#me and a ten dollar bill are going to the friends of the library bookstore

[wanderingnork]

I keep trying to get back to reading physical books and it seems nonfiction is the way to go. The last two books I finished (In Vino Duplicitas and A Libertarian Walks Into a Bear) are nonfiction narratives—a biography of a wine fraudster/exploration of fine wine culture, and a narrative of a libertarian social experiment that ran afoul of bears/discourse on American history and libertarianism in general, respectively.

Currently I’m working on Meander, Spiral, Explode, which is both a discussion/analysis of narratives that don’t follow the “traditional” Western linear “rise/climax/conclusion” framing and something of a how-to guide for people who want to get away from that in their writing. Little bit pretentious, but I’m loving the deep exploration. Also coming away with an improved idea of how to do things I’m already doing more deliberately.

I think the key here is to step away from fiction. For whatever reason—and frankly I don’t care to analyze it—fiction, any genre, just isn’t working for me right now. But I want to read books, I want to get back to that, and judging by this mark nonfiction is the way to go.

[argotmagazine-blog]

Dreaming in Silver

There is a figure at the edge of the playground, standing perfectly still and silent. Were it not for the little tells—the way the October wind teases her hair, ripples her dress—she very well might be part of the architecture, like the benches or the swing set. That’s the trouble with being human. There will always be little clues that reveal our humanity.

There is only one family remaining at the park. The time for visiting parks is nearly over; winter is just around the corner. Yet the children run, shouting and laughing while they skin their knees. At first, they do not pay the figure any mind. After a while, the oldest child, a girl of about ten, stops and stares.

“Holy shit,” she says. Her mother shouts “Young lady!” from the picnic table where she watches, wearily and warily. “Sorry, Momma!” the girl responds.

As she approaches the figure, there is wonder in her eyes. “You’re real,” she says. More a statement of fact, than a question.

The figure does not move, does not respond. She is tall, silver from head to toe, her face hidden behind a masquerade mask. A basket is clutched in her hands, and at her feet, a bowl with a few loose bills inside.

By this point, her three brothers have joined her. They stand in wonder around the figure.

“Move!” says the youngest, his pudgy cheeks flushed with excitement.

“She can’t move,” the sister responds. “She’s one of those statue things.”

“I’m gonna kick her,” says one of the middle children, matter-of-factly and without malice.

The sister shoots an arm out, glaring at her brother. “Don’t you touch her.”

“But she won’t move!”

“That’s her job, dummy!”

They stand around her for a while, debating the finer points of the statue’s existence, with particular focus on what kind of weirdo would go stand in an almost-empty park painted head-to-toe in silver? They lose interest after a while, and they return to the playground. That’s one of the joys of childhood; things may be transient, may hold attention for only a moment, but children lose none of their joy from the friction of brevity.

Soon enough with his siblings distracted, the youngest child approaches. He looks up at the silver woman. There is real wonder on his face.

“She’s a fairy,” he says to no one in particular, his voice painted with awe. His grubby fist unclenches, releasing a handful of pennies and one nickel hitting the bottom of the bowl.

Slowly, the statue lowers herself down to the boy’s level, reaching into her basket. There, on her outstretched palm, is a small scroll tied with a purple ribbon. He takes it in the greedily curious way of children. The statue smiles, putting a finger to her lips, and then returns to the same pose she has held all morning.

Of course, he does not heed her request for secrecy. He runs towards his older siblings, shouting, “She moved, she moved!”

“Bullshit!” says his sister, earning another “Young lady!” from their mother, this one more forceful. “Sorry, Momma, but he’s lyin’ again!”

“I ain’t lyin’, she moved!” he insists. “She gave me this!”

As the siblings gather around to look at the little scroll and she is sure that there are no wandering eyes to witness, the corners of the silver woman’s lips—my lips—turn into a smile once again.

***

When I was a little kid, I went to California for the first time. I remember two things about that trip. The first was I was told I would earn “my wings” on the flight. Three-year-old me was dazzled by visions of getting to run around San Francisco with full-size Buzz Lightyear wings. It was a bit of a blow to discover said “wings” comprised of a little metal pin. Nonetheless, I wore it with pride. Besides, I got to see inside the cockpit and even sit in the pilot’s seat, which was a pretty great consolation prize.

The second thing that I remember was the statue. There standing near a fountain, surrounded by pigeons, was a man. He was painted bronze from the tip of his top hat to the toes of his shoes, and he stood stock-still. One of my parents slid a dollar into my hand and told me to offer it to him.

Timidly, I held out my open palm, and the statue jolted to life. He smiled down at me, performed a robotic dance during which he plucked the dollar from my hand. Then he returned to his stationary pose.

I was enchanted standing there with the statue towering above me, once again silent and still. I was in love.

Love later found me sharing a bed with another woman for nearly five years.  I figured my life was as good as over when I suddenly found myself sleeping on my best friend’s couch instead. A three-year engagement had crumbled nearly overnight. Now I was living out of a backpack and stealing food from Western Michigan University. I had not attended Western in three years, but that didn’t stop me from smuggling gallon freezer bags into their dining halls and walking out with enough spaghetti and stir fry to feed the multitudes outside Bethsaida.

To say I was somewhat despondent for the first few days would be an understatement. But soon after I had a revelation. My life falling apart meant my life no longer had any boundaries. I had nothing to lose. I was free to do all of the stupid, wonderful bullshit I always wanted to do and never been able to due to domestic obligation. So, I ordered a silver wig and makeup online, took a trip to Goodwill for clothes which I then covered in silver spray paint. I was reborn.

I remember the odd looks I got the first day I dressed up; the bus driver looking at me with suspicion as I, silver from top to bottom, sat with a basket full of scrolls in my lap. Kalamazoo, Michigan is a pretty small city so far as cities go. While you see plenty of weird things on the buses—I once saw a woman carrying a stack of no less than five VCRs—my appearance was certainly novel.

For someone who’s always wormed her way into the spotlight, I’ve always had a hard time when it comes to being noticed. I used to hide those insecurities behind eccentricities, things like wearing a top hat casually. Oddness had always been a shield. However as I felt people’s eyes trying to peel back my metallic layers, I realized that this was different. This new face that I had painted on, this new identity, was no shield. It was a shelter. The only difference, I realized, between a bridge and a wall is the angle from which it is built. I was no longer a stranger in a strange land, but part of the architecture of our world. I was humbled.

The first day, I decided to establish myself on Western’s campus. There was a certain kind of cosmic rhyme, I thought, returning to the school I had left. Only this time, I returned not as a student but as part of the campus landscape.

One of the interesting things about standing completely still, your only interaction with the world in your direct line of sight, is that you realize how little other people notice. As I stood by the flagpoles in the center of campus, hundreds of students passed me. Only a handful noticed me. I even saw one of my friends, who passed by less than ten feet away. When I asked him later about the statue, his puzzled response was “What statue?”

There’s something about the lack of acknowledgment that makes any attention or response morph into a holy act, a kind of communion. I stood there on the first day for maybe four or five hours and earned about ten dollars. Each rumpled bill was worth far more than any paycheck I ever received.

On the way back to my friend’s apartment, I was accosted by a group of Jehovah's Witnesses who were apparently delighted by me. They laughed and tried to get me to talk. My silence only seemed to excite them more. They didn’t offer any change, but eventually they did give me some literature. The concern for my mortal soul did not go unappreciated.

When I arrived back at my friend’s apartment, I began to sob, my tears cutting streaks through my silver makeup. They were not the hard, razor-edged tears that I cried every night since the breakup, but a fountain of raw joy. It was, I realized, the first time I had really felt alive in more than a year.

And so she came to be.

The original name I came up with was “The Tarnished Poet.” But after my best friend posted a blurry picture of me walking through her backyard with no context online, the good people of Facebook bestowed upon me a much simpler (and far less pretentious) moniker. “The Silver Lady.”

My first name came from the core of my performance. I would go to the used bookstore in the basement of the library, find poetry books that looked as if they had been there the longest. I especially enjoyed finding local poetry collections that had been printed, and then forgotten, years ago. My favorite was a chapbook of poems by fifth graders that had been published sometime in the early Aughts. I would then gently tear out each poem, roll it into a scroll, and tie it with a ribbon. For everything that was placed in the bowl at my feet, be it a handful of bills or a single penny, I would hand the person a poem. One day, a child gave me a piece of candy. They received a poem in return.

Art does not exist in isolation. It is a metaphysical conversation. Acting as a gateway for these fragments of writing, the little pieces of themselves strangers poured onto paper, made me feel connected to everything around me in a new and humbling way. For as long as I could remember, it had been my dream to change the world. There in those moments handing out scrolls, I realized we change the world every day. It’s not the magnitude of our impact, but the grace with which we move.

On perhaps the second or third day, a girl timidly dropped a dollar into my bowl. She shuffled away quickly as soon as I handed her a poem. About a half hour or so later, she returned. Tears shone in her eyes as she smiled and met my gaze, which she had not done before. She said “thank you” before dropping a five dollar bill at my feet and scuttling off. It was the only money I made that afternoon. I never felt richer than I did that day.

However as nice as it would be to pretend the money didn’t matter at all, we unfortunately live in a reality where that is not the case. My attempts to find an actual job were fruitless. With no steady income, there was no way for me to get an apartment of my own. Ultimately, I ended up in the homeless shelter due to my presence in my best friend’s apartment causing conflicts with her roommate. The details of that stay are a tale for another day. Suffice it to say it was a nightmare. Yet there was a shimmer of hope even then. As I left the shelter each morning, I would don my true refuge, painting my face and putting on my mask and stepping out into the cold. Even as the first winds of winter whipped around me, I felt safe in my silver skin.

My body had long been a source of shame and fear for as far as my memory reaches back; a treacherous scrapyard I needed to navigate with care to avoid slicing myself open against my own sharp edges. The dysphoria flowing through my veins turned my body into a broken down carnival of fear and loathing.

But to stand there, silver, silent and still, my only purpose simply being, was an exercise in existence. I could feel my atoms touch those of everything around me. For the first time I did not feel apart from the world, but a part of it. I felt like a tiny grain of sand somewhere along the shores of time. That smallness did not make me feel worthless or insignificant. It made me feel humbled.

There were no screams of anguish from between my legs, no worries about how much I weighed or how my body occupied space. After all, a statue’s only purpose is to exist, to take up space, to be exactly what it is. For the first time, my body became not a straight-jacket but an instrument. I had been acting and performing since high school, but this was something different. It was a becoming, a transfiguration. I was not playing a statue. I was the statue, a sculpture I carved from my own flesh. I transformed the raw elements of my body into something that made me feel real and beautiful.

After I secured an actual job, I did not stop standing on street corners. When I eventually did, it was due to the weather when it became too frigid to perform safely. I’ll admit there were a few days where I should not have been out in the elements but gave myself freely to them nonetheless. It was my statueing, in conjunction with a fundraiser one of my friends set up, that allowed me to finally escape the shelter. At the shelter, we were required to relinquish our paychecks to the management. So I carefully kept the money I made performing in a folded sock. Eventually, I scraped together enough for a down payment on a place. Hand in hand with my silver lover, we broke free.

We made plans to take the bus to Chicago and perform there, but they were cut short by an accident. I landed in a wheelchair for about four months. As a result, I still walk with a cane, and it has left our future together an uncertain. I do not know if I will ever be able to stand unfettered the way I once did before. But I know that I trust her to guide me where I am supposed to go.

She is a part of me, of course. There is no Silver Lady without a V.F. Thompson. But she is also something far greater than an outward manifestation of myself. She is my savior. She danced my way in a metallic dream and offered her palm. It would be easy to say that she saved my life, but I think that’s only half-true. In many ways she killed me. I am not the woman I was when I first painted my face and stepped out into the world. Nor is the life I am living the life I lived then. She taught me that we live and die a thousand times before we leave this world. It’s how we come back to life that truly defines us.

The first time I dipped a sponge in silver powder and put it to my lips, her mouth pressed against mine and breathed the universe into my lungs. Every beat of my heart sends liquid metal swirling through my veins.

What a joy it is, she whispered to me, to simply be.

V.F. Thompson is a Mid Michigan-based writer of odd curiosities and curious oddities. Though she lives mostly in the realm of fantasy, she occasionally dabbles in real life. When not writing, she enjoys comic books, trying new recipes, and a well-brewed cup of Earl Grey. She currently resides in Kalamazoo, which she assures you is a real place. Follow her on Tumblr, Twitter, and Facebook.

[backbenchershq]

How To Start A Business Without A Computer

For anyone who has wanted to start a business and says “I can’t” this article is the solution to all of your woes. For anyone thinking she doesn’t know what she’s talking about and she is full of it. Let me give you my own personal testimony.

Many, many, many moons ago in 1985 I had become quite bored and disgruntled as a city government employee. It was unfulfilling and I knew there had to be more to life than this. I discovered in 1997 that I was an unconventional personality type. (Before that I couldn’t tell you what my problem was. No job ever satisfied me.) I became fascinated with computers and information. I collected all kinds of what I considered useful information. My passion for knowledge and information kept me in libraries and bookstores. (Barnes & Noble and Borders)

Fast forward it’s 2002 and I am unemployed with little to no income. I have discovered my passion and it is information. Also along my path I discovered I am an Entrepreneur. So with this information I move forward in starting a business.

There is only one problem, I have no computer, listed below are the steps that I took to get to where I am today.

GET A LIBRARY CARD-The library is your best resource and, you can take care of all of your research and informational needs at one time. Now let me give you a word of caution! This library thing is deep and if you don’t know how to work it you could get in a jam.

I live in a suburb of Philadelphia, so the library situation has gotten better for me. Be forewarned that in Philadelphia it’s every man for himself. Whomever gets there first and makes their reservation that’s the person who goes first but, be on the look out because the person may have changed their mind (They get a five minute grace period after their sign on time.) and forfeited their reservation, that’s when you move in and ask the librarian if they can put you on that computer. If you’re lucky and you go to the right library you will have one full hour to use the computer.

REGISTER FOR CLASSES-This one really worked out for me in 2002 because I was taking one free class at the Community College and a paid class at the University so I had the best of both worlds. I was able to go to the University library 7 days a week and during mid-terms and finals week the library was open until 12 midnight. So I got a whole heap of work accomplished. It was okay because all of the workers and my classmates got to know me as the one who stays in the library until midnight.

FAMILY MEMBERS-Now when I couldn’t get to a computer and the library was closed. I would use my mother’s computer, of course there were limitations and I couldn’t get all of the things done that I wanted. I also on occasion would go to my father’s house and use the computer but, I would have to make sure none of the nieces and nephew were on it, or had any pressing projects.

FRIENDS-Now this is a tough one because when you go to a friend’s house there are interruptions. They might start talking to you, asking questions, invite you out to eat, or “I am heating up such and such do you want some?” Of course who can pass up a good home cooked meal? Maybe you can but I do admit I love to eat. Especially a well prepared mouth-watering meal. If you have a friend who leaves the house or room and let’s you do your thing, then GO FOR IT!

KINKOS-This can be very, very, very, costly. I usually use them as my very, very, very last resort. I am sure you get the message about cost by now with the emphasis on the word “very.” Now with Kinko’s you will have to get a plastic card which is free, but you must put money on the card. You can put as much or as little as you like. They also have the credit card option that you can use in the computer and the other machines.

Always watch your timing on the computers because you could run out of money and have to refill your card in the middle of a project. I know because it has happened to me on several occasions. You will have to jump up run to the machine, refill your card and pray to the Almighty no one jumps on the computer you’re using and terminate your session.

Also make sure you have change in increments of one, five or ten dollar bills because trying to get a hold of an employee is a project. Especially if they are working on a print job or something else that commands their undivided attention.

Kinko’s is a place where you can take care of your business needs. For the patrons they have paper cutters, three whole punches, rubber bands, staplers, and paperclips. Some office supplies can be purchased there also along with printing your own digital photos. Now when you go into Kinko’s you are totally on your own and bring your common sense with you when you go:)

SET UP YOUR E-MAIL ACCOUNT-This is very critical and important to the success of your business. People need a way to contact you for whatever reasons and you need a form of communication for yourself. Plus this is also a way to build your list up for contacts once you get the business rolling and you probably won’t need to purchase a list of names to mail out your promo information and your products for sale.

For example as a result of my accumulation of names and addresses I have close to 100 names on my list. Now with that I can contact everyone with my information and if they are not interested the people on my list know how I operate. Forward it to someone who can use it. I can’t tell you the number of email messages that I get with at least 30 to 50 addresses attached to it! I can’t begin to imagine the number of people that one of my messages reaches.

Let’s just put this in perspective a minute so you can visualize this.

Ex: Person A (That’s me) sends a message out to 30 people. Those 30 people send a message out to 30 people. Those 30 people send a message to 30 people. Now we do the math:

30 x 30 = 900

900 x 30 = 27,000

27,000 x 30 = 810,000

810,000 x 30 = 24,300,000

Total reached 24,300,000

Now let’s just say you are selling a product at $29.00 and just 1% of those people purchase your product which would be 24,300,000. You will have made $7,047,000.00. Now this is possible because Forbes just added 120 billionaires to its billionaires list ([http://www.forbes.com/free_forbes/2006/0327/111.html]) from last year so people are making money.

Now you will want to do a search for free email sites, I presently use Hotmail and Yahoo. Also you will want to look into a list managing outfit, because AOL, MSN, and CompuServe have a limit. Some options are Spark list, Topica.com, Postmastergeneral.com just to name a few.

START YOUR OWN SITE- Use the least cost effective way to do this. There are promos for cheap Domain names but by the time you add everything up if you don’t have a lot of resources this can be kind of costly. There are other options out there also for instance one woman I know started one on a Christian site, but she couldn’t sell anything.

Also watch out for the rip off sites that take your money and you get nothing for your trouble. I got suckered into one of these deals. (SO BEWARE!)

Then there is the blog site which I use and it is free. You can do a search for free blogsites, and I recommend http://www.blogger.com they seem to be pretty reliable.

Copyright 2006 Arlene Whiting

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[booksforthebrave]

First Post from China

Okay, I PROMISE I’ve been meaning to post about how things have been going but I just haven’t had the time or have lacked energy until right about now. SO! Prepare for a looooooong post while I talk about what’s been going on. Also, if you even want to find my posts just about life in china, search the hastag #BftBinChina

Starting way back on December 16th-17th when I arrived in China:

The flight was actually alright, ya know, for a fifteen-hour flight. Well, actually the guy next to me kept trying to infringe on my space so I ended up wrenching my shoulder a bit. I didn’t sleep till near the end of it when I dozed off for about thirty or forty-five minutes during Inception (this after I binge watched about seven hours of the inflight Food Network shows and watched Gone with the Wind which I thought I would fall asleep during but apparently I like it too much to sleep).

I arrived in Shanghai, got my luggage and was able to get to the Ramada I was staying at that night. Got some sleep, went back to the airport to catch my flight to Fuzhou, and…..missed the flight because I was still in security when the gate closed. See in China, when they say take off time, it is the actual time the plane leaves the tarmac, so the gate closes twenty or thirty minutes before then. If you’re in security, they won’t let you through, you have to go back to the counter, change your flight, have them track down your luggage and bring it to you so you can check it in AGAIN, and then go through security again. Luckily there was another flight just an hour later, though I almost ended up changing it to the afternoon flight because they seemed to be taking a long time finding my luggage and bringing it to me.

Kaylee meets first road block: My phone isn’t working. It will not connect to the wifi so I can’t get on WeChat to tell my dad that I missed my flight. I try and buy a sim card and it doesn’t like it. I find the business center of the Shanghai airport, the woman lets me use the phone to call the phone number I have for dad…who doesn’t answer.

I have like five seconds of panic then decide I’ll just keep going and hope for the best. The very, very kind guy at the ticket counter when I recheck my luggage not only assures me I can make the flight but he walks me through the terminal, through the shortest security line, and then power walks me to the gate so I make it. One very short plane ride later and I am in Fuzhou, get my stuff, and head out the arrivals gate.

I don’t see anyone holding a sign for me and I kind of panic again for a bit. I try to get WeChat on my iPad (which is connecting to Wifi) but the verification stuff stumps me (aka, sending a code to the phone that doesn’t work). I then work up the nerve to go to the “Visit Fuzhou!” desk and ask to borrow their phone. Daddy picks up this time, says he’ll call the woman who is supposed to be picking me up, and not ten minutes later she comes rushing up, slightly frantic.

The rest of the day was getting to the apartment, meeting up with Dad (who I haven’t seen in person since August 2016), visiting the school briefly, and just trying to stay awake till bedtime (which kind of worked, I dozed off during the Battle of Scarif in Rogue One).

I spent about a day freaking out and just being overwhelmed to the point of tears. The rest of the week was mildly freaking out every time I had to leave the apartment or school because I was still finding my way around, and was riding a scooter (traffic laws are nonexistent here). But as of today I have gained my confidence, know where pretty much everything I need is, and can get around either on foot or on the scooter.

I am settled in my room, pretty much unpacked (there’s still some clothes that need to be ironed and hung), I have my part of the pantry with food for me, and I often have a cat cuddling with me (dad’s cat, a beautiful boy named Chairman Meow. I usually just call him Kitty).

 School and my library:

So the school is Fuzhou Lakeside International School; and for a school that has signs everywhere that says it is an English campus, I haven’t heard much English from the kids and even some of the teachers. But that’s alright, my job is the library and making it useable.

It’s a cute little library, has a couple thousand books (really not that many considering most of them are kids books), some desks, lots of display shelves and some deep cubby like shelves that each can hold two rows of books. As in, someone shelves the books, then pushed them back in the cubby and put ANOTHER row of books in front of the shelved ones. No surprise that when I was pulling books off to sort them (because the sections were basically, picture books, series, classics, and bilinguals) there were books still perfectly in order because no one knew they were there!

Nothing is labeled beyond the library barcode which is on the inside of covers and there is no set place for that, it’s just on the inside cover. No Dewey Decimal numbers for nonfiction books, they were just on the shelves with the other books; and someone had put the Twilight books under classics. Half the space is also closed off to the students because there is a textbook area that needs to be reorganized both in terms of shifting books and shifting shelves to make more room for the main library area.

Luckily when I set up a meeting to discuss needs and goals with my administrator, she fully supports my ideas. When I go back to work on Wednesday (because I worked three days and then we are off ten days for Christmas and Western New Year), labels and a label maker will be waiting so we can start working on those and I will have a tape measure and masking tape to start laying a floorplan, so we can determine what new shelves would suit.

Fuzhou: food, places, and scooters:

Pretty much everyone rides scooters or mopeds and it is not uncommon to see people riding on sidewalks, or going the wrong way on streets and in bike lines, and ignoring red lights to go. You kind of just have to say you’re going and go. It helps that the cars tend to move way slower than at home so your real danger is just from others on scooters. My first three days I almost crashed twice, and took the turn into our drive too steep so the scooter fell over but after those I focused, practiced, and don’t freak out too much unless something drastic happens.

Dad’s apartment is located on the fourteenth floor overlooking West Lake and West Lake Park; the view is spectacular. The building is also conveniently located, we can walk to school in about ten or so minutes, or scoot there in less than that. There are two Walmarts fairly close, dad’s favorite bar is down the street as is a cute little restaurant called Omellete Woods, his Thai place is across the street as is a little convenience store, the bakery 85 C is on the way to work (there is also one in Richardson if you want to try it out) and pretty much around the corner is Three Lanes Seven Alleys.

Sanfang Qixiang (the Chinese name, pronounced Sahnfahn Sheshan) shopping center built over and around an outdoor market from several hundred years ago. The buildings are all meant to look like they would have back then, there are some little kiosk like shops in the main lanes and no scooters are allowed so there’s just a ton of people but less chance of being run over. All kinds of shops are there; food, clothes, bakery, juice, books, and even a Starbucks (more expensive than back home!).

Important: the exchange rate is about 6.5 rmb for 1 US dollar, so I went to the bookstore and for two brand new, shrink wrapped books that are in both English and Chinese I paid 49 rmb, or $7.50. So keep that in mind because I’ve mentioned different food places and I will say this: we eat like kings. We went out to dinner with one of our coworkers who likes to eat as much as dad and I, filled the table with so much delicious food there were leftovers and it was 176 rmb, or $27. Dinner at the Thai restaurant the other day was mango beef that made me swoon, some amazing cod with vegetables and chips, and some pineapple dumpling things: 165 rmb or $25. We went to a Turkish restaurant called Aladdin’s where we ate lamb chops, potato salad, hummus, and soufflé (sorry, I don’t know what that bill was, I was praising the food to the cute waiter).

There is also a foot massage place that dad goes to a lot, and I use the term foot massage loosely. Because what happens is that they first put down a tub of super-hot water with tea in it to soak your feet it, then they have you turn around, so they can give you a shoulder, back, neck, arm and hand massage. THEN they start on your (now red like a lobster) feet and legs. This is an hour-long massage… for 50 rmb or $7.60. Yes, you can get an hour long massage every day for about twenty days for the same amount as an hour-long massage back home in the States.

All in all, I think I’m adjusting well. I get a lot of looks, being a tall, blonde, American woman, lot of people want to take my picture and about half of them do it on the down low. I’m even adjusting alright to living with my father again (which I was worried about because I am an adult. The cat helps, he has abandoned dad for me). One of dad’s friends is going to help me with learning some basic Chinese as right now I can say hello and thank you. Hopefully I’ll make some friends soon so I’m not just hanging out with dad and his friends, though that will probably be slow going as I am still myself (read: homebody).

Two weeks ago, I didn’t think I could make it till summer vacation. Today I’m thinking of going window shopping at scooters, so I can get one painted Batgirl colors and wondering where in China or even the Pan Pacific that I should go for the month-long holiday for Chinese New Year that we get in February.

Yeah, I think I’ll be okay.

[joshuazev]

On injera and carts of math books:

It’s snowing in Seattle.  I can see it all over social media my mom even face timed me to show the beginning of the fall.  It’s cold here and drizzling.  Throughout the entirety of the day I was thinking of how nice it would be to resort back to old traditions back home with my family.  Sit on the couch and watch a movie or two.  Eat some sweets like some chocolate chip cookies, a Christmas cake (but a jewish rendition), or some chocolate chip banana bread.  The quote of the week seemed to be that Christmas didn’t really feel like a holiday anymore or maybe I just heard a lot of people speaking the same bogus.  Kyrie Irving, the point guard for the Boston Celtics, who is infamously known for pushing the “world is flat” theory said that he doesn’t consider Christmas a holiday, anymore.  To him, and his case is specific, it’s just another day to spend time with your family.  As a professional basketball player I can see how that might be the case, but I think that applies to everybody.  Yes, it’s still the most hectic holiday—with respect to adoration and preparation—but when it comes down to it, everybody loves Christmas Eve and Christmas because it might be the only day where everyone’s family gets together.  And even though I don’t celebrate it, this is the first time I’ve ever spent these days away from my family.  It kind of sucked.  It did suck.  Now, that being said my roommate and I still did what we could to make the most of it.  I bought groceries at a pretty tame Trader Joes.  (According to the cashier it wasn’t very crowded because a lot of people living in New York aren’t from New York, so everyone was back home).  I did some laundry.  I woke up late to another grey sky and cool day, so even though I wasn’t physically back home the elements were trying their hardest to provide an embrace.  Upon the suggestion of my roommate, we tried to have a Christmas eve meal somewhere, but to our dismay most of the places were closed.  We ended up meeting with a friend of mine and going to a vegan Ethiopian place that she and I had gone to a couple of days before.  It was one of the only places around that was open late.  A couple of us literally got what the menu called a “Feast,” which was a huge plate of injera with seven items from the menu.  Lentils, greens, beets, you name it.  It was filling and delicious all at the same time.  For some odd reason I was inclined to drink some wine with the other two.  We emptied a bottle of red pretty quickly, and not being used to getting tipsy from drinking wine, I became drowsy by the end of the meal.  In the first ten months of this year I could count the amount of times I had something to drink on two hands, but for some reason I’ve been drinking more lately.  I’m a bit disappointed in myself because it was one of my resolutions to greatly reduce and try to not drink at all, but it almost feels like these last couple months have been a relapse of sorts.  I’m not an alcoholic, but alcohol—especially in social settings—is such a crutch.  Disciplining myself not to drink when there are drinks around might be something that I have to practice over time.

There were many opportunities today to get on the right track in several different areas of study, cleaning, and mindset, but my overriding excuse to everything was that it was Christmas and I would take care of it when the holidays were over.  I almost got trapped into saying I’ll just take care of it next year considering that 2018 is in a week now, but luckily I didn’t go that far.  I’m not getting down on myself for being lazy today or for not accomplishing the tasks I wanted to accomplish, but I’m very cognizant lately of troubling trends and bad habits.  Like always, I know that recognition is not enough—I must go through the trouble of changing.  Sometimes when I’m walking around the city I ask myself if other people have done what they need to do to change, not knowing who they are or what their current situation may be.  On the way home from the restaurant there was a guy on the subway with a heavily tattooed face asking for money and wearing what looked to be a brand new leather backpack.  Or when we were waiting for the train, there was this guy who was speed walking, dropped the sweater he was holding and then tried to sell it to us for three dollars.  I always wonder what it would be like to be homeless.  What would the struggles be.  I looked on a social media post that showed a homeless man acting out on the street.  Two of the visible comments were by ex-NFL players who agreed that homeless people were the freest people on the earth.  I didn’t know exactly what they were talking about, but after a while I could kind of see where they were coming from.  Then again, walking from stop to stop today when the winds were doing their chilly best to give my body frostbite, I agreed that being homeless wasn’t on the top of my list.  In one of my earlier posts I talked about some moments of anxiety in which I realize I’ve been holding my breath and it makes me take a huge gasp, almost like I’ve woken up from a nightmare.  I feel for the homeless population, especially during times like these.  I wish they could be with their families.  I wish they weren’t spending their time trying to stay warm in the cold.  Good thing there is a new tax bill that’s looking out for them…

This week I made two separate visits to Strand’s bookstore, near Union Square.  I didn’t really have a point to going there, but there was a book I was interested in reading and at the time there was 175 plus holds on all of the copies at the library.  So, when I got there and saw that the hardcover was $24 and that it was a New York Times bestseller and that plenty of copies had already been sold, I told myself that I would treat my visit to Strand’s as if it was the library and I would try to just read the book there.  The book, which I have almost finished now, is called “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F***.”  It had been recommended to me by many of my friends and I was interested in taking a look to see what all the hype was about.  The first two chapters (my first visit) made me very defensive.  A lot of the author’s mentality is backwards and attempts to challenge out hardwired ways of thinking.  A lot of it was obvious on the surface (we stress out too much) to the types of advice that makes someone like me a little less comfortable (we need to stop caring as much and we need to accept that not everyone is extraordinary, potentially even us).  I realized that during my second visit (the next two chapters) that I would need to try to find the information I agreed with and take the rest with a grain of salt.  I was naturally skeptical and questioned how genuine this author really was.  I wondered if he stood by what he was saying or he was just trying to make money.  I also wondered if it was my own insecurities that were questioning the advice of a successful man.  I don’t know for sure, yet.  I’m hoping to go back soon and finish after a couple more visits.  My thoughts on self-help books haven’t changed much, though.  I don’t know why, but I’ve stayed away from them.  On the surface it makes me look pathetic because it looks like I’m not trying to help myself, but call me crazy, I just feel like a lot of those books are a bunch of bullshit.  I’m sure they work for some people.  I just don’t know if they work for me.  It’ll be good for me to finish this one.  

Strand’s was a wonderful sight though.  It was earlier in the week, so I think it was a wonderful mix of the everyday vibrancy of the bookstore and all of these men, women, and children who were there in the hope of trying to find a decent gift for Christmas.  I reveled in the business of it all.  A city within a bookstore.  Creatures scurrying around.  It was fantastic.  The first day I sat on a bench on the second floor and people came and went to sit beside me.  Finally one older guy sat down next to me with a bunch of math books and started to take out his notebook and begin copying random equations down.  The second day, I went to go to the same bench and there was no room to sit and sure enough, the mathematician was in the same exact spot with his notebook, math books, and cart right in front of him.  I went to the other one in the back and after about fifteen minutes this older guy sat down next to me and was struggling with a slow I-Phone.  I suggested that maybe he get out of all of his open applications and he looked at me like I was speaking Chinese.  It took a while, but when he let me show him how to do it his phone started speeding up again.  He said, “How much would you like?” and with a confused face, I shrugged it off and told him that I hope his phone starts working better now.  He ended up striking a conversation and we talked for a little while.  He couldn’t hear very well, so I had to repeat a lot.  He continued on about how he loves music and preferred to listen to the opera in Europe because the acoustics were way better over there than the “crap” in America.  When I told him I was an actor, there was good conversation to be had, but then he started to take some ill advised left turns.  He talked about Kevin Spacey, Hollywood, Weinstein and other relatable topics.  His stance would have been torn apart by women and his final conclusion seemed to be that he was an amoral person and that we were ridiculous to be in a position to judge morality or to judge someone else’s morals.  I realized that I had shut him off when I could tell his opinions were getting on my nerves and looking back on it, I wish I hadn’t.  I had made a mistake and an error in judgement and instead of trying to hear him out and tell him why I disagreed I turn the sound all the way off.  Like Matt Damon and other men recently who insist on giving their opinion on the topic, a spectrum of bad behavior should have been considered.  To me it sounded like men that were comfortable with an old way of life trying to justify a machismo society, but maybe that’s what my tone deaf ears were telling me.  The amoral comment, which really struck a funky chord, is one that I’m still trying to unwrap, but maybe, all things considered, he was making a good point.  We are all creatures.  Creatures that have done and done wrong, so really, who are we to judge, at all?