(The last entry transcribed from my journal.)
I've always thought of "peace" as sort of synonymous with "still". And I don't mean still as in quiet and restful and whispering, the way a breeze is still. More like stagnant, unfluid, heavy, constant... the way a mucky, algae-infested pond is still.
I realise this sounds screwy when said aloud (or written as the case may be), but there it is. I've always thought that the concept of meditation, for example, was an awfully dull practice... like just sort of plopping yourself in that muck and waiting for the algae to gather on you.
Instead I think I've decided that Peace is more like street lights on water.
Dancing and yet constant, fluid and yet repetitious, unwavering and yet ethereal, fluttering and yet persistent in the way that light is always persistent in piercing a dark space.
Or something like that.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
On all I really need.
(This is another excerpt from my paper journal, written on the deck of my lovely little boat, which, once I found the blasted thing, was an absolutely fantastic time, by the way.)
"When I get lonely these days, I think: so BE lonely, Liz. Learn your way around loniliness. make a map of it. Sit with it, for once in your life. Welcome to the human experience!"
I loved that.
The funny thing is though, I'm not really lonely anymore. At least, not in the way I think of loneliness. Not like those last few days in Spain before mom came and rescued me. I'm alone, sure... but lonely? Not really. Truthfully I'd probably turn down any offers of company right now, as I kind of already have. It's kind of fluff company anyway. I mean logically, I probably should be. I'm sitting here lounging on the deck of my little boat as it's docked in the Antwerp harbor, which once I was without my suitcase was really quite adorable. I'm even warming to cobblestones again. The sun is setting and the breaze is gentle and the harbor lights are refelcting awfully expressionistically off of the water and every person sitting out here is paired off in a couple or in a merry sort of big group. I can't see a single soul by themselves, except me.
But quite honestly... that's kind of fine with me right now.
That has to be proof positive that I'm changing, right? There's no way I could have written that sentence three weeks ago.
After dinner I had my day bag with my i-Pod, my Palm Pilot, the lovely Liz Gilbert book, my sketchbook, this journal, and my favorite pen... and I thought to myself, "ok, I need my box of chocolates, and a sweater."
And then it hit me that that's pretty much all I need right now. Chocolate, a sweater, and the contents of my little bag. And that's pretty much been my night, here in this lounge chair, and I've been as happy as a clam... and I guess clams really must be happy old souls for that expression to have lasted so long.
So I think I'm making progress. And plus, I'm doing nothing here, and pretty much loving it, so I guess I'm sort of killing to stones with one bird. (That one was for you, Lea.)
All in all, this boat has turned out to be a great thing, despite my awful little adventure. To quote my new favorite book, "Because God never slams a door in your face withought opening a box of Girl Scout cookies."
"When I get lonely these days, I think: so BE lonely, Liz. Learn your way around loniliness. make a map of it. Sit with it, for once in your life. Welcome to the human experience!"
I loved that.
The funny thing is though, I'm not really lonely anymore. At least, not in the way I think of loneliness. Not like those last few days in Spain before mom came and rescued me. I'm alone, sure... but lonely? Not really. Truthfully I'd probably turn down any offers of company right now, as I kind of already have. It's kind of fluff company anyway. I mean logically, I probably should be. I'm sitting here lounging on the deck of my little boat as it's docked in the Antwerp harbor, which once I was without my suitcase was really quite adorable. I'm even warming to cobblestones again. The sun is setting and the breaze is gentle and the harbor lights are refelcting awfully expressionistically off of the water and every person sitting out here is paired off in a couple or in a merry sort of big group. I can't see a single soul by themselves, except me.
But quite honestly... that's kind of fine with me right now.
That has to be proof positive that I'm changing, right? There's no way I could have written that sentence three weeks ago.
After dinner I had my day bag with my i-Pod, my Palm Pilot, the lovely Liz Gilbert book, my sketchbook, this journal, and my favorite pen... and I thought to myself, "ok, I need my box of chocolates, and a sweater."
And then it hit me that that's pretty much all I need right now. Chocolate, a sweater, and the contents of my little bag. And that's pretty much been my night, here in this lounge chair, and I've been as happy as a clam... and I guess clams really must be happy old souls for that expression to have lasted so long.
So I think I'm making progress. And plus, I'm doing nothing here, and pretty much loving it, so I guess I'm sort of killing to stones with one bird. (That one was for you, Lea.)
All in all, this boat has turned out to be a great thing, despite my awful little adventure. To quote my new favorite book, "Because God never slams a door in your face withought opening a box of Girl Scout cookies."
On truffles and lightning bolts.
So here's irony for you...
Shortly after I left the previously mentioned park bench, still pondering peace and rest and all of these nice little tranquil thoughts like a regular old Dalhi Llama... I wandered into THE most stressful day I've experienced since a rather infamous episode involving a Thai Buddhist temple when I was 13.
The next portion of my trip, beginning in Brussels, was a trip on a kind of backpacker's cruiseline. It was something mom found back in the Spring and had sounded like a really cool change of pace. The plan was to embark in Brussels, and then travel up the canals, stopping in Antwerp, Rotterdam, and ending in Amsterdam. It had a great website, good deals, and looked really cute. Speakin' my language, right? Well...
I picked up my luggage from my hostel, got a cab, and gave the driver the only sort of direction they had given me on the website... the name of what I assumed was the port. Except that every person I mentioned this plan to in Brussels responded with the bewildered head-scratching of "we have canals?" Not exactly inspiring stuff. After an initial round of confusion, the driver seems to remember what I'm talking about, and takes me off into what would've been the backwoods of Brussels, if Brussels indeed had had woods. And then he drops me off along the water, at what looks to me to be an awful lot of abandoned warehouses and not a bit like a passenger boat's port. But then hey, what do I know, right? So he confidently points me in the direction that I gather I'm supposed to find this thing, and I set off, wheeling my little bag on the cobblestones doubtfully. But of course... there is no boat in sight. Nor is there anything that vaguely resembles a port, or a dock, or a mooring, or any other of those friendly seafaring words. Oh no. What there ARE a full supply of are leery old men hanging out by the water and piles of what looks like cement in sort of wharf areas. And one very confused little girl.
Finally, after about twenty minutes I saw the sign for an official port office. Perfect! So I wander in and politely explain to little receptionist my plight. And she just as politely points me towards the left... which, to my naive little eye, holds nothing but more piles of cement and warehouses as far as the eye can see. But she's ADAMANT that that is the way I need to walk... so walk I do. And I KEEP walking. For TWO HOURS I keep walking. On cobblestones. With my little suitcase. Not really because my confidence is building or anything, but merely because I can't really think of what else to do. Meanwhile... somewhere around an hour and a half or so into this little stroll I'm get rather desperate... and I literally say the words, "well, at least it can't get any worse." I mean, I really said them. Out loud. To no one. And I swear, FIVE seconds later lightning flashes in the sky, IMMEDIATELY followed by a booming crash. I promise. The funny thing is, as the first drops began to pelt down seconds later, my first thought was strangely, "aw man, nobody is gonna believe this!"
So I stood in a doorway for twenty or so minutes waiting for the worst of it to pass, meanwhile bargaining with myself not to cry... "if you manage not to start tearing up, you can eat the WHOLE box of those yummy chocolates when all of this is over! I won't even make you feel guilty afterward!"
Finally I abandoned the waterside, and decided to walk towards civilization of any kind. The variety of civilization I found, however, was apparently Brussels' enormous North African and highly Muslim neighborhood... full of even more leering old men, and women covered from head to toe. Meanwhile, I'm of course NOT covered from head to toe, and currently soaking wet. Perfect.
Anyway, skipping ahead past some very confused direction-asking, a very long bus ride, a saint of a bus-driver, and a subway connection after that... I found myself... now get this... RIGHT BACK WHERE I STARTED. This time, I turned right, instead of left.
Later I discovered that had I turned right instead of left to begin with, I would have found myself at where the boat was supposed to be. I say supposed to because no matter which direction I turned that day, I wasn't ever gonna find that darn thing, because it wasn't there. I discover this fact after a VERY amusing 45 or so minute long interaction with some adorably sweet old Flemish boatmen, who tried everything they could, despite not being able to understand a word I said, to help me in my distress, including inviting me into their homes for dinner with their families.
Finally, a grand total of three hours after I began this mess, my angel arrived in the form of an American girl from Georgia staying at a hostel up the street who spoke lovely French, and helped translate me for my sweet Flemish benefactors. Finally she realized what it was I was trying to do and broke back into English, "oh! EasyCruise! Two girls from my hostel were doing that... they found out that the boat had to skip Brussels and they took a train to meet it in Antwerp an hour ago!"
So, one VERY frustrated call to customer service later, I was on a train to Antwerp, thinking that all of my cares were left behind in those piles of cement. I even allowed myself a chocolate.
Of course, as it would turn out, I would wander around the Antwerp harbor for another two hours, in an equally abandoned state of frustrated confusion, rolling my poor bag over ANOTHER set of cobblestones. And to think, I used to think cobblestones were CHARMING! Never again. Did I mention that by this point the sun was setting?
It would take ANOTHER set of sweet old boatmen (Netherlandish, this time) and a German guy who lived on houseboat to physically walk me to this mysterious cruise (which up until the time I walked on board was ANYTHING but Easy) to actually find the blasted thing.
As I collapsed onto my cabin bed at 10 PM, (remember now I started this thing at 3) the last thing I remember thinking was, "well, this is gonna be one heck of a story."
Shortly after I left the previously mentioned park bench, still pondering peace and rest and all of these nice little tranquil thoughts like a regular old Dalhi Llama... I wandered into THE most stressful day I've experienced since a rather infamous episode involving a Thai Buddhist temple when I was 13.
The next portion of my trip, beginning in Brussels, was a trip on a kind of backpacker's cruiseline. It was something mom found back in the Spring and had sounded like a really cool change of pace. The plan was to embark in Brussels, and then travel up the canals, stopping in Antwerp, Rotterdam, and ending in Amsterdam. It had a great website, good deals, and looked really cute. Speakin' my language, right? Well...
I picked up my luggage from my hostel, got a cab, and gave the driver the only sort of direction they had given me on the website... the name of what I assumed was the port. Except that every person I mentioned this plan to in Brussels responded with the bewildered head-scratching of "we have canals?" Not exactly inspiring stuff. After an initial round of confusion, the driver seems to remember what I'm talking about, and takes me off into what would've been the backwoods of Brussels, if Brussels indeed had had woods. And then he drops me off along the water, at what looks to me to be an awful lot of abandoned warehouses and not a bit like a passenger boat's port. But then hey, what do I know, right? So he confidently points me in the direction that I gather I'm supposed to find this thing, and I set off, wheeling my little bag on the cobblestones doubtfully. But of course... there is no boat in sight. Nor is there anything that vaguely resembles a port, or a dock, or a mooring, or any other of those friendly seafaring words. Oh no. What there ARE a full supply of are leery old men hanging out by the water and piles of what looks like cement in sort of wharf areas. And one very confused little girl.
Finally, after about twenty minutes I saw the sign for an official port office. Perfect! So I wander in and politely explain to little receptionist my plight. And she just as politely points me towards the left... which, to my naive little eye, holds nothing but more piles of cement and warehouses as far as the eye can see. But she's ADAMANT that that is the way I need to walk... so walk I do. And I KEEP walking. For TWO HOURS I keep walking. On cobblestones. With my little suitcase. Not really because my confidence is building or anything, but merely because I can't really think of what else to do. Meanwhile... somewhere around an hour and a half or so into this little stroll I'm get rather desperate... and I literally say the words, "well, at least it can't get any worse." I mean, I really said them. Out loud. To no one. And I swear, FIVE seconds later lightning flashes in the sky, IMMEDIATELY followed by a booming crash. I promise. The funny thing is, as the first drops began to pelt down seconds later, my first thought was strangely, "aw man, nobody is gonna believe this!"
So I stood in a doorway for twenty or so minutes waiting for the worst of it to pass, meanwhile bargaining with myself not to cry... "if you manage not to start tearing up, you can eat the WHOLE box of those yummy chocolates when all of this is over! I won't even make you feel guilty afterward!"
Finally I abandoned the waterside, and decided to walk towards civilization of any kind. The variety of civilization I found, however, was apparently Brussels' enormous North African and highly Muslim neighborhood... full of even more leering old men, and women covered from head to toe. Meanwhile, I'm of course NOT covered from head to toe, and currently soaking wet. Perfect.
Anyway, skipping ahead past some very confused direction-asking, a very long bus ride, a saint of a bus-driver, and a subway connection after that... I found myself... now get this... RIGHT BACK WHERE I STARTED. This time, I turned right, instead of left.
Later I discovered that had I turned right instead of left to begin with, I would have found myself at where the boat was supposed to be. I say supposed to because no matter which direction I turned that day, I wasn't ever gonna find that darn thing, because it wasn't there. I discover this fact after a VERY amusing 45 or so minute long interaction with some adorably sweet old Flemish boatmen, who tried everything they could, despite not being able to understand a word I said, to help me in my distress, including inviting me into their homes for dinner with their families.
Finally, a grand total of three hours after I began this mess, my angel arrived in the form of an American girl from Georgia staying at a hostel up the street who spoke lovely French, and helped translate me for my sweet Flemish benefactors. Finally she realized what it was I was trying to do and broke back into English, "oh! EasyCruise! Two girls from my hostel were doing that... they found out that the boat had to skip Brussels and they took a train to meet it in Antwerp an hour ago!"
So, one VERY frustrated call to customer service later, I was on a train to Antwerp, thinking that all of my cares were left behind in those piles of cement. I even allowed myself a chocolate.
Of course, as it would turn out, I would wander around the Antwerp harbor for another two hours, in an equally abandoned state of frustrated confusion, rolling my poor bag over ANOTHER set of cobblestones. And to think, I used to think cobblestones were CHARMING! Never again. Did I mention that by this point the sun was setting?
It would take ANOTHER set of sweet old boatmen (Netherlandish, this time) and a German guy who lived on houseboat to physically walk me to this mysterious cruise (which up until the time I walked on board was ANYTHING but Easy) to actually find the blasted thing.
As I collapsed onto my cabin bed at 10 PM, (remember now I started this thing at 3) the last thing I remember thinking was, "well, this is gonna be one heck of a story."
On Wading in Rest.
(The following is an exerpt from my paper journal, since I couldn't get to an internet place while I was in Brussels.)
I've spent two hours now sitting here, on a bench in the tree-dappled sunlight, streams of French rushing around me, blending with the water of this fountain dedicated to goodness-knows-who, in this plaza honoring goodness- knows-what. The accordianist down the block is playing "Besame" for the third time since I've been sitting here. The wind is playing havoc with the Flemish flag on that building over there and my hair with equal greedy glee. And I'm at peace.
That is, in the moments I can manage to force myself to stop feeling guilty about that fact.
Technically speaking, I should probably be interning in an office somewhere right now, bringing someone their coffee... or working a summer job like a responsible student... or something. Right? Instead I've been sitting here in this square all afternoon doing literally nothing... and oh my gosh, the accordianist just switched to the Chicken Dance Song and I really wish I was lying.
Liz Gilbert, my new best friend, talks an awful lot about that in this book (if this sentence doesn't make sense to you, read the post below). The trip I'm attempting to do in two months she did in twelve, and the first four of those were in Italy, basically just to force herself to address the issue of being allowed to experience pleasure for pleasure's sake, to get over all of this thoroughly American guilt at ever having a moment's stillness. She talks about how the Italians are the masters of il bel for niente, or "the beauty of doing nothing."
You'd think, growing up in the family that I did, which so values rest and peace and taking time out, that this wouldn't really be an issue for me... but I've found myself getting stuck on this a lot over the last few days, as I'm finding less and less "valid" reasons to justify the sort of unbridled fun I'm having.
I think that in addition to learning how to make friends with my loneliness I also need to learn how to recognise and wade in rest unapoligetically.
I think I'm sort of going to walk away from this adventure with a kind of manefesto of self-discovery. That sounds like the title of a bad self-help book, but I'm kind of excited about the way these things keep popping up.
I'm not really sure how to answer this question, but I'm enjoying this moment, and I think that's a good start.
I've spent two hours now sitting here, on a bench in the tree-dappled sunlight, streams of French rushing around me, blending with the water of this fountain dedicated to goodness-knows-who, in this plaza honoring goodness- knows-what. The accordianist down the block is playing "Besame" for the third time since I've been sitting here. The wind is playing havoc with the Flemish flag on that building over there and my hair with equal greedy glee. And I'm at peace.
That is, in the moments I can manage to force myself to stop feeling guilty about that fact.
Technically speaking, I should probably be interning in an office somewhere right now, bringing someone their coffee... or working a summer job like a responsible student... or something. Right? Instead I've been sitting here in this square all afternoon doing literally nothing... and oh my gosh, the accordianist just switched to the Chicken Dance Song and I really wish I was lying.
Liz Gilbert, my new best friend, talks an awful lot about that in this book (if this sentence doesn't make sense to you, read the post below). The trip I'm attempting to do in two months she did in twelve, and the first four of those were in Italy, basically just to force herself to address the issue of being allowed to experience pleasure for pleasure's sake, to get over all of this thoroughly American guilt at ever having a moment's stillness. She talks about how the Italians are the masters of il bel for niente, or "the beauty of doing nothing."
You'd think, growing up in the family that I did, which so values rest and peace and taking time out, that this wouldn't really be an issue for me... but I've found myself getting stuck on this a lot over the last few days, as I'm finding less and less "valid" reasons to justify the sort of unbridled fun I'm having.
I think that in addition to learning how to make friends with my loneliness I also need to learn how to recognise and wade in rest unapoligetically.
I think I'm sort of going to walk away from this adventure with a kind of manefesto of self-discovery. That sounds like the title of a bad self-help book, but I'm kind of excited about the way these things keep popping up.
I'm not really sure how to answer this question, but I'm enjoying this moment, and I think that's a good start.
Friday, June 22, 2007
NOW WITH PICTURES! - On Brussels
NOW WITH PICTURES!
It's a pretty obvious statement that every European country has a very unique culture, or soul. Saying France is like Germany is like comparing New York to Texas. So far, one of the things I've most enjoyed about my trip has been discovering the unique soul of that place... so of course this was the first thought on my mind as I landed in Brussels.
The thing is though, after an afternoon of wandering around this town I think I've decided something. While Spain is so very Spanish, & France is rather disgustingly French, Belgium is... European. Unlike anywhere else I've ever been in Europe, this place could really be... anywhere in Europe.
Every European city has the same cathedral...
In the same main square...
Each one has a row of houses so gaudy and pristine they could easily be made out of spun sugar and I don't think anyone would know the difference.
Each one has the same alley crammed full of fallafal stands and gyro shops.
Of course they also each have that dangerous avenue infested with little cafes equally inflated in ego and prices, with managers looming in the doorway.
The same accordianist is playing on the street corner, the same magnets dangle from the windows of the same tourist shop, and I swear, there is exactly one street artist on the whole continent, who just moves from plaza to plaza selling the same pen and ink sketches.
And really, that's pretty much Brussels, as I see it. Inately cute, and of course in every way charming, but in the way that everywhere in Europe is charming. I don't know if it's the EU influence, but I really can't tell you what Brussels itself is like, exactly. All the same though, if someone didn't have much time and wanted a whirlwind taste of Europe, I might just tell them to skip it and see Brussels.
I will say though, for all of its generic anomonimity, Belgium is very famous for five very concrete things. Mussels, beer, fries, waffles, and chocolate. Now... being that mussels are pretty much just mussels anywhere they're eaten and I'm not really a beer fan, I personally came here for the last three, and was determined to sample them.
I tackled the frites on my first night in the city, for dinner. Armed with information about the supposed best frites place in the city, I set out. I found myself at a kind of amazing little place called Fries in Friteland, with its burly owner standing in the doorway anouncing his superior fries in an accent that was way more Brooklyn than Belgian. I told him that I was at a loss by his intimidating menu of endless combinations of toppings and sauces, and I was putting my fate in his capable hands to give me his personal favorite.
What was handed to me five minutes later (after several proclaimations of, "no, no, no! For my new friend, more fries!" was THIS monstrousity:
Every ten minutes or so my new buddy would come out to check on me... presumably to make sure that I hadn't collapsed under the weight of the thing yet... and ask me proudly, "well... what do ya think? Better than White Castle?" And best of all was his look of proud admiration when I actually managed to finish the whole thing. Let's just say I was replete, as my mom would say.
The next morning I set out to accomplish my number two objective... Waffles! After finding myself supremely lost in the labrynth of Brussels streets, which have a habit of randomly changing names whenever they saw fit, I found the supposed best waffles place in the city two hours later, by shear stubborn nerve. But I think this was worth it:
By the way... I'm never eating at IHOP again.
Believe it or not, the most difficult for me to break down and buy, and I know no one who knows me is going to be able to believe this, was the chocolate. I tried to talk myself out of it... tried to convince myself that the little things they sold in the grocery stores was enough. But finally, on my last day in Brussels I just couldn't stand it any more... and I found myself walking into the most glamorous chocolaterie I could find and buying myself a decetant little box
which cost me, oh... as much as my hostel the night before. But I mean come on... LOOK at this:
And really, I'm in Brussels, right? I mean, wasn't this the reason I wanted to come to this silly place in the first place? And how could I honestly justify leaving without indulging in this sweet, sweet loveliness. I mean really... me obstain from chocolate?! I just couldn't.
So maybe it should be said that Brussels has quite a soul after all... it's just in edible form.
It's a pretty obvious statement that every European country has a very unique culture, or soul. Saying France is like Germany is like comparing New York to Texas. So far, one of the things I've most enjoyed about my trip has been discovering the unique soul of that place... so of course this was the first thought on my mind as I landed in Brussels.
The thing is though, after an afternoon of wandering around this town I think I've decided something. While Spain is so very Spanish, & France is rather disgustingly French, Belgium is... European. Unlike anywhere else I've ever been in Europe, this place could really be... anywhere in Europe.
Every European city has the same cathedral...
In the same main square...
Each one has a row of houses so gaudy and pristine they could easily be made out of spun sugar and I don't think anyone would know the difference.
Each one has the same alley crammed full of fallafal stands and gyro shops.
Of course they also each have that dangerous avenue infested with little cafes equally inflated in ego and prices, with managers looming in the doorway.
The same accordianist is playing on the street corner, the same magnets dangle from the windows of the same tourist shop, and I swear, there is exactly one street artist on the whole continent, who just moves from plaza to plaza selling the same pen and ink sketches.
And really, that's pretty much Brussels, as I see it. Inately cute, and of course in every way charming, but in the way that everywhere in Europe is charming. I don't know if it's the EU influence, but I really can't tell you what Brussels itself is like, exactly. All the same though, if someone didn't have much time and wanted a whirlwind taste of Europe, I might just tell them to skip it and see Brussels.
I will say though, for all of its generic anomonimity, Belgium is very famous for five very concrete things. Mussels, beer, fries, waffles, and chocolate. Now... being that mussels are pretty much just mussels anywhere they're eaten and I'm not really a beer fan, I personally came here for the last three, and was determined to sample them.
I tackled the frites on my first night in the city, for dinner. Armed with information about the supposed best frites place in the city, I set out. I found myself at a kind of amazing little place called Fries in Friteland, with its burly owner standing in the doorway anouncing his superior fries in an accent that was way more Brooklyn than Belgian. I told him that I was at a loss by his intimidating menu of endless combinations of toppings and sauces, and I was putting my fate in his capable hands to give me his personal favorite.
What was handed to me five minutes later (after several proclaimations of, "no, no, no! For my new friend, more fries!" was THIS monstrousity:
Every ten minutes or so my new buddy would come out to check on me... presumably to make sure that I hadn't collapsed under the weight of the thing yet... and ask me proudly, "well... what do ya think? Better than White Castle?" And best of all was his look of proud admiration when I actually managed to finish the whole thing. Let's just say I was replete, as my mom would say.
The next morning I set out to accomplish my number two objective... Waffles! After finding myself supremely lost in the labrynth of Brussels streets, which have a habit of randomly changing names whenever they saw fit, I found the supposed best waffles place in the city two hours later, by shear stubborn nerve. But I think this was worth it:
By the way... I'm never eating at IHOP again.
Believe it or not, the most difficult for me to break down and buy, and I know no one who knows me is going to be able to believe this, was the chocolate. I tried to talk myself out of it... tried to convince myself that the little things they sold in the grocery stores was enough. But finally, on my last day in Brussels I just couldn't stand it any more... and I found myself walking into the most glamorous chocolaterie I could find and buying myself a decetant little box
which cost me, oh... as much as my hostel the night before. But I mean come on... LOOK at this:
And really, I'm in Brussels, right? I mean, wasn't this the reason I wanted to come to this silly place in the first place? And how could I honestly justify leaving without indulging in this sweet, sweet loveliness. I mean really... me obstain from chocolate?! I just couldn't.So maybe it should be said that Brussels has quite a soul after all... it's just in edible form.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
On maps and things.
My week with my mother was so far beyond everything I could have asked from it. Afirming and encouraging and reassuring and challenging and plain old fun, and timely beyond all possible description. The only hard part of the whole week was forcing myself on to that train to Brussels by alone again.
Mom, ever prepared, came with a new book she wanted to read during her trip, and we decided to read it out loud to eachother. What followed turned out to be an introduction to my Map for this trip. Eat, Pray, Love, by Elizabeth Gilbert. I'm going to sum it up, badly, as a non-fiction story/diary/semi-memoir of a woman who's life falls apart in multiple ways and so she goes off to spend a year travelling, trying to figure out herself. That rather droll sentance does absolutely nothing to describe the absolute joy and pleasure and loveliness and profoundity and just plain fun of this book. This woman writes like everything I've always wanted to write like, and thinks (even admits to thinking) all of the thoughts I constantly struggle with. It's weird, but I've felt so inspired and encouraged and known as I've been reading about this woman working through a lot of the same thoughts and coming to many of the same conclusions as I am in this time.
I'm mentioning this now so that you'll be warned when I quote it. :)
On soaking in art.
Of course, it probably goes without saying that my main agenda in Paris were its museums... just as many as our poor, abused little feet could handle. And abuse them we did. We tore them up at the Orsey, bandaged them at the Orangeree, boogered them up again at the Rodin museum, and blistered them beyond recognition on a day trip to the gardens at Geverney... and let's not even mention the abuse issued at the Louvre.
At the end of my week in Paris everything below my ankles was wailing in agony, but my soul was so full, so uniquely and unmistakenly alive, so fed that it literally hurt. Anyone who has ever witnessed the strange spectical of me in a museum knows the sort of giddy, spastic, elated high I flow into after being saturated with so much beauty. Let's just say then that in Paris I soaked myself in it... I left there so saturated in art that my fingers might as well have been all pruny, for all I know.
Here is a smattering of shots from those lovely places. I'm sorry though... I just couldn't bring myself to do that awful touristy "and here's a picture of me in front of the Mona Lisa!" thing... so there are no pictures of the pieces themselves. You'll just have to take my word for the fact that I've seen 'em, I guess.
And by the way... the Mona Lisa really is a piddly little thing... it's really such a load of hullaballeoy hype that she's so darn famous.
Yikes, I better stop now before I get into an art rant. :)
At the end of my week in Paris everything below my ankles was wailing in agony, but my soul was so full, so uniquely and unmistakenly alive, so fed that it literally hurt. Anyone who has ever witnessed the strange spectical of me in a museum knows the sort of giddy, spastic, elated high I flow into after being saturated with so much beauty. Let's just say then that in Paris I soaked myself in it... I left there so saturated in art that my fingers might as well have been all pruny, for all I know.
Here is a smattering of shots from those lovely places. I'm sorry though... I just couldn't bring myself to do that awful touristy "and here's a picture of me in front of the Mona Lisa!" thing... so there are no pictures of the pieces themselves. You'll just have to take my word for the fact that I've seen 'em, I guess.
And by the way... the Mona Lisa really is a piddly little thing... it's really such a load of hullaballeoy hype that she's so darn famous.
Yikes, I better stop now before I get into an art rant. :)
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