Birthday

Tomorrow is my birthday. These past twelve months have been very productive and a remarkable time of change, and in honour of the day, I thought it was only appropriate that I should list the my most significant events of the year to help me remember and thank God.

1. Visited Nepal for the first time. (In fact, I turned twenty-five in Kathmandu, and my fellow team members surprised me with party hats and a song when I was in the middle of brushing my teeth.)

2. Became facebook friends with Kollywood superstar Resh Marhatta.

3. Attended my first Nepalese football game.

4. Met the goalie for Nepal's national team.

5. Visited India.

6. Had the pleasure of Natalie's company in the winter.

7. Bought hamsters.

8. Sewed a skirt.

9. (Unexpectedly) became an English teacher in Singapore.

10. Visited Memphis, Tennessee, and had barbecued ribs.

11. Attended my first Major League baseball game -- The Orioles versus the Isotopes.

12. Attended my first ever American July Fourth in America

13. Moved into my first real flat all by myself.

14. Fostered a cat for five weeks.

15. Bought my first Christmas tree.

15. Passed the 40,000 word mark on my story.

16. Started the highly successful Writers' Club as an extracurricular activity for my middle schoolers.

17. Planned and executed my very first school field trip.

18. Was featured as an evil sorceress in more than one of my students' stories.

19. Became Editor-in-Chief of the school newspaper.

20. Snorkeled at the Coral Island (twice).

21. Had one of my photos featured in a calendar for the Cat Welfare Society.

22. Visited Penang, Malaysia with my parents.

23. Bought my own roll-top desk.

24. Made new friends

Overall I am very pleased with this year. I visited three continents and met many firsts with style. This year I am already looking forward to finishing up my book and traveling to Durham (to see Natalie) and to London (to see sister Sofia) and to Sweden (to see my family and friends). Planning for the future has always satisfied some deep-set desire in me; it is in the human condition to make plans and long for their fruition. It is good and hopeful for the quality of the heart.

Men, Men Everywhere

On Saturday I was stopped by a man on the escalator. "I saw you," he mumbled, "and I really like your hair colour, and I thought I should talk to you. Where are you from? Oh, Sweden. You don't look Swedish because you don't have blonde hair. I thought you were part Indian." He stops for breath and holds up his hands. "Give me ten seconds. You can start counting down. " He fixes me with a look. "Are you interested in me or not?"
I admire him for his tenacity.

Today another man ran after me. "Miss!" He had come to divulge his romantic overtures as well. "I must see your receipt."
It was the cashier from Cold Storage. I find the receipt in my wallet, and he inspects it. My card had been declined. He says something very polite about going back to the store, sorry to trouble me for the inconvenience and that he'll carry the bags--and then I have to interrupt and I say I haven't any money and awkwardly hand him the groceries--he stares, for a moment disbelieving, then embarrassed of having to rob me of my daily sustenance, and we part ways, equally sheepish.

In class little David Han asked me why I was still in school by four thirty. (Nevermind that he himself had been running around with his cardboard armour up until that point and at that particular moment he was securing the strap of his shield with tape from my room.)
"I am grading," I replied. "Sometimes I go to Starbucks to write on my story."
"Don't people stare at your hair?"
"I suppose they do."
"Do they like it?"
"I guess?" I say, "Someone paid me a compliment just the other day."
"Are you going to be here next year?"
"Yes. I'll be here."
"That's a relief. Then I can still do stuff like this."

By 'this' I can only assume he meant making armour out of cut cardboard and hanging around my air conditioned classroom until his mother arrived to pick him up, and maybe, just maybe it was a thank you and a see you later.

Summer Is Necessary

I have pink eye. What? What is happening to my immune system? First infected sandfly bites, then a week of headaches and almost fevers, and now bleary conjunctivitis? I reported to school today for work, but they told me to go away. Preferably to a doctor's office. But as none was open so early in the morning I had to go to Starbucks and wait for half an hour. Before I left work I told them I would go to this favorite of their haunts and run my hands up and down the counter and finger all the condiments by the cash register out of revenge. That's what you get for shuddering and calling me 'unclean, unclean!' I'm looking at you, Scot Byrd.

Fund Run, Part I

Today I attended my school's annual Fund Run, which raises funds for the school year to come. I took lots of pictures, but I haven't had the time to go through them yet, and it is much too late to do so now. This picture of me and my seventh grade boys makes me indescribably happy. Just before it was taken, Joseph held my umbrella for me to let me take pictures of the milling crowds and Bryan asked me if I could keep his charger in my bag (out of the rain) while he went running. I am so pleased to have not only earned their trust but also their kindness.

My Desk

My roll-top desk is a beauty and wonderful for writing letters and other creative endeavours. All writers should have a place of peace for this selfish business we call art. 

Trixia's Pix

Here are two of the pictures Trixia took during our time about Singapore. She takes all her pictures with manual cameras--braver than digital where a picture can be taken and deleted in a mere moment--and if you're even remotely interested in photography, I think you would like her tidy little blog Green Sea Blue.

I like these pictures mostly because they help (falsely) cement my status as a legitimate photographer.

This was taken outside of Vivo City, by the harbour as the sun was beginning to set. 

Poetics

On the Coral Isle, I found some time for poetry, and though I am not feeling particularly poetic at the moment, I can look back on my glory days and recall the genius that was Sanna Gabriel. The first poem I wrote for the Rebel Shang because she wanted a poem. The second one we wrote together, with the final line being hers, and the one titled Wayward I wrote without outside interference. Now read my iambic pentameter and weep.

The Lady

The lovely lady waits for sleep,

Half in slumber,

listens to the seething surf outside,

filled with wonder

that a night, so still and starry bright,

exists at all and she is here to hear it.

Redress

I want to be free,

You can’t make me dress!

I won’t wear that sweater

Or that shirt that you’ve pressed.

No clothes for me!

I refuse to comply

to your itchy instructions

and your civilized Lie.

I wish to be me,

as nude as can be.

I strip, I tear!

I’m all-over bare!

Now there are only clothes

over there.

Wayward

I said,

“I tell you they cry out in anguish, souls

a-flame, afflicted by my tortuous sin

of pretense. O my pride has brought me low!

I flew false flag, professed a faith not mine,

and donned the sandals of a liar’s gospel.

My feet have walked a weary path and paid

the price of such ill-fitting garb. Now I

repent after the sin has claimed its tax.”

Said Mother,

“Oh, stop it. You’re being dramatic.

They’re just blisters.”