"While the bombardment was knocking the trench to pieces at Fossalta, he lay very flat and sweated and prayed oh jesus christ get me out of here. Dear jesus please get me out. Christ please please please christ. If you'll only keep me from getting killed I'll do anything you say. I believe in you and I'll tell every one in the world that you are the only one that matters. Please please dear jesus. The shelling moved further up the line. We went to work on the trench and in the morning the sun came up and the day was hot and muggy and cheerful and quiet. The next night back at Mestre he did not tell the girl he went upstairs with at the Vill Rossa about Jesus. And he never told anybody."
-Hemingway
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
the sun's out. I can see the mountains from my little coffee shop that has become my second home (its probably 100 yds from my apartment and has free wireless while I have no internet at my apt.). It's a stereotypical gorgeous day here in Denver. Honestly, I don't think Colorado knows what yucky weather looks like. There have been maybe 2 overcast days here all summer. And when it thunderstorms, it rains for maybe 20 minutes and then the sky is blue.
But there's a piece of me that craves the overcast, rainy day where I sit cozy at home wrapped in a blanket or curled up in bed with my school books. I remember the same sentiments when I came home from India. I was in Nebraska on my way back to Ohio and I sat in this random coffee shop, sipping coffee as it poured outside--it felt like home. I'm strange I know.
But this train of thought pulled my mind back to India. It sort of feels like a dream. It sort of feels like some story that I read somewhere one time--I can remember the main points of the story, but it feels like someone else's adventure. It's getting hard to remember the squeltering heat, the intensity of accidentally chomping on a chili pepper, and the noise of 11 million people. I know it factually, but I have to be deliberate about remembering. And then it's even more difficult to remember the horror stories, the reality of the situation there. Occassionally I have a great conversation that keeps me from ignoring that truth, and I need those conversations. I can't afford to lose that year of my life to apathy. It's funny how easily apathy comes, though--how intentional one has to be in warding it off. It's amazing how easy it is to slip in a routine and live as if you don't know better. This is sadly a lesson that I have to be taught an embarrassing number of times.
But there's a piece of me that craves the overcast, rainy day where I sit cozy at home wrapped in a blanket or curled up in bed with my school books. I remember the same sentiments when I came home from India. I was in Nebraska on my way back to Ohio and I sat in this random coffee shop, sipping coffee as it poured outside--it felt like home. I'm strange I know.
But this train of thought pulled my mind back to India. It sort of feels like a dream. It sort of feels like some story that I read somewhere one time--I can remember the main points of the story, but it feels like someone else's adventure. It's getting hard to remember the squeltering heat, the intensity of accidentally chomping on a chili pepper, and the noise of 11 million people. I know it factually, but I have to be deliberate about remembering. And then it's even more difficult to remember the horror stories, the reality of the situation there. Occassionally I have a great conversation that keeps me from ignoring that truth, and I need those conversations. I can't afford to lose that year of my life to apathy. It's funny how easily apathy comes, though--how intentional one has to be in warding it off. It's amazing how easy it is to slip in a routine and live as if you don't know better. This is sadly a lesson that I have to be taught an embarrassing number of times.
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