Two days in the life of a volunteer woodworker

Yesterday, I arrive at work with a fellow employee. We were expecting to go to a worksite in Poitiers, the capital of Vienne, the department in France. I live in Parthenay, 30 kms away in Deux Sevres, another department of the same region (Poitou Charente).

Instead, at last minute, the boss says we go to another worksite in the local town (Thenezay, where the Enterprise Soko Bois, who I am working with at the moment).

"comme l'habitude" Dominique (the experienced guy I am working with this week, the second week of my 2 week volunteer interim) says. Noone seems to have a good opinion about our boss (Jean is his name, and his attention seems to be scattered around, somewhere inbetween a cold bottle of good whisky and making money building and repairing and rennovating buildings. His issue seems to be a lack of ability to properly communicate, or he simply doesn't give a fuck about much except personal success).

The worksite ends up being a nursery school. They have their dining hall (cafeteria for little ones) with a problem. We walk to the window and notice that the floor is unstable and something is the matter below. We rip up the synthetic floor sheet and the panels of agglomerate (panels composed of wood derivitives) to find that the whole floor is rotten with huge mushrooms and the beams are totally devastated. So we spend the day ripping up and hammering and picking and shovelling and chainsawing to do a patch-up job (because the owner is reselling the school to the government in a year, and he doesn't give a fuck after that).

'On va cacher la misere' is what's it called, when you repair something in a fashion that only temporarily solves the problem, for someone in the future to deal with, somehow (considering the short-sightedness current in many people when they consider their actions and consuming habits, probably with exactly the same strategy).

So Dominique gave me a ride home (he lives 30 meters from my apartment I am sharing with two classmates in a low-cost housing area), and we went to sleep under the assumption that we will totally rebuild a section of 2x-6 meters of the floor, and dig holes and install a passive ventilation system (wood, whether it is in a wall or under a roof or the floor, if it is not subject to a current of dry air, risks to develop humidity, and following that fungus or termites, who both love stale, humid air).

This morning, i'm outside Dominique's driveway at 7:30 am, as he reverses out of his driveway with his 15 year old daughter in the passenger's seat. I hop in, we drop her off at school nearby, and we are off to Thenezay, where SokoBois is. In the workshop we run in to le chef d'atelier (the manager of the workshop).

He tells us we are to show two other workers (Allain and Patrick) what needs to be done for the floor at the primary school down the road, and after we are to load our van and go do the job at Poitiers. We ask for more details, like the address, directions, where we can park, if the workshop currently contains tools and materials we need.

We get a few things, but can't find a few things neither. We speak to the designer and he gives us a rough idea of where the apartment is, and then we get the secretary to find us a map on the internet of the downtown where the apartment is.

Ok we are off before we know it. Can't get a hold of Jean (the boss), and 'on part avec our bit et une couteau' (a French saying literally translating 'we leave with our dick and a knife', but means more or less that we take off towards a goal with basically nothing).

We don't know the address, Dominique hardly knows the city, and we enjoy the scenery and laugh it all off a bit during the ride. 'Il faut pas prendre la tete', we reassure ourselves, and say we will do what we can, and that's it, even if that means turning around and coming back to the workshop if things don't work out (the French phrase literally means 'you don't have to take the head', but means don't need to worry or stress about something).

We get to Poitiers and make a few circles on one-way streets and call the boss until we find it. There are loads of people all around (mostly students: university town). It is nice out, mounting towards 23 degrees Celsius. We avoid a huge bus on our little street and manage to park the van under the building. We call the boss again for the code to get in. He doesn't know (another example of his mastery of organisation). We call the designer who gave us directions (Jean-Paul), and he gives us a number. The number doesn't work, and the door doesn't budge. Dominique enters the store front which comprises of the ground floor of the apartment to ask a guy for the code to get in as I start unloading tools.

We quickly unload everything (seven big, heavy wood-framed windows, a perfurator for piercing concrete, big tool box, some big plastic tarps, a circular saw, cordless drill, and two buckets full of cartridges of silicone and wood glue).

We leave everything in the hallway, and search for the way to get to the fourth floor, where our job is.
 We climb the steep wooden stairwell, find an empty floor, get to the third, again, big empty room, could comprise of at least five apartments if it was divided up by walls. The stairwell ends, and so we find another one at the other end around the corner. This is a little old stairwell of wood planks. At the top is a door. An ungodly odour tingles the nostrils. We open the door and find shit everywhere.

Literally there is pigeon shit on every surface horizontal and vertical, up in the shafters near the roof, and there are pigeons flying about everywhere in a panic. Broken windows at ground floor. I count seven. Those are the seven windows we are going to replace with new windows. The floor is a 5 centimeter carpet of white grey and black pigeon shit. Dominique says he was told we are to clean it up, but he looks doubtful.

He passes a broom around and clear a pathway through the shit from the door to the stairway until the first window, and clears a square under the two nearest windows. He hands me the broom and I continue to make a path and squares under each of the five remaining windowsills, while he goes down to ground floor to bring the tools we need to remove the old windows (a little hammer, a  big flat-headed screwdriver, and a crowbar).

He arrives and I watch as he pops off the two window panes from the frame of the first window, breaks the two hinges on each side of the frame, and with the crowbar rips the window frame out of the opening in the wall. Behind is a little iron fence and a light grill, a sort of safety device, so people and things don't fall out of the window.

He hands me the tools and I continue on the next window. I remove it and start on the third. Here the grill is broken beside where I put the screwdriver to break a hinge. That means the hammer or a chunk of wood or the screwdriver could fall out of the window and down onto the sidewalk below.

And so the screwdriver skids off the surface of the wood frame as I hit it with the hammer, and actually falls out the window down into the streets below. I watch it fall out of my hand and down onto the sill and then over the edge in slow motion, but my motion was even slower. Too slow. I hear a loud crack outside and below the window. I recognise instantly that it is the sound of the screwdriver hitting the sidewalk. I register that this means that it didn't fall onto someone. Good. I immediately put down the hammer and peek my head out the window and look down to see what the result of the screwdriver. I see a bunch of shapes and colours down on the street below, and register the word 'POLICE' written along the chest of the vests of two men in blue looking up at me. One makes a complicated facial gesture, kind of like 'Yes, I saw that screwdriver fall out of the window you're standing at, and that was not a good thing'. A kind of mean smirk.

Dominique is nearby working on the window opening where I already removed the old window, and he says something like 'WAIT! (recognisingly) what was that noise? Did you drop something? (Yes, I made the screwdriver fall out the window) OH NO!

He pops his head out the window and sees people walking by but two cops in dark blue vests over light blue button up shirts, one bald and the other with a dark blue baseball cap. He makes for the door to the stairway and heads downwards. I consider for a split second to continue working and let him deal with it, but then make for the door through the pigeon shit and follow him. We get outside down on ground floor just as a fellow employee Florian (who was working in the area and finished his job, and had intended to come over and help us do ours, but also to bring a cordless perforator, because there was no power in the building (except for the storefront) and not even a plug).

We pass by him and approach the police. The senior policeman begins to tell us that we could have killed someone, that we should have taken safety precautions and put a plastic tarp over the windows so that nothing falls out (at this moment our plastic tarp is sitting just behind the door in the storageroom/hallway on the ground floor folded up in a pile). He says that we should immediately put up some tarps or something, and he demands our worksite permit ( a paper giving authorisation to SokoBois to work on this worksite). Dominique explains that we don't have one. The cop says they will return in the afternoon and if they see we haven't the permit nor taken the safety precautions, they will close the worksite.

They take off and Dominique goes over and explains the story to Florian, and then they unload the cordless perforator and a few other things, and Florian takes off. He ain't going to help us, he is needed back in Thenezay. Dominique explains to me that we don't have a worksite permit.

They cost money, and take time, and Jean doesn't bother with them, normally getting away with it. If the cops shutdown the worksite, our boss will be caught without a work permit, and that means he's screwed. Well, we will continue with our job anyway, and if we are shut down, we are shut down, and return home. It's eleven thirty am (half an hour to lunch at a restaurant!) and that means we have no longer the right to be parked under the building. We get in and search the streets around for somewhere to park. After ten minutes we find a spot outside of an elementary school. It is with a sort of parking meter, but we don't pay, and just leave the car. If it get's towed, its insured, and not my car, he says. We get in and drive off to eat.

Wood Wood Wood

I am doing fantastic! In the third week of a 9 month course on wood frame construction in beautiful historic mediaeval Parthenay. The teacher is totally a real-world person who is all about profitability, efficiency, low-fatigue, environmental responsibility. We are learning (theoretically and practically) how to build a house from A to Z, starting with making our own architectural designs (we worked a bit on his house, and are working currently on some simple cafeteria tables).
The course alternates between a few weeks at the school (class/workshops) and a few weeks with an enterprise. I was fortunate enough to find two enterprises in the same village (named Burie), and even more fortune to find lodging a hundred meters from the two enterprises with a friend I made at Vipassana France back in March. He sold his pizzeria in Bordeaux and bought a huge old stone and wood house in very poor shape for very cheap money, and is slowly renovating it. In exchange for my own private room in the house, I will help him renovate the house (for example there is a 1 meter square hole in the tiled roof). Wherever I turn, there is opportunity to learn how to construct and problem solve! Stephanie is still working at a vineyard near Cognac until September, and after hopes to do a year course in organic agriculture advising, advising farmers, supermarkets, cafeterias, etc. on how to turn organic.


I am in great shape, am helping out here at the youth hostel with the garden and also with turning an old busted piano into a bar. My French is great, and my ability to focus is very agreable!!

Stephanie is totally fantastic, I do not see a horizon to our relationship even from the top of a tower.

My social life has become lots more busy, and this is the reason I haven't made the time to write here more often. I haven't forgotten you! Talk soon!

Cheers,
Maurizio

Last page before next chapter

So I went to visit the school on Wednesday in beautiful little Parthenay, after practicing a motivation speech the night before, to find that I was already accepted, just need to figure out logistics. Great! New adventure is set to begin on monday (so soon!). We go and check out the student lodgement to find out that there remains just one chamber free for monday. Lucky me. It is two km away, and is a nice atmosphere, with people from everywhere, cooks who cook international foods. Projectors for watching THE WORLD CUP. Computers with internet (meaning I can write with you more often, actually have the time to put more effort into my writing). So this afternoon I finish washing windows for my final office, and it is a big job. Gotta run for now and hop on my moped!

Cheers,
Maurizio

The nooks only window washers see

Washing windows. Precision, speed, detail.

I started to destroy an intricate spiderweb in some left-behind top right corner of a window that, since it doesn't affect profits, lacks human attention. I stopped immediately as I observed a not small spider scramble for cover. I watched her disappear from sight and moved my squeegee elsewhere, leaving most of the web intact. I am happy there is little chance that my boss will find this blog post and translate it.

To be forgotten, to be useless. In reality, nothing is useless, everything plays a part in a big web, one way or another. But in the capitalist perspective, there are many things useless, many frontiers to the capitalistic consciousness. My first instinct is to think: good, leave that forest alone, for example. The less we are aware of, with our collective ability to make poor, short-sighted decisions, the better. But our effects on the world around us extend far beyond our narrowed consciousness. In some cases, our consciousness can be used to protect something or someplace from the negative effects of our perspectives.

Cleaning windows, I see many spots that rarely receive human awarness and care, like remote islands which rarely but excitedly receive seafaring travellers. The dust collects, and these remote nooks start to develop their own micro-ecosystem. On the visible level, it is often the entrepreneurial, adventurous and solitary spider inhabits these spaces, and the relative top of the food chain. The unfortunate flying insect that blazes an aerial trail into these nooks is next on the food chain. However life in the human offices and factories is hard for the insects, and often I find the dried exoskeleton of spiders, as well as their prey.

It is sometimes not easy to get a window clean. It requires a sufficient amount of soap and water, followed by a perfect swipe of the squeegee, applying constant pressure to push the dirt, water and soap all the way from one border of the window to another, on BOTH sides of the window. Factors such as muscle memory, muscle fatigue, position of the body of the window washer in adaptation to various obstacles, humidity, temperature, amount of water applied, amount of soap applied, sharpness of the edge of the rubber blade on the squeegee and lack of little nicks or irregularities, pressure of the squeegee against the window, angle of the rubber blade in relation to the window, speed of the swipe, dirt on the window, paint or other objects stuck on the window which cause the rubber blade to lose contact with the window momentarily. And the economy and such require that one works at a constant high speed, big windows, small windows, interior, exterior, ankle height, shoulder height, two story height, size of a computer monitor or size of a wall, sliding door windows, windows with manual or electronic screens, shutters, blinds.

I enjoy the little places I get to explore, whether it is a roof or some closet or corner. Sometimes it is hard to find the rhythm required to work at a speed that satisfies my boss. When it is found, I can sustain it for hours. Sometimes that rhythm extends beyond work hours, and when I have a lunch break I eat and drink and idle at the same energetic rhythm. Sometimes I return home and still have this rhythm, and so I go outside and work in the garden or go running or pushups, chinups, situps. When this frantic pace ends, I am usually quite low on energy, dragging my feet and my mind around.

This rhythm is the rhythm that many bosses in many different lines of work require from their employees. Whether it is harvesting, cleaning windows, packing boxes, sorting vegetables, cutting wood, making a business deal. This is the capitalistic rhythm. Most industrialized governments, including France and Canada, make a deal with their citizens: You find a career, or work various jobs, you learn this rhythm, you master it, and you maintain it for between 35 and 45 hours a week for 35 to 45 years. If you accomplish this, along with giving some of your salary every month for all these years to the government, you then have a pension. Then you can slow down your rhythm, stop working for your money, go at your own, natural rhythm (IF YOU CAN EVER FIND IT AGAIN), and get a modest monthly salary to live on.

We'll see where it all goes. What happens in the future.

Hey, you know, bees and other social insects like ants and termites keep a superiorly frantic rhythm until their last heartbeat. I haven't observed beavers, but I am sure they don't lounge about either. Neither do birds, nor reptiles. It seems to be the larger animals that exhibit more lazy and relaxed rhythms. However, animals that are food to many other animals can't afford to relax much. Dinner is the prey which relaxed at the wrong time.

Us humans, who eats us for dinner? The lion in the zoo? Why must we keep a frantic pace on the tips of our toes to survive? We are the top of the food chain, by far. No other animal can press a button and destroy everything. Is it a very obsolete instinct, one which helped us survive the savannah and the ice age and war?

Ah, right, we have to keep this pace because those other competitive countries are trying to develop an even more frantic rhythm.

How romantic, how balancing, how lonely it would be to be left behind in a nook, or on a forgotten island. To accidentily fall off the conveyor belt into the dark depths below, the Land of the Dust. How childish! Many of us had the liberty to go at our own pace when we were children. Before school started, when we got home from school, at recess. That is, those of us who could develop independence from the collective pace of our peers, or those of us who were ostracized by those peers and were left to our own devices.

Is the anti-society, anti-capitalist longing really a longing for a return to childhood? To no longer peform as a cog in a wheel, to create ever bigger and remote structures with ever more powerful leverage on the planet and on ourselves. To bring things down to the personal, observable, immediate level. To explore our imagination, not just while our bodies work our careers, not just distracting ourselves from our job, but exploring our imagination, uninhibited, with our bodies and minds, turning everything into an adventure.

I would like write here a thought that came to me about atrophy, or the inevitable decay of things. We are, constantly, in the middle of creating more clever and technologically advanced ways of extending the lifespan and maintaining and deepening the comfort of every atmosphere our body enters, and ensuring the fullness of the stomache and the satisfaction of our emotions. It used to be that only the physically strong and dexterous, disciplined people survived. Like other animals. In many cases in history, nothing short of heroism was required to survive. prudence, patience, determination. Strength of character, ability to sacrifice, stoicism, diligence, persistence.

Today, in our society, we don't need strong personalities to survive. We don't need patience, we don't need physical strength or agility. We don't need self-discipline. We don't need instinct. We just wait for the green light and stay within the lines. We just read manuals, we just call experts, we obey laws and rules and signs. We herd ourselves like shepherds herd sheeps, so we can maintain a level of immaturity and mediocrity until our body gives out, and ensure that our future generations can do so as well.

And this is atrophy, the atrophy of the human species. We don't need all five senses to live eighty years, we don't need maturity, we don't need instincts, we don't need wisdom, we don't need forsight, we don't need sacrifice (except, of course, if you will, the biggest sacrifice of all, that which we are in the middle of rendering obsolete), we don't need self-discipline, we don't need awareness. It is an urge towards an unfathomable collective laziness that drives us, a reduction and shameful simplification of 'human being' into a biological machine run by childish emotional urges.

And so, generation after generation, we lose attention span, we lose muscle development, we lose endurance, we lose instinct, we lose self-awareness, and we ensure that we can live longer and longer in these degenerate states. We are making ourselves into mindless meat machines.

Someone, feel free to discuss this with me, show me another perspective, because there are always others.

I think this is a attempt at a rationalization of a desire towards my personal independence from the state, my self-sufficiency, self-discipline, being able to survive by the efforts of my own wits and hands.

Stephanie continues to discovers new white hairs on my head. I love her.

Cheers,
Maurizio

I can see clearly now the rain is gone

So yesterday I got a job and I got into a school for woodworking/carpentry! Just as my doubts started to outweigh my hopes, It starts to pour. What can I do but go with it? I have no fear now, today. I just finished my first shift of work, window washing. Done it before, enjoy it, worked up a few sweats. My school, which was looking to fill up its roster, starts on June 14th: less than 3 weeks from now! It ends sometime in March. Before it starts I will figure out a place to live, get government aid for lodging and food, go and check out the campus two hours north of here in the department Deux Sevres, finish planting the garden, save as much money as I can working, and train myself to read and write better in French, as well as study Carpentry. Time to kick it into high gear. Thankfully, I can take advantage of the French government social aid (before it crashes) and go to school for free and get reimbursed for most if not all of my living expenses during my studies.

My dad keeps telling me Europe is falling, that I should go back to Canada, where the future is more certainly successful with the huge natural resource base and the distance from the Middle East and Africa (don't call him racist, the problem is illegal immigration from these places into especially Spain and Italy, but also France, where it just takes a short boatride.) We will see.

Camping in the Pyrenees was sublime, snow capped mountains, green forests, grey rock, cold streams. And, believe it or not, I didn't encounter a single mosquito! It was 25 degrees warm, minimum 10 degrees at night, in the thick forests and along the water's edge, 1000 meters from sea level, and no mosquitoes! And the Pyrenees has this sort of weather for six months of the year! A few hours hike up and there is cold and snow, a few hours drive and there is the coast of the Mediterranean or the Atlantic, also world-class cities of Bordeaux and Toulouse, and Spain, for inexpensive shopping and practicing Spanish. To top it all, inexpensive housing and living. Hmmm.....

Anyway, gotta go wash this body thoroughly and eat some fruit.

Cheers,
Maurizio

Pyrenees look at these!

Started the heavy garden work. Digging, dragging a poorly designed plastic wheelbarrow full of forest soil 300 meters up a hill and down a hill to the house, rototilling all afternoon, Making beds. Gotta get those tomatoes in the ground, and all the rest too. Feels good. Making plans to build a solar dehydrator. Feels good too.

Going to go camping near Bagneres de Bigorre, the Pyrenees Mountains, on the weekend. Excited to finally meet the mountains which I may someday call home.

No luck yet finding a temp job, but have good chances to get a 3 week job with a local apple orchard starting in June.

It is getting nice and warm here now, and I have the chance to accompany Stephanie to the farmer's market at Chatellayon, at the beach, tomorrow! Going to enjoy the beach. Market too.

Not feeling particularly creative or humorous right now, so this is a 'Straightforward Factual Blog Post'.

Still unsure about where to go to school, if I can go to school, and my appointment with the councillor has been postponed to next week. It is getting late in the season of applying to schools.

Had a strong emotional bout of homesickness and instability monday night, but next day we started working in the garden and I felt better. I think the sense of ungroundedness can be cured by soil, not particularily Canadian soil. Also moving my body helps (helps everyone really, doesn't it?).

My future actions depend on Stephanie and her actions, my stoicism and emotional endurance, the prejudices of people who might otherwise help me if I had a good French accent, the French economy, and the unexpected limitation of living in the region of Poitou Charentes, when concerning carpentry school.

What will happen next? Stay tuned...

Cheers,
Maurizio

D

Driving all around Department seventeen
Digesting red wine, rabbit and white bread
Drifting into sleep and out of it
Depannage house-to-house
Determined to focus and learn
Digging a trench to lay cable
Dreaming of a place untouched, unplanned
Discipline myself to manage my imbalance
Drawing on my emotional strength reserves
Damn well fighting
Doing what feels right, sometimes
Dreading the wrong path
Drink coffee no more
Drying out my bank account
Droughts we threaten the world with
Drifting along without accumulating wealth
Dark future ahead
Diving deeper for oil
Doors open
Doubting which one
Draped in anxiety
Dumbed fields dressed in pesticides
Dividing land for fragmented people
Dinner party distractions from dying systems
Drizzle for the honest, drowning for the damaged rich
Do-it-yourself Dollar-dodgers
Disappointed with their inherited ways
Deciding to distill
Daring to detatch and make a dash
Dancing to the beat of my own drum
Dripping hardly distinguishable from the downpour
Dear friends...

Cheers,
Maurizio

Rolling

Hi guys and gals! Sorry for being so quiet, I came back to France and no longer had internet access. I am writing you from a cyber cafe in Saint Georges des Coteaux.

My trip back to France was easy and relatively cheap. Harassed by a big black prostitute within 5 minutes of breathing Parisian air. I knew the routine, been to Kenya. Got rid of her in 3 minutes. Bought mediocre strawberries and laid down in a nearby park. Observed ancient Middle-Eastern men sit on benches and speak at 1 word per minute.

Back in Charente Maritimes. Waiting to see if I get the thousand Euros towards driving school/licence. Nope, I lose. I do paperwork just in the nick of time to start my second two week volunteer period one week later.

The skinny, nervous, unshaven plumber manoeuvers through a roundabout while rolling his cigarette changing gears in a manual van. We eat at restaurants sometimes, appetizers, red wine, bread, main plates, cheese plates, desserts, coffee. The enterprise pays for that. Two hour lunches. Get at the shop at 8am, leave at 8:45, spend fifteen minutes drinking coffee and chatting with the guys at the plumber store. They don't have what we are looking for. Go to a second plumber store. Have a coffee, chat, look at newspaper, buy the part. Go to the electrician store, have a coffee, chat, buy a part. Get in van and drive 45 minutes. Work 90 minutes at the job site, have two hour lunch at restaurant.

Hubert, aka 'putain mierde' drank 3 coffees in less than an hour. He likes to swear to encourage his successful work. Actually, it doesn't seem like he has a choice, it is a habit that has become somewhat subconscious. He started working at 14 years of age. Maried at 19, child at 21. He once said the longest 'ooh la la' I have ever heard. I try hard not to laugh when he swears in frustration. It pours from his throat steadily and melodically: 'ooh la la la la la la la la la la la!' (the 'la's' alternate between high tones and low tones).

I don't do a whole lot, in fact my calf muscles get a great workout from standing for hours and hours watching. I try not to fall asleep while I watch the whole department pass by as we roll along here there and everywhere. We once drove 75 minutes one way to do a 10 minute job, and then 75 minutes back, and then 2 hour lunch.

Look into Compagnons de Tour de France, a world-renown school for tradeskills, but looks like I landed in the wrong region of France to learn Carpentry. Educational funding has become regionalized, and all the carpentry schools are elsewhere. Stephanie has family in Brittany, perhaps I can move there and go to school there...

Well I am not going to tidal wave you to try and make up for all the time lost, so I will leave it at that for now.

Cheers,
Maurizio

In Antwerpen

What a trip. Left Saint Georges des Coteaux at six am. Boarded train to La Rochelle at six thirty. Because of the great storm that hit the Atlantic coast, the train could no longer go to La Rochelle, so we stop in Rochefort. Wait for a bus. Bus arrives in La Rochelle a bit past seven fifteen. wait. Get a coffee and croissant, three dollars equivalent. Get a newspaper. Montpelier, number one city in France to live in. Polish President is mourned over. Walk around a bit, read Gravity's Rainbow a bit. Text message my carpool ride, no idea what car she is driving. Smoke a cigarette with a fellow carpooler who is going to Bordeaux. My carpool host pulls up, we wait for everyone, get in the car. I drift in and out of sleep half of the drive until we get out for a pee pee break. Then I am more awake, talk a bit with another passenger, snack, read newspaper.

Arrive in Paris after approximately four and a half hours. Get out at the south end of the city, go and eat Vietnamese. Walk brisquely towards Cathedral Notre Dame, rapidly taking in the sights and sounds. The city reminds me of Rome, full of tourists, similar architecture. Enter the Cathedral with my backpack even though there are signs in six languages saying backpacks are forbidden. I decide to just act normal and do it anyways. As a result of my time limit in the city and my general state of mind, I can't bring myself to slow down and see if there is something to soak in in the Cathedral. By now, sorry, all these Catholic Churches seem the same, candles, donation boxes, holy water basins for crossing yourself when you enter, most people there just to see the art and architecture superficially, probably more just to tell others they were there, take a few pictures. I look for where I can climb the tower to the top, but don't find it. Exit. Ok, let us find the Eiffel Tower. Two hours or so left. Walk fast, keep checking map. Hungry, lets find a bakery on the way. Walk along the river, keep going east, east east. Finally I see the tower in the distance, behind countless buildings. Find a bakery, get a loaf of bread. Find the park surrounding the Eiffel Tower, sit and eat. Ask the man beside me where the nearest subway station is. Head for it, get a ticket, find out I have to go to another station 400 meters away. I go, make my way to the rendezvous station for my next carpool ride. Find him. We wait for almost an hour for another passenger, who went to the wrong station. Finally he makes it, and then we are stuck in traffic for fourty five minutes.

When we are on the road, the driver and late passenger, both Maghreb Arabs, one from Morrocco, the other Algerian, enter animated, rapid conversation about the issues between their countries, the difficulties of life in France for Arab immigrants, racism, Paternal pressure and strictness. I find it very interesting, and try my hardest to understand the rapid, accented French, often sounding like a FAMAS (The standard French sub-machine gun used in the military). Start to realize I am going to be late. Will there still be a train from Brussels, our destination, to Antwerp, after midnight? I desperately fire off text messages to everyone I have the number for to ask if they can check the internet.

We arrive, and one passenger who I had amiable conversations with inbetween the machine gun fire, a fellow organic agriculture enthusiast, accompanied me to discover that I missed the last train by half an hour. What am I going to do now? I don't know, but I need internet access to tell my uncle not to worry about me and not to wait at the Antwerp station for me. Vivien, the fellow passenger, invites me to stay at his cohouse, where I could sleep on a couch. We make our way there, and I meet a bunch of his roommates. Everyone smokes tobacco and marijuana mixed spliffs at a rate of one every fourty five minutes, munching on junk food and downing tiny coca cola cans. We talk, joke, I speak lots of French. I notice how tiring it is for them to listen to me when I try to articulate myself in French. They are nice and polite. Finally I sleep at 4pm, and wake up at nine. Going to sleep late doesn't feel good. Coffee, breakfast, conversation, where I learn of the various ways these guys avoid taxes and get paid for unworked hours and get money from the government when they shouldn't and how they religiously watch the simpsons until eleven thirty am. I get their contact info. Who knows? Then Vivien and two of his roommates accompany me to the station, and I wait in line with various foreigners to get a ticket.

Take the train, with a smooching couple sitting behind me. They smooch in a terribly irritating way the whole ride to Antwerpen. My pet peeve is when people eat with their mouth open, making sucking noises. The kissing was very similar. I even start to curse softly under my breath. Not that bad, don't sweat the small stuff. We arrive in the first station of Antwerp, but I need to wait to get off at the second. The doors open briefly and then close. The train doesn't move. Everyone assumes it will go to the next station, and there are no announcements. We discover that the train is going to go back to Brussels. All these African ladies in exotic clothing start panicking and making a big fuss. The doors don't open. Increased panic. I decide to let them get me out of this mess ("bordell" in French, I am frequently reminded by an elderly French lady). They catch the attention of a train conductor, who doesn't know how to speak French, or, considering what I have heard of the Flemish from the Francophones so far, chooses not to. He is bombarded by aggressive, nervous African female energy and feebly responds by opening the door. He looks like he wishes he was at home watching TV drinking good beer.

We wait for the proper train, and board it. I sit down, and three of the loudest African ladies sit in the surrounding seats. I try to listen to what they say, but it is a sort of pidgin French. I wonder where they are from. I like them. We arrive in Antwerp, and I see my family in the distance up a hundred steps waving at me.

Antwerpen is quite similar to Toronto. Multicultural, cold weather, efficient, social aid actually aids. I am here with my uncle, Stefano, working his butt off to support his baby boy Phillip and wife Sophie. They made a big risk and moved here from Pescara, Italy, where there was no future for them. Here, they are closer to Stefano's other kids, Alessio and Roxanne, who are both in their early twenties and live in and outside of Amsterdam.

A tiny country Belgium, few hours from one end to the other. Famous for beers, actually probably has the most beers in comparison to any other country in the world. In the south French is spoken, in the north Dutch and Flemish, quite proudly. In Brussels, the capital of Europe and of Belgium, French is dominant, although it is surrounded by Flemish country. So far, all the Brusselites I have spoken to consider the Flemish proud of their language and identity distinct from the Francophones, in some ways like the Quebeckers are in comparison to Anglophone Canada.

A country with an average of perhaps 300 days a year of rainfall. Apparently the only wild spot left is in the south near the French frontier. I asked Sophie, a native Kenyan from Kisumu, if she missed Kenya. She said she misses it right now, so much, in a way she can't express. Then I asked if it is worth it to live in a cold, foreign country without nice beaches and wild spaces and animals, which has good schooling, health care, social services, economy, in comparison with Kenya, where it is warm, beautiful, wild, but with limited infrastructure, health care, opportunities. She said to me the health care is the most important factor. If you lived in Kenya but had enough money that if you needed to you could immediately hop on a plane to Europe for medical attention, it would be worth it. But otherwise, it is worth it to live in Belgium, or other northern European countries similar, for that matter. Kenya is nice to vacation in. She perhaps almost died of a persistent pneumonia which infected her right lung and was not properly treated for a long time until she went to the doctor in Antwerp. He obliged her to take strong antibiotics immediately, and now she can breathe well, is starting to regain her appetite, and is heading from darkness to light. Phillip has asthma. This is where she is coming from with her perspective of the importance of good health care.

Us young, invincible, adventurous ones might have the opposite perspective (at least I have) about where to live, but in recent years I am starting to experience the limits to my invincibility, and starting to be more cautious.

Nonna is here too, fantastic nonna, seventy five or so years old, still like she was since I can remember, cooking like every nonna should, loving interacting with and caring for little Phillip.

Talk to you soon,

Maurizio

Vietnamese-Parisien:Italo-Canadian-Welsh-Antwerpen

I write from a cyber cafe. Shaj Mahal, something like that. Rue d'Italy. South Paris. Got time until my ride to Brussels. Ate Vietnamese for lunch. 4 different sorts of hot sauce. Went to town. Sorry stomache! Noodles. Peanuts. Runny nose. That omnipresent white cartoon kitty statue with Chinese writing along it on a vertical axis. A big bronze-coloured happy fat Buddha with arms raised in the air, holding bags of candy in each hand. An uncanny ecstatic smile on his face. Shrimps, chicken, nose really running, lips burning, tongue burning. Cafe to finish it off: for 'digestion'. I learned coffee, like hard liquor after a meal doesn't âctually help digestion, but pauses digestion in order to quickly digest the caffeine or alcohol, and then continues later on. Five hour car ride from La Rochelle. Drive reminded me of an ex-girlfriend, but has the name of my current one. Tanned, tattooed, dark hair, makeup, MTV top20 from the past five years playing the whole time. Meditated a bit, but man, i've really lost the willpower and motivation. When I finally get around to it, I will have a load to bring into balance. Reading Gravity's Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon. What a writing style. Very difficult to get into, to get accustomed to. Informal, psychedelic, stream-of-consciousness, dark comedy. Brilliant, I think.

Planning to hike up the Cathedral of Notre Dame, heard of a great view. Looking forward to nonna's cooking, little Phillip's sausage toes and fingers, Sophie's delightful Kenyan-English accent, and Stefano's sarcastic sense of humor. Antwerpen, I'm coming!

Weekend Update

Over the couse of the last seven days, I single-dug a good portion of the backyard garden, spread manure, and planted 30 strawberry plants, two rows of onions and two rows of shallots. Very satisfying work.

Sunday, Steph and I went to her friend’s baby’s baptism. It was my first baptism, as not even I was baptized. Cold church. Beautiful, tall arching ceiling. Vibrant stained-glass windows. A hundred people seated, singing together for Mass. Two babies will be baptized today. The priest speaks, and the audience respond on que at the right times with ‘amen’ or by manually crossing their chests, or breaking into choir. It was a bit chaotic, lots of people, not knowing where to sit (Steph and I and Maria, our friend, sat on the wrong side of the aisle. Both babies refused or misunderstood the command of the priest to put the holy water on their own foreheads, and both babies cried after their parents dipped their heads down to the water and the priest soaked their hair.

After there was the buffet and party, lots of fun, decent food. Lots of wine and bubbling wine going around. Met some older folks who were excited about various ecologically-friendly alternative initiatives springing up in their area concerning agriculture and construction. Met a couple who informed Steph and I about the various free schools which offer instruction in tradeskills, including ‘Les Compagnons’, a world-famous school of high quality. I will look into this last school.

When I return from Belgium I will do a two week volunteer stage with a local renewable energy installation company. After I will decide : carpentry (ecoconstruction) or electricity (renewable energy).

Today is Monday, and in less than twenty four hours I will embark on my trip to Antwerp, Belgium. Not much money in my pocket, but well-fed, and well-enough equipped with one of the two languages spoken in Belgium (French).

In the back of my mind, I consider the scenario of shit hitting the fan in the future, in terms of economic collapse, food-system collapse, social program-collapse, unemployment, rioting, etc. And so I subject every idea for my future to criticism from this collapse scenario point of view. Stephanie and I have agreed that if things get hairy, we will farm. Here or back in Ontario, where I already have a bit of a network. Learning electricity or carpentry will be very useful in almost any possible future scenario, for earning money with a stable job, and for learning DIY (do it yourself) skills for maintaining and repairing a house, or building a new one. I would like to learn both, but which one to pursue first, which one to make into a ‘career’ ?

What do you guys and girls think ?

Write to you from Belgium !

Cheers,
Maurizio

...and amputate

"and amputate", read the secret code I was supposed to type in to verify that I was not a robot trying to create mayhem on facebook before it allowed me to send the message. What comes to mind, as I ponder those two words randomly generated by a robot, is last wednesday evening, after my moped adventure #2, when I went to a local gym to play wheelchair basketball. Each week Stephanie's brother had mentioned it, encouraged us to come and try it. He is not physically handicapped, but he is looking to work in the field of social care for handicapped people (he is particularily passionate about his experience working with blind people). We arrived at nine pm, and there were four others out there on the court with these slick looking wheelchairs booting it up and downcourt, managing to dribble sometimes. I grabbed a ball and jumped into a conventional-looking wheelchair after watching for a few minutes. I later found a better, sporty one, and shot some hoops. It was hard, being so low to the ground and being unable to jump or at least hop while shooting. I developed a nasty blister on my right hand after an hour of playing.

I used to play, stopped in early high school. I was always a center. Now, with my height, I would be a point guard, maybe a small guard. Big learning curve that would be.

I played American football in my last year of high school (the 5th; the victory lap). I was defensive end, the second biggest position. My job was to move my 200 pound mass forward at the opposing defensive end and crash into him and try to survive and slide around him to get past him. I was strong: Our center, the biggest position, was probably 320 pounds and when we tried to push eachother past a line, heads to shoulders, we were at a deadlock. The guys I faced were big too, all at least as heavy as me, many taller and heavier. When I inquired about continuing to play football in university, I discovered that defensive ends are on average 250 pounds, many of them much heavier. I briefly contemplated gaining 50 pounds of muscle, realized what an undertaking that would be (my testosterone advisor jumped out of his chair at the fantasy of being as big as Arnold Schwarzenegger), and instead ended up studying philosophy.

Anyway, so moped adventure no. 2 was fantastic. I booted it up to 65 km per hour on the big little roads, map in my pocket, water bottle in my backpack, sporting some cool looking prescription lenses that actually made me look like Arnold (Arnold on a moped would be priceless). I ended up taking the bigger road into town, and got off at the wrong turn at the roundabout, but made my way to the center of Saintes. There, as I was checking the map again, just as I discovered where I was and where I had to go, a polite gentleman walking by asked me if I needed help. I said okay, and for the next eight minutes he blew his mind trying to understand the map, ending up being more lost than I was. Thanks. Before I could put the map back, an elderly gentleman driving stopped to help me. He spent 30 seconds looking at the map and told me to get onto the moped and follow his car. I did, and then he stopped and looked at the map for another 5 minutes, as if he was redrawing it in its entirety on the inside of his visual cortex, and then he told me to take a left. Two minutes later I arrived. I ate lunch with Christophe, Steph's brother, helped him move around some furniture while hardwood flooring was being installed, and he helped me call some renewable energy installation enterprises to volunteer with. I was very greatful. Stephanie was upset when she realized that I moped'ed into town without insurance, and so we heaved the bike into Christophe's trunk and he drove me back to St Georges des Coteaux. We did a bit of shopping, and the moped leaked essence in his trunk, he fed his fish and cleaned the sponge filter, and said goodbye.

I proceeded to make Fettuccine Alfredo. Fantastic(o). I also made chocolate cake. We had a guest that eve for wine, dine and vipassana meditation, a bloke we met at the retreat back in March. I showed him how to do Aikido shovelling in the backyard garden (Jonathan from Winnipeg who interned at Whole Circle for season 2009 didn't patent that skill or copywrite that name yet, but don't take advantage).

Cheers,
Maurizio

Moped Adventure #1

Today, I test out my moped and my memory and instincts on a little adventure. First I will go and
find a bakery beside the post office in Saint Georges des Coteaux, the
little village. Then a small supermarket in the little village we live
in, to find some fettuccine and bread. Then to the big town Saintes,
to find Stephanie's brother's apartment, where he will help me call
some enterprises for a volunteer opportunity. Then back home to clean
windows, dishes, and such. It is cloudy, and threatening to rain
today. If it doesn't, I will plant some onions or schallots.

Moped Adventure #1

Was Saturday morning. Grey, cold morning, lots of wind, probably ten
degrees. We drove to the dealership, MotoSport or something like that.
I chose a helmet, the mechanic showed me the mixture for the moped and
how to start the ignition, and off I went, around the tiny roundabout,
behind a warehouse, and back, for a little test. Easy to control. So
then We decided Stephanie will go in front of me in her car. Off we
went. I quickly realized the power of a 50 cc engine. Not much. After
45 km per hour, the engine started sounding like it was suffering,
like a huge humming bumblebee who is too good at finding pollen,
struggling with his tiny wings under his huge load.

Around a roundabout. Wow, it was my first roundabout! They are useful,
because if you don't know where to turn next, you can keep going in
circles until you make a decision. Onto the big road, and Stephanie is
pulling back hard on the reigns of her Renault, keeping it at around
60 km, probably staring at the rearview mirror more often than not. A
car comes behind me, and I can't go any faster! Sorry! I try to stay
to the right of the lane, but not too close to the edge, don't want to
wipe out (again...see this isn't really my first moped adventure...).

Onto the big road towards the little village. A few cars pile up
behind me, no honking or cursing, this isn't Roma. They wait a bit and
then overtake me. I push the moped, 55! We start to go uphill, 45. The
driver behind Stephanie doesn't get it: this little moped demands a
little convoy, and this stranger has just disrupted it! They soon
overtake Stephanie, as she pulls over to the side of the road to wait
for me. I catch up, and pass her, and then pull over.

She pulls back onto the road, and passes me, and I accelerate with the
mighty little roar of the 50cc! The same routine continues for a few
kilometers, and then we enter the village of Saint Georges des
Coteaux. narrow streets, a few turns, by this point my hands are damn
cold. She pulls over infront of the post office. I pull over behind
her. She steps out, tells me to turn off the engine.

Okay, I put the tiger to sleep. I engage the kickstand as she
approaches the front door of the little post office. It's closed. Oh
well. Now, for the first time in my life, I try to start a moped of
this kind. Hold the left lever, pull the right lever as I push on the
left pedal with my foot. Nothing, the moped moves forward as I push
the pedal, and it is hard to push! I try again, again, again, this
time pushing the right pedal. I start to get a little hot. Stephanie
comes over and tries, and she discovers how hard it is to push the
pedal.

She crosses the street looking for someone to come and help. I try not
to get embarrassed, and keep trying. She comes back and tries a few
times. Oh well, I can just walk it back, not too far to the house,
right? She agrees after five more minutes. Do you know where to go? At
this point I am tired, mentally foggy and congested, frustrated and
flushed. I think so. She tells me to go back, make a left into the
park, cross the park. I say okay, how about you drive home and then
start walking towards the park, and I will see you. She says it's real
easy, we have done it many times! Yes, but when I don't have to steer,
my mind goes absent too easily. Ok, I will find it.

She takes off, and I turn the moped around. It is pretty heavy, and
has a lot of resistance. I start pushing it, struggling with it. I hit
my ankle on the pedal. We go, 2km per hour. To the left, into the
park, onto the path riddled with huge water puddles, dodging the
puddles. I choose one path instead of the other. After ten meters, it
has a massive puddle. I go into the grass around it. Heavy, and slow
going. No more paths, I take it into the football field.

Cold, cold hands. Onto the driveway, through the parking lot, and I
see Stephanie. She arrives, and points to a road to the left. That was
the road I meant you should take. Oh well, I got a workout. She offers
to push the moped for me. She soon realizes how difficult it is. She
gives it a good try, and after 50 meters she hands it back to me,
flustered. I lean into it.

At this point, I am in a fragile emotional state. My mind is upset
like a cat who has been prodded too many times, restless, glaring,
tail flicking. I feel like a child. Should have started the moped
myself back at the dealership. Why is it so slow? What am I doing
here? I wouldn't have this state of helplessness back home. Why do I
take the hard route? I start to gain some real independence, and then
I run and look for a French teat to feed on, warm and cozy in a French
nest. It is hard to talk to Stephanie, hard to talk at all, without
erupting with emotion. I speak slowly and with great brevity.

We arrive at the house, I put it into the garage, and go into the
house. I am close to tears, but I hold it in. How scary it would be to
burst into tears infront of Stephanie over something small like this!
Hold it in. I know it's bad, but the habit takes over. Infront of a
movie screen, tears flow easier.

She senses I am not okay, and we start to talk. I say I feel like a
child, helpless, dependant. We start to prepare lunch.

We start to talk about what to study. She doesn't know what to study.
All of her friends are unhappy with their careers, hardly making above
minimum wage. I start to talk about tradeskills, and why they provide
secure jobs. They are necessary services, like Police and Hospital.
When the economy goes bad, priviledged jobs get threatened. What I
mean is that in the service sector, personal coaches and teachers and
secretaries and such, their jobs are not as necessary to the
functioning of society as tradeskills. Common folk, on average, don't
know how to build, repair or maintain their houses or the engines of
their vehicles. Tradeskills are necessary, like farming. Other jobs,
many of the more prestigious ones that require considerable years of
post-secondary education and refinement of the abstract mind, are far
more expendable. Look today, here, during the crisis, who is having a
hard time finding work? I talk for a while, at a constant pace,
imbalanced, a compensation for my lack of communication skills within
the previous half hour. The damn of frustration that built up in my
throat burst, and the waters of communicative energy burst forward and
outwards.

She laughs, imagining herself as a plumber. Laugh, but more and more
women are getting into tradeskills! She starts to think. By this time
I have regained a good level of energy and emotional positivity.

Later on in the day, we go to COOP, the local small supermarket. At
the butcher's counter, a man in line tells a little story on how he
saw a beautiful 30something year old woman who was doing a volunteer
period in Masonry. He was confused. The young, fat apprentice butcher
behind the counter, looking quite natural in his dirty white apron,
obviously a man who decided to go and work where the gold is, he said
that it's a pity, a woman like that doing a job like that. Personally,
I thought it would be a very sexy thing, something to drive certain
men crazy with lust, to see a beautiful woman in overalls, sweating
and dirty, heaving huge blocks of concrete around.

This little account of GI Jane was a telling one. It indicated to me
that the economic state of society, coupled with the steps made in the
direction of liberality concerning gender and other topics, was
breeding catalysts for people, catalysts that push them into thinking
outside of the box, breaking taboos and cultural baggage in the quest
of a good earning. I consider it exciting.

We returned to the house, Stephanie called her dad to ask how to start
the moped. I tried not to imagine him reacting surprised at my lack of
practical ability, and succeeded in sidestepping personal
embarassement. Make sure the kickstand is engaged, so the back wheel
doesn't move. Of course! We rush to the garage and take turns trying.
Finally, My left thigh painfully full of lactic acid, I get the moped
started. I rev the engine, and turn it off. I try to start it again.
Third time, it starts again. Yeah!

Cheers,
Maurizio

Banana Sushi

I made sushi for the family last night. With the help of Stephanie, it took 2.5 hours ! It was the first time I have made sushi from start to finish, but they don’t know that ! I winged it well. I was even bold enough to fry some bananais and roll up morcels of that ! People seemed to like it. It is a trick to get the right ratio of rice to nori, and rice to other toppings. It is fun.

Yesterday Jean Luc (Steph’s father) asked me if I had any regrets about leaving Whole Village. I told him I liked it there, but if I went back this year, I would still be an apprentice, which is fine, except that I need to make more money than I was making as an apprentice (I don’t want to scare you by dividing total earnings by total hours worked). Also, as I have written earlier, I consider it a very good idea to learn some practical skills concerning construction and maintenance of houses. It is a sector that has not been hurt by the crisis, and a sector which continues to be undermanned (and underwomaned for sure). It is a sector which will necessarily continue to be relevant into most possible future outcomes, as long as anything is relevant. I then told Jean Luc about Yohanne, the senior manager of Whole Circle Farm, where Abhi is co-managing this season, and his offer for me to co-manage the farm. This was surely a great opportunity, and I started to feel some regret as I told Stephanie’s father about that. I took a difficult path, trying to inject myself into a different culture, in a country already quite saturated in work and hurting from the crisis. He (Jean Luc) said to me that this is good, because if things don’t work out in France for me, I can return to Canada and explore this opportunity. I am not sure if the door will still be open, but similar doors may be.

The question is : is it worth it to start a new path, one that will also initially not include much earning of money, but provide a more reasonable opportunity to make a reasonable income, or to continue on the path already started, the one of farming, where there is much to learn and master, but one must be a good businessman to make a reasonable amount of money. It demands a variety of skills, phsyical, commercial, fiscal, management.

I feel like I have lost my practice. I have lost the determination to practice meditation regularly, and I feel like my qualities of energetism and balance of mind are coasting, like a truck which had its engine switched off at the top of a hill. I watch daily my mind, when not occupied or sleeping, get lost in escapism, imaginations and fantasies, and anxieties, multiplying them and repeating them. It is, in a way, painful to feel like I just don’t have it in me to maintain meditation practice like I did before. My life so far as an expat has been a great challenge. I am frequently occupying my mind with learning a new language, and perhaps this is what challenges my capability to be meditative at the same time. Any way, I will keep going. I am here in France now, just beginning to explore something, better give it a fair trial.

I am going to buy a used scooter. I can choose a scooter, or a ‘mobilet’, which is like an old scooter with pedals. The mobilets are apparently not being made anymore. To me they are superior because they are less computerized (and thus easier to repair) and have pedals, so one can pedal like pedalling a bicycle if it pleases one. Once I am mobile, I can get around on my own, and get a job which I can get to and from on my own. In the country, having your own vehicle is necessary, without frequent buses or other modes of public transportation.

Stephanie and I had dinner with her friend, a guy who forgive me for forgetting his name, is a. His parents own a oyster and shrimp farm near La Rochelle. They have dammed ‘fields’ which they flood to 5 feet and grow the crustaceans in there. When they are ready to ‘catch’, they pump the water out until it is less than a foot high, and terribly easily walk over  and scoop them up (perhaps with a net ?). The particular type of oysters they grow are highly valued and their farm is protected as a cultural asset. There was a big storm on the atlantic coast at the beginning of March, and it pushed lots of polluted water into their farm, and the oysters caught a disease.

I am planning to make a simply delicious pasta dinner tonight. Spaghetti, olive oil, basil, and parmesan. Imagine everything Italian was that simple ?

I asked Jean Luc his opinion of the EU. He thinks it’s good, but has problems. He believes one problem to be that the USA pays European lobbyists to slow down the progress of Europe, and to keep its interests aligned with that of the US of A. Also, England is very resistant to the financial reforms of the EU, as it aims towards homogenization. He believes it is because England has many off-shore banks, where certain checks and balances against corruption and for transparency are not practiced. England’ physical distance from continental Europe seems to have always caused a political and philosophical distance. If we take a look at philosophy, this is obvious, with continental philosophy, including such famous philosophers as Nietszche, Sartre, Heidegger, Hegel, Husserl, Deleuze, etc., and then the Anglo-American dominated pragmatism with Peirce and Jame and analytical philosophy with Russell. How influential is philosophy on corporation, globalism, power, and environmental policy in the 21st century?


Stephanie's father, manning the washing machine, asked me if Stephanie has any 'affaires' (to be washed in the machine), or if I do. Well I hope she doesn't! hehehe.
Cheers,

Maurizio

Hard Knock's Life

Went to the cinema Saturday night. Crowded with the young and stylish, everyone trying not to let on their self-conscious state of mind, putting their self-esteem and confidence to the test (I am reminded of that song from Dance Mix 95 « Saturday Night ») I went to see Legion : Army of the Angels.

The beginning reminded me of Terminator. An angel descends to the earth, naked. He immediately looks to blend in with us humans, and he is not at the nudist colony in Costa Rica, but L.A., so he breaks into your local department store. He goes about surgically removing his wings, and then stitching up the wounds on his back, and then dons some civilian clothing. The police outside witness him burst a hole through the brick wall in the shape of a cross and exit, and they roll out of their cars and pull out their nines. As they approach, the angel bursts into martial arts self defense and one of the policemen suddenly starts having a seizure. He is suddenly possessed, and knows exactly who the archangel Michael is before him. They fight a bit, and the possessed cop bites the dust.

A gas stop/diner in the Mojave desert, where a young pregnant couple struggle to make ends meet, the guy tries to fix cars and the girl serves at the guy’s dad’s joint. Some other folks are stranded at the diner, the computer in the BMW is sick. An old one-handed god-fearing black war veteran flips burgers. Some young fiery black guy pulls in. The TV doesn’t work anymore, and they discover that the radio doesn’t either. The mechanic notices a mass of clouds approaching from one direction, and another one from the other. An old grannywithwalker enters the diner, and orders a raw steak. Cute, quaint little old granny suddenly prophesizes that the baby in hte server’s womb is going to burn. What horror ! Are you crazy old lady ? That is unacceptable. Well what are you going to do about it, as flies start to come out of my mouth and my eyes turn black and I climb up the wall onto the ceiling like a huge ant rapidly towards you ? Oh god, the dad grabs hold of the shotgun and the gangster his pistol, and action scene…granny bites the dust, owner of the BMW loses the skin on his throat.

Archangel Michael arrives in the stolen cop car with various sub machine guns, machine guns and a rocket launcher and says we have to defend against the approaching horde. Are you crazy ?…Okay, we will. They block the doors and windozs and wait in fear. An ice cream truck arrives with a zombie driving. Why is there a zombie in the movie ? Where are the flying angels in plate mail ? The zombie hits the dust. Later on, more zombies come, lots. They emotionally manipulate the people one by one into leaving the diner and being ripped apart. Turns out the baby in the womb is the only hope for humanity (sound familiar ?), and the Terminator has descended from a place far, far away to defend it from God, who has decided must be exterminated by his legion of angels, and archangel Michael says « no » and amputates two of his limbs and grabs big guns and goes to the desert. The zombies get pumped full of lead (they are actually humans who are being mind-controlled by the angels to do their dirty work) and some personal dramas unfold in the diner and Archangel Gabriel breaks up with Michael and they have a fight…

The movie was no good. It was not original, it was a mix between The Terminator series, The Exorcist and a couple of zombie movies.

Maybe Plato was right, maybe there is nothing new in this world, only stuff yet to be recollected. Well, I recollect where I saw this movie before.

Hey, that was fun ! I saw a movie review on another blog, and enjoyed the sarcasm and synopsis, so thought I would try it out. I am planning to go to Belgium/ique in a few weeks to visit family in Anvers/Antwer/pen. Jean Luc Guimard, Stephanie’s father whose name reminds me of the captain in Star Trek, opened the shutters of the window behind me to see if the expected 100km/h winds have arrived. The Atlantic coast is already vulnerable after the last sea storm hit its banks, turned Ile d’ Oleron into three islands, and the coast is expecting another storm. I saw a documentary on Sunday eve about the magnetosphere of the Earth (its magnetic bubble sunblock), and how Mars got fried (or frozen ?) as a result of its magnetospheric collapse. The magnetosphere is generated by the liquid metal core of the planet and the planet’s rotation, and the unstable core could (and has) stopped generating it’s magnetic sphere, which is dangerous for all earthly life. It could also cause the polarity of the planet to flip, so north becomes south, and this would involve a period of a thousand years of no magnetic sphere. No magnetic sphere means all the radiation of that turbulent sun penetrates the atmosphere and perhaps desertifies the planet, causes an epidemic of skin cancer, and/or other crises. The sun goes through periods of maximum energetic output and minimum, and we are due for a maximum pretty soon (you would NEVER guess what year).

I discovered that, for breakfast, crepes coated with Tahini and pear jam are fantastic ! We are planning to make sushi soon, which is fun…

Cheers,
Maurizio

Saturday morning melancholy

 I noticed an interesting coincidence in my blog. I wrote earlier about having this absence of anxiety and this ability to keep my mind in the present. Later on, after the retreat, I came to realize that in fact I have been deceiving myself about this. I wrote early about not having fear of heights and having good focus and mind-body connection. Later on, while doing carpentry, my brain fudges and I fall through the roof onto concrete. Self-deception. Perhaps also a bit prophetic. On another note, I try to be honest on this blog, but I think I have crossed some lines and betrayed the privacy of my family life, and I feel shameful and apologetic for that.

I am continuing to collect French papers, and I am getting good at it too ! Almost every time I go to the administrative building now, I bring the right papers and now I can understand what the lady is saying ! Soon, I will no longer need a representative and translator. Volunteer carpentry work : done. I recovered enough by Monday to work the whole week. In total I worked on three houses, starting and finishing walls, insulation, starting roofs, and finally putting big sections of the roof up onto the walls. Hard work. Interesting work, a nice blend of body and mind, planning, organizing time and materials prudently, and focusing in the present (so you don’t fall onto the concrete below).

Antwerp next, to visit uncle and aunt, cousin and grandmother. I am planning to part in less than a week, for a little more than a week.

I started to eat sweet things again (chocolate), and a bit of caffeine. No big deal really, says my digestion. Just be moderate. Results of the blood test : low levels of cholesterol. I prayed to GODGLE.COM, and they told me that this is potentially as dangerous as the opposite extreme. It can be caused by hyperthyroidism and anxiety. Lightbulb materialises above my head and turns on with a BING ! noise. Mrs. Acupunctrice told me I have anxiety and an imbalance with my thyroid gland. My numbers are not significantly low, though. I have started to consciously eat a bit more fat than has been recently usual.

So I am supposed to be better now, according to the Acupuncturer, but yeah, I suppose I do feel better, not radically, and there are so many factors affecting my emotions, and this is the issue « hard » scientists have with the « soft » sciences : you can’t control all the variables, you can’ t conduct proper experiments. Anyway, I feel good enough, and that is good.I have stopped working now, and so my emotional state while I am inactive may tell a different story.

How are you guys ? I am not very good at multitasking, and keeping up to date frequently with my Canadian world while I am getting my feet wet in France is not easy for me. The blog is an easier way, but still, I apologize to some of you for not making more efforts to speak with you privately.

Sadness, anxiety, anger, lust. Are we not like different people when we are within the realms of these emotions ? And when we leave them, they go dormant, retaining all the developed symbolism and history. And when we return to them, we rediscover that history, those trends resume, and relate to the new catalytic event. I have once thought of them as cabinet ministers, and I am the president. Each minister offers advice on what direction to take, what to invest time and energy into, and they don’t all agree with eachother. A guru once said that to him, emotions are friends. Yeah, they make things interesting, don’t they ?

Cheers,
M

To turn the other cheek, and get it bruised and battered

Wow, another test of my motivation today. I started my volunteer stunt Monday and it is fantastic ! Carpentry is lots of fun and uses the logic side of my brain well. The house is right beside the river Charente and the neighbors keep sheep and hens and geese and have little vegetable gardens, and so the other half of my brain can be used well as well admiring the sights around me. We have been installing these plywood panels for the roof (the first layer, after is insulation, after vapor barrier, and then tiles), and boy they provide great exercise ! Each is the size of a dining room table top, and I must lift them out of the truck, then lift them above my head to the second level, where the foreman grabs them and hoists them up. Lots of opportunity for balancing acts as well as we tiptoe across the wood skeleton structure (called the charpente in French) of the roof. The weather has been sunny and around twenty degrees, and I have worked in my wife-beater (please, don’t be alarmed) and overalls. I have a sunburn on the back of my neck, in mid-March, at a latitude the same level as perhaps North Bay, or Timmins. Wonder how long that will last…

So I placed a plywood panel that hung out over one of the wooden support ribs and forgot to staple it to the frame. I went to grab another panel and tiptoe across the ribs and then, with the heat and the sustained effort of carrying this beefy panel, my brain farted and I stepped on the panel I had just laid. It broke under my weight like a trap door and I fell through 12 feet to the concrete floor beneath. I bashed my arm on something jutting out of the nearby wall and landed hard on my left butt cheek and my mid-back. The fall was quite fast seeming, and it felt kind of like those dreams where you just aren’t quick enough to catch something or escape something, and you feel this anxious disappointment. I saw the split-second opportunity to grab the ribs of this house and hang from them, but I was too slow. When I hit the floor, immediately my diaphragm constricted. Perhaps a second later, I found that I couldn’t breathe. I felt pain in my butt and my back, and I tried to inhale, but nothing moved. I pushed at my diaphragm, and instead of breathing I started emitting this continuous incoherent cry of pain (a cry which I hadn’t emitted since I broke my wrist playing soccer at 14), which surely alarmed and at the same time relieved the foreman who seemed to have teleported down from the roof frame to the floor beside me in an instant. I was quite calm and my mind was alert, I thought to myself that I should continue to observe my body sensations, and try to take long, controlled, calming breaths. When I saw that I couldn’t breathe, I decided calmly to make a muscular effort to breathe. After perhaps 15 seconds, I took a glorious breath, and then another and another.

« Oh putan, Maurizio, tu est okay ? Oh la la, oh la la, tu fa mal ? »

As I breathed slowly and deeply , I replied « ca va, je pense… » and then a sigh of relief. He put his coat under my head. He was already on the phone with a medic telling them « Il tombe de la charpente….peut etre 3 metres….Oui, il parle… ». I checked body sensations in my legs and my back. Ok, I am not paralyzed. I tried to move all parts of my body. Ok, my brain is sending signals and my corresponding muscles are responding without that sharp, lancing pain of broken bones. I started to laugh uncontrollably, but not too maniacically, in relief. I think he was confused as to how to react, and he uncontrollably emitted a laugh in response, but then asked me questions about my condition in a frightened tone. I really scared him, he said, and then, like a typical masculine man, started to investigate how I fell. Did you staple that panel before you stepped on it ? I was seeing stars, and my conscious, logical mind was not running at full speed, as I had taken a lot of sun that day, and was in a bit of a shock. Ummm….I think so, and then I clumsily tried to explain my hypothesis quickly constructed without luck. He offered me some water, and I took a gulp. I started to roll from side to side slowly, and then pull my legs towards my chest, and then roll onto a side and get up into a kneeling position. I felt very satisfied with my life, calm and greatful that I didn’t break a bone, paralyze myself, stop breathing, or die. I made a full-bodied hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm sound like some actor would after savouring a sip of NESCAFE on a Hawaiian beach with sunglasses and beach umbrella overhead. Life is good.

The medics came, I charismatically greeted them each « bonjour ! » and then the policemen came. They asked me the questions and told me not to get up and from then on I surrendered to the procedures of the social servants up until I removed my hospital patient gown and relieved myself in the washroom. I walked to the ambulance by my own efforts, and sat in constant back and butt pain in the stretcher. I got Xrays, nobody spoke English, but I am getting good at this French thing, you see ? The Xrays showed that my skeleton appeared to be in working order. The nurse gave me a minor painkiller, and I took it before my critical mind kicked in. Then it kicked in after, and I said to myself : don’t worry, it is water under the bridge, let ‘s see if I can detect the drug taking effect in my body. I was too fatigued to end that thought with an exclamation mark…

Stephanie’s father picked me up and took me home, and later on Stephanie Tiger Balmed my back, right tricep and left butt cheek and her parents provided me with the first homeopathic medicine I ever ingested in my life, followed by a dinner of Tart Alsacianne (a savory pie of thin crust topped with cream cheese, onion and bacon bits).

When you fall of the horse, you get back on the horse. I judge this age-old saying as one to be followed contextually. For example, when the 210 pound Armenian’s head pummeled my ribs just above my heart and drove me into the ground during a no-equipment tackle football game, I decided football was not a wise sport to engage in. So I didn’t get back on that horse. Carpentry is another thing. I will get right back on that horse, if I am ready, after 4 days of RnR and complete my volunteer thing.

Stephanie began her job at the vineyard today (she will be producing Cognac, Pineau, red and white wines, grape juice, and perhaps wildcrafted meals). It is in a beautiful hilly forested area near the border of Charente Maritime (where we are living) and Charente, the department which houses the town of Cognac. She likes it so far, and the farmer couple seem very amiable.

Cheers, (and this is how they spelled my name at the hospital,)

« Moricio Sebastien »

A slap in the face, prophecy of a dessert lite...

Hi ladies and gentlemen,

I apologize for the long absence.

The retreat was very difficult, meaning it was very good. My back was persistently sore, in one area for 35 hours, and then the pain moved to another area for another 35 hours. It was not directly related to sitting unsupported with a straight back for all these hours, it was other, less obvious reasons. The first 3 days the pain was centered between my shoulderblades, and it was undoubtedly related to the issue with my cerebellum, the membrane surrounding my brain and spinal cord. It has been on and off tight and sore for a few years, and I started to notice it when I started to practice Yoga. How did it happen ? It could have been related to the hit I took playing tackle football without gear from the 210 pound Armenian’s head which contacted my heart region and drove me straight into the ground. The osteopath did a bit of this and a bit of that and said perhaps all the problems in this body are caused by this imbalanced cerebellum, pointing to the C1 on my spine as a source of disalignment, along with the parts of my skull behind and below my ears. Apparently he realigned my body, and I assume all the pain during the practice was the hangover effect (or karma) of me overstretching this membrane with frequent intense neck and trapezius and spine stretches, coupled with serious back workouts on the farm. The pain then migrated to the right side of my middle back, and felt as if it was a rib problem, which was contacting my lung. This I don’t have a story for, but of course I can make up a story (I can do that). It is not the side which is directly behind the point of aggressive football impact, that place has had pain inbetween the shoulderblade and spine on and off since I started working physically hard. So what is it on the right side ? It is surely psychosomatic, and so it is exciting. I really tried hard to keep long stretches of nothought, and was quite successful, I don’t know how many 1 minute bursts of mind totally preoccupied with bodily sensations I pulled off. Nothing compared to the 5 second bursts, but still, an improvement overall.

It was Stephanie’s first sit, and she said she found it very valuable, and not as hard as she would have previously imagined. It was interesting to see eachother again after the ten days. First contact was very shy and timid. We managed quite easily not to touch eachother or communicate lust or attachment for the whole tenth day. As we drove home, I told her how nothing mattered, when considering possible futures, that seemed to matter before, such details as what sort of land and countryside and projects and travels. This was where my big suppressed thing was moving around inside, and I totally misinterpreted it.

The next day, bright and early, to the acupuncture/osteopath lady. I had been fatigued after hardly 12 hours a day, easily cold, mentally exhausted. Steph’s dad suggested there was a problem with my energy, and that I see this well-renowned doctor in the area. I lied down on her patient’s bed and she poked and prodded a bit. She proceeded to make me more transparent than perhaps I have ever been able to by my own efforts, and any other guru or meditation master has been able to.

« The winters here are particularily humid. Your energy is very contracted, hardly reaches beyond your skin. This is why you are so cold. »

«You’re problem is that you

«You’re problem is that you’re mind is disconnected from your body, and busily preoccupied with the future. You are afraid, and so you make too many plans in your head for possible future outcomes. » (I begin to think to myself how ironic this is, the doctor says that my main problem is the same problem that I have tackled day after day for years, believing that I was quite adept at managing this human problem. My self-image rears its ugly head as it is hit with a hammer.)

«You are exhausted and are having psychosomatic reactions to these flurries of the mind. People who have this anxiety problem usually cope with it in two ways, either they turn to some addiction like smoking, chocolate, alcohol, or they subvert it into a metabolic transformation. »

«You had a radical change in your energy body when you were around eight or nine. Then again when you were around seventeen. » (My mind races back to the hazy history of my preteen years. This is just a few years after my parents divorced and my mom brought my brother and I to Canada. Around seventeen is when I finished high school. Big changes, surely could cause anxiety.)

«You’re energy is working here (she points to a certain region of my body). Now it is working here (another region). You seem to have a problem with your throat gland (I forget the scientific name).

(All of a sudden, I put two and two together and realize the symptoms I experienced at eight and seventeen were metabolic. I started to become overweight around the former age, and then mysteriously lost fifty pounds around seventeen and entered the range of normal weight. It was surely a reaction to anxiety, which was a reaction to my parents’ divorce, and being so far away from my father year after year, seeing him only 1 month a year.)

«The events surrounding these energetic events and the possible causes are not important. It is what the body did energetically that is important. » (Sadhu, sadhu, sadhu.)

(ego having been hit with a hammer, make it a sledgehammer, with my high pain tolerance and brawniness. I began to want to cry, but tears didn’t flow. I thought about my practice, doubted it’s effectiveness, doubted my teacher’s wisdom. Was blown away at how deep and thorough this energy imbalance is. Moreso, how adept I became at supressing it, convincing myself and thus others that I had the present moment no worries thing down pact. I had a master’s degree in it. Master’s degrees mean nothing. However here in France, people haven’t caught onto the realization that academic feats are not correlated positively or correlated at all in most cases with real-world professional performance. I had a brief, weak, barely conscious thought : all this inner work I have done all these years, regardless of my significant self-delusions, has brought my deeply rooted imbalance up to the surface finally, and with the help of a doctor I recognized it, realized that I had been experiencing the weather anomalies it has been causing in my body, finally !)

«I have helped to effectively reprogram your head so that you will stay more in the present. (Ummm, what are you, Dr. Frankenstein ? !) For the next three weeks, you will continue to have fatigue, and the head chatter and fear will perhaps increase. After this period you will have a great shift in your energy. Is it possible to meet again in six weeks ? (hmmm, I am skeptical, Goenka and others said you have to liberate your mind yourself. Let’s see, and try not to turn this into a grand case of placebo effect, either. I am wary of the power of suggestion.)

(Actually, whether it is placebo or not, if this big change takes place, it doesn’t matter the cause. This is the pragmatic, Chinese view of things, and for me it is supreme.)

And, since then, the French paper grind has continued. I had a flash of insight now as I am writing this as to the cause of the mass deforestation of France. I am now officially able to work in France, I have health insurance officially, I am officially looking for a job in France, I have officially applied to the carpentry school (which is currently full, so I should seek other schools or other things to do in the meantime while I am on the waiting list).

Next steps : Driving school (yeah been there, done that, but the government will pay for almost all of it, and I haven’t driven these petit European streets before…), job hunt (as there is nothing else left to hunt in this land where nature has become, save for places of highest altitude and a few parks, totally humanized). Monday I begin my two weeks volunteering with a carpenter. We all agree it will be good for my anxious head, and I know it will be good for my body.

One aspect of my life that hasn’t been compromised by my psychosomatic, childhood traumatic miss my daddy, or the relentless, severely obese, readily accepted although grunted about here and there French bureaucracy is my sexual performance and my ability to help maintain a harmonious relationship largely liberated from traditional sexist roleplaying. The ability to observe sensations equanimously during pleasurable experiences gets a big WORK IN PROGRESS stamp.

My digestion and diet has improved. I used the ten day retreat to develop some serious self-discipline around diet. Two meals a day. Max three ladels full of oatmeal and two fruits per breakfast. Maximum 1 plate of food for lunch. After Day 1, absolutely no bread, dessert, sugar, fried food, dairy, or caffeine. The only sugar, actually, is that in fruits and that in honey, which I ingested liberally for my various symptoms of a common cold. Since returning on Sunday, I have kept a strong determination to not ingest caffeine or sugar, very little bread and cheese, and to not overeat. It is fantastic to walk away from every meal and still be able to comfortably eat more, and to be able to lie down without feeling crappy immediately after a meal.

I have discovered a few white hairs. It confirms that I, too, have been running towards death since I was born.

I know, the title of this blog is about sustainability in Europe, and before you judge this blog as falsely advertised, remember all those novels who have all that pre-climaxic detail that bores the readers of a lesser caliber of patience and persistence, reserving the real good meat and potatoes and blissful dessert for those readers who deserve to distract their minds from their lives, from their bodies. Un desserte sans cafféine, sans sucre…

Cheers,
Maurizio

Relay Racer, focus! Stay your course!

I feel the gradual settling down of my emotions from yesterday, as if I am lying down on the beach as a giant, slow motion wave envelops me. What am I doing here...Since when does a Canadian go to France to get into carpentry...It's backwards..."We here in France think there are more opportunities in Canada"...Who will hire an English speaker in Charente Maritime?...What does it mean for me if Steph takes the job of working at a vinyard making cognac and pineau and raising lamb, when the owner wants to hire someone long-term who will eventually become a business partner...The farm is less than 20km from her parent's house...I realise how painful it can be to have a family scattered all around the world, when I feel attached to them...My mom is brave living all by herself in Toronto, does she sleep well?...I jumped up and left everyone to France to Steph's parent's house...What is the best way to transfer CAD to EUR?...Do I feel comfortable staying at Steph's parent's house in March without earning any money?...It all fades away as I feel the morning's oatmeal breakfast in my body. Ah...yes...nothing is written in stone, and everything is temporary...I can change my circumstances...and I will if I should...I am here, now, on this little path, let's see what comes? Life is long, distances are far, if you pay close attention. No day is the same, no spot is the same, no emotion is invalid...Like a boatman in a rowboat, who can only see things behind him, I will only come to understand the larger context of events in retrospect...hmmmmmmm....calmness...let the others stress out...I will not let that into my body for very long...wipe the chalkboard before writing something new, and write only when necessary, using brevity diligently, don't let the board stay full any longer than it must...Surrender...Stop trying to do and just follow...The questions come only when the emotions are stimulated by stress...The memories the same...The longings for people and places past...When things are in harmony...present...there is just me writing on the laptop on my blog...breathing...burping...tasting the oatmeal (jeez, I digest slowly!)...feeling the stiffness and soreness in my neck...If I want to: "I have lived a worthwhile life, if it ends now, so be it"...but it goes on, how mysterious! How interesting! The heart beats whether I know it or not...The body works and goes on ever-present, whether my consciousness keeps up or tumbles around like a tumbleweed...I am riding this body which is really me... I am all of this...I am recycled material...I am the relay racer carrying this flaming torch to the next racer...I am honoured.

Cheers,
M

My message blog

Psychological testing en francais tomorrow to see if I get into carpentry school! If not I can still look for some professional carpenter to take me on as an apprentice. Meditation retreat on wednesday! I will be silent from Feb. 24 to March 7. It will help me adapt to this land and this culture, and give me some insight into the kinds of French inbalances (or Sankaras). If I get into the school, it turns out  that the school in Brittany will be the more logical choice than the one in Bayonne. It's still near the ocean, I haven't connected with the ocean much before (The Mediterranean yes, but when I was insensitive towards subtle energies). Brittany has Celtic roots, and so it would be the closest physically and culturally that I have ever been to my Welsh Celtic roots. Anyways, chi doesn't have a culture or ethnicity. I am curious about the type of rock along the rocky northern coast of Brittany (St. Malo, the town with the carpentry school, is right on the coast), and what residual energy has accumulated there. There seem to be many churches and monasteries in France built in spaces or on spaces of high and auspicious chi (by auspicious I mean one that can be interacted with by a human organism healthily, the opposite type of 'high energy' might be a power plant).

Europe is a land which has been grasped by human hands and tread over by human feet so intensively and for so long. Long gone are the times when prides of lions roamed Greece and the Balkan valleys. Long ago are the times when mastodon roamed the cold fringes to the north. Long ago were the all-encompassing forests cut down (except in Belarus, where apparently 40 percent of the land is covered in forest!). There is still much wilderness to be found, a lot more than I imagined!

As Western Europeans migrate more steadily to major cities, these obsolete, economically decaying parts of the land will perhaps be the grounds for ecosystem regrowth, with patient, helping human hands.

As a response to Dave for the last post: I think it is because it is an adult school, and they want to ensure that someone who has strayed from the normal (or 'catholic', as they call it here, where we would use the terms 'orthodox' or 'kosher') path, and also because they pay students to go to these schools, and they want to weed out those who would ruin their investments.

Another thought about Latin and non-Latin languages. In French, the subjects and objects are in the opposite order than in English. By the end of the sentence, the message communicated is more or less the same (depending on how significance the difference is between French and English in how each language can be used to express thoughts, if you remember my earlier post on how different languages applied to thoughts transform thoughts in different ways). But in mid-sentence, what does the Frenchman already know that the Englishman has yet to understand? Polar bear/oarse polaire. Un maison en bois/a wood house. Je voudrais un carte de banc/ I would like a bank card. If you started to speak this sentence in either language, and were interrupted mid-sentence right after you said 'carte' or in English 'bank', the French audience would have a different picture than the English. A bank what? A bank statement? or you would like to own a bank? What carte? Un carte de credit? A business card?

Interesting, no? How many messages have been misunderstood because the end wasn't received? Many, surely. French sentences seem to go from general to specific (bears, then the polar type. Cards, then the bank type) and English from specific to general (polars, the bear type. Banks, the card type). For where this rule holds true, it seems like the French language has an advantage, if the message is not fully received with a period at the end. I will have a better understanding of the context of your message if the last word I hear is 'bomb', rather than 'nuclear'. You could be talking about a nuclear atom, or plant.


Anyway, I will try to write again before retreating through my bodily orifices into my inner world (on wednesday).

Cheers,
Maurizio

Decroissance

So. On monday I will endure psychological testing as  prerequisite for applying to Carpentry school. My French is coming along. It is a challenge to discipline myself to speak in French with Stephanie instead of English, and to not rely on her for translations, and it hurts sometimes, but I am still here. Started to meditate every morning with Steph, and exercise (have you heard of burpees?): today we went for our first jog. According to studies done ten years ago, this region of Poitue-Charentes is home to some of the longest living Frenchpeople! We eat good fish and other seafood, and lots of great vegetable soups. To get an edge on my application to the school, I will volunteer for a carpenter who lives 25km away for two weeks in the last half of March. We will see how well the osteopath realigned my body (or how well I re-disalign it unconsciously). In France, bathrooms are split into two rooms--wait, I already wrote this, didn't I? Stephanie wants to continue schooling in a new 1 year program for advising people on how to transition to organic agriculture, and how to get licensed. She has a few schools to choose from, and so do I, however they are not in the same cities. If I go to Bayonne (Basque Country. In the south. On the Atlantic coast. Close to the Pyrenees mountains.), Stephanie will go to somewhere around Toulouse, a few hours away. This is unfortunate in one sense, yet it is also good to have some distance sometimes.  Next sunday we start Vipassana. Last week I started detoxificating foot baths. Very cool. Electric charges stimulate the excretion of toxins from my liver and other places through the soles of my feet. For my liver, I am also beginning to drink a mug of hot water before I eat breakfast.

What do you get when you gobble down sweets? (A snapshot of random music that entered my head from Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory)



Saw the movie Zorba the Greek last night. It was recommended to me over a Greek lunch with my Greek philosopher friend on the Danforth a few summers ago in response to my description of some eastern philosophical thinking I was exploring at the time. The movie was great. Zorba had some great, deep lines in that movie which resonated with me: The British author was asking Zorba if he fought the Turks for his country, and started to make assumptions of Zorba's lack of nationalistic fervor when Zorba flared up and said something like "What do you know about war? All that you know is in your head! From books! What about your arms, your legs, your heart? They are blind! Stupid!" And he went on to describe briefly the horrors he endured. I resonated with Zorba's love of dance. He told the Englishman that when his infant son died, while everyone else cried and mourned, Zorba started to dance, and everyone thought he had gone mad, but it was his catharsis, his way of coping with his pain. He broke into dance at the most spontaneous times. This is what I loved about Zorba: his spontaneousness. To strip and run into the sea. To make up stories to win a lady. To scare the devil out of some poor forest dwelling orthodox monks. To pick up a young prostitute and lounge with her for a few days at the luxurious expense of the Englishman. And then to write the Englishman telling him all the luxuries he was buying to facilitate his indulgence with this woman, saying how every day his mind is clearer and better able to think about the work he originally intended to figure out during that 'business' trip to the major town. Fantastic! Thank you Stefanos!

'Decroissance' translates literally as 'decay'. It is, in France, a movement of people back to simpler, naturalistic non-capitalistic lifestyles. If you look at the country of France, and draw a diagonal line from the SW extreme to the NW extreme, and you consider the land along this line, imagine the line was a few hundred kilometers thick, and you have a rough idea of the part of France considered in 'decroissance'. Lots of these regions were once on the up and up economically speaking, but are now experiencing economic decay, and emmigration. These are the regions where perhaps there can be a revitalization of permaculture principles, creating the conditions conducive for a regrowth of ecosystems. France is very centralized politically and economically. The region including Paris and its hinterlands is called 'Ile-de-France', literally 'Island of France', and some famous Frenchman once commented on the rest of France as savage or wild or something like that (compared to the Paris metropolis).

We went to a seasonal agricultural job fair today in a nearby town called Pons. Gave out a bunch of resumes to Tobacco farmers, apple farmers, viticulturalists, an asparagus farmer, and a mixed organic educational family farm especially for mentally handicapped people to visit. It is a nice idea to work in agriculture until I start carpentry. There is an organisation for volunteers to help on ecoconstruction projects in France, no experience required, might check that out (It is like wwoofing, with room and board in exchange for work, with the difference being it is with professionals and the work is focused, not just whatever the farmer is too lazy to do [dishes, shovel shit, dusting, washing floors, cooking]).

I am seriously considering running a duathlon in the end of March, a 6k run, then 25k bike, then 4k run.

Cheers,
Maurizio