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Morning Runner

There is a song you absolutely must hear and then go out and buy the entire album as soon as it's released on March 6 - although if you're in the States it sounds like you'll have to wait for an import to show up as it's only slated for release in the UK as of yet.
I've not done so much jumping around and singing to an indie pop song since I heard Modest Mouse 'Float On.'
While you're waiting for the album to make it's way across the sea to the States check out this track: 'Punching Walls' by Morning Runner, courtesy of A Boy and His Blog.

Please don't link to the mp3s directly on my site. You are welcome to link to this page via the permalink below.

Mental Yoga

I remember the first time I came to Bangalore, for a weekend city-visit after a year of South India's slow pace, long before I'd met H. I was thrilled at the prospect of a manicure and pedicure in a real spa, the shopping, the clubs, a reason for perfume, eyeliner, and wearing something other than a bikini and chappals.

All of that was eventually lost on me when I had actually been living here for three months. And I'd decided it was time to move on to the beaches of Corisca; had packed my bags and shopped ticket prices; had said my goodbyes...
Meeting H was the last thing I expected. Actually, getting married was the last thing I'd expected. But, here we are. Still in Bangalore.

The thing is, for the past few months I wake up with a renewed awe for the beautiful energy of this place, the calm these people carry with them amid the crowds that literally freaked me out for so long.
So far from the reality of my spoiled-girl ideals, I see India, Bangalore in particular, in a totally different light these days. There are no longer those gnawing aspirations to return-to.

Instead of cursing the smog, the incessant honking, and the throngs of people and farm animals, my inability to bake anything for lack of an oven, or the distinct emptiness where bathtubs should be (yes, imagine! A life without Mr. Bubble...) I can see only the good things, the beautiful, interesting things.

India is dirty, and strange, and a fabulous feast for the senses of a three-week tourist - it is also my home. (There was a time I would've ended that sentence with 'for now.')
Finally. I have made some peace with all of it.

I've stopped longing to go elsewhere - although I am still SO excited for the possibility of a visa welcoming me to Iran. I no longer wake up and count the number of days we've been here, or speculate on the number ahead until we can leave.

Wherever I am, no? However that saying goes.

Once again, I can see the charm of the millions of autorickshaws on the roads, the wonderful open-air vegetable markets, even the cows wandering the roads outside our urban apartment. It's all just-darling once again.
And more importantly I'm laughing when things don't go the way I expected - or should I say I've learned not to harbor expectations in the first place?

All because of a little mental yoga towards my connection-to-the-whole and the charming smile and love of one absolute angel.

Complete Professionalism

Sometimes I feel like we're doing our clients a greater service simply for the fact that we have an absolute blast working together, Hamid and I.
Because we can sit here with the newest rips blaring, and make fun of eachother like ten year olds, and laugh, and trade mushy compliments while simultaneously managing deadlines, emailing necessary files, and uploading important code we infuse our work with the same energy and enthusiasm we bring to our relationship.

I'm totally serious.

This is important stuff...this concept of a happy work space is no new thing - and I'm such a better person for the experience. I'd never trade it in for anything - not a million dollar position in the most swank office, with Dior kickbacks, or anything.

My husband is my best friend, and my business partner - I'm spoiled rotten.

I am awed, daily, by his ability to fix the technological muck of things I cannot seem to get my own brain around...his insane drive to build the-best-of-whatever-it-is for our clients...and his unwavering dedication to me - all at the same time.

It took a while for us to find this space...for months into our relationship neither of us had worked, and I was on the very very...um, VERY long end of a two year holiday.
But eventually the bank account was exhibiting minimalist tendencies and we wanted the freedom that regular income will bring.

The rest was either an accident or an act of the universe, bringing us not only the most wonderful regular clients (all of whom are spectacular independent business women - not a coincidence, I think), but an ever-changing plethora of new experience in graphic and web design, virtual admin, and custom programming.
Sitting here with Mattafix on volume 30 inspiring the most recent order for a press release and Hamid's brilliant open-source blog program, I'm happily ensconced in our home office...working away, like anyone else does in this work-a-day world - except my view (gorgeous Persian eyes and a killer smile), and my surroundings (read: discotheque) are WAY more fun...so there.

Its the start of something big.
As anything born of true love will be.

Oh Puhleeeze!

In one of my favorite junk-mags today I came across a story, sourced from Page Six, supporting my recent estimations that we're too frightened of the Middle East and Islam for our own good, and don't have a clue what 'jihad' even really means.
I agree, the rioting and murder over cartoons of the sacred and historically important Mohammed is frightening...it's just plain scary when a large number of people are so angry as to be incoherent and downright violent for any reason.
But that violence doesn't define Islam for the millions of other people joining the calls to Azaan in Namas each day, and neither does the word 'jihad.'
(Every time I type that word, I wonder if I'm being flagged onto a 'watch list' somewhere...)
I've not said anything about the cartoon-issue until now because honestly, I don't feel that I can fully understand it. I'm not yet invested (educated? integrated?) enough in Islam to simply lean across my, or anyone else's, freedom of speech and react with a knee jerk.
With that said: I find the violence reprehensible and the cartoons an interesting politcal statement/tool with deeper implications than their sheer face value, but that's another post.
There are jokes about Jesus on tee-shirts and coffee mugs (there's even a Jesus Deluxe Action Figure) and it certainly never offended me, nor seemed to spark violent protest. Maybe it's indicative of the complacency of America in general, or maybe it's just called the First Ammendment of the United States Constitution, for which I am eternally grateful and would defend with a keyboard or pen or mic just as I would Henry Rollins' freedom to read whatever he likes.

But if Mr. Rollins, formerly of my punk rock CD collection, reading a book about the growing movement in Islamic militarism on a flight to Brisbane is a reason for his window-seated neighbor to call Australian authorities to alert then I give up.
Since when is reading a book about current events something to be suspicious of?
At least Rollins is looking outside the western-media-box for information, for some understanding about whatever the hell is going on around here these days.

Next time we call in for delivery from our local bookstore, the title Rollins was reading is on the list. Does that make me scary, or open-minded?

Here I am, ranting in public again...
Go ahead, flag me.

Next Stop

I've not much to say today, through a blurry haze of well-medicated PMS. Though I promised Miss Jess a posted rant against her usually-fabulous boyfriend of six and a half years who seems to have lost his mind, and will perhaps, lose his girl as well if he doesn't shape up, I'm in far too much pain to focus my negative energies - of which I have little anymore anyway.
I'm popping warhead sized mefta-spaz like they're candies - furthering my inability to articulate the boyfriend conundrum at this time. So I'll leave that off for another and spend a moment rambling.
I figure a half-conscious, menstrual cramp littered post is better than none at all and I would hate to leave Miss Jess with nothing to read.

Ah, but there IS news: we received a call today from Tehran; Hamid's mother (Haji'eh) letting me know in her darling best attempt at English that the Persian foreign ministry has finally granted me a visa! Despite my discomfort and lethargy I found myself spinning and hopping around the house like a little girl until I was drunk-dizzy and had to sit down. I offered what I hope was my darling best attempt at Persian to tell her that we love her and that I am so grateful for all these months of work they've put in on their end to get this visa approved (it was no easy task for any of us, but well worth all the effort).
She cried when she spoke to Hamid - they miss him terribly.

This is going to be the most incredible adventure of my life thus far. I won't say 'ever' because there are places to go yet, and lives to be made, empires to build, babies to be had...those sorts of things. All of them adventures in their own right.

But I'm going to Iran and it's no small thing...
I'm going to Iran...to say it, let it's reality sink in, is such an amazing feeling. I've been to so many countries on this planet, but none as strange and foreign, almost untouchable, and very nearly taboo, as Iran.

I've been sitting with hair color, dutifully imported from Iran by Hamid's family, atop my head and a fabulous Indian commercial mud mask all over my face, waiting for the whole lot to dry so I could go have a shower. As there are large bits of dry mud falling onto my keyboard, I'd estimate it's about that time...

Little Dad

When I was growing up, my dad and I had a relationship that both of us would probably describe as 'impossible.' There are lots of good memories, lots of typical child-vs-parent memories...
Now that I'm older, and have had the time and maturity to see my father as a whole person I understand (and love) him in a completely different way.

I've carried an old black and white picture of my father with me in all of my travels - sticking it on the wall with other photos, or on the refrigerator door (which has for me, in every house I've ever lived, always been a sort of collage of pictures and art...memories and wishes).

In the photo he is 11 years old.

Thinking of my father as that 11 year old, in a tiny three-piece Sunday suit and shiny shoes, with his sweetly mischievous little-boy smile, and the sticky-out ears has always helped me in my efforts toward this newfound perspective.

It's an epiphany, of sorts, that comes with seeing someone as a child - particularly if you have only ever known that person as an adult. It's a reminder that they were once that small, that vulnerable, that new to the world. It's a good exercise.

I've this new photo now that will join the other one, and follow me as I skip from country to country, missing my parents a little more with each passing season - all the missed holidays, birthdays, and opportunities to tell them in person that they are important to me. Always loving my father as my father, but also for that little guy he once was...and in some ways always will be.

An Open Letter

Q: Do you have any message to Americans beyond the slogans you chant at demonstrations that say "Death to America?"

A: We do not have any problem with the people of the United States. If there was not the obstacle of the U.S. government, we were prepared to send assistance to the victims of Katrina. My government has decided to facilitate travel to the United States for Iranian nationals. I want a direct flight. We want peace and calm for all peoples of the world and human dignity for all people. For us, humanity is important. Nationality is not important. We believe that all humanity has the right to live in peace and dignity. Our criticism is targeted to a limited number in the ruling establishment.
American journalists come to Iran and they don't face any problems and they can meet all Iranian officials. It's not the same in the United States. They do not allow our journalists to go there and they put a lot of limitations on their activities.

(an excerpt from an article in U.S.A. Today - an interview with Iran's President Ahmadinejad)

Granted, he's still a politician, and it's U.S.A. Today...it's just that his words, when relayed in well-translated English, are of a lovely philosophical sort - not at all the way you'd imagine, after the way they butchered the translation of his speech at the U.N.
And in so much of what he says, I see correctness and virtue and humanity, along with an exhausting desire to be left alone - no longer bullied or confined or managed.
Say whatever you want - I've always been astounded by the vast philosophies in every aspect of human being and I believe I found something there in President Ahmadinejad's answers. Something crucial that the people of the United States should be made aware of alongside the glut of news reports and harsh translations designed to perpetuate fear.

I've copied in two more of the 20+ questions he answered, below. The link above takes you to the entire article which is worth reading.


Q: Is there anything the U.S. can say or do to change your mind? (re: allowing U.S. officials to permanently set up shop in Iran again)

A: They think they can solve everything with a bomb. The time for such things is long over. Today we have the rule of rationality and thought. For example, a president has asked a question about the Holocaust. So many questions and publicity that the president is a warmonger. I think the Americans still don't know what's happening in the world. They think in a world manufactured by themselves. They have given support to those who published the cartoons and this is not the right thing to do. This kind of defamation is an insult and will not contribute to the resolution of problems. The wave of disgust toward U.S. policies is increasing. They only recognize their own friends, not others. We have in this world 6 billion people. It's not an American club. The majority are not Americans and are not interested to be Americans.

Q: But didn't you form some impression from looking out the window of your car? (re:the President's impressions of New York)

A: It's not the buildings that make the city, it's human relations. You have to see how people live with each other and how much they like and sympathize with each other. What is important is the soul of the city. Unfortunately, I was not able to contact that soul. I saw many tall buildings and cars but they are made of steel and concrete. They do not reflect the sentiments of the people and that only comes from direct encounters. But generally speaking, people are the same everywhere and New Yorkers are no exception. They like peace and justice and tranquility.

I'd love to see more well-translated speeches and quotes from the Iranian president in mainstream American and British media.
When Ahmadinejad addressed the United Nations, H read to me from the speech itself, transcribed to the Persian news.
The speech, in Farsi, translated through the eyes of a young Iranian who has no political leanings and dreams of peace in the world like the rest of us, was the first exposure I had to their president's ideas, and way of communicating outside of what my own country had prepared for me.
When I read and heard the officially translated versions in western media I was saddened but not at all suprised by the journalistic freedoms taken in interpretation.

The president's words are, for me, an open letter to the American people, offering, and at the same time asking for, peace and acceptance of eachother's ways of life - not such a bad idea considering the current state of world affairs.
And so, in some way, is my own writing an open letter to Iran, to America, to whoever believes they have a stake in what's going on.

If/Then

Edmund Burke said "All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing."

But what are we to do, the good people of this world? What can we really do to make a change in the way this human existence is eating itself alive when our votes don't count or they don't take our vote at all to begin with?
I cannot read the news sometimes...

If my country bombs Iran, or should I say 'when' for isn't it only a matter of time with all this setting-of-the-stage going on? They call it diplomacy, I call it scriptwriting...foreshadowing...

If my country bombs Iran I will be faced with casting my vote in the only way that can make a difference anymore...giving up my citizenship.

This American passport is worth so very much, allowing me a nearly global freedom of movement I simply wouldn't have otherwise. And, it is my ticket back to my family...my parents - who have yet to meet my Persian husband. But what else can I do at this point? I've made the choice to leave the country, abandoning the comforts of the west for an elevated third-world existence...but does it matter? Hardly.

The path to Iran as Bush's next pet-project is being cut deeper and wider each day, as the media is used to again generate fear in American society...'the leader of Al Quaeda is in Iran' they say...'remember what they did only a few Septembers ago?' they say, and middle America signs up to go to war with giant American flag stickers on the back windows of their 4 by 4's.
Reactionary.

And a recent poll reveals the effect this info-junk has had on Americans - they are afraid of Iran.

That's exactly how Bush and all of his pocket-protectors want it. If Americans are afraid they are more likely to support an offensive against Iran.

Well, I'm not particularly afraid of Iran...what I do fear is George Bush's agenda, and being counted among the populous who did and said nothing while our 'elected' leader went on a rampage, country to country...demolishing cultures, and faiths, and families along the way.

It's a ridiculous hypocrisy at this point, this argument about nuclear weapons, while my own county harbors a stockade that could blast us all to hell in fifteen seconds.

With Edmund Burke's words in my heart, I am inspired by acts like those of my uncle - writer/activist Larry Kerschner of Pe Ell, Washington who is willing to go to jail for the peace that he believes in.
I think he is exactly the kind of person Mr. Burke had in mind when he made his definitive statement on the battle between good and evil.

Soak

I've come and gone from Colombo, Sri Lanka in the blink of an eye, it seems - collecting my Indian government imposed 180 day visa stamp and in the process exfoliating six months worth of solar-heated Indian showers.
Ridiculous, that India wouldn't prefer I spend the money HERE, but whatever.

24 hours, six hundred dollars, a duty-free shopping spree, and five bubble baths later, I've returned from the pristine beauty of Sri Lanka. There is something very Hawaiian about the island, though it's not as wealthy of course, there are exceptional hotels and spas to be found, the beaches are simply gorgeous, and the air so clean it fills the body with energy as it sweeps in from the the Indian Ocean.

The island of Sri Lanka is tiny compared to the expanse of India, and so then are their traffic, garbage, pollution, and poverty issues. And the currency conversion of two Sri Lankan rupees to the Indian rupee makes this destination even more exceptional in terms of shopping and getting around.
I once had a professor who imagined an excellent adventure in 'getting on a random international flight, arriving in the middle of the night with no map, no reservations, just one bag...' The first time I tried this, in Sri Lanka, I ended up stranded in the airport for the entire night, grateful that my return flight left somewhat early the next day. Six months later I planned ahead and booked airport transfers and an overly expensive posh hotel before leaving and found the experience much better for it.

On the ninth floor of the Galle Face Hotel, with an ocean view, I spent two nights seeped in bath oils and girly-products...soaking up the rare opportunity to sink into a ritual I used to treat myself to almost nightly, pre-India, pre no-such-thing-as-a-bathtub.

This time, as I'd purchased my flight literally hours before its departure I had no time to fix a hotel beforehand. As it turned out, this was not such a bad thing. Just outside the arrivals gates at Bandaranaike airport is a little kiosk offering tourist information. They also handle hotel bookings and transfers, and do so at such an unbelievable rate, I'll never ever again book my Colombo hotel in advance. Within 15 minutes of explaining to them that I wanted a five star room, the bathtub being the most important feature, and that I required prompt trasnfers to and from the hotel I was whisked away in a comfortable a/c vehicle driven by a cheerful English-speaking driver. Soon after, I was offered a heavily discounted room at the TAJ and within an hour was happily ensconced in bubble bath.

I've made this trip so many times that Hamid and I now joke that I've to 'go to Sri Lanka for a bubble bath.' I've gone from Seattle to Portland for shopping, or from Barcelona to Sitges for the beach...but so far for a bubble bath? It's normal now, somehow, in this life I live...and so very worth it.

High Performance Employees

Yum...

There are some things about India I really adore...and will miss like mad when we've gone from here...

It's 7:00 a.m. and we've not slept last night; we get in these wierd patterns where we wake up at four or five in the afternoon for a few days in a row. At some point, being awake all night, and not seeing much of the daylight gets tiresome and so we've to force ourselves to stay up for 24 hours to get back to a normal schedule. This is one of those days, 24+ hours straight. We will sleep sometime around ten tonight and wake up tomorrow at a more reasonable hour.

But there is one particularly wonderful thing about being awake at seven in the morning...I can hear his unintelligible call, the coconut seller, as he pushes his cart down our street.

I've no idea the word he uses to call out his wares, but I know it means 'fresh coconuts' and I want one.
H goes to the balcony and calls him back, the guy and his cart move fast and he has to turn around and walk half the street to get to us.
H goes out into the freezing morning and buys two of the heavy green nuts. The peddler chops the tops open in three direct cuts with a machete, dunks two cheap extra-long blue plastic straws through the almost-perfect circle openings he's made and hands them off to H.
We drink them fast, grasping the dense, smooth coconuts in both hands, and then my darling runs back downstairs to have the guy chop the nuts in half.

All the peddlers have the same program for the emptied coconuts: chop off a 'scraper' from the side of the shell, then chop the remaining shell in half. Using the scraper, he scoops the wet-fresh, solid coconut out of the first half in one piece, scrapes the second half into the bowl of the first half, and presents the lucky recipient with a natural bowl full of fresh coconut.

The insides are cold today, because of the weather and the freezing air of last night. The coconuts are kept outside at night, under huge blue tarps...so they absorb the cool night air and taste all the better for it. (I've had coconuts the same way on the sunny beaches of South India and in Goa, and they never tasted quite as good as they do in the early morning after a cool night.)

They cost ten rupees each (about 25 cents) and are so incredibly delicious.

These things, we never had in Belltown, downtown Seattle.

Yum...