The Man knows my history

The problem with starting a blog when I’m off on exotic foreign adventures is that now I feel like many, if not most, of my readers—yes, that’s you, hello! Welcome!—expect non-stop action from my blog, of the kind that only travel can provide: being stalked by a water buffalo, getting so sick I still can’t tell you how sick I got, being serenaded in Arabic by a tour guide. Even my trip this summer, which was tame in blog-fodder compared to Indonesia, provides plenty I could write about: trying to blend in as we stalked a group of Iranian pilgrims through Damascus,
getting dripped on by a giant medieval water wheel,
sleeping on a hostel’s rooftop with this view of Jerusalem,
conquering some medieval castles,
being conquered by other medieval castles,
jumping around medieval ruins,
failing to jump around ancient ruins,
posing with world-famous scenery,
being asked to pose, as if we were world-famous scenery,
surreptitiously trying to pose with Israeli soldiers, because, frankly, they are world-famous scenery,and, through it all, acquiring a pretty good Chacos tan, for someone as pale as me.

But now, most of the months of year, you all are forced to put up with whatever mundanities of American life I can come up with, and I’m afraid my blog must inevitably get dear-diary boring: dear diary, today I woke up. (10 am. It’s still winter break here.) Then I took a shower. Then I ate breakfast. (Apple-cinnamon oatmeal.) Then I spent a long time reading (From Ancient Cham to Modern Dialects: Two Thousand Years of Language Contact and Change, by Graham Thurgood). Then I emailed some people about the conference my classmates and I are organizing. (Dear so-and-so: Hi. I need something.) Then I transcribed some Yurok. Then I transcribed some Ao. Then I worked on a conference presentation. Then I talked with a friend, cleaned my apartment, cooked dinner, read some more (Women and Authority, edited by Maxine Hanks), and some more (In Sacred Loneliness: The Plural Wives of Joseph Smith, by Todd Compton), and went to bed. Thrilling, I know: who really wants to hear all those details of personal history?

Even my weekends don’t make that much better blog material: I spent this weekend at the LSA's annual meeting, where, in addition to listening to a number of talks, some of which entertained me, some of which bored me, and some of which caused me to fall massively in academic love with a certain German typologist, I volunteered, in exchange for free registration, to be a perky registration desk volunteer and, later, to ignore my duties as a room monitor by falling asleep in the hallway. (Yes, at the largest and most important professional conference in my field. I have got to work on that.) And let’s see, what else? I finished Rough Stone Rolling, which felt like a major victory in our time; I saw a 5000-person protest downtown about the violence in Gaza; I watched a movie with one friend and spent an evening hanging out with another; I visited the singles ward in the city, where the girl I sat next to in Relief Society gasped, after only two or three minutes of conversation, “Oh, I've got someone you just have to meet!”; and I ate dinner with my Eritrean next-door neighbors, who barely speak English but who are, as far as I can tell, very nice. (Actually, these last two incidents made me feel like I was abroad again: possibly nothing encapsulates my experiences in foreign countries more than not understanding dinnertime conversation and being set up by strangers. If only I had also had a violent stomach illness, I would have felt right away from home.)

I’m not complaining about any of this: I like my life right now, especially the part where it's still winter break, but it doesn’t make for very interesting reading or writing. I have a post-it note on my computer with a whole list of other things to blog about—things that automatically make me cry (when they sing the Marseillaise in Casablanca; the scene where the baby is born in Children of Men; film strips of World War I), why I’m addicted to the New York Times’ wedding announcements section (anthropologically speaking, it’s a fascinating glimpse into the personal and professional lives of the nation’s elite. Plus I’m a romantic.), why I want to marry an immigrant so he can get a green card (why let my citizenship go to waste?), and what happened that one time my brothers and I rearranged all the furniture when our parents went out for the evening (they didn’t think it was as funny as we did)—but most of those things really merit no more than the passing mention I just gave them.

So where does that leave me, besides not blogging very regularly? I’m not sure. I could rehash more travel stories in entries like this one, thinly disguised as being relevant, but that fools no one. I could engage in more scholarly discussion about linguistics, but I do that so much already, or about religion, politics, or literature, but no one cares, and, plus, I don't have the time or energy. I could tell more jokes (what’s brown and sticky?), include more cute pictures of my mom's dog, beg my readers for post ideas (anyone?), post some of the innuendo-laden limericks I write (There once was a city called Sodom...), but those options are unoriginal, cliche, pitiful, and inappropriate--I mean, come on! My grandma reads this!

So I guess I am left with this: dear diary, today I woke up. Then I took a shower. Then I ate breakfast. Then I blogged. And now, internet, you know it all.

Fascinating Bloggerhood

Thanks to the magic of Big Brother-like spy technology--or, okay, maybe just the magic of the internet--I can tell how people get to my blog. Most of you come redirected from the sites of my friends, and a few of you, most likely my lovely mother or her sisters, the auntourage, either type in the web address directly or simply Google key words like purple petra indonesia islands sea some untidy spot my daughter please someone help me find her blog until the site you want appears.

(You may think I'm exaggerating, but you haven't seen the site records.)

In the spirit of the same good fun that causes me to tease my own female relatives--who, by the way, should know that I love them and that they're encouraged to read, anytime, no matter how they get here--let's take a look at some of the other Google searches that have gotten people here.

First, there are the pronunciation requests:

pronunciation oregano
pronounce hover
mispronunciation

People: if you had read the post, you would know that I am not the one to ask. Go find someone who doesn't have intuitions like mine.

Then, there are the creeps:

mom sex
lyndonville teacher nude photos
naked middle schoolers picture
indonesian porn

I have got to stop making suggestive jokes on the internet. I know these people are going to be disappointed when they get to my site, and, frankly, I'm glad. Anyone looking for those things deserves to be disappointed.

(With the possible exception of the first item of the list, but then only if you are a mom looking for sex, hopefully with your lawfully wedded husband; all others, get thee to a nunnery, or possibly just ancient Greece--the point is, anywhere but here.)

The third group are the people I really worry for:

stalking with a baseball bat
he was persistent so I gave him my phone numebr
what if stalker ignores the police
my stalker knows everything about me
songs to make your stalker leave you alone

I looked up the source locations of these Google hits, and they're not all from the same person, which means I have to give five different people the advice people gave me: ask for help, not just from Google, and from the police if necessary. Especially you asking about the baseball bat. Unless, of course, you were asking for instructions, in which case, don't mind me, I'll just be off in the next room dialing 911.

Those are the main groups. Then there are the random hits:

thomas barrett forever and ever again
I'm still proud to recommend my cousin, by the way.

did the egyptians really set booby traps?
In my case, yes, but I'd rather not be reminded of the number of times I got felt up by strangers in Egypt.

jakarta's prettiest blogger
Um, I'm flattered and all, but that search leading to my site is bad news for Jakarta's bloggers, as I fit only one of those categories.

flight to singapore overweight
I don't think my constant access to peanut butter M&Ms has affected me that much yet.

picture of an untidy person
Boy, Google is all about defamation of character, it seems. Though, unfortunately, I have to concede that this one is absolutely true. Even though I just tidied my room--or, rather, "spot"--on Saturday, the piles of books and papers have surreptitiously multiplied in my sleep. I can't think of any other explanation for the random pile of syntax books by my bed. Mea maxima culpa.

site: purplepetra.blogspot.com gay
This one shocked me when I first saw it: What?! I thought. I may have short hair, but, really people, how many times must we have this...and then I remembered that that hit was me, checking to see if I had told a certain joke before. Oops. Nevermind.

And, finally:
happy birthday petra
I don't care if my birthday was three and a half months ago: thanks!

Not Living, Just Killing Time

Got too much time on your hands?

So do these people. But it makes for good listening.

You could visit my favorite corner of the Bloggernacle.

I haven't ever fully understood an article by Chomsky either. But this is a good way to waste 30 seconds.

One of my favorite writers has a blog. I'm trying hard not to hyperventilate.

Read a book by email. I'm still not sure how I feel about this one.

Find out why I've been crying constantly since early last week.

No, no, wait, I'm not crying. It's just been raining on my face.

Or, of course, we could all get back to work.

Ceci n'est pas un post

Reading my cousin's blog has reminded me that I never got around to writing about my Southeast Asia trip at the beginning of June, besides, of course, from noting my eye infection and the crazy food I ate. Better late than never, I think, especially since long picture-filled posts about Southeast Asia will help me win my blog-off (Blogoff? Blog-off? I'm not sure, but now I'll show in Google searches for both!) against Guber. (We get .0175 points per word and 1.25 points per link or picture, plus an automatic 10 points for posting. This is all weighted and calculated in a shared online spreadsheet. And now anyone who knows anything about that side of the family is laughing their head off.)

Anyway, all this was to say, oops, sorry I didn't blog about this stuff back when it was relevant, but since I still want to show off my pictures, vacation slideshow, here we come!

The Results Are In

The people have spoken, but I have not listened. (Well, except for the subtitle.) I don't know if everyone recognized the Auden reference and hated it, or if it just passed unnoticed, but I, at least, think that the line from "Musee des Beaux Arts" best captures both my own somewhat untidy tendencies and the typically trivial, dogs-go-on-with-their-doggy-life nature of my blog. I do the reverent, passionate waiting in private; here, on the internet, you'll only find me skating on a pond at the edge of the wood.

Metaphorically, of course. "On a pond" implies a distinct lack of handrails for me to grip as I ice skate, and I'm sure I don't like that idea.

The Name of the Prose

It has been pointed out to me that "Upon the Islands of the Sea" is no longer an appropriate blog title. And then it has been pointed out to me that since the Book of Mormon and D&C are referring to the American continents as much as to actual islands, it's still an appropriate blog name. And then it has been pointed out to me that my friends think far too hard about trivial things.

I'm just kidding. That last one didn't take any pointing out.

So I'm trying to think of a new blog title, but, since any creative or decision-making ability I once had seems to have abandoned me, possibly in protest over my rotting my brains out on High School Musical and the Ensign, I put the decision to you all, my loyal readership. Pick a name from my shortlist or invent your own, I don't care, just pick me something appropriate. Go on, use those overthinking skills.

(Oh, and bonus points if you can identify the poems some of these titles come from. And I have a favorite, but I won't tell you which one. Just remember that you may not be voting in a perfect democracy.)

a rock, not an island
a hundred visions and revisions
go west, young woman
deep down things
some untidy spot
like a coastal shelf
my sweet old et cetera
profanation of our joys

Upon This Blog

My mom says this blog is a constantly-updating personal ad.

My dad says this blog is practice for a future job at The New Yorker.

The auntourage says this blog is a great way to keep in touch.

Tolkien Boy, Optimistic, and mishkin27 say this blog is good reason to worry about me.

Shaant says this blog is both "stupid and kind of immoral," but likes to read it when I email him the entries.

Google says “this blog is” full of crap.

Merriam Webster says this blog is a Web site that contains an online personal journal with reflections, comments, and often hyperlinks provided by the writer.

Kaneeneenie says this blog is funny.

The SLO says this blog is redundant, as she's already heard all my stories.

I say this blog is my lifeline to people who can surf my drift, catch my wave, and pick up what I put down--or, in other words, to sanity.

So? What say ye that this blog is?

If You're Happy And You Know It

I've been informed, after writing my last post, that, based on its content, those who love me might be worried. I'd like to clarify, then: I wrote the last post, not as a cry for help, but simply as a statement of fact: I've watched a lot of movies recently. And I've cried a lot while watching them.

That is not to say, though, that I'm sad. I love it here, I really do, and have at least one "I'm so glad I came" moment a day, even if it's only taking the chance to laugh at something ridiculous. But culture shock still manages to raise its ugly head, even through all that love, and sometimes--frequently, in the month of January, which for some reason was a particularly bad one--I just need to hide in my room, with my cell phone off and the DVD player on, and give vent to all the frustrations that build up from day to day, all the irritation I often feel at slow public transactions, naughty students, nosy neighbors, maids who pressure me to eat and then, while I'm eating, stand beside me and point at other things I should be eating, men who yell vulgar things at me on the street, men who yell "mister! mister! misTER!" at me on the street, hot weather, waking up early, gym employees who insist on standing two feet away from the treadmill and watching me jog, my total lack of independence, slow internet connections, flooded streets, languages I don't understand, jokes I don't get, indoor smoking in public places, constant stomach sickness, mud, trash, rats, and cockroaches.

Besides, if you look at my movie list, I'm not exactly choosing films of sunshine and light; even the happiest person might, I think, break down at murdered Jews, resistance fighters, airplane passengers, slum residents, nineteen-year-old girls, and Spanish children. So never fear, those who love me: I'm happy. And I know it. And for those who hate me, I'm sorry for this post. You may feel free to ignore it and go back to imagining me alone, in the dark, and crying my eyes at the totally curable testicular cancer of a fictional character. It beats therapy.

Some Things Never Change

When I was a senior in high school, my Latin class's trip to Italy got cancelled because of September 11. A reporter for the town paper came around the school looking for suitable quotes for her piece on the topic. Instead of using deep thoughts from my peers, like "Man! This totally sucks!" she featured a quick interview with me, in which I said, "I am a bit disappointed" and pointed out that the trip's cancellation was rather paranoid; Italy and Afghanistan are not exactly close neighbors, and the danger to a bunch of 16 and 17-year olds travelling abroad would still come more from alcohol poisoning than terrorist attacks.

When the article was published, my friends all teased me endlessly. I sounded like an idiot, after all: what sort of high schooler, when denied a chance to see the glories of ancient Rome, tamely says "I am a bit disappointed"? Way back then, I tried to blame the reporter--I would never phrase things that way! She must have misquoted me!--but, having just reread the opening line of my last blog entry, I see now that I would, in fact, phrase things that way. So then, Local Reporter, wherever you are: I'm sorry. I should never have tried to blame you. Your reporting skills are better, and my sound-bite-giving skills worse, than I ever imagined. I am, all in all, a bit disappointed in myself.

Talk the Vote

Recently, I've been working on my graduate school (re)application. (I deferred and now have to reapply, with the assurance that I will be accepted again.) If I want a certain scholarship--and I do--I have to study a foreign language. I can't decide what I want to study next (7 down, several thousand to go), so I figured, hey, why not let the internet decide? So, here we are, a poll: what language should I study in graduate school?

Afrikaans (to quote a certain mountain climber, because it's there)
Arabic (I miss hacking up parts of my throat)
Dutch (super useful for Indonesian linguistics)
Farsi (to be the NSA's wet dream--Arabic, Indonesian and Farsi)
Indonesian (they have some lit classes that look fun)
Irish Gaelic (Welsh was fun, so why not Irish?)
Sanskrit (it's dead, so I would never have to speak)
Turkish (vowel harmony, plus see "Farsi" above)
Vietnamese (tones, topic-comment structure, reduplication, classifiers. Whee!)

Thoughts?

A Real Blog Post

Because I promised one, and because I keep my appointments...

(Name that allusion, please.)

I've been taking Javanese lessons for the past five weeks. I only meet with my teacher once a week, and I'm really lazy about studying vocabulary, so it hardly does any good, but at least now I can recognize what "monggo" means when people say it, oh, about every other word. (It means "please" or "after you" or, more generally, "I'm being polite to you right now.")

My lessons are, in general, a real kick: my Javanese teacher speaks no English, so I get long lists of Javanese vocabulary translated into Indonesian, and at least part of our lesson every week is devoted to fumbling around with an Indonesian dictionary trying to figure out what the heck "terjungkel" means. ("To fall over backwards from a squatting position"; a semantic space apparently highly necessary in a land of squat toilets.)

Last week's lesson was particularly confusing to me. The first four lessons followed what I viewed as a logical progression of vocabulary: greetings, politeness phrases, body parts, numbers, basic verbs, prepositions, and basic adjectives. Just the sort of words I need to start forming simple sentences, or, alternatively, to tell people that I don't speak any Javanese.

The fifth lesson, though, was a little different. Instead of moving from body parts to, say, days of the week, we went to "ways to move or position the aforementioned body parts." My vocabulary list at the end of last week's lesson looked something like this:

selonur: to sit with the legs stretched out
ndodok: to squat
sila: to sit cross-legged
ngeplak: to hit the head with the hand
ngeplok: to clap
njawil: to stroke the arm with the hand
merem: to close the eyes
melek: to open the eyes
mentheleng: eyes wide or bugging out
kera: cross-eyed
sipit: squinty-eyed like the Chinese (her words, not mine)
bangir: high-bridged nose
pesek: flat Asian nose
nyeprok: wide nose
ndomble: sagging lower lip
gugut: jutting chin
nyathis: receding chin
mecep: sticking the lips out
merot: sticking the lips to the side
melet: sticking the tongue out

Why, you may ask, would I need those words as the next basic step in learning Javanese? I asked myself the same thing. The lesson as a whole made no sense, not least because I don't know most of those words in Indonesian. And, please, let's be honest: what good will it really do if I describe someone as "squinty-eyed, with a flat Asian nose"? Number one, seeing as how I work and live with ethnic Chinese, it will do no good whatsoever. Number two, I just look racist. None of these words, I thought, could possibly be useful.

I was wrong. In the week that has elapsed since my lesson, I have heard the words ngeplak, ndodok, and gugut, and have used the word njawil. What's more, I have actually heard, from one of the teachers at my school, a description of her students as "squinty-eyed, with a flat Asian nose." Who's racist now?


*Nota Bene: not me. Actually, no one in this story. This blog entry might be better if followed by another one about how Indonesians are perfectly honest, and, to an American perspective, perfectly tactless in their physical descriptions. Teachers at my school are commonly described as "the fat one," "the short one," and "the black one." I goggle every time I hear this in Indonesian and now, thanks to my Javanese teacher, I can goggle every time I hear them in Javanese.

A Break From Our Regularly Scheduled Programming

...to shamelessly promote my 16 year old cousin, Thomas Barrett, who was selected as one of 20 finalists (out of 1100 entries!) for the BBC's "Next Big Thing" competition, a search for the best young band or solo performer from around the world. In case you can't tell, I'm exceedingly proud--just imagine, I'm related to someone cool enough to possibly be the "Next Big Thing"! (It doesn't seem possible, does it?)

In any case, the next stage of selections is done by internet vote: the top 6 most popular will then proceed to a final round of judging. This means that Thomas needs your vote (and your friend's, and your friend's friend's, and, of course, your mom's). Please, if you have a minute, visit this site to listen to his song, "Forever and Ever Again," and then visit this site to vote for it. (If, of course, you like it. I did.)

I promise a real blog entry later. If, that is, you all vote for my cousin.

Oh, And In Case You Were Wondering...

There apparently is no common phrase in Indonesian for "virgin birth." The closest that the English teachers at my school could get was "born from a virgin girl." I feel cheated.

Born to Be Wild

Things I Am Now Comfortable Enough to Do While Riding On the Back of a Motorcycle

• Open my eyes


• Breathe


• Put my hand out to indicate turning direction, like a good passenger


• Put my hand out to ward off oncoming buses


• Talk with the driver


• Let my legs dangle off the sides


• Ride sidesaddle in a skirt


• Not hold on


• Send and read text messages


• Send and read text messages from the driver's phone


• Think of blog entries like this one

11.5 Things to Do While Travelling Solo

1. Pay $3/night for a hotel with a Western toilet, shower, and fan, but without a trash can or electrical outlet.

2. Go to a wayang orang show. Get adopted by a very chatty old woman, and a man who she claimed was her husband but looked more like her son. Go backstage to see the performers in various stages of dress/undress. Practice a meagre amount of Javanese. ("Yes." "No." "Please." "Thank you.")

3. Walk everywhere, just to kill time.

4. Spend an afternoon exploring the environs of the city with a total stranger. (He offered me a motorcycle tour of erotic Hindu temples. How could I say no to that?)

5. Go to a movie, all in Indonesian, and understand most of it.

6. See missionaries on a public bus, and randomly hop on to say "Hi, Elders!" and ride with them wherever they're going. (I think they were far more confused than I was.)

7. Eat pineapple pancakes.

8. Visit old Javanese palaces. Marvel at items in the Sultan's collection, such as traditional Javanese gold dance accessories, ancient medicines, Belgian crystal, French statues, and Italian swords. (Apparently, the Sultan had connections.)

9. Get sick. Long for death. (I guess that's really two things. Or maybe one and a half.)

10. Read Tom Jones.

11. Think of blog entries like this one.

Erratum

Remember how I mentioned I had a student who answers to the name of Christ? I take it back. He's named Christ, but that's his first name. He actually answers to his middle name: Conan.

That's right. Christ Conan. I asked if I could call him "The Barbarian." I don't think he got it.

Because Optimistic Might Not See It Otherwise

Optimistic. said:

It's Q-36, isn't it?

Actually, I don't need clarification on that. It's Q-36. I'm quite positive.

--
Posted by Optimistic. to purplepetra at 10/03/2006 06:59:33

Wikipedia said:

Some people mistake the sound of "PU" for a "Q" and say "Q-36." However, the weapon's name is derived from the letters "PU" which coincidentally is the atomic symbol for Plutonium—named for the dwarf planet Pluto.

Never go in against a purple when...well, never go in against a purple.

iFAQ

And now, by special request, a blog post in which I answer some of the questions that have been submitted as comments, and maybe even a few more. Ta-da! A veritable "infrequently asked questions" page. This one goes out to you, bawb.

1. Uh, did he propose?

No, Anonymous, no gossip fodder here. And were there gossip fodder, trust me, I would tell you myself. If, that is, I knew who you are.

The panic was about my imminent departure for Indonesia, land of volcanoes, earthquakes, tsunamis, and human-to-human transmitted Avian Flu. Eight days now!

2. Is your mom available?

No. She's still happily married to my father, who is even crazier than she is. You should see him lose his swimsuit while tubing. It's a skill.

3. You see what kind of friends you have?

Yes. Oh, I'm sorry--did you want me to describe the kinds of friends I have?

4. Can you please describe what kinds of friends you have?

All kinds: crazy, smart, crazy smart, pretty, funny, pretty funny...you get the picture.

5. How do you say "thank you" or such good words in Indian?

See Board Question 21859.

6. So, which of the books did you enjoy most?

Either Speak, Memory, because I love Nabokov, or Adverbs, because Daniel Handler is seriously funny, and also maturing nicely as a serious author.

7. Why isn't your blog purple?

Because, I, um, couldn't figure out how to make it so. Can you help me?

8. Did you say "Massachusetts?"

Funny you should ask! Yes. Yes, I did.

9. What is your favorite English bound morpheme?

Oh, this one's easy: meta-. Phrases like "global metalect" give me positive chills of pretensiousness.

10. Why do fools fall in love?

Forty-two.