is how you were finished, in pure beauty. It was an honor to make you. You know that now.

Surprise me

2009-11-26T21:47:00.004+01:00

Time has reached your home. Have you been told this before? Before, during, after. Those are all memories now. You've rewritten them well. Time is here to tell you that you have been left behind. Not by age, no. You've been left behind because that's where you've apparently decided you belong. Behind what, you do not ask. You know quite well.

What will you do?

Whatever it is, make it good. It is exactly how you will be remembered. The imprint that will be used to remind this place that you were once a member. You will not be remembered for who you think you are, you will be remembered for the mark you left.

You see the moon and the moon sees you

2009-11-24T19:23:00.000+01:00

Leave what you know and follow me. Forget what you believe and let me guide you.

Wildness here, wilderness here. Also tricks and falsehoods. But those are imports.

You're thinking the river is your safest bet. You're probably right. One way or another, you can always trust water. I control its movement anyway. Can you trust that I will take you where you really want to go?

Can you do that?

All I really want is for you to no longer be afraid of the dark.

If the moon could talk, that is what she would say to you.

8 swords

2009-11-17T23:06:00.002+01:00

Surrounded by them, or at least that's what it feels like. Their hilts at eye level, although your blindfold keeps you from seeing that. Silk there, the confusion it holds is soft and dark. Cut from the same cloth, silk binds your hands behind your back.

Eyes and hands immobilized, your trap is real, for a time. But the clean air from the mountains behind you moves in, into the smallness of this holding place. And you get a sense of steel. Both without and within. The outlines are clearer now, even through the silk. The swords are a gift from the past, they will not let you go back. You may have put them there yourself, just to make sure. The silk too may have been your doing. To give your eyes a rest before they could look to the future. And your hands? Bound only to let you learn not to reach for what you do not really want. Eight is the number of change and inspiration. You must have known that too.

You do not need to become what you already are.

Thanksgiving

2009-11-16T14:36:00.003+01:00

I miss Thanksgiving.

I miss planning the menu or realizing that I don't have to cook a thing. I miss knowing I'll see close friends or family or both really soon. I miss all that food, all that amazing food. I miss the first holiday that marks the start of the holiday season. And the leftovers. I really miss Thanksgiving leftovers.

I know, I know. I can have Thanksgiving here. And it's true. Sort of. But it is not the same.

It's just a regular thursday here. A regular thursday I will try to make special for the boys. I will make stuffing and roast a chicken and make homemade cream of mushroom soup and fry shallots for green bean casserole and I will, of course, make apple pie and pumpkin pie and homemade vanilla ice cream for one and whipped cream for the other.

I will tell them all the reasons I have to be thankful, grateful. It will be a long list.

It will be a quiet, small, private Thanksgiving.

The knowing look

2009-11-04T05:22:00.000+01:00

A voice lost is a voice that hasn't been used. Hoarse, broken, shady - not excess of use but a complete lack of use. Preceded by a brief attempt to reside in an octave that is not usually yours. Signaled by a breakdown of the system you know so well. Tongue, palate, vocal chords - all rendered useless - not by a misuse of power but by an ignorance of power.

That is when you are asked. You must, of course, be asked.

Do you know what would be said with the voice that has been lost? Do you want to know?

Hello, Goodbye

2009-11-03T19:33:00.002+01:00

You are standing in the middle of the longest goodbye in history.

Spanning decades, continents, lives, choices, futures and pasts.

Learner's curiosity makes you wait to see how it ends, exactly.

How uncomfortable is that? Watching yourself amputate the one limb you cannot live without. Even gone it will still be there. A phantom limb, shock at the root, ache at the tip.

Will you answer?

2009-11-02T05:11:00.000+01:00

Time has come to this place you've made your home. These flatlands you call yours, shadowless, lightless, no valleys or mountains - you need to see everything here and so you do. You've anticipated, strategized, planned, maneuvered.

Time's up though.

Swerve if you think you need to, detour if you believe it will help. You don't and it won't.

The time will come and time will come and show you what you haven't seen.

It will be a knock at door, like any other.

Travel

2009-10-28T13:32:00.005+01:00

You've been welcomed into a new land. The invitation you received ages ago finally removed from the refrigerator door where a quiet magnet held it close to you but far from your attention. You brought it with you, just in case, your name engraved in the vellum. In case someone might think you don't belong here. In case you might think you don't belong here.

The border crossing was simple, no formalities. There is an easy, automatic feeling of home here. Well, except for the fact that you don't speak the language and can't read the signs.

Blind here, your hand stretches out, a five-legged spider who knows the lay of land without ever having visited.

Le bilan

2009-10-26T17:46:00.002+01:00

You returned your favorite book to the library.

You left your favorite pen on the counter of a music store.

You forgot your favorite shirt in a hotel room in Arizona.

You put away boxes of memories when you left your life.

You gave away your chances when you started doing math.

You wasted your luck when you started being practical.

You own nothing, not even the time you've been given.

The why

2009-10-21T10:20:00.002+02:00

Why do I write? I'd give a different answer to that question than to why do I have a blog.

So, JMH and Philippe, I write because I can't not write. The answer is something along the lines of yours JMH - I feel better when I write. Not in a self-psycho-analysis way, just in a constructive, creative way. I take an idea or a sentence or event that I like or don't like at all and work backwards to the beginning of a story or a tale or picture taken with words. It's an exercise I like, a task I enjoy. And I like being able to describe something really specific - experience or event or feeling - in a way that lets someone else read something entirely different and personal into it. Being able to share something that is both open and closed in nature. Something that, in the end, is both mine and yours.

Moments

2009-10-15T09:42:00.002+02:00

Prepared to work, even to struggle, this is familiar to you. Prepared to wonder, worry, wish - those too.

You are taken aback, maybe even 2 steps, when a flash of complete satisfaction, despite the missing parts and unsolved equations, is upon you. Incomplete paths and misguided choices mean nothing here, which also surprises you. Their presence is usually so central.

Brief and alone moments, suspicion used to file away the memory of their existence as day dreaming once they were gone.

Now you look for them and wait, will, want. For them to string together, a necklace you will wear.

On the nature of house guests

2009-10-11T21:00:00.004+02:00

I will have visitors this week. First friends, both old and new, and then family, both old and new.

Brief visits but that's ok. Being so far away means you take what is offered and feel lucky regardless. And I do.

It will be a slice of home. Not the place home, but the feeling.

In my house, they will be the ones to welcome me home. I love that.

Twisted

2009-10-08T20:58:00.003+02:00

For the ease and comfort of everyone involved, let's make this about you. Let's paint the world your favorite color.

Let's make the tales you tell bedtime stories we should all find solace and safety in when we're alone at night. Let's call the excuses you give soulful mantras we could use to find peace when faced with pictures we don't understand. Let's call the compromises you require tithing- a ten per cent levy of ourselves we must give up without question - knowing it's for the good cause - it's your cause - how could it not be?

Let's call the manipulations you execute maneuverings designed for our own good - you're thinking we should be grateful - good idea, we'll try that. Let's call your deceptions magic tricks - we should just enjoy the show, we bought the ticket - how could we not have expected a show?

Let's call your arrogance confidence that makes us feel safe when you're around. Let's call your cowardice kindness - a battle not fought means that no one dies. Or does it?

Darkness

2009-10-07T13:33:00.002+02:00

You realize it doesn't come from the night, from the lack of light, or even the heavy clouds. It comes from the places where truth was never allowed. How many of those you've held close. Swirls are just shadows that move in those places; adjustments to illusions you've loved. Or needed.

But on this day, a ridiculously banal day, you can no longer believe in power of that darkness, its comfort, its ability to shield you from every truth you do not want to know.

And so you let it seep in, the truth - not the darkness - there's no need for that anymore. There is nothing you're not willing to see. No, not exactly that. You're not happy about it, it is not a joyful act. But you can now will yourself to do it.

Passages

2009-10-04T20:18:00.003+02:00

Path. Channel. Duct. Along, through, over.

From this to that and then to now. And finally, beyond.

Most are landmarked, landscaped, roadsigned and indicated.

And then there are those that you walk through without even realizing you're doing it. You like those the best. You discover yourself to be both more and less than you ever thought you would be. There is no judgment in that balance - it is as neutral as math.

Forevermore

2009-10-01T19:09:00.002+02:00

You got it all wrong, didn't you?

Piano played on your skin, no keys to be found. The braille you wrote was seen, not felt. The silent gestures heard, not seen.

Back to the river, you scrape your hand along the bed, dig your fingers in, see what you can pull up.

The cold water feels so good, a memory your palms bring to your surface. Down below you expect to find ground rocks, sand, dirt - you do not. Only smooth stones are left, black, white, and 27 shades in between - shades whose existence you've never admitted.

Your waters will never be muddied again. Freedom feels nothing like you thought it would.

Bénéfices secondaires

2009-09-30T13:39:00.003+02:00

The nights are cold, colder than you remember. You usually like nights, you still do, these are just different. You add a layer. Maybe two. That makes a difference but not really the kind of difference you were looking for.

You're warmer now, closer to comfortable. But that's just a secondary benefit.

You realize it's not the warmth they provide, but the weight. The feeling that you are grounded from above.

Minor crisis

2009-09-28T19:48:00.001+02:00

Of the blog variety.

Just meandering out loud. What to do with the blog.

Having come up with no answer, I'll ask you.

What to do with the blog?

Crossroads

2009-09-22T18:11:00.003+02:00

Time has been on your mind lately, you cannot say why.

Traditionally neutral in your life, time has now taken a stance.

September is given to stances, it's that kind of month, it always has been.

Your life will be so different in one month. Because in this month of stances, time meets justice, her best friend. Not justice in the punitive sense. Justice in the harmonious sense.

Time and justice will do their work and your life will never be the same.

Hmm

2009-09-16T12:06:00.003+02:00

Days after the twelfth anniversary of my arrival to stay in France - which was marked by twelve white roses quietly left at my door - I received a reminder that no matter how long I've been here, I'll always be a foreigner. Which is how it should be, shouldn't it? I mean, I'm not French, I was raised by American parents in a monocultural household. Well, relatively speaking. My mother is from the South and that did have its influence on my life.

Anyway, Saturday evening at a lovely dinner hosted by a lovely friend in a lovely setting, surrounded by interesting people of all nationalities and varieties, I was told I was, "so very American."

I started laughing, at least on the inside, although I may have worn a look of WTF irritation on my face. That is the one thing I never hear, have never heard once during the past twelve years. I took slight offense, I admit it. Not because being perceived as very American is always a bad thing, but that such a judgment could be delivered after ten minutes of conversation.

Having said that, I'm sure he was quite right.

Hide

2009-09-14T05:00:00.000+02:00

It has been your nature to avoid endings. Too final, too hard, too permanent, although you do realize the finality, the hardness, and the permanence are yours - not inherent to every ending.

You've decided to be willing to let an ending be otherwise. To let yourself be otherwise.

It has been promised - everything outside that door is good.

And promises mean the world to you. Literally. Neither words nor intentions, promises are diamonds to you. The clear, sparkling, hard, future truths of your world. Anyone who doesn't know that about you doesn't really know you.

Whiplash

2009-09-09T08:54:00.005+02:00

You stand, still for once, watching the ground that has been covered. Distance and ash evidence of your trail. You see an elaborate labyrinth. Cleverly made, brilliantly even, you can see neither beginning nor end, just its heartbreaking beauty and integrity.

Convinced this was your lesson, you've navigated this adventure like the student you've always been, good overall performance with your tendency to procrastinate still intact.

The possibility that the lesson might be someone else's to learn never occurred to you. Not because you're egocentric but because you're chronically hard on yourself, you just assumed this was your river to cross. In fact, you may just be a supporting character.

Another incidence, although some say occurrence, at a different Owl Creek Bridge, how many miles will be covered in the inch you've been asked to give? Years in the seconds you've been asked to yield?

A place for you

2009-09-08T20:24:00.002+02:00

You've been in this place longer than you've ever been anywhere. This one place that has never really felt like home is the place you've spent more time than any other. You cannot explain this.

You could detail how ready you've been for a change. You could describe the goodbye you've already said, the thanks you've already given. The nod of acknowledgment you received.

What were you being being told? That change, as ready as you may be for it, is not ready for you? That there is something you still have to do here or perhaps something that must be done to you?

As is always the case, time knows better than you which page is really the last.

Timing

2009-09-04T22:26:00.000+02:00

It began with once upon a time. Hmm, you say. In good time. Ok, you say. You think you can live with that. Time heals all wounds. Yes, you say. Time will take care of the things that you cannot. Fine, you say.

You breathe differently. Just in time. How does your body know that times are changing?

Everything there is outside that door is good.

The coal in you

2009-08-31T05:32:00.001+02:00

The darkest black, mined from the strata. A network of shadowed veins. Metamorphic rock, your gloss speaks of your purity and the rivers of time dedicated to making you shine like that.

Were you to be picked up and put to paper, your traces would be indentations, not smudges. You do not color, you mark and engrave on the archives of this tale. Lines drawn can be smeared, the truth of your path cannot.

You are used, transformed, exploited for purposes that are not your own. The blue of your involuntary flame burns hotter than you can help. A smokeless fire you did not set.

Essence

2009-08-29T15:37:00.004+02:00

It's your favorite flower, delicate. It's your favorite perfume, mesmerizing. Sometimes it smells like something you want to eat and other times like something you want to do. Although elsewhere too, it is in you, an essential organ you did not know you had, transplanted in one innocent moment when you answered the call of an instinct smarter than yours. But this is a secret you do not know. You search without, never within. You've pursued it through an elaborate labyrinth - your own wrong turns, dead ends, accidents, and shortcuts have left you lost and more alone than you've ever been. Your only comfort is your blurred certainty that you are neither. It is the cold comfort of a lie that keeps everything in place.

You found its presence one day, at the end of the ocean that keeps you from it, an ocean of time and truths, all denied. You hold it gently and sweetly in your hand. You don't want to crush it, you want to keep it with you forever, hidden in your pocket. But you can't, not like this. If you carry it with you on your travels, years and lives from now, you will have stripped the petals off, painfully one by one. Its fragrance changed - the bitterness of what you would not eat and the disappointment of what you would not do. Search and rescue was meant to be your mission. Not search and destroy.

This day

2009-08-27T18:32:00.004+02:00

There is something you should know about today.

So many things can mark a day, but you know this, of course. Tone. Mood. Play. Work. Weather.

Unmarked by anything memorable, they pass. Enjoyed or tolerated or endured. Whatever.

And then there are days like today. Hopefully, at the end of your life, you will be able to count their number and it will be mercifully small. A day that n'a pas lieu d'être. A day that does not have the place to be, the room to exist. Which is exactly why you will remember it so clearly. Despite its dissonance and impossibility, it is here. Bookmarked for life.

A day when you can only accept all or nothing but are not allowed that luxury. Never before have you understood the privilege and comfort of extremes like you do today. Because they have never been further from what is available to you.

Wild kingdom

2009-08-25T10:48:00.001+02:00

You knew a woman once. She had animal in there, you could see it from a mile away. If you actually saw her. Most people didn't. Mercifully blind to that kind of person, most people barely noticed her on the street. Not because she was nondescript, but because they somehow knew they would be safer if they did not. Brave or naive were those who saw that blackness and approached uninvited anyway. A few times you actually saw her back away from people who got too close - compassion lightened her eyes and she gave them back the distance they were not wise enough to maintain. They left the encounters feeling odd and not knowing why.

You weren't really safe with her either. But you knew that. So she let you take your chances.

It was out of compassion when she left you. In pieces, yes, but also in peace.