This set is a good set. Its tough here and getting it out in chicken-scratch into my journal and then into actual script on here is a relieving and reliving and reassuring thing. It’s a form of washing away the yick, the yuck, and the ultimately f*&!ed up stuff that is seen and heard and done. Here and there. Its everywhere, this life, these lives, these and those people. We’re all in this together and you reading what I write gets a lot of hot air across a lot of space and that is healthy and wise and good. (see how much I’ve grown and humbled? Ha.)
It is important for the reader to know that by their action of reading, by their typing in the words: whenim65, even if just on a random account or a daily basis, you are participating. You are helping me to speak and be heard and hear and listen. It is not easy, your job, your duty, but you are doing it well.
Also, I apologize for the misspellings and the overuse of “;”s and for the run-ons.
I hope you know that I’m happy, I’m on a great path back to healthy, and When I’m 65 I’ll know that this was done and it was good and I did it. With your help. That will never be forgotten.
When I’m 65 I’ll love this; I’ll tell Fisher’s friends from college and life stories about the nipples and the dimples and the water rights and the tribal feathers and the Muslim burial rituals and the importance of white face amongst black and more importantly the knowledge and love to look past that to the glowing teeth in the happy smiles that your friends give you, to the eyes that wrinkle in the corners of a truly good story teller and of the hands that hold you through it all. Ryan will get us coffee as we, hand in hand, together, watch a sunset and another rise of the Rocky Mountains.
But, for now, right now I’m in it so you’ll have to excuse me.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Dog Fightin’s Not Just for the Painfully Wealthy Anymore
Its noon. I woke early, had coffee, wrote happy and healthy letters and felt the good cleansing that comes with lovely, life giving rainshowers and their talking clouds. I took Wurdia water, got my own and now find myself making oolong tea to simulate the comfort found in Chinese Food on gloomy days. I think I’ll pack for Kita and for my trip with Megan Pilli for the 4th of July and I’ll nap and just be here today.
(talking about East of Eden)
This book takes a hold of your soul.
I miss my brother. Bubba. Sky. Skylar.
I miss hugs and snuggling toes under warm blankets while on couches.
I know I’ll miss the time alone, the contemplative hours, passed to sit and
to think and to calculate.
But I miss the reality and physicality and beauty of love. Now. More.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
(in bold, blocked, angry, fat letters)
I just watched in terror as 6 or 7 boys initiated a dog fight, a brutal, to the death dog fight. They brought two packs together with trickery; I watched this as I walked along the main path to Wurida’s house to return my lunch dish. They swung at the dogs, growling and viciously trying to stand their ground, giant sagging nipples flying and flopping, tagged ears bloody and flies buzzing. They beat the dogs to entice anger, they beat them with sticks and with fear-filled kicks, laughing and smiling and cried to me, in one horrid breath the one thing they learn in 7th grade, “hello-sir-how-are-you-I-fine-thank-you.” They squawk this at me when they are feeling tall, when they are feeling undoubtedly wrong. I stood shaking, shocked and scared, tears welling up as pups and puppies fought for their lives against bigger fuller dogs with razor teeth. They were pushed against a hut wall, curved in its circular shape, trying to run, forced into the dirt and onto their backs. Puppies.
I screamed, wailed at them to stop. Stop this. They saw my tears and laughed. It was a gloomy day, the rain had quit but the gray clouds hung around for atmosphere. They only stopped when Karim, the village tailor, heard me crying; obviously he thought I was being bit by the dogs. My brink-of-tears scream was heard by many; they popped their faces out to see what the fuss was about, and popped them back into their huts seeing it was just Oumou crying in the street. Figures.
I gave Wurdia her bowl.
I walked home and broke into a panic, heaving, shaking cry.
Karim scolded the boys, he said they should not dog-war in the street and they should not scare the white girl.
There was no word of the inhumanity, the cruelty, the indecency, the evil or the disgust or the pathetic thing. But because motorcycles couldn’t pass easily and Oumou doesn’t get it.
What?
Puppies whined away, bloody, as I had to walk back through their nasty wolf-packs and try to hold my tears in. Try not to turn on them with their own sticks. Try not to be me.
Why?
JesusGodDamnIt. Why do I care what these filthy little boys think? Why does it hurt the soul to be laughed at when you are trying so so hard? Why would they want their dogs to shed blood? Why do I listen to this bullshit, these warring dogs, these puppies crying, these toddlers being beaten and whipped and why do I do NOTHING?
Fear? Embarrassment? What the hell is it? Anger is building, exhaustion and disgust.
. . . . . . . . . . .
(talking about East of Eden)
This book takes a hold of your soul.
I miss my brother. Bubba. Sky. Skylar.
I miss hugs and snuggling toes under warm blankets while on couches.
I know I’ll miss the time alone, the contemplative hours, passed to sit and
to think and to calculate.
But I miss the reality and physicality and beauty of love. Now. More.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
(in bold, blocked, angry, fat letters)
I just watched in terror as 6 or 7 boys initiated a dog fight, a brutal, to the death dog fight. They brought two packs together with trickery; I watched this as I walked along the main path to Wurida’s house to return my lunch dish. They swung at the dogs, growling and viciously trying to stand their ground, giant sagging nipples flying and flopping, tagged ears bloody and flies buzzing. They beat the dogs to entice anger, they beat them with sticks and with fear-filled kicks, laughing and smiling and cried to me, in one horrid breath the one thing they learn in 7th grade, “hello-sir-how-are-you-I-fine-thank-you.” They squawk this at me when they are feeling tall, when they are feeling undoubtedly wrong. I stood shaking, shocked and scared, tears welling up as pups and puppies fought for their lives against bigger fuller dogs with razor teeth. They were pushed against a hut wall, curved in its circular shape, trying to run, forced into the dirt and onto their backs. Puppies.
I screamed, wailed at them to stop. Stop this. They saw my tears and laughed. It was a gloomy day, the rain had quit but the gray clouds hung around for atmosphere. They only stopped when Karim, the village tailor, heard me crying; obviously he thought I was being bit by the dogs. My brink-of-tears scream was heard by many; they popped their faces out to see what the fuss was about, and popped them back into their huts seeing it was just Oumou crying in the street. Figures.
I gave Wurdia her bowl.
I walked home and broke into a panic, heaving, shaking cry.
Karim scolded the boys, he said they should not dog-war in the street and they should not scare the white girl.
There was no word of the inhumanity, the cruelty, the indecency, the evil or the disgust or the pathetic thing. But because motorcycles couldn’t pass easily and Oumou doesn’t get it.
What?
Puppies whined away, bloody, as I had to walk back through their nasty wolf-packs and try to hold my tears in. Try not to turn on them with their own sticks. Try not to be me.
Why?
JesusGodDamnIt. Why do I care what these filthy little boys think? Why does it hurt the soul to be laughed at when you are trying so so hard? Why would they want their dogs to shed blood? Why do I listen to this bullshit, these warring dogs, these puppies crying, these toddlers being beaten and whipped and why do I do NOTHING?
Fear? Embarrassment? What the hell is it? Anger is building, exhaustion and disgust.
. . . . . . . . . . .
American Girls
27 June 2009
American Girls
The nightly rains make my sleep good, my complexion bad and my hair crazy. They bring moisture to parched land and take the women from their homes to prepare the fields. They soak loamy spots and muddy shoes and toes and wake the snakes from their summer slumber. They come lightly, sneak around, make a little noise, like an uninvited guest feeling out the party bringing wine to the hostess in hopes of a free-be and then bam! Party crashed.
They come lightly, uninvited, somewhat expected, and without assurance and the crash and the strike and the scream. Children fear and yell and can only be heard by their bedmates or during the times of building fury. It can be felt, when the silences between clouds screaming takes a bit and it is filled with the shrill of children wailing. The noises, the mixtures of relief from hungry mothers to annoyance of big sisters and tears of small babies, they beacon the rain and ask for a bit of discretion, and are answered with towers of clouds and layers of lightening and pounding rains and green, beautiful pastures, ready for the season.
This compound of emotions and notions and the craze that comes just before everyone seeks shelter can strike some serious fear into American girls. American girls who find themselves alone, curled under a single sheet, too scared to blow out the candle from Korea and wanting a hard-rain-induced sleep to come over them and guide them, slowly and surely into the next day.
Heavy eyelids are no match for fear struck, lightening striking, puddle reflecting, eyeballs and imaginations…
The nightly rains make me more independent and more longing for another… one other. The nightly rains confuse and scare me yet I enjoy them, surviving them, knowing their final result and being able to say I did. I can. American girls, we hide under sheets until we’re able to talk big about how it was just one sheet.
American Girls
The nightly rains make my sleep good, my complexion bad and my hair crazy. They bring moisture to parched land and take the women from their homes to prepare the fields. They soak loamy spots and muddy shoes and toes and wake the snakes from their summer slumber. They come lightly, sneak around, make a little noise, like an uninvited guest feeling out the party bringing wine to the hostess in hopes of a free-be and then bam! Party crashed.
They come lightly, uninvited, somewhat expected, and without assurance and the crash and the strike and the scream. Children fear and yell and can only be heard by their bedmates or during the times of building fury. It can be felt, when the silences between clouds screaming takes a bit and it is filled with the shrill of children wailing. The noises, the mixtures of relief from hungry mothers to annoyance of big sisters and tears of small babies, they beacon the rain and ask for a bit of discretion, and are answered with towers of clouds and layers of lightening and pounding rains and green, beautiful pastures, ready for the season.
This compound of emotions and notions and the craze that comes just before everyone seeks shelter can strike some serious fear into American girls. American girls who find themselves alone, curled under a single sheet, too scared to blow out the candle from Korea and wanting a hard-rain-induced sleep to come over them and guide them, slowly and surely into the next day.
Heavy eyelids are no match for fear struck, lightening striking, puddle reflecting, eyeballs and imaginations…
The nightly rains make me more independent and more longing for another… one other. The nightly rains confuse and scare me yet I enjoy them, surviving them, knowing their final result and being able to say I did. I can. American girls, we hide under sheets until we’re able to talk big about how it was just one sheet.
Thoughts on a Fish
A great sorrow just filled me for a time. A sorrow that having stateside would have called for a glass of red wine on the porch with Janna on speaker phone, very good popcorn and a movie. Maybe a Wes Anderson. You know that mood?
However, here, in my mud hut with thatch roofing in the low hills of sub Saharan West Africa, none of those options exist and I will say that I’m better for it. Today I was pulled from this by jumping rope in my hut while trying to remember the words to “Our House” by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young (a definite wedding party song). This cleared my thoughts and simultaneously muddied them with thoughts of Fisher O’Brien. 2 ¾ years old, I’ve known him since before he was 1. I love and fear the thought that 4 nights a week I get to play with, walk with, talk with, feed, snuggle with, bathe and put to sleep this cool little dude. This little man who talks to me on the phone and tells me about his sleep and his hair and I can almost feel his beautiful, rosy cheeks rising when he laughs into the phone. He says my name like no one I’ve ever known and it is sends a genuine warmth my way, a warmth that directs blood from my heart to my hands and feet and eyes and makes me keep going and keep loving and keep living this beautiful (and surely tumultuous) life.
Fisher blesses me; although it is through the sweet guiding hands and the comfy blanket pulled up and the pillow perfectly fluffed and the light of nighttime dimly fading into sleep and the voice of his precious father, Ryan, I know that he knows what he is saying. The way small children do.
I find so much comfort and joy and true love in this.
I love knowing that I love Fisher.
However, here, in my mud hut with thatch roofing in the low hills of sub Saharan West Africa, none of those options exist and I will say that I’m better for it. Today I was pulled from this by jumping rope in my hut while trying to remember the words to “Our House” by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young (a definite wedding party song). This cleared my thoughts and simultaneously muddied them with thoughts of Fisher O’Brien. 2 ¾ years old, I’ve known him since before he was 1. I love and fear the thought that 4 nights a week I get to play with, walk with, talk with, feed, snuggle with, bathe and put to sleep this cool little dude. This little man who talks to me on the phone and tells me about his sleep and his hair and I can almost feel his beautiful, rosy cheeks rising when he laughs into the phone. He says my name like no one I’ve ever known and it is sends a genuine warmth my way, a warmth that directs blood from my heart to my hands and feet and eyes and makes me keep going and keep loving and keep living this beautiful (and surely tumultuous) life.
Fisher blesses me; although it is through the sweet guiding hands and the comfy blanket pulled up and the pillow perfectly fluffed and the light of nighttime dimly fading into sleep and the voice of his precious father, Ryan, I know that he knows what he is saying. The way small children do.
I find so much comfort and joy and true love in this.
I love knowing that I love Fisher.
A Note to Incoming Volunteers and Current Ones Jaded
It is very hard to remember that this is my current and chosen reality. That this is their permanent and unwavering reality. They often do not understand my “choice” because they do not have liberty or in many cases opportunity. When I do something they don’t understand, which is all the time, it is NOT out of stupidity; it is NOT their timetable on which I live, they know I’m here to live for a bit and maybe give some and probably take an unrecognizable amount and then go and am likely never to return. They know this and they still put up with it. Our lives are shockingly different and yet we cohabitate, not easily but sometimes fluidly, and that should ultimately be chocked up to THEIR ability to adapt, not yours (mine).
It says a lot for their capabilities, their culture, their innate hospitality and their curiosity and their fear; it simultaneously speaks loudly of Americans.
Come here knowing you’re coming, you chose this, you choose this; although they are willing and able to house and feed and help you, they do not have any choice in you. Be patient. Close yourself when you feel this slipping. Take a break and wander your thoughts until you get back to this: your reality here is somewhere between 1 and 800 days. They will (very likely) never ever leave.
They are not dumb.
They are not stupid.
They are you if you’d been born into this life, this strife and this humble life.
Come and be good to yourself, you are the only one who can guarantee it, and when you are good and have done good you will, inevitably, do good.
It says a lot for their capabilities, their culture, their innate hospitality and their curiosity and their fear; it simultaneously speaks loudly of Americans.
Come here knowing you’re coming, you chose this, you choose this; although they are willing and able to house and feed and help you, they do not have any choice in you. Be patient. Close yourself when you feel this slipping. Take a break and wander your thoughts until you get back to this: your reality here is somewhere between 1 and 800 days. They will (very likely) never ever leave.
They are not dumb.
They are not stupid.
They are you if you’d been born into this life, this strife and this humble life.
Come and be good to yourself, you are the only one who can guarantee it, and when you are good and have done good you will, inevitably, do good.
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