A mean nickname for a fellow volunteer a friend and I once shared resurfaced in my subconscious last night. Even while still inside it, I recognized it as an allegory for this whole two-years-long self-flagellation I’m still plugging along at. I’M SORRY I JUST GOT A BUNCH OF MELATONIN IN MY LAST CARE PACKAGE.
Anyway, so some other volunteers and I (no close friends, just some supporting characters, I don’t remember who) were sitting at a big picnic table watching some Mongolians (same, maybe the lady from the weather station was there) eat a basket of fried chicken at the far end of the table (second goaling, amirite? (and yes I had to look that up)). As they finished each piece they would hand it to us to clean off and sort into various chickenbone piles; rib bones, thigh bones, wing bones etc. As we put each bone into its correct pile, a big crowd of people standing on the other side of a chain link fence would cheer wildly.
I think you get the drift. Keep on sorting them chickenbones, friends. The world needs you.
Although to be truthful, things are actually going pretty great.
Firstly, (as my incredibly precocious and brilliant 10b class essay-writers would say) I haven’t really been assaulted by too much PEACE CORPS GUILT (which, god I hate the fact that I just linked to that poorly-written piece of garbage. I always knew the Huffington Post wasn’t a real newspaper, but this sealed it. I may have mildly cynical dreams about bone-sorting but jesus.
LISTEN TO THIS SHIT:
“How can we be paying someone to wash our clothes, how can we go on vacation, how can we have hot water, how can we have running water, arrrrghhhhhhh!”
I am going to overlook “arrrrghhhhhhh” (one g, 7 hs as proscribed by the MLA) but YOU ARE PAYING SOMEBODY TO WASH YOUR CLOTHES??? You should feel guilty, Chickenbones! Wash your own goddamn panties, girl, maybe you’ll feel better about being such a bruja about your personal computer. I’m not denying that it was a sprinkle of American/Catholic/Millenial/Human guilt that got me here in the first place, but it was not the driving factor. Mostly I wanted to saunter on over here free of charge and hang out with some niceish people who do shit different than me.
WHICH BRINGS ME TO:
Secondly, THE SHAMAN.
“So what kind of drugs did you take?” said Ms. Mom Madison, after I told her about my last spiritual encounter. None, Mom, unless you count milk tea and intestines stuffed with curdled blood. “So how much did she charge you?” Said Ms. Mom Madison again. None, Mom, unless you count the 2,000T I awkwardly gave her mother after I saw her sitting on a couch all pooped out from channeling a chain-smoking old man, a weird singing wisp, and a saucy middle-aged woman for more than an hour. And playing some incredible mouth harp and drum. The only one who would deign to converse with agadaad hun like me was the grandpa, who immediately informed me I shouldn’t be drinking vodka, followed up with flattery about my “big eyes and nice smile” and closed with some Husband Information (2-3 years in the future, Caucasian, with a little facial hair. “Do you know anybody with a little mustache?” asked Boloroo, my friend who instigated this encounter. “Everyone I know has a little mustache.” I answered, and kind of missed Brooklyn and kind of didn’t.)
NO GOOD TRANSITION TO:
Thirdly and Finally, BANGKOK:
A sort of sticky (but hopefully and probably fine) medical situation is getting this freezing cold ass shipped to the only city on this planet with more ladyboys than my birthplace (one of these days somebody is going to find the search I just did and I’m going to be ‘barrassed). Yes, I am going to Thailand on the government’s dime. Which is good timing, as the Nine Nines are only a week away and I need a little spiritual nourishment in the form of outdoor warmth, chili pepper and sandal shopping.
So I just heard myself say that last sentence to myself and now I feel like I belong in the league of Ol’ Chickenbones. Khamaagui, Onwards and Upwards! I’m just going to publish this as is, since I haven’t blogged in a very long time, mostly because I get bogged down in the editing process, trying to make it coherent and relevant. IT’S A BLOG, CHICKENBONES, GET OVER THINESELF.
The truth is I’ve written a whole bonepile of nothing since coming here, and I need to take what I can get. Probably as a result of hitting the hardrive too hard. I don’t want to end up like David Duchovny on that show I just cannot name for aesthetic reasons and I haven’t even written a book OR had sex with a teenager. So no excuses. Although I would like to put that in as a petition for my next melatonin dream. DAVID DUCHOVNY NOT A TEENAGER. Maybe a teenage David Duchovny.
Time to stop talking, Chickenbones. And we’re out.