The man next to me on the bus has his headphones on. He thinks he is being discreet, mouthing the words to the songs on his playlist. But I am keenly aware of his actions and his presence. I can hear the whooshing and hissing fricatives and the sputtering stops, and it is unhinging. It's plucking at my nerves one by one. I can't wait to be free of this bilabial bebop, this velar vocal vacuity. Deliver me from these tees and esses marooned on islands of staccato sound.
"Amateur," I thought to myself.
Rewind to 1989. Seven years into my life and seven years before Monty Python taught me--by means of a VHS rental--the "importance of not being seen," I was learning something more useful: the importance of not being heard.
It was a normal summer late afternoon. Dad was asleep upstairs, recharging for another 12-hour night shift. Mom was resting on the couch, headachey from a busy day at work. The phone was taken off the hook with the earpiece muffled by a dish towel so that the outside world would not interrupt this delicate peace. It was in this environment that I learned to be inaudible. During such times, it was prescribed that my brother and I play in the basement. He with a DOS-loaded video game from a cassette or floppy disk and me with a set of Legos or Lincoln Logs, usually. There, we had a bit of a buffer to create a sort of a muted din. My mother would tell us to keep the door closed, but there was a trick to it. You see, it closed rather tightly so that when it was opened, it would make a loud screech. This was a problem since inevitably we would need to come upstairs to fetch something or use the bathroom. So we closed the door only partly until it wedged just a little against the door frame. When we came upstairs we would lean into it and hope that the resulting noise was only subtle.
There were other tricks I learned to employ as well. Walking on the balls of my feet helped cushion the impact of my weight on the floor. One learns quickly by trial and error where the floorboards most audibly creak and that it is best to keep as close to the walls as possible. A single false step elicits a Pavlovian response similar to the one that occurs when the buzzer is triggered in the popular children's game, Operation.
Unlike that vintage Milton Bradley diversion, however, my game of sneaking around the house had a lot of replay value. Every trip to fish something out of a drawer in my bedroom was a new quest. The act of entering or exiting the house undetected--best accomplished through the sliding door in the back whose friction was audible in a lower register than their squeaking, hinged counterparts--was an adventure in itself.
As it turns out, the modern home is filled with all kinds of potential auditory perils. Every door represents a slamming thud. Appliances can become the vile producers of shrill dings and beeps as their timers go off. Pots, pans and dishes clang as they are removed from cupboards. One must navigate with care amidst these snares.
If this kind of attitude and these behaviors seem strange to you, then count yourself lucky. For the kind of irrational sensitivity and hypervigilance with which I was born are not easily switched off. Imagine always being self-conscious but lacking in self-awareness--always looking with wariness at the things around you but never addressing the impact such thinking has on your feelings and moods. Now, imagine projecting those inward impositions onto others. The man on the bus for whom I have such great disdain, is not at all deserving of it. Yet, his attenuated lisping is all I can think about, amplified by my own obsessive mind.
I am happy to get off at the next stop, sliding off my seat, shuffling through the aisle and slipping out the doorway quickly and silently and not warranting even a fleeting glance from a fellow passenger.
Monday, July 8, 2013
Monday, December 17, 2012
A Writer's Creed
The greatest enemy of creativity is fear.
Perfection is an asymptote that we approach through error. The belief that it can ever be reached is the ultimate folly. Know this, and be free from the fear of being flawed.
There are billions of people on the planet and billions that have passed. Everything meaningful that can be said has been already in one way or another. Know this, and be free from the fear of being redundant.
There is a path unique to you made up of an infinite number of moments. There is a story inside of you that only you can tell. Know this, and be free from the fear of being inconsequential.
Perfection is an asymptote that we approach through error. The belief that it can ever be reached is the ultimate folly. Know this, and be free from the fear of being flawed.
There are billions of people on the planet and billions that have passed. Everything meaningful that can be said has been already in one way or another. Know this, and be free from the fear of being redundant.
There is a path unique to you made up of an infinite number of moments. There is a story inside of you that only you can tell. Know this, and be free from the fear of being inconsequential.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
The Committee Goes Out For a Cup of Coffee
The Sunday morning sun was still low in the sky. It shined through the bedroom window, illuminating dust particles passing through its rays and formed skewed rectangles across the floor and bed.
Time to get up.
Wouldn't you rather sleep in? It's warm here. Safe. Comforting.
You're missing everything. It's a beautiful day. The world is passing you by.
Clothes were strewn about the floor around the bed and in the closet, above which dangled underemployed hangers. The hamper was full, and any articles that managed to make their way into dresser drawers had been stuffed inside so carelessly as to partly spill out and prevent them from closing properly.
Just fifteen more minutes.
You always do this. Put things off. Fifteen minutes will become an hour and then two hours...
What could possibly be better at this moment than this soft bed--a peaceful nap?
He pushed his torso up with his arms and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Sitting at the edge and shivering, he let out a long, exaggerated yawn and rubbed his crusty eyelids.
You can always just crawl back into bed.
Quiet, you!
Yeah. Quiet! You're not helping.
Still groggy, he sighed and stepped out of bed where his foot landed on something small and prickly. He immediately arched his foot and shifted his balance to avoid putting his full weight on it, and in doing so stumbled forward. It was a bottle cap, which he detached from his sole and dropped back onto the floor.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered.
You know things like that wouldn't happen if you cleaned up after yourself.
He looked back at the shiny metal annoyance and proceeded towards the bathroom, stepping around books, garments and empty bottles. He maneuvered with seemingly effortless skill through this minefield despite his daze.
How can you live like this? It's disgusting.
It's fine. I'm sure you'll get around to straightening this up later. It's not like you're having any visitors.
The tube of toothpaste was missing its cap. He picked off the dried part at the end that obstructed the opening and flicked it into the toilet. The bottle of mouthwash was empty save for a few milliliters lingering obstinately at the bottom. He took the final tiny swig--holding his head back as far as possible and the bottle vertically to his lips--and then put the empty piece of plastic back on the counter.
Aren't you going to throw that away?
Maybe you should take a shower first.
Why not pick out some clothes first?
You'll need to see what the weather is like. It might be chilly today.
He went to look for his laptop in the living room, which it turns out was sitting on the coffee table. After sitting down on the couch, he pressed the button, but the screen remained dark. It was out of juice.
"Ugh," he murmured. "Where's that power adapter?"
Still shivering and unshowered in only an undershirt and boxer shorts, he searched the apartment for the cord and eventually found it by the bed next to a copy of the latest issue of the Economist. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and skimmed an article on the European debt crisis.
Wasn't there something you were going to do?
Twenty minutes had passed. He felt parched and decided to go to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, dancing through the minefield on the way.
There were no coffee cans in the pantry, but he saw a box of instant coffee--the kind with the single serving packets. It was empty. He placed the box on the countertop and went to take a shower.
You should go out and get more coffee.
Why don't you go to the coffee shop?
No need to go out. There are plenty of things you could get done around the apartment.
It will be good to get some fresh air.
You'd have to get dressed.
You need the exercise.
He dug through a pile of clothes and found a pair of jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. After giving them the smell test, which they passed (barely), he put them on hastily.
The Starbucks is just around the corner.
Wouldn't you rather go to a locally-owned, quaint coffee shop?
You'd have to take the bus. It only runs every forty minutes.
Corporations are evil.
You'd have to check the schedule and time your trip to the bus stop.
The stairwell of the apartment complex smelled rank, like one of the neighbors was sauteing seaweed and octopus in armpit sweat. He scurried down the stairs while holding his breath. Some paint chipped off the wall and fell onto the steps as he brushed against it.
Did you remember to lock the door?
Did you you remember your keys? Wallet?
"Shit."
He had forgotten his wallet and had to go back. On the way, he retrieved the mail from the compartment crudely labeled '14D,' and shuffled through it as he climbed back up the stairs. There was a piece that he was immediately able to identify as a Christmas card from an old friend from its large red envelope, return address label, and relative lack of flimsiness. He opened it while re-entering the apartment and proceeded to walk and read at the same time. His keys were still in the door's handle as it closed behind him.
You came back here to do something. What was it?
It's almost Christmas. There's so much to do.
Have you mailed your cards yet? Bought gifts?
He glanced over at his keyboard sitting on the stand in the corner of the living room and suddenly had the urge to play a song. It was "A Long December" by Counting Crows, one of the few songs he could manage to play and sing along to at the same time. One song turned into three...
Wasn't there something you were going to do?
You were going out and then you came back for something.
Have you made your holiday travel plans yet?
Your wallet!
He found it underneath the bed. But the debit card was not inside, and he had no cash on hand. After some searching, he found it next to his laptop.
OK. time to go!
He rushed out of the building and down the road to the main intersection. The 'Don't Walk' signal was flashing.
If you hurry, you can make it.
It's dangerous. Cars are making left-hand turns.
Everybody does it.
Can't you wait a minute? What's the rush?
The risk isn't worth the reward.
The signal stopped flashing. It was too warm out for a sweatshirt--unusually warm for December--and he began to feel hot and itchy.
After a brief wait, he crossed the street and walked a block past the supermarket, past the pharmacy and to the coffee shop with the green awning at the entrance.
Christmas music was playing inside. Actually, the particular song was secular holiday music if we're to be nit-picky. There was a short line to the cashier, and he craned his neck upward to look at the selection as he queued.
Make sure you know what you want once you get to the counter.
Yeah. Don't be that guy.
It's warmer out than expected. Why not go for a frap?
Plain, simple dark-roasted black coffee. Coffee that tastes like coffee.
"'Tis the season for a gingerbread latte!" proclaimed a chalkboard bordered by gold and silver tinsel.
'Tis the season.
The man in front of him had neatly parted hair and was wearing glasses, a starched shirt and a bow-tie.
Upon reaching the counter, the stranger barked his order: "A venti, half-caffeine, skim, no foam, three pump caramel, one pump hazelnut, macchiato with Splenda, whipped cream and a dome lid."
Brewed with rosewater, of course. And a saucer with gold-leaf trim...
Yeah. Definitely don't be THAT guy.
What a crappy job.
Are you ready for work tomorrow?
You have that meeting in the morning.
"Sir? Can I take your order?" A cordial female voice was coming from somewhere. "Sir?"
The barrista was a short, attractive and dark-haired girl, wearing the obligatory green apron and forced smile. Or maybe it wasn't forced. She may have even been flirting. He didn't notice.
"Oh, yes. Hi. Umm. Medium regular coffee--black, please."
Next to the register were overpriced compilation discs, presumably containing the same music that was currently playing in the shop.
You were supposed to call your mother last week.
Why don't you do that now?
You forgot to bring your phone.
"Will that be all?"
He was already looking around the room to find a place to sit. Two women in the corner were talking about the contents of their shopping bags, which sat beside them at their table in chairs of their own.
"Hmm? ... Um. Yes," he stammered. "Thank you."
It's too crowded in here.
And noisy.
What about breakfast? You haven't eaten yet.
Once the transaction was complete, he took back his debit card and receipt and turned to exit the shop.
"Sir?" she said, a bit sheepishly. "Your coffee?"
It was still sitting on the counter next to a tip jar.
"Oh yeah." He blushed, fumbled through his pockets, and dropped the only change he had into the jar. Grabbing the cup, he hurried away and out the door.
Sitting down at a nearby bus stop bench, coffee in hand, he turned his wrist to look at his watch. Hot liquid spilled over the crotch of his pants.
It was 4 P.M.
Time to get up.
Wouldn't you rather sleep in? It's warm here. Safe. Comforting.
You're missing everything. It's a beautiful day. The world is passing you by.
Clothes were strewn about the floor around the bed and in the closet, above which dangled underemployed hangers. The hamper was full, and any articles that managed to make their way into dresser drawers had been stuffed inside so carelessly as to partly spill out and prevent them from closing properly.
Just fifteen more minutes.
You always do this. Put things off. Fifteen minutes will become an hour and then two hours...
What could possibly be better at this moment than this soft bed--a peaceful nap?
He pushed his torso up with his arms and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Sitting at the edge and shivering, he let out a long, exaggerated yawn and rubbed his crusty eyelids.
You can always just crawl back into bed.
Quiet, you!
Yeah. Quiet! You're not helping.
Still groggy, he sighed and stepped out of bed where his foot landed on something small and prickly. He immediately arched his foot and shifted his balance to avoid putting his full weight on it, and in doing so stumbled forward. It was a bottle cap, which he detached from his sole and dropped back onto the floor.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered.
You know things like that wouldn't happen if you cleaned up after yourself.
He looked back at the shiny metal annoyance and proceeded towards the bathroom, stepping around books, garments and empty bottles. He maneuvered with seemingly effortless skill through this minefield despite his daze.
How can you live like this? It's disgusting.
It's fine. I'm sure you'll get around to straightening this up later. It's not like you're having any visitors.
The tube of toothpaste was missing its cap. He picked off the dried part at the end that obstructed the opening and flicked it into the toilet. The bottle of mouthwash was empty save for a few milliliters lingering obstinately at the bottom. He took the final tiny swig--holding his head back as far as possible and the bottle vertically to his lips--and then put the empty piece of plastic back on the counter.
Aren't you going to throw that away?
Maybe you should take a shower first.
Why not pick out some clothes first?
You'll need to see what the weather is like. It might be chilly today.
He went to look for his laptop in the living room, which it turns out was sitting on the coffee table. After sitting down on the couch, he pressed the button, but the screen remained dark. It was out of juice.
"Ugh," he murmured. "Where's that power adapter?"
Still shivering and unshowered in only an undershirt and boxer shorts, he searched the apartment for the cord and eventually found it by the bed next to a copy of the latest issue of the Economist. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and skimmed an article on the European debt crisis.
Wasn't there something you were going to do?
Twenty minutes had passed. He felt parched and decided to go to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, dancing through the minefield on the way.
There were no coffee cans in the pantry, but he saw a box of instant coffee--the kind with the single serving packets. It was empty. He placed the box on the countertop and went to take a shower.
You should go out and get more coffee.
Why don't you go to the coffee shop?
No need to go out. There are plenty of things you could get done around the apartment.
It will be good to get some fresh air.
You'd have to get dressed.
You need the exercise.
He dug through a pile of clothes and found a pair of jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. After giving them the smell test, which they passed (barely), he put them on hastily.
The Starbucks is just around the corner.
Wouldn't you rather go to a locally-owned, quaint coffee shop?
You'd have to take the bus. It only runs every forty minutes.
Corporations are evil.
You'd have to check the schedule and time your trip to the bus stop.
The stairwell of the apartment complex smelled rank, like one of the neighbors was sauteing seaweed and octopus in armpit sweat. He scurried down the stairs while holding his breath. Some paint chipped off the wall and fell onto the steps as he brushed against it.
Did you remember to lock the door?
Did you you remember your keys? Wallet?
"Shit."
He had forgotten his wallet and had to go back. On the way, he retrieved the mail from the compartment crudely labeled '14D,' and shuffled through it as he climbed back up the stairs. There was a piece that he was immediately able to identify as a Christmas card from an old friend from its large red envelope, return address label, and relative lack of flimsiness. He opened it while re-entering the apartment and proceeded to walk and read at the same time. His keys were still in the door's handle as it closed behind him.
You came back here to do something. What was it?
It's almost Christmas. There's so much to do.
Have you mailed your cards yet? Bought gifts?
He glanced over at his keyboard sitting on the stand in the corner of the living room and suddenly had the urge to play a song. It was "A Long December" by Counting Crows, one of the few songs he could manage to play and sing along to at the same time. One song turned into three...
Wasn't there something you were going to do?
You were going out and then you came back for something.
Have you made your holiday travel plans yet?
Your wallet!
He found it underneath the bed. But the debit card was not inside, and he had no cash on hand. After some searching, he found it next to his laptop.
OK. time to go!
He rushed out of the building and down the road to the main intersection. The 'Don't Walk' signal was flashing.
If you hurry, you can make it.
It's dangerous. Cars are making left-hand turns.
Everybody does it.
Can't you wait a minute? What's the rush?
The risk isn't worth the reward.
The signal stopped flashing. It was too warm out for a sweatshirt--unusually warm for December--and he began to feel hot and itchy.
After a brief wait, he crossed the street and walked a block past the supermarket, past the pharmacy and to the coffee shop with the green awning at the entrance.
Christmas music was playing inside. Actually, the particular song was secular holiday music if we're to be nit-picky. There was a short line to the cashier, and he craned his neck upward to look at the selection as he queued.
Make sure you know what you want once you get to the counter.
Yeah. Don't be that guy.
It's warmer out than expected. Why not go for a frap?
Plain, simple dark-roasted black coffee. Coffee that tastes like coffee.
"'Tis the season for a gingerbread latte!" proclaimed a chalkboard bordered by gold and silver tinsel.
'Tis the season.
The man in front of him had neatly parted hair and was wearing glasses, a starched shirt and a bow-tie.
Upon reaching the counter, the stranger barked his order: "A venti, half-caffeine, skim, no foam, three pump caramel, one pump hazelnut, macchiato with Splenda, whipped cream and a dome lid."
Brewed with rosewater, of course. And a saucer with gold-leaf trim...
Yeah. Definitely don't be THAT guy.
What a crappy job.
Are you ready for work tomorrow?
You have that meeting in the morning.
"Sir? Can I take your order?" A cordial female voice was coming from somewhere. "Sir?"
The barrista was a short, attractive and dark-haired girl, wearing the obligatory green apron and forced smile. Or maybe it wasn't forced. She may have even been flirting. He didn't notice.
"Oh, yes. Hi. Umm. Medium regular coffee--black, please."
Next to the register were overpriced compilation discs, presumably containing the same music that was currently playing in the shop.
You were supposed to call your mother last week.
Why don't you do that now?
You forgot to bring your phone.
"Will that be all?"
He was already looking around the room to find a place to sit. Two women in the corner were talking about the contents of their shopping bags, which sat beside them at their table in chairs of their own.
"Hmm? ... Um. Yes," he stammered. "Thank you."
It's too crowded in here.
And noisy.
What about breakfast? You haven't eaten yet.
Once the transaction was complete, he took back his debit card and receipt and turned to exit the shop.
"Sir?" she said, a bit sheepishly. "Your coffee?"
It was still sitting on the counter next to a tip jar.
"Oh yeah." He blushed, fumbled through his pockets, and dropped the only change he had into the jar. Grabbing the cup, he hurried away and out the door.
Sitting down at a nearby bus stop bench, coffee in hand, he turned his wrist to look at his watch. Hot liquid spilled over the crotch of his pants.
It was 4 P.M.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
In search of cheap (or free) education
Just a short post today to get the word out about some new learning sites I have come upon. I have started a few courses with little to no cost, and I now find that I'm happier overall with life in general. Education is a lifelong process for me and I'm glad to be away from any feelings of stagnation.
Coursera
Cost: FREE
I was first turned on to this site while watching a TED talk by its co-founder, Daphne Koller. http://www.ted.com/talks/daphne_koller_what_we_re_learning_from_online_education.html
(TED, which stands for Technology, Entertainment and Design, is a starting point for anyone interested in learning about the latest ideas and innovations across myriad fields and subject matter.)
Khan Academy
Cost: FREE
I haven't tried this yet, but you can get an idea of what it's like from this video.
Rosetta Stone
Cost: Around $35/month for the online courses.
Rosetta Stone is probably the most well-known and acclaimed provider of computer-based courses on language. In addition to the CD-ROM course packages, they also offer the courses online by subscription through a site called TOTALe. A few months back, I decided to try a beginner's course in Italian through TOTALe and found it to be a both fun and effective way of learning a new language. There are interactive tutoring groups with native speakers as well as engaging games to help you brush up on the material learned. In the end, I did not renew my subscription since I could no longer afford it and I had some problems with the TOTALe site. For instance, I'm not sure why there were separate logins for the Rosetta Stone site and the TOTALe site. This caused me some confusion and resulted in my getting locked out of the site on several occasions. Also, I'm not sure that they offer the 3-month and 6-month subscriptions any longer, so you may have to commit to a full year. Nevertheless, it is, overall, a quality product.
Babbel
Cost: $12.95/ month
At a only a fraction of the cost, Babbel uses similar technology and methodologies to Rosetta Stone, which include voice recognition plug-ins to help with pronunciation and the interactive exercises that use inference and visual aids to guide you through the learning process. Unlike Rosetta Stone, however, Babbel utilizes your native language in the teaching process instead of relying solely on pictures and logic. I am sure that there are advantages and disadvantages to both methods, which I am likely to uncover as I get further into the course material. Whether you opt for the courses on this site or the more expensive (and perhaps more thorough/natural) Rosetta Stone courses, there is no reason why anyone with access to the internet should pay $300+ to drive to a college campus to take a language course a few times per week.
Coursera
Cost: FREE
I was first turned on to this site while watching a TED talk by its co-founder, Daphne Koller. http://www.ted.com/talks/daphne_koller_what_we_re_learning_from_online_education.html
(TED, which stands for Technology, Entertainment and Design, is a starting point for anyone interested in learning about the latest ideas and innovations across myriad fields and subject matter.)
Khan Academy
Cost: FREE
I haven't tried this yet, but you can get an idea of what it's like from this video.
Rosetta Stone
Cost: Around $35/month for the online courses.
Rosetta Stone is probably the most well-known and acclaimed provider of computer-based courses on language. In addition to the CD-ROM course packages, they also offer the courses online by subscription through a site called TOTALe. A few months back, I decided to try a beginner's course in Italian through TOTALe and found it to be a both fun and effective way of learning a new language. There are interactive tutoring groups with native speakers as well as engaging games to help you brush up on the material learned. In the end, I did not renew my subscription since I could no longer afford it and I had some problems with the TOTALe site. For instance, I'm not sure why there were separate logins for the Rosetta Stone site and the TOTALe site. This caused me some confusion and resulted in my getting locked out of the site on several occasions. Also, I'm not sure that they offer the 3-month and 6-month subscriptions any longer, so you may have to commit to a full year. Nevertheless, it is, overall, a quality product.
Babbel
Cost: $12.95/ month
At a only a fraction of the cost, Babbel uses similar technology and methodologies to Rosetta Stone, which include voice recognition plug-ins to help with pronunciation and the interactive exercises that use inference and visual aids to guide you through the learning process. Unlike Rosetta Stone, however, Babbel utilizes your native language in the teaching process instead of relying solely on pictures and logic. I am sure that there are advantages and disadvantages to both methods, which I am likely to uncover as I get further into the course material. Whether you opt for the courses on this site or the more expensive (and perhaps more thorough/natural) Rosetta Stone courses, there is no reason why anyone with access to the internet should pay $300+ to drive to a college campus to take a language course a few times per week.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Tiny Caterpillar by A Man and His Keys
Pre-final draft of the lyrics to my soon-to-be chart-topping song. If all goes well, I may have a video up soon. However, for now--call it technical difficulties or divine mercy--you will be spared.
Great majestic turtles from the sea
Burying what yet has come to be
The future sits within the realm of faith
Forget your futility
Don't dwell on probabilities
Take your daily pill and be OK
Listless little sheep among your flock
Don't forget that you are on the clock
Your job may be to sleep and graze and shit
In life, remain oblivious
And never be lascivious
Just try to make the most out of it
Cannonball cannibals
On Adderoll and panic pills
And silky moths that come when you're in bed
That flutter in florescent green
And fly around effortlessly
So maybe you can sleep when you are dead
Tiny caterpillar in a tree
Think not of what you may one day be
For though it may come off as sounding crude
Your life is much simpler now
You may not make it anyhow
At any moment you could be bird food.
Great majestic turtles from the sea
Burying what yet has come to be
The future sits within the realm of faith
Forget your futility
Don't dwell on probabilities
Take your daily pill and be OK
Listless little sheep among your flock
Don't forget that you are on the clock
Your job may be to sleep and graze and shit
In life, remain oblivious
And never be lascivious
Just try to make the most out of it
Cannonball cannibals
On Adderoll and panic pills
And silky moths that come when you're in bed
That flutter in florescent green
And fly around effortlessly
So maybe you can sleep when you are dead
Tiny caterpillar in a tree
Think not of what you may one day be
For though it may come off as sounding crude
Your life is much simpler now
You may not make it anyhow
At any moment you could be bird food.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Traveling (Day 1)
I heaved my luggage, a hefty carry-on bag and a backpack, into the taxi that was parked there in the gravel lot. I immediately followed it, sliding rear first inside. I knew the cost of the ride was going to take a big chunk out of my spending money, but it was the only way to get to my destination. I also knew that, even if I felt so inclined, there was no turning back. The last ferry of the night was the one from which I had just disembarked.
It was dark now. The last signs of daylight had retreated from me during the boat ride, the churning of which had left me feeling a bit queasy. I uttered a few words in Spanish to the driver, and we were on our way. The crackling sounds and the rumbling of the stones beneath us quickly gave way to the smoothness and droning hum of the pavement. This relaxed me a bit as did the knowledge that things were no longer in my control. Surrendering to fate was a comforting, if transient, relinquishing of responsibility. I sat back and closed my eyes.
I was still wearing my work clothes sans the tie that I had pulled off and shoved into my bag on my way out of San Jose. It was a simple wardrobe consisting of a short-sleeved button-up shirt made of cotton and dyed a mustard yellow accompanied by a gray pair of khakis and some long black socks. Until then, I hadn't really had time to think about the taxing journey from the Ministerio to the bus station, to the port, and finally, across the bay. I tried to relax. I was on vacation after all.
Out the windows I could see only darkness, save for the twisting conveyor belt of road and dashes of yellow paint up ahead illuminated by the car's headlamps. Other than the occasional motorcycle, there was hardly any traffic at all and no specks of light or landmarks that would indicate the presence of civilization. I could feel the torsion pulling me from side to side as we wound through the hilly countryside. I closed my eyes and imagined a space capsule hurtling through the turbulence of solar winds in an inky void.
Thirty minutes or more had past when we pulled into town. I told the driver to drop me off anywhere he saw fit. I paid him, thanked him and with luggage in hand was on my way--to where, it was as yet uncertain. A few fellow students from the exchange program had gone ahead of me and were supposed to have arrived earlier. I decided to do a half-hearted search for them while exploring the town.
It wasn't much, just a coastal strip and the short road leading up to it. There were bars, restaurants, a camera shop and a couple of nightclubs from what I could glean, but no sign of my university acquaintances. I was beginning to feel the burden of my bag, which having taken turns from one hand to the other, had made red grooves in each along the folds of my fingers. When I decided to give up the search, I had found myself in a rather loud and crowded bar. Although I felt uncomfortable and out of place, I also felt it to be a spot where no one would notice I was alone. I could be a ghost there. It would be less awkward. I ordered a beer.
The din was dying down and the crowds thinning. I decided I was going to sleep on the beach--or was that my plan all along? Henrik and Alice, a few friends I had made back in the city, would be arriving at some time the following day. I would meet up with them, at which time we could collectively make plans for lodging. It was cheaper to share rooms, and there was a lot that I wanted to see and do.
I gained access to the beach by walking back to the start of the strip and around the first bar with its well-lit patio. The businesses on that side of the road were oceanfront, but Costa Rican law ensured that all beaches were to be public, and therefore, access and use could not be restricted in any way. I stepped over a narrow, shallow trench, through which the waste water from the bar ran into the ocean. It was just a few feet away from this stream that I decided to set myself up for the night. The patio lights were still on and from there emanated an audible and lingering mirth. I figured that it would be safer and that I'd have less chance of being robbed if I stayed close to tourist activity. I unbuttoned and removed my dress shirt and kept my undershirt on. I laid out a towel and placed my bag at the end of it. Laying down on the towel, I rested my head against the bag. My feet stuck out and laid upon the cool sand.
It wasn't the most comfortable of arrangements, but then again, comfort was never the main factor governing the quality of my sleep. Despite my vulnerability in the open air, I felt free and at ease. I had little choice but to face the ocean since any other arrangement might have resulted in a steady slide down the sandy slope to where it met the waves. With belongings stowed safely beneath my head, I began to nod off. I embraced the willful surrender to darkness, as we all do, and placed myself in its arms. The world around me became muffled. I recall hearing transient voices and the shuffling sounds of people passing behind and above me. I was already more than half asleep and unwilling to open my eyes or break the paralysis that had overtaken me.
*****
The shutters opened--the lenses blurry for a moment. Shivering, I jolted upwards. I reached into my bag to grab a sweatshirt. It seemed I could not put the garment on fast enough. I pulled out a hoodie as well and draped it over myself as I laid down. To satisfy my curiosity, I struggled to read my watch in the moonlight. It was around 4 A.M.--a sign that I wasn't dreaming. Apart from the gentle lapping of waves before me, all was still and quiet. The shutters closed. The sound of ocean faded.
It was dark now. The last signs of daylight had retreated from me during the boat ride, the churning of which had left me feeling a bit queasy. I uttered a few words in Spanish to the driver, and we were on our way. The crackling sounds and the rumbling of the stones beneath us quickly gave way to the smoothness and droning hum of the pavement. This relaxed me a bit as did the knowledge that things were no longer in my control. Surrendering to fate was a comforting, if transient, relinquishing of responsibility. I sat back and closed my eyes.
I was still wearing my work clothes sans the tie that I had pulled off and shoved into my bag on my way out of San Jose. It was a simple wardrobe consisting of a short-sleeved button-up shirt made of cotton and dyed a mustard yellow accompanied by a gray pair of khakis and some long black socks. Until then, I hadn't really had time to think about the taxing journey from the Ministerio to the bus station, to the port, and finally, across the bay. I tried to relax. I was on vacation after all.
Out the windows I could see only darkness, save for the twisting conveyor belt of road and dashes of yellow paint up ahead illuminated by the car's headlamps. Other than the occasional motorcycle, there was hardly any traffic at all and no specks of light or landmarks that would indicate the presence of civilization. I could feel the torsion pulling me from side to side as we wound through the hilly countryside. I closed my eyes and imagined a space capsule hurtling through the turbulence of solar winds in an inky void.
Thirty minutes or more had past when we pulled into town. I told the driver to drop me off anywhere he saw fit. I paid him, thanked him and with luggage in hand was on my way--to where, it was as yet uncertain. A few fellow students from the exchange program had gone ahead of me and were supposed to have arrived earlier. I decided to do a half-hearted search for them while exploring the town.
It wasn't much, just a coastal strip and the short road leading up to it. There were bars, restaurants, a camera shop and a couple of nightclubs from what I could glean, but no sign of my university acquaintances. I was beginning to feel the burden of my bag, which having taken turns from one hand to the other, had made red grooves in each along the folds of my fingers. When I decided to give up the search, I had found myself in a rather loud and crowded bar. Although I felt uncomfortable and out of place, I also felt it to be a spot where no one would notice I was alone. I could be a ghost there. It would be less awkward. I ordered a beer.
The din was dying down and the crowds thinning. I decided I was going to sleep on the beach--or was that my plan all along? Henrik and Alice, a few friends I had made back in the city, would be arriving at some time the following day. I would meet up with them, at which time we could collectively make plans for lodging. It was cheaper to share rooms, and there was a lot that I wanted to see and do.
I gained access to the beach by walking back to the start of the strip and around the first bar with its well-lit patio. The businesses on that side of the road were oceanfront, but Costa Rican law ensured that all beaches were to be public, and therefore, access and use could not be restricted in any way. I stepped over a narrow, shallow trench, through which the waste water from the bar ran into the ocean. It was just a few feet away from this stream that I decided to set myself up for the night. The patio lights were still on and from there emanated an audible and lingering mirth. I figured that it would be safer and that I'd have less chance of being robbed if I stayed close to tourist activity. I unbuttoned and removed my dress shirt and kept my undershirt on. I laid out a towel and placed my bag at the end of it. Laying down on the towel, I rested my head against the bag. My feet stuck out and laid upon the cool sand.
It wasn't the most comfortable of arrangements, but then again, comfort was never the main factor governing the quality of my sleep. Despite my vulnerability in the open air, I felt free and at ease. I had little choice but to face the ocean since any other arrangement might have resulted in a steady slide down the sandy slope to where it met the waves. With belongings stowed safely beneath my head, I began to nod off. I embraced the willful surrender to darkness, as we all do, and placed myself in its arms. The world around me became muffled. I recall hearing transient voices and the shuffling sounds of people passing behind and above me. I was already more than half asleep and unwilling to open my eyes or break the paralysis that had overtaken me.
*****
The shutters opened--the lenses blurry for a moment. Shivering, I jolted upwards. I reached into my bag to grab a sweatshirt. It seemed I could not put the garment on fast enough. I pulled out a hoodie as well and draped it over myself as I laid down. To satisfy my curiosity, I struggled to read my watch in the moonlight. It was around 4 A.M.--a sign that I wasn't dreaming. Apart from the gentle lapping of waves before me, all was still and quiet. The shutters closed. The sound of ocean faded.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Themistocles
Themistocles, gather your fleet
Get ev’ry one up on their feet
Say, we’re going to war
A trireme’s oars are swinging to the beat
Of the pipe and drum
The sound’s pitch overcomes the water
I know of a place
To hide your wives and daughters
All the things we’ve left behind go up in flames
Yet, for now, our freedom, love and life remains
Since you took the reins
Poseidon, won’t you take our side?
Shake the land, and calm the seas
It’s on you we rely
To help vanquish all our enemies
Committing deicide
I confide that you are needed
To bring them to their knees
To leave ‘em humbled and defeated
And when the brilliance of a man rebuffs the odds
He’s, for a time, elevated to a god
But then he’s just a sod
Themistocles, don’t look back
Glory fades and fealty wanes
We’re not under attack
Though blood creates a lasting stain
Cast out and bereaved
Made to leave and without honor
Will they remember your name?
And will your soul be soldered?
Get ev’ry one up on their feet
Say, we’re going to war
A trireme’s oars are swinging to the beat
Of the pipe and drum
The sound’s pitch overcomes the water
I know of a place
To hide your wives and daughters
All the things we’ve left behind go up in flames
Yet, for now, our freedom, love and life remains
Since you took the reins
Poseidon, won’t you take our side?
Shake the land, and calm the seas
It’s on you we rely
To help vanquish all our enemies
Committing deicide
I confide that you are needed
To bring them to their knees
To leave ‘em humbled and defeated
And when the brilliance of a man rebuffs the odds
He’s, for a time, elevated to a god
But then he’s just a sod
Themistocles, don’t look back
Glory fades and fealty wanes
We’re not under attack
Though blood creates a lasting stain
Cast out and bereaved
Made to leave and without honor
Will they remember your name?
And will your soul be soldered?
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