Look! Sheep!

We all get so wrapped up in our own worlds and expectations. Our daily routines, whether they take us to work and back or in circles around own home, are sometimes just attempts to find something to do so we can go to bed at night without that guilty knot in our stomachs from having wasted yet another day. Self help books and well minded friends tell us to live in the moment, to take tame for ourselves, but at the same time, for me at least, there's this list of puritan inspired phrases that roll down the screen in the back of my head like the credits from a movie that will never end. Idle hands make idle minds. Cleanliness is next to Godliness. God helps those who help themselves.

I'm not too terribly religious but I can't help but feel its weight upon me. Lessons preached from the pulpit somehow echo in almost all of our minds whether we make it to church on Sundays or not. Yet I'm pretty sure that the religious rules that govern our psyche were not written from behind the altar; they are currents of conduct that the church assumes as their own to keep their lambs of God closer to the chapel and, of course, more generous with their offerings even though, no matter how hard we try, writing a check or stuffing an envelope with a few dollars is only painting lipstick on the pig that is our guilt.

No matter how hard I try, I can't shake that guilt. Granted, it has worked for me for all these years and certainly pays off for others whom I can help along the way. I enjoy a great job, live in a cute little house, and have a pretty healthy dose of education and culture to back me up. But being thousands of miles away from my real routine, thousands of miles away from paying bills and shoveling my sidewalk, I have much more free time to make those circles around my temporary home and even though I know that I am still pretty much on top of my game, that I am fulfilling my responsibilities to my job, my friends, and myself, I still have this echo of guilt that stabs me in the back whenever I choose to sleep in for another half hour or whenever I watch a mindless hour or two of Simpsons in French while playing online games and sipping cups of decaf fruit tea.

Eventually, at least for me, that guilt starts to build up and cloud my vision. I know it's there and so I resent it more than taxes. Maybe that's not true; I'm actually happy to pay my taxes, even when I get ticketed for not shoveling my sidewalk to a three foot width and later have to step through a mound of snow to gain access to the cross walk and shuffle on the ice in front of city hall to pay that ticket. But I do resent that guilt as it stifles me and hides my smile because I feel bad about not being even more productive, plain and simple.

Why do I feel bad about taking a week's vacation in the south of France? Don't I deserve it? Of course I do. But I can't just up and leave! So I drag my work with me, line up my emails to write, and gather all the numbers of anyone I may need to call. The French have no problem taking vacations and I'm almost jealous of that freedom. From the get-out-of-my-way-I-got-work-to-do American point of view, it may seem excessive, their at least four or five weeks a year. It may seem excessive that they can easily close their computer at the end of the day and head home with no manila folders in tow, no emails to answer, and no intention to even think about work for the next sixteen hours at least. That's not excessive, that's the goal.

But I felt bad all along as I planned this week. I procrastinated, waiting until almost the last minute to buy my tickets and make my final arrangements. But I got up this morning and in an hour's time, I hurried through my routine plus managed to also pack my bag, print my maps and itineraries, stop at the store to get a few goodies for the journey, and make my train with still plenty of time to spare. So did I really procrastinate? Or just plan on doing things in their own time?

Regardless, there I was on board, sitting in my seat, gliding along backwards, backwards because the luck of the draw gave me a seat facing where we were, and not where we were going. The landscapes then creep up on you, almost taking away your choice of view and, like in a movie, only offer you the scenes as they present themselves one after another. There's no anticipating what's coming up. The backs of warehouses and reconstruction era office buildings, the spaces between homes and buildings gradually becoming larger and larger until you get mostly green fields with electric lines and, off on the horizon, crowded groupings of homes centered around a church and sometimes in the shadows of modest château on the hill. The guy facing me -- early sixties, yellow pullover, and sensible wire rimmed glasses – was taking up way too much space. He barely seemed to realize, or care, that I was there and we were to be seat partners for the next few hours. The entire train car was stuffed any of the same sorts, French lambs of God, everyone as polite as they are supposed to be yet maintaining that serious French look on their faces that they tend to put on when out in public. If only they had been circus clowns, or massage therapists, or Zen masters, I would have been reminded that I'm on vacation, headed for fun in the sun. Instead, I was taking on that very same serious – but polite – look on my face.

Staring out the window as the lunch trolley rolled by, green pastures fading off one after another into the distance in front of me, all of the sudden I was practically startled but white fluffy dots only about a hundred meters away.

"Look! Sheep!"

Sounds silly, but somehow that's what I wanted to exclaim. That's what we say, 'we' being those of us who did not grow up on farms, or in Europe. It's funny how in a split second, we can right our minds and center our attention on what's real in life. In a split second, I was reminded of the countless times during our weeklong stay in Ireland a few years ago we exclaimed "Look! Sheep!" Here, the 'we' being a group of adventure seeking Americans and two Brits not afraid to set up camp in a small little town, or more precisely, front and center at its most popular bar. It was a week without worries, a time to regroup, a time to find the humor in what we normally can't even see in the midst of our regular routine. And here we go again.

There's a house about 22 kilometers east of Avignon and a town of just a few hundred people that don't know what's coming. Almost the same group of Americans and their two Brits are switching their pints and Jameson for dry rosé and cheese after the main course. They are all hard working, fun loving, caring people who deserve a break, a day in the sun, and more careless days to admire the puffy rows of lavender and to watch fields of sunflowers first hit us with their blanket of yellow, then watch rows of them seem to turn to us, one by one, then quickly domino along into the distance. I don't think there are too many sheep farmers in southern France but you can be sure that I won't let a field of flowers go by without my noticing.

You’ll never know until you try

Recently, an advisee of mine wrote to tell me that he was toying with the idea of adding a French major to his already busy academic schedule. He said that his main hesitation was a few required literature survey courses. He said it really wasn’t his ‘thing’. I can certainly understand because that’s how I felt as a young undergrad. My response below is in French (so many of you may be ending your reading here… sorry!).


Bonjour !

Et moi aussi je trouve cette communication par email tellement efficace et facile. Tu sais, je n'ai pas grandi avec Internet comme toi alors je suis toujours ébloui par toutes les possibilités qu'il nous offre. Et maintenant, je ne sais pas ce que je ferais si j'étais privé de cette habitude.

Et voilà une réponse à ta question… enfin, c'est plutôt un exemple (le mien). C'est un peu long, alors prépare-toi !

A l'université, ma spécialisation en français était centrée sur la culture. Je n'ai pris qu'un seul cours de littérature parce que, comme toi, je ne m'y intéressais guère. Je me penchais plutôt vers le côté pratique et contemporain des choses dans ma vie. Quand j'ai commencé mes études de maîtrise en français, je voyais au début mes cours de littérature comme simplement des obstacles à surmonter parce que je savais que je voulais enseigner la langue plutôt, mais je savais en même temps que, si je voulais plus d'options à ma recherche d'un poste de prof, j'avais besoin d'une éducation traditionnelle et variée. Ainsi le choix de faire mon PhD à UW-Madison.

Mais au cours de mon premier semestre de maîtrise, j'ai commencé à mieux comprendre. Les professeurs m'ont ouvert les yeux à un monde que je ne connaissais pratiquement pas ou plutôt que j'avais ignoré complètement. C'est vrai que dans mes cours, c'était pour moi 75% de bla bla au début. Tout le monde voulait parler et se faire entendre. De plus, comme j'ai dit, je ne m'intéressais pas vraiment. ça a pris de la patience pendant un certain temps et je ne faisais que passer mon temps à l'étude, sachant qu'avec chaque jour, j'étais plus proche à mon objectif.

Et puis, peu à peu, je ne pouvais pas m'empêcher de m'y mettre de plus en plus. Je suis devenu vraiment accroché à ce que je faisais. Il faudrait admettre que si un texte, un poème, ou une pièce dure depuis des centaines d'années et se trouve sur nos étagères à la maison, chez nous aujourd'hui, il y a certainement quelque chose de magique là-dedans. A travers chaque période de la littérature française, j'ai pu trouver quelque chose qui me parlait et dont j'avais envie de parler moi-même.

Et en fait, je me suis concentré sur la littérature du XIXème et du XVIème siècle, le XIXème parce que c'est pendant cette période (pour moi) ou la psychologie de l'auteur et de ses personnages commençait à se dévoiler ouvertement dans le texte. Et le XVIème parce que c'était la période humaniste, ou l'être humain et sa condition ont occupé le centre de chaque page, de chaque idée. Et c'était aussi parce qu'au XVIème il y a des textes vraiment explosifs, bizarres et fantaisistes qui semblent prendre des risques en choquant le lecteur avec des gros mots, des scènes obscènes, et des situations impossibles mais qui, en fin de tout, résonnent à l'intérieur du lecteur et qui révèlent non seulement des secrets ou des désirs des personnages, mais aussi des secrets ou des désirs cachés en nous-mêmes.

Et bien oui, je dois avouer qu'il y a des périodes qui ne me parlent presque pas. Le XVIIème siècle, par exemple, devient obsédé de l'ordre et de la bienséance, tellement que lire (pour moi) devenait un devoir. Cependant, c'est en comparant cette période aux autres, le XVIème par exemple, que je développais encore une meilleure appréciation pour ce que je lisais et commentais.

Aujourd'hui, la littérature continue à me parler et je continue à en parler aussi. A cause de mes études, j'ai peut-être du mal à trouver de la lecture contemporaine dont j'ai vraiment envie de lire parce que j'ai été gâté par la splendeur que j'avais étudiée auparavant. Je dois vraiment chercher pour trouver quelque chose que j'aimerais lire jusqu'à la fin.

Pour l'instant, les auteurs français contemporains me fatiguent ; pour moi, ils sont trop pessimistes, trop noirs, trop concernés par l'effet qu'ils produisent, ou par l'effet de défoulement de leurs problèmes, qu'ils oublient de nous donner des sentiments, des intrigues, des personnages ou des idées auxquels nous les lecteurs aimerions nous attacher. J'ai probablement tort et je continue à chercher. En anglais, je me suis accroché à plusieurs auteurs qui continuent à me fasciner : John Irving, Gregory McGuire, Mark Haddon, Jonathan Safran Foer, Nick Hornby, T. Coraghessan Boyle. Il y a aussi un auteur japonais (traduit en anglais, bien sûr) qui est vraiment étonnant : Haruki Murakami. Si tu as le temps, jette un coud d'oeil sur son 'Kafka on the Shore'.

Pour des auteurs français qui pourront t'intéresser, et qui viennent des époques précédentes, il y en a des tonnes. Par exemple, au moyen âge, si tu comprends le contexte autour des récits, les horizons d'attentes des lecteurs, les capacités de ces lecteurs, et les moeurs et coutumes, tu trouveras des textes qui fascinent! Tout le monde lit Ronsard au XVIème et oublient trop facilement Louise Labbé, femme poète qui, en comparaison avec Ronsard, est beaucoup plus honnête et touchante avec ses vers. Au XVIIème, les pièces de Molière, Racine et Corneille sont incroyables une fois qu'on comprend ce qu'ils ont pu faire dans les contraintes qui existaient à l'époque. Bien sûr, le Marquis de Sade au XVIIIème, mais là, faut vraiment aimer son côté vilain. C'est les Liaisons Dangereuses au XVIIIéme pour ceux qui détestent la contrainte, ou bien il y a aussi les philosophes et les récits philosophiques, et surtout les racines de la démocratie moderne. Au XIXème, c'est l'intrigue qui (re)domine, les complots, les femmes adultères, les filles égoïstes, les meurtres et les crimes, et vers la fin du siècle, ce sont les fous qui occupent le centre du cirque. Et tout cela, ce n'est que des opinions vite faites pour te donner un petit goût de ce qui pourra t'attendre.

Alors voilà. Tout cela pour te dire qu'aimer ou ne pas aimer la littérature est une décision personnelle, mais pas une décision que l'on peut prendre sans avoir l'expérience de connaître cet art. Aimer ou ne pas aimer ce qu'on ne connaît pas n'est pas logique. Mais en même temps, ne te laisse pas être trop tenté par mon enthousiasme, et il ne faut surtout pas te sentir obligé d'aller plus loin dans tes études du français que tu aurais aimée. Je voulais tout simplement montrer que les portes sont ouvertes.

Ceci dit, si tu décides enfin de faire cette spécialisation et de prendre ces cours obligatoires, nous devrions quand même nous assurer que tu choisisses les professeurs qui, pour toi, seraient les meilleurs. Et pour cela, n'hésite pas à me demander des opinions ou des idées. Je suis là pour ça ! Bonne continuation de tes vacances!

I found myself dancing alone

I recently had a life-changing experience. Not a happy one, but one that certainly moves me from one chapter to the next. After a break up with my partner of over four years, I was not certain how I would fare. The same story has be lived and relived by many of us, or many of the ones that we know and love. What lead to this moment in our lives was, I had thought, incompatibility despite our best efforts to fit together, inability to connect on the deepest level, and the eventual frustration that comes from a friction that we both tried to quell. What really led to this moment was that he, like many men, always thought he was going to find something better, something shinier, something nicer to show off on the town. He found that, came up with an exit strategy, and pushed me to my limits so that I would be the bad guy and initiate the break up. He was guilt free and free to hook back up. Nice guy, huh?

In any event, what came next was uncertainty. For the next few weeks, I was convincing myself that I was going to be OK, that I was OK, that I was better off and that I will again find my happiness in love and life. I can be a very convincing person and so I listened to myself just as I listened to the words of encouragement and confirmations from my friends and family that I was, in fact, going to be OK. On one level, I believed myself and I believed my confidants. Yet there was this nagging suspicion knocking at my door that left a tinge of doubt in my mind. I shut it out, I never let it in, but it was there, patiently waiting outside.

I didn't go outside that much.

Outside was a relatively new city filled with new professional responsibilities, new challenges and new places to discover. Yet it's also a city where one's neighbors, colleagues, and cohorts in incidental conversation do not make that leap to become friends or acquaintances with whom you can catch a movie or have a drink. The French, once they become your friends, are the best friends in the world. Otherwise, they are polite passers-by; they have their world already choreographed around them and thus the friendship dance can take weeks, months, even years.

Although outgoing, talkative, engaging and fun-loving, I never enjoyed exploring on my own. As a student and a young professional, I spent plenty of time in Paris, very little money in my pocket, content to take walks by myself to soak in the city's architecture and atmosphere. Those were not my favorite moments in Paris. At 23, I explored Spain's Mediterranean coast for two weeks yet rarely had the chance to exercise my Spanish. Most recently, while my students split up in groups to investigate one of Brittany's coastal cities, I gave it my best and made a quick tour around the center only to find myself wanting to settle in one spot and wait for the time when we would regroup.

It's not the opinion of others who may spy a lonely traveler that bothers me. It's the idea that life is meant to be shared, and nothing in front of my eyes or under my feet really has any value unless there is someone there with whom to share it. Shared experiences resonate more; they give you glimpses into yourself and into your surroundings that you may not see otherwise. And they are reassuring in that, with your companion's expression and opinion, you have the confirmation or even the correction for what you yourself are seeing, feeling, and trying to understand. For me, exploring on my own would be far too much of an egocentric activity and I, unfortunately, try to stake claims to a more altruistic and less self-centered life.

Yet here I am, inside, spending hours and hours on a self-centered existence. It took well over a week before I could drag myself away from the computer, drop the remote from my hands, and finally do more than just tap my foot to keep the beat with my existence. Perhaps the louder I tapped, the quieter became that knocking at my door. But it was still there… until just a few minutes ago.

Working away the hours of this Sunday afternoon, planning a course for this summer and creating to-do lists for myself, I was listening to the radio as it played French remakes and vintage rock in the background. Typing away, unaware of my own body, I caught myself shimmying side to side in my chair, eventually bringing my arms into the movement, lifting my hands off the keyboard and putting a temporary stop to my work. I was smiling and bopping as I got up off my chair and away from my work. Heading for the kitchen to top off my coffee, I glanced at the door and for the first time in a few weeks, there was nothing on the other side. That suspicious knocking stopped.

I found myself dancing alone… and I liked it.

I find myself dancing alone... and I like it.

OSS 117

A friend in Madison just saw this film at the Wisconsin Film Festival and by chance I found a long snippet on line. I wish I could see the rest of this French spy spoof! Too bad this excerpt doesn't have subtitles but take a gander anyways and you'll love the esthetics. I can't wait to see the rest of the film!

oss 117 partie 1
Uploaded by ahmaduss

And again for you French speakers, here's my latest favoritest funniest French comedienne, Florence Foresti, doing her bit about the film (with the Film's star eventually seated next to her). The quality is pretty bad but she is still a riot. I wuvs her.

Brigitte - OSS 117
Uploaded by fire-kurt