Ascension

The Holy Ascension occurs exactly 40 days after Easter Sunday. It's the day that Jesus Christ ascends forever into heaven. On this sacred day, he's not the only one floatin'. I'm floating right here, in France.

Every week in May has a holiday in France. Today is the third in a row. First, we have Mayday on May 1st, followed by Victory Day 1945 on May 8th, and today is the Ascension. Next week we've got Pentecost. Just by having a glance at any French calendar, the first thing that strikes you is that there are lots and lots of public holidays here, especially in the Spring time. Basically, in a nutshell, we celebrate the end of every war and every Catholic event, however important or not it may be. This is actually quite ironic, because if you stop any Frenchman and ask him what the holiday refers to or why it's celebrated, he'll give you that big Gallic shrug, roll back his eyes, and let you know one way or another that he doesn't know, nor care, but if anyone ever ever considered removing one, he'd be the first in the street to protest. By the way, as a side note, most French people nowadays are atheists. Look in one of those huge Gothic cathedrals that only exist for American tourists and Art students.

A previous government tried to get rid of Pentecost a few years ago. The logical reason was that millions of dollars are lost in May because no one works, and the country kind of comes to a standstill. Four public holidays in a row are an exaggeration and cause havok. This is particularly true because of the French custom called the "Bridge". This means... well.... I've got the perfect example at hand. The Ascension Holiday is on Thursday. A number of people, if not the majority, take Friday off too, and decide to make it a long weekend. And if... say they saved up some personal days and the next holiday is the following Monday... well, that means a public holiday or two bridged together turns into a 10-day vacation. I know a "civil servant" who by juggling around 6 or 7 personal days, a few sick days, and cheating here and there -- who will ever know? -- managed to get out of the whole month. Mind you, this doesn't include the real 8-week holiday which is coming up in July and August, or the 2-week Easter holiday we just had last month. You get the point, huh? Anyway, that government directive, well, it didn't happen. It turned into an option, then a theoretic possible for practicing Catholics, then everybody and finally became the so-called "Day of Solidarity" where you can work, if you really want, out of a personal desire to make money for the country so it can fund generous social programs. Now that's gone too! And by the way, that goverment fell!

For me, these public Catholic holidays are both a terrific Godsend and a cross to bear, and add quite a bit to my floating in France. Today, for instance, everything is closed except for a few restaurants and some North African kebab shops. The sky has turned grey again, this time apparently from Icelandic volcano ash, and it rains from time to time. So, here I am at home, in my own little world. It's great cause I can do any old thing I want... bad, cause I need structure... and money. But, I've listened to radio, watched tv, surfed internet. What did we do without it? I can listen to NPR, then France Info, Radio Catalunya.... read virtually any online newspaper, and as of yet, I love those internet word reference forums/fora (what is the plural?). I learn so much. Anyday can be a full language class in 5 languages. What could I have become if they had had this when I was 13 and had no exposure to foreign languages. Zilch. One activity rolls into another, one hour into the next, morning into evening. I feel so dizzy from spending so much time cooped up with myself, thinking....



Just before my offical blog writing time, I finished reading the novel, "La Mort Heureuse" (The Happy Death) by the awesome writer Albert Camus. It deals with the crazy life of Patrice, in French Algeria, in the 1950's. In this novel, no one works, they set around drinking pastisse, listening to bands play old French tunes, take excursions in cars, drive 500 miles per hour on small coastal roads, have love affaires, take sun baths on the beach, and above all, complain about the torture of life, the sheer boredom that weighs down their soul, the terrible existentionalism that occurs naturally when one has too much time to do nothing. I guess not much has changed today... Some love Camus for his ability to explain his reality in such beautiful eloquent French. It's true... I read it out loud... Others complain because his Algeria shows no Algerians at all. Yes, living in a bubble is so typically French. Oh la la!

Rontay

Petit Papa Noël

Ok, I admit it I've had a hard time getting into the Christmas spirit this year: Parents old and sick in a nursing home, no prospect for change in 2011, disputes with family and friends, a general malaise and ambivalence everywhere. On the best of days I feel helpless. However, I've always loved the holiday system and I can't help be inspired. Luckily, my oldest sister Sugie embodies the qualities of carpe diem (I would be wise to adopt that attitude too), so here we go off on our hommage to the present. We have baked cookies and cakes, made cheese balls, decorated trees, gone shopping and wrapped presents. We're getting a turkey... My brother-in-law is practicing his guitar for his role in a musical play. I know, I'll soon be chanting, ho, ho, ho! myself. My carefree childish nature never really disappeared, so I'm going to try to play Scarlet O'Hara. "I'll think about all those other things another day!" That movie had a happy ending anyway, didn't it? Honestly I don't remember.
So here goes my contribution to the Christmas fair.

Petit Papa Noël. Catchy little tune that symbolizes the French embrassing and making their own some Gallic version of a Norman Rockwell Christmas. Here it goes. Check out the Roch Voisine, Québecoise version of the carol. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7CeGgCiFTHA@feuature=related

Refrain
Petit papa Noël
Quand tu descendras du ciel
Avec des jouets par milliers
N'oublie pas mon petit soulier.
Mais avant de partir
Il faudra bien te couvrir
Dehors tu vas avoir si froid
C'est un peu à cause de moi.


Ho Ho Ho
Rontay Merquiades

Caganers and Cagatíos for Christmas!

Looking for a new eclectic Christmas tradition. Try celebrating the holiday the Catalan way by getting a caganer and a cagatío (sh*tter and uncle sh*t). So what is this scatalogical tradition about, you say puzzled? Well, the Catalans place the first figure in their nativity scene and the second one under their tree.



The caganer is an important part of their crèche scene. He is placed in the corner all the way to the left or to the right and far behind the main action featuring the madonna and child and three magi kings, so as to be as discreet as possible. The figure (el caganer) has his pants down, is depicted bent over and defecating. The action is seen clearly. Apparently this addition to the nativity came about originally in the Catalan farming community. You had to have one to ensure a profitable crop the following year. Later on, the caganer spread throughout Catalunya. In families, move it's precise location daily and children have fun trying to find the spot where he is hiding. Nowadays the caganer is actually famous people, including Queen Elizabeth II or Barack Obama in recent years.

The Caga Tío is more recent and a family ritual in Catalunya. It is the form of a log and goes under the Christmas tree. On Christmas, the children crowd around the Uncle/Log who proceeds to sh*t sweets, chocolates, candies and many other little gifts for their delight. Sometimes kids also hit it with a stick piñata style to get it to defecate quicker. This tradition is a must for all Catalan families. Perhaps you might want to consider adopting it?

La Nuit de St. Jean

Here are some photos from La Nuit de St. Jean/ La fête de la musique. On this night I don't sleep. I live in the heart of downtown. The drinks, the music, the laughter, the dancing goes all night long. Might as well partake in the folly. I won't be able to sleep anyway. Here are some photos.
On this night everyone is a musician. I think the mixture of all the different types of music coming from every corner on every street can be heard on the moon. Rontay

Rat in a cage...

Rat in a cage


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E96PQuIl_cQ
Bullet With Butterfly Wings by The Smashing Pumpkins



Here I am in my hometown: Harrison, Ohio population 8,917. Can't miss it. Drive southwest on I-74 about half an hour from Cincinnati and you'll get there... not far from where Ohio, Indiana and Kentucky meet. In fact, it's suburb, "West Harrison" is actually in Indiana. So, it's "great" to be home. It brings stability and continuity. Nothing has changed here in at least 20 years: well, almost nothing. The Kroger supermarket has expanded and is now a superstore... but Otherwise, the same old bowling alley, putt putt golf, Dairy Queen, McDonald's, Downtown historical area, view of the treacherous Great Miami river, the daily record newspaper and last but not least, our award winning high school.. Go wildcats! The green and the white will win over all! Oh, this is the place where the past meets the present; the place where you can raise your kids knowing they'll pick up the right All-American values.


Harrison was named for its most illustrious son, William Henry Harrison, our president of the United States of America. One of the area's tourist attractions is still visiting his tomb. You can climb all the way to the top of his grave, now in superb disrepair, and see clearly the beautiful northbend of the Ohio River where Kentucky juts up into Ohio. Poor William Henry suffered a terrible fate. Just 32 days after taking office he died of a real bad chest cold. Rumor has it he didn't dress warm enough for his Inauguration and didn't carry an umbrella despite the pouring rain. That sealed his fate, and Harrison's 32 days of fame. Yes, take that Andy Warhol, in our neck of the woods it's 32 days, not 15 minutes. Alas, Harrison has never been the same.

W.H. Harrison 1773-1841

Harrison is also unique in its great mixture of people. You've got English, Irish, German, a few Poles and a couple of Italians and maybe even a Greek too. That's about it. It's also hard to find anyone who isn't Catholic. We got a nice church, St. John the Baptist, that has a chicken dinner/gambling festival every August. The Irish brought in lots of little whiskey joints like the Mecca Cafe and the Dew Drop Inn. You can really have a good time there on Saturdy night. FYI: In our town, cafes don't serve coffee, and Inns have no beds. The Germans brought that hankering for brats, wieners, hotdogs and hamburgers all over town. The Poles, the pickles and pumpkins, and Beppo, our Italian, has an absolutely wonderful little pizzeria outside town, making a wicked extra pepperoni, extra cheese pizza. Dio christi!

As I go about town I see the same faces from those legendary dynasties of families that have always lived in town: the Stengals, the Rogers, the Dennisons, the Pruits, their offspring and their offspring's offspring. Now I understand the concept of reproduction. Literally, you reproduce yourself in all of your glory. The captain of the football team and homecoming queen's children, well you know what they are? Now they have become park ranger and PTA mom like their parents were. The bad boys who smoked dope under the bleachers beget other bad boys who knock up the daughters of the girls who were teen parents twenty years ago. I guess we could loosely divide the people into two groups: 1) the white trash, those that rhyme well with whale, pack with park, are more fans of Johnny Walker than Jesus, and do real bad things sometimes; 2) the good folks who send their children to Sunday school, have day jobs with titles, make meatloaf casserole, say Oh my gawd and who'd have thunk it all the time, and turn up their noses at the people they consider white trash... but in reality, we've all got the white so we all got the trash. A visit to that super Kroger's reveals wonders, "honey, say thank you to that nice lady". "I'm a gonna whop you but yin li'l bastard" "mommy I'm hungry" "Debra, did you hear about what happened down by the river last night" "Hey, Paul, how's it goin' bud?" My head starts spinning right round right round and I feel the urge to upchuck. Is it the discomfort of being different, of not being different, of certain uncertainty, of uncertain certainty, of returning back to point 0, the bittersweet passage of time. "Mr. T, well, I do declare, they say you went far away, they's right when they said you was most likely to get the hell out of here, you back?, gotta wife, some kids? How your parents doin'?"

Well, that's the only change. My mother shakes and spins, sleeps without wanting to wake up, cries, and spits... I guess that happens after 80 years of monotony, running around silly like a rat in a cage, having too much meatloaf, fitting in that diverse mixture of people. She comes to. Tell me what's going on in town? Well, mom. They opened the new Kroger's. Who's _____ the manager? _______ I think. Well, that boy will make something out of himself yet. I remember when he was just pushing around buggies. Yes, I'm sorry. I'm sorry too, mom.

Dad comes in. You. I wanna go home. I know you do. I want my car. I know you do. I wanna drive with your mom down to the river. I know you do. I want my money. I know you do. I wanna get out of here. I know you do. I don't deserve to end up like this. I know you don't. I'm sorry, dad. I'm angry, going from one room to the other and looking at those four walls.

Rontay

Easter Sunday 2010

Well, here I go again. Another doomy blog. Honestly when I set this up, I thought I would be posting lots of cool things but it turns out that I'm using my space here to vent out my frustrations and organize my thoughts. Easter Sunday is only good I guess if you're a child, have children, are part of some big family, or perhaps are the really religious type. I do have fond childhood memories of the Easter bunny, chocolate eggs, Easter egg hunts and all that stuff. We all used to get dressed up in new clothes, usually white, my mom always said it was the time of year you put away your winter wardrobe and got out your summer one, and if necessary go on shopping sprees to get new outfits and show them all off.... to people at church.... to people around town... to cousins and aunts.... why was this custom so important? And after mass, and egg hunts and easter bunnies, there was always some big feast with a smorgasboard (no idea how to spell that omg) but I do remember there was always ham and deviled eggs, with cranberry juice served in itsy bitsy glasses. Later we'd make the day of it, go to a horse race I think, take a promenade along the river or walk through some nicely mowed park to check out the flowers that were about to bloom. Yeah, Easter! Traditions? Why am I getting so nostalgic? I honestly didn't even think about all that stuff till right now.
It's just because I guess, whatever, if you're alone, and living in France it really sucks! It is still cold, still rainy, there is nothing to do, everything is shut, everyone has disappeared lord knows where, no sign of any resurrection here. Sigh!
The real coup de grace for my morale was the phone call to my parents at the nursing home. I'm not the only one sad and alone, but at least they don't even remember that everything that characterized their life for so many years and was so important for them, is gone.... Today my mom was brain dead. I really tried to have a conversation with her. I ended up sounding like the cop interrogating a suspect that just would not answer. So what this and what that and when and where and how and why? All I could get from her was a uh-huh, yes honey, and a few I don't knows. It's terrible to get like that. As for my dad, well, he was talkative today. But I've got to follow him into wonderland. Nothing he says is even remotely connected to reality. But I got a half hour out of him, going from navy stories, to WWII, to car accidents in the 1960's that might (not) have really happened, to conversations with nurses and guests and doctors that might (not) be real, to family gossip, and future plans, and his vision of reality.... all of which is completely bogus, I think. Talking to him confuses me so much, but I happily followed him into his world. Nobody else will. I owe him that.
So, all of this musing brings me back to the point/doubt/idea that has been in my mind unanswered for several months now. Could I possibly return home, take them out of that nursing home, move in with them in their old house, take care of them (with all that entails and implies... getting them up and dressed, maybe bathing them, certainly given them shots, medicine, cooking, cleaning etc. etc.) indefinitely? Sigh. sigh. It would please them, it would please others, maybe it would please me too?, it wouldn't please my sister(s) but f*** them. Just maybe it would have good results, just maybe it would be a success story, maybe a bit of love and care from me would do wonders. It would at least save them from losing all their estate from greedy health care workers... Just maybe, this is the right decision to take and the right thing to do.... But just maybe also, I would fail... I'm not a nurse by any exaggeration of the term. Giving shots of insulin? Well, terrifying as it might be I could do it. Restraining them if they want to leave, how aweful. Just maybe 24/7 looked in a house with them would kill me before them. So I here we are again with my yes, no, maybes. Wouldn't it be nice? Literally or sarcastic?
Easter Sunday in Metz, France 2010. Great
Rontay