Song being listened to: "This land is your land"....a thought provoking song when listened to in India (more on that in my next post... probably... maybe not... I'll consider it)
Today was the day I finally moved out of the living room and into the largest room in Andi's apartment. This large room which was supposed to be my room from the star was covered in dust in a coat so think that it looked as if it had seen 20 years of Sahara sand storms since it's last cleaning (though it had actually been a couple of months). We have been trying to get the hostel's cleaning lady to do it since we got here 10 days ago ,but she never shows up.
April and I decided today on our day off would be the best time to take a crack at cleaning it ourselves. We made ourselves what I would like to call an "Indian mop": a squeegee with a cloth tided around it. With this tool of tomfoolery, we mopped for 3 hours producing bucket after bucket of soiled water dark enough to be mistaken for used motor oil.
After we cleaned I reluctantly moved my items into this room and arranged my bed. I say "reluctantly" not because the room was still dirty or uncomfortable, we did a thorough cleaning job and the room looked grand: I say reluctantly because it was so comfortable on the living room floor with my mat and books. It was almost the same exact arrangement as I had at home.
Months ago I decided to get rid of everything that I really didn't want or use in my room; which included most things that were cluttering it, including my bed. The two things that I kept dear to me were my mat and my books. I'd never felt so at home in my own room; now I feel at home wherever I can sleep on the floor and read a book.... which was the arrangement in Andi's living room (half of my bag I packed for India was filled with books.... a little over 20... almost 5 of which I've already read while I've been here and will send back with April along with any others I finish before she leaves).
But I am now sitting in my cot (as opposed to the floor) and feel at home in a different way. With so many unused cots and mats surrounding me, I feel nostalgic dejavu of my room I occupied with some friends at St. Stephens for 3 months: a room I named "Madeline" because it reminded me of that cartoon of the French girl in the catholic orphanage.... or something. I think I'm going to call this room "New Madeline"...... no. Scratch that. I think I'm going to call it.... "Matilda"
Friday, July 30, 2010
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Photophobia 7/22/10 (the same date our bread expired)
Current song: none. Just some rifts I’ve been inventing.
Its been astoundingly hard to keep this journal or to even take many pictures. I guess that sometimes it can feel like a picture or a memoir can take away from, cheapen, or demean precious memories. Especially for a person who is as afflicted with idealism as myself. Some pictures are worth a thousand words, but maybe memories are more precious without words or pictures. I feel like taking a picture for me is just putting something in a box, where you can keep it safe and keep it out of mind… keep it controlled… keep you safe. I understand the Aborigines concern of souls being taken away or captured by photographs. I want my memories to breath, to stink, to sweat and to carry on a conversation.
But then I realize that all that above mention frustration is a little selfish (maybe more than a little). A picture is about sharing, whereas not taking can be hoarding. Not writing in a journal that I know is for people to read is to be miserly. I have to get this notion of “me” out of my head and start thinking more of the “we”. Stop the “my Father ” and employ the “Our Father”. Reminds me of alex supertramp’s conclusion at the end of the film: “happiness is only real when shared”.
Its been astoundingly hard to keep this journal or to even take many pictures. I guess that sometimes it can feel like a picture or a memoir can take away from, cheapen, or demean precious memories. Especially for a person who is as afflicted with idealism as myself. Some pictures are worth a thousand words, but maybe memories are more precious without words or pictures. I feel like taking a picture for me is just putting something in a box, where you can keep it safe and keep it out of mind… keep it controlled… keep you safe. I understand the Aborigines concern of souls being taken away or captured by photographs. I want my memories to breath, to stink, to sweat and to carry on a conversation.
But then I realize that all that above mention frustration is a little selfish (maybe more than a little). A picture is about sharing, whereas not taking can be hoarding. Not writing in a journal that I know is for people to read is to be miserly. I have to get this notion of “me” out of my head and start thinking more of the “we”. Stop the “my Father ” and employ the “Our Father”. Reminds me of alex supertramp’s conclusion at the end of the film: “happiness is only real when shared”.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Midnight Rantings 11:50am 7.18.10
Current song being listened to: "Dumpster Divers" ---the Psalters, and "Family" --- Aaron Strumpel
I forgot how exhausting it can be to be perpetually stared at everywhere you go, to be aware of how different you are at all times, and to be subtley reminded everywhere you go that you do not belong. I somehow feel that I can now be empathetic with people in my own country who are made to feel like they don't belong, maybe with signs and bumper stickers that say "God hates fags" or maybe even being required to submit to unlawful search and seizer just because they look like they might have been born just a little south of the border.
But really it doesn't compare. People stare at me maybe because they know that I am rich, or maybe because I remind them of the empire from which they found Independence from (maybe because they can't tell i am a girl with a beard or a boy with a ponytail ["it's pat!"]).
It's also tiring knowing that because you are different looking, people assume it's ok to rip you off. Every time I ask the price of something, the person pauses, gives an ominous grin, and asks for 4 or 5 times the fair amount. But in a way, the blatancy and even the honesty of their dishonesty can be a little refreshing. The only difference between this extortion and my own explotations is the white collars and contracts that buffer my morals and conscience from my theft and extortion. Kind of reminds me of a Woody Guthrie song about Prettyboy Floyd : "And as through this world, I've wandered, I've seen lots of funny men: Some will rob you with a six gun, and some with with a fountain pen".
Is it ok that people here are trying to take advantage of me? no. Is it ok that I bought shoes two weeks ago that were made in a sweatshop (possible an Indian one) by people who's financial circumstances left them no other option but to work there and be taken advantage of? definitely not. Not to "Bible" you in the face or anything.... but this reminds me of the parable in 2 Samuel 12
" There were two men in a certain town, one rich and the other poor. The rich man had a very large number of sheep and cattle, but the poor man had nothing except one little ewe lamb he had bought. He raised it, and it grew up with him and his children. It shared his food, drank from his cup and even slept in his arms. It was like a daughter to him.
Now a traveler came to the rich man, but the rich man refrained from taking one of his own sheep or cattle to prepare a meal for the traveler who had come to him. Instead, he took the ewe lamb that belonged to the poor man and prepared it for the one who had come to him."
David burned with anger against the man and said to Nathan, "As surely as the LORD lives, the man who did this must die! He must pay for that lamb four times over, because he did such a thing and had no pity."
Then Nathan said to David, "You are that man!"
I know I know..... strong words. But something to think about
I forgot how exhausting it can be to be perpetually stared at everywhere you go, to be aware of how different you are at all times, and to be subtley reminded everywhere you go that you do not belong. I somehow feel that I can now be empathetic with people in my own country who are made to feel like they don't belong, maybe with signs and bumper stickers that say "God hates fags" or maybe even being required to submit to unlawful search and seizer just because they look like they might have been born just a little south of the border.
But really it doesn't compare. People stare at me maybe because they know that I am rich, or maybe because I remind them of the empire from which they found Independence from (maybe because they can't tell i am a girl with a beard or a boy with a ponytail ["it's pat!"]).
It's also tiring knowing that because you are different looking, people assume it's ok to rip you off. Every time I ask the price of something, the person pauses, gives an ominous grin, and asks for 4 or 5 times the fair amount. But in a way, the blatancy and even the honesty of their dishonesty can be a little refreshing. The only difference between this extortion and my own explotations is the white collars and contracts that buffer my morals and conscience from my theft and extortion. Kind of reminds me of a Woody Guthrie song about Prettyboy Floyd : "And as through this world, I've wandered, I've seen lots of funny men: Some will rob you with a six gun, and some with with a fountain pen".
Is it ok that people here are trying to take advantage of me? no. Is it ok that I bought shoes two weeks ago that were made in a sweatshop (possible an Indian one) by people who's financial circumstances left them no other option but to work there and be taken advantage of? definitely not. Not to "Bible" you in the face or anything.... but this reminds me of the parable in 2 Samuel 12
" There were two men in a certain town, one rich and the other poor. The rich man had a very large number of sheep and cattle, but the poor man had nothing except one little ewe lamb he had bought. He raised it, and it grew up with him and his children. It shared his food, drank from his cup and even slept in his arms. It was like a daughter to him.
Now a traveler came to the rich man, but the rich man refrained from taking one of his own sheep or cattle to prepare a meal for the traveler who had come to him. Instead, he took the ewe lamb that belonged to the poor man and prepared it for the one who had come to him."
David burned with anger against the man and said to Nathan, "As surely as the LORD lives, the man who did this must die! He must pay for that lamb four times over, because he did such a thing and had no pity."
Then Nathan said to David, "You are that man!"
I know I know..... strong words. But something to think about
Arrival and Shenanigans 7/13/10 6:45 am
Current band I’ve been listening to : The Psalters
It was a surreal experience coming to India this time around. On the plane ride here I was in a constant state of dejevu. I kept experiencing the same thoughts and feeling I had on the same flight two years earlier: I kept thinking "holy [moley]! I'm going to a country I've never been to before BY MYSELF, I don't know anyone there, and I bought non-refundable tickets!" But then I would always snap back to the reality that none of that was true (except for the part of the non-refundable tickets): I had been here before, I possibly more friends in India than I do in the U.S. and my favorite person in the world is coming with me!
So far our stay has been pretty laid back ("laid back" being an extremely relative concept in India, considering the stress and hassle of traveling ANYWHERE). We got to meet the boys that Andi works with at the boys home (where we are now living) and April fell in love immediately. The youngest boys (probably from 5 to 10) all flock around April, and then the Older boys (12-15) all hang around me (mostly because they like my guitar). As much as I love all the boys here and am excited to start working with them, I can't wait to see some of the girls from the Wazipur slum. (I think I can more easily relate to girls than boys).
One cool thing about Delhi is the rich architectural history that's around every corner. On Sunday we had a couple of hours to blow, so we went to Red Fort. We walked outside our hostile and caught an auto rickshaw and literally 10 minutes later we were at a giant fortress that out dates my countries history (my house in Clovis isn't even 10 minutes away from the nearest Johnny Quick).
Once we were inside we were greeted by this Indian man who looked like a tourist himself "Hello! from which country you come?" and we answered that we were from the U.S..... from California. He then with a look of prepared and practiced surprise "California?!!! **I** am from California! I lived there for YEARS! Where in california are you from? LA? San Francisco? San Diego? Sacramento?" Judging from the cheeky way he spoke, we knew immediately that this guy had probably never been outside of Delhi; but we humored him and I said "We're from Bakersfield". He gave us this blank stare, and he said something like "I have never heard of this Field of Bakers!" [ok he didn't say it like that... but that's how I would like to remember him saying it] "I am come from San Jose" and then he listed the major streets and intersections in San Jose to prove that he lived there. And then he revealed his scheme, "For 500 rupees only I shall be your tour guide" I told him that we really didn't want or need a tour and after a few minutes of badgering us, he was like "Ok ok Fine fine. But please just write down your names on this paper and draw a map of this Field of Bakers and write out all the major streets and intersections". I cheerfully took his notepad and started to draw a map of the Shire, complete with the brandy-wine bridge and such landmarks, but then gave up and just wrote our names: "Aaron and Lindsay Morgan" (Complete with his address and phone number.....jk). I wonder if there is a Aaron and Lindsay Morgan in Bakersfield? Next time we plan to be Ashley and Marcos Baker from Wattsonville.
It was a surreal experience coming to India this time around. On the plane ride here I was in a constant state of dejevu. I kept experiencing the same thoughts and feeling I had on the same flight two years earlier: I kept thinking "holy [moley]! I'm going to a country I've never been to before BY MYSELF, I don't know anyone there, and I bought non-refundable tickets!" But then I would always snap back to the reality that none of that was true (except for the part of the non-refundable tickets): I had been here before, I possibly more friends in India than I do in the U.S. and my favorite person in the world is coming with me!
So far our stay has been pretty laid back ("laid back" being an extremely relative concept in India, considering the stress and hassle of traveling ANYWHERE). We got to meet the boys that Andi works with at the boys home (where we are now living) and April fell in love immediately. The youngest boys (probably from 5 to 10) all flock around April, and then the Older boys (12-15) all hang around me (mostly because they like my guitar). As much as I love all the boys here and am excited to start working with them, I can't wait to see some of the girls from the Wazipur slum. (I think I can more easily relate to girls than boys).
One cool thing about Delhi is the rich architectural history that's around every corner. On Sunday we had a couple of hours to blow, so we went to Red Fort. We walked outside our hostile and caught an auto rickshaw and literally 10 minutes later we were at a giant fortress that out dates my countries history (my house in Clovis isn't even 10 minutes away from the nearest Johnny Quick).
Once we were inside we were greeted by this Indian man who looked like a tourist himself "Hello! from which country you come?" and we answered that we were from the U.S..... from California. He then with a look of prepared and practiced surprise "California?!!! **I** am from California! I lived there for YEARS! Where in california are you from? LA? San Francisco? San Diego? Sacramento?" Judging from the cheeky way he spoke, we knew immediately that this guy had probably never been outside of Delhi; but we humored him and I said "We're from Bakersfield". He gave us this blank stare, and he said something like "I have never heard of this Field of Bakers!" [ok he didn't say it like that... but that's how I would like to remember him saying it] "I am come from San Jose" and then he listed the major streets and intersections in San Jose to prove that he lived there. And then he revealed his scheme, "For 500 rupees only I shall be your tour guide" I told him that we really didn't want or need a tour and after a few minutes of badgering us, he was like "Ok ok Fine fine. But please just write down your names on this paper and draw a map of this Field of Bakers and write out all the major streets and intersections". I cheerfully took his notepad and started to draw a map of the Shire, complete with the brandy-wine bridge and such landmarks, but then gave up and just wrote our names: "Aaron and Lindsay Morgan" (Complete with his address and phone number.....jk). I wonder if there is a Aaron and Lindsay Morgan in Bakersfield? Next time we plan to be Ashley and Marcos Baker from Wattsonville.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Pre-New Delhi post (a.k.a. "Operation Waltzing Matilda") 7/4/10 2:06--2:34am
Hello friends and acquaintances (and parents of friends and acquaintances). If you are reading this, you are probably already aware that I am going back to India! And what's more, I'm going with my dearest-darling and partner in crime Ms. April Spain on this adventure (the title of which --for some completely unrelated reason-- we are calling "Operation Waltzing Matilda").
April and I are leaving July 7th (Wednesday) to New Delhi and will be helping out in a Boys home and possibly some orphanages and some various ministries by torturing or whatever services we can offer. People often ask me what we are doing over there, and I don't know what to tell them but that we will do anything that we can. I told April the other day that some (specific) people want a "concrete" idea of what we will be doing in India, but the problem that I'm having with that explanation is that India is made of "silly-puddy". Speaking from previous experience I'd say that anything can (and will) happen and we just need to be sensitive to the people and places who and in which are needed.
April will be back in Fresno in early August so she can go back to school (nerd). I, however, was unexpectedly dropped from ALL of the classes I had registered for next semester; I never received a notice in the mail that told me when to pay for my classes, so I didn't. This came conveniently to me right after I searched the heavens for another opportunity and/or excuse to return to the people and place that my heart lives and breaks for.
I will be home on October 2oth and my school won't start till mid January; this means that when I get home I'll have 3 months of school free time that I am more than willing to use for more adventures: whether that means backpacking or many lonely nights watching nick-at-night. So if anyone is interested in an adventurous co-op when I get back, let me know. Book your "Josiah time" now, because the time slots are just disappearing like THAT.
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