I saw something horrible and strangely touching tonight. If you have ever been to Bangkok, you’ve seen the stray dogs. Although some may disagree, I think it’s one of the biggest, most disgusting problems of Bangkok.
When you first arrive in Bangkok, if you are even the tiniest bit the animal lover, you are appalled and disgusted with blanketing of stray dogs throughout the streets of the city. I can’t even imagine what would happen to one of those PETA people. They must go totally out of their mind, start convulsing and foaming at the mouth. Kind of apt, actually, since a high percentage of these “street dogs” have rabies. I’ve only seen one myself, though apparently you can’t “see” it. The stereotypical foaming at the mouth dog (that I saw so many times in my children’s book on Louis Pasteur as a child), is rather rare.
But, I always did consider myself a lover of animals. It used to be almost more than I could humanely bear as a child to be told again and again “No” to my request for a dog or cat. Almost the moment I could have a pet, I did (the day after I moved into an apartment that could have one – only cats). I still have one of the two kittens I got from the humane society that day. A now, nine year old female cat named after a Milan Kundera character.
Here in Thailand, it is always unbearable at times. Puppies abound, frolicking through the crowded streets, facing speeding cars, indifferent motorcycles, annoyed people, other aggressive dogs, fleas, ticks, rabies, and some other diseases that were totally unknown to me before I arrived here (seeing a dog who has totally lost all of his fur is a pretty dreadful thing). If the dog’s lucky, it will make it a few years without a broken leg, torn-off ear, gauged-out eye, etc. Furthermore, the life of a dog is the canine version of Lord of the Flies. You know that rare occasion when you are in the presence of two dogs fighting? The wild growling and flying fur? It’s quite frightening?
MUAHAHAHA what a joke! That sound is so damn common here, I have literally tuned it out of my hearing capabilities. I have heard what I thought were human screams, and rushed outside only to find street dogs going through their thrice-daily fight for territorial domination. Each pack of dogs owns a very small strip of the street. Anywhere from about 10-200 feet. Several times a day a dog from the adjacent “territory” will wander in (usually purposefully) and a ferocious fight will ensue. The screams, growls, and yelps are surprisingly dramatic and loud. Torn body parts and bloody wounds are often the result.
Yet, a dog here will almost never face starvation. The Thais take “animal loving” to a different plane than that in the U.S. Here, as Buddhists, Thais believe in taking care of living things, of not killing any creature. This means, after every Thai family finishes dinner, they usually dutifully wrap up their rice and spare meat, and place it in front of a group of thankful stray dogs, who wolf it down quickly. The dog may be limping, bleeding, have half its hair gone, but it won’t miss dinner! In fact, the school I work at takes 1-2 enormous plastic garbage pails (the kind you have in your garage or fill up with raked leaves) full of the food children scrape off their trays at lunch, and dump it in a nearby vacation where a large family of dogs feasts. It’s no wonder these dogs multiply like…rabbits.
Sure, most people can see the irony there. Is it better to let stray dogs on the street continue to breed, go through their Lord of the Flies lifestyle, itch, scratch, whimper, etc.? Or is it better to “save” them from such a life (and clear the damn street as well!) by euthanisizing them and creating some damn dog shelters to take care of those who might be adopted? Of course, if I had it my way, it’d be the latter, but that’s because that’s how it’s done in my country. Also, I can’t stand to see these dogs suffer so badly just so they can “live.” Just recently I gave my neighbors (who have, at last count, have 9 dogs) a flea & tic spray since their dogs began to lose their hair.
Well, what I’m getting at is a bit different. That was a big introduction, because I guess it still really bothers me. Plus, I see all these puppies who are so damn cute and sweet grow up to be wild dogs, prowling the street like the Crypts and the Bloods, with an even shorter life expectancy. I want to take them so bad (even the cats, though they have it slightly better), but having no yard, and already two cats inside the house, I can’t. I did get two kittens once and took them home. Two weeks later they were both dead, despite the fact that one was rushed to the hospital and put on oxygen. The vet informed me that they took a sample of 10 stray cats off the street, and 7 out of 10 of them had feline leukemia. The two kittens I took home almost killed my current cat. Though the kittens died, she lived, because she was a healthy adult cat, but she did spend a scary four days in the hospital.
Okay, back to my story (2 pages later). I was in my home tonight, my home with few windows, but two thin front door right on the street. The dogs in my “territory” are very familiar with me and I love them dearly. As I was typing an email for work, I heard a dog yelp. This in itself, like I mentioned, is not rare, but this time…it was different. Sometimes, you just know.
I scrambled to put some pants on, and ran outside. It was dark, but I could still see a dog, one of the puppies, laying on the ground, writhing around wildly and screaming in pain. Ambling slowly away was one of those worker trucks, used to carry low-income workers from job to job. The obvious culprit.
The mother dog, was standing over the little girl puppy. As each of the other street dogs approached, curious or with evil intentions, I do now know. She growled viciously at them, attacking them repeatedly, to keep them away from her baby. I approached slowly, and watched as she cried and cried, desperately licking away all the blood that was pouring out of the puppy’s mouth, as if to stop it. The puppy continued crying and gyrating for another minute before it was still. The mother dog turned to me, knowing I would not hurt her or her baby, and I whispered, “Oh, mama dog.” (That’s my name for her). She turned and took a couple steps up to me, crying and crying, just like any other mother. I stroked her head again and again and told her I was so sorry. She turned back to the baby and continued licking it until the blood stopped flowing from its mouth. Then she went on to try and lap up every drop of blood that surrounded the puppy, splatters from the crushing tires. She couldn’t seem to stop. She seemed to want to resurrect her baby. Who can blame her?
I then marched toward the truck, which had headed toward the river (not far from my place). I found it some distance off, the driver parking it at the end of a long gravel driveway. My hands were on my hips. I was fuming. He yelled out, “What?” in Thai. I didn’t know how to communicate this. I slammed my hands together to try and symbolize his crushing the puppy. I yelled out in Thai, “The puppy! You did it! Your car! It’s dead!” He knew he had hit it (and had not stopped). He yelled out, with little concern, “I didn’t see it!” I stomped off. Hardly much in terms of seeking retribution, but there really isn’t much I can do. The smallest consolation in me is that he knew I was furious at him. I hope I “ripped his face open” (one of the absolute worse things that can happen to a Thai), at least a little bit. In the end, it’s a street dog, no one will really care. They might give an “awww,” but that’s it. This also at some point gets to one of the things I’ve experienced about Thai culture which has really really really bothered me. This lack of taking responsibility for ANYTHING. The fact that the guy said “I didn’t see it,” and therefore in a sense, admitting it, was surprising to me, despite his indifference. So many times, I have watched as people here flat out deny doing something wrong, even if the action was witnessed (sometimes, right in front of me). This is natural in children, but it is one of my greatest pet peeves in my life regarding all human beings (adults) – not taking responsibility for when you cause harm, pain, annoyance, etc.
In the end though, I walk away from this with some warmth inside. Seeing that mother dog try to simultaneously protect and revive her baby was more touching that I can convey. She was able to communicate everything – her desperation, her fear, her grief. I think I saw more humanity tonight in a dog than I have seen in some human beings in my current life. That, is so sad.
Saturday, March 29, 2003
Wednesday, March 19, 2003
Phuket Paradise? Part I: Galloping Heroine Loses It
In Thailand, Phuket is known as the default southern destination. The south is full of dreamy-looking islands and a magnet for those into scuba diving. I, myself am not much of a scuba diver, for two reasons. One, I've never been rich. Scuba diving is like photography, oil painting, snow skiing, etc., where you have to invest quite a bit of money just to be involved. I hate shit like that. One great thing about Thailand is that I've been able to fairly easily afford oil paint here, since it's about 1/5 the price it is back in the U.S. Well, everything is about 1/5 the price it is back home, which is why, maybe one day I will be able to scuba dive. The second reason I don't scuba dive is that I have a suffocation phobia. No kidding. I'm actually beating it, and I think I'm almost over it, but it's taken my whole life. This will show up anywhere on day 2 in Phuket which comes later.
I decided on Phuket for a couple reasons. One, it's kind of like living in NYC and never going to the Empire State Building or living in Paris and never going to Louvre or going to the top of the Eiffel Tower. I've never been much of a beach person, since I find that I get quickly bored sitting on a beach, and I tend to burn...quite painfully....despite lavish applications of SPF 10,000. But, I won't be in Thailand forever, and my mother who is coming several months for now, has refused to go to any island location, preferring the dangerous and exciting-sounding "Burma" as her choice.
When I told my friends I was heading to Phuket, they kind of wrinkled their noses and went, "Eww." Not because Phuket is gross, but like any "native" who lives in Thailand, it's kind of an undesirable place to go. Someone who really knows Thailand doesn't go to Phuket! Phuket, full of white faces, Thai prostitutes, its massive over-development geared toward the dollar-clutching tourist. Those who REALLY know, go to the more remote areas, those with the mosquito net and the fan for lodging, those where there are no white faces (save their own) to be seen, those places that are more "pristine."
Whatever! You know, call me what you will, but I do like things to be a LITTLE bit easy. Fuck, if I'm going to ride a bus for TWELVE hours to get to the damn place, I don't want to be welcomed by a straw hut that is never quite cool enough, except when you're taking your ice-cold shower. I don't want to go to an island where the infrastructure is so thin, that there is nothing I can do with myself except..sit on the damn beach! I want to do stuff! And I need the organization to be set up to allow me to do that. I don't care that that view is not popular, especially with the backpackers. Well, that's FINE, because to me, a backpacker is only a nasty hippie with giant bag strapped to its body. They pinch pennies in such a way, when it comes to accomodation and food, that even Thais go, "Damn, what's wrong with these people?" I met someone once who produced a popular map in Bangkok. He said that it never did sell well on Khao San road (this is the mecca of all backpackers in Bangkok, teeming with them getting drunk and getting their hair braided or made into dreadlocks - ugh!). This mapmaker once said, "I don't get it, they won't spend $2 for my map, but they'll spend sixty fucking dollars for beer." There you go. I don't want to hang out with these people. I'd rather be a snob with my air conditioning (usually only $5-10 more in cost), and go on an organized excursion.
And that's what I did. Hour after I arrived I had already been picked up by a minivan (a really mini van, not one of those fantastically disgusting monsters that lumber all over the roads in American suburbia) and was happily bouncing up and down the hills toward the Phuket Riding Club. When I get to a new tourist destination, there are two things I always want to see more than anything: dolphins or horses. I know, sounds silly, but it's true. I love to ride horses, though I'm not very good at it. And dolphins to me are just a magical, wonderful animal. In New Zealand I "swam with dolphins," in water so cold, that it gave me instant images of the sinking Titanic. Incredible experience.
So, there I was, galloping down the beach like a 19th century European heroine. Hair streaming in the wind, (well, I was wearing a helmet), and my skirt flowing behind me (I was wearing jeans). It was exciting, though frightening. With each step, my tourist bag banged into me with such force, that it distracted me from the romantic imagery floating through my mind. (At this moment I still have two scabs on my hand to show for it). At some point, after a particularly energetic gallop, I looked down and noticed that one section of my touristy-bag was completely unzipped, apparently from the fervor of my horse's run. Whatever had been in there, was now, GONE! *gasp* I frantically started unzipping the other pockets (these tourist bags have 55 zippered pouches each), to see what was missing (#1 in my mind, my money!). Well, no, my money was there, my disposible camera was okay, and even my sunglasses were there.
Phew!
Wait a minute...the two receipts for excursions I had already paid for seemed to be gone. Well, that was not good, but it wasn't a total tragedy. My receipts were only receipts, they still knew I was going. Still, my guide and I retraced ourselves carefully, despite the fact that the tide was now coming in and had advanced quite a bit in the short time we'd gone by. Sadly, no receipts. Ahh well.
An hour or so later, with my first sunburn (arms and face), I was deposited at my bungalow and felt pretty good. I opened my bag to get out my wallet and... you know what comes next. Gone! My wallet had been in that pocket that had emptied itself somewhere on the Phuket beach! *sob* Not only was a bit of money in there, but more importantly, my ATM card (argh) and my driver's license, which believe it or not, was good until the year 2038! Losing one's ATM card is never a warm and fuzzy feeling, not to mention I would spend $40 in phone calls to the US canceling it hours later. I had called back the horse ranch, asking the guide to retrace our steps again, this time looking for my tiny black wallet (my wallets always resemble the kind men stick in their back pockets, not the giant beasts women tend to carry). The young guide said he couldn't find it...damn damn damn.
Is that the end of the story? Well, no. I did have the ATM card for my savings account, so I was not left high and dry. That night, burnt and dejected from the missing wallet, I showered and headed toward a very nice restaurant. I tend to spend money to make myself feel better (big surprise), and a wonderful meal was just what I needed. The restaurant, Sala Bua, was just what I needed. Sitting on the beach, with warm lighting and beautiful wooden furniture, and best of all, fantastic food. The meal was almost perfect until.... *ring ring ring* The horse guide was phoning me. Maybe they found my wallet! I answered the phone and soon realized that no, he had not found my wallet, but he had found a discotheque and was very interested in showing it to me. Oh, just great. Now, my Thai isn't fantastic on my best day, and here in the South, it was even more difficult to understand. Of course, after a long and painful conversation where I must have said, "I don't understand you" in Thai, about 12 times, I got the gist of it all, and kind of panicked. I did NOT want to go out with this guy, but if I was a bitch and spurned him, would I ever get that precious wallet back? Finally, the phone call ended, but that was not the end of it. Again and again my phone flashed "HORSE" (what I had programmed into the phone to identify the horse guide's calls). I answered the phone three more times before I told him (again and again in my unimpressive Thai) that I was NOT alone, I was with a friend, and yes, he was a boy. Finally, HORSE stopped calling...at least until the next day, when he made one last ditch effort at midnight. That time, I didn't answer.
I decided on Phuket for a couple reasons. One, it's kind of like living in NYC and never going to the Empire State Building or living in Paris and never going to Louvre or going to the top of the Eiffel Tower. I've never been much of a beach person, since I find that I get quickly bored sitting on a beach, and I tend to burn...quite painfully....despite lavish applications of SPF 10,000. But, I won't be in Thailand forever, and my mother who is coming several months for now, has refused to go to any island location, preferring the dangerous and exciting-sounding "Burma" as her choice.
When I told my friends I was heading to Phuket, they kind of wrinkled their noses and went, "Eww." Not because Phuket is gross, but like any "native" who lives in Thailand, it's kind of an undesirable place to go. Someone who really knows Thailand doesn't go to Phuket! Phuket, full of white faces, Thai prostitutes, its massive over-development geared toward the dollar-clutching tourist. Those who REALLY know, go to the more remote areas, those with the mosquito net and the fan for lodging, those where there are no white faces (save their own) to be seen, those places that are more "pristine."
Whatever! You know, call me what you will, but I do like things to be a LITTLE bit easy. Fuck, if I'm going to ride a bus for TWELVE hours to get to the damn place, I don't want to be welcomed by a straw hut that is never quite cool enough, except when you're taking your ice-cold shower. I don't want to go to an island where the infrastructure is so thin, that there is nothing I can do with myself except..sit on the damn beach! I want to do stuff! And I need the organization to be set up to allow me to do that. I don't care that that view is not popular, especially with the backpackers. Well, that's FINE, because to me, a backpacker is only a nasty hippie with giant bag strapped to its body. They pinch pennies in such a way, when it comes to accomodation and food, that even Thais go, "Damn, what's wrong with these people?" I met someone once who produced a popular map in Bangkok. He said that it never did sell well on Khao San road (this is the mecca of all backpackers in Bangkok, teeming with them getting drunk and getting their hair braided or made into dreadlocks - ugh!). This mapmaker once said, "I don't get it, they won't spend $2 for my map, but they'll spend sixty fucking dollars for beer." There you go. I don't want to hang out with these people. I'd rather be a snob with my air conditioning (usually only $5-10 more in cost), and go on an organized excursion.
And that's what I did. Hour after I arrived I had already been picked up by a minivan (a really mini van, not one of those fantastically disgusting monsters that lumber all over the roads in American suburbia) and was happily bouncing up and down the hills toward the Phuket Riding Club. When I get to a new tourist destination, there are two things I always want to see more than anything: dolphins or horses. I know, sounds silly, but it's true. I love to ride horses, though I'm not very good at it. And dolphins to me are just a magical, wonderful animal. In New Zealand I "swam with dolphins," in water so cold, that it gave me instant images of the sinking Titanic. Incredible experience.
So, there I was, galloping down the beach like a 19th century European heroine. Hair streaming in the wind, (well, I was wearing a helmet), and my skirt flowing behind me (I was wearing jeans). It was exciting, though frightening. With each step, my tourist bag banged into me with such force, that it distracted me from the romantic imagery floating through my mind. (At this moment I still have two scabs on my hand to show for it). At some point, after a particularly energetic gallop, I looked down and noticed that one section of my touristy-bag was completely unzipped, apparently from the fervor of my horse's run. Whatever had been in there, was now, GONE! *gasp* I frantically started unzipping the other pockets (these tourist bags have 55 zippered pouches each), to see what was missing (#1 in my mind, my money!). Well, no, my money was there, my disposible camera was okay, and even my sunglasses were there.
Phew!
Wait a minute...the two receipts for excursions I had already paid for seemed to be gone. Well, that was not good, but it wasn't a total tragedy. My receipts were only receipts, they still knew I was going. Still, my guide and I retraced ourselves carefully, despite the fact that the tide was now coming in and had advanced quite a bit in the short time we'd gone by. Sadly, no receipts. Ahh well.
An hour or so later, with my first sunburn (arms and face), I was deposited at my bungalow and felt pretty good. I opened my bag to get out my wallet and... you know what comes next. Gone! My wallet had been in that pocket that had emptied itself somewhere on the Phuket beach! *sob* Not only was a bit of money in there, but more importantly, my ATM card (argh) and my driver's license, which believe it or not, was good until the year 2038! Losing one's ATM card is never a warm and fuzzy feeling, not to mention I would spend $40 in phone calls to the US canceling it hours later. I had called back the horse ranch, asking the guide to retrace our steps again, this time looking for my tiny black wallet (my wallets always resemble the kind men stick in their back pockets, not the giant beasts women tend to carry). The young guide said he couldn't find it...damn damn damn.
Is that the end of the story? Well, no. I did have the ATM card for my savings account, so I was not left high and dry. That night, burnt and dejected from the missing wallet, I showered and headed toward a very nice restaurant. I tend to spend money to make myself feel better (big surprise), and a wonderful meal was just what I needed. The restaurant, Sala Bua, was just what I needed. Sitting on the beach, with warm lighting and beautiful wooden furniture, and best of all, fantastic food. The meal was almost perfect until.... *ring ring ring* The horse guide was phoning me. Maybe they found my wallet! I answered the phone and soon realized that no, he had not found my wallet, but he had found a discotheque and was very interested in showing it to me. Oh, just great. Now, my Thai isn't fantastic on my best day, and here in the South, it was even more difficult to understand. Of course, after a long and painful conversation where I must have said, "I don't understand you" in Thai, about 12 times, I got the gist of it all, and kind of panicked. I did NOT want to go out with this guy, but if I was a bitch and spurned him, would I ever get that precious wallet back? Finally, the phone call ended, but that was not the end of it. Again and again my phone flashed "HORSE" (what I had programmed into the phone to identify the horse guide's calls). I answered the phone three more times before I told him (again and again in my unimpressive Thai) that I was NOT alone, I was with a friend, and yes, he was a boy. Finally, HORSE stopped calling...at least until the next day, when he made one last ditch effort at midnight. That time, I didn't answer.
Tuesday, March 18, 2003
Quickie Book Reviews
Just got back from Phuket and it was totally amazing. I'll be writing little quips in the next few days. I had extreme highs and lows during my 4-5 days in the island paradise.
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Mr. Foreigner by Matthew Kneale -- B+
Well, not the masterpiece that I thought English Passengers was, but yet still a very entertaining book. If anyone has lived in Asia for any length of time, you'll see several hilarious parallels to your own life. This is the story of an young Englishman stuck in Japan teaching at a crappy English school and dealing with his confusing Japanese girlfriend and her frightening family. I read the entire book on a single bus trip, to give you an idea of what a quick and easy read this is.
Disobedience by Jane Hamilton -- B+
You can never accuse a Hamilton book of being "light reading," (I almost jumped off a bridge after reading A Map of the World), but this book is probably as close as she can get while still maintaining that dramatic focus on trauma within a family. A teenage boy inadvertently reads his mother's email (that fact is still hard for me to swallow), and discovers she's begun an affair with an immigrant violin maker. The book traces the boy's life as he traces his mother's affair through her emails to the lover and her best friend. The book is quite good, on the verge of being extra special, but never quite getting there. Lots of questions about family and how we feel about them (particularly a son's love for his mother), are touched on. The characters in the book are interesting, to say the least, including a younger sister obsessed with Civil War reenactments. Recommended.
-------------------------------
Mr. Foreigner by Matthew Kneale -- B+
Well, not the masterpiece that I thought English Passengers was, but yet still a very entertaining book. If anyone has lived in Asia for any length of time, you'll see several hilarious parallels to your own life. This is the story of an young Englishman stuck in Japan teaching at a crappy English school and dealing with his confusing Japanese girlfriend and her frightening family. I read the entire book on a single bus trip, to give you an idea of what a quick and easy read this is.
Disobedience by Jane Hamilton -- B+
You can never accuse a Hamilton book of being "light reading," (I almost jumped off a bridge after reading A Map of the World), but this book is probably as close as she can get while still maintaining that dramatic focus on trauma within a family. A teenage boy inadvertently reads his mother's email (that fact is still hard for me to swallow), and discovers she's begun an affair with an immigrant violin maker. The book traces the boy's life as he traces his mother's affair through her emails to the lover and her best friend. The book is quite good, on the verge of being extra special, but never quite getting there. Lots of questions about family and how we feel about them (particularly a son's love for his mother), are touched on. The characters in the book are interesting, to say the least, including a younger sister obsessed with Civil War reenactments. Recommended.
Monday, March 10, 2003
Damn it, Keats
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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.
---------------------------------
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
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.
---------------------------------
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
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.
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