Revealed & Concealed.

It was the last days of ArtPrize 2010 and I was at the UICA standing in front of a giant, once-white mural with the raised word CONFESS in the center. To my left was a group of loud, unruly teenagers (do they come any other way?) leaping from their tiptoes and riding each others' shoulders to find a blank spot on the canvas to write their confessions. Ugh. Stupid kids. What kind of profound disclosures could they possibly have had?

I had one, though. So I blocked their nonsense with a force field of serenity and focused on finding an exclusive patch of emptiness on which I would divulge my secret. Once spotted, I knelt on the floor and printed out 19 words.

And I’m not telling you or anyone else what it said. ;&

Confess, by David Schofield.

  

To Your Health.

I regularly attend, and pay for, a special kind of torture known as Full Mighty Boot Camp. I do this not because I’m a sadist, but because, for the first time in my life, my butt cheeks have a hint of shape to them  and no longer resemble the two flattened end pieces of a loaf of Wonder Bread. 

Tonight, while gripping a fitness ball between my ankles and pointing my toes to the ceiling AND doing a full sit-up ALL while my instructor’s iPod was stuck looping my most hated song on her playlist (which features childlike voices chanting: higher and higher and higher) I thought am I in hell?

And then I sneezed, which is incredibly risky if you’re in such a vulnerable  position and have also consumed 13 grams of fiber for breakfast. I am happy to report that my vise-like gluteus maximi girded like they’ve never done before and my dignity was saved. 

But that’s not what this is about. 

After the sneeze, my instructor said, “Bless you.” And, continuing to exhibit good manners, I said, “Thank you.”

When class was over, a friend asked me what I do about the whole “bless you” thing, given my known aversions. She’s of a similar mindset, but continues to give blessings out of politeness. Even though she’s not into it. And I continue to thank people who give blessings, even though I’m not into it and also don’t reciprocate. She doesn’t like feeling false to her beliefs because she does it, and I don’t like that I seem rude because I don’t. 

After a good discussion about other cultures’ ways of responding to a sneeze, we settled on ¡Salud!

I’ll be testing it out starting tomorrow. To (I hope) the mystification of my coworkers.

PS: The hated song is Passion Pit’s Little Secrets. Fuck those assholes.

Culture Club.

A friend and I were chatting online the other night—mostly trading excitement over my trip to Dubai. He is from Gaza, Palestine and, as part of an internship, taught one of my Arabic language classes. During our exchange, he told me, "If I was not born Arabic, I would want to be Arabic." And I thought...Oh! That’s interesting...

I’ve often felt thankful that I was born in a first-world country that’s not war torn, to parents who wanted me and were well prepared to care for me. As compared to a host of unthinkable alternatives. But I don’t know that I’ve ever felt particularly attached to being American. I certainly don’t feel superior to other nationalities.

So I asked another friend, who immigrated here about 10 years ago, “If you weren’t born Bosnian, would you want to be Bosnian?”

This turned into a provocative, albeit somewhat circular discussion that resulted in her answering, “Yes.”

What we concluded is that the answer can't be qualified by circumstances or conditions. And it also shouldn't be dismissed because of how nonsensical the question is. (Because if you weren't born what you are, how would you know what the other is? Suspend, please.)

I believe, as do the others I've spoken with about this, that this feeling, this solidarity that exists among other nationalities comes from a more evident, recognizable culture and commonality of values. In short, they are more...homogeneous?

So I am an American, but I am not proud or un-proud to be. I just am. I don't identify with my neighbors on the subjects of religion, or politics, or social issues, or traditions—and I know they don't with me, or necessarily with their neighbors either. We are connected only by where we live, it seems.

I am curious... does anyone beg to differ?

Oh, but I am proud that I can still rock an American flag halter top on the 4th of July!

  

Please Pass the Grief Bacon.

Yesterday, a friend of mine made a public faux pas by suggesting that I might come in contact with the Dalai Lama while on my trip to Dubai. And, additionally, I might return with a suitcase filled with karma. Right continent, wrong dogma, I’m afraid.

I’ll grant that he likely mistook Dubai for Mumbai (still quite a distance from the mountains of New Delhi, though we could let that slide), but, nonetheless, it put me in the awkward position of how, exactly, to reply to his remark. Pointing out the mistake seemed both haughty and over-critical. Glossing over it could suggest that I also believe I might have a guru encounter. And not responding at all to well wishes is just rude. (Who over-thinks everything? I do!)

About half an hour later, I had what I thought was the perfect response. I would simply say: Masha’Allah. It’s not exactly (or at all if taken literally) how this Arabic word is supposed to work, but I thought it might do and I immediately felt relieved. I’m sure my friend immediately felt confused.*

We can all make note of the enormous dromedary in the room, which is that I have no business, given my religious views, saying that god will or has willed anything. Yes, I know. Insincerity worries aside, it is nice to have words that express the indefinable.

And, on that note, here are some more charming foreign words that have no direct equivalent in English. Enjoy! 

*In hindsight, had I written Inshallah, instead, it would have actually made some sense. As in, "Yes, it is possible for me to meet the Dalai Lama—if god wills it!" Oh, to have l’espirit de l’escalier! 

Spiritualized.

As a non-believer, my Sunday mornings are never (really, I couldn’t even conjure up a rarely) spent in the house of any lord. Instead, I while away my hours with the holy trinity of pajamas, bacon, and coffee. I might turn on the radio and listen to jazz, or, every so often, tune in to Meet the Press.

But this morning was different, because I really wanted to see a piece on the You Are Beautiful project that would be airing during Oprah’s Super Soul Sunday. OK, to be honest, I can’t quite believe I just typed that. I don’t have anything against Oprah, but, as I said, I am a non-believer, and that extends to the media-created gods as well.

So here I am watching this Oprah show, which is actually being simulcast on Facebook. The featured guest, Panache Desai, is not my draw, but since I don’t know when my main attraction will make an appearance, my plan is to just wait through it.

I know the name Panache Desai because I have a friend who follows him. But, with much respect to her, I have viewed him, and other gurus of his ilk, with a dubious eye. There is so much blathering, self-help rhetoric being retched on us by so many that I can’t help but feel a bit suspicious. 

So, at first, I multi-task, keeping my ears alert for a change in vocal or musical modulations. But then I start to get pulled in. The words, the ideas, the revelations all start to peck at my callous, skeptic’s exterior. And they made a big enough hole that a little light shined in on my soul.

Turns out that the core of his message is about what I try to preach to myself: that if I make love my religion, I’ll live a blessed life. (I'm a work in progress, friends.)

Oh, and the You Are Beautiful spot was no more than two minutes. But really the perfect complement and capstone to a positive and uplifting segment. Huh, kind of like I went to church this morning...

Nah.    

I Dreamt About You Last Night.

I'm thinking about how I can earn one of those Godlike Genius awards. Because forget any other named award on earth. Is there really anything better than being dubbed a godlike genius? Doubtful.

I just learned that Johnny Marr will soon be fitted with this crown of honor by the mag NME. I've never heard of them, probably because my finger isn't anywhere near the pulsating vein of pop culture. But cheers to them for getting me to say aloud, "Who is this NME?...Oh, haha, NME...Nice."

So I've been sitting here for the last half hour trying to decide what's my favorite Smiths song. This is impossible. So the best I can do is the one that had the most impact on me. The one that I listened to over and over while locked in my room as a teenager, long after guests had arrived for Thanksgiving dinner and now I was just being rude. That was this one:

 (for the record, I always thought he was saying shag me on the patio. I'll take it now, indeed.)

A Step in a New Direction.

I let the eight-month mark of my year-long writing experiment pass without a mention, I guess mostly because I've had what's next more on my mind lately. I'm pretty sure now that I will defunct (<hmmm, can I verb this word?) this blog when my sentence is up and move forward. I know I can't go back to Shoe Stalking, in part because, I'll admit, I did occasionally buy new shoes just to give me something new to write about. Like these,  these, and these. True story. Those were mostly toward the end, though, when my desperation for new material was much like having a baby to try to save a doomed marriage. Well, at least my poor decisions harmed only the extra floor space in our house!

I do have a plan for my next blog theme, but I'm not ready to share it with the world yet. I can tell you that it will have nothing to do with me this time. And that's kind of exciting. For me.

While I ponder this, take a look at these delicious shoes I bought during lunch:

I promise, I did not buy them to give me a subject for today. But I may have convinced myself that I will need them during my upcoming visit to the desert. This is, of course, not true. I mean the part about needing them. For anything.