I would like to think I'm productive and had full intentions of using the break from work to post some new entries on this blog, but truly I'm one of the great procrastinators!
Meanwhile, my friend Álvaro has been blogging away, doing a good job reviewing movies, recent and old, on his blog Cinematronics and I'm impressed by how quickly he reacts to everything he views.
I will probably use this space to essay on fiction and its creators, if I can only get myself in gear and start producing.
This post is a segue.
The voice I am seeking is almost within my grasp. That is to say, I am seeking to find my writing voice. One by which my readers will immediately recognize me, and hopefully will appreciate what I am trying to say.
I say it is almost within my grasp because lately I am beginning to garner reviews for things I have written and these reviews are telling me I am proceeding in the right direction.
As I near a landmark birthday, I am thinking, it is about time I have arrived at something manageable and repeatable. Too often in the past I wandered aimlessly among sandlike prose of my own distribution. Perhaps like fantasy castles at the beach, while wet these sand edifices stood and were perhaps admired, more often disdained, but were always of only temporary strength. The waves of fortune and taste came, lapped at the base of my architecture and after having weakened its foundations, one good surge would wash it away, leaving not even rubble, but only a hole where briefly my creation had stood.
Now others are telling me they hear my voice and it is allowing me to strengthen my buildings. I am getting some idea where to insert hard things like shells and pebbles, when to wrap in seaweed, which when dried in the sunshine will prevent disaster.
And I feel prolific. It is no matter whether this is warranted or otherwise. I feel it, therefore I can work with it.
My voice.
A friend told me, "Even when you get to thinking that it has all been said and written before, remember no one can tell it from exactly the same viewpoint as you can nor in the same tone of voice unless they parody you, and if you are parodied that is proof positive that you have a voice distinctive enough to be imitated."
My voice is beginning to sound in the night. I sure hope it will guide me to a resolution. I keep my fingers crossed that I will not be taken in by the sound of my own voice nor be misled by false compliments.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Descending and Rising Damp
On a Wednesday evening at his dining room table in a rented house in Tuxtla Gutiérrez, Michael took his Palm and portable keyboard out of his black school bag.
Something was wrong with the keyboard because no matter what he tried, including replacing the batteries, he couldn't get it to work.
He was feeling old and tired from too long summer hours in classes; parts of his body were aching and the keyboard problem just added to his frustration, which had arisen from his not having completed, nor yet started, his students' third partial reports.
He decided to go online with his laptop and see if he could find a solution on the Palm site.
As he started to go upstairs to get his laptop, he discovered there was water all over the living room floor, water that had run down the stairs due to flooding on the upper floor.
He mopped up most of the water, but by the time he was finished he felt as if it had seeped into his bones, and rather than retrieve the laptop from the upstairs closet, he tried once again to get the keyboard and Palm to work.
He smelled the dankness in the air and it made him think a miasma had settled on his house causing everything to react erratically including his usually reliable little keyboard.
Lighting a cigarette added to the stale barroom ambiance, but in that moment it was all he could think of doing-to smoke and reflect on life's vicissitudes.
He could replace the keyboard if it truly wouldn't come back to action, if he responded to the General Director's request for particular English lessons, which would mean extra money.
Yes, that was how he would resolve his problem by taking on more work, which would leave him too tired to enjoy the use of his electronic toy, but also keep him out of the house for a greater part of his days.
He lit another cigarette, gulped some Light Coke directly from the two-liter bottle, noted it was half-past midnight and there were still the reports to write up and he pretended the wetness didn't bother him.
Something was wrong with the keyboard because no matter what he tried, including replacing the batteries, he couldn't get it to work.
He was feeling old and tired from too long summer hours in classes; parts of his body were aching and the keyboard problem just added to his frustration, which had arisen from his not having completed, nor yet started, his students' third partial reports.
He decided to go online with his laptop and see if he could find a solution on the Palm site.
As he started to go upstairs to get his laptop, he discovered there was water all over the living room floor, water that had run down the stairs due to flooding on the upper floor.
He mopped up most of the water, but by the time he was finished he felt as if it had seeped into his bones, and rather than retrieve the laptop from the upstairs closet, he tried once again to get the keyboard and Palm to work.
He smelled the dankness in the air and it made him think a miasma had settled on his house causing everything to react erratically including his usually reliable little keyboard.
Lighting a cigarette added to the stale barroom ambiance, but in that moment it was all he could think of doing-to smoke and reflect on life's vicissitudes.
He could replace the keyboard if it truly wouldn't come back to action, if he responded to the General Director's request for particular English lessons, which would mean extra money.
Yes, that was how he would resolve his problem by taking on more work, which would leave him too tired to enjoy the use of his electronic toy, but also keep him out of the house for a greater part of his days.
He lit another cigarette, gulped some Light Coke directly from the two-liter bottle, noted it was half-past midnight and there were still the reports to write up and he pretended the wetness didn't bother him.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Why Not?
Because it's not allowed.
Because it's not good for you.
Because your eyes will stay that way.
Because we didn't have that luxury in my day.
Because it isn't fair to the rest.
Because no one's ever done it.
Because it's too hard or too easy.
Because once you do it you won't want to stop.
Because in all likelihood you'll find it isn't what you'd imagined it to be, but by then it will be too late to undo it.
Because it's uncouth or uncool or it shows bad breeding, or too much in-breeding, or it's not being clever. In any case, it's just not done.
Because 'Y' is a crooked letter.
Go ask your mother, or conversely, go ask your father. If s/he says it's all right, then it's all right with me.
You'll understand when you're older.
Because you're not a kid anymore.
You just shouldn't.
No, really, you should.
I don't see why not.
Because it's not good for you.
Because your eyes will stay that way.
Because we didn't have that luxury in my day.
Because it isn't fair to the rest.
Because no one's ever done it.
Because it's too hard or too easy.
Because once you do it you won't want to stop.
Because in all likelihood you'll find it isn't what you'd imagined it to be, but by then it will be too late to undo it.
Because it's uncouth or uncool or it shows bad breeding, or too much in-breeding, or it's not being clever. In any case, it's just not done.
Because 'Y' is a crooked letter.
Go ask your mother, or conversely, go ask your father. If s/he says it's all right, then it's all right with me.
You'll understand when you're older.
Because you're not a kid anymore.
You just shouldn't.
No, really, you should.
I don't see why not.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Chimera
Volumes where the golden insect crawled fetch glory by the yard, but there is no communication between the ink and the eye, for try as they might, libraries cannot express the depth of what they lack in emotion. Sharp-toothed keys assist the explorer in gaining entry to a world renowned for its emptiness, but there is never any action in the quotidian balance. Read, read, read, they said. However, he was left alone to ponder the fruitlessness of his desperation. Sadly, Hugo observed the declination of reason as three virgins giggled and proceeded to retain their innocence, which, by the way, was neither innocent nor retainable. They must have known what was on offer without the experience, he calculated, for there was guile in their laughter. One of them, she of the radiant halo, dipped and scooped up the golden spider leaving only its latest unreadable tome in a web of silky verbosity. Virgin or muse, he could not tell. Still, he was news once again without the slightest perception of validation. Everything he touched glowed and shimmered in an ephemeral way. Yet, he never doubted all was at their behest.
Popping, he shriveled almost immediately and shortly thereafter he noticed he was losing hair again and there were liver spots.
Popping, he shriveled almost immediately and shortly thereafter he noticed he was losing hair again and there were liver spots.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Sunday, January 14, 2007
It's My Belief We're All Crazy
It's my belief we're all crazy. I think we have to be to survive without scars.
There is no point in trying to deny the healthy aspects of approaching the game from the other end of the terminal. If you try to play by the rules, someone with a wider perspective will find reason to oust you. Take the limited but keep an ear to the conductor's announcements. There is more to be found at the next stop.
Sun comes up. Sun goes down. That's all you need to remember.
Don't make long term plans, but do listen to the weather report. It's only guesswork.
Seventh son of a seventh son. No reason to think you're blest in any degree.
Meet the regulars. Say hello. Don't give out more information required than enough to get you a seat. It's a long ride and you will grow tired standing. But again, be adaptable. As often as things are capable of change, they probably will. Keep your eyes peeled for an available seat, but if after three stops none becomes available, make your own. Sit on the floor.
Two men walk into a bar. That's a different story.
If the sun doesn't rise tomorrow, forget the preceding and go with Plan B.
Keep watching this space for further updates.
The Man is not on your side. He works alone. Notice his flawless skin? No scars? Think he's sane? Could be He's playing a different game. Maybe, though, He's been playing this one so long, the rules do not apply. Plan B involves living long enough to make your own rules.
Plan C is a combo situation and requires quick stepping back and forth between the previous two. It is inadvisable due to the wear and tear it affords. There is some scarring. There is no Plan D. Best to proceed until a roadblock presents the need to decide; do so rapidly and take another shot. Don't vacillate. There is never much to be gained.
Veterans achieve a measure of immortality but never beyond the measure of the species.
Best to you each morning. Sun comes up. Get dressed. Otherwise, plan your funeral. Don't bother with obituaries. Most people don't read them. And those that do, well, isn't it obvious why they do?
Try spot remover and remember laughter causes lines but it's the least painful course. Listen for the whistle. Have your ticket ready and hop on.
Nobody here but us chickens.
There is no point in trying to deny the healthy aspects of approaching the game from the other end of the terminal. If you try to play by the rules, someone with a wider perspective will find reason to oust you. Take the limited but keep an ear to the conductor's announcements. There is more to be found at the next stop.
Sun comes up. Sun goes down. That's all you need to remember.
Don't make long term plans, but do listen to the weather report. It's only guesswork.
Seventh son of a seventh son. No reason to think you're blest in any degree.
Meet the regulars. Say hello. Don't give out more information required than enough to get you a seat. It's a long ride and you will grow tired standing. But again, be adaptable. As often as things are capable of change, they probably will. Keep your eyes peeled for an available seat, but if after three stops none becomes available, make your own. Sit on the floor.
Two men walk into a bar. That's a different story.
If the sun doesn't rise tomorrow, forget the preceding and go with Plan B.
Keep watching this space for further updates.
The Man is not on your side. He works alone. Notice his flawless skin? No scars? Think he's sane? Could be He's playing a different game. Maybe, though, He's been playing this one so long, the rules do not apply. Plan B involves living long enough to make your own rules.
Plan C is a combo situation and requires quick stepping back and forth between the previous two. It is inadvisable due to the wear and tear it affords. There is some scarring. There is no Plan D. Best to proceed until a roadblock presents the need to decide; do so rapidly and take another shot. Don't vacillate. There is never much to be gained.
Veterans achieve a measure of immortality but never beyond the measure of the species.
Best to you each morning. Sun comes up. Get dressed. Otherwise, plan your funeral. Don't bother with obituaries. Most people don't read them. And those that do, well, isn't it obvious why they do?
Try spot remover and remember laughter causes lines but it's the least painful course. Listen for the whistle. Have your ticket ready and hop on.
Nobody here but us chickens.
Thursday, January 4, 2007
Resolution
A few minutes before midnight on New Year's Eve, with the sound of fireworks preventing his usual attempt to sleep through the curve, Michael sat looking at the ball clock on the small table in the corner of his dining room. His cell phone was charging and it was unlikely anyone else would call with wishes for prosperity as he had earlier spoken to his sister back home; his MP3 player, filled with soothing New Age music, which might have helped drown out the celebrants, was also charging in another socket, so he stared at the clock to try catching the changing display in the act of inaugurating the new year. He was not yet bored with his responsibilities, nor those to come, but was aware that inertia was a heartbeat away.
At 12:00, the clock's display wished him a Happy New Year, and that was his only resolution - to be happy no matter how often he might find himself running on a treadmill during the coming semester. Be happy and keep in shape; maintain good health - prosperity was out of the question on a teacher's salary. Save enough money, however, to go to England in the spring.
He said a silent thank you to the clock, and its green, glowing numbers and letters moving around inside the sphere seemed to twinkle in appreciation.
It did not require charging and ran consistently on observatory time. It had been programmed so even if there were a blackout, it would pick up the correct time when power returned.
Perhaps, Michael thought, he would visit his family in New York in April and cut the London trip short by a few days. He was such a long way from home, and hadn't seen any of them face-to-face in over eighteen months. Yes, that was what he would do, and he would gift his sister and brother with clocks like his. Time knows no location. It can't be bound in place.
At 12:00, the clock's display wished him a Happy New Year, and that was his only resolution - to be happy no matter how often he might find himself running on a treadmill during the coming semester. Be happy and keep in shape; maintain good health - prosperity was out of the question on a teacher's salary. Save enough money, however, to go to England in the spring.
He said a silent thank you to the clock, and its green, glowing numbers and letters moving around inside the sphere seemed to twinkle in appreciation.
It did not require charging and ran consistently on observatory time. It had been programmed so even if there were a blackout, it would pick up the correct time when power returned.
Perhaps, Michael thought, he would visit his family in New York in April and cut the London trip short by a few days. He was such a long way from home, and hadn't seen any of them face-to-face in over eighteen months. Yes, that was what he would do, and he would gift his sister and brother with clocks like his. Time knows no location. It can't be bound in place.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Announcing a new perspective
Well, my friend is here to make an announcement.
After five and a half years in residence, I have started the process of getting my Mexican papers. I think I will feel like I truly belong after I have those.
Of course, I should improve my Spanish enough so I don’t sound so ignorant all the time, but I’m working on it.
I always use the excuse, to anyone who appears to need one, that I am so busy working on English lessons that I don’t have the time to practice, but that is an excuse. When I’m not checking students’ work and preparing lessons, I try to get some writing done. And I’m always checking other people’s blogs and Arts & Letters Daily for news and items of interest, so I am rather busy.
Have recently been reading far too much about “information overload.” That’s my problem. I’m addicted to the acquisition of information.
Anyway, I’m going to try approaching my own projects from a new perspective in 2007. I’m going to be an American-Mexican.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
From Y2K to 2012
Inside Outside-In: A Blog (game) for the 21st Century.
Beginning: 31 December 2000
Midpoint: 21 December 2006
Finish: 21 December 2012
Beginning: 31 December 2000
Midpoint: 21 December 2006
Finish: 21 December 2012
Friday, December 15, 2006
Advice to the Friends of the Extranjero
Let him breathe. Give him a space which he can identify as his own. Remember he is a guest in your territory and will always maintain that status even if he stays long enough to acquire citizenship; your home will never truly be his home. I know, you will say things like, “Mi casa es tu casa.” But the subtext tells him it is your home and you are sharing it. It is not his home.
The ideal place, or space, he can occupy is most likely where he works. Don’t invade his livelihood, unless he invites you into that space, and if he does, be aware he may be selective in the process. He is not asking you to bring your entire lifestyle and accoutrements in with his invitation. If you are his connection to his new residence, he likely wants to be able to share with you some part of his life that is proprietary to return the favor of your sharing the other 95% of his quotidian activities. Remember, 100% of the space is yours but you must cede that small portion where he feels in charge to him and then act the guest. Failure to respect this small portion of the extranjero’s space is probably the greatest reason to send one packing. You are “at home” 100% of the time, but the extranjero is never truly at home. Play nice.
Respect that his ideas and ideals may be different from yours. This refers to food, customs, entertainment, lifestyle. The extranjero is an adventurer. If one has come this far, he is probably open to experiment, but has a lifetime of experiences already behind him. It is not that easy to change however strong the initial effort or drive may be. It is like the non-swimmer who likes to dip his toes in the water before plunging. Pushing one into strange waters can produce irreversible shock to the system. Give the experimenter time and realize that everyone’s “time” is different. Because you had a cousin that learned a foreign language in six months and seemed as fluent as a native speaker within two years, does not mean everyone can do so within the same timeframe. Your new friend may never become fully accustomed, despite a strong desire to do so.
Meet him halfway. Don’t make him do all the work of becoming accustomed. Surely you have heard the old maxim that the best way for one to learn a foreign language is by becoming fully immersed in the experience. For some this may be true, but in my experience it is scary to feel lost without a signpost. Speaking only your native language all the time is just as debilitating to the extranjero’s development as constantly deferring to his. Remember, everyone he comes into contact with, who is not yet a friend, will take care of this chore. As a friend, and most likely the reason for his being in your country, you must be the signpost. If you care about acclimatizing your new friend, you must be aware of his “moments”, those times when he is ready to try. While it is true that children can and must learn by constant exposure, it has been proven that adults are resistant to this practice. If you speak nothing but your native language to the extranjero, the process of becoming accustomed starts to feel like a second job. Likewise, if you constantly defer to his, he will become lazy about the process and avoid situations where that “work” is required. Become alert to the signals. Learn to recognize the openings.
Be honest. Of course, when these “chores” begin to feel like too much work to you, perhaps it is time to admit you’ve had enough. You can never be friends with someone for whom you must “work” all the time. Let your friend know that you need a break. Don’t depend on subtlety to get your message across. The other will read your discomfort as betrayal. Don’t try to arrange things to appear as if they have happened by chance, and don’t lie. Even a “white lie” can be a form of betrayal. Case in point: you have been invited to spend the evening with the extranjero and some of his co-workers. He is trying to mix his two worlds (It is one of those moments.), and you take charge by inviting cousins or friends to casually drop by at a place they are not known to frequent to join the party. Unless your new friend is ignorant, in which case such a ploy would not be transparent, your maneuver will clearly be read as your reaffirming of his “guest” status, someone whose social activities must be managed by a firmer hand. This kind of set-up may be appreciated by a newcomer of a couple of weeks or less, but is insulting to someone who has been in in situ for several months or more. It is condescending and sends the signal that you have made a private assessment of the other’s social development and found him wanting. You are trying to change your 95% into 100%. If in truth, you were the one who would feel uncomfortable without your “back-up” in a group of extranjeros, it would have been better to make other arrangements at the outset.
The ideal place, or space, he can occupy is most likely where he works. Don’t invade his livelihood, unless he invites you into that space, and if he does, be aware he may be selective in the process. He is not asking you to bring your entire lifestyle and accoutrements in with his invitation. If you are his connection to his new residence, he likely wants to be able to share with you some part of his life that is proprietary to return the favor of your sharing the other 95% of his quotidian activities. Remember, 100% of the space is yours but you must cede that small portion where he feels in charge to him and then act the guest. Failure to respect this small portion of the extranjero’s space is probably the greatest reason to send one packing. You are “at home” 100% of the time, but the extranjero is never truly at home. Play nice.
Respect that his ideas and ideals may be different from yours. This refers to food, customs, entertainment, lifestyle. The extranjero is an adventurer. If one has come this far, he is probably open to experiment, but has a lifetime of experiences already behind him. It is not that easy to change however strong the initial effort or drive may be. It is like the non-swimmer who likes to dip his toes in the water before plunging. Pushing one into strange waters can produce irreversible shock to the system. Give the experimenter time and realize that everyone’s “time” is different. Because you had a cousin that learned a foreign language in six months and seemed as fluent as a native speaker within two years, does not mean everyone can do so within the same timeframe. Your new friend may never become fully accustomed, despite a strong desire to do so.
Meet him halfway. Don’t make him do all the work of becoming accustomed. Surely you have heard the old maxim that the best way for one to learn a foreign language is by becoming fully immersed in the experience. For some this may be true, but in my experience it is scary to feel lost without a signpost. Speaking only your native language all the time is just as debilitating to the extranjero’s development as constantly deferring to his. Remember, everyone he comes into contact with, who is not yet a friend, will take care of this chore. As a friend, and most likely the reason for his being in your country, you must be the signpost. If you care about acclimatizing your new friend, you must be aware of his “moments”, those times when he is ready to try. While it is true that children can and must learn by constant exposure, it has been proven that adults are resistant to this practice. If you speak nothing but your native language to the extranjero, the process of becoming accustomed starts to feel like a second job. Likewise, if you constantly defer to his, he will become lazy about the process and avoid situations where that “work” is required. Become alert to the signals. Learn to recognize the openings.
Be honest. Of course, when these “chores” begin to feel like too much work to you, perhaps it is time to admit you’ve had enough. You can never be friends with someone for whom you must “work” all the time. Let your friend know that you need a break. Don’t depend on subtlety to get your message across. The other will read your discomfort as betrayal. Don’t try to arrange things to appear as if they have happened by chance, and don’t lie. Even a “white lie” can be a form of betrayal. Case in point: you have been invited to spend the evening with the extranjero and some of his co-workers. He is trying to mix his two worlds (It is one of those moments.), and you take charge by inviting cousins or friends to casually drop by at a place they are not known to frequent to join the party. Unless your new friend is ignorant, in which case such a ploy would not be transparent, your maneuver will clearly be read as your reaffirming of his “guest” status, someone whose social activities must be managed by a firmer hand. This kind of set-up may be appreciated by a newcomer of a couple of weeks or less, but is insulting to someone who has been in in situ for several months or more. It is condescending and sends the signal that you have made a private assessment of the other’s social development and found him wanting. You are trying to change your 95% into 100%. If in truth, you were the one who would feel uncomfortable without your “back-up” in a group of extranjeros, it would have been better to make other arrangements at the outset.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
One Day
One day is just like the next. It all averages out. The action is in the minutes.
Take a moment to relax. Have a cup of tea, or coffee if you prefer. Have a biscuit.
Call a friend.
Write in a diary. Don't lose any of those precious moments. Time has a way of eliding their significance.
One day everything will be right, or it may never be. One day never comes. It never happens. You can only concentrate on the moment. Maybe tomorrow you'll take care of it. It happened yesterday. Today's the day. Can you? Did it? Is it, really? The whole day? Or just in the space of an hour?
Have you ever planned and prepared a sumptuous meal? The shopping for it, especially if it contains exotic ingredients, could take a while. The cooking may take more than an hour or two or even longer. Maybe you'll share a nice bottle of wine with your spouse or whoever it is you plan to share this meal with.Oh, it's going to be a glorious repast! You even light candles.You sit down at the table. Spread your napkins in your laps and raise your glasses in a toast. Then dig in. Delicious! And before you know it, one of you turns to the other and remarks, "Oh, all that work, and it's all finished." The essence of that meal was that one moment when you swallowed that last forkful. It may have taken hours to prepare, but it was all building to that point where you had ingested all. That final moment was the meal.
One day is a collection of moments. One day is a formless thing only given some shape by collecting the memory of those moments.
In the Disney movie version of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (I hate that description, but more of that at another time), Snow sings, "One day, my prince will come..." One day, at one particular moment, he will arrive and lift her heart to heights of rapture previously only imagined, but what of the day after he comes? That rapturous moment will become old news, no news. Memories never hold as much emotion as the moments they recall. That only happens in the movies where the moments can be played over and over again as real (or cinematic, if you will) as the first time they occur, and think of this, the first time you see it, you're only seeing the image of something that happened for real on a sound stage months or even years ago. So not even your first time is the real thing for the participants. Even if a tear comes to your eye because you are moved so deeply -- it's their memory, not yours. But it evokes a moment you have experienced. A moment only.
The moment you learned whether it was a boy or a girl, or twins.
The moment you passed and could proceed to the next step.
The moment you said, "I do." The very essence of your wedding day.
The moment you realized you didn't.
The moment you were given praise for a job well done.
Childhood moments of gratification. All those moments gathered together in big bundles of hours. Those were the days.
Can't I get a moment's peace? One day you will have endless peace.
One day, but hopefully not today.
Take a moment to relax. Have a cup of tea, or coffee if you prefer. Have a biscuit.
Call a friend.
Write in a diary. Don't lose any of those precious moments. Time has a way of eliding their significance.
One day everything will be right, or it may never be. One day never comes. It never happens. You can only concentrate on the moment. Maybe tomorrow you'll take care of it. It happened yesterday. Today's the day. Can you? Did it? Is it, really? The whole day? Or just in the space of an hour?
Have you ever planned and prepared a sumptuous meal? The shopping for it, especially if it contains exotic ingredients, could take a while. The cooking may take more than an hour or two or even longer. Maybe you'll share a nice bottle of wine with your spouse or whoever it is you plan to share this meal with.Oh, it's going to be a glorious repast! You even light candles.You sit down at the table. Spread your napkins in your laps and raise your glasses in a toast. Then dig in. Delicious! And before you know it, one of you turns to the other and remarks, "Oh, all that work, and it's all finished." The essence of that meal was that one moment when you swallowed that last forkful. It may have taken hours to prepare, but it was all building to that point where you had ingested all. That final moment was the meal.
One day is a collection of moments. One day is a formless thing only given some shape by collecting the memory of those moments.
In the Disney movie version of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (I hate that description, but more of that at another time), Snow sings, "One day, my prince will come..." One day, at one particular moment, he will arrive and lift her heart to heights of rapture previously only imagined, but what of the day after he comes? That rapturous moment will become old news, no news. Memories never hold as much emotion as the moments they recall. That only happens in the movies where the moments can be played over and over again as real (or cinematic, if you will) as the first time they occur, and think of this, the first time you see it, you're only seeing the image of something that happened for real on a sound stage months or even years ago. So not even your first time is the real thing for the participants. Even if a tear comes to your eye because you are moved so deeply -- it's their memory, not yours. But it evokes a moment you have experienced. A moment only.
The moment you learned whether it was a boy or a girl, or twins.
The moment you passed and could proceed to the next step.
The moment you said, "I do." The very essence of your wedding day.
The moment you realized you didn't.
The moment you were given praise for a job well done.
Childhood moments of gratification. All those moments gathered together in big bundles of hours. Those were the days.
Can't I get a moment's peace? One day you will have endless peace.
One day, but hopefully not today.
Sunday, November 5, 2006
Monday, October 16, 2006
Haunted Pictures?
** UPDATE (2015) **
See also: Reportedly Haunted Paintings at Wikipedia
detail of The Hands Resist Him
painted in 1972 by
Bill Stoneham
Some people claim this painting is haunted. Take a look at these two articles:
Castle of Spirits
The Artist's Site
People say they come away from looking at it with a queasy feeling in their stomach.
What do you think?
Can a painting or photograph be haunted?
Can an artist hypnotize you through his work?
After pondering Mr. Stoneham's "haunted painting", take a look at this site.
I'm pretty sure it will leave you feeling odd.
Spirit in the Canyon
By the way, do you have any good Halloween stories?
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Once upon a time, in a galaxy far away...
Here's something to check out:
Yahoo 'Time Capsule' to Launch from Mexican Pyramid
The Mexican Pyramid of the Sun at the Teotihuacan archeological site outside Mexico City will serve as a “launch pad” for the digital information capsule
Yahoo to Launch Time Capsule From Mexican Pyramid
Time capsule to be beamed from Mexican pyramid
Yahoo To Pester Aliens With Earth News
If they asked you for something to include in the Time Capsule, what would you contribute?
That is to say, what do you think the aliens should know about Earth and its inhabitants?
All dressed up and nowhere to go...
I come from New York City where seasons change. My body knows the rhythm of the seasons. It feels best, of course, in the spring and fall when the weather is temperate, but it needs the balance of the freezing winter and the torpid summer.
Here in Tuxtla Gutiérrez, Chiapas, it is always hot. When it rains in summer months, it is hot. When the rains stop in October and the natives say, "Now we will have fresh weather for a couple of months," to an extranjero like me, it is still hot. And in the spring, when there is no rain and no breeze, it is unbearably hot.
I think this is the hardest thing for me to accept as part of my decision to move here to teach English. My body resists the change to unchanging climate.
I spend many hours in front of a computer screen and I know it is because here at the window to hyperspace I can view and perhaps vicariously feel the infinite variety of an open atmosphere. It can be winter, cold, cold winter anytime I want it to be. I can read about spring in Paris and London. I can view pictures of storm threatened lighthouses on lonely seacoasts and almost feel the spray of the ocean. I can look at a lava pit bubbling in torment and know there is someplace hotter than where I am sitting. There is relief from sameness available, but...
It is a double-edged sword. I am usually here in front of a computer screen because I need to work on documents for school. There are reports to fill out, tests to prepare, articles to excerpt for students' reading and the pictures and armchair vacation moments are a distraction from necessary duties. Let's say I have to prepare a quiz for Thursday's class. If I had my priorities in order, I would do this on Monday evening, which would give me time to go over the work, correct for errors, give it focus and have time to print it and copy it for ten o'clock Thursday morning. That would be the ideal, but Monday evening, I am too worn out from walking in the sun all day - to the bus, down the road to the school, around the campus - not to mention the exhaustion of trying to keep teenagers in line for a couple of hours; teenagers who are well adapted to their climate and seem to reinvigorate themselves over the short hot weekends and are ready on a Monday to torment their tired teacher into becoming some kind of quasi-circus ringmaster. So Monday evenings I take refuge in my cyber world and tell myself I can get the work done Tuesday and still have time to prep it. Then Tuesday evening comes, after another similar day, I go to see a movie with friends in an air-conditioned movie theater. That's my other "escape". I eat a great hotdog smothered in picante stuff, too much popcorn, and drink a large cool beverage. After the film, of course, we have to discuss what we've seen and whether or not it measured up to last week's film and time slips away. By the time I get back to the house, it's too late to get involved in writing up a quiz, and I don't have the head for it anyway. That leaves Wednesday. One night to do it all.
I turn on the machine. Go get a Coke. Smoke a cigarette. Turn on both fans. Open my schoolbag and spread papers all over the table. Start reading something I was handed a week earlier and had forgotten I was expected to respond promptly to it. I start to prepare a response. Smoke another cigarette. Give up on the response and send an e-mail. Check my other e-mail because I notice Hotmail says my inbox is full and they are going to start deleting things. Much of it is junkmail, but I'm always afraid I will miss something from a friend (a necessary contact for people like me who have relocated somewhere so far from home). I refill my glass and eat a cookie or three. Check out the photo someone has sent me and then when filing it, open a folder with previously taken photos and daydream for a while remembering how it was the day in April, when Álvaro and I had a couple of beers at the outdoor café behind the World Trade Center and how that is all gone now. And how because it was April, the anniversary of having lost someone very dear to me, I had other things on my mind. I catch myself spiralling downward in memory and give myself a mental kick, trying to fixate on the task at hand. I have one more cigarette and start typing.
Two hours later it is eleven o'clock and I'm thinking about going to bed, but I have a beautiful little twenty question quiz that actually pertains to this week's unit of study. Not too difficult, I think, but not so easy that it will be pointless to administer.
Then I have to go upstairs and bring down the printer. I keep it hidden in a closet, as well as carrying my laptop every day since the house was robbed last year, and I print out a copy of the quiz. I have to print it here at home because whenever I bring a document to school on a diskette to print it on one of the networked computers, they are always occupied. After that long walk in the sun, I always arrive with not enough time to print and make all the necessary copies. The photocopier is usually occupied as well and I have to wait there a few minutes, which will make me late for class. Students wait ten minutes, no more, and then evaporate. It is best to do as much as possible beforehand. So I unpack the printer, attach it, print out two copies, detach it, repack it and return it to the closet. Come back to the table and admire my handiwork. I have to admit, this is the best quiz I've put together. Play with Paintbrush for a half hour, doctoring a photo, then close the program without saving my masterpiece because it really wasn't one, and besides, while playing, my eye caught a typo on the pages lying beside the computer. I debate myself on whether it is worth the effort to go get the printer and redo it, decide it's not, and manually correct it.
Finally, past midnight, I shut off the power and move the "vacation" into the mental zone. Perhaps I will have a great travel dream, though more likely I will experience a horrible nightmare where everything goes wrong and I find myself drowning in paperwork.
Thursday morning Álvaro drives me to the school where he works and I walk the six blocks to my busstop. I'm soaking in cologne scented sweat by the time the bus to Berriozabal arrives, but it's going to be all right. The bus is almost empty and there are plenty of seats. As the bus speeds down the boulevard, a cool breeze flows through an open window and dries me off. Maná is playing on the radio and all is right with the world. I close my eyes and I'm on the beach at Punta Arenas. With a lager in one hand and a delicious deep-fried jumbo shrimp in the other and the prospect of a swim in the temperate Pacific in front of me. Ah, life is beautiful! When I get off the bus and start the trek down that long dusty road to Tec, as hot as the sun is it can't drive the picture from my head.
I think about the classroom I'm about to enter. I think about the papers in my bag and how a few of the kids are going to say, "Oh, teacher, no. Not another quiz. We just had one last week," but then they will settle down and quietly apply themselves to their work. And before too long, they will start asking questions, raising hands at first, then just blurting out. Speaking will become banter. They can't contain themselves for more than fifteen minutes. They are teenagers and so full of energy. It probably comes from the sun. I'm sweating again by the time I walk up the steps to the entrance. I'm hoping none of the other teachers is using the photocopier. There are only about seven minutes until the start of class. Everything runs apace.
Mexico is a land of heat and dust and omnipresent sunlight. It is full of aportioned energy and life, vibrant in its uniquely slow way in the eternal pursuit of "the paper". Call it bureaucracy or red tape or whatever; even when things appear to be standing in torpid stillness, they are always moving, and people are usually smiling.
People don't smile enough in New York.
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