July 15, 2009
7:30 PM
I open my two months of silence with a quote:
“Education had not entirely elevated my concerns in life. It had probably not even assisted my analyses of these concerns. I was too fresh from childhood. Subconsciously, my deepest brain still a cupboard of fairy tales, I suppose I believed that if a pretty woman was no longer pretty she had done something bad to deserve it. I had a young girl’s belief that this kind of negative aging would never happen to me. Death would happen to me—I knew this from reading British poetry. But the drying, hunching, blanching, hobbling, fading, fattening, thinning, slowing? I would just not let those things happen to moi.”
- “Childcare” – Lorrie Moore, The New Yorker
Suddenly I’ve found myself a month away from being in the US for a year. I have not been in Kyrgyzstan for the past year. (Where have I been?) Since my return, I’ve obviously not been able to rid myself of the ridiculous habit of counting days. I remember in KG when I went from counting days to weeks to months, to years…nd then I was home.
Since I’ve been home this hasn’t changed. The difference now is I’m counting away from something. August 28, the date I returned from, is a memory in the fading horizon. Part of me is bothered by my inability to pull myself from the past. There’s also a part of me that loves how vivid and real my life in the Kyrgyz Republic still is.
At some point I need give up a little of my attachment. I imagine the limbs of past and future reaching out to hold on to every memory they can. (Yes, my future has memories—they’re just not mine yet.) I’ve heard there is some equation for the allotted time of recovery after a break-up. I’m not sure if I fall within the given time for such recovery, but I’m starting to feel like a star high school quarterback who never made it out of his shoulder pads.
My relationship with KG was a rough one at times; rough in the way my teenage years were. There had never been a time before KG when I was forced to explore the extreme limits of my personal humanity. There were times I hated it: the isolation…the people…the fear. Like my teens, every moment that seemingly tore at my stability was just peeling off the layers of my insecurities and piling them at the foundation of my character. My insecurities didn’t detach willingly, but they now serve as the support for my future endeavors.
Whether or not the lessons I learned were a result of the Kyrgyz culture or the time away from home is a debate Fiona and I frequently have. I’ve obviously romanticized certain aspects of my service since I’ve been home. I’ve talked to her a lot about whether or not my love for the lessons I learned have overshadowed elements to Kyrgyzstan I didn’t like. In my stubborn attempts to find the good in everything, I believe I’ve relinquished some my ability to critically discriminate. I know there are aspects and situations from my two years in KG that I’ve pushed out of my head in order to find a certain level of contentment.
Since I’ve home and met a great deal of other RPCVs I have wondered what the results of my service would have been if I served in Fiji, or Guinea, or El Salvador? Would I be saying the same things about my two years abroad if I was in a different hemisphere? Obviously I can’t really answer any of those questions. In all honesty, I’m learning to hate questions like those; they remind me of over-the-top theoretical questions in sociology like: “If a child were raised free from any influence by society, could s/he still develop survival skills?” The child has been outrun by society; even offspring of the most remote cultures face influence from a world they can’t escape. My path has carried me well beyond the thoughts of “if I was somewhere else.” I am here now, and I can only be here.
I know some things for sure: I still feel pain when I think about Sezim, I miss the mountains, and I long for a world without a need for time. I shared my soul with many people there and they shared back. That I can never leave, even if I wanted to.
8:00 PM
This past Sunday I was sitting in a church. It was the first Christian service I’ve attended since the Christmas of 2005. I didn’t attend on purpose. A childhood family friend was up from Texas having her child baptized. Since the baby’s godparents could not make the trip up from Texas, I asked to be one of the stand-in godparents. I agreed to it, and it wasn’t until 9 AM on Sunday as I was driving back to Des Plaines to meet my parents before the baptism did is hit me: “The baptism starts at 10 AM…on a Sunday…in a church. I am attending a church service.”
The church where the baptism was taking place was no ordinary church. The church—St. Andrews Lutheran Church in Park Ridge—was where my brothers and I were all baptized, the church we grew up in, the church my father grew up in, the church where my grandmother, great aunt, and great uncle’s funeral services were all held. I was actually at the church a few weeks prior for my Great Uncle Al’s funeral service. This church has memories and stories; most of them went rushing through my head on Sunday morning as I tried to distract myself from the service.
I had convinced myself that there was nothing for me in a church. I entered church with the staunch belief that my meditation could happen outside the halls of God. I left church wondering if maturity had taught me a few lessons.
When I sat down for the service I had every intention of observing the architecture, critiquing the grammar of the hymnals, and people watching/fictionalizing. I participated in all three of during the service but somewhere in the middle of pastor’s sermon I realized he was a great storyteller. He took as story in the bible and then related it to a congregation’s daily lives. This wasn’t very different from what financial analysts do with data, what teachers do with lessons, or what artists do with inspiration.
His sermon was good. It was about Daniel and the Lion’s Den. A good ol’ Biblical story about standing up for what you believe in. I looked at him mid-way through his sermon and hated that such a great form of storytelling had become the victim of it’s own greed and inability to adapt. I wondered what if it was that which had build up my resistance to the church. Why did I walk into the church earlier that morning determined to uncover every fault I could find?
The church can be a good place for people, a needed place for some. It may not be my cup of tea (I prefer my tea with lemon and honey), but it can be a place of great craft and, more importantly, a place to promote harmony with self and the environment. This is something I need to keep reminding myself of (while keeping a critical eye on aspects of the church that I don’t agree with).
In my conversations—with God, gods, and self—on Sunday, one thought of mine stayed with me: Do pastors get healthcare from the church? What about other benefits – 401K, company car, clothing per diem? How does a pastor make a living? Prior to the service we were all going through a baptismal “rehearsal” and the pastor mentioned he was retired. How does someone who dedicates his life to God retire?
9:00 PM
In Sunday School we used to have a yearly balloon releasing event in the Spring. Every balloon had a personalized message from a student, a bible verse, and the church’s contact info.
I wonder if anyone ever picked up the balloons I let go and called the church. There were hundreds of us; everyone had at least one balloon. Where did the balloons fall? Did they ever make it outside the city limits?
I bet someone has attached a GPS device to balloons that they have let go. I wonder if there’s an online balloon tracker for Sunday school kids now (maybe an iPhone app). I bet if Facebook existed back then it would have been easier for people to contact us after they found the balloon.
Fresh with life the balloons rush towards the sun. In time they slowly shrivel and drop; some drop in the arms of humanity and others litter empty fields.
July 16, 2009
9:45 PM
Had some interesting conversations with the Lemberg boys tonight. Among a long list of things we discussed, Casey raised the question “If hell broke loose and World War III began followed by a reinstatement of the draft, would you join the military or take off to Canada?” This led to a debate about what it means to serve your country. Casey and Matthew said they would join. I said I would volunteer to work in some way to help, but I would not take up a weapon. Maybe I would just take the brothers and start our own war.
July 20, 2009
8:45 AM
I had a dream last night.
I was somewhere with a large group of talented musicians. We were in a house (a log cabin?), maybe in a city. At some point the group of musicians decided to make a set list for an in-house performance. They asked me to perform on one of their songs and read some poetry.
The musicians started playing and then all of the sudden I got a call from my father to come meet him. In dreamtime I was transported to where he was, near the edge of the city. We were hiking in a wooded area, making our way to a giant sinkhole. There was a roaring river pouring thousands of gallons of water down the hole. The whole time we were walking around I kept checking my watch; I still was scheduled to perform with the musicians. After we saw the sinkhole we started walking back to the house where the musicians were. I was in a rush, not wanting to miss a chance to perform with them. I kept thinking, “this is my chance to prove I can hang artistically.”
By the time I reached the house I had no idea where my father was. I rushed into the house just in time to begin the set they had invited me to join. I stepped up to the mic and opened my mini notebook. While the music was playing, I kept looking for a sign in the music or from one of the musicians for my cue to begin reading. I did that for the entirety of the song, never opening my mouth. The dream ended with me saying nothing and the music fading out.
8:30 PM
Nirvana performing The Meat Puppets’ Plateau in 1994:
Many a hand has scaled the grand old face of the plateau
Some belong to strangers and some to folks you know
Holy ghosts and talk show hosts are planted in the sand
To beautify the foothills and shake the many hands
The nothing on the top but a bucket and a mop
And an illustrated book about birds
You see a lot up there but don't be scared
Who needs action when you got words
When you've finished with the mop then you can stop
And look at what you've done
The plateau's clean, no dirt to be seen
And the work it was fun
The nothing on the top but a bucket and a mop
And an illustrated book about birds
You see a lot up there but don't be scared
Who needs action when you got words
Well the many hands began to scan around for the next plateau
Some said it was in Greenland and some say Mexico
Others decided it was nowhere except for where they stood
But those were all just guesses, wouldn't help you if they could
** My interest with great people consumed by the world around them is becoming an obsession. Whether or not it’s suicide or assassination, the friction of change and greatness greatly fascinate me. The sacrifices people make to challenge embedded stigmas and false realities are beyond understanding in my youthful state. This is a journey I will be embarking on for the rest of my life. Commence exploration**
The great “consumed” people I’ve though about the most in the past few years:
- Mahatma Gandhi
- Martin Luther King Jr.
- Kurt Cobain
- Benazir Bhutto
- The girl driven to hang herself in southern Kyrgyzstan to avoid shaming her family.
July 22, 2009
8:30 PM
Sometimes I look at people I don’t know and feel like I should.
Posts
