I have been getting acupuncture for the last month or so, and I am unconvinced that it is doing anything aside from draining me of $15 co-pays. I like my acupuncturist, who is gentle and funny, but I don't have the come-to-Jesus moment that some of my friends do when it comes to having needles poked into their feet.
One of the pleasant things about acupuncture sessions is the quiet time. You just lay there in dark silence and space out. In theory, I could do this at home, but my bedroom is never dark enough, and there's always some clutter that needs straightening, et cetera.
Today I used the time to do a few things. First, I accidentally banged my needled hand, which was painful. Then I thought about all of the things I needed to do today, which was daunting. Finally, I shifted perspective, which was helpful. I'd had a difficult morning and had been fighting off the mopes; after a little time alone in the treatment room, I realized that it was better to laugh at the problem than waste another second ruminating on it.
So, who knows. Maybe going to another state, another country, or just another part of San Francisco is the way to un-stick my thinking. I'm willing to wager money that going to New York will do even more of that. And on that note, I need to get back to that "all of the things I needed to do today" list. Still daunting.
One of the pleasant things about acupuncture sessions is the quiet time. You just lay there in dark silence and space out. In theory, I could do this at home, but my bedroom is never dark enough, and there's always some clutter that needs straightening, et cetera.
Today I used the time to do a few things. First, I accidentally banged my needled hand, which was painful. Then I thought about all of the things I needed to do today, which was daunting. Finally, I shifted perspective, which was helpful. I'd had a difficult morning and had been fighting off the mopes; after a little time alone in the treatment room, I realized that it was better to laugh at the problem than waste another second ruminating on it.
So, who knows. Maybe going to another state, another country, or just another part of San Francisco is the way to un-stick my thinking. I'm willing to wager money that going to New York will do even more of that. And on that note, I need to get back to that "all of the things I needed to do today" list. Still daunting.
Labels: emo spice
I was not even halfway to my destination when the clouds over the Caribbean swelled with rain. If I turned around, I could easily make it back home before the downpour. I decided to go forth anyway. I managed to park my bicycle right as the drops began to fall, and upon walking into the cafe, I felt like I was back in Northern California. There were chimes, woven goods, handmade necklaces, natural balms, and so forth. As I wrote in my journal, it was a woo-woo new agey place. It was also the only place in town to offer a varied vegetarian menu, which is why I was there.
The proprietor didn't look overly thrilled to have a guest to feed, but she cooked anyway. She made one hell of a mushroom omelet with eggs plucked from the chickens clucking just outside the screen door. I was eating when a man, maybe late 50s, walked up toward the building. He squinted at me through the screened-in windows, then stared as though he recognized me, then entered. The woman’s husband. He had a gentle but intense air about him.
While they talked, I kept eating my omelet and homemade bread. The woman had to leave for an appointment, so her husband took over and walked toward the table. “Ça va aujourd’hui?” he asked.
"J’vais bien," I responded. I don’t know how he knew that I spoke crappy French.
We began a discussion of Quebeçois vs French French, which somehow bled into me asking if he thought I really needed to take the oral antibiotics prescribed by the health clinic. "For a foot injury?" he said. "I wouldn’t, personally."
I agreed and explained how I was clumsy and accident-prone. And this turned into the kind of medical confessional favored mostly by the elderly. I told him about the broken foot and the lumpy breast.
He gave me another intense stare. "Were all of these on your left side?" he asked.
Yes. As was the slice-and-diced toe.
"Interesting," he said. A beat, a tentative glance, then: "Have you lost a man in your life recently?"
Cue the waterworks. I managed to refrain from full-blown sobbing, but I wasn't expecting the question, and so I held my breath and blinked back tears. I filled him in. Then he talked about the Mayan calendar and how the transformational leadup to 2012 is already happening. How we’re supposed to go to a higher spiritual plane. He said that those of us who haven't already started evolving are too late. "You're going to be happy," he said. “You just have to weather the storm first."
Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. My eggs were gone. The wife was back. I paid and pedaled down muddy streets.
All of this happened a little over a week ago, during which time I also injured my left hand. I'm not one to go for mysticism, and I don’t believe that this guy has secret psychic powers or anything. I will say that I went in expecting nothing more than a late lunch and left with a lot to think about. Like I said before, it was a woo-woo new agey place.
The proprietor didn't look overly thrilled to have a guest to feed, but she cooked anyway. She made one hell of a mushroom omelet with eggs plucked from the chickens clucking just outside the screen door. I was eating when a man, maybe late 50s, walked up toward the building. He squinted at me through the screened-in windows, then stared as though he recognized me, then entered. The woman’s husband. He had a gentle but intense air about him.
While they talked, I kept eating my omelet and homemade bread. The woman had to leave for an appointment, so her husband took over and walked toward the table. “Ça va aujourd’hui?” he asked.
"J’vais bien," I responded. I don’t know how he knew that I spoke crappy French.
We began a discussion of Quebeçois vs French French, which somehow bled into me asking if he thought I really needed to take the oral antibiotics prescribed by the health clinic. "For a foot injury?" he said. "I wouldn’t, personally."
I agreed and explained how I was clumsy and accident-prone. And this turned into the kind of medical confessional favored mostly by the elderly. I told him about the broken foot and the lumpy breast.
He gave me another intense stare. "Were all of these on your left side?" he asked.
Yes. As was the slice-and-diced toe.
"Interesting," he said. A beat, a tentative glance, then: "Have you lost a man in your life recently?"
Cue the waterworks. I managed to refrain from full-blown sobbing, but I wasn't expecting the question, and so I held my breath and blinked back tears. I filled him in. Then he talked about the Mayan calendar and how the transformational leadup to 2012 is already happening. How we’re supposed to go to a higher spiritual plane. He said that those of us who haven't already started evolving are too late. "You're going to be happy," he said. “You just have to weather the storm first."
Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. My eggs were gone. The wife was back. I paid and pedaled down muddy streets.
All of this happened a little over a week ago, during which time I also injured my left hand. I'm not one to go for mysticism, and I don’t believe that this guy has secret psychic powers or anything. I will say that I went in expecting nothing more than a late lunch and left with a lot to think about. Like I said before, it was a woo-woo new agey place.
At the airport, I discovered that the departure fee I'd paid in cash last time was somehow included in my fare this time. So there I was, stuck with $70BZ and 90 minutes to kill. Might as well buy a "thanks for feeding the cats" gift for Sabrina, I thought. At Maya Endings, the souvenir shop, I picked up a few items, a book, and saved a little cash for Jet's Bar. As a woman of my word, I planned to try the rum punch.
Unfortunately Jet was nowhere to be found. On top of that, the rum punch costs $10BZ, but I had only $8 left. (Just haaaaaaaad to buy that copy of Colonialism and Resistance in Belize: Essays in Historical Sociology at the gift shop, didn't we?) You go to a place like Jet's for the experience, though, so I bought a water and made the best of it.
A few minutes later, Jet sidled up to me. "Meese?" he said. "Why do you not have my rum punch?" I explained that my appetite for the dry writings of O. Nigel Bolland was greater than my appetite for rum punch. Well, actually, I said that I'd spent my money.
"But you must try!" he said. "If you don't try it, you'll never believe it. And you won't believe it unless you try it."
He darted behind the bar and mixed me a drink. Hawaiian Punch may have been involved. Then he returned with a plastic cup and triumphantly set it in front of me. "I mix it nice and stiff for you," he said conspiratorially. Dude was not kidding.
I complimented him on the concoction — yes, best in Belize, I said.
"You have boyfriend?" he said, smiling.
No, I have cats. I decided not to talk about Milo's short legs because Jet could have interpreted it as a slight against his own stature.
"You have four-legged cat," he replied. "How about you take two-legged cat? I'll be your cat. Come live with you." I should again mention that he speaks very quietly, and I think it may be a trick to get women to lean closer to him — which affords a better view of the bosom. I had worn a scarf just to cover what cleavage I do have.
"Ah, but you're more expensive to feed than the four-legged cats," I said.
He laughed. Then he began drawing a picture for me and signed it ANNIE LOVE JET STAY SWEET. I thanked him.
He squinted at me. "You 'ave cam-er-a?" he asked. Yes.
"You take picture with me?" he said. Yes.
So he led me by the arm behind the bar, where countless other women have posed with him. (He has framed many of the pictures, which he calls his "babies.") A nice and interesting middle-aged concrete worker from southern Illinois took the picture. I think we got it on the first take, don't you?
Unfortunately Jet was nowhere to be found. On top of that, the rum punch costs $10BZ, but I had only $8 left. (Just haaaaaaaad to buy that copy of Colonialism and Resistance in Belize: Essays in Historical Sociology at the gift shop, didn't we?) You go to a place like Jet's for the experience, though, so I bought a water and made the best of it.
A few minutes later, Jet sidled up to me. "Meese?" he said. "Why do you not have my rum punch?" I explained that my appetite for the dry writings of O. Nigel Bolland was greater than my appetite for rum punch. Well, actually, I said that I'd spent my money.
"But you must try!" he said. "If you don't try it, you'll never believe it. And you won't believe it unless you try it."
He darted behind the bar and mixed me a drink. Hawaiian Punch may have been involved. Then he returned with a plastic cup and triumphantly set it in front of me. "I mix it nice and stiff for you," he said conspiratorially. Dude was not kidding.
I complimented him on the concoction — yes, best in Belize, I said.
"You have boyfriend?" he said, smiling.
No, I have cats. I decided not to talk about Milo's short legs because Jet could have interpreted it as a slight against his own stature.
"You have four-legged cat," he replied. "How about you take two-legged cat? I'll be your cat. Come live with you." I should again mention that he speaks very quietly, and I think it may be a trick to get women to lean closer to him — which affords a better view of the bosom. I had worn a scarf just to cover what cleavage I do have.
"Ah, but you're more expensive to feed than the four-legged cats," I said.
He laughed. Then he began drawing a picture for me and signed it ANNIE LOVE JET STAY SWEET. I thanked him.
He squinted at me. "You 'ave cam-er-a?" he asked. Yes.
"You take picture with me?" he said. Yes.
So he led me by the arm behind the bar, where countless other women have posed with him. (He has framed many of the pictures, which he calls his "babies.") A nice and interesting middle-aged concrete worker from southern Illinois took the picture. I think we got it on the first take, don't you?
If I hadn't had to fly out to Belize so soon, I might have flown to Chicago to hear four measly songs at this show. Sometimes I loathe the internet, but today I love it — more specifically, I love hot mama-to-be Jessica — for letting me see this:
Labels: chicago, music, regression to adolescence
Last time I was in Belize, Louis and I were riding horses through a tiny village called San Jose Succotz. We clip-clopped past ramshackle houses with tin roofs, scared away chickens in the dusty road, and headed toward the jungle. It was quiet in Succotz until I heard music. Blink-182 was slipping out of an open window, and that moment made me understand how major-label music truly goes worldwide.
Last night, I treated Louis and his friend Caitlin (Caitlyn? Katelyn? Kaytelynne? etc?) to pizza. Then we went to Faya Wata, which is the happening bar in San Ignacio. I kind of hate it because THE JUKEBOX IS ALWAYS REALLY LOUD, I MEAN REALLY OBNOXIOUSLY LOUD. It pumps out top-40 stuff: Fergie, Linkin Park, and terrible techno along the lines of that "Y'all ready for this?" song that plays at sporting matches.
After finishing a game of pool (won, ahem, by yours truly) I decided to take off. Louis offered to walk me back to the hotel. Caitlin is 20, blonde, and built like a brick shithouse, and I did not think it was wise to have her wait in the bar by herself. "No, that's okay," I said. "I walk alone."
"Like the Green Day song," Louis said. We laughed. Music is a glue.
It's interesting to listen to Belize. On the islands, it's 95% reggae and 5% punta rock. Since there's only so much Bob Marley anyone can take -- for me, about 20 seconds -- there are plenty of other options. For instance, did you know that a reggae-lite version of "One More Night" exists? Or how about "Wonderwall" done up in bouncy reggae beats? Yep. In Belize City, I've heard mostly hip-hop and rap coming out of cars. The closer you get to the Guatemalan border, the more you hear bouncy songs with Spanish lyrics.
The other day, I was riding around the southern streets in the late morning. This is where the non-tourists live and work, and for the most part it's filled with clapboard houses on stilts. I was coasting toward a well-weathered house when a familiar strain came blaring out: And in the darkened underpass I thought Oh God, my chance has come at last...
I paused under the window until the chorus spoke of inextinguishable lights, then imagined an iconoclastic teenage Belizean rebelling against reggae and playing the universal music of adolescent and thirty-something mopesters everywhere. Who on this tropical island is into the Smiths, I wondered. How did he or she find out about them? It's not like the Smiths get a lot of media play these days. Were they handed down from an older sibling, found on a good radio show, read about and tracked down on CD like we used to do? Found on the internet? Maybe, but access is pricey, so maybe not.
I passed the house again a couple of times later to see what else might come out of the stereo -- would have plotzed if it had been Ride or something like that -- but there was only silence. During that morning, though, I felt a frisson of commonality. Just like when you're 17 and you see someone with a band t-shirt and you automatically want to be each other's friend because of music. It was a tiny sliver of this trip, but one of the brightest, too.
Last night, I treated Louis and his friend Caitlin (Caitlyn? Katelyn? Kaytelynne? etc?) to pizza. Then we went to Faya Wata, which is the happening bar in San Ignacio. I kind of hate it because THE JUKEBOX IS ALWAYS REALLY LOUD, I MEAN REALLY OBNOXIOUSLY LOUD. It pumps out top-40 stuff: Fergie, Linkin Park, and terrible techno along the lines of that "Y'all ready for this?" song that plays at sporting matches.
After finishing a game of pool (won, ahem, by yours truly) I decided to take off. Louis offered to walk me back to the hotel. Caitlin is 20, blonde, and built like a brick shithouse, and I did not think it was wise to have her wait in the bar by herself. "No, that's okay," I said. "I walk alone."
"Like the Green Day song," Louis said. We laughed. Music is a glue.
It's interesting to listen to Belize. On the islands, it's 95% reggae and 5% punta rock. Since there's only so much Bob Marley anyone can take -- for me, about 20 seconds -- there are plenty of other options. For instance, did you know that a reggae-lite version of "One More Night" exists? Or how about "Wonderwall" done up in bouncy reggae beats? Yep. In Belize City, I've heard mostly hip-hop and rap coming out of cars. The closer you get to the Guatemalan border, the more you hear bouncy songs with Spanish lyrics.
The other day, I was riding around the southern streets in the late morning. This is where the non-tourists live and work, and for the most part it's filled with clapboard houses on stilts. I was coasting toward a well-weathered house when a familiar strain came blaring out: And in the darkened underpass I thought Oh God, my chance has come at last...
I paused under the window until the chorus spoke of inextinguishable lights, then imagined an iconoclastic teenage Belizean rebelling against reggae and playing the universal music of adolescent and thirty-something mopesters everywhere. Who on this tropical island is into the Smiths, I wondered. How did he or she find out about them? It's not like the Smiths get a lot of media play these days. Were they handed down from an older sibling, found on a good radio show, read about and tracked down on CD like we used to do? Found on the internet? Maybe, but access is pricey, so maybe not.
I passed the house again a couple of times later to see what else might come out of the stereo -- would have plotzed if it had been Ride or something like that -- but there was only silence. During that morning, though, I felt a frisson of commonality. Just like when you're 17 and you see someone with a band t-shirt and you automatically want to be each other's friend because of music. It was a tiny sliver of this trip, but one of the brightest, too.
