The Elephant

Days and days and months pass and still no sign of writing on this blog. To be honest, I've switched platforms. I created an account on the French website www.3pages.fr and I try to write there semi-regularly. It's not for anyone to read - more like the 21st century version of a diary - but it keeps me writing. And, maybe, hopefully, something more tangible and public will come out of those private scribbles at some point, when I'm good and ready. Because, right now, anything worth writing for me is private and needs to remain private, to a certain extent.

These past few months have been challenging and will continue to be, as my mom is undergoing cancer treatment. She's okay - the tumor was removed surgically and, as far as anyone can see, the cancer's gone. But, of course, chemotherapy is still required and that, in itself, is a painful process. It's all about taking it day by day, one step at a time, as the doctors say. We'll follow their prescription.
 I've hesitated long and hard about writing here. I hope my mother, who's my number one blog reader, won't be offended or think that I'm disclosing too much information.

That's the catch when you end up talking about yourself and your life on a blog. It's all well and good when things are going relatively ok. But, when, as the expression goes, "life throws you a curveball", you have to make a decision: to write about the said curveball or not to write about it all. You could throw up your emotional guts for the world to read (you won't be the first one) or you could refrain and keep to yourself.

My problem is that I can't seem to move on and write another post on here until I've named the elephant in the room and waved it hello. I wish I could compartmentalize things in a more efficient way: family health concerns in one little box, safe writing topics in another completely unrelated little box, work issues in yet another place, etc. But my mind doesn't function that way. It's all a big tangled net. And the act of writing untangles some of the knots, releases some of the material and helps to expand the net's workable surface.

Let's face it: this elephant is on my mind, and it's hard to ignore it. But I won't dwell on it here either. I've said what was going on, it's there for all to read and I no longer have the lingering feeling of lying through omission. So now I can move on and pursue the conversation on a wide range of topics.
 

La danse et le piano

 

Il y a des fois où la vie joue de sales tours. Elle chamboule tout: place au branle-bas de combat et tout le tintouin de soucis qui va avec.

Dans ces cas-là, quand tout ne va pas comme il faudrait, je sais, désormais, que je peux compter sur...  la danse et le piano. La danse, le mardi et le piano, le vendredi, c'est bien réparti. 

L'apaisement grâce à la pratique physique, intransigeante, instinctive. L'attention qu'il faut accorder à la technique, lâcher prise face aux ennuis. Ce qui importe en cours de danse et de piano, ce n'est rien d'autre que la respiration, les corps, les mains et la musique. 

Les profs m'accompagnent, animés de la passion de la transmission. Ils sourient, conseillent, encouragent. Je les connais peu, mais nous sommes unis par le thème qui nous amène. 

Pour ces moments de plaisir, figés dans l'instant régi par l'art, je leur rends leurs sourires. Pour ces minutes attrapées, dédiées à la recherche de la justesse, je les remercie.  Et le cœur plus léger, le pas plus élancé, des idées plein la tête, je repars, pour mieux revenir.  

January isn't over yet, so... a belated post about resolutions

There's a blogpost about New Year's resolutions that I started writing at the beginning of January with the intention of posting it for all to see. And then, it landed in the "unfinished" folder.

 Resolutions can be hot air intentions. When January 1rst comes around, I think: "why, yes! Of course! I must write the masterpiece of my life this year!". It then dawns on me that such a project would require tremendous work, great emotional availability, iron discipline and probably last more than a year. So I scale down to "maybe if I wrote posts on my blog more often, that would be a good start..." or "maybe if I wrote every day for an hour, that would be the starting point for writing projects to develop". These thoughts sound more reasonable and may happen. Hopefully.

Although they're fickle, resolutions still have a special place in my heart. They make me pause and think about what I need to do to feel more in tune with who I am on a daily basis. Resolutions help me dream about projects and think about what it takes to accomplish those dreams. I wouldn't like resolutions if none of them came to fruition, if they were all full of hot air and nothing else. Fortunately, there are some wishful thoughts that amount to concrete results when they're taken seriously. From being ideas, they become actions. 

Two very classic resolutions have nagged at me this year: weight loss and exercise.  At first, I thought that they were of the "hot-air" type and that I would soon forget about them, go back to my old habits and not worry too much until next year (or this summer). But fortunately, I have been listening to myself. And I'm starting to change little things, really small things, that could lead me in the right direction. I try to be a bit more aware of what I eat and when, I drink more water and I will start going to a dance class next week. That's it. That's all I can do right now, and I don't intend on doing a smoothie detox or running every day. But eating more thoughtfully and dancing, that I can do.

I've also been realizing that I have possibly benefited from other people's resolutions. In early January, a friend called and asked if we were  available to go for a walk in the woods. Before calling us, this friend may have been thinking about the New Year and what it implied. She perhaps formulated a few thoughts like: "this year, I want to see friends more often" and "this year, I want to go for walks in nature". This may have led her to pick up her phone, which in turn led us to leave our cosy appartments and have a great time. We came across a lake and saw flocks of geese, ducks, water hens and even a heron and a cormorant!

I like seeing wishes becoming intentional acts. So here's to a New Year filled with great intentional actions!

... and, more blogposts.

Cheers!

The Kid's Menu

 

      I was recently walking down a Paris street at a brisk pace and happened to glance at a sign etched on a restaurant window: Menu Enfant, - 12 ans, 8 euros 50. This was no extraordinary sight, but it brought me back to a decisive moment in my childhood: the day I stopped choosing from the kids menu to delve into the uncertain world of à la carte options.

      We were at a big family dinner in a restaurant on the East Coast. I want to say it was a steak house in the DC suburbs, but those are purely speculative details. I was between 10 and 12 years old, still allowed to order a children's meal but verging on independence and free choice. We had been seated, icy water had been poured in our red plastic glasses and we were all armed with the literature we needed to make informed decisions. The conversation about what to eat had begun among the adults. My uncle was recommending a dish he had previously tasted while my aunt warned the other guests on the generous sizes of portions in this particular establishment. My mother was voicing her hesitation between two appetizing alternatives. I felt close to each family member as they gave their opinion and disclosed what would please them to eat that day.
      I turned to the kids menu. It stared back at me, inevitably proving to be what it had always been : mind-numbingly boring. What, exactly, was listed in that miserable corner of the oversized menu, I can't recall. It might have been a plain hamburger with no fancy toppings or, worst, the monochrome chicken-tenders-and-fries. Since we were in the 1990s, I doubt that a vegetarian option was listed;  if there was one, I'd bank on either mac n cheese or a grilled cheese sandwich.

      Besides, the finality of the kids menu was an insult to my creativity. I wanted to engage in that colorful discussion around food and moods, combining the right cuisine with my current emotional state. Was I feeling adventurous or needing reassurance? Would I venture towards the uncharted territory of baked clams or the satisfying earthiness of steak and a baked potato? I wanted a chance to know what it felt like to have a "memorable meal", and picking from the kid's section wasn't going to cut it.
      When I voiced my wish to dive in the deep end, my mother fully supported my decision and suggested items I would enjoy. At that moment, I was overwhelmed with the satisfaction that came with opportunity: I could, if I so desired, taste the house crab-cakes instead of the chicken! I looked back at my menu, this time with great curiosity, ready to embrace the diversity of what was offered.

      That's when I noticed something, which I had largely managed to ignore until then: distracting numeric symbols following each dish name. I tried avoiding looking at them and focused instead on the delicious sounding words like "pie à la mode", "sirloin steak" or "blackened cod". But, eventually, the numbers caught up with me and I could no longer fool myself. Granted, I wasn't the one footing the bill, but there was a significant difference between a 10$ all-inclusive deal and a 20$ entrée. Could I decently justify costing so much more to the table? I was just a lanky kid compared to the robust family members surrounding me, and even compared to my sister, who was 3 years older and already a teenager. Was I being a spoiled brat, going beyond my condition and demanding fancier food? No one at the table seemed to think so. And,  if I had voiced such a concern, I would have been greeted with words of encouragement to "try anything you like" or "whatever you want on the menu is fine". But I remained silent, quietly determining which plate had the best value, aside from the dreaded kid's section.
     I've been compensating like that ever since, dinner after dinner, searching for the perfect balance between quality and thrift. I decode the labels, I see which ingredient has been chosen, I decide which dish really is the tastiest and which one is mainly for show. Thanks to this tried and true method,  I've been complimented many times on my savvy choices.

       But maybe, just once, I could throw all caution to the wind and decide to eat what I truly, really want at that time, in that place. And on that day, a little girl who looks very familiar would be sitting right next to me, eyes narrowed.  She'd study the menu purposefully and then she'd look up and ask: "are you sure we can?" And I'd say: "don't worry, just this time, we're going for it".  She'd smile and I'd hear her belly gently rumble in anticipation. 

A week-end in Paris

Every once in a while, I feel overtaken by a stronger emotion, one that decides to leave the warm confines of my dormant subconscious and tickle the surface of my psyche. This happened recently.  I felt a rush of sentimentality and tenderness mixed with a lucid flash of understanding:  "this might be what it's all about".

I didn't think that my great aunt's visit would trigger such feelings, but it did, as I watched her rediscover Paris at 85 years old. She had left her cozy Breton town, Douarnenez, to meet us in the hustle and bustle of the capital for a long week-end to celebrate my sister's thirtieth birthday.

I've visited my great aunt regularly over the last few years, so I know that she still has a lot of stamina and physical endurance. Yet she herself wasn't fully confident that she could keep up the rhythm for a week-end away. She finally decided to try it and see what would happen. I'm so glad she did. Seeing her in Paris going about her days with such grace and poise was dazzling. Spending time with her was a revitalizing break, an opportunity to see the every-day in a renewed light.

On the evening of her first day,  she got caught in a big traffic jam with my mom and had to sit in the car for two hours. But it didn't make much of a dent on her enthusiasm. Listening to her talk about Paris, it seemed like dense traffic and crowds had graduated from being annoying nuisances to convenient conversation topics, just like the weather is in Brittany. These were parts of the Paris reality and there was no need to fight them - simply acknowledge them, avoid them whenever possible and carry on. 

I had been used to fretting over older family members and worrying about their well-being. As much as my great aunt appreciated our thoughtfulness, she didn't need us to make huge efforts. If she felt like she couldn't walk up a hill, she said it and we found a way around the hill. But there was no complaining, which was very refreshing and encouraged us to simply enjoy the ride with her. She accepted her vulnerability, she fully acknowledged her age and her constraints but used none of those things as excuses.

What was most enchanting was that she didn't hide her joy of being there. Through her smile and some of her expressions, we knew she was having a great time. It's amazing how good that feels: seeing someone else being happy. How does that even work?  We often heard her say things like "c'est vraiment formidable", or "c'est magnifique", as we dined on a river boat and admired the lit monuments from the Seine.

I feel very fortunate to have walked the streets of Montmartre with one arm hooked to hers. It gave me a chance to vividly perceive the incline of those streets, to walk at a different pace and to savor the moment in a novel way. I was genuinely excited for her grandkids when she bought two Eiffel Tower key chains and some Eiffel tower shaped candy. I was very touched when she bought two boxes of chocolates at the airport and handed me one with a big smile, saying it was for me to share with my boyfriend.

The stronger feeling I mentioned earlier took a hold of me when I saw her walk towards the security gate at the airport. She had her back at me; her trendy bag was hanging from her shoulder and she was pulling her small suitcase with one hand while holding her ticket and ID in the other. She looked small but a lot younger than her age, perhaps because she hadn't lost her confident gait. Every part of her - the way she walked, the way she looked at people around her - seemed to say that it was time to go after a good time spent.

She arrived at the security check point, smiled at the guard and showed him her card identifying her as carrying a pacemaker. For some reason, they opened her suitcase. She cooperated, they made her pass through the door next to the metal detector. Like everyone else, she was patted down by a female officer. She gathered her bags, went towards her terminal and was out of sight.

 I stood there, taking in the reality of the moment, letting the emotion build up because it seemed wrong to suppress it. And then I made my way back to the heart of the city.

My Thoughts on the Show "Girls"

I have been watching episodes of Girls, a series airing on HBO about 20-something girls in New York. It's edgy and raw, but the second season has been annoying me a bit - actually, a lot. In the first season, it was easy to think that all these sweet, privileged, middle-class white kids were a little lost and needed some time to adjust both to New York and to adult life. But, at this point, it simply appears that they're self-involved, whiny and tediously self-destructive.
Anything good happens to them? They discount the experience as trivial.
Screwed up people enter their lives? They welcome them with open arms.

The main character, Hannah, is a would-be writer. You'd think that she'd be able to reflect on her life through her writing, and yet, she demonstrates very little self-awareness. The world devours her without her taking any responsibility, having any control or the least bit of clairvoyance.  What makes it irritating is that, I, as the viewer, am convinced that she could be happy, that she could succeed, if she stopped being so annoyingly self-conscious for one second. Because, really, Hannah is not a victim. She could stop the bullshit in her life, if she chose to (but then, there would be no show).

I do wonder, as a 20-something myself... are these people supposed to be my peers? I'll fully admit that I'm privileged and that there are many things that I take for granted. But watching these people abandon themselves in deceit is disturbing. Does the show imply that all these characters will "turn out okay" by the time they're 30? Strangely, I don't think that being a dramatic egotist in your 20s bodes well for the rest of your life. We've got to stop collectively treating this decade as a giant self-destructive/ let-me-be-an-asshole time frame where people can feel legitimate in being selfish. Although I fully support experimentation and making mistakes, it seems like these characters believe it's their duty to do all these screwed-up actions, just to feel like they're living an alternative lifestyle. But there's nothing revolutionary about snorting cocaine or having sex with a bunch of men, for that matter. And is it really necessary to do these things to feel like you have valuable life experience?

Maybe I'm getting older and - I don't know... more sour? bitter? Not "hip" anymore? But I don't have a lot of patience for those girls' antics, not because of my moral beliefs over something specific (the casual sex, for instance, doesn't offend me) but because of the utter lack of generosity between the characters. Ok, so you're "learning how to live" and that's fine. But where's your sense of solidarity? You're all in this together and you're all hurting. It might be beneficial - just throwing an idea out there - for all of you to help each other out! 
I'm aware that I'm yelling at characters from a sitcom. And this sitcom is possibly trying to say something more profound by depicting the behavior of these said characters. But I'm still at the annoyed stage, where I throw my pillow at the screen and I yell profanities because most of these kids on that show are being so silly and stupid, and it hurts to watch.

So Girls is getting a reaction from me. I'm the show's target audience and I'm hooked. But I'm also really frustrated. I don't like seeing my generation portrayed that way, but I know that some of it is true. But I also know that there are so many people my age doing very interesting, truly innovative, fulfilling things. They're often insecure, uncertain, they make mistakes but they're trying to go beyond the cliché and lay the foundation for their lives.
Maybe these girls (and guys) are, too. I'll have to keep on watching, finish season 2 and tell you what I think about season 3...

Writing more and being less complacent

I need to start writing again. I've felt the urge for a while, but, of course, I've been fighting it. Why do we (read - I) tend to fight off things that are good for us?

It's been a summer full of changes and heavy lifting. The beginning of the school year bodes well, with exciting prospects and renewed energy. Just as long as I keep my anxiety levels in check... just as long as I act on the things I wish to do... which brings me back to writing.

It calms me down. It gets me to think without stressing out. It makes me feel like time has a consistency. When I write, I never feel like I'm wasting my time.

At this point, it may not even be about writing anything relevant. It may simply be about renewing with the practice. After all, I can't expect to write astonishingly well when I've been  neglecting the art.

I went rollerblading a few days ago, and I was surprised by two things: I was happy to find that I still knew how to roll, but I had lost my elegant stride and I didn't know how to stop neatly at crosswalks anymore. It had been 10 years since I hadn't rollerbladed - loss of elegance and clumsiness to be expected.

I'll take it one step at a time. I'll try to re-engage with my creative side. I need to do it now - before I forget that I even ever had the desire to create things. Before I let myself be convinced by society at large that working to make a living is really only what matters. Before life gets away from me and becomes something I don't recognize as my own.

These aren't very cheery thoughts, and I'm not even saying that I'm close to forgetting who I am. But there is always the risk of complacency:  feeling a bit too comfortable in a life where creative expectations are low. That's one of the challenges when you end up working in a different field - time and energy are split, so there's more to balance.

I've recently started sharing ideas for theatre projects with a friend and colleague. It's such a pleasure to jam on projects and create proposals. It's also nice to work with someone else instead of being alone thinking about an idea. It doesn't harm that we both enjoy each other's company.

In order to collaborate well together, we needed time to know each other. I needed to get settled and figure myself out in Paris. So there is something to be said about taking one's time, too. But there's a difference between taking one's time and stopping altogether to think creatively. Although, sometimes, those two things look very much the same.  So I'll watch out, I'll be vigilent. And if I stray, I hope that there will be some people out there to keep me on the right track by suggesting new ideas and collaborations.

Life is a gift

If our lives are gifts to begin with, however, in some sense they are not "ours" even when we become adults. Or perhaps they are, but only until such time as we find a way to bestow them. The belief that life is a gift carries with it the corollary feeling that the gift should not be hoarded. As we mature, and particularly as we come into the isolation of being "on our own", we begin to feel the desire to give ourselves away - in love, in marriage, to our work, to the gods, to politics, to our children. And adolescence is marked by that restless, erotic, disturbing inquisition: Is this person, this nation, this work, worthy of the life I have to give?

 Lewis Hyde, The Gift: Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World, p.126

Every time I open Lewis Hyde's book and read a few pages, a few chapters, I let out a sigh of relief. He gets it. He articulates what so many of us feel: that life is a gift. He explains what a gift is: something that grows by the mere act of being shared. He reminds us that  the gift transaction is different from the market exchange, and that both ways of interacting are just as real and just as worthy.

 But, given the state of our society and the values that shape it, we as artists and inventors and researchers and lovers... we don't always find our place in this world, because the very idea of the Gift is neglected, cast to the periphery. And with it, a whole array of artwork, ideas, theories and feelings are left aside and dubbed "unnecessary" because they don't appear profitable in the merchant's sense. 

So we need to be reminded of our own power and ability to give. Not out of charity, not out of duty - those aren't postures that are conducive to giving; those are obligations laced with guilt, to justify the fact that we take so much from the world and from others, and to aleviate the discomfort that comes with such a realization. 

No - the gift is not calculated in any way, although it can be conscious. It's a smile. It's the expression of a feeling, it's a form of letting go. We have no idea what a smile does to the person who witnesses it, who receives it. And yet, we know that it has its own kind of power, that it is evocative and that the simple act of smiling might set something in motion. 

Because life is finite and uncertain, we may sometimes feel the need to cling to the life we have. But there's also what Hyde talks about: " the [...] feeling that the gift should not be hoarded". By letting go, by sharing our talents and our humanity with the rest of the world, we are enriched. In that typical gift-giving way, our life doesn't loose its value because it is spent. Rather, it augments in values, in strenght and in scope. 

I feel like my "life is a gift and that the gift shouldn't be hoarded". I'm convinced of the truth of those statements. But I'm also petrified of doing the wrong thing, of opening myself up to the wrong people, of loosing myself, of being vulnerable. I also listen too much to the murmur of the world and the media - what we should be doing, who's in, who's out. I'm influenced by that discourse, and it stabs at the gift; it belittles it, it casts it aside, away from the heart of who I am and how I want to act. 

I need to be reminded that rekindling the gift is not selfish and that sharing moments of happiness and joy with others is not a waste of time. I need to apply myself to my art in the same way - or more - than I apply myself to the work that makes me earn money. My art is a gift of expression that will benefit no one if it is unfinished and neglected. It needs to be let out, and who knows what it will do, who it will touch. I want to become an adult, if being an adult means being liberated enough to give away parts of ourselves because we know it's the only thing really worth doing.

Writing a play

It's been a while...

I'm working on a play. The project is at a point where I can acknowledge publicly that I'm working on it. It's still incredibly fragile, tiny, not nearly fully-fledged... it's nothing. I've "worked on plays" before, and... they haven't always worked out. But this project is a bit more than an idea. It's starting to be an actual outline. I'm being good, and I'm concentrating on structure.
I'm trying to ask - and answer - the following questions systematically, for each scene :

Where?
With whom?
What happens?
What do we learn about the characters?
How does this advance the plot?

These, to me, are tedious questions. Because I'd always rather write dialogue. If I have a vague idea of characters, I can make them talk to each other for hours. But does this advance the plot? Non, Madame. Pas du tout.
So, for the time being, I'm refraining from making my characters talk. But I'm talking to myself A LOT. If someone ever finds my recorder - say it falls in the street - he/she will think I'm incredibly self-involved or will understand that I'm the type of writer who can't help thinking out loud before writing. That person will also hear many singing/guitar recording sessions. But that's another story.

I'm embracing this "I talk into a recorder in order to write more effectively" side of me now. There are times when I don't even try to type something when I feel like I'm going to block. Instead, I press the "record" button and I talk. I then type out what I've said, then I highlight, and then, eventually, I write dialogue. It's strange, because this method has helped me to tap into deeper emotions. That's when I know I'm a theatre gal at heart - the spoken word just seems to resonate in a special way.

Lajos Egri wrote a playwriting handbook called The Art of Dramatic Writing. I've had the book for nearly ten years, and I had started reading it way back when. At first, I rejected everything about it. I disagreed with everything. It seemed so outdated, such a traditional approach. Egri uses words like "premise" and "conflict" and "pivotal characters". At that time, I was starting to read Beckett, and other very modern plays. Those playwrights had all walked away from realist conventions. Many artists didn't even believe that conflict was necessary to write a good play anymore.

I've come back to Egri ; out of curiosity, at first. Then, I started consulting the handbook because I realized that I needed to learn how to write a play, and that's what Egri helps you to do.
I hope that I'll walk away from tradition at some point, that I'll find new dramatic forms... but first, I need to write at least one gosh-darn, full-lenght, play! I need to learn how to make characters live in a theatrical world. They need to be tri-dimensional, and they need to pursue their own personal goals and step on each other's toes in the process.

It sounds obvious, but in order to think clearly about the overall structure of the play, I need to take a step back, and sit with the audience, look at the stage, and ask the simplest of questions : "what do I see ?" and "what next?".

Little by little, I'm shedding the excuses and putting in the work. We'll see if it pays off this time.
Any ideas, tips, strategies on writing are welcome ; feel free to leave a comment, or send me a message. Does structure come easy for other playwrights and writers?

Poor Robert

This is a monologue I wrote a while back. I had completely forgotten about it, but I enjoyed re-reading it! It reminded me of a couple of things: how bad I am at finishing projects, and how the play Six Characters in search of an author is a direct inspiration for this piece.  

Robert :

            It just occurred to me that I could start talking. Even if I didn't have much to say, maybe I could come up with something. A lot of people seem to do that. But the thing is, I’m a character. I’m supposed to know what I’m saying. Or, at least, my assigned playwright is supposed to know. Ha! Well. Let me just tell you something about her: she has no idea what she’s doing. No idea whatsoever. She quite often leaves me speechless for days, weeks, months! When she does let me speak, she doesn't grace me with much depth of personality. When I try to argue – and it’s not so easy for me to do, since I only have a limited vocabulary of my very own – she says something about “the capriciousness of inspiration”. She says that it’s not her fault, that she didn't have a lot of time lately, very busy, etc, etc. My translation: she’s just plain lazy.

            So, today, I said, that’s it. I’m fed up being dissatisfied as a character. I decided to fight for my rights, and to be granted the honor of characterization. My playwright couldn't believe it when she started manically writing without even having to think. But don’t believe for even one instant that this is anything of your doing, pretty girl! No, no, no. It’s all me. I’m using you, to my advantage. I’m forcing you to tell my story. And, be warned: I will never listen when you will tell me – and I know you will – that it has all been written before. I know it has, but what can you do? We still should be able to express ourselves, however clumsily it may be. And we perhaps always do end up saying the same things, over and over again, because we are ultimately all the same. Perhaps. But how is it fair that the ancient Greeks got to say whatever they wanted because it had never been said before, whereas we twenty-first century people have to take into consideration the past thousand and thousand years of civilization?

            But wait a minute… I could… be an ancient Greek character! And I could start at the beginning. That is a very seductive idea. Very seductive indeed. Now, the question is, where to begin? Am I a character who witnessed the construction of Athens, or Sparta? Am I a friend of Homer? His accompanist as he sings the tales of the Odyssey and the Iliad?

 (pause)

            The problem being that I have no idea what I’m talking about. Do you have any idea, Miss Playwright? Of course she doesn't  I’m afraid that if I ask her to do some extensive research on Ancient Greece, I will never in a thousand moons become a real, fleshy character. Since I have to work with what I have – that is, a pretty flimsy writer – I’ll stick with being a twenty-first century character.

            Now that we have established that, I must embark on the gender issue. Ah, gender! Is it really that important? I could be a roaming spirit with no particular sex affiliation, now could I? Or just avoid choosing by being a hermaphrodite. Yes, but I have a feeling that wouldn't simplify things at all. I better decide now. I’ll just be a man. A talkative man named… Robert. Or a gossipy woman named Martha? No, no. Definitely not Martha. Madeline, maybe, but not Martha. Madeline?! What the hell am I thinking? I’m Robert. That’s it. I feel and talk like a Robert. Who wouldn't think of me that way? I perspire Robertness, I sweat Robertness!

- Hi, I’m Robert. Nice to meet you.

- Nice to meet you too, Robert! So, tell me a little bit about yourself…

Damn it. I don’t know anything about myself! My name’s Robert, isn’t that enough for you? You need more information? What, are you the FBI or something? Wait. My Playwright is saying that I’m starting to sound like Woody Allen, and that’s not good. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against Woody Allen, but he’s definitely not me. And I need to construct myself, not use shortcuts provided by previous characters. Thanks, P., I appreciate it. My name is Robert, and I’m not Woody Allen. We've established that much. Good. We’re on the right track! Just keep on going. Don’t stop! No, P., don’t even dare think to let your grip off that pen. Don’t even entertain the  idea! 

Damn it. She stopped writing again. P! P! P! I need you! I need you to write me!

Writing from the past

One of the fun side effects of living at home is that I find lots of old treasures in my room. Many of those treasures are pieces of writing from a long time ago. I've already re-read my junio-high and high school journals a few times, and I am always entertained when I read them. Having a glimpse of my mentality of the time is funny and strange. I feel close to the girl in the journal, but I don't always feel like she's me. She probably isn't anymore! 

I've recently stumbled on more recent writing, from 3 or 4 years ago, when I was living in Paris for my masters. It wasn't a very easy time. Actually, it sucked a lot. I had periods of deep procrastination when trying to write my dissertation ; my self-esteem was in the pits... But reading the prose that accompanies that period is very revealing. The writing is raw and articulate. I was figuring things out while also being in pain. At the time, I remember thinking that I was writing uttter crap, like everything else. But it may be my best writing yet. I'm not going to share it on here, because it's just a bit too personal to be public, but I hope that I'll be able to use some of those passages in fiction, to tap into a character's struggle in making decisions and carrying on living. 

These days, there are highs and lows in my everyday life, but I feel mentally and spiritually stable. Sure, I don't have steady employment right now, but give me time, and I'll sort myself out. I'm very thankful that I feel calm and a lot more self-assured than before. Paris feels like a whole new city, this time around. Yes, it can still be a little closed off, but it's also beautiful and I'm willing to live here and give it a fair shot. 

I'm well aware that I gained confidence living in the States and being surrounded by people who challenged me and believed in my creative voice. The support I got in the States has allowed me to come back to France renewed, and feeling less French than before. That's actually the best thing that could have happened to me. Because, by not feeling completely French, I have the distance I need to navigate the culture: I'm not oppressed by it, therefore I can observe it with curiosity and delight. There's something liberating about that. 

Le vrac

De nouveau à la case départ. Après une série éprouvante d'entretiens avec un théâtre parisien pour un boulot/formation d'intervenante en milieu scolaire, je décide de ne pas poursuivre cette piste. Ils ont eu l'élégance de me laisser réfléchir, et de me laisser décider si ce travail était vraiment fait pour moi.

• Un week-end à Lyon très revigorant avec une amie qui m'a aidé à considérer d'autres options.
• Un rendez-vous à Pôle Emploi la semaine prochaine. J'avoue, officiellement, que j'ai besoin d'un coup de pouce pour trouver du travail.

Mais j'ai quand même des idées... ce projet de faire de la traduction se concrétise. Et cette fois-ci, ce ne serait pas une traduction de temps en temps en dillettante, mais plutôt me donner les moyens d'y arriver. J'ai rédigé mon CV de traductrice et j'ai plus d'experience que je ne le pensais initialement. Il faudra trouver et fidéliser des clients, et ce ne sera pas chose facile. Mais j'ai déjà de très précieux contacts et quelqu'un, en particulier, qui m'a toujours confié ses documents de recherche. Je crois que je peux construire quelquechose. Grande solitude quand on veut créer quelquechose à partir de rien, mais de la trépidation aussi.

Et le théâtre? Ah, oui. Il paraît un peu oublié. A vrai dire, j'ai besoin de me souvenir pourquoi je l'aime. J'ai besoin de redevenir étonnée et émue par le doux pouvoir des mots et des corps sur scène. Je dois me donner le temps et l'espace d'y voir un peu plus clair. Et je dois avoir une occupation autre - à la fois alimentaire et motivante. Sinon, gare au "burn out" ou - pire - à la servitude, qui consiste à aider les autres à s'affirmer tout en se reniant soi-même.

• Mais hier, je suis allée courir sur les bords de Seine, et j'ai vu des colverts se laver les plumes. Je ne sais pas exactement pourquoi, mais ça m'a donné du courage.

Thy name is stress

I am stressing out. Interview for the teaching artist job is tomorrow, and there's still a lot to do. The costume is pretty much done, the puppet too (a hedgehog), but  there are other crafty things left, and I haven't much practiced and I don't feel like I'm part of the costume and the puppet. I'm feeling like the craftswoman and not the actress. I still need to write my lines, embody my character. Ahhh!! I know that it'll all come if I play a bit, if I have fun, but there's the freaking scary ass interview tomorrow and I don't know how to play in these circumstances!
Breathing may be good. Remembering that I am, on the whole, well-prepared may help too. And also that this, ultimately, is for kids. Not for the adults who will be interviewing me tomorrow. Think of the kids. Play. Have fun. Play. Have fun. Play.
Breathe, relax, play, use funny voices, put on a clown nose. Write script that may not make it in the final thing. Have a giggle. Dance around.

Costume and puppet month.

This is going to be a quick post to update you on what I'm doing... preparing a second interview for a teaching artist position with a theater in the Paris area for kids ages 3 to 5. For this interview, I need to prepare a character/costume + a puppet + a bag to put the puppet in (it comes out of the bag midway in the session to help with the telling of the story) + a magical object linked to my character - which initiates the story + some lines introducing my character and the puppet. Woo!! Lots of work for an interview. I'm hoping it'll work out. The character I have decided to explore is a gardener - her dress is a garden in itself, and her hat will have a bird's nest in it.She will be wearing rubber boots.
Here's a picture of the costume, the only thing that feels on its way to being complete.

I haven't quite decided on the puppet yet - I think it needs to be a slightly less refined character, to counterbalance all this prettiness! I was thinking of a porcupine, or maybe a worm, or something like that. I still need to attach a nest to my hat, and to find my magical object (I'm thinking that it may be a watering can), not to mention the making of the puppet and the bag. Still lots ahead, but I feel like I have some sense of direction. Interview is August 20th. 

Let me know what you think, and don't hesitate to share ideas, tips and pointers! 

Teens

I'm a counselor in a camp with French teens in England.
If I were payed by the number of sighs I hear from them daily, I would be rich.
When they thank me or any other counselor for something we did, I truly believe a miracle has occurred, and I am hugely gratified.
They don't even realize how lucky they are.
One kid was about to leave the boarding house with another kid to go to the swimming pool, and they both still had stuff written on their torsos from a punk "costume" they had made. I had previously demanded that they wipe off any makeup before going out in public. So this kid is about to go out of the door, looks right and left and says : "C'est bon, Anne n'est pas là" (it's ok, Anne's not here). He failed to look behind him, though, because that's where I was standing.  I look at them sternly, point to their rooms. They reluctantly go back. More sighs. I feel ancient.

Some of them are alright. Some of them are golden. Those are the ones who understand that we counselors also belong to the human family.
All are dramatic. They sing at the top of their lungs. They have annoying laughs that they've fabricated to impress their friends. They're passionate: "I can't survive without music", "my social life is everything". For some, Injustice is at every corner. They want to be free and they argue against every little thing. They're devilishly smart and they know it.

They still look up to us, and they may, sometimes, fleetingly, think we're halfway cool.

They are almost always endearing - you can see two conflicting forces at work in them: childhood that they're leaving behind, and maturity that they're just starting to vaguely understand.

They'll be ok in the end.

Pensées en vrac / a bunch of thoughts...

Envie de partager un petit truc que j'ai écrit dans un café, à propos du livre The Echo Maker de Richard Powers, que je viens de finir. Bizarrement, les pensées à propos de ce livre américain sont venues en français, et en plus, dans un français pas trop truffé d'anglicismes. Miracle!

----------------------------

J'en suis à la fin, mais il y a encore tant de choses qui doivent être dites, que le lecteur veut savoir. Les personnages sont dans un tel état de manque, de désarroi, qu'on ne sait comment ils vont continuer à vivre. Ils font des choix à la fois vitaux et destructeurs.... ça fait mal à lire, mais c'est aussi intoxiquant. Richard Powers insuffle de la mélancolie dans sa narration, et il parle du monde, de la nature et du combat environnemental en des termes lucides, deséspérants parfois, mais sans être complètement désespéré: il garde un espoir, ou plutôt une compassion, pour l'humanité - bien qu'on soit vraiment en train de s'empoisonner à force de tuer le monde naturel. 

In other news, I'm back in Paris, and I'm making contacts for work opportunities. I'm feeling positive, and I'm in a completely different frame of mind than when I last lived here. I'm not as shy about calling people and saying : "hey, can you help me find work?". I think this has a lot to do with the fact that I have more experience now, and that I can actually do stuff. A set of skills definitely helps the whole confidence thing, that's for sure. 

 I'm leaning towards working independently, and setting up a structure for myself, like renting an office space and going there every day to write, translate, and use it as a base to go teach in different places and, hopefully at some point, make theatre with other people. Any thoughts? Does anyone, in France or in the States, have experience about this? I'm fairly certain that I couldn't do much work at home - too many distractions. Any writers out there, or freelancers who work out of a leased office? I'm curious... 

departure

Sometimes, there isn't much to say.

The experience accounts for all the words,
and you find yourself robbed of the power to reason.
You can only plough through, put one foot in front of the other.
I have seen many friends, and said as many goodbyes.

It defies analysis.

You must get through it : give and receive the hugs.
Refrain from crying or else you won't  contain the tears. 

It's not a sad moment, per se, because, you know - we'll meet again.
What with technology, we're never far apart! 

So why do I experience vertigo as I leave the station? 

There will be hellos waiting for me soon.
And hugs, and kisses, too.
I'll live the moment, "Carpe Diem" and so on and so forth.
The movement will help - going forward. 

But there will be times - images flashing through my head as I ride the metro -
when I'll be elsewhere.

Over there -->
In the moment before goodbyes -->
That never ends. 

Why do we do what we do

Some of my choices have been hard to justify lately, since I'm going from a stable situation to a less stable one - from well employed to kind-of, maybe employed. But when I search the core of my choice, I'm okay with it. However,  I'm also in denial. I'm not realizing that I'll be leaving Bethlehem in 4 days, that all my belongings will be packed and ready to go. I need to start realizing, because I do have some packing left to do.

translated graph

I've also been working on a translation this past week. A physics research paper, which is not my forte, but which I am actually, oddly, able to translate thanks to a combination of my own brain and the internet's great language/translation applications. And this job, translating a physics research paper (more specifically, "the acoustics of string instruments"), led me to wonder: why do I like this so much? Translating? And teaching? And theater? And writing? Or, why do I have so many interests and what is it that drives me to work?
I came up with an answer - kind of. I need to digress, for a moment. You know the anecdote where a girl says that she wants to be a singer, yet all she ever talks about is how she envisions her huge house, her pool, her future designer clothes and trophy husband? Well, of course, the moral of the story is that the girl really doesn't want to be a singer, she just wants to be rich. And, in order to be rich, she doesn't necessarily has to be a singer (actually, probably not a good idea at all).

In my case - scoop ahead -  I don't want to be rich. But there is something that drives me, and I'm not sure that what I really want is what I claim to want. When I look at all the things that I enjoy doing in the professional realm, they all involve creating or transforming: I like to make things that previously didn't exist. That's what motivates me. I like to start with a very loose idea and end up with a blog post. I like to see a document in French and end up with a document in English. I like to gather people in a room and create a piece of theater to be performed for others. I like to start with a teaching concept and end up with a lesson plan. I've heard that theater was all about problem-solving, and I agree. But it never occurred to me that theater had problem-solving at its core because the performance itself was the solution. Sometimes, in the midst of it all, we forget.

The Matter of Moments, Feb. 2011, Touchstone Theatre.

Although we are all constantly evolving, changing, contradicting ourselves, I like to come up with finished products that act as little answers. My favorite solutions are artistic, but I like other ones too -  as long as they attempt to answer the key questions that were asked in the first place, and as long as they can morph into new questions that, in turn, need to be addressed.
That sounds a lot like what motivates researchers, doesn't it? Or artists. Yes, artists also seek answers and their creations act as temporary proofs. Research and art - they're not that far apart.
In this century, for some reason, we're asked to choose: one way to explain the world over another. And that's fine - sometimes it's important to make a choice. But I need to remember what motivates me at the very elemental level - why I do what I do, and how can I do more of what I really, really love?
I'll be answering that question for a while.

Rentrer à la maison

Difficile, parfois, de commencer un billet. Ca fait longtemps que je n'ai pas écrit en français, mais les circonstances s'y prêtent. Après tout, la France est au centre de l'actualité en ce moment avec l'élection du nouveau président, même ici, aux Etats-Unis (enfin... au centre de l'actualité internationale, n'éxagérons rien!). 

Sur le plan personnel, je finis une année d'enseignement de français, et je m'apprête à rentrer à Paris. Certaines personnes disent, pour expliquer mon départ que "je rentre à la maison" ("I'm going back home") et, objectivement, ils ont raison. Mais, bizarrement, je ne le vois pas vraiment comme ça, ce retour. Parce que, même si la Pennsylvanie n'est pas mon "home", c'est devenu mon lieu  de vie. Et il y a un petit déracinement qui s'opère en ce moment. Je dis au revoir aux amis qui m'ont accompagné ces derniers temps. Je m'habitue à l'idée que je ne vais plus vivre avec mes colocs, que mes habitudes, bien que formées récemment, vont changer. 

La partie de moi-même qui a été élaborée ici, j'aimerais pouvoir l'exporter. Je ne veux pas être la parisienne que j'étais avant d'embarquer dans cette aventure américaine. Ce que j'aimerais garder de ma vie ici, c'est avant tout un contact humain plus détendu. J'ai appris à être un peu plus simple:  On va boire une bière? Ok! Je te retrouve dans un quart d'heure. J'ai  davantage le sentiment d'assumer qui je suis, et j'espère que la vie parisienne ne m'ôtera pas cette confiance nouvellement acquise. C'est à moi de continuer à m'affirmer, bien sûr. Mais, je connais la capitale et elle peut être dure. Je connais son métro et ces corps qui ne se regardent pas. 

En vivant dans une ville à taille humaine (à Bethlehem, on croise souvent des connaissances dans les commerces), j'ai pu mesurer à quel point c'était agréable d'avoir des repères, et que la proximité, ça peut être chouette. Parce qu'une demi-heure de métro pour voir un pote, ça casse un peu le côté spontané de la rencontre... 

Mais je pense qu'il y a moyen d'allier mon futur mode de vie urbain avec les habitudes que j'ai acquises ici. En rentrant à Paris, je vais m'engager le plus concrètement possible: dans la recherche d'un emploi, dans du bénévolat et des activités. C'est quelque chose que j'ai appris à faire pour moi-même ici, aux Etats-Unis, en partie parce que c'était le seul moyen de faire connaissance avec la ville et avec les gens. J'ai pris des cours de tango, j'ai proposé des cours de conversation, je me suis investie dans mon travail au théâtre, etc. 

Et c'est peut-être ça, le problème avec l'idée de "home" : on le prend pour un acquis, quelque chose de connu, de familier. On fait moins d'effort pour découvrir les facettes cachées de ce "home". Je me lance donc un défi: rentrer à la maison pour faire connaissance avec ma ville natale. Aller à la rencontre des gens et des paysages sans trop de préjugés. C'est ce qui m'a permis de vivre à fond ces trois ans en Pennsylvanie et je pense que c'est ce qui va me permettre de m'épanouir à Paris. 

Bethlehem, PA, USA

Esplanade de la Défense, Courbevoie, France

Can I come back?

Actually... you know what? I think I want to come back. I want to write on this blog again. I've missed it, more than I'm willing to admit. So - for those of you who were kind enough to read my ramblings, maybe you'll want to come back . I'll do my best to update semi-regularly. This blog has helped me to figure things out along the way, to process and share. I don't want to stop doing that! I need this outlet. Otherwise, I tend to bottle things up, and I get migraines. Unpleasant. If "a blog post a day keeps the migraines away", and if I feel like I just can't stop myself from writing, then I should write! Simple as that.

Glad we cleared that up.

My last day of class is tomorrow. I'm going to go ahead and make an assumption : I think that my students are glad that the semester is over. I also think that quite a few of my students are glad that they won't have to take a language course ever again. Unfortunately,  I wasn't singlehandedly able to successfully challenge the stereotype that English is the only language one needs to know in "America". Of course, some students have learned from the experience of taking two semesters of French in college. At least two young women in my class will be studying abroad in France, and will, most likely, gain a lot from the experience. Other students might pick French up again at some point in their lives. A few will take the next class offered for their level. And I hope that some students will consider tutoring next year. But the silent majority doesn't really seem to care. Maybe they do, and I just don't know it? Nah. I was teaching an elementary French class - who am I kidding? Some kids just needed the course credit. And I guess that's okay.
Or is it?

I don't know if it's a genetic thing, or the way I was brought up (I think the latter), but I overly care about things, and it does perplex me when I see others staring blankly as if to say "why waste your breath?". There is probably a correlation between caring and teaching. Come to think about it, there is a correlation between caring and theater. Both teaching and theater are occupations which wouldn't survive without a deep commitment to the ideals that are at their core.

When it comes to teaching, the content is important. And as a French teacher this year, I realized how much I enjoyed deepening my own understanding of French grammar and structure. But my happiest moments in the classroom are when  I have successfully transmitted a concept; when students take what I give and make it their own. They created some fun tongue-twisters, wrote a few skits, sang a song in front of their peers and learned about the French election. I think those were the highlights of the semester, in terms of what I was really able to  transmit. But there are other encounters where the teaching lies much more in the simple human interaction. Students look up to teachers. I was shocked to realize that when I started taking leadership roles in the classroom. It doesn't matter if you're only a couple of years older than they are. You, as the teacher, are meant to guide and explain things. Maybe that's really what it's all about.

One student came to my office and openly avowed disliking French. This caught me by surprise - who actually tells their French prof. that they don't like French? - but in a way, I was glad that he was expressing a strong opinion. I told him that he needed to find a reason to study. What was his goal for the class? Did he want to fail and take another language course? He said no. So I ventured that his goal was perhaps simply to pass the course. In order to pass, he needed to find it within himself to study. He agreed and asked me what grammar points he should be using in his next assignment. His work has improved since. He cared enough not to take French ever again. And he learned that you don't have to like something to do it. You just have to do it. Of course, it helps a whole lot when you actually enjoy the process, but that's not a prerequisite for success. In a twisted way, I'm glad that I was able to tell him that it was okay if didn't like the subject, but it didn't dispense him from doing his best to fulfill the requirements of the course. In that interaction, the emotional response "I like", "I don't like" was challenged and the notion of discipline was introduced. I didn't make him change his mind : it's safe to say that he will never speak French again once this course is over. But at some point in the future, he will encounter a challenging topic and think "I don't like this, but maybe I can get past my dislike and accomplish my goal" or, more bluntly " Damn, this sucks, but I need to graduate".
Ah, college.