Pause

I can't write anymore.

A Lil' Bit o'George Berkeley

George Berkeley wrote this beautiful paragraph about perception and existence:

"...there is an infinite number of parts in each particle of Matter which are not perceived by sense. The reason therefore that any particular body seems to be of a finite magnitude, or exhibits only a finite number of parts to sense, is, not because it contains no more, since in itself it contains an infinite number of parts, but because the sense is not acute enough to discern them. In proportion therefore as the sense is rendered more acute, it perceives a greater number of parts in the object, that is, the object appears greater, and its figure varies, those parts in its extremities which were before unperceivable appearing now to bound it in very different lines and angles from those perceived by an obtuser sense. And at length, after various changes of size and shape, when the sense becomes infinitely acute the body shall seem infinite. During all which there is no alteration in the body, but only in the sense."

I think it applies to objects as much as it does to individuals and our perceptions of them; character, mind, even physical characteristics morph and enhance as our senses become more acutely in tune with an individual's complexities.

But this is not his point (I wondered if G. Berkeley ever had a girlfriend?). He goes on to draw the conclusion that:

"Each body therefore...is infinitely extended, and consequently void of all shape and figure. From which it follows that... neither the particular bodies perceived by sense, nor anything like them, exists without the mind."

BOOM!!

(as J.T. say.)

Ready Or Not

Successfully completed Week One of this season's Being-A-Grown-Up-At-A-Big-Corporate-Law-Firm. This week I:

- Had a free Starbucks Tall Non-fat No-Foam Vanilla Latte
- Ice-skated in Rock Center for the first time ever
- Attended a private company party complete with open bar, numerologists and a roast
- Got a Blackberry (one of 6.2 million, according to Ja) and a firm-issue tote bag
- Pulled my first 14-hour day at the office -- one of many to follow, one can only hope ;)

As, on the 13th hour, I was printing out a thousand pages of documents we can't recycle, I thought of the article about our generation -- that we are an over-educated group of youngsters that take on jobs that "enable" us to work senselessly long hours at the office. We are also, according to this article, a generation of searchers who continuously skip to new projects and take on various eccentric hobbies until we are suddenly 40 and still haven't decided on what we want to be when we grow up.

A little voice says: the easy decision was to do this corporate job -- the challenge would have been to decide what you really wanted and do it, not be afraid of the difficulty in pursuing it, and be the person you really want to be at every moment. But that's hard.

Balance balance balance balance.... a concept continuously redefined depending on the length of the increment in consideration.

Trashy New Yorkers

New York city produces a lot of waste; 4 pounds per person per day by some measures. With about 8 million inhabitants that makes roughly 16,000 tons of garbage per day!

- Find out more at: http://www.treehugger.com/files/2006/12/composting_gree.php#perma

All Good Things

It's been 49 days since I set foot in New York again, to be here "permanently" in as serious a way as that word can mean for me. In the last three weeks I've found and enjoyed a job, a home, good friends, good family, romance, excellent conversation, some free furniture and even the stoic acknowledgement of the disgruntled Trinidadian man that runs the 99 cents store on the corner. I am reminded, as usual, of how extremely fortunate I am, and I'm waiting patiently for the next distasteful, difficult or disastrous occurence to hit me, as I can't possibly have all these wonderful things for much longer without a bad patch to balance them out.

The key, possibly, being balance. So, where are you, and what's it going to be this time?

Dream

Last night I dreamt I was sliding down a steep, rocky hill in a 5-foot camping tent with two geriatrics, a handful of racially distinct strangers, and an old highschool buddy as wave after wave of black, boiling ooze gushed down the slope and propelled us forward; our green vinyl tent careening uncontrollably into a well of thrashing, stormy, dark water.

My outstretched hand never caught any of the people outside our tent, who silently melted by as we passed; mouths gaping for breath on the bubbling hillside.

I think it's because of how I felt last night when I wrote, "All Bad Things."

All Bad Things

The National Cancer Institute says, "Based on rates from 2001-2003, 41.28% of men and women born today will be diagnosed with cancer...at some time during their lifetime. This number can also be expressed as 1 in 2 men and women will be diagnosed with cancer...during their lifetime."

The Center for Health, Environment, and Justice says, "PVC (polyvinyl chloride) plastic, commonly referred to as vinyl, is one of the most hazardous consumer products ever created."

Iraq Body Count says that up to 54,000 Iraqi civilians have died due to US military interventions.

We're probably making more terrorists. Daily.
9/11 was bad.
So is global warming, whatever that is exactly.

We are all dying.

And as for my little contribution to this utopia, TODAY, I:

purchased a set of 3 plastic tupperware items;

have cancer in my family;
did not exercise;
savored simple sugars;
ate foods that were not locally grown;

turned the heat on;
rode in a car for about 3 hours;
wore clothes produced by garment factories that probably employ unfair labor practices;

consumed more resources than I would be allotted if every individual in the world consumed an equal amount;
contributed to the growth of a gluttonous world economy;

did not spend enough time with my Grandmother;

did not write to my Congressman about how irritated I am that we have fucked up so much in Iraq and have forgotten Afghanistan;
did not write to my Congressman about how I think we should sign the Kyoto Protocol and enforce it;

did not VOTE in the recent elections;
did NOT give a dollar to support education;
did NOT voice my concerns about Sudan;

did NOT decide to be a doctor in developing nations;
did NOT enroll in a Masters program to learn about public health or the environment;

Signed up to work at a corporate firm that may eventually or perhaps currently does support projects that:

create products nobody needs but must be convinced they do;

engender further dependence on oil;

facilitate the extraction of oil and its derivatives perhaps even on protected land thus killing the local endangered wetland reptiles that nobody cared about until we got there; and last but not least,

perpetuate the eventual though gradual demise of the human race through various unintended means such as: pumping harmful pollutants into the air, disrupting local markets, destabilizing communities, indirectly causing youths to move to cities where they inevitably become intravenous drug users and prostitutes without contraceptive methods who contract HIV and pregnancy so our population booms to an even seven billion and strains our already stretched resources, causing a rise in civil strife, violence, and possibly even war; and,

I will continue to feel guilty about these things tonight and maybe even tomorrow and the rest of my life. And I have no idea what I can do about most of them. At least not now. Do you?

25

I am 25 today. (!!). Time coasts by.

I'm trying to remember what happened between 20 and 25, and its difficult. Childhood too, is a blur of rice paddy, skyscraper and autumn; brick buildings, soccer, cows and beggars; storms, swimming, heat, singing. A little bit of death. I'm a girl of 6 standing in front of a brown Volvo; I have shiny brown hair and a purple backpack, and my cheeks are the same color as my pink Carebear shirt. But this I know only from a picture and I have no idea what those big brown eyes are trying to tell me. I was once this creature -- half my current size and cute.

Today, I have this halting thought: I'm a quarter of the way through, which means there's three more to go... how exactly am I doing? This is more than just important -- its my one chance -- the only life that matters. Have I spent my time here wisely?

I treat this topic as if I am a visitor in this life, yet I cannot fathom any life but this one. I become a third person observer stealing glimpses of myself, then remember that there is no third person -- there is only me and I am the protagonist in all these visions, yet have no other vantage point from which to observe.

My third person self says, "Be Excellent," and then, "Be Excellent to Yourself." And I try. I think I have done well so far, with this whole living thing.

I imagine this conversation will be very different at 40.

Liver Biscotti

A local treasure:



Note that these delicate morsels are:

- Baked from scratch
- All natural, and;
- Contain no preservatives.

Friendster Horoscope II

It's more than really dumb that I am paying attention to this right now, at a time when I have more important things to think about, however, can I just say that the horoscopes on Friendster are frighteningly on point? Today, I decide on a job for my next two years of existence. This is what Friendster had for me today:

Making decisions may be hard for you today, but this doesn't mean that you're losing your razor-sharp discernment. One explanation could be rattled confidence -- why are you doubting yourself right now? You need to give yourself a good long look in the mirror! Remind yourself that you can't stop moving forward in your life just because you've made one or two mistakes. If you can't make a choice, then just make an educated guess. You can handle the outcome -- and thrive.

Excellent.

Horoscope

This is what my horoscope said today, and it was very, very accurate:

If you've been losing confidence in your intuitive powers, you can stop worrying! Your faith will be restored by an unusual development later in the day. When it happens, consult your gut one more time, and check in with yourself about what you're thinking and how you're feeling. Either your mind is changing, or your gut is. The two will come together with the right answer and a smart plan. You are getting back to defining your own destiny.

Dimples and Dirt

I told Jon that I liked his name, and that it reminds me of dirt.

I shot him a worried glance when I realized I had probably just insulted him -- "You remind me of dirt!" -- the sort of taunt a playground six year old would use. But he understood what I meant. It’s the kind of name I feel like I can dig my hands into, deep, deep down into the earth; maybe plant some roots there.

He’s very perceptive, Jon is. He asked me outright one day, about me, about why I act the way I do sometimes. It was hard to find the words, hard to be honest; its been so long since there was someone I had to be real with. The part of me that laid dormant beneath layers of logic, adventure, happiness, and adulthood now bubbles awkwardly to the surface. I fumbled, blushed, felt glad we were on the phone and not in person, then secretly wished we were in person, then decided not, again.

I seldom meet men who have balance the way he does. He is both light and dark; intelligent but inquisitive; ambitious, with a touch of humility. It's lucky too, that he's not shy with his feelings. For one virtually incapable of letting down my walls, he's like the vine that slowly cracks mortar, and crumbles stone to dust.

I'm terrified.

So the question now is...if it wasn't Jon, who put up that comment about my dimples?!

The Unruly Bag of Questions

Talking to people these days is terrible. The ones who are still bright-eyed and bushy tailed about earth and how it works are the toughest; I carry my cynicism like a badge. I can tell that sometimes I strike chords I’m not supposed to, and curiously enough, I am often trying to defend what I believe in, which essentially is the breakdown of hope and possibility. Does it mean I have forgotten myself? Given up? Maybe. Or maybe this is simply a cycle, and I am on the underbelly of a shadow. Essentially I forgot what it means to have hope. Or don’t have the guts to trust hope.

I heard a story today about a guy my age who is creating a community library in a village in India – from scratch. And I heard another about a girl my age who set up education centers for village kids in India, to teach country boys entering the city about how to get a job, what jobs to go for, which to avoid. These are people who just went for it. There were no questions standing in between what existed and what was possible. Meanwhile I am a virtual bag of questions. I hear stories like these and my heart tugs at my intellect, begs it to listen. But my eyes glaze over, because… Because I don’t believe it. I don’t really believe that our efforts make any difference in the end.

This doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try though! Says my heart. Every little bit counts!! But what exactly are we working towards? We work to give others better lives? And what is the better life that we give ourselves? To be surrounded by the people we have helped? Or to work towards something higher than oneself? Maybe that’s it. To work towards something higher than oneself. To work towards something meaningful. What if 'helping people' has lost meaning, because you just don’t care anymore, what happens to us? Or because you feel overwhelmed by the job -- fighting ‘the system.’ We have no better ‘system.’ So make a better system, my heart says. One person does not make a better system, says the grey matter, the collective makes the system. Essentially, the grey matter says, ‘you, YOU, can’t make a better system.’ So don’t try.

The last few days I’ve been hanging out with New Age people. They seem to have this same quality of just going for it – no questions between existence and possibility, only existence. I find them fascinating, in small doses. The New Agers seem to have a freedom that I cannot even begin to feel. My every act is questioned; they live in the moment. They paint, draw, sculpt, speak, sing, dance, fuck, all seemingly without hesitation. These are the ones that might, on a whim, take up an entirely new belief system because it feels good. I ask, what if I don’t enjoy the flakey banter, the New Age trust in crystal healing and tarot cards turns me off, and the advice to be light and airy always only contradicts my essentially human tendency to have dark and selfish thoughts? Which I know they also have. But these kinds of questions don’t work well in friendly conversation. And the only reason I can speak of them with any authority is because I used to be New Age chic, and now have no hope of ever returning to such bliss.

Ideas that suggest that life should be light and airy anger me. The cynic in me says, Never think for a moment that there is comfort for the human spirit, especially not dressed in the words of man. I believe that happiness is possible, but its pursuit will take a lot more than just trusting in human contrivances.

Crusaders

Is it enough to just be a good person? Or should we be crusaders, striving for a world better than this one?

Better? Different.

I suppose in reality there is no 'should,' and perhaps even, no 'better.' So why do I question whether just living is enough? If I have one life -- one expanse of time that is followed by nothing -- why does life and its quality matter?

Because there is only one?

Halloween NYC

I think half of New York took today off. It's November 1st, which means last night was October 31st, which means everyone's still wondering if that girl in the naked costume was really naked, or if she was just a man. Ample reason to take the day off.

Week One

I live in New York.
It's been a week.

I think I was expecting quicker results on my apartment, job, and life search.
I want decisiveness! Ingenuity, courage! Luck, even. Maybe a little bit of faith.

My far flung assumptions about my own entitlements knock the wind out of me when revealed. How silly! Silly, silly girl.

Dad, in response to my request, says, "Maybe." Followed by, "I have to see the whole picture first."

I can't say that I blame him. I have been unreliable, non-committal, so many shades of flakey it turns my head on its side, with tears.

To be honest, I am terrified.

In the real world I flounder. I put up spikes against possibility, defend ego more than honor; I anger easily over my assumptions when they reveal themselves as false.

The word that characterizes my last few years is one: paralysis. For years, only this. The 'free spirit' with no ties or boundaries, shouting of wisdom and spontaneity, hope and a life fully lived, was always only paralyzed. A rolling stone, yes, gathering no moss, but only because she's mired in mud.

I regret speaking.

Lyrebird Unbelievable Jungle Bird Mimics Bird and Human Sounds

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=3433507052114896375

Unintended circumstances

"Everything has an unintended circumstance," he said.

It prods, somewhere around my cerebral cortex, poke, poke poke. What unintended circumstance will I exude into the world? No doubt a lot of death and destruction, what with two showers a day, frequent hand washings, walking around and placing high amounts of pressure on ants, cockroaches, things of the like (I use humane traps for mice though. But I also occasionally feed them to pythons.) Thinking more globally and long-term, if I were to choose a long-term career, is the 'Unintended Circumstance' something to consider?

Think of examples. In which the agent does a perfect job but of course, cannot control what the rest of the world does once the job is done. You could be a doctor and save lives. Population probably agrees: this is good. But what if you're Osama's doctor, and by saving him you subtract a few thousand lives? I think it's not your decision at that point, once you're a doctor, to decide who to save and who to leave. Only Unintended Circumstance.

You could be a field worker and work in international development. Population probably agrees: this helps, and I feel better that you do this. But what if the population you try to help doesn't really want change, or you funnel money into a system that eats it to feed corruption and war. Are you still forgiven your actions? If you do your job knowing about these consequences, are they still Unintended Circumstances?

In the other direction, you take a less drastic approach to life. No more life/death stuff, so far. You work at Dunkin' Donuts (unintended circumstances: distribute immeasurable amounts of joy to countless denizens; alternately: feed Mr. Smith a donut a day for 40 years, Smith dies of heart complications without life insurance leaving a family of four to fend for themselves), you work as a Legal Secretary (unintended circumstance: support someone to be the best they can be; alternately: is there an alternate ending? Do Legal Secretaries REALLY hurt people?), or say, you're a Yoga Instructor; you align chakras, are vegan, ride a bicycle. Unintended circumstances? Where?

I'm sure everything DOES have unintended circumstances. Their severity by profession is debatable. Am I advocating a less risky career? Not necessarily. Perhaps the more risk of failure, the greater the possibility of change, success, triumph. Do you choose the path of more resistance and hope the rest of the world doesn't let you down by being mean? Or assume it will be mean, and choose the path with fewer bad circumstances?

Can we be part of a system that does not end in destruction? If we can't, does it matter that we've considered the unintended circumstance? More significantly: does it matter that we've considered?

Ruminations

I moved back to New York. I think it was a decision I made subconsciously long ago, like maybe the day I left it for San Francisco. They don't tell you, when you first move to New York, that the love-hate relationship you forge with this city is forever; or sadly, that it will always feel more like home than anywhere else; that each time you return it levels you like a stern mother, but simultaneously bewilders you to the point of inspiration. A city of foreigners! and it feels like home.

This last year of traveling and being with my family has been excellent; I feel grounded, calm, maybe even peaceful -- all these with little justification for feeling so. I've come back armed with a renewed sense of self and a 'wholeness' that I never had before. No doubt the city will slowly chip away at those things, but I'm hoping for the best.

I'm excited about the next two years. I didn't understand that committment was necessary, that it was something only I could do, and then, only in my own head. So once I did that -- made a decision, and stuck with it -- I felt a sudden peace. I can't say that I have figured out what my longterm goals are, but I don't think I can go wrong with just getting a good job right now. As long as I stay self-aware and honest, I think I'll be ok.

9 Hours till take-off

I'm brain dead and my heart is ripping. I pack, organize, unpack, reorganize, pack, think think think think think until I'm thinking myself in circles like usual and then thinking about everything I will miss and exactly why my heart is ripping, no more: mom, dad, root, prae, p na, danzig, swimming in a warm open sea, hot sun, mango trees, elephants, cheap food, beautiful drag queens, som tam lao, po dag, fresh kung, FRUIT, an entire population with easy smiles, happy children, waves, tropical storms, MOM, DAD, ROOT, no more, no more, no more of these for a while. How I will ache for them....

Python Feeding

Watched, no, served another python feeding today. Danzig eats two medium-sized mice, once a week. We buy them at the snake market, transport them home in a paper bag, or sometimes a clear plastic tupperware box like a TV dinner. They sit in this sombre paper bag until nighttime, when Danzig wakes up. They shit a lot. The scratch of their tiny mouse claws on the hollow paper bag makes them sound bigger than they really are. Once, a mouse died in the bag from unknown causes -- maybe an assault by one mouse brother upon another? Maybe the bag jostled too violently, and the miniscule skull cracked saltine-like? Danzig ate him anyway, cold and dead.

My brother has a policy that mice should be served one by one, so no one mouse must witness the carnage and endure the stress of such a sight alone. As I'm in charge at the moment, I let the first mouse out of the bag onto some newspaper, python ready to strike. But two mice slipped out. The first, a long, light grey mouse was instantly taken; the python whipped his long, brown-spotted body around him in a tight knot. The mouse's two back legs warped awkwardly, then pattered the floor in panic, tail flinging itself across the newsprint.

The smaller mouse, a chocolate colored nugget with a clean white band across his back, had been eagerly sniffing his new environment. But he stopped as if struck when the python nabbed his partner - the predator's bloodthirst electric across the dead space. The chocolate mouse curled into a tiny ball, paralyzed, perhaps begging in his soul for forgiveness of all the bread crumbs he stole, the fuzzies he trampled, the sawdust he soiled. Only inches away, the deadly coil was unraveling.

The python had begun to swallow his prey. Head first, the warm corpse slid through his elastic jaw, down a narrow throat and propelled southward with each curl of the python's contorting body. The little chocolate mouse was now at ease -- the killing had ended and the troubling thoughts vanished like peanut butter at feeding time. His downy nostrils poked the newsprint, eyes like garnets strangely stationary on either side of his snout. He approached the snake as if greeting a neighbor. We flinched. But he scuttled away again, further this time. Danzig was busy stretching out his jaw, demonstated the curved fangs nestled in his baby-pink gums - it seemed as if he had finished for the night.

A new tension in his neck heralded otherwise. One furry, warm-blooded creature remained and he could sense each delicious beat of its precious little heart. The chocolate mouse examined an article on Koizumi. Moved on to obituaries.

The python caught him by the soft skin of his left thigh, releasing a shriek of outrage from the tiny body. He coiled squarely around the mouse's midsection. At first, there was only silence. The mouse perhaps, did not understand why he had such trouble breathing. His oblong mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. His eyes glared at the lightbulb miles above him. For a moment, there was no movement from either party. The mouse, suddenly comprehending that death itself was upon him, sputtered for air, lungs wrenching inside his chest. The pain of suffocation finally ripped through his body causing his tail to straighten into one long obstinate blade before limply giving way, the crush of death escaping into the still air.

Danzig just held him for a while. Then, sure that death had again worked, he unclenched his jaws to show that no blood had spilled -- the mouse's underbelly was rumpled and wet with saliva but otherwise unmarred. The python lifted his head and glanced around him, disoriented. He tried to get at his prey head first, but had trouble finding its head -- his own body obstructed the view. He seemed confused. His triangular face poked, knocked, shoved at his own coiled length until finally flipping over itself, upon which he found his mark, and swallowed it whole. When most of the corpse had disappeared, the python reared as if standing, elongated his neck and sucked down the last two translucent pink feet, claws and all. The mouse's long tail being the last to go, it reached from the python's lips like a tongue - thick and muted - before finally slipping down - one long, furry spaghetti choking in his throat.

Danzig, the Python

This is Danzig, my brother's python. He's an African Ball Python, or Royal Python, so named because he rolls up into a ball when sleeping or threatened. Or eating. Or really just anytime. Either way, I love him.

It's hard to tell what a snake is thinking. He can't complain about his weight, tell you why he's so sleepy today, or give you a thumbs up if he approves of the cuisine. Before I met Danzig I assumed all snakes were dirty slithery things, but this little python is different. He, in fact, is CHARMING. He moves slowly -- takes life at his own pace. He's often seen cocking his head in all directions and staring for minutes at a time. We believe it to be a characteristic of his inquisitive nature, but it may also be because he can't blink. He has a keen sense of smell and an appreciation for different cultures -- he thoroughly enjoys both my old sneakers and my bag of dirty gym clothes. If you're lucky, he'll pulsate on you -- he curls around your arm like a bracelet and squeezes -- one long muscle in waves of flexing and unflexing. I like to think it means he loves me, but it could also mean he's practicing for when he gets bigger and can kill me.

Though he is now a toddler, Dannie may someday be six feet long. His jaw 'unhinges' into four pieces and he 'yawns' often to stretch it out. This means that if he ever learned to think of us as food, he could suffocate us to death and swallow us whole if so desired (though he'd be extremely uncomfortable for a very long time). Pythons are one of the few snakes that still have remnants of their legs -- they're called "anal spurs" -- but they're on either side of his genitals so it's not like you want to be handling them all the time.

We feed him live mice. It's possible to ween a snake off of live feed -- you can feed them Mice-icles, but Thailand has yet to carry such delicacies. Another option is red meat, but it has to be the right temperature and moving, which means you put a mouse-sized piece on the end of some tongs and make it dance so the snake thinks it's live prey. If this doesn't work, you can rub the meat on any spare dead mice you may have lying around to impart the smell of the snake's favorite dish. The mouse-killing thing saddened me, until I remembered that I eat meat too -- I just have other people kill it for me.

The only time I've seen Danzig move quickly is at dinner. Some Ball Pythons are finicky eaters, but not Danzig. When Dannie was smaller, my brother once held him above a box of live mice to say, 'Look, Danzig, see what I got for you?" when suddenly one mouse was gone, Danzig was rolled up in a ball with four little mouse legs sticking out the top, and my brother was hurling the whole package across the room in fright. He's like lightning, Dannie is.

Egg-bearing animals often have salmonella on their skin, so though it really may be the kiss of death, we kiss him goodnight anyway. I usually do a nose rub instead. He probably hates it but has learned to love us back in his quiet way.

My Ex (x 2)

V broke my heart, many times over I'll admit, but literally only twice. The first time was characterized mostly by a lot of wailing, complaining incessantly to a very good friend of mine, thoughts of suicide and generalized pathetic despair. My older, more mature self thinks about the girl I once was and wants to slap her silly, but my chance has passed. The second time was less melodramatic; it may have sown the seeds for a truthful perspective of reality on my part. For this, I owe him a great many thanks.

V speaks with India on his tongue -- the colloquial speak of the New York taxi driver implanted in a six-foot frame -- it's charming, unexpectedly sexy. From a distance he could resemble a turban-less Osama Bin Laden, but for the jeans and the cigarette hanging from his lip. He has long eyelashes and since he's the color of coffee with too much milk, the dark eyes are somewhat shocking.

He meditates everyday. Or at least tries to. He often proclaims to give up his vices, the vice of the week being the most pressing, whether it's cigarettes, alcohol, meat or sex. Like meditation, at least he tries. If I think hard about the first thing that attracted me, it's that he was a big fan of Tom Robbins -- it seemed to tell the little girl in me that underneath this threatening, rather doomed exterior was a soul that could delight in Jitterbug Perfume.

My method and my downfall was such: extrapolate and exaggerate to the point where his character is exactly what you've been looking for. And then fall in love! I did a great disservice to both of us. We ended badly, tried again, and again ended badly. My last impressions of him were of a tall, handsome ne'er-do-well; a sort of fuck-up who made me only angry; the bad boy who didn't love me.

Now, five years later, he's my friend -- the kind of friend who is your ex (x 2) and you're never really sure where to put each other. I fumble a lot and always read more into what he says than I'm supposed to -- the little girl I was shining through the cracks. Mostly though, I'm done being both angry, and hopeful. If V taught me anything, it is this: See. Really see. The person standing in front of you is only the person standing in front of you -- not a white knight, and not a perfect circle. So if you're going to fall in love, SEE FIRST, fall later.

I see him differently now -- he's no longer a mirage. V stamps out a cigarette across the table, flashes those dark eyes at me -- sweet with a hint of bitterness. I feel about him the way I feel about passionfruit; I like the idea of eating it, but I silently die a little bit inside from the sourness. He has always been just himself; a fact I conveniently let slip by when we were dating. He's the bad boy who is more real than I ever was, who didn't love me and who I didn't love.

Today's News

I got a new toothbrush today. It's like a Ferrari. And blue.

Coup D'Etat: The Morning After

I think this is good. In fact, I think this is great. The big powers on the international scene are condemning it as an act against democracy-- that democratic means would have been the better way to restore order on the Thai political landscape. But democracy fell long ago here and perhaps has never really been as strong as we hoped. In name, a democracy; in truth, a collection of barking dogs.

Now the dogs have been silenced, at least for a while. I think the military has given Thailand a moment to breathe, to reconsider, to make room for new voices. The Constitution has been invalidated; now we have a chance to write a new one and dream of better mechanisms to guide us. Perhaps this is a necessary stage in a growing democracy.

These events defy the Western ideal of democracy. It seems that the Western leaders are dismayed -- like Thailand has robbed them of a good example of a developing nation thriving on democracy during a time when the West really needs to believe that democracy is a good idea. What if this IS Asian democracy: a messy, teetering struggle between effective decision-making and really listening to all the voices that need to be heard. Throw in the occasional peaceful military coup to act as referee every 15 years or so, and you've got a strengthening democracy.

Coup d'Etat, Thailand

There's a coup d'etat happening in Thailand right now. We're out in the country, in the sticks, so of course I saw none of the tanks that are rumoured to be blocking Bangkok's crowded city streets. There's no radio transmission and all channels on TV are showing the same message (with music) that says something like, "At the present time a group of revolutionaries, for the Democratic system with the King as the head of the country, which consists of the commanders of the military and the national police, have taken over the area of the capitol city of Bangkok and its vicinity without any opposition. In order to keep the peace of the country we are requesting your cooperation and we apologize for the inconvenience."

Heard rumours of a possible 'double-coup' -- that the Prime Minister had planned a coup and a rebel army chief planned a different one? The BBC said this, "Thai media say that two army factions appear to be heading for a clash, with one side backing the prime minister and the other side backing a rebel army chief." And they know a lot more about all this than I do. We are pretty cut off right now.

In Bangkok, my brother was at Models' Night at Santika and had to give up FOUR free drink tickets cuz of this! Just joking :) He did say that everything looks perfectly normal and people who are not glued to their televisions don't seem to know anything unusual is happening.

Will keep you updated.

Quote from Valentina

As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light of meaning in the darkness of mere being.

- Carl Jung, Swiss psychologist (1875 - 1961)

First Day

I went on my first interview today. Financial independence looms.

I'm flakey. I'm sorry. I know I change my mind all the time. Even now the branches of the opportunity tree that I just pruned are angry at me -- the "Yeah-buts". They're saying, "You're going to miss your family." Yes, its true. "You're going to be distracted from finishing your journey through philosophy." Yes, this is also true. "You're going to be a low-level pee-on." Probably also true. "You may not gain a deeper understanding of life or what you want from it." Possible. "You are leaving Asia, which you know is the area of the world you eventually want to be in." Do I know this? I'm not sure.

For most things I'm going to politely say, 'I don't know.' Which is better than making up the answer. And its better than saying you know when you really don't. But I'm hoping the 'i don't knows' and the 'yeah-buts' will be cleverly extinguished as time goes on.

And I'm also going to politely say, over and over in my head as the Yeah-buts try selfishly to reel me in, "I'm going to commit to this plan." I'm going to stop being a statistic in my generation of wanderers. I'm going to give committment a shot for the following:

Four things:
1) Exercise.
2) Reading philosophy.
3) Writing, professionally.
4) Financial independence.

These are the only four things I know to be 'good' for me. So I'm going to go with what I know.

"What saves a man is to take a step."
-- Antoine de Saint-Exupery, author of "The Little Prince"

The courting days

Found a photo of Grandpa “in his courting days,” as it says on the back. He looks about 25 years old, he’s wearing only a dark colored bathing suit, a little longer than a speedo, and he’s sprawled out on a big flat rock with his hands tucked behind his neck. He’s smiling at the camera as if saying, ‘hey!’ – a candid and spontaneous snapshot of an unsuspecting subject. I imagine the next moment he's jumping up to grab the camera out of the photographer’s hands and kissing her square on the lips; the action perpetually in motion -- on repeat for eternity, but lost to the rest of us who have moved on.

Catching wasps

My grandfather's hands look like crispy fried chicken -- as if the skin and the muscles have slid over one another so long that they are no longer friendly neighbors, resolved to go their separate ways. The skin is nicely browned and seasoned from years of working in the sun; the nails are thick and yellowed like an elephant's. I remember watching him catch wasps on the back porch with his bare hands, unaware of the invention of pain. He's one of those Grandfathers that grew up on a farm, fought and survived World War II, built his own house and worked and worked and worked. In photographs I see of him when my Dad was small, he looks stern and has deep smile lines but no smile. His eyes have the intensity of one who is perpetually preoccupied.

At 87, he's lived to see many of his family and friends pass into earth. He perhaps expects the same of himself soon, yet daily does physical work that men my age would be unable to perform. He has none of the intensity of his younger years, unless you get him talking about politics or the National Rifle Association (his favorite hat is a navy blue baseball cap with a red stripe along the brim and embroidered white letters that say, 'Smith n' Wesson.' He forgets it sometimes so he's written his name in permanent black marker on the red stripe.) To his grand-daughter that grew up elsewhere, he's a sweet old man who loves his wife and knows a lot about engines and nature.

The other day when my Grandma and I were labelling old photos he came in from working outside with a sprightly gleam in his eye. We had been sorting pictures of their friends from when they were in their 20s -- around 1940? They're the kind of photos where everyone has creamy, perfect skin and wavy hair and are staring off into the distance at something beautiful. One of them was a lady friend of Grandpa's, Grandma was sure. So when he came into the room she asked him who the girl was, saying that she thought they had dated and that her name was Camille. He crouches down in that way he always does when talking to Grandma -- down on one knee like he's going to propose to her all over again -- mumbling gruffly, 'well, let's see...' and picks up the photo. A long silence that's trying hard to jog his memory ends with, 'that pretty girl went out on a date with ME?'

After a while he remembers -- they had gone on a date to an amusement park and rode a rollercoaster together (can you imagine...my Grandpa on a rollercoaster!!?). During the ride she smacked her head on the seat in front of her and had a swollen lip for the rest of the night. "So we couldn't kiss!" he says.

My Grandparents' 60th anniversary is coming up next year. Grandma still calls him 'her boyfriend.'

Revelations!!!

I have a plan.

Orangutan Online Dating

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/4794279.stm

courtesy of Ruhi...

Grandpa Levy

This is Grandpa Levy.



He was my grandmother's great grandfather. That means he was my Great-great-great grandfather. I'm not sure about dates of birth or death but if we allow, say, twenty-five years between generations, we could estimate that he was born in 1850.



This is the note that we found with the photo:













It says: 'Grandpa Levy. Note fingers gone. Frozen off working pump handle on sinking schooner to keep afloat to get vessel into port.'

Notice the fingers.

Tintypes

I started helping my Grandmother on a little photography project she has been wanting to do for some time. It began as an innocent sorting and labeling of photos -- photos which happen to document more than a hundred years of family history. This photo here is of my Great Grandfather as a young boy. It was most likely taken in 1902.

My family has samples of some of the world's earliest photographs -- the tintype. Its a distant relation to the daguerrotype, the difference being that daguerrotypes are images in silver while tintypes are in...tin. They work by the same concept as modern photography -- light-sensitive material is exposed to light which imprints an image on the material. In modern photography, that material is film. In 1870, it was metal.

The collection we have has been sitting in a paper bag in a drawer for decades. It includes images of family members, friends, small children, portraits of lace-laiden ladies and dashing young men in their Sunday Best. The metallic background has preserved these serene and often melancholy faces for more than a hundred years. And here, still, they seem to stare back at me as if still alive, the light behind their eyes a living light and not just the reflection of fluorescent on tin.

Here for example, this is my Great-Aunt, posing with a friend sometime around 1900.

What I know of her is that her husband was a seafarer, she held stock in GE prior to and through the Great Depression (she herself, not her husband), and that she had one child, a daughter, who passed away in infancy and was never discussed even though her baby clothes were passed on to surviving cousins. And there it is, one life, summed up.

And this, this is Bill Starr, perhaps a good friend of my great-grandfather's older brother.

I've been obsessed with Bill Starr. I have no idea who he is, or why my family has so many pictures of him. He probably influenced the life of someone in my history, but how? And whom?

Finally, I have countless photos of young girls dressed in their most expensive clothes. They are the most melancholy lot. I have no leads on them. Who they are, or why I have their photo is a mystery. What did they become in adulthood? And did they make it that far?





And now to imagine that they lived and breathed one day long ago -- that they had families of their own, houses, thoughts, feelings, self-awareness...and could never have envisioned a world where a distant relative is so intrigued by their photo, had never seen a tintype, has a computer, writes something called a 'blog', doesn't wear a corset...

Thoughts on 'Life of Pi', read only if you've already read the book, your thoughts appreciated

What is it about Yann Martel's ‘Life of Pi’ that is so disturbing? I think my problem with it is that the story I had so loved for 300 pages I suddenly discovered is a lie. A fabrication. In 300 pages, the incredulous story about a young boy and a tiger coexisting on a lifeboat had become somehow plausible – I believed him and believed in the relationship. My heart went out to young Pi and his many ordeals. I loved Richard Parker. I craved more insights into their interaction. All the details fit so well – so like Kaiser Shozei from the Usual Suspects!

But if Pi's tiger story is indeed a fabrication, then our alternative is the reality. But for a boy to make up a story about his mother being murdered doesn’t fit either – that would not be a fabrication. Boys don’t make up stories about the mothers that they love being brutally murdered – for him to, in his imagination, put her to death in the sea would be more generous. I suppose I feel as if I’ve been tricked. I feel as if the wonderful characters I knew have died, along with young Pi himself who, though he lives, dies tragically in my heart as the not-as-resourceful, not-as-courageous Pi.

I also dislike the deeper implications of Pi's question about which story his interrogators prefer. Through Pi, the author seems to be trying to defend religion because it provides us with ‘a better story’ than just reason. As if the fabrication is better. Religion – presenting a way of life and a belief system and a measure and a justification for action – all of these important things it supposedly provides yet…it’s a fabrication. And the author is somehow saying that God the fabrication is better than reality, the result of ‘reason.’ My gut reaction is, we don’t like lies in the first place, so why would we enjoy such an elaborate one as religion? I haven’t enjoyed this feeling that the entire book was a lie… (not to mention that the resolution is a cop out -- a subtle appeal to madness). That does not satisfy me. Maybe in much the same way that the Bible does not satisfy me.

Or maybe the point is that we don’t know the answer. Either of Pi's stories could be true (but for the fabrication of his mother meeting a terrible death). God or no God could be true and we just don’t know, so we might as well believe in God (which is a fallacy). In religion as in Life of Pi, Reality (reason) is the more grim of the two stories. But if it is reality, then I think it more important, more significant.

Why? Why is reality better? Because reality is where we act; it's where our actions and reactions count. So our knowledge and thought processes must be grounded in reality in order to make good choices for our lives. But what is a good choice? If a good choice means one that maximizes happiness, then perhaps for some people maximizing the happiness of their souls is priority, regardless of reality. Delusional or not, they are happy and it was a good choice.

Does it mean that those of us without such elaborate stories to guide us are simply lost? If we are not tending to our souls then what should we be tending to? Maybe nothing. But if 'nothing' is in fact the reality, wouldn’t you rather know that than think otherwise?

My Cousin's Wedding

These are two photos of my cousin's wedding. The cake was beautiful and I like the pic of the flower girls.




I just finished 'Life of Pi' by Yann Martel and found it disturbing and provocative but also...not the ending I had so hoped for. Alas... how I love Richard Parker.

Guy on the C-train, part II: Jump-roping Odyssey

I made the mistake of doing my (now) 1300 jumps in a different section of the park today -- in the more secluded basketball court where kids play, not big boys. There were two kids playing a seemingly innocent game. The little girl had a wandering eye and a unibrow and the bigger kid was chubby with cheek dimples. I guess they tired of playing basketball and wandered over to my section while i was on jump number 732. At first they were deeply impressed and I of course had no choice but to ignore them and jump faster so they'd think I was really really cool. Which they did.

After a while they started making some comments like 'i bet you can't do the spiderman' to which i have to answer in mid-jump, well what's the spiderman and apparently its this really really cool jump that only really really cool jumpropers can do and it involves throwing your rope over your head and then jumping over it while catching it before you or it hits the ground. So I of course had to bow my head and admit that, no, i can't do the spiderman, trying to hide my shame. The follow-up question is of course, well....what about the Matrix? Can you do the Matrix? (the Matrix being another one of these jumps that only really really cool jumpropers can do which involves actually coming to a complete halt in mid-air and making everything around you move backwards except for your rope with which you're going to do a double). And I, being only a mediocre, no-tricks kind of jumper, can do neither.

It was a painful experience. I'm sure that either one of them, if armed with a jump rope that 'tings' or maybe one with pink handles and streamers could out-Matrix me in a heartbeat. I had to give up some of my Starbursts to regain my cool, and I think now the universal order has been restored, though not without effort.

So after that ego-beating, I'm walking back from the park all sweaty. I see the mosaic guy again and he's still there with his tarp -- not evicted yet. Somewhere in between the mosaic guy and the guy in the suit with the pink tie, I notice a familiar face. Its the guy I met on the C-train the other day! The one that asked me for my number! He's shorter than I remember. And it looks like he may be holding hands with a stout, dark woman with a large bust in a black halter, but I will just have to be satisfied with knowing that I will never really know.

And THAT is precisely why I'm against this whole idea of relationships. You just never know whose number your significant other is asking for.

Guy on the C-train

I met this guy on the subway the other night as I was hurrying up to Central Park for the free Philharmonic concert on the Great Lawn (the concert ended tragically in a torrential downpour that sent thousands of brie-and-french-bread picnic-goers on a mass exodus from the park to take cover under the scaffolding that we usually so despise). Anyway, this guy took the free seat that had opened up in front of me and then noticed that I was standing there. He said, oh, do you want to sit down? and I said, no, I'm fine, and put my headphones on. And he says something but I can't hear him over the drone of Orgy, so I take my headphones off and hear him say, 'do you want to give me your number?' Smiling up at me like it ain't no big thang he's asking me this in the roaring silence of a crowded C-train.

My friend Josh has this misguided notion that my life is like Sex and the City because weird little subplots like this seem to happen all the time. But I think its more that I so savour the vignettes... like salt and pepper on the baked potato of life.

So anyway, I just laughed and put my headphones back on. And then I thought, you know, that was pretty gutsy, to just ask a girl for her number like that in such a nice way and with all these people watching even though she'd most definitely turn you down. And I thought, bravery should be rewarded. So I tore off a piece of the white crinkly paper that was holding MY french bread, wrote my number down, and blushing all over, handed it to him. Our fellow subway riders were watching in the way that we all watch in moments of boredom; those scraps of human-ness are just too good to pass up.

I notice that my salt-and-pepper has hazel eyes and find out that he is mixed like me, only his non-white part is Afghan. Interesting, and I wanted to tell him I had just been there, but that would have been a little lie, because I wasn't actually THERE, and would have to go into the whole story in front of all these people. I held my tongue. I'm learning to do that more often these days.

He hasn't called me and he probably won't. It was a good bit of flavor anyway.

And we meet Sodatsho...

It’s a Friday, the 2nd of June, and we are on our way to a small town near the border between Kyrgyzstan and China. I’m forcing myself to write about this because the memories are slowly leaving me.

What was it – that first memory of Kyrgyzstan – the Valley of Nomads? After the desolate land and hearts of China, we were given a gift of lush green and smiling border officials. I give the little girl standing there with her father in uniform a small bag from Thailand – it has an elephant on it, with sequins and she at first is apprehensive, not sure yet about the meaning of the thing – is it a gift? And is it for her? The truth dawns on her and she sprints towards the army camp where, doubtless, she has many equally giddy friends who, if we don’t get out of here soon, will want bags of their own. I can see a small group of seven year olds clustering around, and the girl with the elephant bag is pointing our way. They look on curiously, and then a bit hungrily. With border officials for fathers and me, with a limited supply of sequined elephants, I am anxious to move on.

When I first saw Sodatsho I thought he was a tourist, or a mugger. He was riding on the outside of a white Land rover, holding on to the side as the car slowed in front of us. He jumps off before the car comes to a halt and introduces himself as our guide. He’s a small man – but for his face, he would be almost elfin. He looks damningly Russian and has a week’s worth of stubble that stretches from the bottom of his sharp chin to the shallow edge of his cheekbones. He wears a striped white and black shirt that looks like its made of woven wool. Or burlap. He has a cap on, which is shading his eyes from the bright sun. I think it has words on it. Tour guides are not required to have depth, but the look in this one’s eyes tells a different story. I didn’t know it at the time, but our trip will begin and end with Sodatsho.

We are at the Irkeshtam pass, and as we have discerned after our seven and a half hours of trying to get across the border, they don’t see many tourists here. We’ve grown accustomed to the excessive border bureaucracy, and are really too tired to care at this point. Some of the officials in this office are inspecting us like vultures. Me in particular. They think I’m Tajik or Kirghiz, or Uzbek, and pretty, and are confused about why I don’t speak Russian. Even though a few of them are quite handsome in their pressed uniforms and burly bodies, their looks make me nervous. More ‘official’ business ensues – I imagine that means Sodatsho handing over many packs of cigarettes to the vulture guards and maybe explaining to them why I don’t speak Russian.

As we wind our way west of China, we’re leaving behind our frustration at the border. The Landrovers ascend in z’s up the side of the hill and the higher we get, the better we understand that we are in the middle of some breathtaking scenery – to our left a range of snow-capped mountains, to our right, more mountains, these with deeper imperfections. We’re at a much higher altitude than we thought, and its cold even in summer. It begins to snow.

At the base of the mountains on our right stretches a vast green valley. In the distance we see our first yurt – a circular tent made of camel wool. We are traveling through the Valley of Nomads and I see why, of all places a nomad could choose to live, he would choose this one.


to be continued....

New York II

On my way to the park this afternoon to jumprope (1100 times now!), I passed the old man that makes mosaics all over the East Village. He must have been here for years, maybe even decades. I remember seeing him years ago when I lived on 12th street, he used to sit quietly for hours and painstakingly glue pieces of broken plates and glasses and fruit bowls to government-standard public items. No St. Mark's space was safe; he gleefully attacked every lampost, planter, mailbox -- even designated squirrel homes were littered with multicolored broken remains. No doubt this added some pretty significant points to the charm factor of a regularly urine-scented street, but who knows if he was ever recognized for the sacrifice.

One morning when I walked by, he was sitting on the front stoop of his building, screaming. He had been evicted. Evicted from maybe the only home he has ever known. And he was screaming, long white hair streaming in the summer breeze, screaming. The rest of St. Marks was silent. No one quite knew what to do about our little mosaic artist who had been such an institution. And here, the street he had worked so hard to make beautiful was kicking him out.

I walked by, rubber-necking a bit at the wild man gesticulating across the street. In the following years I thought of him often. Did he ever make it back into his apartment? Did he fight the good fight, come out alive at the other end? Or did he unclimactically move his tattered couch down the five flights of steps to the ground level and find that there was nowhere else to go?

As I mentioned, I saw him again this morning. He's been living under this blue tarp in front of the Holyland Market on the corner of St. Marks and A. With homeless people its pretty hard to tell sometimes if they really are crazy or just down-trodden. In this case, it may be a little bit of both. He's been working so long with broken pieces maybe he just gradually became a piece of his own work.

Anyway, I think he got evicted again. Some young guys in boots were taking down the scaffolding that held up his tarp. I don't know where he can go now. He might actually have to leave 8th street, and it seems like that for him would be a fate worse than death. I wondered sometimes why he picked that spot, of all places. There's a couple planters right there and I'm thinking now that maybe one of them was his favorite of all time, and he just couldn't be without it.

Crapping in Central Asia

The most common Central Asian toilet is an outhouse. The outer structure is often made of wood planks nailed together around a centrally located hole in the ground, also covered with nailed wooden planks. This means that the incumbent will often be suspended several feet above the ground on the wooden platform depending on the determination of the local outhouse builder. Unlike East Asian toilets, there are no foot platforms – simply a hole and often an exceedingly narrow one, requiring nothing less than perfect aim. Due to the dry climate of the area, there is little or no water and certainly none to be used on flushing. However, the skin-cracking dryness also eliminates the diseases that one might find in a wet, humid climate so that just leaving a large collection of excrement in one place is not necessarily a public health disaster, though the scent is often stronger than one might hope to encounter on a daily, if not hourly basis.

Public toilets often have more than one hole, indicating that several people could attend to business at the same time with no qualms about privacy. This nonchalant attitude towards personal space pervaded most aspects of the culture and though different for us, was never offensive. People were not preoccupied with worries about what is ‘mine.’

The tricky thing to realize however, is that you can actually avoid the entire ordeal by simply going au naturale, as many people do. In the words of one wise bus driver, who pulled over on the side of the road on one long, desolate stretch of highway, 'we'd better stop here to piss because there's a town and a gas station coming up.'

The best of all possible worlds however, is one in which the amenities of a Western style toilet can be matched with the au naturale technique. On occasion this combination can actually produce some of the most striking views to date. One tall tale that has gone down in Central Asian history is of the man who, desperate with a bad stomach, went walking towards the river in search of relief. On one side of the river stood Tajikistan, and on the other, Afghanistan, that mysterious and untouched land. He had no hope of finding an appropriate place, but suddenly the sun shone through the clouds and its rays rested on two flat rocks at about knee height. A hole ran between them. The man knew at that moment, that there was a God, and he had smiled.

No one knows the true identity of the man in the tale, but a young Afghan goat herder across the river spotted him and knew of the man's glory. It is from this goat herder and the generations that have followed him that we glean this heart-warming story of triumph against all odds.

New York

The continuous dialogue in my head has been between New York and Thailand and deciding which one to be in. In New York, there is English. The English language is "home" (Pico Iyer). My deeper thoughts can be conveyed to whomever I may choose to reveal them to -- a novelty I have missed.

Thailand to me is a place of solitude, focus, and isolation. I can sit in a safe place and read for hours and never feel a need to speak. But often the craving for an outlet eats at me -- the expression of concepts too abstract for me to speak in Thai and too complicated for me to paint. For my mind, it is harder to be there -- the moments of distraction as obvious as streaks of red paint on white paper. I am unable to escape my own weaknesses and so, push on, trying to reel in my own attention.

Time in New York is spent trying to reel in the even momentary attention of others. Maybe its a city-wide affliction -- we are all perpetually sizing one another up. As a good friend mentioned, New Yorkers are constantly forced to choose one option from an infinite palate of where to eat, what to do, what to wear, who to talk to, who to drink with, and even, who to have sex with. New York is a tease -- its erratic ego-stroking parallels the affections of an abusive husband. And this is just one of many possible addictions one could choose to indulge.

In New York, my ego is very awake and inconsistently pleased with itself. It always craves more.

The practical choice is to return to Thailand and finish what I've started. The sexy choice is of course, to stay here, give up, and allow the cheap thrills of America to keep me on the brink of happiness but never quite in it.

Central Asia

I recently traveled through Central Asia with my Dad, brother and a family friend. It was by far one of the best adventures I have ever embarked on and I recommend it to any of you hardy travel buffs (keep it our little secret though...). We flew to Urumqi and then to Kashgar, both historical Silk Road cities in northwestern China's Xinjiang Autonomous Region. From Kashgar, we drove for two weeks through Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, and Uzbekistan... and some of the most dramatic scenery I have ever seen -- from a lush valley of nomads, to crystal clear, turquoise-colored mineral lakes, snow-capped mountains and emerald-green farmland, to desolate, other-worldly 'desert' (for lack of a better word).

Fun facts about Central Asia:

- Al Khorezmi, a mathematician who lived around 800 AD, invented a familiar thing called the 'algorithm', which took his name. He also invented a little thing called 'Al-Jebr', which we know today as 'algebra.'

- Approximately 1% of the population of Kyrgyzstan is still nomadic and they live in yurts made of poplar wood and woven camel hair. To us, a yurt looked like it would take about a hundred years to pitch, but in fact, it takes four people (correction, four nomads) one hour to construct.

- Lemon Barf Detergent is a (if not the) best-selling detergent in Central Asia.

- A typical Kirghiz dowry consists of at least one yak. A marriage proposal involves first kidnapping one's future wife, and asking for permission from her parents later.

- Chinese border officials at the crossing between China and Kyrgyzstan take four-hour lunch breaks and the only transportation for passengers through the 8 kilometer buffer zone is a forklift. Travelers beware.

- Central Asians bake great bagels.

- Some yaks have natural highlights.

- Uzbekistan is one of two most landlocked countries in the world. You have to travel through at least two countries to get to the ocean. (Lichtenstein is the other).

- Tajik farmers cut off the ears of their dogs so that as puppies, wolves can't drag them away by the ears.

- It seems that most Central Asians appreciate George Bush for bringing down the Taliban.

- Judging from the terrain of Afghanistan (which we saw from across the river for about four days), we will never find Osama.

- It seems that most Central Asians look back on their time as part of the USSR with nostalgia -- a time when everyone had jobs, education, and stability. People still love Lenin.

- Central Asian hospitality is hard to beat.