This Haitian Life: Doomsdaying

I'm a little behind on my podcast listening, but I am a devotee of Mr. Ira Glass, voice and brain behind an NPR show called "This American Life."  Every week, he and a team of investigative radio reporters start with a broad topic and delve into the illuminating details of topics that shape our collective culture.  Back in May, TAL ran an episode called "Island Time," which considers Haiti in the wake of the catastrophic January earthquake.  How is it, they ask, that the small island nation has been floundering for half a century while 10,000 NGOs and millions in foreign aid have focused attention on the place?

There were some really interesting quotes, my favorites penned and read by an author named Ben Fountain, who went to visit a friend of his in Haiti in the immediate wake of the disaster....

1.  "I've noticed it's as if God gives you 205 years to do something with Haiti, and if you fail, He passes it on to someone else.  The Spanish had it from 1492 to 1697.  Two hundred and five years.  Then the French from 1698 to 1803.  Two hundred and five years.  Then the Haitians from 1804 to 2009.  Two hundred and five years.  So what is coming next?  Maybe revolution."

The Mayans predicted a revolutionary shift to a new world order in 2012.  The timing is getting creepy... plus the weather is nuts here, Guatemala isn't having a great week, and Christchurch, NZ is as flat as it's been in 100 years after the weekend quake there.  In literature we call this "pathetic fallacy."

2.  "I've been hearing how backward Haiti is for as long as I've been going.  What about this?  What if Haiti is ahead of the times?  It seems to be on the leading edge of so many current trends: environmental degradation, serial ecological disasters, crumbling infrastructure, a population that exceeds resources, plus a skewed economic order that channels vast wealth to a privileged few while the great majority of people stagnate and struggle.  By any objective measure, Haiti appears well advanced on the track that the rest of the world seems hell-bent on following."

I don't want to get into politics.  Just reflecting.

3.  [observing the destruction of Port au Prince's cultural institutions]  " 'Art is finished in Haiti,' he said abruptly. 'After what happened here, art has nothing more to say to us.'  And he went on, 'The philosopher Hegel said that before the end of time there will be the end of history.  And before the end of history there will be the end of art.  Maybe this is what we're seeing here: the enacting of Hegel's theory.  Haiti is leading the rest of the world to the end of time.' "

 Buy art.  Buy books.  Support your local chefs, bakers, farmers, and potters.  Drink more fortified wine.   Go back to the land, because --dear Lord-- when the ground itself starts to move underneath us, what in heavens will we all hold onto?


****I am unabashedly plugging "This American Life."  Check it out and download the podcast for illuminating insight on subjects you didn't know were out there (ie. the competitive business of interstate rest stops.... pet life insurance... the hedge fund that shorted their own investments and made a killing just before mid-2008)  One could find worse reasons to walk around the neighborhood for an hour with your iPod.****

My God, has it been a Month?!

The teasing, mercurial weather-makers here! The day will dawn sunny, rain ten times before noon, then blossom as a gorgeous midday before deteriorating into a torrential afternoon downpour that clears for a stunning sunset to offset the full-on evening storm. My window is coated with sheets of water as rain blows sideways and whips around the house. It makes for a melancholy night, particularly given the oppressive continuing chill, offset by a candle on my desk and Pavarotti singing through iTunes. My roommate calls this season of unpredictable, frustrating, moody, and evocative weather "the female days."

The funniest anecdote of the week explains how I got two holes ripped into the seat of my favorite jeans. A few evenings ago, I spent the night on the couch at a friend's house. I woke up to find the house empty. My friends had all departed for work, locking the doors behind them. In a brilliant feat of fire-escape-prevention, whoever did the doors on the house installed deadbolts that require keys to unlock. Inside and out. The screen door? That too required a key. So, I opened every window in the house (upstairs and downstairs... not sure how the upstairs was going to help me) looking for one that opened wide enough for my head to fit through. The best I got was one of those crank-open things that creates a jaunty angle between the brick mantle outside and the interior window frame, which was about four feet off the ground. If successful, I would be standing in a flower bed in the front yard. If unsuccessful, I'd be a good story for the local fireman, and my back would be contorted in a brand new way. Ten inches to make my escape. I tried calling all three members of the household, but they were at work, forty-five minutes passed, and I needed to get to class.

The scene that ensued is eminently qualified for YouTube. After taking out the window screen, I took off all excess layers of clothing, did some rudimentary "I'm about this wide" measuring, and tossed my belongings outside in hopes it wouldn't start raining before I was able to collect them. I rockclimbed up onto the ledge, and--feet first--started to slide out towards freedom. I got stuck at the hips. I wasn't too big, mind you... it's just that between the odd muscle contracting (stabilizers engaged), and the sort of wedging of ass-cheek and pelvic bone while doing a full back bend and trying to support my upper body without pulling the top window down on myself... well, I was a little cramped. It was nothing that a little wiggling and thrusting and cursing couldn't supersede. Boobs got stuck too. That just took some jamming and gradual stuffing- inside to outside, like a medieval mammogram. And then I just did the limbo out the rest of the way, nicking the chin only enough to jerk my head back and whack it into the brick behind me. Freedom! And torn jeans! I do wish someone had taken a video so I could apply for my dream job with the Cirque du Soleil.

The rain outside has stopped. Stars are out... for now.

Grasshopper Salad

I've been meaning to change my sheets for a good week now. I guess there's no way of denying when the time is right.

Since Sunday, I've been bedridden with a high temperature, sore throat, general chills and aches and night sweats and flu-ish-ness. Today, for the first time in days, I actually had a desire for solid food. Mind you, I have managed to eat mashed potatoes (from a box) and chicken noodle soup (from a can), but it would be an insult to root vegetables and poultry to call either of those items "food."

For those of you to whom I have not already preached, I here profess I am a unabashed devotee of a gentleman named Michael Pollan, author of "The Omnivore's Dilemma" and "In Defense of Food." In both of these gripping non-fictions, Mr. Pollan details the life of our dinner, from the ground where it originated to the substances with which it is cooked. If you thought "Fast-food Nation" had a profound effect on your eating habits, try the "Omnivore's Dilemma" chapter on corn (never mind the bit about feed lots... anyone can be terrifying while detailing what happens to chickens destined for styrofoam and plastic wrapping). These books are not about denying us humans the pleasure of a hearty meal, but about developing a new awareness of what our food actually is. So much of the Western diet revolves around processed food, chock full of corn and soy by-products with chemical preservatives and flavor additives tossed in. Canned chemical compounds do not a hearty stew make. From all Mr. Pollan's research, a maxim emerges: "Eat food. Not too much. Mostly vegetables." He goes on to list the basic rules for determining what is food. Primarily, if your great-grandmother would not recognize it as food, you shouldn't eat it. And if you cannot pronounce the ingredients listed on a label, don't put it in your mouth. Stay out of the middle aisles of the grocery store... stick to the periphery where fresh food lives.

All that said, I've been doing a lot of shopping at the farmer's market, and I convinced my sick and ailing self that the best meal to speed me along my path to recovery would be a salad. I rifled through the fridge and came up with half a tomato, an avocado, some feta cheese, a carrot, and a bit of turkey. Looking good. I went for the romaine, pulled off a couple leaves to give them a rinse, and found there, nestled among the greenery, a dead grasshopper. Oh disgusting. But after my initial squeal and horror, I decided I liked the notion of eating lettuce so un-pesticided that a grasshopper could nestle in it. Content with my environmentalism, I pulled off one last leaf. There lay two more grasshoppers. Big ugly things. These were not crickets; they were the size of my thumb. One healthy little bug is icky, three is another thing entirely. I have never washed lettuce so vigorously or with such inclination towards using soap to aid the process.

At last I put my salad together, and convinced myself I still wanted to eat it... in bed, the throne on which I have been riding out these uncomfortable days. I got my bottle of soda water from the fridge, went to my room, set the salad down on the wine law book on the bed, opened the soda water. The soda water exploded. One quarter of a 1.5L bottle of soda water sprayed with abandon, as if the grasshoppers had spent their final hours dancing salsa with the carbonated beverages in the dark of the refrigerator. When I finally got the cap closed and assessed the damage to my bedroom, I was looking at a splattered wall, wet sheets and comforter, a doused cell phone and alarm clock, a bookshelf of hosed books, a puddle on the floor, and one very very soggy sweatshirt. I had precious little humor for the situation, so as I cursed and set off, I gave one good kick of my wet slippers. And my food caught on the laptop power cord. Which dragged hastily over the bed, flipped up the cover of the law book, and tipped my fresh salad over into the sheets. I'll let you imagine for yourself the first words I chose to describe the moment.

Some days are just made for boxed mashed potatoes.