Hmm. Yeah.

I marched on to baggage claim to wait 50 minutes for my bag to pop out. After a 1.5 hour delay because of “weather” in SF, we flew on to NYC. Once over the tri-state area I was flabbergasted by all the congestion. There are probably more people in the NY Metro area then the entire continent of Australia. Good word. Do they really need me here, too?

My bag arrived quickly this time. The airport was quiet as it was nearing midnight. I caught a cab for 20 miles that cost a fifth of my 10,000 mile flight to Sydney after being told that the supershuttle I’d reserved would require a 90+ minute wait. That’s the service one gets with a reservation? Sit until past 1:30am after 27hrs in transit? Welcome home. Imagine living in a place where someone can pick you up from the airport. Sigh.

When I loaded up on groceries the next night, after a few hours sleep and a full day of work, I tried to imagine someone in Australia rolling over my foot with a cart and not even looking up, much less apologizing. No. Wouldn’t happen. Yet here it’s commonplace, I grumped, as I flexed my crushed foot. At Fairway? It’s premeditated.

Some people love this and everything else about New York, but the older I get and the more I get out, I realize that it just isn’t normal, healthy, or pleasant. Unless you’re a millionaire, New York is an entirely uncivilized place to live. Yes, there are lots of nice moments. Like the MTA guy who let me in without paying because none of the vending machines were taking debit or credit cards and I needed to buy my monthly pass. And the baby seated next to me on the train home who grabbed my thumb and held it the rest of his ride, unbeknownst to his mother because of his puffy coat. But these don’t quite make up for the angry bodies pushing onto the trains and up the steps, not to mention the lack of infrastructure to handle so many people. Why weren’t the four machines taking cards anyway? One only took coins! People think they’re tough because they deal with this stuff all day. Bullshit. They’re numb. I know. It’s not a great way to be. Get out for a while and breathe. Stretch out. Relax. Ahhh.

Anyway, I get like this often, especially on return from a trip. Let’s hope I finally do something about it. And soon. Far too quickly I’ll be back to thinking it’s normal.

…

The last post was a story. You wanted tips? Okay, then. Tips you get. I’m happy to oblige as we are living in an age of an ongoing courtesy crisis. These are basic and simple concepts, yet seem so beyond the grasp of many moderns. Because the situation is so bleak, it’s not that hard to impress a woman these days. Some basic guidelines:

♦ If you are interested in a woman, ask her out somewhere specific. As you are inviting her to be your guest, you pay. This is not sexist or backward. In fact, it is gender neutral. When asking someone to be your guest, man or woman, etiquette dictates that you pay. Ask her somewhere specific, and somewhere you enjoy. Dinner, theater, a concert, coffee, whatever—an activity that you enjoy and would like your chosen company to enjoy. Do not ask her if she wants to hang out. She is not your buddy and shouldn’t be treated as such.

♦ If she says no but seemed regretful and open to future plans, give it a week and ask her to do something else. A third time is pushing it. A forth time is out of the question. Respect no. She doesn’t have to give a you a reason. If she states that she’s taken, or declines for any other reason, no need for embarrassment or weirdness. Smile gently, say, “What a pity,” and make a graceful exit. She’ll wonder what she was missing.

♦ When asking a woman out, call her. Maybe email her. Do not text her. Do not text a woman, in fact, until you are married to her.

♦ When with a woman, do not, under any circumstance, engage in cell phone performance art. Do not touch your cell phone/iphone/gadget for any reason. Most especially, do not engage in conversation with someone else while she has to look away and pretend not to be embarrassed by your rudeness. Having a theatrical conversation with someone else to prove your popularity, worth, or importance (cell phone performance art) proves the opposite to any woman of substance. You will lose her.

♦ Be kind. Call when you say you will call. Do not be too eager, but do not be aloof. If you don’t want a woman who plays games, don’t play games yourself.

♦ Do not dump your psychological problems on a woman as a matter of introduction, and do not encourage her to dump on you. A bit of mystery goes a long way in romance. (Thank you, Judith Martin.)

♦ Mystery along the lines of unmentioned wives, children, allegedly monogamous relationships and the ilk (i.e. lies) squelch romance and are unacceptable.

♦ Do not flirt with or check out other women (or men) while you are with her.

♦ Do not speak unkindly to or about others. She will wonder not if, but when, she is next.

♦ Do not behave as if something is owed you on the third date, or at any other time. Where this third date idea came from is beyond my realm of comprehension. Behave as if you’ve never heard of it yourself. If things are meant to progress, let them progress naturally between adults, and not on some bizarre sex-in-the-city timeline.

Well, that’s it from the top of my head. Rereading the list, it applies to all genders and orientations. Tips for the courteous pursuer, if you like.

Comments/discussion/anything I’ve left out is more than welcome.

…

Looking at almost every image I took from 1998-2003, and deleting the ones I don’t want, I’m trying to note why some work and others don’t. Missed expressions, bad exposures, off compositions obviously kill an image. I’m noticing what I did right and what I didn’t. There is a huge improvement over the years, and I’m hoping this time editing will help me while shooting. I’m also trying to notice what focal lengths I tend toward, and light techniques in difficult lighting.

I find that I learn best by a combination of repetition and osmosis. Instead of writing down notes, I’m just letting my brain take in info passively as I sift through all the images, and let it absorb what makes an image work. It’s a longer process than studying more actively, and there are times I do that as well, but I feel that this method is deeper and longer lasting, because it integrates naturally with what I already know.

I would like a year off (who wouldn’t) to work on photos, thoughts, and yoga. Integrate and develop what little I know. Hmmm.

I’ve never really thought of it from this perspective before, partly because I’m not entirely introverted. Or perhaps I’ve let the status quo convince me to convince myself that ’cause I’d like not to be a wallflower, I’m not. (Though many would argue that introverts are not wallflowers.) Introverts get tons of bad press, because quite frankly, we make extroverts (the majority) a little nervous.

This came to me because I happened upon a book on introversion. Did I see it for sale on the street, or did I seek it out because all the social networking, which one must do for professional reasons, has me feeling out-of-sorts? I can’t recall. No, okay, I’m not such an introvert that I won’t do facebook, unlike my closest friends. But twitter? Ugh. Even using a cell phone is out of my comfort zone most of the time. Email is an introvert’s delight. I can read messages in quiet calm, think about them as long as I like, and reply when I’m in the mood. What bliss! It honestly didn’t occur to me, until I came across this book, that most people think I’m as out of whack as I think them mad to be thumbing a small gadget at all hours.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve been reposting here old bits I’d long ago originally posted in html so that they feed into the categories and all else on the site, which meant rereading my posts from the 2000 tour. Whoa. Oh course that was a disaster job for me. It’s not that I didn’t like the people or the travel, or even the job. It’s that I need time to myself, to process. And there was no free time. Less than time, even. I said that then, therefore knew that then, and I’ve been writing about it ever since (hence the time & values category), but even now, almost a decade later, I still push myself too far, out in the city from 8am–10pm trying to fit everything in. And I wonder why I get cranky.

Granted this is complicated by working a full time job that has nothing to do with my passions and everything to do with a small but steady paycheck with generous holidays and health insurance. When I add the yoga teaching, my own yoga practice, writing, photography, and life, there isn’t that much time left for relaxing with the the ones and things I love. Alas, I’m almost done with the training and I’ve cut my teaching schedule dramatically so that I can address this (which wasn’t my ideal choice, but the only viable option). I realize that in some professional circles it’s suicide to admit I like to sit back and reflect, but so be it. It’s true. I love people but dislike small talk with strangers. I dislike noisy parties, unless I know enough people there to have real conversations. I’m not interested in what my acquaintances think of my hair cut.

I realize that this admission is complicated by the last post, which was a conversation with a stranger on the street. Okay, like I said, I’m not a total introvert. I’m on assbook and all.

To back this up, I looked about the web for some references, as I’m not going to admit what book I’m reading. It’s far too pop-psych. Luckily an elegant piece from The Atlantic popped up, “Caring for Your Introvert.”

“Do you know someone who needs hours alone every day? Who loves quiet conversations about feelings or ideas, and can give a dynamite presentation to a big audience, but seems awkward in groups and maladroit at small talk? Who has to be dragged to parties and then needs the rest of the day to recuperate? Who growls or scowls or grunts or winces when accosted with pleasantries by people who are just trying to be nice?

If so, do you tell this person he is “too serious,” or ask if he is okay? Regard him as aloof, arrogant, rude? Redouble your efforts to draw him out?” If you answered yes to these questions, chances are that you have an introvert on your hands—and that you aren’t caring for him properly….If you are behind the curve on this important matter, be reassured that you are not alone. Introverts may be common, but they are also among the most misunderstood and aggrieved groups in America, possibly the world.”

It’s a great article. Read it. I want to make Andrea read it, and all my damn professors who forced us to work in groups (which usually means that everyone else chats about all sorts of topics other than that assigned while the introvert does all the work, but is spurned for not chatting enough). Andrea appreciates down time, and is happy enough to indulge my favorite date, which is lying in bed all day reading, playing, and cuddling like a wombat. At work, however, he resents introverts and doesn’t quite get why everyone might not want to be a group player. Perhaps this Jonathan Rauch piece will impress him.

[Andrea didn't agree so I struck through the above. He says that he doesn't resent introverts, and that he probably is one. His issue with NY work culture is that it's pretty alienating in general. Not because it is full of introverts but because people that had lost the desire/ability to connect and are highly defended.]

I’m quite lucky that I’m by far the most extroverted person in my department at work. We get each other. (There are reasons I stay. Sigh.) The point here, is that introverts think differently. We love people. We just like to think about things and process them. We are easily stimulated, so too much stimulation is overwhelming and requires a break to refuel. Extroverts are energized by external stimulation. Introverts are energized by peace, quiet and reflection. So care for your introvert. Now.

I’m excited about a number of things. There’s transition of sorts coming, and part of the preparation for that has been going through my stuff, which for me is mostly photos in various formats. Now that I’ve gone through 100CDs of photos and edited them down to 7DVDs, and started to go through my Sri Lanka pics, I’m ready to tackle the negs & chromes that go back to 1988. This was inspired by Ilona and Narimantas. When we reconnected on assbook, I realized I had pics I wanted to share with them from 1995. Ilona posted some of hers, so I found mine and scanned about 20 on an office copier (they look reasonable on a PC but way blown out on a Mac), and posted them to assbook and flickr. Because I’m picky about quality and because there are so many beloved photos I simply don’t have time to scan but would love to have digitalized, I did a little research.

Wow! I found scancafe and scan my photos, the latter reviewed in the NYT by David Pogue, their tech guy. While the thought of sending my negs off to Bangalore, India (scancafe) is a bit hard on the nerves, they’re actually sent via UPS to California, packed in a container with other orders, tracked and tracked again, then sent to India. For $.29 an image, it’s worth it. Taking them to a lab here would be at least $1 an image, if not $2–without correction, which scancafe claims to do for each image. That is tedious. I hope their people in Bangalore are photog lovers and well paid (for Bangalore). I’m going with scancafe because scanmyphotos, in the USA, looks like it’s more for people with old family prints they want scanned. Pogue recommends them highly and there are examples up on the site, but the quality is pretty bad. He’s a tech guy, not a photog. Some people aren’t picky and just want their snaps digitized. Scancafe looks a bit more professional, and their neg and chrome fees are much better. Wow. I started preparing them this afternoon. All the boxes in the pic above are full of negatives and slides (the bag of rice is used as a yoga sandbag, if you’re curious). I went through them a few years ago and got rid of about 40%. Now I’m not editing. I’ll send them all eventually. I think I’ll send 2574 images in the first batch (You can choose and pay for only the ones you want, after they’re scanned, 50% minimum). That will take me up to April 2000. Wow. If you were tired of my uploads before!

I’m also excited about Moo Cards. Yes, more paying people to do things I don’t have time to do myself. And because I don’t scan or print anymore, it would take me forever to do it myself anyway. Far, far more than the cost of these services. Moo Cards are business, personal, and greeting cards you design yourself online and they print. You can have up to 100 of your own images on the cards. The mini cards start at $19.99. And they are beautiful. I can’t wait. My business card is from my photog days because I haven’t had time to make new. Weird to give to my yoga students, but I’ve never had time to design and print new cards, and am too stubborn to have something generic. Found Moo in Tara Hunt’s book The Whuffie Factor, which has been great for stuff like this. (I also learned about the coworking movement here, which is an excellent option for freelancers who go stir crazy working from home. I’ll write more about it later.)

I’m getting a headache because my music is on louder than I’d like. I’m trying to drown out my retired-pharmacist neighbor who is hacking away at his violin, which he took up upon retirement and has only gotten worse over the years I’ve lived here. He’s been going for hours on end today. The screeching is unbearable. Ann inspired me with her (new!) blog to put on some dancing shoes and clean/dance to some tunes, CLONK CLONK CLONK. He stopped—for two hours. He’d been going from 2-4:30, then started again at 6 and I just couldn’t take it. Got some cleaning done at least. And dancing. What’s better than that?

Well, dancing at Nini’s birthday party would have been, but the headache might also be the cold I only partially sweated off this morning in class. I’m feeling okay, but would love to avoid full fledged sick if at all possible. Alas, a little blogging, a little dancing at home will have to do. xoA

Now off to the immersion.

I’m slowly going though the Sri Lanka pics, only about 70 more to edit until I am done with the pics from ashtangalanka and environs. It’s taking a long time because they are all quite similar and I’m not sure which to cut. I’ve never mastered my digital camera, because I quit professional photog when film was still the standard, and I’ve simply not shot that much digitally by comparison, though my SLR is five years old. The way it reads light is still strange to me, which in Sri Lanka wasn’t helped by the fact that one of the two batteries I took with me was so old as to only hold charge for about 3 minutes, before the meter went mad. I discovered this when Andrea and I went to the surf beach (as we called it, because the waves were suitable for body surfing) and there were two sweet cows on the beach. I kind of fixed the exposures, but alas.

Cows on the beach in Tangalle, Sri Lanka

I’ve also been reading a novel in the blissful quiet of my home, the most vacation-y thing I’ve done this week. I can’t recall the last time I indulged. It’s quite good, though I’d have cut a hundred pages plus, easily, and tightened up the story (which you’ll be saying upon viewing all the ocean photos in the upcoming photo essay). I’m two-thirds through the book, A Trip to the Stars, and am waiting to get through the rest to see as if ends as I’ve expected since page 37.  I just want the separated lovers to reunite and kiss, damn it.

A week from now will be the eve of my return to the bread and butter job, and the next six days are full of yoga. The last 7 days have been full of yoga as well, lest you think I was clever enough to take the week to laze about my home and stroll in the park. Other than the novel and editing, I’ve been fulfilling the requirements for my advanced training, as well as teaching, and reading about php/wordpress, to see exactly what I can do in this realm. I taught five classes, did five hours of required, supervised privates, and assisted/observed other classes for six hours. That was my week off.  I did lunch with friends three times, squeezed in chats with a few others, and reunited with lost friends Ilona and Narimantas, whom I’ve searched for since I last saw them in Kaunas in 1995 (yes, of course it was assbook). Remarkable. I managed to clean and do laundry in <3 hours today and was delighted to have the rest of the rainy day to read, edit and finally write before it all starts up again tomorrow. I think this might inspire the next post on the yoga blog: what does it take to be a yoga teacher?

My mother told me tonight that Mr. Brown, Herb to my parents, died on Thursday, which was 10 years to the day that my paternal grandmother/namesake died. Mr. Brown lived across the street from us when I was a child. He was incredibly sweet and funny. When I went knocking with my girl scout cookie sales sheet each year, he’d tell me with twinkling eyes what a good girl scout he was in the day—sold more cookies than I would imagine. He’d also mow his lawn in the dark (when it was cooler) and sometimes in circles, walking around in the street to get the edges. The Brown’s daughter, about ten years older than me, was the town’s star softball player, which seemed very tough and glamorous to my eight-year-old self. Mr Brown often practiced his golf in the front yard for hours, and hollered jokes over while I mowed the lawn. “What??” Ah, memories. You were a great neighbor and you made us laugh, Mr. Brown. May you rest peacefully.

fullmoon at ashtangalanka

As I mentioned in the last post, the characters and vibe at AshtangaLanka had me thinking about the culture around ashtanga, with which I don’t have much experience. In my research for my yoga blog, I came across more ashtanga blogs than any other. Some were very theoretical, like the insideowl, who has an interesting post on ashtanga and imperialism (mentioned to Amanda in the comments of the last post). She referred me to an aussie academic who’s done anthro research on ashtanga as a daily practice, as well as others’ work on yoga. My foray into exploring the world through anthropological eyes put me in a place of too much separation: me observing them. Me experiencing them (and vice verse), and the argument that me/them was too a false a dichotomy to work from, was unacceptable in academia at the time. After years on the road,  it felt fake. In the end, though I’m great with theory, it put me way up in my head and way cut off from the world around me—even the world in me, as my own senses freeze up when my analytical mind takes over. So I opted for a different way. Nevertheless, I do love to flirt with these things from time to time.

Someone asked me about a posting from years back. 2006. I reread it last week and realized that when I have more time to myself, to rest and relax and just be, as I did then, I’m much softer. My writing was much softer. I imagine my teaching was much softer, my being was much softer. I miss that. In Sri Lanka I realized that I feel good, but not connected to my life. Something needs to shift.

Sri Lanka. There are about 400 photos to edit. A few highlights to share of the travels. Oh, to write as I travel, when it’s fresh, rather than four months later! To carry a laptop? Okay, the next post will be stories. xoA.

For ashtanga fans, Sharath is on flickr (thanks elephantbeans).

I’m behind on the Sri Lanka stories, of course. Pattabhi Jois died on May 18. He was 93. I’m beginning to feel like the trip will fade out of memory if I don’t write it soon.

It’s not a matter of procrastination but a lack of time (as usual). Any free time I have outside of work, teaching, and teacher training has been spent culling over a hundred CDs worth of images—in the end over 9,000 files. They were burned over time so everything was in chronological order, and I wasn’t sure what exactly was there. Now everything is ordered by place and topic, so I can find it and I know what I have.

photo from forgotten essay on Oomoot, a center for the elderly in kyrgyzstan

In the process, I found photos I’ve totally forgotten about. Essays shot but never edited. Because after the work day (and school, and whatever else keeps me busy), there was no time. I did manage to put this photo essay on my grandpa’s house up last week. Though the images are from scanned contact sheets in plastic sleeves—scratchy with imprecise exposures—the result might be my best essay ever.

When I was almost finished going through the images (I began in February, a few weeks before Sri Lanka), I blew out my OS by hitting the power cord while installing software updates last Friday. Lost all the info (it was backed up, of course—in more than one place) but it’s been a nightmare time wise. Googling “restore time machine” did not give me the info I needed once the OS is reinstalled.

grandpa's kitchen. barberton, ohio, 2001

(To restore a full system that’s been backed up on time machine using Mac OS X Leopard, go into applications, find Utilities >> Migration Assistant >> restore from Time Machine >> then choose your date. The only info I could find was about booting from the utilities disk, which I did not have).

That’s not quite complete. Regardless, with no time on my hands and too many pet projects in the balance, I need to redesign and reorder my website. It’s become unwieldy. I need to reorganize it, create a new home page, and use blogging software for the blog. Once again, I am overwhelmed by how much I want to do and how little time I have to do it.

This theme has gone on for years (no time!) and my desire to give time to the right places begs, as ever, to be satiated. Oh, this I must do. But how to do it, and pay the rent, is a real question.

xoA

Next: (maybe) ashtangis and other guests

My biggest concern about Sri Lanka was that I wouldn’t come back refreshed. Instead, I’d come back, exhausted, to work and teaching, and to start another teacher training. Could I really fly for two days just for the beach? But if I travelled the hill country and Buddhist ruins on my own the last week (Andrea would travel later) it could be terribly tiring, and then the long flights home. Yet I couldn’t imagine going that far just for the beach, and ignoring the rest of the amazing country. Oh well. I’d decide when I got there, I figured. I needed a break, a break from work, from teaching, from my routine, and from NYC. And I wanted to be in the ocean with Andrea.

Rocky Point, Tangalle

I raced to get everything ready in six days. On the flight I was relieved to be out of the city for a while. I’m so tired of New York. I’m not a hipster. I do not care. I hate the ubiquitous ads. I hate the weather. I hate the MTA (I used to love the subways, and of course, my bus drivers). I especially hate the ads on the outside of our subway cars. I hate the noise. I especially hate the noise my neighbors make, the noise of my neighbors on the train with ipods blaring and the noise of my tone-deaf, retired-pharmacist neighbor who has taken up the violin and asserts his legal right to hack at it between the hours of 8am and 10pm (“I know. I’ve been taken to court,” he once informed, at 7:56am on a Sunday).

But most of all, I hate the sameness of it. I’ve walked these streets so many times. Nothing feels new, nothing surprises. This might sound like sacrilege to some, and I realize I might be slamming the only place I’ll ever feel truly at home, but I need some space if I’m going to appreciate it again.

That wasn’t provided on the flight out. I think every movie on offer, and there were over 20, was based in New York and sought to glorify it in some way. Ugh! I watched one, and then a bit of a documentary about the French guy who tightrope-walked between the World Trade Center towers in the 70s. I’d heard him on “Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me” a few weeks earlier. Yes, you’re right. It’s my favorite show. Out of Chicago.

The situation was the same on the way back home. When I walked the streets of NYC via the tiny screen wedged into the seat in front of me on my crowded Kingfisher flight from Bangalore to London, I thought, “That place…that place looks like a great place to visit. But to live there? What a mess.”

Rani, at the Millennium Elephant Foundation, Kegalle, Sri Lanka

Unfortunately, I think that about most places, including those I’d just visited.

I did rest a bit. And I traveled the hill country with Andrea (he left Silent Beach early to come with me), which was beautiful. The flight home was long and the jet-lag still lingers. And yes, I was back at work, teaching, and the full catastrophe within ten hours of my arrival. But Sri Lanka was amazing. It was a wonderful trip and I’m so glad I went. But I did come back still needing rest. How do we, why do we, all go on this way?

More to come.

{June 2009 update: Okay, I love NY. We have a strained relationship at times, but I love it. Could use a break, but yes, the love is real.}