Summer Reading

It's been a great summer for reading. Some ramblings:

Harry Potter: After nearly twenty years, I've decided to experience the cultural juggernaut that is Harry Potter. I've gotten through the first four books and films and have decided to continue. No spoilers please! I am so thrilled by the world-building and the twists and turns, and I am eager to hear the backstories of the professors. At the moment, Harry is my least favorite character. Hagrid is my absolute favorite. I expect it will take me way into the school year to finish Order of the Phoenix.

La pluie d'ete: I wanted to explore the writing of Marguerite Duras, so I started with this short novel about the two oldest kids in an immigrant family living in Paris. I thought the dialogue was interesting, but wasn't very invested in the characters or the plot. I plan to read Hiroshima, Mon Amour next, mostly because there is much more criticism available about that work.

Holy Cow: I borrowed this book from the library on a whim after I found out that David Duchovny is a published writer!? I thought it was a creative and interesting tale. The whole time, I felt like was reading a book my dad had written. It was all the 2015 slang. Something about imagining my Mulder at his computer writing an anthropomorphic cow going on about how the other animals on her farm are cray-cray was strangely fun.

All the Light We Cannot See: My favorite so far, and I'm not even 100 pages in. I adore the poetic language that Anthony Doerr is using to bring us to WWII-era France and Germany. I am constantly getting lost in his gorgeous paragraphs, and I am relieved that the book is enormous, so I can look forward to a beautiful, long read. Best of all, I know that this book will bring me to St. Malo, a city that is dear to me and in which I have many beautiful memories.

Student win, an anniversary, and an addiction

Student Win
This week I had my students work on the Proust Questionnaire - a 35 question exercise to get them talking in class. I told them to give me super-long Proust-like answers. This is speaking class! One word responses will not do!!

Me (to student): Who is your hero?
Student: Tyler Durden.
Me: (annoyed face because clearly this is not a long Proust-y answer)
Student: I would like to give you more information about this, but the first rule about fight club is I can't talk about fight club.

Instant chouchou status.

An Anniversary
Yesterday T and I celebrated one year together with a date in front of the Skypes wherein we ate dinner together by candlelight and then talked about grammar for an hour, especially the differences between "who," "that," and "which," and whether or not animals can be "who" too. He is so perfect for me.

An Addiction
I should never have asked the post if it is true that I can send books home for a reduced price. It is true. 5 kilos for 13 euros. I now have 10 kilos of books and will probably be visiting the Memoranda religiously. Already three times in less than a week! This is the mother of all used book stores. I am telling you, it's like DR's apartment. Stacks of books so big and vast you could make furniture out of them. Grammar books, dictionaries, classics, poetry, I even saw Stephen King's "ça" in a pile on the floor!

saturday i'm in love

best week(end) ever is back, and it's only saturday. on the quick, a recap.

-yesterday, since my douchenozzle grammar professor established early in the semester that she's not going to teach us said subject, the nerd grammarian in me took herself to the used bookstore (caen is known for having lots of them) and bought exercise booklets in grammar, conjugation, and spelling!!

(i promise, the rest of the weekend is more exciting for those of you who don't find the self-teaching of grammar titilating)

-this morning i fell down my own stairs and didn't break my ankle. win.

-today included lots and lots of walking around caen, no earbuds, appreciating the beauty of doing errands in such a nice city.
*the most exciting of those errands was buying my ticket to munich!!! june 1st will be very very sad, as it is the day i am leaving caen, but at least i can look forward to an awesome last week in europe.

-this evening sylvia showed me how to make some bavarian recipes including knoedel (bread dumplings), mushroom sauce, and a very yummy salad.

-i finally saw the artist. go see it. so, so, so good.

-and finally, i am now ending my day by chatting T about all the movies we are going to watch when i am home. i'm so high on this beautiful little thing called life.

liste des classes reçu!

I finally got my schedule for classes starting Monday. We students could choose between two disciplines: literature and human sciences or economy and politics. For a break from my normal life, I chose the latter! I would like to remind the council that I have no background in economy and have taken exactly two politics classes in my life. Let's hope I don't flunk out!

Classes I'm taking:
Histoire économique
Presse spécialisée
Etudes européennes
Littérature et société française
Français juridique II
Grammaire
Initiation à la synthèse et à la contraction de texte
Compréhension et expression orales
Géographie économique et sociale
Langue de l'économie et du commerce II

Get all that? So many cognates!

I'm going from 12 hours of work a week to 31. Not including prep time/homework time. I'm just saying, I might not be around for a while, cause I'll be all up in this building.

Wish me luck!

What I did yesterday

Booooks!!!!

SCORED:
-hard-bound complitation of photos of Caen taken thirty years ago
-anthology of poems from the Rochefort school (of which Rene Guy Cadou is a member - some of you may recall a very bad tattoo idea that had to do with a poem of his)
-anthology of popular French poems (which probably means they're not the best out there but good to know what the french are reading)
-anthology of prose poems
-compilation of hope poems. i should clarify here that while this may be a book of the "soup for the soul" variety, the poems are actually good, so i don't feel bad about it.

The good news is that the marche aux livres comes the first week of every month. The question is: how am I possibly going to get these books back with me?!

Among other things, I also had two coffees yesterday. I hate coffee in a big way, but I have been spending way too much money on hot chocolates and teas in these french cafes. So coffee it will be. Goodbye sugar crashes/hello caffeinated twitching and too much energy!!

Sadness

Lucille Clifton, you will be missed. You were truly an amazing voice in American poetry, and you have had a great influence on me. I will always be grateful I had the chance to see you read. Maybe in another life I'll get to ask you about that fox.

Tag, I'm It

This came from Rachel:

Rule One:I have to grab one of the books closest to me, go to page 56, type the fifth line and the next two to five lines that follow.

Rule Two:I have to pick five people who love books and who could receive the Bookworm award with honor.

It annoyed me to have to explain things to them. I ended up not saying anything and just smoked and watched the sea.

At about half past one Raymond came back with Masson. He had his arm bandaged up and some sticking-plaster on the corner of his mouth. The doctor had told him it was nothing, but Raymond looked very gloomy.

from The Outsider by Albert Camus

Tara, Andy, Emari, Chris Moore, and Mike, you've been tagged!

OK so you don't all have blogs to post it on, but you can use your facebooks if you want...

Best Week (end) Ever - Caen, a second time around

Did you have the best weekend ever? Because I pretty much did! Here are some excerpts from my journal:

From last night:

There are so many things I would like to write right now. I’ve just had the most awesome weekend. There was a party, there was shopping, there were books. I learned a lot. I read some really interesting things about the French. I just finished watching Les Poupées Russes. My love for Tapan grows more and more each day we are apart. And of course, I saw the September 11th exposition. It was not at all a weekend of sightseeing. It was not a weekend as a tourist. It was a weekend as someone who lives in France. And I really prefer it that way. Voila.

On meeting C’s parents:

I think my time with Yves and Wynne was probably the best part of the weekend. It was so lovely to meet them. And they have the house of my dreams. I mean, all the books they have. Excuse the expression, but I felt like a kid in a candy store. A bibliophile’s heaven. Books published before the United States was even a country. Beautiful bindings. The most awesome collection of Jules Verne I’ve ever seen. OK, the only collection of Jules Verne I’ve ever seen but all of the volumes were incredible. Many many books. Huge bookcases on all three levels of the house. Even bookcases in the bathroom. I’m pretty sure I know exactly what I want my house to look like when I have one. And C and her parents were so generous with letting me borrow anything I wanted. I have much reading to do.

On Friday night:

Honestly, Friday night was one of my worst and best nights so far in France. I mean, I had a great time at the party, and I wish I could have enjoyed it more. But I was super-allergic to C’s cats for some reason this particular night, and that prohibited me from enjoying myself as much as I could. Of course, the last time I was there I had my allergy medicine and didn’t need it. This time I forgot my allergy medicine and was desperate for it. But it was really a jolie soir. Many of the colleagues from Michelet were there. And Francois.

Here’s the thing. In America, with all of my English-speaking friends, I find it hard to shut up. I love to listen to people, but I have this (quite human) flaw where I’m constantly thinking of what to say next. And I wait for good segues so I can have the opportunity to add my opinions on the subject. It’s something that comes naturally, but which you can really only do when you’re fluent in the language being spoken.

In French, simply following a conversation between that many people is tiring for me, even without trying to think of something interesting to say. And so, naturally, sometimes I find it best just to relax and listen. And when listening gets to be too much, I watch people. Take in all their body language and begin to realize that spoken language is far inferior. And it was during one of those moments Friday night that I realized just how content I was. To be in this lovely candlelit room in Caen with such an array of intelligent, interesting people. To watch them talk to each other, and listen, and laugh. To eat and drink wine with them and really be involved in the moment. I felt truly happy.

And yet, I also felt incredibly sad. Because I’m recently in love and I don’t have the one person with me whom I want the most. Because Francois is talking about American politics and I can’t play. Because my nose won’t stop running and it’s sore from blowing it every minute. Because the day before was Thanksgiving and I’ve never missed my family so much.

On the September 11th memorial:

I knew I was going to see the exposition on September 11th, but I don’t think I realized just how much it would affect me. I’ll most likely write more about it later. But for right now, it deserves more reflection than what I’ve given the rest of this entry.

Upon arriving in Lisieux I was pretty tired. It had been a weekend full of exciting things, plus I had all those books to carry. Of course I knew how to get home, but it was dark and I really wasn’t up for the twenty-minute walk. So I sprung for a cab. And after the cab ride, I felt for the first time like I could speak to anyone in French. I was able not only to tell the driver where I was going, but I could also tell him exactly how to get there, with directions. I understood every word he said. To be fair, he didn’t say much, but I understood, like, all 25 words. And that’s a really good feeling for me. Maybe I haven’t done too much traveling here so far, but now I know that if I want to go somewhere, I don’t need a native speaker with me. I can do the basic stuff on my own. And that’s pretty cool.

Check me out

Translatin' poetry and everything. OK so for my first go I chose a very, and I stress the word very, simple poem - one that I didn't need to use a dictionary for. It was fun. I've since moved on to harder things. Maybe eventually I'll finish this one, but I'm halfway through right now and frankly a little bored. Anyone in the litt world know of kick-ass French cotemporary poets I could try my hand at translating? I just don't know where to begin.

Something I miss

Sing-Along with Dr. Horrible

Allow me to explain how incredibly awesome Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog is. Imagine that in the time it would take you to watch one episode of your favorite hour-long TV show (without commercials) you could watch a self-contained mini movie with singing, basic choreography, Neil Patrick Harris, Nathan Filion and an evil-ass horse, and it was all brought to you by super-genius Joss Whedon. OK, done imagining what an awesome and wonderful experience would be? Well rest assured that you can have all of these things. Right here, right now.

Seriously, I don't know why Hulu isn't more famous. You can watch lots of episodes of TV (House and Heroes for me) and some movies too, completely for free!

But back to Dr. Horrible. If you are still on this page, leave. Go watch it. And then come back because the following contains spoilers.

First, here are two reasons why I am in love with Neil Patrick Harris:

Laundry Day:



Brand New Day:


Of course one of the reasons that I love Joss Whedon is that his work always has a huge fan following. And lots of times, they have really smart things to say. There are some quite interesting discussions over at the Sing Along Blog Message Board. I think my favorite so far is the discussion of an alternate ending written by bellatrys over at LiveJournal. An ideal ending, but not one that Joss, or I, or any of the Whedonians I know actually, would ever support. Because ideal endings are not something that good art, or Joss Whedon, will ever give us.

What intrigued me most about this discussion, though, was not the talk about what should have happened to Penny or Doctor Horrible, but a small point that I almost passed over. User rudyhenkel said:

"Although I don't actually like the alternative proposed by the OP, why on earth should anyone *have* to accept the ending as is? If this was reality you'd be correct. Fortunately, this is fiction. So, while Sutures' alternative vision may lack the numbers, production value and artistry of the ending given to us, both endings are just as real. That is, not at all. People have to face and accept enough tragedy in real life. They shouldn't be forced to accept it in fiction as well, if they don't wish to."

I think that this is a valid argument for why fanfic exist, but I can't agree with what rudyhenkel says. When I find a writer as wonderful as Whedon, I get attached to the stories. His characters and plots are so well-crafted that to me, they are real. I relate to them as if they were my neighbors or enemies, and I am sad when their stories are over and I have to let go. Sure, fiction is fiction, but I think that the endings of really great fiction should absolutely, without a doubt, be regarded as truth.

What more can I say? Joss has delivered once again. I can't wait for the sequel!

smash's best week ever part one

Because Rachel is awesome and inspiring, i myself am starting a best week ever thread.

so last week was probably the most wonderful one i've had in quite a while. though it started out a little slow, by the end of the week i was happily surprised with the turnout.

so monday, tuesday and wednesday were average in terms of fun. monday i watched the most horrifying movie ever and it made me never want to have sex. ever.

tuesday and wednesday i got to hang out with my favorites, sharon and chris.

but the week really picked up on thursday, when i got to see Salman Rushdie deliver a powerful, inspiring reading at the philly free library.


there was a decent turonout for the man, but not as many fans as i would have expected were there. usually when the reader is popular, they sell tickets for the auditorium and they simulcast in the lobby, but he didn't sell enough tickets for all that, only enough for the auditorium. this is not to say that he wasn't hugely appreciated. he came out to a round of applause that was genuine, and long enough that he had to tell us to stop.

he began with a reading from his new book, The Enchantress of Florence, and i simply loved the section he chose. the title character was witty and endearing, and i was in love with her almost immediately. the excerpt had many of my favorite things: love, tattoos, toilet humor, a garden, and Dracula.

that's right. i did say Dracula. i knew from some of the elements in the reading (Wallachia, Janissaries) that his story probably took place during the time that Vlad Tepes III was in power, and i wondered if Rushdie would tie him into the novel somehow. and he did. in fact, one of my favorite parts of the night was during question and answer section, when someone asked what it was like to research history for this book. Rushdie responded that he knew a lot about the time, but that he still had to research the characters, who actually lived. he then quite excitedly added that when he realized that he was writing in the same period that Dracula lived, he was ecstatic that he could include him in his book. and that, my friends, is one of the many reasons that i love rushdie.

during question and answer segement, i was quite pleased with his responses. they were all humorous, especially his tale about writing a song for U2.

humor aside, i think my favorite part of the night was when Rushdie warned us to not forget that stories are fictitious. he reminded us that there are no such things as flying carpets and genies that grant wishes, and that we too often as readers forget this. he told us something that i never knew, and that i will try to remind myself as often as possible - that the introduction we use to fairy tales, "Once upon a time, in a land far far away," is a rough translation of the sanscrit, "It was so, it was not so, in a time long forgotten." much more fitting, if you ask me.

oh, and another highlight of the night? when i found out that Rushdie was a mud angel after the 1966 flood of the River Arno in Florence. since one of my favorite books ever is The Sixteen Pleasures, this tidbit made me a little melty inside.

for more of the best moments of the night , hop over to lines that rock.

promise

i finished Ondaatje's newest book almost a week ago, and i promise i will put up the most awesome quotations from it as soon as i get home today. look for them on "lines that rock."

because everyone's a little emo sometimes

i opened at Talk of the Walk in the aeropeurto on saturday morning. for anyone who didn't hear me complaining about it already, that means my shift started at 5 am. Not fun. no one even entered the store until 6, and even after that only one person would amble in every half hour, casually browse some overpriced merch, and then leave, sometimes without a salutation.

so i'm sitting in the chair reading Divisadero when an older man comes into the store. i say hello, half-expecting him to ignore me, but he asks me what i'm reading.

diversion: in my personal experience, i have found that there are two types of old men that will talk to a young woman:

1. the loathsome i-know-i'm-older-but-would-you-please-entertain-my-fantasies-and-not-smack-me-when-i-make-a-comment-about-your-breasts-or-ass

2. the grandfather.

(of course, another type of old man is the agist grump, but he doesn't make the list because he won't likely talk to a young woman in the first place.)

digressions aside, the man who asked me what i was reading was definitely the grandfather type. i told him what i was reading, which led us into a discussion about college, which inevitably led the conversation to my future. i told him about France and he was genuinely impressed (which is nice because my maternal grandfather is not the grandfatherly type of old man but the agist grump, and therefore not interested in talking, or congratulating me, about France).

this old man was so nice that when he felt it was time to leave the store, i shook his hand and told him it was my pleasure to meet him. and just so you know, that is a big deal. i work in an airport. i don't shake many hands.

after a few more minutes of reading Ondaatje, the old man re-entered the store to buy gum. when i stood to ring his sale, i noticed that he noticed my shape. it wasn't a creepy ogling, though. more of an acknowledgement of a pretty girl lifting her curves from the chair she was sitting in.

he said, "so you're gonna break your boyfriend's heart when you go to France, aren't you."

i was so flattered i could have cried. instead, i said, "oh, sir. i wish i could say i had someone's heart to break." when he didn't seem to believe i was single, i added, "it seems no one wants to date someone who is leaving in five months."

and here is where i get emo.

i've entered this new phase in my life where i say what i want to say. i've held feelings inside most of my life, and just a few months ago, i decided i wouldn't do that anymore. since then, i've told a few people exactly how i feel about them, and it hasn't changed a damn thing. there is still clearly something about me that halts the men in my life from coming after me, even when i make it clear how i feel. is it France? is it weight? is it intelligence?

i don't know. what i do know is that i have rolled my heart out red-carpet style before the men in my life, and they have all remained indifferent. sometimes i wish that someone would trample it, tell me why i'm not worth love. at least there would be action involved in that.

because everytime someone ignores what i've said, it gets harder to say it next time. and i know that eventually i'm going to shut down.

end emo rant.

It's not that I want to have babies

necessarily, but if I were going to have babies, I would want all 86 of them to be from this man:
Then perhaps my babies would be genui like him. And if I am going to have his babies, tonight is my opportunity, because he's reading at the Free Library in Philly. And I am unbelievably stoked because Ondaatje is the author of one of my favorite novels ever, In the Skin of a Lion. Oh please, that doll scene? Heaven. First Lucille, now Ondaatje. France accepted me. Can things get any better?

Dear Lucille Clifton,

Thank you so much for not disappointing. Last night was the first time I saw you in person, and you were incredible. Of course your soft-spoken poetry was fantastic, especially the new ones you wrote about Aunt Jamima and Cream of Wheat.

And when you read "Fury", after you told the story of your mother, it was so beautiful and sad that I cried real tears on my cheeks and hoped Sharon and Chris wouldn't see.

But perhaps more wonderful than your reading was the question and answer section. Because most of the questions were not questions but praise or reminders of familiarity. Like, "Lucille, I wanted to thank you for reading. I didn't know who you were before tonight but my girlfriend made me come and... and...I love you."

Then there was the man a few seats to my left who was more eager to be called on than anyone:

Man: Lucille?
You: Yes.
Man: I baby sat your kids. All six of them. My wife and I (motions to his wife).
You (after a few beats): Beth? Steve- no not Steve. What is your name? I'm so sorry.
Man: Roger.
You: Oh my! Did you know that (insert oldest's name here) is forty-seven years old? And (two more children) have passed.
Man: I know. We were sorry to hear that.
You: How's your brother? (To audience) Oh, excuse us.

I wanted to ask you about the fox that appears in so many of your poems. You write so beautifully of her, and I wanted to know what her inspiration is, and what she means to you, but I didn't have the guts to raise my hand.

Oh, I thought about asking you at the book signing table, but I thought I would rather use my time to have you sign my favorite poem "Song at Midnight" instead. Remember when I told you that that poem speaks to me, and you gave me some very wise words about men? Well, you were so soft-spoken that I didn't hear everything you said, and I figured the fox answer would be lost the same way if I asked it.

I'm sad that I didn't hear all of your advice about men, but if I'd asked you about the foxes and missed your answer, well I don't know if I could handle that.

I hope she reads this one

Song at Midnight
by Lucille Clifton

…do not send me out
among strangers
Sonia Sanchez

brothers,
this big woman
carries much sweetness
in the folds of her flesh.
her hair
is white with wonderful.
she is
rounder than the moon
and far more faithful.
brothers,
who will hold her,
who will find her beautiful
if you do not?

Tonight

I'm going to see Lucille Clifton give a reading in Philly, and I absolutely cannot wait! When I first looked at today's date I was disappointed for two reasons:

1. May 1st means National Poetry Month is no more. I rocked it, though. Thirty poems in my file for the month. Some complete, some completely lacking and undone. I only cheated three times - one haiku, one found poem from Michel Faber's The Courage Consort (how could I not? all the lines were amazing), and one revision from last May. I don't know how I'm going to not write a poem every day.

2. May 1st means today is the anniversary of my brother's death. Which means that my parents are, probably as I write this, visiting his grave. Which also means that, although I wasn't yet a fetus when he died, I still feel mildly guilty for being excited about

a. Lucille Clifton tonight and

b. setting up an appointment to have Mike E Cheese finish my tattoo!

I also cannot wait to see Rachel and Donna tomorrow! It has been far too long and that makes me sad. I know they are small fluctuations but I hope these happy-disappointed-excited-sad mood swings subsist soon. If this turns into all of May, that will not be fun.

A corpse revisited

Here is what my revision looks like. Hoo-rah day 4 NaPoMo.

The poet who kills the poem

stalks it first – hunches down into the drafts
on his desk like a feral cat in grass – waits
with pen in hand to pounce on the assembly
of lines that keep failing to be what he wants.
Then all at once he assails, immerses those frightened
stanzas into the nearby sink, and before they have
the chance to fully drown, he tears them
apart line by line and releases them from his
window. They flutter slowly down the side
of his building and land among other discarded
dreams in a gutter.

An exquisite corpse

is what the Wednesday night workshoppers quickly realized we'd be doing when the only person who had something to workshop was me. (BOOYAH!)

And my corpse turned out like this:

The poet who killed the poem

stalked it first – waited in the bushes
like a feral cat – hungry, cold, waited
until it crossed the line of sight, on instinct
falling amongst dreams into the gutter
like the fat from a George Foreman grill, it congeals into a dirty white pool
and like some distorted phoenix it rises from the puddle
before it had the chance to fully drown.

Thanks Andy Chris Sharon Tim Emari and Mike - I'm sure this one is gonna get me the book deal!