Did quite a lot of stuff today. Marta came in her little car to pick me up just after eleven o clock in the morning, meant that i had to get my lazy arse out of bed at a decent time for once. There was nowt decent to eat though, so i cooked up the last of the pasta, maybe seven or eight of those little bow shapes, and added the remnants of a packet of grated cheese to it.
Simona was joining us- that is the italian au pair. I sat in the back of the car and we listened to the radio as we sped down the motorway out of our town and towards freedom and excitement.
digression- IS LOVE A DELUSION?
How can one conserve the childish adventurous excitement that made everything seem a thrill when one was young? Surely, one day everything will start to seem comfortable and ordinary, and we will have to take greater and greater leaps and risks to achieve the same heart-pumping excitement we used to feel? Maybe that is why we seek to fall in love even when it defies all logic.
Sometimes, seeing dried up, passionless, middleaged people, who seem to take pride in taking life very seriously and doing things right, even having their allotted amount of fun in the right way at the right time, it makes me wonder however they managed to let themselves go enough to take the risk of falling in love and making the bizarre miserable pairings in which they find themselves bound.
Lena, my Newcastle friend with whom i am keeping a loose distant contact, said that one of her friends declared that he was fascinated and in love with a girl, after just meeting her one time for a cup of coffee and a chat.
He expained that something about her- the way she spoke, her soft voice, her little hands around the steaming mug, convinced him that she could be the one he has been searching for his whole little life. How illogical and almost ridiculous, more foolish than romantic. She was quite disgusted with his story, and even went as far as to lose respect for him as a friend.
She told me of another girl, a fellow Greek, who attached herself to Lena, without Lena much inviting it. This girl is very promiscuous, and perhaps you might think, one to seek pleasure and understand that love is but a delusion? Yet no, she became obsessed with a boy, convinced that he was the one for her, disregarding the fact that they barely knew each other, the fact that he had a girlfriend, and the fact that they had only met one time for a brief sexual liason.
The reason for her believing in this divine spiritual connection? They had climaxed at the same time during their one night stand- surely proof they were made for each other?
It seems to me that a lot of people fool themselves and cause themselves enormous amount of heartache along the way crying "but i know he or she is the one for me- so why don't they love me back!" believing that there is something amiss in the cosmos which is sending them evil negative energy and contorting the true path of their destiny.
Seems to me, one should see the truth for what it is, accept that one is alone, and focus on being a good friend and making the connections that one has already developed with people, count for something.
BACK TO MARTA AND OUR TRIP TO QUIBERON
A Spanish song came on the radio, and Marta cranked up the volume and sang along. I think it was this one. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dCoC5q2Z0Bk&feature=fvst Whenever I hear a song i like, i make an effort to remember some of the lyrics so i can search what it is on the internet. This means i often screw up my face, and give the impression that i am really displeased with the song.
We drove into Quiberon after about half an hour's powering down the straight main road, passing through a few dead villages. Entering Quiberon, you see the sea to the left, and also to the right. Infact, you find yourself, confusingly, driving on a road plonked on top of a long straight landmass, a natural bridge. It seemed like something that you might draw a diagram of in Geography class, but come to life.
The presqu'isle or almost island, very much had the feeling of an island. A sleepy one. There was barely a person about as we rolled into town, and a chill December wind was blowing off the sea. Every shop was shut, except for a shop specialising in Breton delicacies- tubs of butter biscuits and tins of sardines, but even that rolled down its shutters as soon as we left.
We ate at a creperie looking out onto the lead grey sea. Flocks of birds danced in formation over the waves. After the meal, Marta declared that she had stomach ache, and we went off in search of a pharmacy, but not a shop was open. Everything was asleep in the plain light of day.
Driving back, we took a different route, and drove along a costal road, which twisted and turned following the path of the coast. One had the impression, that in the past the road had been further away from the steely sea, but erosion had eaten away the land and threatened to dash our little Twingo car to the angry waves.
The roadsigns told us that we were taking the "cote sauvage" back to our town- the wild coast- indeed it did seem like that. To the left, cliffs and the sea, to the right, marsh grass and open windswept land. We passed a hunched old man making his way along the costal road steadily, in the passive and tortoise-like way in which elderly hikers walk. He was walking in the middle of the road, as if not expecting any passing traffic, and Marta had to navigate round him, but she did not stop.
Sunday, 11 December 2011
Wednesday, 7 December 2011
That french film called intouchables
Hey! So I'm just going to write this like a diary entry so i can remember what i was doing at this particular time when i look back. I don't know why i don't just get a private little notebook to scribble thoughts in. I thAtink it's because keeping a journal seems like such a heavy commitment, and because anything on the internet is concealed from my mother, who might be the only one that I want to hide things from.
Hanging out with Marta :-
At the weekend, i didn't leave my town, which is unusual for me. It rained all weekend, a constant grey downpour, leaking through my suade boots and turning them into mush inside and out. I met up with Marta on Saturday. We sat in a cafe near the port looking out at the water and drank tea in the window. She had a little coffee in a tiny cup. She told me about the difficulties of being an au pair. Feeling underappreciated, being ordered about, and enduring being tormented and even kicked by a very rude naugty little four year old child.
This little girl is causing her all sorts of problems, screaming at Marta to get out of her room in the mornings when she comes to wake her up, and even going so far as to lock her cheeky little self in the bathroom in a ploy to avoid being taken to school.
Marta told me that enticing the girl out with threats was futile, and the girl began to demand a chocolate ransom, else she would continue to hold herself hostage in the toilet. After everything else failed she gave in and gave her a small square of chocolate.
Telling the mother of the child about these difficulties, in the hope of getting support or promise to discipline the child a little, proved hopeless, and in fact the mother found the story quite charming and hilarious. (Perhaps it is to someone who can look at the situation from outside. It seems bizarre and almost Victorian to sit back and leave the upbringing of your child to some foreign governess-type lady)
The lady of the house declared that her child simply had an excess of character, which she thought a quite healthy and promising sign. In fact, she delighted in telling the chocolate anecdote to her friend who came to the house. This woman is studying to be a nurse, and the strange hours she has to work at the hospital mean that she needs someone to look after her daughter.
Marta told me that the situation of being an au pair within a family is difficult, because they want you to engage with them, chat with them, entertain them, and often come to you for idle chatter, yet how far is one to express one's true opinions? It seems almost rude to disagree with one's employer, and Marta said she felt emotionally stifled, with her employer always waxing on joyfully about topics of her choice, the au pair simply a sounding board and a person to smile and agree.
All the same, after this experience of teaching in French schools, i am still undecided about what my next move will be. Perhaps a period of au pair work? I think it would be difficult though, and finding myself stranded in deepest darkest Germany without a single friend for company might be very trying. Marta is lucky because there is another au pair living in her house.
That's right- two au pairs for one naughty wild four year old! The first girl was employed, but then swiftly dropped when it transpired that she couldn't, or wouldn't drive the old battered car which Marta now rolls around in. Despite not being payed, she still lives in the house "for the experience" rather than going home, and gets food and board provided for, although bizarrely, the amount of work she does almost equals that which Marta does. (this is the italian girl i wrote about eating crepes with.)
She's a strange italian creature, very quiet and mild mannered, doesn't like going out much, and has the face of a sweet shy bush baby. I think she's either my age or one year younger, but has a fiance in Italy that she often sepnds time Skyping with.
After our coffee-chat, Marta and I unravelled a map of the town, and made a plan of action. It was a special national fundraising day, a little like red nose day i suppose, so there were various activities going on around the town. We found some jolly black heavily-religious types offering gospel singing classes with beaming smiles: Marta was well up for doing it, but i was feeling ill and not in a mood for singing, the penetrating drizzle and mucus in my throat having dampened my joy. I felt a little bad for denying her this amusement, since she didn't want to sing without me.
There was a fire engine parked outside the town hall that was giving children rides in a big crane arm which stretched about it.
Intouchables:-
In the evening- after separating and eating at our respective houses- we re-grouped and wandered to the little local cinema. It was buzzing. There's this film which everyone is mad about in France called The Untouchables. Cinemas are full up with people clamering to see it. In the cinema in Vannes which we ended up driving to, they had to get out a special paper sign saying "untouchables sold out" after a certain number of people had bought tickets.
I'm not sure if i wrote about it when i went to see it, but the hype is something else. Something about the film must tap into the french psyche. I found it slightly patronising and moralising.
It's about a disabled rich old dude, who decides to employ a poor young black dude from an immigrant family, who lives with his extended family in the banlieues (of Paris?) to take care of him, bypassing many other candidates in the interview who have better experience and qualifications. He chooses this guy because he prefers his unprofessional informal attitude. And guess what?: despite a few rough starts and misunderstandings- washing his feet in shampoo and his hair in foot cream etc- they get along GREAT. They have a laugh. He even gets the common and uncultured guy to paint, and sells his works for a lot of money after telling a buyer they're from an up and coming artist. I just thought it was silly and self congratulatory and didn't really address any issues about the fractures in french society and the yawning gap between rich and poor.
In the end we drove through the night through a long straight unlit countryside road to Vannes, to an entertainment complex where the cinema was packed. With a lack of decent nightlife in this area, seems to me cinema is what people do to amuse themselves. We saw a perplexing film called les Lyonnais. About french gangsters. People shooting people and unpleasant blood-spurting murder scenes. Marta didn't like it at all, which i felt a bit bad about, but hey...
Hanging out with Marta :-
At the weekend, i didn't leave my town, which is unusual for me. It rained all weekend, a constant grey downpour, leaking through my suade boots and turning them into mush inside and out. I met up with Marta on Saturday. We sat in a cafe near the port looking out at the water and drank tea in the window. She had a little coffee in a tiny cup. She told me about the difficulties of being an au pair. Feeling underappreciated, being ordered about, and enduring being tormented and even kicked by a very rude naugty little four year old child.
This little girl is causing her all sorts of problems, screaming at Marta to get out of her room in the mornings when she comes to wake her up, and even going so far as to lock her cheeky little self in the bathroom in a ploy to avoid being taken to school.
Marta told me that enticing the girl out with threats was futile, and the girl began to demand a chocolate ransom, else she would continue to hold herself hostage in the toilet. After everything else failed she gave in and gave her a small square of chocolate.
Telling the mother of the child about these difficulties, in the hope of getting support or promise to discipline the child a little, proved hopeless, and in fact the mother found the story quite charming and hilarious. (Perhaps it is to someone who can look at the situation from outside. It seems bizarre and almost Victorian to sit back and leave the upbringing of your child to some foreign governess-type lady)
The lady of the house declared that her child simply had an excess of character, which she thought a quite healthy and promising sign. In fact, she delighted in telling the chocolate anecdote to her friend who came to the house. This woman is studying to be a nurse, and the strange hours she has to work at the hospital mean that she needs someone to look after her daughter.
Marta told me that the situation of being an au pair within a family is difficult, because they want you to engage with them, chat with them, entertain them, and often come to you for idle chatter, yet how far is one to express one's true opinions? It seems almost rude to disagree with one's employer, and Marta said she felt emotionally stifled, with her employer always waxing on joyfully about topics of her choice, the au pair simply a sounding board and a person to smile and agree.
All the same, after this experience of teaching in French schools, i am still undecided about what my next move will be. Perhaps a period of au pair work? I think it would be difficult though, and finding myself stranded in deepest darkest Germany without a single friend for company might be very trying. Marta is lucky because there is another au pair living in her house.
That's right- two au pairs for one naughty wild four year old! The first girl was employed, but then swiftly dropped when it transpired that she couldn't, or wouldn't drive the old battered car which Marta now rolls around in. Despite not being payed, she still lives in the house "for the experience" rather than going home, and gets food and board provided for, although bizarrely, the amount of work she does almost equals that which Marta does. (this is the italian girl i wrote about eating crepes with.)
She's a strange italian creature, very quiet and mild mannered, doesn't like going out much, and has the face of a sweet shy bush baby. I think she's either my age or one year younger, but has a fiance in Italy that she often sepnds time Skyping with.
After our coffee-chat, Marta and I unravelled a map of the town, and made a plan of action. It was a special national fundraising day, a little like red nose day i suppose, so there were various activities going on around the town. We found some jolly black heavily-religious types offering gospel singing classes with beaming smiles: Marta was well up for doing it, but i was feeling ill and not in a mood for singing, the penetrating drizzle and mucus in my throat having dampened my joy. I felt a little bad for denying her this amusement, since she didn't want to sing without me.
There was a fire engine parked outside the town hall that was giving children rides in a big crane arm which stretched about it.
Intouchables:-
In the evening- after separating and eating at our respective houses- we re-grouped and wandered to the little local cinema. It was buzzing. There's this film which everyone is mad about in France called The Untouchables. Cinemas are full up with people clamering to see it. In the cinema in Vannes which we ended up driving to, they had to get out a special paper sign saying "untouchables sold out" after a certain number of people had bought tickets.
I'm not sure if i wrote about it when i went to see it, but the hype is something else. Something about the film must tap into the french psyche. I found it slightly patronising and moralising.
It's about a disabled rich old dude, who decides to employ a poor young black dude from an immigrant family, who lives with his extended family in the banlieues (of Paris?) to take care of him, bypassing many other candidates in the interview who have better experience and qualifications. He chooses this guy because he prefers his unprofessional informal attitude. And guess what?: despite a few rough starts and misunderstandings- washing his feet in shampoo and his hair in foot cream etc- they get along GREAT. They have a laugh. He even gets the common and uncultured guy to paint, and sells his works for a lot of money after telling a buyer they're from an up and coming artist. I just thought it was silly and self congratulatory and didn't really address any issues about the fractures in french society and the yawning gap between rich and poor.
In the end we drove through the night through a long straight unlit countryside road to Vannes, to an entertainment complex where the cinema was packed. With a lack of decent nightlife in this area, seems to me cinema is what people do to amuse themselves. We saw a perplexing film called les Lyonnais. About french gangsters. People shooting people and unpleasant blood-spurting murder scenes. Marta didn't like it at all, which i felt a bit bad about, but hey...
Friday, 2 December 2011
Do you believe in faeries?
It's December! Looking at the stats page i have to try and get more pageviews this month than the last in order to keep my little statistics line rising.
Today I'm feeling absolutely horrible. Itchy eyes and a headache that won't cease. Feels like my head is being tapped constantly with a spoon like a boiled egg. Hopefully it'll get better.
Last night I went out to a bar in the town called le contretemps. They had a live band, which was two men playing a saxophone and a trombone. They had a sort of backing track going too. They were quite young, stylish bearded types, and spiced up their act by occasionally blowing through big conch shells and recording the sound to play back repeatedly. With the headache just starting to take root, it was really the last thing i could cope with. Was so loud that i couldn't hear anything that people were trying to say to me, which was annoying, since what's the point in socialising with people if you can't communicate with speech? What else is there to do? smell one another?
It seemed that everyone was getting along very nicely, except me, who sat on the sofa a little away from everyone else, twisting my hands in my lap with awkwardness.
I had decided to introduce my spanish au-pair friend (Marta) to the only other assistant in Auray (a half-italian girl called Laura). Laura turned up with her spanish housemate, and Marta brought along the other au-pair she works with, an italian girl. Thus, everyone fell to excitedly communicating in their own languages, and the odd number of us meant that i was paired off with nobody. There was a bookshelf behind me with books in English, so i paired myself off with a huge book by Satre. I couldn't understand it though, not with all the din and the headache blossoming in my brain.
I felt bad for making myself antisocial and knew that the others would be feeling mildly guilty for not talking to me, while at the same time resentful at feeling obliged to break off the exciting conversations that they were having with their compatriots. I tried to talk to people a little, but i had to shout over the music and my throat was hoarse, added to the fact that it is hard to pretend to be bright and happy and sociable when one is in pain.
I texted my greek friend from university, (shall we call her Lena- she is quite a private person, so i don't think she would appreciate stumbling across her real name online) Eternal source of comfort that she is, she advised me to just say my opinion, even if i have nothing to really say. Ask the italians whether they like the film Cinema Paradiso, and turn the conversation to philosophy, ask them what they believe in. Find out about them, and realise at the end that you've managed to avoid revealing a thing about yourself. Lena seems to effortlessly gain the trust, confidence, and friendship of whomever she chooses.
By the time she texted back, however, I'd made my excuses and wandered off into the night. The town centre was illuminated with fairy lights strung up high across the streets. It was the first of December, and the first night of sparkly christmas fairy-light magic.
I got home and wrapped myself up in blankets in bed. I lit candles and instead of logging on to skype, read books, which was a far more comforting activity. Perhaps, i should do book reviews? I finished off reading the collection of short stories (well, three of them) by H.P. Lovecraft, that my boyfriend gave me as a gift when i visited home for half term. They are all very creepy, but mildly ridiculous horror stories. The final one, which i read while nursing my headache, was about a couple of macabre grave robbers, who take delight in the gruesomeness and romanticism that they think their hobby holds. After stealing a cursed amulet from a graveyard in Holland, the spirit of a dog starts to follow them around- they hear barks at night and strange footprints appear in the snow.... All the stories seemed to have someone being pursued by an unknown evil while it slowly destroys them.
He is a strange one, my boyfriend, maybe i should give him a name, because i don't like refering to him with the posessive pronoun all the time, as though he is someone who belongs to me, like a pet. Let's call him Beau then, inkeeping with the french theme and sounding like the real first syllable of the name he goes by. A few weeks ago, I said that i didn't believe in faeries, and he threw a tantrum and hung up the skype on me! (If you care to disagree with me, you can write me a little essay about why faeries do exist in the comments.) Important to note that he was somewhat drunk at the time, but also worth noting that he is a quarter of a century old.
I agree that there are many things which science has yet to prove, and just because they are not yet proven does not mean that we can say definitively that they don't exist. Ghosts, faeries, spirits living in a realm parallel to our own, yet invisible to the human eye. Maybe there is a world unseen co-existing with this one, home of faeries and all those other mythical creatures?
He told me that he once emptied an ash tray over someone's head in a rage, after telling them to stop repeating "faeries don't exist". Something about that phrase deeply upsets him, he said. I tried to suggest that maybe clinging to this belief in faeries hints at a psychological issue, an unwillingness to let go of childhood, or perhaps the desire to re-create a childhood in later life that was missed at the time.
He cut me off, however, telling me that nothing i said would dissuade him from these beliefs, due to the fact that he has seen faeries in real life, while completely sober and not at all under the effects of hallucinatory substances. Once while waiting for a tram at the big shopping centre in my city, the other time while sitting on a patch of grass in the town centre of my city with his girlfriend. (Do faeries only show their faces in Sheffield?)
The last sighting, he said was shared with his ex-girlfriend, who said that she saw the same thing at the same time, a floating flash of colour, flapping wings, a faery. I refuse to believe it, as anything which links them together makes me feel irrritated. I doubt we would ever have such a spiritual connection for creatures from the other realm to materialise to the both of us. Therefore i prefer to screw up my face and say that they can keep their mutual delusions to themselves, i want none of that lunacy.
Today I'm feeling absolutely horrible. Itchy eyes and a headache that won't cease. Feels like my head is being tapped constantly with a spoon like a boiled egg. Hopefully it'll get better.
Last night I went out to a bar in the town called le contretemps. They had a live band, which was two men playing a saxophone and a trombone. They had a sort of backing track going too. They were quite young, stylish bearded types, and spiced up their act by occasionally blowing through big conch shells and recording the sound to play back repeatedly. With the headache just starting to take root, it was really the last thing i could cope with. Was so loud that i couldn't hear anything that people were trying to say to me, which was annoying, since what's the point in socialising with people if you can't communicate with speech? What else is there to do? smell one another?
It seemed that everyone was getting along very nicely, except me, who sat on the sofa a little away from everyone else, twisting my hands in my lap with awkwardness.
I had decided to introduce my spanish au-pair friend (Marta) to the only other assistant in Auray (a half-italian girl called Laura). Laura turned up with her spanish housemate, and Marta brought along the other au-pair she works with, an italian girl. Thus, everyone fell to excitedly communicating in their own languages, and the odd number of us meant that i was paired off with nobody. There was a bookshelf behind me with books in English, so i paired myself off with a huge book by Satre. I couldn't understand it though, not with all the din and the headache blossoming in my brain.
I felt bad for making myself antisocial and knew that the others would be feeling mildly guilty for not talking to me, while at the same time resentful at feeling obliged to break off the exciting conversations that they were having with their compatriots. I tried to talk to people a little, but i had to shout over the music and my throat was hoarse, added to the fact that it is hard to pretend to be bright and happy and sociable when one is in pain.
I texted my greek friend from university, (shall we call her Lena- she is quite a private person, so i don't think she would appreciate stumbling across her real name online) Eternal source of comfort that she is, she advised me to just say my opinion, even if i have nothing to really say. Ask the italians whether they like the film Cinema Paradiso, and turn the conversation to philosophy, ask them what they believe in. Find out about them, and realise at the end that you've managed to avoid revealing a thing about yourself. Lena seems to effortlessly gain the trust, confidence, and friendship of whomever she chooses.
By the time she texted back, however, I'd made my excuses and wandered off into the night. The town centre was illuminated with fairy lights strung up high across the streets. It was the first of December, and the first night of sparkly christmas fairy-light magic.
I got home and wrapped myself up in blankets in bed. I lit candles and instead of logging on to skype, read books, which was a far more comforting activity. Perhaps, i should do book reviews? I finished off reading the collection of short stories (well, three of them) by H.P. Lovecraft, that my boyfriend gave me as a gift when i visited home for half term. They are all very creepy, but mildly ridiculous horror stories. The final one, which i read while nursing my headache, was about a couple of macabre grave robbers, who take delight in the gruesomeness and romanticism that they think their hobby holds. After stealing a cursed amulet from a graveyard in Holland, the spirit of a dog starts to follow them around- they hear barks at night and strange footprints appear in the snow.... All the stories seemed to have someone being pursued by an unknown evil while it slowly destroys them.
He is a strange one, my boyfriend, maybe i should give him a name, because i don't like refering to him with the posessive pronoun all the time, as though he is someone who belongs to me, like a pet. Let's call him Beau then, inkeeping with the french theme and sounding like the real first syllable of the name he goes by. A few weeks ago, I said that i didn't believe in faeries, and he threw a tantrum and hung up the skype on me! (If you care to disagree with me, you can write me a little essay about why faeries do exist in the comments.) Important to note that he was somewhat drunk at the time, but also worth noting that he is a quarter of a century old.
I agree that there are many things which science has yet to prove, and just because they are not yet proven does not mean that we can say definitively that they don't exist. Ghosts, faeries, spirits living in a realm parallel to our own, yet invisible to the human eye. Maybe there is a world unseen co-existing with this one, home of faeries and all those other mythical creatures?
He told me that he once emptied an ash tray over someone's head in a rage, after telling them to stop repeating "faeries don't exist". Something about that phrase deeply upsets him, he said. I tried to suggest that maybe clinging to this belief in faeries hints at a psychological issue, an unwillingness to let go of childhood, or perhaps the desire to re-create a childhood in later life that was missed at the time.
He cut me off, however, telling me that nothing i said would dissuade him from these beliefs, due to the fact that he has seen faeries in real life, while completely sober and not at all under the effects of hallucinatory substances. Once while waiting for a tram at the big shopping centre in my city, the other time while sitting on a patch of grass in the town centre of my city with his girlfriend. (Do faeries only show their faces in Sheffield?)
The last sighting, he said was shared with his ex-girlfriend, who said that she saw the same thing at the same time, a floating flash of colour, flapping wings, a faery. I refuse to believe it, as anything which links them together makes me feel irrritated. I doubt we would ever have such a spiritual connection for creatures from the other realm to materialise to the both of us. Therefore i prefer to screw up my face and say that they can keep their mutual delusions to themselves, i want none of that lunacy.
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