A week of madness....

1-17-06

Only three days have passed in Brazil, and I already feel that I have so much to write about. I feel I have been lax in my discipline, and that I may never catch up with the incredible vortex of states piling in around me. It hurts me to bypass events, to script selective occurrences, discarding moments not indelibly burned into my mind. But I find my time limited, and am constantly pulled by other challenges and opportunities of daily life.

Now I must admit that it is entirely strange to be in a new world such as this. It’s like some giant being grabbed a hold of the globe, and with tremendous force, shook things up enough to turn customs and traditions in disarray. Some things remain the same, namely objects and actions most rooted and entrenched in all human beings. Cultural constants one might call them. But everything else, including the way people speak, the food they eat, the manner in which they dress, their outlook on life; these things have fallen askew. I find myself traversing a playground of unfamiliarity. Ordering food, using the street telephone, such simple things present untold amount of difficulty. And to compound the problem, I have lost my ability to relate to this strange world, blind in a sea of unrecognizable sounds.

Despite these barriers, I have come to assume an adapt or die mentality, and I think thus far I have been doing pretty well for myself. My solitary Portuguese study in the U.S. has helped greatly. No one in my host family speaks a word of English, so I am forced to rely on the few words and phrases that I learned before my trip. We are constantly running to get the dicionairo, to try and get a point across, but I think our misunderstandings have been relatively minor, all things considering. And my teachers at the language school keep complementing me on my conversation ability, which is encouraging. I’ve only been here for a few days, but can on occasion carry out moderately rational speech.

On Saturday, this last weekend, Silvia (my host mother), Jackie, Emily, Diego, and a whole slew of other people, took a ride to the outskirts of Salvador, to visit Silvia’s mother and father for lunch. It was my first trip out of downtown Salvador—out of the little apartment and Graça neighborhood. My first observation was just how green everything is here. A living corridor of tropical flora bends over the cobblestone avenues and highways, accentuating the few open spaces in the city.

As we made are way out of the downtown area, I began to catch a glimpse of the poverty so endemic to Brazil. The favela shanty towns stretched for miles in each direction, built on hills and other undesirable landed zones. In many cities, these slum neighborhoods are devoid of basic governmental services, and are often controlled by criminal gangs who build their territorial success on the drug trade. They are dangerous places, where life is cheap, and where people scramble to eek out a living.

The Libirio family house, while not in a favela necessarily, was definitely in a neighborhood most outsiders would consider poor. The roads are narrow, winding, and chaotic; the houses built of brick and mortar and painted in subtle pastels. I rode with Marhlee—a super energetic Brasileira with a penchant for breaking out in song. She kept telling me that I was beautiful, and that I needed to find an amorada (girlfriend) in Salvador. Like many of the older women I have met here, she is a single mother, a mãe forte, apparently divorced or left to fend for herself by her husband. From what I gather, this is a rather common occurrence here.

The ride in her car was as crazy as any car ride I have taken in Brazil. Here, drivers run red lights, speed excessively, and pay no attention to pedestrians trying to cross the road. The danger of street travel was well illustrated to me when we arrived in the Liborio neighborhood. We turned onto a side street, just blocks away from our destination, and came upon a crowd hovering over something on the side of the road. The subtle mix of curiosity and quiet respect on peoples face alerted us to an accidente that had just occurred. A long pool of blood still lingered on the street, leading grotesquely to a body covered over with a white sheet lying on the side of the road. Whatever had happened, it wasn’t a pretty site—probably a quick and brutal discorporation. I was rather taken aback—by the blood, by the crowd—but everyone else in the car seemed to act as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

When we arrived at the Liborio household, I was treated to a large dose of Brazilian hospitality. As always, I was seated at the head of the table, and fed the largest portions—be it rice, beans, or meat—of the meal. Generally, the rules of cordiality pressure me into eating far more than I would normally. I think secretly that these Brazilians are trying to fatten me up, to create a living example of how a guest should be treated.

On Monday, I started my first round of Portuguese classes at the Escola Idioma in the Barra district. Although you can’t really tell from the faded concrete exterior of the building, the school is pretty nice, with white tile floors and six or seven separate classrooms. I paid for three months of group instruction; about 20 hrs per week. Luckily, there are no students who are currently at my comprehension level, so they have put me in a one on one class until others arrive. This is generally much more expensive, but I get to forgo the extra charges for now. My current teacher, Ione, is probably about my age, and real fun to study with. I consciously mess up her class routine, flirting with her whenever a new word presents me with the opportunity.

Yesterday after class, Kazu (a tall Japanese guy with thin silver glasses) accompanied me to the old colonial district, Pelourinho, in search of a good Capoeira group to study with. Kazu has become the perfect study partner for me. We often go out after school, to the beach or some other marvelous place, speaking Portuguese the entire way. He has been in Salvador for six months, speaks rather good Portuguese, and a bit of English as well. This is really perfect because he doesn’t know enough English to want to converse in the language, yet has the ability to correct me when I misspeak in Portuguese.

Eventually, Kazu and I found ourselves climbing four flights of stairs, to a Capoeira studio near Pelourinho. Capoeira is a beautiful dance like martial art, sparked in the slave quarters of new world Brazil, and in the fighting traditions of Angola. It requires extreme athleticism and acrobatics from its participants, and is a truly beautiful art form to watch. Salvador, also known as the Black Rome, is a city saturated with the traditions of Africa. Capoeira is practiced all over Brazil, but is most at home in the city of all saints. I figured there would be no better way for me to stay in shape then to, as I told Kazoo, “Pratica em o dojo do Brasil.” He wasn’t that interested in the sport, but when we visited the “dojo”, he met a cute Japanese girl who used to live in Tokyo. Now he is all keen on returning, which is cool by me; I’d love to have someone to practice with.

* * *

If you ever get bored, and want to give your brain a real shock, try this: Move to a fazenda in Oklahoma for six months, where your only fun involves tipping over cows and thinking up imaginative ways to bend barb wire. Then, after sufficient sensory depravation, move immediately to a city of THREE MILLION PEOPLE. Move to a place where your personal space becomes negligent, where there is a constant hum of buses and cars, and where a thousand moving shapes and tones color your every waking thought.

Salvador is this. Salvador is crazy.

The city was first christened in 1501 by Italian navigator Amerigo Vespucci, who was so enchanted with the surrounding waters that he dubbed the place All Saints’ Bay. In a few years time, Salvador had peaked the interest of the Portuguese empire, which was expanding its vast trade network over the better part of the known world. At the heart of the Brazilian coast, Salvador became an “El Dorado for adventures and a principal stopover for East-West trade routes”, and it was picked as an ideal location to seat the colonial government. Large ramparts and military forts were constructed, and the city grew rapidly. With the rise of the sugar trade, Salvador became the principal port of entry for hundreds of thousands of Africans, pilfered in chains across the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade.

Throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, Salvador remained a principal trading port for the Portuguese empire. Sugar barons grew rich off their ‘white gold’, building ornate baroque mansions throughout the city. Churches of every type arose to proclaim the faith of the people, be them the isolated terreiro Candomble temples, where worshipers sing praise to the Yoruba and Nago gods, or the magnificent edifices of the Catholic faith. Together, the city began to gradually assume a syncretic flavor, now witnessed in the endless stratum of colors displayed by the people. While poverty still slides to the darker end of the spectrum, no one shade inhabits a strict corner of society. Mixed race and mixed heritage is the favored and frequent norm.

For me, in just this last week, Salvador has been a firestorm of activity. Every night I have gone out, on some new adventure, pulled into a strange world of street lamps and bar music, where the night is often brighter than the day. Salvador boasts a constant parade of festivals, celebrating saints and African deities, with a steady stream of local bands showcasing their tunes. On Tuesday night, I hit the AeroClub (kind of like an outdoor mall) with a couple of older gents, one who looked and spoke just like Juan Claude Vandam—the French martial arts movie star. Juan was a too cool for school sort of guy, who kept making fun of the ways Brazilians say Americans words (Hip Hop = Hippy Hoppy, McDonalds = Miccy Donalds, etc.). We saw Axè, a local favorite played all over Brazil, and a number of other well known artists.

On Friday night, Kazu and I walked the old cobblestone streets of Pelourinho, meandering our way through dense tourist infested crowds. Percussion groups played in the wider avenues, giving the old colonial town a pulsing heartbeat and rhythm. I narrowly escaped a couple of pick pockets, lustily eyeing my bulging gringo cash. Eventually we made our way to a small restaurant away from the larger old town square, and sat down for an incredibly overpriced, but deliciously produced dish of Carne do Sol. We drank two bottles of Skol, the widely popular macro beer, and talked about women and life in general.

Tomorrow I’m off to buy some clothes for my Capoeira lessons, which I’m hopping to start next week. I’ve gotten in touch with a fellow Michigander, a girl who also graduated in anthropology, and who similarly wanted to vacation in Brazil, and we’re probably going to head down by the beach after hitting the large Shop Barra mall.

Let me publicly shout out some props to my mother, who recently pulled me out of a dangerous monetary situation. Visa had put a block on my card, due to the strange out-of-country activity, and I had no way to pull out more cash. Thanks to her, my pockets are once again renewed, after her call to the bank and subsequent threats to the credit card company.

After a weeks worth of new incursions, my head is ready for bed. Sleep is like massage therapy for the mind, and I’m in dire need of some relaxation. Before I go, let me remind you of the little comment button just to the bottom right of this post. As much as I like talking to myself, I much prefer to know that other eyes are out there. Do me a favor and let me know you are alive.

(language school hallway)

(Bahiana serving me Acaraje and some Skol)

(Barra light house....gorgeous no?)

(city view near the apartment)

(feeling popular and tall!)

(yes it's me)

Arrival

I’m in Brazil and my head is exploding. “Que?”, “Não compreendi”, and “Meus Portuguese é muito basico” have become my phrases of choice. I have discovered, yet again, just how difficult it is to traverse a world where every sound and syllable imparts confusion—where every moment offers a tinge of awkwardness, and a raised eyebrow from the person I’m talking to. Perhaps I’m being too hard on myself, it being my first day and all, but God would I love to communicate right about now!

The trip down was long; so long in fact that I came awfully close to losing it mentally. Oklahoma City to Dallas was no problem, just a two hour wait and hour and a half ride. I met some great “single serving friends”, drank some apple juice, and hoped for (but never received) my complimentary in flight peanuts.

With each connecting flight, I brought myself one step closer to the universe that is Brazil. I went from no Portuguese, to some Portuguese, to “I’m the only gringo here who can’t speak a damn bit Portuguese”, as I moved along. With each flight, the Brazilian crowd grew larger, until the cultural parlance completely saturated the air-recycled environment. When everything leaped, full speed, “way over my head”, I simply ducked for cover, staring at points of the plane, trying all the while to reason through the clatter.

When I finally reached the Aeroporto Internacional de Sao Paulo I was elated but scared. Everything was new and unpredictable, and simple tasks required an untold amount of concentration.

When I went to recheck my luggage, after running through customs, I was told by the desk attendant that I had to hold onto my bags until three hours before my flight. This presented some complications, especially considering that my departure to Salvador was not for another twelve hours. So there I found myself, meandering through the airport, carrying 80 lbs of unappreciated, yet invaluable junk. In a place where people eye your stuff, fastidiously, one must be cautious and mentally present. This was tiring, to say the least, and I was awfully close to handing my bags to the nearest person with a “you take care of it!” Communist tendencies aside, I instead kept a watchful eye on my stuff, dealing with such difficulties as, “My bag won’t fit in the bathroom stall, so tough, just don’t go!”

Eventually, I found myself sitting across from the embarque corridor of the airport, just spaces away from the Banco do Brazil and the Black Coffee restaurante; also known as the sixth circle of hell. I’m not sure how it happened—how I slipped, like a farmer’s hand impregnating a cow, through a temporal vortex—but time moved far slower there than any where I’ve ever been. I would move, with my bag cart in tow, from my off-brown airport seat, to standing outside, watching the Volkswagen cars and busses roll by.

My only consolation, during this rather aggravated displacement, was the gorgeous brasileiras that would walk by me as I sat in my chair. I’m not really sure how it happened, how an indefinable number of features could meld together in such perfection, but Brazilian women “have it going on” as a more colloquial gent would say. Generally speaking, men enjoy curvaceous figures that inspire thoughts of Aphrodite and the finer things in life. I swear, every three seconds, my eyes would swagger—an abrupt left to right—and under my breath I’d mutter a que beleza, wondering how a person could be so fine. And another thing I’ve noticed; it seems that Brazilian girls tend to ‘take care’ of themselves more than Americans, at least in regards to fashion and the strict necessities of well sculpted nails and hair. Call me bias, or a chauvinistic pig, but I’ve always enjoyed the sight of a well manicured women.

Adolescent thoughts not withstanding, I preceded to sit, stand, sit, stand, and sit some more. After working up enough courage, I eventually found myself at a food/vendor counter, trying politely to order a cafézihno, and some pão de queijo. The girls taking my order would laugh at my expressions, and I’d cheerfully return with a gringo smile, hoping they would take pity.

Now, lest I fail to mention, I was in all honesty very happy to be in Brazil. Over the past year, I had invested a great deal of thoughts and hopes into this trip. Seeing the dance and sway of the palm trees, and the cultural nuances of a motorbike passing, I felt rather dizzy, like I was falling into a dream. It was good, even in these first few hours, to feel like I had ownership of something in my life—that I made this trip happen, and this reality was all but my own.

Eventually, after more physical and mental turmoil, I came upon the Leo Robideu sign, horribly misspelled, by the folks from Idioama. It was, at that point, two in the morning, and I was very happy that someone from the language school had even come to pick me up. Even at that hour, the ride into downtown Salvador was absolutely stunning. Concrete apartment buildings, tree lined avenues, and all forms of businesses stretched for miles. The barzinhos blared Baianas musicas, and huge crowds filled the entryway of each intoxicating club. Large mega structures filled the sky, and industrial sculptures accentuated the flora of the praças. Eventually, to my benefit, our car peaked over a hill, and we came upon a vision of the Bahia dos Todos os Santos—the bay of all saints. Huge waves crashed upon its shore, and I was utterly amazed.

When I reached my host family apartment, in the graça neighborhood, I was completely wiped out. I tried to offer some formal greetings to my hosts, but nothing really legible came out. Dreary eyed themselves, they showed me to a quant little room with a window that overlooked the street. There was a glass table in one corner, a tv and bed in the middle of the room, and a white cabinet on the far wall. I dropped my head into a pillow and crashed to oblivion.

The next day, with the rise of the Bahian sun, was muito movimentada (very busy). I awoke to the sound of my host mothers voice, talking on the phone in the living room, and I slowly, with but six hours of sleep, rose from my bed to greet her. Silvia, an affable women in her early forties, welcomed me to Bahia. She seated me down to the largest breakfast I had ever seen, offering me eggs, cheese, freshly squeezed juice, coffee, five plates full of different types of fruit, three loaves of bread, and a whole assortment of other goodie’s. I think she was gauging my likes and dislikes with this meal, serving me everything in an attempt to ascertain what I was and was not in favor of. Either way, I came away from the meal adequately stuffed, and well engaged in conversation. She didn’t speak any English, but my chicken Portuguese got us by.

After breakfast, I tried to make my way over to an ATM, a few minutes walk from meus casa, but failed miserably in figuring out the machine. The door to the bank proved equally unfamiliar. There were these dark metal doorknob looking things in the center of two glass panes, that, as I came to find, had no real function. A guard standing inside the bank laughed at my futile attempts to sac the fortress, eventually pointing out a button on the side door that needed to be pressed to enter. So having figured that out, I tried to surmount my next challenge, the confounded caixa electronico, and failing miserably in that regard, had to return later with my host mother to pull out some cash.

Now, interestingly enough, as the day progressed, more and more women came to invade Silvia’s apartmento. Maria, Siliva’s dark and beautiful twenty four year old maid showed up, and began doing my breakfast dishes. I was happy to meet someone my own age, but laughed at the fact that there was a maid for a rather poor Brazilian family. The apartment off Rua da Paz is very modest, with a small living room/dining room, kitchen, and side bedrooms. There are few adornments in the house, and few luxuries that most Americans would take as domestic ‘givens’. For there to be poor amidst the poor is a great irony only possible in a third world country.

Well, Maria gave way to Emilie, Jackie, Maria, Alicia, and more—all friends and family of the Liborio tree. Jackie, I should not fail to mention, is a spunky twenty-one year old, with a rear end that can upset a man’s conscious logic for a good time to come. Together, Jackie, Emilie, Maria and I, spent the day at the beach, swallowing great deals of salt water at the bequest of the sea. The colors and senses of Salvador are as lively as the people that inhabit it, and the trip to the beach was imbued with such accents that I could hardly contain myself. Hundreds of loud boisterous black and tanned Brazilians occupied beach space, sipping on cold bear and great amounts of suco (juice). The waves off the bay were incredible, knocking me into the surf sand at multiple intervals. I spent the time, traveling from beach to beach, eating queijo on a stick, and flirting with Maria and Jackie in my broken Portuguese. We visited the light house, a major travel point in Salvador, and eventually made our way back home up a large cobblestone hill.

Unfortunately, the good feelings and good vibes did not last through the night. I really wanted to go out and hit the club scene, but Maria and Jackie didn’t want go. What was new to me was same old, same old, to them, and they lacked the abuse yourself after hours commitment I was ready for. Maria left, and I was stuck, dicionario in hand, trying painfully to have a conversation with Jackie, who did not know or want to know a single word of English. Eventually I got sick of my confusion, and my inability to communicate clearly, and I went outside to go buy some beer.

When I got back, I tried to continue the conversation, but failed miserably. We were clearly both uncomfortable with the situation, with the long drawn out silences, and the “your weird gringo” vibes that I probably gave off. At one point, we did have this great conversation, where I just talked in English, and she just talked in Portuguese, and we completely couldn’t understand each other. Nonetheless, we both seemed to appreciate the awkwardness of the moment, and for the first time I felt the infinitesimal spark of a connection, so taken for granted in conversations back home.

When I gave up, beer in hand, with a boa noite, I could see the relief in her eyes. Trying to talk when you can’t talk is just miserable, and she was glad to be out of there. I too, feeling a bit tired, retired to my quarters, hoping for some strangeness relief in my o computador.

…Thus completes my first journal entry. It’s twelve o’clock midnight and I have two and a half beers in my belly. I don’t usually write so much, so fast, but I don’t think that I adequately got my conversation fill throughout the day.

(first cafezinho)

(outside the airport...waiting...waiting...waiting)

(Aeroporto Sao Paulo)

(giant breakfast)

(Cuisine da Bahia)

(view from my bedroom window)

Please note: I will not be able to update my blog as often as I would like. Not only do I have to pay for internet, at a computer cafe, but I have to format with a rather foreign keyboard. So no everyday posts as I would like. Blah.

Ahhhh.....

Ahhh...my new world is crazy, and wonderful, and drop dead gorgeous.

Sorry...I have long entries to post, but no place to post them. I´m using the internet at the language school right now, and the computer doesn´t have a USB drive´, and my host family doesn´t have the internet. I have to find what I incorrectly refer to as a casa do computador. People laugh when I say this, but whats a gringo to do.

Will get back to you soon.

Ahhhhhh.....crazy crazy crazy.

Kingdom Come

Brazil beckons. In four days and counting, I depart to a new world. My brief sojourn in Oklahoma is all but over, and it would be an understatement to say that I’ll be happy to be gone. I could probably best describe my stay here as a test of endurance. Life is difficult when you are in a transitory period, when you are forced to give up the luxuries of independence, friends, and leg room. I mean living in a trailer, dealing with the eccentricities of your folks on a daily basis (granted they had to deal with mine), and having few social events to relieve stress does generally suck. And it did, big time really. But looking back on it now, I must admit to myself that perhaps this time of isolation and contemplation was good for me. Removing myself from an environment of distraction gave me time to think about my life and it forced me to ask those “hard questions”; you know, the kind that Dr. Phil grills his unwary guests with before they have chance to flee. Looking into the proverbial mirror, I became dissatisfied with my reflection, and like all great advances, I had to first admit to the weaknesses in myself before allowing myself to move on.

And move on I have, I do believe. I feel stronger physically, psychologically, and emotionally; more than I ever have in years past. And I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that I’ve had to go at it alone. Getting thrown in the meat grinder, and then somehow making it out the other side, scarred and bruised, but alive, gives one the sense “I can survive anything”. And when you do it alone, you come to realize that your survival hinges upon no one but yourself. Your emotional state, despite the shit going on around you, depends solely on how you choose to perceive the world. If you choose not to let anything break you, than nothing will.

And there is power in that.

So I return to my life, now with this great opportunity to travel abroad, feeling full and content, ready for the challenges and wonders that this world will bring. Am I fully healed from my wounds, no. I can admit that to myself. There hasn’t been enough time for my old world to pass completely away. But now I have the tools to deal with the sting, and am ready to step forward, remembering the lessons of the past, and accepting the possibility of a new and brighter future. This gives one hope, and what better way to start a new beginning than with a hope of things to come.

* * *

Brazil beckons. In four days and counting, I depart to a new world. Like all great explorers, I charge myself with the weight of discovery, ready for normality to fall slightly askew. My bayonet is fixed, my flag waves full, and I stand on the edge of the bow, smiling at the distant horizon.

With a southern dance of a thousand miles, I will find her. She with her tropical flora, her sertão, her pantanal—in a land so vast that it could contain all of the countries of Eastern Europe. Over three million square miles, and home to some of the richest ecosystems in the world, Brazil is a land worthy of her poetry. Her five regions—the Amazonian North, the arid Northeast, the dynamic Southeast, the pastoral South, and the underdeveloped Center-West—have been likened, as Robert Levine describes, “to islands in a huge archipelago, spread across a sea of geographic diversity.”

Her culture, mixed and proud, glistens with the allure of heady exoticism, fully witnessed in the dance of capoeira (Angolan foot fighting), in the exchange ceremonies of the native Amazon, and in the structural edifices of the Portuguese. Even her clichés, be them coffee, Carnival, or Carmen Miranda, sweeps one into the passion of Saudade—a fondness, longing, and nostalgia for things once seen.

When one speaks of Brazil, such things should be mentioned. Her lilting jazz harmonics, the beat of her Blocos Afros, the swing and glide of her samba. Ahh, but there is poverty in her romance too. Hers is a nation of both “mansions” and “shanties”, where thousands struggle for a place to call home, for freedom from oligarchy, and the disparaging forces of corruption. Both “warmly hospitable and surprisingly violent, physically beautiful yet on the verge of ecological disaster, fabulously rich and appallingly poor” (Page), Brazil is an Eden full of contrast, struggling to find its course, maturation, and identity.

Disparities and cultural riches in mind, onto her shores I will go. First to Bahia, to Salvador, the once lively center of the old world colonies, and then on to Vitoria, capital of Espirito Santo. The first three months will be centered on study and survival, as I traverse the new cultural landscape and learn to speak Portuguese. Then, visa extension permitting, I’m of to the Universidade do Espirito Santo, where volunteer work awaits my attention.

All things seem possible in new beginnings, and what better a place to find life than in the freshness of a new land. Brazil offers this to me, her temperament and silhouette catching my eye, and I impatiently await our first embrace, our dance into delectability.

So with a hearty “garrrrrr”, and a pirates cold grin, let me bid you adieu, adios, and goodbye. My sail in full sweep, and my anchor discharged, I’m off to find grander things. For as the prolific Saint Augustine once said, “The World is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page.”

Slip goes the page.

(from my head to yours)

(travel itinerary)

A Happy 2006

1-1-06

With one great shift, the clocks arm swings forward. The pageantry and din of the holiday, issued from countless sources, fills every nook, cranny, and open space. Glitter and noisemakers accentuate as confetti falls to the floor. Cheerful revelers, with hands upturned to the sky, invite the dawn of a new age, where hopes and dreams, and all that is everything may continue to live on.

At a bar, a man with spiky hair grins. Just a few feet away, the dance floor overflows with sweat and movement. The strobe light bounces quicksilver off each smiling face. The crowd surges with excitement, as the pump and spring of the music falls and rises with each crescendo.

Dressed in a blue athletic shirt and torn blue jeans, the man sips slowly on his drink, cranberry and vodka melding frostily in his throat. “This is awesome!” he sings, glancing momentarily at his brother standing next to him. “I’ve never seen this place so busy.” A mass of curls breaking out from under a Quicksilver hat, his brother nods appreciatively, and then returns to the drink held in his hand.

Four dark giant speakers, resting at the back of the room, drown out the emphatic stresses of conversation. In the clamor, people lose their syllables, and the ‘what’, ‘huh’, and ‘silent nod’ becomes the only way to communicate. Striding through this heavy mix of sound and body, the man raises an eyebrow, noticing a girl as she walks on by. Black tresses falling across her back, the girl is Latin, beautiful, and for a slight sliver of a moment their eyes meet across the crowd. She smiles briefly, almost imperceptibly, as he glances back. For one tiny instant, as the throng parts and then closes again, they latch on to each other, offering signs of a silent, but shared, approval. Before his heart has a chance to rise in his chest, before a wink or another smile can be passed, she is gone—lost in the movement of the crowd.

“Aieeeeyahyaieee” he mutters to himself, shivering at the thought of her smile, however briefly perceived. The music jumps from House to Usher. Club ballads scream their hedonistic popularity. “Let’s get out there” the spiky haired boy says, motioning to the dance floor, and slurping up the last bits of red ice water in his drink. Setting his plastic cup on the nearest table, his brother snaps his fingers, and begins to make his way toward center stage. The area is long and rectangular, rimmed by narrow countertops for people to set their drinks on. On a raised platform, the DJ sways back and forth, raising volume and tweaking pitch with each transition of song. Brilliant colors flood the dance floor, projected from spinning globes on the ceiling, and people wave orange and green glow sticks through their hands, tracing DNA like patterns in the air. Senses overwhelmed, the mass shuffles in its strange little world.

Just as the rhythm begins to penetrate his body, he sees her, again, not steps away. She flaunts a shirt rimmed with silver sequins that plays with the light like the globe swinging over head. Sliding down the sweep of her halo, and fortified with liquid courage, he glides towards her without hesitation. Feeling his movement near her, she turns, smiles, and begins to dance. “Hot diggidy dog!” he thinks to himself, seizing her hips and dancing with her. “This is one opportunity I just can’t pass up.”

Together they move, back and forth, swinging under arms and around shoulders. The girl’s eyes are black, dark and inviting, and she teases him with her smile and sway. He smirks back, leading the dance, and at times looks away—feigning the indifference of a man with nothing to lose. Together they meld, her black hair and his blue eyes, lost in the freedom and thrill of the movement. “God!” he thinks as he smells her perfume. “This is such therapy!”

Like all great moments, the excitement builds, with its climax, and then slips, falls, and fades away. The song loses its breadth and her hand slides from his. Their eyes wander to other things, bored with the present moment, looking for other ways to momentarily fill themselves once again. Content with his little slice of happiness, the spiky haired boy sits down at a nearby table, next to his brother.

“That was awesome,” he states “what a great New Year.”

“Definitely” his brother replies, a tired late night stupor lining his face.

“You know, this is it. The beginning of a new year. And not just a new year but a new beginning. 2006 is going to be my year, my time, and no one will take it from me.” The spiky haired boy beams, his brother gives him a ‘yeah, whatever’ look, and they both get up to leave.

The drone of New Year’s partying continues long after they walk away. Lights continue to flash, people continue to smile, happy with the direction that a new beginning gives. The early morning sunshine awaits, ready to throw light on a billion fresh faces. In the mind and in the heart, they look towards the dawn, and all is born anew.

Daddeyo, Mamabear, This One's For You

Definition:

Boomerang Kid – a 20-something who returns to the nest after a stint of independent living.

Reasons for the Boomerang:

-Economics
-Divorce
-Safety Net
-Extended Education
-Drug/Alcohol Problems
-Temporary Transitions

Statistics

Census figures show that 56 percent of men and 43 percent of women ages 18 to 24 today live with one or both parents.

How Parents Feel

"It was hard to have her here, because she was used to an independent life, and we were, too, but it was the right thing to do," says Hayden, author of "For Richer, Not Poorer: The Money Book for Couples." "I was the one that said 'Come home, get stable and let's figure this out.'"

“No, they're not slackers happily sponging off the us. Instead, they're caught in a supply-and-demand job undertow created by the aging of the baby boom generation and the increasingly mobile labor force.”

"You have a whole lot invested in them, and psychologically it feels like you spent all this money to have them live in a ghetto. We don't want that."

How to Get Rid of Them

1. Feed them Raman noodles three times a day.
2. Put rattlesnakes in their bed.
3. Tell them they are adopted, and that their real parents Butch and Sunshine are on their way to see them.
4. Sabotage all of their phone calls with, “Our son/daughter is not in right now, and you wouldn’t want to talk to them anyway because he/she is a loser who lives with his parents.
5. Insist on giving them spankings after they have been bad.

(Drastic times calls for drastic measures. Six months with the folks, now almost over.)

(Photo courtesy of US NEWS)

My Ode to Kalamzoo

Yes, there really was a Kalamazoo.
Where a mundane life I amused.
And by my choosing,
My outward ensuing,
Broke the ties and the memories too.

In hindsight I’ll remember,
Your vision most splendor.
And through this dismount,
This romantic recount,
Feel the heat of thy smoldering ember.

To never forget your bounties fare,
Is my vow, my word, my solemn swear.
And into my head,
The chapters there shed,

Does your pictures remain forever to bear.

(for the work and physical pain!)

(for the monumental fun!)

(for those solemn times!)

(for the urban acrobatics!)

(for the forest adventures!...sprite ad not intentional)

(let me give you a kiss, city of cities!)

(for the history and the research!)

(for your easygoing homeless!)

(and your crowds!)

(and your politics!)

(for your anthrogeeks--most noteworthy pals!)

(for your mad scientists!)

(for your bartenders and campus taverns!)

(for your beer most sweet, and your glasses brimming)

(for your revelry and friends!)

Kalamazoo, I thank you.

Thanks Be to Boulder & Autumn Updates

11-29-05

Eat Turkey, Be Happy.

* * *

The first Thanksgiving – celebrated by the English Separatists, Dutch tag alongs, and indigenous hosts – lasted the whole of three days. America, in all her savage pomp, had quelled any pervious attempts at celebration, claiming in her fervor 46 of the 102 colonists in the first two years of settlement. To the delight of tired minds and shrunken stomachs, the harvest of 1621 was a particularly bountiful one, worthy of uncorked spirits, spontaneous smiles, and all manner of whimsical support. With four men sent fouling, and native crops to spare, with victuals a plenty and conversation to speak, all grief was undone as everyone united in the social accord of a damn fine party.

While the series of events preceding my holiday were in no way as calamitous, I too can regard my Thanksgiving as a bountiful success. Set hundreds of miles West of Plymouth Rock, and hundreds of years in the future, my stage was set on the Eastern fringe of the Colorado Rockies, in Boulder, CO.

As a valley steeped in natural marvel, engineered to enchant and entrance the mind, it is no wonder that many have called Boulder home. Among others, the Arapaho, Utes, Cheyennes, and Commanche have swept across its broken floor, along with gold seeking westerners of the industrial centuries. Now a jutting Denver island, comprising 25.37 square miles, Boulder is home to all manner of human diversity, ranging from the conservative cash bound college crop, to the free spirited transcendental activist. A haven for the avant-garde, the bohemian, and for Eastern meditative practitioners, Boulder sings a full spectrum of political blues despite the rightwing policies of the state. A sundry vortex of lifestyles, the town breathes tasteful complexity, and I found great delight in making it my Thanksgiving home.

A couple of years ago, my brother decided to forsake his Michigan roots and move out West, where the horizon has greater boundary, and where the scenery has far greater pull on the heartstrings. Born a natural scientist, a botanist, a ruff edged mountain man with a love for classic rock, there was no better place for him. As always, it was quite enjoyable to visit his haven—to enjoy not only his town but also our shared familial peculiarities. Our time, divided between holiday obligations, family catch up, and running around, was definitely well spent.

Rolling efficiently along in my parents Volkswagen Jetta, we arrived in Boulder around 10:00p.m. on Monday, after a cramped muscle straining 11 hour trip. Colorado Springs, Denver, and Boulder are steadily becoming a fused metropolitan strip, rimming the edge of the mountains like a string of Christmas lights. The guild and shimmer of this line becomes most apparent after dusk, highlighting a suburban sprawl that boorishly illuminates the way. The only view lost in this conversion is the sweeping expanse of the Milky Way, now a faded tintype amidst the chilled autumn sky.

My brother’s place is a four-bedroom renters house in a rather posh mountain community, set on the first range of hills above Boulder. It was here that I fed myself with some much-needed socialization. I slept on the living room couch, and was blessed every morning to see the golden eastern sunlight stretch over the rock pinnacles outside the window. Thanksgiving day was unveiled in this setting. Various tables were laid out across the kitchen and living room; a multitude of high-class delicacies decorated the countertop. Roommates, and roommates of roommates, and friends of roommates all came to enjoy the festivities. I sampled a large glass of mead, a favored drink of mine brewed with honey in the Beowulf Old Norse tradition. To compliment my brimming glass, I consumed overzealous portions of turkey leg, bacon infused stuffing, Pillsbury extra flaky biscuits, bean casserole, and last but not least pumpkin pie, pumpkin cheesecake, and cherry cheesecake pie. Happy to relive the copious habits of 1621, I felt stuffed. Rather plump but rather good.

These holiday excesses also worked into the nightlife enjoyed both before and after Thanksgiving. With a couple of my brother’s old high school friends in tow, we hit the basement bars of Pearl Street, which is a long corridor of specialty shops and restaurants downtown. A consummate Red Bull and vodka drinker, I took my decadent liquids in stride, playing my hand at a couple rounds of darts at the first bar. After claiming the win with a double bull’s-eye finish, and pouncing around the bar like it was the greatest moment of my life, we headed back out to Pearl to find yet another round of good times. Our next destination, a jumpin’ Salsa bar with a live band, proved to be a rather enlightening experience. Unlike Club, Salsa is actually a dance—a true series of precise movements that must be learned and practiced. Even with a natural rhythm, and a Latin heart of fire, you can’t fake Salsa (although we definitely tried!). I left the place, gooey with sweat, determined to learn some of those hot pepper swing moves in the future.

Other daylight and after dark excursions proved equally fun. My brother and I reminisced about the “good ol’ days” (which to us young people translates to the 1980’s), discussing influential movies such as RAD, and Little Barber Shop of Horrors. We played a couple rounds of disc golf, did some trials bike riding around campus (blowing out a second bike tire and a sprocket), and when pressed with boredom we entertained passerbies with some urban walking (don’t ask). The highpoint of our delinquency came about on Tuesday, when we decided to free climb one of the Iron Flats—a series of sheer rock cliffs rimming the southwest end of Boulder. Most (insert intelligence adjective here) people use ropes and hard rubber climbing shoes to do this. We used tennis shoes, focused handholds, and a firm belief that we were not going to die. Considering that I’m sitting here writing this, I happy to say that all went well.

The rest of the week was similarly first-rate. I did some Christmas shopping, some music trading. I ate more, slept less. I enjoyed the benefits of singlehood by flirting to the extreme. And, to the betterment of my Oklahoma solitude, I hung out with people my own age (sigh, words cannot describe the joy).

Everything worked out just as it should have. My bellies full, my senses filled, and I return, despite the craziness, much more relaxed.

Good times. Good times.

* * *

Autumn turns, colors burn, the season brings its change. Crispy yellow leaves, disembodied from the trees that line our creek bed expose new perennial skeletons. The full blooms of spring and summer, once commanding a greener time, have given way to empty November space. Our views – now twice cast – take in far more distant corners of the Black Rocks property. And with skin now covered, as leaves and temperatures fall, all seems as it should be.

The past few weeks have been busy as ever, with swells of activity hitting me from all sides. The museum is bleeding my volunteer juices dry, sending me off to distant middle schools to lecture on Archaeology, Native American history, and to introduce an art contest project of my working. Having now been featured in the local newspaper a couple of times, I have begun to garner public support and a miniscule score of small town celebrity. This work has been wholly gratifying, and I continue to enjoy the validation of my coworkers and the professional image that it entails.

On the home front I have been busy with various construction projects, bread mix production at the Spring Hill Bakery, and editorial work for a cultural anthropologist.

Commissioned to aid in the development of a book on indigenous Amazonian women, this last endeavor has threatened to short-circuit my humble neural capacitor. Nonetheless, I remain a charged patriot of the cause, reminding myself that such work is only going to make me smarter. The only true negative side effect - of my bemused candle light review - is a diminishment of my creative forces. Kinetic energy bedamned, my journal writing has been put on the back burner, and I doubt I’ll be able to get much penned out by the end of the year.

Look to a holiday update, perhaps, and maybe some writing on Brazil.

Until then…

(Boulder sunfire. Morning view from my brothers place.)

(street walkin')

(Thanksgiving tables)

Dealing with the Darkness: A Renewal

9-27-05

It’s 6:00. I’m sitting in my attic bedroom drinking a Lone Star Beer. The can is excessively patriotic, with stars, long horn skulls, and red-blue-white coloring rimming the side. The slogans “Pure. Texan. Beer.” and “DON”T MESS WITH TEXAS!” scream in bold letters on the surface. I laugh to myself, wondering how a tin can, or a state for that matter, could ever get so cocky.

This last week has been a strange journey for me. I sat in my gloomy attic, days ago, staring at a black handled knife lying by my bedside. I remember everything clearly. The blade was motionless – quiet – with soft details of the room mirrored on its angled face. Though my gaze fell on its stationary form, I saw nothing. My eyes were affixed to far more distant things—lost in the off-putting vicissitudes of an errant mind. My disappointment with life, with human nature, and with the holes within myself had reached a final conclusive point. I had hit the pinnacle, the highest low known as rock bottom. I wanted the world to end, my world, and I wanted the freedom to feel no more.

Reality is perception, and perception merely a state of mind. For over a year and a half my head had fallen to the wayside, to the baleful end of misery’s field. My perception was colored, seen through shaded blues and blacks—through all of the somber tones of the emotive spectrum. Utterly consumed by my sadness, my internalized negativity, I realized then that depression is such a strange and dangerous thing. It can creep up on you slowly, sometimes without rhyme or reason, from some dark recess or hole. If you remain unaware, neither stalwart nor vigilant, it will pull you under, drowning your lungs to their very last. Or, as in my life, its presence can be instant, like a wraith killing the first-born in the night. You’re suddenly hit with a ton of bricks, and no matter how much weight you shed, a house still levels you from above.

I thought on these things, as I stared at that knife, it’s sharpened edge gleaming back at me with a toothy smile. How simple a thing, I reflected, to carve a hole in the self and watch as the life – red dissipation – flows effortlessly away.

In such moments, just before the making of choice, time seems to slow. You are presented with a split, where paths diverge, each leading to some place into the unknown. Find yourself, lose yourself. Press forward, fall behind. Plug in, or give up. Your choice must be made.

As I stared at that knife, as my time slowed, I came to a realization. I realized that I didn’t want the whole of me to die, just a part. There was a boy inside, a weak-supplicating fool harbored for years as the voice of diffidence. That scared little boy, screaming of anger and bitterness, buried in the fleshy cavity with my soul, was my prison. It was he, fed by the slaughters of my rejection, that pushed me away from happiness. His memories troubled my dreams, his attachment barred my release.

I realized, staring at the knife, that I was tired of his voice. That it was he, not I, who needed to die. And so, with silent acquiescence, I buried that knife. Buried it right into his dark little heart.

Path taken. Choice made.

No longer, I resolved, would the slimy tendrils of acrimony squeeze the joy out of my body. I would break through my cloud of shadows. I would emerge—through calm resignation—into a greener pasture of my life.

Out of the ashes, does the phoenix rise. I stood, looking forward, a new man.

* * *

10-13-05

I had a great time at the museum today. I played, did a little work, and then played some more. In the outer courtyard, just to the east of the main building, a logwood fur-trading fort was constructed back in 1981. The fort was modeled on the Red River garrison (circa 1830’s) built somewhere near Lawton. Now leveled and under the soil, all that remains of the fort is this look alike counterpart, which houses within a square palisade a blacksmiths shop, residential area, trading cabin, and stables.

Today marked the semi-annual event known as the encampment, where k-middle school students come to watch and participate in lectures and historical reenactments in and around the fort. Compared with the daily torrent of kids that would visit my museum back home, our visitation was but a trickle. Perhaps 30 or 40 kids all together. I had the privilege of giving the orientation lecture to arriving groups, discussing with great animation what a museum/artifact is and how the kids could use their imagination to step back through time. As usual, my superiors insisted that I dress in garb and assume a historical persona throughout the day. Fitted with a long tailored blue vest, pants, and dark uncomfortable shoes, I was surprised to win compliments about my appearance, though admittedly I felt rakish and aristocratic wearing the clothes.

I had a couple of great experience gems later that day. The first came just before the last group of kids was about to leave. In the outside kitchen area, just off the main trading cabin, we decided to dole out small pieces of boiled cow tongue for our guests to enjoy (this was apparently a historical delicacy). Having witnessed the self-cleaning habits of a bovine, I was of the mind to shy away from my portion. But with all the courage of a Fear Factor food test appointee, I quickly threw an oozing slimy piece down. It truly wasn’t all that bad – a bit like roast beef I suppose – and I was happy to have eaten it (not happy enough to grab another piece though).

After all of the kids left, I had the pleasure of puffing away on a clay tobacco pipe with Tim, the museums living history interpreter. The pipe was a replica, much like one of the white short-stemmed pieces that you can find at many historic archaeological sites. They are quite ubiquitous, having been a popular respite for the butch mountain men occupying such sites. I’m really not much of a smoker, but I was happy to live the experience and play at a little ‘experimental archaeology’.

By mid afternoon, Tim had taught me how to start a fire with flint and steel, which is very satisfying in a “Me man….ugh….me make fire!” sort of way. We then proceeded to break from our “work” by eating hamburgers in the trade cabin. That was rather strange, eating a messy hamburger with people dressed in garb in a roughneck nineteenth century setting.

The day was very anachronistic, but fun.

* * *

My eyes are open. Wide open. Brilliant shades of possibility now line the streets.

The shades have ascended, the curtains are drawn, and the color has come bursting forth. I see a chair, a car, a passerby—some still, others motion bound, each in their own inimitable hue. Their colors reach out. They beckon, pulling me in to their small corner of the world. With details they blissfully surround, knocking into my company, like raindrops on a moonlit pond. Their waves remind me, through every shared inch, that I am still alive. That I feel them and they feel me too.

Well it’s official. I think that I’m finally ready to exhale. There comes a point when you become too full to internalize any more garbage. You either suck more in, and drown, or use your last bit of energy to blow it all away. I am so sick of falling beneath the surface, feeling desperate and alone, at a loss for the love I used to feel. I miss her greatly, that fallen angel of mine. But I have a new reality now, and I’m finally ready to face up to it.

It seems that wherever you stand on any given issue depends on where you sit. Life is the same way. It’s all about perspective. Do I sit on the boulder of despair, or perch on the summit of delight? Your view inevitably depends on your position. The way you look at the world, the way the world approaches you, all depends on that view. It is inescapable.

This has been my goal of late. Climb away from my misery. Leave it all behind. Find some new perch to take in my world, one that is positive and progressive and that will lead me to better places. I am accomplishing this, step by step, through the medium of self-improvement. I am honing in to all of things that I do not like about myself – underdeveloped qualities, overdeveloped sensitivities, off-putting patterns - using all my available energy to evolve as a person.

Turn off negative dialogue; replace with positive dialogue; learn to control all emotional impulses and states; stay one step ahead of the outer environment; cultivate a healthy spirit; learn to see and bring out the best in others; develop a thorough understanding of human behavior and systems; dismantle all actions and learn how to improve them; develop a code of personal ethics; etc.

I suppose that the most basic level, all I want to do is to come to understand the who behind the me. To find out what I want out of life and to pursue that. To attain some basic control over myself and my environment. This is my quest at large, and I am determined to attack it from every angle.

One area, shallow though it may be, that I am determined to first take on is my status as a single male (hey I’m young, what do you expect!). Women, quite obviously, are my greatest conundrum, and I’m determined to figure them out (as much as my puny caveman brain will allow). Forced to now compete in the dog-eat-dog single scene (this was not my choice, must I remind you), I am quite determined to understand what women want, what they desire, or in the very least, what they hunger for. In the past, I thought that I knew a great deal about women. To some extent I did. But what I didn’t know, what unfortunately was never taught to me, is what it means to be a man. Like most of the average frustrated chumps around me, I had no conception of how to keep and retain the attraction of a woman (I do blame, in part, the break up of my marriage to this fact, thus my great desire to understand this). I am therefore set, as time would allow, on a Don Juan education of sorts. I am now reading books on body language, on social dynamics, on human behavior and sexuality. I am learning how to dance, how to dress, how to communicate cool quiet confidence (laugh if you will, but you cannot argue that these are learned traits – skills – that like anything else can be improved with work and time). And most importantly, I am working on my ‘inner game’, learning to not care what anyone else thinks about me, secure in what it means to be who I am.

Essentially, I seek to unravel the formula for success. With women, work, or whatever challenge is put before me. The former challenge just so happens to be that which most consumes my head at this point in life (show me one single straight male of my age who doesn’t feel this way and I will show you a liar).

So, this is what I am determined to seek in my last few months in Oklahoma. In between my work at the museum, the bakery, the homestead, the computer, I will live and breathe self-improvement and self-discovery, disciplining the body and the mind. This will be my new mode, perch, and perspective from which I will see the world. Call me foolish, if you will, but this place feels a whole lot better than the rock I was last on.

(sunset of the darkened soul)

Delicately Balanced: Two Wheels, Two Feet

8-28-05

When danger sings, and sirens call,
Thoroughfares bound through copious way,
Great heart take flight, you dance tonight,
Your freedoms purse is paid.

* * *

Liberated from the tiresome quiet interior of my streamlined car, all senses where heightened, amplified, delicate in their latest advance into irregularity. The drum and sway of the motor vibrated just beneath my legs, purring the song of a coup de tat perilously in my ear. Resting on hardened black rubber and metal, my toes trembled, my body pulsated, and I knew – with fingers clasping that throttle – that I had found a new lover, one that whispered of danger and thrill with all the seductive charm of an Odysseusian siren.

She wasn’t the sexiest of rides, rather clumsy actually—an old Yamaha 920 v-twin Euro built the very year I was born. With her large bulky frame and awkward appearance, she commanded few superlatives, dancing generations apart from the sleek and furious FZ1 crotch rocket that I had tested a week before at my uncle’s house. Despite these disparities, despite her age, she did however command one truth. She was my first.

Our destination that day was far from ambitious. My parents and I drove into Lawton, eager to rev up the bikes that languorously rested in my grandmother’s garage. Our plan was to set out early that day and use the summer sun to explore the local Wichita Mountain Wildlife Refuge. Home to the oldest mountain outcrop in North America, the refuge boasted rock strongholds, standing forests, and all of the aged appeal that a day adventurer could envision. Donning our rakish leathers, we readied our steeds—my parents smiling at the thought of riding their recently purchased insect like BMW’s.

Heading out on the road, into the frenzied mess of L-town, I was instantly struck by an unwelcome feeling of vulnerability, as cars, trucks, and all manner of metal edges moved past me. Motorcycle riding, I came to find, exposes your mortality. Physics tests the physical, road sweeps beneath, and calamity follows along side. It wouldn’t take much, I surmised, to end myself or for someone else to do it for me. And yet riding a bike is so attractive despite the death and the danger. Why is it, I continued to ponder, that people feel most alive – catching hold of life’s most vivid colors – when finality swaggers close by.

We took the highway out of town, charging through the great swaths of wind, on into backcountry dirt roads leading to the refuge. My dad took up the head, swerving past obstacles and pitfalls, surveying the best way for us to follow behind. I kept my helmet visor up for most of the trip, enjoying the wind and the occasional bug to the face, watching predatorial birds fly overhead.

Past various lakes, Jed Johnson tower, the Holy City, Mount Scott—we tired not exploring every navigable elevation and horizon, eventually finding our way to Medicine Park, an active little town east of the refuge. At the Riverside Café, we parked the bikes, opting to sit outside and enjoy a cold Shiner (superb Texas beer) despite the humidity. We took up a table at the far end of the courtyard deck with a fine view of the town’s river, and enjoyed through sips of our beer watching a kid pull tiny fish out of the water just below. The restaurant gained my momentary favor by introducing me to an older bearded gentlemen playing classic rock songs on his guitar, a redundantly titled menu item called Chicken Fried Chicken, and a waitress whose assets sparked my wholly neglected interest. As we ate, I thought on how fun it would be to take an indiscriminate motorcycle trip cross country, with no road plan or true destination in mind. How fun it would be to randomly meet new people and new places, a road warrior enjoying the fruits of unpredictability.

A few more cool runnings later, we pulled back into Lawton, narrowly escaping a torrential thunderstorm just to the west. Admittedly, the sexy appeal of the bike, the dangerous colors of the road, and the wonderful chance encounters of each local, inexorably hooked my interest, and I knew - as my feet stepped off the pedal - that I was in love with a machine.

Until next time—my hand awaits the curl of that throttle, the jive of motorized thunder, the cliché freedom of the open road.

* * *

Bad day, week, month, year…

I am getting seriously frustrated with life. Beautiful life—with all of its bumblebees and blue skies, its smiling happy people with smiling happy lives. Why not take your ice cream, and your baby showers, and your Santa Claus, and shove it, drain that happiness away, let it all swirl down into one great festering mass of excrement rotting beneath the earth. If I had a chance, life, I’d punch you right in the face. You speak of love, wistful romantic love, sweet endorphin deceptions that cloud and conquer the mind. Your love is a drug, a temporal high, a surge of hope that desecrates the vein feeding optimism to the disillusioned. You are a meaningless chaos of shallow desires, selling cheap tricks of purpose to the passerby. Let go savage garden, merciless master, stay the fuck away from me. Stop licking my wounds with fire, stop burning me houses to the ground. If emptiness is what you want, then I will feel no more.

…sours, darkens, disheartens.

* * *

[Enter man. Freudian couch sits stage right. Psychotherapist lies opposite, pen and paper ready.]

Man: “Wow, I sure am the warm little center that the life of this world crowds around. Please forgive my bitterness, my venting, my trite depression. Maybe I just need a swift kick in the ass, or perhaps a good ol’ fashion brain enema. Maybe I just need to flush all of the unmet expectations and desires fueling my negative rage.”

Therapist: “Tell me about it my son.” [cue fake Austrian accent] “Vwat seems to be da problem?”

“Well, Oklahoma has been my home for almost three months now. It has felt like a lifetime. My new world revolves around work at the Black Rocks, filler jobs when my parents are away, and personal excursions in and out of town. Overall I have kept myself busy, rarely having to fight off boredom or monotony. Most of the week, when my parents are actually around, I help with construction. The building that once was slated to be a shop/garage near the front of our property is now to be the main house and living quarters, and we spend the best part of our hours banging away on that. My labor here is unskilled, my actions mindless, and I end up with the worker bee jobs of ditch digging, wire laying, or cleaning up shop.

When my parents are off gallivanting somewhere else, I fill my neglected schedule with work at a small organic bakery just down the street. It is there, with the volume pumped up on my iPod and a beer or two in hand, that I readily assume the multi-tasking measured intensity of a baker, rolling out granola, cookies, and wheat grain on my assembly line and mill. With all manner of sweet chocolate-laced confections to taste, the job really isn’t all that bad, and is a welcome escape from the physical extremes of my ranch work.

These activities, while fruitful and productive, trap me in an isolated existence akin to social celibacy. After a few days work at the Black Rocks, my body becomes thin and emaciated, my mind languid, and I voraciously hunger for the human contact that will breathe life into me once again. My Tuesday-Thursday routine, developed to meet this need, involves a trip into Lawton from daybreak to well past sunset. In the morning I devote five volunteer internship hours to the Museum of the Great Plains (MGP), working for their archaeological institute, educational department, and as an unofficial member on their grant committee. Unlike my last museum stint, the MGP houses a crew of aged professionals lost to the vicarious whims of my generation (e.g. there is no one there my age). I thus remain, when I leave the museum, professionally fulfilled yet socially detached. To work out my frustrations, I do an eat-veggie-sub, tan-for-ten, work-out-for-hour-and-a-half routine, which will often leave me pumped up enough for a solo descent into the urban night scene.

Now, to my everlasting disappointment, I have come to realize two things about Lawton. It is a very difficult town to make friends in, and twice as difficult a place to meet single women (of any value or character or measure of beauty). Lawton, for the most part, contains three groups of people (of my approximate age). The first are the so-called “army brats”—shiny head Ft. Sill lost boys who I have a difficult time relating to. They often travel in packs, gobbling up any single women that cross their path. They tend to only make friends with those who have a similar haircut, or a vagina, so I’m pretty much out with them. The next group is the college commuter kids. Lawton is home to Cameron University, a small community college sized campus known for its science, business, and language departments. Most of Cameron’s students work or study in Lawton, but play elsewhere, so I have yet to meet any of them.

The last group is the Lawton returnees, or never-lefters—kids that never made it out of Lawton due to personal problems, lack of ambition, or who didn’t quite cut in the real world. I ran into one such girl, an absolute beauty, last week at a bar. I was totally taken aback by her good looks, and was floored by her interest in me; we decided to go out a couple of times. I got her flowers, bought her a few drinks, wrote her a little poetry, and invited her to an OU game. In return for these things she proceeded to flirt with her ex boyfriend in front of me, jump all over another guy when I visited her at the bar, and then kick me to the curb when I confronted her with her bullshit. I might have been a tad bit direct with the girl, but after my last relationship, I refuse to play games with people. Even the shallow ones.

So this where I’m left after almost three months. Lots of work, no real friends, dismally depressed on the love front. My family has been fantastic, housing me, entertaining me, getting my mind off of things. But some days I remain jaded Lion, introspective Lion, disillusioned with life and what it has to offer. I think for now, I’m just going to have to keep my head down, forget about making any “single serving friends” here, and focus instead on what’s to come in Brazil.

Keep expectations low, want not, feel not, and you won’t be let down. Desire no one, trust in nothing.

Good or bad, this is my latest philosophy. Maybe it will help me finish out the week.”

[Therapist raises head from paper looking completely befuddled. Patient smiles.]

[Exit man. Cue the curtain.]

East Oklahoma Ride and More Work

(riding the dragons tale)

(cool mom's ride motorcycles, and their sons follow suit)

(work improves balance)

(work builds muscles)

(work improves coordination)