One Day More

Traveling.
Again.

Today is our last day in this country, and although I KNOW it's our last day I haven't really FELT it. I would have thought it would be a more emotional experience. I'm going to college, I'm an adult now, I'm going to have to get used to crazy Americans and figure out what being a TCK really means. I'm leaving good food, good friends, unique experiences, hard-core reality.
Kind of reminds me of Brave New World, really. I'm like the Savage, and I have no idea what I'm about to get into. But I'll figure it out.
I must remember the truth of the mater, that things won't be as different as I feel like they will be. My whole identity isn't changing, just my position. America isn't Mars; people aren't aliens, and I'm not an alien either.
I think tomorrow, when I land in England and see my grandparents for the first time in months and their son for the first time in years, when I give Myth a big hug and spend the night at her house, the reality will finally have sunk in. No more Urdu, no more fleeting, 'deko, Ungrez!" no more cool clothes and amazing Rickshaws and shocking surprises on the road. I'm going to where cows graze in fields of beautiful grass, not where they graze in garbage heaps. I'm going to where there's more pigeons than falcons, where people wear mini-skirts instead of burkas, where I'm no longer considered an unmarried adult but a wayward, rebellious college student.
And then there's the positive elements, like hair down, no head covering, long walks by myself without a care in the world (Seriously, I can't WAIT to be alone outside for once!). I'll be able to be loud and spontaneous and crazy and no one will think I'm insane (well, at least MOST people won't). No one will stare because I'm fifty shades lighter than anyone nearby. But then I'll get stared at because I'll forget that bus no longer means "cut it out" but actually means a large lumbering vehicle of mass transport. I'll forget that eye-contact with men is no longer totally taboo, but actually what is expected of me. I'll forget that people care about completely different things than the people I've been around for the last three years. I'll forget that people will expect me to be an American, even though I no longer think of myself as one. I'm an Ungrez, a foreign English-speaker, no matter where I live.
I'm tired just thinking about it.

Colossians 3:12-17

Happy seventh day!


The Holy Bible by Chr, Wordswo (Google Affiliate Ad)The Holy Bible by Chr, Wordswo (Google Affiliate Ad)

What are You Afraid of?

            “What are you afraid of?”

            I stand close to the abyss, so close that my toes almost touch the emptiness. If I lean too far forward I am sure to disappear forever, yet I cannot move away. My will has left me completely. Why do I tarry?

            “What are you afraid of?”

            Suddenly I do not remember how I got here, although it seems the darkness has been hovering beneath me for a very long time. This is the first time I have seen it, but it’s been there all the same, hiding somewhere beyond the recesses of my sight. No, sight cannot see everything.

            It’s so dark. I have never seen such swallowing emptiness in all my life. It’s so dark that when I glance hurriedly around me at the field of bright flowers and calm, straight fields, all the colors I had adored a few moments before now seem dim and dreamy. It’s like going outside in the warm bright sun and then coming inside again—and one realizes how colorless everything is—

            No, it’s not quite like that. It’s the opposite of that. I try to think but the darkness has scattered my thoughts and I am too petrified to string them together.

            “What are you afraid of?”

            I have flowers in my hand. I had forgotten them so quickly, but realize with a jolt that the little bouquet I had been collecting before the darkness—and eternity ago!—now lay clenched in my fists. I hold them up and slowly let my will pry loose my entangled fingers. My hands seem small before the darkness and the crushed flower pedals seem surreal. They had been alive a few moments before, and beautiful, and unique—sort of like people—

            “What are you afraid of?”

            The wind blows. Some of the pedals drift into its flow and sink slowly into the abyss. Now the once still air, the deathly silence that muted all hope, carries the faint voice of the wind.

            “What are you afraid of?”

            The wind has blown something else away. I slowly step backwards and face the field.

            “I’m not afraid,” something inside me whispers. “Not anymore.”

“If you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.” Frederich Nietzsche

Ode to NT2

Four pages of beautiful, thought-through elaboration on the New Testament. I thoroughly enjoyed writing it. Name: NT2, paper for school.
6 pages of notes for another class. Name: OT2.
OT2 managed to duplicate itself. It asked what I wanted to save it as. I said NT2.
Goodbye, four pages of beautiful, thought-through elaboration on the New Testament. You were replaced by 6 pages of notes for another class.No, you weren't turned in. No, no matter how long I worked on finding you, no matter how long I spent re-writing you, no matter how stupid I find my computer, you're gone. You fell into the deep abyss of my stupidity. Dark place, I know; I've been there myself several times.
I had an online teacher that, whenever he cut out, he'd come back saying, "Oh man, I just said an incredibly brilliant thing that would change your life, but I've forgotten it and you'll never know what it is." that's how I feel about my dear NT2. Even though I struggled with writing it and probably thought it was stupid while I did, now that it's gone it was brilliant and perfect and faultless and better than what I now have written in its stead.
One of my friends writes her assignments  by hand. I think I'll try her approach someday.

I want a goat

Hey, I know, it's been a while. It's May, when teachers suddenly realize they've forgotten to give us half of our schoolwork so they give it to us now. It's also when I realize I haven't done half of my schoolwork for the entire year and get it done...haha.
Recently a friend and I were talking on skype. She had this hilarious conversation with her sister that...was just too cute. I couldn't see what was happening, but this is what I heard.

Sister: "I want a goat."
Friend: "That's not a goat, that's a sheep."
Sister: "I want a sheep."
Friend: "You can't have this sheep."
Sister: "I want a...birdie."
Friend: "I don't have a birdie."
Sister: "But I want one!"
Friend: "Ok, you can have an eraser."

Compromise, all the way.

Heads and Tails

Thomas came into the living room the other day with a terrified expression on his face.

            "Mom," he said in a shaky voice. "I caught a lizard and its tail fell off."

            I wasn't too concerned until I looked up and realized the lizard and its tale were still in his hands. The bodiless tale wagged frantically in one hand and the lizard, its bottom bright red, finally squirmed loose and jumped onto the couch.

            "Thomas,” Mom said in a very disappointed voice. "Get it off the couch, it's still bleeding."

            The lizard dashed away, but its tale still remained in Thomas's hands and still wriggled frantically. Thomas looked on the verge of tears.

            My Dad and I couldn't stop ourselves from giggling, but Mom gave us that—you know—look. "It isn't funny," she said sternly. "Thomas, go put that in the trash and wash your hands."

            Mom wouldn't strike you as the "animal justice" type, but you'd be surprised. She has her moments, and out of everyone in our family she cares the most about animals. Thomas is—well—seven, so he couldn't be gentle to animals even if he wanted to be. I don't like animal cruelty but don't care enough to do anything about it, and frankly I don't think my Dad knows animals exist unless they're going to bite him (or his children). Mom's the only one who isn't too hot on going to bullfights and who won't own a dog because we don't have a yard.

            She hates animals, I'm not saying she doesn't. When we had cats Mom refused to hold them or let them touch her clothes; she even wanted to get rid of one at a certain point because she said our house stank (she has a very sensitive nose. She can tell if the house three lots away is freshly painted. She also says cat houses stink, although for the life of me I can't smell a thing.)

            Yet at night time when the mug-cat from next door comes over and terrorizes my precious kitten, she's the one who dashes outside, frightens it away and then lets the kitten sit on her lap for a while. She does it to calm down his nerves, and it's the only time she does it.

            I love my Mom. People say she's tough and strict, but I don't think so; she often ignores her natural inclination to show mercy and kindness, and I have never met a more longsuffering person.

            I hope eventually I'll inherit that trait.

Lint Lizard Dryer Hose (Google Affiliate Ad)

Communism and the USSR

I think some Americans are anti-socialists simply because they've been anti-USSR for so long. I'm serious. Europe doesn't have a problem with socialism because Russia never became their greatest enemy. For the last half-century USA and the USSR have been neck-to-neck as the rulers of the world, and we've heard so many insults about Communism it seems like the utmost evil. Who didn't grow up make-believing about Russian spies and "the communists are coming!"

            I'm not saying communism is right—far from it. I'm just wondering if our prejudice against socialism has little to do with the actual issue.

            And me? I really like Russians, personally. Can't wait till I can afford to visit their country.

And speaking of Communism I did some research on USSR injustices. We read A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich for school and we found out what Soviets did to citizens, but we really didn’t find out why. This is what I found:

-         - Baptists were put in the camps not because they were Baptists, but because they refused to register themselves. A registered citizen cannot share religious content with children under 18 and cannot proselytize, and the government also spies on them. Baptists tried to avoid these things and got put in the camps for 25 years because of it.

-          - If you were late for work three times, you were put in jail for three years.

-         -  If you stole food—any food, period, even potatoes left in the field during a famine, you got a nice fat 25 years. Try to feed your family on that.

-          - If you made a joke about an official, you could get 25 years in the gulag.

-         -  Relatives of people who were imprisoned often got imprisoned themselves. ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree’ so they say.

    Khombu Russia 3 Boots (Grey) - Women's Boots - 8.0 M (Google Affiliate Ad)

Awkward Moments in South Asia #7

Our friend was telling us about a conversation he had with a South Asian. The South Asian, in an innocent attempt to make friendly conversation, asked him how he was finding South Asia.
Our friend at this time was going through culture shock--meaning that everything stinks. Seriously. It's like depression and hate combined, and I'm sure it could kill if it lasted long enough. So our friend answered honestly, "Both this country and my home country are nice, but I wish this country was a little--well--cleaner."
The South Asian was slightly embarrassed, obviously, that our friend found his country unclean. They were eating at a restaurant at the time and the floor was covered with bones and napkins and the like; the South Asian quickly began to clean up the mess while he made excuses. "Yes, our country is dirty. These uneducated people don't know the importance of cleanliness. Look at this mess!"
He proceeded to put the trash he had picked up in a plastic bag, then throw the plastic bag out the window.

Dont Litter....Bumper Bumper Sticker (Google Affiliate Ad)

The English

You ever wonder why we say "In Jesus' Name, Amen" to our own prayers? Amen means I agree, so--"Lord, help us this day. In Jesus' Name I agree." Of course you agree with yourself!

Or why is lisp spelled with an "s"? So that people with lisps can't pronounce their own speech impediment? "I have a lithp." I'm sure you do, deaire.

Or have you noticed how many of English names are terrible English words? Bob. Rob. Will. Chuck. Harry. Jimmy. Ginny. Tom (as in cat). Phil. Pete. Mary.

I wonder--this is purely speculation--but the term "For Pete's sake," does it come from the legend that Peter holds the gates of heavens--so "For Pete's sake" do the right thing? I don't know.

Does "please" as in "please let me in" come from please as in "please me" or pleas?

English is so odd.

Seven Pages Shy

There's this feeling that happens on three occasions.
The first is when you're at a restaurant and have just finished eating, when you discover you've left your wallet at home.
The second is when you're taking a test, remember having read about this question this morning, and still don't remember the answer.
And the third is when you are writing a paper and have written as much as you know about a subject as languidly as possible. It's still seven pages below the the required number of pages. Seven pages below!

This last situation is where I find myself now. I seriously have nothing else logical to add to the paper, and there are no extra arguments I can add either--believe me, I've looked. I've exhausted my arguments, and they're beginning to exhaust me.
I asked my teacher if the bibliography could count--well, there's no harm to try--but he said no, obviously. I've tried making it seem longer. I've added an unnecessary discussion of Edward De Vere and Christopher Marlowe. I've even decided to talk about his reputation of skipping taxes, which has got to be the most uninteresting argument I've ever heard. I may have to talk about it for another five pages. This paper's due on Wednesday. It should technically have been due last Friday, but my teacher thankfully gave me some grace (no, he's not completely heartless--though everybody feels heartless right now, even innocent little Dr. Seuss. Don't ask what Dr. Seuss has to do with this; I don't want to talk about it.)
I don't think I will ever forgive Shakespeare for this. Every time I read a Shakespeare play I'll say to myself, "Just because you can make Othello speak for two columns about nothing doesn't mean I have to praise you about it for 25 pages!"