layers of alice

alice lowered her head and toward the bowl and began smashing the avocados into a creamy pulp. i put on anthony and the johnsons who sing "fistful of love" and i think of a lover i once had once, of shivering underneath blankets in winter, that cup of coffee when i said goodbye. it had started to rain and the sunlight dissolved into a gray mist that darkened the porch outside. the wind picked up and made the hummingbird chimes clink together in a silvery song. i swirled my wine and inhaled the aroma, trying to detect the slight smells they always tell you about: dates, velvet, oak, hay, whatever it is they say you should be able to smell.

"how did you know i wanted to hear this song?" alice asked, barely turning her cheek toward the table, where i sat holding my wine.

"i didn't know anyone else really liked them"

"i do." she brought the bowl to the table and sat down without touching it. she looked at the contents without accomplishment or joy. it was a task that was finished, nothing more. "i really needed to hear this song tonight."

"yeah, me too." i poured her a glass of cheap pinot noir and had another sip of mine.

"it's strange, you know you never stop loving when it's over. it's like layers, like childhood and growing up."

"i don't understand." i said, looking up at her, but she didn't raise her eyes from the bowl.

"all those things that make up a person- the joy and pain and fears of childhood- are always the same in people; they just learn to cope with it. when i was a kid, i went to new york with my parents and this homeless guy gave me a newspaper. i was shocked that he was so nice to me, said thank you, and walked away from him. he followed my family to the car and told my dad he wanted money for his paper. my dad got mad and started yelling, took the paper from me and threw it at him. my mom told me it wasn't my fault, but i felt so terrible. i played that scene over in my head for weeks and i never really got over it. i felt like i had done something terribly wrong and i still feel a little guilty about it."

i didn't know what to say exactly. i was worried that if i said the wrong thing she would stop talking, but if i said nothing she would feel like i didn't understand. i wanted to watch her open up- to watch her facial expressions as she thought through those moments and compiled them into something manageable.

"i still do things like that on a grownup scale." she looked at me while hanging her head slightly downward, so that one lock of red fell across her cheek and it looked like she was blushing. "those experiences, they are like love because it never stops. love layers like age. it gets old and distant, but it never really stops. it's still there, underneath everything that you do and who you become because you've let that person shape that time in your history."

last week i dreamed that He got married and told me after it was done, like it was a secret i was supposed to keep from others. i woke up sweating and i cried because i was terrified that i would never love like that again. i wonder if alice is thinking the same thing; i wonder who her He is.

"it's raining." she says.

"i know."

un-plugged

as i was about to board the bus yesterday, i realized i had left my phone at home. i felt like a samurai without a sword, waging the pros of hand-to-hand combat versus a battle glittery steel. i had to make immediate choice: risk being late for a job interview or leave my weapon at home. sullen, i boarded the bus and made my way to the back of the bus. how bad can it be to be unplugged?

on the ride downtown, i struck up an interesting conversation with a lady who was also on her way to an interview and my handy-dandy NFT supplied my maps. i had a little wave of panic when i thought the address was wrong and i wouldn't have my internet to troubleshoot the problem, but that proved itself unnecessary and i showed up for my interview ten minutes early and rocked it. so far so good. then i realized that i had about 2 hours to kill before my next interview and i would be so much better off reading and preparing for it, rather than idly wasting that time reading SF weekly. (that being an enormous understatement considering my "deer in the headlights" moment with the firm's partner on the EASIEST question known to man)

later that night, i went to see the new BATMAN movie just to be as consumer america as possible. after getting my midnight dinner of a large cherry coke and popcorn, i noticed the line of kids waiting to get into the imax, seated i might add. oodles of them sprawled out on the floor dressed in all black amidst mounds of smashed popcorn. about half of them were plugged into an iPod, despite their friends being seated right next to them and one cluster actually had their MacBook with them. the phenomenon continued when i turned around at one point in the theater to see that almost everyone had an illuminated screen in front of them (yes, another MacBook) and they were clicking away, playing games or listening to music, despite the fact that they are out to a movie with their friends.

so let me get this straight- we facebook, myspace, twitter, linkin and blog our lives away to stay connected so that when we actually go out with our friends, (to plug into a movie i might add) we ignore them?! seems a disconnected type of connect, and a little more like the people on WallE than i'd care to admit. the irony is that we glean these lessons FROM A MOVIE and that i feel my avenue for venting this frustration is a BLOG!

from dusty cabs to turqouise waters

it was five in the morning when i roused my crew out of bed. ben swung himself down the ladder of the top bunk, flashing us all a glimpse of the ladies panties he was still wearing from the pool. gunner's face was priceless as those frilly, electric blue boy shorts clung to him and he rummaged through a pile of clothes to find his jeans. i rushed the crew through breakfast and loaded them into a rickety toyota corrolla: our cab from siem reap to the border crossing. when i tell people i took a cab from cambodia to thailand, i always get a look of shock, but when the alternative is a chronically late bus ride down asia's most infamous road, it's well worth the ten dollars per head to cab it. apparently, the road hasn't been paved so that thai airlines can capitalize on the tourists who don't want to deal with the discomfort. i'm not sure if that's true or possible, but i wasn't willing to deal with those alternatives.

i knew that getting us all to the thai beaches would be a mission, but i was determined to get us there within 24 hours because i did not want to spend my birthday on a bus. the sun beat down unmercifully into the back seat. we couldn't roll down the windows because of the dust, couldn't crank the air because of the gas, and couldn't sleep because of the heat. by the time we got to the border and stood in line for customs, hopping on a bus was not an option for us. fortunately, thai cabs, while considerably more expensive, have AC, seatbelts, and drivers with serious road rage. within three hours, we were cruising through bangkok and on our way to the bus station. another two hours later, we were on the a double decker sleeper bus with a stewardess and snacks. it was 6 am when we arrived in krabi, thailand and sussed out a breakfast of rice and egg, nescafe and condensed milk.

we ferried from krabi to ko phi phi and found ourselves a bamboo bungalow and immediately changed into our swimsuits. floating, i was surrounded by sharp cliffs, palm trees, and green water. while resting, jenny heard a familiar voice and two guys walking toward the cliffs on our south side of the island.
"allan!"
we knew that he was on the island, but when ko phi phi is crawling with wild, young debauchers you don't expect to run into your friend when you're taking a nap. instead of going to the cliffs to climb, allan led us to the other side of the island, long beach, where we drank tall, cool chang beers and watched the sunset stretch itself along the glittering water. that night we met for cocktails at a little bar with red, pleather booths and it started pouring down rain. we waited and had another cocktail, hoping the rain would lighten up, but it didn't. the light clay mud began to run and the streets began to flood. we took off our shoes and ran for it, laughing as we got lost in the streets looking for a particular seafood restaurant. under an awning, we gave up and began the search for any restaurant that had space for us. the waiters didn't know what to think of us as they ushered us to our seats; other patrons glared as we scuttered between the tables, trying to avoid dripping on people. when we sat, they brought out a case of napkins and we laughed as we dried off. more beer chang, thundering rain, steaming bowls of tom yam and enormous prawns.

gunner and jenny went back to the bungalow, while allan and i continued walking. we went to his hostel, where his bedfellows were listening to 90s alternative rock on their ipod, which they had hooked up to tiny speakers. it was still pouring and the humidity was starting to set in, a sticky warm wet that makes your fingers prune so that you can't tell if it's rain or sweat on your skin anymore. allan and i crammed on his tiny bunk bed and talked until we fell asleep, to sleep until the mosquitos woke me up and it was dawn and time to walk home.

Siem Reap and Angkor Wat

The bus to Siem Reap from Phenom Penh traversed dusty Cambodian roads and the worst car accident I have ever seen. Whenever the bus stopped, children would swarm around to sell exotic fruits or coconut rice cooked in hollowed out bamboo shoots. "Ladiiiiiieeee. You buy from me ladiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeee" they sang, holding up plastic bags mango. When we finally arrived in Siem Reap, Tuk Tuk drivers shoved each other to stand in the bus door, each desperately trying to be the first to gain our attention. The sweat caused the dust to stick to my legs and face; I lifted my hand to shield my eyes from the sun and pushed my way through the sea of men shouting about Tuk Tuks and accommodation. I found my bag and walked away from the commotion, too tired to worry about finding a ride. The people still suffer from the Khmer Rouge takeover and tourism in Siem Reap is a huge revenue for profit. Most men earn their family's keep by shuttling tourists around and they know that if they meet you when you get off the bus, you will probably use them every time you go to the temples. It's fierce competition and a lot to handle after dealing with fruit ladies all afternoon.

We eventually met a man who would guide us through the week, shuttling us to Angkor Wat in the pitch dark so that we could watch the sunrise over the ancient temple. He took us to his favorite temples: the crumbling Angkor Thom, the bridge of the giant snake tamed by Vishnu, the mounds of Bayon with the faces in each direction. The complex of the Angkor Temples was massive, stretching over 400 square kilometers with dozens of temples and crumbling friezes of battles and the Ramayana: the roots of ancient Hindu culture in Cambodia. A family of monkeys played by the side of a road, gathering a crowd of tourists in their Siem Reap t-shirts and locals who fed them bananas. One mother scurried toward the food, chasing away the juveniles, while her infant clung to her underbelly screeching. In every temple, roots of trees tore through the stones toward the earth and planted new trees on the rooves, so that the roots would surround the structure like rain. The temples, though a gorgeous reminder of history and culture were no match for nature, giving the compound an Ozymandias air to it.


At the entrance to one of the temples, a group of men played traditional music. When I stood and listened, I noticed their missing limbs and their scarred bodies. They were a troop of landmine victims who chose to play music instead of beg for their living. They smiled at me and invited me to sit with them and play music with them. I was given reeds and began banging on an instrument that resembled a harp. When I had successfully destroyed their song and meekly returned the reeds to the man with the huge smile, he giggled and gave me tiny cymbals instead. We were driven through the ruins in the Tuk Tuk carriage, and then to the lesser temples farther away. Passing through the villages, the children would raise their arms to wave at us from their shady, bamboo huts. Women washed by soaking themselves with water from an enormous clay pot in the yard, while adorning colorful sarongs. One child rode a bike that was so big for him, he looked like a light brown Kermit the Frog. I let the wind cool me down and listened to Bonobo, watching the rice fields and the water buffalo stream by.

The Killing Fields and S-21, Phenom Penh Cambodia

The first time I heard about The Killing Fields was through my friend Jose's blog. He described the scene in harrowing words that shocked me, but nothing could prepare me for the feelings that this place stirred in me. The pain and sadness that came from me that day was not a simple mourning like the loss of a family member, but something more profound. What I saw that day, what caused me to stagger around the complex in a shock of sorrow, was the loss of humanity that results from the abandonment on reason.

The creed of the Khmer Rouge was even simpler than the creed of communism, against which America was obsessed: destroy anyone who has a mind and exterminate their families. Drive fear into the hearts of any who would think for themselves, anyone who has an education or knowledge. When we got to the compound and began to explore, the first thing I saw was an enormous tower, constructed for the exhumed bones of the Khmer Rouge's victims. The skulls were categorized according to age and sex, layered shelf upon shelf to the top of the tower. My eyes lifted toward the glass shelves and my friend asked, why would they display these bodies so ungraciously. So it doesn't happen again, I said. I'm not sure if I can believe that. There is no expiration date on the cruelty of which human beings are capable. We have seen these themes repeat throughout our history, from the Viking raids to Hitler's Holocaust, the brutal have always sought power.

We wandered around the complex, from mass grave to mass grave. We saw the killing tree, against which children were tortured, and read about the loud music they played throughout the day so that people working in the fields beyond would not know what was happening in the complex.

After the Killing Fields, we went to S-21, a high school transformed into a torture facility and prison. I walked along the corridors, stepping into a few classrooms along the East side of the complex which had been converted to large, single cells. There was an iron bed, wrought iron leg shackles and an iron box for the prisoner's excrement. I made my way around the bed, my imagination surging until I saw the photographs. When the Vietnamese raided Phenom Penh, after the "American War", they found the remains of the Cambodian victims of S-21 and photographed them. When S-21 became a memorial museum, these photographs were mounted on the walls and the beds placed as they had been. After the first photograph, I was shocked and left the room. When I came upon the second, I started to cry.

When I turned around to look at the grounds, it was as if the facility had been resurrected in all of it's horror. I looked onto the grounds of the compound, picturing the smiling school children running for recess, until my imagination played fast forward on the tape. The children are rounded up and kicked out, barbed wire is coiled, scaffolds builts, bayonets thrust, the blood and and the screams. The center building contained a gallery of rows upon rows of photographs, mug shots of the victims upon their entry into S-21. Some men wore a vigilante glare, daring the photographer to attack. Others were terrified, unable to protect their loved ones. I came upon the children before I saw the women, little babies in navy blue suits staring blankly at the camera. The youngest that I saw was a child so little, he was cradled in his mother's arms. The vacant look on her face is not afraid or even alive anymore. It's as if the child she holds is already dead. As I walked the rows, staring into the eyes of these people, struck by the myriad of emotion conveyed through their eyes, I came upon one girl who moved me to tears. She had been beated, her eye was swollen shut and bruised but she was still fighting. She faced a fear greater than any I will ever see, but she looked at her captor and raised her head proudly.

The dilemma that this experience brought to me was profound: The tragedy of this totalitarian government is so appalling that we want to keep these things from happening in the future. However, the only way to do this is to assert a moral superiority to these intolerable actions and one can only achieve this by establishing that there is such a thing as RIGHT. This means accepting that RIGHT exists, not "right for me" and "right for you." One's right to life supersedes the world's cultural ideals: the individual's right to life is the highest moral ideal. It is against these atrocious acts that people must stand and defend the world's smallest minority: the individual.

(Since writing this post, I have read First They Killed My Father by Luong Ung. For more information and a non-fiction account of being a child during this time, I refer you to the book)

observations of the outbound 5

"Are you French? You look French" says the man in front of me, while chomping on tiny balled bites of raw ground beef out of the package. He has peeled away the plastic wrap and shoveled down the whole packet of Safeway meat. Impressive in a Rosemary's Baby kind of way. Though his head is clean shaven, Bic style, blond hair bushes from his ears and I notice a streak of blue dirt behind them, tucked in the creases. He steals an occasional glance backward toward me, trying to catch my attention again. Perhaps I should tell him that my family heritage is French.

There's a little boy on the bus, dressed in a green snowflake sweater and a red scarf. He is missing his two front teeth; he giggles at his mother and squeezes himself between the spaces of the seats which sit back to back. The bus wrenches to an awkward stop, throwing me forward in my chair and the child falls forward into the leg of a man standing up. His mother apologizes and grabs him, her hat falls forward over her eyes.

so much government, so little time.

if there's one thing my travels in japan taught me, it was the stealthy and disarming nature of government. socialism is so embedded in japanese culture that people rarely think that they might be entitled to feel or act in opposition to the group. i saw this most clearly when i worked for NOVA but i won't get into that again. recently, i found out the extent to which the government's mandates have crossed into the public health arena and i had to share this. the new york times reported that the japanese government has made obesity illegal. in an attempt to lower the health care costs shelled out by the government, men and women between the ages of 40 and 74 must have their waists measured as a part of their annual physical. if they are metabo (+33.5 inches for men, 35.4 inches for women), they have 3 months to loose it or face 6 months of mandatory lifestyle training. the idea is to shame people into loosing weight because no one wants to be singled out as a fatty. because the government will penalize private companies (who provide health insurance for the metabos), private companies have begun measuring their employees from age 30 and having family metabo days where you have to listen to lectures about how to eat right.

to me, this is a clear-cut example of why the government should not provide social services for its citizens. anyone who pays the price for a service wants to make sure they minimize their waste: if you pay for your car, you drive carefully; if you pay for your education, you go to class; if you pay for your healthcare, you eat right and excersise. when the government gets in there to provide these "necessities" it also follows that they will find it mandatory to minimize their losses, thus restricting the freedom of those that use their services.