CH-CH-CH-CHANGES

Santiago, Chile is a city that, for me, has come to mean many things over the past now almost seven months. It has changed nearly everyday, though this was to be expected. I spend most of my days walking, traveling, living within the same twenty to thirty blocks, going to and from the school where I teach and back, or to the various businesses where I teach my corporate students for anywhere from ninety minutes to three hours. Life is generally static.

There is a vail of doubt placed upon me the moment I leave my front door--what will happen with each next step? Most often I feel as though I am being followed or at least watched. It's rare that I feel secure even in the nicest areas of town. During my free time I sometimes spend hours looking for new corners of the city, seeking out new art exhibits, trying to decipher which are the safe neighborhoods and which I should steer clear of. It's hard to tell because even in the pockets of "mini-America" scattered around the city, I am still an American in Chile.

To see punk, hipster, street fashion and artsy done up and spoken in Spanish is strange--Americans, Brits, English speakers the world over created these ways of life. Is it any less valid?

I get hints, smells, sounds of New York nearly everyday--tastes of my past that still seems so fresh. Santiago is not New YOrk, though, is nothing like it. The buildings are still made of concrete and metal, the taxis still honk at red lights and drive too fast, but New York was established many years ago--Santiago is barely out of the womb. However, ironically, in a city that the world has permeated and proliferated its customs, my existence as a single human being becomes a bit clearer, American or not.

I suppose I wish I just didn't have to look over my shoulder all the time.

I'll elaborate later. The bill on this internet session is starting to rack up and I have simply too much to say. However, if anyone would care to send me issues of The Believer or buy me their new book of authors talking to authors, that would be great. I realized, tonight, upon looking at all of this lovely literature content that I have failed to keep up with in the past six months, that I've been doing myself a great disservice. I've been slacking. Damnit.

Also, what is the word on Dave Eggers or Jonathan Franzen? I want some new releases. The so-called Penguin classics can really just be more of a burden than a blessing sometimes.

From John Warner's FONDLING YOUR MUSE: FIGHTING PROCRASTINATION
(recently published by McSweeney's)

Once your work on your novel is under way, one of the toughest foes you'll face in your quest for ultimate success—outside of your lack of talent or limited access to famous or powerful people—is the devilish problem of procrastination. Writing, like heavy construction or slaughterhouse labor, is difficult and messy work, and it's no wonder that often, when it comes time to get to the task, our minds and bodies turn to other things. Even if you're working steadily, a book can take years to complete, and with procrastination factored into the mix, you'll be looking at a Salinger-like silence before you've published anything: that one game of Tetris turns into an obsession to land the best score ever; thanks to procrastination, a quick straightening up around the house before hunkering down to write will have you steam-cleaning the curtains because it really needed doing, twice.

Most writing-advice experts suggest that you set a quota for time in the chair or words on the page each day. The longest journey begins with a single step, and all that other garbage. They ask you to envision the entirety of the novel. How many words is it going to take? (The pace and planning will be different for a three-volume epic than for a children's picture book.) How soon do you want to have it done? Do you need that fat advance check this spring, or will fall do? They advise you to estimate the total word count and set daily and weekly checkpoints that will allow you to gauge your progress.

This is good advice, as far as it goes—but it doesn't go far enough. Word and time quotas are for the disciplined and focused, the kind of people who pay their bills on time and never get caught without change at the tollbooth. The kind of people who throw out the Christmas tree before it becomes the St. Patrick's Day fire hazard. Setting goals isn't enough. A goal is merely a pledge; you need a plan. Saying you're going to do something doesn't mean it's going to happen—just ask President Bush about that whole liberating the Middle East thing. Research shows it's even easier to break promises we make to ourselves than those we make to others, particularly when there are no immediate consequences to our promise-breaking. Therefore, an effective plan involves an elaborate system combining reward and punishment.

For example, if you've hit your word-count goal for the week, give yourself a treat—like that decadent cupcake you always spy in the display case at the bakery but resist in the name of your waistline. If you reach a monthly goal, step up higher on the pleasure ladder and take a day of beauty at the local spa.

Been good for a series of months? Give in to your wildest unfulfilled fantasies and pay an eccentric billionaire for a week on his remote island, where you will hunt the ultimate prey—another human being.

Motivate yourself by keeping reminders of your potential reward nearby in your writing space, and give yourself a few moments each day to envision the pleasure of receiving your reward: biting into the moist chocolate goo of the cupcake, relaxing under the touch of an expert masseuse, or sighting a terrified homeless person in the crosshairs of your finely tuned sniper rifle as he flees through the jungle underbrush.

If you work diligently toward your goal, these things can be yours.

On the flip side, you can establish a series of punishments for failing to meet your writing goals. As with the rewards, make the punishment commensurate to the transgression.

If you fall a few words short of the daily goal, a slap on the wrist will do—perhaps something like the forcible removal of a pinkie nail using needle-nose pliers. Failed to produce at a satisfactory pace for a week straight? Hire a local tough to deliver a good kneecapping. (Make sure it's scheduled during nonwriting hours, and that the blow isn't so severe as to require extended hospitalization, which would take away from writing time.)

And if, for example, you're under contract to complete a writing-advice book and you still have a third of it to go with only three weeks until the deadline, chain yourself (literally) to the chair with your feet immersed in a bucket of acid (not too caustic, just strong enough for a tingling burn). Believe me, you'll have never typed faster in your life.

I just hope it's fast enough.

The Perpetual Party

I believe that John Dwyer of The Coachwhips said it best when he said, simply, "I just don't wanna have a job, man." Creativity, innovation, persistence--these are the threads of magic that make life worth living, the little daily battles worth facing.

The question lately that seems to be on the tip of everyone's tongue here in Chile is--What are we doing here and when will we leave? Avoiding the United States for all its tripe and excess. Running away from our past lives. Searching for a new one. I honestly have no real answers. I fell in love. I'm writing again. I have more free time than I can manage. My reasons change everyday.

Above all else, what I've realized is that Chile is not any more special than Germany, China or Iceland, only one of which I've visited. Our surroundings are the least important part of our journey--it's how we interpret what is put in front of us that matters most. As for me, I'm finally comfortable. Life here is good.

What the future holds beyond 12 pm I have no idea. I'm just trying harder not to worry about it. The sky is blue and the clouds have run away.

I'm having fun.

since i was sixteen years old and i made my first trip west to visit my cousin in california, i have believed that travel is one of the most important aspects an individual can foster in their life. but what good is travel if, in the end, we are left only with our thoughts and memories of the places we have visited and the one life that remains to be lived is inside of us, venturing to find out who we are? this is a question that i could answer myself by simply realizing that quite often, most people take the lump sum of their experiences once their days have expired and they look back. if they've traveled or if they haven't, those decisions were their own and they must decide whether or not the life that they led was enjoyable. however, as i said previously, i am most often unable to simply accept the things that are put in front of me so travel, experience, a life lived must inevitably have some point. i wonder if i'm not in the vast minority.

i left missouri in july of this year hoping that i would find something in myself that i had been missing since college. my tumultuous two-year relationship had finally ended and i believed that i needed a complete break from my surroundings, so i paid my tuition and headed to chile to learn how to teach english as a foreign language. i hoped, simply, to lift the veil of inactivity and depression that had been plaguing me since the day i moved to new york some three years prior.

to put faith in running, though, is about as useful as putting faith in your lucky lottery numbers--there inevitably comes a point when you have to stop guessing and accept what is in front of you. travel is a suspension of belief. hoping to find yourself in another country is simply naive.

chile is a beautiful country that has helped me relearn the language that i invested ten years of my formal education into learning. santiago is teeming with life and overflowing with art. the people, once you crack their thick exterior and let your warmth seep into their lives, are quite welcoming. but in the back of my head, i've just never felt that i've belonged here. i can't bring myself to leave, though.


lately, it isn't hard for me to fall into a fit of tears, worried about what the future will hold. when i left missouri i had very little and when i arrived in chile, i sold it all. i have almost nothing here, save the ties and collared shirts that i teach in, my ipod and some shoes. i can't afford to have anything here. when i stop to actually consider my reimmersion into the united states, i am overcome with fear. the hours of an english teacher are not steady, the pay hits just at the poverty line and the hours spent walking from business to business are exhausting. i didn't expect any of this.

people keep telling me, though, that it's a part of life--an adventure. nothing here is stable, not even for the natives. at least i have something to run back to. it's just strange to be working in a place that under normal circumstances i would visit as a tourist and not think twice about once i had left. i'm trying to function, though, and it isn't always easy. it isn't easy to be the best at what you do (after all, i'm a native english speaker) and to receive almost nothing for your efforts save a meager paycheck and the promise of summer. travel, this time, isn't just for fun.

i guess, now, it's accepting the challenge of being a living human being in a place that is, for all intents and purposes, completely foreign and doing my best to make the most of what i'm given. writing costs very little and my thoughts, which abound with the overwhelming amount of freetime i'm given, are free. it would just be nice to know that none of this is in vain, that in the end my struggle will amount to something. for once, i'd just like to stop holding my breath.

i made my first attempt at publishing myself via the blog system nearly five years ago. with a new laptop and a high-speed internet connection in hand, i wanted to supplement the writing i was already self-publishing with musings, ramblings and general banter. besides, many of the other aspiring writers i knew and respected had one so i figured it was only right that i should join the club, too. my one and only attempt to begin a livejournal was short-lived, though, and amounted to one entry.

so as i sit here in chile, waiting to teach my final class of the day, a little hungry and a little bored, i thought that i should deliver my mantra, the reason for starting this blog. it's the right thing to do, right? dispell the myths and say something about how i'm feeling a bit nervous, a bit hesitant. i may or may not keep up with it--it's just something i wanted to try out. not really at all.

the truth is that, after nearly three years of inactivity and a general apathy for anything that i even ventured to write, i've been falling back into a groove. i like the writing i'm doing and people have asked to see it. the only thing is, i can't really go around showing off my journal--it's just too personal. so as i expand my thoughts with the idea of finally writing a full-length, novel-type work, i thought i'd share a little of what i'm thinking. basically, i hope to use this as a venue for fine-tuning my ideas, for getting feedback on the thoughts i'm willing to share.

and whether or not you enjoy it or simply don't care, thanks for reading.

hey joni, put it all behind you.
hey joni, now i'll put it all behind me, too.
these times can't add up, your life's such a mess.
forget the past and just say yes.

tell me joni, am i the one, to see you through?
in this broken town can you still jack in, and know what to do?
i remember our youth, our high ideals,
i remember you were so uptight.
that time in the trees, we broke that vice
we took some steps and now we can't think twice.

tell me joni, am i right by you?
tell me how're you gonna lose this hard luck?
hey joni, when will all these dreams come true?
you'd better find a way to climb down off that truck.

shots ring out from the center of an empty field, joni's in the tall grass.
she's a beautiful mental jukebox, a sailboat explosion, a snap of electric whipcrack.
she's not thinking about the future, she's not spinning her wheels,
she doesn't think at all about the past.
she's thinking long and hard, about that wild sound, and wondering will it last?

kick it.

hey joni, put it all behind you.
there's something turning, turning right to you.
my head burns, but i know you'll speak the truth.
hey!
hey joni, put it all behind you.
hey joni, now i've put it all behind me too.
forget the future, these times are such a mess.
tune out the past, and just say yes.

it's 1963.
it's 1964.
it's 1957.
it's 1962.

put it all behind you.
now it's all behind you.

"hey joni"
-sonic youth

it would be much easier to go through life believing that we are impervious to our surroundings. ignorance, denial, equivocation--there is beauty and simplicity in not knowing, in simply not wanting to know. but i am a hunter, a collector. i seek the why behind the how, the perpetual "because." okay isn't enough for me. i don't just want to get it.

so i demand, i ask, a lot from those that surround me--the select few people in my life to whom i choose to open my doors. to those not asking or to those that i cannot grant access, it seems unfair, my system of expectations. but it is mine, and i stick to it. i give truth when truth is warranted, ask questions when i want to know.

ignorance, for me, is a slow death that i have chosen--for the most part--to eliminate from my life. i may cast people--good people--aside in my process, my quest for knowledge acquisition, but it is only right. i would rather be alone than lie to myself, or to others, and say, simply, that everything is okay.

and i apologize to those that i have left behind, to those that i have hurt in the process. it was really no one's fault.