Funny... maybe it worked after all. Of course, since I am still unable to publish anything to sar5ah.blogspot.com, I can't implement the oh-so-simple method of communicating a URL change-- posting the updated address on the former site.
Life is hard.

Christmas has passed, was duly celebrated, all that. New Year's Eve looms in the near future. It looks like I'll end up being a hanger-on at a family party. Anything for pizza and board games. I hear that Dead Heretics will be attempting to watch the worst movie ever filmed. Now that sounds like a party.

Today marked the start of another week here-- what I had wrongly assumed would be my first "normal" week in my new city. But no. New's Year Even seems small in comparison to everything else-- I leave in the morning for my former city, to meet up with some people and then help a couple of friends move up here on Tuesday. Then beginning on Friday I have a four-day retreat. Complete with craft time. (I'm still hoping that was a bad joke.) So it looks like another week until my schedule opens up enough to start really settling in here. At the moment I'm still more than content to roam the city by myself, investigating neighborhoods and shops and streets. Without any internal need to start meeting new people just yet, I'll have to push myself to reach out. It can be done, I know. But it does take more than a little effort to overcome that first bit of static friction.

I find myself entering some sort of no-man's land between languages. I hadn't realised until my (former) flatmate's mother was staying with us exactly how much Arabic slips into my normal conversation. Commonly used words require no translation in my mind; they simply are. And all the foreigners I know here know at least as much Arabic as I do (most of them a great deal more), so until Brandi's mother started staring at me with an expression devoid of any comprehension, I had no idea that my speech was so laced with Arabic words and phrases. In one way I'm pleased that I'm employing what Arabic I know so easily and unconsciously, but it's also a tad disconcerting not to be immediately aware what language I'm speaking. I've always before picked up hints of this trouble during my travels, but this is an extreme I've never felt before.

I am unexpectedly swamped with exhaustion. Looks like it'll be an early night here.

Still trying to avoid finding a new site for blogging.... I thought I'd found a way. It seems not. But I am not defeated yet.

I've been trying to post the same thing since last Friday night, and I still can't get it out and actually on to my blog. Probably this won't go for a while either. But for when it does....

I successfully moved into my new apartment on Saturday night and since then have unpacked and arranged and fidgeted just about everything into place, I think. At least for the moment. Most of the knick-knacks which came with the apartment are now hiding in a dark corner inside the wardrobe in the back bedroom. And have subsequently been replaced with books. There is, after all, nothing else with which I would rather decorate.

My major mission for the day is baking two pies, one apple and one strawberry-- my contributions to the Christmas feast tomorrow. Tonight there's a multi-lingual midnight mass downtown, and some of us will go sing in Christmas day at that.

Locally Christmas happens on January 7, according to the Orthodox calendar. I'm curious to see what, if any, accompanying changes appear around here. Probably still no Santa Claus or canned Christmas lounge music. What an utter shame.

I awoke grudgingly this morning, and as I lay in bed trying to convince myself that yes, I should go to the service and yes, it was necessary to get up in order to do that, I heard the unbelievable sound of a car driving down a wet street. That pulled me out of bed quickly enough. I sprang to my window to see what was the matter. And lo! it had rained. Even more than the other day. This looked like the result of a fairly major shower.

The rain held off until the service was over, thankfully, since at this fellowship the services are held outside, and we were too late to get seats underneath the cover of the tent. (A mark of the winters around here: these services are held outside year round.) But afterward, as everyone milled around, mingling and chatting, the rain began again, and those who did not quickly scramble under the tent were, if not drenched, at least quickly and uncomfortably wet. As the rain continued, however, the tent proved no real sanctuary-- the saturated canvas began releasing such mammoth drips that it was actually more comfortable outside in what was by now only a faint drizzle. By the time I arrived home I was damp and chilled, but happy all the same. I thought it was glorious weather.

Tonight we had some friends (local, not American) over for a Christmas party. After preparing and eating a large meal (since food is the center of hospitality around here) we turned out all the lights and sat in the simple glow of candle light and listened to the Christmas story, told first in Arabic and then in English. More than listening to the words, I watched the others' faces as candle light and various expressions flicked over them. Some, like me, smiled at the familiarity of the oft heard and much loved story. Others looked unsure and then intrigued by turns. Technically a part of their religion, yes, but not so often read or talked about. Afterwards we explained the tradition of gift-giving and then had a time of wrapping-paper-shredding and oohing-and-aahing that rivaled any family Christmas in the States. As I glanced around the room at the happy faces, the scattered remnants of wrapping materials, and the "Christmas tree" (a large house plant draped with a strand of lights), I felt a deep sense of peace and contentment at being here. A night of shared traditions and discussions, yes, but also a holiday celebration with friends, with loved ones-- not so different after all.

I move tomorrow... technically today, I suppose, since it's after midnight. My last night here-- am I sad? Some. There are friends I will miss, and though I will see them again, it won't be as often or the same as it has been. But mostly I'm too excited and hopeful about this change to feel much regret. Perhaps the sentimentality will hit on the train tomorrow.

Did I mention that I will be living by myself in my new apartment? A blessing I never even dared hope to realise here. Only a few more days....

Last night was my great sally into the chaos of packing, and astoundingly enough (for me, at least) by midnight I had completed my task, with the exception of the few things I was keeping with me for the rest of the week and my flannel sheets that I wanted to sleep in between for one last night. I'll probably be slightly chilly tonight-- yes, I know it's not truly cold here, but neither do we have any heat-- and I have only an afghan, no real blanket.

So my room is stripped bare again, emptied of personality and comforts. A small cross to bear considering how little I myself will have to move on Saturday. A backpack only-- the rest of my things will be waiting for me in my flat. Despite the addition of things I've managed to collect since arriving here, I packed it all into my original containers, though I have to admit they would have been overweight by airline standards. As usual, I packed for efficiency of space only, without considering the amount of energy required to move such weight. My taxi driver was kind, though, and without complaint he hoisted two lockers up into the luggage rack on top of the car. I'm sure his back is feeling it now. I paid him well for his sacrifice.

Friday night I got a call about a possible apartment, so Saturday morning I caught the 8:00 train--- this time I was asleep almost before the train pulled out of the station. That particular apartment was a no-go, but we ended up seeing a couple others later on in the afternoon, and ham-del-allah one of them was satisfactory all around. So I stayed the night and signed a lease yesterday-- and this coming Saturday I move. Before Christmas, just as I had been hoping. el-ham-del-allah indeed.

My taxi driver Saturday morning coming from the train station was obviously a very religious man... white gallibeyah, traditional prayer cap, even a big bushy beard. I wasn't sure if he was going to talk to me beyond what was necessary, since I am equally obviously a Western female, which equals infidel in the worst way. But a few minutes after I got in he veered off onto a side street and stopped in front of a small store. Apologizing for the delay, he asked if I wanted anything and I of course replied that it was no problem and I was fine. But he came back a moment later bearing two bags of food and handed one to me as he started the car again. Inside were two sandwiches, fuul (spiced beans) and falafel. The fuul was probably the best I've had since I came here. I was reminded again how important hospitality, even to strangers, is in this culture, in his religion... and how often the lack of such hospitality is apparent in my own.

Winter must have actually arrived here, because today it rained. Enough to wet the streets, enough turn the ubiquitous dust into damp sticky mud, almost enough to make puddles in the potholes outside my apartment building. A rare, rare happening in this city, but in my new one, where the storms roll in off the sea, winters are usually rainy, even occasionally stormy. But it's nice that I was here long enough to see rain.

I move on Saturday! Really, I should be packing right now. Or at least sorting through some things. Almost everything will have to be packed by Wednesday so that it can be transported up in someone's car-- unless I want to struggle with all of it on the train on Saturday afternoon. But procrastination is an art form, and in my case a finely honed skill. There's little need to begin now.

I went to another wedding tonight. This one was in someone's flat, and while the living room was admittedly very large (more than half the size of my apartment last year) it was still crowded with guests. A space near the door had been left clear for dancing, but we arrived during a lull in the music, so there was the obligatory drop in volume as everyone turned to stare at the white people. Our friends (who are definitely not white) quickly began introducing us and finding us seats, however, and the mild roar of the guests' chatter resumed. The music started again a few minutes later-- mostly recordings of various local songs, plus a pseudo-techno/rasta version of "Tequila" in Arabic (if you can imagine) that I hope never to hear again.

About an hour after we arrived the live music began. The inevitable drums appeared, and someone else wheeled out a small keyboard. The singer began warming up with a series of peculiar ululations. Another man, wearing a tweed sports jacket and furry leopard print slippers, conjured up an accordion from some back room. I hadn't seen an accordion since I said goodbye to my dear Forrest back at the end of June, so I watched him eagerly as he wheezed through a few tentative notes. Gradually he picked up the volume and the tempo, and the other musicians followed. This was music worth dancing to. The guests responded appropriately, embellishing the music with clapping, shouts, and those strange jackal cries. To be fair to those who have in the past made so many derogatory remarks about the sound of an accordion (and you know who you are), as the music picked up it was occasionally difficult to tell what was accordion and what was feedback from the questionably rigged sound system. But we danced on anyhow.

In unrelated news, I found out yesterday that my friend Steve got into dental school. Quite an exciting thing-- as we say here, "a thousand blessings".

A cold front came through last night. Around here that means that today's high was only 68 degrees Fahrenheit. Only. Is it really almost mid-December? According to my language helper it's getting very cold. This doesn't bode well for my hopes of a noticeable winter. When I told her what the temperatures are back in Oklahoma and in some other parts of the States, her eyes opened to twice their normal size. Clearly she questioned the plausibility of anyone being able to exist in such desolate conditions.

To accompany the change in the weather, a cold front of a different kind swept through my head and throat last night, and it appears that I'm sick again, seemingly with the same thing as last time. I hope this isn't becoming a pattern-- one week sick, one week well, one week sick, one week well....

Ah, well. By grace I came here and by grace I'll stay. Something else to keep me humble.

Last Thursday I made my escape and fled north to visit my new city for the first time. I boarded the train with a quivering sensation of anticipation and, after being misdirected several times, found my seat and perched impatiently in it, tired but unable to sleep. It had occurred to me in the wee hours of that morning, as I desperately tried to still my circling thoughts, that I had not been outside of the city for two months. Eagerly I awaited my first sight of a horizon not defined by the roofs of the buildings across the street. I spoke briefly to the boy next to me, but my mind was too distracted by the excitement of my trip to be able to make much conversation. The train eased by the dingy buildings and crowded streets and at last began to pick up speed as the concrete walls fell away and the sky faded from smoky brown into clear blue. I wasn't able to fall asleep for almost another hour, so entranced was I by the groves of orange trees, punctuated by tall palms, and the colorfully dressed peasants on their jogging donkeys. And always the sky.

That afternoon, after my arrival and some lunch, my friends took me to the palace gardens, where we strolled around the grounds enjoying the cool green-ness and then wandered on out to the shore, where we sat on a wall above the sea and watched the water. Definitely not a lake in Oklahoma-- this water shifted through every imaginable shade of green and blue, and below me I could see down to the rocks on the bottom, through water clear enough that I could not tell how deep it was. For a long time I stared out over the sea, stretching my eyes to where the water blurred into sky, wondering at the expanse spread out in front of me.

My days there passed quickly, and all too soon it was Saturday evening and I was boarding another train. I said my goodbyes and turned my face back towards the snarl of concrete and humanity whence I had come, all the while comforted by the thought that this now was temporary.

Another late night, but this time it's pressed by the knowledge that I must wake up and then immediately get up when my alarm goes off in the morning. I bought my ticket this morning and tomorrow (insha-allah, of course) I catch a train to travel to my new city. Just for a visit, this time, but I hope to make some progress towards plans for moving while I'm there. I hear there are some spare rooms floating around up there-- I'm very much okay with temporarily crashing someone else's apartment. I don't even require a bed.

Tonight is the Night of Power, an important night of prayer during Ramadan. Supposedly the prayers should last all through the night, beginning at about seven o'clock in the evening, but given the crush in the streets right now I'm not sure who could actually be praying. The entire city seems to be out and about, maybe trying to get to family's houses or mosques, I don't know. Traffic is at a stand-still most places.

As I came out of the Metro station tonight I caught the delicious scent of freshly popped corn wafting through the air, overpowering the usual smells of car exhaust, garbage, and heaven only knows what else. The smell was particularly enticing since (due to some wonderful drugs) I have in these past few days been able to smell for the first time in weeks. Irresistably drawn by the aroma, I wandered over to the small cart in which a man was skillet-popping corn over a gas flame. Catching the eye of a woman waiting there, I tried to strike up a conversation with her-- apparently she did understand my Arabic, but even so I could get no farther than learning the Arabic word for popcorn. (Maybe my height is intimidating.) When the pan of corn had finished popping, she and her companion accepted their bags of popcorn and quickly departed, leaving me standing there surrounded by young men... and no more popped corn. Having already paid, I was under some obligation to wait for the next pan (added to which, by this point I really, really wanted some popcorn), and so I did, this time supplied with all the conversation a girl could wish for. Too many minutes later, after several compliments and only two proposals (I must be losing my touch) and after some inane political commentary on Bush and a few even worse jokes about Osama bin Laden, I escaped with my hard-won bag of popcorn... compliments of the house, of course.

Someone just buzzed our flat-- the building door is locked, and unfortunately my key doesn't open it. So I'm locked in for the evening, and everyone else is locked out. A fire hazard, you say? mafeesh mushkella-- We live on the first floor and every room has a balcony. Really, it's a blessing. I won't be bothered by the doorbell for the rest of the night.

I caved yesterday and went to the doctor. Bacterial laryngitis. Probably it set it in as a result of my bout with the flu last weekend. Two days bed rest, no talking, swallow these pills and call me on Wednesday.

When I am sick, even (or perhaps especially) when I have passed into the forced-convalescence stage, I do not want people. I do not want their sympathetic words or their proffered help-- I merely want to be left alone. And just now, when I am denied even speech, even the ability to assert my desires and rights, I want that all the more. So this time it has all been especially difficult-- house guests through last night, and then the girls coming to do laundry here today.

I have such hopes for moving. Such high hopes for relocating. Maybe I haven't done things right here-- I'm not sure. I don't think that's the case, but I have no perspective yet. More likely, though, I've done things here exactly as planned, because it was ordained all along that I would make this move at this time. Ah, there's the Calvinist in me resurfacing. Things begin to realign.

It is December. Who would believe it? Time is a wisp of smoke, a puff of spore blown out on the wind. There no catching it, keeping it, holding it back. Willy-nilly, it slips ever onward, ever away.

Tonight I was very pleased to be able to attend a performance of Handel's Messiah, sponsored by a local university. Relaxing into the familiarity of the music and the power of the words, I was able to let all the tensions and frustrations of the past few weeks slip away unnoticed. After the applause had finally tapered off, I frantically pushed my way up to the front and accosted one of the cellists. Even if he couldn't completely understand my fumbling plea, eeked out in a mixture of bad English and even worse Arabic, he could at least see the desperation in my eyes, and willingly he surrendered his cello to me for a few minutes. Three months is a long time, the longest I've ever been without playing. Like an ex-smoker who's coping reasonably well until a chance whiff from another's cigarette sends him scrounging for one of his own, tomorrow when the reality of the many months still to come sets back in I'll regret tonight's impulsiveness. But for now I ride the high and defy the consequences.

Redesigning my blog... a blissful temporary escape from the stresses of life here. Anna Karenina was getting a trifle heavy. I needed a break from my break.

I've been attempting to get out some sort of newsletter... as in an actual email, sent to actual people... for almost two weeks now. I've even partially written one-- unfortunately it's sitting in my "Drafts" folder, unfinished and nearly forgotten. Exciting things have been happening here lately... a blow-up within the group precipitated a major restructuring of our jobs and lives. I'll be moving to another city sometime in the next couple months-- maybe sooner, maybe later, no one really knows at the moment. I'm hoping for sooner.

I'm very tired today and have been forced to spend far too much time around people (almost entirely Americans) lately. My reserve of words (and patience) is sorely depleted. So that's all the news for now.

A recent email from my friend Shouna mentioned the advent of Thanksgiving decorations and Christmas shopping now that Hallowe'en is past. I was at least partially aware of that holiday-- we had a sleepover, during which we stuffed ourselves on pizza and candy and watched horror movies-- but somehow it didn't really sink in as Hallowe'en. And we certainly don't have turkeys or pilgrims or fir trees or red-suited fat men crowding the stores around here. Nor is the weather cool enough (and definitely not rainy enough) to be classified as "fall". I'm in utter calendar shock and denial right now. Near as I can ascertain, I'm perpetually stuck somewhere around August... though that's not right either, because it's not that hot. But I don't feel as though the summer really existed for me, and fall has yet to arrive. I don't know when I am.

But it is holiday season here. Ramadan began this past Wednesday (my two-month mark), and here that changes the entire life of the city. Shops and homes and streets are bright with colorful and sometimes gaudy lanterns, strings of carnival lights, and glittering streamers. Work and school schedules shorten and shift to accomodate the all-night meals. Well-wishes and blessings abound, and on the Metro on Thursday I heard a woman deliver a 5-minute lecture/sermon on appropriately respectful behavior to a group of giggling and chattering school girls-- who immediately stood up and conducted themselves with the utmost solemnity for the rest of the ride... except that sometimes I could see their eyes still laughing in irrepressible exuberance as they glanced sidelong at each other.

Yesterday evening I broke the fast with some friends. We set out the dishes on a sheet on the floor and sat around it, tearing off pieces of flatbread (right hand only!) and using those to scoop up the various foods. The men of the family ate in a separate room. Though the meal itself was not very long-- probably only about half an hour or so-- we stayed for hours afterwards, talking and drinking tea and then coffee. This coffee, incidentally, is wonderful-- very strong and sweet, brewed with a generous helping of ginger, and served in tiny handle-less cups. It's a specialty of their people, brought with them from their native country, and has to be one of my favorite discoveries here.

Right now I'm listening to the OU-Texas A&M game. A&M just tied the game (no fear, it's only the end of the first half). Hard to believe that I'm sitting here so far away... listening to the roar of the crowd and the familiar voices of Bob Barry et al. and the banality of Braum's commercials I can almost forget that I'm not in Oklahoma. It's easy enough to find ways to remind myself, though.

I haven't posted in quite a while, and probably I would continue procrastinating for a bit longer except that today marked two months that I've been here. And that seemed to be of enough import to spur me into writing. Two months is a funny milestone. I'm not quite sure whether that's still only little time... or actually a long time... or something in between. Most likely something in between. (Aren't most things?) So it's a strange point of evaluation because I'm not entirely sure what I should have accomplished by this point. I have a tendency to think that surely I should be doing more than I am. Surely I should know more than I do. But two months is only two months... 9 or so weeks... 61 days... not so long after all, perhaps.

I've come to the conclusion that the most culturally inappropriate thing I do here has nothing to do with my hair or the length of my sleeves or how late I'm out at night. It's very simple and much more difficult to control. I laugh and smile. In public. Out on the street. When men are around. I can't help it. Things strike me as funny. The simplest task can become so ridiculously difficult here. Taking a 15-minute taxi ride can quickly turn into a riotously funny adventure. Not to everyone, maybe, but I find that my first reaction is usually amusement rather than anger or frustration. Praise Him for that. I pray every day that I don't lose my sense of humour here. Even if it does mean inadvertently smiling at inappropriate moments.

Last night I went to a wedding with some friends. The going was a long and involved process: they picked my flatmate and me up from our apartment at 4:30 in the afternoon, and we didn't actually get to the wedding until almost 11:30 that night. What happened in the meantime? A excursion to the hairdressers, a run-in with security at a Metro stop, and a bit of wandering lost through the streets of a not extremely nice part of town (especially so late in the evening). All intermixed with the usual relaxed pace of life that pervades this culture. (Americans would say we wasted a lot of time.)

The trip to the hair salon was definitely a highlight of the day. Consider: in the States when women make themselves up for a fancy dress party, dance, what-have-you, they have a stylist pile all their hair on top of their heads in french twists and beehives and other more elaborate concoctions. But here, in a place where generally women's hair must be covered, or at the least pulled back from their faces and tightly bound, women go to a stylist to have their hair straightened and brushed down around their faces, or curled into long sausage curls that bob down past their shoulders. Even after this older women will often still cover their carefully arranged loose hair for the evening. But it doesn't matter. That's how you do your hair for a party.
My friends insisted that Allison and I do the same. But here some complications arose. I would be willing to place a fairly large sum of money on a bet that we were the first foreigners (Westerners) ever to walk through the front door of that hair salon. This in itself caused a stir. But more amusing than this-- our hair simply isn't like theirs. Allison wasn't as bad off-- her hair is thick, and she decided not to have it curled. But my hair is fine, very fine, and tangles at the slightest provocation. So this poor man, who I'm sure is quite competent in his craft, was completely baffled by my hair. Everytime he tried to do anything, it slipped out of his hands, off the brush, out of the clips, and then became (in his eyes) inexplicably snarled. Everyone was quite frustrated, and I know that none of them were satisfied with the end result. Which in some ways added to my discomfort at walking through the streets... at night... with my hair blowing about my face. It felt wrong. And I've haven't even been here two months. Imagine how I'll feel after two years.

The wedding itself was great. "Wedding" is a bit of a mis-translation into English, I think. The ceremony is not actually public, so to picture where I was think of the biggest reception you've ever been to... outside... with carnival lights... and a throne for the bride and groom that has for a backdrop an eight-foot tall fan-shaped extravaganza of air-brushed hearts and rainbows and clouds... and a live band (whose repertoire is definitely not that of The Wedding Singer; this was a Sudanese wedding) playing music pumped out of speakers at such volumes as might be heard if you were leaning up against the front mains at a Metallica concert (my ears were still ringing this morning)... and hundreds of people laughing and talking and clapping and singing and dancing-- and warbling the odd traditional call of celebration that sounds rather like a jackal mourning his dearly departed mum... and then throw in some more noise and people and color just for effect... and that might be something like the wedding I attended last night.
It was wonderful.

When I woke up this morning the swollen ball of pain that had been lodged in my throat for the past two days had dissolved enough to allow me to swallow. At the time it seemed an improvement. After twelve hours of dry coughs that threaten to tear out my much-abused throat and leave it in a bloody heap on the floor, however, I'm no longer quite so sure that it was such an improvement. Maybe the knotted lump was better.

As a celebratory gesture towards being out of bed and able to stand upright for more than a few minutes at a time, I worked on rearranging my room this afternoon. My goal is to shape it into something that at least resembles a place in which I might voluntarily live. So far I haven't had much success, though today's efforts did bring at me least a tad (a skosch?) closer. Of course, I do have to realize that by my standards it will never truly be home until at least one wall is smothered in books-- and that's simply not going to happen here.

Still, despite the aesthetic and literary inadequacies of my flat, it does feel surprisingly like home. Maybe that's partially because after nine (or maybe more?) moves in the past five years it doesn't take me long to settle into a place. But the feeling of home-ness extends beyond the walls of this apartment and out into the streets of the city. Returning from Cyprus earlier this week gave me a quite shocking sense of homecoming, of regaining the familiar and secure. Granted, I only have to walk out into the street and try to talk to someone (female, of course) to have at least some of that illusion swept away. But the sensation is there none the less.

After two days of imprisonment I'm eager to go out tomorrow and conquer the world. Or at least watch some of it go by. But my desire for freedom is in some part quelled by my body's sudden and insistent craving for more sleep. Perhaps I shouldn't have moved all that furniture on my own this afternoon. Maybe I simply need to drink more orange juice. Whatever the case, I betake my weary self to bed.

I spent the past few days in the mountains of the island of Cyprus, enjoying the trees and the quiet and the fresh air. I even enjoyed the company of the nearly 200 women there for the retreat-- though during the first evening the waves of estrogen and emotion threated to overwhelm and consume me completely. I shudder to think how many trees had to die in order to provide tissues for these past five days.

Our end-of-the-session final exams begin tomorrow and continue for the two days following. They won't be difficult. In fact, I would relieve myself of any burden of studying at all except that I've neither heard nor spoken Arabic for several days now, and at this point in my studies it's easy to lose the edge. Like a poorly learned habit, my ear and tongue quickly slip out of practice.

But there is a thing that makes returning to school tomorrow morning bearable-- after Thursday, el-ham-del-allah, I am finished with school. I switch over to community based learning as soon as this school session ends this week, and from there I fire on ahead at what I hope is a faster pace. One of the best things about the retreat was the opportunities to discuss projects for my second year-- sooner, if I can reach the required level of language proficiency before then. I believe I can. And positive thinking is half the battle, right? The sooner I finish my language studies (the formal part of it) the sooner I can go live in a mud hut. That's motivation for you, eh? Yet that's exactly what I want.

Dropping out of school also frees up about three hours every day. Most of that comes from transportation time. And this should make my life at least a little less frantic, leaving time for some important things that have fallen by the wayside during the five weeks I've been here. Like eating. Sleeping. Reading. Writing. I might even be able to post here a little more often.

It rained yesterday. Rained. As in water fell from the sky.

This was no sudden downpour, of course. And it wasn't even a gentle shower. It was no more than a sprinkling of drops, never so much that one became unable to distinguish individual splotches of water in the dust that covers everything here. But there were raindrops nonetheless, and I felt their coolness on my cheeks and hands as I stood with my face turned up to the clouds. Real clouds, too. Not just the usual smoggy haze.

With this the heat broke. After at least a week in which temperatures every day stretched up to break 100 degrees, even the life-long residents of the city were crying uncle. We're hoping that was the last heat wave of the year; things should be cooler from here on out. Till next spring, at least.

I am fascinated by the Metro.

Here the car doors do not slide shut with dignity and decorum. No soothing voice broadcast over loud speakers urges you to "please stand clear of the doors". There aren't even signs warning you to "mind the gap". The doors slam shut, separating those inside from those outside with an abrupt finality that plants questions in one's mind about death and the meaning of life and the Great Beyond. Woe to anyone who is caught in limbo at that time of judgement.

The school year (both for public grade schools and for universities) started on Sunday, and suddenly the morning streets are teeming with throngs of uniformed school girls and boys. Watching their antics is fast becoming another source of amusement in my life here. Yesterday as we rode the Metro to our school I bechanced to see one such school boy pulled up short in a struggle with the infamous doors. Boys are allowed in the women's car until they are about 12 or 13 years old, which is a daring and awkward and thus hugely entertaining age. This particular boy had taken a running jump into the car just as the doors started to close, and while he personally escaped the snapping jaws unscathed, the small backpack which dangled off one of his arms was not quite so fortunate. The doors caught it squarely and fairly, and he spent the next few moments tugging at it, his forehead wrinkled in dedicated concentration. Finally he gave up and waited patiently until the next stop, where the doors grudgingly slid open and released their prey.

I've passed my two week mark now. Strange, my time here seems so much longer than that. And yet at the same time the days have passed very quickly. Perhaps the routine of school has helped with both those impressions. Already I have established somewhat of a routine, so that I feel settled in, and I'm busy enough that the days fade into one another with astonishing rapidity.

I'm still impatient a great deal of the time. I have to force myself to look at the progress I have already made in Arabic... otherwise I tend to feel discouraged that I can't say more to people... or understand more of what they say. Patience. That's a scary thing to ask for. Usually it's taught to me through lessons I would rather not have.

And my impatience is not only with my Arabic. I have yet to find my place here, my place in the work, my place on the team. I came here not knowing, and my two weeks' worth of impressions has certainly not clarified that-- if anything I feel more overwhelmed. But my focus right now really should be on language learning, and that I can handle. And in the meantime-- I have made friends. We slowly and painfully eke out our conversations... very little English, very little Arabic, lots of hand gestures... and with this the relationships grow. Amazing how little common language is needed for friendship.

Friday morning as I reflected a bit on the week (Friday being the holy day here-- no school) I realized that I really had to be thankful that we had started school on Monday, whether or not I like class or want to continue with it. Without language school I would have spent the week wondering how on earth I was supposed to find my first language helper, I would have been much more in our flat with little to do, I would still have almost no Arabic, I would have less experience in getting around the city... in short, it would have been a rather dull week, in reality much more frustrating than anything has actually been thus far. Because of the necessary amount of time I have spent in getting from place to place this week, my flatmates and teammates are much less nervous about me being out on my own, and as a result of that I have a far greater amount of freedom than I think I would have otherwise. So, oddly enough, I have to be grateful for language school.

This does not, however, mean that I really wish to continue with it in the long term, and yesterday I spoke to my leaders about this. mafeesh mushkela, as we say here-- no problem. There is some question as to how long this first session of school actually runs... I have so far heard four, five, and six weeks.... The problem with asking questions here is that everyone wants both to be helpful and to save face, which means that if the person you ask doesn't know the answer then he'll make something up. (It's rather like talking to my sister Missy.) This is particularly a problem when asking for directions around the city; in general it is best to keep asking different people until you've gotten the same answer at least three times. Otherwise it's quite likely you'll end up going in completely the opposite direction. I have already experienced this a few times.... Anyhow, however much longer this class session lasts, there should be no problem with me moving to CBL (community based learning) afterwards.

This morning on the way home from my language lesson (not to be confused with language school... this is something different, just one teacher and one student) I was watching a man attempt to ride a bicycle down the major street near my flat. This was entertaining to me in many ways... first, because traffic in this city is chaotic and anarchic at best, and I simply cannot see how anyone with any bit of common sense would dare to attempt to bicycle around. To make things even more complicated and dangerous, it would be somewhat of an understatement to say that his wheels were out of alignment, and neither wheel was exactly round. And the tires were very flat. And on top of all these things, he was constantly muttering, whether to himself, the bicycle, or Allah, I don't know. Possibly all three. I stood for a moment and watched him as he weaved along and occasionally rolled over his trailing galibeyah.

It is at odd moments like these when suddenly I catch a glimpse of understanding that I am here. Here. Just as quickly it is gone again, but I am left shaken by the idea, by the realization, by the sense of distance, both geographically and culturally. And after a few moments my head clears and everything appears as it did before. Still this is not very real to me. Perhaps I am expecting too much of "real".

Seen from above the Metro during rush hour must look like one of those tile games where one square is missing and you slide the others around one by one until you've reconstructed the picture, or put the numbers in order, or whatever. There is constant movement in some part or another of the car as the women slide in and out, wriggling their way through the crush in a callously persistent effort to reach the doors in time to disembark at their stop, or scooting ever closer to a row of seats, waiting for someone to stand up so that they can slip into the vacancy, sometimes rather like a baseball player sliding into home. But slightly more dignified. For most of the line the car remains so tightly packed that it is completely unnecessary to hold onto a bar (even if I could reach one); when one sways, we all sway, and when one stumbles, we all stumble. A strange picture of unity. Slatted wooden shades are pulled down over the windows to block out sunlight and dust, and this only heightens the cattle car impression.

Thankfully, especially since the Metro is crowded at most times of day, the front car is reserved for women only, and between about 8 am and 4 pm the second car is also. We never ride anywhere else. If the throng in the women's car is uncomfortable, it's certainly not more crowded than the rest of the train, and sharing body heat and breath with Muslim women is always preferable to sharing them with Muslim men, who think that American women want only one thing (and it ain't diamonds or love).

We decide that tomorrow we must certainly leave by 7:30 at the latest, in an effort to beat the 8 am rush. The ride home in the afternoon is nearly as crowded until we pass out of the center of the city, and then we each manage to find a seat for the last 20 minutes of the ride. The wooden shade at my window is jammed open, and dust billows in through the opening. By the time we reach our stop my shirt is soaked through on my back with sweat, but the women across the aisle look completely untouched by the heat, despite being shrouded in polyester long-sleeve shirts and long skirts, with their heads tightly wrapped in huge scarves.
It must be in their genes.

Jet lag has struck with a vengeance.

One would think that given my last few days in the States, with their complete lack of anything remotely resembling a schedule pertaining to sleep, I wouldn't be having such troubles here. But this morning I was excited because I managed to sleep until 6:50-- that's almost two hours later than the morning before! But that's my most awake part of the day in what was formerly my normal residence (8 hour time difference), and so it continues to be the part of the day during which I am most awake... which makes me-- gasp-- a morning person. Oh, the shame!

But otherwise things here go well. After much protesting, wheedling, and assuring we would be quite safe, we (the four newcomers) convinced our other teammates that we could go out into the city today without being babysat at every moment. (This ended up meaning we only had to have one chaperone instead of four or five.) So today we wandered through the large market here in our city-- and I have successfully purchased Metro tickets and hailed and directed taxi cabs, thereby impressing several of my teammates with my derring-do and city smarts. Didn't take much.

And now I'm very, very tired, which hopefully means I will sleep long and well tonight. Not too long, however, since we're leaving at 7:15 tomorrow morning... for language school... where we will start language class. Plans for language learning have been altered a bit, it seems-- though I did finally determine today that after these first four weeks (for which we are already enrolled) I should be able to bow out of attending any more formal classes, if I so choose. As I probably will choose.

Much sleep is required before another day begins. So I betake my weary body to my very inviting bed.

Was Monday really the last that I wrote? Actually, I suppose that it's not that long ago. But it seems like it. So much has happened this week....

But at the moment all I will say is this: I am here. My (at least temporary) destination. My home for most of the next two years. I still don't think that it's quite real, but I think that seeing some of the city tomorrow will help. All I saw on the ride from the airport to my flat was the back side of my backpack and the bottom of the guitar case. It was a wee bit crowded.

But I am here. This is what matters.

Tonight I ran along the bayou, steadily ingesting hordes of small insect life for about a mile, till finally I could stand it no longer and forced myself to slow to a walk. A walk, it seems-- even a fast-paced walk-- allows time for the exacerbating little creatures to avoid at least my mouth. Really, I suppose it was my fault for running at dusk along the bayou.
[Author's note to non-Houstonians: The bayou, in this case otherwise known as Mason Creek, is merely a waterway... concrete-lined, like so many I grew up with in Oklahoma. Nothing so spiffy as it sounds.]

I'm hovering. I'm treading water. If I thought I was in limbo two and a half months ago, I was wrong. That was nothing compared to this. That was a mere ripple in the ocean of displacement. I've been pulled down by the undertow since then. I don't live here, I don't belong here, and there's no point in trying to settle in. I only exist, waiting, watching, wandering through each day in a vague hope that the date on my tickets will someday arrive. That I'll get on an airplane and go someplace else, someplace different, someplace far away. That those seven weeks of torturous schedules and sessions and convenant groups were not an end in themselves.

There is more than all this, I know. This is an in-between time. And I could go into the cheesy illustration of the trapeze artist, but I won't. Suffice to say, I'm feeling disconnected. Neither here nor there.

I grow tired of waiting. But I dare not ask for patience.

I think it's time to go.

Not that I'm packed. Oh, no, far from that. But in ways other than readiness of material possessions, it is time to go.

So what do I do for the next week? A good question. I'm not exactly sure. Pack, obviously. Keep saying goodbye... over and over and over again. The knowledge that I am leaving soon seems to lay heavily on everyone except me. Typical. The person most concerned is the person least involved.

I spent a great deal of time on the phone last night, talking to people back in Norman. And I'm glad I had the chance to, but I feel as though there is only one conversation I left, and with everyone to whom I speak it is this same conversation, with only very slight variations. Yes, I leave in a week... a week from Thursday... no, I'll be working with a language helper, a native speaker... orientation was good... yes, I'm excited about going... not really worried... not really any more dangerous there than it is here... yes, I'll have email access... I'll keep you posted on how things are going........
There is only one conversation, repeated infinitely many times.

One of my teammates sent around a list of books that she's packing-- she wanted to make sure we didn't waste space by all bringing copies of the same book. Funny, I'm not bringing any of the books on her list. In fact, with one exception, I don't even own any of the books on her list. I'm supposed to send out a list of the books I'm packing, but (even if I knew for certain which books those were) I have to wonder: how likely is it that any of my team would be considering packing any of the books I might bring? How likely is it that they would even own any of those books, or that they would be interested in reading them?

I'm not slighting them. But sometimes I am very aware of the differences that stretch between each of us... and sometimes I am very aware that many of my books are not usually considered 'appropriate' reading. Oh, sure, probably few people would actively disapprove of Faulkner or Dickens. But that's probably because they've never really read them. And Faulkner and Dickens might be considered the 'safest' of my books.
And then there's my music....

I seem to require many safe people.

A couple of days with Kristin and I'm feeling much restored. I think sleeping most of the weekend helped too. Quite possibly.

I have this vague idea that I'm supposed to be packed and ready to go in about a week, but I have very little conscious or coherent idea of why. Or of where I'm going. Occasionally I receive emails from people who are already leaving, and then my fog of confusion clears a bit and I think, Oh yeah, I'm moving to north Africa. Otherwise I'm not really aware of it.

It's so amazingly wonderful to sit in this house and know that I'm the only one here and everyone else is at work and won't be home anytime soon. Astoundingly wonderful. It's quiet. No voices, no laughter, no music. Just the clack of the keyboard and the tick-tock of the clock on the wall. And I know that if I allow it, all thoughts and concerns and emotions will fall away, will slide off and puddle around me like discarded clothing, till nothing remains but the core of me, a tranquil emptiness. A purity I have not found in weeks.

Restoration and balance.

At last... orientation is finished and I am out of Virginia. And it's storming here in Houston-- a welcome change from the haze of Richmond. Right now, however, I'm so exhausted I can hardly walk a straight line (actually, I'm not sure that I can at all). It's now been been almost 36 hours since I've slept, except for those few uncomfortable moments of delirium and loss of consciousness during my flights today. Hopefully after a couple of days of sleep I'll regain some modicum of thought-capability and find some much needed perspective on what's happened over the past seven weeks.

Until then.

Things are much better today. Not that I'm no longer sick of being micromanaged and shoved into group time at every moment of the day, but only that my natural ability to withdraw to my own safe place (mentally, at least) has reasserted itself. And even better-- I was able to stay up late last night, knowing that when I went to bed I wouldn't have to set my alarm at all. (That did, of course, require skipping the dreaded weekly group talk, but I'm well beyond feelings of guilt for missing that.) And today we have nothing else except personal interviews-- mine is about to start-- and the wonderful freedom of a nearly empty schedule has buoyed me up considerably.

INTP-- prone to sudden and violent outbursts of emotion if pushed too far. Yup. I'd say that holds true.

My interview is starting.

I am finally and truly sick of being here. Everything I have done today has been a backlash resulting from my extreme frustration (bordering on anger) at the controlling atmosphere in which I have been imprisoned for the past five weeks. I'm tired of being expected to come up with questions and comments-- questions and comments which no one can answer because "it will be different wherever you go". So why are we still discussing it?

Ahh. The release of complaining. And now I'm going to take a nap. And practice avoiding 'reality' for a while.

We're in the midst of regional leadership time (RLT) right now. Which is great, because while our region has nearly 40 people going through orientation right now, that's still nothing like sitting through classes filled with 140 people. Or worse, almost 300. That's draining. The sheer volume of people is exhausting. So RLT is a much welcomed respite. But it also makes me impatient-- RLT is designed to give us training and information specific to where we'll actually be living, and that shifts my focus more to going and how much I want to be there now. Especially since we're into our fifth week here, and my mental hard drive has definitely already reached capacity. Not too mention that I long ago overtaxed my RAM. These days in classes I practice Arabic far more than I listen.

I've suddenly run out of thoughts and words. I'm off to bed.

My weekend hasn't felt like much of what most would consider a good weekend-- Friday and Saturday were spent in training to become certified to teach ESL/EFL. All in two days. I did get to sleep for part of this morning, since Erin and I had made an 'executive decision' and decreed that HC would start at 11:00 and go no later than noon. We were all in need of a break. Rehearsals for this evening's service started this afternoon at 3:00. We had a 15 minute break to eat dinner and then a couple of frantic run-throughs with all the auxiliary folks before the service started. But now, at long last, my duties are complete and I've a couple hours to read or write or do whatever before I go to bed.

However much I enjoy most of my time here, I have no doubt that I'll be relieved when this is over. Courtesy of my ESL training seminar, I found out Friday that the emotional need for my particular learning style is freedom from micromanagement. There are days when I think this place is one big attempt at micromanagement. (I say 'attempt' because I am, of course, too wily to be enslaved by such obtuse tactics as those employed here.) So I apply many of the same strategies I used in college and I come through looking like the golden child. With the ever-present and hard-to-overlook touch of cynicism.

Smile a lot and don't ask many questions.

I achieve balance.

Tonight I finally snuck out the back gate and went for a run alone in the blessed dark. Nothing but fields on either side, and only the stars overhead. After muddling through two days of insanity and group activities (that was probably redundant) and cowering under the impending doom of at least two more, I needed to escape. To have my existence defined by nothing more than breathing and running. No thoughts, no questions, no words. One foot inexorably in front of the other, pointed straight down the dark line of road.

I achieve balance.

Many thanks to Average Woman for the lines from Paradise Lost. Contributions are much appreciated (or at least chuckled over).

Strange things still happening with Blogger. Not to be understood, just accepted.

Andrea left this morning. One down, four to go. Not really. But the past few days have been difficult. Our struggles with Andrea's doubts and uncertainties raised a lot of questions in my mind about reasons to go, about reasons not to go. About the whole idea of this. And my only real answer to any of those questions is that, quite simply, I was told to go. No matter how much I fought this and that and the whole denomination and organization, He told me to go. Don't question, just go. Strange. In some ways, it's much like my problems with Blogger-- not to be understood, just accepted.

Spoke too soon.

It's working again! Wonderful, wonderful. Must start blogging again soon. Tired of writing in telegraphic style STOP Must go to bed soon.

Still nothing. Looks like I'll have to haul my computer up to the library and email everyone from that. Such a drag. Spoiled by technology.

I've been trying to post for days now but it seems there's a strange error to do with the templates. Bloggers everywhere are pulling their hair out. If you're reading this, it means that at some point something worked, and I apologize for the delay. Not that it was my fault.

By the way, I do take suggestions of new quotes for the sidebar.

It's been... how many days now? As at conference, time here stretches and shrinks and wrinkles and sometimes seems to wink and disappear altogether.

I just finished spending some time trying to work out my written goals for my time here. I've never been one for writing out goals or strategies, so it's slow going-- fortunately none of it's due until next Friday. I hope. Anyhow, I left my room to come here for a few minutes and found half my building sitting in the great room playing cards and eating pizza. Irresistable. But I, alas, must go to bed early tonight. Breakfast is at 7:00 every morning (including tomorrow-- I have a seminar that starts at 8:00) and this business of going to bed at midnight, getting up at 6:30, and then spending the day in classes and meetings and studying and then exercise is simply not working for me.

Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, happy, and wise.

Perhaps.

It's strange to be here and continue to have my expectations confounded again and again. (God's laughing at me right now.) I can feel a bit of my cynicism slipping away every day. I've plenty to spare, however; nothing to worry about there. And we haven't yet started any of the stuff the Dead Heretics so love to shred and examine and dissect every week-- though I hear that next week we have some classes on spiritual warfare.

It will be a good six weeks. I have no doubt of that now. Challenging and occasionally frustrating, but a worth-while experience. And certainly one that will help prepare me for what I will encounter later on.

Blessings.

I'm here in Virginia now and things are great. Right now I'm running on the high of loopy exhaustion and seeing these friends for the first time since the beginning of May. We'll see how the world looks at breakfast at 7:00 tomorrow morning. Given that I'm going to bed in the next half-hour, it shouldn't be too bad. I'm hopeful.

Strange thing-- the closer my departure for Virginia, the more calm I am. My worries and fears and doubts have mostly faded away, as if what was really bothering me was merely impatience at having to wait... and wonder... and wait. Sure, if I think about it, I can summon up the same troubled thoughts and waiting what-if's-- they're still there and still real. But somehow displaced by a new and pleasant readiness to go.

Perhaps too my week here in Houston has helped, has served as a buffer between what is behind me and what may be ahead. A week here has smudged the edges of the life I had-- not so much that I begin to forget, but only so that who I am has become just vague and indistinct enough to ease me into and through all the changes that I know must happen. Is this another reason I have chosen to do this? To remake myself? To start over? If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.

It will be good to go. It will be good to see friends from conference and good to make new ones. Good to rise to the challenge of sorting through the morass of teachings and expectations and good to confront a bit more of whatever it is I believe. I wish, just a tiny bit, that it all lined up a little more.

What to do, what to do? I've lost all sense of what needs to be done. But why fret? In the end, I'll simply get on an airplane and go.

The cat disappeared today. I wondered if perhaps she had decided to fade away into her own oblivion rather than be left here with my family and the dog. But she was finally discovered in my mother's closet, where she'd been trapped for what we think was nearly eight hours. To describe her as "pissed off" would be an understatement.

I took the dog out for a walk/run tonight and found myself in the midst of a rather impressive fireworks display. Why fight the traffic downtown when you can sponge off the hundreds of dollars the neighbors spent on their own explosives? Except that the Doobie Brothers were playing downtown....

A year ago tonight I was sitting in an apartment in Vienna, where my Independence Day celebration consisted of a lone leftover Christmas sparkler and the first couple lines of the Star Spangled Banner, sung with an Austrian accent. The year before that I was in Almaty, Kazakhstan, watching the wild gyrations of my teammates as they scrambled around a rocky soccer field, waving tiny American flags and trying to light each on fire with sparklers. This year, a quiet evening in Houston. Next year... who knows? I doubt I'll be overtly celebrating American independence and freedom from my flat in north Africa. Not that I'm celebrating it from my parents' house in yuppy Suburbia right now.

Only a few more days until I fly to Virginia. The start of my "great adventure", as one of my friends called it. I'm calmer about this than I was a week or so ago. I'm moving to Africa! How could this fail to be at least somewhat a good thing? And I never thought this would be particularly easy. Especially the way I'm going. But it's what I want to do more than anything else right now. And, as has been suggested, I can always go lose myself in the desert.

After I created this blog I decided to wait until I left before I posted anymore. But recent events (or lack of events) and thoughts have caused me to reconsider. The limbo I exist in now is an important part of the whole experience of whatever-it-is-I'm-about-to-do. And this will be good practice of the necessary communication restraints which are about to be imposed on me. And not just the obvious ones. Theoretically, anyone can read this-- and that includes everyone I'll be working with. Must remember that.

limbo-- from the Latin limbus, border or edge; Roman Catholic theologians chose this word to refer to the border region of hell which holds the souls of those who got caught on a technicality, e.g., unbaptized infants. Interestingly (at least to me; probably not to most of you), the original form in English was limbus, but the extant form is limbo, actually the word in the ablative case (denotes, in this case, location), which makes sense-- how often is the word used other than in the phrase 'in limbo'? (I do miss the ablative case; Greek doesn't have it.) Today its common meaning is 'an indeterminate place or state'; it can also shade into 'a place of neglect', though I'd like to think that the latter doesn't apply here.

in limbo ----------------- With less than two weeks left in Norman, I'm trying to be here as much as possible. Obviously I'm already accomplishing the physical sense of this. In a mental, emotional, and spiritual sense, however, I'd have to say that I'm flickering in and out. Of course. I'm about to go do the most exciting and outrageous thing I've ever attempted. Anyone would be distracted by that. But there's more to my in-between-ness and uncertainty than only that. After everything I've struggled with and hopefully through during the past few years, have I chosen the right path? (At this point, one of the ever persistent voices beeps in: what is right? - a question that is a faint echo of the constant and occasionally distressing conundrum 'what is real?') By doing this, am I putting myself and others at risk? I'm not seeking an argument or a fight. But I seem to get them sometimes, whether I will or nay. I'm not looking for everyone to agree with me-- how boring that would be!-- but some people are. Agreement with their ideas, their interpretation, their customs, their rules. I know. I've talked with them, observed them, written about them.

So I'm scared. The fear waxes and wanes-- it wanes the most as I read and study in preparation to move. And then I can't wait to go, can't wait to meet people and talk with them and share and listen and, for a time, to whatever degree possible, live the dream of immersing myself in that culture. One so vastly different from my own. I want to strive to lose prejudices and assumptions and preconceptions, all so that I can catch a glimpse, however brief, of another way.

So where's the fear? I'm excited, right? I'm eager to go, I'm looking forward to the whole experience of working through culture shock and stress. Where's the 'but'?

There's always a 'but'. Deny it though we may try, there's always a 'but'. Thankfully, wonderously, we occasionally struggle long enough and hard enough to overcome the 'but'.
I believe I'm headed that way. The worst has already passed.

My 'but', my fear, is that in the end I won't be allowed to do the above. That those I am with, those who were overjoyed to hear that our city has both a Chili's and an Applebee's, will prove such a hindrance that my mindset will always be shoved back into an American box, no matter how I hope and fight to get out.

On the one hand (men), it's easy to look at this and say that I shouldn't allow others to effect me so strongly. Easy to say. But (de) I've been on teams before, and I know how loners are preached against, how independence is discouraged, and how extreme the consequences for not conforming to the team ethos can be.

Gentlemen, place your bets. How long before the powers that be send her back?

A catchprase I found the other day-- we as a nation, as a culture, as an economy, are engaged in the 'Coca Colanization' of the world. And we shall not rest until McDonald's and Britney have penetrated even the deepest, darkest jungles and hoisted banners on the highest, coldest mountain peaks. I DON'T WANT THAT. And I pray with all my heart, soul, and strength that I do not further such a cause.

My hope is that there's another 'but', another de. I chose this route, seized this opportunity, in order to effect a change, slight though it may be, from the inside. And so these fears are also an indication that I'm headed to a place where that should be possible. insha-allah-- God willing. And when all is said and done, I will be following my dream of living in another culture, even if I have to forge my own way out to it.

An adventure. This is an adventure. Opposition only makes it more so.

Read now or forever hold your peace. I may have to remove some of this in the future.

There is still much to be done. But this is a start.

Last week, as I was collecting still more email addresses, it occurred to me that perhaps a slightly better way to communicate with people during the next two years would be through blogging. I dislike mass emails, but the impersonal aspect inherent in blogging somehow doesn't bother me. My efforts here are, of course, all in the hope that someone will deign to check back every so often to see what's been posted. A big hope, I realize. We shall see, shan't we?

So if you've wandered by and decided to stop for a moment, salutations. I apologize for any ads desecrating this page. I'll see about getting rid of them once I know that someone besides myself is reading this. So to myself, happy blogging, and to the rest of you, happy reading.