I love who I've become.

suis le soleil.

I feel so ... inspired.

So free, at ease.

I'm not sure if it's the sunshine,

or if I'm simply holding onto his words.

Suis le soleil 

Follow the sun

It's written on my hand, and it reminds me.

Do what I'll remember,
Do what will be illuminated by the sun and not lost in darkness.



Follow the sun for his light and for his smile.

Tell me what life is

and then tell me why not?

If we never went out of the lines

we would never know art.

Follow the sun

 the wind

 the music

Follow to stumble upon and not to search.

Wander in a rythym of liberties and mistakes.

Just tell me what life is.

And then tell me,

why not?

©Jordann Funk Photography

thank you.

Lately I’ve been worrying about my future, just as any teenager would at this point in his or her life.

I’ve made plans only to crumble them up and toss them into the monotonous pile of what would have been: a pile which lies in the shadowed, humid corner of my mind; a pile which grows rooted in fear, unease, and expectancy.

I only love to walk when I don’t have a destination. Otherwise we don’t realize the simplicities which surround us. Otherwise destination is our dictator: he controls each turn we take and the pace at which we walk. Otherwise, we’re not free.

I was on a train saying this is where I’m going, this is what I’ll do.

But he said to me, “If you don’t like to walk with a destination, you won’t like to live with one either.”

That pile now burns in sunshine of a vast, wild meadow of my mind.

les vacances de carnaval.

From the 5th to the 11th of March, I knew nothing but hours passed on trains and my camera’s game of focus.

Aachen, Germany: le 5 mars.
we pass a crippled train: his thoughts,
in blue jeans and a black baseball cap,
are searching these barren tracks,
in vain.

an Unwinding grey morning
of whites and weak colors watch
his absent gaze
as we dive into the sky,
we rise over an empty horizon

to only hide behind it again
and we Never,
stop to help.

We meet a man in a rabbit fur hat. His teeth, yellowed by the dull contrast of a grey beard, lend us a history book through English words a little rougher than normal.

The day was grey as we searched for colors eventually found in apartments and

those bloodshot eyes.

blue eyes.

an excellent musician.

you have une jolie tête

a pretty head, he said.

Chateau de la Hulpe, Le lac de Genval: le 6 mars
I lived in a memory
les tomates et basilic
of a misplaced picnic table in Turtle Creek
red plaid gardens watered in night,
wild in raspberries
and chocolate’s zucchini

round stolen colors roll in my palm
yellow-ish orange, orange-ish red
(those colors fallen leaves only imitate
in envy of my tastebuds)

the taste of tomato caprese.

Liège: le 7 mars
train toilets have become my throne
indefinite
as we move and stop
only words in a stutter
of what should be done
or is it obligation?

how to dry your hands
and wash them: sanitation for its sake
security, fear
for longer years only moving and stopping
my words
our words in a
in a stutter

11h41: 2 hours and 13 minutes
Pittsburgh and back

Carnaval à Binche: le 8 mars
Oranges of gold
Gold oranges
Litter the street
And fill their bag

Teeth smile and sputter saliva of youth
And its civilization,
«Madame, Madame : Gardez le sac. »
« Votre montre, s’il vous plait.»

Coca cans kicked in cobblestone streets-
This is where we sleep.
And where we feast upon our
Oranges of gold,
Gold oranges

Lost:  le 9 mars

Lille, France : le 10 mars

Maastricht, the Netherlands : le 11 mars

Le 12 mars I bought daffodils to see her smile.

c'est la vie.




I haven't forgotten what I love and have left behind,

  



though it's hard to feel deeply nostalgic
when I wake up to the laughter of sparrows and starlings 

  


and then soon venture outside to fetch eggs for breakfast
 from the chicken coop in the backyard

  


accompanied by my best friend Bounty,

  


and, as I walk back in the house, hear the song I'm whistling repeated in a chipper tone, 



 


and it's especially difficult to feel nostalgic when I know that no matter what
I can always buy a waffle from the hippy van down the street. 

 



je suis minuit.

The half-way point.
It's a time during which an exchange student can't help but to think:
to think about what they've done and what they've yet to do; what they've learned and what they've yet to learn.
To think about how they've changed in personality and opinion, and how their home has changed in meaning and comfort.

Have I changed?
Should I hear it in my laugh
or in the way I say my name? Although it is true that I now prefer the French JorDANN more than a simple "Jordin".
And that's a change.

En fait, I have a hard time remembering who I was before I came to Belgium, or rather, who I was before I began my life as an exchange student. When I think of  how to label myself, the only thing that comes to mind is exchange student or something in its effect.
How can I know if I've changed if I don't know who the person was that changed?

My year of 2010 was entirely consumed by what I would become. I worked, thought, wondered, worried, and worked some more. By the end of August, I could finally say "I am" rather than "I'm going to be."
Looking back on it, it's as if the majority of 2010 didn't exist: I'd gone all-in with the present for a chance of a better future.
Slowly pushing a messy, colorful pile of seconds, minutes, and hours towards the center of the table, I'd bet it all for what I'd hoped to win.  All the while, I had never felt so weak, so vulnerable.
For strength's reputation, I bluffed. Though I had to force a smile rather than try to prevent one. How is it that no one ever called it?

But I never folded my hand,
and here I am: sitting on my bed in Belgium with my laptop cradled between my knees, content to have made the bet.

"and here I am."
What is "I"? A single letter so powerful and uncertain.
You may read this and think you know "I": the way "I" speaks or the way "I" wanders.
But "I" isn't who "I" was, it's rather who je suis.

I no longer want to fly.

If I did, I would never witness the puddle's goosebumps when he feels the touch of the rain. I would never hear Abe Lincoln, his cheek pressed against the sidewalk, begging for liberation to simply give luck for a day.

I'm now patriotic.

Living in Belgium has made me appreciate the US: it's constant laughter, always listened to like music and never criticized; it's open roads, wide enough that we can drive our aspirations as well as our "big American trucks."

I've forgotten how to spell and instead learned how to breathe.

Words have no sense:  they're powerless in the presence of a crooked smile
and its captivation,
of humbled innocence.

I think I'm just who I'm supposed to be, though I always will become.  It's a constant effect of time and its duration.

And in effect of time and its speed as well as the body's gradual exhaustion,

writing has finishe   

bientôt.

Everyone had told me, “You’re going to Belgium? I hope you like the rain.”
I would defy them all with a smile and a witty reply,
“Of course I do. All the better to dance in.”

Now for nearly six months, I haven't seen the sun.
I've sang
"Rain, rain, go away. Please come back another day"
and I've shouted
"Olly Olly Oxen Free!"
but never a reply.

My dance always stops at the sound of "hypothermie!" and loud shivers as my bones shake.
I'd never realized before that smiles can only be seen in sunshine. Something like Luminol and a blacklight.

But today it was Spring in Belgium: sunshine, 45 degrees, and the birds' constant laughter as they mocked the naked trees. As school had finished in the afternoon, I rested at the campus to witness the smile of my friend Catherine as she drove off on her new Vespa scooter, and then my friend Charlie and I began our Tuesday walk together, me toward the nearest bus stop and him on his way home.
I was liberated of my wool scarf, knitted gloves, and heavy winter jacket. The air smelled so crisp, fresh, new.. Am I in Belgium?
The sunshine highlighted the simplistic beauty of every smile and the skip in every step, and all I could do was laugh. Charlie couldn’t help but question my amusement. As we walked, he continued to glance over, an all-too-familiar look on his face which always says, “crazy American girl.” My only reply was, “soleil” as I tossed my hands into the air and smiled at the sky, spinning once to feel the dance of my dress lead by the step of the wind.

I've known 170 days in Belgium,
and I've yet to meet 142 more.

Did I ever tell you that, with the time change, 5 months is 5 weeks here? I’m sure you’ll hear about it soon, because soon is the only way things know to be.
For example, soon I’ll finish writing, and soon I’ll go to sleep. Soon I’ll wake up, and soon I’ll go to school. Soon is Friday and even sooner is Monday. Soon is March, April, and May. Soon I’ll say “Happy Birthday” to my best friend in the US over Skype, and soon I’ll post “Tu me manques..” on Charlie's Facebook wall.

All too soon is “au revoir”
in all its irony
followed by an unaccepted
hello.