On my 30th birthday, he picked Liz and me up in his Benz and drove us all over the district to drink beers with various stakeholders. He was running for a seat in parliament, and while it never hurts to have some white folks on your team in Salone, I’m pretty sure he just wanted … More A de crai, fo mi Papa dohn komot
I have struggled a bit lately to express myself, both in spoken and written word. Maybe it’s the linguistic fatigue of adding hundreds of new words into my vocabulary. Maybe it’s the struggle to remain focussed on this moment, as I sit at the bottom of a mountain of newness and try not to look up. … More Donde Están Las Palabras?
Travel demands a certain presence. Basic communication alone requires constant focus- especially speaking and listening, lest I get caught asking for an ensalada con polla (salad with a side of penis) instead of an ensalada sin polla (salad without penis). Needless to say, emotions are heightened and feelings are intensified. All of my senses are … More On appreciating too-brief connections
I’m sitting with my grandparents and watching their news of choice, Fox News. For many obvious reasons, I haven’t spent much time watching Fox before this, but seeing as it’s one of two English language news channels in Cuernavaca and my grandparents have the remote, I don’t have a lot of choices. It provides an … More What do I do? What do We do?
“But, what are you doing down there?” I’ve been asked a couple times. Sometimes directly, often indirectly. And by indirectly, I mean with the subtle American judgement and air of superiority reserved for someone who isn’t participating in the system. It mostly comes from me though- for the first couple weeks, I struggled with justifying … More Bienvenidos a Mi Vida
Life is too brief and too rich to tiptoe through half-heartedly, rather than galloping at it with whooping excitement and ambition. And so I explode in rage just in time. It’s time to go prowling through the wilderness. It is time to live violently again. … More With Violent Love and Joy
No one lives his life. … we come of age as masks. Our true face never speaks. Somewhere there must be storehouses where all these lives are laid away… Maybe all paths lead there, to the repository of unlived things. – Rilke As I cautiously waded through practice, it became obvious that I was hurt. … More Embracing Contradiction, and Contraindications