Suicide.

Two days ago, my sister's friend committed suicide. And, while I didn't know him, I find myself reeling in the aftermath.

A little over three years ago, my cousin, Ben, killed himself. He was 19. A good kid. My sister was closest to our cousin and, of my siblings, I think she was hardest hit. Some of the events that precipitated his death parallel those of her friend, and so it is all the more eerie.

Emile Durkeim (one of the founding fathers of sociology) said that suicide is the most individual act a person can engage in, meaning it is the least "social" behavior. I remember realizing soon after, that Ben's death was not unlike a rock thrown into a pond: it creates a seemingly endless ripple effect. So many people were directly and indirectly affected by his actions, and the fact that I cried after hearing news of Danielle's friend, a person I had never met, makes me question Durkeim's logic. (Though I was crying for my sister - her suffering - should not affect the point I'm trying to make.)

While I understand that he was referring to suicide as an individual act in terms of mindset/one's consciousness, I can't believe that it is not inherently social. People and behaviors, actions, etc., are what comprise society...and when incalculable numbers of people are affected by one person's individual free will, it becomes a social action.

What's more, this most recent suicide has me revisiting the death of my cousin, reliving all of the anguish. Not only that, but how he could have felt so alone or so uncurably miserable that jumping off a freeway overpass was seen as the most appropriate solution. What our heads talk us into doing when our hearts are broken...or is it that our heads are broken and the hearts do the talking?

Aside from this pondering, comes a - perhaps - unanswerable question. When do we act on instinct, and when on rational thought? (It's the proverbial head vs. heart question that plagues me ceaselessly.) Without going into detail, my sister felt instinctively that she should have acted in a certain way to help her friend, but she had someone else telling her to "be smart" and avoid entangling herself too deeply in the situation. In the end, rationality won out, and truth be told, that person was probably wrong. Now all she has left is "what if?".

And the rest await ripples.

Melancholy and the Infinite Suffering

Sometimes, ignorance really is bliss. But an awareness of ignorance? That's the kicker...

I don't know if there is any worse feeling than having knowledge of something, a situation, and not having the ability to change it. Virtual hopelessness.

It doesn't matter if the situation involves a loved one, or strangers. Thousands of them. Millions of them. All struggling, whether in oblivion or not.

Awareness hurts, but so, too, does the knowledge that we're ignorant to the excessive suffering of others. On some level, we know it's happening even when we don't know the particulars.

Awareness is supposed to encourage action, but sometimes, wish though we might, we can't just step in and attempt to "fix" the problem ourselves. Boundaries.

...

The blackness of their eyes haunts me. The pain they don't even attempt to conceal because it's their right to make themselves heard. The lifeless bodies of the innocents, the cries of women many times raped, have done little to jolt us into action. So, it's all in the eyes. All they have left.

...

This is one of my gray days...where there is no right or wrong, black or white, but solely what lies between. And while the world is gray, they are dying.

the united states of portland.

sometimes, i feel like portlanders take a lot for granted.

we have the pleasure of living in a city that boasts (in my humble opinion) a larger-than-average population of politically aware, active, environmentally conscious (etc.) folk. because we live in such an environment, and despite the evidence we see of "the outside" on the telly, in the newspaper, we develop this idea that the rest of the u.s. is just like portland. that people don't just accept the status quo, but that they choose to think for themselves, to obtain well-rounded perspectives of important issues from various media, and so forth. i think, particularly, that this idea is fiercely alive at institutions of education, like psu.

it's funny...we go to college and we're taught to question what we're told, that the world is rarely what it seems, and that it is increasingly important to see the world with international eyes. and yet, we portlanders - the "tree hugging liberals" who love to criticize our government officials because of their relentless pursuit of a blanket, pro-western agenda in the middle east - are still ethnocentric enough to think that what is good or true for us is good or true for every other american.

example: i was in my foreign policy class the other day, we were discussing cold war policy and the trend that developed during that time of government powers "misrepresenting" situations abroad in order to increase public support for u.s. military/political involvement. basically, that politicians have to be spindoctors if they want the american people behind them. one of my fellow classmates then asked, "why can't the government just tell us the truth? why can't they tell us that we invaded iraq for oil? i think everyone really knows that's the truth anyway."

frankly, i was dumbfounded. how can someone really think that most americans believe THAT? there are millions of americans that are basically media-illiterate, or who don't care enough to look beyond their sensationalistic evening news to learn of other sides to a story, or are the kind to support and trust in their president "no matter what", or whom are in denial about the international state of affairs, power politics, etc. what about the religiously-inclined folks who truly believe we are on a moral, "righteous" mission to spread peace and promote democracy abroad?

what it boils down to is - i dare say! - americans wouldn't stomach the thought of going to war on account of access to oil (and/or other natural resources, geopolitics, etc). sure, many of us may believe that is the truth, but what about the rest of this vast country? i don't think ol' gw would be able to amass much public support if he chose that approach. (to be fair, its not as if he's the only one who's tried to strike an emotional chord with the people - american foreign policy has reflected a moralistic, "righteous power" drive for decades.)

so...back to the issue at hand...here was a formally educated woman saying americans want - and would easily accept - the truth. what i think she was doing was applying the desires and/or attitudes of those around her, and in her class, to those of all other communities in the country. but we aren't every other community; portland is not a microcosm of the larger society. and, if SHE - someone who has had the opportunity for a higher education, who sees herself as knowledgeable and aware - can make that sort of attribution error...

well. we're right f$*@ed, my friends.

Questions

How is it possible to want something so much and at the same time, to fear it so intensely?

I can't say I don't think about getting married, what it would be like...both the wedding and the marriage, the house, the kids, but at the same time, I can't say that I don't sometimes think I'll never be able to pull it all off. That, at some crucial moment, I'll balk...and throw away the potential for something more, all because I'm scared. Scared of it not working, and scared of what my life will become when it doesn't.

This is the part where I blame my parents. Yet, it's not about blaming them for getting divorced. It's more about them staying together for as long as they did, and the effects that THAT had on their marriage, and more importatly, on us. The fact is, we got to see a lot of the ugliness in their marriage, ugliness that trickled down (most often) from my mother to us. The way she treated us was a manifestation of what she felt inside, things she could find no other way to relieve herself of.

So, while I was young, it was my mother who was the bad guy. But as I grew and learned more about my parents' relationship, I saw more and more of the ugliness in my father. The things he did that, indirectly, affected his children. The things he didn't do that directly affected his children.

And yet, to this very day, they both claim to love us.

How can a person truly love another and do such things? How can they fail each other in such ways? How can one love another and be so selfish?

I don't want that sort of love. But...who I am to think I'd be exempt from such love if I marry? If I have my own children?

And so it is that I blame my parents for making me afraid of marriage. (There it is, I've said it.)

But....I still want it. Part of me is still romantic enough to desire "that life", to hope that someday I'll find myself in a situation that lends itself to marriage. The little girl in me still longs for the fairy tale. Call it optimism, call it idealism, call it what you will. I want it someday.

Though, sometimes I secretly hope someday never comes. Or, at least until I can get some answers to the questions that plague me.

I ask myself:

Is it really realistic to think he'll love me forever?
And, even if he loves me, how do I know he won't stray? Will he still want me if I get fat? Will I love HIM forever? Are we both selfless enough to work as hard as it takes to make a marriage work? Will we get bored, and if we do, will be remain steadfast in our commitment? When times get tough, will we be able to ride it out? Even if we think our love is true and everlasting, is it REALLY, or is our love merely clouding our judgement?

Even if we're completely honest with ourselves, how is it possible to answer such questions? And, if we can't answer them, can we trust what we actually feel, enough to just go with it?

Or, is this all a routine I engage in because of some subconscious motive to sabotage my future, my shot at happiness?

(I know you're thinking, "Great. She has to go and get all psychoanalytical on us.")

I don't want to be foolish, naive...to go about life thinking I'll be an exception to what is (increasingly) becoming the norm: divorce. Nor do I want to make life decisions based on fear, only to find out - much too late, of course - that I gave up the only thing I ever really wanted. Where is that elusive "happy medium" we're always talking about?

And the million-dollar question: Is there ever a time when I'll be able to cease asking myself that last one?

Leaves change, and with them my perspective.

09.14.06 - 5.10 p.m.

I've been looking forward to this day all week. The day the rain began. It feels as though autumn is finally here, and I'm elated. I've been eager like a five year-old on Christmas Eve. This is - without doubt - my favorite time of year. The time when my love for this city, this place, abounds.

Despite the age-old adage that spring is a time of anticipation, of new beginnings...for me, it is not so. Autumn is my spring. A period that refreshes. It feels as though everything begins anew. A time when the cat gets the tongue of the cynic in me.

This morning, I opened the window in the living room which looks out into the backyard, and to a wall of sprawling trees and shrubs beyond it. The rain had stopped falling, at least temporarily, but the sky was still dolphin gray and plump with clouds; the air was so fiercely crisp I felt I could bite into it like a Granny Smith. I put my nose to the screen, closed my eyes, and drank it in. The honesty. The scent of the air after rain, particularly the first of the season, is one I wish I could bottle and dip into whenever my soul needed cleansing. It's that good.

I feel romantic. Perfectly imperfect. Hopeful. Alive. I am always pleasantly surprised that a change in the weather, a gentle shift of season, can alter my perspective so greatly, and I often wonder if this is so for others. And, I wonder how it is that I lived so long in place where a REAL, leaf-turning, hot-apple-cider-drinking, beanie-and wool-sweater-wearing, anticipation-inducing, crisp, cool air sort of autumn never, ever, presented itself. Perhaps that is why I always felt I was missing a part of myself there, and, on some level, why I felt so drawn to the Northwest. Because, after all, how can one feel complete if she rarely feels alive?

When I tell people that part of what brought me to Oregon was the rain and overcast sky, I usually get peculiar reactions. My mother - who was all but convinced that if I moved here I'd become depressed and suicidal within mere months - is still geniunely shocked to know that, each year, I look forward to the rainy season. Even after six years. She often asks when I will finally grow tired of all the rain, of all the "dreariness" and gray.

Each time, for one brief moment, I open my mind to the possibility, but then, I am bombarded with images and ideas, thoughts of everything that the rain is to me; that is all it takes. And so, I always smile and say confidently, "Never."

Love on Two Wheels.

i fell in love. with cycling.

it was a couple weeks ago. a cool, cloudy sunday morning, and i was riding in the bridge pedal with my good friend. we were nearing the last leg on the 24 mile loop...the long climb up and over st. johns bridge. by this point in the ride my legs were taut, muscles loose, i was in the zone, pushing ahead at a quick, steady pace. i was a little apprehensive about the climb as i haven't done much sustained climbing in the few meager months of bike ownership.

so, i talked myself through it. literally. my muscles burned like hell, but the mental commentary kept me pushing on. i saw several people to my right who had given up and were walking their bikes up the hill. i couldn't let that be me...i'm too prideful (and too much of a perfectionist, for that matter). i wanted to quit, but i forced myself to welcome the pain, love the pain. after what seemed like minutes, i had reached the top of the hill leading to the bridge, and passed lots of riders in the process (woohoo!). now, i was feelin' good! i could see the end. i picked up my pace, and started toward the bridge. it was still uphill, but not as steep and as i reached the crest of the bridge, i got that "runner's high", only much, MUCH better. the pain subsided, my limbs felt noodle-like, warm...and (pardon the cliche) i felt free. it was the most incredible feeling: a gorgeous view of downtown, the feel-good aura of physical exertion, crisp, cool breeze against my skin, a feeling of accomplishment. pure bliss. i couldn't help but smile.

until that point, i liked cycling. i loved my bike, mind you. i loved the idea of cycling. but i hadn't yet fallen.

so good.

Euro Travel Journal

All of the following have been copied from my travel journal, dating from 15 June-1 July 2005, during which time I traveled throughout Europe.
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15 June 2005
Paris, 8.20p

Finally, I am here! For so many years I have wanted to visit and now that it's here, it's a bit surreal. I am staying in a tiny "hotel" in Montmarte, just a few blocks from Sacré Cœur. It is run by an elderly couple and their mangy dog, none of whom speak English. They have been kind despite our communication issues - I suppose it happens often. The hallways in the place are impossibly narrow, and, to my surprise, unlit. It's most definitely a no-frills kind of place, which is fine by me. More character?! After all, when I arrived last night to find all of the hostels booked up, and many nearby hotels, I was just thankful for a relatively inexpensive place to lay my head.

This morning, after a light French-style breakfast of coffee and pastry, I hiked up the hill to Sacré Cœur. Its domes rise so high above the surrounding neighborhoods that it seems all the more majestic. It appears a brilliant white, the first basilica I have ever visited. It is from its entryway that I caught my first glimpse of the city, and from that vantage point, I must say, it looked rather unspectacular. Afterwards, I explored the neighborhood on foot, then hopped on the Métro so I could make my way to the Louvre. Stopped at Champs-Elysées, walked to l'Arc de Triomphe (much bigger than I had imagined), and wandered down the avenue for a bit. En route to the Louvre, I stopped at the Grand Palais, which I believe to be an art exhibition center of some form. (Though I'm sure it was not always so.) The building is quite beautiful, but I did not go inside.

The Louvre - wow. So overwhelming, it was. I knew I wouldn't have time to see everything, even if I spent a week here, so I chose a few key areas. On the whole, I am very glad I went, but I was actually somewhat disappointed. I visited the Musée d'Orsay afterwards and I enjoyed that far more. I saw virtually everything there, including an absolutely fantastic collection of Degas paintings, drawings, and sculpture.

Am now enjoying some lovely French food for dinner - steak au poivre! Yum :) Also, green beans with some kind of onion garnish and potatoes that have been sautéed in oil. They are thinly sliced almost like potato chips, though the taste bears little similarity.

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16 June 2005
Paris, 5.10p

Last night, following dinner, I went on an epic hike about town and I am paying for it today! I awoke this morning so sore that I was scared to attempt sitting up. My legs were so incredibly sore, and my back and neck, I could sense, were in knots. After some stretching and massage, I set off, though I have had to take it a little easier today. It has turned into a gorgeous day, much nicer than yesterday. So I had a great time wandering about. First, to Notre Dame, then a walk along the Seine. Took Boulevard St. Michel to St. Germain, just exploring the neighborhoods. V. cool area. Am now back at the Eiffel Tower where I finished the evening last night. Wanted to take some day photos and I thought it would be a good place to rest and get some sun. I am planning to visit the Latin Quarter tonight and, depending on how I feel, I may try to listen to some jazz somewhere. I would like to leave Paris tomorrow, despite originally planning to spend 3 days. It hasn't captured my attention as I thought it would and because I have already lost time to my neck injury last week (in London), I'd rather push on and spend another day in Germany or Italy. We shall see.

(Note: I returned to Paris again, appx 5 weeks later. I spent another several days in areas I had not previously visited. The city, I am pleased to say, grew on me.)
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18 June 2005
Antwerp, Belgium

It is incredibly warm here, must have been 85 when I got off the train. Not too excited about that bit considering I had to hike a good 45 minutes to my hotel. My pack was feeling especially heavy, the heat making me sweat profusely in my harness. The walk was scenic, though - it took me through De Meir, the city's main shopping district. Grote Market, too, where city hall and the famous fountain are located. It's quite a happening city and it doesn't appear to be too tourist-y. Every street I have walked upon thus far has been made of cobblestone, the buildings butting up closely alongside them, creating a cozy feel. My hotel is only one block from the river, a fact I did not know prior to arriving. Though I've not yet walked along the waterfront I can tell it will be lovely, especially given the cooling weather.

I am sitting now inside an Italian restaurant, awaiting the arrival of dinner. I had intended a more authentic Belgian delight but as I sat at a nearby brasserie, I saw pizza after tantalizing pizza being served to customers; I just couldn't resist! It's been some time since I've eaten it, and another thing, I am missing Kevin. Pizza reminds me of him.

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25 June 2005
Czech Republic, 12.45p
(En route to Prague via train)

I am pleasantly surprised by what I have seen of CR so far. It is far greener than I would have thought, and certainly more beautiful. It is nice to see real hills, for the have been all but absent from the landscape since I was in Ireland. I am thoroughly excited to reach Prague. Seeing this city is one of the aspects of my travels that I have most anticipated. My mother's family is from this country and I am the first of the family to come here; my grandmother has not even been. It is a special feeling. I wish very much that my mom could be here, she has always longed to visit. I plan to take a vast number of photos - at least she'll have that.

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26 June 2005
Prague, 10.15p

This is the most visually appealing city I have ever seen, in terms of architecture. I have spent most of the last two days wandering the cobblestone, and at every turn, it seems, something has appeared and taken my breath away. Yesterday, I hiked up to Prague Castle to catch a glimpse of the city. The castle overlooks the River Vltava, a most astounding view. The city's many bridges, the varying forms of architecture, and the romantic domes and spires - numbering in the hundreds, at least - make for a completely enchanting sight. The city has a haunting feel about it, this kind of cold, Old World-Europe thing. I really like how I've felt since arriving. I would like to come back someday, in winter or fall, because I think Prague's spirit will be all the more apparent then. Cold-blooded Czechs, and all.

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27 June 2005
Munich, Germany

Since the latter part of high school when I extensively studied WWII and the Holocaust, I have been quite interested in visiting a concentration camp. Today, I finally had the opportunity. I spent much of the day at Dachau, about an hour's train ride from Munich. It was a most surreal experience. It was once of those experiences in which so many emotions flood your soul that somehow, they cancel each other out and you're left feeling numb. I spent a good deal of time in the museum they have converted from the old multi-use building at the front of the camp. I was extremely impressed with the conversion, as it amounted to a very educational arena for visitors. They had dozens and dozens of old photos hanging about - prisoners, depictions of life in the camp, SS and Gestapo. Various Nazi propaganda and so forth. Trinkets such as identity cards and bits of prisoner uniforms, their eating untensils, have all been maintained and put on display. There was almost too much there, it was all so heavy; this weight atop an already emotionally-loaded sojourn.

The bunker, where prisoners were kept for torture or other purposes was perhaps the hardest to endure. Some of the cells were open and I tookd the opportunity to sit inside one of them, alone. It was at that point that I finally broke into sobs - as I sat in a corner peering about at the unbelievably small space, turquoise and bone-colored paint chipping hideously from the concrete walls. I forced myself to remain there longer than I wanted, to reflect on what I had seen thus far, and perhaps, to imagine a reality wherein I could not leave that space at will. I was struck by the choice of color - that bright, happy blue. Was it always there, or were the walls painted after liberation, some attempt to argue the presence of humane conditions? What prisons are painted in such a way? I thought it may have been a cruel joke, somewhat like the gates at the entrance to the camp; woven into the iron of gate are the words "Arbeit macht frei", or "work shall set you free". Dachau was a place of lies and double-vision. There was the Dachau that outsiders saw, their images cultivated through staged photographs and nazi-placed magazine and newspaper articles. Then there was the real Dachau, the one I began to see amongst the grossly decaying walls of the bunker.

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1 July 2005
Lake Como, Italy

I am so incredibly happy that I chose to come to this heavenly place. It is certainly one of the most naturally beautiful places I've set eyes on. The lake is shared by Switzerland and Italy, tucked away at the edge of the Alps. The peaks are fiercely jagged, yet almost entirely green. They appear to drop off abruptly as they reach the water's edge, leaving little room for housing or towns of any kind. Even so, they exist, precariously balanced above the water, stacked and stacked, as if upon each other. It is gorgeous. The water is a deep, rich blue, the mountains evergreen and gray, and the villages a multitude of warm hues; they look like the colors one sees inside a gelato freezer, on the sorbet end of things. Peach, blood orange, lemon meringue-type yellowish-white, cantaloupe, strawberry, and the occasional mint. The air is genuinely fresh and so far, there's been a constant breeze. I am feeling revitalized already!

Musings on Euroville

Written 22 July 2005, the day after I returned from 4 months in Europe
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I don’t know whether I set out on my travels with some subconscious motive, or whether the mission truly lacked definition. Which is the preferable scenario, I am not certain, though on some level I’d like to think that the journey was purely organic. That is, I set out with no expectation and anticipated its development. At one point, another traveler whom I met at a hostel in Venice asked me whether my decision to travel alone could be attributed to a desire for soul-searching. I didn’t exactly know how to answer the question…sure, I had hoped that the experience would allow me to become more in tune with myself, but this is something I hope for in many - even ordinary - situations. Yet, I couldn’t deny it outright.

In time, the question was answered on its own. This trip has taught me much, and I’m sure a great deal more will take shape and solidify, revelations occurring gradually within the confines of my mind. But to begin with, it was a personal test: I wanted to know that I could do such a thing on my own. It gave me confidence and showed me that I could be pliable, adaptable. I liked the idea of going into the unknown without a rigid itinerary, having to think on my feet. Sure, elements of stress and anxiety were introduced, but I think that the benefits most certainly outweighed the costs. And, were I traveling with another person, a “fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants” approach would be far less realistic. On another level, and a somewhat more abstract one, I wanted Europe to speak to me. I had a desire to understand the stronghold that it has seemed to have over me, why it is that I have felt so drawn to the region. It was, in my estimation, an out-of-the-ordinary interest; sure, most everyone who has never been to Europe wants to visit. But, I felt as though there was something there for me that I needed, that couldn’t be obtained elsewhere…some missing piece. Though I had these bizarre ideas, I was not certain that there would be any resolution or any concrete realizations on my part. So, I concluded that I couldn’t develop expectations regarding that facet of my desires.

The many train journeys I took, the ferry rides, subway rides…all afforded me a great deal of time to contemplate my life, my direction, my goals. I could watch all that was occurring before me and yet retreat into my mind. It was a peaceful time, a unique opportunity. Never before had I that kind of time to devote to uninterrupted self-reflection.