Been listening to Modest Mouse’s “Gravity rides everything” and Mana’s “No voy a ser tu esclavo” on repeat like a shamelessly lame eighth grade girl. Had an anxiety dream about gender roles in video production last night. I fought off comments from male crew members that I should be a makeup artist, or an actress, or something less technical. “No!” I yelled. “I wanna shoot! I’m gonna shoot video!” Right, I don’t have any hangups about this topic or anything…

Last night we ate dinner at this place called the Liberty Bar. Part of its appeal is that it’s an old house that’s leaning sideways, literally about to fall over. The food was amazing, and the waiter was funny. Afterwards we drove around downtown San Antonio and J. showed me the church where she’s to be married in a few months. She’s 25 with a good job and a great guy and a smart plan, a very pretty engagement ring and alot of other mid-20s friends in Texas who are engaged. Made me think about how urban, northeastern life is so different, at least in terms of advocating individualism, more personal agendas, less traditionally domestic expectations for life. It’s neither good nor bad, it’s just different — way different — from Texas, where the highways are wide and the air conditioning is always on and people much younger than me are buying houses and having children. Whoa! I feel an urge to run away to Europe coming on…

Courtesy of Baghdad Burning, which you really need to read:

What people find particularly frustrating is the fact that while Baghdad seems to be falling apart in so many ways with roads broken and pitted, buildings blasted and burnt out and residential areas often swimming in sewage, the Green Zone is flourishing. The walls surrounding restricted areas housing Americans and Puppets have gotten higher- as if vying with the tallest of date palms for height. The concrete reinforcements and road blocks designed to slow and impede traffic are now a part of everyday scenery- the road, the trees, the shops, the earth, the sky… and the ugly concrete slabs sometimes wound insidiously with barbed wire.

“The Americans won’t be out in less than ten years.” Is how the argument often begins with the friend who has entered the Green Republic. “How can you say that?” Is usually my answer- and I begin to throw around numbers- 2007, 2008 maximum… Could they possibly want to be here longer? Can they afford to be here longer? At this, T. shakes his head- if you could see the bases they are planning to build- if you could see what already has been built- you’d know that they are going to be here for quite a while.

The Green Zone is a source of consternation and aggravation for the typical Iraqi. It makes us anxious because it symbolises the heart of the occupation and if fortifications and barricades are any indicator- the occupation is going to be here for a long time. It is a provocation because no matter how anyone tries to explain or justify it, it is like a slap in the face.

I just went swimming, but it’s not the same as nights in the Marriott pool. That’s N. on the left, looking artistic. That’s me on the right, looking wary. Ever seen the movie “Swimming Pool”? I want to be French.

Texas is a strange world. Tonight we’ll be visiting downtown San Antonio; tomorrow, Austin. I keep fighting the urge to do actual work, instead remembering this is vacation, supposedly…

It was a weird dream night last night: first, J. woke up at 3a from a scary dream screaming, “Oh God no! Get away! Ahhhhh!” which, por supuesto, was a bit terrifying. I busted into her room to fight off the bad guys, but they were only in her head.

Then I went to sleep and dreampt that there was this group of people I either worked with or went to university with, and there was a comic book that was hugely popular, the text of which was based on pieces of fictional dialogue that had been submitted by children to narrate the story. Anyway, the story told of a vortex, or another world — much like Narnia — and I for some reason had acquired a copy of the draft of the next book, which I brought to a pool and showed all my coworkers. As they were eagerly reading it, someone tattoo’d things on either of my arms. I didn’t really realize this was happening until it was over: they’d tatto’d a vented window on one upper arm and a door on the other. “You have to have a way to get in as well as get out,” was the explanation when I asked. They were referring to the other world in the story. I looked in the mirror and freaked out because the tattoos were large and not that well done, and I looked like a huge punk with them. “How can I ever be taken seriously as a professional now?” I thought. “I already look 14, I already have a nosering and wear weird clothes — now with this ink all over me I’m really doomed.”

And then I slept past noon and finally woke up.
Had a long conversation late last night with a dude I haven’t met. We compared notes on Neruda and politics. It was refreshing.

And now it’s time to eat a yogurt parfait and swim in the GORGEOUS, HUGE POOL in J.’s apartment complex, then in a few hours work out in the GORGEOUS, HUGE GYM that’s also in J.’s apartment complex. Aint got much to complain about, yeehaw.

Ahora, en medio
de la velocidad desestimada, al lado
de los muros sin hilos,
en el fondo cortado por los terminos,
aqui estoy con aquello que pierde estrellas,
vegetalmente, solo.

Now, in the midst
of unesteemed velocity, beside
wire-less walls,
at the bottom bisected by terminals,
here I am with what shipwrecks stars,
vegetably, alone.

(from “Bruselas”)

I bought a collection of Neruda poems for my long 45-minute flight from Fort Worth to San Antonio. And here I am, in the cubbyhole office of J.’s apartment, full off Texas noodles and cookies and Starbucks Odwalla smoothies. My aim was to embrace the solitude of these daytime hours while J. is at work, but solitude always takes a little getting used to before I’m ready to embrace it. Without internet, what would we be? Much more educated, I imagine.

This is N.’s stolen phone photo of me looking sad while watching a cute webcam music video that I edited last year of me and G. The vacant stare is actually the outer manifestation of my insides combusting into a million pieces. This is how death will be: a climactic sadness, an implosion. And then I’ll laugh about it when it’s all over.

Went for the now ritual 10-11p swim tonight with N. Pool looked chrystalline and beautiful, all empty and half-lit. I’m getting used to living in a hotel; pity it’ll all be over soon. I always dread traveling — the details, the laundry, the lack of personal ammenities — til I do it. Then I never ever want to come home. I want to come home now, but a week in San Antonio comes first. More photos, more Texas, and an excellent old pal to visit. But all I can look forward to is my yogurt and fruit parfait tomorrow morning in the cafe downstairs.

I know you understand.

And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,
None knew so well as I:
For he who lives more lives than one
More deaths than one must die.

-From The Ballad of Reading Gaol

That’s my favorite excerpt from Wilde, but I can’t explain why. I think the notion of living many lives is appealing, and possibly familiar, in a metaphorical (as opposed to metaphysical) sense.

N. is eating sunflower seeds. It has been well established that our hotel room is better than those of our coworkers. It’s on the top floor, giving us a charming view of buildings and Texas haze over the highway. I hear there’s a crazy heat wave sweeping Boston. I also learned there’s a “developing hybrid” off the coast of Florida. Shameful about my meteorological ignorance of the term “hybrid”, I watched an online news clip about it — seems a killer cyclone might develop, or something like that. Has to do with low-pressure systems. I love learning about the weather, I really really do.

And thus ends this lame post.

Been working hard, all of us here in Texas. We get silly at night, even during anti-torture lobbying, as evident above. Everyone seems to be struggling with some physical problem — I puked up a lot of dirty salad the other night, several people couldn’t sleep, or body parts were aching, or sinuses were clogged — it would almost be funny, if it weren’t funny at all. Good thing I don’t believe in sickness. Fortunately health is on the rise again, a necessary thing and happy fact.

The one thing I do love about Texas (since it certainly isn’t the food) is the clear sky. Every day, no clouds. I didn’t realize how much of a difference it makes — but I find myself with more energy and uplift, despite the 100 degrees. Am on a break now, which I’ve capitalized on with a long swim in the hotel pool, although I guess it was more of a mini-swim, since you can only take a few strokes before hitting the other side. Unitarians, being the insane hippies they mostly are, are everywhere at this convention, and it’s been fun to see them in restaurants and on the street with their Birks and rainbow bags, blending like an armadillo in soup with the poofy-haired, pink-pumped, lipsticked business women of Fort Worth. I wish I could film all of this…

Seriously man, we must have walked for miles. This mini-city is a tourist trap targeted towards convention-goers. The food is all pre-made and pre-frozen and no good. You have to spend at least $30 to get a decent meal. It’s depressing, although we were able to score some fresh salads off a nice lobster waiter named Tyler.

After dinner we dressed up like Spice Girls and walked around downtown until we found a big rig that said “Let’s get this show on the road” written on the side. I echoed its sentiments.

I laid in the pool tonight for an hour, alone. It was great. I cherish these conventions for the sole purpose of getting the opportunity to practise how to float. This time, as I struggled to keep my stomach and nose above water, I stared out at the building across the street. It had about 17 stories and three open windows on one side, in which crows were flying. The sky was huge and blue and when the generator went on by the pool, it sounded (underwater) like jets were about to crash above me.

In other news,
There’s an apartment complex in Dallas called Harvard Square. N. got the housing classifieds so we can see what amazing lofts we could have if we wanted to live in this God-forsaken state. In Harvard Square, rents start as low as $405. Check, please.

Texas is a strange place. There are many brand new babies that are being held incorrectly (I’m serious, there are all these moms and dads in restaurants who hold their newborns upright, not supporting their heads at all — it’s disturbing) and bleached blondes wearing pastel skirts.

After entering our hotel, this is one of the first signs you see. To answer your question, I have no idea.

This is the view from our hotel window. The reflection of our pool in the opposite building has been very helpful for reconaissance. We don’t want to walk around half-naked in front of our CEO, but we definitely want to go swimming, constantly.

So, we swam around half-naked in complete automony tonight, since the masses for this convention don’t arrive til tomorrow. N. just got a new tattoo, which I stealthily captured on camera when her back was turned.

We went for a walk after dinner and took lots of pictures next to cowboy statues and lone stars. You can tell, but I’m standing between the legs of a big cowboy-businessman statue in this photo. The moon was huge tonight. Its aesthetic appeal was just enough to squash the knawing reality that, alas, we’re in Texas, land of Herr Presidente and guys who whistle at us out the window of their pickup trucks. Thank you, God, that I don’t live here and never will.