Showing posts with label Common Sense. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Common Sense. 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. 

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Unfurling Sounds too Noble


Hello, I love you, won't you tell me your name?

Maybe it's all of the goodbyes I've had to say recently. To people, and to the bits and pieces that have made up my life for the past two years or so. Or the rush of anticipation, the explosion of celebration, and the uncertainty left in its wake.

Or maybe it's all of the thank you letters I've been writing to people I could never really thank enough, so all I can offer are a few flimsy words which I hope they can look beyond to see what I really mean.

Then again, maybe it's because I'm at a juncture in my life where I have the opportunity to take the biggest risks of my life. Or not. Though risks are inherent to living, so to say that we choose to live without risk is something of a contradiction.

Or maybe it's something as simple as the fact that I found a gnarly bug crawling on my face in my sleep last night, which initially worked itself into my dream, and then I woke up. When I turned on the light and saw my bedfellow, an exclamation of immense impropriety rang through the house and I briefly considered cutting off my face. Still not off the table. (Pause for 5th shower of the morning)

Let's change the subject now, shall we? (Kind of like a dentist asking questions to someone whose mouth she's got jacked open. Don't you think?) I'm reading a book, although I'm afraid to pick it up again, because it pulls me towards an unknown that I'm scared of. It's called Travels with Charlie by John Steinbeck. In the very first pages, he writes about the people who come to see him and his truck before he sets off across the country.

I saw in their eyes something I had to see over and over in every part of the nation-a burning desire to go, to move, to get under way, anyplace, away from Here. They spoke quietly of how they wanted to go someday, to move about, free and unanchored, not toward something but away from something...Nearly every American hungers to move.

I wonder if that's an American thing. I certainly feel it- it's the reason that this book scares me. I wonder, though, if it's a human thing. Or maybe not. It might just be a certain-type-of-human thing. If you've got it, I don't think it ever goes away. Steinbeck writes about a young boy who asks to join him on his journey;

He had the dream I've had all my life, and there is no cure.

This "thing" makes us very fragile. Because setting off into the unknown is terrifying. People are meant to be with people, to love and communicate and keep each other warm at night. It's the only way we can live, it literally keeps our brains alive. But it brings us to the point where deep sadness and irrepressible joy meet. It's not an easy place to be, an exquisite place.

It's terrifying, but in a good way. It's a place of possibility, of floating, of joyous desperation and reaching out for something, anything, but not just anything, to hang on to, to attach to, to love and be loved by. A feeling that might be characterized by the desperate need to love someone or something new, with the reciprocation of love being the only prerequisite.

Monday, February 22, 2010

shiver deep-down


I woke up this morning early (e-gads!) with a shiver in my belly and sad oozing out all sticky from my dreams. I remember waking up feeling this way sometimes when I was younger, and describing it as feeling like I need some hot chocolate, or a friend. The clarity and hit-the-nail-on-the-head accuracy of kids is alarming sometimes, isn't it?

Yesterday, my 5 year old friend Beatrice asked me to write this for her: Anybody I pass, I like. She wanted to write it on a big heart that she had cut out of tissue paper. I think she planned to tape the heart to her shirt so that people passing by her as she walked would see it. What a brilliant idea! Why not give light to as many people as possible? Why not tell everybody you love them? Just now, the shiver in my belly feels a little less lonely, honey-and-milk-Beatrice warming me up from the inside.

After writing this post, I switched over to homework and came across this report. Brian Welch says, "I always felt, as a kid, that I didn't need anybody trying to entice me into believing that the world was interesting." Cosmic.

Today my motto will be that of the curious campers- I promise to be awesome.

Friday, January 22, 2010

Shivering at the Feet of Letting Go

The notion of "culture shock" has never made sense to me. I'm beginning to think though, that it's just misnamed. It's not the culture that you feel doesn't fit, it's you. And I don't think it only applies to travel. We are always changing, having new experiences that transform us in ways we can't fathom, only we feel the effects of the changes, hear their echoes and see their shadows.

Something tugs on the corner of our shirt, just out of eyesight. When we look down and slightly backwards, and we realize that we are changed. A wet tissue with a drop of dye in the corner, we realize that our color is utterly transformed, flushed with a color we hardly recognize but intuitively understand or identify with. Only the very farthest corner bears any trace of the color that was before.

I'm exhausted. Maybe it's jetlag. If it is, then I'm still the person I've been for the past 5 months. If it isn't, if I'm just tired, then who am I? Just another person, a person with no physical connection to close to half a year in India, with only photos and stories which seem less real with every day. Who is it real for if it's not real for me?

++++++

I remember my mom telling me about Buddhism when I was very young. She told me that one of the main ideas is that you accept everything as it is, without wishing it were something or some way else. It gave me pause- how could that be? And what would be the point, to anything, if we just accepted what is as what is? What if I wanted a toy? Did that mean that I just wouldn't want the toy? That I would give up that wanting? But I didn't want to give up the wanting! I liked it- no, maybe not liked it, but...I didn't want to stop wanting.

But maybe there was something to this acceptance. Wanting wasn't exactly fun, didn't exactly make me happy. But ooh! Look at the two pages in this catalogue where everything is white and pink and has frills and lace on it- I'm going to go show it to my parents!

And it's still hard to process, the thought of not wanting...

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

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...

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

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."

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, October 25, 2009

Packing List for Workshop to Orissa


- Med kit up to date
- Bring passport and tickets <-- !!!!!
- Meet @ domestic terminal @ 6:00AM :(
- Bring snack
- Keep sched. w/ you
- Fun + frolic!
- Bring honor
- Bum-enhancing pants--> NO

more to follow...

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Lost In Transfiguration


On Sunday, I wanted to meet up with my classmate Erika. Fabulous idea. We made the plan, and she told me to send her a text message if I needed to contact her.

A: Um...I don't have a cell phone.
E: Just use someone else's.
A: Uh...

So, I called her host family's house the night before the planned meeting, but Erika was off traipsing around Delhi. I called the next morning, the morning of our planned date, and nobody answered the phone. Feeling mild panic setting in, I asked my host father to borrow his cell phone and sent her a text message, hoping for an immediate response. The message was sent, but none came in response, and thus we all went on about our business, I with the assumption that Erika was otherwise engaged for the day. After my host father had left for work, we got a call from him, saying that Erika had written back. (Uh oh) Thus, my host father, through the telephone to my host sister Payal, recounted the text messages, from their original English, in Hindi. Payal proceeded to relay the messages to me, in English.

P: Your friend sent you three text messages.
A: Oh no. What did they say?
P: The first one says "Don't worry, I'm leaving at 9:35. I'll see you there." The second one says, "I'll talk to you tomorrow. I just talked to my host mother, and I can't leave until five. I'll see you there." The third one says "I'm here, where is the monument."
A: What?
P: (repeats messages)
A: So, is she going to meet me there at 5, or will she talk to me tomorrow?
P: ...

Clearly, something was not right. By the time I got the third message, I realized that the situation had gotten out of control, and I had better high-tail it to the nearest international phone-calling booth and figure out WHAT was going on.

E: Hello?
A: Hi, it's Alex.
E: Oh, hey! Where are you?
A: I'm still in Lagpat. Is it OK if I hop in a rickshaw and meet you now?
E: No, don't, everything's closed here. I'll come and meet you at the CCD (Cafe Coffee Day) in Central Market.
A: OK. See you there.

Upon our eventual connection, the truth was revealed- we had experienced a...I don't know, something which, whatever it was, didn't work properly. Or maybe it did work properly, and its function, whatever it was, was to confuse the bajeezus out of us all. The real text messages read as follows.

Text 1: Don't worry, I'm coming! I've no idea how long it will take, but I'll leave the house at 9:35. See you there!

Text 2: Had to talk to my host mom, I'll leave at 5 to. I'll be there!

Text 3: Where are you? I am here where we saw the puppies at the monument.*

Hahahahahahahahahaha.

* We had in fact planned on meeting at the monument in Haus Kaus Village, where we had previously seen puppies. FYI.

Friday, September 18, 2009

On the Metaphysical Nature of Driving Lanes and Intravenus Chai


10 days is too long in between posts, Alex.
I know. I wanted to write earlier, but I have been very busy.
Busy doing what? I expect you have something to show for your flagrant disregard of communicatory etiquette.
Well...
Well?
Actually, no. I have nothing.
To the dungeon with you!

++++++

Driving here is not like driving anywhere else I have ever been. I always pitied those poor souls who have to learn to drive in NYC. I had never been to Delhi. Of course, so many people here just buy their drivers licenses that learning isn't really an issue... The fact is that I wouldn't be surprised if 90% of drivers in Delhi bought their drivers licenses. Yesterday. But maybe that's not fair. I certainly couldn't navigate the insanity that is our daily commute in a car or car-like creature. Lanes here are truly an amorphous and undefinable thing. They don't really...mean anything. So it actually takes an intense amount of concentration and dexterity to drive without crashing, not to mention avoiding the unconcerned pedestrians and people walking around cars trying to sell bobble-head dogs and head scratchers (apparently there is a large market for these things here).

Honking too is a different story in Delhi than in the United States. Constant honking. All the time. It's necessary though, for the most part. Because when you and your fellow drivers aren't driving under the collective understanding that you will stay in your lane and the next car will do the same, you have to let other cars know where you are. People don't honk because they're mad. In the states, you look at someone hoking their horn and see the steam pouring out of their ears. Here, you look over at a driver who has just been laying on the horn and see him staring contemplatively out at the writhing sea of cars, people, cows, dogs... There may be a lesson to be learned here, but I'm not quite there yet. I'll let you know when I figure it out.

++++++

Last weekend we went to Amritsar, a city in the state of Punjab and home to the Golden Temple and the Indo-Pakistani border. This post will not be about that trip. It will be about the ensuing week of insanity and sleep deprivation. I like to keep this blog for the most exciting, exotic, and impressive topics. Obvi, as my friend Erika would say.

We got home, after a 6 hour train ride, at 11PM. Exhausted from a weekend of non-stop touristing, I went to bed around 1 AM, and was up at 6:45 to catch a rickshaw to school by 7:30. A combination of a hefty amount of reading, starting the week out tired, and not having down/homework time over the weekend turned the week into something closer to heavy-lidded sleepwalking than living. Tuesday morning we had to get up early to go to our first yoga class. I distinctly remember thinking as I was putting on my clothes, I wish I could have some chai right now. I don't want to drink it though, I need it to be administered intravenously, straight into my veins. Instant gratification, warm trickely feeling all through my body, that would be good. Should I be worried?

NOTE: You'll all be glad (I think...) to know that we got a break on Friday. Hindi (morning) class was canceled, and we didn't have any other homework. I slept for 11 hours. Mmmmmmmm.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Peppers, Bollywood, and Monsoons


Yesterday was the birthday of the niece of my host family. We went downstairs for dinner to celebrate her birthday. In the building where we live, there is a brother and his family living on each of the 3 floors with us on the top floor. Dinner consisted of dal, chapati, onions, water, and gelebi (a sweet somewhat like funnel cake). I took a piece of chapati in my right hand and scooped up some dal. Midway through my first bite, I realized that the vegetable which I had mistook for a green bean was in fact a pepper. These peppers, I found out, are meant to be eaten a tiny bite at a time. Not all in one go, as I unfortunately had done. My eyes widened and started watering and my face flushed. At the end of that first bite, the family started catching on that I was in a state of panic. "Pani! Pani!" Water, Water! I shoved chapati into my mouth in between whole glasses of water in one gulp. I eventually recovered, physically. The family enjoyed this show to no end. Hahaha. We had dal today for lunch and I jumped when I thought I found a pepper on my plate.

++++++

Bollywood is fabulous. I am completely enamored. Silly and irreverent and joyful and vibrating with excitement. What could be better?

I, like many other western travelers, have found the Indian etiquette for interaction between men and women to be alarming and quite severe. Don't make eye contact unnecessarily, don't sit down next to a man on the bus, don't respond if a man talks to you on the street, don't dress provocatively... My understanding of what constitutes as "provocative" has changed considerably. I've found, however, that this formality of interaction between men and women is not reflected in movies and television.

During the party last night, we watched a channel airing one Bollywood music video after another. These videos depicted men and women in intimate situations and making provocative gestures. Not surprising in itself, but given the flirting-ban that seems to be in place, it makes me think. It was hard enough growing up in the States, watching movies and TV shows where the characters' love lives were infinitely more active and eventful than mine. I felt like I should have been doing something that I wasn't, like I wasn't up to speed with the cool and edgy crowd.

This, however, was in America, where dating, kissing, holding hands, are accepted between men and women, even same sex couples (shocker! I know...), for both younger people and unmarried adults. This, as far as I can tell, is not the case in India. What must it be like for them, these teenagers, seeing everything but you-know-what on TV and being disallowed from even talking with strangers of the opposite sex? I know that the rules are not so strict for everybody here in this country-that-is-everything. Still though, I wonder...

++++++

Today it rained. A lot. I don't think it ever rains just a little here in Delhi. It was dumping buckets when we were getting ready to leave, so we decided to take a taxi rather than the usual open-air rickshaw. Everybody else in Delhi decided this too, which meant two things: One, we had to wait quite a while before the cab got to our house. Two, the roads were packed. A better word might be flooded, as it would apply in two senses- in terms of cars, and water. The streets were flooded. Did I say that already? Waves upon waves. The rain kept pouring, and the streets looked like huge, muddy rivers. Our car stalled. Several times. I was all for walking to the school early on in the ride, wanting to get out of the car, move my legs, get wet, have an adventure. Maybe even miss a bit more of Hindi class. As it turns out, I didn't need to get out very early for that.

At some points, the water was so high that it seeped in through the bottoms of the doors (yes, I did just say that) and when a car drove by us on either side, water splashed in through the windows opened just a crack so the windows wouldn't fog. Did I mention that it is hot here? It's hotter when it's not raining, but the effect of rain in September in New Delhi is something like being in a sauna in your clothes...with your teacher asking you the different forms of the adjective "dry". HA!

A couple times when we were stalled, waiting for the driver to work his magic (which he did, every time), a car would drive by us in the flooded street. We would feelhear rublingcracklinggrumbling and feel a shaking, up as the car came up to us and back down again as it passed. We would watch the car in front of us bob in the water as the car passed it. The first few times this happened, we grabbed each other's arms in panic. We saw the driver laughing at the cars in front bobbing up and down, and decided not to worry. If he wasn't worried, then we shouldn't be. Hmmm.

We finally got to the turnoff from which point we could walk. We convinced the taxi driver to let us get out and walk the rest of the way (on the other side of the flirting-embargo, everybody is very protective of young women, very concerned with our safety and happiness). We were going to get soaked anyway, and we feared that his Ambassador taxi would not make it through the flooded street between us and school. So, we rolled up our pants, girded our loins, got our ducks in a row, and cautiously stepped out of the car. We then repeated the aforementioned steps as the water was much higher than our hopeful imaginations had led us to believe.

We braved the high waters (up to our knees at some points), warning each other of coming waves and potential rip currents, trying to imagine that the brown color of the water was only due to the copious amounts of chai which seem to line the shelves of this country, pretending to ignore the bits and pieces getting stuck in our sandals deep down in the murky depths.

We did eventually get to class though. We were only an hour late.

मैं हूँ ना


After a two flights, one nearly 10 hours and one nearly eight, je suis la! It took a long time to get the bags all loaded off the plane, but mine wasn't there. On the plane, I mean. So I registered with the young man at the desk, after which I suggested that he give me his phone number, and I could call him and he could show me the sites of Delhi. As it turns out, I did nothing less than proposition him.

I never called him.

++++++

We, myself and the 11 other girls and 2 boys (!) stayed at an ashram - read hostel-meets-religious-sanctuary - for the first week or so. The photo taken above is of a small marble shrine draped in marigolds. Beauty.

++++++

A member of our group turned 22 the day before yesterday. Isaac's host family had a party and invited us as our family is related to theirs. Dinner is served very late here, 8:30 dinner being on the early side. Tummies grumbling, we foreign students sat patiently, our families grinning at us with an expectancy which indicated that we were expected to respond to something they had just said in Hindi. Ummm...

Dinner was served close to 9:30, and was a battle of balancing politeness and avoiding stomach-explosion incidents. The Indian sense of hospitality involves offering- vehemently- food to wayward and unsuspecting travelers in endless quantities. Finally (finally!) it was cake time. After blowing out the candles (which had to be shielded from the constantly whirring fans) and singing happy birthday we were introduced to a strange, exotic, hilarious/excruciating new birthday tradition. Apparently usually only inflicted on young children (this was obviously an exception), every adult cuts off small pieces of cake and hand feeds them to the birthday-girl or -boy. Not only does each person hand feed the birthday boy (in this case), but they end up feeding him multiple pieces in an attempt to get the “perfect” picture, the feeder’s hands poised just out of reach of his mouth with him unsure of whether to go for the bite, or to sit there, mouth open, half full of half-eaten cake, waiting for the photo-op, and associated torture, to pass. Thank goodness for birthdays and culture shock…

++++++

Today we learned the words for beautiful (sundar) and dirty (ghunda). I proceeded to proclaim to the class that I was a dirty girl.

Love from India...

Saturday, August 29, 2009

One, Two, Three...

...gasp...

Freefalling, my hands feel the need to waive wildly, trying to balance my body in the middle of...

...thudpsssshhhhaaaa silence...

The silence, though, isn't quite silence. It's the sound of fullness, groaning, creaking, but more than that, of suspension- the hisssss and gurgle of this alternate universe. Seeing is transformed, and all just...

...floats...

++++++

Are you packed yet?
I'm getting there?

Are you bringing much?
No, but it's still more than I'd like to bring.

How long will you be away?
About four and a half months.

What's the weather like there?
It'll be hot when I get there and cool when I leave.

Are you excited?
Oh yeah...

Also, terrified.

++++++

A: You're going to jump?
S: Yeah.
A: Well, then, I have to jump.
S: I'm just going to jump from up there.
A: I have to go way up there.
S: Why?
A: I don't know...

One, two, three...

(JUMP!)

Sunday, August 16, 2009

Insert Foot Here -->

A: I wonder if he's into me...We've been dancing together a lot, but he hasn't put the moves on. What's he waiting for?!? You know what, I don't have time for this! If he likes me, I want to know. If he doesn't, I should probably stop harassing him. DO IT! Hey, I've got a question for you.
D: What?
A: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH (quietly) Do you have any interest in kissing me?
D: What?
A: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH cont. (louder) Do you have any interest in kissing me?
D: Um (crazed look in eyes), well, I'm leaving tomorrow... ( 'A' expects more) The thought had crossed my mind, but, you know...I'm leaving tomorrow...
A: Oh, yeah, I know. No worries. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
HHH
(awkwardness ensues)



There's this funny thing about communication- it doesn't exist unless you make it so. There is no mind-reading, no intuitive certainty. Words unspoken remain imaginary.

Monday, August 3, 2009

Fear

Do you ever just feel terrified?

Is it faux pas to write about things that aren't happyinspiringexciting on a blog? I just don't have anything else to give right now. What's more, this thing is big. It's not like the only (potentially tiny) thing in an empty room, more like the obelisk from "Space Odyssey 2001"... in a room. I.e., very big.

It's scary to be alone. Or rather, to feel alone. I guess that we're never really alone.

What do you do when you're not in control, and all you can do is wait for the next thing to happen and hope that when it does, it keeps you warm and cozy and safe, and doesn't drop you off a cliff? At least, not the bad kind of cliff. Um...

It's not really so easy dividing things into scary/bad and friendly/good. When you show me a person who didn't feel literally nauseous for an entire two weeks when she/he was just beginning to fall in love, I will introduce you to my best friend the "insert gross bug here." She/he sleeps at the foot of my bed.

Still, it's lonely being lonely. Hence the name. You know, "lonely."

Sunday, August 2, 2009

Note to Self...

A hole-in-the-ear does not heal a hole-in-the-heart.

In fact, it produces an effect which may be closely likened to the aforementioned hole-in-the-heart (barring, of course, the fact that the whole-in-the-heart is a metaphorical hole, and not a hole as such.)

Thus, a hole-in-the-ear may in fact produce a result close to the opposite of that desired, in terms of hole-filling and pain-alleviating.

It does, however, fulfill the purpose of angsty-ascetic-tragedy-dom which may be desirable under certain hipster-aspiring circumstances.

Thursday, July 30, 2009

The problem with arguing with my dad...

Me: Look at this picture! Isn't that cute?
Papa: I don't do cute. It's dumb.
Me: Your face is dumb!
Papa: It's genetic.
Me: . . .