Vicariously Yours

New Year!

2012-01-06T13:49:00.000-08:00

The new year crept up on me this time around, somehow more cunning and evasive than usual.

I have my suspicions that this has something to do with getting older, with the general acceleration of time. I expect by the time I am 90 that the world around me will look like a big, muffled blur of activity. It seems silly to expect anything else.

I'm filled with only one major goal for this year: I want to reach the end of it and feel bittersweet about passing the torch to 2013... You see, I am sick and tired of reaching the end of the year and feeling contempt for it. You know, the grandiose vitriol of "Hey 2011, don't let the door hit your ass on the way out!" and what have you.

Instead, I want to feel wistful about the passage of a wonderful year, about having to hand it over in exchange for a fresh, new one.

In fact, maybe it's the sweet afterglow of the holidays (goddamn, I have just about the best family ever!), or perhaps it is the recognition of my wonderful friends (seriously, just about the most wonderful people you could ever hope to know), or it could just be that I am about to purchase a piece of land and attempt to make my dreams come true, but I have been feeling all sappy and grateful about life an awful lot lately.

In fact, despite the fact that we are almost 2 weeks into the New Year, I would like to express my gratitude for the good fortune I have had this past year, and then some:

I am grateful for my work. I love doing massage, am constantly learning new techniques and growing more skilled at my trade, and I feel consistently amazed that I can get paid to make people feel wonderful and relieve their pain.
I am grateful for my other work- landscape architecture. It is such a joy to be able to transform people's spaces with my ideas and skills. I love coming back season after season and seeing how my designs are evolving, growing, and thriving. Designing with plants means every single work is a work in progress, always- and I am grateful for every last job that comes my way.
I am grateful for a life filled with interesting experiences, for the will to take risks, and for the modest returns (and setbacks) these risks yield.
More than anything, I am grateful for a life that I genuinely enjoy living and sharing with the people who make it great.

Shockingly- it's taken me almost 2 weeks to complete this, despite the fact that it is no work of art. I promise a more esoteric, thought provoking post in the near future.

Home for the Holidays!

2011-12-15T08:18:00.001-08:00

I know, I'm rotten, quite possibly the worst blogger in history. Oh, probably not.

I've just been busy. That sort of busy where you look back on other periods of your life when you thought you were busy and scoff. The stakes are so much higher now. Or at least they seem so.

I'm much more focused these days, despite the intricacies and complications that come with age and increased responsibility. But none of it terrible, nothing untenable.

There is a deep, resounding sense of joy and relief now that I am living in the open about my relationship with Michelle. Having spent a truly enjoyable Thanksgiving holiday with the family, I can only report that my respect and admiration for my grandparents increases annually. I am grateful to be a part of such a loving, supportive family.

Christmas is right around the corner, which I find exhilarating and exhausting all at once.

I have been embroiled in an attempt to buy a piece of land for the past month that has been absolutely frustrating to the extreme. Even my real estate agent said it was unreal. I'm shelving it until the new year, which has brought a great sense of relief.

All these dreams colliding with the hard wall of reality-- rather sobering. Rather typical, if I don't say so myself.

There is a steady stream of rain falling outside, and while I am relieved at this much-needed rain, we are hankering for a shard of sunshine here. Life with a 45 year old motorcycle leaves a bit to be desired in times of inclement weather.

Last night I completed a landscape design project that has taken roughly 5 months of frustration, annoyance, and poor communication to see through. Today, I am taking it easy, cleaning house and listening to cello songs. Contemplating how I cannot take on another project like that again. Not unless they pay me double. Everyone has their price, and I am no different.

Meanwhile, the battle drums are playing, and the season of buying is upon us. This is difficult, as I have been trying to get rid of things for some time. The only things I would like are appended to the fictional farm that I have not secured a purchase on yet. So there. I don't really care about the gifts, I just want to eat, drink, and be merry with people I love.

Come hither, holidays! We can take it.

The way it goes...

2011-09-25T13:39:00.001-07:00

When I flew to Rome this time for a holiday, by my best approximation, it was going to be 2 weeks of bliss: the first spent catching up with my brother's girlfriend, Lani, in Cinque Terre and perhaps beyond, and the rest of the time catching up with my best friend Jen, in Rome.

Of course, the actual experience has been an exercise in the unanticipated. There it goes again, life, running roughshod over all the best laid plans, made in vain, foolishly assuming we hold the reins of this thing.

The morning after I arrived, following a brisk run with Jen (more on that later), I hastily packed the smallest bag of my adventuring life, and hopped on a train bound for Cinque Terre. I should perhaps clarify that I am one of the lightest packers I know. I can pack a month of clothing in my carry on, and have on many occasions. I pride myself on my efficiency at travel. You know what they say..."Pride cometh before the fall." They speak the truth.

I ended up in Cinque Terre (literally, 5 Villages) with no map, no guidebook, no resource save for my iPhone--which worked, much to my surprise-- a camera, and a couple of changes of clothes, and hygiene essentials. Efficient, but not very wise.

The first night was a breeze, sort of. I wandered around in RioMaggiore, the first of the 5 Villages. I easily found an inexpensive hostel, packed with single lady travelers, and had a nice spicy seafood soup, as I was feeling a bit run down. That night, I discovered that this charming hamlet where "there are no cars" was actually one of the loudest places I have ever been in my life.

I tossed and turned for hours in an uncomfortable bed, sensing illness seeping into my bones. My head was filling with mucous, and my throat was raw and angry. Meanwhile, the streets, filled with obnoxious tourists, loud Italians, and dogs apparently being tortured. I did not sleep, and when 5 AM rolled around, the street, after several hours of relative quiet, was filled with the noise of garbage collectors and mopeds. I shut the windows and managed a couple hours of sleep.

Upon waking, My head was swimming in sickness, and my body intensely achy and sore-- most likely from the 45 minute run I'd subjected my unconditioned body to the morning prior. And then began the hiking. And the sweating. I'd forgotten to bring socks, so I went sockless. I hadn't brought a towel, so I dried myself with a long-sleeved shirt. I felt less adult than I have in years.

If lack of preparation and shoddy improvisation is the mark of youth, would someone please bring Grammaw her walker- because I am ready for the luxuries of old age!

Don't misunderstand me, this place was Gorgeous, Beautiful, and Magnificent. But I was feverish and aching. And hiking. Oh, the endless hiking. In village number 4, after asking everyone around, I realized that due to a glut of late-summer European tourism (owing to a long, cold spring), there were zero rooms available for a single lady for the night. I was sick, miserable, blistered, and seemingly stranded. I couldn't reach Lani, and I was running out of options.

I found a kind waitress who offered to let me sleep at her apartment. I found a nap in the shade of a fig tree on a hillside terrace. I met a handsome Italian who led me to the ocean and swam with me. Did I mention that I was hopped up on decongestants? These various mercies were all that kept me going.

AT&T sent me a text message to let me know that I'd used "an unusual amount" of international data. Yeah, like $300 worth! Oops! My phone was retired, after I determined I would take a train to greener pastures--namely a hotel room where I could sleep. I was becoming panicked with exhaustion.

So I took a train to Bologna. And slept like a baby in quiet comfort. Next, Modena, where I attended a Philosophy festival, sampled balsamic vinegar, and visited a botanical garden. Eventually I found my way back to Rome, after the danger of transmitting some horrific illness to Jen's two young children had passed.

Since then, there have been some side trips to Florence, and daily solo excursions to art museums, parks, monuments, restaurants, unusual attractions, and just a general sense of awe and introspection. Jen is a busy busy mother of two, and so I am on my own every day for the entirety of the day. This has been one of the most personally interesting and lonesome trips of my life.

It is difficult for an American to shun structure in lieu of spontaneity, but that has been the route this trip has thrusted upon me. There is no plan. I have no guidebook. Every day is an adventure, and I am having an un-curated experience. I am trying to enjoy every moment, without anxiety or expectation. The challenge is to see things well, to enjoy being, and to be satisfied with things exactly as they are, in this moment. It's harder than you might imagine.

Just know that as I wander through each day here, I am thinking of everyone I love. Every last one. And I am feeling gratitude for living such a wonderful life, being blessed with such good friends, fortunate enough to belong to a loving family. Not everyone has the opportunity to fly to another country and wander. To feel secure enough in themselves and their place in the universe to not mind being lost- a stranger in a strange land…To not recognize this and give it some thought would be criminal. I am in the cradle of Western Civilization, relishing her ruins, and swaddled in a sense of well-being, I give thanks.

Fickle Inspiration (and a vacation-borne confession)

2011-09-19T06:44:00.001-07:00

Dear crickets who remain in my readership--- unless of course someone is actually reading (which I absolutely do not assume)--- I'm back. No, I'm really back, not just the pretend back where I post something every 3 months and pretend to be a blogger.

Because... I'm not really a blogger. I am a person who loves to write. And if a few select friends, family, and my 5th grade teacher Mrs. Pace are to to trusted, I have a nice talent for turns of phrase which has grown a bit rough, rusty and displaced over the past 13 months and could use a little exercise.

What happened? I could attribute my drop off in chronicling the minutiae of my life to so many things. Beginning with my "big girl job" working for the city wherein your trusty protagonist spent untold hours working as a public servant, paying into a retirement fund and enjoying the spoils of health and dental insurance. In short- I liked it, then I resented it, and ultimately I hated it.

It's not, of course, that I hate work, but rather that I hate the sort of senseless government sanctioned work I was doing- all the hours wasted in pointless meetings, all the restrictions imposed by federal funding, the pointless hoops I was required to jump through in order to grease the wheels of the little program I was running. But primarily the sense of loss of self that I began to experience on a daily basis, doling out my life in well-measured lumps of hours to little effect, and worse than that- little pay.

My job was in many ways pointless, and I performed it to the best of my abilities, but it made me feel smaller and less purposeful than I have made a habit of feeling in my life. When I quit last month, the sensation of lightness I experienced was startling. The sense of a yoke being lifted from my burdensome, beastly back.

And then there was the quiet end to my long term relationship with Chip; dear, wonderful Chip whom I love and adore and am so intensely grateful for. He is such a spectacular human being, and an extraordinary friend. Anyone who knows him must agree. I felt bashful for a long time, because while our demise was mutual, it was primarily my doing, and in retrospect I still feel ashamed that I let him work so hard for so long to make something work that I knew wasn't right for us both.

Shortly thereafter, I met someone who is kind and keen and generous and supportive, whom I eventually moved in with, and am still with today, almost 14 months after we first met. And this has been perhaps the larger reason for my long silence here.

It is very difficult to maintain close contact with all of the family I care for when I feel as though I am keeping a secret. And this relationship has been, in many ways, a secret. Not to my friends, or my coworkers or employers, but to some of my family. This is not the way I would have ever chosen for things to be.

You see, from the time that I was a teenager, I questioned my attractions & relationships, to their core. What I was drawn to and what I acted upon were two entirely separate worlds, and last year I forced myself, finally, to be honest about who I am. Chip and I parted on amicable, generously understanding terms, and when I met Michelle, I felt in many ways like a rudderless ship coming home to port, setting down an anchor, and making myself at home. Finally, my heart found a sort of peace I had not known before.

I cannot help the fact that I love and have sought the companionship of another woman. I find myself distressed by the notion that people like me have made a "choice" in this direction or the other.

Believe me, if there was ever a choice to be made, I'm pretty sure we would all choose the easy, simple route, where there is no need to make uncomfortable confessions to family, or to risk being judged by the outside world. Where one can simply marry and have a family of their own and enjoy the simple rights and privileges of the majority.

I sense that I could have done just that- chosen to deny my innermost feelings, married and had children and always swallowed the lingering sense of dissatisfaction that lived in my heart. But how would that be fair to anyone? I believe in honesty, and in happiness, and in the life-affirming paths that these virtues lead to.

Which is why I find myself here today, on a breezy afternoon in Rome- where I am vacationing by myself- suddenly inclined to set the record straight once and for all.

I'll not maintain my silence, and I hope not to be judged by those I love most in this world.

And I promise to write more about more interesting things than the complicated layers of a private life that have kept me from expressing myself freely in this absurdly public forum.

Dear family, I miss you all, and am thinking of you today from the cradle of Western Civilization.

Giddy-Up!

2010-08-25T11:05:00.000-07:00

It has been brought to my attention that this is my longest gap thus far in the blogosphere (I invite you all to collectively throw up in your mouth a little at the mention of that highly ugly word).

No excuses. I've been busy, nothing new there. Life has been changing at a breakneck pace over here, and it has been difficult to sit down and put it all in a nice little box for your reading pleasure/edification.

O' these past months have seen some miles put down on ye olde treads of my life, between the Gelato Tour of Rome and all of the assorted Big Changes that have been going on in life.

Upon my return from Rome, I felt ill at ease about my business partnership, about my stress levels, and about the constantly meager sum in my bank account, despite my near constant work week. I created a new mantra: "More leisure. Less stress. More money." and repeated it under my breath for months, as I made some serious moves toward affecting change in my life.

I have a big-girl job now, working for the City of Austin as the coordinator for an initiative called Commute Solutions. It's part time, not grueling, and I have incredible benefits. Nothing not to love about all that. I still work one shift a week at the spa (that 4 days a month earns me almost as much as the city job!) and do freelance design for various clients that still, inexplicably, are coming my way.

I was awarded my job with the city the day that I dissolved the business partnership with Ryne. It struck me all at once that sometimes if you ask nicely enough, and with great persistance, the universe just says, "yes," and that's that.

Let me call this the first chapter of an unusually newsy update. I'm at work and feel guilty about updating my blog on taxpayer dollars. Oops.

Success might actually kill me

2010-04-12T13:13:00.000-07:00

People! I am speaking, so to speak, to the 2 people who might actually not have given up on my blog. My poor, sad, neglected little blog. Is it any wonder I don't want children?

Things are a little bit insane in these parts. Delicious Landscapes (the company I formed in November with one of my fellow graduates of the Ball State Landscape Arch program) has taken off this spring, and is suddenly extremely busy. And it is hard to manage all this work.

I feel like I am wearing a million hats:

client handler
landscape designer
foreman
plant buyer
accountant
quality control engineer
advertiser
landscape cheerleader/tyrant

...and none of the hats fit exactly right.

I never wanted to do design/build, so it comes as some surprise that I am doing just that. I question this field daily, because it is our first year, and the work is so hard, hours so long, learning curve so steep, partnership so tricky.

But we're getting through. It's simply exhausting, and being a business owner I feel as though I never have any time off. So far, my bank account is not reflecting the hours I work, and that in and of itself is deeply frustrating. But perseverance is key in these things, of course I know that. I just seem to forget when it's 10PM on Saturday and all my friends are out and I am trying to finish a bid for a client that was supposed to be done Friday. Sigh.

I'm not complaining, either. I'm grateful for the work, for the challenge, for all of it. I have a wonderful life and it is important to me to remind myself of this at each and every turn.

This is a strange time, where I am contemplating graduate school (I know, I know...) in California, because my heart still wants to work in international development, and I can't seem to shake the urge no matter how hard I try.

Meanwhile, I am trying to determine whether the answer to this analogy:

my personality is to my current life as:

a cork is to a bottle

a fish is to a bicycle

Chip and I are taking a "month off". What this means is that I am not living in our shared house, and we are not communicating. This is not out of contempt, but rather out of a mutual desire to figure things out and decide if this is where we both want to be, together.

I cannot accurately describe the stress of trying to run a business without the comfort and convenience of our home office at my disposal. It is, in fact, a logistical nightmare, and I can't begin to tell you how much I look forward to moving back into the house next week.

This has been one looooooooong few weeks.

So there, consider yourself updated. One can only hope that my next post is more on the waxing poetic side of things, florid and fruity.

Otherwise, I just want you all to know how much I love you, and life, and all its assorted trials and tribulations. Quite a ride, babies, quite a ride we're on.

Miss Remiss

2010-02-23T09:51:00.001-08:00

Dear me, I've not posted in over a month...again. What will we do with me?

As I type, the giant kitchen window (leaking bone-chilling drafts, of course) reveals a spread of sopping wet, nasty snow. Blech.

I know I am supposed to be oohing and ahhing, making slush angels, drinking hot cocoa, snuggling, and generally merrymaking about this anomalous weather. Alas, I cannot.

Cold is not for me. Snow is great, if I'm sledding or on skis (and not where I live). But this wintry mix nonsense? Everyone who claims to enjoy it must have never lived in a miserable northern clime where winter is endless and crushes the joy out of everything for 5 months at a time.

Wait, is that hyperbolic? Surely I jest. No. I jest not.

Viva la jungle!

Which brings me to our next order of business: Carnival.

I was able to take almost an entire week off so that I could attend Mardi Gras in New Orleans this year. Suffice to say that despite a case of the sniffles, I am still reeling from the endless days and nights of false eyelashes, bustles, banquets of beauty, flocks of friends, miles of parades, endless glitter and glitz and glam, and of course love and squalor.

I know that when some people think of Mardi Gras, they think of Bourbon Street and boobs and beads.

I assure you that my Mardi Gras in no way resembles that stereotype. In fact, it is quite the opposite. My experience of this holy holiday in the Big Easy leaves me suffused in the warm glow of realization: my friends are the most inspiring, beautiful, creative, loving, and delightful people one could ask for.

It's good to be reminded of these things.

While day-to-day may pale by compare, I always know that within the folds of my life, there are nooks and crannies overflowing with the bounty of love, the livid colors of life, the inescapable lures of passion and possibility. Just a heartbeat away.

To see some visual evidence, I direct you to my facebook profile (click on pictures of me, and then let your fingers do the walking):

http://www.facebook.com/francescafury

31 and having FUN

2010-01-25T11:41:00.001-08:00

So, even though my birthday is not until Wednesday, I feel as though it has already come and gone. You see, I had a little get together slumber party at my favorite paradise in Texas: King spa and Sauna. In case you haven't heard, this is a little prelude to heaven, right here on earth. But don't take my word for it, see for yourself:

http://www.dallaskingsauna.com/index2.php

It's a Jjim-jil-bang (say that 5 times fast!), a traditional Korean spa. What that means is that it is a split-gender bath house, with a lady area and a man area, where you get into your birthday suit and enjoy the delights of hot tubs, steam rooms, cold plunges, and scrubs and massages. Back in the mixed-gender area, everyone wears spa-issued pajamas (pink for girls, gray for boys) and lounges around in the many dry saunas, the restaurant, movie theater, karaoke room, and well, lounge areas.

It's very Korean. But super friendly and welcoming to us whiteys. Which is nice, because it would be a lot less enjoyable if you were dealing with discrimination in the place.

Me and something like 22 of my dear friends met up there and enjoyed ourselves tremendously. I loved it! It was like a birthday for everyone!

Anyhow, birthdays are funny. Last year, I was very concerned about celebrating my 30th. It was ridiculous, me getting all pouty because things weren't working out perfectly. Not to mention that I was insanely broke, stressed out, unemployed, and injured.

This year is completely unlike last year, in almost every sense.

I still don't know the future, but then who amongst us does? (and if you do, don't tell me, I want it to be a surprise!)

Things aren't perfect, but they are pretty wonderful. My outlook is sunny, I am surrounded by people I love in a city that brings me joy. I am doing work that reflects my interests and values, using skills that I went to school to learn.

What are birthdays for then, if not remembering how far we've come in the past year, and evaluating what we want, who we are, and how things are going?

I'm doing well and trying to do good, too. I hope you all are in the same boat, because right now, from my birdsnest, it looks like pretty smooth sailing.

Resolved

2010-01-19T20:02:00.000-08:00

I'd like to be a less crappy "blogger". I neglect the hell out of this thing, which is either a mercy to those of you unaccustomed to long, rambling sentences bloated with florid phraseology, or a tease to those of you who cannot get enough of said sentences.

This year is off to a jolly good start.

Of course, I can't keep up with correspondences, but I can spell remarkably well, and my business is booming. Someday, I'll even direct you to our website.

I love landscape design, but can't help but wonder if I will be forced at some point to succumb to the nagging inner voice that tells me that my talents are being wasted on residential landscape design. I'm not entirely sure that they are, but there is a part of me that thinks in broader, grander terms and often wonders if I should be looking at graduate schools and applying myself to international aid work, or at least international development.

I mean, that was my plan at the outset. I never meant to be here in Austin, designing landscapes for whomever is willing and able to pay for my services.

I'm pretty sure that happiness (and the ability to support onesself) is the goal here, in which case I am doing relatively well... but there is always the question of whether I am doing enough to help my fellow man.

The Haiti thing, well, we all know how horrific all that is, right?

And the search for answers is not even remotely forthcoming. But it begs many questions. And those questions birth more questions, an endless flood of them oozing from the skin of this issue: where do you start? and with whom? and who administrates?

I've studied all this for years and still find my probings only able to yield more questions, and no definitive answers.

Meanwhile, I got the flu last week. It was thankfully brief, but terribly uncomfortable. My fever peaked at 103, and it made me quite nervous for a short, delirious spell.

I knew I was better when I began cleaning, compulsively, all the things I'd been too sick to lift a finger to take care of before.

And when I began to think, "oh my god, this is what it feels like to be healthy, not in pain, and functional!"

So here it is: healthy, not in pain, and highly functioning. That is my week in a nutshell.

And me, I couldn't be happier if I tried.

Sending love,

The New World

2010-01-08T22:14:00.000-08:00

While there is, I admit, an arbitrariness to time, to it's measuring and meting out, the naming and defining of it--- I love submitting to this system of notching our sticks, of charting our courses by the ever-shifting positions of the heavenly bodies making their impossibly distant celestial rounds. Of sifting through the sands of our lives on an annual basis. Of remembering.

It's good and right somehow to have these milestones: birthdays, holidays, New Years. Anything to recognize yet another anniversary of our spinning blue planet making yet another revolution around the sun. I adore this.

2009 will go down in history as one of those pivotal years where everything changes, not only for myself, but for many others as well. It's been up and down, beautiful and tortured. And now, like every breath we've taken thus far, it is behind us.

I'm already in love with 2010. I like the squareness of it, visually. One box that fits neatly inside another, like those nested Russian babushka dolls.

In lieu of proper resolutions, I have a few simple goals and one overarching desire for this year (and possibly every one hereafter).

Learn to properly ride a horse.
Do more tango, and dance in general
Let the important people in my life know that I love them more: be a better friend, daughter, partner, artist, and just an overall better person.

But the most important desire for this year is simple, and one I'd like to share and challenge everyone I care for to join in...

I want to experience happiness not as a fleeting feeling, but as a discipline. I believe that happiness can be practiced, cultivated, and perfected.

This year I long to focus on the blessings that have marked my life, rather than that which I do not have, or have lost. I aspire to meet obstacles with a smile, to give more than I take, and to do so without expecting any reward aside from the experience of manifesting joy.

Life is short, justly difficult, and beautiful.

I'm really glad we're all in this one together.

Let's make this year the best one yet.

Oh Autumn!

2009-11-12T11:48:00.000-08:00

This time of year always turns me a little moody and introspective. Not, mind you, in a gloomy way, it's just the way of autumn. Leaves are turning brilliant and preparing to depart for a season. Jackets come out of closets. The holidays sneak up on us.

I wrecked Chip's car last week. It was the second accident I've had in the past 6 weeks, and the first I've ever been at fault in.

The first was a hit-and-run. I'm not angry anymore, because I understand that the guy who hit me was either an illegal immigrant or had a warrant out, or both.

Mainly, I'm relieved that I wasn't hurt, and that my truck wasn't completely wrecked. It was pouring rain and I was afraid that I would miss my dear old friend's wedding because of the accident, but it all worked out.

Wrecking Chip's car was not scary at all. It was the most minor type of accident that exists: the rear-ender. Sadly, because it was a sedan (me) hitting an SUV, the car is most likely going to be totaled.

When I went to get an estimate, I stopped to give a couple of ladies a jump start. I had to pry the smashed-in hood open to get to the battery. Minutes later, on the freeway, the hood popped open and smashed the windshield while I was going about 70 mph. THAT was scary.

I'd like to never experience anything like that ever again.

Chip already bought a new (old) car, an 80s turbodiesel Mercedes that he will run using biodiesel, made from spent fryer grease. It's free, save for the time spent collecting and processing it.

Speaking of biodiesel-- my friend Ryne just moved here to join forces with me. Behold, the newly formed: Delicious Landscapes LLC. We have this enormous, shiny work truck that runs on diesel. We will be running it on biodiesel in no time.

I'm swimming in work right now. Loads of it. Feeling grateful for the flood of work. Trying to keep my head above water and not get overwhelmed by it all.

See, I told you I would write something newsy, not too florid, and utterly straightforward.

The holidays are coming. Ain't that something? I'm pretty excited to see everyone. The difference between childhood and adulthood for me has been this: as a child, the holidays were thrilling because of presents and food. Now, they are exciting because of family. (this is the part where the live studio audience goes "Awwwww"). But it's true. So true.

Sending out love in every direction.

Six Months. One Year. An Eternity

2009-11-05T23:29:00.001-08:00

Six months ago, tonight, was the last time any of your friends ever saw you. Resolute, you went home and left us all forever. I'll never understand your decision.

One year ago, on Halloween, we attended the same party. I was unaware of your spectral figure looming over me, until a friend whispered in my ear, "Steve is right behind you, staring."

I spent the rest of the night glancing over my shoulder, avoiding you at all costs.

~~~~~~

I'll never see you again.

In this past 6 months, I've swum through an ocean of "ifs," piercing the surface like dorsal fins.

I have lived through a season of the conditional tense: would'a/could'a/should'a.

The heartbreak is unending. But you taught me more, in this one act, than I could have possibly learned in years of making my own mistakes--about forgiveness. About love. About life.

Like the supernovas whose glowing deaths have revealed untold secrets about the heavens, about distances between stars and the age, size, and weight of the universe...

In your wake, it is a different word, a world where love is the objective, where acceptance is requisite, and where memory is precious. I know we are never over.

I just wish we lasted a little bit longer, and hoped a little harder.

love, ~F

Auspicious Times

2009-11-01T13:21:00.000-08:00

Autumn is delicious, is happening, is turning every day ever shorter and I dare say ever sweeter.

This time is a good one. There are friends and family galore, no dearth of love in life of late.

My father's mother, my Grandmother Maria, passed last week. She was 98 years old.

Her funeral was a sign post, a moment of reckoning where I was forced to realize, as I watched the priest dab at his eyes, as I heard the anecdotes about her, that I did not know my grandmother. I knew her, but I did not know her.

I wish I could have seen her in love, young, heartbreakingly beautiful. Before my grandfather flew into the side of a volcanic mountain, killing all crew and passengers aboard, leaving her a widow in her prime. Before she became so worried and fearful. Before she became a free woman, free to live in relative solitude, unmolested.

I heard stories of a woman who was a singer, who sang in the church choir and at friends' weddings. I found out that she was a stray collector, like myself, who fed a dozen cats at a time. Who fed the squirrels, and the "cha-cha-lakas" (gossamer, grackle-like birds) she pretended not to like. Who could make anything grow and flourish, bear fruit.

I found the Calderoni clan to be softer, more loving, more interesting and enjoyable than I had. Perhaps, in the wake of Steve's death, and this very odd year, I am learning how to forgive, deeply, and with purpose.

In the midst of death there is life. Everyone is having babies, bearing fruit, moving personal mountains of reservation aside and devoting their attentions to the next generation of young, blithe souls who will rule the world and eventually acquiesce it to their children.

It's a fine and admirable cycle, this constant sloughing and regenerating thing that our little blue-green planet so aptly performs. Like an ablution, the earth forgives itself and is cleansed of past misgivings constantly. What's not to love about this thing?

And me? Little old me? I'm trying to maintain this foothold I've found. I'm designing spaces and going out dancing. Drinking wine and remembering why I am here. I'm doing well and trying to do good as well. Living fearlessly, loving recklessly, and paying attention to all the trivial matters that make life a little less ordinary.

Despite my quietude, I am here. Mostly listening. Looking for auspicious signs.

Summertime Rolls

2009-09-03T18:22:00.000-07:00

Smoothly, we've transitioned out of summer's brutality, into gentler dog days, highs in the mid-nineties. A relenting.

I'm not easily daunted by mere weather. You may remember my dispatches from Dubai, Oman, and Abu Dhabi. I've trekked through the blistering Sahara, and have generally worn a smile, and a brow beaded with sweat.

But this summer was something different. Something sinister and cruel, hastening the end of century-old trees and once-proud lawns. There is an agreement amongst most of the Texans of my generation: this was the worst one yet: islands rising in the center of the lake, uncovering terrible secrets (so I hear, I know better than to watch the 5-o'clock news). It's enough to make a landscape architect reconsider the entire vocation.

I'd do better to while away my days raking patterns into sandy zen gardens, wearing a loose, white robe.

But then, that is the effect of the weather, a constant reminder that we are not in the driver's seat of this life, but rather all passengers on a strange and unpredictable rollercoaster of sorts.

There is so much happening, always so much action, hedged in between sleepy mornings and evenings of dancing and dreaming.

We all get older, and incubate new life inside us, and cultivate wondrous things. And go through the daily motions.

Birthdays of the living and the dead rise up and fall away, and the rest of us just keep moving to our own little beat.

My heart beats with each of you, a little "lub-dub" symphony. You all cross my mind, and I smile a little brighter.

There is so much ahead, and so much behind. And perhaps, one day I will stop being vague and just out with it, a laundry list of day-to-day doings.

In the meantime, there is love and life. I feel you out there through all of it.

Slivers.

2009-07-15T12:45:00.000-07:00

There is a part of each of us, I believe, that still longs to tremble under the unfathomable newness of something.

No matter how jaded, how embittered, how battered and beleaguered, this feeling is sleeping beneath our skins, coiled tight like a snake in the chill of night, waiting to be released by a warm breath, or a sigh.

To ignore that feeling is to allow oneself to partake in death, one small denial at a time.

There are dips and swells, furrows and chasms--all concealing and revealing everything at once.

This is a blessing, because we would all crumble beneath the weight of so much Truth delivered at once. It would annihilate any one of us instantly.

We digest as we are able, one bite at a time, of this wild feast of a life. There will never be enough time for all of it, and if we go too fast or swallow too much- there is danger of choking, or worse yet--forgetting to savor each little moment.

My fingers tremble in time to the leaves clinging to the dessicated trees outside the window. The lake is blue, receded, punctuated by century-old stumps, reminding us that they once owned this place.

We all tremble beneath the strokings of the wind, all waiting for rain, thunder, night. Anything to break the spell, and uncoil our secret selves anew.

Focus on the Family

2009-07-02T22:55:00.000-07:00

Monday, I returned home after 5 blissful days in the clutches of family for a family reunion in North Carolina.

I forget sometimes how marvelous my family is. And how lucky we are to all get along so well and genuinely enjoy one anothers company.

My female cousins are all in college now, which means that our interactions have escalated to the next level of camaraderie. They have grown into such lovely young women, each so distinct and decidedly themselves. My youngest cousin, Adam, is a towering 6-foot tall 16 year old (unheard of in my family--we are munchkins!) who is so talented an artist it is almost scary.

I can't remember the last time I had so much fun. I watched Adam and Katherine go from squeamish to heroic in their efforts to catch and hook worms for our many fishing trips on the pond. We caught and released bass and perch against a backdrop of singing (bun unseen) frogs, whiled away our days playing boggle, scrabble, and watching the hummingbirds and hawks do their dance against the sky.

I am a fancy fisherfolk.

We caught baby frogs and went running in the woods, we laughed until our sides ached and got to know each other all over.

Impromptu dance parties in the kitchen from which absurd amounts of gorgeous food constantly flowed into our bellies, late nights of cocktails and poker games, and excellent, top-notch conversations... We even hang glided at Kitty Hawk, off towering 100 foot dunes!

I came home feeling restored, despite the 104 degree day I landed in.

It's no secret, how low my spirits have been these past couple of months. But today, working in the triple digit heat, it hit me--I'm back.
I'm doing what I want to be doing: designing, consulting, and building beautiful landscapes. Reading books in bed. Entertaining friends. Smiling. Laughing. Loving.

It's not a bad gig, this life. Not bad at all.

I'm feeling grateful again, for all I've been given. I hope it sticks around awhile.

The year of treading water

2009-06-19T09:44:00.000-07:00

This year has really been a trial. A series of trials.

Here I am, 30 years old, and it just seems like an avalanche of life experiences and forced growth have beset me on all sides.

This is not exactly a complaint, but rather an acknowledgment. What does not kill you may or may not make you stronger. It will, more likely than not, make you wiser, and more capable of coping with the future incidents that fail to kill you.

I like bullet points, which leads me to the short list of maladies and inflictions suffered this year:

serious ankle injury
lack of decent job market
constant feelings of overwhelmedness
Steve's death
Student Loans returning to haunt me

Okay, kvetching over.

There has just been so much, in all the spaces between those things, too much to encapsulate into a little, tiny space like this. Too much to inflict upon my few, sweet readers.

Never have I worked so hard and felt so ineffective. I hope this will pass. It simply must, right?

Someday I will post some sunshine here, and some smiles and some mirth.

But for now, just know I am still here, kicking against all those things that are failing to kill me.

It's a strange and semi-sweet journey, this life.

I'm glad we're all in it together.

Goodye, Steve

2009-05-10T10:10:00.000-07:00

Steve Grosskopf ~~August 29, 1977----May 6, 2009

~~~

For 2 and a half tumultuous years, I shared my bed, my heart, my secrets, and my self with this man.
We lived together roughly half that time, and sometimes it was wonderful.

Steve was a gifted artist. He was tall, dark, and handsome, and had a wicked sense of humor.
He was also coy, contrary, and prone to long, dark depressions.

My initial attraction to him was visceral, magnetic, and impossible.
When I saw him, my hands would shake, and I would be tongue tied and nervous.
He was way too good-looking to possibly be interested in me, I thought.
But I was wrong.

We were caught up, smitten, and things were sweet for a time.
And then the cycle began. We loved each other and we hurt each other.
I never really took his depression all that seriously, believing he was just being petulant and dramatic.
"Morosekopf" was his nickname, playfully bandied about.

After he followed me to Indiana, things really fell apart.
The relationship became increasingly abusive.
I threw him out.

The last time I spoke to him, I was standing upstairs in what had once been our bedroom, on the phone.
Screaming at him.

That was about 4 and a half years ago.

So much anger, hurt, hate, and shame has followed in the wake of all that.
Moving back to Austin, I was terrified that I would run into him.
I refused to slander him publicly, but my dislike was powerful and no secret.

At 4am, driving to Indiana to clear out the house, I thought about him kindly, for the first time in years.
I imagined calling him, telling him I forgave him, that it was both our faults.
I remembered the good times, and laughing together.
I was surprised by all of these things.

Sometime, in the darkness of that morning he took his own life.

I think my imagined conversation was real.

I have lit candles, and spoken to the walls, I have laughed and wept and remembered.

I wish him a safe journey, and love, and peace.

Steve, I never hated you. It was love, peering at it's reflection in an angry mirror.

I am not angry anymore. And you are free.

Late at Night

2009-04-27T22:55:00.001-07:00

Silence finally falls. The dove gray skies lit by only a sliver, like a cutaway crescent that promises an endless expanse of light behind...

The witching hour smiles her long white whip of a smile, snakes her sinuous arm around the slumped shoulders of repose.

There are peepers, dancing in the cracks and crevices outside. They are invisible, little froglets lighting up the silence with their bright, adorable little songs.

Somewhere, there are wars and negotiations. Somewhere, there are funerals and fires.

Somewhere, someone is doing something for the first time. Someone else is doing something for the last time.

Everywhere, everyone's life is changing forever.

Maybe that is why we all keep our eyes open, why we still listen, why we let dreams find us, and why we wake and do it all over again.

It is a blessing, to have a moment, to bear witness to all this beauty.

Dispatches from busylandia

2009-04-23T21:00:00.000-07:00

Okay, I admit it: I am a terrible blogger. Not, perhaps the worst (uncle Tom, will you ever grace us with your bloggy presence again?)

It's just been a bit crazy here, that's all.

Starting a business, and working freelance, and barking up every tree... all that takes up a lot of energy.

And then there is the job-- I do massage at a fancy resort on the weekends, and sometimes during the week.

I massage a bit here and there on the side.

And I garden ALL THE TIME. In fact, that is the premise of the business venture that is cooking right now.
I love working with dirt, and plants, and design. I like working with people, and their surroundings, and transforming spaces.

There is a power to cultivation: to coaxing things to grow out of the ground, and bringing color and order and beauty into the world.

There is sanity in creating sanctuary in a chaotic and difficult to manage world. And I find joy in it. I think I am good at it, even if it leaves me depleted, even if my fingernails are always short and there are smudges of dirt on my edges.

I was never meant to be a refined lady, I don't think. I fact, I take great pride in being the gal you can count on to help you fix a flat tire in the middle of the night, or repair a leaky pipe, or replace some siding, or weld a metal piece that is failing.

I couldn't for the life of me tell you how to apply eye makeup in a way that makes you look younger, or how to position your face in a photo so that you don't look like an absolute idiot (proof in point: almost every photo ever taken of me).

But I do know what makes a life worth living. That is good friends, loving family, and something that makes getting up every morning worth it. Something to look forward to and something to remember fondly.

Perhaps I am rambling, but that is a bit better than the cold shoulder this poor little blog has been given lately, isn't it?

Love, and spring rains. That is what will hold us up all summer long.

'Till the next flight of fancy,

xox
~F

Dear World,

2009-02-13T18:11:00.000-08:00

I miss you, outside world.

I've been insanely busy here. I mean, literally INSANE, so busy.

I am trying to make a life here, and it has taken A LOT of work. I have a couple of massage gigs going these days, thank goodness, because the landscape architecture world is at a veritable standstill at the moment...

In the meantime, I have picked up a landscape job at a friend's home, and was hired a couple of days ago to do another landscape job at the home of the director of a nonprofit, the American Botanical Council, where I have been volunteering for the past couple of months.

My dabbling in the design/build world has resulted in my remembering how much work physical labor is, and how profoundly rewarding it is! I will post pictures one day soon when it is finished.

I am growing a million and one varieties of heirloom vegetables, and hope to have a stand at the the local farmers market here selling starts to many wanna be gardeners and farmers. I have been loving my time in the ABC greenhouse. I think I would like very much to be a farmer one day.

Chip and I are hard at work buying a house here. The myriad issues associated with grown-up house buying makes me appreciate how effortless the purchase of the Indiana property was by compare. Of course, that house cost less than a decent new car...

So, forgive me, for my lack of wondrous tales and stories of awe and wonder.

I guess this is the blog equivalent of "checking in."

Hello, world. I promise to be back soon with more interesting news. Right now I am busy trying to cultivate a life.

Dirty 30!

2009-01-28T08:21:00.000-08:00

30 didn't frighten me, and still does not. A dear friend of mine is fond of castigating me when I get edgy about "having not accomplished enough" with my life-- she says, "You did more things before 30 than most people do in their entire life!" and maybe she's right.

What I know, truly and deeply, is this: I have managed, in my relatively short time on this planet, to acquire a number of friends who are inspiring, kind, fun, creative, loving, and brilliant-- who care for me, and come through for me when it matters. And that is something that is more of an accomplishment than anything I could imagine right now.

My Rubic's Cube dance party was hilarious.

The clothing exchange was just beginning, and I can't stop smiling

Cholo Chip is throwing a "Moose Lodge" gang sign. Too bad you can't see the "tattooed" tear under his left eye!

Dear Patience actually made me not 1, not 2, but 3 PIES with pie-crust cut-outs spelling "Happy Birthday Francesca ~30~" Which were divine, and perfect. I have a photo somewhere. My parents and brother came out, as did my dear Aunt Amy and her beau, Larry! I have to admit that seeing my family members there and enjoying themselves actually made my night.

Yesterday, on my real birthday, Colin and the inimitable Angel saw to the creation of a truly perfect bath, complete with tuber rose buds, candles, fancy fig bubble bath, infinite hot water, coffee, and a bell to ring for service!

I stayed in for at least 2 hours, reading and chatting with one of my dearest, oldest friends in the world, Angel.

Followed by the most delicious brunch- eggs, bacon, waffles with fresh berries and magical hand-whipped cream!

Colin and I made it to the American Botanical Council where I started some cuttings of their Meyer Lemon tree. Eventually, we joined with my brother and Patience for sushi and sake.

A near perfect day, a wonderful few days. I have a sneaking suspicion that my 30s will be much better than my 20s. And my 20s were pretty damn good.

Thanks to everyone who made this birthday so special, so painless, and so joy-filled.

The sporting life

2009-01-11T10:44:00.000-08:00

As part of my non-resolutions (I don't really do the resolution thing), I have been avidly visiting the rock gym here in town, trying to get back to a place where I can sport climb and boulder like I used to. Rock climbing brings me a type of pleasure unrivaled by other activities.

Last Monday, however, it provided me with a new experience like none other.

I fell off the wall, my right foot landing in the crevice between two mats, twisting violently beneath my falling weight. I felt (and heard) a *SNAP* as the world exploded into a white hot blur of agony. In fact, I know this: that I flopped around like a fish on the bottom of a boat, hooked through the mouth, cursing a blue streak, unable to see through the wall of pain that had sprung up around me.

The things that passed through my mind in those minutes, blinded by pain, are shocking. First, the overwhelming desire to be left alone. I did not want the attention, the ice pack, the worry and concern of others. I wished they would just pretend I wasn't there. Next: the sheer terror of a hospital visit at a time when I am not working. But mainly, I just kept wondering when I would lose consciousness. I mean, isn't there a pain threshold where your body shuts you off as a general courtesy? I shudder to think what degree of pain that would require, because babies, if that wasn't enough to do it, I can't imagine what is.

The good news: it's not broken. The bad news: I can't walk on it, at all. And I had to cancel the massage I was going to receive this morning as well as the 2 job interviews I had scheduled today. Which really sucks.

Anyhow, resting, icing, elevating, compressing. But really, this is such bullshit. So much for the sporting life. Sigh.

As of right now, it's been about a week with little progress. I'm hopeful, but wary.

Merry Hohoho Landia

2008-12-27T09:40:00.000-08:00

Wow, well, it appears the the Schmidt family has singlehandedly managed to restore peace to the American economy by injecting grandiose amounts of cash into the flagging system. As a matter of fact, the ladies known as my aunts are out shopping MORE, even now.

I am personally not sure how they do it, as my desire to shop is apallingly weak, much like my desire to get manicures and to wear foundation makeup: nonexistent.

We are a funny family, prone to hours of impassioned Boggle playing, crosswork solving, and losing all our money to my brother in poker games. It's really restorative.

I must warn anyone who thinks that seeing the Benjamin Button movie. Don't. Just don't. Terribly disappointingly bad. What a missed opportunity.

Anyhow, More to come, but right now I really need to get to the crossword before they finish it without me.

Lazarus the journal

2008-12-15T17:09:00.000-08:00

Ahem, I am back from the "dead"!

*crickets chirping in background*

Umm, okay, well, let me freshen this place up a bit *brushing cobwebs from corners* and regale you with my tales of wonder and intrigue.

Or just an update.

Hey, people, I live in Austin Texas again! I never thought I would live here again, but here I am. After being so far away, so unstimulated (socially), and so out of my element for so long, where better to go than where my roots are?

I couldn't think of anywhere I'd rather be.

Yes, the job market is crappy, the economy seems to be bottoming out, and everyone is looking forward with a gloomy countenance, but I see a lot of silver linings in this scenario.

Americans are addicted to junk and crap. It's true. (note to self, I will not let Chip give anyone mango slicers or other useless kitchen clutter this year!)

I hope that an economic downturn will make us all consider what we actually care about in this world, and get back to "basics." I want to see more people gardening and growing their own food. I long to see more people creating beautiful outdoor sanctuaries adjacent to their homes where they can entertain friends, family, and flights of fancy. *

I would love to see more folks scaling back on the things they don't really need (fast food, cable television, plastic junk), and focusing on those things that are meaningful to them (personal relationships, hobbies, learning new things, reading).

In fact, I feel so strongly about this that I will hereby proclaim 2009 my own "Year of Living Simply." ** This year will be better and more productive than the last, because I am going to try to be a better and more efficient me by trimming the fat and celebrating the simple, the visceral, and the marvelous.

*I have to hope this, because as an unemployed landscape architect, I need those people to call upon my skills to help them realize their outdoor design potential.

** Living in a house less than half the size of my house in Indiana, that is 300% crappier, I must focus on living simply because we cannot bring any more stuff into this house, we have to save $$ to buy a home here, and *cough* I am unemployed, which means I simply cannot afford to live any way BUT simply.

What to make of this new evidence of deceit?

2008-10-21T10:52:00.000-07:00

Investigation by Robert F. Kennedy Jr. and Greg Palast released today

Don’t worry about Mickey Mouse or ACORN stealing the election. According to an investigative report out today in Rolling Stone magazine, Robert F. Kennedy Jr. and Greg Palast, after a year-long investigation, reveal a systematic program of “GOP vote tampering” on a massive scale.

-Republican Secretaries of State of swing-state Colorado have quietly purged one in six names from their voter rolls.

Over several months, the GOP politicos in Colorado stonewalled every attempt by Rolling Stone to get an answer to the massive purge - ten times the average state’s rate of removal.

-While Obama dreams of riding to the White House on a wave of new voters, more then 2.7 million have had their registrations REJECTED under new procedures signed into law by George Bush.

Kennedy, a voting rights lawyer, charges this is a resurgence of ‘Jim Crow’ tactics to wrongly block Black and Hispanic voters.

- A fired US prosecutor levels new charges - accusing leaders of his own party, Republicans, with criminal acts in an attempt to block legal voters as “fraudulent”.

- Digging through government records, the Kennedy-Palast team discovered that, in 2004, a GOP scheme called “caging” ultimately took away the rights of 1.1 million voters. The Rolling Stone duo predict that, this November 4, it will be far worse.

There’s more:

- Since the last presidential race, “States used dubious ‘list management’ rules to scrub at least 10 million voters from their rolls.

Among those was Paul Maez of Las Vegas, New Mexico - a victim of an unreported but devastating purge of voters in that state that left as many as one in nine Democrats without a vote. For Maez, the state’s purging his registration was particularly shocking - he’s the county elections supervisor.

The Kennedy-Palast revelations go far beyond the sum of questionably purged voters recently reported by the New York Times.

“Republican operatives - the party’s elite commandos of bare-knuckle politics,” report Kennedy and Palast, under the cover of fighting fraudulent voting, are “systematically disenfranchis[ing] Democrats.

The investigators level a deadly serious charge:

“If Democrats are to win the 2008 election, they must not simply beat McCain at the polls - they must beat him by a margin that exceeds the level of GOP vote tampering.

Block the Vote by Robert F. Kennedy Jr. & Greg Palast in the current issue (1064) of Rolling Stone. [Media enquiries - Dave Falkenstein, Sunshine Sachs & Assoc, via interviews@gregpalast.com. Note - Kennedy and Palast are releasing, simultaneously with the Rolling Stone investigative report what they call, the vote-theft ‘antidote’: a 24-page full-color comic book, Steal Back Your Vote, which can be downloaded or obtained in print from their non-partisan website, http://www.StealBackYourVote.org

For updates and video reports, also see:

http://www.RollingStone.com

http://www.GregPalast.com

It's the economy, stupid

2008-09-29T22:13:00.001-07:00

The news this morning was ominous enough...another banking buyout, a bail out supposedly close at hand, the European banking system strained improbably (and, of course, being bailed out). The entire financial world seemed to be at the gate, chests heaving, snorting and stamping their hooves in anticipation of the race.

But the race won't come, I fear.

Forgive me for the dramatic flourish, as well as the confession I am about to make: I am a capitalist. I am not an acolyte in the cult of Ayn Rand, but I do have an enduring belief in the free market in general, and a capitalist system at large. You see, you can pretend not to like capitalism, or not to support free trade, but if you shop Wal Mart or buy gas or wear clothes or eat food (which I have a sneaking suspicion at least some of you do), you enjoy capitalism, too.

Now, we can all wear our little liberal hair-shirts and claim that we don't care about money, or we only buy organic, or we only support local business, or we only support fair trade, but honestly? All that does is prove my support of the free market. The free market has allowed you the luxury of choice, at a price you are happy to pay. While regulation is required, subsidies have destroyed the simple elegance of this system. But that is not what I want to talk about today.

As I listened to the steady BBC and NPR reporters bloodlessly reporting the end of an economic era (in velvet tones designed to not strike fear into the hearts of delicate listeners), I found myself wondering, "Are we witnessing the failure of the free market?" I percolated for a while before I firmly decided that that was not the case at all.

No, this strikes me as something completely unknown to our generation, mainly because it has been buried for decades beneath heavily biased tariffs, punitive trade regulations, and mountains of subsidies that conceal the market truths. This, my friends, may be the death of economies of scale that we are witnessing.

That long-loved theory that bigger is better, more efficient, and therefore more beneficial to everyone is a crock. We (not as in "you and me" but more like our nation's economic arms, the IMF and the World Bank) have long known this. The history of American money flowing into resource-rich, cash-poor countries to build industry and agriculture bigger than ever, only to have it fail miserably in less time than it took to create-- the proof is there. You could spend several lifetimes reading scholarly papers written on the subject, or visiting nations ruined by these massive infusions of cruelly ineffective aid.

The problem is that once an entity grows too large, it becomes unmanageable. It becomes impossible to account for, unpredictable, a monstrous, disastrous thing destined to implode. And when I look at all the mega-banks merging, all that concentrated power and all of the strategic moves designed to put more power in the hands of the Federal Reserve Bank... I see a monster rising up out of the sea of nasty possibilities.

Meanwhile, I see small banks flourishing, small-scale agriculture thriving, mom and pop businesses doing decently (sometimes), and I wonder when we stopped wanting to support people genuinely like us, people who we can look in the eye as we hand over our money for goods or services.

I don't see an end in sight, a bottom to all this falling. Of course I hope I am wrong, but in the event that I am not I would like to see a smaller, more humble government emerge, one that actually watches spending. I'd like to see a tighter investment market (though that is highly unlikely). I'd like to see smaller systems that can be regulated internally and with ease, where positive feedback loops can be detected before they threaten the integrity of the system.

I believe in these things not because I am a hippie, or a commie, or a socialist, but because I am a capitalist, who believes in sense, decency, and ethics. And I want to believe that other people do too. Capitalism is a wonderful system, it tells us who we are, what we desire, what our values are. This mad, distorted thing, I do not know what it is. But if it is a mirror it is a horror-show, carnival funhouse mirror, that tells us what we fear rather than who we are.

And guess what? We are constituents. We elect the electors. And we can all do this better. And we should. The time has come to pay attention.

Update from the edge of the earth...

2008-09-23T09:11:00.000-07:00

We are in San Francisco, but heading back to the hum-drum Midwest in a few hours. This was a short trip primarily focused on honoring the nuptials of Chip's mom, Peachey, and her partner Carol. Yes, it was a gay wedding, and a mighty sweet and fine one at that. Let me just tell you, when a caterer caters her own ceremony, the results are mouth-wateringly marvelous.

Although it has been a painfully short trip, we did manage to get in a trip to Napa and lunch at the CIA (the Culinary Institute of America, not the intelligence agency). Let's just say that when Christmas shopping happens in Napa, everyone's a winner. (a little foreshadowing for you family-types).

How do we afford our rock and roll lifestyle, you ask? The answer is really quite simple. We don't eat out, we don't buy a lot of new things, and we save up for little trips like this. I consider it a surefire technique for living a deeply satisfying and interesting life.

We move to Austin next month. It is all very exciting, although I still do not have a job and at the moment am really focused on entrepreneurial endeavor.

I don't know if you've noticed, but the economy is really in rough shape. Almost all of the big architecture firms are in the process of laying off rather than hiring. Of course it is unnerving. Good thing I have nerves of steel.

My apologies for such a lackluster post, but it seemed as though an update was in order. I shall try to be more on top of this thing as the season sets in and the life changes tumble towards us.

For now, I send out bushels of love, and well-wishes to all.

The flight of time

2008-09-02T21:42:00.000-07:00

I am told that time flies when you are having fun. Time, I have noted, also has a nasty habit of flying during the not-so-fun times, too.

I've been neglectful of this journal. I could blame a lot of things, but I will settle on blaming that damned harpy, Time.

Dear old Granddad told me to be less florid in my writing. I considered taking his advice to heart, but could not bring myself to augment (although really, the correct term would be "truncate") my style in order to please anyone else.

No, friends, like dear Mister McCain, I am a maverick of the highest order. But let's not spoil a good time with political talk, okay? I just hope you all know that I think Palin is a joke and an insult to good sense and women everywhere. And that's all I have to say about that.

The days are growing shorter, and I am almost done here in Muncie. My academic work is beginning to show signs of completion, and my blood pressure should be dropping...

But wait! I still have to find a job, and sell or rent this dang house out. And move. Somewhere. Okay, I am a still rather stressed out. But all this is temporary.

I am focusing on Washington D.C. or Austin Texas, both having special merits unlike other cities. I am occasionally awash with mild jealousy at some of my peers who are neither approaching 30 nor saddled with an enormous pile of student loan debt- they have the luxury of time on their side still.

No, I feel as though I must make a politically savvy career choice now, and save the leisure and fun for later, once I have earned it a bit. We'll see.

I'm torn between disaster work and landscape architecture, DC and Austin, in various configurations. I'm rolling the dice, every time I send out a resume. My fate is in the hands of destiny as much as it is my own volition, and I find that as terrifying as I do exhilarating.

See what you missed? Nothing much.

Seriously, though

2008-07-15T04:45:00.000-07:00

First, a touch of good news: Chip and I had a marvelous triathlon on Saturday.
I broke all previous personal records, and managed to actually place 3rd in my age group (25-29)!! This is a huge personal accomplishment, and has firmly cemented my future (and present) as a triathlete. Soon, I will post a photo of myself during the race, which will firmly cement my reputation as a slightly deranged person, as I typically find myself grinning throughout the entire bike/run legs of the race. I know. No one else is.

Next, I am really curious what my brilliant friends and family think about the extremely tenuous current state of the American economy and banking system.

Young people do not seem to be concerned. Older people do not seem all that concerned. I am utterly shocked at how HUGE an issue this is, and how little mainstream alarm seems to be raised.

In my opinion, if you are not deeply concerned about this, you are simply not paying attention! Things look mighty grim, and the Fed just prevented catastrophic global economic collapse by bailing out Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae.

But the headlines are still peppered with celebrity news amidst a coy "Euro climbs to 1.60 record high against US Dollar" sidebar. What is wrong with us?

Anyhow. I'll stop being an alarmist and just ask quite sincerely for your comments. I really do want to know what you all think. I'll even enable easy, anonymous commenting.

Love,
~F

And now, for something completely different...

2008-07-12T07:33:00.000-07:00

Okay, okay, so I'm a bit harsh on my Dad's side of the family. It's okay, this is a blog- my blog, in fact, where I get to exercise free speech and the like to my little heart's content. It's an opinion, dear ones, not fact.

So, here is an utterly self-indulgent piece I wrote a few days ago, pre-triathlon. (Chip and I just completed a triathlon this morning).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This weekend another race will impose itself upon my body, only this time I am ready. And it's been a bittersweet discovery, these past 2 months, unearthing a hidden resolve, long obscured by books and obligations, uncertainty and the denial offered by distance of every description.

I no longer dread exertion, no longer find myself longing to taper or terminate. In the cemetery, I learn the true origin of the term "cutting corners", as the lacy weave-work of paths makes it possible to do exactly that at any given moment. There is a turning point, where the body craves addition rather than subtraction, begins to endure more, and for longer--for its own reward.

I'm sanguine in this half-light, flexing beneath the waning light in the sky, urged on like any whip-worn beast bearing the weight of a chariot. There is pride in the bearing of any burden. Everyone secretly knows this.

Night encroaches, cracking a whip composed of thunder and lightning on the fringe of the sky, and although I know I should head in, instead I take another loop composed of several miles, as the light drains away, leaving the contrast of the tombstones against the shaded slopes as my only company.

Soon, I'm alone behind the locked cemetery gates, darkness clinging to everything, lighting pulsating and thunder growling, and I find myself swimming through a luminous soup of heavy air ripe with rain, illuminated by an army of fireflies. And it is not scary here in the graveyard, not eerie or unsettling. It's just delicious.

Lately, I find myself on a difficult to define level with the earth, while moving alongside it I am aware of something new and intrepid: as I move forward, whether running, or swimming, or cycling...

I've discovered that I have terrible technique in 2 out of 3 disciplines, and I am having to re-learn the way. There is a childishness in this discovery of familiar motion made strange, and it is not discouraging, but rather inspiring.

I am playing tug-of-war with the ground beneath my wheels or feet, and every advance feels as though I am gripping at some invisible rope, clicking my tongue and muttering, "C'mere!" as I tug at it, pulling it away and under and beyond myself.

It is like anything else, these small advances. Like learning a new language, where at first all the gobbledygook runs together: a puzzle, a mystery, heavy-laden with intrigue. Then the pieces begin to form, small keys to the puzzle, piecemeal. And then, one day, sentences form. And much to your surprise, the mystery is solved, and is made shockingly mundane. There is no arcana, no unraveling of secret volumes of lore. No. Instead, it is all, "I saw your sister at the store, and she told me you were looking for a job." or "No, I cannot go on Friday, because I have to work on Saturday early in the morning."

And all this intrigue filtered into mundane reality should be discouraging, but it is not.

Instead, it is a grand opening of filters, as if the world parted her curtains for a moment and said, "You there, come here and see, that all of the world comes bearing sweat, and tears that are salty, smiles that curve into upturned crescents, and hopes for tomorrow...Just. Like. You. Do."

What you do with this is yours. But for me, my feet just keep time, pulling the earth toward me in turn, murmuring, "C'mere!" to the intermittent gravel and slender blades of grass. The thread of existence, in this case, as thick as a rope, sliding between my fingers, pulling along each inch, each foot, each mile one knotted length at a time, like prayer-beads on a rosary- it ties me to something neither here nor there, but gracefully slung in between.

Here everything is new, every moment an uncovered artifact to be discovered, only to fall behind into the backlog of experience. To be perhaps unearthed another day, shining with the promise of mystery and intrigue.

I cannot complain, as every day sheds its skin and invites me to discover it again the next, like the mirror exposing a new face with every encounter.

Life, I love you. You can never push me away.

A Question of Blood, and its Indeterminable Value

2008-07-06T20:30:00.000-07:00

This is a weirdly sensitive post, but I just feel like I need to get it off my chest.

My father's family has always been a difficult subject for me to broach, for a lot of reasons. I realized this morning, after an unnecessarily explosive conversation with my dear old dad, that I am still not over it, not after all these years.

Here I am, almost 30, still smarting at the way my father's family has made me feel for most of my life. It's hard to say why I even care, considering that I honestly think they are sort of assholes, in general.

You see, after my father's incarceration (the final consummation of his well-earned position as the black sheep of the Calderoni clan), it just seems as though we were always the familia non grata of that entire branch of the family tree.

Granted, my cousins were older, but that isn't really the issue at all. My uncles all took on the name "Calderoni" after their father's death. I don't know what reason they would give, if you were to ask them outright they would probably say it was their way of honoring their mother by taking on her maiden name.

But the truth is, that in their social-climbing quest, I don't think they wanted to be saddled with the low-class connotations and stigma of being "Hernandez's".

Nor did they want they want their scrappy younger brother and his rag-tag kids around. We didn't dress right. Mom and Dad weren't rich, didn't drive nice cars and live in extravagant homes full of fancy things. And we didn't get sports cars for graduation.

So, we were invited on odd occasions to visit, like on Christmas, after all their friends had left. We could come in then, like servants- eating whatever leavings remained. I distinctly remember as a child having one of my uncles ask me what I wanted to do when I grew up. I told him I wanted to be an artist.

And he looked me straight in the eye and said,

"Why would you want to waste your brain on art?"

Years of this sort of thing have pretty much left me impartial to that entire side of the family. The scars go deep, the feelings of worthlessness those people have embedded in my psyche over the years.

So, every time my father implies that I should go visit with them, I freeze up. Nothing sounds less enjoyable than that, seriously.

I'm fortunate to have a family on Mom's side that is wonderful, warm, genuine, and loving. I'm blessed with a family of friends that make me feel at home in the world.

But yeah, I'm always very frustrated by my father's wounded response when I tell him that I am not interested in visiting with these people.

I'm almost 30. If we were going to have a connection beyond our bloodline, I suspect it would have happened by now. And anyhow, I doubt very seriously that I will ever be in a business that makes enough money to impress them.

So why even bother? Life is terribly short, you know?

The Case of the Errant Blogger

2008-06-14T08:30:00.000-07:00

Well, hello, blog. Despite wonderful family members all telling me how much they enjoy this, I manage to neglect it quite badly, quite often. That is as close to an apology as I think I'm capable.

Onto the content:
It's been a loud week 'round these parts. Besides the obvious fact (obvious to us in the Midwest) that any self-respecting zealot in the region should be inclined to build an ark posthaste, I must note that it has been a WET spring.

I've been nurturing my inner gardener, and lemme tell you, it was really depressing for the first month. I planted beans 3 times. 3 times!!? Man, I've been growing beans since elementary school, and the one thing I know about them is that they practically take care of themselves. Not so here. The first 2 times they rotted in the cold, wet earth. The third time was the charm--they sprouted within 3 days. Crazy!

Birds from all walks of life have discovered the feeder, and so I take a daily delight in identifying and observing them while they feed. Dingo the wonder-cat likes it too, although he still doesn't seem to understand that he cannot get through the window to the feasting birdies. All told, much entertainment is to be found in the spectacle.

The half-burned out house next door was demolished yesterday, along with the other terrible house next door to it. This should do wonders to improve my property value. Yesterday I walked around the corner to watch the thing being torn down--it is very dramatic and exciting (or maybe my life is just painfully boring) to watch the machinery of destruction at work.

The experience yielded this completely surreal moment:

Setting: the sidewalk across the street from house being demolished. My neighbor "Buck" and the child that some deadbeat mom/renter leaves him in charge of is in tow. Their mangy dog, Hank, is also present.

ME: well, it's about time
BUCK: I tell you what, the whole neighborhood is going down
ME: *snapping photos*
CHILD: Cheese! Cheese!
HUGE CRASHING BOOM NOISE AS HOUSE BEGINS TO FOLD. A raccoon comes out from a dormer, looking confused
BUCK: Aw, hell. that's my raccoon up there! Heidi! Heiiiiiiiiiiiidiiiiiii! Come on out here, girl!
CHILD: Heidi? Heidi! C'mere Heidi!
ME: Your raccoon?
BUCK: I think that's her
ME: Your pet raccoon?
BUCK: Well, she crawled up into the attic, so I ain't seen her since last winter. But I feed her everyday.
ME: But, you're sure that's her?
BUCK: Well, it looks like her.
ME: Yeah, but don't raccoons usually look pretty similar?
BUCK: Hmmm. Maybe.

Aaaaargh. Welcome to white trash land. I live in a neighborhood I like to call "the white-trash hatchery of America". It's not much of an exaggeration, really.

Nothing much to tell besides the tale of this Saturday morning, when the Jehova's Witnesses came a-calling, and Chip did what any good man would do...hid in the corner of the living room, out of sight, forcing me to answer the door in disgraceful athletic attire. I softened the blow of "I am an atheist" by substituting the word "secular," but despite my repeated attempts to tell them that they were not going to convert me, they still insisted on making a future date to visit us.

We will be more prepared this next time. Oh, Chip was kind enough to set up recording equipment so that we could save the whole encounter for posterity. He's a good man that way.

So there! A blog. Hope you are all well. All my love, ~F

Victory!!!

2008-06-07T18:21:00.000-07:00

It's been a victorious week, in many ways, for many people.

But today, above all else, there is this:

That's Josh Perkins and me. He's been my best friend here at school. He's a country boy, first in his family to go to college, while I'm a city girl, following in a long tradition of education. But none of that matters, in spirit, we are very much the same.

We were together in Asia, and our collective motto was, "Climb every mountain," which we did a pretty great job of. When we got back to town, we'd both gotten out of shape, and it was his bright idea that we should do a triathlon together.

Over the past month, I have run, biked, and swum (what a terrible-looking word that is!) around 180 miles. It's the most physical discipline I've had since I moved here in 2004.

Today, with lightning doing a treacherous dance in the roiling, angry sky--we completed our first triathlon. It was exhausting, but wonderful. It rained heavily the whole time, but we did it. .25 mile swim, 13 mile bike ride, 3.1 mile run. It took an hour and 34 minutes, but I did it.

I don't own a scale, and if I knew what I weighed today it wouldn't matter, anyway--I have nothing to compare it to. I just don't really use scales. My pants always tell me when I need to get it together. I trust them innately.

I also trust the way I feel. Right now, I feel like an old lady. But I did something today I could not have done a month ago. And next month, I plan on doing it again. Because I feel strong, and vital and alive.

We only get one body in this life. It is my belief that bodies were made to be used, heavily.

Can I get an "Amen?"

Every Port, an Anchor

2008-05-28T11:02:00.000-07:00

The cabin pressure makes a dramatic shift, and the precious cargo in the belly of the beast all feel a tension between their ears and their skull. They work their jaws, rub their temples. A barrier of clouds is noisily pierced by the nose, then the body, and finally the tail, and from out the window a new patchwork quilt of a world is revealed.

There is no substitute for this moment, when the body clenches in a spasm of uncertainty, anxiety, and every pore (real and imagined) gapes wide, waiting to see what is on the other side of this waiting. There is a world outside the reinforced glass and recycled air habitat that has housed us over the past however many hours, and every synapse is twitching with the promise of it.

But for a few hours, the tiny space on this vessel has held me comfortably, cradled my body as I’ve written, sketched, slept, and read. My shoes are tucked away, and I’m swaddled in my own wrap, a cashmere/silk stowaway adopted on some other continent. This seat has been a sort of home to me. There is a twinge of nostalgia as I gather my belongings, prepare to make a home in some other unfamiliar place.

A good friend once told me that he felt confident that I could fashion myself a home on the surface of the sun if I so desired. And there was truth in his compliment. Throughout childhood, my family moved from one rented house to another, occasionally crossing state lines, one circumstance or another guiding the course for the rest of us. Consequently, there is no ancestral home that stirs up a sensation of belonging in my breast. My sense of home is an oddly-shaped, distended thing.

Imagination and desire will erect strange monuments to normalcy when they feel deprived of it for too long, and so that is what happened. I developed a “home fixation,” a desire to put down roots somewhere solid, somewhere mine, somewhere safe.
I imagined, at 17, moving to Mexico, that I would find a home there.

I imagined that I would know it, a psychic thronging that would reverberate through my very soul, screaming “You’re Home!” at every turn. You can work yourself into a proper lather seeking this untenable seat amongst the chaotic shifting of sands that composes a world.

Something happened along the way, an unexpected and dear device probably borne of one survival instinct or another: my heart claimed the earth as its home.

The wet-pavement-come-alive smell of encroaching rain twists my cells into a peace that few other things can. The windows of the kitchen obscured by the moisture of a fresh loaf of bread baking. Rice paddies, challenging every other shade of green to a duel and winning, flickering through the bus windows. The spicy hints of sandalwood and bay rum, the sensation of my own breath ragged from exertion, the taste of a copper penny blooming in my mouth.

Home is not a place, never. It is a sensation of calm, of familiarity, and peace. It has nothing to do with what I own, those possessions that own me so utterly. Home is a flash of red earth, a familiar bird song, or a queue of sullen cows on a distant dirt road. Make a home on a motorcycle for a few months, and soon enough a stand of redwoods becomes home. Make a home out of a handbag and suitcase for long enough and eventually the rich cup of drip-brewed coffee at a ramshackle cafe will become home. Dip into a well of solitude for a seeming infinity of days, and a smile from a stranger who doesn’t share your language becomes home for a moment.

Home is anywhere but where my things live. This is just a station, on the way to the next place that makes my heart entire. This relic of a heart is more than just a metronome. It is a jigsaw puzzle that my movement through the rest of the world pieces together for me.

Technology Ruins Everything

2008-05-28T09:37:00.000-07:00

I'm having an angry and resentful day, which is actually uncommon for me.

My gripe is this: technology makes communication so effortless that everyone seems to decide that if it is without effort, it probably isn't even worth it.

Maybe I have no right to write something like this, but to be frank, it is my prerogative, and that gives me the right to do whatever the hell I want in my little corner of the internet.

What is the encoded message here: I'm introspective because of the failure of people who have known me my entire life to send something as simple as a 2 line "congratulations" email when I graduated. Dude, it's the internet. It takes, like, 20 seconds.

And yet, the simplicity of that 20 second message seems to elude most of us.

I think a lot of these more nuanced bits of communication have fallen by the wayside because the ease of it all has bred complacence, or worse yet simple negligence. All of the bells and whistles that our little lives are nested into seem to just trivialize the truly important things, by overshadowing them with shiny noise.

So, the moral of the story: we would all be better off living in a bygone age where letters had to be premeditated at length, transported by ship, rail, and pony, and were remarkably prone to loss.

That way, no one would ever expect a 2 line email and be disappointed by its failure to materialize.

Wow, I swear it's not even that big of a deal. It just makes me wonder what in the world the "family support system" role is in a globalized world where few people have the inclination to send one another emails, let alone letters. Maybe we'd be better off born in incubators and issued to parents who have passed all the tests and earned the parenting license. Eventually old-fashioned reproduction would be outlawed & there would be nothing but the nuclear family to bother with. No more huge family gatherings or awkward interactions with people who you share nothing in common with but a little DNA.

Okay, maybe that wouldn't be as awesome as it seems.

I hate technology. Although without it, how could I find an audience to complain about it to?

The Curse of Kindness

2008-05-26T18:42:00.000-07:00

I was always that little girl who would go on long bicycle rides on windy days after a spring storm, when the air was crisp and clear, nourishing to the lungs, making it feel like you could keep riding for days. I would come home, breathless and hunched, tiny fledgling birds tucked into my shirts, always saying, "Mom, we have to take care of it!"

She would grudgingly accept our new family member, and I can proudly say that we successfully raised about a half-dozen babies over the course of my childhood.

Not so much has changed.

The past few days, the worried choruses of birds have drawn me outside, where I have stalked, looking for all the world like a crazy woman--hair like a halo of messy flames, braless beneath a ratty T-shirt, striped socks beneath my clogs reaching half to my knees--seeking the felled baby.

Raising baby birds is a full-time endeavor, and I know that mother birds are far better suited to the task than I. So, in the past week, I have placed multiple fledglings in trees, by a multitude of techniques ranging from tossing to climbing.

I have a cat, you know? A cat whom I adore, who is my right hand fella. But he's a killer.

Today, he caught a house sparrow. House sparrows are invasive, greedy little bastards. But I love them. At first, I convinced myself (upon seeing blood coming out its beak) that I needed to just let him finish off the job. But seeing him toy with it in the periphery of my sight as I gardened began to eat at me. And then the little thing flew a few feet, and I had to intervene.

I pulled Dingo off of her, and held her in my hand, examining her body. She appeared undamaged, and after a minute or so I let her go. She perched in the crook where a tree branch met the trunk, leaning against the bark and looking very tired.

I hope she lives, but wonder if I just prolonged her suffering.

I've also been protecting a little baby blackbird that for whatever reason has decided that my yard is home. We have made the yard a sanctuary for birds this year, finally landscaping and installing feeders at every turn.

Now I feel like I am luring them to their deaths.

I've seen hungry cats hunt, and eat their kill entire in a matter of seconds. This playing with the thing for ever--I just hate it.

How, oh how do I keep my cat from killing birds?

In training news, today I rehearsed the sprint triathlon: 1/4 mile swim, 15 mile bike ride, 3.5 mile run. It took an hour and 45 minutes. And I'm okay with that.

My legs feel like achy jello. But I feel good, like I will actually finish the event. I don't want to win, just to finish, really.

Slideshow~

2008-05-16T10:34:00.000-07:00

I just love the future!

Nowadays, we don't have to bore our friends and families with endless, self-indulgent slideshows of our recent journeys.

With no further ado, I present you my Flickr account:

HERE

where you can gaze upon my mediocre photography of exotic places at your leisure. Enjoy!

love,

me

You can't be serious

2008-05-16T09:46:00.001-07:00

QUESTION: What is the lamest thing about being a Landscape Architect?

ANSWER: Receiving offers in the mail for subscriptions to "Interlocking Concrete Pavement Magazine"

*rolling my eyes*

I can't believe there even is such a magazine, but there it is, in all it's mind-numbingly lame glory:

Slack-Town

2008-05-11T11:50:00.000-07:00

I'm really slacking on pretty much everything.

This is fated to be quick and newsy, I'm afraid. My lust for writing has really dropped off these past few weeks.

Graduation came and went. I wore the regalia, as indicated in this lovely image taken by my mother:

Shortly after this photo was taken, I gave a little speech to satisfy the masses at the College of Architecture and Planning. That was fun, and people--I LOVE public speaking. It is one of my real gifts in life. If you can think of a career that would utilize this skill, I'd be grateful.

Mom, Dad, Paul, and a dear, dear friend Angel came up to celebrate with me. I was extremely happy to be surrounded by some of my most beloved people in the world, even if I was slightly disappointed that my frequent-flying grandparents did not make it.

Our family has never been known for nostalgia. I'm beginning to see where I get it, that weird familiar detachment thing. It is positively genetic.

A few fine gifts included an incredible, awesome camera (that really intimidates me)from Mom, Dad, and Chip, this insanely beautiful pen set from Angel and Colin:

and a few monetary infusions which will eventually add up to a new computer (I love my battleaxe, but she's a little worse for wear these days.)

Now, I just have to finish a bunch of coursework, like my thesis, so that I can graduate for real.

I've been working in the garden, even though it is gray, drizzling, and cold outside. Sadly, I've exposed myself to a great deal of poison ivy (while pilfering flagstones from the burned-out house next door), so I am off for my second round of vigorous scrubbing under extremely cold water.

Yay!

Much love from the chilly Midwest.

~Francesca

Extremely Random Rantingness

2008-04-30T11:20:00.000-07:00

I should be writing my thesis, or pounding away these keys on any of the 70 pages of assignments that are still haunting me from Asia. But I am not.

No, I am instead cleaning my house (I can't have my family know what a bad housekeeper I really am) and ruminating over various things that are probably of little importance to anyone but myself.

Boycotting the Olympics...A long conversation about this last night got me to thinking about the ludicrousness of such a "boycott." Please, like any of us were really going to go all the way to Beijing for the Olympics this year. Now, the Paralympics, maybe, but not the big Olympics. I am all for raising awareness about Tibet, but listen up people: WE MISSED THE BOAT. You see, China now has America by the balls. Once upon a time, before they owned our debt, before we were dependent on their cheap exports to fill our longings for "nice shit" on the cheap, that was when we stood a chance of exerting our influence. Now, we can protest all we want, but no one is going to strong arm China into anything. You'd be better off boycotting McDonalds or Coca Cola. Good luck with that.

The "exploitation" of teenage pop stars...Really?! A teenage pop star posed for a provocative picture? NO, say it's not so! Oh, for crying out loud, people. Get over it. You are allowed to complain about the exploitation of teenage girls when they are posing in exchange for crack, okay? Or when they are being kept in a basement by some sex-crazed weirdo. NOT when they are multimillionaires before they are old enough to buy cigarettes. And certainly not when they are publishing memoirs at age 15. Seriously, what in the hell has happened in a 15 year lifetime that I give a damn about? Are you going to talk about the trauma of potty training or the difficulty of transitioning from elementary school to middle school? Yawn. Yeah, not interesting. If anyone is being exploited, it is the parents of all these little girl (and flamboyant little boys) who are shelling out for this crap.

Bird Feeders, and Seed Trays... I like birds. I also like to garden. A couple of weeks ago, Chip and I installed a new bird feeder outside our dining room winder that does not already have a bird feeder visible through it. It is a wonderful feeder, with...okay, nevermind, you don't really want to hear about the details of this feeder. The point is that, after 2 weeks, we finally had our first customer! ONE. One bird. Two weeks. Now, I sit by the window at all times, hoping to see this stupid little bird again so that I can look it up in my bird book and feel all warm and fuzzy. No dice.
As I mentioned above, I also like to garden. This will be my first summer of actually living in Muncie full time. I'm pretty thrilled. I also don't have a job. So I'm pretty broke. Which makes the whole vegetable garden thing that much more appealing. Here in the Midwest, it still freezes at night in May, and yes, sometimes that makes me murderously angry. So I planted seed trays so that I could get my plants all healthy, rocking and rolling before I put them in the ground. I think I planted them a week ago. It feels like a month ago. I have them in front of a window in the dining room. I check on them at least 30 times a day. They are not sprouting. Actually, to be precise, the compost mix I planted them in is sprouting, but just these itty, bitty sprouts that I know for a fact will never grow up to bear yellow crook neck squash or swiss chard. It is agonizing!
Now listen, I know that I am not the most patient person in the world, but this is ridiculous. I should probably start "working"(AKA staring at bird feeder balefully or checking on seed trays obsessively) upstairs, away from all these distractions.

Or get some discipline. Jeeze. I may never complete anything but this house cleaning ever again.

It is Really Happening!

2008-04-24T12:17:00.000-07:00

Just a quick note to remind everyone that I am FINALLY graduating, next Saturday, May 3rd, to be exact.

I'm quite honored to be giving a 10-minute speech at the ceremony, which I was nominated by my class to do. I can scarcely tell you how shocked and delighted I am by that.

Hopefully this poison ivy on my neck and face will be faded by then. Stupid nature!

I wish you all a happy beginning of spring, and love, and love, and love.

I never though this moment would actually come.

Prodigal return

2008-04-15T11:17:00.000-07:00

Dearest Darlings,

I am exhausted, and beset with a nasty cold. But I am home. I partied like there was no tomorrow in New Orleans for my dear Dana's wedding celebration, for which I donned victorian undergarments in the endearing role as a bridesmaid.

Chip came down, and I think he is now quite under the spell of New Orleans, too. It is an enchanting place.

Here, it is cold, although I am told it is quite nice and warm. The type of quietude consuming the afternoon is just the sort of thing that reminds me that I am in a past-prime-place, a place in the midst of a slow, lumbering decline rather than a slow upswing, or even an epic climb up a grade that almost appears to be level, such as the sometimes pace of development in the developing world.

The birds outside are not astounding, although I do not love them any less than I did before. They are the very face of familiarity: cardinals and starlings, turtle doves and house sparrows.

No more mynas, no more peacocks. No more red earth bleeding out in every direction. No more jungle filled with the keening of monkeys. No more crashing of the ocean onto the shore, announcing that this is the place where shells come to be beaten into sand.

My skin is freckled and brown, but my cat, Dingo, recognizes me just fine. Dingo, on the other hand, has filled out in my absence, become a full grown man-cat.

New Orleans transitioned me from one wild and exotic place to another, and now I sit at my Muncie window, a fresh crop of goosebumps prickling my skin, wondering how long we will be here before we are able to depart for hotter climes.

It cannot come soon enough, I sneeze into my sarong, ears trying to find the chirping of singing squirrels in the decaying post-industrial ruins outside.

Sigh.

I graduate NEXT MONTH, people. It is all happening so fast.

Backdated: April 4, 2008 "Pilgrims"

2008-04-08T19:37:00.000-07:00

It is one fourty-five in the afternoon, and I have just woken up. This morning, a motley crew composed of my dear Josh Perkins, Mona, and our own personal Sri Lankan patron saint, Pradeep--set out to climb a mountain. But not just any mountain, this mountain is Adam’s Peak.

I don’t actually know who Adam was. What I do know is that at the top of this mountain there is a Buddhist temple, and that this time of year pilgrims make their way to the top in the wee hours of the morning to see the miraculous apparition of the peak’s shadow floating on mist and to see the purported footprint of Buddha encased in a small shrine.

The trip began shakily, our train arriving many hours later than we expected it to, dropping us into darkness around 10:45 PM. We were immediately shuffled onto a bus, and were deposited a miserable, half-asleep hour later a short hike from lodging. And it was cold. Our friend Pradeep is from the tropical, southernmost province of Sri Lanka and has never seen mountains, or experienced cold before. This trip is our gift to him. As we all purchased warm clothing, we asked ourselves if he would be cursing us by the time we reached the summit of the mountain.

Mona and Pradeep:

We literally fell into bed sometime around midnight, wishing that we would not have to wake in mere hours. But we would do as pilgrims do, beginning at 3 AM in order to climb the 4,800 steps up in time for sunrise. The climb is 14 kilometers in total.

Mona woke us at 3 AM, and we all laid in bed wishing we were still sleeping. We finally rose, dressed, and set out into the night, accompanied by a dog from the guest house, Sudu (Sinhala for “white”). We had no idea that she would be our guide, but we quickly realized that she knew the way far better than us. First, we walked through a gate:

We passed a multitude of sellers in the beginning, vending water, food, and warm clothing. Then came the temple, where we were blessed by a monk, and made to ring a bell, signifying our first pilgrimage.

At first, we laughed and joked. Then, we had tea. Sudu remained by our side. More tea, more climbing, along the shambolic, crumbling steps. The night swelled out on all sides, mostly quiet, and presided over by more stars than I had imagined possible. As we tired, our jokes faded, and our hiking became more earnest.

Pradeep would stop and point to one of the Buddhist inspirational messages posted along the way in Sinhala. “You read, Francesca” he would insist. Everyone would rest while I slowly sounded out the words, finally asking what it meant. I think he is proud of my rapid learning, but the truth is that we all needed the rest.

At times, the lighting that instructed our feet would disappear, and we would be left with only a thin crescent of a moon and the endless splatter of stars to light the way. Eventually, the sky began to color, pale around the edges, revealing the mountains beyond, and the sea of mist many hundreds of feet below. With the sun came the twitterings and buzzings of all the fauna that had been silently present around us through the night. The beauty of our surroundings was disorienting.

Sudu, the World’s Most Heroic Dog:

She accompanied us every step of the way, joyously bounding up while we lagged achingly behind. Eventually we reached the top, one by one, all at our own pace, where we were rewarded with Buddhist blessings and the ringing of another brass bell in the crisp, chilly dawn air. The view was priceless, and the temple grounds at the summit were populated by hundreds of moths, many as large as my hand, in every color and shape imaginable. Perhaps it was a pilgrimage for them as well. I would have taken photos, but it was not allowed.

The view from the top was a splendid, multifaceted thing:

The quality of light on that mountain and in the hill country in general, is a pale, dancing wonder. It is simply a cleaner and brighter light that reflects back the intensity of the green tea plantations dappling the contours of every mountain here. Tomorrow I will backdate you a snippet with photos to show you where the world's best tea comes from.

One hint: it is breathtakingly beautiful.

The home stretch cometh

2008-04-02T04:48:00.000-07:00

Exhaustion creeps in, makes itself at home beneath my sun-strewn skin.

There is too much to tell, and not time enough with which to do it.

My mouth moves in symphony to these marvelous new letters, the incredible strangeness of an entirely new alphabet. My ears have adjusted to the rhythm and cadence of the Sinhalese language...Sinabasa.

Mosquitoes lullaby my body into disjointed, heat-stroked sleep. Clothing has acquired its own form of accursedness, stiffening in the wake of the naked ministrations of my hands under an infinitude of cold shower streams. Nothing I own has been laundered by anything but my own hands in months. The freshness of these cold, purposeful showers wilts the moment I step out of my towel into the suffocating, chewy humidity.

The heat is dizzying and oppressive, setting itself upon the undoing of effort. It is senseless to move quickly in such a climate, so one resigns oneself to the slowness that marks this gorgeous island nation. Adaptation reigns supreme.

The constant stares and "hello, where are you going? country?" have become as natural as the flocks of house crows that "caw, caw, caw" throughout the day, endemic as pigeons in Trafalgar Square.

My eyes are trained to the dark skins of my countrymen and women, no longer feeling isolated and strange in my whiteness. No, instead, I feel at ease, toting my umbrella everywhere like a proper Sinhalese woman, accompanied by her own personal cloud, blotting out this tiny spot of sun.

Translating for hours and hours today with our wonderful and generous beyond compare friend Pradeep, under his gentle encouragement I began to realize that I was reading Sinhala. Not well, not quickly. But reading it, nonetheless.

Do not misunderstand. This is not an easy country. Nothing is even slightly simple here. It is endlessly complicated, all of it. It is a nation that has been spared the savagery of Western Capitalism because of a long, bloody civil war. The irony is not lost on the World Bank and the IMF, both with their fingerprints all over the aid packages that swept in after the tsunami, determined (with the blessings of the Sri Lanka government) to convert this impoverished coastal paradise into another Maldives resort island, at the expense of the poor fisherfolk.

Confusion reigns supreme, as the reality of each player in this enormous mess of opportunism and dispossession has surfaced. It is ugly, and unfair, but then so are so many of the things in life that we have already accepted as "just life."

Each one of us, with our American passports and our white skin, represents a world of opportunity to these people. We are each considered a one-on-one aid organization, and it is precious and rare to meet anyone who does not ask at some point for some sort of assistance. Not something as tangible as money. That would be too easy. People want jobs, and they want a ticket out of this place.

And they are willing to work harder than anyone to make life easier for those who stay behind.

You can never know what opportunity is, until you see entire nations that suffer a complete lack of it. Until you learn to love people who can never see what you've seen and done what you've done, by the simple virtue of unlucky geographic circumstances.

I am beginning to think that the only real sin in life is to do nothing with the opportunity that you have been given by the grace of birth in a prosperous nation.

Then again, the land of opportunity has driven me into the arms of every developing nation I can get to. So what does that say about me? I am either very foolish or very crazy, and quite likely both.

I can live with that. I guess I have to.

Loved by the Sun (too much)

2008-03-21T22:25:00.000-07:00

Tangalle is a salve to the wounds of Bombay, too much so, perhaps. Four friends and I went down to the beach to swim, and then to stroll, and before we knew it we were all pulling in the nets for some fisherfolk.

The nets are 2 kilometers long, and it took two hours to reel it in. Two hours.

Let me spell that out for you: we were on the beach between 11am and 1pm, pulling up nets. And we are all so sunburned that we are a little bit incapacitated. I'd been hoping to get a touch of color on my fish-white legs. Done. Fuscia. Thanks, sun.

I'm trying to be calm about the pain, the tenderness, the fact that I have not been burned like this since childhood. It's excruciating, and shameful. And yeah. Enough complaints.

~~~~~

Meanwhile, I am sifting through the sands of this journey, mining it for truths small and large. The conflicts arising in my heart and mind are constant, and seemingly irreversible.

Nothing stays the same, not the shoreline, not our bodies, not the position of the heavenly bodies, not the employment of our friends at our guesthouse, nothing.

Every time I think I find a foothold in this world, a small shred of security, the foundation crumbles beneath me, and I am left flailing once more.

Sometimes the flailing is a joy, windswept like a kite on a thermal lift, other times the flailing leaves me bereft, without direction, without trust, without hope.

I'm somewhere in purgatory at the moment, suspended between meanings, straining my lean hope against all odds.

~~~~~~~~~

It has been eye opening, traveling with spoiled adult children dependent on Daddy's dime, shallowly making their way through the world as though traipsing through a large shopping mall...

I find myself faltering, questioning too deeply, letting the gravity of places and people sink into my psyche, while wondering why these other students are immune to it, responding to the darkness with either strident dismissal or ironic humor.

I'm afraid, my friends, that I enjoy the abyss too much, peering into it, shouting into its canyon and receiving the answer of my own voice filtered through its lightless horror, cleaving its cracks for meaning, extracting my own definitions from its crags and edges.

Sorry, I'm saying too much without saying anything.

Maybe I should leave you with a video:

Nevermind, that was taking forever and a day. Here is the totem animal of this entire trip: the ubiquitous question mark:

Bombastic Craptastic

2008-03-16T23:57:00.000-07:00

I know I should be gentle, roll with the punches while exuding a gentle sort of generosity of spirit. But I cannot. I'm not a Buddhist, and I have reached the end of my rope:

Bombay, I bloody HATE YOU.

Don't get me wrong, there have been magical moments all around, and really- as a matter of fact it has been chock full of truly revelatory experiences.

Meeting Akshay, an amazing photojournalist who has exposed us to the high-end world of swank Bombay, of international correspondents and Bollywood industry elites shipped in from overseas for their skill and work ethic. A world of intrigue and morbidity (and with it, morbid curiosity, of course) was opened by this channel. Sadly, the slice of this life comes complete with 12 dollar cocktails and 20 dollar cover fees for discos. But what are you going to do? Live it up, while ye olde ventricles are pumping, methinks.

On the other side of the spectrum, there is Dharavi, the magnificently large, shockingly well-developed "slum" where I met the Shaik family who took wonderful care of us in many ways, feeding us night after night, assisting us in the markets so that we would not be ripped off, and treating 4 of us to a family day at Elephanta Island, a wonder of the old Hindu world.

Then there is the outright absurdity of being extras in a Bollywood movie, as a few of us were one night. The absolute crush followed by cat-fight of the lady-only cars on the train, the filth that streams off in the shower each night.

Alas, the endless stream of beggars, each more destitute and insistent than the last, the rivers of shit, the air so choked with pollution it has left me with some sort of respiratory illness, the pavement dwellers numbering in the hundreds of thousands, who live and die on the sidewalks and streets, entire families of them...how do you reconcile these things?

Bombay will break your heart, in ways that you did not know it could be broken. I am a natural wanderer, who often imagines herself living in these far-flung places, eking out an existence amongst the monkeys and the flowers. But here, no. I say NO. My heart is simply not that resilient. I am not a machine, and all of the people who live here must make their compassion a mechanized thing in order to deal with the day to day.

I want to cry at least 30 times a day here, and yet I do not.

Bombay is a lyrical, rhapsodic place that is sustained on a thin gruel of hope; that very thing that keeps people here alive.

I may be hard, but I am also soft, and I find myself secretly everyone who claims to love this city, because I imagine that they either have no compassion or simply love suffering. That is not me.

Our (much, much) anticipated flight to Sri Lanka was cancelled after dramatic engine problems with the airplane. I am desperately happy that we are not on a defective craft, but Dios mio, I was looking forward to escaping back to my beloved Sri Lanka.

It will all be okay, I know this to be true. But even from the clutches of a 5-star hotel, I must tell you that I would rather be in our shoddy guest house in Sri Lanka.

Bombay, for all her reputed splendor (and in spite of her wonderful people) ranks very low on the list of places I believe people should visit.

India is not for the faint of heart, and Bombay is probably the worst of all.

And so tonight, half-drink on crappy beer, I cannot help but muse that Western influence is destroying the East.

I love you all, and wish that the world was a better place.

~F

A city of sighs.

2008-03-12T02:22:00.000-07:00

Everything Becomes Us

The stink of the West may hang heavy in the air, but there is no denying the distinctly Eastern flavor of this place. Walking around Bombay, I am taken by the notion that perhaps the British Empire constructed an armature, a skeletal frame for this city, and the Indians built the sculptural form around it that has come to be known as “Bombay,” and in more recent years “Mumbai,”

It is ugliness incarnate, if that is what you choose to see. There is filth, and poverty, and a swarming mass of human population that is dizzying and disorienting all at once. But there is beauty as well...an order wrought of chaos that is evident in the motions of this massive city and her inhabitants at every turn.

There are crumbling remnants of the British reign in every corner of the city. These remnants are clearly such, as their stained and ruined facades are the indicators of their age and wear. They seem tired, and quaint, like the desperate pleas of a doddering old woman who really just wants those pesky kids playing outside her window to pipe down. And Bombay will not pipe down. No, pesky Bombay will keep spewing filth into the hazy sky, and pouring shit into its rivers, and drawing rural dwellers from outlaying areas into its seductive, economically promising fold. And those rigid old British structures must simply stand there and take it, because their enfant terrible has outgrown them, and is free now to do what it wants.

The city is a recycling bin, everyone tossing their wrappers and cast-off bits and bobs out windows and out of train cars, into the streets and canals at will. If you observe closely, you may notice that there are men and women, bedecked with magnificently enormous burlap sacks and such, who comb every inch of the city, each culling their particular brand of waste from the bounty of the streets. Each kilo of waste paper, of plastic, of cloth and whatever else is absorbed by one industry or another, eventually. One man’s trash has perhaps never been so completely another man’s treasure as it is here in Bombay.

By day, the sidewalks are awash in a multitude of hawkers selling fresh fruit, vegetables, stationary, incense, jasmine garlands, saris, and any other number of needful things. The other day while walking through Bandra, the strap of my sandal snapped. I limped along for a few blocks until I came to one of the shoe repairmen who are ubiquitous on the streets here. For 10 cents, he fixed my sandal on the spot! A few blocks later, smitten with a pair of Rajastani shoes, I purchased a pair for no more than 8 dollars.

Not that it is all ease and convenience. No. The train is an exercise in tolerance, as rush hour means that an ocean of human bodies surge towards and away from the cars, flowing up and down the station stairs at a rate that is both unstoppable and unfathomable. You could pass out cold during these high-volume moments and likely be carried back to the entrance by the pressure exerted via the walls of flesh enclosing you on all sides. You couldn’t stop your trajectory if you wanted to.

The train cars themselves are unreal, packed to the gills with human bodies. If you are fortunate enough to find a seat on the train, you may find yourself relaxing a bit. At this point, the train’s gently undulating rhythm will make your head wobble from side to side, performing the Indian equivalent of a head nod. “Yes,” your head says as the train moves you towards your cause. “Yes, Okay.” The train makes you somehow more Indian with this one small mechanism. You need not even try. You need not fight it, because you cannot, so don’t waste your time. It is, like so many things here--effortless.

What is an effort is breathing. The air quality is nonexistent. Your nose is subjected to every olfactory injustice imaginable, and when you blow your nose at night, a sooty black mess is the evidence of a day spent in the city. The mark, I imagine, of a proper Mumbaiker.

I will never be a proper Mumbaiker, as I have no desire to. Yes, there is much more to tell, but I fear I’ve rambled on too much already.

For now, simply know that I miss my cat, and my bed, and my marvelous boyfriend. The adventure is perfect, and I am not unhappy, but there is, you know, no place like home.

And home is wherever in the world my cat and my man happen to be at the time.

Good night, and all my love,

~Francesca

Clearing up Misconceptions

2008-03-10T01:43:00.000-07:00

Oh, dear family.

I am glad that you are so concerned about my health. I had begun to think that I couldn't do anything that would concern you!

Let me tell it to you straight~ as you know, I have suffered a few really nasty tropical illnesses in my many travels (including, but not limited to: Ghiardia, Salmonella, Typhoid, and a dozen different types of dysentery).

Thus, trust me when I say that I do not wish to ever get than sick again. Ever.

So, when I say "tap water" in India I mean the water from the public "Drinking Water" taps. And in Sri Lanka, I drink tap water in the village I work in. I happen to believe it is safe to drink. I have been assured by several.

When I say "street food," I mean food that is being prepared on the street. Of course I don't eat street meat, and I generally indulge in things that look clean.

But hey~ I'm feeling very comfortable here, and I have had about a million inoculations. And NO, I will never take anything like the malaria prophylactic drugs.

I don't believe in taking antibiotics for a disease I don't have. That seems as insane as going to war over a threat that might exist. Ahem.

In conclusion, I take risks, yes. Measured and calculated risks. I love my life quite deeply, and plan on doing it for at least another 90 years.

Finally, medical science has a cure for almost everything! Let us rejoice.

Loving you all from stinking, sweltering, honk-a-thon Bombay.

Hope you are all well.

Bombay Days & Nights

2008-03-07T21:44:00.001-08:00

Oh, if I was a better blogger, perhaps I would regale you with images and words that would make you swoon, paint a picture of the chaotic smorgasborg of saris, incense and auto rickshaws that is Bombay...but I'm tired.

Bombay is in many ways less overwhelming than I expected it to be. We've spent some time exploring Dharavi, the "biggest slum in Bombay" in order to gain a deeper understanding of informal settlements.

It does not look anything like what the word "slum" implies. There are no tar-paper shacks, it is no slumping shantytown precariously perched on a mountainside littered with filth. No. It is nothing like that. It is, in fact, a really ingenius town, complete with running water, paved roads, and every sort of service and good you could imagine anyone wanting or needing.

Sure, there are goats and chickens wandering around, but that is normal for S.E. Asia. If anything, (as one of my colleagues noted) it is a perfect example of urban people living a rural lifestyle.

Unlike the rest of Bombay, Dharavi is not dusty, and it is cool and quiet compared to the craziness of the streets in the city proper. Yes, there is a creek running through it that is choked with shit and trash. But there is an incredible plastic recycling industry, a tanning and leather manufacturing industry, a food industry and a ceramic industry all INSIDE the "slum."

Their biggest problem is that their land is very valuable, and developers are planning a "slum rehabilitation" program that will destroy their way of life while moving them into high-rise apartments. This is supposed to magically make them middle class. Apparently these people have never seen "the projects" in America that have miserably failed to accomplish these goals.

A couple of my colleagues and I have made friends with a family in Dharavi, and are going to have dinner with them tonight (not for the first time).

My ideas about poverty have been deeply challenged by my experiences here.

In other news--you would all be horrified to know that between Sri Lanka and India I have broken all of the travel rules (drinking tap water, eating fresh vegetables, eating street food, drinking street drinks with ice) and yet I seem to be healthier than ever.

Life is beautiful, and exhausting.

And I love you all very much.

If you want to see some amazing images of Bombay, you should visit my new friend's blog here:

http://trivialmatters.blogspot.com/

Akshay says it beter in pictures than I possibly could in words...

February 26th: Sri Lanka, lover

2008-02-29T00:50:00.001-08:00

Tragically, I am in a HUGE hurry right now. Currently in Kandy, the city famous for housing the Buddha tooth relic and withstanding the forces of the Portuguese and Dutch colonies for centuries.

It is breathtaking. Breathtaking. I am in love with this country in ways that I cannot put into words.

Wild peacocks, tropical birds of every hue known to man, monkeys in the trees, and the most beautiful, smiling people I have ever seen.

I am now officially reading Sinhaha. It is incredibly beautiful...the letters sensuous, round, with fat bottoms, and arching backs. Reading them makes me tingle.

February 21st: slumping towards the future

2008-02-29T00:47:00.000-08:00

Slowly coming back from a pesky cold...chills and a dry, hacking cough keeping me up with the dull roar of the ocean swallowing everything outside.

We missed the lunar eclipse, my colleagues and I, on account of being on the wrong side of the world.

Comprehension dawns on me slowly as people in the village have become more accustomed to our presence here. Nothing is as it seems, and as much as I hate to say it: being pragmatic has been incredibly useful to me as a researcher. I don't believe anyone is ever telling 100% of the truth, as I happen to think that truth is more arbitrary a science than exact.

In short: people lie. Particularly when you are the Other, the White Other in a brown world.

Particularly when you represent hope and power. Power has so many meanings. We can do and undo things with the power we wield, us educated, us active.

My camera LCD is broken as of yesterday, so I am shooting blind, out of a digital machine rendered analog. I dub my camera "digalog" (as it's now officially a digital camera with an analog feel) and soldier on.

Today the rain fell with a fury, staining the sky black and pockmarking the ocean into a roiling, alien landscape.

The only other woman in our group, Anuja, broke down tonight, upon hearing that her 2-year-old is in the hospital, convulsing with seizures from an intensely high fever. She is in the village with us, preparing for the town meeting we've organized for tomorrow. I held her hand and stroked her hair as she wept, feeling the deepest sympathy for her, simultaneously realizing yet again why I will never have children. I could never stand to love anyone that much. The fear of losing that part of a self is actually too much for me to imagine.

The wife of the guest house owner where we stay in told me the story of the tsunami this morning, and how their 1.5 year old son was swept away into the ocean. The same ocean that roars, 25 meters beyond the front door of her home now, day and night. How can she stand it? I could not.

One of my colleagues honored me with the telling of her own story the other night...It cleaved me in two, her story of love and adventure sandwiched in between 2 unspeakable tragedies. It made me marvel at how positive and upbeat a being she is, how marvelous and brave.

These people all make me feel small and cowardly in my small triumphs and battles.

I want to speak Sinhalese in a way I have rarely wanted anything. I bought my first book to begin to learn to read in it today.

I have begun to research NGOs in the country. I want to live here within a year, for a long time.

I want to go native, lose myself to this delicious lobe of SE Asia forever.

Phuket Impressions

2008-02-21T09:34:00.000-08:00

Tonight, I am twitchy with restlessness. My timing just seems to be off. I'm suffering a slight bout of world-weariness, finding it irritating how smitten my colleagues are with Thailand.

I love it, too, but I've got months of Thailand under my belt, and I can't help but see her for what she is. A tourist mecca along the Andaman coast that promises smiles and elephant paraphernalia galore, as well as underage girls for sale in shady show bars where they stand (looking all of 12 years old) in tall boots and sexy dresses, lip synching while looking as though they are trying not to cry.

It is enough to make even the hardest, most cavalier man break down. We wandered in the other night, mistakenly thinking that we had found a Karaoke bar. The beer was cheap, so we took a seat, and slowly realized what was going on. We were all uniformly horrified, and left quickly.

Tonight I felt stretched thin, still fighting a nagging tickle in my throat, still feeling a bit off kilter.

I wandered away from the bright lights and markets, wandered onto one thin, winding street after another until I was thoroughly convinced that I was lost deep in the bowels of this place. Slowly, I backtracked my way to familiarity, like a thread winding its way out of an enormous knot, dipping and diving, sleepwalking my way past open doors revealing old ladies in sagging dresses, Buddhist shrines, steaming noodle alcoves.

Every sense is razor sharp when I am lost, so that each detail stands out like a bloodstain on a white sheet: distinct and indistinct, a Rorschach test designed to reveal what I am really feeling beneath the stress of group travel and the pangs of senseless desire to disappear.

A mother watches a tiny little girl squatting in the grass beside a restaurant, peeing. A beautiful young man sits astride his motorbike holding a steel-gray cat with half a tail in his lap, petting it adoringly. Two homely, stocky lady boys riding a motorbike cruise by me, both smiling and staring. What in the hell is this white gal doing in our alley? their glittering eyes seem to say.

A woman at a noodle shop tells me that the soup is too spicy for me. This is all done with sign language, the unofficial, international variety practiced everywhere by non-native visitors and endured by their patient (and sometimes impatient) hosts. I assure her that spicy is "Dee Maak," or "very good." I sit to a bowl that looks as though it is full of tripe, and my heart sinks. Screw it. I'm hungry, and I need to not get sick. I recall my father once saying that menudo (Mexican tripe stew) is good for you when you are sick.

My first bite proves my bravura foolish. It is a chicken foot. A chicken foot for crying out loud! I don't eat chicken at all, and I happen to rather like the little buggers, having had 2 as pets for the last few years. I gag it down, and then proceed to eat the blood cake floating in the mind-numbingly spicy broth. At least my mouth is on fire, obscuring the taste of congealed blood for the time being.

I eat almost everything by transporting myself to a better moment, smiling wanly as I recall our perfect lunch this afternoon, and the Thai students we are working with when they told me, "Francesca, we like to watch when you eat, when you talk, it is like you are always dancing." I recalled myself presenting today, realizing that years of dancing must have left an imprint on my mannerisms. My hands are like eager little birds, painting pictures in the sky to illustrate my points. I watch my fingers lace when I say the word "unification" and I see them flutter apart when I say "the community was broken".

My hands chase one another as I describe tsunamis wrecking the coast, and I make my fists into houses to illustrate proximities and spatial relationships. Public speaking is a performance for me, it seems.

I watch myself in my mind's eye as I eat this impossibly spicy, revolting meal: I speak slowly and with great clarity, choosing my words for conciseness. I never say "um." The foreigners appreciate my presentations, because I pan around the room with my eyes, and on the lookout for comprehension and confusion.

I wonder what the future holds for a lady like me. A dancing, dreaming, public speaking pixie who never knows when to give up, who does not know how to admit defeat...

I wander through the spiderweb of streets, mournful Karaoke songs accompanying my every step, a lone star glistening beyond the concrete roof lines. Eventually I see, out of the corner of my eye, a familiar building at the intersection.

I walk toward the light, drenched in my own sweat, the swarming of manufactured sounds turning the heavy, hot air alive. I have found myself again, by losing myself to the night.

Miracle Morning

2008-02-08T23:09:00.000-08:00

I wish I had more time for eloquence, because this morning deserves much more than I can possibly give it here and now.

We are conducting our research here in Tangalle, the sounthernmost state in Sri Lanka. Our village, Yayawatte, is several kilometers away, but our guest house is 25 meters from the Indian Ocean, and is a truly remarkable sort of paradise.

It is Saturday here, and I awoke shortly after 7 a.m. with a heart full of resolve to go for a jog along the crescent-shaped cove of beach we live on. My colleagues were already in the ocean when I arrived beachside. I slathered on SPF and began my jog.

Perhaps I should describe the waves here. In a word: terrifying. In another word: murderous. And one last word: thrilling. They roar like thunder, and lap at my legs intermittently as I make my way along the way. The stray dogs along the way greet me, in a way that is at least partially friendly.

I pass the fishermen, returning to land, pulling up nets, and their smiles and waves meet mine, illuminating as ever the incredible welcome of the Sri Lankan culture. After a kilometer or so, I arrive at a lagoon, where I spontaneously decided to do something I have not done in years. Yoga and meditation.

I situate myself beneath a small tree on the lagoon's edge, and do a series of sun salutations. Then I sit. The coarse sand coating my feet coupled with my tender, white thighs has the effect of sand paper. I cannot manage a lotus position. And so I sit, crosslegged, and close my eyes. After several deep breaths, for whatever reason, I open my eyes, and gaze at the lagoon.

There are these enormous, Komodo Dragon-type lizards all over the place here. I see one, roiling in the water. I think it is clinging to a log, but as I observe it, I realize there are two, locked in an embrace...mating?
I am transfixed! I stand, feeling incredibly fortunate to be witnessing this. A toothless fisherman points excitedly, leading me to believe this is a rare and strange thing to see. I watch the coital lizards as they are rolled along in the lazy current toward the inlet, where the lagoon is joined by the sea. They swim to safety moments before the violence of the waves swallows them.

I return to my seat, and meditate briefly, slowly being dissolved into the cacophony of birdsongs, the monkeys ululating, and the waves roaring. I hear a distinct voice in my head say, "I wish I could always be in meditation."

I wonder at this as I stand, and begin a slow, long jog back to the guest house. I know that meditation means a lot of things to a lot of people, but to me, it is profoundly simple: The cessation of static filling your head. The ability to exist, for a moment, in the moment. It really is that simple. And that difficult.

I jog past a fisherman, who gestures to me, pointing to his elbow, "You like?"

I do like elbows, I think...but not particularly. I bobble my head side to side (the Sri Lankan version of nodding, 'yes'). Sure, I like elbows. Wait, maybe he means, 'swimming'. I bobble. I like that, too.

He gestures, "come". So I do. He lifts a beautiful lobster from the boat, "You like?"

Hell, yes, I do! "Keyaduh?" (how much) I ask?

He lifts 3 more out. Okay. "Keyaduh?"

He runs off, and grabs 2 more from a neighbor's boat. "$1,400 rupias" he says, grinning over the 6 lobsters. That's 14 dollars for about 3 pounds of still-living lobster!

I say, "Oh!" (which means 'yes').

His friend offers to bring them to the guest house, as I have no money on me.

I continue to jog. As I approach another group of fishermen pulling in their net, the lead man gestures to me,"You help!" he says. I join the group of 6 men, heaving at an impossibly heavy length of jute, strung with wooden floats, presumably attached to a net somewhere out in those murderous waves.

I grab on, and as they chant a strange, rhythmic call, I pull alongside them. This is an entirely different sort of meditation. As the waves roll in, you pull, and as they roll out, you plant yourself in the sand, straining against the more powerful party in this game of tug-of-war.

Within minutes, I am sweating profusely, marveling at these stringy men in their sarongs, pulling at what seems like an impossible length of net. I continue to strain my muscles alongside them, as pale as the flesh of the fish that struggle within that net. Another man joins us, and I take my leave, their wide smiles trailing behind me.

As I jog back, a behemoth wave is piggybacked by another 10-footer, and they magnify each other. In spite of my distance from the ocean, their wash takes my feet out from under me as efficiently as a lion takes down a gazelle. The ocean rakes my body across the sharp, granular sand, scraping my right side. I struggle to my feet, and run inland.

When I look at this ocean, I feel fear and awe. When I muster the courage to swim in her, I feel the same.

Still, I am in love with this morning, as I am in love with every morning here.

And I wanted to share it with you.

We Escaped with our Lives...

2008-02-04T19:46:00.000-08:00

Today, while the rest of the students accompanied our professor to look at some famous Sri Lankan architect’s work, three of us took the train a short way to Colombo. We had been emphatically warned against going, on account of the fact that there is currently a civil war of sorts going on in this country between the Sinhalese and the Tamils. It is very complicated. And tomorrow is Sri Lankan independence day, where there will be huge parades in the capital city celebrating 60 years of sovereignty from the British. Violence is expected, in the form of Tamil Tiger bombings.

I lead the charge of rebels, in spite of a Sri Lankan friend warning me yesterday not to go to the ‘Fort’ in Columbo. He was certain that it would be fine elsewhere, but that this particular place was unsafe. I don't even know where the "Fort" is. Oh, how we laugh when the ticket master at the railway station hands over our tickets, which clearly read: Columbo Fort. Like moths to a flame, we have gravitated straight to the epicenter of danger.

As we wander by foot, we are approached by a seemingly endless number of Sri Lankan men, armed with a smattering of barely-intelligible English, all eager to ‘help’ us out in some way, the generic, “My friend, let me show you a good place for to shopping” routine. My companions are a still a little wet behind the ears, and unfamiliar with the hustle that naturally accompanies the white visitor to a brown country. I take a step back, and allow us to be led by a particularly ‘helpful’ guy to a sari shop, where I must admit~we get some pretty good deals on a couple of gorgeous saris.

We finally shake our helpful guide, who seems disappointed with the generous tip that we gave him, after much bellyaching about how much help he provided us. We gave him $5 dollars, in a country where a meal too large to eat in one sitting costs 50 cents.

Free at last to wander, we buy fruit from a dense vegetable market, the ripe, oily smell of dried and spoilt fish hanging heavy in the stagnant air. A soccer stadium provides myself and lady friend Ashley a respite from the sweltering heat and sun. I slice chunks off a fat, salmon-fleshed papaya, and we eat them, drenched in lime juice, right off the knife’s blade--while watching our companion, Josh, playing a friendly game of soccer with the locals.

As we seek out an ATM, broke from our sari shopping and visit to the tailor to fit us with choris (the sari blouses), a thunderous -BOOM- split the nearby air. I feel it in my feet, through my shoes. “Josh. That was a bomb, it had to be. Nothing else would do that.” I am vaguely concerned, but choose to focus instead on extracting funds from the ATM, which proves uncooperative. When I emerge from the bank booth, Josh is wild-eyed, and a tone of panic underlays his normally cavalier tone, “Francesca, everyone is running, people keep telling me we need to leave.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s fine. They just don’t want us to be freaked out, since we’re foreigners.”

He seems unconvinced, as we trace a funny, winding path through the streets, in search of another bank machine. Shopkeepers are pulling their roll-doors shut, street vendors are packing up their wares, and the streets are suddenly swarming with military personnel.

Ashley turns ashen, her fists clenched tightly, knuckles bone-white. “Everyone is closing, everyone is leaving. What do we do? What do we do?!”

My calm is still intact. “I’m sure they’re just closing for midday. It’s hot, shop keepers always close up midday in this sort of climate.”

We take our money from a bank machine and head back to the tailor. We are two hours ahead of schedule, but my companions are desperately ready to head back. We note, at one point, that we are walking in the opposite direction of everyone else, three glowing, white pearls trickling against the steady flow of mahogany bodies.

A tall, studious-looking young man walks up to us and says, “There has been a bomb, at the station, you should leave Columbo, it is very dangerous.”

The tailor asks us to return in an hour and a half. My companions are actually beginning to look very afraid. We grab a tuk-tuk (awesomely noisy, 3-wheeled taxi ubiquitous to SE Asia) and I ask for him to take us somewhere where we can get a beer. As we navigate the streets, it is impossible not to notice that the same city streets that had previously been a colorful, mad melee are now magically transformed into a tense, sparse ghost town. Military barricades have been erected hither and thither, and all of the streets that were 2-way thoroughfares have been converted to one-way escape routes.

Our little corner of Colombo is no longer a vibrant, functional body. It is vomiting everything, everyone, out of the vicinity of the violence.

We are delivered to a hotel where a Japanese man and a hotel clerk sit glued to a TV screen. We sit beside them, and watch the *Breaking News* footage of the bomb blast. We had assumed that the blast was at the market, near the bus stand, or at the bus station, as much of the rebel violence is centered around the busses. Nope. The Colombo Fort train station, where we had landed only hours earlier, had suffered a serious bombing. A shaky hand-camera relays footage of the the floor and pillars of the station, splattered with the blood of innocent civilians, their broken sandals and bags of vegetables strewn about~ a tragic end to many a benign trip to the market. People died, just now, right there. I felt the shock of it in my feet. We were that close.

http://www.defence.lk/new.asp?fname=20080203_12

For the first time, I feel uneasy, and a little sick to my stomach.

I brought these people here, my friends, on the brash assumption that our professor (who is a native of Colombo) was simply being paranoid when we forbade us to go into town this weekend. They trusted my authority as a seasoned traveler who refuses to worry about anything.

We sit, sipping our beers, ordering another, and another, until they go to work on the frayed nerves and disbelief, lulling everyone into a softly alcoholic sense of reassurance. The main problem now is that the trains are not running, and we have to find an alternate form of transport to Moratuwa, the township where we are staying.

We take a harrowing tuk-tuk ride back to the tailor, where we catch them just as they are closing up shop. The streets are now entirely empty, save for men and women in military dress, many with their enormous guns slung over their shoulders. On the long, and comparatively expensive (15 dollars as opposed to 30 cents by train) tuk-tuk ride back to Moratuwa, we vow to not tell our professor, or anyone in our group, where we had gone. This is the sort of lie that protects everyone from a truth none of us want to consider:

Like bad soldiers, we disobeyed orders, and were rewarded with the realization that sometimes orders make sense. We were wrong, and the authority figure of this trip was right. We risked our lives to sight-see and go shopping.

In spite of it all, I must report that I was strangely unafraid throughout the entire ordeal, leading me to believe that I am at least part-robot. Maybe I should be a war-correspondent, as my temperament seems to be rather well-geared for it.

Nevertheless, I won’t be playing around in the war zone so carelessly again. Some wake-up calls are louder than others, and this one is still reverberating beneath my skin.

I count my blessings, once more, as always.

Even paradise is haunted by the promise of violence, the lions & tigers & bears of jungles and forests. Here, it just happens to be Tigers, with a capital T.

I met a monkey, and a few other moments...

2008-01-25T20:16:00.001-08:00

From Banda Aceh with love

2008-01-25T20:15:00.001-08:00

The volcanic mountains of Aceh rise up like jagged, verdant teeth; we lay within the mouth of the ‘Ring of Fire’. Rice paddies glisten like jewels, and the sweet aroma of clove cigarettes wafts through the streets, hangs in the air like a quaint reminder that even smoke can be candied.
The air is pregnant with moisture, it clings to your skin, glazes everything in a clammy film. Dragonflies swarm the air, a constant droning as the soundtrack to their predation. The hotel pool is blessed by this army of mercenaries, as they keep the ravening mosquitoes at bay.

Our hotel provided the softest of landings, and rather unexpectedly so. I could not have imagined this sort of luxury in the midst of this very undeveloped country, site of the most significant natural disaster in the modern record.

The roads are an exercise in perfect order emerging from chaos. Like gnats or starlings, the myriad of motorbikes, buses, tuk-tuks, and everything in between- all somehow manage to coexist, darting here and there, yielding and charging, and yet somehow never touching one another.

The people here are incredibly kind and helpful, welcoming and curious: like the people in every underdeveloped place I have ever been. The influx of NGOs has not corrupted the culture...yet. The KFC and Pizza Hut in the center of town serve as brutal reminders that with development comes the spectre of consumer culture.

We’ve met many, many tsunami survivors, and the stories are both shocking and incredible. There is much involved, the compensation, rebuilding, and in many cases the complete losses suffered by some.

The tsunami created an incredible opportunity to end the separatist strife that divided Aceh and Indonesia for the past 30 years. In the wake of utter devastation, there was a great residue of hope deposited on the ravaged land. The people have a spirit and an interest in their own well being that has come as an absolute delight after the spectacle of New Orleans.

The Aceh People’s Forum, an umbrella organization that organizes all of the relief efforts, arranged a roundtable discussion for our group yesterday. We presented our aggregated observations and recommendations to the group of locals, NGO coordinators, press, and others, and spent an incredibly successful time discussing the merits and flaws in our work.

Ultimately, it got us all fired up, put us on Indonesian television, and is being incorporated into a document that will be published and presented to the Indonesian government in an effort to help shape the debate around redevelopment efforts.

In other news, the muezzin’s song wakes me shortly after 5 a.m. each day. I lay in bed listening to the call to prayer, luxuriating in its exotic, haunting melody. No one else wakes to it, a testament to what a light sleeper I am. I’ve been to the gym each morning at 6, swimming laps in the outrageous pool as the sun ascends.

In short, it is a strange sort of paradise, the luxury hotel juxtaposed with the redolent down-market grime of the streets. I wish we could spend a month here.

Next stop, Sri Lanka by way of Singapore. Over and out.

Bon Voyage

2008-01-16T09:46:00.000-08:00

Well, today is Wednesday, and I'm no fool. I leave Sunday, and harbor no kindly delusions of having "all the time in the world." No, before I know it, I will be on an airplane, surveying the curve of the edge of the Earth, experiencing my usual "Icarus, eat your heart out" moment, and tingling with anticipation of our first destination.

My dear friends and family, for those of you who don't know exactly what is going on: we will be visiting India, Sri Lanka, Thailand, and Indonesia to observe the long term effects of the huge tsunami as well as relief efforts. I will be completing my thesis while there.

We will kick off this Southeast Asian adventure with a trip to Banda Aceh. It's pretty crazy, to start at the disaster's epicenter and radiate outward from there.

I have no idea what to expect, really. Just know that I will be posting pictures and journal entries whenever I get the chance.

The good news is that they probably won't be as long-winded as the past few entries, so you will be spared my sprawling prose.

Please be well, and expect post cards!

Love,
~F

p.s. In case you find checking this thing annoying, you can subscribe (see upper right) so that you get an email when I post.

The Scars We Bear

2008-01-12T10:38:00.000-08:00

Somewhere, there is a breach. And the breach must let. Water, blood, trust, security, it is let by the breach, and when the letting has been done, there will be a reminder marking its passage. The breach is a violence, and the memory of violence in some form or fashion is indelible. There is no way to avoid this truth of being. It stubbornly sticks to our skin, embeds itself in the soul, or gashes itself across the landscape.

Perhaps this is the truth of why we celebrate scars: they tell a story of violence, and better yet, of survival.

I do not like to be exposed. My own vulnerability makes me feel a little sick, and violently uneasy. This may be the reason why I have choosen to fight the battles of the vulnerable who lack the means to fight their own alone.

I heal myself by healing others. Perhaps I always have.

An endless vertical flickering of slender, pale trunks forms a pattern of the passing landscape. It is repeated on the insides of my eyelids, when they droop shut from exhaustion. We are on our way to the gulf coast. And I am afraid of what we will find.

The scars on the coast are brazen, ugly, and unhidden. Concrete pads that once held homes. People existed here. Bedclothes strung high in the branches of trees, forgotten and unretrievable. Ghosts of a community. Inflatable churches. The few oceanside buildings that remain look as though they have complied with the new codes: 12 foot pilings like slender legs, supporting a mass of building above. But it is an illusion, a scar left by subtraction rather than addition: the first floor swept away, support beams left doing what they were designed to do.

And that was the hopeful part.

New Orleans is a shadow. Oh, the French Quarter is fine, and so is the Garden District. But anyone who thinks that these slices of iconography are New Orleans never really knew her.

It has been well over 2 years, and little has taken place besides a mass exodus. Trailers litter the land like apologies. As I walk the Lower Ninth Ward, trying to hold back tears, I strike up a conversation with an older black man.

“God did this to us,” says Albert Johnson, boozy breath reaching my nostrils. “For treating each other so bad, it’s our punishment.”

I look into his eyes, imploringly, “Will the community come back?” He chuckles the sort of chuckle that is a substitute for sobbing, and asks

“What community?”

The stench of decay rises from every direction, and the few homes left standing are spray-painted with pitiful pleas: “DO NOT DEMOLISH, TRYING TO REPAIR” or
“FEMA $ HAS NOT COME, PLEASE DO NOT TEAR DOWN.” People lived here.

The scars of poor governance rise up in unison, a siren song for reform...and no one heeds the call. Those left behind are wary, resilient, and marked with the indelible expressions of disappointment and despair. They have been abandoned, lied to, brutalized.

Some lost, little girl inside of me cringes, remembering all of the times she was felt she was left on her own, to fend for herself. It is, in an instant, fresh and raw and all-too-real. And it is happening now on a scale that is difficult to comprehend.

The horizon is a levy, holding back the potential of the Mississippi. The land, scraped bare, wears the mark of her ire. The wrath of nature, coupled with a human lack of compassion, leaves a legacy deeper than the skin of this rotting neighborhood reveals. Lives unraveled here. People died here.

But I am supposed to be clinical about this, jotting notes, snapping photos. And so I stray from my peers, pretending to think when all I want to do is feel. I do a little soft dying on my own, before collecting myself up. Feelings must let, before thoughts bridge the breach.

And then I begin taking notes, sketching furiously, making a million little promises to serve these people, and people like them, through my work. I have ideas.

But the breaches are so varied, so multiple, so vast. And I am only one.

The injuries are deep, and the causes many and difficult to name. But the scars are reminders of having survived. They are a celebration in and of themselves.

These indelible marks lay scattered across the land, worming their way into the spirit of a people, turning some terrified, some hopeless, others angry, and yet others ambivalent. It is easy to close your eyes, easy to become an island.

Every action that closes a piece of the breach is a bridge. The marks remaining are a testament to our will to survive. I survive on the hope of the survival of human kind. Of human kindness.

And every stain, every scar left behind is a promise to remember what we are capable of doing, of feeling, and of recovering from.

Every memory of violence promises its prevention in the future. Through our scars, we remember.

New Years 2008

2008-01-07T07:45:00.001-08:00

It's neither superstition nor ritual that forces me to acknowledge and celebrate New Years each year. It is a blind optimism concerning the mechanics of the universe that washes over me in warm, rolling waves.

I consider New Years Day, much like a birthday, a station point in life. It’s a dog-eared page in a journal that we thumb back to annually, re-read certain lines, and discover a new & different meaning each time. It is an opportunity to recognize that we have completed yet another revolution around the Sun, and that one more revolution has begun anew.

2007 came to an end beneath a tapestry of stars so glittering and expansive that it brought to mind the night skies of childhood, the imaginings of an immense swathe of black paper pricked with holes, filtering in some light from beyond.

The campfire glowed, and we huddled around it, laughing and pouring champagne, toasting the sky and each other again and again. Shooting stars leave strands of wishes in their wake. I walk a short distance from camp, into the Texas night, and a chill creeps into my bones as I squat to pee. I pour myself onto the cracked earth under cover of night, exhale a wisp of warm breath, and wonder at the vital exchanges taking place at both ends of my body.

It is no wonder why the transcendentalists were all moved by nature. In this place, we are all vulnerable to the elements, life is unpredictable, and more visceral than indoors. I am infinitely more alive out here.

Around the fire, or within the enormous yurt, there are embraces, confessions, laughter. And it dawns on me, “These people love and respect me.” No matter how many times I fail myself, or refuse to believe I have succeeded, I have earned the respect of the people I love. 2008 is the year I will earn my own respect.

I will earn my degree this year, 5 long, stressful years in the making. In a couple of weeks I will be in Asia, examining the sites of disasters on the shores of several nations. And then, on some distant shore, I will carve my name into my profession...

2008 is full of promises. In spite of personal uncertainty, some things are certain:
There will be more deaths, as there always are. Some will govern well, and others poorly. Scandals and environmental catastrophes will rock the airwaves. Small kindnesses will go unreported, and people will continue to be people everywhere, screwing and fighting, hoping and waiting, loving and hating.

More noteworthy, our little planet will continue to make its way around the sun, celestial bodies will wink conspiratorially at one another, and cycles will continue to unfold, wreaking havoc on humanity simply by doing as their nature compels.

Like the transcendentalists before me, I will reach out to the world in 2008, lay myself bare like an exposed nerve, and let myself be guided by the precious vulnerability I find in discomfort and danger. That, and wait to see what is written when we return to this station on the eve of 2009.

Fly by Night

2007-12-06T22:09:00.000-08:00

What in the hell happened? One minute, I was sitting here, all nice and organized at the beginning of a freshly minted semester, and here I am~frazzled, unwashed, horrid~trembling in the shadow of finals week.

Guh. I don't know where it goes. In unrelated (but awfully relevant) news, my brother just turned 27. TWENTY-SEVEN, for crying out loud!!! That ostensibly means that I am going to be 29 in January.

I have one last year of my 20's remaining. Thank god I will finally be graduated. I don't think I could live with the shame of being 30 and not having earned my undergraduate degree.

Anyhow, this is going to be short and sweet. I miss and love everyone. I will be back tomorrow to gripe loudly about everything that is wrong with the world. Much like Granddaddy Tom, I feel that a good old fashioned rant really puts me back in the "happy place" I need to be in to accomplish the mountain of school work that is breathing down my neck.

It is almost over, and I couldn't be happier. At least if I had time to actually consider how I feel.

Is that all there is to a fire?

2007-10-27T07:10:00.000-07:00

Days have been long of late, bleeding into nights, all of the above mostly spent hunched over the computer, working on an endless stream of schoolwork...Last night was no exception, and I finally fell into an exhausted slumber around 3am.

Twas not fated to last, that sleep. A pounding on the door downstairs woke me. 4:30am is no time for visitors, and a chill ran through me as I shook Chip awake. "What is that?!" He stood in the darkness, "I'll go check." I lay there, momentarily terrified, and before he made it down the stairs he shouted, "You need to come down here!"

I threw on my robe, and as I descended the stairs the window over the landing emitted an eerie, flickering orange light. Fire. Shit. The pounding on the door was frenzied, a woman's voice yelled, "You need to get out of there!"

I complied.

For a moment, like a terrible dream, I stood transfixed, afraid to round the corner into the alley-convinced that my garage was being consumed, and the house next.

Staring down the alley, heat radiated from the flames that licked the garage of the vacant house next door to death, I stood paralyzed, in disbelief. Another blaze cast a hellish, dancing light further down the alley. My heart beat in a way that made me feel sick, and slowly the firemen made their way towards the blaze.

The overhead powerlines caught the flame, and it slithered along them crackling with an eager, sinister sort of glee. The houses all went dark, leaving the fire alone to light the night like some evil, cackling star landed.

We got the animals, and the flames moved across the alley to another garage. My palpitations continued, and I stood amongst neighbors, faces all lit up with dread and a ghostly orange light.

I watched the firemen hose it all down, peeling off layers of the ruined structure like skin from an onion, hosing each in turn. I wondered at these brave fellows who speak the language of fire, who know how to put it to sleep. We all speak secret languages, I suppose.

Eventually, we climbed the stairs through our dark house, shaken but unscathed, we fell back into an uneasy sort of sleep.

*** *** *** *** ***

I'd been feeling melancholy for weeks now, purposeless and lonely. In a place where life is so much work, and all my life's anchors distant and lost at sea, perhaps I sometimes find it too easy to feel forgotten, as though my own trajectory has finally set me on a course destined not to cross paths with loved ones ever again.

This is, of course, silly self indulgence.

Last weekend, distracted from yard work, I wandered to that derelict garage, ran my hands over the artifacts there, the abandoned memories and keepsakes of someone else. Today, all that is remains is a blackened heap of detritus.

Somewhere in the midst of this, I remember that all of this we hold dear is terribly temporary. We are precious, you and I and all the things that pass between and amongst and around us. I smiled a little more easily today.

Would it be wrong for me to secretly thank the fire (if not the arsonist) for jarring me back into being, and reminding me to breathe a little deeper, laugh a little more, take all this a little less seriously?

Thank you Fire. For sparing our little piece of this place, and giving us the opportunity to appreciate it all for just a little bit longer.

My Internet Generation

2007-10-13T10:53:00.000-07:00

Insert deep sigh here

Lately, I am unconvinced by the convictions of my generation. It's like somewhere along the way, we all collectively decided to "drink the kool aid," consequences be damned.

The New York Times hosted a little college essay contest and the winning entry entitled "The Posteverything Generation" managed to both sour my stomach and remind me of the futility of the "me" generation.

Perhaps we've been ruined by instantaneity, in the sense that we've become a people who believe that anything worth doing is worth doing right now, regardless of how half-baked and poorly executed the result. The idea that Moveon.org and Facebook groups are somehow a replacement for actual protest and revolutionary tactics is beyond me. What is the conferred advantage of rapidly accessible information at the flick of a switch?

Myanmar, for one, does not seem to be benefiting. No offense, but screw your Facebook group asking me to join in solidarity for the monks being slaughtered in the streets of military junta-run Burma. Did that click-click-clicking do them any good? Did I save a life? Did I actively move the government of Myanmar closer to resolution? I'm afraid not. But did I feel smugly better about myself. You betcha. That seems to be the sole intent of these web-based protests. A pacifier, something to placate that unsettling feeling of wrongness that soaks your conscience if you are so masochistic as to read the international section.

Do I have an alternative? I'm not sure I do. I'm questioning a lot of things right now.

The more educated I become, the farther estranged I feel. From old friends, from family, from the earth itself. I see an entire contingent of bright beautiful people having a lot of fun, and I wonder if I am missing something. Am I working too hard? Do I really think that all this effort will bear fruit on some grand scale? Or do I narrow my scope? Does the deferment of gratification ever end, or do I keep on working this hard forever?

I guess my point is that there is a nice balance in there somewhere. Whether you join Big Brothers/Big Sisters and spend some quality time with an underprivileged kid, teach an ESL class one night a week, start a community garden, go to a developing country and meet a family you want to help out by putting one of their kids through school, volunteer a weekend to clean up a park or river, go to a city council meeting, make a conscious effort to not shop at Walmart, stop eating factory farmed meat, smile at someone on the street, mow your elderly neighbor's lawn...the list is infinite. Joining a Facebook group or signing an online petition seems like the easy way out.

No, I don't think that I can stop what is happening in Myanmar, or Sudan, or the Democratic Republic of Congo, or (enter totally screwed place here).
In some sense, the fact that we've been made aware of all these things seems to have had an anesthetizing, rather than empowering effect.

I do think that we can use our own individual skills and creative genius to make big changes. I think it will take time. But most of all, it will take effort, not button pushing.

I am not afraid to admit that there is much more I don't know than there is I will ever know. I am not afraid to celebrate my smallness. I am not afraid to tell you exactly what I see. I am not afraid to try to make a difference, no matter how small, with my tiny, precious little life.

Oh troubled times!

2007-09-24T14:14:00.001-07:00

I know that you will not all agree with me on this one, but frankly, I am embarrassed by what I just heard on NPR as I sat doing my homework.

Columbia University, one of the foremost universities in this great nation, invites Iranian president Ahmadinejad to speak. I don't really have a serious problem with this action in and of itself. He wouldn't be my first choice. In fact, given the tremendous number of amazing speakers and wonderful minds out there, I suspect he would be one of my last choices. But then, I'm not in charge, so there.

What I find so horrifically offensive are Columbia President Lee Bollinger's pre-speech remarks, including (but certainly not limited to) calling the president "a petty and cruel dictator" to the thrilled and delighted applause and cheering of the collegiate audience.

This is too easy, too much like shooting fish in a barrel. I mean, shouldn't students and administrators at one of the most celebrated universities in the country be willing to try a little harder?

Why don't they have a speaker like the Israel prime minister Ehud Olmert come visit? Then Bollinger could ask about the destruction of billions of dollars worth of infrastructure (not to mention the 50 mile long oil slick) inflicted upon Lebanon last year in a very real, very avoidable attack masquerading as a war.

http://gdaeman.blogspot.com/2006/07/lebanon-damage-report-2006.html

Maybe Columbia could invite Robert Mugabe next, and ask some questions about how he has governed Zimbabwe into the ground (but not until calling him a white-hating tyrant). That would be intellectually stimulating.

I just think this sort of bait-and-switching is intellectually lazy. I mean, if Bollinger needs to feel smug and superior, I happen to know that New York is full of cribs with babies in them, babies with some delicious, easy to steal candy.

That's right. I just think that this promotes ham-handed, overly biased, self-righteous pretend-academic laziness. And quite frankly, I like thinking critically. Critical thinking appears to be a precious commodity here in the "feel good" generation of faux empowerment and self-help junkies. The heckling of a universally disliked dictator (speaking by invitation) does nothing to promote freedom of speech, and even less to stimulate critical thought.

I'm just disgusted.

The Folly of Man

2007-08-23T08:16:00.001-07:00

I am, as per usual, too busy for words, literally. Tomorrow I head out at the crack of dawn to NYC to give my Dubai presentation, then a little fun time with friends, followed by a trip to San Francisco for more of the same. Meanwhile, not even a week into the semester and I feel overwhelmed. Of course I am trying to get this whole campus energy plan underway, amongst other overly ambitious plans.

But this is what makes me post today {from an article about the Utah mining incident}:

The collapse that trapped the miners is believed to have been caused by settling layers of earth bearing down on the walls of a coal mine. The force can cause pillars to fail, turning chunks of coal into missiles. The unpredictable and dangerous phenomenon is known by miners as a "bump."

"Had I known that this evil mountain, this alive mountain, would do what it did, I would never have sent the miners in here," Murray said earlier. "I'll never go near that mountain again."

Hmmm, the mountain doing what it is geologically predisposed to do is now somehow "evil?" I find that fascinating. How funny is it that when humans drill into the earth, extract carbon, burn it for energy to power our electric lotion warmers and other indispensable necessities, spewing a kabillion tonnes of CO2 into the atmosphere and likely irreversibly altering the balance of the planet we are somehow just "doing what we have to do to get by?" Yet when the planet does what it is geared to do: burp, shake, rattle, surge, blow, and rain--it is somehow branded as "evil?"

Furthermore, if we are going to go so far as to charge the planet with being "evil," an inherently moral judgment, does it not stand to reason that we should begin to treat the earth as though it is an actual entity with rights? Surely that would make a river "good" a sequoia "benevolent" and a desert "unforgiving." If we are going to impose our own arbitrary moral attributes onto nature, then we should probably give them standing in a court of law, and allow them to make the case for why they should be allowed to have rights. But wait, who should represent these entities without a voice?

Well, me of course.

Just kidding. Sort of. It is up to all of us to recognize the extreme lack of logic that permeates the era we live in.

Last Days

2007-07-28T04:53:00.000-07:00

The last few days here have been pretty sweet, with the woeful exception of my ailment, which seems determined to systematically undermine my system, one portion at a time. It has now transformed itself into a full-fledged cold/flu type thing, and I am typing as I sniffle incessantly. In other news:

The dunes stretch out infinite and undulating, camel-colored but run through with salmon ripples, as though some object was dropped upon them, sending tiny waves cascading out. They rise and fall in the receding sunlight like so much flesh... at points actually appearing to be the arcs of hips, funnels of twisted bodily contours. If you venture out into them, over several of their apexes, press your body to them, and they are warm, lifelike. Close your eyes for a moment or two, and you will be unable to figure out where you begin and end. You could become hopelessly lost here, if not for your telltale footprints leading you back to the point of origin.

The call to prayer slithers around the sundrenched streets of Abu Dhabi outside the window. I think I am falling in love with the Middle East.

Yesterday, I made friends with a camel. Those "ships of the desert" are truly some of the most remarkable animals on earth. Purely otherworldly. This big gal pressed her nose to mine, and nuzzled my face as I fought uneasiness. A Pakistani camel farmer came out and invited us to drink some of the milk he was extracting from one of the herds. In spite of my hatred for milk, I couldn't resist the kind offer, and so I lifted the jug to my mouth and a huge dollop of foamy camel cream landed on my face. We all laughed and laughed. It was delicious, and even though he spoke no English, and me no Arabic, he was clearly indicating that it would "make me strong." Considering how weak I've been, I crossed my fingers that he was right.

You could lose yourself here, in the sun and the sand, beneath the date palm fronds...I think I just might.

Chip and I headed from the desert oasis of Liwa to the Northeast, where we were embraced on all sides by mountains along a cerulean blue coast. These Arabs, they are crazy about building fake islands! Fujaira is lusciously gorgeous. We visited the region's oldest mosque (pictures to come) and went snorkling around a little offshore island. Miraculously, neither of us was burned by the relentless sun!

Chip and I had a better time in Sharjah than I did the first time around. We visited the Yemeni shop in the souq, procured some Xmas gifts (no spoilers, as many of you dear readers will be recipients) and drove around lost a lot. You do that in Sharjah.

Now, back in Dubai, we need to get to the ski slopes. I reckon if I am going to be nursing some stupid sickness and a sporting a chapped, red nose, I might as well be cold while I do it!

Leaving is bittersweet. If I was in tip-top condition, I might even wish I was staying. But right now, I look forward to English speaking, ease, and a little climate comfort. All this, awaiting in NYC. Picture post really is coming soon. I promise!

Intestinal Fortitude...and it's failure

2007-07-25T01:02:00.001-07:00

Dear All,

My apologies for not chronicling my more recent adventures in UAE land. Suffice to say that Oman takes the cake as the most glorious nation in the region, scuba diving there I forged fragile friendships for a few fleeting seconds with a myriad of aquatic life, spent a fortune on taxis, made a new friend of the Kiwi persuasian, and purchased a few precious items at the souq.

Chip arrived Sunday, and so did some intestinal flu that has literally laid me out, left me limp, feverish, body creased by paralyzing cramps and many other afflictions too terrible to divulge. Let your imagination fill in the blanks.

I'm shaky, but the fever seems to have subsided, and we are heading into the desert today! I shall declare, and loudly, that Chip is my hero, and has been a perfectly amazing counterpart to my infirmity. Were he not here, it would be perfectly miserable. Know that even in my most agonizing moments, I have been unable to stifle giggles, and even some guffaws--thanks to brave sir Chippins, and in spite of myself.

Onward, to the Liwa Oasis!!

Follow up to rant

2007-07-19T04:30:00.000-07:00

Okay, okay, after all my grousing in the last post, I feel inclined to mention the multiple things about the place that are both fascinating and wonderful. Some of these things are the exact same things I was complaining about earlier today.

Bur first, let's begin with a confession, shall we? Today I fear I became the very same "ugly American" that I have always loathed the many times I have observed them in their native habitat, the foreign country. It all started with some laundry that was supposed to have been done in the morning. This morning. Long story short, it was not ready when I went to pick it up at noon today. The clerk told me in very poor, virtually nonexistent English that it would not be ready until tomorrow evening. I am supposed to be on an airplane to Oman tomorrow evening, and the thought of spending any more time than absolutely necessary in Sharjah was actually physically painful. So we went back and forth, which is never good between 2 people who literally do not speak one another's language. I yelled, I cursed, I cried, and eventually I hauled out my sketchbook and made a little comic strip of what I was trying to communicate (it was a tremendous failure, and I think it made me look a little bit insane.) Finally, he got someone on the phone (who I also yelled at) who agreed to give me my dirty clothes in a few hours. You see, I succumbed to the age-old conventional wisdom of the tourist that if you speak loudly and slowly, they will understand you. This is never, ever true. Deep down, we all know that.

In the end, I got my laundry, perfectly clean, folded & on hangers as well as lovingly wrapped in plastic. Maybe I should have my good friend Jen write them an apology for me in Arabic, because I really was a jerk.

So. The good things about this place:

1) Safety. I stopped locking the door to my rental car after the 2nd day of driving when I realized, there is nothing to worry about. Crime here is as nonexistent as my laundry man's English.
2) Dates. No, not the ones where you have long awkward pauses and wonder if some creep is going to try to kiss you when he drops you off after dinner. The kind that grow on palm trees. I watched more than one worker today throw a stick up into the fronds to loosen up some ripe dates. There are dozens of varieties. I had a stick-throwing walking tour around the lagoon in Sharjah today myself, and ate so many dates that I couldn't bring myself to eat lunch.
3) Food. All of the food here is top notch. And yes, in spite of the language barriers, this diversity brings great Lebanese, Pakistani, Egyptian, Indian, Thai, Philippine and Chinese food to the UAE.
4) Islam. That's right, I said it. Forget what you hear on the news...Those crazy jihadists are no different than our own abortion clinic bombers and shooters! Muslims are some of the most decent people around. Also, the call to prayer is a haunting and beautiful thing that wafts over the city 5 times a day like exotic incense pouring out from the countless minarets rising out of the mosques.
5) Taxes. Yeah, there aren't any. I'm pretty sure there is nothing not to like about that! I don't know how many double negatives I just used to describe something that is overwhelmingly positive... And the lack of representation? Well, at least when your government royally (no pun intended) screws things up, you can't blame yourself for voting in the wrong guy.
6) Dress Code. You know, I kind of like the fact that I haven't seen any little sorostitutes lately wearing barely-there tops and teensy tiny shorts with clever things written across the butt cheeks. In fact, I don't miss the general slutting up of my country's youth culture at all. These women in abayas are certainly showing off their most telling feature: the eyes. A little dignity and mystery go a long way.

In answer to Granddad's query: I have mixed feelings about this place. I love Abu Dhabi. I am interested in perhaps seeking work here after I graduate next year. For those of you who don't know, my champion amongst champions boyfriend Chip will be joining me here on Sunday! I guarantee you that I will enjoy this place even more with him at my side.

Viva Arabia!

The Cultural Capital (of Crap)

2007-07-18T05:39:00.000-07:00

Before I start sounding like everything about this place is just fantastic...allow me a very brief rant in which I will tel you all the things about this place that are terrible:

1)The weather. Today, I had to abort a walking mission because I was afraid I would die of heatstroke
2)The ogling. I am really really really tired of being stared at. Seriously. It's ebough to make a lass go out and buy an abaya.
3)The language barrier. Which language? Pick a language: Arabic, Hindi, Urdu, Togalog, just to name a few. It is a bit much.
4)The traffic. If you haven't done some serious 3rd world driving, this is not the place to start. It is a nightmare, a nonstop nightmare of epic proportions.
5)The prevailing attitude towards Western women. People keep asking if I am Russian. I am not sure, but I think that means they think I am a prostitute. Mind you, I am dressed VERY conservatively.
6)The attitude surrounding alcohol. I mean, for crying out loud, I need a beer just to deal with issues 1-5!!!

Okay, I will stop now, because I could go on all day. I am in Sharjah (which I'm pretty sure is Arabic for "shitty") the UAE cultural capital. I hate to say it (but really, I LOVE to say it) but if this is the cultural capital, this place is severely screwed.

You heard it from me first. I'd post pictures, but I am at a cafe...all it is is a bunch of ostentatious architecture surrounded by poverty, heat, sand, and endless construction, anyway. I'm sure your mind can fill in the blanks....

Desert Safari!!! (finally)

2007-07-15T11:50:00.000-07:00

I've been besieged by really crummy internet everywhere. Fortunately, here in Abu Dhabi I have finagled my way into a 5 star hotel (with a bargain -basement discount) with excellent internet.

So, with no further ado:

A white Land Cruiser with "Hormuz" emblazened on the side picks me up. Inside, I meet a lovely American family of 3, Joe and his 2 daughters Paige and Kadria. They are incidentally, ethnically Indian, and are on a 12-hour layover on the way back home from the girls' first visit to India.

We head out to the desert, where we stop at a pretty seedy little shop selling snacks and tourist stuff. I am filled with dread...is this going to suck? Are they going to aggressively try to sell us a bunch of crap for the next 3 hours? No! 5 more white Hormuz (the tour company) Land Cruisers sidle up to ours, and the drivers begin to take air out of the tires. This is for the "dune bashing."

Did I mention that it is about a million (honestly~about 115) degrees here? It is. And it is decidedly NOT a "dry heat" if you consider the 80+ percent humididy. We are all incredibly relived to return to the air conditioned SUVs. Then, we head out into the desert. This is the desert of my childhood desert dreams!!

Except that, even with the naivety and limitless imagination of a child, I could not have imagined it as wondrous or vast as it really is. It was simply amazing, but before I could fully lose myself in a rhapsody of desert musing, our vehicle made a sharp turn, and acceleratated aggressively, and before I knew it we were literally experiencing a dune rollercoaster. Here are a few images:

I would be a liar if I told you I ever imagined that driving up and down sand dunes could be so phenomenally thrilling. But oh, it was, and is. Finally, the caravan came to a halt, good news for me, because I was beginning to get a little motion sickness.

We all stepped out into the searing heat, and our hosts produced a number of snowboards. Yes, snowboards, for sandboarding. Images follow here:

The trip down was a lot more fun than the trek up! These are my sweet new friends:

Then, we packed it in, watched the sun set from the acme of another dune, and headed to a "Bedouin Village" where I got to ride a camel and hold a falcon!!

Then, we got henna designs, smoked a shisha pipe (that's not drugs, in case you were wondering!!) and ate a Middle Eastern feast while watching a belly dancer.

All in all, this was a major highlight. It was in fact so awesome that I went again a few days later with my friend Jereme, a landscape architecture student and fellow NWF fellow who is in Dubai doing an internship. More on him later.

I've done a full 180! As of today I have seen and done much more than the desert safari, and I am beginning to really like the place quite a bit. Surprise, surprise...

Next Post, Al Ain and the livestock market.

and why the hell am I here?

2007-07-15T11:28:00.000-07:00

So, dear Aunt Amy inquired as to what the purpose of my being here is. My first thought is, "Jeeze-Louise, don't these people (ahem, my family) tell each other anything?" Immediately followed by the thought that my parents might not even know precisely what this is all about.

I'm going to put it in a nutshell for those of you not in the know:

In January, I applied for a fellowship with a big huge design firm. The prize was worth 20 thousand dollars, and I didn't really think I stood a chance. But (in keeping with my regular practice of scholarship/fellowship application) I applied in spite of the rather poor odds of winning. I submitted a portfolio, as well as an essay answering the question, "If you could go anywhere in the world to study a completely designed environment, where would you go, and why?"

I wrote them a pretty outrageous (and by that, I mean outlandish) essay about how I would go to Dubai, scuba dive, charter a helicopter, and so on--in order to better understand the Palm Islands. In case you want to know more about the islands: http://www.thepalm.ae/

I received a phone call in late February telling me I was a finalist, the week later had a phone interview...and the following week was told I didn't get it. WHAT?! It's true. and then...

Right before the end of the semester, I received another phonecall, informing me that one of the fellowship recipients had dropped out, and I was next in line!!! The rest is history! I've been working in NYC all summer for my internship with the firm, and now I am being paid full-time to be here in the UAE with a travel stipend to conduct "research." Not bad, huh?

If you want to read more, here is an article:

http://www.bsu.edu/students/admissions/article/0,1370,135131-9886-52162,00.html

Ball State loves writing articles about me:

http://www.bsu.edu/nrem/article/0,1371,300258-18490-51715,00.html

I'll stop bragging now, and get back to the Desert Safari. Next!!

The shopping capital of the world

2007-07-11T13:08:00.000-07:00

Single female travel here is not advised~not because it is dangerous (it is really, really not) but rather because it is uncomfortable. The worker men just stare and stare. Not like the playful Latins or Italians, there is no accompanying ch-ch-ch! or "oye, guerita!" or anything, really. Just a somber, earnest stare that burns itself into your psyche.

Not to be melodramatic or anything.

Then there was yesterday, meeting up with a classmate of mine who grew up here, and her mother, who's been in the Middle East for 30 years. They pretty much drove me around to a ton of shopping malls and centers, and indicated that shopping is a national pastime, which it really does appear to be. I was pretty impressed, for someone who is not really impressed by shopping malls. Don't worry, you would be too. Emirates Mall comes complete with an indoor ski slope featuring a 400 meter run,
as well as a bevy of tall Persians in long white dishdashas and more ladies in long black abayas than you can shake a shwarma stick at. All of these people appear to have more money than god, and seem to rather like spending it. Unlike everyone else in Dubai, I really didn't come here to buy a bunch of stuff I don't need and can't afford, so the whole outing left me feeling a little out-of sorts. What am I doing here?

I retreated to my hotel and resumed reading a book... I really have become quite dull.

So, after determining rather hastily that this entire trip was a mistake, that the 20-year-old me had 20 times more balls than the 28-year-old me, and a bunch of other nonsense, I finally decided to get over it and ventured out into Dubai in a big way. What better way to break the proverbial ice (or in this case sift the sand?) than a desert safari?

I thought it sounded pretty cheesy and touristy, but what the hell? I am a tourist here, after all.
I will end this entry with a little tiny teaser. The description for the desert safari read:

Dune bashing
Sand skiing
Sunset in the desert
Camel riding
Arabic tea and coffee
BBQ dinner
Shisha, Henna
Photo with Falcon
Belly dancing

Timing: daily 3:30 to 9:30 pm

All this for a mere $45? And what in the world is "dune bashing?"

Intrigued, I made a phone call. The driver picked me up at a fashionably late 4pm, in a world that was surely over 110 degrees, and the rest is history!

Next chapter: Desert Safari

Welcome to Dubai

2007-07-09T18:27:00.001-07:00

It's been a harrowing few days...another little bicycle smashup, although the blame lays squarely across my shoulders this time, and I was the only thing that got smashed up, in addition to having my front wheel stolen, in broad daylight on 1st Ave. All this the day I departed! No wonder I barely squeaked out to the airport in time.

Too many hours in the air, followed by too much harrassment at the Dubai airport. All my luggage was searched, exhaustively (pots of hair and face product were unscrewed, yes) and then my body was groped a bit in excess of what I thought was decent (by a very heavily made up Emirati woman in full abaya sporting blue contact lenses, no less!) particularly in the breast region. This is the benefit of looking like a drug trafficker, I suppose.

Good times.

Initial impressions: a city rising from the sand, mostly as monochromatic as the sand itself.
Clumps of construction workers form a sort of human topography, rising in dark, sweaty swells clustered around cranes. They work around the clock, and the music of the night differs only slightly from the day. The din of vehicular congestion is replaced by the steady throbbing of African drums and techno music emanating from hotels around the city, but the steady clanking of structural steel and pile drivers is perpetual.

I am restless, and the sun will be up soon. I need to get over this jet lag, but have no idea how or when. Arabiya music television is rather surprising, or not. Lots of buxom women with ripe mouths and bodies singing poppy songs, "mudwrestling" while singing said songs, amidst strange backdrops involving Satan, sadomasochism, and marriage.

Who knows? More soon.

The Desert Calls

2007-07-06T10:37:00.000-07:00

Dear friends & family,

I am, at long last, deigning to share my adventures with you. Whooooo! I know, don't break anything as you cartwheel about in unabashed revelry.

Working full time and riding a bike to and fro through the chaos of this city has taken a toll on my eloquence. Being constantly busy is quite tiring. Also, having a social life in this city could easily be a full-time job.

I've been studying Argentine Tango and trying to brush up on some French here. A bicycle accident last week reminded me that I am not as invincible as I like to imagine. Paradoxically, emerging uninjured from the event (stiff neck, no bruises) has certainly made me wonder.

Thus far, my work here at Hart Howerton has been both interesting and uneventful, almost equally in turn. Designing places for people far richer than anyone I will probably ever know is very funny, and a bit disturbing, too. Let's just say that I do a lot of moving pools and tennis courts around, and contemplating what the "mood" of equestrian centers and tropical roadways should be.

Currently, I am in NYC, staring down the barrel of a gun that looks suspiciously like a voyage on a Boeing 747, more likely than not bound to deliver me to the fringe of the Near East. Please feel free to correct me--isn't the UAE considered the Near East? I am quite ready to jump off this cliff and explore the bizarre twists and turns of Dubai, Abu Dhabi, the other 5 Emirates, and Oman

I am told it will be hotter than Hades, on the order of 120+ with 80% humidity. Please believe me when I admit that I rather like it hot. Perhaps not quite that hot, though.

I will update when I arrive, and you can be certain that I will be posting many many pictures along the way.

Welcome, to a vicarious experience.

Testing.1,2,3...

2007-06-09T09:26:00.000-07:00

Boy, they sure don't give you a lot of fonts to work with.

I'm sitting in my underwear, in front of a fan, really resisting the desire to do anything at all here today. I am seriously worn out by my life lately. My brain is fried, and my words thus reflect that I am surely becoming the most vapid person on earth. Seriously.