briefly

coming up on my last day of work at tai sophia.

You're going to make someone very happy.
And fat.

Ron, front desk, after tasting one of my apple cinnamon granola and blueberry muffins.

i miss my spot on rue de lappe, dancing aggressive ballroom-style salsa with ray keller, ballet dancer extraordinaire and student at harvard, and eating late-night crêpes on the walk home.

my departure is approaching, and i'm not packed.

surprise.

two-faced

words from what seems a faraway past:

at times, hopeless romantic with a bitter aftertaste...
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early morning, 9 march 2005

i want to fall asleep by the light in his eyes
submerged forever skips of accordion slow
halting misguided and quaint shimmer of
silliness secret laughter impenetrable gazes
layered teeming with implications undiscovered
subtleties amidst the obvious melancholy despair
solidarity grandiose terms for something so small
escape to better warmer without glare on bleached
snow city streets rife with culture close crowds
misshapen from distortion by pop mania
subsisting surviving on cups of joe and the
occasionally frequent cigarette darkened by
fatigue general societal restlessness thinking
in metaphors dreaming in dirges split open
by half-truths sick lies bitter martyrdom
selling out for a better more miserable life
amongst the fakes fools fanatics forlorn
another acronym for another demise damn it all
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...at others, glumly sarcastic and frustrated.
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27 mai 2005 , just

pretend plastic wasn't it lovely
whizzing choreography dazzling technique
stolen dreams silent muted blues
offended hardly miffed and alone
those paid to invade other lives do they
find solace pleasure in their dirty work
or does it have a rancid aftertaste
every time distinctly the same
was it out of need boredom these few
scrawled words etched in steady ink
blabitiblah yada yada yada boom boom
oh how i wish all the cards would
fall down 52 card pickup of my life

every

"I know the answer! The answer lies within the heart of all mankind! The answer is twelve? I think I'm in the wrong building."

--Charles M. Schulz, afterthought to Dana Adam Shapiro's the every boy

i almost cried a tear when i finished this book. brilliant and brief, the sweet adolescence of shapiro's narrative hit me hard. i never had a henry every growing up. i always wondered about jonathan and wiley, if there was ever any truth in adolescent obsession. note-writing and furtive hand-holding in darkened hallways was as far as i ever got. danny stole an unmarked bottle of perfume from his mother, and nick made me a bookmark with a few school portraits and permanent marker hearts. when i hit age 11, i got braces and cut my hair, and the dreamy days of boys pining for my quick wit and loud mouth were over. they had wised up, grown out of me, and so i retreated into books i almost couldn't understand (portrait of an artist, too intellectual, secret garden, a former true favorite of mine, a bit mundane) and wrote blindly on lined pages.

henry wrote and color-coded his ledger - my entries are never as precise, nor as complex. i crave the expression of a written word, and so i write, not knowing what comes next.

"ratatouille," though it lagged at points, was simply delightful. the scene where he is chased along the seine reminds me of the night i tripped on a rat coming down some stairs with a certain someone. except the rat in the movie charmed the heck out of a gloomy, stubborn food critic. the one i saw just made me shudder.

teaching flute to caitlin this weekend, but this time i have a sweet ride, a silver honda fit. it still smells new, but it's half-mine. i keep it locked with a purple club that i hope will keep it from getting nicked in new york.

here's to discovering the smallest, darkest salsa clubs (that don't persist in playing crappy bachata and too much merengue) in new york city, and maybe an african dance studio specializing in congolese dance.

well,

the trip was stressful, but worth it. the place in rye is too beach-y for me, not to mention pricey, and sue is a career smoker. the apartment in tarrytown costs twice as much as i thought. 2 closets, king-size bed, private bathroom...i loved the place in north white plains, though, but doris hasn't called me back. i'm taking that as a not-good sign.

it looks like things are falling into place for transferring my credits from paris. perhaps i will receive my diplomas from oberlin come christmas...the most important thing, though, is that my transcript be sent to suny-purchase so i actually have proof that i completed my undergrad education.

for the audition for chamber placement, i'm thinking the first schumann romance and the 3rd movement of cpe bach's unaccompanied a minor sonata.


the covered-up blackboard wall at tai sophia resembles rothko's untitled (orange & yellow) (1956). david thinks another paint job will do the trick, but i think it looks rather...intellectual.

recently: water for elephants by sara gruen. she is brilliant, brilliant, brilliant at telling a story. i read it last night almost in one go.

so, so...

i leave for new york saturday morning. i have 3 apartments visits saturday and one on sunday morning. i'm pulling for the place in white plains - $400/month with 4-5 hours of french tutoring to an already bilingual (spanish/english) 4-year-old. perfect. even if i have to use a laundromat.

lunch with carol reggia today kicked *ass* : fresh guacamole (aguacate, cebolla rojo, tomate, ajo, zumo de lima), chorizo, black beans and rice (lesson = soak beans overnight) with a salsa soundtrack. dessert, brought by carol, mango with fresh lime juice and dark chocolate.

"stardust" premieres friday. the meeting point bookstore has gone under an extreme makeover, involving gondolas, which i assumed only referred to boats on the canals of venice, new paint jobs, and tearing down lots and lots of boxes of new textbooks. my workout of the day. ha ha. it wouldn't be so sad if it weren't true...

road trip! hopefully richard will burn me some regina spektor cds (her older ones), yo yo ma bach cello suites, perhaps some brahms violin sonatas, and india.arie's confessional, bien sur...

really?

so strange for a girl my age to like to cook? if i cook, sue said she'd do my laundry. $1000 is a little steep on rent, even if her ranch house in rye is near 2 beaches...so still no definitive news on apartments.

examples:

• today's lunch = half/half whole wheat/regular penne, sautéed bell pepper (red, yellow), onion, canadian bacon, garlic, parmesan cheese, made before i went to work in the morning;

• the salad i proposed to john = raw spinach, blueberries, toasted almonds + balsamic vinaigrette (olive oil, strong balsamic vinegar, mustard, salt, freshly ground black pepper)

i'm not bitter. i'm just deprived of close contact.

when i talk about living in paris, it seems like a few months of my life were on someone else's dime. maybe i didn't value the experience enough while i was living it, i don't know. i was too busy soaking up all that i could from all the different sources - sorbonne musicologie, michel fischer, michelet monde islamique, cat cantin, m-a letellier, pascal odille, cheminals, solano - that maybe i forgot to just be. to just exist, you know?

erin wang said recently that i paint with words. i avoid it sometimes because it hurts, but maybe that means i'm deconstructing something real.

vonnegut's welcome to the monkeyhouse is superb, and it gets me through the long days of work. that, and i put on trio medieval's stella maris album when there's barely anyone in the store. keeps me sufficiently entranced.