Idly focused on the billowing sky, my imagination got all tangled up and eventually captured by nothing more than swirling clusters of physical particles—puffs flattening, twisting, curling, dipping, lashing, splaying themselves across the Tuesday canvas. Not in a way to be remembered, not to be documented or commented on; just to be what is and what passes for Tuesday.


And I watched them on their spiraling journey, their life-changing tour of the Deep Deep South.
I saw una bicicleta become rat,
and rat become gator,
and gator become bird,
and birds, of course, fly away.
And I'd like to be rearranged like that.


If I were unattached [and unattachable], so extremely ungraspable and fleetingly unaware of the surroundings I was painting, coloring and shading, I could be brilliant too.
I would go collect somewhere, in the shape of something, and be seen, or unseen—but be, without stipulations.

Ringing in the second half of the new year, Santiago style

The chill in the air is reminding me that it's about time for new year’s resolutions. But remember: We’re in Chile now, where things are the counter-image of United Statesian things. So, naturally, a list of irresolutions: (in no particular order)

1. Move to Spain, Colombia, India, Peru, Argentina, Panama, Brazil, England, or Italy. or Thailand or South Korea.

2. Take violin and/or piano and/or painting and/or drawing and/or photography classes.

3. Foster-house a street dog or cat.

4. Do my laundry regularly, or live out of a backpack in the mountains where it really can't be helped.

5. Humor the civilized world with "on time" arrivals,and with better excuses at the ready.

6. Take a translation course or learn French, Arabic, or Hatian Creole.

7. Let my wings dry out in Los Angeles or Seattle for a bit… Uh oh. I think this might be “Goodbye Lenin."

8. Improve overall health by eliminating stressors.

9. Read more. Finish them. [Uf. “Finish them,” sounds so brutal, so forceful. I can’t bring myself to do it.]

10. Spend less time reading and more time actualizing.

The state of things

I can’t stay put. It might border on a disability; it might border on insanity, even. Disputtedness. And I’ve got it bad.

I’m staying in South America. I’m even staying in Chile. And I’m staying in Santiago … unless I find a job in a coastal town. Buf. City-fever has struck me with serious implications for my mental health. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand it.

In Santiago’s defense. There are plenty of options for late-night fun to be had. But what about the other twelve daylight hours? Fome fome fome [i.e. boring as all get out]. Santiago is all suit-and-tie. And having adjusted myself to Seattlian customs, men in suits make me nervous.

Which is why I suddenly have in my mind that, if I could find a job (teaching English, presumably) in a coastal town, maybe I could last a bit longer.. I’m committed to being in Chile through the end of the year…but who says I have to stay in Santismoggiago? Gross. I’m about ready to throw myself into the Mopocho river—but I’m afraid I’d get stuck in the mud and have the stench engulf my senses for a day or more.

If I don’t move to the coast… I’m moving in with a couple Chilean friends. They have a cat. I’m sold. Santiago isn’t a thing that should be shouldered alone. God, it’s awful. — That’s not to say I’m not having tons of fun. I am. I thoroughly enjoy myself in cafes, at shows, currying flavors with spice-friendly friends, walking in green belts, basking in the glory of blooming cherry blossoms. But when it comes down to the air I breathe, and things of that nature… Seattle tops the list, so far. And that’s just the state of things.

ay. niños. qué aprendan. qué se mejoren. qué suban a lo que se merezcan.

Chile is an interesting place. I have to begin by saying that I know I’m not qualified to judge – anyone or anything. So these are my opinions and my own unique perceptions. ¿Entendido? Ok, good.

Chile is an interesting place. And the people who live here are as diverse as the landscape. If you’re unfamiliar with the geography of Chile—the country stretches over 4000km, bordered by Peru and Bolivia in the north and Argentina in the south. In the far north, desert. In the far south, Antartica. And sandwiched in between, Southern California. (Not literally. And I suggest looking it up on a map if you still think we can get together for a coffee while you’re studying abroad in Europe. … )
Chile probably isn’t as “third world” as you think it is. Again, only my one-sided opinions here. They are very proud of themselves for being one of the most progressive South American countries. And there is a lot of progress in the cities. But outside the city—campamentos, favelas, suburbios, slums.

And classism is the new black. But, of course, it’s nothing new. The darker the skin, the more the Mapuche blood, the lower the class, the more one stinks in the nostrils of the nation. A Chilean teacher I work with once asked me how you say “flaite” in English. I had heard it translated as “tacky” but I didn’t really know how the word was being used, so she had to describe it to me: You know, like, someone who doesn't have good manners. Someone who’s … gross! Someone who smells bad and their clothes are dirty. Like… people without very much education.

...Hm. Hmmmmmm. Are you serious? You're serious, aren't you?... (Expletives are exploding in my mind.) Do you mean the people you press down because you need to make sure you’re better than someone else?

I can’t say enough that I’m not one to judge…but. People are people. Mapuche (who are the aboriginal race of people in Chile…largely interwoven with the [far better] blood of the descendants of European colonizers by now) consist of flesh and blood and a few other details, just like every other person I’ve ever met or seen or heard of. And if you find them stupid and uneducated, have you offered them opportunities for education?

It’s not uncommon to see children in the street begging for money. And when I say begging, I don’t just mean asking for money, dressed in rags, playing the pity card. Parents can take their children out of school to “work”—i.e. selling gumdrops on the sidewalk, playing instruments in the metro stations, juggling in the intersections, reciting verses (you might call it rapping) on busses. Anything to bring in money. And it’s not right. And it’s not the way forward, by any means. But, …., it’s happening. And it’s everywhere.

There were four boys on the bus I took home tonight. One of them went on (in a memorized monologue) for about five minutes saying more than I could understand about not wanting to work but needing money—and everything else that you would expect to hear from a ten year old who spends his days on Transantiago begging for money. They couldn’t be more than ten, if that. Ten year olds should be in school. Ten year olds should be in school!!!

The boys got off without much fanfare. And at the next stop another man got on with a guitar. (There are many musicians who play on the busses.) He began with a beautiful traditional folklórico song about Chile: Everyone loves you, Chile! You are the most beautiful, Chile! Everyone praises you, Chile! Chile Chile Chile! Where everything is perfect!

I can see some ducks that might need to be put in a row. And, I mean, it’s not my country or anything… but I’m a bit disappointed with myself when I head off, text books in hand, to give businessmen and the army of Chile just a bit more of the upperhand…

I went to the coast today. I haven't felt so at home in about 5 months (exactly 5 months today!). I'm going back as soon as possible. It's only a two hour bus ride from Santiago. ... Well, anyways, it's worth it.



I had the most disgusting deep-fried shrimp and cheese empanada I've ever tasted--it wasn't so disgusting as just incredibly heavy. I think I can still feel it lingering.
I almost got in trouble for feeding a dog--only because the pooch got a little aggressive and tried to take a snippet of bread right out of my friend's hand. Luckily...she didn't see me feeding the little (pretty big, actually) guy, so...I think I'm off the hook on that one.


[guardians of the city]

I also went to one of Pablo Neruda's houses. It has an incredible view. ... Apart from that, I'd rather read some dead guy's poetry than walk through his house. It wouldn't have been so bad, except that it was a guided tour with two tour guides--one official and one self-appointed. But now I can say I've been.
I met a Brazilian girl at la Isla Negra. We talked for a few minutes--she in Portuguese and I in Spanish. And I was surprised to find that i could understand her Portuguese better than I understand Chilean Spanish. I'm going to Brazil. I'm going to live on the coast and speak Spanish and listen Portuguese and sell surfboards or something.
Next. I got to watch the sunset from the beach--which is, in my opinion, the ONLY place to be at sunset. No hay prisa para nada.
It was a nice excursion. And I'm going back.

"la tranquilidad, una paz, caminamos..."

Two students from my class this morning took me home with them to Rancagua. What's in Rancagua? Nothing. Apart from an oversized (10' diameter maybe?) chupayo--which is a fancy word for a straw hat. It's on display in the cultural center if you want to see it. Don't worry--no rush. It'll probably be there for another decade.
But, no, they (the folks who took me) are really nice. Chile, according to Chileans, is famous for its warm reception of foreigners.They genuinely just wanted to take me to their city so they could walk me around the town and tell me all about the history of the place. It was one of the first cities to be colonized in Chile, as I understand it. So that's something.
I have to admit, it's nice to get away from the big, noisy, busy, dirty city for a bit. But...Even in this big, noisy, busy, dirty city, I'm getting almost slightly maybe a little tiny bit bored.

life as a focaphobe

I have self-diagnosed focaphobia. And seals aren’t the issue. I can’t focus on anything—I forget that I’m making toast until I’m burning toast; I forget that I’m supposed to be getting ready for work, not painting; I forget that I’m studying for the GRE until I suddenly find myself with a French book; I forget that I’m peeling apples, not browsing music online; I forget that I’m reading one book until I’m almost finished with another; I get off the metro at Tobalaba when I was meant to transfer to the green line at Baquedano.
In the grand scheme of things, I suppose, at least I’m uni-directional, if not entirely focused. I said I would go to college; I went. I wanted to live in a Spanish-speaking country; I’m living in Chile. I studied linguistics; I’m teaching ESL. And I want to continue studying linguistics, so I suppose I will. But life on the daily level for me is brimming with indecision and random acts of negligence. Take now for example: against my better judgement, I opted out of a night of outings with friends because I have a class early tomorrow morning. (Damn Saturday classes. Silly things, those.) And—it’s not that I’ve forgotten—but I’ve been so side-tracked by things like facebook, paperwork, cleaning out my fridge, washing dishes, compiling new playlists on my ipod, that I still haven’t planned tomorrow morning’s class. (Trouble ahead.)
Ironically, I spent several hours today sitting in one place, very focused on painting a wall (on a canvas). Several hours. That is completely out of place. My daily routine doesn’t allow for things like that. -- It’s nice. I enjoy painting. But I’m not very good so there’s nothing really to show for it in the end. Just a bunch of shades in shapes that look vaguely like something that might exist in a disproportionate version of our world. But if I could somehow bring a bit of the attention-span I have for painting into my everyday life—maybe eventually the burn smell in the kitchen would dissipate and the milk would stop going off. My cucumbers might not even get moldy anymore. I would get to class on time. And I imagine I might even get into grad school and do quite well there. But…since I don’t intend to be a mad scientist or a starving artist, I think I may have to put some afán into getting over this focaphobia in the nearish future.

To be or not to be has never been a question for me. So long as I’m breathing, I’ll be. And when I stop, I won’t be anymore. But what really gives me troubles is—to be polite, or to be honest? When it comes down to it, I always choose the honesty bit over the politeness bit. And I believe I’m leaning that way again. -- Sorry, Chile. Don’t take it personally.

I started this blog in an effort to … well, honestly, to avoid sending multiple email updates to various interested persons. And I think I did a pretty good job at the start. But now it’s devolved into a daily battle [exaggeration] between The Truth and The Lie. The Truth has something to do with how much I hate being in Chile; and The Lie has something to do with how much I LOVE!!! being IN CHILEEEEEE!!!! No. So I opt not to write. But tonight I’ve decided—perhaps at the insistence of mulled wine; perhaps against my more sensitive judgement—to write, and be truthful.

Chile. Let me tell you a little bit about Chile. If we can narrow it down to “My Version of Chile” and even further to – “My Weekends in Chile” – we’ll begin there.

My weekends, in Chile, are ugly. After Saturday classes finish, they threaten to be completely devoid of human interaction. Of course, Julio-the-Delightfully-Curious doorman is always at the desk to send me out with care and welcome me home with joy. But sometimes that’s not enough. … There comes a point every weekend where I cease being interesting, and I cease being interested in being, because everything is dull. I hate weekends.

But before I close the clam shell and retreat—last Saturday, for example.

On Saturdays, I have a class at la Universidad de Santiago. The class is with the beginnerests of beginners. They are… incredible. Four hours of class goes by in a flash. I say one thing

What do you want that you don’t have?
What do you WANT? …..What do you WANT….that…you DON’T….have?
What do you want that you don’t have?
WHAT? do you WANT? that you DON’T… have?
WHAT DO YOU WANT? that you don’t have?
What do you want THAT YOU DON’T HAVE?

and I repeat it several times, slowly, with much emphasis, until I see that the semantics have been sufficiently worked out.

I thorougly enjoy this class. But it’s after this class—at least last weekend—that things go a bit south. I didn’t think things could go any farther south, but there’s always Antartica.

I have a private class after USACH. Private, one hour, no problem. Except this one itty-bitty thing:

The problem begins when I get in the car, and he says, “You know what we want to do?” [….No. Dígame.] “We want to go to Cajón del Maipo. ¿How does that sound to you? [Miserable. Can I tell you that sounds miserable? … I don’t think ‘Miserable.’ is an option. … Wow! ¿Cajón del Maipo? ¡¡What a WONDERFUL idea!! Geeeeezus. Why didn’t IIIII think of that???]

Background: I had this “private class” last week for the first time. It consisted of me going to a man’s house to speak with his family for one hour [i.e. one hour of paid ‘class’ time plus two and a half hours of gratuitous lunch, in English] so they can have some English exposure. In addition to going to his house, also listening to him correct his wife every time she made any sort of grammatical error—even if it wasn’t one. “Hahaha! She talks likes a caveman!” he says. “Hahaha! I know. My English is so bad!” she agrees. “It is?” I question. …

This past weekend, on the way to Cajón del Maipo, I literally considered jumping out of the car at a red light, running to the metro, and never contacting this man again. The entire two hours of arriving at Cajón del Maipo were full of ragging on how terribly women drive [“Look at her! Watch! She’s going too fast! And now look! She’s going to slow! Women!! … Look at that! UH! It’s because she’s a woman.”] And that’s not the father talking anymore. That’s the 13 year old son. Congratulations, Pops. You’ve razed them very very well.

Enough about women. I’ll just say that from 1-6pm on Saturday was the longest hour of my life. Low points included running over a cat—at which the children laughed, splashing mud on pedestrians in a very small town—at which the father didn’t flinch, and listening to the entire family relate to me an obscure rendition of a comedy sketch they had seen the night before about “dance in my…” … better not. My sketch of Chile may be scathing, but it’s not going to be X-rated.

It may not be the polite way about being a foreigner, but there’s my most honestly colored painting of Chile. And also the conclusion of my private Saturday classes. I’m not so desperate as that. I’d prefer the solitary solitude of my own home, women’s and cats’ dignity unobstructed.

Perfection is Something

Perfection is Something

It’s easy enough to imagine; much more difficult to come by. My elementary, junior high, and high school years were plagued by an exhausting strain of perfectionism. The one day I ever played hooky, I had the proper parental permission slip in hand. Thinking back on tears shed—over the “C” I got in singing in kindergarten [if you’ve ever wondered why I refuse to sing in front of you], over getting OUT! in an identity-shaping game of four-square, over losing the spelling bee, over botching a quartet performance on the bassoon, and later, over parabolas and nameless varieties of equations predetermined by me to be impossible, and stupid—I can’t imagine that many of those tears were worth the emotional energy they cost me. And all for what? Just so many salty droplets dribbling their way through the pages of an imperfect autobiography.

Okay okay. Before this turns into too much of a sob story…

Somewhere around University Junction, I decided to embrace imperfection. It was hard to stomach until I realized that it’s such an easy excuse: Why didn’t I finish the homework? I’m not perfect! Why are you late? __________! Did you remember that thing…? No, sorry, ___________! Why weren’t you at the mandatory meeting? Oh, pucha, sorry! __________, you know! And that’s when I started playing hooky without a parent’s note. It was exhilarating.

At first. And then things got a bit out of control, etc etc and here I am in Chile, seeking Latin American perfection—eso lo que no existe en Chile, pero estoy aprendiendo aceptarlo. I’m realizing that, considering my own faults and shortcomings, I have no authority to demand that Chile be perfect. And so, when it rains and streets flood, and when the metro closes early on weekends, and when the food is bland, and when no Chilean can resist a strike, I understand. Perfection is hard to come by.

But, here it is folks. Listen up. I found it, tonight. And it started with just a bit of water in a pan, on an electric burner that still wreaks of burning milk from another bit of imperfect judgement I had a couple days ago. Add a couple good shakes of miscellaneous black tea leaves, cinnamon stick bits, cumin—hand crushed, cloves—also hand crushed (not recommended), some pepper, some anise, a bay leaf, a small dose of tandoori masala, a bit of sugar for good measure, and a couple splashes of milk from the box (still a questionable milk-storage method). A few minutes to simmer. And voilà! I didn’t realize it was perfect until the flawless transfer from pan to French-press, from press to pour, from ‘looks about right’ to JUST enough for one brimming cup, from cup to mouth to stomach. Incredible. No more tears, because now I know perfection is something you drink.