Every time I have the opportunity to take a trip – big, small, exotic, mundane, work-related, totally frivolous, near, far – I am grateful. I am grateful for the opportunity, the variety and the inherent surprises that come even when you think for sure they will not. And I am grateful for the chance to share my experiences with others. Whether or not they are grateful is something that apparently very few travelers actually consider, but I would like to consider it.

Since I have been living in Asia and traveling in Asia I have found, in sharing my experiences, I rely heavily on words like myriad and juxtaposition. But these words do so little to actually communicate what I mean. Or at least they seem ineffective in comparison to what I see around me. How can I really demonstrate what I mean when I say there are myriad subtleties in the art of multilingual (or non-lingual) communication in Asia, or that Asia is replete with the most incongruously wonderful juxtapositions I have ever seen? Just saying it seems limited.

And why would it matter? Because, of course, with traveling comes the requisite sharing of said experiences, either with other travelers, or maybe with those who would, but can’t and those who could, but don’t. Ihave a great audience in my classroom for sharing, though I was reluctant to share my trips with my students in the US at first, a result of scars from having to endure my own Freshman English teacher’s every vacation to Hawaii (Mark Reischling I know you loved it, but us? Not so much.) Eventually I did begin to share and whether or not it had the Reischling effect on the kids, it totally changed how I traveled. I began to look around the world in a wholly new way; trying to see everything through the eyes of my students gave my trips a completely new focus. I brought back Vegemite and didgeridoos and boomerangs from Australia and let my students try all of them when we studied the region in Geography. I shared my photo essay of the street people and permanent protesters from D.C. when we covered Civil Rights and Liberties in Government class. I brought in albums from Italy when we studied the Renaissance in World History and the photos for my graduate thesis on Area 51 when we covered the Cold War in US History. Photos of the Ancient Agora and the Theater of Dionysus were passed around when we covered mythology and Ancient Greece. From Russia to Alaska to the Baltic States to Mexico and Jamaica – I wondered: What would my students find interesting, or surprising or bizarre… what might shock them? How could I impart what it was like to be in all these places… How could I create the sense of place in a way that they could relate to and provide context for what they were studying?

I read somewhere recently that the abundance of travel writing was getting simply ridiculous. Something to the effect that people live under the misconception that everyone wants to read about their every trial and tribulation on the road and that somehow a well-inked passport makes one the next great… well, you know, travel writer.  And I had to admit, it is kind of true. There are more travel blogs out there everyday, and in some ways, this might kind of be one. I do not read many of the travel blogs that profess to be the “key” to any sort of wisdom, and I love the idea that something one reads on the internet could in any way be “off the beaten track…” [Sorry Lonely Planet, I still love you and I turn to you often, but yo, you are way mainstream.]

Still, I have a certain love for travel literature.

I think my love for the genre has more to do with my innate nosiness. And my geographic inclinations. I like to read about the experiences that people have and see if I can relate/imagine/comprehend/covet/sigh-with-relief over their experiences. And I love to contemplate the complete sense of a place. My favorite travel authors include Hunter S. Thompson, John Steinbeck, Wendy Dale, Elizabeth Gilbert, selected works of Bill Bryson and one particular book by Michael Crichton.

Didn’t think those were all “travel writers”? HST’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail, ‘72 are two of the most effective pieces of literature to capture to flavor of a region and a nation, respectively, ever written. Thompson was completely aware of the significance of creating a sense of place in his writing in order to offer a unique context that would contribute to the story in a way that dialog or description never could. John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley is brilliant in it’s ability to convey the vernacular geography of America and the attendant topophilia during the 1960s as he made his way around the country in his camper (named for Quixote’s horse, Rocinante) and his standard poodle, Charley. The themes in all three of these books are still completely relevant today – and totally worth reading if you have not.

Wendy Dale wrote a novel called Avoiding Prison and Other Noble Vacation Goals that I read while on a cruise in the Caribbean back in 2004, I think. Yes, I said cruise. And to that end I was with the least adventurous person I have ever known, bless his rigid cotton socks. That book saved me from myself on that trip and reminded me of my own adventures during a particular summer in Guadalajara. Most people are now familiar with Liz Gilbert, and those same people all seem to have very clear opinions on her work, specifically Eat, Pray, Love. I adored this book and found that, in many ways, Gilbert shared parts of the travel experience that others have overlooked, though I am sure that I fall into her target demographic so maybe that is why I liked it so much. I find Bill Bryson a bit much on times, I could not get through his book on Australia – while I was planning and traveling through Australia – but I love, love, loved The Lost Continent: Travels in Small Town America, detailing a 14,000 mile trip around the US in the late 1980s. Again, for the reasons that I have found particular travel literature so alluring, I like this book because it points out the little things that might go unnoticed, but make all of the difference. No one misses the Statue of Liberty or the Grand Canyon, but there is so much in between that really gives those experiences meaning…

So, when I write about share my travel experiences it is in a constant effort to impart the unseen, to share the texture and feel of the place through the less obvious experiences: it is the intention of communicating the sense of the place. ‘Sense of place’ has been defined a million ways. If you look to Wiki you get this as an introduction:

To some, it is a characteristic that some geographic places have and some do not, while to others it is a feeling or perception held by people (not by the place itself). It is often used in relation to those characteristics that make a place special or unique, as well as to those that foster a sense of authentic human attachment and belonging.

As a teacher of Geography I have told my students it is the attempt to share the total experience of being in a place with someone who has not been there: what does it look like, smell like, sound like, feel like, even taste like… As a student of Geography I have been fascinated not only by the inherent nature of the sense of places, but also in placelessness and the love of places – topophilia. [Check out Yi-Fu Tuan.]

I have just returned from a long weekend in Saigon. If put to the task of ably communicating the sense of place in Saigon, could I? I could tell you that the texture of Saigon is tangible in every sensory way. I could tell you that the auditory experience of Saigon is immeasurable on any sort of scale I could describe. I could tell you that the juxtaposition of people, places and things cannot be enumerated. Would that be enough? I could tell you that I am constantly struck by the reality that such a great percentage of the world falls into a category easily labeled as “poor,” but they seem to take it all in stride so much more readily than I coped with my four hour delay. Would any of that give you a real sense of Saigon? If I tried to express the “emotional connections between physical environment and human beings” (Tuan’s definition of topophilia) would it be my own or those I had observed? Could I share the way that I see people around the world do the most ingenious things with what is on offer from their surroundings or is that suddenly my own emotional agenda?

More to the point, would it matter? And further… who am I to take up this endeavor?

I suppose the answers to those questions are what will indicate my status as a “Travel Writer.”

FYI: Some other notable books I consider to be brilliantly fantastic travel literature include: The Motorcycle Diaries, The Rabbit Proof Fence, Shutterbabe, and Long Way Round [I mean, Ewan McGregor in leather...?]

I decided to go back to Vietnam a few months ago. I have an abundance of air miles that, for myriad reasons, I feel like using, my neighbors had recently relocated (back) to Saigon and it seemed like a nice little sojourn prior to the crazy that I know December will bring. Living in Hong Kong affords one the luxury of taking long weekends to places like Vietnam, Thailand, Taiwan, Macau, China… It is a great benefit. Having taken a long weekend in Bangkok not too long ago, Saigon was the perfect alternative. It would be warm, a great place to do my Christmas shopping, and I could help some friends out be being a pack mule for some of their stuff they were moving from HK in stages. So, I cashed in the miles, got the ticket and worked my way up to the departure date.

Tuesday evening while sharing a sampan with Frenchie, a former travel agent, we were discussing my departure 36 hours ahead.

“So, you got your visa, right?”
“On arrival.”
“Vietnam? I don’t think so. You need two photos, four days and some paperwork.”
“No, last time I did it on arrival.”
“I don’t think so, I mean, it has been five years for me, but I am pretty sure you need to get your visa.”

Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit.

I pulled out my passport. I certainly did not remember getting my visa ahead of time for Vietnam when I went in February… but I definitely DID remember getting it when I meant to go in 2006. I looked at my last Vietnam visa, perfunctorily dated the day PRIOR to my arrival. She was right. Of course I needed a visa to enter the SOCIALIST REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM. What. The. Fuck. had I been thinking? Of course, the point being I had NOT been thinking. I rarely worry about my visas. There are two really good reasons for this. The first reason is that I have an AMAZING travel agent who pretty much makes sure that I do not screw things like that up. (Ask for Daryl, you will not be sorry.) The second reason, and probably more to blame for this, is that I am American.

Doesn’t that blue passport get me everywhere?

People are always talking about how Americans are so arrogant. And so provincial. And so not-smart. And how they think they run the world. Etcetera. Etcetera. Etcetera. Provincial I am not. Smart… I will let you be the judge, if you know me, you already know my opinion on this matter. Running the world? Well, you know, you can only control what people allow you to control. Seriously. And while arrogance is a trait I espouse disregard for, I simultaneously find myself strangely drawn to it. [Note intentional juxtaposition of previous three statements.] Am I arrogant? I imagine a lot of people would say yes, but there are many things that can be mistaken for arrogance. [It takes an intuitive mind to see the difference.]

There are a surprising number of countries that do require visas of Americans. But since few of them are on the top 100 lists of places people want to visit, they are often over looked. Afghanistan. The Democratic Republic of the Congo. Sudan (though of ALL the people in the world, only if you are an American of Sudanese descent you can get a visa on entry…) Iraq. North Korea. Then there are places like Cuba, China, Cambodia and Laos where it seems clear that, as self-professed socialist states, a visa would be required by the likewise self-professed disseminators of democracy. Oh, yeah, and THE SOCIALIST REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM.

After feeling pretty silly for having over looked this totally obvious issue of the entry visas, the next step was deciding what I would do. It was 10:30 pm on Tuesday night. I was set to fly at 9:00 am on Thanksgiving Thursday. What to do? After considering what story I would tell in order to avoid looking completely stupid, Google, of course. Enter Vietnam-Visa.com. American passport holders are able to get a visa on entry it said. No way! [It is this sort of thing that perpetuates the existence of all the things that people hate about Americans, btw.] I filled in the form and paid US$21. And then guessed I would have to wait and see what would happen.

I did not look forward to admitting that I had made this mistake when people asked why I was NOT in Vietnam over the next few days, but the more I thought about it, a few days at home didn’t sound so bad. I became surprisingly detached from the outcome of this ordeal and just laughed at the way things go sometimes.

I went to bed.

When I got up the next morning I bumped into my neighbors who look after my cats when I travel and told them I might not need their help because I had done something so embarrassing.

“What’s that?”
“I forgot about my visa. I feel so dumb.”
“Oh stop! Who hasn’t done that?”
– wait, really?– She didn’t roll her eyes and acknowledge my idiocy. It was just, like, no big thing.

I smiled.

I called my parents on the way to yoga and told them the story. It was out of my hands, but I would know by 6 p.m. the day before I was supposed to travel if I would in fact be traveling. It was not so bad to admit it after all. I told my yoga studio that I didn’t think I would be in class on Thursday because I was supposed to be traveling but that I had forgotten about my visa so I might be there after all. They laughed and said they hoped they didn’t see me, but would hold a place for me anyhow. But they didn’t laugh AT me, just with me. Realizing that the issue I had about the visa was little to do with the actual issue and all about my embarrassment for being an idiot made the situation a totally different thing. I didn’t need to be in Vietnam for any reason, it would be nice to go, but I would go another time if this didn’t work out. I called Cathay and told them the situation and they told me that the reward ticket could easily be changed if it was not used. I called my hotel and told them what was up and they said no problem, just to let them know, there would be no cancellation fee.

I told my co-worker about all this and he said, “You live a charmed life.”

That may be so. But it certainly does not go without appreciation.

And then I got the visa.

At 4:00 p.m. I received an email with a letter attached saying that all I needed would be two passport sized photos, my valid US passport and US$25 and I was set to enter the Socialist Republic of Vietnam. Just like that.

I woke up on Thanksgiving morning and packed my bag and headed out the Airport Express, where I got my train ticket, checked in my baggage, and got my passport photos all within about 20 meters. In less than ten minutes. It was that easy.

And so my worst habits have all been reinforced. With one little change: an American passport and a smile may open a lot of doors, but it is complete detachment from the expectation of what might lay on the other side of those doors – as well as from the reality that sometimes the door might not open – that makes all the difference.

Happy Thanksgiving from Saigon.

I meant to be posting, everyday, things I was grateful for until Thanksgiving. And now, on Saturday night, I am a few days behind. Not that I am any less grateful, just less productive, or perhaps a little less inclined to share these past few days. Sometimes this seems like a really inappropriately intimate medium. But then sometimes it seems perfectly germane.

I was sitting outside in the cold on the 9:30 ferry coming home on Thursday (on purpose – as sitting inside is garish, loud and above all MALodorous) watching Victoria Harbor’s lights go by. [See above, obv.] And I was struck by how unusual my life is in some ways. This skyline, or coastline, or reclaimed gelatinous marina, (take your pick) never fails to impress. And to have a city like Hong Kong at my disposal everyday is pretty amazing. Though I know I will not stay here and I feel it is a place that makes putting roots down very difficult, it is really cool to be right here, right now.

Being in a city, particularly one that is cold, around the holidays is thrilling… everything is electric, literally and figuratively – abuzz, as it were. And, save for sticking you finger in a light socket, I think palpable energy is a very cool thing. I am glad I am here. And I am grateful that Beijing perpetrated that ridiculous cloud seeding endeavor that people now credit with giving us all this wonky cold weather. I love that the PRC believes the weather is just one more thing to manipulate. Go China!

And it has been cold here, with humidity consistently below 50%, which is crackling dry in these parts. Add to that the wind and it seems positively (or negatively?) electric, even without the lights.  I think the wind does energize me, and whether this is a scientifically sound concept or just my feeling is moot, standing in the wind has always given me a charge. Add to that the possibility for static electricity and – wowsa – We’re all electric.

Today the skies are clear and blue and it is cold and windy and holiday-like and work-infused, simultaneously. I am happy to be in Hong Kong and glad to be going away next week and relieved to know nothing is permanent. I am busy and feel lazy, have lots to do and nothing to say.

Polarity is defined as the presence or manifestation of two opposite or contrasting principles or tendencies. Bipolarity suggests they are simultaneously present – perhaps erratically so.

Contrary to what many might say, I think that’s cool.

For now.

My time coming, any day, don’t worry bout me, no
Been so long I felt this way, ain’t in no hurry, no
Rainbows end down that highway where ocean breezes blow
My time coming, voices saying, they tell me where to go

Don’t worry bout me, no no, don’t worry bout me, no
And I’m in no hurry, no no no, I know where to go.

Albert Markovski: The interconnection thing is definitely for real.
Tommy Corn: It is! I didn’t think it wasn’t! It is!
Albert Markovski: I know, I can’t believe it, it’s so fantastic!
Tommy Corn: It’s amazing!
Albert Markovski: I know.
Tommy Corn: But it’s also nothing special.

I met a young lady in the summer of 2005 in a class in San Diego. We had the same name; in a way. She was funny and audacious, and dead set on going to Germany by whatever means possible. This was, you will not be surprised to discover, related directly to a young man. I stayed in touch with this young lady as I entered into a very bizarre and mildly labyrinthine new chapter of my own life. Several months later, this young lady contacted me from Taiwan. She had decided that the reality as well as the rationale behind going to Germany were not meant to be, and so she had made a dramatic shift and come to Taiwan. This was fun for me, and for her I think it was acceptable. Less than a year later this young lady met a dashing young man in Taiwan. He was from Germany. She is now a happily married momma to a beautiful baby girl, living with her German husband… in Germany.

The Universe does indeed appear to work in mysterious ways.

I found someone on MySpace in 2004 through inroads I can no longer remember. I was unhappy in Reno. He was cute in Vegas. We kept in touch on and off for five years. Watching the ups and downs of our mutual lives with interest appreciation. In March of 2009 in an effort to impress someone entirely different I declared that I would go to Black Rock City in the fall of 2009. I said this out loud. I had no idea if it were true, intentional, or possible. The person I meant to impress turned out to be – unimpressive. And irrelevant. But still, I thought a lot about my declaration to go to the Playa. It would be difficult for myriad reasons. I spoke to my friend in Las Vegas who would be going. I went. I met my friend from Vegas for the first time, five years after we “met,” at Burning Man. It was epic.

The Universe has an appreciation for intention.

I met another friend from MySpace, in person, in the spring of 2006. He seemed like the life of the party. Gregarious to the max. Beware these signs for the future: everything was “his” – “his” friends, “his” stories, “his” experiences, “his” island, “his” city… What he had in charisma he lacked in sensitivity. He was so caught up in image – a true believer that image was real and paramount, regardless of what lay beneath. He was an expert on all things great and small, sometimes for real, and did not listen well. He exaggerated not only for effect but as a self-professed lifestyle. He adopted other people’s stories and called them his own. I am not sure when hyperbole becomes a lie, but the lines between what was real, and what was not, were smudged  like old chalk drawings on a dingy sidewalk. He called Hong Kong “his.” Hong Kong asked him to leave.

The Universe is authentic.

I went to a birthday party for a friend in the spring of 2006. It was the vernal equinox and I was in the middle of a sprint from reality; untethered. I didn’t intend to go to the party, but I did anyhow. It was small and many espresso martinis were served.  On returning to the island I intended to soon leave behind, I was ill-suited for sleep. I saw another friend holding court with a group of people I did not know. I stopped to talk with them. It was now 4 a.m. I talked with one of them until 7 a.m. We didn’t stop talking until one day he decided to talk exclusively with his White Nurse. By then everything was different. I had stopped running. I was back on the island I meant to leave, living in a home of which I had said aloud, in the fall of 2005, “I think I could live here.”

The Universe has an acute sense of irony.

I was walking through Times Square (the Hong Kong version) on a Thursday morning in July headed to the office and desperate for a change in circumstance. I looked up and saw a familiar face. At first I was uncertain of the face I was seeing; the context was off. This is a person to whom I had spoken maybe twice. He is someone I prefer to listen to and I feel like I have little to say in his presence. On this morning I stopped and we exchanged greetings and contact information. This was very out of character for me, as I generally remained silent in his presence. Three months later I was able to find him again because of that one chance encounter. Two months later he reminded me that it is always good to greet people with an open heart when you see them. And of  course, he is correct. And my circumstances have been irrevocably changed.

The Universe provides.

A boy was given a horse on his 14th birthday. Everyone in his village said, ‘Oh how wonderful.’ But a Zen master who lived in the village said, ‘We shall see.’ The boy fell off the horse and broke his foot. Everyone in the village said, ‘Oh how awful.’ The Zen master said, ‘We shall see.’ The village was thrown into war and all the young men had to go to war. But, because of the broken foot, the boy stayed behind. Everyone said, ‘Oh, how wonderful.’ The Zen master said, ‘We shall see.’

The Universe knows more than us.

QUESTION #1: Who thought this was a good idea? It is not. It is actually a very bad idea. Sort of like this. I am aware of Movember and realize that it is probably necessary to fund men’s health in light of the current health care crises, and of course the cessation of funding to education, which actually – believe it or not – contributes to the sorts of stuffs people need to know in order to make discoveries to help men’s health… but I digress. Am I:  A woman who loves a Mo and wants to support the efforts of a Mo Bro in their life?

Not a whole lot of love for the Mo going on up in here.

[QUESTION #1 part 2: Why doesn't Tarzan have a beard? For real.]

QUESTION #2: If you are clearly a hipster by visual design, but you did not accomplish this momentous feat intentionally, it just kind of happened, are you in fact, a hipster?

QUESTION #3: Sarah Palin? Seriously? I stand by my assertion that one should not use words they can neither spell nor define. You are out on called strikes Palin. How Glenn Beck of you.

QUESTION #4: Why can’t I get this in Hong Kong? I feel cheated.

QUESTION #5: What is the meaning of life? I suppose this is as good an answer as any. Unless it is yoga. Then I like that answer better.

And on that note: I am thankful for the infinite ways that my students make my days unique, challenging and interesting… giving hope that there might be more than “bugger all down here.”

Alright… so it is winter in Hong Kong now. I think I wrote about it being fall last week, and that was nice. For a minute. Now it is winter and it is cold. Before you go telling me what a thin-skinned baby I must mention that when it gets into the forties here, with the damp and the lack of insulation and floor to ceiling tile… it is cold. Like colder than San Francisco summers cold. Colder than Incline winters cold. For real, because at least in Incline my Audi had heated seats and stylish warm boots were on my feets.

Here, it is just cold. And I do not have my cold weather clothes. And the cold came without warning. I very well may end up in one of the hats pictured above; a really popular item on the street today, by the way… Along with full length down parkas.

It is 52 degrees out there today. [My aunt visiting from Portland thinks it is all a bit funny.] It will be 44 tomorrow. Brr.

To be fair, the weather has been a bit harsh, huge winds and spitting rain last night on my walk home, a sampan was out due to the sea conditions. And my cats are going mental because I am not leaving their in-and-out window open because if I do I cannot get my apartment warm enough at night. So last night when I got home it looked like someone had tossed my place. But no, just cat mayhem. And I was too tired to deal with it. I was up at 5 a.m. yesterday to go to early yoga then less early yoga, then to get my nails done, then to lunch then to work, then to another appointment, then to the ferry, then home. At 10:30 p.m. Consequently, this morning I was exhausted on awakening at 6:00 a.m. and looked outside at the seriously blustery day.

The sky was grey.
The sea was black.
The trees were getting whipped.
The wind was really howling.
All I wanted to do was to crawl back into bed with a book, some hot coffee.

And a truck load of carbohydrates.

For real: all I want these days consists of baked goods, bread, muffins, croissants… you name the carb – I want it. It is a good thing it is winter and I have to wear every item of clothing I own simultaneously because for now at least it will disguise my irresistible urge for carbo-loading that the cold weather has induced. At least until it gets hot again – likely to be in a week or so.

And so in keeping with the Thanksgiving gratitude thing… yesterday I was very thankful for hot coffee and yummy hot soup, and today I want to say thanks for the change in the weather which makes everything seem a little more cozy, and the November 1 Christmas decorations slightly less sacrilegious… and the carbohydrates that much more delicious.

Oh, and thank you thank you thank you for the yoga practice that will also help to stave off the effects of scandalous carb consumption.

I realize that learning is infinite. I accept this fully. I generally even really appreciate this and advocate for embracing this as one of life’s greatest gifts.

But Holy Hell! Can a kid get a break once in a while? I am so tired of *%$*%)@!*^ learning lessons lately.

My brain is F-U-L-L.

I have no idea if the lessons have been here to learn all along and I have been too obtuse to notice, or if there is in fact, something major going on. But Oh. My. God. It is full on. I often watch my friend Adele’s amazing young son with awe as he is taking in all the world has to teach him. And he, my little B.F.F., has much to learn. He knows this and is okay with it most of the time. But there are those moments, like the moments I had today, when you can see the emotion welling up in him because it is all just too much to comprehend and yes, too much to freaking LEARN, sometimes. Of course, unlike me, he is five. He is supposed to be immersed in life lessons. Where is the justice here?

Sometimes I wish it could just be easy. For my L.B.F.F. and for me.

In the course of a few short hours today I had so much to take in. I think I managed. But it was exhausting. Flexibility, patience, chillaxing. Sometimes those are the only things you need.

And yoga, of course. Thank whoever I need to thank for that.

So yeah, in keeping with the Days of Gratitude leading up to Thanksgiving, I am thankful for the lessons, but still, man, I could use a break for just minute.

How about tomorrow?

I spend a great deal of time talking about my family. Among friends, old and new, in countries near and far: My family resonates resonance. In my classrooms they become models, examples, heroes, metaphors, motifs, sages, symbols; paragons of all the things that combine to make up the complex conglomerate of a family such as mine.

But they do not become these things through my words. They are these things through the way they live their lives.

I am thankful for my family.

And sometimes it is especially important to thank the ones who are the hardest to reach.

The word for today is ruminate:

–verb (used without object)
1. to chew the cud, as a ruminant
2. to meditate or muse; ponder

–verb (used with object)
3. to chew again or over and over
4. to meditate on; ponder

from rumen (gen. ruminis) “gullet”

Lately, I find that the visceral pleasure in cogitating on something rather than reacting has been extremely satisfying. For instance: I receive an email that I have been waiting for. I am glad to have this email. The information it contains is interesting, if not exactly what I was looking for, and ultimately puts to rest the wait for the email. I am inclined to reply. But I do not. Instead, I ruminate over the email and the implications of the email and the potential outcomes of replying, not replying. The email needs no reply, though this does not always stop me from doing so. Right now I feel perfectly satisfied to have the email in my inbox and return to it when I want to remind myself that it is there. No need to “just say hey” back.

Or consider this example: I am on a boat (yeah, really, on a boat.) I am listening to people converse and speculate over the details of something of which I am fairly sure I have more accurate information. Should I share/correct/engage? I don’t know what I should do, but I don’t do anything. I sit and ruminate. There is no reason for me to get involved, particularly because they are not really interested in accurate information, as it tends to be quite boring. I turn my iPod up.

I return to the email. I am glad it is there. Why it feels so satisfying I have no idea, but you know, whatever.

Without advocating for passivity or excessive contemplation or worse, the creation of non-reality, I think that the pleasure derived from bouncing a concept around in your head for the simple interest of it is quite cool. It is like savoring something delectable on your tongue rather than wolfing it down. Wolfing definitely has its place, but this is certainly pleasant.

A non-reactive reaction.

[photo from here.]

Paraskavedekatriaphobia is the fear of Friday the 13th. I use this word to introduce word roots when I am teaching vocabulary [for rather obvious reasons] but it always brings up very interesting conversations. Like: “How can someone be afraid of a day?” (Grade 7) “What does that kind of a fear look like?” (Grade 10) “What kind of loser is afraid of something like that?” (Grade 12, peer response: ‘People who don’t want to go to school/work on Friday.’)

Friday the 13th has an interesting history, tied of course directly to fear of specific things – women, witches, the inexplicable (wait, was I just being redundant?) and is equally interesting to investigate, though I do not mean in the Paranormal Activity way, just as a precautionary measure to see how absolutely dangerous fear can be, especially if you are female or a cat.

Today I am thankful for living in the relative absence of fear and the gift of good sleep. I have always been a good sleeper and some say this is a sign of a clear conscious. on the other hand, there is narcolepsy, so you can’t just assume. But either way, I am glad I have a bed to sleep in, time to sleep, and little I need to hide myself under the covers from, save for cats who want food at 5 a.m.