I think it must be the lesson of my life, because it comes back, time and time again, in different forms with different faces.
If you've been reading my blog, you know what's been going on for the past two months: fits of drama, stress, and anger. I had in my head a vision of working with technically trained dancers who care about their craft, in a company where everything goes right all the time and everyone gives me what they're supposed to. Where expectations are clearly laid out, people take responsibility for what they're responsible for, and I'm not the one who takes the fall if that doesn't happen.
And that's just not the reality. The reality is the essentially the opposite, and the drama has come about because I just got angry with this fact. I fought it and I fell into vicious cycles that repeat and fall deeper into themselves, and spiral down into bad energy, constant stress, and really just not good health.
I can't change the reality. I can't change what I'm given. I can't change the company. The only thing I can do is change how I look at it and how I do what I do.
And so that's what I'm going to do. Starting here, not getting music on time, getting the wrong music, dancers wanting to leave early or butting in with suggestions for what would be better, being under a microscope and judged as inadequate, that's normal. That is the world. My work is what to do inside of it. How do you prepare for everything to go wrong?
I don't know yet. But I do know that the anger is stopping right now. The stress is stopping. The fighting is stopping. What is given is given. What's on my plate is not what I thought I was getting, but that's the way it is. Fighting over the fact that I was supposed to get chicken is taking the time away from the essential.
I've been so busy worrying about the extra stuff that I haven't had time or energy to focus on that essential: creating dance. Thinking of new varieties of movements, tempos, spacing, energy, etc. Instead, I've been in the constant energy of "everything is wrong and I can't work like this." No. Everything is not wrong, it is the way it is.
If it turns out that me and the company are incompatible, then so be it. If it turns out that our energies and expectations simply do not match and cannot be made to do so, then so be it.
So here I am. I have two choices: continue in the drama cycle, fight, be angry, be unwell, or change how I look at things and go forward without all that on my shoulders and focus on the only things that I can change and control. Doesn't seem like much of a choice to me, when put like that.
I don't know what, if anything, it might change. I know that if I make this change with the expectation that it will cause something -- anything -- to happen, then I'm not really making it, and just propagating the same cycles of drama. And so I don't expect anything. I only know that I can't go on the same way. So if the only thing I can change is me, that's already something.
Starting now, what was "wrong" is normal, and inside it, I am perfectly calm, I do what I can, and I don't spend time fighting ghosts.
I guess we'll see what happens.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Saturday, February 16, 2013
Really though, what the hell am I doing here?
I am being challenged in every possible way.
If you can think of a problem, it's happening. If you can think of a way to challenge me, it's happening. Culturally. Linguistically. Artistically. Many more "lys" that I can't think of right now.
Whether it's being given the wrong music and then asked to prepare three songs within thirty minutes, or being told that people are anxious because expectations are not being met, that things need to be better and they need to get better fast, that my upcoming trip could potentially cost me a job if things fall apart --
It's happening.
Okay, challenge taken.
Next week is the "official launch" of my dance team and I have been asked -- within a week -- to prepare something as good as Beyoncé's Super Bowl performance. I have also been asked to up the ante to make myself irreplaceable, so if things fall apart when I'm gone a potential replacement will have problems matching what I've already done.
If you can dream it, it's happening. No wonder I've lost 4 kilos in a month. I don't sleep well, I think about this stuff. Eating is just something that I kind of need to do every so often.
Damn it. I am 22 years old, with only a few endeavours under my belt, and now I am in an alien culture, working in an alien medium (television) in a different language, with different expectations and ways of doing things, and I am this lone borohte under a microscope and any wrong move I make, I'm done. I'm being watched, evaluated, questioned, challenged.
Really though.
What the hell am I doing here?
I know the answer to that question. I'm being put through the fire, because if I make it through, I'll be pure steel.
(If I make it through.)
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Paying it forward, mosquitos, and hourglasses: Tuesday Night Chatter
They say giving is better that receiving. As a culture, we are taught to give because that's good, and unselfish, and the more you give -- and the less you expect -- the better of a person you are. There's also the pervasive idea that whatever you receive, you must pay back. In fact, simply receiving that which is freely given is downright uncomfortable.
And yet it's something I've been learning for years now. Whether it's free lodging during a transition time, rides when you're stuck without transportation, vacations when they are really necessary, or simply a good meal here or there, the people responsible do not expect repayment, and nor do they particularly want it. If something must be done at all, one person just told me to pay it forward.
I am not rich. By Cambodian standards, I'm well-off, by American standards, I'm dirt poor. For me, I have everything I need, and if I'm careful, some things I want. But these things are cycles: I have enough, for example, to offer to pay for my students' transportation if it means they can participate in a show that I think will be really good experience for them. At some point in my life, I'll probably have enough to pay for someone's meal, might have a car or a motobike I can use to take someone somewhere they can't get to themselves. Pay for someone's vacation.
I don't feel like I have to. Receiving that which is freely given is beautiful, and yet, so is giving and knowing that the gift will be sent along and passed forward, the cycle continuing.
The mosquitos are back, and so is the heat. The cool season was not really cool at all, though perhaps it's because I forgot what the hot season was like. I didn't much notice the change except for the few cool mornings in late December. But I did notice the heat. And the mosquitos.
Were they this bad before? I assume so, as I've been bitten much less in the past few months but seem to remember that during the wet season I was constantly being munched upon.
Speaking of before, and time -- why am I always talking about time?
I was biking home from work today and thinking that I've been here just over 7 months now, which is no time at all and yet fairly significant. I found myself wondering what sparkling clean streets and sidewalks might look like, and if I'd notice them. I was trying to find a picture online of the motorbike I want to buy eventually and could only find these enormous models, nothing like the little things filling the streets here.
I was thinking about how I literally knew nothing about this country before I arrived and well, I still don't know a lot but Cambodia is not just the name of a country very far away that I may or may not have read in a textbook at some point. I was thinking about how no one knows the street names or numbers, they just know how to get where they need to go and how things look, and how I think in terms of what is near what. Thinking about how the Phnom Penh traffic is normal to me, and I feel perfectly comfortable on my bike, weaving through traffic. On the routes I usually take, I know where each pothole is.
It doesn't seem that long, and it seems like a lifetime. I'm dearly looking forward to my upcoming trip home for a thousand reasons, but sometimes I find myself a little apprehensive about re-entering that rich, western world on the other side of the ocean. Cambodia is where I live and sometimes I forget it's a third-world country, because it's just what it is and that's that. But sometimes I remember, and think about the first-world, and wonder what it will look like -- and though I know, in theory, I think the actuality will feel different than the memory.
Including -- and perhaps especially -- the food. At the beginning I found Khmer food very strange and the taste odd, but now I actually really enjoy it. I don't know how to cook it, so my diet at home has gotten pretty pathetic, but I miss it when I go without for a certain time. At lunch today, digging the meat out of a whole grilled fish and pulling it off the bone with my teeth, I thought about the Gillian who wouldn't go near fishheads, and laughed a little.
I've been quite anxious to leave the past couple weeks, in desperate need of a vacation (one month of high stress and lack of eating well and sleeping well somewhat alarmingly shaved 3-4 kilos off me and I still don't know where from), but I guess today I took the time to look around and think that, although it is nothing like my life before, this place is pretty cool.
And besides. At the rate in which time is slipping through my fingers (more so than usual, I mean), tomorrow I'll be on a plane.
That will be pretty cool, too.
And yet it's something I've been learning for years now. Whether it's free lodging during a transition time, rides when you're stuck without transportation, vacations when they are really necessary, or simply a good meal here or there, the people responsible do not expect repayment, and nor do they particularly want it. If something must be done at all, one person just told me to pay it forward.
I am not rich. By Cambodian standards, I'm well-off, by American standards, I'm dirt poor. For me, I have everything I need, and if I'm careful, some things I want. But these things are cycles: I have enough, for example, to offer to pay for my students' transportation if it means they can participate in a show that I think will be really good experience for them. At some point in my life, I'll probably have enough to pay for someone's meal, might have a car or a motobike I can use to take someone somewhere they can't get to themselves. Pay for someone's vacation.
I don't feel like I have to. Receiving that which is freely given is beautiful, and yet, so is giving and knowing that the gift will be sent along and passed forward, the cycle continuing.
The mosquitos are back, and so is the heat. The cool season was not really cool at all, though perhaps it's because I forgot what the hot season was like. I didn't much notice the change except for the few cool mornings in late December. But I did notice the heat. And the mosquitos.
Were they this bad before? I assume so, as I've been bitten much less in the past few months but seem to remember that during the wet season I was constantly being munched upon.
Speaking of before, and time -- why am I always talking about time?
I was biking home from work today and thinking that I've been here just over 7 months now, which is no time at all and yet fairly significant. I found myself wondering what sparkling clean streets and sidewalks might look like, and if I'd notice them. I was trying to find a picture online of the motorbike I want to buy eventually and could only find these enormous models, nothing like the little things filling the streets here.
I was thinking about how I literally knew nothing about this country before I arrived and well, I still don't know a lot but Cambodia is not just the name of a country very far away that I may or may not have read in a textbook at some point. I was thinking about how no one knows the street names or numbers, they just know how to get where they need to go and how things look, and how I think in terms of what is near what. Thinking about how the Phnom Penh traffic is normal to me, and I feel perfectly comfortable on my bike, weaving through traffic. On the routes I usually take, I know where each pothole is.
It doesn't seem that long, and it seems like a lifetime. I'm dearly looking forward to my upcoming trip home for a thousand reasons, but sometimes I find myself a little apprehensive about re-entering that rich, western world on the other side of the ocean. Cambodia is where I live and sometimes I forget it's a third-world country, because it's just what it is and that's that. But sometimes I remember, and think about the first-world, and wonder what it will look like -- and though I know, in theory, I think the actuality will feel different than the memory.
Including -- and perhaps especially -- the food. At the beginning I found Khmer food very strange and the taste odd, but now I actually really enjoy it. I don't know how to cook it, so my diet at home has gotten pretty pathetic, but I miss it when I go without for a certain time. At lunch today, digging the meat out of a whole grilled fish and pulling it off the bone with my teeth, I thought about the Gillian who wouldn't go near fishheads, and laughed a little.
I've been quite anxious to leave the past couple weeks, in desperate need of a vacation (one month of high stress and lack of eating well and sleeping well somewhat alarmingly shaved 3-4 kilos off me and I still don't know where from), but I guess today I took the time to look around and think that, although it is nothing like my life before, this place is pretty cool.
And besides. At the rate in which time is slipping through my fingers (more so than usual, I mean), tomorrow I'll be on a plane.
That will be pretty cool, too.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Fireworks and the King Father
They're setting off fireworks every night.
I can see them from my balcony, barely, the colors exploding in the sky just above the top of the houses from the river side, the sound taking a second or two to travel here. The first boom always scares the daylights out of me.
They burned the body on Monday, in a crematorium built for the occasion, but no one was there to see it but the Queen Mother and the King, and maybe a group of monks. The dignitaries and the royal family invited to the funeral were present, but the curtains were closed, and the millions of people who came to mourn were behind blockades four blocks deep.
I'm not sure why -- I think they were worried about the possibility of a stampede or other nastiness. The roads around the area have been blocked for days, and even people who live on the streets in question have to haggle with the policemen on guard to get through. Groups of guards with very large machine guns have been seen lurking on nearby corners.
The ceremony itself took hours, the dignitaries paying their respects, the royal family theirs, and lots of chanting and music. The Queen Mother didn't stop crying for hours, quietly dabbing at her eyes even during the ceremonial greetings to the dignitaries and the parades and the praying. Either through protocol, age, or grief, she and the King moved slowly, dressed alike in white traditional pants and white shirts.
They moved the body from its coffin of gold to a bed in the center of the crematorium, covered in a white sheet. The camera placed inside the crematorium was covered by a white cloth, and the only thing that could be heard was the haunting chant of the monks inside, preparing the body for its final journey.
When the burning began, they set off fireworks, all around the crematorium, and the 101-gun salute -- a line of cannons firing blanks on the river side -- went off in tandem. I could hear the booms from my apartment, could see the lights flashing in the sky.
I read today they dispersed most of the ashes into the river, at the confluence of the three rivers here. Some of the ashes were kept for the Royal Palace, and some pieces were given to a few lucky bystanders, who consider it very good luck.
King Norodom Sihanouk was not my King, and his death meant nothing to me, but it meant a lot to many, many people here. The energy of the city over the weekend was rippling with mourning, a kind of heaviness across the city (along with the anxiety of the security officers.) The Cambodian television networks have been running nothing but retrospectives on his life, old pictures and footage, discussion of how -- despite fallling in with the wrong people and a controversial rule -- King Sihanouk always worked for Cambodia first and Cambodia always.
Although the ceremonies are done now and the ashes dispersed, things are not back to normal and the mourning will continue through the week. The concerts at CTN this weekend will be quiet, everyone will only wear black and white, and there will be no dancing.
I'll be happy for the extra rest -- I went back to work at the visa office this week due to a need for extra money and well, desk jobs have never really been my thing as much as it's not the worst job in the world -- but I do admit the extra time is starting to make me antsy. That might just be a need for a longer rest, or the anxiety of various unresolved things and preparation for a highly-anticipated trip home next month, but either way I'm in a 'hurry-up-and-wait' kind of mindset.
All the more reason to sit on the balcony, quietly and alone, and watch the tips of the fireworks explode in the sky. Celebrating, commemorating, and saying goodbye to the beloved, uniting force of man that millions of people here are dearly missing.
I can see them from my balcony, barely, the colors exploding in the sky just above the top of the houses from the river side, the sound taking a second or two to travel here. The first boom always scares the daylights out of me.
They burned the body on Monday, in a crematorium built for the occasion, but no one was there to see it but the Queen Mother and the King, and maybe a group of monks. The dignitaries and the royal family invited to the funeral were present, but the curtains were closed, and the millions of people who came to mourn were behind blockades four blocks deep.
I'm not sure why -- I think they were worried about the possibility of a stampede or other nastiness. The roads around the area have been blocked for days, and even people who live on the streets in question have to haggle with the policemen on guard to get through. Groups of guards with very large machine guns have been seen lurking on nearby corners.
The ceremony itself took hours, the dignitaries paying their respects, the royal family theirs, and lots of chanting and music. The Queen Mother didn't stop crying for hours, quietly dabbing at her eyes even during the ceremonial greetings to the dignitaries and the parades and the praying. Either through protocol, age, or grief, she and the King moved slowly, dressed alike in white traditional pants and white shirts.
They moved the body from its coffin of gold to a bed in the center of the crematorium, covered in a white sheet. The camera placed inside the crematorium was covered by a white cloth, and the only thing that could be heard was the haunting chant of the monks inside, preparing the body for its final journey.
When the burning began, they set off fireworks, all around the crematorium, and the 101-gun salute -- a line of cannons firing blanks on the river side -- went off in tandem. I could hear the booms from my apartment, could see the lights flashing in the sky.
I read today they dispersed most of the ashes into the river, at the confluence of the three rivers here. Some of the ashes were kept for the Royal Palace, and some pieces were given to a few lucky bystanders, who consider it very good luck.
King Norodom Sihanouk was not my King, and his death meant nothing to me, but it meant a lot to many, many people here. The energy of the city over the weekend was rippling with mourning, a kind of heaviness across the city (along with the anxiety of the security officers.) The Cambodian television networks have been running nothing but retrospectives on his life, old pictures and footage, discussion of how -- despite fallling in with the wrong people and a controversial rule -- King Sihanouk always worked for Cambodia first and Cambodia always.
Although the ceremonies are done now and the ashes dispersed, things are not back to normal and the mourning will continue through the week. The concerts at CTN this weekend will be quiet, everyone will only wear black and white, and there will be no dancing.
I'll be happy for the extra rest -- I went back to work at the visa office this week due to a need for extra money and well, desk jobs have never really been my thing as much as it's not the worst job in the world -- but I do admit the extra time is starting to make me antsy. That might just be a need for a longer rest, or the anxiety of various unresolved things and preparation for a highly-anticipated trip home next month, but either way I'm in a 'hurry-up-and-wait' kind of mindset.
All the more reason to sit on the balcony, quietly and alone, and watch the tips of the fireworks explode in the sky. Celebrating, commemorating, and saying goodbye to the beloved, uniting force of man that millions of people here are dearly missing.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Sunday Night Ramblings
Seeing as Tuesday Night Chatter has vanished into the netherland of things Gillian occasionally thinks about doing and finds it to be too ambitious, and I've been thinking about writing today but don't particularly have something to talk about (not true, I do, but that would require me to think straight enough to have a point), so Sunday Night Ramblings, here we go.
(If you understood that first sentence, we're good. If you didn't, it's not going to get better.)
I've been slowly recovering the past few days, sleeping an enormous amount and spending the rest of the time like a lump. I didn't get dressed until 4pm yesterday. Stopping, as it often does, always has a way of showing me how tired I was. One of my friends told me that the dark circles under my eyes have just been getting darker for the past three weeks, but hopefully after this weekend they will be on their way out. I have another weekend off next week, as I guess it's not okay to mourn for the King and then be like, great! Let's dance! a few days later.
Been taking the time also to catch up on the various dance cult classic movies that it's apparently a tragedy I've never seen, like Dirty Dancing and Flashdance. They both feature 80's hair, young and not-so-innocent despite their very innocent appearance 18 year olds getting hot for a man of indeterminate age and in the meantime learning to dance or going after a dream of dancing, respectively. That sounds really snarky when I think of it -- I was entertained by both, enjoyed the dancing, but confess to not being blown away by their brilliance -- or Patrick Swayze's hotness (Though, I think if I were 15 we'd be talking a different story).
There's a new building going up across the street, probably another 10 story luxury thing like the one directly across from my building. I watch the people go in and out a lot, the gate attendants parking the cars and bringing out the motos for the residents, a mix of Asian and white people. Getting in the elevator, sometimes standing on the balcony and doing what I'm doing, watching the world go by.
Anyway I've never seen a building being built before, never knew how it worked. The workers are all young and now that they are jack-hammering a lot thankfully they have discovered close-toed shoes and hard hats, at least most of the time. It's interesting to watch. I'm quite curious about the project, like watching them spill concrete in the ground and then dig them up to unearth these pillars, then jack-hammer half of them away and stick steel poles in them, build wood boxes around them, and dump more concrete in. I guess that's the foundation -- I confess to thinking, THAT's what's holding up my building? Oh dear.
I should be buying my last plane ticket this week and am getting excited about this trip, only about six weeks away (and considering the speed at which things are moving...) I'm looking forward to spending time with the family and especially seeing my sister, who is still in the hospital with no end in sight -- something that has been a constant source of stress in the back of my mind for the past six weeks.
As I said, with the way time is moving, I don't think it is at all premature to start making preparations for the trip, like trying to find someone to take my room for the month or maybe just become the next roommate as one of my roommates is leaving end of March, figuring out phone situations and where I'm going to stay in Paris, and other such logistics.
The Super Bowl is tomorrow and while it may or may not be on my television, waking up at 6:30am or whenever it starts, sounds a bit ambitious however much I enjoy football, and sleeping will probably win out.
It has this entire weekend, in fact....
(If you understood that first sentence, we're good. If you didn't, it's not going to get better.)
I've been slowly recovering the past few days, sleeping an enormous amount and spending the rest of the time like a lump. I didn't get dressed until 4pm yesterday. Stopping, as it often does, always has a way of showing me how tired I was. One of my friends told me that the dark circles under my eyes have just been getting darker for the past three weeks, but hopefully after this weekend they will be on their way out. I have another weekend off next week, as I guess it's not okay to mourn for the King and then be like, great! Let's dance! a few days later.
Been taking the time also to catch up on the various dance cult classic movies that it's apparently a tragedy I've never seen, like Dirty Dancing and Flashdance. They both feature 80's hair, young and not-so-innocent despite their very innocent appearance 18 year olds getting hot for a man of indeterminate age and in the meantime learning to dance or going after a dream of dancing, respectively. That sounds really snarky when I think of it -- I was entertained by both, enjoyed the dancing, but confess to not being blown away by their brilliance -- or Patrick Swayze's hotness (Though, I think if I were 15 we'd be talking a different story).
There's a new building going up across the street, probably another 10 story luxury thing like the one directly across from my building. I watch the people go in and out a lot, the gate attendants parking the cars and bringing out the motos for the residents, a mix of Asian and white people. Getting in the elevator, sometimes standing on the balcony and doing what I'm doing, watching the world go by.
Anyway I've never seen a building being built before, never knew how it worked. The workers are all young and now that they are jack-hammering a lot thankfully they have discovered close-toed shoes and hard hats, at least most of the time. It's interesting to watch. I'm quite curious about the project, like watching them spill concrete in the ground and then dig them up to unearth these pillars, then jack-hammer half of them away and stick steel poles in them, build wood boxes around them, and dump more concrete in. I guess that's the foundation -- I confess to thinking, THAT's what's holding up my building? Oh dear.
I should be buying my last plane ticket this week and am getting excited about this trip, only about six weeks away (and considering the speed at which things are moving...) I'm looking forward to spending time with the family and especially seeing my sister, who is still in the hospital with no end in sight -- something that has been a constant source of stress in the back of my mind for the past six weeks.
As I said, with the way time is moving, I don't think it is at all premature to start making preparations for the trip, like trying to find someone to take my room for the month or maybe just become the next roommate as one of my roommates is leaving end of March, figuring out phone situations and where I'm going to stay in Paris, and other such logistics.
The Super Bowl is tomorrow and while it may or may not be on my television, waking up at 6:30am or whenever it starts, sounds a bit ambitious however much I enjoy football, and sleeping will probably win out.
It has this entire weekend, in fact....
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