Subterranean English-Sick Blues

The best part of my day was bailing poopy mud out of a pond with a bucket until the fancy drainage waterfall worked and a swan dubbed it once more acceptable for swimming. The worst part was relizing that it is impossible to be you when you can't hold a conversation with the people around you and the people you meet. I have come so far from the me of twenty-six, fifteen, even ten years ago - from the shy and introverted girl, so unsure of her voice, of her self. I'm proud of the person I've grown into, proud to be friendly, proud to be funny in any company, proud to be confident enough to be proud of myself. And here I am again, feeling stupid when I'm not understood, and feeling isolated when I don't try.

But I wouldn't call it reverting. The things I've seen and done and felt between the past me and the present are still here, pulsing beneath this limited vocabulary. I'm not really the old me, because that me never lived away from home. That me never danced until sunrise, never half-assed an essay, never threw herself into an essay, never loved a boy. This is really just a reminder of how much I am growing and changing every day - a reminder that this phrase isn't just a proverbial sentiment for greeting cards and yearbook signatures. I'm energized and adventurous enough to jump into a country where I barely speak the language, and I'm almost immediately thrust into a whole new existence where that heartbeat of dancing, regret, passion, and love is only for me. Maybe this is a moment of listening. Maybe this is a moment of trust.



(... she wrote in English on her blog and posted for social network viewing.)

The Anti-Dehydration Shuffle

I've decided that the more beautiful and interesting the landscape of a farm, the more complicated it is to bring fresh water to all the animals. A winding waltz takes me from the cow, goats and sheep, donkeys, and pony to the doves and pheasants, to the main fowl area where my partner changes from a cumbersome green gentleman to a more consistent yellow fellow. From the geese to the bunnies to the chicks to the ducks, we swing and sway and soak my sandals. And all the while, one dog or another nudges my knees and elbows for attention. As if remembering every thirsty fowl weren't pressure enough for attention and love. Tomorrow, I'll try to milk the cow and carry straw instead. My wet feet too constantly remind me of this dizzy dance and its unquestionable necessity. Farmhands are important. That is plural, as in having more than one of them.

It's Hard to Maintain Snarky Self-Commentary When You Feel Quite at Home. But I'll Try.

Today, I tasted the first strawberry of the year.
Vivianno and Giovanna told me to think of my one desire,
and the good fortune of this tiny, delicious fruit -
the size of my thumb nail and sweeter than cane -
would make it come true.

Just-ripened berries.
My greatest desire: granted.

When I return to the United States,
I won't have a job.
Love has not been without ill will or irony
for a long time.
And I have never had money.
Any money.

But I couldn't think of a single wish
in this paradise of biodiversity.

Damn! I should have wished for all the manly specimens
of peacocks, geese, and roosters
to calm their calls,
the persistent "my-arm"
and "honk-honk"
and "cock-a-doodle-doo,"
from the hours of midnight through eight in the morning.

Or, more realistically,
earplugs.

You Can't Take It With You

It's strange, what you end up packing.

Just enough underwear,

Just enough shirts,

Two journals,

Three sticks of sealing wax,

Four spare contact lenses,

And not one electric communication device.

What will I end up missing?

What will I wish I'd left?

Che sarà sarà.

Forty-Seven Hours Before Take-Off, Two Weeks to Italy

Today I awoke

to a thick, draining terror.

Just need to get there.

Ode on a Deuter Pack

Thou still unfill’d-up sack of emptiness,
Thou cavern of zippers and bungee cords,
Sylvan world traveler, who canst thus possess
The lot I need to cross both field and fjord:

What bright green fabric gussies up thy shape
Of charcoal straps or blue rain-shields, or both,
With adjustable hip and shoulder pads,
What air-conditioning mesh preventing sloth?
What side pockets? What map pocket as well?
What loops and clips here? What wild ecstasy?

Ah, happy, happy hiker! cannot feel
Your weight, nor ever bid your Snacks adieu;
For access pockets unwearièd,
From any angle letting hands search through
More happy pack! more happy, happy pack!
For ever large and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever gaping, and for ever slack;
All breathing human camping you’re employ’d.

O torso shape! fair compression! with brede
of name and brand embroider’d on the front,
Through forest branches, over trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost take of pounds the brunt
As doth gravity: Beautiful Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, for other travelers
Than this, a vault for mess kits and toothpaste.
Beauty is pack, pack beauty,—that is all
ye know on Earth, and all ye need to know.

Refusing Resignation to Jane Eyre-dom

I live in a post-Eat, Pray, Love world. A world in which genuine self-exploration, cultural interest, and philosophical revelations are cheapened to Just Another American Tourism. A world in which wanting to escape the near-meaningless hustle and bustle of my life is met with inquiries into personal relationships with pizza. In which immersing myself in a rustic lifestyle evokes images of floppy hats and flouncy skirts. In which challenging myself to find solace in solitude translates to f seeking m - hot, accent required. What if I do enjoy simplicity? What if I do find peace? What if I do have an affair with some sexy, tan thing? Well where's my money? Where's my book deal? Where's my Julia Roberts figure?