I am accustoming to my new life here. Currently I'm teetering between creative production, consumption, and formulaic contemplation. The question has never been "what?" but "in what order?"

It's a very difficult thing to write a novel. Short stories are fantastic but I really imagine myself synthesizing them into something huge.

Red wine and a "fancy" homemade dinner last night. My Venezuelan roommate Pedro comes in. He speaks to me briefly then gets a phone call and starts off to his room to shout at an employee that made a mistake in production at his television station.

My meal consists of a fantastic mixture of olive oil, garlic, onion, cabbage, and carrots stir fried, lightly salted and sprinkled with cayenne pepper put on a bed of pasta.

My life here is simple and beautiful.

And the flashing cursor on the screen can't seem to do much but make me wonder and sit in beleaguered confusion. A little stream of consciousness will help me sort it out.
I started writing. Really. Writing.

Right now I'm sitting on my bed. I've been here for a while. I pass and repass my life. I tried to play saxophone but the echo in my room made me a little uncomfortable. Martin only has a certain amount of time left before he takes his exam and there's a very excitable dog downstairs that won't leave my notes alone.

It's interesting that my grandparents took a dive as soon as I got here.

Loneliness has started to set in a little heavier. Today I had my first experience of the unnerving teaching of English to students that don't care as much as I do about the subject.

I don't think I'll ever forget the experience. The details aren't exactly really important to me.

I'm writing a letter to someone who I, as I do all too well, burned contact with. I probably will never send it. We'll see.

leap

There are rare moments where it's fine to walk around leisurely or drive with no intention. The last four days have been a moment. For this...I am thankful.

It was a rushed departure from my home in Massillon/Canton to come here. The last day at home I had to buy a laptop, cancel my volunteer status and turn in my smock, return my work uniform and get my check, change my temp labor service to send my newest check to my family's house in Massillon, buy a computer, look for an apt. in a city hundreds of miles away, and say goodbye for 6 months.

The travel was hectic. I'm apparently not one for jostling around. Curly blonde hair that is slightly thinning in the front, blue eyes masked behind thick glasses, and three bags: computer and documents in a black computer case. 60 lbs of clothes, a chess set, knitting needles, and books in a giant roller, and a saxophone case were in my hands. Toilitries and socks were forgotten...unfortunatly.

I arrived in Akron/Canton airport on a frigid 4 a.m. morning. Then I said a terse goodbye to a warm, compassionate love. Ditching 30 lbs of books was difficult. I'm down to three now. I'll miss the Canton I carved out with that woman. We made the best of a tepid town. We saw some of the state. Unfortunatly she's not going to jump with me.

That's what this feels like: A LEAP.

I knew no one here. There are four or five acquaintances scattered throughout the country that I have been asking advice from. They try to tell me things but nothing important came out before I got here.

Dragging my bags along the Madrid subway was difficult. After 4 flights, a minor freakout about transferring airlines, and a sleepless redeye...I was ready to sleep. Unfortunatly the Cat's never sleeps. First, I went down to the bar. I met a French businessman. Paul Blauchard. I never saw him again. He was studying the development of poor countries and worked on sustainable development projects there. Then, after a couple liters of mahou, I happened accross some Australians. Philosophy and engineering were their specialties. I got one's facebook and the other talked about coffee extensively. He was a philosopher from Melbourne. All were very nice and hilarious to speak with.

The next day I met Ian and the Canadian again. We went to lunch at the plaza and talked about our respective countries. Ian is working on a volunteer program to track arms dealing by the British government. He's a filmmaker by trade and speaks Spanish well. He helped me order my phone.

After calling a few apts I found one that caught my interest near the plaza of Manuel Becerras. After calling them I ran into Ian again and he said he was going to knitting club. I followed him and met up with a fellow Auxiliar, which is my program, and conversed in Spanish with a very nice Madrilena about everything in Madrid. Time is flying.

I examined the flat on Sunday at noon. Gilberto let me in to see the place. He's a short man who speaks quickly... I wasn't sure what he did for a living. My room is spacious. It's much larger than anything I've seen in the United States cities for the price. There is a large map of Spain with a bull drawn in red paint on it. I have a palm tree in my room. There are two chairs, a double bed, a heater, a nightstand, a large closet, and a hamper for my laundry. Two lanterns sit in opposite corners and a full body mirror sits behind the smaller one. The previous tenant left a laptop and some documents which he said he would get later. I don't leave my room unlocked much. However, it does not lock from the inside. This doesn't bother me much.

In short, I took the place as soon as I saw it. Within four hours I took out money, fetched my bags at the hostel, printed my documents, and left. 320 euro per month with everything included. The people here recycle without making a big deal. They take reusable grocery bags without thinking about it; the neighborhood is quite clean and quiet except for the 2 a.m. commotion accross the street. It's not the same every night.

People move slowly here. There are many men with canes and small dogs. The women aren't very good looking. Everyone smokes on the street and some of the older people look like they've done it a bit too much.

The other night I ate at a chinese restaurant by myself. They're rude to foreigners...surprisingly. The woman brought me a fanta when I asked for orange juice. I still have some Mexican colloquisms from my college education that confuse the Castillians. Anyways. Here I am.

I want to write a bit. Not sure where to begin though.

My schools are nice. I meet 2 days in one and 2 days in the other for 16 hours total and with minimal outside work. I plan on taking no more than 20 hours to dedicate to teaching. I read on the 30 minute metro ride to each job. Because I'm blonde...people stare. Eventually I'll find a way to make this conversational but for the moment I just smile.

It's siesta time.

New Nightlight.

Jiving to the raw beats of Aesop once again.

I'm almost sentimental about the breath I'm breathing. I just got the email: confirmed. thank god.

I will never be less than this raw energetic and cerebral man.

Today I sat back for 3 hours as the people around me talked about things. The man across from me was a taoist and next to me was the fundamentalist. I told him what I know. Speaking felt good. Silence was great.

There are reasons why idealists and intellectuals congregate. Connecting is beautiful and complicated. It takes a submission of your usual guards and tropes. You're used to defending yourself or flexing what you know...at least if you're a "good" student ready to smash the world. However, it's hard for a lot of people to barrel down that impulse to express your passion and really ask what people are feeling and thinking. I've come a long way.

I learned football.

Things that I had no desire to acknowledge have come to a head here. In the grind there's hopelessness. Distractions rule. Over weeks I found myself not talking about anything but the sorry browns and the entertaining Tim Tebow and his QB runs. A real throwback.

I don't think of this as "connecting with common people" as I thought that it would be when I first carved out this time in my life. It's life. I am a human and this happened to me. Just like everyone else I walk in and punch the clock. Right now I'm living the struggle.

Just like everyone else I find myself clinging to dreams. Just like all the other temps I think it's just a phase. Time showed me that it is permanent. Gradually I slid into the moment of nothing and then I'd come back and think of the past.

Tonight I really realized that there is no "me and them" it's "us." I don't need a lot of words to show this. I hate the buzzer, love the breaks, enjoy the occasional free lunches, and fear the supervisor when I'm behind my quota. It's life. Fighting for food.

This fusion of perspective makes a dream that much more beautiful. I don't really know if what's going on right now is temporary. I will be dumbfounded if I get to Spain with my sax, books, and students.

Where did you come from?

Today a young fundamentalist folding papers next to me looked at me, smiling, and said "this is your life?" After a brief discussion about seizing the moment this came unexpected. I found myself defiant and defensive. "No, I'm just here for a bit. Passing through."

Right now I'm listening to Heartbeats.

The consulate called today. It was after a day that scooped the bottom of my patience and carved deep into my mind the feelings of having a meaningless grind for work.

Mystical tones and upbeat, whimsical lyrics grip me and haul me back to a not-so-long ago moment where it was different.

My boss is confident when I'm in the kitchen. He sat outside while I trayed and ran most of the food. I wiped down the plates diligently. Gray eyed. I served food and seized sides demanding "is this with the walleye? Are the seabass coming? Where's my side of fries?"

At the factory they've been mentioning my name for hire-in and saying "you're basically a part of the furniture now." It was one thing in my life to say "this is how you do it!" but now I realize what it feels like to live in it. You are commodified by everyone. How many years do you have? What are you capable of physically? What does your mentality allow you to endure? Alright, now put this in a box, run that food, and know your place.

People fight over scraps. A small conversation is permissible...barely. Temps are flowing in and out of the place to the displeasure of the frequently overweight female supervisors. Their jowls jiggle as they reprimand you for not going fast enough. You know that the real problem is that they make $9 per hour and have no hope. The kid, younger than you, across from you keeps hitting on a grandma just to pass the time.

Your fingers are black from folding an advertisement for 6 hours. Your feet hurt from standing. Thoughts and theories get duller as your sole stimulus is the dull drone of tow motors filing up and down large warehouse aisles.

Everyone is asking why you're here. They want to know your mistakes. The supervisor on the second floor is a middle aged black woman with short hair. She likes your tenacity but wonders if you're OK with being totally expendable to the company.

The professor is coming tomorrow to check on me at lunch.

I can't help but see this part of my life as already past. There are great moments with my sisters and the contrast is stark.

The Indian student gave me a little bit of entertainment as I taught her chemistry for a little while. She's too bright eyed and spoiled to be a companion though. No, you have to do your own work...I can't do it for you.

The call came today from the Spanish consulate. No message. I am nervous about it in a way. It's like I've gotten comfortable being a grunt without responsibility or hope. I will call tomorrow.

Capturing the Moment

Today we boxed fireplaces. 165 light oak, 5 cherry, 10 dark oak, 8 black. Chris and Mike did insert units and Pam boxed. Keith didn't pull me for orders, which was good. I got a lot done compared to most days.

Keith and Jeff almost never do work until Laura comes back. It still blows my mind that she manages so badly. Most of the time I meet quota until she pulls one of my guys to do something else. It's OK though. I write it off as a bad job. It's just temporary.

I've been saying that for two months.

What I hate is being yelled at or shot down for doing my job at a reasonable rate.

The restaurant was dead. Unfortunately Jen and Kayla were working too. I ran a lot of food but only had to bus half the tables.

I think I lost my chem student. She brought me a lab to do but had no data. I explained the lab to her for a half hour and charged her for a half hour. It's typical for students to want a direct answer when it's impossible.

I keep getting emails from medical schools asking for a doctor's recommendation. That's what everything is hinging upon at the moment. One piece of paper from a physician saying that I'm a good person. Such foul flaming hoops to jump through.

Recently I have been dancing. The foxtrot is the most fun so far. I don't like samba; it's too quirky.

Dance and personality go hand in hand. For me...the perfect dance is fast, calculated, sexy, and driven. I would be in control of her but not myself. I think that's Jazz... Poise is appealing too.

Sharon likes samba.

Sharon's a great girl. Again, there's a difference in age but we're taking things one day at a time. Anything quicker than that seems to be too much.

In addition to working extensively I am also volunteering and helping out with things around the house. Sunday football and reading. I'm studying biochemistry and biofuels. Along with this I'm doing some psychology reading about male/female communication in long term relationships.

Right now I'm frustrated with the stagnation. I'm seeing a girl who has been here for 15 years and is panicking about everything not going anywhere. She has no respect, no input, and no identity here.

I don't want that.

At the same time I see this as a time in my life that I should take in. There are too many people at the restaurant with perfect cookie-cutter lives who have never worked like this. I see my generation equivalent of the super-rich kids having kids and wonder if I'm getting something out of it.

Every day is a struggle of perspective. I no longer think I'm "stuck here" but I think "I am being here." I will breathe in Madrid in the coming month. I will see when I get to medical school. Breathing and seeing are unimportant. The translation of what comes out...is important.

What I do with this is impossible to say.

It is odd to watch right now. Everybody but me has their teeth sunk in to graduate school, jobs, relationships, plans. People ask, in a careless manner, "what are you doing?" I can't answer them quickly. Right now I'm a factory worker. That's all that's important...I guess.