In his 'Last Lecture,' terminally ill Carnegie Mellon professor Randy Pausch drives home the point that walls are there to make us figure out just how badly we want something.
Clearly, Randy Pausch has never been to France.
Don't misunderstand me--Professor Pausch is pointing to a bigger picture in his lecture, and I think he hit the nail on the head, because he's right: you never know how badly you want something until you're faced with obstacles to getting it, and only those who are truly motivated find a way to surmount the walls.
But really, Professor Pausch, you've yet to meet France: this is the nation that should have built the Great Wall of China, because getting ANYTHING done in this country is nearly impossibly without jumping like a pedigreed dog on show over countless obstacles.
Case in point: my masters applications. I've been working on this file since oh...October? It has involved the following:
1) completing the online information file
2) getting copies of both my high school and college transcripts
3) having those copies sent to a foreign nation
4) dealing with a jack ass of a translator and paying good loads of money to get those documents officially translated into French
5) Signing up for a French language exam IN PERSON at Paris III
6) Taking that nearly six hour language exam over two days
7) Emailing everyone under the effing sun at Campus France to figure out if I'm required to do a phone interview for my file
8) Submitting the entire file once without uploading scans of all those documents because, and I quote the user manual, "the uploading of these documents is OPTIONAL" because sending a "paper file is required."
9) Getting a phone call from the head of Campus France in Washington telling me I HAVE to upload those docs and that she's unlocked my file so I can re-do it.
10) Me re-doing the file only to figure out my scans are too large.
11) Me reformatting all my scans
12) Me uploading all my scans and submitting the entire file AGAIN.
13) Me getting YET ANOTHER CALL from Washington yesterday telling me the quality of the scans is too poor. WHY!? Because I had to make them SMALL ENOUGH for their damn upload requirements!!
14) Me sitting here in Ile-de-France calling Campus France in WASHINGTON two days before the submission deadline to get this shit sorted out.
Excuse my French, but if France wanted a hoop jumper and a wall climber, they sure as hell got one. I do not give up, I do not give in, and even though I'm exhausted and tired and just want this damn file to be done, it's not over until it's over.
So bring it walls. I'm not scared of you. I'll keep climbing until I collapse. And that's a promise.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Getting out the Story
I once claimed, as a senior in high school, that I was a writer. I affirm again that I am a writer, but it's been a long while since I've felt like I had a story to tell. Good writing and good story telling are not necessarily one in the same thing; a passage can be lovely and well crafted, but if it has nothing to say, who's to read it?
I feel like I'm struggling to pull out the story lingering inside, and I'm questioning where it's gone. When I was young and eager and ready to bleed pens dry of ink, I let it all go. I didn't care about the inner critic, I didn't care how stupid the story seemed at the time, I went with it. I let it tell itself, I didn't think about plot and subplot and metaphor and theme, I let go.
It's counter-intuitive that after reading a large portion of the western canon of literature I should feel so entirely stuck, but I do. It's down right paradoxical that studying literature, combing it over with painstaking attention would stop me dead in my tracks from writing literature of my own.
I once had another teacher who encouraged me to write, who said she was envious of my ability to let go and plunge myself and my pen into a frenzy so that my hand could keep up with my mind, a sort of trance where I separated myself from everything else.
I'm trying to figure out where that's gone. I'm trying to figure out why I feel like I have no story to tell. I'm trying to reclaim the creativity I feel has disappeared.
I love studying other people's art, and I'm in awe of their creation, but I wish I could find a way to get back to creating my own as well. Perhaps I need to spend some more time in the Left Bank, and maybe the Left Bank will help me get the story out.
I feel like I'm struggling to pull out the story lingering inside, and I'm questioning where it's gone. When I was young and eager and ready to bleed pens dry of ink, I let it all go. I didn't care about the inner critic, I didn't care how stupid the story seemed at the time, I went with it. I let it tell itself, I didn't think about plot and subplot and metaphor and theme, I let go.
It's counter-intuitive that after reading a large portion of the western canon of literature I should feel so entirely stuck, but I do. It's down right paradoxical that studying literature, combing it over with painstaking attention would stop me dead in my tracks from writing literature of my own.
I once had another teacher who encouraged me to write, who said she was envious of my ability to let go and plunge myself and my pen into a frenzy so that my hand could keep up with my mind, a sort of trance where I separated myself from everything else.
I'm trying to figure out where that's gone. I'm trying to figure out why I feel like I have no story to tell. I'm trying to reclaim the creativity I feel has disappeared.
I love studying other people's art, and I'm in awe of their creation, but I wish I could find a way to get back to creating my own as well. Perhaps I need to spend some more time in the Left Bank, and maybe the Left Bank will help me get the story out.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Versailles
Last Sunday I had the pleasure of visiting with an old friend in Paris. She was passing through a bit of Europe and it was wonderful to catch up a bit over dinner. She'd also wanted to visit Versailles on Sunday, and I was happy to oblige and tag along with her and her boyfriend.
Although I arrived at the end of September after nearly a year of studying the Sun King's court, I did not immediately bolt down to the castle. Although I live in an ancient royal town near the old chateau where Louis XIV lived until Versailles was finished, I did not hurry down the mere ten miles separating me from the ghost of France past. Although I've wanted to see the castle for longer than I can remember now, I'd waited until last Sunday.
I'd waited because although I am what I'd call a progressive, forward thinker, I cherish tradition, and I wanted to see Versailles as only someone who wants to devote her life to the 17th century can: as untouched as possible. When I arrived in France, there was a very contemporary art exhibition by the likes of a Japanese artist named Murakami staged within the castle, and while I'm all for contemporary art, I didn't want my first memories of Versailles to be blazoned into my memory against manga-themed statues.
So I waited.
I waited until last Sunday when I hopped an early morning bus that led me down the forested stretch of road past Marly and Louveciennes from my town to Versailles. And my nose was nearly glued to the windows the entire time. When we finally wound into Versailles I felt my heart stop.
There, gazing out down a wide road, beaming hard and brilliant in the spring sunlight, were the gates of Versailles. I got off the bus and slowly withdrew my camera; but I stopped. I stopped because I could feel small tears welling up in my eyes, stopped because I wanted to let the moment be, to appreciate the fact that, after hours and hours of reading, after the history books, the commentary, the fairy tales, the facts, the figures, the anecdotes, there--at last--I was.
Gazing upward at the enormous statue of Louis XIV, I felt those same tears welling I felt the afternoon I set foot into Professor Paley's office to deposit research materials: I was so entirely overwhelmed by the magnitude of it all that all I could do was absorb and process.
If there were ever a moment to cement my certainty that I am meant to be in France, that I am meant to study French literature, that I am meant to teach, and that my life is to be a life of literature, I couldn't have asked for a better one.
It reminds me of the fabulous and beautiful notion I had as an early adolescent: words were my world, and my escape. Words were my world to the point that I wrote, and wrote, and wrote my heart out. A very wise gentleman said to me during this period of my life that I was lucky to know, at such a young age, how I wanted to spend that, to acknowledge the gift I have been given and to grow from it. Versailles that Sunday morning was a reminder of that gift, and a reminder never to relinquish that notion.
I suppose that is how I shall account for the tears...
Although I arrived at the end of September after nearly a year of studying the Sun King's court, I did not immediately bolt down to the castle. Although I live in an ancient royal town near the old chateau where Louis XIV lived until Versailles was finished, I did not hurry down the mere ten miles separating me from the ghost of France past. Although I've wanted to see the castle for longer than I can remember now, I'd waited until last Sunday.
I'd waited because although I am what I'd call a progressive, forward thinker, I cherish tradition, and I wanted to see Versailles as only someone who wants to devote her life to the 17th century can: as untouched as possible. When I arrived in France, there was a very contemporary art exhibition by the likes of a Japanese artist named Murakami staged within the castle, and while I'm all for contemporary art, I didn't want my first memories of Versailles to be blazoned into my memory against manga-themed statues.
So I waited.
I waited until last Sunday when I hopped an early morning bus that led me down the forested stretch of road past Marly and Louveciennes from my town to Versailles. And my nose was nearly glued to the windows the entire time. When we finally wound into Versailles I felt my heart stop.
There, gazing out down a wide road, beaming hard and brilliant in the spring sunlight, were the gates of Versailles. I got off the bus and slowly withdrew my camera; but I stopped. I stopped because I could feel small tears welling up in my eyes, stopped because I wanted to let the moment be, to appreciate the fact that, after hours and hours of reading, after the history books, the commentary, the fairy tales, the facts, the figures, the anecdotes, there--at last--I was.
Gazing upward at the enormous statue of Louis XIV, I felt those same tears welling I felt the afternoon I set foot into Professor Paley's office to deposit research materials: I was so entirely overwhelmed by the magnitude of it all that all I could do was absorb and process.
If there were ever a moment to cement my certainty that I am meant to be in France, that I am meant to study French literature, that I am meant to teach, and that my life is to be a life of literature, I couldn't have asked for a better one.
It reminds me of the fabulous and beautiful notion I had as an early adolescent: words were my world, and my escape. Words were my world to the point that I wrote, and wrote, and wrote my heart out. A very wise gentleman said to me during this period of my life that I was lucky to know, at such a young age, how I wanted to spend that, to acknowledge the gift I have been given and to grow from it. Versailles that Sunday morning was a reminder of that gift, and a reminder never to relinquish that notion.
I suppose that is how I shall account for the tears...
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Endings
Whenever I read a book, I indulge in a quirky habit: I read the first sentence, immediately flip to the back, and read the last sentence. While book purists may scold me for 'ruining' the ending of a novel, I have to say that there have been few books whose last sentences have given away the story. I think of this habit as a sort of 'insurance policy': should I kick the bucket before I can finish the novel, at least I can dream up my own plot line in the interim.
Reading the first and last sentences of a book allows me, as well, to 'fill in the gap' as I go, to try and understand better how the twists and turns in the plot will get me from point A to point B, to possibly conceive how an author imagined the world into which I plunge.
Ending a novel never the less makes me sad, because it is a seemingly final rencontre with my first understanding of a work. No matter how many times I may re-read a book, it can never amount to, or surpass, my initial reading.
Somehow this sentiment of finality, this sweet sorrow for the ending of all I adore, transfers to my own writing. I've mentioned previously that I've been writing Friend while he goes through Ranger School; I'm more than thrilled to report he's a mere week from finishing should all go well. Nonetheless, on Monday at work during my lunch break, I wrote him a letter, but as soon as I finished it, another sprung into my mind.
When first lines jump into my mind, I find it hard to ignore them. I solve this by either running with them and capturing them on paper, or writing in my head and letting these lines sink into the abandoned recesses of the fugitive and ephemeral. I ran with this particular line, and wrote what will be Friend's last letter at Ranger.
While I am happy to see these letters come to an end--because they mean Ranger is coming to an end for him--as soon as I finished this letter, I felt inexplicably sad. The only means I have of explaining my sadness is that this ending means I'll no longer have a reason to write him. My sadness also means I care, which is only normal for a twelve year friendship; but what my sadness at this ending says to me most of all is that--fault of human faults--I am attached to the here and now, that I want to hold on to this moment before the clock hands turn and tick it away,
before I have to remember that nothing is eternal but an endless suite of endings.
The sentiment holds true as I watch the clock tick down these final few months in France, before my time--at least as I know--for now comes to an end, when this portion of my life--my story--comes to an end.
Perhaps then my reading of a book's first and last line is my way of prolonging the inevitable, of stopping the story half-way at dawn as did Scheherazade. But no queen shall I be, no...nothing more than a watcher of clocks, a writer of words, and a greeter of endings.
Reading the first and last sentences of a book allows me, as well, to 'fill in the gap' as I go, to try and understand better how the twists and turns in the plot will get me from point A to point B, to possibly conceive how an author imagined the world into which I plunge.
Ending a novel never the less makes me sad, because it is a seemingly final rencontre with my first understanding of a work. No matter how many times I may re-read a book, it can never amount to, or surpass, my initial reading.
Somehow this sentiment of finality, this sweet sorrow for the ending of all I adore, transfers to my own writing. I've mentioned previously that I've been writing Friend while he goes through Ranger School; I'm more than thrilled to report he's a mere week from finishing should all go well. Nonetheless, on Monday at work during my lunch break, I wrote him a letter, but as soon as I finished it, another sprung into my mind.
When first lines jump into my mind, I find it hard to ignore them. I solve this by either running with them and capturing them on paper, or writing in my head and letting these lines sink into the abandoned recesses of the fugitive and ephemeral. I ran with this particular line, and wrote what will be Friend's last letter at Ranger.
While I am happy to see these letters come to an end--because they mean Ranger is coming to an end for him--as soon as I finished this letter, I felt inexplicably sad. The only means I have of explaining my sadness is that this ending means I'll no longer have a reason to write him. My sadness also means I care, which is only normal for a twelve year friendship; but what my sadness at this ending says to me most of all is that--fault of human faults--I am attached to the here and now, that I want to hold on to this moment before the clock hands turn and tick it away,
before I have to remember that nothing is eternal but an endless suite of endings.
The sentiment holds true as I watch the clock tick down these final few months in France, before my time--at least as I know--for now comes to an end, when this portion of my life--my story--comes to an end.
Perhaps then my reading of a book's first and last line is my way of prolonging the inevitable, of stopping the story half-way at dawn as did Scheherazade. But no queen shall I be, no...nothing more than a watcher of clocks, a writer of words, and a greeter of endings.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Burn the Boats
Yesterday I had the pleasure of banditing the Semi-Marathon de Paris. In other words, I pulled an equivalent of parking my tush on Tightwad hill to watch Cal football within the context of the running world: I ran a race without registering. As silly as it might seem, sometimes allowing yourself to participate unofficially in an event, however small a technicality it may or may not be, is a way to remove some of the self imposed pressure knowing that you are 'competing' can bring. This was my state of mind when I decided to bandit said Semi, among other motivators.
I've mentioned in previous posts as well my friend The Diplomat. The Diplomat and I run well together, so we decided on Friday night at a pre-race pasta party he hosted at his place for our training group to go it together on Sunday. Amid fridgid winds on Sunday morning, our group huddled together for some mutual encouragement and he looked at me almost laughingly through the glaring northern sun and chuckled "Are you ready?" Needless to say, I'd been excited all week, and colorfully responded in the affirmative.
Once the gun went off it took some time for us to make our way to the start to the thump of Duck Sauce's ridiculous "Barbara Streisand," my first foray into the many differences between European and American running culture, with an air of celebration. The Diplomat and I hit the mats and sped off, weaving our way through the thick bottle neck of more than 30,000 participants.
Comfortably settled into a good rhythm, The Diplomat and I started chatting when he brought up the subject of NFL Jets coach Rex Ryan, who is known for his unique locker room speeches. Most recently, The Diplomat elaborated, Ryan had fired up his team by describing an anecdote about Hernand Cortez. Upon arrival in the new world, Cortez, legend has it, told his men it was all or nothing--they were either committed to their enterprise or they weren't. So they committed; they committed so much in fact, that they burned the very boats they'd arrived in. No way back.
Needless to say, this became our mantra on Sunday. We heartily chanted "Burn the boats!" through the six mile mark flying down through the Place d'Italie, up the mild grade towards Bastille, through the seven mile mark we hit in one hour flat, through the 12.5 mile mark in 1 hour and 45 minutes. And even though I'd been scared to commit to competing--let's not forget I wasn't registered for this expedition--I'd committed myself fully to running that race as hard as I could when I crossed the start mat. But it got me thinking: what are we willing to burn the boats for? What are the things in life to which we are willing to fully commit, no matter how easy or how tough?
It's an important life question, because knowing what you are and are not willing to burn the boats for is a strong indicator of where your priorities lay, and even though in this context I applied the idea to my running, it's something that I feel will stick with me as I continue my journey over here in France. In fact, that's what I've been doing here, all along without knowing it--trying to figure out what boats to burn.
Burn the boats, folks. Burn the boats.
I've mentioned in previous posts as well my friend The Diplomat. The Diplomat and I run well together, so we decided on Friday night at a pre-race pasta party he hosted at his place for our training group to go it together on Sunday. Amid fridgid winds on Sunday morning, our group huddled together for some mutual encouragement and he looked at me almost laughingly through the glaring northern sun and chuckled "Are you ready?" Needless to say, I'd been excited all week, and colorfully responded in the affirmative.
Once the gun went off it took some time for us to make our way to the start to the thump of Duck Sauce's ridiculous "Barbara Streisand," my first foray into the many differences between European and American running culture, with an air of celebration. The Diplomat and I hit the mats and sped off, weaving our way through the thick bottle neck of more than 30,000 participants.
Comfortably settled into a good rhythm, The Diplomat and I started chatting when he brought up the subject of NFL Jets coach Rex Ryan, who is known for his unique locker room speeches. Most recently, The Diplomat elaborated, Ryan had fired up his team by describing an anecdote about Hernand Cortez. Upon arrival in the new world, Cortez, legend has it, told his men it was all or nothing--they were either committed to their enterprise or they weren't. So they committed; they committed so much in fact, that they burned the very boats they'd arrived in. No way back.
Needless to say, this became our mantra on Sunday. We heartily chanted "Burn the boats!" through the six mile mark flying down through the Place d'Italie, up the mild grade towards Bastille, through the seven mile mark we hit in one hour flat, through the 12.5 mile mark in 1 hour and 45 minutes. And even though I'd been scared to commit to competing--let's not forget I wasn't registered for this expedition--I'd committed myself fully to running that race as hard as I could when I crossed the start mat. But it got me thinking: what are we willing to burn the boats for? What are the things in life to which we are willing to fully commit, no matter how easy or how tough?
It's an important life question, because knowing what you are and are not willing to burn the boats for is a strong indicator of where your priorities lay, and even though in this context I applied the idea to my running, it's something that I feel will stick with me as I continue my journey over here in France. In fact, that's what I've been doing here, all along without knowing it--trying to figure out what boats to burn.
Burn the boats, folks. Burn the boats.
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