Update time!

August 21^st, 2010 – 6:02 p.m.

I just got back from working out and I feel amazing. I upped my repetitions and time on the exercises I’ve been doing and my whole body is on fire. I also ran a few hills. I can almost do the largest one (probably 40 feet or so at a straight incline) without being  short of breath. I decided today on a few goals. When I get home, even though I’m sure I’ll at my goal weight by then, I’m going to intensify my training exponentially. I’d like to do a triathlon before I turn 23, and a marathon before I turn 25. I think those are both realistic goals. I turn 23 next May. I also have decided that with every decade older I become, I will have been to as many countries as my age. For example, when I turn 30, I would ideally like to have visited 30 countries by then.  After this year, I still only have nine though. I’d say that isn’t too bad, considering I didn’t even have my first plane ride until I was 16, and every trip I’ve ever taken has been entirely on my own dime. No help from anyone else. I’m also excited – by the time I leave here in January, I’ll be fluent in three languages. Considering I was raised only learning one, I’d count it as an accomplishment. Maybe I’m trying to justify my choice to travel instead of finishing my BA first. Somehow though, innately, I’m not concerned about it. I know I’m going to spend at least a decade in stuffy libraries and classrooms when I’m getting my MA and PhD. In those arduous yet necessary moments, I’ll have my memories  of traveling to keep me motivated. Right? That was an articulate enough justification. I’ll accept it.

I feel incredibly over-stimulated today. I read a few hundred pages of Heidegger, Zizek, and Duformantelle. I also completed two Yale lectures from an open course on literary theory and hermeneutics. I’m so glad I downloaded it before I left. Listening to a lecture and taking notes is a nice break from so much text. I feel ravenous and cannibalistic about the knowledge I’m acquiring. Many of the minds I’ve been delving into – Heidegger, Nietzsche, Spinoza, Kierkegaard, Levinas, Lacan, Derrida, Foucault – they require an extensive preamble and background in order to understand them. At least, that’s what my “professor” said. Haha. I laughed when I heard that in the lecture. This is a graduate course at an ivy league school, and I’m already familiar with a majority of the material from my own personal studies. Somehow, I’m skipping all of the background. I have gone directly to most of the texts with little or no peripheral information.  I’m diving straight in and just chewing on it, bite by bite, forcing myself to acquire a taste for it. I will be honest – it’s incredibly difficult to digest at first. I have to force myself to masticate and swallow over and over again – I’m sure there are many morsels that remain untouched. It is liberating, however, to be completely free from the interpretations of other thinkers. My thoughts may not be as developed or as sophisticated as theirs, but I’m learning fast. I’m jumping in the deep end instead of first learning how to tread water. Wow. Too many metaphors. Well, I shouldn’t be apologetic. I guess language itself is fundamentally metaphorical; it is argued that man can never go beyond an entirely metaphoric description of the world. I’m learning slowly that I am not a nominalist – I have a hard time believing that words correspond precisely to sensations. If that were true, they would constitute the only foundation for knowledge. Maybe I’m channeling Wittgenstein right now, but I would sooner believe that concepts are the best metaphors for what is perceived by the senses.  I don’t mean to be pretentious. I made a promise to myself early on (that I have clearly broken) that I would refrain from too many philosophical speculations in this blog. I can’t help it – philosophy has incited a hunger in me that moves along an unknown horizon – one that is entirely mediated by the limits of language and the limits of philosophy’s own ability interrogate language. Therefore, since this I am conveying these thoughts using language, my tangential diarrhea is completely relevant.

Also: I’ve rediscovered how much I love broccoli. Probably the best snack ever.

August 22, 2010 – 8:30 a.m.

I was self indulgent this morning and slept in until 5:23. Hahaha. Oscar won’t let me sleep past 5:30 though. His shrieks increase in frequency and volume until he sees me approaching with his food. Then, like the alpha male cock that he is, he pushes all the hens out of the way and proceeds to chomp on the grain ravenously. It’s really humorous. They don’t even put up a fight, They just wait until he’s done to eat. It’s actually kind of sad.

I’m incredibly sore today from my workout yesterday. I think I might actually be developing some upper body strength. My core is achy too, which is good. I don’t want to be just a pair of legs supporting a formless blob.

The neighbors invited me to their house this morning at 9 – I guess today is mother’s day in Costa Rica. Anyway, I guess they’re having beer and lots of food and stuff. I wanted to go, but for some reason I just felt like staying at the farm today. I don’t want to sabotage myself: I’ve been doing so well, and I know I’ll probably just go crazy and make myself sick with alcohol and bad food. Instead, I stayed here, went for a run before it got too hot, and spent awhile making a delicious scramble with fresh vegetables. I sautéed some garlic, then added onion and broccoli. Next: eggs, crushed red pepper, and diced tomatoes on top coupled with an inhuman amount of Tabasco sauce. Since it’s Sunday, I kept the yolks in. I know, I’m living on the edge taking a day off from my egg whites. Regardless, it was DELICIOUS. I am so spoiled being able to have all of these organic vegetables at my disposal. Even if I have to purchase vegetables in town, they are all wholesome and pesticide free. I guess it’s (almost) a fair trade off for having to defecate in a bucket.

August 23, 2010 – 5:41 p.m.

I think I’ve gotten over the largest chunk of my homesickness. I feel so in my element here. I am inexorably happy. I’ve never been in better shape; never had a clearer head. The climate is perfect. At night, the rain cools the earth and air and it sooths me to sleep. It’s so placid. Muy tranquilo. Another raging dichotomy that makes life better: It is sunny and bright and hot during the day – humid and scorching. I always break a sweat outside when I’m working. My clothes get soaked through. It’s an amazing sensation. I can feel my muscles getting stronger. My endurance is better than it has ever been. I’m becoming the person I’ve always dreamed of being – the difference is that now, I’m actually making it happen. I’ve also never felt smarter. I’ve been spending four or five hours a day reading. It’s so addicting. Even though I don’t really watch television, I was regretting at first not downloading any movies or shows on my computer. Now, after I got over the initial shock of reading so much, I don’t regret it in the least. Six months with no visual distractions. The only distractions I’m really allowing myself are facebook and email. I check both of those a couple times a day. That’s another reason why it’s easier to be this far from home – those media of communication make me feel closer to people. It’s nice being able to remain in your lives in some way – even if it is minute, digital, and insignificant. It is the minutiae of life that end up comprising the significant things after all. Most of all, though, I’ve been overwhelmed by the positive responses I’ve received regarding my blog. I’ve been getting many emails, comments, and messages encouraging me to keep writing. You guys have no idea how much easier that has made my transition to living here. It also helped Liz a lot when she first got here – the network of support that came together for her at a tough time made all the difference. So thank you for the astonishing 100+hits a day. It means more than you realize.

Now, back to my feral-childlike narcissism (yes, I am going to come back unable to speak ANYTHING and looking like I was raised by wolves – yet I’ll still find a way to be relentlessly pretentious). I am definitely on my way to confronting all of my fears and becoming a modern day renaissance woman. I am slowly getting over my fear of small heights. See, I’m not afraid of sky scrapers, plane rides, canyons, etc… it’s ladders, ledges, 10 foot drops that get me every time. They basically catalyze this weird kind of vertigo within me and I can’t move. It’s one of my only really tangible fears, but its debilitating; especially since I like adventuring so much. I think it’s because I’ve spent so many years of my life being chronically uncoordinated and clumsy. I can’t even roller skate because I’m so afraid of falling. My friend Eryn has seen it. That was one of the worst nights of my life. I will never consider playing roller derby again, even when I’m not gigantic. Anyway, to combat this fear, I have been scaling the sides of steep hills and climbing trees. It’s terrifying for several reasons. One, I don’t always know how strong the branches are. Even though I’m not two bills anymore, I’m still not the most waif-like creature in the world. Two, if I fall and get hurt, I’m already a good distance away from any means of contacting anyone for help. The farm house is a good four or five acres away from the orchard in which I’ve been adventuring (it’s still on our land…this place is almost 50 acres. Imagine that, Southern Californians, a lot that is more than a concrete patio and a flower box). Also, even if I were to traverse back to the house with a broken something, there is no emergency dispatch anything that could make its way up here. Thank god for the neighbors. I know I’m going to have some ridiculous emergency at some point, and it will probably really embarrassing. Not badass at all. No, not a snake bite. Nope, not a machete wound either. Yeah, I don’t want to be the one who got my hand stuck in the peanut butter jar in Costa Rica and had to go to the emergency room on horseback. Let’s just pray to the God I don’t believe in that nothing of the sort will happen, and I’ll keep reading Nietzsche until I am smote down.

Now I’m listening to Serbian gypsy music and making myself a cocktail. Before you judge me, I need to soothe my sore muscles. I have to stay hydrated! I’ll be honest, life doesn’t get much better.

August 24, 2010 – 2:22 p.m.

I will never tire of this downpour. I’m getting to the point where I can read Heidegger at normal speed and understand his inversions and cryptic turns of phrase almost immediately. I still don’t know Spanish.  My priorities have never been set straight. I don’t feel like writing much. I’m in more of a reading mood.

I’m really upset that I finished the scotch. Now – back to confronting the Nothing in the face of my metaphysical anxiety.

4:12 p.m.

Went for a run in the rain. Then, since I was still wet, I put on my bathing suit top and rubber boots. I  went outside for an epic walk around the farm and through the foliage in my underwear. It was amazing. I forgot about everything. There are no expectations here – unless I build them myself.

Also: I have 38 bug bites, nearly half of which are on my hands. This is impressive considering the amount of time I spend naked here.

August 25, 2010 – 2:14 p.m.

Well, I had my first near death experience today. Ironically, nothing else makes you appreciate life more. So, I woke up at the same time I always do. I fed the chickens, got dressed, fed the cat. (Yes, I got dressed AFTER I fed the chickens. I don’t want to begin to count the times I’ve gone out there in my underwear). So, I decided (unintelligently!) to wear a flannel OVER my long sleeved shirt and long pants (which were tucked into my boots). I basically built an oven of heat around myself.  My reasoning was since the flannel had a hood, I would be preventing bug bites /unwanted friends nesting in my hair. I was planning on leveling a particularly treacherous foliage-ridden area; I didn’t want to come back with acres of bug bites. I also wore gloves. Keep in mind, in the morning here before the sun rises it’s pretty chilly. This changed quickly. Oh, for clarification, “leveling” is when you take a machete and hack all of the weeds/plants/trees etc growing in a specific area.  It’s basically weeding on steroids, but you’re the weed whacker. My target today was a few acres large and also a decent walk away from the farm. So, I grabbed my machete and trotted off. I went through the papaya grove, down a winding path, into the hills of horse pasture, trudged slowly down those (They’re REALLY steep!), under the barbed wire fence, across the stream, down another hill, and I was there. I worked heartily for about an hour and a half. Then, the sun rose. I started getting really exhausted and sweaty, more so than usual. There is normally a certain degree of exhaustion and sweat that is catalyzed by work like this, but it’s never unbearable. I mean, it’s never easy, but it’s good for me. This was different. I was getting incredibly light headed, and my vision started blurring. I somehow didn’t make the connection that I was covered in layers and that I wasn’t getting any oxygen or air circulation. So, I decided I should probably head back. I walked up the hill, was feeling more winded than normal, I crossed the river and shimmied under the barbed wire fence. Then, upon standing up, that’s where it hit me. Everything started spinning and I couldn’t breathe. I literally could hear my heart beating in my ear drums, and I felt it slow down right before I passed out. That is the last thing I remember before going unconscious. A little while later I roused back into consciousness. I knew immediately where I was, but I had no concept of how much time had passed. The sun didn’t look too much higher in the sky, so based on my estimation it was probably only about 20 or 25 minutes. I tried to sit up and was immediately overwhelmed by nausea and dizziness. I laid down again. I kept fighting myself over and over until finally I told myself that I was going to lay there for five minutes and catch my breath. I removed my sweatshirt and my long sleeved shirt. This helped immediately. I evened my breathing, and sat up. It was much easier this time. When I tried to stand, however, my vision went completely blurred and I could barely make out lights and darks, let alone shapes. I fell back to the ground. I have never felt so powerless as I did at that moment. I was at the bottom of an incredibly steep hill, a good 30 or 40 minute hike back up under normal circumstances. It seemed impossible. I knew that one of the workers might find me tomorrow or the next day if I didn’t make it back, but I didn’t know how long I would last there. I evened my breathing again. I wouldn’t let that be a possibility. I started climbing. I forced myself up with my hands and arms, clawing and pulling at roots and thick weeds – anything that would give me leverage to pull myself up. It was absolutely exhausting. My legs had little strength left in them. Every time I tried to get solid footing, they would slip and I’d slide back a few feet, undoing my progress. I eventually developed a rhythm. I’d climb for six minutes and rest my head for three. I used my clothes as support for my head and I tried to stay in the shade whenever possible. When I finally made it back up to the trail that led to the papaya grove, I forced myself up only to collapse three steps later. I then waited five minutes, and forced myself up again. I didn’t stop until I reached the house. I stumbled inside, stripped off my clothes. I then went to the fridge, grabbed the cold filtered water I had just filled that morning (luckily!) and downed it. I passed out in my bed after that. I was pretty incoherent for the next 45 minutes or so, but I kept forcing myself to drink water. After that, I felt almost normal. My head still hurts a little and I feel groggy, but I know I’ll be fine. I’ve been drinking water like it’s scotch.

Anyway, I learned the following lessons:

I’m never layering like that again. Ever. Let my flesh be a smorgasbord for mosquitoes, I don’t care. The discomfort and itching pales in comparison to passing out in cow manure.

I’m not going to go that far away from the farm when it’s only me here. Luckily Liz comes back in two days (YAY) and we have walkie talkies, so I can give her my coordinates next time I do something stupid and she will rescue me.

If I had an early dinner the night before, I HAVE to eat something before I go out to work. I ate my last meal at 5 p.m. the day before and went to bed at 8. That is way too much time between meals. Normally my meals are pretty steady. I’ll work for a few hours in the morning, eat breakfast, and then work some more before lunch. But in this scenario, I’m sure my low blood sugar didn’t help the situation.

Lastly: aside from my stupidity, I’m a badass. I have a lot more faith in myself now knowing that I could get into a life-threatening situation and get myself out of it based on sheer will. I can’t believe I maintained such a cool head through that whole thing. Even when it was hard to breathe, I didn’t hyperventilate. Most of all, I was patient. I have never seen myself as a patient person, but I guess I’m learning.

“I admit my limitations – but I’m not going to accept them.”

4:19 p.m.

The electricity is out and a storm is coming. Awesome. Today is just not my day. Power outages here are pretty frequent though. The Costa Rican government controls all of the electricity, phone service, etc… and if it’s being used too much in a certain region, they’ll just shut it off. I have never had it last this long though. Oh. Spoke too soon. There it is.

6:49 p.m.

So, all of the lights work, but none of the outlets are functioning (except for the one connected to the fridge – luckily – or I would have a bug infestation in a matter of hours…maybe even minutes.) I hope it’s just a breaker I need to flip or something. I really don’t want to have to screw with the electrical stuff myself. Luckily my computer has a 10 hour battery life, and I can charge the cell phone via the USB port on my computer. Technology really is my crutch. Someday, I will try this again, but with NOTHING. Although, to be fair, I’ve really only used my computer for music and writing. Okay, and playing Heroes of Might and Magic once in awhile. I probably would go insane (even more so) without music. It makes the difference between me enjoying being alone and me hating it. I play Frank Sinatra and Edith Piaf in the kitchen while I’m cooking. I have a 20s music playlist for when I’m drinking scotch. This one includes Gershwin, Duke Ellington, Fanny Brice, and Johnny Hamp’s Kentucky Serenade among others.  I have tango music and Chopin for when I’m dining. Radiohead for when I’m writing. The Avett Brothers, Bon Iver, The National, and Bright Eyes for when I’m feeling nostalgic and homesick. Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash for when I’m sharpening my machetes and cleaning my boots. I even have tribal music for when I’m falling asleep. It really fits here.

8:23 p.m.

I’m using that old trick from my childhood to see how close the storm is. The lightning flashes – I start counting (as I use my fingers out of habit – out of necessity) One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Each Mississippi until I hear the thunder, that’s one mile.

The boisterous rumbling shakes my shack and I’m two and a half Mississippis away from torrential downpour.

And now, I wait.

 It doesn’t matter that night has fallen – the ensemble of wildlife never ceases to perform.  Even in the midst of the thunderstorm, it continues. It’s almost like an accompaniment. Right now – I can hear the macaws and crickets and cicadas preparing their symphony – an orchestra warming up in their pit below the stage. The strings are being tuned, they’re growing warmer and brighter as the thunder approaches. Major scales. Arpeggios. Etudes. They are becoming ready for their grand show – their permanent bill. Their majestic duet with skies.

And then – as a spectator – a patron of the arts – I settle myself in the front row. I cuddle under my blanket with bated breath as the curtains are drawn.

Good night.

August 26, 2010 – 6:39 p.m.

The rain is intense again tonight. I’m so glad today is my last day alone here. It’s starting to wear on me in the wrong way. Liz comes back tomorrow. It already feels like I’ve been here a thousand lifetimes over and my real adventures have yet to begin.

The last statement, however, seems somewhat like a hasty generalization. It’s like Baudrillard’s notion of “real” life – how individuals spend their lives preparing for what comes after college – when in reality, they were living their “real” life from the very beginning. I should try to focus entirely on the moment, and savor every sensory detail around me. The rain hitting the tin roof, the animals singing, the wooden walls creaking in the wind… I can’t. I only claim to be an existentialist. I think it’s impossible to truly live in that manner – as Meursault does. Maybe it’s that I’m never satisfied. I know there will be times where I look upon this moment and long for the absolute insularity of it. I don’t want it right now. I want to be in a room full of my best friends having drinks and shooting the shit. I want to be at my old job making lattes and not working as hard as I should be. I want to be sitting outside Peet’s UCI with Monique and Farah and the whole gang smoking hookah and sharing gossip. I love how our “gossip” always turned to politics or philosophy related discourse. I learned more from talking with those two than I could learn in hundreds of class sessions. My friends are far smarter than me – and for that, I am grateful. I want to be drunk with Amber off cheap whiskey after we’ve snuck into a movie at the District – even if I have to spend four hours holding her hair before my open the next morning. I want to be in Salt Lake City with my older sister walking through temple square on our way to downtown – appreciating the irony of using an LDS causeway to lead us to bars. I want to be with my little sister in Laguna overlooking the beach and listening to music. I want to be sitting at the table with my mother and asking her hundreds of questions about her life – about who she was before I knew her. I want to be telling her how much I love her. I want to be sipping on some Yin Hao Jasmine with Kelly as we argue about Gadamer. Looking back on everything, I’ve had such a full life. I’ve made many close friends, been to many places, done many things. I guess this is how I find fulfillment. I have to put myself through a lot of discomfort first. I have to force myself away from these things in order to appreciate them. The worst part is I know the home I left won’t be the home to which I return. Existence is revision. I am not who I was when I started writing this, and when this sentence is over, I’ll be someone different again. A different version of myself. Anyway.

Because of my stupidity yesterday I took it pretty easy today. I didn’t do any extra work, and I didn’t exercise. I feel like such a blob. This is the first day I haven’t worked out since I’ve been here. One day off, and it has really impacted my mood. As miserable as I feel right now, I can’t over-exert myself because I know I’ll end up causing irreparable damage. Yesterday really shocked me into being more responsible.

I don’t really know what is happening to me. I am developing excruciatingly high standards for myself. I hope it’s a good thing. I’m concerned that it isn’t.

I just stepped outside to put the chickens in for the night. I keep waiting until after the sun sets. It’s a horrible habit. Snakes like to hang out around the chicken coop for obvious reasons. In the dark, every branch becomes a pit viper and every firefly becomes a reflection of slithering scales. I wanted to get it over with so badly that I just went out in boots and a poncho. That’s it. I took a shower earlier, and I feel like I’m just going to be dirty again if I get dressed. God, I haven’t even been here a month and I’m already demolishing whatever sense of social grace I had. After six months, I am going to be a female sasquatch (minus the copious amounts of body hair – I’ll have some intensely matted and untamed peach fuzz).

I put Jeff Buckley on and now I have the urge to fill hundreds of blank pages. It’s my own minute attempt at immortality – hoping that someday someone will read my nonsensical ramblings and it will ease their anxiety a little bit. Or they will learn something. Maybe they’ll laugh, or just simply smile. It’s the least I can do – the greatest homage I can pay to the authors who have changed my life. I am saying all this, and I want to study literary theory, which centers around the notion of the death of the author. (Barthes and Foucault both developed this idea in different ways). I don’t know, I suppose I am defined only by my foundation of contradictory juxtapositions.

Here’s a disgusting non-sequitur: I just saw a fat mosquito nesting on my right hand. I waited until it punctured me and began sucking my blood. Then, I took the skin around where it was inserted, and squeezed and pinched. The pressure caused it to explode everywhere. I wiped it off, and continued writing. I don’t know what this says about my mental state. I also went outside to answer a phone call earlier (from my sister Natalie!) and was greeted by a spider the size of my fist. Nothing. No reaction from me. I am becoming completely unfazed by these creatures.  I wish I could know how many bugs I will unintentionally ingest throughout the duration of my time here. I’m sure it will be in the thousands. That thought is kind of disgusting, but mostly awesome. I never thought I’d be okay with roughing it like this. I feel free. I have regressed into a personal “state of nature,” as it were. Well, as much as a theoretical notion is possible realistically.

I have rambled enough for tonight. I think it’s time for bed. Hopefully I can go into town tomorrow so I can empty this steaming bucket, if you catch my metaphor.

August 27^th, 2010 – 9:03 a.m.

I got woken up last night at 2 a.m. to a scorpion scratching its way across my face. It was one of the least  pleasant experiences I’ve had, ever. I flung it across the room, crawled to the corner of my bed, and debated whether or not I should get up to turn the light on. Finally, I grabbed a shirt I had close by, laid it on the floor (to protect my feet!) and jumped to the light switch. I shook out my sheets, blanket, pillow, clothes, everything. I even looked under the bed. It was nowhere to be found, dead or alive. Bastard. After some helpful advice from a few friends, I discovered that cats love killing scorpions and lavender deters them. So, I am definitely letting the cat in my room now. Behold:

 Vida, the scorpion slayer! This cat is awesome. He is so cute and has a whole array of expressive little noises. He follows me everywhere I go on the farm and will walk figure eights around my legs. He also loves sitting on my lap and clawing at my books while I’m trying to read. Too adorable for words. Although he may appear benevolent, however, he has a malicious streak. He often climbs trees and kills birds just for fun. He eats bugs constantly. He basically thinks that he’s a cougar or something. I guess he does live in the jungle…

I hate that I’m becoming a cat person. I’m still allergic. Just another way to be masochistic, I guess.

MY WORDS ARE COSTLY!

On my epic journey into town today, I got in a fight with a barbed wire fence and lost.

I look like either

a) I am a self-mutilator
OR
b) I got in a fight with a jungle cat.

either would be less embarrassing.

And because it is humorous, I would like to include the following exchange: 

My dear friend Lili, upon reading my blog, asked me the following question:

"Hey have you thought about becoming a professional writer?"

Lili is a genius and getting her PHD. I am honored. This, however, was Kelly's response:

"shhh don't give her any ideas. at this rate, we're going to be a starving yet brilliant homeless couple, carting around shopping carts full of books and ranting about the myth of the enlightenment, while digging in ashtrays for half-smoked cigarettes."

I love him so much.

mas pictures

a few pictures

me encanta

Truth:

I'm never going to get enough of your love letters, regardless of how often I read them over and over.

massive update! finally

August 11, 2010 -- 6:45 p.m.

I am a self-diagnosed chronic skeptic. It could be my preoccupation with western philosophy, which in turn is preoccupied with Descartes. Everything is filtered through this revolving notion of doubt and unreliability. Here it is: the ubiquitous, unending, unanswerable question of madness. Of sanity. Hamlet.  Don Quixote. I don’t think the notion of sanity should even exist. I think everyone is, by the accepted definition, insane. I am sure that sanity is an imagined ideal. It is perpetuated in order to make people less uncomfortable with the lives they have made for themselves at the expense of others. Living here, the imbalance of wealth in the world has become lot more tangible to me. I’m saying this and I wouldn’t even consider Costa Rica a third world country. Here I am, complaining, sitting in front of my laptop with a roof over my head. I am privileged.  I don’t deserve this life of affluence that I was born into. Back to abstractions -- my doubt isn’t merely Cartesian. It stems from something deeper. Something that was spawned when I was very young, before I could even conceptualize of thought-determining structures. I doubt myself. Truthfully, I don’t know if I can make it here. I feel so weak. I miss home and all of the accompanying accoutrements . Home isn’t a place; it’s a lifestyle. It’s a routine lack of routine. It’s being consistently inconsistent.  I miss caffeine. fast food. power lines. wearing makeup. drinking excessively. being irresponsible. the culture of laziness. knowing that I can call 911 if I get injured and they’ll come to my rescue. Maybe I’m not the person I thought I was. Maybe, in actuality, I’m just as superficial and slothful as I’m trying not to be.  My move here was reckless, but if I’m even the least bit irresponsible here the repercussions could be catastrophic. Because of my remote location, I’m at least two hours away from the nearest hospital. For most emergencies, like snake bites or broken ankles, we have haphazard treatment methods here. There are no sick days on farms. Being here is forcing me to perform at maximum capacity 100% of the time. It is exhausting me to the core. I can’t half-ass anything. It’s terrifying. I guess this is what I wanted.

I’m alone in the house right now. My remoteness has been continually mocked by the endless torrential downpour. I’m now on hour four. When I was hiking back home from town, it started to drizzle. That was six hours ago. This sort of seclusion – this insular inaccessibility – it forces me into the worst parts of my mind. I’ve tried everything to distract myself. I played my guitar for a few hours. Even after the 5 miles I already hiked today, I worked out. I read for a little bit, but I couldn’t concentrate. I’m doing a terrible job of controlling my emotions.

So now they just come bubbling up. Flesh and blood transliterated into black and white. I hate myself for not appreciating my life in California while it was right at my fingertips. I had this grand idea of what adventuring would be, but I had no idea that it would be this excruciating to detach myself. The grass is always greener, I suppose. I should never get attached to anything. Nothing is stagnant, nothing is reliable. At least when I let myself down, I only have myself to blame. Even if something does last forever, what’s the point? That’s where I get stuck. Maybe I don’t want it to last forever. Maybe I want to destroy everything I’ve built for myself and start anew. I want to construct a new empire from the smoldering ruins of my old life. Distance grants one a terrifying perspective. I miss being nearsighted – I miss being privy to that gilded, myopic idolization of my world. It’s always easier when you don’t see the whole picture. I want to burn everything to the ground. I don’t want to feel attachment because detachment is too painful. I don’t think the highs are worth the lows.

There are cracks in the wooden planks of my floor. I look down and I can see the red earth under the house. This is how I feel about my physical state. The barriers I have built for myself – as protection – are cracking and turning to dust. I don’t want people to see how desolate I am internally. I really have no faith in humanity. I don’t believe in altruism. I firmly believe that most people are inherently evil. Somehow, the few who aren’t – the few who just might be able to contradict my position – are the ones who are closest to me. It’s a sick world. I’d much rather just be surrounded by people who hurt me constantly because they wouldn’t inadvertently lead me to having higher expectations.

I was so scared of being alone forever. Now I kind of crave it.

August 12, 2010 – 1:15 p.m.

So the volunteer girl who just arrived two days ago has politely informed me that she will be leaving in tomorrow. She signed on for staying three weeks. This means I will be alone on the farm for at least two weeks. I wish people would just man up and deal with the situations they make for themselves. I signed on for staying here SIX MONTHS. It sucks. There are bugs. I have to work. I have to be dirty all the time, clean up animal shit, and defecate into a bucket. I GET IT. I want to go home too. Yet I am staying here, as promised, until January 12^th. She said she “doesn’t like bugs”. She didn’t bring any work boots with her, and she asked where the “mirror” was so she could apply makeup. Mirror? HA! Is this a joke?  The only reflection I ever see of myself is when I happen to glance down in the puddle of my own urine as I’m releasing it in nature. If you want to lounge, go stay in a hostel. Better yet, book yourself a suite at the Marriott in San Jose with your daddy’s credit card. Don’t volunteer to do farm work. I know it’s like way stressful that you just graduated high school. I get that it’s like totally hard leaving that boy you started dating two weeks ago. I know it’s like really bad that you’ll only have a few days to move into your dorm at the ivy league university to which your parents bought you admission. WHO GOES TO AN IVY LEAGUE SCHOOL TO BECOME A VETERNARIAN ? Maybe I’m being insensitive. Or maybe I’m just sick of self-imagined superiority.

My favorite gems of conversation from this girl so far:

Her: “Jessica, what are you reading?”

Me: “Heidegger.”

Her: “Is that, like, for school?”

Me: “No.”

Her: “Then why are you, like, underlining it so much?”

Another great one:

“My boyfriend and I have been going out for two weeks. He just broke up with his girlfriend. He asked me out on my birthday. He told me it’s like totally okay if something happens with a Costa Rican guy while I’m here because I’m like on a tropical vacation. I think we’re in love.”

HA! And here’s the one that legitimately pissed me off:

 “So why didn’t you just book a flight to go with Liz when she left? I can’t believe you had her fly home alone. I would have done that for my best friend.”

August 13, 2010 – 6:36 a.m.

 I never thought I’d say this, but I think I’m becoming a morning person. Oh, and today is Friday the 13^th. Rightfully so. The weather has been really erratic last night and today. Usually it’s pretty clear and warm from sunrise until about 2 in the afternoon. Then the rain continues into the late evening. Yesterday, it didn’t rain at all. This morning it’s been raining nonstop. It started pouring heavily around sunrise and isn’t showing any sign of letting up. I don’t know if I’m supposed to work in this or if I can just stay inside. Maybe this is why I brought ponchos.

Despite the weird weather and the harrowing realization that I’m going to be alone for two weeks on this farm, I’m actually in pretty good spirits. I was just reading through some of my earlier blog entries and I almost don’t want to post them . I was definitely down in the dumps for a few days, but I can comfortably say that I’m happy here now. I guess, for integrity’s sake, I shouldn’t edit or censor anything.

On an unrelated note, that bottle of Johnny Walker red was worth every mile I had to carry it on my back. The altitude here is so intense that I had probably only an ounce and a half of it last night. It was just enough! Wow, I can’t believe it. I’m developing the ability to do things in moderation. Who knew it was possible?!?

Regrettably, I don’t have anything profound to say. Just mundane smatterings today. Maybe I’ll say something worthwhile tomorrow.

Sunday, August 15, 2010 – 2:05 pm

I have neglected writing as much lately. Maybe it just feels like I haven’t been writing because time here trickles by so slowly. It’s a shame that I’m only moved to write when I miss home. Therefore, I doubt these reflections are an accurate portrayal of my time here. I rarely write when I’m happy.

I spent thirty minutes meticulously hanging laundry on the clothesline outside only to be greeted heartily by a violent thunderstorm. Oh well. I suppose they’ll be extra clean. 

Today is my first day alone on the farm. It’s really quiet here. I don’t know if I’ll make it two weeks. Based on the rate at which time passes in the tropics, I’m going to feel immortalized by the end of August. I already have developed a God complex from the plants I’ve started to grow and the gargantuan bugs I’ve slain. This isn’t going to be good for my ego.  I’ve started a few projects, but when the rain begins, it makes me completely lethargic and introspective. I guess I have the tendency to feel that way regardless of the weather. Weeping skies just serve as an excuse for me to mope. I’m not unhappy. I just really miss home.

The book I’ve been reading over the last day or so has greatly affected my thoughts. I broke the rule I made before coming here (reading multiple books at a time – a terrible habit of mine) and decided that I needed to stop reading  Heidegger for a day or two. I picked up a book I’ve been meaning to read – Salamander. It’s about 600 pages or so. I’ve been reading it on and off for a day and I only have about 50 pages left. It’s out of print, I was lucky enough to find a copy on Half.com before I left for Costa Rica. Anyway, this book is about a prolific historical document forger in Utah in the 80s. He ended up bombing a high-profile office building in the center of Salt Lake City and killing two people. He only got caught because he accidentally detonated one of the bombs that was meant for someone else and severely injured himself. This book describes the Mormon Church’s involvement in the trading of historical documents and essentially in the bombings also.  Enough of my preambles. Salamander is an excellent factual account of what happened, but it is written more like a narrative or a murder mystery than a journalistic expose. The tone is also relatively unbiased. The authors have an obvious respect for many of the traditions held sacred within Mormonism, but they also objectively describe many historical inaccuracies within the doctrine. Aside from describing the turn of events over the few years following the bombings and Mark Hofmann’s trial, it has a decent amount of solid information about the true origins of Mormonism. I have always been interested in Mormon history, even before I left the church. It listed a lot of interesting titles including No Man Knows My History, a more factual biography of Joseph Smith that was not commissioned by the LDS church.  I will definitely have to read that one when I get back to the states. Anyway, It talks a little about the early Mormon church being heavily influenced by New England folk magic around the mid to late 19^th century. If I were a student of history, I’d definitely choose this subject as my course of study/dissertation material.

Well, in regards to this non-sequitur, reading Salamander has brought up a lot of forgotten memories from my own childhood. The book presents a perfect microcosm of Mormon culture through the narrative style of the prose. I had filed away the memories of hundreds of Sabbaths in the back of my mind – maybe in hopes that they’d become so dusty I’d never need to revisit them again. Yet, here they are, unfortunately good as new.  There are parts of it I miss. Even though I see now that it was just a façade of unity, I miss feeling like part of a community. I miss having faith in something, I miss essentially believing in magic. I miss knowing that I could justify anything through the statement “everything happens for a reason” or “It’s God’s plan.” Sometimes, I almost wish I hadn’t chosen reason over faith. I see people who live their lives so peacefully within the church. Although I know that there’s always more truth lurking beneath the placid surface, it’s easy for me to idolize scenarios when I can’t see the whole picture.

Honestly, though, the nostalgia I hold for attending church meetings is the same nostalgia I feel for believing in the tooth fairy or waiting patiently for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. It’s acceptable to have imagined justifications as a child, but after seeing what I’ve seen and knowing what I know now, there is absolutely no way I’d ever be able to live within that mindset again. I’ve made jokes with friends – If I ever fail in my academic pursuits – I’m just going to go back to Mormonism and become an apologist for the LDS church. The most famous Mormon apologists are scholars. They are so trained in rhetoric and circular reasoning that they could essentially “disprove” any factual evidence denouncing the church. What I don’t understand is how they could pretend to feel morally right about what it is they’re doing.  As much as I don’t consider myself a feminist, I would never be able to endorse a structure that is so vehemently patriarchal. When people ask me if polygamy is still practiced, I explain to them that they are asking the wrong question. Polygamy is only practiced by fundamentalist sects of the Mormon church, and the mainstream LDS church denounces it entirely. These facts, however, are irrelevant. The same notions of female subservience are just as prominent now as they were when Brigham Young settled in the great basin. It doesn’t matter how many wives one man has -- whether it’s one or twenty --  if there is abuse occurring, something is severely wrong.  Physical abuse and incest are so common in Mormonism that the majority of incidents remain unreported. People are aware of these practices, but they tacitly sweep them under the rug, allowing them to fester and proliferate for generations. Well, at this point, there’s the whole “live and let live” argument. This also is unfounded. The LDS church has strongly opposed every prominent civil rights issue since the 1960s. They contributed funds opposing racial equality, gender equality, and now marriage equality. Proposition eight in California, which removed the right for same sex couples to marry, recently passed largely because of out-of-state contributions from Mormons in Utah. This occurred directly after the general authorities of the LDS church implored members to donate. I wish people would open their eyes and look at the historical context of these issues. The Mormon church is so intertwined in state politics that Utah is essentially a sovereign religious republic. 

On an unrelated note, LIZ COMES BACK IN TWO WEEKS!!! I’M SO EXCITED!!! AND KELLY COMES OCTOBER 8th!!!! SO EXCITED!!! I’m going to have my best friend and my boyfriend living in paradise with me. What could be better? Not much.

August 17, 2010 -- 7:18 p.m.

Day three in solitary confinement – errr—I mean, alone on the farm.

Possible signs of psychosis:

Talking to the chickens. Having a heated discussion with el gato about metaphysics and losing. Seeing zombies in my sleep. Envisioning a four-foot-long poisonous pit viper in the shower – OH WAIT. That actually happened. Side note: the shower is not a shower. It’s a wooden frame the size and shape of a shower covered with dried leaves from the banana trees. It has wooden planks for a floor (that apparently a snake can fit through) and a giant water tank on top that gets filled with rainwater. This is outside, a good 15 feet uphill from the shack where I sleep.  It’s actually soothing to have toucans and macaws in the trees above your shower serenading you while you scrub. There are, however, several disadvantages to this fine contraption. The banana leaves don’t leave much to the imagination, as I believe I stated in a previous entry. Also, it’s freezing. After working for awhile in the heat, it’s not too bad because I’m sweaty and hot anyway (awwww yeahhh). Also, apparently snakes like to hang out there. It is pretty dank (and I mean this in the literal textbook sense, not in the colloquial sense. Go surf or something, freaks). Anyway, I’m going crazy. I spent the evening making dinner, listening to the falling rain accompanied by a selection of the finest tango music from around the world. This is not a joke. I then proceeded to give myself a tarot card reading and somehow made a drinking game out of it. Room temperature scotch straight out of the bottle has never been so delicious. I don’t have the heart to tell Kelly that I’m cheating on him with Johnny Walker Red. I did, however, have a nice amount of social interaction last night. Interaction might be too strong of a word considering I did a lot of nodding, gesticulating, and displaying of my best confused “no entiendo” faces.

The neighbors, Luz and Guillermo, invited me to their daughter’s 17^th birthday party. They are the closest neighbors to our farm, and they live approximately two miles away at the bottom of the hill and across a river. Getting there is not so bad (until the river) because the path is all sharp and downhill. The river, however, is fucking treacherous, especially after the rain. This birthday extravaganza was scheduled at 5 p.m., I decided I’d leave at 4 just to give myself enough time. That way, I’d have the energy to be social and I could enjoy a leisurely, picturesque walk. First and foremost, being the woman that I am, I took longer to get ready than was necessary. I actually took a shower (GASP!) AND, here comes the intense part, I PUT ON MAKEUP! OH MY GOD! This is the first time I even opened my makeup bag since I’ve been here. I figured since I’m going to a birthday party, I needed to look somewhat human. Ha. Wrong choice. So, I put some tunes on, put on my face, slipped into some clean clothes, I was feeling pretty good. Right as I stepped outside, I realized that I need to put the chickens in early. Those beasts are trained to be in the chicken coop at sundown (around 6pm) however, due to my social engagement, I had to put them in early. I didn’t want that snake eating my only source of protein (EGGS!). Especially since I don’t get any of the flesh, I’m definitely not sharing the chickens with some slithering, limbless reptile. What’s that, Mr. Serpent? You can dislocate your jaw, snake? Great party trick. Go join a sorority. ANYWAY. I get down to the chicken coop and I somehow lure them back into their house. I don’t even want to call it a coop. They have more room than I do. Crazy hippies and their cage-free, free-range, free-love chickens. So, I took attendance, and there was still one chicken missing. Doing some deductive reasoning, I deduced that it perhaps would be lurking beneath the hen house. ALAS! There it was, joyously clucking away. I dove. It escaped. I chased this hen around for at least 15 minutes. After I finally got it in the cage, I was sweating profusely and covered with muddy feathers. Awesome. So much for getting ready. I went back up to my room to “freshen up” only to walk outside to the start of a violent thunderstorm. I was irritated, but I wasn’t changing plans. “I’m going,” I told myself. At that point, I had made up my mind. Nothing was going to stop me from going to the party. I slipped into my knee-high rubber galoshes and began my way down the trail. 10 minutes into my walk I was soaked from head to toe. Two miles passed. By the time I got off the path, cut through the brush, and got to the river, I was drenched. This was also the first time I’d attempted to cross the river during a rain storm. The river had terrified me midday while it was calm and completely clear. At that moment, the currents were moving quickly and the water was completely opaque with mud. There was no way I could do this, I thought to myself. Then, I thought rationally for once (savor it…it doesn’t happen frequently.) I told myself that I couldn’t turn back because there was no way I’d make it home before sunset. Hiking in the rain is one thing. Hiking in the rain after dark when you’re sharing a trail with venomous snakes, scorpions, spiders, etc… is something else. So, therefore, my will to drowning was overpowered by my will to being eaten to death by creatures (sponsored by Nietzsche). So, I did it. I don’t know how I made it. Wearing my boots was a joke. The river went up to my thighs. By the time I got to the house, I was late. I was dripping wet and covered in mud. I’m sure my makeup was running. I walked up to the entrance only to see four extra long picnic style tables set up and filled with people already eating. Costa Ricans have Mormon-style families. If families were for sale, this one would only be available at Costco. Brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins everywhere. I was mortified. So, I patiently just introduced myself and asked where Luz was in Spanish. I’m sure I looked like a hot mess. After going into the living room and seeing it full of everyone but her, I went to the kitchen. There she was, feverishly cooking away.  She was so warm and kind to me, she told me to sit down, got me a spot outside, and began to shower me with plates of food and shots of homemade liquor. Totally worth the trip. Also, the meal had MEAT! This was the first time I’d had meat since I’d been in Costa Rica. It was delicious. I don’t even like pork normally but I savored it. So, I got to talk to a few people. There was one girl named Priscilla who spoke really good English. She introduced herself to me early on. I was grateful. We talked for a long time. She told me she had lived in New Jersey for four years. She told me how she thought it was interesting that many immigrants from Central and South American countries find work and end up settling in the United States, but the majority of Costa Ricans always come home. I looked around, taking in the cultural hospitality set against a backdrop fit only for paradise, and I told her that thought I might understand why. I then told her “Necessito hablar solomente en espanol!” So, we spoke only in Spanish for the rest of the evening. One of Luz’s sisters eventually came out, bringing me more of the delicious homemade liquor. There were two kinds: one was milk based, it tasted a lot like bailey’s but with a little bit of spice and chocolate added. The second was amber-colored. It was sweet and smoky, but SUPER strong, even for me. They kept just rotating shots back and forth of each kind. I was pretty buzzed by the end of the night. So, Luz’s sister came out and started talking to me excitedly in Spanish. I tried explaining to her that my Spanish was terrible, that I was still learning, and for her to speak slower. She didn’t. She just grabbed my hand and pulled me up, and, from what I understood, said that I was going to teach her English. She then took me through the house and pointed at many different objects. She would say them in Spanish ,then she would gesture to me and I said the English. It was actually really fun. I couldn’t believe that this house of complete strangers were going to such great lengths to make sure I felt at home. Memo (Guillermo) came up to me later and started talking to me. He was really easy for me to understand for some reason. He asked how the chickens on my farm were doing, and if Oscar (the rooster) was big enough to eat yet. Haha. I told him yes, and that if he went missing, it’s because he was too delicious. Then I made a joke about how if I eat all the chickens, I’ll have no one to practice my Spanish with. He laughed heartily at that. Then, out of the blue, he asked me about the tattoos on my wrists. I tried first explaining to him what they meant, that didn’t work. Then I tried explaining that they were philosophy related in latin, That also didn’t work. He asked me if it was a boyfriend or someone whom I’d loved. I laughed and said no. Then he asked if it was multiple people or a boyfriend OR girlfriend I’d loved. I guffawed at this, and said no. I then explained, in the simplest way I could, that they were from a book I liked. He said “Ohhh,” paused for a moment, and then said in his thick accent, “Harry Potter?” At that moment, I died laughing. He then gave me a pat on the back and got up again to make his rounds. I love that man. Luz ended up making me stay the night so I didn’t have to cross the river again until dawn. I left a little early the next morning before sunrise and hiked back up to the very top right as dawn was breaking. It didn’t matter that my boots were still sloshing with every step nor that I felt slightly hung over. It was beautiful, and I felt incredibly proud of myself for going into that terrifying situation and having a fantastic time. Ahhh.  Now, it’s time for bed. Besitos.

August 19,2010 -- 6:52 a.m.

I’m strangely conflicted about all of this alone time. On one hand, it is amazing. I know I’m going to have to readjust once I am forced to interact with people again. On the other hand, there is something inexorable and devastating about being trapped entirely inside one’s own head. I can’t really say that I’m *completely* isolated. I have a shitty internet connection on the farm mobile phone. Still, there’s something about being the only being in the periphery. I can anticipate that my communication and social skills are rapidly deteriorating – those are two things I was never naturally good at anyway. Part of me half wishes that I didn’t even have that internet connection. I mean, I would go completely crazy without it, but I would also let go of everything. I came here to escape my life, and now I find myself longing to be mediated by things that remind me of it. I’ll just lie to myself and say that it’s a necessary coping mechanism. I wish it was easier for me to be a singular being. I used to take pride in my isolation, and now that things have changed, I feel weak and co-dependent.

Yesterday was difficult. I don’t really want to talk about it here, but I feel emotionally worn out. Not to mention, I spent four hours in the thick of the forest hacking away at the vines that are killing the coffee plants. I am getting pretty good with a machete. Well, I was wearing long pants tucked into my boots and long sleeves. I basically bathed in bug spray. Somehow the exposed four inches of skin on each of my hands got completely destroyed by bugs. My right hand only has five bites because it was moving rapidly with my machete. My left hand, however, has 16 bites on the back of it alone. It is so swollen and sore. To make matters worse, I accidentally hacked down a vine that was supporting a gigantic wasp nest. Luckily I only got stung a couple times – I fled the scene pretty fast after that. My hands are so sore, and my muscles hurt, I don’t even feel like working today. I did the stuff I have to do every day; took care of the chickens, watered the green house, etc… but I think I’m going to skip out on the hard labor today. My hands really need to heal. I was going to go to town today, but I decided to go tomorrow. Hopefully if I take it easy I’ll be able to recuperate and be my usual energetic, adventurous self again in no time.

I really miss everyone. I love it here, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss home every day. I miss the coffee shop banter, I miss driving places and blasting music. I miss going to the gym. I miss going out. I miss spending hours reading with Kelly. I miss Kelly. It’s kind of absurd and terrible that I found my other half, formed a perfect relationship, and then was forced to be away from it. Actually, no. It was my decision to still come here, and I don’t regret it. It’s just a funny twist of fate. Maybe I am a fatalist, that’s why I put myself in these situations. At least he’ll be here in October. It still seems like forever away. I also miss indoor plumbing. Every time I go to town and I am able flush the toilet, I want to cry. I miss hot showers. I miss feeling clean. I miss not being tangled in a mosquito net every morning when I wake up. I miss stupid work politics and clopens. That’s right, I said it, I miss clopens.

Well, if you’re reading this, I definitely miss you too. I miss all of the priceless interactions I had with people – even with acquaintances or friends I didn’t get to see too frequently. It’s those little things that I miss most – the things I took for granted. I was surrounded by so many intelligent people, it forced me to become a better person every single day. For that, I am grateful. Now, I guess I’m on my own. We’ll see how I turn out.

August 19, 2010 – 1:12 p.m.

I lied about not doing work. I went outside, got dirtier doing a bunch of stuff, and I feel way better. Now the storm is coming, I’m nestled inside the house with Zizek, Edith Piaf, and a mug full of scotch. The cat that I pretend to hate but secretly find adorable is nestled at my feet. Is it a conflict of interest that I’m reading philosophy in English and listening to French music when I should be studying and learning Spanish? I hope not. Dios Mio.

Also, on an unrelated note, believing in nothing makes cursing no fun. I can’t say “Oh My God!” or “Goddamnit!” with the same effect as a believer. Expletives lose their whole pejorative nature when they are uttered without the intention of condemning something sacred. Oh, intentionality. That’s a whole ‘nother post. I don’t want to get into hermeneutics right now. Maybe I should believe in God just so I can swear more effectively. That is way better logic than Pascal’s gamble. I should publish this in a paper. It will convert people everywhere. Well, it’s a thought. My curse words need more gravitas.  

Another tangential observation: I was admiring my perfectly sculpted legs today and noticed that I’ve gotten a lot tanner! COLOR! Then, upon closer examination, I realized it was because they were caked with dirt. Better luck next time.

As a mental note: when I go into town tomorrow, I am buying several things (in order of importance):

Cowboy Hat

Leather Holster for Machete

Whiskey

Some non-growable food items (brown rice, beans, etc…)

Toilet Paper

As a final note, Edith Piaf’s La Vie en Rose set against roaring thunder and the subtle whir of my electric fan is probably the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.

conclusion:

Costa Rica is the Switzerland of Central America. No military, politically neutral, chill as fuck. Minus the minaret controversy in Switzerland, they're basically the same place! Viva!

hello again

August 10, 2010 – 8:48 p.m.

rain, thunder, chopin. A recipe for dreamless sleep.

I had my first scorpion experience today. They are far more disgusting than I could have even anticipated. There is one about 10 feet away from me as a type this. I’m in my bed. It’s on the other side of the wall; it could crawl over at any second. I spotted it hours ago. I’m letting it live because I know if it stays in the same room with me while I sleep, I will conquer my fear. I know my mosquito net will not make me impervious to its evil little pinchers and reaper’s scythe – err—I mean stinger. So far, scorpions have been the only “predator” to strike fear into my heart. I’ve tackled spiders the size of my hand, gigantic flying cockroaches (picture cockroaches the size of cassette tapes…FLYING ones…), and poisonous snakes. I don’t know why this bad boy is irking me so much. Needless to say, I have a recipe for scorpion soup. After tonight, I’m going to catch them and freeze them as I see them. In a few weeks, I’m eating all of them. You think I’m joking? I’m documenting the whole ordeal with photos. Be prepared to witness the domination. DELICIOUS, DELICIOUS DOMINATION.

 “Eat the predator and you will become the predator,” – Eugene Trufkin

On an unrelated note: I’m pretty sure our chickens were crossbred with raptors. They move with such agility. They tear at the chicken feed like it’s the flesh of a bleeding carcass. They wail and screech and follow me everywhere. I kind of hate them. To my vegetarian friends; I vehemently apologize for the next statement, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t really crave hot wings every time I am near the chicken coop. Actually, it doesn’t need to be hot wings. Chicken salad, chicken breast, sliced chicken, diced chicken, roasted whole chicken. One of them might go missing. The rooster, Oscar, doesn’t even serve a purpose. He just bosses the lady hens around. He’s pretty big too. Pretty succulent. I could simultaneously liberate the women and satisfy my meat craving. There is so much good in the world to be done! My conclusion: the rooster and hens are polygamist-chicken-raptors. It sounds just like my childhood. Utahraptors and multiple wives. People in Utah are obsessed with dinosaurs. “The chicken coming home to roost.”

I was sure that coming here would make me a vegetarian. I’d become more compassionate and aware of the animal struggle etc etc… now it’s just making me want to kill things and then delight in consuming them. I don’t know how I feel about this. To be fair, our chickens are free range, so they have a pretty decent life. They get fed top notch grain, they get the run of the farm, they have a safe little chicken coop with plenty of room to sleep in at night where they’re protected from predators (e.g., snakes, coyotes, chupacabras,  and yours truly). I can’t believe how trained they are. They wake me up wailing at the crack of dawn every morning until I feed them. The little bastards follow me everywhere after I let them out. By dusk, I’ll go down to the coop and they’ll be all settled in the back of it ready to sleep, the door will be open and I just close it and lock up. They’re kind of cute. Almost. As cute as feathered reptiles can be. So I guess that means they’re hideous. I think I am just resentful that I spent two hours shoveling their shit while they got to play in the rain. Damn chickens.

I just got up to turn my light off before getting snuggled back under my mosquito net (snuggled, under a  mosquito net, possible? Probably not). The worst part of this: since the light is off, all of the bugs are gravitating towards my computer light…they are finding holes in my mosquito net…OH MY GOD…AHHH…I KEEP SWATTING AHHHH DISGUSTING

hello world

Okay, so apparently the farm doesn't have an internet connection. I'm able to check email on the cell phone there, but that's it. I'll still be writing every day, I'm just going to be able to update only once a week when I go into town. Also, I don't have any pictures uploaded yet, but next time there will be many. 

quick facts about my farm: 

it isn't really a "farm house" I'm staying in. It's basically a wooden shack with chicken wire windows and a tin roof. I get to sleep on a slab of wooden planks with a deflated air mattress and a holy mosquito net. dios mio. 

the shower is outside, there is no hot water. it's a spout raised about 6 feet high surrounded by leaves from the banana trees. if you want a show, just walk by while I'm washing myself. plan accordingly: it only happens about once every 3-4 days.

I don't need an alarm clock. The rooster never fails to crow starting at about 4:45 every morning. there is no snooze button. it goes on for at least thirty minutes.

THE BEST PART: there is no toilet. that's right. you heard me. If I have to tinkle, I get to just the way god intended: pick a spot and crouch. For solids, there is a compost bucket that we empty into the compost pile once it gets full. Yep. I am really roughing it. 

Also, we have a collection of machetes at our disposal. I spent half the day yesterday hacking bananas down from the top of one of the trees just for fun. 

The bright side: this place is PARADISE. I've never seen anything like the wildlife and greenery here. pictures later. 

Here are my ramblings.

Friday, August 06, 2010  --  6:04 AM

Today is our first full day on the farm. Getting here yesterday was hectic at best. Actually, no. Hectic is the wrong word. Terrifying would be more accurate. We travelled for about 28 hours straight. This included our plane transfers, bus rides, taxi trips, etc…

Liz and I were both scared shitless even before we left LAX. We ended up drowning our sorrows in overpriced margaritas and tequila and beer before boarding our flight. We continued on the plane. My last day of excess. Looking back on sitting in the airport, the world here couldn’t seem more different from there.

When we arrived at the airport, a well-seeming taxi driver asked us in broken English if we needed a taxi. We were relieved to see someone who spoke our language. I’ve never felt so out of place. So, he proceeded to load our bags into a tiny red Toyota Tercel. I still have no idea how everything fit. My attempt at being cultured for six months – my gigantic bag of books and guitar – was seeming regrettable throughout our arduous journey to the farm. Anyway, we ended up paying $40 U.S. dollars for a cab ride that was only a few kilometers and getting ripped off due to the language barrier. This is where I vehemently declared to myself that I’m becoming fluent in Spanish. We then got to the MUSOC bus station in San Jose where no one spoke English. Liz somehow was able to decipher the bus routes and discovered which bus we had to take to San Isidro and then to Las Esperanzas. There was also a really kind woman in the bus station who helped us. I don’t know how we got through to each other, because she knew even less English than we knew Spanish. I guess, on a universal level, there is a way for humans to communicate with each other outside the structure of language.

We then took a three hour bus ride through the mountainous regions to our next transfer. The road was narrow, steep , and curvy. It literally seemed like it had been haphazardly carved out of the dense foliage. After arriving in the small town of San Isidro, we were able to get help from a nice local restaurant owner who spoke English fluently. He said, and I quote, that the “fucking taxi driver” had ripped us off and he would find us a decent one to take us to Las Esperanzas. We were going to take the bus half way and then walk the remaining 2 km with all of our luggage. Thankfully we didn’t. The farm was located about 10 miles from this town via an incredibly steep and undulating washed out dirt road. Hiking there would have been difficult without 6 bags of luggage, two backpacks, and a guitar between the two of us. Granted, this is the trek we’ll have to take every time we go into town (on foot!) but I’m going to be much more excited about it when I’m not feeling like a pack mule. Our taxi driver who took us up the road had a small SUV. The restaurant owner had called him specifically because most of the taxis wouldn’t have been able to make it up the hills and over all the rocks and gravel. His name was Didier, and between his limited knowledge of English and our smattering of Spanish words, we actually had a really entertaining conversation. He asked us if we had boyfriends, and he told me I’d be leaving here with one either way. Ha. I was able to say a few phrases, he seemed to like talking to us. He gave us his number in case we ever needed a ride anywhere.

The first night sleeping here was, in the truest sense of the word, intense. The “Farm house” that we’re staying in is essentially a wooden cabin with chicken wire windows and a tin roof. My bedroom consists of a small space with an air mattress on a wooden platform (to make it more difficult for scorpions and other friends to cuddle with me while I’m sleeping) and a massive mosquito net. The rain begins in the late afternoon around 2 pm. It starts with a slow but steadily dripping trickle and then crescendos into a roaring thunderstorm. This goes on for about eight or ten hours. The lightning and thunder combined with the cadence of the rain and the orchestra of wildlife is intoxicating. The symphony projected by the cicadas and tropical birds basically serenades me to sleep. It gets dark early, around 7:30. Despite the intense humidity, it’s comfortable and easy to fall asleep. In the mornings, it’s hot and incredibly humid. The sun rises at about 445 or 5, the roosters crow at about 515. It’s impossible to sleep in. This is good for me.

Today, we woke up at 5 and fed the chickens, then let them out to roam around the farm. I did my daily routine of smothering myself in SPF 50 sunscreen and then bug spray before setting foot outside the house. I’ve even been sleeping in bug spray. Liz has had a decent amount of bites over the last day. I think I only have a couple.

We made breakfast: brown rice with garlic, onions, and a small pepper we picked from the garden. Delicious! The coffee here is outstanding. It’s brewed by putting the coffee in a small sack that is suspended over the cup. You literally pour the hot water over the grounds and it seeps through into the cup. The raw cane sugar that is available for the coffee was grown and processed on the neighboring farm. I’ve been drinking it black.

10:20 a.m.

After breakfast, we did our first farm-related task and weeded the pineapple garden. I feel like such an ignoramus when it comes to produce, I had no idea that pineapples grew from the ground. They have these giant spiky head that poke up from the soil. Due to the humidity and richness of the soil, weeds are constantly springing up and choking the plants. It was extremely cathartic to reach deeply into the soil and uproot the thick weeds with my bare hands. We did this for a couple hours. Apparently it’s a once a week job.

Sunday, August 08, 2010 – 6:28 a.m.

Yesterday was rough. I really don’t have adequate words to describe it. It had been overcast all day. The sky felt heavy with moisture. Even before the rain started, it felt like I was breathing through a soaking wet cloth. We got a decent amount of work done in the morning, and Liz made some headway with the horses. We headed back to the farm house around 11 a.m.; right before the torrential downpour started. I was making tea for Liz and I when the phone rang. After she answered and was silent for a moment, I heard her voice quaver.

“My little brother died.”

Liz is one of the strongest people I know. At times, due to her passion for life and her unending youthful vigor, she even seems immortal. It was at this moment, when I saw her fall to the floor and clutch herself before completely breaking down, I was confronted with the reality of my own mortality. I held her for awhile. I had nothing to say. What can you say to someone who is experiencing something that you cannot even fathom? I had no experience in my repertoire of memories that could even come close to paralleling what she was going through right that second. We eventually got it sorted out for her to leave that night and catch a flight from San Jose in the morning. It was sheer luck that she made it. We walked to the bus station – this walk destroyed me – it’s at least a few miles at a complete 90 degree incline. Liz, somehow, wasn’t even phased. I guess she had some driving force behind her that I couldn’t even comprehend. We eventually made it to the bus stop which was situated across from a washed out soccer field. It looked like a game had just ended. There were a lot of locals congregated casually who began to slowly disperse.  After being unable to locate a bus schedule, we asked one of the locals when the next bus into town was. There weren’t any more for the day, she informed us. Then the rain started again. I sat next to Liz in the dirt while the other volunteers called a cab. As the sheets of rain fell upon us with increasing intensity, I wasn’t sure what was rain and what was tears. We were both so far from home. The taxi came about 20 minutes later. We were able to get her into town just in time to catch a bus to San Jose, which is another three hours away. As the taxi stopped at the bus station, they let us know that the last one of the day had just left. Aaron, one of the other volunteers, grabbed her hand and they darted across the rainy six-lane road. The bus was on the other end. He flagged down the bus and helped her board before running back across the road. “Muchas suerte,” the taxi driver kept saying. She was very lucky. Or maybe, the universe was giving her a break. After all, it hadn’t been the easiest day. We took the taxi back home. It dropped us off three quarters of a mile outside the farm gate – all downhill. After all the rain, and due to the fact that it was pitch black at this point, I would have gladly trudged uphill instead. Gravity is not a friend when traversing a steep downhill incline on slick muddy roads. By the time I got inside, I was muddy from head to toe and soaked to the bone. Sleeping alone that night was strange. This experience is terrifying enough as it is, but alone, I don’t know if I’ll make it. She said that she’d be coming back, she left most of her stuff here, but even if she didn’t I’d understand. It’s the most selfish thought I could have right now to imagine being here without her. I guess only time will tell.

August 8, 2010 – 7:04 p.m.

Today was difficult. I finished two books. The Words by Jean-Paul Sartre and Einstein’s Dreams by Alan Lightman. I highly recommend both of them. Sartre touched and penetrated me to the core. Reading it was like having sex on your deathbed – enjoying the motions and the tumultuous waves of pleasure, but being simultaneously covered in your own tears because mortality is mere seconds away. The end is inevitable. The Words is comparable to a chronically suicidal man who has finally found happiness --  and, as he decides to embrace the rest of his life, he is diagnosed with a terminal illness. It is receiving that which you no longer wanted. But maybe that is the case – perhaps death is just rebirth. And birth itself, the purest form of death. Reading so much is starting to affect my own consciousness. I’m seeing the world around me in black and white instead of color. Actions become verbs. Emotions become adjectives. I thought reading incessantly would make me more intuitive – I guess I wasn’t entirely wrong. The problem isn’t my lack of introspection; it’s my hyper-introspection. I just started Heidegger’s Basic Writings. I’m going to read it from cover to cover. If simple prose and short novels are affecting my perception this much, I can’t wait to see how fucked up I become after I digest nothing but straight metaphysics for a week. Here, there are no distractions. Here, I can only relate reading to being force-fed. My hands are tied to my chair -- my mouth is pried open by a sharp, angular contraption of oxidized metal – cardboard binding and faded parchment imbued with veins of text -- and the words flow down my throat in chunks – straight into my stomach – straight into my psyche. I barely have time to taste them on the way down, because despite my gluttony -- my avarice for more knowledge -- I can’t move fast enough. I can’t swallow fast enough. Reading Sartre for six hours straight impaled me. I am over stimulated in every sense. Physically, mentally, emotionally. My muscles are constantly searing from the hard labor and the miles of hills I’ve been running. The structures, the distractions that previously held my mind captive have been removed. Destroyed. All of my bridges have been burned by my move here. I don’t have my crutches – I don’t have any means for weakness. I am forced to be emotionally stagnant in order to make it through the interminable days. I am forced to push beyond my means physically every day in order to continue to survive. I am forced to expand my mind – in learning new tasks, a new language --  in reading new books.

I smell you sometimes. I smell you in the trees, in the soil, in the foliage after the rain. I smell you in my hair. I pretend that there’s some of you left somewhere on me. I pretend you’re next to me, my hand dwarfed in yours.  I pretend that I’m on your driveway and it’s after dark. There’s that lingering smell of wet paint and gardenias. I only recognized how I thrived in that ethereal paradise of power lines and concrete – that garden – after my expulsion. After I was tempted by the snake of adventure, lured out with the promise of knowledge and new experience. I swallowed the apple. And now I’m here, naked, expelled, an eve without her adam. I close my eyes and pretend that you’re holding me close, and you’re kissing me, and even though we’ve arrived at your house, we’re both too enthralled to make an attempt to move inside. I’d choose immortality if it were comprised of moments like that. Moments with you.

I’m running up the hill, the ninety degree incline. I am Sisyphus, my rock is the visible indulgences of years past – my attempt to make myself conversely invisible and grotesque to the world. But unlike Sisyphus, I am chipping away at my rock, one heavy blow at a time. Instead of embracing my struggle, I am demolishing it. I am no Atlas – I am Aphrodite. Every mile I run, every time I go further I silence that scream inside me that is begging me to slow down, to stop, to go back. I am relentless. I will become whole in my endless becoming. I will reach my potential in never accepting that it has been filled. My finite identity will be defined by my constant revision. Like the union of the two conflicting individuals who made me, like endless my dualistic nature, I am a true Gemini. I am my own doppelganger. I am my best friend – I am my archenemy. I am birthed only from contradiction.

This much time alone in my own head -- It has made me reflect on my own childhood, it has forced me to swallow memories as they re-emerge: there they are -- stinging at the back of my throat -- searing hot vomit coated in stomach bile --  begging to be regurgitated.

I haven’t even been here a week and I would give anything to come home. I am learning quickly to silence my weakness. It has no place here. There is no room for laziness, for longing. The next six months are going to change me. They’re going to make me unrecognizable. After my time here, I will fear nothing. I will conquer everything.

August 9, 2010 – 5:08 a.m.

Myths about roosters:  

they crow once, majestically, at sunrise.

Truths about roosters:

They crow EVERY TIME THEY WAKE UP for at least 30 MINUTES. The chicken coop is 20 feet from my window; needless to say, it is impossible for me to sleep in EVER. They begin wailing at around 4:30 a.m. and don’t really stop until 5:15. They will also take naps in the afternoon and crow upon waking then also. ROOSTERS DO NOT HAVE SNOOZE BUTTONS. They are also stubborn as hell. Our rooster, Oscar, is definitely a pimp and a bastard. He has seven lady hens that he gets to hang out with; yet, he is still peckish and whiny all the time. During their free-range wanderings throughout the day, the chickens just follow him EVERYWHERE. And, if I let them out without feeding them first, he follows me right at my heels and will whine until I’ve put their grain out. You know what this means. I have a parade of chickens following me almost every morning, clucking and cawing. They’re ridiculous animals, and they’re extremely reptilian. They have scaly little claws and I swear during the day they sound like screeching pterodactyls.