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Barbie Dream House

When I decided to demand more of myself and the universe in terms of love and relationships I took the advice of a book, the title of which I cannot recall now, and made a list of all the things I wanted in the person I would share my heart and soul with. I didn't include things I 'didn't want' hoping to avoid the negative in any direction altogether and instead listed the positive opposites of such things.

And then (borrowing from a letter now seemingly ages-old sent to friends and family around the world introducing my love...a letter that I imagine inspired a collective sigh of relief):
"I met him by accident, in the worst (but supposedly the best) city in India JUST as I was deciding exactly to l-e-a-v-e. I had yet again phoned 'home' to give the news. I had even begun to pack my things. And then one day I found him sitting in front of me at the trendy outdoor coffee bar (Barista) on Mahatma Gandhi Road (which every Indian city has, the way all American cities have MLK Boulevard) inquiring about the English classes I reluctantly (and therefore, very expensively) offered, I told him "No way, I'm leaving, so sorry..." so he asked me out to dinner instead (to which I said "Whatever, but I'm still leaving.")...and as they say, the rest is history..."

As I got to know H I was more and more startled to realize that he ticked off each and every request on 'the list' - a list I'd tucked away with a resignation to remain alone for it's absolute impossibility at ever being fulfilled (It was a LONG list).

It works - that whole list-writing exercise. And I've used it since for everything from finding and selecting new clients and projects to locating whatever pair of shoes it is I imagine will best complement a new skirt or pair of jeans.
I made a shopping list and found my husband...my soul mate. It may sound funny, but it's the truth.

And so, as we look into the not-too-distant future - aiming our gaze at Portland, Oregon in particular, we're scanning Craigslist daily for rental houses in the NW 23rd/Pearl areas and I can see it's time for another list to be created.

We know already that Portland will cater to my fixation on being in a metropolitan environment and my nearly life and death need to be near large bodies of water. It will also satisfy H's penchant for snowboarding, gigantic bookstores, and Persian food.
It's the housing specifics I've to pray on paper for.

There are some things that we can manage without, but others are strictly musts: leafy, green trees outside our windows, and whether we decide on a house or apartment, it must be cozy, paintable at my discretion on the inside, and have closets large enough to house H's plan to grow a small server farm and my plan to shop. If an apartment, it must be at least on the third floor.
In any case, it should be walking distance to both downtown and 21st/23rd, have tons of windows and light, a bathtub (I will never again settle for a house without and will swim in bubbles and hot water probably daily upon our arrival), a dishwasher (as neither of us is inclined toward the manual completion of the task), have lovely neighbors, as well as allow space to expand our family to include at least one puppy and one baby (in that order), etc.
It's a list in the making as yet, and will surely morph a bit as we both look back on various places we've lived - noting the things we liked and didn't like about each..but it's time, we're in contact with the Embassy this week regarding H's visa and looking at approximately six months to eight between us and our future-imagined home.

When I was small I always believed I'd live with my husband in a human sized Barbie Dream House - of course, I realize now the inherent problems with this notion as the house was quite pink if I remember correctly, and solid plastic. Two qualities not on our currently developing list.

The universe delivered on the most important request of my life-thus-far via this very method of manifestation - it created and delivered to me a living, breathing Prince Charming all in the space of a few weeks after the thoughts were set in ink, so we'll get started now and I think we can safely assume that our cozy little home will present itself in much the same way, at the appropriate time.
I think I'll even buy a little notebook just for this list alone.

On the Other Hand

I've spent alot of time over the past few months railing against my government and its often deplorable choices - it seems every day brings a new and disappointing issue to light and I don't think I'll ever fully reconcile myself with the current administration.
But, I will say this: at least I can write and say exactly what I think and feel without fear of consequence of any kind.

As far as I can tell, there isn't a single government on the planet that can be held forth as a shining (or even just slightly tarnished) example of correctness - and at least mine allows me the freedom to complain about its inadequacies - which is more than I can say for some.

Right, well...

I'm working on ignoring the fact that my country sent a bunch of missiles to Israel.
That's all.
What to do anymore?

And yes...if they'd sent them to Lebanon I'd be in the same place.
Either way.

Damned if you do, damned if you don't...

Today while watching the coverage of the 'Crisis in the Middle East' storyline:

Whatever this giant lie is that makes it OK for any country to bomb another country, snuffing out life along the way - whatever that lie, I've reached the point of saturation. Enough already. The citizens of the nations involved in such stupidity should not have to live as apologists on behalf of their governments - but we do. There is anxiety and desperation in silence.

Aren't there laws that govern the way these things are done? And please don't quote for me the line delivered by the Israeli policrat who was given the limelight the other day on CNN as the reason for heavy warfare: "...they (Hezbollah) started it..."

The news coverage is something of a sporting event. With breaking stories coming in: air-raid sirens wailing in the background as the excited reporter envisions her big break will be providing a step-by-step narration of her shift to the bomb shelter. Cameraman left to catch the explosion on tape of course.
Exclusives include interviews with people found staring open-mouthed and teary eyed at what used to be their homes. Rightfully angry people who know it's not fair, who will only have it any easier once they realize and accept that their lives as they knew them are finished.
The only reprieve from the programming is the global weather report.

I laughed when I saw an interview with an American woman who came onscreen all in a freshly-highlighted huff that she'd had to spend $17,000 to get herself and her three daughters out of Lebanon and 'stop in Italy for a few days...and a few other places here and there...' as the massive outflow via the U.S. Consulate kept the phone lines tied.
Good for her that she had the resources to fly back to the States first class - what is she complaining about?

32 people died in an open air market in Baghdad today when a suicide bomber parked a minibus amidst the shoppers. Another 18 died in similar circumstances in North Iraq.
But that's not news anymore.

If this is where we're at - if humanity for all of the possible realities has chosen this yet again, chosen war - then can you stop the ride?
I want to get off.

Well That Makes Sense

India has always held a sense of mystery for me - at first it was the tangible energy of the land - such that I think you can actually hear it sometimes...but I was in Auroville, and now that I've been away for a while I wonder if it wasn't Auroville itself.

In any case - it was the land, and the people, and the colors and smells and everything-being-new. India, for me, was an internal struggle making itself animate among all the external chaos, and an external struggle all its own.
I suppose alot of people experience that here.

But after living here for an extended period of time the mystery of India has shifted a bit from spiritual and intangible toward solid reality.

Like today, while shopping for nails we learned that 99% of all hardware stores do not stock these, or tools.
We did finally find what we were looking for, but it was in a tiny greasy little closet-turned-shop, about twelve feet in height and maybe five in width stocked floor to ceiling with brown cardboard boxes; each full of metal objects of any shape and size for fastening things.

I also know now that I will always intially be quoted prices at least 150% higher than the true local price, simply because I am blonde and therefore must be a tourist.

Finally, we learned that Mexican food in India means a "burrito" - vegetarian of course (but that's fine with me all over again), with most of the usual stuff or at least some reasonable facsimile, and a special added bonus, Indian style: a pickled maraschino cherry right on top. I was too curious not to try it - having never seen such things mixed with salsa. It was, as I suppose anyone would expect, sort of icky.

There have been many lessons while we've been here; India is a place for these things.
Infinite patience makes itself a must, and so does lack of expectation - both of these are attributes people search for all their lives - and in the end I guess they equal inner peace, which is always a good thing.

Stupid Girl

The other day I heard a plaintive, tiny, high-pitched mewling from outside.
I glanced up from my work to listen, fixing my eyes on the wall I had painted olive green as if it would help me place the sound.
India is a country of dogs...oh, I don't mean the people...now don't get me wrong - I mean: literally, India is infested with dogs. I use the word 'infested' purposefully here. There is not a street in this country that doesn't host a population of stray dogs nearly equal to that of people - making some of them very dangerous to walk down after hours - but this was not a dog sound.
I couldn't quite place the noise - so desperate and obviously in some kind of panic. We hear lots of animal sounds here in our concrete jungle, but among them I've never once heard a cat, which is why it took me getting out of my chair and onto the balcony before I could identify that it was in fact a very tiny kitten being carried, no - bounced down the road, upside down, by a girl big-enough-to-be-old-enough-to-know-better.
As the girl escaped down the street with her helpless little treasure in hand, clearly taking no notice of the kitten's begging I shuddered in sympathy for the creature and returned to my work - unable to rationalize rushing down and taking the animal away from it's torturer for a number of reasons including the fact that I was still in my pajamas, and didn't have on any sunscreen (at two in the afternoon sunscreen is a non-negotiable for me anymore.)

About thirty minutes later, I was drawn out of complete immersion in my work by the same small voice and immediately rushed to the balcony to inspect the situation.
Along comes this girl, now facing in my direction so I can see plainly that she is at least fifteen years old, and in my estimation should be mature enough to know how to handle an infant, animal or no. The kitten was probably less than six weeks old and judging by the way it cried as it was carried in the palm of one of the girl's hands, on his back, little legs splayed out above him, it was in no shape to be toted like a chunk of stone through the blazing hot roads. The girl alternately lifted the kitten to stick her thick fingers in his mouth and swooped the animal down to her side again.

As the girl passed beneath my balcony my own voice caught me by surprise, "What are you doing?!" I demanded of her.
She looked up at me and stupidly thrust the kitten into the airspace between us so I could get a better look, slowing her bouncing waltz to a pause below me.
I repeated my question, imploring her to understand my English - hoping that the tone of my voice would be the same in any language.
She just stood there shading her eyes with one hand, holding the still-crying kitten in the other, and smiled at me.
"Be gentle...gentle..." I soothed from my perch, using a voice usually reserved for the one-to-six-year-olds in my life and motioning in the air what probably looked to her like nothing of any sense at all.

With a sigh of resignation I turned to go back inside and was momentarily heartened to see that as she started her walk again she lifted her other hand to cradle the kitten more gently only to drop both hands violently back down as she took off at a full run down the road.

I'm waiting now, the door to the balcony is open...listening for the sound of that sweet little fuzzy crying thing and it's ogre. Next time, I am thinking to myself, I will take that kitten and keep it.

Jackson Pollock for a Minute

I was...Jackson Pollock, but just for a minute, and only kind of - via this cool little web toy, check it out here.
(You can click your mouse to change the colors.)

I've not had acrylics, brushes, or canvas for such a long time...but we spotted a fabulous art supply store on Commercial Street, here in Bangalore, the other day - I think it's time to invest in some non-digital creativity.

I've been steeped in the most inane version of expression lately...where to put which icon or graphic on which page, font styles, link classes....it's fun in its own right, and it definitely pays our bills (not to mention for our multitudes of needful things) but it's not the same as dipping into a mush of color on a palette and seeing what comes of it on a newly jessoed piece of canvas.

Gumsharing

There are those people - deeply, sickeningly in love...you know who they are.
They share things like toothbrushes and gum.

Well, it's time for me, for us - rather - to come out of the closet.
We are those people, and yes, I like chewing my husband's gum once in a while.

Love is a many splendored thing.

Now this is just sad...

I've one web addiction, only one (besides eBay) - and now the Indian government (of all things) is denying me access.
I didn't mind the filtering in Iran, had expected it and worked around it - but even in Iran I could freely access PostSecret.
(Yeah, go ahead, click the link...I can't!)
However, because it's a blogspot blog it's on the list of untouchables deemed immediately inaccessible by Indian politics. Also on the list are all Geocities blogs and Type Pad blogs.

According to an article at BoingBoing:
"the Indian government has decided to censor blogs and refused to explain why...Dr Gulshan Rai, director of CERT-IN, the only body authorised to issue directives to ISPs [is quoted as saying] 'Somebody must have asked for some sites to be blocked. What is your problem?'"

It's not enough that we go without electricity at random intervals? And if they've time and money to manage censorship in India why can't they manage the sewer systems here so that they don't overflow into the streets, or institute a central garbage collection system?
What's my problem??? My problem is I thought this was a free country.

I'm shocked to learn that this place I've lived for WAY too long now has joined China in efforts to keep people from accessing information.

Anyone want to send me a screencapture of the site, like every Sunday, for the next six months?
Pretty please...?

UPDATE: Thanks to the quick spread of information by the media I read about a site that unblocks filtered blogs with images - ha ha! India has since given some reasons for blocking the blogs - most of which center around the hate speech that proliferates on so many blogs, noting in particular the plethora of anti-Muslim sentiments.
I don't support or agree with anyone who has anti-anyone-else statements to make when they're based on petty things like faith or ethnicity, but I think blocking freedom of expression, or freedom to access that expression, is even more dangerous.

Anyway, I've gotten my PostSecret fix - thank you very much!

and then there were two

I think that all the water on the planet converged in the skies above Bangalore...no - above US - just so it could prove that we are not allowed to have good hair in India, or maybe it was to remind us not to wear shoes we actually like. Either way.

It started raining the day after we got home -and it's fun, actually - but this is a long season.

So we found ourselves trapped in the downpour in between appointments; the first regarding Hamid's visa and the second some lovely spoily things for our house and closets. Within seconds we were drenched - these are some fat rain drops. I'd forgotten how wonderful they are.

Mr. Kors would be disturbed if he could have seen what happened to his shoes today. Skinny wedges are fabulous for walking in on these broken/non-existent sidewalks, I've discovered. (Mental shopping list gets longer...)

Escaping the weather brought us to an order window full of cakes. I eyed the Indian verison of a cream puff (whipped fat frosting - like the kind on cheap grocery store cakes, and a candied cherry rolled into a crisco-heavy piece of crust shaped like a shell.)
Eventually Hamid noticed the snacks behind the counter - a small heating oven with crisp boiled egg puff and vegetable curry puff pastries packed inside. They are so delicious and bring pity for my friends who are eating at Chutney's on Seattle's Capital Hill.....as good as it is - you've no idea.
We stood, sopping wet, sharing our treats and contemplating the weather.
After fifteen unsuccessful minutes trying to convince one of the few empty autorickshaws to drive us home we decided to walk in it.

Giving up the whole effort of trying to stay dry was much more fun than sitting there pretending the rain was going to stop soon.
The two of us walked down the darkening streets - drenched, holding hands and laughing at our own efforts to avoid wearing the mud puddles kicked up by traffic...serenaded by the incessant sound of honking from the cars which seem to multiply asexually when wet - like Gremlins.

There's No Place Like Home

But lacking that in any actuality there's no place like the next place - even if it's the same place we were before.

I've packed what little of our clothes and shoes we want to sacrifice to India, scalding the whites with bleach in hopes of fortifying them somehow against the grey water of Bangalore, and added another 25kg of bottles, bags, and containers full of all the wonderful ingredients we need to replicate the homemade Persian dishes we're so used to enjoying.

With less than five hours to go we're counting down spaceshuttle style - Tminus and all that - and checking the weather in Bombay (70 percent humidity) and Bangalore (full-on monsoon season).

We've got ten months on Hamid's Indian visa - mine being much more allowing with ten years and multiple entries means virtually nothing if we can't be together. So we're aiming to get our goals accomplished with a quickness we'll have to train ourselves into after the last year and a half of dogged laziness.
There are papers to be submitted, received, and applied for.
Dealing with three governments (our two respective and India's own) is a daunting task and although we look forward with hopeful anticipation there is no telling what will happen.

We know what we want and where we want to go - but it's up to the Universe to find it all in the cards - always has been, always will be. One thing we rest assured in, although there's no physical proof or voices from the sky issuing promises: we will be together.
There's no way we found eachother - one of us from Iran, the other America - in the middle of India, only to be torn apart by a convoluted destiny.
We are our destiny, the rest...well...the rest is just details.

As Seen On TV

A small child sits alone on the curb, playing at putting a loose shoe back on his tiny foot - his mop of dark curly hair falls over his eyes as he glances up at a man walking past.
The man is nothing extraordinary, but catches the boy's eye as he strolls past him into the busy market, full of families shopping, peddlers selling their wares, children playing....he is any man, perhaps on his way to pick up a few things for a later lunch or taking a detour on the way to an appointment...
The little boy stands up to garner a better look at the tall, ordinarily attractive man who has now piqued his interest. Is it something in the way he is walking? Is it in his eyes?
No one else notices, busy with their own errands...and the boy, still holding the errant shoe in one hand, stands watching.
The camera pans out to reveal the larger market scene, focussing individually on a group of young boys footballing, a small girl laughing with her mother as they carry the morning's purchases, men, women, and children all woven together in a fabric of daily life.
The little boy, from under his dark curls, spies the man amid the crowds and with suddenly widened eyes watches as the man reaches up to quickly unzip his blue sweatshirt, revealing the unavoidable explosives - in a single moment there is nothing but fire and noise.
In a scene worthy of great Hollywood directors the viewer is offered a circular view of the area as cars burn, windows blow out, and human bodies tumble through the air, grimaces of pain and etches of screams clearly visible in the slowed motion.
After a 360 degree tour of the immediate destruction the camera slows to pause on the little girl who had seconds earlier laughed to her mother, now surrounded by debris, crying over her mother's body. An elderly woman crouches low to the ground, holding herself in pain and grasping helplessly at her husband who is trapped motionless beneath a burning car. A football, charred, rolls aimlessly into the gutter near an unmoving bloodied hand. Visits are made with each individual previously discovered at the opening of the scene, revealing death and pain and fear and panicked confusion.
Finally, one tiny blue sneaker falls to rest on a smoldering pile of what used to be a neighborhood, it's small brown-eyed owner nowhere to be found.

You know you're in the Middle East when the public service announcements don't address the old standards of fire safety, water conservation, senior issues, or child health but: suicide bombing.

On the Saudi Arabian television channels these ads run quite frequently in between those for Visa credit cards, sports drinks, and multi-billion dollar real-estate investment opportunities in Dubai.
It is captivating to watch, like a short film. And even when you've seen it a hundred times, and know what's coming, you watch anyway - hoping the boy will simply put on his shoe and run home, hoping the man - young with sharp, intelligent eyes, will make a different choice - but knowing the scene must play itself out as it has, is, and seemingly always will be.

It is a work of art in it's own right. And as many such things are, it is deeply disturbing.
But this is the reality of the world we live in - happy jingling PSA's for things like latchkey-kids and utilizing the local library services are long gone.

Bebakhshid

You know those dreams you have where you're wandering around somewhere, nowhere in particular, and nothing seems obviously to be amiss, but you just feel it, you know you're off kilter somehow...and it turns out you're only half-dressed...or worse?

Yesterday, as we were leaving a relative's house I decided to carry my shoes (Michael Kors jute ankle wrap wedges - darling but super high maintenance) rather than put them on again for the thousandth time that day after many such visits. It's difficult for us to leave, harder, I think, for them to let us go...and there is lots of hugging and crying.
I turned to wave goodbye to one of Hamid's aunts and saw that her expression had turned from red-eyed desolation to pure laughter, Hamid's mom standing beside her shared the same mirthful expression. I thought they just thought it was funny I was waltzing to the car without anything on my feet, as if I were back in India.
I glanced down the road and saw a pair of older women, dressed in the full-body black garments that are customary for the generation, walking toward me and suddenly became aware that something was definitely off, but I couldn't quite figure out what it was...

I glanced down at my bare feet, and my eyes caught exactly what was wrong on the way down: I was wearing white capris and a pink tee shirt...and nothing else.
Anywhere else, this would be fine - it was hot out, nearly 40 degrees, and my outfit would be perfect summer attire...anywhere but here.

In my relaxed frame of mind, after sitting comfortably with family for the past while, I'd completely forgotten to don my coat and scarf on the way out the door and instead had them slung over one arm, accidentally ignoring their intended purpose, and the legal implications for their having accompanied me in the first place.

I immediately dove into the car in a ridiculous panic, trying frantically to wrap the coat around me and get my scarf over my head at the same time as the women passed by, looking on in amazement and Hamid's family stood giggling in the doorway.

It had been a mistake, of course - I would never consciously choose to disobey the dress code in Iran, but somehow in the laze of the summer day and in the heartbroken company of those who love us and don't want us to go, I simply forgot to follow the rule and had wandered outside in what might have looked like an approximation of blatant disregard. or sheer stupidity.

Fortunately our family is good natured enough to realize there were no intentions behind my major mishap and I didn't offend anyone; instead I succeeded, however accidentally, in turning a very heavy and tearful goodbye into one of laughter.

86'd

Just returned from another government office, this one responsible for confirming my latest visa extension and not quite as easy with my being American. (It was not my Iranian passport that the appointment was for, as I previously mentioned - which I will actually receive via the Persian Embassy in Hyderabad, India.)
We had been told H and I would be interviewed as a couple - but instead, when the official returned from Session the first words out of his mouth were "How long has she been here?" I listened as H answered his questions, understanding most of what was said between them and immediately disappointed by what I heard.
While those who'd processed my month long visa extensions had been flexible and seemingly uninterested in my being American, this office made it evident that Americans are not allowed entry into the country, much less visa extensions in any circumstance and that I must leave the country within the week - regardless of the three weeks remaining on my most recent extension.

H and his mother followed the official into his office, trying to change what was apparently set in stone and I sat alone in the waiting area, listening helplessly. As the conversation took on a more serious tone, I realized that I would in fact be leaving sooner than later and there was nothing to be done about it. My being American is, for the first time in my life, a serious problem - no longer affording me the freedom of movement I have become so accustomed to.

So, it's time again to pack and prepare for travel...time for us to go back to India and negotiate our paperwork from there with the consolation of knowing that when we decide to return to Iran I will be treated as any other Iranian, with a Persian name (Venus Alipour - pronounced 'Veh-noos,' chosen for me by H's mother in memory of a childhood friend and in my opinion, an excellent fit) and a Persian passport, and the freedom to remain as long as we want.

Hamidof.com