Ramblings: Wandering Towards Sesame Street

Jezebel has a great piece up of Sesame Street clips whose hundreds of comments indicate how impactful the show was to many of my generation. Even now as I watch clips of the hijinks of the muppets and their human friends, I find myself smiling uncontrollably and at points even feel tempted to sing along (especially to that dentist llama joint).

I must say that the smiles and songs are bittersweet--they remind me of how intensely affected I used to be by merely being alive. I used to feel life in everything-- even simple pleasures were charged with meaning. For example,as a child I distinctly remember being enchanted by one Sesame Street clip that showed how crayons are made (embeded below). Prior to watching the clip, all I knew was that someone somewhere somehow managed to put all the world's colors into one deceivingly simple 64-count box and the the colors were so rich and ready to do my bidding that if I only dared rub them along a white page, works of wonder were sure to appear. (Aside: while drawing with crayons was its own kind of magic, crayon activity was secondary. Crayons were at their most powerful when they had just been purchased, were unwrapped moments before and were now standing still side by side, a picture of diversity before I knew colleges commissioned them; at attention in their pointy glory and freshly smelling of paper and wax.)

With no words and using only a grainy steadycam, the Sesame Street treatment showed crayon origins in a way that increased their value rather than diminished it by over-explaining. Sesame Street gave the unparalleled gift of showing crayolal birth set to gently whimsical piano music. That clip emphasized what I'd already known before watching: Crayons=joy+transportation to other realms. Inspiration, thy face art this starry-eyed blogger 18 years back.



Though I may no longer be capable of fire-y enchantment of the crayolal-inspired, another SS clip proved that I'm still very much capable of sappy sentimentality. Someone in the Jez article's comment section linked to a clip of the song "I don't want to live on the moon", which, though I don't specifically remember watching as a child, brought me to tears as I watched it a moment ago and felt its meaning the same way I would have when home was a radius around my mother's lap. I don't know why I cried. Maybe I just tapped into my inner child. Maybe this is simply a well-written song for a children's show whose lyrics would touch anyone, adults and children alike. Or maybe it's the 70s-era brown-tinged images of a muppet playing on the moon while knowing his bed is just inside a window below.

Something about grainy images from decades past add a magical quality to video. It was with these images that I first began to dream and see worlds apart from my own. Whenever I see video from the 70s through the early 90s, they are instantly imbued with charm, cheeriness and optimism for the people occupying the frames. The closest visual analogy would be to say that they sparkle. I mean really glow with otherworldly warmth. Even now at a wizened 23 years old I feel close to their lives in a way that I don't feel when watching HD images on high definition screens. Maybe it's because they still hold the glamor that televised peoples everywhere hold to the eyes of a child.

Plus the 70s and 80s just seem soooo badass compared to today. (Random tangent: I watched El Cantante recently and fell head over heels for the glammed out wardrobe that Jennifer Lopez rocked throughout. I love how cool straight-up, unironic, fabulousity was back then. Balls out looking good was in and people took fashion seriously. Halter top jumpsuits, platform heels, mini skirts, print dresses, feathered hair and bold gold jewelry?! Yes please!)

I wonder if my love for 70s media means that maybe childhood never really leaves us after all.

Bottom line: Sesame Street is a phenomenal show and I miss it.

Like that scene in Amelie when she sinks her hand into a bucket of beans

The sound the little trash bin icon makes when you move an erstwhile useful file into it is pitched perfectly for the action it confirms. It is so satisfying that sometimes, if my macbook is on mute, I will turn the sound on just so I can hear that clickety crush that means my files have been safely disposed of. A toast to you, Apple sound engineers!

I like this

I have a thing for trees. I also have a thing for books. And though not acknowledged nearly as often, I have a major thing for neglected spaces whose stories are a breath away from being forgotten. I want to wander around in whatever photoshopped world this picture exists in because to do so would be to walk around in my innermost self. On my most introspective of days, this place feels like home.

Almost Happy

The first time I heard “Almost Happy” by K's Choice, I was in a Toulousian attic dreaming of Atlanta suburbs that my parents thought I hated. In that first listen, the Belgian band's lyrics caught my heart and held it and all I could think was how I wished I were almost anything but lonely.

My host sister had put the album on in place of our usual silence as we packed for the weekend’s adventures: we were going to her family’s mountain home for a little bit of skiing and a lot of nature communing. All French families have country homes, Michelle, my host mother, had smugly explained. A Frenchman does not feel complete without une deuxieme maison, Serge, my host father, had confirmed. Thus the mountains of Les Midis-Pyrenees cradled the second home my school teacher host mother and civil servant host father had purchased for weekend escapes from la vie de la ville. The well-turned if dubious pages of my mental guidebook that detailed correct behavior for a young exchange student americaine dictated that I feign excitement for a weekend where my host family and their mountains would be the only company. As I packed, however, I felt nothing but resignation.

The doorbell rang. Soon a pounding voice filled all three floors of our narrow townhouse. It belonged to Pascal, the model-esque blonde superwoman who lived next door. "Ti-phan-ieee!" she screamed up the stairs, "Je veux te voir avant que les Amiels t'attrapent dans les montaignes!" I smiled and prepared myself with a quick glance in the mirror. Hair, face, clothing-- check, check, check. One could not enter the Presence of Pascal without a minimal amount of preparation.

I walked down to the first floor common room that dominated most of the house's activity. That room held the television where one day after school I watched CNN International with trepidation as the twin towers fell. It was also where I watched children’s cartoons every Saturday morning, first because they were all I was able to understand but then because I found the adventures of Titeuf so peculiarly filthy that French cartoons became my favorite thing on television. In addition to the tv, the common room also housed the telephone on which I weekly spoke to parents and friends who were forever anxious to hear fabulous tales of French life. I would animatedly recount what to me seemed like dull days, usually the only time I’d speak English all week, then after hanging up (and assuring Serge that I had used a phone card), I would spend the rest of the night dreaming of my mom's chicken and broccoli casserole. Besides the tv and the phone, the room also held the dining room table where we held awkward conversations that were initially dominated by a giant French-English Larousse. That room was the launching pad of my diplomatic career; it is where I tried my best to play the ideal guest despite my sense that my hosts could not wait for the curtain to fall. And now Pascal was standing in the middle of it.

Kiss, kiss, obligatory head to toe silent critique of the other's outfit. Our greeting complete, she looked at me with an expression not unlike the ones she gave her paintings in progress. You are more beautiful now than you were when you first arrived, she says. I laugh. I banter to get more compliments. I ask her if she thinks I was ugly before.
Not ugly, always pretty. But France has made you beautiful.

I liked Pascal. I liked that, unlike most people I met that semester, she never pressured me with politics and her thoughts on US foreign policy. I liked how, when teaching me to paint, she attempted to (seriously) make blue out of green and yellow. I liked how she always corrected my grammatical errors without ruining the flow of conversation. I liked her lack of pretension, her earthy jokes, how she took my host sister and me to bars and discotheques and was never out of place but ruled the dance floor like no one our age ever could. I liked how one day we rode with the top down in her vintage Renault singing 70s music at the top of our lungs for all of Toulouse to hear. I liked how she was never an audience appreciating the performance of The Girl Taking Part in a Wonderful Experience. I liked how she named my loneliness beauty.

That weekend in Les Midis Pyrenees I skied on mountains, strolled through valleys shying away from autumn in favor of winter’s cold embrace, listened at night to the not-so-distant wilderness, ate hearty food, drank hot chocolate and moaned to myself about how alone I felt with all the fervor my fifteen years could summon. Only later did I realize I was almost happy in my almost home, almost happy in loneliness turned beauty.

I don’t know what you want cause you don’t know so what’s the point of asking
And you’re almost happy, almost content
But your head hurts
Far too many ways to go
You learn so much you never know
Where to look or when we should stop looking
~K’s Choice, "Almost Happy"