Greek time

Today was an educational one for us. In the US, 20 minutes is precisely that, and 12 0'clock is precisely that. Not here.

We were supposed to go to IKEA on a charter minibus, and at 4:30, we finally decided to go on our own on the metro. Two people in our group were fined 48 Euros each by the metro employees because they had the wrong kind of tickets (which we all did and which I'm convinced I avoided because I looked sexy in a black tie). We then ran madly through the aisles of IKEA picking out the essentials for a new apartment. The best part was that not a single one of the labels or signs was in English or even in Roman letters. It was, as so many people think it clever to say, "Greek to me."

Our apartment has now been furnished for a relatively cheap 1072 Euros.

We left the hotel at 8:30 and got back at 10:45 this evening.

Met some cool Greek-Aussies from Melbourne on the bus from IKEA (which is by the airport which is in the middle of nowhere).

Were lectured on being there for each other by the HR director.

Must sleep.

at school

It's 3:30 in the morning for the majority of our friends who might be reading this, and I imagine my mom is the only one awake while she works the night shift. (By the way, Mom, we tried calling you at 1:30, but you didn't answer.) It's 10:30 here, and I'm struggling not to lay my head on the desk and sleep. I've slept decently the past two nights, but it takes me till after midnight to actually fall asleep.

After signing our contract last night, Kostas dropped us off at our new place with our English-challenged landlord and left us. Kostas has been a blast to be around, and his English has gotten as much practice as our Greek, though his English is infinitely better than my Hellinika. We decided to try walking to the metro to see what our lives will be like, and of course we got lost. Not terribly, just enough to add about 5 minutes to the walk (should that comma have been a semi-colon?). Here's a map (hopefully) of our house on Metamorfoseos street and our walk to school.


View Larger Map
Need. Sleep.

neglected

I haven't posted here for a bit because I've been posting all thoughts on the other site. This will only be for those crazy things I find when I have time to actually browse the web.

How is everyone who might read this?

Robinson Jeffers

I recently finished a book about the life of Robinson Jeffers and about his poetic journey from mystic to inhumanist. I'm not an ardent enthusiast of all his poetry, but his general view of life is one I admire and share. It's dangerous to read a book about someone you admire, I think, because of the real risk of jostling the pedestal on which you've raised them. The biography I read was certainly informative, but I also think it helped to reinforce the elements of Jeffers' poetry and persona with which I connect, including his weaknesses. 

A few passages that stood out to me:

In the wilderness, where the ties that bind a civilized psyche are loosened, archetypal patterns of behavior reveal themselves and primordial emotions are given free reign (Karman, the author).

"Inhumanism... [is] a shifting of emphasis from man to not-man; the rejection of human solipsism and recognition of the transhuman magnificence." (Jeffers)

Jeffers, like a modern Elijah, had found a God who would answer him in Carmel [where Jeffers lived in California], infusing his sacrifice, his poetry, with fire. 

But which God? Not Yahweh, the God of history, unless you could strip away all the human characteristics attributed to him and recover a sense of his pure and wild power; nor Baal, the god of nature, unless you could expand his provenance to include all that the universe contains... 

According to Jeffers, the God who created the universe is the universe... Individual phenomenon have value, but only the whole is truly important, only the whole endures. Like flowers that live and die, people come into the world and pass away, as do nations, civilizations, species, planets, suns, galaxies, and even universes. Only God remains, enduring "the sum of life's passions."

Our wounded minds lead us to believe that we are more valuable to the universe than we really are.

Jeffers believed our incestuous anthropocentrism leads to mental imbalance. 

"This is a kind of collective onanism, pathetic and ridiculous, or at noblest a tragic incest, and so I have represented it."

Though Christianity has helped give Western civilization its restless, dynamic character, Jeffers believed that it has done far more harm than good. As a way of life, it increases rather than diminishes psychological disturbance, especially insofar as the bloody image of a crucifixion is concerned. It separates people from the world in which they live by focusing there attention on the world to come. And it catches people in a net of self-concern. Based on a mistaken notion of love, one that encourages preoccupation with one's self and one's fellowmen, and on a mistaken belief that where there is a God who cares for people (enough to appear on earth as one), Christianity  deludes its followers into thinking that humans are the reason and object of creation. 

"I think it is our privilege and felicity to love God for his beauty, without claiming or expecting love from him. We are not important to him, but he to us."

Originally uploaded by dwain.

Had great fun trying to get photos like this.

Originally uploaded by dwain.

Cook's Forest in central PA was a treasure trove of shrooms.

legalism
Originally uploaded by dwain.

I love this sign. Especially rules #1, 2, and 5.

small words

We spent this past week at a cabin in a state park in central Pennsylvania with my family. One would expect a cabin in a state park to be quiet and secluded and not, for example, across the road from a go-kart track with bumper boats. There were at least 6 separate "fun centers" in and around this beautiful state park with old growth hemlocks and white pines. Embarrassing. And I played minigolf at 3 of them. 

I also dreamt I was in an episode of "Law and Order: SVU" in which Batman fomented the rise of a female imitator who had been assaulted when she was young. He also played matchmaker with her and some guy by playing romantic music and floating a pink dress from a tree while his protege was chasing down crooks. To wrap up the episode--which featured Mariska Hargitay for 3 seconds--there was a "the more you know moment" from a politician who was in the dream who spoke sincerely to the camera while wearing a pink nightie. He told us about--I have no idea where this shit comes from--his "unwavering support in the Senate for the required installation of adamantine fire escapes." Adamantine? What the hell?

Michael Phelps just won his 8th. Exciting to watch. 

Tomorrow morning will be my last church service until at least December. I feel like I should join AA. 

I had an epiphany while in the cabin with walls that didn't reach the ceiling: being around family is bad for your personality. 

mushrooms

mushrooms
Originally uploaded by dwain.

Cloud Cult - When Water Comes to Life

Something about this song has captured my interest. I think it's the mysticism of the lyrics more than the music, though the music is certainly unique.

church

Whenever I visit, I always go to church. Some battles aren't worth the losses that would ensue, and this is one I've chosen to lose. Unfortunately, each loss makes the next time I go to church an even more painful experience. I was thinking, on the way home, that if I were to contradict anyone in church I would be told "Listening is a sign of wisdom, and if you listen you'll learn." It's a valid argument, of course, and there's great benefit in listening before shooting off your mouth. However, I was forced to listen from when I was born until Asbury College kicked me out for too many chapel skips. I've never had anyone actually sit and listen to my complaints without responding and trying to convince me. I need someone just to listen to the issues I have. 

Whenever I go to church, I amuse myself by reading the bible in search of interesting passages. Whether or not the audience believes it, I don't go in search of controversial or damning passages, but nearly each time I come up with something which stands in striking contradiction to modern Xian culture. Today I chose at random a book of the bible to read during church. Apparently my early training served me well because I chose one of the shortest books, Philemon. It took about 2 minutes to read. Here are some thoughts. 

Why is this in the bible? Was Paul gay? Was his "thorn in the flesh" a visual analogy? How can Xianity cherish as its founder--because that's really what Paul is--a man who in essence condones slavery? Also, Paul was, in M's words, "a manipulative bitch." The phrasing he uses in this letter is the simplest form of manipulation ever: "I'm asking this as a favor and you can say no (but you owe me your soul)." 

From Philemon I moved to 2 Corinthians. Chapter 10 of the book is Paul's defense of his position as CEO (Chief Ecumenical Officer) and is another classic example of manipulation. What an arrogant prick! Then there's 1 Corinthians 11 and its cultural rules about men and women's roles in society and in church. Utterly asinine.

The pastor at my parents' church is in his 50s or 60s and is as country as it comes. That's not to say he's not intelligent--the stereotype--because he's quite intelligent behind the speech. Today he ran about 20 minutes over--my spirit and stomach rebelled--and lost his flock. It really struck me how similar a teacher's job is to a preacher's and how many of the same manipulations they use. We both use stories to try and make our information real to the audience, and we both have to smack the audience around to get their attention. 

A preacher is also like a literary academic: most of his/her (Wendie) job is about being creative with the scant source material you're given (Philemon). I shudder to imagine how many messages have been preached about that abominably worthless page.  

I'm certain that I've had pseudo-interesting things to blog about, but it takes so much energy to sit and write them, I don't. 

We leave the country in 12 days (including today). The part about moving overseas nobody tells you about--and I know Chris can attest to this--because it deglamorizes the whole thing is the packing. You're not packing one time for one destination; you're packing to store and to take. Will we need to buy pots and pans when we get there, or would it be cheaper to take our own? Should we wait to buy an iron, or should we just take it now? What clothes will we need and when? We're each allowed two 50 lb. bags. Ever tried to squeeze your life into 100 lbs.? (Yes, says Chris.) It's actually more like 92-96 lbs. because any suitcase worth a damn is going to weigh a bit. All my clothes are in a suitcase, and they're starting to smell a little funky. I'm going to be ironing out my clothes for a week when we get there. 

Photoshop CS3 is a wonderful thing. If only I understood it.

It's a pity the vampire bats that have been killing the Warao in Venezuela don't all latch on to Chavez. I think he's my least-favorite world leader because he's such a blatant idiot and liar. 

Worth1000.com

About once a month I go through this web site and find some beauties. 

800th post

A few years ago, I wrote a creative fiction piece about an experience in a coffee shop. It should have begun with an homage line about "in my younger and more vulnerable years" I was fascinated and in awe of coffee shops. There was an aura of academia about them, of intellectualism and freedom from the box in which the rest of world lived. I considered coffee shops to be places where people met to subvert the dominant paradigm. The people didn't care about what clothes they wore (but not in a basement-dwelling dweeb kind of way) and lived in abandon. There is a coffee shop in Lexington called Common Grounds--a clever name is a must for a coffee shop--to which I used to go quite often with my non-coffee drinking friends. I was the cool one who sat about waiting to fall into a conversation about Camus and Rossetti's influence on Jeffers and the impossibility of finding meaning in Palahniuk's works. I never fell into one. 

It was all bullshit. The people around me were talking about People magazine, the latest party, sports, sex, getting drunk. I've had better conversations at a dive bar. I was so crushed by this realization that my fascination and admiration turned quite quickly into contempt and nearly hatred. 

The piece I wrote for the class detailed the specific moment when the turn happened. It wasn't the best piece, to be honest. It had a strong beginning in which I described each little detail of the place which drew me in: the creaky wooden floors, the myriad chairs, the varied couches, the vintage t-shirts, the singer-songwriter soundtrack, and of course the smell of the coffee and intellect. From there, I think I described what happened after I ordered my overpriced drink and began to eavesdrop on the conversations. Again, it was a creative nonfiction piece, so it could have a bit of hyperbole. I ran across the piece recently while packing, but I didn't have the interest in reading it and reliving the experience. The teacher, Erik Reece, enjoyed the beginning of the piece, but he thought I lost focus toward the end, and I agree. It's hard to describe the feeling of betrayal without a few years of background information. 

I'm sitting in a coffee shop in Bellefonte writing this. It's much nicer than a university town coffee shop: no snobbery. Actually, there's a stuffed flamingo wearing a sun hat staring at me. I'm a little scared. 

Sanuk!

Two of my three pairs of Sanuk Sidewalk Surfers. I can't find a picture of my solid blue ones because I think they've been discontinued. I leave them all. The top ones are my first love. The bottom ones, called Professors, are my most recent fling. 

[Edit]

Doesn't work. Here's pair #1 (first love who enjoys evening parties on the lawn and jazz in the park) and pair #2 (naughty new pair with a penchant for long walks down foggy streets and Barossa Valley shiraz). 

Doesn't describe me. Interesting, though, and wonderful ammunition for perpetuating stereotypes.

WHAT STUDIES SAY ABOUT YOUR SOUNDS:

POP: Conformists, overly responsible, role-conscious, struggling with sexuality or peer acceptance.

HEAVY METAL: Higher levels of suicidal ideation, depression, drug use, self-harm, shoplifting, vandalism, unprotected sex.

DANCE: Higher levels of drug use regardless of socio-economic background.

JAZZ/RHYTHM & BLUES: Introverted misfits, loners.

RAP: Higher levels of theft, violence, anger, street gang membership, drug use and misogyny.

kentucky river

kentucky river
Originally uploaded by dwain.

I quite enjoyed seeing this on our way to Texas. It was impossible to tell if the fog was falling or rising.

socks

Central Pennsylvania has nothing on the remotest backwoods of Kentucky. Yesterday I saw a grown woman walk into a hospital wearing bright pink socks that said "I (heart) Jesus." 

Because the son of god loves that kind of marketing.

I want to get as many details about one of my dreams of last night. The details are fading fast, but there was such a sense of emotional reality in the dream that a few linger.

Last night I was a Peruvian terrorist in a city composed of memories of La Paz, Bolivia, and Cuzco. As in most dreams, my identity leaped between 2 or 3 of my fellow terrorists who were out on the town. The dream was essentially the story of the final hours before we set off what were ultimately incredibly powerful grenades in the commercial and historical center of the city. We went into a chicken salad buffet where we ignored 3 young women because we knew there was no future in it. At some point, Miah was sent home. We rode the bus/train—it transformed from one to another midride—with nobody else on board at dawn, our bellies full from the dream meal we had eaten at a dream restaurant. As we walked toward the city center, ‘I’ munched on a small cluster of black grapes I found, picking out the few whole ones from the crushed and wrinkled ones. At one point, there was a child in my arms who kept playing with the chain-pins on the grenades strapped to my chest. At the city center, I cycled from one person to another as I threw bombs, and in as long as it took me to inhabit the new body, I also assumed the new personality, slipping on this new psyche like a well-worn hat. I threw the 4 grenades at a skyscraper in construction, I think another one, an empty cathedral showing a PowerPoint tour behind its wrought iron gate, and finally the tallest skyscraper under construction. They all collapsed. Wait. No, the final one I carried into the middle of the street in my hand, holding it aloft. I think I remember the emotion of “messenger” in that part of the dream. I think that last night I was a suicide bomber in my dream.

I woke up then, either because my dream person was dead or because Maxx pawed at me to take him out to piss.