Back to the Future – or something.
The Wednesday before Thanksgiving, I spent the night in a room I had not slept in since 1989, and not regularly inhabited since 1986. When I got up and walked out through the living room to the kitchen, my parents were sitting there chatting quietly. There was even a calico cat on one of the chairs. I was waiting for a phone call to formulate a plan to go meet a friend and did not feel especially garrulous, or even loquacious.
I looked around.
Maybe this was 1986.
No, the grey hair and improved vocabulary were both clear indicators that I was not re-inhabiting my teenage self – but little else seemed awry in this intensely personal Back to the Future moment. Somehow, I had gone home again.
It was a trip.
It is a pretty great house, in a pretty great neighborhood, in a town I swore I’d never go back to again. But, truth be told, most people agree it is a pretty great town. In fact, most of the folks that left, not wanting to be those people who never left Petaluma - you know – those people, are shaking their fists in the face of the Great Unfairness as it has now become pretty hard to get back. With kids, a sluggish economy and a no low growth community, the town holds quite a bit of appeal. Even when I go back now, I look at through a [mostly] different lens.
And through this rather altered state I headed out of the house (on foot) to go visit some friends I have known longer than my conscious memory serves. I was amazed at how quick the walk was – I swear it used to be longer; I am sure I would have never insisted my mom drive me such a short distance all those years. Would I have?
I went back again last night. It is a bit more settled-in, in terms of looking like a house my family would occupy, rather than a place they might just be passing through.
It was still a total trip.
I woke up and walked down to the corner where one of my regular mini-markets used to be which now sells gourmet wine, chocolate, cappuccino, and meats. Luckily they also still sell milk, because I definitely needed to tip Clo through my two lips with my morning coffee. Back at the house it was kind of a standard Sonoma County winter morning: cold, clear… retro.
I was in full retro-mode myself.
After years of being no closer than two hours (by air) from my family, it has taken no less than a month to revert right back to the old ways. Suddenly when I find myself with my parents after a 40-minute drive the urgency of milking every minute that I didn’t want to miss when I was staring down the belly of a 14-hour flight disappears. Though the old rotary dial phone has been replaced by the iPhone, I still catch myself tuning out of the parental orbit and trying to catch up with what Everyone else is doing. [I spent years in Petaluma keeping up with Everyone, it was an endless job, that Everyone is a busy dude.] But somehow, there is a kind of visceral comfort that I get just from being there – I guess it is the same comfort that I always got as a teenager who had the privilege of attentive parents I could ignore. Sometimes it takes 25 years to recognize that kind of privilege.
I decided I would head downtown to do a little Christmas shopping, or something. It seemed like the right thing to do. As I walked out of the house my mom said I looked like I was meant for somewhere bigger than Petaluma.
It is what I had always thought about Petaluma, too.
It was just one more irony making me feel right at home on this morning of Christmas Eve Eve. I walked down the street and felt completely at home at out of place simultaneously, and really, if I haven’t already defined what coming of age in Petaluma was like for me – this was it.
And so, what to do… I suddenly was facing a bit of pressure to be home at a certain time [awkward] and so my options were limited. I called MPFW. She was at our old 7-11. It seemed beyond coincidental. She picked me up, like it was 1986. We had a couple of things to do – different only in detail from the things we would have had to do in exchange for being out with the car 25 years ago. Then what? Coffee? Yeah, okay, that sounded good.
Or we could have a cocktail…
Yeah, we could, couldn’t we?
Yes. Yes, we could.
So, we did.
Just like we did back in 198- err…. nevermind.
Heading back to my house without even needing to ask where we were going, MPFW took out some gum.
Oh, yeah. Gum. Better get some of that before we get home… you know, because the grown-ups are there. Just like 1986.
And who doesn’t love a little anachronism for the holidays?
It is Petaluma. Do you know what year you’re in?
The Weather is Changing. Again.
L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N.
You’ve got more than money and sense, my friend,
You’ve got heart and you’re goin’ your own way
I love the fall. It is something I missed terribly while I lived in the tropics and I am glad to catch wisps of it swirling around what I think will be quite an Indian Summer in the City. I think every year that I must write about how I love fall. I never really know if I just love the transitory nature of the shoulder seasons or if it is fall itself, but either way, this time of the year always finds me in a really good mental space.
The fall signals shorter days, the smell of deciduous foliage, hopeful longing at fall fashions that will only slow cook you the minute you buy them due to our capricious weather, my birthday, the World Series (shame about those Giants. Yeah, okay, not really), a strange sense of new beginnings with the onset of a new school year whether you are in school or not, my birthday, football season, my birthday… and a palpable sense of calm that I attribute to the balance of the equinox – and the departure of the tourists.
This calm is something I always welcome after the mania of a summer, especially one as well spent as mine ended up being. Nothing stresses me out in the fall, even the things that should. It is just a time that I feel so relaxed that I often feel like a stranger in my own Type-A skin. It is a rather out-of-body sensation.
I woke up to foggy skies again today, and quiet streets on this Labor Day. The Burners are not yet back, the hipsters not yet up, the Church-y types doing what ever it is they do when it is not their own personal sabbath. It is quiet in the Mission. Sitting in bed with hot coffee and bossy calico cat (and clumsy dude-baby cat) I contemplated my day. Starting with thinking about what I wanted for my birthday.
I am pretty sure I will get it all.
L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N.
What you don’t have now will come back again
You’ve got heart and you’re goin’ your own way
Landings and Take Offs
How to land without settling, be settled without being grounded, ground yourself without being in the ground…? The fear of settling – akin to being interred in more ways than the diction alone – has been behind most of my bad (and some of my good) decisions over the past two decades. This could be linked to my issues with FOMO, but I think more accurately it reflects a fear of settling for something; clearly suggestive of the fact that one is settling “down,” literally and metaphorically.
Still – I think there is only so long one can remain in suspended animation… a floaty stasis, as it were. This after all, has always been one of my issues surrounding the expat life. Lacking foundation or grounding. But, there I was searching that exact condition out.
Floating.
Noncommittal.
Irresponsible?
Regardless of the labels I stick all over my life, the fact remains, it keeps on changing, sometimes gently, sometimes abruptly… always dynamically. Since April 30, 2010, I have been living in temporary circumstances, out of an interesting variety of suitcases, in three different countries, eight different cities and countless unique sleeping arrangements (consider planes, pick up trucks, couches, sofa beds, trundle beds, loft beds, hotel beds, cots, and sleeping bags…) It has been challenging and manic and rewarding. But now, I seem to have landed.
I got my place a month ago (nearly) but still – the vibe was temporary. Heaps of stuff that I had not seen in more than five years formed a forest of cairns, requiring not only careful navigation, but an acceptance of indefatigable dust, permanently wrinkled clothes and a kind of creepy living time capsule. The more I tried to put things away, the more seemed to crop up. It was like living in a never-ending game of Whack-a-mole.
And then I found myself in the Seventh Circle of Hell Ikea. Suddenly, I was buying furniture again. I thought back to my last treatise on furniture and the irony that I was back in Ikea was not lost on me. One of the guys working there even looked like Tyler Durden. I did what I had to do while I was there and lo! I had furniture.
Settled? Perhaps. Grounded? Maybe. Furnished? Definitely.
Suddenly what was a house…
…seems to be a home.
Really, Matil? It has come to this?
As I continue to enjoy (likely to annoying degrees) the flow that has encompassed my life as of late, I have run up against a small obstacle. And by small, I mean in stature only. I am dealing with seven pounds of loquacious, furry, disdain. I only avoid “rage” as a descriptor because Matilda is too cool to really lose her shit over this; but suffice it to say, the kid is not pleased.
From the freedom of the jungle [cue Born Free] to the malleability of the suburbs, Matil has now found herself an involuntary urbanite. The metaphoric (perhaps literal) feline Rapunzel, she pouts out the window and audibly sighs over her dissatisfaction with all things San Francisco.
So disgruntled these days, she has taken to sitting in her travel crate. While this may not be a bad thing, the reality of it is that in the past I practically had to use a bag and a crowbar to get her tiny self in that thing. Now the only missing element is the dialog bubble above her head saying, “Okay, enough of this shit. Time to GTFO.”
Do you miss it?
If the way that you need
Is too much like greed
Decide if you are rich or you’re poor
I went to a wedding the other day, or rather a wedding reception, for a friend who is more like family than friend. I went with my own parents and the parents of one of my oldest friends who are more like than family than friends too. Chelsea Clinton got married that day too, I heard. Poor kid probably had a lot more headaches than we did out under blue skies and oak trees where I used to suffer through cross-country races back when I was doing anything I could to win the approval of my high school coach. We were headache free.
The people at this party were people I have known (had known?) since before I was able to construct complex sentences or form lucid memories. There is something wonderfully visceral about being around people who you know this well, or at least that you knew well enough at a certain point that the relationship is somehow indelible. It’s nice. These relationships are like Sharpie markers; eternally satisfying.
I caught up with people I had not seen in enough years that they seemed to have gone from first grade to adult in one fell swoop. The kids I babysat had kids. The aunties and the uncles seemed more relaxed, perhaps a little more grey (who isn’t if they don’t have a hair guy like me) and the parents were free to not be.
Of course I faced the questions that one expects after statement, “I just returned from five years in Asia,” comes out. I am getting pretty good at answering a lot of these questions, most of which I have no real answer for… But one of them has been coming up a little more these days:
“Do you miss it?”
I suppose that is to do with the fact that I have now been home a month and the questions about where I am going to live or about work must seem kind of uninteresting when there is no ready reply – or perhaps people feel badly for me that I’ve yet to work that out, I am not sure. Either way, the question of the day was whether or not there was anything I missed about Hong Kong.
I thought about this. In concrete terms, aside from my friends over there, I gotta say: Nope. This may change, but at the moment, it is categorical. But there are things less tangible that are gone, like that certain flair that comes with saying you live overseas… imagined or not, I always felt flair-worthy when I said it. And there is also the loss of the built-in caveat for all commitments that has to do with the reality that every visit may be the last visit – for a very long time. But honestly, that fact remains regardless of one’s location if you want to look at things as a matter of fact. So, those are the sort of ego-stroking possibilities that are no longer there. But in terms of anything else?
If I had to pick something – one thing – that I miss about Hong Kong it has to be the ease with which I could leave Hong Kong. Ironic? Not exactly: HK is the pinnacle of hubs for travel around Asia in my opinion. Somehow, (is it magic?) it seems like everywhere is 2.5 hours away from Hong Kong. I don’t know how that can be possible, and I’ll grant you Bali is 5, but seriously… I am going to miss going to Thailand for the weekend. Or Vietnam. Or Japan. Or Shanghai. You see my point.
Otherwise, as I felt in Hong Kong, I feel pretty good to be right here, right now. Because you know, if the way that you need is too much like greed… it is all down hill from there.
Just ask Boy George.
Some things I know I’m going to miss about Hong Kong
Cheap utilities including phone service – remember that year we all got our electricity subsidized? That was cool. [Seems fair anyhow since our little island provides HK with ALL its power.]
Everywhere you might want to travel seems to be 2.5 hours away by air.
Anna introducing me as “Amanda, my friend from Hong Kong”.
In-town Check-in/Airport Express/Cathay Pacific.
Tirumala Septentrionis Butterflies.
Getting your drink on in the street.
The Inland Revenue Department.
Public transportation.
The Rugby Sevens.
My yoga teacher.
My amigas.
My view.
Norman.
Fighting Instincts…
Powerful you have become, the dark side I sense in you.
~ Yoda
Last night I came home after a very long work day, a 25 minute ferry ride and a 15 minute walk to a scene that defies any palatable description. As I unlocked my door I told my parents, who I had been speaking with on the phone, that I would have to call them back, there was something dead on the floor.
Those of you who know me, know that I have two cats and said felines have a rather brutal streak with regard to the flora and fauna of our surrounding environs. I have, on various occasion, had to remove snakes, rats, mice, frogs, toads, giant spiders, birds and geckos to name but a few of the formerly living things that have either met their end in my home or been brought in as a trophy of some sort. It should be said that I have also managed to catch and release a good number of the aforementioned animals as well. In fact, just the night before last I was awakened at 4:00 a.m. by a sound that I could have sworn was a baby, or a mouse, or… a tree frog? Yes, a tree frog that my cats had taken for a bouncy toy. I caught it and put it out, alive and uninjured, it not fully well.
As I walked in my house last night what I saw was horrible, it was the stuff of horror movies. A good-sized bird whose chest had been ripped open, was strewn across the floor. A foot was several inches away, parts were clearly missing and feathers were everywhere. EVERY.WHERE. My female cat was there, watching me take in the scene (they have open access throughout the day and like clockwork they meet me when I come home; the giant, walking, beacon of kibble.) Matilda followed me around as I went to get the vacuum and surveyed what I can only imagine she helped orchestrate. I saw that all the things on my sideboard were upended or on the floor and that feathers were visible on my bedroom floor, bathroom floor… I walked into the room I use as a closet.
And I began to weep.
Once you start down the dark path, forever will it dominate your destiny, consume you it will.
~ Yoda
On the throw rug in the middle of the room was another adult bird ripped apart but not necessarily consumed and at least three other smaller, baby birds. All thrashed. And then left behind. An entire family. This was not the remnants of a hunt for food. This was pure carnage and had it come at the hands of a human there would be no way to say it was not a crime of passion – of total rage. It was one of the most horrible things I have ever seen with my own eyes. Writing about it today makes me cry.
I took the rug out, I collected all of the carcasses, and I began to vacuum the feathers: under the bed in the bath tub, in my shoes, in the laundry hamper, under the sofa, under the table… I saw Norman peek in from around the open door. I looked at him and he ran. I had yet to say a word. Matilda sat on the couch grooming.
When I finished I sat on the big wooden chair under my clock and cried. I couldn’t stop and I didn’t understand why. They are just cats. Cats kill birds. Why all of a sudden did I feel like these animals were nothing I would want in my home? I looked at Matilda in awe. She is so small. And funny. Like a sprite or something. I saw Norman again. He skulked in past me, not making eye contact. Did he understand that a line had been crossed? Could he? A stupid cat? I closed the doors and the sat back down unsure of what to do. I did not want to be there – I did not want to be around my pets, often one of my favorite elements of coming home.
Always in motion is the future.
~ Yoda
I called my parents back. “They are cats,” they reminded me. “Predators. It is what they do.” It did not ameliorate the situation in the least. Hadn’t I just spent five days hanging out with them and enjoying their ‘catness’? I recall I even laughed about how cat-cam would be such a stupid idea because my cats were the epitome of hedonist lay-abouts. Perhaps it is time to consider cat-cam redux.
The thing is, it is true, they are predators. They kill. Can I punish a cat for acting on instinct when it may be all they have? Can anything really fight its own instincts to the point that they master and moderate their innate behaviors?
Do we all have issues fighting instincts? Or with the instinct to fight?
I considered some of the things that are instinctive to me. Judgment. Supporting the underdog. Believing in people. Competitiveness. Can I fight them? And then, do I instinctively fight? Fight or flight, they say. I think I may be the worst combination: start a fight then take flight. Perhaps. Or maybe I just feel gloomy today. And what would I have these animals do? Make a carnivorous being go vegan, like my cousin does with his cat? Try to convince myself that I can control cats, or any other being for that matter? How would I feel if I had come home to find the carcass on the floor to be my cat, dead and ripped apart at the hands of my neighbor’s dogs? What would I do?
Try not. Do or do not, there is no try.
~ Yoda
I believe that as humans we strive to control our instincts. I hear it is this ability that separates us from the animal kingdom. I don’t know. It seems like there are a lot more readily available examples of people acting on instinct than behaving rationally. With my limited religious training it seems to me that this is the basis of almost all theological endeavors, or even in more mundane terms: To be the master of your domain. But there is also this idea everyone keeps going on and on about to do with honoring yourself, your spirit, your nature. What then, Yoda? What are we left with?
The cats spent the day inside today. My free-roaming jungle kitties were locked in. Unhappy they will be. But dead things there will not be. Is this an illusion of control? You bet. Is it an attempt to override instinct? I don’t think so, because truth be told, you must take the good with the bad and what I love about cats has much to do with their instincts, their behavior –> their ‘catness.’ I am fighting my own instincts to fight in my own little ways. Maybe they will understand this. No they will not. They are cats. When they see me tonight, they will again see a big, giant, walking bag of kibble.
And I will be totally okay with that.
May the force be with you.
~ Yoda
Ex-Patriatitis
Standing on the waters casting your bread
While the eyes of the idol with the iron head are glowing.
Distant ships sailing into the mist,
You were born with a snake in both of your fists while a hurricane was blowing.
Freedom just around the corner for you
But with the truth so far off, what good will it do?
Ex-pat as a subject has occupied much of my mental space over the past couple of years. Likely that has to do with the fact that I am, of sorts, an ex-pat. As has been noted, I am somewhat of a reluctant ex-pat. In some respects I feel entitled to have my say on the subject, particularly in the face of some of the sillier things I hear people say about ex-pats, but in many other circumstances I feel like a total newbie as I stand alongside people who have, literally, served the Queen from Jamaica to Sri Lanka to Hong Kong and beyond. A lifetime abroad. I can hardly imagine.
What is an ex-pat? The definitions certainly vary. Many of the ex-pats I know say they are not ex-pats because they are not on an “ex-pat package.” Still, they are residents of a country that is not officially their own and easily distinguishable through physical and lifestyle differences. Other people say they are not ex-pats because they will never repatriate. The actual definition is: a person temporarily or permanently residing in a country and culture other than that of the person’s upbringing or legal residence. Seems to me the people I have been talking to are ex-pats after all. Other people I know embrace the label, though they tend to be of an older generation and embody it in terms more familiar: G&Ts, Panama hats, an oil and water relationship with locals.
And why my reluctance to adopt the clearly apt moniker?
Well, first, I want to go home – and apparently that is not “cool” in the ex-pat scene. In fact, it seems to imply some sort of direct challenge to the ex-pat lifestyle whenever it comes up, which is then promptly chided by a lengthy diatribe against the United States.
Whatever.
I miss my tribe. Saying that, of course, brings up a whole slew of crap insults opinions.
No matter how one identifies with the concept of ex-pat, the experience is of living away from your “father” (or mother) land is singularly significant. The shift in perspective is amazing, and I might suggest necessary in many ways. I have seen my ideas of what it means to be American, to be an ex-pat, and to be an American ex-pat, go through amazing changes over the course of five years.
So swiftly the sun sets in the sky,
You rise up and say goodbye to no one.
Fools rush in where angels fear to tread,
Both of their futures, so full of dread, you don’t show one.
Shedding off one more layer of skin,
Keeping one step ahead of the persecutor within.
To fully consider ex-patriatitis, consider the etymology: there is a suggestion of being forcibly sent off from your home country. That would definitely color the experience, though I don’t think that is the primary cause anymore. Or is it? Why do people leave their home countries and settle, or wander, abroad? Save for being a law-breaker, getting sent off seems a bit archaic these days, but I would guess there are many ways in which one gets “sent off.” Pulling a geographical is hardly a new phenomenon, and many people who may believe they are expatriating by choice are doing it more so for circumstance. I may be projecting as I perpetrated a total runner as many of you know – I couldn’t deal so I sprinted. (Bad strategy, btw.) I think there are far more subtle runners though: can’t find love, work, peace, hope… at home? Move it out.
For these reasons the location of my expatriation are famous. No easier place for a Western man to find a partner than Asia, it is simply how it works; Western male + Asian female = Instant hook-up. In the current economic climate, there is no easier place to secure employment than Asia, and the money is good. Peace? Well, Hong Kong has it if for no other reason than no one cares to consider things that bother them… you simply do not need to. I suppose that is very insular, but you can certainly get away with it here in a place where political/environmental/religious/racial/humanitarian issues seem to be so far removed from the work/play/consume culture of Hong Kong. I realize that sounds harsh, even judgemental, but if you live here it is worth acknowledging as a reality, at least to some degree, and I definitely understand the appeal, so I am not really casting aspersions.
Hope? Ahh… that springs eternal when one need not consider the alternatives.
You’re a man of the mountains, you can walk on the clouds,
Manipulator of crowds, you’re a dream twister.
You’re going to Sodom and Gomorrah
But what do you care? Ain’t nobody there would want to marry your sister.
Friend to the martyr, a friend to the woman of shame,
You look into the fiery furnace, see the rich man without any name.
And so, you find yourself away. Entrenched? Maybe. Detached? Often. Stuck? That is to be determined. The manner in which one ‘becomes’ an ex-pat greatly influences the kind of ex-pat into which one evolves. Do you immerse yourself in the culture? Are you insulated from it? Somewhere in between? It is clear to me that those options and all points between describe the experience for nearly everyone.
There is freedom in being an ex-pat, or a perceived freedom that apparently allows for behavior that people would not condone at home – a suspension of the standard progression, I think. Not that the standard progression is really all that, or progressive for that matter. But the suspended reality of the ex-pat life is nearly tangible. This can be ultimately completely freeing or petrifying in its stasis. And I wonder at what point one moves beyond it, I have not in five years. Would marrying a local do it? I think that it is far more likely that the local comes to the way of the ex-pat than the other way around. Though, I speak as an observer rather than a practitioner here.
The thing I do notice is that the choice to do things you might never think of at “home” seems available as an ex-pat and this offers much possibility. Likely, this calls into question the nature of home for most people who experience this liberty. And once you begin to fully examine the nature of home, and what home means to you, you are wandering the wide open spaces of the ex-pat. These manifestations of these ruminations will disclose the nature of home for you, I believe.
If that is the result of embarking on the life of an ex-pat, maybe it is enough.
Well, the Book of Leviticus and Deuteronomy,
The law of the jungle and the sea are your only teachers.
In the smoke of the twilight on a milk-white steed,
Michelangelo indeed could’ve carved out your features.
Resting in the fields, far from the turbulent space,
Half asleep near the stars with a small dog licking your face.
I listen to people Americans who travel here, some to stay, criticize American ex-pats all the time. They do this with noticeable disdain for the embarrassing behavior of Americans abroad. I giggle when I hear these comments. In this regard, I know of what I speak, and know it well. Funny enough, the Brits and Aussies do it to their own as well. The behavior they criticize is the bumptious and belligerent behavior of their kind acting as the bulls in the proverbial China shop of the non-Western world. This shortchanges the awareness of the “China shop” as well as the ex-pats in question. It has nothing to do with being American or British or Australian or whatever. The mob mentality and hive mind tendencies of human beings is what these criticisms are really taking aim at. No matter where you go, those in groups of their own will annoy you. I have never heard of Swedes being particularly offensive in any way. Go to Thailand: there in roving packs, they earn the same scorn of the Americans in Europe and the Brits in Hong Kong. Israelis are always getting harshed on (I raise my hand in culpability here) but I learned through humbling trial and error, this is not to do with the individuals from Israel, it is the fact that as soon as they finish their military service they head abroad. In groups. Multitudes of them traveling in tribal groups. And so, the reputation is perpetrated.
Anthropologist Monica Wilson described the significance of the definitions of ritual that characterize the Book of Leviticus as “the key to understanding a society’s central values; it makes up the markers by which a group of people recognise themselves as a group, and distinguish themselves from their neighbours.” I wonder then, if the innate desire to determine and understand our own identities lies at the restless nature of the ex-pat – no matter where you go… there YOU are. In the same way, the cultural mythologies far and wide discuss journeys through the wilderness with the ultimate hope of arriving at some sort of promised land. It makes up the majority of the Book of Deuteronomy (as much as my limited Biblical studies indicate.) Forty years of wandering leads you….
…Home?
None of my friends, or much of my family for that matter, seemed all that surprised to see where my life has taken me. Why then was I? Lamenting the wanderlust of my cousins Haley and Nolan, my aunt Ginger reportedly said, “They are such Barickmans!” Perhaps the genetic code is that strong – and maybe we can identify the fernweh in others as a central value thus superseding the necessity to reconvene with our tribe of national origin and that in itself creates the ex-pat culture. Home for many may be the impermanence offered by ex-patriating. When I return to my tribe, will I belong there again? I have yet to articulate the nature of home beyond one simple requirement: mi familia. This is where I am “far from the turbulent space.” For this reason alone, I know I will find my place. I harbor few illusions about an idealized promised land and expect that there will always remain some sort of question as to permanence or belonging as a residual effect of my ex-pat experience. It is simply who I have become am.
Jokerman dance to the nightingale tune,
Bird fly high by the light of the moon,
Oh, oh, oh, Jokerman.
Describe The World You Come From. Are you kidding?
The University of California asks the following of all of their potential Freshman:
Describe the world you come from — for example, your family, community or school — and tell us how your world has shaped your dreams and aspirations.
I have been spending a lot of time contemplating this directive over the past few months as a great many of my students are applying to the University of California’s various campuses. Well, actually, only three of the campuses are Hong Kong Approved [meaning they have enough name brand appeal]: Berkeley, UCLA and UCSD (go me!) But a lot of students are applying to those three.
And so here they sit, seventeen and strung out on college applications: “The World They Come From.” How best to approach such a task? Can you answer the question with a single answer? Can anyone definitively say, “I am From X” anymore? The students I work with are (generally) multinational, multilingual, transoceanic, multiracial people. Few of them could say they have lived in one place for their entire lives. Where are they from? Is it where they were born? Where they started school? Where they finished school? The country from which they received their [first] passport? The country their dad is from? The place their grandparents are from? How about where their mom is from? A very smart man once told me, it is always a question of scale. [I ♥ geographers.]
And that is only the first step.
I gotta say, I am truly envious of these kids in some ways. This topic is one I have dreams of writing a dissertation about. Seriously. I find it fascinating.
Leaving my Heart [and Finding my Brain] in the USA, Chapter 5: THE BAY AREA
Remember wealth is not always measured by how much money you have. You are a very rich person! ~ Ed Nowak
Thinking that things might slow down a little bit for the final week of my trip home, I headed to the most beautiful place on Earth. [That, by the way, is Northern California.] Blue skies, golden hills, the clean side of the Pacific, SF, Berkeley, Bodega, Petaluma, Forestville, Sebastopol, Woodside, Foothill Avenue in Oakland… err, well, okay they aren’t all spectacular in the same way, but now I know exactly where Sonny Barger used to hang out, and how many Crips you can find on a single street corner at 3 p.m. on a Thursday afternoon… and you know how I love to gather info.
My mom and I arrived in Oakland early (you go Southwest!) and were picked up by Mara at which point I was absolutely stunned at the amount of luggage that a Prius can accommodate. Very impressive. In no time we were river-side in Petaluma enjoying Red Rooster Ale at Dempsey’s with Dee and a bunch of flies. (I really do love Petaluma.) It is so fun to see people you have known forever and know that whenever you do see them it will be exactly as it has always been. I suppose that is the measure of true friends… low maintenance, high value, huge appreciation. The girls told me all about their kids, and as I tend to do when this subject comes up, I listened with amazement. They have all done so much, and so well, it makes me weary to contemplate. Then it was off to Bodega and Grandma Mollie’s for walks on the beach and tea time. Nice.
The week reminded me of the Beatles song Eight Days a Week… Eight days a week, Is not enough to show I care. And that is for sure.
What I saw.
I went some place completely out of my orbit last night. I mean so completely out of my orbit, it was like, out of my galaxy. This is not to say that I was unable to make like I saw that kind of thing everyday… But I don’t.
The funny thing is, when I returned to my own little universe and looked around… I was glad to be back. Gone are the days of feeling jealous or inadequate about those kinds of things and I think that must be a sign of maturity (if not dementia.)
I was in one of the most beautiful homes I have seen in Hong Kong with the million dollar view and all the wonderful accoutrements to go along with it. And I wondered… how would I like this for myself? Is it me? And while the answer is it was fabulous and fully enjoyable… it is not me. And that is cool… I am still going to enjoy the opportunities when they come (hopefully sooner rather than later) but I am sticking with my funky little house by the beach…
Because really, why does life always have to be about choosing… I say let’s have it all.
I love LA. Among other things.
I have not been writing much lately.
I am feeling quite bogged down… by a nice variety of things.
I have this blog on Robbie Williams and space aliens that I have been trying to finish for weeks. Should be a piece of cake being as I find both the subjects strangely fascinating, particularly their respective holds over substantial numbers of people. Have not been able to do it.
CANNOT. FOCUS.
But, I walked outside today to get some lunch after a morning spent in a busy office and it smelled like LA. The air had that tangible, almost chewy feel that I remember so well about the LA of my childhood summers. It always seemed so humid there compared to Sonoma County. And warmer. And then there was that smell.
Warm.
Wet.
Dirty, but not in that third-world way, more like a fast food kind of way… somehow still yummy in spite of the yuckiness.
Semi-industrial but with undertones of an embraceable environment… the ocean, hot pavement, sickly-sweet flowers, sweat.
it smelled like that out in Causeway Bay today and it made me think about how much I love LA. How much the Valley is a part of my internal wiring. How grateful I am for all those summers spent with my family; swimming, eating melty ice-cream, trying to figure out what the tickle in the back of my throat was (smog), smiling.
I love LA.
Darling be home soon….
…for the great relief of having you to talk to…
To settle or not to settle, it has always been the question.
Settling.
Settle for something.
Settle down.
Settle for less.
(Get) settled.
For a word that pretty much sounds harmless and almost pleasant there are an awful lot of bad connotations in my mind assoiated with ‘settle’. It’s too bad really, because I think the idea of being/getting settled is pretty nice. But the reality seems very bourgesoise and provincial and uninspired. That is, it seems like the thing everyone was doing at home that I ran away from .
Why is that?
Since I have come back from my recent foray away from the Kong I have been thinking a lot about settling. I am committed to staying here until February 1, 2011 (at least contractually) and I am not going to be doing any traveling to speak of for a bit, so by default that means that right now, as I sit here in 85% humidity, I am “at home.”
So, of course I went to Ikea and bought a bunch of inexpensive shit to put in my home.
And now as I look around, I am thinking, “Well, yeah, I guess I can see myself in this place…” and that is a new thought. Does that mean I have settled down?
Very recently I had a dream that I got married. It was not a nightmare, and that in itself was a bit strange. I happen to be the owner of an absolutely amazing wedding dress because once upon a time I was supposed to get married. And so I got a dress. And then I did something pretty stupid and so I didn’t want the dress. And so the wonderful person who sold me the dress got me another one that was way better and now I have that. No one has seen it or me in it, save the women in my family. I was wearing the dress in my dream. And Pete Townsend was belting out “Let my love open the door” as I made my way down an aisle long enough to accomodate such an protracted song. I was very surprised to see the person who was waiting at the end of my long march, in fact I was straight blown away. And I felt settled. But that was a dream.
I look at many things in my life and wonder if I am settling for them, or if perhaps they are settling for me? If settling is compromising, then it shouldn’t have such a negative connotation, but if it is passive acceptance of something for lack of a better reason I think it might not be so great.
My sofa is white. Well, it was white, and I look at it and wish it was white still. Am I settling for a dirty sofa because I know that no one but me will make the effort to keep it clean, or is it because it doesn’t matter if it is clean? I am a very judgemental person and so I am probably judging my sofa in the way I judge people… like, “Come on, you can do better than that!” A friend once told me that in every relationship one person is settling. I wonder. I don’t think I want to settle in that way and I am going to get my sofa cleaned.
I feel settled in right now and I cannot decide how I feel about that. I am still fighting against complacency, but also intrinsic dissatisfaction. That is a very fine line to walk.
Amanda
