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THE WRITING LIFE: A COLLECTION OF ESSAYS AND INTERVIEWS (written by National Book Award Winners) Grade: B
- not a bad book, and certainly interesting (to me), but unless you’re really interested in the process of writing, give it a pass.
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So, the other night I read my first Keats poem ever. Not bad. Despite my almost violent love for the novel, I’ve never been a big fan of two other forms of writing: the short story and poetry. Sure, there are some of each that I enjoy, (I still get all dreamy like a 15 year old girl when reading Pablo Neruda), but overall I just can’t get into poetry. I’ve tried, but either I find it silly, boring, or confusing. Plus, I simply don’t think I have the patience for it. To me, poetry was a bit like reading Aristotle or Kant. (Most poetry) you can’t take it to the beach and read it casually while sipping your Mojito. It takes a focused and committed mind, something I sadly, have not always had. There’s a reason I love multitasking so much.
ANYWAY, the point of this, was after I read that first Keats poem (very nice, loves nature, la la la), it inspired me immediately to write this poem on the back of my dental bill which was on the floor next to my bed. I wrote this in about 2 minutes, so don’t expect … well, Keats. Maybe another reason I’ve never loved poetry is that I could never write it well, and that’s always bothered me…
For now the hour has advanced quite late
An exhausted body is my current state
And though it is to slumber I should go
I cannot part from this book so
My weary eyes are locked to the page
Though nervous mind frets on tomorrow’s rage
Of a morning body struggling to rise from bed
Feeling much too like a soul half dead
If I only I had not begun that Keats
I would not have felt such physical defeat
Of unrested spirit cursing the day
And seething with the work in the way
Before the rendez-vous with the pillow when
Be felt the full-length kisses of the sheets again
Until then I glare at dawn’s early light
And promise self to do what is right
And not read my Keats while I lie in bed
But when then is a fitting alternate?
To fill my dreams with Kafka, Kundera, or Woolf?
Perhaps I should just forget all books
And soak up the television’s rays
And dream instead of Happy(ier) Days
Monday, March 10, 2003
Sunday, March 09, 2003
Brief Book Critiques! (Yeah, I know)
I’ve decided to do very short book critiques after all (despite what I JUST said a few days ago). I think my one redeeming quality is that I will keep them VERY brief. Easy to read or skip, depending on how you feel that day. I find that the emotions that build up in me after reading a book (whether because the book is great, tepid, or ferociously terrible), scream to get out. So, if I put just a blurb on each, I’ll feel better, and it’ll also help to keep me focused on my blog. The first books I’m going to do is 1) the one I finished tonight, The Map that Changed the World by Simon Winchester, and 2) the one I finished a few days ago, English Passengers by Matthew Kneale. I’ve already hinted what I feel about each. Since these are my first two, they’ll be longer than ones I’ll do in the future. Really.
THE MAP THAT CHANGED THE WORLD (Simon Winchester) Grade: C-
*long, silent scream* I’m sorry, but WHY WHY WHY WHY is this book an “international best seller?” Is this like the Stephan Hawkins book where everyone buys it and no one reads it or just pretends to? This book was 299 pages long (I kept flipping to back and checking it the whole time I was reading it), and it was FANTASTICALLY boring. Unless you really really REALLY like geology, run far far away from this book. Though it claims to be a biography about the unfortunate founder of Geology, William Smith, it’s more a long and tedious blabber fest on fossils and stratification in England. I think it’s already starting to leak out of my brain. Though the story about Smith is compelling and tragic, it doesn’t REALLY begin until the last 100 pages of the book. The 200 pages preceding that just go on…and on…and on. If it wasn’t for the fact that I feel an almost divine power over me to finish every book I start, I would have turned this into toilet paper long ago. The only other good thing I can say about it, is that it does paint a detailed picture of the horrendously painful injustice of classicism in 19th century England. Otherwise, unless rocks get your rocks off….. read Hawkins.
ENGLISH PASSENGERS (Kneale) Grade: A+
This book rocked (pun intended)! Historical novels are my favorite, especially ones about places I am not too terribly familiar with. This book is just that (set just about 50 years after the book above, in the mid to late 19th century). It is set in Manx, England, and eventually, Tasmania (known then as Van Diemen’s Land). A crew of bootlegging Manx men get stuck with a charter of three unlikable men (a desperate priest, a self-promoting doctor, and a spoiled brat forced to go by his parents) for a quest to find the Garden of Eden in Tasmania. Various fascinating and comical lives are intertwined together in this part tragic, part hysterical novel. The life of “Peevay,” a half-English, half-Aborigine boy is one of the most fascinating of the book. The way the author can explore so many different cultures and make you feel so deeply engrossed with each one, really deserves kudos, especially his focus on Manx and native Tasmanian cultures. I could get into all the other artfully dealt with subjects (colonialism, religion, self-promotion, etc.), but … naaah. As for the “historical” part of this fiction novel, I hope Kneale really did his homework on this, because otherwise he’s sure fooled me. Well done. I really enjoyed it and look forward to the next one I read.
THE MAP THAT CHANGED THE WORLD (Simon Winchester) Grade: C-
*long, silent scream* I’m sorry, but WHY WHY WHY WHY is this book an “international best seller?” Is this like the Stephan Hawkins book where everyone buys it and no one reads it or just pretends to? This book was 299 pages long (I kept flipping to back and checking it the whole time I was reading it), and it was FANTASTICALLY boring. Unless you really really REALLY like geology, run far far away from this book. Though it claims to be a biography about the unfortunate founder of Geology, William Smith, it’s more a long and tedious blabber fest on fossils and stratification in England. I think it’s already starting to leak out of my brain. Though the story about Smith is compelling and tragic, it doesn’t REALLY begin until the last 100 pages of the book. The 200 pages preceding that just go on…and on…and on. If it wasn’t for the fact that I feel an almost divine power over me to finish every book I start, I would have turned this into toilet paper long ago. The only other good thing I can say about it, is that it does paint a detailed picture of the horrendously painful injustice of classicism in 19th century England. Otherwise, unless rocks get your rocks off….. read Hawkins.
ENGLISH PASSENGERS (Kneale) Grade: A+
This book rocked (pun intended)! Historical novels are my favorite, especially ones about places I am not too terribly familiar with. This book is just that (set just about 50 years after the book above, in the mid to late 19th century). It is set in Manx, England, and eventually, Tasmania (known then as Van Diemen’s Land). A crew of bootlegging Manx men get stuck with a charter of three unlikable men (a desperate priest, a self-promoting doctor, and a spoiled brat forced to go by his parents) for a quest to find the Garden of Eden in Tasmania. Various fascinating and comical lives are intertwined together in this part tragic, part hysterical novel. The life of “Peevay,” a half-English, half-Aborigine boy is one of the most fascinating of the book. The way the author can explore so many different cultures and make you feel so deeply engrossed with each one, really deserves kudos, especially his focus on Manx and native Tasmanian cultures. I could get into all the other artfully dealt with subjects (colonialism, religion, self-promotion, etc.), but … naaah. As for the “historical” part of this fiction novel, I hope Kneale really did his homework on this, because otherwise he’s sure fooled me. Well done. I really enjoyed it and look forward to the next one I read.
Tuesday, March 04, 2003
The Method Behind the Magic: the Death of Mr. Rogers
Read Mr. Cheek’s commentary on Mr. Rogers here.
Okay, things that don't have to do with yawn-inspiring business or anything remotely-related to Iraq doesn't get to me too quickly here in Bangkok, but I have finally found out about the death of Mr. Rogers. How very sad. It's one of those moments where death's icy realization washes over you. “He will never be here again. No children alive now will be able to see him, experience him. I just kind of assumed he’d always be around.” Okay yeah, luckily there are 30 years of reruns, but I guess it’s just not the same.
The sad thing about Mr. Rogers is that he’s a magical, warm, and fascinating man when you are in diapers. As soon as you “grow out of” him, which doesn’t take long, he becomes the subject of playground ridicule. Young kids mimic, “Won’t you be my neighbor?’ and the taking on and off of various articles of clothing. I feel ashamed to admit that he goes from demigod, to a joke in just a few short years.
Years later in high school, I took a class in Psychology. I was fascinated with the subject and I was fascinated with the teacher (a Zen-like man who taught four days a week and then actually flew to Columbia University once a week, EVERY week, to work on his PhD in Psychology). He asked us to watch an episode of Mr. Rogers Neighborhood. I taped it and watched it. So, a few days later when he asked who had done the assignment, I raised my hand. He immediately called on me and began what was a fantastically frightening and exhilarating hour of focus on me (in high school, it always feels awkward to have so much attention placed on you). Really, he was just using me as a source to bounce off of, and throughout the hour, he slowly deconstructed each segment of the Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood hour. He revealed how every layer was backed by careful childhood development research, and Mr. Rogers’ own two PhD’s in the area (is this true?? I looked for proof on the website but couldn’t find it). Every movement had a purpose, every phrase had a goal. All was geared toward the child, his/her individuality, development, and self-worth.
WOW!
It was an amazing day in my life. Suddenly, I had rediscovered the (Method to the) Magic behind Mr. Rogers. He was a genius! He was loving! He was thoughtful! He knew what the fuck he was doing! I felt shame for all the years I had laughed at his old-fashioned and “dorky” ways. I even had a very un-high school-like thought of looking forward to a day when maybe my own children could watch Mr. Rogers (and I could watch it with him/her, caressing my little secret of what was really going on). Now, I’ll have to be happy with three decades of reruns. Thank god for television. Thank god for Mr. Rogers.
Okay, things that don't have to do with yawn-inspiring business or anything remotely-related to Iraq doesn't get to me too quickly here in Bangkok, but I have finally found out about the death of Mr. Rogers. How very sad. It's one of those moments where death's icy realization washes over you. “He will never be here again. No children alive now will be able to see him, experience him. I just kind of assumed he’d always be around.” Okay yeah, luckily there are 30 years of reruns, but I guess it’s just not the same.
The sad thing about Mr. Rogers is that he’s a magical, warm, and fascinating man when you are in diapers. As soon as you “grow out of” him, which doesn’t take long, he becomes the subject of playground ridicule. Young kids mimic, “Won’t you be my neighbor?’ and the taking on and off of various articles of clothing. I feel ashamed to admit that he goes from demigod, to a joke in just a few short years.
Years later in high school, I took a class in Psychology. I was fascinated with the subject and I was fascinated with the teacher (a Zen-like man who taught four days a week and then actually flew to Columbia University once a week, EVERY week, to work on his PhD in Psychology). He asked us to watch an episode of Mr. Rogers Neighborhood. I taped it and watched it. So, a few days later when he asked who had done the assignment, I raised my hand. He immediately called on me and began what was a fantastically frightening and exhilarating hour of focus on me (in high school, it always feels awkward to have so much attention placed on you). Really, he was just using me as a source to bounce off of, and throughout the hour, he slowly deconstructed each segment of the Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood hour. He revealed how every layer was backed by careful childhood development research, and Mr. Rogers’ own two PhD’s in the area (is this true?? I looked for proof on the website but couldn’t find it). Every movement had a purpose, every phrase had a goal. All was geared toward the child, his/her individuality, development, and self-worth.
WOW!
It was an amazing day in my life. Suddenly, I had rediscovered the (Method to the) Magic behind Mr. Rogers. He was a genius! He was loving! He was thoughtful! He knew what the fuck he was doing! I felt shame for all the years I had laughed at his old-fashioned and “dorky” ways. I even had a very un-high school-like thought of looking forward to a day when maybe my own children could watch Mr. Rogers (and I could watch it with him/her, caressing my little secret of what was really going on). Now, I’ll have to be happy with three decades of reruns. Thank god for television. Thank god for Mr. Rogers.
I’m back: February’s over! WherethehelldoIgonow? Beer Time. Critique not Books
I know I haven’t written in awhile (déjà vu?), and I’m a little bit inspired simply because today’s date is 3-3-3. I think that’s pretty cool. Anyway, you must understand the month of February in Bangkok. It’s pure evil. Well, if you’re a teacher who works on the Thailand, rather than the international, school, schedule. February has two demons buried in its belly: 1) final exams, for which a Thai 2nd grader shoulders as much pressure as an American first year med school student. And 2) the final end-of-the-year, you-must-be-successful-or-just-go-kill-yourself, the-English-better-sound-clear-and-fluent Performance Extravaganza! *throws confetti* The foreign teachers are totally focused on their upcoming, drawn-out vacation, the Thai teachers are going out of their damn minds trying to get the kids to dance well and review Math all at the same time. The parents are competing with each other over their child’s rank (yes, they are ranked from 1-loser), and the kids, well, they’re just confused.
Yeah, it was a fun month.
Now, I’m free! *dance dance dance* Yeah, scoff at my cutsie astericks, but that’s how I feel! It was a tough month, a tough year, filled with all the laughter and tears of a Lifetime Channel movie. The funny thing is, now that I’m free, I don’t know what the hell to do with myself. I’m sort of stuck in one of those situations where you desperately need to save money, and at the same time you’re like an agitated horse in the gate, waiting for Kentucky Derby to start. I’m in Thailand! There’s dozens of interesting, gorgeous places to go! And I’m surrounded by fantastic places, both near and far. How can I just waste time and my LIFE by not exploring everything like a rapid bloodhound? Or maybe I should use this money to go back to New Zealand and try to find a job there (it’s where I’d really really really like to live next, probably won’t happen though).
Besides spending money, the only other drawback is my solitary status. As I’ve mentioned in the past, I quite enjoy living alone and doing things by myself. Sometimes, I actually turn down invitations to go out, or to a party because I’d rather just stay home and do what I want to do. I hate the thought of being “stuck” somewhere for hours and hours with people who may or may not be interesting. And as you know, when you go out, “beer time” does not equate real, Greenwich time. For instance, when you’re out at a bar, and someone says, “I wanna go home soon,” and you’re already thinking the same thing, your heart soars! You’re probably drunk and tired (and a little bored), or you’re sober and REALLY bored. But of course “soon” in beer time is at LEAST one hour, sometimes two. You just have to sit back. Or the other infamous words, “Just let me finish my drink first.” *wince* I know what this means, the 45 minute, nursed beer.
I’m not trying to say I don’t enjoy going out, I really do! In fact, just recently I went out with some friends and had the most fantastic time. It was one of the few times I found tequila really fun as well. (Unfortunately, not all my friends found tequila to be such a chummy companion by the end of the night). But I guess I hate not being in control of what I can do. I have this good friend who lives way out in the boonies and is hosting a party at his house. 1) The distance = a total loss in power for me. I can’t just leave so easily or “disappear” as friends do at times when you go out and they’re either drunk and wandering or drunk and about to shag someone. 2) There is the very distinct possibility that many people I feel rather awkward around will be there as well. What do I do? Strand myself out in the middle of a rice field with people who make me give that fake, corners-turned-down smile? Or am I a bitch of a friend and make some obvious excuse? Ahhh the boring choices of an obsessive girl.
Well, the great thing about vacation though, is now I can read even more!!! Man, I really love reading. And though I imposed a total moratorium on buying ANY books for the next 8 months, I’ve already broken it and bought THREE yesterday. A book on Phuket. A Milan Kundera novel (love him!). And another by Matthew Kneale who is my new “favorite author RIGHT now!!!!” author. I’d love to write my own critiques about books, but I am not confident that I could possibly add anything worthwhile to the monumental amount of nauseating criticism already out there. Nor do I feel like I have the intellectual lingo to do it right. This is not a statement of insecurity, just of fact. I will be happy to discuss the fantastic, “English Passengers” by Matthew Kneale if anyone likes, or the fantastically tedious “The Map that Changed the World” (why the fuck is this an international bestseller??) with anyone who’d like to. It’s just that if I add something to the world of writing, I want it to be original, in the sense that it’s me, and not another one of them.
Yeah, it was a fun month.
Now, I’m free! *dance dance dance* Yeah, scoff at my cutsie astericks, but that’s how I feel! It was a tough month, a tough year, filled with all the laughter and tears of a Lifetime Channel movie. The funny thing is, now that I’m free, I don’t know what the hell to do with myself. I’m sort of stuck in one of those situations where you desperately need to save money, and at the same time you’re like an agitated horse in the gate, waiting for Kentucky Derby to start. I’m in Thailand! There’s dozens of interesting, gorgeous places to go! And I’m surrounded by fantastic places, both near and far. How can I just waste time and my LIFE by not exploring everything like a rapid bloodhound? Or maybe I should use this money to go back to New Zealand and try to find a job there (it’s where I’d really really really like to live next, probably won’t happen though).
Besides spending money, the only other drawback is my solitary status. As I’ve mentioned in the past, I quite enjoy living alone and doing things by myself. Sometimes, I actually turn down invitations to go out, or to a party because I’d rather just stay home and do what I want to do. I hate the thought of being “stuck” somewhere for hours and hours with people who may or may not be interesting. And as you know, when you go out, “beer time” does not equate real, Greenwich time. For instance, when you’re out at a bar, and someone says, “I wanna go home soon,” and you’re already thinking the same thing, your heart soars! You’re probably drunk and tired (and a little bored), or you’re sober and REALLY bored. But of course “soon” in beer time is at LEAST one hour, sometimes two. You just have to sit back. Or the other infamous words, “Just let me finish my drink first.” *wince* I know what this means, the 45 minute, nursed beer.
I’m not trying to say I don’t enjoy going out, I really do! In fact, just recently I went out with some friends and had the most fantastic time. It was one of the few times I found tequila really fun as well. (Unfortunately, not all my friends found tequila to be such a chummy companion by the end of the night). But I guess I hate not being in control of what I can do. I have this good friend who lives way out in the boonies and is hosting a party at his house. 1) The distance = a total loss in power for me. I can’t just leave so easily or “disappear” as friends do at times when you go out and they’re either drunk and wandering or drunk and about to shag someone. 2) There is the very distinct possibility that many people I feel rather awkward around will be there as well. What do I do? Strand myself out in the middle of a rice field with people who make me give that fake, corners-turned-down smile? Or am I a bitch of a friend and make some obvious excuse? Ahhh the boring choices of an obsessive girl.
Well, the great thing about vacation though, is now I can read even more!!! Man, I really love reading. And though I imposed a total moratorium on buying ANY books for the next 8 months, I’ve already broken it and bought THREE yesterday. A book on Phuket. A Milan Kundera novel (love him!). And another by Matthew Kneale who is my new “favorite author RIGHT now!!!!” author. I’d love to write my own critiques about books, but I am not confident that I could possibly add anything worthwhile to the monumental amount of nauseating criticism already out there. Nor do I feel like I have the intellectual lingo to do it right. This is not a statement of insecurity, just of fact. I will be happy to discuss the fantastic, “English Passengers” by Matthew Kneale if anyone likes, or the fantastically tedious “The Map that Changed the World” (why the fuck is this an international bestseller??) with anyone who’d like to. It’s just that if I add something to the world of writing, I want it to be original, in the sense that it’s me, and not another one of them.
Thursday, January 16, 2003
Return of the Psycho Ex-Pats (*snore*)
Despite my many attempts to ignore, tolerate, or work around “Mafia Boss,” he still keeps coming back. Like 99.9% of expats in Bangkok, I work as a teacher. I enjoy this most of the time, despite difficulties such as cultural conflicts, miscommunication, unreliable or insane employees, or nitpicking parents. But by far, the biggest pain in my lovely ass is the Mafia Boss. He goes by many names, not all given by me, but I have yet to hear one that is particularly flattering. He’s surely one of a kind though. For someone who works in a school, he has an amazing knack for making people feel like they’re “in the Cold War,” “working in a cutthroat business, not a school,” "working for a tyrant," or "like being with a tempermental 6 year old."
This man’s for real. I was thinking of writing one of my usual blogs about him. There’s enough information to go on and on, but now that I’m writing, something I normally love to do, I find myself getting tired just by the thought of discussing him again. Anytime I try to describe him, my lips spill out unbelievable hyperboles which I’m sure only takes away from my validity. No one is this bad. No one is “out to destroy you.” “Dynasty” was a soap opera, not a reality-based tv show. But oh baby, people like this DO exist. They are dangerous (though they achieve much more in the area of drama than they do in pure results). They care more about their own image and recognition than they do for the welfare of their employees and the children they teach. It’s all about image and power. This is what’s so depressing. I spend SO much time trying to improve the school I’m a part of, which is often an uphill battle as it is, that trying to fight some slob who wants to be king of the world, and sees you as an obstacle in his way, is absolutely exhausting. How to get rid of someone who the school keeps because he is loyal (though they admit, flawed), but who causes pain, anger, and chaos around him?
Okay, now I’ve already written more than I thought I would (it helps to be watching “The West Wing” on the side and coming back to this on commercials).
In other news, the cool season is here finally *HOORAY* I went swimming and it felt really good. A charming ex-boyfriend is in town (and brought a nice pair of shoes!), and I have fantastic teachers working for me in our school. Now, if we can make it to the end of the school term alive and intact (end of February), then maybe, JUST maybe, there really is a god.
But probably not.
This man’s for real. I was thinking of writing one of my usual blogs about him. There’s enough information to go on and on, but now that I’m writing, something I normally love to do, I find myself getting tired just by the thought of discussing him again. Anytime I try to describe him, my lips spill out unbelievable hyperboles which I’m sure only takes away from my validity. No one is this bad. No one is “out to destroy you.” “Dynasty” was a soap opera, not a reality-based tv show. But oh baby, people like this DO exist. They are dangerous (though they achieve much more in the area of drama than they do in pure results). They care more about their own image and recognition than they do for the welfare of their employees and the children they teach. It’s all about image and power. This is what’s so depressing. I spend SO much time trying to improve the school I’m a part of, which is often an uphill battle as it is, that trying to fight some slob who wants to be king of the world, and sees you as an obstacle in his way, is absolutely exhausting. How to get rid of someone who the school keeps because he is loyal (though they admit, flawed), but who causes pain, anger, and chaos around him?
Okay, now I’ve already written more than I thought I would (it helps to be watching “The West Wing” on the side and coming back to this on commercials).
In other news, the cool season is here finally *HOORAY* I went swimming and it felt really good. A charming ex-boyfriend is in town (and brought a nice pair of shoes!), and I have fantastic teachers working for me in our school. Now, if we can make it to the end of the school term alive and intact (end of February), then maybe, JUST maybe, there really is a god.
But probably not.
Saturday, December 28, 2002
It’s a Bug’s Life
Well, since I am supposed to be writing about life in Bangkok, I’ll write about something small, literally. Bugs. Bugs in Bangkok far exceed anything I experienced in the U.S, with the exception of perhaps the black widows that fascinated me in the desert. Here the bugs are many, they’re ugly, dirty, and they are sometimes sizeable for a saddle. Yeah, I guess that describes most bugs. Anyway, here’s the chain of bugs in my life….
Fucking Mosquitoes
It’s not big shock that mosquitoes are alive and well here in Thailand. Even in a big city like Bangkok they thrive as squirrels and sparrows thrive in the Midwest U.S. And for some reason that is still unclear to me, they LOVE me! I have scars all up and down my legs to prove it, and have NEVER gone without at least 2-3 bites on my body at all times (often much more). There was a time when I was bitten every single day. Due to some measures by me, that has lessened (like making my house a fortress rivaling Fort Knox). Within my first 4-5 months in Thailand I caught Dengue Fever. Talk about knocking the fuck right out of you. Pretty painful stuff, and the hospital, though fine in terms of service, was fairly uncomfortable as I slept on what felt like a stone slab in the Arctic.
The worst is when I’m standing in a room full of Thais, or eating dinner with many friends, and suddenly, I begin to get bit. NO ONE ELSE will get bit! Not a nibble, not a scratch, not a nothing! ONLY me. Is there something about A- blood that female mosquitoes are madly attracted to? I don’t know, but it’s something that puts me into a rage just thinking about it. The other annoying thing is that I appear to be mildly allergic to them. They burn like a match on my skin. So of course, I scratch them like mad. Lovely.
If there is ONE mosquito in my house, I’m dead. I’ll be bit 4-5 times before I kill it (I can now quite accurately kill mosquitoes in midair by clapping them between my hands and smashing their bodies into my palm), or by patiently waiting for it to simply die. Every single night, I sleep with a mosquito “coil” in my room (an electric version). If I don’t, I’ll be bit by morning.
The Sensitive Ant
When I first arrived in Thailand, the arrival of the teeny tiny ant was troubling. They were amazingly organized and could appear by the thousands in just minutes. And they were so damn hard to get rid of. I felt like I was holding My Lai massacres in my kitchen daily. The problem was that unless I ate on top of a mountain, surrounded by a large ocean, there as no way to prevent the onslaught of ants. All it took was a single crumb. One crumb to fall from a cookie, cracker or piece of toast. God forbid anything with sugar in it. Immediately, as if the impact of the crumb onto the counter created a 8.0 Richter Scale earthquake in the anthill (somewhere behind the walls of my apartment), ants came massing out and surrounded the crumb until it disappeared. As long as they were out, they might as well look for something else edible, which then prompted me to make a mad dash to clear every possible, tempting thing. I have never been particularly a neat person, but I’ve always been pretty good about not leaving food around (it’s books, papers, and clothes that cover my floors). The ants were a menace. They came out in such force and I soon learned that killing them left a near noxious odor. It reminded me of the “stink bugs” I’d kill as a child which rivaled a skunk in funk. Then suddenly, the ants just disappeared. They stopped coming. I could leave a fruit pie in the middle of the carpet and one won’t show. Go figure.
Enter the Termite
If I was still in the U.S,, my house (apartment) would have been condemned a LONG time ago with one of those house-sized pieces of saran wrap surrounding it. Instead, I have lost a foot high stack of books and teaching materials, have had to have an exodus of all canned food and glassware from the cupboards, and once in awhile give a karate kick to a particular beam to watch it splinter and fall (it makes me feel powerful). I’ve been wondering if the disappearance of the ants has anything to do with the termites. Do they EAT ants? No… do they have wars with ants as ants have with themselves? *shrug* Anyway, termites TOTALLY suck. IT’s amazing what they eat, or at least try to. They leave this awful strange substance behind which to me looks like thrown up wood. They even made an attempt to eat through a can of tomato sauce, leaving their spew on it the now label-free surface. The strange wooden network they left of my foot-high stack of books was both fascinating and revolting. And guess what? Termites bite! I have been bitten twice by them! It hurts, but leaves no real damage.
The Dumbass Weevil
Weevils. FUCKING weevils. Do you know what these things are? They insane, grain-eating bugs that can swim about as well as lemmings. They look like small, black rhinoceroses. They go for all my rice and pasta. Once a bag of pasta is open, I have to hermetically seal the thing to prevent a weevil invasion. Usually, all my efforts are in vain. Even with various clips, they meander inside. Once I forgot about a half bag of pasta in the back of a cupboard. OH. MY. GOD. They had turned it into this dark green mass of mush. I almost puked my guts out.
The other interesting thing is that they seem to have a thing for suicide missions to my cats’ water bowl. Every day I have to rinse out their bowl because a small group of weevils are found dead in its bottom. Ritual suicide? Like the ants, weevils seem incapable of being stopped.
Don’t let the Bedbugs bite
The last bug on my list is what I’m afraid may be a bedbug, but I can’t seem to prove it. For sometime now, I have been bit at night by some insect. The bite has been so painful, that it wakes me up with a fantastically intense burning sensation (as well as itching). It leaves little red bites behind, a little harder and smaller than a mosquitoes. My mosquito coil seems to be inconsistent in preventing the attack of these things which only go for my hands, usually the right (the only part of my body besides my face that is outside of the blanket). I don’t know what this bug is and it’s driving me crazy!! I have stood the box spring on their ends and scoured the floor. I have vacuumed and sprayed bug spray. I have washed the sheets (in bleach). I have put the mosquito coil as close to my face and hands as possible. I never see anything. According to one website, a bedbug only comes out at night, but seems to be a fairly large, reddish bug. And slow-moving! I have tried a few late night surprise raids where I switch on the light from the darkness trying to find one. Nothing! Is it a bedbug? If not, what? How can I stop it? Argh…bugs! Bugs! Bugs! I’d much rather have one of those spiders-as-big-as-your-first climbing around my walls then these night vampires. If you have any idea of what my night visitor is, please let me know.
Fucking Mosquitoes
It’s not big shock that mosquitoes are alive and well here in Thailand. Even in a big city like Bangkok they thrive as squirrels and sparrows thrive in the Midwest U.S. And for some reason that is still unclear to me, they LOVE me! I have scars all up and down my legs to prove it, and have NEVER gone without at least 2-3 bites on my body at all times (often much more). There was a time when I was bitten every single day. Due to some measures by me, that has lessened (like making my house a fortress rivaling Fort Knox). Within my first 4-5 months in Thailand I caught Dengue Fever. Talk about knocking the fuck right out of you. Pretty painful stuff, and the hospital, though fine in terms of service, was fairly uncomfortable as I slept on what felt like a stone slab in the Arctic.
The worst is when I’m standing in a room full of Thais, or eating dinner with many friends, and suddenly, I begin to get bit. NO ONE ELSE will get bit! Not a nibble, not a scratch, not a nothing! ONLY me. Is there something about A- blood that female mosquitoes are madly attracted to? I don’t know, but it’s something that puts me into a rage just thinking about it. The other annoying thing is that I appear to be mildly allergic to them. They burn like a match on my skin. So of course, I scratch them like mad. Lovely.
If there is ONE mosquito in my house, I’m dead. I’ll be bit 4-5 times before I kill it (I can now quite accurately kill mosquitoes in midair by clapping them between my hands and smashing their bodies into my palm), or by patiently waiting for it to simply die. Every single night, I sleep with a mosquito “coil” in my room (an electric version). If I don’t, I’ll be bit by morning.
The Sensitive Ant
When I first arrived in Thailand, the arrival of the teeny tiny ant was troubling. They were amazingly organized and could appear by the thousands in just minutes. And they were so damn hard to get rid of. I felt like I was holding My Lai massacres in my kitchen daily. The problem was that unless I ate on top of a mountain, surrounded by a large ocean, there as no way to prevent the onslaught of ants. All it took was a single crumb. One crumb to fall from a cookie, cracker or piece of toast. God forbid anything with sugar in it. Immediately, as if the impact of the crumb onto the counter created a 8.0 Richter Scale earthquake in the anthill (somewhere behind the walls of my apartment), ants came massing out and surrounded the crumb until it disappeared. As long as they were out, they might as well look for something else edible, which then prompted me to make a mad dash to clear every possible, tempting thing. I have never been particularly a neat person, but I’ve always been pretty good about not leaving food around (it’s books, papers, and clothes that cover my floors). The ants were a menace. They came out in such force and I soon learned that killing them left a near noxious odor. It reminded me of the “stink bugs” I’d kill as a child which rivaled a skunk in funk. Then suddenly, the ants just disappeared. They stopped coming. I could leave a fruit pie in the middle of the carpet and one won’t show. Go figure.
Enter the Termite
If I was still in the U.S,, my house (apartment) would have been condemned a LONG time ago with one of those house-sized pieces of saran wrap surrounding it. Instead, I have lost a foot high stack of books and teaching materials, have had to have an exodus of all canned food and glassware from the cupboards, and once in awhile give a karate kick to a particular beam to watch it splinter and fall (it makes me feel powerful). I’ve been wondering if the disappearance of the ants has anything to do with the termites. Do they EAT ants? No… do they have wars with ants as ants have with themselves? *shrug* Anyway, termites TOTALLY suck. IT’s amazing what they eat, or at least try to. They leave this awful strange substance behind which to me looks like thrown up wood. They even made an attempt to eat through a can of tomato sauce, leaving their spew on it the now label-free surface. The strange wooden network they left of my foot-high stack of books was both fascinating and revolting. And guess what? Termites bite! I have been bitten twice by them! It hurts, but leaves no real damage.
The Dumbass Weevil
Weevils. FUCKING weevils. Do you know what these things are? They insane, grain-eating bugs that can swim about as well as lemmings. They look like small, black rhinoceroses. They go for all my rice and pasta. Once a bag of pasta is open, I have to hermetically seal the thing to prevent a weevil invasion. Usually, all my efforts are in vain. Even with various clips, they meander inside. Once I forgot about a half bag of pasta in the back of a cupboard. OH. MY. GOD. They had turned it into this dark green mass of mush. I almost puked my guts out.
The other interesting thing is that they seem to have a thing for suicide missions to my cats’ water bowl. Every day I have to rinse out their bowl because a small group of weevils are found dead in its bottom. Ritual suicide? Like the ants, weevils seem incapable of being stopped.
Don’t let the Bedbugs bite
The last bug on my list is what I’m afraid may be a bedbug, but I can’t seem to prove it. For sometime now, I have been bit at night by some insect. The bite has been so painful, that it wakes me up with a fantastically intense burning sensation (as well as itching). It leaves little red bites behind, a little harder and smaller than a mosquitoes. My mosquito coil seems to be inconsistent in preventing the attack of these things which only go for my hands, usually the right (the only part of my body besides my face that is outside of the blanket). I don’t know what this bug is and it’s driving me crazy!! I have stood the box spring on their ends and scoured the floor. I have vacuumed and sprayed bug spray. I have washed the sheets (in bleach). I have put the mosquito coil as close to my face and hands as possible. I never see anything. According to one website, a bedbug only comes out at night, but seems to be a fairly large, reddish bug. And slow-moving! I have tried a few late night surprise raids where I switch on the light from the darkness trying to find one. Nothing! Is it a bedbug? If not, what? How can I stop it? Argh…bugs! Bugs! Bugs! I’d much rather have one of those spiders-as-big-as-your-first climbing around my walls then these night vampires. If you have any idea of what my night visitor is, please let me know.
Wednesday, December 04, 2002
Turning 30
In about six weeks I will be thirty years old. Supposedly, this is a major turning
point in one’s life. As for me, it is and it isn’t. Just acknowledging it is giving it importance, I know. Well, so?
I’m not afraid, worried, or alarmed. I kind of welcome thirty. For one, I feel smarter, stronger, more attractive (though a bit too fat recently), calmer, and more independent than ever before. I’ve always really liked the 30’s decade. I’ve always thought women were at their most beautiful in their 30’s. I’ve also admired how you are still young, but have taken all those lessons learned from your twenties and can put them to good use.
I’ve seen my face changing lately – in a way that I like. Unfortunately, I’ve put on about 5-10lbs in the past few months, a mixture of illness and laziness being the culprit. But I have liked the changes in my face. I have wrinkles around my eyes – those laughing lines or crow’s feet (the former sounding quite a bit kinder, in my opinion). Those are okay. I have watched my face take on more angles and shapes. My cheeks and nose seem a bit pointier, and my eyes are different, though I’m not sure why. I’ve even seen a bit more definition in my chinline, which is fine with me considering my normally soft profile. And as I said, since I’ve packed on a little lately, it’s not due to losing weight. I like it. It makes me look older, and a bit more dignified and less goofy. It’s not like I had plastic surgery, and I’m sure anyone who is in my life wouldn’t notice much of a change, but I do, and I’m pleased with it. Unfortunately, I recently went off the pill for the first time in about 10 years and it brought back my oily skin and acne in an aggressive rush. Before that, I had finally achieved, with the combined help of a high level of estrogen and the tropical climate, problem-free skin for the first time in my life.
One of the only bad things I can think of regarding turning thirty, is the loss of the allowance to be a fuck up. When you’re in your twenties, you are often referred to as “young” and you are given a LOT of freedom to do whatever the fuck you want. You can try different jobs (including getting fired), enroll and drop out of school (multiple times if need be), take off and travel for awhile, join a Buddhist temple to become a monk, etc. This is all fairly-well tolerated.
What I don’t like is that once you hit 30, society has lost almost all of its patience with your bullshit. Although the recent emergence of the “Bridgets” in the last few years have kicked out a niche for the new brand of 30-somethings. But in reality, once you hit 30, it’s time to cut the fucking shit. You aren’t married? Are you even LOOKING for a mate? And speaking of “mate,” (if you are a woman), “You know, you only have so many years left [to have a baby], you know. You don’t want to wait too long, be too old.” (I personally have heard this statement, almost verbatim, given to me on more than one occasion). It’s time to get hitched, time to put kids on the agenda (not NOW, but very very soon!), it’s time to get a career instead of a job, to stay in ONE place and settle down, to maybe buy a house or a condo, and maybe even buy a (GAGGAGGAG) an SUV.
I think I’d rather slit my wrists.
So, I’m nearly 30, single, in a good job but one I don’t see as a career, staying in a 2-bedroom-on-loan apartment, and living in Thailand, where I have NO intention of settling in. The only bit of responsibility I have is 2 cats. I don’t really have any interest in marriage, and although I’d like children some day, I certainly don’t want any right now. I like going out, being by myself, traveling, buying myself stuff, and sleeping all way too much.
point in one’s life. As for me, it is and it isn’t. Just acknowledging it is giving it importance, I know. Well, so?
I’m not afraid, worried, or alarmed. I kind of welcome thirty. For one, I feel smarter, stronger, more attractive (though a bit too fat recently), calmer, and more independent than ever before. I’ve always really liked the 30’s decade. I’ve always thought women were at their most beautiful in their 30’s. I’ve also admired how you are still young, but have taken all those lessons learned from your twenties and can put them to good use.
I’ve seen my face changing lately – in a way that I like. Unfortunately, I’ve put on about 5-10lbs in the past few months, a mixture of illness and laziness being the culprit. But I have liked the changes in my face. I have wrinkles around my eyes – those laughing lines or crow’s feet (the former sounding quite a bit kinder, in my opinion). Those are okay. I have watched my face take on more angles and shapes. My cheeks and nose seem a bit pointier, and my eyes are different, though I’m not sure why. I’ve even seen a bit more definition in my chinline, which is fine with me considering my normally soft profile. And as I said, since I’ve packed on a little lately, it’s not due to losing weight. I like it. It makes me look older, and a bit more dignified and less goofy. It’s not like I had plastic surgery, and I’m sure anyone who is in my life wouldn’t notice much of a change, but I do, and I’m pleased with it. Unfortunately, I recently went off the pill for the first time in about 10 years and it brought back my oily skin and acne in an aggressive rush. Before that, I had finally achieved, with the combined help of a high level of estrogen and the tropical climate, problem-free skin for the first time in my life.
One of the only bad things I can think of regarding turning thirty, is the loss of the allowance to be a fuck up. When you’re in your twenties, you are often referred to as “young” and you are given a LOT of freedom to do whatever the fuck you want. You can try different jobs (including getting fired), enroll and drop out of school (multiple times if need be), take off and travel for awhile, join a Buddhist temple to become a monk, etc. This is all fairly-well tolerated.
What I don’t like is that once you hit 30, society has lost almost all of its patience with your bullshit. Although the recent emergence of the “Bridgets” in the last few years have kicked out a niche for the new brand of 30-somethings. But in reality, once you hit 30, it’s time to cut the fucking shit. You aren’t married? Are you even LOOKING for a mate? And speaking of “mate,” (if you are a woman), “You know, you only have so many years left [to have a baby], you know. You don’t want to wait too long, be too old.” (I personally have heard this statement, almost verbatim, given to me on more than one occasion). It’s time to get hitched, time to put kids on the agenda (not NOW, but very very soon!), it’s time to get a career instead of a job, to stay in ONE place and settle down, to maybe buy a house or a condo, and maybe even buy a (GAGGAGGAG) an SUV.
I think I’d rather slit my wrists.
So, I’m nearly 30, single, in a good job but one I don’t see as a career, staying in a 2-bedroom-on-loan apartment, and living in Thailand, where I have NO intention of settling in. The only bit of responsibility I have is 2 cats. I don’t really have any interest in marriage, and although I’d like children some day, I certainly don’t want any right now. I like going out, being by myself, traveling, buying myself stuff, and sleeping all way too much.
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