Childhood Struggles Revealed in Art
Yesterday, I began this great adventure. It started with waking up at 4:20 in the morning. It is appropriate, but merely coincidental. I had to be over at Cassidy’s room by 4:45, it takes me 15 minutes to get ready, and ten minutes to pack the last few items before I left. On the way to the train station, my mother called me, because at home it was 10:00 p.m. the day before. She wished me a good journey and talked with me about the possibility of my transferring to another city for my next semester.
On the train, I slept for maybe 30 minutes, but sleeping in moving vehicles has always been difficult for me. So, I woke up and slipped on Cassidy’s iPod. The last time I went to Paris by train, I went a different direction (from Lyon, not from Clermont). I’ve found a new affinity for the album “Hail to the Thief,” so letting ‘There, There” whisper into my ear as the French countryside slipped past my view was somehow spiritual. I’ve found my recent life to be somewhat surreal. I’ve read about these places, I’ve seen them on TV, but somehow my mind registered these places in the same part of my brain that stores Coruscant and Middle Earth. They aren’t real. Then I find myself on a train, staring at the 3 dimensional qualities, and I’m blown away.
When I finally look down from the view, I pick up my book to read. Right now I am reading “Istanbul: Memories of a City” by Orhan Pamuk, the recent Nobel Literature Prize recipient. I picked it up off the suggestion of my Turkish friend, Sinan, that I should read a book by this author. Sinan later said this is not his best book, but I’m enjoying how other events in my life are reflecting the style Pamuk takes. “Istanbul” is a story both of Pamuk’s personal life and the life of Istanbul. He talks about events that define himself, and the next chapter talks about artists or writer’s struggle to express the mood and culture of Istanbul. So, I feel both empathetic and estranged from the story. His story of his life is this sort of sorting out how the way of living around him formed the way he lives.
If you read one of my previous posts, I’ve talked about how I am struggling to see how much of the way I live was formed by the place I was raised. The emotions, both joyous and tragic, of American life undoubtedly define the way I live now. He talks about painting in his youth, and I identify with him so closely, but, for me, it is writing and photography. As an artist, I’m talented at neither, or at least not unique. I find both pleasure in the sense of accomplishment I feel when finishing a post or taking a beautiful picture. However, when I go back and examine them, I find all the mistakes, criticize them, and judge myself unworthy of any praise. And yet, I continue to do it, because I enjoy the praise I receive from others, particularly my parents, when I finish a piece.
On the other end, Pamuk talks about the small details of recent Turkish history and I’m a little lost. World History does not cover these details, so when he talks about the city in great detail, again my mind sorts it back into fictional lands. He could tell me that there are Hobbits or land speeders, and it would be no great surprise. Despite my ignorance, I have begun to identify with it. As he has mixed his emotional responses from his youth with this emotion identity of the city, I feel that if I am empathetic with his life, I too can be empathetic with Istanbul. I can be a part of that life that melancholy.
Tearing my mind away from my book, I’m forced back into the physical world that surrounds me. I have this very urgent recognition that I have specific destinations. I have always been good with directions, but Europe is so different from the U.S. Streets are not structured the same, train systems are completely different, and a mistake can be extremely costly. Take the wrong train, and not only do you have to buy another train ticket, you have to change your plan, possibly causing you to have to stay in another night in another place. Suddenly, a trip that is supposed to be 100 euros is twice as much as you anticipated.
Yesterday, I had to catch a train to Paris, take the Metro to a different train station, find the train to Beauvais, find the bus from the train station to Beauvais airport, get onboard the right plane to Stockholm, find the bus from Stavska to Central Station in Stockholm, find the underground station near our hostel, and finally locate our hostel. The terror of getting lost consumes me every time I have to travel. On this trip, I haven’t failed once. When I get to my destination without getting lost, I have a moment of pure pride, the same as that first moment I finish a blog or see a picture that I have taken that is beautifully composed. Just for that moment, I am completely satisfied with myself. I should just create destinations to travel just so I can prove I can make it.
Our hostel was a boat. Well, the boat had been founded on the river-floor, but it was still a boat. We walked into our tiny little room with its little porthole window, and I thought, “Well, I doubt I’ll ever find anything like this in Oklahoma.” But there was no more time for thinking, because I had a taxi to catch for Berns. It was time for Sufjan Stevens.
Cassidy, Rachel, and I arrive at our destination to discovered we are extraordinarily underdressed. This high class restaurant/bar was a marvel to the eyes. It was multiple levels, with many different rooms for different ways of enjoying the rococo interior design. The main event hall where the concert was held seemed like an old ballroom that might be described in a book from the 17th Century. At first I was embarrassed of my apparel, but shortly realized that I am an American. This band is from my country, so if I am not maintaining the high class European style that surrounded me, I could say, “well, in the U.S., this I how we go to concerts: Jeans and a T-Shirt.” In Sweden, everyone speaks English like it is their first language. So, I waltz up to the bar and order a Czech beer with my thickest Oklahoma accent, and get a smile from the cute bar tender That’s right, sir, I’m an American and friggin’ proud of it.
After my beer and a class of South African white wine, I stand close to the front and wait impatiently for the appearance of the hero of this adventure. I may be the heroine, but I admire Sufjan Stevens intensely. His style of music is truly unique and his concept of one CD for each state is truly inspired. I was curious to hear him pronounce his name. It’s like this: “soup” with “f” at the end instead of “p”, and then “yawn.” The opening act was an artist called “St. Vincent” from Texas. She is very talented, and I enjoyed the sort of jazzy, bluesy sounding rock act she preformed. It was wonderful.
Then it began: Every performer decked in what looked like a boy scout uniform, a set of wings (maybe butterfly, or eagle, or fairy) and feathered masks. Cassidy said she was specifically stunned by the dark stage lit only by blue lights behind silver tinsel, and yellow lights floating spinning around the room as if in a snow globe. As if they knew my hearts deepest desire, they started with “Sister” from the “Seven Swans” album. I’ve actually posted the lyrics from this album in another post from my msblackandwhite blog, but I’ll put them again, because I love them:
What the water wants is hurricanes
And sailboats to ride on it’s back
What the water wants is sunkiss
And land to run into and back.
He plays many tracks from both “Seven Swans” and “Illinoise,” as well as some Christmas music. He also played a new song. For those of you who are familiar with his work, yes, I can tell you, it’s just as good as you would expect it to be. I allow the mood of the music to sink into my soul. The triumph of the brass instruments blazing, the soft pleading of his voice, the beautiful harmony of the female back-up, the tragedy and joy juxtaposed for one glorious end: beauty.
As I am writing this, I have realized that I love Stevens for the same reason I like the book I am reading. Pamuk is writing to sort out the mystery of where he comes from, both the fiction and the reality, as well as the study of his growing up. Stevens does the same thing, but with music. I feel even closer with Stevens, however, because he is an American. I know Superman. I know John Wayne Gacy. He told a story about going to summer camp and fighting with his siblings. I felt this strong memory of a time I chased my brother with a paddle. His back up vocalist, who is the girl from St. Vincent, told a story about how a boy from Sweden tried to convince her that Swedes traditionally greeted each other by blowing into each other’s ear and giving it a little lick. She had been so determined to be a good ambassador for America, and instead found herself being taken advantage of. She had no choice but to make light of the situation, and now she finds the story amusing. These struggles, the struggles he communicates in his music, these are the struggles of Americans. These are my struggles.
I love how Cassidy wanted me to try to perfectly reflect what we saw and felt when the concert started. She has always been a fan of Peter Pan. The atmosphere, for me at least, reminded me of the scene “Finding Neverland” where they recreate Neverland. I have some feeling that her appreciation for the concert setting might have something to with how they had created this, as she described it, “land of fairies.” The whole time we’ve been hear, she is constantly talking to people about how the story of Peter Pan helps her to remember to always maintain her inner child. Whether from Stevens, Pamuk or Cassidy, I am comforted to know that everyone is thinking about the mythos around them, the culture they live in, their childhood, and who they are now, and trying to make some sense of it; they are trying to define their own values, just as I am.
He finished the concert with “Chicago,” which simultaneously made me happy disappointed. I was excited to hear, “Chicago,” but I love ”Casimir Pulaski Day” and he had not played it. However, he played every one of my other favorite songs, so I was satisfied. Then, again, as if reading my feelings, he comes out to play one more song for an encore. He played the one song that I wanted him to play. The concert was everything I wanted and more. He definitely just knocked off “Wilco” and “The Decemberists” as my favorite artist in concert.
As we headed back to the hostel, I had another chance to test my abilities with directions. We had forgotten to grab the name and the address of our hostel before leaving. Without any way of communicating where we wanted to go to a taxi driver, we had to walk back to our hostel. I was right on the mark. We spent some time walking on the side of the freeway, but we got home, so another victory for my ego. Our little boat room is well heated, so we crawled into bed after being awake for 22 hours, and fall into sweet sleep.
This morning, Cassidy and I awake and head out for the Old City section of Sweden. Stockholm is a beautiful city. (Rachel is not coming with us to the Cannabis Cup, so she caught a different plane back to Paris.) I loved it there. We had to stop several times to ask for directions, and more than once, the venders would leave their stores to show us how to get to our destination. This place is the epitome of Christmas spirit, every store filled with advent calendars, father Christmas, stars and angels. We even had a tradition Swedish Christmas dinner for lunch. (Appetizer: Salad with bread. Main Entrée: Meatballs, sausage on top a beet salad, ham, raw fish covered with some kind of sauce, and one boiled potato. For dessert: Thin slices of pineapple drizzled with some kind of sweet red sauce. Finally, a cup of coffee or tea.) We sat in a little café at the Central Station and watched 17 Santa Clauses marching down the main corridor like a little North Pole parade. I would’ve taken a picture if Cassidy’s camera were not in the process of downloading the images from the concert onto my computer.
Finally, I had thought about buying a pair of boats in Europe, but I’ve been hesitant to purchase them because they tend to be expensive. But I thought it would be worth a look. So, I stopped into one store and tried on a pair of boots. They were very inexpensive, and beautiful. They are Italian leather in a beautiful tone of Chocolate brown, and I was surprised by how inexpensive they were. They had just opened the shop, so things were more reasonably priced as well as the fact that the store had their own factory, so they could keep prices lower. Cassidy started envying my pair, and the saleswoman offered to give us an additional 10% off if we both bought a pair. Are you serious? Hell yes!
So, now I’m on a bus back to Skavsta in my new boots. Next destination: Brussels.
On the train, I slept for maybe 30 minutes, but sleeping in moving vehicles has always been difficult for me. So, I woke up and slipped on Cassidy’s iPod. The last time I went to Paris by train, I went a different direction (from Lyon, not from Clermont). I’ve found a new affinity for the album “Hail to the Thief,” so letting ‘There, There” whisper into my ear as the French countryside slipped past my view was somehow spiritual. I’ve found my recent life to be somewhat surreal. I’ve read about these places, I’ve seen them on TV, but somehow my mind registered these places in the same part of my brain that stores Coruscant and Middle Earth. They aren’t real. Then I find myself on a train, staring at the 3 dimensional qualities, and I’m blown away.
When I finally look down from the view, I pick up my book to read. Right now I am reading “Istanbul: Memories of a City” by Orhan Pamuk, the recent Nobel Literature Prize recipient. I picked it up off the suggestion of my Turkish friend, Sinan, that I should read a book by this author. Sinan later said this is not his best book, but I’m enjoying how other events in my life are reflecting the style Pamuk takes. “Istanbul” is a story both of Pamuk’s personal life and the life of Istanbul. He talks about events that define himself, and the next chapter talks about artists or writer’s struggle to express the mood and culture of Istanbul. So, I feel both empathetic and estranged from the story. His story of his life is this sort of sorting out how the way of living around him formed the way he lives.
If you read one of my previous posts, I’ve talked about how I am struggling to see how much of the way I live was formed by the place I was raised. The emotions, both joyous and tragic, of American life undoubtedly define the way I live now. He talks about painting in his youth, and I identify with him so closely, but, for me, it is writing and photography. As an artist, I’m talented at neither, or at least not unique. I find both pleasure in the sense of accomplishment I feel when finishing a post or taking a beautiful picture. However, when I go back and examine them, I find all the mistakes, criticize them, and judge myself unworthy of any praise. And yet, I continue to do it, because I enjoy the praise I receive from others, particularly my parents, when I finish a piece.
On the other end, Pamuk talks about the small details of recent Turkish history and I’m a little lost. World History does not cover these details, so when he talks about the city in great detail, again my mind sorts it back into fictional lands. He could tell me that there are Hobbits or land speeders, and it would be no great surprise. Despite my ignorance, I have begun to identify with it. As he has mixed his emotional responses from his youth with this emotion identity of the city, I feel that if I am empathetic with his life, I too can be empathetic with Istanbul. I can be a part of that life that melancholy.
Tearing my mind away from my book, I’m forced back into the physical world that surrounds me. I have this very urgent recognition that I have specific destinations. I have always been good with directions, but Europe is so different from the U.S. Streets are not structured the same, train systems are completely different, and a mistake can be extremely costly. Take the wrong train, and not only do you have to buy another train ticket, you have to change your plan, possibly causing you to have to stay in another night in another place. Suddenly, a trip that is supposed to be 100 euros is twice as much as you anticipated.
Yesterday, I had to catch a train to Paris, take the Metro to a different train station, find the train to Beauvais, find the bus from the train station to Beauvais airport, get onboard the right plane to Stockholm, find the bus from Stavska to Central Station in Stockholm, find the underground station near our hostel, and finally locate our hostel. The terror of getting lost consumes me every time I have to travel. On this trip, I haven’t failed once. When I get to my destination without getting lost, I have a moment of pure pride, the same as that first moment I finish a blog or see a picture that I have taken that is beautifully composed. Just for that moment, I am completely satisfied with myself. I should just create destinations to travel just so I can prove I can make it.
Our hostel was a boat. Well, the boat had been founded on the river-floor, but it was still a boat. We walked into our tiny little room with its little porthole window, and I thought, “Well, I doubt I’ll ever find anything like this in Oklahoma.” But there was no more time for thinking, because I had a taxi to catch for Berns. It was time for Sufjan Stevens.
Cassidy, Rachel, and I arrive at our destination to discovered we are extraordinarily underdressed. This high class restaurant/bar was a marvel to the eyes. It was multiple levels, with many different rooms for different ways of enjoying the rococo interior design. The main event hall where the concert was held seemed like an old ballroom that might be described in a book from the 17th Century. At first I was embarrassed of my apparel, but shortly realized that I am an American. This band is from my country, so if I am not maintaining the high class European style that surrounded me, I could say, “well, in the U.S., this I how we go to concerts: Jeans and a T-Shirt.” In Sweden, everyone speaks English like it is their first language. So, I waltz up to the bar and order a Czech beer with my thickest Oklahoma accent, and get a smile from the cute bar tender That’s right, sir, I’m an American and friggin’ proud of it.
After my beer and a class of South African white wine, I stand close to the front and wait impatiently for the appearance of the hero of this adventure. I may be the heroine, but I admire Sufjan Stevens intensely. His style of music is truly unique and his concept of one CD for each state is truly inspired. I was curious to hear him pronounce his name. It’s like this: “soup” with “f” at the end instead of “p”, and then “yawn.” The opening act was an artist called “St. Vincent” from Texas. She is very talented, and I enjoyed the sort of jazzy, bluesy sounding rock act she preformed. It was wonderful.
Then it began: Every performer decked in what looked like a boy scout uniform, a set of wings (maybe butterfly, or eagle, or fairy) and feathered masks. Cassidy said she was specifically stunned by the dark stage lit only by blue lights behind silver tinsel, and yellow lights floating spinning around the room as if in a snow globe. As if they knew my hearts deepest desire, they started with “Sister” from the “Seven Swans” album. I’ve actually posted the lyrics from this album in another post from my msblackandwhite blog, but I’ll put them again, because I love them:
What the water wants is hurricanes
And sailboats to ride on it’s back
What the water wants is sunkiss
And land to run into and back.
He plays many tracks from both “Seven Swans” and “Illinoise,” as well as some Christmas music. He also played a new song. For those of you who are familiar with his work, yes, I can tell you, it’s just as good as you would expect it to be. I allow the mood of the music to sink into my soul. The triumph of the brass instruments blazing, the soft pleading of his voice, the beautiful harmony of the female back-up, the tragedy and joy juxtaposed for one glorious end: beauty.
As I am writing this, I have realized that I love Stevens for the same reason I like the book I am reading. Pamuk is writing to sort out the mystery of where he comes from, both the fiction and the reality, as well as the study of his growing up. Stevens does the same thing, but with music. I feel even closer with Stevens, however, because he is an American. I know Superman. I know John Wayne Gacy. He told a story about going to summer camp and fighting with his siblings. I felt this strong memory of a time I chased my brother with a paddle. His back up vocalist, who is the girl from St. Vincent, told a story about how a boy from Sweden tried to convince her that Swedes traditionally greeted each other by blowing into each other’s ear and giving it a little lick. She had been so determined to be a good ambassador for America, and instead found herself being taken advantage of. She had no choice but to make light of the situation, and now she finds the story amusing. These struggles, the struggles he communicates in his music, these are the struggles of Americans. These are my struggles.
I love how Cassidy wanted me to try to perfectly reflect what we saw and felt when the concert started. She has always been a fan of Peter Pan. The atmosphere, for me at least, reminded me of the scene “Finding Neverland” where they recreate Neverland. I have some feeling that her appreciation for the concert setting might have something to with how they had created this, as she described it, “land of fairies.” The whole time we’ve been hear, she is constantly talking to people about how the story of Peter Pan helps her to remember to always maintain her inner child. Whether from Stevens, Pamuk or Cassidy, I am comforted to know that everyone is thinking about the mythos around them, the culture they live in, their childhood, and who they are now, and trying to make some sense of it; they are trying to define their own values, just as I am.
He finished the concert with “Chicago,” which simultaneously made me happy disappointed. I was excited to hear, “Chicago,” but I love ”Casimir Pulaski Day” and he had not played it. However, he played every one of my other favorite songs, so I was satisfied. Then, again, as if reading my feelings, he comes out to play one more song for an encore. He played the one song that I wanted him to play. The concert was everything I wanted and more. He definitely just knocked off “Wilco” and “The Decemberists” as my favorite artist in concert.
As we headed back to the hostel, I had another chance to test my abilities with directions. We had forgotten to grab the name and the address of our hostel before leaving. Without any way of communicating where we wanted to go to a taxi driver, we had to walk back to our hostel. I was right on the mark. We spent some time walking on the side of the freeway, but we got home, so another victory for my ego. Our little boat room is well heated, so we crawled into bed after being awake for 22 hours, and fall into sweet sleep.
This morning, Cassidy and I awake and head out for the Old City section of Sweden. Stockholm is a beautiful city. (Rachel is not coming with us to the Cannabis Cup, so she caught a different plane back to Paris.) I loved it there. We had to stop several times to ask for directions, and more than once, the venders would leave their stores to show us how to get to our destination. This place is the epitome of Christmas spirit, every store filled with advent calendars, father Christmas, stars and angels. We even had a tradition Swedish Christmas dinner for lunch. (Appetizer: Salad with bread. Main Entrée: Meatballs, sausage on top a beet salad, ham, raw fish covered with some kind of sauce, and one boiled potato. For dessert: Thin slices of pineapple drizzled with some kind of sweet red sauce. Finally, a cup of coffee or tea.) We sat in a little café at the Central Station and watched 17 Santa Clauses marching down the main corridor like a little North Pole parade. I would’ve taken a picture if Cassidy’s camera were not in the process of downloading the images from the concert onto my computer.
Finally, I had thought about buying a pair of boats in Europe, but I’ve been hesitant to purchase them because they tend to be expensive. But I thought it would be worth a look. So, I stopped into one store and tried on a pair of boots. They were very inexpensive, and beautiful. They are Italian leather in a beautiful tone of Chocolate brown, and I was surprised by how inexpensive they were. They had just opened the shop, so things were more reasonably priced as well as the fact that the store had their own factory, so they could keep prices lower. Cassidy started envying my pair, and the saleswoman offered to give us an additional 10% off if we both bought a pair. Are you serious? Hell yes!
So, now I’m on a bus back to Skavsta in my new boots. Next destination: Brussels.
posted by Jesi E. at 11:02 AM
3 Comments:
Wow! I am so happy you are having such wonderful adventures! Your descriptions are almost lyrical. I just wish I cold be there with you - in a way, I am, because you are your mother's daughter!
I've said it before, too many times to count - I am so proud of you, baby girl!
I very definitely picked up both Sufjan's Illinois and Michigan albums from eMusic.com, and I'm a fan. Thanks!
I never did figure out those damned European train tickets.
The Turks get a bum-rap for the Cyprus issue. The Greeks are more to blame for the ethnic violence on the island. With as much terrorism as occurs on the island, perhaps its best to ban entry to Cypriot ships. (Southern Cyprus)
It's good your enjoying yourself.
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