It's been almost two weeks of nothing. This afternoon I felt some kind of relief. There are two possible explanations. I realized that my purpose doesn't have to be myself. I also maybe took enough insulin, which can usually help. So, I'm looking for something great to give myself away to.
But the IJ wave seems like a good one
Well, I quit the textbook job so I could read my novel more. Don't know if I have the constitution to work in an office. Max says maybe I identify too much with whatever my job is. He might be right; most people in the world just work for money. I've been frustrated by the last two jobs where I've paid because I know English even while I generate little or no value because of the structural limitations on my role. I may just not be so good at surfing the colonialist wave.
Hey I got/kept the job anyways, so what?
So this house and job thing is an experiment which I'm not sure will really make me happy. I guess the idea of this is that it will make a healthy platform from which, with my few remaining hours, I can moderately pursue and enjoy my 'interests' I have to say I'm skeptical; but don't think I'm just setting myself up for failiure, I am actually curious to see if this can work. I'm pretty sure I can always go back to doing whatever the fuck I want to without regard for other people's sensibilities; I get more exercise that way.
The things I'm not supposed to say
I have a new room with Max in a shared apartment. It is small, with a loft that makes it like two tiny rooms. I am up on the loft where the three tiny screenless windows are. Even when I keep them closed, a couple mosquitoes come in at night, which really sucks. It is a bit sticky even on moderately cool days so I imagine it will be an intolerable sweatbox on real hot summer days, which could happen any time. The rent, which we're splitting, is US$300 a month. The landlord, turns out, actually lives here, so I still feel like a guest in someone else's home. He has forced me to buy new laundry soap because the one I had didn't say 'matic' on it. Also, we don't feel comfortable drying our clothes in the common area because of him. Cleaning ladies come twice a week. We have to find a new place next month because this is untenable. Still, this is the first time since we left Boston in February that I've arrived someplace knowing I'll be able to stay there for a whole month (and actually only the second time I will live in the same house for that long).
In October I made about $430 working at the English camps; same in November. Even though I didn't have a place in November, I still managed to spend $180 in cash and $100 more on my credit card. The rest of my October wages just went to rent, hopefully Max is getting paid tomorrow because we have about $10 in cash. Max could use his ATM card if we needed it; I can't because mine was stolen and I haven't activated the replacement yet. Fortunately or not, I can shop at chain groceries with my credit card. I can also shop at Burger King with my credit card, which is disgusting and I only did it twice.
Having just paid the minimum US$15 on my credit card, my current balance is $290 while the positive balance in my checking account is $405, so I am technically in the black still, though it's starting to scrape. I have to pay $100 for my replacement passport, for which I finally have all the documentation ready. But I am still going to collect November wages of $430, so I guess I'm not too hard up.
Most of my purchases in November were impulse food buys, which are unhealthy in so many ways. I realized two days ago, when the only thing I could buy was food, because I only had a credit card, that I felt like food was my only creative outlet. I wanted to cook because I didn't have anything else to do; and I wanted to eat so I wouldn't have to think about how I didn't have anything else to do.
Anyways, now I do have something else to do. Starting tomorrow I'm editing English grammar in math textbook solutions full time. My new boss asked me to call him first, so that he could tell me that at my interview I appeared 'extremely disheveled' and 'some of the girls noticed' my body odor. I guess he didn't notice my new, $60 shoes I bought specifically for the purpose of not looking extremely disheveled. Anyways, for $580 a month, I'll shower before going in, but I will not spray chemicals under my arms, sorry.
In October I made about $430 working at the English camps; same in November. Even though I didn't have a place in November, I still managed to spend $180 in cash and $100 more on my credit card. The rest of my October wages just went to rent, hopefully Max is getting paid tomorrow because we have about $10 in cash. Max could use his ATM card if we needed it; I can't because mine was stolen and I haven't activated the replacement yet. Fortunately or not, I can shop at chain groceries with my credit card. I can also shop at Burger King with my credit card, which is disgusting and I only did it twice.
Having just paid the minimum US$15 on my credit card, my current balance is $290 while the positive balance in my checking account is $405, so I am technically in the black still, though it's starting to scrape. I have to pay $100 for my replacement passport, for which I finally have all the documentation ready. But I am still going to collect November wages of $430, so I guess I'm not too hard up.
Most of my purchases in November were impulse food buys, which are unhealthy in so many ways. I realized two days ago, when the only thing I could buy was food, because I only had a credit card, that I felt like food was my only creative outlet. I wanted to cook because I didn't have anything else to do; and I wanted to eat so I wouldn't have to think about how I didn't have anything else to do.
Anyways, now I do have something else to do. Starting tomorrow I'm editing English grammar in math textbook solutions full time. My new boss asked me to call him first, so that he could tell me that at my interview I appeared 'extremely disheveled' and 'some of the girls noticed' my body odor. I guess he didn't notice my new, $60 shoes I bought specifically for the purpose of not looking extremely disheveled. Anyways, for $580 a month, I'll shower before going in, but I will not spray chemicals under my arms, sorry.
Fwd: The smell of Colonias
This was sent to everyone, but I'm pretty sure it was for me:
From: fernando.carro@ecolonias.com
Subject: The smell of Colonias
Date: Thu, 10 Sep 2009 14:43:44 -0300
From: fernando.carro@ecolonias.com
Subject: The smell of Colonias
Date: Thu, 10 Sep 2009 14:43:44 -0300
Dear Guys,
This is a secondary issue, but it requires our attention.
Looking tidy and smelling well should be something you do as part of your job. I don't mind that a lot. However, teachers do.
I would appreciate if you could make sure you bring toiletries, shave, look and smell clean. We are running around, sweating a lot and, of course, smelling accordingly.
Ecolonias could sponsor the effort by buying some deodorant.
Thanks for understanding,
Fernando
COLONIAS DE INMERSION AL IDIOMA
Creating educational adventures since 1988
And then in November, he told me he'd received another complaint. I'm glad he didn't 'sponsor the effort' though, because that shit is odious.
Proceeding with another exercise in shamelessness
In August, Max checked in with good old TMV from Cagalandia, this is what he said:
But then again, I wrote this in June:
Although I didn't send it to him, maybe I should.
---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: thomas verster <globetrottter@hotmail.com>
Date: Thu, Sep 17, 2009 at 5:45 PM
Subject: RE: Greetings From Max
To: max hartshorn <max.hartshorn@gmail.com>
Hi Max, you were the good guy , but matthew was a headache
From: thomas verster <globetrottter@hotmail.com>
Date: Thu, Sep 17, 2009 at 5:45 PM
Subject: RE: Greetings From Max
To: max hartshorn <max.hartshorn@gmail.com>
Hi Max, you were the good guy , but matthew was a headache
I don´t think i will ever more allow that kind of situation to develop ....
As a group you broke 3 axes directly and one was screwed up by matthew
is already cracking and in return you all were not able to produce a single replacem,ent .
I have fixed them all now .....I can operate fine alone ..
I also would like to know if Matthew took an axe along and left it ....on the path he was supposedly going to make to the seaside ......i have no idea .
i found Matthew.s improvised tent and all the materials he took without ever asking me
as also food became self service
The only one i could appreciate is YOU ....you were actually willing to help and run over and lend a hand
so to you THANKS , Matthew never again please
I do need to find someone to take care of my land from Dec to Feb 2010
You are welcome as you did not impose like matthey , but matthew , no kidding
never again . Some french girls came afterwards ....they were a complete contrast ....
so kind and helpful ....then i realized the difference was like night and day .-
So anyway have fun ......learn a lot ......if you want to come again some day , you are welcome but only with the guarantee that matthew stays far away
OK smile , i have to be honest about this
ciao
Thomas
But then again, I wrote this in June:
While I was making my money in Japan selling tsoskies on the street, they had a saying in Japanese:
"Every grody old man who made his money selling tsoskis on the street deserves a perfect little Japansese girl to be his wife and servant forever."
I just have to say things when I see them. One thing is that none of you is a Japanese girl.
I don't know where you got the idea that you could just come here and eat my food and work on my land. Maybe it's because I said on various websites that you could, and reinforced this impression in subsequent emails and by transporting you, and food for you to eat, to my land.
But I everything would be much easier and faster if I did it alone. It's only for strategic reasons that I allow you people to be here and take tea with milk and learn about Awareness with me:
First, your human smell helps keep away Puma.
Second, I'm a lonely, grody, crazy old man who wants to be dicking a young, lithe, obedient Japanese girl. But it would be awkward for me to say that only little Japanese girls can come to my land.
I think if I said that then nobody except the theiving Latin fisherman of Raul Marin would come to my land, and then only while I'm away in Japan for three months every year looking for a wife.
...or at least a fucking cum dumpster. That Megumi sat here and let rats eat my tools for three months, and then she leaves the day after I return without even considering an opportunity for pleasure.
I am so tired of my own right hand. When you do it in the same, optimal way every three days for twenty-five years it can be extremely dangerous.
Listen: you need to hold it like this, with this finger on this nerve, here, and the thumb back here to provide opposing pressure.
But Look: look at these bloody callouses, these are why I need a little Japanese girl. I've considered changing my grip but this is the only right way; it's just that my fingers have too much force and are hard as Luma.
I doubt you could even achieve orgasm with any other technique, I've never heard of it.
If I ever again get a little Japanese girl to do me, instead of some discusting Latin, here in my sleeping bags--this isn't a hotel you know I have to wash them! I'm going to teach her this way to hold me first.
Then, when she can bring me off in thirty seconds, just as I do for myself at nine o'clock in the evening every three days, only then will I submit myself to her tiny Japanese box.
Hopefully she can learn to flex her kiegle muscles into the same, optimal grip; and also maybe she will orgasm with me in thirty seconds at nine o'clock in the evening every three days. But if not, I'm sure I can teach her to.
"Every grody old man who made his money selling tsoskis on the street deserves a perfect little Japansese girl to be his wife and servant forever."
I just have to say things when I see them. One thing is that none of you is a Japanese girl.
I don't know where you got the idea that you could just come here and eat my food and work on my land. Maybe it's because I said on various websites that you could, and reinforced this impression in subsequent emails and by transporting you, and food for you to eat, to my land.
But I everything would be much easier and faster if I did it alone. It's only for strategic reasons that I allow you people to be here and take tea with milk and learn about Awareness with me:
First, your human smell helps keep away Puma.
Second, I'm a lonely, grody, crazy old man who wants to be dicking a young, lithe, obedient Japanese girl. But it would be awkward for me to say that only little Japanese girls can come to my land.
I think if I said that then nobody except the theiving Latin fisherman of Raul Marin would come to my land, and then only while I'm away in Japan for three months every year looking for a wife.
...or at least a fucking cum dumpster. That Megumi sat here and let rats eat my tools for three months, and then she leaves the day after I return without even considering an opportunity for pleasure.
I am so tired of my own right hand. When you do it in the same, optimal way every three days for twenty-five years it can be extremely dangerous.
Listen: you need to hold it like this, with this finger on this nerve, here, and the thumb back here to provide opposing pressure.
But Look: look at these bloody callouses, these are why I need a little Japanese girl. I've considered changing my grip but this is the only right way; it's just that my fingers have too much force and are hard as Luma.
I doubt you could even achieve orgasm with any other technique, I've never heard of it.
If I ever again get a little Japanese girl to do me, instead of some discusting Latin, here in my sleeping bags--this isn't a hotel you know I have to wash them! I'm going to teach her this way to hold me first.
Then, when she can bring me off in thirty seconds, just as I do for myself at nine o'clock in the evening every three days, only then will I submit myself to her tiny Japanese box.
Hopefully she can learn to flex her kiegle muscles into the same, optimal grip; and also maybe she will orgasm with me in thirty seconds at nine o'clock in the evening every three days. But if not, I'm sure I can teach her to.
Although I didn't send it to him, maybe I should.
um, more later
I went to an RC gathering today for the first time in ten months- good to discharge and make connections. I'm staying at the unfriendly hostel until we move to barrio Once on Monday. I have this weird physical feeling of exhaustion- it might be the skin infection flaring again, but fortunately I can take showers as much as I want this time. I very well may start full time editing textbook solutions next week, in addition to having an apartment- I hope I can just zone into it in the air-conditioned office and make pesos. I think my bg is low actually- I wonder if it was the same thing last night. I am working on doing research instead of just passing time.
chicken
Just had thanksgiving for reals you guys. Don't worry about me too hard there, Max and I are also appearently moving into a room with a loft on Monday. Worked three camps in a row and there's only one more this season, mid december. Might have a job but need a computer for it: I am thinking ecc with a full keyboard to plug in.
I feel connected, I like the people I work with at colonias and the people I know in the world in general. I may eat and drink too much, and discharge quite infrequently, but it seems I will just be ok. I don't miss home, I'm glad not to be there, based on Mom's description. Having bought into life here for a while longer, I am feeling ready to set things up rather than just slip day to day. We'll see what happens.
I feel connected, I like the people I work with at colonias and the people I know in the world in general. I may eat and drink too much, and discharge quite infrequently, but it seems I will just be ok. I don't miss home, I'm glad not to be there, based on Mom's description. Having bought into life here for a while longer, I am feeling ready to set things up rather than just slip day to day. We'll see what happens.
camping
Just got back from my second camp in a row, leaving for the third in 10 hours! We really did a shit job on this last one I think, but on the bus home I heard a girl saying it was the best camp ever. Who can say. I do really like the people I work with.
Max probably found us a place, so, maybe my homeless time is ending. I hope so. Also, I didn't get the job editing math textbooks, but hell, I wasn't clear I wanted it. I am not clear what I want in specific. When people ask, I produce these generalities: I want to use my body; I want to have strong, lifelong relationships with people I love; well, there are more that I will add later.
problems
So one hour before we're scheduled to leave town this evening for a camp starting tomorrow, I recieve word that we're not going until 6:00 tomorrow morning. What am I supposed to do with that? I guess I could go back to the unfriendly hostel and pay my twelve dollars for six hours in bed, maybe that would be the reasonable thing to do; I'm certainly not saving any money being homeless this week, I've been laying out left and right for marathon internet stints and compulsive foodstuffs. I went to the hostel but found that Max isn't there tonight so I walked away: I just hate the way the proprietress looks at me.
The truth, I think, is that I still desperately want someone to rescue me. Someone to tell me it's alright, to take my life in hand for a minute and remove this overwhelming responsiblility of self-determination. My dad offered to help me buy a ticket home, though I do have enough credit to buy it myself. But I have no idea what I'd do there, except sink into lethargic rescuedness. I remember getting into town from a camp three weeks ago and calling my couchsurfing host for that week; he unexpectedly offered to meet me at the bus station, and I didn't tell him that I knew my way around and would be perfectly capable of finding his place on my own. As I waited for him to come rescue me, I felt a dimming of my peripheral vision, a surrender to helplessness which lasted for the entire four days of my visit. I wanted Max to rescue me tonight, even though I don't know what he could really do: let me stay for free surrupticiously?
I need somewhere to go back to each night where I don't feel bad, plaza del congresso doesn't fit the bill, neither does the internet cafe in Once, neither does the hostel, neither does this internet place. I hope I get the textbook solution editorial job I interviewed for today, because then I could afford a room. Maybe I really do have to live alone to get over this helpless shit. As I told the pretty, drunk girls at the hostel last night: I would be happy to paint your nails and bake you bread all day. As I didn't continue: as long as you can tell me where to live and what to do with my life right now.
The truth, I think, is that I still desperately want someone to rescue me. Someone to tell me it's alright, to take my life in hand for a minute and remove this overwhelming responsiblility of self-determination. My dad offered to help me buy a ticket home, though I do have enough credit to buy it myself. But I have no idea what I'd do there, except sink into lethargic rescuedness. I remember getting into town from a camp three weeks ago and calling my couchsurfing host for that week; he unexpectedly offered to meet me at the bus station, and I didn't tell him that I knew my way around and would be perfectly capable of finding his place on my own. As I waited for him to come rescue me, I felt a dimming of my peripheral vision, a surrender to helplessness which lasted for the entire four days of my visit. I wanted Max to rescue me tonight, even though I don't know what he could really do: let me stay for free surrupticiously?
I need somewhere to go back to each night where I don't feel bad, plaza del congresso doesn't fit the bill, neither does the internet cafe in Once, neither does the hostel, neither does this internet place. I hope I get the textbook solution editorial job I interviewed for today, because then I could afford a room. Maybe I really do have to live alone to get over this helpless shit. As I told the pretty, drunk girls at the hostel last night: I would be happy to paint your nails and bake you bread all day. As I didn't continue: as long as you can tell me where to live and what to do with my life right now.
I don't know if things are going well
Once again, it's all in my head. I had a pretty good job interview, but I felt real nervous afterwards. They kind of need/say they want me to have a laptop and I don't. Anyways, I have continued my week of rash spending on chocolate and cream and this dollar-an-hour internet place. I've resoponded to a bunch of rooms posted so Max and I can get a place, but I haven't heard anything yet, obviously people prefer singles to doubles when it comes to roomates.
This afternoon, I feel like I want to go home again. Up till last night, I was on a high, sure that everything here was working out. My head is a tough read these days. I'm going to camp again tonight... if stability is what I'm needing, it has not yet arrived.
After being mildly discusted by the tenedor libre in Once, I cooked for myself yesterday and was pleased witht the result for the first time in a while. Browned onions and acelga, added late a bit of garlic, alot of ginger, a little salt and, get this: two peeled, chopped nectarines right at the end, dominating the dish with delicious, sweet tanginess. Served over brown rice, had to serve twice.
Mood swiNG
I stuffed my face at the veggie buffet last night and then came and sat down here, been at this computer for just about 16 hours now. Spent most of the night simultaneously playing minesweeper and watching professional starcraft match replays to keep myself awake (no sleeping allowed in the internet cafe).
Woke up from my numbing haze a few hours ago because I saw I have a job interview tomorrow to work on editing an English math textbook being adapted by an outsourcing company down here. Now I need to buy shoes and get lots of sleep, so I'm headed back to the unfriendly hostel to sack out as soon as possible (suddenly there are so many things to do).
My mood is really tied up in food and work (and blood sugar level, right now 152). SURVIVAL: the truth is that we evolved for it, occasional rationality is a fringe benefit.
Woke up from my numbing haze a few hours ago because I saw I have a job interview tomorrow to work on editing an English math textbook being adapted by an outsourcing company down here. Now I need to buy shoes and get lots of sleep, so I'm headed back to the unfriendly hostel to sack out as soon as possible (suddenly there are so many things to do).
My mood is really tied up in food and work (and blood sugar level, right now 152). SURVIVAL: the truth is that we evolved for it, occasional rationality is a fringe benefit.
Good another morning
I woke up on the sidewalk this morning, a few blocks from the internet
cafe. The cool, damp breeze blowing over my cheek, sucking away my
warmth, aroused a strange mixture of hunger and anger in me. Since
writing yesterday, I'd only eaten two more chocolate bars and half a
pack of crackers; maybe today is the day for pan-asian buffet. It's
possible that, three nights out, the discomfort of this situating is
starting to get to me. I thought about how nice it would be to have
my sleeping bag, but then I though about how that woud double the
weight and volume I'm carrying. My legs were cold, my jacket took
care of the rest. Blood sugar 271.
cafe. The cool, damp breeze blowing over my cheek, sucking away my
warmth, aroused a strange mixture of hunger and anger in me. Since
writing yesterday, I'd only eaten two more chocolate bars and half a
pack of crackers; maybe today is the day for pan-asian buffet. It's
possible that, three nights out, the discomfort of this situating is
starting to get to me. I thought about how nice it would be to have
my sleeping bag, but then I though about how that woud double the
weight and volume I'm carrying. My legs were cold, my jacket took
care of the rest. Blood sugar 271.
I spent 14 hours straight at the 24hr internet cafe yesterday, I was
just dicking around some of the time, but I got motivated to rewrite
my resume to apply for math textbook editing, so I did that. I had
actually arranged to hang out with Max at his unfriendly hostel and
then shower and sleep at my friend's happy community house nearby, but
as the evening progressed I just didn't feel like dealing with the
social implications of either encounter. I also didn't feel like
interrupting my resume project, so I ended up cancelling both. One of
the things about bathing is that then I have to put back on the same
dirty clothes, which makes it feel pointless. I carry laundry soap
with me and can wash stuff pretty quick in the sink, but then I need a
place to dry it.
I concluded long ago the comfort, convenience, and efficiency are not
valid ends in themselves, though they can be empowering in reaching
other goals. Thus I may be deciding to stay here even though the
summer promises to be oppressively hot and humid. Thus I decided to
sleep out last night.
Good morning
I slept outside amongst some pallets of bricks last night after signing off at 2245hrs. I woke up at 0550hrs because it was full sunlight and trains were going past and I was worried the supply yard would open; I see why daylight savings time is done, even if it's a logistical pain. I found a bench on the sidewalk and lay there for an hour. I walked about fifteen blocks, bought and ate a package of alfahors, but not because I was hungry, got on the subway but got off after three stops because it was hot and I wasn't going anywhere in particular. I wanted to use my credit card to buy food so I walked until I found a grocery store and bought five chocolate bars and a liter of milk. I ate one and drank the milk on a small retaining wall on the sidewalk in the shade around the corner.
I thought about a plan for returning to Boston. My dad found a cheap ticket I could by to New York. I could finish my bachelors in ath at UMass Boston; I could work(?) and live in Dorchester again.
I thought about a plan for staying here. Max and I found a cheap apartment available 1 December. I have a wad of sweaty, under-the-table cash with which I was partially compensated for my work in October yesterday so I could put down the deposit anytime. I could keep working, maybe get a job as a real English teacher, stay in better contact with folks I now know in this city.
I felt itchy. I though about a plan for today and this week. I coud go check into the unfriendly hostel and shower and wash my clothing. The secret weekly price is competitive (the nightly price is exorbitant). I could make it a point to go out alot anyways.
The climate for the next three months here is going to be uncomfortably hot and wet. The climate for the next three months in Boston is going to be uncomfortably cold and wet. I thought about a plan for going back to El Bolson for the summer. I could do physical labor and eat vegetables and be outside and spend very little.
I realized I was happy for the moment to lie on the cool, macroscopically clean sidewalk at 1000hrs as the day started. The camping store on the frontage I occupied was opened by a clean, rugged-looking young man.
I thought about money. How much I'd spent unnecessarilly in the day and a half since I got back into town, simply for not having anything to do. Maybe if I dan't finished my novel, I would have spent, and eaten, less.
I thought about the things I'd had stolen. How I needed a new insulated, refigerable container for my insulin, a new headlight, a new wearable container for my cards and cash, and a new shoulder bag to put this stuff in.
I walked to the same old internet cafe because I had some vague reason to go there and no reason to go anywhere else.
I thought about a plan for returning to Boston. My dad found a cheap ticket I could by to New York. I could finish my bachelors in ath at UMass Boston; I could work(?) and live in Dorchester again.
I thought about a plan for staying here. Max and I found a cheap apartment available 1 December. I have a wad of sweaty, under-the-table cash with which I was partially compensated for my work in October yesterday so I could put down the deposit anytime. I could keep working, maybe get a job as a real English teacher, stay in better contact with folks I now know in this city.
I felt itchy. I though about a plan for today and this week. I coud go check into the unfriendly hostel and shower and wash my clothing. The secret weekly price is competitive (the nightly price is exorbitant). I could make it a point to go out alot anyways.
The climate for the next three months here is going to be uncomfortably hot and wet. The climate for the next three months in Boston is going to be uncomfortably cold and wet. I thought about a plan for going back to El Bolson for the summer. I could do physical labor and eat vegetables and be outside and spend very little.
I realized I was happy for the moment to lie on the cool, macroscopically clean sidewalk at 1000hrs as the day started. The camping store on the frontage I occupied was opened by a clean, rugged-looking young man.
I thought about money. How much I'd spent unnecessarilly in the day and a half since I got back into town, simply for not having anything to do. Maybe if I dan't finished my novel, I would have spent, and eaten, less.
I thought about the things I'd had stolen. How I needed a new insulated, refigerable container for my insulin, a new headlight, a new wearable container for my cards and cash, and a new shoulder bag to put this stuff in.
I walked to the same old internet cafe because I had some vague reason to go there and no reason to go anywhere else.
My work
As I mentioned I've been working at immersion camps for Argentine students of English. These are two-night programs designed for classes of students already fluent in the language to give them a chance to practice outside of an academic setting. It's a pretty good idea, I know the only way I learned to speak Spanish was by coming down here (and Not working in the English industry, which is terrible for my Spanish.) Each camp has a theme around which the activities are supposed to be centered.
Unfortunately, the organization is so poor that the quality of the camps is pretty low. I know that part of the problem is staff morale, they change up the work schedule all the time and we often don't have all the information in sufficient time to relax into work. Even though we usually arrive the day before to prepare, we often don't really use the time, the last-minute invention, lack of planning and coordination trickles down to the camps themselves.
I feel terrible about participating because I feel like most of what we do is confuse and make fun of the children who attend these camps. It starts at the beginning when we go through their luggage to confiscate Spanish-language materials, usually planting a bra in one of the boy's bags just to humiliate him. Then we put them in groups and force them to produce visual or performance artworks, then we put them in a new set of groups, then yet another set. The we leave them directionless for an hour or so, then we yell at them that we are behind schedule and to come enthusiastically and immediately together. Then we eat a meal for an hour and a half. Then we have a campfire, where we do the same tired activities compiled years ago and known to the teachers who bring their classes back each year.
I don't think there's anything wrong with the idea of a two-day immersion camp, but the execution is stressful and deprecatory for all involved. It is all I can do to keep from just walking off the job; I get paid about US$100 per camp, which is good for a job in the Engish industry.
Unfortunately, the organization is so poor that the quality of the camps is pretty low. I know that part of the problem is staff morale, they change up the work schedule all the time and we often don't have all the information in sufficient time to relax into work. Even though we usually arrive the day before to prepare, we often don't really use the time, the last-minute invention, lack of planning and coordination trickles down to the camps themselves.
I feel terrible about participating because I feel like most of what we do is confuse and make fun of the children who attend these camps. It starts at the beginning when we go through their luggage to confiscate Spanish-language materials, usually planting a bra in one of the boy's bags just to humiliate him. Then we put them in groups and force them to produce visual or performance artworks, then we put them in a new set of groups, then yet another set. The we leave them directionless for an hour or so, then we yell at them that we are behind schedule and to come enthusiastically and immediately together. Then we eat a meal for an hour and a half. Then we have a campfire, where we do the same tired activities compiled years ago and known to the teachers who bring their classes back each year.
I don't think there's anything wrong with the idea of a two-day immersion camp, but the execution is stressful and deprecatory for all involved. It is all I can do to keep from just walking off the job; I get paid about US$100 per camp, which is good for a job in the Engish industry.
My diet
My diet has suffered since getting to the city, and especially since beginning work at the immersion camps regularly. Part of the problem is not having a kitchen shelf on which to accumulate good food choices for later. Another part is the patterned conditioning of being paid in food for five months while we worked on farms through WWOOF. At camp, there are three meals and three desserts a day, plus a suitcase of candy for selling to the children, all free to me. And I feel like I should eat it all because I can, like I'm getting away with something, even though it makes me feel like shit. There is the ever-looming spectre of camp ending in one or two days, and the false notion that after that, who knows? This is silly, because I actually have plenty of money to buy food.
I have also been eating at camp for the anesthetic effect of sat fat and sugar. This is obviously bad; it's a habit that I picked up the first summer I worked in education in Newton, where I would duck into the camp office for a handful of chocolate chips every day, sometimes several times. I did it sometimes as a youth advisor too. I am terrified of leadership I guess, and numbing myself out can keep me from showing that terror to the group. One thing I have learned about leading is that if people know you are scared and unsure, they don't want to do what you suggest; but obviously this isn't a good way to fix that.
Recently, eating, or not eating, because I'm scared has spilled over into the rest of my life. Somehow right before this sharing today I was eating a fast food combo meal, complete with caffinated soda, all of which numbed me out alot, but seems to have awakened me as well (to the depths of my depravity, I don't know). I am sure that I had already consumed sufficient calories for the day prior to this meal. Last night for dinner I had two packs of alfajors and a chocolate bar, and that just made me feel terrible and alone, so, go figure.
Sometimes when I'm walking around the city feeling like I would rather not exist, buying food, even if I'm not hungry, makes me feel empowered. The problem is that buying food implies eating it immediately or carrying it around indefinitely, neither of which is usually that great. Sometimes I fast for up to 24 hours at a time, which makes me feel righteous and tired, but I don't think this is too healthy either. Note for concerned parents: I'm not going to start 12-step work because of comments on this post.
I have also been eating at camp for the anesthetic effect of sat fat and sugar. This is obviously bad; it's a habit that I picked up the first summer I worked in education in Newton, where I would duck into the camp office for a handful of chocolate chips every day, sometimes several times. I did it sometimes as a youth advisor too. I am terrified of leadership I guess, and numbing myself out can keep me from showing that terror to the group. One thing I have learned about leading is that if people know you are scared and unsure, they don't want to do what you suggest; but obviously this isn't a good way to fix that.
Recently, eating, or not eating, because I'm scared has spilled over into the rest of my life. Somehow right before this sharing today I was eating a fast food combo meal, complete with caffinated soda, all of which numbed me out alot, but seems to have awakened me as well (to the depths of my depravity, I don't know). I am sure that I had already consumed sufficient calories for the day prior to this meal. Last night for dinner I had two packs of alfajors and a chocolate bar, and that just made me feel terrible and alone, so, go figure.
Sometimes when I'm walking around the city feeling like I would rather not exist, buying food, even if I'm not hungry, makes me feel empowered. The problem is that buying food implies eating it immediately or carrying it around indefinitely, neither of which is usually that great. Sometimes I fast for up to 24 hours at a time, which makes me feel righteous and tired, but I don't think this is too healthy either. Note for concerned parents: I'm not going to start 12-step work because of comments on this post.
My passport
I did lose my passport the other day, and it was kind of related to homelessness, but only mentally, I would have fought for that shit if given half a chance, but here's the story. I was spending a lot of time in a certain 24 hour internet cafe, possibly thinking of it along the lines of a place that could be mine, as I am desperate for one. Anyway, I got into a less-than-careful habit of going to pee without taking my bag with me. I didn't even notice when I came back and my passport wasn't there until I was packing up to leave. This story is stupid AND boring. I got a police report saying it was stolen, which is one of the bureaucratic items I need for a replacement. I lost at the same time: my headlamp, debit card (now cancelled), insulin, primary blood test kit, 100 pesos, and a nice collection of coins (which are very hard to get sometimes down here).
My lifestyle
Right now I am homeless. This has been partially mitigated by my work sometimes in short, residential camp programs. It has also been covered by couchsurfing and staying in hostels. But these things are too temporary to count as 'home.'
I've been thinking alot about what home really means, because just having a place to shower and sleep doesn't really fit the bill. I think a home for me is where there is someone to share my life with on equal, reciprocal terms. This is why my parent's house doesn't really work as a home for me anymore: my parents are partnered with eachother and my mom doesn't really have attention to share my life with me the way she used to. This is why, even though we moved around all the time and even got thrown out of a couple places, I didn't feel homeless when Max and I were traveling together earlier this year.
Physically, I have as of yet spent very few nights (however, including last night) sleeping outside like a normal homeless person. At this, I have some friends who would of course rather I stay with them for a night than sleep in plaza del congresso, but seriously, I don't know why but I don't want to be a guest or a visitor right now, I guess I'm just tired of it. You could say it's dangerous, but nobody ever fucks with me because I'm 194cm white guy wearing aviators.
I've been thinking alot about what home really means, because just having a place to shower and sleep doesn't really fit the bill. I think a home for me is where there is someone to share my life with on equal, reciprocal terms. This is why my parent's house doesn't really work as a home for me anymore: my parents are partnered with eachother and my mom doesn't really have attention to share my life with me the way she used to. This is why, even though we moved around all the time and even got thrown out of a couple places, I didn't feel homeless when Max and I were traveling together earlier this year.
Physically, I have as of yet spent very few nights (however, including last night) sleeping outside like a normal homeless person. At this, I have some friends who would of course rather I stay with them for a night than sleep in plaza del congresso, but seriously, I don't know why but I don't want to be a guest or a visitor right now, I guess I'm just tired of it. You could say it's dangerous, but nobody ever fucks with me because I'm 194cm white guy wearing aviators.
I'm just going to tell you what's going on
I'm going to try something new here. Last year at this time, I had undiagnosed type 1 diabetes and, if you want to call it as such, clinical depression. But I didn't say anything about what my life was like. This year I feel almost as bad, but I'm going to try sharing instead of keeping silent. My parent's old shrink Dr. Paul says anniversaries are big, subconcious drivers of emotion. I wonder what this is the anniversary of, besides last year.
I'm not scared
I'm not scared of humiliation or of not surviving! I am still alive this morning I have every reason to belive that this will continue! I am remarkably well connected to the world and many beautiful people in it!
some thoughts on meaninglessness
I half tried some textbroker.com stuff but I gave it all up quickly
because it made my brain feel dead.
I think I'm worried that if I did it much, I might start to think in
search-engine-optomese, which is essentially meaninglessness
masquerading as meaningfulness.
I am way to insecure about meaning to risk thinking my thoughts have
become meaningless;
I think if I thought that I would be crazy.
because it made my brain feel dead.
I think I'm worried that if I did it much, I might start to think in
search-engine-optomese, which is essentially meaninglessness
masquerading as meaningfulness.
I am way to insecure about meaning to risk thinking my thoughts have
become meaningless;
I think if I thought that I would be crazy.
a good answer
this is my religion:
http://monkeymindonline.blogspot.com/2009/09/unitarian-universalism-on-one-foot.html
Once again the Internets reduce shooting the shit to a matter of easy research, this time less almanac and more personal.
Maybe instead of creatively answering the challenge of expaining my religion I will now just pass out this link, but don't count on it.
http://monkeymindonline.blogspot.com/2009/09/unitarian-universalism-on-one-foot.html
Once again the Internets reduce shooting the shit to a matter of easy research, this time less almanac and more personal.
Maybe instead of creatively answering the challenge of expaining my religion I will now just pass out this link, but don't count on it.
hi from now
I feel suspended here, very similarly to my months in Boston before leaving to come here in Febuary. I know I'm going, but not yet. It creates a weird lethargy in my efforts to create my life. I am reluctant to set things up, for so soon I'll have to abandon them, yet I can't live with no plans from day to day. It feels to me that the solution is to let the leaving recede in imortance, to make space for new plans; but what if then I accidentally never leave? Surely a ridiculous leap, that. Once I asked my mother if I could live in her house for five months and she immediately replied: "I just don't want you living here when you're thirty!"
For now is not forever
(a.k.a. I may try to rent a room)
For now is not forever
(a.k.a. I may try to rent a room)
Comida Sin Cocina: El Supermercado Es Mi Restaurante
1) Pan con manteca, banana, y salsa piquante
2) Galletas sin sal con manteca, manzana verde, y dulce de leche en polvo
3) Ensalada de tomates, repollo rojo, y cebolla con tomillo y salsa piquante
4) Avena con duranzos en lata, canela, y dulce de leche en polvo
y proxima? ya no se....
2) Galletas sin sal con manteca, manzana verde, y dulce de leche en polvo
3) Ensalada de tomates, repollo rojo, y cebolla con tomillo y salsa piquante
4) Avena con duranzos en lata, canela, y dulce de leche en polvo
y proxima? ya no se....
Interesting Adventures I've Had Lately
slept in the subway
slept in the atm
slept in the park
slept in a bar
slept sitting up
seen that awesome movie
slept on the floor
danced all night
slept at some guy's house
held conversations with Interesting people
not gotten enough sleep
listened to alot of people worry at me without feeling consequently ashamed
What about you Chris?
slept in the atm
slept in the park
slept in a bar
slept sitting up
seen that awesome movie
slept on the floor
danced all night
slept at some guy's house
held conversations with Interesting people
not gotten enough sleep
listened to alot of people worry at me without feeling consequently ashamed
What about you Chris?
Some Thoughts On The Monistic Universe
I have just about finished reading another book on my list of non-mysterian explainations of the most amazing things: The Language Instinct by Stephen Pinker. Our minds are so powerful and flexible not because they are born blank but rather because they come with a rich set of instincts and learning processes built in.
Even conciousness, everyone's favorite mystery, lives here in the physical world. As Daniel Dennett puts it, "The mind is what the brain does." So it was with great pleasure that I read this from my favorite official religionist:
James Ford I love you almost as much as I love Jesus
artisanal time-killing
here's what Pastor has been up to this month, from my friend Jon:
http://elcrisisnohabla.blogspot.com/2009/09/fiesta-del-poncho.html
at the bottom are some of my thoughts on Argentinian affect
http://elcrisisnohabla.blogspot.com/2009/09/fiesta-del-poncho.html
at the bottom are some of my thoughts on Argentinian affect
Don't worry about a thing
I have always been obstinate about not taking other people's word for it. So, I try things. I have been acutely homesick, but it's hard to say what that really means. I know that being in Newton would not help anything. It would be more comfortable in some sense, but maybe no less lonely. My parents' house doesn't work as home anymore; we've tried. I tend to sit and take no steps toward what I want while I live there. My parents have their own lives now and I think I need a new home eventually, maybe already. I'm pretty sure though, that "parents' house" is the right kind of place, in that, it's a place where someone important to me is.
I found some work at English immersion camps
I think the standards for counselors are lower in Argentina because everyone says I am great.
but I always under-value my own performance.
but I always under-value my own performance.
20:50 I am still couchsurfing.
max lives at a hostel now, staying up five nights a week.
20:51 couchsurfing sure is awkward sometimes
but it is never not free
20:53 I have been bouncing around places
20:55 my current host is Edwin and his laptop here has a US keyboard
it is so nice
I have not left his apt for 29 hours
he works at a call center from 18:00 to 0:00 most days
he has 3 roomates in this tiny place
one of them was going to be gone this week, but actually he's not
20:57 couchsurfing is an awful lot like volunteering except they don't expect you to work
3 of them are brasilian and the other I think is from ecuador
also, two of them are chicks
I am leaving tomorrow I think
my goal: to never leave the apt during my entire stay
20:59 of 2.5 days
it is the best goal I could think of
Todos son buenos ballarinos
Esta mañana hice una polenta con salt, maple syrup, oregano, queso, whisky, y chocolate. A oir, horrible, pero a comer, bastante rico. Creo que no voy a estar enfermo mas!
Fwd: valuing my work and going after what I want
---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Tomato Insurgent <tomato.insurgent@gmail.com>
Date: 2009/8/26
Subject: Re: valuing my work and going after what I want
To: Sara Mosenkis <
I am in Buenos Aires right now on an open-ended trip with my friend Max who I've know for 20 years (since elementary school). This year, before coming to this city, we spent 5 months working very hard for no money as volunteers on organic farms in Patagonia (in Chile and later in Argentina). I found this work very rewarding and meaningful because of the skills it required me to develop, the physically healthy lifestyle it dictated, the beautiful locations where it occurred, and the opportunities it provided to know people outside of the rushed context of standard tourism/travel. We did not start the trip with much money and our volunteerism was financially possible because these farms provided free lodging and food for us in exchange for our work.
This is only the most recent of many activities/jobs that I've done under the rubric of 'Volunteerism.' During 2003-2004 I was a corps member in an AmeriCorps program in Boston, USA and my work was primarily focused on teaching environmental science in third-grade classrooms (students aged 7-8). The corps members were frequently called 'volunteers,' which is interesting given that we were being paid for our work, albeit far less than the federal minimum wage.
More recently in Boston I drove a truck and loaded and sold produce for a food-salvage non-profit; for compensation I only took as much food as I could carry even though I was frequently offered small amounts of cash. In this case, I very much valued my identity as a volunteer because I found that it improved the quality of my relationship with the founder and manager of the program.
Then last year, my brother and I volunteered doing reconstruction work in New Orleans for four months, during which time we lived in a tiny dorm in a volunteer center in the lower ninth ward and had most of our meals provided for us by the organization. This was a very similar financial arrangement to the organic farms I've stayed at this year, full-time, live-in volunteerism.
So, even though my resume has far more volunteerism listed than 'real work,' it is not as though I've been engaged in leisure-type, something-for-nothing activities. And in each case, what I got for my work was not just 'a good experience' but rather tangible financial compensation: the Americorps stipend (and health insurance and paltry scholarship), room and board (not cheap to buy on the open market), or even just (all my) food.
In each of these volunteer positions I was doing work that I enjoy and believe in; I was not soley exhanging my time and effort for the financial compensation provided. However the compensation I recieved made it financially possible for me to commit myself to fulfilling the requirements of the positions. Reciprocally, none of these positions could feasably have been compensated with a standard or minimum wage, given the financial constraints of the organizations and individuals for whom I was working. Thus I was able to provide services that would otherwise have been prohibitively expensive: for the recipients under a private corporate model, or for the government under a subsidized public model.
Volunteerism in this sense can fill in the gaps in the work opportunities, social services, and organizational structures available through our current economic system of heavilly regulated capitalism/socialism. If a houshold is required to purchase all its requisite goods and services on the market, the minimum wage is usually woefully inadequate. But for many positions in public service, independent agriculture, and other fields, this same minumum wage (plus taxes and benefits and all the other regulated necessities) is already prohibitively expensive for the employer. While of course, these regulations were put in place to protect workers from exploitation, I have appreciated the opportunity to arrange my own, more flexible compensation, to decide for myself what is an amazing opportunity and what is an unacceptable exploitation. Could I support a family living in an apartment by volunteering? of course not! But I have neither a dependent family nor an apartment.
And while I do have a network of family and friends on whom I can rely in a pinch, and while this is surely partly due to the privilege of growing up middle-class, I do not think that volunteerism in principle is limited in scope to only the privileged. Financially, everyone needs some money and some belongings, alot of food and a place to live. But this does not all have to come though the standard channels (empoyment, vendors, landlords, etc.) recongnized in regulated capitalism/socialism. Volunteerism, work-trade, barter, and other subversive economies have always been irreplacable and should be celebrated and promoted as a medium for more rational exchange.
Matthew Holland, 24, Buenos Aires, Argentina
From: Tomato Insurgent <tomato.insurgent@gmail.com>
Date: 2009/8/26
Subject: Re: valuing my work and going after what I want
To: Sara Mosenkis <
I am in Buenos Aires right now on an open-ended trip with my friend Max who I've know for 20 years (since elementary school). This year, before coming to this city, we spent 5 months working very hard for no money as volunteers on organic farms in Patagonia (in Chile and later in Argentina). I found this work very rewarding and meaningful because of the skills it required me to develop, the physically healthy lifestyle it dictated, the beautiful locations where it occurred, and the opportunities it provided to know people outside of the rushed context of standard tourism/travel. We did not start the trip with much money and our volunteerism was financially possible because these farms provided free lodging and food for us in exchange for our work.
This is only the most recent of many activities/jobs that I've done under the rubric of 'Volunteerism.' During 2003-2004 I was a corps member in an AmeriCorps program in Boston, USA and my work was primarily focused on teaching environmental science in third-grade classrooms (students aged 7-8). The corps members were frequently called 'volunteers,' which is interesting given that we were being paid for our work, albeit far less than the federal minimum wage.
More recently in Boston I drove a truck and loaded and sold produce for a food-salvage non-profit; for compensation I only took as much food as I could carry even though I was frequently offered small amounts of cash. In this case, I very much valued my identity as a volunteer because I found that it improved the quality of my relationship with the founder and manager of the program.
Then last year, my brother and I volunteered doing reconstruction work in New Orleans for four months, during which time we lived in a tiny dorm in a volunteer center in the lower ninth ward and had most of our meals provided for us by the organization. This was a very similar financial arrangement to the organic farms I've stayed at this year, full-time, live-in volunteerism.
So, even though my resume has far more volunteerism listed than 'real work,' it is not as though I've been engaged in leisure-type, something-for-nothing activities. And in each case, what I got for my work was not just 'a good experience' but rather tangible financial compensation: the Americorps stipend (and health insurance and paltry scholarship), room and board (not cheap to buy on the open market), or even just (all my) food.
In each of these volunteer positions I was doing work that I enjoy and believe in; I was not soley exhanging my time and effort for the financial compensation provided. However the compensation I recieved made it financially possible for me to commit myself to fulfilling the requirements of the positions. Reciprocally, none of these positions could feasably have been compensated with a standard or minimum wage, given the financial constraints of the organizations and individuals for whom I was working. Thus I was able to provide services that would otherwise have been prohibitively expensive: for the recipients under a private corporate model, or for the government under a subsidized public model.
Volunteerism in this sense can fill in the gaps in the work opportunities, social services, and organizational structures available through our current economic system of heavilly regulated capitalism/socialism. If a houshold is required to purchase all its requisite goods and services on the market, the minimum wage is usually woefully inadequate. But for many positions in public service, independent agriculture, and other fields, this same minumum wage (plus taxes and benefits and all the other regulated necessities) is already prohibitively expensive for the employer. While of course, these regulations were put in place to protect workers from exploitation, I have appreciated the opportunity to arrange my own, more flexible compensation, to decide for myself what is an amazing opportunity and what is an unacceptable exploitation. Could I support a family living in an apartment by volunteering? of course not! But I have neither a dependent family nor an apartment.
And while I do have a network of family and friends on whom I can rely in a pinch, and while this is surely partly due to the privilege of growing up middle-class, I do not think that volunteerism in principle is limited in scope to only the privileged. Financially, everyone needs some money and some belongings, alot of food and a place to live. But this does not all have to come though the standard channels (empoyment, vendors, landlords, etc.) recongnized in regulated capitalism/socialism. Volunteerism, work-trade, barter, and other subversive economies have always been irreplacable and should be celebrated and promoted as a medium for more rational exchange.
Matthew Holland, 24, Buenos Aires, Argentina
hors
Yesterday I made bullseyes (egg fried in hole in bread) but nobody would sit and eat. I had already melted cheese on top and fried tomatoes, which I also put on top. Then I mashed up some avocado with balsamic vinegar and put that on top too, then I cut them into little pieces (the eggs were firmish) and put a toothpick in each one and voila, people ate when I brought the plate. People can be so difficult sometimes.
Will Work For US$
I can do stuff on the internet... anyone know anyone who needs some data coded or something written or edited? Here is my CV:
http://docs.google.com/View?id=dgdv56p5_117nb3txrcc
Getting work in Buenos Aires is turning out to be a harder than I thought because I don't have a work visa for Argentina. I could really use some positive cashflow; I have a US address and checking account and also PayPal so it shouldn't be hard to pay me whatever paltry sums (to you) that I am just dreaming about down here. Also keep in mind that I am like this:
http://twitter.com/tomatoinsurgent/statuses/3449096202
It sometimes happens that somebody knows someone.
http://docs.google.com/View?id=dgdv56p5_117nb3txrcc
Getting work in Buenos Aires is turning out to be a harder than I thought because I don't have a work visa for Argentina. I could really use some positive cashflow; I have a US address and checking account and also PayPal so it shouldn't be hard to pay me whatever paltry sums (to you) that I am just dreaming about down here. Also keep in mind that I am like this:
http://twitter.com/tomatoinsurgent/statuses/3449096202
It sometimes happens that somebody knows someone.
I delay things: when necessary, and also when unnecessary
It was less than a year ago that I finally returned to the 9/11 videos, by way of the Internets. Even as I did it, and let myself cry for the human tragedy in news coverage (which I so systematically deny), I had to wonder how late I was. How many had held out so long, knowing that at any minute they could replay the collapsing towers. Seven years may be an unthinkably long time in the 21s century, but I think it was about the minimum for me to recover passively from the shock and subsequent disgust with its symbolic exploitation by the US government.
And a passive recovery it had to be, because any active attempt felt like complicity with the ridiculous (http://www.theonion.com/content/node/28148) and irredeemably excessive (http://www.politicus.us/wp-content/uploads/abu_ghraib_abuse_hood.jpg) attempts of my entire society to recover actively. How many people are still waiting? I say wait as long as you want.
And a passive recovery it had to be, because any active attempt felt like complicity with the ridiculous (http://www.theonion.com/content/node/28148) and irredeemably excessive (http://www.politicus.us/wp-content/uploads/abu_ghraib_abuse_hood.jpg) attempts of my entire society to recover actively. How many people are still waiting? I say wait as long as you want.
Some Thoughts on Fathering Children
Had an epiphany while making bread for dinner back in April about my hypothetical children. I think that maybe I don't need to raise my own biologically fathered children. In fact, though it would be totally fascinating to see my genes expressed in another person, it might be too intense to raise that person as my child. Too intense because I would be so invested, overjoyed, and heartbroken in the expressions of my own biology in them that it would be much harder for me to let them be their own person, which being the only parenting strategy for producing undamaged adults, would be my first choice. Of course, it would probably be surreal, amazing, exhilarating to meet my biological child as an adult and get to know them well. I wonder if sperm banks would reject me for diabetes? ....most probably
I lost a notebook with some stuff I wrote; I'm trying to let go of some things
Surfing a cloud of sugar and pheromones. Heading out by finger next week with Max. Here is a list of things to do before we can leave:
+get yellow fever vax.
+ditch unnecessary stuff
+build functional stove out of beer cans
+get backup medications
+plan to meet entry requirements in Chile, Peru, Ecuador, Columbia, Panama, Nicaragua, El Salvador, Costa Rica, Honduras, Guatemala, Mexico
+cry with attention as much as possible
+get yellow fever vax.
+ditch unnecessary stuff
+build functional stove out of beer cans
+get backup medications
+plan to meet entry requirements in Chile, Peru, Ecuador, Columbia, Panama, Nicaragua, El Salvador, Costa Rica, Honduras, Guatemala, Mexico
+cry with attention as much as possible
My plane leaves today
but I sure as hell won't be there. Also happy birthday to Max. Also Max, you should call your mom.
for: Lili
Another bad address sidlined one of my first attempts at corrospondence in Spanish (here unedited). Lili worked in Parque Laguna de Laja in Chile and was perhaps the most welcoming, warm person we met in that country; no big suprise that she's actually from Argentina.
---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Tomato Insurgent <tomato.insurgent@gmail.com>
Date: 2009/4/9
Subject: Hola de Matthew
To: liliche_112@hotmail.com
From: Tomato Insurgent <tomato.insurgent@gmail.com>
Date: 2009/4/9
Subject: Hola de Matthew
To: liliche_112@hotmail.com
Lily:
Como estas? Estoy super bien. La semana pasada Max y yo estabamos en Chiloé en la playa cerca de Cucau. Hace un poco frio, y un dia estaba lluviendo, pero un dia hace sol y sol y sol tambien. Nadé en el Océano Pacífico por la primera vez y ahora estoy feliz.
Muchas gracias una vez mas por el almuerzo de los cinco hombres Chilenos. Hace dos semanas que no comimos carne porque en esta granja no hay. Pero no estoy preoccupado, aveces soy practicamente vegetariano porque mi novia de tres años pasado es.
Intendabamos de encontrar a su amiga Paulina, pero el hombre del parque dice que no la conoce. Possiblimente volverimos al Chiloé otro vez y encontraramos a ella. Tienes otros amigos en los parques? Porque vamos a verlos.
Espero que estas bien. Como esta la puma?
Matthew
P.S.
Escribe de tu en mi blog, pero es en Ingles: http://tomatoinsurgent.blogspot.com/2009/04/encouraging-series-of-experiences.html
for: Kati
The relationships I get to form while traveling are mutually aknowleged to be essentially temporary. Still, I sometimes try to follow up, only to find that the email is wrong, my aquaintance unresponsive, or myself too lethargic. This one never got to a live inbox because of a transcription error I made in April.
---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Tomato Insurgent <tomato.insurgent@gmail.com>
Date: 2009/7/11
Subject: Ahora Estoy en El Bolson
To: kikokati@yahoo.com
Kati:
Aqui esta Matthew, nos conocemos de Casa Amarilla en Chile. Esta semana Max y yo estamos haciendo un invernadero grande (se llama Moby Dick) en la chacra de Alex aqui en Bolson. El otro dia yo vi tu cosa de hilo en la concina y estaba pensando, "yo conozco esta chica." Alex dio si, es de Kati; y Pastor dio es Muy Galactico. Me gusta tu estyla.
Espero que todo es bien en cualquier lugar donde estas:
Matthew
From: Tomato Insurgent <tomato.insurgent@gmail.com>
Date: 2009/7/11
Subject: Ahora Estoy en El Bolson
To: kikokati@yahoo.com
Kati:
Aqui esta Matthew, nos conocemos de Casa Amarilla en Chile. Esta semana Max y yo estamos haciendo un invernadero grande (se llama Moby Dick) en la chacra de Alex aqui en Bolson. El otro dia yo vi tu cosa de hilo en la concina y estaba pensando, "yo conozco esta chica." Alex dio si, es de Kati; y Pastor dio es Muy Galactico. Me gusta tu estyla.
Espero que todo es bien en cualquier lugar donde estas:
Matthew
Today's Epistimology
We could fly back to Boston in two days;
I don't think we're going.
We thought about plans for differing ways;
but I don't think we're going.
If I miss you than I miss you too much,
and I don't mind showing:
that if I really don't know
then there's no way of knowing.
I don't think we're going.
We thought about plans for differing ways;
but I don't think we're going.
If I miss you than I miss you too much,
and I don't mind showing:
that if I really don't know
then there's no way of knowing.
Tell me I needn't fear
Tonight's the third night of our first ever couchsurf and I have been super relaxed and happy since arriving. It's Johanna's first time hosting as well, so we're all figuring this out together. There have been some privacy issues around me using her computer but mostly we've been getting along famously. We've been sharing food too, which is nice, though not necessarily a part of couchsurfing arrangements in general as far as I know (not very far). Tonight I made a purple pizza with eggplant sauce and beets on top and blueberry hot sauce. It tasted good and the crust worked, in that it was stiff enough, which for me was the most exciting part because it made it truely finger food. There have been various transactions in film and other visual media.
One time I carried 4 cans of dearly purchased paint from downtown out to the lower 9th
My friend Jenna is (was ?( working down in NOLA for the summer:
http://toneworleans.blogspot.com/2009/07/weekend-with-my-favorite-people-son.html?showComment=1249549027965#c6889451135200661167
This part about the can of paint brings tears for me. This is just how it was when I was down there: so many good people working so hard with so few resources apart from the volunteers themselves. The world is full of people of amazing generosity and love but it's sometimes so hard to see. I really believe we need to propagate volunteerism the world over: people are helping other people so much more efficiently and effectively without the impossible cargo of governmental bureaucracy.
http://toneworleans.blogspot.com/2009/07/weekend-with-my-favorite-people-son.html?showComment=1249549027965#c6889451135200661167
This part about the can of paint brings tears for me. This is just how it was when I was down there: so many good people working so hard with so few resources apart from the volunteers themselves. The world is full of people of amazing generosity and love but it's sometimes so hard to see. I really believe we need to propagate volunteerism the world over: people are helping other people so much more efficiently and effectively without the impossible cargo of governmental bureaucracy.
Some Volunteers are more Voluntary than Others
My friend Dan is doing a different sort of South American Volunteerism:
http://exceptionalamerican.wordpress.com/2009/07/19/how-to-slaughter-a-cow-with-kitchen-knives-and-a-machete/
http://exceptionalamerican.wordpress.com/2009/07/19/how-to-slaughter-a-cow-with-kitchen-knives-and-a-machete/
A conversation in which I explain what I did last night.
dad: Where are you?
On the way to Montevideo?
me: er...
If we were going, then we'd be on the way
but we don't know where we're going
last night we were going to party
I got into a club for free with a birthday party of about 20 20-yr-old argentine women
dad: Sounds like an exciting start for the evening
me: yeah
the evening was not really proportionally exciting
but once I got bored 4 hours later, I just walked outside and was asking directions when this silly couple just gave me a ride home to the hostel
they were jokingly telling me they were a remis, and would I pay for the ride
so I gave them a couple pesos when we got here
dad: remis?
me: um, it's a car you pay for a ride in
but it's less official than a taxi, though still perfectly legal
dad: Got it.
me: anyhoo, taking rides with strangers because, saftey is very important
A conversation in which I explain volunteering
me: although
real chocolate would be nice
all the stuff down here is shitty, mostly milk and sugar
k: mmm not so good for the diabetes
me: whateves
k: hahaha
me: I eat everything that's put in front of me
getting an autoimmune disease can't change me that quickly
k: well maybe i'll add some dark chocolate to the volcanic rock when i know where to send it to
although that might get too expensive if i'm in france by then
me: although, the social regulations on eating in volunteer situations did what no consideration of my own health ever could
k: oh explain!
oh boy your adventures sound so wonderful
me: well
um
I was arranging delivery of a photo
um
well sometimes we kind of get paid for work with food
that's how volunteering can be economically sustainable for both parties
k: right
me: but that makes sharing a meal with your host a whole interesting transaction
because sometimes we've done more or less work preceeding the meal
depending on schedules and stuff
in Bolson
we worked for a bunch of different people
hopping around alot
and different hosts are different too
some watch you eating
which is real uncomfortable
k: yes i would think so
me: but sometimes I feel I am offered more than they can really afford for me to eat regularly
which is also awkward
Winners for all your transport needs.
Well we made finger like maniacs and arrived in Buenos Aires a mere 36 hours after setting out from The Cabbages. Four short rides got us situated in Dina Huapi, the last locality of Bariloche and about 100km towards our goal. Then three long rides took us 1700km to Buenos Aires in 24 hours. We arrived in the back of a pickup, freezing our asses off and watching a full-sky, pink and orange sunset. Needless to say, we went to sleep quickly upon checking in, missing out entirely on Friday night partying with millions of strangers. Haven't been to a city in three months, this is nuts. It's still cold here though, maybe we're going to Mexico.
Vamos
Vamos a Buenos Aires en 2-3 dias para mirrar los posibilidades de nos vidas ahora. Hay muchos.
Grayish-brown, more organic mud.
Vacation went well until the last day when I had to organize all my stuff and leave in forty minutes. I've immediately landed in a new sausagefest with Damien, who lives in Epuyen and is engages in various bio-construction activities in the area. This week we did the finishing work on the adobe walls of a kitchen-and-bath annex beside the yurt of Julio the tentmaker and his partner. They have a new baby, which I guess makes cooking and cleaning in a tent less fun and more impossible.
Finishing adobe walls is done by mixing three parts sand to one part clay, adding water and straw to the desired consistency, and smearing that shit on there with hands or tools. It doesn't stick automatically but I gather from Damien that I caught on rather quickly my first time. I drew heavily on my experience finishing drywall, but brown mud is much more fun because the finished surface is round rather than flat, which leaves much more room for error and art.
Finishing adobe walls is done by mixing three parts sand to one part clay, adding water and straw to the desired consistency, and smearing that shit on there with hands or tools. It doesn't stick automatically but I gather from Damien that I caught on rather quickly my first time. I drew heavily on my experience finishing drywall, but brown mud is much more fun because the finished surface is round rather than flat, which leaves much more room for error and art.
My boots have new soles!
This is inordinately exciting after 2 months of worrying that I would have to go barefoot. It only cost about 40 bucks and took 3 days. Now to see if it lasts...
Officiality often adds unnecessary freight to situations.
It's impossible not to make plans, and it's impossible not to change plans. Max and I regularly adjust our plans for the next thing. A new plan can knock our thoughts out of the narrow ruts we otherwise track: "We don't have enough money for anything." "We have to work really hard all the time." "We have to stay here." "We have to get out of here." It's amazing how the possibilities of the world open up after we have a change-of-plan conversation, even if our decision is to not change things (as we were previously planning to.) It's impossible not to tell other people about plans. Telling makes them feel official, even inevitable, so we are compelled to share the changes as well, just so as we can actually believe them. Living out of a backpack necessitates this; permanence is an illusion anyway.
Diary of Some Socks
In my box
In the flood zone,
I don't know how.
Wore them here,
One got chewed out.
4x darn
Good plastic yarn.
Forgotten up there,
But now she can wear them.
And I can feel good about it:
I'd give you more than old socks
If you asked.
In the flood zone,
I don't know how.
Wore them here,
One got chewed out.
4x darn
Good plastic yarn.
Forgotten up there,
But now she can wear them.
And I can feel good about it:
I'd give you more than old socks
If you asked.
¡Thanks For The Stuff Mom!
Taking a vacation with Max's dad Kevan. Same place, but different headspace: every day what can I do to be happy and relaxed, rather than work for food and dry backs. Blanca Rosa, La Nona, Rekó, Piltri, Shanti. This month I like Bioconstruction, next month I like English education.
Leche
Yo quiero comer y comer y comer,
No es importante como o donde,
Solo que estoy haciendo
Algo con leche.
Mi druga es blanca,
Fria o calentita,
Yo solo queria
Grasa de leche.
No es importante como o donde,
Solo que estoy haciendo
Algo con leche.
Mi druga es blanca,
Fria o calentita,
Yo solo queria
Grasa de leche.
Some Thoughts On Permanance
When I was so young that my memories are mostly in pictures, my dad was renovating our house to remove a carefully-mitred, plastic-brick-veneer half-wall from our living room. As he didn't have matching oak flooring at the time, he patched the resulting gap temporarily (and I remember him explicitly classifying it as such) with particle board. -17 years later in discussion of another small extension of the same floor, my mom stipulates that she wants it done right this time, "Not like over there." Without hesitation I respond, "But that's just temporary."
Last year while visiting some friends in ME, I assisted them in accepting the dubious gift of a neighbor's broken hot tub. The brothers and I intended to place it roughly in the intended location in front of the house until such time as it could be hooked up. -Their mother, realizing the probable permanence of the situation, comes out and insists that we carefully level it and orient it properly. "But why," we protest, "it's just temporary."
Everything is permanent: I'm just sewing this patch on 'for now', but I'm not going to do it 'for real' until this one breaks (and it still hasn't.)
Everything is temporary: I want to hang this axe 'forever', but when it does fly off the handle, even if it's tomorrow, I can rehang it.
Last year while visiting some friends in ME, I assisted them in accepting the dubious gift of a neighbor's broken hot tub. The brothers and I intended to place it roughly in the intended location in front of the house until such time as it could be hooked up. -Their mother, realizing the probable permanence of the situation, comes out and insists that we carefully level it and orient it properly. "But why," we protest, "it's just temporary."
Everything is permanent: I'm just sewing this patch on 'for now', but I'm not going to do it 'for real' until this one breaks (and it still hasn't.)
Everything is temporary: I want to hang this axe 'forever', but when it does fly off the handle, even if it's tomorrow, I can rehang it.
Una Structura Segura
Esta Semana estamos haciendo un invernadero en la chacra communitaria Rio Azul. Es muy grande, 20m de largo, 4m de ancho, 3m de alto. La familia en Los Repollos tiene un tiempo dificil ahora, y vamos a otro lugares, possible a Rio Azul para unas semanas. Los dos dias pasado hice un poco de calor (para invierno official, 2 semanas adentro ahora) perfecto para trabaja duro en mover truncos y piedras al sitio. Max y yo queremos permanecer en Sudamerica hasta Marzo, por supesto, no hay plan seguro.
Before The Cabbages
When we first got to Bolson, we were staying in town in the tool shed of one Pastor Silvestre, who promulgates the practices revealed to some US American hippies during an acid trip in the seventies and now collected under the title The Chronicles of Enoch. It's hilarious to hear and read corny new-age English phrasology as a sacred language, in fact I often cannot stiffle a laugh.
But despite his far-out-dude philosophy, Pastor (as all call him, I know it sounds freaky) is a remarkably down-to-earth guy, and by far the best patron we've yet encountered. When we first arrived, he said something like, "Listen, I can't feed you because I have kids, and you are like big kids," which makes sense, because like so many folks on the organic farming list, he doesn´t have a farm; and it's expensive to feed people if you don't have surplus produce. So we went to the grocery store and bought some potatoes and then proceeded to experience the most reasonable system for long-term, live-in volunteerism I've yet seen.
Every day, starting the very afternoon we arrived, we went somewhere to do some work and usually, while we were there, eat some food. And sometimes we didn't go anywhere or do anything, in which case we made our own food; and nobody became slowly resentful of anybody else. Pastor is at the center of an exceptional, diverse, urban community of landowners, volunteers, and artists, all with disparate living standards and arrangements but interested, broadly, in Permaculture. Dude himself is an artist who makes wind chimes to sell at the four-day-a-week art fair in the center of town; and we spent many hours in his workshop machining and assembling trade goods. But we also fixed roofs, including the living roof at Blanca Rosa's Hosteria de Permacultura, his mother's place.
In spite of his feeding quip, Pastor did not treat us as kids, but recognized us as adults and was not surprised to find us pursuing our own projects and setting our own schedules as we came to know the area. When we worked for him, he served us rice and sweet potatoes, and sometimes beef, with delicious home-cooked love; and when we found other roofs or other work, he was just as pleased.
Two weeks ago Pastor went to a trade show up north and we moved to Los Repollos. Daniella and Marcello are much more peripherally invlolved in the Permaculture Posse; we met them through Blanca Rosa and are still happilly living in their attic, cutting wood and making trails.
But despite his far-out-dude philosophy, Pastor (as all call him, I know it sounds freaky) is a remarkably down-to-earth guy, and by far the best patron we've yet encountered. When we first arrived, he said something like, "Listen, I can't feed you because I have kids, and you are like big kids," which makes sense, because like so many folks on the organic farming list, he doesn´t have a farm; and it's expensive to feed people if you don't have surplus produce. So we went to the grocery store and bought some potatoes and then proceeded to experience the most reasonable system for long-term, live-in volunteerism I've yet seen.
Every day, starting the very afternoon we arrived, we went somewhere to do some work and usually, while we were there, eat some food. And sometimes we didn't go anywhere or do anything, in which case we made our own food; and nobody became slowly resentful of anybody else. Pastor is at the center of an exceptional, diverse, urban community of landowners, volunteers, and artists, all with disparate living standards and arrangements but interested, broadly, in Permaculture. Dude himself is an artist who makes wind chimes to sell at the four-day-a-week art fair in the center of town; and we spent many hours in his workshop machining and assembling trade goods. But we also fixed roofs, including the living roof at Blanca Rosa's Hosteria de Permacultura, his mother's place.
In spite of his feeding quip, Pastor did not treat us as kids, but recognized us as adults and was not surprised to find us pursuing our own projects and setting our own schedules as we came to know the area. When we worked for him, he served us rice and sweet potatoes, and sometimes beef, with delicious home-cooked love; and when we found other roofs or other work, he was just as pleased.
Two weeks ago Pastor went to a trade show up north and we moved to Los Repollos. Daniella and Marcello are much more peripherally invlolved in the Permaculture Posse; we met them through Blanca Rosa and are still happilly living in their attic, cutting wood and making trails.
light's coming back my way baby
Burned candles all night,
Bathed and cooked
To prepare for the light.
Gonna earn the summa comin.
People like I like them.
Think about the use of friend.
Warm walk.
Diabetes talk.
Cool ride.
Inside.
Today I'm gonna sing.
And then I'm gonna bring flour
Home to Mama.
The Cabbages
Max and I are staying with an adorable young family about fourty minutes outside Bolson in a nothing of a locality named Los Repollos. They have a beautiful six-month-old baby boy but no firewood cut to heat their house this winter. It's nice to be in a situation where our services are obviously and actually required; Marcello has to go to town almost every day and just cannot possibly accumulate the firewood that Daniella and baby Uriel need. It's also nice to be outside of the city again, working in the woods with an axe; This is what I'm used to doing in June anyways. The other day I hung a neighbor's axe on a native handle that I cut myself; I think it's going to hold but if not, I'll do it again. We have all the time in the world.
Muy Hippie
Ahora estoy 45 minutos afuera del Bolson en un comunidad hippie se llama Shanti. No puedo usar mucho los telecomunicacciones. Yo envio mucho amor.
The Permanance of Permaculture
Fifteen days later and we're still here in El Bolson; there's nothing like a welcoming hippie community to subvert intentions to move. Right now I like wind chimes, machetes, and telephone numbers. For the future I like tree houses, canoes, and the Atlantic. If I love you, I love you very much.
In the city
So there was this guy right? And he had this favorite rain jacket, it was triple-layer Gore-Tex and it fit perfectly over a sweater, with pockets in just the right places and pit zips for when it was really hot. Well this guy, he wore his jacket everywhere, just in case it rained, and so he wore it on the city bus one sunny day, and it got caught on a damaged seat back, which opened up a 10cm tear in the flank, which distressed this guy so much that he pulled out his cell phone right there on the bus and called the Transportation Authority to demand recompense.
Now the lady who answered at the TA was not that interested in helping him. As she saw it, people are responsible for their own clothing, on or off TA vehicles and property. But this guy was so attached to his jacket, and so torn-up about the damage, that he was eventually yelling at her about how everyone at the TA was an irresponsible little shit like her and that if he did not receive recompense, he would never ride again, and moreover he would organize a boycott by people who cared about how things ought to be done.
Now remember, he was still riding the bus at this point, trying to get to an Important Appointment, and as he was yelling these vulgarities at close to the top of his lungs, the bus driver could hear what he was saying. Specifically the bus driver could hear what this guy said about TA employees, he heard it over and over in his head and he could not stop hearing it. He could not put it down because, see, this here bus driver was a man who took pride in his work, who saw bus driving not as just a secure job, but as an honorable vocation, with various standards to uphold, and a storied history going way back to stagecoaches in England. This bus driver took pride in his perfect safety record, his directions to travelers, and his ready assistance to the old and infirm among his passengers. He had not once in 17 years of service, called in sick, and he intended to extend that record to to a round 20 and retire knowing in his heart that even if other men could match his performance as a city bus driver, none could exceed him, for his had been a qualitatively and quantitatively perfect record of service.
So anyways, this bus driver was obsessing about what this guy said, about all TA employees being irresponsible shits, and the more he thought about it, the madder he got; because he knew for certain that he was responsible and knew that while his buddies were not his equals in driverhood, that they were still damn good bus drivers and solid boys, not an irresponsible shit among them, for if there were, he certainly would not associate with him. And this bus driver thought to himself that if there was an irresponsible shit in this situation, then he certainly know who it was. And the more this jacket guy yelled at the the TA lady, the more this bus guy built up his head of steam until suddenly, in the middle of Moriarty Boulevard not near any know bus stop or convenient corner, he slammed on the breaks.
The air brakes on this city bus squealed like death and this guy with the ripped jacket lunged forward, catching himself on a seat back but perilously close to smashing his teeth in. He dropped his cell phone, which split apart into casing, circuit board, and button pad. When he recovered his balance, he was fuming so hard he barely got any oxygen from his breath. His carefully cultivated two-day scruff stood out lighter than his darkening crimson face. Now someone was really going to pay, he thought as tears of anger and frustration seeped from the outside corners of his eyes, light brown eyes that his last girlfriend had described as intelligent before he had told her that he didn't know if he could ever love her.
And as this guy approached the front of the bus to tell this irresponsible shit bus driver what for, and to demand recompense for his phone now, in addition to his jacket, this proud bus driver rose with his squarish and immaculate jaw steeled in anger and resolve. His black eyes, which his wife had never described as intelligent, but which she sometimes looked into as she said she loved him, were cold and steady. And this bus driver just opened the door and pointed down the steps and said, "OUT."
Now this was not at all what the jacket wearing guy expected, until he realized that this irresponsible shit bus driver had probably heard some of what he said and was now afraid he would lose his stupid bus-driving job, or at least fall in the eyes of his stupid, bus-dispatching boss. Well, Jacket was gonna set him straight, "You better pay for my stuff," he said, "it got broken on your shitty bus because it's not maintained and you drive it dangerously."
"You get off my bus right now." responds the bus driver.
"You don't seem to understand," replies Jacket, "I've got a very Important Appointment to attend, and I´m doing my best to be Ecological and Sustainable by riding the city bus, this bus here, and it has ruined phone and my jacket, I won't have it making me late as well. Now drive on to Mersona & Mangly if you please. And what am I to do if it rains?" he finishes, holding open the tear in the flank of his formerly perfect purple jacket.
And to that this bus driver says, ¨"It's shitheads like you who take what should be a decent system and make it always late and broken down, calling the bosses around to clean up your messes and watch your own asses for you. Now I don't care about your Gore-Tex jacket or your Important Appointment. You'll be getting off this bus right now or I'll have to make you." And this bus driver just steps up to this guy and grabs his skinny little upper arm to throw him off, but all he gets is jacket. Turns out this jacket guy had been starting to take off his jacket to better see the damage and had gotten so distracted that he put his arm back though the opened pit zip. So when this bus driver goes to pull this guy's arm, he just pulls his jacket right off him, stumbles back at the unexpected ease, and falls awkwardly into the driver's seat.
"Now see here," Jacket is saying, "give that jacket back to me, you can't just hide the evidence, you irresponsible shit, there's this whole fucking bus full of witnesses," and he gestures furiously behind himself at a cowering assortment of TA patrons. And just as he is saying, "And you´ll be hearing from me, probably when your superior fires you." he makes to take his jacket and leave. But this bus driver is still indignantly clutching the arm, vaguely wondering what happened but mostly filled with blinding rage. So this beautiful, triple-layer Gore-Tex jacket is just stretched between these two guys, and the ten centimeter rip is right in the middle of the taught part, and this rip opens slowly as these guys face each other in silent rage. And then this purple rain jacket just splits in two with the high, tight whine of tearing plastic fabric, and this jacket guy falls down the stairs and onto the curb of Moriarty Boulevard, and as he picks himself up and heads of briskly in the wrong direction, he angrily dons the remaining half of his jacket, shoving his other arm right down through the other open pit zip. And after a good three and a half minutes, during which there is no sound on the bus but the whooshes of passing traffic, this bus driver just drives off along his route, his new half-rain-jacket tucked neatly next to his lunch box.
Now the lady who answered at the TA was not that interested in helping him. As she saw it, people are responsible for their own clothing, on or off TA vehicles and property. But this guy was so attached to his jacket, and so torn-up about the damage, that he was eventually yelling at her about how everyone at the TA was an irresponsible little shit like her and that if he did not receive recompense, he would never ride again, and moreover he would organize a boycott by people who cared about how things ought to be done.
Now remember, he was still riding the bus at this point, trying to get to an Important Appointment, and as he was yelling these vulgarities at close to the top of his lungs, the bus driver could hear what he was saying. Specifically the bus driver could hear what this guy said about TA employees, he heard it over and over in his head and he could not stop hearing it. He could not put it down because, see, this here bus driver was a man who took pride in his work, who saw bus driving not as just a secure job, but as an honorable vocation, with various standards to uphold, and a storied history going way back to stagecoaches in England. This bus driver took pride in his perfect safety record, his directions to travelers, and his ready assistance to the old and infirm among his passengers. He had not once in 17 years of service, called in sick, and he intended to extend that record to to a round 20 and retire knowing in his heart that even if other men could match his performance as a city bus driver, none could exceed him, for his had been a qualitatively and quantitatively perfect record of service.
So anyways, this bus driver was obsessing about what this guy said, about all TA employees being irresponsible shits, and the more he thought about it, the madder he got; because he knew for certain that he was responsible and knew that while his buddies were not his equals in driverhood, that they were still damn good bus drivers and solid boys, not an irresponsible shit among them, for if there were, he certainly would not associate with him. And this bus driver thought to himself that if there was an irresponsible shit in this situation, then he certainly know who it was. And the more this jacket guy yelled at the the TA lady, the more this bus guy built up his head of steam until suddenly, in the middle of Moriarty Boulevard not near any know bus stop or convenient corner, he slammed on the breaks.
The air brakes on this city bus squealed like death and this guy with the ripped jacket lunged forward, catching himself on a seat back but perilously close to smashing his teeth in. He dropped his cell phone, which split apart into casing, circuit board, and button pad. When he recovered his balance, he was fuming so hard he barely got any oxygen from his breath. His carefully cultivated two-day scruff stood out lighter than his darkening crimson face. Now someone was really going to pay, he thought as tears of anger and frustration seeped from the outside corners of his eyes, light brown eyes that his last girlfriend had described as intelligent before he had told her that he didn't know if he could ever love her.
And as this guy approached the front of the bus to tell this irresponsible shit bus driver what for, and to demand recompense for his phone now, in addition to his jacket, this proud bus driver rose with his squarish and immaculate jaw steeled in anger and resolve. His black eyes, which his wife had never described as intelligent, but which she sometimes looked into as she said she loved him, were cold and steady. And this bus driver just opened the door and pointed down the steps and said, "OUT."
Now this was not at all what the jacket wearing guy expected, until he realized that this irresponsible shit bus driver had probably heard some of what he said and was now afraid he would lose his stupid bus-driving job, or at least fall in the eyes of his stupid, bus-dispatching boss. Well, Jacket was gonna set him straight, "You better pay for my stuff," he said, "it got broken on your shitty bus because it's not maintained and you drive it dangerously."
"You get off my bus right now." responds the bus driver.
"You don't seem to understand," replies Jacket, "I've got a very Important Appointment to attend, and I´m doing my best to be Ecological and Sustainable by riding the city bus, this bus here, and it has ruined phone and my jacket, I won't have it making me late as well. Now drive on to Mersona & Mangly if you please. And what am I to do if it rains?" he finishes, holding open the tear in the flank of his formerly perfect purple jacket.
And to that this bus driver says, ¨"It's shitheads like you who take what should be a decent system and make it always late and broken down, calling the bosses around to clean up your messes and watch your own asses for you. Now I don't care about your Gore-Tex jacket or your Important Appointment. You'll be getting off this bus right now or I'll have to make you." And this bus driver just steps up to this guy and grabs his skinny little upper arm to throw him off, but all he gets is jacket. Turns out this jacket guy had been starting to take off his jacket to better see the damage and had gotten so distracted that he put his arm back though the opened pit zip. So when this bus driver goes to pull this guy's arm, he just pulls his jacket right off him, stumbles back at the unexpected ease, and falls awkwardly into the driver's seat.
"Now see here," Jacket is saying, "give that jacket back to me, you can't just hide the evidence, you irresponsible shit, there's this whole fucking bus full of witnesses," and he gestures furiously behind himself at a cowering assortment of TA patrons. And just as he is saying, "And you´ll be hearing from me, probably when your superior fires you." he makes to take his jacket and leave. But this bus driver is still indignantly clutching the arm, vaguely wondering what happened but mostly filled with blinding rage. So this beautiful, triple-layer Gore-Tex jacket is just stretched between these two guys, and the ten centimeter rip is right in the middle of the taught part, and this rip opens slowly as these guys face each other in silent rage. And then this purple rain jacket just splits in two with the high, tight whine of tearing plastic fabric, and this jacket guy falls down the stairs and onto the curb of Moriarty Boulevard, and as he picks himself up and heads of briskly in the wrong direction, he angrily dons the remaining half of his jacket, shoving his other arm right down through the other open pit zip. And after a good three and a half minutes, during which there is no sound on the bus but the whooshes of passing traffic, this bus driver just drives off along his route, his new half-rain-jacket tucked neatly next to his lunch box.
I Become
See the smoke out my window?
Somebody lives here.
Thank you for taking
my hot drink and
chair by the fire.
Thank you for treating
me as a real person
instead of an overgrown child.
Somebody lives here.
Thank you for taking
my hot drink and
chair by the fire.
Thank you for treating
me as a real person
instead of an overgrown child.
Yo Espero
Crazy crazy crazy,
Todo el mundo loco;
Into the depths
Of hospitality I go.
Que necesito
Y que necesita usted?
The pain of care
Weighs on my head.
Despues de TMV
Todo debo estar facil;
My heart jumps and thumps
Cuando usted me llama.
Todo el mundo loco;
Into the depths
Of hospitality I go.
Que necesito
Y que necesita usted?
The pain of care
Weighs on my head.
Despues de TMV
Todo debo estar facil;
My heart jumps and thumps
Cuando usted me llama.
4 dias pasado, y todo esta pasando.
Lleguemos en El Bolson diez minutos pasado. La clima es un poco seco aqui, la primera vez in semanas que no estamos preoccupados en si estamos mojados y frios. El Pastor Silvestre va a levantarnos en unos minutos. Quiero bañarme, quiero estar feliz el Pastor, quiero hablar y trabajar bien aqui, quiero comer almuerzos todos los dias. Pienso que permanecerimos aqui, si todo es bien, por un semana.
On The Frontier
Middle night,
Sleeping bright,
Stupid dog
Shuts on sight;
Silly guard
Uses light
And abuses slightly
My quiet tea.
The echo in
The vally makes
The forest pine
Whine and shake;
Only a little
But I swear
Enough to pass
Sound through the ear.
The dog barks,
The guard checks,
The light shines,
The footsteps;
The urgent whimper
At nothing in particular
Has me shouting intravehicularly
Insulting integers:
1, 3, 5, 9,
Who do you think be feelin' fine?
7, 8, 10, 11,
I´'ll send you throat-first to doggie heaven.
Shut Up!
Sleeping bright,
Stupid dog
Shuts on sight;
Silly guard
Uses light
And abuses slightly
My quiet tea.
The echo in
The vally makes
The forest pine
Whine and shake;
Only a little
But I swear
Enough to pass
Sound through the ear.
The dog barks,
The guard checks,
The light shines,
The footsteps;
The urgent whimper
At nothing in particular
Has me shouting intravehicularly
Insulting integers:
1, 3, 5, 9,
Who do you think be feelin' fine?
7, 8, 10, 11,
I´'ll send you throat-first to doggie heaven.
Shut Up!
naptime
so tired in Esquel. no ride in Corcovado for two days; camped in the volunteer fire dept garage in a snowstorm; good people. Suddenly this morning to Trevelin for tea and then Esquel but no seats to El Bolson. all night in a club. the roads here are paved and the taps have hot water.
hey everybody, exciting mail newz!
I'll be able to recieve letters sent within a week of today at the following address:
Matthew Holland
Lista de Correos
Pto Raul Marin B.
XI region, Chile
Matthew Holland
Lista de Correos
Pto Raul Marin B.
XI region, Chile
going to AR in my mind
There's always a new plan. New visas necessitate Argentina by Thursday. Now in La Junta trying to get to Futalafu all day, no luck. Then back to Pto. Montt for supplies and a planned return to Cagalandia, where the creative friction has been so hot it burns. Need to see the Doctor for scrips and to double-check my self care; the antibiotics are definitely doing the job though, and the pus stopped flowing days ago. Insulin also performing effectively, and it's so cold that refrigeration is not an issue. Love Matt
Autofree Soloquice
Surgery
by me, for me
to set the pus free
from my body.
Days away
from the nearest city,
in the Chilean
backcountry.
But I have with me
fire, water, shelter, tools, and friends,
all that's really
necessary.
Assorted sites,
assorted tools;
can't say which I might
need to use.
Sharpen only towards the point.
Clean away from wound.
Touch communal pots with gloves.
Don't forget to disinfect.
Mastery
of topography
lets me truly
prioritize safety.
Fifteen hours
of wakefullness, thoughtfulness;
then submission to powers
of antibiotics.
by me, for me
to set the pus free
from my body.
Days away
from the nearest city,
in the Chilean
backcountry.
But I have with me
fire, water, shelter, tools, and friends,
all that's really
necessary.
Assorted sites,
assorted tools;
can't say which I might
need to use.
Sharpen only towards the point.
Clean away from wound.
Touch communal pots with gloves.
Don't forget to disinfect.
Mastery
of topography
lets me truly
prioritize safety.
Fifteen hours
of wakefullness, thoughtfulness;
then submission to powers
of antibiotics.
I Love To Make Things
Yesterday I made a paddle,
the day before, a chair;
today I may make wooden shoes
or I may not care to.
(I do, and also a saidle)
the day before, a chair;
today I may make wooden shoes
or I may not care to.
(I do, and also a saidle)
Ferment
My abstinence,
My wherewithal
Could fall hither,
As with excess
Calculation
And sugar;
Hate the woozy,
Loozy feeling
Of mental keeling
without healing.
My wherewithal
Could fall hither,
As with excess
Calculation
And sugar;
Hate the woozy,
Loozy feeling
Of mental keeling
without healing.
Welcome to Cagalandia
Holy shit this place, Cagalandia it is called by the patron: Thomas Matthew Verster (TMV), is fucking intense. It is so named to mean Fuck-Up Land but the Spanish is can be indistinguishably translated as Shitland. It is a beautiful slice of backcountry temperate rainforest accessible only from a narrow, rocky beach a few kilometers up the estuary from Raul Marin B, usually by two-hour paddle in a weak-floored fiberglass canoe.
And by intense, I do mean intensely parenthetical, as TMV is an extraordinarily parenthetical man, in thought and deed. There is so much to do and yet it is entirely unclear what we are doing: Cagalandia is not a farm, we´ve netted one salad worth of greens and a few kilos of potatoes; there are three goats but they don´t do anything but eat piss and make shit for the dead gardens; we have occasional electricity from a waterfall-powered car alternator (gasoline here is precious as uranium); I´ve yet to see a rat yet we´ve been instructed that killing them is the priority, and indeed their presence is everywhere apparent.
The best verb for what we are doing is camping: We have successfully harvested many kilos of muscles (shelled and smoked), twenty-five crabs in one trap in one day (about one kilo each), and some shitty cabiertas (wild nuts) which taste alright roasted. Our alimentation is supplied generously by TMV, who won´t ever let us forget it. Our patron is the source of all intensity here, and most of everything else. We carried 750 kilos of gear and food out here two weeks ago (by motorboat) and only now have we chanced to return to RMB (by canoe) to ferry TMV on the first leg of a ten-day banking trip to Puerto Montt. (Incidentally every parcel of gear and food was labled TMV RMB.)
When Max and I return to Cagalandia it will just be us and Pascal a French-Canuck, and Jon, another USer. We´ve looked forward to this day like Christmas as a break from the intense teacheriness and social ineptitude of TMV, a Dutch-American ex-pat. We´ve decided that he is or has become a moderate sociopath; when he was young, he couldn´t get a job in the West but made money teaching English and selling things on the street in Japan; in good owning-class fashion, he obsessively saved this money and was able to buy Cagalandia fifteen years ago at a small fraction of it´s current value; his life since has consisted of making some headway on his projects here, and then going off traveling for months at a time and coming back to find his shit totally fucked up by robbers or incompetent employees or rats, and having to start many things over again. We returned with him from his most recent three-month trip to Japan and witnessed the full intensity of this crazy lifestyle as he passively shat on his friend Megumi, who had kept away robbers for three months, for letting rats eat so many tools. She took off the next day, despite his protests, ferried to RMB by sailboat (a Hobicat). After much friction and frank discussion, TMV, Max, Jon, and I have come to some understanding with eachother, enough that he trusts Cagalanida to us for the next ten days, or perhaps he will encounter delays...
And by intense, I do mean intensely parenthetical, as TMV is an extraordinarily parenthetical man, in thought and deed. There is so much to do and yet it is entirely unclear what we are doing: Cagalandia is not a farm, we´ve netted one salad worth of greens and a few kilos of potatoes; there are three goats but they don´t do anything but eat piss and make shit for the dead gardens; we have occasional electricity from a waterfall-powered car alternator (gasoline here is precious as uranium); I´ve yet to see a rat yet we´ve been instructed that killing them is the priority, and indeed their presence is everywhere apparent.
The best verb for what we are doing is camping: We have successfully harvested many kilos of muscles (shelled and smoked), twenty-five crabs in one trap in one day (about one kilo each), and some shitty cabiertas (wild nuts) which taste alright roasted. Our alimentation is supplied generously by TMV, who won´t ever let us forget it. Our patron is the source of all intensity here, and most of everything else. We carried 750 kilos of gear and food out here two weeks ago (by motorboat) and only now have we chanced to return to RMB (by canoe) to ferry TMV on the first leg of a ten-day banking trip to Puerto Montt. (Incidentally every parcel of gear and food was labled TMV RMB.)
When Max and I return to Cagalandia it will just be us and Pascal a French-Canuck, and Jon, another USer. We´ve looked forward to this day like Christmas as a break from the intense teacheriness and social ineptitude of TMV, a Dutch-American ex-pat. We´ve decided that he is or has become a moderate sociopath; when he was young, he couldn´t get a job in the West but made money teaching English and selling things on the street in Japan; in good owning-class fashion, he obsessively saved this money and was able to buy Cagalandia fifteen years ago at a small fraction of it´s current value; his life since has consisted of making some headway on his projects here, and then going off traveling for months at a time and coming back to find his shit totally fucked up by robbers or incompetent employees or rats, and having to start many things over again. We returned with him from his most recent three-month trip to Japan and witnessed the full intensity of this crazy lifestyle as he passively shat on his friend Megumi, who had kept away robbers for three months, for letting rats eat so many tools. She took off the next day, despite his protests, ferried to RMB by sailboat (a Hobicat). After much friction and frank discussion, TMV, Max, Jon, and I have come to some understanding with eachother, enough that he trusts Cagalanida to us for the next ten days, or perhaps he will encounter delays...