there is so much my heart is learning right now
i can't contain it all
my eyes too polite, my lips too desperate

as we meander through the cobblestone streets and rakesh scolds me any time i am on my phone, i relish the feeling of stepping into this place. corn is sold in baskets, eggs are sold in stacks, and in the bustle of 11pm there are hot bowls of soup and skewers of beef and potatoes for sale. the sun peeks in and out of the clouds, and the mountains cradle the city lovingly as it has since the beginning of time.

i believe in the colors, the woven craft. i believe in smaller cars, in rice and chicken. i believe in the curious eyes and the dogs fighting over meat stuck to bone. the older women carrying babies on their backs and breasts. holding hands to cross the streets. the yelling of agony and extreme enthusiasm during soccer matches. the celebrations of tradition. the children being children, and yes, loving dirt.

i theorize about their stories. and when i am lucky, they tell them to me.

the cold wakes up something inside of me, and yes, this is what it is to be alive.

full of heart, full of green. south america astounds me every time.

i'd like to go west,
where the boundaries of our past do not bind us,
where the wind takes us where it pleases, which is where we want to go

i lost my journal for the second time this year.

and despite my growing fears,
we are together

you were vulnerable to get in touch with me
and i was
to let you in.


we touched with water, pooling at each other's feet.
we swam, jets streaming in our faces, heat carried on our chests
does the magic hit you the way my heels hit the ground?

i ask more questions than i have time to scrounge for answers to

well. it touched me. Quoted from Liz's blog post:

In 2000, I accompanied my mother to Sarajevo to meet a family that she had been supporting and corresponding with since the war, through Women 4 Women International. This was soon after the war ended, and the region was still somewhat unstable. You can’t imagine the people in my life who begged me–begged me–not to go.

I haven’t written about it much publicly (although I did touch on it here) for reasons I can’t entirely grasp just yet. But it wholly changed the direction of my life. How can it not? I met families who became my family, like long-lost cousins I had just discovered.

I listened to women tell me, first-hand, stories of rape and abuse at the hands of Serbian soldiers.

I had toasted steins of pivo with friends, dancing wildly to turbofolk albums in bars that were entirely unremarkable–except for the bombed-out shells that passed for the front entrances.

I slept in the bed of an elderly, formerly wealthy woman who rented out her lovely apartment to visitors to be able to afford her rent. We discovered the next morning over strong coffee and sweet rolls that she had slept on the couch.

I graciously carved the small chicken at a family’s home, that was intended to serve 14 of us.

I picnicked in the most gorgeous park, which our friend had to scout for landmines before choosing a spot for our blanket.

I traded smiles with ten year-old children who had to re-learn how to run, that long had they spent in hiding underground.

I sobbed, as my friend Tima took my hand and held it to her throat so that I could feel the shrapnel that remained imbedded under her skin.

And then, I came home, continued doing what I could for these families emotionally and financially, wrote furiously in my journal about it, and hoped that some day I would find the right way to tell these women’s stories to a larger audience.

Then I went on with my life.

Is my experience one that should be dissected and mocked, simply because of who I am and where I live?

Was I simply a “poverty tourist?”

I guess I am one of those “means justifying the ends” types of gals. I don’t care how or why Madonna adopts children in other countries. I don’t care about Angelina’s motives for being a UNICEF ambassador. And I don’t care whether Nike donated $100 million to human rights charities for good publicity and the tax deduction.

These are the acts that make good things happen.

i'd like to study anatomy
where you are my textbook
and my canvas is your eyes

so what is this aesthetic?
the one that mocks our dream?