Body Language

I can relate.

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This afternoon I went to a shopping center filled with small used book stores and found something I’d been looking for: Entre paréntesis (In Parentheses), a book of essays, reviews and articles by Roberto Bolaño, the Chilean writer who’s gotten all sorts of acclaim in the US lately. After I bought it, I went to a little plaza next to the shopping center. There was a fountain in the center, and a sculpture of indeterminate character, which was simply a cube carved out of stone and balanced on one of its corners, so that it looked like a die suspended in the middle of its roll. I sat down on one of the benches and opened up my new book, browsing through it until I came to a brief piece about William S. Burroughs. It contained this description of the American writer:

Literature . . . interested him, but not too much, and in that he was similar to other classic Americans who concentrated their powers on the observation of life or of experience. When he spoke of his work, one had the impression that what he was doing was remembering various moments spent in prison cells.

While I was reading, an old woman, or a woman aged and enervated by life ahead of schedule, came shuffling through the plaza. When I say shuffling, I mean exactly that: one foot scooting just ahead of the other, as if she were a marionette under the operation of an inexperienced puppeteer. Her meticulous, abbreviated gait reminded me of certain of the mentally retarded adults that my father works with, though her face showed no signs of any of the many conditions my father’s clients were born with, only those conditions, and frustrations, that she, apparently, met with during her life, in abundance.

I watched make her way across the plaza, slowing down almost imperceptibly near the fountain and then veering off to the left, to arrive at another bench. She sat down, but only for a few moments, then pulled herself up and started another pilgrimage across the plaza, back in the direction she had come from, to finally arrive at one of the little restaurants in the shopping center. She got to the storefront and reached out her hand to the stool that was placed there, running her fingertips across the seat, and it looked like she might sit down, but a man came along, a man who earlier had been sitting in that stool, and, in the quickest motion that I saw her make, he withdrew her hand from the seat and resumed her arm’s previous position, hanging limply at her side. She made her way back across the plaza, then through another corridor and out of my sight.

I watched her during her whole ordeal, fascinated. Watching her stunted, syrupy movements, I thought of a game, or an activity, from my childhood, where I would hold a pencil in my hand, place the tip of the pencil on a blank sheet of paper, then have someone else move the sheet of paper in order to write out a word or a sentence. The words always came out enormous and misshapen, but I always liked to watch the lines coming from the pencil form themselves into legible, recognizable shapes, slowly and determinedly, and though it was someone else who was physically moving the paper, if I narrowed my sight of focus, it would look as if the pencil were learning how to write on its own, as if it had become sentient of itself and wished to fulfill its purpose.

I thought of this game as I was watching this woman, and then I wondered what word or message her peregrinations might spell out, were I able to rise above the plaza like a bird and observe the whole scene from a position of greater, more hidden authority, and I wondered what such a message could mean and who it could be intended for, and then I wondered what William S. Burroughs might make of this woman, what his powers of observations might discover in her movements, or what message he might infer in her movements, and then present it to all of his readers, and then what Roberto Bolaño might think of it, of what the American writer William S. Burroughs thought of his native country, as expressed and embodied in the retarded yet certain movements of this old woman, and what he might think of the message that Burroughs read in her movements, and then I wondered why I thought there might be a message in her movements. And then I realized: that was what Daniel Quinn discovered in the movements of Peter Stillman, in Paul Auster’s book The New York Trilogy, and that the actions of this real woman were making me think of the actions of a fictional man, and that literature interests me, too much.

Seasonal Music

Merry Christmas, everyone/ Feliz Navidad a todos.

POV

Sometimes these things just write themselves. Here I am, around midnight in my apartment, trawling around on the internet, while outside of my window in Plaza Italia, I can hear a group of people singing and playing and dancing a cueca, a famous dance here in Chile. And of the two options, I'd rather be here, on my computer, than down in the plaza, watching and listening to real actual Chileans doing a real actual Chilean dance. Maybe I should feel guilty for this, but I am simply not interested in Chile right now.

This thought is somewhat comforting, in a roundabout way. From what I remember of my semester in Spain, my feelings about the country described a downward-arcing parabola. First, the ecxitement of being in a new place, then the process of the place growing more and more familiar until one is sick of it, and then a new, considered appreciation of the country.

I'd like to think that I'm currently heading towards the zenith of this cultural parabola, which means that, eventually, I should come out of it with a new appreciation of this place and people. The fact that gives me pause, though, is that my arrival here didn't give me excitement so much as anxiety, concerning money, housing and language acquisition. However, I now have a job, and an apartment (though I'll be moving into a new one shortly), and as for language, well, I don't think I've improved all that much, but I'm not as worried about learning it, simply because worrying about it so much has me exhausted. A fact that makes me think that I am following that parabola along its course, and that perhaps I'll come out higher than I am right now.

Make no mistake, I am, at the moment, sick of Santiago. It's big, and loud, like any other city, and simply doesn't have much that makes it unique. More specifically, the neighborhoods and buildings that are specific to the city--the older colonial buildings and neighborhoods--are being either neglected or transformed to look like the rest of downtown, which resembles any other major city, anywhere else. Hell, even the Christmas decorations feature snowflakes here, and it's summer this side of equator. I've talked to many people about this , actually: the fact that Chileans have something of an inferiority complex, continually saying that Peruvians speak better than them, or that Argentina has come culture. Because of this anxiety, which is, in part, attributable to the fact that Chile is isolated from the rest of the continent by the Andes mountains, this country seems particularly eager to accept the customs and fashions and habits that are readily available from other parts of the world, an eagerness met most easily by, of course, the United States.

And what's the last thing an American wants to see when he travels? America! Why else would we leave the damn place?

I could continue, but think I'd better not. I'll end by saying that I am, indeed, sick of Santiago, but I think I'm sick of it in the way that everyone else here is, what with the traffic and the noise and the pollution. And maybe, if I can dislike Chile like a Chilean, I can like it, too. Eventually.

There and Back Again

Maybe it’s because I don’t have a deadline, but I find it hard to post regularly on this thing. Other than simple laziness, though, it’s possible that I’ve been refraining from writing on my blog because I don’t want to remind myself of the feelings of disappointment and inadequacy that seem to be hounding me.

That’s not to say that my life here is in shambles. Through some wheeling and dealing, I was able to make my current job much more lucrative—full time hours, pay increase, the whole bit. It’s still not the best job I could have, but accounting for the odd time of year that I came, it’s not bad. Certainly, it’ll be enough to get by until March and April, when the academic and work seasons start up in full force, and there are plenty of jobs available.

This past weekend, I went to Mendoza Argentina, for the main reason of renewing my tourist visa. When I entered the country, I paid $100 for a 90-day tourist visa, and once those 90 days were up, I could have paid another $100 to the Chilean government, or left the country and then come back, and get it renewed for free. Clearly, the latter option was the best.

But other than practical reasons, the trip to Mendoza was a good punctuation mark to my first three months here, and offered some time to take stock. I like traveling by myself, since my thoughts seem to take on much more significance when I’m visiting a new place. Put more bluntly: when I travel by myself, I feel like my solitude has a purpose.

I only read reviews of the book, but in Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert, the author took a year-long trip around the world to put her punctuation mark, and even page break, into her life after a divorce. Her most useful skill for traveling, she said, was the fact she can “make friends with anyone, anywhere.” I’ve seen people like this here: friendly, bubbly individuals who can start talking to strangers and, before long, know the names of all their children. Moreover, these people pick up Spanish rather quickly, since they talk to people with such frequency.

I have almost the opposite skill. I’m good at, or at least capable of, traveling by myself because I have a significant capacity for solitude, or even loneliness. I’ll admit, it becomes useful on occasion. But more often, I’m frustrated with my shyness and timidity around people here, since it doesn’t help me learn this language one iota. I’m much more comfortable interacting with this foreign language through ink and paper, words on pages.

When thoughts like these occupy my mind, which is often, I end up wondering why learning Spanish is so important. I’m honestly not in love with the country and the culture, and I don’t expect to become so enamored. The rote answer that I’ve given as to why I chose to study and learn is that, as a rather extroverted and emotive language, it does something to get me out of me whenever I attempt to speak it, and interact with others on such terms. Basically, I’ve pursued it because it’s so unlike me. I used to study German, a brooding, pensive language much closer to my own disposition, and eventually gave it up in favor of Spanish because I felt the need to work against myself and my natural inclinations.

But now, living in this country without the safety net of a study abroad program, like I had in Spain, I’m feeling the strain of this unlikeness rather strongly. I want to learn Spanish, or at least I think I do, but in order to try and have conversations with people, however rudimentary, I have to do so through the medium of this doubly foreign language. When I was making my plans to come here, I had fantasies that I would become fluent in this language in a year or so, and then find part-time work translating Spanish books into English. Now, that scenario seems more and more hypothetical each day. I’m years away, really, from fluency in this language, and more to the point, I really wonder if I have the interest and disposition to become culturally fluent with this new place. For many of my students, the study of English is a fact of their life, and they’ll probably learn my language better than I learn theirs.

There are times when I feel more optimistic about my study of Spanish, but this minor key is what I always seem to return to. We’ll see if it progresses at all.

Cash Flow

I’ve always thought of writing as a kind of performance, with different forms and genres each requiring different skills and presuppositions. Even when I was writing opinion columns for Chimes, I was always aware that I was adapting my writing to whatever argument I happened to be making. Actually, when I was thinking about some issue, sometimes I would write two different drafts with opposing ideas, and then pick whichever one I thought sounded better. Often, I feel that language determines my beliefs, rather than vice versa.

All of which is why the habit of writing a blog doesn’t come naturally to me. Everything that I might post is, presumably, the Real, Authentic Thoughts and Feelings of Adam Petty. Still, as I’ve been writing these posts, I’ve been aware that I’ve been trying to project the image of someone who has things together, more or less, or at least wouldn’t get too bothered if he didn’t.

But I am. Bothered, that is. And frustrated, and anxious. You see, I started teaching at an institute about a week ago, and thought that my worries about finding work were over. Then, during a casual conversation with another teacher, I found out exactly how much I’m earning per hour, and it’s far lower than what I was expecting. I know, I really should have found out the exact amount before I started working there, but I was worried about finding work, and I guess I just took the first thing that came along.

Exact numbers don’t matter, and probably would be inadvisable to post on the internet, but suffice it to say, I need to be earning at least twice what I’m making right if I want to continue paying rent, and eating. To say nothing of my ever-present student loan payments.

I’ve been reluctant to explain the situation to my few friends here, as I feel embarrassed about taking such a bad job, so you can imagine the annoyance I’m experiencing by posting my frustrations to be read by anyone who might care to. I simply feel like I’ve been duped, like I’m just another dumb American getting hustled in a foreign country.

Obviously, I don’t know what exactly I’m going to do about this situation, or else this post would have a much clearer resolution. But for reasons that I can’t explain, I felt that it was important to record and preserve this unresolved frustration of mine.

I’m not good at praying, and so could probably use any prayers that you readers might have lying around.

In the Waiting Room

This is where I catalog all of the reasons why I haven’t posted recently, and apologize for my neglect. You know the drill.

Other than laziness, what’s kept me from writing is the feeling that I don’t have any subject any matter. Now, I’m sure that some of my friends would tell me that the simple fact that I’m in Chile is subject matter enough, and that describing a simple trip to the grocery store would hold some interest. And I might well do that, at some point.

But the past week and a half, all I’ve been doing is looking for jobs, and the stress of not yet finding one has curdled my creative juices. I might have some leads, though, and a few drops of inspiration along with them, so I thought I might try to describe some of my experiences.

Mostly I’ve been sitting in waiting rooms. And riding in elevators, nearly all of which are quite narrow and wouldn’t hold more than four people. After completing my TEFL certification course a week and a half ago, I found a website that listed the names and addresses of English schools and institutes in town. So I put on a suit, mapped out my route, shook off the feeling that I was a Jehovah’s witness and headed out.

There are plenty of sights and sounds and smells here to remind me that I am, indeed, in South America. But it was the unremarkable, habitual actions of going to office buildings, asking what floor this English school was on, taking the elevator up and ringing the doorbell that made me feel most strongly feel that I’m in a foreign place. Maybe because these mundane events are familiar to me from home, and doing all of them in another language was like hearing a stranger’s voice come from a friend’s lips. Traveling to different countries, you steel yourself for the more obvious cultural novelties, unprepared for encountering the familiar boredoms of home.

It could also be that handing out resumés is the kind of daily routine that attunes one to the rhythm of a new place. As a teacher staying for a decent amount of time, I’m in a different position than a tourist, or even a student abroad. After a few days, I actually came to enjoy walking around the city most of the day, and purposefully. I grew to recognize streets and places, and could get around without having to consult my map every few blocks. All of which reminded me that I do, in fact, live here, and seem to like it.