It seems to be another dreary day of fatigue and lukewarm boredom. I have been productive to the extent that I have read more than 70 pages of a new book entitled "Loose Girl." The genre is not one that I would take into easily, but I thought I wouldn't mind reading a book that in some ways echoed my life of 'love promiscuity'. In this book, I attempt to find answers to my lifelong 'love addiction.' Believe me, it is no lesser of an addiction than drug addiction. I know deep down inside
the many lovers that drifted in and out of my life, were all attempts to find a home, a security base where I am loved and accepted under all conditions. Forty plus lovers (most of whom were not even physical/sexual, but merely platonic) later, I remain as homeless as ever. No, don't take pity on me. I am a hopeless, incurable, sentimental romantic, not in the sense of flowers and teddy bears, but more in the sense that a soul mate is out there, that there are indeed possibilities.
Speaking of love, I stumbled into my ex-husband's site which proudly declared him to be the new father of a boy. My jaw dropped instantaneously. I felt immobilized by the sheer weight of the news. Then the words 'What on earth?' whizzed through my mind like a Hawaiian hurricane. Is this self-proclaimed, venom spewing misanthrope who had in his days vowed to be childfree really, truly, deeply a father of a newborn boy (who I might add looks more like a wrinkled washcloth than a human)? So was the vasectomy he had undergone in our 3rd year of the relationship just a ploy to marry me? A die-hard environmentalist and lover of my freedom, I had put forth vasectomy as one of the prerequisites for marriage. It seems so. Oh yes, it seems so.
I couldn't help but wonder if he had just succumbed to conformity; you know the ubiquitous social pressure to be part of the herd, especially given the country he comes from. I will not name the country, but suffice to say that it is part of the Islamic Middle East.
I don't know, perhaps I don't want to know. But my mind has been a whirlwind of thoughts, and memories, as I interpret and re-interpret my past, not just with him, but all the lovers that have come and gone, come and gone, like the leaves of a tree. Were they also pretending to be someone else? How does one ever know?
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Dribblings
Almost two years have passed by since I last visited this blog. Two of the longest years of my life, though they should have passed faster given my move at least three different times to three different countries. It is not as though I am a restless soul, really. I am just looking for a place to call "home" - and with that comes absolute peace and quiet. An endangered quality, I will tell you.
I am yet to find that spot that is not pierced by the shrills of technology. What have we made of this world? We are all swimming in the turbulent, noisy sea of technology. And yet only a few amongst us questions the insanity that bombards us daily.
So where am I today? Belgium. You know that country that has been dubbed an "accident of history." It is really not famous for anything but chocolate and beer. Oh and some good cheese!
Perhaps the royalty too? Though I have no idea what their names are. I am stuck here in my own little bubble with my lover. Save the work, neither of us has any care for the world. Speaking of which, it makes it hard for me to be a freelance writer. How can I come up with any ideas if I don't have a care for anything in the world (well, I am exaggerating, I do love nature and animals)? See why I have been outa work for awhile?
I am yet to find that spot that is not pierced by the shrills of technology. What have we made of this world? We are all swimming in the turbulent, noisy sea of technology. And yet only a few amongst us questions the insanity that bombards us daily.
So where am I today? Belgium. You know that country that has been dubbed an "accident of history." It is really not famous for anything but chocolate and beer. Oh and some good cheese!
Perhaps the royalty too? Though I have no idea what their names are. I am stuck here in my own little bubble with my lover. Save the work, neither of us has any care for the world. Speaking of which, it makes it hard for me to be a freelance writer. How can I come up with any ideas if I don't have a care for anything in the world (well, I am exaggerating, I do love nature and animals)? See why I have been outa work for awhile?
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Tears of Blood: Blue as me
“My grief lies all within, and these external manners of lament are merely shadows to the unseen grief that swells with silence in the tortured soul” W.S
“Time heals griefs and quarrels, for we change and are no longer the same persons” Pascal
Ask binlerce defa olur. “Love dies a thousand times.” Many a writers have so exquisitely detailed the pain of loss. Would we even have words to describe the pain had it not been for the ability of these writers to tell the truth in such an unabashed manner – all the while making it sound so beautiful? Perhaps there is no greater agony in life, save the loss of one’s health, than the agony of loss. The stages of grievance vary from one person to the next, but grievance follows a similar pattern. First comes, shock. This is when you find yourself acting completely out of character, a temporary case of irrationality, insanity ensues. Then comes denial. You expect to have the same routine i.e. receive emails or calls at the times you used to from your X. You delude yourself into thinking it is just a temporary stage and all will be good in a few days, weeks or even months. ‘All is good’ you reassure yourself, holding yourself tight..It is just a nightmare that has come too close to reality. A vivid one at that. We all have those. If you have already been through a major breakup before, however, you might skip this stage. Then a thought will strike you with unprecedented force: Life sucks. Thoughts of suicide might (or not) surge beneath that callous, stoic surface. But most importantly, you’ll come to a weary acceptance that this is as good as life gets. If you are a lucky soul on this earth and are surrounded with a nice cushion of family and friends, they might be able to convince you that a session or two with a shrink is in order. But if you are a member of the minority club of loners, then this will stage will lurk around in dark corners of your psyche for days on end. Bills will sit unpaid in your inbox. Some polished from your former life and some unpolished queries will hunker in the ‘queries’ folder, screaming to be be put to use. Everyone and everything will feel ephemeral, transitory, taking on surreal qualities. What you were most attached to, what gave a warm and fuzzy feeling will take on an ominous meaning. Think household pets. They will irritate you with that l’air of detachment. How could the suffering not be infectious?
You, the reader, might be wondering how came to dissect the architecture of grief so well. Psychology courses in college? Hardly, that was more than 15 years ago. It was October six years ago; fall was drifting away into an unbearable chill. I was at the end of my twenty-nineth year on the planet, and was living in the capital of murder, trying to support myself as an adjunct lecturer and teaching English to a bunch of bourgeoisie weasels from Latin America – taking part in the kind of urban life may 20 somethings find themselves in. Six years on, I still recall the heartache of discovering that he, who had been my rock, my crutch in a world I found intolerably cold, whom I thought would be a permanent fixture in my life had another life on the side. Beads of blood sweat draping my forehead, heart galloping at 200 miles, I read those carefully typed few words in his email box: “Bu gece maximumdayim” read the email. From a 19 year old.
Perhaps the greatest agony of this is the unraveling of the past before your eyes. Every heartache takes you back to the first piercing of feelings of loneliness preceded by abandonment in childhood. One by one, you relive those agonizing moments of abandonment at your most vulnerable stage. Then it strikes you that it is not just the loss of a person that you’re bleeding over, but the loss of an entire future. If future is an infinite succession of presents, then my present was my future. Dreams, goals come crumbling down at the mercy of a gigantic crane that is the dissolution of a marriage.
Then I am reminded of a passage from one of Mary Sarton’s books. Think of trees, she said, and how simply they let go, let fall the riches of a season. How without the tentacles of grief, they can let go of the brilliantly coloured leaves and sink deep into their roots for rejuvenation and sleep. “... Imitate the trees. Learn to lose in order to recover, and remember that nothing stays the same for long, not even pain, psychic pain. Sit it out. Let it all pass. Let it go."
How I wish to be a tree now.
“Time heals griefs and quarrels, for we change and are no longer the same persons” Pascal
Ask binlerce defa olur. “Love dies a thousand times.” Many a writers have so exquisitely detailed the pain of loss. Would we even have words to describe the pain had it not been for the ability of these writers to tell the truth in such an unabashed manner – all the while making it sound so beautiful? Perhaps there is no greater agony in life, save the loss of one’s health, than the agony of loss. The stages of grievance vary from one person to the next, but grievance follows a similar pattern. First comes, shock. This is when you find yourself acting completely out of character, a temporary case of irrationality, insanity ensues. Then comes denial. You expect to have the same routine i.e. receive emails or calls at the times you used to from your X. You delude yourself into thinking it is just a temporary stage and all will be good in a few days, weeks or even months. ‘All is good’ you reassure yourself, holding yourself tight..It is just a nightmare that has come too close to reality. A vivid one at that. We all have those. If you have already been through a major breakup before, however, you might skip this stage. Then a thought will strike you with unprecedented force: Life sucks. Thoughts of suicide might (or not) surge beneath that callous, stoic surface. But most importantly, you’ll come to a weary acceptance that this is as good as life gets. If you are a lucky soul on this earth and are surrounded with a nice cushion of family and friends, they might be able to convince you that a session or two with a shrink is in order. But if you are a member of the minority club of loners, then this will stage will lurk around in dark corners of your psyche for days on end. Bills will sit unpaid in your inbox. Some polished from your former life and some unpolished queries will hunker in the ‘queries’ folder, screaming to be be put to use. Everyone and everything will feel ephemeral, transitory, taking on surreal qualities. What you were most attached to, what gave a warm and fuzzy feeling will take on an ominous meaning. Think household pets. They will irritate you with that l’air of detachment. How could the suffering not be infectious?
You, the reader, might be wondering how came to dissect the architecture of grief so well. Psychology courses in college? Hardly, that was more than 15 years ago. It was October six years ago; fall was drifting away into an unbearable chill. I was at the end of my twenty-nineth year on the planet, and was living in the capital of murder, trying to support myself as an adjunct lecturer and teaching English to a bunch of bourgeoisie weasels from Latin America – taking part in the kind of urban life may 20 somethings find themselves in. Six years on, I still recall the heartache of discovering that he, who had been my rock, my crutch in a world I found intolerably cold, whom I thought would be a permanent fixture in my life had another life on the side. Beads of blood sweat draping my forehead, heart galloping at 200 miles, I read those carefully typed few words in his email box: “Bu gece maximumdayim” read the email. From a 19 year old.
Perhaps the greatest agony of this is the unraveling of the past before your eyes. Every heartache takes you back to the first piercing of feelings of loneliness preceded by abandonment in childhood. One by one, you relive those agonizing moments of abandonment at your most vulnerable stage. Then it strikes you that it is not just the loss of a person that you’re bleeding over, but the loss of an entire future. If future is an infinite succession of presents, then my present was my future. Dreams, goals come crumbling down at the mercy of a gigantic crane that is the dissolution of a marriage.
Then I am reminded of a passage from one of Mary Sarton’s books. Think of trees, she said, and how simply they let go, let fall the riches of a season. How without the tentacles of grief, they can let go of the brilliantly coloured leaves and sink deep into their roots for rejuvenation and sleep. “... Imitate the trees. Learn to lose in order to recover, and remember that nothing stays the same for long, not even pain, psychic pain. Sit it out. Let it all pass. Let it go."
How I wish to be a tree now.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
From Derrick Jackson, columnist for the Boston Globe, in yesterday's paper:'
'All we are left with is our aspirations in a game where the average share of the American dream is being spoiled. The Institute for Policy Studies and United for a Fair Economy, the two liberal think tanks that annually chart the gap between CEOs and workers, currently list the gap at 431-to-1, or $11.8 million to $27,460. That compares with a gap of 107-to-1 in 1990. If salaries of the average worker had kept up with that of a CEO, he or she would be making $110,136. Had the minimum wage risen at the same pace as CEO compensation, it would stand today at $23.01. The federal minimum wage of $5.15 has not risen since 1997.more....
In 1980, the gap was only 42-to-1. Where the spoils go are quite clear. According to 2005 federal data from the Congressional Budget Office, the share of America's income that went to the highest 20 percent of households increased from 45.5 percent in 1979 to 52.2 percent in 2003. The remaining 80 percent of American households all saw their share of the nation's income drop.''The higher you go in that top 20 percent, the more the rise in their share of the income. The top 1 percent of Americans saw their share of America's income zoom from 9.3 percent in the last quarter century to 14.3 percent. The top 10 percent saw their share go from 30.5 percent to 37.2 percent.''How [Treasury Secretary John] Snow thinks that 10 percent of Americans holding 37 percent of the income represents a sharing of the spoils is checkout-counter economics. His claim falls especially short considering that 46 of the nation's 275 largest companies, according to the Institute for Policy Studies, the United for a Fair Economy, and another liberal think-tank, Citizens for Tax Justice, paid no federal income tax in 2003. Eighty-two of the largest 275 companies paid no federal income tax at some point during 2001-2003 as the current President Bush cut taxes for the wealthy.''
...and the trend shall continue insofar as Americans continue to drown their miseries in the bible, and go on murderous rampages, blaming their fellow socio-economic class members for their dire predicaments. A truly tragic country with a disastorous future for the 'little guy.'
'All we are left with is our aspirations in a game where the average share of the American dream is being spoiled. The Institute for Policy Studies and United for a Fair Economy, the two liberal think tanks that annually chart the gap between CEOs and workers, currently list the gap at 431-to-1, or $11.8 million to $27,460. That compares with a gap of 107-to-1 in 1990. If salaries of the average worker had kept up with that of a CEO, he or she would be making $110,136. Had the minimum wage risen at the same pace as CEO compensation, it would stand today at $23.01. The federal minimum wage of $5.15 has not risen since 1997.more....
In 1980, the gap was only 42-to-1. Where the spoils go are quite clear. According to 2005 federal data from the Congressional Budget Office, the share of America's income that went to the highest 20 percent of households increased from 45.5 percent in 1979 to 52.2 percent in 2003. The remaining 80 percent of American households all saw their share of the nation's income drop.''The higher you go in that top 20 percent, the more the rise in their share of the income. The top 1 percent of Americans saw their share of America's income zoom from 9.3 percent in the last quarter century to 14.3 percent. The top 10 percent saw their share go from 30.5 percent to 37.2 percent.''How [Treasury Secretary John] Snow thinks that 10 percent of Americans holding 37 percent of the income represents a sharing of the spoils is checkout-counter economics. His claim falls especially short considering that 46 of the nation's 275 largest companies, according to the Institute for Policy Studies, the United for a Fair Economy, and another liberal think-tank, Citizens for Tax Justice, paid no federal income tax in 2003. Eighty-two of the largest 275 companies paid no federal income tax at some point during 2001-2003 as the current President Bush cut taxes for the wealthy.''
...and the trend shall continue insofar as Americans continue to drown their miseries in the bible, and go on murderous rampages, blaming their fellow socio-economic class members for their dire predicaments. A truly tragic country with a disastorous future for the 'little guy.'
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
The expatriate life: rewarding or isolating?
Judging from my last post, I must be in the third phase of my expatriate existence. Anger with the host country. A desire to change the culture. As I was pounding the running machine for a good 45 minutes today in my every day goal of registering at least 4 kilometers on the meter, I found myself getting worked up over the sheer dearth of gyms here. Unless you live in the hotspots, otherwise known as Barcelona or Madrid, you are pretty much devoid of a gym culture. So, if you were a kickboxing or salsa aerobics nut in the U.S., as I was, be forewarned that you might have to put all that to rest upon your arrival in 'sunny Spain.'
Ironically though, la gente aqui are far thinner than their American counterparts. I can count the number of crypto-human landwhales I've seen waddle down the streets with one hand - a sight that was all too common at every nook and cranny in the U.S. The next article I'll be tackling will actually be touching on this very topic. Why are Europeans thinner than Americans? Is it the food? Better sex lives? Safe streets or is it that they are not as lonesome as Americans are? Americans are a sad bunch - my heart sinks everytime I think of the country I was born in. I mean, where else on this planet would an 80 year old cashier desperately attempt to light up a conversation with you. Before you can say 'thank you ma'am,' and effect your flee from the supermarket, you know all about her cousin martha who is popping her third kid out - on my big green ones of course. An introverted misanthrope, maintaing conversations with complete supermarket strangers was next to pulling teeth in terms of pain.
At any rate, back to my host country. It has been a challenge making friends in this land of the ultra-social. Cafes are brimming with people at all hours of the day, but you won't see my pretty face amongts the loquacious gatherings of homo sapiens. No sirey, bob. Language barriers are too immense to overcome. I have two options here both of which are not feasible at this time. 1) Hunt, yes hunt, not 'look for' natives of the English language, because English speakers are as rare as a snowflake in mid-summer in this provential, conservative town or 2) Undertake a massive study in the many nuances and intricacies of the Spanish language - verbs and all. Ouch, those verbs hurt. I wish I could say as a bi-lingual, cultivated individual who has experienced an array of cultures, I am motivated to learn the language. Sadly, that is not the case; my body rejects it. I have never been one to take a liking for the sound of Spanish. French, yes - I can devour it in one sitting. Send me the teacher. German, yes- even if it is to understand the lyrics of Rammenstein. A time will come, however, where I'll have to muster up enough energy and motivation to learn it. That time is not now though - it will have to wait. First things first - the thousands of dollars of debt incurred from medical expenses from the land of 'the free and brave' will have to be paid in full...And for that I'll have to keep writing until all ten of these fingers are the buffest parts of my body. Thanks for doing that to me U.S!
Ironically though, la gente aqui are far thinner than their American counterparts. I can count the number of crypto-human landwhales I've seen waddle down the streets with one hand - a sight that was all too common at every nook and cranny in the U.S. The next article I'll be tackling will actually be touching on this very topic. Why are Europeans thinner than Americans? Is it the food? Better sex lives? Safe streets or is it that they are not as lonesome as Americans are? Americans are a sad bunch - my heart sinks everytime I think of the country I was born in. I mean, where else on this planet would an 80 year old cashier desperately attempt to light up a conversation with you. Before you can say 'thank you ma'am,' and effect your flee from the supermarket, you know all about her cousin martha who is popping her third kid out - on my big green ones of course. An introverted misanthrope, maintaing conversations with complete supermarket strangers was next to pulling teeth in terms of pain.
At any rate, back to my host country. It has been a challenge making friends in this land of the ultra-social. Cafes are brimming with people at all hours of the day, but you won't see my pretty face amongts the loquacious gatherings of homo sapiens. No sirey, bob. Language barriers are too immense to overcome. I have two options here both of which are not feasible at this time. 1) Hunt, yes hunt, not 'look for' natives of the English language, because English speakers are as rare as a snowflake in mid-summer in this provential, conservative town or 2) Undertake a massive study in the many nuances and intricacies of the Spanish language - verbs and all. Ouch, those verbs hurt. I wish I could say as a bi-lingual, cultivated individual who has experienced an array of cultures, I am motivated to learn the language. Sadly, that is not the case; my body rejects it. I have never been one to take a liking for the sound of Spanish. French, yes - I can devour it in one sitting. Send me the teacher. German, yes- even if it is to understand the lyrics of Rammenstein. A time will come, however, where I'll have to muster up enough energy and motivation to learn it. That time is not now though - it will have to wait. First things first - the thousands of dollars of debt incurred from medical expenses from the land of 'the free and brave' will have to be paid in full...And for that I'll have to keep writing until all ten of these fingers are the buffest parts of my body. Thanks for doing that to me U.S!
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Spaniards and their casas
I guess I've already been here long enough to despise and resent its people. I wish somebody would expain to me why these people are so hell bent on repairing every inch of their dwelling.
Sick at home for the second week from a severe case of allergies, I've had to put up with the little tart next door and her smelly hubby repair their fucking bathroom. What is next - the balcony? Or who knows, maybe they will build the world's first teracce (sp?) on the second floor. This is far from an isolated incident and is indicative of a pattern I've been observing since my arrival here. Walk through any of these narrow streets and you'll be hard pressed to find one without the relentless drone of a drill, or a hammer, or a crane. The skyline - of any city, mind you - is bristling with the ubitiqous crane. Really, it should be on their fucking flag.
Ask any of my students what they've been up to lately, and the response will be something about their casa - they are either buying one or repairing one.
I wonder if any of these people know their way to the library. Seriously people, get a book. Get a life.
Sick at home for the second week from a severe case of allergies, I've had to put up with the little tart next door and her smelly hubby repair their fucking bathroom. What is next - the balcony? Or who knows, maybe they will build the world's first teracce (sp?) on the second floor. This is far from an isolated incident and is indicative of a pattern I've been observing since my arrival here. Walk through any of these narrow streets and you'll be hard pressed to find one without the relentless drone of a drill, or a hammer, or a crane. The skyline - of any city, mind you - is bristling with the ubitiqous crane. Really, it should be on their fucking flag.
Ask any of my students what they've been up to lately, and the response will be something about their casa - they are either buying one or repairing one.
I wonder if any of these people know their way to the library. Seriously people, get a book. Get a life.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Hola
It has been a while since I visited this cozy little spot in cyberspace. Been so busy with the "real" writing that I've had no time for leisurely writing - if there is such a thing....Writing is always a painful, ardous task. But some of us simply could not go on living without it. It has a healing power. I think I would spontaneouly (sp?) combust and sprinkle, much like dust, into a thousand pieces if I did not keep at this.
It is an alluring, addictive drug this thing called writing.
I've managed to sell all my queries (well, save one) since the last time I posted. Indeed, my patience is paying off. How many times, though, I just wanted to throw my hands in the air and quit! The "evil" voices in my head incessantly admonishing me, telling me to get a real job.
Then there is the whisper-like voices telling me to keep going...There can be no happiness if one's vocation does not suit one's passion.. No, it was not I who uttered those words - I believe it was Albert Camus.
Until next time,
Me
It is an alluring, addictive drug this thing called writing.
I've managed to sell all my queries (well, save one) since the last time I posted. Indeed, my patience is paying off. How many times, though, I just wanted to throw my hands in the air and quit! The "evil" voices in my head incessantly admonishing me, telling me to get a real job.
Then there is the whisper-like voices telling me to keep going...There can be no happiness if one's vocation does not suit one's passion.. No, it was not I who uttered those words - I believe it was Albert Camus.
Until next time,
Me
Monday, December 19, 2005
Rejection
It is a hard pill to swallow. It is a concept us writers are all too familiar with. I don't think even the most polished, established writer ever gets used to it. How do you get used it? By the time you have delivered it, it has already become your baby. You have nourished and nurtured it for weeks on end before firing it into the cyber void, only for it to be neglected, ignored or out-and-out rejected with one cold phrase: we'll pass on this one. Though my favourite is: we can't give you the green light. Mmmm...kay..can I at least have the yellow light Mr. Editor?
By the end of next year, I expect to cover the walls of this room in its entirity with my rejection letters..I am sure these walls will wear it as a badge of honour. In all seriousness, the first letter of acceptance will be framed and hung right above my desk. Now, let's see who will have the first honour of being hung..Now that sounds inauspicious, nest pas? Being hung!
The superwoman who is my spouse, however, is every writer's dream come true. She is eternally supportive, resolute and high-spirited. If it weren't for her, I don't believe I could or would continue. I lack the stamina that she injects daily in my veins. I am very quick to descend into the self-doubt abyss. After all, each and every query you craft is an extension of yourself. It is hard not to take it personally. So, yes, damn it - I am fucking hurt. Now, where are my chocolate covered marijuana balls?
By the end of next year, I expect to cover the walls of this room in its entirity with my rejection letters..I am sure these walls will wear it as a badge of honour. In all seriousness, the first letter of acceptance will be framed and hung right above my desk. Now, let's see who will have the first honour of being hung..Now that sounds inauspicious, nest pas? Being hung!
The superwoman who is my spouse, however, is every writer's dream come true. She is eternally supportive, resolute and high-spirited. If it weren't for her, I don't believe I could or would continue. I lack the stamina that she injects daily in my veins. I am very quick to descend into the self-doubt abyss. After all, each and every query you craft is an extension of yourself. It is hard not to take it personally. So, yes, damn it - I am fucking hurt. Now, where are my chocolate covered marijuana balls?
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Breeding at the same rate as dog fleas
My partner sent me the link below and I could not help but chuckle upon reading and at the same time feel a great sense of relief there are others on the planet who share a similar disdain towards breeders. http://www.failuremag.com/
That is right, breeders: those individuals who continue to bring forth more homo sapiens despite the 6.5 billion that already abound our finite planet. Really, what are they thinking? That the earth is still in need of us, the large destructive mammals we are? On a daily basis, we hear of the unprecedeneted rate at which the earth is being degraded whether it is in the form of global warming or the loss of millions of acres of land. How can anyone in the right mind read about such dire facts and prospects and continue on the self-centred, megalomanical, suicidal path of breeding?
As a hyper-sensitive person, I feel a special sense of repugnance at the sight of this flea-like breeding as more people means more noise, pollution, more cluttered and clustered land. I am in the seventh year of my quest for silence. After 6 different homes and two different countries, I still have not been able to find the tomb-like silence I so need and desire. You know, the sort of silence that death imposes. Nor have I been able to immerse myself in nature..Frolick in it and forget about this "concreted" way of living we have carved out for ourselves.
Really, what does it take to find space and silence in this overpopulated, noisy and dirty world?
Breeders: You shall never garner respect from this sensitive, civilized homo sapien. Not that you care with your fetus carrying bellies and narcissistic, mustpassonmyspecialgenes, animalistic, premordial instincts, but I just thought I would let you know somebody out there loathes you - with a passion.
That is right, breeders: those individuals who continue to bring forth more homo sapiens despite the 6.5 billion that already abound our finite planet. Really, what are they thinking? That the earth is still in need of us, the large destructive mammals we are? On a daily basis, we hear of the unprecedeneted rate at which the earth is being degraded whether it is in the form of global warming or the loss of millions of acres of land. How can anyone in the right mind read about such dire facts and prospects and continue on the self-centred, megalomanical, suicidal path of breeding?
As a hyper-sensitive person, I feel a special sense of repugnance at the sight of this flea-like breeding as more people means more noise, pollution, more cluttered and clustered land. I am in the seventh year of my quest for silence. After 6 different homes and two different countries, I still have not been able to find the tomb-like silence I so need and desire. You know, the sort of silence that death imposes. Nor have I been able to immerse myself in nature..Frolick in it and forget about this "concreted" way of living we have carved out for ourselves.
Really, what does it take to find space and silence in this overpopulated, noisy and dirty world?
Breeders: You shall never garner respect from this sensitive, civilized homo sapien. Not that you care with your fetus carrying bellies and narcissistic, mustpassonmyspecialgenes, animalistic, premordial instincts, but I just thought I would let you know somebody out there loathes you - with a passion.
Monday, November 28, 2005
On Spain - the subjective and the objective
Spain. Where to begin? So much to write, so little time. It is a bundle of contradictions. It is secular, and yet incomplete in its secularism. Very social, and yet almost clannish. Socialist, and yet some of its newly-implemented economic policies puts Britain or even the U.S. to shame. Traditional, but highly fluid, techno savy, and ever-changing with its youth.
One of the first things that takes one aback is the high percentage of its elderly population. Everywhere. Hordes and hordes of them; sitting on bench tops eating their kestanes, walking in arm and arm with a fellow elderly person, spontaneously gathering at conspicuous spots of the town gossiping on the latest developments in such serious matters as politics or the more trivial ones like the mishaps and endeavors of their grandchildren.
Unlike, their American counterparts, they look fulfilled. The encumbered, mummified or just plain lonely faces of the elderly in the United States is nowhere to be seen. It is a good place to be if you are old.
For someone accustomed to the American or even Turkish family dynamics, familiar arrangements can appear very tight-knit. Family was ranked as the number one priority for Spaniards in a recent poll. Strangely, work appeared somewhere at the bottom of the list. Most families, here, know no to oscillate between excessive individualism (American style) and excessive authoritarianism (Turco or Arab style). They seem to have achieved a good balance in terms of familial relationships. Certainly, there are exceptions to the rules in that domestic violence is still a major headliner in the news.
A very, very social country. Every café, restaurant or any other gathering venue is packed wall to wall. They are endlessly solving the world’s or Spain’s problems, whining about their work, or how meagerly they are paid, the acute unemployment problem in Europe or simply bitching about life’s little annoyances and nuances. When I first arrived here, now almost 3 months ago, I was certain they were bickering or fighting. No, no, they are not fighting, they are just being human. Unlike their American counterparts, they are being natural. They know not to bottle up their emotions deep, and go and see a counselor for 200 euros/hr and take comfort in artificial means such as Paxil, Prozac or Zoloft. Very few people are even aware of such drugs. Why bury your woes in a bottle, when you can go to the nearest café and bitch? That is the Spanish way. You’ll have to admit it is a lot healthier than the American way.
Speaking of drugs, they are dirt-cheap here. Because the government heavily regulates the pricing of medication, costs are kept to a minimum, enabling the poor to have access to even the most expensive medication. Also, under Spanish law, every citizen is guaranteed health care coverage. What do you say to that America?? Your system treats the lower, middle-lower and increasingly middle-upper class citizens as subhumans by leaving out 50 million Americans out of the system all together..and another 100 million without adequate healthcare coverage. Europeans get health care coverage, an excellent public transportation, an adequate safety net (though it is being threatened with each successive generation), for their taxes, we get stellar B-bombers and helicopters to divide and conquer. Divide and conquer. What a buch of illeterates Americans are!
That is not to say that Spain is not a major seller of arms and weapons. It is well-known to be a 'provider' to such countries as Venezuala, Cuba or Morrocco. But at least the vast majority of the public has access to one of the most basic human rights - health care.
One of the first things that takes one aback is the high percentage of its elderly population. Everywhere. Hordes and hordes of them; sitting on bench tops eating their kestanes, walking in arm and arm with a fellow elderly person, spontaneously gathering at conspicuous spots of the town gossiping on the latest developments in such serious matters as politics or the more trivial ones like the mishaps and endeavors of their grandchildren.
Unlike, their American counterparts, they look fulfilled. The encumbered, mummified or just plain lonely faces of the elderly in the United States is nowhere to be seen. It is a good place to be if you are old.
For someone accustomed to the American or even Turkish family dynamics, familiar arrangements can appear very tight-knit. Family was ranked as the number one priority for Spaniards in a recent poll. Strangely, work appeared somewhere at the bottom of the list. Most families, here, know no to oscillate between excessive individualism (American style) and excessive authoritarianism (Turco or Arab style). They seem to have achieved a good balance in terms of familial relationships. Certainly, there are exceptions to the rules in that domestic violence is still a major headliner in the news.
A very, very social country. Every café, restaurant or any other gathering venue is packed wall to wall. They are endlessly solving the world’s or Spain’s problems, whining about their work, or how meagerly they are paid, the acute unemployment problem in Europe or simply bitching about life’s little annoyances and nuances. When I first arrived here, now almost 3 months ago, I was certain they were bickering or fighting. No, no, they are not fighting, they are just being human. Unlike their American counterparts, they are being natural. They know not to bottle up their emotions deep, and go and see a counselor for 200 euros/hr and take comfort in artificial means such as Paxil, Prozac or Zoloft. Very few people are even aware of such drugs. Why bury your woes in a bottle, when you can go to the nearest café and bitch? That is the Spanish way. You’ll have to admit it is a lot healthier than the American way.
Speaking of drugs, they are dirt-cheap here. Because the government heavily regulates the pricing of medication, costs are kept to a minimum, enabling the poor to have access to even the most expensive medication. Also, under Spanish law, every citizen is guaranteed health care coverage. What do you say to that America?? Your system treats the lower, middle-lower and increasingly middle-upper class citizens as subhumans by leaving out 50 million Americans out of the system all together..and another 100 million without adequate healthcare coverage. Europeans get health care coverage, an excellent public transportation, an adequate safety net (though it is being threatened with each successive generation), for their taxes, we get stellar B-bombers and helicopters to divide and conquer. Divide and conquer. What a buch of illeterates Americans are!
That is not to say that Spain is not a major seller of arms and weapons. It is well-known to be a 'provider' to such countries as Venezuala, Cuba or Morrocco. But at least the vast majority of the public has access to one of the most basic human rights - health care.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
The sheer hell of insomnia
It has been a while since I wrote. I am in the grips of yet another insomniac plague. Yes, it is a plague..It keeps you from living to your fullest. You are merely existing, stuck in some twilight zone, waiting for it to vanish the same way it appeared.
I imagine it is the transition that is utterly ensettling to my already system. I don't know who I am here; I don't know how I am relevant to the overall structure, culture, people..I don't know anyone, and not a soul knows me..It is peculiar, this feeling of being almost invisible. You are flesh and blood to yourself, and yet nonexistant to others.
It is also peculiar conducting 90 percent of your life online..be it work, or communication. Perhaps it is this very fact that lends itself to an inordinate number of depression or anxiety cases. As much as I dislike humanity, there are times I long for the companion of someone outside the boundaries of my partner. Poor girl, what she has to put up with day and night!
I need to eradicate the root causes of this troubling period. In order to do that, however, I need to ascertain the root causes. Am I grieving the loss of my old profession? Hard to tell - the long, unbearable commutes coupled with the meager pay made it a living hell. No, I haven't forgotten the times I sat hungry and cold at endless bus stops trying to get from one lecture to the next. And yet, dreams of lecturing to crowds at nights haunt me. I wake up with a pit in my stomach, knowing I might never see the countless faces looking at me in utmost admiration, knowing that I might never adorn myself in preparation for the "stage." Silly me, all those years living only on stage and neglecting the rest of life.
Perhaps, the anxiety is no other than the mere symptom of re-evaluating one's life. Dramatic changes have a way of forcing you view the past in a different light. I can't help but wonder what could have been had I remained in one place, with similar set of circumstances, encircled with familiar faces and bodies. No interruptions. No alineation. No unfamiliar languages, values, customs to contend with.
Who knows, if that were the case, perhaps I would be sitting here lamenting the very monotonous, dull, stagnant nature of my life and asking - how would my life be today had I ventured outside the comfort zone?
I imagine it is the transition that is utterly ensettling to my already system. I don't know who I am here; I don't know how I am relevant to the overall structure, culture, people..I don't know anyone, and not a soul knows me..It is peculiar, this feeling of being almost invisible. You are flesh and blood to yourself, and yet nonexistant to others.
It is also peculiar conducting 90 percent of your life online..be it work, or communication. Perhaps it is this very fact that lends itself to an inordinate number of depression or anxiety cases. As much as I dislike humanity, there are times I long for the companion of someone outside the boundaries of my partner. Poor girl, what she has to put up with day and night!
I need to eradicate the root causes of this troubling period. In order to do that, however, I need to ascertain the root causes. Am I grieving the loss of my old profession? Hard to tell - the long, unbearable commutes coupled with the meager pay made it a living hell. No, I haven't forgotten the times I sat hungry and cold at endless bus stops trying to get from one lecture to the next. And yet, dreams of lecturing to crowds at nights haunt me. I wake up with a pit in my stomach, knowing I might never see the countless faces looking at me in utmost admiration, knowing that I might never adorn myself in preparation for the "stage." Silly me, all those years living only on stage and neglecting the rest of life.
Perhaps, the anxiety is no other than the mere symptom of re-evaluating one's life. Dramatic changes have a way of forcing you view the past in a different light. I can't help but wonder what could have been had I remained in one place, with similar set of circumstances, encircled with familiar faces and bodies. No interruptions. No alineation. No unfamiliar languages, values, customs to contend with.
Who knows, if that were the case, perhaps I would be sitting here lamenting the very monotonous, dull, stagnant nature of my life and asking - how would my life be today had I ventured outside the comfort zone?
Thursday, November 03, 2005
9 weeks later
Yes, that is how long it has been here, in sunny, scrumptous Spain. Or so I believed prior to arriving here. The sun escapes me, as I spend my days indoors, a prisoner of these four, rather porous walls, manufacturing a seemingly endless array of pitch letter for my editors-to-be.
I am afraid to venture out. No, not for fear of being mugged, or attacked, or raped as is the case in the land I've effected my escape from, but for fear of being mistaken for a Spaniard. For fear of being in frozen motionless each time a passer-by stops to ask me something; direction, the time, the nearest pharmacy. 'No hablo espanol,' might elicit the kind of reaction I despise; ignorance or implicit aversion. Every foreigner is here to snatch a job from the well-entitled Spaniard or overburden their extensive welfare system right? Yes and no. Certainly, there are those who wish the exploit the system just as any other nation. But nothing could be further from the truth in my case as I could not be more isolated from the 'system'.
George Dumbya's face just popped up on the flat screen of my television set. I remember why I left the 'land of the brave and free.' ..or is it 'the land of the free and mighty.' Could be 'the land of the wicked and crazy.' It evades me en momento. Blame it on the lack of sleep.
Surely, I will be more coherent tomorrow.
I am afraid to venture out. No, not for fear of being mugged, or attacked, or raped as is the case in the land I've effected my escape from, but for fear of being mistaken for a Spaniard. For fear of being in frozen motionless each time a passer-by stops to ask me something; direction, the time, the nearest pharmacy. 'No hablo espanol,' might elicit the kind of reaction I despise; ignorance or implicit aversion. Every foreigner is here to snatch a job from the well-entitled Spaniard or overburden their extensive welfare system right? Yes and no. Certainly, there are those who wish the exploit the system just as any other nation. But nothing could be further from the truth in my case as I could not be more isolated from the 'system'.
George Dumbya's face just popped up on the flat screen of my television set. I remember why I left the 'land of the brave and free.' ..or is it 'the land of the free and mighty.' Could be 'the land of the wicked and crazy.' It evades me en momento. Blame it on the lack of sleep.
Surely, I will be more coherent tomorrow.
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