Ghosts

A haunting of memories, vivid images that stay ingrained. The eyes preserve the fleeting. Forever am I tormented by the images I fail to capture. I visualize them often and wonder why I didn’t lift up a camera to see with me.

I’m reminded of this at a stoplight, finding a faded blue buick to my right. The driver aged, balding like Magoo, with a pipe between his lips. He makes me smile, and I curse myself for not having my camera as the light changes.

But this pales to comparison to my failures in India. At the time, I was no lover of light, no intruder upon persons asking them to bare whats within them to me. Two years ago, I was fond of things, pretty things, dead things, forgotten things. I remember waiting for people to get out of my frame in India! Absurd of me!  Not that I didn’t want to know them, but I was ill equipped to see, to feel through the eyes, and in my discovery of a stranger would I not have to bare a part of me in turn? Always the silent one in the corner at first, take no notice of me, please pass by and avert the eyes. No see me. The origins of images lost.

I think of the woman of Amritsar, infant so still upon thinning threads. She haunts me, and I wish I could show her to others. Those dark coal eyes, hallowed face, frail frame, bones dressed in unclean skin. Yes, she is an image that makes the spine quiver, nerve trauma to the senses. Even the hair on arms will rise up to take view. But she is in my mind, no more can she speak to others than she literally did to me.

But before her were so many others. On the bumpy ride to the border, we’d passed miles of open land, scattered trees, and Tata trucks. In a brief fifteen seconds, the taxi drove past several Indian men to the side of the road. Shirtless and covered in mud, they all grasped onto the same shovel, swaying in seesaw motion trying to dig into the water saturated earth. I wanted to to scream stop in Hindi and dart across traffic just to stoop low and snap a photograph of these men muddied, sweating, laboring with one shovel, all their hands united in the same momentary plight in the middle of nowhere in India. I found that moment so filled of life, struggle, beauty, dirty yet pure.

Never did I capture Meena scrubbing tin plates. Children, bare bottomed, squatting on a ledge twenty feet above a stream to relieve themselves. The same waters I surely thought were pumped into pails five minutes away. The Tibetan man with gentle eyes I chatted with twice. An elephant, painted with red markings, walking down the Mcleodganj driving path with its stingy owner, palm out, demanding rupees for a picture. All the vibrant saris, dupattas in the wind. Each free moment should have been spent with my camera in hand. I failed then, and I knew. Pretty pictures hallow of meaning. Never do I want a pleasant image again, a postcard of the future in my lens’ eye. What I desire is pungent, a jostle, a trauma to the senses, whether it result in elation, distress, fear, tears, laughter, I want the product to arise from the deep of being, to connect viewer to a world of raw feeling, not just a flattened dimensional perception of the world.

I’m getting there…so long is this journey, patience for a moment constantly a struggle to obtain. The imaginary walls, deterrents that kept me in my place of comfort for so long are cracking. Let it be breached so that I can become the seeker of life I know to be in me.

Opposition to Prop 8

I almost stayed home. At my computer, editing away, I had already grown tired. Up early, two shoots complete, I just wanted to relax until Klash that evening. But something in me wrenched. Get up. Go. Take the camera. And I fought it with poor excuse. Then the mind turns on me with such scathing words to the self. Fake! Words and no action! What are your reasons? A quick look at the clock, fifteen minutes until gathering at Liberty Square, I grab my camera naked without its bag, and hop into the car to drive Downtown.

How glad I am for my blunt truthed mind. To be a part of a day, of a march, of a moment with those strangers who were really just my close friends in guise. Even without introduction, is each not still my brother, my sister, my friend, a reflection of me? And how potent it was.

“Gay, straight, black or white, we deserve equal rights…” and we march. Signs held high, a Southern born snake flag that boasts Don’t Tread on Me. We march. Young, experienced, white, black, male, female, straight, gay. This is my brother. This is my sister. This is my friend. This is my lover. In their eyes I see ALL. How can I not but love?

And we march. Horns honking in agreement. Slurs declaring us godless people. Some get out of passenger seats and join us. These are the voices of the unrested, of the diligent, of the hopeful. Open your eyes and ears. Hear our words. Extend an empathetical thought to try and understand. It’s quite simple. One sign said it all…The Gay Agenda: 1. Equality 2. See item one.

This is America rising. Rise up before it’s too late.

Persepolis

I first heard this word from a woman in admissions at the Art Institute, who in her earnest speech to convince me to attend, diverted to more interesting topics. In my last meeting with her, we spoke of art, religion, travel, and Persepolis.

Again, I was reacquainted with this when a friend informed me he was in process of reading it. So, finally, Friday night I found myself succumbing to a Starbucks craving, and while walking around I stumbled upon it, swept it up, and purchased it. But it wouldn’t be until Saturday night with a dead internet that I would turn the first page, and I closed it 2/3 through to finally sleep.

Simplification entails a beauty and genius that is often unnoticed. It is never how long the story can be, but how well it is crafted, whittled down to necessity, an enlivened finesse. Any writer will tell you that a simple sentence can inflict great agony upon the mind and hand. Because nothing should be wasted, no word without purpose. I find that one can tell when a writer has become successful because the books become more obese, the editing hand lax due from a freedom reaped from sales and profit. In my Theories of Religion course, I went through a phase where I thought many articles were unwarranted, and began leaving many out of my essays. One day, I went to my professor’s small office with hovering book cases and stacks of papers to retrieve an essay. He asked what was wrong with me, my writing was leaving out words, it seemed odd to him. I explained I thought some articles were frivolous, but I couldn’t quite win him over. In the end he told me the paper deserved an A-, but at the time, CofC’s grading system hadn’t incorporated a minus system. So he decided to give me a B+ rather than an A. I would have rather he omitted his reasonings for my grade.

In regards to mastering simplicity, Persepolis is a delightful example, but in a method I’m not accustomed to. It is a biography of a woman who grew up in Iran during the Islamic revolution and Iraq war, but her words are accompanied by comic strips. The merging of nonfiction with art is a fine marriage in this case. Only the words needed are provided, and all else is conveyed within the black and white sketches, shades of dichotomy that can prove quite powerful in particular moments. A face half shadowed can be poignant and rattle the nerves.

But, what I adore the most is the woman herself, Marjane. She is blunt, abrupt, careless, intelligent, crass, vulgar, revolutionary, passionate, rebellious, sensual, prude, lost, and found. All within circumstances that many will never know.

It reveals a flip-side perspective on various issues. The methodologies and goals of the Islamic regime seemed unsurprisingly similar to Christian extremist in the U.S. And if anyone wants to know why my heart is greatly filled with joy by our nation’s President-elect, it is because it restored my faith in the people of this nation, that they do not desire the road a conservative party has paved for years and with each step, has worked towards stripping citizens of rights. I hope in my lifetime I do not find myself living to see a Christian regime usurp the government and people’s rights like the theocracy Marjane witnessed and lived with.

And Marjane is critical of it all. When asked why she doesn’t like wearing a headscarf, she replies that if hair was meant to stir such passion within men, that Allah would have surely made everyone bald. The wit and insightful rejoinder made me burst in laughter, practically applauding while covered in my sheets.

But I also recommend this book because it does give a perspective of Westerners that needs to be seen. In Persepolis, Westerners are the foreigners, the exotic other, and the actions of these people reveal much about European and U.S. cultures. It deconstructs the sense of familiar one has with his or her own culture to view it as an outsider would.

This novel makes one think…and how a mind deserves to be shaken.

In the Land of Shiva: Part XII

Water is life, life in water can be death. A lesson learned too well in a Himalayan summer.

So naive was I my first time abroad. A suitcase half packed with bare necessities, lacking in resources I was unaware of needing. My first night in Delhi, I learned the importance of water. If only three hours a day was permitted for water use, for showers, flushing toilets, brushing teeth, then it was within reason of preservation, usurp power from greedy water lovers. Never is a fruit so tasteful, refreshing, as a ripe mango so juicy with water from its flesh.

We were told bottled or filtered water only. Take precautions. I heeded this request, but still failed drastically. I brushed my teeth in the tap water, swished it in my mouth without second thoughts. From the beginning I could have started the downfall.

In Dharamsala, the monsoon rains were just beginning. Rainfall that would consume morning hours, flooding foot paths, creating rivers that weaved their way through around homes and rocks, rushing to an end I never saw. But with each rain came a deluge, undoubtedly one could have kayaked down the mountains if crafty enough. Sometimes paths would have to be rebuilt, too many rocks caught in the waters, taxis would be unable to drive through, other routes on foot required. And though the rains are needed, welcomed, they spread disease, bacteria, washing away what is unclean to another abode.

With the rainy season was another dilemma, the water source or caretaker of the town water had changed. How so, I’m not sure, but soon even the people of Dharamsala filled health clinics and chemists shops. Sickness was flourishing and it was a matter of time before it struck foreign bellies.

The first day in Dharamsala, the volunteers were divided into groups to race around the town, to see if we could make our way. The two distinguishing elements of this place were the bazaar and the water pump. If you found yourself by either of these two places, you would realize your location and be able to know the route home. The walk to the water pump was about ten minutes, a pebbled path that eventually leads to uneven stone steps and down a small steep hill. There is the life source of the people, a small metal pump, and never did I see it neglected. Whether child, woman, or man, water was being fetched, pumped into buckets before being carried away. And the downhill walk from our flat was so much more vigorous on the path back because in its paradoxical existence turned uphill. I thought of the women, of my several students, each day they walked this path, pumped water and hauled it back to wash cheap tin plates, their clothes, their bodies. How quick I am to forget the easiness of my ventures at home, a several feet walk to a kitchen and faucet with filtered tap water. And even with their friends and family falling ill from the water, it was the only choice, and no one could live without. So even the sick took in the treacherous drink that had turned their insides sour.

In these thoughts, a rush of memories about water fill my mind. Meena squatting on her front step washing plates, smiling up at me. Investigating bottled water seals to see if vendors were attempting to sell us tap water. Jaye over a water filled bucket washing her underwear, crying, her salty tears more sanitary than what came out of the faucets. The murky floods that made the steep steps to our flats into waterfalls. The flushing toilets that my students weren’t fortunate enough to have in their homes like I. Vegetables for our raw salad washed in cold tap water. The lid of our filtered water cannister being rinsed in tap water by a member of the cleaning staff before placing the lid back. I almost wanted to shout at her, fool, what have you done, how it is surely tainted in this heat, you wish the sickness upon us all! But mostly, I remember the bucket showers.

This element of life for me seemed so gruesome to many of my friends. A bucket filled of water to wash with. Never did it go to waste. A scooper as an assistant, slowly pouring water over limbs, naked in a pink tiled bathroom and black painted cement floor. Closing eyes, holding breath, when pouring water over my face, slowly, no water to waste. How quick the soap would begin to dry on the skin, how the feet, the toes never seemed to get clean. Water collecting, sitting beneath the feet, arousing what had gone unseen on the floor now lifted and drowning. Yes, the feet never got clean. Dirty when cleaned. What was left went down the floor drain, how wasteful, careless estimate of the amount needed. Then a rubber bladed sweeper to drag across the floor, pool the water towards the drain, and watch it leave. My flatmate, Jaye, in attempts to make the bucket shower a more glamorous experience said one day that it could, in an odd way, be like an Herbal Essence commercial sans the orgasmic sounds. Who knew a bucket shower could be so sexy.

Between bucket showers and monsoon rains, water made itself present and known. It giveth and taketh, indeed. One afternoon, several of us returned from McLeodganj, and at the taxi stand, the deluge poured from the sky. Figuring it would pass in ten minutes, we waited in a small shop with a hodgepodge of goods from U.S. soda in small glass bottles, Western looking baby dolls, chips and sweets. But we were also stuck inside with several men. Who knew such a small place could feel all the more small and awkward. We would have been fine had the staring ceased. But Jaye and Hailey are blond and blue eyed, so exotic in this land, the men can never help but stare. And with several pairs of dark colored eyes fixated on us, the uneasiness mounted. We knew little Hindi, and with stalker eyed men speaking low in a tongue we can’t decipher, it is easy to go from mild discomfort to threatened. After fifteen minutes, the rains had yet to cease.

Finally, Hailey and another couldn’t stand it, purchased an umbrella and took off in the rain towards our flat. The waters were heavy, gaining power. It wasn’t more than ten more minutes that Jaye and I decided to follow. Monsoon rains brought more comfort than staring eyes, and with the ratio of men per women increased, we preferred the horrendous weather. I soon questioned that logic not even twenty feet from the shop door. Jaye and I under a small black umbrella, walking slow, with a massive downpour and winds.

The power of the summer rains is difficult to explain. Trees are forced almost sideways, ready to break at the hip. People stay indoors until the weather’s rage has subdued, but not us, not these stupid foreign girls. Water is rushing, quick and forceful, racing down step paths, flooding basins left out to collect this precious gift from the gods. It’s up to mid shin, and I’m beginning to think how easy with one swift torrent for Jaye or me to be swept back, falling backwards into the waters and finding it difficult not to wash away. This became a real concern at one impasse, the path forked, but the connector was eroded down, thin and weak from all the storms. If either of us slipped, we would be carried down stone steps for at least fifteen feet, likely not stopping until colliding with the wall of a house. We debated crossing. Hoping the rains would lessen. But the sky said otherwise and we knew.

We decided slow steps, firm, put weight into each step. And as we began to walk, I looked down to notice a shiny silver ring in the waters, unmoved thanks to larger rocks around it. I’m not sure why it caught my eye, but when I noticed it, I thought it strangely looked like the ring Hailey had purchased just an hour ago at the McLeodganj bazaar. I picked it up and began to walk, and as soon as I did, water rushed between my right foot and flip flop and whisked it away. My reaction was to grab it, but I stopped, realizing if I did what would happen. And I watched my black Croc flip flop float upon monsoon waters, zigzagging above the stone steps that led to lower Dharamsala homes and the local bazaar. Those damn waters.

Walking with one foot bare upon pebbles, dirt, and rocks, is not pleasant. And each little pang of pain upon my sole made me want to curse the gods, curse Dharamsala, curse each little bastard rock that attempted to impale my naked foot. Not far from the flat, an elevated home had several people sitting on the porch being voyeur to the storm. Even with all the water noise, we could hear them laughing. Of course at us, the stupid Western women taking a stroll in the monsoon. Not just a mild chuckle, but hearty belly laughter, smiles wide, never before had I seen Indians laugh so hard in my time there. Hysterical, yes, one umbrella, a shoeless Western whore, and two women soaked like alley mutts. Quite the live show.

Back at the flat, Hailey was on the porch waiting. I held up my thumb with a silver ring and asked if it belonged to her. Her face was shocked, then turned to elation. It had fallen in the water on the way home; she thought it gone forever. I suppose I exchanged my flip flop for the ring, the water gods couldn’t leave with nothing. Had only I known a replacement sacrifice would be required! But it made her smile, and Hailey smiles like a child opening twenty gifts. Just the odds of finding a lost ring in rushing monsoon rains still shocks me a bit today, what luck, whether good or bad, perhaps neutral.

And this is water in India. It too embraces paradox. Sustains life and takes life or at least brings it to its knees. Such power in an element, and how powerless we become without it or consumed, overtaken by it. Even now I thirst, but what a luxury for me to sit in a bed and just reach over to my side table for my cold bottled water. How I forget about the struggle for so many. I think of my students. If they still walk that path daily to the water pump and back. Burden their arms, hands and backs with the heavy weight of water. So careful in its use so another trip isn’t required. Trusting it without knowing if it will keep them well or give sickness. Yes, water is life, and life within water can be death, or for some, rebirth.

Lovely Surprises

Sometimes it is the smallest, perhaps simplest of effort, gestures that touch me the most. Especially the ones I never see coming.

A friend of mine is on holiday in Egypt (and he had a fortunate prolonged delay in Paris to explore its wondrous beauty). He mentioned sending a postcard, but I never expect people to remember such little things when trekking across the world. My friend Anna sent me postcards from almost every port when she did semester at sea, but the funny part was I only received several in the end. I still have just those few that survived the daunting journey by land, sea or sky to find my mail box. Anyway, I had forgotten all about this with my trip to Houston, getting ready for RAW, and a photography contest, oh and work of course as well since we had auditors the past two weeks (our own corporation auditors, it helps keep their accounting offices on point).

Friday afternoon after sitting in work traffic, I find on my bed a postcard from Egypt, stamp of Cairo and all! He told me in tiny barely legible scribble about his journey to St Catherine Cathedral, to Mt. Sinai. I can’t wait for the intricate details left out of the summation written when he returns. The front of the postcard is of an icon, “Ladder to Heaven.” Dozens of people (all men of course) are walking the rungs of the ladder to heaven, at the top is Jesus, palm out, waiting to welcome his followers, another outstretched hand by a less defined male figure. At the top left are angels dressed in pallid blue robes looking down upon the humans. But what amused me most, enticed the eyes, was not everyone made it to the top. Several men are falling, being plucked like rotten cores by dark figures with wings, demons perhaps, militant angels. Roping them like bulls for kill, and dragging them off the rungs. Stunning. And more so that no untouched man was trying to help, to grab an ankle, a robe, trying to save their fallen brothers. All eyes upon above, the brightened light, on the savior’s haloed presence. Then turning the postcard over, the first thing I notice in medium sized, bold lettering, “Best Wishes.” Oh, I laughed. A perfect choice, splendid gift.

Then this morning, I awake, grab my laptop from beside my bed. Skim news, Facebook updates (but no one really is awake yet, sleeping, hungover, all to be expected), read several blogs of friends, which leads me to a link to an upcoming show. And I search for her. Wondering what has become of her, this unnamed woman on canvas. He never told me her name, but surely, now she must have one. I click on that face I know so well, seeing what she has been christened, and I am utterly surprised. I didn’t know. He never said. I never asked again either. And I don’t think I believed it for several moments. I wonder what compelled him. But nonetheless, I was greatly moved, touched. She is so beautiful to me, the woman on canvas, I hope whoever is fortunate enough to have her will cherish her the way I did in seeing her path to existence. Priscilla Cuts Ties…and those three words strike me to the core more than anyone could realize. And I’ve been left smiling the rest of the day.

Thank you.