Nostalgia

nos-tal-gi-a n. [Gr nostos, a return + -ALGIA] a longing for something far away or long ago.

When I learned the word it was defined to me as homesickness. I am not sure about home, but I am certainly inclined to describe nostalgia as a sickness—one that, to my dismay, frequently afflicts me. It is like a stomach bug that causes a temporary bout of misery due to vomiting and diarrhea until it leaves your system and you feel good again. In my case, nostalgia seems to be more of a chronic disease. It comes and goes, rolls in like the tide, but I am never cured. Often it lies dormant and doesn’t disrupt me in my everyday business. Now, however, is not one of those times and I am franticly trying to rid myself of an irritating outbreak. However, by the time I finish ranting about my wave, the tide will roll out as quickly as it came, and I will have forgotten why I began writing in the first place.

I recently found myself in a tropical paradise on the Belizean coast. I have had remarkably good fortunate to say that, as a 23…wait, 24-year-old child currently earning a monthly wage of $300 US, I have enjoyed more exotic vacations than many will ever see in a lifetime (I thought of you incessantly, mother, as I lay on white sand sipping my coconut, feeling slightly guilty).

I was in the quaint little beach town of Placencia. In keeping with a prevailing theme, I arrived there mostly by accident, due to yet another series of arbitrary decisions. Again, I was pleasantly surprised by the result of my lacking premeditation. Upon arrival I thought I might be swayed to stay forever. Placencia essentially consists of a single walk (I would describe it as a sidewalk, but it is not at the side of anything) through the white sands of the Caribbean coast. Roads seem mostly unnecessary as Placencia is primarily accessed by boat. Colorful beach shanties on stilts and household businesses with annoyingly cutesy names such as The Secret Garden, Barefoot Bar, and Pickled Parrot, look out on the postcard waters of the Caribbean Sea. It is certainly a tourist destination, however there were few tourists. Each morning I watched children arrive for school by boat, unloading from the water taxis in their uniforms, while others languidly road their bicycles to school informing one another that “bell don’ raang yet.” They are all headed toward the section of beach where someone decided to build a school. No one is in a hurry.

My time in Placencia consisted primarily of sunning myself (SPF 30), swimming in the Caribbean, chasing tropical fish, and breaking open coconuts to drink with my award winning rum, 1 Barrel. I hitched a ride on a boat—drove rather—to a private island about an hour off the coast. I passed the day snorkeling (at which time I was nearly impaled by a sea urchin the size of a basketball), reading, writing, and yet again eating and drinking coconuts. The island’s care taker, Hector, a frail little man with a few missing teeth, was eager to scurry up the palms in order to find me the most perfect coconuts, which he proceeded to butcher with his machete—big knife for such a diminutive man. We then speared some lobsters for dinner. I felt like a princess, childhood dreams accomplished…“A fairy went a marketing and bought her own machete; she sweetly cuts her coconuts until the lobster’s ready”—that’s for you mom (See favorite childhood storybook A Fairy Went a Marketing). Yes, it would seem I fell asleep and awoke in quintessential paradise.

The moon was full when I returned to the mainland. I haven’t seen a moon like that since the Atacama desert, so surreally large and clear it appears to be sitting at my side, and larger still in its reflection in the sea. What a glorious moon. We sat unaccompanied and watched it hang above tide-less waters, my wine and I. Fantastically beautiful, perfectly peaceful and delicious, and yet I was ill. Struck with an unexpected bout of that retched nostalgia. I desperately wanted “home.” And I wondered how it was possible to long for the rain in a lobster filled paradise. I detest the rain, but I love lobster.

By the time I left Placencia, I could not get away fast enough. I was bored of paradise, not to mention bitten, burnt, and sweating 1 Barrel. It was time to go home. To my dismay, “home” in this case, meant San Marcos, Ocotepeque. Blast. I was in physically misery and the thought of returning to my hovel in San Marcos to clean myself with a bucket and cold, larvae infested pila water before crawling into my cot was particularly unappealing. My Honduran reality only exacerbated my episode and I spent the next two weeks in San Marcos longing for an illogical collection of pieces of the past.



I arrived back in San Marcos to be unwillingly plunged into the Honduran Christmas hoopla. Eye-sewing artificial pines adorned with brightly colored plastic, and windows sill lined with lights and tacky tinsel are in abundance. Oh the holidays. But like the rest of my experiences here, Christmas won’t be real. To my surprise, it is not the holidays that triggered my nostalgia. It’s the Ponderosas. They are just like those that line Morgan Lake Road, outside the Grande Ronde Valley. There have been moments on the mountain roads leading out of San Marcos where I could have been on that road that took me to school everyday. These moments are fleeting, however, as I am quickly brought back to Honduras by the sight of a banana tree. It is strange to see pines enlaced with bananas. Nonetheless, I find myself longing for Morgan Lake Road, and to watch dad watch the trees as he drives me up the mountain after school.

I don’t particularly miss the comforts of what some refer to as the developed world, or even for the people I love there. I am fairly certain I will see them again. Rather I am nostalgic for obscure, random, even mundane details of my unremarkable past. I miss riding to the lake in Dad’s 1965 red Toyota Landcruiser with the top off in Eastern Oregon summer. Apparently the surplus of this truck was shipped to Honduras as I have counted at least ten in the streets of San Marcos. I miss the buoy he brought back from the fishing boat in Alaska to hang as a swing from one of our apple trees. I miss mom’s garden—especially the poppies—and the way she used to get so furious that the deer would persistently eat them.

I miss Allan Bros. Coffee. Not so much the coffee, but the company I used to drink it with, and who we were at the time. I miss riding the Moab Schwinn to class at the University of Oregon…even in the rain. I desperately miss Sam Bonds Garage—more like a barn than a bar—with its microbrews in mason jars and bluegrass on Tuesdays. More than the bar, I miss the bike ride there and back to Alder Street through Eugene’s August air with the neibies.

Despite my recent outbreak of “homesickness,” I have no desire to be there today. There is no place I miss today, and there is no place that could ever be what I am longing for. Retuning anywhere would inevitably be a disappointment. I am sick for pieces of time, places in time, relationships in a time, which will never exist in quite the same way again. And so I will draw the conclusion that my particular strain of this disease is not concerned with far away so much as long ago. My affliction is knowing I will never see people in place and time again…is it possible to miss time more than people? I don’t know. I just hope that I look back on my time here in San Marcos and feel nostalgic—I am sure I will.

Just as I surmised, my symptoms have subsided and I am wondering what I have been rambling on about. I am exactly where I want to be, amidst what feels like ubiquitous adventure. I think that is all I ever really wanted anyway. Everyday is distinctly different from the last. Everyday I am learning. And there is more to come as I prepare to fly south for Argentina. I have never been so excited to be alive.

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”
-- On the Road Jack Kerouac

How Did I Get Here (Same as it Ever Was)?

I spend a considerable amount of time wondering how it happened that I came to find myself in the twilight zone San Marcos, Ocotopeque. How did I go from post-grad bum (the new-age trend for college graduates who quickly discover they can do very little with their recently acquired B.A.), in bum Mecca Eugene, Oregon, to teaching the third-grade in a Honduran pueblo so insignificant, discrete, unknown, and ostensibly undesirable, that it seems to barely exists. And how did this happen literally overnight? —a question I am still working through.

My arrival here was the result of a series of decisions that might be described as under analyzed, rash, ill-advised, and altogether arbitrary by a good number of rational people. I have come to realize, however, that nearly all my decisions have been made in this foolishly capricious fashion. And frankly, even the most premeditated decisions are, in fact, quite arbitrary; I cut right to the chase. I find it works surprisingly well.

I received a phone call from a complete stranger claiming to be Peace Corp volunteer who had pulled my resume out of cyber space. She was looking for teachers on the behalf of a bilingual elementary school in San Marcos de Ocotopeque, Honduras. There was an alarming lack of questioning on both ends of the line. I was exceedingly open about my under qualification. Rebecca informed me of the dire state of the Honduran education system. Apparently the 18 years I spent in a considerably less dysfunctional system (I never thought I would say that about public education in the US, particularly not mine), and a college degree qualified me for the job. Basically the conversation was as follows:

Alleged PCV with supposed authority in the matter: Do you want to move to Honduras to teach some kids?
Me: How much will it cost me?
Alleged PCV: The school will fly you here and back.
Me: Deal.
Alleged PCV: See you in three weeks.

Impetuous indeed. But let me reiterate, if you buy me a plane ticket, I will go just about anywhere.

All the questions I should have asked before leaving my country were answered upon my arrival in San Marcos. After meeting PCV Rebecca, the school master, the other teachers, and the school itself, I had a clearer understanding of the series of events and relationships that brought me here, and of my own qualifications for the job.

Green Valley Primary, or La Green, as it is often referred to here, is a small private bilingual school started by a little old lady with a relative fortune named DoÒa Olga. Olgita (little Olga, as they call her) is a 4’10”, frail woman pushing 80 years who walks with a limp and a cane and exudes elitism. She appears to be a remnant of colonial aristocracy. Ten years ago, Olgita, who doesn’t speak a word of English, decided to use a wad of her cash to open a bilingual school in San Marcos that would provide an alternative—superior of coarse—to public education in her community for her children and grandchildren.

Green Valley is the pretentious rich kid school, funded by parents who, much to Olga’s delight, believe La Green to be a superior alternative to the public schools where there are 50 children per class and the teachers are constantly on strike. I find it rather disturbing that I am factually of this “superior” institution. But considering the fourth grade teacher, a Honduran native, does not know how to round to the nearest hundred or use a comma, I suppose I am comparatively qualified. What’s more, I am not on strike every other week because the government hasn’t paid my wage in a number of months, which is the case with all the public schools. This, however, does not make me feel better about my inadequacy as a third-grade teacher. My level of education may exceed that of a number of the other teachers here, as I have mastered a third-grade skill set, but I feel an irreconcilable guilt when looking at a room full of faces that deserve Floy Schuft (expert in the field of teaching small children) and they got me. Poor things. With virtually no experience, no teaching background, no background check, I have been handed a group of children to mold. Everyday I think how I must be screwing them up. I only hope my inevitable mistakes don’t result in any long-term effects or psychological disorders.

¿Conoces San Marcos?

Please send Mail to:
Green Valley Primary
San Marcos, Ocotepeque
Honduras, Central America

San Marcos is all I have known of Honduras. Upon first impression, one might describe San Marcos as a heap of ruble covered by a pile of trash. The Buildings are crumbling cement covered with several coats of heinous colored paint. Nearly all the businesses have "TIGO" written across the building. This indicates a location where you can buy minutes for your cell phone. I find it odd that in a place where there is not consistent running water or electricity, everyone has a Razor flip phone and a satellite dish. The Streets are lined with plastic bottles, Styrofoam, and processed food wrappers. There are no public trash cans to be seen, and parents instruct their children to throw garbage out the window of the bus. This does not appear to bother anyone here. Trash management consists of raking the garbage into piles and burning them in the street. The evening air smells of burning chemicals. One might call this a shit hole. I would if it were not my home for the next year. I am still searching for a new frame.


There are no street signs in San Marcos, or numbered addresses. When I ask for directions I receive an answer such as "further ahead, somewhere past the tree with the knot in it." For this reason, I have spent a good deal of time wandering the streets after dark looking for my house. The narrow dirt streets are overrun by stray dogs, livestock, and 3-wheeled, red mototaxis that resemble golf carts. The drivers amuse themselves by pretending they are going to hit me, or by driving slowly beside me as I walk, or by yelling how they wish to "gift me a child," among other equally unappealing offers. Nobody slows down or stops for neither pedestrians nor other cars. Rather, they announce their presence by continually laying on the horn--There's a pedestrian. HONK! an intersection. HONK! a biker. HONK! Oncoming traffic. HONK! a cow. HONK! a small child. HONK! This is just one of many things here that seem completely illogical to me...such as the electrical outlet in my shower.

I have found that living here vaguely resembles camping, only infinitely less peaceful. I never know when I will have electricity or running water. There have been numerous occasions when I have been left standing naked in the shower after discovering that the water was not functioning that day. I defeated re-robe and go out to the pila with a bucket. I often find mosquito larvae swimming in the water as I carry the bucket back to the shower and proceed to pour it over my head. Needless to say I never feel clean.

My house is invaded--no, cohabitated--by myriad insects. Cockroaches scurry across the floor on a regular basis, but the ants are my most apparent company. There are two kinds competing for my hospitality--the tiny black ones and fat red ones. They march in by the thousands every night at dinner time. They crawl up my hands and arms and down my shirt as I wash the dishes, but at least mine don't bite. In the states I was quite insistent on ridding the house of ants. Here I see no point in fighting them; here we share.

The nights here are never quiet. Every night the stray dogs and the roosters have a howl-off. The dogs will all start barking and then the roosters will respond. They then attempt to drown each other out. They do this at random hours throughout the night. The sound of a hoard of roosters trying to out-crow the innumerable stray dogs is one of the most horrendous sounds I have ever known. What is much more pleasant is the chirping coming from the corners of my room. This, to my surprise, is the sound of the geckos I find stuck to the walls. The Honduran say this is the sound of the gecko "tirando besos" (throwing kisses).

I admit I am often frustrated. I frequently feel like a small child again, or a Neanderthal. I find myself relearning how to do simple everyday tasks. At home, I knew the best way to shower. Here, my methods evolve as I discover things like it is difficult to lift the largest bucket over my head, so showering with multiple little buckets in conjunction with the one that holds the most water is best. Or how I have learned that, during the day when there is no water and I need to flush the toilet, it works best to stand on top of the seat when dumping the bucket so the water has more force. It is funny to watch yourself evolve in a new habitat--frustrating, but interesting.

Among the most frustrating things about Honduras is how beautiful it is. The geography of the country will stop you in your tracks. Dramatic, vibrantly colored mountains rise out of the valley where San Marcos lies. The land is covered with bright orange flowers and tropical fruit trees. Every time I leave town in the west I halted by a new view. But the beauty of the country is easily forgotten inside the city; a dumping ground labeled "tigo." I forget that I am in a tropical paradise as trash floats by house after the rain comes. I look around San Marcos and I want to scream, "STOP THROWING YOUR TRASH ON THE GROUND!!!" It is tragic that we are such parasites. This is not specific to Honduras. The people of my country have been equally poor stewards of their land. However, the trash was never in my backyard, reminding me of my parasitic nature. Perhaps it will not be a sad day when the earth shakes us off like a bad case of fleas, and places like Honduras can exist in true form.

El Camino es la Vida

I am obsessed with the Northwest, especially Oregon. I love the geography, I love the culture; the coffee, the beer, the music, the pinot, and the people, among other things. I was nostalgic the moment the plane left PDX.

I have had numerous unpleasant flying experiences but this was the itinerary from hell. My original flight was canceled due to hurricane and the new schedule the airlines so kindly booked was infinitely worse. I flew from PDX to Denver where I had a 6 hour layover, Denver to New Orleans with a 10 hour layover through the night, New Orleans to Houston, and finally Houston to San Pedro Sula, at which point I would take a 4 hour bus ride to San Marcos.

Life was tolerable through Denver where I randomly met Lenny in the airport and we drank New Belgium Mother Ship Wit until his flight. It was not until I arrived in New Orleans that I really began to resent Alaska, United, American, and Continental Air. The Plane landed at 8:30 pm and the airport was deserted. I was starving but there was not so much as an open vending machine to be seen.

Given the fact that I was a poor ex-student about to receive a wage of $300 per month, I opted not to spring for the hotel. Typically I don't have a problem sleeping in the airport. The Louis Armstrong international airport, however, resembles Antarctica. I was so ridiculously cold that I could not sleep, and so tired that I had to. So I went outside to sleep in the warm, sticky Louisiana air.

Waking up on a concrete bench in New Orleans officially ranks among my most miserable airport experiences. And I'm not sure if working at the airport makes people behave rudely (surely it must) or if it is actually a prerequisite for working at the airport, but I can't remember a time when I encountered a more unpleasant collection of people. After sleeping sparsely outside, I reentered the airport at about 4:30 am to check in for my flight and proceeded through security. The computer "randomly" selected me for additional screening. Can't you just leave me alone so I can go curl up in a ball somewhere and sleep for the two remaining hours I have until take off!? Sure, she claims this to be a random selection, but I am fairly certain that it was because A) I looked very much like dirty hippie, or B) because my grandpa was on a terrorist watch list most likely because he used to bury his Victornox knife in the plants at the airport before boarding the plane, and would dig it up upon returning. Only suspicious as of late. They took my toothpaste. Who, exactly, decided that confiscating the end of a tube of toothpaste, so I am unable to brush the fowl taste of MSY international out of my mouth, should constitute homeland security?

I was in REM sleep before the plane left the ground. I couldn't even be bothered by the incessant kicking of the child behind me. I awoke two hours later at 11:00 am, the estimated time of arrival at San Pedro Sula. I looked out the window to see the airport and hastily completed the customs forms we received upon boarding. I sat on the plane mentally preparing myself to haul 90 lbs of luggage out of SAP international, onto Honduran taxis, buses, and golf carts to a destination I had been unable to find on a political map. As I was collecting my carry-on, I heard "Please be sure your seat belts are securely fastened and your seats and tray tables are in the locked and upright position. We are prepared for departure." WTF?! What do you mean we are prepared for departure? Where are we departing to? Had there been an emergency landing I was unaware of? I turned frantically to the woman beside me. "Why are we leaving?" I asked, "where are we going?" This woman was utterly confused by my confusion. "This plane is going to Honduras," she said, "isn't that where you're going?" Well, I thought so.

Due to my immediate hibernation, I had completely missed every announcement regarding our delays and was unaware of the fact that the plane had sat on the runway for two hours. Under most circumstances, I would have been throughly irritated. But at the time I thought, "Praise Jesus! I can go back to sleep."

When I woke the second time, I was actually in SAP. After going through immigration (a formality), I gathered my bags, which remarkably both made it to their final destination. I then headed through security (also a formality) and was physically shoved through a crowd of people onto the street. When I inquired about exchanging money so I could grab a cab to the bus terminal, I was directed toward a man standing on the corner with a wad of cash in his hand. True to my unprepared nature, I had was unaware of the current exchange rate. But at this point I had a bus to catch. So I exchanged $100 for 1,800 lempiras and got into the taxi. I later calculated that I was hustled by neither the cash man, nor the cabbie. ¡Que suerte!

When I arrived at the bus terminal, the taxi driver opened the back door while two boys asked me where I was going. "Santa Rosa de Copán." They quickly grabbed my bags from the car and ran with them into the terminal, with me chasing behind. They threw them under the bus, told me to board, and we left as soon as I sat down.

I had been told to take this bus to Santa Rosa by Rebecca Westbrook, the Peace Corp volunteer who "hired" me. She was supposed to meet me at the JM restaurant/bus stop to escort me the rest of the way to San Marcos and a place to sleep. However, she had a last-minute training to attend and would be sending someone else to meet me, a random PCV who had nothing to do with San Marcos or the school. The hours on the bus when I was not sleeping were spent contemplating what I was going to do when I arrived in Santa Rosa and there was no one there to meet me. Where would I stay? There is no such thing as a hostel anywhere near San Marcos. I was pleasantly surprised to see the obvious gringa waiting outside the bus. As an unmistakable gringa myself, Kristyn immediately called my name and told me to get back on the bus.

PCV Kristyn was headed to San Marcos in the morning but was staying the night in San Francisco de la Valle with another PCV and invited me to stay in San Fran, which is really only two miles from San Marcos. The bus did not actually take us to San Francisco, but rather dropped us off in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere. Kristyn and I stood on the the road side with my 90 lbs of luggage as dusk fell. "I don't think any taxis will pass this way now," she said. Oh, good. But just as I was beginning to fret, a car pulled over and a man in an army suit loaded my bags in the trunk. In Honduras this is called a halone...hitchhiking, fantastic!
When we were dropped in San Fran, I met Meghan and Kyler, two more PCVs. Before going to Kyler's humble abode, which I later discovered was a Honduran castle, we stopped at a kiosk on the side of the road for Baleadas. I have never been so happy to be in the company of 3 strangers.

When we arrived a la casa de Kyler, the PCVs spent several hours describing life in Honduras while Bogo, Kyler's optimistic golden retriever, chased a cockroach across the floor. They told me about where I was likely to get malaria, and the vaccinations I should have gotten (and didn't) before arriving. They told me about pilas, concrete tubs at each residence filled with questionable water, that are used for washing clothes, among other things. They informed me of the additive I would need to put in the pila to kill the mosquito larvae in the water that cause dengue fever. They warned me about the Bolos, a name for drunkards who wander the streets with limited motor function and pass-out all over town to be found in the morning in the most awkward of places. Apparently there are so many strewn about after Saturday night that the next day is know by the gringos as "superbolo Sunday."

After we had talked about Honduran life for some time, the PCVs asked me what the US was like and what was happening there. Now, I am not one to ignore current events, but I could not think of a single thing to say. "It's mostly gone to shit," I said, "but there is a new band I really like called Beirut." I went to sleep that night on a foam mat on the floor with a sheet and a pillow and I have never experienced a more comfortable bed. Thank (insert idol here) that I was not in New Orleans.

The next morning Meghan, Kristyn, and I caught another Halone into San Marcos. I love haloning. It is so efficient. I was dropped at the "volunteer house" where I would be staying indefinitely. There were quotes written all over the cinder block walls, and a cardboard Christmas tree taped up in the kitchen. Becky (Rebecca Westbrook) had posted notes all over the house welcoming me and explaining how things worked here. This house, too, was quite nice by Honduran standards. Mostly because the floors weren't made of dirt and there was a shower (which I later came to find is as useful as a mirage). My classy home depicted the Honduran standard of living. In theory, I knew the economic situation of the country, and yet I was oddly surprised when it was my reality.

The Quarter-life Crisis

I recently experienced a quarter-life crisis. After graduating from college, I realized, that for the first time in my life, I didn't know what to do next. I wasn't exactly sure what I could do. So I began thinking about my immediate wants: go south, live in another country, learn Spanish, and satisfy my self-centered need to fulfill a sense of purpose (we all know there is no such thing as altruism). So I planned to head south. I just didn't know when, or where, or what I would do when I got there. Then one day, when I was feeling particularly crisis-ridden, I received an unexpected phone call from a woman who told me to move to Honduras to teach the third grade.

Her name was Rebecca and she was a Peace Corp volunteer who was working with a bilingual school in San Marcos de Copán. I had completely forgotten that in a frantic attempt to get the hell out of Eugene, I had sent out resumes across the globe, which included a bilingual school in Honduras. They would pay me 6,000 lempira a month (about $300 US) and pay for my ticket there and back. Sold. If you buy my ticket, I'll go just about anywhere. They wanted me there immediately. So without much premeditation, I decided I was moving to Honduras, quit my job, moved out of my house and left the country, all within the month of August. Perhaps a bit rash, but I have never been much of a planner.

Finding a Philosophy

How do you name your blog? Does there have to be a theme? Should I be continually discussing politics, bikes, beers, or bars (that's for you Lenny)? hmmm...

Someone once told me that the problem with today is that there are no more philosophers. This is surely not true, but I see his point. Too many people are unaware of their own philosophies and how they came to be. This tends to impede the evolution of ideas, a focal point of my own negligible world.

I rememer a specific day-- a specific moment when it clicked in my mind that it was absolutely ridiculous for me, or anyone, to claim to know the truth about anything. This was one of the most liberating realizations, and my life has been more enjoyable ever since. The concept is so simple, so obvious, that it should have occurred to me on my own, but I admit it did not. Rather it was Dr. Mark Johnson who illustrated the concept for me while I was studying at the University of Oregon. He did this by comparing my experience with a blade of grass to that of a snail (bear with me). ''For you,'' he said, ''the grass has a specific set of characteristics. You look down upon it, walk on it, can pick it if you like. To describe the blade of grass as small, something you walk over or cut is, for you, truth. But the snail can never see the grass in this way; for him the grass possesses an entirely different set of characteristics, such as climb-up ability.''

Yes, he actually said climb-up ability. Apparently one of the perks to being a professor is that you get to make up words. Nonetheless, Johnson's very elemetary story was so illuminating for me.''Huh,'' I thought to myself, ''a snail never will understand the grass the way I do.'' In fact, my description would be entirely false as he and I experience the grass differently.

Obviously Johnson was not preparing me for a debate with a snail. He had effectively illustrated the idea of conceptual relativity, to which I have since been wedded. This is not to say that the earth was, in fact, flat 3000 years ago because that is how people experienced it. Rather it is to say that personal experience creates specific realities. And from these we derive our philosophies. I am perfectly comfortable with the fact that I will never know anything for certain, as long as I know why I believe the things I do. And so the following will be the building of a philosophy that I have yet to discover.

The New Age Oral Tradition

I have historically been against blogging. In many cases, it seemed rather narcissistic. Blogging was either A) a way of telling friends and family that you are too busy and important to contact them personally and if they would like to know what you are doing, they should refer to the blog, or B) a means of giving all a soap box so that everyone might have a platform for their own personal rant. It is like reading the opinion page in the Eugene weekly, mostly annoying. Consequently I believe personal blogs go mostly unread. Not many care what you or I have to say, with the possible exception of our mothers. However, I have obviously caved. After there were no more college essays forcing me to verbalize thought, I have turned to blogging as an outlet; a means to continue writing for a perceived, or hypothetical audience...and also for my mother. And who knows maybe blogging is the new age oral tradition. One day when we are wondering how we came to believe the things we do, we can remember in all entirety because our stories are still floating in cyber space.