Dream Big Baby

As luck would have it

2011-05-21T11:16:00.000-07:00

As luck would have it, it takes the end of the world for me to crawl out from under the rock I have been dwelling in. The sun is out and tanning my ancles. The tunes are softly blaring. The neighbors barbeque whifts throught he air and dances in the wind.
The fresh air recently washed by heavy rain stroms danced through the spoon wind-chime. Flower vines slowly creap up the wall by the kichen wondow and tomateos rippen in the sun. the perfume from the plants feeds me.
The words tumble awkwardly from my lips like rocks from a landslide proned cliff. Precariously perched only held by insignificant particles of sand until the wind blows or a bird perches just so, and then sometimes one at a time, or all together, tumble, crash roar… the one that takes down the hillside, no matter what trees or houses may be in the path.
My words, when they are held too long are not smoothly erroding. When they are held in they fester and grow into disasterous , rapid momlogues that can wipe out villages. For this reason I have begun to write… to ease the procecss and hopefully prevent tradgedy.
As luck would have it, it takes the end of the world to revive me. Even if this is the only day, or the last day it should be a good one. Every day should be a good one. I have forgotten that. And that is a slippery slope, one that I was on the wrong end of… either top or bottom, it is the wrong end.
So here I sit. Clean, fresh, walked, accomplished. The dog has been walked, the cat has been to the vet, The shower has been taken and lunch has been had.
As luck would have it the confession turns into a realization, more profound than the thing most longed for. So unexpected. And so right. As luck would have it, when a routine is broken new seeds spring up everywhere. I can see them sprouting already and in so many corners that have been neglected. It is like the dust there has nourished them and with a little like and rain they are blooming into rich plants.
Soon they will nourish me and shade me. I will rest in the soft grass below these new plants. Much better than being undere a rock, especially one of my ownmaking.
As luck would have it, the last day before the end of the world is my first in ages.

In Out

2011-01-18T17:48:00.001-08:00

not for long.
Tik -tock.
In. out.
Tik -tock.
Another moment. Tik -tock.
Another day.
Tik -tock.
Another breath. Tik -tock.
And then another year.
Not for long.
Tik -tock.
In. out.

Estranged.

2011-01-13T17:35:00.000-08:00

Estranged.
Strange.
It is more than being strange or feeling strange, it is about feeling something removed, out of place or missing. Unhinged. Unpinned. Undermined. Unbelieveable how the anima can, in one moment, be there, and in another moment be gone—to nowhere.
Something is strange. Something is missing. The tangible sensation of something out of place it biting. But what it is, or where it went is, at this moment, unthinkable. Like the souring of milk. It happens subtely, but once it has passed it is undeniable.
So my anima has slipped off, like a sheet in the night and this morning I rolled over without pulling back over me. I left the house bare and immediately noticed the difference, without knowing the cause. It is evening, as it always is when I settle down to write, and I have returned to look for what has been lost. But without knowing its dimensions, shape, color or origin, it is difficult to begin searching for it. I am also not sure where or when exactly I lost it. Yet I assume I must have lost it all at once; or at least that is what I am hoping. I fear any alternative—that maybe I have been letting it go, bit by bit, leaving fragments of myself, threads to blow in the gusts of wind and then get tangled on the bushes as I walk by. And so intent on my destination, or the act of getting there, or simply the ideas bouncing like atoms in my head, that I simply didn’t notice.
Like a gingerbread trail. Maybe I have been leaving myself a path backwards, just now to turn and see the crow who has been following me cleaning up my crumbs.
I am not cold, like my sheets have fallen off. I am not humgry as if I have run out of bread. But there is a bare, naked feeling. Voulnerable and imposible to cover, hide or envelop.
There is an empty feeling. It sounds better in spanish, because that is truly how I feel- vacio. Like my stiching has come out, like I am fraying. Like I am only a shell and the light from within shines somewhere else. Yes. Like a lantern, without the candle.
Nothing has changed. No more than usual. Everything has changed and continues to do so. That is always. But the change hasn’t changed. The change just keeps on changing and usually I do to, right along in step with the times.
But something has slipped off.
I want to find it, but I am not sure I wan to look for it.
Maybe this is what it means to be estranged.

Life in the Shadows.

2011-01-12T18:13:00.000-08:00

the fabric of life ... sometimes frays at the edges
and it is all the little threads that slip away from us without even being missed
are the threads that hold us together.
when there are only a few, they go unmissed.
but then there is the one that makes all the difference.

1.11.11

2011-01-11T18:34:00.000-08:00

1.11.2011
numerologist must see something I don’t
1.11.11 must mean something. And I have been so much in my own head today that I can barely get out of it. I feel that my soul might be leaking out of my ears at some moments soon so I have retreated to the solice (is sounds corny, but it is true) of my balcony. My cat has accompanied me, as she does now, not leaving my side since I went on vacation without her. Since my return she has lots to say and we carry on lengthy, if not intellectual, conversations. But I like her company. I thrive on it ,in truth. Her subtle companionship offers more to me than I am sure she knows. And in return I feed her, although lately that seems unnecessay. She is no longer the lithe kitten of her former youth, she and her stomach have settled in to her middle age. I suppose the same could be said for me. We were made for eachother.
The dusk comes quickly after the sun touches the hills, and the air is fresh. The song of a lone insect competes with the comforting constance of the river below. Some times it rages and some times it trickles, but it is always there. I wonder what the insect wants? I can’t seem to understand them. Sex probably, what else is there? Companionship? Food? He is probably not longing for a pension plan or a higher yield investment. Nor a bigger car, a companion insect with wing implants…
Colombia is an interesting place. And it feels more like home now than any place has in a long time. I was happy in San Franciasco, but really only remember it after I stopped working. I don’t think I was healthy there, and I wasn’t happy the way that I am here. The “manana” spirit that often drives westerners crazyis medicinal. I need an injection daily of that relaxed manner of this place. I seem to be the only person I have encountered in the last two years who has ever been in a hurry.
And so the light is gone, only the glowing screen, leading my fingers to the keys they know so well. In the nightly rhythm, The chant. The church that I alone worship in, the church that I create. A barking dog. A child’s distant laugh, the horny, hungry insect drowns out the rest. I cant hear the road a ways off. I can’t hear the car alarms; I can only hear the river if I listen for it. So we are alone. The cat, the insect and I.
Night has brought me to a better place. My ears will no longer leak, my head can hold its own and my breath has returned without my even noticing its absence.
I wish I knew what that insect wanted to say.
And I wonder how long I will be content with this life.
Right now there is no where else I would rather be, but I have given up so much to be here. So much that I will never get back. And I suppose that is the nature of life and choice. I can only hope that in 20 years I can sit with this same feeling of contentedness, maybe on a different balcony and feel the night air on my skin, and look around at all that I have chosen with confidence and comfort.
1.11.23 I will be a bit older, I supose we all wil be. I wonder where I will be, who I will be. I will be 44. What a concept. Time to make dinner.

Just another Day

2010-12-21T17:26:00.000-08:00

It just so happens that when the sun shines the roads dry. And finally today the rains have stopped. While I speak literally, I wonder if it is more of a metaphor. The clouds have parted. and while the heavens have opened up and dropped all they have on us, leaving some of us wading, some of us washed away and some of us homeless, there are the few left untouched on high ground. Moral, or physical. I have rarely been on either, but I am neither floating away nor running for the hills. Slowly making my way to the sea.

Although I have always done this on my own, I have never been alone. No one ever really is. I fill my life with love in many forms and friends from all over. I wonder if there will ever be a river that leads me any where but where I have always been going. This is a river that flows as a stream past a cabin in the woods of my birth. It is the canyons of red stone where this river tumbled carving away centuries. It is in the ponds I swam in as a child, stranded on a rock stalked by a snapping turtle. It is in the puddles I splashed in with my pink rubber boots and it is in the rain that fell so gently over me in last night's walk with my new best friend (my chocolate Ice cream cone.) How could that rain, so gentle and romantic ripped away mountainsides, came crashing down on homes and washed away roads. It is the water in my life that guides me. When I think about the paths that I have chosen and the choices that I make, I imagine that I blaze these trails on my own. I walk these paths alone. and that I have some control over this river I am riding. Yet today I wonder why I have taken each of these turns, and why I continue to come back to some of the same streams and shores again and again.

Is it the sound the water make splashing over the rock, the way my toes are licked by the icy cold water, the silence in the dark pools under the trees where the stream bends. Or is it the sand that warms under the sun. Where ever there is water weaving and winding between soft shores, I feel at home. I was born next to a stream nearly 8 inches wide. I bathed in a river across the road, swam in ponds and looked out over a glimmering lake from the top of a hill for years. I lived along side the ocean and then by the bay. Then I ran from the mouth of the Yangtze river to follow a path that even I couldn't see. To where I now sit above a gorge that carries the rains from mountaintop to the valley below and then who knows where beyond that. It is there, in the unseen distance, around that next bend that my path lies... even if it keeps brining me back to the same places, the same places that I keep leaving.

words on the wind

2010-12-20T19:45:00.000-08:00

With a hand-drawn butterfly net and leaping free from gravity the way only animation can permit I sweep and swat at nothing again and again depositing what i catch into a woven sack. With each gasp at nothingness I hold tighter the sack, for what does not exist in the wind has substance and weight in my hand.
Catching hold of what is not yet real and making it into something brings out the mother in my, inspires something that is not mine, but yet passes through me. These words on the wind, sometimes only a breeze and at others like a hurricane, wash over me, drip from my eyes and squirm down my face, tickling my cheeks. Dropping like tears for sorrows never felt and wounds never opened, when I let them words splatter the page and run.
Capturing what is not mine, making it in my image and then releasing it into the universe with shape and form, this is the only thing that makes me feel weightless, untethered. But as I drift I am often pulled back, a tugging at my ankle, like a mythological hand from below, I am returned to my sedation. I am not sure what is more comforting, the weight of my flesh as it contacts the earth or the lightness of my breath when I slow down to breathe in the wind of the ages.

Suffocating in most moments unaware of my bulk, by power and everything, I slide from definition to definition, relation to relation, hour to hour and nothing changes while everything is stuck, but time is walking in circles around me, stalking my movements and my oblivion. Only when I breath does life really exist.
like the butterflies in my bag, something out of nothing wrestles to be free. when my hand can no longer clench the cord that keeps them trapped safe inside, in a silent fluttering they return, invisible, to the wind where they belong, but now they are mine. Or I am theirs.

*Photo: Petra, Jordan 2010 SM

the roads we travel

2010-12-20T18:38:00.000-08:00

Radio silence is largely due to a broken camera, because apparently I don't have anything meaningful to say without photographic evidence. Although much has happened on the logistic scale, somehow none of it seems to to really matter at this point. The choices and movements that got me to this point seem hardly worth mentioning now. What seems to be the most relevant at this moments is only the delicious and familiar sound of my fingers hitting keys. The feeling that flows through me and quiets all the internal noise as well as the constant chatter outside my window: the rushing river below and the jingle of a cat's collar that is the only thing that gives away her every movement.

With a breath, the first in months, I breathe into my every move and my every decision. The lessons of late have been unexpected which is perhaps what made each of them challenging and so rewarding in the end. Of course these are the lessons that never end.

The road of Colombia are washed out. As I prepare to travel, and many of the people I love are on the move too, I wonder about the paths we travel, the choices we make and the things that really matter in making these lives of ours what they are. Each choice, each move and each risk. even the little things are little chess moves that advance or limit our options. I have never been very good at chess, but I feel that I am making strides in this game.

May all the roads in front of you lead you safely to the next adventure and lesson. With luck we can see them for what they are and not get distracted by the things that they are not. Travel safe; love yourselves and others well.
* Not my photo (friend of a friend- cell phone pic when the busses no longer pass on roads in Colombia people are still determined to get to where they are going. And the rains keep coming.)

A few moments in the Middle East

2010-07-13T04:37:00.000-07:00

blank

2010-07-01T03:45:00.000-07:00

i have seen so much... and in this moment have nothing to say about it.

old-school insurgent revolution of pre-technology stuff:

2010-06-14T11:50:00.000-07:00

i am all for an old-school insurgent revolution of pre-technology stuff:
(rocking chairs, candles, story time, stars, letters, horses... etc)
Help me make a list:
Pez dispensers
Dutch ovens and wood burning stoves! Gardens where you grow your own food.
Tea kettles.
I am loving this list... bring it on: barter system, water wheels... your turn.
Is there irony to be identified.... that this started as my facebook posting???????
Rhetorical questions are some of my favorite kinds of questions.

Growing your own food in your own beautiful garden. Walking to the next village. Having to go outside at night to pee - wow, so many stars.

Penmanship. Making music and dancing for entertainment. I think I like this list...

Oh I like this game. Oil lamps. Wind-up clocks. River baths. Laundry lines. Library card catalogs.

Toys carved from wood, or animals sewn by hand, filled with beans,

Gramophones, brownies made from scratch, sugar houses, goats milk, honeycomb, daguerreotypes. handmade soap, homemade cheese, homemade anything... Just so stories, fireplaces, rope swings, bonfires, ghost stories, "snowflakes that fall on the nose and eyelashes, silver white winters that melt into spring", and garden fresh veggies/flowers (salads that are still warm from the sun... (it has been said before and by many, but just maybe b/c it is the best thing ever)). and keep it coming folks.

Postcards, Sunday morning walks, afternoon tea, croquet games, (old things, french things and things that are hard to spell.) red wine serves in glass jars, mud between my toes, fireflies, Indian summer, hammocks, nap time, alone time snuggles- definitely snuggles.

Patchwork quilts. and the care, love and time it takes to make one.

First dates, last looks, sock hops, jukeboxes, Polaroid pictures. door knockers, town squares, farmers markets, root cellars, hand-me-downs, family heirlooms, companion planting & intercropping, natural/herbal remedies, forgiveness, shadow-play and graveyards. cast iron, thunderstorms and snowfall, sunshine and drizzle ... and making list, man do I like making lists.

Ring pops

ancient ruins, claw-foot tubs, cast iron sinks.

all smiles from here on out

2010-06-05T16:19:00.001-07:00

I have been through a lot of us, downs, ins and out over this month of silence. but there have have been more smiles than tears and with a few days left of school and the travel season upon us, there are many more smiles and looks of awe to come.
here is a preview (of the last week. Adventure #1 of the summer).

11 days later

2010-05-20T12:41:00.001-07:00

After a little experiment life tastes a little different and everything seems better. What a difference 10 days makes.

In my head. It is all in my head.

2010-04-26T14:17:00.000-07:00

Tell me it is in my head.
It is all in my head.
Everything is in my head. That is it.
That is the only place it all resides.
I could live a thousand lifetimes and travel a million continents in my head.
I could explore the universe and another lifetime all in my head.
I could make this mean anything and everything.
I could pivot my entire existence around this one moment
And this one choice,
And maybe it does
And certainly it doesn’t.
In my head I can make anything out of nothing and nothing into anything and everything into nothing at all.
I can make and destroy lifetimes, life forms and imaginations.
I can live and die a hundred times in my mind, in my dreams and in my wanderings.

But can I make one thing real.
One good choice
One honest thought
When it counts,
To whom it counts?
I can make a mountain of a molehill
And water into wine…
But I no longer drink and can hardly climb a mountain.
So it seems I can’t fully appreciate either.

Tell me it is all in my head…
I dare you
And I will make a molehill out of you.

Maybe it is all in my head.
But this time it really might be in my body too.
Something more. Something less. An answer. A reason.
And the explanation that takes everything away.
That ridiculous obnoxious phrase “ you don’t know what you want until you can’t have it… “ Or something like it is obnoxious for precisely the reason that it is so accurate. But it doesn’t help you when you come to learn you can’t have it.
And I can’t, or so it seems.
Now or ever--
Even in my head.

So what is all in my head now?
The possibility,
Or the
Impossibility?

The dread and fear that the prognosis is right makes me hungry.
The resolute and ambivalent optimism makes me dizzy.

Faith and trust have given way to science.
And yet I still feel like I have some sort of choice to make.
I know the right one.
And hate it
For its promise and for its futility.

What if you can’t have that thing you want most in the world?

Impotence

2010-04-23T14:03:00.001-07:00

Impotent. Infertile. Futile. Ineffectual. Barren.
These words, concepts really are wielded with such heavy weight.
Insults and diagnoses, condemnations.

Nothing vindicating.

Impotence: piercing sharp insult, emasculating and demoralizing
Infertile: like a field, like one thing over used, or in this case fallow, or Sheppard without a flock a hive without a queen, a planet without an orbit.
Futile: pointless, useless, hopeless (consult thesaurus for more synonyms).
Ineffectual: previously the worst thing you could call me, the one I would take most offense to. As a teacher a knife to the heart.
Barren: Not like a duke or a count, but more like a desert, without oasis. A camel without a hump, a cat without claws… barren like an unpollinated flower, never to seed.

Masticating, just chewing on a concept, not wallowing despite, the potential airs of self-loathing and occasional wallowing. Masticating and other private sins of the like. Weekends were made for just the occasion. Movies, popcorn, poolside lounges and private balconies… dark and solitary moments dug from peaceful sun drenched alcoves.

Masticating impotence—if that is possible. And if it is not slippery enough to confuse even the keenest. Conniving. Assumptive and now merely making up words.

Prognosis.

2010-04-21T14:40:00.001-07:00

Image: a close up scan of the Contagion.

How come diseases and syndromes sound more gruesome and painful than some of the symptoms? The sensation can only be described as relief and horror: the magic bullet – without a cure. The explanation. The release. The liberation. And the crashing walls. There is safety in the unknown. There is destruction in discovery.

Even the word prognosis sounds like an affliction.
-"I have prognosis."
-"Oh, no, I am so sorry. Is it contagious, fatal, painful?"
I have been diagnosed- and it makes less sense in English than it does in Spanish. It sounds more like a funk song lyric than a physical malady. I have “hyperbolicsyllabicsesquedalymistic;” it is not fatal but it is the root of everything I have wrong with me except receding gums. Isaac Hayes is the diagnostic lyrical genius. Maybe I should feel more relief and clarity, but really it feels a bit like slow melodramatic drowning… compartmentalized and in slow motion. I want to reflect my anxiety off of someone else, but it is more like throwing trash into space-- everything just goes off into the void: inertia and lack of resistance. Polycystic-hyperbolic-fatalmistic-ism. It is certainly a syndrome… not contagious –mostly because no one can pronounce it. And, sadly, there is no outright cure. They don’t know the cause, despite how common it is.
And yet nothing has changed.
Information is insidious and delicate for this reason.
Maybe the greatest affliction is merely the prognosis… and as soon as I recover from that maybe I will be cured.

All it has to be is real.

2010-04-18T08:25:00.000-07:00

I have written a manual, a document that servers as an introduction to my eccentricities, my life, my heart and as best as a 30-page document can, and introduction to my soul. It has been a process that has unwrapped some things for me, that has allowed my to plunge, dive deep into some of my unexplored waters and most of all it is the first place where I have admitted certain things – all things that I know to be true and often make extraordinary efforts to conceal.

I enjoyed this process in all aspects: the writing and visioning, the jokes and the truth, the moments of doubt and hesitation and the moments of complete forgiveness where I could just be without judgment (if only to myself); I enjoyed the laughing and the crying and maybe most of all the terror I felt as I prepared to share it. I often guard against these strong feelings- any strong feelings, but this was delicious- ridiculous and I savored every drop of anxiety.

I have shared myself completely with someone. I have removed all barriers and exposed all wounds. I have admitted faults and weakness and perhaps celebrated some strengths as well. I have embraced the beauty that is me, that makes me this perfectly strong, tender mess of affection and fear. I have been real with another person, and in doing so I have permitted myself to become more of who I am. It is nice to trust.

I have the trust that has been lacking for so long. I have trust in myself. With that I can share; from trust in myself I can explore and expand, wander and invite others in to explore the life I live.

The manual (and the process of writing it) has given me a new direction and a new faith in movement. If I had always kept it safe and only written it for myself it would have been a treasure, but it increases in value when shared.

It does not have to be comprehensive
It does not have to fit a formula or mold
It does not have to be anything
Except honest
And true.
It has to be you as best you can.

Nightmarish morning BLISS

2010-04-18T07:56:00.000-07:00

I HAD A DREAM LAST NIGHT, A NIGHTmarish sort of dream… where you know how things should be, but nothing is… when you go back to a familiar place, maybe the most familiar, and don’t recognize anything, when paths are blocked and you feel lost, when you know where you are, but everything has changed in your absence, when you are faced with a challenge that seems impossible, guarding a treasure, climbing a treacherously steep hill, when things only seem to get worse, that is the dream I had last night.

But I wake to a pristine morning. The light is spilling, just so, on the white wall of my balcony. A friendly soccer game sends cheerful shouts and grunts up from the dry earth below my bamboo forest and my plants bask in the morning warmth. It has been raining and so the air is fresh, the plants are breathing everywhere; the birds seem happier and the sky is a new season. The richness in color cannot be exaggerated, nor ignored. Clouds have been erupting from the valley edge to then drift nonchalantly North.

The Sun is up and I am up and the world is better than it was when I went to sleep.

The Midas Touch

2010-04-13T16:32:00.000-07:00

Has the well dried up; have the cows gone home; has the fat lady sung? Did I miss it? Do I have the Midas touch?

Is everything around me turning to gold, and then leaving me surrounded by treasure and loneliness? Rhetorical question.
How many clichés can one girl use in a matter of minutes? Do they allow her to get any closer to her point? (Not a rhetorical question.)

4:44 4.12.10

2010-04-12T16:09:00.000-07:00

4:44 4.12.10
Could I break my life down into numbers? 31. 26. 1. 79. 7. 5. 80,000. 98. Age, birth day, month, year, favorite number, lucky number, number of travel miles it took to get me around the world for free this summer. It is 4:44 on 4.12.10 and no moment is like the next. The national debt is in the trillions and is rising at rate I can’t write to keep up with or believe; my students are more numerous (98+) and more wonderful than they were 2 weeks ago; the rainy season has begun in Colombia, two down pours in three days and the soccer game across the river goes on despite the billions of raindrops; the score remains steady 5 - 2.
Now it is 4:52. And one little boy just rang my doorbell. He needed help translating a song from English; it was about a monkey that eats 33 bananas for breakfast, 33 bananas for lunch and 33 bananas for dinner. His favorite number is 99, mine is seven. Every instant tallied and counted, calculated and different. Like each raindrop and each little boy, a universe in itself gets lost in the crowd. The moments, when they fall like rain, become a torrent, a raging river that drowns out the sound of even the jet plane overhead. But each raindrop still floats, bouncing and darting down the canyon, part of the whole, a new creature, like people in a crowd, they swell and push as if one. Each moment, delicate as a flower and powerful enough to sweep you off your feet.

Valleys and Peaks

2010-04-12T02:51:00.000-07:00

In the mapping of my life and my character I have been thorough in my cartography of the valleys, yet neglecting, for the most part, the peaks.
I have shown the light more brightly on the dark hidden corners and deep crevasses of my soul and have ignored the giant peaks that all can see. The parts that are reaching skyward as just as vast; pinnacles of my character show the potential of the human spirit. From there the view is quiet breathtaking.

Peaks: The two mountain chains Self-awareness and Strength of character run parallel and intertwine. Among them, some notable peaks are: Sense of responsibility, Compassion and Tenderness, Diligence, Honesty and Forthrightness.

Each mountain has its own unique terrain and geography. No two masses share the exact same geology; these features each derive their heights from a distinctive combination of elements. They each are in plain view and can be seen with the naked eye from any where in the region. Whereas much of the valley floor is often obscured in darkness the peak are constant, remain strong and visible.

For the purpose of cartography both must be equally referenced and charted. It is interesting that in this mapping process I focused almost exclusively on the valleys and lowest points of elevation, where the air is stagnant and there are rarely travelers. People from all around have come to scale the peaks of this region and have walked away with tales of their own or tokens from the rich elements that form theses rock outcroppings. Gems and jewels are often believed to be scattered among the rocks along the assent. But, remember that climbers tend to exaggerate from time to time; the air is thin and they forget themselves.

But maybe all the stories are true. Come discover the riches and take in the views. Like all mountains, you can’t reach the top without dedication, a good guide, supplies and patience, but this is one mountaineer (cartographer, geologist) recommending this one.

cut down

2010-04-11T02:39:00.000-07:00

Spilled coffee in a mall somewhere,
Like a car accident,
It’s essence dripping from the counter into a lifeless pool on the floor,
So young, so innocent,
Yet untouched by the lips of life.

A violent crime
Such a senseless act
Something so young, cut down in the spring of life.

Punctuation

2010-04-10T19:49:00.000-07:00

My students use punctuation more for decoration than function, but like all the great painters you must master the technique before you can expand, improvise and break all the rules… or so I tell them.

Oh, Honey, where have you been?

2010-04-09T15:50:00.000-07:00

I have rediscovered my love for tea, but I too have realized that it is not so much the tea itself that I crave. It is something in the ritual. I am a creature of habit and this habit, although lost for some time, has come back with a vengeance out of nowhere. More than the tea, the smell, the flavor, the comfort or the sound of the spoon stirring and clinking the mug (which is great, by the way), it is the honey.

The ritual is clear: While the water is heating on the stove, in the pot- because we still don’t have a teapot, I gather the supplies, the same mug (because there is only one big enough in this house) and then the goodness starts. From the drawer I rescue a silver spoon- a real silver spoon from some great-grandmother AJO carved into the top. Into the spoon, from the glass jar on the counter I pour honey from a distant valley of dry hills and grape vines. I tell myself that honey has medicinal properties and take a bit extra to savor. The spoon rests in the empty mug, add the tea bag and lick the dripping honey from the mouth of the jar and replace it for tomorrow. The water is ready and so tea is made. It is often too hot to deal with so I bring it with me and then abandon it. Sometimes, like last night for example that is where the ritual ends. I drank the cold tea when I woke up this morning.

Manual Day

2010-04-07T15:42:00.000-07:00

Today is undoubtedly a manual day.
Once with the sun rise and again with the sun set.
Familiarity and patience.
It is like recognizing myself in another body with another story but with so many similar traits
Comforting and creepy
Reassuring and making me wary

How hypersensitive am I too. So.

I am a good student, I wasn’t when I was young I couldn’t see the point in it and it seemed impossibly hard for me… but now with a purpose and a context I have become a fierce student. I take notes; write in the margins, underline, star and point. I ask questions of the text; I comment on the text for later reflection and absorption.

With any certainty comes uncertainty. Cierto?

The poet in my pales at the words of nearly every song written and turns to revise myself. With a kiss and a caress. Time to reexamine the source and the destination.

I am my own

2010-04-06T15:45:00.000-07:00

I prefer wood to plastic
Cloth to paper
Glass to rubber
Cast-iron to aluminum
And old to new.
I am a hippy, but not the Trustafarian make your own clothes, pedigree dog on hemp leash white dreadlocks driving daddy’s SUV hippy.. and not free-love and drugs 1960’s hippy, not the Haight street methadone hippy, not the weed-harvesting migrant labor California hippy, not the skater hippy, the surfer hippy or the vegan raw food hippy- not even the urban revolution –dumpster diving anti-government radical hippy.
I am my own hippy.
I am the garden and the woods, living in the city, traveling the world on jet fuel robbed from the middle east, apocalyptic and then everything will be ok hippy, the breathe deeply, yoga, steak hippy, the home birth- midwife no TV for kids hippy, the candles and horoscopes and philosophical –without being hokey hippy. I am my father’s daughter- buyers beware, mothers daughter but different hippy.
I like things hand made. And preferably free-trade, but I am not willing to pay outrageous prices for it or wanting to increase my social capital by doing something that is so trendy hippy. I am not the simplify your life by subscribing to one more magazine that tells you what to buy to organize and ‘simplify’ your life hippy. I am the burn it all in a field or smash it against a wall and walk away with what you can carry hippy. I am the give it all away at a spontaneous dinner party hippy.
I am the hypocrite-hippy. The faux-hippy, the used clothes and pearl earrings hippy, the grandmother’s silver spoons and 5 for 99 cents dishware hippy.
I am my own hippy.
I shave my legs on Fridays… or Sundays, I can’t remember which. I condition my hair bi-annually. I feed my cat canned tuna and let her kill the cockroaches and moths but not the lizards and when I can help it not the birds. I drink water from glass jars because it tastes better and I am convinced it won’t leech creepy chemicals into my body, but then I will drink soda and movie theater popcorn which might be the worst kind of ‘food’ ever.
I am my own hippy-maybe not even a hippy any more, maybe just a revolutionary, a blue collar, stand up citizen trapped in the body of an ideological rebel using my job to stir a slow pot of urban upper-class mutiny. Maybe I am just my parents child and the resulting compilation of my experiences, circumstance and opportunities.

What are you?

Itch

2010-04-04T06:53:00.000-07:00

Where Mosquitoes come to die.
In a halo above my head
In a ring around the light they dance,
Elongated shadows form an insect chandelier
And then one at a time they tinkle to the floor
Like silent tears, like diamonds of laughter.
From the halo of heaven dengue rains to the floor
A minefield of little delicate involuntary corpses decorates my floor and commemorates the nights.
I dread the rainy season.
Siempre unbitten, I itch.

10 Minutes Anywhere.

2010-03-30T19:21:00.000-07:00

Sometimes better than anything better than moving around is just sitting in a place. One place. The world is always moving and sometimes when you are moving too you can’t see all its motion and all its glory. It is all just a blur.
The activity of a single pigeon is not enticing, consequential, nor is the pigeon even noticing when you are darting pell mell-helter skelter… but when you are stationary and the pigeons movement is a critical note in a symphony of activity before you the little things that escape your notice otherwise attain the utmost importance. The cacophony of one intersection the raucous tempo of one street the hollers and chants from passing vendors, teenage boys taunting each other and soliciting beautiful women, taxis and repairmen, drill bits against cement, squealing brakes and failing transmissions daily chatter on media Luna, slightly removed by the anonymity provided by the bougenvilla dripping balcony hidden from the world bustling at a casual pace below me. The world which fascinates me entices me and goes on with no notice of me. I feel a part of it while remaining distant, separate, silent and invisible. The pigeon comes back for another twig- building a nest beyond the crest of the rooftop. With a damaged wing he hops. A man pushes a cart with 3 enormous slabs of ice the street in the midmorning heat. Passing him on the sidewalk a man heads in land with a catch of small fish draped over his shoulder fresh from the sea.
10 minutes in Cartagena, from any balcony, park or plaza presents a similar menagerie of creatures and a feast of sights and sounds.
The taxis instead of horns emit a series of beeps that can only remind of one thing R2-D2. I look around and await the reply of C32O. 10 minutes anywhere if taken in quietly can present a world of observations.

Wandering Cartagena

2010-03-30T19:01:00.000-07:00

What is it they say about the best intentions or the laid plans …? Well when I woke this morning I was getting ready to spend the week on the beach – a deserted paradise of jungle preserve that buts up against the crashing blue Caribbean coast. All went smoothly, there was just one snag at the gate. I had bought tickets, or so I thought, for Santa Marta and at the crucial moment I discover that in fact the plane is going to Cartagena. Fortunately, also on the coast and another of the expected destinations. I suppose it could have been a human error, this mix up… I mean it could have been my fault … but that would certainly be a first – and fortunately a pretty funny mix up, one, which seems to be working for the best so far. Upon arrival mom and I sorted out her departure flight and found a hot dingy little place to stay. But the price was right: $B-/pp is manageable- we spent more on a gin and tonic so life is good. We slept- crashed really then emerged to explore the city in mid day heat. To the old city, along the wall through one plaza to another, past the church to the cathedral and into the park, down the road lined with blossoming vines and brightly colored houses to the wall again. The ocean breeze sends whips of salt water up to our faces on the edge of where the world meets the water. Under the scalding sun where the air tastes hot in your mouth and where the heat rises through your shoes to cook the soles of your feet. Back to the cool of the city grid, shade entrenched allies, more color, more balconies more dripping vine blossoms. When walking north south the wind tunnels, lifting skirts, billowing flags and cooling street vendors. But east west is stagnant as the armpit of death- but hot death. More color, more balconies, more vines. There must be a cult of complicity for so many doors, enormous ancient wooden doors- large enough for horse and carriage, there are door-knockers, large metallic green animals: fish, iguanas and old faced men. Only a cult could explain such an orgy of old knockers. Each carriage gate has several smaller doors, a person door (mighty small person or a door that requires stooping) and an eye level – identity confirmation door with decorative iron grating.

Dog Tired

2010-03-29T19:11:00.000-07:00

Down for the count: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7pm. Walked, fed, pooped-like a dog. Panting and ready to flop on a cold floor wag a tail in contentment, but only once or twice for lack of energy or necessity otherwise. I am a golden retriever as if there were any other dog I could be, my strawberry blond fir, and wisps of my hair waving in the artificial breeze of the ceiling fan. Drifting off into doggy dreams, maybe twitching while chasing a rabbit, sniffing at lampposts or my personal favorite – dreaming about sleeping. My tongue lounges out of my mouth, my breath unforgivable, dead to the world except for my eyeballs darting behind closed lids. Something very interesting must be going on behind those eyes. This is what it looks like to be dog-tired.

on the road...

2010-03-28T20:20:00.000-07:00

on the road, on the beach rather. off-line, out of line.
down time.
one week.

Operator's Manual

2010-03-28T13:42:00.000-07:00

How to write an operator's manual: a “ME” handbook
This is a concept I have played with for several years. It has occurred to me that we should each come with some sort of user’s guide, manual or handbook. It might eliminate some of the romantic tensions, as well as any other social mishaps. I live with two women purely by chance because we each got a job at the same international school. We have gotten to know each other through experience, and might have better done so with some sort of introduction.
The same approach could be applied to potential friends and lovers. Especially lovers and partners need to know what they are getting and sometimes our packaging or sales pitches can be deceiving. To come with a operator’s manual might increase the rate of success. Since I know I don’t come with a money back guarantee I have begun to compose the first draft of such a document. Writing it may too present some interesting realizations as well.
I think I might borrow some ideas from Ikea. In simple pictures without the complication of language, check to make sure you have all the right parts. Then for easy assembling start at one end and put things together, a little bit at a time. But I am afraid I can’t be explained entirely in pictures. So sadly, there will also have to be a section of instructions spelled out… and also a few warnings. Keep in a cool dry place, (where the sun shines regularly). Do not operate under the influence of drugs or alcohol. Everything in moderation… including moderation. Risk of shock if plugged in while wet. Handle with care. This side up.
This, as I said, is just a first draft. Unfortunately, it is not possible to write it all; at this point there is so much undiscovered territory, and I suppose that is the best part… it is building a machine and assembling it, without knowing exactly what it will become or what it can do, but this is how to put it together and here are some suggestions to get things started, from there you are on your own to discover how and what, where and when… because even all that can’t be guaranteed.

Dawn comes early these days.

2010-03-27T05:42:00.001-07:00

Dawn comes early these days. With the cool breeze that is more delicious than grandma’s brownies and the sweetest caviar, the birds sing in the morning as if with their voices they literally carry the light into the valley, pulling it up over the hill.
It is the slow mornings that are the most delectable. Savoring each change of light, each breath of day and letting the dancing sounds sweep into the valley.

It is when there are many things happening that there is no time to write of them. But when little is happening that there is time to see all the movement of the world. His morning little is happening. The people are not yet awake. Only the light and the birds know the day has begun and together they are ushering in the dawn. Together they will wake up the world until this valley is humming with the voices and movement of a generation.

It is the one voice I treasure which I long to hear, but I fear that voice is lost, out in the long grass, beyond the fences of down over the cliff. Deep in the riverbed or beyond. Or what if that voice has found more comfort in the house of a neighbor. How can so much comfort reside in a tale. Where a reality is realigned and all woes are wiped away replaced by the simple sensation of a tender tail on the back of my leg. Here, kitty, kitty.

Slowly morning sets in. the changes were subtle and without warning the dawn turned into day. One more opportunity to live this day, drink it in, savor the flavor, sweet and sour, bitter and juicy, with tang and zest. The cool air of night is already slinking off to hide under the trees and in the dark places be avoid being scorched by the sun.

Can't write today...

2010-03-24T15:28:00.000-07:00

What is happening to me...? It is the allotted time and I am in the regular place, but What I want to do more than write is (oh no, can it really be true) grade papers... well that is not really what I want to do... since I have been doing it for two days. I must take a break my brain is all mushy with the repetition of information. But equally scary is what I REALLY DO WANT TO DO; I want to study comparative Government and politics texts, I want to investigate on-line macroeconomics courses and plan AP history lessons. Is it sick and wrong that when I am going to sleep I envision word games and activities to help my students become better writers? As a 31 year-old single woman, shouldn't I have slightly different (dare I not say, BETTER) things on my mind in my last moments of consciousness? Is that what I dream about? Word games to expand their vocabulary and practice quizzes to build up their content recall... wow, what an exciting life I do lead!
All for the love of the game. My, my. Well, I had better get back to it. The tide and grammatically challenged eleventh graders wait for no man.

But with the keys flying below my fingers now, I find it equally difficult to pull away. It is like my breath is integrally rooted to the keys themselves. Almost like my breath comes in through my fingers more than my nose and the oxygen is within the keys themselves. I wonder what else is in the keys.
They will to be touched, plucked like ripe fruit. The story, the message, comes from behind the keys. It is they who speak and yearn to be heard. The order in which they are hit is irrelevant, like an Ouija board spelling it all out for me, the message comes through me; the keys tell their story and give me the breath that my fingers crave.

With each pause I am left breathless, gasping like in thin air on some mountain peak. My lungs willing me to push on, while my head and my heart pull away. But without air my head and heart are useless. Click, click, click. respirando. The keys are the air I breathe. Click, click. The keys tell their story and give me the breath that my fingers crave.

The Pits

2010-03-23T15:28:00.002-07:00

How do you get out from the bottom of a pit?
The pit of DESPAIR… oh no that is from the Princess Bride
The pit in my stomach… no that is from the frozen coffee this afternoon
The peach pit, it is not yet summer, peaches aren’t in season for a few more months.
Pit one against another, but that needs at least too and I am only one.
I guess this is just the pits…
That is one way to get out.

Dusk

2010-03-22T16:15:00.000-07:00

Geckos chirping on the wall, birds squawking as they dive and dart through the swarm of bugs recently born from the river’s edge, the distant chorus of voices in a valley church usher in the sunset. The sky, like a canvas under a master’s brush constantly changes as the sun slinks off behind the hill, taking the light and the heat of the day with it. In the coming dusk, prattle erupts from the soccer pitch down below, voices an erratic procession chase a ball in the yellow rising dust of a dying afternoon. Life creeps back with the cooling of the air. The staggering heat of the day is disappearing over the hillside. That which kept people in is fading and the sounds of evening dance between the trees to echo off the buildings that line the river valley. The rushing water, remnants of yesterday’s storm, purrs like a generator cutting deeper into the rock chasm that marks the edges of life that spills down the mountainside and towards the sea. Lights glitter in the distance mark the villages yet unexplored and trace the roads. They invite the stars to soon mirror them in the cool darkness of sky.
This sunset, both in sight and sound, was delicious enough to be the last.

Three for the Price of one.

2010-03-21T14:46:00.000-07:00

1.Spring has sprung.
Even on the equator the birds are flying in pairs, the iguanas have come out of the trees in hordes, the breeze is blowing fresh seasons north and the earth is quiet (at least at Latitude, 7°08′0 N. • Longitude, 73°08′ W) on a Monday holiday afternoon.
2.Listen to me
Listen to me like you are hungry
Like the words I say can fill you
Nourish and sustain you.
3.I have been away too long and with each seed I planted
I grew further
It is neither the seeds nor the plants that they will become
or the fruit they will bear
That keeps me searching for new soil.
It is the running from as much as running toward that has kept my wheels spinning
And like a locomotive I keep burning through my fuel
Speeding toward a destination just to chase my tracks back again with the same feverish desperation.
Once the tracks are laid the train never goes anywhere
Not anywhere that hasn’t already been laid out.
Will I forever be racing to get to some place else?
Whether on the same tracks or not, never really being anywhere
Always trapped by the rails
With the illusion of travel
And the illusion of distance
But ignorant of the fact that my wheels are still spinning the same track again and again.

Will there a time when I hill hope off at a station? Take my luggage off the rack or will I let it speed away behind me.
Will I settle for a little village built around a crumbling railroad station?
Will I eat crepes and escargot?
Drink wine and succulent mussels?
Or will I forever wave from the back of the caboose at all the places I could have called home while I hungrily feed coal on the fire propelling me forward
into the future.
Can I derail the train or hop off?
Are these truly the same tracks I have ridden before or is there another direction.
Where is my station call and my welcoming committee?

in rough weather

2010-03-21T13:03:00.000-07:00

an alien in my own skin under thunderous skies.
Adrift
Lost in my own body as if it were the open sea.
In a craft unable to steer
Wind flapping at my sails, the rigging loose,
Taking on water in rougher weather
And sinking.

Pregnant.

2010-03-20T14:54:00.000-07:00

Every body is pregnant,
or everybody seems pregnant, either they are, which in many cases is true. More friends are "pregers" at this moment than ever before in history, “my History”.

The ones who are pregnant are bursting, all due around the same time. Three weeks and counting. The rest are just pregnant with ideas, plans, faith and frustration.
What am I pregnant with? What am I carrying? Tuvo dolor en mi estomago, pero no estoy embarazada.
I gave up drinking, but for my own reasons. Maybe it gave up me. I was dumped by wine and beer broke my heart, but I’m better off sola. Especially when I am down I don’t need to be hanging with depressants. Besides it is bad for pregnancy. It is bad for birthing of new ideas, hopes, plans or even new days.
And I prefer days I have had enough of the old daze.
I am pregnant with potential. I even have a little morning sickness. The kinds that warns you of your latent promise and scares you simultaneously.
Going through all the mismo emocionas de an expectant mother: fear, dread, excitement, hope, anxiety. Budding, growing inside changing your shape and temperament, that glow obvious to all. I am hungry all the time and quick to snap.
I am pregnant with possibility.

The impatient gardener

2010-03-19T14:28:00.002-07:00

The impatient gardener,
Meticulously tending her crops,
Picking at the weeds, which are constantly sprouting.
But from a mixed bag how to know which are weeds and which are crops.

The impatient gardener is plotting,
Making a plan, and laying it out,
Designing a future and the fruits of her labor.

But the rain doesn’t fall and her plants, as well as her plans seem to wither.

Now the impatient gardener is laughing at the weeds,
Laughing at the clouds that block the sun,
Laughing at the rain as it falls, or doesn’t
Laughing at the soil and its reluctance to push forth a sprout,
Laughing at the seasons themselves.
Laugh at the garden;
Laugh at the gardener.

It is better than beating the soil with your fists,
Demanding that the seeds grow.
The sprouts I could see weren’t growing fast enough.
The flowers weren’t budding or smelling sweet enough.
The bees weren’t pollinating or suckling enough,
And the fruit wasn’t ripening.

Laugh at the progressing shadows creep
moving across the land.
Laugh while the flowers track the sun
across the sky to the horizon.
Laugh at the garden; laugh at the gardener;
it is better than beating the soil with your fists.
In my passion I bent and broke the fragile stems.

Forgetting what a gardener does:
You clear the land and prepare the soil.
Trace out your rows and stake your claim.
On hands and knees you dig your trough
And one by one or in handfuls you cast your seed.
Cover them over, water and wait.

That is the most important step,
And one I always forget,
Because I am in impatient gardener.

…And then wait.

And wait.
Weed, water and
Wait.

Laugh at the garden; laugh at the gardener,
It is better than beating the soil with your fists.
In my passion I bent and broke the fragile stems.

Like an herb garden they are fine and delicate.
They need the most sensitive of care.
Like a vegetable garden, each will bear fruit and nourish another.
Like a flower garden, they will bloom and smell sweetly,
Making the world a more beautiful place.
But like a forest, each one starts small and fragile.
An oak cannot be trampled,
But, if nibbled as a bud or a sapling it can be damaged.

Laugh at the garden; laugh at the gardener,
It is better than beating the soil with your fists.
In my passion I bent and broke the fragile stems.
Demanding that the seeds grow faster.

I thought I planted herbs, but maybe I am growing oaks.

I’m waiting.

Someday they may replace the sky.

Taking a break from writing to grade plagiarized essays

2010-03-18T16:41:00.000-07:00

Donde esta la lluvia?

2010-03-17T15:14:00.000-07:00

Donde esta la lluvia?
Asi un hombre, la lluvia él me dejó. Me amo’ y me salio’.
Sola y seco
El odor de fuego en mi nariz
Quemando todas cosas cerca de mi.
Detras de la nueblas el sol se rei.
Bromeando.
Seco y sola

El aire esta fresca.
El viento esto suave
La tarde este sosegado

Pero, la lluvia corte un agujero en mi Corazon.
Asi un Cráter o la boca de volcán
Listo a entrar en erupción.
Seco y sola.

Fuego es mi socio de la danza
Se lamando a mis pies.
Bailando asi con nadie y con fuego

La lluvia él me dejó.
A me consumo.

Valentine’s Day

2010-03-17T14:55:00.001-07:00

Happy Saint Valentine’s Day
Where is my green?
All the little kids in the pre-kindergarten were donning green and all morning long I wondered the occasion.
But completely unaware.
My first outfit this morning was green, but in an early morning haze I changed three times settling for orange or some salmon equivalent.
Sorry valentine. Oh, well. We can see how long my haze lasted today. It is after 4pm and I meant Saint Patrick. It is a shame I don’t have an allegiance to either.

People are dying, slowly or all at once.
Strangers and friends, family …
And some day me too.
But neither that nor the irrelevant holiday occupies my thoughts.
I wish a mad love affair or even just a love distraction were the resident of my mind,
But not even that today.

I am tired, lonely (by self-imposed sanctions) hungry for nothing in particular and concerned, deeply concerned for the future of my students.
Not for their safety or comfort in their future lives
Those students have graduated in one way or another already
Either from school, into adulthood or parenthood depending.
No, I worry about the quality of my students.
In the practical sense, I worry about their ability to continue to learn (or start learning what they want) once they are out of school.
In a larger sense, I fear that they will not learn the lessons that are so vital:
Compassion, self-reliance, and responsibility.

I try, in moments like these, to remember myself at this age. I think I may have been an equally hopeless case and for my part may have kept many a teacher up at night (if not just my parents). And I have turned out decent enough, with a few dents and scratches for sure but better for it. And despite all my self-pity and doubt, I am a decent human being. That is all I want for my students.
NO THAT IS NOT TRUE. I want them to be so much more than that. More than decent, better than I am and can be. I want them to discover their capabilities, their best, and effect change in the world. We need people doing their best. Giving their all and caring for each other.
I work with these kids, even though I swore I would never work in a private school… I said I would always work with kids who need it the most. And for what ever reasons I am here, I tell myself that they need it too: my time, my energy, my love and my pushing. And I do it because I believed that these kids would make the difference- that these kids will make the policies to right the wrongs and protect the disenfranchised.
That is why I am here and why I push and assign “too much work”. That is why I work too much and ware myself out.
What do I do if, they don’t? If they don’t care, aren’t compassionate, responsible or self-reliant? If they just get a job, have a baby and worry about getting a little something better for themselves…

I worried like this in college and a wise man (my father) told me that the best way to make the world a better place is simply by being nice to another person… and as much as he was right, and I allowed that to become my philosophy, and relieve the pressure of the world from my bones, I am not sure that is enough…
Doing anything without the basic kindness is not worth doing, but I am not sure it is enough just to be nice to a stranger. I expect more of myself. And in turn, I expect more from my students. I hope that is not unfair, but I am not sure what place “Fair” has in the world anyway… so that is what I expect. Be nice to strangers and expect that you can change the world.

Until my kitchen matches my heart.

2010-03-16T14:47:00.000-07:00

For nearly two years I have been repeatedly stuck with an intense urge to through and break every dish in my surroundings. I want to hear china shatter, I want to watch glasses splinter, mugs crumble, my favorite blue bowls explode into unrecognizable pieces, my favorite glass jars erupt into dangerous shards.
But not once, not even the time most appropriate and deserving of such a reaction, did I unleash on my crockery. Teapots and saucers, sushi plates and condiment dishes, noodle bowls and cereal bowl, shot glasses and wine glasses, tea cups and coffee mugs, collectors steins and tart pans. All safe forever guarded by the invisible umbrella of propriety. Never to meet their untimely end against a wall or to leap to their deaths only to know the existence of God upon contact with the heinous brown tile of my Shanghai apartment. Neatly wrapped up, sold for a song, or given to neighbors and friends. Alive and well to live another day and serve another meal, quench another's thirst and satiate another's craving. Beautiful, elegant, practical and fun, personal, historical, ancestral and bright. Alighting on new shelves among new family and none the wiser; how close had you just come to a premature doom, victim to my pent-up rage, frustration and guilt? Too close I fancy. And yet, never close enough. For more than two years later the urge still floods me from time to time, while walking under leaning oaks, climbing the stairs or gazing off into the distance. It takes the strength I possess to clasp what ever is in my hand and not dash it against the sidewalk. Just to hear it tinkle and glisten into a hundred little pieces. Is that so bad, just to want to destroy something to watch it take shape again as something else. To see my own strength exhibited before me and not always be on the proper side of things.

I have seen it in movies and on T.V., when either out of rage, celebration or bliss a dish or wine class is tossed into the fireplace with so much emotion and relief; ecstatic. Yet all mine is pent-up. Fenced off. Neglected. Hedged-in. abandoned. Redirected. Ignored or covered-over.

It is like I have been pretending since that moment, when I first felt the eruption and quieted the fumes. I wonder if I will ever be right until my kitchen matches my heart.

La Comida de mi Vida.

2010-03-15T15:16:00.001-07:00

*Lo siento estoy matandolo (I am sorry for butchering everything in Spanish)*

?cuantos vezes nececito tedigo? Mi vida es mi propio vida. Tengo que tomar los decisions y pagar por los errores. Elijo esta vida con los exitos y fracasos, con los triunfos y los decepciones, con los amigos y soledad. Intercambie’ algo por eso. Vivi’ mi vida asi por mis propios razones. Y, ahora mi soledad es mi propio tambien. No soy muerto y puedo hacer mi vida otra vez. Puedo vivir en otra realidad.

Otra vez, voy a regresar al campo. Voy a plantar uno otro jardin. Y este vez voy a quedar y comer la comida de mi trabajo. Eso es la metafora de mi vida. Siempre plantando(plantacion), pero nunca quedando suficiente a comer lo. I run away before it has matured. Antes lo ha madura. Eso es la razon de mi hambre constante. Siempre estoy mi jardin abandono.

Tengo semillas; tengo tierra fertile, fecundo; tengo agua y sol del mi alma. Tengo afecto y paciencia (en situaciones unicos). Pero no tengo mi propio jardin. No tengo alimento suficiente, propio. I let the land slip through my fingers. Y con esta la hogar, la comida y la familia esta alimentacion tambien. I pour water on dry soil until it sprouts y con las senales primeros de vida salgo. A empazar en una tierra nueva, pero yo salgo con hambre, habia crecido mi proxima alimento esta esperame en el proximo lugar. No es. Siempre esta aqui con mi trabajo, en el lugar donde trabaje’, donde estoy. Movimineto no es la comida ansio’. Quedando es la unica forma de obtenerlo.

Plantar un jardin es una comprometerse a lo lugar. Hacer la miso compromiso a mi propio persona. Quedar y agosto el fruta del trabajo, el jardin; comelo su comida, su trabajo y su vida. La comida de mi vida esta quedando en el mismo lugar.

Snow and goats

2010-03-14T08:55:00.001-07:00

I miss the snow and my goats.
I want it to be so cold that I have to snuggle up next to the fire.
These hypocritical words fall like lies from my lips, yet I speak the truth.
I am seasonally affected.
I need the sun to be happy and so I flee the gloomy interminable winter ridden lands of the north the lands of my birth.
No longer clutching the tea mug, desperate for its warmth
Rather sticky and hot under sunny skies or haze, but consistently warm.
Celebrating the one-day when long sleeves were preferred.
It is a unique occasion.
No one understands me.
And what I crave the most, from my sun-soaked morning porch, over looking the valley of tropical bamboo, is a cold wet morning where the ground is melting outside, morning chores in knee high rubber boots and a wool plaid coat with wooden buttons and a long scarf… all of this just so I can come back in to the smell of the wood burning stove and its dry heat, the mug of tea and a warm embrace under a blanket on the couch and being rubbed until the chill retreats from my bones and the tea bag hangs alone plastered to the bottom of the cup.
These are my winter morning fantasies. The spring brings life when there has been none for so long. The sap starts to flow again in the trees, igniting a chain reaction in the people as well. They stir and erupt with life as well. The trees bud and the sun creeps up over the hilltops. The snow on distant mountains melts and the streams fill again to caress my feet on summer’s riverbanks.

I miss the snow and I miss my goats. I miss the cold because of what it provides in return. Too much tropical sunshine denies me the tender touch, the comfort of covers and the slumber of hibernation. There is some monotony in all this lush jungle life. The rebirth of spring is an alien concept here, it is always halter-tops, high heals and sun. The condors circle searching for death because there is consistency here, no cyclical pattern of rest and rejuvenation.

Is it if not

2010-03-14T08:07:00.000-07:00

What do you do when you no longer recognize yourself? How long does it take… how much time until you disavow? When do you stop responding to your name? Who is it that you become if not yourself?

Life seems so interminable while it is so painfully temporary, even the stages and the moments are terribly fleeting. The hard parts seem to lag while the ecstasy is gone almost as soon as you recognize it. Meanwhile everything is changing as the earth rotates below the heavens slowly making imprints on our faces and souls. Rotating us around our own axis so that we see the world from a completely different angle. Sometimes this change of perspective, coupled with rigid definitions of self, creates the illusion that we have changed, that we are unrecognizable. But in truth we are merely looking out a new window, looking in a new direction, and looking back with fresh eyes. It is the combination or all the paths our feet and our hearts take multiplied by all the flights our minds take that makes us who we are in any one moment and it is also the journeys that leave us so dizzy at times.

Like with exercise and travel it is the movement that can bring clarity and calmness of thought. Sometimes sitting still wraps and twists so much that with my own mind I have concocted a net, a prison, a guard and a gate; One move and the string tightens restricting me all together. But it is all in my head. Again it is all in my head. It is time to let time move my perspective. It is time to take a walk. Or begin a journey.

Sop it all up

2010-03-13T08:09:00.003-08:00

I like to cook more than I like to eat, but there are not nearly enough people in my family (or my immediate life) to satisfy this desire to feed. I used to have dinner parties: 13 in 14 days once; I made stew, every day stew. It was cold in Shanghai in February and my friends were leaving, each on e a few days after the other. They were my family and they were leaving. They were the once who showed me my place in the world and they were going to go find their places in the world. So I cooked. I cooked to show them how much I cared about them, how much I loved them and would miss them. Somehow it is clear to me that stew, wine, cheese and chocolate means “I love you.” I communicate affection through food; I recognize that now. I learned for sure in college, but can readily admit it now.

I once was attracted to a colleague in grad school, but I knew it would not work out when he came over to eat but only wanted naked pasta and water. I knew I could never love him. Cause I could never share my affection with him. He would not eat my food.

I cooked every day for two weeks and we cozied together in my steamy kitchen sipping, guzzling wine and sopping up stew and the last moments together with our bread. They were my family and I loved them. I have not lost them but now we are on four different continents and it is just not the same. One is married. One bought a house, one is still in China and I am teaching in Colombia. I have not found a new family to replace them and that place is still open in my heart ready to be filled. I want to feed people. I want to have a family to love, nurture and feed.
For now I just feed myself. Where is my family? Who will I feed?

Standardization.

2010-03-11T13:11:00.000-08:00

Standardization.
Will be the death of us all.
Literally, metaphorically and emotionally.
It is not the life I want to live.
So much dies when we try to mechanize life. Work. Love. Education.
For the sake of efficiency.
Since when is efficiency good? We take it for granted, put our heads down and try to be more efficient.
Screw efficient
I struggle and strive to be inefficient.

From who and where did we get our priorities?
Do I ever get to create my own priorities?
Who knows what I could achieve through inefficiency:
I could discover a change, I could discover the ultimate power, the truest gift of all; to change.
To make a change in oneself, or effect and influence a change in another is the ultimate and often overlooked power we all have.
I forget how significant every last one of my actions can be.
a kind word, a tender touch, a supportive glance, an affirmation, or the truth.
This power is within us if we recognize it.
If we nurture it and if we have the time, space and energy to develop it.
Inefficiency yields greater returns, not higher ones.
But what is it that is more valuable to you?

Love Resume Part II (Semi-Private)

2010-03-10T15:18:00.000-08:00

COLOMBIA • VERMONT • THE WORLD
YEAR OF THE HORSE• Aquarius
SIERRA MELCHER
SUMMARY OF QUALIFICATIONS
Master of Love: Compassion and Tenderness 2011*
• Great cook & love feeding people- it gives me pleasure
• Passionate gardener
• Hips for birthing/desire for children
• Faithful, Healthy and Affectionate
• Independent & Self-sufficient
• In need of love and affection.
• Skilled Communicator
• Adventurer
• Financially responsible
EDUCATION
Master of Compassion
1979 - 2010* Buddhist Parents Shambala, Tibet
Doctor of Independence
1982 - 2010* Only child of separated Parents
BA. Intimacy 2006 - 2009* Online
BA. Self- Awareness 1984 - 2010* Self-Taught
BS. Self-Doubt with a minor in Fear 1984 - 2010* Self-Taught
PROFESSIONAL EXPERIENCE
1st Crush: 1981 ******
1st Kiss: 1993 8th grade ***** during a movie
1st Long-term relationship: 1998-2000
College – 2 years *****
1st real love: 2007-2009
Long-distance +/-2 years *******
**Countless crushes, numerous infatuations, several close calls with love.
REFERENCES AVAILABLE ON REQUEST
Note* Not yet complete

tempted by the forbidden
and not just because it is forbidden.
Tempted by the safe and volatile
Tempted and silenced by the same force.
Erupting into my shell.
With each drop of passion the more withdrawn

King-sized contradictions delicately wrapped in a pretty ribbon with sharp edges.
Passionate.
Stunted
Brave and hiding.

Overflowing with tenderness to give and share, eager to learn and be cared for. To practice loving and to find myself in a new definition, explore other parts of myself.
I have been living in the public sphere; I want a private sphere.

Attentive, sensitive, self-critical and patient with everyone but myself.
Highly qualified, but with little experience in the field.

A new experiment- a Spanish experiment

2010-03-10T14:01:00.000-08:00

*Note: If you can understand this please forgive spelling and grammar tragedies.

Como a Alimentar mi Alma

Esta lluviendo durante un dia linda.
mi vida lo siente asi.
Un dia linda verdad:
Aire fresca,
Brisa pequeno y luz solar;
Besos de naturaleza
Suenos de amor y tardes tranquilas.

Siempre asi musica, besos de agua lluviendo sobre a mi
Y mi vida es asi eso.
Mi vida es un dia linda, un dia perfecta.

Ahora yo vi las nueblas, pero no puedo sentir los besos.
Solo ver cosas obscura,
No hay luz;
No hay besos, de la naturaleza o algo, o algien

Puedo recordar un tiempo diferente
Pero no puedo ver a las cosas linda verdad afernte de mi.

Y cuando le veo a mi vida, no siento nada.
No conosco el sabor de mi vida.

Yo veo como mi vida corto y sola:
Mi trabajo esta comiendo mi vida,
Mi tristeza y miedo estan comiendo mi amor, mi alma.
Mi estomago esta defectuoso a ser llena;
Mi corazon esta necesitado a ser llena,
Pero solo conosco como alimentar mi cuerpo.
Puedo hacer llena mi estomago.
En el mismo tiempo mi vida tiene hambre, mucho hambre.

Pero no conosco como hacer llena mi vida.

?Como hago alimentar mi alma?

La musica es la comida de mi vida.
Los contactos personales son la comida de mi vida.
Tengo hambre.

Las palabras suave mi alimentar.
Los abrazos son delicioso, pero no puedo recordar mi ultima.
?Como triste es eso?
Sabo cuando fue mi ultimo beso, pero no puedo sentir lo.
Y vida es demasiado precioso a desperdiciar lo.
Dos meses sin besos es ilegal.
Solo los besos de la lluvia yo recibiendo.
Flirting with the sun while taking rain kisses on the side.
No hay fiar/fiel
No hay confianza
No hay respecto.

?Donde esta la comida de mi vida?
Mi vida esta hambre.
Mi vida siente sola y vacio

Como puedo hacer lo llena?
La azucar no es la solucion.
Los Besos son la comida mi vida desear:
Un mano en mi mano,
Una ojeada,
Un contacto,
Su mano a mi espalda.
A breath on my neck.
Un dedo en mi cabello.

Mi vida es una dia linda, pero lo siente oscuro y nublado
Even when the sun bakes my skin and licks the hair from my face.
Mi senti asi esta siempre lluviendo sobre mi vida

I am having an affair with my porch
I am in a committed relationship with my laptop and seeing another partner on the side. Celibate tramp. Cloistered whore.

No hay comida suficiente en el mundo a allimentar mi vida.
La comida no estoy deseando.
Esto es un sensacion totalmente diferente.
Mi alma tiene hambre.

love resume. (Part I- Public)

2010-03-09T18:17:00.000-08:00

a creature of habit above all else
easy to laugh
and in a committed relationship with my computer and my job.
Like an iceberg mostly under the surface and misunderstood

Finding strength when unexpected and passionate power from the most unlikely places. Competent and brave in certain circles; a bit of a mess and a total wimp in others. I am good at what I do and I know who I am.
Mastering the planet and defying gravity while making a home and a life for myself here. Surrounded by beauty in its various forms and empowered by difficulty. Strengthened by adversity and honed to a delicate, dedicated machine… if not a finely tuned one.

Like a turtle withdrawing into its shell at the slightest sign of danger and then being afraid of the dark, I create my own darkness and my own danger. But I always come out again. And somehow I have become highly self-aware. Perhaps from all the hours of quiet contemplation.

I forget my capacity and my influence, my power and my gifts. Today was a day of monumental growth. It happened without even knowing it. I just walked up and opened my mouth. Without even knowing what to say or how to say it and the lights all came on at once. Like it was coming through me. I spoke with honest respect, with sharp honesty and with tender compassion. It is so rare and so critical that we do this. There are so many other things that get wrapped up in our words; frustration, exhaustion, cynicism, yearning, disappointment and fear. The meaning and the blessedness gets lost in the words and the intended significance is lost forever, wrapped and tangled in something else entirely.

When meaning is lost, so is connection. When connection is lost we are all alone. And in a world full of people, where contact is so vital and so thwarted there is nothing sadder than love lost in words, strangled in communication – gone wrong.

Words are not the only threat to meaning and communication.
It is with our words, our eyes and our touch. We have to form our words with intention and simultaneously our bodies and lives have to translate that sentiment and communicate the same thing- or else our intention gets lost in the contradictions.

I am good at loving.
I need to get better at receiving, but I can give love with the best of them.
I did my part today even without meaning to. I gave three true gifts today, speaking honestly and clearly to people who are important to me.
It is the honesty, even when it is not pretty, that is the most critical.
They need to know I care about them. That is what it means to care.

One hundred

2010-03-08T13:45:00.000-08:00

It is like I don’t want to be happy.
Happy with the sadness.
Without the eeking misery, what else is there to say?
There is nothing as delicious or accessible as the gloom

But unfortunately, after a few hours of moping in public and staying in the corner, it is not possible to shut myself away…
With over one hundred interactions a day, how can I shut myself away.

I think I must love my job because of those interactions. The very same I was dreading this morning.
They don’t let me fake, or hide. One hundred kids per day. One hundred questions. One hundred looks, giggles, sneers, smiles: smiles and glares.
Twenty annoyed. Four sleepers. Several inquisitive. A handful of disengaged, three confused and the rest just sort of sliding along.
One hundred reasons to get up in the morning.
Ten concepts taught, eight terms and two grammar rules; one exception.
Fifteen minutes wasted waiting for focus and attention.
Two toys destroyed by thousands of hands.
And even one moment of laughter makes it all worthwhile.

A coffee and a kitten at the end of the day are just the family I go home to, but not the reward for the day. The day is the reward.
One hundred reasons to get up in the morning.

12:33am

2010-03-07T21:51:00.000-08:00

I am scared.
I am scared of so many things.
I have neglected my body for 18 years
since it started showing signs of development.
I am scared of being appreciated
Honked at on the street by taxi drivers and motorcycles
All going too fast to care
While I am offended and complimented in a bipolar orgy of contradictions
I am more scared than anything.
I am scared that I won't ever be appreciated more than that
More than the passing glance
The hoot
The slap on the ass
Or the eye caress

I am so scared that for years I have made it impossible to get any closer than that.

And still, for all my bravery, exploration and adventuring, for all that I have seen of the world and myself, for all the observation I have done of humanity, I am still scared and in this moment scared more than ever before.
I am witnessing the beginning of my own deterioration.
I picked my mortality from my teeth tonight and saw it in the mirror for the first time.
I have neglected my body in hopes that it would protect my heart.
Now neither is thriving
Both are decaying.

And the distractions are no longer enough.
The late night chorus from the river and the glow of my screen are all that keep me company on these interminable nights.
Beautiful, tender, generous, bright amazing women should not spend these nights alone.
Passing their sexual peak.
Watching their youth if not their beauty fade.
Each day a little bit
Being replaced by a creeping sadness
That no surgery can repair.
There is no facial, no masque, no spa treatment for that kind of damage.
Benign or malignant, some sadness, if left untreated becomes inoperable and spreads.
...
I have squandered my life. I have missed so many opportunities and squashed so many more all out of fear. A fear that I can’t seem to control.
A fear that keeps me in bed all day, that feeds me, rather feeds on me.
And a fear that allows for me to turn to recklessness as its only escape.

So controlled, barricaded and safe in my cage that to open the door for air means letting it all come crashing in and breaking the key in the lock. Tearing pictures from walls and smashing china.
"It's a prison of my own making.
I am the guard, the gate and the key." but too afraid to use it. and jamming the lock a bit more with each day.
What kind of life is that?
A place barren of opportunity, hope or faith.
I can’t bring myself to begin. Even when I am feeling on top of the world I am still broken, hiding and scared numb.

3.7.10 Greasing the wheels

2010-03-07T16:00:00.001-08:00

drunk on my own stink and tears.
bedsores
hives
sinking and savoring it.
Greasing the wheels

Grounded

2010-03-07T06:10:00.000-08:00

insomniatic
catatonic
denying the paralytic

Breathing but lost
alive, but barely.
Living but missing so much

Having stepped, fallen, slipped off the edge on which I was riding so high, aware of the precipice, but unaware of the decent, until below the horizon,

And when circling the drain, dizzy and nauseous
Only in the last moments
Gasping for air
No longer basking in the sun, like a condor on a rock
Oblivious of the sky or wind between my feathers

Getting to eat but never to fly…
Of forever flying in search of food to never be found.
Or writing my own death warrant and authorizing the execution order
Then writing my own obituary.
While my beating heart lies open in my chest.

Rigor-mortis sets in and fluids seep, decay and time undo what fear and self-doubt hid in stone.
It is never too late to die, and never to early, but how long can an empty life and a lonely heart keep beating?

Abandoned and beating away closeness
Too afraid to ask for what you want, to ask for anything, because you know you won’t get it.

Born to fly but not having wings.
Brilliant and mute
a blind photographer
A paralyzed runner slowly tracing the steps of another.
Living but missing so much
alive, but barely
breathing but lost
catatonic
denying the paralytic force, ignoring it completely.
Insomniatic

12:58 am

2010-03-06T22:21:00.000-08:00

What happens when you no longer identify with your identity?
Who do you become when you are no longer inspired to be the person you were? When the things that gave you so much joy don’t, or even worse, when they feel like obligations. You are who you are. I am who I am. I am what I do, where I go and how I treat people.
I want to be how I treat myself.
I am afraid I am not who I am- who people see me as. What do you do when your defining character no longer defines you? What do you do?

I hide. I write. I crawl into a quiet, private place under a rock in a cave and focus on very little. Sometimes I focus on work. Sometimes I anesthetize. But I don’t leap.

And I pretend.

I pretend to be over it.
I pretend to be strong.
I pretend to be worldly and independent.
Capable.
I pretend to be her… me…
But I am strong, …
Worldly
Independent
Capable.
I pretend to be more so.
How do I become something else? Someone else?

“No one will judge you.” And she was right, except for one. Me. I will judge me. I identify with my identity so much that it defines me, even now though I don’t recognize it, like I am wearing someone else’s clothes, like I am reading a book about somebody else. I want it to be mine. I want it to be me, like it once was, but it no longer fits and I don’t recognize the words.
And I don’t know what else to do, to be.

And in this moment I am afraid… afraid that what will define me, what will become my new identity my new definition is the walls I have built, I am building, the walls of the cave in which I am hiding. I am the rigid, exterior. I am becoming something else while waiting to mourn the loss of my identity. But she is not me and she is not who I want to become.
“No one will judge you” but me.

3.6.10

2010-03-06T12:56:00.000-08:00

If you can't write the truth don't write at all.
metaphors are hiding.
silence is hiding too, but at least it is real.

the Idiot-wise

2010-03-05T15:58:00.000-08:00

I am retarded in the strictest sense of the word.
Is it possible to be so impeded, so slowed that I could be actually devolving…

I feel that I am getting younger as time goes on. But the reality is that I think I prematurely matured and this resulting equalizing it causing my regression.
While I have recently realized that I am not the same age as my students, I spent the last 5 or 6 years feeling that I was very much in the midst of puberty, not feeling much more than 15; awkward and giggly, shy and at the same time feeling very much like an adult, but still with that sneaking feeling that I might not be.

It was a new sensation; I don’t remember having that feeling in high school. I was certainly a hormonal and social mess, but this was different, like I was finally old enough to be 15 (of course I was a decade older than that). While my students have stayed roughly the same age, I surprisingly, somehow have not… and I wonder how much I have matured in the past years. Is it possible that I am not (or is maturation, like the most potent of realizations, that true maturity is its own antonym)? Now that is sophomoric, the wise idiot… or is it more “moronsophoic”… the Idiot-wise?

Regardless of how I can bend words or ideas, I still feel lost in myself, my perception and how I am viewed. I wonder if somewhere in that mess of perceptions and misconceptions, I am hidden.

Realizing that whether intended or not, feeling asi or not, I am in fact an adult, 15 twice, (quite possibly, against my will). Sadly, now that I am ready to face all the teenage challenges that I was too scared or too wise and mature to fall, I fear that it is no longer appropriate. And the things that I should be doing at this stage of my life, I have no idea how to begin. I feel more like a weasely, awkward teenager than the independent woman others see. And in fact, my students are too sophisticated for their own good too. So maybe we start old, and growing up means realizing how to be the children we escaped from with all our maturity.

So I embrace my adolescence.
Better late than never. Cierto?

“If you liked it you should have put a ring on it”

Jealousy is a sharp knife

2010-03-04T14:02:00.000-08:00

When she moves down the street, with her little sway and waddle there creates a commotion; the desired effect. Every wisp of hair, every adornment and effort made to create this ripple, while looking like no effort was taken at all. The park locals hush to a whisper; the boys look away from whomever else it is they are each nuzzling to keep an eye on her as she passes. The taxis make extra effort to make sure she isn’t in need of a lift. Every effort is made.

The exterior is worshiped, adorned and bedazzled. The exterior is praised. She does her work, and it does its work. Drawing attention as she walks, seemingly in complete oblivion. Just a girl, no effort what so ever. Just a woman on her way. Because it is all part of the dance, and when this part yields the next part the music stops and a new dance begins. The effort is made, but now with a different purpose. The effort is also now to protect what she now claims, her prize, won on the battlefields of beauty and charm. She protects her future, her security and her claim. She, like a lioness, protects with ferocity even if it is the subtle, and seemingly effortless kind. She will protect her den and her stake on this man with the same cunning that she employed to win him: dazzling beauty, effort disguised as nature and manipulation (with or without the negative connotations and overtones).

It is both a threat and a compliment for what she defends so ruthlessly; it is for her station and for her respect. It is with this devotion, demonstrated as viciousness, that she honors her man, shows him that he is valued, and that she will bare her teeth and claws to maintain her right to claim him.

And the dance goes on.

Some of this is cultural, and other women no longer stalk their prey in such manners, nor do they defend so fiercely. It is a delicate line to walk when do you hunt, when do you become the prey; when do you dig in and fight for what is yours and when you let this one go, catch and release?

Have women really changed that much? Has nature evolved at all or just been retarded by social trappings, things with fancy names like propriety, liberation, independence, education, property, civilization and formalities? How does a man know she cares unless she bares her teeth, defend what you love and fight to the death? How do women hang on to what they want while seeming so aloof? Is there a way to walk through the park and be seen for who you are, beyond your sway and waddle? Who are you beyond your sway and waddle?

The man is the hunter, or is so often said, but what if it isn’t that way? Not the way we have always thought, the way we have always said.

How come in nearly every species but our own, the males are the more decorative, the more bedazzled and with the most plumage? Is the plumage what makes the hunter? How else are women supposed to navigate this dance? Teeth and feathers, dancing, swaying with claws out.

So she moves through the park, head up, tail out, feathers glistening in the light and swaying in the wind, ready to be the hunter or the hunted, while looking like no effort was taken at all.

Full. still. hungry

2010-03-03T12:40:00.000-08:00

Full and hungry

Resting and tired.
Content but melancholy

Bored and excited.
Hungry and full.

Lonely while occupied (surrounded) and engaged.

Hot and cold.
Wanting yesterday and tomorrow, but not today. Not now.
Half full -half empty? No overfull, bone dry and barren.
Gushing, bubbling and silent and cold. Withdrawn and warm.
Jubilant and sullen. Private and open.
Compassionate and unforgiving.
Patient, with so many things patient, but not the one that matters.
And still… Hungry and full.

a love affair with the rain.

2010-03-02T13:36:00.000-08:00

The rain can’t deter me. The pit in my stomach neither. The glory of the familiar and the mundane is raining down on me, literally trickling, spitting, pattering and in the hot breeze battering me with reminders. Momentary awakenings and the physical properties of sunshine.

Tired. Still. Hungry, not really. Ready and not ready. Hiding and basking. Is it possible to have too many contradictions? Is it possible to ruin a computer in the rain.
Is it possible to fall in love with yourself? Or break-up for that matter?
Kiss me rain. Kiss me tender and caress my hair, my arms and ankles. My cheek.
The sun threatens to break through those clouds and break up this wonderful love affair of the afternoon. Your unrelenting passion of this afternoon torrent is now gone. More timid and gentle you fall as if for the first time, unaware of the power, force and romance you hold within each droplet of your being. You dance with the wind, but I feel as if you fall only upon my skin. Is it possible to love a force of nature?
And when the torrential afternoon passion is gone and the land is quiet and water seeps into the soil, once the birds have ruffled their feathers and the bamboo no longer drips, where will you be? Who will stay with me? You will go back to where you came from, no idea when you will return. Back to the river, back to the lake, back to the sky. Who am I to ask you to stay? What can I give you in return?
So I sit on the balcony railing and let you kiss me good-bye; the wind already pulling at my hair tearing you away. And when the sun breaks through the clouds and others sigh in relief, you are gone. And all I am left with is… a love affair with the rain.

Life as a Rocket Ship

2010-03-01T15:13:00.000-08:00

Why anyone would want to and why nobody has is well beyond me.
Quick, now. Think of the thing you want most in the world. Ok now, DON’T concentrate on it. In fact now try not to think of it. I bet you can’t. Ha! Exactly. That is what I thought. Me either.

So how do I do it? They say that you can’t get what you want when you focus on it, and you can’t often get what you want if you don’t know what it is, and then others say that once you get what you want you may discover that you don’t want it after all… Sadly, at one time or another all those anonymous pseudo- sages have been correct. At least as far as my life is concerned.

So maybe it is not in my cards to have some of the most basic things in life; was I destined (or have I manifested a reality) to live alone. In my experience it seems so remote, so distant, impossible and unlikely. The few sparks that have lit up my life were short-lived, twinkling lights and seem more like glimmers from stars long dead than realities. And in fact that is what they are. The light that I see is just what is left. As it has traveled so far through time that the light is all that is left. But unlike the stars in the sky, there are only a spare few. Leaving the rest of the night sky dark, blank and dark. Far more comets than stars and certainly no planets. Ok, well one planet… the gravitational pull of that one still lingers and often operates more like a black hole sucking everything into its vacuous darkness.

I once said I wanted to be … I don’t want to be the sun in someone else's sky. Nor do I want to be a moon simply reflecting back on another, trapped in a monotonous orbital path forever circling. I want my light to shine and to be shone upon; I want my orbital path to be intertwined, but not dictated by another's.

As far back as 2006, when I first wrote about this concept I have felt drawn to this image of the “mutual orbit… the Binary star.”

“I want to find my celestial body a new relation. A mutual orbit. And form an ellipse. … I am concerned now both with metaphysics and my own ability to love and to be loved, to release and let the powers of nature work. I want to be a binary star, want to have and orbit around my companion star.
Interminable.
A sun burns brightly and shines on all it sees. It provides light, warmth and life. It is essential. A moon, as far as we know, is dark and lifeless. As far as a comparison, this is entirely unfair, because this is not in fact true about any man. …The moon provides no light. It only reflects the glory of the sun. The moon is miraculous… but I want a binary star.” The Orbit, Sierra Melcher. 8.27.06

And as I look around in the world on every continent across cultural and age boundaries, across religious and linguistic groups, people have managed to find their own celestial relationship… whether it be sun and moon, stars in the sky, comets passing or bodies united through space and time; they have each managed to find their orbit.

Yet, I remain without such consistency. I have been living my life more like a rocket ship darting to and from distant and remote regions of the universe seeing all the wonders of the world, bearing witness to the glories of God and space as they exist in people and nature. And I have docked several times to gather supplies, so to speak, but never have I rested long enough to develop a gravitational pull of any kind. And there has, up to this point, been no space in my ship for others. Will I be a rocket man, or is there a more intimate, less glorious path I can travel.
Will the allure of the distant reaches of the world lose their appeal, will the basic forces of nature ever catch up with me, or will I make them chase me into old age when the decisions I never made will be made for me?
Is it possible to be two people? Is it possible to live life to the fullest without giving up on something?

Easy and impossible

2010-02-28T07:06:00.000-08:00

Some things are so much harder in foreign country.

Cookies.
Dating- which was nearly impossible before seems highly improbable and futile here. (Ironically that was half the motivation and the circumstances of my introduction to this place) and the key rests with me… it is just buried at the moment. Might be time to start looking for it again.

Phone calls
Utilities bills
Doctor visits
Border crossings
Politics
Schedules- if they exist they don’t operate with the same concept as they do where I am from.
Rules (everything from classroom rules to social morays
Fundraising- I don't even know where to begin
Organizing- arg
Communicating.
Crossing the street- I risked my life three times crossing one street on my way home from school on Friday.
Ordering food in China (easy to order- never sure what you would get)
Making friends- it happens for sure, and with the most unlikely of people, but ever so slowly
Being understood

Then some things are easier too:
Movies- so cheap it is immoral not to go at least once a week.
Taxis- they come to your door when you call – less than three minutes.
House-cleaning (so easy I don’t do it- someone else does)
Flirting (could be easier if I were any good at it and not so uptight.)
Living in a fancy house (granite counter tops, wireless internet, balcony, pool, security guards.
Getting drunk (honestly is too easy everywhere and I might have given it up recently)
Transportation- I can walk to school, taxi or bus any where in the city, and for $100 get anywhere in the country within 2 -3 hours or so.
A suntan is almost guaranteed- you have to take serious steps to avoid one
Frustrations OR laughter but you have to chose one…
While being understood is difficult, Speaking is very easy. It is a culture of talking.

So some of the most basic things make me feel like an infant, things that I can no longer do for myself, or do very well used to be my strength.
So, I am here, again, living in another country. USA. China. Colombia. And life again is impossibly easy and staggeringly hard simultaneously. Living abroad is an adventure. One which, I apparently enjoy and thrive on because I keep finding myself, honestly putting myself here. How long does it take living abroad to not feel this way, to feel more at home in a foreign place than in the land of ones birth? How long until the number of things that are easy far out number and out weigh the things that are easy?

2.27.10

2010-02-27T08:24:00.001-08:00

Get up. Paint a picture. Eat an egg. Write a story. Wash my feet. Chase the cat through the neighbor’s garden. Wash my feet again. Watch the ants traipse through the house in a winding path down the stairs, into the kitchen and up the doorframe out the front. I was delighted at watching them in the stairs… down- over-down-over-down. Something amusing about it beyond the initial frustration that they are there at all.

Take a nap. Paint another picture, not nearly as good. Walk to the store for butter and buy three things, forgetting the butter completely. Listen to music and have a friend try to teach you how to dance. Contemplate going out. Examine the ring your glass leaves on the table. Hold hands. Find a shoulder to rest your head on and call it a day.

Changes

2010-02-26T13:48:00.000-08:00

Why is procrastination as deliciously rewarding as true work? It has to be a loop-hole in the universe.

"Everybody is changing and I don't feel the same."

I was so delighted this morning the rain fell heavy on the quieted city. The cool morning air greeted me and summoned me up. Begrudgingly I submitted. Slunk off to ready myself. The slow haze followed me like a light shadow. Over exposed. Under exposed. Double exposed.
When my spirit caught up with my body I was relieved to discover the fresh morning required that I wear a jacket. The first in months. What a relief.
Sweltering by mid-day but this morning was perfectly gloomy and dull.

Hello boys.

Time and Space.

2010-02-25T13:53:00.001-08:00

Living abroad has taught me many things. Two years in China and nearly two years and counting in Colombia would certainly come with valuable cultural lessons, linguistic hurtles and gastronomic adventures. But more than that living abroad has taught me about where I come from, about who I really am and where I truly feel at home.

On a rainy afternoon, the first in months, I sit scrunched up, wedged between my bed and a side table that has become a comfortable spot for me and here sipping a latte I write. In many ways I am more American at this moment than I ever have been while in the United States. It is like being abroad gives me permission to really be American. When I am in my own country I am the traveler, the world wanderer, and therefore exotic, foreign, different and whether I am seen this way, exude this or am rebelling, it seems to be the general state of things. Yet, while abroad, there is very little I can do to mask where I am from. And here they have a vision of me well before I even speak. And no matter where else I have been or how un-American I feel in the states, here I am simply Americana. (and in China I was 老外 lǎo wài “foreign devil”). Do I crave the familiar, reminders of “home” the place I was born, is that why I seek out the familiar brands, find comfort in the luxury of imports, and behave more like the cliché I am beginning to resemble?

Living abroad has taught me two things about where I am from, and how significantly those things are intertwined with who I am. Time and space. These are such American concepts, so critical and essential to our way of life and you don’t realize it until you are out of our sphere. They are both so enforced that the idea that they are social constructs is impossible to fathom until you are drowning in a foreign cultural sea and these two fundamental elements like oxygen and gravity are removed.

Time and Space.
As upsetting as it is to be without the comforting structure these concepts provide in the north, I respect their absence or rather the alternative… not their absence. What is there in place of time?
What is there in the absence of space? There is closeness, contact and connection. In the US we have traded these things for personal space and individuality. We cling to these concepts of ourselves and have been raised in isolation to the point that we are uncomfortable with the most basic of human behaviors; Touch.
Time is another story all together. Of course time exists. We use it, measure it, we schedule; we double book. It is up, it is out; It heals all wounds. We save it; we waste it. It flies. It is money. We count on it, celebrate it and bemoan it. It can run out. It is good; it is bad. How could it not really exist at all? What a ridiculous question, of course it exists. It is tangible. We are ruled by it and consumed by it. We try to make the most of it.
Even In Shakespeare’s Hamlet:
Let us go in together,
And still your fingers on your lips, I pray.
The time is out of joint—O cursèd spite,
That ever I was born to set it right!
Nay, come, let's go together.
Hamlet Act 1, scene 5, 186–190 (Macrone, 2007).

So if it is out of joint it must be real. And to guarantee this we tease and make fun of those who aren’t slaves to this concept we hold so dear, those who don’t sacrifice themselves to it, who don’t betray themselves to worship at the altar. It is unsettling both to be in such a heathen world, but also mostly because I am beginning to question my own faith. Have I been worshiping a false idol all these years? Am I misguided when I try, futilely, to convert the heathens? Am I the one who is mistaken? What have I missed or passed over, neglected in order to honor this age-old fiction?

I know I have been defending my bubble, my space, fiercely keeping tenderness, love and affection at bay. Threatened by the slightest touch, reading into it, all the taboos of a conservative, rigid and misguided pious premise that migrated across the ocean 300 years ago, I have pushed myself away from the life that could sustain me, now getting most of the fundamental contact we all need from my cat. Comforting and welcome as it is, there is a serious problem with this evasion of the problem.

Entonces, has living abroad been good for me, has it changed me? Come hold my hand and we can take a walk while I will tell you all about it.

Macrone, Michael. "The time is out of joint." Brush Up Your Shakespeare. Cader Company, 1990. eNotes.com. 2007. 25 Feb, 2010

* Since I make my students do this all the time, I figured I could serve as a good example. Jajaja.

From where I sit

2010-02-24T13:54:00.000-08:00

What a difference a day makes, 24 little hours…
“I felt like I had been looking for this place my whole life.”

From where I sit it seems impossible that there is pain and suffering, that there is a place on this earth that is cold, dark and bitter. But I know there is. From where I sit, it seems impossible that there can ever be a limit to love. But so often there is. From where I sit, the river looks clean and the air seems fresh. With my full belly, it seems that there can not be a hungry soul on this planet, but far too many are. From where I sit, on this balcony in the sun it seems that all things are newly born or pregnant and that nothing/ no one will die. Even as I write these words some one takes her last breathe.

Do you think you can tell?
Did you exchange for a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
Poignant question, although I have listened before, I have never heard these words.

From where I sit, my students are the most beautiful creatures on this planet. So bright, sharp and pure. So real, authentic and gentle.

From where I sit I know I can’t always be right. I could easily fall. This ledge is peligroso. But it is from here I have the best view and so I remain. The light cant reach those crouched in the shadows, So I climbed to the top, to the edge where the evening’s last whispers of day caress my skin on the wind and the light retreats as the shadows, the cloak of night crawls up my leg. The wind picks up, as if to say to all who will listen, “breath in the last, breath in the life, because this day is sliding away behind the western mountains that hold us in this bowl.” The trees are listening and the birds ride this last breath with dedication.

From where I sit, this day will never end, and even with each and every clue to the contrary, I soak up the reality that it is not over yet. I breath in my scent and rock out to every one of the last sounds of this day cambiando, undressing into the quiet darkness that is her true nature.

From where I sit it is all possible and even in the darkness the light shines from within. From where I sit I know I can’t always be right. But, I know that right now about most of it, I am. And that is all that matters.

Brownies & Intimidation.

2010-02-23T13:53:00.000-08:00

Who knew it was more fun to bake brownies for yourself than for others? These are not for me, and although I usually consider myself a thoughtful person, one who enjoys giving to others, this baking brownies for other people business, honestly, sucks. Where is the reward, and the pleasure in that? I like to give, really I do. I delight in giving my time, energy, patience and love… I even like to cook for other people, but something about this seems wrong. While my students and my enemies might not view me in such a light, I often thinking of myself as generous and kind. I am honestly a bit surprised by my visceral and stubborn reaction.

Meanwhile, in idle boredom I peel the skin from my leg and scratch at nothing, thinking to a year from now and all the things I will do: And trying not to think of brownies or intimidation. It works.
And then it doesn’t.
Airline travel and D-day, sexual harassment and colonial reparations. Haiti’s orphaned children and the decided lack of stable family I have to offer one; All these things can’t quite distract me. Chocolate and soccer, unrequited love and sweltering heat; Distant helicopter blades beat the air in that unique way. But even the caress of an adoring cat’s tail can’t quiet my mind and there is only so much skin left on my legs to pick at.

Like billowing curtains in the wind, smells of someone else's brownies waft up the stair, barge into my room and demand attention. The honeymoon picture of my grandparents watches me, as if daring me to resist. And the alarm sounds. It is time.

My obliquity.

2010-02-22T14:13:00.000-08:00

...So amazingly quickly times can change. Feelings like a wave, crashing over me, and clearing the beach, sweeping inland destroying everything in its path. Structures. Trees. And faith. Comfort. Confidence. And self.
Just some simple words strung together in a battery of what might be seen as a conversation.
Like the tide coming in.
Sweeping my feet out from under me. Losing my footing is a mild way of putting it. The world shrank, collapsed in on me to the bubble of space between the two of us. Separated only by a desk. A merciful desk. My hands clasped together tight. Grasping one another for support, as a tether.
Off kilter.
Knocked me out of orbit.
Rocked my obliquity, (my Axial tilt); I wonder how many degrees I am off.
Will my seasons still change?
Who knows; 23.5° did wonders for the earth in our solar system, as it might do for me too.
Perhaps, maybe everything can be solved with astronomical metaphors, math mathematical equations and Gelatin (Jell-o.)

Sunday Morning. Kisses and Licks

2010-02-21T10:54:00.000-08:00

Mercy, mercy me.
Things aint what they used to be.
I am king of the sharks. Soy el rey de la mar Tiburon.
el que te come a besos.

The pot is on the stove bubbling way, the smell wafting out onto the porch to entice the neighbors. The chairs have been drawn and the cat is curled up in an abandoned sandal. The wind caresses like a silent lover while dancing in between the trees. And the house is quiet. Except for the tapping of keys, there is nothing. The cloud bank tucks the city in for an afternoon nap. The birds rest from the heat in the shade, the boy next door has laid down his accordion. Kisses and licks. The grass bends but not enough to be deemed blown. The bamboo sways. Kisses and licks.

Mercy, mercy me. Things aint what they used to be. Where did the blue sky go?
Sunday morning, praise the dawning
I've got a restless feeling by my side.
Soy el rey de la mar Tiburon.

The cat stretches and yawns. Slowly blinks and sniffs the air before she settles down again. The pot on the stove needs to be stirred before it burns.

Four

2010-02-20T17:44:00.002-08:00

Part ONE:
I traveled the world to discover that I wanted to live in one place and to settle in the green mountains of Vermont in the place of my birth. I learned that having a garden, being close to the land and sitting by the rivers edge with a cold beer on a hot afternoon was the most delicious sensation and was as satisfying as rambling for hours on countless buses to remote regions of the globe. I bought goats, like you do, and set up to make a life. I invested in a home and a place. I threw myself into realizing a dream I hadn’t realized I had.
After four years of being on three continents and traveling more than living, I found myself planting a seed in the most familiar and yet unlikely place, home. Coming to find that is what I had wanted. Those four years gave me the confidence to try a new adventure of staying still. I found that settling down wasn’t the same as settling. Amazingly, or amazingly unremarkably, it took me four months to up and move again. With my last dollar having been spent on making this life for myself in the woods with a view of a remarkable valley, I parted with it and with six days notice I up and moved to South America.
I sold my goats, like you do. Packed up the life. Abandoned the garden I had planted, to be harvested by someone else. I kissed my friends goodbye, drank as much of my wine as I could stand, and put the valuable tools I had gathered into four bags. Four seems to be the magic number here. Shaking I got onto a plane and wondered if this new expression of my impetuous adventuring was a good idea or just another escape. Again, four days later, that plane landed and brought me back to a place I had left weeping two years earlier, sure that I would never return.
I am back, but the place and time that broke my heart then is gone too. It is a new place now. A new life and a new perspective. Along with the city, I have been reborn into a revised scenario. Where I am independent, blazing my own path down familiar streets. The cast of characters and the purpose has changed for the better. They call me Ms. and I love every one of them. Teaching is what I am made for, and with each experience I have I am more sure of it.

So I am nearly south of the equator and February is warm and has brought the rain back to Colombia. With the rain something else is falling on my heart and washing away the fear and doubt that had settled like dust in the corners of my life. With any construction you have to kick up the dirt, dig a hole and tear everything down before you are ready to build it up again… so we are in the reconstruction stage. Letting the rain bring life back to the land y a mi tambien.

I built one life in four months and left it. I have planted another garden here and with less than six months on the ground I think the fruits of this labor will be delicious. They are already.

The Shovel

2010-02-19T13:39:00.000-08:00

“What did I tell you about that shovel? You start diggin’ somebody is bound to get hurt; more than likely it’ll be you.”
I knew even before I heard his words echo in my head. “Don’t you think I miss you too?” Honestly, I hadn’t. But like sun on a frozen window, I melted and turned all pink; glowed. Shovel in hand I was ready to dig to China even through the burning core. But just as quickly a cold breeze swept up and clouded the sky. Stopped, almost in time, shovel in hand frozen over again.

So susceptible. And maybe already right where I need to be, vulnerable and bare. But Not Open. And so not where I need to be. Standing there in the relative darkness of my mind, I clutch the wooden handle, warn smooth by endless work before me, but not mine. Almost clutching for balance. Slowly replacing each of my fingers one at a time as if I can revise my position in life simply by getting a better grip on this one handle.

If only I had a grip.

Slowly, one finger at a time, from the bottom up. And with each fingers return to the worn wood hewn by the sweat and effort of unknown others before me, I seem closer. Entering a fissure in time. Where all is quiet and my breath echoes like a war drum in my ears and the empty white space. So this is what a shovel looks like.

There in the void, weightless besides my own thoughts, time no longer existed or ceased to exist. All was silent; even the absence of silence was quiet… and yet it was like I could hear every bird that had ever sung, all at once. In Harmony and unison. A breeze swayed me and I realized that what I had been clutching so tightly was not there even to begin with. My hands closed around nothing. Staring into my empty palms I felt a relief coming from the momentary panic spinning out of control in my internal universe. Nothing is more simple than an empty hand… an open hand. Why is that so difficult to see?

When grasping, clutching, reaching it seems reasonable to never look at ones palms, even when your hands are open your gaze is fixed on the destination, the object. Mostly my eyes have been closed as well. Palms. Eyes. Heart.

It is time to dig, but not with a goal or China or anything specific and not with such a tight grip that I can’t feel the solid tool in my hand. With too much force I will never unearth anything worthwhile. The blister and splinters mark the path and are part of the journey. But they are not the goal or the key.

Maybe it is about how to hold all things: not so tightly, with tenderness and the knowledge that the best things cant be held too long.

And there are some things which are buried because they are dead not because they are hidden or lost. Treasure is worth digging for, but a corpse is better left where it lies. With a fresh lung’s breath, I open my hands, raise my palms and start digging. Maybe to get hurt, but not from holding on too tightly.

From the Memoirs of a Lonely Nomad

2009-11-28T18:46:00.000-08:00

I have slipped off the virtual map... but i have continued wandering/wondering. now I am back in South America- teaching in Colombia for the next two years. exploring possibilities and desires. Still just trying to discover what I want from this life and where and how to uncover it.

The new plan.. or the daily reality

2009-10-10T21:15:00.001-07:00

To say that i had a plan would be a bit presumptuous. But I am pretty sure I can say with certainty where I am right now and what I am doing.
With 6 days notice I took a teaching Job and moved from my settled root in the Vermont countryside to a bustling secret city in the heart of Colombia. I dropped one plan (to live in a cabin on a hill, grow a garden, fall in love and settle down) and erupted into a new reality. one, honestly that suits me better.
there was no promise of a job in Vermont, despite a noble effort. This job, although it drains me, is rewarding and I am reminded why I am meant to be in the classroom. I am my best there. It requires my talents, strength, humor and patience. (all of it) sometimes I wonder if I am left with anything else...
For now my conscious (and much of my unconscious) is taken up with thoughts and plans of my courses: Modern US History and Comparative politics and Government. The other night I dreamed of nothing but bibliographies and proper citation format. Not even in REM can I escape the reality of my present choices.
I am here and love it. but sacrificed a lot in the process.
and I am sinking under the strain of old habits, daunting grading and the age-appropriate loneliness of a single 30-year old woman living in a foreign county. Sandwiched by weekend adventures and rest, my work days can be digested.
there is friendship, adventure and hope to be found here. it is just a matter of mustering or conserving the energy to find it.
As for a plan... I am starting to learn that there is no such thing, however, that said, I have signed a contract to teach here for 2 years... and so that suggests some kind of plan. commitment. Beyond that I am not sure. isn't that a relief.

an old plan

2009-10-10T21:10:00.000-07:00

A plan emerges (sierra's life abbreviated and updated)

Since I have left China, I have spent several needed months among the weeds, rivers and friend of my childhood home in Vermont. I have befriended kittens, downloaded music, developed a coffee habit and remembered how to breathe.
What was intended to be a relaxing three week retreat has bleed into, first, six weeks and now eight. Yesterday, with no clear end in sight to my respite I took a leap into the planning of the future I have been incapable of doing until now. I have financially committed to what my heart and mind have been working on for months. I have bought a ticket to begin my South American Adventure. What started with a desire to learn Spanish and become fluent has evolved into something much bigger.
I have let the crucial summer months and the first few weeks of school pass without accepting a teaching post. I have let the passage of time make the choice I was too tired to make months ago- to not work this year. (And in this way I mean “work” in its most literal meaning: full-time, stationary employment… with a school). I am calling this a sabbatical.
It is my intention (and I say this, because I am open to change) to spend roughly 6 months studying and traveling throughout South America. I have a number of friends currently living in various places across the continent. I hope to work my way through most of the Spanish-speaking countries there while studying and practicing my Spanish and studying the rich history and cultures of the various nations.
I am hoping to work for the next few months to save some money for this adventure. With a ticket in hand, I am scheduled to depart from San Francisco on November 13. For most of the time in between I will be living in Vermont and staying with my dad. In this way I hope to save as much as possible, enjoy the fall foliage and investigate the possibilities of moving back to Vermont to eventually settle down (someday).
I am still putting myself back together from my experiences in China and am giving myself permission to be patient to that end. And ironically, two months ago I was so tired that I never wanted to go anywhere again. So it is fitting, since I wanted to settle down, that I am going on a 6-10 month, 10,000 mile trek around a foreign continent far from family and friends. But I seem to be propelled by a greater power then having a baby (at the moment). And because I really do want to have a baby eventually, I think it is most appropriate that I do this now. I am trying to be realistic about the cost and strain as well as danger which I will encounter over the next few months. I will prepare for it as best I can, but in truth there is no way to be prepared. I will simply try to practice patience, kindness and follow my intuition fiercely.

I will be religiously posting my photos and reflections to my blog. It fell into disarray and neglect while I was in China due to their severe censorship. But I hope to share as much of the journeying as possible. I also want to be able to communicate my whereabouts, exploits and state-of-mind. So feel free to check up on me often: www.sierramelcher.blogspot.com

Life in Patacancha

2009-02-22T05:01:00.000-08:00

and the pictures don´t begin to cover it.

a view of the world from here

2009-02-11T15:17:00.000-08:00

the sun shines on my world

2009-02-11T14:25:00.000-08:00

I took a hike up the hill behind my hostal today... needed to get out and break my routine, remember that i can´t breathe at this altitude, and visit some ruins. It was great to feel my body so much. steep but i didnt notice because of the lack of oxygen... and the sun was shining and i could finally be alone. it was peace. it was heaven. and when i finally got there i sat for hours. it was calm and quiet. i could hear the energy from town, see them all moving, working, walking but equally interesting was being dive-bombed by a flock of huge balck bees all aparently following the fattest likely the women. all around the world and across species things are always the same...
the quiest was good for my mind... the view was good for my heart.

the new work

2009-02-09T06:19:00.000-08:00

i am in peru and about to start a month long volunteer project doing ethnographies and documentary work with a weaving community of women in the mountains near machu picchu.
I will be living with a community that is not on any maps i can find... a place called Patacancha one hour from Ollantaytambo. no electricity, running water and obviously no internet.

there have been countless experiences, realizations and moments that have slipped by unreported and miles and miles since I last posted. I have a new camera and a mew view of life and this journey. for now i will let it all settle and hope to share the rest later.

$1500+ lighter

2009-01-17T07:59:00.000-08:00

Apparently I needed to learn a lesson. on the bus yesterday from Cuenca to Loja (two towns in Southern Ecuador) I had all my valuables stolen out of my bag. I dont even want to add up the value... really the shame is that I was carrying all that stuff for the project I was going to do in Peru. I will still be going to the village and will do the work, but will not be able to create the documentation i hoped to... no video and no documents.
But all things considered I am in very good spirits and relieved that at least my bags are much lighter now... the rest of the journey will be easier in that regard.
I now feel, after 9 years of serious journeying, that I am a real traveler. I have had one of those expereinces that you have to had on the road at one time or in one way or another. I HAVE GRADUATED. I still think I wish I hadn't but it is too late now for that kind of thinking. it is gone and it was my fault for long enough i was not vigalant. i was not paying attention. and i know better. i knew my life was in that bag... and i wasn't paying attention. and now i have nothing left worth taking. nothing more to loose... so i doesn't matter if i have learned my lesson or not... isnt life just ironic like that. but i have been able to laugh about it all. and only had a fraction of a second where I really felt violated, helpless and angry. so even that feels like a victory. Is it ridiculous to feel this way? Do i care? Do I have a choice?

so my life and my bags are at least $1500 lighter.

THE GALAPAGOS

2009-01-10T11:03:00.000-08:00

“La Cucaracha”

2009-01-10T08:03:00.000-08:00

I look like this but maybe should try looking more...

..... LIKE THIS

After less than a week on this island I am greeted by name in the street, asked out by waiters before they take my order and bought breakfast by a man passing by on a bicycle.
I have owed ten dollars to a man down at the harbor, who goes by the name of “La Cucaracha” (The Cockroach) for three days. It seems like something that you shouldn’t do… the beginning of a bad gangster film. And not for a lack of trying: I have looked for him for two of the three mornings in question, but the first was Sunday and if anyone works, which I am not sure about cause the town was deserted; He didn’t seem to. He is always about. I see him even when I don’t want to, but it seemed the more I needed to find him, the less likely it was. When I was not looking for him he appeared. Last night while I was again attempting to deflect flirtatious glances from my waiter, I spotted ‘La Cucaracha’ at the Bar. I thought he saw me and made a friendly gesture, but knew I only had enough money for the meal I was eating. I didn’t want him to think I was trying to avoid him or short him… but I really couldn’t pay. Fortunately, he had not seen me and I was off the hook for the moment if I could finish dinner and get out of there before he spotted me… which proved to be difficult because the waiter wanted to prolong my stay there as much as possible. He was very attentive, which is not the ordinary service in this particular place… I often get my own menu… would go into the kitchen and make it myself if I thought they would let me… cause the few times I have been here I have been virtually ignored. However, not last night for when I had finished my meal, he was right there. He offered me a coffee, drink or desert which seemed pretty standard until I realized it would be on the house, un regalo, a gift to keep me around for a while. I really was hoping to get an ice cream, so if he wanted to get it for me for free I wasn’t going to deny him. But I desired to get out as soon as possible to avoid the notice of The Cockroach and because honestly the waiter was creeping-me-out. But the allure of ice cream prevailed. I sat with my chocolate/vanilla twist in anticipation and bliss. I did manage to slip out without incident.
When I finally found ‘Cucaracha’ this morning, I wasn’t looking for him. But I did have the money and was ready with my explanation for the delay… and he equally said… “oh, great you have my $20.” I had to take a moment to correct him. And all was smooth. I have been invited for lobster, but am working on declining. I honestly am not a great fan, and although it seems like a great invitation I am preferring my own company to constantly being flirted with, deflecting enticing glances from unattractive men and wearing my prickly exterior. Even when I let my hand be kissed or remain polite for the preliminary formalities of flirtation, I would much rather not. These days it is rarely amusing. I am tired of always having my defenses up, but with every advance I am less interested and less trusting. Maybe just less amused.
I have to admit free food is great and discounted tours of the Galapagos Islands is welcome. I have enjoyed some of the second-hand perks of this culture. And there are moments when I welcome a handsome smile. I don’t have a prepared rant about the waiter from the night before last… because he was handsome and not overbearing. He flirted with his eyes and no more… and I have to admit I might have participated a bit so he had encouragement. But he was not a pest. There are far more that can’t say the same.
So what is my problem? I don’t know. In China I didn’t exist, I felt NO ONE SAW ME… they stared at me but never saw me let a lone flirted with me. In the U.S. I don’t know what to do with myself and here everyone sees me and wants to date me… or something to that effect.
What do I want and where am I willing to go to get it?

THE GALAPAGOS part 2

2009-01-09T10:44:00.000-08:00

Galapagos III

2009-01-08T11:27:00.000-08:00

The various shades of a remote island paradise.

2009-01-06T10:30:00.000-08:00

It seems that each island has several climactic zones. Near the ocean is a dry desolate region gray and brown. As you move up the island to the old volcanic remains the landscape dramatically changes and becomes more lush, distinctly greener with fields, agriculture, pastures and trees.

Mating season in the Galapagos

2009-01-05T10:23:00.000-08:00

It must be mating season in the Galapagos. In four days I have witnessed more sex than I can accurately measure and in various locations all over the four islands I have visited: in the sand, amongst the volcanic rocks, in the ocean, and even on the walls that line the harbor. Crabs, Turtles, and Iguanas have been copulating with furry and persistence as if life depended on it… and it does. Like the intruder that I am I have managed to capture moments of these acts with awe and inspiration.

The story of the first inhabited island of the Galapagos. (Isla Floreana)

2009-01-04T10:15:00.000-08:00

Before a German family arrived in 1929 fleeing economic and other pressures in Germany… the only people who had been on the island were whalers, pirates and turtle hunters. They left little trace beyond an inscription of the year 1886 near the only fresh water on the island that comes directly out of the rock near its peak. The wife of the German family arrived 5 months pregnant and thus birthed the first colonist or native of the Galapagos in 1930. He still lives here on a neighboring island.
They dug their home out of the soft rock on the top of a great hill near the only spring. This spring is still the sole source of water for the entire island on now 120 people. The original homestead was extended by digging another room adjacent to the principle one.

Cows still roam the island providing milk and meat. They meander between the dugout walls of former structures, chew grass along a path that was trod for nearly 100 years and drink from the spring. On a dryer, yet forested region of the island there is a turtle preserve as well where giant land tortoises eat, sleep and contemplate existence as they know it for well over a century. Although the native turtle species of this island is extinct except for the famous Galapagos island mascot, Lonesome George, the island is being repopulated with species from other islands.

making friends in Ecuador

2009-01-03T09:54:00.000-08:00

I met a family who sell their traditional crafts on the beach. They are from Otavalo, a region in the north. I spoke in spanish with the man and danced with the child. we giggled and played. it was nice to build a realation with them every time i walked by we spoke and i spent several evenings with them watching the tourists walk by and talking about life.

waiting for a bus that never came.

2009-01-01T10:39:00.000-08:00

¿am i here yet?
seems to be the only question to ask, worth asking and if i ever finally learn just to be here... then i will have finally arrived in the moment. this is the company i waited with.

Ecuador in a blur

2008-12-30T10:08:00.000-08:00

crossing the boarder... crossing cultures and intruding on the world of other.

2008-12-26T09:41:00.000-08:00

The road to Popayan was regarded as a dangerous road, but i was assured that it was safe now. still i chose to take the day bus rather than the night bus in a rare fit of protectivism and rationality... since the last bus i was in took all night and had a near miss... i wanted to avoid a repeat... SO of course i had a repeat.
the 120 km trip (hich should take 1.5 hours on a normal road) was projected to take 5 hours... so i was to spend the day in the bus...
as it turned out... the 5 hours was a generous underestimate... really the trip took well over 12 hours. and well into the night we traveled a road that had no business being called such. when we blew a tire on a steep curve in the dark I knew we would all have to get out... it was a matter of changing the tire and being on our way again.
but the bolts were so tight.
another bus stopped to help. and then another. we had thre busses lining a road in the dark, with the lights off... on a steep curving mountain road. i was having visions of the morning newspaper and the pictures of the werck to come when another bus would come screeching round the courner.
in fact the accident that DID happen was not that severe... but ridiculous. as i think everything must been in extreme moments of ridiculous circumstances... the second bus that came to help us pulled in front of us and when backing up... hit our bus with extreme force. nothing happened. but i have to wonder...
finally we seemed to be able to make progress on the tire... when the broke a bolt clear off the tire... this hole time... well over an hour they had been trying to turn the bolts the WRONG WAY. that is why they were so tight... the rest of the bolts were easier... and eventually we were on out way... one bolt short. i think i arrived in time to get up in the morning... not sure if it was day or night any more... not that it matters. again we made it... or something very much like that.

SILVIA, Colombia

Another mountain village with a market that draws the traditional people from the surrounding countryside to exchange crafts and buy needed good for the week. The tuesday market is a scene... and Spanish is not much good here because the local people have maintatined their language, dress, custom and culture. I made friends with this couple and we shared conversation over melting popsicles in the late afternoon. they did speak spanish, as did the young guy selling minutes from his cell phone who wanted to talk to me at length. he wanted to practice his english, but since he didnt speak any, except for a few words..., the conversation was entirely in spanish which suited me just fine. any chance i get to practice is a treat.

******
although pictures are lacking they will come soon.
i spent 12 hours in a line. LITERALLY 12 hours aiting for a stamp on my passport to leagally enter Ecuador. talk about how to make a first impression. i think i was frustrated after 6, astounded after 8, bored after 9 and after 10 really started to have a great time. i had made friends with the people near me... and actually ran into someone i had met in Bogota... what are the chances...? the chances are pretty good apparently if you stay in the same place for long enough you are bound to run into someone you know... or know everyone around you. i had both. i got my stamp without any drama at all. one of the people i had been waiting with didn´t! her drama was enough. she was colombiana and was trying to vivist her kids in Quito. que peña! what a pitty. the words don´t really cover it.

OTAVALO, Ecuador

Just across the boarding into Ecuador is a town known for its saturday market and its artisans. I had originally thought I would not be able to stop here , not being saturday... but thanks to the hold up at the boarder and not realizing what day it was to begin with... I was afforded a perfect afternoon, albeit carrying my pack around through a crowded market... the unique people of this region are know for their use of color. it was a pleasure... and because i was already carrying the world on my shoulders I managed not to buy too much. a pitty and a blessing in one.

Navidad-christmas.

2008-12-24T08:58:00.000-08:00

Colombia is ready for Christmas. They have been ready since i arrived in early november... what i wonder is ... is Christmas reacy for Colombia?
The celebration is two-fold here. They have a holiday called NOVENA. it is the celebration of the conception... interestingly the conception happened, according to the way it is told here on december 8 ... and for 9 nights families celebrate together... moving from house to house... with wine, food music singing and prayer. And Novena is just the warm-up for Christmas... which is celebrated on dec 24... not the 25. and the family gathers in the evening. for more food. and celebrating... gifts are exchanged and at midnight fireworks etc.
Towns are despolate and everyone is with family.
interstingly enough this is a great night for robberies... so everyone is on super alert and on gaurd when leaving their homes.so much for holiday cheer.

and the next day the world is quiet. it is near impossible to catch a taxi, but somethings seems to run normally. i managed to get a bus from popayan to pasto (two towns in the south of Colombia. working my way ecuador.
this year is a holiday with out the presents and festivities for me... yet the gifts i recieve are intangible... visual, edible and expereintial... i witness the joy of others. the familial closeness... etc... and appreciate it. For me it is not a special day... only a day with limited access to food, transportation etc. for me holidays are only valid when celebrated with family and friends... so I will wait until i am with those that I love again soon(4-5 months). So Christmas is over... and the country loved it... celebrated is, bought it, wrapped it and gave it away... Feliz Navidad!

the world as they knew it

2008-12-21T09:37:00.000-08:00

another day in the fresh air

2008-12-20T09:33:00.000-08:00

San Agustin. ancient and isolated

2008-12-19T09:26:00.000-08:00

Set in the mountains a million miles from nowhere and anywhere through the tribulations of a contrloing mind... and through a nigh of no sleep and tedious adventure and near misses lies a little town that time has forgotten and it was 5500 years ago that anything remarkable happened here, yet people still come to check it out... including me. stone statues dot the countryside and gaurd tombs of the important people of a culture long lost.
the landscape s magical enough the stone statues are treasures and the fresh air is the most precious resource.

Su mejor compañia- it´s the better company

2008-12-19T09:13:00.000-08:00

forgive my sense of irony... and the bad photographs... but in the middle of the night my bus skidded across the road... in a startling manner... which i have grown accustomed to. I examined the surrongdings and when we started on our way again assummed we were all still alive and all would be well. Both were true but not as i had imagined it to be. further down the road we pulled over a couple of women jumped out grabbed their bags and ran. it did seem a little odd. i coulnd understand. but that too is something i have become accustomed to. not understanding is my natural state.
when we were told to all get out of the but I got to see for myself-
the windshield... which i still don´t know how to say in spanish, was shattered. there was nothing left... only where the sticker proclaimed... "su mejor compañia" held it together... was there anything left.
the driver pulled the remainder out and threw it on the ground next to where i was sitting the kids played with it... and we sat on the side of the road until just after sunrise... when another bus, even smaller than the one we had been in, arrived... i forgot to mention how ridiculous the bus was to begin with packed tight, over-packed and then some... with all the goods and etc people were bring from Bogota to the remote towns in whereever ... south... cause after the midnight debacle the tightly packed bus seemed like a minor detail... until we all had to do it again. but with more stuff and less space... the humor was in there burried underneath the mattresses, dogs, people, lamps and who knows what else... what could have been a 6 hour trip was a 18 hour trip... then it was astounding. now it is routine. time is of no import... i am so glad i dont have a watch. even without it i maintain my neurotic internal clock set to american rigid concepts of time etc.
but i got there. eventually. i think i always will.

sierra has started celebrating her birthday. here comes 30.

2008-12-18T23:16:00.000-08:00

Botero Museo -Bogota

2008-12-18T08:22:00.000-08:00

On one of my last days in Bogota I took myself out to see all the sites I had neglected while living there. ... and still managed only to have energy for a few. but on the top of the list was the Botero museum. he is a sculptor and painter who prefers the curves and adds them and accentuates them everywhere. loved this place.

enjoying the delicious new flavors of Cartagena

2008-12-17T09:07:00.000-08:00