The Good Days

Today I stopped and journalled more than the two sentence scrawl which has been the extent of my dull entries to myself since I've been here. I realized in recounting these past two days, how my happiness is linked to the dynamic span of happenings in my days. Before leaving the logging camp we had to thoroughly scrub our industrial kitchen- removing burnt dinner bits off the stove floor, scrubbing out cabinet shelves, washing the walls, moping the floor, carting boxes of food from storage, trying to distinguish between the pans, garbage, and food items which are all packed (a bit idiotically) in to the same black bin bags. A full mornings labour and then quiet repose as the helicopter took trips of people from camp and the foremen and us remained to wait out the hauling of gear in an empty dining while the rain poured out side and we had nothing left with which to pass the afternoon except a deck of cards, a box and a half of Smarties from someone's pocket, and long rejected Grey Goose Vodka with tomato juice that we drank from paper bowls. Perched on the countertop, dirty and in soggy wollen socks, we relaxed in to our wait with the content sense of no work left to do, isolated in the middle of the forest, rest while time allowed. 

James was our sweet and interesting New Zealander helicopter pilot who flew us out. During the afternoons we'd talk about his time at boarding school, his visits to Dubai, flying for south asian fishing companies, and his wife and his happy settlement in to northern Canada. He gifted us with a bottle of respectable Aussi wine upon parting ways and I've never seen a more hilarious, merry drunk as he danced and did the twist for much of the last evening by himself. From our camp, he knew Lizzie and I were new to helicopter flying so he took us soaring through a high cliff river valley, the red rock rising around us and the muddy water below as we wove our way down the bends like the footage in Imax theatres. When we rose up over the trees, the mountainous plateaus stretched all around and the massive sky held huge, billowing clouds with dark rain in the east and golden sunlight pouring through from the west. As the landscape flattened out he brought the helicopter down to what felt like ground level and he hit full throttle, dead-ahead, racing along until the tree-line seemed seconds away from contact before the last minute rise that pulled us back over the trees. Brilliantly sweet ride. When we landed Lizzie and I spent the next couple hours slowly unloading heli-nets full of engines, tires, pipes, cans of food, luggage- tired, muddy, but enjoying the hard work and company of a few planters with whom we joked and ate oranges with on the flatbed trailer as we waited for the next load. Drove out in the rain, tired and content in the slow, comfortable conversation that happens when you work hard with people and share in exuastion of work that must be done. 

In Fort Nelson Lizzie and I salvaged up a new pair of shoes for me after mine were eaten by logging camp mud, and then spent much of the afternoon in Boston Pizza with our foremen who'd set up their office space, computers, printer and all on two tables in the corner until the restaurant eventually realized how insane it was that three men had effectively turned a portion of their restaurant in to a forestation office with faxes coming in and phone calls going out. We left crammed in to one truck, Lizzie and I sharing one seat in the back until the highway demanded seatbelts and I was sandwiched between two men, the dashboard and the radio system for four more hours on the road. We dozed, watched the scenery, spotted a bear and a black fox, debated satellite radio stations and eventually spent a hilarious couple hours playing twenty questions over the two-way radio. It was nothing short of brillianty fun and comfortable. You're dusty, tired, working hard, but enjoying the conversation and people in between. The guys would have some sort of trailer to hitch or piece of equipment to fix every few hours along the way, but then you sit and watch, munch an apple, and see if they can guess your 20 questions choice "thing" of "frustration." A portion of time was even spent playing "name the car part that you're saying in your made-up accent" and I discovered that "clock" can be quite effectively disguised as a chicken "cluck" sound. We stopped at the Saskwatch (monster) road stop along the way, the only sign of people on a nearly deserted stretch of highway between two "main" towns, and the restaurant was something between a British fish shop and your grandma's log house 70's living room, buffalo heads, fake flowers, electric pipe organ and all. We ate cereal on the couch and felt a bit odd about the episode of South Park on the tv. Peed behind the old building with the most spectaclar view you could ever afford of three loons on a lake, the sun shining through the late night rain (10 PM), mountains in the distance. We ran back to the truck as it began to pour and made it to our motel just past midnight where we rejoiced over our kitchennette, clean room, and purple towels. Here I stay.  

Logging Camp Mosquito Land

We’re now less than a hundred clicks away from the Norwest Territories in remotest, buggiest BC. The temperatures range from clouded sky blue to windy chilly and our logging camp is pretty much floating on a bog. Unfortunately, Lizzie and I no longer live outside so we spend very little time in direct daylight or washing planter dishes as the sun rises and sets. Fortunately, we’re inside all day and thus can control the flow of mosquitos that can make their way in to our kitchen and dining hall. On the break between shifts we tried to take an evening walk after washing up the dishes, putting away the food, wiping the counterspace- an attempt to “get outisde” and “out of the kitchen.” We lasted about a giggling 15 minutes as the mosquitos completely swarmed us, the muddy road clung to our shoes and the dogs went nuts over the bear spotted a few hours before right outside camp. We deemed the evening beautiful and came back to the dining hall. The pines here are dark and thin and the daylight is ever persistent- once again the night sky has not yet graced my eyes. We managed to truck out to our location over a three hour bumpy, rutted road (feeling new appreciation for those pioneers in covered wagons- we ourselves could do very little to conquer the deep muddy patches that could easily have stuck us). Since the rain the way is now unnegotiable by truck and the helicopter is our mode of transport.

I now approach each day’s meal with no planning except for a scan around the fridge and freezer and a general sense of what their tastes might fancy. I’m in a somewhat tricky position of trying to stretch certain ingredients that need to last us until we’re flown out- like milk, eggs, melons, lettuce, mayonnaise- while also use up whatever won’t last or will be a huge pain to sling back. I rather guiltily keep asking Lizzie to half the eggs called for in her baking recipes and I myself am looking for new, unique ways to secretly employ potatoes. For the meals I try to strike a balance between a number of interesting options, while also having one big hearty, meaty meal for those men who like to feel that they’re getting their daily slab of meat and not being fed by a namby pampy “healthy” vegetarian. It’s often hard to know what’s worth the time and effort when they get excited by breaded asparagus but then are happy to get a very simple ground beef cheese pie. I’m quite wary of potential complaint or malcontent so I do try to have a well balanced meal out of some fear rather than the pure joy of mixing up interesting things. I realized that my sense of planter and my employer’s expectations was contributing largely to my anxiety and its taken me a lot of time for me to start believing that almost everyone was trully happy with my cooking, my food bills weren’t extraordinarily high, and I could relax. Lizzie has the fun of simply baking delicious things that people find delightful, but I feel responsible if we run out of something or if someone is unhappy with what I’m cooking. Fortunately, Lizzie has been tremendously supportive in reminding me of how well things are going and in talking through my worries that are more of my own making than real.

I feel so lucky to be out here with Lizzie and to be living and talking and working with someone who I not only can stand 24/7, but enjoy and like and appreiciate immensely. We approach kitchen and cleaning work very much as a team and the other picks up the slack on days when one person is slow or just tired, we have the emotional “how are you” conversations when drained and in my case even teary, we discuss past life worries and trials, share ideas, and laugh at ourselves, our grubbyness and even been able to laugh when all seems at its worst (cake sagging and cracking, meatballs still red in the middle (two hours in the oven already!), mess on the floor, grumpy planters and piles of dishes.) People are kind though and we’re regularly greated with something to the degree of “so how are my two favourite people?” (we DO give them food) and been brought music as well as speakers for my laptop computer. Every supportive word is not taken in vain when their happiness and like of the food is quite important to me yet the tasks that we do can seem ridiculously huge for two people.

Finished in Wonowon

Yesterday we finished our first contract out of Wonowon, British Columbia and are leaving in a couple hours for farthest north Fort Nelson where we’ll be helicoptered out to a logging camp and cook for another nine days. We worked for eleven days straight from 4 to 9 everyday, and last night the comfort of the motel was unbeatable as I slept until the long late hour of seven O’clock and relished the bed, close toilet, shower, and quiet away from the generator. Last night I trecked across the highway with my laptop tucked under my arm, wool socks to my knees, and hot water and milk in hand and the sky was glimmering late night blue as the thin clouds stretched in late night sun above the trees that lined the Alaska highway. When the internet failed in our convience store/café that IS the town of Wonowon a few of us sat and drank a glass of wine in the pitstop that was our night’s perminance. Our camp was set up in a horse race ring so the fences and broken bleachers lent a cowboy-esque air to our days. When we woke in the mornings we’d trip out of our tent to gorgeous brilliant morning skies; the longest day of the year is today at 18 some hours which means that the light from the set sun lingers much longer in both morning and night.

I resent breakfast making because the fare involves many meaty options from sausage and bacon and eggs that mean I hover over heat and grease when I tend to be tired and hungry and grumpy to begin with. But I pull through and once Lizzie and I have cleaned up the kitchen for the morning, we sit outside with our own breakfast and chat and plan and laze for our half an hour that is our least rushed time of the day. In recent days I’ve been having more fun trying recipes and dinner meals that are much more in the style of my own creations and less standard camp fare and everyones happier because of it. I made a breaded cheese and jam block which was garnished with picked asparagus and pickles, along side four types of bean dips and three different kinds of salad (this was the accompaionment to the main taco bar selection for those meaty men.) My shepherds pie was a great success and my only regret in reflection is that I don’t remember how I made it.

I miss being out of touch with many of you when I have the hours to be actively missing, but the days are very full and Lizzie and are very happy despite our business and find the planters endearing and our foreman Guy very kind. We’ve had broken water pipes, broken generator (no power) and gasless stoves in some new mix every day. 

Planting Camp

We're in to our second shift having worked 7 days straight from 4AM until 9PM every night. I feel the need to announce that we're alive and well as I've failed to be in contact with anyone since our arrival. All is well in Alanna and Lizzie's world though and when exhaustion doesn't over take us the giggles do. The internet is magically up today in camp and I have found an empty hour while Lizzie plunks through the planting dishes and I rather guiltily cruise my inbox. Life is good: The bugs out here aren't here and other than the odd ankle nibble we've been unbothered by the insects known to torment planters. I drive a big honkin' truck when we go in to town and we feel suitably dirty and dishevelled if not a bit silly and pretentious- like the kid who can't believe their father handed them the car keys. Lizzie has been my encourager and constant companion in every task and we pray together, have great conversations in the kitchen, laugh and giggle constantly and are loving the great big sky, the freedom of our days and even manage to bear with chagrin the chores that fill the hours. I'm still working through some of the anxiety of getting full meals on the table every day- a physiological more than a practical battle which can be wearing when the work never stops. Tonight there shall be shepherds pie (veg alternative as well), rosemary sweet potatoes, herbed peas, rottini broccoli salad, apple spinach salad, three bean salad, pumpkin pie, and rhubarb pie (desserts compliments of Lizzie.) I just ran out to ask Lizzie "Want to finish later?" as she washes up the last of the cutlery in the pouring rain. Response- "Might as well finish, I'm already wet." Reasonable enough. 

My poor feet went from trench foot dampness after discovering that my one pair of shoes had a huge crack through both heels (old shoes not so great after all) and the mud puddles that I stood in all day where constant pools for damp feet. Since switching to flip flops a few days ago my feet have become equally blackened by dirt (and all else) and I pull on socks at night to protect my sleeping bag from my feet. General pyjama policy is to wear them to protect my clean covers from my grubby self. Laundry mat conversation with a planter went as follows: He asked me "You wear pyjamas?!?" as I rejoiced over the freshly laundered pair that Lizzie had washed for me. "Yes...?" He smiled and nodded before pulling out from the dryer his own pair of full-body long-john pyjamas, bum-flap and all, and we all rejoiced. I told Lizzie I was trying to blog, with great difficulty, about how to summarize life here when our setting is so completely other. This conversation took place happened after I hopped in to the cook shack via window, stood there reboiling some hot coffee and milk in a soup pot, and eating yogurt with a knife as she sliced almond bars in her mother's apron, disheveled and dripping wet. She said, "How bout just describe exactly how it is right now." Yesterday a planter very sweetly asked her, "Um do you mind if I wash my boots here in the sink?" This was returned with a recalibrating moment as his sincerity was not to be missed despite the fact that she reminded him of how we like to use those sinks for washing silverwear and dishes. He was calmly handed a bucket with warm water and told to toss it somewhere the sludge would go un-noted. 

Ah yes, Women

My blog page is still in French, something which makes me mildly worried about my poor computer's locality confusion, for I am indeed a good week and a half English-speaking Vancouver. And O the English that we speak! Nothing linguistically remarkable as much as the familiarity and joy of conversions with people whose thought currents resonate with my own. I've realized in coming back to such a large friend base, the importance of loving individuals and liking them in specifics. There are some with whom I have a very unique connection, though a remarkably large number given how in some places people personalities can be difficult to line up with my own. 

I am grateful in particular for several women with whom I click with in an instant and long-enduring sort of way. Their intelligence, warmth, deep-kindness, laughter and hard experience often make me stop and say to myself, "Man, I am friends with such amazing women." It seems that part of friendship is the attraction of like-to-like because we do share many details of similar personal struggles, world travelling, and current loves and for this I feel that I find myself among kindred spirits and creatures whom I understand and understand me as well. Each is still distinctively them self, but we mesh in a relaxed mode that lets us soberly make meals together, spend hours dramatizing and getting dressed, lounge and muse as we read in the living room, or crash in to rage or share a current woe. I think too of how I can laugh with these girls, of how joy is well within our grasp. I am delighted to announce that I am nabbing Lizzie Curry from the group and taking her as my friend and baker in to the woods of northern B.C. We are likely going to have way too much fun as two girls left to their own devilish devices. We leave by greyhound tonight. 

Cedar Rapids

There's a lot to be said for midwest American friendliness; their greetings and cheerful helpfulness were enough to make my morning at the dentist positively delightful and a trip to the grocery store quite shocking after being greeted by five smiling employees. My France-informed Vancouverness almost made me recoil, raise my eyebrow and pose, "Why on earth are you talking to me?" before I quickly eased in to the warmth of public interaction. My most frustrating encounter was post-customs Chicago where a fat, middle-aged man was harassing my newest Bulgarian friend by yelling at her while she struggled with her baggage cart. A bit embarrassed, I said to him, "Sir, she doesn't speak any English" to which he responded, "Well if I came to a foreign country I'd learn to speak the language!" Sure he would. I mused up a number of cutting, witty insults in English and French that part of me itched to have said as I navigated my way to my next flight. Arrogant xenophobe...

The lush oak and maple trees and the sprawling green lawns in front of turn-of-the-century houses look so quintessentially American. The solidity of it all almost makes me wish I was staying to fly kites, take bike rides and light fireworks as my imaginings dictate that an idyllic American summer would entail. My mother's been out digging and replanting the patio garden and soon the pots will be overflowing with colour and the basil, dill and rosemary growing against the muraled  garage wall. The first real thunder storm has been threatening for weeks and I would love to be here for the rumbling downpour. My spacious room even strikes me as comfortably opulent between the dark wooden furnishings and my fluffy down comforter. 

The best part of my time home was catching up with a few friends. I liked going out or having people in- going away is always a reminder of who you can call when you get back. I was struck by how unique each person was and how each friendship had a characteristic dynamic unto itself. This made me glad as I realized that no friend will ever be a replacement for someone else as much their own distinct person that I can enjoy for who they individually are. I find it remarkable that we can have such distinct relationships. I've sometimes felt over-saturated in self-esteem shlop about how "special and unique" each of us is, but I feel like this was manifested in a fresh new way that I was somehow given lens to see and believe.  The attitudes of some of my friends here made me feel cared for in a round, stabilizing sort way, something securely woven to fall back in to. It did me' heart good. 

Today I fly to Vancouver. First to Dallas, my first touchdown in Texas!, and then home to my country, o Canada. It always feels good to be back and set foot on the soil where I was born. I'm getting tingly just thinking about it... Any Canadians to say, "Ay?" (As oppose to nay... this is in fact, a pun.) 

Family and Friends - Fragility and Fortitude

I'm writing from a vine covered stoney terrace, the tiny private garden in the the middle of the bedroom suites where I'm staying in Laurmarin. In addition to the curious number of cats ands artists' studios, we may be staying in one of the most beautiful regions of France imaginable from the rocky small mountains, the quaint village streets, the olive groves and the rose bushes with glorious colour and size. I've actually invited myself in to the studio apartment of my parents having left Aix a few days early, and I am now the live in daughter and chef while they explore the surrounding countryside. I myself am more than happy to hang back and write and relax.

I don't quite know where to begin in my reflections. I said goodbye to Aix with ever dawning realization of how I'm saying goodbye to all things French and a life and lifestyle that have suited me quite nicely and easily. Life here has been relaxed and undemanding on many counts and it would surprise me if I have such an extended period of ambling repose any time again in the years to come. I learned a lot about relationships- what's required and sometimes what's not, how it's best to be myself and how to work and apologize when myself isn't enough. How friendships need to be trusted and the importance of communication and forgiveness. The time here near the end has been particularly forming as I've had to come to terms with how I can't control or even change how people feel. Sometimes my best won't be enough and I have to juggle appropriate humility while also acknowledging that others can choose and act as well. If I could choose, I would always be exactly what everyone needed and wanted of me... it seems so obvious, but I often struggle to come to terms with the fact that I can never be perfect for anyone and can not make such a demand on myself. I regret announcing this to you all and dash any illusions you may have had of my magical prowess. Better that we all acknowledge this now then all be disappointed later... (sarcasm, sarcasm). 

Mistakes or mere inadequacy can make me feel like such a failure and I've had to constantly negotiate appropriate personal responsibility. These last weeks in particular have been hard practice in learning to be vulnerable but also when to refortify and be the strong woman with removal and bearing. Sometimes I need to admit when I've been hurt and other times I need to step back and remove myself from caring too much. Too much aloofness removes us from the joys of friendship and too much sensitivity runs us over. 

I've realized too that loving people can happen despite all disagreements and differences and it somehow sneaks in to the fabric of living without never quite realizing when it arrived. We find ourselves loving, laughing, caring and crying in ways we'd never expect and changing us more that we sometimes know. I hate to just say "it hasn't been easy" living with Véronique because it would demean all the good aspects of our life together and the teasing and sincerity shared over the dinner table and in the kitchen. She was generous and dramatic beyond measure, and I'll never know a woman like her so intimately again. In the same way with my room mate Jenna, to just note how much our friendship has taught me would miss the heart of the enduring affection between us that's been through train traveling, crazy drama, boring endless hours, and french reflection. I never could have guessed or known to ask for the friendships I formed in France, but they were rich beyond measure and maybe even exactly what I needed. 

I now find myself with my parents, reminded of familial stability that can be there when you need them most but also separate people from who I am and become. I feel older with them than I use to- I love an appreciate them as ever but am also okay with having my own life that takes me in other directions. I feel more myself than ever: good, bad, weaknesses and strengths, this "self-discovery" of youth is hardly the cliché process I expected as much as the inevitable.  

The months to Come

Well dear Reader near and far our time in France is drawing to a close. I realized today while slowly climbing the cote, our hill, in the hot afternoon sun- our laborious daily trek up to the apartment from the city- that a week from this Sunday I'll be home in our house and my summer madness waiting just out the door. While life is still rolling with its slow, peaceful pace, I almost hate to mention this next new stage of (good!) business of all my most recent plottings. But, because I can't stop myself and planning gives me peace of mine, this is how the future in all its untelling facts will unfold:

These next two weeks I get to spend delightfully filled with people presence. A friend from A Rocha will be arriving in a couple days and we can tromp around Aix while I play host to all the delights and unusual happenings of our apartment. My parents arrive not long after and besides the pure parent-craving happiness of seeing them, we should have some good traveling together in our rented car out to the sights and smells of Provence. Last hours will be spent with Veronique and Jenna and I'll likely disappear before we know what hit us.
I return to Cedar Rapids, Iowa for 10 days where I hope to unpack and repack for my summer job, august backpacking, and a september move to Vancouver. I got hired as a headcook for a tree-planting company so I'll also likely be doing a last minute scramble of paper work and menu planning. ALSO, there are a few friends that I have so want to see but sadly a pathetic amount of time to share. Once again I must zoom of in a less than heroic way saying, "I'll be back..."
I fly to Vancouver May 29th where I'll crash with my brothers for a few days and do more catching up with friends there. On the couch, in the community house, looking forward to it immensely.
June 2nd, leaving for planting camp via greyhound in to the mysterious northern unknown. Little sleep, good money, deteriorating hygiene, strange life all around...
July 25th, wrap up the planting contracts and likely feeling ready to say, "Get me the $^%# $%#*# out of here!" (planting camp will teach me how to swear more audibly.)
Unward through August I'll be somewhere in the British Columbian mountains likely backpacking, maybe volunteering at Crow for a time, camping, wandering, I don't really know in fact.
September 2nd- Start of a suite-lease with my mum in Vancouver! I'll be moving out there for the fall with plots of taking swimming lessons at the pool, eating dinners with friends, finding a respectable job (maybe unpaid) to boost my resume, finding a fun but likely less-than-luadible paying job, reading books that please and challenge me and being social, reflective and human all around.
I'm actually very happy and excited about everything to come and even looking forward to diving back in to university oh-so-seriously whenever I return.

See, plan-sharing so quickly takes you out of the moment and France. No good, for here is where I am. But now that it's out there, we can forget it and keep on living.

Let's say more on France to Come.

Staying Young

I have been at a christian community/ conservation research centre called A Rocha for almost a week and I am now considering prolonging my stay by a few days despite the difficulties of a keyboard with muddled letters and no apotrophes. The time here has been simple and beautiful and good. We are in the middle of the French countryside so I mere amble down the road takes me to wild flower fields and spectacular sunlit views across the blowing stretch of trees. I found a wooden swing on the far side of the house where I can sit and rock and muse. The people volunteering and working here are an equal mix of french and english speakers, so a fare amount of conversation and banter defaults to french as the english speakers are keen to practice and some of the french workers cant participate in english. I have done my own share of garbadge pick up in a marsh, as well as a bit of raking and cooking, but my most useful emplyement has been in translating sections of their french website in to english. I have also come to quite enjoy the company of a few other workers, with whom we have already had a generous share of laughter, even sillyness, and sincerity. Yesterday a sprawled out conversation on the lawn transitioned in to dinner and then late night chatter well past midnight that was recommenced upon waking at the marathon of kitchen table conversion when the first foul weather permitted little otherwise. I have often remarked that joy is most evident when I can put aside my self-made pretention and partake in the simple activities at hand whether it be standing on my head, going out for drinks or positing my position on the particularities of a teapot.

Spill-over stream of consciousness

As the possibility of returning to a tree-planting camp become more and more feasible with every new e-mail exchanged, I've begun to feel suddenly apprehensive, even scared of what I'm getting myself back in to. I think I thought at the time and even afterwards that it was a once-in-a-lifetime sort of thing, something I could curiously bare and later testify to as another experience come and gone. I think I thought I'd find an outlet for some of the stories, the hours, the things I felt, but they've been kept remarkably sequestered in my memory bank. It's one thing to step out knowing nothing, and  another to deliberately return to it. These scenes when I stepped off the greyhound bus in nowhere northern BC were taken in as if I had a notebook and camera rolling. I sat for 10 hours in the empty parking lot of the town's one grocery store on May 25th, a 90 pound backpack weighing me down, and the world unfolded before me: The drunken natives stumbled past; the shaggy Quebecer on a green children's bicycle kept circling around with a story about how he was trying to get on with a planting company to avenge his two-week dead, murdered girlfriend but was obviously collecting cans; the middle-aged woman I found working in a nearby discount store drove me to her house where her husband and sons slumped around in boxers smoking cigarettes while I hunted for the number of my foreman online; the fat retired truck-driver told me the difficulties of breaking semi-trucks on icy mountain roads in winter time-  keeping me occupied as I hopefully waited for someone to show up, hour after hour, offering his cell phone, watching my things while I ran in to buy some fruit with my last .60 cents, and eventually rolling next to me down the highway in his wheelchair to show me to the motel. I'd say it was a lesson learned in not travelling penniless or without contacts, but I think the human openness proved the contrary. 

Two phone calls (one to my foreman, the other to my mother) and a night's sleep later, I found myself in Tonya's live-in hippie van, bumping down gravel mountain roads as dust and regga filled the air. Freedom (her pampered pooch) took her normal seat in shut-gun while I reclined on the bed in the back surrounded by boxes of eggs and milk, taking in the array of books, bottled herbs, bright sweaters and scarves she'd crammed on to various wooden shelves. Upon arriving I was introduced to Andrew, the recovered-crack addict, dashing maintenance man, who I still recall fondly shooting at with a cap-gun as he lay in a drunken stupor with his feet hanging out the window of his truck. We unpacked and organized the truckloads of food that'd get us through the next three weeks, talked through basic meal planning, and I eventually stumbled off to the forest to set up my tent with a raging headache and a thought to how I hadn't had anything to eat or drink since the trailmix at breakfast. Up at 4 Am the next morning with night-sky faded to soft, sparkling blue, I emerged from the darkness of the trees and hiked to the cook shack where I'd spend countless hours with Tonya in the kitchen, mixing, talking and laughing with a loose joy that only the wilderness can render. 

Some mornings I'd wake up shivering, cold to the bone, and after the hopping, uncoordinated scurry to layer myself in yesterday's filthy clothes in the limited space of my tent, I'd run to the cookshack, turn on the ovens and light the stove top flame as I held my hands over the fire's near heat and leaned in to the open oven door. I was embarrassed by my early arrivals, afraid that Tonya would notice my afternoon's waning if she knew I'd been up mornings over at 1 Am. The cold became my nemesis; rousing myself might have been harder if I did not feel chilled to the bone even in my sleeping bag. The prospect of an oven-heated cookshack after running between refrigerator and dining tent to set out the breakfast and lunch table was my unforgotten incentive as I talked myself through the cold. When Tonya learned of how the cold ceaselessly plagued me, we'd take time to wrap my chest and waist in a sheet, like the bodice of a geisha, that I wore under my many layers of clothes until it eventually trailed out behind me. Tonya once found me sitting on the log near the stove, the sheet wrapped around my head and shoulders, looking something between an alien and refugee. My fingers learned permanent chill, and my hands were so chapped that it's only in France that they've found full recovery. Eventual dishwashing once the planters had come and gone was an excuse to run warm water over my freezing hands and rejoice that the temperatures were warming with the day. I fear the cold beyond all else, the ceaseless inescapable cold that shivered beneath my skin even when every exterior warmth was on me. 

As a child I use to slip out of bed at night and lie on the wooden floor to try and feel how many less fortunate people around the world daily suffered. I'd eventually squirm, turn over, and crawl back in to bed with the rational realization that any such potential suffering couldn't be prepared for as much as dealt with when the time came. I figured I might as well enjoy my bed in the meantime. I still think of this now, and thought of it often last summer, as I lay vertically on my mat, often waking to feel like someone had given me a good kicking during the night. Between lifting, standing, and lying, your body aches in a dull, throbbing sort of way like you've been twisted around and hung up. There is no romance in sleeping on the hard ground, but I'm grateful for what an accommodating sleeper it has made me. 

If I go back to planting some of these known and unnamed fears will likely accompany me, but I think too of how the open air, the trees, the woods, let you shake off any pretension or pride, and let you quietly slip in to whoever you simply can be. I loved my world where my prize was their worship of my edible creations, where I could be quietly me and no-one gave a rat's ass about where I came from or what I knew. Everyone knew each other in this separate sphere, where the hours ticked slowly but you learned to happily exist in the company of the wilderness and the odd assortment of humanity who chose to inhabit it.  

French and English

Some parts of French vocabulary learning are easy because a near identical word exists in English. Also, one can also see how it stretches you to use more interesting vocabulary in your own language as the translation has more interesting nuances. Examples:

(Fr) banal = (En) mundane. Hey but we can say banal too woohoo!

(Fr) immense = (En) Immense, though I prefer the French pronunciation. It sounds more weighty

(Fr) décontracté = (En) bewildered. But, not so far off from disconcerted

(Fr) à l'esprit étroit = (En) literally means "at narrow spirit" but we translate as "narrow minded"

(Fr) la parjure = (En) the betrayal. We also have our older word "perjuries" that we should use more often. Interesting note too as I think how jurer "to swear/to promise" comes from the same root in our language: juristication & jury

(Fr) un gueux = (En) a beggar. An old french word that you now only see as le mendiant but if we look at how knees translate as "les genoux" this makes him a sort of "kneeler." In English we of course must look at how "to knee" (s'agenouiller) is exactly the same as we can also "genuflect" before the throne (le trône)

(Fr) la perfidie = (En) the treachory. Now we can at least understand when one's brother calls them a "perfidious nitwit"

(Fr) la menace = (En) the threat. Or the menace. Same in the verb form as "to threaten" is menacer

(Fr) l'infamie = slanderous remark. Easy to understand as it's a negation that forms "in-famous." But, we might want to question the nature of their legacy next time we declare someone "to go down in infamy" as I think we've forgotten the nasty meaning of this declaration

(Fr) la dérision = the scorn or mockery. We too have derisive remarks.

Well, once again a cheerful compilation. Thank you Jean Giraudoux for your deleterious (délétère) provision. Forced french play writes makes me spend a lot of time with the online dictionary.

And we could all together go out on the Ocean

I feel as if I have not said enough on the sweet rolling landscape of Provence. I run down meandering country lanes that take me through olive groves and up hills where the tile-roofed houses, lines of orchards and waves of small mountains pan the horizon. The fresh brilliance of purple and white trees colour the landscape and the tall roadside grasses are tossed by the ever blowing wind. I sometimes stop and look about me and think whimsically of a camera or a person to whom I could say "look, look!". But instead, like the many other beautiful sights before, I merely try to absorb it in to myself as if one could be satiated by visual consumption. I feel like I'm swallowing a spoonful of beauty, while never certain if this encounter with the natural world will ever have resonance outside myself.

Between the many hours on buses, airplanes, or walks in the wild or civilized countryside, it's fatiguing to travel alone. This is not a new feeling, as I clearly remember wishing for a companion from the first time I flew on my own at seventeen. One can talk about the health of independence, self-establishment and self-knowing, the modern woman who stands solidly on her own two feet- I am not one to dismiss some of these principles and tie myself blindly to marriage for the sake of companionship. But often as I walk or sit alone, I give a thought to how we're made for companionship, for shared appreciation of what we're looking at and shared love as we look at the other. It's for this that I almost don't have the heart to go anywhere new to "see" something else over spring break. I'm tired of just seeing. Who sees me? For afterwards, whom shall I tell, what am I to do with everything that is stored away inside me, my collection of secrets cramming memory's space? I have not the time or the energy enough to write it all out. I'd rather just have someone to look at, understand and say, "Yes... you were there too."

I have no delusions that I'm unique in having memories ever compiling, such is the nature of every human life as each passing year feeds new thoughts and passing. My frustrations lies primarily in the uncomfortable awareness of all that is contained within ourselves. I wonder where experience's value and utility lies if a human never shares what they've seen. I think of those who die of old age, with full heads and closed lips and their life finding justification only unto itself. Some argue that morally each is of innate value in whatever isolation, but surely the exponential potential for joy and depth should be accounted for when two human lives touch. This theme is my predominant question and unsettlement no matter where I go: From my first year in Vancouver where so many days and hours made me feel invisible, to my transfer to Iowa where few people touch my daily life, to my studies where everything I'm learning goes undiscussed, and travels where the people I meet, the stories that grow, the beautiful and poignant things I see take root only inside me. This absence of Shared experience and life makes me feel so terribly lonely yet simultaneously self-reprimanding for never staying in one place long enough to cultivate a continuity that might calm my youthful fears. Here lies the question of responsibility as I may have to admit that between moving, a closed mouth and self-distancing I have only myself to blame.

With this said: continuity is certainly not in my prospects for the months to come. I shall continue to trot between different countries, jobs, books, and people as I'm intrigued by the adventure, and delighted when I can reconnect with old friends. It is indeed the relationships I have with friends and family that I hope to grow by at least placing myself in closer proximity. So while my sense of permanence is still quite impermanent, I hope to at least deepen the relationships that hold me in place. All this said, I have a two week spring break coming up as of this Friday: All of you should get online, do a quick tally, and get the next cheapest ticket to France. Let me know when you're arriving...

All that Changes and Stays the Same

When I go to a new place I like to be open to discarding old routines and adapting to the most natural flow of my new environment. Out goes my cinnamon fetish, recipe reading and gym routine, and instead I devote myself to dates and pears, French children's novels and hours of vocabulary flash-cards. After being in France for two and a half months I realized that some habits of my former existence are just too precious to discard. I began taking long walks to the north of where we live, in open rebellion against French women's disdain for exercise but with the pretence of merely surveying the landscape. I soon traded city clothes for runners and I have since begun to run these rolling hills feeling fully satisfied in getting out of the house, taking in the country air and relishing the movement and motion. I similarly indulged in an NPR podcast about a month ago, and since then have caught myself up on every missed episode of Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me, This American Life, and PRI's short story editions. I likewise have turned a blind eye to the utter absence of any grain or whole wheat in my diet, as well as dairy besides the odd smattering of coffee milk or cheese. But today I calcium crave and shall cave, and I shall march down to the store for a generous tub of plain yoghurt .

There are likewise many habits that I've adopted while living here that I'll not so enthusiastically loose. I appreciate the routine tidiness of the living space; how each clothing item, dish, glass and body product has it's appropriate place. The living space is just too small to not be neat and it makes me feel quite on top of my small, organized world. I also like the encouraged regular consumption of bottled water- the plastic is wasteful but I don't think I've ever been so hydrated in my life. Light switches are well placed and designed that they're easy to tap on and off. The "stores" (English word is...?) on the windows that got wound down from the inside, make the inside of the apartments private and pitch black at any time of the day: a burrow like sleeping environment and a nice transition from day to night. Women's body products and perfumes are a cornerstone of female existence and I don't think I've ever been so amply supplied with such products for daily preparation.

The expectations for the quality of food (preparation, smell, taste, melting consumption) match so nicely with my own finicky standards that I don't give the slightest thought to being a choosy eater as much as just another plebeian worshiper of the delicacy placed before me. One never eats a lot, but can slowly and amorously slice and savour each tasty bite. Dinners here are appropriately long (1-3 hours), with enough variety of courses that every craving on the palate is satiated. The hot food item: potage, ratatouille, blanchette, coquilles de St. Jacque, or something of Provincial nature leads the opening course of every evening. We then can choose between any number of bread's from Paul's Bakery: olive, abricot, cereal, or fromage being our favourites, and then eat this with either olives, tapinade (olive, garlic, anchovy blend), avocado, Tamara (fish eggs at its base I believe), or cheese (Camembert, Brie, Pont l'Évêque, chevre, Caprice des Dieux) as our most regular options. The last course is usually a green salad which we can adorn with sliced tomatoes and balsamic or choose to add chickpeas, cucumber, or red pepper as fancy requires. More standard dessert items, that we have from time to time, are mandarin oranges (brilliantly orange and sweet at this season), pears (don't think blah N. American pears) or yoghurt. Our little household also has a particular weakness for hazelnut chocolate so we have a number of varieties to nibble from. My theory, which I'm sure many other's have shared, is that any religious fervour that was lost during the French Revolution was simply transferred to the worship of the dinner meal. While I obviously don't share in their same dismissal of the church, I feel quite at home partaking in their evening rites around the alter of the dinner table.


I frequent this cornerstore daily for a date (the edible kind) and a pear.


A typical street in Aix


Tim, Jenna's neighbour from Chicago, and I outside St. Savior's Cathedral in Aix. Tim flew out for a trip through France with two of his friends, Mike and Brett. Before they arrived we entertained him by sitting outside in the sun and dining on olives, bread and wine.


Justine, Jenna and Tim before for a costume party. Caesar (all the french people yelled "Av" to him on the street), a flapper, and a Venician doll (I, the robot, happily stayed out of the pictures)


Tim, Brett and Mike in their little room. After their first night over I asked in the morning, "So, who ended up sleeping in the bed?" There was a moment's pause before Tim answered, "Les Trois".




This is what good chocolate does to your world: Thank You Purycard for all your tasty delights

Fiction, History and Truth

I'm beginning with a quote in a book that I found on a L'abri bookshelf in Switzerland, called "A Short Story Writer's Companion." Written by Tom Bailey in affiliation with the University of Iowa's Writer's Workshop, it seemed a bit funny to travel all the way to Switzerland to retrieve a book from the school in which I was already studying. This is what he opens with:

"Fiction is a lie" Eudora Wlty reveals to us in her essay "Place in Fiction," and we're forced to admit it's true. It was Picasso who said, "Art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize truth." (It is worth noting here that though this idea that fition is a lie is a much-used and generally accepted notion we don't mean lie in terms of a deception, usually with bad intent. A mentor of mine believed strongly in fiction as a construction that attempts to reaveal the truth of humanness. Of course, there is fiction that does lie, "fiction which disguises and distorts the nature of human experience. Fiction that lies is not the same as fiction being a lie."

I then went on to read a couple critiques of the post-modernist approach to history. As far as I can summerize, Post-modernists generally posit that any kind of "truth" in historical occurrence, particularly in the recording of history for future readers, doesn't exist because the events are so narrowly confined to the testimony of a single person. They're highly suspicious of the gathering of events in to a historical account chosen by the subjective and fallible human brain. History is simply "inventing meaning" by arranging a certain series of events. Post-modernists would say that discussing the "real" is impossible because the world is filtered with limited and human intelligence. In response Ian W. Provan and Greg Laughey take a position, which was new to me in terminology, called Hermeneutical Realism. They critique the danger of denying reality and thus removing moral obligation that comes with accepting that certain consequences are linked to particular actions. They instead suggest "epistemological openness" which would be the "exercise of controlling the intelligence (as in data) of testimony we receive with neither blind faith nor radical suspicion." They place testimony (story telling/narrative) and interpretation as central components of history making, acknowledging that though events have been subjectivity aligned, that particular testimony holds a resonance that falls somewhere in either far or close proximity to that oh-so-indecipherable truth of what is and was. With the world in relation to itself, some things can indeed be more or less true and thus certain historical accounts can be closer to the truth than others.

When I started writing this blog a week ago, this all seemed wonderfully relevant and now I can't recall at all why I felt like sharing any of this. If I wanted to do any of what I read justice it would require way more work and time than I currently care to give for a blog and I'm even feeling less obliged to make the verbal connect for you of why the quote on fiction seems to have everything to do with history, truth and reality. I think I was pleased about all this because I'm assured by the world making sense at least within its own system of inter-relating symbols, values, linguistic codes and its a reminder of how ordered the world can be and within this self context allows for certain certainties. I realize that an existentialist would dismiss this as complacency with my limitations... but I guess that's what it is. :) Anyway, since truth can't be hit upon finitely, narrative and prose win out, and I would even laud them as one of the best forms for us to discover what is beautiful and true. This is all the more reason to read good literature because the words can entwine and mold (perhaps in both senses haha) your brain until you slowly perceive a new layer of what it means to be human. So today, on this blowing jour de gris, I have here beside me "Lolita" by Nabakov and "Candide" en les deux langues. These are my choices, not out of any particular predilection or knowledge of these books, but because they were some of the few English titles that I recognized at the bookshop. I'm very pleased with how I get to spend my day: my bed (yes! see bellow photo- very little has changed!), my books and an eye on the sky.

Dare I Deviate?

Pictures are often an easy replacement for the more tricky business of painting a picture with words. But to spare myself the trouble, and you the time, I shall make my first picture post:



Ma petite chambre



Our little kitchen Table for tea, talking and breakfast



Kitchen another view: Kitchens are always of great importance to me because I spend such a considerable amount of time in them. Note all the bottled water, and the Paul's bag (currently used for recycling) but the BEST boulangerie in the city.


Four favourite Filles (Can I include myself?) Left to right: My apartment mate Jenna, myself, French Justine, and Mariah from Alaska. We stopped briefly in an Irish pub upon a live band recommendation, got a drink, took a picture, didn't like the look of the place, and left.

Let’s Get A Bit Sentimental…

I think there’s a false delusion that going abroad- particularly to romantic, beautiful, sophisticate France- makes one forget or brush aside the world left behind. As enamored as I often am with the landscape and though openly confessing to endorse much of the French lifestyle, I miss many people and think longingly of the day when we’ll reconnect or I’ll even just hear from you online. At the end of the day, I’m a people person, and it’s the relationships I’ve formed in the past that interest me mostly keenly and make me the happiest. Many letters are premised with something to the extent of “I know you’re in France probably having a great time, but…” in a way that connotes that I’d be too preoccupied with my new/interesting life that somehow I don’t have the same time or interest. It’s a difficult introduction to respond to because while my life might be quite different right now, such is the case on regular occasion and I am still me wherever I may be. And this me, loves being in touch and hearing about your life and not getting lost in the chasm of space and time.

A Word on French Schooling:

A rigorous French classroom can be absolutely terrifying. I have one professor in particular who has a particularly focused way of lecturing with his hands clasped behind his back as he almost chants the lesson by memory, drawing out a word before coming to abrupt, succinct end to emphasize how we too, should reach such reasonable, manageable conclusions. His information packed lessons, to which we’re scrambling to keep pace with as we scribble notes and write down the verbal translations, might be more manageable if class work didn’t also include rapid memorization (or lack there of) and public disclosure of your failure. He has a nasty habit of suddenly looking very directly at you and saying, “Et vous Mademoisellllllllle, QU’EST QUE vous pouvez nous dire pour. numero. un.?” To which you instantly panic as you say to yourself, “My God, I haven’t even finished translating the phrase let alone decided which verb to insert in this blank! Well, either Rendre or s’Acquitter look reasonable… what tense did he mention? Should I go with present, no, that never happens, passé composé, imparfait? No, there seems to be a lot of passé simple. That’s probably the best bet. Shit, why didn’t we do more passé simple in school? I have NO idea how to conjugate this verb.” This is all crammed in to a five second panicked silence of mortification and fear. Luckily, my classmates are all accommodating and friendly and if I’m lucky, during drills on idiomatic expressions, the nice fellow next to me will whisper “ni froid ni chaud, ni froid ni chaud!” The whispering between students out of general goodwill became quite obvious by the end of the day and I couldn’t decide if the professor didn’t mind it or just couldn’t hear. Such high pressure questions certainly inspires you to return home and study quite rigorously.

Today was my birthday and the best part was slowly opening letters throughout the day, smiling and feeling sappy and rejoicing over every sentiment. After 8 hours of class time (miserably long) I went to a pub that was hosting a language exchange and rolled out conversational/comprehendible French for an hour before coming home to find a delightfully clean room and apartment with small presents waiting on my bed. The desserts I was given are delicious enough to daily die for and pretty much every meal out is a culinary triumph. Let me officially make note: 20 was a most excellent year, 21 shall be even better.

When one speaks of nudity, One soon sees an Ass

Part of my french classwork has been in learning sayings and proverbs. Par Exemple: << Ce ne sont pas tes oignons >> = Those aren’t your onions = It’s none of your business. Or << Mettre la charrue avant les boeufs >> = To do the plowing before you have a mule = To do the secondary before the primary matter. And my idiomatic expression of the hour << Quand on parle du loup on voit la queue >> = When you speak of the wolf a tail soon appears = our equivalent of “Ah, speak of the devil!” if someone appears whom you were just talking about. The crucial difficulty in the delivary of this line is the correct pronunciation of the “ooo” sound in “loup” and then the abrupt, simple “k” sound of deceivingly long “queue.”

It was quickly discovered upon my arrival that I have tremendous difficulty in one of the most fundamental french sounds, that should come naturally to an english speaker, but is nothing more than the simple “ooo”. Soon, goon, moon, spoon; nous, fou, tu, coup! Simple. But for whatever horrible reason, the nice round O becomes a very nasal “ue” and thus utterly transforms the meaning of the word. (Don’t worry, I begin every morning saying “nooos, nooos, nooos, nous, nous, nous” in desperate attempt to say it correctly.) For those of you who don’t speak any french “nous” is how one says “we”, and as you could guess, is used very frequently in conversation. SO, at this point whenever I try to say, “nous” I am in fact saying “nu” which translates very simply in to “naked”. For your general knowledge (and to explain my error) you should also know that a fairly crude way of saying “ass” is “cul.” (Pronounced “cue”). All this adds up to that pivitol moment when in sharing my proverb over pleasant dinner table conversation, instead of saying “When one speaks a wolf one soon sees the tail” I instead delivered something that sounded a lot closer to “When one sees a naked person, you soon see an ass.” Delivered to the general hilarity of all as I sat there fully realizing that my “ooos” were still less than sub-par. I am now the newest subject for my host’s daughter to practice her speech therapy.

Learning a new language is far from a passive process. I begin every morning with my dictionary and a notecard where I list new words that I heard the day before, looking up a verb that could come in handy, and adding all the useful words that I come across as I flip through dictionary. I then spend the first hour of the day writing and rewriting my list before carrying it around in my purse to glance at during a free moment of the day. At this point, the nouns are most useful for me to identify the object of which I speak, and any new verbs are stashed away to translate when I hear others speak them. It’s much harder to spout complex “verb” sentences in a new language without previous reflection. As of now “faire, aller, sortir, être” (all those simple action verbs that you lean in the first two years of french class) are painfuly over-used. I’m still in slow process of working verbs like “s’empiffrer”= to stuff oneself, “renifler”= to snuffle, “s’embrouiller”= to be confused, in to my spoken vocabulary. To say that it’s hard and often frustrating is an understatement.

I have moments where I can exultantly spout of what I want to say and understand everything of which my host mother has just ranted on about. I have other moments where I honestly think becoming “fluent” is a lost cause and I can hardly get the most simple sentence out of my mouth. At this point, I utter muddled, weird sentences to the amusement of all, with an accent that I’m told sounds a bit like the British goose in Disney’s “AristoCats” I have very few delusions about looking smart or glamorous.

French Lesson #1: Manners and “La Politesse”

Somehow despite regular reminder in French class as to the hierarchy of different forms of address, I never fully realized how crucially important using “vous” is in public. I’m only beginning to make this my default mode, particularly after a slip up where “S’il te plait” earned me a very dirty look and I kicked myself for not slowing down to address them politely. The importance of being “bien élevé” (well raised) is central to the functioning of their society, and thus a constant “bonjour monsieur” or “bonsoir Madame” must be the first thing out of one’s mouth. A phrase that does work wonders for French and feeble speaker alike is, “Je suis désolée de vous déranger monsieur…” (I’m sorry to bother you sir…) This should be uttered for the smallest impractical question in a store and pre-empt your exclamations over the dead body you just found when you bother the poor policeman from his route. Likely such an emergency would be described as “j’ai une petite problème” (I have a little problem…) Thus far I’ve been most successful in the quiet stores where I’ve wondered in alone and been able to exchange appropriate greetings in a more intimate context.

My primary complaint at the moment as I go through my programs orientation is many of the Americans/girls/classmates tendencies to migrate in groups. Not only is this something that the French do not do as they navigate their way through the small, narrow streets, but the Americans haven’t developed any consciousness of the noise that they make or how much room they’re taking up when they walk side by side with lots of “personal space” bubbles that are just big enough that a French person can’t squeeze through. Being a person who even in Iowa is very conscious of the volume of conversation, it’s mortifying for me when they don’t know how to keep their voices down in the café and simply talk softly over the table. The French certainly notice and I already know the chilling affect of their icy glare, and yet I don’t quite have the courage of yet to always say to my American companions “please, hush…” I also have a harder time being with the Americans when navigating the streets because many of them look so out of place and noticeably American. When alone I can navigate quite comfortably because I’m use to the Vancouver etiquettes of not smiling at strangers or making eye contact with men, and I’d like to think that my clothes have yet to mark me as American either (something which I say with a bit more confidence because my French homestay declared, “tu t’habilles trés francaise!” (you dress very French) which at this rate feels like one of the highest compliments.)

Looking “American” might not be so painful if the tennis shoes, bell-bottom jeans, and flannel jacket didn’t make you an immediate target for the taunts of some men who walk behind you making crude propositions “parce que vous êtes anglaise.” (because you’re English- a term for any one who speaks the language). This has put me in the doubly irked position of annoyance at the torments of “les français” but also feeling like I could grasp my north American friends hand and say, “can you please try to not look to American.” As we do orientation classes on many public etiquettes, I may be experiencing double culture shock as I realize how I was truly not raised with similar values of appropriate public interaction as many of the American students, nor do I yet process all the proper formalities of functioning in France. My current strategy for social and public survival is to find those more culturally sensitive individuals with whom we can at least try to blend in together. Everything is just barely underway and I remind myself that today is in fact only the beginning of the third full day in France. If I’ve given myself a three month marker for reasonable social fluency in France, I need not panic yet that the day to day is more challenging than I anticipated.

Did I mention that the yoghurt is fantastic? OR that I’m writing this at two o’clock in the morning because my body is still not on French time… ooh lalalaa…

Waiting

Its easy not to write when waiting for inspiration. It's a very passive attendance, attuned for that moment when words run smooth. But my books of late are failing me and their words do little to generate fresh thought. I have no new secrets and I'd rather not report on the day to day- I'm left rather uninspired. I'm in a complacent limbo, waiting for life to begin. This is scheduled for 9:34 AM on Tuesday the 20th of January, my flight to a life that I've selectively chosen to fill with fine food, the revelry of youth, and the romance of another language. I wish I could encapsulate without seeming to be an indulgent epicurean how much I need carelessness and fun. Right now too much thought is wasted on life theory and not enough life living. I hope by the time I'm 30 or 80, I can look back at my self now and smile and shake my head. I hope I can say, "Me oh my, how I so needlessly fretted." I'd prefer current thoughts to be nothing but pointless flounderings and the basis of purpose to be far removed from confusion and uncertainty.

We have such a breadth of allowance for the life of each individual. To one is prescribed luck and happiness and to another only grief. It was long ago said that life is not fair, but I'm mystified more that we aren't more put off by both extremes. Within this range human life is so much harder to define and thus difficult for for the young such as myself to direct an end. I feel like we're told to feel guilt whenever prosperity affords happiness and simultaneously taught pious satisfaction as the remedy for our complaints. Perhaps our feelings might be secondary to what we do with our lives, but once again one needs a value to which one directs their end.