Isabel Allende splits this memoir "Paula" into two parts. The first part consists of her writing directly to and for her daughter Paula during the time between December 1991 to May 1992. The second part which is from May to December 1992, consists of Allende no longer writing to her daughter but about her daughter and her death, yet still focusing on her own memories.
Throughout the entire memoir, Allende writes of her ancestors, her childhood memories, her lovers, her emotions, and her pains over Paula. The book is titled Paula, not because it is about her and her memories, but it is for her in order to remember where she came from and who the people around her are when she wakes up from her coma. By knowing the memories and people who surround us, we can learn about ourselves and regain knowledge of who we are through their memories. We then can interpret who we are instead of having others tell us how we were as human beings. At the beginning of this memoir, I did not understand why Allende only wrote of her memories and stories and not of Paula's, but now I have realized that only we can tell our own memories, whether or not others believe them is their own choice.
I really enjoyed reading this memoir because it read like a novel. The entire time I spent reading it, I could not believe that it was real and of real events because Allende is able to make her memories so clear and descriptive as though not even one single little detail had been left out. Even I have difficulty remembering complete details of my favorite past occurrences. As I was reading this memoir, I realized that I have been and am still stuck in my own world and that I need to travel to new places in order to open my mind and learn about them like Allende has. She has gone through so many things that it just seems unreal for being only one person.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
Raging Storm
Lightning bolts crack open the sky, splitting it here and there. Lighting up the world for just a split second, then back to the calm, complete darkness. I hear the rumble of the angry storm slowly building up.
"I can't take it any longer! I've got to let it out!" Wind thrusts back and forth, swaying the trees this way and that way. Raindrops the size of pebbles begin to fall from the sky. Just one step outside for one split second and you'll be soaking wet.
I woke up to the sound of my coworker yelling at the top of her lungs over the thundering booms and cracks of the angry storm from outside of my tent.
"Get up, get dressed, and get to the dining hall now!"
I threw my blanket off of me and in a split second, my tent mate and I were running through the field trying to reach the dining hall before we were struck by the storm's raging spears of electricity. Nothing else was on my mind but the dining hall. I've got to get there, it's only a fields length away! But I was distracted by the sky above me and I wanted to see how furious and destructive it was feeling. Not paying any attention to where and how I was running, I found myself smacked face down on the ground. Instead of being angry though, I found myself laughing out loud at myself, at the sky, and at the storm and its bolts and pour. I wanted to stay out there with the storm but my coworker's voice came to me and forced me to run up to the dining hall.
It was chaos in the dining hall. Cub scouts were crying, searching for their parents, rubbing their half closed eyes, and some were even dancing about and trying to get a glimpse of the storm because they were struck with awe. We, as staff were suppose to calm them down and we did just that. We played bingo games, sang random and happy, cheerful songs, and put on hilarious skits for the scouts and their parents. The storm was forgotten about even as it still rumbled on outside.
The next morning, it was as if the storm had never set foot on land the night before. The sun was shining brightly and the air was so humid that I had to take in huge gulps of breath at times. The only sign of a storm ever occurring was the gigantic puddles of rain water, where even if you tried to jump over, you would land right smack in the middle of it.
I don't know why the storm decided to erupt that night. Perhaps it does not need an explanation either. This is why I love the weather and its mood swings (I don't particularly like people mood swings though), for its mysteriousness and unpredictability resembles my being.
"I can't take it any longer! I've got to let it out!" Wind thrusts back and forth, swaying the trees this way and that way. Raindrops the size of pebbles begin to fall from the sky. Just one step outside for one split second and you'll be soaking wet.
I woke up to the sound of my coworker yelling at the top of her lungs over the thundering booms and cracks of the angry storm from outside of my tent.
"Get up, get dressed, and get to the dining hall now!"
I threw my blanket off of me and in a split second, my tent mate and I were running through the field trying to reach the dining hall before we were struck by the storm's raging spears of electricity. Nothing else was on my mind but the dining hall. I've got to get there, it's only a fields length away! But I was distracted by the sky above me and I wanted to see how furious and destructive it was feeling. Not paying any attention to where and how I was running, I found myself smacked face down on the ground. Instead of being angry though, I found myself laughing out loud at myself, at the sky, and at the storm and its bolts and pour. I wanted to stay out there with the storm but my coworker's voice came to me and forced me to run up to the dining hall.
It was chaos in the dining hall. Cub scouts were crying, searching for their parents, rubbing their half closed eyes, and some were even dancing about and trying to get a glimpse of the storm because they were struck with awe. We, as staff were suppose to calm them down and we did just that. We played bingo games, sang random and happy, cheerful songs, and put on hilarious skits for the scouts and their parents. The storm was forgotten about even as it still rumbled on outside.
The next morning, it was as if the storm had never set foot on land the night before. The sun was shining brightly and the air was so humid that I had to take in huge gulps of breath at times. The only sign of a storm ever occurring was the gigantic puddles of rain water, where even if you tried to jump over, you would land right smack in the middle of it.
I don't know why the storm decided to erupt that night. Perhaps it does not need an explanation either. This is why I love the weather and its mood swings (I don't particularly like people mood swings though), for its mysteriousness and unpredictability resembles my being.
Photo Memory
The driving there was fine. It was always the "there" that made me feel queasy. Driving through Wisconsin was always a beautiful sight because of the countryside and all the farm animals I would get to see, which I do not usually get in the city of Saint Paul. Even the stench of manure did not bother me as much as getting "there."
They were only a three hour drive away, my grandparents. But I never liked visiting them nor having them visit us. As a kid, the only times we would visit them were when my parents had another of their predictable fights. My mother would pack our bags and take us without telling my dad where we were going. Though I'm sure he always knew where we went.
I was tired of being dragged around and having to live with other family members. I even preferred living in my house where my parents constantly bickered. The walls were not thick enough to keep the noise out from my room but it was better than being around people who talked about my parents and .
"Take me back home with you mommy. I don't want to stay here. I'll miss you and daddy!" I'd cry and beg of her, but she'd shake her head no as tears climbed out from under her eyelids, down her cheeks and onto mine.
"I'll come back for you guys. Don't worry. Everything will be fine in the end." My mom would tell me while drying and wiping away the tears and running snot from my face with her sleeve.
"How long will it last? When can I go back home with you and daddy?"
"I don't know, but I promise I won't be long and I'll call you every day."
"You promise then."
They were only a three hour drive away, my grandparents. But I never liked visiting them nor having them visit us. As a kid, the only times we would visit them were when my parents had another of their predictable fights. My mother would pack our bags and take us without telling my dad where we were going. Though I'm sure he always knew where we went.
I was tired of being dragged around and having to live with other family members. I even preferred living in my house where my parents constantly bickered. The walls were not thick enough to keep the noise out from my room but it was better than being around people who talked about my parents and .
"Take me back home with you mommy. I don't want to stay here. I'll miss you and daddy!" I'd cry and beg of her, but she'd shake her head no as tears climbed out from under her eyelids, down her cheeks and onto mine.
"I'll come back for you guys. Don't worry. Everything will be fine in the end." My mom would tell me while drying and wiping away the tears and running snot from my face with her sleeve.
"How long will it last? When can I go back home with you and daddy?"
"I don't know, but I promise I won't be long and I'll call you every day."
"You promise then."
I want to go home.
Like many others, my favorite place to be is home. The quote "Home is where the heart is," even though it may be overused, still rings in my ears as a constant reminder that no matter where I am and how I feel, my home will always await my coming and welcome me back into its warmth and comfort. Home is where I can eat whatever I want, whenever I want, and scream and yell as loud as I want when I am blue or when I am as bright as the sun shining through the glass windows.
More specifically though, my favorite part of my home is the kitchen. I don't know what it is that brings us to the kitchen where everything happens there. We don't realize that we are on the floor laughing and rolling around, singing out of tune and making random skits, making up crazy dance moves, and choking on water in the kitchen until silence overcomes us.
"Guys, we're in the kitchen again! Why does this always happen?"
"Maybe we should move everything into the kitchen because everything happens here!"
"Yeah, like have the sofa right in the center of the kitchen, then the t.v. up there. And when we need to wash the dishes, we can do it right here from sitting down on the sofa and when we want food, we can just grab it off the counter without even standing up!"
"But that would make the kitchen less fun and meaningful. We always happen to end up talking and laughing in the kitchen. Why does it not happen anywhere else, like the living room or our bedroom? It's strange I tell you, strange!"
"Strange, but cool. I like that we always end up in the kitchen unintentionally. It's like a magnet pulling all of us together, keeping us together."
Home is where my heart is, but the kitchen is where my soul rests.
More specifically though, my favorite part of my home is the kitchen. I don't know what it is that brings us to the kitchen where everything happens there. We don't realize that we are on the floor laughing and rolling around, singing out of tune and making random skits, making up crazy dance moves, and choking on water in the kitchen until silence overcomes us.
"Guys, we're in the kitchen again! Why does this always happen?"
"Maybe we should move everything into the kitchen because everything happens here!"
"Yeah, like have the sofa right in the center of the kitchen, then the t.v. up there. And when we need to wash the dishes, we can do it right here from sitting down on the sofa and when we want food, we can just grab it off the counter without even standing up!"
"But that would make the kitchen less fun and meaningful. We always happen to end up talking and laughing in the kitchen. Why does it not happen anywhere else, like the living room or our bedroom? It's strange I tell you, strange!"
"Strange, but cool. I like that we always end up in the kitchen unintentionally. It's like a magnet pulling all of us together, keeping us together."
Home is where my heart is, but the kitchen is where my soul rests.
Object or First Memory
Food is a lot of things. It is art, it is life, and most definitely, it is love.
Where food originates from is very important but I like to think of it as the hands they were made from. I often eat a lot when there is food present in front of me, no matter what it is. From chips to cookies to popcorn chicken, you name it, I eat it (except seafood which I am allergic to). I stuff a lot of stuff in my mouth in that matter, but I never feel the sense of fulfillment and satisfaction. I often think that by eating junk food, my stomach would stop growling and start gurgling and moving down the contents in my intestines so the new stuff could fill it up. I would always be wrong because I would only lose energy and still want more junk to stuff down my throat, but I never knew how to stop so I would continue eating.
Eating food made by the hands of my mother is nothing like eating junk food as most of you know. I remember one night when my siblings and I were tired of eating popcorn chicken and hot wings so we decided to wait for my mom to come home and cook for us. When she got home though, she went straight to her room and put a movie on to watch. We did not want to cook because we all knew it was not going to be the same as the food made by my mom, so my siblings and I decided to go and beg my mom to make food for us.
"Mommy, make food for us... PLEASE! Only the stuff you make taste good. We don't know what you put into it to make it taste so good!"
"And you've been gone for so long that we've missed your food and have forgotten, only slightly, how it tastes like."
Her lips curled up, but then opened up to tell us to make our own food and to try to make it taste good.
Whenever I eat food made by my mother, my heart dances and skips around. I feel the need to take it all in, to finish all the food she made in hopes that her love won't be wasted and thrown into landfills. Still now, I prefer my mother's hand made food over any food in restaurants or any packaged and preserved food. With her food, I know that it is real and honest, that even if I only ate a little of it, I would be full and content with that amount.
Where food originates from is very important but I like to think of it as the hands they were made from. I often eat a lot when there is food present in front of me, no matter what it is. From chips to cookies to popcorn chicken, you name it, I eat it (except seafood which I am allergic to). I stuff a lot of stuff in my mouth in that matter, but I never feel the sense of fulfillment and satisfaction. I often think that by eating junk food, my stomach would stop growling and start gurgling and moving down the contents in my intestines so the new stuff could fill it up. I would always be wrong because I would only lose energy and still want more junk to stuff down my throat, but I never knew how to stop so I would continue eating.
Eating food made by the hands of my mother is nothing like eating junk food as most of you know. I remember one night when my siblings and I were tired of eating popcorn chicken and hot wings so we decided to wait for my mom to come home and cook for us. When she got home though, she went straight to her room and put a movie on to watch. We did not want to cook because we all knew it was not going to be the same as the food made by my mom, so my siblings and I decided to go and beg my mom to make food for us.
"Mommy, make food for us... PLEASE! Only the stuff you make taste good. We don't know what you put into it to make it taste so good!"
"And you've been gone for so long that we've missed your food and have forgotten, only slightly, how it tastes like."
Her lips curled up, but then opened up to tell us to make our own food and to try to make it taste good.
Whenever I eat food made by my mother, my heart dances and skips around. I feel the need to take it all in, to finish all the food she made in hopes that her love won't be wasted and thrown into landfills. Still now, I prefer my mother's hand made food over any food in restaurants or any packaged and preserved food. With her food, I know that it is real and honest, that even if I only ate a little of it, I would be full and content with that amount.
Childhood in the Park
I remember having to go to so many of my cousins' birthday parties. The memories I remember best are of my cousin Tracy's apartment and the tire swing right outside their door. We would sit, swing, and spin on that tire swing until the sun went down. I was a daredevil as a kid and I would always do the "superman" while on the tire swing. My cousins would sit with me on the swing and another cousin would push us around and around. When I felt like we were spinning high and fast enough, I would stand up on the tire, then let my feet go off of the tire while still holding on the chains with the entirety of my life. I was superman then. Flying around and around with my arms out in front of me and my legs behind me.
We had many names for the types of push that we wanted to do. I can only remember three of those names, which are called sky high, tornado, and the banana. All of these spins I loved, but the one I enjoyed most was the sky high. Whenever I did the sky high, I did it alone. I would lie down on the tire swing, and my cousin would push me up high and in a circle of moderate speed. I would stare up at the clear, blue sky and imagine that I was off the ground and way up in the sky, soaring like eagles and planes. My long pony tail would swing around like propellers keeping me up in the air.
I used to be able to withstand all the spinning, but now I always fall to the ground afterward with my head whirling about until my brain got back into its usual and still position. Just thinking of tire swings now, makes me vomit a bit in my throat and my stomach turn upside down.
We had many names for the types of push that we wanted to do. I can only remember three of those names, which are called sky high, tornado, and the banana. All of these spins I loved, but the one I enjoyed most was the sky high. Whenever I did the sky high, I did it alone. I would lie down on the tire swing, and my cousin would push me up high and in a circle of moderate speed. I would stare up at the clear, blue sky and imagine that I was off the ground and way up in the sky, soaring like eagles and planes. My long pony tail would swing around like propellers keeping me up in the air.
I used to be able to withstand all the spinning, but now I always fall to the ground afterward with my head whirling about until my brain got back into its usual and still position. Just thinking of tire swings now, makes me vomit a bit in my throat and my stomach turn upside down.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
"Paula" Journal 4
This is a passage from the last section of the memoir "Paula" that I really like, especially after having to write my own "weather" journal. It compares Allende's divorce to the storm and then the cleansing of it afterward.
"That night, the storm broke that had been building up all day, one of those infamous thunder-and lightning tropical downpours that turn Caracas into a disaster zone: storm sewers back up, streets flood, traffic forms a series of gigantic serpents of stalled automobiles, and mud slides wipe out whole slums on the hillsides. When finally the truck of our divorce pulled away, followed by the children on their way to install their father in his new home, and I was alone in the house, I threw open the windows and doors to let the wind and rain blow in to sweep away the past; I began to dance and whirl like a maddened dervish, weeping with sadness for what was lost and laughing with relief for what was gained, while crickets and tree frogs sang outside, and inside the torrential rain streamed across the floor and the gale blew dead leaves and bird feathers in a whirlwind of farewells and freedom." (Allende 297)
I like that she incorporated the weather into her writing because the weather affects how each and every one of us feel inside and out. It's almost as if the storm had anticipated Allende and her husband's divorce, which makes the story seem even more unrealistic than it already seemed to be. This proves that things are true in different ways in different perspectives, meaning maybe it did not actually happen at that exact time but to Allende as she was writing this story, believed that the storm did come at that exact time.
I like how comfortable Allende is when she writes. I feel as though every single thing she is thinking about does not change as she puts them down, meaning she is not censoring herself but simply allowing herself to express freely. I struggle with being free and that's the reason why I like how Allende expresses herself. I felt really awkward and out of place when I read this passage, but it's quite provoking that I was able to feel myself being Allende while also cringing the entire time reading it. "That night we made love slowly, serenely, exploring maps and highways as if we had all the time in the world for our journey..." (303)
"That night, the storm broke that had been building up all day, one of those infamous thunder-and lightning tropical downpours that turn Caracas into a disaster zone: storm sewers back up, streets flood, traffic forms a series of gigantic serpents of stalled automobiles, and mud slides wipe out whole slums on the hillsides. When finally the truck of our divorce pulled away, followed by the children on their way to install their father in his new home, and I was alone in the house, I threw open the windows and doors to let the wind and rain blow in to sweep away the past; I began to dance and whirl like a maddened dervish, weeping with sadness for what was lost and laughing with relief for what was gained, while crickets and tree frogs sang outside, and inside the torrential rain streamed across the floor and the gale blew dead leaves and bird feathers in a whirlwind of farewells and freedom." (Allende 297)
I like that she incorporated the weather into her writing because the weather affects how each and every one of us feel inside and out. It's almost as if the storm had anticipated Allende and her husband's divorce, which makes the story seem even more unrealistic than it already seemed to be. This proves that things are true in different ways in different perspectives, meaning maybe it did not actually happen at that exact time but to Allende as she was writing this story, believed that the storm did come at that exact time.
I like how comfortable Allende is when she writes. I feel as though every single thing she is thinking about does not change as she puts them down, meaning she is not censoring herself but simply allowing herself to express freely. I struggle with being free and that's the reason why I like how Allende expresses herself. I felt really awkward and out of place when I read this passage, but it's quite provoking that I was able to feel myself being Allende while also cringing the entire time reading it. "That night we made love slowly, serenely, exploring maps and highways as if we had all the time in the world for our journey..." (303)
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