Anonymity Please

April 1, 2008

4:00 PM

I woke up this morning very far from center. I was anxious and had a detached feeling that followed me from yesterday into today. I don’t really know where it came from, but it began chipping away at me yesterday and by this morning it had worn me down. So I did what I usually do when I need to find center: I went for a walk.

I grabbed my iPod and a book and took off in a direction that I knew would carry me a good ways away from everything. Like I tend to do these days, I ended up at my new favorite spot: an old water well. This well is on the far, far outskirts of our village. It is a huge well covered by a cement lid ten feet in diameter. The well’s top is flat, clean, and out in the middle of no where; a perfect spot to just sit and let the sun soak into my skin.

Michael Franti lifted me up and carried me there with his words. Once I got to the well, Coltrane in the ears and Rumi through the eyes helped me find return to center. By the time I felt a new source of energy running through my veins, The Decemberists stepped in and added a little rhythm for the walk home.

My remedies change depending on the illness. Today, my therapy was music, my medicine was the sun and my guidance was Rumi.

As for the walk home, here is where my mind wandered off too:

I want to be anonymous again.

I know it sounds weird to say, but I am ready to become anonymous again. The one thing that used to bother me about life in the States is the one thing I long for most right now: anonymity. I want to return to my culture where I am piece of the puzzle.

I am not ready to leave Kyrgyzstan. I am ready to come home though.

Wow, don’t think I have vocalized that thought yet.

I love my students. I love my counterparts. I love my host-family. I love a lot of my friends in the village. I love my fellow PCVs. All of those things keep me here, keep me working, and keep me focused (most of the time). I have more than just work keeping me here, I have relationships. There are people here that I care about. These people, my friends, are keeping me here, even with so much of the love that awaits me back home.

Overall, I really do believe that I have overcome my fear of returning home. I have parted with my fears of life back home. I have come to terms with my former home, and I am ready to come back to her. As my time winds down here in Kyrgyzstan, I am sure I will grow ready to leave. For now, I know that the life that awaits me back home is something that excites me rather than scares me.

I don’t long for all of America. I don’t necessary long for America at all. I long for a center ground. A neutral location I can reach into a past of things I once was a part of; and then dive full force into the future. The States is a disturbing place. I am not looking forward to the material word; the ignorant and forcibly naïve people back home scare me; the endless drive to control time (and every other uncontrollable aspect to life) is a pressure I’m not excited about. But in the end that is my home. Not the flag, the anthem, the monuments, or the buildings; the people are my home. I want to return the people and the culture they collaborate on.



April 1, 2008

6:00 PM

So, I lost a piece to my earphones. Good thing it looks exactly like sheep poop pellets. I guess if we didn’t have thirty sheep (and twenty something lambs) I would have a small hope of finding the earphone piece in our driveway or yard. I am keeping a tiny bit of hope to find the piece among the thousands of poop pellets. Looks like I’ll be using little free white ear-buds that come with iPods.

A tribute to Rumi from today’s earlier walk:

Open your hands,
if you want to be held.


Some thoughts on literature, from me:

A. Poetry is meant to be read outdoors.

B. Short stories are like the free samples of food at the grocery store on Saturday: when you finish the piece, you always want more of the same thing; but only fools actually think more would be better.

C. Gabrielle Garcia-Marquez is heavenly.

D. The impact of a poem, short story, or novel’s meaning can be felt years after the said literary item has been read.

E. “Calvin and Hobbes” is a comic-strip gold.

F. Every person that uses the, “I can’t believe you haven’t read [fill in the blank]” phrase in a condescending tone is a moron. Be careful who you take book recommendations from; there are too many books in this world to read something just because you don’t want to miss out.

G. I like to read fantasy sometimes. Just like sometimes I like to watch “Grey’s Anatomy,” listen to Punk music, or day-dream about Red Bull cans dancing on rainbows. They make me happy.

H. The metaphor about life being a book is bullshit. I never heard of anyone putting life down and starting it up again a few weeks later. Every time I think, “On to the next chapter,” I kick myself. What a stupid metaphor. I have a new one: life is a shooting star. When you see it, you rarely know where it came from or where it is going, but while it was in your view it was beautiful.





April 2, 2008

11:25 PM

Random thought of the day:

What is it that drives the world outsider the borders of a nation to care so much about the beauties inside that nation? Examples: Endangered animals in Africa and the nature in Kyrgyzstan. Obviously many of the citizens of each respective location care deeply for their lands and its inhabitants. But why does it seem more often than not it is also the local citizens who take part in the destruction (poachers in Africa or major garbage problems in Kyrgyzstan). Does the rest of the world cause this? Obviously there are economic factors and very deep historical issues dealing with poaching in Africa. But pollution in Kyrgyzstan is a mystery to me. Maybe the lessons of my youth are starting to show the head: Turn the water off when you are brushing your teeth; flip light switches off when leaving a room; littering is bad; a hot dog, potato chips, and pop are rightful rewards for playing a little league baseball game.




April 4, 2008

1:00 PM

Random thought of the day:

Why do sheep make noise? Are they talking? Seriously, sometimes I feel like their BAAAAAA is just a random honk. Unless I am entirely ignorant to the world of sheep communication (which is very likely), their noises are about as necessary as my appendix. But who knows, maybe I just have issues with sheep now, considering they live outside my windows. Maybe if I spend a few days studying their BAAAAAA I might be able to catch some patterns. Probably not; I will more likely just spend the next few months telepathically telling them all to please BAAAAA quietly during the hours of 11 PM and 6 AM.