Too long for anyone to read...

This is my second week at Touchstone, and things are shaping up. I'm going to help out with sound on a show opening in two weeks. It's a one man show, based on the writings of Henry Thoreau. I have operated sound approximately twice in my life, but, as Touchstone's producing director said, you don't have to be a genius to get it right. You just have to pay attention. I think I can manage that.

However, I still don't have a secondary job (of the kind where you actually get paid), and I'm starting to get worried. Not extremely worried, but a little bit, quand même. My plan was to give French lessons, but I don't know to what extent the citizens of Bethlehem, PA are desperately needing to learn French. Although I have had a few people enquiring about my services, nothing concrete (ie. a meeting) has emerged yet. And today, as I was checking Craigslist, lo and behold, someone was advertising French tutoring for 15 dollars an hour, when I suggested 20. Damn it! I've been outbid !!! How to undo my mistake? Write another craigslist ad, suggesting 15 dollars?
I also have other leads, but, there again, nothing much has come out of my efforts. Today, I printed some ads, and went around pinning them on bulletin boards (I was careful not to mention tarification). Since I'm not extremely gutsy and fear confrontation, I didn't always go into shops to convince the people there to put my ads in a prominent place in their boutiques. But I did manage to get ads pinned in a coffee shop, at the local supermarket, and at the local university. I will continue to sell myself (however awkwardly), and hope for a surge of francophiles desperately seeking my services for their lives to be complete - one can always dream... it's free! D'ailleurs, it has to be said that bulletin boards are underated. After all, that is how I got one really stable tutoring job which lasted two years, when I was at Royal Holloway university. Mrs Tan was going to Tesco, and BAM! she saw my ad. At which point she exclaimed (in her head) "How wonderful! It just so happens that my daughter needs extra help with her French. I'm going to take down this tutor's number, call her and give her a job!" And that was it. I was able to feel a little bit less of a useless student, and a little bit more like I was contributing towards my expenses (at something like 10 pounds an hour, an hour a week, It hardly paid for the entrance to the student's union, but you know, it was a first step in the right direction). Except that now, I'm not a student anymore, and I'm getting a bit old to rely solely on family help. Enfin bref. I hope someone will answer my call, and I will continue to search and think of other legal ways to make money.

Of course, if I knew how to drive and owned a car, the story would most likely be quite different. This will come as a surprise to no one, but it might be useful to reiterate that the USA is all about cars and roads. Even if one lives in a walkable city - which is my case - not having a car is a hindrance. In my fantasy picture of Bethlehem, I had grown to believe that it was a major city, a little bit like Philadelphia, but that no one knew it yet, because it hadn't been discovered... in the same way that a debutante actress isn't famous, not because she has no talent, but just because she hasn't been in the limelight long enough.
Well, in reality, Bethlehem is a nice-sized town, and there are things to do, sure, but it ain't Philly, sweetie. The transportation system limits itself to buses, and I will need to get a bike to be a bit more mobile.
Looking for some night time entertainment one evening (the TV in the house doesn't work, and we don't have an internet connection...), Zach - fellow apprentice and housemate- and I thought we'd go to a bar which promised open mic comedy. When we arrived, there was none of that. Just a bar, with a quirky bar girl. So, we had a few beers, and chuckled at the fact that we had moved far - him from Florida and me from Paris - to come to... Bethlehem. It is kind of funny, when you think about it. We really must be pretty hard-core theatre geeks to put all our faith in one little theatre. Or, just desperate to learn so that, one day, we may actually make a living out of theatre. Ha! That, actually, is the joke. Because who in their right mind would think that possible? Who in their right mind would want to put in so much work for so little instant gratification?

Don't get me wrong, I'm not having an existential crisis, wondering what the hell I'm doing with my life. On the contrary, I'm quite content being here, working for turnips in an old steel town. But I do wonder why I chose theatre in the first place. More precisely, I wonder why I rarely question my choice of working in that field. When did I choose to do this? There was no light-bulb moment, no amazing revelation, with a host of jazz-hand angels surrounding me and whispering Shakespeare verses in my ear... nope. Just a series of great experiences, year after year of original school plays. Those plays did the trick, I think. I loved every bit of the play, except maybe the auditions. I loved rehearsals - especially the ones that lasted all day in the delapidated tram station of the Pont de Sèvres. I loved dress rehearsals, and even tech rehearsals. And of course, performance time. And I absolutely hated the day after the final show. Back to reality was really, really hard.
I suppose I've wanted to replicate that school play feeling ever since. I think that's it. I got hooked! Completely and utterly hooked to the whole process. Theatre is my drug. That's why it can't just be a hobby, and that's why I need to keep on learning how to balance my life between theatre and the real world.

Man, I've been babbling. I apologise. Shorter entry next time, I promise!

That clicking feeling

It's funny how things click, sometimes. When two people fall in love, they click, they interlock. But the clicking feeling doesn't limit itself to romantic love : it works with friendships, too. And one can even click with a place.

I have heard so many people say that they fell in love with Paris, or Philadelphia, or Spain, or New Orleans, or Berlin... I wonder what leads us to have special affinities with places. Does it have something to do with the energy? The colors? Some distant childhood memory that invites itself subconsciously in our appreciation of a new place? Whatever it is, it's a real feeling. As unfathomable as human love, as random. You can't really choose with whom you click, nor can you decide with what you interlock... I really wish I clicked easily with Paris, but it'll always be a love you/love you not relationship between us. That's the way it is. I have to accept it, and move on. That doesn't mean I won't end up living there happily, but it does mean that there will always be something about Paris that I will want to change. On the other hand, the places with which I really click don't ever need to change for me to love them unconditionally. I realize how dirty Dublin is and even how racist its taxi drivers are, but I still click with that Liffey city. That doesn't mean I'll go back, either. It just means that, to me, Dublin is one of my very favorite places. So is Brittany. Irrationnal and most certainly annoying to the people who don't agree with me. Mais les goûts et les couleurs, ainsi que les villes préférées, ne se discutent pas!

I'm starting to feel that specific clicking feeling with Touchstone Theatre. It's only been a week, and yet... that stage is no stranger. The offices are welcoming. The café inviting and friendly. Everything about it says to me that I will like it here. The people are warm without being phony. They are theatre professionals, all about performance, yet remain elegantly private. Theatre is regarded as beautiful, dangerous, fragile, worth loosing money for, worth promoting, worth a life of very hard work. The building is flooded with light, until you step into the 75 seat theatre. There, you wait to be flooded with the warm lights of the projectors, and surrounded by beautiful stories.

I wouldn't describe this move to the United States as easy; it definitely came with some sacrifice. In no ways will this internship year be easy, either. My fellow apprentice and I were warned, from the very first day, that we were going to face some serious challenges. But easy is not what we're aiming for, really. Or maybe it is. But the easy we're looking for is the one that comes from "ease". It's the way in which two parts fit with ease, once they have met. Because they were meant to fit together, because they click.

Personal pep talk

This is my version of a personal pep talk:
--------------------------

I'm moving to Bethlehem tomorrow.
Off I go to a new town,
Off I go to a new place,
Off I go.

I know it'll be fine. I know it'll be great.
If a part of me still wants to hide,
Another part of me can't wait.

I'm moving to Bethlehem tomorrow.
Off I go to meet new people,
Off I go to learn my art,
Off I go.

Experiences to pick, discoveries all new
I only hope I'll seize them quick,
Won't let them go unused.

I'm moving to Bethlehem tomorrow.
Off I go with a smile,
Off I go with gratefulness,
Off I go.

Recipes galore

Sometimes, cruising on facebook can be beneficial... here's a blog link that appeared on my news feed. It's basically a food blog, and a directory to many many recipes:

http://www.tastespotting.com/

It looks amazing, and will probably become my online recipe book for this year!

Quaker cemetery

This morning, my uncle and I drove around the countryside of Chester County, and stopped at a Quaker friend's meeting house, to walk around the old cemetery, and see if we couldn't find the tombstone of a very distant relative who had been laid to rest there. It was a hilly piece of land, and the small tombstones seemed to grow out of the lush green grass. Fields surrounded us, divided by rows of elegant, tall, gnarly trees. A barn nearby, with wide open doors, allowed one to catch a glimpse of the inside filled with hay. A flock of small birds flew over us in the grey-almost raining sky. Sounds of insects were continuous, unruffled.
Standing at the top of the hill, I beat myself up mentally for having forgotten my camera. It was one of those times where, as I was looking at the cemetery, and the fields, and the sky, I already had an idea for a composition, and I just needed the camera to be the extension of my eye. But it wasn't there, so all I could do was look as hard as I could, and absorb what I was seeing without being able to externalize it onto something beyond my own mind. Photography is all about catching the moment. And when the moment is lost, when time has flown by without being able to immortalize mere seconds, there's a heightened sense of frustration. If only I had brought my camera...
But this sense of loss shouldn't only be felt with photography. How many times have I not expressed myself when I so desperately needed to? Wanting to write but being overcome by laziness, or using excuses like lack of time, or deciding to watch whatever tv show I could catch on youtube instead of making the effort to go beyond the surface of life? There too, moments were lost. What needed to come out didn't. I didn't act on that creative impulse, so nothing came out of it. This time, I thought I'd describe the scene. No camera, but words, and memory. To remember the stillness and mystery of the graveyard, and to bring what I had seen out there for others to imagine.

Futur (proche) lieu de vie

Quelques photos de Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, ville où je vais vivre pendant un an...

Ville industrielle, avec certains monstres de bâtiments maintenant inutiles, mais fascinants à photographier.

Un effort concerté pour donner un deuxième souffle à la ville après le déclin de l'industrie lourde d'acier.

Et enfin, petite photo inaugurale du théâtre dans lequel je vais travailler...

I'm starting to get really excited about this year. An odd sense of calm, now that I saw the town, the theatre and the house. Things are going to be ok.

Day off

I was itching to write in French, but the keyboard I'm using does not have the useful accents needed for the French language. And writing without the accents makes my skin crawl. So, English it is, for now.

I'm in DC, taking the day off from travels and activities. Taking the day to do what I do so well, and that is... not much besides keeping myself entertained with writing, reading and perhaps watching a dvd later, if I feel like it. I realise many people aren't like this. It seems like a lot of people don't necessarily need "low times". Or maybe they do, but don't realise it. When my mother left the appartment, she asked me what I was going to do, and suggested that I could go to the pool (my uncle and aunt live in a complex where there is a pool and many other fancy things like a gym and even a coffee shop). Yes, I guess I could. But that would defeat the purpose of having a day off, having a day when you don't do things just for the sake of doing them. A day when you just hang out with yourself. Perhaps, if I actually enjoyed going to the pool, I would feel like going. But, really, I don't, so it most probably ain't gonna happen!

Instead of swimming and getting exercise, I'm reading the book Eat, Pray, Love which was so sweetly sent from New Orleans by my sister. I'm enjoying it very much, but Elizabeth Gilbert, the author and narrator, gets on my nerves, a little, sometimes. She's a bullient, chatty, sometimes self-absorbed (or overly self-deprecating? I'm not sure which yet) American in search of spirituality. The subtitle of the book goes like this : " One woman's search for everything across Italy, India and Indonesia". And indeed, it does seem like Liz Gilbert is looking for everything, namely peace and purpose and a sense of feeling complete. In order to find those things, she stops by Italy to find pleasure, India to meditate and find Peace -or in her words : God - and Indonesia to try and combine worldly pleasures with transcendance. It's an ambitious project, and a worthy one, too. That may be why I would like her to write in a slightly less pedestrian way. Call me old-fashionned, but if I'm reading a book about praying, I don't expect and necessarily want to be so entertained. Eat Pray Love is an entertaining read, but not a profound and deep one. I don't think it will transform me, although it has instructed me on Yoga practises and the ways of meditation. But Gilbert's writing is too chatty. It still wants to seduce. She wants to be loved through her writing, instead of just saying things without fear of judgement. I haven't finished the book yet, so I might be surprised to see that Gilbert's writing has more impact on me than I'm willing to admit. And it is reassuring to hear such a fresh voice candidly sharing her turmoil and quest for calm in her life. But I'm pretty sure that she's one of those people who has difficulties taking "low times" just to chill. She actually admits it, blaming in part her American culture :

"Generally speaking, though, Americans have an inability to relax into sheer pleasure. Ours is an entertainment-seeking nation, but not necessarily a pleasure-seeking one. Americans spend billions to keep themselves amused with everything from porn to theme parks to wars, but that's not exactly the same thing as quiet enjoyment. [...] Americans don't really know how to do nothing."

Of course, I can find Americans who know how to relax. By generalizing, without giving hard evidence for her claim, Gilbert is weakening her argument. But, on the other hand, I see what she means. Having been raised in France, I know how to enjoy a meal. That basically means eating delicious food, talking with friends for endless hours, and not doing much else than that. Such times are beautiful, deeply cherished moments. And I'm really really not sure that I would know how to thoroughly enjoy a meal if I had been raised in the USA. In fact, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't.

Have I ever mentionned that I'm very happy being Franco-American? Well, I am! Best of both worlds, if it weren't for all that water between them...