This website was meant to be a place for me to keep a journal of my junior year abroad. Now that's well over, so this will become a place that I'll periodically publish some of my writing, thinking, essays, arguments, etc.
Cheers as I work towards my Bachelor's.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Conclusions to a Year Abroad
When there is trapFate, chance and free will. Yes, Melville had it right, it’s these three that tumble around and mess with the flow of things. Some things happen by chance (good things are serendipitous, bad things are accidental), something things are predetermined (pleasant predetermination means God loves you, unpleasant predetermination means…?), and some things you-in-all-your-limitedness get to choose.
Set up for you
In every corner of this town..
That’s what I was thinking about after the Belarusian military put me on a train to Minsk because they caught me in Belarus without a transit visa.
I thought about that, and I also thought about the number of times that my host mother told me that it would be “absolutely no problem” to take this train to the Ukraine; that, in fact, "they do not even check passports at the border, and sometimes you don’t even notice you’ve crossed the border because it happens around dawn”.
Dawn is when the military got on the train.
Dawn is when they meticulously checked/stamped passports.
Dawn is when I was given 30 seconds to grab my bag and get the hell off the train – or else!
When there's a trap set up for youWas this fate, or chance? It was fate a month earlier, when I left Saint-Petersburg to renew my visa in Helsinki and discovered that, due to international passport laws, what I thought would be a 3 day trip ended up being a two week trip. But what of it? Sure I didn’t have enough clothes… but I ended up with a whole journey, meeting a couple random Canadian opera singers and an architecture student, following them to Tallinn, where we met a crazy old hippy named Yura who lived permanently in the hostel. Yura had long white hair, small round sunglasses, American flag shower shoes and a persistent wish that I go with him to an Estonian strip club.
In every corner of your room,
And so you learn the only way to go is
Through the roof.
And then onto Riga, a city which is nothing short of an Art Nouveau masterpiece, where I ended up hanging out with some guy who’s “wife” became a “serious girlfriend”, and whose “serious girlfriend” became just a “girlfriend”, and finally not mentioned at all (drink by drink) as he catcalled other birds. I lost track of this catcaller somewhere and spent the meanwhile almost getting into a fight with some random kid a full head shorter and 40 pounds less than I (and a death wish!) who seemed to think I was dancing with his girl; but I did indeed run into the same - though much drunker - cat sometime around dawn as I was returning to the hostel and he gave me a million dollar grin as he closed the door behind him and the three girls he’d just then led into his room.
Oooo ooo ooo through the roof, underground!Or back in Helsinki, where I was reintroduced to civilization (Russians are a long way from it), where people are exceedingly polite and helpful and human. Every day I’d sit for an hour or so with the Finns in the sauna and discuss sauna strategy. The secret is getting a delicious Karhu (fantastic Finnish beer, recognizable by the grizzly bear on the front) and pouring it over the coals so the whole sauna fills with beer steam and the yeast burns and everything smells like fresh baking bread and I, too, bake. Normally, they tell me, they also roast sausage on the coals, but they couldn’t understand why I thought that was a funny thing to say.
And as we're crossing border after border,But that’s just it. You get your fate, or your roll of the dice, and then it's up to you how you decide to respond to the snake eyes or the double sixes. Which is why I started to get really excited about going to Minsk—despite the circumstances: pulled from a train, without means of getting more money and a little under 100$ in cash—because chance/fate had not screwed me yet. It worked in Riga. It worked in Tallinn. It worked in Helsinki. And it got me to Saint-Petersburg in the first place. When the hell was I ever going to see Minsk? Where is Minsk anyway?
We realize that difference is none.
It's underdogs who, and if you want it,
You always have to make your own fun.
So that’s the most important thing I learned with my year abroad. You get your lot from a whole set of circumstances you have no control of, but whether you see it as serendipitous luck or bad luck—well that’s completely up to you.
It’s sort of an extension of that quote that Quincy taught me, which her father taught her which, at some point, he got from Abraham Lincoln: “People are just as happy as they make up their minds to be.”
Just like their meanings, they lay between the lines:And so I finally made it to Odessa after sweet talking the Transportation Office ladies in my well-practiced I-am-pathetic-please-help-me American accent and enjoyed this hot strange land of gold, stray cats and beaches before getting on my flight home.
Between the borders the real countries hide.
Eighteen hours later I had another one of those moments. You know, one of those moments I described earlier that only occur when you’re flying .3 miles per second thousands of feet in the air and things get plainold contemplative. And I stared out the window at the mountains in east county San Diego. A storm had just blown over and the residual patches of rain left six or seven quarter rainbows poking straight up out of the tops of mountains... and I was really happy to be home.
Серебряные зайцы водят хоровод!
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Russians are Relativists
I’ve been thinking a lot about a hypothetical creature. This creature lives for a thousand years, and has a memory of a thousand years. It watches humankind as generations upon generations pass. What does it see? To it, we appear to be a species that is constantly spawning like any other animal, and making the same mistakes over and over again. We as a generation must learn the very same lessons as the previous generation. So to this hypothetical creature, we seem a blind species, bumbling about in the fog of the limitations of our memory—but we have one defense: monuments. Through our monuments (whether they are architecture, literature, art, or now—the internet), we have the ability to set place markers, reminders which say “Hey there, next generation. Here is where we left off. Take a good look at this stuff and continue from this point."
We humans are the only creatures on this planet that have the capacity for this sort of memory, and—unfortunately—we often fail to acknowledge that the very fact that we have this power means we have a duty to use it responsibly.
Is history just what we say it is?—or does it exist in a true form beyond ourselves?
It’s a really tough question to answer because, on the one hand, of course we as human beings write our own histories, and thus all our histories are inherently flawed and only portray the limited perspective of the author, or even firsthand participant. (Note: even the participant has a very limited perspective on what he or she has witnessed; history is the sum total of human choices, natural phenomena, and whatever divine phenomena—thus, even without accepting divine phenomena, we have too many variables for the human mind to fully take account). One can’t help but mention 1984 in this regard, where the argument between the captive protagonist and the authoritarian government hinges upon the retroactive creation of history: whether any history is indeed “true”, or whether it is just what we all agree to have happened. At the heart of this argument is the question of absolutism and relativism.
Acknowledging that humans can never know perfectly what has taken place, and therefore every history is to some extent a confabulation, we can nonetheless endeavor to write histories as accurately as we possibly can, given the resources available—which is exactly what Orwell’s thought police do not do; they, on the other hand, assume that since there is some subjectivity in the compilation of history, the slippery slope fallacy allows them to invent histories entirely. Thus, if everyone agrees the world is flat, then the world is flat. They see no responsibility to do their best to be as accurate as possible. They do not believe in any “true” version of history outside of human experience. And for them, inevitably, the ends always justify the means.
We humans are the only creatures on this planet that have the capacity for this sort of memory, and—unfortunately—we often fail to acknowledge that the very fact that we have this power means we have a duty to use it responsibly.
Is history just what we say it is?—or does it exist in a true form beyond ourselves?
It’s a really tough question to answer because, on the one hand, of course we as human beings write our own histories, and thus all our histories are inherently flawed and only portray the limited perspective of the author, or even firsthand participant. (Note: even the participant has a very limited perspective on what he or she has witnessed; history is the sum total of human choices, natural phenomena, and whatever divine phenomena—thus, even without accepting divine phenomena, we have too many variables for the human mind to fully take account). One can’t help but mention 1984 in this regard, where the argument between the captive protagonist and the authoritarian government hinges upon the retroactive creation of history: whether any history is indeed “true”, or whether it is just what we all agree to have happened. At the heart of this argument is the question of absolutism and relativism.
Acknowledging that humans can never know perfectly what has taken place, and therefore every history is to some extent a confabulation, we can nonetheless endeavor to write histories as accurately as we possibly can, given the resources available—which is exactly what Orwell’s thought police do not do; they, on the other hand, assume that since there is some subjectivity in the compilation of history, the slippery slope fallacy allows them to invent histories entirely. Thus, if everyone agrees the world is flat, then the world is flat. They see no responsibility to do their best to be as accurate as possible. They do not believe in any “true” version of history outside of human experience. And for them, inevitably, the ends always justify the means.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Russians put ketchup in all the wrong places.
Eggs. Rice. Vegetables. Pizza. All places ketchup should not be.
But I expected that. I knew when I came to Russia that I wasn't doing it for the food. I mean, it's Russian food! They eat beats and cabbage and potatoes and mushrooms and all those other things that grow underground and survive long winters and heavy snows. Heck, if I wanted delicious food and good weather I would've gone to Italy [someone please remind me: why didn't I go to Italy??].
I was wrong. Russian food is delicious, and a testament to the saying that limitations inspire innovation. Borsch, blini, pickled tomatoes, "salads" (which generally contain meat and potato, no lettuce), jam, fresh bread and Russian cheese, yum.
But I expected that. I knew when I came to Russia that I wasn't doing it for the food. I mean, it's Russian food! They eat beats and cabbage and potatoes and mushrooms and all those other things that grow underground and survive long winters and heavy snows. Heck, if I wanted delicious food and good weather I would've gone to Italy [someone please remind me: why didn't I go to Italy??].
I was wrong. Russian food is delicious, and a testament to the saying that limitations inspire innovation. Borsch, blini, pickled tomatoes, "salads" (which generally contain meat and potato, no lettuce), jam, fresh bread and Russian cheese, yum.
Fine fine pickle brine,
Salt and sweet intertwine!
Together we can dine divine..
I'll be yours if you'll be pickle
Monday, May 25, 2009
Bureaucratic Sharks
Dealing with Russian bureaucracy is a lot like being mauled by a shark. It's awful, messy, painful and terrifying - but if you survive, at least you have a cool story/scar to tell people about at cocktail parties.
I say this on the eve of my attempts to get:
I say this on the eve of my attempts to get:
- Paid for my job.
- A Russian tourist VISA for the summer.
- A Chinese VISA for the summer as well.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Consulting Ghosts
I've applied to Brown as a transfer student for Fall 2009, and my response should come from Admissions any day now. I'm not sure what I should do if I'm accepted - I have great friends at Vassar (I really miss my pals), it's a beautiful school, great reputation, great professors (whom I've already located), the departments I'm interested in may be stronger at Vassar than they are at Brown, it's safe, comfortable, and I just picked out my classes for next semester and they look fantastic:
So, when my Tarot cards failed to give me an answer I could reasonably decipher, I went to consult with my main man - the local hero - my idol, Peter the Great, and ask him what he'd do. Generally, it's important to be careful what sort of advice one asks of Peter; for example, when drinking, it is never a good idea to ask this man (who, along with his colleagues, drank so much in his lifetime that the stereotype of the "vodka guzzling Russian" lives on to this day and whose death was the result of slow, painful kidney failure, followed by a gangrenous urinary tract infection, peeing blood, and the removal of extraneous fluids via whatever was the 18th century equivalent of a giant syringe) whether or not it is a good idea to have another beer.
However in matters of war, leadership, vision, actualizing potential, and building cities in awkward places, he's really quite good. So I went to the grave of Peter the Great and asked:
"What do I do if I get in, Peter? Should I go?"
And he sighed, and stared, and mentioned something about the frivolity of asking the man who changed the capital of Russia whether or not to change schools.
"And if I am denied?"
To which he replied: "Work harder, sleep less, burn the land before your enemies, and never, ever let that asshole Charles XII dictate the terms of defeat".
Art 385 - The Art of Nature (Peck/Lucic)Tatyana tells me it is better to be a big fish in a small pond than a nobody in the ocean.
Eng 328 - Literature of the American Renaissance (Peck)
Art 370 – Rome of the Imagination (Adams)
Art 331 – Durer and Rembrandt (Kuretsky)
Eng 235 - Old English (Amodio)
[Audit] Russ 371 Myth of Saint-Petersburg (Firtich)
So, when my Tarot cards failed to give me an answer I could reasonably decipher, I went to consult with my main man - the local hero - my idol, Peter the Great, and ask him what he'd do. Generally, it's important to be careful what sort of advice one asks of Peter; for example, when drinking, it is never a good idea to ask this man (who, along with his colleagues, drank so much in his lifetime that the stereotype of the "vodka guzzling Russian" lives on to this day and whose death was the result of slow, painful kidney failure, followed by a gangrenous urinary tract infection, peeing blood, and the removal of extraneous fluids via whatever was the 18th century equivalent of a giant syringe) whether or not it is a good idea to have another beer.
However in matters of war, leadership, vision, actualizing potential, and building cities in awkward places, he's really quite good. So I went to the grave of Peter the Great and asked:
"What do I do if I get in, Peter? Should I go?"
And he sighed, and stared, and mentioned something about the frivolity of asking the man who changed the capital of Russia whether or not to change schools.
"And if I am denied?"
To which he replied: "Work harder, sleep less, burn the land before your enemies, and never, ever let that asshole Charles XII dictate the terms of defeat".
Saturday, May 9, 2009
"Victory" Day
Some weeks ago our teacher asked us if anyone knew what День Победы ("Day of Victory") was. I joked that it was the day for dinner (the word for "dinner" sounds similar to the word for "victory") and got a good laugh.
Unfortunately, I had never heard the word "victory" before, and — jokes aside — actually didn't know what the holiday was for; so I asked. This was my teacher's response:
You don't know?
—No.
Are you serious?
—Yes.
You're joking, right?
—Really, I don't know. Seriously.
Do you know what WWII is?
—I am American. We Americans don't know anything.
At this point in my public humiliation, a friend of mind just whispered it to me in English and I spent the rest of the class simmering simmering simmering, outraged to be asked whether or not I knew what WWII was and condescended to for not knowing a word that wasn't at all obvious, nor was I the only one ignorant of it.
They say Necessity is the best teacher — I think Humiliation wins a close second.
Well here we are, it's May 9th at last : Den Pabyedi!
The "Day of Victory" is so called by the Russians who lost some 23 million soldiers and civilians in WWII before embarking upon another half decade of Stalinist repression and persecution.
No wonder I had trouble understanding why the end of WWII would be considered a "victory day" for Russia: the name demonstrates the residual, Soviet revisionistic view of history with sickening irony. 23 million dead civilians and a ruined country is not a victory by anyone's standards (except Stalin's, for whom the ends always justify the means).
In America, where WWII casualties are around half a million, there is a similar holiday at the end of May known as "Memorial Day".
God, however, is a true lover of irony. I'm not one to invoke God, but today I really think something was there. I watched a blue sky darken and an enormous black cloud billow up from the Gulf of Finland and spill over the Admiralty into Palace Square where, at first, gusts of winds inspired whirlwinds of dust, followed by heavy, heavy rain just as the Parade was arriving.
Ironic fact number 2: Tatyana, who is always reminding me not to forget my jacket, or wear a hat etc., forgot her jacket today.
I did publicly drink a Coke in honor of Victory Day.
Unfortunately, I had never heard the word "victory" before, and — jokes aside — actually didn't know what the holiday was for; so I asked. This was my teacher's response:
You don't know?
—No.
Are you serious?
—Yes.
You're joking, right?
—Really, I don't know. Seriously.
Do you know what WWII is?
—I am American. We Americans don't know anything.
At this point in my public humiliation, a friend of mind just whispered it to me in English and I spent the rest of the class simmering simmering simmering, outraged to be asked whether or not I knew what WWII was and condescended to for not knowing a word that wasn't at all obvious, nor was I the only one ignorant of it.
They say Necessity is the best teacher — I think Humiliation wins a close second.
Well here we are, it's May 9th at last : Den Pabyedi!
The "Day of Victory" is so called by the Russians who lost some 23 million soldiers and civilians in WWII before embarking upon another half decade of Stalinist repression and persecution.
No wonder I had trouble understanding why the end of WWII would be considered a "victory day" for Russia: the name demonstrates the residual, Soviet revisionistic view of history with sickening irony. 23 million dead civilians and a ruined country is not a victory by anyone's standards (except Stalin's, for whom the ends always justify the means).
In America, where WWII casualties are around half a million, there is a similar holiday at the end of May known as "Memorial Day".
God, however, is a true lover of irony. I'm not one to invoke God, but today I really think something was there. I watched a blue sky darken and an enormous black cloud billow up from the Gulf of Finland and spill over the Admiralty into Palace Square where, at first, gusts of winds inspired whirlwinds of dust, followed by heavy, heavy rain just as the Parade was arriving.
Ironic fact number 2: Tatyana, who is always reminding me not to forget my jacket, or wear a hat etc., forgot her jacket today.
I did publicly drink a Coke in honor of Victory Day.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Spring in Saint-Petersburg
Ah spring... when thousands of middle-aged Russian women shed their fur coats, throw out their tanning spray, stumble into their thongs, and trek out to the Peter and Paul Fortress to sunbathe on the "beach".
[click to enlarge]
The weather here is getting nicer and nicer, so I went to Saint Isaac's recently. The bad part about climbing onto the cupola of Saint Isaac's Cathedral is you don't get a very good view of Saint Isaac's Cathedral.
The good part is you get a great view of everything else, like the Menshikov palace.
I can see my school from here!
The 9th Wave, so the mariners say, is the most dangerous.
Thanks to Bimini for the photos, and for the cool video at the bottom of this post.
[click to enlarge]
The weather here is getting nicer and nicer, so I went to Saint Isaac's recently. The bad part about climbing onto the cupola of Saint Isaac's Cathedral is you don't get a very good view of Saint Isaac's Cathedral.
The good part is you get a great view of everything else, like the Menshikov palace.
I can see my school from here!
The 9th Wave, so the mariners say, is the most dangerous.
Thanks to Bimini for the photos, and for the cool video at the bottom of this post.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
When I found myself
Sitting in the cafe of the Kunstkammer
Sharing a couple pieces of awful plastic pie
With an Aussie drama major (the normal-est person I could find) —
A boom box blasting Ghost Busters nearby,
I realized Saint-Petersburg is a weird place.
I ain't afraid a'no ghost!
Sharing a couple pieces of awful plastic pie
With an Aussie drama major (the normal-est person I could find) —
A boom box blasting Ghost Busters nearby,
I realized Saint-Petersburg is a weird place.
I ain't afraid a'no ghost!
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
The Hermitage Cattery
Most visitors don't realize that the basement of the Hermitage is home to some 70 cats who eat, sleep, and are paid regular wages. Yes indeed, the Hermitage cats have been around since 1745 when Empress Elizabeth summoned the most experienced warriors in the nation to the to help with the rodent problem. The 5 original cats, legendary for their proficiency, came from Kazan. The Hermitage has had cats ever since.
Unfortunately, none of the original line of hunter-kitties survived the Seige of Leningrad (the same fate can be said for the unfortunate inhabitants of the Leningrad Zoo, and the city's populations of pigeons, which has since replenished itself) however, the Hermitage likes to take a day each year to recognize this quirky bit of living history.
Unfortunately, none of the original line of hunter-kitties survived the Seige of Leningrad (the same fate can be said for the unfortunate inhabitants of the Leningrad Zoo, and the city's populations of pigeons, which has since replenished itself) however, the Hermitage likes to take a day each year to recognize this quirky bit of living history.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Literary Saint-Petersburg
One of my favorite things to do in Petersburg is track down all the sites mentioned in Russian literature; i.e., following path of the Nose, climbing Raskolnikov's staircase, finding Akaky Akakiyich's overcoat, searching for the house of the devil moneylender.
It's sort of like Geocaching, except my geocaches are left by Pushkin.
Here is a link to a file you can open in Google Earth, and have a look at the map I've been building of Petersburg. I'll be updating and re-updating this map often as I make my way through the reading, so check back if you nerd-out on this stuff like I do. So far it contains:
Gogol
The Overcoat
The Nose
The Portrait
The Diary of a Madman
Nevsky Prospect
Dostoevsky
Crime and Punishment
White Nights
Notes from the Underground (soon)
Pushkin
The Bronze Horseman
Note: I get equally excited for anything to do with Peter the Great.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
How to say “Apathy” in Russian
- Все равно (It’s all the same to me.)
- Меня это не интересно (It doesn’t interest me)
- Меня это не касается (It doesn’t concern me)
- Меня это не волнует (It doesn’t concern me)
- Без разницы (There’s no difference)
- Мне без различно (For me there’s no difference)
- А мне какое дело? (What is there for me to do?)
- А мне-то что (What am I to do?)
- Мне все до лампочки (I couldn’t care less)
- Ну и что (So what?)
It's been said that "with freedom comes responsibility", but Russians have never really had freedom, and have never successfully made an effort to control their own fates. In the words of historian Kluchevsky, "for this national apathy, for the thoughtless silence of the whole land, the country is punished".1
Only in the educated strata of Russia society do you meet anti-Putin democracy-loving people. The other 99% of the country is happy with the current government, political assassinations, censorship, mock elections, mafia rule and corruption, all of which is common knowledge.
I've asked many people: "if everyone knows that what is happening is wrong, then why don't you all do something about it?" The answer:
- "It is not so bad".
- Stalin is good. Putin is good. It is the foreigners who are poisoning our country.
- "What am I to do?" [or another among the above list of apathetic answers]
- "As long as I can put food on the table, and subsist on meager week-to-week wages, I am content."
Combine this belief in the Tsar with the deep-rooted, Russian-Orthodox inspired Jesus-complex, and there you have 900 years of complacency and slavery (with occasional exceptions, all of which were brutally crushed by royal armies).
Thus, it no surprise that when, at the turn of the 20th century—at long last—the myth of the divine Tsar was dispelled and communism came into full swing, Russians did the only thing they knew how to do, which is the only thing they have ever known: they installed an Almighty totalitarian patriarch, who once again quickly ascended to the point of divinity.
That's the whole difficulty with freedom: to have freedom is also to have the freedom to self-impose slavery. This is why the Declaration of Independence stipulates that "when a long train of abuses and usurpations...evinces a design to reduce [the people] under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security."
Most Russians don't feel a duty toward their country or their fellow man. They are unwilling to accept the responsibility necessary for freedom and have chosen time and time again the familiar bonds of slavery to the unfamiliar duties of freedom. And sadly, when, by chance, the sort of leadership that can galvanize the people pokes its head out of its hole, the hammer of the mafia-government is ever smashing it back into oblivion like some tragic game of whack-a-mole.
News headlines note the assassination. Nobody cares:
"А мне-то что? (What am I to do?)" the citizen asks, "Выбирать тут не из чего; Хрен редьки не слаще (There is small choice in rotten apples)".
There is a reason that the Russian word for "ballot box" ["урна" ("urna")] also means "trash can".
Каждый народ имеет то правительство, которого заслуживает.
You get the government you deserve.
1 Vasili Klyuchevsky, The Rise of the Romanovs, translated by Lilian Archibald (London, 1960) p.87.
2 Edward Crankshae, The Shadow of the Winter Palace: Russia's Drift to Revolution 1825-1917, (New York: Viking Press, 1976) p.18.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Frozen Ocean
The Neva pours tons of fresh water into the Gulf of Finland, so it freezes pretty easily.
So today, I walked on the ocean.
I meditated.
I drank a Coke for America.
It was awe-some.
O to be Prince Caspian
Afloat upon the waves
So today, I walked on the ocean.
I meditated.
I drank a Coke for America.
It was awe-some.
O to be Prince Caspian
Afloat upon the waves
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Wherever you go, there you are.
Because that’s always the question: how can we be not us? How can I be not me?
Thus abroad, thus de Tocqueville.
What’s been up? I've been moved from the beginner Russian class to the intermediate one. Then immediately to the next one after that (for intermediate intermediates, I think). The class that is much farther ahead than I've ever been in Russian, and I've been doing my best to keep up. I might be the dumbest kid in the class, but I am also the one who is learning the most. The trade off?—dignity, of course. Always with the dignity.
Completely out of the blue, I was offered a job. Every Monday from here on out I'll get two groups of advanced English students, and I'll lead conversation sessions with them. I was given a list of things to talk about with them, such as “art, politics, utopias, environment, religion, vacation, foreign countries, stereotypes, food, etc”.
I had my first classes, and all my students were confused about there being any book for the course, and generally had no idea what we were supposed to be doing. So I just started a conversation about Russian Orthodoxy (for my first class) and peanut butter (for my second class) and let them take the conversation from there.
Peanut butter, interestingly enough, does not exist in Russia. Not proper peanut butter.
Yes, I get paid to talk with Russians about whatever strikes me as interesting at that moment. And the best part? I'm supposed to teach them how to debate and argue. That's right: I get to teach them how to argue about whatever I want to argue about. I have found a way to get paid to argue = my calling in life.
What's my pay? 300 rubles an hour, two classes, two hours each, so 1200 roubles a week (which comes out to a little less than 10$/hr, or, 10 cokes an hour, or more than enough money to feed a Russian family of 3 for a week—however you want to look at it.)
Speaking of arguments, I keep getting sick here and I've been trying to convince Tatyana that wearing a hat or not wearing a hat in cold weather has no effect on whether one gets a cold.
She argues: "I saw you yesterday. You went out in the cold without a hat, and now you have a cold!"
No! To "catch a cold" is a figure of speech. Multiple studies have proven that the reason people "catch colds" is because they are exposed to the cold virus; whether or not they are chilly at the moment of exposure makes no difference.
"Well, twice I've watched you go out without a hat, and twice you've gotten a cold now. I don't care what any doctor says, I've seen proof otherwise!"
At least she's not trying to bleed me to balance my humors.
Heck, maybe I need to be bled. Too much yellow bile, get the leaches! More like, too much phlegm. In my nose.
What do I miss when I get homesick? Driving, I always miss driving a lot. I remember back when I had my convertible, and I’d cruise home from school every day taking the coast from La Jolla to Del Mar – fantastic.
I remember driving around in my old red Corvair which only had AM radio; I got to the point where I started to rock out to country music like Juice Newton (“Playing with the Queen of Hearts / Knowin’ that it ain’t very smart / The Devil ain’t the only fool / Who will do anything for you”, John Michael Montgomery (“Life’s a dance, you learn as you go / sometimes you lead, sometimes you follow”), Conway Twitty (“Lord have mercy, Baby’s got her blue jeans on!”) and the Kendalls (“Heaven’s just a sin away / I can’t wait another day / I think I’m giving in”) all on AM 600 KOGO – “THE ZOO” followed by intermittent sessions with Dr. Laura, Rush Limbaugh, and occasional Jesus programming; god I loved late night with Art Bell, who has made me a real junkie for alien sightings and 2012.
Or eating a California burrito or having a beer and kicking it with the Del Mar Crew up on the ridge. Yeah, it’s always the people you miss. They'll be back soon enough.
I guess I don’t get homesick all that much. Not consciously at least. Usually when I’m anywhere that I’m not used to my dreams go crazy, but my dreams are always crazy.
But anyway, I go places so I can get perspective on where I come from. That's the whole point of traveling abroad. And you set out expecting revelations, and ultimately, there you are. Here I am.
Luff! luff, you may!—steady!—port! World ho!—here I am!
Thus abroad, thus de Tocqueville.
What’s been up? I've been moved from the beginner Russian class to the intermediate one. Then immediately to the next one after that (for intermediate intermediates, I think). The class that is much farther ahead than I've ever been in Russian, and I've been doing my best to keep up. I might be the dumbest kid in the class, but I am also the one who is learning the most. The trade off?—dignity, of course. Always with the dignity.
Completely out of the blue, I was offered a job. Every Monday from here on out I'll get two groups of advanced English students, and I'll lead conversation sessions with them. I was given a list of things to talk about with them, such as “art, politics, utopias, environment, religion, vacation, foreign countries, stereotypes, food, etc”.
I had my first classes, and all my students were confused about there being any book for the course, and generally had no idea what we were supposed to be doing. So I just started a conversation about Russian Orthodoxy (for my first class) and peanut butter (for my second class) and let them take the conversation from there.
Peanut butter, interestingly enough, does not exist in Russia. Not proper peanut butter.
Yes, I get paid to talk with Russians about whatever strikes me as interesting at that moment. And the best part? I'm supposed to teach them how to debate and argue. That's right: I get to teach them how to argue about whatever I want to argue about. I have found a way to get paid to argue = my calling in life.
What's my pay? 300 rubles an hour, two classes, two hours each, so 1200 roubles a week (which comes out to a little less than 10$/hr, or, 10 cokes an hour, or more than enough money to feed a Russian family of 3 for a week—however you want to look at it.)
Speaking of arguments, I keep getting sick here and I've been trying to convince Tatyana that wearing a hat or not wearing a hat in cold weather has no effect on whether one gets a cold.
She argues: "I saw you yesterday. You went out in the cold without a hat, and now you have a cold!"
No! To "catch a cold" is a figure of speech. Multiple studies have proven that the reason people "catch colds" is because they are exposed to the cold virus; whether or not they are chilly at the moment of exposure makes no difference.
"Well, twice I've watched you go out without a hat, and twice you've gotten a cold now. I don't care what any doctor says, I've seen proof otherwise!"
At least she's not trying to bleed me to balance my humors.
Heck, maybe I need to be bled. Too much yellow bile, get the leaches! More like, too much phlegm. In my nose.
What do I miss when I get homesick? Driving, I always miss driving a lot. I remember back when I had my convertible, and I’d cruise home from school every day taking the coast from La Jolla to Del Mar – fantastic.
I remember driving around in my old red Corvair which only had AM radio; I got to the point where I started to rock out to country music like Juice Newton (“Playing with the Queen of Hearts / Knowin’ that it ain’t very smart / The Devil ain’t the only fool / Who will do anything for you”, John Michael Montgomery (“Life’s a dance, you learn as you go / sometimes you lead, sometimes you follow”), Conway Twitty (“Lord have mercy, Baby’s got her blue jeans on!”) and the Kendalls (“Heaven’s just a sin away / I can’t wait another day / I think I’m giving in”) all on AM 600 KOGO – “THE ZOO” followed by intermittent sessions with Dr. Laura, Rush Limbaugh, and occasional Jesus programming; god I loved late night with Art Bell, who has made me a real junkie for alien sightings and 2012.
Or eating a California burrito or having a beer and kicking it with the Del Mar Crew up on the ridge. Yeah, it’s always the people you miss. They'll be back soon enough.
I guess I don’t get homesick all that much. Not consciously at least. Usually when I’m anywhere that I’m not used to my dreams go crazy, but my dreams are always crazy.
But anyway, I go places so I can get perspective on where I come from. That's the whole point of traveling abroad. And you set out expecting revelations, and ultimately, there you are. Here I am.
Luff! luff, you may!—steady!—port! World ho!—here I am!
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Your Own, Personal Jesus
When I walk down the street, and I pass another person, I make eye contact. If I’m feeling really good, I’ll maybe add a smile, perhaps a “howdy!”, but at the very least: eye contact.
This seemingly meaningless gesture, usually done with little thought and almost automatically is actually immensely important. An enormous amount of information is conveyed simply by looking another human being in the eye. Without a word, I am communicating:
Which is why it discourages me so much that Russians do not make eye contact; most especially, they do not smile, and saying hello to someone you don’t know is absolutely out of the question. If you try to make eye contact with a woman, you will (if successful) receive a brief glance and an immediate redirection of her gaze, along with a tightening of all her facial features, often times accompanied by a frown (which, in most cases, was there before you tried to establish a moment of mutual-humanity—so you’ll inspire a deeper frown). If you try and make eye contact with a man you are basically challenging him to a fight; thus, you will either be met with the immediate redirection of his gaze (which, as far as I can tell, means submission, as with making eye contact with dogs) or be met with …other unpleasantness.
And let’s not even talk about smiling, because smiling, I'm told, is for fools. This concept, I guess, comes from the idea that everything in Russia is serious, unpleasant, and should be met with a face that is appropriately dismal. Thus, if you are smiling, you must be an ignoramus, or some foreigner [in my case, both], because no true Russian with true Russian problems would walk around with a pleasant, approachable look on his face unless he were really stupid, or really foreign.
For the most part, Russians don’t look at each other at all; they quickly shuffle down streets, staring at their feet, wrapped in coats, collars up to their noses, in silence. What is communicated when two such people cross paths?
First and foremost, there is a lot of crime in Saint-Petersburg, so everyone assumes everyone else is a bandit and tries to avoid all contact as much as possible. Here's my well-practiced and mastered "I'm-not-really-a-foreigner-I'm-really-a-Russian-and-a-badass-so-don't-mug-me" face:
But even I acknowledge the humanity of bandits. Heck, American bandits acknowledge the humanity of me, too.
My hypothesis is that the real source of this unfriendliness is the deeply ingrained Russian Orthodox mentality that permeates Russian society. For all Christians, the ultimate goal in life is to be like Jesus, emulate his virtues and his deeds, to care for each other, mercy, etc. For Orthodox Christians, the ideal is to be Jesus. I literally mean that the Russian Orthodox church teaches that Russians ought to be Jesus, that to live is to suffer horribly, publicly, and die for everyone else’s sins—
There is some perverted part of human nature that enjoys being unhappy, that likes pain (e.g. "I just needed a good cry.")—something that impels people to, given the choice to be happy or to be miserable, choose misery (i.e., Milne's Eeyore or, Dostoevsky's Marmeladov). The Russian Orthodox church has been playing this tune to Russians for over a thousand years, and there is a deep-set chord here that resonates in the Russian psyche. Couple a thousand years of oppressive, brutal monarchy [including Stalin and Putin] with a thousand years of teaching people to be satisfied with their bad lots (and the promise of a grand afterlife) and what you have is a system of complacency and acceptance of travesty where righteous indignation and active resistance should be.
Thus, a practical pessimism pervades the logic of the common Russian. He expects bad things to happen, waits for them to happen, and if—by chance—bad things don't come, he assumes they will in the next minute. What, historically, has ever proven otherwise for Russians?
Each sees his own suffering as the noble suffering of Jesus; each feels himself crucified and simultaneously relishes the crucifixion; he has been taught not to be like Jesus, but to be his own, personal Jesus.
This seemingly meaningless gesture, usually done with little thought and almost automatically is actually immensely important. An enormous amount of information is conveyed simply by looking another human being in the eye. Without a word, I am communicating:
- I am a human being.
- You too, are a human being.
- We together are human beings, acknowledging each other’s existence.
- Today, at this moment, our paths have crossed.
- We share this sidewalk as we share this community, and, macrocosmically, the world—we have duties and responsibilities towards each other.
Which is why it discourages me so much that Russians do not make eye contact; most especially, they do not smile, and saying hello to someone you don’t know is absolutely out of the question. If you try to make eye contact with a woman, you will (if successful) receive a brief glance and an immediate redirection of her gaze, along with a tightening of all her facial features, often times accompanied by a frown (which, in most cases, was there before you tried to establish a moment of mutual-humanity—so you’ll inspire a deeper frown). If you try and make eye contact with a man you are basically challenging him to a fight; thus, you will either be met with the immediate redirection of his gaze (which, as far as I can tell, means submission, as with making eye contact with dogs) or be met with …other unpleasantness.
And let’s not even talk about smiling, because smiling, I'm told, is for fools. This concept, I guess, comes from the idea that everything in Russia is serious, unpleasant, and should be met with a face that is appropriately dismal. Thus, if you are smiling, you must be an ignoramus, or some foreigner [in my case, both], because no true Russian with true Russian problems would walk around with a pleasant, approachable look on his face unless he were really stupid, or really foreign.
For the most part, Russians don’t look at each other at all; they quickly shuffle down streets, staring at their feet, wrapped in coats, collars up to their noses, in silence. What is communicated when two such people cross paths?
- I do not acknowledge your existence; whether you walked past me or not today does not matter.
- I have no respect for you as a human being or even as a fellow existing creature, you are merely another object in the background of my life.
- Only my own life and introspection is important, so important that I cannot leave it ever, not even for a second.
First and foremost, there is a lot of crime in Saint-Petersburg, so everyone assumes everyone else is a bandit and tries to avoid all contact as much as possible. Here's my well-practiced and mastered "I'm-not-really-a-foreigner-I'm-really-a-Russian-and-a-badass-so-don't-mug-me" face:
But even I acknowledge the humanity of bandits. Heck, American bandits acknowledge the humanity of me, too.
My hypothesis is that the real source of this unfriendliness is the deeply ingrained Russian Orthodox mentality that permeates Russian society. For all Christians, the ultimate goal in life is to be like Jesus, emulate his virtues and his deeds, to care for each other, mercy, etc. For Orthodox Christians, the ideal is to be Jesus. I literally mean that the Russian Orthodox church teaches that Russians ought to be Jesus, that to live is to suffer horribly, publicly, and die for everyone else’s sins—
There is some perverted part of human nature that enjoys being unhappy, that likes pain (e.g. "I just needed a good cry.")—something that impels people to, given the choice to be happy or to be miserable, choose misery (i.e., Milne's Eeyore or, Dostoevsky's Marmeladov). The Russian Orthodox church has been playing this tune to Russians for over a thousand years, and there is a deep-set chord here that resonates in the Russian psyche. Couple a thousand years of oppressive, brutal monarchy [including Stalin and Putin] with a thousand years of teaching people to be satisfied with their bad lots (and the promise of a grand afterlife) and what you have is a system of complacency and acceptance of travesty where righteous indignation and active resistance should be.
Thus, a practical pessimism pervades the logic of the common Russian. He expects bad things to happen, waits for them to happen, and if—by chance—bad things don't come, he assumes they will in the next minute. What, historically, has ever proven otherwise for Russians?
Each sees his own suffering as the noble suffering of Jesus; each feels himself crucified and simultaneously relishes the crucifixion; he has been taught not to be like Jesus, but to be his own, personal Jesus.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Published!
My first published article came out in the Bulletin from Johnny Cake Hill. Although it was really edited down (honestly, they took out all the information that was new and exciting!), I'm really proud to have published something. I recommend reading the complete version on my blog, which I've updated with all the good stuff (such as the discovery of multiple other artifacts from the Resolute timbers, previously unknown).
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Fed and Clothed
Tatyana, in addition to feeding me every day, has decided that I'm obsolete; so she bought me the following bunch of coats and shirts, and a single pair of white, womens' corduroy pants. Given I've never owned so many clothes in my life, I decided the occasion demanded a photoshoot.
No comment.
Please, sir!
Very blue.
I think my favorite, but dangerously close to being a used car dealer.
Sadly, this one doesn't have elbow patches.
Blue #2.
I need orange pants for this jacket.
This one could be ironed.
If you know what this is, you'll understand why it's such a travesty that it's too small.
I left out the orange jacket with tiger striped lining, only because I am not sure where I put it.
Total cost of clothes?: About $4.
No comment.
Please, sir!
Very blue.
I think my favorite, but dangerously close to being a used car dealer.
Sadly, this one doesn't have elbow patches.
Blue #2.
I need orange pants for this jacket.
This one could be ironed.
If you know what this is, you'll understand why it's such a travesty that it's too small.
I left out the orange jacket with tiger striped lining, only because I am not sure where I put it.
Total cost of clothes?: About $4.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Look both ways.
Crossing the street in Saint-Petersburg is a serious decision that needs to be made with the greatest care and vigilance.
In New York City, and in just about every city in America I’ve been to, one ought to look both ways before crossing the street, preferably do so in a crosswalk, and—ideally—when the little man is blinking green. However, if any of the aforementioned circumstances have not been met, you can still sue any asshole who runs you over for his house, his car, and his childrens' childrens' college savings.
The pedestrian has more than the right-of-way: he has the right-of-morality, of environmental superiority, ah—that we would all walk or bicycle, the world would be a safer, happier, conscientious, smogless place!
Not so in Saint-Petersburg. In Saint-Petersburg, if you are walking, it is because you are one of the low class bums who is too poor to get a cool car, and therefore must walk. It’s the logic of the horse and buggy days: the rich had horses and the poor walked. I, in my cool car, am of a higher class; thus I always have the right-of-way, and you, with all your uncool bipedal trumblings, ought to move your ass the hell out of the way.
Remember the Marquis from A Tale of Two Cities after trampling a man’s child:
Turn the news on just about any day of the week and you’ll hear reports of some unfortunate fellow who was run over. One young lady, maybe 25, was mid-step to get on a bus when the driver (perhaps intentionally) drove away. She fell down and both her legs were run over at the shins. Reporters recorded her as she called the bus company from her hospital bed, and the bus company told her that it would be “impossible” to figure out which driver was responsible (despite knowing the bus number, and the time she tried to get on the bus).
“Well, what are you going to do then? I'm going to lose both my legs" she asked.
“What do you expect us to do, would you like us to send you a fruit basket?” they mocked.
Let’s also not forget that it is completely legal to drink on the streets in Russia, and as far as I can tell, M.A.D.D. have yet to establish a branch here in Saint-Petersburg, so you run into stuff like this once in a while.
(This car met end was abandoned here in the middle of downtown Saint-Petersburg).
So look both ways. Because in Russia, drivers are drunk, entitled, and human life—like the ruble—is worth less.
In New York City, and in just about every city in America I’ve been to, one ought to look both ways before crossing the street, preferably do so in a crosswalk, and—ideally—when the little man is blinking green. However, if any of the aforementioned circumstances have not been met, you can still sue any asshole who runs you over for his house, his car, and his childrens' childrens' college savings.
The pedestrian has more than the right-of-way: he has the right-of-morality, of environmental superiority, ah—that we would all walk or bicycle, the world would be a safer, happier, conscientious, smogless place!
Not so in Saint-Petersburg. In Saint-Petersburg, if you are walking, it is because you are one of the low class bums who is too poor to get a cool car, and therefore must walk. It’s the logic of the horse and buggy days: the rich had horses and the poor walked. I, in my cool car, am of a higher class; thus I always have the right-of-way, and you, with all your uncool bipedal trumblings, ought to move your ass the hell out of the way.
Remember the Marquis from A Tale of Two Cities after trampling a man’s child:
I would ride over any of you [poor proletariat commoners] very willingly, and exterminate you from the earth. If I knew which rascal threw at the carriage, and if that brigand were sufficiently near it, he should be crushed under the wheels.Don’t expect a successful lawsuit either.
Turn the news on just about any day of the week and you’ll hear reports of some unfortunate fellow who was run over. One young lady, maybe 25, was mid-step to get on a bus when the driver (perhaps intentionally) drove away. She fell down and both her legs were run over at the shins. Reporters recorded her as she called the bus company from her hospital bed, and the bus company told her that it would be “impossible” to figure out which driver was responsible (despite knowing the bus number, and the time she tried to get on the bus).
“Well, what are you going to do then? I'm going to lose both my legs" she asked.
“What do you expect us to do, would you like us to send you a fruit basket?” they mocked.
Let’s also not forget that it is completely legal to drink on the streets in Russia, and as far as I can tell, M.A.D.D. have yet to establish a branch here in Saint-Petersburg, so you run into stuff like this once in a while.
(This car met end was abandoned here in the middle of downtown Saint-Petersburg).
So look both ways. Because in Russia, drivers are drunk, entitled, and human life—like the ruble—is worth less.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Shurik
This film is truly a gift of Russian Cinema.
http://ru.youtube.com/watch?v=jw1Mpis87oE
Winnie the Pooh is also much better in Russian.
http://ru.youtube.com/watch?v=UGIlHolPZ_A
http://ru.youtube.com/watch?v=jw1Mpis87oE
Winnie the Pooh is also much better in Russian.
http://ru.youtube.com/watch?v=UGIlHolPZ_A
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Humility sometimes tastes like asphalt
and snow.
That was my first thought when I wiped out, banana peel-style, in front of the Hermitage. Actually, my first thought was: “did anyone see that?”
That's always my first thought when I do something humiliating.
Yes. The answer is always yes.
It’s cold here, really cold. Cold like my heart, except a hundred or so degrees colder. I now understand why my pal Robby grew out his beard when he was in Saint-Petersburg:
I’m living in downtown Saint-Petersburg, right next to the Moyka river and near the famous Nevsky Prospect. The Hermitage is two blocks away and free to students; it’s amazing. But I’ll write about that later. I’m taking intensive Russian classes at the Saint-Petersburg University Department of Philology (ha!) for four hours every morning, and despite being here only a week so far, two days of which I slept, and two days of which I was really sick, I feel I am picking up a lot of Russian.
Things move slower in Saint-Petersburg. I go to bed around 10 pm or so, and I wake up at 6 am. I eat meals slowly. It’s a welcome change of pace.
I am still learning my way around. It’s a huge city, and I’m having trouble finding a place to buy Q-tips. I’m concerned that Russians don’t use Q-tips, and that I’ll have to conserve my small supply for the next semester. I never feel clean until I step of out the shower and use a Q-tip.
I’m living with Violetta’s mother and grandmother. Their house rocks, it is covered in flowers and pictures of Violetta. Her mom is hilarious. Every meal is a lesson on Russian history, why Russia is screwed, and why Putin is a murdering psychopath. If the KGB doesn’t murder us both, I’ll come out of here with a interesting grasp of Russian politics.
She also lives to feed me. Seriously. Every time I think dinner or whatever is over, and I couldn’t eat another bite, she brings out the main course. She is also nuts about her three cats, Mysya, Vasya, and Pysya. I’d put up a picture of her and her cats, but I can’t find the cord for my camera. I’ll have to hold off until I get a new one.
Pysya hates me.
That was my first thought when I wiped out, banana peel-style, in front of the Hermitage. Actually, my first thought was: “did anyone see that?”
That's always my first thought when I do something humiliating.
Yes. The answer is always yes.
It’s cold here, really cold. Cold like my heart, except a hundred or so degrees colder. I now understand why my pal Robby grew out his beard when he was in Saint-Petersburg:
I’m living in downtown Saint-Petersburg, right next to the Moyka river and near the famous Nevsky Prospect. The Hermitage is two blocks away and free to students; it’s amazing. But I’ll write about that later. I’m taking intensive Russian classes at the Saint-Petersburg University Department of Philology (ha!) for four hours every morning, and despite being here only a week so far, two days of which I slept, and two days of which I was really sick, I feel I am picking up a lot of Russian.
Things move slower in Saint-Petersburg. I go to bed around 10 pm or so, and I wake up at 6 am. I eat meals slowly. It’s a welcome change of pace.
I am still learning my way around. It’s a huge city, and I’m having trouble finding a place to buy Q-tips. I’m concerned that Russians don’t use Q-tips, and that I’ll have to conserve my small supply for the next semester. I never feel clean until I step of out the shower and use a Q-tip.
I’m living with Violetta’s mother and grandmother. Their house rocks, it is covered in flowers and pictures of Violetta. Her mom is hilarious. Every meal is a lesson on Russian history, why Russia is screwed, and why Putin is a murdering psychopath. If the KGB doesn’t murder us both, I’ll come out of here with a interesting grasp of Russian politics.
She also lives to feed me. Seriously. Every time I think dinner or whatever is over, and I couldn’t eat another bite, she brings out the main course. She is also nuts about her three cats, Mysya, Vasya, and Pysya. I’d put up a picture of her and her cats, but I can’t find the cord for my camera. I’ll have to hold off until I get a new one.
Pysya hates me.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Well I don't know what I'm looking for...
But I know that I just want to look some more
And I won't be satisfied
'Till there's nothing left that I haven't tried
For some people it's an easy choice
But for me there's a devil and an angel's voice
Well I don't know what I am looking for
But I know that I just want to look some more
I am in Saint-Petersburg, which will be spelled like so from here on out, not Petersburg, not St. Petersburg, not Petrograd, not Санкт-Петербург.
I just slept for two days. That’s some intense jetlag. It was a great plane ride over though. Polish Airlines. They kept showing this little animated video in which a cartoon lady demonstrates how you can exercise while remaining in your seat. As she’d demonstrate exercises, the video kept cutting to other animated men who turn their heads and watch her intently. Too intently for comfort, methinks.
Every time I get on an airplane I sit down and immediately complain to whoever is sitting next to me that seat belts on planes are useless. If this plane crashes, we are all going to die: simple as that. They don’t have seat belts on public buses, do they? Heck, even with schoolchildren (many of whom need to be chained down) there are no seat belts on buses. I feel strongly about not enforcing the fasten-your-seatbelt rule on planes; we ought to take our flights like the Roman warriors took their battles: if it is my day to die, so be it.
And then I read stories like this.
What the heck is up with the “no smoking” icon? Of course there is no smoking on airplanes! What, you’d have to have not been on an airplane since 1970 to not know this!
There was an old man on my flight who stood for the entire time. I only slept a couple hours, the rest of the time I watched movies, and periodically glanced over at this guy. He periodically glanced over at me. We had a conversation, without speaking.
“You’re old”, I said.
“You’re young”, he said.
“You’re standing”, I said.
“You’re sitting”, he said.
“You’re not watching the movie”, I said.
“You are watching the movie”, he said.
“You sure use the bathroom a lot. Perhaps that’s why you are standing”, I said.
“You haven’t peed once this flight. That's amazing!” he said.
"And I'm not going to, old man. I'm gonna hold it."
“We are opposites, you and I, old/young, standing/sitting, peeing/not, yin/yang, and here we both are, hurtling through the sky at 1000 miles per hour.”
Which made me think about 1000 miles per hour: that’s a lot of miles in an hour. A thousand of them. That’s 16.6 miles per minute. That’s a third of a mile every second. Seatbelts—really?
And then dawn hit, which I swear hits faster and harder when you are rushing towards it at 1000 miles per hour. At first, it was just a line of red in the black, then orange, then deep blue, cold blue (-60 degrees), then that great, NASA blue, and finally the sun starts to poke up and the whole thing becomes too brilliant to look at without burning your eyes.
It is at moments like these, when I’m traveling at .3 miles per second tens of thousands of feet in the air, with dawn breaking and the clouds rolling under me like scrolls of silver that I begin to quietly wax poetical to myself.
Sometimes I feel like I am 20, a lot of the time I feel like I’m 70, and in either case, I feel like a fool.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
In medias res...
Well, I'm really in the middle of things now.
My internship finished well. All that glossophobia stuff was bunk; apparently people were interested and entertained, and I had record attendance. I'm told that I'm a natural! I was also told that, next time, I should avoid referring to my audience as "you guys", especially when my audience is in part comprised of trustees and the museum President.
Dashing lecturer, drunk with power:
Dashing lecturer, drunk with celebration!
I packed up all my stuff in New Bedford and journeyed back to San Diego. It has been a pretty eventful break. Misha visited from Vassar for one leg of his west coast adventure. Violetta was down here to do some music in Los Angeles, so we went to the Wild Animal Park and took some photos next to these boganvalias.
And then she was touched by God. I witnessed.
Back when the Chargers were 4-8, I told my dad that the best Christmas present he could get my brother and me would be tickets to the improbable "playoff" game versus the Denver Broncos.
We kicked the crap out of the Denver donkeys. We beat them so badly, their head coach was fired the next day. You can see victory in the sky.
I also found out that Balboa Park had an honorary plaque put up for me.
I spent New Year's with these kids.
James Clark got really drunk, challenged me to a fist fight, stole several packs of cigarettes, and then fell off a cliff. This cliff:
Seriously.
I have no idea what James Phelps did on New Year's, but take a guess as to how I know he shouldn't have driven home:
Generally, I've been doing a lot of application stuff, and a lot of moving out of our house, which is a huge pain. So much to do and so little break time remaining.
Next week: Saint-Petersburg. (Holy cow).
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