Below are the 10 most recent journal entries recorded in the "mytyltyltyl" journal:
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How I'd forgotten how I love the ancient world like loving|
to play hopscotch.
Beauty in thought.
In their thought.
In their thinking, and making.
What I mean is I was reading a Le Monde insert that they have on Saturdays so that it's more expensive to buy and I forgot this, and the woman at the Tabac said : 2 euro 50. And I wasn't thinking of what she said I just gave her my 2 euro piece expecting it to be 1 euro 30 as usual and then there was the pause. Pause. 2 euro 50, she said again in the same pitch. Pause. I don't think of what numbers mean the French tell me as they ring me up because I have great difficulty thinking in numbers, calculating numbers, reading numbers in French. When people want to shock me with a statistic I'm always thinking : Oh god, here it comes, they're going to tell me a number that's supposed to mean something to me and then I'm not going to have the right reaction because I don't know if it's supposed to shock me good or shock me back. I often get the reaction wrong. But anyway.
Finally I realized. And felt like a scoundrel, as often I feel here as often I feel like they are slowly coming to detect my foreignness and then I am suspicioning what that will mean to them. They've got a culture, you know.
I am a suspicious smart person. I don't say it as boasting but just a fact of how difficult maneouvering an be when being like this.
I mean I was reading the article on a book from this weekly Le Monde magazine and it was on a book by an Italian that was on the Greeks and how his short essay moved me. How the philosophy, moved me.
I was in the kitchen on my floor - that's the fourth floor to the French and the fifth floor to you Americans (and me) - waiting I don't know for water to boil, and had the article, barefoot, prancing around with my face to the article, moving with each word, to get it all right, but there looking out the dark window. And steam in the room - which is two sinks and four hotplates a big window and an old heating unit. Catching my reflection and thinking : maybe someone could love me. Thinking, maybe someone could love me.
"At first I cursed her like somebody in the Bible curses his whorish wife. 'May she keep her miscarrying womb and dry breasts.' But now I look at it like this: she had tied herself to the wrong future." - Bernard Malamud, The Fixer
Let's talk about men.|
"Oh, how often does she long to approach him with alluring words and make soft prayers to him! But her nature forbids this, nor does it permit her to begin; but as it allows, she is ready to await the sounds to which she may give back her own words." - of Echo
I've got a notion. I've got two players in that notion. One is stationed in a restaurant and the other in a library. I will only be doing my business but that their locations are convenient to my businesses. Sometimes the lady must be passively persistent, sometimes aggresively. Right now I'm passing my time pertly aware yet calmly contained. I come to prefer in my observations one to the other but not enough time is given to decide. Touch-down must happen or new arrivals must come. I am not worried, I have business to do.
As once I once read : follow your passion and love with come to you, or something.
I've got business.
It didn't feel right to stream-of-consciousness on my other LJ.|
What was I thinking? Is this the wrong place? I'm thinking of disposible cups of coffee and the New York Times. I'm thinking of the immigrant mentality. I always wondered why if a person left their home because the conditions were so bad they would miss it once they had settled into their new refuge. I knew that there was something to understand, I don't mean to say that it is silly for a person to miss a homeland torn-apart. But it goes against logic. It made my insides hurt. It made my insides grasp my other insides. I knew I had something to understand. The United states is a land of importation. We can find anything, we can have anything. Maybe all lands are lands of importation. It is in the veins of all the trade routes through history. And this has always been one of my greatest interests. Trade. Strange things. Imported things. To try to know the world outside, but still living in my world. The United States. Now I am outside of it. I am in the traditions. It's not just mean hearing about what the French do, or the Europeans, or any other culture I am close to by being close to those in my classes from those cultures. It is here. It is not imported. I am learning how to live by living, not learning how to live my learning.
But I miss the coffees, that feeling during classes when the coffee machine of the Starbucks is buzzing in the Union, the New York Times. I had nothing imperative for me to do. But there was the possibility of learning about the world. I felt like there was the world there. I miss that moment. I don't know where to go to get that moment now. I want to feel the world again in the coffee and the paper and the buzzing. That was last I fell in love.
It is the new year. I am on my bed in Ralston. Had only a half glass of champagne with mom earlier. Leave tomorrow. Wish could leave more luggaging behind. But don't know what else can. Oh please oh please let me wake up in time to henna. There is too much to learn and I anticipate learning it, having to, being face-smacked. Maybe life would have been easier had I been less prone to social anxiety/less apt to folding self away. I mean YOU don't have to go through all this learning to brace and bear it and get through the necessary interaction. Your life has been pretty great hasn't it! Happy New Year! However, you are probably not so slicingly observant as me. So - so.
"Men who have sex with men."|
Forms for preparation for the abroad departure. Health vaccinations. Hep-A. Looking with my mother. - Becky, we didn't get this, she said.
Look at each other, me thinking : aw fuck naw. My mother thinking : I don't know, but I knew that if she felt I really should get it she would stall my whole day for me to go to the doctor. But she then read the list of those for whom it is especially recommended.
"Men who have sex with men." Read aloud, my mom, "Don't have sex with men," she told me. She looked at me, smiling nervously urgently, "Don't have sex!" she said releasing her fears. "No sex! Hung and kiss, but no sex!"
Later in the day from that moment, and earlier from me writing this, I was bra shopping at JCPenn(e?)y's. I equally hate and love bra shopping. It's tedious, all the little hangers, and in my nature I can't just let them fall around the changing room after I leave, I have to reassemble them so perfectly as I can. Fucking, tedious. And so many more misses than hits.
I love it.
In the way that I buy underwear when I'm stuck in a phase. In the way that I change my hair at the transition between phases. I love to hunt for the closest-to perfection, the closest-to love. I do this with lipsticks too.
I mean not to give you the wrong idea, I am no seductress. But I am in love with color and womanlies and applying these to my life, a life that is otherwise quite blunt and square and boyish.
So I was browsing, after having handed off my reassembled post-tried-on bras to an attendant, who had eyes so green they frightened me, and a very sternness about her that also frightened me. So I was scrutinizing the brassieres, crouched on my haunches real low to look at the sizes (38B) and I felt someone walk by me so I jerked my neck as a reflex to see who, and then I was on the ground tights-covered legs splayed to the attendant lady and her what-seemed-to-be friend as they chatted at the side. She already made me flustered. I didn't have anything to say. I said : "Oh!" Sitting there. Goofy. Bewildered. The ladies were looking at me. "It gets kind of tight in there!" She said. I felt slightly like a carpet stain.
"And the love
and the love
we spurn, will never grow
cold, oh, only ta-
Something you don't need to read, something I don't need to write.|
I am free, my grades are in. I have no semester tidbits to handle. It's just, done. I have no application process. I just need to pack up. I need to return the library books and CDs. I need to find them. I have a few more things to hand off. Umbrella. Mascara. Soap. Henna. Call bank. Make transaction. Check account. New checks. Still no reply of host lady.
I will need a new job when I return. I will need new apartment. Will I have to break the lease if I can only get it for a year and am able to do the assistantship next year? Or will it be the year after that? Will I graduate in December, and if am able to apply and be accepted to the teaching-French assistant program, if I am accepted will it be for. . . when? How long will I have in Lincoln? And if/when I'm not accepted? What do I have out there for me? I hope to earn a DELF/DALF certificate while in France, to boost my résumé to be able to use my French in a future job. But if/when there is not a job for me? How can I repay my loans?
I stopped writing once the semester stopped. This is because I was taking writing class, and no longer had the need. But i felt it. I felt the writing when I was doing it. And I feel it absolutely not now. Because all during this time off feeling the writing, I was also feeling insufficient. That I had not learned enough to be able to have something to write about. Finger paintings. That's what I kept thinking. My writing right now iis still just finger-painting. I have not read enough. I have not learned enough. I have not seen enough. I have not experienced. Felt. I have imagined, and I have wondered. Maybe when I come back I'll have the fuel. But right now I can't, don't want to, don't need to. I need to to be thoroughly felt, real, and round. There is much I need to read and experience. I have only had notions.
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