Use this to your advantage, girl, focus on that purple water lily over there and the orange sun warming your body. Chant OM and close eyes that are tired of being open. Rest a voice that is sick of speaking and listen to the body that is hot from moving. meh di tay shun

Tonight with moonlight coming down and my spirit raising up to meet it ... With passing smiles changing the mood of my face... with everyone gone and no one to disturb.
That space, that space that we all crave to be alone in and retreat in must come from within. People living ten to a room in India still have their space. It is inside of them.

Someone asked me yesterday if I missed the "landscape" of home. Not really, just that one hill on Darlington I love going down.

Things. Not important. Unnecessary. And when I got back I am going to go through my room like a tornado. This need to have/hold onto/consume. It's disgusting. Going into B-lore it settles like a haze around your head and only lifts when you're coming back in the car realizing you're out 300 rps. and some self respect because you probably got cheated anyway.
So take a minute to really think about it next time you're walking to the cashier at the department/food/electronic/anything Store. Where it comes from, what you're really going to do with it, how long 'til the shine wears off.

I don't know where I'm going with this, but I know where I'm coming from

I might save myself over 3 grand and be a nomad in the fall.

they are leaving tomorrow morning and with them, some sense of familiarity that i miss.
sat in on and participated in an awesome conversation on gender today. there's more to say on that, but it's 3:15 a.m. yes.

so it's back to getting it from emails and sporadic letters much appreciated.

Fidel just gave me a glass of lemon juice, that was very nice of him.

I have been very busy ingratiating myself to the new group that has come. About 18 or so young 20 somethings from all over the US involved in an ecology/spirituality trip.
There was a bonfire last night complete with full body story telling, interperative (sp!) dancing by Matt with running commentary from Kendra, singing, and an impersonation of my Gramma Gallo that was a big hit.
{the favorite being "Soooo, Demetrius (duh-mee-tree-us), he's cute (cuh-yute) anything physical (fi-zi-cull)? as she slyly looks up at me from cutting vegetables and I nearly pass out}

I don't want them to leave. All the girls have furry lucies (armpit hair) and the guys are really laid back.

I am too busy being bored to write anything of importance, but the main purpose of updating was this:: What I have to look forward to when I start at Petco again: www.myspace.com/djtoni411
he is The Head Honcho

I am lost here. In the best possible way. I'll be found again on April 20th at 3:40 pm in Terminal B.. A girl with red dirt still on her feet and the smell of sweat and spices clinging to her skin. A reluctant returnee.

I listed out in my head things I want to do and there are so many. All in different corners of the world with different responsiblities. But I will have none .. no strings... no strings to hold me where I am. There is the Akwesasne Reservation in northern NY which is suffering, Gurukala in Kerala, ADATS, Balbuena's offer in Peru, and get bigger go ahead.. the world. All seven continents (6, really), all countries, all cities ... I can find a place in any of them.

So, the future, it swells up in front of my eyes and it's gigantic. Endless. Accepting that I have no idea or control about what will happen is freeing/ makes what is going on now seem precious.
Allow me, for a moment, if you will...
I appreciate being here .. I soak it up through my skin and five senses. Kerala was/is the most beautiful place I have ever been. Two nights ago children at an alternative school for tribals performed for us. The drums, the movements, .. I cried three times, letting my wet face show unashamedly. In front of me was the materialization of that "thing" no one lets out too much.. that abandonment, connectedness with the earth. At the end, everyone danced. More than thirty people flailing and laughing in a circle in a large enough room to the beat of three drums... beating faster and faster to the point I could not tell which was my heart and which was the music.
I don't want to leave, but if I am afraid of losing this feeling when I go home, I should not be. What I bring back home with me will be as much "India" as the dirt under my feet.

So, I must leave, but I do not have to stay where I am going. It is with a sense of relief that I think about my trip to Nicaragua. That I will be able to leave the states a month after my return.. that I will be able to melt into someone.. who understands this wrenching feeling ripping apart my stomach from my body and my heart from my chest.

My passions are becoming more clear and the path that will lead me to them, more defined.

6:14 a.m. on a Tuesday morning. We are leaving for Kerala in an hour and forty five minutes. The paper was due by 8 pm last night, but I'll tell you this doesn't mean much here.

Went to the Aruyvedic doctor yesterday and now I have a bottle of stuff and some pills. Tried to eat an actual meal last night and the result this morning could have been worse, but then again... could have been so much better. We'll see how I fare in the jungle.

Just have to go and pack. I'm getting really good at this fitting all my stuff into a backpack thing. I know what I need and don't need. I know what fits and doesn't and how to make it fit. This is me bragging about something I had no clue about a couple of months ago.

I'm finished as of right now. Full circle.

3:12 pm

Paper is due at 6:30 pm now. Everyone's happy, but it's because Sid has to go to B-lore for a memorial service. Someone's little girl died. This just makes me more tired.
The heat is oppressive, I feel pressure against my body every time I move, as if I'm swimming.

Maybe just one more post... when it's finished... can't let this whole saga go unfinished. Zeros standing for completion and all that.

Congratulations, Kate, you did not give into the wasp that is still flying around your desk. Just yours and no one elses.

10:32 AM.

I now have four new friends on myspace, plans to get coffee when I get back, a pain in the side of my head from the headphones pressing on my headband (just figured out that was the problem and rectified it), and a couple of extra paragraphs.

Most of the white paint on my Nalgene bottle has worn off and the mark telling me 32 oz is gone. The two stickers I have on it are peeling and the bottom looks like I took a butter knife to it. Good, it's legit. A miniscule piece of clay from Sangum is in the grooves of the cap and there are teeth marks on the plastic where I had to hold the bottle in my mouth in Hampi - climbing big boulders. Now my Nalgene bottle is weighted down with so much more than it was when I came here.

Hiro is doing handstands in the middle of the floor, Malika and I are commiserating while I am forcing myself to stay put in this chair while a wasp flies around me. I'm bigger than it and it just wants to be my friend, right? I've realized since arriving here, having had many occasions to encounter large bugs, how funny it is when a person is afraid of a cockroach, bee, spider. Like elephants afraid of mice.

written last night

Approaching 12 a.m. I have four pages, heavy eyelids, and the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band coming through the headphones. So far we have lay on the floor, had two brief dance parties, laughed manically, and crashed.
I have four pages of the most honest writing I've ever produced. Stream of consciousness sprinkled sparsely with noteworthy information about NGOs and the "state of things". The t h i n g s and their s t a t e are pretty bad off and if there's white guilt does that mean there is white responsibility?
If this guilt is loaded on to you and you struggle with this new weight, what are you expected to do – a woman who is still carrying around old for all the other things she assumes she needs to feel guilty about? A woman who talks about how the oppressed are numbed out and dumbed down by having to work too much to make t h e i r own ends m e e t, but can be numb herself coming home from a day of classes and a night of work and, god, dragging herself to bed is as big an accomplishment and as much of a relief as reinstating student aide for all and righting the wrongs of Social Security.

Is this me making excuses?
Is that question proof that something hasn't connected right in my brain? That I'm not looking at it in the right way?

12:05 a.m. and my paper is such that the above would fit in well. Let them know. Let them know that I'm confused, that I don't know what's left or right, and sometimes when I walk uphill I end up falling down. Let them know that I am a woman who's trying hard and grateful she's doing that much at least… because a step is a step. Let them know their program is working.

The clock on the computer reads 00:04. A count up to the paper has begun. I never thought about it, that 12 a.m. must be 00 on a 24 hour clock. And, at this hour…. Or at this no hour?? This seems kind of funny. Zeros are funny things. Representing nothing but symbolic representations of anything that comes full circle, is complete, and sustaining.

9:40 pm.
Paper is due at 4 pm tomorrow. Contrary to what we were told initially in January, this paper is supposed to be very personal and "no, a thesis is required more for the final paper, this is just a reflection." The speaker who spoke this .. Siddhartha .. head honcho to a degree.
My response: "Are you telling me I have to write a glorified journal entry?"

His face... kind of confused and then a YES with a head bobble comes out.

So, that's what I'm writing. Complete with some incomplete sentences and weird punctuation for an artistic effect. This paper is some horrible obstacle towards the last paper which will be interesting to write and will be the last hurtle. We have all reached a plateau here. This is the first paper we've written where everyone sitting in the lab right now maybe have 8 pages combined. Two a piece. That's pretty bad since we've known about this for awhile now, but have opted to play volleyball and not care that much. If the paper topic was sensical, perhaps this would not have been a problem.

So on and so forth.

Yesterday we went to Sid's son's school for an art/crafts/etc show. I sat in the passenger's seat in the jeep, still parked in the driveway and then Papa Bear (as some like to call Siddhartha, who I call Sid) came over to my window and said

"Kate should smile more often!" And then reached his big arms into the car and tickled me. Like a caged animal, which I was, I jumped back and almost landed in John's lap. Taylor and Lauren said there was a look of horror on my face. He repeated the offense three times. The big man laughing, the girl gritting her teeth into a smile... the car full of people thinking "I don't think Kate's really laughing."
He said "But she's laughing" while he let out his own chuckle and I remember when I was little and my Dad would do the same thing to me and I'd be crying and laughing. One reactionary, the other involuntary.
Today at lunch he made a joke lunge at me and I jumped in my seat. Lauren said "I don't think she likes that" and something or other and then he served himself. I'm so amused at how a person can say something and there are a couple of people who I will guarantee you will let your words pour out of your mouth and onto the floor, never picking them up with their ears.

The title Big Papa Bear frightens me. Because it fits him. The man is big. He moves like a bear and some have adopted him as our Temporary Dad. I'll pass on the sentimentality of that paternal cuteness, and take my Lenin lovin', former Aethiest/anarchist/communist, Republican/Catholic Dad any time. My dad might be confused, stubborn, a little off, sardonic in humor, but at least I can relate.

So the cultural thing was great. I had to lie down on a hot slab of rock which made the skin of my stomach tingle because I had an upset tummy. Then Anand (son whose name I probably misspelled) gave me some pink stuff. Gastritis is all the rage here. Everyone's having it. We watched a play which was great, had Raava which is an awesome dessert of rolled/cracked wheat. And I thought about how fucking lucky this kid is and all of the fucking lucky kids. And how, by coming here, I'm one of them...

but without the strings attached.

Yea, without the strings attached... I like that.

So now it's five to ten. Tonight I have uploaded some pictures onto my photobucket, created a sub album on said bucket, drew pictures with Lauren, Rajesh, Siddram in the kitchen, took a picture of Siddram, Rukema, Cheche, Rajesh in the kitchen.
I had to go around the back to take the photo because just as I was about to snap one of Siddram behind the serving counter, Siddhartha came up the steps and Siddram gave me a NO NO look. So all the mumbo jumbo that makes some boundary necessary between US and THEM is antiquated bullshit which I have to hold up because if I tried to be a hero then someone gets canned or reprimanded. I cannot stomp my feet and yell about it, but I can sneak off with Cheche when she says the look out is clear, I can sit in the kitchen and let my hair, butt, hands be patted and accept the bindis, tea, and fruit they give me ... accept the knowledge and love they give me.

Lauren and I hid the paper we were writing on under a basket in the kitchen. Hopefully Gopi won't find it. He says the kitchen staff is a waste, but he is a different story. A sad one that I do not have the pieces to and sometimes… not the patience. His eyes are like cannon balls shooting some kind of pain and intention I cannot understand. Gopi speaks in metaphors which are lost in translation. One day he talked about a river and a stream for half an hour and that's all I know. Something about the Big River not caring about Little Rivers and how "Misunderstanding is ruining life."

How do you write a paper when you can write a book about what's under your nose?

expunge

Being far away is like being close to home with better glasses. You can see things a little more clearly. You can see who is important, what isn't important, and where you might want to end up in the long run. I can remember now being a kid and playing Mermaid with my mom where she pretends to be a little kid in a village who finds me in a pool. I am surrounded by rocks which are legos and I stay on my stomach for the duration of the game. Floundering about on my side when she takes me out and in the end we learn the lesson that some things are not meant to be taken out of water or out of their natural environment.
My mom plays best with childrend, so now we struggle as adults.

Sitting under starry skies I know that when I was eight years old I was dating Justin VanDevoort and he said I have nice knees... that maybe was on of the most genuine compliments I've ever received. (Some months later he put me in a choke hold during recess because he wanted a hug and I bit his arm so hard that I can still remember the imprint of my teeth on his flour white skin and the little red dots that showed through. As small as pin pricks. And I had to stay against the wall and no one believed me when I told the truth.) He grew up to be a big weirdo and when I was 18 working at CVS I met a girl who was dating him. She said Yea, he told me that he dated you. I was repulsed and saddened for this kid who had to count a fleeting romance at the tender age of eight as something serious. Something to be counted. Me, I only count sophomore year of highschool and up. Making it not 1 2 or 3, but maybe five. And maybe Justin has the right idea because if I counted from the third grade I would be MacMama of hot to trot ladies. And it would be my secret. I wonder if he ever told anyone that he was eight when he told me I had nice knees. Oh and six when he stood at the door of our classroom and kissed every girl on the cheek whether she liked it or not. Happy Valentines Day.

Being nine years old in teh After School Program my mom put me in when I was six because she had to work and we would play dress up with the costumes in the closet. There was Mr. Tree who was really just a tree that had grown over a fence rail and now it looked as if he was smiling. And we played Around the World on the basketball court, raced eachother across parking lots, sang about Jesus, and picked worms out of the dirt and made them our pets until snack time. And Julius went to the after school program and there is always an awkwardness surrounding puberty and I did not want to give up wearing my dance leotard just for kicks. But I had to because whispers are one thing... stares are another and being nin is early early for all and everything of that.

Here I see friends sitting next to me in cars on the way to diners, shows, movies, coffee houses and we are laughing, listening to music, or maybe just sitting in the most comfortable silence I've ever known. The most reassuring, forgiving. No Explanation needed silence and I'm glad I can give that to them and I'm happy to receive it. I see them there, sitting next to me, driving the car, and it's Nora, it's Rachel, it's Jenai, it's Bethany. Four. Four is my favorite number. I used to eat four of everything. I used to eat four bowls of Rice Krispies throughout the day or take four cookies. It's divisible easily, you can square it easily, and it has a root. Saying it, my mouth makes a round shape at the end and in the beginning my teeth have to touch my bottom lip just so... making a soft momentary impression.

Ridgewood in the rain. Short train rides, southern accents, and I take note of that look in your eye, the first time you've ever seen me in that light, maybe. Leaning over the railing outside of the movie theater and I hear our truth muttered .. Sometimes it's hard to just be friends.
Vans in parking lots. Space shuttles in parking lots. Sitting and wondering when is it going to happen or how is it going to happen after me not letting it happen for so long. And there it is. You're a good kisser, Kate Brown. I know I know. And I'm glad to have given it to you and months go by, and planes fly up and rain pours down and who's the better for it? Us. We. Moi et Toi.

Piercing Shattering Staggering Maddening Fathoming what is going to happen is unfathomable and I am holding on tight as the rollercoaster goes down and I feel it in the small of my back and my neck is loose like a rubber band. My eyes are forced open because keeping them closed is a cop out. My knuckles white and then up again. Up and to the side. Every time I get on one I think that I might die on it because it happens now and then, but I guess that's part of the thrill. Is that macabre for you or what? Going on a ride you might die in and that being part of the excitement?

My hands are small and they grab small handfuls, never hold on tight to anything because there isn't much to hold on to. They hit, smack, create, ruin, touch, feel, pass themselves over skin and mounds of flesh - finding their way down until the pleasure rises up.. taking in every crevice and they are all the love I have right now.

Barefeet on uneven rocks cause me bloody sandals later and cracked heels. I don't do it often. I try and do it never. But they are so smooth and cool against the hotness of the sun on my peeling back which I have made worse during every class by finding my new hobby.. watching the layers float to the floor and seeing a piece of skin that isn't supposed to be there yet. Pink. Bright.

I am in India and the past is sitting right next to me and the future is before me and I can't figure the Present out for the fucking life of me. I don't get it. I will get it later. Five minutes is "later" so is one month. The gift that keeps on giving. And what do you call the things that are not gifts which keep on giving.. pouring themselves out into your reluctant open hands? The boyfriend you dated when you didn't know how to put one foot in front of the other.. the one who called you a slut or a ho just for fun and Hey it's just a joke, relax! The one who asked you to take off your glasses before a party so that you'd look better and "Thanks babe, you're the best" kiss kiss. What kind of gift is that? And what is it giving me? It doesn't hurt me as much anymore so maybe it's null and void, but it's there. I am here and it happened and what has it made me? How has it effected how I conduct myself.. Yes, the gift that keeps on giving to myself and others. How generous, magnanimous... Supercilliou to even give it a second thought. Over is over and Under I am no longer.

So it's back to bananas and gruel and swimming pools which just opened up and now we want to go every day. And volleyball and bathroom stalls with cracks in the wall and where does it all all go? Because we should save it up here and use it for fuel so that women are empowered and I'm pleasantly surprised that human shit is worth something more than a scowl if you step in it on the streets.
Drive through the streets of Bangalore -- it makes your snot black and your stomach churn to see poverty and affluence living side by side, but is it any different from home or do I really have to come half way across the world to want to write in my blog about it? I shop there, eat there, drink some drinks there, and I don't know how much of a tourist I still am.
Cooking tonight in the kitchen I let myself feel at home. I walked over to where I know the cutting boards are without asking. I got a knife when I needed one, joked with Big J and played hand games with Cheche. Miss Mary Mack is her favorite. My feet are growing roots and maybe it scares me because I know I'll have to leave soon... the way when something feels as if it's too good you get scared and try and turn it around in your head... never works.

The present is a present and god gave it to you so be happy for it and get down on your knees and look up at the sky and realize how small you are and how things work out in the end and not like it really matters anyway. Considering how small you are.

Yes, considering how small you are and how your heart is not the first to be broken/inflated, your eyes are not the first to cry, and you are not the first to laugh when everything looks down because you've run out of tears in the first place. And since you are not the first small person to do these things, that means there have been billions of others who are just as small when put up against cerulean skies which explode at night and take your breath away Your little breath out of your little lungs. There is comfort in that. Not being the first or the last, but being able to commiserate with so many others... a link in the chain.

I press flowers into pages which were given to me a year ago and then I send them in letters all over the world all over the globe. They have been touched by my own hands are small in the big envelopes I use; swimming in between pages I scribble on, imagining I'm sitting across from the person I'm writing to. That makes for interesting eltters and rambling paragraphs which I forget the minute they are in the post. Now knowing what I said, but remembering the jist.

Rollercoasters, cereal bowls, letters, sluts, phone calls, and therewith alls.

I wonder how those girls do it. The ones that fulfill all of the requirements it takes to be desirable. The girls who don't exist. The ones who manage to be aloof, eager, balance saying no and meaning yes ... are able to be mysterious and open.
And that is just a thought I had while driving back from Bangalore last night, listening to Patsy Cline and thinking of what a weird but fitting soundtrack it made for the ride home. "Those girls" I wonder if they're any fun anyway.

Everyone would have a different experience if they came here. Everyone would have a different problem that would come to light, that they would try to solve. And a new lens with which to look at the world through would form over their eyes and maybe things would be a little clearer, or more muddled because their world just got turned upside down.

Now that I'm here. Now that I'm going home soon and the thought of empty beds and empty rooms scare me ... I know why you wanted to sleep over my room, even in my bed. And part of me feels bad I made you sleep on the couch. Ha, how was I to even understand? My room at home, I can see it in my head, and I don't want it. I will take a couch in the village, even a floor.

My my .. and I never pick the phone up. And this time I did and Nicaragua was on the other end. And you know what I did? Yea, I definitely cried a little.
I always forget myself and our locations in the world when I'm talking with him. As if he's in the other room or down the road. My words didn't sound right to me and nothing flows as cohesively as face to face, body to body. What does that matter? There will be enough time to tell him everything, to hear everything, to feel everything. Soon enough, when we are not regulated by costly phone calls, shoddy internet services, or kept apart by oceans and contintents, .. everything will come smoothly. Our banter. The teasing. The mental the physical the whimsical.

I am almost done with Amy Tan's book. It's better than I thought it would be, but I am still sticking by my theory about the New York Time's Bestseller List. hodge podge.

time for breakfast. and by breakfast i mean a banana. and then there's lunch. and by lunch i mean gruel. ditto for dinner.

There are ants everywhere in our room. I watch them run from my pacing feet, they must feel the vibrations. I don't have any food in the room except for some Clif Bars ...maybe just three or four Clif Bars left... and they're sealed up, so I'm not worried. If anything they'll get into my bags, I'll bring them on the plane, and they'll hopefully suffocate and die. A death that would be far more glamorous than being crushed under a foot or book – they will be world citizens.
Yesterday I had to lay down at four because of shooting pains, and didn't get up until seven this morning. The rest was needed because I'm feeling a little better today, but still exhausted if I stand up or walk around for more than ten minutes. Gopi has me on a diet of gruel that even Oliver Twist would thumb his nose at. It's extremely over watered and mushy rice. But it is appreciated seeing as how I deviated from my diet yesterday and had curd, rice, and boiled vegetables and that's what made me run back to my room. So, for today and for an undefinite amount of days hereafter ... it is gruel and bananas for this girl.
I went to the kitchen to ask Big J for some bananas and she taught me how to ask for two bananas... then she started counting up til five. When she reached five I held her hand up and gave her a high five. She looked extremely amused and a little perplexed. Well, that makes me like her more because I never understood high fives anyway and the whole thing seems a little stupid to me too. I have always been a reluctant high fiver. But, I might forget all that and keep it up with her seeing as how it's funny and it could be a thing. Don't you like having things with people?

So, yea, went to get bananas and there are a bunch of over ripe ones so now I finally have my inspiration as to what I, Kate Brown, will be making in the kitchen. One small problem is that a lot of the recipes call for shortening and I don't know if they have it here. I don't want to know because I hate it so much.
Other problems::The oven has no temperature knob and it's always a procedure filled with hand gestures and saying words phonetically b/c of the language barrier, but I will not be deterred. The oven's lack of efficiency is a great thing to hide behind if the banana bread turns out horrible and pointing at things and saying Eenu Kannada?? Is a great way to learn things and cut down on miscommunication. I don't believe that the women should learn English, but that I should learned Kannada. If they ask, though, I tell them. Otherwise I try and make it as much "Me learning from them" as possible and not the other way around.

I finished the Mayor of Casterbridge yesterday and now I'm working Amy Tan's THE HUNDRED SECRET SENSES. It's really weird going from late 19th / early 20th century English writing to late 20th century American writing that is heavily influenced by Chinese culture. I hated the book yesterday, but have warmed up to it today. The story line is a little less complex and after KITE RUNNER I don't put much stock in New York Times bestsellers. But it's an easy read and like a break in between the last book and whichever one I pick up next.

Ah and something worth documenting ... Dear Old Dad wrote me a letter! It's two pages, talks alot about Lenin (I think I mentioned that I was reading a biography on him in my letter) , mentions the irony that lies in the fact that when I was little I begged my Dad to believe in Jesus Christ to save his immortal soul and my dad would just retort with Aethiest jokes and now years later .. I'm the agnostic. It was a sweet letter because it had nothing in it about anything of consequence, was really short, and makes it very clear where I get, if any, my social awkwardness from. Ha, wait, there's Mom too.
Moving on: Dad is a man of few words, but that letter meant a lot. Taylor got one too from her best friend and while she was laughing and jumping around, I was crying happily because I don't feel as if my father is dead anymore. There's still some hope.

News for anyone who is not in Jersey:
It was in the 70s this week!
Hmph and I thought I'd be coming back to rainy cold weather

memories and futures
For Nora Eileen, Whereve I May Find Her

you me
stinking thinking
drinking slinking
around a town
where the lights go down
stores close up by ten
cruising greasy diners for greasier men
laughing/mapping
finger snapping and hand clapping
figuring out our lives together
through good and stormy weather
all i'd like to do
is get a room with you
to stay up late in
hold great debates in
love friend love synonymous
it will always be the two of us

I cracked and went to the doctor yesterday. I could not walk more than a few steps at a time and Gopi gave me a ride on his motorbike. I got off it clumsily when we got to the doctor's because it was my first time and I've heard stories of people burning themselves on the exhaust pipe.
The doctor gave me some medicine and a handshake for my troubles. The former is the reason for the improvement on my health this morning and the latter, was good. I love a good handshake. With a smile. Close lipped. No teeth necessarily.
I have finished my book of short stories by W. Somerset Maugham and am now working on The Mayor of Casterbridge by Thomas Hardy. Started yesterday and half way done. Old comforts seem to be coming back to me. Reading for pleasure, making postcards, and decorating letters I send out. The postcard made last night leaves a lot to be desired, but I was glad it got done simply because I have lacked a creative flare for over a month now.
I must say part of my inspiration last night was due to Bethany and Jenai's package I received. There were collages in there!! Wonderful. Mm and a Patsy Cline cd and some fair trade dark chocolate. Who's better than me, eh? Very good. Smiles all around.

Katy announced last night that we have completed ten weeks here and it is just five more until we leave.
Observation::
The attitude among some here seems to be one of contempt for where they come from. From the states, from their rich towns, from their ideologies formerly practiced. I do not hate where I come from. I am proud. Maybe that's why I'm not as reluctant to go back. I see in their eyes a fear that they might return to their way of thinking before it was so radically changed by coming here or just that.. they will forget. My lifestyle at home in no large way resembles the one we learn about as what is the perceived American way. In fact, that can probably be said for a good portion of the people here. My thoughts on this can only be said with certainty when addressing my own position.

I will say I'm not content with what my mother has to go through, what the kids in my town can be trapped in to. But this is more the reason to go back. To try and do something even though I have no idea where to do it and how. Maybe I am just talking idealistic nonsense, but I suppose things would be a lot worse if there weren't enough idealistic college kids running around. The cynicism attached to the title is one given by people who could not achieve their goals.

Every heart is a revolutionary cell and all that. hmph.

Written March 11th in the Hospet Train Station Waiting Room

-I am a formerly estranged daughter
-I am all she has left - and the pressure and love that go into this always breaks and mends my heart

-I am on one end of a guaranteed hug when I get off the plane and the giver of many while I am here.

-I am the best friend - the title unflinching come hell or high water
-I am the blessed one- receiving a cd and the comforting words "you are like family" before a long journey

-I am a partner, lover, teacher, but most of all friend, to someone I think the world of.
-I am the priviledged only grand daughter of two earthly saints I don't call enough. Along with walking down steep stairs - their deaths make my lips tighten and my eyes wince.

-I exist as a foreigner in a mobile American bubble. With wide tearful eyes some renounce Coke while others count their blessings - and I, I take part in it all. Our outrage fueled by the shame and confusion surrounding where we come from.
-So, yes, I am a citizen of a war waging, imperialist, greedy monstrosity along with other citizens whose hearts bleed. My memories filled with folklore, 4th of July fireworks, and a new pair of white Keds every Fall.

-I am one of the informed who feel hopeless and theorize futiley out loud - trying to find an outlet.
-I am one of the people to whom gender makes no sense, but can still not sensibly work it into their lives.

-Oh, I am a consumer of food, drink, and products which seem useless ten minutes after purchasing.
-I am a woman who fell for the mantra - the smaller the better- at the age of ten and I am the woman who cried on her 20th birthday because she always thought it'd be over by then and it wasn't.

- I make up 1/11 of a group of random kids in India who still don't know eachother - some days looking past one another like strangers, and other days crying about how they are all family -- as we sit in a dark room with granite walls with resounding echoes in Hampi.. the middle of nowhere and the beginning of everywhere
- I am 1/8 of the girls at Fireflies who're different in 8 unique ways. Some generouly pepper their conversation with "babe"s and "love"s, giving their conversation a maternal feel I cannot master. Others are quiet and never give any reason for rebuke. Some I don't understand, but I listen, and some will never understand me, but I appreciate their listening.

-I am a listener to Aravind who tells the same stories, but I've learned it's the pearls of wisdom in between that are worth waiting for.
- I must symbolize something to the kitchen ladies, but to assume is a practice of self-importance. Even if I am nothing to them, they treat me with graciousness whenever I sit with them in the kitchen, reading words out of my book on Kannada and teaching them words in English.

-I am a knitter of scarves and rider of one bike in particular: both bringing peace and a sense of accomplishment which is vital to my well being. I imagine that the first day I am home I will walk my bike down the hill my house stands on and fill the tires up with air, and I will fly.
-I am a reader for the sole purpose of escaping and a writer only when I am most desperate for communication - I would prefer an understanding ear and intelligent mind to a piece of paper on most days.

-I am a disappointment, a heroine, given to bouts of unfathomable ridiculousness, unwavering in my desire to be grounded -eventually- and a forgiver and embracer to myself.

I'd like to fill this space with something meaningful and telling of how I am right now, but some things are better left unsaid. I am doing well, though.
I spoke to Nora the other day and how it made me smile! It's good to know I am missed as much as I am missing and when I come home there will be open arms for me and shoulders that I will want.
This is the most On My Own I've been in 20 years. At first it felt as if I was walking without a safety net, but I've learned I am my safety net. In no words can I describe all this and when I go back and someone asks me "How was India?" (as non-chalantly as if I'd gone to the mall) I will have to smile at them and say "It was India."
The rain has come three or four times in the past week. It's very unseasonable and out of the ordinary. Cold sheets of water crashing down on the buildings and no puddles to be found the next day because the earth is so dry.
My back is burned, my face shades darker, and with my shawl on last night, John said I am looking more and more like an Indian. I feel comfortable here. We refer to the ashram as Home - the workers are as close as family.

There needs to be personal space. There needs to be interaction with other people than these.
Two nights ago a bunch of kids and myself sat around a bonfire and sang some songs with the accompaniment of a guitar (something we are sorely missing). I met a girl named Rashida who lived in Little Falls and for half an hour, we were driving down 46 going to Six Brothers, drinking tea at Cafe Eclectic, window shopping at Willowbrook, and talking about what it's like to be here when we come from there. We stayed late by the lake with a few other people and had to jump the fence to come back in.
Yesterday morning they left. I hugged Rashida and Jack good-bye and I'm happy because now I have another place to stay in Boston and D.C.

I have a book on Kannada (local language) in my bag. I used some of it last night while we were making pizza. I've added a fair amount of words to my vocabulary now. Cheche danced with me, sang with me, and put on a big show in the kitchen. With the floor as her stage and only three of us and some appliances as an audience. She has a big spirit in that little body.

It rained last night. A powerful, beating rain. All of the smells of the earth drifted up and the air smells like clover.
I tried enjoying the downpour in my room after standing on the roof by myself for a little bit, but it was difficult because people kept coming in and out. I love going to sleep with a thunderstorm, lightning illuminating the whole room and winds shaking the windows.

People have a way of interacting with each other after occupying the same space for two months with no other outlet. It's not a productive way of interacting and it's not a helpful way. It's human, though - and I can say that all I want, but it's not helping right now.

I called Mom this morning to hear a familiar voice. I ended up crying and what is there to get into about that one? Nothing, really. It's just the effects of sharing the room the way I do, being on this trip the way I am, and everything/anything else. Mom said "I wish I could give you a hug." Yea, I wish she could too. I might not have a completely functioning relationship with her, but I have that at least.
In between the beautiful sunsets, interesting books, long conversations, tiring games of volleyball, trips to amazing places that make me smile and glad I'm in India, ... it can be frustrating here.

So much stuff to cover.
Sunday::

There was a fire a little ways off from our building in the early afternoon. It has become so dry and hot during the day that not much else can be expected. All of us were in our Bangalore best and ran over to the sculpture studio to haul buckets. It was out in no time and the next day some of the group and the men who work here went to cut bushes. Hopefully it won't happen again, it's a little scary because it was right by where we live and our building is so far away from the rest of the ashram.
So, we got into B-lore an hour or two late and while everyone else bowled, Bo, Cindy and I walked around. I got a short kurta (fiiinally) and some grape juice made with Aquafina water. Oh yea and postcards not meant for anyone specifically. I got two from Hampi actually, but we're going there next week and I don't feel comfortable sending that one out if I haven't been there yet.
Every one met up a half hour later and went to some bar that is a good example of the bars I would not want to be seen in. A woman came up to us and asked where we were from and surprise! She is from Paterson and graduated from Ramapo in 1980. This would be really awesome if she wasn't absolutely insane. In between every word she said, Terry Howards, would lick her lips real slow. I think it was supposed to be seductive, but my first opinion was that she is insane or on drugs. It's interchangeable. She had on a little jacket that was opened almost all the way. I couldn't stop staring at her bright yellow bra that was showing unashamedly and her big hat that looked as if it belonged in the Easter Parade. (this is an old movie reference. forgive me.)It was Katy, Lauren, Taylor and myself at the table she came up to first and everyone else was just one table away. In a low voice she said that we all had really great auras and then just started talking trash about Malika! Saying that she wouldn't save us if we were drowning. Haha, okay okay... I told her that Malika is one of the most positive people on this trip and she's always there for everyone. Then Terry asked me what sign I am and nodded knowingly when I told her I'm a Leo born on the cusp of Virgo. (i'll get to the palm reading session later)
So, what'd she do next... she went out and bought Malika a cake for her birthday and then came back to our table and talked shit about her again... saying there's always animosity between a light skinned black woman and a dark one. Oamjie tried to give her some of the cake but she said she didn't eat cake. He practically forced it on her and then, in the most failed attempt at sexy I've ever seen, she licked the cake from his fork and thank god he had enough whiskey in him not to notice. I almost vomitted.
And she read me and Taylor's fortunes. She said that "You don't know how beautiful you are, do you?" And that some male spirit/force made me cut my hair so that I would know I am beautiful and my energy would be taken away.. or something. All I got out of it is that there is a spiritual energy in my life that wants to steal my good energy. And that I am capable of doing great great things. Oh and supposedly the only time I've ever been in love was when I was eight, but my parents hated the kid.

This is a lie seeing how when I was eight I had a "boyfriend" whose name was Justin Van DeVoort (i loved him so much i dont' know how to spell his name) and I think the nicest thing he said to me was that I have nice knees. Years later I was working at CVS with a girl named Bethany who was dating him.. him being 18 and she was 16. She told me that he was telling her about all of his ex girlfriends one day (??) and he actually mentioned me!!! I was eight!! and that is a sure sign of a malformed mental state.

Ok ok.. so I let that one slide. She was really fascinated with my hair. Good. It's good hair. I think the fact that I had a bottle of Kingfisher in me helped me not to laugh and listen intently when she was talking about the time she met the devil in the form of an attractive Chinese woman.

Oh yes yes and the whole time Terry was reading my palm a guy had settled himself next to me in the booth and was saying stuff that I wasn't listening to (I think I silenced him by putting up my hand a couple of times). He was from Boston and said we were all "Really cool" and yea, dude, that's great.. because he was pretty old. You don't have silver in your stubbly beard and bags under your eyes if you're anywhere near the age range I deem okay to converse with. At least in a bar, in Bangalore, while some crazy woman is talking to me, and i'm a little drunk.

For dinner.. for Malika's birthday dinner.. John took us to a huge mall with a food court. Yes, class like crazy, this guy. It was loud. They were playing Feliz Navidad and I felt nauseous. Imagine Christmas Eve type shopping .. on a Sunday. And imagine you thank god every day that, for the most part, you're not around the modern world and all of its glitz and shitz... and then you're in a mall that is a take off of what I guess the international idea is a mall Should Be. And they're playing Christmas music, everyone is wearing jeans and tank tops, and there's a Subway restaurant staring you in the face. And you're in India. Right.
Oamjie was chewing his usual leaf/paste/nut mix thing which he always has to spit out and he told Taylor "I want to spit here". Taylor said, "No, Oamjie!!! You can't do that" And then the wonderful Oamjie said "I already did."

We reached the halfway mark on Tuesday. Exactly six weeks to go. I feel the difference in myself since I came here and I wonder what the next six weeks will bring. We're going on two trips in March and when we come back from those it's time to really buckle down and do the papers. This means it's going to go by fast. The last six weeks did, but at the same time... I also feel as if I've been here for months and months.
I'm happy to go home because .. well, it's home and I have friends there.. .all of the reasons I should be happy to go... but I hate that I can't have both worlds. That I have to leave this one for an unknown amount of time. It is completely in my capabilities to come back here. And I will, but the leaving will have to happen first.

The next two days are going to be good because there are 32 American students here from all over the U.S. on an International Studies Honors program. Everyone seems pretty nice and there's a bonfire tonight. It's good just because I can talk with people who have now experienced India for 4 weeks and get their spin on it. Everyone in our group has discussed everything to death and have seen the same things.

There is one guy who looks EXACTLY like my father did in college. It's uncanny, it's startling, it's the third person I've ever seen who I had this problem with. Well, the first was in a photo album at home ... apparently my dad met his doppleganger in college, and then there was the guy who came to the library all the time and sat on the fourth floor. When I saw him I lost my breath and was convinced that my father had droppped 40 pounds, lost some wrinkles and was at Ramapo to spy on me, and then this guy. So Terry Howards and a manifestation of Evan Brown. What next?

Bush is in India right now. There were/are a lot of protests, but we are not allowed to go. Reasoning is that if the sentiment of the crowd went the wrong way we wouldn't be the "cool Americans who are here to support the anti-Bush/war/everything movement" We would be "those damn Americans". And we could get arrested which would be an international problem, a Ramapo problem, a problem problem. It's frustrating, though... being so tied to something you hate so much.