la isla playa larga

leaving scammellot (too) is always a bit painful. but truthfully, this time i went in not knowing what to expect. all of my previous scammellots have been parties. 10 kids filling the house. el capitán flowing liberally. people i've known for what feels like forever. half-nude, manual strobe-light dance parties, firecrackers aimed squarely as human flesh, bonfires ignited with rustoleum, bloody marys in the morning, beer in the afternoon, and tequila in the evening. and someone always wakes up where they're not supposed to.

but this was not that. just my best friend, JC, and i (not even el capitán made it this time). tits was busy, fiend visiting the lady, JC recently single, and the r___ living the [practically] married life. and so it was calm. sure we began the day with beer. we ran to the beach, jumped in the water, removed garments, and let the waves lap us around. we dug our feet into the sand and talked about blush-worthy topics. i extolled the virtues of the ring, and discussed the intricacies of NAMBLA. and it was just as magical as any other scammellot.

and so, as i dropped them in the municipal parking lot on route 9 and turned back south, i had a tear in my eye. not because i'd miss them, or because i'll have to wait at least 6 months before i can dig my feet in the sand again, but because i always fear i'll never find people like them again.

every year the distance between LBI and dc seems further. every year i plan more and take fewer trips to the city. every year it gets harder. and coming back always makes dc feel foreign and uninviting.

but then this evening i ran into my favorite st.louis/chicago/dc resident, and planned for catching up. i gossiped with raf at the conference. i had brief conversations with the jag about fieldwork. and though its no replacement, the people here are truly great. they'll just never live up to dancing in a thunderstorm to blind mellon.

bigotes: fieldnotes

just a snippet from the other night.

a crowd of archaeologists (professors and graduate students) gather at a bar. they order a few pitchers of beer and chat in the patio area which overlooks a busy dc street. those at the far end of the table barely notice when JR wanders in from the street and takes the open chair next to his advisor. from down here, nothing looks amiss. and then dan (the advisor says):

"What happened?[and with barely a pause for breath] I don't like it"

JR replies:

"It was a mistake and a tragedy"

Alas, JR's clippers were broken and he unknowingly shaved a stripe into his beard while trying to trim it. So the whole thing had to go.

Now, as you may guess, he's a rather light haired italian man, so from the far end of the table in the dim evening hour, the beard's absence was barely visible. But Dan, given his proximity, continued to discuss the problems with beardless archaeologists (and i'm not touching that gendered dynamic).

I questioned JR and he said in the last few years he had only shaved for work, never had a goatee, and would certainly grow the beard back as soon as possible. he just didn't feel like himself without it.

los diarios motocicleta

i watched the motorcycle diaries tonight for what i believe was the third time. its a gorgeous movie, haunting at times, and appeals to my leanings (however one would describe them). but its also the "intertextuality" of the film that makes me love it so much. for some reason its touched my life in strange ways.

to begin with, z-gil (the first of my anthro-gils) took me to see it in hopes of persuading me that latin america, not china, was a more fitting fieldwork location. the ploy worked. possibly too well. and here i am writing in a blog i started upon going off to perú.

secondly, most people know i have a soft spot for one gael garcía bernal. and seeing him always reminds me of that patrón party for cuarón where i hoped he'd be. alas, i had to settle for heather graham. and it was possibly the only time i "used" my NYRB credentials. but that was also the first time i met val. which is suppose is somehow significant. (note that despite a strong desire, i am not referring to her by the borat-inspired nickname)

its strange i suppose. the movie makes me remember places more than anything. lima and la paz (though i only noticed on this viewing that they never make it to bolivia-which is a shame, because 1952--the year they traveled--was also the year that land reform took place in bolivia). carbondale. jersey city. places that evoke strong nostalgia coupled with memories of unhappiness, at times. as the admiral wolye-holt would put it, the "kind of beaut[iful feeling] that hurts"

abd

so i defended my dissertation proposal yesterday. dissertation PROPOSAL. don't get any ideas. so, yes. i'm ABD. all but dissertation. but really it should be written aBd. all BUT dissertation. that's an important "but."

and it wasn't as exciting, relieving, exhilarating, climactic as i thought. in fact after i finished i just sort of felt disappointed. i'm not sure in what. myself? the experience? the conclusions the four of us drew about my research question? i'm not sure. but i cried. right there in the hallway. in front of d'vine. and not in a single tear running down my cheek sort of way but in a my throat is closing up and i can't speak and my face gets contorted and i want to close my eyes tightly and open my mouth widely and let the stress all pour out through my eyes sort of way. and then when i finally removed myself from the situation, i went to the history bathroom and had a good loud wailing cry for about 15 minutes until some other unsuspecting woman came in. i figured i'd better quiet down, shut myself up, and get on with things (which involved free sorbet and seeing h-gill's new giant television).

but this is not a good sign. if this is how i react to the PROPOSAL defense, what's going to happen when i defend the real thing. in front of friends and colleagues. in public. where anyone with a ph.d. can ask a question. damn.

but really the point of all this is (unfortunately) that i ended up watching the season finale of the real world tonight (they were in new orleans for anyone like me who might be clueless). and they all leave the house one by one and talk about how much they've grown and grown together and come to love one another and how they can't imagine what it would have been like without each and every one.

and i suddenly realized: someday i have to leave grad school.

it was heartwrenching when rumagin, tune, and rodo al left at the same time. and its still empty without them. but at some point, i will have to walk away and leave everyone behind. sure, some of my cohort will already have made their way into the world. rodo's already there. the partridge has left prematurely, and otto's about to run off to Mugabe-land. but at some point jules, jag, futurama, k-pearl, jtorres, and all those others i've grown close to will have to turn our backs and go off into the world we've been avoiding for so long.

and maybe the gradualness of the process makes it easier. maybe the ending of coursework, and then fieldwork, and then shutting yourself up in a windowless room (not so different from a cube) to actually write the damn thing provides an adequate transition period.

but these people are special to me. different from the rez. different from 409. and certainly different from my high school friends. but we have seen each other at our worst, and supported each other at our best. because we know we are not alone. and not just in a "damn if i don't question you maybe dolores will think we actually understand this stuff and not put me on the spot" sort of way, but in a true sense. because we know that in the end what makes you better and stronger makes me wiser too. and our interests are disparate, and our theories conflict. but i trust and love these people so much.

and they've taught me so much too. i was commenting to h-gill over sorbet yesterday, that there are all these things i have strong opinions about that i really don't know the details of. but when you have a friend writing a dissertation on a topic, and they tell you michelle rhee is the devil you trust them. and you may pick up on the reasons along the way, but because they're less urgent than the protests in potosi, you don't remember the details. so you just blindly agree that south african casinos obscure the inequalities of post apartheid and hunting practices in queros can only really be understood in light of eco-tourism. and i stand by that.

and maybe i'm just getting a little sappy, but i hope i know these people forever. i hope i run into them at aaas for decades to come and someday we're all department chairs and have some sort of reunion in a random marriot room and drink margaritas and reminisce about cactus cantina. because i think that hope is the only thing that will make walking away from this place and these people possible.

libros y canciónes

this is a pitiful way to post for the first time in 2 weeks, but all i can do is apologize.

after 2 weeks of fretful insomnia, i may have kicked the habit. thus, i woke up at 5:30 am today (a mere hour after my usual 4:30 am fall-asleep time as of late) after a lovely night's sleep. and i randomly stumbled across a list of stereotypes by favorite indie band. I found this especially interesting because my favorites change so often, and are even more likely undefinable (and not in an "oh, i'm so knowledgeable i can't be pinned down sort of way. or an i'm so knowledgeable you've never heard of my favorite band sort of way. no, just in a hm...who do i feel into today sort of way). and the wonderful thing about that positioning is you get to decide which stereotype you like best and go with it. So I went with bat for lashes. mostly because ee and i were talking about them the other night, and they were at the forefront of my memory.

So apparently, i wear leggings to places other than 80s parties. Which is true. But I wear them under dresses in the winter. I'm not sure that counts.


But the real point here (if this is even an excuse for a "real" point) is on this list there was a link to stereotypes by favorite author. Now, if you have had any discussion about fiction, books, love, death, life, inanimate objects, cigarettes, choice, or any other number of pseudo-philosophical topics, you know who my favorite (fiction) author is. but of course, as expected, he is not on the list. however, what i didn't consider is that the close 2nd (though still undoubtedly second) would be on the list. and since #2 was the mentor of #1. and #2 shares things like cities and academic disciplines with me, it seems only right that I consider him as my stereotype.

So, I don't think I've ever actually "played Creep by Radiohead while having sex or smoking pot." But if someone insisted I had, I wouldn't argue. Though i was (surprisingly) never much of a radiohead fan, most of my friends were. so, even if i never actively played the song, i can easily imagine that it may have been in the mix at some point in serge's room or 409 or the like. but the reason i'm really writing about this (another "real" point?) is the brief stereotype also includes a link to a fuller explanation, in which this fine blogger suggests i must be crazy (so true), ever changing (who isn't?), "random and varried" (sure...), and a rebel (i wish!).

so, there you have it. leggings and rebellion. i can live with that.