California 2

Chose promie, chose dûe... voici quelques autres photos du voyage californien. 

Le Golden Gate embrumé

 Le quartier Chinois de San Francisco

  L'hôtel Hyatt de San Francisco, et son architecture atypique. Construit en 1972, conçu par John Portman.  

Carré de faïence sur un trottoir de Monterey, ancien port producteur de sardines. 

Un Majestueux arbre Red Wood à Big Basin

Un Red Wood troué et toujours vivant

La baie de Monterey

Des cormorans dans la baie de Monterey

Les vélos Google sur leur campus à Mountain View.

J.K Rowling rewards courage of action, and I like that.

I know I promised more California pictures. I may keep that promise, but not in this post.
I'm writing from my uncle's house, on a beautiful mac desktop. The screen entices me to type something, it's that pretty.

I just came back from seeing the last filmed installment of Harry Potter, again. And I surprised myself by welling up at precisely the same point both times I saw it: when Professor McGonagall raises her wand to protect the castle, and when the other members of the Order of the Phoenix do the same. Nothing in the film touched me as much as those moments. I was struck by that visualization of acts of courage and protection.
The entire Harry Potter series, and especially J.K Rowling's original narrative (ie. the books), is decidedly moral. Rowling does not hide her belief that love and camaraderie should prevail, and that we must constantly develop that power of love. She's not "post-modern": she doesn't say that our beliefs are constructs that can, that ought to be, deconstructed until they become virtually neutral. I wanted to write "meaningless" instead of "neutral". Maybe that means I'm not post-modern either.

But what's so impressive about the Harry Potter books is that they are not dogmatic, although they are moral. The author isn't pushing a specific agenda apart from implying that strength of character should ultimately win over crafty selfishness. The characters are flawed and pragmatic. Almost all of them are nuanced, apart, maybe from Bellatrix. She's uni-dimensional most of the time.Voldermort is a lot more nuanced. Although he's inherently evil, he's also human and the absence of love in his life led him to seek power through dark magic. But maybe I'm forgetting some of Bellatrix's back story...?

I'm starting to ramble like a fan, but what I really meant to say was that I admire Rowling's persistence in telling a tale the old-fashioned way: respecting her characters enough to be led by them, surprised by some of their actions and yet keeping an authorative voice when it comes to the meaning of her work.
When Harry asks (in the last film) to Dumbledore if what he is experiencing is happening in his head, or if it's real, Dumbledore replies: "Of course it's happening in your head. But that doesn't mean that it's not real!" (I'm paraphrasing - haven't memorized the film yet). The way I perceived Dumbledore's exclamation was that, we mustn't always think that what we experience internally is inferior in value to what we experience physically. In fact, what happens in our heads guides the way we act in life. Therefore, what's in our head is as real, if not more potent, than what we experience externally. I think that, as a passively entertained society, we tend to forget that. We want external action and drama but what happens in our heads is often lazy thinking, which leads to lazy living.  So many of these characters are "awake" in Thoreau's sense: completely active beings who think and question and drive their lives in the direction that they have chosen. Although the books (and the movies - kind of) are addictive, they often lead me to go beyond the Harry Potter tale and to act: to write, to take stock of my actions and to be aware of what I choose to notice and what I choose to ignore. In that way, Harry Potter, to me, is an active literary object. Because it moves me to action, I wouldn't only qualify it as entertainment. Or if it is, it's the best kind!

This has been mentioned in some dissertation (or a hundred of them) and online but I'll mention it too. I've noticed so many parallels between Harry Potter and World War II narratives. Of course, Voldermort is very similar to Hitler. The article that I linked above explains that very well as well as the links between Nazi and Wizard "Pure Bloods". And the Order of the Phoenix ressembles the British opposition with Churchill (Dumbledore) at its head : a lone but determined group of people who believe in freedom and equality and who are ready to fight for it.

It's interesting that Rowling spends so much time describing the struggles of the Order of the Phoenix ( in the earlier books - the struggles of Harry, Hermione and Ron under the auspices of Dumbledore and the other knowing wizards) but doesn't linger in telling what happens after the final fight. We get a couple pages of epilogue, and that's it. Because, really, what matters is that the Order wins - that fascism be, if not destructed completely, diminished to its most helpless form. In the last World War, what mattered was that the Allies won and that the Nazis retreated. But the reality of fighting, and war, is, by definition, a struggle. It involves sacrifice and pain. Rowling keeps on drilling that fact throughout the books. She reminds us constantly that inaction results in being an accomplice in the deeds of ill-intended people/wizards. She constantly tells us that we need to fight for what we believe in.

I find that lesson to be useful in our times.

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.

California!

It has been more than a month since I last updated this blog! Shame on me.
I am currently in California, visiting my aunt and uncle in the Palo Alto area. We went on a week-end road trip, and went all the way to Lake Tahoe (splendid!), then down to Mono lake (which is a mineral lake with sediment towers called Tufas,also home to brine shrimp and flies ) then to Yosemite park (beautiful pine trees, snow capped mountains and impressive water falls).
Earlier in the week, I got to go to Pescadero beach (desolate, beautifully eerie) and Santa Cruz (laid back beach town, with a world-renowned university), And tomorrow, we will go to San Francisco.
This is such a wonderful vacation!
I also had some time to work on a writing piece, and remembered how much I enjoyed writing in coffee shops. It has also been cool to leave the East Coast for a while and to be in completely new territory. Because of my dislocated shoulder plus the mono, I was wallowing in the aftermath of injury.
I'm incredibly fortunate to have the opportunity to relax for two weeks, and now fully understand the benefits of vacation.
But anyway. Here are a few pictures to get a glimpse of California's diverse landscapes.

 Stanford University Quad

 Stanford University church

 Buzzard on a dead seal, Pescadero Beach

 Wood and birds, Pescadero Beach

Santa Cruz

 Lake Tahoe

 aunt Christine at Lake Tahoe

                                             High desert evening, California/Nevada border

Cute motel kittens

Going towards Mono Lake - Sierra Nevada mountains

Mono Lake

 Sediment Tufas at Mono Lake

 Tonton Jacques at Mono Lake

 Yosemite National Park rapids

Bridalveil fall, Yosemite National Park- 188 metres (617 ft)

Opening thoughts on opportunity

I have been meaning to articulate thoughts on the concept of opportunity for quite a while. Currently at work, taking a break after having painted the stage. We paint it regularly to keep it looking good. It's a nice feeling to gaze at a freshly painted stage : pristine, ready to use.
Anyway, it was while I was painting the stage that it occurred to me that a lot of people I knew did favors for me. I benefit from other people's generosity and I'm always a little bit surprised. What led them to offer me (and not necessarily someone else) these opportunities? What state of mind do I project that allows them to trust me?
For example: tonight, I am going to teach a French class in a shop owned by a friend.We hadn't seen each other for a long time, but thanks to facebook, she learned that I was wanting to give lessons, and offered her space on Thursday evenings.
Another example: A mother of a friend has offered her beach house in New Jersey for me and another friend to use during a week-end in September.
In both cases, I never asked for anything. It was merely because the relationship I have with these people allowed these opportunities to happen. A certain amount of trust had been established and this, combined with their inherent generosity led to a class and a holiday.
This may sound a bit "self-helpy" but I'm increasingly realizing how much attitude contributes to one's overall well-being. Bad attitude backfires so much in every aspect of human relationships. And I don't know if people always realize how much attitude weighs on success. Of course, this poses a certain number of problems and inequalities. Because having a good attitude may be a trait of character to a certain extent, but it is fueled by one's  self-confidence and increasing success in different endeavors. Whereas even if someone starts out with a positive outlook on life but is dealt a bad deck of cards, it's only human to become disillusioned. But in turn, it decreases one's chance for positive opportunities. I wonder... if educators were to emphasize the fact that positivity creates a virtuous cycle, would people listen? Instead of making positive feeling all about emotions, could it be viewed and taught as a smart strategy for success?

Sketches

I have a scanner, and it is a magical thing. My cousin Eric gave me a super machine: printer,copier and scanner all in one. And it's compact, too! I have been approaching the machine tentatively, figuring out one feature at a time.
So I scanned sketches. I remember loving to leaf through my friend J's sketch book, seeing what was new as well as revisiting old-time favorites. We were in 7th, 8th, 9th grade, and she was good. She was extremely talented. I felt lucky to see her process, to have access to the beginnings of her creative journey. I loved those sketchbooks so much.
 J and I lost touch since. We're still friends, but from afar and on occasion. She's still (thank God!) an artist, and I'm sure that she has filled her fair share of sketch books since high school. Lucky are those who browse through them.
J's talent was unquestionable at the time, and I knew that my creative strenghts lay elsewhere, in writing and theatre. But nonetheless, her sketchbooks inspired me deeply, and I have since kept the habit of sketching. Not all that often, sometimes so badly I have to throw the paper in the trash out of sheer shame, but frequently enough to have a sketchbook I can leaf through.
So here are a few.I'll give little explanations along the way, because I'm a writer and I can't help associating those images with words, memories and sometimes stories.

Jimi Hendrix -From Electric Ladyland album photograpy. I was listening to the album on the beat-up cd player in the Henn House, Fillmore Street, Bethlehem. It was my first year of apprenticeship at Touchstone. No internet to distract me, possibly Lehigh students screaming in the background. Zach in or out, Michael cooking. 



Ray Lamontagne, Till the Sun Turns Black album cover. Probably drawn the same night. I had just discovered Ray Lamontagne's music after having heard a lot about him. One of the first second hand cd's I ever bought on amazon. 

These were characters I wanted to write: Claire et Aurélien. But I felt the need to draw them instead. I wasn't basing my work on photos or previous drawings. But when I looked at what I had done, I realized these characters looked a bit like my French grandparents. Especially the man. Perhaps the similarities are only in my head. It doesn't really matter. 
                                                 

When John Updike died, they published a striking picture of him in the New York Times. It was all contrasts, very luminous and soulful. I tried to find that quality again in the drawing, but I made his face a bit too wide. 

Study of a hat, based on a real hat that I own (different color, but same shape). I was trying to understand volume, and wean myself out of drawing from pictures. 

Jacques Prévert, qui me toise - ce visage ancré sur la couverture de l'édition folio de Paroles. 

Ma grand-mère et une amie, à Kersiny, Bretagne. Je n'ai pas réussi à convier la perfection de la journée, le soleil éclatant, etc. Mais bon, il faut bien commencer quelquepart... 

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.

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

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.