And Aubrey Was Her Name...

Like a lovely melody that everyone can sing; take away the words that rhyme, it doesn't mean a thing.

Friday, February 23, 2007

Kev on a Dare

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Naked Conversations

"I oughtn't to laugh at my father," I said.

"No," he said, touching his lips and rolling his eyes upward.

"I shouldn't! It's a sin." Sin, sin, I felt drenched and sick of it. "I used to pray to God to make me just like him. Smart and righteous and adequate to His will," I confessed. "Now I don't even know what to wish for. I wish I were more like everybody else."

He leaned forward and looked in my eyes. His finger moved from his lips toward my face and hovered, waiting for a place to plant its blessing. "Béene, if you were more like everybody else, you would not be so béene-béene." ("The Poisonwood Bible," Barbara Kingsolver)

Thus far I have cleverly been avoiding responsibilities on this holiday. It's the same story every time. Given an excess of free time, I resist productivity altogether and revel in a flurry of busy little nothings.

The other day I spoke with friends about doing some cooking, an excuse for both girl time and eating, two activities which always galvanize me, and I immediately offered to host. I did this knowing it would force me to organize my frighteningly messy apartment, a task I had been ardently avoiding to that point. And during the day spent reordering an apartment in size similar to that of a jail cell (a few paces this way, a few paces that way), I came across my cache of notebooks. Of course I could not resist reviewing them. What I found within was a paper trail cataloguing my scattered thoughts that dart from disparate idea to disparate idea. I've oft wondered at my propensity to switch notebooks like one might switch outfits, as though cleverly disguising this mind that can dwell with such repeated astonishment at the same reflections, the same events.

Turning pages slowly, slipping with a slight crinkling to hasten the records of a trapped time, I saw myself as who I once was, a younger version of an entirely different person altogether. A girl poised so precariously over the brink of what she knew, steadying herself before the abyss of an unforeseeable future.

Three things shocked me: (1) the total difference in who I was then to who I am now, (2) the utter sameness between me and this girl, our thoughts, our musings, and (3) the infancy of thoughts I now embrace that I assumed to be recent in their impregnation of my mind.

I journal frequently, sowing scattered thoughts across the pages of innocuous school-child notebooks. Writing brings an interim peace to this mind. And in some way, it is a private attempt to claim pieces of the past, to lend validity to life's progression. Yet as I relived a past that feels so distant, thought number two hovered closely, pointing out how little I have actually evolved, how frequently my mind dwells on the mundane.

Yet then an event or a conversation was recorded, something said by a friend that made me think. I defended my point of view. I considered theirs. And suddenly my own began to tilt dangerously, threatening me with a great crash, a shattering into fragments. This is the girl who I have become. So much the same, thoughts stretched out like highways through the course of my days and weeks, but so different, a stranger who stole this other girl's skin.

To consider one's change is a frightening thing. The considerations that were once planted so orderly, accompanied by facts and opinions supporting the conclusions, are suddenly ripped from their foundations and strewn about. It is an unnerving loneliness.

But in the past few weeks, since I have had too much free time and no work whatsoever, I have been blessed-- yes, I forcefully and intentionally use that word-- by people who spark in you thoughts with which you must struggle. And the same people who support you to be different from what you are expected to be, from what you once were. A number of these conversations have taken place in the sauna, a wonderfully warm retreat from the chilly winter air.

I have not yet spoken of Korea's saunas, likely because the concept seems so strange to the Western emphasis on privacy. They are Asia's public baths, where one goes, stripped bare, for cleansing. In a culture where physical appearance is so intensely important and people are examined with scientific scrutiny for their flaws, documented loudly in vociferous commentary, they, in the careful disregard of ticking time, lay aside their examinations. Entering into a swimming humidity, one strips of all garments: jacket, shirt, pants, socks, underwear. Passing completely naked in front of Koreans who no longer seem to notice the pale whiteness of your skin and the deeper whiteness of areas unaccustomed to the sun, one enters into the shower and bath area. The water that runs in timed spurts from the shower head is used to strip our final layers of protection. Colors run down one's face in dramatically thin lines, like the photographic negative of a tear-streaked face. Nakedness.

We venture cautiously into the hot pools, the cold pools, the temperate water, the steam rooms, using corners for our coffee shop conversations. It is only at this point that we as foreigners are truly noticed. We talk and laugh without great reserve; we are watched with dark eyes wondering at our strange yet familiar language. Koreans are strangely silent at the saunas, as if completely, albeit temporarily, renouncing their culture of staring and chatter.

Recently, I have taken part in a number of these naked conversations with Meaghan and Sacha. Coming together, we remove slowly those layers of the past, laying down the garments we use daily so as to appear the same as everyone else. Protecting our doubts, hiding our fears. But I am so thankful for these girls with whom I can be completely naked and fully without shame.

Above I quoted an excerpt from The Poisonwood Bible, which all three of us just finished reading. One of four children of a missionary in the Congo, Leah is plagued by the notions of her own sin, mired in it, suffocated by it. In her I saw the girl I once was, so desirous of perfection, yet so acutely aware of my own failings. Sin, sin, sin.

I now care so much less about the concept of sin.

At times I have considered whether I have stopped caring altogether for my faith, for my future, for the poor, the destitute, the broken in this world. Have I wrapped myself in excuses? Has my heart grown cold? But as I spoke with Sacha and Meaghan, saw their passion and care for others, their beliefs, their dreams, I felt the similar rising of my own. The beauty of a dialogue that requires no answers, that asks only for participation in the process. I am not faced with caring less; neither do I care more than I once did. It is merely that the palette of my world view has shifted from a dogmatic black and gray to a watercolor of more colors than I could name.

Sacha so poetically wrote, "These last couple of weeks have been precious to me, as I've held a lens up close to my heart and seen pieces of me that could only be poured out by the stimulation of another soul pouring it out of me. My friends, you know who you are." This is precisely what I feel.

To such friends of mine, I extend my thanks.

And if that didn't entertain you, then Pierre's google translation from my English to French ("a proper, civilized language") and then back to English again certainly will.

“oughtn' T of I to laugh at my father,” I indicated. “Not,” he said, concerning his lips and rolling his eyes upwards. “I would not have! It is a sin. ” Sinned, sinned, I felt soaked and patient of him. “I was accustomed to requesting with God to make me just like him. Smart and right and proportioned with his will,” I admitted. “Now I cannot even what wish. I wish that I be differently rather everyone. ” It leaned ahead and looked in my eyes. Its finger moved of its lips towards my face and planed, awaiting a place to plant its blessing. “Béene, if you were rather everyone differently, you would not be thus béene-béene. ” (“the bible of Poisonwood,” Barbara Kingsolver) Up to now I abilement had abilement avoided responsibilities these holidays. It is the same history each time. Given a spare excess of time, I resist the productivity completely and the revel in a small gust of wind nothings occupied. The other day I spoke with friends about making the kitchen, an excuse during time and to eat of girl, two activities which always galvanize me, and I immediately offered to the host centre. I did this knowing it would force me to organize my alarming apartment swine, one to charge which I burning had avoided at this point. And during the day spent reordering an apartment in the face similar to that of a cell of prison (some steps in this way, some steps which manner), I found my hiding-place of the books. Naturally I could not resist to review them. What I found in inside was a paper trail cataloguing my dispersed thoughts which dart disparate idea with the disparate idea. I often wondered my propensity to commutate books as one could commutate equipment, as abilement disguising this spirit which can remain with such an amount of astonishment repeated with the same reflexions, the same events. Turning of the pages slowly, slipping with a light crumpling to accelerate the discs of an imprisoned time, I saw myself as who I was in the past, a younger version of an entirely different person completely. A girl carried in so perilous balance above the edge of what she knew, strengthening itself before the abyss of an unforeseen future. Three things shocked me: (1) all the difference in which I was then with which I am now, (2) sameness total between me and this girl, our thoughts, our daydreams, and (3) childhood of the thoughts that I embrace now that I supposed to be recent in their impregnation of my spirit. I frequently register, sowing thoughts dispersed through the pages of the books innofensifs of schoolboy. The writing brings a peace of interim to this spirit. And in an unspecified way, it is a private attempt to claim of the pieces of the past, to lend the validity to the progression of the life. However because I relived has after that feels so distant, thought the narrowly planed number two, specifying how little I really evolved/moved, how frequently my spirit remains on the society man. However then an event or a conversation was recorded, something said by a friend who incited me to think. I defended my point of view. I considered theirs. And suddenly my clean started to incline dangerously, me threatening by a great accident, a bursting in fragments. It is the girl who I became. The same ones, thought so much extended outside like roads by the course from my days and weeks, but so different, a foreigner who stole the skin of this other girl. To consider the change with is an alarming thing. The considerations which were in the past thus planted orderly, accompanied by the facts and the opinion supporting the conclusions, are suddenly torn their bases and approximately widespread. It is a weakening loneliness. But in last weeks, since I had too much free hour and no work some, I was blessed-- yes, I with force and employ this word intentionally-- by the people who étincellent in you the thoughts with which you must fight. And the same people which support you to be different from what one expects that you are, of what you were in the past. A certain number of these conversations took place in the sauna, a retirement marvelously hot of the fresh air of winter. I did not speak yet about the saunas of Korea, probable because the concept seems so strange with the Western emphase on the intimacy. They are the public baths of Asia, where one disappears, stripped naked, for cleaning. In a culture where the physical aspect is so much intensely important and people are examined with the scientific meticulous examination for their straws, extremely documented in the noisy comment, they, in the careful negligence of the time of drill, to extend on side their examinations. Entering a moisture of swimming, one strips of all clothing: jacket, shirt, trousers, socks, underclothing. Completely naked passer by in front of the Koreans who do not seem any more to note the pale whiteness of your skin and the more deep whiteness of the unusual sectors to the sun, one enters the sector of shower and bath. The water which functions in synchronized gushings of the head of shower is employed to strip our final layers of protection. The colors function in bottom of the face to one in definitely slightly of the lines, like the negative photographic one of a tear-striated face. Nudity. We dare with precaution in the hot swimming pools, the cold swimming pools, moderated water, the vapor rooms, by using corners for our conversations of bar-restaurant. It is only in this moment that us as from abroad are really noted. We speak and laugh without much reservation; we are observed with the dark eyes wondering our strange language however familiar. The Koreans are curiously quiet with the saunas, like so completely, though temporarily, renonçant with their culture to look at and of chattering fixedly. Recently, I took part in a certain number of these naked conversations with Meaghan and Sacha. Come together, we remove these layers of the past slowly, fixing clothing which we use the newspaper in order to appear the same ones as each one differently. Protecting our doubts, hiding our fears. But I am so grateful for these girls with whom I can be completely naked and entirely shameless. Above me quoted an extract of the bible of Poisonwood, which each of the three of us reading finished just. One of four children of a missionary in Congo, Leah is infested by the concepts of its own sin, dirtied mud in him, suffocated by him. In it I saw that girl I was in the past, if eager of the perfection, however so much intensely informed my clean failings. Sin, sin, sin. I worry now so much less concept of the sin. Sometimes I considered if I stopped completely worrying about my faith, for my future, the poor, the poor one, broken in this world. Did I wrap myself in the excuses? Did my heart develop cold? But while I spoke with Sacha and Meaghan, saw their passion and care for others, their belief, their dreams, I felt to rise similar of my clean. The beauty of a dialogue which does not require any answer, that requires only the participation in the process. I am not confronted to worry less; neither one nor the other not care of I more than I in the past made. It is simply that the pallet of my sight of the world shifted of a black dogmatic and gray with a watercolor of more than colors than I could call. Sacha has so much poetically written, “these last couples of the weeks were invaluable with me, because I held an objective to the top close to my heart and considering the pieces of me which could only be versed outside by the stimulation of another heart pouring it out of me. My friends, you know who you are. ” It is with precision what feel me I. With such friends with me, I prolong my mercies.