Monday, November 30, 2009

before bed...


So it is this to which you have come, perhaps this to which you have been reduced. Though not solely reduced, something more than that, because there is a softness and a cradling in this place you find yourself.

Listen. Eating stale namkeen, unable to throw it away because it was so good when it was fresh. Oreos, water, mango juice, chana for snack, breakfast, dinner, filling in the cracks between planned meals which start off later than intended and become adventures in themselves leading somewhere unexpected, but maybe no lesser for that. Hair pulled back into the all-utility-no-how-do-you-do ponytail, whisps pinned up and twisted round to avoid distraction, though a glance in the mirror reveals their protest in the form of flagrant disregard for gravitational norms. Move books aside to shake out blankets, the crumbs and wrinkles which have made their homes in this place-of-sleep-cum-workspace. Snap blankets up into the air, watch them descend like parachutes, replace and reorder books, computer, tape, camera, namkeen, George, re-situate for continued involvement in whatever it is you're doing, were doing, should be doing. Cough syrup made of honey and little else smoothes dis-ease in mind and spirit, perhaps more-so than in body. Back to work, and it seems like I could do this. I really think I could.

++++++

Classic rock, or at least dated rock, undoubtedly questionable rock, service comes not so far into the stay to the surprise of the lord-creator herhimself, WWF playing on the big screen TV. A semi-sticky marble table that evokes a silent moving picture of an employee approaching a table after the patrons get up and wiping off the table without putting much store by the result of, nor the intention behind his effort. On couple bent over a laptop to my left, another in front of me as close as they can be while seated across the table from each other. Reaching towards each other, eyes grasping hungrily for some tangible piece, connection with the other. Her arms outstretched, his head resting in her palm, conversation brings them briefly back to the reality of their surroundings, the physical awkwardness of their near-embrace, and they resume residence on their respective sides of the table. Soon again they are lost in each other and hands reach out to make physical contact, dampening the electricity of looks and words to a sustainable heat.

All of it recalling a memory from the back of my belly of being completely entranced by someone, seeing nothing but this other person, feeling constant ecstasy that this person reciprocates my enchantment. Ecstasy is not meant to be felt constantly, only is short, quickly passing bursts. I had a stomach ache for two weeks straight. It was worth it though.

Sitting in this oh-so-something Cafe Coffee Day, what more could I honestly need?

++++++

Do you ever feel like you're on the edge of something huge? Or maybe that you're already there. And isn't it scary to think that you might already be there? Already be free-falling?

right...

NOW?

Friday, November 27, 2009

Things I'm (Pretty) Sure About


India's economy (see recent astronomical growth) is based around the manufacturing of faulty waterbottles and thermoses. Try and get tone that doesn't leak. I dare you.

Chai is the cure to lonesomeness.

Friends are the cure to loneliness.
It's better to reach out than to pretend you don't notice; it might catch someone mid-freefall.

Sleep makes the world look brighter. I promise.
You're not the only one. I promise here too.

Having a special stuffed animal is never a bad thing. Not even if you're 22. Or 34. Etcetera.

Drawing with friends is never a bad thing. (For further elaboration, see point above.)

Beards are fun. REAL fun.

Gelabie is like love- addictive, delicious, so sweet, messy, makes you very sick if you don't partake in moderation.

In India, halting attempts at speaking Hindi are met with smiles and chuckling. In France, halting French is received very differently. Mon dieu. Sub thik hai.

Drink more water!

It is without a doubt God who ordained that samosas and gelabies should go together. A burden and a blessing. Kind of like power.

Daytime soap operas are the same in every country. (Based on limited knowledge. Who's surprised? Reader thinks, "About what? Alex shooting her mouth off, or Alex not knowing much about daytime soaps?" Author responds,"Both." "Oh," says reader, "then neither.")

It's very handy to carry around a roll of toilet paper, not least because it's a good conversation starter.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Oh goodness...


“No one laughs at God in a hospital. No one laughs at god in a war.”

There's this song I've been listening too this morning. I woke up at 8:30, read something about I don't know what, and went back to sleep. I woke up at 11:30 in a haze, the kind that you feel when your body doesn't want you to wake up from, and you end up sleeping until the sun begins to go down and when you finally do get up the world drags your heels and your eyes ache from some magic spell which hasn't quite succeeded in making you sleep for 100 years like Cinderella but won't give up quite so easily. I woke up and this song was singing itself in my head; it's so weird when that happens, don't you think?

Anyway, it's a song that I generally skip over because it's so heartbreaking. I think that Regina Spektor might very well be a genius. This song reminds me of Tikva in the hospital, the sad and hurting part of my memory of Tikva. It reminds me of saying goodbye to the Thormars for who knows how long, of breaking up with Stan, of those people who capitalize on the uncertainty and fear of others, and live richly but still unhappily. It reminds me about how much we struggle and about how sometimes it seems like it really isn't worth it because we just end up getting smashed on the rocks after hours of working to stay afloat.

“God can be funny when told he'll give you money if you just pray the right way or when presented like a genie with his magic like Houdini or grants wishes like Jimminey Cricket and Santa Clause. God can be so hilarious.”

++++++

Do you believe in God?
I don't know. It depends on the day.
Only on Wednesdays? Do you check in with him once a week?
No, not like that, not on a schedule.
If you do talk to him, will you pray for me? I could really use it.
I'll do my best.

What do you think, Mr. Bond?


1) Make sure you can spell. If you can put a sentence together, that's even better.

I can't spell. Ask anybody. Well, it should be someone who knows me, although the news has very likely spread. Anyways, I prefer to see myself a sort of Shakespeare-like maverick. Me and John McCane. And how many ways are there to put words together to say what you mean? What if you want to say what you feel instead of what you mean? Or what you see? Or what is, will be, was, might have been? Writing is so incredible because it doesn't say just what it says, but how it tastes, sounds, feels in your hair and dampens your face, leaving droplets on your eyelashes, your gloves dampened when you push back the hair whipping across your eyes, escaped from your scarf with the aid of the cold and engulfing wind. So when you say know how to spell, it's too late for that I think. But word processors help those of us less spelling-inclined. And know how to put a sentence together? Really?

2) Writing is not simply about words. Are you observant? Can you tell the difference between a sparrow and a sparrow-hawk?

To be quite frank, I couldn't identify either. Especially since those bird books don't look anything like the real things. Even when I see a bird whose name I know, look it up in a book and I don't recognize it. I do know when someone is upset though. I can hear it in her voice and see it in her face. And I ask what's wrong, and I want to know. And when she says 'nothing', sometimes I let it be.

I know how self conscious I am, and most of the time I know how people see me, how I see myself, and the distance between the two. Sometimes I'm surprised though.

3) Are you interested in anyone other than yourself? Writing about oneself has its limitations.

I know what this means, and I agree in a way. It's funny though, because I just read this:

“A serious author deals only with 'real' experiences and 'real' emotions, though they are usually assigned to people with fictional names. I cannot believe, frankly, that one could – or would want to – write about experiences the emotional equivalents of which he has not experienced personally. Writing is a far more conscious form of dreaming, and no one dreams dreams that are of no interest to him, however trivial and absurd they may appear to someone else.” Joyce Carol Oates

I think what Mr. Bond is suggesting is that you can't write about yourself in isolation, without consciousness of yourself in relation to others and other things. We don't exist in a vacuum. Duh. It's like any art form- I don't think you need to be tortured or suffering pain to create art. I think that the idea you do is ridiculous, pretentious. I do think, though, that beautiful art comes out of a knowledge of great pain and great happiness. Everybody experiences great loss, sadness, hunger, emptiness and loneliness.

There is another way I can think about this though. What does it mean to write for someone else? When you write something that someone else will likely read, don't you write with a level of self-consciousness? When you write about yourself for someone else to read, are you writing out of self involvement? Consideration of others? Artistic inspiration? All of these? Probably. When given a list like this, it's seldom appropriate to pick just one option, not really.

4) Are you prepared to wait years, maybe a lifetime, for recognition? If you want instant recognition, become a model.

Well, I'm already famous so that's that. Right?

5) If you're convinced that you are an unrecognized genius, remember this: everyone feels the same way.

And I suppose that, in a way, everybody is. Everybody has a story to tell, a special way to tell it, a way that nobody else ever thought of. Everybody makes choices, the only choices they could make, precisely because those are the decisions that they made. By the same token, nobody else could ever make those decisions because nobody haswillcould ever make those decisions through the eyes of the person that makes them. That makes every decision that every person makes very special, doesn't it?

6) Writer's block. Everybody asks me about this. What do you do when stuck? That's easy. Just make sure the waste-paper basket is within throwing distance.

When I had the great fortune to meet with author Stephen Alter, he said something illuminating. Writing is very simple, he explained. You sit down at a desk, table, on a blanket, even the ceiling is acceptable if you can work it out. He didn't mention the ceiling bit, but I thought it was relevant. Anyway, you sit down, with a pen and paper. You put the pen on the paper and draw it along the surface of the paper, not so hard that the paper rips, but just hard enough that the ink rubs off and makes a line where the pen has been. That's writing. Alternatively, you might prefer to sit in front of a computer and press the keys, which cause letters to appear on the screen. With this option, it's important to remember to save your writing, because if you don't, it might be lost. This is not such a worry with writing with pen and paper. Mr. Alter continued by explaining that the only surefire way to not be able to write, is to not write. Because when you sit down to a computer and press the keys, or put pen to paper and scrawl, you are writing, you can't help it. But when you don't do either of these things, you're not writing. There's no way that you will be until you move your fingers, or if you're very talented, your toes. Start with your fingers though. We don't want to get discouraged before we start.

There's another thing about writing which I think applies to life in general. Most things do though, don't they? As Mr. Bond so succinctly put it, it's very likely that a good portion of your writing will be bumph. Will end up in the garbage. Will make you cringe if you have the misfortune to come across it again sometime in the future. But here's the thing- if you didn't write all that bumph, you wouldn't have come to the good stuff, the good phrase or sentence, or maybe even a paragraph. I once heard author Anne Lamott speak. She said, you write a lot and end up with a really horrible first draft, and you're half-way there. Kate writes about 'necessary spaces.' What more prefect way could it be described? The time you spend between getting started and being finished; the time you spend reevaluating all the decisions you've made up until this point, wondering if you aren't in fact pretty severely unstable to have thought this was a good idea. The time you spend banging your head against a wall, throwing papers in the bin, hating what you're writing, yourself for thinking you could write. You can think of all this as wasted time. But you can also think of it another way; it was a necessary space for you to get to the place where you wipe your tears and actually sit down to write, the place where you look at the screen and think, oh, that's not bad, is it?

Dear Baby,
I wanted to let you know something before you even begin. You likely won't understand it until much later, but there that is. Every step and every misstep you take, every action you take and mistake you make, will bring you to the most beautiful thing: yourself.

7) And finally, remember Red Smith's immortal words:'Writing is very easy. All you have to do is sit in front of the typewriter till little drops of blood appear on your forehead.'

Enough said.

*Italicized, numbered sentences from Ruskin Bond's "Landour Days."

Let's get up early and see sunrise- a photo essay*

I know I said that I wanted to see the sun rise today, but I really hope that it's overcast because it's much too cold for...anything.
(walks outside)
Oh, never mind...


Waiting for sunrise...


Sara: Maya, please don't take photos of us! It is bahut early...
Jason: Sub theekh hai! I've already been doing soccer drills, so click away!


Oh Maya, you rapscalion you! You always make us laugh, even when we are freezing cold and very tired.
Oh look, here it comes. About time too! The cold is beginning to penetrate down through the first three layers of clothing, the epi-clothing layer, if you will. Luckily, Maya is the jugaru, so when she says "Jaldi!" the sun listens.


Ahhhhh!


Maybe we should do this more often...


Even Dev Dar doesn't look so freezing at sunrise.


Alex, this was a really good idea. Your ideas are always good.


Like the "Beards and Hats" party. That was good.


Alright, then let's take the next week and go trekking up to that peak.


Uhh...



* Plus some words.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

the sound of Rain


I can't give it to you here. It's a sound, and anyway, if I recorded it, it wouldn't be the same. Maybe a part of it is that you can't control it, can't call it on demand. It comes when the clouds are full and softens everything, calms the earth for as long as it will. I can't think of many sounds that are more gentle, can't really even describe what it is exactly, because the words don't add up to the sound or the feeling. Who's surprised? Get deep enough into words and realize that they really only go so far. But still, remembering the sound is good...


++++++


A: OK, so I've made a list of reasons why you should go to Barista with me.

S: Oh no, I can't.

A: So, you'll study, and then have your Hindi lesson...

S: No, I said no.

A: ...then, we'll walk down the hill, and that'll be really good because it will get you all focused because all your [makes swirling gesture around head] things will be moving...

S: No, I'm not going.

M: Who'se going to Barista?
S: Not me.

A: ...and then, we'll get there, and you'll be all focused and we can do homework...

S: No, I can' t go, I never get anything done.

A: ...and it'll be really good and we really will do homework...

S: Do you need any help getting things together?
M: No, only with the second thing.

A:...and I'll make sure that you do homework and I'll do homework too.

S: What? No, I am not going to Barista. I need to stay here and get some solid work done.

A: OK, fine, that's fine. I'll just go to my room and cry.

S: OK. Let me know when you're done.


++++++


We find home in the most unexpected places, don't we? In a book, in a sound, in a house, in a freezing-cold-unfortunate-excuse-for-a-guest-house-with-a-manager-who-sings-a-little-while-he-works-so-his-voice-echoes-in-the-high-cold-rooms. Maybe they're not so unexpected, maybe we knew we would find them, and that's why we're here, why we keep searching, why we go out even though we're scared to death. Maybe that's why this up-and-down life works out, because even when we're sulky and anxious, sometimes it starts to rain on the walk home and we find our scorched and stinging hearts cooled and softened.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Deep Mist


Through the doorway velvet fog presents itself. Tiny droplets landing on my face, hair, jacket, cool enveloping me with such gentle embrace that I hardly recognize it. Trees stand sentinel in the fog, transported from Narnia and The Never Ending Story, fading into the distance, leading to those worlds whose only invitation is imagination. At this moment though, I could walk in, cross over; the distance between fantasy and life is made of translucent paper instead of real. Deep purple dusk intertwines itself with fog in an embrace of passion and inspiration. The rocky drive leads upwards, mirrors my elation. Long legs in thick jeans and scrubby boots carry me on the road and every bit of the reality in which I'm traveling knows that magic is here, transformed to meet the world which presents itself in this blazing moment. My breath grows ragged as the road pushes me forward. You are there almost there, it says. I see the road flatten, the old white Ambassador waiting for me past the gate. I reach the car and the door swings open.

D: Bahut tunda, uh?
A: Hunh ji.

I pile in, pull the door shut, breathing heavily, beaming, eyes glowing. The car pulls away into the mist.

Friday, November 13, 2009

Chaithoughts


When and where does this real world exist?

A line from a movie that I've been thinking about recently.

Where is the life that we feel we're constantly moving towards, striving for, holding out for, and what are we living in the mean time? Where are we when we struggle through the days wishing constantly to be anywhere, anyone, else? What life is that if it feels so misshapen, badly wrought, makes our skin scream with heat and chafing? Is it less of life than life when things work out how they “should” or how we'd like them to? Which part is real- daily routine or the break from that routine? Finishing homework for class the next day the night before, or staying up late with a sick roommate, homework sitting in your still-closed backpack and at the very bottom of your brain right above your spine, pressing down? Which part of life is the part when you see before you different choices, completely in your control, choices which will completely change your life? Is that the in-between, or is that the stuff itself?

++++++

After an awkward 50 minutes of Hindi class with a teacher who's manner I can't quite figure out, we got up to leave the classroom. He always waits for me to start down the stairs before him, which makes for several awkward intervals. First, me packing up my things, him waiting. I'm reminded of how in 6th grade, Ms. Porter told my parents that she though I'd have trouble in middle school because it took me so long to pack up my things and in middle school you change classes a lot. Next, walking down stairs clearly built for the giants who once lived in the mountains (before wizards drove them out- see Harry Potter) with a number of things inevitably packed badly or not packed at all in an attempt to hasten the packing-watching-packing experience. Stumble down the stairs, make awkward conversation. Today, it was about my water bottle. It is huge, and gets a lot of attention.

H: Is that a thermos?

A: Well...I guess. It's a water bottle, but I think it could be a thermos. It's just got water in it.

H: Hot water?

A: No, but I think it could have. It's also good because I can use it as a weapon.

H: ...Oh, yes, because it's so long.

A: Er, yes.

H: Did they market it like that? As a water bottle and a weapon?

A: Yes.

H: Really?

A: No...But they might sell more if they did. (bottom of the stairs, scamper away)

After my 2:20 class, coffee (Hindustani coffee, my teacher says, so something between tea and coffee) is served from a tin-looking tea pot with a rag wrapped around its handle. A plastic tub of small ceramic mugs sits beside the tea pot and students and professors come and huddle around in the chill, drinking. I pour a glass and see some acquaintances outside. I consider going to stand with them but decide that navigating my way through the gaggle of Hindi teachers isn't worth the trouble, so I stand alone with my mug.

My mind slips into hibernate, my eyes un-focus and I stare somewhere between the stairs and the bannister. It's not often that I get the opportunity to do this- just enough time to check out without feeling like I should be doing something else. Except maybe socializing. I suppose I've not set much store in socializing for the sake of socializing though. For better or for worse. Backpack on over down jacket and five-trillion under-layers, shoulders hunched, hands grasping warm, smooth porcelain, bandaid around my finger. I swirl my coffee without knowing why, thinking vaguely that I should stop, as I don't actaully want it to be any cooler than it is. I don't stop though. There's something meditative about standing there, swirling my coffee. Truthfully, it doesn't taste like coffee. It leaves a kind of tangy, bitter taste in my mouth. But holding it, swirling it, drinking it, seeing it, milky brown and steaming slightly, encased in an ugly little mug with a handle. It is calm, something that I suppose I've valued highly since coming to India. It is sweet, warm, and calm. I look into the mug and drift away, being in a moment that feels somehow stolen or won by a clever trick.

My glass empties and the bugs in my belly, wherever they came from, return to shake things up, the buzzing in my head resumes. I say “excuse me” to the Hindi teachers, wave to my friends, and walk out of the gate. I carry on with the day, but perhaps retaining a bit of the groundedness, born of chai. I look up and see the Himalayas, the clearest they've been since I arrived here. Gravel scrapes and grumbles beneath my shoes, and I have a thought that a friend could use a hand. I send a text message, and get a call a minute later.

A: Hello?

F: Do you know why you're the best?

A: No.

F:You don't?

A: Well, I mean, I could probably make an educated guess...

F: You're the best because you know me.


Maybe it's just here then; this life that we're seeking.


Sunday, November 8, 2009

Just wanted to let you know that OH MY GOSH I'M HERE!


This blog title is an exerpt (actually, the entire thing) from a text message I sent to some of my friends/professors upon arriving in Mussoorie (OMG! Seriously? Yes, Alex, Seriously.). Their responses:

Cool, welcome to your new abode. Good luck for your stay.

Breathe in the fresh air. Go to Char Dukhan and have some noodles at Anil's Tea Shop.

Yay! I was just thinking about you! You're going to have so much fun, call me whenever you're bored and I'll do the same :) Lots of Love!

Honestly, how lucky am I? And, how cool do I look all bundled up?! Don't answer that, I know the answer: very cool.

I got to the guest house and thought, oh no, none of my friends are here... This will most certainly not work. No, I'll have to go back to Oakland right now.

You know what though? I think it's going to be OK. More photos to come. XOXOXO

Saturday, November 7, 2009

Off (, I'm)


I remember when I was much younger, time moved so much more slowly. I remember my hair being short when I was three or four years old. I wanted it to be long so badly; I leaned my head back and swung my hair back and forth on my neck, imagining what it would be like when it was long. I could feel it growing, and new that it would be so long before I could tell the difference, that it had grown. I knew that one day I would just look in the mirror and realize, "oh good, my hair's long now!" I could hardly fathom the time it would take until it grew- if I was living in this time, this minute, which took 60 seconds to be over with, how would I possibly make it all those months?

I remember, too, thinking about holidays. Christmas is six months away. The day after my birthday, my birthday was a whole year away. A week was a long time to wait, as was fifteen minutes, or even ten.

++++++

I have been in India for more than two months. Tomorrow I leave for Mussoorie, a hill station about six hours away from Delhi by train. I'm going by myself, and will be staying there in a guest house, taking Hindi classes, working on my independent study project, being ALONE.

I'm not going to lie- I'm terrified.

Sometimes the world looks all grey; I know this color. Too much time, not enough to find "happy", too much to do and nothing to do but drown in emptiness. I've seen it before, been here before. Which is funny, because I haven't ever been here before. All this is new.

Interspersed in the gray though, colors fade in, and then out again. I realize that this is happening, this is where I am and I can see a shadow of where I will be, and that worrying most likely won't change that. Like, 98% sure. The other thing, though, is that it's not all bad. When the colors fade in, I catch my breath, feel anticipation, excitement, gratitude, press against me like the blast of one of those fireworks that only makes a little spark but is so loud that you lose your breath and feel air and sound press in on your eardrums.

I heard somewhere that 98% of the things we worry about won't happen. How incredible is that? How much energy, then, do I put into anxiety over something that won't happen? And in this case, why should I put energy into worrying about being lonely, overwhelmed, sad, homesick, when I am literally the only person with any control over how I feel?

I think it's going to be good, great. Living in India for a month with nothing to do but take photos, write, hike, walk around, um, what's the problem? Taklif kya hai?!?

++++++

I wonder if the reason that time moves more slowly for children is because they are infinitely better at being in the moment. They don't think ahead so much, don't have to plan for work, deal with money, work on homework, be in charge. Maybe they've got a head-start on us grown-ups (did I just call myself a grown-up?), but I don't think it's just that. I think they've got a wisdom that we've lost somewhere along the way. One that we can recall, regain, reclaim, remember. If we work at it, do it consciously, mindfully.

I learned something in math class once. Maybe it was biology, but anyway, here it is; If we measure, for example, a coastline, we'll get an approximate distance. We can look at a sattelelite image, assume that one inch is equivalent to one mile, and go from there. If we go out with a car and drive the length of the coast, tracking the distance, we'll probably get a different measurement. Maybe slightly longer. If we go out to the coast, assuming we somehow identify the exact coastline, and measure that line with a ruler, we'll probably get an even larger distance. We can keep going with this too. With smaller and smaller units of measurement, we'll get longer and longer distances. And there's no bottom line to the size of our measuring stick, so there's no upper limit to the length of that coast line- it is infinitely long. It really is.

Maybe we can look at time the same way. It is what we make of it, certainly, but it is also as long as we make it. It can be very short, fast, scream by, when we're having fun. Or it can go excruciatingly slowly if we're bored or upset or impatient. The length of time has less to do with the number of seconds and more to do with the way we live them. So what if we could make every minute what we want it to be, the length we want it to be, the color and texture we want it to be? I think we can. But we have to take responsibility for ourselves, our time, first. That's hard.

In yoga, there's a kind of breathing that sounds like the sea. You can make your inhales and exhales as long or as short as you want. It cleanses your blood by draining out all the old and drawing in all new with the new breath, empties out your mind of everything but the slow sea.

Inhale
1.2.3.4.5.

Exhale
1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8.9.10.

Monday, November 2, 2009

Risk Assessment


We were asked to compile a document entitled "Risk Assessment" in preparation for our independent study projects (I leave for Mussoorie on November 8!). Here it is.

  • I have plenty of warm clothes which exclude danger of discomfort due to cold.

  • I have a cell phone with which I may call SIT staff in case of emergency or severe boredom.

  • I will keep valuables locked up in my room while out and about to prevent loss of valuables.

  • I will keep luggage (including valuables) locked with luggage lock during train trips.

  • I will keep UP TO DATE med kit with me at all times. Really.

  • I will bring the fabulous photo of our group at the Taj Mahal in case I forget that I have friends.

  • I will bring lots of books and movies to provide a non-academic outlet for myself during my project.

  • I will create specific and detailed schedules each day so as to budget my time wisely and avoid nervous breakdown.

  • I will call in (at least) twice a week on the appointed times so as to avoid nervous breakdowns among staff.

  • I will stay in contact via email and Skype so as to avoid nervous breakdowns among parental units.

  • I will avoid stray dogs, spitting camels, and sickly looking swine and avian-creatures.

  • I have budgeted in Rs 2000 in case of a medical emergency.

  • I have budgeted in sufficient funds for food so as to maintain a healthy body, which will in turn facilitate a healthy mind.

  • I will write (for ISP and otherwise) every day to keep in flow of work and maintain mental health.

  • I will photograph (for ISP and otherwise) every day to keep in flow of work and maintain mental health.

  • I will allow for sufficient time in internet cafes to email and Skype friends and family so as to avoid overwhelming loneliness.

  • I will try to move my body every day so as to avoid turning into oatmeal (i.e. cold, gelatinous, lumpy).

  • I will stay in communication with Stormji and my advisor so as to stay on track with my ISP.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

delayed reaction

(written on October 16, 2009)

Tomorrow we have two interviews due along with their write ups, and my main interview won't happen until 2:00 PM tomorrow. Friday we have an in class exam and an extended version of the proposal for our research projects and an annotated bibliography due. I am getting over (I think...) a cold, soar throat and stuffy nose, which directly followed ups and downs with Delhi belly, all of these ailments causing me to miss what feels like ¼ of the classes on which we'll be tested on Friday.

Here's the thing though- I'm pretty sure that I'm going to be OK. Like, about 99% sure. Not just with school either. I am happy. It's a slightly alarming thing to realize after spending so much of the last three years battling with depression. I'm going to do OK on the school stuff this week, though undoubtedly will feel that I could'veshould've done better, and then on Monday will head off with half of my class to Orissa to study architecture and such foolishness. I'm going to be OK.

++++++

The academic director of the program here in India told us yesterday that her friend had a baby who was born still. Shivers up and down my spine and a tug in the region of my belly that is all too familiar. I thought of Gal, and Kate, and how my Tikva necklace broke the other day and is waiting to be fixed, and how I've felt its absence so much. I checked in with these mamas who have come to learn what it means to be mamas to both living and spirit babies. Both wrote about the ways in which they've grown, changed since their babies died. Both wrote about the beauty that they see in their lives that they never saw before their now-spirit babies were born, how their lives are more beautiful for those children, even though they won't be the kinds of children they had expected and planned for. They both wrote about crying, a year plus after their babies stopped being what we expected them to be and started being what they were meant to be, or not meant to be but just are. These mamas have big words and fiery spirits.

I have never had a baby, much less had to see her or him die- I can only speak to my own pain.

It never stops hurting, I think, those things that hurt us so badly.But it is what it is, and in a way, that's how it should be, merely because of its being. Maybe we can take solace in that. Or maybe not.

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I was feeling sulky today coming home from school. At least four ricksaws said they wouldn't take me home because they didn't want to go that far, and the one that finally did agree overcharged me. He apparently changed his mind and, without telling me, stopped the rickshaw, and asked me to take the other rickshaw he had procured for me so that he could go on his way. I was PISSED. The air was so smokey/dusty and I was tired and soar-throaty. None of the music I had on my mp3 player was distracting me from the insanity of the gridlock that is Delhi just before Dawali.

Then, I came to this song called "Question". So corny. I love it so much, it is so sweet. And I got it from the “Scrubs” soundtrack. I listened to it over and over and over again. It was like when I listened to this song on repeat all night the day before Valentine's Day of my senior year. It's silly, and as a friend of mine would say, it's songs like this that make real-life love so abysmally unsatisfactory. But here's the thing- it's not just about cute boys (though I hope there will be more in the future). I think the future will be good, great, beautiful, crazy, exciting, sometimes sad and hard and excruciating. But I'm looking forward to it. And for now, I can enjoy the fact that I don't have to drive through the paggel traffic, but I can sit back and love the fact that I'm in India. I can sit back and listen to silly songs about something that may or may not happen to me in the future, trusting that however it turns out, it will be so good.

A Workshop to Remember: October 19-24, 2009

What follows is a selection from the collected ruminations of gurus Erica, Sally (pictured above), and Alex, regarding their workshop to Bubaneshwar and Kolkata. The list has been truncated for the sake of temporal efficiency as well as propriety.


  1. Invisible hair dust → please don't brush hair in enclosed areas such as sleeper-train cars.

  2. 28th October → most auspicious day for date(ing) for Alex, Sally, and Erica (and Dheeraj).

  3. Smiley-face toast and questionable bananas (please see photos on Flickr).

  1. Intellectual evisceration over breakfast; topics include, but are not limited to, independent study projects and obscure 19th century authors.

  2. Staying up until the wee hours of the morn with friends and watching [ridiculous auspicious] please choose one Indian-Canadian comedians and laughing until you pee your pants because you totally get it.

  3. Covering sleeping roommates (one roommate) with towels (again, just one) so the hotel will not see her in her “innerwear.”

  4. Singing Al Green to the hotel employee making your bed OR watching your roommate participating in the aforementioned activity with horror/amazement/admiration.

  5. Employee at the temple seeing Erica's drawings and saying “Artist- Nice!” in a tone suggesting that she was drawing something particularly alluring, rather than chaatris. Or possibly indicating that he thought chaatris are particularly alluring. Nice!

  6. Sellers of tantric palm-leaf flip-up postcards and strings of fake pearls from “the Beach Collection.”

  7. Eating fresh coconuts.

  8. Attempting to accept puja at the 64 Yogini shrine with my left hand and proceeding to further disgrace myself and my people (Who? Stupid people?) by pointing to the carving of a goddess with my foot.

  9. Sleep deprivation due to much merriment. (Also see below)

  10. Staying up until 12:30 AM, boarding a train at 9:15 PM that night, going to bed at 2:00 AM on the train and waking up three hours later (5:00 AM) to disembark the train.

  11. Riding in a horse-drawn carriage embellished with silver (tin foil?) and neon pom-poms, driven by a 12 year old boy with beetle-stained teeth. Boy: Four boxes 50 rupees? Me: What?

  12. Rohit love Sweety – Rohit weds Sweety Note: Found above Sally's bunk on the train back to Delhi. Did Rohit or Sweety write this? Is Sweety the name or a person or an as-yet unknown person whom Rohit predicts will be his (or her?) Sweety?

  13. Erica sleeping later than everybody else on the train, but popping her head out of the curtain and singing along when the muzac version of “Mera jutta hai japani” came on over the train's sound system.


*Note: The title of this post was inspired by an interview in “Vogue, India” in which the interviewee declared her dream role to be that played by Mandy Moore in “A Walk to Remember.” Accha nahi hai. Very useful however, as a blog title.