happy feast of all saints, a day late.

{ste. jeanne d'arc, cathedral notre dame}

I am just writing this morning to note that I am back from the conference in Paris, still recovering from the jet-lag time-warp & wholly immersed in paper writing... I am still very much in the midst of trying to process my Parisian escapades, & just exactly where I was & what I was up to last week...

I also must note that I've been putting things in this blog for a whole year now. When I started it I was actually intending for it to be read by other people, but I really don't know how much that actually happens... regardless, I will continue to post, create an archive, even if maybe it ends up mostly for myself.

So soon I will have Paris stories. Meanwhile I will finish my paper on belonging & identity in the Post-Soviet Arctic... whilst listening to the Budapest Chamber Orchestra play Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik... which takes me right back to Grade Three, Four, Five... which was always the piece that played the first week of school as we'd read our books in the morning as classical music played over the intercom for 15 minutes. (next came Vivaldi's Four Seasons...)

So when I hear these strings & cadenzas, it's all crunching leaves & dried-apple smell, pencil shavings & eraser-crumbs, the feel of torn library-book pages under my fingers sticky with pomegranate seeds that I would hide inside my desk to nibble on during class. I remember one of my most favourite teachers, Mrs. Schreiber, who would always let us continue to read for a whole half hour, & would play more music for us. This was my favourite time of day. It was delicious, being able to sit there, just read, no interruptions... (I realize this sort of time is completely lacking in my life as of late... alas)

I'm getting quite carried away by this very random reminiscence, but really, it sort of summarizes the awkwardness of my elementary school years... glued to my books & my maps, engrossed in music. (Not much has changed...)

I spent those years often treated as a curiousity, freakish spectacle by my peers, but I think due to the indulgence of my teachers, I turned out okay. They supported me being a strange little bird, & this has certainly stayed with me... they gave me classical & Enya cds & their old National Geographics & books of world mythology, let me write really really long stories in language arts class... they encouraged my creativity, my elaborate projects & constant questions. They never tried to 'normalize' me, & for this I am really quite grateful. Those years could've been a lot more traumatic were it not for them.

I really need to track them down, Mrs. Schreiber & Mme. Mageau... I would like to see them, thank them -- tell them what I'm up to now. I think they'd be quite amused.