Flashback to December 15th

December 15th, 2008

I am going to write more often, as I can feel my intentionality begin to slip when I get too distracted by mundane things, like streaming Grey’s Anatomy in Belgrade. I have only been in Barcelona a few hours, but am already quite taken by it, energized, inspired… Partly it’s the great public transportation. Also I am realizing how isolating it actually was to have spent the last two months in a country whose language I didn’t speak or even understand at all, although words keep popping out of my mouth as I’m speaking Spanish in this weird reversal of me being the Spanish-speaking freak in Serbia, ha. But it’s like this marvelous overload of understanding, where suddenly all the signs have meaning for me again so it’s this constant exciting auditory overload of overheard conversations and that constant visual onslaught of words, like the blur of the metro. In Belgrade and Budapest just “surviving” was an accomplishment, so I forgot to miss the immersment of language. Partly also, I am feeling so stimulated and grateful for the fine company.

Isabel and Fernando (I couch-surfed with them) are so kind, so open minded, so intelligent and wise. I feel honored to be welcomed into their home, and it’s also like getting a bit of Dawn as well, as I know she was here… Literally conversing with these marvelous people and sleeping in this same bed. So much of my year is completely solitary, something to share with people who I then leave behind, and with no-one to share “remember whens” with. Also, honestly, it’s a bit of a head trip to know that Andrew was here a year ago this time. We are so good at just missing one another, and I can’t help but wonder, ‘did he run to catch this metro too?’ ‘was he also moved by this?’ ‘did he love this about Barcelona too?’ And knowing both of us, and that the answers are probably yes, is strange.

I can’t tell if it feels heart-rendingly lonely or comforting; am I somehow sharing in their experiences/story or have I missed it entirely and so am even more alone? Maybe it can be both strange and comforting to know that people I love have also gotten acquainted and maybe fallen for this city, that they have walked these same streets. I picture our “ghost” selves, I don’t mean dead, just passed, brushing through each other- it’s this visual image I can’t quite convey but has something in common with the idea Kels and I have talked about so much of those cities where your layers of memory and previous selves crowd the corners, parks, cafes, fire-escapes, and roofs: familiar streets with this shimmering golden layer of the past.

Fear of forgetting

I should write more. Or I may forget how the reflection of the Alahambra was more vibrant than the reality. Or how sweet was the tea, smoke and company. How we climbed the fence, and I felt the muscle memory of this body; this similar spontaneous self hopping other barriers, trees and rooftops that magical summer I chose life. I'm glad I haven't lost that girl. Or, I might forget the joy of meeting new people, sharing titles full of possibility - "The Hour of the Star" or "The Cherry Orchard" on scraps of paper and through talking about mutual passions, reveal again to myself the parts I like best.

Afraid too, I will forget the simple pleasure of being suspended in a hot safe web of water will connected to a sister, and also a Christmas eve where two Italians cooked paella and sangria in Granada, Spain for Kiwis, Mexicans, Americans, Brazilians, Russians.... Then midnight mass and a sleep so profound. Holidays have become bookmarks for making meaning of the passing of time. I am always glad for an opportunity to celebrate. I am thinking about the pleasure of the right song in the right moment and the satisfaction of motion, on the long bus ride to Granada as we pass endless orange groves. I carry curry, flax-seed and tea in my backpack, and in Valencia we found fresh basil and dates in this incredible market.

I hope I do forget fearing my body has betrayed me, though I did everything right... May nothing come of it. I try to send these messages with great intention to circulate along with my red blood cells. This fear was less when there were two to share it.

Will I lose the sea wind in my hair in Valencia, or the familiarity of smoky salsa bars, and the brave passion of Flamenco: the liberty of shedding material possessions, the purity of eating fresh earthy things and home-made wine in the Sierra Nevada over an icy stream through which snow-melt flows.

AmAr a tu Cuerpo Horario de actividades (Love Your Body Workshop and activities)

The lovely Stina and I facilitated and planned the following workshop in Quinto, Spain (near Zaragoza) the 20th. We received very positive feedback, learned so much, and felt so privileged to meet such an incredible group of women! The group was very multi-generational (20-somethings up to women in their 70´s) and we were moved to see abuelitas rolling around on the ground during the taking up space activity, as well as the heart and authenticity with which women openly shared and celebrated their bodies!




Love Your Body Workshop (Quinto, Spain) --Dec. 20th, 2008

Supplies: paper, markers/crayons, note cards, music gear +CD, beverages, chairs, tables, string/yarn, magazine (women’s, porn, etc.), women!

1. Introduction
Us: Background
Them (Introducing themselves with a motion/sound to be present in body, everyone repeats it.

Opening group thoughts: Why did you come today?
What is body image?

2. Questions/Statements (move to corners for strongly agree, agree, disagree, strongly disagree)

3. Magazine images: walk around and look at them (musical chairs style: when music stops, everyone stop and ‘vent’ about the image.)

4. Show Dove commercial about how a model is made up and photo-shopped.

5. Taking up space: women’s bodies getting smaller, our motions controlled. A few minutes of big moving!

Break

6. Write a letter to your body: if your body could tell its story, what would it be?

7. Moment to reflect and be present in body: What is our body proudest of? What is it’s greatest accomplishment?

8. Drawing your BodyLove, share drawings.

9. Web of compliments/support

10. Personal support. On notecards, write 10 things you can do to love your body/love about your body/compliments/things you’ve learned today, etc. (For your own personal use/on your mirror, etc.)

11. Hold hands, squeeze. I love your body, I love my body. Hug yourself.

12. Conclusion: feedback? Learn? Surprises (small debrief). Farewell.

Mingle and music J


1. Introducciones (nos presentamos)
• Presentaciones de todas con gesturas o sonidos y todas las repiten y saludan.
• Pensamientos introductores: ¿Por qué he venido al taller? ¿Para mí personalmente qué significa la imagen corporal?

2. Preguntas y frases/dichos. Mover a esquinas distintas del cuarto para indicar nivel de acuerdo: muy de acuerdo, de acuerdo, no de acuerdo, ¡no no no de acuerdo!

3. Imágenes de la revistas: todas pasen y miran las imágenes con música (cuando acabe la música, todas paran y comentan rápidamente en las imágenes, usando palabras y frases para expresar las primeras impresiones.)

4. Enseñar anuncio por Dove sobre la creación de una foto para un anuncio…la construcción y la artificialidad de la belleza.

5. Hablando del espacio…estamos restringidas, controlamos y reducimos el espacio que ocupamos y nuestras gesturas y movimientos. Romper estos hábitos: tomamos unos minutos con música para mover GRANDE.

Descanso

6. Escribir una carta al cuerpo. Si tu cuerpo pudiera contar su historia, ¿qué sería?

7. Momento para reflejar y estar presente en el cuerpo. ¿De qué está más orgulloso tu cuerpo? ¿Cuál es el hecho o la realización mejor (más orgullosa) de tu cuerpo?

8. Dibuja Amar a tu Cuerpo.

9. Red de apoyo. Decir cosas bonitas/buenas sobre las compañeras en el circulo y pasa el hilo.

10. Apoyo a tí mismo. En las cartas, escribes 10 cosas que puedes hacer para respetar/amar a tu cuerpo/resoluciones/cosas que has aprendido hoy (para tu propio uso—puedes poner las cosas en el espejo, etc.)

11. Coger las manos de las compañeras, amo a tu cuerpo, amo a mi cuerpo. Abazar tu propio cuerpo.

12. Conclusión: comentos, cosas buenas/malas. Impresiones del taller. ¡Gracias y despedirse!

Musica




Statements________________¿De acuerdo?____________________________Dichos

1. Amo a mi cuerpo.
I love my body.
2. Me siento influido por los opiniones de los demás.
I feel influenced by what others think of me.
3. Considero que mi cuerpo está separado de mi mismo.
I feel that my body is separate from myself.
4. Me siento sana.
I feel healthy.
5. Castigo a mi cuerpo cuando siento descontenta.
I punish my body when I feel discontent.
6. Opino que la belleza tiene muchas formas diversas.
I relieve that beauty has many diverse forms.
7. Siento que mi propia imagen corporal está influida por los medios de comunicación. ¿La moda?
I feel that my own body image is influenced by the media. Fashion?
8. Yo jusco los cuerpos de otras mujeres.
I judge other women’s bodies.
9. Mi cuerpo es fuerte.
My body is strong.
10. Mi relación con la comida y la alimentación es o ha sido complicado (y no saludable).
My relationship with food and nutrition is or has been complicated (or unhealthy).
11. Doy la culpa de mis fracasos y problemas a mi cuerpo.
I blame my body for my failures and problems.
12. Yo o alguien a quien quiero ha sufrido o luchado contra un trastorno de comportamiento alimentario u otro problema con a imagen corporal.
I or someone I love has suffered an eating disorder or some problem with body image.
13. Creo que debo cambiar mi cuerpo o algún aspeto de mi cuerpo.
I think I should change my body or some aspect of my body.
14. Creo que si cambiara esta parte desagradable de mi cuerpo, sería más feliz….tendría más éxito…yo sería más querida.
I relieve that if I changed this disagreeable part of my body that I would be happier…more successful…more loved.
15. Mi cuerpo ha dado luz.
My body has given birth.
16. Siento que he perdido parte de la belleza que tenía en otra etapa de mi vida.
I feel that I have lost some of the beauty that I had in another stage of my life.
17. Estoy orgullosa de mi cuerpo.
I am proud of my body.
18. Amo a mi cuerpo.
I love my body.

Snippets of Budapest while waiting at the airport to fly out...

Budapest was serendipitously filled with people I had met at the beginning of my time in Belgrade. I not only appreciated being around people who already know me, but also their symbolism as bookends at either end of this chapter... Snippets:

Marjo from Finland sharing the story of her grandparent's love: A woman who lost her husband in the war meets a man named Hope and a man who has the war still in his lungs meets a woman named Peace. It takes my breath away when real life is as beautiful and right as fiction.

Met an Indian soldier at a hostal in Budapest. I so easily could have not talked to him, believing him to be hitting on me, but I did, and I my preconceptions were turned upside-down. He is a UN Peace Keeper in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and talked to me about all the hundreds of rapes they are hearing about. He told me of his sense of utter despair and helplessness to help these women, he kept saying, "you feel so cramped by this pain"... Seeing this soldier nearly doubled over describing to me the vise of his emotions will stay with me.

Marjo and I missed our bus stop, and when we stepped off the next one she didn't miss a beat, but led us right into the bright pink bar which was a few steps away, ha. It was the kind of local joint we never would have met, but while sitting at the grimy bar she addressed my feelings of intimidation wit writing about this experience in anything longer than a blog post. She brushed away my fears of "where to start?" and said that there is never a clear beginning, you just start with what you know you want to say, and only later does it take a cohesive form. This seemed very wise, and metaphoric for life as well...

Butiful Budapest

Budapest is this stunning Christmas wonderland laced with lights, hot wine, skating rinks, Christmas markets... It is this great buffer/limbo between Serbia and Spain; this blessed time to disconnect from one stage and open myself to the next. Today was a heavy cold day, so I spent it in the famous Baths. Was unbelievably relaxing and rejuvenating. Was literally, and mentally drifting in the huge open pools (which remind me of that scene in Fantasia with all the frolicking nymphs, and nearly naked people lounging around and emerging from the steam). The sky was this heavy deep blue color, lightly raining, cold shoulders and body so so hot, and this plane soared overhead. Out of my jumble of non-thoughts, I realized that will be me in a few days heading to Barcelona; but I was so glad to just take this pause. It was also nice to reconnect somehow with my body, which has been stifled under so many layers- I want to get out of the cold!

Speaking of which, the Thailand production looks like it's going to fabulous! I may literally fly into Bangkok and catch a taxi to their first event and press conference. The producer even found a flat for me to stay at, only catch being that I have to water "Frederique" the bamboo plant.

First last Sunday in Serbia

I am tying up loose ends and fixating on how to pack lighter; eating creatively to clean out the fridge and re-gifting. I am sitting in a borrowed white robe with a hot mug of tea (I already dutifully finished the coffee). Winter sun is optimistically striping my bare legs. I poke fun at myself by trying to compose witty combinations of “glad” and “sad” regarding leaving. Yesterday someone asked me what it was like to be travelling alone for so long. I floundered with no succinct answer… I mean, it is what it is- in many ways I really love it.

I ended up with some bullshit answer about having been an only child of a single parent and being accustomed to being independent. I’m not even sure this is where the truth lies though, as I have always surrounded myself by people. Similarly, the other day I found myself extremely defensive by the suggestion a friend had made to a friend that I was “maybe a bit lonely”- I mean come on! Of course I am; BUT I’m not actively lonely, and I absolutely don’t want to be doing anything other than what I am doing right now. The clouds were heavy and purple Saturday, not so Sunday, as I wandered with this French couple who is staying with us.

They are perfectly matched and so beautiful. He told me, “Well, maybe you are always saying goodbye… But you are also always saying hello” It touched me to have this stranger explain me to myself so gently. Seeing them makes me slightly melancholic but mainly (softly) hopeful to see another example of a dynamic partnership that travels and learns and loves each other so much. Last night it could have been sad to listen to their love language, but now’s not my time, and others’ romance gives me hope for my own.

As for me, I’ve been glad to even just FEEl for someone else, even though nothing can come of it. Just feeling that possibility of connection is enough for me right now- I don't know if I would even want anything to manifest. I have met a few crazy love-birds who have met people while backpacking and moved back for them, blah blah blah. I can feel my face going skeptical during these conversations. My heart is HIGHLY not up for this, no stamina anymore, but one night stands and true crushes are good enough sustenance for now- to know I can I feel, to know I can be wanted and want; that’s all I have to offer right now. But its okay.

Love Your Body Days, Quinto style ~ Amar a tu cuerpo taller

So ~ having met the dynamic and persuasive Ana while in UK for the V-Day European workshop, I was willingly-wrangled into leading a workshop in her hometown of Quinto, Spain. She loved the idea of Love Your Body Days which we do as part of S.H.E. (Strength, Health, Equality) at Willamette, and asked me to lead a similar event dealing with body image issues in Spain. Though Anthropologically this is a bit invasive, or more participant than participant-observer, something I am really learning through my research is that activists use the tactics they need in order to broach sensitive subjects. As a soon to be PhD in Medical Anthropology (her research focuses on rural Spanish women's experiences with breast cancer), Ana is well aware of this.

Yet, she is strategically using our "foreignness" to intrigue and draw the local vecinas to the workshop. Her theory is that our young/american/feminst energy, etc. will allow us to facilitate a more enthusiastic workshop, thus leading to more open discussion. It IS local in that all the motivation and organization is hers; yet just as Mexico and the Balkans use the celebrity wow factor to gain legitimacy for the VMs, she is creatively playing upon the factors that she knows will lure a broader audience. The poster is above, and the advertising e-mail below. I am really excited (asked Stina who is studying in Granada to co-facilitate with me, which works out great because she is also researching these themes) and feel full of energy and creativity to be actually DOING something myself, in contrast to this constant observance of the actions of others.

Hola a tod@s,

Como ya sabéis el DíaV Quinto 2009 está engrasando la maquinaria para otra súper-exitosa-producción.

Para ponernos a tono, el DíaV nos ha traído a dos mujeres estupendas desde los Estados Unidos. Jen y Stina serán las encargadas de dirigir el primer taller de la campaña el sábado 20 de diciembre a las 17h en la Casa de Cultura de Quinto. ¡El taller promete ser divertido así que apuntarlo en vuestra agenda y traed ropa cómoda!

El taller también es la excusa perfecta para salir de casa, reírnos un rato y después ir de vermuteo!

Para más información sobre el taller mirar el súper poster adjunto que el equipo del DiaV ha preparado con tanta iVaginación;)

Por favor, distribuir este email entre vuestros contactos de la comarca, ¡contra más seamos, mejor!

Un saludo

DiaV

Tsunami on Nikola Tesla Street

So yesterday, I was in my groove, perfect song pounding through my headphones, pondering how wimpy Serbians are about rain while running to catch a bus, only to be swamped as it washed a total tsunami of dirty street water on me. And we are talking, like, I couldn't see, there was water in my ears and my hair was soaked. So, I get on the bus, positively dripping, sputtering, but also kind of laughing at the hilariousness of the situation and dabbing mud off my face. And although obviously every single person on that crowded bus saw my incident, not a single person laughed with me or cracked a smile! It was stony faces all around. And then that made me laugh even harder. Such a foreigner.

Reminded me of the laugh attack we had in Brighton when my friend was telling about how she fell flat on her back in a drunken unbalanced moment, and instead of catching her, all the Brits just stepped out of the way of her falling body. For some reason, this incident totally made my day. Bizarre woman I am, that having nasty water splashed on me can put me in a good mood. Less than a week left in Serbia, and though I am sad I am also so invigorated about seeing new places- first Budapest and then off to Spain for a month before flying to Bangkok, Thailand. DAMMMNNNNN, international plane tickets are an aphrodisiac.

Decisive Moment

Back to childhood today- fell down and skinned my knee and went to the zoo with my friend and her little daughter. Considering the urgency that is being 22, and the current romantic irony that plunges me in alternated possibility and exhaustion, it was so nice to just slow the fuck down. See four-year old joy and trust, be touched by this tiny complete little person. I miss touch almost recklessly.

Walking to the office I saw a photograph I had studied for an assignment, ‘The decisive moment’ which submerged me into a reverie of thought. In the photograph, the man is walking on water- yet we know he is about to fall in, trench coat and all. We rarely know which moments will be decisive until they have arrived and we are changed. Yet even as I write that, I can think of a handful of utterly epic decisive moments... I remember I chose to take a quiet approach to the inspiration, and those images of my mom on the beach are some of my favorite photographs. She is quiet, trusting me, the moment is full as the frame, the shadows rich, the skin texture complex. In the other her feet are splayed in the sand, and I feel so tender towards the indentations left by her socks. I would like to appreciate quiet moments like these more.

I made some beautiful photographs at the zoo. Instead of zebras and tucans I had all these stolen little moments of mother and daughter, and they just got erased which is so incredibly frustrating! I swear, technology hates me and acts all spontaneously malevolent in ways that are theoretically impossible. For example, why did this photo upload vertically? Sigh sigh. So much for appreciating quiet moments, I'm watching a movie.

Taking it to the streets

Apocalypse?

Woke up to the real Thanksgiving, and it was one of those mornings where you read the news and the world seems to have gone to hell overnight. My obscene good luck seems to have ground to a dramatic halt. Having just submitted my Indian visa and almost bought my ticket to pursue double research in Mumbai, I woke up to hear the city is in flames, that Americans are being targeted, hostaged, murdered on rooftops. My back-up plan, Bangkok, Thailand is coincidentally also on the verge of catastrophe and all the airports are closed while Americans are being flighted out… I am fully aware that these are thoroughly selfish responses, I additionally have deep sorrow for those who have been affected. And the production here has been canceled because funding pulled out at the last minute. While this in itself is educational and relevant to my research, and though I’ve already learned much and will continue to do so my last weeks here, it is still a downer. I was so jittery yesterday that I felt highly over-caffeinated, then realized I was just feeling stress and sadness. Guess it’s a sign of how well things have been going that I didn’t recognize it as such. I feel restless, as all the options I was so excited for are closing to me. I guess if I get stranded in Spain it won't be such a bad thing, ha...

My mom’s voice as it crackled like autumn leaves through the no-doubt very expensive connection yesterday, would counsel taking this moment to reflect upon what I am grateful for. Yesterday I pretty much just had the heart to hibernate. And today I don’t have any eloquence regarding my gratitude, but it is of course still present; mainly in the deep love I am radiating out from this freezing Balkan city to project around the world. My people are so scattered, but I am so deeply lucky to know and care for as many people as I do, and to know they in turn love me. I have received massive support, letters, a near constant stream of love and news… For this I am deeply grateful, as well for the physical safety of those I love.

Stuffed

I cooked an entire vegetarian Thanksgiving today! It rained all day, and I was cozy inside over steaming pots and creatively maximizing a poorly equipped kitchen. I got the date wrong, but the food right. Yet as nice as it was, with the mess delayed till tomorrow, a gifted plant, and good company, I’m feeling… I was going to say lonely, but that’s not it- I feel old. I feel overwhelmed by all that I don’t know and weighted down by what I do. I feel capable- I can imagine a 30-something-th Thanksgiving in which I feel trapped, and my capability leads to resentment. Makes me shiver. Makes me feel tired. Tonight, I have to consciously shift this image, push it aside. Maybe I’ll be more thankful come Thursday’s REAL T-day.

My most remembered and maybe most beloved holidays have been the most complex ones: Christmases pervasive with death, or delayed flights, or potlucks in Ecuador, or winter trains to the middle of the U.S., or freezing Midwest heartfull, or New Years in a cantina in the Republica Dominicana. I hope my quirk-factor outweighs the rest. And that this premature-Thanksgiving in the Balkans is a premonition of sorts. Of spontaneity trumping superiority. Of my own optimism. Let it be, amen. I hope I find someone who can remind me of my best self by their love. And also that I grow enough to be able to remind myself- more consistently anyways.

Succint May Memory

Memory:
Early May, pretending the tentative spring evening is undiluted summer, I put on paint stained cut-offs and started my last art project of college. I'd delayed, not out a lack of desire, but wishing to create something conclusive, important, to capture these fleeting moments whose worth I was suddenly fervently aware of. I spread out on the deck, and though it was too cold and my mess of tissue paper and photo scraps not conducive to the wind, this succinct moment is preserved with great care. I think I was nostalgic even as it was occurring.

My roomie and dear friend Elliot was reading in the chair, bundled in the blanket I identify with him and sipping tea, probably English Breakfast. We pulled a lamp out, and it was as though we created a cozy living room under the stars. Heady with a youthful hubris of our own creative spontaneity. The lilac was just starting to bloom. I would pick flowers and leave these offerings in their rooms much like my mom did for me- oh how obvious our learning pattern of how we show our love.

This evening was so COLLEGE, so ardent and urgent and fleeting; this home we so earnestly created and dissembled. These minutes so soon to be eclipsed by night chill, obligations, hopping on my bike to rush to the darkroom- a moment gone, but whose existence is more significant than its passing.

I don't know why that came to me so clearly right now. Perhaps because I long for a sense of belonging or creativity. I am so damn anonymous these days. We huddle our sense of self in our activities, in what others know us for, in what we do. So of course learning the more grounded facets of ourselves will be a lonely business. I know in my bones I will long for this transience as soon as I return.

CHOICES

~Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina~
(Nov. 17th 2008)

I am in one of those slightly discontent moods that I can't quite shake; not solid enough to have beauty in its melancholy or light enough to be banished by an overnight bus ticket or sickly sweet espresso and postcards to loved ones. Today I had a moment of total dislocation, discordance, and the jangle of nerves like I imagine the snap of a guitar string to be. A perplexed jolt of, 'what am I doing here?'

Usually in moments like these, making art or others happy (same thing? what is more creative than love...) brings color back to my eyes. While writing doesn't carry the visceral release of paint or toxic photo chemicals, its the best I can do in this moment as I huddle over a cafe heater. I spill words over torn out book pages to honor my emotions in a plea or prayer for a more intentional life. In this "prayer", I try to be glad that I can feel anything if not the emotions I would choose.

Re-reading what I'd written reminds me of a poem by Nikki Giovanni that I love:

CHOICES

If i can't do
what i want to do
then my job is to not
do what i don't want
to do

It's not the same thing
but it's the best i can
do


If i can't have
what i want . . . then
my job is to want
what i've got
and be satisfied
that at least there
is something more to want


Since i can't go
where i need
to go . . . then i must . . . go
where the signs point
through always understanding
parallel movement
isn't lateral


When i can't express
what i really feel
i practice feeling
what i can express
and none of it is equal


I know
but that's why mankind
alone among the animals
learns to cry

I miss refill mugs of NW coffee...

Its a sleepy Sunday. Some great dramatic sunlight slanting the grimy apartment walls across the street and splashing some color onto the grey. Listening to Graceland. Made a huge jug of Turkish coffee to try and redeem myself by some productivity post-clubbing-till-6 am and sleeping-in-till 2 pm. The night-life here has a fast metabolism and lots of self confidence. I am super impressed by the party stamina and only hope I can make Ellie proud by shaking the Polaroid picture till the wee hours of the morning. I dig this bar called, get this, sound it out, "Bitef Art Cafe" where raucous cover bands play the soundtrack of my life- ie. dirty dancing and other songs that in the States basically serve for bouncing around your room in your panties here become ultra HIP. Hilarious. And then this other bizarre techno club on the 9th floor of askyscraper where I got to be on feminist patrol, lucky me!

I don't know when I will cease to be amazed by the subtlety with which life in a new place becomes normal. It seems so elusive, that moment when you suddenly look around and realize you have people, and purpose, and routine, and spontaneity, whether its Mexico City or the gritty and glamorous Balkan Belgrade. And in that gentle shift from new to a sense of place you forget all the work, energy and self-doubt that went into making a home and just marvel at the reality of it.

Saving the World and Dying Alone

I appreciate the candidness of the women I'm working with at the ATC (www.atc.org.yu). We talk about taboo subjects such as burnout/exhaustion/NGO tourism, etc. I am allowed to ask questions, to receive blessed permission to not think about sexual violence all the time. To see INTELLIGENT idealism in action, and what action!

But having the most brilliant gorgeous woman look you frankly in the eye over instant coffee and say love and partnerships are virtually incompatible with devoted activism makes me squirm. My god, if she can't juggle it all, how will I? Its possible to live a very complete and meaningful life, but to somehow miss that part. I've seen it happen, and its gradual, and there is no fault in it. There is a window of time that you can miss- and I'm not talking biological clock bull, because I intend to be having sex in my 70's. No, I mean a period of time when you are still flexible and your heart has an imagination that can expand to include another flawed human being into your life dream. I don't want to miss that. But though I'd like to think my desire alone is enough, its not. No one ever thinks they'll be the one who won't find staying-love; we all kind of think we are the protagonists of our own stories, and every good story has some kind of romance.

I desire love and I desire a career synonymous with a cause that I can give myself over to: to be a vessel. But if you volunteer for said immersion does that mean you don't get to be a whole person? I reject that. I also fear it. I fear becoming so focused that everything, and more importantly everyone, becomes problematic- that I become so morally outraged and urgent that I become rigid and unforgiving. I think so far I value balance too much to be truly great at anything, and for that I am glad. A part of me hopes this extends to love as well; that I can exchange lofty ambition for a humble but meaningful life with a partner by my side.

I want it all. I want to care deeply with real compassion, yet I don't want Eve's voice whispering in my ear as I try to sleep about women in the Congo being forced to watch their husbands be decapitated or to eat babies. How do these realities exist in my world alongside crushes and horniness and normal things like eating brown rice every day and making sure I have clean clothes? I want to be able to draw myself a hot bath to relax from endless articles about rape used as a strategy of war, and sink into the hot water mindless as muscles unwind... Instead of picturing Cassie's ex-boyfriend crouched over another bathtub dismembering three limbs and wondering what the hell that means? Is a head a limb? How do people do that? I do this work, though I haven't been raped. I am learning to fear men and that is NOT the lesson I want to take away from this. My fantasies as I walk to the bus aren't about someone I like, but about kicking ass.

We have a responsibility to love ourselves and truly LIVE our lives, as we fight for women to have this opportunity. If I could be a witness in the Congo, stand in front of a tractor or shame the peacekeepers or something, I think I would do it. I would die for a cause but only if I thought it would do some real good. Our lives are not only our own, but belong to those we love and who love us, and perhaps also the people we fight for. So what's the answer? Eve says daily dancing should be mandated. We eat lots of chocolate in the office. I have no answers, only questions.

New Days

(Obama pride over blackberry beer)

(All Saints Day in Zagreb, Croatia- poignant sad music as everyone flocks to the cemetery)

These last two weeks have been so full; I have hesitated to put my thoughts into words. I miss art- messy chalk pastels and leaky acrylic under my fingernails. However, as I feel some of my revelations slipping away as well as my intentionality, and writing and photography seem to be my creative outlets, I'll go ahead and forego the succinct "moral of the story" posts I seem inclined to, and just spew what's in my heart right now.


Like my quirky Halloween in Croatia, surrounded by Couch Surfers and 80's techno (I'm missing filthy American dancing...) election "night" was equally surreal. My sense of the urgency of needed change in U.S. foreign policy has increased exponentially since being in the Balkans. Americans are perhaps the favorite categories of comedy here: our ignorance to geography, languages, overly fake friendliness and obsession with being PC while being international bullies... Though elements of this are of course correct, I've surprised myself by the things I DO appreciate about the States, as well as my reaction to the hypocrisy and easy laughs inspired by perpetuated stereotypes. Having heard more blatant sexism, racism, and gallons on homophobia since being here, I appreciate our self-conscious guilt (until the point that its crippling not catalytic).

Even in the face of so much Obama-ptimism, there is utter disillusionment/hopelessness among Serbians towards the U.S.; more so than any other country I've visited. Perhaps its to do with the visual reminders: buildings that still gutted and decimated by our bombs. Point is, stayed up all night curled in bed watching the BBC election results pour in whileskyping with Lin in South Korea and Megan in San Fran, and while it wasn't partying in the streets w/Oprah, there was something appropriate about watching the sun rise while tears leaked down my face and Obama delivered his eloquent acceptance speech. So, I tremulously/proudly donned my Obama-t and walked to work, and the few "I love Obama!"s that I got were enough to water my hopes that some day we may actually be cautiously proud to be Americans...

a few more fav. pics :)

Photos from last year's WU production! Warm my heart.

(These photo are courtesy of the lovely and talented Emily Tess Johnson, should be viewed as copywrited, etc. and not re-used without her permission)

"And I saw what Art can do"

(Excerpt of Eve speaking about V-Day's work in the Congo and collaboration with the UN/UNICEF)

"[...]we did these public tribunals, when I was there. In Goma and Bukavu, where ten women in each city came forward and told their stories before government officials, before UN officials, before hundreds of people in their community. It has never happened in the Congo that women have broken silence.

These women were so fierce. We worked with them for a week everyday, practicing their stories, telling their stories, doing trauma exercises, releasing… And then they got up, and they were so strong, they were so fierce, they were so powerful. And both events were filled with men who were weeping, literally. Kleenexes were being passed out. Governors were there, high officials were there. We would never have have gotten [...]the high officials... the – UN brought all those people. They are able to bring in all kinds of players and actors in the story that V-Day would never have access to. And we’re able to do these radical moments of breakingthe silence, and telling their story, and spreading pink, and spreading red, and spreading a whole different kind of energy [...]

I’ll tell you another example of our collaboration that sums it up. Last year we did huge demonstrations in the streets of Bukavu and Goma, and 8,000 women marched in the streets of Bukavu to stop the violence. And it was beautiful. And in the end, there was this huge stadium, and there was speeches and we did this whole performance [...] she [Justine, famous Congolese actress] had organized a theater piece which was about rape. And they were doing this whole community-based piece, where women were being raped, and they were calling on the cell phone- and this was in front of all the U.N. officials, and the first lady, who had come [...] All decked out, in this pink outfit! No kidding, she looked like Princess Diana, in pink [...] during the piece, Justine got dragged away, by a rapist, and when she came back, she had a little baby in her arms, who was a product of rape.

And she started to scream, “I have been raped, by so many men, that I don’t know the name of my baby!” And then she took the baby, and she threw the baby onto the first lady's lap. Threw the baby! Just like that [mimics motion] And said, “You. Name my baby!” I have never seen anything like it in my entire life. The first lady just went, [mimics total shock] scoops up the baby- all the guards were like [mimics sound of loading guns] but they couldn’t shoot the baby, right? And there was just like this moment, 5,000 women watching, and everyone just gasped.

And then the first lady sort of scooped up the baby, held the baby, and the first lady changed all her plans. She stayed at Bukavu three days. She came and danced with the rape women. She fed the rape women, she joined our campaign. And I saw what art can do, but I also saw UNICEF and V-Day. And the UNICEF people were like, ‘Did you plan that? Why didn’t you tell us about that?’ And I was like, ‘I dunno, it just happened!’ [laughter] And that’s what we are able to do together. And that’s what, at our meeting in Goma, the UNICEF people said, we need you to be who you are. You need to go and push the edge as far as it can go, and we need to do what we do."

Cassie

I thought of Cassie today. I do occasionally, only once a month or so now. But for awhile what was done to her haunted me. Its not that I had ever been so close to her. Katie was. I remember her as being golden and rosy. Very kind. Overly bubbly for me, who has been called overly bubbly; she was that warm. I remember how her gruesome murder shocked us, it was incomprehensible. And I was also obscenely curious. I'm not proud of that. I was on a plane when I finally read the article about exactly how he had killed her, a total nightmare of dismemberment and death at the hands of the boy she had maybe loved. I thought I wanted to know. But I still haven't forgotten the sickly strawberry smell of my vomit as I heaved, my body out of control as it reacted with utter horror.

Its years later now, and when Cassie crosses my mind she individualizes statistics for me. Having just compulsively re-read articles and looked through her memorial site, I'm struck as well by my sorrow for him. What happened to this boy? What do we do to our boys so that they do this to our girls? Sad too by some of her family's assertions that Cassie would never have been a victim of domestic violence. That means nothing. Do any of us know what we would really do in these profoundly sick situations? Haven't we all realized with fear how deeply in love we were, and wondered what extremes that love would put up with? More to the point, the power dynamics that color nearly all of our desicions.

I remember her memorial at EMS, sitting in a circle singing hippie songs that were at once beautiful/fitting/tawdry/obscene. How the teachers seemed so much older with grief. Thinking we were too young to know how to do her justice. That she was too young to die. I think now that this will never get easier, but only harder. How nearly all of my close friends have been raped or assaulted. When asked to step in the circle if I've known anyone who has been a survivor of assault I don't even know who to picture anymore- its a blur of faces. Does that get easier? No. Each time I am more angry, more convinced that I have to find someway to make this better.

Re-reading Cassie's words for her own eulogy moved me, and I hope they touch you. I can only imagine what a sweet life she would probably be living now. If I were her, if I were dead, if I could be, I'd be pissed off, 'oh good, my death helps remind you to live more fully. Nice.' But I can't imagine Cassie being so bitter.


"There are those who lived longer, and those who lived better for the world, but she made a difference that mattered, even on a small scale. She was protector to her family, and to women who thought themselves weak. She taught them, as best she could, to find confidence and inner power Ÿ She decided she was going to adopt as many female children as she could support; she brought up those girls to be strong women Ÿ She wrote books that didn't reach mainstream bookstores, but the content mattered Ÿ She loved dogs. The world's not drastically different because of her, but there are signs that she lived. The women she raised grew up to be powerful, and took those values into the world with them. Dogs led happier lives, and her books touched the lives of few, but loyal, readers." (Cassie Brown)

Belgrade bars are way too cool for me

Sipping beers in a bar with pianos as tables, I was struck by how open communication can be with strangers. I miss being around people who know me so well. Yet there is also something liberating when you can have genuine conversation with someone completely new; just jumping in, getting glimpses of their history but never having the whole story (which you couldn't have even if you'd known them their whole life).

I was struck by this, and also a little saddened by how quickly apparent so many of our scars are, even when shared as something already passed. So transparent, as old heartbreaks bubble to the surface three hours in. Are my own sorrows and insecurities so apparent as well? It makes me wish I could meet myself in a bar, chat objectively, just to know how blatantly these hurts show. Then again, maybe I don't want to know.

I've been gone almost 100 days. How startling. How urgent. Having my ticket to Barcelona somehow makes my time here feel more real and fleeting. While very aware of the complexity of this statement: I am learning to be happy here.

Excerpt from the European V-Day Workshop that moved me

(my morning walk along the waterfront)

I love this, how sometimes its about not asking- about resisting and perservering...

"Sarah: Hi I’m Sarah. I’m actually from Memphis, Tennessee [...] I’ve been involved in V-Day for about six years [...] in Memphis, and then I brought it to my university, Mississippi University for Women [...] It’s a very small school, about 2,500 people, and a really conservative area, so I had- I asked my junior year, and was shot down by the president. She said I could quietly show the movie. So I showed it.

Eve: QUIETLY show the movie [laughter]

Sarah: It wasn’t very quiet, I don’t think she liked that much. And my last year, I just didn’t ask. [laughter, “yeah!”] And we had it in a room about this size, we had a hundred people crammed in, so it was a small presentation-

Eve Go girl!

Sarah: - but it got a lot of awareness out, and we gave the money to the Mississippi Coalition Against Domestic Violence, the Hurricane Katrina Fund, Which helped with shelters that had been torn down from the hurricane.

Eve: I want to just say, you all don’t know Mississippi. But to do the Vagina Monologues in Mississippi, is like doing it in Islamabad, Pakistan. [appreciative laughter] Its about the same, it’s about the same. So I just want to say, kudos for your bravery! You go!"

Book recommendation!

Please please read Eve's book, a collection of pieces by notable men and women poets and authors about ending violence. It is now being used as a tool in community and university productions just as the Vagina Monologues is. I'm just starting it, but found Eve's first words in the introduction moving. I share them with you below, and hope they inspire you to seek out the book.

"Words. Words. This book is indeed about words. Speaking the unspoken. Speaking the spoken in a new and viable way, speaking the pain, speaking the hunger. Speaking. Speaking about violence against women not because it is the only issue, but because it is an issue that lives smack in the middle of the world and is still not spoken, not seen, not given weight or significance. So that words crack open numbness and denial and disassociation and distance and deception. Speaking so that we are in community, in conscience, in concern. " (Ensler, 13)

Quarterly Report

3 Months done :(
See mushy report below:

http://www.fileden.com/files/2008/6/20/1967513/Quarterly%20Report%20

Susana challenges Bill Gates

(Excerpt form interview with Susana Moscatel: co-translator/adaptor of Mexico's VM script)

"[...] I have this column for the newspaper, and every year, EVERY YEAR, I update my software...and it keeps telling me the word vagina is misspelled. And I keep on laughing so hard, and ... A year ago I wrote to Bill Gates, and I told him that vagina is the right word in Spanish. It is not misspelled. It doesn’t mean anything else. And he still hasn’t corrected it! So every year- I’ve been doing it for seven years...So every year, I think, ‘Okay, time for the vagina thing again!’ And I check and its still a mistake! ... And I find it unbelievable, you know?! So I think that’s the kind of thing this play, the Vagina Monologues, can change. Because somebody somewhere programmed that to be a mistake, or didn’t program that in... The way that if you write a curse word, it marks it.
JM: As though it doesn’t exist…
SM: But you write penis, and there’s nothing wrong with it.
JM: Oh, pene goes through?
SM: Yeah, pene’s right, it doesn’t correct it [...] It might just be someone’s mistake, but its been so long. And I DID write to Bill Gates!

Home #...?

I am sitting in the new "flat" I am likely paying way too many Euros for. BUT, I have laundry hanging on the balcony outside my room, good company and an unpacked bag. It is right next to the conjunction of two rivers, and walking there last night and this morning I felt comforted. It reminds me of the Portland Esplanade and all the important moments I've had there. Like there, people walk their dogs, ride bikes, fall in love, families unwind after a work day, old couples stroll out their last years.

Having met with the mighty women of ATC (Anti-Trafficking Centar), it makes most sense for me to stay in Belgrade to be part of the momentum leading up to bringing the VMs to Novi Sad for the first time. I'm going to be a participant-observor, and help out as well as document. In November I'll take two week-ish to go to Bosnia and Croatia and do interviews with some vagina warriors who have collaborated in the past to creatively spread a "V-Triangle" across the former Yugoslavia.

They are so inspiring- Don't look much older than me, but founded the NGO five years ago and tackle multiple and interesecting issues with bravery and brilliance. It was humbling to hear the constraints that they face, as they talked about how being an activist for touchy subjects is to daily risk your life. Talking honestly over blackberry beer, I felt myself surrounded by a kind of energy and solidarity. They remind me of Dawn and I. It was a relief talking about how to remain individually and communally sustained, and the grassroots movement's predispopsition to burnout. I feel so green. Driving last night through beurocratic red tape, my roomie pointed out, "and there's the Chinese Embassy that you 'accidentally' bombed".

I could go on for ages, but will leave it there, because I have to write my Quarterly Report. It seems impossible three months have passed. True, my hair is awkwardly longer. The seasons are changing. But it fills me afresh with a desperate desire to make this count. Knowing I will be back the 24th for Courty's wedding is strange; it makes me feel old to be going to my freshman year roomate's wedding. And at the same time, it gives me a reason to go back. It is something I can picture- a dress, reuniting with college friends, dancing with Angie, Megan making some hilarious toast- these are things I can picture, whereas two months from now I draw a blank.

Belgrade~Beograd

Belgrade has elements that are so familiar, yet distinctive. Kind of like when you get a wisp of thought that reminds you of last nights’ dream, but the details are blurry. Had a strange experience having stepped off the plane, and then the bus, of having directions given to me in Serbian and somehow understanding. I can cobble together a piece-meal understanding through Spanish and English similarities. I haven't travelled somewhere I don't speak the language in a long time, and it is humbling. Which feels healthy in the same satisfying way that salad does.

Its as though my skin is coated in a light film of emotions rising to the surface. Reading the most beautiful book, and I'm like an old lady crying at every little thing- whether extremely sad or beautiful or both. Imagine what an emotional time-bomb I will be when I actually AM old, yikes.

Having made my way up a precarious elevator to Three Black Catz hostal, I was offered a shot of home-made plum brandy. And since then have been amused and amazed by Belgrade. Think: Turkish coffee. There is also such recent violence, and I'm only beginning to get a grasp on the history. It was eery to see children playing on old tanks and weapons at the fort, as well as the eardrum-destroying sound of planes thundering above. Though it was an aerial show, mere years ago the planes could have been dropping NATO bombs. I'm hoping to meet with the anti-trafficking NGO goddesses tomorrow. I have ganas de getting my ass settled in Novi Sad. I want to be able to sleep naked, do laundry and unpack my stanky bag for awhile.

London beauty by night

(So, I actually didn't feel that emo walking the waterfront, but I couldn't resist- I just felt so damn cool listening to my Coldplay and strolling with my date [my camera])

At night they would go walking ‘til the breaking of the day,
The morning is for sleeping…
Through the dark streets they go searching to seek God in their own way,
Save the nighttime for your weeping…
Your weeping…

Singing la lalalala la lé…
And the night over London lay.
So we rode down to the river where the Victoria ghosts pray
for their curses to be broken…
We’d go wandering neath the arches where the witches are and they say
There are ghost towns in the ocean…
The ocean…
Singing la lalalala la lé…
And the night over London lay.

God is in the houses and God is in my head… and all the cemeteries in London…
I see God come in my garden, but I don’t know what he said,
For my heart, it wasn’t open…
Not open…

Singing la lalalala la lé…
and the night over London lay.
Singing la lalalala la lé…
There's no light over London today.

Too much tea- weighing me down this London afternoon

Its strange how I’m studying the breaking of silence through being quiet myself. I am learning so much about listening. Spending so much time with others, absorbing their stories, so that when I have company, I feel more quiet than usual. And of course spending more time alone also means more silence; even though thoughts are ricocheting through me quicker than usual.

At slightly melancholy moments like this, I feel like a kind of neutral receptacle, a bit of a non-person. Going so many new places, making so many rich new acquaintances, but aware that no one knows me deeply, or perhaps not as well as I think I know them. I suppose I am sharing of myself in a different way than I am used to. That's how we remain open, by voluntarily sharing of ourselves. And I need to remind myself to speak out, whether asked to or not, to remind myself of who I am. Most times I feel more intensely myself than ever, but there are moments when I get lost.

And I feel so lucky to be in this experience, that I feel guilty for feeling lonely, or cranky, or whatever, because even in the midst of that is my privilege and my gratefulness for this opportunity. I remember reading some of the Watson blurbs, and they felt so self-pitying to me, so focused on the self, when I want to focus on my project, and I figure the self revelation will naturally accompany that.

I'm thinking a lot about the devastating violence Eve told us about in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and how to know these things, and let them in, and not choke. She said, 'These women lived through hell, and survived. You are not going to die just hearing it' No, but I'm trying to learn how to give myself over to being this useful tool, and at the same time remain that "seeker of beauty" that I used to envision myself. How to care for ourselves enough to maintain our efficiency and drive, without floating indefinitely in the mundane, or petty. So after I finish transcribing this endless interview, I'm going to go out into the sunny autumn day. I'm going to go to the FREE National Gallery and look at some Boticelli, DaVinci, and Duccio. I'm going to brush up against strangers, and probably see some incredibly human detail that fills my heart and reminds me that what we are fighting for is a revival of our full humanity.