pai, thailand
there have been better nights' sleep. with several gaps between the bamboo reeds comprising the wall and my placement right beside it, the cool night air was a formidable obstacle. though the reeds were woven tighter on the floor beneath, their firmness eliminated several potential sleeping positions. in the window between howling dogs and singing cocks, there was maybe an hour's worth of sleep to be found. the next morning, i was tired but not alone. between the eight of us trekking for a night with a hill tribe, we could probably combine for the doctor-recommended night's rest of one individual. not that we were complaining.
we didn't sign up for comfort, though that's not to say we registered for discomfort, either. it came with the territory and the territory, we were told, came with the indigenous people to whom it has belonged for over a century. we spent the night with the lahu and finished by going in a karen village (the karen are a people. had it been singular, there would have been fewer photographs and we, most assuredly, would have worn protection.) if my trek into the past in sapa was real if not authentic, then the past two days made up for whatever local snap, crackle, and pop was lacking in the prior. no, there was no indigenous dancing. no animal sacrifice or primal incantations. there would be no exotic wardrobe.
what we did receive was a warm welcome, plenty of tea, and a room large enough that each farang could have their spread for the night. if we were not given sleep numbers and teddy bears, then our soft, pampered western bodies were better for it. the local children in the village stared at us as if we were foreigners, something not always felt on treks into cultural hinterlands. the town was without a shop, nor any other opportunity for us to shill out our baht into the local economy. it was a town, and we could stay there. we had a great guide, so we were able to learn a thing or two.
our overnight village was near inaccessible on account of the fires. it is the dry season around these parts, a time when locals burn the forest to clear and prepare valuable land for the upcoming planting season. if it sounds a bit narrow-minded to destroy something that benefits all of us (the forest) because of individual needs, you might be on to something. if you saw that it all comes back to us, you'd be getting warmer still.
they didn't always need so much land. the local people throughout northern thailand and the area known as the golden triangle have not always been subsistence farmers. they used to cultivate opium poppies, something that required a percentage of the labor and netted one more zero in their income than the present tense. we in the west decided that we didn't want opium in our backyard, so they couldn't have it in their front. nevermind that it was the cash crop for entire populations for generations. nevermind that it was going to show up on our shores and in our veins nonetheless. nevermind that it's the substance of the problem, not the substances we use to hide behind, that is the real issue.
they continue to work and not complain, because only one of those pays the bills. they'll keep the present rotation of burn, plant, harvest and add the occasional supplement provided by a visit from the farang. i'll just wish that we in the west could humanize our drug laws so that both users and primary growers are not the ones punished. it's always the middlemen that create the problems; the rest of us are just trying to get something to help us sleep.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Saturday, March 17, 2012
life of pai
pai, thailand
one would be forgiven for confusing this town with boulder, co. there are mountains looming, a meandering creek, courses for yoga and massage, an abundance of thai food, and not all of the long-hairs are posers. there is even a buffalo exchange.
the town has the feel of being the right place to be for me, right now. wifi is abundant and i've been able to get good audio feeds for the ncaa basketball tournament (my bracket is looking pretty tough, btw [raises and holds hand in air, waiting for monster high five.]) plus, i'm sick. nothing bad, just seems like the mucus factory got a stimulus grant and my slight cough comes with textures. i did just spend three consecutive days of at least eleven hours in moving vessels with dozens of others, so being sedentary in a relaxed town is as good a prescription as any. a relaxed town that sells ginger tea on every corner, i might add.
still, i'm a bit bored by it all. the "illness" is not confining; i could very well keep pushing the proverbial tempo if i wanted. actually, if some dutch couple did not want to ride elephants today, i would be cooking with bamboo and sleeping near the myanmar border right now. instead, i'll have to wait until tomorrow. the meantime has been filled with hammocks and tea and earnest attempts at breaking through the poor writing in a tesla biography. the number of fresh fruit smoothies is approaching double digits. and i'm not relaxed.
what i thought would be an exercise in recovery has actually been a test of patience. this is week number twelve (more or less) of get-up-and-go. riding from dawn to dusk to pack all the travel into one day, allowing the next for whatever temple/beach/historical site is at the end of the road. i've parked myself for four or five days here or there, but even that felt methodical. those who know me would be loathe to use such pejoratives as "planner" and "restless" in my description. somehow, some way, that's kind of what i become out here.
it's a good approach for this life. spending six weeks on ecstasy in ko phi phi may work for some, but the better call is to actually, ya know, see a place. ergo, transporting oneself like a cliche '80s song title. but that day will come when the bag gets put down and there's no more guidebook necessary. get-up-and-go will come from the alarm clock and some expectant combination of boss and client. coffee will be taken in motion and the ability to put something off for another day will provide the true reward. the key, i'm thinking, is how to balance the two.
this is the part where i say that i have found it and, truth be told, i think i have. for me. that's why i do/did this. it involves a little more movement and a high degree of uncertainty, a combination that i'm slowly realizing brings out the best in me. so i still have a bit more time to plan. a bit more time to think of logistics. i suppose it'd be a good hour to get some more tea, maybe even a little rest. this town is suitable for the night, but there's a jungle waiting for me out there tomorrow.
one would be forgiven for confusing this town with boulder, co. there are mountains looming, a meandering creek, courses for yoga and massage, an abundance of thai food, and not all of the long-hairs are posers. there is even a buffalo exchange.
the town has the feel of being the right place to be for me, right now. wifi is abundant and i've been able to get good audio feeds for the ncaa basketball tournament (my bracket is looking pretty tough, btw [raises and holds hand in air, waiting for monster high five.]) plus, i'm sick. nothing bad, just seems like the mucus factory got a stimulus grant and my slight cough comes with textures. i did just spend three consecutive days of at least eleven hours in moving vessels with dozens of others, so being sedentary in a relaxed town is as good a prescription as any. a relaxed town that sells ginger tea on every corner, i might add.
still, i'm a bit bored by it all. the "illness" is not confining; i could very well keep pushing the proverbial tempo if i wanted. actually, if some dutch couple did not want to ride elephants today, i would be cooking with bamboo and sleeping near the myanmar border right now. instead, i'll have to wait until tomorrow. the meantime has been filled with hammocks and tea and earnest attempts at breaking through the poor writing in a tesla biography. the number of fresh fruit smoothies is approaching double digits. and i'm not relaxed.
what i thought would be an exercise in recovery has actually been a test of patience. this is week number twelve (more or less) of get-up-and-go. riding from dawn to dusk to pack all the travel into one day, allowing the next for whatever temple/beach/historical site is at the end of the road. i've parked myself for four or five days here or there, but even that felt methodical. those who know me would be loathe to use such pejoratives as "planner" and "restless" in my description. somehow, some way, that's kind of what i become out here.
it's a good approach for this life. spending six weeks on ecstasy in ko phi phi may work for some, but the better call is to actually, ya know, see a place. ergo, transporting oneself like a cliche '80s song title. but that day will come when the bag gets put down and there's no more guidebook necessary. get-up-and-go will come from the alarm clock and some expectant combination of boss and client. coffee will be taken in motion and the ability to put something off for another day will provide the true reward. the key, i'm thinking, is how to balance the two.
this is the part where i say that i have found it and, truth be told, i think i have. for me. that's why i do/did this. it involves a little more movement and a high degree of uncertainty, a combination that i'm slowly realizing brings out the best in me. so i still have a bit more time to plan. a bit more time to think of logistics. i suppose it'd be a good hour to get some more tea, maybe even a little rest. this town is suitable for the night, but there's a jungle waiting for me out there tomorrow.
Friday, March 16, 2012
a simple statement
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
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
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]
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