pai, thailand
an objective statement, really, but even the most benign and general is subject to so many caveats. there are any number of prejudices and biases, whether they be known or unknown. even if i self-assess as clear and absolved of any of the aforementioned, maybe the doubt will remain in the minds of others. in an effort to inoculate against any such skepticism, a few qualifications and clarifications must precede.
there are sociocultural biases. it is necessary to acknowledge the lens of the "other" through which one regards another culture or any tangible/intangible byproducts of said perceived alien. even if the decolonization of the mind is not, ipso facto, possible in deed, it can at least be acknowledged as an inhibitor of pure objective reason. so too with every one of a wide range of lenses. the framework of paternalism most definitely applies, as do any number of historical antecedents ranging from "the white man's burden" to orientalism to the westphalian construct of the nation-state and the impressions these created/exploited. it need not be explained, though certainly bears mentioning, that though the self perceives, its inclusion as a part in a larger whole (i.e. regional/national/cultural biases and frameworks) inherently suggests at least a minimum of conscious/sub-conscious inculcation.
the cultural-historical framework dovetails in concert with biological and genetic preferences vis-a-vis ethnocentrism and xenophobia, depending on definition and manifestation. intrinsic physical preferences for similarity to the self (ex. face structure, skin tone, height/weight, etc) are deductive, individual preferences rendered from the larger, anthropological preference of the people to which said individual belongs. of course, those points heretofore stated do not take into account the fetishization of the foreign, but then that is a long, windy path with freudian and jungian tangents that, again, do not need description so much as acknowledgment.
then there is the subjectivity of experience, i.e. the formulation of opinions based on experience and the cumulative effect of the self-protagonizing window through which we regard external stimuli internally. all of which, really, is simply the inherent and prejudicial trust assigned to our own inductive and deductive reasoning for no other reason than that they are our own (i.e. self-fulfilling prophecy.) at which point, if we're truly going to acknowledge these disparities, it bears mentioning that perception and awareness are dictated by those of self-consciousness alone, those only seen by the other, that which is seen by both, and that which shall forever remain outside the doors of perception of both parties (e.g. johari window.) remember, these are just the influences, with scant mention of the opinions thereby derived, something that shall, again, be mentioned without superfluous explanation.
of course, there remain the larger existential factors which must, inter alia, be presented if not fully dissected. whereby tangible, baryotic objects are not, in and of themselves, necessarily existent (i.e. a grain of sand is only a grain of sand until it is perceived as a grain of sand, whereby it becomes subject to the biases heretofore described, etc), further questions remain for the existential nature of intangible concepts (i.e. culture, customs, etc.) it, at least, bears mentioning that such intangibility becomes subject to existential dilemmas primarily and teleological factors (intrinsic and extrinsic finality) even if such digression were to fall beyond the purview of this examination.
so, if we take all of that into consideration, then i'd simply like to say:
asia's pretty fuckin' weird, man
Friday, March 16, 2012
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
slow boat
huay sai, laos
a month before this trip began, a friend and i attended the secret science club at the bell house in brooklyn. they showed a nova video and had some quirky little astrophysicist give a funny talk about dark matter. the next day at the farmers market, a man affectionately known as mr. science dropped by my tent and ten minutes later was lecturing about a dozen passersby on the basics of the universe. it was a funny scene and i was thinking about it today. why? i was looking at the river go against us and i started thinking about spacetime, that fourth dimension of physics that explains, well, time and how it passes and its interaction with baryonic matter. it made sense to think about at the time.
you see, i'm a thinker. i try not to talk about it too much, but if i told you the thoughts and their tenuous chains and the way they flash through my mind, you'd probably classify me as neurotic. not like the thoughts are bad. okay, sometimes they are, not usually. if anything, they're random. what's distinctive for me is that speech and language do something so cruel to thought and a favorite pastime of mine is a good stare. take those eyes of mine, put something aesthetically pleasing in front of 'em, let the mind back up its software. sometimes i fear that nobody will ever no me better than the passing terrain behind a dirty glass window. i comfort myself in knowing that its pretty harmless and i don't feel right if it's not done.
i've covered the bases by now. i mean, here i have. all that emotional, professional, personal baggage that comes with the 'participant' medal from the field day of life. there's no shortage of mind fodder for that life, but i've been traveling for long enough to feel away from a lot of that. feeling a little bit more here, now. that doesn't mean i don't still like a good think, it's just that now i can get a little bit more random, kick it a little more freestyle, and it's all good.
which is all to say that the past two days have been like spiritual porn for the thinker within me. a two-day boat ride. a slow boat ride. going against the million-ish liters of water per minute that comprise the proverbial grain of the mekhong. a boat no wider than two meters, a wooden roof the same, and about twenty to thirty meters long.
no windows, but a movie was playing for me between the wooden posts on the starboard side. a movie starring water, showing its range in a gritty performance filled with everything from placid calm to white-capped rapids. rolling mountains and verdant palms appeared in noteworthy supporting roles. small villages and villagers and limestone outcroppings were but a handful of the stellar guest appearances and sun killed it with the cinematography. i've reached the destination, so i guess that ruins the ending. i recommend your own personal screening nonetheless.
it's getting to be time now. tomorrow i cross into thailand and the next stamp will happen at an airport. trust me, i'm not whining. i still have more time remaining than most americans take for their annual holiday. i'm just saying that this splendid boat ride felt like the beginning of the, not end, but of the return. a content counterpart to the trail of tears. enough time remains that i don't have to think about imminent reintegration and the stresses of the other life i supposedly lead. but i could start. the pressures not on, as i'm sure i'll be able to think of more random topics, be they in physics or otherwise.
another thing i was thinking: the larger, cultural equivalent of this boat ride. we were going against the river, so i initially thought about apocalypse now, what with the whole being in laos thing. but that wasn't it. i had an a-ha moment at some later point i can't remember and realized it was the great gatsby. as the big boy wrote, i felt like i myself was beating on, boat against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
a month before this trip began, a friend and i attended the secret science club at the bell house in brooklyn. they showed a nova video and had some quirky little astrophysicist give a funny talk about dark matter. the next day at the farmers market, a man affectionately known as mr. science dropped by my tent and ten minutes later was lecturing about a dozen passersby on the basics of the universe. it was a funny scene and i was thinking about it today. why? i was looking at the river go against us and i started thinking about spacetime, that fourth dimension of physics that explains, well, time and how it passes and its interaction with baryonic matter. it made sense to think about at the time.
you see, i'm a thinker. i try not to talk about it too much, but if i told you the thoughts and their tenuous chains and the way they flash through my mind, you'd probably classify me as neurotic. not like the thoughts are bad. okay, sometimes they are, not usually. if anything, they're random. what's distinctive for me is that speech and language do something so cruel to thought and a favorite pastime of mine is a good stare. take those eyes of mine, put something aesthetically pleasing in front of 'em, let the mind back up its software. sometimes i fear that nobody will ever no me better than the passing terrain behind a dirty glass window. i comfort myself in knowing that its pretty harmless and i don't feel right if it's not done.
i've covered the bases by now. i mean, here i have. all that emotional, professional, personal baggage that comes with the 'participant' medal from the field day of life. there's no shortage of mind fodder for that life, but i've been traveling for long enough to feel away from a lot of that. feeling a little bit more here, now. that doesn't mean i don't still like a good think, it's just that now i can get a little bit more random, kick it a little more freestyle, and it's all good.
which is all to say that the past two days have been like spiritual porn for the thinker within me. a two-day boat ride. a slow boat ride. going against the million-ish liters of water per minute that comprise the proverbial grain of the mekhong. a boat no wider than two meters, a wooden roof the same, and about twenty to thirty meters long.
no windows, but a movie was playing for me between the wooden posts on the starboard side. a movie starring water, showing its range in a gritty performance filled with everything from placid calm to white-capped rapids. rolling mountains and verdant palms appeared in noteworthy supporting roles. small villages and villagers and limestone outcroppings were but a handful of the stellar guest appearances and sun killed it with the cinematography. i've reached the destination, so i guess that ruins the ending. i recommend your own personal screening nonetheless.
it's getting to be time now. tomorrow i cross into thailand and the next stamp will happen at an airport. trust me, i'm not whining. i still have more time remaining than most americans take for their annual holiday. i'm just saying that this splendid boat ride felt like the beginning of the, not end, but of the return. a content counterpart to the trail of tears. enough time remains that i don't have to think about imminent reintegration and the stresses of the other life i supposedly lead. but i could start. the pressures not on, as i'm sure i'll be able to think of more random topics, be they in physics or otherwise.
another thing i was thinking: the larger, cultural equivalent of this boat ride. we were going against the river, so i initially thought about apocalypse now, what with the whole being in laos thing. but that wasn't it. i had an a-ha moment at some later point i can't remember and realized it was the great gatsby. as the big boy wrote, i felt like i myself was beating on, boat against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
thirty-two
luang prabang, laos
today is a day like any other day, except that it happens to be the day that i turn thirty-two years old.
[can i get a little piano, for the background? just a little rolling of the fingers soft and light over the high keys. the tone should be soothing with the slight undertone of an edge. something reflective. yes. just like that. turn up the bass on the vocal]
as i've written before on this forum, there is nothing remarkable or monumental about the age. this morning was no different from any five years ago and likely the same for anything within the next five. society tells me that i should procreate and pay my taxes, and i remain within that lucrative demographic that's easy prey for anything from doritos to oldsmobiles.
[at this point, i'd like to add some cello. let's get some looooooong and broooooooad strokes to accompany the piano. several octaves lower, of course. just take that bow slowly, deeply baaaaaaaack and fooooooooooorth. just like that]
we assign all the landmarks to the formative and final years; the sunrise and sunset. if you're able to find someone who can tolerate you, there's a wedding that can be thrown in for good measure. other than that, it seems like it's the starting gun and the finish line. but if you're truly paying attention, you'll notice that there will be indicators, if not the rewards of the bookend ages. they may not be handing out the medals, but they're the ones cheering you on in word and deed. it's still your own race and it always will be. i guess i'm just saying that i'm far enough out there to gauge how well i'm doing.
[let's get the tenor sax to gently edge its way in there. trailed ever so slightly by the oboe. i want the tenor to take the lead, as it were, but the oboe should be complimenting the sax in particular and the whole ensemble in general. keep up those broad strokes, cellist]
and to be even more specific, i would add that i have a great vantage point on the life in motion. i may not exactly know which direction i might be traveling in, but i know that it's forward. i may not know the destination, but i think i'm on course for a good one. it's step-by-step plodding and i can't say that each moment is necessarily getting better, even though the years clearly are.
[time for the percussion. let's get some soft, padded mallets to gently cascade up a pair of tom-toms to a gentle, rainy cymbal. nothing too sharp. just like each note is an echo of soft, distant thunder]
nobody said it would be easy. life is hard, hard work and trying to live it honestly is even harder. everybody's keeping score and they're not keen on sharing the point spread. you try to take something good and leave something better and not always sure that you're succeeding. you get to the point where you'll just settle for a good night's sleep.
[add the other hand for the lower keys, pianist. everyone: we're changing over to the bridge, lower it an octave]
i've been through the hard times, we all have. i've taken the punches and it's not always felt good, even when you believe in that makes-you-stronger adage. i've hurt and been hurt and felt like the headgear on tyson's sparring partner.
[back up an octave]
but i've gotten back up each time and stood taller. i didn't let the cheap shots distract me, those side swipes that try to pull you back down with the troglodytes. i know where my battle lies and i've stared steely-eyed forward through the rivulets of my own blood in pursuit of what matters.
[come in here, trumpet. blare out like a triumphant bugle with your dun-da-da-da-duuuuun. hold us together, piano]
and it may not be showing up on the scoreboard. i may not be on the cover of time and i certainly haven't discovered some breakthrough microbe. but i can already look back on more than a decade of tenacious, humble pursuit of a good life.
[drums!]
a life that might not be the ideal for the masses, but one that suits me just fine. a life a little less centered on stopping on other's toes and a little more focused on a good walk and whistle. and maybe that's what i should be looking for all along.
[trumpet!]
so i don't know where i'll be when i'm sixty-four. i don't know where the world will be and certainly not my place in it. but i can look back on the past thirty-two and see some good photos, some wonderful people, and already a lifetime of memories from chasing down my own quixotic dreams.
[trumpet!]
and if nothing else,
[stay with us, piano!]
i can say that from myself,
[drums!]
i have already learned the formula
[cowbell!]
for a life well-lived.
[trumpet!]
today is a day like any other day, except that it happens to be the day that i turn thirty-two years old.
[can i get a little piano, for the background? just a little rolling of the fingers soft and light over the high keys. the tone should be soothing with the slight undertone of an edge. something reflective. yes. just like that. turn up the bass on the vocal]
as i've written before on this forum, there is nothing remarkable or monumental about the age. this morning was no different from any five years ago and likely the same for anything within the next five. society tells me that i should procreate and pay my taxes, and i remain within that lucrative demographic that's easy prey for anything from doritos to oldsmobiles.
[at this point, i'd like to add some cello. let's get some looooooong and broooooooad strokes to accompany the piano. several octaves lower, of course. just take that bow slowly, deeply baaaaaaaack and fooooooooooorth. just like that]
we assign all the landmarks to the formative and final years; the sunrise and sunset. if you're able to find someone who can tolerate you, there's a wedding that can be thrown in for good measure. other than that, it seems like it's the starting gun and the finish line. but if you're truly paying attention, you'll notice that there will be indicators, if not the rewards of the bookend ages. they may not be handing out the medals, but they're the ones cheering you on in word and deed. it's still your own race and it always will be. i guess i'm just saying that i'm far enough out there to gauge how well i'm doing.
[let's get the tenor sax to gently edge its way in there. trailed ever so slightly by the oboe. i want the tenor to take the lead, as it were, but the oboe should be complimenting the sax in particular and the whole ensemble in general. keep up those broad strokes, cellist]
and to be even more specific, i would add that i have a great vantage point on the life in motion. i may not exactly know which direction i might be traveling in, but i know that it's forward. i may not know the destination, but i think i'm on course for a good one. it's step-by-step plodding and i can't say that each moment is necessarily getting better, even though the years clearly are.
[time for the percussion. let's get some soft, padded mallets to gently cascade up a pair of tom-toms to a gentle, rainy cymbal. nothing too sharp. just like each note is an echo of soft, distant thunder]
nobody said it would be easy. life is hard, hard work and trying to live it honestly is even harder. everybody's keeping score and they're not keen on sharing the point spread. you try to take something good and leave something better and not always sure that you're succeeding. you get to the point where you'll just settle for a good night's sleep.
[add the other hand for the lower keys, pianist. everyone: we're changing over to the bridge, lower it an octave]
i've been through the hard times, we all have. i've taken the punches and it's not always felt good, even when you believe in that makes-you-stronger adage. i've hurt and been hurt and felt like the headgear on tyson's sparring partner.
[back up an octave]
but i've gotten back up each time and stood taller. i didn't let the cheap shots distract me, those side swipes that try to pull you back down with the troglodytes. i know where my battle lies and i've stared steely-eyed forward through the rivulets of my own blood in pursuit of what matters.
[come in here, trumpet. blare out like a triumphant bugle with your dun-da-da-da-duuuuun. hold us together, piano]
and it may not be showing up on the scoreboard. i may not be on the cover of time and i certainly haven't discovered some breakthrough microbe. but i can already look back on more than a decade of tenacious, humble pursuit of a good life.
[drums!]
a life that might not be the ideal for the masses, but one that suits me just fine. a life a little less centered on stopping on other's toes and a little more focused on a good walk and whistle. and maybe that's what i should be looking for all along.
[trumpet!]
so i don't know where i'll be when i'm sixty-four. i don't know where the world will be and certainly not my place in it. but i can look back on the past thirty-two and see some good photos, some wonderful people, and already a lifetime of memories from chasing down my own quixotic dreams.
[trumpet!]
and if nothing else,
[stay with us, piano!]
i can say that from myself,
[drums!]
i have already learned the formula
[cowbell!]
for a life well-lived.
[trumpet!]
Thursday, March 8, 2012
vang vieng
vang vieng, laos
a little something i picked up at the farmers' markets for those hot summer days: take a plastic bag (the clearer, the better), partially fill it with water, and hang it within reach of the sun's rays. it won't have much of an effect on you. all you need to really know is that all that stuff you forgot from the light unit in ninth grade science will be occurring above your head. it's okay if you don't really notice. what matters to you is that each time that bag turns or rotates or budges to a trace of wind, it will have every fly in the micro-district mesmerized. they'll be buzzing around that thing like it was giving away phish tickets, while you can sell that goat cheese without having to wave your hand.
it follows the same logic whereby i am delighted that places like new jersey, orange county, and colorado springs exist. without such refracting and prismatic locales, those people could potentially be at whatever here i happen to be at. so too must the mitt romneys of the world be grateful for the vang viengs. this place captures a professional slacker demographic with one notch more ambition than the audience at a san diego blink-182 concert. not only does the principle activity involve sitting in an inner tube and getting drunk, but one in three is actually wearing the tank top to prove it.
a pass through the town inspires a couple good laughs. there are at least a dozen bars with episodes of "friends" on a constant loop; a handful of others do the same with "family guy." it's interesting to watch skinny british kids in tank tops dancing and rhyming along with an american rapper who would likely quit the mic for good were they to ever see the scene. but the whole thing can be a bit disgusting. seventeen farang died here last year. i take a darwinist approach to any mourning for them, but can't help but feel a pang for their families. they lost a child, that hurts. to lose one and have to identify the body here and realize what a shithead they were must be that much more painful. while i'm sure there's the occasional latent coronary condition or freak accident, the smart money rides on ketamine and an overturned tube.
the locals are culpable in the same fashion that mexico should be blamed for the drug cartels: they're simply fulfilling a niche in the market (told you romney would love this place.) if they start getting vigilant about 'no diving' and giving breathalyzers before handing over inflatables, there's not exactly another industry that the town can turn to. we are, after all, four hours of terrible roads north of vientiane, laos. this will never exactly be the next silicon valley. westerners need to give yard time to their demons and someone has to provide the lenient warden. the local cost is having their fairly modest culture insulted each evening as some sotted farang treats their home like it's a weekend at the sigma chi house.
all of which i expected to think, expected to write, all of which i have seen. much of which is, i am happy to report, anomalous in what is really an enchanting town. i have to admit that i practiced my i'm-not-with/like-them face before i arrived. fortunately, it's still in the bag. there were a few stumblers on the streets last night and, apparently, there was a fall down the stairs at my guest house as well. the majority didn't see or hear because they were in their beds, recovering from biking to the blue lagoon, hiking a limestone cliff, or kayaking down this pristine river. and even within that subgroup that came here to have that type of good time, i saw today as i floated past that nearly all were just doing what young people do all the world over: drinking too much, listening to their music too loud, probably saying very stupid things at very high decibels. basically, all that stuff that would bother you in a neighbor, but is really none of your business otherwise.
as for me? i certainly enjoy tilting 'em back from time to time and this trip has already seen a couple big nights (hello again, hoi an.) for some reason, it's been a little bit more fun to be a fly on the wall than one buzzing around the bag this time. i can actually count on one hand the number of beerlaos i've had these past few days. good thing too: i needed that other hand to hold the mushroom shake.
a little something i picked up at the farmers' markets for those hot summer days: take a plastic bag (the clearer, the better), partially fill it with water, and hang it within reach of the sun's rays. it won't have much of an effect on you. all you need to really know is that all that stuff you forgot from the light unit in ninth grade science will be occurring above your head. it's okay if you don't really notice. what matters to you is that each time that bag turns or rotates or budges to a trace of wind, it will have every fly in the micro-district mesmerized. they'll be buzzing around that thing like it was giving away phish tickets, while you can sell that goat cheese without having to wave your hand.
it follows the same logic whereby i am delighted that places like new jersey, orange county, and colorado springs exist. without such refracting and prismatic locales, those people could potentially be at whatever here i happen to be at. so too must the mitt romneys of the world be grateful for the vang viengs. this place captures a professional slacker demographic with one notch more ambition than the audience at a san diego blink-182 concert. not only does the principle activity involve sitting in an inner tube and getting drunk, but one in three is actually wearing the tank top to prove it.
a pass through the town inspires a couple good laughs. there are at least a dozen bars with episodes of "friends" on a constant loop; a handful of others do the same with "family guy." it's interesting to watch skinny british kids in tank tops dancing and rhyming along with an american rapper who would likely quit the mic for good were they to ever see the scene. but the whole thing can be a bit disgusting. seventeen farang died here last year. i take a darwinist approach to any mourning for them, but can't help but feel a pang for their families. they lost a child, that hurts. to lose one and have to identify the body here and realize what a shithead they were must be that much more painful. while i'm sure there's the occasional latent coronary condition or freak accident, the smart money rides on ketamine and an overturned tube.
the locals are culpable in the same fashion that mexico should be blamed for the drug cartels: they're simply fulfilling a niche in the market (told you romney would love this place.) if they start getting vigilant about 'no diving' and giving breathalyzers before handing over inflatables, there's not exactly another industry that the town can turn to. we are, after all, four hours of terrible roads north of vientiane, laos. this will never exactly be the next silicon valley. westerners need to give yard time to their demons and someone has to provide the lenient warden. the local cost is having their fairly modest culture insulted each evening as some sotted farang treats their home like it's a weekend at the sigma chi house.
all of which i expected to think, expected to write, all of which i have seen. much of which is, i am happy to report, anomalous in what is really an enchanting town. i have to admit that i practiced my i'm-not-with/like-them face before i arrived. fortunately, it's still in the bag. there were a few stumblers on the streets last night and, apparently, there was a fall down the stairs at my guest house as well. the majority didn't see or hear because they were in their beds, recovering from biking to the blue lagoon, hiking a limestone cliff, or kayaking down this pristine river. and even within that subgroup that came here to have that type of good time, i saw today as i floated past that nearly all were just doing what young people do all the world over: drinking too much, listening to their music too loud, probably saying very stupid things at very high decibels. basically, all that stuff that would bother you in a neighbor, but is really none of your business otherwise.
as for me? i certainly enjoy tilting 'em back from time to time and this trip has already seen a couple big nights (hello again, hoi an.) for some reason, it's been a little bit more fun to be a fly on the wall than one buzzing around the bag this time. i can actually count on one hand the number of beerlaos i've had these past few days. good thing too: i needed that other hand to hold the mushroom shake.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
query letter
vientiane, laos
or, the one in which i reveal my bitter, bitter soul. or, the one in which i bite the hand that feeds.
i know i'm in laos. other side of the world, right? out of sight, out of mind. maybe it's just me, maybe it would be any of us, but if i spend enough time staring out bus or train windows (taking the past week into account, i'm averaging about four hours per day), thoughts inevitably return to whatever great existential dilemmas exist over there. of course, the small stuff too.
thoughts, i've had a few. the phases of our lives are never so distinct as we imagine, the asian ones included. as i stare out at palm trees and rice paddies contextualizing the present, it comes into focus as the lumpy, delicious chunk of the otherwise-blended dragon fruit smoothie that includes past and future. i am speaking of ambition and/or self-entitlement, depending on one's point of view.
there are three literary agents with a full copy of my manuscript. in total, they've had twenty-five months to review the "project" and hit the reply button. somehow i feel that today will also not be the day. the first one took something resembling interest two years ago and was the first to receive it early last winter. sometime last summer, there was an apology for not getting back sooner and the assurance that i was their "priority numero uno." whenever i see a placid body of still water, i squeeze a tear onto a clenched fist and say a silent prayer as a gesture of solidarity with whomever happens to be "numero ocho." the second agent asked for a copy based upon the recommendation of a reader and friend of mine. i still, however, have not received a reply from the brief email asking for confirmation that she received the manuscript. it's really not that big of a deal as the forty dollar postage was easy to cover: at the time, i was raking it in from working five jobs. with the third, i could tell the interest was tepid from the start. i don't think he expected me to attend that reading and he probably solicited the manuscript because it was the quickest means to the end of being free to go home with that blonde. i honestly don't blame him.
it's sobering to realize that it's not what you know, but who you know, and that your cupboard doesn't have a whole lot of who. to my relief, i can at least bait up a couple hooks and toss out some query letters. in case you're unfamiliar, the query letter is the equivalent of a cover letter for writers to submit to agents. it's formulaic and incumbent upon the writer to prepare one that both captures the agent's attention and adheres to professional standards. it's like aspiring to be the best at coloring within the lines. i've submitted fewer than a couple dozen, embarrassingly because i had faith in the aforementioned to, ya know, get back to me. in all honesty, the most uplifting have been the two or three anonymous agents who responded briefly and with their own fingers on the keyboard. they were unequivocal rejections, but each bore the sentiment to keep going laced with that element of human sincerity that seems to be so lacking elsewhere. to them, i am grateful.
and to everyone else, i will say that sharing is caring. for those in the writing clergy, consider the following to be a cliffs notes for how to make it in america. for everyone else, this is what i will be writing and submitting upon my return. i introduce, the query letter:
dear graduate of prestigious liberal arts college/ivy league institution:
[paragraph one] this is where you have your "hook." it all begins with one sentence that both encapsulates your novel and seizes the attention of the potential agent. of course, your hook could say that you have written a "heartwarming/heartfelt" tale dealing with topics such as apartheid, hiv/aids, and poverty, but be careful: the agent will know that there are writers capable of such a feat, but they are published and you are [see paragraph three.] it is also advisable to mention in this paragraph how you came across the agent. if they owe your father a favor, put that down. that's gold. if you found their name on a database of literary agents, the rest of your query should be targeted to their unpaid intern.
[paragraph two] this is a brief synopsis of your novel. it is advisable that you give this aspect consideration well before undertaking the writing process. remember: an agent has to know what is "trending." if your opus does not align with the demands of the marketplace, yours is already an uphill battle. i'd suggest writing about teenage virgin vampires. swedish murder mystery with a tinge of rape is also hot at the moment. if you're the one who pens the raping-scandinavian-teenage-virgin-vampire saga, the world will beat a path to your door. of course, not all have to fit under the auspices of the trend. established wordsmiths can write as they please. [see paragraph three] should adhere to the guidelines mentioned above.
[paragraph three] this is your opportunity to say who you are. child or reality star? consider the contract in the mail. have you written a business tome featuring a number (seven ways to sell shit to shepherds, nine traits of the remarkably self-indulgent, et al)? start planning the book tour. if you are a former child/reality/sports star who has lost more than twenty pounds, welcome back to the klieg lights. for everyone else, the seas are choppy. if you, say, come from a middle-class family anywhere between the coasts, your vessel likely does not have what it takes to navigate. if you're white, bearded, christened john and live in brooklyn, the tough news is that your demographic is already well-represented. your best hope is that the query letter reader is not left with the impression you live in your gradma's basement, spending your days in tin foil and feverishly masturbating to stave off the panic attacks resulting from too much acne medication.
[paragraph #4] a nice salutation. tradition holds that you should reiterate that your work is finished and ready to submit. the final word count should be mentioned and is not entirely important for those already isbn'd. if it's more than 110,000, this could pose a problem for [see paragraph #3.] thank them for their consideration.
sincerely,
[see paragraph #3]
or, the one in which i reveal my bitter, bitter soul. or, the one in which i bite the hand that feeds.
i know i'm in laos. other side of the world, right? out of sight, out of mind. maybe it's just me, maybe it would be any of us, but if i spend enough time staring out bus or train windows (taking the past week into account, i'm averaging about four hours per day), thoughts inevitably return to whatever great existential dilemmas exist over there. of course, the small stuff too.
thoughts, i've had a few. the phases of our lives are never so distinct as we imagine, the asian ones included. as i stare out at palm trees and rice paddies contextualizing the present, it comes into focus as the lumpy, delicious chunk of the otherwise-blended dragon fruit smoothie that includes past and future. i am speaking of ambition and/or self-entitlement, depending on one's point of view.
there are three literary agents with a full copy of my manuscript. in total, they've had twenty-five months to review the "project" and hit the reply button. somehow i feel that today will also not be the day. the first one took something resembling interest two years ago and was the first to receive it early last winter. sometime last summer, there was an apology for not getting back sooner and the assurance that i was their "priority numero uno." whenever i see a placid body of still water, i squeeze a tear onto a clenched fist and say a silent prayer as a gesture of solidarity with whomever happens to be "numero ocho." the second agent asked for a copy based upon the recommendation of a reader and friend of mine. i still, however, have not received a reply from the brief email asking for confirmation that she received the manuscript. it's really not that big of a deal as the forty dollar postage was easy to cover: at the time, i was raking it in from working five jobs. with the third, i could tell the interest was tepid from the start. i don't think he expected me to attend that reading and he probably solicited the manuscript because it was the quickest means to the end of being free to go home with that blonde. i honestly don't blame him.
it's sobering to realize that it's not what you know, but who you know, and that your cupboard doesn't have a whole lot of who. to my relief, i can at least bait up a couple hooks and toss out some query letters. in case you're unfamiliar, the query letter is the equivalent of a cover letter for writers to submit to agents. it's formulaic and incumbent upon the writer to prepare one that both captures the agent's attention and adheres to professional standards. it's like aspiring to be the best at coloring within the lines. i've submitted fewer than a couple dozen, embarrassingly because i had faith in the aforementioned to, ya know, get back to me. in all honesty, the most uplifting have been the two or three anonymous agents who responded briefly and with their own fingers on the keyboard. they were unequivocal rejections, but each bore the sentiment to keep going laced with that element of human sincerity that seems to be so lacking elsewhere. to them, i am grateful.
and to everyone else, i will say that sharing is caring. for those in the writing clergy, consider the following to be a cliffs notes for how to make it in america. for everyone else, this is what i will be writing and submitting upon my return. i introduce, the query letter:
dear graduate of prestigious liberal arts college/ivy league institution:
[paragraph one] this is where you have your "hook." it all begins with one sentence that both encapsulates your novel and seizes the attention of the potential agent. of course, your hook could say that you have written a "heartwarming/heartfelt" tale dealing with topics such as apartheid, hiv/aids, and poverty, but be careful: the agent will know that there are writers capable of such a feat, but they are published and you are [see paragraph three.] it is also advisable to mention in this paragraph how you came across the agent. if they owe your father a favor, put that down. that's gold. if you found their name on a database of literary agents, the rest of your query should be targeted to their unpaid intern.
[paragraph two] this is a brief synopsis of your novel. it is advisable that you give this aspect consideration well before undertaking the writing process. remember: an agent has to know what is "trending." if your opus does not align with the demands of the marketplace, yours is already an uphill battle. i'd suggest writing about teenage virgin vampires. swedish murder mystery with a tinge of rape is also hot at the moment. if you're the one who pens the raping-scandinavian-teenage-virgin-vampire saga, the world will beat a path to your door. of course, not all have to fit under the auspices of the trend. established wordsmiths can write as they please. [see paragraph three] should adhere to the guidelines mentioned above.
[paragraph three] this is your opportunity to say who you are. child or reality star? consider the contract in the mail. have you written a business tome featuring a number (seven ways to sell shit to shepherds, nine traits of the remarkably self-indulgent, et al)? start planning the book tour. if you are a former child/reality/sports star who has lost more than twenty pounds, welcome back to the klieg lights. for everyone else, the seas are choppy. if you, say, come from a middle-class family anywhere between the coasts, your vessel likely does not have what it takes to navigate. if you're white, bearded, christened john and live in brooklyn, the tough news is that your demographic is already well-represented. your best hope is that the query letter reader is not left with the impression you live in your gradma's basement, spending your days in tin foil and feverishly masturbating to stave off the panic attacks resulting from too much acne medication.
[paragraph #4] a nice salutation. tradition holds that you should reiterate that your work is finished and ready to submit. the final word count should be mentioned and is not entirely important for those already isbn'd. if it's more than 110,000, this could pose a problem for [see paragraph #3.] thank them for their consideration.
sincerely,
[see paragraph #3]
Monday, March 5, 2012
blowin' in the wind
tha kaek, laos
regional saying: the vietnamese plant the rice, the cambodians watch it grow, and the lao listen to it blowin' in the wind. having gotten my toes wet in each of the these countries, i will attest to the statement's accuracy with whatever limited credibility i may have. with regard to the latter country, there is room for a potato/potahto disagreement. to some, this evokes the attribute of laziness. to others, like myself, this suggests that the people in question are "chilled out." however, to the first group, anyone who employs "chilled out" in their vocabulary is nothing if not lazy and then we're right back where we started.
the point is that there are certain places where we say some derivative of "island time" and laos is one of them. if the siesta were an internationally-recognized sport, there would be a lot of these polysyllabic names floating around dinner tables during the upcoming london games [and the siesta would definitely be a part of the summer olympiad rather than the winter.] drivers set up hammocks within their tuk tuks. one bus driver prolonged a rest stop fuelup for ten minutes so he could watch the rest of a kickboxing match. an inevitable part of any meal is standing up to fetch your own water or beer. sometimes, this is because the staff is so engrossed in whatever music video or soap opera is pixellating on their television screen. usually, it's because the bartender/server is eight years old (and most certainly does not know how to make a proper old-fashioned.)
what is so surprising about this phenomenon is that it does not make sense, at least regionally. china's directly north and it's hard to characterize them as passive when they're presently blowing the dust off the triangular trade playbook. to the east is vietnam, home to people who spent weeks in tunnels fighting the world's superpower and still tended their fields. cambodia is to the south and they certainly share the blithe disposition, but they're also a couple grains of time's sands after a genocide and can be granted leniency for not wanting to take life too seriously. geographically and culturally, laos seems to be spooning thailand to the west and they're also known to be sunnier than a detergent commercial. but not so fast: thailand is experiencing massive economic growth and occasional political unrest, so they're a tiger (raaaarr!) in disguise.
when we look inside the borders, it's almost more baffling. for one, it's inland. the heartland of any continent is home to the milk-drinkers and sun-up-to-sun-down type crowd that frequently appear in car commercials. the people on the coasts are the ones wearing sunglasses and using words like, "bummer." furthermore, this place is pretty far from ethnic homogeneity. there is a dominant group (you guessed it: they're called lao), but the country is comprised of over forty ethnic groups with a population of only six million. they were colonized by the french almost as an afterthought, so it's not as if there is some unifying experience to tie all the groups together. when you factor in that it's one of the planet's poorest countries, it seems an almost perfect recipe for divisiveness and chaos. instead, it's.....
imagine going to a wedding where bride and groom are each other's respective third marriage and each of their parents is on their second spouse with several kids from each union. everyone is invited, everyone attends. the sound system breaks, the caterer only has rice cakes, and the officiate is slurring his words early into his very long, disjointed, and borderline offensive sermon. the tents collapse and grandma soils herself and still, at the end of the evening, everybody links up with arms around each others' shoulders and sings "(i've had) the time of my life" with full projection and mean every single bar and word of that song. put some palm trees and a slow river in the background, and that's laos.
i have a feeling i'm going to like it here.
regional saying: the vietnamese plant the rice, the cambodians watch it grow, and the lao listen to it blowin' in the wind. having gotten my toes wet in each of the these countries, i will attest to the statement's accuracy with whatever limited credibility i may have. with regard to the latter country, there is room for a potato/potahto disagreement. to some, this evokes the attribute of laziness. to others, like myself, this suggests that the people in question are "chilled out." however, to the first group, anyone who employs "chilled out" in their vocabulary is nothing if not lazy and then we're right back where we started.
the point is that there are certain places where we say some derivative of "island time" and laos is one of them. if the siesta were an internationally-recognized sport, there would be a lot of these polysyllabic names floating around dinner tables during the upcoming london games [and the siesta would definitely be a part of the summer olympiad rather than the winter.] drivers set up hammocks within their tuk tuks. one bus driver prolonged a rest stop fuelup for ten minutes so he could watch the rest of a kickboxing match. an inevitable part of any meal is standing up to fetch your own water or beer. sometimes, this is because the staff is so engrossed in whatever music video or soap opera is pixellating on their television screen. usually, it's because the bartender/server is eight years old (and most certainly does not know how to make a proper old-fashioned.)
what is so surprising about this phenomenon is that it does not make sense, at least regionally. china's directly north and it's hard to characterize them as passive when they're presently blowing the dust off the triangular trade playbook. to the east is vietnam, home to people who spent weeks in tunnels fighting the world's superpower and still tended their fields. cambodia is to the south and they certainly share the blithe disposition, but they're also a couple grains of time's sands after a genocide and can be granted leniency for not wanting to take life too seriously. geographically and culturally, laos seems to be spooning thailand to the west and they're also known to be sunnier than a detergent commercial. but not so fast: thailand is experiencing massive economic growth and occasional political unrest, so they're a tiger (raaaarr!) in disguise.
when we look inside the borders, it's almost more baffling. for one, it's inland. the heartland of any continent is home to the milk-drinkers and sun-up-to-sun-down type crowd that frequently appear in car commercials. the people on the coasts are the ones wearing sunglasses and using words like, "bummer." furthermore, this place is pretty far from ethnic homogeneity. there is a dominant group (you guessed it: they're called lao), but the country is comprised of over forty ethnic groups with a population of only six million. they were colonized by the french almost as an afterthought, so it's not as if there is some unifying experience to tie all the groups together. when you factor in that it's one of the planet's poorest countries, it seems an almost perfect recipe for divisiveness and chaos. instead, it's.....
imagine going to a wedding where bride and groom are each other's respective third marriage and each of their parents is on their second spouse with several kids from each union. everyone is invited, everyone attends. the sound system breaks, the caterer only has rice cakes, and the officiate is slurring his words early into his very long, disjointed, and borderline offensive sermon. the tents collapse and grandma soils herself and still, at the end of the evening, everybody links up with arms around each others' shoulders and sings "(i've had) the time of my life" with full projection and mean every single bar and word of that song. put some palm trees and a slow river in the background, and that's laos.
i have a feeling i'm going to like it here.
Friday, March 2, 2012
that's local
pakse, laos
it was a late lunch following the first day of touring the dmz in vietnam. the four of us tourees all ordered our standard fare, the driver joined us at the table and had his own. ours arrived and looked familiar. his arrived and was recognizable as something we would never demand. seated next to the driver, my travel partner accepted the invitation and snagged a piece of pork from his plate, giving it a quick dunk in the red paste. how was it? "that's local," he said with a smile, thus telling everything i needed to know and beginning an idioglossic catchphrase that lasted through his stay.
"that's local" is more than a statement, it's an attitude. [yes, as a matter of fact, i do hate myself for having written that sentence. it felt like the best way to describe it and i am truly sorry.] it is the way in which we acknowledge that a particular foodstuff both does taste terrible and that we are glad we tried it; that a particular leg of transport will leave us sore the next morning but forever remain warm in our hearts; that we really wish we did not see the cockroaches, but who are we to complain when the room saved us a dollar? in short, it captures the mindset one must maintain to enjoy traveling. try everything? yes. acknowledge that something is not viscerally enjoyable or does, in fact, suck? that too. maintaining a sense of humor about the whole thing is what makes these moments of lucky charms so magically delicious.
none of this is new, and i might be making such pithy observations tired and weary through this forum alone. still, it's germane. as mentioned, our bitter-tasting (literally) and sweet-remembered introduction of a catchphrase served us two weeks of inside jokes. we began saying it more as the trip progressed and it took a while to realize that it was not that the joke was getting funnier, we were simply presented with more opportunities for local experiences.
the reason? an international border. it's not that laos is more authentic than vietnam so much as that the demands of the previous month of travel negated some of these "local" opportunities. i want to yoke up a buffalo and mush my way around as much as the next guy, but going between hanoi and ho chi minh on a flight costing less than $50 was too much to resist. i could have really pushed myself to embed in the farthest-flung and least-served communities, it just would not have been as much fun as pulling up the proverbial stool at the cheers bar known as hoa's.
which is all to say that you play it as it lies and what lies before me is a golden opportunity to get to know a place in a way that has eluded me of late. there are no trains here. the distances and prices seem to eliminate the want of tray table- and packaged peanut-travel. perhaps most importantly, southern laos appears to be serendipitously overlooked looked by those (like me) trodding along the banana pancake trail. on the not-too-distant horizon are copious interactions with marauding bands of aimless members of the lady gaga generation. the ones who come to thailand to "find themselves" through spending four weeks on the same island experimenting with the human tolerance for ecstasy and methamphetamines.
not that all are good here and all bad there. some wonderful people pass through thailand and some insufferable "bros" find themselves here. still, bangkok and its surroundings seem to suffer from the deadly combination of having an efficient airport, cheap booze with no drinking age, world-class beaches, and international recognition. the hangover sequel will likely only exacerbate the situation. but that is then and this is now. i have a precious window of time to eat under tarps and use the empty plastic chair at my table to scare away the nearby rats. i can still walk into any local barber and blow their minds by asking to trim my gnarly beard. it's time for a little more sawngthaew and a little less bus. a bit less ipod and, [gulp], a little more of the asian power ballad.
i don't know how long it will last and i'm not undertaking an oath of self-torture. i'm simply saying that now provides a unique opportunity to be here, and that the whole thing is no laughing matter.
it was a late lunch following the first day of touring the dmz in vietnam. the four of us tourees all ordered our standard fare, the driver joined us at the table and had his own. ours arrived and looked familiar. his arrived and was recognizable as something we would never demand. seated next to the driver, my travel partner accepted the invitation and snagged a piece of pork from his plate, giving it a quick dunk in the red paste. how was it? "that's local," he said with a smile, thus telling everything i needed to know and beginning an idioglossic catchphrase that lasted through his stay.
"that's local" is more than a statement, it's an attitude. [yes, as a matter of fact, i do hate myself for having written that sentence. it felt like the best way to describe it and i am truly sorry.] it is the way in which we acknowledge that a particular foodstuff both does taste terrible and that we are glad we tried it; that a particular leg of transport will leave us sore the next morning but forever remain warm in our hearts; that we really wish we did not see the cockroaches, but who are we to complain when the room saved us a dollar? in short, it captures the mindset one must maintain to enjoy traveling. try everything? yes. acknowledge that something is not viscerally enjoyable or does, in fact, suck? that too. maintaining a sense of humor about the whole thing is what makes these moments of lucky charms so magically delicious.
none of this is new, and i might be making such pithy observations tired and weary through this forum alone. still, it's germane. as mentioned, our bitter-tasting (literally) and sweet-remembered introduction of a catchphrase served us two weeks of inside jokes. we began saying it more as the trip progressed and it took a while to realize that it was not that the joke was getting funnier, we were simply presented with more opportunities for local experiences.
the reason? an international border. it's not that laos is more authentic than vietnam so much as that the demands of the previous month of travel negated some of these "local" opportunities. i want to yoke up a buffalo and mush my way around as much as the next guy, but going between hanoi and ho chi minh on a flight costing less than $50 was too much to resist. i could have really pushed myself to embed in the farthest-flung and least-served communities, it just would not have been as much fun as pulling up the proverbial stool at the cheers bar known as hoa's.
which is all to say that you play it as it lies and what lies before me is a golden opportunity to get to know a place in a way that has eluded me of late. there are no trains here. the distances and prices seem to eliminate the want of tray table- and packaged peanut-travel. perhaps most importantly, southern laos appears to be serendipitously overlooked looked by those (like me) trodding along the banana pancake trail. on the not-too-distant horizon are copious interactions with marauding bands of aimless members of the lady gaga generation. the ones who come to thailand to "find themselves" through spending four weeks on the same island experimenting with the human tolerance for ecstasy and methamphetamines.
not that all are good here and all bad there. some wonderful people pass through thailand and some insufferable "bros" find themselves here. still, bangkok and its surroundings seem to suffer from the deadly combination of having an efficient airport, cheap booze with no drinking age, world-class beaches, and international recognition. the hangover sequel will likely only exacerbate the situation. but that is then and this is now. i have a precious window of time to eat under tarps and use the empty plastic chair at my table to scare away the nearby rats. i can still walk into any local barber and blow their minds by asking to trim my gnarly beard. it's time for a little more sawngthaew and a little less bus. a bit less ipod and, [gulp], a little more of the asian power ballad.
i don't know how long it will last and i'm not undertaking an oath of self-torture. i'm simply saying that now provides a unique opportunity to be here, and that the whole thing is no laughing matter.
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