So is this thing still alive?!

Let's see...

Travel & Wyclef Jean

"Why do people go on polar expeditions? There's nothing to see there, but something attracts you. It's hard to describe why you travel, you don't realise it until you're back home again, where you can profit from the memories for a long time. You've got a kind of inner store. When things aren't going well, you just go inside and get a glass of travel preserves for your soul, open it and fill up on it."
Till Lindemann (Rammstein)

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Pretty good cover/live performance, and amazing acoustic performance of a great great song.

a card unsent

loved

and overloved.

fail gloriously part ii

I had the idea that writing a blog would compensate for my homelife. It brought about some great distractions, sure, but in retrospect, I realize that the only purpose it really served was to throw present circumstances into such contrast that everything is black where I know there must be some light. I have to open the windows, somehow, sometime. I’m done here.

I think most readers of this blog who would like to keep in touch have my email. If not, I’ll put it in the comments upon request. Sorry for all the coming and going and changing names. I tried.

Steph, I hope you’ll continue the blog. It started as yours, and it’s still yours.

It’s been real.

fail gloriously

Two things. First, I’ve been stopped increasingly often lately, on my way here and there, to help drivers parallel park their cars. I love it, almost as much as being stopped by someone asking for directions. I take it to mean I look something like a local, like I have some idea where I’m going and what I’m doing. I tend to fail when it comes to giving directions; I know my way around, but on foot, not in a car, and I don’t know the names of streets so well. Helping someone park, however, I’m brilliant: it reminds me of the days when I was first hearing Greek, and I thought everyone in this country was named either Ela or Opa. Ha.

Second, I just called the mil. It's that bad.

tough

not liking anything

No stink bombs yesterday, but again it was a difficult class. I came out with my face burning red and my hands covered in black ink from the stupid white-board marker. I asked Maria if I had any marker on my face as well, and she said, no, but your hair is sticking up everywhere. I must have been a sight.

Earlier in the day, the plumber had come again, so buka and I couldn’t leave the house. It was one of those days when she doesn’t like anything, not me or my projects, or any of her toys, or even food. I thought she’d pass right out at naptime, if she was half as worn out by it all as I was, but she didn’t like that idea either. She fought it hard for half an hour or more, making noise, banging walls, even folding up her crib mattress into the corner in boredom and protest -- before she finally fell asleep on the cold bare plastic. I covered her up and we both got some rest.