la fuerza de gravedad

Distance: Watching the earth roll out from under the tracks of a train or the wheels of a bus, travelling at the speed of gravity, is a good way to learn distance. Airplanes, phone calls and emails can make distance seem obsolete, but as we travelled for an entire day just through Texas, the land stretched out like a drying hide, I could appreciate travel and communication in new ways. Even after arriving to Mexico, I feel much further from Michigan than I have before. 35 hours by Amtrak to San Antonio.

San Antonio: It shocked me in a way to come across the Alamo while meandering through the downtown of the city of San Antonio. In my mind, the Alamo was always crumbling and dusty, sitting out in the desert, surrounded only by even more dusty land. But, no. Instead it sits pretty, surrounded by green gardens, well-lit at night, and directly across from Ripley´s Believe it or Not, a Haegen-Daaz ice cream shop, and a robotic Davy Crockett amusement ride. And instead of desert, office buildings, busy streets and department stores surround this building that sticks mythologically in the American psyche, when in real life, to me, it amounts to a Disney World attraction, in both its false construction and its atmosphere. We found the River Walk to be a lovlier part of San Antonio and we walked it both at night, tranquil and quiet, and in the morning, greener and tourist-ridden. In the morning we took our breakfast tacos (something all the Texans in New York told me they missed most about Texas) and tequila down to the river and made a nice breakfast out of it before hopping on a greyhound, headed across the border.

La Frontera: Crossing into Mexico by land was considerably less a hassle than what I remember from the airport. The bus stops, U.S. citizens get off the bus, run large parcels through the scanner and pay 23 dollars for the visas (and an automatic 6 months, no less) and back on the bus. Making things even easier, the Greyhound tooks us right to Nuevo Laredo´s main bus terminal and within 7 minutes we were on another bus bound for Monterrey. Things move swiftly moving south.

Cosas

En mi bolsa: Ropa, pasta de dientes, lentes, libros.

En mis manos: Una guitarra, un libro, un bolígrafo.

En mi mente: Pensamientos, dudas, esperanzas, recuerdos.

Nubes Tenues

Lengua: Necesito practicar mi espanol. Durante el ano pasado he lo estado perdiendo poco a poco, especialmente los sonidos y como formar mi boca en una manera para producir palabras comprensibles. Escribir o leer, estoy mas o menos bien. Pero hablar, es algo diferente. No quiero que me digan, -"Te ha comido la lengua el gato?" Que pena, pero pronto hablaremos hermanas, no?

Poland

Mex/j/ico: I was reading today about how Mexico "got" its name. According to one person's perspective, a mix of an already-existing word/name, imperialism, and habit, resulted in a name that was a little off for both the named and namers. Like learning your immigrant Grandmother's last name was once a long, jagged, beautiful Polish name that she changed to a monosyllabic, blunt, unassuming name. She lost her name to gain what? The majority can now pronounce it, and at what loss for them? And her children and grandchildren: do they accept the name that no longer connects them with their ancestors, or attempt to override both society and their Grandmother's decision? A name is never just a name, it's clear, but a history of lies and truths, a direction and misunderstood signals, an insistence that naming something makes it real, valid.

Papers: I've spent the last few days at my parent's house going over every document I've written, printed, or received since maybe my birth. It's been a relief in some ways, finding so many words that I no longer need to be trusted with. It's been a burden, too, because of the sheer volume and my slightly lingering packrat tendencies. Also a bit shameful, looking back on old writings and silly ways I used to waste paper; I used to be a terrible speller. And it's also been exhausting, reliving countless years and memories through ink and pencil, like I've been reading my own biography for 3 days without a break.

Tuesdays: My Grandma has friends she eats lunch with every Tuesday. She also plays euchre and gambles with several of these ladies, from what I gather. Today, my mom and I went as well. The group praised my mom highly for her pie-making abilities and traded their own methods for making crusts. I appreciate the elderly so much for making the simplest facets of life a wonderful topic of discussion, interaction, and weaving conversation.

Down deep

Ellis Island: Years ago and generations back, my family passed through this little island, their thoughts and fears I can only imagine in a thousand ways. Although my own time spent on this island was brief, I did manage to learn a little about immigration in the U.S. Also of interest, I discovered that the words bum and bummer come from the German language and hunky-dory from Dutch. Strange how our extended ethnic heritage can reach into our daily, personal household language without any conscious recognition or recollection.

Statue of Liberty: Loved, glorified, over-priced, propagandized, replicated, battered, weaved deep into the American consciousness and that of people around the world. Based on the museum at her feet, you'd think she was the most sacred symbol of democracy ever to exist and perhaps you'll believe it, perhaps not. I was particularly interested in a brief paragraph within the statue's history that mentioned another potential vision of the statue, one of a fierce woman with a steel weapon and a flag. Naturally, folks were frightened by this idea and stood solidly behind the passive, benign, receptive image, a waiting beacon. Rather than demanding freedom and democracy, she awaits it patiently, lighting its path, waiting, waiting. Is she still waiting?

Movin' On

Boundaries: New York City is far too big for me to wrap my mind around. Even if I never come back, I will think of it often. It will become like an enigmatic stranger for me, I'll look for her in familiar and strange places. Or perhaps like a long-lost childhood friend, who I'll wonder about but will only find in a small dive bar in a rural Michigan town. Oh, this city, what will become of it and what has it made me. Like I told a down-trodden friend last night, "when it comes to questions like these, time's the only answer."

Direction: Now I am heading for Philadelphia for a few days. Due to my skewed, NYC-perspective, now all cities that I once thought were large and imposing seem village-like, Kalamazoo seems like an unfamiliar name on a smallish dot in Minnesota. And Petersburg? I doubt that it even exists. When I get to Mexico and come back or move on, all places, my sense of time, my sense of space will be distorted all over again, for better or worse. Or perhaps, it doesn't matter at all. It's like a game or a distraction, I suppose.

Suitcase

Packing: is miserable. I'm leaving New York with much more than I came with. This city encourages consumption the way a well-stocked liquor cabinet encourages alcoholism and that's probably the top thing, hands down, that I will not miss. What I will miss is the constant motion, the people, having things at your fingertips that you neither need nor want but the sheer opportunity is enough. Strange that these things would grow on me. At the same time, once I leave the city I probably won't miss any of it, will only remember car exhaust making my eyes burn and over-crowded Times Square, waiting for the subway train, or spending way too much money on coffee. I hope, though, that I'll really remember the great people I was able to spend short amounts of time with, the absurdity of Coney Island, the little surprises I would encounter on the street, and late night hookah cafes.

Funnel vision

Nickels and Dimes: Now I feel a bit like a coin reaching the narrow end of a large, yellow, plastic funnel, like the kind you find at the zoo or a children's museum. The coin gets dropped with a mix of excited anticipation and a slight expectancy of disappointment, a balance of fears and hopes that rides along on the textured edge of the coin. Breath held, eyes steady. The great satisfaction comes from watching the coin speed into a frenzied blur, becoming one large ethereal coin hovering for a moment over nothingness before falling suddenly out of sight.

I had no idea what to expect this summer. Now my New York summer is fading and I'm left with a brief encounter with a city that's much like a country, where after such a small amount of time here it feels like you've been chasing minnows for an afternoon or trying to talk with shadows. I'll miss it, just having barely gotten to feel along the edges, but other distances are laid out ahead, and familiar paths will intertwine with new ones. I don't have expectations but high ones.

Pizza Party: I am convinced that there was no better way to leave Democracy Now! but to crowd into the 6th floor office with staff, interns and volunteers and watch Amy Goodman set a slimy, nonsensical pseudo-journalist in his place on corporate-sponsored, right-wing television (Hardball, to be exact).