Lost & Found

A few months ago, during my time off of school for the summer, I somehow ended up boarding a plane due to Casablanca from Los Angeles. I had plans to stay in the midwest college town I lived in and work, thinking it would be the more responsible thing to do, but when I told my dad about this, he sounded more disenchanted by the idea than anything else, and suggested that, after a few days time, I take a trip to Morocco. I first went to L.A. for a week, just to act as some sort of padding between places. Morocco wasn't a choice picked by throwing darts at the map; this was specific. My father knew that for the past four years I've been thinking off and on about going, with no realistic luck due to time and money, both of which have always been lacking. I remember when I started having dreams about it, and I saw this as a sign from some universal force requesting my visit to the land where I was born. I felt that perhaps I had left a part of me there that needed retrieving, or something along those lines. I couldn't think of what I would do there, I just knew it was finally time to make it happen. Morocco is a part of my past so distant I found it hard to consider how I would respond to it or how it would take to me. My dad is readying himself for his fiftieth birthday. He is a single sort of modern monk and a man who burns easily in the sun, donning his black Buddy Holly glasses that he's had since his army days. He has creases around his eyes and some grey hair where it once was dark brown from years of stress, but his demeanor is still relatively youthful thanks to his charming innocence. He has few friends and does not date. He reads a lot about Jesus, and I have realized that for quite a long time now, he has been quite literally my personal savior. I was adopted from a small town called El Gara, about 40 miles away from Casablanca, which could have easily been the day I was dropped off at the orphanage, never a good place to be, especially in Morocco. But, this never happened, thanks to the overwhelming kindness reserved in a certain Mississippian man named Steve. Steve was stationed in El Gara during his years serving in the Peace Corps. He taught English to the high school kids, and was, as I gathered this summer, a very popular man, adding a great deal of character to the small town. Steve then became Dad, and we've been related ever since.
His distance was one of my primary strains growing up. I didn't understand him and he didn't understand me, while we spent most of our time on our own personalized planets. His was working, and mine was school and its social circles of hell. I wanted more than anything to feel comfort in these years, and this sometimes meant fighting with the person who refused it, and who I desired it from the most. He left me to my own devices most of the time, not asking where I'd gone, who I was with, what we did, and certainly never speaking the word "boy" or asking about their placement in my life. If he didn't know, then it didn't exist, and he could continue being what Simon and Garfunkel refer to as "a rock," and "an island." Locked away in his room, he would privately devour countless books, and with nothing else to do, I'd go out with friends or alone to the movies, something that caught on more and more with the years. I would think about a time when I was younger, careless about things like new pants or cell phones, and dad would say that I would get older someday and wouldn't want to spend as much time with him anymore. I would roll all over the floor in fake anger, demanding that this was a lie, thinking that we’d always be friends. But he was right. Once when I was sixteen, I asked him if we could be friends again. He, in his strange solemn way said only, “I’m not here to be your friend. I’m here to be your father.”
I saw no use in spending time with someone who would criticize me for being mindlessly self-indulgent, a phrase he used so often it managed to burn its syllables into my brain. One night over dinner at a Chinese place we frequented, he asked me what was on my face. I didn't know what he was talking about, thinking maybe there was rice stuck to the side of my mouth. Finally I realized that he was talking about my eye shadow, something many a young girl will try out for themselves. He said I should wash it off so people don’t think I got beat up. He's never been terribly graceful or gracious with compliments, and it was always difficult being his daughter. Once in a psychotic burst of estrogen and alcohol-fueled anger, I demanded that he tell me I’m pretty and that he’s proud of me. In my younger years I begged him to date. I’ve asked him to change so many times throughout my younger years, and have finally come to realize that there is no need. He’s missed a few of the big jumps in parenting, but he’s done things for me that nobody else in the world would do for anyone. Now that I’m older, I see something in him that gets overlooked by most. It's hard to describe what it is; almost a combination of humbleness and self-reliance, something that I fear may morph into an absurd blind selfishness. He already has a bad habit of believing that anyone who hasn't read "The Classics," an impossibly long list, is an ingrate and deserves nothing but cold porridge and the back of his head. However, I think that this is a fear I should learn to overlook. He truly is an amazing man. He willingly gave up everything to save the life of a baby he had no relation to, and has been loyal to me since this decision was made. I’ve wondered to myself whether or not he could perhaps be enlightened. I don’t know how I would ever tell for sure.
My father grew up with five siblings, three girls and two boys, and was closest with his dad, a very Grapes Of Wrath type, only more educated and level headed, at least from what I've gathered. He had his farm, his family, and not much more. I didn't know my grandfather very well since he died when I was only three, but I know that he loved me greatly if not quietly, and this attribute along with most of his other characteristics were passed on to my dad. I believe he keeps them active to preserve the life of the man he loved so much.
It's been a very long time since my birth. Almost 23 years to the day, in fact. My dad is coming to visit because he's got time off of work, something that nearly never happens, and on my birthday weekend to boot. This year will be different; I've had the chance to obtain a closure I've never had before. During my journey in Morocco, I learned much more about myself than I expected. It was a country I did not belong in. Geographically it was clearly where I should have been. My body felt unstoppable, sleeping didn’t seem to matter, and I was suddenly the most tone I’ve been in years. The only downfall was the sense of displacement I felt by being in a country I couldn’t allow myself to be content with. This was mainly due to the male population, which made me all the more pleased to be an American, something I suddenly felt proud of. In instances like this, I have to consider what’s more important: how healthy I feel in my body, or how I feel in my heart. I was able to say goodbye and good riddance to a me that never was, which I've desired to do since realizing that I'm a real person. I saw a photo of my biological father, and I'm happy to know that he was a good-looking guy. I thought I needed to meet him, to solidify something, and perhaps I will one day. However, the greatest thing I learned was that the only thing I left in Morocco was Dumbo's feather, a shadow of my past. I already have a father, and I no longer have to wonder about who I was supposed to be, because I now see that she is right here. My father’s blood is a light Scottish, and mine is a bit darker, but relation is beyond the forest of family trees.
I see now that my dad and I relate to each other more than any random relative in a distant country. We have our history, and we've learned from one another, still actively learning too. Perhaps we'll never understand each other completely, but as far as I'm concerned, this is the last of our troubles.

A response to an essay on "Shooting Dad"

My computer is old. I can't manage to just post a comment on someones page, so I have to just do it on mine. Powerbook G4, who are you?

I read Theresa's essay on Shooting Dad and found it to be a pretty upset one. I can see where the disturbed outlook comes from, because it's not very enjoyable to imagine a father who would allow, let alone encourage their child to shoot a gun at the age of six. However, I do hold a soft spot for people who know what they know, and it becomes their purpose and what drives them. It may not be pushing the world in a brighter place in a very clear or obvious way, but the fact that he had been a gunsmith leads me to believe that his knowledge of guns was extensive, something I could never understand being someone much more like Vowell than her father. I don't think he meant harm by it. It's surely ignorant and dangerous to say the least, but it was also a somewhat loving gesture coming from a man whose strongest vein of knowledge was in firearms. I also appreciated the fact that he never forced his daughters into anything, and was very adamant about allowing them to make choices for themselves. There is something to be said about this, since many parents would consider this concept more dangerous than guns.

"The Way to Rainy Mountain" By M. Scott Momday

I'm not sure how to feel reading this. I like the flow of the writing, it was peaceful and somberly stinging in some parts, but I felt there was something missing. Or perhaps too much detail on certain things.
I liked the way there was a definitive distinction between War and War. That is, the way the United States handles it and the way it was viewed and honored by the Kiowas. Being a young person in this time of history, I come across people who want to insist that there is no difference in any brand of war, and they are all the same in their injustice because they are validating murder in some form. It's true that explaining why you feel a war can be okay is very tricky, usually causing some serious slipping on very thin ice, or a boring and nervous statement like, "I dunno, it's just different, I can't explain it," is all someone can conjure from their creative mind. But the ability in Momday to plainly and softly lie it out in front of the reader is done so gracefully and gently, there is hardly room for arguing. He drops each sentence like a pebble on sand, leaving only an imprint and no jarring aftershock.
He speaks of Rainy Mountain as having the roughest weather in the world. This is already suggesting that his people are able to handle rough terrain from birth, and very quietly gives the notion of their strength. He experiences the same charm from his grandmother, a mysterious woman whose face is invisible to me, but the vision of her praying is really all I need. This was glorious and divine to imagine, especially when sliding into Momday's small shoes and seeing all of it through the curious eyes of a young boy.
Seeing things in his youth was to witness majestic things, tall and bountiful. Then as an adult, things have changed. The tone is neutral with a slight bitter aftertaste, and things are smaller, less alive. But then he talks about the grasshopper and this is the reminder he needs.
The Mountain stood, and he is not intending on going back. Does this mean that his life is made new, and he is no longer concerned with the preservation of the old ways? I believe he has preserved them, in this new world through his career and passions. He does not need to live his life as a Kiowa to honor them, or the memory of his grandmother. He has already done it.

"Shooting Dad" By Sarah Vowell

This was an interesting essay to read, but mainly for personal reasons. I enjoyed her expressions and extreme views that were being released on behalf of her younger self who had since become her older self. Though grown up, she still was able to stay truthful to her beliefs as a kid, attempting correct judgment and individuality while being raised by her father, someone she saw as, let's say, faulted.
The personal reasons I mentioned were based on the fact that I could relate to this character very well. The "oh my god, my dad and I are the same person" thing probably happens to most daughters raised by fathers they think they hate. This can be a turbulent event for some people, but thankfully for others such as Vowell and myself, it can be just an ironic joke from the universe more than anything, something to shrug your shoulders and grin at.
I feel that in her description, her and her father both had disillusioned themselves into believing more and and more that their way of living was right, simply because their lifestyles became a tug-of-war. He called her in mocking joyful tones when a republican won an election, and she pasted left wing newspaper clippings on her door because she knew he would see it. Whatever they did became a display more than an internal passion, and that usually creates more connectivity and coherence between people than they'd like to admit.
I didn't much care for the title of this essay because it suggested that she actually shoots her dad at some point, which I was actually waiting for when she mentioned the first time she ever fired a gun. I wasn't excited for a violent event, just a funny one where someone gets minorly injured. I understand that all the title is doing is giving away the ending in a playful way, but it led me on and now I resent it.
The best part of the essay was the moment Vowell experienced the God-like firing of a cannon, something she had feared and refused as a child, but now realised was, in her own words, "just really, really cool." This was a moment shared, a silent moment of bonding, and very sweet to visualize.

Tough Bubbles

A certain Miss Poppins once suggested to an entire generation of children to add a spoon full of sugar to their bitter medicine, allowing easier passage and joy in the experience. If this notion were to be more specific, I think she would have actually said, “A songs volume corresponds to the brightness of your day!” She was singing it, after all.
There is a very unfortunate shame all too commonly cast upon the old and young alike for feeling fantastic. We forget for a precious while that life is more than grinding our teeth, but then quickly remind ourselves that there is work to do, mouths to feed, money to recount, and headlines to scan, dismissing our right to sing in the rain. The ugly mind of guilt rears its heavy head and punishes us for wanting more flavor than that of cardboard. The world is under too much pressure for one loose link flailing about in some lively sugar induced stupor.
I’ve always been a defender of pop and rock music, because I feel it does good things for people in the same way a trip to Disneyland does. There are some who belief that the Disney company is an evil suit with many faces that ruins lives and does nothing more. However, I would like to offer this less known bit of information: they also provide rollers coasters!
I’ve endured many an argument, usually about the Industry, the filthy lives these phony artists lead, and the terrifying notion that these people didn’t write the songs or have anything to do with their making, which are also entirely overproduced anyway. People love to throw this out, then go home and listen to Frank Sinatra like they’re saving the world by doing so. I understand where this aggression from a progressive society comes from, and I don’t feel it’s wrong or ignorant to question, but I do believe in a middle ground and judgment is easy to dish out, but comes hard to swallow when it makes its way back around. I’ll ride the rides, but I won’t drink the kool aid. Some see no difference in the two when looking at such megabusinesses, but I believe that enjoyment and overindulgence means the greatest difference in the world, especially to the people working so hard to make these material objects reality, whether their being paid top dollar, or half a penny a week. We have a lot of work to do, and to claim to be perfect is to lie. I've always been one to keep away from the Made In China label that is so difficult to escape, but I've also tried to save myself from drowning in extremism. We don’t need to buy everything, and usually don't need what we're in line to get, but some experiences are worth the cash, the time, the work, and the compromise.
Morrissey, current soloist and singer of the '80's band The Smiths who I discovered and fell in love with when I was eighteen, has been a life long animal rights activist but wears leather shoes. When asked why, he simply said, "I think if you ask people to do everything, they become so confused that they do absolutely nothing." There are of course faux-leather shoes, and shoes made from recycled material, and organics like bamboo and hemp. I generally wear what I feel my character would wear. This is the essence of style and wearability, and sometimes requires a bit of modesty with a sturdy self-righteous shell, if one feels so compelled.
There was a time when all I could think about was going home and playing my one and only CD, a rush I still have when I discover a particularly genius album or song. This time was somewhere around 1992. Being picked up from school, I would bounce in my car seat in anticipation of what was going to happen in about seven to fifteen minutes, depending on traffic. My jumper was restricting to my motions, so that was the first to go once I was in my room. The next step was releasing my hair from its ties, but I usually waited until the perfect moment in the song for this, usually around a milimoment before the chorus. After that, it was all improvised, the end result often including ruffled bedspreads and twisted space rugs from wild ten year old feet. All of this mayhem was due in full to Tina Turner’s “What’s Love Got To Do With It” which had been promoted at a local McDonalds. It was the one truly wonderful thing I ever got from eating there, and as far as I’m concerned, somewhere deep down, I kinda owe them one.
Listening to this album was a release for me after a long day at school. Time drags more when your young, because nothing taught at that age is ever as interesting as what you eventually do with the knowledge. I never had a lot of parental attention growing up, so homework usually went unchecked (and therefore undid), and I had things like Mtv and AOL 2.0 replacing private nannies. I was well taken care of, under the wings of late-night music videos and a variety of chat rooms, where strangers could meet anonymously and discuss their feelings about anything that two or more people found to be worth mentioning. My favorite topics were pet maintenance and pop music. I liked to give my piece about what I thought sounded good at the time, what inspired me in my youth, and how to take care of a golden retrievers cracked paw problem. I never knew what I was talking about, medically or professionally, but my reactions were consistently based upon what sounded right, because this was all I could trust, especially being in Catholic school. I can only hope now that my advice never caused any serious animal-related health problems.
Leaving behind my internet-based veterinary profession, I’ve now given up a great deal of myself to music of all flavors and colors, responding to the message a song or artist makes real effort to describe through voice, tempo, and a variety of decisions made in sound. From the small and timid folksy acoustic whispers to the massive and intimidating thunder of electronic heartbeats, there is much to give, and much to give back. It becomes a dialogue between track and listener, a language made of physical and musical movements. This is the involuntary miracle we call dancing; a critique that takes up more space than verbal description, and we’re all speaking in tongues while giving it. People worry about kids drinking or taking drugs because they may hurt themselves or do something out of the ordinary. However, the power of a song could cause even the most silent of rocks to shake itself into a frenzy of dusty rubble. We must use our judgment in the midst of vast musical terrain to determine what giveth life, and what taketh away.
I remember when I received a package of CDs I was to review in the fall of 2006 for a small publication in San Francisco, and I came across a new album by the Mountain Goats who I had been listening to off and on for a few years already. The new album was beautifully constructed, landing a few solid jaw drops along with the clarification of a direction that I wasn’t sure the artist had discovered previously. There was a song called “Dance Music” that I was immediately taken with, from the cute flirty tease of the piano to the happy pace of the song about his adolescence, which opens on a very dark and personal subject. He tells us in plain words of his childhood in San Louis Obispo, watching the Watergate hearings on TV, and running upstairs to escape his father chasing his mother around the living room in attempts to attack her. He makes a short statement to capture the entire song in one line: “…leaning close to my little record player on the floor. So this is what the volume knob’s for.” Music is certainly one of the more healthy methods of escape, whether making it or gaining from its creation. I call it “getting religious,” dancing wherever I may be in a wave of warm comfort, either created by the bodies around me generating sweat and heat, or the seemingly empty air in the room that has been touched by some electricity the music brings about. My favorite kinds of music are songs that make me feel compelled to dance, and ones that make me think, but when I find music that does both, it makes the list. This is a momentary database that hibernates in the folds of my brain, awakened by a moment of silence born from sound, and leaving my heart suspended in action while it ticks out information. It is created within seconds, made to decipher what I'm feeling, what it reminds me of, what it tastes and looks like, and how I'm going to respond. This list is invisible yes, but this does not discredit its validity to me. I just know it when I hear it.

Natural Material

ROUGH DRAF'
There is a noteworthy relationship between individual people and their surroundings. Some like to use the word "nature" in the same way they use the term "earth tones," which is wildly incorrect in its general context. If you look at the actual tones of the earth, you find a myriad of colors, shades, textures, and volumes. I like to consider hot pink and lime green "earth tones," because they are found relatively often, and just as important to the scheme of the planet. If the earth were covered in dirt and seen from outer space as an orbital ball of mud, I'd most likely shift my direction to a new planet with more self-motivation.
Nature. This word is powerful, and yet seems to carry irritatingly false angles, thanks to the commonly used definition most people have come to stand by. When someone says this word, images of trees and birds and so on come to mind automatically. However, I feel that that it has a much more surprisingly flavorful gusto behind it. Nature is life, and all things are living, whether outwardly conscious or not. A tree is never dead. A metal knife is pulsing with intention and energy. To get "back in tune with nature" as people say, typically means to surround oneself with plants, go on long quiet walks through preserved parks and forests, meditate on large rocks, and take deep relaxing inhalations while overlooking large valleys. All of this sounds lovely, and I partake in these things from time to time myself. But what I'm concerned about is the lack of approval the alternate side of life gets. Why does the city have such a bad reputation? I can't help but notice that the people who send the most verbally abusive hate mail to the automotive industry are the same people asking for rides from their friends with cars.
Nature truly is all around, and I enjoy finding it hidden within the less obvious. Falling for a city structure like a bridge or building that has just the right curves in just the right places, or feeling my heart race at the natural terror brought upon by a New York taxi driver both reveal a certain sweetness. And dancing. I find nothing more natural than the sensation of hearing something that causes my body to flinch in a structurally chaotic rhythm.
I am stunned by the wild variations of nature, over and over again. The best parts are found roughly through the combination of what we refer to as nature on a regular basis, and what is seen by the ignorant as the decay of a rich planet, or in short, urban culture. I love seeing a birds nest resting in the corner of an old stone building, or the intricate display of a spider’s web spread over a gap between a cars door and rear view mirror.
While walking through the forest one day, I came upon a very charming wooden bridge, thinking it would be the perfect spot to sit and rest while observing the functions of the world in a logical display. I saw a frog, raccoon and duck prints embedded in the sandy mud, a variety of bugs and small crawling creatures, and plenty of trees and thin branching plants. I also saw various cans, different brands of cigarette butts, and heard a small plane overhead and a train nearby. Perhaps I am strange for being content with these sounds and sights. So much strain is released on a single bottle lying face down in a muddy bank, but we seldom give a seconds reserve for an unseen landfill somewhere in the unknown, a dingy location separate from “Earth,” because we don’t have to walk past it or suffer from its existence, thanks to our comfortable location. I accept the fact that another human had been there, on the bridge, exactly where I sat. To search for a place untouched and remote is futile. A devastatingly romantic search, but simply impossible to obtain. If you find such a place, and then to your horror discover that you are in fact standing in the place you’ve found, you've suddenly spoiled it even for yourself. If somehow you can find natural contentment in walking through a creatively corroded suburb just as much as a solemn brook, you've discovered the secret of peace.
Sometimes this can be more of a challenge, especially when dealing with horrid terrain like track homes or large warehouse stores emitting that horrible yellow light from the ceiling. But, as we use our skills to differentiate what is beautiful from what is not, we are then blessed with choice. Finding truth in things is to see the natural capacity it has. Some things have very little, but really, that depends on how it influences an individual. Someone may find large halogen light bulbs beautiful. I don’t. We are then different, and the world remains interesting.
I have found that everything really is perfect to some noticeable degree, because nothing is below divine. Everything is exactly what it needs to be in that moment, because if it's happening, if it has happened, if it's ready to spring forth and become, then it is so obviously meant to be. It's exciting when you think about it, really. Camping and hiking can be wonderful adventures, often tickling the inspiration of those who may have thought themselves more city-oriented. There is a fascinating process to realizations such as these, in places that subject someone to things they never thought to relate themselves to. The same note goes for the outdoorsmen, or at least the extremists, believing that beauty can only be found in purple mountains majesty. Thoreau finds reason to dispute with those who sit inside for long periods of time. I however, find this to be just the right dose of absolute joy on some days. Beauty is in places where it may be difficult to see to the commonly trained eye. Many things are disrupted within the Earth’s balanced state, and that truly is shameful. Hopefully this is something our race learns to correct at an early age. We are, after all, still quite young, like toddlers playing with a glass bowl and not realizing its delicacy. Thankfully, none of the shards go very far and they have a unique ability to restore as a unit once placed in the proper order. Nothing is taken from the planet, only scrambled. Everything is still here, and that is the ultimate good news. Beauty is all around, just like the earth intended it to be.
Never expect anything. Contentment is found in the mystery, not in the answer. The soft, midnight light of a subway station and the smell of early morning dew on wildflowers are equal in their magical ability to transfix, inspire, share, and bewilder. Getting lost is the first step. Nature will certainly be happy to guide the way.

Love Hate Relationship

Written while reading...


What special quality rests in these certain people who thrive when saddened?
There is something beautiful within it, a real charm in the strange blend found in joy and sadness, a melancholy unlike most. Transcending the dependancy of others is an interesting process. Realizing that there is more company around than you may perceive is even more amazing.
However, this is not the loneliness that Wendell Berry refers to. His desires are unfound, discovering relief and great disappointment in the absence of other campers and the sound of people in the distance. What is it Berry is missing in his unbounded contentment? I believe it is not the woods that haunt him, but something more sheltered and internal, perhaps clothed in heavy layers of emotional saran wrap.
He bares his claim that his lack of happiness loiters in the midst of the past, within departed history and tracks of the dead. However, the confession of having more on his plate slips easily, granting reason to believe in a very real confusion weighing on his heart.
Berry is lost. His self-loathing demeanor is freely characterized in his banter about the freeway. He suggests that when you drive on a freeway in Kentucky, you don't experience Kentucky, only the freeway. This is sometimes true, but what's wrong with a freeway? What's wrong with going 70 mph? Is the point of his visit to the forest not to pay heed to the forest? Is he awful for not considering skyscrapers in this aimless trek? Of course not, so why waste energy whipping ones own back for forgetting about the reality of Kentucky? I'm sure it doesn't mind, really.
I see that the point was not entirely to push guilt into his own mind over this mishap, but to have a more fluid transition from the hustlebustle to the calm and settled. Running to your bed for a nap generally doesn't wield immediate results.
...Is this essay making ME feel a bit lost? I'm beginning to misunderstand my own theories here, and what I'm even fully referring to is becoming blurry.
I hate saying this because, like confessing love, it seems to be thrown around more often than it should, especially where I live, but it sounds more than anything like poor Wendell is destressing. There is some sort of rubber-band ball in his chest, and the bands are slowly snapping off, one by one. These ruptures always contain a short pop of concern, sometimes lasting for quite a term, other times the results are as short as six pages.
This has been a very difficult essay to read.
It reads like a journal entry of a wealthy youth who ran away to escape the woes experienced by the "real world." This is especially dull after reading Thoreau's "Walking" which is so full of vitality and sturdiness, this in comparison is old, sugarless peanut brittle on a slab of cold marble.
He's so sure about his placement, and in that knowing there is doubt. How does one know that a certain action will bring a specific desire? By being in the forest Berry believes that this phase will end, and through speechlessness, reality will be obtained. I wish her luck and low hopes in this venture.
If I'm going to be completely honest in my critique, I have to admit that my feelings toward this particular essay are completely personal. Barry's writing reflects a passed facet of myself that I'm very glad to see gone, and reading this makes me wince, knowing that that little girl is so active in the minds of others. It's an unhealthy method of perception.
But then again, what do I know? Different things work for different people. I should be careful to criticize. I could be going through a phase right now. I probably am, actually.
Are we ever "ourselves"? As far as I know, most people just seem to be relaying various methods, testing the water until they die, or reach enlightenment, whichever comes first, I suppose.
Barry's dawn comes slow and cold, though it does not do this intentionally. He seems spiteful towards the world for reasons undisclosed. I wish he would just talk about what's making him so upset and get it over with.
I can't believe she just mentioned Hiroshima. Wow.
....
The slight shift in tone makes for a lovely ending to what I felt to be a very unpleasant essay. There are many movies I've seen that have the same effect, winding down to a point of solitude and comfort, which somehow makes all the things happening beforehand contain a sense of logic. He speaks of a day and night in the woods, and the second rising of the sun is much different than the first. His step carries less weight, and a purpose has been found in the entirety of her trip. The essay itself falls and rises, a direct expression of the experience. I like it.

Successful Sauntering

We, as essay students, know that a good essayist is made by several things, one of which being the ability to write in a contained manner, but present it as though it were done in a more stream-of-consciousness fashion. This is said to us by an essayist, whom we cannot trust, now knowing his criteria is based on nothing other than contradictions.
So, what then?
I must assume that Henry David Thoreau was indeed crafting his work on a structured basis, but cannot fully believe it. His essay "Walking" seems to resolve itself by the end, but only because it stops. I feel as though he could have continued on for the rest of his life, because this essay is clearly about much more than a lazy stroll through a park. This is a story about his walk of life, his views on the variations of "walks" that others take, and the paths he's traveled, favored, ignored (and yet taken firm note of), or otherwise disliked all together.
We find Thoreau blatantly pitying, and, at times despising those who do not value a walk as he does. But, as already stated, this isn't about a walk at all. His pages suggest the mere acceptance and appreciation of all facets of life. Real life, what he calls "wildness" transcribing this word to simply mean truth, responding to his own idea over and over again. It would be easy to say that Thoreau is pretentious in his grand speech of his own Grand Marche, but really this is a lazy reaction to have. So eloquently phrased opinions should be regarded in a more thoughtful light. I only wish I had a better education on his writing, because I want so eagerly to defend his taste, but I hardly know the man, so my opinion is unfortunately, at the moment, just that.
I still say he's right, though.
I'm such a fan of "fun facts" and am tickled at the many times he suggests origins of words, or flat out drops them as facts. These clever insertions act as little bubbles in the cup of whatever dry drink he's delivering. His humor is so fitting to the topic, because the essay itself seems to go round and round in circles, and we are then directly taken on a sort of jumpy walk through his mind. When taking into account the many things mentioned, whether it's the climates effect on a person, or the nurturing attitude towards the forest, or the frank disdain towards a smell of a scholar, his writing gives word to an overwhelming bank of detail, acting as a bias guidebook to any passing reader, transforming a casual saunter into an all encompassing notion of life in general. The greatest part is, Thoreau see's no difference whatsoever in the two.

Flighty

This was a day of firsts. I'd never been to Europe before, and had readied myself for a three-hour experience at the Paris airport. How thrilling! I also had never rode on Air France, only knew of a band with the same name that I enjoyed. They are, naturally, from Sweden. Also, I had never in my life been on a plane of such size. This particular Boeing was laid with three rows of three seats, perfectly lining the plane horizontally and vertically, front to back. It was massive, and was relaxing to feel so little under me that ordinarily felt like, well, a plane. This felt more like an apartment building. I sat in the middle seat where I had been assigned, between two men, one American and one...not-American. I wasn't sure where he was from, and I didn't care much. I generally prefer to keep to myself on a flight, enjoying my movie, book, music, wine, nap, or what have you that I’ve assigned to myself.
I was relieved to find that neither appeared to be interested in a conversation. The American ordered a brandy and coke, and the other man took champagne, as did I. Perhaps it was the soothing nature of the drink, the soft bob of the floating airbus, or the fact that he hadn't initiated conversation, but something compelled me to say hello. We introduced ourselves. Olivier was from Germany, but he lived in France, worked in Italy, and had some sort of office in Sweden. His face was kind, and molded to reflect a life of intensity, perhaps great labor, but also a glittering gusto towards life. I was instantly interested. Hi, I'm Sara, I go to school in Iowa. That's all I had to offer, so we started with him.
He told me about his travels, how he was tired sometimes of the flights but overall he very much enjoyed seeing the world. He seemed quite young, with a brightly shining adventurous side, though he was somewhere in his late fifties. I've always enjoyed this sort of personality and am finding it increasingly harder to come by. I feel that I relate to it quite well, in the mirror-opposite sort of way.
Over the course of the remaining nine and a half hours, we became what I can call friends, not feel like I'm lying or exaggerating. He taught me a few basic things in French, encouraging me to speak up when I tried the words and phrases myself. If I didn't speak up, nobody would hear, and I would never learn a thing. That was his take, and I agreed.
He explained that he was on his way to Italy, with a connecting flight in Paris. I told him that I was headed to Morocco, but would very much like to see Paris someday. He told me to do it right, not how the tourists or the Euro-traveling college kids do it. I asked what he recommended, and he told me to be sure to stay for at least two weeks. Get a feel; allow a short hint of domesticity. I thought this was a great idea. I'd never been to Europe before because I never much cared for the idea of running around, taking a few days to see the major sites. What he was basically telling me is to go 'live' in Paris for two weeks, an idea to which I gravitated to immediately.
We took a break from one another as he turned in for a short nap, and I tuned in for a long movie. Somewhere in the middle, he rolled over and said something I couldn't hear through my headphones. I took them off, and he repeated his statement. "I don't feel good," he slurred. I patted his back, trying to not wake the half of him that was still asleep, or so I had thought.
The next thing that happened led me to believe that he actually was sick, and not just sleepy. The upper half of his body fell onto mine, which startled me and honestly disappointed me. I was convinced for a brief moment that he was just being a bit of a dirty old man, but once I pushed his body up and saw that his eyes were still, and felt his clammy hands, I knew this was no old mans joke. My finger went straight to the assistance button. I punched it wildly, yelling a bit for assistance, trying to get attention but not cause a scene. A few stewards came around and lifted him firmly out of his seat, using all the force they could since his legs would no longer hold him up. This was the final straw for me. Despite the illumination of the seatbelt sign, I unbuckled anyway, and sat on the floor next to him with the hand of a beautiful French stewardess around mine. She smiled at me, telling me not to cry and that he would be fine. I was terrified. I told them that I was sorry, but I refused to go, so they allowed me to stay while pumping oxygen through his mouth and into his lungs. They spoke in French and I understood nothing, feeling all the more panicked, both because of language barriers, and a presented condition I knew very little about. After a few eternal minutes of weightlessness, Olivier's eyes revealed creases of life in their corners. What was this? He was smiling beneath the air mask? What an asshole. He spoke to the stewards, laughed a bit, asking what had happened. He drank his water and sat up slowly, with the assistance of a clean cut young man. He looked at me and saw that I had been crying about something. "What's this all about, are you okay?" he said. I had to laugh because he was asking me if I was okay. "Yeah, I'm fine. Don't do that again." I said. He promised to be good for the rest of the flight. It was a promise I could trust just as much as he could, so I kept an eye on him for the remaining few hours. We had already experienced many facets of emotion within our short visit with one another, and this made things suddenly feel different. We'd known each other much longer than the time of the flight, and yet no more at all.
The plane landed, we were in Paris. My heart beat faster at the idea of being there. Olivier and I were within eyes reach until we each found our own exits to the separate gates. I thanked him for his advice about Paris, helping me with my horrible French, and being the first person on a plane I'd ever felt inclined to speak to. He gave me a hug. It was time to go.
With genuine thanks to complications in Morocco, I ended up in Paris a week and a half later, staying for a little over two weeks. People were very curious to know why I was staying for so long, not seeing any other places in Europe, and I just said that it felt like the right thing to do. I think Olivier was probably sitting next to me for a very specific reason that he's not even aware of. Funny how the world works.

Ado-lessons

Ally was a friend of a friend, living in a relatively well sized apartment in the Pacific Heights district of San Francisco. She was one of these girls that got jealous when she wasn't the pinnacle of entertainment to her friends, and became overly nice to anyone else who could be stealing her glory, in order to gain it back. She invited me to a Halloween party and to spend the night afterwards. My dad, being a generally careful man, said that I could go as long as I went to my first French class in the morning. This didn't appear to be any major obstacle, since I took the class in the city, not far from where Ally's apartment was. I had decided that year to not do anything for Halloween, until I got the call from Eryn a few hours before her party. I made my way to a church on the corner that was having a huge yard/bake sale of sorts. Not a very appetizing combination, when I think of it now. Things were thrown all over the room, and I managed to find a poodle skirt, which I shredded and frayed, along with an old tank top, pairing them with heavy jewelry and eyeliner. Badabing, bada-gypsy, an instant answer to a costume party for an Arab with huge curls.
Being 16 meant that I was the first at the party, having been dropped off by my dad in the classiest manner possible. He came up stairs, took a look around the place, assured himself that I would be safe, and went on his way. Fortunately, he forgot to look in the bathroom, which furnished a tub full of sangria. The kitchen had also been somewhat overlooked, since he did not inspect the interior of the refridgorator, also wildly decorated with drinks ranging from the small and timid to the tall and deadly. I was also unaware of the presence of these dangerous party favors, until they made their way into my system. Ally, being the wonderful host she was, poured me a cup of the dirty tub water. It was amazing, I'd never thought of combining fruit with wine before! That was probably because I didn't drink, so it was pretty far from my mind, if not absent. I helped myself to another three cups, and people finally started showing up. I was the youngest, drunkest, best dancing gypsy the Lower Pacific Heights had ever seen.
Later in the night, I was asked to make sure people weren't "ashing" on Ally's bedroom rug, so I punched the door open, demanded that people don't ash, whatever that was, and managed to nudge someone hard enough to cause a cigarette to land straight onto the carpet. I had failed. I said thank you and left the room, forgetting what my mission was. I met Inside Out Man, a costume that was created somewhere around 4 hours after mine. He wore a suit, and it was inside out. I was impressed. People began thanking me for throwing such a great party. I told them it was no problem, and that I was glad they could come.
I was soon reminded by a low rumble in my stomach that I hadn't eaten since breakfast. Ally had made some chili which I mindlessly wolfed down. Then I asked, "Hey, is there meat in this?"
I should mention that I was a vegetarian at the time. This, as I was to find out, would complicate my day drastically.
I woke up on the floor, a few feet away from Inside Out Man, Bruce Lee, and someone wrapped in toilet paper. We'll just call them 5 Minute Mummy, though I think they came as something else. I made my way to a phone, called a cab, and got to my French class. I hadn't really checked the time and was about an hour late, which I realized after opening the classroom door, letting it creak like a cemetery gate, revealing a horror beyond your wildest nightmares. That was me, by the way.
Everyone went completely silent for a few piercing seconds. I took a seat, then after a few minutes, I weighed my options. I could either throw up there, or I could throw up in the bathroom. I fumbled my way to the door, blinded by a headache I couldn't explain, and a desire to expel what felt like a barrel of arguing slugs from my stomach. I made the mistake of looking in the mirror and discovered eyeliner smeared as far as my forehead. Tre belle, Sara.
I didn't know what to do after that, so I loitered in the hallway, which was full of beautiful French men, which then encouraged me leave the hallway. I went back into the classroom. My teacher said "derrier" and I laughed. Bad idea.
I decided it was time to leave.
My dad picked me up and asked how class was, noting that I looked like a trainwreck. All I could think to say was, "Je suis tre mal."
"Hey, not bad!" He said.