Sunday, October 04, 2015

I've stopped blogging - and it makes me sad

Next month would've marked the 10th anniversary of my writing on this blog. When I uploaded my first post nearly ten years ago––something about an unsuccessful day of attempting to shoot deer in the woods on my grandpa's farm––I could've hardly imagined what a big part of my life journey it would end up being. The good times, the not-good times, the questions, the adventures, the failures, the triumphs and the in-between that most of life is actually comprised of, nearly all got processed, celebrated or vented through blogging. And this blog was always the venue.

I say "would've marked the 10th anniversary," because, very sadly and unexpectedly––most of all to myself––my days of writing on this blog have come to an end. It's not an announcement so much as just an observation: I've stopped writing. I just went two straight months without a word––in the 9 years previous I'd never gone more than two weeks.

When I left the US and set off on this adventure a little over a year ago, I had high hopes for writing about my travels, experiences, and the people I got to know along the way. What I didn't quite foresee, though, is that doing all those things would have some side-affects. One of those was losing my ability to really be completely open with anyone.

Being funny, informative and insightful were all things that I strove for––successfully or not––in what I wrote on this blog over the years. In the end, though, those weren't ever really the object. The object was to be open and honest about my life––struggles, questions and frustrations not withstanding.

These days though, my life has become complicated. I've become a lot of different things to a lot of different groups, and––tragically at times––a lot depends on me being those things.

And if you're sitting there reading this thinking: "I know exactly what he's talking about," you probably shouldn't be so sure. It's not a situation where one group knows everything and the others know something. You probably know something. The list of people I can really level with is getting desperately short.

The great tragedy of the whole situation is that it doesn't leave much room at all for open and honest writing.

It just keeps getting more and more difficult––and so I've done it less and less.

I suppose I could just go on and try to write funny, informative or insightful posts about happenstance things without plumbing the depths of my soul too deep or communicating anything meaningful about my hopes, fears or plans.

But like I said, those things aren't the point. I believe being open with each other as people is one of the most important and basic things we can do. And more than that, regardless of whatever kind of ludicrousness I've got wrapped up in lately, being honest is still a part of who I am as a person. If keeping that comes down to just not saying anything, then I guess I should be prepared to do that.

So it's with a certain amount of sadness that, on the eve of ten years of blogging, I have to say that I've officially stopped.

Hopefully it's more of a hibernation than a retirement. It may well be that in a year or two things will be clearer than they are now.

At any rate, thanks for reading.


Wednesday, July 22, 2015

My desires, reality & battleships in the desert

"Well, we're in the desert, looking for the source of a river pollutant, using as our map a cave drawing of a Civil War gunship, which is also in the desert. So I was just wondering when we're gonna have to sit down and re-evaluate our decision-making paradigm?"

The quote is from the character Al the film Sahara. When I first watched the movie I was 15 or 16 and the line stood out to me because I thought it was funny. If I could've only known then that there would be quite a number of times in the future when I could apply it just about as aptly to my own life.

Like the heroes in the movie, it's not infrequent that I find myself pursuing seemingly unobtainable desires through haphazard or even irrational strategies. Whether in my education, my dating life or my career; the last few years of my life have been an adventure. Some parts of it might almost give the film a run for its money.

Sitting down right now and "re-evaluating [my] decision-making paradigm," I have to ask myself some hard questions (if I may burden you with some details).

In the amount of time I spent studying for and taking the FSOT, the LSAT, the ASTB etc, I could've probably filled out applications for about 1,927 jobs/grad programs that I was more likely to get.  Why didn't I?

In the amount of hours of Arabic instruction I've had, I could've probably been at least respectably conversational in––say––Portuguese. Why didn't I study Portuguese?

I'm currently living in a place that, while friendly enough, I know by now will never really accept me, no matter what I do. Why here?

So, like Sahara, it's been an adventure.

Unlike the heroes in the movie, though, I have yet to find my Civil War gunship in a desert and corresponding river pollutant source––if I may use such an unwieldy metaphor.

Like most people, I try to pursue the things I desire to do and the things I feel are right to do. Unfortunately, it seems for me that those things are almost always unobtainable things. And, whether for lack of aptitude, focus or some moral flaw, I tend to go about pursuing them in rather irrational ways.

Again, it is an adventure. One that may look kind of exciting from far away. The reality is, though, there have been many, many times I wished I could be the guy who wanted to do something he was actually good at, was good at something society presently needs enough to make a living doing it, fell in love the first time with a girl who loved him back.... etc.

Maybe my desires themselves are the problem. It may be deep down I'm a romantic with pretentious visions of grandeur that are not only impossible but also ridiculous. Maybe I just need to learn to settle for things someone with my IQ, my body, my family connections should actually hope to accomplish.

Or could it be that, for now at least, I'm supposed to be finding fulfillment in the adventure itself? I kind of like that idea, but it's hard in practice.

And what if the adventure of pursuing unobtainable goals becomes/has become the thing I desire more than the actual goals themselves? That's one that really bothers me.

As usual, I have no answers for Al. Only the reality we're in the desert, looking for the source of a river pollutant, using as our map a cave drawing of a Civil War gunship, which is also in the desert.

Will we actually find it? Maybe someday.

Friday, June 26, 2015


I’m so easily disappointed. And it’s terrible. 

The reality is I have an amazingly unique, exciting life. For the past nine months I’ve got to go a lot of places most people from my background only know vaguely as names on a map. I’ve had the opportunity to get to meet tons of terrific individuals who are culturally, intellectually and spiritually way out of my league, but who still generally take an interest in getting to know me as well. More than that, I’m surrounded by people who care about me and think probably much more of me than they should. 

Forget about comparing myself to other people “of my background.” Just compare me to me 10 months ago. If myself 10 months ago could’ve seen what he’s doing now, I’m pretty sure he’d have been thrilled. 

10 months ago I was extremely discontent (and a number of people said with good reason). Given the massive differences in my own little world between now and then, though, shouldn’t I be significantly more content now than I was then? Perhaps at moments I am. But at at least as many other moments, I’m not. 

Where in my previous life, I got crushingly disappointed by things like getting rejected from the job I’d wanted since my sophomore year of college, getting broken up with, etc, I’m sometimes afraid I now get crushingly disappointed by the not-happening of things that, back then, I could have imagined only as the most abstract fantasies. 

I now find it easy to be completely bored with days and nights that would’ve blown my mind just a year ago––and then get depressed because something even more doesn’t happen. I get upset at myself for failing to meet personal goals––that I couldn’t have even known where to set just a short time ago. I feel like an outcast for failing to impress people I couldn’t have imagined even meeting before. 

What’s worse, I start to interpret all of those––albeit relatively ridiculous––disappointments as direct continuations of my failures and frustrations in the distant past. And so disappointments become crushing disappointments. 

What's the reason for this?

Some years ago, I was into playing the video game Halo online. The interesting thing about playing Halo online is that the system always matches you with people who have a similar performance, so even though your game may be improving massively, you actually never feel like things are going particularly better. Before you can even realize that things have improved, you’re automatically moved to an environment where you are at least slightly inadequate.  

So maybe it’s like that. Kind of like a goldfish that always grows to fit its bowl. In my more positive moments I try to think of it that way. 

In my more negative moments, I’m inclined to take what might be considered the more Biblical view, that I ought to just “[learn] in whatever situation I am to be content” (reference Philippians 4) and all those things I’m being disappointed about are in fact entirely and completely meaningless (reference entire book of Ecclesiastes).

In light of the general deprivation and suffering of so many people in the world––especially today––and the complete self-centeredness of most of the things I tend to be disappointed about, I’m afraid that second theory is probably more valid. The only issue is, it’s sooooo difficult to keep that in mind constantly. Do you know how? Please tell me. If I ever figure out how, I’ll tell you. 

Until then, disappointment. I don’t like it. 

Thursday, May 14, 2015

I'm always sick in Cairo - But it's worth it

I'm in Cairo, again, which naturally means I'm on lots of meds. In fact, I think next time I come to Cairo, I will just start taking broad-spectrum antibiotics before the plane touches down.

Why do I inevitably end up having to take antibiotics in Cairo? Because in Cairo, I eat lots of junk.

Why do I eat lots of junk in Cairo? Because it's delicious, and it's even cheaper than it's delicious. I don't know why they don't include it in the tourism information. Honestly, what Bangkok is to junkies and seekers of very non-conventional sex, Cairo could be to binge-eaters.

And it will have a similar effect on your body.

Rather than try to explain further, though, my friend Jacob and I teamed up one afternoon to document my gastronomical misadventures in this paradise of 12 cent sidewalk delicacies:

Egyptian ice tea from a very communal glass.

Gravy. On noodles. On a car. 

12 cent falafel sandwich. 

A tomato man.

Some kind of legume in a cup of salt water.


Egyptian style foul.

Fried eggplant.

The siren call of Felfela. 

Koshari. Koshari. Koshari. 

I can't stop.

This post may be a cry for help.

Sunday, April 05, 2015

Why I'm not going to post "He is risen" today

It's a sunny, slightly breezy afternoon in Beirut. This morning I went to a wonderful service at the Anglican Church I go to as often as I'm here. Afterword I ate lunch at a café in the downtown with a friend and then walked the mile or so back to my flat. I realized it's now mid-morning for my friends and family back in the States, and was about to post "He is risen!" on Facebook like I often would have on Easter morning in the past. But something just wouldn't let me.

Traveling around this part of the world for the last half year, I've gotten so used to religious idioms getting tossed around that I almost block it out now. Religion is really loud here. Whether it's getting shaken out of bed around 4am by the Call to Prayer or Roman Catholic saints staring sternly down at me from telephone poles in intersections.

One thing that almost never accompanies the shouting is any kind of explanation. I'm certain that many, many people here have a deeply personal experience and highly thoughtful understanding of whatever their faith is. But as someone who doesn't come from a background in any of the major religious traditions here, the shouting is about all that you hear, and over time it's easy to become annoyed, or even alienated by it.

I love the exclamation "He is risen," but as I thought about posting it just now, I could only think of the fact that many of my friends now are of different faiths or none at all. The thing I think I've started to realize is that, without context, everything is just shouting. Annoying, and probably alienating.

So I really feel like I have only two options: Either not to post it, or else post it with some kind of explanation. I'm going, however feebly, to attempt the second.

Many of you reading this are probably very well aware that I'm a Christian. Other's may have little or no idea––it's not something that I often bring up unless it's as a common point of relation. There was this song that was popular among American Evangelical children in the early 90s with a line that went something like: "Write God's Word on your heart, before you wear it on your sleeve," and I think I tend to rarely even get to the second part of that.

I would like to think, though, that the first part is true. I believe––however absurd it may sound––that the sixty-some books we now strap together and call the Bible are actually God's revelation to us. And I believe that a man who spent a few years wandering around villages just a few hundred kilometers south of where I'm sitting now as a moderately successful religious teacher until he upset the powers-that-were badly enough to get himself killed was the physical manifestation and fulfillment of that revelation.

I don't think believing that means I'm a good person. I'm honestly pretty messed up, and I used to be even worse. I harbor resentment against people I feel have hurt me. I choose pleasure and the search for fulfillment over purity. I spend my money eating at nice cafés in the downtown ensconced behind a line of jersey-barriers and men with Kalashnikovs while just a couple hours drive away people are starving to death. The list goes on. But here's where it gets really crazy: When that man who was wandering around villages in first century Palestine got himself killed, the real reason was to atone for the brokenness that people like me keep creating in the world.

If I'm to be completely honest with you, I think I spend a lot of my time stuck in that part of the story.  With me making mistakes, and this man who didn't do anything wrong in a grave that I deserve to be in. But the story goes on, too. The man miraculously rose from the dead––and by doing so symbolized that we aren't just forgiven for the things we do, but also have the potential to follow him and become the real-world manifestation of the revelation that God gave us in those books. We can be better people. The world can be a better place. There is hope.

Like I said, that sadly isn't often the part of the story that feels most real to me. But there are certain times when I do feel like it. Easter Sunday is usually one of those times, which is why I say "He is risen!"

He is risen.

So there. I said it.

I hope it didn't feel like shouting, and I hope we can still hang out.

Saturday, February 28, 2015

Like a Paul Bowles novel

I've been on the road for three weeks now. Heading west across North Africa. 

During two weeks in Cairo, I barely left one neighborhood. And it was still like a kaleidoscope. Then we came to Morocco, and it started to turn. 

A blur of cheap hotels, crowded trains and foaming oceans. Falling asleep under elaborate mosaics at dusk to be shaken awake by the thundering call to prayer at 4am every morning. Falling back asleep and getting up with the African sun streaming in at nine to get breakfast at a cafe where everybody's already on their second joint. Surfing in the Atlantic. Staring at a wall for four hours. 

Like a Paul Bowles novel, but with no sex. 

Different characters. Heated arguments on rooftops. Not making eye contact on long train rides facing across from each other. Getting completely sick of them. Mutual resignation to the fact that you're with them. Forgetting why that is. Complete comfort with each other that could be a sign of deep intimacy, or deep contempt. 

Like some kind of marriage. Or a Paul Bowles novel, but with no sex. 

Rabat, Fez, Casablanca. Somewhere else. Somewhere new. 

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

Cairo: The Dust of Nations

Three days ago I arrived in Egypt. It's a place I grew up always hearing about, and I was eager to experience it for myself and see if it bore any resemblance to the place movies, Bible stories, comics and history classes painted it to be.

My first evening I dined out with a medical doctor from a well-to-do family––currently working as a middle school teacher in Cairo. Over creamy shrimp alfredo and shisha, he painted a rather bleak picture of the situation in the nation since the revolution: Excited idealism turned to disappointment, turned to terror, turned to pleading for a return of the order that had been revolted against.

I learned a lot from the doctor, and from others we met, but after a day and a half of sitting in posh cafés and wandering around titanic shopping malls on the suburban outskirts of the city, I was eager this morning to get in a dirty taxi bound for what I'd heard was the throbbing heart of the nation: Inner-city Cairo and Tahrir Square.

Our official destination was the National Museum, and after an interminable amount of time stuck in a traffic jam in a poorly ventilated tunnel, we emerged, blinking, in front of the imposing neo-classical structure. Scuttling past rows of black masked special ops troops below burned out high rises with a heavy wind gusting dust into our teeth and eyes; the whole city had an eerie, almost apocalyptic feeling.

The museum, once we got inside, was spectacular. Ancient Egypt must've been everything the movies and comic books made it out to be. I was slightly disappointed to learn (from Google) after an hour long search on foot that the one Egyptian artifact I could have identified as a child and which even emblazoned the tickets we'd purchased to get in: King Tut's funeral mask, had, apparently, after millennia of careful preservation, been irreparably lost to history in a still somewhat unclear incident involving a clumsy curator and some misapplied epoxy shortly before my arrival. In the end, though, I think I found one I like better:

Even in the midst of the remains of the grandeur of ancient Egypt, though, it was hard for me to shake the feeling of present apocalypse. Priceless artifacts ornately decorated with delicate hieroglyphics were piled haphazardly in cases with descriptions that looked like they were printed in the 1950s. Crates were piled all over the floor and in some places it felt more like a massive antique warehouse than a museum. As we emerged from the mummy chamber––the only decently maintained corridor of the cavernous building––a stray cat ran across the floor and I could feel the sand driven into the building through the massive double doors of the entrance on a wind that had only strengthened since we entered a few hours before.

We emerged into a gale of grit that made it hard to breath and a crowed of men desperately hawking postcards and tours to us. It turns out, the city was that afternoon, being descended upon by a sandstorm the likes of which are only seen a few times a year.

Determined to see Tahrir square, the place I'd heard so much about on the news since my first time in the region almost four years ago, we pressed forward on foot past the gauntlet of special forces and into the choking, blinding grit. Wen we finally made it we spent an extremely uncomfortable minute gazing around. We then asked a passerby to take our photo––and immediately felt terrible about it––having someone take our smiling picture at the sight of their as yet unresolved national tragedy.

Then, feeling emotionally and respiratorilly exhausted, we piled in another cab. Naturally, we got stuck in traffic again, and the driver––an unemployed electrical engineer and member of the country's increasingly marginalized Christian minority––spent the 50 minute ride telling us his perspective on everything that was wrong with the country.

We arrived at dark and during a power cut. To cheer up we, we went out for pizza a few blocks from our flat and then started to walk back to watch The Mummy on a laptop. The dust storm had got worse still, to the point that trees, cars and sidewalks were all coated in the stuff and the night air illumnated by street lamps had a strange, hazy glow, almost like walking down an empty street back in Corning or Wellsboro on a night with gently falling snow. It would actually have been quite peaceful if it were snow, and not the tiny bits of a country disintegrating.