Early in the morning of the 6 of November, a 20 something American living in France awoke to a strange mechanical clicking noise. His eyes opened slowly and noticed that his body was casting a large shadow on the wall. He rolled over the identify what was causing the shadow and much to his horror he saw the orange and blue blinking lights of a killer robot sent to destroy him. Paralyzed by fear he held his breath and prepared himself for his final moments.
Nothing happened.
He then realized it was his computer on the table next to his bed. He then laughed out loud.
Anyway. I have been "planning" for lessons all day today and have been far from productive. I just simple don't know what to plan. I have several ice-breakers that I could use, but that would not keep an entire class occupied for an hour. The problem I am encountering is that I have so many different classes and age groups with so many different teachers that want so much from me I just don't know what to do. I've thus far just been doing stand up comedy without the comedy. I am apparently very good with improv, good enough my students can't really tell, but the teachers surely can tell. GAH!
Spent the All-Saints day vacation in the South of France. One of the other assistants from Le Havre, Kristen from California, came along and we met up with Jenifer. It was so nice to see Jenifer. I didn't realize how much I missed her until I was with her again. I miss her less now than I did when I saw her for the first time in France. So weird.
We spent the majority of the week wet wet wet. Kristen and I must have dragged most of the clouds from Le Havre. Cities visited were Nice, Cannes, Marseilles, and Toulouse. We ate like royalty (which is very different from what Jen and I did last time we were in Europe) and had a chance to try so many local specialties. In Marseilles there was Bouillabaisse, and Socca in Nice. In Toulouse we stayed with a friends family and were spoiled rotten. Being in a family again was such a nice break. Cassoulet is my new favorite food!!
In Marseille we took a boat tour around Chateau d'If, where Edmon Dantes in Alxandre Dumas' book The Count of Monte Cristo was imprisoned. Much to my chagrin ( I nearly cried) we were not able to get on the island because of rough seas. I guess I'll have to return.
The most important outcome of this trip to the south was Jenifer and I's decision to run in the Paris half marathon! 18 months to prepare should be enough right?
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Public Transit
I don't remember when this happened, but it's a true story.
I climbed the steps of the bus, performed the necessary rituals to gain access and walked back past the divide in the double wagon bus. I turned right and sat down, facing the rear of the bus and slid to the window. I was comfortable and aware of a feeling of security and ease. The bus stopped every so often to allow others on or let others off, as buses do. I enjoyed watching people interact and live their lives so close to my own life, but not the same. This happened years ago and every thing had been going smoothly until recently.
The bus pulled to a stop along the road, I think it was the stop called "Rond Point" just before the tunnels take you down from the "North City" into the downtown. I thought very little of what was happening because it happened all the time, and that wasn't my stop; I thought my stop was a long way off. All of a sudden, a french man wearing a beret and a blue and white striped shirt with a thin black mustache carrying a baguette, a bottle of wine and some cheese sat down next to me, leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Descendez-vous!" Without understand or hesitating I stood up and relinquished my seat. I stepped down off the bus and turned and saw him sliding over against the window, pulling off the end of the baguette and looking down his nose at anyone who looked at him.
It happened so quickly I couldn't react. I stood dumbfounded as the bus pulled away, leaving me alone watching the french man sneer at me as I disappeared from view.
A french man, his name is Jean, has stepped into my brain and taken my own seat.
Je ne sais plus qui je suis.
I climbed the steps of the bus, performed the necessary rituals to gain access and walked back past the divide in the double wagon bus. I turned right and sat down, facing the rear of the bus and slid to the window. I was comfortable and aware of a feeling of security and ease. The bus stopped every so often to allow others on or let others off, as buses do. I enjoyed watching people interact and live their lives so close to my own life, but not the same. This happened years ago and every thing had been going smoothly until recently.
The bus pulled to a stop along the road, I think it was the stop called "Rond Point" just before the tunnels take you down from the "North City" into the downtown. I thought very little of what was happening because it happened all the time, and that wasn't my stop; I thought my stop was a long way off. All of a sudden, a french man wearing a beret and a blue and white striped shirt with a thin black mustache carrying a baguette, a bottle of wine and some cheese sat down next to me, leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Descendez-vous!" Without understand or hesitating I stood up and relinquished my seat. I stepped down off the bus and turned and saw him sliding over against the window, pulling off the end of the baguette and looking down his nose at anyone who looked at him.
It happened so quickly I couldn't react. I stood dumbfounded as the bus pulled away, leaving me alone watching the french man sneer at me as I disappeared from view.
A french man, his name is Jean, has stepped into my brain and taken my own seat.
Je ne sais plus qui je suis.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Page-Turner
I am an avid journaler.
To those of you who have never kept a journal, this may seem strange to you. There are two great moments that every journaler eagerly awaits; the starting and ending of a journal. Finding yourself within the last couple pages you write more feverishly, you try to fill in the last 5 pages so you don't have to bleed into the new one. But most importantly you reflect on the past 7 months, or however long it took you to finish it and you look forward to what the future has to offer. These momentous occasions take you out of the normal lapse of time and put you in so many places at once.
The completion and start of a journal don't always illustrate such a transition in real life. Often, it's simply the way the pages fall; mid February when nothing is changing in your life or ironically shortly after a big change. There is not always a correlation. However, today I finished a journal on the verge of a very significant shift. The closing of this chapter of my life, whatever it has been, ushers in the next chapter, whatever that will be.
I find msyelf standing on the edge of a chasm of time and of space. Crossing over the Atlantic from America to France, from student to professional life; from here to there. I stand and gaze over the abyss to what will be and back over my failures and successes, hoping, that the momentum will be enough to make the leap. I hope, because that's really all anyone can do.
I remind myself though, that to jump well, a secure footing is key. Often my mind is anywhere but the moment; looking ahead or remembering, ignoring what is important right now. To make this next leap, I need to have a solid connection to the present.
So here's to being in Terre Haute till I leave and staying up past my bedtime to read this story, my life, because I am enthralled with what is happening now and can't wait to see what the next chapter holds.
Because my life is a page-turner.
To those of you who have never kept a journal, this may seem strange to you. There are two great moments that every journaler eagerly awaits; the starting and ending of a journal. Finding yourself within the last couple pages you write more feverishly, you try to fill in the last 5 pages so you don't have to bleed into the new one. But most importantly you reflect on the past 7 months, or however long it took you to finish it and you look forward to what the future has to offer. These momentous occasions take you out of the normal lapse of time and put you in so many places at once.
The completion and start of a journal don't always illustrate such a transition in real life. Often, it's simply the way the pages fall; mid February when nothing is changing in your life or ironically shortly after a big change. There is not always a correlation. However, today I finished a journal on the verge of a very significant shift. The closing of this chapter of my life, whatever it has been, ushers in the next chapter, whatever that will be.
I find msyelf standing on the edge of a chasm of time and of space. Crossing over the Atlantic from America to France, from student to professional life; from here to there. I stand and gaze over the abyss to what will be and back over my failures and successes, hoping, that the momentum will be enough to make the leap. I hope, because that's really all anyone can do.
I remind myself though, that to jump well, a secure footing is key. Often my mind is anywhere but the moment; looking ahead or remembering, ignoring what is important right now. To make this next leap, I need to have a solid connection to the present.
So here's to being in Terre Haute till I leave and staying up past my bedtime to read this story, my life, because I am enthralled with what is happening now and can't wait to see what the next chapter holds.
Because my life is a page-turner.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Moment Eternal
The setting orange sun hung majestically above the horizon creating an interplay of light and shadow with the late September corn standing tall in fields along highway 63. Intermittent brightness and shade played off the impatient cars as they hurried south to make it home before nightfall. Trees to the east side of the road blushed in the falling light, dancing in an invisible breeze. There was no cloud to be seen. A red four door car went on unaware of the beauty surrounding it, intent only on arriving safely at it's destination.
The last reaching fingers of light caught the tuning pegs of an acoustic guitar in the back seat of the red car, stealing the attention of the driver causing him to shift his gaze momentarily from the ribbon of highway in front of him. As he turned to look he crashed and died a terrible painful death!
Just kidding! He looked and saw the regal sun falling and was touched by the moment eternal. Tears formed as all the occasions of fall life unfurled in his mind. He thought of hay rides and wiener roasts, of corn mazes and leaves turning. He thought of warm clothes, jackets and flannel and jeans. And he mourned. He traveled over the land from whence he had come, and mourned it as if it were no longer there. The expansive corn fields he bemoaned to those not native to the area all of a sudden became cherished and worthy of a second thought and even a tear. He slowed his car, knowing his destination would be there when he got there, and watched the failing sun beams blaze through the tall corn and watched the dancing radiant trees. And he cried. "Why", he asked himself, "Do I leave what I love?"
I ask myself that question as I count down the days to doing just that. I will be leaving this country very shortly for France where I will be teaching English. I have been to France twice previously, but this feels more final. I don't know exactly why that is. I am not going with a group, I don't have a round trip ticket and I have a job in another country. I ask myself why I am leaving what I love, because I dearly love this place and the people who also call this country home and I know the answer. Because I want to.
I am living my dream; to travel and to do and to see. To be a global person. I am striking out and moving forward, uncertain and scared but also emboldened and giddy with anticipation. I am doing what everyone has ever told me to do who finds out about my plans; do it! Do it while you can, it's the experience of a life time! Go!
I am going and I want you to share in this experience with me. I waffled for a while about making a new blog to do this with, but I don't wish to divide my life between who I am and what I want to write about and what I think others will be comfortable with. Some of the stories I have written here will make some of my family and friends uncomfortable, but I feel this is more honest. To those whom might be offended I do not apologize.
As an addendum I would like to add that not all of these stories are 100% factual. Few of them are, so please, take what you may read in the past posts with a grain of salt.
I can promise nothing in terms of frequency or content for I know not what the 'morrow may bring, but please check in every so often if you wish.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
The Spirit of Fiesta
Pamploneses, Pamploneses. Vive San Fermin. Gora San Fermin.
The first fire cracker whistled threw the air, ending in a quick short pop. Five more minutes. The policias flushed out all unprepared peoples; those in sandals, drunk, pregnant. Ironic concern for the visitors of their town propelled their actions. Concern for their own bodies and souls moved them rapidly behind the sturdy wooden partitions. Spaniards, Aussies, Americans shuffled uncomfortably. New comers asked questions of seasoned veterans; where to run, how to run, what to do if you get in trouble. Nervous energy spreads like yeast through the hundreds of soon to be world class sprinters. Stretch. Tighten shoe strings. Pray.
The second fire cracker rent the tension. The first of the 8 motivators had cleared the gate. An audible release of the tension crackled from the first runners to meet it to the end of the track, through the bystanders, into the arena. Loosening muscles new worlders and old worlders alike pogoed on their own feet. Preparing for the first sound of the bells, hooves, and snorting. A nervous American startles like a horse and runs a few feet and stops. Some began walking casually, attempting to hide their fear.
The third fuego artificial; all creatures had left their holding pin. Past the two 90 degree turns known as dead man’s corner for the tendency of bottle necks, the first intimations of cow bell and stampede are heard. Joggers gather speed. Sprinters accelerate. Pulses race. The first bull is seen by witnesses in balconies overlooking the corridor and they alert all to its presence. Toro, toro! Hay toros!
The worst thing possible that could happen during the encierro, they had said, was for one of the bulls to turn around. A nearly 2000 pound, scared animal turning upon the crush of several hundred runners which had already been outstripped by the bull. Any number of things could cause the bull to turn, anything could frighten it. That morning the worst happened. All other bulls and steers had made it through the gate into the arena and to safety. Spooked, he turned and ran directly for the oncoming crash of humanity. Fear screams through the runners as they turn to run away and find themselves between a raging bull and near riot conditions. Some stumble and fall, roll out from under the partitions. A man is gored. Another man feels lucky it was not him. As soon as the rogue is past many sprint the next 30 or 40 feet into the arena and into a frying pan. For, after the bulls to be fought later in the evening are safely in their holding pins in the arena, released into the crowd are 4 relatively harmless young bulls with padded horns. They only weigh 1000 pounds.
Thus begins the final day of La Fiesta de San Fermin, in Pamplona Spain. Thousands of old worlders and new worlders have been partying for 7 days. The party goers will be bidding farewell to the giants; 30 feet tall images of royalty from Asia, Europe, Africa and the Americas, hundreds of years old that spun and danced to raucous music in the streets. Also the Kilikis and Zaldikos, men and women dressed as fat heads, or horses who run around and hit children and adults alike with foam maces, would be hanging up the costumes for another year. The Penas, or drinking clubs made their last parade through the city with banners held high and flapping in the wind. The folk dances, however, gorgeous folk dances, would continue, they worked themselves deep in the culture of the Basque region. Those would be there the next day.
Noon came about, providing the first food to sop up the already prodigious amounts of Sangria consumed by the locals. The sun was high and hot. The fiestas counterpart and necessary nemesis siesta was in full lull until 3 o’clock. Pamplona’s every green space, every inch of shade, filled with exhausted party goers, sleeping the heat and drink off. The spirit slept. But only for an afternoon.
“It’s in the spirit of fiesta.” The New Yorkers said, “Take ‘em. There yours for free as long as you promise to use ‘em.”
“Are you sure? We can pay you for them. How much?’ asked the American college students, traipsing through the ancestral lands for the summer.
“Nothin’. The Spriti of Fiesta has been good to us, too good, and we want to spread the good. So please, take these bull fight tickets. There in the upper heavens, with the Penas, you will get messy. But they’s good people up there. Just love people and you’ll be fine. They’ll feed you. That is where the spirit of fiesta is the strongest.”
The four exchanged the tickets with assurances to use them and much thanks. The final night of bull fights, reserved for the best of the best. World class bull fighters. World class bulls.
The arena, sand filled bottom, two large red circles, one inside the other marks the demarcate the progression of the bull fight. To finish the bull in the center of the rings was desired. Red and white, and red and white, and red and white through-out the entire arena, all were in their festival clothing. The introduction of the matadors and toreadors, the celebrities of Spain, set the mood. The Penas, in the nose bleed section sat reverently for the first bull fight. A calm before the storm.
The air was sucked out of the arena by the collective gasps as a bull charges the toreador on horse-back. He skillfully moves the horse, which is well padded and sturdy to receive the brunt of the charge. His long spear punctures the side of the bull. The slaughter has begun. The bulls chargers again, a fudged spearing sends the horse to its side. Well trained, both man and horse remain absolutely still. The bull distracted by a cape ignores the fallen horse. Man and horse rise unharmed. The four horse-men leave the arena while the matador wets the end of his cape to make it heavy in the wind prepares to finish the bull.
The crowd cries “Olay” in unison with every pass of the bull. The matador is tiring the bull. The Bull tires his challenger. The matador remains as tall and straight as he can, inviting the horns of the bull to pass within inches of his torso. The bulls tongue lulls out from exhaustion. The matador looks un-phased by this fight. Surely this is not a fair fight, but that is part of the show, the matador doesn’t let on that he is terrified. The time has come.
On the next path, the matador plunges a colorful, frilly spear of two feet long into the back of the bull as it passes. He has four to do this with. The second glances of the bull, the crowd boos. He finishes quickly after this. The final charge is dramatically staged, smack center of the arena. In the bulls eye. The Matador points his rapier at the bull. Yells at the bull. The bull stamps, and snorts. Blood drips from his mouth. The matador has abandoned his cape, he is the only target now. Bull, man and steel. The bull charges, the matador drives his sword deep into the heart of the beast and moves aside as the bull falls dead behind him. The crowds cheer, the toreadors on horse drag the defeated bull around the arena; blood trails it.
The penas true vocation takes over. Vats of home-made Sangria are dipped into. Celebration of a valiant fight by both man and beast is started. The matador did well. Sangria is splashed, and thrown and spit over everyone. Pure white clothing stained red by the spirit of fiesta. The remaining three fights are all but ignored by the penas who are drunk on Sangria and blood.
The arena empties quickly after the last bull is drug out. The arena expels its occupants into the night streets of Pamplona. Dinner is eaten. Stories of the fight are talked about and talked about. The best fights of the festival.
The final display of fireworks of seven, each one hailing from a different Spanish city paints the sky brilliant colors over the foundation of the old castle. The closing ceremony starts at midnight.
Hundreds press into a square at midnight where the mayor presides. Candles held in mourners hands light the cramped square. The closing dirge is sung.
“Pobre de mi, Pobre de mi. Que se han acabado las Fiestas de San Fermin.”
Poor me, poor me. That finished is the festival of San Fermin.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Look on me and Answer
How long, O Lord? Will you
Forget me forever?
How long will you hide your
Face from me?
How long must I wrestle with my
Thoughts
And every day have sorrow in my
Heart?
How long will my enemy
Triumph over me?
Look on me and answer,
O Lord my God.
Give light to my eyes, or I will
Sleep in death;
My enemy will say "I have
Over come him,"
And my foes will rejoice when
I fall.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
The Big O Saloon
The attentions of all in the smoke filled bar room were directed towards the women dancing in the center of the bar, men and women both throwing coins in their direction. Pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters and dollar coins, 5 dollar coins, and ever some 10 dollar coins. Many of these had been subdivided to create smaller bits, or 1/5 of a 5 dollar coin, or 2/10 of a ten dollar coin. An unspoken contest had broken out between the two dancers. Dancing harder, faster, more sensually in an attempt to win the attention of the lustful drunk men surrounding them, not because they wanted these men's attention, but their money. One woman was clearly in the lead and continued to skillfully shuffle her feet to collect the money she was getting and maybe even a little of the other womans into her pile away from the prying hands of others and continue to please. Coins clanged across the floor, the music throbbed and the women sweat.
A man, hardly ambulatory, black bearded, beer bellied stumbled out the back door. Wobbling toward the forest line behind the underground bar tucked way back in the country he began undoing his pants. As the excess liquid flowed, he noticed a glint of moonlight reflecting off of something metallic several yards into the woods. Grunting he finished up and elevated his zipper. He started off into the woods, tripping over thick vines, gingerly removing thorns from his flannel shirt and blue jeans. A car rested silently in a small glade. A large tree was down right in the man's path which he knew would have been nearly unsurmountable in a sober state. He looked to the left and right and saw to his distaste that the tree had been down long enough to foster a grove of thorny vines on either side. He leaned his barrel chest against the trunk of the large downed oak. Clumsily he lifted his right leg up and on top of the oak and pulled. He found himself then on top of the tree, straddling it like a bull and he felt the world spin much as if he had just mounted a bucking bull. Placing his two hands in front of him for balance he belched and looked around assured of his grasp; he was alone in the woods. He started the laborious and somewhat comical effort to relinquish control of this great oak. He started by placing his head close to the trunk of the tree and laying flat along the trunk; it smelled of rotting wood. He had imagined himself swinging his feet around and then slowly slipping off to a gentle landing on his feet. Gravity and drink had a different idea though. He slid bodily off the log, crashing through thorny vines to rough and bloody landing. He lay and groaned. He set his jaws against the task and pulled himself up and walked towards the car.
He walked around the car surveying the area. Satisfied he leaned his back against the car's trunk, and lit a cigarette. After two or three long drags he turned slowly and placed his elbows against the red trunk of the Cadillac. The faint red light of his cigarette illuminated a ghastly image in the back seat of the car. A severed head with lips twisted in pain stared back into the mans eyes. Screaming a loud he backed quickly from the car tripping over a root and crashed to the ground. He stood, suddenly sobered and turned towards the bar. He ran and deftly cleared the tree which had been such a difficult task before hand. Ran headlong through thorns but steeled by fear and adrenaline he ignored the painful digging sensations as they ripped through his skin.
He burst into the back room of the bar and screamed. Out of breath, sweating, and bloody he created a ghastly image of his own. Between sucking breaths he yelled into the bar that there was a dead body in the woods. The music stopped, a few men went out to look and others continued drinking; business as usual. The more successful woman was clearly agitated and began to quickly gather the coins she had amassed, stuffing them into her purse and watching the looks of the men around. The other woman took note which encouraged her to dance more to try and gather the men's attention; the music had started by then. Several men booed the woman who had stooped to collect her things. This caught the attention of one of the men.
As she walked away from the bar in a quick trot, he reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her closely to him. She punched him quickly in the jaw and continued her exodus. He grabbed her again, this time making sure to gain control of both arms.
"You have a car out there with a severed head in it, miss?" He asked with faux politeness. She continued to struggle and kneed him in the crotch and left him groaning on the floor. She made it out the door and heard the sirens. Though this was a an underground bar there was certain level of understanding between the local cops and the proprietor. The cops turned a blind eye to certain illegal activities of the bar in exchange for information just like this. It made for some angry patrons at times when their problems were aired out to the cops, but the bar could afford to do that; it was the only thing of its kind in the surrounding 5 counties; new patrons always came.
The recently kneed man got out the door in time to see her in a dead run towards the woods opposite the car. He chased after and cut her down with a tackle.
"Shut up and listen, I ain't exactly in good with the pigs either," he reached into his pocket and pulled out a large handful of coins, "there's more where this come from and it's here. You wait just a while and i'll grab it and we can be on our way."
"Why should I trust you? Get the fuck off!" She scratched and fought, a cornered animal is a dangerous one.
"Laura, the dead man in your car, I was after him too. I've been following you since Port James. I was contracted to kill Frank. You throw in with me and we might have a chance to make some money."
At the mention of all this she stopped struggling. She turned her head towards to low rise of hill in front of the bar and saw the first hints of lights coming over it. The sirens were much louder. "Ok, let's go." She said, not all together trusting but clearly in a spot where trust was not as important as other things.
The man ran quickly to the trash can just outside the bar, reached in and pulled out a brown leather saddle bag full of coins. Laura had just made it to the edge of the woods and was hiding crouched behind a tree. He ran across the parking lot to the woods. The cops had crested the ridge and saw him running. A 9mm bullet crashed into his knee sending him sprawling. He stood to begin again but a rapid burst of automatic fire ripped into his side and he fell. He flung the saddle bag towards Laura and pulled out a revolver, showing it to her. He winked, hid it under his jacket and rolled onto his back. Laura grabbed the bag and started to run. She made it a few steps into the woods and turned back.
"But, what's your name?" Her question was drowned out by a revolver being fired into the the group of officers checking the man for a pulse.
"Thank you," she started to say. But her words were drowned out by automatic weapons fire once again. "Thanks you," she said again, this time her words were choked by emotion.
She turned and fled.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Response
Hey,
It was nice meeting you as well. Your question posed in such a forward way (which I am normally OK with) through me off a little. The reason being, that like a lot of folks in and around the Harding community with differing opinions, I have to be careful to whom I talk about that stuff. I have been graduated since December and therefore don't need to fear official reprisal, but a lot of the general populace can be un-understanding and somewhat abusive, so please pardon the cryptic answer.
But here goes:
Answering your question with a yes or no does not do the multi-faceted being God justice. A better question may have been, which God don't you believe in. I would ask a "theist" which God they believe in. I am not suggesting multiple Gods, just multiple opinions and descriptions and character traits applied to what is possibly the same entity. So I will tell you of the God I don't believe in.
I don't believe in a God who promotes nationalism and blind patriotism. I don't believe in a God who supports discrimination based on race, gender, religion, or sexual identity. I don't believe in a God who supports those who would rape the earth for the progress of man. I do not believe in a God who condones a continual exploitation of the poor for the benefit of the richest. That God is alive and strong in the minds of many rich, hopelessly well employed, white men. That is the God with whom, I do not want to be associated.
I do believe in a God who prefers the least of these. I do believe in a God who hates and despises religious services which exacerbate the position of the poor. I do believe in a God who wants peace and justice to roll like a river. I do believe in a God who proclaims release to the captives. I do believe in a God who loves unconditionally regardless of race, religion, gender and sexual identity. In short, a God who does not exist but in the lives and writings of the prophets, of Jesus, of Martin Luther King Junior and others.
I am inspired and informed by those men and women through the centuries who have given their lives for the poor and fought for justice in their own neighborhoods.
Yes I am an atheist. No I am not an atheist. Maybe I am an a/theist?
Which God do you (not) believe in?
It was nice meeting you as well. Your question posed in such a forward way (which I am normally OK with) through me off a little. The reason being, that like a lot of folks in and around the Harding community with differing opinions, I have to be careful to whom I talk about that stuff. I have been graduated since December and therefore don't need to fear official reprisal, but a lot of the general populace can be un-understanding and somewhat abusive, so please pardon the cryptic answer.
But here goes:
Answering your question with a yes or no does not do the multi-faceted being God justice. A better question may have been, which God don't you believe in. I would ask a "theist" which God they believe in. I am not suggesting multiple Gods, just multiple opinions and descriptions and character traits applied to what is possibly the same entity. So I will tell you of the God I don't believe in.
I don't believe in a God who promotes nationalism and blind patriotism. I don't believe in a God who supports discrimination based on race, gender, religion, or sexual identity. I don't believe in a God who supports those who would rape the earth for the progress of man. I do not believe in a God who condones a continual exploitation of the poor for the benefit of the richest. That God is alive and strong in the minds of many rich, hopelessly well employed, white men. That is the God with whom, I do not want to be associated.
I do believe in a God who prefers the least of these. I do believe in a God who hates and despises religious services which exacerbate the position of the poor. I do believe in a God who wants peace and justice to roll like a river. I do believe in a God who proclaims release to the captives. I do believe in a God who loves unconditionally regardless of race, religion, gender and sexual identity. In short, a God who does not exist but in the lives and writings of the prophets, of Jesus, of Martin Luther King Junior and others.
I am inspired and informed by those men and women through the centuries who have given their lives for the poor and fought for justice in their own neighborhoods.
Yes I am an atheist. No I am not an atheist. Maybe I am an a/theist?
Which God do you (not) believe in?
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
There Is No God And We Are His Prophets
Pen in mouth, hair frazzled, short and brown, she sat at the tall black table, tapping quickly on her keyboard. Encircled by open notebooks, text books, loose sheets of paper and an ipod with wires leading to her hair covered ears she sat back, closed her eyes and searched for the answers behind her eyelids. I stood to leave and noticed all of this and in particular one book, spine facing me, closed read The Portable Atheist. I intrigued and emboldened by this heretical book. If she was reading it for class, I could ask with little harm done, if she was reading it for fun, I would applaud her unashamed announcement to the world.
"Is this your book?"
"Yeah."
"May I see it," I asked reaching for the book, presupposing the answer.
"Go ahead."
"So, this isn't just Christopher Hitchins, this is several authors, right?"
"Uh huh, it's a compilation of essays from various people."
"Are you reading this for fun, for class? What?" searching through the book, noticing the different authors.
"No, just on my own time. So I can understand better. Are you an atheist?"
Taken off balance by this question posed so nonchalantly and forward I mouthed over a few words before deciding on asking a follow up question. "Are you?" No, came the quick unrehearsed response. Finding the ball still in my court I decided to ignore the question of the safety of this individual. I wouldn't have been able to well extract myself from this query. Safe or not she was going to get an answer.
"Yes," I said, "Well, in a sense. That is the least honest answer I can give you, but to differentiate myself from most in this area I would say yes," motioning towards Harding with a nod of my head. She looked confused.
"I don't expect you really understand that."
"OK, cool."
"What's your name," I asked extending my hand.
"CH___. Your's?"
"John; it was good meeting you."
"Yeah, nice talking to you."
I turned to walk away and stopped.
"May I write in here?"
"Sure."
"Look me up on Facebook, send me a message."
"OK, I will."
An atheist evangelist spreading the good news of the death of God.
"Is this your book?"
"Yeah."
"May I see it," I asked reaching for the book, presupposing the answer.
"Go ahead."
"So, this isn't just Christopher Hitchins, this is several authors, right?"
"Uh huh, it's a compilation of essays from various people."
"Are you reading this for fun, for class? What?" searching through the book, noticing the different authors.
"No, just on my own time. So I can understand better. Are you an atheist?"
Taken off balance by this question posed so nonchalantly and forward I mouthed over a few words before deciding on asking a follow up question. "Are you?" No, came the quick unrehearsed response. Finding the ball still in my court I decided to ignore the question of the safety of this individual. I wouldn't have been able to well extract myself from this query. Safe or not she was going to get an answer.
"Yes," I said, "Well, in a sense. That is the least honest answer I can give you, but to differentiate myself from most in this area I would say yes," motioning towards Harding with a nod of my head. She looked confused.
"I don't expect you really understand that."
"OK, cool."
"What's your name," I asked extending my hand.
"CH___. Your's?"
"John; it was good meeting you."
"Yeah, nice talking to you."
I turned to walk away and stopped.
"May I write in here?"
"Sure."
"Look me up on Facebook, send me a message."
"OK, I will."
An atheist evangelist spreading the good news of the death of God.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Underwhelmed
Underwhelmed. Strange word. On first appearances it seems like it should mean that you were so unaffected by a piece of news that you reacted in way which is deemed below even the base level of excitement which most would expect. I am underwhelmed.
I received word that I am accepted to the program. I have till the 17th of this month to say whether or not I will be a teaching assistant for the Academie of Rouen in northern France. I have already accepted the position in my mind. There is no question. Prior to today I had already been planning my life around the dates of the program. Rightfully or wrongfully (it turned out to be rightfully) I had simply assumed I would accepted. Maybe you could say I knew I would be accepted. Though I have little experience teaching, I had a solid essay which highlighted my qualifications and great references. I would have been flabbergasted if I had not been accepted; the possible applicants would have needed to be so much more qualified for me to be rejected. Now don't be too upset by such flagrant arrogance, there is a point to this.
I look damn good on paper, I had a chance to write and re-write my essay, edit and get some help from friends; in reality, I am not much of a teacher, I have no experience except for what I have gained this semester. I realize that most of what I will be doing is conversation help, but I still feel under qualified. They don't know that though and you shouldn't tell them. That being said, I know I looked good on paper and what I said before seemed arrogant, but really I don't believe myself to be as good as I was in my application process.
This is my point. I expected to be accepted. My reasons faulty as they may be lead me to the assumption I would get in; listen well to the language of getting in. Had my reasons lead me to the assumption I would be rejected; not allowed entry, I would have been a good deal more whelmed by the news of the acceptance. I arrived at acceptance having already been there for months. If I had been filled with fear and trembling and unknowing about the results I would have arrived at the end surprised and grateful. If I had had no hope of being accepted, relying only on faith that I might accepted, I would have been much more excited today.
So with faith. If I set out on a journey fully aware of my destination I have never left. Instead I step out of my front door, not knowing where the road will lead, hoping and praying that life and light and love will come from my journey.
Faith without faith leads to an underwhelming entrance to heaven.
I received word that I am accepted to the program. I have till the 17th of this month to say whether or not I will be a teaching assistant for the Academie of Rouen in northern France. I have already accepted the position in my mind. There is no question. Prior to today I had already been planning my life around the dates of the program. Rightfully or wrongfully (it turned out to be rightfully) I had simply assumed I would accepted. Maybe you could say I knew I would be accepted. Though I have little experience teaching, I had a solid essay which highlighted my qualifications and great references. I would have been flabbergasted if I had not been accepted; the possible applicants would have needed to be so much more qualified for me to be rejected. Now don't be too upset by such flagrant arrogance, there is a point to this.
I look damn good on paper, I had a chance to write and re-write my essay, edit and get some help from friends; in reality, I am not much of a teacher, I have no experience except for what I have gained this semester. I realize that most of what I will be doing is conversation help, but I still feel under qualified. They don't know that though and you shouldn't tell them. That being said, I know I looked good on paper and what I said before seemed arrogant, but really I don't believe myself to be as good as I was in my application process.
This is my point. I expected to be accepted. My reasons faulty as they may be lead me to the assumption I would get in; listen well to the language of getting in. Had my reasons lead me to the assumption I would be rejected; not allowed entry, I would have been a good deal more whelmed by the news of the acceptance. I arrived at acceptance having already been there for months. If I had been filled with fear and trembling and unknowing about the results I would have arrived at the end surprised and grateful. If I had had no hope of being accepted, relying only on faith that I might accepted, I would have been much more excited today.
So with faith. If I set out on a journey fully aware of my destination I have never left. Instead I step out of my front door, not knowing where the road will lead, hoping and praying that life and light and love will come from my journey.
Faith without faith leads to an underwhelming entrance to heaven.
Friday, April 1, 2011
A Series of Dreams
A gigantic green leaf covered tree erupted violently from the concrete floor of my parents basement. This basement is so real to me, I have so many solid memories from this basement. The exposed rafters have reached new lofty heights today. Why hello giant black man with a wizened face. You are quite tall. You can turn into a cat? So you can. How fun; you could show me that.
I'm not quite a cat, but I sure move like one. Up the walls, across the untreated lattice work hemming in the stair well, hanging from the reddened exposed wooden supports of the floor above me.
Standing in our driveway, the UN, the bad guys I think instinctively, patrol down the street. We must do something about this. To the left of the garage a throng of Haitians, black and wizened, all men, stand chanting. I can't understand them, they are chanting peace songs. This is a protest.
Teach men your ways, please; I beg. I don't understand; but I want to know.
11th street breaks apart and is washed away by a rushing river; it splashes up onto the driveway, offering up a bounty of fish to sustain us during our fight.
Trotting peacefully along a wooded hill top; me on a horse, Jen on a donkey. Her donkey, bucks, racing off. I see her tumble down the cactus covered hill side, bleeding and bruised. I race down the hill to find her; moaning just on the other side of a shrub wall. How did she get over there. She's not here; moaning over there.
We don't have time to make posters.
Searching frantically; I fear the worst: a wherewolf or zombie.
It's all my fault.
A horse, white and taller than a house leads an elegant white carriage. Are horses normally that size?
Two more horses pass by with single human riders dwarfed on their massive backs.
Oh yeah, they're always that size, comes the response.
Oh yeah, I remember...
A rooster crows.
A dog barks.
A guitar crashes.
A roommate snores.
I'm not quite a cat, but I sure move like one. Up the walls, across the untreated lattice work hemming in the stair well, hanging from the reddened exposed wooden supports of the floor above me.
Standing in our driveway, the UN, the bad guys I think instinctively, patrol down the street. We must do something about this. To the left of the garage a throng of Haitians, black and wizened, all men, stand chanting. I can't understand them, they are chanting peace songs. This is a protest.
Teach men your ways, please; I beg. I don't understand; but I want to know.
11th street breaks apart and is washed away by a rushing river; it splashes up onto the driveway, offering up a bounty of fish to sustain us during our fight.
Trotting peacefully along a wooded hill top; me on a horse, Jen on a donkey. Her donkey, bucks, racing off. I see her tumble down the cactus covered hill side, bleeding and bruised. I race down the hill to find her; moaning just on the other side of a shrub wall. How did she get over there. She's not here; moaning over there.
We don't have time to make posters.
Searching frantically; I fear the worst: a wherewolf or zombie.
It's all my fault.
A horse, white and taller than a house leads an elegant white carriage. Are horses normally that size?
Two more horses pass by with single human riders dwarfed on their massive backs.
Oh yeah, they're always that size, comes the response.
Oh yeah, I remember...
A rooster crows.
A dog barks.
A guitar crashes.
A roommate snores.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Wyatt
A person is a product of her many years of experience. She is 25, 15 and 5. I am 24, 14 and 4. Like it or not, your past is you. It is not the only thing that is you, but you do not exist without your past.
What about fictional characters? We find them at a certain point in their life; all we know of them is what the author tells us about them; maybe that's all there is to them. That one period of life that fits between the pages of a book. But I would be willing to bet that our favorite characters have pasts as well. Pasts lived by actual people in this world who inspired the authors. Maybe the author writes this persons history, pages of material that never make it to the final cut but still shape the characters. The author will some times let us in on the past, but in other occasions we are left guessing of the past of these characters. How much of the author is expressed in his characters? Assuming they are characters devoid of connection to reality (which seems terribly unlikely) where do they come from?
What about the horrendous acts they commit? What about the acts displaying noble character? What about their fears? Hopes?
Where did Wyatt come from?
Monday, March 28, 2011
Twenty
I am back in Searcy and it didn't take long for me to return to my normal routine. I am sitting in the corner of Midnight Oil, in the chair which should have my name on it; glasses are cleaned, letters read, journal written in, coffee drank. I am back in the usual, the normal, the life-as-I-knew-it ritual. I just realized I was too cold this morning to pray as I walked; I was too busy cursing the weather. I had another epic dream last night involving a large mechanical dog which was terrorizing a town and I was determined to save the town; all he wanted was to lick my face though, then he halted his rampage and became quite amiable. These dreams are getting a little out of control. All of this is good, and I enjoy it, but I feel that this mode is coming to an end.
Midnight Oil is not exactly the best place to write. I knew that from the beginning but I wanted to give it a fair chance and so I have; I simply know too many people who come in at semi-regular intervals and I am to conscious of the social problems inherent in ignoring people who know you. I want to ignore most and just write and read, but I am concerned about the consequences. I need to find another option for writing. Probably later in the day, probably the evening and definitely not here. It's worse in the evening; then it's not just people I know, but a general explosion of activity; overriding any concentration. What I need is Charlotte's where I am un-known and youngest patron by 30 years.
Also, I am getting fat. No, nowhere near the 300 pounds as I once was, but I can feel in my body the weight compressing parts not compressed at the beginning of the semester, my knees hurt more often, and I feel lethargic often. Also, I don't look as good in my work uniform or shirt and tie as once did. I'm creeping on 200 pounds and I don't want to be there.
Thirdly, coffee costs. Even if it's only a dollar a day. 'Nough said.
All of these restraints have given me an idea. I want to write, I want to ride, and I want to save. I think this calls for a tweak of my traditions. I am young and flexible; though I have developed some old man routines. I am always prepared for a change and the change of weather (if it ever gets nice again, I am afraid it will be cold for the rest of my life) and the need to change my routine has given me an opportunity to keep myself on my toes. So here it goes:
Goals for Spring:
20 miles a day.
20 dollars (cash) a week.
20 pages a month.
20 pounds by Illinois.
I have done harder things in the past, but I have a severe lack of motivation and will power for some reason. Anybody wanna make a bet, or make a challenge out of this?
Midnight Oil is not exactly the best place to write. I knew that from the beginning but I wanted to give it a fair chance and so I have; I simply know too many people who come in at semi-regular intervals and I am to conscious of the social problems inherent in ignoring people who know you. I want to ignore most and just write and read, but I am concerned about the consequences. I need to find another option for writing. Probably later in the day, probably the evening and definitely not here. It's worse in the evening; then it's not just people I know, but a general explosion of activity; overriding any concentration. What I need is Charlotte's where I am un-known and youngest patron by 30 years.
Also, I am getting fat. No, nowhere near the 300 pounds as I once was, but I can feel in my body the weight compressing parts not compressed at the beginning of the semester, my knees hurt more often, and I feel lethargic often. Also, I don't look as good in my work uniform or shirt and tie as once did. I'm creeping on 200 pounds and I don't want to be there.
Thirdly, coffee costs. Even if it's only a dollar a day. 'Nough said.
All of these restraints have given me an idea. I want to write, I want to ride, and I want to save. I think this calls for a tweak of my traditions. I am young and flexible; though I have developed some old man routines. I am always prepared for a change and the change of weather (if it ever gets nice again, I am afraid it will be cold for the rest of my life) and the need to change my routine has given me an opportunity to keep myself on my toes. So here it goes:
Goals for Spring:
20 miles a day.
20 dollars (cash) a week.
20 pages a month.
20 pounds by Illinois.
I have done harder things in the past, but I have a severe lack of motivation and will power for some reason. Anybody wanna make a bet, or make a challenge out of this?
Monday, March 14, 2011
I Could Dread My Hair Right Now, No Problem
Today was our last full day in Gonaives. We will stay the night and wake up tomorrow some quick shots of preparation of oral re-hydration fluid, pack up, say our good byes and thank yous to Pacius' family and make way south. Our first stop is Wanga Bay, the hotel where I was during the earth quake. I'm nervous. I have been joking about getting the fish at the hotel restaurant cause it was awesome, I may still but I am afraid of the emotions that will bring to the surface.
I have decided that instead of Arabic being my next language Kreyol will be. I have already built quite a foundation and it would be silly not to profit from that. The question is, how to go about that? The best way is to be immersed in it, hands down. So this is what I am thinking, after teaching in France, I would like to spend 6 months or so on Pacius' farm, or at the Catholic run "Hands Together" a reforestation project north of Gonaives. Judging by the fact that after two trips for a total of maybe 20 days I am already dreaming in Kreyol I could do a fair amount of work on it in 6 months. I am not naive enough to forget that living in Haiti that long alone will be a wicked mental challenge in which to participate; but I think I could handle it. France and Haiti are far from similar, but spending 7 to 9 months "alone" (I fully plan to expect to make friends) will help a fair amount in more alone time. Don't ask about time frames, I don't have a clue, but it is the next step that seems to make the most sense. Oh, also, living either at the farm or the reforestation place, I could learn some valuable farming techniques.
Dinner is served, but I would still like to talk more about the reforestation stuff, it was sweet, there was a baobab, or mapou in kreyol!!!
I have decided that instead of Arabic being my next language Kreyol will be. I have already built quite a foundation and it would be silly not to profit from that. The question is, how to go about that? The best way is to be immersed in it, hands down. So this is what I am thinking, after teaching in France, I would like to spend 6 months or so on Pacius' farm, or at the Catholic run "Hands Together" a reforestation project north of Gonaives. Judging by the fact that after two trips for a total of maybe 20 days I am already dreaming in Kreyol I could do a fair amount of work on it in 6 months. I am not naive enough to forget that living in Haiti that long alone will be a wicked mental challenge in which to participate; but I think I could handle it. France and Haiti are far from similar, but spending 7 to 9 months "alone" (I fully plan to expect to make friends) will help a fair amount in more alone time. Don't ask about time frames, I don't have a clue, but it is the next step that seems to make the most sense. Oh, also, living either at the farm or the reforestation place, I could learn some valuable farming techniques.
Dinner is served, but I would still like to talk more about the reforestation stuff, it was sweet, there was a baobab, or mapou in kreyol!!!
Sunday, March 13, 2011
I Can See Clearly Now
The film crew had just finished the village scenes for the belated Cholera prevention video the day before. They were currently being driven by their host to an unknown location some 6 miles outside of Gonaives. As usual, it was nearly 85 degrees by 9 am and the sun was bright and had been awake for 3 hours. They had taken to the habit of carrying a cooler full of soft drinks, water and ice in the bed along with camera equipment which included two camera bags, one large heavy duty tripod and smaller less substantial one which was often neglected by the second cameraman who preferred hand held shots for close ups and cover footage. In the two camera bags were various chords, microphones, gaffers tape, light reflectors, dozens of extra batteries, scripts, props, logs, and many other items which had managed to work themselves into the bags such as toothbrushes, i.v. drips, sunflower seeds, tobacco pipes and a small bottle of clairin, which is a local moonshine created from sugar can, which the director was thankfully unaware of. It took the edge of the work. Also in the bed were John and Jake, their preferred location for different reasons.
Jakes reasoning was that he could be comfortable in the states where he couldn’t ride in the bed of a truck. He enjoyed the feel of the air rushing past him and feeling of freedom which was habitually denied him as both a resident of the United States and as a husband and father. His was rebellion. John, on the other hand, sat in the back because he didn’t want to be isolated from Haiti. He didn’t like the sterile cab of the truck with the air conditioning, firmly closed windows and laboratorial discussions of the plight of the Haitians by a fat American and a Haitian with an even fatter pocket funded by Americans. He wanted to be a part of the world he was “helping”. Sure he wanted the rush of the wind, but he also wanted the smells, the sounds, grit of Haiti bombarding him.
They were moving more slowly now over the rock road, not gravel, but rocks, golf ball sized to bowling ball sized sand stone rocks left behind after all the topsoil had been depleted. The small “candelabra” or cacti used for fencing around the village had become over grown in this desolate landscape, towering over the truck, threatening to reach into the truck bed and removed the passagers and video equipment bodily. The city had given way to the country side, and only one other motor vehicle had greeted the 4x4 in 30 minute, 6 mile ride. Houses were few and far between, people need land that can support them and this was not the place, and yet people were their final destination.
These people lived on the edge of everything. On the edge of Gonaives, on the edge of a vast barren landscape on the very edge of existences. Every day for them was another day to fight for life. Some had grown up there, some had married in to this landscape some had been forced here by an act of God. Nearly 60 refugees from the earth quake in January of 2010 near Porte au Prince ended up in the near desert location. The local congregation of the Church of Christ in a beautifully human display of hospitality welcomed their fellow Haitians into their homes and lives. Some had returned to Porte au Prince to pick up the pieces, some had, like one woman interviewed, remained because she had lost everything in Porte au Prince and had no pieces to pick up.
Upon arriving at the Bonlieu, the site of the housing project funded by the Goniaves based NGO H___, they saw a dozen men surrounding two earth bag houses which will eventually house the preacher and one refugee family consisting of one woman and her 6 children; the husband and youngest child had been killed in their crumbling concrete house. The earth bag houses are bags filled with dirt dug out to create the foundation, stacked overlapping with barbwire laid between each layer of the house and rebar reinforcements. Earth bag construction was the most recent fad at that time. The film crew got down and began doing interviews with the preacher of the Bonlieu congregation and the foreman of the site, an illiterate but strong man with leadership abilities and a member of the church. Also interviewed were three widows-by-earthquake. The plan for this particular interview session was to create a promotional video to show rich white donors a sob story in order to bring in more funds. It’s successful, but feels manipulative.
After the interviews were done, the intrepid film crew decided to climb the hill-mountain to get a feel for the local terrain which they could already tell was much different than Gonaives. John and Jake and Oneal made it half way up and decided they had had enough of the torturous razor sharp rocks and the dozen different species of cacti. James was followed all the way to the summit by malnourished children with bare feet.
John returned to the H___ headquarters and decided to write this in his blog in a narrative form in order to practice writing. Sincere apologies are warranted to his readers. He would also like it to be known that that night the amigos went for a stroll through post dark Gonaives and met a number of interesting, lovely, inspiring, mysterious, lively, invigorating Haitians who had not a bad thing to say about Americans, hated the American government, wanted Aristide to return and were not opposed to giving some blans a sip of the strongest stuff you can drink in Haiti: Clairin.
NOTE: There is no clairin in the camera bags, that was an embellishment. Also, done filming Cholera video, information gathering meeting tomorrow with reforestation group, I am really excited about that..
Friday, March 11, 2011
Goats with Weeds Tied to Them Are Pregnant and Can't Be Eaten or Mwen Gen Gep La Nan Pantalon Mwen
Today was a much more exciting day than normal. It started off two incredible discoveries. We had just rolled up to the shooting site (which we are done using as of today, tomorrow we have 2 clinic scenes to shoot and a promo for earth bag houses, neither of which can be done at Poteau) when I saw a goat with a lead tied around its' neck at the other end of which was connected a branch from a tree or a weed of some sort. I went on a fact finding mission and asked several of the Haitians what it meant. I dragged one guy across the road to find out and he eventually didn't have a chance to answer because a woman in the compound to which the soon to be Momma went answered. All the while, I have a very strange sensation in my pants, I thought my cell phone was going off. I then realized I didn't have my cell phone on me. Then my cell phone began ringing in my waist line and in my other pocket. I had something alive in my pants. I did indeed wait to find out why this goat was dragging a branch around, trying to remember the number for the Gonaives chapter of PETA. I walked back to the other compound, moved swiftly to the latrine which I left moments earlier and drew worried questions from the other blans present (Cholera scare) to which I explained there was something in my pants. I entered the latrine and quickly undid my pants and much to my relief and to the relief of the WASP!!!! in my pants. I undid my button, unzipped slightly and saw it fly up to the roof of the latrine and I very punctually left the latrine.
Second great story. Jake and I went off to film some cut aways (footage of a woman cooking, a kid my own age pretending to have diarrhea running to the bathroom, etc. to cover over dialogue) when we wondered into a field and talked with some men plowing with bulls. The diarrhea kid was our "in" to that interaction which we would have other wise missed. He is 23, in america we could have been friends. In Haiti, if I were Haitian, we could have been friends. As is, I am a strange alien plopped down to "help" a source of help and food and money. Life on the other side of the fence isn't always greener, but it always an accident of birth away. If my skin were black...
I want to fill up the rest of this post with some photos. We are blessed with lots of talent and the following photos are thanks to James Rucker:
Second great story. Jake and I went off to film some cut aways (footage of a woman cooking, a kid my own age pretending to have diarrhea running to the bathroom, etc. to cover over dialogue) when we wondered into a field and talked with some men plowing with bulls. The diarrhea kid was our "in" to that interaction which we would have other wise missed. He is 23, in america we could have been friends. In Haiti, if I were Haitian, we could have been friends. As is, I am a strange alien plopped down to "help" a source of help and food and money. Life on the other side of the fence isn't always greener, but it always an accident of birth away. If my skin were black...
I want to fill up the rest of this post with some photos. We are blessed with lots of talent and the following photos are thanks to James Rucker:
On Site
This is what I do.
Village children and adults semi-interested in the proceedings.
Nandsie (pronounced Nanzy, long A) started something very bad. She counts to 10 now very well in english,.
Excitment? Joy? Pain? Incredulity? At least it's not a wasp in the pants.
Final result!
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Recovering What Was Left or Leaving More Behind
Jake and James and Oneal and I are being housed at the Haitian Christian Development Project’s headquarters in Gonaives. The building is a two story concrete structure which has been in the works for some time and was finally completed with the influx of funds after the earthquake. I have yet to be up to the second floor, so I’ll leave that up to your imagination. The first floor consists of one large conference room, a bedroom, maybe half the size of the conference room, a dining room and a bathroom. Consistent hot water with good pressure await us every night after filming and ease us into day ever morning. We are fed with a hearty Haitian dinner of rice and sauce every night and eat something very similar (we’re not sure it isn’t the same) on site every afternoon.
It’s hard to realize I am in the poorest country in the western hemisphere.
Getting on site has been a struggle so far this week, but it has been better than last year because we are staying the same compound with Pacius so don’t need to wait for him to pick us up, we have been able to get on site around 830 or 9. The site is a small neighborhood called Poteau about 10 minutes from the HCDP headquarters. This community is open to us because Pacius is the preacher at the congregation near the families.
Writing about the actual shooting seems tedious to me, but I will do it so you may know what it is I am doing. A typical scene is divided into several different takes of one or two at the very most 3 completely untrained actors reciting lines. Pacius has freshly translated the English manuscript and fed the lines to our actors and Oneal interrupts this entire process by changing things, or wanting more action, or for the actors to “fe naturel”. Haitian weather is also set out to disrupt us with wind, untimely sun and shadow and roaming animals.
Children clamor for attention, older girls sometimes women fawn over Jake’s and my long hair. You are pretty they say, can I have your hair? I hit it off with two of the women actors while they weren’t on camera and they told me their real names, not just their stage names. Marie (stage name) is Serameme and Natalie, well she actually Natalie. Serameme has 5 children, Natalie 3. Natalie’s youngest fell and broke her neck. She is completely paralyzed. I think she will have a short life.
During lunch today Oneal brought up the presidential election. All the male actors unanimously supported the lady candidate. Why? Because she’s a woman. The countries greatest fear with her is that she is too closely tied to the South American dictator Chavez. The other candidate, the musician from America wants to hand over governorship to the Dominican Republic. Which is the lesser of these two evils? Pacius said that as a Haitian he wanted him to come back, but not now. Aristide had had good ideas but lost it when he came into power. “He will come back in a couple weeks.” That is big news and I am happy to hear a Haitian speak fondly of Aristide.
During the same conversation, Pacius mentioned the current president’s fiscal policy of spending millions of dollars of vodoun temples. The three largest are in Gonaives, all thanks to Rene Preval. We may get a chance to go see one of these Hounfours. Also, there is a Houngan (a traditional healer, or Vodoun priest) who lives just next door to the church building. Pacius also informed us of the Boka, or “witch doctor” who was converted and is now a member of the church. Jake and I hope to interview this reformed Boka on Sunday. Word from Pacius, btw, Zombies are real…
It seems like my Kreyol is getting better. I don’t know how much new stuff I am learning but I am surely understanding more. I am building upon last years knowledge gained. I’ve been able to do some more direct interaction with actors and actually stood in Pacius on occasion.
It should be weird to be here. I expect surrealism and find nothing but reality. Pure dusty sunny Haitian reality. Sitting in the shade of a banana tree should feel strange for me. Communicating in a language I have never studied should not be so ok with me. The food situation still feels uncomfortable to me, blans and adult men served first, women and children second and third and then only left overs. We all follow the leader though and eat only half of our plate and give the rest to an adult to hand to the children.
Children tell me they are hungry and ask me for food. They laugh when I tell them I am hungry too and that I have no food. They laugh and point at my belly. I am glad they never saw my 280 pound belly. I may try and explain that poverty looks different in the US. Not to the kids, they are enjoying the attention. Maybe to an adult.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
We arrived safely in Porte au Prince and were quickly shuffled through customs under the weary eyes of officials too busy to really pay attention to the new arrivals. Leaving the airport, we were met with the usual, “Zami mwen yo, do you need a taxi?” Zami mwen, my friend, do you need me to carry your bags?” The inherent assumption being that he was not offering free of charge impregnated the interactions. With everyone so convivial, almost family, why not ask for money. Surely you wouldn’t approach a stranger that way.
Side stepping and brushing off several would be relatives with a brisk “non, merci” and an averted glance I was able to navigate through my new extended family. One persistent tonton, uncle, though, accosted me using our friendship. “Zami mwen, take my taxi. I will take you anywhere,” he said with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Stonewalled by tonton I was forced to work my tongue around the broad strokes of the African nuanced French. I looked tonton in the eye and said firmly, “Nou cheche zami mwen.” Without missing a beat, tonton said, “If your friend doesn’t come, I will be your friend.”
I couldn’t be sure, but as we were landing I thought I saw tents but surely, I had thought, those just covering stuff, protection from the sun and wind. The irony didn’t hit me immediately. My rosy reasoning was befouled shortly after leaving the airport. Surrounding the road which takes you from PAP to the main north south highway are hundreds or thousands of tents and tarps. Side by side, overlapping, one within another. Women, unashamed, bathed in the open. Cash crop can sugar grew in the alleys created by so much canvas. No room for subsistence farming here, money is the only commodity that works in such conditions. Haitians are strong people, they eek out a living in a country becoming quickly on large Cite Soleil.
Cholera camps, a gruesome reminder of the most recent crises to hit Haiti, and a reminder to wash my hands, have popped up all around PAP. Convalescent homes. Hospice care. Pacius, out faithful guide, host and friend points out the hill side tent city, much larger than the one before and the mass grave where the dead were taken after the earthquake. Thousands of black crosses and a giant purple ribbon descending down a denuded hill with a large white cross in the center mark the paupers grave of so many poor Haitians. Most cemeteries are bright, white and orange and yellow above ground sepulchers. This is dirt. This man took dead bodies from PAP to this grave in the very truck we were in. All of this is a vivid reminder or the day that thousands died.
Little more than a year ago, Haiti was rocked by a massive earthquake. Buildings still lay in ruins.
Little more than a year ago, I was witness to Haiti being rocked by a massive earthquake. Parts of me still lay in ruins.
My emotions gathered steam as we approached the seaside resort in which I was during the quake. They climaxed as we passed and continued our trek north. I was left breathless as I listened to Pacius and Oneal speak words I could only think or feel.
As time passes and slowly heals or provides rest by amnesia, so too our journey north did. Cars and camions and bicycles and pedestrians vie for position all over the road and around it. Honking swerving , but never break slamming. Another reason Haitians are tougher than the blancs, a Kreyol term used for all none black, non-haitians, even mullatoes, mixed race Haitians, are placed in the same category. Foreigner and so much more can be heard in that word through the echo of time. Decades of white European oppression of black African slaves.
Pacius laughs nervously, congratulatory for the kid on the bike who barely missed the front right bumper of Pacius’ 4x4.
We arrived in Gonaives to “RaRa” bands and raucous Mardi Gras dancing. Feasted like royalty. Ruth brought us water and cold cokes. She’s pretty. Probably too young. But pretty.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
God is Love
Burning with an unfamiliar passion, he stood up, walked out of the classroom where he spent so many hours listening to meaningless, mind numbing numbers and capitalist propaganda. He had been on Facebook and Twitter like most good university students, following the blogo-sphere like a wizened old teacher, more connected than his one track, old as dirt, status-quo keeping professor. The collective knowledge of so many students being a call and response. A certain liturgy of modern excess and convenience; the back and forth, the name calling, the approval and disapproval, love and hate. Text and bit and bytes swirling around spreading life and death. "Likes" and "follows", modern day "hurumphs" in an updated and (post)modern town hall meeting connecting the entire campus. Bringing in comments from the peanut gallery, connecting the world to a small conservative Christian college. The largest town hall meeting ever, converging on a hot button issue. Erupting.
A small, "zine", independently created, he didn't know by whom, had appeared under his door. Ten or so pages in length, five eight and a half by eleven pieces of paper, printed upon, folded down the center and stapled. Stories from various anonymous authors of their lives as homosexuals at that campus. Their moving through a life wholly other. Interactions with therapists to find an answer for what they had been found to be... themselves. Encouraged to flee from sin, emaciating themselves of their very being.
He didn't know that to be true, but he felt for them. As a member of another closeted community at this Christian college, a minority, who lack a belief in God, he felt the sting of their marginalization and desired to stand with them. He heard the words of Jesus, whom he greatly admired, speaking of love of neighbor; imagined his footsteps among the least of these; he heard the angry voices of the status-quo keeping, though plausibly well intended Pharisees. He heard the voice of Martin Luther King Jr., speaking, calling out loudly, speaking truth to the powers that be. The voice of the prophets rang out in his ears, numbed and buzzing with hope for justice to roll on like a river. And also peace like a river. Shots would not be fired, but tempers would flare. May peace like a river flow as well.
Touched, stabbed, prodded, called and promised by a still small voice; follow me. He stood up from his desk, closed his computer and walked out.
He walked towards the front lawn, steps short and nervous, unsure of what this irrational mind was doing. Why are you doing this? You left your computer, your books, possibly your degree in that room. What about the money? You've invested so much in this, don't throw it away for these queers. You don't even believe in God, this isn't your fight. You don't even know if there is a "gay gene", maybe it is a choice?
He stopped dead in his tracks. What the hell are you doing? He turned around, started walking back to class. You just went to the bathroom, that's all. He stopped again; no. Someone needs to speak. I'm tired of not using my voice. He turned back around, and walked. Resolutely, firmly, long strides. He moved towards the front lawn.
Reaching the front lawn, he moved quickly to the center of the large grassy area. It was too early for the usual Frisbee throwers to have gathered. He was alone. He stood like a fool; dead center, staring at his feet. Love queer, love straight, love all. If God is love, we are far from it. If God is love, we don't know God. He mulled these words over in his head. Love queer, love straight, love all. He said to himself slowly, working his lips with no sound coming out. "If God is love, we are far from it." Whispering. "If God is love, we don't know God." Mumbling.
He looked up. No one was watching him.
"Love queer, love straight, love all."
"If God is love, we are far from it."
"If God is love."
"We do not know God."
"Love queer, love straight, love all!"
"If God is love, we are far from it!"
If God is love, we do not know God!"
A small, "zine", independently created, he didn't know by whom, had appeared under his door. Ten or so pages in length, five eight and a half by eleven pieces of paper, printed upon, folded down the center and stapled. Stories from various anonymous authors of their lives as homosexuals at that campus. Their moving through a life wholly other. Interactions with therapists to find an answer for what they had been found to be... themselves. Encouraged to flee from sin, emaciating themselves of their very being.
He didn't know that to be true, but he felt for them. As a member of another closeted community at this Christian college, a minority, who lack a belief in God, he felt the sting of their marginalization and desired to stand with them. He heard the words of Jesus, whom he greatly admired, speaking of love of neighbor; imagined his footsteps among the least of these; he heard the angry voices of the status-quo keeping, though plausibly well intended Pharisees. He heard the voice of Martin Luther King Jr., speaking, calling out loudly, speaking truth to the powers that be. The voice of the prophets rang out in his ears, numbed and buzzing with hope for justice to roll on like a river. And also peace like a river. Shots would not be fired, but tempers would flare. May peace like a river flow as well.
Touched, stabbed, prodded, called and promised by a still small voice; follow me. He stood up from his desk, closed his computer and walked out.
He walked towards the front lawn, steps short and nervous, unsure of what this irrational mind was doing. Why are you doing this? You left your computer, your books, possibly your degree in that room. What about the money? You've invested so much in this, don't throw it away for these queers. You don't even believe in God, this isn't your fight. You don't even know if there is a "gay gene", maybe it is a choice?
He stopped dead in his tracks. What the hell are you doing? He turned around, started walking back to class. You just went to the bathroom, that's all. He stopped again; no. Someone needs to speak. I'm tired of not using my voice. He turned back around, and walked. Resolutely, firmly, long strides. He moved towards the front lawn.
Reaching the front lawn, he moved quickly to the center of the large grassy area. It was too early for the usual Frisbee throwers to have gathered. He was alone. He stood like a fool; dead center, staring at his feet. Love queer, love straight, love all. If God is love, we are far from it. If God is love, we don't know God. He mulled these words over in his head. Love queer, love straight, love all. He said to himself slowly, working his lips with no sound coming out. "If God is love, we are far from it." Whispering. "If God is love, we don't know God." Mumbling.
He looked up. No one was watching him.
"Love queer, love straight, love all."
"If God is love, we are far from it."
"If God is love."
"We do not know God."
"Love queer, love straight, love all!"
"If God is love, we are far from it!"
If God is love, we do not know God!"
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Keeping Up with the Jones'
"I have jus' one mo'e story, and then i'll sto'. I promise. I's a story the first church acts, the Jones and the Smif. The Smif are slave person, and he goe' to church wif all he has, one bag, wif all he has. All his food, there was nofin' more, tha's all he had. And the smif, he give' all he had, tha' was all th'food he has. The smif' they bring all they has to church, in one bag, and give' to everyone. And the rest the church they knew that, it was normal. One day, the Jones, he tells the Smif they can' be there no more. And the Smif, he leaves depressed. But the smif' he loves the Jones.
Sid sat there, on the futon, speaking life giving and taking words, clearance pre-popped popcorn grasped in his right fingers, atop his large, frozen food fed belly. Motioning loudly with his left hand, emphasizing points impossible to reproduce in text. I sat, transfixed, watching his moist red Santa Claus lips working over his poor, broken uneducated better understanding english, through,his white and gray salt and pepper beard. Tears proceeding from too long dry eyes. Witnessing Saint Sid of everywhere.
"Jones', he ask' the Smif to be his servant' and he is very welfy. And Smif' work' for the Jones good. He work' hard and lon' for the Jones. The Jones want to getting rid of some of hi' business, and he see' the smif, and says to him, he says him: Smif, you's a good working, I wan' a give you job, cause you's chrishin. And the Smif and the Jone's they come together and cry and weep togever cause that's the way the first church was. It wasn' want we talk about, these churche' on the corner, Race street, or any other street. They had to love, and they did. Tha's what the church was.
I jus' have to love people.... I jus' have to love people."
Sid had spoken, to gestured, indicating his conclusion. He moved his hand up to his mouth, deposited the interrupted pre-popped popcorn into the waiting opening. He reached to his right and retrieved the bag, digging out more, and moving it to the other side of his body.
"I jus' have to love people."
Sid sat there, on the futon, speaking life giving and taking words, clearance pre-popped popcorn grasped in his right fingers, atop his large, frozen food fed belly. Motioning loudly with his left hand, emphasizing points impossible to reproduce in text. I sat, transfixed, watching his moist red Santa Claus lips working over his poor, broken uneducated better understanding english, through,his white and gray salt and pepper beard. Tears proceeding from too long dry eyes. Witnessing Saint Sid of everywhere.
"Jones', he ask' the Smif to be his servant' and he is very welfy. And Smif' work' for the Jones good. He work' hard and lon' for the Jones. The Jones want to getting rid of some of hi' business, and he see' the smif, and says to him, he says him: Smif, you's a good working, I wan' a give you job, cause you's chrishin. And the Smif and the Jone's they come together and cry and weep togever cause that's the way the first church was. It wasn' want we talk about, these churche' on the corner, Race street, or any other street. They had to love, and they did. Tha's what the church was.
I jus' have to love people.... I jus' have to love people."
Sid had spoken, to gestured, indicating his conclusion. He moved his hand up to his mouth, deposited the interrupted pre-popped popcorn into the waiting opening. He reached to his right and retrieved the bag, digging out more, and moving it to the other side of his body.
"I jus' have to love people."
Friday, February 25, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Two Poems
Sunset
Behold! The western sky
is ablaze with the failing hopes
of another day.
Enjoy your evening.
Pregnant Emptiness
Every day is a new life to live
we die to ourselves, to our world, to our God
Every-night.
And are resurrected with each new
dawning light.
Resurrection, rebirth are part of our every day life
that is why it so touches our
beliefs and our psych'.
Today is rebirth from yesterday's death.
Behold! The western sky
is ablaze with the failing hopes
of another day.
Enjoy your evening.
Pregnant Emptiness
Every day is a new life to live
we die to ourselves, to our world, to our God
Every-night.
And are resurrected with each new
dawning light.
Resurrection, rebirth are part of our every day life
that is why it so touches our
beliefs and our psych'.
Today is rebirth from yesterday's death.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Check Mate
"Well, looks like we know where we're going."
"Sure does."
"Maybe we could play a game of chess? I tutor at 2 o clock."
"Sure. That's my freshman friend."
"Does she know that?"
"Yeah, I have one every year. She's a freshman, and a friend. She's a freshman friend. My freshman friend."
"Ok, just so long as she knows it. Now, how do you know her again?"
"Work."
"Ah."
"She works Fridays and Saturdays."
"And that's why she asked you if you work tonight."
"Uh huh."
"Do you?"
"I dunno."
"I'll get the chess set. The small one; we can play on the porch. I wonder who's working today."
"I'm gonna get coffee."
"Hey there Gretchen, how are ya?"
"Hello, John. I'm doin' good. And you?"
"Doin' just fine. Can we get the chess set, the little one."
"There ya are."
"Ah, can we have the the other one, we're gonna play on the porch."
"Alright, you guys are complicating my life."
"That's what we do. Gotta keep you on your toes."
"Thanks. I'll go set it up, Jake."
"Ok, I'm gonna get some coffee."
"I got the tall this time."
"I did this morning too. So. My turn?"
"Yepp."
"Well. That was stupid. What a dumb opening move."
"Ha! Yeah, that is dumb."
"I didn't mean to do that. Here, let me move my king's bishop's pawn and give you two move check mate."
"I wouldn't mind."
"Alright, well that should rectify the situation. And actually, that's not a terrible position. I may adopt that as an opening move."
Erupting from the edge of the table, a small, small voice calls for attention. It succeeds.
"Well, hello there. How can we help you?"
"I like that game." The small girl reported peering over the edge of the wrought iron and glass table.
"Do you now? You any good?"
"Yeah, i'm really good." Tilting her head back in the bravado and sureness reserved for the pure of heart. "I really like playing."
"What's it called?"
Momentarily defeated by this older boy, her self assurance skips a beat. Not all is lost however, she recovers like an old pro, avoiding the question, playing to her strong suits and recapturing the advantage. "I'm really good." She said, her gray-old soul, piercing eyes staring into Johns.
"You wanna play? Maybe you can help me beat Jacob."
"Well that's not fair."
"I need all the help I can get."
The little girl litely climbs onto the bench next to the table and reaches for the white's queen's bishop.
"Hey, how about this. You can help me, but I'll suggest a place to move a piece and then you can move it? What do you say to that?
"Ok."
"Alright, first move, take this piece, the bishop, and move it... here. Can you do that for me?"
She reaches for the bishop and moves in deftly to the desired place.
"Check."
"Hmm, good move. If you beat me it's because you had help."
"Ok, but you're still in check. Hold on, it's his turn. We need to let him take a turn."
"Look mommy! I'm playing with the boys!" The little girl belted joyfully.
"That's nice, as long as they are ok with it. What are their names, sweety."
Unable to answer, she searches her tricks for a way to avoid admitting ignorance, but is saved by her new friends.
"John."
"Jacob."
"John and Jacob!"
"And what is your name?"
"Mia."
"How old are you Mia?"
Mia held up 3 fingers in response.
"Do you have any brothers or sisters, Mia?"
She nodded yes. "One brother."
"What's his name?"
"Mark."
"How old is mark?"
"He's 4. I want that piece." She said, reaching for a rook.
"You want a rook? You can take Jacobs rook, but I'd rather you leave mine on the board."
"Here, why don't you play with those that have already been taken off the board."
"Look they're a castle," she said placing the hallow, plastic pawns atop one another, "oops, it fell down!" She took white's queen and placed it back on the board.
"I'm a fan of that."
"That's a little disconcerting."
"Can you play with them on the table?"
Smiling, she placed a pawn behind another one near black's rook.
"Why don't you put them here, on the edge."
She began placing all the pieces back on the board, white squares, black squares, showing no favoritism. John and Jacob began removing pieces and placing them back in front of her. This worked for only so long, Mia began taking immense pleasure in placing the pieces in their less than proper places. This had become the game. Her two small hands against 4 hands atleast twice the size of hers. Hers guided by the frenzy of a new game, theirs by reason and logic and a desperate attempt to salvage what had become quite an interesting game.
"Mia, can we try and keep the pieces on the side?"
This was all that was needed to bring them into the next round of action. Mia began to toss pieces onto the board, knocking several over in the process. John and Jacob abort the rescue mission and focus their efforts on preventing pieces from falling from the table to oblivion. Pawn down. Queen down. Pawn and rook in the empty icecream dish. Arms extended to net flying miniatures.
King down.
"Mia, my dear, it appears you have won.
"Sure does."
"Maybe we could play a game of chess? I tutor at 2 o clock."
"Sure. That's my freshman friend."
"Does she know that?"
"Yeah, I have one every year. She's a freshman, and a friend. She's a freshman friend. My freshman friend."
"Ok, just so long as she knows it. Now, how do you know her again?"
"Work."
"Ah."
"She works Fridays and Saturdays."
"And that's why she asked you if you work tonight."
"Uh huh."
"Do you?"
"I dunno."
"I'll get the chess set. The small one; we can play on the porch. I wonder who's working today."
"I'm gonna get coffee."
"Hey there Gretchen, how are ya?"
"Hello, John. I'm doin' good. And you?"
"Doin' just fine. Can we get the chess set, the little one."
"There ya are."
"Ah, can we have the the other one, we're gonna play on the porch."
"Alright, you guys are complicating my life."
"That's what we do. Gotta keep you on your toes."
"Thanks. I'll go set it up, Jake."
"Ok, I'm gonna get some coffee."
"I got the tall this time."
"I did this morning too. So. My turn?"
"Yepp."
"Well. That was stupid. What a dumb opening move."
"Ha! Yeah, that is dumb."
"I didn't mean to do that. Here, let me move my king's bishop's pawn and give you two move check mate."
"I wouldn't mind."
"Alright, well that should rectify the situation. And actually, that's not a terrible position. I may adopt that as an opening move."
Erupting from the edge of the table, a small, small voice calls for attention. It succeeds.
"Well, hello there. How can we help you?"
"I like that game." The small girl reported peering over the edge of the wrought iron and glass table.
"Do you now? You any good?"
"Yeah, i'm really good." Tilting her head back in the bravado and sureness reserved for the pure of heart. "I really like playing."
"What's it called?"
Momentarily defeated by this older boy, her self assurance skips a beat. Not all is lost however, she recovers like an old pro, avoiding the question, playing to her strong suits and recapturing the advantage. "I'm really good." She said, her gray-old soul, piercing eyes staring into Johns.
"You wanna play? Maybe you can help me beat Jacob."
"Well that's not fair."
"I need all the help I can get."
The little girl litely climbs onto the bench next to the table and reaches for the white's queen's bishop.
"Hey, how about this. You can help me, but I'll suggest a place to move a piece and then you can move it? What do you say to that?
"Ok."
"Alright, first move, take this piece, the bishop, and move it... here. Can you do that for me?"
She reaches for the bishop and moves in deftly to the desired place.
"Check."
"Hmm, good move. If you beat me it's because you had help."
"Ok, but you're still in check. Hold on, it's his turn. We need to let him take a turn."
"Look mommy! I'm playing with the boys!" The little girl belted joyfully.
"That's nice, as long as they are ok with it. What are their names, sweety."
Unable to answer, she searches her tricks for a way to avoid admitting ignorance, but is saved by her new friends.
"John."
"Jacob."
"John and Jacob!"
"And what is your name?"
"Mia."
"How old are you Mia?"
Mia held up 3 fingers in response.
"Do you have any brothers or sisters, Mia?"
She nodded yes. "One brother."
"What's his name?"
"Mark."
"How old is mark?"
"He's 4. I want that piece." She said, reaching for a rook.
"You want a rook? You can take Jacobs rook, but I'd rather you leave mine on the board."
"Here, why don't you play with those that have already been taken off the board."
"Look they're a castle," she said placing the hallow, plastic pawns atop one another, "oops, it fell down!" She took white's queen and placed it back on the board.
"I'm a fan of that."
"That's a little disconcerting."
"Can you play with them on the table?"
Smiling, she placed a pawn behind another one near black's rook.
"Why don't you put them here, on the edge."
She began placing all the pieces back on the board, white squares, black squares, showing no favoritism. John and Jacob began removing pieces and placing them back in front of her. This worked for only so long, Mia began taking immense pleasure in placing the pieces in their less than proper places. This had become the game. Her two small hands against 4 hands atleast twice the size of hers. Hers guided by the frenzy of a new game, theirs by reason and logic and a desperate attempt to salvage what had become quite an interesting game.
"Mia, can we try and keep the pieces on the side?"
This was all that was needed to bring them into the next round of action. Mia began to toss pieces onto the board, knocking several over in the process. John and Jacob abort the rescue mission and focus their efforts on preventing pieces from falling from the table to oblivion. Pawn down. Queen down. Pawn and rook in the empty icecream dish. Arms extended to net flying miniatures.
King down.
"Mia, my dear, it appears you have won.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Unseasonably warm. Over cast, winter trying to regain lost ground. Rain on the air, leaves upturning. Cool in the shadows of drifting clouds. Pleasant, a good day for a walk. Still tipsy from a night of... indiscretion, better not drive. Perfect. Grudgingly--gratefully, depositing three hundred and 6 dollars and seventy two cents. Walking looking seeing.
Truth moves at 3 miles an hour.
He had tested that once, walking beside his bike with the computer registering 2.5 or 3 miles an hour. He wasn't on a quest for truth. But he wouldn't hate to find some. He started his day as per usual, singing, not for the words, but for the beauty, the Doxology. The Doxology of his childhood around the table, but different, gender neutralized... no more masculine pronouns. Oh, and he had taken shots to that song once. The Pater Nostre. Why? For the comfort and the ritual. For the beauty. For forgiveness and daily bread and heaven on earth. Walking down the street he saw the backs of buildings which he had only seen from the front. The old old, flagstone house turned into a shop on the square, turning into a flower pot for reaching vines. The delapidated unexplained shops on the right side of the street. What do they sell there? A sign promising a five hundred dollar reward for the arrest of the arsen of the property. Funny, the building looks pretty good for having been burnt down. Maybe they sell bird baths, lots of those in the front yard. Or maybe collectors? An unfinished foundation. A foundation is no good without a house. What kind of creaturs must live under there? Church bells, 9 oclock. Europe. This feels like a European town, right now in this instant.
Texting. That infernal technology permitting one access to anyone at anytime from anywhere. A tether to friends and family. A damnable distraction destroying real communication. Can he ever be as cool in person as he is in text? The only, not necessarily best, option for instant contact. He grips the phone in his pocket expecting to find warmth because so many warming messages have come via that contraption. No warmth, just plastic and battery and magic.
A vibration. A missed heart beat. A chuckle for the rediculousness. A conversation conveaned.
Truth moves at the speed of text.
She wants to become more involved in her new community. Maybe join the community chorus. It's not about the voice it's about belonging to something, being connected with a civic family. He makes sure that she gets to know the town well to make his transition easier. Meet a girl for me. He gives her guidelines. Moving into a new town, meeting new people, starting over. Definitely an adventure. There in the parking lot of his apartment, a fellow slave, or rather employee. A conversation in full swing. The punchline got quite a reaction, too bad he missed the joke.
"He was a graduate of Cummins. I have students who graduated from Abry and Cummins." He backs up to make his leave, checks himself and returns. "You don't even know what Abry and Cummins are do you?"
"Nope, can't say I do."
"Prisons in south-west Arkansas," pointing to the southwest, that innnate knowledge of directions some people have shining forth, "course we knew he wasn't dangerous, all he'd done was steal a horse trailor. We asked him what he had learned there and he said he learned that your friends will turn on much sooner than those others."
"Well if that's all he learned it didn't do him much good."
"He was a good kid, he took to likin' this girl in class once." He checked himself again, realizing he had started a story that would require some updating, and returned. "Did I tell you I was the principle of Central?"
"Ah, the bears."
"Yeah, that's the right the bears. But elementary school, don't get me confused with those highschool people."
"I won't."
"So he took to likin' this girl. 6'2", 280 pounds."
"Big girl." Said the newcomer to the conversation.
The principle, acknowleding him for the first time, looked at him, winked and said "Yeah, real big girl. She's married now; married an even bigger man, " he said, raising his arms above his head to emphasize the size of this man, "300 pounds and 6'8". So one day, I was writing on the board and I hear this slap. I mean, you knew it was skin on skin. I turned around to see Jimmy shuffling back to his seat. He had gone over there and said something to her. He had been pickin on her a lot before then. I guess she had just had enough of him. She was hunkered down, with her head in her arms, scared you know. I asked her out in the hallway and assured her she wasn't in trouble. She had the right to do it. "
"I'm sure what ever he said or did, he probably deserved it."
"Uh huh, but, she was far from in trouble. Best disciplinarian i've ever had. Never had any more trouble ol' Jimmy. So he ended up graduating from Cummins. Always a bit of a trouble maker. There's always at least one. Sometimes more."
"Especially at Central."
The principle, shuffled away two more times before he finally went about his business.
During the course of this conversation, he recieved another text.
And ignored it.
Truth moves at 3 miles an hour.
He had tested that once, walking beside his bike with the computer registering 2.5 or 3 miles an hour. He wasn't on a quest for truth. But he wouldn't hate to find some. He started his day as per usual, singing, not for the words, but for the beauty, the Doxology. The Doxology of his childhood around the table, but different, gender neutralized... no more masculine pronouns. Oh, and he had taken shots to that song once. The Pater Nostre. Why? For the comfort and the ritual. For the beauty. For forgiveness and daily bread and heaven on earth. Walking down the street he saw the backs of buildings which he had only seen from the front. The old old, flagstone house turned into a shop on the square, turning into a flower pot for reaching vines. The delapidated unexplained shops on the right side of the street. What do they sell there? A sign promising a five hundred dollar reward for the arrest of the arsen of the property. Funny, the building looks pretty good for having been burnt down. Maybe they sell bird baths, lots of those in the front yard. Or maybe collectors? An unfinished foundation. A foundation is no good without a house. What kind of creaturs must live under there? Church bells, 9 oclock. Europe. This feels like a European town, right now in this instant.
Texting. That infernal technology permitting one access to anyone at anytime from anywhere. A tether to friends and family. A damnable distraction destroying real communication. Can he ever be as cool in person as he is in text? The only, not necessarily best, option for instant contact. He grips the phone in his pocket expecting to find warmth because so many warming messages have come via that contraption. No warmth, just plastic and battery and magic.
A vibration. A missed heart beat. A chuckle for the rediculousness. A conversation conveaned.
Truth moves at the speed of text.
She wants to become more involved in her new community. Maybe join the community chorus. It's not about the voice it's about belonging to something, being connected with a civic family. He makes sure that she gets to know the town well to make his transition easier. Meet a girl for me. He gives her guidelines. Moving into a new town, meeting new people, starting over. Definitely an adventure. There in the parking lot of his apartment, a fellow slave, or rather employee. A conversation in full swing. The punchline got quite a reaction, too bad he missed the joke.
"He was a graduate of Cummins. I have students who graduated from Abry and Cummins." He backs up to make his leave, checks himself and returns. "You don't even know what Abry and Cummins are do you?"
"Nope, can't say I do."
"Prisons in south-west Arkansas," pointing to the southwest, that innnate knowledge of directions some people have shining forth, "course we knew he wasn't dangerous, all he'd done was steal a horse trailor. We asked him what he had learned there and he said he learned that your friends will turn on much sooner than those others."
"Well if that's all he learned it didn't do him much good."
"He was a good kid, he took to likin' this girl in class once." He checked himself again, realizing he had started a story that would require some updating, and returned. "Did I tell you I was the principle of Central?"
"Ah, the bears."
"Yeah, that's the right the bears. But elementary school, don't get me confused with those highschool people."
"I won't."
"So he took to likin' this girl. 6'2", 280 pounds."
"Big girl." Said the newcomer to the conversation.
The principle, acknowleding him for the first time, looked at him, winked and said "Yeah, real big girl. She's married now; married an even bigger man, " he said, raising his arms above his head to emphasize the size of this man, "300 pounds and 6'8". So one day, I was writing on the board and I hear this slap. I mean, you knew it was skin on skin. I turned around to see Jimmy shuffling back to his seat. He had gone over there and said something to her. He had been pickin on her a lot before then. I guess she had just had enough of him. She was hunkered down, with her head in her arms, scared you know. I asked her out in the hallway and assured her she wasn't in trouble. She had the right to do it. "
"I'm sure what ever he said or did, he probably deserved it."
"Uh huh, but, she was far from in trouble. Best disciplinarian i've ever had. Never had any more trouble ol' Jimmy. So he ended up graduating from Cummins. Always a bit of a trouble maker. There's always at least one. Sometimes more."
"Especially at Central."
The principle, shuffled away two more times before he finally went about his business.
During the course of this conversation, he recieved another text.
And ignored it.
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