Engaging the culture. Changing the world.

I don't miss those banners.
I don't miss Banner.
But I just met a Peruvian man who was wearing an Emerson Hall sweatshirt from a few years ago and I felt a certain ... citizenship? That's MY school!
He had no idea what or where Emerson Hall was, but, no importa. His friends said, "Oh--he doesn't know, because he's Peruvian," -- which I found to be completely beside the point. But whatever. I explained to them what Emerson Hall was, and we all went home happy.

1) In conclusion,
I think it's a bit unfortunate that, when I finish work or any given activity in the city, I return home--as if that were the natural thing to do. It's certainly the normal thing, the done thing. ... But, in my apartment at the moment, there's no life. So why do I shut myself away from the vibrancy of the city so immediately? Given--there hasn't been much vibrancy about Santiago for the past 3 winter months or so. But now that the sun is coming out and the trees are blooming gorgeous... it's time to enjoy being nomadic again.


2) I found the books.
Sometimes, when I go into libraries, I go away without having found the books. It sounds a bit like going to Best Buy and not being able to find the electronics. But, let me tell you, it feels much more like going to bed without dinner--i.e. one of the most remorse-provoking punishments, and ... for what crime? I just wanted to read.
But now, I've learned: They keep those precious scribbly bits of quasi-tangible mind matter bound up in recycled tree under lock, key and librarian. ... On one hand, it's a relief that they're still out there. On the other hand, I'm quite fond of browsing stacks, getting lost in the Romance (languages) section, judging all sorts of books by their non-descript covers that scream 'I-am-outdated!' I love that.
But alas. For now. I'd much rather spend my afternoon in the reading room at la Biblioteca Nacional--making hand signals at the girl sitting two tables aways from me, trying to silently solve a malfunctioning reading light situation--than in my very well lit, fome apartment.


3) I'm practicaly ON the bus to Buenos Aires!

El hogarcito and other unbearable things

Eight o’clock isn’t so bad. It’s the jarring discordancy of the alarm at six; bleeping intrusively into a down-laden world called Six-O-Seven; horrifyingly insistent at fourteen-past that IT is right and I am wrong; until, at twenty-one past, I am driven to muttering good-morning curses. When I hear the traffic piling up ten flights below, the gravity of the situation settles heavily on my shoulders. The morning has again become a reality. It’s the six-o’clock-hour that makes me feel downtrodden and weary, a the beast of unintelligent burdens. But [apart from Mondays] things shape up by eight.

Generally, when my day begins at eight, I can look forward to lengthy gaps in between classes. And what do I do with that time? Or, occassionally, I’ll finish classes around ten or eleven in the morning. And then what? The temptation to go home always taunts. It’s boring, but it’s more acceptable than wandering around the streets all day. But…why?

Stalling in the middle of an unexpected five-hour gap today, and not wanting to waste a beautiful day in the confines of a psuedo-beautiful apartment, I opted for the literary café. It’s really just a library, with books that are quite easily accessible (I’ve been to libraries where this isn’t the case). And I found a book that I’ve been persuaded to read and embarked on the impossible voyage that, for me, is: Reading A Book.

They were a brilliant first fourteen pages of a book. [La insoportable levedad del ser, or The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera]

When my desire to stay on with my current employer finally, gently, nudged me towards home to collect my things and salir newly… I got to thinking about the restrictiveness of this idea of home. Certainly home incorporates several different ideas—some strictly following the architectural blueprints, others giving priority to heartstrings, and others permitting a fair bit of vagabondage. But my idea of home is usually along the architectural lines.

And how boring is that? There’s no better way to restrict myself than to encage myself in a small studio—ten stories above the bagpiper, the ultra-important business suits, the casual luncheoners—safely away from contact with Strangers. How extremely fome of me. That is a bad bad habit.

…

And because that … blessed … alarm clock is going to ring in the new day with joy and gladness in not very many hours, I will have to collect my thoughts some more and finish them later. Maybe I can put them in a nice flow chart. A nice power point whoop de doo presentation. Something very neat and tidy. That’ll be nice.


mira, no es que quiero ser vagabunda
oye, no es que soy ingrata
pero este hogarcito mio me parece un poquito fome
un poquito solitario
y un poquito más escondido del mundo que lo que sea necesario

Get your leaves on, you silly trees!

I saw them today! They’re getting all dressed up for their spring debutante!

It’s time for new things.

Hello, World!

I haven't forgotten you.

While my North Hemishpherian friends are nearly hunkering down for the winter again, I am finally (FINALLY) seeing delicate flower blossoms and wearing dresses and sandals. It's TIME! I have to say, after two consecutive winters, sunshine and new buds on old branches are my salvation.

The past two weekends, I have spent some much needed time regathering myself at the sea. I didn't exactly grow up at the beach, but it has always been within reach, and it's become a bit of a crutch for me. Life apart from very large bodies of water withers my psyche.

So, having both visited the beach (twice!!) and taken a few jogs along a budding path in the last couple weeks, the outlook is improving.