And Aubrey Was Her Name...

Like a lovely melody that everyone can sing; take away the words that rhyme, it doesn't mean a thing.

Sunday, March 01, 2009

Eternal Sunshine of the Scattered Mind

It's 5:57 right now. Since the late afternoon, the sun has inched its way across my living room floor; light which, even on a cold day, settles subtly in the room until, near the end of the day, it overheats this place enough that I feel surprised when I look outside and see the cool death of winter that yet hangs. In the afternoon, there's no need to turn on the heated floors of my apartment; the sun has done its work in deluding the gullible room, save for the air which somehow cheats my fingers of the sun's warmth. Now, drawing my cold fingers near my mouth to breath warmth onto them, I look outside to watch the hazy purple settling on the horizon as the sun ensconces itself behind the distant mountains.

My computer hums quietly. It's a strange sound, really; one that I never seem to feel completely at ease with. Actually, it's much less like humming and more like a long, breathy sigh. It breathes to cool itself, though comes off sounding like an impish child, interrupting class to make very clear their boredom...

At this moment, I am trying to choose that which I must focus on. My computer has no less than 5 documents open. Photos, set aside in a folder currently entitled "Random" must be organized. Photoshop is open beside it, waiting for me to test its abilities with some photos that could just use some retouching; it's been over a month that I've had the program and, though it has spent many hours open as a reminder that I must learn it, has been used twice. iTunes is open, too, needing music to be organized. There's also a document open with the story my friend and I have begun writing together, expectantly waiting (these last two weeks) for me to pen my half. And I left VLC open with an episode of Ricky Gervais's "Extras," after having decisively stopped it, twice, to get real work done. My internet browser has 12 tabs open, with subjects ranging from French tests, to a blog on poverty I've been reading, to a recipe for a homemade fruit cleanser. Behind me, a book loaned to me by my friend lies open, half-read, on top of three others, also on loan, also half-read. Next to me is a letter I have begun writing to my brother; just beyond that is the package I'm putting together for my cousin in Uganda, one that I promised when leaving Uganda after New Year's. And I just stopped writing moments ago to answer my phone; did I remember the plans to come over to my friend's new apartment? My mind skips again, remembering happily that three good friends are moving closer to me, while sadly another friend has left Korea for good.

My mind is scattered and fractured, though in a way that invigorates me and makes me feel a strong sense of purpose. Often preferring mild chaos to a planned existence, I check and recheck each tab, each unfinished project with a dreamy smile. I sigh audibly along with my whining computer; here are the things to which I may look forward to completing.

Permit me to tell you of at least one of my projects, the one that has filled my head with the most foolish of hopes; the potential of a finally-fulfilled, lifelong dream. This past month, I applied for a job in France, a teaching position as, let's say it together now, an English teacher. Part of my grasping toward this aspiration of just a slight adjustment to my reality has been to take a semi-intensive French class during February. Actually, it was two different French classes, at two different but similar levels, started late and therefore taken simultaneously. Nine hours of French per week for one month have caused that language which lay so still and dormant these past ten years to awaken, rise from its place, and, with bits and pieces of its decayed shell falling off, attempt its work of forming actual sentences and ideas from its sparsely filled cache of words. Suddenly this language I so idolized and even for so long have spoken fractured and banal sentences to only myself, has taken real life in me again.

I love French
. And, much like an infatuated teenager scribbling the name of her crush over and over in her notebook, knowing if he just looked at her, he would undoubtedly return her fidelity of affection, this is how I feel of France. And like that teenager, I often become tongue-tied when face-to-face with my infatuation. Regardless of how hard I try, what I want to say gets stuck, gets turned around. Invariably the wrong word masquerades as something entirely different in my mind. I blush and then start to stutter. With a growing frustration, I see that I am not accurately portraying myself when speaking; I lack the words and the ability to convey my personality. In the end, it is an altered Aubrey who speaks French.

Yet I press on (with no measure valiance or bravery, just the foolishness of love). I am told that I will hear whether I get the job at the end of April. If so, do expect a post. This teen would not miss declaring to all that France has returned her affections.