Hi all.
I meant to write this earlier today but got sidetracked by facebook scrolling- everyone's uplifting messages about how to survive and make it through these unprecedented times, little videos of recipes or cute baby stuff or cute pet stuff or ominous sharing of some sinister article detailing the US's faulty handling of it all.
Then I got sidetracked by reddit....r/portland, r/ultimate, r/newzealand, r/nyc, r/solotravel...these are some of my subs these days. And now I'm here, to share a bit about the ways life has been for me over the last month and a half since I last posted.
Not a whole lot has happened externally aside from the escalation of CV and its associated tolls- physical, global, emotional, mob-mentality. Most notably internally I further developed an attachment to a special person that has been characterized by a fairly volatile ongoing dynamic that activates parts of my brain and nervous system in ways that are pretty unpleasant. A component of these instances is the belief and sense that it is 'always' this way, and the state at current clouds and overarchingly envelops all other states such that conclusion-type and fatalist thoughts pervade.
There have been some lovely times too -- a day we biked about 75 km, from Twizel to Lake Ohau Lodge and back, both biking along the Te Araroa (a very rocky trail meant for hiking, that runs the length of the country) and the much more biking-appropriate Alps2Ocean trail, a 6-day bike track that goes from Mt. Cook/Aoraki (the highest point in NZ, draped in snowy majesty) to the coast in Oamaru.
Some firsts for me that occurred in this time:
-standup paddle boarding -- I feel like I was pretty good at it, but it made me so damn dizzy that for the rest of the day I felt seasick. Bummer I have a hypersensitive vestibular system because it is a delightful activity.
-learning to- and enjoying- playing chess! I know, hold the phone. But wait, there's more out-of-character things:
-becoming more comfortable with canines! I even willingly touch them sometimes and recognize differences in facial expression, body language and behavior.
-I ate my first hard-boiled egg. It was all chopped up finely mixed in with a robust salad. Ew. But I did it.
-I lived out of a car for 5 weeks. Mikey's campervan. It was a valuable experience if tumultuous at times. I am fortunate to not be relegated to living in a car long-term because I like my creature comforts of running water at will (hot and cold), electricity, light, outlets, internet, space to stand and sit up straight and move, etc. Color me posh but it's true.
-Made my first loaf of buckwheat chia bread, and learned the term for the type of food preparer I am: a "chuck it in cook" (pronounced with a British accent "chookitin cook")
-Tolerated [out of necessity] porta-potties and other subpar bathroom situations
-bodypainting; giving and receiving. Super pleasurable medium for a lot of reasons!
Logistically and with regard to the conjuring and fostering of my identity around certain things, it's been challenging. I arranged to volunteer at and attend the annual conscious dance workshop in early April, 2 separate Psychodrama workshops (after the first was canceled for non covid reasons), a room to rent in a sweet house with good people in a nice spot outside of Nelson, 2 babysitting gigs during the month I'd be renting the room, and attending and presenting at the national adventure therapy conference here in May, over my birthday. All these things were canceled in a cascade of first-world disappointments. So I was left with travel and residential arrangements that were for naught and the letdown of these areas of interest of mine (and more importantly, a sense of control over my time and activities and productivity and meaning) were gone. But at that point there was nary a CV case here in NZ and things still felt slightly distant.
Meanwhile I cared a lot about people 'back home' in my life, largely located in Portland, CO, and NYC, and tried to keep abreast of their situation albeit indirectly. I still felt like it 'wouldn't impact me like that' though.
It was maybe 2 more days wherein changes were afoot. More signage. More closures, restrictions, alarm. The library was closed indefinitely. Schools were closed for a month at minimum. A sense of urgency everywhere. And then the 48 hours-till complete lockdown was announced. I found out about the lockdown during my clingy attempts to connect to communities I've been nourished by in years past - T-group and Aspen Grove Sangha had both moved to Zoom so I could participate. Except living in the van without outlets or wifi, and libraries with wifi were hard to come by, as were cafes, so I salvaged something. I think I was hunched outside the Twizel library at the time and felt a knot in my throat. It was hard to see people isolated comfortably (or so I imagined) in their houses in Boulder when I didn't have a house to go to and faced a 4-week minimum lockdown.
I say 'lockdown' because that's what it is called here, and it is actually adhered to. People are all taking it very seriously, both from what I've seen from posts on local subreddits and facebook groups, as well as talking with and witnessing interactions and behaviors outside in town in the days before, and during the first 2 days here so far. This country is so damn unified and the instructions from the prime minister are so damn clear, concise, and delivered with brevity and poise. I've never known a 'politician' to be like this...it is simply night and day from the U.S. People here are worried and anxious, but they feel taken care of. (I'm not superimposing this idea - I am spending the foreseeable future living in a house with 3 kiwis).
Fraught relational dynamics exacerbated by the close proximity living, impending turmoil of lockdown, and cultural/language barriers yielded a 24 hour period of icy silence between us. What impeccable timing for a spur-of-the-moment decision, eh. To determine how/where we were going to spend the lockdown and arrange to get there. Fortunately I was able to reach out to a few people here who I've met so far and we had the option to go to a dear woman's house in Dunedin, who led the psychodrama evening we attended a few weeks back. She has been a total godsend (we stayed at her place for 3 nights and enjoyed the luxuries of a simple kitchen, hot shower, and astute conversation). At the last minute, the housing opportunity that had been null and void became available again- the person who's room I was going to rent decided to spend the lockdown with her boyfriend and was open to renting the room to me.
Against what was becoming a tauntingly idyllic backdrop - lake Pukaki in the foreground of Mt. Cook - we went to sleep knowing that the next day was going to be crucial in securing and physically reaching whatever destination we decided on for the next month+. It was a fitful night and my intuition was strong and continuous in telling me to go to Nelson (where I am at current.) I bargained, made peace with valiant self-compassion that whatever decision I made would be right, and tried to give myself reassuring pats about the time-sensitivity and tension of the situation. In the morning, the bathrooms at the free-campsite were already boarded up and a woman from the 'local council' drove in to ensure that we all had a plan of somewhere to go for the lockdown that was in the South Island, because "it starts at midnight tonight." What?! I thought we had till tomorrow night at midnight! She assured us that it was midnight 'going into' Wednesday, rather than the midnight after Wednesday. I felt nauseous under the pressure. I was in a tiny town in a pretty remote part of the South Island -- about 15 km outside of Twizel, and there was no public transit to speak of. I would have to rely on hitchhiking which is generally fine, but not with a time limit. And I had no idea if people would pick up a backpacker in such a climate of fear.
I somehow made a very hard and painful decision and I decided to depart from Mikey and the campervan, and make my way up to Nelson with 14 hours until the lockdown. This would be a 10-hour drive if I drove without stopping as the crow flies. It's complete unwise to depend on hitching such a distance in this kind of time limit.
I did it in 3 rides. A kind, upbeat, and pragmatic French couple heading to the airport in Christchurch to try to get on any flight back home to France before the lockdown, a rural farmer on his way to pick up a few 'chooks' (chickens) and ducks for his homestead who mused about having 6 bedrooms in his house and wondering if he could help out people who didn't have a place to stay, and of all people, Nelson ultimate frisbee mainstay Jim Risner. Yep- I got a ride in a small town called Amberley, north of Christchurch, from someone who I know from the frisbee community here....all the way to the house I am currently sitting in. that was about 6 hours of driving, cramped with my backpack in the front seat as all his belongings were behind us, up to the ceiling. It was an emotionally and physically exhausting day and I am grateful still, 3 days later, to be in a house with electricity, space, a kitchen, a shower, a VIEW OF THE SEA from my bedroom, my own room, wifi, and a bunch of food I bought on my first full day here.
It is a really chill vibe in this house, with one of the people being an avid thru-hiker and vipassana practitioner (that's how we met, at a meditation) and a couple who are kindly and warm. We don't have any high-strung-ness (at least not overtly, yet) about the virus and practices. I mean my offhanded suggestion to one housemate the other day that we wash our hands when we come back into the house was met with a halfhearted 'that's a good idea.' Now I'm not one to rock the boat, and I don't really think we can control whether we get it or not. If it's airborne, or lives on surfaces... I mean we have all touched and breathed in recent weeks. And we will do less of it now that we're home, but we'll still go to the grocery store and aren't going to sanitize our peanut butter upon arrival home. Or should we?
I feel scared of what is to come - what will my mental state be like? Also how much grieving will I find myself doing. For people who might die, for things going down unexpectedly.
I have made it through 2 days of this now. I've already made pesto and tomato jam from scratch, pizza dough and a pizza with the aforementioned, and done some other less complicated cooking like eggplant slices and hemp milk hot chocolate. I have plans for more buckwheat bread, chickpea flour flatbread, fruit and nut smoothies, babaganoush, and now that I have a freezer at my disposal, I think I might just go ahead and get some frozen chicken tenders/nuggets. It's been a solid 2 years or so since I had those. Maybe in a few weeks, on a darker day.
I've had a few heartening video chats connecting with friends far away from here and am very interested in having more of these, so if you read this and would like to do so, please let me know and we'll set up a time. I'm 20 hours ahead of PST.
Friday, 27 March 2020
Monday, 10 February 2020
I sit on the same couch I sat on to write the last post where I detailed the ups and downs of my journey through the Kahurangi forest. This time I've spent a few days with Mikey in his campervan doing little hikes and swimming and climbing and seeing majestic views on either side of a 2 week stint at an intentional community called Tui. Tui is pronounced "Tewey" which rhymes with "dewey" of the dewey decimal system, if you're into that. The tui is a native bird here in NZ and also the brand name of the balms that the people of the community make in a factory just down the dirt road from the community. It is located at the end of the road, just up against the Wainui car park which is 1 end of the Abel Tasman coast track, one of the 'Great Walks' (backpacking trips). This means that the local scenery and landscape is idyllic: crispy turqouise beaches, rock formations with personality, lush greenery, and the most starry night skies.
Tui was pretty varied. There wasn't internet there- only ethernet- and my laptop is too new for that. So I was able to internet on a borrowed ethernet-capable computer when it was available and some very sparse moments (mostly in the middle of the night) when there was one bar of cell service and I turned on the data. This was a cool thing for me -- not quite as full on as the 2 weeks prior of actual no internet, but still a significant minimization. Thing was, it felt fine for the most part. Again. I was in a held and contained space with a schedule of 6 hours of work/day with a lunch break in the middle, and 3 day weekends which somehow filled up despite attempts at having them be 'chill days.' There was a cohort of 4 of us - Me and Mikey, and 2 women who I am tickled to have had the opportunity to spend a fortnight with: Lucia and Juliana. We were a multicultural bunch which was nice and fresh. We stayed in 'the community house' which is a very spacious and dated house with an enormous kitchen and 2-3 different living rooms. Lots of cobwebs abounded. We also got to use freshly ground up rye flour and peanut butter which was a delight. We did a fair bit of baking and cooking too. Zucchinis are going crazy there right now- kind of like mid-late July back in Portland. Another month or so and it'll be tomato time there. I was able to eke out 2 batches of pesto from the basil in the garden as well.
----
It is now a few days later and I was lucky enough to attend a sangha (meditation community group) last night that meets weekly in someone's house, much like my beloved Aspen Grove Sangha back in Portland, but this one was a zen sangha. Main differences aside from the format and people include the age demographic-- I am certain all the attendees in this group were over age 55. I forgot how common that is among meditation groups because I got so used to the hip young Aspen Grove group. Checking my ageism here. And the other difference was the rigidity. Of course zen is more rigid but it struck me that the attendees were also somewhat rigid in their thinking. There was widespread opposition to the idea of any kind of verbal / dialogue / sharing component happening in their group space. I know I come at this from the place of having found a wholly nourishing and wonderful sangha that prides itself on the skillful inclusion of this relational component. There seemed to be preconceptions of such a part devolving into 'idle chatter' or 'esoteric sharing group' which were said with disdain in the discussion I witnessed. I really loved everyone's commitment to the group, to their own truths, and to being in service of the desires of the group's strength, integrity, and continuity. They were so welcoming to me and even solicited advice and information from me when I shared with them about my group back at home.
I feel sadness having only encountered this group here in Golden Bay as I prepare to leave-- I would have liked to have attended it more in the past few months but it's really fine. What it has done is shift my orientation more towards finding groups like this in other places I may go to which feels like a positive forward look.
I look forward to moving on from Golden Bay and spending a few days in Nelson again where I hope to play a pickup game and go to a psychodrama evening meeting. It's been a long time in coming- I've been researching the psychodrama options here since I got here.
Other developments in my psyche and experience include my own growing disdain for physical manual labor. I would relish something in a temperature-controlled environment, seated, repetitive would be fine- or a childcare or human-relating indoor job. I know, famous last words. But I've spent the better part of the last 3 weeks doing challenging physical work outside like digging, moving dirt, weeding, and other things that leave my IT bands and hips and knees feeling pretty wrecked. I imagine if I were 10 years younger it might be different. That said, one of the other woofers at Tui was 10 years my junior, so kudos to her and her dedication. An energetic woman who gave me a ride yesterday down Takaka-Collingwood highway told me that her reasoning for not doing as much outdoor adventure stuff was because her muscle mass has decreased and her bones have broken down. The way she put it felt quite stark - I know these things are true and happen as you age, but she seemed just fine with it. I spent about a year attempting to un-adhere my identity from out physical outdoor pursuits but then when my ankle healed I fell right back into that groove. I hope with more insight and greater perspective. I hope. Anyhow, this woman was lovely to spend even just the ten minutes of the ride with. I had just bought a bag of peaches from a nearby farm and when I offered her a peach, her instant reply- full of vim and prosody- "is the pope catholic?!?"
I leave you with that.
Tui was pretty varied. There wasn't internet there- only ethernet- and my laptop is too new for that. So I was able to internet on a borrowed ethernet-capable computer when it was available and some very sparse moments (mostly in the middle of the night) when there was one bar of cell service and I turned on the data. This was a cool thing for me -- not quite as full on as the 2 weeks prior of actual no internet, but still a significant minimization. Thing was, it felt fine for the most part. Again. I was in a held and contained space with a schedule of 6 hours of work/day with a lunch break in the middle, and 3 day weekends which somehow filled up despite attempts at having them be 'chill days.' There was a cohort of 4 of us - Me and Mikey, and 2 women who I am tickled to have had the opportunity to spend a fortnight with: Lucia and Juliana. We were a multicultural bunch which was nice and fresh. We stayed in 'the community house' which is a very spacious and dated house with an enormous kitchen and 2-3 different living rooms. Lots of cobwebs abounded. We also got to use freshly ground up rye flour and peanut butter which was a delight. We did a fair bit of baking and cooking too. Zucchinis are going crazy there right now- kind of like mid-late July back in Portland. Another month or so and it'll be tomato time there. I was able to eke out 2 batches of pesto from the basil in the garden as well.
----
It is now a few days later and I was lucky enough to attend a sangha (meditation community group) last night that meets weekly in someone's house, much like my beloved Aspen Grove Sangha back in Portland, but this one was a zen sangha. Main differences aside from the format and people include the age demographic-- I am certain all the attendees in this group were over age 55. I forgot how common that is among meditation groups because I got so used to the hip young Aspen Grove group. Checking my ageism here. And the other difference was the rigidity. Of course zen is more rigid but it struck me that the attendees were also somewhat rigid in their thinking. There was widespread opposition to the idea of any kind of verbal / dialogue / sharing component happening in their group space. I know I come at this from the place of having found a wholly nourishing and wonderful sangha that prides itself on the skillful inclusion of this relational component. There seemed to be preconceptions of such a part devolving into 'idle chatter' or 'esoteric sharing group' which were said with disdain in the discussion I witnessed. I really loved everyone's commitment to the group, to their own truths, and to being in service of the desires of the group's strength, integrity, and continuity. They were so welcoming to me and even solicited advice and information from me when I shared with them about my group back at home.
I feel sadness having only encountered this group here in Golden Bay as I prepare to leave-- I would have liked to have attended it more in the past few months but it's really fine. What it has done is shift my orientation more towards finding groups like this in other places I may go to which feels like a positive forward look.
I look forward to moving on from Golden Bay and spending a few days in Nelson again where I hope to play a pickup game and go to a psychodrama evening meeting. It's been a long time in coming- I've been researching the psychodrama options here since I got here.
Other developments in my psyche and experience include my own growing disdain for physical manual labor. I would relish something in a temperature-controlled environment, seated, repetitive would be fine- or a childcare or human-relating indoor job. I know, famous last words. But I've spent the better part of the last 3 weeks doing challenging physical work outside like digging, moving dirt, weeding, and other things that leave my IT bands and hips and knees feeling pretty wrecked. I imagine if I were 10 years younger it might be different. That said, one of the other woofers at Tui was 10 years my junior, so kudos to her and her dedication. An energetic woman who gave me a ride yesterday down Takaka-Collingwood highway told me that her reasoning for not doing as much outdoor adventure stuff was because her muscle mass has decreased and her bones have broken down. The way she put it felt quite stark - I know these things are true and happen as you age, but she seemed just fine with it. I spent about a year attempting to un-adhere my identity from out physical outdoor pursuits but then when my ankle healed I fell right back into that groove. I hope with more insight and greater perspective. I hope. Anyhow, this woman was lovely to spend even just the ten minutes of the ride with. I had just bought a bag of peaches from a nearby farm and when I offered her a peach, her instant reply- full of vim and prosody- "is the pope catholic?!?"
I leave you with that.
Sunday, 12 January 2020
So much has gone on in the past 2 weeks. It feels fairly surreal. It is January 10 and I am finally going to be sleeping in a bed under a roof- something I haven't done since December 26. I am excited and relieved for this luxury of a dorm bed in a hostel. And not just any hostel! A hostel I had the most warm and fuzzy feeling from spending a weekend in a few weeks back in Takaka, a tiny hippie town in the upper left corner of the South Island.
I'll backtrack with some concrete details. I finished up 2 weeks of picking blueberries in the lovely and bucolic Windsong Orchard in Marlborough and got picked up by a new meditation friend, Mikey. We were both slated to volunteer in the kitchen at the Mix Festival, a New Year's yoga/creativity/consciousness/hippie gathering in a swath of grassy land alongside a frigid river at the edge of Kahurangi National Park. We slept in his van and endured the contrast of tense, time-sensitive kitchen work with the back and forth between sauna and river. As these things tend to go, friends and kindred relationships appear when I'm doing the least striving and hoping for them. Sucked into the whirlwind of my first ever festival and in the frequent presence of a strapping German I've become quite fond of, a little group of roughly 5-7 of us formed and spawned. A bit happenstance and borne of proximity- similar volunteer shifts, close tenting/campervan quarters, and a fresh likemindedness yielded connection that blossomed and ebbed. Then it was New Years eve and amid the fire poi spinners on a rectangle of sawdust I facilitated a group of us in a Teepee in a meditation. We wrote earnestly on collected rocks, tossed the in a stream, sat together in the cold night and listened to Jordan's song 'Already Broken' reverberating from my phone.
Hamish, a redneck kiwi farmboy who claims discomfiture with the openness and frivolity at this festival had a pivotal role. Through the week of the festival he hunted, hugged, slaughtered, and butchered 2 muttons (older sheep) from the nearby forest which was the meat that fed us. I've never been so close to this process and given that I'm a meat eater, I probably should. Hamish seemed to have a rough and cavalier exterior [the fact that he was blood-spattered and dripping with sweat as he wrestled the dead animal with his gleaming knives certainly informed my initial schema. He ended up being a soft-hearted feeler who felt like something of a kindred spirit, especially when I found out we were both born in 1988. He's a skilled back-cracker ("the butcher's touch") and slipped me a few quality pieces of chocolate throughout our kitchen shifts. True to form in this small country, I've already run into him in another city since we said our goodbyes a week ago.
Between the festival and my current perch atop a couch in this hostel with electricity, heating, and modern amenities, I spent 5 days out in the bush. It wasn't clear to me what would transpire following the festival. Would I keep hanging with Mikey in his campervan? Would some of our little 'festival family' do some tramping (backpacking) together? It was up in the air for longer than I'm usually comfortable with. I've been trying to embrace the not knowing and leaving things to be decided at the time itself- even more than than I've gotten into the habit of since moving to Portland. Sure enough, we (5 of us) decided the morning of to glom our plans together and head up the road to the closest carpark (parking lot of a trailhead) in the Kahurangi National Park in the Northern part of the South Island. We were advised that only a 4WD could handle the gravel road up to the carpark (kiwi term for parking lot) but heard otherwise from some seasoned outdoorsy festival-goers and decided to give it a go.
Cast of characters:
Julian: A really like-minded German who's been traveling for the past few years. Follows his heart and his stomach (orients around delicious and hearty food and meals, as well as authentic heart-sharing).
Nicole: A spirited and idealistic German from Austria who's in art school and knows herself very well. She's unfortunately been plagued with sickness for much of the festival but we've gotten closer from being campervan-neighbors even as she's been bedridden.
Mikey: A tender and sweet soul, also German, also knows himself very well. Perhaps the least brazen of the group. He has a deep love for splitting wood, is my age, and 5 months into his working holiday visa. We met from a backpackers facebook group a few weeks back and meditate together.
Zoe: The only kiwi of our group, she's in travel/exploring mode in her home country. A humble leader who knows a lot about plants, the backcountry, and checking in with oneself.
Me: The narrative voice here.
So we set off for a 2 day trip to climb Mount Arthur, a peak in Kahurangi national park that was relatively close to the festival we were at. On our first day we ran into a few hikers who advised us to take a detour to stop into a hut where there was a warden, and run our Mt. Arthur plans by her. We did, and learned of the dire weather forecast for the next few days. She helped us concoct an alternative plan and as we pored over the map and reconfigured our hut passes, part of my brain began to grip and cling to the plan we had devised over this new series of options based on whether huts were to be full, weather was to hold up, and other unknown factors. The first coincidence of the trip: Zoe and the warden recognized each other from a different hut in the forest years back. The warden had been on a longer solo journey and Zoe was on a family tramping (backpacking) trip. Armed with a new plan that was to last more than our initial 2-day planned jaunt, we plodded away from Salisbury hut and towards Balloon hut (in case you want to look them up).
There were very few people in the bush that we ran into, but it seemed every time we ran into someone, we had a connection with them. Adrian crossed paths with us that afternoon and we got our first glimpse into an ineffable phenomenon characterized by a vibrant gleam of peace in the eyes and an open heart that shines through every interaction. Adrian had maybe 2 weeks of food in his pack and was planning to hike with Dan, a well-loved volunteer at the Mix Festival who was also in the same forest. Dan earned the affectionate moniker of 'poo-tenant Dan' as the steward of composting toilets and the mooncup station at the festival. We were giddy with excitement than Adrian knew Dan and that they had met in the backcountry one year ago. Dan was ahead of us on the trail and we hoped to run into him later.
At balloon hut we hung up our sweaty shirts and donned dry ones and tucked into what seemed to be ample supplies of food: 1 kg of cheese, 1 kg of peanut butter, 1 kg of hummus... little did we know what good rationing would have done us.
As I write this I think I'm getting some of the order wrong, because I know that early on we stopped at an iconic shelter under an enormous rock and sank carrots deep into our peanut butter kilo. So the details are now hazy; forgive this trip report.
The first night was spent at Dry Rock Shelter, where we cooked in a DOC (department of conservation) provided pot balanced precariously over an open fire. So precarious that it fell just as it was about ready, and quinoa and veggies spilled all over the dusty ashen ground. The first of Nicole's expertly dehydrated vegetables were not to be wasted though, and she painstakingly washed individual pieces of capsicum (kiwi term for bell pepper). The heroine we all deserve. Meanwhile we kept our heads up and cooked more quinoa from our 1 kg bag of it. That night was bitterly cold. I'd venture to say it was 35-40 degrees Farenheit with the wind and exposed air as we were simpy under a rock outcropping which sheltered us from rain but nothing else. This is wayyy colder than I prefer to backpack but there we were.
Julian took pride in his role of fire-tender and was up each morning gathering wood and getting a fire going. I don't want to underappreciate how nourishing it is to have someone always keeping the next fire in their mind. Nicole always kept the next cup of tea in her mind, Zoe always kept the big picture in mind, Mikey always kept the social fabric of the group in mind, and I [feel like all I always kept in mind was] myself and my own well being; physical, emotional.
The days are all blurring together as I think of them, but I'll see if I can suss out what happened next. After the first day the weather went downhill. We were already into a loop that moved us away from the original Mt. Arthur plan and towards the Cobb reservoir and Cobb valley. We spent the 2nd night in an actual hut called Myttons hut which was poorly insulated but a structure with a roof nonetheless- an upgrade from the shelter as it were. Fire was of utmost importance again as this day was the first of the frigid and soaking days that we walked through wind and rain with minimal visibility and maximal type-2 fun.
When backpacking in the cold, wind, and rain, without any epic view due to the conditions, it really becomes an internal mental situation for me. As Julian aptly described it later, there was a period of resistance and then an embracing. At some point I became resigned to the fact that my shoes and socks and clothes and backpack were drenched, and took solace in the fact that I was "out there in the bush," moving my body, had a fire and roof over my head to look forward to, and was with 4 other quality and earnest new friends. This was enough to fuel me.
In hindsight, a pack cover would have been a good thing to take with me. I thought a garbage bag could do the trick. I was wrong. In the end I opted for putting all my things in the garbage bag inside my backpack and let the backpack get wet while the stuff [sort of] stayed dry. If we had been staying in tents and not in huts with options to make fire, this trip would have been 100% miserable and quite different. We tried out hardest to avoid asphyxiation from the fires in the huts by evening and hung out all our wet gear, fiddling with its orientation to the fire every 20 minutes. Zoe read us bedtime stories and Julian cracked open chocolate bars. Nicole made tea and Mikey wrote in tiny handwriting in his notebook. I made concerted efforts to be a giver rather than a taker and put others in the group first. I see people being kind of selfless in many ways and though it feels foreign to me, I like to try to 'fake it till I make it' in this way.
Day 3 dawned and this was where we started to get antsy. We were all in each other's company and though we liked each other, our respective penchants and needs grew slightly more defined and rubbed up against each other in the microcosmic bottle we inhabited out there in the bush. We had barely ran into anyone else and reasoned that most trampers had left the forest due to the cold rain and wind. We were running low on food and had at least 2-3 more days until we could finish our loop and return to the carpark. So we devised the following foolhardy plan: Julian and Nicole hike up along the Cobb ridge and eventually reach Asbestos Cottage (funny name for a hut, eh), Mikey and Zoe hitchhike to town to get us more food and then hitch from town to a different trailhead that's a 2 hour walk from Asbestos Cottage. I opted for what was supposed to be an easier, mild walk along a dirt road to get to Asbestos Cottage. No part of me wanted to walk along an exposed ridge given the frigid spitting rain. We calculated the hiking times and thought we'd all be there around 2 pm. Zoe, Mikey and I headed out towards the road that I was going to walk and they were going to hitch from. After a half hour of walking, the first car went by. I ducked into the nearby bushes so the driver wouldn't be as deterred by 3 trampers than 2, and about 10 minutes of talking at the car window transpired. In the end, they only had room for 1 extra person so Zoe took the ride into town and assured us she would meet us at the hut later. I was all geared up for my solo day of hiking but quickly readjusted by frame of mind and was happy to be joined by Mikey.
A bit more walking along the road and we took the first right off the road and back into the spindly network of trails. According to my memory of the map, we had to take this right off the road, and then a left, and then we'd be at the hut. Straightforward. It was a steady uphill climb from the road and we were long since completely soaked. We talked about our families, the nature of the universe, emotions, god, traditions, social phenomena and relational dynamics, a bunch of juicy stuff. All the while keeping a keen eye out for our next turnoff. The first few signs we saw had names we didn't recognize, like "broken bridge." There was no broken bridge on the map. We carried on, letting our our deepest exhales and fists pumping the air when we saw "unmaintained track to Asbestos cottage" on a sign. I was alternating between using trekking poles and squeezing the poles in my armpit so I could warm my numb fingers. There were many instances of unclear signage, losing the trail, and backtracking. Visibility was limited and icy hail stung our faces. My wool shirt under my rain jacket was sticking to me from sweat and rain. We had somehow ended up walking along Cobb ridge, overlooking the reservoir. "This must be a beautiful area" I kept telling myself as I struggled to right myself against the wind. Too bad all we could see was gray, mist, and hair blowing in front of our eyes. I had a feeling the way we were walking wasn't right, and there were considerable elevation changes and slippery rocks we had to move carefully on in the rain. Not wanting to descend the entire exposed ridge only to have to retrace our steps, we stopped for a moment, took out my phone under Mikey's poncho, and looked at the map I had taken a picture of at the trailhead where we parked.
Egregious error here-- the map I had photographed was of the Mount Arthur area and we had already hiked out of that zone further north in the park, so I didn't even have a map of where we were. I felt my heartbeat quicken and my nervous system activate. My mind immediately went to the fact that I didn't know the '911' equivalent for NZ. Mikey checked his phone for his map photos and it promptly died. I turned off airplane mode and amazingly had service and was able to turn on my data and download a map of the area from the DOC website. What a relief. In the meanwhile, 10 days worth of email/messenger/whatsapp notifications flooded the screen. I swiped them away one by one and we figured out that yes- we had to backtrack, we were heading in the wrong direction. We made it back to the 'unmaintained track to Asbestos hut' sign, excited to at least have the word 'asbestos' on a sign. We took what seemed to be as unmaintained a track as possible and had several instances of reaching a clearing with many options, a trail that diminished, and a host of other unclear moments on the path. After some amount of time, a few slips and scrapes, more hail, a lot of treacherous and slippery rock, and considerable elevation change, we arrived at Asbestos cottage. What a feeling of uplift and elation! Mikey jumped up and down outside the windows as we heard voices inside and were certain they were our friends. We found the stooped door and barreled in...to find a woman we didn't know. She was not a fan of our boisterousness but the mood softened as we explained ourselves and she shared that she was on her way out of the hut. She was the first other person we saw all day and perhaps we forgot how to behave among strangers. Mikey hurt his knee on the last leg [ha] of our journey so he cozied up in his subpar sleeping bag on one of the rickety rocking chairs that housed pellets of rat poo and I kept on my sopping wet clothes as I hunted for any remotely dry firewood thicker than the twigs already stowed under an awning.
I felt a smugness that we had made it to the hut first as Nicole and Julian casually thought they would beat me (taking the "easy road"). It was 3:45 pm when we arrived. Not too long after, Susannah, a quirky solo-traveling middle aged woman came into the hut. There were 5 of us who were hoping to stay in the hut though only 2 of us were presently there. The hut was small and had 2 bunk beds, so now there would have to be 2 people sleeping on the floor. I didn't know the etiquette for 'reserving' a space in a first-come-first-serve hut but it seemed wholly uncool to assert that she couldn't stay there because "our friends are on their way." And good thing, because Mikey and I didn't have any firestarting source. Again, really unwise. Susannah had matches and we made a fire. After some lazing about warming ourselves in sleeping bags, meditating on a crinkly mattress, and reshifting our dripping clothes before the fire, we went for the final food we had- plain tortillas and some wilted spinach leaves. It was a dry wrap but it didn't matter. What an amazing mouthfeel to have food and be dry. I wondered what Nicole and Julian would think when they arrive at the hut and saw that it was me and Mikey, even though Mikey was supposed to have gone to town with Zoe. Inside I was so thankful things had transpired the way they had, because given all the challenges with routefinding I would not have wanted to make all those judgement calls on my own. Especially in the rough weather. I found strength from being in a duo with Mikey.
At last we heard voices and we all shared big smiles as our friends were at the door to the hut....but it was Zoe and Nicole! How did they get together, Zoe was supposed to be coming from town, and where was Julian?! By then it was close to 6 PM and we all had stories to tell. Zoe began to share how the ride she got dropped her off close to the Hangdog climbing campground where she ran into poo-tenant Dan. Even he had bailed on the tramping due to the weather. What were we still doing in the forest? She had to get another ride into town to the grocery store and felt rushed to make her way back to a trailhead since so few cars would be headed into the bush in the bad weather. Empty backpack now filled with provisions for us, she managed another ride towards a trailhead that could link up with the trail to Asbestos hut. As she walked along the road, another car passed her! It slowed, and out came...Nicole and Julian. This is where Nicole began to tell her story. She and Julian started out for the ridge and after giving it a valiant effort they decided that it was unwise to continue. They had trouble keeping their upright balance in the wind and Julian didn't have any rain gear. He thought about the dream Zoe had the previous night in which he died, and decided it was not the day to be a hero and pass over an exposed ridge in such conditions. So they backtracked and hiked up to the road, to take the same way I [supposedly] had. By the time they got to the road it had been about 3 hours and they were daydreaming hard of getting a ride into Takaka, meeting up with Mikey and Zoe (they didn't know it was only Zoe) and having a coffee in a warm cafe. So they wrote a note to me on a piece of cardboard, put it in a ziploc bag, and affixed it to the door of a hut they thought I would go to (?) They took the first ride they could towards Takaka and called out for the driver to slow down as they saw a neon orange figure making its way down the street. It was Zoe....on her way to the trailhead out of town. She had done the shopping. They got out of the car, shared stories of their respective travails thus far, and Julian decided to follow an intuition of his to meet his friend in town and come back the next night and join us at another hut. So Nicole, Zoe, and the backpack of food set out to hike 2 hours to Asbestos Cottage, which is where we had all met.
I was pretty dumbfounded that Julian had bailed in that way after his big-strong-man persona of hiking, but have come to find lots of respect for him following his truth. Plus he promised to bring us some more food the next night at Flora hut. Which would hopefully be our last night out there.
All the while, Susannah listened to our excitement and unexpected turns of the day. We traced what we thought our routes were with pruny index fingers on the large map on the wall, fed the fire thin twigs on the regular for hours, and ate with dirty hands and minimal bowls. In the end it was auspicious we had one less person that night in the hut. We moved mattresses next to each other to the 'living room' in front of the fire and let Susannah have the 'bedroom'. The 4 of us shared the 3 mattresses and Mikey tended the fire throughout the night, the selfless man that he is.
What a bunch of learning experiences. It's really true what they say--- there won't be flora or fauna here in NZ that will kill you like in other places. No bears, no poisonous snakes or harmful plants (hmm, really?) but the weather will do you in. Summer, winter, anytime. (It's supposed to be summertime here now.)
The next day we woke up to sunshine. What a miraculous treat. We sat and meditated together before beginning our day and took lots of breaks while hiking, one of which was to dip in a beautiful rocky swimming hole. We ate wraps with kumara and butternut squash hummus and finished off a chocolate bar. It felt like another plant from the days before.
After a chill day of about 4 hours walking we got to our final hut for the night. My knee was feeling it but we still threw the disc around for a while in celebration of the end being in sight. Julian met up with us freshly showered, boasting of his amenities of the previous night and doting on us with a fresh bar of chocolate and savory chips. Thank you Julian for joining the group again.
I'll backtrack with some concrete details. I finished up 2 weeks of picking blueberries in the lovely and bucolic Windsong Orchard in Marlborough and got picked up by a new meditation friend, Mikey. We were both slated to volunteer in the kitchen at the Mix Festival, a New Year's yoga/creativity/consciousness/hippie gathering in a swath of grassy land alongside a frigid river at the edge of Kahurangi National Park. We slept in his van and endured the contrast of tense, time-sensitive kitchen work with the back and forth between sauna and river. As these things tend to go, friends and kindred relationships appear when I'm doing the least striving and hoping for them. Sucked into the whirlwind of my first ever festival and in the frequent presence of a strapping German I've become quite fond of, a little group of roughly 5-7 of us formed and spawned. A bit happenstance and borne of proximity- similar volunteer shifts, close tenting/campervan quarters, and a fresh likemindedness yielded connection that blossomed and ebbed. Then it was New Years eve and amid the fire poi spinners on a rectangle of sawdust I facilitated a group of us in a Teepee in a meditation. We wrote earnestly on collected rocks, tossed the in a stream, sat together in the cold night and listened to Jordan's song 'Already Broken' reverberating from my phone.
Hamish, a redneck kiwi farmboy who claims discomfiture with the openness and frivolity at this festival had a pivotal role. Through the week of the festival he hunted, hugged, slaughtered, and butchered 2 muttons (older sheep) from the nearby forest which was the meat that fed us. I've never been so close to this process and given that I'm a meat eater, I probably should. Hamish seemed to have a rough and cavalier exterior [the fact that he was blood-spattered and dripping with sweat as he wrestled the dead animal with his gleaming knives certainly informed my initial schema. He ended up being a soft-hearted feeler who felt like something of a kindred spirit, especially when I found out we were both born in 1988. He's a skilled back-cracker ("the butcher's touch") and slipped me a few quality pieces of chocolate throughout our kitchen shifts. True to form in this small country, I've already run into him in another city since we said our goodbyes a week ago.
Between the festival and my current perch atop a couch in this hostel with electricity, heating, and modern amenities, I spent 5 days out in the bush. It wasn't clear to me what would transpire following the festival. Would I keep hanging with Mikey in his campervan? Would some of our little 'festival family' do some tramping (backpacking) together? It was up in the air for longer than I'm usually comfortable with. I've been trying to embrace the not knowing and leaving things to be decided at the time itself- even more than than I've gotten into the habit of since moving to Portland. Sure enough, we (5 of us) decided the morning of to glom our plans together and head up the road to the closest carpark (parking lot of a trailhead) in the Kahurangi National Park in the Northern part of the South Island. We were advised that only a 4WD could handle the gravel road up to the carpark (kiwi term for parking lot) but heard otherwise from some seasoned outdoorsy festival-goers and decided to give it a go.
Cast of characters:
Julian: A really like-minded German who's been traveling for the past few years. Follows his heart and his stomach (orients around delicious and hearty food and meals, as well as authentic heart-sharing).
Nicole: A spirited and idealistic German from Austria who's in art school and knows herself very well. She's unfortunately been plagued with sickness for much of the festival but we've gotten closer from being campervan-neighbors even as she's been bedridden.
Mikey: A tender and sweet soul, also German, also knows himself very well. Perhaps the least brazen of the group. He has a deep love for splitting wood, is my age, and 5 months into his working holiday visa. We met from a backpackers facebook group a few weeks back and meditate together.
Zoe: The only kiwi of our group, she's in travel/exploring mode in her home country. A humble leader who knows a lot about plants, the backcountry, and checking in with oneself.
Me: The narrative voice here.
So we set off for a 2 day trip to climb Mount Arthur, a peak in Kahurangi national park that was relatively close to the festival we were at. On our first day we ran into a few hikers who advised us to take a detour to stop into a hut where there was a warden, and run our Mt. Arthur plans by her. We did, and learned of the dire weather forecast for the next few days. She helped us concoct an alternative plan and as we pored over the map and reconfigured our hut passes, part of my brain began to grip and cling to the plan we had devised over this new series of options based on whether huts were to be full, weather was to hold up, and other unknown factors. The first coincidence of the trip: Zoe and the warden recognized each other from a different hut in the forest years back. The warden had been on a longer solo journey and Zoe was on a family tramping (backpacking) trip. Armed with a new plan that was to last more than our initial 2-day planned jaunt, we plodded away from Salisbury hut and towards Balloon hut (in case you want to look them up).
There were very few people in the bush that we ran into, but it seemed every time we ran into someone, we had a connection with them. Adrian crossed paths with us that afternoon and we got our first glimpse into an ineffable phenomenon characterized by a vibrant gleam of peace in the eyes and an open heart that shines through every interaction. Adrian had maybe 2 weeks of food in his pack and was planning to hike with Dan, a well-loved volunteer at the Mix Festival who was also in the same forest. Dan earned the affectionate moniker of 'poo-tenant Dan' as the steward of composting toilets and the mooncup station at the festival. We were giddy with excitement than Adrian knew Dan and that they had met in the backcountry one year ago. Dan was ahead of us on the trail and we hoped to run into him later.
At balloon hut we hung up our sweaty shirts and donned dry ones and tucked into what seemed to be ample supplies of food: 1 kg of cheese, 1 kg of peanut butter, 1 kg of hummus... little did we know what good rationing would have done us.
As I write this I think I'm getting some of the order wrong, because I know that early on we stopped at an iconic shelter under an enormous rock and sank carrots deep into our peanut butter kilo. So the details are now hazy; forgive this trip report.
The first night was spent at Dry Rock Shelter, where we cooked in a DOC (department of conservation) provided pot balanced precariously over an open fire. So precarious that it fell just as it was about ready, and quinoa and veggies spilled all over the dusty ashen ground. The first of Nicole's expertly dehydrated vegetables were not to be wasted though, and she painstakingly washed individual pieces of capsicum (kiwi term for bell pepper). The heroine we all deserve. Meanwhile we kept our heads up and cooked more quinoa from our 1 kg bag of it. That night was bitterly cold. I'd venture to say it was 35-40 degrees Farenheit with the wind and exposed air as we were simpy under a rock outcropping which sheltered us from rain but nothing else. This is wayyy colder than I prefer to backpack but there we were.
Julian took pride in his role of fire-tender and was up each morning gathering wood and getting a fire going. I don't want to underappreciate how nourishing it is to have someone always keeping the next fire in their mind. Nicole always kept the next cup of tea in her mind, Zoe always kept the big picture in mind, Mikey always kept the social fabric of the group in mind, and I [feel like all I always kept in mind was] myself and my own well being; physical, emotional.
The days are all blurring together as I think of them, but I'll see if I can suss out what happened next. After the first day the weather went downhill. We were already into a loop that moved us away from the original Mt. Arthur plan and towards the Cobb reservoir and Cobb valley. We spent the 2nd night in an actual hut called Myttons hut which was poorly insulated but a structure with a roof nonetheless- an upgrade from the shelter as it were. Fire was of utmost importance again as this day was the first of the frigid and soaking days that we walked through wind and rain with minimal visibility and maximal type-2 fun.
When backpacking in the cold, wind, and rain, without any epic view due to the conditions, it really becomes an internal mental situation for me. As Julian aptly described it later, there was a period of resistance and then an embracing. At some point I became resigned to the fact that my shoes and socks and clothes and backpack were drenched, and took solace in the fact that I was "out there in the bush," moving my body, had a fire and roof over my head to look forward to, and was with 4 other quality and earnest new friends. This was enough to fuel me.
In hindsight, a pack cover would have been a good thing to take with me. I thought a garbage bag could do the trick. I was wrong. In the end I opted for putting all my things in the garbage bag inside my backpack and let the backpack get wet while the stuff [sort of] stayed dry. If we had been staying in tents and not in huts with options to make fire, this trip would have been 100% miserable and quite different. We tried out hardest to avoid asphyxiation from the fires in the huts by evening and hung out all our wet gear, fiddling with its orientation to the fire every 20 minutes. Zoe read us bedtime stories and Julian cracked open chocolate bars. Nicole made tea and Mikey wrote in tiny handwriting in his notebook. I made concerted efforts to be a giver rather than a taker and put others in the group first. I see people being kind of selfless in many ways and though it feels foreign to me, I like to try to 'fake it till I make it' in this way.
Day 3 dawned and this was where we started to get antsy. We were all in each other's company and though we liked each other, our respective penchants and needs grew slightly more defined and rubbed up against each other in the microcosmic bottle we inhabited out there in the bush. We had barely ran into anyone else and reasoned that most trampers had left the forest due to the cold rain and wind. We were running low on food and had at least 2-3 more days until we could finish our loop and return to the carpark. So we devised the following foolhardy plan: Julian and Nicole hike up along the Cobb ridge and eventually reach Asbestos Cottage (funny name for a hut, eh), Mikey and Zoe hitchhike to town to get us more food and then hitch from town to a different trailhead that's a 2 hour walk from Asbestos Cottage. I opted for what was supposed to be an easier, mild walk along a dirt road to get to Asbestos Cottage. No part of me wanted to walk along an exposed ridge given the frigid spitting rain. We calculated the hiking times and thought we'd all be there around 2 pm. Zoe, Mikey and I headed out towards the road that I was going to walk and they were going to hitch from. After a half hour of walking, the first car went by. I ducked into the nearby bushes so the driver wouldn't be as deterred by 3 trampers than 2, and about 10 minutes of talking at the car window transpired. In the end, they only had room for 1 extra person so Zoe took the ride into town and assured us she would meet us at the hut later. I was all geared up for my solo day of hiking but quickly readjusted by frame of mind and was happy to be joined by Mikey.
A bit more walking along the road and we took the first right off the road and back into the spindly network of trails. According to my memory of the map, we had to take this right off the road, and then a left, and then we'd be at the hut. Straightforward. It was a steady uphill climb from the road and we were long since completely soaked. We talked about our families, the nature of the universe, emotions, god, traditions, social phenomena and relational dynamics, a bunch of juicy stuff. All the while keeping a keen eye out for our next turnoff. The first few signs we saw had names we didn't recognize, like "broken bridge." There was no broken bridge on the map. We carried on, letting our our deepest exhales and fists pumping the air when we saw "unmaintained track to Asbestos cottage" on a sign. I was alternating between using trekking poles and squeezing the poles in my armpit so I could warm my numb fingers. There were many instances of unclear signage, losing the trail, and backtracking. Visibility was limited and icy hail stung our faces. My wool shirt under my rain jacket was sticking to me from sweat and rain. We had somehow ended up walking along Cobb ridge, overlooking the reservoir. "This must be a beautiful area" I kept telling myself as I struggled to right myself against the wind. Too bad all we could see was gray, mist, and hair blowing in front of our eyes. I had a feeling the way we were walking wasn't right, and there were considerable elevation changes and slippery rocks we had to move carefully on in the rain. Not wanting to descend the entire exposed ridge only to have to retrace our steps, we stopped for a moment, took out my phone under Mikey's poncho, and looked at the map I had taken a picture of at the trailhead where we parked.
Egregious error here-- the map I had photographed was of the Mount Arthur area and we had already hiked out of that zone further north in the park, so I didn't even have a map of where we were. I felt my heartbeat quicken and my nervous system activate. My mind immediately went to the fact that I didn't know the '911' equivalent for NZ. Mikey checked his phone for his map photos and it promptly died. I turned off airplane mode and amazingly had service and was able to turn on my data and download a map of the area from the DOC website. What a relief. In the meanwhile, 10 days worth of email/messenger/whatsapp notifications flooded the screen. I swiped them away one by one and we figured out that yes- we had to backtrack, we were heading in the wrong direction. We made it back to the 'unmaintained track to Asbestos hut' sign, excited to at least have the word 'asbestos' on a sign. We took what seemed to be as unmaintained a track as possible and had several instances of reaching a clearing with many options, a trail that diminished, and a host of other unclear moments on the path. After some amount of time, a few slips and scrapes, more hail, a lot of treacherous and slippery rock, and considerable elevation change, we arrived at Asbestos cottage. What a feeling of uplift and elation! Mikey jumped up and down outside the windows as we heard voices inside and were certain they were our friends. We found the stooped door and barreled in...to find a woman we didn't know. She was not a fan of our boisterousness but the mood softened as we explained ourselves and she shared that she was on her way out of the hut. She was the first other person we saw all day and perhaps we forgot how to behave among strangers. Mikey hurt his knee on the last leg [ha] of our journey so he cozied up in his subpar sleeping bag on one of the rickety rocking chairs that housed pellets of rat poo and I kept on my sopping wet clothes as I hunted for any remotely dry firewood thicker than the twigs already stowed under an awning.
I felt a smugness that we had made it to the hut first as Nicole and Julian casually thought they would beat me (taking the "easy road"). It was 3:45 pm when we arrived. Not too long after, Susannah, a quirky solo-traveling middle aged woman came into the hut. There were 5 of us who were hoping to stay in the hut though only 2 of us were presently there. The hut was small and had 2 bunk beds, so now there would have to be 2 people sleeping on the floor. I didn't know the etiquette for 'reserving' a space in a first-come-first-serve hut but it seemed wholly uncool to assert that she couldn't stay there because "our friends are on their way." And good thing, because Mikey and I didn't have any firestarting source. Again, really unwise. Susannah had matches and we made a fire. After some lazing about warming ourselves in sleeping bags, meditating on a crinkly mattress, and reshifting our dripping clothes before the fire, we went for the final food we had- plain tortillas and some wilted spinach leaves. It was a dry wrap but it didn't matter. What an amazing mouthfeel to have food and be dry. I wondered what Nicole and Julian would think when they arrive at the hut and saw that it was me and Mikey, even though Mikey was supposed to have gone to town with Zoe. Inside I was so thankful things had transpired the way they had, because given all the challenges with routefinding I would not have wanted to make all those judgement calls on my own. Especially in the rough weather. I found strength from being in a duo with Mikey.
At last we heard voices and we all shared big smiles as our friends were at the door to the hut....but it was Zoe and Nicole! How did they get together, Zoe was supposed to be coming from town, and where was Julian?! By then it was close to 6 PM and we all had stories to tell. Zoe began to share how the ride she got dropped her off close to the Hangdog climbing campground where she ran into poo-tenant Dan. Even he had bailed on the tramping due to the weather. What were we still doing in the forest? She had to get another ride into town to the grocery store and felt rushed to make her way back to a trailhead since so few cars would be headed into the bush in the bad weather. Empty backpack now filled with provisions for us, she managed another ride towards a trailhead that could link up with the trail to Asbestos hut. As she walked along the road, another car passed her! It slowed, and out came...Nicole and Julian. This is where Nicole began to tell her story. She and Julian started out for the ridge and after giving it a valiant effort they decided that it was unwise to continue. They had trouble keeping their upright balance in the wind and Julian didn't have any rain gear. He thought about the dream Zoe had the previous night in which he died, and decided it was not the day to be a hero and pass over an exposed ridge in such conditions. So they backtracked and hiked up to the road, to take the same way I [supposedly] had. By the time they got to the road it had been about 3 hours and they were daydreaming hard of getting a ride into Takaka, meeting up with Mikey and Zoe (they didn't know it was only Zoe) and having a coffee in a warm cafe. So they wrote a note to me on a piece of cardboard, put it in a ziploc bag, and affixed it to the door of a hut they thought I would go to (?) They took the first ride they could towards Takaka and called out for the driver to slow down as they saw a neon orange figure making its way down the street. It was Zoe....on her way to the trailhead out of town. She had done the shopping. They got out of the car, shared stories of their respective travails thus far, and Julian decided to follow an intuition of his to meet his friend in town and come back the next night and join us at another hut. So Nicole, Zoe, and the backpack of food set out to hike 2 hours to Asbestos Cottage, which is where we had all met.
I was pretty dumbfounded that Julian had bailed in that way after his big-strong-man persona of hiking, but have come to find lots of respect for him following his truth. Plus he promised to bring us some more food the next night at Flora hut. Which would hopefully be our last night out there.
All the while, Susannah listened to our excitement and unexpected turns of the day. We traced what we thought our routes were with pruny index fingers on the large map on the wall, fed the fire thin twigs on the regular for hours, and ate with dirty hands and minimal bowls. In the end it was auspicious we had one less person that night in the hut. We moved mattresses next to each other to the 'living room' in front of the fire and let Susannah have the 'bedroom'. The 4 of us shared the 3 mattresses and Mikey tended the fire throughout the night, the selfless man that he is.
What a bunch of learning experiences. It's really true what they say--- there won't be flora or fauna here in NZ that will kill you like in other places. No bears, no poisonous snakes or harmful plants (hmm, really?) but the weather will do you in. Summer, winter, anytime. (It's supposed to be summertime here now.)
The next day we woke up to sunshine. What a miraculous treat. We sat and meditated together before beginning our day and took lots of breaks while hiking, one of which was to dip in a beautiful rocky swimming hole. We ate wraps with kumara and butternut squash hummus and finished off a chocolate bar. It felt like another plant from the days before.
After a chill day of about 4 hours walking we got to our final hut for the night. My knee was feeling it but we still threw the disc around for a while in celebration of the end being in sight. Julian met up with us freshly showered, boasting of his amenities of the previous night and doting on us with a fresh bar of chocolate and savory chips. Thank you Julian for joining the group again.
Friday, 20 December 2019
I am at a place called "Windsong orchard" which I was at last year for a week and had a good time, so I got back in touch to return. They have been a fruit orchard for over 30 years here, in many ways pioneering the organic movement in this district of New Zealand. They also were instrumental in getting the local weekly farmers market established and have been hosting woofers here since like 1990, when they still had to look through the manual and write letters to inquire about possibly doing work exchange here (!)
I wrote a dear friend an email and thought- why reinvent the wheel? So here are some excerpts from it. This blog probably has like 1.7 viewers so it needn't be all wrapped up in a nice bow with a beginning, middle, and end.
Again this is not everything, just a tidbit but I am pleased to say that at the 3-week mark I am feeling more settled than I was at the 1 week and 2 week marks. Thinking a bit more long term, feeling a bit more confident in my ability to spend money, save money, use money, and be wise about it. Also keep balance so now spend all day slaving away in the hot sun and also being engaged in some sort of purposeful routine and surrounded by a healthy and necessary degree of nice nature and quality people.
Next week I will have my first sailing experience (I hope) and also embark on my very first festival on the outskirts of Kahurangi national park, where I will be volunteering with the food prep/meals.
I wrote a dear friend an email and thought- why reinvent the wheel? So here are some excerpts from it. This blog probably has like 1.7 viewers so it needn't be all wrapped up in a nice bow with a beginning, middle, and end.
I have been thinking a fair bit about the culture with migrant workers/day laborers as that is essentially what I am doing now as I am woofing here picking blueberries- minimum wage basic labor. There is an emphasis on speed and efficiency (not to an unhealthy degree- it is a friendly and warm family fruit orchard - but still) and I am working alongside a girl doing her internship from Denmark and a guy our age from New Caledonia. Who even knew what that was?! It's a close by island that is a French colony. His name is Arnaud and it's pronounced ahhh-no. He is sweet and sentimental and knows very little english so everything we have communicated has been laborious and broken. That said, he has managed to casually drop that his mom was imprisoned for protesting/being an activist against the governmental seizure of ancestral lands (?) and during that jail time his father divorced her. He was 18 at the time and has since had no contact with his father because the fact that he divorced his mom when she was in jail is "not morality" (in the words of Arnaud.)
There are too many blueberries and not enough pickers! So we ended up with 2 extra hands in the form of young German guys. They are very different but both needed the work and are just looking for whatever kind of day labor they can do. They have a really strong sense of life being ideal if one has a "job and a girlfriend" which will lead to getting higher in the company your job is in and then starting a family. I recognize I have resistance to that paradigm which is definitely related to the fact that I feel I missed that boat. Veiled in the openness/write your own script thing I profess.
Here they call a bathroom a "toilet". So people sometimes say weird things like "I got lost in the toilet" or "I banged my head in the toilet". tehehe.
Also flip flops are jandals. And breaks in the middle of the workday are "smokos."
Chanuka occurred to me to the degree that I googled when it was. But thankfully after about a decade of trying in various times and ways to make any jewish involvement feel right/good/comforting, I've all but given up on that. Like, if I happen to be offered a yummy looking latke I will not turn it down. But that is the extent of it.
Speaking of Judaism, I had a horrific experience with a hick/NZ Navy family here last week. I was straight up in a fight/flight/freeze state. And upon reflection, I wonder if it wasn't like some genetic/ancestral trauma activations. (I can't help it - I am orienting this way now.) I can't remember if I told you about it or any snippets. But at the very beginning they said "you aren't vegetarian, are you?" in an accusatory tone. I proudly and smugly said "No!" But then I added "But I don't eat pork" (I was careful to say pork rather than pig, because I have learned that saying pig is like saying 'cow'- it is something vegans do to personify and show how uncouth and cruel it is that some people eat cows, etc). Just my luck. "Oh- well! We happen to have a fridge full of ham right now. Not sure if we have much else, actually." She then asks why I don't eat pork. I tried to give her a cavalier yet diplomatic answer: "I was raised in a really religious environment that professed to not eat pork." Keep it short and sweet, no details or identifying factors. She asked which religion, so I said "Judaism." She sneered and said "No. We don't have that here." I was kind of dumbfounded. She repeated "We don't have that here. You mean like...Jewish? No, that's not here."
---
I feel like something got switched on or off in me at that moment. I was vulnerable, at their mercy for my food and lodging, without any kind of vehicle or escape plan, and in a very rural place where there were no buses and it would take hours to walk to the nearest road I could hitchhike. Somehow I spent 2 excruciating days there in isolation, during which I was tasked with weeding and after an hour pulled my lower back. I did end up eating things that weren't pork, thankfully, but every other comment was like a snide thing about Americans, my clothing, the way I washed dishes, everything. That- and inappropriate comments about their 2-yr old daughter like "She was a total surprise. We never wanted kids." and "I would definitely not rush into this (gesturing to the little tot,rolling her eyes.)
Now I will say that I probably took everything a bit too intensely and the way I describe it is probably a strong reading into the facts on the ground. But there was something in the air/environment that made me not feel safe and all parts of my mind and nervous system were aware of it. It's easy enough to say "oh, some uneducated and sheltered rural hicks." and Wave them away and chalk it up to a weird travel experience. But as a sensitive and feeling person, it knocked me down and out. Physically with my seized up lower back, and then when I finally arranged to get out (made contact with a random person with a campervan from a backpacker message board who said he liked meditation) and told them of my plans to leave, they accused me of being a bad communicator, reneging on my agreement, underhanded, and threatened that "it's a small town" and word gets around fast -- this in regard to the fact that I told them my next stop was to woof at this fruit orchard and they said they knew it and would basically smear my name. That was when I started to feel faint. I was standing my the wall in the living room holding my water bottle and I dropped the bottle and sank to the floor. It must have been quite a scene. The dad said "what's going on - you look totally disorientated." I wasn't that far gone to still think a little judgemental snippet about how he mispronounced that word, only to find out later that it is a British pronunciation much like 'aluminium.' Whatever.
Boy, I'm getting all worked up just typing this out. I am so so grateful though, for the events that transpired once I got out of there. They ended up driving me into the nearest town where I agreed to meet up with this backpacker and I felt so much relief to just be in the podunk grocery store. I wandered numbly through the streets until I found a park and lay down, stretching and breathing. I think 2 hours past as I was efforting into slowing down my exhales and counting each breath, just trying to come down from the last 2 days. Or maybe it was 3 days. I realize it could have been a fool's errand to meet up with this other backpacker who's facebook profile was blank except for the name "Mi Bla." And a picture of a nice landscape. But I needed any kind of escape. And preferably one on my terms. It ended up being a wonderfully like-minded conscientious German who, despite his limited English, we were able to establish a shared resonance, respect, and fondness fairly early on. We walked around town and then drove to a nearby beach. Got in the water, stacked rocks, played in the sand, repeat. I could feel myself unfurling and knew that my back muscles were already on the mend, being around a trustworthy open-hearted peer, with freedom of movement and words.
After a day with this timely godsend, I met up with a friend I had met last year from the states who's currently 2 years into his time in NZ and in a frustrating battle with immigration for a work visa so he can do a job he is quite qualified for and got offered. Bryce took the ferry from Wellington and I met him at the top of the South Island and we drove 4 hours up to Golden Bay, to a hostel that further uplifted me and has now far and away qualified as my favorite hostel experience. Kiwiana has a ping pong table (!) which was a big pull in me booking it. It is super small and intimate, and probably has room for 15 guests and a few long-term volunteers. The kitchen closes at 10, and everyone was so friendly, welcoming, and helpful. It was a complete 180 degree shift from the industrial hostels where everyone is just on their phones. My fingers are getting sore (actually, they were getting sore from all the blueberry picking) so I will wrap this up. Thanks for hearing me and wow I am so relieved again, to be in a safe place. A place that feels safe. What is it about safety. It is hard to say. But I do wish I weren't so porous and heavily impacted by people around me. I have spent years knowing that I am, and trying to NOT be. To cultivate all that I need to exist within. And then I had this attachment therapist back in Portland who insists that such a feat is fundamentally impossible for humans, as we are governed by our attachment systems and it is in our nature to get 'downloads' from people around us. Hmm.
Again this is not everything, just a tidbit but I am pleased to say that at the 3-week mark I am feeling more settled than I was at the 1 week and 2 week marks. Thinking a bit more long term, feeling a bit more confident in my ability to spend money, save money, use money, and be wise about it. Also keep balance so now spend all day slaving away in the hot sun and also being engaged in some sort of purposeful routine and surrounded by a healthy and necessary degree of nice nature and quality people.
Next week I will have my first sailing experience (I hope) and also embark on my very first festival on the outskirts of Kahurangi national park, where I will be volunteering with the food prep/meals.
Monday, 9 December 2019
Monday evening
Most immediately, I became aware of the fact that an island off the North Island of NZ which is a volcano, blew this afternoon, killing some people and injuring more. I saw some videos and read some news articles. It very well could have been me, as I'm a tourist. I just happen to be in the South Island right now and I was more monitoring the floods and land/rockslides that have rendered a large chunk of the South Island impassable due to the road damage. In particular, Franz Josef area where I spent some time last year. I feel more justified in having done my advanced directives at the very least, and intend to contemplate death and dying more as I continue to practice [meditation].
I've now felt my first several senses of community and they are sweet. But quite fleeting. The hostel (locally called a "backpackers") I've been staying at here in Nelson has a few solid folks who are long-termers and I feel very safe, comfortable, appreciated, and a sense of belonging amongst them. So I stayed for 5 nights instead of 4, and will be heading out in the morning to my first workaway, a family who owns a wine tour company in a vineyard-filled sprawling area about 2 hours south of here. It's rural, and I anticipate helping out with various tasks around the house, cooking, cleaning, and childcare for a little tot- not sure how old. I am looking forward to being in a real kitchen and having access to spices, oils, and raw ingredients. I hope. I have no idea what the dynamic will be, but I'll find out. I'll also relish being around a kid again and being able to engage in home-maintaining tasks, whatever they may be.
These long termers include a very bro-y mountain biker who is camper-vanning around from Squamish, CA, a bearded twinkly smiled Yang-gangster from Cleveland who immediately pinned me as American due to my Nalgene and Osprey (yup), a charismatic Brit named Callum who has a tattoo of Thing 1 and Thing 2 prancing on the inside of his bicep, a spunky German girl who's got a job at a local Italian restaurant and a French girl who is gluten free ("not by choice") and is also a solo traveler.
Part of me wants to really get into some of the emotional underpinnings to everything that happens rather than simply report happenings and remarkable circumstances. I haven't quite figured out how to disclose with grace and skill and measured boundaries rather than an unfiltered vulnerability that is not wise to have on the internet.
The beach tournament was challenging disc-wise, as the wind was so intense the entire time, except the 2nd half of the very last game on Sunday when instead of gale-force winds, there was monsoon rains. Very hard to complete any passes. Several games went by without any break points. It was more like an homage to ultimate than anything else. Communal-energy wise it was really great and I relished in feeling again, a sense of belonging and purpose. Being a part of something, generally accepted, and able to engage. I even reconnected with a few people I had met playing pickup here last year, and got that fervent buzz of a tournament when there is just so many hours in a 48 hour period spent amongst people that it's like a crash course in getting to know random strangers. At least for me, playing in a hat tournament in another country.
There continues to be ups and downs, disappointments, moments of pause, rapture at the beautiful nature, distress and resignedness, lament and shame. Doubt and wistfulness, glee and relief and longing.
And I left my cute little mini Dr. Bronner's bottle of soap I brought at a hostel in Auckland. So now I'm soapless.
*If you are reading this and have any questions about NZ, travel, me, or otherwise, feel free to comment and/or otherwise get in touch with me and ask, and I will address it in this blog.
I've now felt my first several senses of community and they are sweet. But quite fleeting. The hostel (locally called a "backpackers") I've been staying at here in Nelson has a few solid folks who are long-termers and I feel very safe, comfortable, appreciated, and a sense of belonging amongst them. So I stayed for 5 nights instead of 4, and will be heading out in the morning to my first workaway, a family who owns a wine tour company in a vineyard-filled sprawling area about 2 hours south of here. It's rural, and I anticipate helping out with various tasks around the house, cooking, cleaning, and childcare for a little tot- not sure how old. I am looking forward to being in a real kitchen and having access to spices, oils, and raw ingredients. I hope. I have no idea what the dynamic will be, but I'll find out. I'll also relish being around a kid again and being able to engage in home-maintaining tasks, whatever they may be.
These long termers include a very bro-y mountain biker who is camper-vanning around from Squamish, CA, a bearded twinkly smiled Yang-gangster from Cleveland who immediately pinned me as American due to my Nalgene and Osprey (yup), a charismatic Brit named Callum who has a tattoo of Thing 1 and Thing 2 prancing on the inside of his bicep, a spunky German girl who's got a job at a local Italian restaurant and a French girl who is gluten free ("not by choice") and is also a solo traveler.
Part of me wants to really get into some of the emotional underpinnings to everything that happens rather than simply report happenings and remarkable circumstances. I haven't quite figured out how to disclose with grace and skill and measured boundaries rather than an unfiltered vulnerability that is not wise to have on the internet.
The beach tournament was challenging disc-wise, as the wind was so intense the entire time, except the 2nd half of the very last game on Sunday when instead of gale-force winds, there was monsoon rains. Very hard to complete any passes. Several games went by without any break points. It was more like an homage to ultimate than anything else. Communal-energy wise it was really great and I relished in feeling again, a sense of belonging and purpose. Being a part of something, generally accepted, and able to engage. I even reconnected with a few people I had met playing pickup here last year, and got that fervent buzz of a tournament when there is just so many hours in a 48 hour period spent amongst people that it's like a crash course in getting to know random strangers. At least for me, playing in a hat tournament in another country.
There continues to be ups and downs, disappointments, moments of pause, rapture at the beautiful nature, distress and resignedness, lament and shame. Doubt and wistfulness, glee and relief and longing.
And I left my cute little mini Dr. Bronner's bottle of soap I brought at a hostel in Auckland. So now I'm soapless.
*If you are reading this and have any questions about NZ, travel, me, or otherwise, feel free to comment and/or otherwise get in touch with me and ask, and I will address it in this blog.
Monday, 2 December 2019
First few days having reached the destination
I've been struggling a bit the last few days. Upsurges of emotion have swelled and peaked from seemingly miniscule catalysts, leaving me tossed and akimbo. There have been a few of these, and I found my responses to be even clearer than in the past. The qualities of these swells are fairly familiar and definitive by now. The sense of overarching foreboding, the irrelevance of time. Concepts like relativity, perspective, and reason are remote. My recent polyvagal orientation had me orient immediately towards reaching for co-regulation opportunities with people. Thank you to those of you who met me and showed/continue to show me love and stability. Being shown attuned love and steadfast presence is something I did not get as a kid and am working on internalizing the idea that it is possible.
--- --- ---
The one hitchhiking attempt I've made thus far has yielded pride and humility. Phil from Tonga gave me a ride that took 15 minutes and would have taken 2 hours on buses.
---- ---- ----
Tempering assertiveness and practicing extending vocal interjections, rescinding hasty demands. The default for this body and persona is to defer, allow, assuage, quell, soften, assist, morph. Be malleable. Fill in, smooth.
Thank you Eitan for reminding me to give it a chance. I will give it a chance.
--- --- ---
The one hitchhiking attempt I've made thus far has yielded pride and humility. Phil from Tonga gave me a ride that took 15 minutes and would have taken 2 hours on buses.
---- ---- ----
Tempering assertiveness and practicing extending vocal interjections, rescinding hasty demands. The default for this body and persona is to defer, allow, assuage, quell, soften, assist, morph. Be malleable. Fill in, smooth.
Thank you Eitan for reminding me to give it a chance. I will give it a chance.
Thursday, 28 November 2019
Podcasts Creeping Into My Life
Of course I've known about podcasts for years but similar to many things, I turn the other cheek and avoid the bandwagon. Sometime in the last 6 months or so, I finally got on board. I think it began in anticipation of some travel- an attempt at occupying myself on the plane. Or while I'd bike the half hour to or from the gym I had been going to in Portland.
I had heard of a few and checked them out, to minimal yield. This American Life, Wait Wait Don't Tell Me, The Moth. I will admit there is something about knowing that a podcast is widely lauded that repels me. This is in no way based in logic. These days I've been listening to a fair bit of travel podcasts (unsurprisingly) in implicit and slightly sub-but mostly conscious ways of psyching myself up for this trip. These have been Dirtbag Diaries and Zero To Travel. And the occasional geeky avian or meteorological podcast by a kiwi to 'acquaint myself with the accent.' I mainly vacillate between travel/backpacking podcasts and trauma/somatic/attachment podcasts. Peter Levine and Gabor Mate are interviewed on a lot of them.
I'm writing this from a king-sized clean and soft bed in Kailua, Hawaii. In an auspicious facebook post reply, I learned that an old friend from Boulder contra dance's parents live here and would be tickled to host me for this 24 hour Thanksgiving layover. It's the end of a long day that began with a 6:30 AM alarm, waking me up from a dream that vividly highlighted my ongoing challenge and practice with assertiveness. I cleared up the last of my room, made one final illegal-dumping run to a big trash bin at a neighboring apartment complex, and drank echinacea elderberry team with a splash of unsweetened vanilla hemp milk. Bye-bye Portland.
Something that's been so profound thus far with this transition is the bringing to the forefront and recognition of communities I have become a part of, formed and fomented (I don't know what this word means but it belongs here). I have worked pretty hard to think through all the aspects of life that would need to shift and end, how that would go, and how to carry it out. A real executive functioning bonanza. I gave 2.5 months notice at work and stewarded that as best I could. It feels like a distant memory now, every Tuesday and Thursday since Oct 2015 heading down to Oregon City. Finding my favorite Mexican food ever, including that which is in Mexico itself, just 2 blocks from my workplace in OC - Super Torta.
Communities... I went to the Tuesday night contact improv jam one last time. It's been maybe 2 years since I've attended regularly, but I must have gone enough that I know a critical mass of people, made an impression, and got some love and care when I announced by departure. I've had some extra special one-on-one hangouts with people over the last week, mainly from Aspen Grove. Really cherish my one-on-one sits and hangouts with sangha members. Even though it took us a year+ to finally make it happen. Even at home, my relationship with my community members [affectionately termed 'fostervillains'] has taken on a sweet and more authentic and deliberate texture in recent days and weeks.
Writing this is a bit laborious, because I'm doing a lot of considering of who might read it and what they will think. That's unnecessary caretaking. It's also clarifying, and I really doubt it'll last through this trip, but I am still on board with the idea of going for it and seeing how it unfolds. I have a desire to connect with people in my life, express myself, share and be shared with, see and be seen. And heard. This could be a platform for that but it also begs the dichotomy blogs often split upon: sharing the narrative details, or sharing my emotions that undercurrent the observable aforementioned?
Tomorrow I leave on Thursday morning. Thanksgiving. After a 9 hour flight to Auckland, I'll be arriving about 10 PM Friday night. I guess this is how you miss Thanksgiving and Black Friday.
PS: The plane to Honolulu was so empty I got a row of 5 seats to myself.
Sunday, 24 November 2019
Hi folks,
I managed to both locate and dust off my old blog that I created and populated back in 2009. I was an undergrad at NYU and wrote some cringe-worthy missives. It'd be silly to delete them though; posterity reigns. Ten years later and I'm still lexically oriented, and heading to New Zealand for some unknown amount of time.
A few people asked me if I'd be documenting my trip in any virtual form and my answer has been a shrugging "no" thus far. But I'm socially porous and sway, so I'll take this stab at a new routine and see how much traction it gains. It's 3 days before I leave Portland and I want to kick this off by memorializing a handwritten poem I've hung on to for a few years. I'll recycle the paper and type it here:
I managed to both locate and dust off my old blog that I created and populated back in 2009. I was an undergrad at NYU and wrote some cringe-worthy missives. It'd be silly to delete them though; posterity reigns. Ten years later and I'm still lexically oriented, and heading to New Zealand for some unknown amount of time.
A few people asked me if I'd be documenting my trip in any virtual form and my answer has been a shrugging "no" thus far. But I'm socially porous and sway, so I'll take this stab at a new routine and see how much traction it gains. It's 3 days before I leave Portland and I want to kick this off by memorializing a handwritten poem I've hung on to for a few years. I'll recycle the paper and type it here:
Tooth Care
Thomas and I have been discussing
in a most heated way
The pros and cons of our flossing methods,
respectively
Right to left, top to bottom
middle to outside
before the brush, after, before + after
Disposable pick
length of string. Dial it back
waxen, flaxen, everlasting
What a time, if we could all
freely share our true flossophies
On the back of the page I wrote this poem. A different energy to be sure:
Entering closed
bound up, a taut hotel fitted sheet
foundation intact
passed all inspections
I guess I have to socialize
what does that mean again?
Every time I lock eyes with a definition,
the pieces shift
your gaze evades me
bite my lip
gnaw on my nail
dissociate
Thank you,
I trust you to
bring me back
Tuesday, 25 August 2009
Crumbling Inhibitions
My walls are crumbling. As the hours pass, I am losing my anxiety that is so deeply rooted and my innards are exposing themselves. It feels so swell. I have been more present, and that is what allowed me to dive for so many low discs in the freshly mown grass as thrown by Ben, mowed by Just, just this morning. The grass is so supportive, and I always roll out a couple times round my hips. For gratuitous good measure. So we got mad sweaty, and then went to the quarry. Me, Ben, and Emily. "Clothing optional." I kept my pants on, because I am a boy, and can bare my chest. When we went out to toss, one of the salsa dancers was "sun-dipping-skinny-bathing" as Ben described it. I jokingly made a comment along the lines of "she wants you" and surprise of all surprises, Ben took off his shirt and said "bring it on!" heh. well. what a lookcomer. After throwing and cutting and laying out and general bliss, we winded down, and went to the quarry for a swim. Which i mentioned. Above.
Another instance of crumbling inhibitions:
I wandered into the kitchen where chocolate chip cookies were being made. Keren spontaneously danced, and so did I , and so did Just. I could describe it in detail, but I don't want to. You want to. Maybe I should consider this lifestyle. Maybe I shoulld consider more fads, like Obama.
Another instance of crumbling inhibitions:
I wandered into the kitchen where chocolate chip cookies were being made. Keren spontaneously danced, and so did I , and so did Just. I could describe it in detail, but I don't want to. You want to. Maybe I should consider this lifestyle. Maybe I shoulld consider more fads, like Obama.
Autism and nature.
This is an excerpt from an email I just wrote to the father of one of the kids I tend to/teach/ hang with.
I've been feeling like there has to be more similarities between me, and the other people here (inasmuch as we have communicated these enlightened and mutually understood feelings) and people with autism. I don't know what is different between us, but someone who acts in such a bizarre way as Alex does, must have something ese going on. I don't think it's a quanitity issue, but rather a difference in flavor, or even language. But the difference from an actual language, is that thus far, the various "autistic languages" have not been thoroughly uncovered.
Time for lunch and a staff meeting in a house made of twigs. Here is the excerpt:
"anyway it has me thinking, about alex. Mainly prompted because the head chef has been playing that bob marley album when he makes the meals, and ive been helping him. So it's really different here, obviously it's the wilderness. I think it is worth a try for Alex, as much or little as anything else, and it might even be less costly than some pie-in-he-sky medical treatment (im not meaning to discount anything, just to paint what i am saying in a positive light.)
I mean, you can see stars here. And when it is dark, it is so dark that you cant see even the darkness. It's thick. I'm sure you have felt it sometime. And there is so much less stimulation, and distraction. I mean, there is the inside, where it is simple, and we cook the food. And the outside, where there is grass and trees and woods and a quarry (water). I guess I have 2 ideas about why this might be good for alex : the obvious, calming, meditative, therapeutic of being in nature and away from all the things that are simulated in the city. I mean, let's face it - Alex acts pretty primal. The inhibitions just aren't on his radar, and things are more like that here. I'm not saying we eat with our hands caked in mud, but there are readily available reasons for doing everything we do, and none of them are related to disipline, or chastising for being physical with someone else (that said, there is respect and this is a dancey-yoga-ish place, but im thinking that maybe there wo
uld be less stimuli for Alex's meltdowns over here, since there is less stimuli to begin with.
2nd point: It is humbling, deafening, and beilttling. I feel beittled being around all this nature,because i am reduced to being a thing / creature of nature as well. especially at night, with the stars - it is scary, but because it is "the way it is" - there is nobody to go to to request a light be turned on. When I let that notion sink in, then it becomes more calming than scary, because it is just howthe world is supposed to be. I don't think that everyday life for a kid in the city, especially an autistic kid, is anything how life is 'spposed to be'. I mean, everyone has to be able to wait in lines, but where there are naturally fewer people, there are fewer lines. That is just a tiny example. I also read this book where this teacher/mentor went camping with an autistic nonverbal boy for a week and didn't feed him until the boy made the correct hand signs for the food, and other neccesities. I am not saying that you should dump Alex on a wagon with some gluten free pretz
els and a chew toy and call it a vacation week, but as far as a real transformation happening, it might be beneficial, or at least worth trying, a huge environmental change. Arguably, the insides cannot change no matter how much environmental altering and enhancement goes on. But the try. At the very least, he will be aware of his limits in relation to the greater natural forces out there.
I've been feeling like there has to be more similarities between me, and the other people here (inasmuch as we have communicated these enlightened and mutually understood feelings) and people with autism. I don't know what is different between us, but someone who acts in such a bizarre way as Alex does, must have something ese going on. I don't think it's a quanitity issue, but rather a difference in flavor, or even language. But the difference from an actual language, is that thus far, the various "autistic languages" have not been thoroughly uncovered.
Time for lunch and a staff meeting in a house made of twigs. Here is the excerpt:
"anyway it has me thinking, about alex. Mainly prompted because the head chef has been playing that bob marley album when he makes the meals, and ive been helping him. So it's really different here, obviously it's the wilderness. I think it is worth a try for Alex, as much or little as anything else, and it might even be less costly than some pie-in-he-sky medical treatment (im not meaning to discount anything, just to paint what i am saying in a positive light.)
I mean, you can see stars here. And when it is dark, it is so dark that you cant see even the darkness. It's thick. I'm sure you have felt it sometime. And there is so much less stimulation, and distraction. I mean, there is the inside, where it is simple, and we cook the food. And the outside, where there is grass and trees and woods and a quarry (water). I guess I have 2 ideas about why this might be good for alex : the obvious, calming, meditative, therapeutic of being in nature and away from all the things that are simulated in the city. I mean, let's face it - Alex acts pretty primal. The inhibitions just aren't on his radar, and things are more like that here. I'm not saying we eat with our hands caked in mud, but there are readily available reasons for doing everything we do, and none of them are related to disipline, or chastising for being physical with someone else (that said, there is respect and this is a dancey-yoga-ish place, but im thinking that maybe there wo
uld be less stimuli for Alex's meltdowns over here, since there is less stimuli to begin with.
2nd point: It is humbling, deafening, and beilttling. I feel beittled being around all this nature,because i am reduced to being a thing / creature of nature as well. especially at night, with the stars - it is scary, but because it is "the way it is" - there is nobody to go to to request a light be turned on. When I let that notion sink in, then it becomes more calming than scary, because it is just howthe world is supposed to be. I don't think that everyday life for a kid in the city, especially an autistic kid, is anything how life is 'spposed to be'. I mean, everyone has to be able to wait in lines, but where there are naturally fewer people, there are fewer lines. That is just a tiny example. I also read this book where this teacher/mentor went camping with an autistic nonverbal boy for a week and didn't feed him until the boy made the correct hand signs for the food, and other neccesities. I am not saying that you should dump Alex on a wagon with some gluten free pretz
els and a chew toy and call it a vacation week, but as far as a real transformation happening, it might be beneficial, or at least worth trying, a huge environmental change. Arguably, the insides cannot change no matter how much environmental altering and enhancement goes on. But the try. At the very least, he will be aware of his limits in relation to the greater natural forces out there.
EarthDance
I am spending a week at earth dance. earthdance.net. It is 45 minute drive away from the nearest town (Northampton) and thus it is different from anything I have ever done. I am not really doing it. I mean, I am doing it. I just went to the creamery. a little shoppe. down the road, a lot of miles. we picked up an order of yogurt from sidehill farm in vermont, where we get our yogurt [apparently.]
This week is different from most weeks here at Earthdance - its salsa camp/week/ convention. 50 women are here from all over the world (I know this because a handful of them don't speak English, and I can't understand when they try to request butter knives or spare towels or jugs of water, or an amalgam of the 3.) So I am a staff member here, and that entitles me to be here. I have a shift or 2 or 3 a day, cleaning, sweeping, taking out the trash, cursory bathroom cleaning (obligatory grimace) and burning the burnables! In every bathroom there is a bin for burnables. It means burnable things. Like toilet paper rolls or paper towels used to dry off your hands. No bodily fluids, please! Those are NOT burnable here. So this morning, Ben (head honcho-type) and I headed off through the woods to the furnace/sauna / quarry place and lit some fire in a fireplace-type-place and kept stuffing the burnables in and watched their edges curl in iridiescent orange flamules, as they became ash and char, making way for the rest of the burnables to burn.
I have been asking a ton of questions here, becuase I am not afraid to ask, and I have questions. Nothing that goes on here is typical of the supposed world that I was brought up into. I helpedCalyan, the head chef, make dinner last night. from 4-7 pm I chopped, peeled, diced 'n' sliced veggies, and then stir fried them in a wok, which all resulted in a sore arm and fingers, and a small sliver of skin sliced off of my left middle finger, and a hot splash of safflower oil on my wrist. But all is well, and we created a mean meal for 65 people. 50 salsa dancing women and 10 staffers. Fish chowder, Sweet potato Lentil stew, kale, veggie stirfry, and some other stuff that I can't remember right now. Everything is made in these huge bowls. Late last night Calyan came into the kitchen and made granola from scratch. I watched him make it. I don't think he is terribly fond of me, as I was asking him lots of questions and every time he said something to me I had to say "what?" because it was hard to hear his soft lyrical voice over the bellowing vocals of the tribal celtic / what-have you alternativish music blasting from his arcane laptop perched directly about the 10-burner oven. So calyan made granola. So much granola. We ate it for breakfast this morning. I had it with milk and maple syrup and cinnamon. Heavenly. I want to do some intense outdoor manual labor and frisbee today. I was teaching this woman who is bou 34 years old but certainly feels more like a 12 year old jumping around in a freeing new world, how to throw a flick. I was kind of impressed at my frisbee throwing knowledge, I suppose in comparison to the layperson. We got sweaty, we cut for each other, we climbed trees. There's a guy here, he made a commitment to live here for a year - he is the "buildings and grounds" guy, his name is Justin, but people call him "Just" or "Just one". Yesterday I pulled out weeds with him around this apple tree for an hour and a half, and we had a nice, albeit a bit forced, chat. He told me he has a younger sister who is 28 with special needs, and about a place he has been considering for her to live once their mother is no longer able to care for her. It's called ploughshare farms, and apparently its a self- sustainable community based heavily on the tenet that it is a bunch of people living together, and not in a hierarchical way - the people who need the support of the neurotypical "Staff" are meant to feel equal to said helpers. Would I maybe want to spend sometime working and living in a place like that? Maybe.
The more I think about it, or allow myself to submit to the different way of life here, the more I realize that I don't always have to be busy. I just wrote "busty" - I also don't always have to be busty, but that is less in my control than my business. It is quite a frightening sentiment, to have free time, and be in a rural place, as I have been used to the opposite for so long. This summer went pretty much like this for me:
Take care of kids, fret about various issues surrounding the respective babysitting jobs, play sports, think about the sports and the pickups and the people and myself in relation to everything else going on, take lots of subways, and play more sports on weekends, and spend time with friends. Oh, and fend off / appease the family. But I must say, my nephews and niece are definitely the sweetest, cutest babies ever. Albeit every baby is the sweetest and cutest. But really, the soft skin, the undifferentiated eyeball pigment, the wispy thin short hairs, the barely shaped nose, the limbs that flail arbitrarily and get more padded week by week from suckling just milk. It is all of those things but also, and most key-ly, the idea of a baby that is so powerful. The whole responsibility, extension of self, amalgamation of 2 people in love (sometimes), the we-made-this-life, or God-made-this-life-through-us thing... kind of makes someone with an ounce of sense just shut their mouths. Not me though. I can't shut my mine, apparently. It is time for me to do a cursory cleaning of the bathrooms here in the main Earthdance Farmhouse.
Needless to say, I am proud of myself.
This week is different from most weeks here at Earthdance - its salsa camp/week/ convention. 50 women are here from all over the world (I know this because a handful of them don't speak English, and I can't understand when they try to request butter knives or spare towels or jugs of water, or an amalgam of the 3.) So I am a staff member here, and that entitles me to be here. I have a shift or 2 or 3 a day, cleaning, sweeping, taking out the trash, cursory bathroom cleaning (obligatory grimace) and burning the burnables! In every bathroom there is a bin for burnables. It means burnable things. Like toilet paper rolls or paper towels used to dry off your hands. No bodily fluids, please! Those are NOT burnable here. So this morning, Ben (head honcho-type) and I headed off through the woods to the furnace/sauna / quarry place and lit some fire in a fireplace-type-place and kept stuffing the burnables in and watched their edges curl in iridiescent orange flamules, as they became ash and char, making way for the rest of the burnables to burn.
I have been asking a ton of questions here, becuase I am not afraid to ask, and I have questions. Nothing that goes on here is typical of the supposed world that I was brought up into. I helpedCalyan, the head chef, make dinner last night. from 4-7 pm I chopped, peeled, diced 'n' sliced veggies, and then stir fried them in a wok, which all resulted in a sore arm and fingers, and a small sliver of skin sliced off of my left middle finger, and a hot splash of safflower oil on my wrist. But all is well, and we created a mean meal for 65 people. 50 salsa dancing women and 10 staffers. Fish chowder, Sweet potato Lentil stew, kale, veggie stirfry, and some other stuff that I can't remember right now. Everything is made in these huge bowls. Late last night Calyan came into the kitchen and made granola from scratch. I watched him make it. I don't think he is terribly fond of me, as I was asking him lots of questions and every time he said something to me I had to say "what?" because it was hard to hear his soft lyrical voice over the bellowing vocals of the tribal celtic / what-have you alternativish music blasting from his arcane laptop perched directly about the 10-burner oven. So calyan made granola. So much granola. We ate it for breakfast this morning. I had it with milk and maple syrup and cinnamon. Heavenly. I want to do some intense outdoor manual labor and frisbee today. I was teaching this woman who is bou 34 years old but certainly feels more like a 12 year old jumping around in a freeing new world, how to throw a flick. I was kind of impressed at my frisbee throwing knowledge, I suppose in comparison to the layperson. We got sweaty, we cut for each other, we climbed trees. There's a guy here, he made a commitment to live here for a year - he is the "buildings and grounds" guy, his name is Justin, but people call him "Just" or "Just one". Yesterday I pulled out weeds with him around this apple tree for an hour and a half, and we had a nice, albeit a bit forced, chat. He told me he has a younger sister who is 28 with special needs, and about a place he has been considering for her to live once their mother is no longer able to care for her. It's called ploughshare farms, and apparently its a self- sustainable community based heavily on the tenet that it is a bunch of people living together, and not in a hierarchical way - the people who need the support of the neurotypical "Staff" are meant to feel equal to said helpers. Would I maybe want to spend sometime working and living in a place like that? Maybe.
The more I think about it, or allow myself to submit to the different way of life here, the more I realize that I don't always have to be busy. I just wrote "busty" - I also don't always have to be busty, but that is less in my control than my business. It is quite a frightening sentiment, to have free time, and be in a rural place, as I have been used to the opposite for so long. This summer went pretty much like this for me:
Take care of kids, fret about various issues surrounding the respective babysitting jobs, play sports, think about the sports and the pickups and the people and myself in relation to everything else going on, take lots of subways, and play more sports on weekends, and spend time with friends. Oh, and fend off / appease the family. But I must say, my nephews and niece are definitely the sweetest, cutest babies ever. Albeit every baby is the sweetest and cutest. But really, the soft skin, the undifferentiated eyeball pigment, the wispy thin short hairs, the barely shaped nose, the limbs that flail arbitrarily and get more padded week by week from suckling just milk. It is all of those things but also, and most key-ly, the idea of a baby that is so powerful. The whole responsibility, extension of self, amalgamation of 2 people in love (sometimes), the we-made-this-life, or God-made-this-life-through-us thing... kind of makes someone with an ounce of sense just shut their mouths. Not me though. I can't shut my mine, apparently. It is time for me to do a cursory cleaning of the bathrooms here in the main Earthdance Farmhouse.
Needless to say, I am proud of myself.
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
What I need to write
I need to not quash/squelch/quell the thoughts that are in my head. That I have. That I think. That I own. That exist, that creep. I am pretty sure they just do said things because my mind has a penchant for extremes and attempts at self-freaking out, but here it is. If Shalom Auslander can write in his world-renown published satirical orthodox yeshiva hating memoir about the initial thoughts of fear and terror for his unborn recently- concieved child, then I can write about thoughts along a similar (non heroin- infested, I might add uselessly) vein that I have tried not to entertain as of late.
When I held the babies, a thought came: I can poke out one of their tiny little, unfocused, of androgynous color, eyes. I can toss/drop/throw/huck them onto the floor. It's like when I drive over that curvy overpass on route 4: a slight turn of my wrists, or a negligence in turning at the right moment to remain on course, and drastic things with irreversible consequences, pregnant with grief, ensue. And it's all in my hands. Along with the great undifferentiated potential personalities, tribulations, and proud moments of these children lies the power in me to deter that, to fuck with it in a really really twisted and subtle way, or I could take the demonic route that would lead to as much havoc as me refusing to go to college and moving to a forest; and practice my javelin toss. Of course I need to write this in a veiled manner, even after setting off on a quest to be super lucid, because it's my fallback, and my default when I know that this is not FYEO. Sucks.
So the neuroses are there, ripe for the diagnosing. where are the willing, eager young world- changers?
When I held the babies, a thought came: I can poke out one of their tiny little, unfocused, of androgynous color, eyes. I can toss/drop/throw/huck them onto the floor. It's like when I drive over that curvy overpass on route 4: a slight turn of my wrists, or a negligence in turning at the right moment to remain on course, and drastic things with irreversible consequences, pregnant with grief, ensue. And it's all in my hands. Along with the great undifferentiated potential personalities, tribulations, and proud moments of these children lies the power in me to deter that, to fuck with it in a really really twisted and subtle way, or I could take the demonic route that would lead to as much havoc as me refusing to go to college and moving to a forest; and practice my javelin toss. Of course I need to write this in a veiled manner, even after setting off on a quest to be super lucid, because it's my fallback, and my default when I know that this is not FYEO. Sucks.
So the neuroses are there, ripe for the diagnosing. where are the willing, eager young world- changers?
Wednesday, 17 June 2009
Funny you should ask.
So it's been a month since last blag. I guess that's indicative of summer. I am proud of my cooking that I just did, so I will note it here:
I made angel hair in a pot, alongside a pan in which I fried pieces of eggplant, broccoli, and string beans in butter, oil, and garlic. I added tomato sauce to the pot of veggies and then some pizza cheese, and mixed it with the angel hair. Now I'm eating it. It is such a pleasure to eat real food... It just makes so much more SENSE than what I did last night after a weary night of frisbee in astoria; stop at cvs and buy a pack of peanut butter cheese crackers and an instant teriyaki noodle bowl of soup to microwave with one of those tiny packets of "vegetables" which are really just thin flaky pieces of cardboard in orange and green and marroon. Next up will be eggplant parm; it just has to be. The strange thing is, it took me so many days/weeks to muster up the something to cook. It's like I feel it will be a big endeavor, whereas it's not more than 20 minutes, and now I'm set for food at least till tomorrow night. Is it gross to eat a pound of pasta and veggies in a day? I hope knotz. [chomp chomp]
Ok, I ate 2 bowlfuls and cleaned up. Good going E! I even wiped up the stovetop. The food is packed away in the fridge and the utensils and dishes are washed. And my shoulders hurt. And I will need to go to work in half an hour. On that front, here's what I've been up to these days:
Babysittin'
- lying around, trying to impart wisdom and common sense on a tot, perfecting my playground protocol/ettiquette skills in this damned city, cabbing myself and the little one EVERYWHERE, and generally getting looked at differently by everyone since I have a small clueless vulnerable child in tow. For example:
On the subway, first of all, the kid loves it. I'm not sure if it's because it is SO much bigger and greater than him, and he might feel about it the way I feel about the ocean. It continues regardless of him and all the other people present, but at the same time, all of those people make it what it is. I mean I look at his face, and it's that same enamored obsessed face when he sees an elevator, a shiny glinty "OPEN" sign, or whatever elsemight tickle the quirkish fancy.
Also, heh. I want to write about some stuff right now that I am so hesitant to divulge even here on the internets because I'd venture to say there is a 30% chance that somehow the people I will be emulsifying and blending with my words will stumble accross this very blag and then I'll have to dig myself out delicately from this self-imposed cheezit-crumbs barrell.
Ok, so 3 babiesfor the price of...well, 3. But for the timing of one gestation period! That's right, I am an aunt to triplets. I never thought I'd be typing that sporting this surreptitiously smug smirk but hey, that's the Truman life. They are somewhat real to me but will be even more real after this sunday night when I perform my first selfless and painstaking "night shift" of feeding, burping, daiper changing, cooing, wooing, pooing, and cashewing, and whatever else is involved with people who weigh 4.5 pounds each. It's all me. Well, it won't be. But I had a strange dream. And then it was July, July, July, and it seemed SO strange!
Get the ref? you should.
Iran: kind of exciting. I wish I was there. Or it was here. Token mention of sadness for the casualties and injuries, but my original hunch remains: I want in on the passion.
So what kind of sense am I trying to teach the little dude? First of all, I call him dude. Maybe a little bit too much. The entire thing is an exercise in my own patience, for sure. I need to tell him everything, and between 5 and 10 times before it gets done. And not just tellling, but prompting, physically and modelling. For everything. Like, "give me your foot" so I can put on your shoe. But hey, some people can't move their own feet, so this is a prodigious thing and should not be catted on.
Man, I need to wrap this up as I should put on presentable clothes and maybe brush my teeth? And then go be one of the other people here with a purpose. I can't wait for certain things. Such as hockey later. I don''t know, its been much too long since I've made it to a weekday scrimmage.
I made angel hair in a pot, alongside a pan in which I fried pieces of eggplant, broccoli, and string beans in butter, oil, and garlic. I added tomato sauce to the pot of veggies and then some pizza cheese, and mixed it with the angel hair. Now I'm eating it. It is such a pleasure to eat real food... It just makes so much more SENSE than what I did last night after a weary night of frisbee in astoria; stop at cvs and buy a pack of peanut butter cheese crackers and an instant teriyaki noodle bowl of soup to microwave with one of those tiny packets of "vegetables" which are really just thin flaky pieces of cardboard in orange and green and marroon. Next up will be eggplant parm; it just has to be. The strange thing is, it took me so many days/weeks to muster up the something to cook. It's like I feel it will be a big endeavor, whereas it's not more than 20 minutes, and now I'm set for food at least till tomorrow night. Is it gross to eat a pound of pasta and veggies in a day? I hope knotz. [chomp chomp]
Ok, I ate 2 bowlfuls and cleaned up. Good going E! I even wiped up the stovetop. The food is packed away in the fridge and the utensils and dishes are washed. And my shoulders hurt. And I will need to go to work in half an hour. On that front, here's what I've been up to these days:
Babysittin'
- lying around, trying to impart wisdom and common sense on a tot, perfecting my playground protocol/ettiquette skills in this damned city, cabbing myself and the little one EVERYWHERE, and generally getting looked at differently by everyone since I have a small clueless vulnerable child in tow. For example:
On the subway, first of all, the kid loves it. I'm not sure if it's because it is SO much bigger and greater than him, and he might feel about it the way I feel about the ocean. It continues regardless of him and all the other people present, but at the same time, all of those people make it what it is. I mean I look at his face, and it's that same enamored obsessed face when he sees an elevator, a shiny glinty "OPEN" sign, or whatever elsemight tickle the quirkish fancy.
Also, heh. I want to write about some stuff right now that I am so hesitant to divulge even here on the internets because I'd venture to say there is a 30% chance that somehow the people I will be emulsifying and blending with my words will stumble accross this very blag and then I'll have to dig myself out delicately from this self-imposed cheezit-crumbs barrell.
Ok, so 3 babiesfor the price of...well, 3. But for the timing of one gestation period! That's right, I am an aunt to triplets. I never thought I'd be typing that sporting this surreptitiously smug smirk but hey, that's the Truman life. They are somewhat real to me but will be even more real after this sunday night when I perform my first selfless and painstaking "night shift" of feeding, burping, daiper changing, cooing, wooing, pooing, and cashewing, and whatever else is involved with people who weigh 4.5 pounds each. It's all me. Well, it won't be. But I had a strange dream. And then it was July, July, July, and it seemed SO strange!
Get the ref? you should.
Iran: kind of exciting. I wish I was there. Or it was here. Token mention of sadness for the casualties and injuries, but my original hunch remains: I want in on the passion.
So what kind of sense am I trying to teach the little dude? First of all, I call him dude. Maybe a little bit too much. The entire thing is an exercise in my own patience, for sure. I need to tell him everything, and between 5 and 10 times before it gets done. And not just tellling, but prompting, physically and modelling. For everything. Like, "give me your foot" so I can put on your shoe. But hey, some people can't move their own feet, so this is a prodigious thing and should not be catted on.
Man, I need to wrap this up as I should put on presentable clothes and maybe brush my teeth? And then go be one of the other people here with a purpose. I can't wait for certain things. Such as hockey later. I don''t know, its been much too long since I've made it to a weekday scrimmage.
Sunday, 17 May 2009
yep
The world is so weird. This is going to be pretty stream of concsiousness, as I am listening to ben folds and just feel this fancy dark chocolate melting rapidly in my mouth as i try to quickly spread the remaining bits over all surfaces of my mouth in a futile yet ever- valiant effort to enhance the sensory experience. I mean, double you tee eff? Im sitting on a comfy twin bed in stuytown with my partialy unpacked stuff surrounding me, including a down blanket i snatched from the carlyle pile of discarded dorm stuff. Im sitting here shirtless, probably with peanut butter on my chin and perhaps my nose. I had the strangest day. Actually, it was so UNstrange, I think that's what about it got to me. I couldn't deal with the normalcy of it, since I've worked my entire life (since I was 11 and became aware of myself) to create this alternative image of myself, and stray from normalcy that when I actually fight those natural E.-urges, stuff goes awry in my heart and my kidneys, and I end up... drinking? Nope, that didn't pan out. I feel really emotional right now, and I'm not sure why. I think it's because although I feel like my socializing today was totally ftw, (for the win) (i.e. good, way to be Elana, way to socialize with the real adults and still maintain your individuality) but I also know that none of it meant anything and that it never really does/ will.
Fact: Drunk people embody transience. No matter how turned on I might get hanging around the hockey guys, flirting aimlessly and shamelessly back and forth, forth and back, none of it means anything (when does flirting mean something? I should ask Duncan, who concentrated in Meaning. see last post. He owns my respect though.) I mean I'm all about fucking the notion of a boundary and doing whatever, but since I think too / so much about it, I inevitably and undeniably impose meaning and importance to all of the actions I do, and that are done to me. I can't just let something happen, in the split second before, during, and after every tiny decision I make, everywhere I look, everything I say, every facial expression I put out, I consider so mouch. I consider what other people would think: all of the people in my life that I have ever known, and all of the people I might know in the future, myself in different mindsets, etc. Should I/did I do this was it good or bad or stupid, I dont need to spell out the defining characteristics of hyper self-awareness here.
There was a mini mini scrimmage. With some people later on. It was really fun, it was what I needed. I tossed twice for short amounts of time in between the hockey and the socializing, and I needed those also. We lost our game, but that feels like ages ago. I can't do games, I choke, I choke up, and I flub, or I don't perform, and then I feel shitty about it. I get so hyped and worked up inside in my heart that when it's my turn to play I am jittery as a beanbag and can't do much. I was ok today, I blocked some shots with my stick and legs nicely, and held hark marks on D a bit. but none of that is enough. It means something to me in my head, but I need to finish I need to score and get on that paper. Thats why games suck...they promote said mindset and outlook.
What is my point? what am i getting at. maybe i feel successful that i socialized with adults. why dont i feel like an adult? why cant i just do what everyone else does and not freak out about it and overthink it so much? see llook now im not writing in caps this must be emotive. I am worthwhile and I know it, and I want so much to prove it to others, but in unconventional ways, and i think the truth is that most of the world doesnt give. Who has the time or energy or trust, especiallly trust and interest to be receptive to such a strange breed? Why can't I just dumb down and be like everyone else? I'm typing pretty fast here, this rocks. maybe i should get a job as a transcriber, or a transponster, like chandler bing. Phew. Sore shoulders, egging holders, and I have a boy after me. Not really. Now I can't even write about it. Sometimes a part of me just wants to focus all my efforts on facilitating compliments for myself so I can feel that tiny bit of "Yess!" ness when someone gives you a compliment before I start to deconstruct their motives and fabricated/ produce other reasons why they don't mean it, or why if they do mean it, I shouldn't take it with more than a grain of kosher salt.
oh eff em ell, oh woe is me, oh oh.
Fact: Drunk people embody transience. No matter how turned on I might get hanging around the hockey guys, flirting aimlessly and shamelessly back and forth, forth and back, none of it means anything (when does flirting mean something? I should ask Duncan, who concentrated in Meaning. see last post. He owns my respect though.) I mean I'm all about fucking the notion of a boundary and doing whatever, but since I think too / so much about it, I inevitably and undeniably impose meaning and importance to all of the actions I do, and that are done to me. I can't just let something happen, in the split second before, during, and after every tiny decision I make, everywhere I look, everything I say, every facial expression I put out, I consider so mouch. I consider what other people would think: all of the people in my life that I have ever known, and all of the people I might know in the future, myself in different mindsets, etc. Should I/did I do this was it good or bad or stupid, I dont need to spell out the defining characteristics of hyper self-awareness here.
There was a mini mini scrimmage. With some people later on. It was really fun, it was what I needed. I tossed twice for short amounts of time in between the hockey and the socializing, and I needed those also. We lost our game, but that feels like ages ago. I can't do games, I choke, I choke up, and I flub, or I don't perform, and then I feel shitty about it. I get so hyped and worked up inside in my heart that when it's my turn to play I am jittery as a beanbag and can't do much. I was ok today, I blocked some shots with my stick and legs nicely, and held hark marks on D a bit. but none of that is enough. It means something to me in my head, but I need to finish I need to score and get on that paper. Thats why games suck...they promote said mindset and outlook.
What is my point? what am i getting at. maybe i feel successful that i socialized with adults. why dont i feel like an adult? why cant i just do what everyone else does and not freak out about it and overthink it so much? see llook now im not writing in caps this must be emotive. I am worthwhile and I know it, and I want so much to prove it to others, but in unconventional ways, and i think the truth is that most of the world doesnt give. Who has the time or energy or trust, especiallly trust and interest to be receptive to such a strange breed? Why can't I just dumb down and be like everyone else? I'm typing pretty fast here, this rocks. maybe i should get a job as a transcriber, or a transponster, like chandler bing. Phew. Sore shoulders, egging holders, and I have a boy after me. Not really. Now I can't even write about it. Sometimes a part of me just wants to focus all my efforts on facilitating compliments for myself so I can feel that tiny bit of "Yess!" ness when someone gives you a compliment before I start to deconstruct their motives and fabricated/ produce other reasons why they don't mean it, or why if they do mean it, I shouldn't take it with more than a grain of kosher salt.
oh eff em ell, oh woe is me, oh oh.
Thursday, 7 May 2009
birthday
So It will be my 21st birthday, and it's hard to know what, if anything, that means. I should ask my Gallatin pal who just finished his colloquium in "Meaning." Meanwhile, another Gallatin grad of this year is planning to go on a bike trip all around the usa with a friend for the summer... 3 months, bike trip. propane, couch surfing, camping, grime, etc. What's it mean? I should go spend some time in the jungle with the hulu tribe. Oh wait...
I'ts kinda weird to see the way physical maladies evolve. Like pimples. Just saying.
I'ts kinda weird to see the way physical maladies evolve. Like pimples. Just saying.
Thursday, 30 April 2009
Mood Ingredients
I'm really not sure what's going on. But the little switch inside of me that is seldom approached seems to have the most frightening potential. I have a couple of these switches. There's the fear one, and then there's the hypochondriac one. That one does not need to roll in its grave of dormancy when I act the way I normally do; pshaw at any possible disease or injury. But every once in a while... Maybe it's because I read the internet and the modern day black plague has befallen us stinky new yorkers. Who knows. But I did ride two 5 express trains this evening crammed in so hard that both the subway pole AND my hockey stick were covered in eager, haphazardly placed hands, hands who belong to those dimwits rushing around during rush hour, clutching the phallus(took me 3 tries to spell that correctly) of mundanity.
Hockey scrimmage: why did I go? I shouldn't have. thought it would draw me out, but instead, I know too much. Last year it was an exciting free for all, I had no skill but my willingness to hustle, and it was me playing for myself, not know anybody else there, just being constantly humbled by their skills. Now it is different. Now I know who my competition is, who's mean and who's nice, who I can play hard on and who I best keep my distance from. Granted, all of the above are constructs I created over the past 10 months, but what isn't?
TBNYU/morals/ activism: I am a voyeur. I care about some stuff, but feel that brandishing your care for something in a public sphincter is nothing but cringe-worthy. Sorry, but it's in me.
I made a pretty bad decision last night. I really fucked up. Maybe it was what I needed though, to finally tip the scales. I'm afraid that it wasn't though, and will remain a bad decision made in vain.
Hockey scrimmage: why did I go? I shouldn't have. thought it would draw me out, but instead, I know too much. Last year it was an exciting free for all, I had no skill but my willingness to hustle, and it was me playing for myself, not know anybody else there, just being constantly humbled by their skills. Now it is different. Now I know who my competition is, who's mean and who's nice, who I can play hard on and who I best keep my distance from. Granted, all of the above are constructs I created over the past 10 months, but what isn't?
TBNYU/morals/ activism: I am a voyeur. I care about some stuff, but feel that brandishing your care for something in a public sphincter is nothing but cringe-worthy. Sorry, but it's in me.
I made a pretty bad decision last night. I really fucked up. Maybe it was what I needed though, to finally tip the scales. I'm afraid that it wasn't though, and will remain a bad decision made in vain.
The Urge To Blag
I've been getting it. Here's what I'm eating for breakfast: trader joes honey bunches of oats with milk, raisins, and peanuts. zesty. I might as well dwell in a house of peanut butter, it seems to line my every surface.
Stuff I care about:
sign language. It is mad rad. I like to fingerspell everything (circa "occupy everything")
bdsm blogs. heh.
conversing with someone via frisbee tossing: It is more intimate than most conversations. All we ever use are words, and I am realy trying to get myself to wholly believe that communication can happen as definitively through physical metaphors as it can through verbal exchange. We think if we see something, it must be there. But if we hear something, it could be a simulation, or far away, or misheard. So to, with frisbee. A story develops as we toss, the nuanced eye contact, the directness and speed of the throws, the playful nature, the candor of plastic exchange, the congratulatory measures coupled with the dutiful apologies for (if in nyc) hitting passersby in the head) and elsewhere-- a bad throw.
I played hockey last night in a small gym in washington heights. This one very nice guy who played disclosed to me and some of the other players that his mom died that morning (yesterday). I couldn't say anything, so I gave him lots of eye contact, and was frank. I have insights into death, although not of a parent, but a parent's parent. I asked him on the subway if he felt that he had sufficiently / appropriately individuated into his own person such that he does not feel like he lost his left side of the body when his mother passed. He said yes; it gave me hope that someday I will be as autonomous as all getout.
Stuff I care about:
sign language. It is mad rad. I like to fingerspell everything (circa "occupy everything")
bdsm blogs. heh.
conversing with someone via frisbee tossing: It is more intimate than most conversations. All we ever use are words, and I am realy trying to get myself to wholly believe that communication can happen as definitively through physical metaphors as it can through verbal exchange. We think if we see something, it must be there. But if we hear something, it could be a simulation, or far away, or misheard. So to, with frisbee. A story develops as we toss, the nuanced eye contact, the directness and speed of the throws, the playful nature, the candor of plastic exchange, the congratulatory measures coupled with the dutiful apologies for (if in nyc) hitting passersby in the head) and elsewhere-- a bad throw.
I played hockey last night in a small gym in washington heights. This one very nice guy who played disclosed to me and some of the other players that his mom died that morning (yesterday). I couldn't say anything, so I gave him lots of eye contact, and was frank. I have insights into death, although not of a parent, but a parent's parent. I asked him on the subway if he felt that he had sufficiently / appropriately individuated into his own person such that he does not feel like he lost his left side of the body when his mother passed. He said yes; it gave me hope that someday I will be as autonomous as all getout.
Monday, 20 April 2009
Ode to the ovum
I raised up my arms atop my head to prepare to dive into a handstand against the inside of the front door. Upon throwing myself down and kicking off my right leg into the air, my foot crashed full speed against a stepstool thingy that has somehow found its way into my apt. I was taken aback, and my arms crumbled, leaving me in a heap on the dusty floor, my cheek against the chilly door. I viewed it immediately as the world closing in on me. I sat cross-legged for some time, head down towards my toes, unwittingly getting the most ghastly whiff of my day-old socks. I remained there, humbled, and then got up and did a proper handstand, taking supreme caution of how far my legs would extend. Woe unto those who cannot be upside down.
Friday, 17 April 2009
peanut butter and chocolate
most inspiring food ever. hands down. unfortunately the pb i got in my haste to procure quality chametz last night from whole foods has a bit too much salt for my liking. Oh well, at least I'm melting on my tongue right now. I also got this bag (not box, bag.) of cereal that is cinnamon toast crunch...but natural. whole foods natural. organic, and advertises "no phony flavors!" It's mad good. It will be finished soon. This manic food consumption is offset (I hope) by my ass busting of sports playing by weekend. Otherwise, I am nothing. It's my common Jewish name with an Elana- shaped hole of empty space immediately preceeding and anteceding it.
So last night a coupla things happened. I rejoiced inwardly upon reaching thursday evening, which means no class for 4 days, and in those 4 days I can only predict what sort of blasphemy might go down. At least its routine, at least it's in the peanut butter zone. What else is there to dub?
Last night I played hockey. With some girls who really hustled. Especailly this one girl. she looked small, compact, and mousey, and I usually assume that I can take any girl, but this one put up a fight. I was humbled and proud of her. She really hustled and didn't miss many passes.
I practiced my boxout, and that term means basically any time I use my body as a strategic barrier. It's one of my few moves to call upon. Too bad it doesn't directly involve smooth tricky movement of the ball. Maybe I'll get there.
I play pretty physically with some people and I want to be sure they are ok with it. So I sometimes ask bluntly, awkwardly, just to be sure that my hump-like trap into the boards D isn't unwelcome.
last night was frisbee night too. i dont want to take for granted the comfort and contentment i feel playing with these kids. I recall freshman year feeling so out of place, illegit, and dweeby, and am so glad that I have found a niche, at least I percieve myself to have found one. I actually get it. It took me long enough, that's for sure. I made a good catch/bid/fall/lay on the concrete and got minimally hurt, and it was my body acting governed by "get disc" without thought about personal injury, or adding insult to. I want that to be the way I always play. *scrapes off dried blood from elbow.*
When boys cry. It's the best reminded of our humanity across the board and I want it to be more than okay.
So last night a coupla things happened. I rejoiced inwardly upon reaching thursday evening, which means no class for 4 days, and in those 4 days I can only predict what sort of blasphemy might go down. At least its routine, at least it's in the peanut butter zone. What else is there to dub?
Last night I played hockey. With some girls who really hustled. Especailly this one girl. she looked small, compact, and mousey, and I usually assume that I can take any girl, but this one put up a fight. I was humbled and proud of her. She really hustled and didn't miss many passes.
I practiced my boxout, and that term means basically any time I use my body as a strategic barrier. It's one of my few moves to call upon. Too bad it doesn't directly involve smooth tricky movement of the ball. Maybe I'll get there.
I play pretty physically with some people and I want to be sure they are ok with it. So I sometimes ask bluntly, awkwardly, just to be sure that my hump-like trap into the boards D isn't unwelcome.
last night was frisbee night too. i dont want to take for granted the comfort and contentment i feel playing with these kids. I recall freshman year feeling so out of place, illegit, and dweeby, and am so glad that I have found a niche, at least I percieve myself to have found one. I actually get it. It took me long enough, that's for sure. I made a good catch/bid/fall/lay on the concrete and got minimally hurt, and it was my body acting governed by "get disc" without thought about personal injury, or adding insult to. I want that to be the way I always play. *scrapes off dried blood from elbow.*
When boys cry. It's the best reminded of our humanity across the board and I want it to be more than okay.
Tuesday, 7 April 2009
Hockey
I just got back from my last regular season hockey game in scrappier league. I am happy I played this season with this team because athough we lost every game, we improved and I got to be a part of timed, reffed games against good other teams and players. Granted, I get that in scrimmage and it is more fun, but still- hockey is hockey. My teammates are all super nice, and while our skill does not match that of the other teams like pete and kevin's teams, I still believe that we have good solid players. Solid, albeit scattered.
I think I might feel strongly about this game because it is the sole recreational activity that marks the end of the time I have here in the city before pesach, before i tread to yardley for another 5-dayer. I remember th 5 day yom tovs of yore, i remember them well. and honestly, i never thought i'd be a month shy of my 21st birthday, typing a blog naked in my dorm room, having broken free of the constraints set upon me by the world in which i was raised. I mean, (unsure as to who I am addressing, but yet) I dig Judaism. I teach the kiddies about it every sunday for the last 3 years. I tutor special needs kids for their bar mitzvahs. I do, and I do.
About hockey though, I feel like all these guys have my back. We may not be best of friends and all chum-chummy, but that might be because we live in different worlds, or are at different stages of life, or, and most likely, because I am a social dunce. Regardless, I do feel like they like me and respect me and my hockey playing, and always ask if I am ok if I fall down, which I like to have happen during these games so that the adrenaline rush keeps me from feeling any pain that may be there. (If pain is present, but not felt, is it still pain? Riddle me that.)
So they have my back, and they give me tips, but not in an overbearing condescending way, rather in a helpful useful way, because after all, my hockey knowledge can be measured by a geiger counter. And I don't feel [all that] stupid asking questions to the ones who know about hockey and play good. And they exist, and I am so unsure as to what our relationship is. Is there more camaraderie with the Jewish ones...because we're Jewish? Am I making that up? Am I creating crushes where there are none? Probably, that seems to be erupting in my head pretty often these days. It is hard to separate someone who is a pal and I look up to, especially in a sport, which I hold in such high regard, from being someone who I want to become closer with. I'm not even sure. I admire certain players and for that reason I want to fuck them. That's a joke.
I also want to go to a tournament. I consider myself to live by certain tenets with regards to hockey (and frisbee). Let's see if I can flesh em out academically:
1. If there is hockey to be played, I am there.
- no matter what time of day or night, if I am aware of a hockcey game/ scrimmage going on, I will get up and go there, and play, despite the other ersponsiblities or fatigues I may have.
2. Hmm. I don't know if there is a second one. They all kind of fall under the umbrella of the first. I mean I always need to tell myself to remember that even though I am tired, the greatest feeling ever that is pure purity and exhilaration comes from my sports, and as a human, this is what I am meant to be doing and it makes sense. It fits like a magnetic puzzle. Like a rubix pajamas.
3. Never show weakness. This one may not be so wise, but it has been how I've been playing. If I fall, don't exaggerate or complain, just get up and let the bruises/ blood speak for themselves. I'm not sure what I'm getting at here, but like, I'm ok, just way too complex for my own good.
eff that ess.
I think I might feel strongly about this game because it is the sole recreational activity that marks the end of the time I have here in the city before pesach, before i tread to yardley for another 5-dayer. I remember th 5 day yom tovs of yore, i remember them well. and honestly, i never thought i'd be a month shy of my 21st birthday, typing a blog naked in my dorm room, having broken free of the constraints set upon me by the world in which i was raised. I mean, (unsure as to who I am addressing, but yet) I dig Judaism. I teach the kiddies about it every sunday for the last 3 years. I tutor special needs kids for their bar mitzvahs. I do, and I do.
About hockey though, I feel like all these guys have my back. We may not be best of friends and all chum-chummy, but that might be because we live in different worlds, or are at different stages of life, or, and most likely, because I am a social dunce. Regardless, I do feel like they like me and respect me and my hockey playing, and always ask if I am ok if I fall down, which I like to have happen during these games so that the adrenaline rush keeps me from feeling any pain that may be there. (If pain is present, but not felt, is it still pain? Riddle me that.)
So they have my back, and they give me tips, but not in an overbearing condescending way, rather in a helpful useful way, because after all, my hockey knowledge can be measured by a geiger counter. And I don't feel [all that] stupid asking questions to the ones who know about hockey and play good. And they exist, and I am so unsure as to what our relationship is. Is there more camaraderie with the Jewish ones...because we're Jewish? Am I making that up? Am I creating crushes where there are none? Probably, that seems to be erupting in my head pretty often these days. It is hard to separate someone who is a pal and I look up to, especially in a sport, which I hold in such high regard, from being someone who I want to become closer with. I'm not even sure. I admire certain players and for that reason I want to fuck them. That's a joke.
I also want to go to a tournament. I consider myself to live by certain tenets with regards to hockey (and frisbee). Let's see if I can flesh em out academically:
1. If there is hockey to be played, I am there.
- no matter what time of day or night, if I am aware of a hockcey game/ scrimmage going on, I will get up and go there, and play, despite the other ersponsiblities or fatigues I may have.
2. Hmm. I don't know if there is a second one. They all kind of fall under the umbrella of the first. I mean I always need to tell myself to remember that even though I am tired, the greatest feeling ever that is pure purity and exhilaration comes from my sports, and as a human, this is what I am meant to be doing and it makes sense. It fits like a magnetic puzzle. Like a rubix pajamas.
3. Never show weakness. This one may not be so wise, but it has been how I've been playing. If I fall, don't exaggerate or complain, just get up and let the bruises/ blood speak for themselves. I'm not sure what I'm getting at here, but like, I'm ok, just way too complex for my own good.
eff that ess.
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