Philosophy and Letters

Wednesdays on the wire: 25 Jan

2012-01-25T22:59:00.000+09:00

My head is killing me. So to avoid cleaning up and getting ready for bed early, I am going to talk about what's been going on outside my head.

1. Last Thursday I tried to get my middle schoolers talking by showing them a picture of LMFAO, a group they like, and they proceeded to tell me that all black people look alike. I said, that's fine. Westerners think all Koreans look alike. Then they got offended.

2. For the lunar year I went to the Palace and the only major thought I had was, how in the world did these people keep warm during the winter?

3. In my Friday class I showed them a map to point to where Jamaica was, and they didn't believe me. They thought it was in Africa. Then I showed them a google map and they still didn't believe me. Said I was lying. For a group of people with the highest IQs in the world their geography is horrible.

Haiku: Chinese New Year

2012-01-24T22:49:00.000+09:00

Year of the dragon
Fiery and fierce
You bring improvement

Girl on girl

2012-01-23T23:53:00.000+09:00

Girls have been on my mind a lot lately. Not in the fun, naughty kind of way. But in the catty, bitchy, always passive aggressively fighting type of way. The nasty comments, the hair pulling, which eventually turns into a fight and next thing you know, people are putting their bets in over which girl is going to win. Watching girls fight is always more entertaining than watching boys fight. With boys, you pick the one who's bigger, the one who's stronger, and usually that's your winner. But girls have secrets. They don't fight with their fists. They fight with secret tactics. They hide blades in their hair and under their tongues. They fight by starting rumors and shouting matches and wearing sexy outfits. Their words are their weapons.

It wasn't always like this. There was a period of time where I shied away from being friends with girls, and mostly throughout college I had mostly male friends but then I realized it wasn't a good idea to have so many (that's for another post). So after college I redirected my energy toward female friendships and came up against different problems. I was too different from these girls to cement a friendship connection with them. The reasons have changed but the problems haven't. Now that I'm in Seoul, new reasons, but the same problem crops up.

During one of my conversations with Chris, the workspouse, I said I can be friends with just about any girl-- so long as the subject of boys never comes up. I don't mean me and her competing for a boy, because they has never happened. What I mean are simple basic questions, that any girl who loves would squeal with delight at sharing with another girl. Questions like, what's your type? What kind of guys do you like? Who was your last boyfriend? Silly little sleepover questions that scare me because I'm not sure they want to hear the real answer. And under all that giggling I'm always uncertain if the expectation is for my answer to mirror theirs or if they really just want to hear it. Mostly it tends to be the former, and there goes a potential friendship down the drain.

The other problem when it comes to being friends with girls and then boys are thrown into the equation is the cattiness that can arrive on the scene. It's conventional wisdom that most women crave male attention. It's less conventional wisdom that most women believe they are above average looking. (I'm guilty of this myself). So when a male is thrown in, almost any male, even if the male is boy those girls don't want, then it become apparent that those two girls are going to get into a catfight. Yes, it's stupid, and pointless, and immature, and I'm surprised that at almost 30 I am still having to deal with this element but it happens.

Here's an example: When I first arrived here I went with a friend (let's call her "Alice" and that's so not her name) to a restaraunt, and while on the metro we met a boy, who followed us to the place. During the conversation Alice asked why he followed us up there to chat, and he said, looking at me, because I saw a beautiful girl on the train and I wanted to say hi. Then the claws came out. Why are you looking at her? It's because of her top. I have more T&A than she does. She doesn't have standards. She'd even go as far as date a KOREAN man. She went on and on, and I decided to cut the evening short, just to hear more of her berating. It didn't make sense. This boy was a boy I knew she didn't want, so why did it matter if he liked me more than her? Answer is easy. It takes attention away. And this situation has played itself out in several different ways. Girls who thrive on male attention don't tend to get along with me.

But this isn't a new problem. It's a problem I've had since the third grade. My theory, and it's a small one, is that there is a certain type of woman who's used to relying on her looks to get her by. And I'm not talking about beauty queens. Just women who put themselves together in a certain way, who use their sex appeal to get what they want. You know the type. The ones who can cut in line at Da Club, or get men to buy them gifts because they're so cute, or cars even. Those kinds of girls can't stand me. And one of the reasons might just be the very nature of that attention. It tends to symbolize a way of thinking that's cutting corners, which in theory there's nothing wrong with, but in a real relationship (whether it be a relationship or a friendship) it's not very useful. If a woman is used to getting what she wants because of her power or influence, or because she's so fine, what is she going to have to talk about with me? I don't do that. And then they think I'm weird and start sending me nasty messages through facebook.

The other theory a boy proposed to me last night. He said women don't like me because they'd assume I'm not appealing to men, but if a man does find me appealing, there's something wrong with that. I got what he's saying. The trouble with female friendship is that we're very insecure, and in some ways more vocal about our insecurities. The friendship may accelerate beyond a pace of what's comfortable, and in essence, I may be forced to kiss up to them even if the admiration is fake.

But those are my thoughts. Now on to watch some cat fights.

Wednesdays on the wire 18 Jan

2012-01-18T12:23:00.000+09:00

Students too tired, adventures in cooking and how to pick up a Korean guy. Here's what's been going on around me.

1. Last week was the week of friend dates. I met one girl on a friend date who explained that meeting friends in Korea almost as much of a crap shoot as finding a date. Which, if one doesn't like the military, English teachers or Korean men, is almost impossible.

2. In the middle of retightening my hair I stepped out for a few hours to go to an International party, which just reminded me of a college happy hour. I met a nice girl and I was thinking, gee, did Santa give me my wish? Am I going to get a Korean girlfriend? (not like that). I'm not sure, but she was nice.

3. One thing I did notice at the party, was how many Koreans did want to talk to me. At first, I thought it was because I was so nice, but then I found out that no, it's because they think I'm cute. So vain. Like when my students say they only listen to me because I'm beautiful and on the inside I am thinking, you aint' shit.

4. I did notice something at this party. Since the beginning of the New Year my friend S keeps hinting that I should get with a Korean man, and I met a girl who likes Korean very much. She showed me how to pick up on one, which seemed to be very different than how to get a Western guy. It was so foreign I was like damn, you need to make a youtube video on how to get a Korean guy.

Wednesday on the wire: 11 Jan

2012-01-11T21:22:00.000+09:00

In inspiration from the viral "Shit people say," I am going to write my own post entitled, "Sh*t Korean students day:"

1. "I played with myself." (He meant to say, I played by myself)

2. "Why do the girl teachers have to be pretty, but the boy teachers can be fat and ugly?"

3. "I like playing with boys more than I do girls." (Said by a boy)

4. "Is that your boyfriend?"

5. "How come you're not married?"

6. "We're going to get married, because I have high IQ and you are beautiful so our children will be smart and beautiful." (Said by a student who wrote me a marriage proposal on the board.)

7. "Ugly ok, must be rich."

8. "Can I touch your hair?"

9. "Is your whole body like that?"

10. "Teacher hair like Medusa."

And the one that made me reconsider all the prepwork I put in...

"We only listen to you because you're beautiful."

New Years Resolutions

2012-01-02T13:00:00.000+09:00

Health
Return to being vegan
Keep a food journal
Plan out meals
See a dentist
Go to bed by 12
Wake up by 8 am

Exercise
Work out 6 times/week
Join a gym
Get a personal trainer

Finances
Save $ for key deposit
Pay off credit cards
Pay mom back
Save for vacation
Set up a budget

Reading/Writing
Read 1 book a month
Free write daily
Write in journal daily
Blog 5 times/week
Join a writer's group

Social
Join a runner's group
Find a vegan group
Sight see in Seoul
Leave Seoul every 6 weeks
Get in touch with friends (in RoK and USA)

Next year, baby

2012-01-01T23:26:00.000+09:00

All I needed for 2010 was a 40 and a hammock

Let's do a recap. NYE 2010 I was on the beach in Manuel Antonio, drinking a beer and watching fireworks. 2009 I was in a swingers club. 2008 I was in Sacramento, watching more fireworks in the freezing cold. And 2007 I slept through it because I didn't want to watch another episode of Dog the Bounty Hunter. And last night what did I do? Nothing special. I had drinks with a friend in Beomgye at this really light and stylish lounge called 10. I mention all the NYE of yore because this one was surprisingly tame. I didn't want to go out and do anything. I didn't want to watch the ball drop. I simply wanted to stay in my apartment, but I feel like I was being a bad hostess. And I was. I was more focused on cleaning house than I was on my guest. But it wasn't just the cleaning that left me inexplicably grumpy. It was...you know I don't know what it was.

2011 was a year of major change for me, mentally, physically and emotionally. Mentally I've finally gotten into 'work' mode, and the notion of not having a career at my age is starting to eat at me, so I got a job with a regular schedule and quick breaks where I have to dress professionally. Physically I've been uprooted to three counties and moved 5 times, if we count the transition moves. And emotionally I'm no longer in the place that I want to be. It feels more serious, like there's a sense of urgency. I want to view myself as a reponsible adult and there are some things I can control (like having a job) and some things where I have no control at all (like if I have a relationship). One thing I will admit, is I've been missing the person I was in college. She had fun. She did what she wanted. In lots of ways I'm still that person, but I also want to be the responsible person as well, and a person with responsibilities doesn't always gets to do what they want.

On the immediate front, the fanfare of Korea is starting to die down. I don't feel so stressed out. I know how to work an ATM and pay my bills, I know where I can buy groceries and what size shoe I wear. And work has improved. It no longer feels like I am going to gt fired every two seconds so I can relax a bit, and focus on other things, such as building a community of friends. In Costa Rica it wasn't really possible, but I have the time and the resources to find others, so why not? I've met a bunch of people, potential friends and whatnot, but there's always trouble. Things happen, like college 2.0, like a crush turning me down, like someone dumping orange juice on my head (that happened at Christmas) and while I like this group very much, I can't be their friend, and I should just focus on finding friends the old fashioned way-- through interests, so that's my mission for this year, along with some other things.

The delight of NYE for me hasn't been in drinking until my liver drowns, or a NYE kiss, or even getting dressed up. But it's a time to reflect on the year past, the present moment, and how I can improve my future.

Funny ≠ Fun

2011-12-12T13:33:00.000+09:00

I've spent less time thinking about what makes me happy, and more time thinking about fun. Sounds like fun, but really, it's not. Like happiness, fun is highly subjective, but unlike happiness, fun is supposed to occur in a group of people doing something that they like. Suffice to say that since moving here my stubbornness has prevented me from seeing that what makes me "happy" isn't neccessarily "fun" and it creates inner conflict.

Here's a point to illustrate that. On Halloween I got the following message in my status feed:

k lets see......this weekend, got crunk, had some hookah(as usual, Went to a Korean Wedding with Sharee, Got Wasted with Bruce, Rennell, Charea, LaToya ( boo on leaving early), George ( got emo about sum other shit), Jamecca ( nice to finally meet you) on a cruise then partied it up at naked with Rian (grinded her), Rochelle ( still cant remember why you hit me), Christina ( stop it 5), Jaia, alexis, Courtney ( both of them), Orlando, Lindi and too many other cool Singles. Some girl bit me on my chest, thanks to George ducking and diving on her. All in all it was an Epic Weekend. Oh yeah Bruce........ TITTIES!!!!!!

This is what people I've met seem to do with their spare time. On one hand, the post is humorous and it's interesting to read about people's debauchery during a weekend. On the other hand, I feel a little caustic and cold. All of these people mentioned in the post I've met before, (or at least half of them) and they're nice people and i enjoy their company. There's one big reason as to why I don't see them, and I had to answer this question honestly.

I don't like to party. Boo on me. Blame it on the introversion, or lack of patience and energy, or just on being an old fart, it's not my thing. I don't enjoy going to da club to sip on bubbly and pretending to be cool and dancing on the floor and flirting with boys who I'm not sure I like. Sure, there was a time when I was into it, but even that was brief. About six months, and after that, I got it out of my system, and reconciled with the fact that it wasn't me. Those settings aren't the most comfortable for me. I'm the least like myself in a party atmosphere. And that's not to say there aren't some moments of enjoyment, but they're rare and accompanied by a headache and a hangover later. A price too high to pay for 10 minutes of a good time. They're interesting, especially for absorbing interaction but they're not emotionally fulfilling. They're funny, but not fun. And funny does not equal fun (as I'm often telling my students).

This is a hard realization to deal with now, because every person I've met here recently is in this mode. Seoul is a great city with lots to offer and plenty to do, daytime or night time. Its a place that comes alive in the nigh time, as opposed to San Jose, where most stuff was shut down by 7. So that's nice, but I'm no longer in the stage of my life where I want to dance the Saturday night away at da club. I'd rather be in a nice restaurant chatting with people about intimate subjects and getting to know them, or if I do go out, a hookah bar, or a bar with live music. Plenty of social interaction, still in a large setting with lots of people. But it's been difficult to find anyone who wants to do that.

I ended up vomiting my emotional yuck on a poor guy last Saturday. We didn't know each other well, and we just needed to split a cab to get back home. I've met some girls who I liked through Nano, and while I enjoy their company, they wanted to do bar crawls around Hongdae and sing Norebaum, which there's nothing wrong with, but I don't think it's fun, and it's let me to question if I can become good friends with them. He bluntly told me no, because they're still in college 2.0.

Most people who come to Korea are still in college 2.0. They have stable jobs, but they still like to drink, still like to party, still want to experience being young and free and lack discipline, and he could tell I wasn't there anymore. Which makes me sad. There are tons of people where I like them for who they are, but I don't like what they do. And so, it makes friends difficult. It's difficult because in college 2.0 you're still living a temporary life, where you're not sure what you like, and if you're not sure what you like, what else is better than partying, because there are lots of people just like you who are unsure of life's courses. The problem with friendship is that it requires a certainty and an effort to make things work, which people may not want to commit to just yet.

Sorry for leaving early

2011-12-12T12:54:00.000+09:00

Hello readers! I've been horrible with updating my blog and I've meant to do it sooner, but I haven't. I've become a lazy daisy since moving out here. It's the cold weather. I was going to continue ignoring it, but a request from a reader has finally made me get off my ass and complete a post.

Honestly, I haven't posted because I was trying to find something to say that I haven't been putting in my private journal, which has been a mess of sadness and various issues I've been dealing with that all come from living abroad; homesickness, being broke, setting my place up and being overwhelmed with work. Stuff like that. And no one wants to read emotional yuck yuck on a journal. (And I don't want to put that out there for people to read anyway). I've also been thinking about the direction I've wanted to take with this blog, because it's changing, due to the fact that I've been running out of what I'm going to talk about on here. It'll change to pseudo essays on various topics, like it was for my last blog, but it'll probably be a lot less personal than my old one. All that aside, I have a topic for today.

It's in the next entry

Wednesdays on the wire 9 Nov

2011-11-09T22:03:00.000+09:00

My new favorite neighborhood in Seoul

I know it's been a while since I wrote in here, but there are a lot things going on, so now I have lots to write. Here's what's going on around me.

1. Last weekend I went to a write in hosted by Nano. The night of 5000 words was like a kick back from college, and I met a girl who might have friend potential. While we were shopping she lamented that there were no cute girls. The only support I could offer was, "That's the world of writers."

2. I've been on the hunt for clothes for the past few weeks and despite all the shopping districts in Seoul I couldn't find a single one that had clothes I liked. Until I went to Edae. Edae is awesome. But expensive :-(

3. My students had their level up tests and they were not happy. I saw them spinning their pencils and then selecting an answer. When I asked them what they were doing, they shouted out, picking power. All that test prep for picking power.

Why write?

2011-11-07T23:41:00.000+09:00

Since living out here, I work and come home to an empty apartment, a laptop and nothing to do. Weekends have become wasted sitting around, doing laundry and watching movies, and in some ways it would almost sound better if I was getting wasted in bars instead of doing this with free time, because at least going to bars and knocking back Soju would be more social. Alas, nature swooped in, or maybe it was my calendar and provided me with something to do. I decided to join Nano, an organization that challenges people to write a novel in a month. I settled on a short story collection I've had on my mind since college, only to realize that I had a lot more to say about the subject than originally planned. Describing stories has always been a weakness. There are only seven stories in the world so I'm no good at making it sound interesting or exciting, but I'll say this-- it's about a family, struggling with the American Dream and ideals about love. Snoring yet?

Last weekend I went to a write in for Nano, sponsored by a fellow member and marvelled at the way people described their stories. There was a rise in their voice, with lots of expressive adjectives and pronouns. They seem like they really like their stories. For whatever reason, that has never been my style. Perhaps because I don't write about the fantasy and sci fi, or my stories are just about regular people, the slice of life type of stuff. Those types of books are appealing and obviously, those types of stories would be most appealing to write. But when focused on the purpose of Nano, the question came up in my head, why write? Why even bother? When I mention writing my students groan and shout out no. It makes them distracted and grumpy. So why do it?

The easiest answer to that question comes from the past-- what one liked to do as a child. For some kids, it was watching cartoons, for others it was riding on their scooter, or playing video games, or just hanging out with friends, but the moments that were most fun for me were those lonely hours when it was just me, my chalk board, and a notebook where I could scribble all these awesome story ideas. That was the most fun. I could slip out of my own life and into someone else's, play God and make things happen. I could feel important and be lost at the same time.

So why write? Because it's fun. Because it's a challenge to take a bunch of words and within that, create a world that's interesting and relateable at the same time. Some say the reason to write is to edify, to create, to make a statement, but it's much more banal than that. Is it entertaining and interesting? Those are the more important questions. If it's not entertaining to me, why would anyone else read it?

I have to think of that while I'm cranking out this draft. 50,000 words isn't that hard (it's about 100 double spaced pages) but it's turning my inner critic off that's so hard. The desire to go back and edit is strong, but it's imperative to ignore it. Otherwise, I won't finish. Otherwise, I miss the whole point of writing in the first place. Ernest Hemingway said the first draft is always shit, and it's hard advice to remember while writing your own, because of course, all of your shit is so good the New Yorker's fighting for it. The purpose of the first draft isn't to edify and solve problems. It's to entertain and pique my own interest. It's to slip out of my mind and into the heart of the story. Good stories have a way of doing that -- of taking you out of your mind and slipping you into theirs. That's the hard part. After that, the rest is a cakewalk, and I must remember that when asking the question, why write?

Wednesdays on the wire: 5 Oct

2011-10-05T21:58:00.000+09:00

Autumn is coming! Here's what going on around me:

1. In general, Koreans are very affectionate. It's nothing for two men or two women to hold hands and walk around, almost skipping. I wonder if this is the culture meant for same sex friendship, because it's hard in the states.

2. I was talking with one of my classes about this and the students admitted that although they're almost into puberty, they still hold their mothers hands, although one said he wants to stop. When I asked him why doesn't he just tell his mom he doesn't want to hold her hand, he said she'd cry. His devotion is touching and a little bit disturbing. But maybe I don't know what I'm talking about. That happens a lot.

3. Last Friday I went to one of my coworker's birthday party and I met a guy who was nice enough to let me borrow a book, and we exchanged stories, some about his ex girlfriend. I didn't realize it until I was in the shower earlier and washing my hair that his ex, is our former boss. The office is starting to feel incestous.

4. I know that in Korean culture that your coworkers are your closest friendships, they're like your family (and if you find someone cute enough, your dating pool) but I still can't get used to the idea of hanging out with coworkers. The only people I look forward to talking to are my students. My coworkers are nice people, but the idea of spending lots of time with them is foreign. If I have any Korean readers out there-- which I know I do because I check the stats, how can I get over this? Some tips?

5. And this is one more question for anyone willing to help me with Korean culture. I know it's common for two people of the same sex to be touchy but what about two people of the opposite sex? What are appropriate boundaries to put up, without seeming like a frigid ice queen?

Ok, that's all for now.

Round about midnight

2011-10-04T23:55:00.000+09:00

One of the joys of having my own apartment is that I'm shrouded in privacy. I can eat dinner and watch television when I want, and lately, I've been dancing in my underwear often to Stuart Lee podcasts. That man always makes songs worth dancing around to, even if it's like an idiot, and I've been avoiding this blog, saying I'm too busy, or that I have nothing to write about. But if I have the time enough to dance around in my apartment then I have enough time to write-- even if it's just about dancing in my underwear.

Last night I looked through some of my old blogs, on my old site. They're still up, and surprisingly, people still read them. They were pretty good, although I wanted to write a blog of a different variety. No more whining about how awful life seemed. And I've been dreading writing in this blog because I feared the next entry I write was going to turn into one of those entries. You know, the entry where I bitch endlessly about my life. And while I still find those entries interesting on other blogs, I've become bored with writing them. And needless to say, the drama I endure isn't all that interesting.

So what drama you may ask? Mostly I've been concentrated on work, and trying, hopelessly, to get the methodology down in my classes. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't. Drama with working my stove and my shower, and with the fall where the sunlight shines through but drops off so much to where I'm hiding underneath my blankets. And then there's friend drama. Friends who could become lovers and they didn't, or maybe they should've been lovers all along but wanted to become friends instead? I don't know. My mind has read like a script from a Judy Blume novel. I've reverted back to their eighth grade with my boy troubles. I can't even say it's about love, or relationships, or even sex, but merely boy troubles.

I haven't wanted to write that down, but to let you know that I'm still around. I still want to write but since I've been here for two months I'm starting to feel a little more normal. I'm still around. I'm still writing, but I'll try to keep it as tasteful as possible.

Wednesdays on the wire: 21 Sept.

2011-09-21T21:26:00.000+09:00

Working on Sundays and kids jumping out of bushes? Here's what's been going on:

1. I had to teach make up classes for the Chuesok holiday. Fun times.

2. While I was on my way to work one of my students snuck behind the bushes and jumped out to scare me. Turned out he had gotten out early from his piano lessons and he just happened to see me so he wanted to say hi (by scaring me). Turns out that's a huge compliment, since he wanted to speak to me outside of class.

3. My students seem to be obsessed with my hair. I have to leave the room during the breaks and sometimes the students draw pictures on the board. And the only feature they seem to draw on me is my hair. It always looks like sticks.

4. Over Chuesok I bought some glow in the dark stickers. Gotta love cheap retail therapy.

Haiku

2011-09-19T23:52:00.000+09:00

Fellow readers,

Who's down for a haiku? If so, here goes:

Whatever I do
If I'm working or at school
I'll always miss you.

I wrote this on Friday when I was trying to come up with material for my journal. Like this blog, I've been ignoring it. And when I came up with this gem I thought, now, this is status worthy and I posted it in my status. Of course no one commented, but I did get a few emails about it. Who was I missing? Was it someone in Seoul or someone in the States. Was it a friend or a lover? Is it me? You know you miss me.(Someone actually wrote that).

To clarify, no I wasn't missing that person, but when I at down to write it was the first thing that came up and it was significant. Here's what I mean: there's a lot that I miss, but it's very person specific. When I'd moved from Oakland to San Jose, I was missing everything! From my bike, to the restaurants, to my crazy lush of a British landlady. In Seoul I'm not missing it quite like that. Perhaps it's because I like Seoul as a city far more than I liked San Jose. Seoul is for the most part clean, I have a job with steady hours and a clean beautiful flat, and Koreans are friendly. There's lots to do so I enjoy the city. However, I really miss my friends. Like, the friends I had in the Bay. Or even some of the ones I had in Costa Rica. And my family. I miss them a lot. So when I said, you I was referring to you, as in some people, but more specifically, a time period. A time when I didn't have as many worries-- or perhaps they were different worries, but not as profound.

Who am I kidding? A lot of those are the same worries. Petty dramas that play themselves out like I never graduated from the 8th grade. I spoke to one friend in the States about my troubles and she said that my drama stays in middle school and she's right. Does so and so want to be my friend, why can't I be friends with so and so. Things like that. Real boring stuff. And in some way, that kind of drama is fun because it's harmless. No one's going to get really hurt. We're all too old, and all those scars from our youth are still tattooed on our psyche. There's too much damage to inflict even more damage. But anyway, there's this awareness that the whole thing is petty, and maybe I should be over it, or above and I'm not, and I don't have my same group of friends to ground me back to reality. Even friends who know me inside and out who can counsel me on my middle school problems in addition to my first world ones.

That's the thing that I've been missing. That's the you that I want to get back to. Even though I'm loving Seoul so far I really really miss my friends and family that made my home so homey.

Wednesdays on the wire: 7 Sept.

2011-09-07T15:13:00.000+09:00

Decorations, teaching and trying to write! Here's what's been going on around me.

1. I love teaching, because it's so easy and the student management is easier than the states. Korean students tend to be brutally honest, so they're blunt. During a CTP (critical thinking project) one of the students said he hoped to marry a rich man. When one of the students asked, what if she's ugly, her response was, 'Ugly ok-- must be rich. He must have money.' I'm not sure if she's wise beyond her years or materialistic.

2. While the elementary students do not shut up, the middle school students rarely talk. If I ask my middle school students a question, here's what I get: They pause, roll their eyes and then give me an answer. They have a hard shell to crack, but I've been told, it's ok.

3. My students are touchy feely, however, it's only acceptable for same sex pairings to be affectionate. So it's common to see two women holding hands or two men and they're not gay. In my classroom, I have two male students who touch each other constantly and it's becoming a distraction, especially when they sit in each other's laps. But I'm sure they're straight, despite their over the top bromance. And their eyeshadow.

4. Finally, I doubt I'll be traveling by subway after midnight again. An older businessman stalked me, stared at me, and sat next to me on the train...without saying anything. It was so creepy! So so creepy!

What are you doing?

2011-08-30T00:55:00.000+09:00

I've been AWOL from this blog and not for a good reason, like my internet died. So you may ask, what have I been doing? Well, I'll tell you what: I passed my training and searched for an apt, moved to Aynang, a satellite city outside of Seoul and began observing. I cleaned my apartment. I've purchased some furniture, had some donated to me by the departing teachers and random strangers. I've been helped, given rides, had one guy pay for my taxi and another pay for my dinner. I've heard plenty of Koreans, men and women say that I'm beautiful and must I say, I never get tired of hearing how cute I am. I haven't been exercising but I've been eating lots of carbs. I haven't been writing regularly but I take my camera out every once in a while. I haven't gone to any museums because I'm on a ramen budget. I've observed classes and met coworkers, and today I taught my first classes.

So what have you been doing?

I don't like staying away from this blog, however I've been juggling many things and fighting off jet lag that I haven't been able to string together a coherent sentence for very long. The excitement is starting to die down though, and I'm starting to feel settled, like I've finally landed back on Earth. Too bad I don't get paid until Oct. These will be hard times until then so I'll be on the ramen diet. The first two months are the hardest, so maybe after that I can go do some fun stuff. Like visit DMZ, or fly over to Jeju Island. And if not, there are museums I can go to, which I may do during the weekends, provided that it's free. I hear Korean is easy to learn which I need to learn because I'm tired of pointing and grinning like an idiot or on the verge of having a nervous breakdown because I can't sound out my request.

But anyway, that's all from me. I'm still alive. Still trying to set up life. That's what I've been doing. Now that I've told you, anyone want to some donations my way?

Wednesdays on the wire: 17 August

2011-08-17T23:57:00.001+09:00

I'm now halfway around the world so I have lots to talk about. But I've been craming for training *Screams* so here's a few things that I've noticed about Seoul so far.

1. Seoul is beautiful and rainy with the sound of crickets in the background wherever I go. Even in the major intersections. With all these high rises that look like projects. So it's like having the rain forest in the hood. Best of both worlds.

2. Koreans by far are very friendly and nice, except when it comes to the subway. There they don't smile or nod, but I'm so nervous about how Koreans view me that I smile a lot. So there I am, on the train giggling like an idiot because I feel so excrutiatinly awkward.

3. Speaking of Koreans, I've noticed that Korean men tend to me notice me quite a bit, older business men. They stare at my chest and I wonder, why? My chest is covered. And the looks aren't full of lust, but curiosity perhaps.

4. Um, what else? My birthday was a blast. I went out with a few trainee for a typical Korean lunch of cold noodles which was well seasoned but um...cold! And I got to go to a cat cafe. Apparently these are very popular in Asia, since there are lots of places that don't allow cats. It's simple really. Patrons go in, pay the fee, and they get to spend a few hours with kicking it with the kitties and sip on their drinks. It was relaxing, and sweet, and it was so cute! It was so cute!

5. So far, I'm enjoying my time in S. Korea although it's mostly been on training. My mind's been preoccupied with that. So if you don't mind, I'm going to head to bed for 6 hours of sleep, and I'll try to write more tomorrow but I can't promise anything. Laters!

Birthday thoughts

2011-08-15T22:39:00.000+09:00

Quick! Somebody get the blond a fake ID

Hookahs bars are the nightclubs for the underage. S and I both observed this when we went out for hookah a few weeks ago while I was in the Bay. The first 40 minutes of hookah are terrific—it’s not too loud or too noisy, we can smoke however much we want, plenty of elbow space and few people. Then the bar becomes a club for the underage, those who desperately want to tear the dance floor up, but they aren’t old enough or haven’t got the fake ID, whichever one it is. And there was one girl in the bar, who so obviously wanted to be older. The blond in a tight tube top and booty shorts, dancing with her hair flowing through the smoke, grinding on her friends who were giggling and posing in front of the camera shouting out, Facebook! Primping back and forth on the floor like someone was really looking at her. And believe me, S and I were way more critical as we laughed at her, with our bottles of water and vegan brownies, taking puffs between all the madness. Someone should’ve told her not to wear those shoes, I said. And that hoochie outfit? No way would her real friends’ve let her run out the house looking like that, Sarah chimed in. S had gotten rid of her hoochie dresses her last birthday, when she turned 25. Even throughout our snickering and cackling we felt the real it is come on, and it wasn’t from the hookah. It was a slower high that reminded us we weren’t so young anymore. Or at the very least, not young enough to wear our mistakes were excusable—like wearing granny clogs with booty shorts and a tube top (it was horrendous).

I never imagined myself as being that type of person. The type of person who judged and castigated, the type who made fun of others for their youth and inexperience. Was I doing it because I was jealous of her or wanted to trade places with her? Not really. I don’t remember youth being a fun time in my life. In fact, 18 year old life was pretty drab and dark, amidst a lot of uncertainty over how to properly conduct myself around others, and often feeling like I’d failed. Any little mistake felt like the end of the world, and I don’t get the impression this girl felt that way about her life. Or she was putting on a show, which is a necessary survival skill to endure being a young adult. So no, I do not want to be young again. I don’t want to be in a place of my life where it felt like all those options were out on the table and to be arrogant enough to reject them for a night of partying. Granted, we were two different 18 year olds but I saw some of the same qualities in that blond—the arrogance and pride that masked a certain doubt. The need to be seen and heard all the time in order to cover up insecurities. I’m happy I’m in a place where I don’t need to do all that, but then I wonder, why is the youth always wasted on the youth? 18 year old girls are in their prime physically, in the space of their lives to look their best. It’ll all go downhill from there. (Well, I think I look better than I did at 18 but that’s me). Once you get older you start to notice changes in your body. Veins become visible in your hands. Bruises show up more easily and don’t go away as quickly. You forget stuff. It becomes harder to breathe sometimes. You become more aware of your feelings and surroundings so surprise! You become more self-aware. However, you become more aware of your feelings and surroundings so surprise! You know your limitations and at times that’s scary. Nice to know, but you also no longer feel like your superman.

Age is a weird thing. Unless you die young, you have to deal with it on a constant basis, and I realize the older I get there will be more signs that I’m no longer a spritely 18 year old. It’s nice to know that I can see around corners but not so nice to remember those experiences and the older I get, the more corners I’ll be able to see around, but the more corners I can see my opportunities for certain experiences will close up. For a long time I thought the only place I’d feel like this would be in terms of motherhood. Since my childhood, I saw motherhood as the opening of some doors but the closing of others. Doors that would permanently close if I made such a decision. Now, getting older is very much the same thing. Now that I’m in S. Korea, I do realize I may not have as many opportunities to do other things because I chose this thing. The more experiences I have as a single person later in life may decrease my chance or finding a life partner or being a mother if I’d like. So there are doors that will permanently close as I get older, but in a way, I savor the streamlining of opportunities because it’ll make my choices easier. It’s easier to make a decision if you have fewer choices. But this is what being 27 is all about for me. It’s all about choices. Choices that may not be an option later on. Sure, I don’t have as many opportunities as that blond with the horrible fashion sense, but I can confidently say I’m happier now that I was at 18 or any other time in my life.

A friend of mine once said that woman age quickly. That she’ll be interested in developing herself until she turns 26—then, it’ll be all about having babies and getting a husband. Well, at 27 I can say that I have no desire for either. Although my lack of desire sometimes makes me feel like I am less of a woman. That I should be pursuing that. But I’m not. And I’m happy where I’m at. I still like to think I’ve got plenty of time for that, but if not, that’s fine too.

I realize I haven’t said much about what happened on my actual birthday. To summarize, I went to a Korean restaurant and had typical cold soup and then went to a kitty café with a few other trainees whom I hope to become friends with. But that feels like it belongs on a separate entry. I wanted to get a beer but it’s late, I have to get up early and I want to make a good impression on the trainers. The entire week is about observation. My next few weeks are going to be nuts. I have to adjust to a new time zone, set up shop and train for a new job—along with fighting off jet lag. So I may not update as often and I may change the whole format. And for those of you on the postcard list, it may take a while before I can send you something.

The return of the original art form

2011-08-14T18:46:00.000+09:00

The only sign of the changing times-- Changing hairstyles.

I got to take a deep breath again. Since I was headed to Seoul for an indefinite amount of time, I booked a flight to the Bay, and while fiddling with my phone I took a deep breath and filled my lungs with the air I’d been craving. In that moment of stress, I had the perfect air—clean and clear, crisp and with a slight chill in the air. The air here is so yummy. It should be canned.

Sadly my phone had gone to phone heaven and decided to stop working, but thankfully not much had changed. Sure, the price for the BART had gone up, but the place was how I remembered it—or how I last left it. I spent several days with my stylish is awesome friend Sarah at her trendy flat in the Tenderloin, doing nothing but reacquainting myself with the place again, doing what I did the last time I lived there. Eating in vegan cafes, drinking good quality beer and splitting a hookah, riding the BART, visiting work and talking to friends—basically, being myself. And not just my normal self, but the self that was single without kids. That didn’t have to worry about a house to run or how to conduct herself. There was only me to take care of. There were only my feelings to be responsible for and my own good judgment to rely on. It felt weird having all that free time, to not change diapers or listen to problems. No loads of laundry, no dinner to cook. It was just me and my friends, friends to visit, and old crushes to meet. It was fun! I felt like I was 9 years old again.

When I lived in the Bay I felt most connected with my inner fourth grader—you know the part of me that felt free and able to be silly. The part that didn’t mind being goofy and saying whatever she wanted. I always say fourth grade because that was the last time I felt pure. Pure and shielded from all that went on in my world, all that would cause me grief. Fourth grade was prior to my fathers’ illness taking a turn for the worst, prior to meeting my mom’s new boyfriend whom I hated, prior to buds sprouting on my chest and hair between my legs. I was protected from all that would change me, so I always go back to my inner 9 old who just wanted to play in the park until the street lights came on. But anyway, I was very in touch with her for that brief time, which is odd, considering that at nine I couldn’t smoke hookah or drink, but it was still fun. I could giggle and laugh and shamelessly thought of myself. I felt like a kid again. I felt like a kid most of the time in the Bay. Possibly because it was the first time in my life when I was without the obligations of school and studying, when there wasn’t pressure to want to change the world instead of learning how to peacefully coexist within it. I rode my bike to my dead end job that I put up with, only because I never had to take the stress of work home with me. I danced, I ran. I hung out with my friends. Essentially, I had the life I wanted to lead when I was 18, but here I was getting around to it, several years later. But during that entire trip, I was asking myself, and others were asking around me, is this all there is?

Of course, no one would come out and admit this. Inebriation was too strong, grown up thoughts about the market and the housing crisis replaced most meaningful conversation that could be heard. But underneath, it was on my friends’ minds through the presence of children. They kept coming up. On Sat. I went to a birthday party of a beautiful couple, and when I asked if they were ever going to have them, the husband said of course not, with confidence, but the wife said she may want some. This news registered as surprised on the husband’s face. My friend A just had a daughter and while she’s happy with her daughter, the foundation of her marriage is shaky, at best. It’s a house without a floor. Another friend has troubles with work, and she wondered if motherhood was this questionable. My mutual crush has a beautiful girlfriend who, at 35, just discovered she wants a baby for the next chapter of her life. He just wants to focus on his business. He asked the owner of a store to take a picture of us, but when this owner asked were we together, we shrugged it off. I’m wondering if he was thinking the same thing as me—what would our own children be like. The question we were all asking ourselves in some ways was, is this all our lives will amount to, and if so, are we okay with that? Seems like children come up as an alternative to other things. Children solidify the last rite of passage to be an adult. Who has time to think about themselves when they’ve got their own copy to feed and clothe, to nurture and hope will turn out better than you did? Children are an emotional project more than anything now. A project no one really wants, but feel like you have to want, simply for the sake of putting on this front of being a fully grown adult, and not, like some 9 year old who thinks about themselves all the time.

Sometimes, being that child is fun. That’s what kept me in the Bay for so long. Although I was happy with my daily routine, a depression clouded my head like fog. I wasn’t achieving what I wanted to in terms of the big picture. I wasn’t striving to become a better writer, or travel more often, or learn another language. All things that were important for my self-discovery, but I’ve had this problem other times as well. Most of my performance reviews have said I am excellent when it comes to details, but when it comes to the vision—the big picture, it tends to get blurry and vision is hazy. I can’t quite connect all the dots. So with that, I pulled back, packed my bags and left.

Am I happy that I left the Bay? In a bittersweet way, yes. That’s what the entire trip was—bittersweet. I am happy most of it was the way I left it—the street signs, the buses, the crazy homeless on the Tenderloin, the friendships still intact. But I know that had I stayed I would’ve become discontent with it all. As a person I may not have grown. This trip was also an experiment in separation anxiety—how would I feel to be without my family. It was harder than I remember ever thinking it should be. And yet, to become my own person I have to be apart from them. Moving back to the Bay wouldn’t be an option right now, though, because I don’t want to move back. I only long to move forward.

Wednesdays on the wire: 10 August

2011-08-11T15:14:00.000+09:00

This edition is going to be a little different. I have a lot to report about what people have said around me, but since I'm about to leave the country again, I wanted to write about what I'll miss.

1. The Jackie Robinson YMCA. Yes, this building is old and rundown, and hardly anything works, but I spent tons of time here. From running on the treadmill, to Zumba classes, to basketball games and job training, it still has a warm spot in my heart. It made the transition a little better. Likewise...

2. Primetime-- it gave me my first job. I worked a youth leader with Primetime in Logan Heights. While the hours were not as fun, I miss my coworkers and the students.

3. ECSD --- it reminded me why I love teaching ESL.

4. My family. They drive me crazy at times but I'm going to miss them. They filled up the space that made me think constantly of other things.

5. Doing nothing all day. That's not to say that I sit around all day and do nothing. In fact, it's the contrary. It's mostly housework. but I'll miss the ability to sit on my behind and watch television or browse the internet all day, because I have a feeling that'll become a distant memory once I'm in S. Korea. And lastly,

6. Libraries. I'll miss reading books. I've considered investing in a kindle, but I really don't want to.

There's a lot more that I could write about. A lot more. I went to the Bay to visit my friends and get reacquainted with the area, and I have lots to say about that. (I'll probably do three entries tomorrow, just on that). But today I was busy-- busy with packing, cleaning the house, and making an awesome dinner for the family. Tomorrow may go a little more smoothly, I hope because I've done most of the heavy stuff, so I should have time to devote to writing. Hope everyone is having a good night!

50 things survey

2011-08-09T05:01:00.000+09:00

This is from my girl Sarah. She copied me in a note on facebook, so I decided to post it here

1. What time did you get up this morning?

9 a.m.
2. How do you like your steak?
Cows are cute, so I don’t eat them.
3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema?
Jumping the Broom
4. What is your favorite TV show?
In Living Color
5. If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be?
Salvador, Brazil
6. What did you have for breakfast?
Oreos and rice milk
7. What is your favorite cuisine?
So so many, but I guess I’ll have to say Italian.
8. What foods do you dislike?
Peas
9. Favorite Place to Eat.
Souley Vegan
10. Favorite dressing?
Rice vinegar, sesame oil, salt
11: What kind of vehicle do you drive?
I don’t have a vehicle.
12. What are your favorite clothes?
Sundresses and flip flops
13. Where would you visit if you had the chance?
Brazil. I’d re-visit Italy.
14. Cup 1/2 empty or 1/2 full?
It’s always ½ empty.
15. Where would you want to retire?
Indonesia
16. Favorite time of day?
Right before I wake up and right before I go to bed.
17. Where were you born?
Chicago
18. What is your favorite sport to watch?
The only sport I like watching is Rugby live. Anything else—I’ll water Rachel Ray instead.
19. Who do you think will not tag you back?
No one.
20. Person you expect to tag you back first?
see above
21. Who are you most curious about their responses to this?
See above. I’m posting this on my blog. If anyone wants to reply, great! If not, that’s okay too.
22. Bird watcher?
When I was in Costa Rica, it was fun. Humming birds are sweet.
23. Are you a morning person or a night person?
Writing night. Exercise, errands and work, daytime.
24. Do you have any pets?
No. I really want a cat.
25. Any new and exciting news you'd like to share?
I’m going to Seoul in 4 days. *Screams*
26. What did you want to be when you were little?
A cheerleader, but they don’t make money. Then I wanted to be a flight attendant, but I’m too short. L
27. What is your best childhood memory?
Watching movies with my older brother and sister. I used to sandwich myself between them to stay warm because the heat was cut off.
28. Are you a cat or dog person?
Cat! I like dogs too.
29. Are you married?
No.
30. Always wear your seat belt?
Always.
31. Been in a car accident?
No.
32. Any pet peeves?
Liars, arrogance, callousness.
33. Favorite Pizza Toppings?
Vegan feta cheese, basil, tomatoes, artichoke, and pesto.
34. Favorite flower?
Lillies and irises.
35. Favorite ice cream?
Cocout vanilla or raspberry sorbet.
36. Favorite fast food restaurant?
McDonalds. Gotta love the fries.
37. How many times did you fail your driver's test?
I haven’t.
38. From whom did you get your last email?
Expeida to confirm the flight itinerary.
39. Which store would you choose to max out your credit card?
Have to steal Sarah’s. H&M
40. Do anything spontaneous lately?
Hookah! Visiting the Bay.
41. Like your job?
I’m unemployed now so I’m not sure if this question’s applicable. I do like being unemployed though.
42. Broccoli?
Please!
43. What was your favorite vacation?
Granada, Nicaragua.
44. Last person you went out to dinner with?
Sarah
45. What are you listening to right now?
An advice column from Bronzegoddess (who I have a total hair crush on)
46. What is your favorite color?
Cyan
47. How many tattoos do you have?
None.
48. Coffee Drinker?
No, unless it’s Tico coffee.
49. Which book are you reading?
I’m not reading one right now. However, Women’s Travels 2011 is on my list.
50. Do you like to travel?

Very much so.

Thursday excerpts: All girls

2011-08-05T09:24:00.000+09:00

Eighteen years. My parents had eighteen years together and they shared an unusual courtship. After retiring out of the military my father served in the Peace Corps, partially to travel and partially to assuage his guilt over serving in the Army in the first place. He went to the Philippines to teach English as a second language. Then he met my mom at the beach and he’d never forget that first glimpse of her. She had her back to him, a delicate yellow flower pinned to her jet black hair that shined in its darkness. He thought he’d never seen a more beautiful woman and when she turned toward him and smiled, he knew he never would.

They met each night on the beach and every Friday he’d bring her flowers, because that’s what would happen if she was with him. By the time his service ended he had asked her marry him, not knowing if she’d accept. She’d never seen America. She was only a girl of eighteen and he was almost forty.

She did, and they made a life in the US. She wanted a house and a car, love and stability. He used his VA loan to provide the material things. He sent her flowers every Friday like he promised. He came home every night and she’d cook. He introduced her to his friends and transferred the devotion he’d had for them to her. He promised himself to her, and in turn, she gave him two sons – my little brother and I.

I was lucky to have my mom’s love and a father who took care of us. Every year we vacationed in Hawaii, a place even more beautiful than the home we lived in. My father took pictures of everything: my first swimming lesson, my little brother playing in the sand and me close to my mom too scared to go near it. Things like that. Every Christmas brought holiday colored boxes which cluttered the house to the point no one could walk through it. Unlike other moms at school my mom kept her hair long and dark, without one strand of grey. My parents locked their bedroom door and when I heard them laugh at night I’d reassure myself, they were perfect.

When I was eleven my little brother woke me up because he had a bad dream. I knocked on my parents’ bedroom door and my dad told me to come in. It surprised me that they didn’t use the lock. It surprised me even more to see my mother turned away from my father, who was sleeping on the cold hardwood floor. I tried to act like it was normal and told them my little brother was asking for mommy. She stumbled out of bed, looking relieved to get out of that room. She didn’t look at me though.

They took the lock off after that. Soon my father slept with my little brother. Then my mom slept on the couch. My father bought her flowers still, declared his love for her still, but it was too late. She never wanted this life, she announced over dinner with my little brother and me present. Coming over here was a mistake, she continued. She didn’t want to be tied down to a family forever; she was too young for that. She wanted experience her youth, to taste life.

My mother had affairs and my father knew all about it. He invited her back to the bedroom; she declined. He suggested marriage counseling; she refused that as well. He finally accepted her need to be with other men and begged her to just stay – stay for those boys who loved her so much, stay for him, but she wouldn’t do it. She no longer needed the vacations, the presents, the flowers or his love. We had exhausted her and she needed her freedom.

Believe that if you love someone you let them go, my father granted her the divorce. She moved out and created a more desirable life. Soon after that she married a man her age and had a daughter. She’d always wanted a daughter, my father told us. For six months after their divorce my father updated me on her life post-us, because she never returned my phone calls, emails or letters. I’d never tell my father, but I wanted her to come back to me. I missed her.

I thought if I continued cross country running and gained attention, she’d come back. She remained gone. When I was accepted to college for a running scholarship, I was sure she’d return, swelling with pride. She did not. Even when I looked at those pictures from when we were happy, I’m silently wishing she’d come back, tell me she missed me, her old life. She had not. I understood from my father that girls need freedom and love, and sometimes in their quest for this they’d leave, but we’d always serve as warm memories. But that’s not the way I saw it. Girls need freedom and love, but they’d leave. All girls eventually leave.

Wednesday on the wire: 3 Aug.

2011-08-04T13:09:00.000+09:00

What that me then?

1. Seems like most of the process in getting a job in S. Korea involves waiting. Waiting for the apostille, waiting for the visa code, and then, waiting for the actual visa. I've done so much waiting it's annoying. I wonder if being pregnant is the same way. (No, I'm not pregnant).

2. Last week I went to the consulate to apply for my visa, and since I can't go to there twice, I gave them an overnight envelope to send my passport back. For some reason, they thought I was coming back, even though I told them I needed to be mailed. First my passport was locked up, then it was hidden, and I had to call and harass them.

3. And when I called this morning the lady who handled my case answered, saying, "I don't like speaking to you," in a Korean drawl (which is way different than a Southern drawl). So I responded. "That's okay. I don't like calling you either."

4. Anyway, that's all my visa drama. Aside from that, I went to Sephora to buy that bare minerals kit. Good thing I didn't go online, because I would've purchased the wrong one. Turns out for someone of my color, I have a yellow and blue undertone which isn't very common in people with dark skin. "It's like your skin was lighter and then it darkened," the manager said. This may have happened when I moved to California for good, or when I vacationed in Costa Rica, when I had this radioactive glow instead of a tan. Doesn't matter. So most makeup made for my complexion won't match it-- it'll just make turn it pink, so I have to blend. Blend, blend, blend.

Tuesday exercises: Write a scene with an airport

2011-08-03T15:04:00.001+09:00

During my childhood I did not have luxury of believing babies came from the stork. My father always recited the story of how I got my name to friends I brought over, to teachers, to whomever would listen. Back then, he was a graduate student, focused more on being conscious and righteous than he was on being employed and he fell in love with my mother. He talked about The Movement constantly. The Movement would flip the Establishment over, and at first she was enthralled but after she became pregnant with me she struck a deal with him- he got to name his son whatever he wanted so long as he stopped talking about the Establishment and got a real job. He did both, and I always had a funny sounding name.

Lies are sometimes luxuries. Little luxuries that are free and creative, with liscense that the power to protect and avoid hurt. That’s how I rationalized it after Angela went to bed. I wanted to find a way to make it better, to tell her that nothing happened with Jackie, that nothing was wrong between us and I was just dumb. A dumb old man who wanted to feel young again in the arms of this girl, who was indeed a girl. A girl who lacked the experience, the beauty and charm of Angela, but the only way I could think of doing that was in the physical. In the embrace we locked ourselves in, and when I looked in her eyes, she shied away from me and turned her back. I stared at the ceiling and listened to the waves crashing against the shore. Stars probably shined that night in the blanket of blackness, and under those stars was where Jackie probably stood, dancing and partying. But that was even a luxury I couldn’t afford. I offered my arm out to Angela, my girlfriend, the one who’d stuck by me and she rolled over to her side and snuggled up against me. Her hands did not travel below my waist; nor did she look me in my eye. This is what couples do when they are as old as us. This is what couples do when they are past falling in love.

We got up the next morning later than usual. The sun shining down on us didn’t wake us up like it had the other days. We lived in the land of the fog. Sun was a rarity. It took us only three days to expect the sun, to expect things out of each other.

“Morning beautiful,” I said.

She nodded. She tilted her head, a few strands coming loose from her bun. “You sleep well?” she asked.

I told her I did. “Good! I’m getting a swim in before we have to take our flight.”

She rolled out of bed and went to the sink to brush her teeth. “You know, we could live like this forever,” I said.

She peaked at me while brushing her teeth, rolling her eyes and lauging. “Yeah, right. I’ve got too much to do to be sitting around on a beach somewhere!”

We took our swim on the shore, diving in and out of the crisp blue water, splashing around and giggling like we were children. We walked around the beach one more time, holding hands, taking in the air, the sky and water that bled together in their harmony of blue, my smiling at the guys who looked at Angela, her smile not quite as wide. Then we had breakfast and packed our clothes before rushing for the shuttle. We’d gone back to the couple we were before, as if on cue for the real world. There was a pre-emptive shutting down of sorts. We didn’t talk about last night until we got to the check in line.

Angela took her hand in mine, caressed it for a minute. “You know, I’d never want to give up what we have. You know that, right?” she said.

I kissed her fingers one by one, then the palm of her hand as my answer.

Recipe: Roasted Chickpeas

2011-08-02T09:27:00.000+09:00

My hands are tired (from re-tightening my hair- that should be another post) so I'm going to keep this short. When I lived in the Bay I always had cans of chickpeas on hand. I'm a big snacker, so this is a perfect snack. It's not fattening, has as much protein as nuts, crunchy and great with a cold beer (Blue Moon preferred with a lemon). And it's so simple anyone could make it!

Ingredients
2 cans of chickpeas, drained
1 tablespoon of lemon juice
2 tablespoons of cumin
1 tablespoon of coriander
pinch of cayenne peppper
salt and pepper to taste.

Directions
1. Preheat the oven to 459 degrees. In a large bowl combine chickpeas, cumin, coriander, cayenne pepper and salt and pepper. Then, lightly drizzle the lemon juice.

2. Pour onto a cookie sheet. Spread out so the chickpeas are not on top of each other. Then, bake for about 45 minutes.

3. Let stand for 5 minutes and enjoy!

Friday free write: Mythology

2011-07-30T13:55:00.000+09:00

once i heard about a man who worked so hard his heart busted in two. maybe he was working on a railroad. and then there was the the tall man who could chop wood and wore flannel and was a lumberjack. and then there was gthe african proverb over what really happens to trees, and maybe there are others that i'm forgetting. picking flowers in a meadows is always a bad idea in a greek tale. and there was a greek tale, my absolute favorite in elemenatary school aout a woman forced to marry who onlty saw her husband at night, even though she never knew what he looked like. surprise. she'd married a cherub.

when i was younger i used to have an obsession and interest in the other worldly. mythology and myths, ideas that existed from another world. these were things that i wanted to bve a part of, and perhaps they interested me so much because it was a world i never could belong in, but that wasn't by choice, it was circumstance. and now i rarely read about thsoe worlds even though i'm sure hey're become more interesting. here's some thing little know n about me. even though i'm ot religious at all, i've always wanted to read the bible from cover to cover, or maybe the quaran, but what scares me is am i getting the full story? the bible one reads isn't exactly gods word, but open to interepretation of anyone who wrote it. do i really want someone else's word who could possibly not be god's influencing me like that? i have to question that. then again i wonder why i can't take the same opinion when i read greek mythology or why african proverbs don't have the same affect. perhaps because i don't know of that many and it's not as saturated in my brain. i don't know why it doesn't scare me as much.

much and much, such and such. did you know that there's an african proverb which srates that trees are actually warriors trapped in pain? i found that to be interesting. i wanted to learn about the tico history but i couldn't find much. costa rica is a country that doesn't have muh of its identiy ingrained in the past like the anceint culture of the incas or the mayans, and perhaps that's how i feel about my own culture. it's been washed away, whisked off like milk and nutmeg, and i don't know where it's at anymore. but it means that it's always modern, it's always changing, it's always fresh and new and hard to identify.

tonight i seem to be full of secrets. when i was very young i wished to be asian or hispanic, not bewcause i wanted to look like them, but because it was a rich history that could be easily traced and in this body, everything is blocked, maybe washed away bt the atlantic sea and the great triangle? ymmm, i don't konw. a few ywars ago i used the term jumping the broom to describe getting married and then explaiend that it was a traidiont. my companion said, i had no idea that african americans even had a cutlruee, as if there was some pride in having a culture beaten out of them. but i dpn't know anymore. sometimes i wishi i could go back to those greeek mythology book s and read about the others. however it does make me happy there's more about africa in textbooks now then there was when i was a cild. i remember one time when i asked my sixth grade teacher about the role africa played in wwiii. shut up, he sneered.

Wednesdays on the wire: 27 July

2011-07-28T11:46:00.000+09:00

1. Hi again! I don't have much news to report. Except that I got my visa, and tomorrow I'll be going to Los Angeles to go to the consulate. And hopefully I'll be in the Bay in a few weeks. I only have a few weeks left in the States and I have so much to do! *Screams*

2. Okay, I have one more question. How important is wearing makeup in S. Korea. I heard that it's important on the job, because it's professional. And if I should purchase makeup, which bare minerals shade should I get?

Tuesday exercises: Write about your first crush

2011-07-27T13:58:00.000+09:00

My first crush was a FOB, although I didn't know it then. We were in the fifth grade, Mr. Robinson's class, and from the first day I knew he was different. Not because he was Asian, but because he was Chinese. There were only Cambodians at my school. Well, Cambodians and Vietnamese, the south east Asian, who always got to go special classes for their refugee state. But this boy, he wasn't a golden brown like them. He was pale, a ghostly white, with eyes wide and slanted at the same time. His name was Troung. Hard to pronounce, hard to spell, the ridicules that often floated around the classroom stopped because we couldn't understand it. We had to wrap our heads around what we didn't understand. Why the name, why the funny way he talked, always confusing his R and L sounds. We had too many questions for the insults to start.
He did, however, dress like one of us. Or at least he tried to. Baggy shirts that could double as nightgowns and shorts that hung so low on him they could almost be described as floods if they weren't so wide. And he wore sneakers as well, like the rest of his wardrobe, that seemed to be way too large for the rest of him. They were at least three times the size of his feet, and while he learned the dances and used the lingo, he was still set apart. Whenever he got too excited, raised his hand in class or became angry, the same Chinese accent would slip back out. Any attempt to be cool was undone by that accent. He wasn't one of us, he wasn't American. He as fresh off the boat and a classmate always reminded him of that.
In those rare moments when I wanted to be honest with myself, I admitted to myself that I liked him. And not in the way I liked being around my female friends, but in a different way, but I never told him. Or I never told anyone else. We'd write notes back to each other. What's 8 times 8 he'd ask. 64, I'd say. I shared part of my Twinkie on Wednesday and on Friday he gave me stickers. Still I didn't tell anyone, and when he asked me to come over to his house to play a game I kept silent to others but for different reasons.

That autumn was hot and humid. Chicago was still muggy from the summer. Kids could still be seen busting fire hydrants and eating Otter pots, and in the midst of all this heat, I went to his house, which was even hotter, so hot my clothes stuck to my skin upon entrance. He tried to show me how to play a game of majoung, a game we did not understand, despite his parents demonstrating by playing. He told me he didn't know about the fifth grade. His family had arrived from China three years ago and they felt like outsiders. Outsiders in a community of outsiders. His parents told him every night he needed to get good grades so he could go to a good university and get a good job, but all he wanted to was to speak normal. He wanted to speak like me.

We lost touch after that, despite our close contact. That hot fall produced a chilly white winter and my father's cancer got worse. I had another man to be obsessed with, in a moment when all grief took the form of apathy for anyone else. And it turned out Troung was great at basketball, so he too got that crew. We did talk again several years later, in junior high. He was grown up, taller than me and I wasn't as skinny, still rocking the same clothes that didn't hang off him. But what had changed most was his voice. It was deeper and more serious, and he sounded like me. He had the right accent. And his name. He's now a David. I guess he finally got the homecoming he wanted. He was Americanized, just like the rest of us.

Recipe: Rainbow stir fry

2011-07-26T08:56:00.000+09:00

Chinese food is a weakness for me, but I can't stand ordering take out and since I don't live next to my favorite Chinese place anymore (Golden Lotus) I love to make this. It's easy to make with little preparation. It goes great with fried rice and toasted almonds (I can attach different recipes if requested).

Ingredients
2 bags of frozen stir fry vegetables
2 packs of veg chik'n meat.
1 cup of edamame
1 cup of fresh mushrooms
.5 cup of fresh ginger, minced.
.25 cup of fresh garlic, minced.
.5 cup of veggie broth
.5 cup of stir fry sauce
.5 cup of soy sauce
2 tablespoons of sesame oil

1. Over medium high heat, pour sesame oil in the skillet. Coat the skillet with the oil then add the garlic and ginger. Heat until softened, about 5 minutes.
2. Then, add the veg chik'n and heat through, about three more minutes. Next, add the frozen vegetable, edamame and mushrooms.
3. Now it's the sauce. Add the combined ingredients in the pan. Mix through, turning the veggies and chik'n over in the pan. The key to making a great stir fry is to make sure the sauce is coating completely in the vegetables, because that's where the flavor is. Keep turning until the sauce is gone, which should take about 20 minutes.

This is perfect, when served with fried rice and toasted almonds. Then, enjoy!

Bonus free write! Small

2011-07-25T11:09:00.000+09:00

Normally I don't post on the weekends but the Muse has been stingy, and when I finished a freewrite last night I thought self, this is interesting enough to post, so get to it.

When i think of small like most people i tend to think of size. small like mice, like insceests and some rodents, like a size 2, like a person who's 4 feet 10, just barely qualifying at a fullu gorwn person but when i think of aspirations it also amounts to things that are small. por ejemplo, there were certain aspirations that i used to scoff at when i was younger that i now realize are monomental feats, such as the quest to become a wife and amother. younger me would've scoffed or laughed-- haven't we moved past that with the feminist movement, but now older me realizees how hard the goals is to achiceve because there are so many obstacles in my way, like that i'm not a beauty queen, or i'm not the tallest, brightest one, so who would want that? so now i don't laugh when i meet women who say they want to be wives but rather i respe t the goal, although me now still doesn't have that goal. in my mind i'm going to greow up to be a writer, perhaps just moderatelt successful just so i can still talk with my students and help them in their writing and i'll have a condo and a greyhound and perhaps an african shorthair if i can ever afford one of those swweet fgentle kitties. but anyway, i don'tk now how that would qualifiy as someoen else's sucess maybe thT'S A PIPe dream because i am worried about obtaining a certain status, but now that i'm here i'm wondering if i got it all wrong and i shold'e been planning out soemthing else.

like another fantasy i often have. i wish i could've met the one who was right for me when i was in college, so that i'd have a good ten years with this person before the kids came along, but with the awy things are looking it looks like children will have to be off my rader for now because i haven't found the right person where i'll have all this leisurely time with them. but i do't know how all of this is going to happen. i wanted to travel and teach and write but the further i focus on thopse goals i get a kind of tunnel vision, and now i have an appreciation for people who want to raise families because if everyone on the planet was like me, there would be no babies born because we're all too busy with our own neuroses. like right now i read some reviews on teaching in s. korea and most of them were bad. i feel like i'm spinning. and then i have other fantasies and daydreams in my head. with how much i think about myself, and how most of my fantaisies during wkaing hours are about myself, you'd be surprised to find that i think of other people when i touch myself in that way. it almost seems surreal, that when it comes to my daults, i fantasize about myself. when it comes to my ideals, i am tthinking of someone else. which doesn't make sense. wouldn't i loathe myself too much to look at myself in that way or hate for anyone else to look at me in that way? but i think i am digressing. when i think about myself i see where i'll be at in several years and in a lot of ways i'm hoping that'll be grad shool,. where i can finally write that short stroy collection that's been eluding me, where i hope i won't have to deal with the cat fights of undergrad, although some of those wer wquite fun, and then i think i'm getting cloers to satisfaction althought when i think about where i'nm at as a woman, someone might say that fantasy is neglible.

Friday free write: Risk

2011-07-23T13:57:00.000+09:00

wayne gretsky is a guy i know very little about, except that he played hockey, or was it football, but anyway he has this cool qupte that says statistically, 100 percent of the shots you don't take don't go in, and it seems funny because it's a double negative, also funny because i am writing this in the day time in order to conserve energy and not write during the night time but it seems funny because now i'm thinking about all the things i need to get done and how my life seems to revolve around risk, how everything seems ricksy, but even that seems a little self absorbed because that's everyone's life. everyone's life seems a little risky but i don't know how to think of it any other way. lots of things in my life seemed like a risk because i did thing i didn't see anyone else do, like riding a bike or walking some from school all by myself, like going to college for four years that turned into five and movig to another part of the state for reasons that i don't even know why but i'm glad i did them, and how there are risks i was willing to take that didn't pan out, like going into the peace corps or that job at epik seem to be the two biggest ones i'm thinking of now. but when i think about risk i see other forms of a risk, like getting married or starting a relationship,m like having a child or choosing to settle down instead of trying to become a broke international travelerl like myself and i wonder if i am taking the risk on all the wrong things. maybe i should be taking a risk on things like settling down into a career because i'm not getting any younger. in fact, i am gettting old and i don't like it not one bit, perhaps because most things that i want to see as new and exciting and flavorful and fun are now humble and blah blah. how many happy hours can i go to without feeling left out? how many times do i ave to meet people over and over and over again only to explain to them that you met me years ago, you just don't remember. i don't know. i don't know how to make the new seem fresh and exciting and i'm paranoid over a lot of things. things like, what if i take this risk and i fall flat on my face? i haven't fallen off the deep end yet, nit intot he depths of the golden gate bridge yet, but i have stumbled a bit, i haven't been given a promotion in anything and for some reason all of those artificial things seem to matter a lot to me.

five more minutes. hmmm, what else have i taken a risk on? i've taken a risk on my hair with getting locs. i was worried for years over what people would have to say about that. that i was trying to be afrocentric or pro black when i've just really always wanted some locs. i also worried that i didn't have the long silky hair that men seem to like, but i'll never get that without altering myself in ways that i do't likem and i'm not takling about altering myself in general but i don't like getting perms, and never have, and now, i can't wait to run my fingers through my hair. i took a risk with getting into shape and that's paying off too. going vegan and quitting a job. traveling to a part of the world that i knew nothing about and now when i look bnack on it, i do tend to see that part of my life with rose colored glasses although i know it was tough, way tough because i have the journals to prove it. some of those erisks have payed off but i guess o'm looking for the big payoff the one moment where i'm looking out at the sunset or at my lover or some superficial shit like that and i go, i have traveled all these rough bridges to get t othe place where i wanted to go to reach you, and now i'm here and everything seems to be worth it because i don't feel that way right now. instead i feel a lot of angst and worry, that i'm too afraid to go on but i'm too worn out to stay here.

Exceprt: No Drama, part 2

2011-07-22T15:16:00.000+09:00

This was the first time I didn't want Kim's issues. Before that call on the buzzer, I would've traded my problems for Kim's at any time, even though my life was quieter than hers. But that was the problem. Kim lived on the other side of the town in the hills, where people dropped their kids off to school at high end elementary, where a car was necessary to get anywhere. It also the only district in town when at any given night, one could go up to the roof of their house and see that stars like stuck fireflies painted against a black backdrop. Kim and her husband often went up to their roofs on Friday, which I found out through phone calls on Saturdays. We went up to the patio, her voice purred on the phone, and it was marvelous. My Fridays were less eventful.
    The spaces of our houses reflected this stance in our lives. Right after getting married Kim flipped through a catalog with furniture on it, and she pointed to the couches and end tables on the pages. I want that, and that, she'd said, and in a week, she'd gotten that and that. She'd replaced her contemporary leather couch with a warm Kelly green sofa. This home needs to look married, she laughed, and it did. Kim and Allen had filled their kitched with fancy waffle makers and toaster ovens, with plates the color of the deep blue sea, and their bathroom was accented with splashes of cornflower and coral. Kim said she wanted a Bichon, and Allen got her one. Kim needed a Persian cat, and he got that too. Her house was always cluttered, filled with things, speaking of the stuff of her existence, of why her phone sometimes went straight to voicemail when I called. She was busy. Busy with her things. Busy with being a wife, the practice run before she became a mother.
    My place on the other hand was minimalistic. I comprised my possessions of the borrowed and the second or third hand, of couches that came from freecycle or the curb, mixing bowls and plates there weren't bought but inherited, and it often showed. I couldn't get a matching cutlery set if I tried, but my spaces were wide open, much like my calender when I wasn't at the bank or at a dance class. I ran to fill up space, often running the lake to clear my head and pass time, monolouging in movement, but I often longed to be busy and pulled up different sources who needed me. It hadn't happened yet. But it was going to happen, as Kim had said.
    Kim had said this to me when we met years ago. I was young, a recent college graduate who'd just moved from the sticks to the big city, because that's what recent college graduates were supposed to do. My expectations were not met, however, and I could only land a job as a bank teller. The dance classes were to pass time, to reconnect with my student identity, when I met Kim. It was a Brazilian dance class and the instructor was a former belly dancer. Those were the days when I was on the wrong side of the beat and I still cared about embarrassing myself. The instructor knew this, and made an example of me. She asked me to go through a move and then told the class, to never, never do it like me. Kim tapped me on my shoulder afterwards, and said, don't worry. "Isura's kind of a bitch," she said. She broke out into a smile and I returned.
    We introduced ourselves to each other and stumbled around the block, as if we didn't want to say goodbye but didn't know how to continue. Meeting someone new is always like this. And in the middle of our own ambiguity we sat down for gellato, and in between the chocolate gellato and almond biscotti we managed to stuff our life stories. She was a native and hadn't lived out of the area for longer than a few months. I told her I was nervous and uncertain about the future, because it was the truth. Life wasn't panning out the way I thought it would. Just a few months prior I was hopeful and optimistic, knowing I was smart, beautiful and nurturing, and in a matter of time I'd be able to find the perfect condo, the perfect job and the perfect man, and I wasn't close. I was no where close. I had five roommate who never talked to me and a job I was overqualified for. And men, they were no where to be found.
    She reached across the table and patted me on my hand. "Sweetheart," she said, dragging the word. "You've watched too many chick flicks."
    So laughed I did. We talked on the phone, danced through classes and hung out in bars. We ate lunch on Saturdays and she even let me use her washer machine once my roommate broke theirs. When Kim was single was available. There was no other person she wanted to spend time with. But when a man came around she was hard to find. Men were always around us, swarming like bees to honey. In those bars, at those restaurants, the men were surrounded us, most likely to get to her. Under that soft lighting and the surprise pink, with the beat of African drums that stepped to her, to ask if they could run their fingers through her silky black hair and ask jokingly, "Is this real?" They charged up to us at those delis to ask where she got her watches or her bracelets, as if it mattered. Her phone number mattered to them. Her kiss was their reason. There were a succession of them. Most who wore suits to work and had money in the bank, who drove luxury cars and had low hairlines and wore Stacey Adams. All sent flowers to her. Many gave her gifts, cards of appreciation, jewelry of admiration. Amethysts and jade, turquoise. Rare stones. A diamond here and there. But only Allen took her out to Chez Painise, got down on his knee and asked for her hand in marriage. When someone gets married, the single friend usually feels a shift in the relationship, but that wasn't what happened because the shift was always there. Kim was married to her dating life. Allen was just permanent date.
    They seemed like they were on a permanent date. Allen and Kim were a couple that made other couples envious. They laughed at inside jokes at company picnic tables. At night she gave him a back massage and he rubber her feet. They made love constantly, and they never fought. A trip to the DMV even felt like being in Hawaii, is what Kim said. Their romance was perfect. Now she's reduced to this- sleeping on my couch with a cold pizza box close to her. Perhaps it was all those conversations, in her falsetto voice she sometimes used when excited that should've been telling. Or maybe it was the phone call she received from a mysterious other woman. A woman she knew nothing about, who apparently knew everything about her.
    Now her problems are seeming that house. Too big. Too spacious and full for the life I currently inhabit. Kim's wedding was at a historic hotel, one so fancy it had a health spa in the wing where you could get a mud bath and a chemical peel. One of Allen's friends approached me, offering to refill my champagne glass. I accepted and he asked about the happy couple. "Weddings are the only day people think about love," he said. He cocked his head to the side, possibly in muse. "They think love will find them."
    "Love is the main ingredient in marriage."
    He shook his head no. He'd been through this before. He'd had his own marriage and his own divorce. "Love is important, but it's not enough. There are other things they need to succeed in the marriage," he paused. He didn't go on to say what these things were; whether they be money, companionship and compromise or a short memory. "But they love Love, so they don't know that yet. But they will." He offered his number, not for love, but for a good time, and I politely declined. In my drunken state, I told myself he was bitter and lonely, but now, I see what he means. That wasn't a problem I wanted.

Wednesdays on the wire: 20 July

2011-07-21T06:23:00.000+09:00

Is this Pyeongchon?

Here's what's going on:

1. When I was in Costa Rica someone stole my hard drive and with it, five years of music, photos and memories. No need to worry, least of all about the music part, because I discovered torrents! I love these things. I've been able to replace most of my library. My mother dislikes the use of these torrents, but then turned around and asked me to set it up on her computer. Go figure.

2. I haven't had much to do besides wait until I get the E2 code for my visa. In the meantime my little brother has asked me, when am you leaving, when are you leaving? I don't want you to leave, he says, but then he finally settled on a sentence to sum up his angst. "I hope they reject your visa." So loving.

3. Speaking of visa, I've read a little bit on the school where I'm going to be placed. It's in Pyeonchong. Does anyone know about this town? For those of you who have worked in S. Korea, is it a good place to work? I've read so many horror stories on the internet I'm now freaked out.

Tuesday exercises: Character and situation through dialogue

2011-07-20T13:40:00.000+09:00

This is Rashida, who I'm still working with, talking with her ex boyfriend Ben. I can't use tags, so any pauses are represented by the ellipses. Think you can keep up? Let's see.

Work's been good. I got a promotion
Congrats. Work for me is the same.
That's always good. Sometime stability is good.
...
You know, this is some good falafel.
I thought were on a couscous kick.
I was, until it went straight to my thighs. That's why I have to run so much.
You have very nice thighs. Firm and shapely.
...
You're a lair.
What makes you say that?
Because if you liked my thighs, you'd still be with me. We wouldn't be meeting like this.
It's just falafel.
After work?
I've been busy.
I've been busy too.
...
I'm so strung out.
Like on drugs?
No, tired. Kim's staying with me.
...
Her hubby left her, or she's leaving him. One of the two.
60% of marriages end in divorce. That's why I'm never marrying.
...
I really want to buy a house someday. A place for me and Astor. And maybe someone else.
Like who?
Someone who likes my thighs so much to stay with me.
...
It wasn't you.
....
It just wasn't you.

Book review: The Beautiful Things that Heaven Bears

2011-07-19T09:46:00.000+09:00

Oh, boy. He's the slackers of all slackers. There's a stereotype that all immigrants are hardworking, workaholic individuals who have two or three plus jobs. They never eat because they can't afford food and it's all about retaining their culture in the States. This stereotype does not apply when it comes to Sepha, the protagonist of Dinaw Mengetsu's first novel The Beautiful Things that Heaven Bears, an Ethiopian immigrant who lives in DC, owns a convenience store in the 'hood, reads novels, ignores bills and exchanges stolen sodas and candies for hooker services, and that's about it. He's not a hero, because heroes, you know, do stuff. Sepha's entire existence seems to hinge on perpetual inertia. He's action is inaction. He doesn't talk much to his patrons or his neighbors and sees himself as apart from it all- apart from the Ethiopian community and the African Americans he services. Sepha does however have a group of African friends where they reminisce about the good times of Africa and ask themselves why did they leave heaven to come over here. Not happy and not sad, he's sitting on a stack of bills and watching the lives of others until he meets his next door neighbor Judith.

Judith isn't from the 'hood, and it shows, in the expensive house she purchases, the house that's been sitting on the market for years because no one else could afford it. She's a former professor, a divorce and mother to a biracial daughter. Judith stands out for many reasons apart from being white, and in her, Sepha looks at her with a certain curiosity. Don't think this is a romantic comedy on the brink where the leads hear the Thunderbolt. Sepha doesn't look at Judith with lust or romance, but with curiosity. In the midst of the world he doesn't understand (that he left for another world he doesn't understand) he sees a kindred spirit and a potential soulmate. Someone whom he could connect with, although she also seems far from him too. He discovers that her ex-husband is also a fellow professor, from North Africa, and he surmises, "If she wanted to get another African, I was a poor substitute." As a reader he gets no argument from me.

Apart from his growing attraction to Judith and his troubles with the store (not to mention constantly borrowing money from his older brother) he shares a special bond with Judith's daughter, Naomi, a precocious eleven year old who's dealing with the separation of her parents. He talks with her and grieves his own losses, and soon she's sitting behind the cash register as he reads stories to her while she drifts off to sleep. Soon Judith joins them, complete with a mug of tea and a drizzle of honey, and soon they start to resemble the perfect multicultural family.

Do Judith and Sepha become a family and does Sepha finally rise to the occasion? Don't be too sure that you know the answer. Does Judith like Sepha? I think she does. Despite their mutual attraction and need for comfort, they're similarities is where they disconnect. These aren't the type of people to get married and have a happily ever after. How many traveling professors does one know who are married? As much as he cares for her and as much as she likes him, he knows she occupies a different space, one he won't fit into. Their last meeting is bittersweet and touching because as readers we know what they're losing.

The voice is strong with an emotional sensitivity that's essential to the piece. Sepha has to be likable- otherwise, he'd be hard to put up with for 200+ pages. One negative about The Beautiful Thing that Heaven Bears: the pacing. It's slow and languid, perhaps too slow for my taste. It might have been better suited to being a novella, because at its length it stretches on for a little too long. But that's a negligible fault. It's worth a read just to see the other side of immigration. Carry on, you slackers, you disconnected. This is existentialism for the new global millennium.

Friday free write: Tempt

2011-07-16T14:30:00.000+09:00

to tempt is to be human. that's often what i thought of when i was a child and still trying to get into religion, because i thought it would make me a good person and because jesus says so. the lord says a lot of things and now i don't think of them but back then i wanted to be a good girl, had to be to get my mother's attention and my father's love and i thought church would translate into part of that but i never did. instead i often wondered about what it's like experience temptation. is it bad to want things that aren't even all that good for us? temptation surrounded me easily when i was younger, took on forms that now i can't even subscribe to. things like candy and now laters, those play cigarettes from the penny candy store underneath the arab's smoke shop, where someone could buy a loosey, staying up too late to watch in living color, those cute pairs of shoes patent leather that i just had to have for my first grade picture when no one was going to be looking at my feet. that necklace with the teddy bears on it that i now wish i had access to. eating too many pieces of cake, too many stale croutons, brining kittens back from abandoned alleys and wanting to nurse them back to health. dragging bottles to the corner store to get recyled. things like that. all those things tempted me and so much more but not i can't remember why they tempted me? is it because i couldn't have them or because they conflicted with who i wanted to be? a person without sin? someone who never missed the mark? i wished to be that person for so long but as dr phil says, life isn't a success only journey, and i have to ask him why not? or maybe i should've asked god that instead of counting hats and seeing what colors all the church ladies in the front pews were wearing.

But even as i write this i can feel myself restraining a bit when describing or listing temptation because the temptation moved on from food when i got older. why i don't nkow. i think it was because food finally because something i could always access and it lost its appeal. who cared if i had another piece of cake, besides my growing thighs spreading like eagles about to take flight. i wondered about sexual temptatiom but not in the form of boys wanting to be with me. i was afraid of my own mind and my own desires, because they didn't seem normal didn't seem to align with anyone else's and if they didn't then why engae in them in the first palce. why investigate what's in my head when it doesn't mathc up with others and so i started putting off because i wanted so desperately to be like everyone else. if i couldn't get the man i at least wanted to have the right fantasy of what he should be like, and i started telling myself, don't like this guy or that girl- like brad pitt. think colin farrell is hot, and for some reason, those ideas never fully translated. yes eric benet is pretty but there has rto be some thing else beyond that. say it's his songs. say its the locs. but no. he doens't do it for me. and even in my mown mind my temptation failed me. i couldn't even share the right fantasy. i looked at them like pieces of art. yes, i could see why other people liked them, but they didn't quite do it for me. and i hated that part of myself for so long. and even that's a temptation. the guilt, the fear of missing the mark, the anxiety that reached me even in my journals when revealing my inner most thoughts that i was less than a woman even in this regard. why couldn't i enter into relationships with the optimism that someone was going to do something for me? why was it so hard to asK? and even then i don't have an answer for that. i don't want to give in.

Hair Commandments

2011-07-15T15:56:00.000+09:00

Since I spent the last four hours complaining about my hair I thought I'd write down some stuff I need to do to improve it.

No, this isn't me.

1. Wash hair twice a week. Usually I wash it every other week but my hairdresser seems to think this'll clear up some of the dandruff.

2. Retighten my own hair after 1 month.

3. Get a grooming.

4. Consider a hot oil treatment.

5. Have fun with styling it.

An excerpt will come tomorrow. I promise. I'm just really tired tonight.

Wednesdays on the wire: 13 July

2011-07-14T15:01:00.000+09:00

Since my post last night was so long I promise to keep this short and sweet, which will be way easy because there hasn't been a whole lot going on. But here's what people are saying around me:

1. My mother, younger siblings and I just moved into a cute little villa in sunny Escondido a few weeks ago, and we live two doors down from the president of the Homeowners Association! These people seem nosy. They stared at us when we first moved in, like they've never seen any black people before. And they are pesky. A few weeks ago the wife left a note on a guest's windshield and he proceeded to go off on her (and entertaining site indeed). And she talks everyone's ears off. I usually just look down and avoid all eye contact, and I think she's got the hint that we don't want to talk to her.

2. This is from a few weeks back, but in one of my ESL classes we were going over idioms. Stateside, everyone knows "I'm blue" means depressed, but in Europe and Asia that means drunk, which I'm going to have to remember that, because I'm heading over to S. Korea in a month!

3. Totally unrelated, but my little brother turned 10 on Monday. Happy birthday little man!

Tuesday exercises: Subverside details and characterization

2011-07-13T15:29:00.000+09:00

1. Choose a character. Write down all the props associated with this character.
I've decided to put one of my writing projects to the side and work on another, an idea I've had floating through my head for the past two years. Let's start with Rashida. I don't know her very well but I'd like to get to know her, so I'll work with her for this exercise. Who knows? Maybe this will help me with writing about her. (She's quite stubborn at times and doesn't want to talk).
I don't want to go through all of her props because that would take too long. She drives a car, works at a bank and eats at a lot of restaurants and bars. Needless to say she touches a lot of stuff so I'll just work with what's in her (fake Coach) bag because it's the most personal of items of her, next to her cat, Astor.
Here's what's in her purse:
Lotion (Gold Bond)
Chapstick
Mac lipstick
Blush
Primer
Condoms (she's optimistic)
A black pen
Notepad from her bank
Cell phone
iPod
A copy of an Eric Jerome Dickey novel wrapped up in a book wrap.

2. Add another prop to the list, one you've just created on the spot and make it a prop that doesn't quite fit in with the others.
A lighter from Mexico. This isn't her at all because she's neither a smoker nor has she traveled to Mexico.

3. Create a brief exposition, a story of how this character came to own this prop.
These are in her words.
It's easier to create a narrative than it is to deal with the reality. When I was much younger my favorite love story was Say Anything, especially the part where Ione Skye gives John Cusack the pen and tells him to think of her every time he uses it. Of course it was all a rouse, but it was a nice gesture. I'd like to think someone would do that for me during my teenage years. We'd have a great love affair but part and he'd give me a token of his person for me to commit to memory. Those years came and went but no one left a piece of themselves for me. I liberated the lighter in that vain. Liberated. It sounds so 70s. So like my mom.

4. Now being a freewrite by entering your character's consciousness.
I couldn't, for the life of me let anyone know that that has never happened. Being asked to slow dance in middle school, the love letters boys write to girls before they even know what love is, or the text messages that follow when they do-- it just never happened for me and I couldn't for the life of my figure out why. I was smart and down to earth, engaging and selfless, interesting, graceful and I wasn't fat, but those moments never came around for me. So whenever I saw a man I guess I always wanted to have that moment when he'd become so overwhelmed with missing me he'd leave a piece of his essence for me, and when that didn't happen, I gave fate a tug and instigated that happening.

5. Then find a place to inset a curiosity, staying in the character's consciousness either in the third or first person.
This lighter is an example of poetic licence, an example of someone parting with a gift, or perhaps me liberating it from its owner. I'd gone out to Lucas after work to meet with Abby-- we both needed some time to bitch about work and I was in the mood for a Framboise when I plopped down at a bar next to a gentlemen. He wore a ski cap. In April. Weird. Anyway, he looked at me, I flirted, or tried to flirt. Glanced, let my eyes trace his and then looked away at the bartender until he finally came over to me.
"TGIF," he said.
"I know," I replied.

    We traded names and asked safe questions about the other. What we did for a living, where we worked, what neighborhood we lived in. The usual. His named was Devin, he was a paramedic but studying to be a firefighter, and he liked to ski at Lake Tahoe during the winter, however it was too warm for that so late in the season. He lived in West Oakland because it was the only place outside of Mississippi where your neighbor still said good morning. I told him my name was Rashida Jones, with no relation to the Rashida Jones, I lived downtown because I had rent control, and that I was a personal banker at a branch of Wells Fargo. I told him about the dance classes a took-- a modern dance class here, jazz appreciation there, but that I always came back to West African even though I was still uncoordinated. All these years as a dancer and I still wasn't grace full like a swan. "It didn't matter," he said. You can tell you are a dancer, he added. And one Frambroise turned into three, a text from Abby came, saying she couldn't make it-- she and Oscar were negotiating their relationship standards and some of those didn't include coming out with me this Friday evening. Devin was alone, and so was I, but the music had become louder. The beat of the drums grew stronger and the music more aggressive and raw, with folks grinding on the red lit dance floor like they were dry humping. Dancing is my thing, but dancing like that? Not so much. I'd always wonder if I smelled funny or looked silly so I watched as did he, until I noted how loud it was.
    "It's too hard to hear you here," I said. "I wish we didn't have to scream!" the language of need. "We should go someplace quiet," I said. The language of desire. The desire to be alone to really read into each others thoughts. Fear flashed through my head for a second. What if he said no, or worse, laughed in my face? Or worse, what if those women, that stampeded of thick chicks glued to the couch next to us hoping for a man to ask them to dance whispered about me. Said I was a whore. A tramp for getting with a man like that. But all those fears went away when he replied:
    "I don't live too far from here," he said.
    And off we went. We ventured through the nippy Spring air that'd just turned downright cold that had me tightening my leather coat around me waist and him wrapping an arm around my shoulder. We stopped at lights with chirping birds and at a liquor store to grab a six pack (Sierra Nevada for the beer snob in him, Tsingsao for me) and then on to his place, his small, messy apartment accompanied by a broken guitar and tons of sheet music. He'd been training himself to be a guitarist but it wasn't working out as easily as he thought it would. His neighbor, a crazy cat lady pounded against his floor whenever he played. But it didn't matter. I stretched out on his bed, his unmade bed and leaned back. We talked. He rested his head on my sternum and talked about his hopes and dreams. His hopes to graduate from college and work at a bank, but he wound up going into the Reserve because he thought he wouldn't be deployed, only to get deployed to Kuwait. He'd hope to buy a house in Cabo but all he could settle for was this lighter from Chiapas of pure Mexican silver. A lighter that he loved more than his dog. It was more loyal. He'd hoped to be married by his age but he wasn't and he wondered if ever, he was going to find her. And I just listened, doing what I did best with men. With everyone, really. He asked me about what I hoped me future would look like.
    "Look like," I repeated.
    He lifted his head. "Yeah, looked like. What did you see for yourself when you were in high school. Was it this?"
    I dragged my hand across the center of his own chest and smiled gently, one of those pre morning sex smiles. "Does anyone really envision themselves at 14?"
    He shaked his head. "I've thought about it a lot, but I never feel comfortable discussing it. Not with my boys, and when it comes to women, y'all are different. I'm glad I met you," he said. His full lips broke out into a smile. "I'm really comfortable with you."
    I pulled my hair back and leaned over, trying to kiss him. Instead I got his cheek.   He shook his head. "No. Not tonight." He got up and took off his jacket. "You're a really nice girl," he said. His drawl slowed down, his speech slurring. "I've got to use the bathroom."
    "Is it me?" I asked.
    "No," he said. "I just don't think we're like that."
    I didn't have much time. I looked around the room for something valuable, anything valuable.   Sheet music and broken guitars are worthless. A dish would be nice but what's the sentimental value? I'm not sure but neither is he. While he was in the bathroom with the water running constantly the silver lighter came into focus. It's silver shined like a beam of light, felt to the touch smoother than butter. I picked it up, ran my finger along the side-- the tip smooth and edgy and cool all at once. I figured I'd put it back, I'd back away from it. I didn't think I'd put it in my purse, walk out the door and close it lightly. I didn't think I'd walk around with this lighter for years and feel excited over it. But that's exactly what I did. Exactly what I did.

6. Think about what you want to know about your character. Jot down a few questions.
A. Why did you steal the lighter. Do you consider yourself to be thief?
B. How did you feel when he told you he wasn't into you? Why was that so important?
C. Where's the lighter now? Would you give it back to him? How would you feel if you ran into him on the street?

7. Have them answer the questions. You've identified the mask and essence.
Here are her answers.
A. I stole the lighter because I was entitled to it. No, no no stole is the wrong word. I was entitled to it. We had a connection. He even said so, and I wanted to complete my own fantasy of someone liking me and leaving me a piece of themselves. If we'd stayed together he might've given it to me. I was just speeding up the process. How can I be a thief? I work in a bank and have counted millions of dollars and I've never taken a dime of it. That speaks more for integrity than a stupid Mexican lighter.
B. I didn't like when he told me that. I was very confused. If he wasn't into me, why did he invite me back to his space? Why did we cuddle like that? I thought he was using me as an emotional wet nap and he just wanted something once sided. It was important because it happen all the time, and I'm not sure why. Kim. Kim on the other hand doesn't have this problem. maybe if I portrayed myself as a damsel in distress he would've been more interested.
C. The lighter is still in my purse and hell no, I wouldn't give it back to him. If I saw him on the street, or in Lucas again, I'd be polite and cordial. I'd never mention the lighter, and I'm sure he wouldn't either.

The rest of assignment says I should incorporate this prop into the story, which I will. Rashida is interesting because she likes to portray herself as being nice and loving, which she is, but she also has this rage and aggression toward men because they don't seem to pick up on her cues that she's looking for a romantic partner. But she doesn't like that she feels awful about it so she acts out by exacting revenge, ie, stealing Devin's lighter when it becomes apparent he views her as "just a friend." This will be useful because she has to do something outrageous later in the story and this could provide an explanation for why she does what she does (which I won't reveal).

Okay, off to bed. Me and her will have a long talk about how the story will progress tomorrow. Good night!

Book review: Lucky Girls

2011-07-12T15:56:00.000+09:00

Ever wonder what happened to the people who loved study abroad so much they talked about it constantly? Or the other woman? Or bumped into someone who talked and talked and talked about their experiences where they went to school elsewhere? Then you've probably met the people that populate Nell Fruedenberger's short story collection, Lucky Girls, tales about the privileged and wealthy who explore foreign land in hopes of finding the perfect lay at times, their way back to their relatives, or even the love that'll complete them. Now do these female heroines always find what they're looking for in foreign lands? What do you think with a title like that?

This collection put Fruedenberger on the map as the next big literary genius. She traveled throughout Asia for several years, received her MFA from the Iowa workshop, went on to work at The New Yorker and have her story discovered and printed in the prestigious magazine. She's the very definition of a lucky girl and the heroines of her story might not be that different from herself- worldly, spirited and bratty, not always concerned with the truth or how their actions effect others. In the title piece a young woman runs off to India to become the mistress of a native. When he dies suddenly, she's appalled that she wasn't invited to the funeral. In another story a young woman calls her mother tearfully about a rape, only for the mother to discover in traveling out there that the rapist has been upgraded to boyfriend, along with examining how spoiled her own children are. And there are other stories like this-- stories of women trying on the identity of traveler to see if it fits their taste. The difference between a traveler and a tourist are well defined. Whereas a tourist knows where they're visiting, and what's home, a traveler is almost negotiating, always trying on different roles to figure where is home and where they are just visiting. Sure traveling is nice because you learn about the dust of one country and how to say hello in Thai or Hindi, but do you really want to forgo the luxuries of being raised in a first world country, namely, hot water and cars and wearing tank tops whenever you want to and not worrying about defiling your body in the process? Some of Fruedenbergers protagonists grapple with these thoughts whereas some just want to get back to the good ol' US of A.

Critics have lampooned the collection as being simplistic and the protagonists as condescending brats. This collection is just a compilation of rich pretty white girls abroad, and that it is. But my complaint is much deeper than that. I for one don't mind condescending, kitschy or trite as long as its executed well, but sadly, for all the hype this collection got I can't see what's so special beyond the premise and the plots of these stories. I liked the idea of each of the stories but these girls seem lucky. Too lucky perhaps. They are so lucky that they get everything that they want and everything they set out to. Consider a story with double narrators-- an Indian tutor and his American pupil. Th pupil wants the tutor to write her college essay and the tutor wants to sleep with the girl. Something interesting could've transpired if both weren't interested in the same thing. What would've happened if the girl simply wanted her essay written and not to sleep with the tutor? What if the tutor wanted sex but was too prudent about cheating to write the essay for her? Do you get the picture? If one was willing to withhold on the other then that would've created tension in a story just to see who would've caved in. In a plot like that anything could've happened because it was all up in the air, but what Fruedenberger gives us is an easy out. (No, I won't ruin the ending of the story but you may have guessed it).

The problem is that these narrators do what they want without little regard for social decency or concern for anyone's feelings, and no one is there to stop them. They don't have enough obstacles stuck in their way to where their feelings seem true or validated, and that's the major failure in the whole collection. Because if they can't care enough about their own adventures then why should the readers? I wish Fruedenberger could've experimented more in these areas and these stories would've taken off to being about something for a change besides travelogues. Is it potboiler fiction? No, I get the impression it wants to be more ambitious than that. But is it literary? No by a long shot, I'm afraid to say.

Friday free write: Ambition

2011-07-09T15:39:00.001+09:00

i used to have ideas that couild raise the heavens. great ideas that could shoot through the sky like woody and buzz in all those tyo story movies. ideas for movies and short stories that showed the human tragedy and struggle, that should the showed the comedy and finesse of human like along with those great metaphoes and lush describtions and yet when i entered into my final year of college all of my mojo was gone. like bang! zip! zap through the air and now i'm left with these half baked ides that i can't seem to understnad.d why couldn 't i hae just been an inventors? couldn't a story be pattened? well, it'd be great if it could, but better since it's not becuse there'd only be like seven or eight stories in the world. stories all written by flannery o connor before i was born. stories that i'd never be blae ot write because who wants to handle a pattent? i don't know and i have no clue. those stories that would've taken off are stuck somewhere in between a rock an d a hard place, crushed beneath all of thse dire consewucnes that are also called reality. bills and grocery shopping, in clothes buying and burning with a dollop of jealuosy whenever someoen can afford to eat out and i an't. or when someone has a boyfriend and i don't. it burns inside of me not intenseling like a UTi, but slowly like a charcoal that burns in the embars ofd my heart because it just showd that other people are going on from they are, that they;re moving on and i'm just stuck in this weid weasteand and i'm tihnking when will it be my time to shine beause it doesn't feel as thought it's going to come along? what was i talking about? oh, i know. ambition. the desires to be something bigger than myself is slipiing awa, and materials possessions aren't coming my way so what should i do? my god. this decision this thought process would be so much easier if something else could make the decision for me, like achild or a marriage or a down payment on a house and a condo and a car and a career and a lifestyle that in general i can't afford. but there's nothing that's really in my way now. i live out of two suitcases and on a couch. the lightness of being slithers its away into my psyche whenever i enjoy a beer and then i wonder if there's anything better than that? if i'm not rushing why am i waiting? if i'm so strong on not seeking other peoples approval than why am i too weak to just flip up my unmanicured finger and shout out fuck you! screw the family system, to hell with the establishment,m like so many of my radical friends have done in college and since they graduated and i know the answer already, it's because i'll be seens as a fraud. a fruad in what way? a fraud in denouncing a community when all people need community to begin with. there's still the desire to be something greater than what i currently am, which is a good cook and a good daughter when i try to be in the best kind. but with that greatness comes anxiety which comes creeping in. I have to promise myself that nothing bad is going to happen to me, and i'm ttaking a risk on myself because i might not make it. what if i never write a short story that's publishable? am i really just as much of a lack of succsees as my junior high clasmates predicted i'd be, even though i haven't moved on in the material way? why can i find the way to my ambition to being with anymore? it's robbed from me, and i'm haunted by the breakup. i wish for a way to communicate this to someone, to anyone and yeti t's like god. if i talk about it will disappear. it's like belief in a way.

Exceprt: No Drama

2011-07-08T15:19:00.001+09:00

"I want a divorce," Kim said. She'd sat on the floor and took a bite of her pizza, chewing ungracefully as a bit of tomato sauce clung to the side of her mouth. Criticism was never needed for her appearance and she wiped the marinara away with a napkin like it never happened. She waved her hand. "I don't have any other choice. Do you think I could let him get away with that?" She puffed her lip out. "I don't want to be with him anymore."
    Kim seemed so calm, speaking about it like it was nothing. I couldn't share in her inner zen because I wasn't there. I was tired and a little cranky from crying about my own troubles. I'd been asleep, wrapped up in my cozy blanket and my rotund cat Astor when my buzzed had gone off with Kim's then desperate voice at the end. She had to come to my apartment because Allen didn't know where I lived. So I did the sistergirl thing-- I ordered some pizzas, broke out the six pack and put on a Keisha Cole album.   The place was quiet, except for the crosswalk, the music and Kim's voice, which was the calmest sound ever. I should've worried about my own diet, eating so late but this seemed like an occasion to put that aside. In between bites Kim recounted what brought her to my place in the dead of night. Allen had been acting strangely, all the cliched signs- late nights, said he was at the gym, working late. A woman named Guy called her at home, saying Kim's husband was in fact her boyfriend and he was planning to leave their house. When Kim asked her husband he denied, refused to talk about Guy, saying she was nothing. So Kim left her house, stuffy and full of secrets to come to my clean honest one. She came to me to be her rock, to be her support but it didn't sound like she needed me in the moment. She knew what she was going to do. She was going to get a divorce.
    "No one could disrespect me like that," she went on.
    I had my own questions about the whole arrangement, but I didn't want to interrupt. Besides, I had my own troubles. My own ex boyfriend had left me months ago, and this was the first time I was able to get some sleep. He had been calling me to get together-- as friends-- and I wasn't sure if I wanted to see him. I wanted to tell her about all this, to see if it was a good idea. But Kim's troubles seemed heavier than my own, even though my own weighed heavy on my mind. It was always like that. Kim's joys were expanded while mine shriveled up. When she got married we had a week that was all hers, but when I got a promotion she forgot to mention a mere congratulations. She talked and talked, I listened and Astor curled up on the window sill, looking at all the traffic lights, perhaps wondering where the birds were that he was hearing. Finally, Kim yawned. "Can I stay here for a few days?" she asked.
    "You know you didn't have to ask that," I said.
    And finally I went to sleep. For the first time in our friendship I wasn't jealous of Kim. I didn't want her problems.

Wednesdays on the wire: 6 July

2011-07-07T14:59:00.000+09:00

Scared of clowns? My apologies.

This is long overdue, but I wanted to post something tonight about my last day at work.

1. I took my younger brother with me to my last day of work and thankfully he was very well behaved. My coworkers weren't sure why I said that he was so awful and I admitted that I threatened him on the way there.

2. The kindergardners were sweet and weepy, the 1st graders were buck wild, the 2nd graders picked fights all the time and 3rd I worked with very little. 4th was defiant and 5th grade was weepy as well, as perhaps they knew of the hell of middle school that they'd have to endure.

3. Speaking of the second graders they were quite a surprise. Miguel, who I've affectionately dubbed a thug jr. sags his pants rolls his eyes at everyone and is quite the mathematical genius. He beat the pants off me anytime we played set, and he's the only kid I've encountered who was able to do that.

4. Jason plays rough. He's a second grader who always manages to cut himself, rip his jeans or scrape his elbow and last day he set his targets on me, tickling me until I dropped my cupcakes, to which it was on. I was going to get my revenge. I tickled him and one of my little mini mes, Isura got in on the action and he bit her. She was okay, and despite me telling them to stay away from each other, they were under each other the minute I turned around. I think a crush is born.

5. Even though I did a lot of complaining about this job, I do realize that these kids represent the circle of life. They'll go on to their next grade, to middle school, to high school, and honestly, I'm feeling pretty confident about their futures. Some of them will go on to do great things and they'll always be close to me. No matter what.

Music of the Mind

2011-07-06T15:30:00.000+09:00

My second job out of college was at a branch of ACE Hardware where I was the Accounts Receivable and assistant to the president. That's all jargon for posting to accounts and getting coffee for the boss (as well as popping popcorn just right). I told myself that with its low pay and lower expectations that I'd stay at the job for a few months. It was going to be a stopgap until I found a really good paying job. I stayed there for almost a year and a half. Yes, it was a piece of crap job and for the most part I don't remember liking it but I miss it sometimes. I miss having a job with regular hours with a guaranteed wage, that was lazy work with very few demands. And sometimes I miss my boss too. He was in love with me, and sadly I couldn't return the favor which was another reason why I quit working there too.

I'm thinking of all this now, perhaps because I'd want my old job back but I know I'd never get it, or because I miss that stage of my life, or simply because I'm an unemployed bum again. I'm thinking of all this now because I have too much time on my hands, to think of supposed mistakes I'd made. Would I had become some great forerunner of the company had I stayed? No way, not at all. It was a family business. Outside of college that was the only time when I felt like, "routine" or "stable" or "predictable" could describe my life. And I don't know about others, but I like those adjectives when describing my life sometimes. Life is like the four distinct seasons and there's a nice clockwork when your schedule can fit into a pattern. It was nice knowing I had something to do from 8 to 5 and then I could schedule around that.

Yes, summer is hot and it's nothing like the humid sun of Costa Rica, but I still wake up in cold sweats. And sometimes I still feel exhausted, like my heart is on the verge of going to sleep for good. And yes, a schedule would be nice but I don't have one now. Sometimes I miss living in the old house because at least there was something going on. Who needs cable TV when you've got front row seats to the drama. Now I'm relaxed, maybe too relaxed. And it's too quiet. Too damned quiet.

I'm thinking of all of this because I got an offer to work in S. Korea. I should be excited but I'm not. Instead this laziness and fatigue clouds my judgement. Perhaps this is all a preemptive shutting down before the big event. I know I felt like this before I left for college, before going overseas, before moving out of my college house- well, anytime before a life change. I try to tell myself that this is a way to psych myself out, or my body's way of talking myself out of it. Or maybe I'm just scared of change. In its unpredictability, this has become the schedule and the norm. I should move on, but I'm afraid of it because it's a break in a routine. Granted, a routine that needs to be broken but a routine nonetheless.

Over the past several months I've changed the look of my blog to reflect my writing more than anything else. Because I wanted a space to discuss my writing but I also don't want to be just another blog out in cyberspace where it's all a shameless display of me me me! and oh, what a disaster I am (that's what my private journal is for). But I wanted a chance to at least talk about what's been going on in my head because it's starting to dominate everything. I just shipped off the paperwork to get the visa, so I won't know the exact date for when I'm leaving, but I'm sure the closer I'll get to the date the more nervous I'll be. And who know? Maybe my lethargy and ailing heart will result in a bundle of nerves and a shot of anxiety induced adrenaline. But that's what's in my head for the moment.

What's in yours?

Book review: Basketball Jones

2011-07-05T07:10:00.000+09:00

They met through tutoring at college and from the first session, it was love at first sight. Lucky for them. Unlucky for them, AJ and Drayton, they are both black men who love each other and Drayton is going off to the NBA. So Dray, keeps AJ in the background and their romance is never revealed. Yes, they love each other dearly, and yes Dray takes great care of AJ, dressing him in the best clothes and giving him the finer things of life, however because they're both guys they can't have their love in public. Thus, Dray plays the 'kept woman' role in Basketball Jones, the last novel published by E. Lynn Harris before he died.

Dray and AJ become college sweethearts and all is good, until Dray marries Judy Ledbetter, a white gold digger, and now the happy couple has to sneak and hide on the DL from one extra person. But she doesn't know anything...or does she? Life gets dicey once she becomes pregnant, AJ gets a trainer and a mysterious blackmailer creeps up in nasty phone calls and video cameras. The scandal is spot on, along with a Greek chorus of characters: Jade, a cocktail waitress who moonlights as a psychic and Maurice AJ's best and only friend. The plot keeps you guessing, as it's always entertaining to figure out the small questions. What's this big party AJ is planning? What's the relationship like that Dray has with his father? Who in the world is blackmailing AJ?

Basketball Jones is a fun, exciting read that's perfect for the beach or that sick day off work. The language is colorful and it's easy to read. However it, dodges some big questions. AJ and Dray don't feel like they are part of the 'gay community.' They reject the notion of the gay lifestyle and I wish there was more commentary about this. However that would've changed it from a fun novel to a serious one which wasn't Harris's style. Baldwin he wasn't but at least he brought the dialogue of what it means to be a gay black male to the commercial market. So kudos to him for that.

I realize that I haven't been updating this blog as much I should and I apologize for that. Not much has went on. I've been very lazy but that's been because I've been experiencing a preemptive shutting down before a serious life change. I'll talk more about that tomorrow. Later!

Tuesday exercises: Write from another point of view

2011-06-29T07:24:00.001+09:00

When I was younger, I used to think of marriage like Christmas. Marriage was the Easter Bunny. Marriage was smiling brides with teeth so white they glittered, marriage was a white dress and a black tux and girls fighting over the boquet. Marriage wasn't something people we knew did. Sure, parents were married, wives with rings on their fingers, a base suspended from their delicate fingers but we neve went to a wedding. We never witness our parents getting married. Our folks back in the East Bay never married.
    I never knew the reason for the rehersal dinner. What exactly were we practicing? I didn't know. I just knew it was an excuse to get together and party for another good time. Weddings seems to be like that. One more good time. Good time for fortune, good time for the future. Maybe this is the mardi gras of fun that Nate and Vo were going to get. I dressed impeccably, or as impeccably as I could. Island shirt, pants that were frayed at the end from walking on the beach. I thought America was going to sit next to me but she didn't. She sat across from me and smiled, not quite showing her teeth. She and Vo were caught up in conversation, over details. Details, details, women are good with that. I tried to get in the middle of it. Didn't want to seem attentive. I'm not the type of guy who sleeps with a girl and then acts like she's vanished. But they didn't need me.
    "Nate, how'd y'all meet?" I asked him. I knew very little about Vo and how he met her. I wanted to know how this kind of woman got my brother's heart.
    He buttered his pumpernickel roll, casually like we were at Shoney's. "On my break."   Tired of customers disrepecting him, who sneered at him like he was merely a waiter and not recognizing the college educated business man that he was, he went over to Tower, the posh breakfast and brunch place across town for lunch. He decided to ditch his usually great eating habits, and ordered an apple and ricotte filled crepe, and while he losened his tie and relaxed in his seat he saw a vision of gold. Her beaming blond hair, her butterscotch skin and the crescendo of her breasts when she bent over to serve entrees all called to him. She was a vision of delight, an angel on Earth and he asked the manager for her to wait on him.
    "He was looking at my boobs," she said, sighing.
    Nate, shook his head no. "I'm an ass man," he said, laughing.
    She leaned her head towards his and his towards her. They looked like they were bowing. Vo wrapped her hand around his and she grinned with her eyes. I tried to look at America to acheive the same grace, but she held me in her eye and laughed. Not menacing or cruel, but like she had other things to worry about. Other things like another drink, or another bacon wrapped shrimp. I tried to smile at another woman, but she didn't see me.
    I excused myself to make a phone call. I called Melissa.
    "Buenos?"
    "Hi," I said.
    "Hey," she said. "How's the wedding?"
    I looked down the hall. "Boring as hell. How's it down there?"
    "Cold," she said. "It's raining a lot. I had to run at 6 just to beat the rain."
    I leaned against the stall. "Do you think of me sometimes? Have you thought of me since I've been gone?" I swore I heard a voice in the background.
    She exhaled, loudly. "You've been drinking haven't you?"
    "Not very much."
    "I hate it when you drink." She did. If we'd had more than three drinks she wouldn't invite me back to her apartment. "It's too late for this. I'll call you later."
    "Can we talk tomorrow before the wedding?"
    "I'll call you later."

Monday recipes: Mango Coconut bread pudding

2011-06-28T13:38:00.000+09:00

I haven;t been reading as much (shame on me) but I want to get back to writing on here on a regular basis, and since I haven't been writing on here, I thought a recipe would do.

Bread pudding was one of those desserts back in the day that I used to associate with being "poor" until I tried this recipe. I don't know how non vegan bread pudding tastes, but this is pretty sweet (in every definition of the word).

Ingredients
10 slices of store bought bread (stale preferred)
2 cans of coconut milk
1 package of frozen mangoes (or 2 mangoes if you're ambitious enough to cut them)
1/2 cup of brown sugar
1/4 cup of silken tofu
1/4 cup shaved coconut
pinch of cinnamon
1 tablespoon vanilla extract

1. Cut bread into cubes and place in lightly sprayed pan. Set aside.
2. Take 1 can of coconut milk and the bag of mangoes, vanilla extract and cinnamon and tofu. Blend until creamy and smooth.
3. Pour mixture over bread, using a spoon for make sure if gets on all the cubes. Then, pour on the additional coconut milk. Bake for 40 minutes at 350 degrees.
4. Sprinkle shaved coconut over pudding and then put back in the oven for 10 minutes. It will be extremely hot, so give it ten minutes before serving. Perfect for any season!

Free writes: jujitsu

2011-06-25T15:31:00.000+09:00

Eugene Onegin lover

jujitsu. it's a word that's fun to say, like babganush or eggplant or supper but i never truly knew what it meant until just a few hours ago when i looked it up on the dictionary website and it means to do something little effort or resistance. wow. that's smooth. smooth like steve mcqueen, smooth like boris kojoe maybe? smooth like a gyu who's been rated as one of the sexiest man alive but he still like eugenue onegin. now that's smooth. gee, that does sound like boris kodjo, who even though he's not quite my cup of tea, i can see why so many ladies and some dudes like him, although i like that he loved eugene onegin.

how did i begin to talk about this? i dont know i was talking about jujitsu, jujitsu in other people's lives, and then i started talking about him because, man, is he smooth. smooth like bruce lee. even though i don't dig kung fu films he was an all right guy, i guess. but i digreess. gee, i am the wueen of digressions. that's probably why i am not a master of jujitsu. im the master of evading and avoiding, or dogding the big questions and giving out chirpy, polite little answers like, everything is okay. or , i felt like i should try something new. or, maybe you didn't knotice me and you didn't fall in love with me at first site because things were different at that time, and it was just hi and by. by and bye. bye and bi. but anyway, i can provide cute little answers like that. i was talking to someone the other day and he asked me why am i so intent on leaving again, and i gave him an answer like that. not, i am scared. not, i don't know why i'm leaving. not, i just want to feel welcome again, but an answer like that. perhaps i understand jujitsu in the art of making others comfortable and disguising my own discomfort, because that's all for me, right?

jujitsu i imagine is like a karate chop, or a smooth effortless block, like when you taste a soup and all the flavors blend perfectly together, or when you take that first sip of tico coffee that isn't stale, that isn't nasty or bitter, but goes over the toungue and glides down the throat with ease. i felt that way when i was traveling once. being static for so long is like trying to strcth a muscle that's atrophied because it hasn't been stretched for a while. exercising is like that. writing is like thaat too. the muse has been quite stingy with me lately and i've been trying to diagnose why it's gone on that way. i like the whole premise of traveling of preparing to do something as opposed to the actual execution. i love thinking about stories but i dread writing them. i love thingking about the sweat tastic euphoria of exercise, but do i like it in the moment>? not really. sweat gets in your eyes. i like thinking about the meals i'm going to make but i absolutely hate hate hate prep. i think i like myself the most when i'm traveling. i feel like i have purpose when i'm on my way to someplace. the journey intriwues me more than the destination, but then it leaves me with an interesting riddle. how do i know when i've fully arrived? i guess i never feel like i've fully arrived in any part of my life. things are constantly changing, i'm always discovering, always feeling a little imbalance, scrathy and not smooth, not at all.

Thursday excerpts: Am I my hair

2011-06-24T14:29:00.000+09:00


My locs, about a week old.

Note to readers: These past few weeks have been filled with transition and little chance for me to catch up on this blog, so tonight I'm doing something a little different. The Muse has been stingy and I'm hoping she'll be a little nicer to me since I have more time off. But here goes.

It's a mop. No, really. Gone were the times when hair coiled away from your head or laid flat on it to help you, now with modern times hair is nothing more than a mop on your head. No one would die if they simply went bald, but since it's original meaning has been stripped away, new meanings are replaced. Hair is now a style, a reflection of a lifestyle choice. Hair is one of the first things a man notices about a woman. Women spend lots of money and time on their hair. Hell, hair is the first thing I notice about someone.

I'm writing about this because I always thought about my hair as just a mop. I wasn't blessed with "good hair," the curly hair that's easy to run fingers through but I didn't think too much about it. I didn't have most of the things beautiful women are supposed to have: the right skin, the right height, the right body. So what is it for hair to lose? But once those red blood dropped in the toilet like paint, that began to change. I wanted to be the girl that boys wrote love letters to, the girl boys stood in line to dance with, but I wasn't that girl. I longed to be that girl. I won't have the right skin, height or body but I could change my hair. I could get a perm and straighten my hair. I could grow my hair out and make it long, and have it be mine. Black men love long hair. It's an anamoly like a black swan. The white swan of hair.

Growing out hair is a lifelong process. I hid my hair for six years in protective styles, in braids like Brandy. Braids were fun because they always looked cute, and they're easy to style. No flat ironing, no washing and deep conditioning, just put it in a bun and go. I'd look at my hair and think, when it gets long I'll be prettier, smarter, easier to spot. I don't know. My hair was still the same texture, still thick, still got caught in my fingers when I tried to run my fingers through it. It still didn't lay flat on a pillow, still didn't look cute whenever I wore it out. Did it resemble Kelis as I hoped it would sophomore year? No. A junior said I looked like buckwheat during biology.

Junior year of college I finally felt like it was ready to reveal my hair, the late great me, and my hair. It was long but it still wasn't silky. No problem. A perm would fix that. I thought my hair would make me noticeable, make me more beautiful but I had to wash it, dry it, flat iron and fry it. I went to a pool hall once with my group of friends and a guy approached me. This, he said, touching the ends of my hair, is nice. Are you Indian, he asked. Or course not. Were you looking at my face? I asked, and he blushed, the harsh light hitting his cheeks.

At about 6 months

I kept with the perm because it felt natural, or arificial, although I never liked it. I didn't want to go natural though because of what it represents. It's feminism, it's anti racisim, it's classicism and afrocentric. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but I didn't want to be that girl. The girl who wears her politics on her sleeve. But I always wanted locks. I wanted locks but I didn't want the implications involved with the locks. I wanted locks for ten years but I was afraid I'd change my mind three months into it and have to chop all my hair off. I wanted locks but wasn't sure if I was ready for it.

I decided I was ready to get them when I was ready to leave Oakland. I'd researched it and prepared for execution. I visited one loctician who turned me, and finally found one who was willing to do my hair. Were you sure, she asked. If I'd wanted them for 10 years I'll always want them, I said. Even before I got my hair locked, she asked me one more time, are you sure? It felt like jumping off a cliff. Or getting an abortion. But it was a decision I am happy with.

At first I thought my life would change after having locs. But it hasn't. No one's talked about my hair constantly, I don't get weird stares or looks, and I don't have to comb my hair. Ever again. Having locs is still a growing process. It's different from having loose hair. If I have a bad hair day it's still a bad hair day, and there's no amount of mousse or gel that's going to cover it up. There are plenty of blogs on websphere that women dedicate to their locs, and although I don't think I'll ever be that type of blogger, I can see why they do that. Having locs was the first time I fell in love with my hair, a feeling I've never possessed about my hair.

But I'm happy I have gotten it done. I wish I'd gotten it done sooner. If anything, my hair says I like what I like and I'm confident enough to wear it like this. This is the first time I've thought so little about my hair, and yet, I like it a whole lot.

Happy birthday to my hair!

Tuesday exercises

2011-06-15T05:29:00.000+09:00

Write a one sentence description for 10 people.

1. Tall, blond, gorgeous and witty, she always needed the attention of a man, and unfortunately, always found it.

2. She's a care, artistic, loving wife with an infatuation with Plath.

3. He's an Ivy Leaguer, but you'd never know it.

4. Mandy had the life she never wanted, but she did it for love.

5. Josh always choose things he didn't want, then gets upset about it.

6. Percival should've been my soulmate.

7. My last boyfriend was young, perhaps too young.

8. He can't stop looking at all the girls in their summer dresses.

9. A question always rests on her lips.

10. He's the picture of mediocrity.

Recipe: Pink Lady

2011-06-14T14:54:00.000+09:00

Last Saturday I was hungry but too lazy to chew, so I made a smoothie to get some fruits in for the day. This is a lovely pink color and simple to make. So make a batch the next party, mixer or whatever. Your guests will thank you for it.

Ingredients:

1 cup strawberries
1 banana, chopped
1/4 cup raspberries
2 cups soy milk
5 ice cubes

Stick all the ingredients in the blender and blend until smooth, about 1 minute. Pour into two glasses and enjoy! Servings for 2.

Free writes: Fight

2011-06-11T14:32:00.000+09:00

fight is a word i often associate with being in the seventh grade when it was a most exciting thing to see or hear a fight go down. the rumors the excitiment building in the last math class, the time wehn people staerted putting bets and when people started throwing out threats to the rest of the seventh grade like it was christmas treats all for our greedy gossip mongering stockings they'll be two hits me hittng you and you hitting the ground. i'm gong to f you up like grass. the hisses and the instigating- oh, fight! and then there were the bets on who was goign to win boys it was always easy because one was bigger but girls were fun because they had their own secrest weapons. nikes and vaseline, razors under their tougue amd om theor jair. min those high french rolls, rings that doubled as punches and other stuff, and of course the girls rfighting technicwue can always be called into play. was chante a scratcher or puncher? was he going to brite? biters were the worst because it brought you back to preschool when there was that one person who the playground who messed up the roughhousing for all, all because they had to do sometihng really weird like bite someone. how lame. anyway, there are others forms of fighting which are still fun, like capoiera, which i've always wanted to try and kickboxingm which i've also wanted to try. and then therre are the fun forms of fihting that aren't supposed to be fun but no one ever admits to it-- the arguing with lovers over facets that you know will never change, but you argue or fight just to hear the whine of your voice confused for power, or the shrill of their confused for love, all because you want him to wash his sheets or wash his dishes or pay attention to you more. instead of saying, i need some attention, you'll whine, can't you just hold me for one minute? baby baby oh baby why not? that type of fighting is. or then there is the fighting that's still fun but no one ever admits to, like some domestic violence. she punches him and he punches back, only to hit her hard enough to have her on her ass and crying, covering her eye with her hand first and later with makeup. there's the fighting that seems serious but is not. you cheated on me so let's talk about that, but if the cheating was serious enough wouldn't you just leave and not fight? and what's up with rhianna's video? why is chris brown following her twitter. off the subject of fighting. fighting is fun as long as no one gets hurt. as long as no one gets hurt beyond what they signed up for. but then there is the fighting of words, the fighting of always hearing no, the fighting that coems along when you long to be right but not to be alone, the fighting that comes from your rights that sometimes do bite and why o why o why am i in a mood to rhyme right now? i don't know. don't show what you dont know! when are you going to learn when fighting isn't the answer? i gues the only answer to that questions is when fighting is no longer fun, the fight of the relationship or pressure then we stop to mature those impulses. so lame.

Excerpts: Wedding for the Youth

2011-06-10T13:54:00.000+09:00

The girl next to Bryce would've been the perfect date. She'd switched seats to sit near him, separating from her travel companions. The original plan was to drift off to sleep, but the enthusiasm in her voice lured him from it. She was a recent college graduate, and during her finals she'd sat Indian style with her friends and pow-wowed, coming to consensus that although they were unsure of their lives they wanted to taste it. Inspired by the Mary Jane induced epiphany, she booked a ticket to arrive in Managua, depart in Mexico City and gave herself six weeks to reach the destination. She was rapt with conversation, fluttering her hands like butterfly wings as she continued to share her adventures. Adventures of marveling at ancient ruins, holding her breath scuba diving to see silver fish swishing through the wads of the bluest blue, drinking coffee and eating chocolate purer than the rain forest. "I never knew the Americas could be so lovely," she said, sighing, a smile beaming across her lovely face.
    Bryce returned the smile, but for different reasons. The easiest attention a man could give a woman was to listen to her. She'd be so busy sharing her world she'd never know he'd still remained in his.
    "Are you vacationing too," the girl finally asked.
    Bryce shook his head.
    "Of course not," she replied. "I would've noticed you. I mean, I would've noticed the accent."
    "I took a connecting flight from San Jose."
    Her mouth formed into a huge O. "You were vacationing in San Jose?"
    "No, I live there," Bryce replied. The truest fact about himself. After graduating from college he'd decided to take a year off from serious work by taking a silly job abroad, to make up for not going his junior year. He wanted to improve his Spanish. That's what he'd told his parents, along with reassuring them that it wasn't permanent. He just needed to get the wanderlust out of his system. Now he lived elsewhere, away from them. That's why he had to board a plane and traveled 15 hours, because he never got rid of his curiosity. "I'm going to a wedding, actually," he added. He uncertain if he told her that for her sake or his.
    That he was, a wedding of his brother, whose history he'd embodied and witnessed/ He hadn't even known about it until a few weeks ago, all because his mail was sent to his neighbor Yanseline's PO Box. She was a beautiful Argentine with the most perfect Spanish architecture on her face, but she'd had the worst of all fates. She'd fallen in love with a Tico, gotten married and was now stuck and homesick. When he finally really those tiny pieces of paper he tossed it on the stacks of blueprints. It was work, like most of his life.
    "Wow, I love weddings," the girl replied. She rubbed her knee where a red bump expanded. From Central with love. "I can't wait to get married. It 'd feel like I was finally going somewhere in my life. Tengo el novio?" she asked, brimming with confidence.
    "You're a lesbian?" he asked.
    "Oh, no," she replied. She fanned her hand in a downward motion as if pushing back a horrible disease. "I was trying to ask if you had a girlfriend."
    "Does it matter?" he asked, slightly joking. There was someone, a receptionist of a client, but it was like his favorite song at the Jazz Cafe. Nothing serious. It was easier to get a Tica than it was to cross the street in San Jose. Opportunities surrounded him because he was tall gringo with a briefcase in hand for work. A gringo unusual to them, because he resembled the men from Limon, the fishermen on the Carribean coast. He walked most places-- to the gym, to the grocery story, to the clients' offices if they weren't too far, and he'd always find Ticas, pretty girls strutting in pumps and mini skirts, who'd lean their heads toward his, with a permanent smile in their sparkling chocolate eyes. However, flirting was in their DNA, and it was nothing serious.
    Except Melissa. It was different. She didn't flirt, play in her hair or pull her skirt above the knee like the others. She'd grabbed him by the elbow, asking him for English lessons. Later that night they ended up in bed, where she dropped the act, post seduction and confessed she was fluent. She'd met her soon to be ex husband in Montana. But she didn't want a man. She was still sorting the divorce out. She'd married a Mexican. She should've known it was going to work out, she'd often say.   Bryce spoke very little about his past to her. He didn't know the right words for her problem.
    Certainly he knew the right words for the passenger.   She was more transparent than the untarnished sea, easy to see through. Say you love me. Tell me I'm pretty. She was looking for stuff like that. "I guess not. What do you do?"
    "I own a business," he said. He left it at that. Being a business owned carried its own problems with women.
          She volunteered what she wanted to do. "I want to be successful but I don't like to work. It's so expected, you know? Go to school, get a job, drive in a 2 hour grid lock all for a patch of grass. So full of expectations, and I hate expectations." While in Nicaraugua she'd visited the indigenous tribes, at made a home from the ground and a blanket with bannana leaves. "I liked the way they lived. No running water, no electricity, dirt roads, pet monkeys. So simplistic, so natural. The way people were supposed to live." She shrugged. "I want to go back and help their communities. They need their rights. That'd be my way of paying it forward."

    Bryce leaned into her. "I think if you just got an office job back in the states that'd help them the most."

I need some help with this story, and this is just the beginning. Any suggestions?

Wednesdays on the wire: June 2

2011-06-09T15:13:00.000+09:00

Find the sets?

Here's what people are saying around me:

1. I've always heard that Koreans eat dogs, but one of the students at my ESL school confirmed this. Dog is a delicacy in Korea, but only a certain type-- the large chows. Those are the only dogs worthy of eating. However, my mom's boyfriend owns a chow and every time he hollers I think his fate would be far far worse in Korea. He'd be on someone plate instead of yelling every time a firetruck comes by.

2. I'm still getting used to this laptop. I discovered the use of torrents, which is useful considering that I lost all of my files in Costa Rica. (Wasn't my fault. A thief stole my external drive after I had replaced my old hard drive). But this still feels too new, too light, too beautiful to be mine. I want the old rinky dink laptop back.

3. Speaking of which, my mother offered to find a place that takes old laptops, and I refused to part with it. It's like the comparison of having a hot sexy chick vs. the old frumpy wife. I was married to that laptop for 5 years. She's not easily forgotten.

4. Last week I purchased some rather expensive card games for my other primetime job, called Set. At first the club was excited, but they started to cry after they figured out how difficult it really was. So while I let them play other games, one student, who's a little thug in training came by and he figured out all the sets. I'm amazed at how good he is in math. If only I could get him to develop that trait so he doesn't become a thug for real...

Tuesday exercises: Write about a dream

2011-06-08T13:24:00.000+09:00

Or a nightmare

Weddings were always the stuff of fairy tales, next to Cinderella and Rupenzel, or Snow White and the seven dwarfs. But no one wanted to remain a dwarf, or a stepchild locked in the basement. The goal was to graduate and move on, to become something bigger than that. The goal was to be waited on hand in foot. The goal was to survive the humdrum oppression of childhood to go from being an extra hand in the house to being a bride! A blushing bride, draped in white with the awe and admiration of a crowd for her big day. Never mind that after being brides for one day, we'd become wives and become doomed to repeat those own patterns ourselves or bestow the same faith onto to our kids. But that's a digression.

Girls in class always talked of marriage with a prediction, with the casual ease of a psychic. Surely their future husbands wouldn't be in the seventh grade class, on the yards or in the gym in those dorky shorts, but they knew they would get married. They didn't know the guy, but they did know they'd get married, so it was natural--- no, imperative, that they plan out their weddings! These weddings, that the girls discussed, over turkey sandwiches and through notes would be a big event: a long march down a carpet filled with rose peddles, a soft song serenading them to their final destination in adulthood while they glided down the carpet in expensive cream colored gowns, looking as delectable as pastries as they floated down the aisle while guests gasped at their beauty. They saw flowers and parties, and the songs the DJ would play, what flavor the cake would be, all right down to their shoes. They were emerging on the thin line of young adulthood and childhood. They were stepping into their beauty but somewhat awkward. Boys would look at these girls down that hall, embarrassment when they faced them but with desire when these girls turned their backs. These girls looked good and they knew that.

On the other hand, I was the girl who became awkward and stayed there, who was stuck between a thin line of youth pushing me out the door with my nails dragging the floor. I did not want to be there. In those classrooms, at those lunch tables, with those girls discussing all those visions of getting married that they were so confident about. I did not want to be a mother. Or a wife for that matter. I definitely never wanted to be a bride.

But I thought about it sometimes. Not in the way of those Bridal magazines where a woman is smiling so hard her teeth are about to crack, like she just won the lottery when all she was going to do is double the amount of laundry in her wash, but in a way of being different. Mine would be different. Instead of the glow of the morning sun greeting me I'd have it at night, with candles about and I'd party the night away on the beach. I wouldn't wear shoes or a cream. Perhaps an ivory. My dress would be tight but stretchy, something I could run barefoot in (because I wasn't wearing shoes) and my husband, whoever he was, would have his shirt pulled out, not tucked in. His hair would be messy and sand was on his eyebrows. What had he just been doing? Didn't matter. Niether was anything going to matter after jumping the broom. But during the handwritten vows something would happen.

The justice of the peace (who was my friend) would ask if anyone objected to the union of these two people, and no one would shout. But a girl would stand up, prettier than I and join hands with the groom on the opposite side. Then another. And another. Eventually there would be six or seven girls on the side of the groom.

You said I was your everything, one would say.

That was a long time ago, he would say.

You said it to me too, another one would join in. Didn't it mean anything.

It was a long time ago, he'd reiterate. I'm here with my wife.

He'll change his mind, another would say. He'll change his mind very quickly.

And I'd walk off.

Book Review: Bitch is the New Black

2011-06-07T03:07:00.000+09:00

Helena Andrews is a walking Terry McMillan character. She was raised on the West Coast, attending post- secondary schools on the East, worked for the Politico and various publications, had an apartment in New York, a closet full of designer clothes and shoes, a fresh hair do, even a cute little purebred pug named Max who hates black men. So what's missing in her life? Love, marriage and a baby carriage. She wants a man but is unsure about the whole package. And while she prides herself on being strong, black and independent, that's obviously a facade because she still believes she can win her ex back, who told her she's perfect but he doesn't want to be with her. Not to mention a sorority sister who "keeps it moving" much like her sister who stopped moving permanently through suicide. So goes the collection of essays in Andrews's nonfiction book, Bitch is the New Black, which shows that being an 80s baby born post feminist movement who had all the luck a (black) woman in the Western world can possibly get still doesn't have it easy. Besides, if it were easy, would she have to keep it moving?

The strengths in the book lie in the characterizations of the people Andrews has encountered in her life: her lesbian mother, Catalina island (an island off the coast of Southern California), her high school and college friends, her sort of ex boyfriends, even the dog and her walking are all characters that emerge and jump from the page. We've never met these people, but we have met these people. The episodes are short and interesting. From her mother, to the Cosby show, the book is an examination of the pop culture of the 80s and 90s, after notions of patriarchal and white society were challenged. But after those walls start to crack, what's left? I think Andrews tries to answer this with looking at her own life, which is recommended for anyone. After, the unexamined life is not worth living. However, this was said by a white male so what does he know?

But I digress. The strength in this book is almost like a fiddler crab (or Trogdor, take your pick). The characterizations and the sarcastic, dry tone are so strong that it leaves nothing else to carry it over. Andrews' seems like a funny lady sure, but she also comes across as arrogant, patronizing and excessively picky. She doesn't quite know what she wants. Is it a stable guy or someone with a wow factor? Does she want someone to love her or Superman? Or this Dexter guy? She doesn't seem to know and neither do we, and since we don't see a side of her that's caring, considerate or compassionate to balance out the edge, the edge becomes overdone and truthfully, contrite. It's easy to be dry and snobby and detached from your subject. MTV's comedy Daria was built on the premise, but occasionally Daria got a piece of the high school action. But if you don't care then why should your audience? The tone of the book was confusing so I found myself pulling away from the narrative and not trusting it. Did she hope to make us laugh or ponder? Are we supposed to root for her or question her? I found myself doing both all too often that it pulled away from any enjoyment.

Like many women, I was hopefully awaiting the release of this book after reading the article in the "Washington Post." And like many women, I was disappointed with the book. It read like a series of blogs instead of a series of essays. There's no continuity in the book and it lacks structure. It raising questions and then vaporizes them. I loved the subject matter. Maybe next time, Andrews should take it further and challenge these notions. Then it'll really be about something.

Hello

2011-06-06T13:25:00.000+09:00

Hello blog,

I promise I'll be on the regular schedule tomorrow.

Wednesdays on the wire: June 1

2011-06-02T14:38:00.000+09:00

Dear Philosophy and Letters,

I'm back! I'm happy to report that I finally have a new laptop. This Memorial Day weekend I wanted to do something productive so I decided to get my laptop, a sexy new HP. I really wanted a Mac, but I don't Mac money. Hell, I don't even make HP money but if I was going to get a new laptop, I was going to get a high performing one. Anyway, here are some interesting things I've heard people say over the past few months.

1. At the ESL school I sometimes teach at, one of my students said he doesn't get why Americans think Europeans are so gay, for lack of a better term. Besides, he went to a bar and there were plenty of American frat boys dancing to Justin Beiber.

2. At my other job, one of the students said that he wanted to grow up to be a soccer player. If that failed, then he could always become a rapper. Why? Those jobs don't require skills or education he says. Like that's true.

3. I went on vacation last week and I found out that Mississippi is one of the flower states. And Georgia has zip lining. Zip lining! The tourist lady tried to convince me that zip lining is native to North America, although, I'd be inclined to think zip lining is native to Latin Americas. But who cares. You don't need a passport to zip line now. You just need to go to Georgia.

I'm not dead

2011-03-29T04:48:00.000+09:00

Dear Blog,

This seems to happen every few months. I start to write ferverishly and then I never finish. I don't have access to a computer at home so of course that would omit all the writing opportunities I'm supposed to have in abundance (along with the aimless internet searching). But alas, I have something to do with my afternoons at least. I work part time at Primetime, a before and after school care program. I could write about five entries on that, but since I'm without a computer I'm not saying a whole lot these days. Hopefully we'll get one in the house in a couple of weeks, and maybe I'll be able to save up enough money to (eee!) buy my own. But that won't be for a month or so. Boy do I miss the luxury of a laptop. But I wanted to say I'm not dead. I'm still writing. Sort of.

Thursday excerpts: Way Honest

2011-02-25T15:29:00.000+09:00

For Sadie, it was normal to be the listener. She listened to the problems and the solutions in college, at the law firm, even at the school. Stories spilled from these women, weekend adventures about hookups from online dating sites. Stories about traveling to Venice, or when people wanted to share their childhood histories and Sadie usually smiled and asked questions in a polite manner. With Lia’s response, it showed that Sadie could have the chance to speak (or type). Like Sadie, she wanted to know about Davey. Sadie didn’t have the entire story of Davey so she guessed. She guessed that he was American and that he was the same age as her. She didn’t lie about the other details; she simply embellished. He sounds interesting Lia wrote back. Hearing about Italy made Lia reminiscence about when she first touched down in Europe. This reminds me of all those guys I dated. I love the first stages of relationships. The first stage of love. I’m in love with that love drug. Lia replied. She had dated many boyfriends- musicians, photographers, that delectable male model that cheated on her after lingerie shoot. Marriage didn’t have the love drug, but it assured the end of heartbreak.
    I know how that feels Sadie wrote to her, but Lia changed the subject. When Sadie returned home after work, she checked her email for Lia’s response. She changed her subject. What’s the Davey progress? She asked. No response from Davey yet. He hadn’t called her, but he hadn’t ignored her. When she was prepping for class, she noticed the cute little notes on pastel paper that he left her. It was always a joke, or some new word that he had learned in Italian, and he concluded, always that he was thinking of her but he had to get some stuff in order. Should I call him? Sadie asked. But she didn’t have his number. Definitely not! Let him call you. Lia responded. He will.
    Saturday evenings spent with Rebecca and Ewan in the bar were tiring, and while the hostel was out partying, Sadie took solace in the silence of the house. She sat at the common table with her leg propped up on the opposite chair. A plethora of English books were spread about the table. Pink, purple and green pens were scattered across as well. Sadie scribbled lesson plans on sheets of crisp white paper although her mind was wondering. She was pensive, but not focused. Maybe she needed to Skype her parents, or read another book for fun. Despite the quietness in the night and her solitude, she felt the most like herself and the least like being with anyone else. That was the truth.
    Now the phone rang.
    “Hello,” she said.
    “Hello,” Davey replied. “I’m surprised that you’re home. On a Saturday night.”
    “Lesson planning. Thought about calling my parents, but I’m not sure.”
    “Are you sure you weren’t thinking about me?” he asked. Sadie went silent. “Okay, I take it back. It was a bad joke.”
    “I agree.”
    “Do you eat?” he asked.

Wednesdays on the wire: February 23

2011-02-24T16:01:00.000+09:00

This one will be short.

1. My little sister has a thing for creams and vaseline. Yesterday I was talking to my mother when I noticed she was quiet, too damned quiet. So my little brother Isaiah went to see Stevia, and she was covered in a gook of a mess. Hair conditioner was smeared all over her, and she had the biggest smile of her face. I had to hold in a laugh.

2. I think I got a job offer! I'll be working at the YMCA. Now I'm just waiting for the acceptance letter.

Tuesday exercises- two truths and a lie

2011-02-23T15:58:00.001+09:00

In the 5th grade geometry was my favorite subject, but I wanted sohpistication. So I changed my interest to languages. I begged my mother for a tutor, tugging at her skirt on the kitchen floor as if I were five, and she found someone who could teach me English. She was proud of me. She wanted a daughter who was smart and well versed. And from then on, I was convinced I could will myself to be a better person.
    I learned Spanish just to be with you. Sure, I could still speak and so could you. However, we weren't speaking that same language of the toungue when we met. Memory- a party at the cultural exchange center, me chaperoning the foreign students who huddled over the candy dishes filled with lollipops and goldfish, all chipping away at the monly comfort from their native lange. Beneath the glow of the red heart shaped lamps I saw a pair of eyes, emerald, almond shaped eyes peering back at me. Who looked at whom first is irrelevant, since I left my flock to come to you. You didn't undersand Hebrew, my native toungue, or Arabic, Egypt's native toungue, but you did understand English well enough to get what I was saying. I said a whole lot under the soft cooing of the music, with my silences, but chattered on, my hand fluttering in excitement. Nothing of substance came out of my mouth. I worried you didn't understand me, but then you took a lock of my jet black hair, unruly hair and tucked it neatly behind my ear, tracing the outline of it with your finger. Bonita, you whipsered, and I knew you understood. I never told you this, but I looked at your files under that flourescent sting of the office lamps. You were in Cairo for work, from Venuzuela. You'd be here for a while, so I was sure we'd get to know each other. I was sure you were going to learn Arabic, but you never did. So I learned Spanish.
    You didn't teach me as much as I thought you would. Instead we giggled in joked, making up our own language for fun whenever we were bored and had that small time off for lunch breaks and market errands. You had to get out of there, you said, because your country was being destroyed. You always had your ideals. I always had my fantasies. But when you asked me to marry you I was confused. Didn't this go against our own ideals? I asked. You frowned. This will be about union, you said. This will be about revolution.
    We convinced ourselves that we could will ourselves to be better people.
    When I met your mother in law she was nice, loving and kind to me, kissing me on the cheeks and saying carino, in that soft voice you use, that same soft voice that'd say my name every Wedneday morning and Saturday afternoon. I was always sure we'd travel the world, because we talked about it. Italy, France, China and Japan. We'd see the snowy regions of Russia. We'd drink wine in Argentina and make fun of the snobby Argentines. We'd visit the States and drive through Canada. We'd go to the south pole just off Chile, and pet the penguins. There'd be our own little revolution, I say. I'd like a daughter, you said. I wasn't sure how I felt aout motherhood. I remind you of what mother was like. How coldhearted and vain she was. If I had children, I was convinced they'd be like that. And I wanted better for someone else in the world than to be a product of that. Carino, you said, it doesn't matter. Because you experienced that, you would be better than that. We wanted to will ourselves to be better than we were.
    But we couldn't deny our true nature. Missed a red spot in my white pants, turned them inside out. Became sick and stopped eating solids for a week, hoping I could develop an eating disorder so I could purge this pit in my stomach. Took the test and saw the two strips. Freaked out because I knew you'd kiss me on the mouth, say you were so glad because you wanted it. Didn't want to go through with it. Took a plane out of there, first to Panama, then Miami. I am sick, I said. I just have friends who will take care of me. Didn't want to tell you although when I got back from the trip, you knew. I was not better than my own nature.
    We left each other in a long divorce. I was not the girl you were leaving and you were not the boy who left me. We could not survive who we truly were, and now, we meet in a hotel every other Wednesday morning just to experience the person we were before.

Recipe: Bouabassile with Potatoes and Chickpeas

2011-02-22T16:15:00.000+09:00

I was going to write a review but I'm not finished with my book, so this recipe. In Costa Rica, my roommate told his girlfriend that he could cook fine provincial French cuisine. Of course he only said that to get in her pants, but he relied on me to come up with something that would fit her picky requirements. I came up with this, and he got laid. It was that good.

Ingredients:
1 onion, diced
1 bag of spinach (10-12 oz)
5 cloves garlic, diced
1 can garbanzo beans
1/2 cup vegetable stock
1/2 cup white wine
4 tablespoons tumeric
salt and pepper to taste
1/2 tablespoon olive oil

1. In a saucepan, place olive oil under medium high heat and add onions and garlic. Cook until soft, for 5 minutes.

2. Next, add broth, turmeric, salt and pepper and spinach. Boil on high for 12 minutes. Then, add chickpeas and cook for 5 more minutes. Serve immediately and with toast.

Friday Freewrites: Path (100th Post)

2011-02-19T14:51:00.000+09:00

when i think of path i like to think that i think about gravel and sidewalks and elevators but i don't. i tihnk about fortune cookies and psychics who claim to have all ythe answers. they'll solve your love life. they have the lottery numbers and you can too, as long as you pay them $1000 which i've never understood because if i had the lotter numbers then i wouldn't give them to anyone and i'd tell everyone all the wrong numbers. i'm just joking, joing. i like to think of path when it coems ot bus stops and street signs, to high ways with long stretches of grey and the occassional tree when you know you've entered into the right kind of neighborhood with the right kind of people. it's expensive, but yu're worth it. are you really? anyfish, i like to think of path as being clearly defined as cut trees and bushes that are withouth clear, where i can look up and say, now i'm at silverado i just need to turn left to get to treemont or oceanside blvd. and so for some foolish reason i wanted to think that my life would bee in the same way. or was supposed to be in the same way. that i'd just wake one day and have the life that i've always wanted to create without doing the hard work. that i'd get that awesome job simply on a ba, or at i'd get drunk when it's economically firendly. but things don't always work out that way. i'm forced to consider that i have to go back to school even though i was going to go to school anyway, that i've been drininkg since 8 and i'm still not drunk, that my path seems to not follow anyone else's and i want it so deserpately too. during the observation we were working on the second conditional with hypothetical questions, and one was would you give up 5 years of your life if you could be estremele attractive, and i said yes and the teacher yelled hsllow! ut i was only being honest. i want the things that other people seem to obtain with some ease. relationsips, jobs, places to live and a comfortable fimly life. but for me all those things seem to feel like an uphill battle because i wasn't born with the tools that everyone needs to succeed. i mean, i know this is america the land of dreams! the land of, pull up your bootstraps! look at oprah she was able to make it so what the hell is wrong with you? look at michelle obama? she doesn't even have beuaty on her stide but she still got a quality man so what's your problem? path wasn't clearly drawn out is what i want to ayt. i didn't know where i wanted to go in life because i didn't have path paved out for me so i'm left with too much freedom, too much choice and i'm paralyzed with all these choices. makes me woner if things were easier in thr 50s when women didn't have to work outside of the ohuse (not that i'd like to live in those eras but it's a the fantasy- once again, the thing you're not supposed to say) when i had a blueprint but since i don't have one i want to try everythhing and i'm left with another rude awakening. i can try whatever i want, but the clock is ticking like this damned clock that i'm listening to right now. i won't always have my youth to squander on trying stuff out. i need to figure out who i am so i can go on that path and act accordingly. other groups seems to have this, straight, gay and in between, married and single and i'm between but i'm so stuck and paralyzed. what if i make a wrong choice that i live to regret? what if i want to choose one path only to realize that it's totally wrong for me. maybe that's why i'm not into the idea of being married. that and my radical feminist friends all predicted i'd be the sad soul to give up her radicallnes because i care about what other people think. and what's wrong with that? why can't people see that choosing a pthless path is like jumping out of a plane without a parachut? how fun is that really? not a lot. i can imagine the panic set in, the desperation, thek nowledge of the end and then splat, like ink from a typewirter.

*I will do a real 100th post during the weekend.

Words from the front: Excerpt

2011-02-18T14:55:00.000+09:00

From: "A Romantic's Guide to Infidelity", a short story I've worked on.

It was in the chill of the late morning, in the slightly chillier ice skating sink, where two siblings smiling siblings skated and shrilled laughter as their parents watched when Kevin decided it was time to cheat on his wife. Kevin and his wife watched with approving nods and waves as their children had fun skating. No. He watched their kids have fun. She was too busy, laughing and having fun text messaging to her lover, her much younger lover. He thought it fair to see someone else. He was a great father. Never a drunk, an abusive nor neglectful father or husband: he just couldn’t manage to keep her happy. He deserved to seek his own happiness. Besides, she started it.
    She started it over ten years ago when she sauntered over to him in that crowded bar, cigar in hand – an unusual accessory for such a delicate creature like her. Before speaking to him, she put it to his cold lips, lit it up while he took a slow drag and it was only then she said, you look like you needed that. He knew he was in love, sucked in deeply by that one cigar. When he had met his wife, she brought that archaic term court to his mind. He needed to court this woman, and six months later, he was so swept away with their love that he took her to the justice of the peace and married her during a two hour lunch break. While listening to the priest they locked eyes then looked away, still flirting, and that naughty little grin that began on the right side of her face and bloomed wide with desire warmed Kevin. That smile became their secret, that they were united and the only ones to know. She always wore that smile when she desired him.
    Now, the only time Kevin saw that smile was when she was thinking about her younger lover. She looked up and waved again at the children. Kevin had remembered his wife’s voice and sweet and serene, almost like that of a schoolteacher, but even that too, was reserved for the kids of her lover. No longer him. “Do me a favor,” she commanded, her voice laced with boredom. That voice was for Kevin. “Get the kids a couple of hot chocolates will you?”
    “Sure,” he responded. Equally bored. Grateful for the break from pretending, he left.
    Kevin and his wife weren’t sure if they had eloped. And if they had, they did it in their own town, without anyone knowing. How clandestine and smart of them – how romantic, they had chided like children before going to visit his grandparents in an Albany nursing home. When they broke the news his parents disapproved. They were past thirty, way too old for this. They were both on their second marriage, and how would this effect Mark, his son?   But Kevin’s grandparents, shushed his parent’s concerns. Since Kevin was a boy, his grandparents were so serene, so peaceful, with people and with each other! They wished Kevin and his new bride the best. Since they had been married happily for over sixty years, he took their optimism to heart and dismissed his parents’ concerns.
    Their love would compromise any problem until they found a solution. The mundane of dishes, laundry and finances? Easy. Finding schools and helping Mark adjust to a new mother? No problem. Their vacations, their first home together launched them into a new adventure of comfort and security.
    But when his wife became pregnant with their daughter, she changed. Whenever Mark tried to touch her belly she’d run, hide like a shy kitten. She seemed trapped within those walls, on that Italian sofa, in 600 thread count sheets that stretched across their king size bed. The marriage finally materialized for her. No longer a fantasy. They were stuck together, bonded through this child even if they split up. She couldn’t comprehend it. Reluctant to give up the freedom she’d become so spoiled from.

Wednesdays on the Wire: February 16

2011-02-17T13:15:00.000+09:00

Or in this addition, musings from Meelah:

1. She suggested that the smartphone GPS trackers have installations for voices, like to get the voice of Denzel Washington and Morris Chestnut giving you directions instead of the old chick that shouts out directions now. I'd go for James Earl Jones.

2. We were talking about the wonders of facebook and how it suddenly makes me feel like a failure. But she reminded me that with status updates, no one ever talks about their house foreclosure or stalking their ex. No. They only post up what they want you want to see, so how genuine can it be?

3. Since we have our minds in the gutter, she mentioned a site I should visit called Rundu (anyone else heard of it?) apparently they have nice looking naked guys, although she said one looked like he'd steal her purse.

4. As a bonus, I watched Ellen's Covergirl commercial with my little brother and his friend. She said she thought that Ellen was trying to be a man because she doesn't wear dresses and her hair is short and she always looks like a tomboy. My little brother said, "You dress like that too," to which I had to curtail a serious laugh (because beautiful as this little girl is, she's definitely a tomboy) and explain to her that Ellen doesn't want to be a boy. If she did, why would she be a Covergirl and sell makeup, which men do not wear? All this without mentioning the word gay. That surely was a challenge.

Exercise Tuesday: Message from a photo

2011-02-16T16:55:00.000+09:00

I found a website that suggested I find a picture on the internet and write a character piece about it. Here it is.

Bryce had nightmares of his graduation day and it was a media's fault. There were counteless stories in the news. First Unabomber, then Bin Laden and now the DC snipe, as if black people did have enough negative stereotypes to combat. He'd woken up during finals week, drenched in sweat, worried about transgressions of the past and future. For the descrepancies of the past: that history test he cheated on in Freshman year, pledging for a fraternity and then backing out. Sure, he could handle the orders, the micormanaging of his big brother, but he didn't like the parties. Seems like such as punk out reason for not joining. He disliked the calls and dances, the steps and the symbols thrown up in twisted brown fingers. Reminded him too much of a gang. He disliked the loud music, competing for women with his fellow frat members, or the thumping that resonated in his brain long after the party when he was in class and wanted more than anything to take an aspirin a class of water. No. He preferred the quiet solitude of the library and its green lights, that glittered like jewels when turned on.

Transgressions of the future were even harder because they hadn't happened yet, but like calling a psychic he knew it was going to. Like Phylicia. He'd give her the news before the end of the summer. They'd have a nice summer, filled with bike rides, smoothies and morning rolls in the hay. It'd be pleasant and serene, like the balmy evenings of the summer and fall.

However, that's all she was. Nice. After a year she'd become predictable, like the rest of Davis, a quiet, friendly town that was his parents' ultimate college fantasy. Good school and close to home. He'd enjoyed his time but he was ready to move on, beyond the sunshine, alphabet named streets and kumquats. It fit. He was a nice guy from a nice neighborhood and a nice family who went to a nice college with a nice (and economic) major, but that's all it was. However he was looking for more. More of what? He wasn't sure.

He switched his tassel over to the right side. Was it the left or the right side that was right? He'd thought so much about it he didn't know. He'd had some ideas of what would be right for him to do after school. He wanted to improve his Spanish. He thought about heading to Madrid.

"You're crazy," his mother had said.

But he wasn't. Just curious. Just wondering about the life besides the one handed down to him. There was nothing wrong with it, and if he was raised where his cousins were, he wouldn't have that blueprint- college, job, proceeded by marriage and children. So what if he was more fortunate than them, than a lot of people. Did he have to accept it? No. College had taught him to think critically, to challenge his preconceived notions.

There were still minutes before the ceremony. Bryce took a deep breath and relaxed. Next, just relaxed.

Book review: Atmospheric Disturbances

2011-02-15T13:35:00.000+09:00

Leo Libenstein believes his wife has gone missing. He doesn't think she ran off with another lover and he doesn't know where she is. His only clue in finding her is a doppelganger who looks, speaks and behaves almost exactly like her, and he's not believing her. This is a problem for Leo, the psychologist because he doesn't like many people, and she's his true love, so he goes through great lengths to find her. He search leads him to his schizophrenic patient Harvey, to Buenos Aires all the way to a double life that he chose to lead and communication with an institution that he said he made up-- or maybe it doesn't exist anymore. And so is the mystery of Rivka Galchen's first novel, Atmospheric Disturbances a novel about a simple task- a man finding his wife- that's comical, smart and at times tender.

I first became aware of Galchen in The New Yorker's "20 Under 40" edition, where she contributed a short story. Truth be told, I thought it was just a'wight. But her novel is impressive in so many ways. We start with Leo's wife Rema coming home with a dog. First clue because she doesn't like dogs. And she doesn't drink tea so quickly. And she's not so blatantly irritable. She usually has the courtesy to hide her annoyance because that's a part of being Argentine. So Leo searches for her in his patient, by contacting her mother, and stunt double Rema has everyone convinced that she's the real Rema. But she's not fooling Leo. He talks to the weather institute and discusses the doppler radar. Now if it sounds like I'm giving the plot away, don't worry, I'm not. It's so confusing and complex I don't think I'd be able to give the plot away even if I wanted to. So I'll move on to something more useful.

Galchen is one of those writers Joyce Carol Oates discusses- that either work well in short story or novel form. Leo is a character I'm sure she's met many times over during her stint as a non writer (she was a medical student and certified doctor before becoming a writer) in the science and medical world, and her knowledge is apparent most in the character's voice. Leo strikes me as the type of man women liked when they first met him but disliked him upon further inspection, and without Rema or the double, he'd be too difficult for anyone to put with again. However, I found myself growing fond of Leo in my own distance. Leo often veers off into directions that have nothing to do with novel or plot, because we're discovering the character. Galchen's prose takes off in novel form because she has the time and length to develop these characters and let her readers understand him. Leo was at times sarcastic, brutal, and remotely polite, although I liked him I disliked how he treated the supposed fake Rema. Was the Rema claiming to be his wife the real Rema? And if she wasn't where was the real Rema? With Leo's obsessive nature and need to see things for more than they are, does it matter if he has a real Rema or a fake one? Those are all questions worth finding out the answer to, worth the meandering of the story and the windy road it takes. Don't think you know all the answers.

There are so few "literary" novels that could be made into film, but this novel pushes the genres: literary, philosophical, thriller, to the point where it could fit into any and survive quite well in the mainstream market. It could've easily been a graphic novel, and I'm sure it'll be a movie in a few years. Who should be the leads? Sean Connery and Denis Richards? Scarlett Johanson and Peter Gallagher? My vote would be George Clooney (plus 15 pounds) and Sonya Walger. Because she's part Argentine and can do all the Spanish beautifully, of course.

Friday freewrites: Wish

2011-02-12T16:36:00.000+09:00

i can think of this one time when i was six and the cutest i'll probably ever be. i was with my tammy and columbus and we were on our way to see santa where i bad had this long long wish list written out of what i wanted for christmas and most of it was mysteriously pink. pink convertable for my barbie pink ohose for my babie, easy bake over, pink please. iwas so obsessed with furnishing my house with for my barbie that it's no wonder i didn't become a codependent. anyway, i waited long and long for my chance to sit on santa's knee to bounce up and down in his knee and look in his blue and iassumed perfect eyes just to tell him what i wanted to christmas because i just kenw i was going to get it and why wouldn'et i? i just had a good report card, i didn't get in trouble at school. i even ate all my vegetables and stopped skipping lunch. which my teacher complained baout because she thought it was a sign of something like abuse at the home when it was really just, no, i don't like eatin meat. but where was i going with this? i don't know. tammy and oclumbus in all their youth complained and yawned and iwas excieted but annoyed at the kids in front of me, snotty nosed brats from the burbgs who were busy rattling off thieir own lists. but when i got up to his knee i rea his list and like polite obient child i was raised to be said thanks and got off his lamp or lap. and my wishes came true although it's still a challeneged to me. i spend so much time just wanting and waiting and wishing that it's a permenanet state. makes me wonder, why didn't i just be happy ihh what i have? why am i not more in love with the subjunctive mood? why are things better than they aree? i took wishing as a calling. wishing for better writing, for beter grades. praying to the god that was rationale and chance and i didn't become happier until when? when i started looking at all the things i do have. a roof over my head. a place to eat. a family who likes me well enough, although i keep looking over my proverbial shoulder and wondering, is this it? is this all there is to it? have i reached my end, and even if i have, what would the write about mei n my obit? that i was a dreamer who was obsessed with practicality in her drea,s? that i didnt' know how to listen to anyone and stop complaining, you know i don't know. just started thinking of all the things i wish and wait for. for the moment when i'll emerge out of my cocoon and be the person i hope to be, who aspires and inspires others and i'm in my perfect prime form because dammit i never feel that way henever i look at myself in the mirror or twiirl my hair or whn i see others linked arm and arm tight like cuff links and i feel oh so alone. what was i saying for before? i don't know. i think i was talking about my obituraruy. i want accomplishments and children because everyone else days i should get them but i wouldn't know what to do this with them. i want to experience something cool right now instead of fdelayed gratification. feels like praying when you don't know when you are coming or going, when it'll be answered, if it's even sincere. i keep thinking about all the things i want and wish for and yet it feel lis like wishing is a permanent state of longing and i'm not sure if that's a healthy thing. permanent longing and emptiness psurs codenpendency and suicide, and who wants to be a psrt of that. i wish i believe in a santa still who could fulfill my siwh list or that all those books i want from amazon were just shipped to my doo. door. i think i have more time left. i keep wondering if i'm wishing for something that'll never come true.

Words from the front

2011-02-11T14:25:00.000+09:00

Hello! I've been trying to write something blog worthy all day and I can't. So I included a post that I wrote about four years ago. Here's an excerpt of some non fiction. I hope you enjoy it.

Maybe it’s because I read about a Peace Corps member, who wanted to work in his neighborhood before helping those in another country, or because one of my activist friends joined after she graduated, or because just because I wanted a new job, but I joined AmeriCorps. I tutor at University Heights Middle School and assist with the AVID class. AVID, which stands for Advancement via Individual Determination is supposed to be a program for college bound students. I was kicked out of the program in high school because my GPA was too high.
The teachers don’t know that, so I run in late. The teacher asked me to oversee the class because there was a substitute. Spitballs fly across the room, student pass notes, probably about a fight after school, and a girl listens to Sean Paul on her iPOD. I can hear the base thump from her headphones across the room. It’s loud. The substitute reads a Mary Higgins Clark novel. She doesn’t care. Then again, AVID for me in high school was a free period. No one really cares about AVID, but I’m on a stipend to care, so I yell out, take out your planners. Write down today’s agenda. Planning and organizing is the recipe for success. I take out my own. I use my agenda, I announce. Look. I point the green, blue, pink and purple scribbles on dates. I’m organized, I say. I’ve been on the Dean’s list three times. College is busy. Be prepared. I know you want to go to college, so use yours, I say. A girl with two toned hair who reads Oscar Wilde under her desk smiles at me. I want to be like you, she says.

Wednesdays on the wire: February 9

2011-02-10T17:03:00.000+09:00

This is a quick post.

1. My little brother is allergic to vegetables but he ate 4 vegan enchiladas.

That's all.

Exercise Tuesdays

2011-02-09T16:41:00.000+09:00

Not me

So, I pulled an exercise at random from my writing workbook, and I came up with a nonfiction one. It's about one thing I take for granted. My hair! Here it is.

When I was a kid I used to bite my nails until my father told me I'd never have long beautiful nails like my mother. Twirling my hair replaced the nail biting, so I played in my hair often. When I was happy, feeling gray or nervous, when a wave of anxiety hit me and I had to clam myself down. I always imagined that someone would touch my hair with the same care or purpose, the way guys did to girls that they liked. I thought I'd get my chance when I met Evan. We were in the sixth grade and we had to work on a science project together. He was a cool kid who looked like Slim from 112. He said he liked me. But, he touched my hair. I can't run my fingers through this, he said. And that was the end of it.

I didn't quite like my hair a whole lot until I got the sisterlocks. My locs are new-- about eight months, but I thought about getting them for the better part of a decade. Sisterlocs are a haircare system that are like locs, but they are formed on a grid like pattern on one's head, according to the length and texture of the person's hair. They're not locked with gels, but with a tool and water. Founded by Patricia Cromwell in the 90s, Sisterlocks originated in San Diego as an alternative to traditional locs (or dread locs). She wanted a look that would be feminine, manicured and professional.

It's safe to say that sisterlocks are popular because there are locticians in all 50 states and internationally. Hair is a sensitive subject for many females, but talking to a woman about her sisterlocks is like asking a woman about her vagina-- she won't shut up about it. The texture of her hair, how it feels when she runs her fingers through it, all the hair jewelry she uses-- she'll talk about all of it. The interesting part about locs is that it's not about instant gratification, unlike other hairstyles. When a woman gets her hair dyed, permed, cut or weaved, she has a pretty good idea of what her hair will look like. But when a woman gets her hair locked, she won't know until it's already done, and that's a heady investment-- monetary and time wise-- for something when you don't know what it'll look like. It doesn't stand out as much in San Diego, but for any woman, her hair is her crowning glory, and with sisterlocks, the crown is the center of attention.