Self Indulgent Nonsense
(Hopefully, you’ve got the good sense to heed the implied warning and bail out now)
There’s something to choice. There’s a lot of things, actually. But there’s this one thing I find myself sitting here, fumbling to name, scrambling to tap out onto my laptop. It’s three in the morning and still, no success.
I opened the window, and puffs of tangent-pressed wind poof my curtain into the occasional bouffant dome. If Marjan knew she’d frown, and close the window in her no-nonsense manner. You’ll get the flu, or get sick, she’d say. I’d of course contradict her wittily, but that part only ever happens in my imagination. You know how it is. The words you never say, or think of later, or should have said. I’m great at that.
I feel the need to justify the open window. It’s radiant heat here, so it isn’t like at home, where if you leave a door open all the heat will seep out. So it’s alright. The cost to keep the apartment warm stays the same. Only my room is the occasional wind-tunnel.
And it’s amazing. The smell of fresh air. The feeling of awakenedness- no, it’s not a word, but it’s one I’ve made just now on the spot. Another word to say it doesn’t exist, does it? The feeling of finally being awakened: awakenedness. And therefore, being thusly awakened, perhaps I can now begin to get to the point (you’d probably appreciate that, wouldn’t you?).
I watch people here, in Kazakhstan. I always have, but here it’s become more necessity than habit. I’ll be the first to admit my Kazakh isn’t a stunning example of my intelligence. If anything, it proffers yet another example for my lack thereof. So, I watch people. I’m no Kazakh-speaking wiz. What else can you do when the conversation pools in your mind like rainbow gasoline puddles? Toxic, attractive and all together indecipherable. It’s pretty, but you can’t touch it, you can’t own it. It and you both exist in the same plane, but you’re undeniably different, undeniably separated, undeniably alien.
And so, as I keep trying to say before my fingers run off with my thoughts, I watch people. I see how they live, and what they do. I listen, when I can. More often than not, I wonder why. And if you know me at all, if I’ve ever professed my strange obsession not just for words but for the way they can be mixed and poured together- then you know of course that my favorite word is ‘why.’
As any native speaker could profess, I know a fair number of English words. And still, the tiny mono-syllable ‘why’ is my favorite. I prefer some words over others for the way they feel in my mouth, all round edges (if such a thing is possible). But ‘why’ is my favorite not just for what makes it sound ovular, but rather, because of its meaning. I want to forever ask why.
Why. Why. Why.
Why do you feel that way? Why did he go? Why do we use water towers? Why is it that I can’t write by hand, that somehow the clatter of the keys has become an integral part of my writing process? Why is it that we all profess to want more for ourselves, to have higher ideals, and yet we always contradict ourselves, sooner or later? Why?
I’ve bombarded you with randomness, but maybe you’ll understand what I want to say better, now, because perhaps you understand me a little bit better.
What I want to say is this: I’ve been watching people here, and they’re different than us. And of course I want to- no, I must- speculate as to why.
Why are they so happy? Why are they so dependent upon one another, so defendant, so proud of their country? Why do the women gladly work twice as much as the men, who sit on their asses and play cards all afternoon? Why do the men teach their five-year-old children every swear word in every language they know, complete with hand gestures and find it hysterical- an excellent pastime? As a friend recently pointed out, why are they obsessed with keeping their shoes clean when cheating is rampant in their schools?
In my walks to school, in my classroom before my students fling themselves through my door, in the room you find me now- in these places I have boiled it down to what I believe is a simple concept: choice.
About a month ago I explained to several teenaged girls what I meant to be an American female. I can travel I said. After this, if I wanted, I could teach English in Mongolia or Maldives. If I want, I can go home and get married. Find a job, get a house- buy the dog I always desperately want but always have the good sense not to buy. Or I could continue my education. Get more degrees, or higher degrees. The only thing that reasonably limits me is myself. Or, more specifically, my choices.
I explained to these young Kazakh girls, the concept of choices. Choices they don’t have, nor are ever likely to have. And they said in their language and in their way that they were jealous. How lucky I was. What a good way I live. What a good life I have.
And I know it’s true. But this fact, that I have the privilege of choice does not stand its own. As most things are in life, it’s not so black and white. For me, it’s paralytic.
I have so many choices. They spiral out before me like the tiny atoms I can’t see: reverberating and countless. If I choose incorrectly, if I make a poor choice, then thousands of others are lost to me.
I am acutely aware of time. How little I have, how little meaning I have except to myself. How infinitesimally tiny I am on the grand scale of the Universe and whatever Else lies beyond. My life, our lives, will be short. I know this. I will die. I know this. My matter, my mind, everything that is me will in a split second cease to exist. I will be no more.
Being so aware of time and of choice leaves me not as you might expect: zealous for life. Not rip-roaring for the next grand adventure (even though on far more than one occasion I’ve wished to be that person). It leaves me terrified. I have so many choices. And I hardly have any time at all.
It’s just that I can’t be so endlessly happy, so free, like they can. The idea of marriage or a family sounds wonderful on the surface, but the ways it will limit me are terrifying. The things I’ll give up. Here, it’s not a choice, it’s just what you do. What else would you do? And they’re so happy with it. They are happy with the lack of choice, because there aren’t any other options. They take what they’ve got and they make the absolute best of it.
There’s no looking backward, or looking too far forward. There’s just now. And now is good.
This has been quite the self-indulgent rant. It’s probably full of nonsense.
Feel free to say so, just leave your message after the beep. I can’t promise to listen.
Oh yes, and if you made it through this, I owe you coffee. Let me know and I’ll buy next time we meet. Better not put it off too long though.
You owe me coffee, Miss.
Your indebted to me now.