HELPLESSNESS

As you may have surmised from my absence, life has taken a turn for the worst. Since my last correspondence, I have come up with numerous reasons for why the word “crazy” may most adequately describe my character: I decided to go to a foreign country alone, without any help or liaison whatsoever, to study at the graduate level in a language I am embarrassingly incompetent in. Now here I am, alone in a provincial town in the heart of France, with absolutely no recourse, no support system and worst of all, no one to molly-coddle me. What it all boils down to is an inability to communicate. While I could very well force English down everyone else’s throat, I am far too sensitive to do so. I am in a foreign country; it is thus my responsibility to adapt. Besides, were I to continuously revert back to the crutch English provides, I would be surrendering one of the goals I had set out for myself, and that is to acquire fluency in the language of romance, of Derrida and of Sartre. It is unbearably isolating for the moment, but should I persevere, my life will be all the better for it, I am certain.

When I think about my current life in the abstract sense, I really have nothing to be despondent about. Here I am in France -- the country that, culturally and aesthetically, fits my mold most perfectly. Unconsciously since birth, I have been conditioned into thinking of that which is French to be that which is superior. Was it Alexis who described me as having a bit of a “French” essence to my person? [For the record, I don’t believe in nationality as an adequate descriptor, but considering France’s illustrious history with fabricated nationalism I think it’s only fitting.] After the United States, for instance, France is the only other country in which I can somewhat catch pop-cultural references within. At the bistro where I had lunch this afternoon, I managed to identify three songs in succession (something by Variety Lab, Paris Combo and another one that I can’t recall]. Speaking of which, I am always the youngest person at restaurants, usually by a 30 year margin. Perhaps I am one of the few students in this city with an appreciation for the ritual of eating out? My father calls it an incorrigible inability to save.

I never really put much thought into this notion of “retail therapy” until now. Commerce has really become a bit of a solace for me within this doom and gloom. Through the use of my plastic, I gain a fleeting connection to a familiar self. Walking past a storefront, letting my eyes linger on an object of interest, browsing, contemplating, the dance with the sales associate, the final decision, the swipe of the card, the indication to sign on the dotted line, carrying the deliberately wrapped package for the first time, stepping out with a new weight in hand -- these are actions that can be recreated in almost any transaction-based society on earth. Hence, in response to my parental unit’s biting accusation that I am nothing but a reckless spendthrift, I can only say that through the patronage of commercial services (taking taxis despite the existence of a tram, eating out at restaurants instead of cooking at home, and so on) I am reminded of my ability to exert control. After all, my pen is my sword. What am I without a means of communication? Helpless, or at least, that’s what it feels like.