My journey to the Galapagos Islands had very humble, awkward beginnings. It was 7pm on Friday February 27th, 2 hours before I left, when I actually began to clean my room and pack my bags. I had spent the entire day before then writing my application to Curry (which turned out to be time well spent. Read the previous post). Anyways, upon finishing packing, I hopped in my car and drove to pick up Jess and Tinbite, who I'd never met before, for our ride to Dulles. The ride is about 2 hours, and, again, we'd never met up until that day really, so we all got to witness small talk evolve into ice breaking, and ice breaking form into bonding pretty quickly.
We stayed that night at Jenny's house, about 20 minutes away from Dulles. Our flight was at 5am, so in order to make it there with suitable time we needed to leave the house by about two, meaning we were getting 2 and a half, maybe 3 hours of sleep at best. I crashed on the floor of their basement that night and wished the T.V. was turned down a little bit, but I was thankful for the sleep that I got.
We woke up in a rush and ran out into the cars. We hit our first snag upon arriving in Dulles when we learned that Jenny's passport was too recently created for the Ecuadoran government to allow her into the country. Dejected, she turned to us confidently and said she would get it fixed and see us in a few days, and so we hit the road.
Our first flight was relatively uneventful. I slept for the first 5 hours and woke up only when I picked up the scent of airline food. Copa Airlines, as it turns out, serves (relatively) amazing food. I'm talking hot pancakes and sausage with real coffee. For free! For free? For free! I got to know Haley over the course of breakfast. As it turns out she's Lindsay File's roommate, so we worked from that common ground and got to know eachother very quickly. I found out she was a nursing student and that she was an active Christian, and she found out that I can be annoyingly enthusiastic and curious at 8 in the morning.
Our plane landed in Panama City where we waited for a brief layover. I meandered around the airport soaking in the culture. I really like people watching in foreign countries because I can't understand what strangers are saying to each other, and I kind of think it should be that way always. I mean, it's not really my business, and it's way more fun to guess what, say, the stern mother is lecturing to her adorable toddler son about, or why the two men in suits are running through the crowd. Getting hungry, I stood in front of a chocolate store for a good five minutes trying to muster up the courage to use my Spanish to order a snickers. At the time I couldn't even do that, but that all changed very quickly.
On the flight to Quito I again slept quite a bit. I woke up with enough time, however, to really appreciate the incredible natural splendor of Ecuador. Quito is a vast city built right in the heart of the Andes. Every hill was unto itself a mountain, and every mountain a cloud-piercing credit to natural formations. There were roaring waterfalls and majestic bridges between mountain peaks. Every last bit of Earth was emerald green, and the colors of the city buildings were every color of the rainbow. It was truly breathtaking. It had a massive majestic landscape like Colorado, but every last inch was covered in the tropical splendor of Hawaii or Florida. Basically, my dream landscape.
Our plane landed safely and after powering through customs we finally met our ride. Among them was a very pregnant woman named Patricia who greeted us all with a kiss on the cheek and an enthusiastic smile. Next to her stood Hakan (pronounced HO-khan), Patricia's husband, who unto himself requires at least a paragraph...
Hakan upon first glance simply didn't seem to fit, as a lanky, pale, blond, athletic Swede in a country full of stout Andeans. He spoke English and Spanish with a thick accent, dipping all of his vowels like he was trying to scoop up all the good stuff at the bottom of a barrel of language, and he dressed in the means of a modest outdoorsman,: khaki shorts, simple t-shirts, and hiking boots. he had a tattoo of Pisces on the back of his leg because, as he put it he "is a fish", and another tattoo of a viking wolf-cross adorned his bicep. He had a gentle smile and, as I would come to find over the course of my travels with him, a strange perspective on a lot of life. He kind of reminded me of the aliens you see in some movies who disguise themselves as humans and on the exterior seem normal until you start talking with them. He was very curious and had very surreal, almost other-worldy observations on most of humanity. I'll expand on this later, obviously.
We all hopped into one large van and weaved through the traffic of Quito on our way to the home of our host family. At first glance I couldn't get over two things about Quito, the first being all of the colors every where, and the second how it seemed to have this boom-town feeling of rampant commercialism no matter where you went. At least 5 or 6 times I saw soem graffiti that really intrigued me. At multiple locations throughout the city a person, or persons, had spray painted the characters "17:32" in the manner of numbers on a digital clock, red, angular, and broken. I never learned what the significance of 17:32 was, and it seems I may never know as no one was able to explain it. there isn't even n explanation online. Could it mean something awful, something depressing or violent? More than likely, but it became a personal symbol of my experiences in Quito, which itself was a bit of a depressing mystery.
We arrived at the apartment of a lovely woman named Miriam, who spoke very little English but was seemingly thrilled to host us all for the night. She took us around her home and gave us a tour. I found out where my bed was and that if I flush toilet paper in South America it will kill the plumbing. I also learned Miriam has really comfortable beds. I napped for about an hour, grabbed an extremely cold shower, being unable to master the controls, and waltzed into the living room. Our plan was to travel to the indigenous market across town with Hakan as our guide. We grabbed enough money to get by, gave our best to Miriam, and stepped out into the street.
Item one was to find an internet cafe to check emails and make sure our parents knew we were okay. It was here that I first learned two fascinating aspects of Quito's economy. First, everything is ridiculously cheap. I got 15 mintues of internet usage for 25 cents, and a cup of great coffee was about 50 cents. Second, Ecuador, as it turns out, doesn't mint its own paper money. Instead, US dollars have become the de facto currency. They have their own coins, some of which I kept, but no currency exchanges were ever necessary.
While waiting for everyone else to finish using the computer I noticed these two adorable little Ecuadoran girls in the internet cafe with their mom. Catching th attention of one, I started making faces. She was instantly fascinated and had her sister watch me too. The moment was brief but adorable. It helped me begin to realize that the language barrier is all mental. I made a connection with those two kids without saying a word, and we all had a blast.
Continuing our walk to the indigenous market, I began planning what I was going to purchase. As it turns out I left my really sweet Andean hoodie my folks gave me last Christmas n our plane into Quito, so item one was to purchase a new hoodie for those freezing Galapagos nights. We finally found our way to the market, a city of tents and an endless stretch of merchants selling their wears. With Hakan as my side-kick and translator, I quested for the perfect hoodie using what broken Spanish I had. Word of advice: Always act unimpressed. The second you look like you're into something those guys will sink your claws into you. Case in point with one woman who got seemingly emotional cause I wasn't interested in this bright red hoodie with a great big bright red sunflower that was far too small for me. At every shop I got a little better at haggling, and at every shop I felt I was getting closer, but the work was strenuous.
I stopped by a food vendor for some Ecuadoran snacks, the first a ball of coconut shavings dipped in chocolate. Delicious, but despite curiosity I decided to not pursue the source of the hair I found deep in its core. The next snack was less hairy, but in no way less epic. The locals call it "guayava", in English "guava" but in reality a block of dense, deep-red jam roughly the size of a brick. You know when you were a kids and you squished up your fruit roll-up into a dense little ball? Take that, and multiply the volume by about 20 and add seeds for flavor. Now eat it all up.
Delicious.
Satisfied with my snacking, and the sun going down, I gave the hoodie search one last try and to my luck finally found the perfect one. It was a great big wool hoodie with bright colors of evry color of the rainbow, and it was beautiful. I talked the merchant down to 11 bucks and wore it on my merry way back to Miriam's.
On the way back we were stopped at least twice by little children desperately trying to sell us candy. Hakan explained that it is not uncommon for parents to kick their kids out and tell them to not return until they sell all of their candy, or, in some extreme cases, sell their kids to others to use for similar practices. It was immensely depressing to not give these kids money, but it didn't feel ultimately right to feed that hideous social beast. I pray for those children because I can't imagine the life they live, and I secretly wish I'd given them everything I'd brought with me across the border in hopes they would have a better life. But this is too similar a scene in Quito. Many seem to struggle in the depths of poverty, and many try to find their way out by desperately trying to sell SOMETHING. It's an economy of desperation, and you can see it in many locals eyes. But, nonetheless, it is a beautiful town with beautiful people. many of them just need lots and lots of help.
Miriam treated us to an excellent plate of spaghetti and that night we broke the ice with some would-you-rathers. We speculated on things that are probably best unwritten here, but the bonding was solid.
That night I checked in early and slept like a baby. Day 2 coming soon!
Thursday, April 9, 2009
A Simple Structure, A Universal Message
Important Lesson For Life: Don't run away from your fears. Face them. Embrace them. Work with them. Grow from them.
Such is the lesson that has recently become some seemingly underlying theme of my life as of late. I don't know why but it seems that every time I turn around these days there's something I want, but it's being blocked by something I don't want.
Case in point: a week ago I was walking across grounds on my way home from a meeting. I cut across the Lawn in the dark. The Grounds were very serene that night and hardly a soul was out. I was walking along that path behind the amphitheater, admiring the way the moon was casting light across the mist over that giant Z on the staircase, when I suddenly heard the loveliest sound. From the depths of Cabell Hall a beast was roaring, and that beast was rock music. I could not, at first, place what I was hearing. At first I thought it was a recording. But it was too pure, too raw and too powerful to be a simple CD. Somebody was rocking out live in a Cabell, a band, I guessed, based on how tight they were in their jamming.
Now, I hear music coming from Cabell all the time, but something about the tunes these guys were cranking out spoke to me. It was that glorious sound that happens when blues and funk get together and muse on the nature of the universe. Deep rich minor 7 chords. Crashing symbols. Moaning lyrics. It was the kind of stuff my dad used to play when I was around three or four. He'd sit me down on a stack of records in the basement of our old home on Apache Road, and wail on his harmonica or his saxophone to the fat vibes of Muddy Waters, Eric Clapton or the Allman Brothers. In essence, I owe all my musical tastes to my Dad. He taught me that nothing in this world carries more soul than a blues tune sung from the heart. And that's what I was hearing that night.
The sound made me stop dead in my tracks. I turned on my heels and leaned over the railing, listening for several minutes to the sounds of this mystery band. I got to listening, and I started getting crazy thoughts. I wanted to jump over the railing and get as close to these guys as possible. I wanted to cheer for them from the ground outside their window. I wanted to climb to a roof, stare at the sky, and sleep under the stars without a care in the world. but eventually, I got a better idea. I started thinking, "What would it be like to play WITH them?"
The more socially conditioned side of me at first screamed "NO". "These are real musicians" it said. "And you're what? A guy who likes their sound and happens to have a guitar?! They'll have none of it. Leave them be and go on home".
"But listen to that SOUND" said that adventurous side of me. "I can't just walk away from it. That's everything about music that I've always loved. It's who I am and who I hope to always be!"
The debate raged on and a shuffled around the sidewalk a rambling wreck. But eventually I convinced myself to walk into Cabell. Eventually I got myself to stand outside their door. And, eventually, I got myself to knock.
"Hey", I said. "So, I know this is really random and intrusive, but I think you guys rock". Some thank yous were extended. "So...yeah. I have an electric guitar back in my dorm that's just been gathering dust these days. Can I...maybe...go get it and play with you all for a while?"
"Of course!"
In order to fully appreciate this little back-and-forth, it pays to understand, and probably surprises most of you, that I have a pretty crippling fear of rejection. I put on a smiley face because I want people to find me agreeable. I want to be everyone's friend and when they don't want to be, it crushes me. I can't help but blame myself. There must be something wrong with ME, I think. I'M just not that cool/ smart/ attractive, etc.
I decided in front of that door that night that I needed to shatter through that glass ceiling. I needed to ASK. I needed to reach out and really leave myself vulnerable to another human's judgment. So I did. Finally. And by God did it pay off.
I wailed on my Les Paul with the lads of Suaret 'til way past midnight. 1-4-5s in A Minor were our common tongue, and we mulled over life with that seemingly simple structure. The guitars sang in perfect harmony, the drums crashed precisely, and I was on Cloud 9.
Maybe one of the best things I'll ever do in my time here.
And such has been the moral of my life recently: to believe in myself and in OTHERS enough to do the things that I want to do. This case is simply one of several recent tests of this principle, and I expand on it because I believe it is terribly blog-worthy.
As far as other stuff that's been going on, my ego's been having a field day. I got accepted into the Men's Leadership Program, which is the Big Brothers mentoring program that's operated by the Women's Center. I have to say I'm very excited about this. We'll be working with my favorite age group (fifth graders!), and I'll be learning how to be a better role model. The meetings have been awesome. We're talking stuff that couldn't be more up my alley, growing up, challenging authority, role models, outdoorsy stuff, adventuring, learning, the whole shebang. In fact, last night we got to bring in and discuss an important item from our childhood. Yours truly brought in his paddle and schooled his fellow MLPers on the Camp Carolina philosophy. More on that soon, since I have much more to write and will be heading to CCB in a few months anyway!
I also got accepted into the Curry School of Education's 5-year Secondary Social-Studies Masters Program. I'm excited on too many levels to really count, but highlights include 1) having a solid future, 2) being accepted into one of the best programs in the country, 3) having an apparently amazing new adviser, and 4) finally getting trained to do exactly what I want to do with my life.
I'll hold off on some smaller things for now to make way for something I've been promising to do for months. Tonight features the first installment of my Galapagos Epic. Enjoy it. And, while you're at it, enjoy life. You only get one shot at it.
Such is the lesson that has recently become some seemingly underlying theme of my life as of late. I don't know why but it seems that every time I turn around these days there's something I want, but it's being blocked by something I don't want.
Case in point: a week ago I was walking across grounds on my way home from a meeting. I cut across the Lawn in the dark. The Grounds were very serene that night and hardly a soul was out. I was walking along that path behind the amphitheater, admiring the way the moon was casting light across the mist over that giant Z on the staircase, when I suddenly heard the loveliest sound. From the depths of Cabell Hall a beast was roaring, and that beast was rock music. I could not, at first, place what I was hearing. At first I thought it was a recording. But it was too pure, too raw and too powerful to be a simple CD. Somebody was rocking out live in a Cabell, a band, I guessed, based on how tight they were in their jamming.
Now, I hear music coming from Cabell all the time, but something about the tunes these guys were cranking out spoke to me. It was that glorious sound that happens when blues and funk get together and muse on the nature of the universe. Deep rich minor 7 chords. Crashing symbols. Moaning lyrics. It was the kind of stuff my dad used to play when I was around three or four. He'd sit me down on a stack of records in the basement of our old home on Apache Road, and wail on his harmonica or his saxophone to the fat vibes of Muddy Waters, Eric Clapton or the Allman Brothers. In essence, I owe all my musical tastes to my Dad. He taught me that nothing in this world carries more soul than a blues tune sung from the heart. And that's what I was hearing that night.
The sound made me stop dead in my tracks. I turned on my heels and leaned over the railing, listening for several minutes to the sounds of this mystery band. I got to listening, and I started getting crazy thoughts. I wanted to jump over the railing and get as close to these guys as possible. I wanted to cheer for them from the ground outside their window. I wanted to climb to a roof, stare at the sky, and sleep under the stars without a care in the world. but eventually, I got a better idea. I started thinking, "What would it be like to play WITH them?"
The more socially conditioned side of me at first screamed "NO". "These are real musicians" it said. "And you're what? A guy who likes their sound and happens to have a guitar?! They'll have none of it. Leave them be and go on home".
"But listen to that SOUND" said that adventurous side of me. "I can't just walk away from it. That's everything about music that I've always loved. It's who I am and who I hope to always be!"
The debate raged on and a shuffled around the sidewalk a rambling wreck. But eventually I convinced myself to walk into Cabell. Eventually I got myself to stand outside their door. And, eventually, I got myself to knock.
"Hey", I said. "So, I know this is really random and intrusive, but I think you guys rock". Some thank yous were extended. "So...yeah. I have an electric guitar back in my dorm that's just been gathering dust these days. Can I...maybe...go get it and play with you all for a while?"
"Of course!"
In order to fully appreciate this little back-and-forth, it pays to understand, and probably surprises most of you, that I have a pretty crippling fear of rejection. I put on a smiley face because I want people to find me agreeable. I want to be everyone's friend and when they don't want to be, it crushes me. I can't help but blame myself. There must be something wrong with ME, I think. I'M just not that cool/ smart/ attractive, etc.
I decided in front of that door that night that I needed to shatter through that glass ceiling. I needed to ASK. I needed to reach out and really leave myself vulnerable to another human's judgment. So I did. Finally. And by God did it pay off.
I wailed on my Les Paul with the lads of Suaret 'til way past midnight. 1-4-5s in A Minor were our common tongue, and we mulled over life with that seemingly simple structure. The guitars sang in perfect harmony, the drums crashed precisely, and I was on Cloud 9.
Maybe one of the best things I'll ever do in my time here.
And such has been the moral of my life recently: to believe in myself and in OTHERS enough to do the things that I want to do. This case is simply one of several recent tests of this principle, and I expand on it because I believe it is terribly blog-worthy.
As far as other stuff that's been going on, my ego's been having a field day. I got accepted into the Men's Leadership Program, which is the Big Brothers mentoring program that's operated by the Women's Center. I have to say I'm very excited about this. We'll be working with my favorite age group (fifth graders!), and I'll be learning how to be a better role model. The meetings have been awesome. We're talking stuff that couldn't be more up my alley, growing up, challenging authority, role models, outdoorsy stuff, adventuring, learning, the whole shebang. In fact, last night we got to bring in and discuss an important item from our childhood. Yours truly brought in his paddle and schooled his fellow MLPers on the Camp Carolina philosophy. More on that soon, since I have much more to write and will be heading to CCB in a few months anyway!
I also got accepted into the Curry School of Education's 5-year Secondary Social-Studies Masters Program. I'm excited on too many levels to really count, but highlights include 1) having a solid future, 2) being accepted into one of the best programs in the country, 3) having an apparently amazing new adviser, and 4) finally getting trained to do exactly what I want to do with my life.
I'll hold off on some smaller things for now to make way for something I've been promising to do for months. Tonight features the first installment of my Galapagos Epic. Enjoy it. And, while you're at it, enjoy life. You only get one shot at it.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Kilts or: You Can Take Our Dignity, But You Can Never Take Our Freedom
...and so begins the long, arduous process of catching you up after a month of me neglecting this Blog. Put on your hard hats!
Let's start with today, shall we? I'll begin by saying I'm not a fan of cold weather. Period. I mean, from an ecological standpoint, I totally get winter. It's all about the continuation of the cyclic process of life. What goes up must come down, what is given is taken away, what is created is destroyed. Winter is, metaphorically, like when an inventor crumbles up a piece of paper and chucks it in the fire. It may not be, in itself, a creative action, but it will lead to something beautiful. that being said, philosophically I don't understand winter. I don't like how everything dies and loses its color for a good 3 or four months out of the year. And, simply put, I never dress appropriately for cold weather so I can't stand it. Why can't every day be, say, like this one? It is BEAUTIFUL in Charlottesville today. The sky is a bright blue, birds are singing, trees are blooming, and everything has that little tinge of gold that comes with the lengthening days and the warmer weather. I love spring, and especially summer, and that's all we have ahead for quite a while.
That actually reminds me of a little misadventure I had. Good thing, otherwise I might have totally forgotten this and it was really cool. So recently we celebrated the spring equinox. This dude hopped on my bus (I was working that day), and this dude was decked. Out. I'm talking full beard, full chest, sandals, and to complete the image, a kilt. Obviously I was intrigued, and acquired as to the origin of his kilt. I am fascinated with kilts and desperately want one (hint, hint, Amanda, if you ever read this). I know they're expensive and there's, sadly, not a drop of Scottish in my blood but I WANT that. Anyways, this guy, as it turns out, was a legit pagan. He was riding my bus to the Lawn, where he and some of his friends were going to have a legit pagan celebration of he equinox, complete with sacrifices to Freya, the Norse goddess of fertility, dancing, drinking, and general merriment and mirth-making. I thought that was just so cool. Because of the culture I'm in I don't get a chance to meet many polytheists. The concept in our culture seems to have some sort of stigma of being less-developed, when really I think it's fascinating. Polytheism argues that there are, quite literally, multiple but equally sufficient paths to god, which I can really get behind.
On that subject, I've done something new and exciting for this year's Lent. I have vowed to apply the 5 precepts of a Buddhist layman to my own life. They are as follows...
1) Do not kill (I've expanded this into no eating meat)
2) Do not steal
3) Do not be lustful
4) Do not consume intoxicants of any kind
5) Practice Right Speech; do not lie, swear, complain, or insult others. Always speak with a positive, constructive voice
I like this set because I feel like it marks the first Lent where I'm legitimately making a pretty much minute-by-minute effort to better myself. Ideally, I would live a life to where none of these things would ever even tempt me, let alone be justified, so it's really challenging to rethink my day to day activities. I've let myself down in all of these areas multiple times, but it's showing something important for me, i.e., how easily I allow such actions to seep into my conscious action. For me, that's what something like Lent is all about. I'm learning about myself as much as if not more than I am sacrificing to some higher being. I'm making, or at least trying to make, myself a better person, and I feel like that's what religion is, at the end of the day, all about.
This has been a very philosophical entry thus far, hasn't it? Well let me jump into some other recent major events of my life...
A couple weeks ago I was honored enough to receive the Hat. It's time-honored tradition in Alpha Phi Omega's Theta chapter for a Brother to pass the Hat, which is a simple UVA APO baseball cap, on to a Brother that they feel reflects the principles of the fraternity. I was blessed enough to receive the hat from Mark Manning at a time in the semester when I was really feeling down on myself. The feeling was magical. I know that sounds silly to anyone not involved with APO, but let me say it was one of the greatest moments of my college career by far. For one moment the whole chapter looked to me and supported me, and in turn it has challenged me to be the kind of person who I believe is worthy of such esteem. I've since passed the Hat onto T.R., someone who I've looked up to quite a bit for his tireless sacrifice to his friends. But really, it could have gone to anyone who I've met over the course of my time in APO. Again, I apologize for sounding hokey to anyone not involved, but these are some of, if not the, most inspiring young people I'll ever meet. I see great hope and potential for humanity in the people I've gotten to know, and I feel sincere love every time I connect with one or all of them. Thanks for being you Theta. You mean more to me than you may ever know.
This past weekend was also a weekend of immense personal accomplishments. Last week I signed on to be part of a team for Scav Hunt, a massive 300-something-item scavenger hunt that spans over the course of several days and entails feats nothing short of epic. The entire weekend as almost like something out of The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. I participated in a funeral on the Lawn for one of the judges (ashes were spread and looks were thrown). Hilary and I invented a secret society and tagged the appropriate buildings. We hung up a hammock in the library. We participated in early-morning Olympics that left a parking lot covered in tortillas, busted watermelon, scraps of wood, butter milk, and a little blood and vomit. There was even one moment I recall when, stumbling through a stranger's back yard to the throng of a garden party, I tried to charmingly convince someone playing bagpipes in the dead of night to take a journey with us to Mad Bowl to help us recreate the mooning scene from Braveheart. Simply put, Scav Hunt was one of, if not the, most ridiculous thing I've done at UVA, and my only regret is not being able to give more time to it. I had to miss the road trip to Ocean City, Maryland!
But hey, in turn, I actually got the team some points by slaying the Vermonster at Springfest with Mark, Paige, Doug and Jenny. To those of you unaware of what the Vermonster is, imagine, if you will, twenty scoops of icecream, smothered in hot fudge, whipped cream, bananas, cookies, and brownies. Sounds awesome, right? Well, now you have to eat it as fast as possible. The Vermonster victory was nothing short of epic, and I provide a link to our team's youtube video, which is the only thing that can sufficiently do justice to the incredible accomplishment that we carried out. To clarify, yes, Mark took a piece out of his mouth and placed it in mine so that the final chewing process would move faster. You do crazy thigns for the sake of victory. That's all I'll say.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iYVRAy-QksY
...and, of course, I've yet to post anything from the amazing trip to the Galapagos. Never fear! Now that I've knocked out all my recent highlights of life in Charlottesville, the next several posts will be dedicated to the best spring break ever. Get excited! See you again soon! Promise!
Let's start with today, shall we? I'll begin by saying I'm not a fan of cold weather. Period. I mean, from an ecological standpoint, I totally get winter. It's all about the continuation of the cyclic process of life. What goes up must come down, what is given is taken away, what is created is destroyed. Winter is, metaphorically, like when an inventor crumbles up a piece of paper and chucks it in the fire. It may not be, in itself, a creative action, but it will lead to something beautiful. that being said, philosophically I don't understand winter. I don't like how everything dies and loses its color for a good 3 or four months out of the year. And, simply put, I never dress appropriately for cold weather so I can't stand it. Why can't every day be, say, like this one? It is BEAUTIFUL in Charlottesville today. The sky is a bright blue, birds are singing, trees are blooming, and everything has that little tinge of gold that comes with the lengthening days and the warmer weather. I love spring, and especially summer, and that's all we have ahead for quite a while.
That actually reminds me of a little misadventure I had. Good thing, otherwise I might have totally forgotten this and it was really cool. So recently we celebrated the spring equinox. This dude hopped on my bus (I was working that day), and this dude was decked. Out. I'm talking full beard, full chest, sandals, and to complete the image, a kilt. Obviously I was intrigued, and acquired as to the origin of his kilt. I am fascinated with kilts and desperately want one (hint, hint, Amanda, if you ever read this). I know they're expensive and there's, sadly, not a drop of Scottish in my blood but I WANT that. Anyways, this guy, as it turns out, was a legit pagan. He was riding my bus to the Lawn, where he and some of his friends were going to have a legit pagan celebration of he equinox, complete with sacrifices to Freya, the Norse goddess of fertility, dancing, drinking, and general merriment and mirth-making. I thought that was just so cool. Because of the culture I'm in I don't get a chance to meet many polytheists. The concept in our culture seems to have some sort of stigma of being less-developed, when really I think it's fascinating. Polytheism argues that there are, quite literally, multiple but equally sufficient paths to god, which I can really get behind.
On that subject, I've done something new and exciting for this year's Lent. I have vowed to apply the 5 precepts of a Buddhist layman to my own life. They are as follows...
1) Do not kill (I've expanded this into no eating meat)
2) Do not steal
3) Do not be lustful
4) Do not consume intoxicants of any kind
5) Practice Right Speech; do not lie, swear, complain, or insult others. Always speak with a positive, constructive voice
I like this set because I feel like it marks the first Lent where I'm legitimately making a pretty much minute-by-minute effort to better myself. Ideally, I would live a life to where none of these things would ever even tempt me, let alone be justified, so it's really challenging to rethink my day to day activities. I've let myself down in all of these areas multiple times, but it's showing something important for me, i.e., how easily I allow such actions to seep into my conscious action. For me, that's what something like Lent is all about. I'm learning about myself as much as if not more than I am sacrificing to some higher being. I'm making, or at least trying to make, myself a better person, and I feel like that's what religion is, at the end of the day, all about.
This has been a very philosophical entry thus far, hasn't it? Well let me jump into some other recent major events of my life...
A couple weeks ago I was honored enough to receive the Hat. It's time-honored tradition in Alpha Phi Omega's Theta chapter for a Brother to pass the Hat, which is a simple UVA APO baseball cap, on to a Brother that they feel reflects the principles of the fraternity. I was blessed enough to receive the hat from Mark Manning at a time in the semester when I was really feeling down on myself. The feeling was magical. I know that sounds silly to anyone not involved with APO, but let me say it was one of the greatest moments of my college career by far. For one moment the whole chapter looked to me and supported me, and in turn it has challenged me to be the kind of person who I believe is worthy of such esteem. I've since passed the Hat onto T.R., someone who I've looked up to quite a bit for his tireless sacrifice to his friends. But really, it could have gone to anyone who I've met over the course of my time in APO. Again, I apologize for sounding hokey to anyone not involved, but these are some of, if not the, most inspiring young people I'll ever meet. I see great hope and potential for humanity in the people I've gotten to know, and I feel sincere love every time I connect with one or all of them. Thanks for being you Theta. You mean more to me than you may ever know.
This past weekend was also a weekend of immense personal accomplishments. Last week I signed on to be part of a team for Scav Hunt, a massive 300-something-item scavenger hunt that spans over the course of several days and entails feats nothing short of epic. The entire weekend as almost like something out of The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. I participated in a funeral on the Lawn for one of the judges (ashes were spread and looks were thrown). Hilary and I invented a secret society and tagged the appropriate buildings. We hung up a hammock in the library. We participated in early-morning Olympics that left a parking lot covered in tortillas, busted watermelon, scraps of wood, butter milk, and a little blood and vomit. There was even one moment I recall when, stumbling through a stranger's back yard to the throng of a garden party, I tried to charmingly convince someone playing bagpipes in the dead of night to take a journey with us to Mad Bowl to help us recreate the mooning scene from Braveheart. Simply put, Scav Hunt was one of, if not the, most ridiculous thing I've done at UVA, and my only regret is not being able to give more time to it. I had to miss the road trip to Ocean City, Maryland!
But hey, in turn, I actually got the team some points by slaying the Vermonster at Springfest with Mark, Paige, Doug and Jenny. To those of you unaware of what the Vermonster is, imagine, if you will, twenty scoops of icecream, smothered in hot fudge, whipped cream, bananas, cookies, and brownies. Sounds awesome, right? Well, now you have to eat it as fast as possible. The Vermonster victory was nothing short of epic, and I provide a link to our team's youtube video, which is the only thing that can sufficiently do justice to the incredible accomplishment that we carried out. To clarify, yes, Mark took a piece out of his mouth and placed it in mine so that the final chewing process would move faster. You do crazy thigns for the sake of victory. That's all I'll say.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iYVRAy-QksY
...and, of course, I've yet to post anything from the amazing trip to the Galapagos. Never fear! Now that I've knocked out all my recent highlights of life in Charlottesville, the next several posts will be dedicated to the best spring break ever. Get excited! See you again soon! Promise!
Friday, February 20, 2009
Another Moloko, My Starry-Eyed Droog
Tonight's post comes to you from Manakin-Sabot, Virginia, the humble stomping grounds of the ever-amazing Alexander Keevil! Ian, Catherine, Alexander and I are here for APO Sectionals at the University of Richmond (Get Caught In the Web...of SERVICE!). Philip's here to attend Sectionals and also acquire a unicycle. Which is awesome.
I have lots of respect for people who take the time to learn eccentric skills such as this. I took juggling classes over one summer and got fairly decent, the caveat being that I could only handle things that fell slowly, like tissues. But man, wouldn't it be sweet if I knew how to juggle for real? Or ride a unicycle? Or, like, breathe fire? One's immediate reaction may be "these things don't serve any practical purpose. Wouldn't you rather learn how to make sound investments or use a compass?" To those people I say don't come crying to me when you have to eat your way through a wall of swords and all you've got is that cute little book about knot-tying.
Well that was a random little tangent, wasn't it? In either case, I guess my most eccentric skill at this point is my ability to drive buses. Granted, I'm not amazing at it, but if a bus needs moving, or, say, if I'm riding a bus down a Los Angeles speedway and the bus driver is accidentally killed by a paranoid fugitive who gets spooked by a cop that's trying to explain that there's a bomb on the bus, I'm your man. I'm actually really enjoying my job with UTS. Well, at least the actual elements of service. This morning I woke up with the sudden chilling realization that my alarm didn't go off and I was already 10 minutes late for my shift, and that wasn't as fun. Once I'd driven across town and slapped myself awake, however, things got really great. I love the people that I drive around. In our fast-paced society I think it's easy to fall into a behavior where we drift past each other without a word. We must come across hundreds of people a day and yet we're so frightened to step out of our boxes and make friends with someone new.
I really try t break that during my shifts. If it's just me and someone else on my bus, or basically if someone's just close enough to have a conversation with me, I give 'em a little prod to talk. "Where are you going today?" "How's your day going?" "Busy out tonight, isn't it?". Something simple like that. I can say with full sincerity that I've never regretted initiating one of these conversations. I get to learn where people are from and where they're going. I learn about their hopes, fears, and everything in between. One woman I started talking with asked me what it was like to fly a spaceship. This may be my favorite conversation so far, because I actually more than often imagine I'm behind the steering gauge the Millennium Falcon, the Enterprise or Serenity, transporting passengers on their way to the next spaceport or terraformed moon. I wanted to believe she could read my mind and knew that's how I kept things interesting. Maybe she did. People are special like that.
I learned about a really interesting society of folks just recently for my presentation in my Anthropology of Reproduction class. They're called the !Kung, and they're a nomadic culture that lives in the Kalahari desert. A lot of people know them for the "clicking" consonant in their language (signified by an exclamation point (again, awesome)), and their nomadic lifestyle combined with the harsh conditions of their homeland have shaped them into some of the toughest people on the planet. Their women literally keep working until the day they give birth. And, when they finally do, the sneak away from the village and give birth alone, without any pain-meds, right out in the bush. Basically, these are people that you don't want to screw with. If you want to learn more about them, visit wikipedia. If you want to make fun of their clicking consonant, may God protect you.
I think my favorite name for a band ever is actually "!!!". They say you can pronounce it with any three sounds. From here on out I'm opting for the clicking noise. The best name I've ever come up with for a band was "The Benevolent Dictators". In high school I was in a band called "His Boy Elroy", also an awesome name. But that's a story for another time.
The other night I was given the name "Milky" by Shannon, the waitress at St. Maarten's. She's come to call me Milky because I always order milk with my buffalo wings, and I'm not old enough to buy beer from her yet. Also when I drink milk it makes me kinda feel delightfully insane like Alex in A Clockwork Orange. And it's still the best drink in the world for bubble-blowing. Frankly, I think the name is awesome. I'm hoping I might see it on my mug there one day. I feel like if I have a nickname there after only three times of going I've got a pretty good foot in the door for a mug at some point. In the meantime I'm just going to enjoy the back-and-forths.
I have lots of respect for people who take the time to learn eccentric skills such as this. I took juggling classes over one summer and got fairly decent, the caveat being that I could only handle things that fell slowly, like tissues. But man, wouldn't it be sweet if I knew how to juggle for real? Or ride a unicycle? Or, like, breathe fire? One's immediate reaction may be "these things don't serve any practical purpose. Wouldn't you rather learn how to make sound investments or use a compass?" To those people I say don't come crying to me when you have to eat your way through a wall of swords and all you've got is that cute little book about knot-tying.
Well that was a random little tangent, wasn't it? In either case, I guess my most eccentric skill at this point is my ability to drive buses. Granted, I'm not amazing at it, but if a bus needs moving, or, say, if I'm riding a bus down a Los Angeles speedway and the bus driver is accidentally killed by a paranoid fugitive who gets spooked by a cop that's trying to explain that there's a bomb on the bus, I'm your man. I'm actually really enjoying my job with UTS. Well, at least the actual elements of service. This morning I woke up with the sudden chilling realization that my alarm didn't go off and I was already 10 minutes late for my shift, and that wasn't as fun. Once I'd driven across town and slapped myself awake, however, things got really great. I love the people that I drive around. In our fast-paced society I think it's easy to fall into a behavior where we drift past each other without a word. We must come across hundreds of people a day and yet we're so frightened to step out of our boxes and make friends with someone new.
I really try t break that during my shifts. If it's just me and someone else on my bus, or basically if someone's just close enough to have a conversation with me, I give 'em a little prod to talk. "Where are you going today?" "How's your day going?" "Busy out tonight, isn't it?". Something simple like that. I can say with full sincerity that I've never regretted initiating one of these conversations. I get to learn where people are from and where they're going. I learn about their hopes, fears, and everything in between. One woman I started talking with asked me what it was like to fly a spaceship. This may be my favorite conversation so far, because I actually more than often imagine I'm behind the steering gauge the Millennium Falcon, the Enterprise or Serenity, transporting passengers on their way to the next spaceport or terraformed moon. I wanted to believe she could read my mind and knew that's how I kept things interesting. Maybe she did. People are special like that.
I learned about a really interesting society of folks just recently for my presentation in my Anthropology of Reproduction class. They're called the !Kung, and they're a nomadic culture that lives in the Kalahari desert. A lot of people know them for the "clicking" consonant in their language (signified by an exclamation point (again, awesome)), and their nomadic lifestyle combined with the harsh conditions of their homeland have shaped them into some of the toughest people on the planet. Their women literally keep working until the day they give birth. And, when they finally do, the sneak away from the village and give birth alone, without any pain-meds, right out in the bush. Basically, these are people that you don't want to screw with. If you want to learn more about them, visit wikipedia. If you want to make fun of their clicking consonant, may God protect you.
I think my favorite name for a band ever is actually "!!!". They say you can pronounce it with any three sounds. From here on out I'm opting for the clicking noise. The best name I've ever come up with for a band was "The Benevolent Dictators". In high school I was in a band called "His Boy Elroy", also an awesome name. But that's a story for another time.
The other night I was given the name "Milky" by Shannon, the waitress at St. Maarten's. She's come to call me Milky because I always order milk with my buffalo wings, and I'm not old enough to buy beer from her yet. Also when I drink milk it makes me kinda feel delightfully insane like Alex in A Clockwork Orange. And it's still the best drink in the world for bubble-blowing. Frankly, I think the name is awesome. I'm hoping I might see it on my mug there one day. I feel like if I have a nickname there after only three times of going I've got a pretty good foot in the door for a mug at some point. In the meantime I'm just going to enjoy the back-and-forths.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
The Gift of Roadkill
It's times like these that I feel I could make a killing off of a little something I invented. I call it the "WWTJD?" bracelet and, yes, as you might imagine, that stands for "What Would Thomas Jefferson Do?". I feel like, with the proper marketing and design (blue and orange string, of course), something like this would sell like PBR at an indie rock show.
I say this because I feel like at least once a week someone or some group at UVA tells me to join their side of an issue because "Thomas Jefferson would agree with me/us!" Take, for example, both sides in the current Single Sanction/Sanction Reform debate at the University. Everybody here seems to assume that they are a champion of Jeffersonian ideals, and, while that's a noble and romantic notion, truth be told, that argument makes me really uncomfortable. Like any other human being Thomas Jefferson said a lot of things in his life, most of which were contradictory. If you look hard enough you can probably find quotes from him that could be inferred to support everything from socialism to tyranny. And while I have mad respect for my man TJ, or at least the one I think I know, let's remember what the immortal Capt. Malcolm Reynolds once said: "I figure anybody who ever got a statue made of himself was one kind of a**hole or another".
Lindsay File was gracious enough to give me her copy of a book that has played a major role in shaping her spirituality: Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller. The author totes it as a nonreligious discussion of Christian ethic, and I've spent about half of my time reading this book trying to decide if this statement is supposed to be ironic. Judging by Don, an artsy, humorous Portlander who seemingly found God among the haze of marijuana, miracles and conflicted dogma, I'd say it has to be. But I really like Don's writing style, and I'm surprised at how personally engaging this book has been for my spirituality.
I actually strongly considered attending Reed College, where many of Don's personal stories take place, and I can't help but feel like I would have been one of the students that made Christians on campus like him so scared to be who they are. It's not because I'm opposed to Christianity. Far from it. I feel like if everybody followed the ideals of Jesus (love your neighbor, blessed are the meek, etc.) the world would be a wonderful place. The problem, like with Jefferson, is that it's so easy for Jesus' "real" opinions to be misconstrued. I mean, there are Christians like Mother Theresa and there are Christians like Fred Phelps (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fred_Phelps). There are Christians like Gandhi (or actually people who like Christ but not Christians like Gandhi. Thanks for pointing out the mistake, Nick) who support civil unrest and Christians like some choice teachers at my Catholic high school who almost kicked me out for my hair length and let the guys who cheated on the PSAT go with a slap on the wrist. Christians of the latter persuasion make me feel apprehensive toward self-identified Christians as a whole, but I'm beginning to learn, or rather relearn, that this is ultimately a problem of mine, not a problem of the actual faith.
There is a passage in the book when Don and his fellow Christian students set up a confession booth, but of a different kind. In this booth these guys apologize for the negative actions of the church, like the Crusades and televangelism. They apologize to these Reed students, folks who typically have never taken interest in or have been pushed away by the Christian church, and I found this extremely moving. So did they. Don recalls lots of tears and hugs. It's quite beautiful, and it completely turned around the intellectual frustration I experienced in reading the first hundred or so pages.
One of the wisest things I've ever heard was something my grandmother once told my mom, and that's that people always try to do the best they can. I wish I could remember this because as much as I ultimately love people there are pockets of humanity that often frustrate me. But, again, it's ultimately my problem, not theirs. I need to be the change that I want to see in the world. Nothing about life will begin to change until I change my own heart.
I tried to reflect on these thoughts this weekend during project when I was picking up cigarette butts and other assorted treasures off the side of South 29. It frustrates me that no mater how many times I go the side of that road is filthy all over again whenever I come back. So many people don't seem to care about what they're doing to the planet, our planet. But, at the same time, I remember that this is exactly why I try to be a good person. If the world were a perfect place there wouldn't be a need for service, but then there wouldn't be an opportunity to better ourselves and really connect with people. And people are awesome.
I hung out with some especially awesome people for Valentines Day (Hilary, Matt, Elena and Julian)! Instead of being struck by Cupid's arrow we were instead struck by the more instinctual (and, in my experience, satisfying) thirst to explore. I've been stunneling now more times than I can count, and almost every time I go I see the same message in bastardized Greek over the Stadium Gate. Hilary and I got to talking about it and decided we were going to find out just what it said and just what it would lead us to. So, as a team, we went stunneling and I copied that message and a much larger (and more important, as I later found out) message about halfway between the Stadium Gate and Graffiti Jesus. That night I was up until 4 trying to crack the code, and to my extreme satisfaction I succeeded and was very intrigued by the Message. In the interest of not spoiling the surprise for others (especially Hilary, who still doesn't know what the Message translates to) I'll refrain from posting what I've found here. After we copied the Message we saw Jesus, visited the Pipe, strolled down Poet's Row and popped out at Physics Portal. All I can say is if you haven't gone stunneling, make an effort. There are more treasures than one student could ever uncover down there, and it's the part of UVA that makes it most seem like Hogwarts to me.
Earlier that day I also found a dead 'possum on the side of the road. It may have been nasty, it may have been smelly, it may have been heavy and drippy when I picked it up, but it would be easy to complain. That 'possum was a gift.
I say this because I feel like at least once a week someone or some group at UVA tells me to join their side of an issue because "Thomas Jefferson would agree with me/us!" Take, for example, both sides in the current Single Sanction/Sanction Reform debate at the University. Everybody here seems to assume that they are a champion of Jeffersonian ideals, and, while that's a noble and romantic notion, truth be told, that argument makes me really uncomfortable. Like any other human being Thomas Jefferson said a lot of things in his life, most of which were contradictory. If you look hard enough you can probably find quotes from him that could be inferred to support everything from socialism to tyranny. And while I have mad respect for my man TJ, or at least the one I think I know, let's remember what the immortal Capt. Malcolm Reynolds once said: "I figure anybody who ever got a statue made of himself was one kind of a**hole or another".
Lindsay File was gracious enough to give me her copy of a book that has played a major role in shaping her spirituality: Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller. The author totes it as a nonreligious discussion of Christian ethic, and I've spent about half of my time reading this book trying to decide if this statement is supposed to be ironic. Judging by Don, an artsy, humorous Portlander who seemingly found God among the haze of marijuana, miracles and conflicted dogma, I'd say it has to be. But I really like Don's writing style, and I'm surprised at how personally engaging this book has been for my spirituality.
I actually strongly considered attending Reed College, where many of Don's personal stories take place, and I can't help but feel like I would have been one of the students that made Christians on campus like him so scared to be who they are. It's not because I'm opposed to Christianity. Far from it. I feel like if everybody followed the ideals of Jesus (love your neighbor, blessed are the meek, etc.) the world would be a wonderful place. The problem, like with Jefferson, is that it's so easy for Jesus' "real" opinions to be misconstrued. I mean, there are Christians like Mother Theresa and there are Christians like Fred Phelps (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fred_Phelps). There are Christians like Gandhi (or actually people who like Christ but not Christians like Gandhi. Thanks for pointing out the mistake, Nick) who support civil unrest and Christians like some choice teachers at my Catholic high school who almost kicked me out for my hair length and let the guys who cheated on the PSAT go with a slap on the wrist. Christians of the latter persuasion make me feel apprehensive toward self-identified Christians as a whole, but I'm beginning to learn, or rather relearn, that this is ultimately a problem of mine, not a problem of the actual faith.
There is a passage in the book when Don and his fellow Christian students set up a confession booth, but of a different kind. In this booth these guys apologize for the negative actions of the church, like the Crusades and televangelism. They apologize to these Reed students, folks who typically have never taken interest in or have been pushed away by the Christian church, and I found this extremely moving. So did they. Don recalls lots of tears and hugs. It's quite beautiful, and it completely turned around the intellectual frustration I experienced in reading the first hundred or so pages.
One of the wisest things I've ever heard was something my grandmother once told my mom, and that's that people always try to do the best they can. I wish I could remember this because as much as I ultimately love people there are pockets of humanity that often frustrate me. But, again, it's ultimately my problem, not theirs. I need to be the change that I want to see in the world. Nothing about life will begin to change until I change my own heart.
I tried to reflect on these thoughts this weekend during project when I was picking up cigarette butts and other assorted treasures off the side of South 29. It frustrates me that no mater how many times I go the side of that road is filthy all over again whenever I come back. So many people don't seem to care about what they're doing to the planet, our planet. But, at the same time, I remember that this is exactly why I try to be a good person. If the world were a perfect place there wouldn't be a need for service, but then there wouldn't be an opportunity to better ourselves and really connect with people. And people are awesome.
I hung out with some especially awesome people for Valentines Day (Hilary, Matt, Elena and Julian)! Instead of being struck by Cupid's arrow we were instead struck by the more instinctual (and, in my experience, satisfying) thirst to explore. I've been stunneling now more times than I can count, and almost every time I go I see the same message in bastardized Greek over the Stadium Gate. Hilary and I got to talking about it and decided we were going to find out just what it said and just what it would lead us to. So, as a team, we went stunneling and I copied that message and a much larger (and more important, as I later found out) message about halfway between the Stadium Gate and Graffiti Jesus. That night I was up until 4 trying to crack the code, and to my extreme satisfaction I succeeded and was very intrigued by the Message. In the interest of not spoiling the surprise for others (especially Hilary, who still doesn't know what the Message translates to) I'll refrain from posting what I've found here. After we copied the Message we saw Jesus, visited the Pipe, strolled down Poet's Row and popped out at Physics Portal. All I can say is if you haven't gone stunneling, make an effort. There are more treasures than one student could ever uncover down there, and it's the part of UVA that makes it most seem like Hogwarts to me.
Earlier that day I also found a dead 'possum on the side of the road. It may have been nasty, it may have been smelly, it may have been heavy and drippy when I picked it up, but it would be easy to complain. That 'possum was a gift.
Friday, February 13, 2009
"Carpe Diem!"- The Semi-Existential First Post
I have been alive for 19 years, 7 months, 4 days, 14 hours, and 2 minutes. It's been a really crazy run so far, too. So why, after 19 years, 7 months, 4 days, and now 3 minutes, have I decided to begin logging my experiences in the digital medium? Because I realize, after 19 years, 7 months, 14 hours, and now 4 minutes, that time moves with or without me. I'm the one who gets to decide the life I live, the dreams I pursue, the adventures I take, and the experiences I have.
However, this post is not a lament of life wasted, because I feel that I'm pretty good about living in the moment and loving what I'm doing. This is, instead, a dedication to you, to me, to the world and the powers that lie beyond that I am grateful for this thing called Life. I am grateful, and I intend to enjoy it for as long as possible.
I have two long-term goals I wish to see this blog accomplish
1) To immortalize my thoughts and experiences so that I can look back later on and have a moment-by-moment account of the significant events in my life.
2) To do and think things that are important enough and interesting enough to make for a good read.
I can't imagine at the present time what else this might evolve into, but I sincerely hope you enjoy the ride.
However, this post is not a lament of life wasted, because I feel that I'm pretty good about living in the moment and loving what I'm doing. This is, instead, a dedication to you, to me, to the world and the powers that lie beyond that I am grateful for this thing called Life. I am grateful, and I intend to enjoy it for as long as possible.
I have two long-term goals I wish to see this blog accomplish
1) To immortalize my thoughts and experiences so that I can look back later on and have a moment-by-moment account of the significant events in my life.
2) To do and think things that are important enough and interesting enough to make for a good read.
I can't imagine at the present time what else this might evolve into, but I sincerely hope you enjoy the ride.
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