A post in numbers.
1) I caught the black plague (no exaggeration, people, not even a little bit) and was incapacitated for a few days upon arriving.
2) Italian boy is leaving Paris. I am sad. Mostly horny, but sad.
3) Paris may be beautiful, but I wouldn't know because I have been stuck here as I can't drive the manual to the station yet (I am learning, slowly) and also the aforementioned black plague.
4) Kids are exhausting. My maternal instinct has been kicked, pushed, and pummeled. It may never recover.
5) I am going into the city today, because I can't stand to be here for one more minute, because I have cabin fever and I fear I will begin to eat my foot if I stay in another day sans Paris.
Humbug.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Friday, January 25, 2008
Moving On Up
Oh my word. Words. After four years with a xanga account, the time feels right to move on up and become a possessor of that coveted blip in cyberspace, a blog. The timing coincides with my move to Paris and was probably the impetus. Such a big change can only be reflected correctly by another big change, and for a lady prone to spontaneous bursts of whim, I take BIG change seriously indeed. And here it goes, loves, but first, some bare facts:
Went to Paris December 26-January 8th, 2007. Fell in love with the city. Decided to take a year off from school and au pair, completely contrary to sense and planning. I am taking the year to become fluent in French, live life, and educate myself through too many books experience and come out with an education that one can't find at college. I'm spastic, whimsical, and obsessed with sensation. You in? Good. Strap in.
I think I will meet someone soon, someone who will change my life. I'm not sure how, or why, or even the depth of their personal involvement with me, but something is coming. I keep having the same dream, and every morning I wake up with a distant memory of "aha!", it's that, it's there, and baby, it's coming.
Enter ego. I believe what I have been missing these past few months has been my recently found strength and sense of self, scared off by too many changes in such a short time. But as I move down this path, no matter how odd, or strange, or nonsensical it seems to other or even me at times, I remember it. I remember, and I know, I just know that this, this is the "aha". I'm fumbling right now. I'm in the dark, I'm being completely honest here. I don't know how to be single. I don't know how to not climb up my education like a step ladder, systematically and with this purpose that everyone else but me understands. Plodding over years to a B.S, a B.A, further because what else is there? I don't know what in the hell I am doing. I have absolutely, positively, no idea. I left the one person I've ever been with, I am leaving my home for some adventure in Paris, I am leaving with an apartment waiting that will probably be packed up after it becomes obvious I won't return for a good while, I am leaving with no real visa. I am leaving, I am holding my breath. With 300 euros a month and endless time, I will discover Paris, I will discover what I need. It all feels so right when I don't think about all the chaos I'm creating, the potential consequences.
So, I guess it's time to take a long, hard look at myself. What are you looking for Kate? Why are you doing all of this?
And I know it's time to look myself in the mirror, and grin, because I already know the answer.
I am looking for infinity. I am looking for my purpose, the thing in life that will take me and grab me, take me on a beautiful crazy technicolor ride because that is just who I am and what I was fated to need. I need to find others who are looking too. It sounds so fucking egotistical, as if I was special, but I'm not; I'm just on one of the many wavelengths. But part of this wavelength is being tortured. Deliciously, deliriously. I want to approach people I see in public, when I feel them. I can feel them, bursting at the seams, and just once I want to tell them that, that I can feel it too, without self consciousness and without worry. I want them to find me, hell do I want them too. I want people that understand this to tell me so and hold my hand and run with me at 2am and drink too much, and laugh too much, to find me. Mania, I love my natural mania, when I learned to stop fighting it.
I leave for Paris tomorrow, at 11:00pm, from JFK. I arrive, Paris time, 11 a.m on January 27th. I don't know what to do with myself. I have been running around like a chicken with my head cut off trying to get everything set for Paris, birth control so I can continue my sexcapades, my other meds that, being psychotic drugs, will probably be 10000 dollars to get sans french health insurance, running and flitting around trying to fit my life in two suitcases.
I want to cry, I want to mourn for the people I'm leaving behind, I want to pound the carpet and sob and sob until I'm calm and I don't feel the compulsion to know everything in advance. I want to come to terms with living life in the moment, because that's what my life is right now. I chose for it to be this way. It would be easier if I knew the larger goal, even if it was to write a book or create a mathematical theory, if only to move to it slowly. I want to know that it's all right that I don't know yet, because I'm only 20.
The family in France won't speak English with me; they can speak it, but to help me become more fluent they will only speak with me in French. As a lover of words, I'm scared. I only know how to express myself well in English, and I am a perfectionist at heart. I have to stop thinking in either and or, and in processes. I am really proud of myself for the dedication I have shown to keeping up with my self study, but it's scaring the crap out of me that tomorrow I will no longer have the nice pat on the back but rather a nice big ol' shove into le langue francais.
Sometimes I can imagine myself as a very old woman. After a long, passionate life filled with unbearable tragedy and unbearable happiness. I can almost feel way I will see others, this great overwhelming love for everyone, my joy being derived from making others happy in some odd tautological selfless selfish web. I can see the thick skin, falling over bones, and remembering myself younger when I didn't pay attention to the way my smooth skin fell across a lover's back, or to the joy in being beautiful just because, because it's what it is, limbs and youth and skin so supple.
I've probably never been this scared in my entire life. But I know better now, and barrel ahead despite my fears based in everything I have learned to this point and not in what I have to gain. I need a practical in living life. I'm forcing myself into it, choked up and wide eyed. I have to remember to keep my optimism, always, and to not take things personally but to just enjoy life so hard and so deeply that the intensity of it will cause others to look around, other diamonds in a sky.
I have to light up the other side of the world for a while, to come back to this one. It could break me if I don't remember myself. But I won't forget, not again.
I am sort of disintegrating. I can't seem to stop losing weight, and I don't want to lose anymore. The irony. I feel like I'm eating so much, and I swear I am, but all of a sudden my body wants to melt a bit. Being tall, it isn't good to be too thin because everything is like a caricature; my ribs, my limbs, all look bony and a bit sickly because it's a wide canvas. Thinnest I have ever been, ever, but I must say my confidence got a nice boost when I went to the Louvre and a group of little boys followed me around and asked if I was a supermodel.
Marco is in Paris. He was my little one night stand in Paris that turned into a few night stand who made me laugh way more than anticipated. But I can't get out of my mind is the ridiculousness of the thing with him, the Italian darling. I don't think I would ever, in a million years, have approached him, because he wears designer clothing, with pink accents, he looks like a sexy statue, he's sauve, intelligent (hello masters degree at a grande ecole in Paris) and expressive (in a way only european men can be). In the middle of the night he played me italian rap techno that had this one chorus, where in this ridiculous monotone heavy italian accent deadpan, a voice goes: gucci prada fendi and then something that sounded like fironochi...a giant list of designers and I couldn't keep a straight face. For some reason, despite growing out of my awkward years, I still have that fixation on geeky, dorky, and alot of times homely men. They are all terrified of me though, because I am a platinum headed amazon who likes fashion, and I think that was where the problem originated. Maybe I was just looking in the wrong section...is section the right term? These european men are like a new species to me. The guys kiss eachother hello (on the cheek) and order cocktails constantly. I was an obvious foreigner when I carted home a 12 pack of Heineken, because the french so rarely drink beer; it was like I grew a snaggle tooth and sprouted a tail. I have never, ever, dated a man more fashionable than I am. Not that I am a fashion vixen or anything, but I know my shit. There is just something about finding the perfect texture and cut that makes my mind tweak happy.
But I can't stop thinking about fucking the living shit out of him, whether or not he is my 'type'. Oh, he will not get a break. I am not merciful. He will not get much air. In fact, I plan on fucking until we pass out, waking up, fucking some more, and then continuing this cycle until he has to go to class or I have to work. I want to tie him up and tease the italian out of him. And then back in again. I must be an adolescent boy stuck in a body that is all wrong, as I can't get my mind out of the gutter. I want to rip his pink accented designer shirt off and bite him, rake my nails down his back and UGH.
This is way too cruel to continue. I'll never get any sleep, and then when I see him I'll jump him like a bitch in heat and lose any distance I might have imagined keeping.
I'll keep you updated; wish me luck. And sanity. And serenity.
Went to Paris December 26-January 8th, 2007. Fell in love with the city. Decided to take a year off from school and au pair, completely contrary to sense and planning. I am taking the year to become fluent in French, live life, and educate myself through too many books experience and come out with an education that one can't find at college. I'm spastic, whimsical, and obsessed with sensation. You in? Good. Strap in.
I think I will meet someone soon, someone who will change my life. I'm not sure how, or why, or even the depth of their personal involvement with me, but something is coming. I keep having the same dream, and every morning I wake up with a distant memory of "aha!", it's that, it's there, and baby, it's coming.
Enter ego. I believe what I have been missing these past few months has been my recently found strength and sense of self, scared off by too many changes in such a short time. But as I move down this path, no matter how odd, or strange, or nonsensical it seems to other or even me at times, I remember it. I remember, and I know, I just know that this, this is the "aha". I'm fumbling right now. I'm in the dark, I'm being completely honest here. I don't know how to be single. I don't know how to not climb up my education like a step ladder, systematically and with this purpose that everyone else but me understands. Plodding over years to a B.S, a B.A, further because what else is there? I don't know what in the hell I am doing. I have absolutely, positively, no idea. I left the one person I've ever been with, I am leaving my home for some adventure in Paris, I am leaving with an apartment waiting that will probably be packed up after it becomes obvious I won't return for a good while, I am leaving with no real visa. I am leaving, I am holding my breath. With 300 euros a month and endless time, I will discover Paris, I will discover what I need. It all feels so right when I don't think about all the chaos I'm creating, the potential consequences.
So, I guess it's time to take a long, hard look at myself. What are you looking for Kate? Why are you doing all of this?
And I know it's time to look myself in the mirror, and grin, because I already know the answer.
I am looking for infinity. I am looking for my purpose, the thing in life that will take me and grab me, take me on a beautiful crazy technicolor ride because that is just who I am and what I was fated to need. I need to find others who are looking too. It sounds so fucking egotistical, as if I was special, but I'm not; I'm just on one of the many wavelengths. But part of this wavelength is being tortured. Deliciously, deliriously. I want to approach people I see in public, when I feel them. I can feel them, bursting at the seams, and just once I want to tell them that, that I can feel it too, without self consciousness and without worry. I want them to find me, hell do I want them too. I want people that understand this to tell me so and hold my hand and run with me at 2am and drink too much, and laugh too much, to find me. Mania, I love my natural mania, when I learned to stop fighting it.
I leave for Paris tomorrow, at 11:00pm, from JFK. I arrive, Paris time, 11 a.m on January 27th. I don't know what to do with myself. I have been running around like a chicken with my head cut off trying to get everything set for Paris, birth control so I can continue my sexcapades, my other meds that, being psychotic drugs, will probably be 10000 dollars to get sans french health insurance, running and flitting around trying to fit my life in two suitcases.
I want to cry, I want to mourn for the people I'm leaving behind, I want to pound the carpet and sob and sob until I'm calm and I don't feel the compulsion to know everything in advance. I want to come to terms with living life in the moment, because that's what my life is right now. I chose for it to be this way. It would be easier if I knew the larger goal, even if it was to write a book or create a mathematical theory, if only to move to it slowly. I want to know that it's all right that I don't know yet, because I'm only 20.
The family in France won't speak English with me; they can speak it, but to help me become more fluent they will only speak with me in French. As a lover of words, I'm scared. I only know how to express myself well in English, and I am a perfectionist at heart. I have to stop thinking in either and or, and in processes. I am really proud of myself for the dedication I have shown to keeping up with my self study, but it's scaring the crap out of me that tomorrow I will no longer have the nice pat on the back but rather a nice big ol' shove into le langue francais.
Sometimes I can imagine myself as a very old woman. After a long, passionate life filled with unbearable tragedy and unbearable happiness. I can almost feel way I will see others, this great overwhelming love for everyone, my joy being derived from making others happy in some odd tautological selfless selfish web. I can see the thick skin, falling over bones, and remembering myself younger when I didn't pay attention to the way my smooth skin fell across a lover's back, or to the joy in being beautiful just because, because it's what it is, limbs and youth and skin so supple.
I've probably never been this scared in my entire life. But I know better now, and barrel ahead despite my fears based in everything I have learned to this point and not in what I have to gain. I need a practical in living life. I'm forcing myself into it, choked up and wide eyed. I have to remember to keep my optimism, always, and to not take things personally but to just enjoy life so hard and so deeply that the intensity of it will cause others to look around, other diamonds in a sky.
I have to light up the other side of the world for a while, to come back to this one. It could break me if I don't remember myself. But I won't forget, not again.
I am sort of disintegrating. I can't seem to stop losing weight, and I don't want to lose anymore. The irony. I feel like I'm eating so much, and I swear I am, but all of a sudden my body wants to melt a bit. Being tall, it isn't good to be too thin because everything is like a caricature; my ribs, my limbs, all look bony and a bit sickly because it's a wide canvas. Thinnest I have ever been, ever, but I must say my confidence got a nice boost when I went to the Louvre and a group of little boys followed me around and asked if I was a supermodel.
Marco is in Paris. He was my little one night stand in Paris that turned into a few night stand who made me laugh way more than anticipated. But I can't get out of my mind is the ridiculousness of the thing with him, the Italian darling. I don't think I would ever, in a million years, have approached him, because he wears designer clothing, with pink accents, he looks like a sexy statue, he's sauve, intelligent (hello masters degree at a grande ecole in Paris) and expressive (in a way only european men can be). In the middle of the night he played me italian rap techno that had this one chorus, where in this ridiculous monotone heavy italian accent deadpan, a voice goes: gucci prada fendi and then something that sounded like fironochi...a giant list of designers and I couldn't keep a straight face. For some reason, despite growing out of my awkward years, I still have that fixation on geeky, dorky, and alot of times homely men. They are all terrified of me though, because I am a platinum headed amazon who likes fashion, and I think that was where the problem originated. Maybe I was just looking in the wrong section...is section the right term? These european men are like a new species to me. The guys kiss eachother hello (on the cheek) and order cocktails constantly. I was an obvious foreigner when I carted home a 12 pack of Heineken, because the french so rarely drink beer; it was like I grew a snaggle tooth and sprouted a tail. I have never, ever, dated a man more fashionable than I am. Not that I am a fashion vixen or anything, but I know my shit. There is just something about finding the perfect texture and cut that makes my mind tweak happy.
But I can't stop thinking about fucking the living shit out of him, whether or not he is my 'type'. Oh, he will not get a break. I am not merciful. He will not get much air. In fact, I plan on fucking until we pass out, waking up, fucking some more, and then continuing this cycle until he has to go to class or I have to work. I want to tie him up and tease the italian out of him. And then back in again. I must be an adolescent boy stuck in a body that is all wrong, as I can't get my mind out of the gutter. I want to rip his pink accented designer shirt off and bite him, rake my nails down his back and UGH.
This is way too cruel to continue. I'll never get any sleep, and then when I see him I'll jump him like a bitch in heat and lose any distance I might have imagined keeping.
I'll keep you updated; wish me luck. And sanity. And serenity.
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