Indecisive Peach

I’ve been thinking on this theme of motivation for a while. I’ve been wanting to write on it and I thought of a story earlier this morning. It reminds me that I can be very motivated when I, amusingly enough, want to be and when I have that firm spark of will, I do well in fanning the flames.

Two summers ago I had the chance to go to Washington, DC for a job funded trip to take a class at the National Archives. I don’t think I actually blogged much about the trip (even though I did stumble upon the handwritten notes that I took during that time) because…somehow I wasn’t doing much blogging then. [I just opened up my flickr set of the trip if you're curious. Few pictures are of me because the ones I did take where I wasn't on a Segway left me looking like a wilted flower. I am very unused to this thing called humidity.]

The National Archives, the main building down the street from Congress, lends itself much natural grandeur, with tan marble floors and eight foot wooden doors. During my two weeks there, we used the back entrance, the researcher’s entrance, that had us taking our bags through metal detectors guarded by surly workers. We’d march past the office of the Archivist of the United States; those in the biz being properly awed.

One of the highlights and honors expressed to us from day one was a special viewing of the rotunda where they kept the key founding documents of the United States – the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights. Our class of about thirty was to be allowed in the hall by ourselves in a morning before they opened the rotunda to the public. Much oohhhing and awwwing came from all in attendance.

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It sounded like we were at the ocean. The horns from the trucks called out in unison with the shifting of the traffic, as the flow of traffic did not let the trucks in line move past the lights. GS exhaled sharply and decided to jump ahead the line of the cars.

Of all the cutting differences between GS and I, the one I find the most amusing is his style of driving. It’s a very boyfriend modified version and I dare not speculate how he drives on his own, but I’ve told him that to an observer it’s very much a “25 percent pleasant smiles and 75 percent fuck you” surgical style of driving. It’s like being on a roller coaster and I rather love it, yelling “Weeeeeee” and clutching the door; because if I don’t stand out for other things in Mexico, the word “Weeeee” culminates the process to a shorthand.

In theory, I’m really blessed in the offering of a new language recently. If I have been speaking to my Mom about my relationship, the end does tend to tie up nicely with, “How’s that Spanish coming along?”

It’s… not, to be honest. I have to conjure up a lot more discipline for myself than what I have currently. [And I was so damn gung-ho.] What has stopped me lately is the metaphor “taking it to the next level.”

This is exemplified with the janitor in our department that is completely enthused about my learning Spanish and my autentico novio who she likes to ask about. We ask each other every day how we are, and by god, I can say, “Muy bien” with astounding certainty. I even can play nice and give apt descriptions for my state – tired (cansada), there is lots of work (mucho trabajo), look! – snow! (mire!…snow!) – the thing is, I want to have other conversations with her and then realize I need to focus on the asking words. I think I asked her how much her children were the other day when I meant to ask how old they are. *hides*

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Chinese tends to pierce my brain like sunlight into fog and perhaps this is a substantive reason why I liked the sound so much. But this back and forth seemed familiar to me…

I was third in line at the bank, rocking ever so slightly back and forth on my legs and had been debating the sexual lives of the men in front of me, an obese older gentleman with a Seattle Seahawks hat – when was the last time he had a come hither moment of raw virility – and a short man in a red, plastic jumpsuit whose coloring, complexion, and sneaking tendrils on his neck and on his knuckles spoke to a hidden blanket of man hair.

Rapid-fire is a tired way to describe listening to a language you don’t know, because it’s natural that this is going to be the speed that a native would speak it. But the back and forth by the two Chinese girls was robotic in their vocalizations, one girl in glasses seeming to cut off the slightly smaller next to her in barking orders.

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