I hate Los Angeles. I am not really sure why, probably because I have hated it for so long that it is easier to continue. My loathing of the place is completely unwarranted since I have never really been there. Sure I have sat through her traffic on my way to San Diego countless times. I have been to Disneyland, a trip to see the Raiders, a few USC parties, a graduation, a blurry few days I think somewhere near Manhattan Beach. Is there such a place? I can’t remember.
LA, for me, has always been a place that is one wrong turn away from a gang assault. One second you are walking down a lane spotted with sorority houses with their manicured lawns and residents, next thing you know you are on the set of Boys in The Hood. One second you are at Six Flags in line for a roller coaster ride, then you are praying you don’t get stabbed in the kidneys by the tattooed family of Mexican gangsters who have obviously been let out of their cages for a few hours to terrorize the park with their menacing appearance.
The rest of my impressions of LA have been created by the E channel and a series of reality TV shows I am too embarrassed to admit I watch. Everything about the city feels fake, shallow, dangerous. I never understood when my best friend Ari decided to go to college there. I chalked it up to youthful stupidity, but when he moved back to LA after a stint in NYC, I was flummoxed.
What could he possibly see in the miles of parking lot traffic jams, urban sprawl, and strip malls? I have always felt that LA has no soul. Never mind that the place is the center of the music and movie businesses, and the former home of Charles Bukowski.
I am here to admit that I no longer hate LA. Not because I took some life-changing trip to the city of angels, but because as an adult, I think it is wise to discredit as many of your youthful ideas as you possibly can. I hated LA because I was young and stupid and never gave it a chance. I am ready to give it a chance.
Countless movies I have seen since I was 19, TV shows like Entourage, Californication and the Red Hot Chili Peppers have helped me get better sense of the place. Having said that, I don’t see myself making a trip to LA anytime soon, but through Ari’s video I was able to get a more down to earth sense of the city. I love how the video rides us through so many different neighborhoods. I think this diversity is what I never understood flying down the 101. One of the aspects I love the most about NYC is that although every block is different from the next in terms of culture, languages and feeling, the entire city feels like a cohesive whole. NYC, all five boroughs of it, is one place. I don’t think LA can be that way. It is too spread out.
I love the way the video exhibits these contrasts. One frame we are behind a Prius on a wide avenue with houses built close to the ground. In the next we are mired in the commercial quicksand that defines America. An aqueduct….and the ocean. The video transforms LA into a slowly meandering river. I am not sure how many miles Ari rode or how long this trip took in its entirety, but I cannot imagine that is was a quick ride.
The ending is the perfect metaphor for LA. It appears to be the end of the road, unless you are willing to take flight and continue. Nicely done Ari. Looking forward to seeing more.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
Compaq and a Piece of String
Every once in a while you read a piece of journalism that makes you want to re-read it before it is finished. These types of Gonzo-inspired prose are seldom filled with facts, and you will seldom read them in the New York Times. Some would argue that these opinion filled exercises in snide, cutting edge, in-your-face prose are not journalism at all, but I would say that it is precisely this type of tidy, clever writing that may be the bitch slap most people need to wake them from their stupor.
Perhaps we are too far numb to realize what is happening in the world. Oil spills, death of phytoplankton, indefinite wars all over the globe in the name of fighting evil-doers, don’t seem to be doing it these days.
Enter Matt Taibbi and Mark Morford. Two of the finest journalist writing today. I could have easily Tweeted this article or shared it on Facebook. I could have simply cut and paste the article in full, and let you read it for your self, but I wanted to dissect it and carve out my favorite lines. Enjoy:
*All italicized sections actually caused me to pump my fists in the air and cheer.
Perhaps we are too far numb to realize what is happening in the world. Oil spills, death of phytoplankton, indefinite wars all over the globe in the name of fighting evil-doers, don’t seem to be doing it these days.
Enter Matt Taibbi and Mark Morford. Two of the finest journalist writing today. I could have easily Tweeted this article or shared it on Facebook. I could have simply cut and paste the article in full, and let you read it for your self, but I wanted to dissect it and carve out my favorite lines. Enjoy:*All italicized sections actually caused me to pump my fists in the air and cheer.
You think the Taliban has this kind of time? The brainpower? We have cool iPads, MIT geniuses and supercomputers the size of France. They have a single, filthy 2001 Compaq Presario and some string. I mean, please.I would give my left arm to be able to write with such clarity and wit. Kudos to you Mr. Morford you left me speechless. I just ordered his book.
It is this: Despite all our dazzling ultramodern technology, despite all those infrared goggles and laser-guided everything, despite 1,000 advancements in weaponry and body armor, stratagems and 3D mapping, war remains the most despicable, thoroughly miserable human endeavor mankind has yet invented, or will ever invent in this or any lifetime, and that includes "Jersey Shore," Microsoft Windows and Mel Gibson.
Let these 92,000 documents eliminate all doubt: war is our basest, most vile creation. Has been for 10,000 years. Always will be.
It goes on for days, the same tone, in the same way, snippet after snippet, scene after scene, horror after horror. It's like reaching into a giant basket of razor wire and shards of glass, trying to find the bottom that doesn't exist.
Whereas, the real thing is, well, nothing but endlessly ugly, sad, tedious, nauseating, deadening, exhausting, like peeling off a scab that never ends, like rubbing a grain of sand into your eye that only gets deeper and more painful, like driving down the world's longest desert highway stretching off far into the distance, potholed with bombs and dead bodies, war crimes and shrapnel, oil slicks and weapons contracts, all oversprinkled with a trillion American dollars raining down like fine green confetti.
From what I can tell from the WikiLeaks scandal, here is what it does not mean: It does not mean war is some sort of rugged Herculean manly uberpatriotic exercise in glorious freedom, justice, truth, that just might also, whoops, get a little bloody. It does not quite mean a noble force for good and democracy. It might have meant that once, long ago, for a shining moment, maybe, on the back of a coin somewhere. It hasn't meant anything near that for 1,000 years. Capitalism saw to that.
Because evil is more like Dick Cheney's tiny sneer, the religious nutball's weakest synapse, the wheezing death of the soul.
War is similar. It is no grand, melodramatic spectacle, no sepia-toned Spielberg movie narrated by Tom Hanks, no epic "Lord of the Rings" battle royale between ogres and kings. It's just page after page, bomb after bomb, report after report, endlessly and forever, numbing to the core, until history chokes it all down with a dry heave and an exhausted sigh.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Sickness
It hurts. Drained. Wrecked. Weak body malnourished kept alive by these sad songs. We seldom think back to these quiet nights when our bodies recuperate from a mild sickness. Tonight these sore joints and mild headache surround each minute like a shroud, but are quickly forgotten when we are well.
It is taking my mind off the malaise if I shine the light on it for a few minutes tonight. Loss of appetite, but starving. Such minor aches and pains, seem trivial to think about while others are starving or crying from cancer or aids. A cold soar, sniff neck and nausea. Fatigue and headache. Pain in the teeth.
Just need to shuffle these words and regurgitate them onto this empty page and leave them alone till I find a remedy.
Wrecked sad songs.
quiet nights. sore joints
each minute a shroud
on the malaise I shine a light
a few minutes of appetite.
aches and pains
in the teeth.
It is taking my mind off the malaise if I shine the light on it for a few minutes tonight. Loss of appetite, but starving. Such minor aches and pains, seem trivial to think about while others are starving or crying from cancer or aids. A cold soar, sniff neck and nausea. Fatigue and headache. Pain in the teeth.
Just need to shuffle these words and regurgitate them onto this empty page and leave them alone till I find a remedy.
Wrecked sad songs.
quiet nights. sore joints
each minute a shroud
on the malaise I shine a light
a few minutes of appetite.
aches and pains
in the teeth.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Flexed and Ready
I have been on a roll this week. The writing has come easy and the video last night was so much fun to make. I felt so alive staying up past midnight piecing it together. But like all good things this spell is beginning to dry up. I am not feeling very well today, and I am still exhausted from the late night last night. I feel that I should push through and try to write a little every night to see if I can keep this run going longer.
I am planning to start this book on August 1st and these journal entries are like warm up exercises for my upcoming marathon. I hope to dedicate at least one hour a night strictly to the book. I want to have 200 pages by X-Mas. I am not too worried about a formal plan or organization at this stage. I have some rough ideas of where I want to go. It will be a non-fiction romp through the various experiences I have had in my life that have helped me become a life long learner and global citizen. Yes, I will ridicule how trite educational jargon has become, but it will not be an Educational book.
Today has been long and my mood is bored and lethargic. After a great creative week, I have bottomed out. Creativity is luck based at best. We can try and cultivate it, but really we are at its mercy. I am starting to see, however, that if we push through the barren times that perhaps we can keep the gears greased enough to make the machine continue working past its efficiency.
I have never been one to exercise. The routine never seems worthwhile to me. I always start off with a determination worthy of an Olympiad, but end up taking a day or two off, to find myself giving up completely. A writing routine is the same. It is easy to write when your brain can’t be silenced, but it is another thing to sit at the machine when you are tired, bored, and frustrated and try to push through.
The result is self-serving jabbering, but maybe a small nugget of value can salvaged. If not, at least I can sleep knowing that the muscles have been flexed and ready for the next time inspiration hits.
I am planning to start this book on August 1st and these journal entries are like warm up exercises for my upcoming marathon. I hope to dedicate at least one hour a night strictly to the book. I want to have 200 pages by X-Mas. I am not too worried about a formal plan or organization at this stage. I have some rough ideas of where I want to go. It will be a non-fiction romp through the various experiences I have had in my life that have helped me become a life long learner and global citizen. Yes, I will ridicule how trite educational jargon has become, but it will not be an Educational book.
Today has been long and my mood is bored and lethargic. After a great creative week, I have bottomed out. Creativity is luck based at best. We can try and cultivate it, but really we are at its mercy. I am starting to see, however, that if we push through the barren times that perhaps we can keep the gears greased enough to make the machine continue working past its efficiency.
I have never been one to exercise. The routine never seems worthwhile to me. I always start off with a determination worthy of an Olympiad, but end up taking a day or two off, to find myself giving up completely. A writing routine is the same. It is easy to write when your brain can’t be silenced, but it is another thing to sit at the machine when you are tired, bored, and frustrated and try to push through.
The result is self-serving jabbering, but maybe a small nugget of value can salvaged. If not, at least I can sleep knowing that the muscles have been flexed and ready for the next time inspiration hits.
EveryBody's Dying Just To Get The Disease, or a year in the life
Started this project a year ago on Dailymugshot.com. I have now taken 365 pictures on the site, and I told myself when I got to 1 year I would do something with them all. From the first shot, I knew that I wanted to play with editing the images on iMovie and using this Elliot Smith song. I hope youtube doesn't mute the music for Copy Right reasons. I am sure Elliott would have dug this piece.
Music is the soundtrack of our lives and if I am not making any money off of it, I should be able to create art with his music. Hope you like it. Watch while you can. Let's see what I can do with two years worth next year.
There is something in this project about identity, change, time, the obsession with self, but I can't be bother to spell it out. You tell me if it evokes any ideas, feelings, or thoughts.
You can continue to follow the daily pictures here.
Music is the soundtrack of our lives and if I am not making any money off of it, I should be able to create art with his music. Hope you like it. Watch while you can. Let's see what I can do with two years worth next year.
There is something in this project about identity, change, time, the obsession with self, but I can't be bother to spell it out. You tell me if it evokes any ideas, feelings, or thoughts.
You can continue to follow the daily pictures here.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
The Garden Round Three, or The Clump Is Dead. Long Live The Clump
I feel good. No great. I come out swinging. Jab. Jab. Pace yourself. I remind myself. I ignore myself. I am a creature of habit. Bigger swings now. Really workin it. I can feel my atrophied muscles tightening. The pace of my breath quickens. Jab. Jab. The Clump takes it. Unmoved. Unaffected.
I will not leave this yard until The Clump is out of the ground. I have an hour before my wife comes out and asks for help entertaining the kids. Before I started, I was sure an hour would be more than enough time to dislodge The Clump, but after twenty minutes of hacking away at this mountain of roots I am not so sure.
Traditionally the root metaphor has been a positive one. Roots anchor us to the ground. They offer support and nourishment. To be rooted means to become firmly established, settled, or entrenched. The sun heats up my active body and my sweaty shirt clings to my shoulders I am in the middle of a moment of clarity. It’s a great feeling to watch an epiphany come on. The world slows down and everything appears sharp and in focus. The lesson floats down from above and rises from the ground to touch everything within and around you. You are enveloped by the entire universe explaining itself.
I have found my pace. I am slowly punching The Clump from all sides. A symmetrical attack, slow and plodding. I am exposing the tangle of roots entrenched in the red clay. Feels like I am chopping down an inverted tree. I respect The Clump, but can begin to see its demise. Stab the shovel. Twist. Pull out soil. Clear roots with hands. Never underestimate machines made of flesh.
I am not concerned. I am an apocalypse.
People who do not think of the earth as a living thing have never dug their fingers through her hair. Touched her skin and examined her from the inside. They have never tried to yank her veins from her flesh with nothing but their hands.
Then I saw it. This new more sinister metaphor for roots. The Clump as culture:
I see each severed root freed from the ground as a disappearing connection we human beings make to help us feel safe from our fear. I could see clearly the traditional metaphor of roots as anchors was no longer viable. These roots and the culture they represent are more like chains. Cancers. Suffocating leashes. I apologize for the mixing of metaphors, but I hope I am clear. I saw this clump of tangled roots as the shackles holding us back from our true evolutionary path. Every tangential tuber a misstep, a trap needing to be freed.
Last year in class, we were discussing the importance of memory and history. We agreed that people need to have a connection with not only their own past, but also a connection with the history of their families, country and religion. In short, we spoke about through culture we learn from the mistakes of others and learn and grow. We were all in agreement, until one girl raised her hand slowly and asked, “But what if these memories, these connections, this history is what is holding us back. What if culture forces us to simply repeat the past blindly in circles? Can’t we just erase the past and start over? Our histories and cultures don’t seem to have done us much good.”
Her words have taken refuge in my head, and this morning as I attacked The Clump, I could clearly understand what she meant. This clump of roots was getting in the way of my plans for the garden. I want a smooth flower/vegetable patch. I have grandiose plans for the space they occupy.
Can culture and everything it represents be the same? We need a new outlook on life. A new vision. A new patch where we can begin to plant new seeds. Our collective global garden no longer needs deeply entrenched roots. We need to remove the Global Clump. No more religion. No more nationalism. No more worship of money and commerce. No more corporations. No more stoning women to death for the crimes of men. No more homophobia. No more female circumcision. No more oil. No more salvation or redemption. No more borders or passports or Arizona. No more pundits, experts, or preachers. No more schools, standardized tests, or curricula. No more governments. No more sacraments, creeds or ceremonies. No more traditions. No more melting pots. No more globalization, exploitation, or racism. No more.
Each swing of the shovel exposed The Clump for what it was- an outdated bundle of customs, so deeply rooted in our collective consciousness that it was destroying our garden. I yanked and pulled, sweat dripping from my brow. I was on my knees, covered in red clay clawing away every connection I had to these worthless traditions. Each pull made The Clump a bit more loose. I could feel it shifting. I was about to float away. No longer Iranian, American, male or female.
Stab the shovel. Twist. Pull out soil. Clear roots with hands. Soon there would only be an empty void. The remains of civilization scattered about the abyss, ready to be swept away and buried, making room for the new plants. The new ideas. The new future…
Not a bad way to spend an hour. We will call this round a draw. The Clump, who is no more put up a good fight and made me think, but in the end it is sitting in the trash and the bed where it was entrenched is ready for clean up. Too bad The Global Clump has barely budged in years. Try it. Take a swing. Free yourself of a few cultural shackles and see how it feels...
I will not leave this yard until The Clump is out of the ground. I have an hour before my wife comes out and asks for help entertaining the kids. Before I started, I was sure an hour would be more than enough time to dislodge The Clump, but after twenty minutes of hacking away at this mountain of roots I am not so sure.
Traditionally the root metaphor has been a positive one. Roots anchor us to the ground. They offer support and nourishment. To be rooted means to become firmly established, settled, or entrenched. The sun heats up my active body and my sweaty shirt clings to my shoulders I am in the middle of a moment of clarity. It’s a great feeling to watch an epiphany come on. The world slows down and everything appears sharp and in focus. The lesson floats down from above and rises from the ground to touch everything within and around you. You are enveloped by the entire universe explaining itself.
I have found my pace. I am slowly punching The Clump from all sides. A symmetrical attack, slow and plodding. I am exposing the tangle of roots entrenched in the red clay. Feels like I am chopping down an inverted tree. I respect The Clump, but can begin to see its demise. Stab the shovel. Twist. Pull out soil. Clear roots with hands. Never underestimate machines made of flesh.
The roots of most vascular plant species enter into symbiosis with certain fungi to form mycorrhizas, and a large range of other organisms including bacteria also closely associate with roots. The parts of a root are the xylem, the epidermis, the cortex, the root cap, the root hairs, the phloem, and the cambium.
I am not concerned. I am an apocalypse.People who do not think of the earth as a living thing have never dug their fingers through her hair. Touched her skin and examined her from the inside. They have never tried to yank her veins from her flesh with nothing but their hands.
The architecture of a root system can be considered in a similar way to above-ground architecture of a plant—i.e. in terms of the size, branching and distribution of the component parts. There are angels in the architecture. In roots, the architecture of fine roots and coarse roots can both be described by variation in topology and distribution of biomass within and between roots. Having a balanced architecture allows fine roots to exploit soil efficiently around a plant, but the “plastic” nature of root growth allows the plant to then concentrate its resources where nutrients and water are more easily available. A balanced coarse root architecture, with roots distributed relatively evenly around the stem base, is necessary to provide support to larger plants and trees.
The cerebral cortex of the human brain contains roughly 15–33 billion neurons, perhaps more, depending on gender and age, linked with up to 10,000 synaptic connections each. Each cubic millimeter of cerebral cortex contains roughly one billion synapses. These neurons communicate with one another by means of long protoplasmic fibers called axons, which carry trains of signal pulses called action potentials to distant parts of the brain or body and target them to specific recipient cells.The Clump is alive. Dug in deep. Survival and growth its only goals. The roots entangle themselves in the ground like a cancer. Sucking. Absorbing. Consuming everything. Stab the shovel. Twist. Pull out soil. Clear roots with hands. Never underestimate machines made of flesh.
Then I saw it. This new more sinister metaphor for roots. The Clump as culture:
culture cul·ture (kŭl'chər)But this definition was too literal. There in front of me as I hack away methodically, I no longer feel like I am eradicating a cluster of roots from my garden. No I am stamping out every trace of culture and history and baggage and values and beliefs and religion and every stem of decay that has us rooted to the ground.
n.
from the Latin cultura stemming from colere, meaning "to cultivate."
1. The growing of microorganisms, tissue cells, or other living matter in a specially prepared nutrient medium.
2. Such a growth or colony, as of bacteria.
I see each severed root freed from the ground as a disappearing connection we human beings make to help us feel safe from our fear. I could see clearly the traditional metaphor of roots as anchors was no longer viable. These roots and the culture they represent are more like chains. Cancers. Suffocating leashes. I apologize for the mixing of metaphors, but I hope I am clear. I saw this clump of tangled roots as the shackles holding us back from our true evolutionary path. Every tangential tuber a misstep, a trap needing to be freed.
Last year in class, we were discussing the importance of memory and history. We agreed that people need to have a connection with not only their own past, but also a connection with the history of their families, country and religion. In short, we spoke about through culture we learn from the mistakes of others and learn and grow. We were all in agreement, until one girl raised her hand slowly and asked, “But what if these memories, these connections, this history is what is holding us back. What if culture forces us to simply repeat the past blindly in circles? Can’t we just erase the past and start over? Our histories and cultures don’t seem to have done us much good.”
Her words have taken refuge in my head, and this morning as I attacked The Clump, I could clearly understand what she meant. This clump of roots was getting in the way of my plans for the garden. I want a smooth flower/vegetable patch. I have grandiose plans for the space they occupy.
Can culture and everything it represents be the same? We need a new outlook on life. A new vision. A new patch where we can begin to plant new seeds. Our collective global garden no longer needs deeply entrenched roots. We need to remove the Global Clump. No more religion. No more nationalism. No more worship of money and commerce. No more corporations. No more stoning women to death for the crimes of men. No more homophobia. No more female circumcision. No more oil. No more salvation or redemption. No more borders or passports or Arizona. No more pundits, experts, or preachers. No more schools, standardized tests, or curricula. No more governments. No more sacraments, creeds or ceremonies. No more traditions. No more melting pots. No more globalization, exploitation, or racism. No more.
Each swing of the shovel exposed The Clump for what it was- an outdated bundle of customs, so deeply rooted in our collective consciousness that it was destroying our garden. I yanked and pulled, sweat dripping from my brow. I was on my knees, covered in red clay clawing away every connection I had to these worthless traditions. Each pull made The Clump a bit more loose. I could feel it shifting. I was about to float away. No longer Iranian, American, male or female.
Stab the shovel. Twist. Pull out soil. Clear roots with hands. Soon there would only be an empty void. The remains of civilization scattered about the abyss, ready to be swept away and buried, making room for the new plants. The new ideas. The new future…
Not a bad way to spend an hour. We will call this round a draw. The Clump, who is no more put up a good fight and made me think, but in the end it is sitting in the trash and the bed where it was entrenched is ready for clean up. Too bad The Global Clump has barely budged in years. Try it. Take a swing. Free yourself of a few cultural shackles and see how it feels...
Saturday, July 24, 2010
The Garden Round Two, or How I Met The Clump
I will walk...with my hands boundI was back in the yard today and came out looking and feeling good. With the lessons learned under my belt, I made a quick show of what needed to be done. Armed with a new pair of gloves and a thirty minute negotiated time period from my wife, I cleared the rest of the corner patch with the precision of a surgeon. The weather was perfect and the mosquitoes were nowhere to be seen.
I will walk...with my face blood
I will walk...with my shadow flag
Into your garden...
Pearl Jam
In the photo below, on the left you will see the detritus after the through beating I gave the garden. I know the boxing metaphor is counterproductive to the peace I am hoping to find with this project, but right now it is mean and dirty.
After about a thirty minute pounding, I was left with what I am affectionately calling The Clump. The Clump is a mess of tangled roots buried, as far I can tell, into the core of the earth. No amount of yanking, hacking, chopping, or begging will even loosen The Clump.
The problem is that this mound is in the way of my vision, and worse like an alien pod it is a sign that at anytime the Jurassic thorny plants can come back and devour my garden. The Clump must go. Important lesson learn: Stop and fight another day. I did some damage today and The Clump demands that I regroup and come up with a plan. Right now, I hope to dig the bastard out. This excavation will also give me a chance to survey the soil and see how difficult it will be to over turn the whole area and prepare the bed which will house the vegetables.Let's get serious for a bit. I have used the metaphor comparing a garden to education in the past, and will most likely make the comparison again before this series is over, but I wanted to point out the obvious connections we can make to our daily lives. How often to we face The Clump in our daily frustrations and shortcomings? How often do we allow external obstacles rooted in our consciousness slow us down.
I hope that I can take this lesson, of first becoming aware of my obstacles, then carefully and thoughtfully extraditing them from the ground, to help me move forward nest time I am frozen with fear when facing a clump that seems too enriched to deal with.
I will remove every trace of these roots. I will take my time. I will do it with awareness, but they will be gone. What more is Zen? What more is peace?
Take another look at my current nemesis. The first villain of our little tale. "I am not afraid of you Clump! You hear that, I am calling you out publicly. By the end of the week you will be on your way to a dump, leaving behind a hole and nothing more. Well, not even that, because I will fill the hole back in. "
Quick! While The Clump isn't looking, let me admit, I am terrified of what I will find under the ground both literally and figuratively of course.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Derelict Kites
Is there anything better than liking everything by an artist, only to realize that you have only heard a small fraction of their work? After some research and downloading you realize that you are suddenly waste deep in several albums of work. Hundreds of new songs. As you start to listen, you admonish yourself for taking so long to be obsessive about your artist.
The idea that all of this music has been hidden from you for so many years makes you ill. So many emotions left hanging on barren cloths lines could have been strung to these songs and flown on windy days like derelict kites.
After you’re done kicking yourself, you rejoice, because the songs are here now and waiting to be explored.
I have always loved every song I have ever heard by Natalie Merchant. Never a 10,000 Maniacs fan, but I had their unplugged CD since the nineties and enjoyed it every time I listened to it. I can say the same thing about Tigerlily, but that is it. My knowledge of her music ends there. Two CDs!
A few days ago, I came across her latest work- Leave Your Sleep:
After an initial listen in which I quickly became lost in a maze of musical stories, I did some research and realized she had an extensive catalog since Tigerlily.
1995: Tigerlily
1998: Ophelia
2001: Motherland
2003: The House Carpenter's Daughter
2010: Leave Your Sleep
I immediately downloaded all four albums and have been absolutely pleased ever since. (Never realized she had so much work the 10,000 Maniacs! I will let these songs soak in a few months before I venture into that work.)
Her work is literally poetry put to music. For me, it is perfect writing music. I will be running to catch up with a tangent and realize that I can relax and let her music carry me. I do not believe in a traditional sort of god, but if she does exists and someday will sing to me, I imagine her voice to sound like Merchants.
I always felt that being a musician was a vocation and that it was something
I would do throughout my life and that I wanted to do it with dignity.
Her latest Leave Your Sleep is as eclectic as any of Tom Waits’ work. I would love to hear a duet by that couple. Anyway, just wanted to share my newly found love. If you are like me and have only had a taste of her work, I would suggest you get your fill. If you are a long time fan, please share your favorites and tell me where to start with her 10,000 Maniacs work.
Here is one of my favorites from Leave Your Sleep:
The idea that all of this music has been hidden from you for so many years makes you ill. So many emotions left hanging on barren cloths lines could have been strung to these songs and flown on windy days like derelict kites.
After you’re done kicking yourself, you rejoice, because the songs are here now and waiting to be explored.
I have always loved every song I have ever heard by Natalie Merchant. Never a 10,000 Maniacs fan, but I had their unplugged CD since the nineties and enjoyed it every time I listened to it. I can say the same thing about Tigerlily, but that is it. My knowledge of her music ends there. Two CDs!
A few days ago, I came across her latest work- Leave Your Sleep:
Quite aside from being a double record, it by all accounts really did take six years to make, and features over 100 musicians, with the lyrics all poems about childhood culled from the breadth of the 19th and 20th century British and American canon. It is, inevitably, a very mature record, and fans expecting Maniacs-style folk rock or even Tigerlily-size choruses had best think again. But it’s a long way from boring: you can feel the time spent on it, with near enough every track soaked in some distinct, lush musical trapping, be it bluegrass, reggae, warm woodwind, sprightly folk, southern-fried blues and, in the case of Bleezer’s Ice-Cream, 1950s-style advertising jingle
Read full review.
After an initial listen in which I quickly became lost in a maze of musical stories, I did some research and realized she had an extensive catalog since Tigerlily.
1995: Tigerlily
1998: Ophelia
2001: Motherland
2003: The House Carpenter's Daughter
2010: Leave Your Sleep
I immediately downloaded all four albums and have been absolutely pleased ever since. (Never realized she had so much work the 10,000 Maniacs! I will let these songs soak in a few months before I venture into that work.)
Her work is literally poetry put to music. For me, it is perfect writing music. I will be running to catch up with a tangent and realize that I can relax and let her music carry me. I do not believe in a traditional sort of god, but if she does exists and someday will sing to me, I imagine her voice to sound like Merchants.
I always felt that being a musician was a vocation and that it was somethingI would do throughout my life and that I wanted to do it with dignity.
Her latest Leave Your Sleep is as eclectic as any of Tom Waits’ work. I would love to hear a duet by that couple. Anyway, just wanted to share my newly found love. If you are like me and have only had a taste of her work, I would suggest you get your fill. If you are a long time fan, please share your favorites and tell me where to start with her 10,000 Maniacs work.
Here is one of my favorites from Leave Your Sleep:
Casual Cliches
There it is silence. And then her voice, a piano, and that is all for now. Everyday, I look forward to this time of the day. Tonight it took a bit longer than usual, but the kids are finally asleep. I am alone with this screen again. The click clack of keys and now a drum, a bass, the lift. I am flying. Are you coming?
This is this time of the day when you realize that you have lived another good day. A series of play dates. A diaper change. A meal. Adequate awareness to churn a few thoughts in your mouth. Some to swallow, some to spit out, and a few to savior and save for later. All day words crowd your soul, your brain, your fingertips waiting to be freed. Entire paragraphs, passages hover in and out of car windows. Traffic trudges by. Old woman begs with dirty child, yours sits in the back in a car seat. The words justice and equality are flimsy at best. The car rolls passed another red. Now green. Another paragraph will soon begin. Another day ends.
In the blank night, you unload thoughts, releasing each like errant butterflies, embarrassed by so many casual clichés, but there is no need for control during episodes like these. Another good day, in a good week, a good month. Is this how meaningful lives are built? You think back a year, five, ten, twenty; you are six again and pleased with the future laid out in front of you.
Loneliness, isolation, lonesomeness, seclusion, shelter a thesaurus full of possibilities. No longer afraid of this gentle calm. Surrounded by love and family. Friendships and social networks. A tiny voice echoing in the darkness. Content. No matter how connected, you are best alone. In the end, before she turns out the lights you will be all that you will hear. What will you say ? When no one will be listening?
I am writing my final soliloquy one day at a time…
This is this time of the day when you realize that you have lived another good day. A series of play dates. A diaper change. A meal. Adequate awareness to churn a few thoughts in your mouth. Some to swallow, some to spit out, and a few to savior and save for later. All day words crowd your soul, your brain, your fingertips waiting to be freed. Entire paragraphs, passages hover in and out of car windows. Traffic trudges by. Old woman begs with dirty child, yours sits in the back in a car seat. The words justice and equality are flimsy at best. The car rolls passed another red. Now green. Another paragraph will soon begin. Another day ends.
In the blank night, you unload thoughts, releasing each like errant butterflies, embarrassed by so many casual clichés, but there is no need for control during episodes like these. Another good day, in a good week, a good month. Is this how meaningful lives are built? You think back a year, five, ten, twenty; you are six again and pleased with the future laid out in front of you.
Loneliness, isolation, lonesomeness, seclusion, shelter a thesaurus full of possibilities. No longer afraid of this gentle calm. Surrounded by love and family. Friendships and social networks. A tiny voice echoing in the darkness. Content. No matter how connected, you are best alone. In the end, before she turns out the lights you will be all that you will hear. What will you say ? When no one will be listening?
I am writing my final soliloquy one day at a time…
Thursday, July 22, 2010
You Know Where You Are?
It is always humbling to learn a series of successive lesson one after another. This morning as my younger daughter slept, I thought I would take Kaia out into our backyard and begin some work I have wanted to do in our yard. You see, the space itself is a decent size and with some hard work and determination, I am under the impression that I can turn it into some kind of tranquil Zen vegetable garden, flower patch, and statue plot.
Although I am not at all handy or have any idea how to do any of the things I have planned, I want to plant some vegetables (despite the torrential downpours I have seen in the last few days), plant flowers around the edges, lay down stone pathways that lead to Buddha head statues I will buy in Bali, and build a small deck for table and chairs, oh and of course rid the whole area of the swarms of mosquitoes that seem to control the space.
Like Nathan Price the evangelical Baptist minister and a WWII veteran from Georgia, determined to save Africa for Jesus in Barbara Kingsolver’s classic The Poisonwood Bible, I must be mad. Today was round one and I took a beating.
Kaia lasted about two minutes before a mosquito bite on her leg swelled up to the size of a peach, and the scab on her calf from a previous bite was nicked by her shovel causing her to bleed openly, announcing an all you can eat buffet for the mozzies with out the need to even puncture skin. I sent her inside immediately and felt I could get it all done in a matter of minutes. Here is where the lessons start rolling in:
I will spare you the comedy of errors that occurred from this moment in the story and finally getting the kids to stop crying, the house swept up, and everything back to normal before Mairin go t home. Long story short, since this will most likely be the first of many debacles and subsequent stories about this process, I made a dent in the brush. I will give round one to the jungle, but I made small progress and learned a few things on the way. Next time, I will come out swinging. I need a pair of gloves, some leisure time, and my wife at home to watch Skyelar as Kaia and I make our way back out into the jungle. Here are some pictures of what we accomplished.
This first one is the area I am working on at the moment. I want to clear the shrubs under the Pine and Mango trees clearing some space for flowers or more organized tropical plants, some bamboo might be nice.
This beautiful large yet annoyingly obtrusive Frangipani must go. That rectangular plot is where I want to plant the veggies. If I can ever figure out how to protect the seedlings from the rain. Any ideas would be appreciated in the comment section. Below you will find what I tackled today.
Not bad, I got most of it, but more importantly I got a good look at my opponent and learned that she is one tough bitch. Playing with mother earth here in Jakarta is a whole new game with new rules that I have yet to learn. This is no lazy Sunday afternoon in the garden. This is a battle. I will not get all biblical and starting using words like dominion and subdue, but I will also not be pushed around. I need to find a Tai Chi style "work-with-the-forces-of-the-universe" to be at one with this space. My garden.
Slow and steady we go...Jungle= 1 me= 0
You can follow all of the pictures in my Flickr set called Garden.
Although I am not at all handy or have any idea how to do any of the things I have planned, I want to plant some vegetables (despite the torrential downpours I have seen in the last few days), plant flowers around the edges, lay down stone pathways that lead to Buddha head statues I will buy in Bali, and build a small deck for table and chairs, oh and of course rid the whole area of the swarms of mosquitoes that seem to control the space.
Like Nathan Price the evangelical Baptist minister and a WWII veteran from Georgia, determined to save Africa for Jesus in Barbara Kingsolver’s classic The Poisonwood Bible, I must be mad. Today was round one and I took a beating.
Kaia lasted about two minutes before a mosquito bite on her leg swelled up to the size of a peach, and the scab on her calf from a previous bite was nicked by her shovel causing her to bleed openly, announcing an all you can eat buffet for the mozzies with out the need to even puncture skin. I sent her inside immediately and felt I could get it all done in a matter of minutes. Here is where the lessons start rolling in:
- Do not take a four year old out into a tropical garden without repellent and proper clothes.
- Never underestimate the earth and the amount of painful plants and insects she can unleash on you at any given time.
- Do not try to rush through a weeding job when dealing with tropical weeds that have most likely been around since the Jurassic period and are barbed with razor sharp thorns.
I will spare you the comedy of errors that occurred from this moment in the story and finally getting the kids to stop crying, the house swept up, and everything back to normal before Mairin go t home. Long story short, since this will most likely be the first of many debacles and subsequent stories about this process, I made a dent in the brush. I will give round one to the jungle, but I made small progress and learned a few things on the way. Next time, I will come out swinging. I need a pair of gloves, some leisure time, and my wife at home to watch Skyelar as Kaia and I make our way back out into the jungle. Here are some pictures of what we accomplished.
This first one is the area I am working on at the moment. I want to clear the shrubs under the Pine and Mango trees clearing some space for flowers or more organized tropical plants, some bamboo might be nice.
This beautiful large yet annoyingly obtrusive Frangipani must go. That rectangular plot is where I want to plant the veggies. If I can ever figure out how to protect the seedlings from the rain. Any ideas would be appreciated in the comment section. Below you will find what I tackled today.
Not bad, I got most of it, but more importantly I got a good look at my opponent and learned that she is one tough bitch. Playing with mother earth here in Jakarta is a whole new game with new rules that I have yet to learn. This is no lazy Sunday afternoon in the garden. This is a battle. I will not get all biblical and starting using words like dominion and subdue, but I will also not be pushed around. I need to find a Tai Chi style "work-with-the-forces-of-the-universe" to be at one with this space. My garden.
Slow and steady we go...Jungle= 1 me= 0You can follow all of the pictures in my Flickr set called Garden.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Bowels of a Beast
I had a simple enough task to accomplish today. I was to go to the cargo area at the airport in Jakarta. Please understand that I have traveled enough to understand that anytime you are forced to deal with any kind of bureaucracy, whether in a developing country, or our more esteemed developed countries, you should brace for the worst. I have dealt with the immigration offices of Mozambique, the airport in Angola, and the New York City Board of Ed. I have bathed in inefficiency and come out filthy. Experience has taught me to bring a book, plenty of identification, and ample stores of patience and understanding. It goes without saying that the Buddha himself would no doubt leave a situation like the one I had today with a taste for blood, but what else can one do but grin and bear it. After all if one looks at every situation as a possible story to tell then nothing truly ever bad happens.
I have learned during my brief stay in Indonesia that everything costs money. Not in the traditional sense that you buy a good or pay for a service rendered, but in a way that the money trickles from your hand. Everyone wants to “help” you and then expects that you pay them an undisclosed amount upon completion of said services. Put simply, it is a guessing game with nefarious rules and what feel like hidden agendas.
Perhaps, I am being too harsh. The reality looks more like this: Everybody is trying to get a piece of the action. They are not necessarily trying cheat you out of money, not in the sense we are accustomed to, no it is more of gentle familiarity. Everyone is your new friend, and friends help friends, but since we just met a tip would be appreciated, and if you can’t or won’t tip then maybe we really aren’t friends, so maybe I won’t help you get what you need. It is as if the cast members are all saying, “look man, you are bringing in four suitcases worth of baby clothes and shampoos, my kid barely has two outfits, let me snack a bit on what you’re feasting on.” At the end of the day who can blame them?
The cargo area at the Jakarta airport is like an ant colony on crack. It bustles and jives with a pace that is incomprehensible. Stacks of goods and cargo move up and down, right and left like life size Tetris pieces. Maneuvered and controlled by an army of forklift operators, captains, swindlers, and brutes. It is a scene straight out of a Steinbeck novel.
From the second I made contact with this group of actors I was swept away and quickly lost control. A more experienced director may have known how to reign in the situation at the very beginning, but I was green and unfamiliar. The wind was pushing me about, but it would be naïve to say I was sailing. They saw me coming before I even left the car.
After asking the security guard if we were in the right place, I was told to wait. A short man wearing a mustache that bespoke of third world authority looked at me and nodded in the universal language of gestures to follow him. It is truly astounding how much of the world’s business can be accomplished with the sole use of body language. I am constantly impressed by our ability as primates to control our environments as well as we do, despite the fact that we seldom really understand each other.
We moved quickly and with purpose. Dodging troops of small tanned men carrying loads no Westerner has ever been asked to carry. Being a card carrying “first-worlder” has its perks. A quick tap on a window and we were joined by another man, who strangely looked like an Indonesian version of Mike Tyson, minus the face tattoo of course. Short, stocking and with eyes that were squinting and nervous, as well as calming and kind. Suddenly our entourage was three and just as quickly we were four! We had mysteriously picked up a third man. His eyes were silver with cataract, but his calm voice and reassuring demeanor and grasp of English later proved his value. The newly assembled team obviously answered to the first man who had met me at the gate. He strutted about the place like the cock-of-walk, patting people on the back, ordering large machinery out of the way, and graciously accepting one salute after another. I was certain he was in charge as he commandeered by airway bill and other documents to start the first step of what would eventually prove to be an exhaustive and never ending process of liberating my four suitcases from the clutches of the bureaucratic beast.
Smile here. Sign there. Stamp. Follow. Sit. Smile. Sign. Tell them your passport is at immigration. “But that is the truth. That is where my passport is.” No matter. Sit. Sign. Smile. Follow us. Stamp. Stamp. Stamp. This is going very smoothly I thought. I should be out of here in no time. A series of duplicated forms were erratically stapled in what can only be described as a dossier. We had given birth to a quickly growing stack of signed, stamped papers, which were all placed in a green folder and ready for stage two. Customs.
Suddenly our peacock captain hit his ceiling. The same man who had just moments ago held the strings of the puppet show firmly in his hands revealed that he too had scars on his shoulders from the next tier of ring leaders. He now nervously smoked one cigarette after another waiting to see how his higher ups would play their hand. Now that it is all said and done, I am sure he was wondering how much in “fees” this tier of the circus would take from me. For whatever I had to pay at customs would be less for him and his crew.
Let’s take a short break from our tale for a look at the inner workings of my mind at this stage. What is the difference between an accepted fee and a bribe? One could easily go to a “respected” business and be told that they have to pay a variety of fees. For example, you must $80 dollars for a new US passport, but if asked by a guy to pay a little for his troubles, we suddenly take offense and call it corruption. After all these guys were performing a service for me. I knew the whole time they would demand payment. I guess the issue is that with a fee you know up front what you are expected to pay, and so you feel somewhat in control. “$80 for a new passport that is outrageous,” you grumble but pay nonetheless, but when you do not know how much you will pay you feel helpless. This is the sting of corruption. It is not about money it is about power. And when person A wants something from person B and is not sure what it will take to get said object, person A feels weak and powerless. That is how I was beginning to feel, as I began to see the scope of how any people would need to be paid before this was all said and done.
At this moment, our fearless leader knew that the customs official could demand anything from me and I would have to pay, thus negating all the hard work he and his gang had put in so far. Ironically, the customs official did now ask me for anything. Yet.
Smile here. Sign there. Stamp. Follow. Sit. Smile. Sign. Tell them your passport is at immigration. “But that is the truth. That is where my passport is.” No matter. Sit. Sign. Smile. Follow us. Stamp. Stamp. Stamp. This is going very smoothly I thought. I should be out of here in no time. The dossier grew.
We were ready to enter the actual bowels of the beast. The four us snaked our way through the loading docks and into the cargo warehouse. Our leader had regained his confidence and smoked his cigarette with a reborn coolness and poise that would have been impressive had I not just moments ago saw him cowering in the corner like a beaten puppy. Before we entered the warehouse, I noticed the slow moving bulbous clouds and various shrubs and shades of green growing out of every inch of exposed soil I which thy were allowed.
I though of this land hundreds of years ago. This fertile island blanketed by a lush rainforest must have been something extraordinary. What had we done to it? Is this it? I thought. The legacy of our species is to have transformed a languid, luxuriant, lazy lifestyle into this? We have torn down acres of forest, destroying our only connection to our planet, shifted our priorities so we can move goods around the planet? Establishing incestuous hierarchies and pecking orders, just so we can move things from one place to another. Things we don’t even need. I thought about the amount of oil being used not only to create these things but also used to power the machines that raised and lowered them from the machines that would bring them to our lives. It all seemed so empty and futile. So ridiculous. I wanted to stop the entire process and tell the people to go back to their homes. Forget about this stuff, but I knew that it was now beyond anyone’s control. The market demanded a pound of flesh from each of us, and we would pay whether we liked it or not. But that was outside. We were inside the hive now. I am not sure how much time had elapsed since we started this adventure, but I had yet to even see my suitcases.
Smile here. Sign there. Stamp. Follow. Sit. Smile. Sign. Tell them your passport is at immigration. “But that is the truth. That is where my passport is.” No matter. Sit. Sign. Smile. Follow us. Stamp. Stamp. Stamp. Wait. This was going to take much longer than I could have ever imagined.
Then like a group of molested refuges I saw my suitcases making their way to the cage where they would be examined by another set of customs officials. They looked tired and abused. Both the men and the luggage had lost their original shapes and now looked like deflated balloons from some hysterical parade celebrating progress. They had made their way through the bowels of the international cargo racket, and now, lying on a wooden crate had ended up here in the toilet. I dreaded what it would look like inside, but like a scientist searching through scat we began the dissection.
Midnight Express, The Queen of Bali, scenes from every movie about drug trafficking that I had ever heard of raced through my mind; I envisioned myself no longer the pet of the mustachioed captain who had taken a shine to me, but rather his prisoner. What if he had people working on the inside and had somehow planted a few kilograms of narcotics in my bag? After denying possession of such contraband materials, I would be asked to pay a “fee” or spend the rest of my days rotting in a cell under his supervision, being constantly reminded of the betrayal to our friendship. The thought was so terrifying, that I quickly took up my book, The Great Gatsby and followed the trial and tribulations of James Gatz and his crew instead.
Back in the cage everything in the middle of the suitcases was damp. No wet. Soaking wet. The clothes that we had spent so much time, money, and energy shipping half way across the world looked as if they had been used to mop up some mess. “Everything is wet.” I said to no one in particular. And in appropriate fashion no one responded. Everyone just looked at me. There eyes were saying, “Really? These clothes? This is what you are spending so much time, energy, and money on?” I shrugged, but no one noticed. The bags were zipped up and I was told to wait. The man with the silver eyes snatched the newly stamped folder and darted down a narrow corridor. Wait. I found it ironic that these clothes had probably been made in some sweat shop around the corner, been flown to some store in the US where my mother-in-law had purchased them then sent to Qatar, and now they had made it back home. Full circle.
Mairin called and asked how it was going. “I should be out of here in about 20 minutes. So far so good.” Silver eyes returned and said we had to go back to the customs office. “But we are in the customs office.” This is the warehouse office I was told. Before we left however it was time to discuss the fee. Their fee. The fee and their fee. I was told that I would have to spend $80 on storage fees. I asked to see any documentation that said this storage fee was legit. I knew they were lying, but I didn’t know what to do. We had all invested so much in this relationship. We’d shared a soda, broken conversations, and the last two hours of our lives. If I refused to pay, what would happen? Where would I go? Who would help me if not these men? I could see the light at the end of the tunnel and I knew that this was the team that would get me there. I swallowed my pride and said, “Okay, what else?” Through a series of smiles, shrugs, and miscommunications, I was coaxed into believing that this was standard operating procedure. I was still listening. Then they conferred with themselves. Made calculations.
How much do you think we can get from him? He went for the storage bullshit pretty quick. He must be loaded. Did you see how many pairs of baby were in that suitcase? He must be made of money. I say we go for broke and ask for two million? (that is roughly $200) No way, he looks smarter than that. We will lose him. Pull him in slowly. I say 1.7. That is too high. Give him room to negotiate.
You will pay us 1.4 million, which includes the storage fee. And we will load everything in your car. Check, check, check and he gave me a high five. I had come with one million expecting to pay the equivalent $100. I told them this. They smiled. They looked at each other. They conferred. We shook hands. Everyone was happy.
I knew I wasn’t going to make it out of this machine on my own. I had anticipated paying someone something to make sure I would leave with my four suitcases. Back to the difference between fees and bribes. If I had been told when I arrived that I would have to pay a fee of $100, I would have grumbled, but would not have felt like I was being duped. But knowing that this gang had sized me up and decided an amount they could squeeze from me was disheartening. The $40 for their help filling out forms was absolutely acceptable, but the bullshit about the storage fees was just greedy. Perhaps in a few months, I will be more experienced and my Bahasa will have improved so I can argue my case more aggressively. I could have won that fight with a little experience behind me.
Believe it or, we were sent back to the customs officials office, for another round of smile, sign, wait, stamp. I was now like a prized show dog, being walked on an invisible leash. I was asked to pay another $50 for taxes, but after some shaking of hands and gestures of empty pockets, the taxes somehow disappeared. I was cleaned dry and everyone knew it. This latest office had come to the trough to late and were left empty handed. The leader of our team smile triumphantly as we exited the office. His dog had won and he had been paid.
I know this is must be a repetitive nightmare to read. Believe me, it is a chore to document as well, but living it was even worse. Yes, reader, I was asked to go back to the warehouse and wait on the loading dock for my cargo to finally be delivered to my waiting car. I had finished The Great Gatsby at this point, so I let my mind wander one last time.
This experience would make a great school field trip I thought. The entire day would be a great lesson. Many of the students I teach live in such a bubble, that a glimpse into the bowels of modern goods transportation would be an eye opening experience for them. At school, we celebrate group work in artificial settings, so why not have a group of students come to the cargo office at a major airport and try to retrieve some baggage? See how they deal with stress, patience, cultural understandings, morality, racism, and class. Let them see what goes on in order for them to get their cheap goods onto the shelves. You can show them The Story of Stuff, or you can bring them to the docks and let them watch the sweat fall of the brow of the army of men who haul these goods from plane to truck. You can tech them about political structures or you can simply let them watch the pecking order in real life. This is to say nothing of the poetry and films that can be created in environments like this.
I was given a pat on the back and we shared a final round of handshakes. I genuinely thanked these men, because although I may have been cheated, I felt that we all got what we deserved in the end. I was not yet experienced enough to navigate this maze on my own. I needed their help. I could appreciate the fact that they saw me coming and carefully masterminded their graft for the day.
After all this and another hour and half long ride in traffic home, the suitcases arrived and where met with frustration and anger. Mairin was not happy that everything was wet, but I was too exhausted to offer consolation. She threatened to write an angry email to the airline, but all I could do was smile inside. What happened to these bags was a far more complicated process than any email could solve. The men responsible for this mess had nothing to do with emails.
Now that this post is finished, I hope that I did not create a biased or harsh portrait of Indonesians. So many times, expatriates see locals in a certain light and forget that many of the traits we judge can be found in our own societies. I suggest viewing season two of The Wire for a look at cargo corruption on a much larger scale. I also want to add that most of the people I have met in the first two weeks I have been in Jakarta, have been more that kind and generous. So far, I find Jakarta to be a chaotic yet warm place. The people go out of their way to meet you and help. Yes, sometimes they me demand a “fee” but more often than not they are simply happy to meet you and want to show their kindness and hospitality.
I have learned during my brief stay in Indonesia that everything costs money. Not in the traditional sense that you buy a good or pay for a service rendered, but in a way that the money trickles from your hand. Everyone wants to “help” you and then expects that you pay them an undisclosed amount upon completion of said services. Put simply, it is a guessing game with nefarious rules and what feel like hidden agendas.
Perhaps, I am being too harsh. The reality looks more like this: Everybody is trying to get a piece of the action. They are not necessarily trying cheat you out of money, not in the sense we are accustomed to, no it is more of gentle familiarity. Everyone is your new friend, and friends help friends, but since we just met a tip would be appreciated, and if you can’t or won’t tip then maybe we really aren’t friends, so maybe I won’t help you get what you need. It is as if the cast members are all saying, “look man, you are bringing in four suitcases worth of baby clothes and shampoos, my kid barely has two outfits, let me snack a bit on what you’re feasting on.” At the end of the day who can blame them?
The cargo area at the Jakarta airport is like an ant colony on crack. It bustles and jives with a pace that is incomprehensible. Stacks of goods and cargo move up and down, right and left like life size Tetris pieces. Maneuvered and controlled by an army of forklift operators, captains, swindlers, and brutes. It is a scene straight out of a Steinbeck novel.
From the second I made contact with this group of actors I was swept away and quickly lost control. A more experienced director may have known how to reign in the situation at the very beginning, but I was green and unfamiliar. The wind was pushing me about, but it would be naïve to say I was sailing. They saw me coming before I even left the car.
After asking the security guard if we were in the right place, I was told to wait. A short man wearing a mustache that bespoke of third world authority looked at me and nodded in the universal language of gestures to follow him. It is truly astounding how much of the world’s business can be accomplished with the sole use of body language. I am constantly impressed by our ability as primates to control our environments as well as we do, despite the fact that we seldom really understand each other.
We moved quickly and with purpose. Dodging troops of small tanned men carrying loads no Westerner has ever been asked to carry. Being a card carrying “first-worlder” has its perks. A quick tap on a window and we were joined by another man, who strangely looked like an Indonesian version of Mike Tyson, minus the face tattoo of course. Short, stocking and with eyes that were squinting and nervous, as well as calming and kind. Suddenly our entourage was three and just as quickly we were four! We had mysteriously picked up a third man. His eyes were silver with cataract, but his calm voice and reassuring demeanor and grasp of English later proved his value. The newly assembled team obviously answered to the first man who had met me at the gate. He strutted about the place like the cock-of-walk, patting people on the back, ordering large machinery out of the way, and graciously accepting one salute after another. I was certain he was in charge as he commandeered by airway bill and other documents to start the first step of what would eventually prove to be an exhaustive and never ending process of liberating my four suitcases from the clutches of the bureaucratic beast.
Smile here. Sign there. Stamp. Follow. Sit. Smile. Sign. Tell them your passport is at immigration. “But that is the truth. That is where my passport is.” No matter. Sit. Sign. Smile. Follow us. Stamp. Stamp. Stamp. This is going very smoothly I thought. I should be out of here in no time. A series of duplicated forms were erratically stapled in what can only be described as a dossier. We had given birth to a quickly growing stack of signed, stamped papers, which were all placed in a green folder and ready for stage two. Customs.
Suddenly our peacock captain hit his ceiling. The same man who had just moments ago held the strings of the puppet show firmly in his hands revealed that he too had scars on his shoulders from the next tier of ring leaders. He now nervously smoked one cigarette after another waiting to see how his higher ups would play their hand. Now that it is all said and done, I am sure he was wondering how much in “fees” this tier of the circus would take from me. For whatever I had to pay at customs would be less for him and his crew.
Let’s take a short break from our tale for a look at the inner workings of my mind at this stage. What is the difference between an accepted fee and a bribe? One could easily go to a “respected” business and be told that they have to pay a variety of fees. For example, you must $80 dollars for a new US passport, but if asked by a guy to pay a little for his troubles, we suddenly take offense and call it corruption. After all these guys were performing a service for me. I knew the whole time they would demand payment. I guess the issue is that with a fee you know up front what you are expected to pay, and so you feel somewhat in control. “$80 for a new passport that is outrageous,” you grumble but pay nonetheless, but when you do not know how much you will pay you feel helpless. This is the sting of corruption. It is not about money it is about power. And when person A wants something from person B and is not sure what it will take to get said object, person A feels weak and powerless. That is how I was beginning to feel, as I began to see the scope of how any people would need to be paid before this was all said and done.
At this moment, our fearless leader knew that the customs official could demand anything from me and I would have to pay, thus negating all the hard work he and his gang had put in so far. Ironically, the customs official did now ask me for anything. Yet.
Smile here. Sign there. Stamp. Follow. Sit. Smile. Sign. Tell them your passport is at immigration. “But that is the truth. That is where my passport is.” No matter. Sit. Sign. Smile. Follow us. Stamp. Stamp. Stamp. This is going very smoothly I thought. I should be out of here in no time. The dossier grew.
We were ready to enter the actual bowels of the beast. The four us snaked our way through the loading docks and into the cargo warehouse. Our leader had regained his confidence and smoked his cigarette with a reborn coolness and poise that would have been impressive had I not just moments ago saw him cowering in the corner like a beaten puppy. Before we entered the warehouse, I noticed the slow moving bulbous clouds and various shrubs and shades of green growing out of every inch of exposed soil I which thy were allowed.
I though of this land hundreds of years ago. This fertile island blanketed by a lush rainforest must have been something extraordinary. What had we done to it? Is this it? I thought. The legacy of our species is to have transformed a languid, luxuriant, lazy lifestyle into this? We have torn down acres of forest, destroying our only connection to our planet, shifted our priorities so we can move goods around the planet? Establishing incestuous hierarchies and pecking orders, just so we can move things from one place to another. Things we don’t even need. I thought about the amount of oil being used not only to create these things but also used to power the machines that raised and lowered them from the machines that would bring them to our lives. It all seemed so empty and futile. So ridiculous. I wanted to stop the entire process and tell the people to go back to their homes. Forget about this stuff, but I knew that it was now beyond anyone’s control. The market demanded a pound of flesh from each of us, and we would pay whether we liked it or not. But that was outside. We were inside the hive now. I am not sure how much time had elapsed since we started this adventure, but I had yet to even see my suitcases.
Smile here. Sign there. Stamp. Follow. Sit. Smile. Sign. Tell them your passport is at immigration. “But that is the truth. That is where my passport is.” No matter. Sit. Sign. Smile. Follow us. Stamp. Stamp. Stamp. Wait. This was going to take much longer than I could have ever imagined.
Then like a group of molested refuges I saw my suitcases making their way to the cage where they would be examined by another set of customs officials. They looked tired and abused. Both the men and the luggage had lost their original shapes and now looked like deflated balloons from some hysterical parade celebrating progress. They had made their way through the bowels of the international cargo racket, and now, lying on a wooden crate had ended up here in the toilet. I dreaded what it would look like inside, but like a scientist searching through scat we began the dissection.
Midnight Express, The Queen of Bali, scenes from every movie about drug trafficking that I had ever heard of raced through my mind; I envisioned myself no longer the pet of the mustachioed captain who had taken a shine to me, but rather his prisoner. What if he had people working on the inside and had somehow planted a few kilograms of narcotics in my bag? After denying possession of such contraband materials, I would be asked to pay a “fee” or spend the rest of my days rotting in a cell under his supervision, being constantly reminded of the betrayal to our friendship. The thought was so terrifying, that I quickly took up my book, The Great Gatsby and followed the trial and tribulations of James Gatz and his crew instead.
Back in the cage everything in the middle of the suitcases was damp. No wet. Soaking wet. The clothes that we had spent so much time, money, and energy shipping half way across the world looked as if they had been used to mop up some mess. “Everything is wet.” I said to no one in particular. And in appropriate fashion no one responded. Everyone just looked at me. There eyes were saying, “Really? These clothes? This is what you are spending so much time, energy, and money on?” I shrugged, but no one noticed. The bags were zipped up and I was told to wait. The man with the silver eyes snatched the newly stamped folder and darted down a narrow corridor. Wait. I found it ironic that these clothes had probably been made in some sweat shop around the corner, been flown to some store in the US where my mother-in-law had purchased them then sent to Qatar, and now they had made it back home. Full circle.
Mairin called and asked how it was going. “I should be out of here in about 20 minutes. So far so good.” Silver eyes returned and said we had to go back to the customs office. “But we are in the customs office.” This is the warehouse office I was told. Before we left however it was time to discuss the fee. Their fee. The fee and their fee. I was told that I would have to spend $80 on storage fees. I asked to see any documentation that said this storage fee was legit. I knew they were lying, but I didn’t know what to do. We had all invested so much in this relationship. We’d shared a soda, broken conversations, and the last two hours of our lives. If I refused to pay, what would happen? Where would I go? Who would help me if not these men? I could see the light at the end of the tunnel and I knew that this was the team that would get me there. I swallowed my pride and said, “Okay, what else?” Through a series of smiles, shrugs, and miscommunications, I was coaxed into believing that this was standard operating procedure. I was still listening. Then they conferred with themselves. Made calculations.
How much do you think we can get from him? He went for the storage bullshit pretty quick. He must be loaded. Did you see how many pairs of baby were in that suitcase? He must be made of money. I say we go for broke and ask for two million? (that is roughly $200) No way, he looks smarter than that. We will lose him. Pull him in slowly. I say 1.7. That is too high. Give him room to negotiate.
You will pay us 1.4 million, which includes the storage fee. And we will load everything in your car. Check, check, check and he gave me a high five. I had come with one million expecting to pay the equivalent $100. I told them this. They smiled. They looked at each other. They conferred. We shook hands. Everyone was happy.
I knew I wasn’t going to make it out of this machine on my own. I had anticipated paying someone something to make sure I would leave with my four suitcases. Back to the difference between fees and bribes. If I had been told when I arrived that I would have to pay a fee of $100, I would have grumbled, but would not have felt like I was being duped. But knowing that this gang had sized me up and decided an amount they could squeeze from me was disheartening. The $40 for their help filling out forms was absolutely acceptable, but the bullshit about the storage fees was just greedy. Perhaps in a few months, I will be more experienced and my Bahasa will have improved so I can argue my case more aggressively. I could have won that fight with a little experience behind me.
Believe it or, we were sent back to the customs officials office, for another round of smile, sign, wait, stamp. I was now like a prized show dog, being walked on an invisible leash. I was asked to pay another $50 for taxes, but after some shaking of hands and gestures of empty pockets, the taxes somehow disappeared. I was cleaned dry and everyone knew it. This latest office had come to the trough to late and were left empty handed. The leader of our team smile triumphantly as we exited the office. His dog had won and he had been paid.
I know this is must be a repetitive nightmare to read. Believe me, it is a chore to document as well, but living it was even worse. Yes, reader, I was asked to go back to the warehouse and wait on the loading dock for my cargo to finally be delivered to my waiting car. I had finished The Great Gatsby at this point, so I let my mind wander one last time.
This experience would make a great school field trip I thought. The entire day would be a great lesson. Many of the students I teach live in such a bubble, that a glimpse into the bowels of modern goods transportation would be an eye opening experience for them. At school, we celebrate group work in artificial settings, so why not have a group of students come to the cargo office at a major airport and try to retrieve some baggage? See how they deal with stress, patience, cultural understandings, morality, racism, and class. Let them see what goes on in order for them to get their cheap goods onto the shelves. You can show them The Story of Stuff, or you can bring them to the docks and let them watch the sweat fall of the brow of the army of men who haul these goods from plane to truck. You can tech them about political structures or you can simply let them watch the pecking order in real life. This is to say nothing of the poetry and films that can be created in environments like this.
I was given a pat on the back and we shared a final round of handshakes. I genuinely thanked these men, because although I may have been cheated, I felt that we all got what we deserved in the end. I was not yet experienced enough to navigate this maze on my own. I needed their help. I could appreciate the fact that they saw me coming and carefully masterminded their graft for the day.
After all this and another hour and half long ride in traffic home, the suitcases arrived and where met with frustration and anger. Mairin was not happy that everything was wet, but I was too exhausted to offer consolation. She threatened to write an angry email to the airline, but all I could do was smile inside. What happened to these bags was a far more complicated process than any email could solve. The men responsible for this mess had nothing to do with emails.
Now that this post is finished, I hope that I did not create a biased or harsh portrait of Indonesians. So many times, expatriates see locals in a certain light and forget that many of the traits we judge can be found in our own societies. I suggest viewing season two of The Wire for a look at cargo corruption on a much larger scale. I also want to add that most of the people I have met in the first two weeks I have been in Jakarta, have been more that kind and generous. So far, I find Jakarta to be a chaotic yet warm place. The people go out of their way to meet you and help. Yes, sometimes they me demand a “fee” but more often than not they are simply happy to meet you and want to show their kindness and hospitality.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
I Don't Know
If you spend enough time online you take some interesting journeys. Some pique your curiosity and last for days, while others simply cause you to do a quick lily pad hop from site to often unrelated site. But even these short jaunts can sometimes be connected. Here is a short trip I took tonight:
Found this picture through Stumble Upon shot by this Russian guy named Nezzdoi.
I hope his bout with cancer is going well. I thought about where he must be and how he must be feeling. Wish there was more news on his condition. Found out that he is set to release a documentary about legendary Beat writer William Burroughs.
Here is the trailer for the flick:
Found this random cover...
What does any of this mean? I have no idea. I just wanted to document what my time online looks like. Every click is another chance to learn. Where does it end...I don't know....
Found this picture through Stumble Upon shot by this Russian guy named Nezzdoi.
It's not so simple as I try to wish...But then again what is?...There is no other worthy quest...So on I goI was listening to the song I Don't Know by the Beastie Boys. The words and the image got me thinking about Adam Yauch (MCA)
I hope his bout with cancer is going well. I thought about where he must be and how he must be feeling. Wish there was more news on his condition. Found out that he is set to release a documentary about legendary Beat writer William Burroughs.
He was the first person who was famous for things you were meant to hide.Also found out that Yauch's production company is called Oscilloscope, which is a type of electronic test instrument that allows observation of constantly varying signal voltages, usually as a two-dimensional graph of one or more electrical potential differences using the vertical or 'Y' axis, plotted as a function of time, (horizontal or 'x' axis).
Here is the trailer for the flick:
Found this random cover...
What does any of this mean? I have no idea. I just wanted to document what my time online looks like. Every click is another chance to learn. Where does it end...I don't know....
I Do
Over the years, I have had several people tell me I should write a book. They mention my unassuming voice and passion for the craft as reason enough to just do it. The suggestions have increased over the years, and tonight I got a very interesting proposal from a Twitter associate:
I have, however, always wanted to write a book. My problem has always been that I do not know what this book should be about. This distracted path is the reason why I have spent over two years stalling here at Intrepid Flame. I write out of habit and necessity, but there is very little focus or driving force to my ideas. I think a book can bring a lot of themes together for me. Despite my lack of confidence, people seem to look past the typos, the grammatical embarrassments and attach themselves to the kernel of sincerity that my writing provides. This should be enough. Right?
I want to write a book. Whether this woman can get it published or not is irrelevant. I want to spend the next year writing a book. I want to put in the hours. I want to make the commitment. I am ready to sell my pound of flesh. I want to make it happen. I do.
Here is where I need your help. As a regular reader of this blog, friend, family member or co-worker who knows my style, my topics, and my strengths I need you to answer a few questions. In your opinion:
1. What should this book be about?
2. What themes do you see repeated in my prose?
3. What are my strengths?
4. What should I stay away from?
Any ideas will be appreciated. Take a look around. Read some old posts and please leave a comment below.
I’ve been mulling over starting my own lit agency and I like yr work. If you have a book project in mind, let me know. I am also thinking of getting a group of teacher-writers to contribute to anthology... i used to work for an agent way back when and I have yrs of exp in book publishing...anyway, my own agency is something I've had in mind... I have an agent, myself, but she handles kids/YA. I have many academic publishing connections, and would like to help other writers publish. An anthology could come together well, I think, but there's no money in that, really. Just publishing laurels. Otherwise, think of yr own bkWhether this offer is legit, or even possible is moot. It has only ever been a dream of mine to write a book let alone make any money form it. I am not so naïve to think that it only takes a bit of luck and a whim to make a living writing. I have always written due to an unsaitable desire to be heard and connect with the small flock of people who may be reading at any given time.
I have, however, always wanted to write a book. My problem has always been that I do not know what this book should be about. This distracted path is the reason why I have spent over two years stalling here at Intrepid Flame. I write out of habit and necessity, but there is very little focus or driving force to my ideas. I think a book can bring a lot of themes together for me. Despite my lack of confidence, people seem to look past the typos, the grammatical embarrassments and attach themselves to the kernel of sincerity that my writing provides. This should be enough. Right?
I want to write a book. Whether this woman can get it published or not is irrelevant. I want to spend the next year writing a book. I want to put in the hours. I want to make the commitment. I am ready to sell my pound of flesh. I want to make it happen. I do.
Here is where I need your help. As a regular reader of this blog, friend, family member or co-worker who knows my style, my topics, and my strengths I need you to answer a few questions. In your opinion:
1. What should this book be about?
2. What themes do you see repeated in my prose?
3. What are my strengths?
4. What should I stay away from?
Any ideas will be appreciated. Take a look around. Read some old posts and please leave a comment below.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
We Don't Need Another Hero
I guess you never forget the first time you see a dancing monkey wearing a tracksuit. Oh and did I mention that it also had a doll’s head with the eyes cut out on its head like a mask? Dancing may be a bit flattering. It was actually being yanked on a chain by a guy on the island of a major boulevard in downtown Jakarta. For what reason, I cannot even begin to imagine. There were about six of them in a row. Do people think, “Hmmm those tortured monkeys look adorable, let’s give that man some money so he continue to torture them for the rest of their lives.”
Our car conversation-
Me: Look at those dolls!
Wife: Weird, wait are those...
Me: Monkeys! I think so.
Daughter: Where?
Wife: Oh my god they are monkeys.
Me: Look another one.
Daughter: Where? I want to to see a dancing monkey doll.
Wife: Oh never mind sweety, look what is that? (Pointing across the street.)
Daughter: But I want to see the monkey dolls dance?
Me: No you don't sweety.
Daughter: But daddy why are the monkeys dancing?
Me:...silence...
(You just don't have these conversation unless you move overseas.)
...and the next you are passing entire city blocks built out of zinc and cheap wood along a brown river, probably the only one in the world that doesn’t ever seem to move.
I look forward to the times I can get lost in this maze on foot and with my camera, but for now I watch out the window of our moving car, like a curious child. What goes on out there? I have already seen dancing monkeys straight from the Thunderdome. What other stories are waiting to be told?
Post Script: I didn’t have my camera, but was pleasantly surprised that I could find images of these demented primates online, and in a, “it’s a small world” twist they were taken by Brandon Hoover or Javajive on Twitter, an educator whom I have grown to know pretty well. Thanks Brandon for capturing this bizarre scene.
Post Script Post Script: I can't get these monkeys off my mind, so I did a bit more research and here is what I found:
The practice is called Topeng Monyet which means Monkey Mask- Monkey mask is a traditional art which is known in various regions in Indonesia .
Here is an article on the subject-
Trained monkeys are enough to macaque a grown man cry...The variations are endless and widely enjoyed across Indonesia. But behind the theatrics, the little macaques lead appalling lives.
and a video-
Our car conversation-
Me: Look at those dolls!
Wife: Weird, wait are those...
Me: Monkeys! I think so.
Daughter: Where?
Wife: Oh my god they are monkeys.
Me: Look another one.
Daughter: Where? I want to to see a dancing monkey doll.
Wife: Oh never mind sweety, look what is that? (Pointing across the street.)
Daughter: But I want to see the monkey dolls dance?
Me: No you don't sweety.
Daughter: But daddy why are the monkeys dancing?
Me:...silence...
(You just don't have these conversation unless you move overseas.)
This city is a constant assault on your senses, and I have yet to even leave the car and venture on foot through its arteries. were on our way home from yet another major mall, zigging and zagging our way through crowded streets when we saw the sadistic road show. One second the roads here are clean and somewhat navigable...
Image by Artificial
Image by ArtificialI look forward to the times I can get lost in this maze on foot and with my camera, but for now I watch out the window of our moving car, like a curious child. What goes on out there? I have already seen dancing monkeys straight from the Thunderdome. What other stories are waiting to be told?
Post Script: I didn’t have my camera, but was pleasantly surprised that I could find images of these demented primates online, and in a, “it’s a small world” twist they were taken by Brandon Hoover or Javajive on Twitter, an educator whom I have grown to know pretty well. Thanks Brandon for capturing this bizarre scene.
Post Script Post Script: I can't get these monkeys off my mind, so I did a bit more research and here is what I found:
The practice is called Topeng Monyet which means Monkey Mask- Monkey mask is a traditional art which is known in various regions in Indonesia .
Here is an article on the subject-
Trained monkeys are enough to macaque a grown man cry...The variations are endless and widely enjoyed across Indonesia. But behind the theatrics, the little macaques lead appalling lives.
and a video-
Friday, July 09, 2010
Appendage
I am a thirty six year old man in a small hotel room in Jakarta Indonesia. Outside a hive of motorbikes make tremendous noise as they rev their engines and honk their horns jockeying for position in their never ending race to nowhere. Where I am is not even the heart of the city, only a quiet suburb. Even the appendage of a city of eleven million pulses uncontrollably.
Beside me, curled up like a tiny planet is my exhausted nine month old daughter and across the hall my other little girl and wife are sleeping. I spent the night lost in The Great Gatsby. Swishing the words through my teeth and spitting them into a spittoon like a fine mahogany tinted tawny port.
And, now as my eyes grow heavy, I get ready for a long and comfortable sleep. I am not sure why or for whom this night needed to be documented and shared, but the way I see it- if our lives are any more meaningful than the awareness we have of them at their most mundane, I would be surprised.
Beside me, curled up like a tiny planet is my exhausted nine month old daughter and across the hall my other little girl and wife are sleeping. I spent the night lost in The Great Gatsby. Swishing the words through my teeth and spitting them into a spittoon like a fine mahogany tinted tawny port.
And, now as my eyes grow heavy, I get ready for a long and comfortable sleep. I am not sure why or for whom this night needed to be documented and shared, but the way I see it- if our lives are any more meaningful than the awareness we have of them at their most mundane, I would be surprised.
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Angel Celebrities
Okay it is time for a blog post. We have been in Jakarta for nearly a week and no amount of Facebook updates or Tweets can do justice for the amount of thoughts wrestling about in my head. I need to give form to these thoughts despite the exhaustion I feel sitting in this dark room as Blind Pilot sings to me, taking me back to my happy place. Realizing that I need a few connections to normalcy and routine. It is funny how we dream of change, only to realize that our habits and routines are what define us.
Where am I? How am I? We are still in the hotel. Mairin and Kaia in one room, while Skyelar and I are bunking in another. Easier to get everyone asleep. I haven’t been alone with my wife in almost a week. Yes, it feels weird. We spend most days sitting in traffic going to a mall to buy the things we need to set up our house. The kids scream, whine, and spit, while Mairin and I do a bit of the same.
I hate shopping, and that is what I have been doing for nearly a week. But this stuff is apparently vital. Who am I to argue? Here is what we have bought so far:
Jakarta is huge and bustling and green and wet and alive. I love it. The girls are like celebrity angels here. Everywhere we go people want to rub their cheeks and pet Kaia’s hair. The owners of the pizza place we have been going to, sat with us tonight and chatted, as they sent their kids off to buy Kaia a birthday present. The people here- they smile. They wave. We smile. We wave. It feels nice to make superficial contact with other human beings. It is chaotic. It works.
Internet should be hooked up tomorrow and everything else will be delivered as well. We hope to move into our house this weekend. Being in a hotel room with two kids has been difficult, although I saw a group of three kids in town today aged three, five and eight crossing one of the busiest streets I have ever seen. They live there on that street, alone, and dirty. Who am I to complain that the staying in the hotel hard?
So there you have it! I complain from my throne of privilege that my kids are tired and out of sorts as we drive about town in an air-conditioned car buying things that will make their lives easy and pleasant. My wife and I are exhausted at the end of the day, but I can sit back and type away my fatigue before I fall asleep on a bed with crisp white sheets. I don’t know much about Jakarta or Indonesia yet, but I know in a city of 11 million I am blessed to be able to do that.
I have the next few years to explore this fantastic place. I cannot wait to get started. If we could only get our home base established soon. I always think about how lucky I am for the things I have, and Jakarta is a place to constantly remind one of their blessings. First week has been good, looking forward to some quiet alone time at home.
No matter where you go or live, it takes a while to establish a house into a home. What do you do? What makes your place a home?
Where am I? How am I? We are still in the hotel. Mairin and Kaia in one room, while Skyelar and I are bunking in another. Easier to get everyone asleep. I haven’t been alone with my wife in almost a week. Yes, it feels weird. We spend most days sitting in traffic going to a mall to buy the things we need to set up our house. The kids scream, whine, and spit, while Mairin and I do a bit of the same.
I hate shopping, and that is what I have been doing for nearly a week. But this stuff is apparently vital. Who am I to argue? Here is what we have bought so far:
- A washing machine
- A stove
- A sofa
- Bed sheets
- Towels
- Various kitchen goods (Pots and pans, knifes, etc…)
Jakarta is huge and bustling and green and wet and alive. I love it. The girls are like celebrity angels here. Everywhere we go people want to rub their cheeks and pet Kaia’s hair. The owners of the pizza place we have been going to, sat with us tonight and chatted, as they sent their kids off to buy Kaia a birthday present. The people here- they smile. They wave. We smile. We wave. It feels nice to make superficial contact with other human beings. It is chaotic. It works.
Internet should be hooked up tomorrow and everything else will be delivered as well. We hope to move into our house this weekend. Being in a hotel room with two kids has been difficult, although I saw a group of three kids in town today aged three, five and eight crossing one of the busiest streets I have ever seen. They live there on that street, alone, and dirty. Who am I to complain that the staying in the hotel hard?
So there you have it! I complain from my throne of privilege that my kids are tired and out of sorts as we drive about town in an air-conditioned car buying things that will make their lives easy and pleasant. My wife and I are exhausted at the end of the day, but I can sit back and type away my fatigue before I fall asleep on a bed with crisp white sheets. I don’t know much about Jakarta or Indonesia yet, but I know in a city of 11 million I am blessed to be able to do that.
I have the next few years to explore this fantastic place. I cannot wait to get started. If we could only get our home base established soon. I always think about how lucky I am for the things I have, and Jakarta is a place to constantly remind one of their blessings. First week has been good, looking forward to some quiet alone time at home.
No matter where you go or live, it takes a while to establish a house into a home. What do you do? What makes your place a home?
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