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.

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!

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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.

Hotel

I am alone in a hotel, in Lancaster, PA. My sister has an interview for medical residency, and the hospital put her up (as they always do - it's part of the interview process). I tagged along, since Stephanie needed my car to go from Bethlehem to Lancaster.
Long story short, I don't really want to leave. This space is perfect for productivity. I used to dimly understand why some writers did their best work in hotels. Now I completely understand . No distractions, non-oppressive silence. And... hotels are some of the only places left that give you a pen and paper without having to ask for it. By the way, when I open my coffee shop/theatre (wherever and whenever that may be), there will be free pens and letter-head paper available for anyone to jot down ideas, write a personal note, etc. There will, of course,  also be high-speed internet and plenty of plugs.
That's it. I gotta go. I will try to transfer some of that productive vibe to my own house. Or maybe I'll end up in a coffee shop for the day. But I will get things done. I will! I will!

Tangible things have been - and are being - made.

Projects are brewing here as fall has indubitably arrived in Pennsylvania.
 I plan on interviewing inspiring artists in the next couple of months and make a podcast that you, yes YOU! will be able to access. I will probably store the podcasts on a different blog, but will do my best to link them back here.There have been positive developments on the podcast front this last week, so I'm hopeful that these interviews will pan out.

I am also still teaching and still enjoying it. My most recent challenge has been  to figure out how to get students not to sound consonnants at the end of French words. Said students are intent on pronouncing all sorts of letters that have no business being pronounced. I also wonder how I can get these young ones to understand that the ultimate goal of my class is for them to learn French and not only get a grade. I feel for my past teachers. Oh, how I feel for them now.

And I wrote a story this week for a really cool website called Loop (I highly recommend suscribing for free to get your weekly dose of storytelling!). The story I contributed is about a boum (party) in Tunisia when I was in 8th grade. Old friends reading this story may recognize stuff... names, locations, middle school spirit, etc. It was a lot of fun to write, and reminded me of how efficient I could be when faced with a deadline.

Stream of consciousness

Fall is here now. The summer was long, so was the winter before that. Not much spring to speak of. I like the fall, especially here. Dramatic colors and cool days, but not too cold. I also like spring time, when it happens.

Back to school, back to work, in a routine. The routine this year is manageable and allows for free time. Free time is precious, and when it doesn't drag exhaustion behind it, free time can be productive and fun. I'm taking an acting class and I'm writing. I'm also trying to be a good French adjunct professor. I don't want anyone to fail, but I'm realizing that it's not only up to me. I want the students to own their knowledge, to take responsibility for their education. How do you teach that? In some, it seems innate. In others, it seems missing. I speak more French now, due to my job. That is a major plus for me. But the downside is that anytime someone keeps the door open on campus, my first reaction is to say "merci".

I live in a new house and I want my room to be decorated. Does that mean I'm growing up? I want a desk, or something of the sort. Am I materialistic? I'm also planning my meals, and cooking large batches of pasta on Sundays. What's wrong with me? Oh, and not to mention the fact that I have, and use, a car.

This country does odd things to people who live in it for a while. 

The Phoenix man

It's my last day in California. I must say that I'll be sad to leave. So I guess the Phoenix man was right... back track to my journal entry on the plane, flying to the Sunny West :

I'm still in the plane, but we stopped in Phoenix. Most of the passengers have left, and I wonder if there will be more boarding. My seat neighbor left. He was a large man, perhaps of Native American descent. When I asked if I could sit down (Southwest airlines does free seating now) he welcomed me kindly. I noticed a little later that his grey hair was long, tied in a flat ponytail. He was wearing silver feather earrings and had a large tattoo on his arm - a design that included an eagle, surrounded by the phrase "in memory of my father". He asked me where I was going. I told him I was visiting the Bay area. "You'll like it there. You won't want to leave". I've definitely heard that one before! 
Apparently, he's originally from the Bay area. But he seemed to like Phoenix, too. "It gets up to a nice 108-110 degrees". He didn't seem particularly oppressed by the heat when referring to it. I think that we really bonded when the flight attendant distributed small packages of peanuts. I started opening mine, not paying great attention since I was reading Song of Solomon at the same time. And since I was distracted, I wasn't really succeeding in opening it. The Phoenix man took my bag of munchies - large, assured hands - tore it open, and handed it back. Similarly, he took my cup when the flight attendant was walking the aisle with a trash bag. I seem to attract that type of behavior here. People very often help me without me asking them for anything. I never expect anyone to help me unless it's very obvious that I need help or if I ask for it. But here, for some reason, people take care of me. Maybe it's because they feel that I'll let them? I don't strike them as a control freak? I look clueless? I don't, by any means, want to take advantage of people, but I can't help but accept it when people offer something. I find it very ungracious to refuse help. But maybe I should put up more resistance. Anyway, in the case of the Phoenix man, I was charmed. It was his way of starting a conversation. 
Ah, new people are boarding the plane. But I secured the window seat. I will hopefully see some nice scenery. 


More photos to come from beautiful Californian landscapes.

Reaching for sunlight

I have a lot of bad habits when it comes to writing, but the one huge bad (bad, bad, bad) habit is not writing enough. A couple of weeks ago, I sat down at Touchstone and wrote for about an hour. I had no laptop, so it was all long-hand. I had a character in mind, and I randomly chose a word to end the story. I eventually decided not to end the story with that word, but it is at the very core of the tale...
Here's this little piece, typed and redrafted.

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The time had come. She knew she had it in her. She no longer tolerated excuses from her struggling conscience. Eventually her conscience stopped pining and settled into an eerie silence. Her cover was perfect – she didn’t have to touch a single thing about her appearance. Well, she did straighten the bow in her hair, for her to look more… perky and… angelic. That was what she was going for: the look of joyful naiveté.

Standing in the shade of the patio, she was still in the safe zone. The others were playing a game of croquet. The boys feigned disliking the game but she knew they had been looking forward to it all day, to the point of trepidation. They were mocking some of the moves made by the opposing team but tolerated only encouraging cheers when their turn came around. Typical.

The lunch table, set outside on account of the glorious summer day, was at a safe distance from the croquet game. It was deserted, except for Aunt Lily, seemingly dozing at one end, still clutching her fork on which an alluring piece of creamy coconut pie was still attached. Approximately a foot away from the coconut pie fork was a glass – still half full.

Armed with her straight bow and her innocent looks, she was ready for the big cross from the patio to the table. She thought that skipping all the way would surely not attract any unwanted attention, since everyone would surmise that she was a happy-go-lucky child, enjoying the afternoon. Watching her skip, with a straight bow in her hair, no grown-up would guess that she was on a mission. A last skip, and she reached the table. One glance at Aunt Lily and she knew she had nothing to worry about. The steady rhythm of the old lady’s breathing and the soft whistle that came out of her mouth were assurance enough.

She looked at the glass. The delicate bubbles were subtly indicating carbonation, and the color – it was… sunshine. Pure and simple. A late summer's ray captured and distilled in liquid.

She had to taste it. For close to three hours, she had imagined what it could be like, alternating between syrup and molasses but wanting it to taste like werther’s caramels, only – better than that. And now there it was, the glass within reach. The laughter and brouhaha streaming from the croquet game gave her courage to reach her arm out. But when she felt one of the boy’s head turn towards the table, she picked up a pie crumb and ate it. She knew, somehow, that eating a crumb off someone else’s plate was a minor offense compared to what she was about to do. The boy had only been distracted momentarily by birdsong and redirected his attention to the game. Her arm extended again. Her hand reached the cool glass, surprisingly wet on the outside. Now, to pick it up. It didn’t seem reasonable to drink in the open – too risky. Eyes could easily turn from the game to the table and be surprised at the picture of a five year old drinking from an oversized glass. Better to bring the ambrosia underneath the table where she would be free from hostile stares.

She lifted the glass, surprised by its weight. She realized all over again that she was meddling in grown-up business, but wasn’t exactly sure how. Being as careful as possible while also being quick, she brought the drink to the safety of the shadows. The table was thankfully covered by a long tablecloth made of heavy cotton – for all intents and purposes, a tent for the girl. She sat cross legged, clasping the drink in both hands, bringing the large glass up to her lips.
Surely, she thought, surely, this will be the sweetest nectar I shall ever taste...

Dreams of caramel crashed when the first gulp reached her taste buds. Not molasses, not even syrup! Nothing like that. She didn't understand why anyone would drink this bitter, strange drink. She stared at the glass half full of beer. She was struck again by the outer beauty of the liquid and couldn't equate the outward beauty with the vile content. She couldn't stop staring.
Sitting underneath the table one sunny afternoon, the girl had her first taste of deception.

Serres, Foucault et les démons de la recherche

J'avais promis de parler de procrastination, et voilà que le mois d'avril passe à toute allure, et je n'ai rien écrit. Il faut dire - et je crois que l'excuse est légitime - que je me suis déboitée l'épaule le 10 avril. C'était un dimanche. Sur scène, avec un public devant nous, etc. Mais je n'ai pas crié, j'ai même fini une scène importante pour mon personnage (demande en mariage) et le reste de la troupe a fini la pièce sans moi. The show must go on, or something like that. Mais serieux, ça fait mal ces conneries là. Je ne le souhaite à personne, le déboitement d'épaule.
Enfin bref. Me voilà cloisonnée dans une sorte de brassard. Pas très agréable en ces journées chaudes. Nous avons tous été surpris par la chaleur, qui ne s'était pas manifestée depuis un bien, bien long moment. Et voilà que je porte un brassard thérapeutique (quel est le mot approprié pour décrire ce que je porte?) pour acceuillir le printemps. Ironie du sort.

J'ai écouté deux conférences hier soir, dos à dos, sur internet. Première partie de programme: réflexion de Michel Serres sur la notion d'invention. Deuxième conférence: Michel Foucault donnant un cours au Collège de France, en 1984. C'était sans doute dû à l'enregistrement bruyant du cours ou aux manières acceuillantes de Foucault mais... j'y étais: dans l'amphi numéro 5, surcomplet où les auditeurs étaient debout et assis par terre parce que la salle 6 n'était pas sonorisée... la voix unique de Foucault, et, bien sûr, le cheminement de sa pensée qui nous plonge dans la Grèce Antique. Et de quoi parle-t-il? De courage, bien sûr. Je n'ai pas suffisamment lu son oeuvre pour annoncer, preuves à l'appui, que je suis fan de sa philosophie, mais je crois, tout de même que je le suis. Ou du moins, je suis enthousiasmée par son approche honnête et sans chichi de la réflexion philosophique. Et, de ce que je commence à découvrir, je suis aussi impressionnée par sa capacité à analyser et réfléchir son monde - à retourner les problèmes pour les voir sous un prisme différent. Il utilise une forme d'innocence pour arriver à des conclusions savantes. Son dénuement, sa vulnérabilité face au savoir, me touchent beaucoup.
 Je n'ai pas fini la série de cours, n'ayant jusqu'ici écouté que deux podcasts. Mais Foucault a annoncé dans le deuxième enregistrement qu'il parlerait, au moins un peu, plus tard dans la série, de la paresia, le "dire-vrai", dans un contexte moderne. J'ai donc hâte d'écouter la suite. Je serais bien incapable de résumer ces cours, donc si vous êtes intéressés, ils sont disponibles en ligne.

Sur un plan purement personnel, ce qui m'inquiète, c'est que j'ai soif de recherche en ce moment. J'écoute des podcasts de conférences philosophiques, j'établis des thèses dans ma tête... bilinguisme et théâtre-actualité, fruit d'une culture qui communique l'évènement dans la langue de l'instant. C'est le dernier titre en date.
 Mais je n'aime pas la recherche, merde, ça ne mène pas à ce que je veux faire! N'est-ce pas? Mais, d'un autre côté, j'ai aussi du mal à accepter qu'on travaille tous les jours dans des domaines différents sans prendre le temps de considérer la recherche qui est consacrée à ces domaines. J'envie un peu les médecins qui doivent lire la recherche dédiée à leur profession pour continuer à pratiquer le mieux possible. Ce n'est pas tellement que je les envie, mais je ne comprends pas pourquoi on n'a pas cette habitude, ailleurs. Si on considérait la recherche de manière plus disciplinée dans le monde du théâtre, je suis convaincue qu'on ferait moins d'erreurs, et qu'on créerait un théâtre plus innovant. Je ne veux pas m'enfermer dans une tour d'argent, mais je suis convaincue des vertues de la recherche appliquée à la vie.
D'une certaine façon, mon solo pour Fresh Voices, c'était un peu de la recherche, un peu du théâtre. Peut-être qu'il faut que je regarde dans cette direction:  ne pas m'arrêter, ni de réfléchir, ni de faire du théâtre. Et on verra bien ce qui arrivera.

Identity and displacement



Poster for our show

 Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. I am in a state today. Not an altogether bad state to be in, but one that is most definitely volatile. I have been working on my Fresh Voices piece for the last two hours and a half now, and I'm at a point where my excitement has become a substantial emotion - it's leaping from my heart, but isn't yet pouring on the page. That's why I decided to pause and jam with you, dear blog readers, and tell you where I am so far in this process. I need gentle ears to listen, and gentle voices to comment, if you feel so inclined.


As I may have said before, for Fresh Voices : The Matter of Moments, I am talking about the experience of being bi-cultural, cross-cultural or even 'third cultural', even if that's not technically how I would be defined, but since my Mom was a "Third culture kid", I qualify as a 'second generation TCK'. And, by working on this solo piece, I am consciously realizing to what extent my life and whole being has been molded by the fact that I come from - and have travelled to and from - multiple places. In addition to Le Tiers Instruit, I have been reading Third Culture Kids: Growing up Among Worlds. Both books touch on the notions of multiplicity, transition, change, uprooting, nomadic existence, movement, etc. in ways that are enlightening to someone who had never been able to pinpoint where (some of) her general angst came from.

And as I am identifying with these concepts, and as I see myself fitting into some of the sociological models described, I feel a renewed freedom to think about my own life and rekindle memories that were and are important even though they may have seemed trite at the time. I still don't know how my Fresh Voices piece is going to be structured, and I really want to come up with a structure tonight (before tomorrow's sharing with company members). But perhaps sharing some of these memories and writing them for readers - rather than merely jotting them down for me - will give me the impetus to find a performative way to get all this stuff figured out.

Here are a few passages I have been working on today.

To have unresolved grief is ignoring the loss one feels. Loss of someone because you moved away and you know you won't stay in touch in the same way. Loss of something like walking to and from the library, through the stately Jardin des Plantes, admiring the busts of great naturalists on the Natural History Museum building. Unresolved grief is not taking the time to say "I miss this" and "I miss that". Unresolved grief is feeling guilty about feeling sad over everything that has changed, that is no longer the way it was.

You dismiss your memories and curse yourself for being 'nostalgic'. If being 'nostalgic' is what you need to do to mourn the loss of what you loved - love -, then, by all means, indulge.

Gleaned from another blog post: "Acte d'auto-censure dont je suis trop capable quand je veux quelquechose" - depriving myself from things. Why? Partly as a way to train myself, for when I'll have to let go of things I love. So sometimes I overthink my wants. Do I really want to do it? What will be the cost, the consequence, of doing this? What amount of pain will I feel once I need to let it/him/her/them go?

Every summer, on my list of "Things to Do while in The United States", there was : "drink at least one frappucino from Starbucks". This was before Starbucks had colonized every country in Europe and set shop in many Parisian buildings (interestingly, when Starbucks established itself in France, while I was a teenager, I decided to boycott the company, instead favoring traditionnal cafés). Other items on the list included "go to a craft store and buy stuff with pocket money", "eat real baked potatoes" (the realness came from the tin foil around the potato and the sour cream on top), "eat chinese food at the food court" and other typical American experiences not to be missed. My mother made sure we did all those things. She instinctively understood our need to relate to the US, and to establish a sense of comfort by reaching for the reassuring little things we knew and enjoyed. So, if the frappucino had not yet been ingested and we were about to leave the continent, my mother made sure I was brought to a Starbucks in the airport for the much enjoyed drink. It became my way of saying goodbye.

And now I live here. And when I go back to France, I stock up on certain things: tea, chocolate, bras, makeup. I hear French all around me and it feels both comforting and stifling, because I know that, from that point on, only my French self counts. On the American side of the ocean, I have no problem displaying my two passports. When I talk to people, I'm confident that they will regard me as specific to myself - maybe American, maybe not, maybe a little. In the States, I sense that my Frenchness is visible in some way. I don't wear it with my accent, but I wear it on my face, with my clothes, in my eating habits. Someone once said I "looked French" - whatever that means- but, I believed him.

In France, not only do I "look French" - again, whatever that means - but I speak French with no accent. I act French too. Polite but distant, not looking at people in the eyes unless I intend to talk to them, reading a magazine that I want to be seen reading [l'Express] rather than the one I really want to read [Glamour]. So, when I enter the French zone, I know that very few people will recognize my other self. And my instinct is to hide the American in me. The blue passport in my bag, the red one in hand.

The moments right after the plane ride are always crystal clear. Past the generic feel of the airport, I spot my mother - her scarf, the lenght of her hair, her signature walk. The embrace, the first few words, the entrance in the parking lot and the sight of her car. Peugeot 309, at least 22 years old by now, everything manual. A white tin can with its distinctive smell. The road from the airport to the appartment. Smaller roads than the wide expanse of those in America. Those American roads always shocked me when I came off the plane and rode in my uncle's car every summer, when we would come to visit. In France, the roads are now punctuated by radars : grey, rectangular boxes placed at strategic points to record speed and deliver fines. My mother rages at them as we pass them by, below the speed limit.
Slowly, everything starts coming back.