We decided, sporadically, to venture to the Caribbean side of Costa Rica for a weekend. Despite my lack of money, I was wealthy with adventure. It took several hours of bumpy bus rides before we found ourselves face to face with the Caribbean coast. We arrived in the evening without reservations, a map, or any idea of where we were going to stay. The second we disembarked from our bus, there were several people trying to sell us various accommodations. The one I chose to pay attention to was a kid – probably 19 or 20 – shoeless, pants rolled up, leaning against a rickety beach cruiser that was supporting an empty 40 of pilsen in the front basket. His English was impeccable. He invited us to stay at crocodile surf camp, a hostel of beach bungalows right on the sand, no more than 15 feet from the water. On our walk there, he talked casually as he steered his bike. He walked calmly, without concern but with purpose. It turns out that he was Costa Rican, but he had been raised in New York until he was 14. He moved back to Puerto Viejo for awhile after graduating from photography school. At this point, every bar was boasting loud music and groups of happily intoxicated locals and tourists. The streets were flanked with many open-air thatched roofed bamboo buildings. I was greeted enthusiastically by kebab stands on every corner, live music hanging in the air, and more Rastafarians than I had ever seen in my life.
I couldn’t help but ask him a question – I’ll blame the lure of reggae and the sweet perfumed smell of roasting meat –
I lowered my voice, “Do you know where we can get any weed?”
He laughed. “Claro! I got you covered. We grow our own at the camp.”
I spent the next two days riding a beach cruiser through the narrow streets, picnicking on the shore, and experiencing prolonged enlightenment from the soft cradle of my swinging hammock (all of my arcane discoveries confirmed by the euphonious whisper of the waves lapping against the sand).
The most exquisite image of paradise I would have been able to conjure up a year ago was nothing in comparison to that weekend.
It’s late afternoon. The mechanical whirr of the fan drowns out the operatic traffic horns sounding from the street below. The thin curtains sway as the air breathes through the room. My skin feels numb as it sinks back down out of that elevated angelic electricity. It’s strange – the amalgamation of a foreign flesh with one’s own – it drives me out of that maddening almost-Kantian-hyper-objective-solipsism – the one driving my perception and inadvertently cataloguing everything inhaled by my senses. Walking on Cartesian crutches. It’s the closest comprehension of Zen I have ever achieved – me, ignorantly trapped in my childish glass house built on a foundation naïveté – the edifice left transparent only by my insatiable curiosity. It is here, at the convergence, that I melt away. It is here that my need to escape from my incurable symptoms of a lost diagnosis dissipates – it is here where my curse of a mechanistically metronomic torpor is conquered by the raucous cataclysm of a soul alive – of real breath – of pure joie de vivre. Jouissance.
Being at the farm for so long has removed some element of humanness from me. I constantly feel filthy and congested. The crimson rosette bug bites punctuating my pallid skin could map out hundreds of undiscovered constellations in an uncharted universe [fortunately – I have discovered an exuberantly skilled cartographer]. I feel dirtier post-shower than before it. I have arachnids for bedfellows and slugs dropping out of the muddy tap water as I’m washing dishes. Clothes never cease to smell like mildew – they become stiff and scratchy after they’ve been drying in the heavy tropical heat for days. The chickens are relentless in their cackling and, in any given week, I see far more cow pies than I do people.
It’s Christmas soon. I wouldn’t know this is it wasn’t for that looming date on the corner of my taskbar, or that faded out Woodstock calendar hanging dangerously from the termite-ridden planks of wood. To ring in December, we spent yesterday rolling joints and listening to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s Christmas hymns. And I thought I couldn’t get any more blasphemous. I never imagined that I’d be spending Christmas in the tropics. Then again, it isn’t all that different from California – a little heat punctuated by bouts of rain. Here, however, the extremes are more intense. The heat is sweltering and humid. My pores drip and my shirt becomes soaked through. I am unable to differentiate between sweat and airborne moisture. Additionally, the rain here is never just a sprinkle, never just a light pitter-patter. It’s a tumultuous, thunderous, piety-inducing godlike roar.
I feel like I haven’t actually celebrated Christmas since I was 13. I miss the snow.
A moth just landed on me. I’ve learned not to flinch. It would be a frequent waste of energy to react every time this happened.
It’s 6 am and I’ve already been up for hours.
My grand fairytale is quickly drawing to a close. I’m beginning to panic about the future. What comes next?
I don’t want to answer this. It’s a rhetorical question. Even if I wanted to answer it, I couldn’t. I have my vague plans… taking a little road trip through the Western U.S. after we spend a week in Orange County. Stopping in Salt Lake City to visit my sister. Getting to San Francisco by way of Reno. Visiting Sondra there.
I found a place for us to live in the city. I’m going to try to get rehired at Peet’s up there. There are six locations within a 20 minute walking distance (10 minutes by BART or bus) of the place we’re going to live.
I don’t know why I’m so focused on these things now. I have over a month left here. It’s just weird being unemployed for so long. Volunteer “work” isn’t the same. You do it at your own speed, for the joy of it, to pass the time. Getting a paycheck is something entirely different. I just hope I can get my job back somewhere up north. I’m afraid that if I moved back to Orange County my soul would die forever. Plus, once I’m in Northern California, I won’t have any reason not to transfer to Berkeley. It’s my dream school. I know I can do it, I’m just afraid.
Afraid of what? The question with a more concise answer would be this: What am I not afraid of?
I’m afraid of change. It’s very hard for me to disrupt my life once I’ve established a routine. Once the change has been catalyzed, though, I can cope. It’s just the anticipation that hurts.
I’m afraid of failure. I’m afraid of moving to a new place and getting a fresh start and just fucking everything up.
I’m afraid of inadequacy. I’m afraid of forgetting. I’m afraid of death.
My move here may have seemed fearless, but it wasn’t. There’s a clear distinction in my mind between fearlessness and recklessness.
I will miss the freedom and austerity of existing here. I will miss the miles of trails and earthy smells.
I won’t miss the dozens of bug bites, or the scorpion stings, or the dangers of snake bites. I won’t miss never having clean clothes. I won’t miss my books becoming moisture-warped science projects just from sitting on the shelves here. I won’t miss the hurricanes washing out dirt roads, I won’t miss not having an income.
I am in limbo. Some sort of quarter-life-purgatory. I can’t quite wrap my head around what I want, and I can’t comprehend what is “right”. These moral absolutes seem to be more like looming yet meaningless abstractions. Despite this, I still find myself compelled by the notion of doing what is “right” or “good,” yet, if I was asked to concisely define those words, I would falter.
Despite all of this insecurity and anxiety, I’m still really happy. Kelly makes me happier than I have ever been in my whole life. It’s strange feeling this much for someone. I never thought I’d be in a relationship like this.
Our six month anniversary is the day before Christmas. He’s the best gift I could ever ask for.
I don’t write well when I’m happy. Maybe that’s the real reason for the large gaps in between my entries recently. I make excuses, but really, I can’t form sentences if there isn’t something bothering me. I know that this blog is just regurgitation, cataloguing, remembering -- but it still takes effort.
I didn’t bother to stop to write in Panama. I was too enthralled by the Miami-esque skyscrapers looming over me and the diablos rojos zooming down the city streets. It was too familiar to be completely shocking, but too different to be completely comfortable. I can’t explain it. Everything was inexpensive. Everyone wanted my money. People called after me on the streets selling everything from shoes to oranges to headphones.
I did spend $5 on a tarot card reading from some sort of Panamanian gypsy in a shady head shop on a street corner. Six translated for me. My findings were interesting and all too accurate. Tell me something I don’t know already.
Being in Panama was like being in a different universe parallel to something that could have been familiar. Groups of native Kuna women wearing traditional clothes huddled in front of a Burger King. Strip malls and suburbs on one side of the freeway, sprawling rainforest on the other. It was strange shoving my hands into faded jean pockets and having them emerge with fistfuls of dollars. The balboa and the dollar are used interchangeably in Panama. There is a fixed exchange rate. The coins are even minted so similarly that Panamanian change works in American vending machines, and vice-versa.
I didn’t take time to write in San Jose. I didn’t mention our beautiful yellow hostel, Hostel 1110. I didn’t share the pithy fact that it was once the home of a past Costa Rican president, or how the rooms were cramped but comfortable. How the tile covered concrete felt good and cold on my feet at three a.m. when I got up to brush my teeth in the communal bathroom. Every time I go to bed drunk, I wake up in the middle of the night to brush my teeth or read a little or write regrettable emails. I didn’t mention that the bars on the windows made me feel safe, and that the raucous street noise – car horns, sirens, drunken reveling – serenaded me to sleep. I didn’t divulge how immortal I felt lying next to Kelly – tangled in sheets – as the tropic sun crept through the city’s smog and penetrated our barricaded window.
Another day I didn’t share – Kelly’s birthday. We spent it in Cartago – just the two of us – getting lost on unfamiliar streets. Laughing, dreaming, dancing, baking in the sun. There’s no way it was November. It had to have been in the eighties without a cloud in the sky. He even got free ice cream because I told the counter girl that it was his birthday. It could have also been because he is cute. I am okay with either justification. We explored the basilica – I think it was called “our lady of the angels”. I am too preoccupied to verify the accuracy of that at the moment. It was beautiful inside. It made me feel a strange sense of reverence and piety that I haven’t felt for years. It’s amazing how architecture can create such feelings of grandeur and omnipotence. Then again, I shouldn’t justify what I felt purely based on apparent physical actualities. The air felt electric. It could have been the massive line of people waiting to confess. It could also have been the dozens of people kneeling their way up the aisle in between the benches toward the front of the basilica. They were holding rosaries, some eyes closed, some open. Some with their hands clutched around their hearts. They were all praying. At first, I felt confused. Then I felt a little lost. They all had something I didn’t – faith, and the promise of redemption. I know that I will never be religious again; however, I cannot help but silently revere individuals who choose to live faithful lives in the face of a daunting and potentially meaningless universe. I think truth is a lot more complex than saying a certain belief represents an absolute correspondence to correctness while others are deemed erroneous or flawed. I would consider myself somewhere in between atheist and agnostic, erring on the side of the former, but I do not believe that religious people who devote their lives to some perceptively greater cause (Christians, Muslims, Jews, etc…) are inherently wrong. I can’t explain this realization that I came to, feeling so small inside that massively ornate basilica, but all I know is that I can’t know. I will never know the truth within this lifetime, and I will never pretend to believe that how I choose to live my life is better, more truthful, or more correct than the choices of others.
The more I learn, the more I read, the more I experience the world, the more I am humbled in the face of all that I do not understand. That I cannot understand. That I will never understand.
I suppose, my piety, my reverence, my faith – it all materializes shakily in the face of the unknown.
Later that night, back in San Jose, we reunited with the others and grabbed a few drinks at Viper, our favorite dive bar. Johnny (Yohnny!) Walker Rojo, dos tragos for only 1300 colones. That’s less than $2 a shot. It was not a bad night.
Somehow we ended up at an electro club with an OUSTANDING drag show. A most amazing climax to one of the best nights I’ve had here. The rest of the details of that evening become a bit fuzzy at this point, but really that is just an excuse. What happens in Costa Rica stays in Costa Rica.
Now, I’m back at the farm, listening to Cat Stevens and the rain, only able to write about the present after it has already become the past.
An overzealous affinity for nostalgia is my curse.
I thought I'd take a moment and express my thanks to all of you for reading my blog regularly. It's been an amazing experience rediscovering myself through a different cultural lens, and to be able to write about it has only made it more incredible. I miss all of you, and I can't wait to share stories when I get back. I still have about six weeks left, but in comparison to how long I've been here, it will be over too quickly.
Kelly, Six, Liz and I are all having thanksgiving dinner in San Jose tonight. El Mirador, the restaurant at the fancy Marriott, is having traditional American thanksgiving fare with lots of pie and free wine. It should be interesting.
I don’t know why I haven’t been writing. I keep giving myself excuses – reasons. Excuses. I can’t reach inside myself like I used to. Something is inhibiting me. I can’t be honest. But, maybe my writing has never been honest. Maybe it’s always just been performative. I’ve been thinking a lot lately. It turns out that many of my demons haven’t left me. They’ve just been lying dormant under the layers of ornate architecture placed in my life by societal expectation – ritual – regulation – anticipation. I never imagined myself as the variable in this vast experiment (existence?). As much as I’ve tried to alter the circumstances, my environment will always be the constant. I can only change myself, my outlook, my perspective. I’ve been thinking a lot about death lately. Time keeps passing more rapidly as I get older. The constant incremental notion of “day” becomes consistently shorter. This is because these 24 hour circular lapses – as they continue to occur – become increasingly smaller percentages of my entire existence. To a newborn, one day is like an eternity of new abrasive sounds and smells and pain and immaculate feeling. To a centenarian invalid, another day is just a breath. I’m not quite sure what this means. I feel guilty about wasting time. But how can one even define what is wasted, what is saved, what is valuable? Are any of my future seconds even salvageable? I think, however, that my anticipation of the future here is false. The future doesn’t exist except as a taunting driving force of what could be, an invisible Big Other that governs my every decision. My fate seems too far away from me to be real. That instant when the future becomes manifest, it is already behind me and I am again left waiting for what comes next. The past is a re-imagining of hundreds of dead moments – irrevocable decisions – bitter sweet nostalgias – endless regrets. I suppose, then, only the present is real. That fraction of a moment that is too brief to hold, too fleeting to feel. Does this mean that humans can only live out their lives through ignoring the immediacy demanded by the present? I know what it means for me – my entire existence is mediated by my imagination. I have never truly experienced the present. I have come close – but I only realize this closeness in the re-examining of past events.
We went to Panama City last week. If Miami and Los Angeles had a love child and birthed it in Central America, this place would be it. The city moved faster than anywhere I’ve been in awhile. The streets screamed with Diablos Rojos -- refurbished American school buses. For only 25 cents, you could go anywhere on the spread-out urban grid. These buses – they were marked up and painted with elaborate designs – a strange amalgam of catholic kitsch, modern pop culture, and Latin American street art. One of the buses was named “Yoda” and had several little green portraits sprayed on all sides (complete with catholic rosettes and floral motifs). Others had pictures of J-Lo, Jesus, Looney tunes characters, scenes from animated Disney films. Loud images tore past me as I sauntered destination-less on the side of the road. These were more than ornamentation – they were immortal portrayals of our modern last supper, the pious icons and pietas of the 21st century. Imagined gods, created saints. I was captivated – forced into reverence – face to face with a culture I couldn’t understand.
The insides of the busses were as haughty and eccentric as the outsides. Brightly colored feather boas, playboy bunnies, holographic portraits of Mary or the sacred heart, extravagant beaded rosaries, bumping reggaeton and the traditional wailing pathos of corridos.
If I lived in Central America, I’d probably convert to Catholicism just simply for the fact that kitsch is not only endorsed, it is encouraged.
I’m sitting here in the hotel and no one else is awake.
I’m not sure if being a habitual morning person is a gift or a curse. Despite the bottle of rum we passed back and forth last night, I still couldn’t sleep in past 5:15. Maybe part of it was the sounds of the city – the percussion bump of bass, the bassoon truck engines screaming past my open window, the hum of buzzing motorcycles like the crescendo of a string section, sirens wailing and abrasive like cymbal crashes.
It’s a different piece (peace?) that is played here in the city. I don’t mind it.
We went to Dominical yesterday. It’s a south-sitting beach on the Pacific side of Costa Rica. It’s definitely a tourist town – the gravel main street is flanked by quaint looking bodegas and loud signs in English boasting “Good Prices” and “Hamburgers” and “Surf boards for Rent”. It was a spur of the moment decision. We barely caught the bus in time. It was definitely at least fifteen people over capacity. I had to stand the first twenty minutes. My hands were braced carefully on the overhead bars as we weaved in and out on the mountain roads. My breath mingled with the stale heat and all I could taste was exhaust and the sweat of 60 other passengers. Six balanced one foot on a seat back and did an elaborate yoga pose for a large portion of the way there. It was incredible. I can only imagine what Ticos must think of us sometimes.
We finally arrived after about an hour. I could tell we were getting closer when the roadside billboards switched from Spanish to only English. All advertisements about real estate – “Own Your Own Piece of Paradise”. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little disgusted. The monopolization of the beachside real estate here is basically 21st century entrepreneurial colonialism. Once I got to the beach though, all of my irritation fell away. I forgot about the loudly talking tourists wandering the streets with their surfboards and beer cans. I had no right to judge; after all, I am one of them. Maybe not as loquacious or conspicuous, but I still am gringa. I don’t belong here anymore than they do. It’s just strange seeing tourists. Where I live, even in the city, we’re always the only Americans.
The sand was dark and soft. The water was unbelievably warm. Kelly dove in head first. I didn’t plan well, but my lack of swimsuit didn’t stop me from going in after him. I stripped down into my underwear (it was obviously NOT swimsuit-like in the least. I mean, I doubt that they sell matching black and pink lace bikinis. It was a finely orchestrated swimulacrum.) Regardless, I tossed away my reservations and ran into the surf. I reached Kelly, and out of nowhere, he pushed me under right as a massive wave came crashing over our heads.
“Swimming means no part of you stays dry” was his aphorism for the moment. He brought it up later on the bus ride home. I think it’s fair to say that it has reflected his mentality of being here. Why do something if you’re not going to put everything into it? I could get pseudo-Nietzschean here and talk about amor fati or some other relevantly vague abstraction that Nietzsche liked to go on about. But, I won’t. Back to Kelly – I’m impressed at how many risks he’s taking – at how fast he is adjusting. He’s picking up Spanish too. It’s especially cute when he drinks. He’ll only speak in Spanish.
“Yo quiero un besito,” he’ll say imploringly.
So I kiss him.
“Uno mas.”
This goes on for awhile. It’s too cute for me to put a stop to it.
It’s funny, we’re here in paradise and all we can think about is where we’re travelling to next. He’s going to accompany me on my quest – 25 countries by the time I’m 25. It could be that I’ve gorged myself on Borges lately, but I really want to go to Argentina. He might look for a teaching job there. We’ll see.
Seeing the ocean was liberating. It almost made me miss California. If I closed my eyes in just the right way – if I imagined that the water was colder – the sand was more coarse – the air tasted more like pollution – it was Huntington beach. Then, I’d open my eyes completely, and any remnants of that other place just vanished. I turned back to the coast. The chocolate-and-caramel brown of the sand disappeared into tangles of dense rainforest foliage. I blinked as I noticed a large iguana shimmy up a palm tree and several exotic birds dance through the sky.
We’re not in Kansas anymore.
November 1st, 2010
Yesterday was Halloween. It was different than any Halloween I’d ever had before. Yesterday would have been Liz’s brother’s 21st birthday. His favorite breakfast was oatmeal. Liz made a giant pot in the morning with cinnamon, ground nutmeg, and freshly picked bananas. She also bought a baby tree to plant on his birthday. It’s going to take about 10 years, but after it matures it will yield delicious mangoes. I felt really honored to be involved. All four of us took turns digging. It’s been raining almost nonstop since we planted it.
It’s strange. It doesn’t even feel like fall. Time is suspended here. It doesn’t even feel like Halloween happened. I can only imagine the raucous parties and scantily-clad women dancing up a storm back home. Halloween is a microcosm of every day social interaction – women put on masks or excessive layers of makeup to hide their true faces. Yet, they simultaneously reveal their bodies. What cultivated this excessive necessity of self-objectification?
I didn’t used to consider myself a feminist. Maybe I was just afraid of the implications. Like all of my other shortcomings, I will unjustly blame it on Mormonism. In the past, whenever I have been objectified – whenever my ideas haven’t been taken seriously, I have almost felt deserving of it. In arguments, I would retreat easily if I participated in them at all. I still feel unconfident and awkward when I’m trying to explicate a complicated idea. That’s why I enjoy hiding behind words. These syllables compose my mask. I’m at a safe distance, no one can directly chide me for my malformed sentences. I remember being young (no greater than six or seven) and reading something. A periodical? Maybe a newspaper or a book that I couldn’t have possibly understood. Upon my juvenile reading of this adult text, I came to a sort of conclusion. I unearthed some ancient truth that was probably trite common knowledge among adults, but one that seemed arcane and apocryphal to my naïve eyes. I’m sure my face glimmered with excitement and my cheeks flushed and I started to talk quickly. (I can imagine this reaction – I still have it when I learn something new.) Whatever this revelation was, I told my father (interrupting his television show, my first mistake). Then, he laughed condescendingly and (incorrectly) corrected me. He called me stupid. Or, maybe he just ignored me all together. I’m not sure which patronizing response occurred in this instance, because all three of them were common. I’d still pick any of the aforementioned three above his usual poison.
I like wearing masks. I like celebrating holidays that completely overturn social order. On the other 364 days each year, It’s taboo to hide one’s face. It’s awkward and frowned upon to appear in public donning an identity-eschewing costume. Yet, in truth, this is what we all do – every day. Our impoverished souls can be measured by the luxury and opulence of our holidays.
Depending on where you met me, my costume looks a little different. If you met me in high school, I wore the mask of an awkward, quiet, confused girl who didn’t have many friends save a handful of other precocious miscreants. My favorite accessories were my violin case – my collected works of William Shakespeare – my unending wardrobe of goth-inspired bondage pants or plaid skirts or band tees. If you met me at Peet’s, I was lively and happy and jovial and I didn’t try so hard to prove myself all the time. Yet, if anyone brought up philosophy or literature, I threw down. I don’t know why my costume has changed so drastically over the years, because I don’t think I’m all that different than I was. I’ll give myself this: I know a little more, I’m slightly more responsible, and I don’t take things so seriously.
My question is this: what comes next? I’m finding out more about myself here than I ever thought I could. What costume do I wear now? I’ve stripped away the layers that I used to have in place. I used to hide beneath them. I used to protect myself.
It doesn’t matter how small I get, I will always feel like that big girl who everyone enjoyed but no one loved. The “token”. I was always the girl that other girls kept around to make them look better. I was always the girl who guys would come to for advice, or companionship, or help with their French homework, or even attention; however, this same girl was the girl whom they would never consider. These strange truths have turned out to be fleeting and inconsequential. None of them matter anymore. I don’t know how to come to terms with the fact that I’m in a loving relationship, that I’m active and I almost feel at home in my body, that I’m actually not as grotesque as I was making myself out to be. I am the person whom I always dreamt of being – I am the person whom I never thought I would be. Maybe only time will tell.
This is supposed to be about Costa Rica. I should stop interjecting with personal diarrhea.
November 3rd, 2010
It’s been raining nonstop for four days. Hurricanes are a dime a dozen here. It’s starting to get to me. I don’t mind when it trickles in the afternoon following a morning of indulgent heat. This, though, is a little excessive. I am not inclined to work out as hard when my running shoes are soaked through and my clothes are dripping wet. Even standing outside for 10 minutes makes me look like I jumped in a swimming pool.
On the bright side, I’ve been able to make a little money. I’ve been playing heads up hold’em with Kelly almost every day. I’m up 2000 colones, but yesterday I was up four. He almost always beats me at chess, I almost always beat him at poker. I’ll take it. Although, yesterday was strange. I got him in checkmate and he won back some of his money. Haha.
It’s simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying that I have no idea where I’m going to go once I arrive in California. All of my possessions can be carried on my back (35 books, a guitar, and several scattered outfits). I have no place to live, no transportation – I sold everything and moved out of my apartment before coming here. Kelly and I have talked about every state, every city, every country imaginable. This is the frightening truth of it: all of these lofty pipe dreams have morphed into astonishingly real possibilities.
When we get back, we’re definitely going to make our rounds in Orange County, but I refuse to settle there again.
We are seriously considering going to Sri Lanka next year. I’d have to work for a couple months to save up, but I’m already thirsting for round two. I figure going to a completely unfamiliar place outside the comfort of Romance and Indo-European languages is leveling up from novice to bat shit crazy.
I want to move to San Francisco for a few months to work. Get a place in the city. Enjoy having a flushing toilet and hot water for awhile. Another thing: I don’t ever want to drive a car again.
Our friend Six is going to camp out on bureau of land management land for a few months. You can camp for free if you move your tent every 14 days. He’s going to build a geodome and have a nomadic library in the desert. He’s even setting up a twitter with his coordinates so people can find the library. He invited us to camp with him. I’d actually love to spend a couple of weeks in the eastern Mojave – living off critical theory and beef jerky . After I gave Liz a decent haircut with a machete, he said that I should join the nomads and sell haircuts out of the back of his pickup truck. We’d be near the old nuclear testing sites – I thought I could advertise with signs like “These Haircuts are the BOMB!” I’d even make a cheesy website with animated GIFs of exploding H-bombs and enough comic sans to kill a kitten.
We also have been talking about driving across the US and spending some time on the east coast. I want to see all contiguous 48 states. I’ve only been to 8 I think. I love the Midwest – tourist trap towns, diners, miles and miles of desert or plains or mountains. And the SOUTH! I’ve never been to the south.
More crazy ideas: There’s a three mast sailing ship built by hand in the style of a seventeenth century HMS from the British Navy – it’s docked in Boston and sailing to Maine next year. I want to convince Kelly to join the crew for a couple weeks. You get free room and board in exchange for working, and you get to learn how to sail. The best part: this was discovered on craigslist rideshare.
And then there’s Argentina. If we went there, it would be for at least a year. Kelly would get a teaching job, I’d become a dishwasher or cab driver or maybe a courtesan, and we could take weekend trips to anywhere in South America.
(I really want to take Kelly to Europe – he’s never been. That will have to happen in a few years, though. I’ve been a twice and we both agreed that the next place we go should be somewhere completely foreign to both of us. Plus, Europe is a little expensive.)
So, friends. I need to start determining my next course. If you were bat shit crazy and irresponsible like me, what would you do? Think of it this way: if you had cut all of your ties at home, and you had the freedom to roam anywhere on the face of the earth and do anything you wanted, what would you do? I am open to any ideas/suggestions/tongue lashings/whatever.
Due to the popularity of last week’s guest blogger, I have decided to have another this week. The following entry is written by my soul sister and partner-in-crime, Elizabeth Proctor. My normal entries will follow.
I can feel that this is changing me, and that the change is irrevocable. The things I once hated I have grown to love the most. I love not having access to the internet. I love being unreachable to everyone but my fellow cabin-dwellers. I love living each day simply to live it, to prepare meals, listen to music, workout, read, and write. I can no longer picture a life not immersed in nature. I can’t research a concept I am curious about with a mere click of a mouse and I can’t read the daily news, which sometimes still feels crippling. But I am learning how much to feed the chickens in order to produce the most eggs, which food waste to compost and which to brew into natural pesticide, how to distract an angered bull long enough to get by him, and how to walk two miles barefoot in the mud under sheets of rain and an ethereal flashing sky of thunder and lightning.
This life is so much more basic than my previous one -- not to say easier. It’s true that I have no deadlines, due dates, nor obligations outside of keeping the plants and animals alive. But it takes an entire day to do a load of laundry -- a day that must be strategically chosen for one that seems less likely to end up in downpour -- a choice that must be intuitively made based not on weather reports, but simple observation of the sky. Here, getting from point A to point B means that you walk. It doesn’t matter if there is a road conveniently leading in your direction, if the weather is agreeable, if you have to wade through a river and spend the next five hours soaked up to your waist, or if there are venomous snakes lurking in tall grasses. Here, if you want to eat something, you make it. It doesn’t matter if you don’t have all of the preferred ingredients when the closest grocery store is a two-hour-long journey away, if the bread takes three hours to rise, if you forgot to soak beans overnight, or if there is a power outage.
Here, if you think you are hearing someone screaming bloody murder, you are probably in close proximity of the wild parrots. If you notice someone peering in the kitchen window in curiosity, it’s probably the sloth that lives in the trees surrounding the house. Here there is no crime rate. Here, the fear of walking outside at night means that you are watching out for coiled snakes in the path, rather than defensively clutching your wallet or your rape whistle. Here, the world is still so natural, raw, and thriving that everything only wants to live and defend itself. The rainforest does not lend its inhabitants the nasty habit of preying on others for material or psychological gain.
I am learning about myself as well. I am finding emotional buttons I never knew I had, and opening up to people I never thought I’d open up to. I am discovering the limits of my knowledge, of my conversational skills, of my grief, and of my comfort. I am learning which comforts I am willing to sacrifice and which take precedent -- they are different for all of us. I am becoming increasingly interested in yoga, in learning which arcane positions I can twist my body into, how to deepen my breathing and synchronize movement with inhales and exhales, and how to still my mind. I am learning that I can fall asleep easily enough to the sound of cicadas, bullfrogs, and crickets, but that rainstorms mean that I will be up for a few hours. I am learning how to communicate through a language barrier, how to remember new words and phrases, and that despite cultural differences, the language of human emotion is universal.
Returning to San Francisco will be the real challenge. I’m not sure how to survive in the city now that I’ve learned how to live with the jungle. Now, the city seems like a far more dangerous, intimidating realm with predators lurking around every corner, with plastered obstructions hiding genuine sentiment, with psychological vices far more perilous than booze or sex, where constant struggling is masked by the façade of a smile, and where social warfare is the most carnivorous, venomous, and bloody of all crusades. It’s funny how my fear has remained stagnant throughout these past months, with only the modification of source. Originally, coming here was the nightmare that I was going to have to learn to live in. Now, my thoughts of leaving offer me the same uncanny disquiet that I felt only three months ago as I packed my bags full of insect repellant, pain relievers, sunscreen and poncho. I suppose that, like the dwellers of the rainforest, each one of us only wants to survive, in whatever way our environment allows. But if I’ve learned anything above all else, I’ve learned how adaptable we really are.
My days here are limited. But I don’t doubt that I will learn to live with, and even love, the city life once again, though perhaps through an altered set of eyes. But even as I type this, I can’t help but doubt the so-called substance offered by a life of rules and regulations, of time limits, careers, weekends, vacation hours and loans. I’m not sure why this sphere of living has been the one implicitly referred to by the phrase “the real world,” but I do know that my own personal definition of such a phrase will always be one that is drastically opposite -- perhaps one more enlightened, perhaps regretfully wistful.
-- E. Proctor, October 2010
October 24th, 2010 –
Mentiras y Mosquitos.
I’ve been having a hard time sorting out my thoughts – determining what I’ll put in my blog. I feel dishonest, though, writing for an audience. It’s almost as if an invisible censor is in place before my thoughts even emerge. Before my sentences are articulated, I imagine them being on this blog. Getting feedback. Praise. I enjoy compliments – does that make me intolerably pretentious? Philosophical, poetic, brilliant – all words that my kind readership have used in reference to my banal linguistic traipses. I don’t know if any of those adjectives should be taken as compliments. I don’t want to come across as pretentious. I don’t want to be perceived as one of those self-proclaimed “intellectuals” who hides behind polysyllabic words and the habitual regurgitation of unoriginal ideas. The fact remains, however, that my latent hatred for elitism just solidifies my position as an elitist. It’s an itchy paradox. Or maybe it’s just the mosquito bites that are making my skin crawl.
I build a rhythm. I start from my bony ankles and wrap my fingers gently around their circumference, tracing the outline of bone and sinew as I dig my nails in deeper. Tingles rush through my body like electricity as my fingertips tear up those little mounds of pocked flesh. My hands move up my calves and to my knees – leaving a trail of bloody holes – scorched earth behind them. The barely-opaque pallor of my legs is tinged with a twisting sanguine stream. I stop scratching for a second – despite the exquisitely ceaseless penetration of my fingers through my epidermis – jouissance is never reached. My hands fall limp at my sides. There is an empty moment teasing me with a brief exhale of comfort. It is immediately followed by a pervasive stinging-turned-burning-turned-searing as the blood trickles in drops down my dry skin.
Is getting called erudite a compliment?
October 26, 2010
I’ve been playing a lot of chess lately. I beat Kelly and Liz but I have yet to beat Six. They're all outstanding players, and I've probably lost two games for every game won. I’ve been studying famous openings from the masters and I memorized the grid and algebraic number system used to describe transcribe notable games. It’s actually fascinating.
When I was little, I played frequently but I always lost. I realize now that it was because I never looked more than a move ahead. I was extremely offensive (ha! still am…) and I didn’t take into account the future impact of my decisions occurring in the present. I’d delight in taking an enemy bishop. Before I was even done relishing in my victory, my queen would be gone. It’s funny how my cultivation of life skills and certain elements of common sense made me an excruciatingly better chess player. The same skills used to excel in strategic chess maneuvers are most definitely applicable in “real” life, whatever that means.
I went on a run in the torrential downpour yesterday. It was one of the most exhilarating workouts I’ve ever had. It was probably only a mile and a half in total. The majority of it, however, was uphill. The terrain here is also extremely rocky, so It’s difficult to maintain a good pace when you’re always watching your footing. I made it to the cemetery and back. The cemetery here is about a 20 minute hike away from the house. It’s old and overgrown – overlooking vast sprawling hills concealed by lush cloud forests. Kelly and I hiked there together last week. We sat in the center under the orange tree and sucked the juice from fruit that otherwise would remain uneaten. I’m not sure who planted that tree, or what sort of recycled carbon brought it to fruition, but these oranges were vibrant. Kelly picked apart his carefully and sucked on the pulpy sections one by one. I bit into mine and tore off half of it, letting the juices spill down my chin and onto my dress. I think it would be apt to say that our methods of consumption closely mirror our analytical approaches. Kelly is meticulously Aristotelian; disassembling, categorizing, and dissecting until the whole has been completely dismantled. I, on the other hand, am ravenous and destructive. See: Stephen Crane’s poem “In the Desert”.
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter--bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."
In other news, I can almost do the “crow” position in yoga. I think if I practice every day, I'll be able to do it in a few weeks. It looks like this:
I am going to become a renaissance woman if it kills me. I want to excel at everything.
There is something I have been meaning to do for some time. I've been wanting other people on this adventure to share their thoughts here. I finally did an adequate amount of convincing! The following blog is written by my ball and chain, Kelly. If you don't know him, he's a genius. More of his excellently articulated observations can be found here: http://doctorkneel.blogspot.com
My usual banal updates are posted below this one. Enjoy!
“Welcome to the jungle.”
After eagerly awaiting every new entry on this blog for two months as I worked my soul-killing white-collar job in the stoic thousandfold recirculated airs of an office in Irvine, the gap between present and past has collapsed and erupted. Last Sunday October 10th, I finally arrived in San Jose, Costa Rica. What is it like, to leave one life and begin another? What is that time like, between endings and beginnings, where all has yet to be decided, and the sheer multiplicity of the possible is beheld in and as itself?
If you haven't caught on yet, this is not Jessica writing. I am her boyfriend, whom she has mentioned a few times in these entries.
What is the truth of a reality – except the intersection of the multiplicity of perspectives that mutually experience it? Although I am by no means as talented, articulate, or as mellifluous a writer as Jessica, I thought to put my pen to paper – my fingers to keys – and give you, her small yet devoted readership, a different angle on her reality.
It has been six days since I arrived here, and before then I had never traveled abroad. My first 23 years were lived, with minor exception, within the confines of Orange County, California. What is it like, to be so suddenly torn from one's accustomed patterns of life, to dive into something new and entirely alien? There is something in all of us that recoils from such a radical shift. Even those who love novelties do so only within a framework of familiarity. Some may kayak, some may free-climb mountains, some may run marathons – but for how long do these novelties distance them from their customary reality? Of course, this is not to say that these momentary difficulties are not difficult, but only that they are fleeting. It is the difference between doing something exceptional once, and making the exception itself one's way of life.
Just as we are all repulsed, and pull back revolted from the notion of change, so too do we feel ourselves drawn in by it. That which is feared is also desired. In everyone with whom I had an association before I left Orange County, I sensed both attraction and revulsion over the idea of living on a remote farm in the Costa Rican rainforest for three months. Some would ostensibly express their attraction while a certain revulsion lay dormant; others would demonstrate their revulsion with panicked words and lingering pleading glances, while still yet hiding a secret yearning.
On a highly abstract level, I am interested to know wherein this tangle of fear and desire finds its origin and drive. Why do we fear it – so much? Why do we long for it – so much? In our daily lives, we are accustomed to having everyday desires and fears. Is that car going to hit me? Will she give me her number? Will I get that perfect job offer? When will I ever graduate? We are assaulted by possibilities at every moment, but nothing we ordinarily want or fear has the same immensity as the unanswered hyperquestion:
Costa Rica.
Hardly even a phrase and yet still a question, it thuds against your chest when you dare to think it possible. Questions aren't supposed to fall, hard. They are supposed to lilt and lift themselves upward, easing you into response, never breaking the smooth social rhythm of stimulus-response-stimulus for long enough to give yourself what you used to always want: a real choice.
I write all of this, perhaps unnecessarily, but perhaps also to tell you simply this. The thing you want most, whatever it is, is closer than you would ever dare to dream.
The distance between you and yourself is infinitesimal, and only appears large due to doubt. Doubt is many things to many people. We find in it a comfort, a method, a safeguard, even also a foe. But despite all this relativity, there is certainty to be found. The constitution and makeup of reality consists largely in our participation within it. In interacting with reality, we create reality.
There is such a thing as choice, and all choices are made. We don't want it to be so easy as that. A choice is what you make when you're at the grocery store, wondering whether to buy name-brand or store-brand. It may make a difference, but it will never make much of one. Choices are mundane, frivolous, conditional. How could something so flighty be made to determine a life? Too much of choice is left to chance for us to feel confident in leaving our fates to it. Our despairing souls cry out imploringly: “Doesn't it all mean more than that?”
Perhaps there is a fate or a destiny. If there is, I know yet nothing of it.
But I can say this: I am here. Things have changed, and radically. And it was simpler than I ever hoped to think.
Today is Friday, and much has passed since I arrived. It's amazing how much can happen while time still lingers, trickling like sap, stretching out like syrup. Things are slower here. It can be a blessing; it can be a curse. But, as I remind myself often and in frequently surprising contexts, simply because something is different does not make it worse. Difference is simply and only difference. I think that we are all prone to react against the unfamiliar. Perhaps it is an evolved instinct, because what you don't know really could kill you. But instinct is not the highest realization of wisdom. We are capable of more.
I know that Jessica has attempted to make this blog as little philosophical as possible. Maybe I am retreating into the world of the abstract in order to protect myself from the frightening reality of the present. Or maybe all of this is just as much a product of this experience as a catalog detailing daily events and observations would be.
The sounds of the jungle are both pleasing and grating. The heavy pitter-patter of the rain rumbling against the rooftop is very soothing – that is, until you have to go out in it. And the chatter of the chickens is absurdly disruptive as you're listening to the nocturnes of Chopin – that is, until you get a craving for scrambled eggs. It's like that with many things, here and anywhere else. In all good things, there is some bad; in all bad things, some good. Keeping clearly aware of this strange dynamic of opposition brings one to learn, bit by bit and steadily, to withhold from the instinct and habit of valuation. The rooster is crowing – must it already be good or bad? Why can't it simply be?
In civilization, things are so easy that our survival instinct withers and becomes an uncanny distortion of itself. With all our comforts assured, a quiet anxiety creeps into everything, and nothing is plain enough that it could not pose a threat. Everything we experience demands a valuating reaction. There is a new employee on my floor. Quick, how do I feel about it? There is a crack in my windshield. Quick, how can I mend it?
All this urgency, all this high tension. Why do we do it? Why do we torture ourselves with so many minutiae? With our lives and comforts assured, the survival instinct loses its raison d'etre, and must fight for its own survival. Suddenly, everything becomes a matter of life and death. We will say, “Yes, I know that either way it will be fine, but nevertheless I worry”. How little we realize our own fortune! How remarkable it is, that habit can so unequivocally level all of the most extraordinary things, reducing every favor to an obligation, and every privilege to a right.
What is the answer? A man has to get away from himself. And how does one do that? Each of us will answer differently, and so I will keep the question open, as a challenge, as an opportunity. Because we all need to rebel – we all need to be someone else, if even for just a time. Who will you be to find out who you are? What will you risk in hopes to gain anew? And when is the right time – except now?
The last two days have been trying. Needless to say, I have definitely leveled up in the badassery department. Yesterday I got stung by a scorpion and bitten by a horse. I know, the horse one is kind of humorous, but it was so fucking painful. I was doing a morning walk from the volunteer dormitory (where Kelly and I are staying…wink wink). The female horse, India, was blocking one of the gates I had to pass through. Normally she’s really well mannered and affectionate. I’m still not sure what triggered her attack. I didn’t make any sudden movements. Liz also taught me that if a horse’s ears are ever back, it means that they’re angry and shouldn’t be approached. India was acting normal. As I approached the gate, she reared forward and took a chunk out of my stomach. Thank god I had a shirt on. This happened yesterday morning and my stomach is still black and blue. It hurt a lot. Little did I know, the fun was just beginning. The horse was merely an aperitif – an hors d’oeuvre. The scintillating main course was still on its way. So, as far as animal attacks go, I always take preventative measures. I’m pretty responsible and I’ve acquired a lot of knowledge about averting and treating bites (especially snakes) since I’ve been here. I am especially cautious of scorpions. I always shake my shoes and fully inspect my clothes before dressing. I shake my sheets before crawling into bed. So, on the occasion, I had hung up my towel to dry the previous night. I wanted to take a shower, so I went into my room, undressed, and began to wrap the towel around me. I mean, I wanted to make my way to the shower without being too indecent. Suddenly I was struck with a searing pain on my side about six inches away from my horse bite (ha. yeah. It’s okay to laugh. I just chuckled as I wrote that. Zombie horses for the win). It felt like a white hot knife burning and tearing my flesh. I immediately screamed and dropped the towel, completely unaware of what had caused the pain. I have an incredibly high pain tolerance, and I was whimpering and tears were streaming down my face. Kelly immediately rushed in and was really concerned. He’s too good to me. Although I was incapacitated, I was able to gesture to my towel just as the scorpion’s ugly head emerged from beneath a fold. It was smaller than others I’d seen. For this I was mistakenly grateful. Later I learned that the smaller the scorpion, the more potent the venom. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Kelly, without hesitating, grabbed his copy of The Gallic Wars by Caesar(in Latin, of course) and smashed it until it stopped flailing. Caesar is such a badass that he still murders centuries after his death. Kelly sat next to me for an indeterminate amount of time. For at least ten minutes, probably longer, all I could do was sit. It was excruciating. I’ve never felt such searing pain like that. I would get my wrist tattoos done over and over again for decades before choosing to dance with a scorpion again. Liz, being the genius that she is, busted out the snake bite kit that I brought with me (which, up until now, we had been fortunate enough not to have to use). She unfolded the instructions and discovered a section on scorpion stings. The best part of that paragraph: “If you get stung by a scorpion, seek medical attention immediately.” Well, considering the fact that going to the hospital was a complete logistical impossibility, she proceeded to follow the instructions. She sucked the venom out with the syringe, stopping for three minute intervals to replace it with an ice pack. This method seemed to be pretty successful, however, I still felt loopy for about ten hours after. The neurotoxins in the venom definitely made me see things – my head felt hazy and my entire right side was overwhelmed with a dull ache for the majority of the day. I feel significantly better now though.
Later, same day:
Kelly and I have been working out together. He is basically training me – he’s really good. He could easily do it for a living. He is going to use my progression pictures, even from before we were dating. Hahaha. At first I wasn’t sure how the dynamic would be with him training me. I was worried that maybe I’d be less motivated or more self conscious. Wrong. Having him stand over me, all intimidating and such, just makes my performance improve exponentially. We did a really decent workout. It was at least an hour of constant pain. I won’t even go into detail about all the exercises we did. Basically, he’ll work me until one muscle group is completely fucking maxed out, and then he’ll make me do the exact same thing with another. Then, after endless sets and reps, we’ll do uphill and downhill lunges. Then sprints. Then run back to the house. I am completely destroyed.
Oh, since I’m a masochist, I went up to do yoga with Liz and Six about 20 minutes after my death workout. I only stayed for a few poses. My muscles were searing, and my whole body would twitch and shake uncontrollably after about two minutes into each pose. On my way back, the cows were blocking the entrance to the farm. I tried to walk around them and ended up getting charged by one of the bulls. Yeah, this is not a joke. So, even after my muscles were completely demolished, I somehow had enough strength to outrun the bull up a steep hill and dart under the barbed wire before I was trampled to death. The animals are conspiring against me, I swear. I ended up cutting around the side of the lot down a sloping muddy hill. I got caught in knee deep mud and almost couldn’t maneuver my way out. I eventually made it back. Kelly just laughed at me. After showering I basically just collapsed. Kelly gave me a back rub and it made it all worthwhile. I kind of love him a little bit.
October 17th, 2010
The sun is beginning to peak over the ridge. Kelly is up sleeping in the volunteer house. Liz and Six are doing yoga on the platform at the top of the hill. I’m sitting at the table – the sunlight beginning to warm my back – blasting the Beach Boys.
Gotta keep those lovin’ good vibrations a-happenin with her –
Gotta keep those lovin’ good vibrations a-happenin with her --
Gotta keep those lovin’ good vibrations a-happenin………
These harmonies kill me. They’re so tightly orchestrated. No wonder Brian Wilson went crazy. That’s what happens when you have to do copious amounts of drugs in order to live with your own genius.
Last night, all four of us pitched in and made a feast. Kelly bought some fresh tilapia last time we were in town. I made pasta with a delicious Cajun jambalaya sauce from scratch. I let it simmer for a long time – I added fresh hot peppers, bell peppers, cayenne pepper, paprika, freshly ground peppercorns… the list goes on. I wouldn’t be able to recreate it exactly if I tried. Kelly seared the tilapia in butter with just a little salt. The flavor in the pasta was enough.
My music just shuffled to Coconut Records:
And if you shake her hard enough she will appear – it rains a lot this time of year—
The gods of music love me this morning.
We also made a salad with fresh avocado, cheese, onion, and organic lettuce. I tossed it with a homemade oil and vinegar dressing. Liz made orange juice with the tapa dulce and six or seven freshly picked oranges. We had screwdrivers with dinner. We discussed philosophy and politics over our spicy tilapia and rich libations – all while listening to Puccini.
After a few more drinks and a toke or two, we pulled out the Tarot cards. I read Kelly. His cards were startlingly accurate. I don’t remember what they were specifically, but the past talked about peace in a certain routine and the pursuit of wisdom. It also revealed, however, a certain degree of stagnancy in that routine. The present card signified change – the completion of an important decision or a significant physical transition. It also warned him specifically of a Leo person who was holding him back, “inhibiting his creativity and his ability to be fully happy.” We all laughed at this. The future card signified happiness and spiritual wealth based on the outcome of his present decision.
As a disclaimer: I don’t believe in divination. I think fortune telling is a load of bunk. The universe is completely entropic and determinism is just an adult fairy tale. I do, however, love the ritualistic aspect of tarot cards and I see them as a tool used to grant one a new perspective on certain situations.
Six read my cards. He had a really interesting technique. For Kelly’s, we looked up the description of each card. Six made me pick each one from the deck myself and study it. He never once opened the book. He asked me what resonated with me – what I saw in it. My present self was “The Star”. It was beautiful. The image was very fluid and in tune with the world around her – my future was “Lust” or “Power”. I think this signified a lust for life – a power gained in coming to my full potential, in becoming exactly who I want to be. It’s funny, because the figures in the Star card and the Lust card were extremely similar. The Star was just hunched slightly and Lust had her head thrown back and her arms out while she was mounted on a chimerical beast – life. She held the reigns. That’s me. That’s what I’m turning into here.
my past -- defeat
lust/power -- my future self
the star -- my present self
Side note – I’m using the Crowley deck. It’s the most beautiful tarot deck I’ve ever seen. If you ever develop an interest in tarot, I’d highly recommend getting this one. It’s amazing. Liz actually is thinking about getting the Princess of Swords and/or The Universe image tattooed on her before we leave. Six wants the images from the Art and Science cards juxtaposed. That would be sexy. Oh, and the Magus and the Fool. So incredible.
Now: A Sea Shanty of Sorts – Margot and the Nuclear So and So’s.
She smiles at me as she is falling asleep, says we’ve got to live the best we know how...
