Enemy Imagery

If you thought my last post was whiney, well, brace yourselves; it's gonna get whinier.  Don't call me, text me, email, facebook, or whatever else to check in.  I won't answer.  I have nothing good to report.  No bacon to bring home.  

That's what I do.  If there's no pleasantries to share, no victories in which to relish, then I'm not going to hide it with bullshit chitchat.  I don't know how.  I hate lying, even at the most mundane conversation filler fluff.  

"What up?  How you been?" 

"Shitty."

"Oh."

Yeah.  I'm was that kid who ruined every group project by talking about how stupid group projects are the whole time.  Yet, I could be found bothering all my peers during individual work.  I was the kid who rejected every profession presented on career day.  Not for me.  None of them.  I still don't know what I want to do "for a living."  The very question was always repulsive to me.  I want to find my center.  Peace.  I want to do what it is I am meant to do.  

I hate the question, but I beg the question.  

I've tried a lot of paths.  I've experimented, taken risks.  I never last long, though.  I get bored, so I push the envelope.  It backfires, so I recoil.  Then I clean my gun - a shoddy antique, not fit for modern warfare - pack the powder and reload.  I've been told I'm old fashioned, but I just feel rusty and putrid.  

I've always known, all along... All I ever wanted to be when I grew up is a dad.  It was a commitment I made.  It was my only dream.  Now I am, and it's my one and only source of happiness and purpose.  

Every now and then, I encounter a person in my life who convinces me that they see me for who I truly am.  My true self.  They have grasped my nature and they value it!  They even let me know they do.  They remind me that some people in the world appreciate authenticity and vulnerability and axiomatic love.  While these personal encounters are somewhat reinvigorating and give me glimpses of what the concept of "Home" is and means, they can't be parlayed into a new career or "making a living."  

It must appear pretty rotten of me to reduce these few admirers of mine to mere salt licks.  I didn't mean to.  They're much more to me than enticing bait for self-approval.  Why do following my bliss and making a living have to be mutually exclusive?  

What I want to give the world, I don't know how to monetize... And, I don't want to.

No Direction Home. Complete Unknown.

I'm supposed to write a letter to my child self giving him the empathy he so dearly needed, and which I now so desperately need.  It scares me just to think about it.  I don't want to take myself back there emotionally, even if just to try and give my child self the great gift of rescue he so deserved.  

I always valued endurance through my pain above all else.  Never give up.  Never quit.  I drilled these into myself, or they were drilled into me.  That much is the only foggy part.  Now I wish I not only had "quit," I wish I never started.  I have been under the self-delusion that there is a nobility in resignedness to emotional pain and suffering.  Either that, or I confused emotional paralysis for patience.  So, now I can't quit suffering, because I don't know how.  Paralyzed is a good description of how I feel about embracing real resolve, genuine worthiness.  I see it.  I want it.  But...

I used to always tell myself during the darkest times that one day it would all be worth it, or the things that incessantly traumatized me would be ameliorated.  That I would emerge through the fire hardened and glistening.  Right now, I feel burnt to a brittle crisp, and have probably been denying it for a decade plus.

A few years ago, when I felt similarly broken and lost... jobless, listless, hopeless... I found some solace in reading and journaling, and a little blogging too.  I read Walden, which was perfect at the time.  I was in the remote wilderness of a tropical paradise for about six weeks, and I was determined to self-reflect and locate a piece of my mind I could stake out for some peace of mind.  I didn't find it, but at least was able to use that time to remind myself that it exists and it's worth finding.  I accepted that as progress enough, at the time, to return to civilization load lightened.

Except, I abruptly stopped writing.  Reading subsided too, but the impetus to write my reflections - which are always steadily streaming, even spewing - was suffocated by the familiarity of the socio-cultural daze that permeates the Homeland.  I allowed myself to be suffocated.  Didn't put up any fight.  

As more time passed, I of course found it more and more impossible to expose myself to myself again.  I didn't want to go anywhere near that mirror.  Periodically, I would toy with conceiving plans to continue meaningfully reading, journaling, and blogging.  I never knew where or how to best pick it up again.  "Meaningfully."  What do I even mean by that anyway?  You know what I mean?      

I should have just done it.  No program.  No plan.  No expectations, except to learn something about myself for myself.  Whenever I felt like it.  Even a little bit.  

Should's are my arch nemesis.

HUMAN RESOURCES: Social Engineering In The 20th Century -- by Scott Noble

Solitude is My Copilot

January 27, 2010
Milwaukee, WI

Last night I had another dream about skydiving, or rather this time, base-jumping. I was with my mom in some large ambiguous city. The air was still, the sun was bright and there was no one around but her and me. Strangely, she seemed to be of the opinion that it’s about time I try something like this, and she was there to cheer me on. I geared up on the ground next to my jump-site, and listened to her pep talk before being mysteriously transported to the top of the tallest building in this dream city. I felt pretty focused and fearless about the jump, because not long ago, my dreamself had learned to jump out of planes in the Hiro Nakamura School of Skydiving. I confidently stepped to the edge of the edifice, looked down and saw my mom very far away and tiny down below, and I pushed off. After a much shorter freefall experience than in my previous dream a few weeks ago, I had to pull the ripcord, but struggled to find it. I grasped hurriedly all around my shoulders and waist and could not feel it and did not know where it was. By this time it was too late anyway, so I stopped the flailing search. I was not scared to smack the concrete below; I just resigned myself to the impact. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them I was laying on the ground. At this point, I faintly awoke briefly, and then immediately went back to sleep and back to the dream.

I didn’t feel an impact. My dreamself didn’t have a memory between the closing of my eyes and reopening them once on the ground. I saw my mom nearby who appeared to be nonplussed by the whole incident. Unharmed, I brushed myself off and looked at my equipment. Everything was fine and intact. I could not figure out how I never found the ripcord. Maybe the wind was blowing it around? But I still never even felt it in order to try and pull it. My mom walked over and cajoled me into trying another jump like she was my coach or something. I recombobulated my dreamself and again mysteriously made it to the top of the building. I faintly awoke again, and can remember thinking that I hoped my dreamself would execute a clean jump this time, then again fell back into the dream.

I wanted to try again, but I could not bring myself to jump. I walked to the edge many times, but did not make the plunge. I paced around the rooftop wondering, thinking, how could I have survived the last one, and how, if I wasn’t able to pull the ripcord again, would I survive this one? I was pretty fearless for the first jump, but not so for this second attempt, though I was more frustrated than anything… and upset with myself for my lack of faith. My dreamself thought, “I have done this before, I can do it. Why couldn’t my equipment just work? I wouldn’t feel so unconfident.”

I walked to the edge over and over, but never was able to bring myself to trust that I would be successful in executing the dangerous feat. I could see my mom below, watching me, waiting for me to push off. There was another person down there now too, a man I do not know in real life. Not long after noticing him, he showed up at the top of the building with me, and in a kind of laissez faire manner was trying to encourage me to make the jump. He said he’d jump with me without a parachute, all I’d have to do is hold on to him, and we’d both be fine. I thought this was crazy. How could I trust my equipment to work for the both of us? He used some other unimposing motivating techniques, but none were very convincing. As my indecision wore on, I could feel the chance that I would finally jump decreasing. I stood at the edge and looked down. Disappointed in myself, I had apparently decided at this point I was not going to make the jump. I hung my head, and cursed myself for not being able to overcome my inhibitions. Then I woke up for good.

My first thought upon waking up was why couldn’t I do it, why couldn’t I just run off the edge of that building and fly? I had already done so once in the dream, and many times in the other dream from a few weeks ago. The first jump in this dream was not a pleasure cruise. It was full of effort and struggle to find and pull the cord to land safely. In the previous dream, I had a similar problem finding my ripcord, but there were people flying next to me, so without much concern I glided over to them, grabbed a hold, and we all landed safely together. I could not seem to bring myself to jump alone in this dream. And the thought of being responsible for the fearless unknown man who wanted to jump with me, using no equipment save his own two arms, was inconceivable to me. My zealously overprotective mother was mostly unvocal, yet completely supportive of me jumping off of tall buildings with low confidence and questionable equipment. That may have been the most unusual thing about the whole dream: my mother not batting an eye at my attempt to fly.

Maybe it was not my equipment that was the problem. Maybe it was my informal and inadequate training from the prior skydiving dream, which ended with a hair-raisingly problematic jump. I never solved or fixed what went wrong there before waking up. Maybe I have the right tools, or tools that could work, but I just don’t know how to use them so I don’t trust them. Whatever the case, it’s clear I haven’t yet learned how to fly on my own. In much of my adult life, I’ve felt very unprepared for the chance things that I’ve encountered. I have been reluctant to take a leap of faith right into chance, enjoy the flight, and see where it lands me. One of my greatest difficulties is choosing a path in life and then following it. I’m bound by thoughts of “But what if it takes me somewhere I don’t want to be? What if I do irreparable harm to myself, or the future I want for myself by taking this leap?”

I think this dream is trying to show me my tendency for (or addiction to?) dependency. I have long thought, and never shared, that I suspect I have a deep-seated fear of success that keeps me from actualizing my potential in anything I do. I’ve relied on credible excuses, but excuses nonetheless, to make up for the shortfall. “Oh, but the parachute I was given had no ripcord.” I tell myself and others that I’ve already worked through and overcome resenting and blaming externalities for my present circumstances. But it would seem this dream wishes to tell me that I still have some work to do. I am the only force in my way, so why not get over myself and jump already. If I could navigate myself free from these binds, I might possibly grow wings and make the need for a burdensome parachute pack obsolete, and the struggle to find and pull its ripcord irrelevant. I think this dream’s message to me is that I must fly alone in life. After all, flying is a lonely exercise. If I could put this lesson into unwavering practice, then I would love the loneliness. I would revel in solitude and be blessed by it. And then, who knows where I’d be…

“I learned this, at least, by my experiment; that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours. He will put some things behind, will pass an invisible boundary; new universal, and more liberal laws will begin to establish themselves around and within him; or the old laws be expanded, and interpreted in his favor in a more liberal sense, and he will live with the license of a higher order of beings. In proportion as he simplifies his life, the laws of the universe will appear less complex, and solitude will not be solitude, nor pverty poverty, nor weakness weakness.” –Henry David Thoreau, Walden

It's a Carnicería Out There

January 15, 2010

Hotel Bahia Blanca, Rio San Juan, La Republica Dominicana 

After another routine morning of reading and then playing with the boys, Dad finally lifted his embargo on schedule information and invited me on a cigar and coffee sales expedition.  I thought, before arriving here a few weeks ago, that I’d be spending the majority of my time here on such trips.  I had looked forward to the prospect of going on the ventures with Dad and helping to increase his productivity.  At least, this was how he pitched me to come down here.  Still, though less frequent than I thought they’d be, each trip has yielded success.  Today’s was no different, despite getting quite a late and slow start, and initially spending money not making it. 

We finally set off from the farm at about 2:30pm after getting the guagua loaded with product.  We were concerned about a bad tire on the truck that Dad had had repaired a few times this past week.  The dirt roads around the farm are full of sharp rocks, and are so bad that it’s impossible to travel faster than 5mph.  The tire has a huge gash in it, and despite having been patched twice and an inner tube put in, I had no doubt that at some point we’d be delayed by its failure.  Honestly, I’ve been amazed by how long it’s lasted this way.  Dad is used to this kind of thing, as I could tell by his demeanor; either that, or he’s disregarded it potential negative impact on our effort and wants to roll the dice.  I shouldn’t be surprised.  I’ve lived through many roadside mishaps with him growing up, as he seemed to constantly test the limits of his various vehicles’ ability to drive great distances on fumes alone learning the hard way how far he could get.  Did I mention that the gas gauge on the guagua doesn’t work either?  At least he keeps a bald spare tire and jack in the back of the truck along with an old bottle of bleach filled instead with diesel, just in case. 

We got off the dirt roads just fine, and onto the new highway without any issue.  This new road is the cleanest and smoothest road I’ve ever traveled on in this country in all my visits.  It is, however, possibly the most dangerous road.  I’ve heard it morbidly referred to as a ‘carniceria,’ or butcher shop, by Dad and locals alike.  There are a few reasons for such a reputation this early in its existence.  The speed limit is not really enforced at all here, and most roads don’t even have them because their condition does not permit high speeds – it’s just impossible to go fast when you’re dodging potholes every few feet and going through tires like sheets of toilet paper.  Dominicans love to hot-dog it, and are notoriously risky drivers in general.  Give them a fresh, smooth, and wide road, unlike the vast majority of roads in this country, and this tendency, along with the speed at which they drive, increases a great deal.  

They are extremely pass-happy and do so in the worst possible scenarios: going uphill, or while there are guaguas or semis scarily overloaded and unsecured oncoming and closing fast… especially when they’re closing in fast.  They’ll pass you on the left because you’re slowing down to turn left despite your turn signal indicating as such.  They’ll pass you so extremely close that your left side-view mirror slaps five with their right, and a double-yellow dividing line means nothing to them.  

Another reason the new highway is so dangerous is that Dominicans are known for lots of drinking and driving.  They have no shame about it.  But, the consequences here for causing a serious or fatal accident while under the influence are far graver than in the States.  Victims’ families often exact vigilante justice on the perpetrators.  In the worst cases, this comes in the form of brutal revenge killings.  I heard one story last week that occurred since I’ve been down here.  A drunk driver, who the previous night killed a mother and two daughters, was found by the father and brother of the deceased the following night, and in his sleep was hacked to pieces by their machetes while his family watched and screamed in horror (it’s common here for everyone in a small family to share one room, if not one bed).  How medieval is that!  As long as you pay attention to these potentialities – the passing or reckless stupidity of the like – and drive defensively, always expecting them to happen, driving on the new highway beats being shaken and bounced all over the cab of a vehicle hands down.  

As we took the new highway down off the mountain toward the north coast, I had almost forgotten about the tire.  When we arrived at the first toll at the bottom of the mountain, Dad made some remark about its durability, and sure enough, we didn’t get a half a mile further before it gave out.  I was prepared to deal with this issue, so I was only mildly put off.  If there’s one thing I’m anal retentive about it’s having the right tools to do the job, whatever it may be.  Driving on a bum tire to begin with irked me, but at least Dad had a good jack, some blocks to hold the frame up off the ground, wheel stoppers to keep the truck from rolling (did I mention this truck has no emergency brake?), and a spare that will get us at least to the next town where a new tire could be bought.  ‘Gomerias,’ or tire shops, are like Starbucks’ in New York City, there are two on every corner, and they all do great business. 

There are many advantages to the new highway.  One is that the tolls help pay for free roadside service.  It’s nothing fancy, but Dad mentioned that we could expect a guy on a motorcycle to pull up any minute to help us change the tire.  Not that we needed help, we had all the appropriate tools to do the job well and quickly, but it’s surely a perk if you’re wearing nice clothes or it’s raining out.  Obviously, Dad’s been through this before, and told me how surprised he was the last time he got a flat on this road that a guy showed up almost instantly.  He also mentioned that I should not hold my breath for the serviceman to show up and we should get started ourselves.  In his words, “After all, this is the Dominican Republic.”  We were halfway done with the change when the guy showed up.  He did the rest of the work, we loaded the trashed tire and the tools into the truck, thanked and tipped him, and continued on our way to the next large town about another 30 minutes away.  

A good used tire cost about $50USD. To Dad, this was a ‘new’ tire, and he was so relieved to have it.  His mood had completely changed.  Keeping to myself, I scoffed at how dependent his temperament is on such easily controlled factors.  He doesn’t seem to know how prevent a crisis that, while mildly affecting his circumstances, deeply affects his inner state.  Since I’ve been here, I’ve volunteered many times to be allowed, using my experience in production logistics and coordination, to mitigate these factors for him.  I’ve already written about how he reacts to such offerings.  My feelings aside, this ‘new’ tire alighted him with a rare showing of joy and positivity.  And, as I am – and perhaps have always been – subject to his whim, I felt encouraged as well that our late and slow start on the day could be hedged by some sales victories.  

We were able to continue on without much of a delay at the gomeria, and I raised the courage to ask the most taboo of questions: “So, what’s the plan?”  To my surprise, this time, I was not chided or rebuffed.  We were going to Rio San Juan, an up-and-coming tourist town along the north coast.  There’s an enormous resort about 20 minutes outside of the town, called Bahia Principe.  A few hundred feet from its beachfront, there’s an outpost of vendors facing the ocean shore who’re unassociated with the resort.  We actually visited there a week prior to cue them up for a sale, and since the weather’s been so awful for more than a week now, Dad thought it a good idea to see if they’re ready to pull the trigger.  For tourists, when the weather’s bad, it’s time to shop.  It’s a high percentage stop because there are many vendors in one small area, and they all sell pretty much the same stuff: Caribbean-style artwork, cheap jewelry, rum, vanilla, seashells, t-shirts, but not organic Dominican coffee and quality handmade cigars.  It was getting late by the time we got there, but we were able to sell enough product to have money for gas, a good dinner, and a cheap hotel.  Dad was pleased, and optimistic for tomorrow.  

We drove the short way back to Rio San Juan where Dad knew of a hotel right along the ocean at which we could stay for $14-$32, depending on the room.  We pulled up in the dark to a quiet looking, smallish hotel.  Greeted by an elderly French woman and her more petit male companion similarly aged, we unloaded our things and went in to have a look.  To Dad’s satisfaction, the cheapest room was available.  He still wanted to see the it before checking in, so we went down to the lower, kind of basement level, on the way to one of two rooms down there.  In the darkness I could not see the ocean, but the fresh breeze blowing white sheets and towels hung on the lines around us and the sounds of crashing waves gave me the feeling of being on a clipper at anchor far from shore.  We walked between the lines of blowing sheets along a damp floor that was distinctly deck-like.  The cute old French man struggled with the rickety door to the room, and when he finally opened it there were two small beds with a large window facing the sea, a small bathroom and stand-up shower just to the inside of the door, and creaking rusty pipes along the ceiling that unintentionally charmed me beyond words.  It was their cheapest room, and it was perfect.  I opened the windows all the way and let the swelling sounds of foamy ocean crashes fill the room.  I almost never look forward to laying down my head no matter how tired I am, but tonight I can’t wait to bathe in sea-inspired slumber.

In My Sacred Place, the Door Faces East

January 14, 2010

La Finca, Dominican Republic

I have fallen into a routine lately of waking up early and reading until I’m bothered to do something else.  Today, the boys started wrestling with each other practically on top of me and wanted to show me every move they used to subdue the other.  There were too many “Mira, Will! Mira, Will!” calls for me to pay attention to any book.  This might have annoyed me, but I know even though my stay here is quite long comparatively, in actuality, my time with these boys is short.  So I complied, and put down the book.  I decided now would be a great time to introduce these wild country boys to the wonderful world of the Wedgie.  It was an instant success, and unlike my first wedgie, they each loved getting theirs.  They thought it was so great, and with pride they went to show their mom.  The rest of the morning was filled with their laughter as they ran around giving each other wedgies, and showing me, “Mira, Will,” how each had been executed better than the last.  

I’ve also gotten used to being silent with myself.  This has been my only retreat from the urges I have to ask Dad what his plans are for this day or the next.  He has made it glaringly clear that such an inquiry is unacceptable.  I’ve thought to find clever ways to get some of his forethoughts shared with me by changing up the syntax of my question, the context in which I ask, and even trying to time my approach appropriately.  But, there has been no manner in which I’ve tried to learn what I might expect from the events of one day or the next whereby he has not reacted in a severely antagonized manner.  My only recourse has been silence and patience.  

One would think that such a discipline would be quite constructive and advantageous to the mind, body, and soul, and truly, it has been so for me.  However, this practice has had some negative effects.  While I’ve merely tried to be tolerant of his privacy with his schedule (or lack thereof), and avoid eliciting or being subject to his outbursts, I think this has lead Dad to believe that I’m giving him the ‘silent treatment,’ and it appeared for a few days that he seemed to be returning the favor – so to speak.  Consequently, I was not invited on many little excursions both around and away from the farm on which I would have liked to have gone.  I have not been told where he was going or what he was doing, and these details are of little regard to me.  I’d just like to be along to enjoy that time with him, let alone provide any assistance that might be required.  

I’ve tried to assuage my disappointment by keeping myself rapt by good books.  I’ve long neglected to read this many books and finish them so rapidly.  The nice, mild, slow-burning rapture I experience by engrossing myself this way is superior by orders of magnitude to any pleasure I’ve derived from any video stimuli.  Reading the finest books endows one with far more than sheer fulfillment.  It is without doubt the most optimal education for so many reasons; one can impart knowledge to one’s own self without the intimations, ideological slant, or doctrines of a know-it-all third party.  It provides one with vast alternatives to trivial and boring conversation material.  Meditation is largely a foreign and cumbersome practice to us Westerners, but reading the magnum opus of an eminent luminary can satisfy this spiritual necessity where most of us have left a gaping vacancy.  

Reading avails oneself a method of private training of one’s own mind with unadulterated transparency.  It seems to me, this is the last vestige of freedom in its truest sense.  Does anyone dare deny that our modern society is inundated to pandemic proportions with mind-numbing propaganda that promotes a dogma of profligate materialism, falsely assured self-satisfaction, repugnance for reason, and even verily celebrated ignorance?  Any mainstream news outlet, and its accompanying strategically furtive advertisements, when finely critiqued, callously validates this allegation.  The only antidote for this collective programming, as I see it, is to summit the heap of masterworks we’ve been so fortunate to inherit; yet practically abandoned in favor of other fruitless distractions.  There are certainly countless more advantages to reading than I’ve enumerated here.  Perhaps, when I exhaust the inspiration to write my reflections of the time I’ve spent in this country, I’ll reflect more specifically on what I’ve been reading lately.  I will also make a sincere effort to continue reading as voluminously as I have here upon returning to my homeland.  

Fruit for Breakfast: The Secret to a Healthy Life

January 12, 2010
La Finca, La Republica Dominicana

Today, I woke up especially early to the sounds of the boys playing quietly in the grove of fruit trees right next to the house. I got dressed and joined them to find that they were picking oranges, limes, and chinolas (what Americans call passion fruit). Dad pays them a few pesos for every five pieces they gather. Everyday, Rosa makes fresh fruit juice, and the remainder are sold by Dad to street vendors or outdoor markets. For the boys, it’s like an Easter egg hunt every morning. It was delightful to see them running around the yard grabbing fruits off the ground that had just fallen since yesterday’s gathering, or asking for my help to grab ones that were drooping with the ripe weight of juice, yet still out of their reach. When they each had about one plastic grocery bag filled they said they were done, but I wasn’t.

I asked where there might be more fruit to pick. They were reluctant, but upon my urging, they took me up ‘la loma grande,’ the hill on the farm that one can see from miles as they approach by the jagged road. As we navigated through the pastures on our way to the hill, I had to stop and enjoy the fields of mist being burned off buy the early sunlight. The pastures were dazzled by thousands of gorgeous spider webs spun across the tall blades of grass. The silk gleamed in the freshness of the morning. They were all constructed in perfect spirals. I was a giant among them, and still each was a galaxy unto itself, connected to the next by long strands stretching between blades meters apart as if one master had built them all. Transfixed, this field of countless interlinked webs served, for me, a microcosmic purpose. Technologies are not needed for man to enjoy a glimpse of his unique, yet minute stature amidst the vastness, complexity, and wonder of God’s creation.

Awestruck as I was, I had to catch up to the boys who had forged ahead on their way to the foot of ‘la loma grande.’ Judiciously, they shared the dangers of this part of the farm, warning me of where the tarantulas and vipers liked to hide. They pointed out and named some poisonous weeds as we encountered them, and in their youthful animation, told me what happens to a person after making contact. I chuckled at the cuteness of their explanations and marveled at how much I was learning from them. After the tough climb up the hill, the boys showed me the location of the sole mango tree on the farm. It was not at this moment bearing fruit, but nearby the mango tree, through a veil of tangled vines and into the shade of some thick brush, were some ‘guayaba’ (guava) trees and a very old and large chinola tree. The boys and I gathered all the fruit off the ground and few pieces off the trees that hung low enough for me to reach. It was a thrilling hunt, and worth every bit of the treacherous climb. The boys were counting the money their fruit booty would earn them as we descended the hill to head back toward the house.

The boys hustled through the pastures hurrying their fruit haul proudly back to Dad. He was impressed with the yield of our hunt as well as our filth. I was about to get cleaned up a bit, but he was gearing up for a hike of his own and asked me to join. I obliged knowing these invitations were few and fully dependent on my physical immediacy to his departures. This time I was lucky, and able to shadow to his wraith-like whimsy. He put a large, sheathed machete on his belt, and threw on his back a spray pump filled with an herbicide-fertilizer cocktail. I was not similarly equipped, but glided along in towage. Rather than pollute the tender stillness of the first sunny day of the last eight with my inquiries, I pledged to submit myself to his lackadaisical program.

I followed in resolute silence, soaking in the vivifying morning essence. After a longer hike than the one up the hill with boys less than an hour earlier, we arrived in a young lime tree orchard. As he worked, I drifted behind him collecting a few ripe fruits discovered while nursing the saplings among the slightly older, fruit-bearing trees. As the great sun’s rays today had done for me, I wished to reach deftly into the heart of my father, and conjure a willingness to engage me… perhaps even inspire me. Like a cock’s crow pierces the thin veil of first light after building through the mysterious and lonely night, I felt the urge and broke the silence. I don’t remember now what I said to crack the veneer this particular time, but an ovule of genial verbal contact had been faintly coaxed forth. I resumed my quiet attention, and wandered behind him as he talked.

He told a story of a chapter in his life from which, as it emerged in his telling, he’s not entirely detached. Dad has had some tangled relationships in his past; some have never been unraveled, some have been viciously severed, and some have dissolved into the ether. He’s lost or rid himself of many friends and compatriots in his time. He talked of two while he sprayed the lime trees. One, a friend and business partner: the Fox-Valley Playboy, and the other, an ex-companion and radio co-host: the Jilted Conservative. His story was of their current relationship, that of employer-employee respectively, and her impedance to his business with the playboy. In this story, his ex-lover’s meddling is to blame, but the playboy is not without fault of his own. But, Dad insists, he was totally screwed over. For a man who admonished me constantly as a child never to make a victim of myself despite my struggles, he cleverly played the part himself.

While I was lost in his verbose tale of persecution, I felt the heat of compassion smoldering within me. Not for his chronically self-imposed sabotage, but for his desire to overcome it, which I hope to be genuine. Then came an ever-so-rare apology. Directed, it would seem, to himself, for his handling of the situation. He cursed his litigious habits; the unsuccessful means he used to try get them to see things the way he saw them. He brought up a suggestion of mine from a conversation earlier in the week. It had resonated with him, he said, and he wished he could have the opportunity to apply it to his conflict with the playboy – it was something I mentioned about creatively leading people to willfully understand your viewpoint rather than preaching them into it. I was flattered, but knew myself to be hardly capable of this kind of feat in my own enterprises.

As I write this account, I feel compelled myself to apologize for judging him. I should be looking instead to pick his ripe fruits. My father, a rigid man, has still taught me many lessons, even if done so antithetically. I have always known there to be unique value in learning this way. It is the slower way, but more thorough. In moments of boldness, I think that fate has given me each test to strengthen my resolve for the next, greater test, what ever it may be. In the hour of despair, I feel that I did not do anything to deserve the tyranny by which my life has been ruled. But I am my own man, and I know I must not succumb to self-flagellation for that which I cannot control, and yet accept what I’ve inherited. It may sound strange, but I feel an ancient sense of duty to honor my Dad by leaving a legacy of prudence and benevolence. He has inspired me.

Here's an Old One...

February 11, 2008 - 4:30am
Tamboril, La Republica Dominicana

Tonight, I dreamt of Emily (an ex-friend and lover). I think we were in the DR. There were mountains around us everywhere and it began to rain. There was low thunder rolling over the hills and we went for a talk. I found her in some home with a guy named Jonathan who I was certain in the dream I had met before in real life. He’s some kind of artist and he was tall with long blonde hair. For our talk we ran down to the edge of some wooded cliff that over looked a gorgeous mountain view. It was the kind of place where no one could see us, but we could see everything.

She began to tell me how she’s had a crush on him for about a month. This month coincides with the time that we had been spending together, the time we were in our blissful state of youthful courtship. She tells me that there’s “room for someone else to negotiate” in the midst of her desire for this guy Jonathan, which surely meant that she wanted me to “try” for her heart as well….

I wanted to say something strong, I wanted to say that I’ve had it with her games, and that while I love her, I will not be a part of some vain chase for a superficial ego prize. Instead, it appeared that I used kid gloves and kind words to express my dismay. I woke up before she had the chance to cleverly tear me apart in that perceived vulnerable state as I'm used to her doing. She's very deft. We were going to come down here together, to the DR. A disagreement led to me planning to come here alone. She then planned a trip to Istanbul. I wonder, if when I return to Brooklyn, I’ll be able to have the self-control necessary to protect myself from a broken heart?

"I Guess I Planted Some Emotion Seeds..."

January 9, 2010
La Finca, Republica Dominicana

Yesterday, I came across a picture of a half-brother of mine on the internet. I had not seen him since the day of his birth fourteen years ago. As I stare intensely at his strangely familiar face, I wonder what’s in his heart. What does he think about? What are his hobbies? Does he know about Paul, Kristin, and me? Does he want to know his dad? None of us have had any access into his life since the day he was born. We were around him and his mother everyday that she carried him growing in her womb, so he must have some vestigial memories of our voices, some artifact of symbolic connection to us hidden in his subconscious, right? His name is Harrison, the name I suggested for a boy during Laurie’s pregnancy. I think this significance has and always will connect us in some way at least.

Laurie was a companion of my father’s for many years in my youth. She had two children, Nick and Ashley, the ages of Paul and Kristin, with whom we were very close. They were virtually our siblings. Laurie is basically responsible for my intimate knowledge and love of animals, my horse sense and dog training skills, and my manual labor work ethic. I learned a great deal from working alongside her at the Wales, Dousman, and Lyndon Station, WI farms that were our homes for the years in which she was in our lives.

This time coincided with some of the more difficult periods of my tumultuous childhood. Our family was embattled with Wisconsin family court proceedings to establish custody of Paul, Kristin, and me. As the objects of these measures, we children were besieged as pawns in the terrible game. The pride of the willful actors carelessly razed our innocence for the sake of their agendas. Laurie was there, a witness to the most dreadful incidents. Her kids, certainly not immune from the effects themselves, were also beholden firsthand to these formative events in our history. Paul, Nick, Kristin, Ashley, and I, while not without some residual dysfunctional behavior between ourselves, were really the only support for one another through this time: a tall order for kids between the ages of ten and thirteen. Dad and Laurie’s relationship had become increasingly strained, especially just before she became pregnant.

That summer, late in Laurie’s pregnancy with Harrison, we were on a family vacation of sorts in Michigan. We had spent some days at Laurie’s parents beautiful home in Grosse Point, and were on our way north to Traverse City. Just as we reached the outskirts of Detroit, Laurie experienced one of the worst sciatic pains, which had been a problem for her throughout her pregnancy. Dad was not sympathetic for whatever reason, and an argument ensued between them that quickly deteriorated to the point where she and her kids were left at a roadside gas station to be picked up by her parents later. He just left them there and drove off. Paul, Kris, and I did not approve, but what could we do?

We continued the vacation without them. And for all we knew, that was the last time we were going to see them let alone live with them and have them as part of our daily lives. We saw them all one more time about five weeks later making another trip to Michigan when Laurie went into labor. I don’t remember where we stayed at that time, but we did not stay at Laurie’s parents large home, and we did not stay for many days, maybe just two. We saw our newborn baby brother, we saw Laurie, and we saw our ephemeral siblings, Nick and Ashley. After that, our lives took different paths and we did not have any contact.

Recently, thanks to the internet once again, Paul and I reunited with Nick in New York. He was there pursuing a modeling career. He found out we were there as well, and he reached out to us. We hung out many times, and it did not at all seem like fourteen years had passed since we last spent time together. We took turns talking about the events I described above along with other pivotal episodes in each of our lives. It was surreal to be together again. He told us he felt we needed to be a part of Harrison’s life, and Paul and I agreed without hesitation. We contacted Ashley by phone and saw her once briefly while passing through Chicago last spring. That was another wonderfully surreal reunion.

I guess I’m sharing this back-story because of the dream I had last night. Paul and I were on a beach somewhere during sunset. Nick and Ashley were there too and were about to introduce us to our now teenage half-brother for the first time. It was kind of ceremonial, though without any visible accoutrements. It just felt that way, like in a movie with a somber yet pleasant soundtrack. No words were said. It was just the smooth beach, the calm water, and a peaceful auburn sky. Nick prepared us to see him, and then Harrison arrived alone. It was like we were welcoming him into the world again. We introduced ourselves and for a moment it seemed Harrison was nonplussed. Then, strangely, his behavior became erratic. He darted around the beach like a wild animal. No one in this dream had anything intelligible to say, but Harrison’s actions at this point were the least understood of anything that happened in the dream. I felt like he was a boy in fragments.

The dream ended with Paul and I looking on the scene in amazement. I glanced over to Nick and Ashley who did not appear to be surprised by what was going on. My dream-self’s heart was aching for him, but I’m not sure why. In thinking more about it, I wonder if this figment of Harrison was a signal to me that my own life needs the structure that I struggle to implement. Maybe he was visiting me in dreamtime and trying to tell me something …something about our dad?

I emailed dad the picture. He hasn’t seen what Harrison looks like either since he was born. Paul cautioned that that might not be a good idea; that it might hurt dad to see him. I think regardless of the emotions that arise, it’s important for him to see what his son looks like. Besides, I thought he’d want to see him. And, thanks to the internet, he can.

The Name's Juan Wayne, Pilgrim

January 8, 2010
Sabana Grande de Boya, Dominican Republic

Today, when I got up, the first thing I did was find a nice, charming area of the yard at the farm to create a set for some marketing pictures for the coffee dad is trying to sell. My idea was to have some product shots of the coffee in a pretty place like you’d see as the bumper to a TV commercial or in a magazine ad. I raked the dead leaves away from the area I chose, which has lime and orange trees surrounding it along with some other colorful tropical foliage. I didn’t get too far beyond picking flowers and colorful leaves and the raking part because it’s been so overcast for the past few days. I need the sun to peek through the canopy to give me the light I need for some quality photos. Hopefully tomorrow there will be some sun around noontime. In the morning, I’ll pick out some of the nicer product dad has packaged and arrange it with the flowers and some small overflowing bags of grounds and beans to complete the set, and start taking pictures. I also hope to return to the coffee co-op to get some photos of the production process of organic coffee, so that I have a starting point when I return to the states to market the idea of distributing organic Dominican coffee in the US.

In the early afternoon, dad decided he was going to sell one of his calves, so he, Alexander, and I went down to a nearby cattle farm where dad had sold calves in the past. The owner of the cattle farm was a small man who spoke with a microphone at his throat probably as a result of throat cancer. I didn’t ask, and here was dad negotiating with him while smoking a big fat cigar. The throat-mic guy was reluctant because apparently the last cow dad sold the guy has been quite sick pretty much since he acquired it even though one of his own men checked it out before he purchased it. Nonetheless, he was interested in another calf, so dad said we’d return with it soon. To my surprise, we weren’t halfway back to the farm when we came across Albert and Babo, dad’s Haitian head-farmhand, already in transit down the chopped up dirt road with the calf on their way to the cattle farm. We stopped, Alexander and I got out of the ‘guagua’ (farm truck), and helped Babo and Albert guide the calf the rest of the way to the cattle farm. The calf was weighed and tagged by the new owner, and I believe from what I could hear and understand of the negotiations that dad got a fair price from the mic-man. Dad, the boys, Babo, and I piled into the guagua and we drove the short way back to the finca to have lunch.

Over lunch, dad and I discussed the plan for the rest of the day. He needed to go see his Swiss friend, Andy, about a 2hr drive from the farm, and I wanted to have some extended time using the internet, so we decided to go to Sabana Grande de Boya, about 12km from the farm where this could be accomplished while he went on his long errand. I thought after lunch would be the best time to bring up my latest feelings about my stay in this country, so after lunch we took a walk down the property line and talked about things. It went well. I told him how I felt about the deal we had arranged before I got down here, and how I didn’t think, after seeing his circumstances up close, that he had the capacity to take me on as an employee; not to mention the fact that I hadn’t really been asked to do enough work to merit the compensation we had agreed to prior to my arrival. After all, he had plenty of employees, and a young family he was already struggling to take care of. He agreed, and we actually had a peaceful discussion about the matter. We came to understand each other. I’m going to help him for the time I’m going to be here as much as he’ll allow, and go back to the US with some product knowledge on coffee and cigars that I can use to both our advantages. He said he thought there was serious potential for the new business contacts we’d made together to become profitable too. So, there’s no more animosity it seems, which is a relief. I’m grateful for this outcome. In the past, growing up, pride was always in the way of resolving conflicts such as these amicably. This time, it was overcome, and we both were able to accomplish our goals for the day, albeit separately.
...that's some knife you got there, Bert.

After the internet store in Sabana Grande de Boya closed, the young and friendly owner gave me ride on his motorcycle to a nearby Pico Pollo so I could get a little dinner while I waited for dad to come back and pick me up. I finished my food and called dad a few times to no avail, so I decided to kill time by drinking a few Presidente beers while watching sports in the ‘banca’ across the street, which is a place where locals place bets on any and every sporting event known to man. Tonight, they’re betting on NBA basketball and, of all things, the women’s billiards championships on ESPN2. I really like being on my own, fending for myself in these country towns, talking with locals and practicing mi español. This is when I feel most alive, I think because my survival energies are thrown into high gear and my knack for blending in despite being an obvious outsider can be employed. I hope I get to enjoy more of this in my remaining weeks here.

I tried calling dad a few more times to check his progress and see when I might expect him to pick me up to no answer. I figured his phone wasn’t getting service because he gave me his good one. No matter, I’m enjoying myself, minding my own business, watching sports and drinking beers in la banca. Then suddenly, a large and stern looking man beckons me from across the room. I thought he was looking past me to someone else, but then his signals became firmer, his eyes sterner, and it was clear I was his target. Then, I noticed he had two handguns holstered on either of his hips, just like a sheriff of the Wild West. I thought, had I done something wrong? I was certain I hadn’t, and so I approached him cautiously to comply. When I got close, he said gruffly in his largess that dad was outside waiting for me. I looked around and after a few glances noticed the guagua. I walked over, got in, and dad was already in the process of handing out some cigar gifts to him.

He confirmed he was police and gave me the usual cop-advice not to come out alone without dad. Okay, fine, he’s doing his job, and whatever he can to get some free cigars. He knows dad is good for those if he stops him while he’s passing through town. But, honestly, no one had bothered me: quite the contrary. I’ve had much more trouble on the streets of Brooklyn every time I ventured out when I lived there. Thankfully, though, he had seen me walking the dark streets after my dinner and before I entered the banca, was concerned for my safety, and knew where to find me when dad passed through. That’s more than I can say for any cop in Brooklyn, who’re more concerned with doling out parking tickets than targets for street violence, just ask my brother.

Bag it, Tag it, Sell it to the Butcher in the Store...

January 5, 2010
Santiago, Dominican Republic

Last night, we stayed up late bagging and packaging the coffee from the co-op for a client dad had lined up before I got down here, which is a large ‘panaderia’ with locations in Santiago and La Vega. We had to get up early today to be in Santiago for a morning meeting with a group of American men who have a new electrical product that should help both the energy consumers and energy producers in this country whose grid is so unstable. I believe I've mentioned before (and will discuss again later in this note) how the power goes off and on without warning, and can remain of for days on end. It’s a great product that should really take off here, and I felt privileged to be in on this meeting at the very early stages of its inception into this country’s marketplace.

I thought it was funny however, that dad, who lives hand to mouth down here (he barely had enough money to pay the tolls on the new highway to get to Santiago today), would be invited to a meeting with no less than three millionaires. I’m happy for him to have this opportunity, and for myself to have been able to make the acquaintance of these interesting expats. It was a good meeting, and long. We received a presentation on the product, watched it be installed in the host of the meeting’s electrical box, and then went to a Timberland boot factory in Santiago’s duty free zone with one of the members of the meeting to see the potential for this product to have industrial applications in this country. After the visit to the Timberland factory, we all went out to lunch at a Chinese restaurant in Santiago that was absolutely superb. I don’t think I’ve ever had such authentic Chinese food, not even in NYC.

We ate our fill, and continued to discuss the matters of the day along with some other business items. Dad showed off his cigars and organic coffee to some of the interested members of the earlier meeting, and he made a new contact with an Ecuadorian expat friend of one of the guys from the meeting who was interested in opening up a market for dad’s cigars in Europe. We had already had a full day with a lot to be proud of, and we still had yet to make the stop at the coffee client to deliver the product that we spent so many hours bagging and packaging the night before.

The bagging/packaging of the coffee took so long last night because the power would go on and off leaving us periodically with no light to do the highly detailed, manual work. As we strained in candlelight to complete the tasks that normally would be conducted by machines, I couldn’t help but be conflicted by the fact that the way were packaging organic coffee made the product even more organic: what with the two Dominican girls, the Gringo Gordito, his American son, and his adopted Dominican son fumbling around an outdoor living space in the dark to bag (with a large bowl and spoon), seal (with a hair-straightening iron), label (using a rusty papercutter), and pack the stuff. Most retail customers/end users might be put off to know that our make-shift operation was done out in the open air, mostly under candlelight, by complete novices. It makes me chuckle and feel a tinge of repudiation at the same time. Nonetheless, the client liked the product, paid ‘efectivo’ in cash, thus validating the nearly futile efforts of the night before. This gave Dad enough money to repair a few small, but potentially costly problems on the truck, buy dinner and another cabaña stay, and gas and toll money to get to the next stop on our cigar and coffee sales route.

It all sounds like such an interesting adventure as I write it down, but I must say that I’m not feeling very excited about the prospect to make money to take care of my own obligations by the end of this month. The more I think about it and evaluate the situation, I’m not sure that I’m going to be worth the compensation agreement my dad and I had made before I came down here. Dad has certainly not yet utilized me to generate the value for him to the extent that necessitates compensating me, and I cannot see fit to take money from him when he can barely pay his farmhands and buy gas to go do business in the cities. Also, he’s incredibly difficult to work with, has extremely poor communication skills, refuses any modicum of cooperative efficiency, and does not have the capacity to take on the additional and substantial overhead that having me as an employee requires.

I suspected this while I deliberated coming here for this length of time. And after catching crap from him I don’t deserve since being here, and coming to understand his general business practice, it became clear to me today that dad doesn’t even really need my help. I haven’t made any differences for him, other than causing him to have another mouth to feed when he already has several, not just including Rosa and the boys, but the friend of Rosa's who does some housekeeping, and the Haitian farmhands as well. To be honest, I’m quickly growing tired of his outbursts and disrespect. I think I may come back to the States much earlier than I had planned, which is a shame because other than these factors, I’m really enjoying my time here. I love traveling around this island. The countryside is just gorgeous, the cities are fascinating, and I really think there’s great potential for business and profitability here if I had some capital. I’ve enjoyed making the contacts I have already, and know that by staying I will certainly meet more.

I do feel compelled to stand up to dad. I have been through all this treatment before during my childhood and I really do not want to subject myself to it again willfully as an adult. Not to mention, I feel very strongly that he needs to know he cannot treat people this way: family, friends, associates, whatever. I haven’t officially changed my flight plans yet, but I don’t see how I can accept payment from him in the financial condition he’s in right now. He just can’t afford it. I don’t think I’m doing anything to earn compensation either, which is his fault, not mine: I’m here and he’s not using me. And his behavior is uncalled for and unbearable.

When tomorrow is done, my first week of a projected six-week trip will be complete. It’s early, I know, but this is a crucial time for me financially as well, and I’ve got to be good to myself. If I can’t earn my break-even amount here, then I can’t waste time trying to reconcile my past and put effort toward helping my struggling father who does not wish to be helped. I decided to come here for the adventure of it, and there’s more yet to be had for sure if I stay. But I also decided to come here out of desperation, and while my outward situation hasn’t changed, my inward meditation on it has. Lately, I’ve been feeling quite peaceful and centered. I’ll sleep on it, and tell dad how I feel when it’s absolutely necessary.

"Yataa!!!"

January 4, 2010 6:34am
La Finca, DR

Last night I dreamt of skydiving for the first time. It was so real. I was in the desert, and I’m not sure how I ended up there, but I came across a bunch of people in different, solid colored jumpsuits getting into some vehicles to return to their airport or launch area for another jump. Just as I watched them all leave together, I looked up and saw another small group of coordinated jumpers about to land at this drop zone I’d come across. They were expert flyers zooming through the air in their winged 'squirrel' suits and didn’t appear to be using parachutes. It was really beautiful.

Right after they landed, I saw another jumper who appeared to be slightly out of control, but also seemed to be fooling around trying to look like he was in trouble while actually being in complete control of his flight. He swooped a few times quite low to the ground and then dropped straight down and landed in such a way to convince me and some other onlookers, who I wasn’t aware of until that point, that he had smashed his legs. He jokingly got up from his fake crash landing and I saw that it was the actor who plays Hiro Nakamura in the TV series Heroes. In the show, he plays an ‘evolved human’ with the ability to time travel, but in my dream he played an expert sky diver who, when wearing a winged flying suit, didn’t need a parachute. He gave some speech about the joys of skydiving, and encouraged the onlookers and me to take up the hobby.

The next thing I remember in the dream is bouncing around in the darkness, hearing some strange commotion, and then nothing. I thought we had landed, and then I heard a calming yet animated voice speaking to me. When I opened my eyes I realized the owner of the voice and I were in freefall above the pillowy clouds. I’m not sure if one is able to hear anyone talk while during a skydive freefall, but my guide was instructing me and I could hear him just fine. I only felt a momentary sense of fear right when I opened my eyes, and almost immediately it was gone as I realized the situation was under control. I enjoyed the flight a great deal.

When I landed, Kristin and Paul were nearby, and other flyers were landing around us. I told them how blissful and exhilarating my first exposure to skydiving was. It was so real I forgot I was dreaming. I thought we could just jump out of planes all day, when I thought of the monetary cost of skydiving. This thought took me out of dreamtime thought, but it did not end my dream, just made me aware of it. Before I knew it, Kristin and I were in the air launched out of a plane with a different instructor. The instructor had her, but I was on my own. I swam through the sky to get close to them, grabbed a hold of one of their harnesses and tried to enjoy the flight. Then it came time to pull the ripcord. The guide signaled to do so, but I couldn’t. With my free hand I searched my harness and parachute for the ripcord and found none. Still with a hold on their harness, I decided to just hang on. Before I felt the jerk of their chute opening the dream was over.

At some point in the dream, my dream self thought of my friend Emily and how she used to skydive. That was encouragement for me to try it, and also gave me the association of the cost of a skydiving trip where before this thought I was going to just jump out of planes all day or whenever I wanted to. The first jump was basically fearless and wonderful. Again, it was so vivid I could swear that I have jumped before in my life as the details of the environment of freefall were incredibly well defined. I’ve had dreams before where I’m falling or floating through the sky but never as high up in the air as a skydiver starts out of a plane. The other dreams were kind of dreadful, where this one was not. The others also start out with me hopping on a trampoline or something, and then becoming airborne without any control over my flight hoping to land in a pool in someone’s back yard or some other soft, lifesaving place. This time I didn’t care where I landed; I just trusted that I would safely, even when I had no ripcord to open my chute.

Dank 'n Eggs

I've had many strange and vivid dreams since my arrival here, and decided to write them down as best I could in hopes of coming to understand them better. This is not meant to be Freudian dream analysis, just another avenue traversed solely motivated by a desire to gain knowledge of myself. Also, dreams seem like pretty good writing material.

January 3, 2010 - 9:47am
La Finca, DR

The other night, I partially awoke from a dream with a grave sense of anxiety over the fact that I had forgotten about a class I was taking to which I had not attended in many weeks. I was able to fall back asleep and back into the dream right away. In the dream, I was in Oxford, OH and I must have been visiting the home of my professor to clear the air, or to see if I was still registered for the class and ensure that I would not be penalized for not attending so many class sessions. I’m not entirely sure of the outcome of our discussion, but I think I was mistaken that I might still be registered for this class. Perhaps, I just did not remember dropping the class, and I wanted to make sure. I vaguely gathered that I was helping my professor move out of her home, or I was helping her with some kind of work while I was there. When it was clear that was taken care of, I decided to walk to Bagel & Deli, where I worked while in college.

In the dream, much time had passed since I had last worked there, but I still recognized a few faces when I arrived. The place had changed quite a bit. The big walk-in freezer in the back of the store had been moved and redone into a kind of dry storage room that was pretty empty when I saw it in my dream. I asked about some of the other drastic improvements and felt pride and pleasure about these changes. I talked with some of the employees about their feelings of working there, the flow of business, and the condition of the store. We talked about the more popular bagels, and I was pleased to hear that the bagels I had ‘invented’ were still among the favorites. One of the workers chimed in and claimed that he had been responsible for creating the Dank ‘n Eggs. I didn’t hesitate to correct him that it was me who had created it, and I think he hadn’t expected to run into the actual creator when making his false statement. He backed down right away from his assertion and went back to making bagels.

Then I saw Ned, my boss and the owner of the store. He smiled and scrutinized me with his eyes, and then proceeded to give me a fragmented job interview as though he was practicing his interviewing technique on me. I say fragmented because there were aspects of this interview that I did not recall from my actual interview in real life. Also, one of his new employees, who I interpreted as being one of his senior employees, a ‘son’ figure, maybe the same guy who tried to take credit for my bagel, mentioned that he forgot to ask me what my five goals were for the school year. My dream self seemed to think this was significant, perhaps because in my present waking life I have yet to articulate any resolutions for the New Year?

In real life, Bagel & Deli was a niche I found for the period of my life that I worked there. I remember when I first stepped into that place during my visit to Miami in my senior year of high school that I wanted to be a part of that place. I spent four years working there including all the summers between semesters. This was a place I felt I belonged, and I’ve been given feedback from co-workers that I had an impact while I was there. My time there was not without trials, there were times where I clashed with Ned always seeking his approval and sometimes disappointing him by neglecting responsibilities. Once I almost burned the place down along with the apartments above the store inhabited by six female students. I also caught the fire just in time to save the place from any major damage, or injury to the girls living above.

Se Fue la Luz

January 2, 2010
La Finca, Dominican Republic

When I got up this morning, Rosa had breakfast and coffee ready. I didn’t know what time it was, but I figured I had slept in. Dad was looking as though he was about to leave the farm and head into town. He was acting kind of moody, and later I found out that he wasn’t feeling well. He said he was going to meet with a guy who we spoke with in Majagual at the New Years Eve celebration who has some livestock he wants to put on some of dad’s “uglier” land, as he put it. I know dad needs money pretty bad, so I think it’s safe to attribute some of his moodiness to his financial concerns. It makes me think that I can’t be as optimistic as I’d like to be about my earning potential down here, as it depends heavily on my ability to increase his. The outlook, based on his temperament lately, is not very promising. I hope that can change soon.

Aside from this, I’m having a great time away from the mechanical rush of the USA. In the modest living conditions I’m happy to accept in this country, I’m learning a great deal about living in harmony with nature. And not just on the level of survival or subsistence, but on a spiritual level. What I really hope to take away from my time here is a new habit of peaceful thinking, living in the moment, and a love of God’s creation, which includes everything from my environment to my lot in life. I’ve spent so much time in the past 5 to 6 months bemoaning my plight and desperately seeking rescue from it. Here, I’m trying to teach myself to love my suffering, or at least be in accord with it. For years I’ve been meaning to write to myself, or just write out my thoughts a little everyday. Now, I’ve been able to do this for a few days in a row. In this short time, I’m finding what I had always suspected would result from rendering my thoughts into words. It calms me and allays my desires to be somewhere along in life other than where I currently am.

I played with the boys again today. I was able to fix another bike of theirs and we went for a ride about half a mile down the road. Dad was back from Majagual when we returned and we sat down to lunch. Later in the afternoon the guy dad went to see arrived to check out the land. Shortly after he left, it began to rain. A heavy tropical downpour had us settling in earlier than usual. The boys laid down for a nap, Albert actually stayed asleep for the night. Dad and I discussed how he would package some of the coffee he picked up from the co-op the other day, and we tested some of our ideas. He wasn’t feeling any better, and was still irritable. The power has been out for the last 6 hours or so, which I don’t mind too much. Tomorrow, I won’t sleep in. I must be careful not to grow accustomed to the feeling of being on a vacation. While I don’t want it to become a meditation, still I came down here to earn some money.

¿Dónde Están los Ladrones?

January 1, 2010
La Finca, Dominican Republic

Today was a nice lazy day. I read, and played with the boys. We went for a bike ride and had a squirt gun fight. Their bikes are in disrepair and I did my best to diagnose the problems and fix what I could. I played the Grateful Dead on the stereo for most of the afternoon soaking in nostalgia while dad fiddled with some cigars trying to freshen and neaten them up. He and I waxed rhapsodic about the primal sounds of folk music. The sun was faultlessly warm, and a cool gentle breeze graced el medio ambiente all day redefining lovely weather. We went to Majagual again for dinner and partying that we were invited to as we left there the night before. Dad didn’t want to leave the farm unattended tonight so he stayed behind to watch it. Apparently, tonight is a big night for thieving in this country. I didn’t question him, especially with a full moon on the first day of the New Year. I’m sitting on the porch right now in total darkness save for the bright lunar light and my computer screen. The cattle are moaning in the distance, and the young dogs dad has here on the farm are howling impassioned at the moon. It could be spooky, but I’m really enjoying it. The perfectly mild night air, cricket music, and the little purring kitty sleeping in my lap helps.