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 lost. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lost. Show all posts
Saturday, January 18, 2014
Sunday, August 11, 2013
Waiting for the world to turn, or running madly to catch up
The title of this post is a paradox, because my brain is full of them.
I suspect that most of it has to do with the time of year. Anywhere in the world, it's been the same season for a few months now and it feels like high time to move on, to whatever it is that comes next. It's the same problem as I have with February, or used to. Last August was tough too, if I recall.
Then, it was about culture shock. This is about the continuing and constant dialogue of time, place, and identity that is particulary present when you live abroad.
The expiration date on my latest visa extension -- my fourth Cambodian visa -- is February 2014. I don't know why, but somehow the date really threw me off. It means that 2014 is only -- and less than -- six months away, because that's how long my extension is for. But that number seems totally wrong. For some reason 2014 seems like it should be farther away than that, and it almost feels unfair that in fact it's more or less right around the corner.
That's the time part of the equation: I feel like I want time to move, but the fact that is does, and is doing so in great leaps and bounds, is somewhat terrifying. It's not as though I don't have enough to do -- in fact, sometimes it's too much -- or that I don't have things coming up and plans being made. In many ways, the upcoming things are abstracts, strange concepts that mean something in the future, while in the meantime there is a heavy amount of daily. From one place to the next, from one thought to the next. Second by second, hour by hour.
The city is quiet these days. There's talk of elections and investigations and the Prime Minister gathering the armed forces in case the opposition rallies, and the media talks and talks, and in the meantime life goes on, as it does. Election propaganda has all but vanished, just a few banners here and there to remind of what happened. Otherwise, life goes on as it does, as it always has.
I've been missing Colorado a lot recently, which I find really strange. Those mental conversations always end with, yeah but what would you do there? to which I have no reply. Then I'll read something about the latest bone-headed move by the Republicans, the latest healthcare crisis, the latest outrage over something, the latest this or that that exemplifies all the reasons I don't want to live in America, but then that mental conversation ends with, but Colorado isn't "America" as a whole.
It's a conversation that has no resolution and probably won't for a good long time. As I've discovered often, things aren't simple, black or white. It's never going to be America or Cambodia or France, one is good and the others bad, I want only to be one place and not the others. The truth is much more complicated than that, and can't be stuffed into separate boxes.
I was rereading some old blog posts, and found one that I'd written just at the beginning of my stay in Paris. I knew I was going to Paris to get lost (literally and figuratively) but it was when I was just starting to understand what it really meant. The thoughts I was having then are different from those I'm having now, but the feeling is much the same. This is what I wrote --
Does this sound melancholy?
It's not meant to be. Being lost is disturbing and uncertain and when you have time to think about it, as I do today, it gets very confusing. During the week, there are moments when I'm exhausted and frustrated, and moments of joy and laughter, moments of gratitude and moments of wanting to flee. It just is, and continues every second.
In the mean time, there is work to be done. There are words to be written, moves to be created. I'm rethinking where I want to go and how I want to get there, and finding very few answers, but a shit ton of questions.
I suspect that most of it has to do with the time of year. Anywhere in the world, it's been the same season for a few months now and it feels like high time to move on, to whatever it is that comes next. It's the same problem as I have with February, or used to. Last August was tough too, if I recall.
Then, it was about culture shock. This is about the continuing and constant dialogue of time, place, and identity that is particulary present when you live abroad.
The expiration date on my latest visa extension -- my fourth Cambodian visa -- is February 2014. I don't know why, but somehow the date really threw me off. It means that 2014 is only -- and less than -- six months away, because that's how long my extension is for. But that number seems totally wrong. For some reason 2014 seems like it should be farther away than that, and it almost feels unfair that in fact it's more or less right around the corner.
That's the time part of the equation: I feel like I want time to move, but the fact that is does, and is doing so in great leaps and bounds, is somewhat terrifying. It's not as though I don't have enough to do -- in fact, sometimes it's too much -- or that I don't have things coming up and plans being made. In many ways, the upcoming things are abstracts, strange concepts that mean something in the future, while in the meantime there is a heavy amount of daily. From one place to the next, from one thought to the next. Second by second, hour by hour.
The city is quiet these days. There's talk of elections and investigations and the Prime Minister gathering the armed forces in case the opposition rallies, and the media talks and talks, and in the meantime life goes on, as it does. Election propaganda has all but vanished, just a few banners here and there to remind of what happened. Otherwise, life goes on as it does, as it always has.
I've been missing Colorado a lot recently, which I find really strange. Those mental conversations always end with, yeah but what would you do there? to which I have no reply. Then I'll read something about the latest bone-headed move by the Republicans, the latest healthcare crisis, the latest outrage over something, the latest this or that that exemplifies all the reasons I don't want to live in America, but then that mental conversation ends with, but Colorado isn't "America" as a whole.
It's a conversation that has no resolution and probably won't for a good long time. As I've discovered often, things aren't simple, black or white. It's never going to be America or Cambodia or France, one is good and the others bad, I want only to be one place and not the others. The truth is much more complicated than that, and can't be stuffed into separate boxes.
I was rereading some old blog posts, and found one that I'd written just at the beginning of my stay in Paris. I knew I was going to Paris to get lost (literally and figuratively) but it was when I was just starting to understand what it really meant. The thoughts I was having then are different from those I'm having now, but the feeling is much the same. This is what I wrote --
Oh, I thought, staring at this beautiful world going by, the blue sky above. This is what it's like to be lost; to have utterly no idea what's coming next, what it may look like, and to have no other place whatsoever to be except for exactly where you are. To have no real place to call "home" besides where you've left those you love, and to only be here, wherever the hell here is.Maybe that's what this is, seeing a mess of plans in the abstract future and floating uncertainly in the ever-fluid present, unsure if the abstracts are what I want or where I want or how I want, and yet going forward into them because I have no real better ideas.
Does this sound melancholy?
It's not meant to be. Being lost is disturbing and uncertain and when you have time to think about it, as I do today, it gets very confusing. During the week, there are moments when I'm exhausted and frustrated, and moments of joy and laughter, moments of gratitude and moments of wanting to flee. It just is, and continues every second.
In the mean time, there is work to be done. There are words to be written, moves to be created. I'm rethinking where I want to go and how I want to get there, and finding very few answers, but a shit ton of questions.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Linda
The past week was a mess, hence why my blog posts abruptly vanished and I just relied on the automatic posting feature to finish up telling the temple stories. I had a workshop to finish and kids not ready to perform on Thursday for a Friday show, I crashed my bike, and wasn't home any evening.
Instead, I was out on Pub Street, usually at the same bar or somewhere close, with a 50 cent draft beer and the free popcorn. I didn't go there to drink, as drinking alone is sad, and I could have easily just gone back to my hotel after dinner.
In being there alone, of course, I always started talking to the people around me and made some excellent friends, but that is not why I was there.
I was there to see Linda, the flower girl I talked about in the dinner post. When she said goodbye to our group, she said to me, "I see you every day." I took her seriously, and besides, I wanted to see her. I didn't see her over dinner, and so went to the bar in the hopes of catching her -- and did, every night.
Some days she would just sit and play games on my cellphone. One day she was selling some plastic snakes, and sat in my lap to recount an incredibly detailed story with each snake as a character, further astounding everyone in the vicinity with her grasp of English. Some days she would try to sell to whoever I was sitting with. On one occasion, when the monsoons hit, she came inside with me and sat, playing with my cell until the rains stopped.
I gave her my card with my email and phone, and made sure she had it before I left. On my last day, she begged me not to go. She said she was only here until next week, and then back to her country (province), some eight hours away. When she comes back, she said, maybe I sell, maybe not.
I promised her we would see each other again, and she made me hook our pinkies and swear, which I said. And when at last we hugged goodbye, she couldn't let go, and cried as I held her.
The sound you hear is my heart breaking into pieces. I dried her tears, promised again to find her, and then before either of us could fall apart anymore she left, and I ran.
I don't know what I did. She never tried to sell me anything, and I never asked to buy. We just understood each other perfectly, and since I left, I can't stop thinking about her, and spent most of yesterday completely broken-hearted. I'm going to find her again -- somehow. I'm already planning to make a dance about her, and call it Linda, and whenever I do find her -- show her, or have her dance it (she's a fantastic dancer.)
In any case, if you see her -- tell her I'm looking for her.
Instead, I was out on Pub Street, usually at the same bar or somewhere close, with a 50 cent draft beer and the free popcorn. I didn't go there to drink, as drinking alone is sad, and I could have easily just gone back to my hotel after dinner.
In being there alone, of course, I always started talking to the people around me and made some excellent friends, but that is not why I was there.
I was there to see Linda, the flower girl I talked about in the dinner post. When she said goodbye to our group, she said to me, "I see you every day." I took her seriously, and besides, I wanted to see her. I didn't see her over dinner, and so went to the bar in the hopes of catching her -- and did, every night.
Some days she would just sit and play games on my cellphone. One day she was selling some plastic snakes, and sat in my lap to recount an incredibly detailed story with each snake as a character, further astounding everyone in the vicinity with her grasp of English. Some days she would try to sell to whoever I was sitting with. On one occasion, when the monsoons hit, she came inside with me and sat, playing with my cell until the rains stopped.
I gave her my card with my email and phone, and made sure she had it before I left. On my last day, she begged me not to go. She said she was only here until next week, and then back to her country (province), some eight hours away. When she comes back, she said, maybe I sell, maybe not.
I promised her we would see each other again, and she made me hook our pinkies and swear, which I said. And when at last we hugged goodbye, she couldn't let go, and cried as I held her.
The sound you hear is my heart breaking into pieces. I dried her tears, promised again to find her, and then before either of us could fall apart anymore she left, and I ran.
I don't know what I did. She never tried to sell me anything, and I never asked to buy. We just understood each other perfectly, and since I left, I can't stop thinking about her, and spent most of yesterday completely broken-hearted. I'm going to find her again -- somehow. I'm already planning to make a dance about her, and call it Linda, and whenever I do find her -- show her, or have her dance it (she's a fantastic dancer.)
In any case, if you see her -- tell her I'm looking for her.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Alone time in Notre Dame
I didn't want to go alone---I didn't want to go wander Paris by myself on a normal Thursday afternoon, but other plans didn't seem to be happening, so I pulled out my Paris par arrondissement, checked a few streets, and left.
I went to Notre Dame, which can be found technically in the fourth arrondissement, but it's really the Ile de Cité, right in the middle of everything. I bought a sandwich along the way and paused by the Seine to eat it. A tourist came up to me. "Is that Notre Dame?" she asked, pointing. "Oui," I responded automatically. "Yes?" she asked. I nodded. She left. Jeez, I thought. No wonder Parisiens are evil to tourists. They are rude, and they don't speak French. You are in Paris, I thought toward her as she walked off. Speak French, or at least make an effort.
I slowly wandered over to the cathedral itself, tried to take a picture, and realized that my memory card was still in the computer, back home. I put away the camera. Oh well, I thought. I'll be coming back.
As soon as I walked into the cathedral, I knew at once why I'd come alone, and why I'd left my memory card at home. Because I had to come here to listen to my own thoughts; tumbling and uncertain, half English and half French, questioning and wondering constantly. In many ways, I thought, I didn't want to come alone, but I didn't want to have to keep my own company.
The cathedral soared above me -- sometimes I think all of the cathedrals are the same, but that is part of the beauty, that they are all so old, and so beautiful, and each one a thousand hands spent a thousand hours creating it -- and how! I noticed a sign that priests would be on hand for confessions, every afternoon. For some reason, I thought, maybe I should go. But to say what?
"Je ne suis pas catholique, et je ne crois pas en Dieu."
I wondered how many hail marys I'd be assigned for that. How could I explain to a Priest that it's just that I can't stand the word "god", and the ins and outs of my various beliefs -- in French? And why, exactly, did that idea of confession pull so strongly?
I can't answer that, even now.
I wandered down the corridor, can I even call it that, with the ceilings at least ten times my height or more? Slowly, listening to the classical music broadcasting softly. Even with all the tourists shuffling along, there was a certain calm. The confession booths have been upgraded to offices, I noticed. No one was there. They weren't back from lunch yet.
The tourist visit is just a loop, but as the crowd shuffled back towards the door, I slipped to the side and took a seat in the sanctuary, looking towards the high altar, and with eyes wide open, asked, as I always do, for courage and strength. Unexpectedly, I found my eyes filled with tears, imagining a large hand covering my back.
"This will be the most difficult year of my life."
The voice was back,the same one that told me I was going to Paris to get lost. At least it added, "but also the most rewarding." Well, that's good, I guess?
I don't know how to be lost, I thought. You don't have to, came the response. You already are.
I left, quiet and introspective, and went wandering looking for a reasonably priced café, where I could sit for awhile and have an espresso with my thoughts.
Fast forward to today: a stunningly gorgeous sunny day, but legitimately cool and I should have worn a different outfit -- but never mind that. On the bus home to Paris from Reims, the golden afternoon sun warming my face, sleepy after an after deux verres du champagne (two glasses) nap. The French countryside -- what green country! -- rolls on by and I think how funny, we could be anywhere right now, anywhere at all in the countryside and it could look just like this, but we're not, we're in France, Europe, and when you look on a map it's so damn far away from Colorado, or even New York, or Asheville.
Oh, I thought, staring at this beautiful world going by, the blue sky above. This is what it's like to be lost; to have utterly no idea what's coming next, what it may look like, and to have no other place whatsoever to be except for exactly where you are. To have no real place to call "home" besides where you've left those you love, and to only be here, wherever the hell here is.
A plus, mes amis.
I went to Notre Dame, which can be found technically in the fourth arrondissement, but it's really the Ile de Cité, right in the middle of everything. I bought a sandwich along the way and paused by the Seine to eat it. A tourist came up to me. "Is that Notre Dame?" she asked, pointing. "Oui," I responded automatically. "Yes?" she asked. I nodded. She left. Jeez, I thought. No wonder Parisiens are evil to tourists. They are rude, and they don't speak French. You are in Paris, I thought toward her as she walked off. Speak French, or at least make an effort.
I slowly wandered over to the cathedral itself, tried to take a picture, and realized that my memory card was still in the computer, back home. I put away the camera. Oh well, I thought. I'll be coming back.
As soon as I walked into the cathedral, I knew at once why I'd come alone, and why I'd left my memory card at home. Because I had to come here to listen to my own thoughts; tumbling and uncertain, half English and half French, questioning and wondering constantly. In many ways, I thought, I didn't want to come alone, but I didn't want to have to keep my own company.
The cathedral soared above me -- sometimes I think all of the cathedrals are the same, but that is part of the beauty, that they are all so old, and so beautiful, and each one a thousand hands spent a thousand hours creating it -- and how! I noticed a sign that priests would be on hand for confessions, every afternoon. For some reason, I thought, maybe I should go. But to say what?
"Je ne suis pas catholique, et je ne crois pas en Dieu."
I wondered how many hail marys I'd be assigned for that. How could I explain to a Priest that it's just that I can't stand the word "god", and the ins and outs of my various beliefs -- in French? And why, exactly, did that idea of confession pull so strongly?
I can't answer that, even now.
I wandered down the corridor, can I even call it that, with the ceilings at least ten times my height or more? Slowly, listening to the classical music broadcasting softly. Even with all the tourists shuffling along, there was a certain calm. The confession booths have been upgraded to offices, I noticed. No one was there. They weren't back from lunch yet.
The tourist visit is just a loop, but as the crowd shuffled back towards the door, I slipped to the side and took a seat in the sanctuary, looking towards the high altar, and with eyes wide open, asked, as I always do, for courage and strength. Unexpectedly, I found my eyes filled with tears, imagining a large hand covering my back.
"This will be the most difficult year of my life."
The voice was back,the same one that told me I was going to Paris to get lost. At least it added, "but also the most rewarding." Well, that's good, I guess?
I don't know how to be lost, I thought. You don't have to, came the response. You already are.
I left, quiet and introspective, and went wandering looking for a reasonably priced café, where I could sit for awhile and have an espresso with my thoughts.
Fast forward to today: a stunningly gorgeous sunny day, but legitimately cool and I should have worn a different outfit -- but never mind that. On the bus home to Paris from Reims, the golden afternoon sun warming my face, sleepy after an after deux verres du champagne (two glasses) nap. The French countryside -- what green country! -- rolls on by and I think how funny, we could be anywhere right now, anywhere at all in the countryside and it could look just like this, but we're not, we're in France, Europe, and when you look on a map it's so damn far away from Colorado, or even New York, or Asheville.
Oh, I thought, staring at this beautiful world going by, the blue sky above. This is what it's like to be lost; to have utterly no idea what's coming next, what it may look like, and to have no other place whatsoever to be except for exactly where you are. To have no real place to call "home" besides where you've left those you love, and to only be here, wherever the hell here is.
A plus, mes amis.
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