I had assumed it was an isolated incident the first time it happened.
In my building, there lives an old lady. Every now and then I would see her in the elevator. She always walked with a walker, and her walker had a basket, and inside the basket sat her 14-year-old blind-in-one-eye poodle-terrier mutt. Both the lady and the mutt have dirty gray hair. Both seemed frail. Both were pitiful.
Whenever I saw them, because of the guilt I felt for feeling sorry for them, I tried extra hard to be friendly, as if through the power of pleasantry they would grow strong and young and healthy again.
That is until one day I met them in the laundry room. I smiled and nodded and went to load my dirty wash into a machine. A few minutes later, behind me, I heard the most angry, bitter, savage vitriol.
"Fucking fuckers. Fuck! Filthy shit. Bastards. Disgusting, filthy shit. Fucking bastards." And on and on it went. She was flipping open the lids of the laundry machines, examining them, and becoming furious. Apparently, the laundry machines were dirty. Though I'm not sure how that could be. I left and stopped feeling sorry for her.
Then today, I was folding freshly dried clothes and a middle-aged woman wearing baggy pajamas and frown-wrinkles started to ram the driers with her laundry card. The card wasn't working and she was muttering hateful curses that made me uneasy.
I began to wonder if there was such a thing as laundry rage, or if the two women were simply miserable and if I should start feeling sorry for them again or if one day I would become like them and how I could prevent that.
16 May 2008
12 February 2008
sick lucy
Lucy is near death. Her temperature is low and she is severely dehydrated. She's been hospitalized. The vet thinks she may have kidney disease and is performing tests to confirm the diagnosis. The best case scenario is that Lucy will respond to treatment in the next three days. After that, she will need long-term home care, including pills and fluid injections for the rest of her life. Worse case scenario is that she won't respond to treatment and will die in the next few days.
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.
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