13 December 2007
snow, aphids, semester
It's snowing, the aphids are winning, and I'm done! My first semester in graduate school is finished. Now I can spend the winter break working on my master's project.
03 December 2007
of aphids and ladybugs
My greatest enemy today is the aphid. They are sap-sucking, nasty-looking, parasitic pests. They've killed my sage and now they're killing my rosemary. But I think I can win. Every day, I inspect the leaves and branches of my rosemary for the little red and black crawly things. When I find one, I squeeze it between my thumb and index finger to leave behind a streak of bug guts and exoskeleton. I also have a plan b, which is to enlist the help of a ladybug, the aphid's natural predator. My only worry is if the ladybug is successful, she might just die of starvation for want of more aphids. Then, I would feel terrible.
28 November 2007
pumpkin ravioli
1. Boil ravioli and drain
2. In a pan, on medium-low heat, melt butter
3. Add brown sugar and a pinch of salt
4. When the sugar is completely dissolved in the butter, add fresh sage
5. When the sage turns dark green, add ravioli
6. Brown on both sides
7. Serve with cheese shavings
19 November 2007
division of labor
Did I tell you that I moved in with Carlos? Since September I've been living in southern Manhattan, in a sunny studio with partial views of the Brooklyn Bridge and surrounded by architecturally unremarkable skyscrapers.
I like not having to wonder if we'll see each other on a particular day because now, as busy as we are, we can see each other every day.
Another way our living arrangement is working is the division of labor. Carlos, though a true artist at heart, is shy in the kitchen. But, I like to cook and Carlos makes an attentive and eager sous chef. I also like to wash dishes. Carlos hates washing dishes. I hate mopping, vacuuming and scrubbing the floor. He loves it. I also hate to do laundry, but I love to fold. Carlos loves to do laundry, but hates to fold.
If only he wasn't allergic to cats, I would rate him a 10.
I like not having to wonder if we'll see each other on a particular day because now, as busy as we are, we can see each other every day.
Another way our living arrangement is working is the division of labor. Carlos, though a true artist at heart, is shy in the kitchen. But, I like to cook and Carlos makes an attentive and eager sous chef. I also like to wash dishes. Carlos hates washing dishes. I hate mopping, vacuuming and scrubbing the floor. He loves it. I also hate to do laundry, but I love to fold. Carlos loves to do laundry, but hates to fold.
If only he wasn't allergic to cats, I would rate him a 10.
09 November 2007
three months and one day
Today is the three-months-and-one-day-versary of the start of journalism school for me. I think of you, my dear, loyal readers, often, and how I have shared nil of my experiences with you.
I'm sorry. Truly.
In a nutshell, I have good days and I have bad days.
On bad days, I think, this is silly. I can't be a journalist: It's scary to talk to people, and writing is a bitch. I don't want to be a journalist: I don't care about "trends" and won't presume to decide what is "newsworthy."
On good days, I think, this is cool. I get to walk around on beautiful autumn days and talk to interesting people I would never have talked to otherwise.
Writing stories has been the most difficult for me. I don't like it. And I am never satisfied even when I am finished. This is not me being a perfectionist. This is me resisting the part of journalism that requires me to be a pseudo social scientist.
I've discovered that I like reporting and producing sound pieces, like for radio or audio slideshows, best. That's when people can tell their own stories. Don't mistake me. I am still author and editor. But, it's their voices, not mine. And that's what journalism is about I think.
I'm sorry. Truly.
In a nutshell, I have good days and I have bad days.
On bad days, I think, this is silly. I can't be a journalist: It's scary to talk to people, and writing is a bitch. I don't want to be a journalist: I don't care about "trends" and won't presume to decide what is "newsworthy."
On good days, I think, this is cool. I get to walk around on beautiful autumn days and talk to interesting people I would never have talked to otherwise.
Writing stories has been the most difficult for me. I don't like it. And I am never satisfied even when I am finished. This is not me being a perfectionist. This is me resisting the part of journalism that requires me to be a pseudo social scientist.
I've discovered that I like reporting and producing sound pieces, like for radio or audio slideshows, best. That's when people can tell their own stories. Don't mistake me. I am still author and editor. But, it's their voices, not mine. And that's what journalism is about I think.
03 November 2007
bix & ferdie
Meet Bix Beiderbecke the Amazing, Fantastic Trumpet Player and Ferdinand the Bull, Ferdinand for Short. Bix is the big one and Ferdinand is the little one. They're Bengal mixes.
Bengal cats are bred from the wild Asian leopard cat and domestic cats. I wanted spotted kittens, but ended up with a marbled teen and a tween.
I picked them up from a woman in Baltimore, MD, who rescued them.
We're still getting to know each other. I have my doubts. But then, I didn't bond with Lucy, my first cat, for months, not until she ran away and I knew I wanted her back.
Bengal cats are bred from the wild Asian leopard cat and domestic cats. I wanted spotted kittens, but ended up with a marbled teen and a tween.
I picked them up from a woman in Baltimore, MD, who rescued them.
We're still getting to know each other. I have my doubts. But then, I didn't bond with Lucy, my first cat, for months, not until she ran away and I knew I wanted her back.
30 September 2007
rock and cock
From the television show Cops:
Woman talking to a police officer. She says she gave $20 to her neighbor to buy something and her neighbor didn't buy it. Now, she wants her money back.
The police officer asks the woman what she asked her neighbor to buy. She wouldn't say. When pressed, she says, "Rock." Crack cocaine. She says her neighbor gave her plaster instead.
Police officer goes to talk to the neighbor. Neighbor is indignant and says, she came around and said give me my $20 back, give me my $20 back. "Don't come disrespecting my house. This is my house. My child is here. I don't sell crack. I'm a prostitute!"
Woman talking to a police officer. She says she gave $20 to her neighbor to buy something and her neighbor didn't buy it. Now, she wants her money back.
The police officer asks the woman what she asked her neighbor to buy. She wouldn't say. When pressed, she says, "Rock." Crack cocaine. She says her neighbor gave her plaster instead.
Police officer goes to talk to the neighbor. Neighbor is indignant and says, she came around and said give me my $20 back, give me my $20 back. "Don't come disrespecting my house. This is my house. My child is here. I don't sell crack. I'm a prostitute!"
13 August 2007
monday number two
Today began another week of J-School. I'm inundated with work already, but I'm also having a lot of fun. I've already had two assignments where I had to go out into the street and find a story to photograph or record on video. I'm still uncomfortable pointing a lens at strangers because I don't want them to be uncomfortable. Two people were uncomfortable enough to refuse to let me record them. One professor told us that we have to try to be charming beggars and to use flattery if all else fails. Next time.
08 August 2007
wait
So I'm trying to apply for a student loan. I called up a bank (one of the largest in the world) and requested information. My question was, "Can I apply for a loan on line?" Tony (maybe Tonie? Tonnie? Toni?) said, "Well, I'm not sure of the answer. Can you call back tomorrow between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m. Eastern Standard Time?" And I said, "Well, no. Can you ask someone, like your supervisor?" And she said, "OK. Can I put you on hold?" And I said, "Yes, please put me on hold." And she came back and said, "Mam, I checked with my supervisor and he said that you'll need to call back tomorrow. You can also check our Web site to find the information." And I said, "Well, I was on your Web site and I couldn't find the information. That was why I called."
At first I thought that Tony was extremely unhelpful. Then I wondered if I was being unreasonable. Maybe 24-hour service isn't always possible. She did tell me exactly when I could call back to talk to specialists who can help me. I can wait 12 hours.
At first I thought that Tony was extremely unhelpful. Then I wondered if I was being unreasonable. Maybe 24-hour service isn't always possible. She did tell me exactly when I could call back to talk to specialists who can help me. I can wait 12 hours.
07 August 2007
be like marty
Aside from our celebrity journalist deans and professors, we had our first celebrity journalist speaker. Marty Smith from Frontline showed us clips from his documentaries on Iraq, the Taliban, and Katrina and answered questions.
Marty is tall and frank. His work speaks to the kind of thinker, humanitarian, and craftsman he is. He is the kind of journalist I aspire to be.
Marty is tall and frank. His work speaks to the kind of thinker, humanitarian, and craftsman he is. He is the kind of journalist I aspire to be.
06 August 2007
vice-dean cheney
After a long day of orientation, I am poopered. In the end, I didn't do much. Didn't do anything really. Just sat around and listened.The Vice-Dean of the Journalism School spoke at length. He was grave and entertaining. "Think of me as a friendly Dick Cheney," he said.
He told us about the mountain-load of work we can expect (Journalism School "will eat your life."); gave us tips on how to graciously excuse ourselves from parties ("It's midnight and my study group is waiting for me and they'll kill me if I don't show up."); warned us against drink, excess, and relationships ("Try to abstain from whatever you've normally been putting into your bodies.").
He made us giggle when he made fun of the business students who, like us aspiring journalists, are also on campus earlier than the rest of the students. "If you want to take a break and see great theater, go watch them outside. They're here for math camp. You can tell they're business students because they're all dressed up and carrying the same bag. They're doing bonding exercises, like throw water balloons at each other from ever increasing distances, to break down their high self-esteem so they can be taught something."
He made us pause when he introduced the next speaker then said (when we were about to give him applause), "Before you do it, get out of the habit of applauding the administration. We don't want our journalism students too respectful of people in authority."
He gave us hope when he assured us that everyone else is also terrified, but that we will also form close and lasting friendships. "It's ten months of hard work. So magic happens."
05 August 2007
jitters are for sissies
School starts tomorrow. According to my deans and professors, I can expect to have classes Monday through Friday (starting at 9 a.m. each day); additional seminars, lectures, and workshops most evenings and weekends; and homework, projects, and study meetings during free time.
Am I nervous? Well, I figure why be nervous when I can stay in denial. It feels so much nicer.
Am I nervous? Well, I figure why be nervous when I can stay in denial. It feels so much nicer.
04 August 2007
little keys
Words are like little keys, and the process of writing is the process of unlocking doors.
03 August 2007
silly story three
"The Story of the Shameless Sloth"
It is not unusual for people when they board a bus to want the entire row onto themselves. Oftentimes, however, there are enough passengers to make private rows impossible. Yesterday was such a time.
The bus was already crowded when I boarded but there was a seat available in the front row. I said "excuse me" and asked my future row-mate, who was occupying the aisle seat, if I may sit.
She threw me a scornful look and yawned her knees to the right to permit me to squeeze past. Then I asked, "Are those your things on the seat?" She looked at me with hatred and, with the speed of a slug, collected her umbrella and juice bottle but left the dirty napkin.
I wedged myself past her knees and sat, noting that half of her left buttock remained firmly planted on one-third of my seat. I didn't complain since I had more than enough space. But I did think about all the fun I was going to have writing about her on my blog.
The moral of my three stories is that there are silly people everywhere. We can't hope to escape them, but we can laugh at them.
It is not unusual for people when they board a bus to want the entire row onto themselves. Oftentimes, however, there are enough passengers to make private rows impossible. Yesterday was such a time.
The bus was already crowded when I boarded but there was a seat available in the front row. I said "excuse me" and asked my future row-mate, who was occupying the aisle seat, if I may sit.
She threw me a scornful look and yawned her knees to the right to permit me to squeeze past. Then I asked, "Are those your things on the seat?" She looked at me with hatred and, with the speed of a slug, collected her umbrella and juice bottle but left the dirty napkin.
I wedged myself past her knees and sat, noting that half of her left buttock remained firmly planted on one-third of my seat. I didn't complain since I had more than enough space. But I did think about all the fun I was going to have writing about her on my blog.
The moral of my three stories is that there are silly people everywhere. We can't hope to escape them, but we can laugh at them.
02 August 2007
silly story two
"The Story of the Unapologetic Boob"
On Tuesday morning a secretary from my doctor's office called me about a CT scan of my head I had recently undergone.
I explained that I had never had a CT scan performed on my head nor any other part of my body.
She then proceeded to accuse me of having undergone the procedure and declared the name of the CT scan specialist I had undergone the procedure with.
When I told her I had never heard of the doctor, she did not believe me, perhaps thinking that memory loss prompted the procedure in the first place. She asked me my name and when I confirmed that it was indeed Elaine, she became convinced that I was batty.
"You came in on July 25 for an office visit."
"I haven't seen my doctor since 2006."
"But you came in and we referred you for a CT scan with Dr. [So-And-So]."
"I don't know who Dr. [So-And-So] is and I never came into your office on July 25. I was home."
"Our records show you were here on July 25."
"Your records are wrong. I was never there. Are you sure you're looking at the right patient chart? Or maybe you made the entry in the wrong chart?"
"Your name is Elaine [This-And-That]?"
"Yes."
"Is your birthday [blah-blah]-1954?"
"No. My birthday is [blah-blah-blah]."
"Oh. Hold on. Um. Sorry. Bye."
On Tuesday morning a secretary from my doctor's office called me about a CT scan of my head I had recently undergone.
I explained that I had never had a CT scan performed on my head nor any other part of my body.
She then proceeded to accuse me of having undergone the procedure and declared the name of the CT scan specialist I had undergone the procedure with.
When I told her I had never heard of the doctor, she did not believe me, perhaps thinking that memory loss prompted the procedure in the first place. She asked me my name and when I confirmed that it was indeed Elaine, she became convinced that I was batty.
"You came in on July 25 for an office visit."
"I haven't seen my doctor since 2006."
"But you came in and we referred you for a CT scan with Dr. [So-And-So]."
"I don't know who Dr. [So-And-So] is and I never came into your office on July 25. I was home."
"Our records show you were here on July 25."
"Your records are wrong. I was never there. Are you sure you're looking at the right patient chart? Or maybe you made the entry in the wrong chart?"
"Your name is Elaine [This-And-That]?"
"Yes."
"Is your birthday [blah-blah]-1954?"
"No. My birthday is [blah-blah-blah]."
"Oh. Hold on. Um. Sorry. Bye."
01 August 2007
silly story one
When I was living in Peru, I heard many complaints from natives and expatriates about the bureaucracy of Peruvian institutions, the incompetence of Peruvian workers, and the laziness of Peruvian citizens.
Well, the same holds true of New Yorkers. Here are three examples of silliness I have been the victim of in the one month and two weeks since I have returned to live in New York.
"The Story of the Snaggletoothed Raven"
It all started two years ago when I bought a bicycle. I spent months searching for the perfect fit. I searched online, in used bike shops, and in fancy boutiques. I called stores in North Carolina that imported Pashleys and schemed to visit England to bring one back in my luggage. Finally, I bought a baby blue Ross cruiser refurbished by Recycle-a-Bicycle in Brooklyn and promptly had a metal basket installed in front while I continued my search for the quintessential bell, headlights, and helmet (and perhaps even a honey-tanned Brooks saddle).
I was infatuated with my new gadget. At last, I would be among the bicycle-riding crowd; I would no longer need to explain and apologize for my freak status as a Chinese who didn't know how to ride a bicycle. Yes, you heard right. I didn't (and don't) know how to ride a bicycle.
After a few lessons, and many more falls, I stopped trying. My excuse was that I until I found the right helmet, I couldn't ride the bike anyway, so I wouldn't. While I (half-heartedly) searched for a helmet, I stored the bicycle at work, in a file closet.
When I left for Peru, I still didn't know how to ride it and had no other place to store the baby-cum-bane. I asked my friends at work if it would be all right if it stayed in the file closet until I returned, next year. They said, grudgingly, yes, but hurry.
So I went to Peru and came back, the next year, to retrieve my bicycle. With Carlos's help, we picked up the bicycle, exited the office suite, and, doing the responsible thing, we went to use the freight elevator. After waiting and repeatedly ringing the bell for 20 minutes, we realized that the elevator wasn't going to come. We didn't hear the elevator belts move nor doors open and close from other floors, and we couldn't get back into the offices. In short, we didn't know why the elevator wasn't working and we were stuck in the small, windowless room, surrounded by four locked doors and one non-functioning elevator. We used our cell phones to call security for help.
That's when the snaggletoothed raven came swooping down on us and ruined my day.
She was incredibly tall, a giant with a big bust and big hips and a teeny, tiny head. Her hair was coiffed in a chin-length bob and eyebrow-length bangs and dyed in a shade so impeccably orange that it could only be a wig. (OK. She wasn't a raven, just a security guard, but she did have a snaggletooth.)
Immediately she informed us that we could not bring the bicycle down the regular elevators, how it was building policy, and that we weren't allowed to leave the room. She insisted that we should wait and that she was just on another floor and heard the elevator working. She made pronouncements into her hand-held radio in educated-speak like "they have been made aware" instead of human-speak like "I told them." And whenever she finished telling Carlos another rule we weren't permitted to break, she would swoosh around, tilt her head, and smile at me in a have-a-nice-day kind of way that made me wonder if I should have been making her aware of her snaggletoothedness.
"This is the building's policy. We have no control over that," she said.
"Well, that's obvious," I said.
"You are not permitted to transport the bicycle from the building other than via the freight elevator. You can leave your bike here while I investigate the matter further."
"Can't we just wait inside, where there is air-conditioning, while you find out?"
"No."
"But we just want to wait inside with the bicycle. We won't bring it down the other elevators."
"No. You may leave the bicycle in this room if you so wish."
"But I don't want to. Someone might take it."
"It will be safe. I assure you." (Snaggletoothed smile again.)
"Will you guarantee its safety?"
"It will be safe."
"But will you guarantee its safety?"
Thank goodness someone interrupted us. Jumping to the end of the story, it turned out that the freight elevator operator was on his lunch break (which meant whatever elevator sounds the security guard claimed to have heard must have come from inside her head). The company's division president vouched for us, escorted us to his office (with the bicycle), and let us keep the bicycle there until after the freight elevator operator came back from lunch. The security guard left us in peace. And finally, two hours after I came to pick up my bicycle, we were able to leave the building.
(This was a really long story. I'll continue with the other two examples in separate posts.)
Well, the same holds true of New Yorkers. Here are three examples of silliness I have been the victim of in the one month and two weeks since I have returned to live in New York.
"The Story of the Snaggletoothed Raven"
It all started two years ago when I bought a bicycle. I spent months searching for the perfect fit. I searched online, in used bike shops, and in fancy boutiques. I called stores in North Carolina that imported Pashleys and schemed to visit England to bring one back in my luggage. Finally, I bought a baby blue Ross cruiser refurbished by Recycle-a-Bicycle in Brooklyn and promptly had a metal basket installed in front while I continued my search for the quintessential bell, headlights, and helmet (and perhaps even a honey-tanned Brooks saddle).
I was infatuated with my new gadget. At last, I would be among the bicycle-riding crowd; I would no longer need to explain and apologize for my freak status as a Chinese who didn't know how to ride a bicycle. Yes, you heard right. I didn't (and don't) know how to ride a bicycle.
After a few lessons, and many more falls, I stopped trying. My excuse was that I until I found the right helmet, I couldn't ride the bike anyway, so I wouldn't. While I (half-heartedly) searched for a helmet, I stored the bicycle at work, in a file closet.
When I left for Peru, I still didn't know how to ride it and had no other place to store the baby-cum-bane. I asked my friends at work if it would be all right if it stayed in the file closet until I returned, next year. They said, grudgingly, yes, but hurry.
So I went to Peru and came back, the next year, to retrieve my bicycle. With Carlos's help, we picked up the bicycle, exited the office suite, and, doing the responsible thing, we went to use the freight elevator. After waiting and repeatedly ringing the bell for 20 minutes, we realized that the elevator wasn't going to come. We didn't hear the elevator belts move nor doors open and close from other floors, and we couldn't get back into the offices. In short, we didn't know why the elevator wasn't working and we were stuck in the small, windowless room, surrounded by four locked doors and one non-functioning elevator. We used our cell phones to call security for help.
That's when the snaggletoothed raven came swooping down on us and ruined my day.
She was incredibly tall, a giant with a big bust and big hips and a teeny, tiny head. Her hair was coiffed in a chin-length bob and eyebrow-length bangs and dyed in a shade so impeccably orange that it could only be a wig. (OK. She wasn't a raven, just a security guard, but she did have a snaggletooth.)
Immediately she informed us that we could not bring the bicycle down the regular elevators, how it was building policy, and that we weren't allowed to leave the room. She insisted that we should wait and that she was just on another floor and heard the elevator working. She made pronouncements into her hand-held radio in educated-speak like "they have been made aware" instead of human-speak like "I told them." And whenever she finished telling Carlos another rule we weren't permitted to break, she would swoosh around, tilt her head, and smile at me in a have-a-nice-day kind of way that made me wonder if I should have been making her aware of her snaggletoothedness.
"This is the building's policy. We have no control over that," she said.
"Well, that's obvious," I said.
"You are not permitted to transport the bicycle from the building other than via the freight elevator. You can leave your bike here while I investigate the matter further."
"Can't we just wait inside, where there is air-conditioning, while you find out?"
"No."
"But we just want to wait inside with the bicycle. We won't bring it down the other elevators."
"No. You may leave the bicycle in this room if you so wish."
"But I don't want to. Someone might take it."
"It will be safe. I assure you." (Snaggletoothed smile again.)
"Will you guarantee its safety?"
"It will be safe."
"But will you guarantee its safety?"
Thank goodness someone interrupted us. Jumping to the end of the story, it turned out that the freight elevator operator was on his lunch break (which meant whatever elevator sounds the security guard claimed to have heard must have come from inside her head). The company's division president vouched for us, escorted us to his office (with the bicycle), and let us keep the bicycle there until after the freight elevator operator came back from lunch. The security guard left us in peace. And finally, two hours after I came to pick up my bicycle, we were able to leave the building.
(This was a really long story. I'll continue with the other two examples in separate posts.)
28 July 2007
characters
I have a friend who is a fantastic storyteller. After my mom, he is the best. He went to the New York Public Library today, the City Hall branch, and made these observations:
"Elaine, everyone in the city's crazy. There are too many characters. I got to the library right before it opened and there was a line of people waiting outside. There was this man with a suitcase. Probably carried it with him everywhere. Probably filled with newspapers. Then there was a woman. She had lots of little bags. You start thinking what the hell are people carrying in these bags.
We get inside and one dude falls asleep. Then he farts. And this other dude with big, long hair, he had been there yesterday. He was reading a book called The Curse. I just wonder what they're all doing in the library.
Then some other guy, decent-looking white guy in his sixties with a big belly, he came in with twins. They both had white sneakers, old-man sneakers. They had white, knee-high socks. And short shorts. One twin was wearing blue short shorts and the other red short shorts pulled up to here [indicating an area directly below his pectorals], and white short-sleeved shirts that were tucked in. I thought, man, they're losers. I just didn't get it. How can you dress a kid like that. Like an old man."
"Elaine, everyone in the city's crazy. There are too many characters. I got to the library right before it opened and there was a line of people waiting outside. There was this man with a suitcase. Probably carried it with him everywhere. Probably filled with newspapers. Then there was a woman. She had lots of little bags. You start thinking what the hell are people carrying in these bags.
We get inside and one dude falls asleep. Then he farts. And this other dude with big, long hair, he had been there yesterday. He was reading a book called The Curse. I just wonder what they're all doing in the library.
Then some other guy, decent-looking white guy in his sixties with a big belly, he came in with twins. They both had white sneakers, old-man sneakers. They had white, knee-high socks. And short shorts. One twin was wearing blue short shorts and the other red short shorts pulled up to here [indicating an area directly below his pectorals], and white short-sleeved shirts that were tucked in. I thought, man, they're losers. I just didn't get it. How can you dress a kid like that. Like an old man."
26 July 2007
officer's small
It took man five days to go from Houston to the moon in 1969. It took Swiss Army 34 days to replace the battery in my watch in 2007.
On June 22, I visited the Swiss Army store in SoHo because my watch had stopped. With a straight face, the clerk told me it would take a minimum of four weeks to replace the battery. I didn't ask questions and submitted to the insanity. I left the store with a lightness in my wrist I hadn't felt for 11 years.
For the first two weeks I felt strange and incomplete. I kept glancing at my left wrist only to find a pale oval where my watch once rested. I didn't feel loss. Not the panic of sudden and permanent separation. What I felt was closer to longing, as if my lover had been sent on assignment overseas. By the third week, I learned to tell time by lifting my head and searching for wall clocks, asking other people, and looking at my cell phone. I had grown used to the absence of my watch, but I didn't forget it. Longing turned into missing, as if I was a mother and my children had stopped writing to me from summer camp.
When I finally retrieved my watch, I was surprised by how big its face was. Of course it hadn't grown. That would have been impossible. But the band did hang looser. (Had I lost weight? How had they managed to stretch the metal?) I thought I saw more scratches. (Was it this battered last month? How could I not have noticed?) It felt heavier. It felt like falling in love with an old love all over again.
On June 22, I visited the Swiss Army store in SoHo because my watch had stopped. With a straight face, the clerk told me it would take a minimum of four weeks to replace the battery. I didn't ask questions and submitted to the insanity. I left the store with a lightness in my wrist I hadn't felt for 11 years.
For the first two weeks I felt strange and incomplete. I kept glancing at my left wrist only to find a pale oval where my watch once rested. I didn't feel loss. Not the panic of sudden and permanent separation. What I felt was closer to longing, as if my lover had been sent on assignment overseas. By the third week, I learned to tell time by lifting my head and searching for wall clocks, asking other people, and looking at my cell phone. I had grown used to the absence of my watch, but I didn't forget it. Longing turned into missing, as if I was a mother and my children had stopped writing to me from summer camp.
When I finally retrieved my watch, I was surprised by how big its face was. Of course it hadn't grown. That would have been impossible. But the band did hang looser. (Had I lost weight? How had they managed to stretch the metal?) I thought I saw more scratches. (Was it this battered last month? How could I not have noticed?) It felt heavier. It felt like falling in love with an old love all over again.
20 July 2007
the meaning of present
If you don't believe in a past and you don't believe in a future, then you must be lost, for a present without anchors can only float aimlessly.
If you don't believe in a past and you believe in a future, then the present is like a burden. You are impatient to die.
If you believe in a past and you don't believe in a future, then the present is a pioneer, mitigating the nostalgia for a vanished past and the terror of an uncertain future. Be brave.
If you believe in a past and you believe in a future, then the present is a frontier, the imaginary time delineating your memories and your hopes. When you can remember and still hope is when you know you are in the present.
If you don't believe in a past and you believe in a future, then the present is like a burden. You are impatient to die.
If you believe in a past and you don't believe in a future, then the present is a pioneer, mitigating the nostalgia for a vanished past and the terror of an uncertain future. Be brave.
If you believe in a past and you believe in a future, then the present is a frontier, the imaginary time delineating your memories and your hopes. When you can remember and still hope is when you know you are in the present.
18 July 2007
this is why
Why I love Orhan Pamuk's My Name Is Red:
On my second visit after twelve years, she didn't show herself. She did succeed, however, in so magically endowing me with her presence that I was certain of being, somehow, continually under her watch, while she sized me up as a future husband, amusing herself all the while as if playing a game of logic. Knowing this, I also imagined I was continually able to see her. Thus was I better able to understand Ibn Arabi's notion that love is the ability to make the invisible visible and the desire always to feel the invisible in one's midst. (Black 115)
"It is the story that's essential," our wisest and most Glorious Sultan had said. "A beautiful illustration elegantly completes the story. An illustration that does not complement a story, in the end, will become but a false idol. Since we cannot possibly believe in an absent story, we will naturally begin believing in the picture itself. This would be no different than the worship of idols in the Kaaba that went on before Our Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, had destroyed them. If not as part of a story, how would you propose to depict this red carnation, for example, or that insolent dwarf over there?" (Black 109)
"To God belongs the East and the West. May He protect us from the will of the pure and unadulterated." (Enishte Effendi 161)
Seeing a woman's bare face, speaking to her, and witnessing her humanity opens the way to both pangs of lust and deep spiritual pain in us men, and thus the best of all alternatives is not to lay eyes on women, especially pretty women, without first being lawfully wed, as our noble faith dictates. The sole remedy for carnal desires is to seek out the friendship of beautiful boys, a satisfactory surrogate for females, and in due time, this, too, becomes a sweet habit. In the cities of the European Franks, women roam about exposing not only their faces, but also their brightly shining hair (after their necks, their most attractive feature), their arms, their beautiful throats, and even, if what I've heard is true, a portion of their gorgeous legs; as a result, the men of those cities walk about with great difficulty, embarrassed and in extreme pain, because, you see, their front sides are always erect and this fact naturally leads to the paralysis of their society. Undoubtedly, this is why each day the Frank infidel surrenders another fortress to us Ottomans. (Storyteller 353)
"My mother, may she rest in peace, was more intelligent than my father," I said. "One night I was at home, in tears, determined never again to return to the workshop because I was daunted not only by Master Osman's beatings, but by those of the other harsh and irritable masters and by those of the devision head who always intimidated us with a ruler. In consolation, my dearly departed mother advised me that there were two types of people in the world: those who were cowed and crushed by their childhood beatings, forever downtrodden, she said, because the beatings had the desired effect of killing the inner devils; and those fortunate ones for whom the beatings frightened and tamed the devil within without killing him off. Though the latter group would never forget these painful childhood memories—she'd warned me not to tell this to anybody—the beatings would in time enable them to develop cunning, to fathom the unknown, to make friends, to identify enemies, to sense plots beings hatched behind their backs and, let me hasten to add, to paint better than anyone else. Because I wasn't able to draw the branches of a tree harmoniously, Master Osman would slap me so hard that, amid bitter tears, forests would burgeon before me. After angrily striking me in the head because I couldn't see the errors at the bottoms of pages, he lovingly took up a mirror and placed it before the page so I could see the work as if for the first time. Then pressing his cheek to mine, he so lovingly identified the mistakes that magically appeared in the mirror image of the picture that I never forgot either the love or the ritual. The morning after a night spent weeping in my bed, my pride violated because he chastised me with a ruler before everyone, he came ad kissed my arms so tenderly that I passionately knew I'd one day become a legendary miniaturist. Nay, it was not I who drew that horse." (Olive 377)
As she recounted, I thought about where my unfortunate father was. Learning that the murderer had received his due punishment at first put my fears to rest. And revenge lent me a feeling of comfort and justice. At that instant, I wondered intensely whether my now-dead father could experience this feeling; suddenly, it seemed to me that the entire world was like a palace with countless rooms whose doors opened into one another. We were able to pass from one room to the next only by exercising our memories and imaginations, but most of us, in our laziness, rarely exercised these capacities, and forever remained in the same room. (Shekure 407)
No more. Or I shall give everything away!
On my second visit after twelve years, she didn't show herself. She did succeed, however, in so magically endowing me with her presence that I was certain of being, somehow, continually under her watch, while she sized me up as a future husband, amusing herself all the while as if playing a game of logic. Knowing this, I also imagined I was continually able to see her. Thus was I better able to understand Ibn Arabi's notion that love is the ability to make the invisible visible and the desire always to feel the invisible in one's midst. (Black 115)
"It is the story that's essential," our wisest and most Glorious Sultan had said. "A beautiful illustration elegantly completes the story. An illustration that does not complement a story, in the end, will become but a false idol. Since we cannot possibly believe in an absent story, we will naturally begin believing in the picture itself. This would be no different than the worship of idols in the Kaaba that went on before Our Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, had destroyed them. If not as part of a story, how would you propose to depict this red carnation, for example, or that insolent dwarf over there?" (Black 109)
"To God belongs the East and the West. May He protect us from the will of the pure and unadulterated." (Enishte Effendi 161)
Seeing a woman's bare face, speaking to her, and witnessing her humanity opens the way to both pangs of lust and deep spiritual pain in us men, and thus the best of all alternatives is not to lay eyes on women, especially pretty women, without first being lawfully wed, as our noble faith dictates. The sole remedy for carnal desires is to seek out the friendship of beautiful boys, a satisfactory surrogate for females, and in due time, this, too, becomes a sweet habit. In the cities of the European Franks, women roam about exposing not only their faces, but also their brightly shining hair (after their necks, their most attractive feature), their arms, their beautiful throats, and even, if what I've heard is true, a portion of their gorgeous legs; as a result, the men of those cities walk about with great difficulty, embarrassed and in extreme pain, because, you see, their front sides are always erect and this fact naturally leads to the paralysis of their society. Undoubtedly, this is why each day the Frank infidel surrenders another fortress to us Ottomans. (Storyteller 353)
"My mother, may she rest in peace, was more intelligent than my father," I said. "One night I was at home, in tears, determined never again to return to the workshop because I was daunted not only by Master Osman's beatings, but by those of the other harsh and irritable masters and by those of the devision head who always intimidated us with a ruler. In consolation, my dearly departed mother advised me that there were two types of people in the world: those who were cowed and crushed by their childhood beatings, forever downtrodden, she said, because the beatings had the desired effect of killing the inner devils; and those fortunate ones for whom the beatings frightened and tamed the devil within without killing him off. Though the latter group would never forget these painful childhood memories—she'd warned me not to tell this to anybody—the beatings would in time enable them to develop cunning, to fathom the unknown, to make friends, to identify enemies, to sense plots beings hatched behind their backs and, let me hasten to add, to paint better than anyone else. Because I wasn't able to draw the branches of a tree harmoniously, Master Osman would slap me so hard that, amid bitter tears, forests would burgeon before me. After angrily striking me in the head because I couldn't see the errors at the bottoms of pages, he lovingly took up a mirror and placed it before the page so I could see the work as if for the first time. Then pressing his cheek to mine, he so lovingly identified the mistakes that magically appeared in the mirror image of the picture that I never forgot either the love or the ritual. The morning after a night spent weeping in my bed, my pride violated because he chastised me with a ruler before everyone, he came ad kissed my arms so tenderly that I passionately knew I'd one day become a legendary miniaturist. Nay, it was not I who drew that horse." (Olive 377)
As she recounted, I thought about where my unfortunate father was. Learning that the murderer had received his due punishment at first put my fears to rest. And revenge lent me a feeling of comfort and justice. At that instant, I wondered intensely whether my now-dead father could experience this feeling; suddenly, it seemed to me that the entire world was like a palace with countless rooms whose doors opened into one another. We were able to pass from one room to the next only by exercising our memories and imaginations, but most of us, in our laziness, rarely exercised these capacities, and forever remained in the same room. (Shekure 407)
No more. Or I shall give everything away!
16 July 2007
2007 saja convention
I attended a conference organized by the South Asian Journalists Association on July 12–15. Here are some of the things I heard and learned:
"Learning a skill doesn't count until you do something with it."
"Become a better writer by reading."
A good story should be internally cohesive, have good transitions, and contain a healthy dose of suspense.
"Old news" that follows the inverted triangle model is only good if it is explanatory. "New news" need not review the whos, whats, whens, wheres, and hows of a story, but instead should be forward looking; it should answer the question, "So what?"
"Write a headline in your mind. Ask yourself, What is this story about?"
Interview, research, and writing are essential journalism skills across all specialties. Also, be well-read and knowledgeable. This will be a fount for ideas and provide direction.
Differentiate pitches, as you would your resume based on the organization you are applying to. Practice the "art of the possible." Ask what is possible, logistically, economically, and otherwise.
Be mindful of proportions when it comes to digesting news: "be informed but not consumed."
Quotes can be dangerous. In representing another person's way of speaking, we can reveal our own biases. Use quotes to illuminate the way someone thinks, the way someone talks, and to show something characteristic about that person or his personality.
"We've programmed our own audience. We've lowered their expectations." (Bill Weir)
"We give them too much of what they want and not enough of what we need." (Bill Weir paraphrasing Charlie Gibbson)
"Whatever your story is, it's a great one." Find the right buyer later.
Let your cultural identity be your opportunity, not your opponent. You are not defined by your cultural identity or membership in elite institutions. You are defined by the quality of your work. Your cultural identity accords you an outsider status that will allow you to be impartial and insightful. Let your strength be your ability to see across continents. Let your creativity stem from a balance of fear and curiosity. (Martin Bashir)
Negative space is useful for the eyes to rest on, and then move on to the rest of the page.
A designer is concerned with aesthetics; an editor with a customer's perception and cost; and the reader with the ease of use or functionality.
Principles of Good Design:
Visibility. The user can tell how to operate the device, and what it is currently doing, just by looking at it.
Mental Model. The designer provides a clear conceptual model of how the device works.
Good Mappings. The user can determine the relationship between controls and their effects.
Feedback. The user receives full and continuous feedback about the results of his or her actions.
(Adapted from The Design of Everyday Things by Donald Norman.)
"Learning a skill doesn't count until you do something with it."
"Become a better writer by reading."
A good story should be internally cohesive, have good transitions, and contain a healthy dose of suspense.
"Old news" that follows the inverted triangle model is only good if it is explanatory. "New news" need not review the whos, whats, whens, wheres, and hows of a story, but instead should be forward looking; it should answer the question, "So what?"
"Write a headline in your mind. Ask yourself, What is this story about?"
Interview, research, and writing are essential journalism skills across all specialties. Also, be well-read and knowledgeable. This will be a fount for ideas and provide direction.
Differentiate pitches, as you would your resume based on the organization you are applying to. Practice the "art of the possible." Ask what is possible, logistically, economically, and otherwise.
Be mindful of proportions when it comes to digesting news: "be informed but not consumed."
Quotes can be dangerous. In representing another person's way of speaking, we can reveal our own biases. Use quotes to illuminate the way someone thinks, the way someone talks, and to show something characteristic about that person or his personality.
"We've programmed our own audience. We've lowered their expectations." (Bill Weir)
"We give them too much of what they want and not enough of what we need." (Bill Weir paraphrasing Charlie Gibbson)
"Whatever your story is, it's a great one." Find the right buyer later.
Let your cultural identity be your opportunity, not your opponent. You are not defined by your cultural identity or membership in elite institutions. You are defined by the quality of your work. Your cultural identity accords you an outsider status that will allow you to be impartial and insightful. Let your strength be your ability to see across continents. Let your creativity stem from a balance of fear and curiosity. (Martin Bashir)
Negative space is useful for the eyes to rest on, and then move on to the rest of the page.
A designer is concerned with aesthetics; an editor with a customer's perception and cost; and the reader with the ease of use or functionality.
Principles of Good Design:
Visibility. The user can tell how to operate the device, and what it is currently doing, just by looking at it.
Mental Model. The designer provides a clear conceptual model of how the device works.
Good Mappings. The user can determine the relationship between controls and their effects.
Feedback. The user receives full and continuous feedback about the results of his or her actions.
(Adapted from The Design of Everyday Things by Donald Norman.)
04 July 2007
on forgiveness
When your lover betrays you, how do you forgive?
First, there is no forgiveness, only attempts at forgetting, denying, or rationalizing the cruelty and humiliation you've suffered: Let's not speak of it anymore; let's move on. He could never do that; don't say such lies. He's sorry; he's changed; he didn't mean it; he was drunk; he wasn't thinking clearly; he was confused; he still loves you.
The most spiteful consequence of betrayal is not the hurt feelings from the act itself, but the dehumanizing manner in which your free will has been revoked. In an instant, your ability to be an equal participant in your relationship is ended. You are left with a false choice (if any choice at all): to stay or to leave.
If you stay, and you don't wish to forget, deny, or rationalize, what do you do? If you leave, and you don't wish to forget, deny, or rationalize, what do you do?
I believe betrayal is a brand our lovers burn onto our hides. It serves as a constant reminder and acknowledgment of the offensive act. Nevertheless, we should also be reminded and acknowledge that it is an act that has lived and died in the past, like recalling the incurrence of an injury that has long healed. We need not forgive nor need we spread the betrayal like a cancer and infect our potential for happiness in the present.
First, there is no forgiveness, only attempts at forgetting, denying, or rationalizing the cruelty and humiliation you've suffered: Let's not speak of it anymore; let's move on. He could never do that; don't say such lies. He's sorry; he's changed; he didn't mean it; he was drunk; he wasn't thinking clearly; he was confused; he still loves you.
The most spiteful consequence of betrayal is not the hurt feelings from the act itself, but the dehumanizing manner in which your free will has been revoked. In an instant, your ability to be an equal participant in your relationship is ended. You are left with a false choice (if any choice at all): to stay or to leave.
If you stay, and you don't wish to forget, deny, or rationalize, what do you do? If you leave, and you don't wish to forget, deny, or rationalize, what do you do?
I believe betrayal is a brand our lovers burn onto our hides. It serves as a constant reminder and acknowledgment of the offensive act. Nevertheless, we should also be reminded and acknowledge that it is an act that has lived and died in the past, like recalling the incurrence of an injury that has long healed. We need not forgive nor need we spread the betrayal like a cancer and infect our potential for happiness in the present.
30 June 2007
a note on the type
I quote, from the end matter of the hard print version of Orhan Pamuk's My Name Is Red:
This book was set in Fairfield Light, the first typeface from the hand of the distinguished American artist and engraver Rudolph Ruzicka (1883–1978). In its structure Fairfield displays the sober and sane qualities of this master craftsman, whose talent had long been dedicated to clarity. It is this trait that accounts for the trim grace and vigor, the spirited design and sensitive balance of this original typeface.
Unquote.
One can almost drink it, this Fairfield Light.
This book was set in Fairfield Light, the first typeface from the hand of the distinguished American artist and engraver Rudolph Ruzicka (1883–1978). In its structure Fairfield displays the sober and sane qualities of this master craftsman, whose talent had long been dedicated to clarity. It is this trait that accounts for the trim grace and vigor, the spirited design and sensitive balance of this original typeface.
Unquote.
One can almost drink it, this Fairfield Light.
27 June 2007
a daily feast
One of the pleasures of staying home is watching my dad eat. When I used to work and come home in the evenings, I would worry about him because he worked so hard but ate so little (and it would take at least two hours for him to finish dinner). Now that I am home also during the day, I am privy to a different aspect of his daily routine.
It is a few minutes past 1 p.m. and my dad is already eating his third meal of the day. There will be at least two more to come later today. The meals are small: coffee and crackers for breakfast, noodles or rice at mid-morning, beer and sundry dishes for lunch; then the same, except with sake, later in the afternoon and, finally, dinner which includes beer, sake, rice, various dishes, and fruit.
It is a few minutes past 1 p.m. and my dad is already eating his third meal of the day. There will be at least two more to come later today. The meals are small: coffee and crackers for breakfast, noodles or rice at mid-morning, beer and sundry dishes for lunch; then the same, except with sake, later in the afternoon and, finally, dinner which includes beer, sake, rice, various dishes, and fruit.
26 June 2007
about my flight
At 19:30 on 20 June I stepped into a taxi to Jorge Chavez International. My flight home, scheduled for 22:50, was delayed one hour and we wouldn't take off until almost two hours later.
I was vaguely informed about the ban on liquids on US-bound flights. However, I didn't know that it extended to dulce de leche. I watched in horror as the security agent opened the factory-sealed can and fed the best caramelized milk in the world to a giant trash can. A trash can with a wide mouth and no teeth, that gorged but couldn't digest. It would be constipated with the sweet creams and savory liquids I wanted to share with family and friends, to communicate a little of what my life was like, a little of what I love and admire and will desperately miss about South America.
The security agent did the same to the lucuma jam, to the algorrobina. With all his manly strength, he couldn't open the two jars of onion and passion fruit delicacies. After 5 minutes, he discarded them whole into a bin already piled high with other terrorist-friendly contraband, like capers, toothpaste, and pisco. When he tried to discard the anchovies, the fish got stuck in the neck of the bottle and only the oil drizzled out. He took pity and let me keep the remaining fish since the jar was drained of its liquids.
I was traumatized, but not angry. The flight eventually boarded and took off. The two women who sat next to me talked too much. By then I was already numb and exhausted. I wanted to leave Peru, I already missed Peru, I wanted to come home, I didn't know where home was.
I was vaguely informed about the ban on liquids on US-bound flights. However, I didn't know that it extended to dulce de leche. I watched in horror as the security agent opened the factory-sealed can and fed the best caramelized milk in the world to a giant trash can. A trash can with a wide mouth and no teeth, that gorged but couldn't digest. It would be constipated with the sweet creams and savory liquids I wanted to share with family and friends, to communicate a little of what my life was like, a little of what I love and admire and will desperately miss about South America.
The security agent did the same to the lucuma jam, to the algorrobina. With all his manly strength, he couldn't open the two jars of onion and passion fruit delicacies. After 5 minutes, he discarded them whole into a bin already piled high with other terrorist-friendly contraband, like capers, toothpaste, and pisco. When he tried to discard the anchovies, the fish got stuck in the neck of the bottle and only the oil drizzled out. He took pity and let me keep the remaining fish since the jar was drained of its liquids.
I was traumatized, but not angry. The flight eventually boarded and took off. The two women who sat next to me talked too much. By then I was already numb and exhausted. I wanted to leave Peru, I already missed Peru, I wanted to come home, I didn't know where home was.
25 June 2007
estival ether
I do miss the smell of summer in Raleigh, when the trees sweat and the humid air carries the scent of their sweet sap in the languid breeze.
24 June 2007
he vuelto
After almost nine months of living and traveling in South America, I'm home. Other than the shock that my already obese cats have doubled in size, everything is as I left it.
My dad has yet to ask me anything about my adventures. When the shuttle from Newark dropped me off at our house, he helped me with my luggage, urged me to eat the 2 lbs. of cherries he has bought and washed, and reminded me that there was also watermelon in the refrigerator. Then he turned to watch the Chinese knockoff version of Larry King Live on satellite TV.
It is not that my dad doesn't care about me or what I do. Nor is it because he is an incurious person. I think it is just that what is important to him is that I am safe and that I am home. The details of how I spent the past 9 months are irrelevant—I am his daughter and there is nothing more he needs to know.
For my mom, a cactus in the desert, I am the rain. Because I am her daughter, she wants to know everything, most of all what I will do with my future and when I am getting married. I deftly dodged both questions.
I loved that I arrived on the longest day of the year. The sun rises at 5:24 and doesn't set until 20:31 and twilight lingers well past 21.
I still love my library. I visited it the first day I got back and checked out four books. It turned out that I had a fine of $1.40 from last September. When I tried to pay it, the librarian waved his hand, said "pfff" and "don't worry about it," and asked me wait at the counter just long enough so he can confirm that my record has been cleared, which took 2 seconds.
Everything else is strange. No one greets you with a kiss on the cheek. Everyone communicates in English. Cars aren't trying to run pedestrians down. I miss the music of Spanish being spoken, laughed, and sung. I'm trying to let go of the tension in my muscles when I walk in Greenwich Village after midnight carrying my laptop; I have to remind myself that I'm not in Peru anymore.
Indeed, I am not.
My dad has yet to ask me anything about my adventures. When the shuttle from Newark dropped me off at our house, he helped me with my luggage, urged me to eat the 2 lbs. of cherries he has bought and washed, and reminded me that there was also watermelon in the refrigerator. Then he turned to watch the Chinese knockoff version of Larry King Live on satellite TV.
It is not that my dad doesn't care about me or what I do. Nor is it because he is an incurious person. I think it is just that what is important to him is that I am safe and that I am home. The details of how I spent the past 9 months are irrelevant—I am his daughter and there is nothing more he needs to know.
For my mom, a cactus in the desert, I am the rain. Because I am her daughter, she wants to know everything, most of all what I will do with my future and when I am getting married. I deftly dodged both questions.
I loved that I arrived on the longest day of the year. The sun rises at 5:24 and doesn't set until 20:31 and twilight lingers well past 21.
I still love my library. I visited it the first day I got back and checked out four books. It turned out that I had a fine of $1.40 from last September. When I tried to pay it, the librarian waved his hand, said "pfff" and "don't worry about it," and asked me wait at the counter just long enough so he can confirm that my record has been cleared, which took 2 seconds.
Everything else is strange. No one greets you with a kiss on the cheek. Everyone communicates in English. Cars aren't trying to run pedestrians down. I miss the music of Spanish being spoken, laughed, and sung. I'm trying to let go of the tension in my muscles when I walk in Greenwich Village after midnight carrying my laptop; I have to remind myself that I'm not in Peru anymore.
Indeed, I am not.
28 May 2007
lima's garúa
In winter, a fog, called the garúa, envelopes Lima.The garúa holds Lima in a steady twilight throughout the day, so you can never know if the sun is rising or setting just by looking at the sky. It is thin and easily dissolves into the near background to reveal a world intensely detailed and surreally decontextualized, like having your picture taken in the third grade in the school gym, sitting in front of a gray plastic poster with a rainbow painted on and hot lights warming your cheeks.
Kenji Mizoguchi liked to use fog, as thick and meaty as merengue, to blur the boundary between reality and dream worlds. Can fantasies and desires nourish the corpus as an apple does? The garúa—a sinister, luminous blank—is not so generous. There is only one world, the garúa says. Here it is, on a silver platter, I can show you, reveal all, in minutiae, that in the one world you live in, there is no mystery, only ignorance and denial.
You are born of dying flesh, the garúa says. The moment you take breath, the only certainty in your so-called life is death, and yet you insist on calling what you do "living" instead of what it is: dying. You are born to die. There is neither mystery nor miracle to your existence.
But no, you are not satisfied with calling the period you spend dying "existence," the garúa says. You require meaning for your living, in your dying. You think existence is devoid of meaning, of purpose. And your meaning is defined by, driven by, those ephemeral dreams, fantasies, desires. In your self-estimation, you are too important to exist.
Can't you see? the garúa says. To exist is enough. Do not attempt to discover meaning in your dreams, the unsavory cud of a diseased and deluded mind. Your meaning is that you exist. Or else you will have died without ever being.
Do you want to know your future? the garúa says. Do not try to see beyond the fog. All you will find there is death. Turn your gaze to me, while you are still dying, while there is still time to die, and let me show you that you exist, in all of your splendid details.
24 May 2007
prometheus un/bound
These are men doing restoration work in Chan Chan, a tremendous complex of palaces built by the Chimu.I think there must be a difference, difference between ordinary workers reconstructing indifferently and artists creating with vision.
I wonder how these workers can begin to comprehend what they are working on, if they understand the sanctity of their work, so out of context as they are. Which part of their souls are they offering? How many pieces have their hearts been cut up in to throw into the fire?
What does an artist ask of god and what becomes his art if his plea does not risk divine wrath and retribution?
23 May 2007
perfect day
I think I miss my friend, Valerie. I think I know this because I am obsessed with a song by The Cranberries. Yes, another one. Unless you are one of the two people who lived with me in a triple room for two years in university, you probably have no clue what I am talking about. Let me explain.
One sunny day, Valerie, cheerfully and unsuspectingly, played a CD by The Cranberries. Instantly I became addicted to "When You're Gone." It made me feel so sad. And I felt sad at the time, most of the time, at university. Listening to a sad song helped because I could hear the pain echoed back, just a little.
Valerie and Khanh can swear to the fact that I played that song over and over and over, to no relief. Hundreds, thousands—no it must have been millions!—of times I played "When You're Gone" (and to this day, I still don't know the words to the whole song).
I recently returned from a trip to Argentina. On my previous trips out of Lima, I had always been glad to return: from Venezuela, from Cusco, from Chile, from Cusco again, from Trujillo and Chiclayo. Not this time. This time is different. I am not glad to be back in Lima. Instead, I want to be back in Argentina.
Who knows why this is. In any case, I've been in a slump, for more than a week. I have sequestered myself in my room and have been playing—it seems endlessly—this second song that Valerie gifted me (accidentally).
For Valerie:
I had a dream
Strange it may seem
It was my perfect day
Open my eyes
I realize
This is my perfect day
Hope you’ll never grow old
Hope you’ll never grow old
Hope you’ll never grow old
Hope you’ll never grow old
Birds in the sky
Feeling so high
This is my perfect day
I feel the breeze
I feel at ease
It is my perfect day
Hope you’ll never grow old
Hope you’ll never grow old
Hope you’ll never grow old
Hope you’ll never grow old
Forever young
I hope you’ll stay
Forever young
One sunny day, Valerie, cheerfully and unsuspectingly, played a CD by The Cranberries. Instantly I became addicted to "When You're Gone." It made me feel so sad. And I felt sad at the time, most of the time, at university. Listening to a sad song helped because I could hear the pain echoed back, just a little.
Valerie and Khanh can swear to the fact that I played that song over and over and over, to no relief. Hundreds, thousands—no it must have been millions!—of times I played "When You're Gone" (and to this day, I still don't know the words to the whole song).
I recently returned from a trip to Argentina. On my previous trips out of Lima, I had always been glad to return: from Venezuela, from Cusco, from Chile, from Cusco again, from Trujillo and Chiclayo. Not this time. This time is different. I am not glad to be back in Lima. Instead, I want to be back in Argentina.
Who knows why this is. In any case, I've been in a slump, for more than a week. I have sequestered myself in my room and have been playing—it seems endlessly—this second song that Valerie gifted me (accidentally).
For Valerie:
I had a dream
Strange it may seem
It was my perfect day
Open my eyes
I realize
This is my perfect day
Hope you’ll never grow old
Hope you’ll never grow old
Hope you’ll never grow old
Hope you’ll never grow old
Birds in the sky
Feeling so high
This is my perfect day
I feel the breeze
I feel at ease
It is my perfect day
Hope you’ll never grow old
Hope you’ll never grow old
Hope you’ll never grow old
Hope you’ll never grow old
Forever young
I hope you’ll stay
Forever young
18 May 2007
the fox's secret
The fox said to the Little Prince, "What is essential is invisible to the eyes" and "The time you wasted on your rose is what makes your rose so important."
Finding what is true, what is essential takes time. And the time you waste on finding that which you seek is what makes your search so important.
But never be fooled into thinking that what you seek does not already belong to you, is not already by you, does not already reside inside you.
Finding what is true, what is essential takes time. And the time you waste on finding that which you seek is what makes your search so important.
But never be fooled into thinking that what you seek does not already belong to you, is not already by you, does not already reside inside you.
17 May 2007
two birds
Two birds on a rock
who would sing sang not
in stillness they kept
in silence they wept
alone together.
who would sing sang not
in stillness they kept
in silence they wept
alone together.
16 May 2007
one night of lovin'
Actually, more like 30 seconds of doggie humpin'.
Humo, my canine housemate, doesn't realize it yet. He thinks that Elizabet found him a novia (translates to girlfriend but in this case a bitch) because she's being nice. She is, sort of.
You see, Humo has been getting more and more aggressive, especially during his daily walks at the neighborhood park. He tries to fight and bite any dog in sight and once even broke loose from Elizabet's lead and got into a tumble with a much bigger feral dog. Lucky for Humo, his opponent wasn't interested and no dog got hurt.
But Elizabet has had enough: enough of the barking, the pulling, the yelping, the dry humping. She got Humo a novia so he could sire Humitos and then she's going to take him to get his testicles lopped off.
Any day now the novia will be ready to receive Don Humo. But he only gets one shot. That's it. Then snip snip!
My only regret is I won't be around long enough to fully enjoy the benefits of a softer, kinder Humo. And, if he is successful, I won't get to play with the fruits of his one night of passion. Despite my complaints, I'll miss the old man either way.
Humo, my canine housemate, doesn't realize it yet. He thinks that Elizabet found him a novia (translates to girlfriend but in this case a bitch) because she's being nice. She is, sort of.
You see, Humo has been getting more and more aggressive, especially during his daily walks at the neighborhood park. He tries to fight and bite any dog in sight and once even broke loose from Elizabet's lead and got into a tumble with a much bigger feral dog. Lucky for Humo, his opponent wasn't interested and no dog got hurt.
But Elizabet has had enough: enough of the barking, the pulling, the yelping, the dry humping. She got Humo a novia so he could sire Humitos and then she's going to take him to get his testicles lopped off.
Any day now the novia will be ready to receive Don Humo. But he only gets one shot. That's it. Then snip snip!
My only regret is I won't be around long enough to fully enjoy the benefits of a softer, kinder Humo. And, if he is successful, I won't get to play with the fruits of his one night of passion. Despite my complaints, I'll miss the old man either way.
12 May 2007
tea time
Our stay in Buenos Aires is drawing to a close. What I will miss most is tea time, time to sip and time to nip, time to chit and time to chat. Time to sit, time with friends. Time for seconds and minutes to work their business.
11 May 2007
tigre
If you take the train all the way north, past Belgrano (where Indra Devi has a yoga foundation and where the small—literally two blocks—Chinatown is located), past Olivos (where Valerie and the president of Argentina live and where you can find the best gelato in the world), past San Isidro (where the old money of Buenos Aires keep their quintas), you'll reach Tigre.Tigre is the name of the town at the delta of the Paraná river. It used to be farmland and timber port. Now it is home to wealthy Argentines who can afford a weekend home or two, artists, and hundreds of poor who make their living from weaving the tall reeds that grow in the delta.
Once at Tigre, you can take a tourist boat that will show you different sights. You can also take commuter ferries that pick up and drop off passengers at docks, located in someone's backyard, instead of bus stops. Along the route, you might see supermarket boats making house calls or gasoline stations with boats parked in the water waiting to fill-'er-up-super.
We booked passage on one of these commuter ferries to Tres Bocas (Three Mouths), an area 30 minutes upriver, where we strolled along the bank, battled mosquitoes, and played with dogs before the taking of cake and tea.
On the way, we sailed past the house of Domingo Faustino Sarmiento, a president during the Argentine Republic's early years. (It's just my opinion but with a name like Domingo Faustino Sarmiento you've just got an obligation to amount to something high and mighty.) It is a quaint little yellow wood-framed farm house—enclosed in a gigantic glass and steel box. Now that's a sight!
10 May 2007
cry protest
There are frequent protests on Avenida 25 de Mayo. That's the avenue that leads to the Casa Rosada, the presidential palace.Hospital workers, transit workers, teachers—everyone wants higher pay and better conditions. According to Valerie, many protesters are professionals, meaning they get paid to protest. The government responds to unions by giving money to the organizations which in turn use the funds to pay protesters to demand more money.
This is not always the case, I suppose. There are legitimate grievances. But my sense is that the system is corrupt and broken. There is little sympathy from the general public because 1) the tactics used by the protesters cause serious damage to innocent bystanders (like absent teachers and severe traffic disruptions) and 2) the protests are so commonplace that hardly anyone notices the reasons for the protests anymore, just the nuisance of the demonstrations.
09 May 2007
roses at dusk
Walk through the rose garden at dusk. Many are still in bloom. Like wine, each rose has its distinctive scent. Most smell like soap to me, no thanks to the many rose-scented soaps on the market.
08 May 2007
glorified chucky cheese
Back in October, I visited Caracas, Venezuela. On Carlos's recommendation, I went to the children's museum.
Though it was almost deserted of visitors, the museum was impressive. Not only was it comprehensive (it covered geology to biology to space exploration to...), the exhibits were educational and interesting and there were multiple guides on hand to demonstrate experiments and answer questions.
Because Carlos is working on building a museum in Carabayllo, we decided to visit the children's museum in Buenos Aires for ideas. We were expecting something similar to, if not better than, the museum in Caracas.
Our first clue should have been that the museum was located in a mall. Albeit it was inside the Abasto. The Abasto is a magnificent building that used to be a central market. It is located blocks away from Carlos Gardél's home and when Albert Einstein visited Buenos Aires, he made a point to visit the Abasto. Sadly it fell into disrepair and disuse and in the late-90s it was renovated and turned into the largest shopping mall in Buenos Aires.
At first, we were cheered on by the happy, vibrant colors. But quickly we realized we had been ensnared into one big advertising trap. For example, there was a child-sized MacDonald's where little Ronaldo can flip plastic burgers and serve up plastic french fries. There were exhibits by Coto (a local supermarket chain), Banco Hipotecario (local bank), Nestle, and Colgate among others.
The only remotely educational exhibit was a bit of a blooper for me. I saw a rounded white bowl and a blue ladder. I thought it was a ship. When I climbed up and saw a slide, I got excited and slid down the tube. On the way down I was eager to climb the ladder and do it again.
To my horror, when I reached bottom there was no way out. I was obliged to crawl through a plastic tube for some minutes before florescent lights shined sweet cool rays on me once more. It turned out, I had flushed myself down a gigantic toilet bowl, crawled through sewer pipes, and washed out into a treatment tank: I got to experience the life-cycle of poop. Yay! (I think.)
Though it was almost deserted of visitors, the museum was impressive. Not only was it comprehensive (it covered geology to biology to space exploration to...), the exhibits were educational and interesting and there were multiple guides on hand to demonstrate experiments and answer questions.
Because Carlos is working on building a museum in Carabayllo, we decided to visit the children's museum in Buenos Aires for ideas. We were expecting something similar to, if not better than, the museum in Caracas.Our first clue should have been that the museum was located in a mall. Albeit it was inside the Abasto. The Abasto is a magnificent building that used to be a central market. It is located blocks away from Carlos Gardél's home and when Albert Einstein visited Buenos Aires, he made a point to visit the Abasto. Sadly it fell into disrepair and disuse and in the late-90s it was renovated and turned into the largest shopping mall in Buenos Aires.
At first, we were cheered on by the happy, vibrant colors. But quickly we realized we had been ensnared into one big advertising trap. For example, there was a child-sized MacDonald's where little Ronaldo can flip plastic burgers and serve up plastic french fries. There were exhibits by Coto (a local supermarket chain), Banco Hipotecario (local bank), Nestle, and Colgate among others.
The only remotely educational exhibit was a bit of a blooper for me. I saw a rounded white bowl and a blue ladder. I thought it was a ship. When I climbed up and saw a slide, I got excited and slid down the tube. On the way down I was eager to climb the ladder and do it again.
To my horror, when I reached bottom there was no way out. I was obliged to crawl through a plastic tube for some minutes before florescent lights shined sweet cool rays on me once more. It turned out, I had flushed myself down a gigantic toilet bowl, crawled through sewer pipes, and washed out into a treatment tank: I got to experience the life-cycle of poop. Yay! (I think.)
07 May 2007
carlos [heart] cat
Carlos is allergic to cats and don't care for them in general. But it doesn't have to be this way. There's medication he can take. Plus, he's naturally gifted with a warm, snug lap, which would be a shame if it went to waste. The cat's happy. You can be, too, Carlos.
06 May 2007
feria del libro
It is the largest book fair in the world: The 33rd International Book Fair in Buenos Aires. For two weeks, citizens of the world—1.2 million of them—descend on La Rural* and buy millions of dollars worth of books.The crowd there was thicker than the 6 train at rush hour. We loved it. We loved browsing through shelves and boxes and piles of books, from serious academic titles to forgettable fluff. There were also lectures, discussions, and book signings, which we didn't have time to attend. What we loved most was being among others—individuals, couples, families with children**—who also loved books and loved to read.
*La Rural is like the Jacob Javits Convention Center in New York, except 100 times more beautiful and 100 million times cooler. It had its beginnings as an animal auction and still hosts annual animal fairs.
**I never thought I would be so glad to see so many children at an event.
05 May 2007
radio colifata
Each Saturday from 3 p.m. until 6 or 7 p.m. the patients at the mental hospital, Jose Borda, put on a radio show.Hospital Borda, located in the southern part of Buenos Aires, is a sprawling complex of concrete buildings and occasional courtyards. In one corner of a nondescript courtyard, underneath a scatter of trees, on a patch of shabby grass, patients interview live audience members, play guitar, sing, dance, recite poetry. Millions tune in.
Colifata means crazy, in the most positive sense, like crazy-wonderful, crazy-inspired, crazy-fabulous. Alfredo Olivera, a psychologist, created the program as a form of therapy for his patients. He produces, directs, and moderates the show.
Carlos and I arrived around 3 p.m. There was already a crowd of patients, psychologists, and the curious gathered, sitting on plastic stools in semi-circles around a fold-out table with the radio equipment. Almost immediately, patients approached us, greeted us with a customary kiss on the cheek, and welcomed us.
Three hours later, the sun set. Our fingers froze and our rumps ached. There was still a queue of patients waiting to present the materials they've prepared during the week. The doctors hung up storm lights on branches as we got up and waved good-bye.
04 May 2007
cabaña las lilas
We splurged. Cabaña las Lilas is one of the fancier restaurants in Buenos Aires. They raise their own cattle and have a reputation for fine beef. The atmosphere was casual, the service was prompt and attentive, and the bill breathtaking (especially for two unemployed soon-to-be students).A note about food service in Argentina: It is consistently excellent. Anywhere you go, for the most part, waiters are knowledgeable and professional (though most don't smile and the real professionals don't use pads to write down orders) and the food comes quickly.
03 May 2007
cementerio recoleta
The cemetery in Recoleta is possibly my favorite place to visit in Buenos Aires. The who's who of Argentina politics, culture, and business rest here.
Each tomb is unique and the architectural styles usually reflect the period in which they were built. Underground are additional storage spaces two or three levels deep. What we see on the surface represents only a fraction of the dead in Recoleta.The most exclusive and expensive property in Argentina, probably in the world, is in this cemetery. (In 2004, a plot sold for about $300,000.) Space rarely opens up because most plots have a perpetuity clause. This means that the land is in the family for eternity. Neither the city, the state, nor the country have any claims to that land. Families who own the plot contract caretakers to clean and maintain the tombs. Unfortunately, when family lines end, it also means that there is no one left to care for the tombs and they often fall into disrepair and there is nothing anyone can legally do about it.
Ironically, Recoleta was originally settled by the Recoleto branch of the Franciscan order who practiced poverty and extreme mortification. They built their church on the outskirts of town, some miles north of the center of Buenos Aires. When plague struck in the late-1800s, wealthy families moved north, permanently transforming Recoleta into the most exclusive and opulent neighborhood in Buenos Aires.Thanks to Evita, starring Madonna, Eva Peron's tomb is the most visited in the cemetery. Actually, she did not wish to buried in Recoleta because of its association with the rich and powerful. For security reasons (at some point, her body went missing for 17 years and was eventually discovered under a false name in Italy) her coffin is sealed in concrete and buried four levels deep in the family tomb.
Like the fascinating lives they lead as rich and famous people, there are fascinating tales of death here too. An 18-year-old woman from a wealthy family suffered an cataleptic episode. Her doctor pronounced her dead and ordered her entombed. When the girl woke from her trance, she found herself sealed inside her coffin. The girl's grandmother, who always had her doubts, eventually was able to arranged for the body to be exhumed. They found scratch marks inside the coffin and an autopsy revealed that the girl had died of asphyxiation.
02 May 2007
ciencias naturales
Pilar is a biologist and works in the ornithology department at the natural science museum. She gave Valerie, Carlos, and me a personal tour of the bird collections in the basement where they clean, stuff, and catalog birds they bring back from field trips.It was amazing. There were closets filled with drawers filled with stiff, puffed, and perfectly preserved birds, some dating back to the early 19th century. The smell of mothballs, too, was overpowering.
After our private tour, we visited the museum proper. There was a short hallway lined with aquariums inhabited by depressed fish. There was a room filled with colorful seashells. There were several rooms of giant marine and dinosaur fossils. Apparently, Argentina is rich with dinosaur fossils. Looking at the gigantic skeletons, I saw a resemblance between the saurians and me. Even though we have different numbers of vertebrae and theirs are generally much larger than mine, I saw that the shape and function remained similar. I never thought I had much in common with a lizard, even knowing the statistic that our DNA sequence is about 98% identical. But seeing the rib cage, the metatarsals, the jaw, the eye sockets, I felt strange and as if I was only a smaller, slightly misshapened extant version of the mighty beast.
fat cats & drunken sticks
In the garden of the natural science museum are a tree called palo borracho meaning "drunken stick" and tens of cats. The cats are fixed and fat. Perhaps they are fat because they are storing up insulation for the approaching winter; perhaps they are fat because ladies who come by to feed them each day give them too much food. However fat they are, I'm sure they are still a quarter of the size of my two fat cats at home.
01 May 2007
choripan
In New York, you can get hotdogs and pretzels on the street. In Buenos Aires, street vendors grill succulent sausage, beef, and pork. We stopped at this station and ate three meatwiches while we waited out the rain.
30 April 2007
el ateneo
El Ateneo is the name of the largest bookstore in South America. There are three locations in Buenos Aires. This one is on Santa Fe street in a renovated theater.
las madres de plaza de mayo
Today is the 30th anniversary of the first protest march by mothers of the Desaparecidos. During the Dirty War, over 30,000 people disappeared. In 1977, mothers of the Desaparecidos gathered around the Plaza de Mayo, in front of the presidential palace, demanding to know what happened to their sons and daughters.Over the decades, the mothers have garnered recognition internationally for their cause as well as political leverage nationally. Many of them are now in their 70s, 80s, and 90s.
During today's celebration, the mothers sat on a stage, wearing their uniform of a white head-kerchief, clapped along to music bands, and waved Venezuelan flags.
Valerie tells me that the current leader of the mothers has aligned the group with the left-leaning government. And because Argentina has allied itself with Venezuela, that was the reason for the Venezuelan flags.
The mothers might finally get concessions from the government and the government might get street creds by their association with the mothers. Call it a win-win deal. But I was disturbed.
Of course the movement has always been a political one. It stemmed from a reaction to twisted ideological policies and its main aim is to affect policy. Yet fundamentally—mothers searching for answers, asking to know what happened to their children, hoping to bury what parts remain before they themselves are interred—this has nothing to do with politics.
The event felt like a pep rally or a rock festival. I definitely expected the observance to be much more somber. But then, I've always been a party-pooper.
city proper
The last time I was in Buenos Aires was five years ago, soon after 9/11 and the Argentine economic crash. Not much as changed. The city is just as grand and beautiful and vital as ever.
After a quick tea upon touch down and a weekend in the Pampas, today was the first day Carlos and I spent in the city proper.
I loved rambling, through wide boulevards and 100 million plazas, matching the physical spaces I re-encounter to the images of my memory. I didn't quite know where I was going, but I could feel what the right direction was. I imagined that an elephant preparing to die might feel this way—except I am not an elephant nor am I prepared to die.
After a quick tea upon touch down and a weekend in the Pampas, today was the first day Carlos and I spent in the city proper.
I loved rambling, through wide boulevards and 100 million plazas, matching the physical spaces I re-encounter to the images of my memory. I didn't quite know where I was going, but I could feel what the right direction was. I imagined that an elephant preparing to die might feel this way—except I am not an elephant nor am I prepared to die.
29 April 2007
long shadows
Perhaps it is because we live in cities and tall buildings block our view and noisy traffic distract our attention. The fact is that the sun casts long shadows. Did you know?
28 April 2007
let's go fly a kite...
Arrecifes is a small town 2.5 hours north of Buenos Aires in the Pampas. Colo, Valerie's boyfriend, invited us to spend the weekend on his family's farm.There's a lot to do in the campo. Let's see... we slept in, ate breakfast (which took some hours and when we finished, we headed into town for lunch), flew a kite, laid around, chopped wood, breathed in fresh air, petted days-old bunnies, and cooked meat.
A note about chopping wood: when I was a guest at the campo five years ago, I chopped wood and almost blinded myself when a thin branch ricocheted, flew at my face, broke my glasses, and cut my eye. Now, the woodshed is forbidden territory to me. The folk at the campo still talk about it and remember me well because of it. Back to the story...
It was Francisco's birthday (he is Valerie's friend from high school) and we celebrated with an asado and apple pie. Asado is like a BBQ—Argentine style. First, you start a fire. Then, you take the charcoal and set it aside. You place a grill atop the charcoal and delicious meats atop the grill. The meat here is so good that I have vowed to never eat (red) meat outside of Argentina.
dulce de leche
Finally, I've figured it out: the difference between dulce de leche and manjar. Both terms refer to a caramelized milk product, usually sandwiched between two cookies or spread on bread; dulce de leche is the preferred label by Argentines and manjar by Peruvians.Dulce de leche, after soup and watermelon, is probably my favorite food in the world. It tastes like caramelized sweet condensed milk. In my opinion, dulce de leche is far superior to manjar, which is sweeter and not as dense nor aromatic.
(We finished the tub in four days.)
27 April 2007
submarino
One of the best things about Buenos Aires is its café culture. Every day, around 6 p.m., Argentines take tea (or coffee). It's a leftover British tradition.Valerie treated us to tea time. The two semi-round things in front are bolas, kind of like empanadas except shaped like balls. That drink you see is called a submarino (submarine) where chocolate bars are drowned in hot milk. Not pictured is a phenomenon consisting of a layer of thin fudgy brownie, a layer of dulce de leche, and topped with a layer of fudgy chocolate.
nontoxic poison
Just before we landed in Argentina, the flight crew informed us that the cabin will be sprayed with a nontoxic insecticide.
Call me a fuddy-duddy, a stickler for language, but I would like to know how any poison can be nontoxic. Perhaps they meant that the deleterious chemical won't kill humans, only insects. But that still made the insecticide toxic.
Call me a fuddy-duddy, a stickler for language, but I would like to know how any poison can be nontoxic. Perhaps they meant that the deleterious chemical won't kill humans, only insects. But that still made the insecticide toxic.
25 April 2007
touch
My mind wanders, sometimes. Most times. Yesterday, I thought about touch and how it is the only sense we have.
Smell, taste, sight, and hearing are all passive forms of touch. The receptors in our nose are touched by gas molecules, the buds on our tongues are touched by chemicals, the nerves in our eyes are touched by sunlight, and the hairs in our ears are touched by waving air.
And then there is touch, the kind that we shun and crave, the kind that lets us reach out and hurt or heal.
Smell, taste, sight, and hearing are all passive forms of touch. The receptors in our nose are touched by gas molecules, the buds on our tongues are touched by chemicals, the nerves in our eyes are touched by sunlight, and the hairs in our ears are touched by waving air.
And then there is touch, the kind that we shun and crave, the kind that lets us reach out and hurt or heal.
24 April 2007
ithaka
I feel I am at a crossroads, and I know I have company. I offer you "Ithaka" by Cavafy and I offer my friend Sang infinite thanks for sending him my way.
As you set out for Ithaka
hope the voyage is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
angry Poseidon—don't be afraid of them:
you'll never find things like that on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
wild Poseidon—you won't encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.
Hope the voyage is a long one.
May there be many a summer morning when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you come into harbors seen for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfume of every kind—
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities to
gather stores of knowledge from their scholars.
Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you are destined for.
But do not hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you are old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.
Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you would not have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaka won't have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you will have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.
As you set out for Ithaka
hope the voyage is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
angry Poseidon—don't be afraid of them:
you'll never find things like that on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
wild Poseidon—you won't encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.
Hope the voyage is a long one.
May there be many a summer morning when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you come into harbors seen for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfume of every kind—
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities to
gather stores of knowledge from their scholars.
Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you are destined for.
But do not hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you are old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.
Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you would not have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaka won't have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you will have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.
23 April 2007
neon pink and pale mauve
It is fall here in Lima. That was why when I looked up and saw a tree in bloom, I was surprised. Trees in autumn don't bloom. Leaves turn red and orange and yellow and fall.Intensely pink petals littered the night sky instead of stars. Lights from the casino marquee cast a neon glow on the flowers. I was arrested, for a moment, by the glowing, pulsating petals floating in the yellow and mauve smog, then reached for my camera and clicked.
19 April 2007
work for it
Last night Carlos and I had dinner and drinks with a friend and his mom who is visiting Peru. The conversation turned to the prolific displays of public affection throughout Lima, which often involve fervent spit-swapping. Carlos asked Jesse and Jesse's mom, Susan, if they have noticed the ardent, histrionic lovers. This is how I remember part of our conversation:
Susan: Yes...
Jesse: In Minnesota you're lucky if you get to touch a finger to someone's elbow in public. That's why we go to the movies.
Susan: Yes, in Minnesota, we have to work for it.
If you don't get it, oh well, you had to be there.
Susan: Yes...
Jesse: In Minnesota you're lucky if you get to touch a finger to someone's elbow in public. That's why we go to the movies.
Susan: Yes, in Minnesota, we have to work for it.
If you don't get it, oh well, you had to be there.
15 April 2007
pool party
Socios volunteers and their extended family of friends and colleagues playing Marco Polo at a pool at a swank hotel in San Isidro, a nice part of Lima where I know of at least two Starbucks (and where there is valet parking at one of them).
14 April 2007
bacteria, brisas, and bye-byes
Mimi came back from Cusco on Friday morning and fell sick. It could be the change in altitude, catching up with her, or contaminated food or water, catching up with her. In any case, she spent the day curled in a fetal position in bed when she wasn't running to the bathroom.
By evening, after a remedy of soup, medicine, and rest, she felt better if weak. We had plans to celebrate her last night in Lima by going to a peña called Brisas de Titicaca and now we had to go without her.
A peña is a dance show with live music. Customers sit at tables arranged around a dance floor. When the professional dancers stop, amateur aficionados take over and party till they drop.
The dancers were decked out in incredible costumes, polyester and sequins in an array of neon colors that glittered more brightly than the dancers' sparkly smiles. And smile they did, for four whole hours, the length of the show. They smiled, brightly and convincingly, even during the most difficult dances. The most impressive, in my opinion, was the scissor dance.
Men holding prop scissors danced, jumped, and contorted. Think break-dancing with elements of yoga and the kossack dance. They did flips, stood on their head, and jumped on one foot while the other was wrapped somewhere around their bodies. When they finished, they were still smiling. Amazing.
We left at 3 a.m., and early exit since the dance floor was open until 5 a.m., but Carlos had to wake up at 6:30 a.m. to go to work.
Saturday, we had big plans for Mimi. We were going to take her to visit Carlos's work, present her to the volunteers, show her the farmer's market, and eat a giant alfajor cake before her flight home at 10:55 p.m.
But when I arrived in the morning to pick her up, she was already packing. It turned out that her flight left Lima at 5:30 p.m. (10:55 p.m. was her second leg from Bogotá to New York). We hustled. In the end, Mimi only had time to visit Carlos's work, which was enough. We hurried home, hurriedly ate lunch, and hurried to the airport. And we said good-bye.
By evening, after a remedy of soup, medicine, and rest, she felt better if weak. We had plans to celebrate her last night in Lima by going to a peña called Brisas de Titicaca and now we had to go without her.
A peña is a dance show with live music. Customers sit at tables arranged around a dance floor. When the professional dancers stop, amateur aficionados take over and party till they drop.
The dancers were decked out in incredible costumes, polyester and sequins in an array of neon colors that glittered more brightly than the dancers' sparkly smiles. And smile they did, for four whole hours, the length of the show. They smiled, brightly and convincingly, even during the most difficult dances. The most impressive, in my opinion, was the scissor dance.
Men holding prop scissors danced, jumped, and contorted. Think break-dancing with elements of yoga and the kossack dance. They did flips, stood on their head, and jumped on one foot while the other was wrapped somewhere around their bodies. When they finished, they were still smiling. Amazing.
We left at 3 a.m., and early exit since the dance floor was open until 5 a.m., but Carlos had to wake up at 6:30 a.m. to go to work.
Saturday, we had big plans for Mimi. We were going to take her to visit Carlos's work, present her to the volunteers, show her the farmer's market, and eat a giant alfajor cake before her flight home at 10:55 p.m.
But when I arrived in the morning to pick her up, she was already packing. It turned out that her flight left Lima at 5:30 p.m. (10:55 p.m. was her second leg from Bogotá to New York). We hustled. In the end, Mimi only had time to visit Carlos's work, which was enough. We hurried home, hurriedly ate lunch, and hurried to the airport. And we said good-bye.
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