Where I've Been

Actually, I've been right here all along. But I've been very quiet, thinking of things to say and finding very little.

Perhaps the biggest change since I ladt posted on this blog is that I finished my prescription of Sertraline; I successfully tapered off at the start of January. A couple of weeks later I crashed my car in a ditch, but since I suffered no bodily injuries, quitting an antidepressant feels bigger. Maybe that's a good sign?

What else have I been up to? I bought a new car, a hybrid for all those long commutes. I turned thirty, and enjoyed it properly with the help of my lovely girlfriend, Ariele. I kept my head up and only made a few jokes about becoming hopelessly decrepit. My lovebird Bonnie laid a clutch of eggs, but since her mate Sherbert is also a female there was no chance of them hatching.

I continued my life's work of educating America's youth against their will, one compulsory class period at a time. This is harder than it looks, especially when you're no longer relying on the comfort of generic Zoloft to keep yourself even. To be blunt, I had a few really bad days over the last few months. If my latest absence requires an excuse, then recurring depressive spots seem as good as any.

But that aside, I can honestly say that my extra-curriculars haven't suffered too much. Sure, I'd like to be reading more. But I'm also doing something - successfully - that I haven't really attempted in a long time. I'm writing a book, a small volume of poetry. Thus far it has no name, but I've been refering to ot as The Manuscript.

I know I've made grand declarations of intent before, but despute my absence here the fact remains that the poems are being written. They remain to be edited and properly arranged, and once that is done I'll have to figure out how, exactly, one converts a Word document into a book. But I expect that by mid-summer I'll be ready to do just that.

That's it as far as news. I mainly wrote this to get myself back into gear for using this blog again. Like a comfy old jacket, I may take it off for a few months, but I never really put it away for good.

Trumpland

I always used to pity people who had bumper stickers from losing political campaigns on their cars. I always assumed that if a cause was doomed, I'd be canny enough to avoid plastering my vehicle with a daily reminder of failure. But to be perfectly honest, I was not canny enough at all.

People like me made several errors in judgment throughout the 2016 presidential campaign. Our two biggest faults were as follows: underestimating the appeal of coded white supremacy to disenchanted white folks, and assuming that Trump's endless stream of scandals, gaffes, and ill-considered impulses would matter in the slightest. As to the former, that was unforgivably short-sighted. As to the latter, who could blame us? Usually, when a candidate behaves as barbarously as Donald Trump, they fail. But then again, few in recent memory ever have behaved as barbarously as Donald Trump.

As results were returned on Tuesday night and it became increasingly clear that something was dreadfully wrong, I felt intense waves of anxiety pulsing through my heart. It hit me that with Trump in the White House, a Republican-dominated House and Senate, and the prospect of multiple nominations for the Supreme Court, the nation was soon to find itself walking a tightrope without a net. A lot of people are going to find themselves vulnerable, and suffering, in the coming months. All this from the election of a man who could not even achieve a plurality in the popular vote.

I felt sick to my stomach. And a precious few hours later, I had to wake up, drive to school, and teach a lesson on just what the hell happened to a class of confused and dismayed children. Maybe I'm lucky that my students are, by and large, anti-Trump. It spared me the pain of facing my tormentors directly. But as comfortable as my classroom walls made me feel, I never forgot that a house with Trump/Pence signs and a Confederate flag stood just a short walk up the road.

I've been critical and supportive of both Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton. Right now, I sympathize with them completely, as I can only imagine that this turn of events has left them both feeling lost and humiliated. Obama's legacy is complicated and imperfect, but it was won with the best of intentions; now, all of its most admirable points are in danger of being swept aside. It kills me to think that what good came of his historic presidency could be lost; it pains me to think of how Clinton might have improved it.

This is not to say that all is lost, and that we should lay down and die. The only thing that can save us from being run over by a Republican agenda is concerted citizen action on the issues that matter most. I contributed to the Clinton campaign; from now on, I will be contributing to Planned Parenthood, to protect the health and rights of women from a man who thinks he's entitled to their bodies at his pleasure. I'll teach my heart out on the issues that matter most. And two years from now, I'll vote to support a Democratic effort to retake the U.S. Congress.

Donald Trump and his contempt for the rule of law are a direct threat to our constitution and our country. But as long as we hold dear to what matters, we have a chance to turn things around.

Less than a month

And then this will all be over.  Well, it really won't because Trump will contest the election (ineffectually, but noisily) and his legacy of outrageous fascism will live on... but at least I'll be able to call him and everyone who voted for him a loser, and then take a nice, peaceful nap for about a year.

I'm now as certain as I can comfortably be that Hillary Clinton will be the next President of the United States.  That means we'll have to reckon with all of her political baggage, but also that we will have averted a Trumpian apocalypse, and will have opened the door for qualified and inspired women to assume the Presidency in years to come.  So, that's cause to feel good.

I've been putting off writing about the election for a while, because contemplating a future where Donald Trump is the President of anything is viscerally disgusting.  It's only in recent weeks, as the Donald's poll numbers have tanked miserably, that I've actually felt comfortable laughing at his buffoonery again. 

Donald Trump is only funny when his eventual humiliation is assured.  He'd be even more risible if he were marching off to prison for the sexual assaults he's all but admitted to committing, but the prospect of his losing decisively in November is also pretty satisfying.  Laughing in the faces of ignorant white men is also a fond desire.

I know I'm getting ahead of myself, and setting myself up to eat serious crow in the event that Trump does pull off whatever the opposite of a miracle is.  But I need the pick-me-up.

I actually did spend this Monday discussing the election with my students, including the reasons why I could not possibly support Trump.  Most of my students are in agreement that he is, to use a commonly cited phrase, "a racist asshole".  A consensus for supporting Hillary Clinton is less pronounced, but that's their business.  I really don't want to tell my students what to think - but it's imperative to me that they understand what a danger Trump represents to their futures.

How they'll feel after four years of Hillary Clinton, when many of them will at last be of voting age, is any one's guess.  I am content to see how she does, and try to evaluate her term in a fair manner.  I have my expectations, and she will probably fall short of some of them, while exceeding others.  But at least she won't be a tenth as awful as Trump's worst potential.

I'm going to shut up about politics (here at least) until after Election day.  But as busy as I am with work and stuff, I want to post some new poetry soon, and maybe even get back to work on that fiction I kind of abandoned last year.  Maybe when the last of my Trump anxiety has faded.

Bird Keeper

When I took the body of my pet lovebird, Zoey, to the veterinary clinic for an autopsy, I was nearly speechless.  At the earliest opportunity, I left the building and drove home, my throat twisted and my eyes raw.  That was the hardest time.

The thing is, it happened months ago, back in April.  I didn't write about it here at the time.  Zoey was a beautiful bird that I knew and loved from the moment she hatched from the egg, some fifteen years ago.  But after memorializing her on Facebook and Tumblr, I didn't know what else I could add on this blog.

Zoey only lived in my apartment for the last month of her life, but I had never seen her as an old bird.  It's true she had some apparent medical problems, but she remained lively, curious, and friendly as always.  I had honestly forgotten how old she was, assuming I still had a few years left to take care of her and enjoy her company.  Finding her gone was a shock, because I was so determined to do my best for her.

My family has had birds since I was a kid.  And like many kids with pets, responsibility was a lesson I was sorely in need of learning.  I truly loved that succession of small parrots, of which Zoey was the last.  Taking care of them was a chore, though, and what kid doesn't try to avoid those?  

So I took on the responsibility of caring for Zoey with some apprehension.  There was my own mental health to consider.  Though I'd seen myself on an upswing since landing my new job, depression has been a constant in my life for a very long time.  I knew its effects well, especially the way it sapped my energy for necessary tasks.  The last thing I wanted was to fall into a cycle of neglect.  

That did not happen, however.  In the time Zoey lived with me, I cleaned her cage once a week, and dutifully kept her well-stocked with healthy food and fresh water.  She saw a veterinarian for an infection in her nostril, which I applied medicine for, as well as for the bare patches on her shoulders.  I played with her nearly every evening, and allowed her the freedom to explore the apartment with careful supervision.  Zoey was a happy bird, and I felt like a responsible bird keeper.

Inevitably, finding an animal in your care to be deceased leads to feelings of guilt, in addition to loss and confusion.  Those feelings diminished somewhat, when I consulted with my sister and made a better estimate of Zoey's age; she had in fact lived a long life.  But I still remembered all the times I'd been less involved in her care, and the many years I'd spent living far away from her.  Zoey and I were friends in a way I hadn't been with any other bird, and I deeply regretted the time I'd lost with her.

Far from taxing my mental health, taking on Zoey was a clear benefit.  She was a link to happy childhood memories, as well as a perpetually cheerful presence.  Tending to her needs gave me a routine that helped me structure my day, an important part of my self-therapy.  Sharing pictures and videos of her with my students made me feel proud.  And I would not put this lightly: it can be absolutely wonderful to have a pet of any kind in the home when you live by yourself.  They may not talk back, but they are incredibly sympathetic.

A beautiful young bird called Zoey.

 By the time summer came around, my next move was obvious.  I liked being a bird keeper, and I wanted to be one again.  And since there were no more family birds to take on, it was time to look out to the world for a new one.  Or, as things ultimately turned out, two.

A little searching brought me to the website of Exotic Bird Rescue of Oregon, where I found an unexpected opportunity to adopt a pair of peach face lovebirds.  Going by the unusual names of Bondog and Sherbert, they are a bonded couple of presumed females.  Both are somewhat timid, and Sherbert has a common disability: widely splayed legs that make walking and climbing an awkward affair.  But both seemed like the perfect fit for my life, though their origins as "rescue birds" remain somewhat mysterious.

Bondog (yellow) and Sherbert (green) on the day I first met them.

Clearly, there's no replacing Zoey, who would playfully chase my fingers whenever I held an interesting object and fly to my shoulder unbidden.  With Bonnie (what kind of name is Bondog anyway?) in particular, I'm lucky if I can put my finger near her without receiving a hiss and a pinch.  They love to be together, but they need separate cages whenever they fall to squabbling.  They both seem perfectly content to spend all their time in one corner of the room, preening and eyeing me with suspicion.

Bonnie does not care for a camera in the cage.

I knew as soon as I met them, however, that adopting them was not a mistake.  A bird does not need to love being handled to be a source of joy.  Watching the pair of them enjoy each other's company is a satisfying experience all its own.  When they splash their little faces with water, or even when they dive heartily into their food dishes, I feel a calm satisfaction in knowing their needs are met.  When they fly across the room after a tasty snack of millet, it's gratifying to see they are healthy and strong.  

 

Even such little birds can have out-sized personalities.  Bonnie is a brash character,  eager to be in the lead of things and sometimes treating her friend without consideration.  Sherbert is more shy, but she is very gentle.  She uses her splayed legs to great effect, even if her landings are always a little clumsy.  I've never seen a bird more determined to keep up.  It's true they can get to fighting sometimes, but when they start cuddling, you'll never find a sweeter pair.

Still not a big fan of that camera.

I was very clear in my intentions to have lovebirds in my home, as opposed to any other parrot species.  Over the years I came to appreciate their cleverness, their enthusiastic voices, and their sheer capacity for affection.  Bonnie and Sherbert are gorgeous animals who I look forward to caring for, years into the future.  And it will be years; one of the things they stress upon adopting a parrot is their potential longevity.  Lovebirds typically live about fifteen years, but twenty is not unheard of.  As far as can be known, Bonnie and Sherbert are both about three, so with proper care I can expect them to be in my home for at least another decade.  It's a big responsibility to take on, but I feel big enough for the task.

Yes, sometimes they are good enough to sit on my shoulder.

Already, I feel myself falling in love with these birds.  It's a wonderful thing to love an animal as a pet, to bond with a creature so different from oneself.  I believe it testifies to the remarkable reaches of the human capacity for empathy, to see and respond to something almost human in a non-human creature.

Netflix and chirp.  They're just like us!

Zoey and I had a bond of friendship, one I will always miss.  Bonnie and Sherbert are bonded with each other, but I am pleased to be a vital part of their little world.  Or, at least the part that provides millet.

Millet for days.

Reflections Following the First (Half) School Year of a Real Goddamn Teacher

I don't know how long I've been a teacher.  It's not because it's been a long enough time for me to have forgotten.  Neither has it been because of some crack philosophical musing over the meaning of words or the concept of identity.  I mostly mean that I don't know how long I've been a teacher, because the state of my life since starting grad school in January of 2010 has been deeply confusing to me.

The semester of February to June 2016 was the first time I ever held a full time teaching position in the United States.  But when you consider that I taught for nearly eight months while living in South Korea, or that I was a substitute for two years, or a lowly teaching intern before that, it is difficult to call this my "first year" as a teacher.  When you further consider that I have not yet completed teaching an entire school year, it is even more questionable; nevertheless, I can't really consider 2016/2017 my first "first year".  In this warped mind of mine, in which I am unhealthily obsessed with milestones and categories, all of this is deeply confounding.

But none of it really matters now, because I am a teacher today.  I have my own classes and curriculum and I even get paid for it.  I no longer have to explain my life to people with qualifications and caveats.  As a matter of fact, I don't have to explain anything to anyone.  I'm on summer vacation and that means no teaching until September, suckers!

But it is time, I believe, to reflect on what I have accomplished this year.  Not merely because this is a significant milestone for me, both professionally and personally; I feel I owe myself an account of my achievement.  There can be no resting on laurels: I have to make a career of this, both for my survival and for my satisfaction.  There is so much work to be done, and as the students march on it is plain that the work can never really be finished.

The really good news is that, as some have suspected, I'm pretty good at this job.  I'm not great at it yet.  I don't have the deep wells of self-confidence needed to launch myself into legendary status by force of will.  But my skills and talents are neatly attuned to the task at hand.  Whether it's researching for lessons, facilitating discussion, or building relationships with students, I have met with fine success all semester.  I've met with frustration as well, but my colleagues have indicated that they respect what I am doing, and my weary spirit has not yet flagged from any such discouragement. 

My theory of good teaching is being refined all the time, as I observe the needs of different students and try to adjust myself to them.  In fact, I've needed to be flexible, as I now teach students of virtually every age from seven to eighteen.  This is by no means an easy job, and the fact that I am enjoying myself while doing it is something like a miracle.  Pride comes easily at moments like these, and it's not unjustified.

But I have to be realistic, and I have to be critical of myself too.  As I said before, I'm not a great teacher, and whether I can append the word "yet" to that statement is still only a presumption.  I learn more about the craft every working day, but my weaknesses are apparent and they don't all have obvious solutions.

Perhaps my greatest difficulty thus far has been differentiation, or the adjustment of my lessons to meet the needs of students with different skill levels.  This is a challenge every teacher faces, because students of the same age and grade are not necessarily alike in ability.  In my case, the challenge is multiplied by the peculiar situation of my school.

The school where I teach is a charter school in a small rural community; we have a little over forty students in total, with the majority being high schoolers.  This year I taught three classes of high school, with compositions of 12th and 11th, 11th and 10th, and 10th and 9th graders.  I also taught a single middle school class composed of 8th, 7th, and 6th graders, as well as an elementary class with two 5th graders, a 4th grader, a 3rd grader, and a 1st grader.  So to begin with, every class I taught was composed of students who were already of different ages, which made striking a balance with appropriate material a constantly evolving challenge.

Complicating the problem is the relative unpredictability of their skill levels.  Students come to our school for a variety of reasons.  Some have parents looking for smaller class sizes; some have older siblings with positive experiences in our setting; some have had trouble with socialization, often in the form of bullying in harassment.  Many of them, however, come to us because they lack the skills to succeed in public school, due to learning disabilities, mental health concerns, or personal issues.

I have 5th graders who read more fluently than some of my 8th graders; I have 12th graders who are not truly literate.  Since my subject area is social studies, it is extremely difficult to teach in the traditional way if I cannot count on my students' ability to decypher simple texts.  There is only so much instructional time in the day, and I can become frustrated when I must pass over content in order to perform what I might see as "remedial" skills instruction.

My frustrations in that area, however, may hint at a more fundamental issue: my anxieties over forming working relationships of children from different class, race, gender, and sexual backgrounds from my own.  This is another challenge that all teachers must face; I would argue that is a special concern of social studies, as these factors are consistently relevant to the content of our lessons, in addition to the meta-content of a typical day in the classroom.

It's a fact that I'm a straight, white, cis-man who, despite making a spectacularly awkward and protracted entrance into the working world, has never had to live in a state of genuine poverty or deprivation.  I have my struggles, but my struggles are of a different order from those of my students who cannot relate to the arc of my life.  Likewise, it is dreadfully obvious to me that I cannot always relate to their experiences.

The issue of social class looms especially large over my door.  I have many students who live in real poverty, the kind that needs no qualification or caveat.  Some of my least accomplished readers can be found in that group, and I know that this is not an accident of fate.  Poverty disadvantages children at every stage in the educational process, gradually alienating them not only from the school environment but from the social values that promote academic success.  Then along comes the son of a wealthy professional who has been a precocious reader longer than he can remember, and it's difficult to see what basis a relationship can be formed on.  When I become angry or frustrated with a student who will not even make an attempt to do the work I have assigned, it's hard not to see the failure as mutual.

And there is a stickier patch to consider: when my frustrations spill over from the strictly professional to the personal.  Have you ever believed that a teacher simply did not like you?  You may well have been right: teachers are very capable of disliking children, particularly those who make their jobs harder.  Untangling my animosity for a student who does not know any way to relate to me other than through insults and slurs, from my obligation to educate them to the best of my ability, is as hard as it sounds.  Failing to do so can aggravate the tensions of class and race even further, as well as the old prejudice that adults often have toward children in general.

It became clear to me this year that, for all my youthful pretensions, I really am too old to fit naturally in the head space of a teenager anymore, no matter what their background.  Relating to any one of my students requires an impressive leap of imagination, one that may be neither encouraged nor welcome, and is not assured of a successful landing.  I have never been particularly good at socializing with my own peers; assuming an air of leadership and authority is not a comfortable stance for me, and when I have nightmares they are often driven by a loss of leaderahip.

A great teacher is not beyond these concerns - they are fundamental to the practice of teaching, and every teacher is always engaged with the fundamentals whether they want to be or not.  Nevertheless, I take it as a sign that I am not (yet?) a great teacher that these fundamental questions are my worst stressors.  It would not be accurate to say I have not found the solution: rather, I have not yet become fully conversant in the ever-evolving language of the eternal problem.

Some day, I will know what works and what doesn't; how to assume my role in a manner I can perform with no regrets.  My successes will grow and my failures will further my education - the mantra we all hope to establish as a solid belief, teachers as well as students.  I feel confident predicting this, because despite my struggles I am still having a great time.  I could easily go another ten rounds, however long that expression translates to in the count of years.

I Don't Know Where I Began

I really did not mean to leave this idle until May.  I'm not sure why I wanted it to go like that, or if I did want it, or if there's really any answer beyond laziness.  But I did.  I have things to say, so I guess it's time to say them.

Seeing as my last post was in late January, I have about four months of good news to condense into a few lines, for those who read this and wish to know what the state of my life is.

The best news is that I have achieved a small measure of economic security, and have done so by acquiring what is probably the closest thing to a dream job I've ever had.  In February I started working as a full-time teacher at a small charter school in rural Oregon, just outside of Salem.  Shortly thereafter, I rented a two room apartment in downtown Salem, where I reside to this very day.  Thus from the jaws of dejection and defeat, I have been plucked by good fortune to something very like victory.  In the big scheme of things, I've become one of the lucky ones.

What a change, huh?  And no record of it on The Wave Function Junction for four months.  I must be busy with the new job to have been so negligent.

Well, I have been busy.  Teaching social studies is hard work, especially if you want to do it right.  But I haven't been as busy as all that.  Whole weekends pass by where I mostly lie on the couch and engage in distraction rather than creation.  I scribble a poem now and then, and I do keep up on creating assignments for my students.  Very occasionally, I have even found time for exercize.  But it would be a stretch too far to say I'm at the top of my game.  In a way that I haven't quite perceived before, I can see that I am still sick.

Since looking my depression in the face for the first time over a year ago, I have become aware of what it means to be mentally ill.  Back then, it meant idle thoughts of killing myself, against a backdrop of endless waiting for a natural death.  It doesn't mean that so much anymore.  The sertraline pills have done their work of evening me out, I suppose.  And to be entirely fair, I have learned so much in the past year, about myself and about the workings of the mind, I have begun to heal myself from the worst wounds.  The world has become survivable. 

But as I said, I still feel sick.  I still feel cut off from the world, cut off from passion and love.  I can feel these things, and it is joyous when a connection is established by communication, or by physical presence.  But in my inevitable retreat to solitude, I love without anyone to love, and I despair.  Other people see it in my eyes, but they do not see the cause.

Maybe it's just perpetual dissatisfaction?  Maybe it's never enough to have a job and a home, I also need a raise and a vacation and a woman to sleep with me and why not a shiny new everything?  Maybe it doesn't matter.  I'm better and I'm getting better.  As I have reminded my friends, and as I struggle to remind myself, the world inevitably changes with time. 

And I have the time.  I have admitted it today, and that's why you're reading this.  I'm still (unbelievably) not yet thirty, I'm young and reasonably healthy, and getting hungrier every day.  Who'd have thought a meal of life could cure the blues?  Well, it can't.  To do that, I have to finally brave the bureaucracy and figure out how to transform my benefits package into actual health insurance, and get some damn therapy in me (and maybe about a million more pills, who knows).  Perhaps discovering the true love of my life will have a positive effect, too. 

The world has become survivable, and it turns out I'm sort of a survivor.  That's the news as of May 2016.  Hopefully it gets more interesting from here.

Writing Goals: Fairy Tales

I love when a project turns out like it's supposed to, and I think The Lay of the Princess and the Lady Beneath developed nicely into the sort of story I wanted it to be, as well as being a fairly decent poem.  Certainly not the kind of classic they'll be studying in courses on epic poetry for years to come, but a fun little diversion for a reader to encounter by chance. 

At three hundred and forty lines, it isn't quite epic length anyway.  But it is the longest poem I've ever written, and would take some time to recite by a campfire.  Or anywhere, really.  I felt like it was something important to try, especially when it's easy enough to write three short lines and call it a poem.  Some of my best poems are short, of course, but so are some of my laziest (and I won't presume to criticize anyone else's).

So I let the poem grow, far beyond my initial estimate of just over a hundred lines, in order to accommodate the things that I thought needed to be included for the story to breathe.  I took my time (something I don't really need practice at, I'm sure) and the course of the plot was changed substantially along the way.  Originally it was to end more bleakly, as hinted at in the fourth stanza, with the elves destroyed and the princess being doomed to remain imprisoned, undiscovered by her would-be.  But my attempts at making the story more interesting, and my consideration of the characters' motives, inevitably led me away from a sad ending.  Call me a softy, I just didn't want to do that to any of them.

One decision I made early on was to emphasize the actions of women in the story, and try to shift them outside of stereotypical feminine roles in the fantasy/fairy tale genre.  To be sure, of the five principal characters there are two queens, a princess, and a witch, but the fifth is a warrior and described simply as such.  All of them are women, and I don't believe I had cause to use the word "he" even once in the entire thing.

So the main characters are all women, something I didn't necessarily mean to do from the start.  I had considered making at least one of the elf "bad guys" male (either an Elf King or Elf Wizard), but I ultimately chose not to.  I figured that since an all-male cast would be plausible given the genre conventions, an all-female cast would be just as much so.  That's not so say that there are no men in the story's world.  Certainly about half of the humans in the castle scene and about half of the elves in Elventown are men and boys.  Maybe the unnamed elf guards assigned to keep the princess from escaping are men.  Maybe not.  I honestly don't know.

In fact, I might have given my fellow men a little token representation by explicitly identifying the masculinity of a minor character.  But by the time I was mostly done with the story, I had decided that I did not want to explore the question of a man's place in this ad hoc fantasy society.  The royal inheritence is implied to be matriarchal, with ruling queens as the default, but that's as deep into that political question as I wanted to go.  I suppose that a prince might become a sovereign king if a queen had no daughters, sort of the reverse of many real world systems, but maybe not; it doesn't matter because there is no prince in the story.  The ambiguity was intentional: the most important thing is the plot and the fact that every significant role in the plot is occupied by a woman or girl.

Also intentional, and I admit this is a bit of a copout, is just what kind of women are at the center of the story.  I don't really like physically describing characters beyond what is necessary, partly because I don't feel confident in doing so without being awkward.  However, I did want it to be clear that the people of this world were not as white as certain backwards fantasy aficionados imagine the people of their favorite worlds to be.  In thinking of how the witch should present the gift to the princess, I thought she might try to flatter her with a reference to the color of her skin.  Thus the reference to rosewood, which comes in a few different shades, none of which are particularly pale. 

As author, I abdicated the coloring job for each character to the mind of the reader's imagination.  I only hope they all take the hint that the princess is unlikely to be the only brown person in the whole nation.  It is a purely fantastical country that doesn't correspond to any real place, but like most real places you can be sure there is some diversity in its ethnic makeup.

So the truth is, I didn't really flesh out the world as much as I would have tried to if I were writing a prose tale.  There isn't much of a backstory beyond the princess's lonely childhood and the simmering rivalry between the overground and underground kingdoms.  There are hints of an Elvish language, but no words are depicted.  Some indication of the mechanics of spells is described, but it's not terribly specific.  The climate and geography of the country are almost entirely undescribed.  I never even bothered to give the soldier a rank.  As a die hard fan of the Tolkien approach to world-building, I have to say I'm a little disappointed in myself on that count.  This was really only an experiment, I know, but it could have been so much more.

But after all, I had my priorities: an interesting and authentic-seeming fairy tale with a female-centric cast, rhymed as diligently as I was able.  It struck me about halfway through that the recurrent rhyming words "queen" and "fifteen" could easily become obnoxious, and in addition to varying them with substitutes throughout I intentionally dropped them completely during the battle scene, when the princess is momentarily out of the spotlight.  As I resorted to rhyming dictionaries and twisted for new words, I often felt like I was repeating myself to the point of tedium.  But once I read the whole thing straight through, I realized that, at the very least, it wasn't as bad as I thought.

So mechanically, at least, the poetry is sound.  Whether it is at all authentic-seeming, to say nothing of interesting, really isn't for me to say.  I think I did an alright job, and I hope any readers agree.  The story leans on a few genre tropes, and I think it subverts a few others, and somewhere in that mix might be something resembling originality.  In any case it was fun to write, and I hope I come around to revisiting this experiment some time.

Tiny thoughts

Just thought I'd poke my head out and say a word or two.  You know, instead of sleeping.

Presently, things are humming along in the life of David at more or less adequate conditions.  One can never tell if a bad day is just around the corner, and I have to take the time to remind myself of all the things I wrote in that affirmational post.  But my days have been mostly good for the past couple of weeks. 

Writing is definitely something that's been giving me pleasure and satisfaction.  I'm happy with how The Secret Egg is developing, even though I haven't quite figured out how it ends yet.  That just means that, for now at least, we get to experience the suspense together!

Actually, that brings me back to something.  A little while ago, I wrote about making peace with the fact that basically nobody reads my writings.  To be honest, sometimes that feels like a lie.  It's not really that liberating to work on something and have it elude the notice of the world completely.  As far as anyone is anxiously awaiting the next installment of The Secret Egg, I may be the only one.  Then once it's done, I get to reread it a few times, compare it to previous efforts, and wait around until I finally gather the energy to tell myself another story.  It's easier than beating myself up for not attracting any feedback, but not nearly as fulfilling as actually getting the attention.

There is another story of sorts in the pipe, though.  I have been working in spare moments on a long narrative poem, in ballad form.  It has a sort of fairy tale setting, with elves and enchantments and other fun elements.  So far it's about a hundred and twenty-some lines, so it's already the longest poem I've made by far.  I have a lot of warm feelings for this effort.  A small handful of people on Tumblr seem intrigued by it too, and that makes me feel good.

With all that said, I thought I'd make a note about my personal life.  I met a girl about a month ago now, who I thought things were going well with.  Unfortunately, after going on a total of two dates with me (both of which were very nice), she left town for a family emergency, and from what she told me she'll be gone until after the new year.  If I'm still available then, she says she'd like to catch up.  That's really heartening, in theory.  But one thing I've had to relearn this year is not to count chickens until they actually pick up the phone and call you.

The thing is, I really like this girl.  We talked quite a bit before meeting the first time, and for all I've learned about her I feel like we're a great match.  I think about her a lot.  We had some poor luck in our timing though, and it's taking all of my positivity to convince myself that I could possibly have a second chance with her in a few months time.  Personal experience doesn't bear out that possibility, though I know I should have faith in the surprises of life.

So what do I do in the meantime?  Well, I guess I keep taking care of myself.  Trying to get healthy and stable, keeping an open heart and mind, learning as much as I can.  Being the best me I can be, as it were.  Ultimately, worrying about things like this is a waste of energy.  Given time, the world will present me with opportunities, and I will take them when I'm ready.

Affirmation

My name is David, and this is an affirmation of myself.  I am a good and decent person, and I deserve to live.  I deserve to be happy and I deserve to be loved.

I have bad habits, and I wish to reduce or correct them.  But they do not define who I am.  I also have good habits, and I wish to cultivate them.  These do not define me either; I am neither the sum nor the balance of my habits.  I am a human being, as worthy of life and the good things in life as any other human being.

I am private, introverted, and sensitive.  With these attributes I often find it exhausting and difficult to live and operate in the world around me.  But it is not impossible for me to do so.  There are ways in this world for a person like me to find peace and satisfaction.

These attributes do not make me a bad person, and they do not make me weak either.  In fact, they are sources of virtue and strength.  Because I am private, I have much to share with those closest to me.  Because I am introverted, I have a good vantage point from which to understand myself.  Because I am sensitive, I can experience the rich pleasures of life as deeply as I can experience its pains and disappointments. 

I can survive the pains and disappointments of life, and have done so for many years.  It is worthwhile to survive them, because life is also filled with happy surprises and joy.  I will not live forever, but I may live for a long time, and I do not know what the rest of my life has in store.  It would be wrong to assume that there is only sorrow waiting for me.

I have many talents and fine qualities.  I have a good memory and deep thoughts.  I have some skill as a writer and an artist.  I am an effective teacher.  My body is healthy and resilient, and physically attractive.  These things do not make me better than other people, and they are not the sources of my worth as a human being.   However, they are treasured gifts, and sources of great joy to myself.  With these qualities I can make a valuable contribution to my world, as well as improve the state of my own life.  They are proof that I am not helpless.

I am sometimes alone, and it is all right that I should be that way.  I will not be alone forever.  My friends care for me, and they are happy that I am alive.  I am blessed with a family that loves me and helps me.  I will succeed in finding a romantic partner who will love and cherish me for my strengths and accept me for my faults.

I have accomplished much in my life, and I will accomplish much more.  For this reason, I deserve to feel proud of myself.  I do not have to feel guilty for taking the time needed to live a happy life, nor for the time I have spent feeling unhappy.  Though I may be sad or angry or depressed, I am still a good person.

Adventures in No Internet

Actually, it would be a little difficult to make this blog post if I had absolutely "no internet".  In fact, the more I think about it, it would be quite difficult in this modern age to be without any kind of internet access to the web, at least for a person of my socio-economic class.

I am of course not considering the potential impact of a catastrophic natural disaster or nuclear attack devastating our digital infrastructure.  Who has time to think about things like that?

But given all the other facts of my life, I am as without internet as I can be.  About a week ago, the connection in our apartment suddenly failed.  Though I struggled mightily with customer service and technical support to restore the connection, it appeared that nothing could be done in the time being.  It probably won't be fixed until sometime this weekend.

What does this mean for me?  Well, in the short run, it meant I could not complete a project for an online class that was due that afternoon.  In a desperate lunge, I managed to finish the assignment at the local library, and participate in the final class session via phone connection.  But given all the time I wasted trying to solve an insoluble problem, it was still a stressful and harrowing experience.

In the medium run?  Well, I spend a hell of a lot less time on Tumblr.  My epic streak on Duolingo has been interrupted, and I can already feel the Irish slipping away from me.  I have more time to dedicate to reading books, which is good because I have to read one for my last online course (an independent study, not something I need an active connection for presently).  On top of all my other daily routines, I now take a little walk to Starbucks every day, and spend a half hour or so enjoying tea and donuts.  I use my Galaxy tablet tap into their wifi and update Goodreads (with all these books I'm reading), talk to my cousin on Facebook, check my email, and briefly make sure the world hasn't ended.  Then I go home and waste my life on video games.  But that's all very normal.

In the long run, there's no effect.  None.  In a week, the connection will be restored and I will be back to my old tricks.  Unless it isn't, in which case, I don't know?  Maybe I'll just move into the Starbucks.  I see a comfortable nook over by the counter.

Anyway, it's been much less unpleasant to be cut off from modern civilization than I expected.  I'm not in an enormous rush to get it turned back on.  There are worse things to be without, as we all know. 

Fictions!?

Now it's starting to look like the WFJ of old!  You know, the one that produced literary content sometimes.  Not only that, but I even managed to update all the inventory pages.  Not that it was hard, but you know...so lazy.  I'll do my level best to keep them updated as new content appears.

A word now on The Secret Egg, yesterday's first new short story post in like...eighty years?  Seems that long.  It's also the first one that I've broken into parts for a long time, I think since I did The Wolf of Albright.  I could check, obviously.  But I won't.

I got the idea and started working on The Secret Egg in early 2014, while I was living in South Korea.  Not having my own computer during that time, and being otherwise busy wrangling children and dealing with grown-ups, I did not work on it very much.  Up to the other day I had only written about two thirds of what exists of the story as of now.  Life got in the way, including the mighty depressive spell I entered into.  But when I started blogging on here again last month, getting to work on The Secret Egg was a high priority.  This story is very meaningful to me, even as it is still undergoing evolution.

I am not sure how many parts the story will consist of, but right now I anticipate four, with the option of going to five.  In an attempt to be realistic, I will try to release a new installment once a month, and thereby be done with the project in relatively short order, without burning myself out or neglecting my other responsibilities.

Now, some notes on myself.  I remain depressed, no need to go over all the reasons why.  But today I feel good, and I'll tell you why.  I am starting to feel some of the effects of exercize, as my daily running has yielded new insights about the capabilities of my body.  I feel stronger and fitter than I did a few weeks ago.  Most importantly, running around the trail has offered me a few moments of peace that I found difficult to create through seated meditation.  Focusing on the state of my body, analyzing and controlling my breath, and being entirely in the present moment, are so much easier when the body is in motion over a long distance and the lungs have to work hard. 

There are other promising developments in my life.  For example, I have begun taking an anti-depressant: Sertraline, a generic Zoloft.  The little blue pills scared the crap out of me when I first brought them home a week ago, but I've been taking them for a week now and have not experienced any major side effects.  I understand it will take a few more weeks before I begin to feel any significant mood improvement.  Right now, the fact that they haven't robbed me of my sex drive or sent my other bodily functions haywire has made me warm up to the pills quite a bit.

But as I said, I am still depressed.  I still have problems with motivation, and I am often troubled by invasive thoughts that make me sad, and some that make me very frightened and distressed.  But today is a good day.  I'm working on it. 

Part of coming to terms with all that is making peace with the idea that nobody cares about my blogging activities but me.  Nobody!  On a bad day, that seems like a dreadful loneliness, that not one word I've written has moved anyone one way or another.  Even on Tumblr, I hardly get any kind of reader response for my poetry or other original posts.  But right now, it feels liberating.  I can say whatever I want, write what pleases me, and be entirely for myself.  This blog is my space, and anyone can come and look at it if they like, but it's not for them.  I don't even have to be any good!  I'd like to be good, but I don't have to be.

Some of you may object "David, I totally read you blog.  I even like what you do sometimes".  And that's really sweet of you.  But for the sake of my sanity, it's easier to think of your numbers as 0, even as I acknowledge what support I do get.  

So that's the state of myself these days.  Doing OK.  Hopefully, doing better later.

A Run in the Life

I have never been consistent with exercise in my life.  Circumstances have rarely allowed me to be totally inactive, but like many people I grew to regard it as a chore, rather than a natural part of my daily existence.  I exercise because it's good for me, not because it fits organically with the rest of my life; and that's assuming I exercise at all. 

That's why whenever I adopt any sort of intense physical routine, it always ends up feeling like a project.  The kind of thing some hack director might make a documentary of, something like "my month of huffing and puffing before succumbing to the inertia of habit".  And in a way, I guess that's what this post is: documentation of the particular gauntlet I'm pushing myself through these days.

It would be narcissistic to just assume that you (the reader) care about the specifics of my sweaty exertions.  But since returning to Eugene, I've been trying to take better care of myself, both physically and mentally.  Exercise is a big part of that, and in writing about it I hope to encourage myself.  If it's of interest to anyone else, that's gratifying too.

So here's what I do, and I've been doing it for about a week now: some time between the hours of noon and two o'clock, I put on some gym-type clothes and walk about three quarters of a mile to the start of a running trail in Amazon Park.  I find myself at the head of the trail, located on the corner of 24th and Amazon Parkway.  I do some quick stretches, take some deep breaths, and admire what has thus far been some very pleasant weather.

We have such wonderful parks in town, it's a shame not to go run around in circles through them.

And then, the running starts.  If it's not obvious, I am not in what you might call "excellent physical shape".  I'm certainly not conditioned for any kind of distance running, though I'm a fair enough sprinter over (very) short distances.  So until the day I develop the necessary stamina, I limit my speed to what one might call a slow trot.  The goal is to get my heart rate up, rather than cover great distances or move at high speeds.

About a hundred meters down the way is the start of a one kilometer loop, and that is the course I follow.  Thus far, I have stuck to running one loop per day.  Experienced runners may scoff, or encourage me to try for more, but believe me, I'm only being realistic about what my body can do right now.  The first time I did this run, I almost threw up afterwards.  Since then I've become more and more used to the effort, but I don't want to push myself too soon and wind up hating the activity, or being angry at my body.  If this running is supposed to be good for me, then it should probably feel good when I do it.

The dirt beneath my feet is soft, and the trail is usually quiet and (mostly empty).  Cars noisily drive by just to the right, but the setting still feels very peaceful and natural, and I find it a perfect time and place for thought and reflection.  A properly paced run, it turns out, can be the ideal background activity for many kinds of thinking.  Sometimes it's a struggle to keep negative thoughts at bay, just like at any other time, but it seems like committing my whole body to one task has a way of blunting their impact.  Perhaps I'm not as mindful as I aim to be, but on the whole I don't feel bad, and that's a victory as far as I'm concerned.

Just after the loop turns back, and just before the six hundred meter post, is a park bench where I like to stop and rest for a few minutes.  I'm not completely out of breath by this point, though I am still not entirely sure if I could run the whole thing without stopping.  Of more immediate concern is the pain in my calf muscles.  Maybe it's poor technique, or maybe it's just lack of conditioning, but by the four hundred meter post my legs are usually aching noticeably, and I'm grateful for a chance to recover.  I sit on the bench, feel my heartbeat, gently stretch and massage my calves, and appreciate the natural beauty of the scene.

One of my short-term goals, of course, is to complete the loop without having to stop.  Hopefully my legs will soon become more cooperative in that regard.  But for now, I think it's good to have a moment to sit in silence and let the world happen all around me.  In the distance I can usually hear kids playing at the swimming pool, or animals moving around in the grass and in the creek.  Sometimes runners or dog-walkers pass by.  I've walked through this trail many times in my life, and all of these things are familiar to me.  But it's a comfort to experience them all the same, knowing they're as much of the world in this moment as I am.

Once my legs are back in order and my heartbeat has gone down again, I stretch some more, take some deep breaths, and trot out the last four hundred-plus meters, back to the start of the loop. The sun's behind the trees now and I have a little more shade, which is gratifying, but the workout is much the same as it was on the other side.  This time I have the creek on my right and a view of the park's grassy lawn

The end of the loop has a drinking fountain and another bench, usually just the thing I'm looking for.  But something notable happened today: I found that after taking a sip and walking back to the bench, I didn't really want to sit down.  My legs ached, yes, but not quite as much as they had before, and not quite enough to sit down.  As I said before, I've been at this for about a week now, and it's remarkable to think how quickly my body is adjusting to its new demands. 

This particular trail is sponsored by Adidas, a bit of an eyebrow-raiser in this Nike town.

I'm not sure when I'll be pushing for plural kilometers, or increase my speed, or even how long this particular regimen will last. If today's any indication, I certainly have it in me in the near future to really work up a sweat (without doubling over in unendurable pain).  Working out in the park is a lot different from using an elliptical machine or a treadmill at the gym: it's harder on the feet for one thing, but it also requires a different kind of goal setting.  There's no screen in front of you to count out the minutes or suggest benchmarks to hit: you need more determination to get the same benefit.    Still, I think I'm adjusting to it well.

My primary goal achieved, it's time to walk back home.  Walking is an exercise in its own right, of course, and among other things this routine allows me a good excuse to walk more when I might otherwise be sitting.  Running or walking, it feels good to get out and move.  When I finally return, it feels even better to wash the red dust off my feet and cool down in the shower.

So that's my run, today and hopefully for many days yet to come.  I know that it's been a big improvement in my life, and I can't wait to draw more benefits for my mind and body from it.  They say humans were built for running, and while I've never really lived up to it with my sedentary lifestyle, it will be fascinating to discover what my body can really do.

That One-In-A-Million Update

Here I am, poking my head out of the bunker to observe the devastation all around me.

What's that?  The world is still spinning?  Some measure of cheer can still be found amongst humans?

You forget these things while living under a rock. Not that I've been living under any actual rocks.  In point of fact, I've spent much of the last several months in a state of depression.  While many aspects of my life have gone on much as they have, one thing that I neglected pretty seriously was this blog, as you can plainly see.

Let's start with the cold facts for any future biographers: I live in Oregon once again, having long since realized that it is where I feel most comfortable.  I am single, looking for love again but trying to reconcile myself to the fact that the search may be long.  I'm working on getting my teaching certification renewed, and hunting for work so that I can finally establish my independence.  I saw a therapist for a few months while I was still living in San Diego, and now I'm looking into seeing another.  I'm hoping that I can really improve on the mental health front, because I finally realized this year that I have been living under completely unnecessary conditions for most of my life. 

Back to this blog here... I want to write more.  I haven't completed a story in a very long time, and producing stories is something that, however crude the result or minimal the response, I've always taken a certain amount of pride and satisfaction in.  Lately, the only things I've been able to write are poems.  Goodness knows I love writing poetry, but I want to write more.  More, more, more.

And yet, I am unsure about continuing on this particular blog platform.  My experience on Wordpress for the Korea blog my ex and I had was positive.  Despite my persistent lack of any real following online, I feel like I might get more follower-interaction there, which might more easily sustain my activity.  I don't know, the grass just looks greener over there, I guess.  Maybe all I want is a clean break with something, and a new blog is as good as anything else.

So I'll keep thinking on that.  In the meantime, I'm going to try really hard to write and make things appear on this blog, and if nothing else bring it into position for some kind of dignified send-off.  And I'll try to keep myself happy and sane, so that I can move on from what has been a rather difficult time in my life.  I don't know how many of you are out there, but I appreciate your support.

A final thought occurs.  This is the 200th published post on this blog.  A fitting milestone for ruminations of doom!  I can't think of any particular way to celebrate, except perhaps by celebrating life.  So here's a feel-good summertime song about that:

2015

Those following closely will know that I have had a very unusual year.  I spent most of it in a foreign country under alternating stresses.  There were definitely points when I honestly had no idea where I was heading.  That I'm now sitting at the same old desk in the same old chair, comfortably ensconced in my mother's house, is mainly a testament to the gravitational forces that define my life.  Maybe that's part of the problem.

2014 came to a stunning finish for me when my girlfriend Tara, with whom I shared the year's adventure, told me that she wanted some time apart.  I spent much of the month of December eying the calendar and trying to guess at what was going on in her mind.  After a month, I checked in on her.  What she told me was not, perhaps, the worst thing I could have expected.  But the fact remains, we're on an indefinite break.  Wherever I go next in my life, I'm taking the step alone.

What does it mean to be without someone, without having definitely "lost" her?  That's what I'm trying so hard to figure out, and writing this all out is part of the process.  She didn't tell me to get lost.  She said she loves me.  But she also said we can't be together while she figures her life out.  It's confusing.

The main thing is, I've been put into the position of having to trust her absolutely.  If I want her, the only thing I can possibly do is trust her to take care of herself until she decides she's ready for me.  That's the kind of trust a person who loves another person should be able to have, ready to pull out the second it's needed.  It's precisely what I'm trying to do.  But my relationship with her has so far been based on voluntary efforts.  By the very nature of the situation, I now have no choice.

She's doing what she has to do, of that I have no doubt.  I know her well enough to know that she has thought hard about her decision.  But that doesn't make me any less wounded.  I have been good to her.  I have been loyal to her.  I have supported her in everything she's ever tried and done everything she's asked of me.  Every last bit of it was voluntary, because her companionship was a source of constant joy.  When I look at her, or hear her voice, I think "here is a person who is worth all of this, worth everything I can do for her".  How could losing her, even if it is temporary after all, be anything but pain? 

Our third anniversary is in nine days, and it will go by unmarked and uncelebrated.  There will be no presents, no earnest declarations of love.  Only silence and memory.  My heart tells me this is outrageous.  But there's nothing I can do.

When I remember all those train rides and car trips together, or when we went swimming in the ocean, or the meals we cooked for each other, or the camping in the woods and on the beach with her dog, or the books and shows we shared, or the time we danced and she sang to me spontaneously in her parents' kitchen, or all the countless nights I held her in my arms before we went to sleep... it just seems impossible that we were only meant for so little time.  I waited a long time for a love like this to come into my life.  I grew by leaps and bounds to become worthy of someone like her.  To lose something so precious would be more than cruel.

Which brings me back to trust.  All hope is not lost, and I haven't lost her forever.  But just as I have to trust her to be true to herself, she is trusting me to use my time wisely.  Once again, I'm sitting tonight in my mother's house, a thousand miles away from her to begin with.  I'm working for my father, saving a little money as I go, but that can't last forever.  I need to get back to my real home, in Oregon.  I have to build a real life for myself there.  I can't sit still, if I want to show her that she can really trust me to share her life with her.

At least, I think that's what I'm supposed to do? It's the best advice I've gotten.  It resonates inside me.  But I am so afraid, and the one I'd look to for courage can't help me now.  This was never how I wanted things to be, and if there were a god to shake my fists at I'd like to bring the whole heavens down in the act.  But I have no choice but to trust and try.

It is well that we are at the beginning of a new year.  I'm still a young man, and I still have hope.  2015 is off to a traumatic start, but a dramatic evolution may be in the offing.  I'm not ready to give up yet.  I want to be the kind of man who can do this for her.

Darling, on the off-chance that you still check my blog, I want to make you a promise.  I'll do my best.  I love you.

December Fourteenth

This might get a little sad.

Glancing at the calendar in the lower right-hand corner, I observe that today is December Fourteenth.  An innocuous date, one might think... yet careful examination of the historical record (i.e., the daily journal I have kept for the past four years) confirms that this is an important anniversary.  It was on the evening of December Fourteenth, 2013 that my girlfriend Tara and I arrived in the Republic of Korea and began our grand adventure.

That first job we had (the one we fled from after three months) was meant to be a year-long engagement.  So in a world where everything works out beautifully for those whose hearts are pure, we'd be on our way home to America.  If you'd asked me where I thought I'd be in a year, I'd say I was going to be flying back home for Christmas all the wealthier and wiser for a fulfilling year abroad.  But as we know, the world isn't perfect, and I've been home, living in my mother's house and working in my father's office, for about three months now.  Tara's likewise with her folks, taking some time to reacquaint herself with life and friends and family in Oregon.

Due to the international date line, my last December Fourteenth lasted about eight hours and was mostly spent in transportation before collapsing on an uncomfortable and unfamiliar bed.  This one lasted the typical length, and was mostly spent in my computer chair in the company of Tumblr and Netflix, though I did take pity on my body and take a walk through the hills by my house a few hours ago.  Tomorrow, I'm going back to work for my dad, where I will continue to restlessly mark time until I'm ready to move back to Oregon and put my life back in order.  As exhausting as the last December Fourteenth was, I think I liked it better.

You know, it's Christmas time, I've fallen from an awkward situation halfway around the world into a very comfortable safety net, and I just feel so sad.  That's really the hard kernel of what I wanted to say tonight in this blog post: I feel so sad right now.  I miss my girlfriend, who is the single most important person in the world to me.  I miss my friends, the ones in Korea as well as Oregon.  Sometimes I cry about it.  Sometimes I don't talk to anyone but my parents.  Sometimes I'm all alone with thoughts about how alone I am and how little control I have over myself.  Lately my heart feels like it's constantly preparing for the sudden eruption of a worst case scenario, but it can never prepare enough and will simply fail at the least provocation.  That kind of stress is unhealthy, and I don't know how to make it stop.

I know what I want in life, more or less.  I want a satisfying job and a peaceful home with Tara, along with a thousand stories to carry us through the years of our lives.  But melancholy is weighing me down. 

I'm working on getting things together, and I still have good times every now and again.  But I've definitely been happier than I am today.  I hope I'll be happier again soon.

The Beauty of the Bead

I've been back in the good old USA for two weeks now, and so far I haven't gone completely broke.  Living off the kindness of my friends and whatever cash I could claw out of the Republic of Korea prior to my premature departure has been less stressful than I'd imagined.  Part of it is the comfortable surroundings: being back in the old college town, eating at all my favorite places, and luxuriating in the glorious ease of my native language.  You can forget yourself in a little "vacation" like this, which is a shame because in a week I will pull up stakes once more and try to get my feet on the ground with my folks in San Diego.

For better or for worse, living in Eugene, Oregon has more or less shaped my understanding of what adulthood is like.  That understanding probably includes a lot more sitting around in basement apartments that smell like weed and cats while watching anime than what some other people might pick up.  It's certainly included a lot less gainful employment.  But eight years in this town have definitely affected my expectations of where I can go and what I can do.  Despite growing up in Southern California, and visiting home for Christmas and summer breaks, Eugene has come to feel like a more natural environment.

As I am about to hit the road again, however, I can't help but notice how Eugene has changed in such a short time.  When I left Eugene last summer, downtown was undergoing a major phase of gentrification.  The area around Kesey square had sprouted new restaurants, brewpubs, and other businesses, often in spaces that had been vacant or under construction for a very long time.  I'm a little too politically aware to call this an unambiguously good thing.  A cursory glance is enough to tell that "improving the neighborhood" has not solved Eugene's homelessness or unemployment problems.  Installing trendy shops and increasing police presence is not the same thing as giving people a place to sleep.

The city's transformation has accelerated since I've been gone.  However, I find it hasn't been limited to downtown.  More and more apartments for University of Oregon students have popped up in all directions.  New construction is everywhere.  And amidst all the new business are a few empty units where old businesses died and none have dared to take their place.  Eugene is growing, "developing" as some might say, but I wonder how much of it is actually getting "better".

As a young white man with a few dollars in his pocket, Eugene's new face certainly holds attraction for me.  Since I took a break from booze, I can't derive quite as much enjoyment from the seemingly dozens of new breweries and beer supply outlets that have seemingly sprung from the very Earth itself.  But I have a weakness for the Golden Needles at Townshend's Tea House, and I bought myself a going-away tin today.  The new downtown Bijou theater is showing Stop Making Sense this week, and I think I'd be disappointed in myself if I didn't go and see it on the (biggish) screen before I left.  The most gentrified areas of Eugene just feel like a pleasure to walk through, more so than they were a few years ago.

But if I take a step back, I see that the charms of the new Eugene don't far exceed the charms of the "old" one.  We already had tea shops.  We had art theaters.  We still have the same embarassment of lush parks and walking/biking trails.  More nice things is fine, but where's all the investment that could be going toward finding shelter for the guys in sleeping bags over by Circle K?  For that matter, how fares poor Springfield next door?

Like I said, I'm out in a week, at least for a good long while.  I can't begin to imagine how little Poway has changed in nine months, but I'll see for myself soon enough.  When I find myself in Oregon again, I don't know what I'll find.  But I wonder if, as the time passes, the spirit of familiarity that binds me to this place will become unrecognizable.

Maybe it will, but nevertheless I had a very Eugene sort of encounter today.  Walking through Kesey square while munching on a wrap from Pita Pit, I was suddenly approached by a man who asked if I were a fan of good poetry.  I told him I was, and he offered to compose a poem for me on the spot, in exchange for a little money.  It sounded fair to me, so I agreed.

He asked me to come up with four words to get him started.  I told him I couldn't really think of any, which wasn't strictly true, but most of the words I was thinking of were sandwich-related and I didn't want to insult him.  So he suggested I give him a phrase instead, and the first, most poetic thing that popped in my brain was "the bead on the necklace".

I can tell you, this streetcorner poet was no bullshitter.  His flow and his meter were all on point.  In a way that I (a fairly terrible improviser at anything) can only marvel at, he unspooled a structure and and loaded it with meaning, as though it were a perfectly natural thing to do.  He modified my phrase somewhat into a refrain, and spoke about "the beauty of the bead" as a timeless property, undulled by wear and use. 

I couldn't quote any of it to you (I have a bad memory for phrases), but I can tell you the immediate effect it had on me.  Bright as it was today, watching this man speak poetry made me feel like I had to take my sunglasses off.  I felt painfully aware from the first few lines that I was walling myself off from him by hiding my eyes.  And I felt ridiculous for holding a pita wrap in my hand the whole time, but there wasn't much I could do about that.

I didn't know much about this guy.  I didn't know his name or where he came from or what he did when he wasn't hanging around downtown in  the afternoon.  I knew he was black and I was white.  I knew he had a passion for poetry.  It seemed like he could tell I had more than a passing interest in it too.  I knew he was talented, and that he tended to spit a bit at the really emphatic parts.  But I didn't really know what to pay him when he was done.

So I opened my wallet, and I ended up settling on four dollars.  He smiled and said "thanks man, that'll help me get a slice".  Then he walked over to Sizzle Pie to purchase said slice, and I went back to eating my wrap.

I thought about what he and I had in common.  We both wrote poetry, but he did it for money: despite my recent financial misfortunes, I was the one in a position to pay him for it.  It was an ordinary occurrence for him, but a rare and singular experience for me, the sort of thing a person with no real understanding of how the world works might go home to blog aimlessly about.  I'm still trying to work out what exactly I should take away from the experience, how I should handle the memory.  It just seems really important to me that I heard spontaneous poetry in Kesey square, addressed directly to me from a poet who wasn't just fucking around.

I think there was something of the spirit of Eugene in that interaction.  It was fun, pleasurable, and possibly expanded my consciousness.  It certainly made me feel more self-conscious.  But it didn't make me any more articulate: even now, all I can really do is point emphatically and insist that it was very, very important that it happened.  Only in Eugene.

That's how I started my last week in my second home.  Already, I'm apprehensive about leaving it.  I don't think I'm done with this town yet, but I can't be sure I'll ever really "live" here again.  I just hope I'll carry some of its beauty with me when I leave.

Counting change

I'm going back to America soon, and my feelings are complicated. 

I can remember how eager I was to leave my country, to get away from all of its rampant injustice and hopelessness.  The endless political deadlock on TV, the oppressive weight of our defective economic and justice systems, and the media's clueless self-satisfaction are the sort of thing that really ought to be too much for a person to deal with.  Yet, people deal with it every day, as if it's actually survivable.  Maybe that is the worst part.

Now I'm happy to be going back.  Why?  It's not because I've learned to love America's racist hypocrisy or aggressive ignorance.  It's just homesickness, soothed with the promise of security and familiar faces.  Traveling long-term can be fun, but you really start to miss people.  You miss talking to people for reasons other than "because they speak your language too".  You forget about the big problems of society when you're all caught up in your own difficulties.

Going home to America doesn't really feel like going back to all the things I like least about it.  Thanks to the magic of the internet, I never really left those things behind.  When I started planning to go to Korea, the big story was the murder of Trayvon Martin.  Now that I'm coming home, the big story is Michael Brown and the protests in Ferguson, Misouri.  No matter how far I travel physically, it doesn't change what happens in America.  My absence doesn't make everything better.  And being a white man, I never even had to suffer the worst of it.  I'm no refugee, just a bleeding heart.

Going home to America really just feels like going home.  It's comforting to be around familiar things and right now, I could use some comfort.  I'm not exactly leaving on my own terms, but I'm satisfied with what Korea, as a country, has given me in terms of life experience.

My only real regret right now is that Tara is not leaving at the same time as me, and that she'll be spending the holiday season in Oregon with her family before she comes down to rejoin me in California.  Our successful partnership, living and traveling and working together, has been the absolute best part of our tragically abbreviated foreign sojourn.  I can hardly stand the idea of being apart for four months.  But in the end, we will be together again.  I can live with that knowledge.

In the meantime, I have a host of smaller problems to deal with.  Most of these involve moving my stuff.  I have slightly more books now than when I came here last December.  I have an XBox 360 that needs to be diaposed of (because I already have one at home) and a big bag of games that I still want to play.  I bought this teapot that's really cute and asymmetrical and probably really fragile.  I knew I'd acquire more material goods before I had to pack up for home, but in fairness to me I really didn't think I would have to deal with that until next March.

And I've got these coins.  A big pile of coins, because from the moment I landed in South Korea I developed a strong preference for paying in cash, yet rarely bothered to carry exact change.  Being bored and unoccupied the other day, I counted out the value of of all this spare change, plus the few coins I happened to have in my wallet: ₩38,080 (plus seventy three cents that somehow made the transpacific journey all those months ago).

The great little speaker system I bought in April got jostled a little while ago and now it makes a high pitched tone whenever it's turned on.  I could fix it, or buy a new one for ₩38,080.  But since I'm going home, I guess I don't have to!  Instead, I'm using it to buy groceries.  I'm turning into the kind of person who goes to the grocery store to buy one or two small items, and pays in dimes.  It's fantastic.

My plane for Portland by way of Dallas (?) leaves on September 22nd around five o'clock.  Due to time zone shenanigans, it will arrive on the same day, about two and a half hours later.  Technology is truly a wonderful thing.  As for now, I'm counting the days and tryingnto get myself ready for being home.

New Blog, New Life

Well, it's been a while since I posted on here, hasn't it?  Up until very recently, I have been quite busy.  Much as I dream of regular updates, my life always seems to get in the way.

Anyway, I'm not really so busy anymore.  As those of you who read my travel blog know, I recently lost my job.  Being laid off from an unsustainable, doomed business is probably not the worst thing in the world.  But I miss my students and I miss doing the things I was doing, and to put it mildly the ordeal of losing the job was not good for my self-esteem. 

Consequently, Tara and I had to move to a new (smaller) apartment in Gangbuk, in northern Seoul.  It's not so bad, really.  It has a lovely view of the city and the mountains.  With a little luck,  I can pick up some part-time work and make a little money to save before we head back to America next March.  I am trying to be an optimist, because I understand that it's good for you.  Either way, it's been nice to kick back and play house husband for a bit.

What I really want to tell you, the wandering readers who pass through this page now and again, is that I have a new, new blog!  It's not really "my blog" per se, but rather a collaboration between myself and six of my good friends.   So even when I'm being lazy and unproductive, someone should be making updates!   That's the hope anyway.

The new blog is called First and Last Album Music Review, and you can credit my friend Bau for that creative name.  It's basically what it sounds like.   The seven of us will write articles wherein we review/discuss/praise/condemn the first and last albums of a particular band or recording artist.   The plan as of now is for each of us to write about seven artists each, but the project is very open ended.

As of now, there are only two posts up: my inaugural review article (on the Beach Boys), and Bau's somewhat deranged introductory post.  I don't really know what to make of it, but it's there.  My friends and I will soon be churning out lots of fun music content, just as soon as we've stopped being lazy.

I'm happy to write about these sorts of things for free, because it really is a lot of fun.  But my situation being what it is, I don't mind throwing out there that, if somebody ever wanted to pay me to write something for hem, I probably wouldn't object...

Why I'm quitting drinking

Sure, everyone says it when they've got a bad hangover.  But I'm hoping that by putting it down here, I can demonstrate that it isn't just the hangover talking.

People drink alcohol for a lot of reasons.  Fun, flavor, and chemical dependency all play a role in it.  Another factor is social pressure.  Drinking alcohol is not just something one does in response to one's own body.  It's a performance for an audience.  What and how much you drink is socially determined as much as it is chemically determined.

For a long time, I was very worried that I would become addicted to alcohol.  I grew up with visible examples of alcoholism in my family, and I knew exactly what I never wanted to be.  I passed my 21st birthday with only a few curious sips, a customary can of budweiser (or something), and a sense of moral superiority.  Then came 22, and I compromised.  I learned to drink, and in time I learned to genuinely enjoy it.  But all the while, I worried about what would become of me if I lost control.  And when I did lose control, I spent the next mornings feeling guilty and sick.

As it happens, I became a drinker while living in Oregon, nestled among a fine collection of craft brewing houses.  I learned to savor good taste in beers, and to listen to my body when it started sending me negative messages.  I cut out hard liquor.  I tapered my drinking so that I could enjoy a buzz without succumbing to oblivion.  I did what I could to establish good drinking habits.  Everyone who drinks should do that, but in my case I was motivated by a very immediate kind of fear.

Just as there were alcoholics among my family, I found them among my close friends.  I didn't count myself among them, and I still don't.  But I was afraid, and I started drawing lines in the sand for myself.  I thought I would be safe as long as I observed certain basic rules.  Beyond that, I knew I would be safe if I stayed in control of my drinking.

I've been in South Korea for six months, and right now I don't really feel in control of my drinking.

At first, I thought I could retain control easily enough.  South Korea's beer selection is light on the craft I enjoy and heavy on the cheap, watery business of getting hammered.  I spent my first few months more concerned that I would be deprived of good drink than that I would have too much. 

I found good, imported beer.  I've got four bottles sitting in my refrigerator right now.  They've been sitting there for months because I just don't want them anymore. 

Never undestimate the effect a culture can have on your behavior.  In particular, never underestimate a drinking culture.  This nation may not brew the best, but it loves to consume.  And frankly, the prevailing attitude in the drinking culture of Korea strikes me as suicidal.  When I go out with my boss and my coworkers, I am expected to hurt myself.  I am expected to drink until I can be confident I'll have to throw it all up in the morning.  The pattern has been set.

It is not as if I do this all the time.  In point of fact, I don't go out very often.  I've even been able to dodge these outings a few times.  But you can't dodge them all, and I'm so desperate to avoid offending my boss that I eventually find myself quaffing "somaek" (beer with a soju shot) in perverse tests of manly endurance.  Then I feel euphoric and profoundly unhappy.

This morning, I missed the toilet bowl by a few inches.  A glimpse at my employer's more guarded emotions was not really worth the accompanying feelings of shame and disgust or the fluid on my feet.

You can't just drink slower than everyone else when there's a toast every two minutes.  You can't limit yourself to the quantity you know you can handle when your boss puts a two half liters in front of you and says "one shot".  You can't take it back when you feel yourself cross the line of no return.  It's so hard to say no to a drink when the whole gathering revolves around chicken and drinking.

And to think, all of this is supposed to be a celebration of the end of a stressful week.

I no longer drink because it's been a long day and I'd like a little something to relax.  These days, I drink because a man I don't much care for is trying to raise morale.  And frankly, it's hurting me.  I don't know how else to get out of it except by not drinking anymore.

Last weekend, I went to the hospital for a mandatory examination.  The doctors read my blood, and told me my "liver index" was high.  A followup ultrasound indicated I have the beginnings of Fatty Liver disease.  Whether it's the drinking or my diet that's causing it, I don't know.  But I can feel the pain I'm putting myself through.  And if there's one thing I know I never want to be, it's a patient with cirrhosis or hepatitis.

I thought about moderation.  But I don't really feel like moderation is a valid choice for me here.  Maybe when I'm back in America, and I feel more comfortable setting my own pace, that could change.  Right now, I feel more comfortable going on indefinite hiatus.   I'll give my beers away.  I'll stick to tea.

I've been a drinker for five years because I compromised with social expectations.  Back then, I weighed the risks against a desire to be of the world, not left out of a more-or-less universal custom.  Now, I'm renegotiating the terms of that compromise.  I'm tired of being at war with my body.  I want some control back in my life.