For my fifth birthday I received a 26-volume dictionary, each volume dedicated to one letter of the alphabet and containing a picture book and a cassette. I took on the massive task of listening to all 26 of them in one sitting. So I started with A and made it halfway through B before I couldn't take it anymore. The next day, I gave it another shot. I started with A. I did this every day for what seemed like months until the A booklet had crumbled and the heads had mangled the A cassette. Then I gave up, because without the A, I could never achieve my goal. I don't think I ever got past C.

Soon after, I began taking piano lessons. Same thing. If I made an error somewhere in the piece, I didn't try to fix it, I went back to the beginning and hoped I would make it through the second time. I was never a very good piano player.

By high school, when I no longer had the limitless free time of childhood, I took the advice of my oboe teacher who promoted efficient practicing. Never start at the beginning, just go straight to the spot that troubles you, practice until it is flawless and move on to the next problem spot.

But lately, I have been having dreams that I am in high school or college, 16 or 20 years old and I have the chance to choose what I want to do with my life. I never hesitate to choose a direction (although the career changes from dream to dream).The path I need to take is always clear and straight. I know I will have to work hard, but I am not scared like I was when I was really 16 or 20. I am so grateful to have the chance to make a choice and start from the beginning again.

When I wake up I realize that my path is in fact a twisting labyrinth full of pitfalls, quicksand, sleeping potions, and the occasional David Bowie sighting. I desperately want to throw my past away and start over again. I would give anything to be 18 and looking through a college catalog without forgetting all that I have learned up until now. But I suppose this is a moment when I should go right to the problem spot and get through it rather than play the things I am good at over and over again.

So, I've been talking about writing something for a long time. Among my catalogue of ideas:
- a young adult series featuring super cool pre-teen amalgams of Ramona Quimby, Kristy Thomas, and Nancy Drew
- a Choose-Your-Own Manifesto that has you make hardcore philosophical choices in order to determine your natural politico-religious tendencies
- an Allende-style saga exploring three generations of women and dancing.

But I finally have an idea that I am ready to act on. This fabulous idea has suppressed my appetite and filled my morning and afternoon. And I realize... I have no idea how to write fiction. But I am going to try anyway. We all must start somewhere.

Here's a story for you in the mean time extracted from the weird dreams that entertain me while I sleep.

O Bill Murray!
By Mandounette's Subconscious Mind

I have been transported to a Canadian winter sometime in the 1970s. I am in the suburbs of some big Canadian city like Ottawa or Toronto or Edmonton. I am a single mother, who doesn't seem to be too upset by the absence of the father of her 8-month old boy named Vincent. He's a pretty cool baby. He laughs a lot, has big brown eyes and is completely bald. It is Christmas time and I go to a suburban shopping center (or centre I should say as we are in Canada) where a street performer--who is in fact a 25 year-old Bill Murray--catches Vincent's eye. The Bill Murray busker makes the baby laugh and Bill Murray asks me, "Do you think I am funny?" I reply (as I am conscious that I have been transplanted from the future), "You're going to be a huge star."
"Yes, but am I funny?"
"The baby thinks so." (Vincent is laughing hysterically.) I start to walk away.
"But do YOU think I am funny." Looking over my should, the baby in my arms, I shout back in a coy sorta way, "A little."

As I am walking home--the grass between the sidewalk and the street studded with little piles of stale plowed snow and a white-gray sky--Vincent begins to disintegrate, leaving behind only a little bean, like what Jack must have gotten to grow his beanstalk. I am heartbroken. The center of my life and the little person I loved more than anything had turned into a bean! I promised to never lose the bean and to never forget Vincent.

Baby out of the picture, I return to the shopping center to see Bill Murray. He asks me to lunch and takes me to this Swedish restaurant that is decked out in magenta velour with little round tables hidden from each other by matching sheer curtains. Later, on the phone to a girlfriend living in 2006, I mock him, "You should have seen this kitschy place he took me too! It was sooo 70s."
"Well, you are living in the 70s," modern friend reminds me.
"Right…"

The mocking was more of a gentle teasing anyway. So when Bill Murray calls to ask me to dinner, I agree. When he asks me where I want to go, I say, "McDonald's, definitely McDonald's."
"You're easy to please."
Honestly, I didn't know if I was ready to start dating, considering I was still mourning my son-cum-bean, and McDonald's seemed the least seductive of options.

I hear a knock on the door of my first floor brown and orange, fully-carpeted (even the walls it seems) railroad apartment in an old Victorian house. I open the door and the storm door only to find one of Bill Murray's friends--who is in fact a young Dan Aykroyd--on my stoop. He is very friendly. He says that Bill told him to meet him here. I offer him a drink. He asks for straight gin.

Bill Murray is late and Dan Aykroyd is getting tipsy. He starts getting aggressive. I manage to wrestle the now stumbling Dan Aykroyd out of the apartment and I lock the doors. He is pounding to get in. I call Bill Murray in a panic and he says he will be right over. He arrives, shouts that he is going to drive Dan Aykroyd home and then come pick me up to go to McDonald's. The story ends with a happy couple eating parsley and french fries at the local MickeyD's. As I add more salt to my fries, I think, Thank heavens for Bill Murray.

This is a post that requires your participation. There was a lull at work today, so I started writing a blog post about dancing but it mutated into something else. Something much bigger and it has seized my brain.

If you have a lull in your day, think about your relationship to dance. What are your earliest memories of dancing? Do you enjoy dancing? Why? Why not? What have some of your most memorable dancing experiences been? What kind of music do you like to dance to? When do you dance? Does your family dance? Or did they? Were you a fan of the school dance? Do you dance better when you are drunk? Why do we dance? Why do we like to watch other people dance? Is it a party without dancing? What do you think of my dancing (sorry, I am a young, self-centered writer after all...)

Think about it. Write me an e-mail or post a comment. Or wait until I see you next and I will listen attentively to your stories and thoughts.

So it was opening day of the wedding season on Saturday (considering mine as more of a spring training game) and I think I partied too hard. My hips hurt from the hours of dancing, my gut gurgles at the memory of the endless glasses of champagne, my eyes are puffy. Am I getting too old for weekend after weekend of insane partying? I sure hope not...

So Karebear (of Shrimp and Grits fame) just got engaged to the Good Doctor! Congratulations and nuptial bliss to them!!!

Goals for the rest of 2006 (and probably into 2007)

Because I think that May 12 is a great day to make resolutions.

- Get my residency papers
- Lose 6 kg (13 lbs)
- Change my name officially in ths US (or maybe not...)
- Stop smoking
- Travel to Normandy, Estonia, New York State, Edinburgh
- Organize a 4-month wedding anniversary party in NYC
- Sign up for a gamelan class at Cité de la musique
- Write an excellent dissertation and finish my student life with a bang
- Find a job that pays me and that I find somewhat interesting
- Revamp my wardrobe
- Clean out the apartment and get rid of all the excess crap
- Invest myself personally in the apartment decor
- Go to the dentist
- Get new glasses
- Get my haircut every 3 months
- Continue my rock'n'wine education
- Invite people over more often
- Buy foods that are in season (this requires figuring out what the seasons are for everything)
- Reply to my e-mails in a more timely fashion
- Write more

A playwright friend wrote an interesting post on his blog where he wondered what it must be like to be "the most beautiful woman in the room," both for a play he is writing and for his own general knowledge. He asked his gorgeous readers for their feedback. I didn't comment because only once have I been the most beautiful woman in the room and then it wasn't so much a room as an outdoor dance floor, and a certain number of ice cold Polares had been imbibed, so being the most beautiful woman in the room may have been more feeling than fact.

But I have often thought about what it must be like to be so achingly beautiful that people can't take their eyes off of you or, better yet, are forced to avert their eyes to avoid staring. How would my life be different if I was 5 inches taller, 20 pounds lighter, and morphed from pear to hourglass?

Whenever I think about this (and it is frightening how often this pops into my mind), the first consequence I think of is that shopping would be way more fun. It would be great to look at a display mannequin and think "that is a killer outfit" instead of the qualified "that is a killer outfit, but it would look really weird on me." And then I think of how it would help me professionally, to be able to walk into a room, flash a smile, and get whatever I wanted. Of course, the smile may be something I have developed—much like funny guy—in order to compensate for my physical imperfections.

But then—and perhaps this is just a defense mechanism to protect my fragile female ego—I start imagining the unwanted attention from a whole array of unsavory characters, even when I just want to go to the deli to by a coke. Even when I just want to exist in my own little world like all average people have the right to do.

Of course, my vision is derived from the experience of a young woman who is beautiful on her good days and is rewarded for this by being followed by hissing men (often of the crusty or sketchy variety) or passing through a gauntlet loiterers who say the sweetest things under their breath so that only you can hear them, like "hey, wanna get with me, shorty" or the simple and elegant "nice ass." Maybe if I were "the most beautiful woman in the room" and it were gorgeous painters or poets or doctors who were giving me this attention I would be less hostile—but then again these types would probably be too shy to approach me.

The beauty conundrum is ever present in my thoughts, wavering between a desperate desire to be "the most beautiful woman in the room" (maybe just for a one-day test to see how it is...) and the gratefulness to be rather average in my physical appearance so that my other above-average (or so I like to think) qualities can shine on through…when I want them to.

As I walk to work these days—my iPod rehabilitated now that I don’t have to watch out for parallel parkers, delivery trucks, or taxis—I have time to reflect upon Mr. Herman’s life.

I will never forget the first time we met. A warm June day in Montreuil, where I picked him out of the crowd. The perfect city bike. With a basket and a bell. Simple, uncomplicated, blue.

He happily submitted to a retuning to make sure that my legs didn’t have to extend too far and that his headlight would be able to guide me through the Parisian nights long after the metro closed. I bought him all of the accessories: a U-lock and a chain lock and a helmet. Nothing would keep us apart.

That first ride home was like magic. Terrified and running on pure adrenaline, Mr. Herman and I weaved in and out of traffic, whipped through the roundabouts, chugged up the inclines and made it safely home. From then on out we were inseparable. He took me to the Louvre every day and waited, uncomplaining, looking out over the Seine, while I worked the day away. After work he took me on discovery missions all over the city—the Champ de Mars, Montparnasse, Place Gambetta, the Marais, the Latin Quarter, and those lovely rides along the river.

He made sure that I got home ok when I was too drunk to ride straight (I only put him through this once). He sputtered along with me when I got stuck behind a gang of Vespas at a stoplight. We grumbled together when I found him covered in bird doodoo because I’d parked him under a tree. I promised to repair his broken front wheel reflector when it got torn off trying to pull him to safety from under a pile of poorly parked bikes.

He liberated me from my Metro dependency and showed me that an independent, healthy, and green transportation option existed.

Some say I should go out and get another bike to get over my loss. But I need time to grieve. Wherever you are Mr. Herman, know that I miss you. Know that every time I walk past a 2-wheel parking area, I search for you. Most likely you are a pile of parts being pawned off on unsuspecting bike owners by now, but in the event that you are whole somewhere, may your new owner treat you with the love and honor that you deserve.

My beloved, environmentally-friendly mode of transport was stolen today from the bike storage room in my building. I have heard rumors that it may have been taken to the basement of the Alamo.

On the BBC yesterday:

"Rupert Murdoch in March noted how 'power is moving away from the old elite' towards the consumers and, having bought one of the most successful social networking websites, MySpace, pledged to put it at the heart of his operations."

RUN AWAY! RUN AWAY!

So, on Friday night I used one of our wedding gifts (tickets from FNAC to a concert of our choosing) to invite AssRay to the Flaming Lips concert at the Bataclan. Honestly, my knowledge of the Flaming Lips is limited to the memorable NewMusicBox moment when we played Zaireeka, the album that requires you to play 4 CDs simultaneously, and getting The Soft Bulletin out of the library about a year ago. I definitely enjoyed both of these experiences and, hey, why not use those free concert tickets to go to a venue 2 minutes from my house?

I have never been to a true Rock Spectacle before. But this was like something out of Spinal Tap...but instead of midgets running around on stage there were about 30 people dressed as either a) Santa Clauses, or b) aliens dancing on either side of the band. Wayne Coyne, who sort of reminds me of Bad Santa Billy Bob Thornton in his look and Oklahoma drawl, was equipped with all kinds of toys: confetti shooters, streamer cannons, dozens of giant green balloons that were immediately released upon the audience when the first chord sounded out. Later we learned that the Santa Clauses were supposed to represent 'Christianity' and the aliens were meant to represent 'Scientology'. It was up to us to cheer for the one we liked best. This thoroughly confused the audience of geeks and stoners.

But I think what connected with me most about the show was just how happy everyone in the audience was and how happy the musicians were on stage. There was no attitude, no phoniness. Just genuine smiles and pure joy. I don't know if I've felt such a positive collective vibe since...well, since back in the day. And it is truly a beautiful thing to know that people are still good, even when looking at the world through no glasses at all.


AssRay picked up their new album At War with the Mystics, which I highly recommend.

So, for over a year I have had my special library record card that allows me to take out up to 5 CDs/records at a time. I go once every few weeks and it is one of the great joys in my life. The little library down the street has about 2 500 recordings and my last trip yielded a bounty of fantabulous goodies:

- Disc I of The Ligeti Project featuring his Chamber Concerto, Piano Concerto, "Mysteries of the Macabre," and "Melodien."

- XL: Choral works for 40 voices with the Rundfunkchor Berlin, featuring Tallis' masterpiece, "Spem in alium" and a selection of other works--old and new--inspired by it.

- The Yardbirds, Roger the Engineer from 1966 complete with the monumental "Psycho Daisies."

- TV on the Radio, desperate youth, blood thirsty babes from Brooklyn circa 2004

- And the original recording of Stop Making Sense (Talking Heads, 1983)

But I have discovered that there are lands much richer in their musical resources within the public library system. The mythical Musical Mediatheque which has over 40,000 CDs and just as many records of all sizes and RPMs. It is located not far from my current place of employment, so I am hoping to take a lunch trip to this fantastical land at some point this week. Oh thank you public libraries! Thank you French people for paying so much in taxes so that I, a lowly mooching foreigner, can bask in your thousands of free recordings.