tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65723952256963336642024-03-12T21:13:44.722-07:00to be hip, or not to beGisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572395225696333664.post-92066205080045772272012-08-01T08:01:00.005-07:002012-08-01T08:01:34.043-07:00Wrinked Memories<br />
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><i>Wrinkled </i>Memories</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">By: Gisèle Thériault</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">I could write about the time I stood
on the upper deck of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, looking down to see Paris from
a bird’s eye view; I could write about the time I swam in the Blue Lagoon in
Iceland while snow lazily fell from the skies above me…but I won’t. Sure, those
were all great events that constitute the great event I call my Life, but there
is one memory that stands out, one memory that, no matter what, always brings a
sincere smile to my face. My grandfather opening up his gifts at Christmas. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Why am I writing about this particular occasion? Well, the other day I
was in a reflective mood. I was thinking about life in general, really. And
about death, how really strange the whole concept is. Thoughts about family
members that have passed away began to surface. This is when I realized that
when I think of them, I usually remember just a few particular memories of
them. Always the same ones. And that got me thinking, you know? Why is it
always the same memory? What does this mean? Does this tell me something about
myself? This is why I’m writing. Because I have too many questions and not
enough answers. Let’s go.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">When someone dies, we no doubt reflect upon their lives, but I think
even more significantly, we rethink our own lives, our current situations. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Am I doing what I love? Do I have a dream?
Hmm… I really should get a dog before it’s too late…go to Las Vegas, even if I don’t gamble.</i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">So, what then is the big deal about opening up a gift anyway? What does
it have to do with anything? Personally, I hate it when everyone stares as I
open up my gifts… I mean, what if I really don’t like the gift? If the
gift-giver is present, do I pretend to like it? But that’s lying. Plus, some
people seem to have an obsession with using rolls and rolls of scotch tape. It
takes you twice as long to open up the gifts. And don’t get me started on
wrapping paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can get all kinds of
wrapping paper, if you want to pay. You can wrap up a pair of slippers in shiny
red paper, you can wrap up a frying pan with Donald Duck paper. The madness of
it all! Before I go absolutely crazy complaining about how materialistic our
holidays have become, I’ll admit something. Sure - I like watching people
opening up <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">their</i> gifts. Most of all,
I love watching their expressions. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Why?? What’s this fascination about?</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Every year, on Christmas Eve, my family would drive to Grandma’s house.
It’s only a five minute drive. I always thought that it took forever. You know
when you’re young, and you get in a car, you’d like to arrive at your
destination right away? How many times did I wish that I had a time-travelling
machine? A lot. I still do. I didn’t want to go back in time though. I always
wanted to go into the future; I’d heard from my older cousins that when you
reached a certain age, you could go out with your friends whenever you wanted…no
curfew. I liked that idea, an idea of freedom. It’s ironic how I now want to go
<u>back</u> in time. I’m afraid of growing old, afraid of not having lived
enough. To have lived enough…does that make sense? I’m alive everyday, that I
know of anyway. Therefore don’t I live enough by being simply alive? I guess
what I meant was that I’m afraid to have gone through life by merely floating
from one responsibility to the next, forgetting to appreciate the smell of a
rose or the look on a birthday girl’s face when the cake is placed in front of her.
That kind of living.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">After slipping on my Sunday dress and my shiny black shoes, we’d drive
up the road that took us deeper into the woods and further away from the cold
ocean. The road was always rough, had been rough for years. The other day I saw
they were finally fixing it, taking away the old and bringing in the new. But
going back, I remember thinking that there’s always so much more snow in the
woods. The salty air doesn’t get this far up and sadly melt away the snow. I
always thought that Christmas was more present there, in the woods. For me,
snow was essential to Christmas. The Image of Christmas, almost like a Hallmark
card, really. The fireplace roaring, cookies baking, radio playing Christmas songs
by Bing Crosby and Perry Como, people wearing festive sweaters, and fluffy
snowflakes floating down, a special gift just for me.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">On the drive up, I always sat in back with my sister. And, as on
ordinary drives, I could never see outside, through the window. I was too
short. I’d put my head back in hopes of stealing a peek at what was going on
outside our moving car, but to no avail. Looking from the outside, most likely
you would’ve seen a small nose peeking out at the lower edge of the window. A
small fog-cloud forming on the surface of the window, a result of my warm
breath against the glass. (Sometimes I’d draw little pictures in that mist,
usually a heart). Nevertheless, I always knew when we were close to the house
because of the two trees looming in the distance. These trees, maple trees
maybe, standing on opposite sides of the road, towering over the road, almost
like a bridge. Or like two lovers forever separated by the street. And, the
limbs of these trees, entangled together in a big jumble of a mess, would
create the outline of a goldfish. We were near when I saw my fish.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">My grandmother always had a few Christmas gifts waiting for us at her
house. I thought they were from Santa. My mother told me Santa would stop there
early on Christmas Eve because they were old people and had to go to bed early.
Boy was I ever a sucker. Now that I think of it, it’s as though my entire
childhood was a big, fabricated lie; Santa, the Tooth Fairy…you know what I’m
talking about. So we’d finally get to the house. Walking through their front
door, I could usually smell lobster in the air. That’s what they ate every
Christmas Eve. I personally didn’t like lobster at that time, I much preferred
Kraft Dinner. And Kraft Dinner was cheaper too. Still is.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">It’s strange how potent the sense of smell is, how it lives in your
memory, makes a home sweet home there and usually stays until you die. Helen
Keller said: “Smell is a potent wizard that transports you across thousands of
miles and all the years you have lived.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My grandmother’s house was very old, a century old at least. And I
remember that it had that “old smell”…not old as in rotten, but old as in
“lived in”. Years later, after both of my grandparents had passed away, we
returned to the house to sift through their things, clean up (my grandmother
was a serious, professional pack rat) … There was still an old smell but it
wasn’t the same. And there was no smell of my grandma’s cooking anymore…only
the smell of an old, empty house. No living souls in there anymore. No grandma
knitting, no grandpa sitting in his chair, petting the lazy, purring cat.
Empty.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Walking through the kitchen, whose walls were covered with badly framed
pictures of Jesus and of Saints….oh, and of the Pope, towards the living room,
I couldn’t wait to see Pierre, my grandfather. It was like a déjà-vue that
wasn’t actually a déjà-vue, every time. He was always sitting in his chair.
I’ll never forget that chair. It was an old chair, from before the whole Lazy
Boy reclining chairs phenomena. Just a good, comfy chair. There was always a
grey, wool cloth draped over it, probably to hide its real ugliness. So Pierre would be sitting
there, his feet perched on his foot stool, an old leather one that had a few
holes in it, the stuffing slowly escaping its cramped quarters. I would’ve
thrown it away, but to him, it was still good. Did the job. He always had the
same brown leather slippers on, and you could always see his socks peeking at
the ankle; grey wool socks with a red and white stripe at the top. My
grandmother had knitted them for him. No doubt he had a dozen pair of the same
colors. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">It was quite a sight to see my little Pierre sitting in that chair; he was a tiny,
old man. He didn’t have much hair left, just a few little whitish hairs here
and there, almost unnoticeable. Almost like a Homer Simpson hairdo. He had big
glasses that seemed to take over his face; usually he would wear false teeth,
but sometimes, on Christmas Eve, he wouldn’t wear them, take a break from them.
Who needs teeth when you’re not eating anyway? So you can imagine that when
he’d look at you and smile, that great big grin of his that would light up his
eyes, it was a wonderful site to see. It was the most generous, warm smile.
Genuine.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Better than any Hollywood
made-up smile.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">I didn’t know then that it was that smile that would help me mourn
through his death quite a few years later.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Now, he also usually had a plaid shirt on, and his pants were always
held up by suspenders. I thought that was the cutest thing ever. He was so thin
that his clothes seemed to float on him. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">I would watch him slowly unwrap his Christmas gifts; he always seemed to
adore his gifts, as though they were the best things he’d ever received. You could
hear the gratitude in his voice. I wouldn’t even be thinking of my gifts that I
was supposed to open, not thinkin’ about it at all. The best gift of all that
night? (Be prepared for a sappy answer) My grandfather’s happiness. His
happiness was also mine. Perhaps I learned then, at such a young age, that the
quote by Margaret Storm Jameson: </span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">"Happiness comes of the capacity to feel deeply, to enjoy simply, to
think freely, to risk life, to be needed." was true… I always felt proud
in his presence. I felt that he appreciated me, needed me. Fact is, I needed
him. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">I saw him, Pierre, not long before he passed away, literally just a few
hours. Sometimes I regret having gone to the old folk’s home. I remember
walking to his room, feeling absolutely helpless, like I was a little girl once
more. I could feel my heart thumping. I’ll never forget what I saw when I
walked into that room, the feeling that overwhelmed me. There he was, my
grandfather, Pierre. But it wasn’t him, not really. He was barely conscious of
the world around him. He didn’t look peaceful. I hated that. I wanted him to be
at peace, yet I wasn’t ready to let him go. Perhaps I was selfish. Perhaps I
didn’t want to face another day without seeing his smile, the way it lit up his
eyes and made his face wrinkle up. I wanted to have just one more Christmas
with him, to watch him unwrap his gift, sitting in his old, raggedy chair.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">I should clear something up, before I continue. Pierre wasn’t really my real grandfather; he
was my great-uncle, my grandmother’s brother. My real grandfather, Michel, was
killed when my father was only 6 months old, therefore I never got to know him.
When I was very young and didn’t quite understand the concept of death, I
believed Pierre
was indeed my grandfather. Naturally, because he did live in the same house as
my grandmother. It made sense. After my real grandfather was killed, my
grandmother never re-married, kept her wedding ring on until she passed away. Pierre never married once
in his life, remained a bachelor. So they stayed in the same house. But in my
heart he was my grandfather, even when I realized what the truth was.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Most of all I remember Pierre’s
wrinkled face. Yeah, I realize that wrinkles = old age. But to me, it doesn’t signify
that you’re less of a person. There’s a certain sweetness to them. Sure, I’ve
seen pictures of him when he was my age, a handsome young fella. Youthful.
Health. All his hair. But I remember the wrinkled, 100 year-old Pierre. Wise with age.
Maybe what I want to believe in is wrinkled memories…I don’t want to be old but
I want depth in my life. I want a handful of memories which will show that I
have loved and been loved. The American poet Samuel Ullman said:</span></div>
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<span lang="FR"><a href="http://www.quotationspage.com/quote/4610.html" title="Click for further information about this quotation"><span lang="EN-CA" style="color: windowtext; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Nobody grows old merely by living a number of years. We
grow old by deserting our ideals. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up
enthusiasm wrinkles the soul.</span></a></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Now, isn’t it a little crazy how we value material objects? I love my
clothes, my books, my cd’s. But none of them can ever give me the joy I get
when I remember, so clearly, Pierre.
When I actually have the time to sit and think, I always come to the
realization that, when everything is said and done, all we have left is
memories. Simple.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Simple is good.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">I was thinking about all this last Christmas; and now, it’s not the
same. Not the same kind of Christmas. Much of all that magic is gone, even if I
want it all back. Christmas is no longer a spiritual holiday. It’s just a good
time of the year for businesses. It does make me sad. But I can’t do anything
about it. One day, I’ll have a family of my own, and I just hope that my kids
will feel that magic, that feeling that makes you think that your entire lifetime
will be full of joy. Eat candy when you want. Watch cartoons when you want.
Have your grandparents around all your life. Have them hug you when you’re sad,
when you’re big sister’s picking on you. Be able to feel complete joy at
watching an old man open up a gift. Those are the simple things that make up
life. Once you realize that the little things in life are indeed the finest,
you will better understand who you are. Then you will lead a more complete
life, and have the satisfaction that you’ve not missed out. Sure, through life
we miss out on a lot. I haven’t seen Bob Dylan in concert yet, and I haven’t
climbed Mount Everest, nor do I plan to. But
my point is that I have people in my surroundings that I love, and because I
take the time to absorb their memories means that they’ll stay with me as long
as I live, which means, to me, that my life is, and will be, complete. The
American pianist Oscar Levant said:</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">“</span><span lang="FR"><a href="http://www.quotationspage.com/quote/839.html" title="Click for further information about this quotation"><span lang="EN-CA" style="color: windowtext; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Happiness isn't something you experience; it's something
you remember.</span></a></span><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">So true. I couldn’t have said it better. In fact, it’s taken me an
entire essay to say this.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Memories. Not concrete. Yet so powerful. Memories are but thoughts. I
have a million different thoughts, make decisions with those thoughts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pierre
still teaches me today, helps me to see what I should do. His memory keeps him
alive, and keeps my spirit going.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Now Pierre’s
tombstone lies stone-cold in the Meteghan cemetery, some moss finding a home at
the base of the rock. The rock that spells out his name, birth date, and date
of death. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Cycle of Life.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">I visit occasionally. I bring flowers. That’s what you have to do,
right? He lies next to my grandmother, next to his father, and next to my
brother, who never lived long enough to know life’s many complications.
Cemeteries don’t freak me out. It’s part of life. I crouch down in front of the
tombstone and I can see Pierre,
in his old chair, rocking back and forth.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Smiling.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">I can hear his voice so clearly when I think of him, hear it perfectly.
I can’t describe his voice to you. But his voice still exists with me. Why can
I still hear him? Did he have that much of an impact? Yes. I’m not saying he
was an angel on earth. When he was my age, I’m told he was known to be a
drinker and had many a party. Is this why I relate? Imperfect yet good at
heart.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Was I impressed by Pierre
merely because of his age? I’ve always been fascinated with history; so was I
fascinated by the fact that he’d seen a lot of things? He’d lived in a time
much different than mine…could this explain anything? Maybe.</span></div>
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<span lang="FR"><br /></span><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">When it’s my time to go, I don’t want it to be totally sad. Sure, I
secretly hope people might cry, and talk about how much I’ll be missed. We’re
all selfish like that. But I hope that right before I die, I will have
gleefully sat in my own rocking chair, being happy about the hundred years that
I have lived and proud of every wrinkle on my face. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">When I leave this world, I hope to leave my own legacy of smiling
grandchildren who will find their very own goldfish trees in life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Thank you, Pierre,
for unknowingly sprinkling my life with your wisdom, your jokes, and your
toothless grins. </span></div>Gisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572395225696333664.post-33491260300940010972012-06-05T11:36:00.001-07:002012-06-06T14:40:41.433-07:00It's good to be insane: let me inspire you ... (with a little help from Einstein)A little inspiration post from yours truly, <i style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">the Canadian G.</i><br />
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
9 days ago I started the Insanity Workout Program. It's precisely that, no BS; it's insane.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Insanity is Albert Einstein</b>. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Let me explain. We've all heard his famous quote concerning insanity: "<span class="st"><i>Insanity</i> is doing the same thing<wbr></wbr>, over and over again, but expecting different results.</span>"<br />
But let me shed some more light on my interpretation.<br />
<br />
About 5 minutes into doing this Insanity workout, I start to think to myself: "Am I insane for doing this? I <i>must </i>be insane for doing this. I am about to die". About 10 minutes in, I'm almost drowning in the gigantic droplets of sweat rolling off my forehead as I hurl my body up and down and sideways, grunting, and yelling and swearing at the instructor on the laptop screen. (sexy, n'est-ce-pas?)<br />
<br />
<i>Why? Why?! The Insanity!!</i><br />
<br />
... 45 minutes later, I lift up my head after the cool down, heart starting to beat slower (descending from a Ferrari engine rate to a BMW engine rate, approx.), feeling extremely tired but extremely proud that I pushed through it all, once again.<br />
Then, I look in the mirror - I am Albert Einstein.<br />
No, really.<br />
I have a slightly crazed look, sometimes my tongue is hanging out, and my hair is sticking out like his magnetic head of hair.<br />
But I did it and I'll do it again tomorrow.<br />
<br />
Accomplishments come in many forms. This isn't about working out, about looking great. It's about proving to myself that I can do something that I once thought impossible. We often convince ourselves that we're not good enough, and we never end up trying. In the end, it is far better to have tried then to regret a million things not tried. Our egos get in the way. We need to change the way we think so that possibilities become endless.<br />
<span style="color: orange;"></span><br />
<span style="color: orange;"><span style="color: orange;"> Our life is shaped by our
mind; we become what we think. Suffering follows an evil thought as </span></span><br />
<span style="color: orange;"><span style="color: orange;"> the wheels of a cart follow the oxen that draws it. Our life is shaped by
our mind; we become </span></span><br />
<span style="color: orange;"><span style="color: orange;"> what we think. Joy follows a pure thought like a
shadow that never leaves.</span><span style="color: red;"> - The Buddha</span>
</span><br />
<br />
<br />
But here's where Einstein is slightly wrong : I keep doing this workout over and over, and the reason I expect a different result is because that is what I am getting - strength, self-confidence, and a new kick-ass attitude. Yeah Yuh!<br />
<br />
I'm very happy to be insane.<br />
<br />
Yours Truly,<br />
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">
<i>The Canadian GT .. yeah.</i></div>
<br />
And now, Einstein on a bicycle.<br />
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<br />Gisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572395225696333664.post-79089593758533438292012-05-30T19:58:00.001-07:002012-05-30T20:10:18.497-07:00Mickey, you are...<br />
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<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: magenta;">#findmickey </span></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US">People
should never just vanish...</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US">I address
this to <span style="color: purple;">Mickey</span>… but. it’s probably my way of dealing with this horrible
situation. An attempt at understanding evil, understanding the impossible.</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US">A Letter to
the love shown by the people of Lafayette.</span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US"> A Letter
to Mickey.</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US">Dear
Mickey, whom I’ve never met, I think about you all the time.</span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US"> I wonder if
we’ve crossed paths in town before, at school perhaps? Or maybe on our bikes.
What does this mean? Maybe nothing at all. Or perhaps all of this
self-reflection that many of us have undoubtedly been feeling in the last
couple weeks does mean something; maybe it means everything. Maybe, just maybe, we’ll look at the people
around us a little differently. Maybe we’ll pay more attention.</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US">Dear
Mickey, I see myself in you. I think you’ve captivated everyone for many
reasons; there’s a purity that gleams in your eyes, an easy-kind-of-freedom
that radiates from your smile.</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US">You are our
daughters and our best friends. You are the butterfly that <i>tickles </i>a little
girl’s nose.</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US">The fact is
we’ve all grown throughout this ordeal. We’ve learned about ourselves, about
the precariousness of life. Maybe most importantly, we’ve learned to grow as a
community.</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US">I close my eyes and I send you my love, wherever you are, Mickey. </span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US">Love, <span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">me.</span></span></b></div>
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</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/YqUsAHTUPTU" width="420"></iframe> </span></div>Gisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572395225696333664.post-52744105633713208472012-04-15T15:26:00.000-07:002012-04-15T16:29:45.524-07:00Kisatchie National Forest, LA : a weekend of lessons<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nf-FjxlPV48/T4su_NSOsnI/AAAAAAAAALA/twwmxeuFMD4/s1600/DSCF2051.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="263" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nf-FjxlPV48/T4su_NSOsnI/AAAAAAAAALA/twwmxeuFMD4/s400/DSCF2051.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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I finally got to go camping in Louisiana, during Easter weekend at Kisatchie National Forest. Boasting more than 600 000 acres, this place was sure to tickle my camping fancy. There's not much I enjoy more than camping out in the wilderness. Forget the well laid-out campgrounds. I want to be in the middle of nowhere, where I can find myself once again. I want to hear the wind in the trees and the birds (and the bees). After a rough couple weeks of unexpected news (which is always followed by questions of: <i>what do I want in life?, </i>etc) this retreat was needed. Hikes, gourmet camp food, hot sun, bugs, and yes - the Easter bunny found me out here!</div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The trees never seem to sleep. They watch over us as we drift off into slumber. Although I was very tired as I lay curled up in a sleeping bag, my mind suddenly became very clear, and I knew I had to write.</span><br />
<br />
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The full moon was lighting up the sky and creating beautiful silhouettes for me </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
throught the tent's netting:</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>Darkness</b></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The forest is a desert</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
whose silence makes</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
the crickets blare</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
symphonies of</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Reminders.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And forces you to look into</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
the cold shadows</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
of your heart.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Tree limbs stretched</div>
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out above your head</div>
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Not judging you but</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
patiently showing</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
you what you're</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
choosing.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
to ignore.</div>
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The moon </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
watches you</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
over you</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It can teach you</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
more enlightening things</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
about yourself</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Than the Sun ever could</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Because when the moon arrives</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
at night,</div>
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It shuts off the lights of the World</div>
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and achingly shines</div>
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its spotlight on your</div>
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Earthly self.</div>
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There's nowhere to hide</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
in the Darkness.</div>
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April 8th 2012. GT. Kisatchie.</div>Gisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572395225696333664.post-59216528581549896682012-02-11T10:26:00.000-08:002012-02-25T13:43:53.512-08:00Doobie Brothers Road Trip.<br />
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<b><span lang="EN-US">I was
sitting in the library, not at « work », but working on my thesis. Well, in all honesty I was looking at my screen thinking intelligent thoughts about Acadie, while
listening to Classic Rock. The Doobie Brother’s “China Grove” came on my Itunes. (go ahead, play it)</span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-US"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/udSHItTjWyQ" width="420"></iframe> </span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-US">My foot started to tap. I possibly did some subtle air-guitar playing.
Nonetheless, it put me in a good mood, as it usually does. I was transported to
my dream land, a land where my dreams come true and everything's nice. Ah yes. I imagined me taking
the road trip I’ve been meaning to take, across America. Summertime. Windows
down, classic rock blaring, sticking my hand out and feeling the pressure of
the air in and under my hand. Stopping in interesting towns. Eating interesting
food. Laughing uncontrollably with fatigue. Almost running out of gas a few
times. Sleeping in a tent, and once, at a cheap motel because it was raining too damn hard.</span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-US">Lots of coffee cups in the backseat. </span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span lang="EN-US">All of this ignites the flame that lights up who I really am. </span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US">Here's a picture of my 2 great friends, when we took a road trip to New Orleans last year... the dream continues, but the dream is now. I'm going to make my dreams come true. (apologies for sounding so cliché. actually, I'm not sorry. I'm proud of my clichéness). Leave a comment. About anything that makes your foot tap, or about your dreams. Be <i>sappy </i>with me, my friends. Peace ;)</span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US"> </span></b></div>Gisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572395225696333664.post-2271407745328279642012-02-04T08:55:00.000-08:002012-02-04T08:59:53.426-08:00Afternoon Groceries on my bike.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZzfJZawgRj0/Tysl7_M_biI/AAAAAAAAAKg/l789WJjc18o/s1600/192177109068930868_87FHl3xD_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZzfJZawgRj0/Tysl7_M_biI/AAAAAAAAAKg/l789WJjc18o/s320/192177109068930868_87FHl3xD_b.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b>The splendor of a warm afternoon rain unearthed the beauty in the misty air as I rode my bike to the grocery store.<br />Pedalling allows me to glide through the world. Freer than most folks stuck in their cars. I feel closer to the trees. I feel every little bump below me. I hear things I'd never heard.<br />Time is no longer measured by anxious small moments that have deadlines so near you can taste them. Heart pounding and short breaths.<br />Time is measured by the endless possibility of tomorrow and of the upcoming year. Life is eternal. As long as you feel its Energy. The heart smiles and you breathe fully.<br />A little girl with hair so blond in a car with her mom stopped at the corner where I was waiting to cross. She was probably 12. Her shy gaze looked up at me, down at her lap, and back up at me. I smiled. She smiled back.<br />She was <u>me </u>at that age.</b><br />
<b>A glance in a mirror. </b><br />
<b>What have I accomplished in 15 years? What have I endured?<br />I remembered who I was then, a girl that wanted to save the rainforests, play with monkeys. I was going to change the world. And by night I was a ninja.<br />Possibilities. Growing older closes doors that actually cannot be closed because all we have are windows. It's all about how you choose to see.</b><br />
<b>I wondered for a moment what the girl thought about me. </b><br />
<b>Sometimes I feel so connected to my surroundings, it's as though I am them and they are me. Maybe that's why I have so much faith in others.</b><br />
<b>Easier to get hurt. </b><br />
<b>I'm so grateful that I get the chance to have a 'bike' kind of life. My days have movement.</b><br />
<b>Our lives are but a passing wind, from childhood to the last breath. I want to fill my days with love from now on.</b><br />
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<b><br /> </b><br />
<br />Gisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572395225696333664.post-51810254111477659192012-01-26T14:23:00.000-08:002012-01-26T14:23:28.132-08:00Surprise!...here's Life.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rPfryhb5fW4/TyHSB_QRvmI/AAAAAAAAAKY/pnzn8j-8S-Y/s1600/Texture_background_field_by_fotojenny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rPfryhb5fW4/TyHSB_QRvmI/AAAAAAAAAKY/pnzn8j-8S-Y/s640/Texture_background_field_by_fotojenny.jpg" width="458" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<b>Life as a Surprise.</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<b>Some people will surprise you in good ways, and unfortunately, others will surprise you in very bad ways, something you would never have expected from them.</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<b>It may throw you on the ground, and you may feel as though the dust inhibits you from breathing and from properly seeing the world spinning around you.</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<b>Just wait for the dust to settle. It'll come in a day, a week, maybe a month. But it will come.</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<b>And when it does, you will lift yourself off of the ground, and you will find a new, beautiful path that you had never seen before. Maybe you will hop on a train and end up somewhere new. Or maybe you'll stay somewhere familiar, as strong as ever.</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<b>Nevertheless, just hold on to that invisible thing that is Hope. It'll get you through anything my dears.</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<b>Love,</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<b>G.</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<b>ps: and if not, eat dark chocolate and drink coffee.</b></div>
<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZS_jn_aEQGk/TyHP4W2nC2I/AAAAAAAAAKQ/Ui-1ycqYfXQ/s1600/Web_Texture_Background_by_pedroJaphed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="416" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZS_jn_aEQGk/TyHP4W2nC2I/AAAAAAAAAKQ/Ui-1ycqYfXQ/s640/Web_Texture_Background_by_pedroJaphed.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Gisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572395225696333664.post-29115413434013795252012-01-24T17:07:00.000-08:002012-01-28T16:51:48.889-08:00Alone in Learning<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
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<br />
<b><span style="font-size: small;">You don't expect that the people you love in your life may not always be there, especially by choice. But it happens. </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: small;">They will shock you.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: small;">And you try to deal with it best you can. Even if it means serious workouts followed by eating dark chocolate while watching comedies from the 80's. And hugs from your friends. Many of those. Because sometimes the tears are going to fall even if you hate that you've been reduced to that, but the hugs make you feel less alone. We're only human.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: small;">So this brings me to the thought I have in my mind this week: being alone.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: small;"><br />I think I've been waiting a while to find someone that would want to experience life with me. Someone that genuinely would enjoy going on my sometimes silly adventures.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: small;">But what if I can't find someone willing to do that with me?</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: small;">I'm going to have to plan on doing these things alone.</span></b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: small;">I have a Bucket List with over 40 entries. I'm sure that list will grow to exceed 100. It gives me satisfaction to scratch off one more thing accomplished. </span></b></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">I've decided to make a list of some of those things that I want to do this year. I can't wait for that impossible person to join me. So far, I am going to:</span></b></div>
<ul>
<li><b> skydive</b></li>
<li><b> Finish Masters degree </b></li>
<li><b> a trip to Alberta</b></li>
<li><b> Go to Italy to study here (http://www.adg.it/) (may be far-fetched, but I'm going to try my best) </b></li>
<li><b> Yoga outside at Sunset & at Sunrise</b></li>
<li><b><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> lots & lots of camping and hiking </span></b></li>
<li><b><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> purchase a DSLR</span></b></li>
</ul>Gisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.com1Lafayette, Louisiane, États-Unis30.2240897 -92.019842730.1143297 -92.1777712 30.333849700000002 -91.8619142tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572395225696333664.post-77614420557431535282011-10-31T13:00:00.000-07:002011-10-31T13:00:18.209-07:00<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Hey friends,</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Don't forget to check out my <a href="http://gtbucketlist.blogspot.com/">bucket list!</a> (I really want to know what you all are yearning to do as well! leave comments! That would make my day)</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Also, there's my '<a href="http://niceattack.blogspot.com/">Let's play nice</a>' blog, where I recently posted a link to a great non-profit organization...that I think you should check out! </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Don't forget to "follow me", that way I'll know if anyone's actually reading this...lol</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Hope you all have a safe and thrilling Halloween!</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">*Keeping the people in Thailand in my thoughts*</span></span><br />
<br />
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<br />Gisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572395225696333664.post-22131240394134390482011-10-23T18:48:00.000-07:002013-09-10T13:04:34.738-07:00Out of the Darkness walk<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
Saturday's <b>Out of the Darkness </b>walk was a success on so many different levels:<br />
<br />
Emotionally - It was an important day for so many families who gathered to remember the ones they love. Pictures of the deceased adorned many of the personalized tshirts.<br />
Financial Success - The money raised will be used in various ways. One of them is that they have implented programs in many of the schools in the Acadiana region to raise awareness and offer help to kids in need.<br />
Awareness - the word suicide makes people uncomfortable. But it is indeed an illness, a mental illness, that is as real as cancer or other illnesses. The more people know about it, the less obscure it becomes, and the more they will be willing to learn about how to deal with those that need help.<br />
<br />
I decided to walk in Jamie Hubley's memory, a 15-year old who after battling depression, ended his life not even 2 weeks ago. He'd also been bullied for being openly gay. I posted a picture of Jamie, a beautiful soul, on the 'Memory Wall':<br />
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Before they released the balloons, they named so many names of people that had committed suicide. Jamie's name was called. <br />
I wrote "Be Free." in my balloon.<br />
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<b>Here's to Jamie.</b></div>
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There's still time to donate to this cause, up until December. Follow this link if you want to (it's a secure site):<br />
<br />
http://afsp.donordrive.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=donorDrive.participant&eventID=1338&participantID=226674Gisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572395225696333664.post-32150075909041703672011-10-17T08:28:00.000-07:002011-10-17T13:56:08.362-07:00Festival-ing<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hxabdkOFpO4/TpxNAYlt1yI/AAAAAAAAAIw/n8bQXjeFeMo/s1600/300551_10150876628420611_819420610_21599680_58410856_na.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664487100321224482" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hxabdkOFpO4/TpxNAYlt1yI/AAAAAAAAAIw/n8bQXjeFeMo/s320/300551_10150876628420611_819420610_21599680_58410856_na.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
Things I learned at Festival Acadien et Créole this year:<br />
<br />
- although we like to complain about the dust, it's a great conversation topic. People love to talk about it, whether about how much there is, and afterwards, about how when you blow your nose.. well you can imagine.<br />
- I've added 2 guys on my list of: do not dance with them. ever. again.<br />
- Wayne Toups and Steve Riley = good times.<br />
- Even if you're 27 (me), many people still believe you're under the age of 21...<br />
- Canadians enjoy alligator-on-a-stick and beignets a whole lot.<br />
- this Festival is awesome because most of the Festival goers are in a great mood! (it does not matter wether this happiness is alcohol-induced or not)<br />
- force yourself, using any strength you have left, to go to the Blue Moon afterwards, each night. it's worth it, even if you feel like a sardine.<br />
- Monday comes around and you realize how much stuff you need to get done. Reality sets in. Sad times. It shall be a week of intense studying. If you need me, i'll be at a coffee shop somewhere in Lafayette.<br />
<br />
Looking forward to the next one!<br />
<br />
Cheers mes amisGisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572395225696333664.post-51884177606728278732011-09-27T08:36:00.000-07:002011-09-27T08:41:38.767-07:00So for now, here's what's upUpdates up the yazoo.<br />In case you care, I've scratched off a second item off my Bucket List (I fed a giraffe...twice!) You can check out my list <a href="http://gtbucketlist.blogspot.com/">here</a> :)<br /><br />Do you have a list?? I'd love to know about it. I find that having one has allowed me to live life with a 'let's do it!' attitude.<br /><br />I've also got a Blog part deux on the go... Here's the first <a href="http://niceattack.blogspot.com/">post</a>. It's a blog about doing great things in this world...how to make it a nicer, happier place!<br /><br />Cheers friends! Remember to tell someone I love you todayGisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572395225696333664.post-73517034612870449742011-08-03T11:48:00.000-07:002011-10-13T11:34:57.240-07:00Autumn and decisions<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jyRvRQZY77A/TpcvOTw8vjI/AAAAAAAAAIk/A8NZxnD98EE/s1600/mc-random-43.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 291px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jyRvRQZY77A/TpcvOTw8vjI/AAAAAAAAAIk/A8NZxnD98EE/s320/mc-random-43.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663046979311943218" border="0" /></a><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:hyphenationzone>21</w:HyphenationZone> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Tableau Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">I started this blog post a few weeks ago:<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA" lang="EN-CA">Takin’ life by the horns. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">That sounds like a saying PETA would object… In any case, in our lifetime, we often find ourselves afraid of everything. We’re more afraid of things, people, events, than not. Except if you’re Bob Marley. Don’t worry…about a thing. Those kinds of cats exhude relaxation. Ignoring the possible help of a certain herbal supplement.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">We are afraid of consequences; “If I make this decision, maybe it’ll end up biting me in the...derrière.” Alright, so maybe that will happen. Maybe not. Nobody knows. Today’s society finds us all wrapped in a big blanket of anxiety, and stress.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA" lang="EN-CA">I asked myself this week: if I had one year to live (I am aware of this seemingly overused philosophy), would I live differently? Think differently? We all know we would, but how to put this into action?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA" lang="EN-CA">Step 1: Foregoing an assistantship in order to have a more peaceful frame of mind.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Life isn't meant to be really easy and all fun.<br />I want to chronicle how some of this goes. I think it would be fun if any of you would join along with me...maybe blog about it, let me know about it, or just leaving a comment.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">For now, as leaves fall and autumn embraces us in a pumpkin-spiced word....let's be grateful for what we do have, and pray that the rest will fall into place.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-CA" lang="EN-CA"><br /></span></p>Gisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572395225696333664.post-90126334959580673992011-03-08T16:09:00.000-08:002011-03-10T07:47:47.537-08:00it's about Time and no Time.<span style="font-weight: bold;">I feel as though I'm about to write something really cliché.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Home. Love. Life. Decisions. FriendsFreedomFinances!! ...are but some thoughts I am having.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I'm near the crossroads ya'll and it's scary.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Afraid of disappointment. Disappointing me? Others? Who?</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Do I stay in the USA? Do I go back to school right after I graduate from my MA.? Do I travel?</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Will I find love?!</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">What would Kerouac do?</span><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQNZzk0C2O09HJWZP5lJcykk0TUSQoFqE-vyS1B0b4vbhfi7uEK"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 196px; height: 257px;" src="http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQNZzk0C2O09HJWZP5lJcykk0TUSQoFqE-vyS1B0b4vbhfi7uEK" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It's</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">poem. Time.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">What are Thoughts</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">what are Awakenings</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">what is the truth.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">What is the right</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> thing</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> to do.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Who says what decision is right</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">and who is right to make the decision</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">They are but our longings wants</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">needs desires</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">There is no right thing to do because</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">life is a million causes and</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">effects</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">of which we have no control</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">And not being able to predict</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">the Future the only power we</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">have is the power to make</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">a Decision.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Right or right.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">(Feb. 26.2011) .GT.</span><gt></gt>Gisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572395225696333664.post-91054563295831714662010-12-08T04:51:00.000-08:002010-12-12T20:05:47.593-08:00I'll be home for Christmas<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> <w:hyphenationzone>21</w:HyphenationZone> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> 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</w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Tableau Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0cm; mso-para-margin-right:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0cm; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-US" >I’ve always read, heard, or watched films about people </span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-US" >going home for the holidays. But this is my first being the </span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-US" >one ‘going home’. I’m sitting on a plane, flying from New Orleans to Philadelphia, and then connecting to Halifax. </span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-US" >Home. It’s dark in the cabin, we’re approaching supper time. The sun is setting on the </span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-US" >horizon which we are leaving behind, casting oranges a</span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-US" >nd red, purple shadows upon the clouds. It’s a little surreal for me, going home for </span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-US" >Christmas. It feels very grown-up like. I have a li</span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-US" >fe in the USA now.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8cs4RDDUlKI/TQWZnc-f7NI/AAAAAAAAAHY/1q-3YqVSle4/s1600/DSCF4696.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8cs4RDDUlKI/TQWZnc-f7NI/AAAAAAAAAHY/1q-3YqVSle4/s320/DSCF4696.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550011018876284114" border="0" /></a></span></p><p style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-US" ><br /></span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-US" >Cherishing memories is what I do best. Perhaps it makes me appear dorky. Call me what you will. I love Christmas. I love my family and my friends and my cat. I love Christmas carols, Christmas lights, Christmas spirit, I love wrapping gifts in front of our fireplace while listening to Christmas carols, my cat watching me and playing with the random bits of wrapping paper. I love baking festive cookies with my mom, watching all the classic Christmas movies, and that feeling I whenever I pass by a house that is brightly lit. I love watching the snow flakes fall, glittering on the ground, shimmering sideways as they pass by the window. I love going for walks in the snow, how it crunches underneath my boots. I love Christmas Eve, it’s peaceful anticipation of the day to come. All these reasons and a million more for why I can't wait to be home.<br /></span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-US" >My musical soundtrack for the plane ride is a méli-mélo of who I am: eclectic. Bing Crosby, Bobby Helms, and Tony Bennett sing me Christmas songs. Alanis is telling me what she really wants. And Arlibido talking about jiggling Jell-o. </span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-US" >(Do not Flush while sitting on toilet) – I’ve always been (probably too) amused by this saying. What would happen?<br /></span></p><p style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-US" >I am home now. It feels wonderful. It baffles me how strong the element of familiarity can be. I look forward to the upcoming weeks. And I will no doubt keep ya'll informed.</span></p><p style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-US" >Love always,</span></p><p style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-US" >me.<br /></span></p>Gisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572395225696333664.post-17580028967963879162010-09-05T18:09:00.000-07:002010-09-19T21:34:47.364-07:00I feel you waterWater is Life.<br /><br />Perhaps a phrase heard one too many times. Maybe too obvious to ring true anymore.<br />But, possibly one that holds so much beauty in its grasp, that it deserves reconsideration. Hear me out.<br /><br />I sit on a black, metal bench, a few feet away from the Girard Park pond. Unconscious glances suddenly revealed to me the magnetic force of water. Literally, water has long been linked to the moon, the latter exercising a strong magnetic pull which creates the tide. Mi'kmaq legends explain the tides as a massive whale in the water, which I'll gladly accept as well.<br /><br />The pond is encircled by people. People of all ages. Families. Couples (one Mexican couple making out in the gazebo. Right in front of me).<br /><br />In today's world, people...families rarely get together to just Be. But here, families are just strolling, enjoying each other's company. They are being.<br /><br />Dogs frolick. The ducks, travelling in groups like troubadours, quacking for food, or like vagabonds, swim in the water, feeding, cleaning themselves.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8cs4RDDUlKI/TJbQaEXcxlI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/5-O56I43JIs/s1600/DSCF0809.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8cs4RDDUlKI/TJbQaEXcxlI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/5-O56I43JIs/s200/DSCF0809.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518827539656394322" border="0" /></a><br />Children happily throw them bread, a lifesource. Two girls, two sweet twins, their faces chocolate-colored, their dressed of a soft yellow which ties in the back in a big ol' bow, hair piled up high, throw bread, believing this is a first for the ducks. Excitement. Compassion.<br />There is a unifying force here at play.<br /><br />We are all connected here, in 'l'Acadie Tropicale'. 1755 tore families apart. The sea quickly then became a dreadful enemy, a symbol of despair, of the ripping apart. But it then became the way of life, and also for many similar cases for the Acadians exiled to Southern Louisiana.<br /><br />how many thousands of organisms life in the water before my naked eyes? (Boggles the mind. It should, because the inter-connectedness of those creatures are as instrumental to our equilibrium as any other element.)<br /><br />A teenage girl feeds McDonald's fries to the ducks. I suppose everything deserves a treat now and then. And high cholesterol.<br /><br />Three ducks speed past me, wings flapping the top layers of the pond ferociously-happily. The pre-speedboats. Environmentally-friendly.<br /><br />We may think we control our World, nature. Our egos tell us we are the Kings of this 21st Century concrete-jungle.<br /><br />But the ducks, the pond, show us otherwise. As the trees surrounding it (and in it), drinking Mother Nature's gift, let us reflect on the delicate drop. The meaning of the water. The clouds that circle all around us all. Nothing <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> seperates us. Look at the ducks next time, as a child does.<br />Remind yourself how they need water to Be.<br />And we do too.Gisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572395225696333664.post-89231557249202808252010-08-09T07:17:00.000-07:002010-09-15T12:38:52.655-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8cs4RDDUlKI/TIREbxNiJ4I/AAAAAAAAAHA/eWfJMg7a7S8/s1600/Holding_hands_by_homarte-1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8cs4RDDUlKI/TIREbxNiJ4I/AAAAAAAAAHA/eWfJMg7a7S8/s200/Holding_hands_by_homarte-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513607087665588098" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">i'm a romantic.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">Not a cinderella-romantic. Although I love Disney.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">i'm a Wordsworth romantic: (example) "</span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);" class="body">For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">Lately, things in my life have seemingly shifted but on the surface have stayed the same. Like a leaf in the wind.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">Love. Life. Living Life. Loving Life. Living to Love. The last one fits most clearly.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">No matter what we tell people, no matter of what we try to convince ourselves, we want to love and be loved. And don't worry, it's not narcisistic to say so either.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">A heartache can reak havoc on us more than we first believe. It's silent. Not concrete. Hard to explain the emotions we feel. It's like a ghost ship that has sunk but keeps haunting.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">Sometimes we believe we're in the clear, we're ok. Usually that's the last hurdle to overcome, usually the hardest.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">I think it's safe to say i'm ready. Ready for life again. i've had a great run in the last couple years. I've conquered fears. I moved to another country for Grad school. But I think it took coming back home, a reconnection with myself, to make me realize a few things; I pondered so many times: when will I not feel like a little girl anymore? I still feel that way, yet now their is a strong peace, that makes me feel like a warrior.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">During an escapade on the Bay, nature was in line with my soul, thoughts pure; As the ocean lay before me, welcoming me, embracing my soul, I asked myself: Am I ready? Ready to love again? ...which is to say: am i ready to let go?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">Yes.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">No one really wants to be alone.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">It is possible to be with oneself. Meditation brings me there.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">But dang it - I still want someone with whom I'll drink my coffee in the early morning light.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204); font-weight: bold;">Namaste</span>Gisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572395225696333664.post-79400793061491110902010-07-27T16:39:00.001-07:002010-09-15T12:40:14.196-07:00Little girl filling big shoes<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Little girl steps into her momma's high heeled shoes. Wobbly, she looks in the mirror and tries ever so carefully to apply the red lipstick, like her momma does every morning.</span><br /><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8cs4RDDUlKI/TE9xI8z8BwI/AAAAAAAAAGw/z7tXkTKliCM/s1600/kids2.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 230px; height: 177px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8cs4RDDUlKI/TE9xI8z8BwI/AAAAAAAAAGw/z7tXkTKliCM/s200/kids2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498738068619527938" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I am pretty sure that my current waves of thoughts is being brought about by my upcoming birthday (yes, it's true; next week I turn 26). But it's a thought that's been reacurring for the last couple years. </span><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Do you feel like an adult?</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Strangely enough I feel embarassed to say that I don't, not quite. I often feel like the little girl in the shaky high heels, trying to act the part. But i'm going to be 26. Where is the finish line for 'youth'?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I'm a Grad student at a University in a different country then my home. I have a car. I do dishes. Cook. Clean, etc etc. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Introspection gets the best of me.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I suppose it's inevitable, that I should be nostalgic and such a few days before the next year of my life. Maybe i'll need to be the so-called 'settled' (aka: married and a house) in order to feel that adult-y feeling. We'll see. There's a quote I love, "Grandmothers are just 'antique' little girls." At the end of the day, perhaps the feeling I have is not one of being 'young or little', but maybe it is simply the feeling of my own unique being. Maybe it is the 'me' that will stick with me for the rest of my days.<br /><br />It wouldn't be that bad...When I'm 85, looking in the mirror, how cute would it be to picture myself as a little blond-headed girl, wobbly in the high-heeled shoes..<br /><br />What do you think?</span></span>Gisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572395225696333664.post-78043931415700985892010-07-23T04:53:00.000-07:002010-08-06T11:34:59.089-07:00Poem titles stress me out.<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);font-family:georgia;" >A longing deep inside me</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);font-family:georgia;" >Exists</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);font-family:georgia;" >And sways in the breeze of untrollable thoughts</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);font-family:georgia;" >A yearning</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);font-family:georgia;" >for the touch.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);font-family:georgia;" >There's a look</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);font-family:georgia;" >We all know</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);font-family:georgia;" >A hooked</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);font-family:georgia;" >heart</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);font-family:georgia;" >a comfort</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);font-family:georgia;" >even apart.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);font-family:georgia;" >You are a mystery to me</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);font-family:georgia;" >The face with no distinction</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);font-family:georgia;" >But what I would give</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);font-family:georgia;" >To know who you are.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);font-family:georgia;" >I will hold you someday.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);font-family:georgia;" >I will try to take your breath away.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);font-family:georgia;" >Your name will flow from my soul</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);font-family:georgia;" >As we meet, I know.</span>Gisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572395225696333664.post-28954108839233103422010-07-09T06:33:00.001-07:002010-09-15T12:41:18.125-07:00Mossy adventures through time<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://chestyle.com/pictures/lj/20080816_1_grib23.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 308px; height: 231px;" src="http://chestyle.com/pictures/lj/20080816_1_grib23.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>
<br /><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5Cthgisele%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:hyphenationzone>21</w:HyphenationZone> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:35.4pt; mso-footer-margin:35.4pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Tableau Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Blogs have never been my strong point; I forget to update them. This week, I was reading a blog (not mine), and I was suddenly filled with ideas, inspiration. That happens to me sometimes when I read. Not often. But it is the Why to ‘why’ I love to write. It’s how I release those ideas. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">The blog was <a style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" href="http://jaderbomb247.blogspot.com/">Jader Bomb</a>'s, and she wrote about finding colored glass buried in the wood. As though she had tapped a magic wand on my head (preferably a sparkly one), I was transported back in time (the art of writing, my friend, is indeed the ultimate time machine). I was placed square in my grandma’s backyard, in the woods, underneath the canopy of tall pines, the ground a soft blanket of pine needle and moss. It’s another world there. As a child, I would often go play in there… the summer rays would create a great ambiance and the smell of the pine made me feel alive. Sometimes I would find old bottles, often broken, half-buried in the ground (how safe this was). I was tremendously excited to find these! I would picture my grandparents, in the ‘old days’, drinking from these bottles. I imagined young men sneaking a few brew… It was moments like those that were the golden moments of my childhood. Jader Bomb’s colored glass brought me there again.</span></p><p style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Cheers yall. I hope you find yourself in great spirits tonight. and everyday. :)
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<br /><span style="" lang="EN-CA"><o:p></o:p></span></p> Gisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572395225696333664.post-6690404446922752552010-06-06T10:39:00.001-07:002010-06-13T19:51:48.144-07:00a new unfinished poemwe are all vagabonds<br />strumming our own tunes listening to the waves as they<br />play the bongos and djembes of our rituals<br />strum humming along the seasons everchanging<br />cracks on the sidewalks as a little girl<br />have now become the cracks in the heart<br /><br />-- -- --<br /><br />Embark with me on a snowy cloud<br />that trails the frail<br /><br />Enlightenment is just beyond<br />Cradled where the sun blankets the<br />Forest floor<br />The Spring is but a hot winter's caress<br />Nothing. Less,<br />Mother Nature<br />Hear my call<br />I won't ignore yours.Gisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572395225696333664.post-86706561600902880742009-05-25T11:31:00.000-07:002009-05-25T11:33:28.705-07:00hmmA little over a year passed since I saw Bob in concert for the 1st time. A whole YEAR. A lot has changed, yet bigger changes are coming. Life is like that.<br />Decisions, decisions. That's what life is made up of...decisions... We'll all make choices, and there are no right or wrong decisions made. We follow a path and nonetheless, we learn. There's good in everything. Really.<br />So now - am I looking for work? School?Gisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572395225696333664.post-44900712057581230322008-12-15T05:30:00.001-08:002010-09-15T12:42:15.111-07:00Fleet Freeriding.<p style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Flying fleet of a Freeriding<br />Wave<br />continuous motion<br />our solution.<br /><br />swirling, Falling</span></p> <p style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">As the hipster<br />burning Sun man<br />pierces its crimson<br />promise<br />Reflecting in the grey-eyed dog<br />ol' Master we are not<br />in it for now<br />But in IT for the long haul.</span></p>Gisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572395225696333664.post-77701101896967625742008-10-06T06:51:00.000-07:002008-10-06T06:52:16.670-07:00Breathe Life Smoke.<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">The road snakes its way past the farm house<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Where the red barn<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Brown cow<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Pigs cat dog<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Hauls the hay<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">And picks at the pantry<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">The old lady<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Bent over<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Sizzle, the eggs<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Hard work<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Bad back<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">As the smell of the cowboy<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Spooks the lonesome traveler<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">As the black car<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Smoke fumes<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Escapes the pipe, coughing<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">The hitchhiking vagabond who doesn't believe<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">In you me them or god<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Smokes his joint as the horse watches him<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Black eyes<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Stare.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">And the sweat rolls off the labourer as the hobo <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Hums and strums and licks<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">And spits at his harmonica<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Everyone's watching<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Through a window we call our eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">It's a slow day<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Mist and moon<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">There's no time for thinking or waiting<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">The road snakes its way down<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Horizon swallows it up<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">It doesn't matter<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Where it goes<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Promises kept unkept<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">And lies like the spider<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">This web beautiful<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">But traps unsuspectfully<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Creatures.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Inhale.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-CA">Exhale.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--- blogger's current book/movie/music/games ---> <table class="blogContentInfo" border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr valign="top"><td> <br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Gisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572395225696333664.post-50588021574569238732008-09-04T18:29:00.000-07:002008-09-04T18:32:42.373-07:00Urban Bag of Bonesrestrictions and constrictions<br />do this do that<br />no don’t and stop!<br />confusion sets in as I wander this asphalt jungle<br />clarity is stuck in that latte<br />and in that CEO<br /><br />Politics is the new Hollywood<br />in things, fads, trends, fashion<br />Obama shirts à la Che<br />next to the Ramones<br />Let’s Go.<br /><br />The World’s People is<br />One Big Dysfunctional family<br />Nobody will<br />pass the gravy<br />to thy neighbour.<br />Backstabbing, greedy, needy<br />Really?<br />But Dr. Phil said so.<br /><br />unsaturated stained glass world<br />Don’t expect yet except this acceptance<br /><br />We’re all bag of bones<br />Whatcha’ think your soul is?<br />Is it a rainbow<br />the miraculous<br />Grins, embrace, love,<br />faith or fate?<br />mine is honey<br />Positivism sticks<br />Maybe my soul’s crazy glue.Gisele Theriaulthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05885276915759861281noreply@blogger.com2