On Regimens and Being Genuine

Souvenir is the French infinitive verb form 'to remember.' We buy Eiffel tower key-chains and "my sister went to Paris and all I got was this lousy t-shirt" t-shirts supposedly to help us remember our adventures. The verb in French is reflexive, so you would be saying something akin to "I remember myself when I was in Paris." Perhaps it carries more impact to show you, "Je me souviens..." or even more pointedly, "Je ne me souviens pas," I don't remember myself.
The biggest problem I have with all these souvenirs besides them being tacky, overpriced and ubiquitous, is that they are so universal and insincere. In leaving the moment, we reconstruct it almost immediately and in so doing, perpetuate false ideals which hold the rest of us on call for disillusionment. We all have romantic ideas of the Eiffel Tower from the 40's, where people would sit and picnic, and walk freely around the base of the structure, leisurely and unburdened with pickpocket-paranoia or the threat of rain. We still buy the post-cards of these images to send back to friends and family and we reinforce that stale lie of paradise, we say things like, "Paris is the city of love," and then we crawl back home at the end of a grey night, lonely and bloated. Shamed and confused at not fulfilling the "ought-to" of being here and all that is composed of. And this can render a young adventuress insane, to say nothing of language barriers, reliance on strangers and variable schedules.

This is not the kind of insanity I'm talking about

I remember myself on the verge of college-bound independence being told by a mental healthcare professional that no matter where I went, I would have to take me with me. I nodded one of those uncomprehending nods which I practice frequently here as well. Weeks later on the floor of the locked two-door bathroom which I shared with three other girls, I realized what that meant for the first real time, because it is so tempting to believe that fairy tales are made of the same material as our lives, so tempting to think that we could escape our own baggage, contexts, pasts rather than to embrace the messy truth of who we are. Voltaire satirized the phrase originally popularized by famous optimist Liebniz, "the best of all possible worlds," which optimists know this to be, while pessimists fear it to be so. It is, of course, the best of all possible worlds, for in despairing and wishing it otherwise, we miss the brilliance which is here for our making and finding. Best is merely what is, while better is the thing worth striving for. I can know myself as prone to a few specific breeds of insanity without submitting to them, instead placing buffers in their entryways and alarm systems that work and then go on my way. The dreams and fantasies which keep the dust off of my shoes and gloves are the only reason I have for amor fati, as Nietzche phrased it, for loving what I must bear, the key as I see it to a resilient happiness.

So there are things which I am wont to do in order to maintain a baseline of functionality, things which thwart the possibility of an emotional breakdown and a possibly more exciting story along with it. I try in my writing to show my life in as much honesty as I can muster, for my own sake, so that I will remember my life properly, but also for your sake so that disillusionment will be gentler when you realize that you have psoriasis even on Hawaiian beaches, social anxiety, yes even in Italy or India. I am reminded of parking in underground structures in big cities where you are required to validate your ticket and prove that you went where you said you were going. My journal and my writings here are a kind of album of parking validations. Yes, indeed, Sophie, you were here. Of course, you felt that. Remember learning that wherever you go, you have to take yourself with you? Remember learning that again? And again?

Because that was the point Voltaire was making, right. Yes, there is paradise on Earth. But El Dorado was impossible to get to, impossible to leave, and worthless to those who were there. For all intents and purposes, this world is a paradise waiting to be recognized wherever you are, just as much as it is a hell burning.

And yet, there is a tension between the regimens and being genuine. These regimens are sometimes things I would rather not do, and indeed part of why they are good for me is because there is something strengthening in doing something for no other reason than that I would rather not- an arduous lesson to teach kids. Because the truth is that situations do change us. How could they not? If we value our own authenticity then we must also be willing to explore what that actually is in the myriad situations made available to us. There is guilt here. Here, where I feel I "ought" to take better advantage of the world which offers itself to me unmasked rolling in ecstasy at my feet. I should get down on the ground, roll joyfully in the dirt, the muck and the mire, stain my blouse. I stay hesitantly crouched as if reaching my hand to an unfamiliar animal unsure of it's temperament. I try to keep my life a bit more neat and tidy, thinking the unbridled passion perhaps unseemly. I want to let it off the leash. I practice my yoga and keep my journal in as disciplined a way as seems to suit the situation. I accept any invitation. Unless I genuinely don't want to. I try not to forget myself. I cultivate my garden.

This is what French Yoga looks like.
yeah, I know. oohlala.