Driven

My physiology professor, Dr. K, has strong opinions.  The first day of class he informed us that he had a parrot at home, a 3 year old daughter, so he would be getting his cussing out of his system during class.  And boy has he.  My favorite quote thus far is "Shit wrapped in vomit wrapped in shit."  That was said while describing a random fruit from Thailand that Andrew Zimmern from Bizarre Foods can't eat because of the smell.  I am 99% convinced I will be tested on that bit of knowledge in our next quiz or possibly the first exam.  And here is another little factoid.... Another percentage (I am learning to love those among other math related objects) 40%.  That's the fail rate of said physiology class.

I love it.

Maybe I am too much of a philosopher, too much of a romantic, or maybe it was just the  endorphins from a good work out in the gym, but I can't look at this class from a purely scientific frame of mind.

N+/K+.  The sodium and potassium pump.  That is a form of primary active transport in our cells.  Three Sodium ions (N+) enter the trans-membrane protein and activate a conformational change of said pump  thanks to the hydrolysis of Adenosine Tri-phosphate, or ATP, the energy required by our cells.  The N+ escape into the extra-cellular fluid and 2 K+ slide in while the door is still open and make their way into the cell.

This is the mechanism which drives electrical currents around and around our bodies through the Central Nervous System and Peripheral Nervous System.  This causes our hearts to beat, our lungs to breath, our muscles to contract... our thoughts.

"Your personality is simply the exchange of K+ and N+.  You are a bunch of chemical reactions.  And I could prove it.  I could change your personality.  With a crayon.  I will shove that crayon up your nose through your skull into your frontal lobe and sever the connections and alter the chemical metabolic pathways, changing you."

OK, Doc... You'll have to get that close to me with a crayon, but let's say I accept your premise, which I have to in order to pass, right?

Me, you, my dog, we are all just chemical processes.

But, why, I must ask, does my dog eat it's own shit, while I am studying my self?  Imagine if you will a skeleton.  Imagine further, that skeleton holding up a skull, a human skull, under a light to get a better look at it, to examine it, to locate the foramen, the stapes, the lambdoid suture.  Why are we the only bunch of neurons studying our own neurons?  Ok, fine, evolution, selection, etc.  I can understand that.  But what makes individuals different?

Why do these chemical reactions and pumps drive some to achieve greatness and others simply crazy?
Why go out of our way to create art?  Why do we enjoy sunsets?  Why music?

Yeah, I don't know either.

I'm back... Maybe.

It has been some time since I last posted.  I've been busy.  I've had a hell of a journey since my last post, actually.  I'm not sad about not writing in here.

Quick up-date though:  I am back in the States, living with Grammy and working as a waiter.

I am profoundly bored.

But not for long.

School starts January 7th.

That's right.  School.  Why?

Nursing.

mhmm.  Nursing.

Quite a radical change from my normal activity.

But, like I said... profoundly bored.

Title

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?

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.

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.

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.  

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.