friday night, 10:02 pm

I'm restless. And in a Coldplay sort of mood. Though Coldplay is usually a bit sad or lonely or maybe just mellow, for me. So maybe I am some of those things, too. I've been back from my cross-country adventure for more than a week now. I'm going back to Spain in a little less than two.

I've been to the dentist (twice) and the hair salon (short hair does need more cutting, if less shampoo...) I've gone running and lifted weights. I've read books and painted, and stalked my friends on Facebook. I've written emails and gone out to lunch with a aunt-like friend from my old church. I'm trying to translate a book (its going veeery slowly) and I have several articles of clothing that need fixed. I've just ordered various things (like a rain jacket and a new external hard drive) that are much cheaper here/to buy in dollars. I'm getting most of my list of to-do-before-I-leave done. Or I'm at least on track...

But I'm antsy. Or maybe ADHD, a bit. I clearly have enough to "keep me busy." And I have lots of things to look forward to: seeing my brother and his family tomorrow, eating green chili in every (main) dish I eat until I leave, playing in the Spanish women's national championship in Madrid in two weeks (not as impressive as it sounds...but awesome) moving in to a new flat, starting school/work-school... etc. But... I'm not ready for bed, and I can't pin what it is that's making me unsettled. Unsettled? Antsy. I mean, maybe it's just the espresso I drank a while ago. Or maybe this is just what happens when I want to be creative without a specific outlet in mind... paint? no. draw? no. cook? no. write? sure. ramble, ramble, ramble. Sorry, guys.

friday night, 10:32 pm

sugar on the street

So, I don't do a lot of creative writing, despite the fact that I enjoy it, and every time I read a good book (/essay/graphic novel...) I think... I want to write! Anyway, today I was vaguely inspired, and below is the result. Its essentially un-editted (as is nearly all of my work...including a good many college papers--due, I suppose, to my tendencies of procrastination...) so please forgive its rawness. Also 1. I have been reading "Tar Baby" by Toni Morrison (which I recommend) so my writing might have taken on a brief Morrisonian touch. Who can say.
2. Mom suggested I edit the part about Dad swearing at the sugar-break so it doesn't sound like he swears all the time. I said, no! thats funny! Can't sensor your kids after a certain age, you say something and it might get quoted! sorry? Besides, personal writing is always subjective... Anyway, here ya go:

There I was, standing in the parking lot, on the hot, black, ugly pavement, with beautiful, white, perfect grains of sugar all over my feet. Spilling out of the bag, spilling onto the trunk of the car, my feet, and the hot, black, ugly pavement. It was such a contrast, those whites and blacks. Ugly and beautiful. I stood there for a minute, not reacting, just looking at it. Then I quickly righted the bag, and laughed inside my head at dad swearing swearing away at the pete-for-damn's-sake of the situation. He went in to exchange the 25-pound broken bag for a brand new one, because otherwise, there go our savings! And in this perfect, consumer world, we do NOT tolerate a broken bag. Oh no.

So he went in, and I stood there and looked at the sugar. White on red. White on black. And white, tiny-sticky all over my feet and flimsy leather sandals I'd bought in Nicaragua for about one U.S. dollar, proud of bargaining down the price using my then-mediocre Spanish skills. And then it hit me. All that perfect, beautiful white sugar that was more perfect and more white than sand, more perfect than natural... I knew where it came from. I've seen the sugar cane fields, the poor Haitians, illegally crossing the border into the Dominican Republic to work for slightly-better-than-starvation wages. Seen the Haitians hop out of the bus when it was stopped on the road for passport inspection. Held little black braided babies who couldn't stop touching my blonde (how so blonde?) hair while the boys and soon-to-be-men played a game of beísbol in the crooked, ugly field. Seen the fiery hell-factory where the workers with black, wet-black skin worked by the furnaces, worked on the docks, worked in the trucks, worked with shovels, to put huge loads of cane onto the conveyor belt. To grind and pound. To heat and melt To refine, refine, refine. That sugar comes out cleaner than anything those men own, and it gets shipped away so fast they hardly see it. Or maybe so they don't touch it. Just back to the fields. Back to the factory, back to the black coals and ashes that don't make marks on their skin, but do on their lungs.

And there I was, brushing it off my feet, self-conscious of the bikers nearby, laughing—where they laughing at me? Laughing at my sugar spill? It wasn't my fault, the bag had a hole. They were not laughing at me, they didn't even see me, and wouldn't have cared if they had. No one cares about a bit of sugar on the ground. But I've seen huge mounds of sugar. They do that, you know? They dump in on the ground in huge, bigger-than-life-ant-hill piles, I couldn't climb a mountain like that. Not if I tried, that hill of sweet, sticky, perfect white sugar, piled before they bagged it up and shipped it to my country, for me to spill on the ugly, hot, black cement and take back, demanding a refund because of the little pile that was sitting on the ground that I could not use. I moved my feet out of the way, but when my dad came back, balancing a brand new big blue bag on one shoulder, he made new tracks on the perfect, too-perfect white-sand sugar. What happened to the old bag? That he took back? Do they throw it away? Or does some unconcerned employee take it home to put that perfect sugar in a fresh peach pie? I hoped so, and we drove away, off of that hot, black ugly pavement of the parking lot onto the hot, black, ugly pavement of the road, just drove away.

Lindsy vs. a lot of the country

So, approximately a month ago, I embarked on a mega road trip. It started out with a friend, who had come to my wee town to hang out and do some backpacking. We drove up together to Denver, where she lives. Then I headed west to visit some other friends from college. Then up to visit my sister, then south again to a frisbee tourney, then north again, then way east (family reunion) then west-ish a bit (wedding of dear friends) then slowly southwest again, towards home with various stops where friends and relatives live. Yeah, long trip. I decided to map it out, and give you the mileages between each major stop, should you really care. Mostly it was for my curiousity. I think the picture enlarges if you click on it.

In other notes of interest, I have been accepted into the masters program (translating and interpreting) at the University of Granada, signed up for classes, and am trying to figure out how to pay for it. I'm just hoping I can actually attend most of the classes, and get the degree...

And now, since I clearly am not in the "bloggy" mood, I shall put up a few pictures and leave it at that, por ahora.

Beginning of Gila Wilderness Adventure Hike (in which Erin and Lindsy find a crashed plane, nearly step on a rattlesnake, set up terrible bear bags, cross the river a lot, and generally have a great time).

Lunch in the black canyon.

The beautiful vineyard on which live three of my beautiful friends. [insert snarky comment about adjective choice here.]