for MaryBeth... and our Ugandan connection.
As I sit in Atomic writing my FINAL COLLEGE PAPER ever, I am slowly and analytically taking in the very essence of my college experience.
This final paper is for my self-designed "thesis" of the Sociology of Food and I am at the point where I am reading through, editing, cropping, adjusting, highlighting, deleting, and tweaking all parts to make it a comprehensive, logical piece about... FOOD. I'm laughing to myself to see the connections and theories I've developed about such obscure ideas as "the social constructs of edibility" and the "frameworks of social identity within food culture". All that is to say: my paper covers everything from aphrodisiacs to appetite, crockpots to caviar, dining to disorders.
I can't help but see how much this paper is the cumulative exression of my college experience in the exploration of communal living, communal dining, the expression of self and group identity through even "minute" venues as fashionable diet choices to dinner table displays, the social pressures and consequences of dieting, cultural implications of dining and the study of diverse people groups, and on and on and on. In short: an introductory study to people, to community, to growth, to sex, to fashion, to diet, to group mentality, to self expression.
It all comes down to what can be cooked in a crockpot, and who can afford to eat caviar.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Friday, December 2, 2011
in the wings
I am officially rejoining the international travel realm again on March 12, 2012.
A great friend of mine that I went to Uganda/Rwanda with is setting off TOMORROW on an indefinite backpacking trip through South America. He's flying into Colombia, then venturing over to Peru and eventually Chile. I'll be flying into Chile on the morning of the 13th and meeting him in Santiago for another alli-and-sean-abroad adventure.
If anyone has any exciting Chilean tips or contacts- let me know! :)
A great friend of mine that I went to Uganda/Rwanda with is setting off TOMORROW on an indefinite backpacking trip through South America. He's flying into Colombia, then venturing over to Peru and eventually Chile. I'll be flying into Chile on the morning of the 13th and meeting him in Santiago for another alli-and-sean-abroad adventure.
If anyone has any exciting Chilean tips or contacts- let me know! :)
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
.table for one.
There is a supreme beauty in dining alone.
If you're aware of yourself.
As an adolescent I distinctly recall refusing to enter my junior-high cafeteria alone. I had to be flocked by my friends, and should they break for the restroom mid-meal I would go with them, unable to sit abandoned at a table for even two minutes. I reasoned that in such event I would immediately be noticed by all other attendants in said cafeteria as the girl who eats alone or as the fat kid who eats even when she's alone. Illogical? Or culturally instilled in my brain?
What is it about our culture's concept of food that does not permit single-dining habits to be "normal"? Why is it so rare for a person to take themselves out for a fine meal…alone?
What is the paranoia that sits hand-in-hand with entering a restaurant in search of a table for one?
Why does it make us SO uncomfortable?
I reason this: perhaps it's jealousy…or intimidation…or in essence- fear.
To confidently enter a restaurant alone and enjoy a meal solo is to have a solid understanding of yourself. You must be unwavering before stares of curiosity, judgment, and pity.
You must be alright with knowing that some people are thinking you have been stood up.
You could not find a date.
You have no friends.
You are weird.
you are an other.
You must wear high, stylish boots, strut with your head held high, order a beer, and smile sweetly when the hostess asks hopefully, "Two tonight?" and you answer, "No, just one."
This kind of picture (: the girl dressed nicely, no visible major social short comings, enjoying her meal in the corner, unaccompanied) exudes a radiance of self assurance and pleasure in life. I believe this is something so far off target for the majority of people in our culture.
We use our relationship statuses as accessories to portray our hold of power, our social place, our inherent personal image in a crowd.
To dine alone is to use your own developed resources to paint your face with independence- to break the mold of social co-dependence as means of definition.
It is, in essence, to be undefined.
To be other.
And we fear the other.
And we admire the other.
Simultaneously.
To face the girl with the dinner alone is to see ourselves as wondering, "What would people think if I were eating alone? What would they think of me? How would I look to them?"
It is to challenge your own strength and, in refusal to be found wanting, decide that she is the weaker, that she is the other.
To see this is to be threatened by the challenge of independence, of self assurance.
Other socially deviant gestures may be a slap in the face what is "normal" but involve action on a belief outside of oneself. Wearing a t-shirt about abortion, boasting an opinion, for example- all marks your group orientation with a community holding a united opinion. But to eat alone in a crowd of groups is to stand defiant in yourself, to not NEED the social support systems to identify yourself. To be an unidentified character with such complexity behind you as to have risen above circumstances which usually exceed personal victory.
To delight in being set apart.
To enjoy and appreciate your own company.
To listen to your own heart, as The Alchemist said.
To hear the gentle voice that instructs you to sit still amidst social orders that try to improve your image, change this, believe in this…think what we tell you to think.
There is a supreme beauty and calm in obeying your heart's desire to accept yourself, love your own strength, and enjoy an occasional table for one.
If you're aware of yourself.
As an adolescent I distinctly recall refusing to enter my junior-high cafeteria alone. I had to be flocked by my friends, and should they break for the restroom mid-meal I would go with them, unable to sit abandoned at a table for even two minutes. I reasoned that in such event I would immediately be noticed by all other attendants in said cafeteria as the girl who eats alone or as the fat kid who eats even when she's alone. Illogical? Or culturally instilled in my brain?
What is it about our culture's concept of food that does not permit single-dining habits to be "normal"? Why is it so rare for a person to take themselves out for a fine meal…alone?
What is the paranoia that sits hand-in-hand with entering a restaurant in search of a table for one?
Why does it make us SO uncomfortable?
I reason this: perhaps it's jealousy…or intimidation…or in essence- fear.
To confidently enter a restaurant alone and enjoy a meal solo is to have a solid understanding of yourself. You must be unwavering before stares of curiosity, judgment, and pity.
You must be alright with knowing that some people are thinking you have been stood up.
You could not find a date.
You have no friends.
You are weird.
you are an other.
You must wear high, stylish boots, strut with your head held high, order a beer, and smile sweetly when the hostess asks hopefully, "Two tonight?" and you answer, "No, just one."
This kind of picture (: the girl dressed nicely, no visible major social short comings, enjoying her meal in the corner, unaccompanied) exudes a radiance of self assurance and pleasure in life. I believe this is something so far off target for the majority of people in our culture.
We use our relationship statuses as accessories to portray our hold of power, our social place, our inherent personal image in a crowd.
To dine alone is to use your own developed resources to paint your face with independence- to break the mold of social co-dependence as means of definition.
It is, in essence, to be undefined.
To be other.
And we fear the other.
And we admire the other.
Simultaneously.
To face the girl with the dinner alone is to see ourselves as wondering, "What would people think if I were eating alone? What would they think of me? How would I look to them?"
It is to challenge your own strength and, in refusal to be found wanting, decide that she is the weaker, that she is the other.
To see this is to be threatened by the challenge of independence, of self assurance.
Other socially deviant gestures may be a slap in the face what is "normal" but involve action on a belief outside of oneself. Wearing a t-shirt about abortion, boasting an opinion, for example- all marks your group orientation with a community holding a united opinion. But to eat alone in a crowd of groups is to stand defiant in yourself, to not NEED the social support systems to identify yourself. To be an unidentified character with such complexity behind you as to have risen above circumstances which usually exceed personal victory.
To delight in being set apart.
To enjoy and appreciate your own company.
To listen to your own heart, as The Alchemist said.
To hear the gentle voice that instructs you to sit still amidst social orders that try to improve your image, change this, believe in this…think what we tell you to think.
There is a supreme beauty and calm in obeying your heart's desire to accept yourself, love your own strength, and enjoy an occasional table for one.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Swedish Tea Sets
remembered from January...
“…Sweden is incredible. All is white and old, European looking and stylish. It’s maddeningly spectacular…”
Beatrice took me, our second night in Sweden together, to the family home of her dear friend Carl Hugo. Carl Hugo had just returned home from a stay in the emergency room due to a sudden heart attack which had sprung forth of his chest during a spritely game of squash. His parents thus invited some of his friends over for a heartfelt gathering of condolences and support immediately post New Years, post-hospital release. Among the attendants was myself, and Bea, her friend who is a dentist, a marvelously beautiful blonde Swedish woman and her adoring African boyfriend- Inya.
It was Inya who captivated my attention.
I can still play the scene back in my mind step by step- I was smiling politely through the rather dull conversation which, naturally- as it was primarily among rather conservative friends excluded me- was occurring on the couches of Carl Hugo’s posh living room. The doorbell set forth such a magnificent motion of events. In came Inya and the Lady- elegant, unknowingly gorgeous, and they seated themselves across the carpet from my perch.
Inya was black.
In a wintered country of white snow, white skin, white hair- it was a thrill to my heart to see a Nigerian within my scope of vision. It was a mere few seconds until we established our African connection and then we both were lost in the merriment of our own conversation.
Carl Hugo’s mother provided white linens on the dining table, delicate china, typical Swedish holiday desserts and the most robust coffee for her guests as we sat discussing miracles, the establishment of Dutch churches and dentistry.
Throughout the entirety of th evening- my eyes kept darting the smoothly polished upright piano in the corner. At this point, I had not been able to touch a piano in months, and now here one stood, keys exposed, and the only thing between the keys and my desperate fingers was a rather formal tea party of Swedes.
By the end of tea-time, I had shamelessly offered that I had played piano for years and “My! What a lovely piano you have!” to such welcomed demographic that I was asked- nay, begged to grace the company with my notes.
I sat shaking with overwhelming happiness on the bench and delicately, timidly, danced my fingers through a melodic step through the key of D, nearly bringing myself to tears.
My heart has never felt so at home- so rescued. So clearly elevated above its abyss of deprivation, I could feel it rising in my chest with each treble trill. Then, beauty of all beauties- my eyes fell to the hymn book propped on the piano and I cracked it to Silent Night and let the haunting melody drip from page to resounding chords as Inya quietly, worshipfully sang along behind me. I heard the gratitude in his voice recognizing the unanticipated holiness of the moment and I only pray he felt my consumed, wrecked companionship seeping from my heart to the notes in that silent night, that holy night.
“…Sweden is incredible. All is white and old, European looking and stylish. It’s maddeningly spectacular…”
Beatrice took me, our second night in Sweden together, to the family home of her dear friend Carl Hugo. Carl Hugo had just returned home from a stay in the emergency room due to a sudden heart attack which had sprung forth of his chest during a spritely game of squash. His parents thus invited some of his friends over for a heartfelt gathering of condolences and support immediately post New Years, post-hospital release. Among the attendants was myself, and Bea, her friend who is a dentist, a marvelously beautiful blonde Swedish woman and her adoring African boyfriend- Inya.
It was Inya who captivated my attention.
I can still play the scene back in my mind step by step- I was smiling politely through the rather dull conversation which, naturally- as it was primarily among rather conservative friends excluded me- was occurring on the couches of Carl Hugo’s posh living room. The doorbell set forth such a magnificent motion of events. In came Inya and the Lady- elegant, unknowingly gorgeous, and they seated themselves across the carpet from my perch.
Inya was black.
In a wintered country of white snow, white skin, white hair- it was a thrill to my heart to see a Nigerian within my scope of vision. It was a mere few seconds until we established our African connection and then we both were lost in the merriment of our own conversation.
Carl Hugo’s mother provided white linens on the dining table, delicate china, typical Swedish holiday desserts and the most robust coffee for her guests as we sat discussing miracles, the establishment of Dutch churches and dentistry.
Throughout the entirety of th evening- my eyes kept darting the smoothly polished upright piano in the corner. At this point, I had not been able to touch a piano in months, and now here one stood, keys exposed, and the only thing between the keys and my desperate fingers was a rather formal tea party of Swedes.
By the end of tea-time, I had shamelessly offered that I had played piano for years and “My! What a lovely piano you have!” to such welcomed demographic that I was asked- nay, begged to grace the company with my notes.
I sat shaking with overwhelming happiness on the bench and delicately, timidly, danced my fingers through a melodic step through the key of D, nearly bringing myself to tears.
My heart has never felt so at home- so rescued. So clearly elevated above its abyss of deprivation, I could feel it rising in my chest with each treble trill. Then, beauty of all beauties- my eyes fell to the hymn book propped on the piano and I cracked it to Silent Night and let the haunting melody drip from page to resounding chords as Inya quietly, worshipfully sang along behind me. I heard the gratitude in his voice recognizing the unanticipated holiness of the moment and I only pray he felt my consumed, wrecked companionship seeping from my heart to the notes in that silent night, that holy night.
10.07.2011 atomic.
There’s a woman sitting outside the window, crying. Her lips are shaking, her shoulders and convulsing and her bottom lip seems to be quivering three times faster than her speech appears to be coming out. Behind her oversized aviator sunglasses I imagine her eyes are overflowing with whatever sadness she has brought to the glimmering silver café table she sits at with her friends. The one woman with a low cut tank top contradicts her choice of shirt with a home-knit scarf and a white man with pointedly tattered clothing is also donning a Muslim-like head scarf. Furthermore boggling than the attire of this strange company is the very obvious fact that only a small pane of glass separates my world from theirs. It is only this window between my quiet afternoon of motivated work on my thesis over an oversized mug of apple cider and their moment of smoking, wild hand gestures, and spilling emotion on the sidewalk. The glass allows sunshine to pass through, allows gazes to penetrate- but conversation and understanding are unable to pass.
Friday, September 2, 2011
the urge to fly.
(Thriving Ivory)
This time last year I was in Rwanda with 31 other American students and a bunch of Ugandan students. We were travelling to different Rwandan cities and memorials of the Genocide of 1994 by day- cramming ourselves into buses, driving across the dusty roads through small towns of waving children and stern-faced adults. By night- we were being hosted by the nuns of Presbyterian guest houses and served piles and piles of sweet bananas and various rice-based meals before Becky and I would lead yoga in the open courtyards under the stars.
Here in New England there are no large buses waiting to swallow me into the melee of mixed races and backgrounds- offering bonding and cheesy sing-a-longs and lifelong friendships in exchange for my willingness to sit on a rugged seat for the duration of our travel across the country- across the border- etc. In New England I hear dogs barking and trash pick-up outside my apartment that I share with four other girls, rather than monkeys and exotic birds screeching in the dawn light from a cement dorm of about 20 girls that I grew to love out of natural inclination to befriend those around me when I knew no one. Here in New England I have to put on a helmet to ride on the back of my best friends’ racer motorcycle; there is no more access to boda bodas with Ugandan men who will drive me anywhere on their motorcycle taxis for less than an American dollar.
This time last year I sat atop a cement ledge on a gazebo-like structure in the Rwandan hillside in part of a guest house overlooking the city of Kigali. I remember writing an ode to September- missing the New England fall with its pumpkins and apple cider and changing leaves and natural ability to change everything about itself in time with the season. I wore a skirt and had a tan and long hair and sun-induced blonde highlights. I was eating mangos and breathing in the equatorial air of East Africa. Today, after a very exciting year of waiting to experience the Autumn I missed last year, I walked from Atomic back to my apartment via all the small streets that weave through Beverly- sporting their New England old home porches with the beginnings of reds gracing the tree leaves along the way. A cool breeze swept around my whole body as I clutched my cappuccino and my essays of Wendell Barry.
I’m happy with the coming of Fall but the cool gales of Autumn are sweeping up more than leaves and pushing along more than cigarette butts on the gutter line of my street. It’s bringing back that nostalgic state of mind that keeps you rewinding all the things you’ve loved, you’ve lost, you’ve dreamt of. It’s pushing all my desires into a heightened frenzy: do I stay here, do I go back to Uganda, do I go to grad-school out west? Abroad? Ay mi dios- no se!
While it’s all whirling around in my mind, my body is exuding this faux message of calm- sprawled on my floral couch that Amelia picked up from a mansion in Manchester by the Sea, ripped jeans marked with holes from Fisher Farms and paint from past projects… basking in the chilly breeze through the window and listening to Thriving Ivory. I’ve only been back since January, and since then I have moved from one apartment to another for a weekend…back to the original apartment, and out again to this new place I’ve been in now for a month. And still- despite the living on my toes, a new job, classes at two schools and taking mini adventures through new parts and new mountains of New Hampshire and Maine on a regular basis- still I’m fitful. Still I can’t be still. Still I fight the urge to fly.
Monday, June 13, 2011
mondays with cory
There is that book, Tuesdays with Morrie--- in which Mitch Albom visits his old professor and they share weeks of Tuesday meetings discussing life, love, marriage, money, ambition, education--- everything. These sweet times of wisdom and laughter and reminiscing throughout the end of his professors life. As the stars or God or luck or nature- or all- would have it, as I was reading this very book, I happened to stumble upon my very own Morrie…except it was a Monday, and his name was Cory.
I was dawdling through Rockport with a friend when I happened into an art gallery right on the point. I was drawn in by this very soft painting- blue backdrop with a Van Gough style tree of yellow blossoms- standing by the door of the small gallery. I went in, and to my delight was this extraordinarily lively, short round man with a striking resemblance to Danny DeVito. Cory- the owner of the gallery, the painter himself, the charmer extraordinaire. He welcomed us warmly and kindly went over some paintings of his with me. But as I listened, I could not draw my gaze away from this small, simple, uncoloured painting of two swans. I was hooked.
I left with a regretful “sorry, not today…” excuse to follow the lead of the friend I was with who was clearly ready to get a move on. All I really wanted was to send this guy away on his own exploring and perch myself on the old futon next to Cory and continue our afternoon in light conversation.
For the next two weeks, I could not get these swans out of my head. So I found a free Monday from work, from school, from errands and drove my Jeep back to the coast to sit with Cory. He remembered me immediately, we poured our coffee, he cut me a deal on the swans and we sat, and there I remained for a solid three hours. We spoke of astrology, the Moonies, religion, education, tattoos, art, love, family, musical muses--- everything two strangers should happen upon in conversation that is the result of Kahlua in coffee and the sense of abandon that accompanies a seaside gallery owned by a man who looks like Danny DeVito. I came back a week later and had a shorter, but just as delightful, encounter.
Today, I went back again- and he seated me like any good gentleman host on his cozy futon then bustled across the way to get me some coffee and apple strudel. We sat in his shop surrounded by the rich fantasy of his paintings and the breeze from the ocean through his open window and talked art, broadcasted names for the hypothetical bar I may someday open, and listened to Damien Rice and Radiohead in turn as he asked me which “tender” and “ripper” music inspires my art, my thoughts.
Albom had Morrie, and I have Cory. I have his wisdom, his energetic sense of urgency in listening to my stories, his enthusiastic and heartfelt compliments and all the charm of an older gentleman who was born into art. I think I’m becoming fond of Mondays.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Mr. Swales' wears Pants
Tonight, Mr. Swales wore pants.
Since March, David Swales has come to the hotel I work at every other week on business. And I have delivered room service (generally a cup of soup or a chicken quesadilla) to this kind old man with his English accent and his wild array of boxer shorts. Each time I go to his room, room 815, I am greeted kindly at the door, asked in to set the tray on the desk, and he grabs the check as I walk between him and the ironing board which is always covered in the next day's dress shirt- half pressed. And each time I enter his room, I am intrigued by the fabric flapping about his hairy man- thighs. The first night (appropriately in mid-March) offered a nice set of bright green shorts with shamrocks dancing in a scattered display of Irish pride. The next visit was a dull blue with golf icons neatly on the sides. I have since seen Red Sox emblems and one particularly vibrant design of peace signs. Tonight he called down, inquired as to the "stodginess" of the chilli, opted for a steak melt with chicken instead of steak (chicken melt?) and greeted me at the door in a strikingly well-pressed, crisply creased set of trousers- appropriate for public use and in no way indicating the muscular make-up of his upper leg region.
I walked away quite simply astonished that he had opened his door wearing pants. And by time I had reached the employee elevator, I was shaking with giggles as I realized that I work in an environment where it is not uncommon to be greeted by clients who are, in fact, NOT wearing pants.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
of finals
James Vincent McMorrow
Dubstep
Caro Emerald
many thanks to the musicians getting me through finals time.
Done: 6 page anaylsis of teamwork and group strength from Discovery
Done: 10 page analysis on education as a sociological system
Not Done: 7 page argument on both sides (supporting and bashing) a holistic approach to sex education in public schools
Not Done: 20+ page argument on the effects of patriarchal society's control over mass media and infrmation outlets on female sexuality, with anaylsis of power structure playing to hegemonic masculinity and close impact on women regarding sexual behaviour.
Dubstep
Caro Emerald
many thanks to the musicians getting me through finals time.
Done: 6 page anaylsis of teamwork and group strength from Discovery
Done: 10 page analysis on education as a sociological system
Not Done: 7 page argument on both sides (supporting and bashing) a holistic approach to sex education in public schools
Not Done: 20+ page argument on the effects of patriarchal society's control over mass media and infrmation outlets on female sexuality, with anaylsis of power structure playing to hegemonic masculinity and close impact on women regarding sexual behaviour.
Monday, April 4, 2011
location, location, location
It’s been a strange couple months being back in America.
Having left and returned to Gordon before, that campus very much feels like a neutral zone of ambiguity- of unfamiliar faces but a solid routine of classes, of introverted walks down Phillips Path with coffee clutched in my hand against the streams of people heading to chapel (which I’ve yet to attend).
It’s been an adjustment to fall into other areas of living back on the outskirts of Boston though.
Grocery shopping is still overwhelming. Grocery stores used to be such a relaxing place for me. It was always such a comfort to be able to walk around a warehouse full of comfort foods and being able to see them there, available, but not need to buy them or gain the calories from them. It was nice just to know that your old friends were there- quietly sitting on their respective shelves. It was nice- the organization, the lighting, the availability and variety. Now- every time I walk into a grocery store, I have flashbacks of what the grocery store was like in Mukono- I miss City Shoppers. I miss the deodorant and perfume behind the counter- as if was contraband like cigarettes. I miss the mango ice cream in the freezer and the SPLASH juiceboxes, fresh bread, strange ginger cakes, and Harry Potter wide ruled miniature notebooks. I miss the bars of soap that took up half an aisle and the wall of single rolls of toilet paper, the flamingo print BIC lighters and handwoven baskets of kitchen knives. I miss the stand of fresh fruit that was outside the door, next to the stand for cell phone air time and next to the man who sold meat- which was always bloody and chopped and spilling over the counter edge of his small wooden kiosk.
I was driving through New Hampshire last night and saw the sunset over Portsmouth and the stars sprinkling out above the treeline over I-95. And I thought back to Bemba nights on the roof- sitting on a small stack of cinderblocks on a cement roof, looking at the stars opening up above the Mukono jungle. I thought about sunset over the Kenyan compound and how I can’t remember the striking beauty precisely- but I remember watching the sunset night after night from my stoop and thinking “I will never feel this exact way again- I will never experience this beauty again the way I am experiencing it right now.” So true.
It’s strange to be accessing all these memories alone. To not have anyone around to talk to that can say “mmm, yah! Me too!” No relation and no understanding from a first-had experience. It’s strange to be walking alone and think back to these things and not know how to process, how to share, how to experience this again. It’s strange to sense the presence of these experiences, this past, without context. Without ability to return.
I am starting to sense your location
You are somewhere in the basement
Beating on a makeshift drum kit Freelance Whales
Sunday, March 13, 2011
don't wait for me
don't wait for me- by Josh Garrels
january to march in Beverly:
lightning paced quad of classes.
full dedication/addiction (tomato, tomahtoh) to Atomic Cafe.
painting and experimenting with oils.
turning my dining room into a studio.
moving apartments down one block.
new job as bartender :)
lovely thursday morning study dates with The Gibbons.
beautiful, precious moments with Becks & Co.
living without constant computer access. so nice.
new Canon Rebel
first encounter with high heels and Long Islands...
played my first coffee house performance
curry cookoff in Bangor
shaved hair growing out to stylish rocker/swoosh stage.
life back in America has been strange.
while my one word for my experiences in Africa was "more" (more challenging, more beautiful, more surprising, more relaxed, more comfortable, etc.) my word for re-adjusting to life Stateside is "strange" (strange how easy, strange how difficult, strange how unfamiliar and strange how routine...).
my neutral zone is school- having left and come back there multiple times with transfers and what, it feels like "home plate" to be back there...but everything else has a hint of "odd" to it.
i was at a show in Cambridge about a month and a half ago and as my roommate was showing me where the bathroom was, i swung the stall door open to see a small hole in the ground (where the old plumbing for the toilet had USED to run through...). before seeing the fully funtioning toilet in the corner, my immediate mental reaction was "oh, well alright. no big deal..." (yes, i did see the toilet before assuming the position over the hole in the ground as i did so frequently in Uganda/Rwanda/Kenya). there were no complaints from the establishment that night, however- i realized just how unadjusted to American life i still really was- even at a show, back in Boston, with friends, out for a typical night- i still had to double check myself from falling into "African routines".
i was recently talking to friend who has been touring with a band in Europe, and my roommate called him out on so nonchanantly chatting up his upcoming Australian tour. he pointed out that it was difficult to talk very enthusiastically about upcoming shows/tour dates because it's hard to hype up something until you're in the middle of it. even after the European tour, he just kind of shrugs his shoulders when talking about the sold out Vienna shows. i identify: i have been criticized for not playing up my trip to Uganda. not talking about it much. prior to travelling, i rarely talked about it- mostly out of self preservation to not build up expectations for myself. and since returning, i haven't wanted to be That Girl who is constantly starting conversations with "Well, in Uganda..." and i haven't wanted to compare the two cultures...resulting in a lot of silence. and it's so true: only in the middle of the red dirt and flying grasshoppers in the shower and loose goats on the road to the market and in the living room with my Mukono host family did it hit me that i was LIVING in Africa..that "this was my life!" and now... it just feels so far away. so out of reach. so evasive to my abilities to describe it to others.
and i find myself constantly checking airfare to see how soon i could possibly get back.
but at the same time...i have just moved to a new apartment...began a new job...fallen into new friendships...and picked up old relationships as well...
and i find myself stuck with what Pandora dished me out tonight from Josh Garells:
"Please don't wait for me,
I ain't comin' back again.
I cannot turn around
from the place I'm going to where I've been" (at least not yet...)
january to march in Beverly:
lightning paced quad of classes.
full dedication/addiction (tomato, tomahtoh) to Atomic Cafe.
painting and experimenting with oils.
turning my dining room into a studio.
moving apartments down one block.
new job as bartender :)
lovely thursday morning study dates with The Gibbons.
beautiful, precious moments with Becks & Co.
living without constant computer access. so nice.
new Canon Rebel
first encounter with high heels and Long Islands...
played my first coffee house performance
curry cookoff in Bangor
shaved hair growing out to stylish rocker/swoosh stage.
life back in America has been strange.
while my one word for my experiences in Africa was "more" (more challenging, more beautiful, more surprising, more relaxed, more comfortable, etc.) my word for re-adjusting to life Stateside is "strange" (strange how easy, strange how difficult, strange how unfamiliar and strange how routine...).
my neutral zone is school- having left and come back there multiple times with transfers and what, it feels like "home plate" to be back there...but everything else has a hint of "odd" to it.
i was at a show in Cambridge about a month and a half ago and as my roommate was showing me where the bathroom was, i swung the stall door open to see a small hole in the ground (where the old plumbing for the toilet had USED to run through...). before seeing the fully funtioning toilet in the corner, my immediate mental reaction was "oh, well alright. no big deal..." (yes, i did see the toilet before assuming the position over the hole in the ground as i did so frequently in Uganda/Rwanda/Kenya). there were no complaints from the establishment that night, however- i realized just how unadjusted to American life i still really was- even at a show, back in Boston, with friends, out for a typical night- i still had to double check myself from falling into "African routines".
i was recently talking to friend who has been touring with a band in Europe, and my roommate called him out on so nonchanantly chatting up his upcoming Australian tour. he pointed out that it was difficult to talk very enthusiastically about upcoming shows/tour dates because it's hard to hype up something until you're in the middle of it. even after the European tour, he just kind of shrugs his shoulders when talking about the sold out Vienna shows. i identify: i have been criticized for not playing up my trip to Uganda. not talking about it much. prior to travelling, i rarely talked about it- mostly out of self preservation to not build up expectations for myself. and since returning, i haven't wanted to be That Girl who is constantly starting conversations with "Well, in Uganda..." and i haven't wanted to compare the two cultures...resulting in a lot of silence. and it's so true: only in the middle of the red dirt and flying grasshoppers in the shower and loose goats on the road to the market and in the living room with my Mukono host family did it hit me that i was LIVING in Africa..that "this was my life!" and now... it just feels so far away. so out of reach. so evasive to my abilities to describe it to others.
and i find myself constantly checking airfare to see how soon i could possibly get back.
but at the same time...i have just moved to a new apartment...began a new job...fallen into new friendships...and picked up old relationships as well...
and i find myself stuck with what Pandora dished me out tonight from Josh Garells:
"Please don't wait for me,
I ain't comin' back again.
I cannot turn around
from the place I'm going to where I've been" (at least not yet...)
Friday, February 4, 2011
of Cabot Street
there is a small, third story, two bedroom apartment - with three girls sharing one room, a tiny but functional kitchen, and a linoleum covered "dining room" which has been simply converted into a dance room by the strategic placement of a stereo.
there is an old, crass man named Sunny. he has a snowblower and helps us dig our cars out of our side-street parking.
there are sleeping trees- which stand white with blossoms in the spring, and white with snow right now- and all year long they stand sparkling and whispering with small white "christmas" lights strewn their branches.
there is a circus mural painted on the side of the old-time Cabot Street theater- which only ever plays one film at a time, and is currently hosting a number by Cher.
there is the bicycle repair shop.
the consignment shop.
the organic cafe.
the other organic wrap cafe.
there is the italian-styled, over priced, red chaired coffee shop.
there is Montserrat school of Art- ever quaking with the works of right-brained Beverly residents, with their lip rings and paintbrushes.
and there is Atomic. "The Friendliest Place in Town." Atomic Cafe; where the baristas know my name and invite Heidi and i to such events as welcome-to-your-new-apartment dinners, music nights complete with upright bass and accordian, concerts in Cambridge featuring the band which all the Atomic-guys play in, and Record Night- which marvelously featured a narrated vinyl of heart murmurs. yes, heart murmurs (and that was the one we listened to ALL the way through). Where an old couple starts talking to you just because they overhear the mention of Maine in your conversation, and they end the icy evening by giving you a business card and offering you a job. Where latte/foam art is still practiced. Where local art, Stan Rogers or The Decemberists, and the smell of on-site roasted coffee beans surrounds you.
we are the in crowd. come one. come all.
Monday, January 10, 2011
from Kenya, with love.
Who:
Martin; 21 yr old Volunteer Mentor
Wilfred; 23 yr old Agricultural Development Coordinator
Maureen; hilarious God-send of a cook and washing woman
Pauline; single mother teacher
Lin; 28 yr old Chinese volunteer from Germany
Me; 21 yr old American from Uganda
What:
Volunteer project in community development
When: Dec. 15 to Jan. 5
Where: HAVOCO compound, top of the Hill, Wagusu Village, Bondo District, KENYA
Ready. Set. Go.
12.17.2010
the kids had a blast discovering my tattoos and petting thm- then flapping their arms around mimmicking birds like the ones on my foot.. taught al the kids to make fish faces…then joke of all jokes: Pauline had me ”teach maths” (me, the most numerically challenged person on the planet, teaching addition to the kids that don’t speak English…) also: i have committed to not shaving until I get to Sweden. I haven’t since i left Mukono anyway, i see no point in starting now.
12.18.2010
from The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho: ”No heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams, because every second of the search is a second’s encounter with God and with eternity.”
Math problem: 3 people need to pay 180Kshs each on a bus to Kisumu. 2 decide to cover the fee for the 3rd…one pays 500Kshs for himself and ½ of the 3rds fee…then changes his mind and pays for 2 people. Needs change. The second pays 200Kshs to cover her fee, gives 90 to the 1st, asks for change. Ticket man is confused. Can’t imagine why.
12.20.2010
Martin took me to town today to see all the gold mines, and i came back to find Maureen washing all my laundry. She even did my delicates…bless her heart. ☺ i feel like i have lost MY language here, living on the compound entrenched in broken English, bits of Chinese and German, KiSwahili and the local language: Dmluo. I feel like i have severed all connection to MY mother tongue…
12.21.2010
thought process today: wake up homesick. Brainstorm finding a way to contact Ben & Sean, borrow a few hundred dollars, say ’screw it’ to Sweden and jump a plane to be home for Christmas. Take stock of fact that it will be ridiculous…that i will waste a paid-for ticket to Sweden, will disappoint Beatrice and let down all the people back home who supported me coming here, and let down this program. Reject thought. Take bucket bath. Dance to phone radio with Maureen and realize: i CAN, in fact, do this.
12.22.2010
this afternoon i drew elementary-style drawings of butterflies and boats and birds for the kids to colour in, since they have no colouring books. The donkey drank my bathwater tonight…furry bastard.
…and from there, sitting at the plain wooden table in the yard (still holding all the ½ eaten remnants of dinner), seeing the white plastic chair across from me just barely lit by what starlight can reach it- i think: maybe i should take a picture of this romantic glow of stars on plastic on a Kenyan night- until i see: a chair is still a chair. Even when there’s no one sitting there. Even when it’s dirt smudged plastic is glowing clean as doll porceline in the gentle light of the stars…but of course, ”starlight” does not have the same kind of maturity and poetic effect as the moon, ergo:
a chair
in the moonlight
is still a chair.
12.23.2010 turning point
today i was in all my glory as i ”taught colouring” to the kids. I was elated as i dispensed handfuls of crayolas to the kids and watched them fill in the pictures i drew. I almost cried seeing the pride in their eyes as they held up their pictures for me to ”grade” with a thumbs-up sign. it was beautiful. A true transformation, of white pages to coloured creations, and of my attitude here in Kenya.
12.25.2010
from Paul Auster’s ”The Locked Room”
…there was a certain pleasure in this, i believe- to experience language as a collection of sounds, to be forced to the surface of words where meanings vanish- but it was also quite wearing, and it had the effect of shutting me up in my thoughts…
12.28.2010 (un)HolyNight
the opened child’s game and the
boss’ neck tie lie discarded
in the same pile under a tree
of glitter and anniversary ornaments
the scent of cinnamon and
stale perfume crawls up the chimney-
blocking Santa’s way with all
of the weight of holiday temptations.
The party’s over. Downstairs the record
Is still spinning beside a bowl
Of tinsel and tangerines…
Silent night. Holy night.
12.29.2010
helped with HAVOCO budgeting plans for 2011 term and started to look into revisions for the diet of the feeding program…
my legs are getting really hairy.
I feel fat from chapati.
My face is breaking out.
My feet look (and smell) like hell.
But God is good.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
of mangoes and Nabokov
back in Nairobi. off to istanbul --> stockholm in just a few short hours!
i left behind the lakeside, but dusty, village of wagusu by night bus yesterday. it was a difficult (but in a few hours after treating myself to a real shower and a bar of chocolate, i'm sure i'll also say "rewarding") 19 days of surprises and challenges (including lack of water and cockroaches and latrines). i am sorry to leave behind a wonderful staff at HAVOCO - Home Adventures Volunteer Organization and Community Development Project- and the bright, toothy grins of all the children.
by day, at our little compound overlooking THE most glorious view of Lake Victoria and the surrounding mountains, i "taught colouring" to the 20ish kids at the centre- drawing boats and elephant butts and rocket ships each night by the light of my peppermint candle (thanks Mona & Michael!) for the kids to fill in with crayons the next morning. and by night, Wilfred (the agricultural development manager) and i would enjoy our dinner under the whole sprinkling of stars that the Kenyan sky has to offer.
there were many lonely and awkward moments, ergo my completion of a vast reading list from the cement stoop of my small room:
the alchemist- paulo coelho
the girl who kicked the hornet's nest- stieg larsson
She- Saul Williams (multiple times)
the new york trilogy- paul auster
the talking horse and the sad girl and the village under the sea- mark haddon
and approximately 30 short stories by Vladimir Nabokov
but despite the challenges, God provided many small reprieves, tender moments bursting with simply beauty- like Wilfred returning from the afternoon market on several occasions to set before me a bowl of fresh, juicy sweet mangoes as i lost myself in afternoons with my Russian literature.
i promise to write more, but for now i can't seem to quite step away far enough to properly mold the past 3 weeks into words...and in any case,
"sooner or later i will run out of words, you see.
everyone has just so many words inside him." (Paul Auster, city of glass)
i left behind the lakeside, but dusty, village of wagusu by night bus yesterday. it was a difficult (but in a few hours after treating myself to a real shower and a bar of chocolate, i'm sure i'll also say "rewarding") 19 days of surprises and challenges (including lack of water and cockroaches and latrines). i am sorry to leave behind a wonderful staff at HAVOCO - Home Adventures Volunteer Organization and Community Development Project- and the bright, toothy grins of all the children.
by day, at our little compound overlooking THE most glorious view of Lake Victoria and the surrounding mountains, i "taught colouring" to the 20ish kids at the centre- drawing boats and elephant butts and rocket ships each night by the light of my peppermint candle (thanks Mona & Michael!) for the kids to fill in with crayons the next morning. and by night, Wilfred (the agricultural development manager) and i would enjoy our dinner under the whole sprinkling of stars that the Kenyan sky has to offer.
there were many lonely and awkward moments, ergo my completion of a vast reading list from the cement stoop of my small room:
the alchemist- paulo coelho
the girl who kicked the hornet's nest- stieg larsson
She- Saul Williams (multiple times)
the new york trilogy- paul auster
the talking horse and the sad girl and the village under the sea- mark haddon
and approximately 30 short stories by Vladimir Nabokov
but despite the challenges, God provided many small reprieves, tender moments bursting with simply beauty- like Wilfred returning from the afternoon market on several occasions to set before me a bowl of fresh, juicy sweet mangoes as i lost myself in afternoons with my Russian literature.
i promise to write more, but for now i can't seem to quite step away far enough to properly mold the past 3 weeks into words...and in any case,
"sooner or later i will run out of words, you see.
everyone has just so many words inside him." (Paul Auster, city of glass)
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