Travel Log #12

(Sunset from my window) (Me and Therem)


July 20, 2009
If I were absolutely insane, I would write a detailed chronicle of what I've been experiencing, much like I have been. This is not really feasible, considering the work load, particularly since I am writing this to fend off exhaustion because I am doing something I absolutely hate doing: falling asleep in class. It isn't because I'm bored, but because I'm simply exhausted. I'm not the only one. And I don't want to get addicted to caffeine, although I may have done just that over the course of my last semester when I sat in one chair for sixteen hours a day, every day, for months. Editing. Ok. It was three weeks. But you get the point. Overload.

I will take a break at first from the course and tour descriptions and talk about living. I have taken to jogging/walking at 7:00am with Noam, a girl on the program from Israel who is studying in London. We will hopefully do our projects together, but right now everything is up in the air. I have also started ballet stretches with Elisabeth from Maine, but whose mother is German (but refuses to speak German in America). On Saturday night, the two of us went for a midnight view of the Reichstag and the Brandenburg Gate. We got slightly lost on the U-Bahn and S-Bahn, but getting lost is always a good way to learn your way around.

Initially, we had planned on walking around spying out monuments all over the city, but Elisabeth got locked out of her room where her wallet, keys, etc. were. So, we adjusted, hung out in my apartment with Stefanie (my roommate, who had stepped on glass the night before and was thus grounded) and watched a movie.

Now, I'll back up. On Wednesday, a bunch of us went out for my birthday. Rachel got me a cupcake and a candle! I got two bottles of ginger ale and everyone else got beer or Margaritas or something in that vein. During the day, we went to the Jewish Museum and met with the director. The tour guide was really interesting but calling him slow would be an understatement--we only aw three things in three hours! But those were really amazing. The first thing we saw was the Hall of Exile, which ends in an outdoor garden with forty-nine stone pillars, seven-by-seven, each planted with a willow. It reminded me of schak, from a sukkah. Apparently, it reminded Ben of this, too. The ground in the garden is slanted and throws you off-balance. Immediately, I thought of "Fiddler on the Roof": "the life of a Jew is as shaky as..." No one else caught on, at least no one said so.

July 21, 2009
Next, we went to the "Void of the Voice" or, "Holocaust Tower". It comes at the end of a long corridor. You enter a room four o five stories high, all grey cement, with no lights. High above us, there is one slit for a window. The light hits the wall at a slant and the wall is only about a foot-and-a-half from the window. It is the only sign that there exists a world outside. We stood there, lined against the walls, in silence. with only that one light from that one window to give us guidance. I turned toward the wall. Later, the tour guide made us a bet about how we all turned towards the light, because that's the instinct. I wonder what that says about me, since I turned toward the wall. I did notice the light, obviously, and the shadow of a tree swaying through it. It turns out that the tree is just a coincidence; it's not even on museum property. But the tree adds to the memorial: we cannot see the tree, the living thing, only its shadow. It is a shadow, a "memory" of life; and it is an accident, unrelated, and from the outside. Still, if you had never seen a tree, you would only know it as something ephemeral, always moving and changing form as the shadow on the wall, and something you could never touch.

The last exhibit I'll talk about is one called "Fallen Leaves". Sound, a clashing-clanging sound, is the first introduction to this piece. The sound reaches you from around the corner, before any part of the exhibit is visible. "Try not to make that sound," the guide says to us. "But that will most likely be impossible. You'll see what I mean in a minute." We entered the exhibit. It was really just a room, although part of it was partitioned off with an opening for entrance. Again, not much light, except through windows at the top. There was a roughly triangular shape cut out in the room that ends in a dark crevice and a dead end. On the floor were thousands of rusty metal circles that I couldn't quite figure out. At first, I thought they might have been some mechanical piece, a part of a gear, something. But: "Go ahead, walk in it," said the guide. So, I did, along with a lot of others, in our adventurous fashion, and I tried to tread carefully and not make a sound. About half-way through, I figured out the metal plates and found myself horrified.

They weren't machine parts, but faces, with screaming mouths and terrified eyes, heaped on top of each other and sprawled across this space that ended in darkness at a dead end. And I was stepping on them, trying to be quiet, but my footsteps put pressure on them and made them scream. But, I suppose, that is the point: by being a part of society, I condone its sins with every step I take. I walk freely, I live a normal life, but all the while, there are flattened out faces being trampled by the Machines of which I am one crucial piece. There is no way to escape this other than to become one of them, but that will not help anything. Better to be a part of the Machine and turn the wheels in a new direction than to die a martyr for guilt. Maybe I should have had more than ginger ale for my birthday.

The next day, we went on a tour of West Berlin, luckily on a bus this time, and I remembered my camera. We went to the building of the Wannsee Conference, where the details of the "Final Solution" were decided. I took pictures. I walked in that house. It is filled, as everything is here, with irony: beauty masking the obscene turns of history. Later, we went to the Grunewald Station Memorial, the site of the Jewish deportations by the Nazis to the various concentration camps. Noam and I had a discussion about the integration of Berlin memorials with the present and the constant theme (or so it seems to us) of "life goes on despite...". More memorials on the streets in Charlottenburg, commemorating the numerous sanctions against Jews and the dates on which they were passed.

But this program is about contemporary Berlin. These first two weeks are merely filling us in on the history by placing us directly in it. Context is important. Yesterday,w e went to meet two prominent Jewish journalists, both of whom work for top papers in Berlin: Thomas Lackmann (for Der Tagesspiegel) and Alan Posener (for Die Welt). The discussion was very interesting and ranged from topics concerning Moses Mendelssohn and his descendants (3/4 of them ended up converting to Catholicism or Lutheranism--in the spirit of many German Jews) because we were in a museum that had been one of six homes belonging to the Mendelssohn family--to their personal family histories, their careers as journalists, the attitude/approach of the press on Jewish and Israeli topics, and (what I found most interesting) the relationship between Jews and non-Jews.

According to Posener, the "relationship between Germans and Jews is unnatural, neurotic, and unhealthy," it is strained in light of the baggage and cultural guilt Germans carry with them because of the Nazi period. Germans do not know how to act around Jews, what will be politically correct to say or not, what is "permissible" to laugh at or to ignore, etc. There is also the fact of the drastically transformed post-war demographics of both Jews and non-Jews in Germany. First of all, there are almost no German Jews remaining in the country today who are actually of German Jewish descent. 80% of Jews in Germany today, with a population back up to the pre-war levels, are (as Posener described) firstly Russian, secondly holders of German passports, and thus, German citizens, and thirdly Jews. On the other hand, 30% of school children in Berlin today are Muslim Turks, German citizens and the children of immigrants. To what extent must they (if they must), and can they adopt as their own, the burdens of German history in regard to "impure/Aryan" minorities, of which they are a part?

The majority of Germans of my own generation are the grandchildren of those "Aryan" Germans who lived through the twelve years of National Socialism and World War II. Most of them are undereducated about their own history (according to our panelists), the rest are either desensitized in regards to the subject because it is brought up so much in the curriculum, normal conversation, or by running into unavoidable monuments/memorials on the streets; or, they struggle with the history of their country and of their families. Yet, as my roommate told me, she does not feel guilty because she didn't do anything other than be born out of the genetic material of those responsible or not. She has dedicated her life to studying Jews and Judaism, though. I suppose it is a lot like me: I have no "white guilt" in regard to the racism of Americans 150 years ago. After all, I did not participate in slavery. But I learn as much as possible in order to not repeat history. Likewise, 30% of the students attending Jewish schools are not Jewish, but Germans who wish to learn as much as possible about Jews and Judaism so as not to repeat the past. We are all, I suppose, grappling with our individual placements in history and as members of nations with less-than-innocent pasts.

Today, we discussed, the difference between a subculture and social segregation in relation to Weimar youth movements, particularly Jewish, particularly Zionist. It is a strange tug-of-war in Germany, between the Jewish obsession with assimilation, the "anti-ghetto" Jew, or the anti-orthodox/observant Jew and their religious counterparts. Much of Jewish ghettoization was self-imposed, I have learned, although certainly encouraged by the "Fatherland". However, the assimilationists or acculturationists (this term is more fitting) were never viewed as belonging to the greater society anyway, and a "Jew" remained (and remains) what society considered a Jew and not what an individual considered himself. For example, our "Jewish" journalists are not halachikly Jewish and never considered themselves as such until someone "Aryan" made it a point to them personally. Still, in Germany, they are Jews, because here they count the "contaminated" generations. Without saying it like that, of course. Yet Jews are needed in order for the rest of German society to
A) come to terms with the past and
B) wrest their criticism; where a German cannot venture to say something, a Jew can, and so it is the same old story.

In real life (and not on an academic level) I can't tell you how overly sick I am of washing dishes. Everybody's dishes. That they put away and think are clean but are really caked with junk. And I can't believe how expensive laundry is here! 3 euros for one load EACH (so at least 6 euros between the washer and dryer, assuming the dryer does its job in one round). Anyway, I'm cheap and would rather spend my money on food and presents than on laundry, so I went Nineteenth Century domestic, cleaned out the bathtub, washed my clothes by spinning them around with a broomstick, and wringing them out by hand before hanging them up to dry on a line on the porch, on racks in the shower, and all over the house. There better not be bird poop all over them when I get back tonight.

And speaking of birds, a little sparrow flew into our living room yesterday morning and took up a post by the television. Stefanie picked it up and we tossed it out flying from the porch.

For lunch, I went to this really good Falafel/Shwarma place and talked with Florian about working in New Orleans. I'm back home now and my laundry is finally dry. Only took 20 hours. Total success. No money for laundry, just insane levels of domesticity reached. Don't expect me to go all quilting bee on you, though. Outside my window, the insane tennis players are still at it. I've been exploring the neighborhood and it's really nice. Parks (I jog through one with Noam every morning with flower gardens, a pond, a little cafe, and ducks), nice shops and bakeries, and a really nice church. We are in our permanent building for classes now, on Sophienstrasse. We get off the U-Bahn at Weinmeisterstrasse. I smiled the whole ride this morning because I finally got my ticket for Israel! I'm not even going to start trying to describe how excited I am. You already know most of the saga but it's over now and I have a ticket!!! I just have to find a phone to get my seat assignment. :)

Anyhow, this is very long and very intense, so: until next time--and comment or write back! I want to know who's reading!

Travel Log #11

July 15, 2009
Today, I am twenty-two years old and riding on the U-Bahn, Berlin's subway system. I have concluded that all faces on subways are the same: bored, worn out, and uncaring. I take the U-Bahn from Heinrich-Heine to Rosenthaler Platz on the U8 line, get off and walk up the stairs to the tram and take the M8 to Zinnowitzerstrasse, which deposits all of us right across the street from the building. This location is temporary and only until next week, because the Berlin semester is still in session until Friday.

When the administration said that LBSU would be intense, I believed them. However, even the professor has expressed concern regarding our schedule which is a little insane, especially considering the fact that we still need time to eat, sleep, and do the reading. The schedule is, despite its insanity, very good. We have a full regimen, no doubt: three hours of class in the morning, an hour or so for lunch, then a full afternoon of tours and occasionally films at night. The reading is anywhere from fifty to two-hundred pages per night. It is, in general, absolutely fascinating, particularly when we start discussing it in class. I do keep running into the sedative effect, though, when reading about rather mediocre historical figures. But for now, I will back up and give you my impressions of the details, all the while learning bits of German here and there and in doing so, becoming more aware of the back of my mouth, where this language tends to hang out.

On Monday, class was another basic orientation, with Anna, Mareike, and Atina Grossman (who is VERY excited). Eventually, we got started with the basic blah blah "welcome to my class" schtick. Afterwards, we had a forty-five minutes lunch break and then went on our first tour of Berlin. I, of course, forgot about my camera, so I only have pictures of on e thing. We were on a bus for most of the time anyway, and I didn't have a window seat.

The tour guide's name was Daniel, of Bavarian birth, but who now lives in Berlin because it is "cheap, convenient, and exciting". "I'm wearing this funny suit," he said, "because I just came from a meeting with some important people and then I spilled tuna all over it and ruined it."

July 16, 2009
We began the tour on the same same street as our building, Invalidenstrasse, in East Berlin. "And how do you know we're in East Berlin? There's always an easy way to tell." Tram tracks. Apparently there used to be trams in West Berlin, but because of stupid political petty gripe during the Cold War, they were removed. The GDR kept the tram tracks, so West Berlin had to get rid of their because tram tracks would make them so evil communist. Obviously. Now, there are plans in place for rebuilding the tram tracks and lines in the West. But (I'm guessing), that will be a long time coming because Germans argue over things like this more than Jews do.

We drive over the tracks and up the one natural hill in the city. "This is the only natural elevation in the city. All the other hills are artificial and built on top of rubble from the war," Daniel tells us. The bus drives onto Kastanienalle, "Casting Alley," a very trendy neighborhood that looks like the 1970s now but that was an abandoned part of city (at least by mainstreamers). This neighborhood was populated by, generally, youth rebelling against the GDR's communist system and had the highest density of immigrants. These immigrants, thought, typically came from the West, and was therefore devoid of Arabs and other Easterners (unlike the other side of the city). Then, it had a very large amounts of breweries; now, they have, for the most part, turned into pubs. One of the largest, the Kultur Brauerei, has a big bike rental inside. This area has been "regentrified" since the fall of the Berlin Wall and has transformed from one of the poorest and cheapest areas to the richest.

This tour lasted hours, so I will try to give you the highlights: the T.V. Tower, in Mittel, the second highest structure; the architect accidentally designed it so that a cross appears when the sun hits it. So they had a big cross dubbed the "Revenge of the Pope" by the people in a communist city. The end result? An arrested architect.

Karl Marx Allee: a whole street dedicated to communism; the "Soviet Wedding Cake". Basically, a whole street of fancy palace-looking buildings that are apartments built by workers in their free time. Lotteries were held to decide which workers would live there. At the end of the street there used to be the famous statue of Stalin, because the entire street was given to him as a birthday present. After he died, the people loved him so much, they tore him down. Being experts in industrial practicality, they melted him down and reformed his pieces into the animal sculptures at the East Berlin Zoo. Later, it was revealed that the man responsible for melting him kept one of his ears and half of his very large mustache, which apparently looks like a big croissant. Post-1989, he revealed these little remnants and they are now on display to the public.

July 17, 2009
So, yes. I have no time to write. So much reading, hours of tours, class, hardly time for any of us to eat or sleep, but we're still having fun. Anyhow, on with it!

We drove up to what is left of the Berlin Wall in the East. It's all painted now, at the behest of a gallerist from Scotland who invited a lot of different artists to paint it, as he believed the wall, which was originally constructed specifically to obstruct the dirty capitalists from entering into East Berlin and the GDR, was a work of art. Now, it is the city's main attraction. Well, one point to the communists: those "filthy capitalists" got hold of all the pieces of the wall that were torn down and sold them for profit.

Finally, we crossed the river and were in West Berlin, where there are willows everywhere. This is an immigrant neighborhood, filled with Turks, who were initially brought in temporarily to build the economy. They ended up staying. Also, for whatever reason in this neighborhood, police are absolutely forbidden. The people hate them and riot against them every May 1.

One thing about Berlin, that I will talk about more in another log, that greatly interests me is its guilt complex. You can't go anywhere here without being constantly reminded of the war and the Nazi era. Bear in mind that we are at least three generations removed. Yet the endless fights over so-called "politically contaminated" buildings persist and stand in a deadlock--these "politically contaminated" buildings were built and used by multiple generations of government: the Empire, the Nazi regime, or the GDR. Now, many of them stand empty as people fight over whether to reinhabit them, or knock them down and rebuild (we wouldn't want to sit at the same desk as Eichmann, would we?? or at the same window). But that isn't very economical: rip down a building because of people who used to walk its halls and build a new one? Too expensive. One example: the previous Prussian city capitol building, which was later turned into a GDR government building was demolished and is now just a big lawn with people picnicking on it. Perhaps this is an erasure of history, but it may be a good idea to have an empty space in the midst of so many reminders. This is the "Empty Heart of Berlin" and there is, very much so, an absence much greater than a building here.

On this tour, the one thing that stands out in my memory most is the Square of Absence. This memorial is located in the square designed by the kaiser and placed directly across from Humboldt University (where I am attending classes). "Step on it," Daniel encouraged us. "What do you see?" Truthfully? At first, absolutely nothing. "That's right." I saw nothing but an eerie nothingness, a darkness that seemed tangible, like the plague, and my reflection hanging upside down, with the sky beneath my feet. "I see bookshelves," Rachel, who was standing next to me said. "What? Where?" And she pointed down into the square. Then, from a slightly different angle, I could see rows and rows of empty bookshelves lining the walls of an empty room beneath the ground. "Yes," Daniel said. "This is the point. To see nothingness, to hang into it, upside down, and to stand up, tall and solid on this side, in the air. The famous Nazi book burnings by the students took place on this spot. Over there," he turned and pointed to a part of the plaza on the other side, "is the famous, eerily prophetic quote written by Heinrich Heine: 'Wherever you burn books, you will burn human beings.' He would have been devastated to learn that his beloved Germany and countrymen were to turn this statement into a prophecy. He was talking, of course, not about the road down which he thought Germany was going, but about the past and the Russian pogroms." On the Square of Absence itself, four people by four can stand on it and fill up the space. Stand on it with fifteen other people and maybe you get a slight idea of the worth of a human being in a body. Below, bookshelves enough to hold 20,000 volumes stand empty, and commemorate the ideas that were incinerated on this spot. So we stand, four-by-four, learning the worth of a body and the weight of its ideas, all the while feeling dizzy, because nothingness holds us up from below and infinity presses down on us from above.

Next, we saw the Brandenburg Gate, at its axis of history and geography, with the four Allied embassies surrounding it: The United States, the British, the Russian, and the French. We walked through an art museum and a bank to get to one more memorial: the memorial to the murdered Jews of Europe. The meaning of it is open for interpretation, but people picnic on it and jump from block to block (called steles). It integrates the present with the past: life goes on and always will. This is my interpretation, at least. Its was designed by Eisermann, who didn't want it to have any imposed meaning, or center, or edge. So, you never know if you're in the middle or at the edge or beyond the memorial when you're near it. This was part of the controversy of its dedication. Another is that it is sometimes "too beautiful" of a piece to be a memorial for the murdered Jews of Europe; and another is "why just Jews?" so there are single blocks that have been erected on the outskirts of the main memorial for homosexuals and other groups. There are 2, 711 blocks, or steles. The number is not significant. It is merely the number that fit on the plot allowed for the memorial. So, the memorial simply is, at the very center of the city. It exists as a reminder, as a playground, and as a point of unrest.

I could go on but those were the high points, other than the Adlon Hotel, where the late Michael Jackson dangled his baby out a window a few years ago. Berlin is an emotional enigma for me, and the conversations I have been having with the other students, along with the material from class, are at once putting this place into perspective for me, and confusing me even more. But that is for another discussion, along with the other tours and my impressions of those. I am all written out for now.

Travel Log #10

July 11, 2009
Heathrow airport is a nightmare. Of course, I already knew that, but after the gate being unavailable upon landing (again--forgot to mention that bit last time), my connecting flight is delayed an hour. And then more. So, after the ridiculous rush on the bus and up the elevator that didn't work, I find I have time to spare. Also, British Airways lies online and tells you that you are allowed two bags of baggage. Apparently not. 35 pounds for the extra bag. I didn't care. I'm still ahead of my budget. The good part is I have time to write this.

I am actually in between flights--I flew from Manchester to London and will be flying from here on to Berlin. The check-in people have assured me that my luggage will meet me in Germany. Ha! I will be surprised if it does. As long as no blow torches are involved this time, I'll keep my mouth shut about it (for the most part), but we aren't dealing with Alitalia, either.

Going through security was interesting. No need to remove shoes. Maybe they're more rational here about some things...I never really understood the whole "No shoes through security" policy anyway. They separated me from Therem, though, because "Desperado" taught the world a lesson. Of course, I'm not trafficking weapons, so they let her through but not before this very bored security agent started chatting me up about music, etcetera. (An aside: the blondest kid I have ever seen in my life is screaming and having a tantrum all around the terminal right now.) Finally, I got let past security and expected to go to the gate.

But apparently, the British system works differently. I've never heard of such a thing. They make us sit in a holding area forever and stare at little screens for hours waiting for them to post what gate our flight departs from. They post the gate only twenty minutes before departure! What the heck. Luckily, I happened to be about five feet from mine, but what about everyone else? They have to haul across huge distances.

Anyway, once I got to the gate, everything went smoothly and I got a nice kid (I can't believe I'm calling a 17-year-old a kid--I'm so old, wait 'til Wednesday) and his mother to sit with in my row. Unfortunately, I was on the aisle, but I think I have a window from here to Berlin.

Elliott and his mother ware going to Tokyo because they like to travel. They're traveling on their own and have never been. I'm excited for them. One day, I'll get out of European and Middle Eastern (oh, I'm sorry, Georgie: Southwest Asian) travel and go to the Eastern world.

I left them at Terminal 5. Now I'm hoping they hurry up and tell me the gate number and that it's at the "A" gates of this terminal and not the "B" or "C" which are between 15 and 20 minutes away "using [airport] transit"! Who designed this place?! It's almost worse than driving in Boston. Meanwhile, the generic announcer voice is lulling me to sleep. The good news is, I'm finally almost done reading the sedative. I got through a whole chapter-and-a-half without falling asleep. A record! It's usually about one whole paragraph. (This is why I was an English major and not a history major: love knowing it, hate learning it, why not read a good novel with supplementary sources instead?) Ok, there are more reasons than that for being an English major, but you get the point. It's simply the best.

I will write more later, once the exciting part starts to happen, which means I"m either on a plane again, or have moved into my apartment.

18:22, Berlin Time
My pen has exploded, probably due to the same pressure in the plane that's been making the usual pressure in my ears about 20% worse. But pressure aside, I got on the plane after about an hour of delay--caused by a mix of delays regarding the plane's previous flight and the outer hull's apparently much needed paint job! How ridiculous!

I am sitting in a row with a nice man who I believe is German but who speaks English with a perfect British accent, the usual for around here. He smiles a lot and catches my attention while I write as I have blocked out the world with music. He has his fix of water and wine, and I, mine of ginger ale and tea. We are over France now and soon, western Germany. The sky up here looks like cottage cheese below and the freeing clear blue of the atmosphere just a few miles from space.

On the way tot he plane, there was a very high class stereotypical American family--the mother bumbled on in a valley girl accent with her bleached blonde hair about shopping while the father and son, who couldn't have been older than nine but acted like he was forty-five, dressed in a suit and tie for an international flight back to the States, talked about their wonderful golf tournaments in Manchester and Liverpool. I felt bad for the kid who is probably not even remotely aware of the childhood he is missing.

The exploded ink is everywhere now and my page looks like a Rorschach card...and perfect: "Rocky Horror Picture Show's" "There's a Light" just came on. I am all bruised from the luggage hauling--and it better be there to meet me, as well as Mareike, who I hope looked up the flight to see that is has been delayed. I don't want her to be waiting so long...

Another issue: I only have two more pages left of this notebook and only two blank ones with me. I'm going to have to ship a load of notebooks and paper back to the States before I leave here, unless MASA hates me enough to officially bar me from all possibility of Israel for this year. So much for their "expedited processing"! I really feel that I should hav known two weeks ago, but alas! Who would be on more Jewish Time than Israel? I should be used to this by now, except for the fact that I hate being even on time, but early.

109 miles to go, but I should reacclimate myself to the metric system: 174km. I am 35,500 feet in the air and listening to "Don't Let Me Down" but I can feel us descending already. The playlist goes on: "Secret Garden," the song that I've listened to on repeat more than any other. Two years ago in Luxembourg, I walked around for two days listening to this song looking for something that doesn't exist and trying to rationalize the loss of something that had, and that I would never find again. That's when I wrote the "Morning Song," that "all I learned in the end was that I needed an independent life," and I've lived it like so ever since.

We are about to land--more later.

July 12, 2009
My first impression of Berlin was from the sky: a land under dark clouds at sunset. Where the city sat on the ground, the sky opened up and the city was lit up gold. Along the horizon to my right was a band of pink and gold veiled by a curtain of rain. I thought, how could a country this beautiful ever have been fraught with so much hatred by those who populate it? And then I remember: we are speaking of the human race, which has nothing to do with the beauties of the sky or the landscape, other than to exploit it or destroy it.

When we landed, Passport control met us at the gate. The agent took an inordinate amount of time checking me into the country...I wonder what goodies the Interpol system has on me. Nothing too interesting, I expect. My luggage, luckily, met me at the turnstile, but of course, they'd thrown it around, so one of my bags was open and spilling books and notebooks all over the conveyor belt. People standing next to me helped me gather it all.

I kept looking for the person who might be Mareike from LBSU. I found her waiting for me right outside the gate. Her accent is completely American, so I asked if she was American or German or both. German, but went to school at Tufts and apparently has a very good ear for languages. And it turns out she's not Mareike, but Anna, the administrative director. I'd been imagining her as middle-aged, but she is very young--can't be more than ten years older than I am or less. We had a really good conversation in the car on the ride to my apartment. Traffic here is insane. She pointed out a Nazi airport as we passed it that only closed last year because people had been protesting it. There was a music festival going on farther down the street. I contemplated going, but decided that resting and getting settled was a better idea.

Lucky me, my apartment is four floors up (American). That's not so bad in general, but with the luggage it wasn't pleasant. I'm completely sore. Oh, well. No one was home, so I moved into the double room because my apartment mate, Naomi, had snagged the single. The apartment is really nice. The only iffy issue is that there are massive tennis courts right outside my window and the playing goes all day and starts at around 7:00. We had sheets and pillows set out for us, along with working internet and ALL of our reading material in really nice course packs for the next six weeks. Also, a map of the city. All very impressive, and the light in the apartment is great, too. We have a kitchen with a full fridge, freezer, stove, oven, electric kettle, and all plates, utensils, pots and pans, etcetera! A sitting room, too, with a coffee table and faux leather chairs and a television, and a table and chairs, plus tons of shelving, a vacuum, and nice bathroom. The closet/shelving space in the room sis good, too, plus they gave us hangers. The curtains are purple, for the record, and the furniture is mainly black. We have one chair each in our rooms.

My room mate, Stefanie, arrived in the middle of my nap. She is amazing and from Muenster, Germany. The question of whether there are only Jews on the program is this: No, it's about half. Stefanie is not. Also, the cheese apparently does not come from her Muenster or it's just some American romanticism. She's never heard of it. We had tea over cake and a great conversation. I'm very excited to have a good room mate.

Later, we got picked up by Anna and Mareike who took our passport photos for our transportation passes, and they handed out rail passes for tonight and tomorrow. We went to a kosher restaurant where the food was good and very Eastern European: hot Borscht, salmon, diced potatoes with pickles and carrots, etc.

I met a bunch of people: Carry (sp?) from Seattle but who just graduated from Smith, Ben from Chicago but who just graduated from (I think) George Washington (it's definitely in DC, whichever school it is), Valentine from Romania, Dorene from Berlin, and Deb who's getting her PhD in literature and who apparently has connections with the Clark English department. Small world. It's very nice to be among so many different people from across the world, at so many different levels, but from different educational systems. I also sat next to the professor of the first module. He teaches at the University of Toronto: Derek Penslar. He's taught at a lot of places but is originally from L.A. I hope his classes are as engaging as his dinner conversation. Also, his daughter almost has my name, but chooses to go only by "Tal" where I only go by that sometimes. Anyhow, I should go to sleep now as I have a very long day in class and field trips, then grocery and essentials shopping afterward and an even longer week--

Oh! I forgot to mention that I didn't eat for about twenty-four hours because of the chaos of traveling. Of course, I was starving this morning, but it's Sunday, so almost everything is closed. I stood at the window and saw people with little bags that appeared to have milk in them, so I went running out right after meeting Naomi. I found a corner market, picked up some cheese, herring, butter, and milk. I couldn't find bread and the shop keepers, a woman and her little boy, spoke absolutely no English. I demonstrated "bread" with the butter and she sent the boy out to the bakery for me! He brought me four hot rolls and I didn't have to pay for them. That was so nice, it gave me a little hope in humanity and also reminded me of why I love living in Europe so much. Nice acts like that are more commonplace here between strangers than they are anywhere I've been in the States. It's nice to see some things come around eventually, even if I have to wait almost forever. Later, I asked Stefanie how to say bread: "brot".

Ok, now, really, I really must sleep. Plus, this notebook is finished. I can't believe it. My next one is pretty, though. Hopefully it will last, but I know I'll have to get more, and send a ton home. To clarify, if you don't know, you may read all this on the computer, but I hand write everything first. Writing by hand preserves an ancient art and as long as I am alive, it will not find itself extinct.

A Divergence from the Log: A Musing

I have just finished The Historian and the tale of the vampire haunts me as always. Whether Vlad the Impaler is, in fact, dead or not makes no significant difference. He is, after all, impaled upon my imagination and his legend thrives. In the end, though, it is just a story, like all stories, but for whatever reason, it is this one that envelopes me in fear, like the mist of the vampire. Perhaps it is my search for history and my longing to know it intimately, like clothing, or men, or secrets gone-to-the-grave-with. The Historian gives something to the Impaler that Bram Stoker's Dracula does not: a voice. And it is a voice imagined and cast out through corridors of long-forgotten time that rings out clearly in my ears and that is echoed in my own voice as I read it aloud: "There is no purity like the purity of the sufferings of history. You will have what every historian wants: history will be reality to you. We will wash our minds clean with blood."

How? I have lived a lot of history despite short years and I have always at once regretted and treasured experience. The regret does create in me a longing to wash my mind clean, but I have wanted to wash it clean with wind or water, or pleasant dreams. But life moves swiftly, like a river's current, and perhaps the only way to wash our minds clean is to have our memories overshadowed by newer ones that gleam more powerfully in our minds' eye than those that came before them. Perhaps the only way to wash our minds clean is with blood, as that liquid holds its own both as proof of life and as death, first within our veins and then, without. We do, after all, build our lives in the present upon the decayed lives of past--a past that is very much alive but that moves in a different way from us, a way that is not quite living, but maybe--of the undead? Who can know? I am just wondering and I shrink from the knock of wind on the window at night for fear of letting in a uninvited guest that will make of me something (I am quite certain) is merely a fairytale. But, like I've said before, fairytales are as real as their makers and I am one.

So here I am, retracing history in the present with my eyes and my feet. It is not just to see the world but to understand the past from which I come. There are things of which people do not speak and although I cannot hear the whole story, I have found that land offers up whispers if you listen closely enough and in it, you can find yourself and follow in the footsteps of your ancestors. It is worthwhile to hoard just a slight bit of superstition in the back of your mind. All myths come from somewhere.

I walk around cities that were part of an empire that ruled one-third of the earth. "Be careful and mind the foreigners," I am told, "because look what happened to England. We were once the greatest of all nations. We supposed. And we didn't treat them kindly. Now, they have come back to take us over." The text between the lines? "What can we possibly do? It is no one's fault but our own, but we are seeing the same thing happen to America, this rise and fall from greatness." It is sad, but it is the way of history. Rome rose and fell, as did Byzantium and the Ottoman Empire. This one strikes a chord because it is mine. But from a distance, the earth still looks blue and green and none of those existed at all from just a few miles up. I am a strange mixture of holding things in perspective: I strive to be limitless and without category, but I know I am doomed to confinement. I do not resist. Still, we destroy ourselves and will continue to until the sun swallows the Earth. I resist the destruction if not the confinement to categories. But I still fear the vampire.

Sometimes I lose sight of what it is I'm looking for here. Is it a renewed sense of self? Am I just some young wanderer searching for answers like everyone else? Or have I found my answers and am merely out here trying to prove to myself that they are wrong, that there is something I am missing, that there really could exist some greatness in one measly little life? I would ask an oracle if they existed, but wisdom speaks out to me from pages everywhere. I choose this version, by Ursula LeGuin: "'Tell me . . . what is known? What is sure, predictable, inevitable--the one certain thing you know concerning your future, and mine?'
"'That we shall die.'
"'Yes. There's really only one question that can be answered . . . and we already know the answer. . . . The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainty: not knowing what comes next.'"

And so I put it in permanent ink, with an ouroboros on my back, to remind me that "we all owe death a life" and that we can meet that "permanent, intolerable uncertainty" at any moment, anywhere--so that I do not miss a beat; so that I make the most of it; so that each moment counts. And each moment is alone...but I can share them sometimes, and I can write them down so that they are not lost.

On the way I meet people and I try to keep them with me. Of course that keeping is never in the flesh, merely in thought, but thought is often more powerful than anything else. So words spread across a distance and contact is maintained. But relationships fade across time and people fade like ghosts, in and out. Everything in its time, right? I am no fool for time and my youth never tricked me into eternity. So I record as much as possible: moments, thoughts, absurdities, normalities, the way darkness fades into light and vice versa on a horizon, and how land and sky and sea get lost in each other somewhere between the zenith and the ground beneath my feet.

In two days, I leave England and head for the continent and Berlin, a city in which I have never stepped foot. I am excited, yes. Also: apprehensive, terrified, lonely. But I am used to all of these things. I will also be stepping into a part of history that puts a bad taste in my mouth, yet I keep on moving forward because that taste is from the extrapolation I have made in my mind from the experiences of others. I need to know for myself. However, I have packed accordingly because I have been to the region before. My necklace will never be visible if I can help it and all my labels will be hidden except for the most obvious: that I don't speak German and the fact that I stand like an American and am thus recognizable as one without being conscious of it. The way in which I stand makes me identifiable as an American, apparently, even before I speak and let on that the only language I understand and speak completely fluently is English. But I learn quickly and learn how to hide. It only takes a few rides on a bus and few words in the local language, with the right accent. I have done this before and shall do it again.

The next time I write, it will be from Berlin. I can only wonder how I will fare. The Iron Curtain has been down almost two decades now. I have my own to knock down and perhaps, build up again. We'll see how the reality compares with the theoretical. I have six weeks to find out.

Travel Log #9

July 5, 2009

I am in a place where the moors stretch out on either side, from horizon to horizon, like in the Brontes and The Secret Garden. I am only one town over from each of those. It is a beautiful country, and the lights of humanity illuminate the darkened moors at night, like sprinkled stars. There is still some semblance of light left in the sky at half-an-hour to midnight.

Two days ago, I arrived at the train station in Leeds and my bag at the head of the car was still there. Ruth was just on the other side of the ticket barrier waving to me. I crossed over and we stuffed my luggage in the back of her car and hid it under the trunk flap. I impressed myself by remembering right away to get on the right for the passenger side but decided that it would be best not to concentrate on the road.

Our first stop was a grocery store, where we got lunch and got food that I would like. Later, I finally got to cook (something I haven't done since before finals in Worcester). I made chicken cutlets, pan fried with a mixture of herbs in olive oil; English broccoli with baby corn, sauteed; and then, sauteed potatoes with fresh garlic. Later on, we made rice pudding, which we warmed up in the oven. Ruth ate fish cakes, as she doesn't like chicken or garlic.

Afterwards, I checked my email and called home, then went to bed, because we had to get up early to drive to Liverpool in the morning to visit with Rachel, Ruth's daughter. I was really excited about Liverpool, for the port, and the ships, and the Beatles!

We set out for the motorway around 9:30 in the morning. The road passes through a town called Bradford, which Ruth explained to me is one of the most racists cities in the country, with about 90% of the population being extreme racists. A few years ago there were race riots and a lot of the city was burned down. Oftentimes arrests are made on terrorist training cells operating within the city and the tension is even higher now since the 2005 London Bombings. We are two days away from the four-year anniversary (July 7, 2005).

It is strange here because back in the 1970s, the immigrant population wanted nothing more than to assimilate, wasn't allowed to. The people resolved to send their children to traditional schools and those children are the adults of today who want anything but assimilation. Of course, this is Bradford, and the sentiment on the subject varies among individuals as well as on the region of the country.

It's all quite appropriate, I gather, that I am once again reading a story of vampires and am (once again) nightmaring nightly. Dracula is the only fictional character I have ever encountered who has captured my imagination so thoroughly that the mere notion of him grips me in fear. The East meets the West and in the clash between cultures, we either grow and are enriched, or we become the undead. The problem is, we exist in the state--I exist in this state--and I cannot seem to decide which one I am or whether there is even a difference. Still, I don't know why this image of the vampire terrifies me so much, because armies have more terrifying weapons than fangs and coffins and I am most desensitized. But then again, vampires are not commonplace headlines these days.

Anyhow, we finally got to Liverpool and on the way, I'd gotten used to driving on the left and looking right. On the motorway, we passed the moors and a lot of farms, including one that refused to give up its property rights, which caused the government to have to build the motorway around it. The cows even had a tunnel built for them to get from one part to the other of the farm without having to worry about the cars. For the rest of the ride, I admired the scenery.

We got to Rachel's house and discovered that she and her boyfriend, Ian, hadn't eaten yet, so we all went out to Costa's coffee with three hours to kill while they ate breakfast and Ruth and I had coffee and a little cake. Before we went out, I had to ask to borrow a belt because I've lost about two inches or so in the last couple of weeks and nothing fits me anymore, including the clothes I just bought two weeks ago. Not that I'm complaining.

After breakfast/noon snack, the four of us set out for downtown Liverpool where Rachel had decided we were going to take one of those cheesy tours for five-year-olds called the "Yellow Duck Marine". Essentially, it is one of the hybrid tank truck/boats built in the 1940s by the Americans for the D-Day landings. Ours was re-discovered in France some years after the war, being used as a chicken coop. Liverpool bought it, painted it yellow, and now it is the highly entertaining Yellow Duck Marine tourist trap.


We got a very nice tour of Liverpool and learned about its history as part of the slave trade, saw the largest stained glass in Europe (supposedly...every city says the same thing, so I don't know who to believe) at the Church of Christ the King, complete with a crown of thorns built into the architecture. We saw the Chinese arch that was put up in the year 2000 at the entrance to Liverpool's China Town, Stephenson's Rocket, the first passenger Railway train here, and the Anglican Cathedral where Rachel had her university graduation. Also, the place where John Lennon and his first wife Cynthia got married. And more churches. There are lots of churches. Almost as many as there are in Georgia.

Two little girls sat in front of me, Rebecca and Meaghan, aged 8 and 6, respectively. Meaghan had a big pink butterfly painted across her face.

"Are you a tourist?" she asked me and Rebecca smiled.
"I guess so," I said. "But everyone I'm with lives here."
"Me too," Meaghan said.
"So do I!" Rebecca said.
Along the trip they asked me lots of questions about what we were seeing around us and I answered as best as I could.
"I'm scared!" Meaghan told me, turning around in her seat.
"Of what? The boat?"
She nodded.
"Nothing to be scared of. Have you not been on a boat before?"
"No. Never."
"It's fun. You'll see."
In the end, she loved it. "I want to go again!"

There were swans in the river and we got to feed them. The tour guide sprayed us with a supersoaker once we got in the water because she "knew" we hadn't gotten wet from the splash. Not true! I ducked below the seat to avoid it. All of the sudden, through, she was screaming because the guy sitting behind her (with a baby, no less, on his lap--there were a ton of young dads with babies on there with us) had grabbed the gun and sprayed her full-on in the face, etc. She didn't take very well to that--but serves her right! Little taste of her own medicine.

"I'm going out tonight!" she yelled. "My hair, my god! You've ruined my hair!"
She patted it vigorously.

After the incident, we made our way back onto shore and were made to sing "We all live in a yellow DUCK marine, yellow DUCK marine, yellow DUCK marine" as we headed back onto land. Oy. We went directly into the gift shop, which was filled with rubber duckies. I wanted a quacking one that you can squish that say "Quack!" when you mush it. I picked up a little baby one but it didn't say anything! It just blows air at you. Rachel and Ian and Ruth were looking, too.

"Look, it's a flashing duck!" Ruth said, holding one that lit up, all pretty rainbow colors. It went "quack!" but the "quack" was electronic and the duck was bigger than mine. "Does yours go 'quack'?" they asked me.
I frowned and held it up, squished it and said: "No, it only blows."
So I had to decide between the little duck that blows or the bigger duck that flashes and goes 'Quack; but with an (illegitimate, in my opinion) electronic quack. In the end, I chose the little duck that blows. Rebecca walked in then and I said, 'Go check out the rubber duckies" and waved good-bye. Damn, I'm inappropriate.

This morning I did the only thing possible for the whole duck situation: took a bubble bath and let all the ducks swim around like it was a pond. It was loads of fun. Seriously. Showers are boring but I've been consigned to them (with absolutely no baths) for over a decade!

We left the shop and went for coffee, tea, and hot chocolate at a place called "Baby Cream". I kept little ducky out to play on the table. Then, we perused the shops. Of course, it started raining, so we went back to Ian an Rachel's house. I took my sedative again (the summer reading book) and fell asleep on the couch. Earlier, we'd discovered a flat tire on Ruth's car, so she and Ian went to take care of that so we could drive home later. I woke up soon and had a really good conversation with Rachel.

Then, everyone came back and we went to dinner at this really good place called "Maranto's" where I had fried Brie for an appetizer with salad on the side, poached salmon for the main coarse, and apple pie a la mode for dessert. We were there for about three hours. It was great. Back at Rachel's, I played with her rabbits but for once, there were no incidents with me and rabbits. I also discovered Sudoku toilet paper, which is quite entertaining, with the slogan "Concentration NOT Constipation!" on the box...no, I don't think people actually use this product. But that would be interesting, wouldn't it???

Ruth and I didn't leave until half past ten, which means we didn't get home until nearly midnight. We stayed up until 2:3o playing dress-up. I slept in later than ever today--past 11:00, took the ducky bath, and then hung out outside with Ruth and had tea with Therem. Then, my great uncle Michael came over for lunch. We had more tea outside.

After Michael left, Ruth and I went for a very nice hike out on the moors, where the sky seems lower than anywhere because we're in it. It's beautiful up there. We ran into some sheep, a nice biker named Steve, I picked cotton grass and heather, and we rested at an old stone circle that historians and archaeologists can't decide about: is it a real henge or a folly? Either way it's ancient and I'm sure many a pagan ritual has occurred there. At the end of the hike we went for coffee again and I had some insanely amazing French eclair type dessert (!!). Over that, I learned some family history and now, I am back home.

I'll probably have more nightmares of Dracula tonight. We shall see. In the morning I transfer over to my other cousins: Ros, Ruth's sister and her family.

Travel Log #8

July 3, 2009

At the moment, I am on a train, traveling from London to Leeds. I have left one of my bags at the top of the car, as there is absolutely no room inside for it, and hope it is still there when I get off. I check it periodically. I am quite nervous about it, but I have the important things with me: my computer, my passport, and Therem. Also, my clothing. If I lose the other bag, I will be out a sleeping bag and my other shoes. I was lucky enough to get seated by a window, facing forward, and next to a woman named Jo, from Ireland (just outside of Dublin) who is currently living in London with her daughter and who grew up in South Africa. I couldn't place her accent and that is why.

She told me a story about being pick-pocketed on the city bus (didn't make me feel much better about the bag) and how she got her free senior bus pass stolen without even feeling it. "The pass is quite wonderful," she said, "although I can't say I like being sixty." "At least you made it," I answered. "Very true," she said. She left me at the train's first stop: Petersborough, a place she's never been before, to work, caring for the elderly. I watched her off the train and couldn't help hoping that her role wouldn't be reversed in a decade or so. I hope to never need help like that. I'd rather go out just before.

The countryside is rolling by on either side of me now, under Britain's typical cloudy sky. It's low here and reminds me for some reason of the low sky in New Orleans, without the decay and the threat of military police arresting me for looking in the wrong direction.

Yesterday, I arrived in London, after a connecting flight from Amsterdam. On the plane ride, I had the good fortune of sitting next to a great person named Jackie--another friend I have made on my travels--who is originally from Kenya but moved to London and who now lives in Atlanta. She is a nurse at Emory and is traveling for the first time on a new American passport as she just got her U.S. citizenship. We stayed together through customs and through baggage claim where Jeff met me.

Of course, I was absolutely exhausted by that point as I failed to sleep on either plane. I did manage to watch "The Wrestler," finally, and "Atonement," which was surprisingly just about as good as the book. Anyhow, we took the tube to Russel Square, which took about an hour.

Jet lag doesn't agree with me, and I'll have none of it, so we dumped my stuff at Jeff's place and took off for a walk. We saw a bit of his university (University College of London) and parks. There are wonderful parks everywhere: Coram's Field, which we couldn't enter because there are "NO UNACCOMPANIED ADULTS" allowed. Eventually, we made it to Regent's Park, which has a lot of really beautiful English gardens and which looks exactly like one of the places in that terrible movie, "The Happening": "the trees are gonna get us! Run!" We were debating on where to eat, but had to go pick up the air mattress for me. I loved the park and didn't want to leave, so Jeff left me there to go get it and I laid down on the ground under a really nice tree with lots of aphids on the leaves and took a nap for half-an-hour. I woke up and meditated and then Jeff was back, so we sat and talked for a while before going to eat.

We ended up at this very good pizza place called "Pizza Express" where they make really good personal pies. I got one with spinach, goat cheese, and caramelized onion. It was delicious! I also drank more than half of a huge bottle of water. All of the walking around got me slightly sunburned but not enough so that it hurts. I'm glad it's cloudy and rainy for the next few days because digging in the duffel for my long sleeves would be an absolute pain right now.

Once we got back to the flat, we decided to buy tickets to see "Public Enemies" which Jeff and I both thought was extremely good. I have to see it again to help process. It's that kind of movie. Johnny Depp was brilliant, as usual. I bought us milk shakes, which made it even better.

On the way back through Leicester Square, things were crazy. The tube was even worse. Dead stand still for a while and even though we got to the platform before the train, it was so crowded, we had to wait for the next one. Jeff said he'd never seen it this crowded before...and on a Thursday!

Anyhow, after that was all over, we got back to the room and I went to sleep soon after--the summer reading not failing me in its use as the perfect sedative. Actually, I forgot to mention the little confusion with the air mattress.

We couldn't figure out how to fill it up. It apparently involved pumping but there was no pump, just some contraption with holes that we knew must have something to do with it. So, being our impractical selves, we called Jeff's friend who explained this rather ingenious hand-pumping method which worked. By the end, I was really too thoroughly amused and laughed. Finally, I got to sleep and my makeshift pillow (out of shirts) and the air mattress proved very comfortable.

I have about forty minutes left until I get to Leeds and Ruth (my cousin). There are filed everywhere, equipped with cows and castles and what looks like heather. The train is smooth and I am alone with motion. I am happy and have a good play list going in my ears. I'll play Therem later and sing and will feel even better.

So far, I have only lost two things, unless my bag goes missing/stolen: the "A" and the "T" in "team" on my ballroom jacket. I feel like being domestic for five minutes and embroidering it on, except I can't do anything that domestic.

I will leave you with this for now and will pick up after adventures begin in Leeds. I leave myself listening to the Righteous Brothers and their "Unchained Melody." Until next time--write back...

Travel Log #7

June 30, 2009
I am reminded that patience is a virtue. Over the past few weeks the patience I pride myself on has worn thin. I had made my peace with circumstance, which is not quite the same as giving up.

Tomorrow, I leave for the world: England, Germany, Luxembourg, Israel. Word came in today that I have been granted an anonymous donation that covers the remainder of my balance, and then some, for OTZMA. I packed all day for a year, expecting it would really only be for three months. It is still not 100% as MASA funding has yet to come through, but OTZMA is 99% certain I will get everything I need.

July 1, 2009
As of now, I am on board my first flight of many. I got everything I needed into just two bags and a carry-on. Not bad for a year and nothing is overweight. Things went smoothly, except for this one absolutely clueless guy directly in front of me at the security check-point. I guess he's never flown in his life--bags flying all over the place, running around in circles in front of the metal detector like a chicken with its head cut off. The security officer is screaming at him from the other side telling him to put his bags through the x-ray, so he throws one under the conveyor belt (WTF) and whips his belt off! Then, he starts flinging it around and his pants start falling down because they're literally about eight sizes too big for him. So now he's hopping around with the belt flying, and his pants falling down and the bags everywhere. Meanwhile, his parents (or whoever it was with him) are yelling at him from the other side of the barrier along with security "What are you DOING?!" It took 15 minutes for him to get over his discombobulation. Once I was through, I made it to the gate within five minutes. Go figure.

I sat at the gate for a few hours, hoping to rendezvous with my friend Chris who I haven't seen in about three years, and now it will have to wait another. He said it sounded like the Olympics. I called home and a few other people to say good-bye before my phone shuts off for a year and missed a call because I was busy boarding.

While I was waiting, a woman from Ethiopia sat next to me at the gate and started bragging about paying for her son's college education at the University of Alabama: $1.00 for every 7 of whatever their currency is. Lucky him. No student loans to contend with.

I got a group of dentists and assistants sitting next to me for the flight. Along with about eight separate mission groups of kids. They're all going to Kenya--Chelsea, if you're reading this, let me know how you are over there; I'm getting anxious.

Now, I have an eight-hour-and-twenty-minute flight until I reach Amsterdam and a 1.5hr layover for my connection to London, where I will hopefully land on time at 9:00 GMT and get picked up by Jeff at Heathrow. Hopefully there will be no repeats of the Alitalia experience and my luggage will promptly meet me where it's supposed to. But we all should be familiar by now with my luck. I took the back-up clothing in carry-on just in case. I even stuffed some in with Therem.

Yes, I decided to take Therem instead of Martin because I can't afford to deal with the crack down the middle of his face again and I'm paranoid about him getting stolen. I already miss him, but Therem should enjoy the adventure and it's good for her to get seasoned like this. Martin has already done his rounds. For now. I loosened her strings, stuffed a bunch of books and notebooks in the outside pocket of the case and put her up in the cargo bins above my head.

We're moving onto the runway right now and my only qualm thus far is my lack of a window seat. Otherwise, I am very much in my element: in motion, in the sky, and on my own with nothing but mystery ahead of me and a guitar in my right hand.

I'm working on a song lately and with it, I've conceded to the fact that my music writing style has changed. When I began, I put music to poetry from years before. Then, I wrote simultaneously. The songs would come quickly and there was immediate artistic satisfaction. Now, songs do not come easily. I spend weeks and sometimes months editing, revising, discarding everything but the idea of the song and possibly a few lines. Song writing now is more like novel writing and short-story and poetry. The last serious poem I wrote went through sixteen drafts, but it was worth all the haggle over individual word-choice and their placements. Same for short stories: 13 drafts. The novel I'm working on now needs a revamp but I'm still not quite sure how. All I know is that I went through six revisions with the first one and it's still due for more--and I need to get on with the literary agent search so I can publish it.

No matter, the point is that all of my writing ends up, after all the revisions when all is said and done, like a song on repeat. I fall in love with the piece and reread it over and over (an artist's obsession with a message produced from something internal and externally-unknown). It's like a song on repeat and if I've written it, I play for hours until my fingers turn black down to the first knuckle--the pain is ignored because the reward is worth it.

Art is my mode of preservation because experience is ephemeral and I either want to hold it forever or let it go. Music and words pay their dues and I reciprocate the favor--the words remain when memory fades and the notes fade in a moment. The message lingers.