Is jet lag contagious?

Somehow I had a feeling I'd be back at SFO sooner than later. They all left and came back within a few days of each other. I've been to SFO so much that I feel like I've been away myself. When I came home tonight I was exhausted. I felt like I'd also been up for days, my eyes sticky and barely capable of taking in anything other than an e-mail or a chat screen.

Driving from Davis in the humid heat (when the temperature hits the 90s I turn off the air conditioning and roll down the windows) I almost felt like I'd re-entered that climate myself. I'd just come from San Francisco, but it almost felt like I was coming from Rio. I could smell fruits and even though I haven't had one yet, I think I can imagine the taste of a caipirinha, refreshing, not as much as a mojito, but it would evoke Brasil, just like hearing samba music. When "Bye Bye Brasil" cued up on the CD player, I skipped over it, fearing it would make me nostalgic.

Guest Blogger: Tim

This Guest Blogger is the one I've known for the most years. We met in his bedroom one Fall day around noon about XXXVII-XXXVIII years ago. One of us was doling out advice to the other about surviving the first day of kindergarten with all the wisdom garnered from having just attended the morning session. Tim's mom, a wonderfully warm person, was my babysitter and I can still remember how her house smelled; it was also warm. Tim and I played together as much as our schedules and traditional gender roles for 5 and 6 year-olds allowed. Last summer he organized a class reunion and definitivamente embodies, along with his fabulous wife and kids, the expression "the host with most". Before the event several of us sent recent pics of ourselves to each other, agreeing that we'd eschew things like losing weight, building muscle, tanning etc. and truly come as we are. Seeing Tim on his bike, I could tell that riding is something that brings him a sublime joy. I would've loved to make portraits of all of my classmates doing something that truly makes them happy.

I asked Tim to write for StringOfLights quite a few months ago and his poetic post follows shortly. But, as is my custom, I asked him to answer a few questions first. He turned the tables on me a bit by asking the forbidden, "Are you ever going to be done with school?" Fair enough, as I hadn't informed him of the grad school "Don'tAskDon'tTellPolicy" regarding anything involving words like done, finished, graduate, etc. I'll answer that question (and quite vaguely) vía e-mail later, but for now, let's read Tim's infinitely more interesting answers.

SOL: First things first: What do you ride?
Tim: 2004 Victory Kingpin

When did you learn to ride?
I have ways wanted to ride motorcycle but it wasn’t until 6 years ago. In ND, we have Motorcycle Safety Programs that do an excellent job of teaching beginner riders. I was hooked day one.

What music do you listen to during a ride? And if you don't, what songs best fit the feel of the bike on the road?
Of course, it would be cliché to say “Born to Wild”. Honestly, no songs come to mind; even while I am riding. The wind, sunshine, the bike rumble, and being with great friends tend to make the best music for me.

What do you do when you're not riding?
I enjoy my family and work. And because I live in ND, I shovel snow… :0)

Anything else you'd like our reader to know?
There is a sort of religiousness of doing something you love. In my case, rolling down the highway on my bike puts me in nirvana. I hope that everyone has the opportunity to experience this regardless of the medium. Enjoy life!!

Perfecto. Gracias. Now on to your post!
The morning starts off a little cool. So it would be wise to add a little extra layer of clothes. Knowing of course by noon you’ll want to ride naked because of the heat. A good rule of thumb for dressing: if you’re standing around before you ride and you’re hot, you’ll be just fine cruising 75 miles an hour down the interstate.
Fire up the bike and let it warm up a bit…..
Put on your safety goggles…..
The helmet is optional but recommended for new riders….
Put on your gloves…
As you straddle the bike, you’ll feel your heart pounding like you’re on that first date with the person that could be “the one”...
Now stand it up…
Pop it into gear….
Ease the clutch out while giving it a little gas…
Ah…. There do you feel it? Life just became more vivid and exciting.
Now just sit back and take it all in…

"Wow, I can't even remember the last time I was here!"

I realized as I stood in line to check out my materials that it truly might have been over a year since I'd been at any branch of the Solano County Public Library.

The librarian swiped my card and what she saw on her screen made her gasp, "Oh dear!" I braced myself for the news that I owed something like $1800 in overdue book fines. "Your card's...expired," she informed me, with more than a hint of incredulity in her voice. "Oh dear," I echoed, " I didn't know they did that." "Well, it wouldn't have if you'd come in every once in a while, ahem, to check out a book." Her eyes dropped to the DVDs I was borrowing (Las voces inocentes and Temporada de patos for those inquiring minds). I could barely look her in the eye. "Um..."

Yes, I know. I really should have defended myself.

I didn't even want to.

15 june, 2009

I didn't even want to put La novia oscura on the reading list for my qualifying exams. I'd bought it in the Tijuana Costco not long after it released and I never could manage to finish it. The narrator/author presence should have perhaps been reconsidered; she is annoying to me in the same way lettered collaborators of testimonio who can't keep themselves out of their subjects' narratives are. Her scrappy little prostitute protagonist has been seen before and is such a composite literary and media clichés that I find it hard to buy into, let alone identify with her. I'd usually call this sort of imitation "a delicious intertextuality"; but here, Restrepo mentions Naná and her literary lineage as though someone were holding a gun to her head demanding that she do so. The telenovelesque coincidental meetings among characters and instances of magic realism that I normally appreciate (or that I'm willing to forgive, especially in a Colombian author's work) just fell flat. But today as I read, one of the characters took as a good omen the fact the number of an oil rig, 29, was the anniversary of his mother's death...

I didn't even want to run yesterday, but not far into the first song, I found this. It was a day to especially honor her memory. Yet, as she often does (and through unexpected vías), she sent what I probably most needed...¡gracias, Mamá!

String unplugged...saving energy.

"Valerie's only weakness is that she is too compassionate," he wrote.

Unfortunately, this statement appears in one or more of my personnel files. Its author is one of my former colleagues. He taught biology across the hall from me. He models excellence in education and is just an all-around great guy and his sons were a sparkling highlight of my whole teaching career. I respected him so highly that I asked him for letter of recommendation when I left that school.

Of course, he was right. The other day I wanted to write a snarky Facebook status update that said, "All week I'd been thinking that on Thursday I can sleep as long as want---¡pinche Garbage Day!" But then I thought of the sanitation workers, who I appreciate almost more than any other public service workers. So the poor princess had to wake up at her normal time, which is probably 4 hours later than those guys have to get up. Like having a washer and dryer at my house, garbage pick-up is something I'll never take for granted and will always appreciate. It seemed stupid and selfish to complain about something about whose absence I'd complain even more bitterly about.

I can't even complain about noise like a regular person without compassion stopping me in my tracks and impeding and superseding attempts at humor, irony, sarcasm or whatever they wish to call it that include what I (mis)perceive as cruelty toward others, even flip comments that are just normal parts of normal peoples' normal discourse! So I erased the update. Pathetic.

SFO

The airport (and all it implies) was sort of omnipresent this weekend and into the first part of the week. From the driver's seat of my Subaru I watched the last three pulling their suitcases through the sliding doors and I didn't pull out right away. I realized that my friends whose summer travel somehow involved me are people who had or have formed, continue to form, or who just recently arrived to form the core of my support circle. They departed (or will soon do so) for or are still in points in Europe, the U.S., the Middle East, Asia and the Américas and will be having life-transforming adventures and experiences: an unexpected vocation, an expression of commitment to a relationship, a holy pilgrimage, reunion with family, an opportunity for CV building and networking, a brilliant career move.

Not until the last party's departure did I wish I were going somewhere, but was really just from guilt. Yes, I finally admitted, like they said, I should be in Río. But I'm not ready. And I actually don't want to go anywhere. I can't. Not until October.

I knew I'd miss them all, but thought that maybe some time solo would be good for me. I never used to mind alone time and in fact would quite often crave it. But over the past years, and as my social circle has expanded and deepened in a way I never thought it would since moving here, I haven't really felt as often that urge to just be alone. And I think that speaks volumes of my friends.

I look forward to when they all come back, transformed in large and small ways, but hopefully not unrecognizable. I want to hear about what they've done and seen and heard and tasted and smelled and felt. And while a drive to the airport is not in my plans for their returns, I wouldn't be surprised...

Proust continued and probably concluded.

20. If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what would it be? Myself and try to do it right this time.
21. Where would you most like to live? Mexico City, Vallejo, Galicia
22. What is your most treasured possession? Bustamante sun pendant
23. What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery? Cruelty to others
24. What is your favorite occupation? It's not my occupation, but definitely writer!
25. What is your most marked characteristic? Physical - eyes; Personality - what's in them
26. What do you most value in your friends? Their presence
27. Who are your favorite writers? I can't answer this one.
28. Who is your hero of fiction? I don't think I have one!
29. Which historical figure do you most identify with? Sacajawea/La Malinche figures. Women interpreters. Also, I'm afraid of doing something that could be perceived as traitorous.
30. Who are your heroes in real life? Everyday dogs rescuing humans
31. What are your favorite names? Partial to names that start with "A" or with a fricative

What part of "Si él te dice que 'ya está', ¡ya está!" don't you understand???

Long ago I learned that I should alwaysalways heed what this particular mentor says. She has never been wrong when it comes to advising me. I should heed what all of my mentors say, but there are two of them in particular who I've always trusted implicitly. The ones who just knew from a first meeting, how I work, how I am.

So, while I could have agonized over the proposal until 2:00 today, I sent it off at about 10:00. My director had indeed pronounced the magic words, "Ya está." ("It's done.") And these are the words that should have carried the most impact, but of course the ones I've been hearing have been the not-so-magic words. They've finally faded a bit. I know that the next few months will bring more words of criticism, and they will be hard to read. But, being written, they will be a bit softer than the ones that were spoken. But now, I realize that because he spoke them to my face and then continued speaking for 20-30 minutes after that now I have another veryvery strong advocate. Sometimes I may think he doesn't know how I am and how I work, but really, it could just be that he's teaching me a bit about what's not working.

His words are in my work now, And they fit. And because of them I am somehow even more invested in this work. And I hope that when more words come, I hope I can remember how I feel about them today...like I'm ready to face them. Like this. A man would say "balls out", but since this project is about women...