I AM THE WORST BLOGGER IN THE WORLD

It has come to my attention, suddenly, as I lay on the cool concrete floor of my room, alternating between supine and the fetal position, or sometimes simply letting my extremities collapse where they may, the silent whirring of my crimson miniature electric fan by my side, propped by Hawthorne’s Moby Dick, ‘short’ stories by Dostoevsky, and McCormac’s All the Pretty Horses for a better angle for supplying turbine-emitted wind, meanwhile the dusk slowly turning to full blown dark, gradually cutting the light that shines through my windows to nil — all a part of my semi-regular weekday-winding-down routine — during which it dawned on me that I ought to scribble a few choice words to put up on this severely outdated blog. The last entry I’d crudely etched was some squib about bicycle riding on Pohnpei, in the attempt to write something more suited to the format of a blog, more bloglike, if you will, in the sense that it is brief, helpful, and informative of a) the subjectline on which the blog was conceived, and b) full of insight and reflection from my interactions and experiences with said line of subject. My problem, however, has always been that my style of writing never really quite suites the context of online viewing, some even having deemed it too literary, whereas to me, the obstruction it constitutes is more paradoxical, given that I write in the mindset that a blog is essentially a journal made public, so with that approach, I am presented with urges to post private thoughts, however find myself quelling those urges for fear of posting private thoughts on public space, which leaves me in a state of conflict. I’m not one to splay my brain’s edibles like an open-faced patty melt on the wretched cafeteria tables of the interwebs. So I end up doing nothing instead, neglecting the whole venture of relaying valuable and possibly insightful information back to (very few) readers abroad (or wherever the hell you all are), thus depriving my (again, almost non-existent) audience. And anyway, I have like, three or four different journals I scrawl on on a semi-regular basis, more semi-regular than posting on this webspace, at least, so it’s not as though I’m letting myself down by not recording the day-to-day goings on of my Peace Corps Island Living. Still, the webspace does exist, so I may as well use it, not let it go to waste, because if there’s anything that irks me to no end, it’s letting things go to waste, so for the benefit of the viewer, I’ll keep the private stuff private without sacrificing style, and do my best to give some sense of what this, what all of this is like. After all, that IS one of the all-important goals of Peace Corps, #3, I believe, IIRC, to inform Americans of what life is like in the host country, or at least that’s what I write in that portion of the VRF, that one of the ways I accomplish this goal is by maintaining a (poorly maintained) blog. But what do I write? What shall I share? How do I leave an honest account and a genuine impression of what the past two years of my life has been without divulging private details regarding the source of my frustrations that would render me disillusioned and cynical by anyone who wanted only to get a general sense of what this experience has entailed? Because to traverse to the other end of the spectrum and relay only the positives would be disingenuous, and would invalidate all the struggles I’d faced and overcome, as well as the struggles I continue to face to this day. Cultural adaptation is a bitch, I tell you what. Where would I even begin? Where could I even begin? In the last six months alone I’d gone through so much, from feeling like I’d lost my sense of purpose, my sense of belonging, my sense of a home, to rediscovering that sense of purpose, then losing it again, and gaining it again, only to repeat the cycle, sometimes on the same day, then learning to use mind games and trickery to make myself hang on, knowing that I’d be better for it if I did, and I’d come this far anyway, so I might as well finish it. Already this is erring on the side of ‘private stuff’ so I better go into some specifics, give a few concrete accounts of what I’ve ACTUALLY BEEN UP TO, rather than divulge the internal crises. The school year is coming to a close, yet I’m keeping my 8th graders occupied, probably the only teacher in the entire school still doing any sort of academic thing that’s worth a damn in the last few weeks. Their erratic attendance (both the students’ AND the teachers’), however, is a constant source of annoyance, especially in these last few weeks. But because my library (really, the school library, but really, it’s my library) is finally ready for a trial run for lending out books ever since I’d finished putting labels on all the fiction books and organizing them on the shelves, I decided to lend a book to each of my 8th graders (on the condition that they sign a contract agreeing to return the book in more or less the same condition I’d lent it to them by May 31st, lest they pay me $5 for the cost of loss or damages) for a final book report project. The pedantic me is reading that last sentence and thinking, God, I wrote ‘book’ a lot in that one, didn’t I? but the carefree shrugs his shoulders and gives the pedantic me the finger. I have my doubts about a few of my students’ capability to even finish a book, much less write and present a report on it, not only because of their staggering reading levels, but that compounded by their sheer and utter laziness and lack of discipline (though to no fault of their own, since this sense of discipline has never been instilled in them from the start, unlike your average American student), and I’ll be lucky if some of these troublesome ones even return my books, much less return them unfinished. Such is life for the Pohnpeian student. Meanwhile, my co-teacher has already given up doing anything that even resembles some form of academics and has rather prematurely resorted instead to having the students practice their graduation songs. Over and over and over and over again. From the time recess ends past when it’s supposed to at somewhere around 1040h, till school ends earlier than it should at about 1423h (minus, of course, a lunch ‘hour’ that always seems to outlast its due). Instruction doesn’t technically end until May 31, graduation not until June 13, a solid two weeks after that, which, if you ask me, is more than enough time to prepare everything you need for, including the schedule of events, the entertainment, refreshments, whatever. Besides the school, I literally have nothing else on my plate. Cultural immersion has already reached its apex in my particular site, which leaves only diversions to fill the idleness, and there is SO. MUCH. IDLE. NESS. Never in my life will I (hope to) again experience the sense of having more time than I know what to do with; literally more time than I am able to fill. You’d think I’d use it for self-improvement, but I’m actually improving myself as much as I can (well, ALMOST as much as I can) at a sensible pace, yet I still have extra hours to fill. So I read. And I watch media. I have more media on my terabyte-sized external hard drive than I care to own, yet sadly, even its sheer gargantuan amounts will be depleted quicker than I’d like it to last, leaving me with heaps of media I’ll have been bored with. Being here also lowers your movie-viewing integrity. I have watched countless things I never would have otherwise allowed through my eyeholes if not for the desperation for any kind of mental or audiovisual stimulus that this environment endows you with. But mainly I read. I’ve read so much since being here, I now need reading glasses (although that might also be due to late nights in a dark room in front of the computer, LCD light ruining my oculars). And I grow. And I learn. It’s surprising the amount that I’ve learned since being here. If I think hard enough and really put my mind to it, I bet I can recount all the things I’ve learned, at least the important ones. I’ve learned that a Chlorox bottle in Pohnpei can possibly contain not only Chlorox brand bleach, but also water, sakau, gasoline, or kerosene, at any given time, though it’s easy to guess by the context which (eg. If out of the freezer, it’s probably sakau or pihl takai (ice); if it smells like it belongs in a stove or in your car, then it’s probably gasoline or kerosene). That the same Chlorox bottle, if empty and cut at a diagonal angle to remove the bottom while retaining the end with the handle and keeping the cap screwed on has a multitude of practical uses, such as baling water out of a boat, pouring water atop one’s head in a bucket shower, or as a spade for digging and gardening. That although there is no modern evidence of any Pohnpeians drinking cider, the word for a carbonated sweetened cold beverage is saida, which if a loan word, very closely resembles ‘cider’, leaving one to wonder why they wouldn’t just have picked ‘soda’ as it’s the proper name of the thing and just as easily Pohnpeianized. That an empty can of saida makes for a handy betel nut spit holder, granted that you widen the mouth, either by carefully pushing the aluminum opening, causing it to tear, or if you’re badass enough, biting the top off altogether with your gnarly cavity-ridden betel nut teeth. That old broken down cars make for beautiful lawn ornaments, in a post-modern kind of a way. That seatbelts are for chumps and you insult the driver by wearing one. That the government, as well as certain governmental bureaucratic institutions, like most governments (and certain governmental bureaucratic institutions) in third world countries, is unsurprisingly corrupt and rife with nepotism. That cars, especially taxis, run by a gallon of gas at a time. That Mormon missionaries look more ridiculous and out of place here with their starched white shirts, tucked in and buttoned up to the top suffocating button, armpits undulating with sweat, than anywhere else in the world. That Pohnpeian females develop and blossom early, then sort of just expand like balloons in their early-to-mid-twenties, especially if they are with child(ren). That likewise, Pohnpeian males, who traditionally perform all the labor intensive chores, will retain their physical health longer, until finally succumbing to growing huge beer tumors in middle age. That Milwaukee’s Best is an acceptable and even ubiquitous drink of choice. That likewise, Spam Soup, a concoction of luncheon meat chopped to cubes and added into a piping pot of instant ramen, makes an acceptable and even ubiquitous home-cooked meal. That you should never pee under a coconut tree, because even if a coconut hasn’t fallen on your head the last 100 times you pissed there, probability will get you eventually. That you can push a fish bone which has stubbornly lodged itself in the back of your throat by swallowing balls of rice, unless the obstinate thing has penetrated itself behind your uvula, thus necessitating medical attention. That semi-domesticated animals and livestock make for excellent waste disposals. That pigs are not only incredibly smart, but also incredibly resourceful indeed. That you beckon cats with ‘mimimi’ and beckon pigs with ‘bessbessbess’ (food also works). That the key to a stronger immune system is eating with your hands and sharing everything you eat and drink. Also, never covering your mouth when you sneeze or cough, shooting snot rockets and flinging excess snot with your fingers, never washing your hands, and surrounding yourself with people who do the same. That eventually, a night of sakau will settle to a silence only broken by the sound of occasional throat-clearing, hawking and spitting, coughing, chewing betel nut, and if you’re lucky, the soft pitter patter of rain. That although more common here than 90% of the earth (or at least WAY more common than in California, barring of course the gay symbol), rainbows will never fail to put you in a good mood. That although it’s cliché, there’s nothing better than the sound of rain on a tin roof while you’re safe and warm inside watching a sappy rom com and drinking a hot beverage next to someone whose company you enjoy. That it’s by some great measure of injustice that although you live on a goddamn island, due to which part of that island you live, you only get to see the ocean at most once a week, and swim in the ocean even less than that. That it’s possible to live in a domesticated household without the modern conveniences of basic furniture (bed, table, chair, couch) and appliances (refrigerator, toaster, oven). That even though a part of you is going to regret that you’ll have lived here for 2+ years without ever spearfishing, a more rational part of you accepts it due to your awful, almost nonexistent swimming ability, chalks it up to fate, and moves on. That no matter how many days you’ve ridden your bike to school, kids will always stare at you as you put it in the office and make comments they think you don’t understand about how thin your tires are, how fast you go, and how much they want to ride it. And you’ll never let them, not out of selfishness, but out of reverence for the one thing that’s kept you sane, that’s allowed you peace of mind and a sense of autonomy and freedom. That some relationships reach their culmination early on and sort of just plateau and then gradually disintegrate, and there’s nothing you can do except silently accept it as a part of life. That other relationships will carry more meaning for you that you can possibly hope to understand, and you secretly bank on everything becoming clear, that you’ll have a crystallizing realization about it and everything else when you go home and this is all over. That even though some days you think you’ve had enough and wish it would just end for the love of god and all that is holy, you know that once it does, you’re going to miss it, all of it — the smells, the fauna, all the beautiful and colorful flowers whose names you’ll never learn, how the rain creeps up on everything, the sound of pounding sakau by your bedroom window, the dogs when they chase you on your bicycle, the taste of seawater on days when it’s especially salinated and you think you can kind of get a hint of mangrove, your students’ eyes lighting up when they understand (or at least think they understand) something new that you’re teaching them, the feel of a cool, hard, tile floor and the wind of your electric fan after a long hot day, bucket showers, showering in the rain when it’s especially pouring hard, pooping in a hole when your flush toilet isn’t working, drinking fresh young coconut, sashimi, cheap glorious sashimi, that BBQ stall down the hill that marks the beginning of the causeway, clear starry nights, the sky behind Sokehs Rock — and you’ll feel grateful. Grateful that you got to be here and see it all, feel it all. And you’ll know it was all worth it, that it was real.

pahisikel! pahisikel! ~ i men dake werei pahisikel, i men dake werei pahik!

Lately on my rides between Kolonia and my site in Sapwalap, Madolenihmw, I've been thinking a lot about how the subject of riding a bike on Pohnpei has really become such a part of my identity here, and thus probably something that would be interesting to write about. Among locals and mehnwai alike, even people who I already know and have spoken to about the subject, the fact that I ride my bicycle here, on Pohnpei, of all places, so frequently, and so far, is something that never ceases to blow people's minds. Invariably the conversations go something like this:

Some person in town: "Wow, you ride your bike here?"
Me: "Yup."
Some person in town: "All the way from Sapwalap?"
Me: "I sure did."
Some person in town: "Whoo! You are very strong leg!"

Switch the words "town" and "Sapwalap" and add more Pohnpeian and you get the situation when a person from my village asks me. And, of course, the issue that never fails to surface: "Don't you get chased by dogs?"

EVERY. FUCKING. TIME.

But right now I'll take this opportunity to unveil the curtain of the dog factor of riding bikes in Pohnpei (or some other island where mongrel mutts run rampant and leashless): it's a red herring. Coming into this and knowing I wanted to conquer this rock on two wheels no matter what, I thought the dogs would be the biggest deterrent. Turns out, they're really not such a big deal after all. If anything, they keep the ride interesting, keep it from going too mundane. It's certainly the most interesting thing to talk about when I talk about riding bikes on Pohnpei. But as far as keeping me from hopping on that saddle? No way.

First of all, it's actually kind of fun when they start chasing after me. It's exhilirating seeing those mounds of lazy flesh ripple and wobble through the air, their paws beating forward as fast as they can muster, tongues lashing against the wind, jowls bellowing, and the yelps and snarls and barks nudging closer and closer, until inevitably, they wear themselves out, and I crane my head back, watching the four-legged figures recede, my legs throbbing, while I'm laughing my ass off. The worst scenarios are when I get ambushed. Too tired to pedal quickly to safety, maybe after just climbing a big hill, and suddenly some ravenous cur starts hollering at me from nowhere, and he calls his buddies over and I'm stuck with a pack of them surrounding me, with no weapon against the horde except the patended, "Shh!" That's more effective than anything else, to be honest, at keeping these beasts at bay. Maybe it's something to do with frequency in that sound that's too high for humans to hear, but really grating to canine ears.

But that's about it. Never a dull moment on this stretch of road between my site and town, of which I've come to be so accustomed to, where I've pretty much seared away 20 lbs of flesh in the past six months or so. And if these dogs ever get TOO close, I just start kicking. I've only managed to connect once. And it was oh so gratifying. Hearing that rapid *WOOFWOOFWOOFWOOF!* stop suddenly at a yelp.

The biggest deterrents that keep me from riding, though, are:

1) Rain.
2) Craptastic roads.
3) Lugging too much stuff on these 18 mile hauls.

Numbers 1) and 2) provide the magic combination that results in all the trapped gunk and bullshit that builds up in all the tiny nooks and crannies around my frame, especially those places where things connect to other things to make everything run smoothly. That's the worst. Needless to say, I use a lot of WD40, or at least the Ace Hardware knockoff. My REI bag also invariably ends up spattered with dirt kicked up by my back tire after these rides. All in all it makes for a big challenge with upkeep and general maintenance. And the worst part is, deep in my brain's heart, I know this bike can't last in these conditions.

And number 3) is just a literal pain. It's unavoidable, too. Sometimes I just have a lot of crap I need to carry back and forth. Comes with the territory of having a dual life - split down the middle with half the week in town working with IREI and the other half at my village teaching English.

But even with these deterrents (and the biggest one, but I decided not to count it: LAZINESS), I still manage to ride my bike at least once or twice a week. If twice, then that was a good week. By that logic, this week is a good week. Damn right it is. And it's lovely to be on the road, greeting people, people greeting me, sometimes with such hysterical reactions, especially the kids (PAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIISIKEEEEEELLLLLLL!!!!!! WWWAAAAAAAHHHH!!!). And my Madolenihmw cabbies always recognize me and honk or wave. It's nice having this thing be something everyone associates me with. And honestly, it's one of my favorite things about being here, and definitely one of the few things that have kept me sane these past, what, 14 months already? Jesus, that was fast.



You can tell this pic is a little old (I think it's from August) because I still have my Chacos (God I miss those Chacos. Every time I'm in Pohnrakied, I'm always on the lookout at people's feet, just waiting for the day when I catch the fucker who stole them off my front porch.) and also I think I'm about 10 lbs lighter now as I write this.

Thanks, Mollie.

wereila

This rain, not enough words can be written about this rain. I was caught in it thrice yesterday on my bicycle - enough times to warrant acceptance of its inevitability. There is a tin roof above the porch of my apartment. The sound it makes is familiar and soothing as everything is drowned out and washed away, making the world new again. Did I mention I have an apartment?

Let's take a step back: a little over three-hundred-sixty-five days ago, one girlfriend ago, thirty pounds ago, one pair of Chaco's ago, I came here to this picturesque little island in the middle of God-knows-where for reasons still difficult to formulate in words, but instead exists as a distinct feeling, deep in the fissures of my core. You'd know it if you've felt it and if you're here, chances are you have, and it exists inside you, too. But in the course of that time so much has washed away, so much has lived and grown and died. In this remote corner of the world opposite truths stand juxtaposed and contradictory and paradoxical. How is a place so physically isolated still so well-connected to the outside world? What do I do when part of my mission here is to immerse myself in the local culture, while locals conversely try to become more westernized? And why is it up to us, the outsiders, the mehnwai, to initiate ways in which to improve so many facets of local life, while locals remain passive and complacent?

I'm not certain of many things and will be first to admit that. But one thing I am sure of is that no one will be able to understand what this place is really like. Not unless they've been here. It's too bizarre for words. And I can imagine myself already, standing in a crowd of pseudo-intellectual post grads, laying their queries upon me regarding my life as a Peace Corps Volunteer. And I will want to shatter their naive illusions that they can make a difference, that they can change the world. But most likely I will keep my answers brief and minimal, look for a mode of egress out of the circle to head back to the bar for another scotch on the rocks. It is a strange mixture of gratitude and bittersweet resentment that I have for this organization, this place, and this experience.

But I wouldn't trade it for anything.

Where else can you drink water and strange embryonic tree mucus, kava roots pounded to mulch with basalt stones on a slab of basalt rock, wrung out hibiscus bark and served in a coconut shell? Where else can you hike in any direction into the jungle and nine times out of ten stumble upon a tropical waterfall? Where else can you explore an island full of strange and desolate ruins left by soldiers during the Japanese occupation? Where else are you able to still safely paddle back to the main island using palm branches after having four out of your six paddles stolen from your outrigger canoe? Where else can you jump off an abandoned fishing boat 25 feet (or more, depending on bravado) into the water? Where else can you bike in the rain, dodging potholes, cars, and pedestrians while getting chased by mangy dogs? Where else is it socially acceptable to spit, shoot snot rockets, cough up phlegm wads, eat on the floor with your hands, drink from the same glass, and share EVERYTHING?

The rain is taking a short break, but I'm sure it'll be back again soon. It's never gone for too long. As difficult as it is to ascribe meaning to my work here, due to the inertness of this place and its resistance to change, I can always look to the rain to remind me why I'm here. Maybe therein lies the significance of this, of being here, now.



(I'll make an effort to write more frequently, perhaps even upload pictures - this page is too dark and bleak without visual supplement)

ansouet

April 24, 2011

As I write this, I am seated with legs crossed on the floor of my room, laptop set on the chair in front of me, electric fan pointed in my direction, the last of the sun’s rays vanishing as a familiar darkness fills the sky outside my window, and yet again, I am alone. Thanks to the sacrifices made by the world’s most popular martyr, as well as this island’s deep appreciation for said sacrifices, I have spent the past week without work, a welcomed reprieve from my educational responsibilities. But the dynamics of my host family is such that I am given perhaps a little too much autonomy, and instead of assuming a position as some extended part of that family, the role I’ve taken resembles something more like a boarder, or tenant. Hmm, I think maybe I’ll use the word “lodger” as that’s a pretty good David Bowie album. In any case, instead of experiencing the typical cultural activities that this week had to offer (mostly involving lots of church and lots of food, at least from what I’ve heard), I’ve pretty much had to fend for myself, alone in my house as my family is off doing other things.

Ah well, they’ve expressed to me that the reason why they stay at that other place (Nahrohi) is to help out an old grandmother, and the reason why I oughtn’t come is because there’s not enough food there to feed so many people. And anyway, I probably would have been just as bored there had I gone instead of staying here. So maybe then the problem doesn’t stem from family dynamics, but originates from the inherent idleness of this place. And yes, in all that ample time I could be doing more productive things, and in fact I did, sort of. I caught up with all my paper grading. But you can only be productive for so long. At least I have a bicycle now, thanks to the hard efforts of some good people back home, who I miss dearly. And with said bicycle, made my first trip to town the other day, if only to escape the tediousness of being home alone, and the craziness it’s begun to stir inside me. And that night, had a blast partying with some mehnwai (foreigners), but suffered a painful ride home the next day due to being completely drained of energy.

And now, as Easter Sunday is nearing its end, it’ll be back to the daily grind for awhile, at least until the school year finishes, which it will soon, thank the various gods. And when it does, I’ll be free to do more meaningful things in my life on this island, which will be crucial, as I don’t think I can survive another year of this if I just stick to teaching. But with blind optimism, I will push forward! One way or another, it’ll all work out.

May 7, 2011

The remains of the past week linger like the faint, peppery aroma of sakau still emanating from my hands, and most of its events were aptly centered on that narcotic substance, the island’s drug of choice. I glided through the days with a heaviness weighing on my eyelids and thick, dreadful clouds in my brain, afflicted with a state of perpetual tiredness, induced by my consumption of the stuff. On the nights when we imbibed, as the roots of the kava slowly spread and took hold of my mind, and a reverent silence draped itself gradually on of all of us who partook, I was left to the mercy of my own thoughts, dreaming wildly of how I would spend the rest of my days on this rock, and of the seemingly countless possible paths that lay ahead when it came time for me to leave. But to attempt to recall those philosophical contemplations would be like attempting to recall the events of an elaborate dream, whose details that were once so vivid and lucid only seconds ago now suddenly turn to intangible mist in the clutches of the waking world. And the revelations and realizations that were once crystallizing as I peered into shell after shell full of swirling mud were soon after forgotten in the deep, unyielding sleep brought on by that same mud. In truth, everything returns to mud in the end. There’s something very deeply profound and symbolic in the whole process and ritual of sakau that makes me think that imbedded in this place that time forgot and all its savagery exists a wisdom far greater than any Western mind could have imagined, or even comprehend. But it’s a sort of thing that can’t be expressed with words, or at least, attempting to wouldn’t do it justice. You just have to experience it to understand. And for brief a moment, when the full effects of the kava take hold of you, it will all make perfect sense.

Everything.

But then that moment passes, steps aside to make way for sleep to come.

checkpoints

Holy shit, goddamn! Six months flew by in the blink of an eye. The world is a much different place it seems than when I left it. Even September seems like such a completely different time than now. So much has happened since then, but each step took me to the point where I am now so gradually that I hardly noticed the changes occur. But they did, and in retrospect, they are quite evident, even as subtle as they are. For one, I am permanently a few shades darker. The humidity is nothing to me now. And those idle hours spent in “training” at that church called Pohnalamwahu seems like so long ago, so far away from here.

My best friend on this rock tells me that lately she’s been thinking of her life here in the past tense, that she can’t wait for it all to be over. Not that this is such a terrible experience that she just wants it to be done, but that when it is done, and her real life begins, everything that has happened and will have happened here will be memories to reflect upon in fondness. My sentiments coincide with hers. But at the same time, it’s such a recurring problem in life, isn’t it? That we can’t just fully immerse ourselves in the now, that we poke holes in our experiences by constantly fretting about the road ahead, eyes glued to our ‘nocs.

It’s getting around that point in my service where I’m noticing key differences in the way of thinking here to the way of thinking instilled in me by my years of assimilation to my adoptive American culture. And of course, ethnocentricity wins: I am right, they are wrong. But fuck if I can do anything to change them. The other day my host father came back to from a funeral. I had heard there was one going on in the municipality of U, but doubted it had anything to do with me. As it turns out, the man who died was my host mother’s cousin. He had consumed copious amounts of alcohol and passed out on the road, as most of his ilk often does here. I’m not sure why the road is the drunkard’s number one choice of places to pass out. You’d think by now they’d learn considering the countless incidents that have occurred due to this. Anywho, the man who ran him over, as it turns out, was his nephew. The nephew, suffering from his own vice, had been drinking sakau, and, according to my host father, has a tendency to drive covering his left eye when under the kava’s influence. As a result, he failed to see his poor uncle lying on the road when thump! he ran him over.

And here’s the kicker: my host father, and probably the majority of the families involved, and most likely even the majority of the people on this island, see this as an unfortunate accident. An accident. Hmm. To me an accident is something that occurs without hint or premonition – something you can’t do anything about. You get struck by lightning, a seagull shits on your head, the brakes fail on your Toyota and the only way you manage to stop is by running it off the road into someone’s house – all accidents. But these men were being irresponsible and put themselves in positions where bad shit is likely to happen. Somewhere, someone, at some time, had to have been held accountable. It just doesn’t sit right with me. Still, I do agree with the misfortune of it all.

In other news, so far this year I’ve resolved with 95% certainty that I will not be continuing my career in the field of education when this is all over. Unless I can somehow nab a cush gig dropping wise at some local community college, I think my dreams of living out my life as a teacher will die on this island. I wrote down everything I want to do in life last week while my students were (loudly and inconsiderately) taking a test. I made it as simple as I possibly could. They are, in no particular order:

WRITE – stories, poems, songs, journal entries, the occasional haiku
PHOTGRAPH – everything
BICYCLE – ride everywhere
MUSIC – play, listen to, or see live
READ – books, short stories, poetry
WALK THE EARTH – like Jules from Pulp Fiction, like Cain in Kung Fu

It’s just too bad that nothing I want to do will net me any reliable form of income. The price I pay for loving the arts. Ah well. “Follow your bliss,” as Eric Clapton once said. Or if you prefer, “Do what you love and fuck the rest!” as boldly declared by that angsty teenage character on Little Miss Sunshine. Lucky for me I still have 21 months to work on my craft. Lately it’s mainly been poetry that’s been churning in my mind juices. Here’s a taste:


Sunburns and Soliloquies

Where sunburns and soliloquies dotting lines disdain
Through feigning hours fertility displacing hands regain
And words like “Machiavellian” shove our hearts aside
We sorely lack a trillion ways to make the soul subside

Quell your passion, please, as you drive him through the floor
Set your rations all at ease when he begins to beg for more
How begets the ailing flesh puckering with dread!
Lovely as a wailing dress fringes loose with thread

We’re casting off to outer space on a rhinestone canoe
To planets with distinguished tastes to start our lives anew
Softly singing birthing hymns for every star we pass
Tying knots and cutting trims, we make each moment last

But journeys often end abrupt as switching off a light
Causing shattered hopes corrupt, wronging all that’s right
Your fiery eyes ablaze like war at burning neon wrecks
As I’m pulled into the nearest star wondering what comes next


Don’t ask me what any of it means. I just like putting words together that sound cool in my head. Forgive me for not writing more on here. But please, be happy for me for writing more things of substance (or at least what I consider to be of more substance than this). I very rarely address whoever it is out there that’s reading this blog that rarely ever gets any traffic, like some dusty desert highway down in the Midwest, tumbleweeds wafting in the dry breeze. But I hope that whoever you are, you are well and happy on this day. Keep on keeping on. You can bet your prize fighting chicken I’ll be doing the same.