Identity Theory [unfinished]

Inspired by reading Freedom. On page 271 at this point. 

Everyone must believe what they are doing is right, or else implode

*All can augment based on external factors at the time: who is around, what the goal is, worries and fears, hopes, expectations, power dynamics, current events and consciousness 

FURTHER it is impacted and boundaried by the time and place in which one lives. 

·         Nature:

-          personality without impeding or influencing factors

§  naturally “big”, outspoken, quiet, introvert, extrovert, Kinsey scale,

-          genetics

§  pain levels, anxiety, mental illness, body image control, capacity for empathy, capacity for connectivity and relationships, intellect (learning styles, formation of neural connections), energy, potential, propensity

·         Nurture

-          background

-          family dynamics

-          religious/moral upbringing

§  sense of purpose

§  right and wrong

§  what an ideal person would be

-          socio-economic situation

§  comfort level

§  level of freedom

§  awareness of world order

§  acceptance

-          Education (levels of naivety, ignorance, or being informed - exposure)

§  Positive or negative experience

·         In school

·         Outside of school

·         At home

§  Psychological Awareness

·         Self awareness

·         Awareness of psychology(motivations and fears) in yourself

·         Awareness of the same in others

§  Life skills

·         Finances

·         Where to go for…

·         What to do if…

§  Street smarts

·         Drugs, sex, races, alternative lifestyles, crime

§  Book smarts

·         Memorization, interpretation

§  World smarts

·         Interest in world events and problems

§  Talents & Passions

·         Approved and encouraged or disregarded

·         Potential for “greatness”

-          Where self-worth and esteem comes from. Where comfort can be found.

-           ..... more to come

Just Whose History Are We Talking About? [Letter to the President]

Dear President Obama,

Weed is harmless - more so than the very legal and regulated Cigarette and Booze Industries - and you know it.

Wall Street is dangerous and you know it.

Government control and taxation of Marijuana, whether strictly medicinal or recreational, could bring in billions of dollars and you know it.

The people are telling you what they want. 
They're screaming it in the streets. Literally. 

Why aren't you listening?

What happened to being on the right side of history?

I knew people expected way too much of you, but it's not like you haven't done anything right. You've done a lot of great things that have gone unnoticed and unpublicized.

It's obvious you're going to go down in history no matter what - so what's the deal?

And yeah, there are totally bigger things to worry about. All the more reason to just stop the madness.

Here's to hoping you fix this, or somebody runs in 2012 who will.

-L.

Sour Gripes [Laundry]

In an effort to motivate myself out of depression, and plain old ungratefulness, I'm starting a new topic on this blog: Sour Gripes.

As an American, and a fairly insightful one, I know a lot of things we complain about are luxuries. But I'm human, I do it too.

For example, I've got to do laundry. I'm all out of clean clothes. I live on the 13th floor and the machines are in the basement. When I think about doing it, I get flustered at the idea of dragging my dirty clothes into the elevator - hoping no one else is around - because I'm dressed in my very worst - and then loading my precious few clothes into the machines downstairs which are gunked with mold and nasty whatever. I've got to worry that somebody might get impatient and take my stuff out if I'm not there right away, or maybe just steal my stuff all together. It's not like there are cameras down there. It's happened before.

So here's how this'll work. Whenever I don't want to do something, I type that into Google. Search Images and Videos and I'll post the best examples of just how lucky I am - how lucky most people reading this are. It's meant to raise awareness. It's meant to motivate. I'm not saying the way other people in the world do laundry is wrong or bad or so pitiful, but let me put it this way: the American mindset is that time is valuable. If you're spending hours a day physically washing your clothes, and you only have the tools and resources to do it in possibly unhealthy conditions, then you have my respect. And you've made me feel a lot less resistant to the free laundry in the basement - something unique even among colleges alone. I'm not trying to be ethnocentric is my point, and sorry if it comes out that way. Just to keep it balanced, I'll try to find some cheerful examples too. Very few things are all bad, you know.

Oh and here's a Wikipedia article, cause knowledge is power y'all: LAUNDRY, a history

I look forward to your feedback, world.



1) So this little girl is washing with - I'm guessing - her Mom. Isn't she sweet? I just wonder how safe those chemicals are on her tiny hands.

2) I suppose it's not so bad - at least the little girl and her village has water.

3) Super Suds in Long Beach seems pretty awesome. They've got video games, and I wouldn't mind small talk with this lady. She seems neat:

4) This guy seriously really bugs me. Give Americans some credit man, geeze. Oh, and go to a public  laundromat when you get home. Sometimes you don't have to travel so far away to have new experiences.

5) Best for last! CLUBWASH:BRNO 

This is where I did my laundry abroad. They've got a few machines, and they wash, dry, and fold all your stuff for you. Oh, and did I mention it was a pub too? Which meant every Monday was PubQuiz! Awesome place. Got to love those Czechs!!!

Comfort Rd - Story - First Draft

Comfort Rd

Based on the Myth of Apollo and Daphne

L. Gamari

What am I doing?

The whole car’s humming, shaking me, or maybe I’m the one who’s shaking. Comfort Road unrolled before me; a black river between the autumn trees all orange, red, yellow, brown. Death for them is beautiful. It could be for me. Is that how this will end? Doubtful. I’ll skid and slam the breaks, some deer or dear-eyed child emerging from the crowded woods, letting out a fatal scream before –

Yo, are you up for this or not? he shouts, obnoxious little shit, from his rolled down window.  There’s laughter in Paul’s voice. This is a joke for him. His car is glossy with expense– some revved up red creature only a year old, tops. Comfort Road is mine. He can’t scare me. Six summers speeding up and down Airport Drive, catering to snappy customers who always have someplace more important to be. He’s got the better car, but I’m the better driver. I grip my fingers tight around the wheel, knuckles burning white. Ready when you are, bitch.

*

Paul Vick never said a word to me before October.  I can’t say I knew who he was either. I can’t say I’m happy I do now. A blonde, forty-dollar haircut mushrooms above his eyes, suburban blue. Entitlement blue. He smiles too easy. His teeth too white; so obviously taken care of long before he had the means to take care of them himself. But this isn’t what bothers me, no. Life isn’t fair, I accept that. I learned long ago not to hold the past against people – it’s what they do now that redeems or mars them. But in the case of Paul Vick, my hatred is inevitable.

It’s four-hundred-level English. A dozen copies of The Bell Jar lay before their owners like abandoned puppies on the flat of their tummies, heads defeated on their paws, exhausted. Hungry. They’re in various conditions – some highlighted and dog-eared, some with the binding still solid with uncracked glue. Mine is stamped: PROPERTY OF ITHACA COLLEGE LIBRARY. A page or two is missing, but I don’t mind. I’ve read it before.

Paul speaks without being called on, but nobody cares. They didn’t want to talk anyway. I just hate these kinds of characters, he says. They’re so depressing. It’s actually annoying how whiney they are. She needs to relax. He’s smiling, self-satisfied, as though this is a breakthrough in the history of literature, nay, the history of all mankind. When she died I was like, you know what? Good riddance! He leans back in his chair, one leg across his knee. His friends chuckle from either side. How can they laugh? What’s wrong with these people? And besides, Esther doesn’t die. Even the Professor doesn’t correct him. An old me might have.

Everybody tunes into the Prof like a radio frequency, fading in and out along an empty stretch of highway cutting through some mountainous land far from here. Somewhere I would rather be. Paul’s picking at his nails. The space in front of him is empty; he didn’t even bring his book today. Leaning in so only he can hear, I ask, Hasn’t anything bad ever happened to you?

His tone rises and drops like a dip in the pavement. Yeeah, he says. Of course.

My stomach lurches. Really? I doubt it, I whisper, pulling back. Why did I whisper? I should have shouted it. I want to scream it. To the class. To the world. Chairs swipe across the linoleum, loud and echoing off the blank walls. Fifty-thousand-a-year to hear some jerk’s verbal vomit? Same old shit. Wasn’t college supposed to be...doesn’t matter anymore. At least this is the last year. Hang in there, Daphne, hang in there. My phone buzzes in my pocket.

D needur ss #
turn elec back oni
will pay u  backbut
they turned off 2day

Somebody runs into me. I’m blocking the door. Sorry, I murmur, my legs carrying me out into the hall. Its screen smudgy and scratched, my eyes hypnotized, but my brain keeps reading, re-reading the message. How could she do this? Is she crazy? There’s a burning in my side. My face is warm. People are starting to stare, eyes wide with the best of human intentions, but all I feel is them looking through me like a mirror. I reflect everything they fear, everything unknown to them. With any luck, I would always be unknown. I’ve got to get out of the building. Get some fresh air.

*

I knew there would be a fight. I should have anticipated what she’d say. I’m a bad daughter. I don’t know what family is. Wiping the wet from my face, I turn the key over and the engine wakes like Lazarus, happy to be useful once more. I wait until the boundary of campus, and light the bowl. The outside air streaming past my windows carries away with it any worry about the smell. Any worry about anything really, fades back behind me with the scenery ticking past, like old cinema film. All I see is what’s up ahead. I choose a road that’s empty, one that’s got a good name.

Comfort Rd reads white letters on green metal. It’s long and protected from cops by woods and harmless hermits, their gardens overgrown. Cruise control set to forty-five, I weave through Ithaca’s countryside. Deep into the back roads, there’s a barn with horses. Sturdy, their souls rippling beneath the surface of their soft bodies. I always stop and say hello. Animals are nice. They’re pure. They haven’t read Plath, and have no concept of depression, but they don’t need to. They know how to listen. They feel things. That’s their way.

I always try to get back before dark. There are no streetlamps and I’m sleepy. I’ve got to be careful. I’ve got to be sneaky. Nobody can know. I would lose everything. Is this really worth it? Is the danger really worth the momentary peace?

Headlights in my rearview. Fuck. A cop? No. Just some dick, with his brights on though he’s less than a car length away. Black and green spots obscure my vision, cellophane circles between me and the world. I tap the breaks, flashing red. Warning him I have no sense of self-preservation. I’d gladly let him hit me. If you’re rear-ended, the guy in back’s always at fault. Am I sober enough for a police report?

He’s pumped up his music, the bass vibrating through the falling night. Come on, not today. Some bored douche in the car his parents bought him, probably the day he turned sixteen. It’s red and as loud and showy as the auto-tuned pop blasting from its speakers. He’s way too close. Don’t fuck with me. I slam the breaks.

He doesn’t hit me, but veers to the left, stopping on the wrong side of the road. It doesn’t matter, nobody’s out here. That was the point. He rolls down the window, smiling, his teeth all too white. It’s Paul.

Heeeey, he yells across the seat. The music’s still blasting. It’s you! From class, right?

This is really not the place for small talk. Yeah. I raise my voice but keep it flat as the hard, dark tar beneath our vehicles. I expect him to say some bullshit about my driving, but he doesn’t.

So you’ve discovered Comfort, too? His face is stretched in a knowing look. He probably smells the weed.

Dude, you want something? I’m on my way home.

Nah, just saying Hi. What’s your name again? He says everything like he’s cute, and knows it.

I’m not and definitely know it. Daphne, I shout.

Right, cool. My name’s Paul. Paul Vick.

No shit, I think. I just nod my head, put on my most unimpressed smile. Make it obvious I couldn’t care less.

Well, um, okay. See ya in class. He pulls away, back up toward campus. Damn it, I could have said anything - why hadn’t I lied about my name?

*

You okay, Daffy? You seem a little, um, tense. Tubbs’ face is concerned, and deep down, I’m glad. I don’t mean to fill those brown eyes with any worry, but it’s nice when somebody notices. As though we share the same world.

Yeah I’m alright. I ran into that jerk I told you about, the one in my English class.

Oh yeah? What happened?

He drove up behind me while I was cruising. Scared me shitless. Thought he was a pig.

She laughs. I can be so paranoid.

We’re at King’s Cemetery. Gold light in the fading afternoon kisses the carved and crumbling grey stones, filling them with warmth and meaning. Hanging out here was her idea. As children, we both played hide-and-seek among tombstones, not together, but on either ends of New England. Maybe if I’d grown up with a friend like her, things would’ve been different. I love her. She’s the kindest person I know. She doesn’t seem to think so. This makes me love her even more.

So, my Mom tried to blackmail me.

What? She fumbles her coffee, and brown drips onto the picnic blanket.

I know right. Bitch.

Don’t let her get to you.

I shake my head, tug at the clover along the edge of our blanket. She'll ruin my credit.

She's not gonna ruin your credit today. You’ve just got to stay away from her.

I know. It’s just hard. She is – well, she was – the only sane family I’ve got – had. Ugh.

Don’t worry Daffy, it’s all gonna work out.

The rehearsal in her voice stings a little. Isn’t there anybody who’s been through this before? Let’s walk around some more before we go? I stand up, so she can’t say no. The over-courteous thing has its advantages. Being polite, even if it means sacrificing what you want, is built into every middle-class person I’ve ever met. Everyone except Paul. People like Paul.

*

For every thought you have, for every quirk you define yourself by, I believe there are at least one thousand other people who do too. A thousand souls just like you. Originality is a myth. It’s really a good thing though. It means you’re never alone as long as you find those people. That’s my problem, I just haven’t found them yet.

My psychiatrist, Tom Thompson, is giving me his sympathy eyes. He crinkles them at the edges and they go all glassy and sad. My side starts burning again. I’ve been able to hear the blood pulsing in my ears for a week now. I don’t want his damn sympathy. I know it’s depressing already. I want something else. Help. He’s stays silent, waiting.

I think I’m sick.

What makes you think that? He marks the blue legal pad with his pen.

I haven’t been able to sleep, and I’m hungry but nothing tastes good. Remember when my back had that spasmie thing?

He nods.

Yeah, well we never figured out what that was, you know? And I think it could be Listeria. There’s an outbreak at this cantaloupe farm and - His face is blank, I know that means he’s skeptical – I’m a vegetarian so I eat a lot fruit and stuff.  My voice’s small and pained.

What can we do about that? Have you seen the health center?

Yeah, but – they don’t like me very much. They don’t listen.

Have you thought about going to your family doctor? He’s so helpful. I want to puke.

I don’t have a family doctor.

Oh, well what about someone here in Ithaca?

            I sit up in the sunken chair, weighed down by years of unhappy students. This guy really just doesn’t get it. How is that possible? My scholarships pay for the school’s health insurance, I say, I don’t have money for anything. I’m even out of weed, though I won’t tell him that. Nobody can know.

            Your health’s important. You could go and just not pay. I’ve never heard of anyone going into debt because of medical bills. He smiles, so reassuring, so knowing, so helpful.

*

            Comfort Road is blasting past, my speedometer must be hitting eighty. Heart in my throat, I haven’t been this focused, this clear, in a very long time. The red hellion is closing in but still behind. Money isn’t everything. Parents aren’t everything. I feel my face smile but every other nerve is numb. Just make it to the end and it’s all yours. Make it to the end, you can do it, go, go, go! Go ahead! Try to catch me! Catch me if you can!

*

            What, you think you’re too good to talk to me?

            Paul’s leering. How do I keep running into this guy? Is he following me? He’s a corporate tower in the city of everything. I sit in his shadow, plopped on a bench like some homeless woman too tired to keep walking. Sorry, you’re talking to me? I ask.

            Yeah, I’ve been calling your name for like a whole minute. What’re you reading?

            Is he for real? I hold up the book, Self-Help by Lorrie Moore. I wish I could be that funny on purpose. It’s just not my nature. I look for a sense of recognition in his face, in those blue eyes, but no, nothing resonates.

            Cool, he says. Uninterested. Just trying to find a way in. I was wondering if you wanted to study for our midterm –

            It’s an essay, you know that right?

            Oh yeah. He laughs, an odd, forced, bubbly laugh. I don’t have time for this.

            Could you do me a favor? I ask. I’m surprised at my own question. His eyebrows prove he is too.

            Uh, like what?

            Stay off Comfort Road?

            He laughs again. It’s deep, more natural. More cruel. Yeah, right – you serious?

            As a heart attack.

            No way, he says, his lip curling close to his nose. Disgusted.

            Why not?

            It’s a free country, that’s why not.

            Whatevs. Sorry I asked. I pick up my bag, try to side-step him, but he’s not done yet.

            You think you’re real special or something, don’t you?

            Excuse me?

            Yeah, you think you’re smarter than everybody else. Like you deserve more than everybody –

            You don’t know shit about me. Get outta my way. I don’t want to touch him, but I’ve got to escape.

            Fine, you want it? He moves his body right in front of me, pinning me between his stupid - cologne soaked - fifty dollar polo and the bench. Race me for it.

            Race you? You’re nuts. I meant to yell, but my own voice betrays me. I hate him, but he’s got my attention, and he knows it.

            Yeah, we’ll race for it. Winner gets the road, loser gets a life. He puts one hand on my shoulder, extending the other to shake. That would be you, sweetheart.

Every muscle of my being wants to destroy him. We’ll see about that. Without returning his open palm, I walk away, anger vibrating up my legs, ricocheting off my heart, swamping my brain. Yeah, we’ll see.

*

            How much longer?! I can’t feel anything but the road, swinging around corners and over ragged pot holes. This better be worth it. I’m an atheist but I pray out of habit. Pray out of the lack of any alternative. Pray my tires don’t pop beneath me, when was the last time they were replaced? Almost there, got to be almost there. Paul nearly passed me twice now, but that’s one useful thing about depression – no self-preservation. Each move he makes, I slide my car to match, and whether he was scared of his mommy’s rage should he crash or just his own life, I’ll never know.  I see the lights first, but it doesn’t register. In the speed of everything my brain has slowed.

            Cops. The one time. The. One. Time. Fuck - I smash the pedal - Fuck - My heart screaming in my ears – Fuck - I’m going to puke – Fuck - Paul is slowing down -  pulling over - At least I’m going to win. I’m going to win god-damn-it-all. My bowl, two weeks empty, is still in the car. Still proof of what I really am. I’m screwed no matter what. My scholarships are gone. My future is gone. I am doomed to the oblivion from which I came.

And yet I feel light. Suddenly, unexpectedly, for no good reason at all – I feel free. I close my eyes, breathing it in, the release. No more struggling, no more fighting. No more being different. I will return from where I came. I am going home.

That, of course, explains why I don’t see the tree.

*

            Hello, Daphne Lawrence? I’m Doctor Allen. How are you feeling?

            Hazy, but I don’t tell him that. Stiff. Whiremaye? I try to ask.

            You’re in the hospital. His voice is slow, deliberate, as though he suspects I can’t understand him. We’d like to contact your family. They should be with you right now. We have your home information but we need your permission. Is that okay?

            I move my head to respond, to explain, but nothing happens. I can’t move.

            Just blink once for no, twice for yes, okay? Do you understand?

            I blink twice, hard. I already wonder what tears should mean, because they’re streaming down my face. I know because it’s gotten very hard to see.

            Daphne, don’t cry now, relax. He puts a hand on me. I can’t feel it. You’ve been in an accident. I’m afraid you’ve been paralyzed. Do you understand? Daphne? Daphne, do you understand?  Daphne, can you hear me? Are you listening?

Everyone must believe what they are doing is right, or else implode.

I'm a PC girl. Apple computers are too much like toys to me. I like to be able to hack my system. Apples shut you out and hold your hand for the most simple tasks.

Anyway, with that said, here's what this post is really about:

I've been scared that I'm sick. I'm scared that because I don't have money for my own personal doctor, I'm going to go undiagnosed, and I'm going to die younger than I want to. My life started with a death - my Gram's death - so this kind of "existential dread" is not outside the scope of my experience. It's not my imagination, playing tricks. Not everybody gets a happy ending.

And then, there's this:

"Remembering that I'll be dead soon is the most important tool I've ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything – all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure – these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart." - Steve Jobs 2005

One of the most exciting things in the world to me is resonance. I remember coming up with these ideas as a little girl - hell it still happens today - and then I find what I'm talking about in some book or movie or essay by somebody we hold up as genius, or important, or influential. Maybe I sound like an asshole when I say this - but if it's ever happened to you - then you understand - you're who I'm trying to reach out to.

I think this fear is what drove me to finally open this blog up to the world. It's been online for just two days now and already I've had almost 800 hits. As exciting as that is, it's darkened by the fact that only five readers have made comments - have reached back - and not necessarily by commenting on the blog itself.

Please, I don't care if you agree. I don't mind if you think I'm nuts. Please just tell me what you think. Maybe you don't believe what you think matters, but it matters to me. Not because I'm going to be sad if you don't like what I write - if you don't like me - but because I'm trying to figure out just what I'm dealing with. What world I'm living in.

Part of why I love writing so much can be summed up in this quote:

"It's no wonder that truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense." - Mark Twain

The world is scary to me. People are scary to me. Further, I think I'm scary to them. The only way I've been able to make sense of it is through the lessons that fiction has taught me. People have motivations, even if they're not very rational. Everyone must believe what they are doing is right, or else implode. Our language, gestures, casual choices often betray our real feelings. Things usually work out in the end, even if "working out" really means "not existing". It's important to be brave. It's important to care. It's important to choose not to be evil. 

I don't believe in religion. I don't believe in MTV. I don't totally believe in Politics, in private Health Care, in Authority. If you do, alright. We all need hope, love, meaning - no matter where we find it.

So, in the face of death - whether imagined or simply feared - I've offered this up. I'm brave. I care. I'm not evil. 

And if - and when - I die - at least I tried. 

At least I took the path less traveled.

I've lived by my personal mantra that expression is existence. 

I hope someday I can stand in front of a crowd and say, with all honesty: and that has made all the difference.  

As usual, it hit me in the shower.
Think of it this way: One voice may Lead, but many voices Change. 

Do you want to follow or do you want to participate? It's your choice. 

"Please tell me how you know tomorrow staring at your shoes"

I never remember the things I write. The things I do. I don't know why. I thought it had to do with PTSD. But how can that be if I forget the good things too?

This blog just went live this weekend. I've never shared all these things publicly before. Only my closest friends have ever even had access before.

So I've been re-reading through. Trying to find particularly interesting posts. But over and over and over, the same problems. The same self-defeat. Shouldn't I know these things by now? It's almost formulaic. It's pathetic. I get stressed out. I get sick. I get depressed. I get inspired. I write. I feel better. It starts over. How I can expect anyone to care if all I do is ride this stupid carousel?

Has anything really changed? Perhaps. I am proud of this blog. I have found a sense of self-esteem. For the first time in my life, I'm really proud of myself. But what use it that to anybody else?

YOU TELL ME.

“It is our choices, Harry, that show us what we truly are, far more than our abilities.”

I get that. I live by that. But what are my choices now? What paths haven't I ventured down yet?

I've been sick - and with my grades and therefore my scholarships and therefore my degree and therefore my life on the line - it's been freaking me out.  I can't shake the feeling like I've done it all somehow. Like I have no more life to live. A lifetime of bullshit has been compacted into 21 years - my body's already reacting like I'm a hundred years old. I say things that even stun myself - I wonder if any of this is real.

Where do I go from here? Does this mean I could live for the fun of it - from now until the end? Could I get discovered, published, and live out my life the way I always dreamed from here on in? Is that really a possible ending?

Most likely, no. I think a tragedy is much more plausible. It's all felt like a fairy tale so far, why should it stop now?

I need to back away from this. I need to find something else to do.

Maybe I'm cranky because it's 4:30am - scratch that - 6:37am now - ugh fuck me - 8:16 am - and I - still - can't sleep. Maybe I'm angry because I have things due and I just have no will, no inspiration, my head aches, I'm nauseous. The thoughts just keep coming. The guilt for working on this instead of the piles of homework I have to make up for class. I don't care about my grade, as long as I pass. As long as I keep my scholarships. I just don't want to let my Professors down - not after they've been so nice. I need to stop this. I need to stop acting like school is my family.

Maybe it's all just what xxx calls "existential dread".

xxx has been reading too. Their response, as it often is, was to send me a song. I think it sums up the situation well. Does anybody out there have an explanation? A solution? If you do, I'd love to know. Please tell me. I'm serious. As you can see, I haven't been able to figure it out.

Here's the song: Yo La Tengo: Tears Are In Your Eyes

Here are the lyrics:

You tell me summer's here
And the time is wrong
You tell me winter's here
And your days are getting long

Tears are in your eyes tonight

You tell me that you haven't
Slept in days
You tell me sleeping only makes you tired
Anyway

Tears are in your eyes tonight
Tears are in your eyes every night

Although you don't believe me, you are strong
Darkness always turns into the dawn
And you won't even remember this for long
When it ends all right

Please tell me how you know tomorrow
Staring at your shoes

Tears are in your eyes every night
Tears are in your eyes every night
Tears are in your eyes tonight

Season to Sleep - Story Excerpt

...

Pete is snoring so fucking loud I’m amazed I ever fell asleep. I tighten the moldy blanket around myself on the bare mattress. Water is leaking somewhere by the window, the blinds are bent and cocked. Outside the streetlamp’s orange light gives the room an eerie glow. I turn to the wall. I’d kill for just one of those pillows from the Macy’s. Ray, that colossal asshole, says if I want something I’ve got to earn it myself – including blankets and boots. It’s no use; can’t sleep. Standing up off the floor, blood rushes through my head and things go dark for a second. I stay very still and let it pass.

The linoleum is cold, and spikes like lightning up my legs. The kitchen is small; a bald bulb attracts a moth above the stove. At the round wooden table, my back against the cabinets, I watch soft, orange snow drift outside. Footsteps, and Angie materializes in the kitchen. Her ratty pink and green robe is open, revealing a black thong and tank top. She’s not wearing a bra. Mascara smudged and sparkling across her eyes, like some trailer park sorceress. She might transform into a fire-breathing bird and soar away at any moment.
            Hey Jules, she says. Joining the League of Insomniacs and Serial Killers tonight?
            Guess so.
            Right on. She pours some Cocoa Puffs and wipes off a spoon with her robe. No milk, fuck, she says.
            There’s some beer on the bottom shelf, I offer.
            She considers it, and lets out a laugh. Yeah, why not? You want one?
            Sure.
            Setting down the cans with a hollow tap, blue and brown curls drape over her freckled skin. God, she’s beautiful.
            When do you turn 21? she asks.
            I gulp the brown liquid, almost choking to hold in a cough. Tomorrow, I say.
            She laughs. It comes so easy to her. Liar, she says. You wouldn’t be here if that were true.
            You got me.
            So really, when?
            Four years. Another lie, though not by much. She doesn’t seem to notice.
Heat pours down my throat and sits comfortably in my bones. She is Pete’s older sister, but you’d never know it by looking at them. First off, Pete’s a massive jock with a ruddy face like an alcoholic, and a temper like one too. The only thing me and Pete ever agree on is how much we hate Ray and his fucking car, and his fucking mustache, and his fucking house with its cigar smell that clings to our hair and clothes. The state must be pretty desperate if they’ve got to approve sleezeballs like him.
Angie even crunches her food in a sexy way. Ringlets of color fall along her breasts. I reach out to touch, but my hand only makes it as far as the cereal bowl.
            What happened to your parents? she asks.
            I shrug. Why’s she bringing this up now?
            Come on, Jules, she whispers. Tell me. I want to know.
            I can never resist when she calls me that, and she’s well aware. I never knew my Dad, I say, taking another gulp of beer. I think he’s in Mexico or something.
            What about your Mom?
            I snap the tab off the beer can. I dream about her a lot. Well, not her, her funeral. I dream about her funeral, I say in a lower voice than I mean to.
            She passed?
            Yep, I reply. This isn’t so bad. I drink again.
It comes out of nowhere. A chill; my heart shuddering wildly in my chest. All the blood in my body is trying to get to different places at once. I see cold, blue hands and sightless eyes. A slack mouth with a rivulet of spit. It’s filling my brain. I hold my head, my gut clenching, trying to bury it. Angie is speaking, but I can’t hear her. All I hear is my pulse, pumping in my ears. She’s hugging me, rocking. No, stop. Stop. I don’t hug her back.

Angie waits until the tears dry on my face, and lets me go. Standing up, she bends down and presses her lips to my forehead. So gentle, I close my eyes and breathe in rum and strawberries, only a hint of smoke. Let me love you, Angie, I say. She laughs, but this time it stings. She takes the rest of my beer. I can hear the liquid fizz as it slips down the drain. Don’t grow up too fast, boy, she says. I keep my eyes shut, not wanting to watch as she disappears.

I don’t go back to bed. Shoving on Pete’s boots and coat, I walk out into the snow. Krumph, krumph. Krumph, krumph. Cold January air runs its fingers through my hair and around my neck. I pull out his cigarettes and light one, holding the flame from the wind. Breathe out and up at the sky. The stars look like bowling pins, aligned and teetering. I’ve never been bowling.

 I turn left down the street for no particular reason. Garbage spills out over the bins. Wrapping paper and broken ornaments blow and glisten. One house on the street’s already taken down their decorations, their home is all naked and exposed in the night lights. It’s better that way. They’ve got nothing to hide. This holiday garbage, it’s just a distraction. It isn’t real. I see the comfort in it though – the comfort in something warm and beautiful when the world is so cold and shitty.

I haven’t thought about Mom for a long time. I get those nightmares when I’m unconscious, but in the waking world, she never crosses my mind. Who has time to remember things that don’t even exist anymore? Who’s to say they ever did? Fuck, I haven’t thought about Gabe for a long time. It’s like remembering a movie you saw once, years ago. That’s not your life. Just a plot, rehearsed and rehearsed. Ask me if I have a brother, I could say no, and it wouldn’t feel like a lie. That’s terrible, isn’t it? I’m a terrible brother, a terrible son. He’s been searching –

You know what? No. Time to give up the fantasy. I don’t know where he went; just that he never came back. I wish he had gone to prison, at least then there would be a record of him. Grow up Julian. No one’s coming to the rescue.

All the way down to the filter, I flick the cigarette into the snow. Don’t be a victim. I turn the corner and familiar headlights make spots in my eyes. A billow of toxic smoke rolls out as he puts down his window. It’s Ray. Want a lift home? he says. I imagine his filthy mustache on Angie’s neck and I feel sick. Why doesn’t she move out on her own? She’s old enough. Ray blinks his eyes hard at me, impatiently. Normally I’d say no, but Pete’s coat isn’t as warm as it looks. Parking, he puts out his cigar but misses the ashtray. I leave him cursing at the quarter-size circle burned into his fake leather seats. Tonight wasn’t a total loss.
...

I'm Afraid of Americans (I'm Afraid of the World)

Unknown to me, and I believe most Americans, the month of May begins with the presence of Hate all throughout Europe. On May 1st, Neo-Nazis and other groups march through the streets of many major cities. This year was no different, with one exception - in Brno, it was the first time the citizens tried to stop it.

"Brno Blokuje!"

Maybe it's part of being an American post-the-60s-and-70s, but the Czech Republic esspecially has not been without its recent struggles and rebellions - which is why I was and remain not only suprised but disgusted by the reactions of my peers.

Five minutes after receiving a warning e-mail about the event, I posted an event on Facebook. My instinct was to protest - was to be a presence of good. Here's the e-mail:

"Dear students,

This is an important WARNING from the NEONAZI MARCH that those people decided to organise in Brno, on SUNDAY 1 MAY. Their official gathering is planned from 11 a. m. in the park behind the national theatre and the march is going to start at 3:30 p. m., along the STREETS: Koliště, Cejl, Merhautova and Milady Horákové, and back to Koliště.

Please rather DO NOT MOVE AROUND THE TOWN on that day, and if you need to go somewhere, be VERY CAREFUL.
The time AFTER the march is expected to be even more dangerous. It might not be safe in the city in the evening before (Saturday) and the morning after (Monday) as well.

Hopefully nothing happens, there will be many POLICEMEN everywhere, so I do not want to scary you, but it is better to be careful than to get in trouble. It is a DANGER, not an adventure!

If some of you still want to TAKE PART in the blocade, in that case, please be very careful and READ PROPERLY ALL the recommendations on this website: http://brnoblokuje.cz/?page_id=54

Please INFORM ANYONE who might not read this e-mail or anyone you know is going to be or travel in Brno on that day.

There are other things you can celebrate on that day, but safely at home (= in the halls of residence):

1st of May is the Labour Day, a world-wide celebration of work(ers) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Labour_Day
and it is also the day of the traditional Czech “Love Day” :) http://www.myczechrepublic.com/czech_culture/czech_holidays/may.html

Best wishes,
M

********************************
MD
Erasmus Incoming Students Coordinator


Office for International Studies , Masaryk University"


In a post-holocaust world, how is it possible that people could be so unafraid of their own potential for needless-mass-destruction? Nevertheless, the responses to my event were just totally unexpected - negative. One girl even asked me, "What do you expect to change?"

I went and it was not only safe, but one of the greatest experiences of my life. At least a thousand people showed up to stand against the neo-nazis. We cheered in Czech and listened to speakers - my friend translated for me. It was an excellent experience.

Something Vague

April 24, 2011
Written Assignment IV: Lessons from the Classroom
CELTA

This course has been a challenge for me, and therefore has also been an absolute pleasure. Throughout my academic career I have seldom felt challenged, though I always manage to obtain a high grade. I’ve become accustomed to skipping homework and generally procrastinating because my intellectual abilities have outweighed my behavior. I’ve sensed for a long time that I wasn’t really learning much in the classroom – that I was missing a deeper understanding – but for some reason whatever I did was declared good enough by my teachers and so I have carried on this way until now.

In this course, I couldn’t rely on my writing abilities. I couldn’t rely on my memory to sponge up the material and then wring it out during a final exam. I have my own theories about intelligence. One part of it is that everyone has their own sense of intelligence. There are no stupid people, only uneducated people. Further, those who excel in the classroom are able to learn in more various ways than the average person. They have visual, auditory, and tactile awareness of the material no matter how it’s presented. These learning styles do not necessarily translate into teaching styles, however. This course has taught me the difference between practice and theory.

My Own Teaching

For example, I have, unfortunately, failed two lessons. Before these two lessons, during my time with the upper-intermediate group in the first half of the semester, I was on my way to excelling in the course. So what happened? The second half of the course focused on deeper understanding, not mere classroom management and confidence. There is a point in cognitive development when our brains become aware of others. One could say that I had not reached that point intellectually. I’ve grown so accustomed to an atmosphere of input/output that when I asked “checking understanding” questions of my students, I was did so in a way that put them at the same disadvantage as I have found myself in today. A reminder to check for understanding has consistently appeared in all my feedbacks. I was only checking for nodding of heads, or for them to produce a phrase – not if they actually understood the meaning of what they were saying. Not to see if they could replicate it to communicate with their classmates. Not the “how” or “why” but only “if” things worked. I realize now that while systematic, asking a leading series of Yes or No questions about the material is the most effective way to know if the students really understand.

On a positive note, I feel I have a strong, natural manner with the students. This sentiment has been regularly expressed by my classmates and Professors in feedback. Nevertheless, I retain my position that this is teaching on the shallowest level. Then again, perhaps my real weakness is not primarily my comprehension, but more so my self-doubt. Knowing that – as I have for a long time – doesn’t change much on its own, but I am trying.

Observations

Nevertheless, through observing my Professors, the Brno ELC teachers, and my classmates, I have seen a wide range of people all pursuing the same goal successfully. I have learned from the Brno ELC teachers that the most effective teachers utilize technology and provide an experience rather than a lesson. While every portion of the lesson is planned, most of that planning is anticipatory and open to take different paths depending on the input of the students. The students don’t realize it, but they’re almost teaching themselves. In one class we watched in particular, every fifth word was immediately searched for on Google and authentic images helped fill the gap between question and explanation.

Future Plans

Looking to the future, I know I want to be a teacher. I want to be a writer too, but teaching is immediately rewarding and fulfilling in a different way. I feel comfortable in the classroom and from my feedback I understand that I have some natural abilities in that area, but before I can be an effective teacher there are still things I need to wrap my head around.
First, I must deal with changing my personal habits. I need to create lesson plans in advance so I can work with my advisor and learn what will work and what will not before the actual lesson. Within lesson design I need help distinguishing between what does and what does not “teach” a certain skill or language point. If this sounds too theoretical it is because that’s the way this issue presents itself in my mind, and why I’m insecure about it. Once I graduate from this course I will be on my own and hopefully by then I’ll be prepared and able to make effective lessons by myself.

Secondly, while I can cope with the idea that I must do a personal grammar lesson for myself before I can feel comfortable teaching any language point, I still need to work on my self-awareness when it comes to language. As articulate as I can be, I grew up in an environment of slang and poor grammar and I sense now how that can confuse me when teaching. It is a minor adjustment, but an important one.

Thirdly, I sincerely have to work on my confidence. I know this doesn’t have much to do with skills, language systems, or vocabulary but all that is more natural to me than believing in myself while in the midst of failure. In the future, things will go wrong, and I don’t want to lose a job or who-knows-what just because I couldn’t pull myself back up. I absolutely believe I have the aptitude, the potential, to be a really amazing teacher – I just need some patience, mostly with myself.

More than anything else, I sense that coming to Brno and attending this course has been a changing point in my life. I believe I will look back on my experience here and recognize the moment when I finally grew up. I realize this paper might be more for technical aspects of teaching, but I would be lying if I didn’t give time to these more abstract and personal matters – in my life, and in my teaching future, I feel they are the most important lessons I will have learned. That and thinking time – always give plenty of thinking time.

"We are adventuring, we are adventurers!"

PRAGUE

I left by train on April 1st to Prague, where I would meet up with my best friend from high school who was flying in from Turkey. Before I was to leave, however, several things were to happen. One, running to catch my bus, I would arrive just in time only to discover that they had sold my ticket for not being there 5 minutes earlier. So, with the image of my friend stranded in the Prague airport wondering where the hell I was screaming in my head, I burst into tears right then and there. It was important because it had been the first time I cried since my first day in Brno when I was, then just as I was now, boarding a bus. At any rate, I never want to ride the bus again, if I can help it.

The train was a thousand times better and only 100 crowns more. It was the first time I've left Brno since I got here in February, and I'm always amazed at how similar everything is. Everywhere, grass grows. Everywhere, people talk about nothing. Everywhere, there are comings and goings and shadows and sunsets. There are houses and stretches of land and houses again. This could be Pennsylvania. This world speeding outside my window isn't so unfamiliar. I wonder why I ever expected it to be...

Prague itself was lovely, but not quite as romantic as it might seem. I've never really been a city person though I do like Boston, Chicago, and San Francisco - Prague was nice but infested with the same old New York City commercialism among history - the same tugging along of full-wallets and screaming children. Billboards and shop windows. Art and junk all crushed together like the crowds stomping along the cobblestone streets in their inappropriate shoes. We too shopped. We ate. I's first request was for bacon - anything bacon. We slept in a hostel and we talked and we smoked. We visited the Museum of Communism and The Mucha Museum. It was a good time, a nice time. But when we got on that train back to Brno, that's when the fun really began.

I stayed the week and I brought her to most of my favorite places. The tea room. To my class. The Hobbit pub. The pub with the trains that chug around the bar and bring your drinks to your table. We smoked with Lord Firecrotch and played pub quiz and watched a Czech interpretation of a western. We talked about her Dad and her love interests and Turkey, Turkey, Turkey. She met my friends and drank the beer and the week was soon over and back again to Prague and she was gone. She's never gone though - there is a thread between our hearts that I think can never be broken. I know this now more than ever.

It was the longest time - the first time - we've hung out and not gotten into a fight. Maybe we're growing. Maybe B was right - travel does change you. It puts something new inside of you - a sort of rock or stone that keeps you in balance when life's little miseries would normally knock you sideways.

She's worrying me though - my I. I won't write much about it here because I'm learning the art of restraint. All I will say is that I really hope one day she will have the home she deserves.

Berlin?
First I was supposed to go to Olomouc this weekend. Then I was supposed to go to Vienna. Now, the goal is to rent a car and head to Berlin, meeting up with another good friend there. I love love love to drive and I've dreamed of driving on the Autobahnen since I realized what a gas pedal can do to your soul. I'm sure it will be a logistical nightmare to get sorted out but I've got to try...

Poezie
I'm also getting a tattoo. I've decided to get a replica of Mucha's Poetry from the Four Arts on my arm. It's everything I want my tattoo to be - something Czech to remember my time here. Something about writing, and something beautiful. I want to wear a little bit of my soul on the outside. It's very intricate, but surely it will be easy enough to trace for a tattoo - just have to find the right artist. I'm supposed to being having it done in Olomouc with M, but no word yet on if the artist she knows there will do it or not or the cost.

Life's Vices are Spices
I've been getting headaches, feeling dizzy, a little sick. The cigarettes might be taking their toll - or it's allergies from the changing weather - who knows. My laptop broke the week before I's visit and I have no idea what to do about it. I'd rather visit some city than pay to fix it - it's just an inconvenience. When the summer fully appears, I might be thinking differently about that though - depending on where I end up. Everything is just going so well - I can't help but wonder when my luck will run out...or else burst and spill over like a balloon filled with water, soaking me in miracles. I have to say love has been on my mind. I want to be in love - even if it's in love with my own work. I feel something brewing - a story, an event - something in the air, coming. Maybe I should just lay off the smokes for a little while...

Sleep All Summer [the sunlight burned my fear away]

Two paths (and surely more unseen) lay ahead of me now in terms of how I will spend the summer of 2011.

I'll have my CELTA by the end of May and so I thought I would stay abroad and find a job teaching. The world is not lacking in such positions, and they are particularly tantalizing. Often, the hosting company or school provides airfare, room & board, plus a salary and even a week of vacation. I'd love to go to India or someplace warm and exotic and teach English. The problem is, many of the job listings require at least a year of experience and even sometimes a Bachelor's degree, but the ones seeking fresh blood still exist. If I do this under the right circumstances, I'll have a CV before I even graduate college. The downside is that I'll surely move out of Brno and go somewhere else, and so I will have a very limited time to get used to another new place - but much like learning languages - I think it gets easier the more you already know.

My second option is to go back to the US, spend a few days with a good friend in Chicago, and then return to Ithaca, NY where I could be a full time writer and editor for a magazine called Fuze. I've only just been contacted about this job, but it does seem much more like a job than an internship so I believe I will be paid. As far as housing is concerned, however, doubtless I will have to take care of all of that myself and I really don't think I can afford it.

The reason this post is worthy of being a post at all isn't because I want to brag about my options or worry publicly about which of two spectacular things I should choose - but because I feel like the choice I make is indicative of what I really want to do in life. Do I want to be a writer, or a teacher? Which am I more passionate about? Which pulls on my heart so strongly that I go blind toward issues of money or comfort? Moreover, is it possible to do both?

Why wouldn't it be possible to teach abroad while writing and editing from my laptop - very much like I'm doing now? Maybe not for Fuze, but for somewhere. People say you can't have it all - but why not - why the hell not?

When the Curious Girl Realizes She is Under Glass

I saw him out of the corner of my eye.

Walking passed the window where I sat, he suddenly stopped. Stopped in the way you do when there's a sale, or a shocking ad. Stopped in the way that you do when your favorite childhood something-or-other is propped up amongst an assortment of lost and unwanted things, but to you it's like seeing an old friend again. Only the shop is closed, so you shake the childish nostalgia from your head and remembering you have somewhere important to be, you walk on. Which is exactly what he did. He walked away. I continued to sit in the window of the restaurant, waiting for a friend to arrive, but I had most definitely noticed the young man who'd stopped and stared.

I'd been to the opera that evening and hadn't understood much. I wore my fatigue like something lovely come undone. Odd threads were pulled loose on my stockings and my mascara was flaking. I wore a purple beret only because my hair had lost its early morning bounce. Watching the people pass through the night, I knew how much more easily they could watch me in the brightly lit window. I was a display, a mannequin, selling the exhaustion of an American abroad. The wonder of such an exhaustion. I began to idle on my old women's studies courses, particularly the concept of “the male gaze”, and whether feminism will ever make amends with theory and practice when as suddenly as he had gone, he came back.

He stood right in front of my window, putting his palm on the glass. I returned his palm with mine, wiggling fingers in hello. He smiled, and walked away. He wore yellow or orange glasses with a similar frame as my violet ones. He was tall, brown hair and eyes. A little scruff. A book bag. Probably a college student, but he still might not even speak English. In ten seconds time, he stole my heart and turning back just once, we smiled at each other, and he disappeared into the crowd.

I am not used to romance in my life beyond my music and my books, in my dreams and in my writing. I have been told – often – that my expectations are just too great. I want too much from people. I'm better off with friends. Friends can be somewhat terrible people. Friends are allowed to be so individually flawed. Not that lovers can't be flawed - it's just more about that undefinable connection. I look at people as whole characters, and I appreciate their strengths equal with their weaknesses - I want to know their story, nothing more or less. However, the levels of friendship make it possible for the worse characters to be kept on the outside of the circle, but still within the story of your life. The nature of romance can't allow for that – they have only the inner most circle. This is too dangerous for a girl who can fall in love in ten seconds – if only they can properly get her attention. If the story will sound interesting enough...

Am I actually in love with this young man? No, of course not. But I am certainly and eternally in love with his boldness and connectivity – something I have never found much of in man or woman – friend or lover. Maybe it's a sign of an embarrassingly huge ego or selfishness, but I have trouble finding people like me. Even among my friends, who have always been my true family in life, I am often not on the same wavelength as them. Don't misunderstand me. I'm not assigning values of good or bad, better or worse, I'm talking about something so much more encompassing than that. Anyway, this doesn't really bother me because I seek out variety in my friendships. Yet, whenever we do actually connect it seems so bittersweet and extraordinarily fleeting. This is probably just the way it is and will always be – a fact of life – but if I exist just as I am, I have to believe in the mathematical certainty that there's someone else out there who thinks like me more than 1/3rd of the time. If I am ever meant to choose a single person to be my center circle - they're going to have to be a supernova. They're going to have to really be able to change my world...

Someone bold and passionate and ambitious – maybe too much so. Someone who can be silly and playful at times without a single regret. A sense of perseverance and a desire to do good. Who knows when it's time to be responsible, and when it's time to say “fuck it, life is short, let's just be happy”. A free spirit. A big heart. A thinker. Someone who can make you feel like a better person – and who lets you love them.

If you know this person, or a brown-eyed man living in Brno with yellow framed glasses and a thing for windows, feel free to let me know. Or maybe it's for the best if I never see him again...supernovas can be pretty explosive, you know.

"But for now we are young, so let's lay in the sun, and count every beautiful thing we can see"

And once again the weekend is over.

I had a wonderful time. The first Feast Friday went over very well. Ten of us met in the dorm lobby and departed to a restaurant called Divadelní sklep Nekonečno (Cellar Theater Infinity). Luckily two of the ten knew enough Czech to help the rest of us order dinner. The restaurant itself was beautiful - all dark blue with back-lighted pictures from various plays and theater productions. The ceiling was a blanket of little lights like stars. I'm a sucker for little lights.

After dinner, which seemed to last for hours, we moved on to a little "pub" called The Hobit. It's a smoker's den of sorts with a Lord of the Rings theme. Coming down a curved staircase into foggy rooms filled with young people, Foosball tables, and 90s music, our hopes were high. Maybe too high, however, because the owner came to take our order and was unbelievably wasted - and possibly disliked foreigners. It quickly became one of those experiences that is funny in retrospect, but you wouldn't be too eager to repeat. I decided it was just the place to try Absinthe for the first time though, and that turned out to be a good choice.

The thing about Absinthe is that there's this big mythology about it - but it's all pretty much bullshit. While it's not going to get you high, it does taste delicious. It's anise flavored - so it tastes a lot like candy or something. Some of the girls ordered "punch" which looked like regular iced tea but was warm with fruit in it, served in a big pitcher. After The Hobit the group split and so we headed to another bar down the road. It was just a regular Starobrno place, common around the city, but my friend asked if I wanted to do shots of Becherovka with him - a very tasty Czech liquor that's like pumpkin pie. I'm still developing my Euro Alcohol Tolerance however, and after the shots I couldn't even finish my beer. The night came to a close and we walked back to Vinarska a fairly happy, albeit sleepy, bunch.

On Saturday E - a girl from Germany who I met the night before at dinner - suggested we go to the Cinema Mundi festival. It's a cinema festival that's been going on for a couple weeks. We decided to see When We Leave, a movie about Turks in Germany (Germany's largest minority) and the struggle of a Turkish woman who loves her family as much as she fears them. Despite being promised English subtitles, there weren't any, but luckily (for me, and maybe only me!) Ellen was able to translate in whispers as the film progressed. A quarter way through, the film simply cut out, but was restored in due time. I couldn't help but think what a disaster this would have been in the US. At least one person would have shouted an obscenity, and who knows how many would have marched out asking for their money back. But everyone sat very quietly, in the dark, and just waited. It was kind of nice, like they knew it was going to be okay.

Two people I met this weekend, E and M, really fascinated me. E is studying Central European language and culture and M is doing a lot of fancy engineering things I don't really understand, but sound amazing. E and I talked about the natural transformation of culture and language; how these are not and have never been static entities and holding on so desperately to "the way things were" is futile because everything is influenced by something else. There is no such thing as purity when it comes to our identities. M talked about losing his grandmother just two weeks ago, and how he was unable to see her for the past 8 years because of the conflict in Gaza. We talked about health care and college and measurements of intelligence - it was refreshing. I mean, I love escapism as much as the next person and a good smoke never hurt anybody, but combine intellectuals with substances and it's beyond powerful...I'm still looking forward to a game of Drunken Chess...

Friday I'm in Love

It's a beautiful day in Brno!

The sun is shining and it's going to be 42 degrees today. The weather here is pretty much the same as at home in Hershey, PA.

Tonight is the first official "Feast Fridays" - something a friend and I started in order to keep our palates interesting. On Fridays we go out into the town and try a new restaurant. So far about 12 people have said they'll come. With a crowd like that, who knows where we might end up.

God of Wine
Wine tasting at the Vinna Galerie on Tuesday was probably the highlight of my week. My friend R from Memphis and I joined a group of friends from France - S, Y, and M. Here's our wine list - along with my personal opinions of each (sorry to my Czech friends for the lack of accents on the letters):

1)Ryzlink Vlassky: A white wine that didn't seem to have much flavor to me, but they said it had green apples or something in it.
2)Muskat Moravsky: Another white wine, this time better. S smelled fromage when she first gave it a sniff. :)
3)Palava: The best of the white wines. Had honey in it I think.
4)Frankovka Cuvee: A rose wine. M swore it was more like water than wine.
5)Svatovavrinecke: The first red wine. Let's just say I don't think I like red wine.
6)Cabernet Moravia: Another red. Had a cherry base I think.
7)Zweigeltrebe: The last red - I actually gave the rest of it to M.
*8)Bobulky: Okay - this is the greatest wine I've ever had and I will definitely bring a bottle back to the US. For the Czechs, this is a very special and expensive dessert wine. A bottle is about 300kc or $25. It's a straw wine, meaning they lay the grapes out for a while and so there's a very small production yield. Of all the wines we tried, I recommend this.

All throughout the tasting there was cheese, bread, and an assortment of gray and odd pink meats that I don't think I would have touched even if I was a meat-eater. Also grapes, red peppers, and olives. It was a pretty lovely evening and the Vinna Galerie was cool because it had been in a movie, so they had pictures from the film all around. There was also a live (and lively!) band of men who played some upbeat music like Hava Nagila.

Quelqu'un m'a dit
Meanwhile, our new French friends taught us some phrases (You are my sunshine/Tu es mon rayon soleil) and apparently "beet" (the purplish vegetable) sounds like the French word for "dick", while "chat" (cat) is actually pussy...so basically we've been unwittingly saying dirty things all through high school...how secretly amused must Madame S have been?!

They taught us about the different French regions and why some French know German (but are not German!). There's a wine festival along the beach in France sometime in the spring that I'd really love to go to while I'm in Europe...along with Queen's Day in the Netherlands that is.

Modern Love
Otherwise I'm looking forward to tea and possibly staying over at my Czech friend M's house when she's finished with her English language exams. She lives in Olomouc which is about 2 hours away. She's also teaching English with us - she's a very bright and intelligent young woman who loves traveling. Her story is actually as international as it is sweet - she met her boyfriend, an Englishman, while doing research in Honduras and found she couldn't be without him. At one point, she traveled for 40 hours just to be with him before he left for another destination. She says, "We have the same soul. We want to spend our life traveling." For anyone (like my sister) who imagines the Czech people as an old, crinkled woman with a scarf on her head, I think M is a good representation of the very much connected youth of Central Europe.

Last Chance to Lose Your Keys
During our lunch break on Wednesday, M wanted to take a picture of the "Revoluce" (Revolution) art sculpture in a nearby park. It's about 20 feet high and spells "Revoluce" vertically in a shining arrangement of keys - house keys, brass keys, colored keys. It is in remembrance of the Velvet Revolution, when the Czech people stood up against the regime and shook their keys in the streets. Michelle proudly tells me that of all the countries under the regime, the Czechs were the only ones brave enough to stand up and speak out. It's called the Velvet Revolution because the transition was smooth like velvet, and there was minimal violence. All the keys in the sculpture were donated by the Czech people - making it more than art, but also a piece of history.

Coin Laundry
I went to Clubwash yesterday to do my laundry. Almost got lost, and had that terrible feeling like I was in a bad part of town. Saw some people dressed as spacemen and a white Christmas tree and that gave me some comfort. It took a long time - left at 6 and got back around 10:30 - but I'd do it again with some friends. It's nice because you can just drop off your clothes and they do everything for you. I had some Svijany beer there and it was good. Read a bit more of "Great Expectations" while people came and went. There seemed to be a pub-crawl-contest going on so these groups would come in and get a beer, take pictures, and move on to the next pub. Clubwash is nice because you hear a mix of languages and accents. Two loads of laundry, two beers, and a bag of chips cost me $20 though - which sucks terribly - but at least I have clean clothes again.

Choose Life
So my plans for the upcoming week include an Opera on the 10th and my first "real" lesson on Monday - teaching them about present perfect simple and continuous tense (wish me luck!). Then tea with Michelle on the 12th and possibly seeing Black Swan with Czech subtitles with R. B wants to teach me how to wash my clothes by hand - don't know how I feel about that - could just be the spoiled American in me.

They Remind Me Too Much of You
Today is the 12th year anniversary of my grandmother's death. It was a turning point in my life, much in the same way I think coming to Brno is going to be. A new chapter starts here. The world feels upside down. Things don't always make sense anymore, like the logical order of things has been shuffled and scattered like Scrabble tiles. Then, slowly, the pieces rearrange and something new breathes into life.