Yes. I know. I haven't blogged in two months. What happened is that I completely ran out of time. I worked all day every day for two and a half months, very barely held myself together, and then hopped on a plane to the other side of the world, where I spent three most excellent weeks with my family.
And then I flew for something like 25 straight hours, and I returned here.
Phnom Penh, Cambodia.
The place that I found myself referring to as "home" while in Denver, Colorado. The place that populated my dreamscape for much of those three weeks, where projects and opportunities await. And the place that is currently just too far away, and full of confusion.
I'm fairly sure at this point that I don't want to live in America -- I'm a citizen, but it's not "my country;" however, it is where my beloved family is. I have skype, but skype does not compare to physical presence, and three weeks a year is a very short time to share.
But I am not there. I am here. I am here, where projects are falling down around my ears. I am here, with no real idea of where my career is leading me. I am here, where despite it all I feel so settled, and ever since my feet touched down last week, people all over the city have welcomed me back with staggering warmth. I am here, alone and independent, and my family is over 13000 kilometers away.
You could say it's confusing.
I'm inclined to think that I probably shouldn't even be talking for another two weeks -- the last time I left home, I spent ten days in Paris, which is a very happy place for me, and it still took a couple weeks to settle back into Cambodia.
Is the jet lag, the culture shock, the unsettled energy of the city, the shock of returning to work from vacation?
Most likely.
All I can say is that I've quite lost my way, but somehow I'm here and that's all I know.
(I'll try to get back to blogging, now that my life is not being devoured by work quite as much.)
Showing posts with label colorado. Show all posts
Showing posts with label colorado. Show all posts
Saturday, January 18, 2014
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
The Politics, and the Life Behind
As I'm sure you've noticed by the subject of my blogs lately, questions of time, place, and identity have been very predominant in my thoughts. I'm sure there will be more posts about it as I think more, mulling things over, turning over thoughts like stones.
There's a lot of talk these days. A lot of talk and posturing, armored vehicles with men in helmets inside, political games and wracking up tensions and fear. It's kind of the same thing in America, too, only without the armored vehicles, though I'm sure those are around somewhere too.
From the outside, that's all you see. From the outside, the only thing I see of America is blowhards and shouting, outrage and the media. The headlines cover the calamities, the wrongdoings, the mess of this and the mess of that. Similarily, my parents say the only thing they hear about Cambodia, if they hear about anything at all, is the politics and the election and the tensions and etc.
On Sunday, my flatmate took me to a little place called the Alley Cat Café. It is indeed tucked down an alley, a hole-in-the-wall space that opens up right into the alley. When we arrived, all 5 tables were full, though a space for two was found at one, and stuffed against the wall was a guy playing a guitar and singing. The food is Mexican and it's done well, not the sort of fake burritos I've found elsewhere, and the guy with the guitar was singing original songs with clever lyrics, and the patrons were there to listen and enjoy.
It took me back to several places in the US, to underground live music venues in New York, to the excellent Mexican restaurant in Denver I've been to several times with the family, to the neighborhood pub by my parents' apartment. Places where people go to hang out, to drink, to eat, to enjoy the music, to talk and laugh. Places that have nothing to do with the media or the talking heads, when life is about what it is and nothing more than that.
At the Alley Cat Café, I felt perfectly at home and comfortable. I had never been before, but I knew it already, and the memories attached were all good ones. It reminded me once again that the outside perception is very rarely the whole truth. In talking to my parents, they mentioned that the fuss and furor of the politics affects their daily lives very, very little. "Maybe our tax rates change a bit," Mom said.
Likewise here. Maybe things are about to blow up and maybe things will change and maybe they won't. But I can say this much: since the election, my daily life has not changed at all. Yes, of course I'm a foreigner and not inside everything, but as far as I can tell, life goes on much as it did before, no matter what the talking heads shout about.
As far as my own place in all of this, that's another question. I've been particularly thinking about where I see myself and where I want to be to do what I want, something that's not quite as clear as I thought it was.
But that's a conversation for the next post. In the meantime, I'll leave you with the thought that the outside is madness and black and white, but inside, life goes on.
There's a lot of talk these days. A lot of talk and posturing, armored vehicles with men in helmets inside, political games and wracking up tensions and fear. It's kind of the same thing in America, too, only without the armored vehicles, though I'm sure those are around somewhere too.
From the outside, that's all you see. From the outside, the only thing I see of America is blowhards and shouting, outrage and the media. The headlines cover the calamities, the wrongdoings, the mess of this and the mess of that. Similarily, my parents say the only thing they hear about Cambodia, if they hear about anything at all, is the politics and the election and the tensions and etc.
On Sunday, my flatmate took me to a little place called the Alley Cat Café. It is indeed tucked down an alley, a hole-in-the-wall space that opens up right into the alley. When we arrived, all 5 tables were full, though a space for two was found at one, and stuffed against the wall was a guy playing a guitar and singing. The food is Mexican and it's done well, not the sort of fake burritos I've found elsewhere, and the guy with the guitar was singing original songs with clever lyrics, and the patrons were there to listen and enjoy.
It took me back to several places in the US, to underground live music venues in New York, to the excellent Mexican restaurant in Denver I've been to several times with the family, to the neighborhood pub by my parents' apartment. Places where people go to hang out, to drink, to eat, to enjoy the music, to talk and laugh. Places that have nothing to do with the media or the talking heads, when life is about what it is and nothing more than that.
At the Alley Cat Café, I felt perfectly at home and comfortable. I had never been before, but I knew it already, and the memories attached were all good ones. It reminded me once again that the outside perception is very rarely the whole truth. In talking to my parents, they mentioned that the fuss and furor of the politics affects their daily lives very, very little. "Maybe our tax rates change a bit," Mom said.
Likewise here. Maybe things are about to blow up and maybe things will change and maybe they won't. But I can say this much: since the election, my daily life has not changed at all. Yes, of course I'm a foreigner and not inside everything, but as far as I can tell, life goes on much as it did before, no matter what the talking heads shout about.
As far as my own place in all of this, that's another question. I've been particularly thinking about where I see myself and where I want to be to do what I want, something that's not quite as clear as I thought it was.
But that's a conversation for the next post. In the meantime, I'll leave you with the thought that the outside is madness and black and white, but inside, life goes on.
Friday, August 27, 2010
August 26th, 2010
Colorado: The sky is bluer and a hell of a lot bigger, the grass is browner, and the world sprawls out to the horizons. Downtown Denver is a mess of skyscrapers in a small area, dwarfed by the plains around it, one eye always fixed to the west, where the front range explodes from the horizon like God just got bored one day and poked the earth to see what would happen.
There are few things are stunning as the way the mountains look from the plane window when you land at Denver International Airport, which I did yesterday afternoon at about 4:34pm local time, after a three hour flight from Detroit, MI. I found myself there for an hour and forty five minutes, and while there, enjoyed a ham and swiss sandwich (with 67% of my daily sodium intake!) and a tall mocha frappuccino (no whip) from Starbucks and an incredible conversation with a friendly business consultant named Greg, who volunteered to be my first client when I start my dance therapy business for corporate execs. Unfortunately I didn't see him following that, so the ball is in his court to get in touch with me (he has my business card) but I am quite hoping he does. I live for those chance encounters -- conversations here and there, people you meet when all you wanted was an outlet to charge your computer. In any case, I was so distracted I nearly forgot to board the plane, but thankfully Greg was paying attention and he boarded before me, so I was actually on the flight when it touched down in Denver.
My parents do not live in the house I grew up in anymore; they live in a one bedroom apartment in Belmar, a cute, trendy, and struggling neighborhood in the suburbs of Denver. I had not seen the apartment before. Along the way home, we drove past the house we lived in when I was three -- I didn't remember it -- just to see how it looks now (very nice). And then we got to this new place. I looked around, and asked, why is all this stuff that used to belong to us doing in this strange apartment?
Disorienting. This is not the place I grew up in. This is not home, it's where my parents live. It doesn't belong to me anymore. I left, and life moved on.
This morning we spent some time running errands in the town I grew up in, Evergreen. There are some new buildings. Some shops have moved. But nothing has changed; time must stand still there, stuck. But that's exactly why I, and my parents, left -- because the people who live in Evergreen are kind and good people, but they don't want change. They want to know that the same stores will still be there in the morning, the same people, and the same way of life. It just exists, and that's why I can't live there.
I can't deny it was nice if only because I recognized it; something familiar in the craziness of figuring out this new life my parents have. But after I left, I don't remember feeling any regret. I saw a couple guys I used to know in high school in the parking lot of Wal-Mart. I slunk past and hoped they wouldn't notice me (they didn't -- they wouldn't. I am firmly convinced that there are very few people from that high school who would recognize me -- or care enough to say hello -- if I passed them on the street.)
It is now about a week until I leave the country, and I think I've stopped trying to deal with that fact. In a few days I'll put up the introductory post to the France section of the blog, because the format of things will change a bit and all that. But in the mean time, I said I would save my judgment of Asheville until I left, and although I'm sure it will change ---
Asheville, North Carolina is beautiful. I wish I could have seen the surrounding areas, but nestled among the hazy, blue mountains, it seems to be a product of the landscape instead of the master of it. There is a certain charm to it -- liberal, progressive -- and yet still remarkably 'southern.'
And I still don't think I could live there -- it's too small, too slow-paced, and too hippie for me. At the risk of sounding incredibly pompous, and that's not my intention -- I just prefer the more sophisticated -- that's not even the right word, but I think you know what I mean -- lifestyle. I love my tall buildings and busy streets in the middle of the night, the way the skyscrapers become their own stars. I'm sure I'm generalizing terribly, but it seemed to me that the ideal southern lifestyle involves calmly waiting for life to pass by and drinking beer. I am not good at waiting for things to happen, and I just don't think I could ever live that slowly.
But that's not what made this summer one of the best I've ever had -- nor was it the jobs I had, for those were basic, entry level jobs that I managed to have a lot of fun with because of my attitude -- no, the heart of the summer was the people. I met so many interesting people, people with and without dreams. I knew it before, but learned with shocking detail the incredible capacity of human beings to be impossibly nasty and impossibly kind at exactly the same time. I saw black and white all mixed up and was impressed upon every day that no one is ever all good or all bad, but both, and that both reside somehow peaceably in one body. I met cynical, angry people; happy people; people waiting for the world to turn; people waiting for permission to be happy again. I had dozens of wonderful conversations. Somewhat significantly, I fell in love for the first time. And when I left, I left a bit of myself behind, with everyone who smiled at me, hugged me, wished me luck, asked me to send postcards, asked to know what I was up to, where I'm going, and to remember them when I got there.
If you're reading, I can assure: I will remember you.
And so, I'm sure I'll be back in Asheville, not because I want to live in the city, but because I want to see you again. Maybe next summer, maybe not, but sometime, I'm sure my steps will find my way there, if only for a week or two, to give you a hug and tell you where I've been, and if you want to, let you live vicariously through my life -- which if I'm right, will be the sort of life you'd like to live vicariously through.
In any case -- there you have it. I had a great summer, and it hurt a bit to leave. That's the simplest way I can think of to put it, and so I'll just leave it that way.
Until next time -- and France is on the way.
There are few things are stunning as the way the mountains look from the plane window when you land at Denver International Airport, which I did yesterday afternoon at about 4:34pm local time, after a three hour flight from Detroit, MI. I found myself there for an hour and forty five minutes, and while there, enjoyed a ham and swiss sandwich (with 67% of my daily sodium intake!) and a tall mocha frappuccino (no whip) from Starbucks and an incredible conversation with a friendly business consultant named Greg, who volunteered to be my first client when I start my dance therapy business for corporate execs. Unfortunately I didn't see him following that, so the ball is in his court to get in touch with me (he has my business card) but I am quite hoping he does. I live for those chance encounters -- conversations here and there, people you meet when all you wanted was an outlet to charge your computer. In any case, I was so distracted I nearly forgot to board the plane, but thankfully Greg was paying attention and he boarded before me, so I was actually on the flight when it touched down in Denver.
My parents do not live in the house I grew up in anymore; they live in a one bedroom apartment in Belmar, a cute, trendy, and struggling neighborhood in the suburbs of Denver. I had not seen the apartment before. Along the way home, we drove past the house we lived in when I was three -- I didn't remember it -- just to see how it looks now (very nice). And then we got to this new place. I looked around, and asked, why is all this stuff that used to belong to us doing in this strange apartment?
Disorienting. This is not the place I grew up in. This is not home, it's where my parents live. It doesn't belong to me anymore. I left, and life moved on.
This morning we spent some time running errands in the town I grew up in, Evergreen. There are some new buildings. Some shops have moved. But nothing has changed; time must stand still there, stuck. But that's exactly why I, and my parents, left -- because the people who live in Evergreen are kind and good people, but they don't want change. They want to know that the same stores will still be there in the morning, the same people, and the same way of life. It just exists, and that's why I can't live there.
I can't deny it was nice if only because I recognized it; something familiar in the craziness of figuring out this new life my parents have. But after I left, I don't remember feeling any regret. I saw a couple guys I used to know in high school in the parking lot of Wal-Mart. I slunk past and hoped they wouldn't notice me (they didn't -- they wouldn't. I am firmly convinced that there are very few people from that high school who would recognize me -- or care enough to say hello -- if I passed them on the street.)
It is now about a week until I leave the country, and I think I've stopped trying to deal with that fact. In a few days I'll put up the introductory post to the France section of the blog, because the format of things will change a bit and all that. But in the mean time, I said I would save my judgment of Asheville until I left, and although I'm sure it will change ---
Asheville, North Carolina is beautiful. I wish I could have seen the surrounding areas, but nestled among the hazy, blue mountains, it seems to be a product of the landscape instead of the master of it. There is a certain charm to it -- liberal, progressive -- and yet still remarkably 'southern.'
And I still don't think I could live there -- it's too small, too slow-paced, and too hippie for me. At the risk of sounding incredibly pompous, and that's not my intention -- I just prefer the more sophisticated -- that's not even the right word, but I think you know what I mean -- lifestyle. I love my tall buildings and busy streets in the middle of the night, the way the skyscrapers become their own stars. I'm sure I'm generalizing terribly, but it seemed to me that the ideal southern lifestyle involves calmly waiting for life to pass by and drinking beer. I am not good at waiting for things to happen, and I just don't think I could ever live that slowly.
But that's not what made this summer one of the best I've ever had -- nor was it the jobs I had, for those were basic, entry level jobs that I managed to have a lot of fun with because of my attitude -- no, the heart of the summer was the people. I met so many interesting people, people with and without dreams. I knew it before, but learned with shocking detail the incredible capacity of human beings to be impossibly nasty and impossibly kind at exactly the same time. I saw black and white all mixed up and was impressed upon every day that no one is ever all good or all bad, but both, and that both reside somehow peaceably in one body. I met cynical, angry people; happy people; people waiting for the world to turn; people waiting for permission to be happy again. I had dozens of wonderful conversations. Somewhat significantly, I fell in love for the first time. And when I left, I left a bit of myself behind, with everyone who smiled at me, hugged me, wished me luck, asked me to send postcards, asked to know what I was up to, where I'm going, and to remember them when I got there.
If you're reading, I can assure: I will remember you.
And so, I'm sure I'll be back in Asheville, not because I want to live in the city, but because I want to see you again. Maybe next summer, maybe not, but sometime, I'm sure my steps will find my way there, if only for a week or two, to give you a hug and tell you where I've been, and if you want to, let you live vicariously through my life -- which if I'm right, will be the sort of life you'd like to live vicariously through.
In any case -- there you have it. I had a great summer, and it hurt a bit to leave. That's the simplest way I can think of to put it, and so I'll just leave it that way.
Until next time -- and France is on the way.
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