transitions.

So…I haven’t put up a blog post since the middle of november OCTOBER.
Oops?
I’m back in the states now, by the way.
Not that I didn’t do anything between then and december…

Quite the opposite.

I helped a friend through a difficult break-up (if such a thing is possible,
that is; does one ever really “get over” someone?), went to some museums, had a
brief scary incident with a nicely-dressed but tempermental frenchman, had more
awkward/unwilling sex/dating talks with the french fam, saw movies with good
friends, did christmas shopping, ate churros, went ice skating, saw a play, took
some intense exams, rode on a giant elephant machine thing that runs on
hydraulics, performed in a play (in french, yes), read books (french and
english)…in short, life happened.

And that was BEFORE I went to paris.
Whew.
My aunt monique lives a little ways outside the city limits, and most of the
week I was there I took the train into the city and did whatever I wanted to do.
By myself. It was great. With the loads of snow that arrived on day 2 (rare for
paris) that was a bit limited, but hey, Paris!
I did museums, mainly. Music, the arab world, modern art…I’m a nerd, and it
was awesome. I also explored the majority of the ginormous Pere Lachaise
cemetery, making a friend in the process, and finally got to the inside of the
palace at Versailles (last year, I only saw part of the gardens outside).

And then, suddenly, I was on a plane headed home. Strange. I’m still getting
used to this country that speaks english and depends so heavily on both the car
and fast-food (I’m now convinced that the new burger king cupholder-shaped fry
cartons are both ingenious and deadly), and I suspect it will take perhaps as
long to readjust as it did to adjust to france…which I never fully did in the
first place. I think I’m “doomed” to forever be between 2 cultures, and honestly
I’m okay with this. It’s who I am. I’d already explored this concept in a poem I
wrote for a class last year, and now I believe in it more strongly than ever.
I also suspect that not all the effects/consequences/repercussions of this
semester abroad will be immediately evident, and that it will be one of those
life events I’ll look back on when I’m older as being something formative. I’d
like to know what my other friends who’ve done study abroad think about this.
Right now, most of the changes in me feel superficial. For example, a meal
without bread and then cheese following the entree is missing two crucial
elements. I have now fully embraced both straight-leg and skinny jeans. And I
resent the car-centric nature of transportation here (with the exception of new
york and to an extent chicago, DC, yes, I know).

But I am so ready to see my t-town people again. I expect shrieking from certain
people, and hugs from all. Having a good phone again has been a lifesaver this
nearly 2 weeks, but I’ve always been “quality time” focused, and texts can only
fill so much of that 4-month long hole I had.

So, with that, the “rachel went to france” blog has come to a close. By no means
will it end–france will always be in my heart–but where my life takes me is
the next journey. Before I get too existential, I bid those who have followed my
wee adventure a sort of farewell and hello. I’ll see some of you very soon.

P.S.: i totally typed this whole thing out on my blackberry while i was on the road. my thumbs were a bit sore afterwards.

Rachel

never stick your knife in the jam.

hellooooooooooo readers!

this week, my blog is coming straight from my journal. i had a four-page spurt on saturday that i think is actually fit for public consumption. well, that sounds presumptuous, but whatevs.

since it’s coming from a place that is usually just for my eyes, i rambled…about a few different subjects. france is in there too, i promise, but i’m going to try and edit as little as possible. in this aspect, i hope to preserve the stream-of-consciousness style that i somehow did without trying. i will italicize things that didn’t add up to complete thoughts, or things that sound like the first draft of a poem.

[end of explanation. start of rachel-thought.]

sometimes, like now, i feel like english words will erupt from me like a foul foreign vomit, and that i must do something, anything, to get them out or get them to fade. it’s strange.

i do like it here, but at the house i feel like every move is nearly calculated, but never quite reaching a whole number. i am a remainder of something, a .”33 repeating,” much messier than the deceiving simplicity of “one-thirds.” i take to some french things easily, adding some white to my violet to lessen the effect of rachel. other times it is not enough and i’m still washed-out and country-less.

i feel like i have utterly changed from holding french like a sort of gift to that part of my brain, precious pearls i will wear with my heels to make a delicious roast in my kitchen, to an anglophile once more, staunch, c.s. lewis the ghostly high king and epperson his willing prime minister. i do not know how to fix this and feel infinitely lucky to be here, especially with all the issues with paperwork, money, long-stay visa…i will only fully appreciate it when i am far away, when i have left behind two more pointless crushes in this country and attempt to carry only experiences in my heart, not any boys.

i am moving and still, on an airport sidewalk that takes me past different people but to the same place each time…

why am i not happier? rare are the times when i wake and praise God for being in this country that i do not love any less than i did before, but differently, and with a certain power that’s overcome the initial charm. i feel the weight of centuries. each rock looks ancient, and anything related to my true personality, spontaneous, free, young, happy, silly, feels misplaced somehow.

i am less french and more so. unexplainable in the slightest. i reach for big familiars since i must change small particulars into big unfamiliars.

measured, as if each step will make bread, and one extra will burn down the kitchen.

i feel like i’ve kept procrastinating something i don’t know how to do. i need a class to write with inspiration, while i never pledge such a thing while actually taking such a class. i pride myself on a few select pieces and reject the rest as evidence of youth and the lack of talent i surely have. evidence of something inevident. i have too many thoughts to do anything else, but i must learn, put off, surely i am mediocre at best…

and boys. to admit anything on paper feels like a defeat, and yet without some sort of XY-chromosome related problem i wouldn’t fully be rachel…again.

maybe this is what is called an existential crisis. i don’t know how much of myself is american, how much is young, how much is evidently/constantly battling some sort of shallow love, and how much is the lovable rachel that i can keep. i’ve thought that i know myself, and this is why i know certain things would be “bad for me.” but this? i do not know the answer. i’m supposed to grow up, become serious, learn wife things like cooking and house chores, get a job and be productive…but i find the state of my heart and soul more important than a lot of other things. really. i don’t know why i just realized this, or why it feels so important. feels. everything feels. i’m not bipolar, or at least not dangerously so, but this world is such an onslaught on the heart and soul, i am sure. and at once delightfully fulfilling.

push and pull, push and pull…

i’m twenty years old. most everyone’s parents, mine included, had kids in their twenties. the idea that i will leave this decade with a husband and at least one half-rachel, half-unknown child…hell, even five years from now…it feels as impossible as the simple fact that a sun lightyears away gives this earth life and light, thanks to a God who prearranged everything with His perfect, delicate hands.

how has it occurred that this little heart of mine has felt emotions so strong as a young girl?
how is it that i am content and not content at all to be alone/not alone (well, not really in the true sense of the word, i know) and cry at songs because of past associations and people and a ltitle heart that just wants to be loved?
how is it that i find it much more dangerous to fall for (boy 1) and (boy 2) with this little heart of mine than to engage in “worldly” activities?

love: true. something true. literary and magnificent. a love musical, not of the perfectly harmonized, but messy, always in progress, never finished, nevertheless the most beautiful sound that exists. yes. delicate bare-bones piano melodies. sweeping grandiose symphonies. simplistic intimate guitar. oceanic sound of rock with the undercurrent of passion.

[so there it is. raw rachel. comment if you will.]

oh, by the way: never stick your knife in the jam. only a spoon. if you dare to put a knife in, this is a near-capital offense and you will feel stupid for ever being nonchalant in your selection of utensils to use for your half-awake morning toast.