I´ve been home in Albuquerque for a little less than a month now, and disgracefully, I haven´t yet gathered my thoughts together for another blog entry. It feels funny to be home again. My car is still busted and pink (faded red, or maroonish, really). Everything feels different, but nothing has changed. I´m home, and yet strangely homesick. I often find myself with a longing inside me to find ways to express my thanks to the universe but frustrated with my inability to find the words to give experiences and gratitude their proper justice.
García Márquez once wrote that every day is a new opportunity to reinvent one´s self. What I miss the most about being in South America, for myself, is being in an environment that required that sort of reinvention in order to get things done. In order to justify one´s self and actions, reinvention seemed to surface out of pure necessity. That is the place I fell in love with- an outside place that helped me to make an inside one. It is the place I believe to be frequently referred to as Neruda´s mistress. A continent so rich in culture, it has mystically maintained an undying image of untapped resources and possibilities and yet striking, humbling reality and humanity. While the intentions of this image have gradually moved away from Cortez´ historic lust for gold and glory or gross romanticizing in many contexts, (with the recent exception of the new Indiana Jones movie) any adventurous spirit who has really been there knows that the journey to see the world from Macondo still maintains a similar romantic, adventurous, and addictive appeal.
They tell you before you go abroad to any country that the culturization process is like a roller coaster. There are two important factors emphasized in this process. Firstly, the inclines and declines begin steeper and gradually become smoother. Secondly, getting used to the ups and downs is a process by which a person learns as much or more about themselves than the outside world. What they don´t tell you about is that the process of coming back involves strangely powerful ripples of feelings and undulations of what I think I learned and their subsequent meanings and interpretations. Only weeks home and already back into the swing of things. Everything feels different and nothing has changed. Mostly, I just miss my friends. I don't think that the time spent would have been so unbearably bright- the fun, responsible, professional places, and the reckless, frightening, kinda crazy places we have shared. This post is also a note on my facebook because I wanted to share something with all of the old faces I may or may not see again who provided so many unforgettable reasons to smile and laugh.
Towards the end of the semester, I often was forced to stop on the way home because of the many landslides on my street. They say that Ecuador had an unbelievably wet year that was the cause of the landslides, and these were my new warm neighbors. I was safe in my pad but traffic would usually be crazy with people moving stuff around and hitch hiking to class in the morning required even more adventurous endeavors :=). The strangest part though was how fitting it felt to go along with so many sincere goodbyes. I couldn´t help but irrationally ponder whether it was global warming or la pacha mama crumbling along with my, and the other international Guápuleños stumbling with the feeling of leaving also. If it was just science, or universal compassion, shaming me to stay with my new brethren, and grab a shovel. What´s more is that I´m not sure the difference really matters because people´s homes were falling and families were in danger. I felt heavy with burden as I had to leave my new friends and neighbors with little to offer apart from a sincere gratitude, and a few small, but well aimed goodbye gifts.
I realize this all seems pretty random. But I´ve gotten used to that feeling this month. I´m going to try to tie this back to the beginning, the difficulty in expressive justice to various feelings and experiences, with a poem.
De vez en cuando hay que hacer una pausa
contemplarse así mismo sin la fruición cotidiana
examinar el pasado rubro por rubro etapa por etapa
baldosa por baldosa y no llorarse las mentiras
sino cantarse las verdades
- Mario Benedetti
This poem speaks to me when I feel nostalgic and am tempted to remember only the falling, crumbling feelings, and I hope it speaks to my friends to remember all the other much more important ones. I lost a great deal of photos that would have helped with images, so I hope that Benedetti works this time. You all know who you are. Thanks.
Also, the second trip to Peru was amazing.
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