Showing posts with label Stumblings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stumblings. Show all posts

Friday, May 27, 2011

Shrieking


Shrieking, It's all I can seem to think about these days. All I can think about writing, anyway. Stop being so melodramatic, won't you? Yes, paying the rent is hard, and finding housemates is stressful, and working is tiring and not working is exhausting, and getting out of bed is nearly-impossible and seeing those who've lost full facilities of their legs makes half your brain shriek at the other half “GET UP! YOU'VE ONLY GOT YOUR ONE LIFETIME! USE THAT BODY, FOR GODNESS SAKE! BREATHE INTO IT WHILE YOU STILL CAN!” while the other half of your brain yawns and kicks lazily at its skull-mate who, not wanting to think about anything, wills itself into a deeper sleep.

So, when I think about it, it makes sense that shrieking is on the brain. What else do we really ever do? Does anything ever do? We see things that scare us, causing us to shriek and run the other direction. We see things we love and we run towards them, also shrieking. And so often, those things are one in the same and we shriek with the confusion and pain of trying to run in two directions at once. Cats shriek silently at the injustice of being too well-loved in their homes, and rats shriek with glee at gnawing through yet another new bag of all-purpose flower. We shriek with surprise at actually having caught the ball (finally) and then with pain as we realize that our finger's been good and sprained. We shriek with our ineptitude and our genius, and with our accidental and meticulously planned luck or success or ending up in precisely the wrong place and finding it to be so much better than the place we'd wanted to go. Flowers shriek into bloom and leaves shriek gently as they drift to the ground and are snatched up by squirrels and birds who shriek at their luck.

Oh, yes, forest animals and shrieking, very original. I'm off to drink a beer, but you continue on with your woodland shrieking.


++++++

A winter full of heartbreak and soaring victories. A dear friend loses a child; life stops, and we pretend it resumes. It doesn't. The no-pressure co-ed basketball team I've joined suddenly becomes...no-pressure. For real. Like, I didn't spend each day leading up to the game in an increasingly excruciating amount of anxiety. Of what? Well, of playing basketball. Of not being perfect? Of not being good? I'm not sure.

And summer approaches. The prospect of a summer spent in tipis and phosphorescence and preteens and the ridiculous application of makeup before heading to the lodge for breakfast when it's really time to GO and the I knows with the rolling of eyes. The memory sends shivers down my spine and I wonder, do I really want to do this again? It's hard to say. But then I look at my whirring mind through the worried eyes halting and fluttering in the mirror and I realize that even if I don't want it, I certainly need it. And I do want it, really. 

Saturday, January 15, 2011

What's True

A tricky balance must be struck between self-care and self harm; go too far in one direction, either really, and you may end up on the I'll-never-drink-again end of a Sunday morning. There's the dangerous capacity to get it very wrong, and I think that the only way to get it right is to get it wrong enough times that you end up trained like one of those poor mice who veer away from the red button whenever they get too close because the memory of the shock it gives them sends them into apoplectic anxiety.

And then we're there, we're the lab rats, and all our rationalizations for why the testing is unavoidable go out the window. Or maybe the feelings on rats' rights remain the same, but there's a horror in finding that we've treated and trained ourselves with the same maniacal habituation. When did this become a good idea? When did we come this point of self-manipulation? Maybe it's irrelevant; the trick is to find an illusion of semi-stability so that we may continue on in our lives "taking care" of ourselves, loving and hating ourselves alternately and simultaneously, occasionally taking responsibility for the agency we have in our own lives, occasionally throwing our hands up in the air and asking God what the f*#@ he's thinking.

Things that are Good for You:
Soft Light
Playing with Children
Laughing
Tickling
Crying
Doing Scary Things
Dressing Up and Wearing Costumes
Singing
Dancing
Tea
Eggnog (non-dairy version does not apply, sorry vegans)
Cashmere
Wool (especially the soft kind)
Hugs
Kisses (butterfly, bunny, etc.)

******

The end of an era has come upon myself and my immediate family- our second and final cat, born and adopted 17 years ago, was put to sleep in what feels like the death of something soft and safe and constant. Which it was.

There's a moment when an animal is put to sleep- it happens so fast. There's life, and then there's not. And once it's gone, everything looks exactly the same, but totally different. How is that so? And what is it that we lose? Where does it go? And without the answers to these questions, I can't help but think, what do we think we are doing?

And I know- a cat is a cat. He was no more or less than himself, and tempers may flare at the audacity of lamenting the death of so feline a friend. Still though, everything I wrote is true. I think. And in my estimation, to compare one loss to another is unproductive.

And I keep seeing him out of the corner of my eye.


******


Out of the quiet and hollowness comes, from time to time, a billowing cloud of steam and sound which reminds you that you're not alone. You are filled, as if you're under the rainbow parachute, and it's also inside you, and the warm noise of music and conversation wafting over your everything reminds you that it's safe to be.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

What to Do when You End up on Someone's Celebrity Dinner Party List when You're Living out of a Cardbord Box


I'm sorry, I'm sick. And it's OK, really, it's just that when I'm sick, my tolerance for...stuff... goes from here (tolerably high) to here (down low-low).

And the thing is, this qualification for your wookie-like sociability might get you off the hook if you weren't sick, like, all the frickin' time.
Yeah, we know, why don't you get over it already? sounds in echoing harmony from inside your head, and outside your head, but the echoes from outside probably come from inside but who cares because it doesn't matter what they say because you know what a horrid beast you are. You're with yourself all the time, for crying out loud.

It's that moment of wondering when anything at all will work at all, or if you might not be better served to call it a day and head for Antarctica because, while it might be uncomfortably cold there, you could live out your wretched days (may they be short) in peace and solitude without disturbing anybody or -thing due to the miraculous sound-proofing qualities of ice caves.

And then you turn to some soothing activity, and find it inexplicably transformed into "the next calculus" and your mind goes blank with rage and you find yourself standing over the splintered remains of a tenor ukulele. This is what The Who must've felt like; I totally understand. Except that their smashing guitars-thing was related to being bad-asses, golden gods of the world of rock n' roll, not screw-ups. Oh, just...dammit.

++++++

I'm in Seattle now, and there are waves of ohmygodthisissoexcitingicoulddoANYTHING. Often though, those moments are overshadowed by the more sustained feelings of whatthef*&#amiDOINGhere which send me the bathroom holding back my hair, coming out 10 minutes later looking sheepish and hoping that the TV was on a little louder than I know it really was.

Maybe I should just go for it. Do art, make prints and journals and sell them and play with kids and use my extra time to intern teaching creative writing to under-served urban communities. And become a vegan.

But I really like real ice cream. And brie. And doesn't the success of any artist ride first and foremost on the artist's ability to let go of their art, and in that release risk the implication that their art is good enough?

So maybe just switch from milk to soy milk. Mostly. And veggie-sausages seem an all-too-easy option, especially given my current employment status of...not. But what about that? The employment part? More than that employment part, the doinglivingbeing part?

There's this thing that happens to me sometimes, where I go to do something, but can't. It's not that I can't, rather it's that I can't decide the order in which to complete that activities or actions surrounding the thing I want to do. So I just end up standing there frozen, going over scenarios in which I complete the tasks in different orders, weighing the merits of, for example, putting the tea water on before going pee, because then the will start to heat up while I'm in the bathroom, but before I put the water on I need to wash the tea pot, which means that I wouldn't be going pee until after I've scrubbed out tea pot, filled it up, and put it on the stove, and I really have to go pee... And all the time, I'm standing there in the hall between the kitchen and the bathroom until someone comes up to me and asks if everything is OK, and when I try to explain the predicament it crumbles in my mouth and I end up spewing sawdust all over the hallway. Then there's a mess, but before I clean it up I have to go to the bathroom, so the decision's made.

And that's where I am, standing in the hall, trying to decide whether to pee first or put on the water. Friends seem to have gotten used to my camping out there in the hallway and greet me cheerily on their way to work and school and bowling and grocery shopping. There's a shadow of doubt that clouds my equating temporarily which seems to suggest that all this is in preparation for that and shouldn't I be doing things like grocery shopping?

BUT WHAT ABOUT THE TEA?!?

++++++

If life is inherently risky, there are certain risks that feel bigger, more do-or-die. And what is it that we're so very frightened of? A broken heart? The prospect of returning in shambles? (Again?) That's all fair. But what of the notion that nothing worth having comes without struggle and risk? Are we looking down the barrel of a life lived without risk at the expense of all joy? What does it mean to find yourself in a moment of little faith, when everything fades to shades of gray?

Thank god and goodness for the things we can, with unabashed joy, pride, and assurance, declare to be ours and our loves.

Friday, March 12, 2010

Lay Me Down


Come to me.

++++++

5:50am
6:16am
4:45am
6:11am

Times I've woken up in the last 4 days. WHAT IN THE WORLD IS GOING ON? Our bodies tell us so much if we choose to listen. If we don't, we just think we're loosing it. The two scenarios may not be mutually exclusive. Grind your teeth at nigh- stress? What's that about? Wake up at quarter-to-five- anxiety? Legs twitching and tingling after a day of lying in bed- is this what it feels like when muscles die?

To use the age old phrase, I feel like a college-student with its head cut off. Running around, bumping into things, watching a movie, saying every five minutes "I have to go do homework." BORING. Be original, won't you Alex? Nobody wants to listen to a stressed-out co-ed. Not even you.

So true. I'm going to go read someone else's blog.

++++++
(sips wine out of coffee mug)
9:22pmKate

hello!

9:22pmJessica

hi

i'm doing homework

not looking at pics of my crush

just so you know

9:23pmKate

I politely suggest you GET OFF FACEBOOK then

btw I'm clearly studying

please stop bothering me

++++++

Alexandra Stokes
Sociology of Immigration- SOC 180
Report on Oakland Chinatown

Oakland Chinatown established itself simultaneously with the city of Oakland itself. It is currently home to many people who participate in numerous and diverse activities. It's quite close, you know. I can't do this right now...
++++++

Don't Give In

++++++

First day of bright, breath-taking, lay-out-in-it-till-you-have-to-go sun. I forgot what it's like, this sun. Or maybe it's not the sun I've forgotten, but the soaking-in of it. In any case, I've clearly forgotten proper sun-etiquette, as is evidenced by my sadly-screaming, red-like-a-cherry-otter-pop back. I'm all about sunscreen, normally. I just forgot. I wasn't prepared. I didn't know it was time for the sun yet, and I can't quite figure out how it sneaked up on me, don't remember this ever happening before. I wonder where I've been that I haven't seenfelt the sun. I don't think I'll go back there, if I can help it.



Tuesday, March 9, 2010

search out stories

Gal writes*,

Here’s the story: life is a dream.

Sometimes something I read just opens up my mind. Cracks it wide open, and in streams sunlight and fresh air. This is one of those times. A moment of epiphany, often one that I've had before, that I hope I'll never stop having. I don't exactly think that there is an end to life, but more a means to living. Not a revolutionary concept, I know. But what would it mean if I lived that way? What if I sought out stories in the life I'm living, not the one that I wishfearpredictregret tolivelivinglivedwilllive? Find the story and hold it up for everyone to see, they won't be able to look away. Maybe when they do look away, their sight will be forever changed. Or maybe just changed for a minute. It was worth it though, wasn't it? See the dream that you're living and the colors glow with intensity and potential. buzzzzzzz. How could I not have seen them before?

++++++

Abortion. It's a difficult topicconversationexperience. I don't quite know how I feel about it. Well, that's not true. I believe that it should be easily accessible. Not taken lightly. Surrounded by conversation and support for those whose lives it brushes and screams through. Maybe I feel differently since Tikva came into my life, came and went from the life I can touch. It's possible that what has changed is my certainty in what I would choose for myself. Not something that I need to consider, have had to consider, in earnest. But it came up last night. In conversation with a friend, I got a glimpse of the brilliant lifelove that has so drawn me to her;

When my sister got pregnant, when I could finally put together a coherent sentence, I asked her if she was going to keep 'it'. 'It,' as if 'it' was a thing. Now 'it' is my nephew, and I can't imagine my life, my family, the world, without him. I couldn't imagine denying him the right to the world and life, and denying the world the right to him.

So inclined to embrace her wisdom, it occurs to me that this could be bigger. I could make a choice, see the world with more kindness and empathy, hear other people, what they say or mean to say or communicate without saying. Listen to the part of me that says, this person is brilliant and in need of love, instead of the part that says, oh shut up, will you? Write a story, own your authorship, make it into something to be proud of, feel love for.

Colored flags fluttering in the breeze, light like butterflies and bright in their singing.

Look at me, I am the life you are living. You have to see me first though, and I am yours.


* Quoted from
The Man Who Fell In Love With The Moon by Tom Spanbauer

Monday, February 8, 2010

...creeeeeak...


This post will include none of the following things: perspective, generosity, benevolence, gratitude, selflessness, discretion, logical development. (Well, maybe a little, but I don't want you to get your hopes up.)

I'm having a hard time connecting the dots- getting from point A to point B. Is my life now anything more or less than it has been for the past six months? It's not simple, is it? Time, emotions, trauma, love, inspiration, they don't move from A to B. They go from Hindi to English to color to black and white to imagination and full circle back to roti which goes to autumn and who knows what next. Maybe uncertainty is what runs through it all, or maybe it's hope. Or moisture or combustion or fairies who creep out after consciousness fades into dusk.

And then there's this song that makes a whole lot of sense to me:
When you run make sure you run to something and not away from...

After the campfire dies down, all that's left are the smouldering remains of the logs collected hastily in the last smokey minutes of twilight. Frantically located, they are arranged in a formation most appealing to the stars, whose gratitude is expressed in the spark that lights the tinder, ensuring instant mashed potatoes and Swiss Miss. The logs are transformed into lumps of charcoal, rounded and grooved into monster's bones, glowing sparkly orange from the inside.

Sometimes it doesn't all fit. Some of those times, you end up sitting in bed, propped up with pillows looking at your room like a princess surveying her very tiny kingdom, slippers peaking out behind the laptop sitting on your lap. It warms your legs, glowing in the semidarkness, light pulsing from bright to almost-gone so that when you squint your eyes, you can almost see a heart beating.

Sunday, December 27, 2009

A couple of quick notes while en route to Iceland:

I am the only female in the entire Amsterdam airport who is not wearing super-cute leather boots. Even the little Nordic girls have them. They also seem very self confident, intelligent, and like they have a good handle on career paths, sharing, and the like. Unfortunately for me, In addition to my current bootless state, my fleece jacket is covered in disgusting red fuzz and maverick strands of hair. How unfortunate, think passers-by as they walk past. Storm ji was right about her...

Also, my new favorite thing: packing suitcases! Packing, re-packing, struggling with zippers until I rise triumphant, sweaty, and (as usual) covered in fuzz, re-packing just for the heck of it, and finding out that there was no point, and that I'll have to do it all over again, the way it was before. I love it. LOVE IT.

xoxo

Monday, December 21, 2009


The program is over. My semester in India is done. I'm sitting on my bed in the ashram, roommate and fellow faffer on her way to London, and then home, other students eating at the program center and saying their last goodbyes. I was going to go, but didn't. I couldn't quite bare saying goodbye again to those I'd already spoken too, but more importantly didn't have the energy to try and make something meaningful of the relationships whose coming to a close I'll lose no sleep over.


I probably won't ever see you again. I will miss the idea of you more than the actual you. Sometimes you were funny, but mostly you just hurt my feelings. Bye.


I did say goodbye to Gwen. Her bed is messy and looks as if she just got up to go to the bathroom, a little burrow for her likewise little body to snuggle back into. But its daytime, no matter how much my body disagrees, and Gwen has vacated her bed for new shores, and I sit here on my bed, looking at hers, taking comfort in the fleecy side of the sleeping bag that has been my comforter for the past two weeks.


++++++


I remember looking at colors when I was younger. I would look at the sky, and see all the different blues and grays and whites, and think, If I could only cut off that little tiny square of color, that would be just one color of blue. So I'd cup my hands around that tiny square, and look through at that one blue. But it's not just that one blue, I'd think. It's that blue, plus the pink of my hands. So I'd think, well, if I could just get at that one piece of sky, look at only that, it would be just one color. I would try narrowing my eyes, squinting up at the sky. That didn't work either, because I saw the fuzzy pink edges of my eyelids. I came to a conclusion in the end. There is no one color on its own; it just doesn't live in our world. There are only many colors together. I realized that, even if I did exclude everything but that tiny patch of sky from my entire field of vision, it still wouldn't be just one color. It would be different blues, subtly different but varied nonetheless. And anyway that it wasn't possible. I could never look at just one color at a time.


++++++


How do you think you've changed while being in India? Do you think you're different than when you came?


Uh, I don't know...


I suppose* we're always changing. Nothing is static. The only thing that is constant is change.

This trip has been most alarming for me in the distance between what I expected it to be, how I expected it to feel, and what I felt. When asked how I've changed, or how it has been adjusting to India, I'm always somewhat baffled.


Well, um...


The thing that has alarmed me most is how un-alarming it all has been. How it has felt so familiar, how it hasn't really felt like a change, except in the community which has become mine this semester. Why is it so surprising that we are ourselves no matter where we go?


How have you changed this semester.


I don't know. You tell me.


When you look in the mirror from day to day, you're the same. Is that true? I think so, in general anyway. It takes a time lapse to see a difference. It takes that uncle or your parents' friend to say “You're so tall!” So when you ask, how have you changed, I can only look at myself and shrug my shoulders. The implication that I ever knew who or what I was in the beginning is somewhat mystifying...


What will you miss most about India?


What?!


The idea that India could be anything less than totally overwhelming and all-encompassing is beyond my comprehension. Besides, to decide what I'll miss, I'd have to identify what exactly India is for me, where I end and where India begins. I don't know that I can do that.


What will I miss? The rickshaws? The pollution? The things that at home might make me cry which make me chuckle and roll my eyes? Gosh, I don't know.


All the “things” I could say seem superficial. And I almost feel like everything that India has been and is to me will come home with me, wadded up in between the dusty and hastily-rendered Hindi that hasn't fallen out through the cracks and all the colors.




NOTE: The photo just above was taken at the beginning of December. The photo way above was taken in mid-September. On the left is my roommate Anna, and on the right the program coordinator Dheeraj. That person in the middle though, who is that??

*Supposition is what we do. What I do here anyway. Redundancy is sometimes necessary. Or sometimes it just is.


Title on Request

Downer: Bummer, a sequel

or

How much do you think this elephant bag will cost me?

or

Lies, Lies

or

I'm sorry, did you say 300 rupees?

or

But I've already paid!

or

It's very nice, except for the cockroaches.

or

Did you say “silk coasters”?

or

No, I won't give you money for your starving baby because you probably mangled it yourself and look, it's high on dope!

or

Oh, golly, it's been fun, but I've got to go.

or

YES madame!

or

He's an asshole, just like me. You'd like him!

or

Where have all the flowers gone?

or

Sorry, did you need something? Because when you made that kissing noise, I thought maybe you needed something...No? OK, just checking.

or

Do people here use the finger?

or

Please don't spit on me.

or

I'm sorry, when I ask you a question and you bob your head from side-to-side for both yes and no, I don't know WHAT YOU'RE TRYING TO TELL ME

or

Don't forget to take care of your body, you know, by eating and sleeping...

or

Is this a legit business, or the kind that is not so...legit?

or

Mercy C+

or

It hasn't all been bad, really!

or

What did you do today?

or

No, I don't know where it is, I don't live here. But you are a taxi driver, so please figure it out and berating me in Hindi will not help as I think it's quite apparent that I have no idea what you're saying.

or

Did you know that the symbol on your bag is the same one used by a right-wing nationalist group in the area that is trying to kick all the immigrants out of Bombay?

or

Sorry, I just woke up.

or

Where are you again?

or

I have no idea.

or

Is it seven candles plus the Shamesh, or is it eight?

or

Wait, what did you say?

or

Get your “Oh, no, I don't think I'd like any of this for dinner” face ready to use in place of “Oh my gosh, is that per person?” face.

or

Are you ready to come home? Well, I don't know...

Saturday, December 12, 2009

A Word from this Author


Everybody at SIT was given an award, most of them silly. I was given the award "Most Likely to Write a Book about Study Abroad." This, in my estimation, was a thinly veiled award for "Most Unfortunate Person, Generally Speaking." Why, you ask, do I say this? Because it is so, and more than that I cannot go into at this time, not with the powers that be and homeland security breathing down my neck and my grades for this semester still looming in the not-too-distant future. Mmmmmm. So, after my presentation had gone on for about an hour longer than it should've, I ended with this journal. I wrote it. It would've been more effective, I feel, had it followed a brilliantly stunning and mind-blowing performance of intellectual and artistic genius. Oh well. Things sometimes turn out a little more bumpy than we had expected.

++++++

Maybe we depict because it soothes, softens, pets, calms, cools. Grrr, hush now, child. Say what's on your mind, spew it in angry sparks and scorch everything within spitting distance. We won't hold the burn marks against you. Vomit it all over, in the most messy, smelly, awkward, acid, unapologetically vile way you know how. Breathe it out, in a chilly whisper, covering the leaves with icy diamonds, frosty fairies jumping down the collars of unsuspecting strollers, tickling their spines and causing those who are walking in pairs to draw unconsciously towards their companions for heat and something like closeness. Send it out in a jet of hard air, shooting far above our heads and finally dispersing into the atmosphere when it runs out of the energy to shoot, rustling the feathers of lackadaisically-winging birds. Say it straight, let it fall with a thud. Or crawl its way through the black tunnels of our pupils, resting finally just behind our eyes. We won't mind.

++++++

Of all the ways we can say, things we can say, colors and textures and FahrenheitCelsius degrees we can say, I can only think of one thing that is true. Find your inspiration; in that, lies your perfect life. Go find it. You've no time to wait. Because you know boredom, and you know amazement, and there's more. Oh so much more! Imperfect magic can be seen, reflected in the eyes of those gazing up at the explosions of color- you can see itthemwhat too. Just look in their eyes. It's there, just a bit and all at once too.

Trust yourself. You're the only one you have, the best one, the one that carries you from peak to peak, whose hands in a generation look a generation older, a generation of being with you, keeping you, company and safe, tiny crinkles which make skin look like old paper wrinkled and smoothed a thousand times; they attest to its presence, your presence:

I was there, that you says. I was there for all of it, and I will be there. I promise.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

bummer.


I just did my final presentation for my Independent Study Project. A month of working, focusing, worrying, faffing, sudden urges to organize my suitcase, checking to see if my clothes had dried since fifteen minutes ago... I just finished my presentation. I bombed. Kind of. But a bomb is a bomb, generally exploding all over the place, sometimes coating everyone within exploding distance with something unsavory, potentially causing them to catch on fire immediately, see their lives flash before their eyes, and die in excruciating pain, cursing the bomb with their dying breath. So that was me. The bomb I mean. Maybe I'm being dramatic. But I promise you all, anybody who leaves a comment saying anything to the effect of "I'm sure you did fine" or "You're exaggerating, you did great, I know it," anybody who does that will be killed. Not to disregard the sanctity of life or anything... Just don't do it. After my presentation, our teacher got up and reminded us that we should be mindful of the time limit in our presentations (I had gotten through one-tenth of my presentation when I learned that my time was two-thirds gone) because this is an important part of the presentation, and that we should also be sure to contextualize our projects for the class (I didn't technically say the title or subject of my project, let alone lay out my methodology, or really explain any part of it in a way that a normal human being could potentially comprehend. I began by defining fantasy, then defining reality (as fantasy, interestingly enough) , and proceeding to spray vomit all over my classmates, explaining that this was a way in which I was depicting my fantasyrealitydesireexpectation. I suppose it wasn't really so bad. And anyway, it's over now, and I'm over it. Totally over it.

++++++

After school, I went out with my friends Sally and Gwen. We went shopping in a center called Dilli Haat, Delhi Marketplace for those of you non-fluent in Hindi (or without access to multiple fluent Hindi speakers). Beautiful crafts, everything so lovely. My eyes actually welled up upon seeing a particular Ikat sari (type of woven cloth from Orissa- look it up!).

We returned home to the ashram in which our group is currently residing. We were sitting on Gwen's and my bed, reading some Vogue India and and other such intellectually stimulating reading material, and the planets came into line, the stars reflected an energy not seen since the previous day when I was pretending to send instant messages to Gwen from Dheeraj's facebook. God and Shiva and Kali and Juggernaut all came together and and decided that it was a time for the pressure of the past month to spew out like steam from a teapot - pssshhhhhhhhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeee! What it was that incited our amusement it's hard to say. It was technically a dance that Sally did, while positioned horizontally on the bed, in conjunction with the reddening of her face due to lack of oxygen and the thought that it was very nice to watch her participate in such foolery while she may be slowly dying... I know, it doesn't make sense. Two plus two does not equal four. However, this is what happened. The dancing was done, the comments were made, and laughter ensued. And it wasn't just laughing. It was the kind that lasted for ten minutes straight, egged on by the ridiculousness of the other's physical and vocal contortions, reaching epic proportions in length, volume, and general insanity. We laughed and laughed. And we laughed, and then cried while laughing, causing eyeliner to run amuck and saliva to be unceremoniously evacuated due to prolonged oral...openness. We laughed. Our stomachs hurt. And we laughed, and couldn't breathe, and squeaked, and rolled, and curled and twitched and coughed and laughed and laughed.

When our bodies began to run out of the calories with which to fuel our spasmodic convulsions, there was a knock on the door. A stout Indian woman was there, peering in with a mixture of suspicion and surprise and curiosity, and also with an alarming intensity.

W: What's going on?
A: We're laughing.
W: It's too loud. It is not good. Laughing is not good. Every room is full, and it is not good to be loud.
A: OK.
W: No he he ha ha hoo hoo. Not good.
A: Um...OK. Thank you.

Thursday, December 3, 2009

P.S. GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

Grace eludes and angst sets in. This sucks! I hate everybody. Arrrrrg. Not in the pirate way, more in the why-doesn't-life-seem-to-fit-right-now kind of way. Over-caffinated, under-productive, not to sing the song of the co-ed...

"Set a goal. Focus. Don't go on the internet."

"Come on Alex, you're a big girl."

"200 Rupees" for the rickshaw ride that should've taken 10 minutes but in actuality took an hour.

(Sidelong glance from the woman serving breakfast when I come up for chai for the fourth time.)

F-YOU! (Head explodes and singed confetti scatters over the room, while the sound and flurry fade, the smell of burned toast lingers)

It's easy to spiral here. You know what else I remember? [Insert past or present injustice] My paper feels like it's hopelessly floundering with what turns out to be two water-logged oars I had assumed that I was working with a 50-horsepower engine. Oh crap.

Just a little note to say that I'm not capable of much more than growling at the current moment. Not very bodhicitta of me, I know. But when you share yourself with others, it's not fair to just share the oh-so-serene parts, is it? Not honest, true, not quite grimy enough. And while I have no desire to spread negative energy, because goodness knows that there's enough of that floating around, this is where I'm at. I won't be here forever. But I'm here now. "Necessary spaces," says Kate. Indeed. I am certainly inhabiting this space, and it's not so cozy in here. Hmmm...

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."