The hill is an institution that exists only during those snowy months sometime between november and april. The hill is beside our school, but the familiar walk is anything but, when we trek with sleds slung over shoulders or towed behind. Fannie glances back at us between chomps of snow, could you go any slower?. We run the last few yards to the gentle slope of the hill’s crest. The hill defies all logic, and obeys no laws; gravity scowls as we depart the ground and float in forever; a bubble of time that pops and drops us back to earth.
Wanted: Introverted Alter Ego
Wanted: Introverted Alter ego, must be a shy male, 20’s of average height, dashingly attractive. Wry, caustic sense of humor and love of heavy metal a strong plus.
Audio: Adiemus – Adiemus
Image/Want Ads
Time. No matter what the time, the town has its players. The red autumn sun fades violet, its path followed by trails of starlight — books, used or old, are bought and sold, read and remembered. Will travel to bid on larger libraries.
100 Words: Rock Doves [Birds]
When I imagine pigeons, I think of the peculiar blue and grey birds who waddle, utterly fearless, through the streets of our nameless metropolises. Our worlds are built upon such institutions; we expect that when we see a pigeon, it will look — pretty much — the same as the ones we’ve seen before. So imagine my reaction when, in Patan Square, Kathmandu, I encountered PINK PIGEONS! Indeed, the pink variety do look — pretty much — the same as the ‘traditional’ variety; however, the surreal switch from blue to PINK dealt a blow to my reality; the world would never look quite the same again.
100 Words: Lightning
When I was in gradeschool we spent the summer months swimming at crystal lake, behind my house. But you had to go all the way around the lake to the bathhouse and show your passes to the recalcitrant lifeguards. My parents said we couldn’t swim on our side of the lake because a drunk guy had once fallen in and drowned. Every once and a while our swim sessions would be cut short by megaphoned monotones warning of lightning so would everyone please exit the water immediately. Grudgingly we swam to the docks and hoisted ourselves onto the wet wood.
100 Words: Furniture & Maps
Sunday [Furniture]: 4500 BC: The first piece of furniture appears in in the Malaysian river delta silt deposit area. We know this with a high degree of certainty, since the area’s silt is quite effective at preserving ancient artifacts. Especially fine upholstery. Yes, the first piece of furniture also bore the first example of fine upholstery. This exquisite upholstery was not surpassed for over 5000 years, when a 19th century seamstress created what her husband thought to be a fairly bland sofa slip-cover. Little did he know, it was the finest specimen of its kind to exist in over 5500 years.
Saturday [Maps]: I love maps. There is something about them that captivates me, causing me to plaster my walls with them. When you walk into my room, you are assaulted by an array of maps. Directly ahead is a 15th (I think?) century map of the world, in all its hand-drawn, distorted glory. On the left, an enormous map of Mongolia with land-use contours that stretch from cool greens and blues to the flaming reds and oranges of the Gobi. To gaze upon a map is to see into its world; whether it be 15th century Europe, or 21st century Mongolia.
Some Stranger Stranger Studies
She is a shy looking girl sitting with an athletic shy-looking boy. Both are blondes and aren’t speaking. Now he raises his eyes from his Italian dictionary and talks to her. Her face animates and she returns the passing-the-time-reading events calendar to the tabletop. Is it awkward? He is listening to music. Or seems to be to anyone watching, who will see the black wires hanging from his ears. He wears a while, flat rimmed baseball hat that represents no team.
A less-shy looking girl joins the table. She is also blonde, and looks tired.
He wears blue sweatpants and a T-shirt decorated with a snowflake that tells us he is one of The Coolest Guys Around. Draped over his chair is a gray North Face fleece, like the one I left at home for its resemblance to ones like this. He may be a skater. Or at least likes their shoes.
2
He has a wide-eyed, yet simultaneously tired face that is framed by not-straight brown hair. He wears a bright purple fleece and a tie-dye shirt. He looks frenzied. Under the table are his legs, covered with snowman pajamas, though it is a Monday at 10:30am. Even his shoes scream unconventional, and are mottled with colors. Does he have something to prove? Or a sense of unique style. Meaning he uses style to prove his individuality, See?! Look, I’m different! Would you wear this?.
Or maybe he’s just color blind.
3
He stretches, and wishes that God bless the girl, not because she’s necessarily special, she just sneezed. He looks into space and mouths words to himself, presumably related to the notebook on the table and the pen in his hand. Or he’s using the notebook and pen to disguise insanity. But if he has to disguise it, then he recognizes it, and is it really insanity?
His movements are sluggish, as if his veins flow with something thicker. His words come out crisp and low, yet thin. He walks stiffly, his upper body is firmly affixed to his hips. He wonders aloud if the girl just left without saying goodbye. His friend (the frenzied one) doesn’t know, I’m oblivious and returns to his newspaper. He reaches for his green sweatshirt, hanging on his chair, and dons it; he takes his plates to the dish rack and leaves. He may or may not say goodbye.
4
He looks Jewish. I can say that because I’m Jewish. Well, half Jewish. But I look Jewish. It’s the Friedman nose, I think. And he wears headphones that fit his head a bit too well. The shape of his head, and his excited hair conspire to create an unfortunate illusion of squished-headness. The headphones are separate, attached to each ear, but appear to be squeezing his head like in those old Gushers commercials when people’s heads turned into fruits upon biting into the acid-filled fruitsnacks. Can you imagine the lawsuits? Like, if it really happened? What is the restitution for having one’s head turned into a giant cartoon fruit? I’d be pissed.
Whatever music he is listening to appears not to move him, for he is not moving. Maybe he doesn’t care if people think his music is moving him or not, and feels peaceful when he sits still. He is reading the newspaper. He rises to leave, carefully folding the pages and tucking it below his arm. Now standing, he looks slightly less Jewish for no particular reason.
Un-Braided Essay
Why I know no song.
I do not know a single song from beginning to end. I’ve played music since I could read: piano, clarinet then sax then guitar and back to piano… yet I couldn’t play a single song from memory on any of them. Even on guitar, once I was finally playing music I loved, I would learn pieces here and there, or play the whole song from written music. Sure, I remember a few riffs, but most didn’t occupy my attention quite long enough to stick.
Ninja Turtles
I don’t remember much from my first years in the world as a ‘real person’ (to quote the grandpa from Little Miss Sunshine). But there was a kid in my kindergarten class who knew the whole theme to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Which was super awesome. He was known for it, and was expected to do his part by singing it on demand, regularly, so the rest could sing along to the parts we knew.
Heroes in a half shell
Turtle power!
Be Prepared…
Everyone who goes to Mongolia, and plans to venture outside the bubble that is the capital, Ulaanbaatar, must be prepared to sing. Mongolians love to sing, and love to ask their awkward foreign guests to sing, “Amerik duu duulakh uu? Duu! Duu!” (“Sing us an American song! C’mon…”)
We sat in the ger of a family who I assume is somehow related to my host family, since everyone is related to everyone somehow in Mongolia. Or will be soon. Their 5 year-old son lay sleeping, comatose on a cushion in the back of the ger, directly behind a row of three seated adults, none of whom I’d seen before. They handed me a bowl of airag (fermented mare’s milk. imagine a drink with the consistency, carbonation and alcohol content of beer, and the taste of… well, fermented milk. The taste is strong, but not necessarily unpleasant.) Then a small silver bowl carefully filled with Xaraa, the most popular mid-range Mongolian vodka. I thought for a few minutes, then settled on an easy choice. I began to sing Old MacDonald, as the 7 Mongolians sat and watched, delighted. My self-conscious voice came out weak, and restrained with self-consciousness. Mongolians are also very good singers. As in, you hear a song on the radio, and if you in a group of five or ten people, chances are at least one of them can pretty much sing it like the artist. Soaring vibrato and all. And then the rest can all come pretty close. Maybe one or two happen to be tone deaf, but I’m sure even they could out-sing someone from a (comparatively) songless culture. I made it through about two verses before hitting a blank, but by then I had satisfied the crowd. “Cain baina!” (“How good!”) they offered, and I replied with the colloquial Mongolian, “Za…!” which sort-of means what it sounds like (So… And then… Okay… etc…) but is used for many of the more formal Westernisms like the casual “thanks”, “nice to meat you”, and whatever else. This got them laughing again, and I relaxed against the cupboard behind me.
Delgerkhaan: Recorded
[audio:delgerkhaan.mp3]
Enjoy.
Mongolian Night Hypertext
Mongolia, land of the clear blue sky, transforms at night; her blue skies fade to reveal the blackness of empty space, overwhelmed by a silent swarm of stars, frozen in a distant dance. The moon, if she is out, burns with epic brightness, casting a cool glow across the shuffling herd, who peer at me with amazingly complete incomprehension.
