la fin.

It is my last night in Paris, and I am beside myself. I cannot believe that this has flown by so fast, and a lot of me is heartbroken with the prospect of leaving tomorrow for good. I have bled here, cried here, to an extent, lived and died here. I've laughed and cringed and stressed here, been hopelessly lost and miraculously found here. I leave some of me here, a piece of me that has no other place but the streets of Paris. And one day, hopefully soon I promise, I will return to both you and that part of me here.

Paris is a city that lurks beneath the surface, and it's not until you are forced to leave that you realize its complete and utter hold on you. It is a grip that is white knuckled, unrelenting, much like a mother with her wayward child. Although that grip could deal the worst of blows, it is loving and caring even in its strength. It cradles you, envelopes you in a way that is unforgettable. For me, these streets have loved me through it all, cried with me as I cried, fell with me as I fell, absorbed the blood from my scraped hands as if it were nothing - simply a part of itself already. These store fronts watched me day in and day out, supporting me and egging me on in their familiarity, their unique sense of rightness. These statues watched me avidly, through stern, bronze faces that have gone green over time. And although they have seen thousands of me, millions of me, of students doing the exact same things as me, they remember Gioia. They acknowledge me through those glances of judgement, and nod their heads when I pass, knowing that I can't see it, but also knowing that I can sense it. These squares have housed me in the middle of the day, in the bleakest of nights, when my hopelessness was too much to bear and my elation was too enormous to contain.

This is for you. This is for the city that took me in and won't let all of me leave. I will return, one day, Paris, and I will love you in the same ways in which you loved me, and I will think of you every day of my life. You have changed me, shaped me, made me aware of not only the blood, but the steel that runs through my veins. You have weighed me and measured me and have found me deserving of your secrets, your sentiments, and your love. Always your love. I will miss you endlessly, beyond the realm of comprehension. A part of me is here, both voluntarily and involuntarily.

Je t'aime, toujours.

You are always with me.

allez les bleus

To do what you love and say what you feel. Thank you, random soccer fanatic at Montmartre, for reminding me how to be amazed by the simple things on a particularly stressful day. I absolutely love this picture.

It's so tiring to consistently write about the person you don't want to write about anymore. When you gain validation from anyone but the one you've been yearning for most. You want to throw all the numbers in their faces and scream "All of these people love me, appreciate me, understand what I'm worth. So why don't you?" It leaves such a bitter taste, as if their finger tips take on a Midas touch, turning all this ambrosia to ash, something akin to bile that doesn't stay down. You teeter on a precipice the sheer height of which you could never fathom... And yet here it is, while you stand barefoot on shards of glass. You move, trying to find purchase while shrinking back from the pain, only to be reminded anew with a fresh bout of lacerations.

I only hope they feel the same thing, the same hurt, the same constant struggle for purchase in a world that, so suddenly, dimmed. Does that make me a bad person? It certainly seems like it. The thought of that person's pain is a balm, ever so brief, that I welcome repeatedly, and I think I should feel bad, but I guess I haven't reached that level of maturity yet. I'll leave that for the future saints of the world.

I need to live for me, and I need to take that ambrosia at face value, and, pardon me, but fuck the rest. Who the hell are you to make me feel less worthy? Who are you to warp my view of myself? Because, god damn it all, I am worth it, and I'm so sorry that you haven't seen that, but I'm so bone tired of waiting around for the wool to be pulled away from your eyes.

Mommy, I love you. Thank you so much for coming to visit me, I never truly realize how much I need you until you've come and gone. I don't know what I would do without you.

Rebecca, you are the best.

"Thank you for being you -- I am grateful and blessed to have your beauty in my life. Miss you more than you know. Have a wonderful Wednesday."

That message came at the perfect time, when I didn't even know that I needed something like that. You're my best friend for a reason, many reasons, that always become evidently clear with time.

And to you, figure it out. Because, goodness, I know that I'm worth it.

There are times that I feel like I'm going to break with the sheer vastness, grand size of it all. When these feelings are so much bigger than the little body I've been given, feelings that encompass everything, like rose-tinting that seeps into my peripheral vision, a xylophone tuning reverberating through my ears. I can't contain myself, and just when I think I've reached the point of bursting, it grows larger still, and I'm baffled by the fact that I'm still here, somehow intact when I should be strewn to pieces, like a dandelion that's come into contact with a wind too strong and it can do nothing but fall apart. I only pray that my demise is as graceful, as fluid, as mesmerizing as those individual seedlings that float away, drifting back once or twice, as if to indicate their sadness for leaving, but then going along anyway because they know they must.

I will dance with the wind, frankly, I have to, my life depends on it. Because the thought of bursting is intoxicating, revolutionary. I welcome these feelings because that is what it is to live. I want to breathe every breath and taste it on my tongue, to hold the smell in my body and file it away in my mind, labeling it perfectly so that I will never forget it, not even when I'm old, cranky, and bespectacled. I want to touch it all, feel it all on the tips of my fingers. To hell with being prim and proper. I want to see my fingerprints on surfaces that will be wiped down the moment they are noticed, because, for that small amount of time, there was proof that I, in all my grubby glory, was there. That is invigoration, that is curiosity, and that, my friends, is life.

Sometimes, I just want to be a child again. To run for the sake of it, to scream at the top of my lungs in gut wrenching anger, in unfathomable elation. I am so scared that I will lose that connection, that vitality, that honest need to be free of it all. I want to look at the sky and see fantastic kingdoms, animals exotic, names of which haven't been documented yet. I want to see the world in brilliant chroma, the likes of which could not be duplicated on paper if one tried. I want the world of hurt to merely exist in the form of skinned knees and bruised pride, the kind which can be lovingly soothed by the cadence of a mother's voice. Life was easier then, mapped out by parental restrictions and playground etiquette. There was no judgement, no artifice, for we were too foolish to try. Today, I find myself envying the fools, wishing to trade in my opened eyes for ignorance, because sometimes, the road less travelled is significantly less appealing. To hell with all your sayings and proverbs, because, just for today, the path of least resistance is looking especially good.

To hurt is something words cannot describe, as there are simply too many hurts to characterize. I welcome the skinned knees, the scraped chins, because they are tangible, physical and real, something that becomes a badge of honor in the form of a scar and a good story. This internal struggle is something else entirely, a black hole that opens and closes on a whim. There is no scar tissue to follow, visibly assuring us that we're healing. Instead, it is a creature all its own, seemingly caged but prowling along the bars, watching and waiting for the moment that we are too distracted to properly lock its door. Its eyes are much too sharp, its movements too perceptive. It draws from our own existence, feeding off of broken hearts, self doubt, insecurity, expectation. In the innocence of youth, these things don't exist. The words are too big, the syllables too much for a young mind to contain, explain, retain. It's a sieve, discarding the unimportant while desperately holding on to the awesome. The smell of a mother's perfume, the feel of sand between one's toes, the exact elation of stepping off the bus when school lets out for summer. Those are the days of invincibility and super human strength, and I was both of those things. I could catch any boy in Tag, and friendships were temporarily won or lost in the heated competition.

I miss that. I miss being invincible, I miss the ability to discard the unimportant and the unexplained, because second guessing is a torturous game. We are so sure of ourselves in the haze of youth, we know things. I knew I was left handed, I knew I didn't like jello, and I knew that Mrs. Reese always smelled a little bit suspicious. I want that back. There are times that I'm even unsure of my general existence, because questions fill my mind. Sometimes I don't want questions, I don't even want answers. I just don't want it. I want life, untethered and pure. I want those clouds to give up their act and return to their original state of extraordinary, and I want the color to flood my eyes once again, for this matte is not what I am made of. I want LIFE. Vivacity, Crazy, Sexy, True. And just for tonight, I want the path of least resistance.

g.

National League Champions, World Series 2009. Harry Kalas, this one's for you.

I have an architecture midterm later today, but after seeing this, not much is going to bring me down.

The view from my window. The leaves are still green, but I can't wait for some color. I've missed the seasons since going to school on the west coast.

lessons.

Last week, I had an enormous blow-up with my fashion illustration professor in the middle of class. She publicly told me that I never listen, I'm never right, and my work is terrible. I left the class shortly thereafter, because I was too mortified and humiliated to stay, especially with the impending wave of tears about to ravage its banks.

While telling a classmate of mine the details of what happened, she said something interesting. "Maybe it's just your voice, Gioia. I don't mean that the way it sounds. I just wonder if people can't handle your forward tone and honesty. You don't beat around the bush, you just come out and say it, and I think most people are intimidated by that."

The old me would have immediately gotten her hackles up after taking in this first sentence, ready to pummel the girl with verbal assaults and death stares. Instead, this new me calmly waited for the rest of her observation, refusing to get worked up over something if the need wasn't there. After hearing her out, I was both thankful and extremely proud that I didn't get defensive or unpleasant, because, truly, I think she might be absolutely right.

I am not one for false flattery or empty words, because words are much too important, sacred even, for something so unworthy. They are the very sharpest of blades, eviscerating the most confident of men to shreds. They are love, timeless and true, expressing to one the inability to live without the other. They are wars, lives, tragedies, miracles. They have told the tales of millions before me, they have graced the stages of world famous venues, priceless pages. They've ruined families, crumbled kingdoms, transformed mere mortals into deities and heroes. So who are we to slander them so? If one has nothing to say, one keeps his words safely behind his lips - and out of courage or cowardice, we are constantly the judge.

Maybe I'm damning myself time and time again as the words pour from my mind to my finger tips on this computer screen, but I absolutely refuse to stop now. In for a penny, in for a pound. I have surrounded myself with those who understand my love for words, my life's need to be honest, because I cannot sleep at night knowing that I have been anything other than the aforementioned. I'm learning that that is not a concept practiced by all.

I know very well that the best defense is a good offense. I used to be that girl that practiced false flattery and empty words, and I didn't like my own company. Six years later, I love me. Afterall, what do you have to live for if you don't love you? So, no, world, I will not apologize for my honesty, for my reality. These words are my life force, these are the things that I want to be remembered for when I leave this earth, because I am just a blink on the face of time.

Cranky illustration professor, you may think my work is terrible, and you may very well be right. But I know one thing, my work and my words are very different. My work is subjective, always at the mercy of the next judge or critic. But my words are my own, and you may judge them all you'd like, but at the end of the day, they still mean the same thing as they did when it started, and that is something you can never take away from me.

Now put that in your juicebox and suck it.

g.

peer pressure.

I never thought I would see the day that I actually started a blog. I have to be honest and admit that I generally find them long winded and pretentious, for who really wants to hear all about your facts and follies? But, through these 20 years of existence, I've learned that sometimes, I should simply bite my tongue, something that is often realized far after the fact. But if I did choose my words with more care, if I was to be a little less rash, I would no longer be me. So, call it hypocrisy, stamp on my forehead the title of conformist, I probably won't lose any sleep over it. I will simply chuckle to myself and realize that maybe I was wrong.

That said, I lay the blame for this endeavor at my best friend's feet. She is the one that suggested that I begin keeping a blog for my time spent here in the beautiful City of Light, and I think it is the least I can do for her, and those that love me, to be all sorts of up-to-date on my mishaps and meanderings. I suppose that's the same as facts and follies, but that's neither here nor there. Donc, this blog is for those that love me, and those that convince me to do silly things that I would never do in the first place, but they haven't lead me astray before, so I doubt they're going to start now.

My darling mother has been hounding me since the moment I stepped onto Parisian soil to take pictures and upload them, so maybe this is going to provide some incentive. True, technology makes me it's minion on a very frequent basis, so the chances of my successfully uploading pictures are quite small, but I suppose I'll try. Should this blog have nothing but text in the near future, readers, you will know that I failed abysmally at spicing this up, so I apologize in advance.

Now, to get down to the matter at hand. Paris is fantastic, intense, unforgiving, harsh, beautiful, unapologetic, wise, rapid, terrifying, and true. It has taken me just under two months to finally, and officially, have my feet firmly planted on this cigarette-smoke permeated soil, and I love every inch. Granted, I detested it just a few weeks ago; everything seemed too much for me. The culture is different, the people are fast, the atmosphere is in your face - this is us, take it or leave it, and no, we don't hate your country, we simply hate your former president. Well, France my dear, I couldn't agree with you more. The people are a fascinating mix of old and new, respect and disdain. Frankly, it reminds me of Philadelphia at times, with its wise facades that have seen far more atrocities and late night trysts than they can count. But it's fascinating to be surrounded by buildings that make the United States look like a foolish and wayward child, for its structures clearly and conveniently sport a plaque boasting its age and construction, while the buildings of Paris calmly rely on the science of carbon dating. Many of the young women are sex personified, but in a way in which one thinks "She didn't do a damn thing to look like that", while American city girls spend three hours getting ready to go to a club, sit at a tiny table, while drinking a low calorie alcohol confection. In this way, I'm home. These are the girls that pedal bicycles in high heels, let their hair go with the speed of their vespas. They walk with their chin held high and gaze at you down their long, pert noses. We are young, we are beautiful, and life is much too short. These are doctrines that I've been trying to practice since the moment I stepped into a swimming pool, because, really, why do I want to waste that much time that I can never get back? These women hold men in their palms, ready to nurture or scold when the time is right. These are the kinds of women that run countries, whether it is known or not.

Likewise, these are the men that like a girl that talks back, the girl that doesn't give him the time of day, the girl that probably won't call him back promptly. These men have perfected the casual glance meant to flatter, the one that says "I would love to sleep with you if the opportunity ever presented itself." And somehow, when they get it right, we ladies get flustered, flattered, and actually entertain the idea for just a moment. When it's wrong, it's a train wreck, but when it's right, oh, Lord, have mercy.

This is what fascinates me. That these people can be so seemingly comfortable in their skin. They are unapologetic about their style, their sex, their day to day life. For these things, I will always be envious, and I will always try to perfect it, even if I am the interloper that's just staying for a short time. I'll be damned if I don't bring some of this back. Oh, parisian youth, teach me your ways.

I suppose that's going to be all for now, considering that this may or may not have been an alarmingly successful ploy to avoid work for midterms. But I do have one last thing.

Rebecca, you are my best friend, my hero. You are so wonderfully strong, so blindingly beautiful, I don't know what I would do without you. I love you, and I'm so sorry that I can't be there with you as much as I would like, but you're in my thoughts always, along with the rest of the Lustig household. duh.

And to all those others that love me, thank you. Forever and always, thank you. I would be nowhere without you. You deal with my moods, my flights of fancy, my stubbornness and my skepticism. I miss you, and I'll see you soon.

g.