I haven't written on here in a while. For that I must apologize to myself (and to anyone who read my pointless ramblings). I need to write more; it's good for me.

To restart my writing, I've decided to move my blog to Wordpress: http://jasonlemberg.wordpress.com/

Things will be up and running there soon.

I love these people, come join...

11 performers, 7 months, 3 levels, 1 mind GONE or Who Is It That Can Tell Me Who I Am 3 Weekends ONLY!!! Hello friends & colleagues!

After an extensive amount of research, and over 7 months of exploring process as much as product, we are ready to share with you our second installment in our mutations series Zombies to Alzheimer’s, GONE, or Who Is It That Can Tell Me Who I Am. This has been an incredible learning experience and the variety of perspectives and talents that have joined together to tell this story is thrilling. We hope you will join us for this live performance that is sure to make you question, remember and forget. This production is created with support from the Chicago Park District as part of Chicago Artists Month 2009. Due to multi level traveling we are sorry to say this performance is not wheel chair accessible. MUTATIONS, an art exhibit exploring ideas of mutation and identity will be running along side GONE for the month of October, don’t miss it! Reservations Recommended. All our info below. Hope to see you there! stephanie m. acosta (please reply with "unsubscribe" in the subject heading if you would like to be removed from this list) ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Lucid/Anatomy presents a Lucid Street Theatre / Anatomy Collective creation… Opening This Friday!!!

a Lucid/Anatomy creation

GONE

or Who is it that can tell me who I am?

The Anatomy Collective & Lucid Street Theatre team up once again as Lucid/Anatomy for 3 WEEKENDS ONLY to present GONE, or Who Is It That Can Tell Me Who I Am, traveling through 3 levels of the dynamic Douglas Park Field House as an ensemble of physical theatre artists and musicians explore the ins and outs of memory, and the fascinating ways our brains change. Taking research, interviews, physical explorations of memory, Alzheimer’s Disease, and ‘Pleasant Dementia’ as inspiration, the GONE ensemble will seek to discover what it is that makes us who we are.

Conceived by Stephanie M. Acosta & Lily Emerson

Performed by the Lucid/Anatomy Ensemble

Music Composition & Performance by Charlie Universe & the Little Star Music Box Performances Oct. 2, 3, 9. & 10 @ 7:30pm Douglas Park Field House 1401 S. Sacramento, Chicago, IL 60623 (in partnership w/ the Chicago Park District & Chicago Artists Month) with encore performances Oct. 16 & 17 @ 7:30 @ High Concept Laboratories

$15 suggested donation

Reservations Recommended.

e: info@anatomycollective.org

p: 312/576-2473 All proceeds of GONE will go towards Lucid/Anatomy's upcoming production Part III. FOR MORE INFO check out: www.anatomycollective.org OR lucidstreet.org 1. *Mutation. noun 2. 1. cells that have undergone mutation ALTERATION, change, variation, modification, transformation, metamorphosis, transmutation; humorous transmogrification. 3. 2. a genetic mutation MUTANT, freak (of nature), deviant, monstrosity, monster, anomaly. Media Contact Stephanie M. Acosta 312.623.0874 info@anatomycollective.org -- AND DON’T MISS -- MUTATIONS an art exhibit… Opens this Saturday October 3rd @ the Douglas Park Field House OPENING RECEPTION Saturday October 3rd , 4-7pm *followed by a performance of GONE or Who Is It That Can Tell Me Who I Am @ 7:30pm. Mutations, an art exhibit, is a group show, curated to run along side the Chicago Artists Month showing of GONE, or Who Is It That Can Tell Me Who I Am, the part II in Lucid/Anatomy’s performance series Zombies to Alzheimer’s, exploring the theme of mutation in it’s many forms. We are thrilled to be displaying work from varied mediums and styles, pushing the question of mutation out of its proverbial box and asking questions on development vs. devolution, self vs. identity, and much more. Please join us for opening reception on October 3rd 4-7pm and stay for the performance! Mutations will run from October 3rd – October 22nd as participants of Chicago Artist Month 2009. Location: Douglas Park Field House 1401 S. Sacramento Dr. Chicago, IL 60623 Exhibiting Artists: (listed in alphabetical order) Johnathan Franklin – photo-collage Liz Gresey - photography James Pepper Kelly - photography Jennifer Lenihan - painting Mark Nelson - painting Mark Porter - sculpture Allison Rhodes – painting & photography Shawn Sargent - photography Priti Srivastava – multi-media Victor Velez - painting Eun Yeung - sculpture This exhibit is supported by Douglas Park and the Chicago Park District. Thank you and we look forward to seeing you there. stephanie m. acosta curator

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stephanie m. acosta Founding-Artistic Director the Anatomy Collective

clever tagline not included

www.anatomycollective.org

I try to not fade away from my online musings, but I do and for that I apologize.

To start this writing back up, I present:

Шекспир „18” Сравню ли с летним днем твои черты? Но ты милей, умеренней и краше. Ломает буря майские цветы, И так недолговечно лето наше! То нам слепит глаза небесный глаз, То светлый лик скрывает непогода. Ласкает, нежит и терзает нас Своей случайной прихотью природа. А у тебр не убывает день, Не увядает солнечное лето. И сметная тебя не скроет тень — Ты будешь вечно жить в строках поэта. Среди живых ты будешь до тех пор, Доколе дышит грудь и видит взор.

And some things I wrote down about a month ago:

August 27, 2009 9:45 PM Every generation laments the shortcomings of the newest generation: “The good ol’ days.” Everything from Rock and Roll to the current Healthcare debate seems to have elements of humanity’s perpetual love of “what was” and a struggle coming to terms with “what is.”

August 28, 2009

11:00 AM If their so big on personal freedoms and less government, then why the restrictions on marriage preferences and babys’ rights?

11:30 AM O N E Y E A R A G O T O D A Y I R E T U R N E D T O M Y H O M E L A N D. K G, I M I S S Y O U; U S A, W E A R E L E A R N I N G T O L O V E.

August 29, 2009 8:30 AM My question for all of us is: what’s the alternative?

July 24, 2009 6:00 PM The City Stoop Generations mingle—gripes and glories—with a lifetime of seeing everything pass them.

July 27, 2009 6:10 PM “The consequence of this commodification of culture on the part of the city and developers may be the eventual displacement of the same heritage they are promoting.” - Quoted from ‘Gentrification before Gentrification? The Plight of Pilsen in Chicago’ Andrew Taylor sent me the essay above. I’m only thirty pages into the report but I really like what I’ve read so far. The report, while having a few questionable grammatical blunders (seriously, though, who am I to talk?), is a well-researched report on gentrification. A UIC professor and some of his students performed and published the report in the Summer of 2005. I will not comment on the essay as a whole until I finish but I want to briefly comment on the line quoted above. This quote resonated with some critical elements of my life over the past few years. From my time in Kyrgyzstan I learned about the damaging effects of a country’s perpetual inability to merge its various histories with its present identity. This was one of the major factor in its failures with the tourism industry—the most lucrative economic tool it may have besides gold and coal. In Pilsen, the gentrification debate has been brewing for years now. It’s hard to really know what side of the debate I’m on. Five years ago I might have been a one of a handful of non-Mexican residents in the neighborhood. Now I’m part of the fastest growing residential groups here. A lot us that have moved into the neighborhood have done so as a backlash against the commercialization of other Chicago neighborhoods. We seem to have been drawn to the roots laid down by the Czech, Polish, and Mexican immigrants of the past. We were drawn by a culture outside of the mainstream. There is a lot of history in Pilsen and few commercial businesses. There are few, if any, buildings here over four stories (though they loom next door in University Village). The streets are filled with families and schools; they are draw of this community—generations of families that have established businesses, restaurants, congregations, and celebrations. The obvious irony is that the more people like us that move into the neighborhood, the more the color changes. We do our best to eat, drink, or shop local, but I fear that may not always be enough. Our presence alone may not raise rent or property taxes, but those of us that aren’t rooted in the heritage of Pilsen were drawn here by it; and in being here we are playing a role in displacing the same heritage we promote and love. More on this topic will come in time, if not in a timely manner (especially as I finish the essay and do some more research). 6:45 PM Since I referenced A.T.T. above, in his honor I will now post lyrics to a band I’ve listened to enough now to be a fan:

The National Green Gloves Falling out of touch with all my friends are somewhere getting wasted, hope they’re staying glued together, I have arms for them. Take another sip of them, it floats around and takes me over like a little drop of ink in a glass of water Get inside their clothes with my green gloves watch their videos, in their chairs. Get inside their beds with my green gloves Get inside their heads, love their loves. Cinderella through the room I glide and swan cause I’m the best slow dancer in the universe Falling out of touch with all my friends are somewhere getting wasted, hope they’re staying glued together, I have arms for them. Get inside their clothes with my green gloves watch their videos, in their chairs. Get inside their beds with my green gloves Get inside their heads, love their loves. Now I hardly know them and I’ll take my time I’ll carry them over, and I’ll make them mine. Get inside their clothes with my green gloves watch their videos, in their chairs. Get inside their beds with my green gloves Get inside their heads, love their loves. 7:30 PM I’m sitting here right now, slightly entranced by the redundant music of the ice cream truck, and it just struck me how much of a cultural institution the ice cream truck is. That fucking song has been around for so long (and plays so much throughout a given day) that most residents of my neighborhood align it with ambient noise. It’s like the sound of a river—a sweet, frozen, painfully coercive river that feeds off the sweet-teeth/minds of children (and the pockets of parents). I love that truck; honestly. People that need to pay homage to the ice cream truck: A Bob Dylan song: “We All Scream” NPR and All Things Considered Story: Ice Cream Trucks and How Hell Froze Over Onion Article: Guantanamo Inmates New Location in Candy Land Driving Ice Cream Trucks Gabriel Garcia Marquez book: One Hundred Years of Solid Ann Coulter Interview/Excretion of Shit Quote: “Ice cream trucks, by their happiness, colorful signs and music, support homosexuality. All ice cream trucks should be painted red, white, and blue and only be allowed to play variations of God Bless America.” (OK, maybe this is not an homage and just playful banter with Ann.) July 30, 2009 7:15 PM Last night I took Manas for a walk around the neighborhood. He and I both needed to get outside. It was a beautiful summer evening and I wanted to go see if the construction of the nearby partk(Harrison Park) had been finished. It was not (they have been aerating and improving the drainage at the park, preparing for winter). While we were at the park I was shocked by how many people were out there. There had to be five hundred people: a girls softball game, four half-court basketball games, a pickup volleyball game, two games of tennis, kids everywhere, of every age, with every kind of ball imaginable, tamale and snow cone vendors, and other random park wanderers. Trying to avoid clichés, I can honestly say I was entranced by the scene. The purity of a summer evening was is a beautiful thing to watch. People were outside for the enjoyment of each other and the venue that the summer evening had granted them. Naturally I was drawn to the inhibition of childhood everywhere. I don’t know if it’s my age, but I’ve begun to notice quantity of kids much clearer lately. There were kids everywhere; it was a calming and detaching sight to see. August 3, 2009 7:00 PM Listening to the news for the past year, especially pertaining to Illinois, has continuously brought me back to a popular question I was asked in Kyrgyzstan: “Do you have corruption in America?” My answer to them was always, “Yes, but it’s different.” I never really knew how it was different, so I usually tried to change the topic. I’ve finally moved beyond the wall of my ignorance (in this topic at least) and have fully accepted the truth: There is nothing different. In both places—and the world at-large—money gets passed under the tables, being well-connected often means more than being well-qualified, and power is as much an image as it is leadership. An amended conversation with my host family:

Host Father: Do you have corruption in America? Me: Sadly, yes. Corruption in America is really no different than here. Host Mom: Really?!?! Corruption in America is the same as in Kyrgyzstan? Me: In America we use more money, that’s it. In America as it is in Kyrgyzstan it seems that if someone is willing to pay for what they want, there are people willing to take their money in order to give it to them [Writer’s Note: I prided myself in my spoken Kyrgyz, but I doubt I could’ve pulled off this sentence]. Host Father: What about families? In your cities do families give other family members jobs? Me: Yes. In English it’s called Nepotism. Host Father: Nehpoeteezm? Me: Correct. In America we do the same thing. I hate it in both places.

July 15, 2009 7:30 PM I open my two months of silence with a quote: “Education had not entirely elevated my concerns in life. It had probably not even assisted my analyses of these concerns. I was too fresh from childhood. Subconsciously, my deepest brain still a cupboard of fairy tales, I suppose I believed that if a pretty woman was no longer pretty she had done something bad to deserve it. I had a young girl’s belief that this kind of negative aging would never happen to me. Death would happen to me—I knew this from reading British poetry. But the drying, hunching, blanching, hobbling, fading, fattening, thinning, slowing? I would just not let those things happen to moi.” - “Childcare” – Lorrie Moore, The New Yorker Suddenly I’ve found myself a month away from being in the US for a year. I have not been in Kyrgyzstan for the past year. (Where have I been?) Since my return, I’ve obviously not been able to rid myself of the ridiculous habit of counting days. I remember in KG when I went from counting days to weeks to months, to years…nd then I was home.

Since I’ve been home this hasn’t changed. The difference now is I’m counting away from something. August 28, the date I returned from, is a memory in the fading horizon. Part of me is bothered by my inability to pull myself from the past. There’s also a part of me that loves how vivid and real my life in the Kyrgyz Republic still is. At some point I need give up a little of my attachment. I imagine the limbs of past and future reaching out to hold on to every memory they can. (Yes, my future has memories—they’re just not mine yet.) I’ve heard there is some equation for the allotted time of recovery after a break-up. I’m not sure if I fall within the given time for such recovery, but I’m starting to feel like a star high school quarterback who never made it out of his shoulder pads. My relationship with KG was a rough one at times; rough in the way my teenage years were. There had never been a time before KG when I was forced to explore the extreme limits of my personal humanity. There were times I hated it: the isolation…the people…the fear. Like my teens, every moment that seemingly tore at my stability was just peeling off the layers of my insecurities and piling them at the foundation of my character. My insecurities didn’t detach willingly, but they now serve as the support for my future endeavors. Whether or not the lessons I learned were a result of the Kyrgyz culture or the time away from home is a debate Fiona and I frequently have. I’ve obviously romanticized certain aspects of my service since I’ve been home. I’ve talked to her a lot about whether or not my love for the lessons I learned have overshadowed elements to Kyrgyzstan I didn’t like. In my stubborn attempts to find the good in everything, I believe I’ve relinquished some my ability to critically discriminate. I know there are aspects and situations from my two years in KG that I’ve pushed out of my head in order to find a certain level of contentment. Since I’ve home and met a great deal of other RPCVs I have wondered what the results of my service would have been if I served in Fiji, or Guinea, or El Salvador? Would I be saying the same things about my two years abroad if I was in a different hemisphere? Obviously I can’t really answer any of those questions. In all honesty, I’m learning to hate questions like those; they remind me of over-the-top theoretical questions in sociology like: “If a child were raised free from any influence by society, could s/he still develop survival skills?” The child has been outrun by society; even offspring of the most remote cultures face influence from a world they can’t escape. My path has carried me well beyond the thoughts of “if I was somewhere else.” I am here now, and I can only be here. I know some things for sure: I still feel pain when I think about Sezim, I miss the mountains, and I long for a world without a need for time. I shared my soul with many people there and they shared back. That I can never leave, even if I wanted to.

8:00 PM This past Sunday I was sitting in a church. It was the first Christian service I’ve attended since the Christmas of 2005. I didn’t attend on purpose. A childhood family friend was up from Texas having her child baptized. Since the baby’s godparents could not make the trip up from Texas, I asked to be one of the stand-in godparents. I agreed to it, and it wasn’t until 9 AM on Sunday as I was driving back to Des Plaines to meet my parents before the baptism did is hit me: “The baptism starts at 10 AM…on a Sunday…in a church. I am attending a church service.” The church where the baptism was taking place was no ordinary church. The church—St. Andrews Lutheran Church in Park Ridge—was where my brothers and I were all baptized, the church we grew up in, the church my father grew up in, the church where my grandmother, great aunt, and great uncle’s funeral services were all held. I was actually at the church a few weeks prior for my Great Uncle Al’s funeral service. This church has memories and stories; most of them went rushing through my head on Sunday morning as I tried to distract myself from the service. I had convinced myself that there was nothing for me in a church. I entered church with the staunch belief that my meditation could happen outside the halls of God. I left church wondering if maturity had taught me a few lessons. When I sat down for the service I had every intention of observing the architecture, critiquing the grammar of the hymnals, and people watching/fictionalizing. I participated in all three of during the service but somewhere in the middle of pastor’s sermon I realized he was a great storyteller. He took as story in the bible and then related it to a congregation’s daily lives. This wasn’t very different from what financial analysts do with data, what teachers do with lessons, or what artists do with inspiration. His sermon was good. It was about Daniel and the Lion’s Den. A good ol’ Biblical story about standing up for what you believe in. I looked at him mid-way through his sermon and hated that such a great form of storytelling had become the victim of it’s own greed and inability to adapt. I wondered what if it was that which had build up my resistance to the church. Why did I walk into the church earlier that morning determined to uncover every fault I could find? The church can be a good place for people, a needed place for some. It may not be my cup of tea (I prefer my tea with lemon and honey), but it can be a place of great craft and, more importantly, a place to promote harmony with self and the environment. This is something I need to keep reminding myself of (while keeping a critical eye on aspects of the church that I don’t agree with). In my conversations—with God, gods, and self—on Sunday, one thought of mine stayed with me: Do pastors get healthcare from the church? What about other benefits – 401K, company car, clothing per diem? How does a pastor make a living? Prior to the service we were all going through a baptismal “rehearsal” and the pastor mentioned he was retired. How does someone who dedicates his life to God retire?

9:00 PM In Sunday School we used to have a yearly balloon releasing event in the Spring. Every balloon had a personalized message from a student, a bible verse, and the church’s contact info. I wonder if anyone ever picked up the balloons I let go and called the church. There were hundreds of us; everyone had at least one balloon. Where did the balloons fall? Did they ever make it outside the city limits? I bet someone has attached a GPS device to balloons that they have let go. I wonder if there’s an online balloon tracker for Sunday school kids now (maybe an iPhone app). I bet if Facebook existed back then it would have been easier for people to contact us after they found the balloon. Fresh with life the balloons rush towards the sun. In time they slowly shrivel and drop; some drop in the arms of humanity and others litter empty fields.

July 16, 2009 9:45 PM Had some interesting conversations with the Lemberg boys tonight. Among a long list of things we discussed, Casey raised the question “If hell broke loose and World War III began followed by a reinstatement of the draft, would you join the military or take off to Canada?” This led to a debate about what it means to serve your country. Casey and Matthew said they would join. I said I would volunteer to work in some way to help, but I would not take up a weapon. Maybe I would just take the brothers and start our own war.

July 20, 2009 8:45 AM I had a dream last night. I was somewhere with a large group of talented musicians. We were in a house (a log cabin?), maybe in a city. At some point the group of musicians decided to make a set list for an in-house performance. They asked me to perform on one of their songs and read some poetry. The musicians started playing and then all of the sudden I got a call from my father to come meet him. In dreamtime I was transported to where he was, near the edge of the city. We were hiking in a wooded area, making our way to a giant sinkhole. There was a roaring river pouring thousands of gallons of water down the hole. The whole time we were walking around I kept checking my watch; I still was scheduled to perform with the musicians. After we saw the sinkhole we started walking back to the house where the musicians were. I was in a rush, not wanting to miss a chance to perform with them. I kept thinking, “this is my chance to prove I can hang artistically.” By the time I reached the house I had no idea where my father was. I rushed into the house just in time to begin the set they had invited me to join. I stepped up to the mic and opened my mini notebook. While the music was playing, I kept looking for a sign in the music or from one of the musicians for my cue to begin reading. I did that for the entirety of the song, never opening my mouth. The dream ended with me saying nothing and the music fading out.

8:30 PM Nirvana performing The Meat Puppets’ Plateau in 1994: Many a hand has scaled the grand old face of the plateau Some belong to strangers and some to folks you know Holy ghosts and talk show hosts are planted in the sand To beautify the foothills and shake the many hands

The nothing on the top but a bucket and a mop And an illustrated book about birds You see a lot up there but don't be scared Who needs action when you got words

When you've finished with the mop then you can stop And look at what you've done The plateau's clean, no dirt to be seen And the work it was fun

The nothing on the top but a bucket and a mop And an illustrated book about birds You see a lot up there but don't be scared Who needs action when you got words

Well the many hands began to scan around for the next plateau Some said it was in Greenland and some say Mexico Others decided it was nowhere except for where they stood But those were all just guesses, wouldn't help you if they could

** My interest with great people consumed by the world around them is becoming an obsession. Whether or not it’s suicide or assassination, the friction of change and greatness greatly fascinate me. The sacrifices people make to challenge embedded stigmas and false realities are beyond understanding in my youthful state. This is a journey I will be embarking on for the rest of my life. Commence exploration** The great “consumed” people I’ve though about the most in the past few years: - Mahatma Gandhi - Martin Luther King Jr. - Kurt Cobain - Benazir Bhutto - The girl driven to hang herself in southern Kyrgyzstan to avoid shaming her family.

July 22, 2009 8:30 PM Sometimes I look at people I don’t know and feel like I should.

May 4, 2009 6:15 PM

With so much talk in the media these days about how the Obama administration is going to “deal with” the so-called integrations atrocities of the Bush administration, I’ve been thinking a lot recently about what it is that brought us to where we are today.  In other less wordy words: How did we get here?  In my opinion, the debate most often revolves around America’s “house being broken into” on September 11 and the resulting response of our nation.  A great many people were blinded by their post 9-11 patriotism, (myself included) which lead to certain leniencies given to military and governmental organizations.  Torture has been a major focal point in recent years as an example of where maybe a bit too much leniency was given (wire-tapping and everything to do with the Patriot Act being some other examples).  I do not wish to debate the need for torture or its moral standing.  What I’ve noticed of late has been a drive to find the source of our torture and other morally questionable acts. Intellectual discourse, as it so often does, seems to focus on the foundations of our present state.  The most obvious answers seem to be what I first mentioned.  We were attacked and we responded.  The “enemy” came into our home and attacked our way of life.  We were not going to let invasion sit stagnant, so we responded.  They crossed our borders, so we were justified crossing into theirs.  In the public sphere, the dialogue on historical thinking seems to stop there.  The media, liberal and conservative, lay it all out plain and simple:  The enemy attacked, we responded using all means necessary – even the ethically questionable acts of torture and “harsh interrogation.” What I want to know is why, as a nation, are we not discussing why “they” are our enemy?  More importantly, why were they our enemy pre 9-11?  If the Taliban, Al-Queada, or any Radical Islamic group hated us, why?  What is it that led that a group of men to put so much thought and planning into killing our citizens?  They did not attack armed soldiers.  They were willing to sacrifice their lives in support of an international radical movement and in support of a greater cause: in honor of their god.  I want to know why. I ask all of these questions because I honestly want to know.  What is it that has fueled so much hatred towards America over the years?  Like any great musician, author, teacher, athlete, or banker, we owe it to ourselves to examine our past, present, and future.  I’m sure there have been countless Masters’ theses written on the questions I’ve asked above.  How many people will really read or discuss theses written by a small pocket of liberal academics.  I would love to read some of them, but not everyone is interested in hundred page dissertations.  Some people love sports.  Others love art.  And still others love their kids and movies. The national discourse on America’s image needs to be unlocked from the halls of academia.  We need to stop relying on shock-jocks and narcissistic leaders for direction.   May 7, 2009 6:30 PM People make the best, and the worst, of their situations.  In my present battles with developing a sense of now I’m trying to move beyond the constant inner struggle of where I’m at and begin exercises in relativity.  It’s still tough for me to look at the paved roads of Chicago and not think, “so many people don’t appreciate what they have underneath their feet.”  Infrastructure, even in the form of paved roads, is abundant in this country.  From what I’ve seen around the world, this is not the norm.  The majority of the world does not have the ability to indulge in the every day allowances that infrastructure provides. Even with that being said, I still don’t have the right, internal as it may be, to look at my city and assume abject ignorance.   There are around seven million people living in Chicago and the majority of them live within the only circumstances they’ve ever known – for better or worse.  The pains and joys of life for many in Chicago are determined by the city that surrounds them.  In many ways the cultural currents of Chicago, and arguably all of America, have worn the lives of many into inescapable ruts.  Culture can be beautiful, but it can also be a trap. Since I’ve been home from Kyrgyzstan, I’ve been bothered by how a city with public transportation, running water, and constant electricity can have gripes about poverty and economic struggles.  Naïve as that may have been, it was tough to see SO. MUCH. STUFF. in this country and still see people complaining.  My exercises with relativity have begun by looking at my present and past environments with critical empathy rather than narrow judgment.   The community I lived with in Kyrgyzstan or the children I met in Vietnam have relatively little compared to what even some of the poorest people in Chicago have  (materialistically).  It may sound like a rich American justifying his wealth, but I would argue that my family in Kyrgyzstan and children from Vietnam all lead rich lives. During the Spring of 2004 I was fortunate enough to spend a week in Vietnam.  While there I traveled around Ho Chi Mihn City visiting a college, the bazaar, as well as volunteering a day of my time to hang out with a group of children from a deaf children’s school.  For a day I was assigned a “sister” for a trip to a local theme park.  We were there in the middle of a workday so our group of about fifty people (half college students I was with and half elementary school students from the school) had full reign of the park.  I spent the day literally being dragged around the park by my “sister.”  We ran from ride to ride, snack stand to carnival game.  The park was a surreal Vietnamese translation of a Western theme park.. The images of uniqueness have faded from my immediate memory, but the likeness of my “sister” from that day has not left.  We ran, played, and talked all day through sketched caricatures and hand gestures.  She chose her snacks with winces and smiles; I shared my fatigue and joy with non-verbal gasps and over-the-top miming.  By the time we returned to their school, students and “counselors” alike were drained.  While at the school, we were all given time to hang out and relax before our goodbyes.  I remember watching as the kids departed one-by-one – being picked up by their parents – and thinking, “I wonder what they’re having for dinner.” Five years later that thought has stuck with me.  After a day of games and theme-park rides I had removed the fact that the students at the school were deaf or living in poverty.  I saw them without a handicap or a cultural separation.  They were kids being picked up by their parents after a field trip.  They would share stories with their parents about their day, eat dinner, and eventually go to bed. Four years after that day in Vietnam, I would be spending my final days in the small Kyrgyz village I had lived in for the previous two years.  It was August; the days were long and work in the field was plenty.  From sunrise to sunset the village was busy with the repetitions of crop maintenance and caring for livestock.  My host family often played double duty, tending to their personal summer duties, as well as caring for the family farm my host father and his brothers own.  I had been told in late June that my service would be ending August 22.  As July ended and August was launched I distinctly remember the overwhelming distaste I had over my host family.  They were engrossed in their inevitable summer duties, lost in the whirlwind of their daily tasks.  My departure seemed to be the last thing on their minds.  Taking care of kids and grandparents, preparing food for the winter, and tending to other village duties filed their nighttime gaps of time. I had spent two years living with my host family and I felt like I had developed a familial relationship with them.  I was baffled that my impending departure barely registered on their thought stream.  I remember my host father repeatedly telling me, “You are going home soon!”  It was if he was excited for me to go home.  Seriously, what father gets excited that his son is leaving? With every task I accomplished in preparation for my departure the presence of my fear revealed it structure.  The heavier my fear grew, the more I noticed the inattentiveness of my host family.  For the first time in my life I was struggling with leaving a place I didn’t want to leave and longing to return to my home, a place I so desperately missed.  Void of any grand epiphany, I remember one day waking up with the grand realization that Kyrgyz people don’t know how to say goodbye – no one ever leaves!  This palpable reality sunk into me with the grace of silk.  My host family wasn’t avoiding or disregarding my departure; they didn’t know how to deal with it. In Kyrgyzstan, no one leaves.  Some family members may go away to school, and the lucky ones may work abroad.  No matter where they go, most eventually return to their home.  Upon a departure of any kind, one of the most commonly used phrases is “go and come back well.”  There really is no direct word or phrase in Kyrgyz that combines the notion of good and bye.  They have “Go well,” “Stay well,” and even “See you soon.”  To get a ‘goodbye’ in Kyrgyzstan you need to pull from Russian.  All of the sudden the actions of my host family were attached to an entire cultural barrier rather than the action of coarse parents.  Once I understood that my selfishness was playing a factor in souring my departure, I began actively searching for ways to engage my host family in conversations reminiscing about our time together, drinking copious of amounts of tea, and joking about how we would stay in touch once I returned to the US using Air Force One as our transport. Being home now for nearly nine months, I can look back on this and realize how dedicated the Kyrgyz people are to their families.  There are a lot of cultural currents at play, but all in all Kyrgyz people are generally familial stalwarts.  Children are born, raised, have children of their own, and take care of their parents in an age-old cycle.  The country may not have the infrastructure we do in the US, but they have a rich tradition of family.  Running water and electricity may have its problems in Kyrgyzstan, but the relationships and friendships developed in villages are carried from birth to death.  They lead rich lives, as much as they may not know it. In that same vain of “looking back,” I’ve been trying to make a concerted effort to pull myself out of the judgmental rut I’ve been in since I’ve been home.  One of my relativity exercises has to examine the struggles of families and individuals in Chicago.  When the recession started to monopolize the news this past fall, I remember being bothered by hearing stories of people who were struggling to make ends meet.  Every newspaper and radio station touted heartstring stories about people who could barely afford groceries or were debating who would be the next billionaire to become a millionaire.  My backlash was mostly internal, but there were brief moments of rage that spilled into my writing and my relationships.  I couldn’t grasp how can anyone struggle in our society?  There is so much development here.  My default thoughts reverted back the only things I had known for the previous two years.  It felt preposterous to think someone could have problems of any kind in this country.  In essence, I had assumed the role of an outsider looking in on my own culture.  From Central Asia all I saw were the golden paved roads of America.   As wrong and ignorant as those thoughts may have been, I don’t really know how I could’ve avoided them.  I was resisting my assimilation back into Chicago and back into my homeland.  I look at those thoughts now and realize how little relativity there was in them.  The empathy I had worked so hard to develop over the previous two years was crushed during my reentry into American culture. Like any great writer (and I want to be one!) I should have waited to write about my experience after its occurrence rather than during it.  Thus is the fault of many students learning their craft.  Looking over the last nine months now and the general pastoral of America, I’m finding myself regaining vital empathy and developing new tools of criticism. All in all, it’s difficult to be judgmental of a country and a culture that seems to have developed like the streets of Boston.  In Chicago we are blessed with a grid cut with sporadic diagonals. Find the block number and you can pretty quickly pinpoint your location.  Boston or many European cities have the feel of cites that were started with a core and then incompatibly developed around the core.  There is a beauty in the organized chaos of those cities, but they lack inevitably lack grid-like order and it takes years to develop a sense of direction. The American culture feels much like a haphazardly developed city.  Development – socially, industrially, economically – has happened so fast in our nation that a lot has gotten lost in the noise.  Anything hastily built will have weaknesses.  As a nation we’ve been full steam ahead for our brief three hundred year existence. Our foundations are weak and every day we chug along is another day’s worth of scenery left behind.  Along the way there have been many cracks in the paint; cracks often covered with a cheap coat. The cracks are bound to resurface and many often do on a reoccurring basis. There are many people struggling in this country; people that have been lost in the system and don’t have means nor the know-how to find their way out.  Some of these people make the best of their situations and some make the worst.  And still others have no option but to take what the city around them allows them to have and hope they can get by. I love the people of our country.  I love the cultures that are the mosaic of America.  We have faults and it is the duty of those that can fight for change to do so.  Apathy, if left unchecked, will hack away at our shaky foundation.  If there ever was a time to open the dialogues and break the fears of our population, now is the time – no matter when now is.

April 30The new project.

April 19, 2009 2:30 PM Is it better to be brutally honest, even if the honesty may pervade ignorance or damaging truths, or to be fake and hide true feelings of deep-rooted prejudices in order to create harmony? This question has been around in various forms since the dawn of time.  Hollywood has long since exploited this theme and everyone from Shakespeare (‘To be, or not to be...) to Nora Roberts has built storylines around it.  Doctors employ it with dying patients and teachers utilize it with teaching their students the lessons of life. This also happens to be a debate my father and I, and much of America, are having in various fashions in response to the differences between Obama and Bush’s approaches to international diplomacy.  “Bush was honest and spoke what he believed in,” my father told me the other night.  “He may have been politically incorrect, but at least he didn’t bow to foreign leaders or pander to the egos of dictators,” he continued.  My father, and seemingly much of the conservative base of America, believes our current President is traversing the globe bashing America and, literally, bowing to foreign leaders. My gut reaction to my father was to retort with a line I grew up hearing from him: “Never back anyone into a corner.”  From cats to dictators, if you back someone into a corner, they will kick and scratch and fight their way out.  There is nowhere to go in a corner; if you happen to be the one pushing towards the corner you better be ready for the survival response from the person being pushed.  I feel as if the past few decades we taken the stance in American foreign policy that since we happen to be one of the most developed nations on the planet, we have the right to lecture the world on their actions both in and outside of their own country.  This is a generalization; not everything we’ve done abroad has been in the form of dictation.  In the conversations with my father we’ve debated the specific approaches to of the Bush and Obama administrations. What I see is Obama trying to facilitate peace through compromise and understanding.  My father sees Obama lying and hiding things from both sides (the “them and us” scenario).  I see what Bush was doing was displaying America as ignorant and arrogant.  My father saw Bush as saying what was on his mind, even if it wasn’t always correct, and reclaiming America’s role in the world as number one. Personally I thought Bush was an idiot.  That doesn’t mean I entirely disagree with my father.  There is something to be said about laying all of your feelings and thoughts on the table.  They may be painful to hear, but in the end they may build stronger ties of trust.  I would disagree that Obama is lying or masking his true feelings.  To please all sides, though, there is inevitably the need to compromise.  My only hope is that give and take will stay consistent; from both sides.   April 27, 2009 6:40 PM There are days when this place still feels like a false reality.  I know the things I’m doing and the people I talk to are real.  I can touch the pen I write with and smell the coffee I drink.  The air I breathe is there so as long as my lungs still rise and release. All of these objects, the responses by my senses…there are days when all of this feels like a post-op anesthesia induced conversation with reality.  I feel aware of who I am and where I am standing, but the things that come out of my mouth and the people I talk to are all part of the dream.  There is an endless supply of stimulation day in and day out in this city I live.  When every sense in my body is heightened at once an emotional vertigo consumes everything in me.  It takes all the will power I have to hold at bay a drastic out-lash or complete mental shutdown.  The presence of all this stimulation is too much to makes sense of; the neurons in my head were not for this. I would like to think I jumped back into my life in America too fast.  I expected there to be a few missteps, but I figured in a few months I would regain stride.  I’ve taken my fair share of emotional missteps since I’ve been home; the regaining of stride hasn’t happened as I expected.  Now nine months (!!!!) removed from my return home, I’m trying to come to terms that I may never regain stride.  I’ve tried to regret how I returned home and dove right back into my life here.  There was really no other way I could’ve gone about my transition.  There is nothing to regret.  I came home to a great situation.  Which makes all this that much scarier knowing there was an inevitability to what I’m experiencing. As a kid I used to close my eyes while lying in bed and, on the scariest nights, the room around me would feel smaller and smaller.  My body would expand and all sense of equilibrium would be lost.  I eventually lost those sensations as I grew up.  It’s back. There are days now when, in the middle of a crowded public scene, let’s say on the CTA El, the crushing feeling of the world around me will return.  I will feel my body tense up and as my vision is morphed.  The world around me starts to look like a picture taken through a fish-eye lens.  I could close my eyes while all this is happening, but that brings back too many memories of the times this used to happen as a kid.  My beloved crowds on the El unknowingly team up to threaten both my personal space and emotional stability.  When this painfully simple mode of mass transit is packed, and the world starts to overwhelm me, the only thing I can see is the grime of condensed humanity and subversive advertisements.  Clinging to the nearest infected pole is all I can do to not drop to floor and curl up into the fetus position.  The relative stability of the grease-coated railings soothes the pressure pinching my skin and tugging at my belt. My failing sense of balance is heightened and overwhelmed with inwards cries of love and rage.  By the time my stop arrives I stumble out the doors, knowing that train will carry that moment forever. On the days I find myself fighting this inner battle are the days when I question my reality.  How can a world so real feel so painfully detached from what my body can handle?

April 27, 2009 8:50 PM In the back of Billy Collin’s collection of poetry entitled, “Sailing Alone Around the Room” there is a quote originally written by Fernando Pessoa.  The quote has stuck with me ever since I first read it during my freshman year of college.  It reads: “Life would be unbearable if we made ourselves conscious of it.” As evidence to how long this quote has been circulating in my head, I wrote a poem inspired by the quote for a literary magazine my junior year entitled, “Coffee with Fernando.”  The poem (edited for layout, not content): “Coffee With Fernando” Perched atop leftovers of the days beauty, The sun presents it grand finale  during my evening coffee. A fitting pair mirroring what I dread and dream about. The mug to my lips, I sit and gaze.  The sun hands off its power to the evening moon. Weaved into the curves of my coffee’s steam is the blurry background of the horizon tugging at the sun; the ending of day accompanying me in the solitude of my evening. I could end this day as I aim to do with most— escaping unbearable realities in my coffee. In the seclusion of my scene every unconscious moment of my day follows the acidic coffee down. Nothing will remove the realities that linger. There is too much for peace, even in my relaxation. For twenty-five minutes a day with my evening caffeine I search for a moment to retire from reality. I aim for unconsciousness, fearing distance from what I know and devastation from what I don’t. I  want to be conscious of it, but I am only one.

In other words: ignorance is bliss? This quote has seemingly cycled through my thoughts as I’ve cycled through stages of my life. I’ve realized, no matter what cycle I’ve been in during the past 8 years, I’m always trying to find the balance between ignorance and pure consciousness.  There are days when I feel like life is unbearable, and there are days when anything and everything lights up my heart. Eventually this leads me to wonder if I worry about the pains in the world because I can or because I chose to.  I would like to think my struggles with what others don’t have, not my shame with what I have, is the motivating factor behind my desire to help others.  I know this is not always the case.  I can worry about the world because the weight of the world is not pressing down on me.  I want to absorb the pains of others, but I am not sure that is my right or even within my abilities. 

I've been having conversations with inanimate objects for a good part of my adult life.  It's time to start documenting what's said.  One day I may have to defend myself in a court of law or write a biography of steel.  Whatever the future holds, this will serve as my vault:

http://conversationswithinanimateobjects.blogspot.com/

No lies - weekly postings every Friday.

March 24, 2009   10:00 PM   When I sit down to write, I have a thousand things I want to say and I don’t know how to say them.  I want to share the thoughts in my head, spill the dreams I’ve uncovered, but all that usually comes out is childish descriptions of the rain.   I can write.  I know that.  But what do I write?  How do I write?   I so badly want to be something.  I think about what other people do and think, “What do they do?”  Then I try to think about what it is that I “do.”  Why can’t I just be and stop worrying about what I do?     Me:  Fiona, what do you think?   Fiona:  I think you think too much.   Me:  Seriously, what is this obsession of mine to discover who I am?   Fiona:  I am sure you’ve heard the phrase, “I think therefore I am.”   Me: Yeah, I’ve heard it.   Fiona:  Well, start there.   Me:  Where?   Fiona:  Start with what you already do too much: think.  From there, you need to search for your being.  Stop trying so hard to discover the meaning to everything you do.  I watch you day in and day out as you tell yourself you believe in living life like the wind.  Stop saying it and start living it.  What are you scared of?   Me:  If I am scared I don’t know of what.  More importantly, I don’t even see it as fear.   Fiona:  More importantly…why?   Me:  I guess I could call my restraint a form of fear, but it just doesn’t seem to me like fear.   Fiona:  Fear doesn’t have to the Blair Witch or Freddy.  Fear can be the chains you are scared to unlock.  You say you love chaos and that you embrace the unknown, but I don’t think that’s entirely true.  I think you say those things as a means of deflection.   Me:  What am I deflecting?  I don’t see where you are going with this.   Fiona:  Let’s take your writing for example.  You are a writer.  You and I both know that.  You love to write and believe you can one day become a great writer.  I don’t disagree.  What bothers me is that you have days when you place some funky crippling restraint on your brain.  The words call to you, the thoughts are pressing the seems of your skull, and yet when you sit down put to paper your thoughts, the gates rise and no traffic passes.  I think it’s time you took a chisel to your skull.   Me:  I want to be a writer, but I’m afraid if I put too much effort into relaxing my mind, removing restraints and judgment, I will loose an edge to my writing.   Fiona:  You’re an idiot.  You don’t have an edge.  And do you really think that by relaxing your mind and opening up your thoughts you will have a tougher time writing?  I think you need to drink less coffee or start taking drugs.   Me:  Do multi-vitamins count?   Fiona:  Go to bed.       April 13, 2009   7:30 PM   Gapers block is quite a fascinating concept to me.  On the one hand it speaks volumes to how drawn we are as humans to spectacle.  Just the sight of flashing lights, no matter the vehicle type (construction, ambulance, well-placed car sale), will cause traffic to slow down.  People need to investigate the cause of the lights.   I assume that some people are genuinely interested the spectacle awaiting them, while others convince themselves they could care less, but figure since traffic is already slowing down, they may as well take a peek.   I am not immune to it.  I get equally saddened and excited by natural disasters.  I’ve talked about this before.  I just hate that I am as susceptible to spectacle as all the people I love to dislike on the toll-ways.

March 16, 2009 6:50 PM   Back at Cafeneo.  This place takes on an entirely different feel with the sunlight.   Before I go into a creepy observation of the people sitting near me, I have some thoughts from the weekend that have been peeling the skin from my fingertips. (All three of the window seats have been taken; which means all of the intruders will eventually be written about tonight.)  This weekend Chicago celebrated St. Patrick’s Day.  Why this Irish holiday is so big in the US is lost on me (when will Nooruz make it’s splash on consumerism – or is it the other way around?).  I had no real intention of celebrating the holiday besides maybe eating some of the Irish soda bread Amy planned on making.  As the weekend reared it’s ugly head in the distance on Thursday, a few of my friends informed me they would all be gathering on the Northside for a night of Irish themed celebration (read: drinking clear beer dyed green).   I am not usually one to enjoy the bar scene, but I like my friends, and they were going to be at the bars.  As the afternoon on Saturday faded, I grabbed my best non-judgmental mood and hoped on the El.  Little did I know, the powers of a thousand drunken twenty-somethings would prove to be too much for my defense systems.    Entering the bar I paused ever so briefly to look over the crowd.  That brief pause was enough for my shoes to interact with the sticking agent so graciously provided by the bar floor – the first sign that my powers were about to face a test.  (I should note here that when I refer to my powers I am talking about intangible powers of observation, optimism and cynical judgment.  My sidekick, Fiona, provides the charm, raw vegetable, and dancing powers.)  In the moment I looked over the crowd, and stuck to the ground, I saw a crowd one hundred large screaming, punching, hugging, falling, kissing, fighting, smoking, bumping, and, last but not least, drinking.   I wanted to turn and ask Amy if, jokingly, we could leave, but my voice was drown-out by a unison chant of, “POUR SOME SUGAR ON ME...” That was the second sign that I may have ventured to lands I was not ready to explore.  Amy didn’t hear a word I said, but I saw the look in her eyes, she was ready to work.  Her social powers are much more refined than mine.  From the eyes to the brain to the smile, her neurons were firing and all hands were on deck.  Her posture team perked up, the smile crew pulled tight to the ears, and she was ready to conquer the scene.  She would not make the scene, nor would she allow the scene make her.  Judgment aside, she was ready to drink her green beer and small-talk, maybe even take an elbow or two from a few uncoordinated honorary “Fitzpatricks.”   A few more steps into the bar and we found a nice place to form our circle and stick to it (literally).  I was handed a green beer and told (by Fiona) to drink, no questions asked.  I took a sip; it tasted like apple juice left in the sun, died green and chilled.  I’m not a fool, it was free and I was here to enjoy the company of my friends.  I reached deep inside and repeated the process of reminding myself to enjoy whom I was with and stop being so judgmental.   That lasted for all of about five minutes.  I couldn’t do it; I couldn’t focus on my friends while a prime cross-section of my generation debated the finer points of whom to sleep with or how exhausting their day of drinking had been.  Fiona threw warning flares and fits of charm at my soul in fiery repetition.  This was my first real bar visit since I’ve been home, and Fiona knew this.  Sadly, the winds (of Ireland?) were against her this night.  Nothing was going to stop the dark smoke of cynicism from wafting through my senses.   For two hours I patiently sipped green beer and grew darker and darker.  I could feel the inner walls of my epidermal shell darken.  My conscious fought the shadows, mainly due to being in public, but I couldn’t resist the creeping colors of disparagement.  By the time I left the bar, I was officially anti-social and ready to submit my letter of resignation to the Hope Club.   Even now, two days removed from the bars, I am enraged and painfully cynical.  I can’t help look back on Saturday night and see a thousand members of my generation legally unfit to think; their money, their time, and their passion all given to mindless conversation and marathon drinking.  I don’t care if this sounds pompous or arrogant.  And yes, for everyone that is thinking it right now, I will play the, “Plight of the World” card.   I am sure my issues with my generation can be transposed to any generation at any point in history.  My beef is with my generation, and I choose to attack them right now.  I don’t know what else more to say.  I was/am disappointed.  I am sure there were people in the crowd leading decent lives, even noble lives.  Why does decency then feel the need to hide in the awkwardness of intoxication?  Can one really be decent and throw-up on a street corner?   Fuck.       March 21, 2009 8:00 PM   T-rex’s nuts must have been huge; too bad they’ve never been portrayed in film.   What about the female T-rex?  The species is always portrayed as a wicked, aggressive, masculine people-eater.  Or maybe that’s what my perception is of men.     11:00 PM   Living in the now takes a lot of planning.   The more I think the less I write.     I used to get mad at my host brother when he would throw his gum wrappers on the ground.  He had no idea what he was doing wrong.  Getting mad at him was like yelling at a leave for falling.  I feel like there were times I was aggressively resistant to change.     I am trying to be les judgmental.  I am trying to look at the world and find the good in people.  I wonder if two years in Kyrgyzstan made me more or less judgmental.  Not sure if I could ever answer that.  I’m not sure if I could ever see the world through my eyes pre-July 8, 2006.       March 22, 2009 8:00 AM   My two years in Kyrgyzstan were two very different years for a great many reasons.  I was essentially a different person.  I laughed a lot and had a lot of fun (mostly with my host family), but I really don’t think there was a time when I let my entire personality loose.  I was on stage 24/7.  I took that to heart, sometimes a bit too much.   1:50 PM   I’ve been doing a lot of self-assessing lately.  Honestly, it feels no more (in scope) than usual; it just seems much more poignant of late.  I was pretty pompous in Kyrgyzstan.  I’ve looked over who I was during my two years there and I’ve noticed how I grew increasingly self-righteous the more comfortable I was.  It didn’t help to have Kyrgyz people constantly praising me for being able to speak Kyrgyz.  As I scan over my time there, I see myself learning, growing, and becoming more judgmental and less accepting.   My judgment was not reserved for any specific nationality or culture.  All the while I was learning and loving the romantic parts of Kyrgyz culture, I was aggressive criticizing and at times lashing out against the darker parts to Kyrgyz society.  Same goes for many of my fellow volunteers.  The longer I was there the harsher a critic I was towards people I felt were doing wrong in some way.   I love the Kyrgyz culture, but I honestly think I’ve taken the things I love about Kyrgyz culture (the organic lifestyle, the emphasis on family, the deep history) and allowed them to take prominence in my mind over the negative things (bride kidnapping, machismo, complacency).  I’ve romanticized the country and the culture to help me cope with my own faults found and misguided judgment.   I did the same thing with fellow volunteers.  There were people that I (wrongly) assumed were in some way bad people, and removing those tags were difficult.  Other people I found something I loved about them early on, so their actions, no matter how similar to those of the people I disliked, were forgiven in my head.  I loved many people I served with, and it saddens me that I may have disliked even more.    I’ve caught myself doing this same thing at home (see the nearly two pages I wrote in the beginning of this post.  I have not altered what I wrote – sans grammar – but I must say it’s a painful read into my burgeoning ignorance.)  Who am I to judge?  It seems so much easier to write that than to say it (let alone do it).   I look at people and assume something from what they’re wearing.  I hear a few sentences and create a persona for them.  I meet them at one bar, on one night, and I’ve developed a character for them by the next morning.  This needs to stop.  This needs to end.   My grandmothers would all be scolding me if they could use anything but the trees and the wind to talk with me.     I have an image I want to project, image I project, and the person I am.  Somewhere within all of those I exist.       March 23, 2009 7:00 PM   What if my entire time in Kyrgyzstan was not what I thought it was.  It hit me today that over my two years I grew increasingly sure of who I was, and less focused on finding out who I wasn’t.  I often repeated the line, “I dislike people who know what they know.”  That line was the image I wanted to project.   The image I projected was a self-righteous, passionate, judgmental foreigner – to my own thoughts and my own reality.   The person I was deeply cared for people and the world around him.  I let my environment simultaneously open me up and harden me.   It’s a good thing others have felt the sting of self-realization before me:   “You fight your superficiality, your shallowness, so as to try to come at people without unreal expectations, without an overload of bias or hope or arrogance, as untanklike as you can be, sans cannon and machine guns and steel planting half a foot thick; you come at them menacingly on your own ten toes instead of tearing up the turf with your caterpillar treads, take them on with an open mind, as equals, man to man, as we used to say, and yet you never fail to get them wrong.  You might as well have the brain of a tank.  You get them wrong before you meet them, while you’re with them; and then you go home to tell somebody else about the meeting and you get them all wrong again.  Since the same generally goes for them with you, the whole thing is really a dazzling illusion empty of all perception, an astonishingly farce or misperception.  And yet what are we to do about this terrible significant business of other people, which gets bled of the significance we think it has and takes on instead a significance that is ludicrous, so ill-equipped are we all to envision one another’s interior workings and invisible aims?  Is everyone to go off and lock the door and sit secluded like the lonely writers do, in a soundproof cell, summoning people out of words and then proposing that these word people are closer to the real thing than the real people that we mangle with our ignorance every day?  The fact remains that getting people right is not what living is all about anyway.  It’s getting them wrong that is living, getting them wrong and wrong and wrong and then, on careful reconsideration, getting them wrong again.  That’s how we know we’re alive: we’re wrong.  Maybe the best thing would be to forget being right or wrong about people and just go along for the ride.  But if you can do that – well, lucky you.” – P.R.     Sometimes those people don’t have to be plural or even external.       7:45 PM   Has my writing been stunted by the fear of exposing who I really am? If I can transform writing into a form of escapism I may be able to eventually return to the source of what I’m escaping. Amy referred to my style today as, “Old Man Chic.”  Maybe I should embrace that side of my personality as well.     8:00 PM   There’s an “artist" sitting across from me.  I put artist in quotations only because I don’t really know if she’s an artist.  I do know, when I glanced at her computer screen upon entering the coffee shop, that she’s working on/altering something in Photoshop. She’s got her hair in a ponytail right now, but it was in pigtails when I arrived, and it hung at her shoulders for a brief period.  She’s wearing turquoise rain boots, black tights, a gray pleated skirt, and a black, loose, thin sweater.  Her glasses don’t seem to fit her face well.  They remind me of the lead singer of Weezer (or is it Buddy Holly?), with a much wider face.  The frames seem too thick.   Her fingernails are painted black and her nose slides down off her forehead like a ramp found on the X-Games.  Her nose fits her face well, though the glasses seem to distract from that feature.       9:15 PM

The old man sat down next to me on the El.  I wonder if his day redefined his life.  Did the clouds change his morning, or were they just false foreshadowing?          

March 6, 2009 8:15 PM   I heard a NPR report a while ago about how just the anticipation of caffeine perks people up.  It’s so, so true.  I can just grab the espresso jar and reach for the tiny little device from the top shelf and BAM!  The buzz begins…before I even take a sip.   Now only if we could find a way to transfer this effect.  Possible options: World Peace; Intelligence; Healthiness.   Believe and it will come.  Someone said that once.  Who was it…?     March 9, 2009, 6:45 PM   Here I am, back at the Cafeneo.  I tried to find a new place in this same area (by Amy’s school) but all I could find was a small coffee/sandwich shop with four tables (all taken) whose windows were all fogged up.  How am I supposed to observe (read: judge) the fancy folk of Lincoln Square without windows?  Cafeneo is a bit too trendy for me, but the only other option in the three block radius of the school was Starbucks.  I have nothing against Starbucks, it’s just a bit to well known for me (this is part of my trendy place/thing disease.  It can be shifted around from coffee shops to Fall Out Boy to Fat Tire).  They have great coffee, comfortable chairs, and giant windows; I can deal with contemporary art and cheesy drink names.   That being said, here I am at Cafeneo, again in a corner seat by the window (a different table this time).  I bet Cafeneo is a chain; if I was to discover this fact to be reality, I will assume my opinion of this place would change.  Well, ignorance is surely bliss.  It’s a mom and pop coffee house in my eyes.  (I turned off my wireless Internet, so I purposely can’t even go online to check if it is).   I even went as far a picking up a frequent purchase card today (ninth purchase is free!).  Four dollars times eight lattes equals…yep, four dollars.  The place practically pays for itself.   A year from now when I have published my first book, I am going to count these drinks as work related expenses and add them to my taxes.  (Can I count these drinks as medical expenses and start presenting my insurance card when I get one?  One latte could technically be free considering it falls way under my deductible.  Wonder if I could get the till to print out a receipt that reads, “Anti-Depressants”).   On a side note, the napkin I placed under the leg of my table last week is still there – now with a tall, skinny, bearded man sitting there.  He’s proofreading something on his laptop; a lot of staring intently at the screen and very little touching of the keyboard. Oh!  He just typed a word.  He’s got a book wedged perpendicularly between his sternum the computer.  My assumption is that he’s either writing a book review (am I near a school?  I think DePaul may be close) or he’s writing an essay of some type and he’s using the book to cite quotes from.  I guess he could also be an A.D.D.-Multi-task coffee shop customer.  The computer grabs his attention for a few minutes, and then flips down to the book, and then he flips over to his coffee, and then…you get the picture.   What’s really twisted right now is that he has no idea I am sitting here writing about him.  I have been watching him with a peripheral stare and quick glances.  He’s focusing with a lot of energy on his book report (though sometimes his eyes wander out the windows – the A.D.D.) and I am sitting diagonal from him watching him and writing about him.  We are both sitting at corner tables by the windows.  His table is facing the wall perpendicular to the street; I am sitting parallel to it.   What if he’s clairvoyant and knows I’m writing about him?  He’s listening to my thoughts and guiding his actions in accordance to what he wants me to write about him.  He just grabbed his jaw and took on a pensive, thoughtful gaze at his computer.  He wanted me to see that; he wanted me to conjure up images of “Thinking Man.”   He just reached into his jacket pocket, hanging on the back of his chair, and grabbed an iPhone.  Was he checking the time or is he waiting for a transmission from some creature not here with him?  He has him computer open; there time is right there for him.  I bet he’s…wait, I think he used the phone as a tool (read: literary tool).  He typed something in it, waited, read it, and then seemingly transcribed it on to his computer.  Maybe a thesaurus?   Did I mention this is creepy?     March 10 6:30 PM   In so many of the stories and articles that I’ve been listening to or reading lately, it’s not hard to miss the GIANT FEELING of gloom.  While the gloom could be tagged to any one of the perpetually dreary journalistic themes (war, poverty, hate, crime, etc.), the one theme that registers is news about the job market.   With every day that passes and every story released I feel a tiny bit luckier to have a job.  I know of a lot of people that are struggling to get a job, and I feel fortunate to have one.  Not only do I have a job, but I also happen have a job with a great organization with incredible co-workers.  Yet I can’t escape thinking that I went from living and working in the mountains of Central Asia to behind a desk (and a computer) in an office building.   I don’t really know what to make of these thoughts, but I know they don’t leave my head…     8:00 PM “I’m not going to choose between astrology and genetics because I fail to see any contradiction.  The influences on the human animal are too complex and too paradoxical to be explained in terms of any one particular branch of knowledge.  When I was twelve years old I watched a spider drink water.  You think that didn’t change my life?   …Those folks who are concerned with freedom, real freedom – not the freedom to say ‘shit’ in public or to criticize their leaders or to worship God in the church of their choice, but freedom to be free of languages and leaders and gods – well they must use style to alter content.  If our style is masterful, if it is fluid and at the same time complete, then we can re-create ourselves, or rather, we can re-create the Infinite Goof within us.  We can live on top of content, float above the predictable responses, social programming and hereditary circuitry, letting the bits of color and electricity and light filter up to us, where we may incorporate them at will into our actions.  That’s what the voices said.  They said that content is what a man harbors but does not parade.  And I love a parade.” – T.R.

February 7, 2009 1:20 PM   I have a burst of energy.  It’s fifty degrees in Chicago; in February.  Maybe I’ll write something.  Or Maybe I’ve talk with Fiona.   Me:  Do you ever look at people and create stories about them?   Fiona:  Yeah, it’s called being judgmental.   Me: No.  I mean do you ever look at people like, say, when you are walking in the city?  Do you look at the way someone’s skin folds or the slight wincing in their eyes and then develop an entire about that person?   Fiona:  First of all, I don’t “walk in the city.”  Why do I need to keep reminding you that I am you?  I am the person you talk to when you think you are talking to yourself.  And yes, I do create stories for the people I see, but in the end what I do is still considered being judgmental.  In order to develop a story about someone, I believe you still need to judge something about them; be it the way their hair is styled, the color of their shoes, or the words they say.  No matter the story you create, you had to look at that person and characterize his/her persona.   Me:  There’s a difference between creating a story and being judgmental.   Fiona:  I would agree, but I think it’s a thin line to walk between judging and creating.  A novelist writes about people, and inevitably had to judge the characters.  Even if the characters are a series of people portrayed through one individual in a story or if they are entirely a figment of imagination.  In the end, a novelist had to judge the people that were being written about to effectively weigh their meaning to the story.   Me:  You talk too much.     February 7, 2009 7:00 PM   What is it that validates information that comes from a written source?  The second someone starts are sentence with the line, “I read this…” or “There was this article…” there seems to be an assumed validity to the statement.  Maybe it’s just me, but if someone says, “I was watching this show the other night and…” I make the subconscious assumption the statement being said is somehow tainted.   That sounds kind of pompous.       February 13, 2009   Friday the 13th!  Time to kill.   Maybe I’ll forgo the knives and use my words…     They all look like their neighbor, I am no different. I put on my shoes and comb my hair. They put on their shoes and comb their hair. I look no different from them; I am their neighbor. I should kill them.  Non-violently.     February 23, 2009 10:30 PM   What does it really mean to “be informed?”   I seriously enjoy reading news stories, editorials, commentary…you name it.  NPR is as essential to my morning as coffee.  I’ve come to find a small place (140 characters worth) for Twitter in my life for news as well.  Yet no matter what I read I always feel like I’m NOT reading something.    My conclusion, there is just too much to bother worrying about missing something.   I’m trying to focus my attention on the present moment.  That goes for news as well.  I will read and I will listen, but I have no real desire to read it all.  I will never be able to, so why worry myself with a stress to want to.   I feel like I know a lot of informed people that couldn’t tell me what sound of an Ocean at night (clouds in a coffee bean grinder), the smell of a Mayan observatory (a thrift store selling fossils), or the color of the Mekong Delta (cappuccino).   Information is relative.   Knowledge should not be assumed.     February 24, 2009 8:15 PM   When I look inside my refrigerator, sometimes I feel glutinous.  When I look at my clothes, sometimes I feel materialistic.  When I look at my back account, sometimes I feel greedy. When I look in the mirror, sometimes I feel ugly.       I’m listening to Obama speak to a joint congress right now.   Running observations: They clap too much. Obama just addressed the TV audience, and forgot about the radio audience. I bet Obama would be really good at writing a ‘Statement of Purpose.’ From the sound of his voice, I am going to guess he’s wearing a white shirt and blue tie. Do they/does he write “clapping gaps” into his speech? Does someone control the teleprompter in case he’s speaking to slow? Are there live translators at this session like at the UN? Does Barack drink wine? 8:31 PM Will he do an encore if the “crowd” cheers loud enough? “And I refuse to let that happen…” Is Bush listening? He’s a really good speaker.  He would sound awesome in reverb. Tonal control. He just said, “Slowly but surely.”  I love that phrase; it’s like a mountain goat. I would be tired if I had to give a speech at 9 PM. Does Michelle exercise? “Catalyzed” = Caused or accelerated a reaction by acting as a catalyst. Does Barack take multi-vitamins? Do the girls take Flintstones’ vitamins? I wonder if it’s possible to live an entirely waste free lifestyle?  No garbage. “None of this will come without cost.” –-> Embracing cars. Is Barack a good driver? Healthcare reform:  “It’s time.” Do families sit down and watch/listen to Obama like they did back in the day? I could go for some Asian politics-style congress floor rumbling. Wow, cut it in half by 2011! John McCain must feel shitty watching this from the floor up.  Sucks being short. Who is “we?” This is starting to feel a bit too patriotic for me. There was just a noise that sounded like Lil’ Kim saying, “Yeah” in the background.  Is NPR feeding things into the speech? What ever happened to the “Lollipop” song? 95% of working families!  Do Amy and I count as a working family? I am tired of listening to this. I could go for a strawberry milkshake and some Kyrgyz bread, butter, and honey. AKA: “We Support Our Troops.” Does Obama have a ribbon magnet for Air Force One? Just logged on to Facebook/CNN’s streaming feed…as he was saying, “Good night.” He’s wearing a red tie. Obama walks confident.  Bush walked arrogantly. Obama is singing autographs.  He’s a rock star. Time for bed. But I’m supposed to listen to the Republican response. I believe in bipartisanship. What toothpaste does Barack use? A vegetarian president would be funny. This Facebook/CNN thing is weird.  There is a special commentator speaking to all the people watching on Facebook. Republican response…then bed.  Fuck. Is there hypocrisy in working for the government and then talking about less government? He’s got to be really tired.  It’s nearing 9:30 PM!  I hope he had some coffee. Glimmering “LIVE.” Bobby referred to America in the feminine gender.  Mmmm. Bed.  Good night of speeches.       February 27, 2009 12:45 PM   Thoughts from the motherland:   1)    Aizada Eje and Ainagul Eje both looked at me and said, “We know he’s a bad student, but at home he is incredibly talented.”  I’ve only now come to realize the power of that statement. 2)    Juzbai and I were talking in the months prior to me leaving.  Sipping his tea he looked up at me and said, “Life’s hard in America, huh?”  Gulnara Eje tried to argue with him, but I let it be.  His knowledge of life and the world was so much different from most of the people in my village.  He was born and raised in the Toruaigyr, but his vision was global.  I envied his empathy at that very moment.     March 2, 2009   6:30 PM   Today starts my first day of heading to coffee shops for once-a-week scheduled nights of writing.  I’ve chosen to start my writings on the Northside in Lincoln Square.  This neighborhood choice drew me a few reasons.  Mainly, Amy is taking guitar lessons at the Old Town school of Folk Music three blocks off the ‘Western’ El stop in Lincoln Square. They have a ton of coffee shops on Lincoln Ave. (where the school is), so I figured this would be a good place to A) come meet Amy after her classes and B) force myself to write at length at least once a week.   This week I’ve chosen tiny little Greek (?) coffee shop named ‘Кафеveio' (Cafeneo).  They have giant windows facing the street (to watch the masses move!).  The shop is the bottom corner end of a brick building that ends as the El line begins it intersection through the neighborhood.  The girl behind the counter made an espresso for me with a nice flower design in the foamy milk.  Her name is Ashley.   From the speakers an upbeat Latin/African mix has been playing.  The music is just chessy enough to make the place feel like an American Eagle store.   Speaking of windows...two polics officers just interupted my description of the coffee shop by pulling over two individuals in a small red pick up truck.  They litterally pulled right into the alley outside the window where I sit (the cop car's lights are illuminating the back of my laptop.  A black man and a fair sknnined woman sit in the red truck.   The cops took their identification and returned to their cars, «checking their informatio» I would have to assume.   Five runners have galloped past the windows since I've sat down.  I feel a kinship and a tinge of anger when I see runners…oh, cops are returning.   Why do all cops look so power hungry?  They gave back the idetification and let them go!  Check one for the good guys.  Or wait, aren't the cops the good guys?  Elementary.   As snacks with me today I brought a banana, a hard boiled egg, and a raspberry bran muffin (that Amy made this weekend).   Runner number six.   Hmmm, the couple that was pulled over parked their car a twenty feet away from where the cops pulled them over and walked into a furnitutre store ('classic and contemporary').  That would explain the need for a truck.   Only foam left in my latte.   Ug boots everywhere.   (Two and half hours after I wrote all of that above I realized the girl from the red truck –the one stopped by the cops – had been sitting behind me for the last hour.  The man and the woman must have parted after the furniture store, only to then reunite after she finished her coffee and he came to pick her up!  Oh, the little stories that play out in front of me.)   March 2, 2009 8:15 PM   Some people walk against the weather.  Others walk as if the weather was part of their stride.        

January 30, 2009  5:45 PM I was driving home today after picking up Manas from the vet (he was getting his sutures removed – neuter!) and, due to the Jeep’s failing radio, I was forced to listen to AM radio.  If I’m in the car by myself, I usually just flip back and forth through the AM stations until something strikes my fancy.  I heard the DJ say, “unlympics” on WGN Radio, so I stopped, curious as to what the hell that meant. After listening for ten minutes or  so I discovered it was show aimed at bashing Chicago’s push to get the 2016 Olympics.  Honestly, the DJ and every guest or caller that talked during the forty-five minutes listened did nothing but bash Chicago’s attempt to win the 2016 bid.  I must say I was pretty surprised how bias and vocal the DJ was about his opinions against the Chicago bid.  I shouldn’t have been. Media seems to no longer attempt at unbiased reporting.  They just state up-front their opinion or political bent, thus officially quelling a debate over their biased reporting.  You can’t be biased, apparently, if you are up front with your bias.  All of this is very disturbing to me.  But I digress… The longer I listened to the callers pat the DJ on the butt for his great opinion against the Chicago bid, the more I began to want to break a pact I made myself years ago: to never be someone who calls into a talk radio show.  I even picked up my phone at one point and dialed the first four numbers.  I then put it down and repeated to myself, “listen more, talk less.”  With that thought, I relaxed in the driver’s seat, petted Manas on the head, and let the idiots banter on the radio. The consistent theme in every caller’s complaints were two-fold: 1) Having the Olympics in Chicago would force the city to allocate an absorbent amount of money that could be otherwise put to better programs and causes.  I agree with this, partially.  I do believe that Chicago (and Illinois) has a very obvious and well-developed history of corruption in politics and industry.  Allowing the “Chicago Machine” to spend millions of dollars under the guise of preparing for the Olympics might be a bit dangerous. On the other hand, I think there could be ways to develop and prepare for an Olympics in a manner that modernizes and improves the living standards in Chicago.  I don’t believe our current political system/mafia would do this, but I think it could be done.  If all of the people who called did more than whine and painfully “debate” the necessity of not trusting Chicago’s politicians I might have been less bothered.  But alas, that’s all I seemed to hear from my speakers; I appreciate people who offer solutions, not complaints.  I don’t think spending money on a Olympics should be assumed to be an automatic waste, but I do believe that our city’s government and their thugs would undoubtedly find a way to benefit a select few. I grew increasingly hot hearing callers babble incoherently about how they, “don’t think the city should be spending money” or, “there are better things to do with the city’s money.”  I wont even approach the idiotic idea of not spending money (I wouldn’t have been bothered if someone said, “We need to budget our city’s money better.”) but I will make a brief comment on “better things to do with our money.” My problem with the majority of people calling into talk radio is that either they do zero thought to come up with supporting evidence for their claim (or how to answer follow-up questions) or they are not given the time by the radio to do so.  I could only laugh as back-to-back callers repeated the exact same line as the previous caller, only adding their name and profession as a variant.  They were so close to discourse, if discourse were debating with a mirror. The second variant (2) in the theme of the calls was my favorite.  At least four callers, plus the DJ, split the seam on their paints over the amount of people that would invade Chicago if the Olympics were to be held here.  “It already takes me an hour and a half to drive my limo three blocks in the center of the city,” were the sentiments of one portly sounding mustachioed caller.  “I will be takin’ a nice vacation for three choice weeks during the summer of 2016,’ were the words of the DJ. I kept thinking what it would be like to see the DJ and all of the callers (I imagine thirty-five people in total) stuck in the portly man’s limo trying to get out of the city during an Olympic induced rush hour.  Not once during the forty-five minutes did any one mention a positive side to the Olympics being in Chicago.  I am not a supporter, nor am I an opponent, but I would at least like to hear some variation of opinion.  By its very nature, the Olympics is an incredible international event.  Imagine the multicultural wave that would wash up on the shores of Lake Michigan. The world, literally, would come to Chicago for a month. The possibilities of this are endless.  Imagine how many ethnicities and nationalities we have in Chicago at this very moment.  Now imagine the elation and celebration that could come from a display of friendly competition.  Correct me if I’m wrong, but Olympian don’t use weapons and death to prove superiority (during the games at least)?  Every two years nations around the world compete, and not kill, and shed tears over loss rather than blood.  I get the chills thinking about how many different cultures and people would be in the city for a month.  Just think about all of the celebrations and international tourists!  It would incredible to play host to the world. Yet all the callers and DJ could talk about was how crowded their coveted city would get.  One caller cited examples from friends of hers in D.C. who talked about the madness in the capital during Inauguration.  “The buses, the traffic, the people, the cold, it was madness.”  Yes, it was madness; in celebration. I imagined this woman sitting in a circular room painted dark gray with a black rotary phone in the middle of the room. I love my home, wherever it may be, but these callers were border-lined extremists pissed off at the invasion of outsiders.  Is our love in our city so thick that we would be bothered to have guests disturb our routine for a month of our lives?  I hate this mentality.  It’s the same thread that’s been sewn intp the age-old quilt of ego-centrism.  From the Crusades to the Taliban to the Unlympian supporters, so many of the words coming from the anti Chicago 2016 conversation echo the same narrow-minded mentality. There is so much about everything I just wrote that could and should be refuted.  I could write a two-page rebuttal right now refuting my own points.  That was not the point.  My point is simple (and I should have just wrote this one sentence and quit):  Why are people so afraid of the other?   January 30, 2009 7:00 PM Anothing | əˈnəði ng | noun 1 Another + Nothing; the combination or condensing of the aforementioned ‘Another’ and ‘Nothing.’  Referring to the phenomenon of conversation that frequents another theme about nothing. * Topics frequently brought up in an “anothing conversation”             - Weather: “Wow, can you believe how cold it is out there?”             - The Pace of Time: “I’m amazed it’s almost March already.”             - Blockbusters: “That was one of the best movies I’ve ever seen.” 2 America circa 1998 – 2006 3 Television 4 Hair Gel   January 31, 2009 11:20 AM I’ve been reading a lot of Buddhist literature lately (online articles, Shambhala Sun, excepts from Walden).  I’ve always had a fascination with Buddhism.  I’m not sure how genuine my interest is., but I’ve had an interest.  There is something exotic about “Eastern” religions that draw my interest.  Not unlike many other Americans searching for something different and unique to quench their thirst for spirituality.  Sufism interests me, but in the same way that Buddhism interests me.   I would like to believe my interests lie in sincerity, but I know that, for now at least, my interests are surface based. I read articles here and there, my ears perk up when I hear key phrases or words like, “Mystic,” “Taoism,” “Rumi,” or “Bodhi,” when I see statues of Shiva I picture where I would place them in my apartment, the “99 names of Allah” (Pbuh) design hangs in my office.  I am drawn to basically any religion that’s not Christianity or Judaism.  I grew up with a Lutheran father and a Jewish Mother.  I celebrated Christmas and Hanukkah and went to Church for Easter and ate matza during Rosh HaShanah.  Apparently growing up with two religions turned me against both, rather than engaging me twice over.  By saying, “turned me against,” I am not saying that I’m anti Christianity or Judaism, they simply don’t appeal to me.  This is where my dilemma comes in.  I honestly couldn’t tell you any reason why they don’t appeal to me besides, “They both come off as dry.” In some ways I could claim to be agnostic, but in so many other ways I believe there is a spiritual presence that lives amongst us (agnostic theist).  I just don’t know if I believe that spirit is one powerful individual I should be fearful of.  I would like to believe the trees hold as much spiritual power as a child does, the same as an Imam does, the same a cloud does. This is why I guess Buddhism, Taoism, Mysticism all appeal to me in different ways.  I enjoy the role that individuals are asked to play in their own faith and spiritual beliefs.  I appreciate the idea of inner peace being a path towards enlightenment, largely because so many people in the world aim for external world peace while chaos ferments inside their soul.  I have a long way to go in my exploration of faith and spirituality.  I know I can’t just wait for my path to find me; or can I? One of the tenants of Buddhism that entices me and challenges my daily life is the practice of living in the now, appreciating the present moment, resisting the temptation to want more.  Where I struggle with this is what if I want more peace, more knowledge, or more control over my own spirituality?  How do I “fight” for more, and still not get caught up in the current of needless temptation?   February 1, 2009 2:00 PM One of the most prominent memories from weekends at my grandparents' as a kid was watching the movie, “Dances with Wolves.”  McDonalds used to sell blockbusters on VHS.  You could purchase a movie, a milkshake, and a big mac all in the same order.  The impact of that movie (and watching it at my grandparents’) is just starting to settle in.    

My weekly digest from this past week:

January 18, 2009 10:14 PM Amy and I attended our first yoga session tonight.  A friend of a friend hosts Sunday night sessions at her house.  Her and her boyfriend (?) own a beautiful place in East Pilsen with a giant hardwood floor open space.  There were about 16 people who showed up tonight, half of them being friends from the neighborhood.  We’ve met a good group of people who we are increasingly becoming close friends. It’s been a while since I’ve done yoga.  Actually, I think that’s the first yoga lesson/session I’ve ever attended.  I’ve done yoga poses and stretching that had involved some yoga influence, but that was the first time I’ve ever been a part of an organized full session. It felt incredible.  The entire session was a cross between deep meditation and heavy stretching.  As an “athlete,” my body has been trained, and is used to, using intensive workouts (most recently of the grueling endurance nature).  So to feel drained and high after something that never moved beyond the mat I was lying on feels sort of out-of-body.  My body loves me for it right now.  I think this is something I’ll be doing regularly. The most engaging and intensive portion of the session, for me, came at the very end.  I don’t remember the name of the final pose, but essentially it’s a five-minute meditation while lying on your back.  The high of the hour and a half of yoga was permeating throughout my muscles and my chest as I laid down and faded into a mild meditative state.  There were plenty of moments when I had to rain myself back in as I started to drift off in thought, away from the present moment.  But there were a few very engaging moments when I felt like I was detached and acutely aware of where I was. To paraphrase Common, “Whether it’s yoga or doja, everyone needs a high.”  I think I found my new high tonight.   January 19, 2009 9:30 PM It can’t just be the abundance of “things” that create less free time.  At least I like to believe so.  There are so many things to do in this country (America); does that mean by default there is then less time to do everything?  There is something engrained in our culture (yes, I’ve come to embrace American culture as my culture, more on this later…) that creates this sense of need to “be there;” the need to not be left out. I feel myself part of every day:  I love reading news.  Facebook and twitter are so instant they make oatmeal look slow.  The internet loves to open new browsers on my screen; and with the internet entering its teenage years and starting to show its true potential, it actually feels worth it to be online.  Through SMS, email, Facebook, and twitter not a day that goes by I’m not connected to something.  And it seems due to this connection, I have more and more things that I want to do and need to get done. In any given day I work, write, eat, love, socialize, walk, cook, type, talk, drink, and hug.  There’s a lot more than twenty-four hours of verbs there.  I can’t do it all, and I so badly want to.  Maybe that’s my problem.  I want to do so much. Then comes my dilemma between the balance of what is good to want and what I need to weed from my desires.  Oh, temptation hurts.   January 20, 2009 7:15 PM Listening to NPR and the BBC newsradio all day, I’ve been struck by the consistent theme and debate about what line from Obama’s speech will be remembered.  Which line will be the, “Ask not what your country can do for you…” statement? Even the crowd of us at work, all watching a feed from Hulu.com projected on a screen, quickly moved into a discussion about what part of his speech will be the part that changes history. I hate this.  What happened to the love of the whole product?  I feel like we dismiss the power of his whole message by trying to find his sound bite.  Or am I being naïve here? I love the product of the whole.  I love reading a book, studying the author, and researching who designed the cover.  I feel cheated if I show up to a movie late and miss the previews.  I clean the sauce on my plate until it’s glimmering.  Gluttony is not a concern of mine here.  Gluttony is greed.  All I’m asking for is respect to be given the whole of a creation. I wasn’t as moved by Obama’s inauguration speech as I was by his speech on election night.  Nonetheless, the entirety of his speech was powerful.  He had a message and some very poignant criticisms of the last eight years (while Bush was no more the ten feet away from him).  I was impressed by his words.  All of them.   January 20, 2009  9:00 PM A reoccurring image (sound) throughout my childhood and into my college years is hearing the scene of morning routine from under my blankets.  Half asleep, half awake, I remember the sounds of coffee pots, showers, newspaper trips, and engines starting   January 21, 2009 9:00 PM I felt like I lost my identity when I returned to America.  I felt like I had created someone different while in Kyrgyzstan; but then once I got here none of my new character translated into American life. Did/do the immigrants and refugees who came/come to America feel like they lose their identity when the reach America?   January 22, 2009   I’m having major stability issues.  My soul’s equilibrium is off!  I try to meditate and there is just too much moving in my thoughts.       January 27, 2009   ‘Linear Illogic’ Where’s the line between my needs and my wants, my passions and my pains? I feel it like a rock in a pocket. It pulls my walk into a limp; there is no straight line, though, I sometimes overcompensate And lean to walk.  

Dear Mr. Jason Andrew Lemberg:

Today begins your project.  Every artist needs a project.  I would like to congratulate you on beginning yours today.

I guess I should explain to you a little bit about this project before I start sharing accolades.  You were telling me the other day that the best writing you've ever done was the journal/blog you wrote during your two years in Kyrgyzstan.  I would have to agree.  Even Tim Brauhn made a comment about how your, "writing talent [had] grown exponentially since you got to the middle of nowhere."  And Tim doesn't like anything you do.  Nonetheless, your best writing was in Kyrgyzstan because you finally found your medium of greatest accessibility: creative non-fiction.

So in order to capitalize on what you are good at, I am suggesting that you do two things starting now.  One)  You will now write a journal/slash blog cataloging the next two years of your life.  Sure, two may be arbitrary, but you need a number; and since Peace Corps decided that number for you, we will stick with it.  You are required to post a weekly digest about anything and everything every Sunday evening by Midnight.  Deadlines may suck, but without me kicking you in the ass to get some actual writing done, you will end up wasting your talents on emails and assessment summaries.   

Two) This is where the  "+ 1" thing comes in.  Since most of your blog postings from KG are missing definite, indefinite and NYT articles, as well as any grammatical coherence, you will spend the next eight months reading, editing, tweaking, and merging your two years of postings into a cohesive manuscript for a book.  I give you all the creative license you need to take what you have written and turn into something worthy of art.  This is where the creative part of the "creative non-fiction" part comes in.  Since I assume most of what you wrote while in KG was non-fiction (you better not have been lying about that time your turned snow into wine), you are going to turn this into, for better or worse, a book.  Don't worry about the tittle of the book, you will take care of that latter.  I will however, name your project for you.

I've noticed in my travels with you that you suck (like a hoover) at creating titles.  So I've taken the liberty to title this project for you:  2+1 is Trinity.  The 2 is your two years in KG.  The 1 is the year following your two years that you have to turn your KG years into a book.  The two is also the next two years you will be journaling/blogging about.  Your first project will the two years you lived in KG; your second project will be your next two years in Chicago.  The hope is that you can then take the two years of journal entries from your Chicago-2 and spend a year turning that into a book.  But who knows, shit changes.  Nonetheless, you will at least be forced to write, and write a lot.  

And let me forget the trinity.  Trinity is obviously a biblical term (The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit), but you will not be using it in this way; well not like Christians do.  2+1 equals three; the trinity is three.  The trinity is also the subconscious faith you've been developing since you were born: Humanity, Nature, and the Gods.  They are all one, but separate; thus the trinity.  Everything you do, but more importantly everything you write, comes from that trinity.  It's your muse, your pain, your love, and your life.  I also thought, this being a literary project and all, it would be good to have some a nice balance of the literal and metaphorical in the title.  It might also help to have some spiritual support, besides me, helping you along the way.

My friend, my body, it's time for you to write.

With love,

Fiona.

I was chosen today to be the Minister of Seriousness by the Office of the President Elect.

I vow from this day forth to fight the nasty plague of sarcasm that has been sweeping over our nation for the last few years.

Enough of this mess, it's time to tighten our boots, button our shirts, and comb our hair.

DOWN WITH THE SERIOUSERS!

....I ran out of quarters.

I don't really think it is.

I don't want to be connected any more.

It doesn't benefit me.

I just feel like I want more of something that never ends.

There will always be disasters, corruption, and numbers to report.

Do things really change?  (Besides the fact that we report on every event, worldwide, now.)

I look at them and dislike myself.

I don't want to be like them; but by not wanting to be like them, I am them.

Their milk is white and I don't even know if I like milk.

November 9, 2008   From moment I woke up on Tuesday at 4:45 AM, I felt like the day was my birthday, Christmas, and the first day of summer packed into one powerful prescription drug. The entire day felt divine.  It was the morning He returned to lead us to the promise land.  Well, ok, maybe The Son didn't return on Tuesday, but I am confident one of his disciples was reincarnated in Grant Park Tuesday evening. As a country we did the right thing on Tuesday.  In an attempt to stay objective, I don't want to entirely give my heart over to Obama; I would like to keep some sense of balance.  But it's nearly impossible to not feel the rush of what happened last week.  We elected a black president.  Say that out loud and it feel likes a line from a movie.  Hear someone else say that and suddenly the reality of our present euphoria feels more real than pain of debt. After a long day of work on Tuesday, coupled with waking up early to vote, I returned home enervated.  As I usually do when I return home from work, I made some tea, grabbed a travel mug, whistled for Manas and hit the streets for an early evening walk.  Leaving the front door of our building, for the first time in my life I felt like I was walking into history.  There is no real way to escape the cliché of the moment, but I honestly felt like I was leaving one dimension and entering into an entirely new world: A world where humanity believes in itself and in the power of its future.   Oddly, though, history in the present tense (try teaching that in an ESL class) reveals itself as stagnant air.  Trekking along the pavement Tuesday, all I could hear were the rhythmic footsteps of the canine I was trotting along with.  The Southside felt like a movie with no soundtrack.  Background noise – trees, cars, airplanes – were muted and Pilsen cast the image of a city preparing for an air raid rather than the acceptance speech of our next president. About two blocks away from the apartment, the silence had seeped into my thoughts and I began pondering on the possibility of a catastrophic event.  There were a million people projected to be in Grant Park (the actual number ended up being around 250,000).  Not only was there a massive crowd expected to be downtown, there was the very real possibility that the first black president of the United States would be giving his victory speech.  With so many people and such a powerful speech on the horizon, bullets and bombs crossed my mind.  Sure, there was security in place like nothing before seen at Grant Park, but that wasn’t much assurance. Then it hit me: I had no desire, no fascination, no curiosity to see the spectacle of disaster that night. For the first time in my life, I was genuinely pained to think of a disaster (on a grand scale) occurring.  I paused under the El on 17th and Paulina and let the wave of chills spill out from under my garments. I like to believe I’m a moral person; yet even with my morality (or lack thereof) I have always been drawn to the spectacle of disaster.  Reality TV, car-crash montages, and Hurricanes don’t excite me because there is an element of expectedness in all of them.  When it comes to disaster, predictability turns me off.  I want chaos, yet it scares the shit out of me. The unexpected fracas of disaster steals my dignity like an addict at the sight of his addiction.  As a kid when WGN would flash the tornado warnings on the TV screen during a Cub’s game I would be both scared and excited for the madness to arrive.  When Diana died, I was equally shocked and fascinated.  The World Trade Center attacks, both of them, were horrible events that killed hundreds of people.  Yet in some sick fashion I found myself drawn to the images and stories.  The images are what always get me, and it’s the aftermath images that are the worst.  They allow me to retrace the event in my head and develop grand exhibitions I can run through the projector of my imagination. To be honest, I don’t know if it was the scale of the moment or a sign of maturity, but standing under the El on Tuesday night, all I could think of was how much I wanted the night to happen.  The thought of disaster unearthed the enormity of the moment.  I was (I am) alive for the dawn and I will live in a new light.  It’s not often in my life I feel part of something much larger than me.  There are days when I dream about the world at large, but never have I felt like I was part of the grand events.  The universe is fascinating, but it’s too big to feel like I am a contributing element in its chaos.  Human rights and social change are laborious fights that often don’t show results until generations after the battle. Obama’s election is the first grand event, historical milestone, that I’ve felt like I am player in.  I don’t need to be a commander, but it feels good to know that I’ve been a pawn fighting for, and now with, a movement I can see and feel.    

I will write much more here soon.

Long story short, I cried last night.

More than history, we are creating an era.

I would like to believe I could be a pacifist.  In my head I am a peace maker, some one who sees the power of non-violent action.  My desire to be a pacifist doesn't always translate into me actually being one, but I am working on it.  I am working on my patience and trying to be less judgemental.

With that said, if war ensues following Obama's election, I will have no quells picking up a sword and standing at his guard.  The racism in this country makes me sick.  People are scared of a Black person coming to power.  Are we really that stunted in our cultural development to believe a Black person could not lead our country?

I love this country, but I will unleash my rage and rain fire upon the people who will attempt to stunt one of the greatest things to happen in this country since the Civil Rights Movement.  Sad part is, I doubt my rage will be channelled.  I suspect that if the ignorance level of this country rises following the election, so will my blind rage.

In a perfect world, ignorance would just melt away like snow from a sidewalk.  Sadly, it's not that easy.  I fear that even with all of our talking and attempts to use words, people will abandon it all and resort to the things they know best:  their fists and their color.

With all the gripe lately (from "Joe" and his followers") about tax hikes, I've been led to ask:

Where does the line for patriotism and supporting the things we call patriotic (civic organizations, postal service, public transportation, police and fire departments, education, etc) get drawn?

If so many people believe the sign of a "true American" or a good president is defined by putting "country first," then wouldn't taxes that support the things they take advantage be just that?

I am sure there's a proverb out there that sounds something like: "If you drink the water, then keep it clean."  If there's not, then I just planted the seeds for a new set of Hallmarks cards:  Intelligence Defunct - The Election Season Series.

I am not supporting a tax rise or cut, I am simply trying to point out hypocrisy when people complain about taxes, and then enjoy the fruits of what the tax trees yield.

My Google and my Mac have just made sweet love.

This post if my first post from the Widgets' screen.

I love technology.

Manas is healthy!  I don't think I've been so excited about bowel movements since the first months of Peace Corps.  He's fought his virus and is currently ridding himself of a bacteria in his digestive system.  Suffice to say, today he squatted solid!

Sweet.

In other news:  please get in my pocket.

Chicago Public Radio has been "Mavericking" their pledge drive this past week.  When I have money (2019) I will start pledging to help the cause.

Nonetheless, their drive has led me to wonder:  Do all organizations or people who work for the betterment of others rely on the support of others?  

CPR and NPR tirelessly cover news from Chicago to Pluto, and they do so entirely free of commercial support.  They rely on public support.  They rely on the people they aim to help.

Tibetan Monks meditate tirelessly, striving for enlightenment and working to expand the collective conscious of humanity.  To do so, and to survive, they rely on the charity of others to feed them and keep them nourished.

Peace Corps Volunteers and a great many other international volunteers count on outside support (whether it be from tax payer dollars or private sponsors).  They dedicate their lives to working in difficult situations to help others and they depend on the financial (and emotional) support of so many other people to do this.

Can anyone really be a "giver" withouth being a "taker?"

No real conclusions here, just thoughts.

October 22, 2008

7:10 AM

I've been home for two months.  Today.  In America, not Kyrgyzstan.  This feels like home now, though kind of like home would feel if it were melted and molded into something new from the same material.

Over the past two months I've spent a lot of time (too much) perusing the internet and getting lost in political and social commentary.  There is so much available on the net it's scary.  There are days when the hours float away like leaves from a tree and I barely notice time passed.  From fiction literature to blogs, I can honestly say I've gained a new appreciation and love for the internet.

And since I'm are on the topic of media love, I should also profess my infatuation with NPR and CPR (Chicago Public Radio).  Well, maybe just talk radio/sports radio in general.  I'm not really a fan of music on the radio.  Like most people, I like to choose what music I listen to, and keep it eclectic.  Radio on the music gets repetitive real quick, and rarely plays what I want to hear.  Talk radio is always something different; a constant stream of current news, debate, and discussion.  I love NPR and CPR and had the opportunity to listen to the MLB playoffs on the radio this year.  To listen to sports radio you need a basic understanding of the sport to start off with.  If you do, then you have ability to let your imagination explode.

I felt like I was lost in a sports dream as the Cubs and White Sox games wafted through the apartment and infested my imagination.  While I leaned over the stove cooking dinner and later scrubbed the dishes, the airwaves reverberated throughout the apartment.  I love the feeling of having the game surround me.  The experience was much different than TV.  TV makes my senses lazy.  I don't have to work to pay attention.  I just sit there and let the box do it for me.  The radio kicks my senses in gear and forces me to imagine the images and smells of the broadcast.  I like imagination, and the radio seems to like it also.

So I sit here now, listening to the radio, drinking coffee, and writing an update to my life.  It's getting cold outside, which I love.  I'm looking forward to sweaters, snow, and having an added benefit to my caffeine addiction (warmth).  While I love being able to do my long mornings of coffee and news, it will be ending on Monday.

On Monday I will officially be starting my new job at the Peace Corps Regional Office of Chicago.  I have been awarded a 30 month position as a Regional Recruiter.  I will be entering the office at the height of the Fall recruiting campaign.  For the first month I believe I will be going through a series of training workshops, and then in January I will attend a national training workshop in Washington D.C.

That's it for now.  My fingers aren't working so well today.  Not enough caffeine.

October 14, 2008

2:20 PM

Why did I feel so much better about doing nothing while I was in Kyrgyzstan?  A day's routine could involve writing (emails, letters, stories, etc), a few hours of reading, a long walk, and maybe a movie in the evening.  A relatively unproductive day (in KG), but it never felt like I was doing nothing.  

Since being home, if in a day all I do is read, write, and walk, for some reason I feel like I wasted a day.  What makes a productive day?  Why am I so worried about being productive?  How much of productivity is inward?

In KG, if I was doing nothing, it was still doing nothing in Central Asia.  Everything had a meaning or purpose, even if I produced nothing by the end of the day.  In Chicago, I'm having a hard time seeing productivity and growth amongst a city I was born and raised.

Every day was a learning experience in KG.  Every day home is still a learning experience, but the days are tainted with a detached feeling of being uninformed.  Not unwise, just uninformed about how and why life happens around me.

But is this really an adjustment dilemma, or just life?

October 13, 2008

9:35 AM

Fleet FoxesThe MetroOctober 12, 2008 @ The Metro

A band like Fleet Foxes playing at The Metro is like having a choir sing with you in the shower.  The Metro is tiny, Fleet Foxes (and their sound) is huge.  And not in the traditional sense of enormity.

From the second Robin Pecknold and his bandmates released their harmonies into The Metro's smoky quarters, the sold out crowd was frozen.  Staying true to their current tour's set list, they opened with the nearly two minute long a capella harmony of  'Sun Giant.'  With the rise and fall of each melody I watched the audience's shock of what they were seeing.  Church usually commences on Sunday mornings, but this Sunday the choir was exalting the congregation in late hours of the holy day.

Foxes plowed through the first half of their set, pausing only long enough to express the breaks between songs.  After about a half hour into their set, they settled in and begin to engage the audience in some friendly banter.  At one point, Pecknold and an audience member debated the possibility of corn (yes, the vegetable) replacing Sarah Palin on the republican ticket.

The dialogue with the audience was refreshing, especially considering the size of The Metro.  There was even a moment when a gentlemen screamed out, "Sir, may I ask you a question?"  To which Pecknold responded to, "Of course."  (The question ended up being an impressive waste of the intimacy the band was allowing.)  Amidst the soft rapport with the audience, the band confirmed their trepidation with being popular,  awkwardly joking a few times with people who screamed very personal requests from their past (both performances and personal).  NPR commented on the skepticism they have with own fame a few weeks ago.

In the end, thought, it was not their dialogue that mattered.  It was the silk that wafted from the speakers.  It was their stadium sound conjuring up memories of Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young.  It was the marching band drums backing up their four-part harmonies.  It was Pecknold's face showing the emotion of an entire life time as he reached to the depths of his vocal prowess.

I watched the entire show from the balcony.  A few times I closed my eyes and let the echoes search my skin.  There were moments I felt like I was in a scene from Fantasia, rushing with Mickey through tunnels on waves of color.  It's weird for such a humble band to have such an imposing sound.  I felt overwhelmed most of the night, scared with the realization that the music was splitting my soul and finding the layers beneath it.

I will not pretend this post in a music review.  I don't know enough about music or the Fleet Foxes to write a review.  I am merely writing this to release the emotion they left in me last night. It is not often that I am moved by a performance (music or otherwise).  I've learned to respect performances and the art that can be found in every one of them.  Call it maturity, call in patience.  What ever you choose to call it, I've learned to look at a presentation of art and find the beauty in its performance.

Last night took no searching, the beauty was literally everywhere.  The melodies that projected from the stage last night quenched a thirst I've long known I had, but didn't know what it was for.  The Fleet Foxes' performance was coffee, mate, and Fall leaves all blended into a sweet tasting vegan smoothie.  I would like to say I sipped the 'Fleet Foxes Vegan' smoothie through a straw and slowly enjoyed the show over the course of their hour plus set.  In reality, I slammed the whole shake down and ate the cup it was in.  

Thank you gentlemen, for your show last night.

October 9, 2008

11:15 AM

I was standing about half way up Table Mountain.  In front of me was one of the most impressive sunsets (at left) I'd ever seen in my life.  With a small group of people I was climbing the mountain in order to camp on top for the evening (a lifelong dream I never knew I had).  When we stopped about half way up I turned to one my fellow climbers (a South African college student named Dylan) and commented on how beautiful the view was.  As I scanned the horizon, my eyes eventually made it back to the base of the mountain where a tiny ocean side villa rested.  The lights from all the houses gleamed in the sun filled darkness.  Beauty was everywhere.  It was one of those moments where I didn't think my senses could handle what I was seeing.

My eyes swam from the horizon to the shore.  After a few minutes of silent gazing, I begin to feel the creep of one of the greatest internal debates of my life: what is beauty?  I turned to Dylan naively said to him, "It's sad that we can look at a series of light bulbs from a distance and call it beauty."  I say naively because on that day four years ago, I was starring at one of the greatest juxtapositions of beauty in my life.  I was watching the sun crash into the ocean and leave behind a wake of color, all the while being struck by the beauty of the seaside town's reflection of light.

Since that day I've seen many great expressions of beauty.  On canvas and in the mountains, I've had the opportunity of exposure that, cliche as it may sound, people dream of seeing.  Every great aesthetic experience I have adds a add a new ingredient to my internal debate.

My recent return to the US has led to an enormous amount of internal conflict.  Prominent among them has been questioning what beauty actually is.  Last night I was hurdling down The Kennedy from the Northside to the Southside.  In front of me was the Chicago skyline.  On some days the skyline is my muse, a source of inspiration.  On other days it's a punching bag collecting the right hooks and upper cuts of my rage.

At night the Chicago skyline is mesmerizing.  During the day (above) I want to reach out and hug the skyline.  The rise and fall of towers is a mountain range accented by rooftop lighting and antennas.  From every angle, the lights of the city are a mating call.  I've heard the echoes of Chicago's lights reach to the other side of the planet and now that I'm living inside of them, the power of their call is hypnotic.

Yet even with all its beauty, my heart is far from smitten.  From the highway last night I debated with myself of the skyline's beauty.  The mountain range of towers and lights are beautiful, but they are not mountains.  They are stand-ins of natural beauty, trees of steel and glass.  I appreciate the engineering genius it takes to put together giants like the Sears Tower.  The design and construction of modern engineering (everything from the Great Pyramid of Giza (with me in Chicago, below) to the Golden Gate Bridge) are great artistic expressions merged with functionality.

Still, they are not natural.  They may eve be harmful to our natural world.  To build or create, you inevitably have to destroy something (I will refute this point next paragraph).  If you want to paint, you have destroy the blank canvas.  To build a bridge, you have remove the materials from their natural source and then set them into a new location, destroying that location's natural habitat.  In many ways engineering and creation of the greatest architectural structures on our planet could be looked to as one of the many causes of our planet's environmental woes.  Engineering and manufacturing in themselves could be the greatest sources of global warming and destruction; they can also be the saviors of mankind.

I doubt an artist would say that painting on a canvas is "destroying" the canvas (Pilsen Art Walk above).  Painting is creation.  Looking up at the Sears Tower I can't help but marvel that, in a day and age when all we seem to do is expand, maybe heading up is a way to save our planet.  I look at the lights of the Chicago skyline, or think back to when I looked down from the top of Table Mountain, and I saw beauty the lights.  Beauty can be in the creation of buildings and painting; beauty can be found in the hidden metaphors of progress and innovation.  Art is innovation.  Manufacturing is innovation.  Natural beauty is innovation.  Or maybe innovation is the path to destruction.

My heart longs for answers to my riddles, but sometimes no answer is the best answer.

For now I'll live the ellipses.......

October 8, 2008

2:55 PM

We took Manas (our new puppy) into the vet today.  He's got the Parvo Virus.  Sweet.  It's nuts how quickly we got attached to him.  It hurt to see him in the "isolation ward."  Amy and I both got chocked up.

The snag of the whole event was seeing the bill for the visit and for future possible treatments.  It was quite the dichotomy to look at the bill with a lot of money already owed on it (and internally be questioning whether it's worth it to drop so much cash on an animal).  It's been said before, but I'll say it again: people are starving all around the world.  It didn't help that my present my super-guilt crept into the moment.  

'25th Hour' must have left a heavy imprint on me because once again my present situation has reminded me of a scene from the movie.  Philip Seymour Hoffman and Barry Pepper are staring out the window at the NYC skyline and during a heated conversation Pepper rips into Hoffman for being ashamed of his wealth.  I feel ashamed of my relative wealth.

It's not a fun feeling to live with.  The guilt weighs on me for the simplest of tasks (drinking water) and all the way to the life changing things (healthcare).  I respect and appreciate what I have, but that doesn't seem enough.  I don't feel as if anything I do in America is owed to me after living in the developing world for two years.  I feel like I should be able to live much more reasonably and stay connected with the world outside of the US.  In reality, all I've felt for the last month and a half has been "the pull," guilt, and awe at what reality has become in America.

I had created this blog with the hope of being one of those "conscious bloggers" who observes the world around me and writes wonderful constructive criticisms about it.  In reality, I have no idea how to put my thoughts into a blog.  I have no idea how to translate what I have been seeing and feeling since I've been home.

Maybe I will learn how to write and observe soon.

(Oh, and we went ahead and approved everything to care for Manas.  As Amy put, when we chose to get a dog, we chose accept everything from the fun to the hell.)

October 3, 2008   3:45 PM   Culture has become a themed restaurant.       October 7, 2008   12:00 PM   I don’t think I’m very good at this blogging thing.  I still post in delay like I was doing in Kyrgyzstan.  My thoughts tumble around in my mind for about a week (sometimes a few weeks) and then suddenly at some obscenely inconvenient moment I get the urge to write them down.   Maybe I’m mentally delayed…or exhaustingly self-deprecating.  I’m probably just not caffeinated enough.   Amy and I got a dog this weekend.  It’s nice to have a new little friend running around the apartment.  He’s still got some time until he realizes that peeing outside is better than inside, but it will come.  Dogs, like running, are a great form of meditation for me.   I am very poor at lighting incense and finding serenity.  I have the physical patience, but the mental patience is hard for me to do while in idle.  When I’m running, something happens.  I begin to run, break a sweat, find my stride, and then float.   Walking a dog has a similar effect for me.  As he strides and sniffs, I watch him; and rather than jumping from thought to thought my mind lets go.  No thoughts; just the dog’s actions and my watching.   [THERE SHOULD BE A TRANSITION HERE]   I was watching the water fill my cup from the tap this morning.  I still don’t know how to accept the luxuries I am given simply by have been born in America.   I can shower every day because I have running water.   I can listen to the radio every day because I have constant electricity.   I can walk barefoot in my apartment in October because I have heat.   I feel like shit getting in a car to go anywhere.  I feel guilty starting up the car and using gas.  I feel guilty because I know I don’t need a car.  I use it because of its convenience.  I don’t need to shower every day (maybe I do).  But what should I do?  Not drive?  Not shower?   I don’t have enough money to live in the comforts of choice.  Shit, I don’t have enough money to drive a car, but I still do that.  Maybe I should adjust my one-way income distribution.  (Money comes out, but why doesn’t any ever go back in?)   I say I feel guilty, but I don’t know if guilt is the emotion I should feel.  I don’t know what I am feeling.         In related news, I heard Sarah Palin is dropping out as the VP candidate.  Or maybe not.  I can’t understand her when she speaks.  Also.

September 25, 2008   3:45 PM     Every once in a while I am hit by one of those, “holy shit, I’m in America” moments.  I had one today.  Nothing really specific triggers the realization/shock, it just happens.  Today it happened as I smiled at a lovely elderly Mexican man who had smiled at me while he was setting up is fruit stand.  I looked at him and realized it was nearing the post-work rush hour; he was setting up for the crowd coming home.  He was setting up a fruit stand that was most likely where he made his living.   My mind then traveled off into the distance.  I thought of fruit sellers in Kyrgyzstan, India, on Ashland Ave, in London.  They all make a living selling fruit; a profession that seems to be one that wouldn’t bring in that much money.   I’ve been thinking about work and money a lot lately.  I’ve literally spent the past month searching for a job.  I’ve sent out countless resumes and cover letters and have questioned my future more than NPR says the word, “Recession” in a day’s time.  Graduate school, nanny, Starbucks, student counselor, refugee volunteer, bike messenger, professional Facebook stalker, bricklayer, El driver, nude model, blood donator….  The list goes on and on.   I’ve been to a few interviews and have heard back from no one.  It’s pretty depressing to go to an interview and then hear nothing for weeks.  Maybe I’m new to this whole American job search thing, but it seems incredibly rude and impersonal to just not call someone after an interview.  Nothing.  There are so many mechanisms in place in this country that allow people to live in their bulletproof bubbles.  I honestly don’t care if someone wishes to not hire me.  Just pick up a phone and tell me that.   I’ve been told it’s important to put your computer skills on a resume.  Well, how about if you know how to be human?  Should I put that on my resume?:   The Planet                                                                                           Milky Way, Local Group Human                                                                                                                          1983-Present - Worked and learned to become a developed and cognitive human presence. - Aided the world around me believing that humanity is better off when we act human   Interviewer:  “Well, Mr. Lemberg, what skills do you have that you could bring to our company?  What assets could you use to improve the work we do?”   Me:  “Well, ma’am, I am human.  I know how to talk to people.  I know how to treat people like they are my neighbor and not a pawn.  If you were to hire me as an employee of your organization I can guarantee I would put all my effort into not treating people like they are expendable.  I would reach out to every person I meet, even if it were only a smile or a nod.”   Maybe I should go back and talk with the fruit seller.  Why?  Because he smiled at me, he looked me in the eye, nodded, and said hello.  For some reason right there I was smacked with the realization that I now live in America.  I smiled back at the man and reminded myself how beautiful people can be.  I should have told the man thank you for smiling at me, but after I walked past him my head lost its hinges and spun for what seemed like an eternity.  I looked at every person and loved them all for simply being human: the mother crossing the street with her kids, her son lagging behind trying to find something in his backpack; the truck driver with a mug bigger than my head; the janitor emptying his bucket behind the church; the jogger bouncing to her head phones while waiting at the stoplight.   Every single one of them was human, no matter what they were doing, where they worked, or what color their skin was.  It felt good to be a human right then.     September 26, 2008   7:40 AM   I heard a report this morning on NPR about a religious activist group trying to paint Obama as a Muslim (Who is Behind the “Radical Islam” DVD?).  My overwhelming response to this, and to reports like this over the past year has been, “So what if Obama is a Muslim?”  Why is “painting” Obama as a Muslim being used as a smear tactic?  If Obama were a Muslim, would that make him unfit to be President?  Unfit to be American?   What is wrong with people?  Who cares if Obama is a Jew, a Muslim, or a follower of the traditional Anishinaabe traditional beliefs?  Sure attack his character if you want to questions if it will stand up against the pressures of a presidency.  But why is there a sentiment on the right that by being Muslim, a person’s character is some how flawed?   Are we really that far removed from our roots?  Anyone remember this:   [N]o man shall be compelled to frequent or support any religious worship, place, or ministry whatsoever, nor shall be enforced, restrained, molested, or burthened in his body or goods, nor shall otherwise suffer, on account of his religious opinions or belief; but that all men shall be free to profess, and by argument to maintain, their opinions in matters of religion, and that the same shall in no wise diminish, enlarge, or affect their civil capacities." – Thomas Jefferson, 1779 (Bill for Religious Freedom)   It disgusts me to listen to such ignorance.  Ignorance like this makes a great country like the US look no better than the authoritarian regimes we so love to invade.  We may not shoot our citizens with weapons (most of the time), but we sure love to torture them with ignorance.       September 26, 2008   10:55 AM     Amy and I attended Haruki Murakami’s ‘Kafka on the Shore’ last night.  The play was adapted to the stage by Frank Galati and was presented at The Steppenwolf Theater.  It was great performance, both visually and audibly.  It was fun to see the magical world of Murakami presented on stage.  I read “Kafka’ during a month long depression in Kyrgyzstan and undoubtedly the emotions of that period and the aesthetic inspiration of theater combined carry me away to a wonderful place last night.   In short, I loved it.   It was also good to go to a show with Amy.  Amy likes to joke that she wants us to be a “power couple.”  I’m not quite sure what the definition of that is, but I’m sure it has something to do with being muscular and having nice shoes.  I think attending a play (on discounted) tickets was probably a nice step in her (our) quest to become a “power couple.”  Amy has also read the book, so it was fun for both of us to see a book we responded to very differently and then see how the director interpreted the story visually.  (I am a sucker for Magical Realism, so the book took on the form of a wonderful escape pod for me.  Amy tends to lean more towards Reality, but will delve into a bit of the magic box every once in a while.)   I’ve been to a show at the Steppenwolf before, but this experience was entirely different.  The theater is a perfect place for a show (the theater equivalent to music at The Metro).  You feel like the show is a private show and only you and 100 of your friends are there to see it.  The theater’s atmosphere was, for lack of a better term, welcoming.  I felt like I belonged there.  What made the experience different this time around is my newfound aversion to areas of the North Side.  A lot of it just seems bland (Amy say’s the correct term is ‘eloquent’).   I surely don’t know enough about the Chicago to be a critic of it (but I’m learning).  There’s a lot things I like to criticize that I don’t know enough about (with the exception of myself), but I tend to do so anyways.  So, I apologize to you and me for criticizing the North Side.  There just seems to be a pocket of people there sterilized to the world around them.  Every corner has a bar or eatery aptly named to bring out the creativity wealth confers.  I bet some of the most ‘cultured’ people in the city live on the North Side.  I bet they read a lot and drink a lot of wine.  And I bet there are a lot of good people who live on the North Side.  Oddly, enough, I enjoy to read, drink wine, and I like to believe I’m a good person.  But I can’t get over how different and belittled I feel when I’m on the North Side.   There’s staleness in the neighborhoods there.  I feel as if the people and the neighborhoods themselves are trying to ‘present’ its culture to the world.  I believe culture is what people create it as.  It’s odd to me that in this country (especially on the North Side), culture is a marketing tool and smear tactic Naïve of me to be discovering this so late in life, but I guess I needed to leave and return to see it.   When I walk around the North Side it’is shocking to me how orderly life is there.  Dads have their collars and moms have their Ugs.  All lighting is mood lighting and every place is famous for something.  Presentation.  What happened to BEING?  Why is everything about SHOWING and DOING?   I guess the North Side kicks me so hard these days because I live on the South Side (South Loop to be exact) in Pilsen.  The color here doesn’t come from what’s on the plate.  Color here is the culture.  Culture here isn’t displayed in a window.  People live it.   The distance between neighborhoods may be a few streets, but only a fool could miss the walls built up around the city.  White people are afraid to talk to or about black people, Mexicans are glared upon by black people, and all of the above don’t want to admit that gay people may live some where else besides Boy’s Town. (And that is not even mentioning the dozen other ethnicities and races in our city).  FEAR.  Historians are going to look back on the last ten years and label it the “Metus Era.”  I bet there are a ton of people on the North Side that aren’t sterile or ignorant, but so many people seem afraid to step into realms of life they don’t understand (physically or mentally).  Accepting that racism is still rampant or there are disparities in our education system (because of racism?) could be a great first step for a lot of Americans, but so many people seem afraid of what that will mean.   Admitting that we have failed/are failing at taking care of our neighbors would mean everyone would have to accept fault.  From the president to the homeless, we are all at fault in some way.  I know that would never happen.  I just like to point that out.  What really tickles my feet are people who would attack the idea that we should take care of our neighbors.  “Why do I need to take care of them, I have a family to feed and problems of my own.”    Well, America, welcome to why the rest of the world laughs at us.  As America screams, “We are individuals!  We are proud of who we are and proud that every single one of us is unique.”  Well, hate to break it to you America, but we are not unique.  We are 300 millions “individuals” trying to fight for the same thing:  A Good Life.  And when the definition of a good life is contorted, that is when we have disparities in things like the education system.  For some, a good life is being able to eat and live under a roof.  To others the good life is always more; more, more, more.   For two years I lived and worked in a school that was the size of my High School’s gymnasium and had less books that the Des Plaines’ Public Library’s Mobile Library.  My time in Kyrgyzstan brought a lot of painful things to light.  Mainly, I grew up and studied in High School ignorant of what was happening in the inner-city schools of Chicago.  I am very thankful for the education I received, but it pains me to know that my education was and is not the norm.  The High-School graduation rate in Chicago is disconcerting.  (I’ve heard shattering numbers like 51%!)  I’m sure this problem existed before I left for Kyrgyzstan.  But like a lot of American life for me these days, things just look different.   In the same way when I arrived in Kyrgyzstan I had the ability to see the beautiful as ugly and the ugly as beautiful, America and Chicago show me a life I never knew existed.  I feel of the people I talk or walk with on the streets are all holding a book with the same cover as mine, but their storylines follow a very different path.   As I read my read my book, I am amazed at some of the omissions other people have in their stories.  Why does a place like the United States of America (where we can buy our meat from the store and infrastructure is not a cognate from a developed nation) have such an issue with teaching kids?   I want to set up a soapbox on Michigan Ave. during rush hour one day and just start screaming:  “IF YOU ARE HAPPY, THEN GO HELP SOMEONE THAT IS NOT.  IF YOU LIVE COMFORTABLY, THEN GO HELP SOMEONE THAT IS NOT.  IF YOU KNOW, THEN FIND SOMETHING YOU DON’T KNOW AND LEARN IT.   It hurts me, physically, to walk through Lincoln Park and hear someone complain about…anything.  It hurts me being home in Chicago and seeing what I see. It was easier to see the “haves” and “have-nots” while I was in Kyrgyzstan.  My purpose in being in there was to help improve the infrastructure.  Knowing that my presence was in request of a nation that admitted to needing help allowed me to reason with walking into my village’s school that had no heat or books.  I knew they knew they needed help.  And so I helped them.   But walking into a school in the middle of Chicago and hearing there is no heating and that the book to student ration is 1 to 5 sends me into a head-throbbing rage.  Why, in a country that claims to be one of the best on our planet, do we have such disparities in education (arguably one of the most important parts of life)?  How can so many people (in neighborhoods like the North Side) accept that their neighbors, human beings, literally just down the road from them are living such different lives?  Not different in a good way, different in a way that screams of dollar signs and poverty, drop-out rates and homelessness.     Wake up America.

Monday, September 22, 2008   5:30 PM   This is my first official post.  I wanted to get the new blog page up, so I just threw a few paragraphs in there last week.  This is going to serve as my first official entry.  My first attempt at blogging in America.   I guess it’s fitting that I start writing today.  I’m not usually one to get overly excited about dates and countdowns, but today marks a month removed from KG.  One month as a new resident of the U.S. of A.    It’s been an expected haze being home.   There have been days when I felt like I needed to step in front of a mirror.  Find a dirty gas station bathroom and pull the switch. The ghosts would be released and I would let loose on a “25th Hour”-esque diatribe.  Sometimes it hurts so much to how arrogant and blind every race is, how ethnocentric every ethnicity is in country.   Of course, there have also been days when I felt like I was Robin Williams running through an orgy of color in the afterworld of  “What Dreams May Come;” a city dripping with the colors of flags, race, culture and food. There are days when I walk down the street, or take the El, and I can barely keep my fingers from wanting to fondle all the color.  I want to reach out and slide my fingers over the sweaty grime of Chicago’s beautiful diversity.  Taking a breath walking down 18th street rips open the oxygen in my blood and lifts me higher than elevation.   I’ve ridden the El (or “L,” depending on who you are) a bunch since I’ve been home.  I’ve come to the conclusion that, unquestionably, this is where all life began.  The Holy Ghost and that little amphibian that came ashore a couple billion years ago both begin their respective ‘lives’ on Chicago’s El line.  Sure, some people will respond to this and say that the El was built for the world’s fair in Chicago some hundred years ago.  I say recheck your facts.   Every time I step foot on the El I am bombarded with one constant: American Diversity.  Never before have seen to the depths of what this country has on every corner, at every El stop.  I was on the El last week and heard four languages being spoken at once; and not one of them was English!  Why does it seem that so many people take this for granted?  I don’t want to be playing the inevitable card of, “I’ve returned from the developing world and all I see is American’s taking what they have for granted.”  I don’t want to play that card because I don’t think it’s true, at least not in the traditional material sense.   What I do see is every one, from Black people to White people, Mexicans to Canadians, taking for granted (in their own ways) the diversity of this country.  It’s staggering to me how deep in a groove people can live.  I am no exception.  The only difference is that these days I get to watch the masses follow their tracks while I try and dig mine.  I would like to believe I could avoid life in a rut, but that seems to be an inevitability if I am to function in America.       On a random note, I now live in The Pull; my term for life in America.  I had a conversation (not a real one, one on Gmail Chat) with Drew the tonight.  We talked about this a bit.  The root of our conversation: Facebook.  Facebook is addicting, disgusting, and one of the best networking tools created in the last ten years.  It is all part of The Pull of life I’ve felt since I’ve been home.  On the days I feel the greatest desire to disappear, the inevitability of the tangible life appears; the days I feel like making love to the Internet, the trees out my window mock me.

So here I am:  America.

*Shock?*I've been home for just under a month now.  The past month has been an onslaught of joy and fear, excitement and anxiety.  I stepped off the plane on the 22nd of August, 2008.  I entered into a country in the through of an election.  The country is awash with "Yes, We Can" slogans and talks of a Maverick.  The economy is starting to look like a quilt loosely sewn by the Fed.  Fashion has become, well, tightened.  Music and movies are glorious.  We are STILL at "war" and still like pissing off other countries (wait, what is that Pakistan, you don't want us killing your civilians?).  The internet is not the internet any more.  When I left two years ago this machine was the next frontier; now it's a necessity.  People don't check their email any more, they are their email.  HD is such an ingrained part of marketing it has lost its acronym status (life is in HD right?).  McDonald's and Starbucks are running smear campaigns against each; more cultural dividing.  Have a free moment?  Play with your phone.  Have a free minute?  Check the news.  People are so lost in their technology bubbles that Dentyne has begun promoting "offlining" (is there onlining?).  Seriously, though, we have a verb for NOT being online? *Relations*My friends and family have all lived in this nation for the past two years.  They have all "moved" in the past year.  I was part of a life these past two years that many people will never have the opportunity to live.  But as much as my friends supported what I did, they didn't do it.  They lived their lives here and "moved."  In American time, I was stagnant (I am increasingly disliking American time, but I live here.  I have to follow it in some manner).  A lot of the people I've known my whole life, people who know the depth of my history and youthful faults, have a hard time "dealing" with me.  They don't know how to respond to who I've become.  I am still the same person, but I've changed.  They have changed also, but they did it along side all of our friends; alongside America.  Sure, over time I may stop lashing out this country, but it's hard to swallow sometimes.  For now my friends and family are doing their best, but in time they are going to expect me to conform back to the "American track."  Maybe they won't, I don't know.

*Vibrations*The diversity of America makes me shake with pleasure.  We take what we have for granted here.