Note- to be so passionate about something that you spend hours speaking about it, that you spend your waking hours wishing you were doing something about it, and eventually the need becomes so great that you do.


From NPR:

Juan Carlos Echeverry, who studied in the U.S. and Europe, says that's all people knew of Colombia — even years after Escobar was killed by police.

"Ten to 15 years ago, I studied in NYU in New York City, and I studied in Germany, I studied in Spain, and every beer with friends from those countries, we spent hours speaking about Pablo Escobar and narco-trafficking," he recalls.

Echeverry says it was tiresome.

Now, he's Colombia's finance minister. At the Summit of the Americas in the coastal city of Cartagena, he'll give his side of the story to heads of state — including President Obama — and CEOs from some of the biggest companies around. He says many people are already getting the message.

People are talking about this, infrastructure and oil and tourism. And people want to come to Colombia, and this humongous, tectonic change of stereotype, Colombia as a promised land.

"People are talking about this, infrastructure and oil and tourism," he says. "And people want to come to Colombia, and this humongous, tectonic change of stereotype, Colombia as a promised land."

as i stepped onto the plane, i was still furiously trying to mend my heart. i remember the anticipation thick in the air, the kind that is incited only by red velvet cake or something of the same richness. i drummed my fingers against the plane window. the plane arrived.

i walked through the airport, calling your phone. nervous, because i knew you were sort of dependable, but not always. i know, that is a purposeful paradox.

i left you a message after you didn't pick up several times. i walked some more. i sat in different places.

i walked to the gate. i looked around. i probably looked for your curly, messy hair. i didn't find it, so i kept walking.

i listened to music to keep myself from getting too frustrated.

and then i walked again to the gate, tired. this time finding you. and our eyes probably had the same tone, some kind of misguided hue, wondering, curious, because it's been 4 years. your eyes were bigger than i remembered, you hair (or lack thereof) trimmed close and receding a little (in an endearing way), which is why i didn't recognize you. your skin about the same, your lips a little wiser, your teeth a little whiter from your obsessive brushing. still as minimalistic as i remembered you, for your carry-on was a neck pillow and a book. you were holding your phone, which had proceeded to die as you landed in miami. you said that you thought you saw me, but my hair is longer, unrulier, and you said I looked Latina. so you didn't wave me down.

and we laughed, kind of the start of all the bells of laughter we'd play in the coming weeks.

Monday, July 3rd, 2006
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

9:00 am - when we part



i am back in the country. i contemplated writing "i am back in my country", but gradually i am not so sure.

i left the mighty mountains of yunnan armed with too many photos of the sky and memories overflowing my heart.

i turned twenty one on my first day in Tainan. i cried in front of the starched paleness of my grandfather's hospital bed. my cousin got me drunk that night on Smirnoff and karaoke songs.

my last three days in beijing were composed purely of heartbeats in an inmeasureable rhythm. i looked into the reflection of his sunglasses as i pressed my palm to the window of the taxi cab. his mouth was set in a pin-straight line, and he did not move as the taxi pulled me quietly out of his view. "boyfriend?" asked the taxi driver. "no...no. a very very good friend." leaving him meant leaving china.

my flight was delayed two hours.
i got into san francisco and dashed toward the gate where my transfer flight was waiting. in slow breaths and 4/4 time, i passed matthew scheer- curly hair, green eyes. falling hard while walking across the golden gate bridge and falling asleep while watching waking life. life moves in cycles. i catch my breath. i can't stop smiling when i hear Tu's voice.

the plane slipped into the houston air just in time for me to witness the golden clouds of the Texas sunset. i cried as the escalator brought me into view of my mother's smile. 800 renmenbi are still carelessly stuffed into my purse. my plastic credit cards stretch and smirk in their sudden usefulness. the future rushes at me with sickening certainty. i have not yet learned how to stand still. i think about being single. i am tired of answering questions about what i write. i seek change with far more dignity than i should be allowed,

"You are what disappears: you are the thing that someone has let go of, you leave a trail of words behind you simply to continue existing." stephen bor
.

我们第一次见面
却好像认识了一百年
谁回相信
这么美丽的开始...


during lunch, yesterday, i discovered that my hands still hadn't stopped shaking.

i haven't processed it all yet.

the wet, freezing air. possibilities of movement everywhere.
our breath, heaving, pushing, and hanging there.

the tents like caves, our hearts like rivers.

the faces of Peruvian people- etched with carvings of the land, the history, the politics, the hope and the patience. the throb of excitement in sharing the stories. the slow, winning smiles.

i sit here now, in the lull of air conditioning, surrounded by the theme beige walls. i bore myself, looking at the wrinkles on my hands. thinking about the scars on my right ankle from tripping on mountains, skipping across the sky.

unspoken happiness lines my lips
as she quips that one needs wit to keep up with me

--

there were moments in the glacial cold when i would glance briefly at your hands, shaking with starlight (or just freezing, one of the two). i could feel our distance, intentional and silent like the mountains.

---

is the idea grander than this reality?

--

when i look into your eyes, i cannot tell the time. i cannot feel the cold seeping into my 7 layers of clothes. i cannot feel the snow, nor the immense stomachache that consumes me at this altitude. i do not recognize thirst or exhaustion.


--

this is not luck we feel.

Carrie asked me if I was going to write about Colombia. She talked to me about being wary about starting a journal because she was afraid it'd be too direct of a line into her heart, being, and thoughts. I feel a little the same way. That something like this cannot be written.

She asked me what I remembered.

I remember the clouds. They were heavy, yet hovering, like the most tangible air, the most touchable nothing. The shadows on the bellies of each, the sunlight illuminating their torsos. I remember that they meant rain, or sunset, or dawn. They laid billowing against the horizon, never thin enough to hide, always coming in or leaving. They left their footprints on the sunlight, and the sailboats wandered around in their wake.

I remember the smell. It didn't smell humid, it smelled fresh like the sea and the jungle. and the mountains. I remember the smell of corn cooking. I remember the scent of seafood and of traffic and of laughter. The slowing of time.

I remember the wind, and the motortaxis, and walking barefoot on the sand. I remember the hotness of being burned, of flesh on fire and dancing to the cool safety of the ocean. I remember how the skirts flew, how our hearts fluttered and turned. I remember how the ocean soaks up anger, how the salt dries and hides tears and wandering fingers. How only joy exists in the water, and it is more difficult to keep joy away when you feel the sea chasing you. I remember the waves bringing sand into my swimsuit, I remember the sand pouring out from under us.

I remember the water. I remember the water seeping into the cracks of my skin, the space between us, my eyes and ears and nose. I remember how to float on my back, and how the ocean sounds when my ears are swimming in it. I remember the exhaustion of racing in the waves, swimming with exhilaration alongside an old man who swam with such tranquility.

I remember the old men, the little children, the tents, the hammocks, and the dogs.

I remember the rain in my face.

I remember the burn of walking up mountains. I remember the heat on the buses. I remember the density of patience and friendship. I remember the colors.

I remember how they dance for passion there. I remember how they step together because it's what they feel, not what they want to show off. I remember the music. I remember being held captive by movement, which is a curious feeling,

,because the only risk of going there is wanting to stay.

soy nicaragua (or, "for sriram")

you smell like the soil on the slopes of volcanoes,
aching to be trodden with the heat of my skin.

electricity has never invented itself as it did through (y)our touch, and
our exchange of words swells quietly, vehemently, without remorse
like a pugliese piece
pregnant with restraint and vitality
as we tremble (un)willingly into the summer heat

conversation has consistently been our cartography,
be it in writing or pouring from our lips
i have spent years now translating these cross-continent journeys
into roads resembling spines-
and to you i have given years and uncountable routes of unfiltered light
...those years now just remnants dappled on the interstate lines--
as the words and "what-ifs" we leaned on so heavily
disappear suddenly in migratory flight

and with only seconds left i know now
"light is clever but conditional
depending on angles and time of day and eyes"

i am the threads that have woven your web
bending this far but not broken just yet.
without warning,
we turn over in sleep together, hazy in our cocoons,
and the bedsheets are now barren battlefields
of wars ending too soon