guest blogger: Elizabeth Proctor

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 24^th, 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.

guest blogger: Kelly Burner

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 10^th, 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?

tarot cards and scorpion stings

October 16th, 2010

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...

somehow I found a little time to write.

first and foremost: OBLIGATORY CUTE PHOTOS 

note: the lighting at the internet cafe was incredibly weird... I am not this pale. 

Since I've been obsessing over the fact that Kelly is here, I haven't written as much. I will present an abridged version of the many exciting happenings:

- We spent a few nights in San Jose drinking copious amounts of alcohol and climbing things in the middle of the night.
- We took Six and Kelly to the neighbors and worked for a few hours. Luz loved them. She gave us homemade coconut liquor with lunch. 
- Watching Six and Kelly -- two incredibly fit, shirtless men -- playing chess is probably one of the sexiest things I've ever seen.
-Doing certain activities in a rain forest in the midst of a violent thunderstorm is exhilarating.
- Kelly trained me yesterday and I could barely walk today. SUCCESS (get your mind out of the gutter, people -- we were actually exercising).
- I used a machete to cut off Liz's hair, then I proceeded to give her the most badass haircut ever using only kitchen scissors and razor blades. I'll have to post a picture. It looks so good.

Here's a little something I wrote in the San Jose hotel room as Kelly was sleeping. Enjoy.

October 10th, 2010

I’m not quite sure where to begin.

I’ll start with the windows. The glass is thick, embellished, and translucent. Ornate patterns and textures are carved methodically on the horizontal four inch slots that open with the twist of a creaky, obstinate lever. The sun illuminates these shimmering diamond paisleys – these crystalline chrysanthemums.

I am right by the sidewalk – a silent voyeur privy to moments of conversation stolen out of context. I am a priest hearing confessions. In Nomine Patris. An American tourist strolls past. He’s from the Midwest or some other state that you wouldn’t visit unless you got excited by miles of corn fields and people who haven’t left their porches for decades: “She’s more mature that way – ” (with that irksome hardening of the t instead of the ch sound in mature– that little linguistic discrepancy that somehow reveals his age, his place, his identity) I can tell that she’d just want a friend, you know, she isn’t looking for – ” and his voice becomes unintelligible as his footsteps mosey out of earshot.

Our ice is melting. Every few minutes I hear a subtle crack or drip or tinkle or crunch as more condensation collects on the outside of the silver canister. The liquid diamonds drip down the ribbed sides of the metal and pool onto the glass table. The pooling water reflects the hazy light cast through the floral windowpanes. I’m reminded of A Cut Glass Bowl by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Beyond the windows – steel bars and razor wire. Maybe I’m feeling vast and astute and metaphorical because of the catharsis of today. Inductive instead of deductive. Without being cryptic, without expecting others to pick up on my almost invisible nuances, this harsh juxtaposition struck me. What is it about the fusion of elegant glass and harsh steel that moved me to reflection? I implore the lever to bend to my will as the horizontal panes glide open. Prison bars. The glass masks the harsh reality of the dangerous San Jose streets. This hotel is nice, moderately priced, and relatively authentic. It is obvious, however, that it was constructed with American tourists in mind. People don’t travel here to see the city in totality. They take taxis long distances to avoid the foetid, over-breathed air of the public buses. They dine at overpriced restaurants with bilingual menus boasting hamburguesas and coca colas. They order vehemently in English, pausing their otherwise uninterrupted anglocentric flow about children or politics or money only to say “Gracias”. They think it’s quaint when people play street music or sell homemade bracelets or peddle produce. It’s patronizing. It may be the 21^st century, but time – or the illusion of progress – is completely irrelevant. This metaphysical-intellectual colonialism is alive and well. I know it intimately – it’s exactly the perspective I had when I first arrived. It’s not entirely negative I suppose. I still romanticize the bright crayon box tin-roofed slums and the cracked sidewalks impaled by harsh vines and stubborn weeds.

My muse is back. My writer’s block is gone. It’s Kelly. I can feel my heart beating again. Those fifteen minutes we waited for him in the terminal felt like days. Maybe even weeks. He held my head and kissed me for the duration several eternities as tears were streaming down my face. Yeah, I’m that person. Everything since then has been a blur. He’s sleeping now. I suppose our post-arrival sheet romps combined with the length of his flight demolished any energy he had left.

I feel amazing.

Yesterday, Six arrived. God. He is incredible. The four of us are going to have the perfect dynamic as a group. They’re both staying the whole time until January as well.

We left the hotel yesterday afternoon looking for an adventure. We found a set of steep, crumbling, concrete steps that led to a violent river overlooked by lines of pastel and neon colored barracas. We went further and found a soccer field, then a playground. We went on the monkey bars and climbed the rope and slid down the slides. There were little signs all around the park in Spanish – I don’t remember them verbatim. Some simply were advising to respect nature, another one specifically said “in life, happiness can be found in planting a tree, reading a book, and making a friend.” I love this place. We went further downhill and admired some political graffiti denouncing neoliberales. I didn’t know what that meant. I mean, I know what liberalism is in the vague American sense, but I knew this was something more specific. I asked Six because he knows everything about everything. He then explained to me about the profit-driven IMF and how they would give money to countries in exchange for amending their laws or creating new policies. Yeah, I’d hate them too.

We found a skate park and watched the kids do tricks on their bikes and skate boards. There was one kid who couldn’t have been older than five or six doing toe slides with the other rowdy teenagers. 

I'm in paradise. 

gratuitous scorpion photos

oh hello, update.

October 4th, 2010

This blank word document has been glaring at me for the last twenty hours or so. I keep putting it off – waiting until I’m drunker. More sober. Happier. More Miserable. Waiting for “inspiration”. The right weather. The right music. The right mood. These variables are all part of an elaborate illusion – a false construct. Now that I’ve been forcing myself to write on a regular basis, it has become a chore. It isn’t really a chore, though. This is an excuse. Let me try to be more honest. With these little verbal excavations, I keep digging deeper and deeper. Recently I stumbled upon a lot of things I never thought I’d let see the light of day. I know that to let them emerge is better. It is  the right thing to do (if you can forgive my use of vague moral abstractions).

Maybe I’ll always be addicted to living outside my own head. Being incoherent is intoxicating. I am addicted not to a substance, but to a feeling. It is my only relief when my brain function slows down, when It’s hard to form sentences, when I can feel my vocabulary slipping as I become more inebriated. Sometimes, I can’t even fall asleep because of my incessant thoughts. This is why I long to jump from distortion to distortion. I know if I continue this way, it will eventually destroy me. But, what won’t? Being active and healthy in the sun will destroy me. Sunlight is a carcinogen. All of these hills will cause my knees to become weaker and my joints will begin to grind upon one another. Yet, staying inside will kill me. My mental health will take a drastic downward spiral. I’ll become inactive again – pale and weak and brooding. I’ll die of heart failure or complications from diabetes. I’m so close to where I want to be, and yet, nothing seems to matter anymore.  So, what’s worse? We’re all doomed to an untimely end – an abrupt swoosh of those heavy, dusty, velvet curtains closing before our soliloquies have concluded.

You can’t have a standing ovation when you’re singing to an empty auditorium.

I was never meant to have a prolonged speech. Those are for pretty girls, intelligent girls. I’m stuck here in the corner somewhere between those two states of being. I’m not dumb enough to be ignorant of my ignorance, but I’m not smart enough to transcend it. I’m not ugly enough to be a novelty, but I’m not pretty enough to be a prize. This is where I reluctantly accept my mediocrity.

I don’t know if getting used to writing for an audience has made me better or worse. Maybe I’m the same. Maybe I’m just the same as I always have been – the same rotting trash compiled into a more refined shell. But see, I don’t always feel this way about myself. It’s only when I’m sober. No – only sometimes when I’m sober. I love myself sometimes. Yet, it is not these periods of self-adoration that prompt me to write. Is this me admitting that I have a problem, or that I have the potential for one? I already know that I don’t need to drink in order to function. I got used to functioning miserably at least a decade ago. (It’s an underlying skill taught to young women in the Mormon church – how to live a visibly “happy” life amidst a torrential sea of internal desperation.)

My mom’s birthday is soon. I don’t have anything for her. I intend on getting something for her, but everything I consider just seems useless. Additionally, I have to consider  the practicality of shipping it to her. Will it be heavy? Will it break? I guess it’s really just the thought that counts. More honesty: I’ve never been a fan of commodified affection. Yet, here is where my hypocrisy returns: I love getting gifts. I’d like to believe that I remain unaffected by receiving gifts. It’s not true. Somehow, It still sickens me – the thought of labor becoming currency becoming goods becoming emotion becoming reaction. Maybe it disgusts me more because I enjoy it. I do know this: there is no such thing as altruism. I know, this is a stereotypical 21^st-century-student-quality-post-modern-pseudo-marxist rant. Even my “intellect” (god how I FUCKING HATE scare quotes) is just a byproduct of modern academic structures. There is no such thing as being “self-taught” unless you’re a feral child living outside the realm of language. It’s true: most of what I’ve learned has been outside of classrooms. Life experience, self-directed study, however you want to label it. It doesn’t matter. There were still specific variables catalyzed by current intellectual trends which drove me to read certain authors who then caused me to think a certain way.

I don’t know why humans are so preoccupied with the myth of freedom. It doesn’t exist. Even on the most arbitrarily abstract level, humans are imprisoned by the daunting inevitability of their own mortality. Let’s not take into account societal expectation. The modern relationship between individuals and commodities has been placed on an absurd level of false necessity. I’m not going to reiterate what every 22-year-old hyper-political, middle class, self-proclaimed intellectual is regurgitating. We’ve all read Karl Marx and Ayn Rand and Chuck Palahniuk. Some have moved on to worshiping Zizek or other public philocelebrities. We’re anarchists cooking substances in our kitchens – 21^st century Betty Crockers with cyanide instead of cupcakes. We’re vehement nihilists venting about the meaninglessness of the universe as we misunderstand Nietzsche and quote his aphorisms out of context.  We’re toking socialists who advocate free health care for all but secretly hate paying high taxes with our minimum wage pay (a liberal arts degree ensures an entry-level position at any soul-crushing service job). We’re proud democrats who volunteer and campaign and thoroughly enjoy condemning every hick president who has sat in the white house. We’re militant libertarians – we know who John Galt is – making antiquated right-wing arguments seem controversial and happening -- “Down with big government!” Or, we are simply apathetic – however, the choice of apathy itself signifies a calculated judgment. The ones of us who are self-proclaimed apathetics tend to be the most narcissistically elitist of all. The cherry on top: we’re facebooking and tweeting and blogging these deformed opinions like frequent heart palpitations. It doesn’t matter how highly one values their opinion, we’re still part of this structure. The amount of in-depth analysis and self-motivated study required to illustrate and cultivate this modern intellect is completely futile. We’re still all on the inside  -- and it’s impossible to see what the whole structure looks like from here.

I am a hypocrite. Despite all of this, I will continue to read, to explore, to feed my perverse hunger for more knowledge. I know that I will never learn anything. I’m actually glad that I don’t understand precisely how the world works, and that I never will even come close. I don’t want justifications for this force labeled “evil” – this force that could be more adequately named “humanity”. I’d rather accept the notion of complete entropy.

Again, in spite of everything, I will continue to “better” myself – in the objective sense. I’ve already sold out – gone from awkward yet endearing to cute but bitter and soon I’ll be gorgeous and empty. I am obviously conflicted – I’ll keep running, keep climbing, keep sweating. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does. 

October 6th, 2010

I am my senses. My heart beats in unison with the ripples of sound echoing around me. I can hear the crickets, chickens, cicadas. It extends beyond mere perception, mere reception – these sounds permeate me. I feel the sounds resonate under my skin: the rustling of leaves as the wind moves around them, through them. The flow of water outside. After the noise of a city, you forget how raucous silence can be.

I’ve never been the jealous type. I’ve always defaulted to insecurity before assuming anyone else is at fault – naturally believing that I am less, but not desiring to be more. In embarking on my transformation,  I can feel the overly self-conscious part of myself slowly disappearing. It’s trickling out, drop by drop. There are truths emerging, however, that have always been relevant. Today, I realized that I don’t need to be a trophy to be beautiful. I don’t have to be an ornament to be breathtaking. Maybe this is what I needed to know all along. I finally have someone who has loved me at my worst – who has celebrated my improvement – and who will embrace me at my best. It’s strange. I always had this expectation that I had to be a certain way to be loved – less intelligent, more beautiful. Maybe it’s the Mormon in me, but I was consumed by this secret antiquated notion that a man would never choose a woman who thought too much. I thought I needed to make myself into somewhat of an utilitarian mantelpiece -- equally functional and aesthetically pleasing. I was sure that I needed to be less adventurous, more complacent. It isn’t true. When I firmly decided to engage in this treacherous and challenging battle with self improvement, I decided to do it only for myself. Maybe that’s why I’ve been successful. Most people fail. Maybe that’s why love just stumbled into my lap. Well, more like it (he) strode gallantly into my lap.  

I can think more freely here than in the city. There’s a comfort to the rotting wooden planks – how their termite-ridden insides creak and moan as I step over them. I am suddenly penned by Jonathan Swift –  surrounded by ubiquitously reverent Lilliputians. It makes me feel powerful and humble at the same time. It’s funny, how these bugs are slowly eating away at this house. They seem so small and inconsequential. Yet, in the thousands, they’ll demolish this place completely. (Termites throw the most jive parties ever – bringin’ down the house.) 

today.

Best way to start the morning: David Bowie and oatmeal with cinnamon, freshly ground nutmeg, and bananas from our farm.

I haven’t written much because the owner of the farm was here for a couple days. He covered for us while we were on vacation, but there was still a two day overlap. Oh MY GOD. He is one of the most intense, eccentric, unusual, bizarre people I’ve ever met. I wish I could adequately explain, but no amount of description nor recollection will do him justice. He’s an older white guy who lives in Florida but grew up in Boston. He has a thick accent and long hair – textbook definition of a crazy hippy. Every thirty minutes or so, he breaks out in a rhyme (think: oompa loompa-style meter and vernacular without being set to music). These rhymes were on a variety of topics and most of them were improvised. Some of his favorite subjects included: the Vietnam war, farming, fast food, Liz and I, Bill Clinton, Tantra, Sexuality, Republicans, Buddha, and Vida the cat. Yes. This is real. I don’t really think I’m adequately conveying his level of insanity, so you will just have to take my word for it. He never once attempted to speak Spanish. Every time he talked to a local or one of our workers, He would just yell loudly in English. Once in awhile he’d just add an “O” to the end of a word. Oh, another hilarious thing  he said: “Be careful about those ants. Those bastards hurt like hell. You think they’re biting you? Well. You’re wrong. They’re pissing acid all over you, and not the good kind.” He also told us about the 1001 erogenous zones on a woman’s body, and proceeded to rub the inside of our palms with the tips of his fingers. Then, he told us the story of Buddha and somehow tied it in with how he’s been married four times and has three children – all from different women. I will have to leave it at that. He brought a massive amount of weed with him and he was basically high the entire time he was at the farm. The last night before he left, he rolled an enormous joint (reference: Ron Jeremy’s penis) and smoked with us. I’m not really much of a smoker, so needless to say, afterword I couldn’t even differentiate between up and down. According to him, this was “the finest shit in Costa Rica”. I have never been that high before. Well, we talked about politics for a few hours…actually, that’s incorrect. Liz and I listened to him ramble about politics for a few hours. He basically ended up telling us his life story.

Now for something completely different. Rather than present more banal accounts of my day-to-day, I’ve decided to compile a list.

Things I’ve Learned in Costa Rica (including, but not limited to)

How to:

Wield a machete

Harvest bananas

Plant seeds

Milk a cow

Identify poisonous snakes

Make bread from scratch

Harvest eggs

Identify edible plants in the wild

Kill a scorpion

(this list does not include the many intangible life lessons that have been forced upon me by this place)

Volcan Arenal & La Fortuna

PIGGIES at the open air market in La Fortuna. They're probably going to be slaughtered.

THE CUTEST LITTLE LAMBIES. also probably food.

fire dancers that we saw our first night in La Fortuna. incredible.

The cutest calf ever. I had a steak later that night.

wooo. fire people.

Not gonna lie...I was kind of obsessed with her.

this turned me on a little

more awesome

city street in la fortuna during the rain

the bright magenta on these flowers is an evolutionary trait -- it deters bugs from eating them.this was on our volcano hike.

one of the ten most active volcanoes in the world -- volcan arenal

this, my friends, is sugar cane. we ate it later. also on the hike.

some weird plant on the hike. i don't remember why it was cool. LOOK AT IT!

some guy that's related to the raccoon

he's cute

epic nature hike by the volcano

ian, our hunky tour guide, cutting sugar cane for us to eat

eucalyptus! just like the ones around UCI. it reminds me of dancing with Lucy.

i can't believe i swam under this thing

liz and ian on the bridge

some cool rainforest flower with a cool story that i don't remember

hibiscus! and my hand

a chemical reaction that occurred after ian stuck his cigarette on the petals

the helix pattern of the leaf growth is an evolutionary advantage

A endemic plant native to the rain forest -- relative of ginger. smells AWESOME.

yeah, i swam in this. no big deal.

framed above the toilet at the volcano lodge. don't hassel the hoff.

snakes in jars.