The past 18 hours have been flurrious. I think I made that up. Flurrious: full of flurries. I know what I mean. There's been a lot of activity. Let's leave it at that.
This morning I took the monks to see the PostSecret exhibit. I've never been made to feel more deliberately unwelcome since...gosh, maybe ever. The museum host was gracious enough, but she clearly didn't want to address the monks. She only made eye-contact with me; and it was that purposeful kind, the kind that says "I'm trying really hard to look only at your eyes so I don't have to look at what is distracting me." Should have known. The museum is, after all, in a town that proudly displays a statue of a confederate soldier in the center of it's square, and in a county that can boast being the second most visited in the country by the Dick. Cheney, that is.
Such was our introduction. The exhibit itself, was fun though. Most of the cards dealt with the same subject matter: sex, infidelity, forbidden love on the one hand, or grief and loss on the other. I think the exhibit would have been better if there was a broader range of themes. That's my only criticism though. It's definitely worth a visit. What was particularly interesting to me, though, was the reaction of the monks. Gee, the elder, wasn't really impressed with all of the cards that dealt with sexual fantasy or unwholesome desire. It wasn't surprising to him. "Even in India," he said, "people sleep with their mother or sister. That's nothing new." I really like that guy, by the way. He was more interested in the cards that dealt with crises of identity: people who were Baptist for 30 years but never once believed in it, for example.
The other monk, Mep-la, had totally different interests. I heard him laughing, so I went over to see what was so funny. He was looking at a photo of a woman putting something in her SUV. Her skirt was hiked up as a result of her reach and you could see she wasn't wearing anything underneath. The caption said something like "My aunt doesn't wear any panties when she goes grocery shopping. She is my new favorite aunt and I ask to go do the shopping with her every weekend." This tickled Mep-la beyond description.
After the museum we had a coffee break. This is where things got interesting. Again, the patrons were passively hostile: no eye-contact, obvious improvisational Baptist prayer before taking their tea, and judgment. I wasn't prepared for that. Resentment aside, however, the conversation was surprising on many fronts. First, Gee was openly talking about how sad it was for him to know that the young teenage girls who were sitting alone in a corner were going to grow up to be carbon-copies of their moms; and they were going to be daddy's girls. His words.
Second, they got into my love life. Totally. And with interest too. Their posture erected, their eyes opened, and their smile widened. I was talking about how I ended up living here and what my life was like before this (lived with my girlfriend, wasn't happy, finished school, moved out). "But you have new girlfriend, now, right? said Mep-la.
"No. No I don't."
"OHHHHH" they both said in unison.
"What kind of girl you like?" asked Gee.
"That's easy: heady with a sense of humor that I'm attracted to," I said.
"Ohhhh I know many girl like dis," Gee said. "Trust me. You come to my house. I have them come to my house. We cook dinner. We'll make a place on couch for you."
"You can make the right environment for me?" I asked.
"Yes. Exactly. I make right environment for you." Buddhist. Monk. Professor. Matchmaker. Who knew?
We all laughed and decided we should go.
On the way home Gee wanted to stop at the only Indian grocer in the area: a Shell gas station. For serious. I looked at him like he was mistaken, but no. That was it, and it was packed! Packed with spices, herbs, clarified butter varietals, bulk sacks of jasmine rice, fresh produce, paneer, lentils, ground rose powder...you name it. They even had Bollywood films. Mep-la, of course, found one that he just had to show me. I can't remember the exact title, but Mep-la pointed out that the title meant 'fire'. He opened up the DVD and in the box was a single photograph of a wonderfully beautiful woman in some kind of sheer, traditional dance attire. "This," he said with a smile, "is the fire."
My my.
After the grocer's we headed back into town and passed Mep-la's English language education center. He came here from Queens, but he's still learning to speak English. I told them about a conversational partner program that I know about. He could get paired up with someone in town and casually meet him or her once a week to practice speaking English. "As long as you can get me the fire," Mep-la said of this suggestion.
"The fire?" I asked not sure if I heard him right.
"Ya ya, the fire, like I show you in the store."
"Oh. OH!" I said.
And we laughed some more.
Finally, I dropped them off at home. Gee thanked me for the 'adventure' as he called it. Mep-la looked at me and said, in his best English, "Thank you for today. It was very fun." And with that he offered me his hand. I tried to shake it as you would when you meet someone for the first time. No no. He wasn't having that. He shook it, then gave up some dap and ended it with a fist bump, Queens-style. I loved it.
I left out one slight detail. Confession time. At the museum, they had a series of other PostSecret letters, postcards, and envelopes tacked to a wall near the entrance. These were all part of the exhibit and a nice compliment to the postcards that were encased in glass. These other letters and envelopes were pinned above a shelf of books that were on display: PostSecret books, books about the USPS, about stamps...some kind of space filler things. I picked up a book to show Gee and Mep-la, and there it was: a lonely, sad little secret that had lost its thumbtack and fallen off the wall.
The envelope had a hand-drawn picture on it: the profile of two yellow birds kissing. They look like Peeps. The text on the envelope read "We haven't talked in 46 days. (And it's killing me.) Here's everything I'd say if I wasn't such a baby." Inside the envelope was something that felt like a note.
Instead of returning the little package to the curator, I hid it in my program and walked out with it. And yes, I did read its contents.
This morning I took the monks to see the PostSecret exhibit. I've never been made to feel more deliberately unwelcome since...gosh, maybe ever. The museum host was gracious enough, but she clearly didn't want to address the monks. She only made eye-contact with me; and it was that purposeful kind, the kind that says "I'm trying really hard to look only at your eyes so I don't have to look at what is distracting me." Should have known. The museum is, after all, in a town that proudly displays a statue of a confederate soldier in the center of it's square, and in a county that can boast being the second most visited in the country by the Dick. Cheney, that is.
Such was our introduction. The exhibit itself, was fun though. Most of the cards dealt with the same subject matter: sex, infidelity, forbidden love on the one hand, or grief and loss on the other. I think the exhibit would have been better if there was a broader range of themes. That's my only criticism though. It's definitely worth a visit. What was particularly interesting to me, though, was the reaction of the monks. Gee, the elder, wasn't really impressed with all of the cards that dealt with sexual fantasy or unwholesome desire. It wasn't surprising to him. "Even in India," he said, "people sleep with their mother or sister. That's nothing new." I really like that guy, by the way. He was more interested in the cards that dealt with crises of identity: people who were Baptist for 30 years but never once believed in it, for example.
The other monk, Mep-la, had totally different interests. I heard him laughing, so I went over to see what was so funny. He was looking at a photo of a woman putting something in her SUV. Her skirt was hiked up as a result of her reach and you could see she wasn't wearing anything underneath. The caption said something like "My aunt doesn't wear any panties when she goes grocery shopping. She is my new favorite aunt and I ask to go do the shopping with her every weekend." This tickled Mep-la beyond description.
After the museum we had a coffee break. This is where things got interesting. Again, the patrons were passively hostile: no eye-contact, obvious improvisational Baptist prayer before taking their tea, and judgment. I wasn't prepared for that. Resentment aside, however, the conversation was surprising on many fronts. First, Gee was openly talking about how sad it was for him to know that the young teenage girls who were sitting alone in a corner were going to grow up to be carbon-copies of their moms; and they were going to be daddy's girls. His words.
Second, they got into my love life. Totally. And with interest too. Their posture erected, their eyes opened, and their smile widened. I was talking about how I ended up living here and what my life was like before this (lived with my girlfriend, wasn't happy, finished school, moved out). "But you have new girlfriend, now, right? said Mep-la.
"No. No I don't."
"OHHHHH" they both said in unison.
"What kind of girl you like?" asked Gee.
"That's easy: heady with a sense of humor that I'm attracted to," I said.
"Ohhhh I know many girl like dis," Gee said. "Trust me. You come to my house. I have them come to my house. We cook dinner. We'll make a place on couch for you."
"You can make the right environment for me?" I asked.
"Yes. Exactly. I make right environment for you." Buddhist. Monk. Professor. Matchmaker. Who knew?
We all laughed and decided we should go.
On the way home Gee wanted to stop at the only Indian grocer in the area: a Shell gas station. For serious. I looked at him like he was mistaken, but no. That was it, and it was packed! Packed with spices, herbs, clarified butter varietals, bulk sacks of jasmine rice, fresh produce, paneer, lentils, ground rose powder...you name it. They even had Bollywood films. Mep-la, of course, found one that he just had to show me. I can't remember the exact title, but Mep-la pointed out that the title meant 'fire'. He opened up the DVD and in the box was a single photograph of a wonderfully beautiful woman in some kind of sheer, traditional dance attire. "This," he said with a smile, "is the fire."
My my.
After the grocer's we headed back into town and passed Mep-la's English language education center. He came here from Queens, but he's still learning to speak English. I told them about a conversational partner program that I know about. He could get paired up with someone in town and casually meet him or her once a week to practice speaking English. "As long as you can get me the fire," Mep-la said of this suggestion.
"The fire?" I asked not sure if I heard him right.
"Ya ya, the fire, like I show you in the store."
"Oh. OH!" I said.
And we laughed some more.
Finally, I dropped them off at home. Gee thanked me for the 'adventure' as he called it. Mep-la looked at me and said, in his best English, "Thank you for today. It was very fun." And with that he offered me his hand. I tried to shake it as you would when you meet someone for the first time. No no. He wasn't having that. He shook it, then gave up some dap and ended it with a fist bump, Queens-style. I loved it.
I left out one slight detail. Confession time. At the museum, they had a series of other PostSecret letters, postcards, and envelopes tacked to a wall near the entrance. These were all part of the exhibit and a nice compliment to the postcards that were encased in glass. These other letters and envelopes were pinned above a shelf of books that were on display: PostSecret books, books about the USPS, about stamps...some kind of space filler things. I picked up a book to show Gee and Mep-la, and there it was: a lonely, sad little secret that had lost its thumbtack and fallen off the wall.
The envelope had a hand-drawn picture on it: the profile of two yellow birds kissing. They look like Peeps. The text on the envelope read "We haven't talked in 46 days. (And it's killing me.) Here's everything I'd say if I wasn't such a baby." Inside the envelope was something that felt like a note.
Instead of returning the little package to the curator, I hid it in my program and walked out with it. And yes, I did read its contents.
Thank you. Firstly, for finding me and saying hi. Secondly, for redirecting me. I did not mind at all because this entry literally made me laugh out loud and feel like I had just spent a day with a group of monks. Your message and this blog are things I would definetly catagorize as "things that make me feel bubbly and sunny".
Where are my manners... My name is Theresa. It's a pleasure to meet you, so to speak. I feel like you're somebody I'm always going to look forward to talking to on-a-count-of I bet you'll always have an exciting story (exciting to me, atleast).