Last night I went to see War, Inc, and I have to say I really enjoyed it. Getting home, I decided to look up some reviews (it came out while I was in Central America) and found that most critics considered it largely a failure—“more often than not the satire misses the mark” seems to sum up the prevailing opinion. The inevitable comparison was to Dr Strangelove, with everyone noting: it doesn’t measure up. Has any political satire measured to Strangelove?

Looking through the reviews, though, I’m fascinated that each critic seemed to consider different parts, and different actors, successful. For one it might have been John Cusack’s hitman (Hauser) troubled by his conscience—for the next, Cusack is the weak presence in the film. One finds Hillary Duff terrible; another finds her one of the best features of the film. (I'm not sure if I'm the only one, but I find her reminiscent of Tia Carrera in Wayne's World - though less rock'n'roll.) One finds the obvious reference to current events too explicit; another thinks it doesn’t go far enough—that it needs to go closer to the bone.

It was, I suppose, a hotchpotch: the new version of a screwball comedy. It probably owes as much to Mel Brooks as to Kubrick, the way it parodies various film genres (the leanings toward Westerns were something I particularly enjoyed)—but it’s a step up from what I’ve seen of the Scream/Scary Movie franchises. There were moments of—“They went there!”—but I never found it to be cringeworthy. Yes, the characters are stock characters: and they are aware of it. (Hillary Duff as an Central-Asian Britney Spears could not possibly be unaware of the parody she represents.) One reviewer complained that the movie sells out, so you end up rooting for Cusack’s hitman—in a movie where nearly everything is a target of satire, I found this to be satirical too—everyone by the journalist is so compromised, and the “good journalist” is so good that she’s a parody, that the only person really left to identify with is Hauser. I don’t think it will age that well—set pieces in it might, but probably not overall—but, well, I don’t want my money back.

from “Stray Paragraphs in April, Year of the Rat”

If we were to walk for a hundred years, we could never take
One step toward heaven—
                                               you have to wait to be gathered.

Two cardinals, two blood clots,
Cast loose in the cold, invisible arteries of the air.
If they ever stop, the sky will stop.

Affliction’s a gift, Simone Weil thought—
The world becomes more abundant in severest light.

April, old courtesan, high-styler of months, dampen our mouths.

The dense moist and cold and dark come together here.

The soul is air, and it maintains us.

—Charles Wright

I keep thinking that I’m going to come up short with the Independence Day Project—there have been a few countries recently that have left me scrambling until the last minute to find a poem that I can use. I’ve been writing entries ahead of time recently, as the next month or so has a few days with three or more countries celebrating on the same day. I’m trying to write two a day this week, at least, so I can get ahead. I look back on the quiet month of April… Which is not to say that I miss those days. Now is the perfect time for me to spending so much time on the project. I’m getting so used to searching and writing, that when it gets to the end of January next year I won’t exactly know what to do with myself. (A second round? A new project?) There are days, though, when I feel independenced-out. Usually when I’ve been reading about genocides and especially cruel colonial practises.

In the mean time, yesterday I went to hear some music at the Kennedy Center—taking advantage of the free performances at the Millenium Stage again. Two violinists from the NSO (Natasha and Zino Bogachek) and a pianist (Darya Gabay), a program of chamber music. Looking up the violinists, I find they've recorded a CD of Telemann's sonatas for two violins. I wish they had played Telemann... I hadn’t heard of any of the composers before hand, and so I was hoping there would be some contemporary music—unfortunately not. I’ve looked up the composers since, but I didn’t need to really—it was clear that Ysaÿe, Moszkowsky and Sarasate were all late Romantics, caught up in the trend for nationalism. Fine. There are some good pieces of the genre—I find it hard not to get into the spirit of Sibelius, for example. But these were lesser composers (hence, I suppose, them being unfamiliar.) For the most part I found myself playing the game I haven’t in so, so long: unfolding the piece ahead of what was being played. Once I’d figured the sound-world they were in, it was alarmingly easy to see where the works were going most of the time. I sometimes think that my entire music degree has somehow slipped out of my memory, but then I go to something like this and realize that, no, it is simply dormant.

Still there were some really nice moments. In Ysaÿe’s (he's the chap in the picture)Amitié I loved a moment when one violin played a scalic passage and then held a note, and the second violin came in on the same note—not immediately heading into a scale, but holding the same note, as there was a subtle shift from one violin to the next. I think this is typical of my reactions, though—I find myself responding to the stiller moments, find the climax so often in the quietness of a single note. And I know that to get that impact, you need that creation of a thick texture in order to pull back. I think it was that in these pieces the thick texture was so typical, and the moments of freshness only came through in stillness.

It also made me realize that I always find the slow movements too short. That a typical four-movement work will have only one slow movement, and then it will be over quickly: apparently it’s only meant to be a palate cleanser so you can dive into more displays of virtuosity. I measure a lot of works by their slow movements—I think that is why I always return to Messiaen’s Quartet for the End of Time: every movement is wonderful and complex, but the fifth and eighth movements are transcendental: they seem to lose track of an absolute sense of metre and move into this other place. I am still waiting for a repetition of that first real profound musical experience I had as a student at the conservatorium hearing the fifth movement of Messiaen for the first time in concert class, played from memory by the best cellist we had. I’ve had two complete musical experiences since then, but I guess it’s like a first kiss. It can’t be recaptured exactly.

It’s so nice, though, to find that this thing that was such a huge part of my life for so long is still there, and it still takes up the same amount of space inside me, however much it isn’t the current focus. And listening to these pieces last night, jotting down descriptions of moments that interested me, for what seemed right, or what seemed wrong (wrong words, but hopefully you get the sense of what I mean…) I felt again that I would like to try writing music again. I’ve long wanted to write a piece for flute, with “an occasional second flute,” and I realized last night that I wanted another instrument in a lower register for a counterpoint. Perhaps I will use piano, perhaps cello or viola. It’s something to think about. Though it’s so strange to find myself thinking about—I don’t have any manuscript paper, and I’m going to go looking for some in the next few days. I’ll see what happens.

As for today—who knows? I have some student writings I need to comment on this afternoon, and then I may dash off to a free film, or another performance at the Kennedy Center, or I may even go see a film that I have to—horrors!—pay for. 2001 is showing at one of the Smithsonians tonight, but I have already seen it on the “big screen.” So—maybe I’ll wander down to DC’s good cinema and see one of the new films I’ve read about.

Things keep running away from me—well, time does. Things keep getting done, and then I find suddenly it’s several days down the track, and I’ve read a few books, written a few scraps, thought some things that later it may have been useful to have thought… I’ve been making notes and underlining things and making little connections in my mind. It’s been a nice week.

Though I didn’t make it to Philadelphia—devestation! There was some talk last night of driving to West Virginia today, too, but that was talk over whiskey and crème brulee. So. It could just be that my potential-intrepid-co-traveller hasn’t awaken as yet. Or she could just be disappointer that the town of Intercourse that she proposed we visit (because of its Amish population) is in Pennsylvania and not West Virginia. Either way, I’m guessing that there’s no getting out of DC today—but I hold out hope. Maybe tomorrow?

I asked a friend to recommend me some readings in poetics and poetic criticism—just to have a bit of roving reading through the summer before I settle into a more directed reading list. So last week I read James Longenbach’s The Resistance to Poetry, which I loved. I haven’t managed to sit down and write much this week—no poem or article, just Independence Day Project entries—the Independence Days come thick and fast at this time of the year—but I’ve got some ideas.

My housemate was fasting a week and a half ago—though she was drinking a concoction of water, maple syrup and lemon juice, so it wasn’t a complete fast. Anyway, I believe she went for five days. This reminded me that I’ve had a fascination with fasting ever since I read a book by Sharman Apt Russell entitled Hunger: An Unnatural History. It makes me want try it for a week, just to see what it’s like. (And then, of course, have the opportunity to write about it.) I do find the history of fasting and the religious and political uses of it fascinating. And now there are apparently secular fasting clinics in California… go for three weeks and eat nothing under supervision. There’s something beguiling about the idea, though I’m not entirely sure why. (And I don’t expect everyone to be beguiled as I am.)

Last week I was interviewed on 3RRR in Melbourne. I forgot to tell my friends, and yet they seem to have caught it by chance anyway—even a guy from my primary school who emailed me a “did you happen to be on the radio...?” note a few days later. Apparently I spoke in complete sentences, which is nice to know.

I do feel like my life is turning into commenting on student writing and reading books at the moment. Which is not at all a complaint—there’s a glorious slowness to it all. I occasionally think—maybe I’ll go look at some art. Or—maybe I’ll go watch a film. But by and large the days are mine.

I still don’t have enough enrolments for the class I’m meant to be teaching—I’ve got to admit I’m sad about this. I both wanted the teaching experience, and the money that accompanied the experience. I don’t expect to find myself entirely destitute, but—. The work I’m doing with Professor Bradford’s liberal studies class on the Renaissance is really rewarding, though, and I may get a chance to lead a segment on Renaissance music. I’ll have to cast my mind back to those motets…

And of course there’s online Scrabble. A very important part of my life. Trying to find seven letter words does keep me up nights…

“Should I bounce on a rock off his head?”
“Respect your father dear. —What kind of rock?”

—from The Bank Dick

Yes, there have been a few more films—All That Heaven Allows and The Bank Dick. Having now seen the former I can see just how much Todd Haynes’s wonderful Far From Heaven owes to this film. Also, I can see why Rock Hudson was such a sex symbol—in the Doris Day films it always seemed obvious to me that he was gay, but as the Walden-esque self-sufficient nature man, with his house in the woods, his hunting, trees and—terribly important—his flannel shirts I can definitely see why anyone would fall for him.

The Bank Dick is W. C. Fields’s best-known films—at least these days. (I don’t know how it stacked up at the time it came out…) I’m so glad I’ve finally seen one of his films—though Louise Brooks wrote that his films don’t capture the genius of his stage performances. The film certainly did well enough—his stage performances must have been something!

On top of this I’ve been catching up with friends, working in the Writing Center, begun working with a Liberal Studies summer class, planning the syllabus for the class I’m (hopefully) teaching in a few weeks (enrolments are still low—fingers crossed the numbers arrive), writing and attending performances, reading things and thinking about the thesis I’ll be writing this coming academic year. As my mother always says, “No rest for the wicked.”

I went to another free performance at the Kennedy Center last night—a dance performance by the NORD/NOBA Center for Dance, which is a community partnership between the New Orleans Recreation Department and the New Orleans Ballet Association. For a number of the pieces the dancers were accompanied by Rising Appalachia, a musical duo of sisters Leah and Chloe Smith—they were pretty fabulous. I’m hoping to track down their CDs soon. The dancers were great—again making me wish I had the knowledge and experience to write about dance (particularly contemporary dance) effectively.

The writing center and writing consultant work has started up pretty much as if I never left off. It still feels strange to me that I’m reasonably good at giving advice on all the writing that comes through the door. I’m used to knowing my way around a poem, but I feel like it’s taken me so long to get the hang of academic writing—and I’m still getting the hang of American academic writing—that I can’t quite trust my own advice a lot of the time! On the other hand, I think the struggles I’ve had, and really learning to think about it in terms of academic conventions has probably helped me relate to writers and helped them understand the very things that troubled me. It does make me wish there had been an explicit pedagogical strategy in my undergraduate degree to assist with writing—my writing fluency has always been considered a strength, but I really feel like I had to begin to find my own way through the labyrinth. In a way I think it has made me a better writer—because I’ve got idiosyncrasies that I wouldn’t otherwise have—but sometimes the weird individuality that creeps into my academic work does raise eyebrows. Of course, finding my own solution is, I think, the best way to have come out of the thing (even if it did take me an inordinately long time to do so!) but at the same time, the lack of focus on the pedagogy meant I was incredibly shy of asking for guidance to improve my writing for a long time. Slowly these things come together…

And now I’m trying to get the nuts and bolts of this syllabus together as I contemplate not just tutoring but actually teaching writing. I was reluctant to even apply for the teaching position as I didn’t feel qualified. As it’s like to be high school students or “rising seniors” I wanted to choose something familiar that they could begin to think critically about, and so the theme for the course is representations of America, specifically American youth, looking at television, print-media, film and short stories. I’m planning to use an episode of The West Wing (probably the last of season one; Charlie is reluctant to join the conversation because he feels his inexperience; Zoe, the priviledged presidential daughter, feels no qualms and doesn’t fully understand his reluctance; the president cites the report Charlie eventually gives him on youth attitudes to politics; the shooters are themselves young white-extremists… there’s a narrative about privilege versus lack of privilege, and about education versus ignorance in youth underlying what seems to be a whole adult focussed drama I’d like them to see) and an episode of My So-Called Life—probably the substitute teacher episode, which raises a lot of questions about youth investment in a cause and youth apathy, when censorship becomes an issue. I was thinking about using the film Pleasantville—which I haven’t seen in years—to try to think about adult nostalgia and youth culture… and perhaps—because, let’s face it, I’m a dork—the king of teen representation John Hughes’s Pretty in Pink. (I suppose Clueless would also work—I like Pretty in Pink because of the class representations and classic teen “types” staples of teen films that are clear but also not so explicit as The Breakfast Club… though The Breakfast Club works better in some other ways, acknowledging the near-impossibility of crossing into other social spaces…)

And of course I want to look at election coverage and the commentary on the youth vote.

I feel like it’s evolving day to day.

I may be heading to Philadelphia tomorrow—if I do it will be my first time in Pennsylvania (another state!)—with Kacee, a girl I met in Costa Rica who’s in DC all summer before moving to Philadelphia for law school. She’s looking at places and areas to live, and hopefully I’ll be along for the ride. If there can be a stop by some major sight and a Philly cheesesteak then I will consider it a good first foray into the city. And I’ll be back. We were also talking last night about going on a crazy five day road trip up to Boston—and maybe going further on right up to Canada and New Brunswick—in the next week or two. I’ve got my fingers crossed. She has access to a car, so I hope it happens. She seems ready to get out of DC, having, like me, been back for under two weeks! Girl after my own heart… Nothing like someone who understands nomadism.

Tonight I’m having a cultural experience of a different kind: I’m going to my first baseball match. Not just any baseball match, though—it’s the “Stitch’n’Pitch,” which means that the game at the DC stadium will have a contingent (I do not know how large) of knitters in the stands, knitting and purling away as the innings pass by… Yes, I’m taking some knitting with me. Yes, I think it is strange—but how could I pass up such an invitation?

The words “you’re so cultured” were directed at me this evening when I told my friend Robyn that yesterday I watched the Clara Bow silent film It and today I watched the 1940s screwball comedy The Palm Beach Story in the basement of the Lauinger Library. It’s a happy day when I can earn culture stripes from screwball comedy, I gotta say. I mean, gosh! I wasn’t even waxing lyrical about Godard or Antonioni or some other auteur.

It’s been so long since I watched films, so I’m determined to sit down and watch a good few this summer—not just screwball comedies, but a lot of classics I still haven’t caught up with. I’ve started investigating Georgetown’s collection, and on the whole I’m pretty pleased with it! I’m hoping I’ll have some time tomorrow, though I start working in the Writing Center again tomorrow, so that means my day is a little more full than the last few have been. I’m thinking Sullivan’s Travels tomorrow… I was so sad that the Preston Sturges films were always so hard to find in Australia. Here, they’re easier—though I think they’ve all started finding their way down south by now as well.

I made it to my first free event at the Kennedy Center yesterday, as part of their Millenium Stage program—four local dance groups performed: Silk Road Dance Company (contemporary and traditional women’s dances of the Middle East, Central Asia and the Caucasus); BosmaDance (contemporary); Jazzdanz/dc (not surprisingly, jazz dance); and Coyaba Dance Theater (West African Dance). I enjoyed the whole, though it was BosmaDance and Coyaba Dance Theater that really excited me. The Silk Road Dance company was lovely, and I was fascinated by the hand movements of the dances—it reminded me of when I was taking Flamenco lessons, and learning to manipulate my wrists and hands in ways I’d never thought about. Jazzdanz/dc didn’t do a lot for me—I was surprised, because I’ve enjoyed jazz dance when I’ve seen it in the past—but I realise that I’ve usually seen it in short bursts, rather than a number of pieces all in a row. There was a female soloist who was terrific though—she seemed to have the kind of fluidity of movement that the other dancers lacked.

Fluidity of movement is one of the things I love about contemporary dance—and I suppose I’ve become really interested in contemporary dance because often there are things that remind me of circus. (I’ve been missing circus again lately…) I took some contemporary dance class when I was in Melbourne, and I felt like the classes tapped into a lot of the work I’d been doing when learning trapeze. I found BosmaDance really rewarding—there was so much in the movement I loved, and yet—I feel like I have no vocabulary to talk about dance. It’s something that—unlike, say, screwball comedies—I am not very familiar with yet.

The final group—Coyaba Dance Theater—were a complete joy to watch. I loved that there was no uniform shape and size to the dancers. What was uniform was the sheer energy. The drumming accompanying the dancers was amazing, and the dancers showed such joy on their faces while they jumped and shimmied around that it was impossible not to feel joyful too. I’m hoping I’ll get to see them perform again.

In the mean time—more writing, bits and pieces. Got one abstract done, and will work on another tomorrow. Staying up-to-date on the Independence Day Project. Catching up with friends.

A recent preoccupation has been Clara Bow—though I still haven’t seen any of her films, including It—the film that gives us the phrase “It-girl.” Sienna Miller has nothing on Clara. I’m thinking of wandering to campus this afternoon and burying myself in the library for an hour and a half to watch this film.

On the plane to Panama City, I read a biography of her (Clara Bow: Runnin’ Wild, by David Stern) and took notes—another actress poem. Number six. I scribbled bits and pieces towards the poem while in Panama, and then this morning took myself to Baked and Wired to have a stab at putting it together. I think the resulting poetic “essay” works, though I’m never certain.

So many actresses.

I still haven’t managed to write my Louise Brooks piece, though I will. In the mean time (and, interestingly, care of an essay Louise Brooks wrote) I’ve become interested in Lillian Gish—I’ve seen only one of her films. The D W Griffith Broken Blossoms. She’s quite wonderful.

It’s so nice to be writing. Some prose ideas coming too—both articles, but maybe some fiction. Sometime.

I also have to try to get myself into gear to write a few abstracts today, for some conferences I’ve found that interest me. I’m behind—hugely behind—in my ambition to visit ten or more states this year. I’ve been to Virginia and New York. And I’d been to both of those before. I will get there.

Oh! To write is blissful. To follow one book to the next that book suggests.

I am finally reading The English Patient. I’ve devoured Ondaatje’s poems, but somehow never read all his novels. Now I’m jumping in.

And the weather is beautiful—I feel light and happy. Plan to go to the Kennedy Center tonight for a free performance (a dance showcase) and maybe I’ll take some photographs on the way back…

During the week I’ll start seriously thinking about getting some academic work done too…

So thirteen hours after I got back from Central America, I found myself at 8am on campus, talking to a class about the Writing Center. (I start back in my tutoring role there next Tuesday—things fall back into their rhythm quickly.) Upon finishing my class talk, I went to the library and borrowed five books (the first person to borrow for the day… summer hours) and then went to Baked and Wired for coffee. And so, DC life resumed, with a trip to stock up on groceries, an afternoon of reading and, Thursday night, a trip to an exhibition and performance art event.

Art-o-matic. The idea is for it to create a place for DC artists to converge. What this means, at the all-inclusive exhibition taking up 10 floors of a building that just strays into the NE quarter of town, is that genuinely interesting work sits beside the really awful. And, occasional gems like the classic “don’t touch the button” drawing by an artist whose display provides the information: “Connor is eleven years old,” and whose card advises he is represented by his mother.

I’ve been reading Hoogrrl for a while, as it lets me know about exhibition openings and art events that I wouldn’t otherwise hear about, and so mid-way through last semester I got into the habit of trying to get to one of these events most weeks, and so have seen (and written about) quite a few exhibitions in smaller DC galleries in the past few months, as well as visiting the major collections on the mall, and at the Corcoran and Phillips museums.

With ten floors, there was no way I could take it all in. (Ten floors?) Perhaps if you came each day for ten days, and looked at a floor. I was there for the performance art, music and beautiful people, so I went to the sixth floor, but from what I saw on the ground floor it seemed like the same proportion of good art, derivative art and just plain bad art.

The two performances I stayed for didn’t do a lot for me. The first, by Ding Ren, featured a drummer—not bad, though a little heavy on his use of the cymbals—and a girl picking up two or these pieces of coloured paper at a time, folding them, cutting holes in the middle and then scattering the circular(ish) pieces on the ground as she wore the borders around her wrist (well, apart from the ones that got away.) After a while, she collect some of the circular pieces off the ground then went and taped them to people. Returning to more cutting, she then once again walking into the audience and forced paper-border bracelets on people (one girl refused, shaking her head vigorously, but nonetheless received a bracelet.) Eventually she gathered more of her circular pieces in twos and threes, taped them together, then taped them to the edge of the stage. The denouement? Well, she picked up a pile of what was still on the ground, walked into the audience and then flung them in the air. Now that I've looked her up a bit, I suspect the piece of paper were meant to be "positive clouds." As someone who once uttered the words "I don't like fun" (meaning, really, that I make my own fun, and don't necessarily find other people's idea of "fun" to be my own) the idea of these positive clouds seems platitudinous and flimsy.

I had trouble taking this all seriously. I found myself wondering if the poor girl’s hand was getting sore from the cutting. Also, her pile of coloured paper was enormous, and I wondered if was going to—dreaded that she might—“perform” for as long as it took her to get through the whole pile. (She didn’t. About a quarter of it.) And finally, I found myself fretting about the waste of paper for an exercise so completely un-transcendental. Looking at her website, though - the source of the positive clouds above - I suspect she has better things happening.

The second scheduled artist, we were told, was sick, so a replacement in the form of Anthony Willis was provided. This was better—in that there was a point (or there seemed to be at the time. I’m a little hazy on it now). Anthony danced and sang and blew a whistle and told himself to STOP. But the dancing was not great—and while it was meant to be parodic, it was mediocre enough to not work as parody—the singing was okay, but a little (in the words of the American Idol judges) “pitchy”, and the acting was a little overwrought. It made me wonder if he’d called it performance art because none of the elements quite came together enough to be anything else. I also thought that if he did it in drag, and camped it up a notch, it would have made a decent drag act.

I don’t want to come off as a grump. Especially since Art-o-matic seems to be a place for people to try things out, in the early stages of taking wing. And that is a wonderful thing. But I didn’t stick around after these two acts to watch for the next performer in half an hour. Instead, I went home, crawled into bed and read a book.

Back in the land of… well, a friend tells me the United States is the land where it is possible to claim the moral high ground, no matter what. I think it only works if you’re American. I beat him at Scrabble (sadly not as common occurrence as I would like) and while I celebrated victory, he assured me he got to celebrate the moral high ground. I asked him the nature of this moral high ground, but he was really quite vague.

So, I’ve just spent three weeks in Panama and Costa Rica, discovering, among other things, that I’m not a beach person (give me an occasional surf beach in Australia, and as many boat trips as you like), I am a volcano person, and I’m in love with the Panama Canal.

The day before leaving, though there were a lot of things I didn’t do (I feel like I move very slowly when I travel—I’m not someone who likes to dash around as much as possible, but instead I like to stay a place for a week or so and feel it out… so I was moving around a lot for me!) I feel like I did the things I most wanted to: I saw the Panama canal at both ends, I saw lava flow from an active volcano, I visited a 3000 year old archeological site, I saw contemporary art and pre-Columbian artefacts, I swam in the Caribbean, I met some truly excellent people, I visited a church with a magical relic, and I wrote some things.

I also took a lot of notes: my journal is in fact almost entirely in note form. So, to make up for the relative lack of communication on my part, notes it must be… Not all of them (that would take you days to read…) but a substantial amount.

The walls of hostels all resemble one another, only with newer or older paint. Bathroom so depressing, compelled to buy flip-flops for the shower.

All shoe stores in Panama City are air-conditioned.

The only man arriving in Panama City already wearing a Panama Hat: camel-coloured pants, white blazer, thick rimmed glasses—resembling the millionaire you assume is a patsy until it turns out Marilyn’s character really does love him.

Watching Indiana Jones in Panama City.

Man passing in a van, saying in a deep growl, “I love you.”

Indecision about where to go. My pleasure at just sitting on a bus, watching things pass.

Not sure if I have set my watch to the right time—could be walking at a different hour.

Hydrography—the cartography of water.

Watching the “Japan Sea,” the “Venice Bridge” and the “Torm Mary” pass through the Gatun locks of the Panama Canal.

Colón—yes a slum. Dangerous? Possibly. More surprised than anything to see me walking around.

Panama Viejo—ruins open among the poor suburb.

A stone from the remains of the oldest American Pacific settlement.

Reading Herodotus outside the Artisans’ Market.

Taxi to Albrook terminal: car falling apart, Mike holding his surfboard on the roof the whole way, no suspension.

Bocas del Toro. Sandal nation.

Rained out and playing cards in Boquete. “Claire’s game.”

Hurricane Alma and endless rain. The water off in David when I arrived.

The Interamericana closed between Panamanian border and San José. Diverted to the coast, a traffic jam just past Quepos. One way bridges taking the bulk of Costa Rica’s traffic. 14 hours instead of 7.

I love San José. A weird mix of familiarity and grit, plastic and fading glory, occasional splendour.

Reading Pico Iyer’s Global Souls as wandering around the everywhere-city that, under the surface (how far under the surface?) is really individual.

Meeting a negative Englishman who spent a long time in Australia—returned recently and “frankly” found it “boring.” Doesn’t like San José. He liked Panama City better, but never saw the canal.

While sugar packets are different everywhere, “Equal” and “Splenda” packets are always the same.

Reading about the Mallee Scrub in the tropics—the dirt road to San José all stirred up.

Enamel cups stringed from the rafters as decorations. Made in China.

Jade museum, sign telling me that: the pre-Columbian society used to make “winged hungers” in jade, “representing that way a cult to the brat.”

Kelly and Chritina—two girls from Canada, travelling Belize and Costa Rica. The expensive ends.

A gushing girl from America talking about travel “opening up opportunities” and “being on her journey.” Invited to go fire dance in Africa but instead going to become a yoga teacher. The interesting mixed with platitudes. Refused to believe that people drinking too much bottled water having a detrimental effect on dental health.

The odd blankness of the archaeological site.Heavy rain walking 3 kilometres down a pot-holed road. Three hours till next bus. Being taken in by a very kind lady—Maria?—to wait. She showed me her parrot, puppy and chickens. Spoke no English, but showed me her husband’s certificate in English. Communicating in little bits.

Meeting Crispian and Christy, Canadians. Crispian a game warden in South Africa for seventeen years, now taking a job in Vietnam, setting up marine national parks. Driving down from Canada since Christmas.

Man from Suriname, wife from the Netherlands, both of Indian ancestry, touring Costa Rica.

Lava lighting up as darkness fell.

Planning days back in DC—saving money, going to galleries, borrowing books from the library.

Jenny from Sweden—afraid of San José, shocked by prostitutes (I saw maybe four in a week), planning to go home and waitress. Wants to open an organic soup restaurant one day. Just soup.

Seeing the city from the hill where the old jail, now the Children’s Museum and National Gallery (and now done up to look like a jumping castle)—back turned. Hardly any signs or brand names evident.

Sign: Hotel English Spoken.

Bar: Nashville South. Saloon doors.

Farmacia Catedral. Cathedral nowhere in sight.

Lottery ticket sellers everywhere.

Mis-writing: coffee shop for culture shock. I wonder what’s on my mind?

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I’m glad to be “home”. I feel really re-energised—I needed a break, and, indeed, a bit of “culture shock.” Ready to start working for the summer—finish some poems, read some poetics, read books of my own choosing, think some more about Henry James, tutor and teach… As well, of course, as the galleries and shows and movies I want to see, and getting to nearby places like Philadelphia and Baltimore and Harper’s Ferry.

San Jose in Costa Rica is really interesting. Apparently most travelers hate it, but I'm a fan. A weird mix of everywhere and occasional uniqueness - apparently a third of Costa Ricans live here. This is, again, to promise the full update after 12 June when I have my own computer.