Happy (Feminist) Mother's Day from The Progressive

Enjoy.

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Urban Oasis

Lizzy and I spent a few hours at the Tamarind Cafe today. If you're in Bangkok one of these days and in search for unique Vegetarian Food (Malay Quesedilla/Sesame Seed Falafels anyone?) as well as a pretty cool assortment of fruit drinks. I highly recommend it and I think Lizzy agrees.

[Photo Credit - Bangkok Tatler]

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Half-Grumpy, Partly Amused, Semi-Rant

So if I get to be 55 and someone says to me "Oh my! You're so mature for 55, I had thought for sure you were 63," I might have to hurt somebody. I'm just sayin', that's all...

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So a Fish Walks Into...

I was wandering a bit aimlessly around Mission College when I saw a dark shape jauntily crossing the road. I blinked a few times before I registered what I was seeing. A fish as large as my hand was bouncing across the road using its fins. It must left the pond on one side of the road to migrate to the larger pond across the way.
I resisted the urge to save it the trouble by tossing it into the pond and instead stood still, watching. It reached the other side of the pavement and began wriggling through the grass. It would move several inches, then stop and rest, then move again. I watched for twenty minutes, ignoring the mosquitoes who seemed to have an odd fascination with my head, as the fish disappeared into the long grass. After a while, I could only see where it was by the brief, violent jittering of grass blades. The wind blew the blades gently, but there was no mistaking where the fish was.
I was tempted to leave a few times, but never moved, staring down the incline. The fish finally reached the edge of the shore, and with a tiny push, slipped into the water, leaving only gentle rings on the water's skin to show where it had entered.

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Executed man's last request honored -- pizza for homeless.

[May 17, 2007 Update]
Check out Julius N.'s post about this over at Progressive Adventism. He's got some interesting details about Workman including his post-conviction conversion to Adventism.

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Thoughts on a Buddhist Funeral*

Yesterday, I paid my respects at the funeral of Mr. Utid, the father of one of the graduates of AIMS, the elementary school of which my mom is the administrator. He was 53.

This is the first Buddhist funeral I have attended and it felt like a tangle of an ancient ritual that you would read about in myths and a modern western funeral. The ceremony was held in the courtyard of one of the wealthier temples in the city of Saraburi. Mr. Utid was a prominent man and the courtyard pavilion was packed with province's high society. The ceremony consisted of two parts. A large part of it was the presentation of gifts to the monastery. One man in a black tie and white shirt trekked up and down the stairs of the ornate crematorium that sat in front of the pavilion delivering the gifts to the saffron-robed monk who hid behind his fan and sedately accepted the gifts. The crowd of people talked, laughed, ate and drank (yes, we were served snacks) as this part of the ceremony went on.
At the end, we stood for a prayer and then a hidden, traditional orchestra struck up a intense beat. We filed up the stairs of the crematorium, paying respects at the gold and white casket.

The crematorium was an odd structure. A brand new incinerator was installed in the building, a shiny marble exterior and computerized controls buried in classic Thai architecture.
Everything seemed very matter-of-fact. Everyone acted fairly cheerful, though the family members wore looks of studied neutrality, with a creeping sadness edging into their eyes.
My mom and I talked about funerals and other important life ceremonies on the way back home. We both don't particularly want funerals and I told her that I would completely back her up on not having a funeral when she dies; as long as she puts it in the will so that I'm not viewed as the evil son. I don't think closure requires a ceremony like that and if other people require it...well, I'm sorry, but I don't need an hour of people remembering me. If I die, remember me in your dreams and in quiet cafe conversations, that will be enough.

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So Much for Aquiescence...

Tim Bray of the blog Ongoing came up with a great little concept that I think I'd like to support to continue the success of the American experiment, if only for a few centuries more. His idea? It's time for a radical redesign of our borders. Check out the new North American map and Bray's plan for the redesign.

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A Rare Aquiescence

Author Kittey Kelley writes about why, despite "the messy flaws of U.S. democracy," she's proud of America. For once, I cheerfully agree. Your Majesty? Not in America

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Pride

I won't say much, but I'd like to present a short by my good friend Tanya M., a sophomore at Southern's film school, and someone I've had the pleasure of seeing grow up into a fantastic filmmaker. Without anymore blustering, may I present, Fear.

Fear

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Introductions...

My good friend and sometimes collaborator Scott Fogg has a new blog up. Go check out Coyote Crossing.

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call

these are my people
call the fire dancers
the dreamers
call the lunatics and the poets

these are my people
born of a flaming pillar
the sleepers
born of a dream and a whisper

these are my people
a vagabond tribe
the windblown (let the desert be our home)
a place of freaks and outcasts

these are my people
call the painters
the forgotten
call the tired and hungry

call my People.

Photo Credit: The Real Taiwan

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Logic, My Blessing, My Bane

Yet another This American Life episode (#188 Kid Logic, for those keeping track) has gifted me with a small epiphany. The episode deals with how kids, through perfect logic come up with answers that are utterly wrong. Like the crew of This American Life apparently, I love stories of this nature. I started thinking about how logical I was as a kid, and all the wrong answers I came up with using perfectly logical steps. As I reminisced I stumbled across a thought. Is this the way it is between with us and God (or the universe/nature for those of you who prefer your existence un-deified)? Are we operating through pure logic, coming up smugly with answers we are sure are correct (I mean, we used perfect logic to come to these conclusions) but coming up with absolutely wrong answers, because like these kids, we just don't have the right information to process this stuff?
Just a thought.

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To Inform, With Delight

Although I savor moments of silence and solitude, people who know me also know that I have a tendency to rattle on...and on...and on some special days...on. It's not exactly Logorrhoea, but it's close enough to be considered a mild case.
A person featured on This American Life (episode #326 Quiz Show) put it quite well. He had an epiphany, one day at work, and realized--after a slightly rambling monologue about the difference between apes and monkeys--that he was informing people against their will (Sit down. Shut up. Learn. might serve nicely as an unofficial motto. No? Sleep on it.). I think people like us tend to come off as a bit arrogant sometimes or even belittle people, I certainly have, who don't catch our references but I don't think most of us mean to. So my sincerest apologies to those caught unwillingly in the information barrage and the subsequent, "Come on, how can you not know that?"'s.
Most of us really don't mean to cause harm or suicide due to extreme irritation. Now shut up and listen to me.

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Distractions

*If you've ever played Simcity, you'll remember Arcologies, the massive buildings in which a person could happily live their entire lives without ever leaving (why? I have no clue). Paolo Soleri's concept of a city within a city, buildings which could house everything essential for a fulfilling life, has been realized in Vienna. Four massive gas tanks in the Simmering District have been transformed into full-fledged communities. Check out Vienna's Gasometers.

*The Village Voice covers a play called Church, the call of a modern day "Jeremiah" to her hipster brothers and sisters. Young-Jean Lee is an atheist who questioned her parents Christian views and is now in turn, questioning the views of "her fellow unbelievers."

*Ladies, want to get away? China may have the perfect solution, a town in which women make the rules and men get punished for disobedience.

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The Devil Made Me Do It*

When I was nine years old, I expressed some anger I had felt to my mother. In response, she offhandedly replied that these particular emotions were somehow caused by Satan. I remember being really angered by that answer. My mother is not the type to just toss out common Christian banalities and so her remark took me off guard. I felt that the comment careless and fairly illogical based on the situation. It was a bit out of character for her, but at nine, I didn't have the verbal skills to even begin to express what I felt, and I knew it, so I let it go.

So, 13 years later, I brought it up again, trying to figure out why she said it. I think the conclusion we reached was that she just hadn't been listening, and had just tossed an answer thoughtlessly. I can deal with that. But the conversation we had leading up to that conclusion was just as troubling as that conversation when I was nine. Maybe it's because I have a lot of friends who don't associate themselves with a religious community but I cringe when people say "The Devil this, Satan that..." I'm a huge fan of my parents, but I have a problem with life being simplified and divided between two categories into which everything must be sorted. I see the world in hues of gray.

I feel the profound frustration of the moderate Christian. My parents are by no means extremist, but they do see the world with greater contrast than I. But I choose to continue to see the world as a extremely complex mesh. I don't want to be so simplistic as to categorize everything...but is this the inexperience of youth? Do we who stand in this position choose to avoid confusion with the unwavering belief that in the end, there are only two sides, nothing is neutral? Is this the wiser choice? Or do we decide to believe that while there is good and evil, we choose to accept the confusion that comes with the gray patches and spend our lives exploring the overlap?

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Once Again...

See, every time I feel a glimmer of pride about my dear, supposed homeland...something like this pops up.
This is when I daydream about being Norwegian or Canadian. Of course, they committed war crimes too, but Norway only has several instances recorded; and Canada has about 1,700 on the books. This is still quite small compared to the US, Britain, and the Soviets as far as Allied troops go.

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I Tripped Somewhere

Have you ever paused, just for a moment, and realized you're not anywhere close to who you want to be? Has it happened mid-sentence in a conversation as you begin to wonder if you even know the person who is speaking? Do you want to just stop and say, "Wait a second, this isn't who I really am, but I don't know how to show you that person, I don't know if that person exists any more,"? Has it happened as you reel from the shame of something you can't let go of, something that is slowly eating away at you? Has it happened as you realize you've betrayed the wide-eyed kid with all those dreams so many years ago? Or is it all of the above?

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Nomadism 101: The Most Beautiful Thing...*

This post and the three before it are expandable (as indicated by the *'s). Enjoy.


Introducing the new Singapore National Library...oh yes, it's love at first sight.

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Nomadism 101: Reflected*

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Nomadism 101: The Food*

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Nomadism 101: Singapore Sights*

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Nomadism 101: Welcome Home*

Tonight there are a few things that have struck me about being back in Singapore for the first time since in 17 years. It's the first time I've revisited a place from my early childhood. There is this strange feeling that I've found home (I've always said I've found home in people...this is very true, I'm a cultural nomad after all, but this place feels like home, the first place that has really done that) triggered by familiar things I haven't seen in 17 years and confused by the fact that this city has become a very different place in those years. to be visiting a city where although the government is currently well behaved (slight bratty behavior notwithstanding) the citizens are used to living under restrictive rules and almost complete surveillance. But that's all for later...right now, I'm going to talk about food.
A few of my Mom's friends took us out to LingZhi, a vegetarian Chinese restaurant, which some people apparently consider the best vegetarian restaurant in Singapore, which is saying a lot. An interesting note: LingZhi's philosophy is not to do “fake” anything. You're not going to find mock duck or chicken here. No gluten is found on the menu, though tofu is heavily used. Sure, some of the flavors might be quite meaty, but they're not in the business of imitation. I will say that while this is a pretty darn cool philosophy...I'm not against the other form of vegetarian dining either. After all, Chijuya, one of my favorite restaurants in Bangkok is all about creating near perfect vegetarian versions of Japanese and Taiwanese meat dishes. But back to LingZhi: I'm no New York Times food critic, and I can't remember the entire meal, there was just so much, but here are some highlights.
The meal began with a "rock n' roll salad": a variety of dark greens, mushrooms, a few cucumbers, several sliced slices of strawberry, and a herbalicious (I know, I know...just...shhhh) are placed in a large bottle which is then corked, shaken, and then re-opened and the contents served. This is followed by a seaweed/spinach soup served in a tall, narrow bamboo bowl.
After this, servings started coming quite fast, but a few of the highlights included monkey head mushrooms in a delicious honey glaze of some sort (I wouldn't have known they were mushrooms, they seemed more like meaty chunks of ... something), sauted and fried tofu on skewers (each piece of tofu prepared in a slightly different way, from crunchy to very moist) in a peanut sauce, and dark brown noodles with snow peas. The meal ended with some really great dim sum and a variety of desserts we all passed around. I don't think I've been this excited about food in literally years...I spent half the time just reveling in flavor combinations I hadn't dreamed of before.


I still am missing a camera from my life, so I owe these cool people a thank you for having pictures of LingZhi's dishes:
Aroma Cookery and Richard J. Steiner

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The Edges*

There is some music, a very small quantity really, that takes hold of your heart and flies you to places you have never seen. In a single line it can tear away your armor and make you completely vulnerable. When I was a kid, it was so much easier to find music that did this; perhaps it is because everything was new to me.
But I'm glad it is harder to experience such intensely spiritual spaces...like C.S. Lewis' two encounters with JOY, there is so much more value to a moment that occurs only a few times in a life. James Newton Howard's theme for M. Night Shymalan's Lady in the Water pulls me into one of these moments.
The film itself is perhaps a subject for another day, but I will say that it effected me like few other stories have since I was dragged kicking and screaming into jaded adolescence. Now that I'm supposedly an adult, I'm thankful for the art that lets me touch the edge of my understanding every so often. There are places only music and poetry can take us, far beyond our earth-bound feet. Go find a quiet space...dig up that mp3 or cd or record that used to leave you gasping for breath, curl up in a little ball, and remember the innocence of awe and feel the edges of a universe you can barely understand.
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A Galaxy of Me

I am still young in my artistic journey and so I may not have all my facts straight, but I felt I stumbled onto something insightful today. I should not, many of the things I am saying apply to us as humans in general, but I felt like there was additional meaning or weight for those of us who consider ourselves artists.
We artists tend to dig deep within ourselves, constantly searching for our capricious muses and in that search, I think we tend to become a little self-centered. We see other's experiences and hear their words through the filter of our own experiences and memories. We levitate in the center of our own personal galaxies, the bits of our diaries whizzing around us in tight orbits; in our little galaxies, the personal experiences of others are reduced to minor wandering stars.
But I believe that one of the responsibilities of an artist is to open the eyes of the watching world to what life is like in another person's shoes. So all I want is the ability to escape my galaxy and hitch a ride on a wandering star, discovering all the secrets and stories it carries. In the end, we are all just sibling stars in whirling orbit around a greater mystery. If I cannot reach out and feel the fiery beauty of another's life, I am simply a slowly dying ember in the dark.

Yes, if you were curious, the image does come from The Fountain, go see it.

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Introductions

I've been looking at the map here at The Nomad Chronicles every few days or so and I've noticed that all kinds visitors from interesting places keep popping up on the map. I'd love to know a little about the people behind the dots. So if you're wiling to pull back your veils of anonymity, say hi, leave a message, I'd love to know more about you.

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The Colors of Lunch

I was cooking lunch today and was struck by all the colors of the garlic, tempeh, and bell peppers so with my trusty Mac's built in camera (you use what you can), I took a few pictures for your viewing pleasure.



And the final result:

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A Glass, Darkly*

I was reading Hosea this morning, had opened my Bible randomly and so I figured, why not? I'll read here. I love Hosea because of it's portrayal of God as a heartsick lover, trying to win back his wife. Of course, there's the bloody introduction to the book where God angrily declares what He will do to this unfaithful wife. I put the book down, because I didn't really feel like reading through another Old Testament rant. But for some reason, I felt the urge to go on...and as this rant proceeds, it begins to soften, until God is talking about how He will woo this woman back. God turns out to be quite the romantic (if you doubt me, you haven't read Song of Solomon). I sat back for a moment considering. Here was the portrayal, a very human portrayal of a wounded lover going through the varying stages of heartbreak, the anger, the betrayal, and then the determination to win back the betrayer.

Perhaps I'm not the shiniest needle in the pack not to have picked this up before because so many people are always saying, "Context, context, you have to take it in context," but perhaps I've been applying cultural context to everything but God's words. In many cases, it seems like the writers were inspired...but they were still humans, they still had to place this within words that they understood and that the people around them understood. It was as if God's words were filtered through that dim glass Paul talks about. It doesn't diminish what the words say, but I think it requires extra work to dig through the cultural trappings. There is a lot of mercy in the OT, but there's also a lot of brutality, and even this epiphany won't answer a lot of my questions, but it's giving me a new look into how the words I'm reading might be interpreted. Tough words for people living in a tough world; but a way of mercy winds through it all. But I'm a few millenia late and it seems I'll have to dig.

Jesus' words are so timeless and I think this may provide a clue as to why that is. In the OT, He had to speak through humans. In the New Testament, He tore torn away that filter between the divine and the human, and so we have God's words, unencumbered by a human translator who barely had a grasp on the language. We get the words of someone with the brilliance to speak a message that fit within a cultural context, and yet is timeless.

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A Bit O' Humor for Your Day

Stanley P., a good friend of mine, and fellow graduate of Southern's film program, produced this excellent little video. The link sends you to Progressive Adventism, which is featuring the video. Enjoy.

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"Dreams, inconsistent angel things, horses bred with star-laced wings..."

I was poking around my cd collection, looking for music to add to iTunes when I rediscovered Sixpence None the Richer. Odd how you don't realize how much you've missed something until you find it again. They weave songs that make me dance quietly around my room, lost in the lyrics...lost just enough that I can ignore the odd looks of people able to see through the window.

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Ye Olde Dream Shoppe

Rather randomly, I decided to read through my old blog Ye Old Dream Shoppe, and as I scanned the entries, I decided that a few of them seemed worth salvaging. The blog spans a good bit of my college experience at Southern and it's fairly humbling to read through my time there. I cringe at how much I wore my heart on my sleeve. It makes me a little nervous to think what my reaction will be when I look back on this blog four years from now. There are a few things I did enjoy re-reading, and perhaps, with a little bit of editing, I'll post some every now and again depending on my mood, the weather, and the amount of bravery I happen to be experiencing.

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"Defend the poor and the fatherless..."

Some people are just plain cool.

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Bittersweet #2

Destiny Drama Company was my family, my church, my community for two-and-a-half years. I had a blast being their photographer and I hope the enjoyment was mutual.

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Aftermath of a Conversation*

After conversation with Lizzy last night that wound it's way through our thoughts and confusions about God, I realized that a lot of questions I had thought were resolved had been unearthed. So this morning, I went through my book collection to find some of the books that have changed my life over the years. Some have done it in big, earthshaking ways, some have moved me in small, gentle, and sometimes almost imperceptible ways. I ended up grabbing two of the latter kind.


Ann Lamott has to be one of my favorite authors (and no, it's not just because she's one of the most progressive Christians I've read to date). Her wild stories, earthy humor (and language), and the fact that she'll gladly admit she's quite mad have caused me to fall unabashedly and wildly in love with her.

Her book,Traveling Mercies was the first I grabbed off the shelf, and as I skimmed through the chapters, reveling in her words, I stumbled onto a poem she placed between chapters.

Shore and Ground
Keep Walking, though there's no place to get to.
Don't try to see through the distances. That's not
for human beings.
Move within, but don't move the way fear makes
you move.
Today, like every other day, we wake up empty and
frightened.
Don't open the door to the study
and begin reading. Take down a musical
instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the
ground.
(RUMI)

The second book I grabbed was Shusaku Endo's Silence. Talk about a far cry from Lamott's self-deprecation and humor. Endo's book is a driven, intense, and very quiet journey into the silence of God. The story centers around a Portugese priest arrested during 17th Century Japan's brutal extermination of Christians. The story holds no easy answers, nor does it make life less complicated, but there is a comfort in journeying with a man through pain and through what seems to be God's stubborn silence. C.S. Lewis mentions in A Grief Observed that sometimes when we knock, the only response we seem to hear is the bolting and double bolting of the door. Endo's priest, and Lewis for that matter, are men that keep hammering away at the door, and slowly come to some very revealing discoveries. I don't know if any of my unearthed queries have been answered; but being able to re-visit some of these journeys, to travel with these other wanderers, has made me feel safe. A strange thing to feel perhaps, in this journey, and something that again, I don't quite understand, but something that for now, I am willing to be content within. For now, I can rest in the Silence, and hear the wordless whispers of another dimension.

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Instead, Call Me Mara

Nathan Brown at Re-Inventing the Adventist Wheel suggests that we need to practice sadness.

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The Pacific Coast Bloc

Oh well now, this is fascinating, California governor Arnold Schwarzenegger and British Columbian premier Gordon Campbell (who environmentalist have been fairly wary of it seems) are uniting in order to create a bloc of Pacific coast states and provinces that will tackle climate change independent of their respective (slow moving) federal governments. This includes working together to create a series of next generation hydrogen fueling stations. Hydrogen cars you say? It's about time. I'm all for it.

Want to read more? Here's an article about the "Green Guru" who apparently helped sway Campbell.

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Make Some New Friends

Just noting a few new links on the 'ol blogroll:
Hypergraffiti: The journal of Trudy Morgan Cole, a Canadian author from St. John's Newfoundland. She is one of the few Adventist fiction writers I really respect. Check out her great book review vignettes found under the "Compulsive Overreader" section of her page.

Also check out the beautiful photography of my friend Kari W. She has an amazing eye and is spending her year in England making some gorgeous images.

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Now Please Go

My heart is not proud, Lord,
my eyes are not haughty;
I do not concern myself with great matters
or things too wonderful for me.

But I have calmed myself
and quieted my ambitions.
I am like a weaned child with its mother;
like a weaned child I am content.

Israel, put your hope in the Lord
both now and forevermore.
(Psalm 131; TNIV)

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Welcome Back

I had an unwanted epiphany today. I'm depressed. There have been little clues in the last few weeks that have become more obvious with this realization. Today's complete lack of interest in anything and the general malaise tipped me off. It's an unpleasant awareness...it feels like opening a door with great expectation, hoping to see a long lost friend but upon opening it, finding that the cheerful demon who has stalked you all these years has decided to pay another visit.

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4 Years...

Here's an article talking about the anti-war protests this weekend in Washington D.C. which involved some of my favorite nomads, The Psalters.

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Die Fetten Jahre Sind Vorbei*

I was watching The Edukators this evening with my Mom. It's the second time I've seen the film, and it's odd how a film can change by simply changing the people with whom you view it. But that's really a topic for a different post. My Mom's reaction to the three protagonists and their actions throughout their film was that they were a bit silly; well, ridiculous was the word she used. She may not admit it, but I think she connected with their idealism and sympathized with them just a bit by the end of the film. It's interesting to note that Julia Jentsch who plays one of the cheerful revolutionaries also plays Sophie Scholl in the film "Sophie Scholl: The Final Days." My Mom also felt that Sophie's actions as a young member of the German resistance in the 1940s were fairly foolish, but she connected with the character quite strongly, perhaps because Sophie had the unquestionable moral high ground.
I, on the other hand, really connect with what The Edukators and their subversive anarchism. I like what they do and why they do it; and although they may not always make the wisest or most ethical choices, I feel a kinship with them. I wonder if it is age that causes the difference in our perceptions. Perhaps it's a factor, but I think there is something deeper. I can't exactly put my finger on it though...perhaps it is because I revel in gray areas and my Mom sees things more in black and white. Maybe it's my own sense that I should be part of something that gives the finger to our materialistic, corporate society. Einstein said that imagination was more important than knowledge...is the sometimes foolish idealism of youth the battle of imagination over the knowledge and caution acquired with age?

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Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front*

Samir S. posted this poem a few weeks ago at Faith House and as I was re-reading it today, I realized that I had fallen completely in love with it. Enjoy the magic of Wendell Berry:

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion—put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie easy in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave a sign
to mark a false trail, the way
you didn’t go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

(from The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry, Counterpoint, 1998)

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Nomadism 101: The Quest for the Royal Visa*

To obtain a visa which exceeds 30 days in the Kingdom of Thailand, one must first journey to a neighboring country, surrender his or her passport to the Royal Embassy (between the hours of 8 am and 12 pm, and not one minute before or after) then wait for a day while said Embassy reviews, discusses, and possibly jokes about said passport. Between the hours of 1-5 pm (and not one minute before or after), one must return to the Embassy to see if his or her request has been accepted or crushingly denied. A simple enough process in retrospect. Here begins my tale of my most noble quest for a Royal Visa. Here ends my clever use of dramatic language in a most endearing tongue-in-cheek fashion.

My neighboring country of choice...no, of necessity (Penang, Malaysia would be too expensive by plane and these days, too dangerous overland) is Laos. Monday evening, my father and I leave the local bus station at 9:30 and spend an uncomfortable night in two third class buses that make their slow way to the border town of Nong Khoi. We are dropped off in the city of Udon Thani. It is 5 am and too early to catch a bus directly to the border, so we head to towards the border in an odd assortment of tuk-tuks and buses. Several times, we are dropped off in order to pick up some new form of transportation, but with a bit of guess work and awkwardly phrased questions in our very mangled Thai, we manage to keep from getting absolutely lost. At one point, we are dropped off 40 km short of Nong Khoi to wait for a bus that will take us the rest of the way. It is still dark, and we stand by the road, wondering when the bus will show up. We have been dropped off in front of a small array of fruit stalls, and the sellers slowly prepare their goods for the morning. Neatly arranged pyramids of oranges glow under naked bulbs. A group of people sit at a table by the road. Two women sit there with two men, one a soldier and they glance over at us, curious. The other man slouches in his white t-shirt emblazoned with three cartoonish skulls. The skulls' foreheads are branded with the word “zero.” He has a brown beanie drawn down over his ears. He grins at me and waves me over. I approach slowly. The men's brown skin takes on a sickly brown glow under the sodium lights. Based on their slightly distant, glazed eyes, the bottle of sickly-sweet smelling Leo beer isn't their first...or they're lightweights. The soldier is quiet and very polite with a nice smile. Beanie tries to engage me in conversation about all manner of topics, before, thirty minutes later, finally losing interest. He offers me beer several times, and on my polite refusal, speculates that I might be a Muslim. He grins and points at the women sitting at the table and asks if I'm here because I'm interested in having sex with Thai women. The women look at him with some mixed amusement and disgust. I shake my head. When he finds out that I'm American, he declares that it's a good thing Saddam wasn't from Thailand. I agree.

We finally cross the border and reach the Thai embassy in the capital city of Vientiane. The rest of the day is spent between the Thai embassy and American embassy because apparently I don't have any visa pages left. Unfortunately, the American embassy's “Citizen Services” open as the Thai visa services close. No amount of running back and forth and pleading work, despite the sympathy of the man behind the bullet proof glass at the American embassy. I do end up meeting an American pilot who is teaching the Laotian air traffic controllers English. Apparently whatever international organization governs these things would very much like Laotian controllers to be able to communicate with the rest of the world by 2008. Larry also lived in Indonesia for 22 years so he and my Dad chat in Indonesian for a bit.

Dad decides he can't stay another day, he has classes he needs to teach, so he heads back early Wednesday morning. He isn't all that impressed by Vientiane anyway, though he does enjoy the supper he had at a little corner cafe by the morning market.

Wednesday morning, I drop my passport, bulging with brand new pages, off at the Thai embassy and spend most of the day exploring the city. I love the fact that you can travel all around the place by foot. I feel, in someways, more comfortable here than in Thailand. There is a different attitude here, something I can't put my finger one exactly, but something that puts me at ease. The city is a crazy mix of old French architecture, dumpy socialist-era buildings, and brand new government buildings that smell slightly of excess. It's slightly trippy to see Soviet flags still flying around the city. I'm going to bet that it's one of the few cities where pushcart food stands sell loaves of french bread or where you can see market stalls piled high with fresh loaves. I fall in love with the two streets parallel to the Mekong river. I spend the afternoon exploring their galleries, restaurants, and peeking in some of the very cool little guest houses on the streets. And there are bookstores...a city without books has no soul, and I'm glad this one has plenty of soul.

In the evening, I go back to the hotel and channel surf, watching German news and then stumbling onto a film about the war in Iraq (American Soldiers). The premise of the film (apparently based on actual events) seems to be a day in the life of a unit on patrol. It documents their thoughts, struggles, and the very basic effort it takes to stay alive. It also shows their doubt in the war and their struggle to follow their moral compasses. Intrigued I stop and watch. As I watch, I begin to stumble into an epiphany. I've been wondering for a long time why I still have this deep pride in being an American. It all started to click as I saw the film. I'm proud of being an American for the same reasons I'm proud of being an Adventist, a Christian. And these reasons are why I still am a Christian, and an American. It's certainly not the people or all the twisted history—we've proven that the people (in both groups) can be absolute monsters. It's the spirit, the dream, the ideal behind both these concepts. And the few times it's actually done right; the few times that people live for these ideals, like the soldiers in the film, it's a beautiful thing.

Thursday morning, I decided to head to the Thai embassy a bit early, who knows what could happen? The visa pages incident already has me a bit on edge. I get there at 12:45 and wait for the gates to open. Five minutes later, my tuk tuk driver recommends that I go across the street, because the queue will begin to form pretty soon. I'm glad he says something, I'm the second person in line but within minutes, there are at least 40 people behind me. The woman ahead of me is French and has that slightly leathery , calm appearance foreign residents of Asia seem to develop after a while. Behind me, a German man is regaling the two women with stories of his Asian travels. He states nonchalantly that having a colostomy bag makes diarrhea so much easier. One of the women fans herself and makes sizzling noises declaring that we are “all frying like schawarma out here!”

The gate finally opens and we pour in. I have my passport and newly approved visa in minutes, and I must looked relieved, because the woman behind the counter flashes a gentle and amused smile at me.
I make my way to the bus station and get a ticket for the 2:30 bus that will deliver me back across the border to Nong Khai. I have an hour to kill, so I watch the people around me. As I right down some of my thoughts in my notebook, I feel something brush my forehead. I look up, and a young Thai man in a orange shirt covered in dripping black letters is standing millimeters away from my nose, peering at the book. He sees me look up, and sedately returns to his seat, not embarrassed at all. Another Thai man, dressed in crisp black pants and an expensive dark blue polo sits across from me. A pretty young woman in jeans and a bright red shirt approaches him and hands him his passport and a bus ticket, her blond streaks stirring in the breeze. She is careful not to make eye contact and sits down beside me, but within moments, he gestures with a calm, imperial air at his suitcase, and she picks it up, straining a bit as she carries it to the bus. He follows her several moments later. I only have time to be infuriated for a second before I hear a loud American voice loudly declaring that “east is east and west is west and never the twain shall meet.” I smile, Kipling, then realize he's in an argument with a Korean man whose whole face is smiling, except for his eyes, which are dangerously dark. I sigh. The Korean man is dressed in a mandarin collared shirt and stylish linen pants, completed by (in a surreal twist) and Eminem baseball cap. So much for the twain never meeting.

A Laotian college student strikes up a conversation with me. Vilakhon's majoring in Business and English and comes from a village in central Laos. His English is pretty good and he informs me he's been studying it since he was 12. He sells random things at the bus station to earn extra money for school. His hair is gelled to spiky perfection and the beginnings of wispy mustache form airy patterns above his lip. Khon, as his friends call him, serenades me with “Hotel California” as I leave, and I grin, shaking his hand and wishing him luck with his studies.

The trip back is fairly uneventful despite a bus driver who seems to want to break sound barrier and a passenger who sucks his teeth loudly for the entire hour he is on the bus, and just happens to be positioned just behind my ear.

There is a couple ahead of me, the stereotypical older white man and young Thai woman. I wonder what her hopes and dreams are. I wonder if she wants this man to be her savior and sweep her away to America, Germany, Canada, Australia, (Insert country here). I wonder if she has had her heart broken before, if her dream has become a crusted flake of nothing that still clings to her scalp. I don't even honor him enough to give him the benefit of the doubt. Even if he is honorable, in my mind, he becomes every other farang who comes here to use these women up. Does she think he loves her, finds her charming, or has she learned that he is simple toying, enjoying the momentary exoticness? Does she know that he's only there because she has a vagina? Or has she learned? I hate him for taking advantage of her and hate her for letting him.

The bus arrives back in Saraburi at 1:30, and in 30 minutes, I'm back at home, back in the cocoon of the familiar.

Continue the journey...

A Technical Note

In tweaking my page's code to allow expandable summaries, an annoying glitch in Blogger beta has been revealed. As you probably have noticed, each post includes a "Continue the journey..." link, whether or not there is a journey on which one should continue. This will continue to appear until I can find a hack and tweak the code a bit more (if anyone out there knows a solution, please send a note my way). So in order to clear up confusion, I am marking all expandable posts with asterisks until a better solution is found. So to reiterate, asterisks=even more goodies to follow; no asterisks=don't bother clicking =) Hope that clears things up.

Continue the journey...

The Atheist Who Went to Church

A fascinating conversation between an Atheist and a Christian

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A Collection of Thoughts*

Things I have been contemplating this weekend:
1) Responsibility to friends.
2) Circumstances that are out of our control (or at least ones we think are).
3) The mysterious and slightly sinister way depression seems to slink into a day.
4) Relationships.
5) The frightening vastness of life post-college.
6) Guilt and what a great and insidious motivator it can be.
7) The fact that we really don't understand our own emotions and as soon as we think we
do, we run into another dozen nameless feelings we can barely grasp.
8) The struggle between my ideals and realism. Are my ideals not realistic, or are
they, and do I need to be patient? Do I not even understand how my ideals look in
the real world? Do I keep missing them because I haven't learned how to see what my
ideals actually look like in the flesh (so to speak)?

Continue the journey...

The Impractical Prophet*

What does a good person do when confronted with evil? Jeremiah lamented; Achilles retreated; Oedipus put out his eyes; Eve Ensler wrote a play; and John Francis stopped talking.

It can be argued that refusing to ride cars and speaking is not very practical, and I'd have to agree; but if you take a peak at the Bible's Old Testament, prophets were asked to complete tasks that hardly seemed practical. Hosea married a prostitute and had to redeem her from her pimp; Rahab rescued the men who would be responsible for destroying her city; Isaiah spent three years walking around naked.
So is John Francis a prophet? I'll leave that up to you; but there is definitely something prophetic about walking across much of the American continents in order to testify to the evil of big oil.
I struggle with this idea of what is practical many times. I have a great admiration for people who do things that seem quite impractical; but there's always a slight sense of derision; that these people are wasting their time, that they should have channeled their energies into something, well, something more effective.
There is a verse in the Bible that God's wisdom is foolishness to man. Maybe these wild, absurd prophets and activists understood something I cannot yet fully grasp. Perhaps I need to loosen my grip a bit on my human logic, and allow the dangerous threads of the impractical, the unfeasible, the quixotic wisdom of the Dream Spinner burrow their way into my soul.

More about John Francis.

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Upcoming Films I Could Get Giddy About

Talk to Me


Paprika



Into Great Silence

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Nomadism 101: 120 Hours*

Other ways to experience this journey: Enjoy Lizzy's perspectives and Eric and Alyssa's angles

Day 1: Bangkok
There is always a shortness of breath, a tightening of my rib cage whenever I enter Bangkok. The beginning of any journey, however short or long, is always like stepping off a diving board, a momentary reluctance, and then the plunge into something that is all at once familiar and unknown.
Lizzy and I see Eric H. and Alyssa S. as we head down the stairs of the Skytrain station and into the noise and heat of Sukhumvhit street. A few minutes and several soi's (streets) later, we are at Rasayana waiting for our meal and doing the delicate dance of exploring experiences that we humans tend to do when meeting others for the first time.
After lunch, we head to the Chao Praya river, someplace I haven't spent much time since the early 90s. There is something relaxing about traveling through water, no matter how filthy, and by sunset, I decide I like the other bank of the river, with its warm street lights dancing across the broad cobblestones with a comforting orange glow. We narrowly escape being locked in at the Wat Arun temple and manage to get back across the river. We pass luxury dinner yachts serving their guests what appears to be high cuisine. We pass riverfront hotels, their opulence even more obvious at night, and I am again amazed at the extremes of poverty and wealth in Asia.

Day 2: Phitsanulok and Sukothai
We pass the night in a third class train rattling it's way north. Sleep is tantalizing and elusive. We arrive in the city of Phitsanulok early in the morning and find what appears to be a bus station to sleep in. We are back on the road at 7:30. We're playing the trip by ear, and there is a wonderful immediacy to everything that happens. Our plan includes heading to Myanmar (Burma) for a day trip at some point, but right now we head to Sukothai, one of the ancient (though the more appropriate term is pretty dang old) Thai capitals.
Asian ruins have been a part of my life for a long time; and sometimes it's not really the places the effect me so much as the people with whom I travel. It's been a long time since I've been able to travel with a group of people that help inspire me. The textures in the ruins of Old Sukothai are alluring and I spend about a 24 frames of film on trying to capture some of their magic.
The advantage of journeying with travellers versus tourists is that a traveller is always interested in actually connecting with the culture in which they wander; and combined with a lot of curiosity, you can stumble on a lot of neat little things, like the strangely Islamic-like chants of monks blessing new initiates; their newly shorn heads glistening and their beautiful white ceremonial robes isolating them in the crush of the crowd.

Day 3:

WILL
~ by Marcia Falk

Three generations back
my family had only

to light a candle
and the world parted.

Today, Friday afternoon,
I disconnect clocks and phones.

When night fills my house
with passages,

I begin saving
my life.

(borrowed from Samir S.)

Today we wake early, and I feel like I've actually gotten some rest after my first real night in a bed. A deviation: If any of you are ever in Sukothai, I recommend TR's Guest House in New Sukothai. We are joined by Andy, a British traveller who has been exploring Thailand for the last few months, as we continue our journey to Chiang Mai. I had first noticed him as we ate at the night market Friday night. His dreads, neatly tied back, his exotic features, and his flowing Thai clothes had caught my attention. We stand for part of the trip as a result of being the last people on the bus, and dive into seats vacated during the trips while trying to stay close enough to keep up our conversation that spans religion, politics, and Farsi. There is something slightly wonderful about the ability of strangers traveling to join forces. A symbiotic occurrence and a little like cellular synthesis with bonds a easily divided again as mitosis...but with friendships that may last for years after.
We spend the day together, finding a guest house, food, and perusing the night market. We wander into a temple complex (Wat) on the way to the market, attracted by the sounds of the monks' evening chants. We enter one of the buildings in the complex and spend some time marveling at the art. A monk glides in, his robe shifting to show the runes of protection tattooed on his left arm. He sits with us, and we trade questions; he is curious about where we are from, we are intrigued about the life of a monk and the paintings on the ceiling above. He tells us the story of the Buddha's life and as the buildings begin to close for the night, gently escorts us out.
Chiang Mai is a city in which I can relax a bit. While heavily influenced by tourism, there is something charming about it's fusion of east and west. The coffee shops and numerous used book stores carrying mostly western titles across from the walls of the old city. The pace here isn't the frenetic, hyperventilating heartbeat that drives Bangkok.
We explore the night market, relax in an Irish beer garden, and return to the semi-quiet of our guesthouse where Alyssa and Eric read us to sleep (The Places In Between by Rory Stewart .)

Day 4:
Our plans for Myanmar have almost completely disappeared. Eric has spent the last few days trying to get in touch with the Myanmar Embassy in Bangkok and guesthouses across the border with no success. The buses that leave for the Thai border town of Mae Sai seem to be few and far between. We're all ready for a little bit of rest, so spending the day in Chiang Mai isn't too much of a disappointment.
We travel to the Wat at Doi Suthep, one of the mountains surrounding the city, and spend a few hours exploring what is considered to be one of the most holy places in Thailand. Another deviation: If you end up visiting the Wat, check out the museum on the premises...it features currency from all over the world. Definitely good for a few moments of entertaining investigation.
We return to the city and decide to wander through the University of Chiang Mai. Our journey back to the city takes us through the more Thai section of Chiang Mai and we find ourselves in the middle of a festival. I wish we could blend in more, we are some of the only farangs around and it's fun to be in the center of something for Thais and by Thais.
I feel torn between enjoying the chaos and wanting to curl up in a quiet corner. Noise assaults us from every direction and tipsy Thais dance and wave at us and try to start conversations.
I should note that if you end up doing some contortion in the temple courtyard, the monks will enjoy the fun, but eventually a Thai woman will become offended enough to start yelling. I wonder when humans got all confused and forgot that holiness should include fun. Maybe some boundary was crossed...something we as ignorant farangs didn't understand, but I'm a big fan of gentleness; however, I can't completely discount the anger that farangs can incite. We in the West have a lot to answer for with our ham-handedness. Whatever the case, I hope one day, we can remember to find the joy in holiness again.
Lizzy and I plan to catch a night bus back to Bangkok, but our reluctance to leave Alyssa and Eric and Chiang Mai result in us staying one more night. With only one guest house room open, all four of us squeeze onto two single beds. I sleep fitfully...

Day 5:
We wake up, get cleaned up, and slip out, leaving Alyssa and Eric asleep. I forget that I have been planning to leave a few things behind for them. The joys of early morning exits. The bus ride takes a good part of the day, and we sleep off and on, amused by the amount of food and drink the bus stewardess offers the passengers. We politely decline on most of the food, but i enjoy an orange and the banana muffins.
We arrive in Bangkok at 5:30 and decide to ride the subway for kicks and giggles. Neither of us have been and it seems like the thing to do. Sadly, though the trains are sleek and hi-tech, the ride is just as exciting as, well...uh, riding a train without windows. We pick up some groceries and salads at the Siam Paragon mall, Bangkok's latest Wat of indulgence. Many people find comfort in luxury, but after the simplicity of the last few days, it feels treacly.
The van ride back to Muak Lek and the college is relaxing. I wind down, and enjoy the moments of quiet conversation. The fact that I'm leaving Thailand in a week begins to set in, the sweetness of a mangosteen rudely erased by the bitterness of the rind.

Continue the journey...