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.
