Hello Blogosphere!!
I've moved! Come see me at bithiahlee.wordpress.com
love,
bcl.
Friday, January 2, 2015
Saturday, November 29, 2014
The Detroit Comeback: Is it real?
"You lived in Detroit? Get out. No you didn't. You mean you lived in one of the nice suburbs around Detroit? No? So, actually like, inside Detroit Detroit. Wow, well, tell me about it. I read this article the other day... I mean, I've been hearing a lot about Detroit lately..."
So have I.
Over the last couple of years or so, "The Detroit Comeback" has become a staple headline across news media outlets all around the globe. From small local newspapers to the BBC, the headline has been recycled eagerly over and over again. And quite frankly, that headline is really starting to upset me.
Now, before any of you proud Detroiters start throwing your coney dogs at me, let me first say this: I love Detroit! I just have a bone to pick with Detroit's new trademark "The Detroit Comeback" headline.
First, this headline has created a shockingly polarized population. The headline talks about Detroit's Comeback as if it were a thing, an object. An issue you can agree with or disagree with, rather than as an action or a process. A person's reaction to the headline now indicates whether they are for Detroit, or against. It seems that you're either "I heart Detroit" or you're a "hater." You either run around waving your Detroit D flag around in everyone's faces, or you're seen as skeptical, pessimistic. A non-believer.
This polarization is unhealthy. It says that those who live in the city are not welcome to acknowledge the problems and imperfections of the city, an acknowledgement that must take place before any solutions can take form. Those who are ballsy enough to notice issues are shamed into leaving the city. The proud Detroiters boo them out of the city, screaming, "and take your negativity with you!" This will not help the city grow.
Another problem with this headline is that it attracts perhaps the wrong crowd to the city, or at least an unbalanced one. If Detroit advertises itself as the new, hip city to be in, she's going to attract people who are concerned about being hip. We need to attract more. We need to attract hard workers and smart, educated individuals. The current headline brings in people who want what Detroit has promised to give them, but we need people who want to give to Detroit.
Oh yes, there are terribly wonderful things happening in Detroit right now. Certain neighborhoods are indeed developing and growing. Midtown, Downtown, and Lafayette Park are becoming increasingly nicer and safer places to live. There are truly exciting new opportunities available throughout the city. Inventive new local businesses are opening up. The Riverfront is more beautiful, the Dequindre Cut, cleaner. These were some of the things I experienced when I first moved to Detroit. Why, then, two years later, did I, like so many others, find myself struggling with feelings of disappointment and disillusionment about our beloved city? Why did it feel like a let-down?
Again, I partially blame the headlines. I think that the buzz and the hype created by the headlines are not helping her cause. In fact, it may be hurting the effort. If, instead of "The Detroit Comeback," the headlines read "Detroit is Coming Back," emphasis on the -ing, the people who find themselves hurriedly migrating to Detroit might be better prepared for what their lives will look like for a long time to come, and what types of efforts and commitment are truly required if they are to indeed, become a part of this "comeback."
The comeback is real, but it's been packaged and marketed inaccurately. It's a small city that keeps boasting, screaming at everyone, "DEEEEEEEEETROIT. WE ARE HERE. WE ARE COMING BACK. COME AND WATCH US BOOM!!!" With these flashy headlines and grandiose promises, our small, broken city has managed to convince a new slew of energetic families and eager young adults to make the move. But, the reality is that many of us feel tricked by the headlines. So many have become disillusioned by the hefty promises. Popular buzzwords like innovative, creative, entrepreneurial, design-thinking, forward-looking, super hip, trendy, and spirited get thrown at us from every direction, covering up the truth that the city still doesn't offer recycling or public transportation. The "Detroit Hustles Harder" and "Haters Gon' Hate" t-shirts almost seem tired now, riddled with mockery. And finally, we begin to realize that pure defiance won't bring Detroit "back."
But that isn't a bad thing! It's just a realistic thing.
The truth is, I believe Detroit is coming back. But what most people don't understand before making the move to Detroit is that the city's "comeback" is not necessarily the kind of movement that you can feel. While living in Detroit for the past two years, I did not feel on a daily basis the ground shaking beneath me with growth and improvement. I was not trembling with excitement of fresh change every moment in the city. Now, whenever I see another "The Detroit Comeback" headline, I feel that it has about as much effect on me as if I were to see a headline that read "The World is Spinning." Yes, it's true that the earth is rotating on its axis, every single moment of every single day. Thanks to science, we all know that. But even though the earth is spinning at nearly 1,040 miles/hour(!!!), we don't feel it spinning beneath our feet. No one seems to be disappointed about that, though!
In the same way, I think that if Detroit stopped relying on hype to draw people to the city, people would stop relying on hype to keep them there. We don't feel the earth moving, but we know that it is, because with every passing 24 hours, we see daylight and then we see night. People need to watch and experience Detroit's comeback with that same type of patience and faith. I believe that Detroit is coming back, but it hasn't been happening overnight. And it won't necessarily happen in the next year, two years, or three years. This doesn't have to be seen in a negative light, though. As long as people stop expecting everything to be fixed overnight, they may find the endurance and hope they need to truly witness and contribute to the long-term growth of what promises to be a beautiful city again.
Detroit is coming back, but don't hold your breath. You'll burn out, give up, pack up and leave, disheartened and disappointed by the problems, poverty, dirtiness, and brokenness that still exist in Detroit today. Instead, come, settle down, and stay awhile. Detroit makes no promises to you. She still has a long way to go. There will still be things about the city that frustrate and annoy you. You may be discouraged at times by how slowly change is coming about. But, take heart! With steady steps, Detroit is moving forward. And one day, as surely as the earth is spinning today, we will celebrate when the headlines finally read, "Detroit Came Back."
To the D,
bcl.
So have I.
Over the last couple of years or so, "The Detroit Comeback" has become a staple headline across news media outlets all around the globe. From small local newspapers to the BBC, the headline has been recycled eagerly over and over again. And quite frankly, that headline is really starting to upset me.
Now, before any of you proud Detroiters start throwing your coney dogs at me, let me first say this: I love Detroit! I just have a bone to pick with Detroit's new trademark "The Detroit Comeback" headline.
First, this headline has created a shockingly polarized population. The headline talks about Detroit's Comeback as if it were a thing, an object. An issue you can agree with or disagree with, rather than as an action or a process. A person's reaction to the headline now indicates whether they are for Detroit, or against. It seems that you're either "I heart Detroit" or you're a "hater." You either run around waving your Detroit D flag around in everyone's faces, or you're seen as skeptical, pessimistic. A non-believer.
This polarization is unhealthy. It says that those who live in the city are not welcome to acknowledge the problems and imperfections of the city, an acknowledgement that must take place before any solutions can take form. Those who are ballsy enough to notice issues are shamed into leaving the city. The proud Detroiters boo them out of the city, screaming, "and take your negativity with you!" This will not help the city grow.
Another problem with this headline is that it attracts perhaps the wrong crowd to the city, or at least an unbalanced one. If Detroit advertises itself as the new, hip city to be in, she's going to attract people who are concerned about being hip. We need to attract more. We need to attract hard workers and smart, educated individuals. The current headline brings in people who want what Detroit has promised to give them, but we need people who want to give to Detroit.
Oh yes, there are terribly wonderful things happening in Detroit right now. Certain neighborhoods are indeed developing and growing. Midtown, Downtown, and Lafayette Park are becoming increasingly nicer and safer places to live. There are truly exciting new opportunities available throughout the city. Inventive new local businesses are opening up. The Riverfront is more beautiful, the Dequindre Cut, cleaner. These were some of the things I experienced when I first moved to Detroit. Why, then, two years later, did I, like so many others, find myself struggling with feelings of disappointment and disillusionment about our beloved city? Why did it feel like a let-down?
Again, I partially blame the headlines. I think that the buzz and the hype created by the headlines are not helping her cause. In fact, it may be hurting the effort. If, instead of "The Detroit Comeback," the headlines read "Detroit is Coming Back," emphasis on the -ing, the people who find themselves hurriedly migrating to Detroit might be better prepared for what their lives will look like for a long time to come, and what types of efforts and commitment are truly required if they are to indeed, become a part of this "comeback."
The comeback is real, but it's been packaged and marketed inaccurately. It's a small city that keeps boasting, screaming at everyone, "DEEEEEEEEETROIT. WE ARE HERE. WE ARE COMING BACK. COME AND WATCH US BOOM!!!" With these flashy headlines and grandiose promises, our small, broken city has managed to convince a new slew of energetic families and eager young adults to make the move. But, the reality is that many of us feel tricked by the headlines. So many have become disillusioned by the hefty promises. Popular buzzwords like innovative, creative, entrepreneurial, design-thinking, forward-looking, super hip, trendy, and spirited get thrown at us from every direction, covering up the truth that the city still doesn't offer recycling or public transportation. The "Detroit Hustles Harder" and "Haters Gon' Hate" t-shirts almost seem tired now, riddled with mockery. And finally, we begin to realize that pure defiance won't bring Detroit "back."
But that isn't a bad thing! It's just a realistic thing.
The truth is, I believe Detroit is coming back. But what most people don't understand before making the move to Detroit is that the city's "comeback" is not necessarily the kind of movement that you can feel. While living in Detroit for the past two years, I did not feel on a daily basis the ground shaking beneath me with growth and improvement. I was not trembling with excitement of fresh change every moment in the city. Now, whenever I see another "The Detroit Comeback" headline, I feel that it has about as much effect on me as if I were to see a headline that read "The World is Spinning." Yes, it's true that the earth is rotating on its axis, every single moment of every single day. Thanks to science, we all know that. But even though the earth is spinning at nearly 1,040 miles/hour(!!!), we don't feel it spinning beneath our feet. No one seems to be disappointed about that, though!
In the same way, I think that if Detroit stopped relying on hype to draw people to the city, people would stop relying on hype to keep them there. We don't feel the earth moving, but we know that it is, because with every passing 24 hours, we see daylight and then we see night. People need to watch and experience Detroit's comeback with that same type of patience and faith. I believe that Detroit is coming back, but it hasn't been happening overnight. And it won't necessarily happen in the next year, two years, or three years. This doesn't have to be seen in a negative light, though. As long as people stop expecting everything to be fixed overnight, they may find the endurance and hope they need to truly witness and contribute to the long-term growth of what promises to be a beautiful city again.
Detroit is coming back, but don't hold your breath. You'll burn out, give up, pack up and leave, disheartened and disappointed by the problems, poverty, dirtiness, and brokenness that still exist in Detroit today. Instead, come, settle down, and stay awhile. Detroit makes no promises to you. She still has a long way to go. There will still be things about the city that frustrate and annoy you. You may be discouraged at times by how slowly change is coming about. But, take heart! With steady steps, Detroit is moving forward. And one day, as surely as the earth is spinning today, we will celebrate when the headlines finally read, "Detroit Came Back."
To the D,
bcl.
Wednesday, November 26, 2014
I wish I were a terrible writer
Dear Blogosphere,
Today, I wish I were a terrible writer.
If I were a terrible writer, I would never want to write.
If I were a terrible writer, I would never want to write for even just a meager living.
If I were a terrible writer, I would never want to write for even just a meager living only to find cause to consider responding to a "job offer" with the following:
Today, I wish I were a terrible writer.
If I were a terrible writer, I would never want to write.
If I were a terrible writer, I would never want to write for even just a meager living.
If I were a terrible writer, I would never want to write for even just a meager living only to find cause to consider responding to a "job offer" with the following:
Dear Every Editor Who Has Ever Asked Me To Work For Free, by Stephanie Rice
I owe you an apology.
Somehow I have given you the impression that I value my work at approximately zero dollars.
It must have been something I said. Maybe when I mentioned my seven years of professional experience, you heard me say that I was so desperate for “exposure” that I valued it over a currency that would pay my rent.
The most recent version of you emailed just this past weekend that you were interested in using a 2,500-word essay I had submitted. No, you could not afford to pay but not to worry—there were “perks” to replace that boring old cash that’s really only good for eating food and paying student loans. One of them, you said, was “editor friends.”
Friends. You literally offered to be my friend if I would hand you my work for nothing. Doesn’t this feel a little like we’re in middle school, and you’re offering me a place at the cool kids’ lunch table if I’ll write your book report?
Friends. You literally offered to be my friend if I would hand you my work for nothing. Doesn’t this feel a little like we’re in middle school, and you’re offering me a place at the cool kids’ lunch table if I’ll write your book report?
I don’t mean to be harsh. I know you mean well. I know you’re probably a perfectly nice human who doesn’t make the rules of the organization for which you work and has no idea how offensive it is to suggest that I give you my words for free. The words that begin rolling through my mind in the morning as the caffeine seeps into my brain. The words that sometimes make me forget to eat lunch as I furiously type. The words that I try to recapture from my scrawled notes and my dreams.
It’s not your fault that somehow we have gotten to a place where it’s socially acceptable to expect me to work for exactly nothing. It’s not your fault that others before me have probably taken you up on this offer of friendship payment, cementing in your mind that not only is it OK but maybe even helpful. You’re getting people published, getting them that valuable “exposure” that will definitely lead to the New York Times calling sometime next week.
And to be fair, you did also promise the chance to be part of an “awesome mission” and to occasionally receive “free stuff.” I didn’t ask about the free stuff, but I don’t think it includes the groceries I didn’t buy with the money you didn’t pay me.
One of my closest friends is a dentist. I bet you wouldn’t ask her to do a tooth extraction for free. If you hired a chef for a dinner party, would you tell that person that unfortunately the chef budget is a little thin right now—but this gig will be really great exposure and totally worth it anyway?
Sometimes I think it would be convenient if I didn’t have to pay the lady who cleans the apartments in my building. But I admit I feel a bit awkward about asking if she might accept my gratitude instead. Or maybe my saying some nice things about her to the building owner once in a while? Oh, I think I’ll just keep giving her cash. She probably likes feeding her kids.
We can probably all agree that it wouldn’t be fair to expect that our dentist or cleaning lady or personal trainer or pizza delivery guy work for free. So what is it exactly about writers and photographers and freelancers of any stripe really? Are we all walking around with a “tell me I am worth nothing” sign slapped to our collective back?
Would you even have been willing to send the “we can’t afford to pay at this time” email if you weren’t getting paid for the minutes you spent typing?
And let me be clear: I’m not even 100 percent against working for free. I’m probably 98.7 percent against it. But I do think that there are times when it can be a reasonable thing to do.
In college, I wrote two unpaid stories for a neighborhood paper with ties to the journalism department. Also in college, I worked for practically nothing for an investigative reporter who taught me how to dig into public records and build a network of sources. I learned more from him than I had in any college class and would do it again despite the fact that my $150/byline contract probably worked out to cents per hour.
So yes, I understand that when you’re just starting out, sometimes it makes sense to take a little “exposure” or “mentoring” in place of cash. When you’re at that point in your career, there is some value in those things.
But here’s the problem: We’ve come to a point where even those of us who have been doing this longer than a semester are also expected to be grateful just to see our words in print.
I don’t have any answers—I would have put them up top if I did—but I know we’ve got to find a way to change this. Because you want to be my friend, and I just want to be paid for my work.
All the best, Stephanie
P.S. Full disclosure: I was paid $100 to write you this letter.
Sunday, November 2, 2014
This day
Dear Today,
Leave house.
Approach car.
Discover driver's seat door is locked and jammed.
Unlock trunk manually.
Climb in through trunk to unlock passenger door.
Climb out of trunk.
Climb into passenger seat to crawl into driver's seat.
Discover driver's door is still locked and jammed. Cannot open from inside.
Attempt to start car to no avail.
Crawl back out through passenger door.
Slam passenger door behind me.
Passenger door bounces back out.
Passenger lock stuck. Cannot close.
Go home.
Reheat leftovers in microwave.
Microwave stops 15 seconds in.
Microwave error message: This machine is no longer functioning properly. It can no longer be used. Please call Jen Hall ###-#### for assistance.
Eff you, futuristic appliances.
Attempt to adjust time on watch.
Watch dial is missing. Has fallen off. Nowhere to be found.
Fully potty-trained puppy jumps onto couch and pees out 20 seconds worth of pee.
Skype with dad.
Call dropped.
Skype with dad.
Call dropped.
Skype with dad.
Call dropped.
Skype with dad.
Call dropped.
Skype with dad.
Call dropped.
Skype with dad.
Call dropped.
Skype with dad.
Call dropped.
Decide to call it a night.
Reach for phone to set alarm.
Alarm clock widget suddenly broken.
Respond with frustration and ?!?!!
Until I realized that it was still today.
Then it made sense.
I bite my thumb at you, Today. You were so weird.
- bcl.
I am writing down everything that you did to me today so that one day, I can look back on you and either laugh or cry.
Leave house.
Approach car.
Discover driver's seat door is locked and jammed.
Unlock trunk manually.
Climb in through trunk to unlock passenger door.
Climb out of trunk.
Climb into passenger seat to crawl into driver's seat.
Discover driver's door is still locked and jammed. Cannot open from inside.
Attempt to start car to no avail.
Crawl back out through passenger door.
Slam passenger door behind me.
Passenger door bounces back out.
Passenger lock stuck. Cannot close.
Go home.
Reheat leftovers in microwave.
Microwave stops 15 seconds in.
Microwave error message: This machine is no longer functioning properly. It can no longer be used. Please call Jen Hall ###-#### for assistance.
Eff you, futuristic appliances.
Attempt to adjust time on watch.
Watch dial is missing. Has fallen off. Nowhere to be found.
Fully potty-trained puppy jumps onto couch and pees out 20 seconds worth of pee.
Skype with dad.
Call dropped.
Skype with dad.
Call dropped.
Skype with dad.
Call dropped.
Skype with dad.
Call dropped.
Skype with dad.
Call dropped.
Skype with dad.
Call dropped.
Skype with dad.
Call dropped.
Decide to call it a night.
Reach for phone to set alarm.
Alarm clock widget suddenly broken.
Respond with frustration and ?!?!!
Until I realized that it was still today.
Then it made sense.
I bite my thumb at you, Today. You were so weird.
- bcl.
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
The mug warmer
I don't really understand how it is decided what is cool. Like, piercing your ears and getting fringe bangs is cool, but wearing a fanny pack and using a mug warmer is not.
Recently, as I was packing to move, I was digging around the kitchen looking for cool mugs and tumblers to take with me when I suddenly came across a mug warmer. I kind of scoffed at it, put it back in its drawer, and then continued rummaging. But then I thought about it some more. These two things I know to be true about me: 1) I am almost obsessed with hot beverages, and 2) I am one of the slowest drinkers of all my social circles combined. Which sucks, because I never get to finish a hot beverage. I usually get the steamy mug placed into my hands, happy as a bee, and that first sip is like THIS IS THE BEST every single time. But three sips in, and I'm like ice inside. You know what might fix this tragedy? Oh. Yes. An effing mug warmer.
I sneakily put the mug warmer into my boxes.
This morning, I was sitting at my table, enjoying my breakfast of ginger snap cookies and coffee when I decided to try my mug warmer. It changed everything.
But it also got me thinking about why mug warmers weren't more "in"/trendy/hip/awesome. I mean, man, if everyone who drinks hot drinks bought one of these $3 hot plates, everyone would always have hot hot drinks.
Alas, dear blogosphere, I have come to the conclusion that the culprit this time is again, our people's preoccupation with appearances.
Let's take the aforementioned examples: ear piercings = cool. Fanny packs = uncool. Fringe bangs = cool. Mug warmers = uncool. You know that. I know that. Everybody knows that. But like, why?
Currently, I have 3 piercings between my 2 ears (oh yes, asymmetry is suuuuuper hip) and I used to have fringe bangs. I feel very cool about that, but I also know that the very awesome ability to wear earrings just means that I paid someone a lot of money to pierce my flesh with a needle and then I spent some painful months twisting the metal around the newly formed bloody hole so that I could make the totally unnatural hole stay open permanently. WHAT. And fringe bangs! Well, let me just say this. They look good for like 30 seconds (which is shorter than the length of time my hot drinks stay hot without a mug warmer). You have to trim them all the time, and comb them, and if you ever step outside on a windy day -- or just move your head at all -- they will be blown away and they will look crazy. If you cut them like a centimeter too short, you look a fool, and when they're grown out a centimeter, you've got millions of tiny hairs just stabbing you in the eyes all day. Disgusting. (Unless you buy these, omg: Fashion Girls New Clip-On Front Neat Bang Fringe Hair Extensions)
On the other hand, fanny packs. They're light, they conveniently free up your hands, and they are harder to rob than backpacks and purses. And mug warmers? See above.
So haha. I will probably continue to like my earrings and think fringe bangs are great. I just also feel like it is a funny thing that I do. Let me end this post with a short list of more cool and uncool things that you should really think about.
WHY are these things cool?
drawing in your eyebrows
pistachios
camelbak water bottles (seriously, that straw that you can never ever wash...)
rain kissing
Why don't people like these more?
wearing knee + elbow pads while roller blading
roller blading
dino nuggets
scrunchies
Except for hipsters.
Stay cool,
bcl.
Recently, as I was packing to move, I was digging around the kitchen looking for cool mugs and tumblers to take with me when I suddenly came across a mug warmer. I kind of scoffed at it, put it back in its drawer, and then continued rummaging. But then I thought about it some more. These two things I know to be true about me: 1) I am almost obsessed with hot beverages, and 2) I am one of the slowest drinkers of all my social circles combined. Which sucks, because I never get to finish a hot beverage. I usually get the steamy mug placed into my hands, happy as a bee, and that first sip is like THIS IS THE BEST every single time. But three sips in, and I'm like ice inside. You know what might fix this tragedy? Oh. Yes. An effing mug warmer.
I sneakily put the mug warmer into my boxes.
This morning, I was sitting at my table, enjoying my breakfast of ginger snap cookies and coffee when I decided to try my mug warmer. It changed everything.
But it also got me thinking about why mug warmers weren't more "in"/trendy/hip/awesome. I mean, man, if everyone who drinks hot drinks bought one of these $3 hot plates, everyone would always have hot hot drinks.
Alas, dear blogosphere, I have come to the conclusion that the culprit this time is again, our people's preoccupation with appearances.
Let's take the aforementioned examples: ear piercings = cool. Fanny packs = uncool. Fringe bangs = cool. Mug warmers = uncool. You know that. I know that. Everybody knows that. But like, why?
Currently, I have 3 piercings between my 2 ears (oh yes, asymmetry is suuuuuper hip) and I used to have fringe bangs. I feel very cool about that, but I also know that the very awesome ability to wear earrings just means that I paid someone a lot of money to pierce my flesh with a needle and then I spent some painful months twisting the metal around the newly formed bloody hole so that I could make the totally unnatural hole stay open permanently. WHAT. And fringe bangs! Well, let me just say this. They look good for like 30 seconds (which is shorter than the length of time my hot drinks stay hot without a mug warmer). You have to trim them all the time, and comb them, and if you ever step outside on a windy day -- or just move your head at all -- they will be blown away and they will look crazy. If you cut them like a centimeter too short, you look a fool, and when they're grown out a centimeter, you've got millions of tiny hairs just stabbing you in the eyes all day. Disgusting. (Unless you buy these, omg: Fashion Girls New Clip-On Front Neat Bang Fringe Hair Extensions)
On the other hand, fanny packs. They're light, they conveniently free up your hands, and they are harder to rob than backpacks and purses. And mug warmers? See above.
So haha. I will probably continue to like my earrings and think fringe bangs are great. I just also feel like it is a funny thing that I do. Let me end this post with a short list of more cool and uncool things that you should really think about.
WHY are these things cool?
drawing in your eyebrows
pistachios
camelbak water bottles (seriously, that straw that you can never ever wash...)
rain kissing
Why don't people like these more?
wearing knee + elbow pads while roller blading
roller blading
dino nuggets
scrunchies
Except for hipsters.
Stay cool,
bcl.
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Beginner
When it comes to using the web, I am sad to report, that I am at a mere beginner's level.
At this very moment, I own the following:
bithiahlee.blogspot.com
bithiahlee.wordpress.com
bithiahlee.com
And I don't know how to use any of them! To be frank, I don't even know why I have all of them. But people kept telling me that I should hurry up and get them all before it's too late (for what?), and then I panicked and now I just feel a little bit like a greedy fool.
All my pictures are blurry, the margins don't fit, and I don't know how to change any of the colors.
Hahaha. Wish me luck, everyone, as I attempt to make all my blogs amazing.
- bcl.
At this very moment, I own the following:
bithiahlee.blogspot.com
bithiahlee.wordpress.com
bithiahlee.com
And I don't know how to use any of them! To be frank, I don't even know why I have all of them. But people kept telling me that I should hurry up and get them all before it's too late (for what?), and then I panicked and now I just feel a little bit like a greedy fool.
All my pictures are blurry, the margins don't fit, and I don't know how to change any of the colors.
Hahaha. Wish me luck, everyone, as I attempt to make all my blogs amazing.
- bcl.
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
The Chronicles of "Bithiah" (Part 2)
Dear Blogosphere,
About a year ago, I wrote this blog post titled The Chronicles of "Bithiah" (Part 1), and it was obviously a huge hit. At the time, I titled it Part 1 because I thought that I had enough stories to write a Part 2. While that is certainly true, I think that today's time will be much better spent discussing the root cause of many of my gender-confused, name-related chronicles instead.
All my life, I have had to live with a name that isn't feminine. Whenever someone meets me in person and hears my name, they always respond with something along the lines of, "Oh, wow. What a beautiful name! It's so pretty and unique." But for those who read my name before seeing me in person, they are usually left scratching their heads, wondering all sorts of things about this "Bithiah". And sometimes, they think I'm a boy.
I used to think that it was because when my name is pronounced correctly, the words "big" and "thigh" can be heard. And let's face it, thighs are boyish things. And big thighs are manly things.
But then, in recent times, I have had to reconsider this supposition of mine. That's because I realized that when people read my name before they hear me say it, they're just guessing at its pronunciation... and they always guess wrong. So, when they're saying "Bith-thee-ah" in their heads, the "big" and "thigh" are totally lost. What then, I asked myself, is the cause of the consistent guessing that I'm O--> ?
The root cause, I have discovered, is this theory that I have named "The Feminine A and Masculine Consonants Theory". I think the title is sufficiently self-explanatory, but let me break it down into two parts for you anyway. The theory supposes that names ending in the letter A appear feminine, and names ending in consonants appear more masculine.
To demonstrate the first half of the theory, I shall conduct this brief experiment.
Classic Boy Names:
Michael
Alex
Daniel
Samuel
Bithiah
When you add an A to the end, they become:
Michaela
Alexa
Daniela
Samuela
Bithia
And to demonstrate the second half of the theory, see...
Classic Boy Names:
Daniel
Aidan
Brian
Jon
Bithiah
When you drop the consonant at the end, they become:
Danie
Aida
Bria
Jo
Bithia
Don't they look girly?
Welp. Thanks for coming here to learn today! I look forward to the day when children will be reading about the "The Feminine A and Masculine Consonants Theory" in textbooks in schools all around the world.
- bcl.
About a year ago, I wrote this blog post titled The Chronicles of "Bithiah" (Part 1), and it was obviously a huge hit. At the time, I titled it Part 1 because I thought that I had enough stories to write a Part 2. While that is certainly true, I think that today's time will be much better spent discussing the root cause of many of my gender-confused, name-related chronicles instead.
All my life, I have had to live with a name that isn't feminine. Whenever someone meets me in person and hears my name, they always respond with something along the lines of, "Oh, wow. What a beautiful name! It's so pretty and unique." But for those who read my name before seeing me in person, they are usually left scratching their heads, wondering all sorts of things about this "Bithiah". And sometimes, they think I'm a boy.
I used to think that it was because when my name is pronounced correctly, the words "big" and "thigh" can be heard. And let's face it, thighs are boyish things. And big thighs are manly things.
But then, in recent times, I have had to reconsider this supposition of mine. That's because I realized that when people read my name before they hear me say it, they're just guessing at its pronunciation... and they always guess wrong. So, when they're saying "Bith-thee-ah" in their heads, the "big" and "thigh" are totally lost. What then, I asked myself, is the cause of the consistent guessing that I'm O--> ?
The root cause, I have discovered, is this theory that I have named "The Feminine A and Masculine Consonants Theory". I think the title is sufficiently self-explanatory, but let me break it down into two parts for you anyway. The theory supposes that names ending in the letter A appear feminine, and names ending in consonants appear more masculine.
To demonstrate the first half of the theory, I shall conduct this brief experiment.
Classic Boy Names:
Michael
Alex
Daniel
Samuel
Bithiah
When you add an A to the end, they become:
Michaela
Alexa
Daniela
Samuela
Bithia
And to demonstrate the second half of the theory, see...
Classic Boy Names:
Daniel
Aidan
Brian
Jon
Bithiah
When you drop the consonant at the end, they become:
Danie
Aida
Bria
Jo
Bithia
Don't they look girly?
Welp. Thanks for coming here to learn today! I look forward to the day when children will be reading about the "The Feminine A and Masculine Consonants Theory" in textbooks in schools all around the world.
- bcl.
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
Finish to finish
My dear Blogosphere,
I woke up today thinking about this blog of mine. I know that you all think it's genius, but the truth is, all my very best stuff is the stuff that you have no idea about.
A little while back, I came across this article about writers, and it made me want to laugh and cry at the same time. It is SPOT - the freak - ON. It's a pretty lengthy article (understandably so, since it is an article written by a writer about writers writing), so if you don't want to read the whole article (which you should), I will summarize it for you: Writers are all, to some degree or another, neurotic perfectionists, and they procrastinate indefinitely because things they write never seem to be perfect enough to publish. The only reason why any writers ever get any writing done ever is because their fear of missing a deadline overpowers their neurotic perfectionism.
[Okay, there was other stuff, too, and if you really cared about understanding the psyche of the writers around you, please go learn. But for this post, let us focus on just my summary.]
Today, I woke up feeling pissed about the whole thing.
I looked at my unpublished drafts box, and I realized that all of my very best posts/topics/discussions were still sitting there. I have more unfinished posts than I do actual posts, and I know that it's because I wanted to make sure that each of those posts were perfect enough before I published them. And since they never reached that level of perfection, I refused to send them forth into the wide open world.
But when I return to finish these drafts months and years later, I realize all too often that now it's too late, and the subject is no longer timely, current, or relevant. So then, they just stay there -- rotting away in my "drafts box" stinking of decay.
I first read the aforementioned article on February 14, 2014. I know because I copied the link and saved it as one of those stupid drafts on that date. But since I woke up so angry about it all today, ("it" being my drafts box), I decided to shut up, suck it up, and start clearing it out.
I'm the only one who cares about whether or not my blog post is perfect. You wouldn't know better anyway, since you aren't privy to my brain (which is too bad for you, since my mind is a wonder of brilliance and hilarity and great sass).
Sometimes, when it comes to writing -- and probably other things -- you just have to do it. And finish it. And move forward. And throw it all against the wall and see what sticks.
I don't think I'm going to edit this post. I think I'm going to push the orange "publish" button now.
This is monumental, guys.
- bcl.
I woke up today thinking about this blog of mine. I know that you all think it's genius, but the truth is, all my very best stuff is the stuff that you have no idea about.
A little while back, I came across this article about writers, and it made me want to laugh and cry at the same time. It is SPOT - the freak - ON. It's a pretty lengthy article (understandably so, since it is an article written by a writer about writers writing), so if you don't want to read the whole article (which you should), I will summarize it for you: Writers are all, to some degree or another, neurotic perfectionists, and they procrastinate indefinitely because things they write never seem to be perfect enough to publish. The only reason why any writers ever get any writing done ever is because their fear of missing a deadline overpowers their neurotic perfectionism.
[Okay, there was other stuff, too, and if you really cared about understanding the psyche of the writers around you, please go learn. But for this post, let us focus on just my summary.]
Today, I woke up feeling pissed about the whole thing.
I looked at my unpublished drafts box, and I realized that all of my very best posts/topics/discussions were still sitting there. I have more unfinished posts than I do actual posts, and I know that it's because I wanted to make sure that each of those posts were perfect enough before I published them. And since they never reached that level of perfection, I refused to send them forth into the wide open world.
But when I return to finish these drafts months and years later, I realize all too often that now it's too late, and the subject is no longer timely, current, or relevant. So then, they just stay there -- rotting away in my "drafts box" stinking of decay.
I first read the aforementioned article on February 14, 2014. I know because I copied the link and saved it as one of those stupid drafts on that date. But since I woke up so angry about it all today, ("it" being my drafts box), I decided to shut up, suck it up, and start clearing it out.
I'm the only one who cares about whether or not my blog post is perfect. You wouldn't know better anyway, since you aren't privy to my brain (which is too bad for you, since my mind is a wonder of brilliance and hilarity and great sass).
Sometimes, when it comes to writing -- and probably other things -- you just have to do it. And finish it. And move forward. And throw it all against the wall and see what sticks.
I don't think I'm going to edit this post. I think I'm going to push the orange "publish" button now.
This is monumental, guys.
- bcl.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
People who suck
Dear Blogosphere,
Iiiiiiiii'm back! I knew that since I've been silent for so long, my return post had to be a good one. Believe me, I've thought about you guys a lot. All 8 of my beloved followers! And I have often wanted to reach out to you, to speak to you, to update you on how my summer in Los Angeles has been going. But, every time I would sit down to write, I'd realize halfway through the post that the subject matter really wasn't worthy of you.
I wanted to hold out for a soul mate of an idea.
Drumroll, please.
Okay, that's enough drumroll. Put your hands down.
Socially awkward people exhaust me, and I do not like them.
But it's not because I don't like them. I don't mind the idea of them. If socially awkward people were just socially awkward, then everybody's fine. I don't like them because their ineptitude is uncontainable.
Their social incompetence is highly contagious, and no one is immune. You could put the smoothest, most well-spoken person on the face of the planet in a room with a socially awkward person (or, S.A.P., to save time for the purposes of this blog) and your cool friend would suddenly find himself sputtering at the floor, casting nervous glances around the room. Seriously, think about it. By definition, the word "social" implies that there are 2 or more people involved in the situation at hand. Which means that in order for a S.A.P. to be socially awkward, he or she must be in a social environment with another person other than him or herself. Ipso facto, the same must be true for socially awesome people.
See it yet? The awkwardness and awesomeness of a person in a social setting is completely dependent on the people surrounding them. You could be like, totally great in secret, but if no one's there to witness your greatness, it doesn't count! No points for you! Luckily for you, the equation plays fair on both sides; if you suck in private, you also don't lose points. God is just.
Where the equation loses its balance, however, is the weight of A versus a.
Consider the following:
A = AWKWARD
a = awesome
A + A = A
a + a = a
A + a = AA!
The first two scenarios are pretty self-explanatory. If you're reading my blog, you're obviously genius, so I won't insult your intelligence by expounding.
Let's focus, instead, on the third scenario. To help illustrate, let me restate the original thesis-- Socially awkward people exhaust me, and I do not like them.
This is because of the aforementioned third situation! Do you know what makes a cool person cool? The fact that other people think he or she is cool. A person is funny because you laugh at his joke. He is good-looking because you're attracted to him. He is a great story-teller because you're paying attention to him as he tells it. E'rgo, when someone is too socially unaware to laugh at your joke, to know that she should be attracted to you because you're so undeniably good-looking, or to pay attention to your story, your a is automatically nullified, turning you into one big, ugly A. If the person you're talking to doesn't register that you're awesome, you aren't awesome.
Elodie: Hey, girl. Suuuuuuper cute outfit!
Imogen: Aw, thanks. It's from the 60's. I got it at a thrift store.
Elodie: Oh man, that makes it even better. You're so great at finding all these gorgeous, vintage pieces of fashion art.
Imogen: You're too sweet! I'm Imogen, by the way.
Elodie: Omg, I love that! It's so beautiful and unique.
Imogen: (flips hair) Thanks, I totally picked it out myself.
Elodie: Hahahahahahahahaha!
Imogen: Hey, Phoebe!
Phoebe: Oh. Uh, yes. Hi.
Imogen: How are you?
Phoebe: Good. Your dress looks really old.
Imogen: Oh, umm... yeah, it's vintage. I got it from a thrift store! I love thrifting!
Phoebe: Is it because you're poor?
Imogen: What? No, I just... I like it, and it's hip... and trendy. I'm Imogen, by the way, just in case you forgot.
Phoebe: I remember because your name is weird.
Imogen: Ha, well, I can't help it. I didn't pick my own name, you know?
Phoebe: Yes, I know that. I'm not blaming you or anything.
DO YOU SEE IT?? This is why I don't like socially awkward people. Because they suck by making you-- and everyone around them-- suck too.
And they totally don't care that I'm hilarious and great to everyone else. They are immune to my powers, while I am at all times, susceptible to their severely infectious strain of A. Alas, they ruin even the very best people, including, but not limited to, me.
I know that many of you, like I once was, foolishly believed that being socially awkward was a bad thing, and that if you were socially awesome, you were obviously better off in life. But, I hope that this gorgeous blog post has totally destroyed that lie for you. The S.A.P.s have always had the upper hand, and they will ultimately win over the world.
Thanks a lot for ruining everything, S.A.P.s,
- bcl.
Iiiiiiiii'm back! I knew that since I've been silent for so long, my return post had to be a good one. Believe me, I've thought about you guys a lot. All 8 of my beloved followers! And I have often wanted to reach out to you, to speak to you, to update you on how my summer in Los Angeles has been going. But, every time I would sit down to write, I'd realize halfway through the post that the subject matter really wasn't worthy of you.
I wanted to hold out for a soul mate of an idea.
Drumroll, please.
Okay, that's enough drumroll. Put your hands down.
Socially awkward people exhaust me, and I do not like them.
But it's not because I don't like them. I don't mind the idea of them. If socially awkward people were just socially awkward, then everybody's fine. I don't like them because their ineptitude is uncontainable.
Their social incompetence is highly contagious, and no one is immune. You could put the smoothest, most well-spoken person on the face of the planet in a room with a socially awkward person (or, S.A.P., to save time for the purposes of this blog) and your cool friend would suddenly find himself sputtering at the floor, casting nervous glances around the room. Seriously, think about it. By definition, the word "social" implies that there are 2 or more people involved in the situation at hand. Which means that in order for a S.A.P. to be socially awkward, he or she must be in a social environment with another person other than him or herself. Ipso facto, the same must be true for socially awesome people.
See it yet? The awkwardness and awesomeness of a person in a social setting is completely dependent on the people surrounding them. You could be like, totally great in secret, but if no one's there to witness your greatness, it doesn't count! No points for you! Luckily for you, the equation plays fair on both sides; if you suck in private, you also don't lose points. God is just.
Where the equation loses its balance, however, is the weight of A versus a.
Consider the following:
A = AWKWARD
a = awesome
A + A = A
a + a = a
A + a = AA!
The first two scenarios are pretty self-explanatory. If you're reading my blog, you're obviously genius, so I won't insult your intelligence by expounding.
Let's focus, instead, on the third scenario. To help illustrate, let me restate the original thesis-- Socially awkward people exhaust me, and I do not like them.
This is because of the aforementioned third situation! Do you know what makes a cool person cool? The fact that other people think he or she is cool. A person is funny because you laugh at his joke. He is good-looking because you're attracted to him. He is a great story-teller because you're paying attention to him as he tells it. E'rgo, when someone is too socially unaware to laugh at your joke, to know that she should be attracted to you because you're so undeniably good-looking, or to pay attention to your story, your a is automatically nullified, turning you into one big, ugly A. If the person you're talking to doesn't register that you're awesome, you aren't awesome.
Elodie: Hey, girl. Suuuuuuper cute outfit!
Imogen: Aw, thanks. It's from the 60's. I got it at a thrift store.
Elodie: Oh man, that makes it even better. You're so great at finding all these gorgeous, vintage pieces of fashion art.
Imogen: You're too sweet! I'm Imogen, by the way.
Elodie: Omg, I love that! It's so beautiful and unique.
Imogen: (flips hair) Thanks, I totally picked it out myself.
Elodie: Hahahahahahahahaha!
Imogen: Hey, Phoebe!
Phoebe: Oh. Uh, yes. Hi.
Imogen: How are you?
Phoebe: Good. Your dress looks really old.
Imogen: Oh, umm... yeah, it's vintage. I got it from a thrift store! I love thrifting!
Phoebe: Is it because you're poor?
Imogen: What? No, I just... I like it, and it's hip... and trendy. I'm Imogen, by the way, just in case you forgot.
Phoebe: I remember because your name is weird.
Imogen: Ha, well, I can't help it. I didn't pick my own name, you know?
Phoebe: Yes, I know that. I'm not blaming you or anything.
DO YOU SEE IT?? This is why I don't like socially awkward people. Because they suck by making you-- and everyone around them-- suck too.
And they totally don't care that I'm hilarious and great to everyone else. They are immune to my powers, while I am at all times, susceptible to their severely infectious strain of A. Alas, they ruin even the very best people, including, but not limited to, me.
I know that many of you, like I once was, foolishly believed that being socially awkward was a bad thing, and that if you were socially awesome, you were obviously better off in life. But, I hope that this gorgeous blog post has totally destroyed that lie for you. The S.A.P.s have always had the upper hand, and they will ultimately win over the world.
Thanks a lot for ruining everything, S.A.P.s,
- bcl.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Happy Canada Day!
HAPPY CANADA DAY!
Have some poutine and apologize a lot today.
And, maybe think of your favourite Canadian friends today and tell them you miss them.
love,
bcl.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
They are waiting for you where you most want to be
For those of you who have ever felt very alone in a decision that you've made. For those of you who sometimes think that you must be the only person in the world who acts or thinks a certain way. For those of you who have ever found yourself insecure, doubtful about a choice you've made. This is for you.
Humans were not made to live life alone. Community and relationships are desired by everyone. Some may be able to survive with less of both, but nevertheless, they, too, will suffer through times of longing for companionship and understanding.
For those who find that they are more often progressing down a path off the beaten track than they seem to be moving with the masses, it can be a tired journey. They may wander off the main path, braving the unknown with nothing more than a flashlight in one hand and a secret dream in the other, hoping-- praying-- that they'll like what they find or that they'll find what they like. Right before veering away from the familiar, these individuals pause at the edge of the trail, turning around to wave one last goodbye to their family and friends, smiling to reassure their peers as well as themselves that they're going to be fine on their own. "I'll survive. Don't worry about me," they say, "I chose this. This way is better for me." And with one final, determined turn of their heads, they're gone.
Alone, they battle true horrors. Doubts creep in. They begin to feel cheated. "I left the main path because someone promised me that if I came this way, I would find a treasure infinitely more valuable than the one everyone else I left behind will come across." They think to themselves, "I was told my courage would be rewarded. But is this truly better? Maybe I should head back." But by the time they realize these fears, it's too late to change their minds; the trail and the people are too far behind. That's just a distant memory now.
For many years now, I have been waiting to jump off the main path. That life just never appealed to me. I didn't crave a traditional career, success, or wealth. But please believe me when I say that I don't think that I'm better than tradition. Far from being above all of that, I grew up in middle-class suburban neighborhoods, took piano and violin lessons, played soccer and basketball, got a dog, went to church, graduated from the University of Michigan with honors, and then immediately began working full-time. I played along for all that time. But, after a year of working a corporate desk job, I was bored. I had the most terrible itch to ditch the 9-to-5 and to try something new. And so I decided to quit my job, and to travel and adventure for a year instead. At the time, I was enthusiastic and proud of my decision. I thought everyone around me would feel the same way, too. And they did.. but only partially.
Me: "I quit my job, and I'm going to travel and see beautiful things this year."
Friend: "Oh, that's so amazing! I'm so excited for you. You're going to have such an amazing time. I'm totally jealous of you. You're so lucky!"
Me: "Well, hey, you don't have to be jealous of me. You can do it too! You should come travel with me."
Friend: "Oh... I really wish that I could, but I have to work."
Me: "But, I thought--"
Friend:"I also don't have any money to travel. Oh, you are just so lucky!"
Me: "I don't have any more money than you do to travel... I just decided that it was worth it for me to spend my money trying something new at this time, you know."
Friend: "Oh yeah.. that's great! That's really great for you."
And there it is. For you, but not for me. So with abundant applause and good wishes, they sent me away. With bags packed and tickets purchased, I set off for Thailand. I had a 23-hour flight to ask myself lots of questions. "Since all of my friends and family are busy working, no one wanted to travel with me. Am I crazy for wanting to do this? If this was really as great as everyone claims to think it is, why am I on this plane by myself? Am I being irresponsible? Do I really want this, or am I just running away from something? Am I the only person who has decided that this temporary "sacrifice" of a career and paycheck is worthwhile? Is there anyone else who thinks this too? Where are all of the other adventurers?"
The answer: ADVENTURING.
One of the very best things about traveling to Thailand is that I got to spend time with so many like-minded individuals. I found courage and assurance in them. While I was there, no one ever asked me to explain myself, like so many back home did. No one asked me how I was paying for the trip, exactly how long I was going to travel for, or what I was going to do afterwards. No one asked me to justify my decisions to them. Among the travelers, the only question that seemed to pass was, what's your story? Together, we enjoyed and celebrated life and adventure. Surrounded by complete strangers, I felt strangely at home. Like I was among friends. We shared about how we arrived in Thailand, how many miles our backpacks have endured, which restaurants we enjoyed, and whether or not it was better to travel around Thailand in a clockwise or counterclockwise direction. We shared our own fears and doubts about relationships and unemployment, sure, but there was no condemnation. We understood. The relief I enjoyed in Thailand was refreshing. I no longer worried that I was the only idiot who took a break from work to play. I was looking for other travelers, and I found them traveling.
I don't believe that any one is truly alone in their decisions. You don't have to feel insecure about your choices. You are not the only person in the world who acts or feels this way-- whichever way it is; there are people who understand. And they are waiting for you where you most want to be.
Go join them!
- bcl.
Humans were not made to live life alone. Community and relationships are desired by everyone. Some may be able to survive with less of both, but nevertheless, they, too, will suffer through times of longing for companionship and understanding.
For those who find that they are more often progressing down a path off the beaten track than they seem to be moving with the masses, it can be a tired journey. They may wander off the main path, braving the unknown with nothing more than a flashlight in one hand and a secret dream in the other, hoping-- praying-- that they'll like what they find or that they'll find what they like. Right before veering away from the familiar, these individuals pause at the edge of the trail, turning around to wave one last goodbye to their family and friends, smiling to reassure their peers as well as themselves that they're going to be fine on their own. "I'll survive. Don't worry about me," they say, "I chose this. This way is better for me." And with one final, determined turn of their heads, they're gone.
Alone, they battle true horrors. Doubts creep in. They begin to feel cheated. "I left the main path because someone promised me that if I came this way, I would find a treasure infinitely more valuable than the one everyone else I left behind will come across." They think to themselves, "I was told my courage would be rewarded. But is this truly better? Maybe I should head back." But by the time they realize these fears, it's too late to change their minds; the trail and the people are too far behind. That's just a distant memory now.
For many years now, I have been waiting to jump off the main path. That life just never appealed to me. I didn't crave a traditional career, success, or wealth. But please believe me when I say that I don't think that I'm better than tradition. Far from being above all of that, I grew up in middle-class suburban neighborhoods, took piano and violin lessons, played soccer and basketball, got a dog, went to church, graduated from the University of Michigan with honors, and then immediately began working full-time. I played along for all that time. But, after a year of working a corporate desk job, I was bored. I had the most terrible itch to ditch the 9-to-5 and to try something new. And so I decided to quit my job, and to travel and adventure for a year instead. At the time, I was enthusiastic and proud of my decision. I thought everyone around me would feel the same way, too. And they did.. but only partially.
Me: "I quit my job, and I'm going to travel and see beautiful things this year."
Friend: "Oh, that's so amazing! I'm so excited for you. You're going to have such an amazing time. I'm totally jealous of you. You're so lucky!"
Me: "Well, hey, you don't have to be jealous of me. You can do it too! You should come travel with me."
Friend: "Oh... I really wish that I could, but I have to work."
Me: "But, I thought--"
Friend:"I also don't have any money to travel. Oh, you are just so lucky!"
Me: "I don't have any more money than you do to travel... I just decided that it was worth it for me to spend my money trying something new at this time, you know."
Friend: "Oh yeah.. that's great! That's really great for you."
And there it is. For you, but not for me. So with abundant applause and good wishes, they sent me away. With bags packed and tickets purchased, I set off for Thailand. I had a 23-hour flight to ask myself lots of questions. "Since all of my friends and family are busy working, no one wanted to travel with me. Am I crazy for wanting to do this? If this was really as great as everyone claims to think it is, why am I on this plane by myself? Am I being irresponsible? Do I really want this, or am I just running away from something? Am I the only person who has decided that this temporary "sacrifice" of a career and paycheck is worthwhile? Is there anyone else who thinks this too? Where are all of the other adventurers?"
The answer: ADVENTURING.
One of the very best things about traveling to Thailand is that I got to spend time with so many like-minded individuals. I found courage and assurance in them. While I was there, no one ever asked me to explain myself, like so many back home did. No one asked me how I was paying for the trip, exactly how long I was going to travel for, or what I was going to do afterwards. No one asked me to justify my decisions to them. Among the travelers, the only question that seemed to pass was, what's your story? Together, we enjoyed and celebrated life and adventure. Surrounded by complete strangers, I felt strangely at home. Like I was among friends. We shared about how we arrived in Thailand, how many miles our backpacks have endured, which restaurants we enjoyed, and whether or not it was better to travel around Thailand in a clockwise or counterclockwise direction. We shared our own fears and doubts about relationships and unemployment, sure, but there was no condemnation. We understood. The relief I enjoyed in Thailand was refreshing. I no longer worried that I was the only idiot who took a break from work to play. I was looking for other travelers, and I found them traveling.
I don't believe that any one is truly alone in their decisions. You don't have to feel insecure about your choices. You are not the only person in the world who acts or feels this way-- whichever way it is; there are people who understand. And they are waiting for you where you most want to be.
Go join them!
- bcl.
Saturday, February 8, 2014
Far more shameful a thing than being wrong
"Pride probably
isn't the best reason behind making a decision."
I didn't tell her at the
time, but my friend had just tapped a nerve. Her slight tap sent an
uncomfortable twinge shooting up from the very bottom tip of my heart up into
the tangles of my brain, causing a deafening echo of "PRIDE...
Pride... pri ...pr..." to reverberate throughout my body. The
word traveled down to my stomach, leaving acid along its path. I hurt on the
inside.
I finished the rest of our conversation with as much grace as I normally manage, silently applauding myself for an acting job well done. After hanging up, I was left very much alone with my aching, twisting insides. I had the house to myself, and I focused only on the silence around me. The only noise that could be heard was the hum escaping the air vents as heat poured into the house. I became very aware of how loud the heat was; the hum moved quickly into a low growl, and then into a raging roar-- aggressive, almost. And then, suddenly, when I feared that the heat coming out of the vents would burst into a red-hot fire, it all stopped. And then it really became silent.
I finished the rest of our conversation with as much grace as I normally manage, silently applauding myself for an acting job well done. After hanging up, I was left very much alone with my aching, twisting insides. I had the house to myself, and I focused only on the silence around me. The only noise that could be heard was the hum escaping the air vents as heat poured into the house. I became very aware of how loud the heat was; the hum moved quickly into a low growl, and then into a raging roar-- aggressive, almost. And then, suddenly, when I feared that the heat coming out of the vents would burst into a red-hot fire, it all stopped. And then it really became silent.
I rose to refill my mug,
hoping that a hot beverage would help to ease the chill that I suddenly felt
against me. I returned to my chair, hot tea in hand. I was sitting alone with
my pride.
I don't normally refer
to myself as a particularly prideful individual. I guess I just thought that
the word pride seems too direct. Too easy. I am prideful, but I prefer to call
it a fear of failure, or a need to please people. Somehow I thought it sounded
better that way.
My fear of failure is
true, even sincere. But I am only afraid that the failure will be seen by
someone else. I have no problem handling failures when they are committed in
secret. It's almost like they don't really count. Maybe they didn't even
happen. And the need to please people is true, too. I am prepared to bend in
almost every which way in order to live up to the expectations of those around
me because in truth, that seems much easier to do than to face any of the
alternatives-- disappointment. Embarrassment. Pity.
I never like to disclose
my goals or dreams. Lying dormant and hidden within my own head is where they
are safe. I have very little chance at success when my ideas remain available
only for my own occasional viewing pleasure, but there is also no risk of
people finding out about the parts of me that have lost a fight. I don't like
to share my plans until I know they are solid because I'm weary of inviting an
audience to my clumsy performance of changing my mind over and over and over
and over. When doubts and anxiety arise about my publicized decisions, I fight
them with every ounce of will that I have at my disposal. I become stubborn and
defensive and frail. I don't want anyone else to witness my journey, I say, I
only need you to see the start and the finish line. Never you mind how, or what
it really took for me to get there.
But the problem with all
of this arises on the day when you realize that you've signed yourself up for a
performance that will last forever and the ending is ugly. You don’t get a
break, and there’s no way you can win. In fact, you’ve already lost. You
realize that this moment of catching yourself bowing on your knees before your
pride is far more shameful a thing than not winning a race you trained for, or
for admitting that you are young and insecure, or for being flexible to
changing circumstances.
So I’m owning up to it.
Friends, I am really afraid of disappointing you. I’m sorry that I’ve given you
power over me that you certainly never asked for or want. I’m sorry that I’ve
turned you into my own greatest enemy. On most occasions, I wish so badly that
I knew the answer to your questions that I pretend that I do. I’m old and I’m
young, insecure about most things, and unsure about my plans. I know that you
can relate and I know that you have grace enough to show me, and I am asking
for it. I’m going to keep changing my mind about most things. In my attempt at
staying humble, I often stumble, crashing for a moment into pride on the left,
and then self-deprecation on the right. Forgive me for my pride, and I’m sorry
about the lies. If you want, I’ll let you help me through my decisions and my
changes. I’ll tell you about when I’m embarrassed, and the times that I get
broken. I’ll share with you when I’m happy, too.
"Pride probably
isn't the best reason behind making a decision."
You are right.
Thankful that you finally said it straight at me,
bcl.
Monday, February 3, 2014
Beep, #%!&
Dear Blogosphere,
Today, as I was driving home on the freeway, I crossed into some traffic congestion. A few short miles away from my exit, I tried to switch lanes, but found it a difficult task since the next lane was taken up by a continuous flow of cars. With my turn signal blinking rapidly, I looked desperately for a break in the stream of moving steel and rubber. After some time, I thought I saw a small gap; the car next to me appeared to be slowing down, or at least maintaining his speed, perhaps trying to let me pass in front of him. Unsure, I hesitated to cut him off. The driver then gave me a light honk, which allowed me to confidently switch into his lane. I waved thank you, and continued the drive home, pondering his kind gesture.
Or rather, pondering about the wonder that is car horns.
You see, the thing is, car horns are like really actually just one noise. But for some reason, they can still sound different depending on what each honk is trying to signal.
A mean, "HEY YOU SUCK" honk and a friendly "go ahead" beep are both produced from the very same flat, circular steel diaphragm from within the vehicle horn. But its range of emotion and its versatility are impressive, to say the least.
When I'm raging at the road, the stupid horn seems insufficient. But when I'm just stopped at a pedestrian crossing and there's a little old lady struggling to decide whether or not she should walk and I want to encourage her with a cute little gentle beep, it is far too loud and aggressive.
Therefore, I propose that automobile makers should create different horns for different moods. Think of the possibilities!
- #%!& you! honk
- friendly, Go ahead honk
- crude, Holler at that hottie honk (this one will be a hit for sure. It will make everything so much easier for the cat callers and whistlers who normally have to like, go through all the extra and unnecessary effort of actually rolling down their window and sticking their faces out of the window to scream)
- kind, but stern Move out of the way honk, available in various animal languages
- omg, HEY! honk for when you see your friends and want to get their attention so you can wave very enthusiastically at them until the light finally changes so that you can drive away and then text them about how hilarious and crazy it was that you'd run into them at that intersection, of all places!
You're welcome, Motor City. This is your ticket back to the top. Think on it.
Beeeeep,
-bcl.
Today, as I was driving home on the freeway, I crossed into some traffic congestion. A few short miles away from my exit, I tried to switch lanes, but found it a difficult task since the next lane was taken up by a continuous flow of cars. With my turn signal blinking rapidly, I looked desperately for a break in the stream of moving steel and rubber. After some time, I thought I saw a small gap; the car next to me appeared to be slowing down, or at least maintaining his speed, perhaps trying to let me pass in front of him. Unsure, I hesitated to cut him off. The driver then gave me a light honk, which allowed me to confidently switch into his lane. I waved thank you, and continued the drive home, pondering his kind gesture.
Or rather, pondering about the wonder that is car horns.
You see, the thing is, car horns are like really actually just one noise. But for some reason, they can still sound different depending on what each honk is trying to signal.
A mean, "HEY YOU SUCK" honk and a friendly "go ahead" beep are both produced from the very same flat, circular steel diaphragm from within the vehicle horn. But its range of emotion and its versatility are impressive, to say the least.
When I'm raging at the road, the stupid horn seems insufficient. But when I'm just stopped at a pedestrian crossing and there's a little old lady struggling to decide whether or not she should walk and I want to encourage her with a cute little gentle beep, it is far too loud and aggressive.
Therefore, I propose that automobile makers should create different horns for different moods. Think of the possibilities!
- #%!& you! honk
- friendly, Go ahead honk
- crude, Holler at that hottie honk (this one will be a hit for sure. It will make everything so much easier for the cat callers and whistlers who normally have to like, go through all the extra and unnecessary effort of actually rolling down their window and sticking their faces out of the window to scream)
- kind, but stern Move out of the way honk, available in various animal languages
- omg, HEY! honk for when you see your friends and want to get their attention so you can wave very enthusiastically at them until the light finally changes so that you can drive away and then text them about how hilarious and crazy it was that you'd run into them at that intersection, of all places!
You're welcome, Motor City. This is your ticket back to the top. Think on it.
Beeeeep,
-bcl.
Monday, December 30, 2013
Merry Christmas!
11:15 Began Christmas playlist
11:30 Tea + Panettone breakfast with the Leungs, brother, and Joses
12:30 Open presents
13:00 Finish watching "Prisoners" (2013)
13:55 Spend some time with my Moleskine
13:57 Marvel at the goodness that is Josh Groban's "Noel" album
14:45 Reading "A Voice in the Wind"
16:15 Christmas nap
17:00 Sent Felix text message that read: "Where are you, bongbong?"
17:04 Felix: "Peeling shrimps at 4s place"
17:30 Put spinach squares into oven
17:40 Opened more presents
18:00 Errbody at Auntie Amy & Uncle Stephen's!
18:01 Everything is classic
19:30 Dinnerrrrrr
20:30 "Let's go to the basement!"
20:35 Play team charades
20:55 Nathan accidentally closes game on phone
20:55.2 Rosalind yells out, "Nay Nay!"
21:15 Chris falls to ground
21:16 Vicky couldn't guess "deadwood" from that
21:30 Ryan returns to basement with a new plate of dinner
22:00 Christmas log & Pomegranate cake
22:15 Auntie Kat tells Gene + Nay Nay to pose for a picture; Ryan yells out, "KISS!"
22:30 Watch 2001 "hot-wired, white-knuckle thriller" Joy Ride, starring Paul Walker, Stephen Zahn, + bra-less girl, LeeLee
23:30 Steve Zahn makes excellent scared face
23:35 Steve Zahn hits on all girls in movie
23:36 Chris says "Aaron Li, you are exactly like this guy in every way!"
00:45 Late night chat with brother + Auntie Amy
Merry Christmas, world. Happy Birthday, Jesus <3
- bcl.
Sunday, November 24, 2013
That expression just took on a whole new meaning
Good morning, Blogosphere!
For those of you who have been following (high five to you!), you know that I am currently living and working on a farm in Suan Phung. The past few days on the farm have been both interesting and challenging. I have enjoyed getting to know the people around this area and it has been fun to work so closely with so many animals. During my time here, I have also learned several important lessons. In accordance with the widely-accepted standard Rule of Threes, I shall share three of them with you.
Lesson 1: Pigs are pigs.
Growing up, I've often heard the expressions you eat like a pig, you sleep like a pig, and you're such a pig. Before this week, I would have chuckled casually at those insults and placed them in the same category of digs as the very elementary you're a dumb butt and your face is stupid. BUT NOW. I can see the true level of offense that is meant with those expressions. Not a joke. When you see and hear a pig eat or sleep, those expressions all take on a whole new meaning. It is truly, truly disgusting. I will never again use the aforementioned insults lightly.. I will only use them heavily and deliberately on the occasions that I really want to hurt you.
(Lulu being disgusting)
Lesson 2: The mosquitoes always win.
It doesn't even matter what you do. As humans, we so often foolishly tell ourselves that we stand a chance in this war against mosquitoes. That's why so many of us continue to spend money on bug spray, mosquito repellent, mosquito bracelets, mosquito nets, mosquito coils, mosquito incense, and mosquito candles. Once the sun begins to set each day, we hurry to change into long sleeved shirts and long pants and socks and close-toed shoes. But I can assure you that all of these battle preparations are in vain. The reasons for this are three-fold. Firstly, people always think that sundown marks the beginning of the war against the mosquitoes, but the truth is that while you were running around in the blazing sun in your tank top and shorts during the day, the enemy has already launched their first attacks and you're already losing by the time you reach for your long trousers. Secondly, in the game of numbers, the odds are truly never in your favour; you're you, and mosquitoes are trillions at all times. Thirdly, their battle strategy is infinitely better than
yours. I mean, I don’t actually know what their strategy is, but yours is to slap
yourself repeatedly all over your body, so..
Lesson 3: The Biblical imagery of sheep and their shepherd really does illustrate something important.
Having grown up attending church, I am familiar with the many passages in the Bible that talk about sheep and their shepherd. I was never confused by the comparison that was made between sheep and their shepherd, and people and Jesus. But while working on this farm, I have witnessed for the first time something pretty incredible about sheep. On my very first morning here, I, along with the other volunteers climbed the fence into the sheep pen to brush and wash them. The three of us had been brushing the animals for about twenty minutes when Arnon joined us. As Arnon neared the pen, he yelled out a greeting to us, and the sheep immediately rushed towards him in an excited frenzy of bleats and jumps. My immediate thought in that moment was Wow, sheep really do know their shepherd's voice. John 10:2-5 says
The one who enters by the gate is the shepherd of the sheep. The gatekeeper opens the gate for him, and the sheep listen to his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes on ahead of them, and his sheep follow him because they know his voice. But they will never follow a stranger; in fact, they will run away from him because they do not recognize a stranger's voice.Arnon let the sheep out of their pen for a few hours that morning to let them graze in the nearby fields. Early in the afternoon, he asked the volunteers to herd the sheep back into their pen. We struggled with the task immensely. The flock traveled closely together, and whenever we tried to get near one of them, they would all dart away together. After several minutes of non-progression, Arnon picked up a staff, walked towards us and quickly led them home. He laughed as he closed the gate of the pen behind the last sheep and said, "I don't know why it always seems like only I can do this." I thought to myself, it's because you're the shepherd.
I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. (John 10:11 NIV)
The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul. He guides me along the right paths for his name's sake. Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. (Psalm 23:1-4 NIV)After a few days here, I can now also attest to the truth of the rest of these verses. Arnon really does know every sheep by name. He really would lay down his life for his sheep. He really does guide them with his staff. He sleeps with them when one is sick. And he really does make sure that every last sheep is brought home.
(The sheep out for the day)
Love,
-bcl.
Friday, November 22, 2013
Animal farm
Dear Blogosphere,
The third leg of my trip to Thailand has arrived. I am currently sitting on a small picnic table underneath a straw hut in Chat-Pa-Wai, a small town in the subdistrict of Suan Phung in the province of Ratchaburi. I am on A FARM. For those of you who have been demanding greater details about my happenings here thus far, I figured that this is as good a place to begin as any.
My first week in Thailand was spent in Bangkok in the Siam neighborhood. The second week was spent in Chiang Mai with friends for the Loi Krathong and Yi Peng festivals. If you ask nicely, I will tell you more about what happened during that time. If you ask really nicely, I may even show you pictures.
This past Monday, one of my new friends and I took a bus from Chiang Mai to Bangkok. It was an overnight bus, and we were scheduled to arrive in Bangkok at 7 am on Tuesday. But because the driver drove like a maniac, in the pitch black of 4:55 am, we found ourselves standing in the middle of Khao San Road surrounded by other sleepy passengers from our bus and loads of luggage heaped around the curb. A few other travelers and I stumbled into a 24 hour McDonalds and unfolded some maps. We spent a few hours trying to figure out where we were, how to get to where we needed to get, and sharing travel stories and tips while we waited for the sun to rise over the streets of Bangkok.
Once the rest of the city caught up with the day, we parted ways. I took a taxi back to Siam Journey guesthouse to grab lunch with Gio. I took a few hours to just rest in their air-conditioned common area, draw a cartoon (see previous post), and chat with some other guests. In the evening I left to catch a mini bus from Victory Monument to Chat Pa Wai. The ride itself lasted around two and a half hours, and the only notable occurrence was that we stopped at a "gas station," I think.. to fill up.. on something, I think. We pulled up in front of some sort of pump, and this lady popped the hood (the hood!) of our van to do the fill-up. My dad called me during this car ride as well, and we had a hilarious conversation about zip lining and small towns with no internet. I miss my family.
Once I arrived in Chat Pa Wai at the bus stop-- and by bus stop I mean designated crack in the sidewalk--- I called Arnon, the owner of the farm, who then sent a tiny pick-up truck to retrieve me. I met Piriam (Arnon's friend) and the other two volunteers on the farm, Erica and Phoebe. On the way to the farm, we also passed some friendly neighbors, who peeked their heads excitedly into the car window and exchanged enthused Thai greetings with Piriam. Once I arrived at the farm, the first thing that I noticed was how stunningly dark it was. Oh man, I really am on a farm was my first thought. I immediately felt nervous about this volunteer commitment. I felt nervous because I suddenly realized how far away I was from everything and everyone else, I couldn't understand what the few people on the farm were saying, and at that moment I became strangely aware of how dirty eating and showering on a farm really could be. But most of all, I was nervous because I noticed that on our car ride from the "bus stop" to the farm, we did not pass a single 7-eleven. That is the ultimate indication of non-civilization.
Upon my arrival, the volunteers and Arnon helped me unload my bags from the truck and showed me to the volunteer quarters, a small building connected to the back of what appears to be an old bar and concert venue. Dust lined the old wooden counters and the small handful of foggy wine glasses that still sat silently along the shelves. The rest of the furniture in the space had been shoved to the edges of the room; old benches, tables and couches holding each other in a strange hug of sorts.
We walked back into our bedroom, and I was pleased to see a large, clean room with several beds and a nice shiny floor. The room smelled like bug spray, and I could hear a leaky faucet splashing against the floor from behind another door which I presumed to be the bathrooms. But overall, it was a pleasant place.
Once I put my bags down, we were brought back outside for dinner. As I neared the large kitchen hut, I noticed a few people huddled together closely studying an object that laid on the ground between them. I got closer, closer, closer. And then this happened.
I immediately sent the photo to my family along with the caption: "I have arrived at the farm!"
I enjoyed a beautifully simple, yet delicious dinner that Piriam had prepared for us with the other volunteers. Then they showed me where to do dishes and how to navigate around the many huts, teepees, buildings, fences, and trees scattered around the farm. I also got to meet a few of the farm's dogs. Exhausted from the preceding 24 hours of traveling with my heavy bags, I opted to shower after dinner and go to sleep. It was 9 pm.
I took a shower using a shower head that sprayed the most narrow stream of water ever, flooded the bathroom a little bit, and crawled into bed. I did a little bit of writing and went to bed listening to the sounds of Arnon and the few other volunteers talking, laughing and playing guitar on the roof of a gorgeous orange cabana of sorts that stood just a few short steps away.
This farm is friendly. The people are pretty amazing. It already feels familiar. I am learning things. I am already eaten by mosquitoes.
- bcl.
The third leg of my trip to Thailand has arrived. I am currently sitting on a small picnic table underneath a straw hut in Chat-Pa-Wai, a small town in the subdistrict of Suan Phung in the province of Ratchaburi. I am on A FARM. For those of you who have been demanding greater details about my happenings here thus far, I figured that this is as good a place to begin as any.
My first week in Thailand was spent in Bangkok in the Siam neighborhood. The second week was spent in Chiang Mai with friends for the Loi Krathong and Yi Peng festivals. If you ask nicely, I will tell you more about what happened during that time. If you ask really nicely, I may even show you pictures.
This past Monday, one of my new friends and I took a bus from Chiang Mai to Bangkok. It was an overnight bus, and we were scheduled to arrive in Bangkok at 7 am on Tuesday. But because the driver drove like a maniac, in the pitch black of 4:55 am, we found ourselves standing in the middle of Khao San Road surrounded by other sleepy passengers from our bus and loads of luggage heaped around the curb. A few other travelers and I stumbled into a 24 hour McDonalds and unfolded some maps. We spent a few hours trying to figure out where we were, how to get to where we needed to get, and sharing travel stories and tips while we waited for the sun to rise over the streets of Bangkok.
Once the rest of the city caught up with the day, we parted ways. I took a taxi back to Siam Journey guesthouse to grab lunch with Gio. I took a few hours to just rest in their air-conditioned common area, draw a cartoon (see previous post), and chat with some other guests. In the evening I left to catch a mini bus from Victory Monument to Chat Pa Wai. The ride itself lasted around two and a half hours, and the only notable occurrence was that we stopped at a "gas station," I think.. to fill up.. on something, I think. We pulled up in front of some sort of pump, and this lady popped the hood (the hood!) of our van to do the fill-up. My dad called me during this car ride as well, and we had a hilarious conversation about zip lining and small towns with no internet. I miss my family.
Once I arrived in Chat Pa Wai at the bus stop-- and by bus stop I mean designated crack in the sidewalk--- I called Arnon, the owner of the farm, who then sent a tiny pick-up truck to retrieve me. I met Piriam (Arnon's friend) and the other two volunteers on the farm, Erica and Phoebe. On the way to the farm, we also passed some friendly neighbors, who peeked their heads excitedly into the car window and exchanged enthused Thai greetings with Piriam. Once I arrived at the farm, the first thing that I noticed was how stunningly dark it was. Oh man, I really am on a farm was my first thought. I immediately felt nervous about this volunteer commitment. I felt nervous because I suddenly realized how far away I was from everything and everyone else, I couldn't understand what the few people on the farm were saying, and at that moment I became strangely aware of how dirty eating and showering on a farm really could be. But most of all, I was nervous because I noticed that on our car ride from the "bus stop" to the farm, we did not pass a single 7-eleven. That is the ultimate indication of non-civilization.
Upon my arrival, the volunteers and Arnon helped me unload my bags from the truck and showed me to the volunteer quarters, a small building connected to the back of what appears to be an old bar and concert venue. Dust lined the old wooden counters and the small handful of foggy wine glasses that still sat silently along the shelves. The rest of the furniture in the space had been shoved to the edges of the room; old benches, tables and couches holding each other in a strange hug of sorts.
We walked back into our bedroom, and I was pleased to see a large, clean room with several beds and a nice shiny floor. The room smelled like bug spray, and I could hear a leaky faucet splashing against the floor from behind another door which I presumed to be the bathrooms. But overall, it was a pleasant place.
Once I put my bags down, we were brought back outside for dinner. As I neared the large kitchen hut, I noticed a few people huddled together closely studying an object that laid on the ground between them. I got closer, closer, closer. And then this happened.
Python!
I immediately sent the photo to my family along with the caption: "I have arrived at the farm!"
I enjoyed a beautifully simple, yet delicious dinner that Piriam had prepared for us with the other volunteers. Then they showed me where to do dishes and how to navigate around the many huts, teepees, buildings, fences, and trees scattered around the farm. I also got to meet a few of the farm's dogs. Exhausted from the preceding 24 hours of traveling with my heavy bags, I opted to shower after dinner and go to sleep. It was 9 pm.
I took a shower using a shower head that sprayed the most narrow stream of water ever, flooded the bathroom a little bit, and crawled into bed. I did a little bit of writing and went to bed listening to the sounds of Arnon and the few other volunteers talking, laughing and playing guitar on the roof of a gorgeous orange cabana of sorts that stood just a few short steps away.
This farm is friendly. The people are pretty amazing. It already feels familiar. I am learning things. I am already eaten by mosquitoes.
- bcl.
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
This is all the time
Hello Blogosphere!
There are a certain few things that people always tell me I must do when I am visiting Southeast Asia. They are as follows:
1. Eat good, cheap food
2. Buy awesome, cheap things
3. Get good, cheap massage
Based on some of my reflecting this past week, I must say that I am unoriginal and I am stupid.
Want to know how I know? Because of this. It has happened five times already..
(I have been in Thailand for nearly two weeks now, and I have paid money for two Thai massages.)
BUT! In my defense, for my last massage, I thought that if I tried something different, I may enjoy myself more. I asked for a 60-minute head-shoulder-back massage from a massage parlor in Chiang Mai (instead of a full-body massage). The end results were as follows:
B: I would like a head-shoulder-back massage, please.
M: Yes, okay.
B: Will you please be gentle?
M: Yes, okay.
B: Why are you massaging my foot? I asked for a head-shoulder-back massage.
M: Yes, okay.
B: But you're still massaging my leg. And you're pressing too hard! Please, softly! And remember, not my foot. I asked for--
M: Yes, okay.
B: You are massaging my butt.
M: Yes, okay.
B: Oww! Can you massage more softly?
M: Yes, okay.
B: Arggghhhhh.
M: Hahahahahhahaha.
B: I actually would just like to relax. Could you just rub my back gently or something?
M: Yes, okay.
B: Ahhhhhooowwww!
M: Hehehehehehehe.
B: Um, excuse me. I think it's been like, 45 minutes. Do you think you can move onto my back, shoulder, and head now?
M: Sorry, no.
Love,
bcl.
There are a certain few things that people always tell me I must do when I am visiting Southeast Asia. They are as follows:
1. Eat good, cheap food
2. Buy awesome, cheap things
3. Get good, cheap massage
Based on some of my reflecting this past week, I must say that I am unoriginal and I am stupid.
Want to know how I know? Because of this. It has happened five times already..
BUT! In my defense, for my last massage, I thought that if I tried something different, I may enjoy myself more. I asked for a 60-minute head-shoulder-back massage from a massage parlor in Chiang Mai (instead of a full-body massage). The end results were as follows:
B: I would like a head-shoulder-back massage, please.
M: Yes, okay.
B: Will you please be gentle?
M: Yes, okay.
B: Why are you massaging my foot? I asked for a head-shoulder-back massage.
M: Yes, okay.
B: But you're still massaging my leg. And you're pressing too hard! Please, softly! And remember, not my foot. I asked for--
M: Yes, okay.
B: You are massaging my butt.
M: Yes, okay.
B: Oww! Can you massage more softly?
M: Yes, okay.
B: Arggghhhhh.
M: Hahahahahhahaha.
B: I actually would just like to relax. Could you just rub my back gently or something?
M: Yes, okay.
B: Ahhhhhooowwww!
M: Hehehehehehehe.
B: Um, excuse me. I think it's been like, 45 minutes. Do you think you can move onto my back, shoulder, and head now?
M: Sorry, no.
Love,
bcl.
Thursday, November 14, 2013
The ultimate guessing game
My dear Blogosphere,
I am a lover of words.
I appreciate good usage of language. I like good writing, good conversation, and good literature.
Or at least that is what I would have told you a week ago.
This past week of being in Thailand has been strange for me for an assortment of reasons. I've eaten so many new foods (served on sticks or in bags), I've become fast friends with people from all over the world in the shortest amount of time in the history of the formation of friendships, and I've visited many new markets and monuments that I have never had the pleasure of experiencing before. But the strangest-- and saddest-- reason thus far is the new development in my relationship with words and with language that I see taking place before my very eyes.
I feel that very few things are more important in this world than good communication. I think the proper usage of language is imperative to expressing ideas, gaining and sharing knowledge, and developing relationships. I do truly believe in the power of the pen; I've seen it in action! In fact, that's how my love affair with words began so many years ago. I was so amazed at what one can accomplish using only language. That someone can make me feel this way with his or her words; that someone can change my mind or start a war. That even though a picture is worth a thousand words, not enough people acknowledge the magic that takes place when a picture is painted using only a thousand words.
Ever since the initial seduction, my relationship with words has grown steadily. Hand in hand we have walked, crossing over from one adventure to the next and documenting the journey together. During this past week, however, I have discovered something new about this life partner that I have come to know so well. He speaks another language.
In fact, apparently, he speaks many more languages than the ones we have always spoken to each other in.
As I have made my way around Bangkok this week, he has started to stray from me. He leaves me standing alone for minutes (even hours) at a time while he talks and laughs with the locals. I have never known such isolation. I walk up and down and up and down the streets by myself, squinting at street signs and feeling dizzy from the Thai heat and loud buzz of words that I don't recognize. Illiteracy is crippling. My inability to communicate with anyone in this place both frustrates and scares me. Am I on this street on the map or that one? Is she trying to rip me off? Is he hitting on me? Was that a friendly offer to help or a request for sex? Was I supposed to turn left back there? Because I turned right.. I think. Is this chicken or rabbit? He told me this wasn't going to be spicy! How could I owe this much for such a short cab ride? The tea I ordered looks suspiciously like 7-Up. So, I'm still 2 minutes away from my hostel.. or was that 2 miles? Am I seriously lost again? I'm pretty sure that I am.
Yesterday, I was trudging slowly through the very hot, crowded Pratunam Market when I stopped to look at some denim shorts in a stall. I looked around at the different prices hanging along the wall, trying to make sense of the numbers and small Thai symbols. Is it 80 baht for one pair, and 120 baht for three pairs; or is is 120 baht for one pair, and 80 baht a pair if you buy three pairs? My eyes shifted uncomfortably back and forth between all the different signs in the small tent when suddenly, the shop owner stuttered in a choppy, broken English, "Where you from? You can't read? Don't know how to read? Are you from farm?"
I am not from a farm. As a matter of fact, I grew up in the U.S.A. and I graduated from a very well-known University. Back home, I am also an exceptional reader.
But I am not at home. I am in Thailand. And in Thailand, I am fully illiterate. I can't read, write, or even speak the language. I replaced the pair of shorts I was examining slowly onto its rack, turned, and walked out of the tent as the shop owner muttered something to or about me under his breath. He was either making fun of me, feeling sad for me, or angry that I didn't make a purchase. I might have spent more time trying to figure out which of the three it was if I wasn't too busy thinking about how powerless I suddenly felt without words at my side. And how much like a monkey I felt, communicating with the humans around me using only hand gestures and nods and shakes of my head. Every decision here takes the form of a guessing game; sometimes I win, and sometimes I lose.
English and Chinese do not help me here. This world is so much bigger than the one that I have known, and I trust that it's only to get bigger from here on out.
For the first time ever,
Illiterate,
bcl.
I am a lover of words.
I appreciate good usage of language. I like good writing, good conversation, and good literature.
Or at least that is what I would have told you a week ago.
This past week of being in Thailand has been strange for me for an assortment of reasons. I've eaten so many new foods (served on sticks or in bags), I've become fast friends with people from all over the world in the shortest amount of time in the history of the formation of friendships, and I've visited many new markets and monuments that I have never had the pleasure of experiencing before. But the strangest-- and saddest-- reason thus far is the new development in my relationship with words and with language that I see taking place before my very eyes.
I feel that very few things are more important in this world than good communication. I think the proper usage of language is imperative to expressing ideas, gaining and sharing knowledge, and developing relationships. I do truly believe in the power of the pen; I've seen it in action! In fact, that's how my love affair with words began so many years ago. I was so amazed at what one can accomplish using only language. That someone can make me feel this way with his or her words; that someone can change my mind or start a war. That even though a picture is worth a thousand words, not enough people acknowledge the magic that takes place when a picture is painted using only a thousand words.
Ever since the initial seduction, my relationship with words has grown steadily. Hand in hand we have walked, crossing over from one adventure to the next and documenting the journey together. During this past week, however, I have discovered something new about this life partner that I have come to know so well. He speaks another language.
In fact, apparently, he speaks many more languages than the ones we have always spoken to each other in.
As I have made my way around Bangkok this week, he has started to stray from me. He leaves me standing alone for minutes (even hours) at a time while he talks and laughs with the locals. I have never known such isolation. I walk up and down and up and down the streets by myself, squinting at street signs and feeling dizzy from the Thai heat and loud buzz of words that I don't recognize. Illiteracy is crippling. My inability to communicate with anyone in this place both frustrates and scares me. Am I on this street on the map or that one? Is she trying to rip me off? Is he hitting on me? Was that a friendly offer to help or a request for sex? Was I supposed to turn left back there? Because I turned right.. I think. Is this chicken or rabbit? He told me this wasn't going to be spicy! How could I owe this much for such a short cab ride? The tea I ordered looks suspiciously like 7-Up. So, I'm still 2 minutes away from my hostel.. or was that 2 miles? Am I seriously lost again? I'm pretty sure that I am.
Yesterday, I was trudging slowly through the very hot, crowded Pratunam Market when I stopped to look at some denim shorts in a stall. I looked around at the different prices hanging along the wall, trying to make sense of the numbers and small Thai symbols. Is it 80 baht for one pair, and 120 baht for three pairs; or is is 120 baht for one pair, and 80 baht a pair if you buy three pairs? My eyes shifted uncomfortably back and forth between all the different signs in the small tent when suddenly, the shop owner stuttered in a choppy, broken English, "Where you from? You can't read? Don't know how to read? Are you from farm?"
I am not from a farm. As a matter of fact, I grew up in the U.S.A. and I graduated from a very well-known University. Back home, I am also an exceptional reader.
But I am not at home. I am in Thailand. And in Thailand, I am fully illiterate. I can't read, write, or even speak the language. I replaced the pair of shorts I was examining slowly onto its rack, turned, and walked out of the tent as the shop owner muttered something to or about me under his breath. He was either making fun of me, feeling sad for me, or angry that I didn't make a purchase. I might have spent more time trying to figure out which of the three it was if I wasn't too busy thinking about how powerless I suddenly felt without words at my side. And how much like a monkey I felt, communicating with the humans around me using only hand gestures and nods and shakes of my head. Every decision here takes the form of a guessing game; sometimes I win, and sometimes I lose.
(Subway sign that may or may not read, "RUN. If you do not hurry,
you will absolutely get run over by the people behind you. Slower
walkers have been known to die at this BTS station. Authorities
will not tolerate slow walkers")
(I saw this Thai sign in between two massage chairs at
a mall in Chiang Mai. It probably either says "For skinny
people only," or "No Photographs please")
(Billboard that may either be an advertisement for happy
children, for saving the trees by saving paper, or for the
celebration of small red and white buses)
English and Chinese do not help me here. This world is so much bigger than the one that I have known, and I trust that it's only to get bigger from here on out.
For the first time ever,
Illiterate,
bcl.
Monday, November 11, 2013
The hostel accent
Siam Journey Guesthouse is the name of the hostel that I have been staying in here in Bangkok for the past few days. The hostel itself is pretty neat-- both in reference to level of cleanliness as well as cool factor. It's got colorful furniture, chalkboard walls, and a cozy living area where the hostel guests can all hang out, watch movies, surf the web, and enjoy good conversation.
YOU GUYS.
Here are the lyrics of an actual conversation that I heard taking place in the common room yesterday (or, Track 4: "Tattoo stranger")
And when I say good conversation, I mean good conversation.
What makes a good conversation? If you say that passion, intensity, conviction, open-mindedness, wisdom, humor, engagement, and interest in topic are important contributors to creating an interesting, lively discussion, I think you'd be correct, but I also think that you'd be missing the most awesome one of all: The Accent.
YOU GUYS.
There have been countless moments already where I have walked into the common area to find it loudly buzzing with different conversations taking place around the room. Quiet whispers in this corner, loud laughter in that one, an energetic debate taking place on that orange couch. The symphony of accents present on that soundtrack is one of the coolest things I have ever heard. I am calling it the hostel accent.
The hostel accent is derived from the intonations, vocabulary, and cultural awareness of the different languages from around the globe. It is also a strange, yet impressive evidence of the limitless abilities of the gut, throat, tongue, lips, saliva, abdomen, and trachea of the human race. (Seriously, if one needs more proof that God created man to be superior to all other creatures, you need only to listen to a Polish man speak his accented English using only noises produced from somewhere so deep within his body that American scientists don't even have a name for it yet (In Polish, I believe that part of the body is called the grunthrtergh)). I so wish that I could sit here with a tape recorder so that I can capture and share this magical track with everyone who has never had the pleasure of experiencing this show live.
In fact, I would make an entire CD. Yes. I would name the band "Hostel" (unless there is already a band named Hostel, which there probably is), and I would be the producer.
In fact, I would make an entire CD. Yes. I would name the band "Hostel" (unless there is already a band named Hostel, which there probably is), and I would be the producer.
Here are the lyrics of an actual conversation that I heard taking place in the common room yesterday (or, Track 4: "Tattoo stranger")
Alex: Giovanni, what is that a tattoo of on your arm there?
Giovanni: Oh, well, it's kind of a joke. When I first moved... my mom told me that she didn't care what I did but she kept telling me that I could never get a tattoo. So, of course, I got one. But I thought that if I was going to fucking tattoo my own body, then I wanted it to be for her somehow.
Giovanni: Oh, well, it's kind of a joke. When I first moved... my mom told me that she didn't care what I did but she kept telling me that I could never get a tattoo. So, of course, I got one. But I thought that if I was going to fucking tattoo my own body, then I wanted it to be for her somehow.
Leon: I saw the best tattoo today! I saw this huge guy near the train station that had a huge tattoo of his face on his bicep.
Jenny: His bicep?
Tomas: Yes! I saw it, too. It looked just like him!
Jef: That's weird as fuck, man.
Matt: I want to meet this guy.
But what it really sounded like was--
Tomas: Yes! I saw it, too. It looked just like him!
Jef: That's weird as fuck, man.
Matt: I want to meet this guy.
But what it really sounded like was--
German: Jze-o-vanni, vut eez dat a tuhtoo of ohn yure arm dere?
Texan: Oh, wull, it's kinda a joke. When ah first moved... my mama told me that she didn't care what ah did but she kept tellin me that ah coul never get a tattoo. So, uh-coarse, ah got one. But ah thought that if ah was going to fuckin tattoo my own body, then ah want'dit to be fer her somehow.
Texan: Oh, wull, it's kinda a joke. When ah first moved... my mama told me that she didn't care what ah did but she kept tellin me that ah coul never get a tattoo. So, uh-coarse, ah got one. But ah thought that if ah was going to fuckin tattoo my own body, then ah want'dit to be fer her somehow.
Brazilian: I saw da bez tatto today! I saw dis huge guy near da train station dat had a huge tattoo of his face on his bicep.
Australian: Hiss bye-sep?
Polish: Yees! I saw eet, too. Eet lewked jzust lyke heem!
English: Wha, thaut's werd as fok, mon.
Welsh: I'um quite keen ta meet this goy.
Hahahaha.
Luff,
bcl.
Welsh: I'um quite keen ta meet this goy.
Hahahaha.
Luff,
bcl.
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