www.postsecret.blogspot.com

in bagdad, i am at a house and there are fields around me, and i am visiting to write but the area is not secure. i see the armies march, in form, they are good at this, i think. and i turn around to hear the bombs going off, and the bombs are far away. there is an order given to sleep, and they, in form, lie down in rows and columns, and simultaneously snuggle their knees to their faces, and they sleep. it is mid-day, and i am amazed at their ability to take to order.

they come in and they secure the area for us, and we make our places in this house. we are teachers, writers, and we are new here. we are being tested to see if we can stay, to see if we can stand it. and i am not new; i had been here before they came. i know this place.

they had secured the area but suddenly it is not secure anymore and we are in danger, on this top floor where we are sleeping, and they are coming in and they will surely get us. i do not understand their sounds nor they mine, but i always thing i can reason with them. ‘i think i can reason with them,’ i think. they will kill me.

i see the troop movement outside; they are attempting to regain control, but the house has been stormed, and i thought for a brief second i could hide, but i couldn’t hide. and i thought i could reason with them, but there was no reason here.

this was not a dream not a

this was happening somewhere on earth. this was true to somebody not me

i am enveloped
in a red, allover warmth

left to me, its only chance
a small, furry baby. it is so tiny. i am sharing my warmth with it as i bring it close, close to my chest. so close. we are running.

we are in an office, and women who do not belong there come in. they are big-breasted and big-thighed, and their shorts are too short and tight for wintertime. i ask them to leave. they do not go. and then later, when they are bored of the place, they go.

there is a dungeon that we are in-- others have taken over our home. there is no question of belonging rightfully or not; it is known that whomever occupies the castle must hold hostages.

the firemen are our friends, i tell the newborn i am holding and making my own. we escape from the prison, and find a room in the upper portion of a house. we are traveling through centuries, and in this time i have acquired another orphan, erin. i am teaching her how to survive. we take the things we need-- a few things for memory. and we build our own memories with each other.

in a gift shop, we realize we must again go. firemen and women and policemen and women are having a meeting, and we must go. 'the firemen are our friends,' i tell mishy. we quickly pack a few things from the memories we have made, but the window is too high to get out of. i climb down but cannot get back up to get the children. mishy has to hold the newborn on the stones to keep it from falling. i cry out and suddenly a fireman is there to help: to save the baby, to save mishy, to let us all keep running.

i believe you

Updated Iraq Dead Count

This was very overlooked in mainstream media, (for some reason-- gee, can't figger out why) but is extremely important.

While Iraq Body Count lists around 50,000 Iraqis dead (garnered from newspapers and other published lists), a recent study sponsored by Johns Hopkins and local Iraqi scholars found more than ten times that number have actually died.

As many as 654,965 more Iraqis may have died since hostilities began in Iraq in March 2003 than would have been expected under pre-war conditions, according to a survey conducted by researchers at the Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health and Al Mustansiriya University in Baghdad. The deaths from all causes—violent and non-violent—are over and above the estimated 143,000 deaths per year that occurred from all causes prior to the March 2003 invasion. That's more than the city of Oakland (and about 16 times the size of Normal), and almost the entire population of the city of San Francisco.

And the US dead? Just over 3,000.

there is a there, there

i loved the time and in between,
the calm inside me.
in the space where i can breathe
i believe there is a distance i have
wandered, to touch upon the years
reaching out and reaching in
holding out and holding in

i believe this is heaven to noone else but me
and i'll defend it long as i can be
left here to linger in silence
if i choose to would you
try to understand.

~sarah mclaughlin~


that space is conjured in
the fall-smelling crevices of my
mind of my
spirit (of my).

and the space that this brings is
il venti settembre, the stradale where
sarah walks with me
dark walk with shadows
and only i am silence.

something about the fall, something about this fall,
hit refresh on the pictures
uploaded There(there) unloaded
memory corroded

something about the Kriskindlmrkt, something
about Berlin in December,
something about the wursters, the
weiners, the gluhwein

you in salzburg you in vienna you
in the fall
you in the falling into
winter.

here? there is no here, here.

-iviimxm

i
woke up today thinking
of

you.

tenthousand breaths in the night
and the one that wakes me up
is yours

the breath:
floating bits of leaves, color, and the scent of fall
debris from falling leaves and falling
leavings
tinted by the golden orange autumn
warm, holding rays closely
holdings closely

like words on the tip of my tongue, you were
the front of my mind
the top of my cortex
the gasp of the intake
the shudder of my awakening.

you, all you men run together in
the crisp morning
like droplets on windowpanes
Possibilites
For
Life.

and this morning i Am, this morning i am
on the eastern coast of our fair nation
where i will be a year's time where
hellos and goodbyes where

i will reawaken, tenthousand breaths behind me,

to a new dream

The Quilts of Gee's Bend

Quiltmakers

Throughout much of the twentieth century, making quilts was considered a domestic responsibility for women in Gee's Bend, Alabama. As young girls, many of the women trained or apprenticed in their craft with their mothers, female relatives, or friends; other quilters, however, have been virtually self-taught. Women with large families often made dozens upon dozens of quilts over the course of their lives.

The women consider the process of "piecing" the quilt "top" to be highly personal. In Gee’s Bend, the top—the side that faces up on the bed—is always pieced by a quilter working alone and reflects a singular artistic vision. The subsequent process of “quilting” the quilt—sewing together the completed top, the batting (stuffing), and the back—is sometimes then performed communally, among small groups of women.

Most of the quilters were featured in the book Gee's Bend: The Women And Their Quilts (Tinwood, 2002), where extensive biographical information can be found.

Now showing at the de Young Museum in San Francisco.

you were me tonight

there is a moment
where the night takes a breath
yes, you are smelling the night-crisp

when the dishes are done
the papers are filed the
calls left blink-blinking on an abandoned machine and
in that moment

you are.

dwelling inside the
dwelling (we are) the

re-visited

una pausa that those eccentric
southern europeaners know that those
who we brush to the sides
are filling their lungs with it
with the scent of
now.

you are in that you are
the presentmemory you are
))not even here((
the lungs of me.

be the lungs of me.

my limbs are a
mural
(they are m'mural)

)whereas my back is an ache.(

here, i show you,
where i am most vulnerable:
my wrighst.

(wrist where i
writing where my
right writing
wresting
rotator
relieves
re-lives
realizes)

me.

my limbs are m'ural.

culture shock

seven months
twenty days and
nine hours later

It Hits.

'this is not budapest,
barátam.'

and the existence of my secret solitude
,centered, friend
is out of the bag.

at that time, the
streets opened up like
they paint communism to have done
open like daylight, like
space streaming down
upon us, faces upturned like
we were awaiting only
This. Moment.
opened like
stepping into suburbs
opened like
in the lost interior of the City Park
Városliget
opened like
the plane ride out
the plane ride in
the minds of the people who ran
who fell
who dreamt it all up:
Open.

sixteen fortnights later
the shock,
an opening in
my day.

i Fly

when i was a child i learned that the indians ("native americans" i would later learn) believe that to talk about, to actively think about an incident means that you are in effect telling the cosmos to bring it on.

that, like many other bits and pieces of things i have read or heard along my way, i tucked away in the jagged shadows of my mind. it became a part of me and what i believe; it became what i make of myself. it became what i am becoming.

i think now of moving away from here, from these golden, rolling hills and the cracked rocks falling into the oceans of california, the bellissima that is sunset on highway 1 to half moon bay, that is coming down on the bridge to the east bay hills under the redden-purple of the clouds descending to the left and the yellow-green mixing smog to the right. i think of how satisfying my life is here right now:

content.

there is no pursuing of happiness there is no longing to be somedream else there is no pushing to runrunrun there is no discontentment of thisthis moment there is only

(( a breath ))

without the gasping that succeeds it without asthmatic wheezing without the choking for more more more (adventures) (journeys) (yous)

.period.

and when i think of moving, finding that alwaysthere dream on the other coast where i hole myself away in the tower of ivory and papyrus, of onlyme and the written histories of All Those Before

when i think of this, it is easy of me to think of happiness there, too, following me, coming with me (you) being there too

if i believe it (it), too, will c o m e.
(even if this is not mine to promise)

[[third parte]]

and i remember now, connected with these two thoughts, this final (fulfilling) image:
a dream, my mostoftenrepeated, the One that you Feel you Are,
truth fulfilled nirvana seen through and what
you picture heaven to be:

the dream that is not a dream, the one that is alter-image of this lifetime (which is
Actually
only a dream)

i am running so fast and so hard (there is no one behind me)
running without feeling the pain of pushing so hard (there is no one)
and i am willing myself faster
.Faster.
(there is no)
and, leaning forward,
i Go faster

i Fly.

gotten

i

i

called home one day and i said hi did you call she said no

thoroughly confused, i inquired as to whether perhaps another sibling with another name had snatched the phone, used it to call me
she said maybe

she said i think your sister did, she called

and continuing said oh well is there a message for me do you know why she called
she said well

i do believe

(she said)

i do believe that she left a message

what was the message i asked impatiently for now i have a shower to get into i have a pen in hand i am ready for the message don't have time right now for this have a dinner to get to

it was in regard to yesterday,

and stupidly i rush on i ask what, what was it yesterday (please don't play games i've things to)

my birthday.

ohmygod mother i'm so sorry i

i

i

forgot it's because you see all day i keep the calendar of the president of the ceo and i have no time you see to think of myself hey honey i forgot my mom's birthday don't feel bad about it i forgot his too and i have things to do mother you know it's this job--

she,
points out,
plainly,
seven kids,
one household,
graduate school,
hundreds of activities,

none

is

forgotten.

ixxv

there is a street

on which

i am walking
and I am no longer
in oakland
and the echoing noise
is mopeds and frenchpeople speaking
there is a moment

in which

i close my eyes
and I am no longer
on working hours
and the season
is spring and I am walking
from the bastille

there is a time
there is a feeling

upon which i breathe

the listens of your listens

i miss the late-nights up. i miss giggling in bed.

i miss living in this present, this only present, thisthis present, where only you, where only i

where only the smiles of contentment lie
under the covers and under
the radar of the squirrely guy
living above us.

i miss the daring nights
i miss the early mornings we awaken ourselves
i let you sleep just a bit longer
and we set out for some new adventure
somewhere on the coast
somewhere by the water.

and lying on the quad, faces upturned to the
sun and whispers of my wishes and
the listens of your listens.

i miss the long walks home i miss
your home my home i miss
nervousness
i
miss

i miss the tour of my hometown the
moment we arrive
the beginning the first the
moonlight lies

i miss you holding me in your arms
i miss us having secrets
slowly uncovering the pieces
dripping pieces
and pieces

i miss late-night parks
late-night restaurants
late-night games
late-night calls
late-night walks
late-night talks
second-to-fourth
daniel-to-chalmers
fourblocksthreeblocks and
twoblocksoneblock

i miss knocking on your door,

hoping to
open to

a face i knew
i miss not wanting to sleep at the house
i miss my own apartment
the bed in my dorm and learning to sleep
a
top
you.

yet

i am happy here
with my little life
and my pequeno tu

i am happy here
but, dear god,
i miss You.

this hand, your hand, the longest day

there were no fourteenth chances, with this one and
a veces, non lo ricordo purtroppo.

because i believe in youth and i
engage in stando giovene
and and and

nella otra mano, we are all older than
we seem older than we
remember our years to be ::older::

with veins in our elbows a
tickle in our throat and lacking the
smell of eucalyptus when
we are scratched

and so, the twenty-third day of the
sixth month of the
sixth year,
the sun came out and it burnt
the day the
solstice

came.

in questa mano i am holding the sun
in this hand i am holding
this hand, your hand,

i am facing the sun and
il girasole, too, continues to the west
faces downturn
l’ultima fascia di luce

::hits:: this hand, your hand, the longest day.

chiavo

chiavo
kee-aa-vo.
e tu et u et tu y tu eeee-2
tu non eri il chiavo
l’ho detto, con forza!

you.
yoooooou
and you and you and yoooou
you were not the key
the key! i said, with force.
you were a doorway which was lit up
luce (luuuu-chay)

and i was the light.

Remember Them: Champions of Humanity

Recognized as a master of figurative sculpture, Mario Chiodo's artworks are narrative, evocative and accessible. His artistry captures the passion and spirit of subjects, presenting them in a dream-like state as they both emerge from and meld with their environment. Themes of compassion, humanitarianism and perseverance are the lifeblood of his creations, intermingling the realms of realism and fantasy.

Mario is now in the phase of his career that is allowing him to pursue his own life long dream - creating sculpture that exemplifies the concept that all life is connected. Frequently blending natural elements such as animals and botanical subjects with expressive figurative forms, these artworks tell a story about a moment in time. This new style of sculpture is the most engaging way for Mario to reach people and enrich their lives through his art.

Snidbits

Interrr- vue xixxixmxiiv: The Lonely Planet
First question: "Where have you been?" It's a long story...
..."What is it you do not want me to know about you?" (are you allowed to ask that?) I quit my first job after college. It was stifling. I didn't put it on my resume because my father said it made me look bad.
"Do you always listen to what your father says?" Um, sometimes? He's a dreamer. (How in the world did this get so Freudian so quickly.)
"Can you do dirty work?" (What? The? Heck?)

En-tar-vous xixmmciiic: La casa de la vida, a halfway house
"Do you have experience working with mental illnesses?" I have extensive work with people with disabilities of all types... I have several friends with similar mental illnesses to the types this job would be working with. I really love this work.
"You love it? That's kind of a CRAZY thing to say, eh? I mean, what kind of a person says something like that?" (i guess you would know better than i? ohmygodohmygoddohmygod...)
"What do you do to take care of yourself?" (please, let me out...)

INTERVEWESHAUNG! xmmciciicidicmx: Developmental Studies Library
"Say we gave you 50 books to reshelve, what would you do?" (Are you even joking. I worked in a Graduate library for two years. Do you want me to walk you through putting books on the shelf in order. I can?)
MY question: So, exactly how many books do you currently have? "About 6,000."
And HOW are they being organized right now? "Well, they're on shelves, and in boxes."
(Besides making baby Jesus cry, this just makes me shudder... books... not in order... see ya.)

Intervista xcmibbicdddibbibisiscooliii: YMCA in the East Bay
"Yeah, I'm the CEO, and I don't know why they threw you in here with me. I don't do the hiring, I do the other part." (Laughing politely.)
"What makes you laugh?" Children (falling down on their faces).
"When was the last time you cried?" Oh, man. Last week.
"What was it that made you cry?" A book (that was sitting on the floor and which i stubbed the heck out of my toe on).
"What makes you happy?" Children.
"What is your definition of courage and give an example in your life when you were courageous?" (Much stammering... Enter a clearly illegal discussion of religion in the hiring process.)
"When was the last time you were embarrassed?" Um, five minutes ago when I couldn't think of a time I was courageous.

Tips for Job Seekers:
1) Expect the unexpected.
2) Take a week, read the Parachute job book, and really think about how the following qualities fit into your life: courage, fear, motivation, apathy, strength, mobility, COMMUTE TIME.
3) Think of colorful, two-minute sketches how you've demonstrated specific positive attributes in your life.
4) Refuse to commute more than 20 minutes.
5) Believe in your self worth.
6) Be confident of your skills.
7) Interviewers are freakin' WEIRD. Go with it. Laugh at it. Whatev.

Report Cards

xxci

“i’m leaving” he said, and sure enough, he did. he was gone before i could even realize that he had laid the pen down he had torn the page up he had been

lone(-ly)

he was just lonely.

and all of this time the string of curses out through my mouth (invested too much) (wanted too much) (cared too much) accusations

(of the sort a sleeping princess would grumble under her glass enclosure restless for a breath to say them restless not for what might be a fairytale wedding a happy ever after, but a life not beginning with once upon a time for she, meditating for thousands of seasons, desired only to get out of this mess (and) to begin again without a trace of the extraordinary)

you, my friend, unaware of course of this rage, enter, and your fingers deftly weed the thoughts of my mind and (i love you but i run) (i love you but i run) in the course of the (mun)da(ne)y
you you
you

allora, but it was solitude—tu étais seul. and i, too busy closing my eyes and screaming at this world, preoccupied with this glass enclosure and the injustice of it all, ran before i knew

before

i

knew.

perhaps, she reconsiders, i did not do what i was meant to do—i missed the call and the thisthis that makes it all possible

i am sorry for this and for other

cixvi

faced with the knowledge of this, could she turn away? could she bite back those tears and could she wander

bitter. sweet. red vanilla tea in the rainy mornings, central european city, and a window facing city park. cupping the mug with her hands, to warm them, to warm them. faced with her foreseeing this future: the splitting, the loneliness, the beginning over, and the same excuses to a new face, to new hands, from my lips to his lips and a nursed heart.

she had come back because it was time.

all this rationalized conversation, acknowledged and agreed friendly split, made it all the more real. and all the more real, the closer it became.

it.

be.

came.

faced with this, faced with this knowing, did anyone really swallow their pride scramble inside did we lie did the memory subside did we carve out our insides too deeply for each other did we come out whatever we were did we stare at the pool of what remained and mourn the abortion of our (collective) (projected) (reflected) selves. did you feel me kick did i swallow

walking back from a campus i'd never attended a lake whose name i still do not know a path unpaved walking back hand-in-hand walking, walking we were never reliving we were not recreating we were designing we were amending we were bending we sending (we) comfort and assurances (that which we will not give)

that which we will not receive.

faced with the knowledge of this (faced with this knowledge) do we

i am writing!

i promise.

re-reading things i've written, when potential employers ask for writing samples, and i become lost trying to imagine where i was when i wrote them... some strike me, odd, inspiring, well-written... most, though, could use some more editing.

and when the CEO of the Y spoke to me today about "a moment"-- about a path which one takes that is not in the hands of the individual, about a moment in which there is opportunity-- he was speaking in strongly religious terms: faith, god-assigned destiny, white light. i tilted my head, thinking only, "well-summarized, you post-structuralist, you."

the conversation moves forward, though, and i reply to another question, "no, sir, i am not below grunt work."

i come home to re-read that piece which i'd written; yea, here it is.

...the moment of “the political.” Culminated in this moment, this school of thought believes, is every potentiality, a complete openness, an undecided transition; it is Zizek’s “moment of subjectivity” and “nonfounding founding moment,”[1] Laclau’s “moment of antagonism.”[2] This moment, post-structuralists would argue, is every dream, every option, every possibility—free from the social constructs, the structure that culminated to bring us to this moment. Yet once we make a decision, a movement, a hesitation, in any direction, the “political” moment is lost—politics reemerges.

...How to emancipate International Relations from politics? [...] “Emancipation,” the space where humans can be free of the historical and social structures that are in place and actively design a new space through Critical Theory itself, is this school's “political moment.”

Ken Booth extends this theorizing on Critical Theory’s “moment”:

“True emancipation cannot be defined in some timeless fashion, as some-one-thing at the end-point of the human story; secondly, true emancipation cannot be at somebody else’s expense (except, that is, at the expense of the beneficiaries of oppression, and even here I would argue that to be freed of being an oppressor is a step on the road to becoming more humane, and therefore is emancipatory); and thirdly, true emancipation cannot be considered to be synonymous with Western ways of thinking and behaving (though neither are ‘Western’ ways necessarily antithetical to emancipation. If emancipation is seen as timeless, at the expense of others, or simply a cloak for Westernization, it is false emancipation.”[1]

---

[1] Booth, 1999: 41.

---

[1] Edkins, 1999: 7.

[2] Ibid: 5.

i... saw...

alice...

walker.

Who can't love firefox with ads like this?
(If image is not coming up, go here.)

ode to the aphid, in haiku

life! sap!sucking! you
feast on my poured-open heart,
extended fingers--

innocent young ones
i grieve your plight, crying loud
on the days we part.

:so tenderly we:
:ferociously they: breed, eat
(together we cry.)

and i think of your letters as love letters
which is how i think of songs
in that it is the writing of them
that tends to carry us along

~ani~

this can't be the end

there is there, there

...and at lunch i venture to a new place-- a nearby school, an adjacent park. i take my heels off, roll up my pants, walk shoeless through the sand to a bench. i sit in the sun and peel an orange, slowly, breathing.

but i cannot sit there for long. walking through the freshly-mowed grass i find i am dragging by feet to feel what i am smelling to play with the ground the earth and then i stop--

green feet does not look so well to those at work, probably.

so i pick up my feet and continue walking.

there are some places where the sky truly is endless; where it meets nothing where it stretches where i stretch to meet where the blue just runs and runs.

here, above the trees, there is that running sky
and it is something i cannot reach
and it is something i can
and it is something i cannot

i smile at the lawn-mower; (if just for a day) and he waves back, sharing the moment the moment the moment

New! In the Vivirito Times

Profilez: Erin

oh, the things...

the things we don't know.

i do not know, for instance, how one loses their wallet. but it has been done since the beginning of time, and i am yet one link in this continuing re-action...

finding peace in todays: piano concertos, click and clack the tap-it brothers (and other npr favorites), long lunches on sunny days, and slow moments along the water. i thank you, always, for your calls and best birthday wishes. it amazes me how many people call, care, on that one day; it amazes me because, apart from my family, few receive those calls from me. i believe there are only a handful of spaces in my head for remembering birthdays: eight, to be exact. and they're a-taken' up.

but lately? the rain is becoming more infrequent; halting, when it comes, hopes for a springtime. i still awaken before the sun awakens the west coast, but we find each other somewhere around the bridge, somewhere past the hills.

my stomach is full. my evenings are tired. my legs are strong. my lungs are still breathing.

weekends come and they go. and during all of this, my eyes open and close as required throughout the day and night time. we are all pieces of this.

in a day.

...and i feel guilt for not periodically typing away my frustrations, dreams, updates and sending them out on a virtual plain of sociability... but there have been things building up within, so here, again, are some samples from my own pensieve.

i open my eyes and rouse my consciousness, stretching my legs in the morningtimes, careful not to move the oh-so-lightly-sleeper and complainer of All Things Awakening i have the blessing of sharing a bed with. i awaken every morning in phases, brought on in all cases by liquids: one, cool shower water jolts my body to aliveness, and two, the last gulp of coffee fully vitalizes my mind.

and by this time, i am crossing the san mateo bridge, a nine-mile stretch of six-lane highway across the churning water of the bay. it is seven o'clock. amy goodman, of democracy now, is just parting my presence. and i am adequately debriefed for the day.

i elevate to the fourth floor, sit within the pod to which i am assigned, and begin work. i check asset acceptability for transferring funds from one institution to another-- a "source" firm and a "new custodian." when clients enlist my company, we bring them over to a new broker house, one that has a team to work with us. i set up accounts there. i read trust documents. i research mergers and acquisitions as they relate to stock splits and takeovers. i receive and send legal documents. i verify account details and addresses.

i take all of my 50-minute lunch period, every day, and flee to a nearby park on the marina where i slowly eat a turkey sandwich (hold the mayo and cheese, please), and fruit. some days a busload of adult disabled accompany me. they play soccer, talk to me, and argue between themselves. i enjoy them.

the afternoon goes quickly, and i again transverse the bridge at exactly 5.24 pm. i enjoy the ride home, except for the traffic, because viewing the east bay is much more appeasing. there is no deepened development at the foot of the san mateo, and the hills are so lush and green right now due to the god-induced 90-day straight rain we've received. my father, by the way, points to our record-breaking rain (not so much since 1904) as indication of an imminent record-breaking earthquake-- following the same pattern of the 1906 earthquake. my physics and engineering-major roommate says there is no such correlation. rather, that correlation does not equivocate with causation.

i breathe at various moments in no particular pattern throughout the day. i am oftentimes amazed at the large blocks of time in which i do not actively think. in college, i often felt i had ADHD, compelled to bring a book and a notebook wherever i went, and frequently doing several different classes' worth of work while sitting in yet another different class. i was thinking in layers-upon-layers, conscious, subconscious, unconscious working simultaneously teasing out various levels of analysis and theorems. here, i think only of what is in front of me, immersing myself in the immediate. it is refreshing. but my life is being lived with no acknowledgement from my lungs, no realization of my soul.

my parents and friends ask skeptically if i am enjoying what i do. i feel compelled to tell them of course i love it; whose benefit this is for is yet undetermined. there is some part of me, though, that very much enjoys the routine: finally my early-awakening is appreciated and utilized! finally i am asked to develop a specific skill! finally, there is some closure to my tasks-- what i write, what i accomplish has a telos, an end, a crossing-off on a list, never to return. my questions here do not naturally give way to an ever-increasing list of questions, uncertainties, and requirements of further research. i now turn off my computer and leave tasks sitting on the desk.

in short, what i do now is different. and it was really time for something different.

Happy Bday, T.

Happy 8th, bro!! You're still the pole climbing champion of the house.

Fun Fact* for the day.

I have flown into or out of no less than twenty-seven airports-- fourteen of which were outside the United States, thirteen within the continental US. Twenty-three have been within the past four years.**

What's yours?

*"Fun Facts" is a result of being exposed to a new work environment, one in which is it extremely necessary to learn a ridiculous amount of names, acronyms, homonyms, and pseudonyms in a very short timeframe. One in which "going around the table and introducing one's self" quickly loses any appeal. One where full sentences explaining arbitrary identifying factors is reduced to "Elizabeth. Cal Berkeley. Oakland. Illinois. International Studies." While other random questions are inevitably asked (such as the topic for today's post), the cores inevitably surface to trainees' chagrin.

**a. Sadly, I feel this era ending.
**b. I will not hazard a guess on the number of train stations. The day may come, however, that this grounded girl may indeed make a list. That day, if it does come, will assuredly be within the next still-training week-- that is, if my ingenious plan of positioning the computer monitor just so and effectively blocking my closed eyes from the speaker is suddenly and embarassingly foiled.

Bravo, Daily Orange.

On Feb. 9, The D.I. reprinted the controversial cartoons of the Muslim prophet Muhammad that have caused massive protests in Arab nations throughout the past few weeks. The UI campus exploded, and The D.I.'s editor in chief, Acton Gorton, and opinion editor were suspended from the paper.

On Feb. 13, The Northern Star, the student paper at North Illinois University, ran the same cartoons, and has received mostly positive feedback, even from the local Muslim community, said Derek Wright, the paper's editor in chief.

So what's the difference?

Daily Illini editors missed chance to engage in meaningful dialogue.
*****

Olympic Update

A Fifth-Grade Report
By Mishy Moo

News 'n' Notes

Latest from the VT.

Hungary is Not a happy place.

Source: GfK, Growth from Knowledge. GFK NOP is a top-ten market research power, uniting some of the most renowned US and European research firms into a single global organization.

FIGURE 1: TOP 10 'HAPPY' COUNTRIES

Country Percentage claiming to be 'very happy'
Australia 46
USA 40
Egypt 36
India 34
UK 32
Canada 32
Mexico 31
Sweden 30
Brazil 29
Saudi Arabia 28


FIGURE 2: TOP 10 'UNHAPPY' COUNTRIES

Country Percentage claiming to be
'very unhappy' or 'disappointed'
Hungary 35
Russia 30
Turkey 28
South Africa 25
Poland 24
Philippines 23
Japan 21
Taiwan 19
France 18
Hong Kong 17

um...

According to our records you are scheduled to take the Foreign Service Oral Assessment on February 10, 2006 at 7:00am. The location of the assessment center is US Department of State - Regus Business Center, 795 Folsom Street, 1st Floor, San Francisco, CA 94107. If you will not be able to make your scheduled assessment, please respond now advising us that you will not be there. The State Department has a great demand for oral assessment slots and your prompt reply will enable us to schedule another candidate in your place.

Wish me good karma...

Bhutan update

The people of Bhutan will have to wait for their first chance to vote after astrologers convinced their absolute monarch that the stars were stacked against democracy.

xi.

…and i cannot decide tonight which medallion to wear, as i hurry to get ready (the less the more, with you,) and stick my head out the bathroom door to tell you honey, it’ll be five minutes so go ahead and have that beer, and you gimme that cockeyed smile all the while should i wear the circular tibetan hand-crafted present from my father, m' lux, as a graduation present on telegraph street after we’d stolen the champaign from the reception the gift i know he’d paid too much for, to hold the moment, to hurry us women along, whispering lifetime advice to my boyfriend, precious syllables of women and jewelry, my mother and i giggle, and we go to find the car, the parking garage…

it is not my newest necklace (jewelry only since that faraway weekend have i begun to wear only since those tipsy, wine-induced days in napa, sonoma, and i-80 in between) and it is neutral; the green in my longer, bronze medallion compliments both mine eyes and my shirt, and i am longing for it tonight. so on it goes.

we are at this house in berkeley and there is a big, sticky dog, golden lab and something or other (i do not, i’ve told you, care much for dogs, but i am trying) and a fireplace. i know enough people just close enough, fellow alumni i have met after we all left that strange place, that strange home i had once in my life that already seems so far away, and i am asking about neena’s boyfriend kenny and i am asking paymon about how his year is going and somewhere during the teacher-talk of these entrenched youth in a society for youth teaching the ghettos of america he stops getting me beers somewhere during this teacher-talk i am asking about everyone else and associations of whom i have never met and i get an offhanded remark about my being gone about where i’ve been again? must have been told a hundred times and yet it is some land not here and thus will continue to forget and then she cuts us off and begins again about something or other remark in a diversity session they’ve had today.

all the while i am looking down i occasionally and during lulls in the conversation finger this necklace and i do not then remember (but now i remember) the early-morning banging of their hammers on this copper my early-morning enthusiasm for the picturesque turkish district my early-morning escape from one opportunistic and one sympathetic bosnian ticket-checker thatthat sound more than scent which is supposedly the sense the most-closely linked to memory is what sarajevo was and what this medallion is and of what nobody is asking
:and (why) asking (is) anymore (i) want:
i shrug.

belfast

a song, by katie melua.

I've got a ticket,
To the fast city,
Where the bells don't really ring,
Getting off the plane the cold air,
Rushes like bullets through my brain...
It's about being able to fly,
It's about dying nine times.

Nor-Cal Rocks.

occasionally i do go out and do things, mother. back at berkeley there's an african film festival. i saw this hilarious movie-- think judge judy, black, in africa, wearing a false, g. washington-esque wig (wait, isn't there a black woman judge on tv nowadays? i just cannot keep up...)

on another note, i'm becoming precariously californian-loving. is there something about coming 'home' to something that makes one appreciate it more? there's the mountains... the snowboarding... the beach... wine country... the bay... oh, and the traffic, that i'm going to have to drive through everyday if anyone in this friggin' state EVER decides to hire me. ;(

once again, the SEEF fund is up-and-a-runnin'...

Couchsurfing

So I meant to put this up a while ago. Couchsurfing.com is an organization with almost 50,000 members (located in the picture to the right) that links up travellers to couches all over the world. It's a great way to meet new people, fellow backpackers, in various countries, who will host you for a couple of nights. The best part is: the couch is free!

I know, it brings up some trust and safety issues. But the online profiles allow you to put information about yourself and review information about others. If somebody is a creep, people will note it. And there is no binding contract, so you can always skip out to a hostel if you feel unsafe.

I've hosted couchsurfers a number of times and nobody has turned out crazy. You get a lot of great stories, as well. It's a really great organization, and it's hitting major newspapers all over the world: check it out.

"Chock" Full of... Chocolate?

The Latest from The Vivirito Times

Ely Guerra...

fantastikos. Cute Mexicana singer with the most amazing lungs i've EVER heard. Beautiful voice. Just. Amazing.

Go here for clips.

Carlos Mencia

...'s new tour is great. Saw it in San Francisco last Friday. If you cannot make the show, watch for it on Comedy Central!

Vivirito Syndrome Worsens

The Vivirito Times

Best of Blogs...

so i'm a little boring lately. i am working towards gainful employment, but the work is slow. however, i have become a master searcher of careerbuilders.com, craigslist.org, and the berkeley job search database. hiring? here's my resume.

i have also introduced a whole host of new friends to my blog (hesitatingly...). so 1) because i haven't written anything substantial in a month, 2) because i'm (frankly), bored, and 3) to ensure these newbies that i CAN be entertaining, i have composed a short list of good blog entries... am i full of myself? probably, ask my siblings. do i care? now, really, do ANY viviritos care what other people think of them? (hm, could be a promising VT article...)

Best of 2005 Blogs

• Sarajevo
  
• München, Bratislava
• Romania I, Romania II, Buda, Pécs
• Praha, Inács

Go Google.

Sarajevo

Bosnia-Hercegovina

[this one's a little late:]

first impressions (turkish district): this is the small-town mountain quaintness i'm missing in hungary. beautiful cobblestone streets, turkish towers, shopping district pristine-- bought two pendants cheaply. mosques lit up in the early, early morning light...
but this city, too, has its contradictions. once my sleepy bliss wore off, my feet carried me further on, i found i found all that the war had left.

'how,' i questioned disbelieving, 'can people live with bulletholes?' like 10-year-old wounds in the buildings-- but these are noy healing and scarring; they are just open.

i become obsessed with these bulletholes. i take pictures. i walk, feeling them with my fingers. i feel my way this way though the city, through sniper's alley, all along the water, throug the turkish quarters again, and then to the outskirts, past the holiday inn, seeing what i was not seeing in the dawnlight.
a fourteenth-century mosque, another casualty of the recent war. dilapidated. at times, the beauty of the hills distracts be from my hol(y)ed mission: snow-roofed houses, chimneys smoking... and then the distinct tree-line in the hills cut down by the citydwellers venturing just far enough for the fuel just long enough to cut them down and returning quickly to their basements to their interior rooms to their own holes...

later, as i fled those too-recent scars... i met a bosnian girl on a train: 21, studying journalism, and a friend from school... we began discussing school, languages, they asked what my favorite actor was and of course i could not remember any names...her friend spoke too through her explaining to me how each of my "turkish towers" was actually a part of a mosque (how many of them!) going on, approximating the muslim-orthodox-catholic percentages (30-30-30), how bosnian, serbian, montenegrian, croatian are really all the same language yet every nation has something else to add.

i mention the bulletholes, because i was seeing them here too-- the off handed but in all seriousness references to the war. the tune of the conversation changed quickly, soberly. she began telling and i kept asking. they wondered what i thought of bosnia after the war; i was taken aback. what DID i think? i stammered out something regarding investment economics-- who gets what* and how it's decided and so on and so forth. i asked what they though of joining the EU? 'no good,' he spoke up. 'we are a just a poor country, not like them.' she said, 'i have traveled to france, to italy. here is not so much running around all the time. it is a different way of life.'

and the war. 'i was 7 when it started,' she said. five years long. 'i still lived in my town. we lived just all the time in the basement. our fathers would have guns, fighting for their families, fighting for our nation.' questions flooded from my mouth and bits fly from the walls. she begins her sentences with phrases such as 'in war, you know...' and 'during wartime, you see...' this eight-year-old girl is hiding from bullets while i am braiding my best friend's hair. 'i had no childhood.' at nine, i begin sleepovers. 'there are still very many missing; we think they are all dead, but you always keep that hope...' at ten, they must walk 5 miles for water, i run freely through the sprinkler. 'there was never any electricity besides the water.' at eleven i obtain a boombox. 'and the walk was-- still is-- dangerous because they put the guns under the ground and...' 'mines,' i volunteer. yes, she nods. at twelve, her sister, mother, father, and her are still living in that dark waterless basement. food packages are delivered by UNESCO, and they grow what they can.

'do not keep saying to feel sorry for us,' he tells her to tell me, lastly. 'i,' i begin, 'just know i could never begin to imagine.' he nods, this must be acceptable.

he asks with suspicion if i have a lot of free time. i explain, no, i've always worked two or three jobs along with school, i pay for my apartments. for them, at twenty-one there is still no free time. whatever scant money her mother makes is spent on housing and food, little aid for the daughter in school in the big city.

i long to go, to come back. i feel bad answering truthfully every question they ask of me. my favorite country, how i will fly home, if i have free time. i feel badly at the questions i'm asking to mask my ignorance on their land, their war. their bulletholes that i am still constantly poking at. i do not think my probing is making those holes heal.


*slovenia is by far the leader in economic terms; croatia, however, receives more in foreign direct investment. bosnia, hardest-hit, still receives little rebuilding money.