Have you ever been in complete darkness? darkness so thick and so deep that you couldn't see your hand if you waved it in front of your face???
darker than night-darker than underwater-darker than sleep--darker than being--somewhere underneath the earth-caught in a place where the air isn't meant to be--
I imagine it's like being lost in your own mind--a sublime breath that holds you between utter amazement and terror. . .
and what do you think about when you lose yourself with the loss of your own context?
how can you be if there is no surrounding to be in--with only a solid ground beneath you?
Do you know what that's like?
If you were ever a miner you do.
on an hour and half bus ride from Concepcion,
we reached the breathtaking town Lota,
known for its mines-we paid for our tour walked nearly two miles, and eagerly geared up:
{Ok. It has gotten to the point where I have an ungodly amount of pictures, and it takes forever to load them into blogger-so, I'm creating a photo album on this program called Picasa--so all you have to do is click here to see all my pics of the mines and any I have ever put on my blog. I will be loading my pics this way in albums-so they will be way easier to organize.} or you can click on this pretty picture of Lota:
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| Lota |
We walked down a long hallway, crammed into a small creaky open air elevators,
down
down
down
into the mines--
with the awkward lights on our heads and heavy battery packs strapped to our waists we followed our thoughtful guide through the dark, squishy tunnels.
and as we went through the different galleries, up 90 degree ladders which were burrowed in enclosing mud holes, hunched over at my waist walking through hallways that looked like something out of a snow white scene--we began to get a glimpse of a sense of what that life would have been like--
only a glimpse mind you-we were only down there for two hours and never once even picked up a pick--
but finally he led us around to one point in the mines where I small child would have worked-- a crevice really--
and crouching down, he explained to us the ways in which they used birds to test the air-when the gas levels rose to high, the birds died. . . and then he asked us to turn our lights out and he was talking to us with only his light blaring. . . and then he said--and this is what it was really like. . .
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I've started knitting. I'm knitting. . . not dating. . . just knitting--well, but really I have started knitting. [overt Grey's anatomy reference] Ana Maria is teaching me, and it's helping me to get out some frustration. What am I frustrated about?
well. . .let me just say one word--
Asinine. That pretty much sums it up. . . I'm sure you can guess who or what I'm talking about, especially if you're female.
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So, Tom Jones is pretty incredibly popular here. Actually in all Latin American Countries. There was this huge musical festival in February, and he was the MAIN attraction. But the best part is that they don't call him Tom Jones-They pronounce his name Tom Ho-nays-Vive Tom Honays!!!!
So, we pretty much can't get his music out of our heads. I didn't even really like him That much before,
But Oh--Now I can't get enough of the Honays:
Check it out--Hope this brightens your day:
all I have to say is:
Did you see those hip moves?? Rock it Tom Honays-Rock it.
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On Monday I started volunteering at a local school (elementary, middle, and high school) to help teach English. English was a major priority to the last chilean president so now the students are required to learn english--which is interesting--I'm still not totally sure how I feel about this. . . but they have english teachers--they just don't have native english teachers. So, I can help a lot. I think I will go for about 3 hours 3 times a week. I have to tell you that being in the classroom was so invigorating. So far I have helped teach 11th, 4th, 5th, 7th, and 9th grade--and especially with the younger kids-I just had this sense that making friends with them is so much easier, so much more honest than with adults-
in a way it's a much less processed, more genuine connection to Chile because these kids have not yet reached the age where they are totally self-processing and self- censoring in order to be "cool." They are still in the "I like peanut butter in my hair-giggly at all funny faces-stick my shoelace up my nose-and say whatever is on their mind" stage--which is awesome. Each class got the chance to ask me all kinds of questions in English. Here are some of their question (I'm not listing the answers on purpose. I'm sure you can guess most of them):
Do you have a boyfriend?
Are you married?
Do you have kids?
Do you like Chilean boys?
Do you want a chilean boyfriend?
Do you like the food here?
Do you listen to Guns and Roses?
Metallica?
Green Day?
Do you like to Rock the Roll?
Do you like President Bush?
Do you like President Bachelet?
Why did you come to Chile?
Can you sing?
Will you sing for us right now?
Do you dance?
Will you dance for us right now?
Do you play any sports?
Will you teach us taekwondo?
Have you ever been on television?
are you sure?
in the movies? [Ha-I was like what?!]
do you know slang words here like huevon and bacan? [yes]
[and if you've been reading my other entries--]
If you are from the south, why don't you have the accent?
[Ha! told you so! Score: Meredith:1 Akshai:0]
There were many, many more--with each class came many questions-but it was fun-and I felt like they all understood my english for the most part.
I think this will be an amazing opportunity for me-there something very tangible which lingers in your soul when you are involved in education, when you feel a part of someone's life, when you are contributing to knowledge for knowledge's sake.
I also think it's really important for these kids to see me and to get to know an "American" who loves their country and wants to be here--and maybe I can help to reduce some of the negative stereotypes they might have about americans.
No one can leave an impact on you more than a child--one who reaches out their hand to grab for your's-
because regardless of the language or the culture-we all are searching for the same thing--a hand to hold-reassurance that even though we make look, speak, and seem different-none of us want "to be" alone.
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I'm going to try to make two posts today because I have so much to tell you all about, but I was watching the Derrida documentary again to prepare for my presentation--and he was talking about love in the sense that love and really "being" is always about the who and the what.
Do you love who a person is--their complete singular being-their "essential" self?
or do you love what the person does and is? their characteristics, personality, behaviors, appearance?
He says we often fall in love with the "what" and then fall out of love when that person doesn't live up to our expectations or our image of the "whats" we are looking for.
how difficult of an idea is this??? Can we ever really love the "who" or do we always love or fall in love with the "what"--and
if it possible to love a who--then how do we ever separate the who from their what?? I mean is that even possible? how depressing--is love always layered through expectations and disappointments.
and when I begin to think about the times I've been in love--I think that I am always doing just that, as he says, recognizing the attributes, characteristics, images, or behaviors that I think I would like to love or like someone to be-and falling in love with those-and not truly seeing like Anthony de Mello writes
"It is only inasmuch as you see someone as he or she really is here and now and not as they are in your memory or in your desire or in your imagination or projection that you can truly love them, otherwise it is not the person that you love but the idea that you have formed of this person, or this person as the object of your desire not as he or she is in themselves. Therefore the first act of love is to see this person or this object, this reality as it truly is. And this involves the enormous discipline of dropping your desires, your prejudices, your memories, your projections, your selective way of looking, a discipline so great that most people would rather plunge headlong into good actions and service than submit to the burning fire of this asceticism . . ."
So how do we begin to try to see people for "who" they are and not "what" they are?
"Who" do you love?
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I've still been thinking a lot about the subjectivity of language. thinking and being in two languages greatly changes your perspective on language. For me, this is especially powerful when thinking about literature. How much emphasis is put on word choice in great literature--how many times does the "greatness" of a poem hinge on a single word, a single line? and yet these words which seem to have so much weight on the page--are really nothing more than subjective symbols (speaking of this--my spelling in english is getting worse because I'm now confusing the spelling between the two languages) which only have as much weight or meaning as we as a culture collectively choose to give to them.Thank you Ferdinand de Saussure.
and this is so interesting to me because words are so precious to me- and yet-there are moments when I can't decide whether i like certain the words which represent certain signifiers better in english or spanish--a realization of the richness in the world when it comes to the ways in which we choose to codify our lives.
It almost makes me want to study linguistics. . . almost.
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Ok--Now I have to give a shout out to my aunt Karen, Uncle shawn, and cousin BELLA-because I received an AMAZING package in the mail that made my month from them with candy, books, magazines (holy crap patrick dempsey has twins!), beautiful cards and pictures, and so much more!!!!
and when I opened it I started laughing and was so happy because it's just nice to know when you're over in another country that there are still people who really know you well enough to know exactly what you like. Thank you guys so much! Check out some of the cool stuff they sent me:
lovely picture colored for me by bella!
Awesome lamp that adds major character to my room-
lovely pads and pens, picked out especially for me by ms. Bella-
and, of course, chocolate!!!!
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I also got lost several times this week when I was coming back from volunteering. I mean the school is only, max ten minutes away from my house in the bus--but the buses here are insane and go on about a billion different directions. The first day I ended up getting off in the totally wrong stop and halving to walk around twenty blocks home-fun-and I called Akshai because I was just walking around lost--without even thinking about it I started talking to him in spanish because 1. we are in chile and 2. sometimes I actually do think in spanish. and he was like:
why the heck are you talking to me in spanish??? this is not the time to be practicing.
and I was like Oh, right, sorry, I'm lost.
and the second day I was determined to just ride it out and stay on the bus until it got close to my house--with my map clutched in my hand--
I was totally at war with the bus--
but the bus won. surprise.
it went to some other town entirely and I had to wait for it to return to conce before I jumped out and found a taxi home---
But on the third day-I triumphed, and found the right bus-24T-
to all you buses who run on 24T, this shout out is for you--I love you.
This line takes me within four blocks of my house, halleluia.
I should make up a " I found my bus dance."
can you just picture it? "all the wheels on the bus go . . . "
ha. nevermind-
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and then. . .he said. . . this is what it is really like. . . and he turned off his lamp, and there I was in complete darkness-and i felt completely and utterly just me-breathing in the darkness-I realized that I really couldn't see Anything-couldn't hear anything but my own breath-was lost in a world without senses-deep down below the earth-and like I said-it was the most sublime experience I've had, both fearing and believing in an existence in the dark. I breathed and breathed. . .
and just was--just me--
in the dark.
and then he turned his light back on-and the air came rushing back and I was once again with others. I turned and saw Veronica--and yet
somehow those four dark minutes changed me a little-
I think somehow I'm still carrying that feeling with me--a darkness to end all-a sense that i should be thankful for the light-the moments when I can see others and be seen-when I am allowed a chance to experience life out in the open--
not lost in the dark and alone--because even in the darkness-I was never really alone--Veronica was two feet from me--I just momentarily forgot that there were other people because the darkness was so complete and so engulfing--because all I could sense was myself. . . and I guess it makes me realize that I should reach out in the "darkness" more often-remind myself that there is more to sense and be than just "me." that all I really had to do was reach out and grab her hand to know that we were both in the darkness-that the "alone" was really just a perception--
we are all just breathing in the dark--trying to reach out and be-to connect ourselves to one another--
"What can I do if I breathe by myself?"
Another blog to follow today or tomorrow-
Hope you and yours are safe,
una aurora,
Mere
El egoísta
No falta nadie en el jardín. No hay nadie:
sólo el invierno verde y negro, el día
desvelado como una aparición,
fantasma blanco, fría vestidura,
por las escalas de un castillo. Es hora
de que no llegue nadie, apenas caen
las gotas que cuajaban el rocío
en las ramas desnudas del invierno
y yo y tú en esta zona solitaria,
invencibles y solos, esperando
que nadie llegue, no, que nadie venga
con sonrisa o medalla o presupuesto
a proponernos nada.
Esta es la hora
de las hojas caídas, trituradas
sobre la tierra, cuando
de ser y de no ser vuelven al fondo
despojándose de oro y de verdura
hasta que son raíces otra vez
y otra vez, demoliéndose y naciendo,
suben a conocer la primavera.
Oh corazón perdido
en mí mismo, en mi propia investidura,
qué generosa transición te puebla!
Y no soy el culpable
de haber huido ni de haber acudido:
no me pudo gastar la desventura!
La propia dicha puede ser amarga
a fuerza de besarle cada día
y no hay camino para liberarse
del sol sino la muerte.
Qué puedo hacer si me escogió la estrella
para relampaguear, y si la espina
me condujo al dolor de algunos muchos?
Qué puedo hacer si cada movimiento
de mi mano me acercó a la rosa?
Debo pedir perdón por este invierno,
el más lejano, el más inalcanzable
para aquel hombre que buscaba el frío
sin que sufriera nadie por su dicha?
Y si entre estos caminos
--Francia distante, números de niebla—
vuelvo al recinto de mi propia vida:
un jardín solo, una comuna pobre,
y de pronto este día igual a todos
baja por las escalas que no existen
vestido de pureza irresistible,
y hay un olor de soledad aguda,
de humedad, de agua, de nacer de nuevo:
qué puedo hacer si respiro sin nadie,
por qué voy a sentirme malherido?
The Egoist
No one missing from the garden. No one here:
only winter, green and black, the day
sleepless as an apparition,
a white phantom, in shivers,
on the castle steps. The hour
when no one arrives, when drops
coagulating in the sprinkle
on naked winter trees now and then fall
and I and you in this solitary zone,
invincible and alone, keep hoping
no one arrives, no, that no one comes
bearing a smile or medal or pretext
to propose something to us.
It’s the hour
when leaves fall, triturated
across the ground, when
out of being and unbeing they return to their source,
their gold and green stripped way [love this line-mh]
until they’ve gone to root again
and again, undone and reborn,
they life their heads into spring.
Oh heart lost
within me, in my own investiture,
what sweet modulations people you!
I’m neither culpable
for running away nor for being saved:
misery couldn’t wear me down!
Though gusto can sour
if it’s kissed every day,
and no one shakes free
from the sun buy by dying.
What can I do if the star picked me
for its lightning, and if the thorn
pointed out to me the pain of all those others?
What can I do if every gesture
of my hand drew me closer to the rose?
Must I apologize for this winter,
the most remote, the most unapproachable
for that man who turned his face to the cold
though no one suffered for his happiness?
And if along these roads
--far-off France, foggy numbers—
I return to the precincts of my life:
a solitary garden, a poor quarter,
and suddenly this day like every other
runs down stairs that don’t exist
dressed in irresistible purity,
and there’s an odor of biting solitude,
of humidity, of water, or rebirth:
what can I do if I breathe by myself,
why will I feel cut to the quick?
