No Work, New York, Day 3

Moments after I met Jen in Madison Square Park (10.28.10) and set up for a pitch (after waiting for a pair of businessmen to finish their cigarettes), a pair of young hipster-types asked me for an interview. It was a very strange interview, with my interviewer expressing a distinct lack of interest in the procedure and communicating that to her cameraman, who actually seemed to be enjoying the process. I forget their names already.

My young interviewer - haughtily attractive with her perfect pearly skin and teeth, donning an artsy yet tasteful combination of sleeveless vest and breezy unbuttoned blouse - told me her radio station, breakthruradio.com sent her to conduct interviews of people out on the town to discern whether they believed their time in college assisted them in their present career. Her cameraman, also in his upper twenties or early thirties, spoke only once after introducing himself. He hid behind his Bon Iver/Iron & Wine style scruff and his expensive camera and boom mic instead.

They began by asking me to "do what I do." I offered them my song list, which Jen had been perusing. The girl was totally overwhelmed, asked me to just choose my best. I offered them the choice between Hallelujah and Falling Slowly. She knew neither song but her companion ducked out from behind his shield for a moment and called for Falling Slowly. As you well know I've been videotaped before, but never before such a professional setup. I was terribly nervous all the time the camera rolled. I tried to act normally and direct my attention to the passersby, especially as my interviewer looked completely nonplussed, with a body language that spoke of a great desire to be elsewhere. I realize, now, that's sort of a stylish affection, but at the time it was a bit injuring.

A young couple sitting on a park bench directly opposite provided me with the energy and confidence I needed. The female half of this couple's gasp of pleased surprise was audible to me even across the path and their rapt, wondering attention carried through the rest of my pitch. I owe the pitch to them. After mercifully getting through the song without issue, my interviewer came to a bit of laconic life to ask me a series of questions - my major, if it helped my career, what "busker" meant, whether if I'd consider myself a professional busker (um... I guess so?), and whether this was a lucrative spot (no idea). To Jen and my amusement, she never asked where I went to school. Probably for the best. She tipped me with some muttered comment about how she always likes to support artists, but said in a way that implied it was an act of charity. They left as unenthusiastically as they arrived.

Madison Square Park tree :)

Jen had me sing a couple of happier songs after. Through the short pitch I inhaled water at an alarming rate to try and compensate for the dry scratchiness of my throat but in the end this was all in vain and illness won out. After the happy songs, a man who'd taken interest plopped himself down on a nearby bench to bob happily to my music. Jen offered him my repertoire and he chose Hallelujah. In the middle of it he nudged the young man sitting beside him with a smile: "He's really good, isn't he?" The stranger nodded absently.

Coincidentally, a drove of minorities and foreigners passed when I sang Liberta. They were quite appreciative and one olive-skinned middle aged man met my eyes with his own twinkling ones before stepping in for a coin tip. Not long afterwards, I noticed the couple from the bench engaged in conversation with a kindly old gentleman, looking in direction every now and again, smiling. He gave them a dollar to tip me. Made my week.

Because that's the service I think I provide - I bring strangers together, help people live in the present, notice the world around them, awaken them from their trivial or serious problems, brighten their days. Jen said she'd never seen anyone try that park but I can't imagine why. It's gorgeous and friendly. Almost all my interactions were positive this day. I suppose I'm not effective enough to turn the black moods of subway rushers but at least I can enhance the feel of a day outside. Outside, on the street where I belong.

Train tracks near Jeffrey's

Earnings: $6.10, 30 minutes
Song of the Day: >Falling Slowly - Soundtrack of Once

No Work, New York, Day 2

I ventured out again to try out a pitch at the 51st and Lexington station, in a beautiful passageway that connects the 6 train with the E and M lines. It's one of those tunnels you just fall in love with - tiled walls, great acoustics, good funneling points... I'd last been there on a Sunday and it was quite deserted, so I decided to have a go at early rush hour, arriving around four (10.27.10).

Upon exiting the train I noticed the entire place was flooded with the sound of an amplified bass. A very bad, very loud one. It got louder as I rode the escalator up to the passageway - he leaned back against the wall just before the split off for the uptown 6 trains, all dreads and dirt and dazed-looking and playing random single notes with tons of reverb. The passageway is long and L-shaped, however, so by the bend his sound had nearly disappeared and I set up at that pinch, with my back to the beautiful yellow/blue tiled wall, facing a fountain you can make out past the turnstiles, but not so loud that I couldn't be heard. I started off with John Mayer's Say. It felt comfortable there.

People rushed right past in huge bustling waves, jostling each other and too much in a hurry to stop. They were packed in tightly, four or five abreast and endlessly stretching each way, faces set in scowls and stressed "Shit, I'm late!" expressions. Some offered me shy smiles as they whirled past... I knew it would not be a lucrative outing. A young black couple observed me from across the way, perhaps waiting for someone crouched up against the opposite wall as they were, and smiled encouragingly. I tried another song but towards the end of it I noticed the sound of another guitar. About thirty feet to my right another busker of a similar mode was playing happily away. I think I was notified more by the furtive gazes of the passersby, so lost was I in my own music.

Tiles before swine.

I finished my song and went to chat to him - amiable rather than confrontational as I've been in the past. As I packed my guitar he finished an excellent played rendition of Here Comes the Sun - with more licks and integrated harmonizing guitar lines than I've ever tried. I started my conversation with him praising that arrangement. He told me he'd been playing a bit further down (I saw his things and believed him) so I must not have seen him and started during one of his short breaks, stressing how much he would respect the "first come, first serve" privilege of buskers. I liked him immediately.

He introduced himself as Larry. A small many, wiry without being muscular, prominent blue veins running like circuits all about his skin gathering particularly thick around his neck. He looked shabby in his clothes and played looking towards the feet he shuffled in little windshield wiper arcs to the rhythm. His manner was earnest and nervous in a courteous "after-you" sort of way. I would relate our conversation - one of the most memorable in my life - but I can't, for it lasted nearly two hours.

He spoke of his past - of the opportunities he let go and the reasons he may have let them pass like that. We spoke of finance, of the way many we've noticed in this city talk about nothing besides money, like it's the end goal, and how that's strange and soul-less to us. He gave me tips on playing and living - his flat cost him hardly 400 a month and he lived with a phenomenal drummer he loved to jam and record with. And yes, he was an absolutely excellent guitarist - not much of a singer, but he knew how to play. I had him sing me a couple of his songs and they showcased his breadth and versatility. A pair of classical guitar slinging Mexican buskers watched (and most importantly listened) appreciatively as he played away from the corridor to me herd mentality, waiting for him to notice them. As Larry turned about they nodded and smiled in acknowledgment of his talent before moving on, slowly.

Towards the end of our conversation he went methodically through all the stations he'd played at in the past nine years and gave me advice concerning them. Apparently his tips had dropped about thirty percent last May, coinciding with the oil spill for whatever reason and have continued to slide since. It helped console what I noticed about the decrease in tippage I've experienced as compared to my last stint in May. He loved my cover of Mad World, lauding my potential and telling me how it takes him months of practice to get a cover just right, and how he makes sure to cover all different types of music. As we parted he called out to me:

"Do you know the secret to becoming a great musician?"
Fifteen feet away already I answered, "What's that?"
"Practice."
And a young, sharply dressed black girl caught between us suppressed a laugh at the street musicians speaking of greatness.

After a quick stop at Kirk's to finish my leftover fried rice I tried out one of his pitches (of old, he warned me it was no longer so good, but that nothing really was anymore): at 77th and Lexington, downtown. I earned nothing in the twenty minutes I played there. It was simply too busy. I felt crushed against the wall though I stood near the jutting out foot of the stairwell with each wave of coughed up passengers charging madly for the exit. Though it was past seven at night, these were workers anxious to find their way home. Larry advised I avoid rush hour of this very reason, and for the herd mentality, the bystander effect where no one will tip since no else is tipping and everyone feels the need to make up every inch of space before them for fear of being noticed as different and holding others up... I'd expected rush hour to have abated by then, but sadly, New York brokers no such kindness on its denizens.

Earnings: $0, 30 minutes
Song of the Day: Mad World - Tears for Fears

What, I write songs too? Part VI

So I try to wait to post my songs after having recorded a couple of covers to along, but I haven't been able to do even that, recently - after the party at Kirk's - where I drank glass after glass of water - I inexplicably obtained a very dry, scratchy throat. Drinking water makes it feel scratchier - hmm.. maybe it's the chlorine, then? I dunno. Regardless, I've been working away at a happy song (wait, what?) by humming in my head as other singing comes out rather strangled sounding.

That happy song isn't this one. Seeing as this one embodies the antonym of that adjective. I wrote it last January after an undeniable realization. The post that preceded the lyrics (which I wrote first) in my journal was quite appropriately: "Fuck. Really?"

Maria's helping me work on the backing instrumentals - we're going to see how piano works for it. I recorded it at the same time as my last one, and so the falsetto...

Link here.

Still

I miss everything about you.
You piercing eyes deepened with concern for me.
Running my hands soft and slow upon you.
Memorizing every breath, every finger, every curve.

You spoke my thoughts before I even knew them.
Each yearning of your heart snared mine.
Hold you tight and everything else blurs and fades away.
Your smile, your pout, your cynical laugh.

CHORUS
But I can't miss you.
Though I try to quit you.
My lies caress you.
I still love you.

Time dilated ever since I met you.
Each second stolen - precious weeks in our little world.
I glowed with joy whenever you let me know you.
But I miss most the way you could destroy me with a glance.

CHORUS x2

And I don't want to let you go.

No Work, New York, Day 1.5

Washington Square Park is the perfect place to go to get totally outclassed. The talent and professionalism level there is absolutely astounding, though a bit badly coordinated. Well perhaps not the talent level, exactly. At the north end of the square, beneath the arch, a four piece jazz band, three piece suited african americans, played "smooth jazz" badly with a cardboard box tip catcher. Just inside the square, not thirty feet away another four piece jazz band played with a more attempted big band sound - they were the politest of all the acts, taking rests and trying not to impinge on others' sound spaces. Not far across, a pair of hippies played grateful dead-esque tunes. Another thirty feet around the fountain a lone guitarist playing horribly and offering "Free Guitar Lessons" on a sheet of paper on a stand. Ten feet from him the crowd began for a set of breakdancers accompanied by an upright pianist playing amusing arrangements of popular tunes (which had nothing to do with the breakdancers but the two were affiliated). Finally, at the south entrance a lone trumpeter struggled in vain to be heard.

Naturally I decided to join the hippies. I could have returned to Union Square Park or found a different pitch altogether, but something about the day begged me to take this experience and day for enjoyment. It was a good decision. It dawned sometime in the next few hours on me that I hadn't really enjoyed music so much in the past days - and this brought that back.

The not-pitch.

I forget their names. The woman sported clothes and a cross-legged pose that spoke of new age mysticism, holding her bango much like a sitar in her lap. The man didn't play or sing particularly well but had great kindness and energy. They had a stand before them with printed out, color coded charts for a number of songs. I followed that at first but found it much more interesting to figure out the chords on my own later, playing a different voicing from the other guitar player (for there's little more annoying than a bunch of guitarists strumming the same chords and singing in unison). Once I'd catch a melody I'd make sure to harmonize and not double. We sang a few songs I knew, also. Country Roads, Here Comes the Sun, Mrs. Robinson and surprisingly I'm Yours Robert happened by the park and even joined in singing for a few.

I sat on top of my cropped pea to save my white jeans - the day was so warm a t-shirt sufficed. I find myself writing poorly in a desire to express the amount of life filling the Square. People lounging by the closed off fountain. Crowds shimmering with that crowd sound and wavelike motion around one of the jazz bands and the break dancers. Onlookers listening to myself and the hippies on nearby benches. Pairs chatting. Best of all, I noticed a dearth of electronics. The usual video-recording, photo-snapping onlookers were mercifully absent. Few people spoke on cellphones or walked briskly with eyes glued downwards composing a text message. A slower, more human and entirely un-New York pace of life, and only in that small Square sanctuary. No obvious couples, either.

I had the hippies teach me some new songs. They seemed to know everyone who passed - other long, curly haired men with the look of weed and free love and dance days behind them. Two joined us - one an excellent solo guitarist and the other a great jazz guitarist. I spoke with the latter a while and he showed me some nifty chord shapes - I learn so much more in these random conversations than ever I could in a classroom or at a lesson.

Sometime in the middle of my hours in the Park, the piano player finished, the African American Quartet took a break, a bagpiper in kilted garb took up a pitch by the entrance, and the lone "Free Guitar Lesson" player jammed away in his own little world and yet another jazz band set up ten feet away from us. Rather a rude act, especially seeing as the jazz band across the way still dominated the sound space. They had a very businesslike look to them. Though they had a good sound the hippies and I resented them greatly for their rudeness - they didn't approach anyone else and simply played loudly to try and blast us away. It's these sort of "buskers" who ruin it for the rest of us. They even brought three pairs of dancers to start off dancing hipster style in front of them "spontaneously" to create more of an atmosphere - certainly planned and professional but not in the slightest polite.

Before leaving I became engaged in a passionate conversation with a sketcher and a busker about racism, etiquette, religion... A very enlightening one that underscored my responsibility to do something with my privilege and small talent and effect a similar enlightening on otherwise ignorant (not a cruel word) peoples - through media and education. I'm beginning to see what a huge duty I have by virtue of my education and upbringing. I've always despised I-bankers for what I see as an exploitative use of one's circumstances to further (and even exacerbate) the entrenched problems, and now I think even a simple job off in the middle of nowhere, content with a daily humdrum existence won't suffice either.

At Kirk's housewarming party that night I felt very odd, once again, with the substances and small talk and fakeness. I found a few compatriots, however, one of which taught me more chord shapes and some chord theory and a kindred spirit trying to publish a children's book. It got me thinking I really ought to turn this journey into a book or something.

A last note: I found myself starting off my answers to people's inevitable questions about busking with the negatives - I guess in a desire to dispell the busking mystique. I guess some part of me wants to be acknowledged for doing something "difficult" and not just cavorting about and having fun - doing something anyone could but "doesn't have the balls to." It's a desire for respect. But then, really, I don't know what people think of me. And I wonder.

The next day I stayed in and Josh, Kirk's roommate, tossed me a random tip while I wrote a song on the couch as they played FIFA 2010. I followed that with a fabulous homemade dinner at Amy's - replete with all the modern pleasures. Life can be odd, sometimes.

Earnings: $1.25, n/a
Song of the Day: The Weight - The Band

No Work, New York, Day 1

I'm beginning to acknowledge that a large part of my lower tips in recent months owes to a lack of enthusiasm on my part. This is, however, quite a catch-22. I get energy from having good pitches, interactions which make me want to return. But I need energy to perform well enough to get a response. I started this afternoon (10.22.10) at the 59th and Lexington station on the platform for the uptown six train. The ambience wasn't as bad as I expected for busking underground, but for whatever reason I felt incredibly nervous and out of place. I guess in America I don't have the convenience of looking foreign to hide behind. I'm distinctly uninteresting - something I mostly appreciate, but that doesn't exactly help my cashflow.

Which was, once again, quite paltry. I set up to the left of a pair of firefighters soliciting job applications, who didn't pay particular heed to me during my pitch, either. All in all it was an unremarkable pitch and I found myself drawing into myself with the lack of attention: I didn't realize till Kirk pointed it out later just how inaudible I am with the passing trains and turnstiles and shuffling people, but even beyond that I didn't seem to merit many glances - and some that I did were not at all welcome. There was this strange phenomenon where some of the men emerging from the trains would walk straight at me with a menacing glare before turning away. Strange, mostly. A few sneers, a few fake tips followed by laughter...

The one nice experience (a tip-less one) occurred when a lady started singing along to Your Song, getting really into it and thereby getting me back into it. We sang to each other happily until she boarded her train at the end of the second verse. I chose mostly songs I could get into for the pitch - songs like Sound of Silence and Liberta whose lyrics I could find appropriate. The latter got me a wonderful cocktail of looks. People on the platform opposite seemed to enjoy my music more unabashedly (without the guilt factor) and I did get many smiles from over there.

I started my second pitch at a time and place that Kirk could observe, at 86th and Lexington. Even when I was setting up a young man tipped me, with a meaningful (though the meaning was quite lost on me), intense look right into my eyes. It looked to be a good pitch at the beginning, as I worked off the happy songs right away and got a few quick tips in the first four/five minutes. Just before Kirk arrived, however, it slowed down dramatically - and I'm not sure why.

One old man took out his camera and video-ed me from the platform across the way. I chose my first full song after Kirk arrived as Hallelujah - my failsafe. Even Let it Be had no luck. Unfortunately, this would prove to be the first pitch where it failed. Kirk requested Wonderwall, but somehow I managed to forget the first (Em7) chord and apologized. A cute girl waiting for the subway on the yellow stud line, who'd been watching "covertly" for some time was very amused by this, and smiled broadly at Kirk's replacement request: There She Goes, which I promptly sang for her.

With no tips for a while, Kirk tipped me with a single bill that amounted to more than the total day's earnings, and we wandered off to Brooklyn for a Coriander-heavy homemade Chicken Masala. It's hard to convey just how out of sorts I felt there - an apartment of young entrepreneur-type businessmen eager to "go out." Kirk's friend and I had a conversation about New York - a place he feels is perfect to "live life to the fullest." For whatever reasons, the fullness available here isn't at all appealing to me.

The 86th pitch

Earnings: $19.59, 1.5 hours
Song of the Day: Here Comes the Sun - The Beatles

Boston Deaf, Day 3

Kevin borrowed Brent's coat for the night, seeing as he came to the Northeast with just a polo, so I met him at half noon to retrieve it. The Park Plaza Hotel happens to be a block from the Public Garden. Naturally, I headed straight there afterwards. I arrived and began my pitch shortly after one. Despite it being a coldish (sub-fifty) day, the sun did wonders. I made sure to stand to the north end of the bridge, facing south - with a largely cloudless sky, I felt warm for most of the pitch. A few coin tips for my first songs made me think it'd be a good pitch.

Jerry, the accordion player from the previous day, arrived after two songs, waiting for Marie, the violinist. I felt rather awkward and nervous - I didn't know if I was treading on his turf, or if he'd ask me to relinquish the pitch. He was quite kind when I asked and assured me he had no problem with me finishing the pitch, but I remained tense, nonetheless. He stayed in the shade across the narrow bridge with Marie, after she joined, and while the camaraderie gave me reassurance, I think the nervousness of a discerning audience (and I'm so meek I kept feeling bad about delaying their pitch) jarred me quite off my game. I received almost no tips.

Part of this was the day, too (10.19.10). I obstinately tried the songs I prefer, and perhaps my subconscious attitude of avoiding the popular, bouncy tunes rather than choosing the more pensive fare showed through. Whatever it was, every tack I tried failed. My foreign set failed completely, even though a surprising amount of chinese folks passed me during Ue Liang Dai Biao Wo De Xin. The cold really messed with my strings and I had to re-tune often.

As with the previous day, the beauty of the location - revealed in a different kind of glory with warm light accentuating the oranges and the azures, painting the greens lushly and sucking the coldness out of the grays - saved the pitch. I felt I could play there with no earnings at all and enjoy myself (and I was). People lounged by the dock and took photographs of me. Actually, this was to be a theme - photographs and no tips.

I finally embarked on a saccharine set and the tips instantly started.Here comes the sun, Mario Kart Love Song, I'm Yours, etc. Jerry and Marie chose that time to suggest playing with me. I haven't decided if they sensed the pitch was warming up or if they were simply too cold from sitting in the shade, but either way the following songs were an absolute blast. They backed me up - in varying quality: Marie occasionally providing beautiful melodic backup and occasionally straying rather awry, Jerry generally following along flawlessly with the occasional flourish. The pitch was still relatively slow, however, until we played a stretch of happy songs. Just before we embarked on this segment, I noticed a jet trail writing in the sky and pointed it out to Marie - someone had written 3192 in large numerals in an arc just above the trees. Our audience (we had one at the time) looked as I pointed - maybe the indication that we're human led to a sudden rush of tips.

A very Bostonian thirty-something man - square-jawed, broad-shouldered, cropped hair and all - sang along blissfully to Somewhere Over the Rainbow. I sang the song to him mostly and we sort of half-danced at each other. Later on during this happy set, we shared a moment of incredulous hilarity with a Nepalese man who'd stopped beside me to listen. A man in a three-piece business suit trundled slowly by, jingling a multitude of coins quite loudly in each pocket. He stopped immediately after he exited possible eye-contact, paused as if considering our worth, and then dropped us a dime. A dime! Right after we finished the song we had a good long laugh. For whatever reason, that song was greeted with a rush of businessmen jangling their coins - none of the others tipped (many sneered) so in a way, this snotty one was the nicest. Our Nepalese comrade told me about his children and a little of his life story (came over two years ago to join his son and daughter who now have children of their own), thanking us for the music and smiling nicely with yellowed teeth sticking every which way. He tipped us a few quarters, but the warmth he radiated was, to me, his real tip.

One man wanted to give us a twenty, but his wife angrily told him not to. We'd gathered quite the crowd by then and I felt very embarrassed by their public argument over our worth - and quite commodified/unappreciated. In honor of this feeling I led us in Mad World

My voice flagged after a while, so I followed them on their jigs, strumming away. A minor seemed to be the key of the day. I'd mentioned my affinity to the key and after that we just couldn't escape it. I noticed I was easily the most engaged with the passersby. Jerry never smiled or looked out at them, Marie looked down and concentrated on her playing. She'd laugh every now and then at the way I'd interact with the little kids who passed, mirroring their motions, smiling at them - playing with them from afar. Most parents enjoyed their kids engagements - one kid kept turning back. One mother, however, rushed her daughter along as if we were dangerous. I hate those sort of judgments. Not long after, though, a mother gave her son a dollar for us and remarked, "I like the combination you have." And not long after that, a couple gave each of their three children a dollar to give us in turn.

I remained with them mostly so I could meet up with Maria. I ran off to the bathroom once and left my guitar and tote bag with them, speaking my trust in action. When I returned we jammed quite succesfully off the chords of Hotel California and Horse With No Name. A large group of girls requested a photo (naturally from me) with us and they crowded about for it. One of the girls borrowed my guitar to pose in one, too. Maria arrived concurrently. She requested Fast Car after they departed, which slowed down our previous lively pace quite significantly - it's really an impossible song to accompany with accordion and violin, so I felt a little bad. We went back to the jigs afterwards, and I started to get the hang of the style. Jerry's rhythm varied quite a bit, so I adopted a strumming pattern that could compensate.

I tired of guitar and swapped instruments with Marie. Instantly the tips increased, from quarter tips to $2 tips - ample proof that appearances and cultural associations win out over actual sound. We started with slower tunes, the sort of thing I'm comfortable with when soloing on the violin. It felt natural and easy playing her violin - I didn't adjust the bow tension and there wasn't any transition time at all, like there usually is. Maybe all the guitar warmed me up? Usually that would make my finger spacing too wide but I was perfectly in tune. Odd and wonderful. When Jerry took up jigs and led I had issues following the logic - it took me a few minutes to adapt. Marie certainly outclassed me at those sorts of things. In the meantime she strummed bass notes on my guitar. We played a great impromptu rendition of Shenandoah and Bruch's Scottish Fantasy.

Sometime during this time the Spaniard set up at other end of bridge, with an amp and his whole set up, but inoffensively, where the sound didn't compete. At one point a man asked Jerry if he was Irish. Jerry took umbrage and declared himself Russian, turning the conversation negative - it turns out he's tired of people asking him that. It made me think of my own annoyance at my Chinese-ness being the most apparent part of me on the streets. Later on a camera man (maybe the same one from the last night? I don't remember his face) tipped us a dollar and proceeded to take shots of us from all angles. From the other side of the bridge, from afar, then right up in our faces and in the middle of the bridge, obstructing access to our case and generally distracting us. Jerry abused him quite hotly and scared him off.

A quick note (this is a crazy long post...) on positivity. I felt very odd and someone apologetic after these exchanges. As much as I bemoan people's indifference or treatment of me as a statue, I remain positive during my pitch and forgive every passerby. I try to remember my mom's adage that every person has their own reasons for seemingly unkind acts and I never take it personally (until the occasions add up to a certain level) - a bad day, a different culture, a different philosophy, a bad memory, a past experience... I've never chased photographers off thus, or those inquiring as to my ethnicity - I answer them frankly or smile at them. I firmly believe negativity only breeds more negativity and we've got more than enough of that around already, don't we?

At the very end of the pitch Marie and I tired greatly but Jerry just kept going and going, even joshing with us a bit about getting tired despite our youth. This was a sensitive subject for Marie, whose tendonitis necessitates her breaks. I noticed our energy and moods plummeted with the last fading rays of the sun about of the horizon, and when the cold and wind set in at half four we became ornery and grumpy for the littlest reasons - Marie particularly angry at the passersby and wanting to punish them with depressing tunes, Jerry goading us into continuing with money as the sole object, and me feeling like I just wanted to get away from it all.

When we finally stopped a bit of tension erupted over the divvying of our earnings: $46 dollars in total. I'd put in $3.50 in seed change to start and wasn't even quibbling about the few dollars I'd earned before they joined - so in my eyes I was being generous in only asking for that initial deposit back. In Jerry's eyes I hadn't made anything prior so we should divvy it up even - generous in his mind. Marie was in such a grumpy mood at that point she didn't care and offered me $3 of her own share to settle the account. I sympathized with Jerry, who needed the money to pay his landlord, but in the end Marie lent him the difference he required and we patched our fragile relations up. As we started to walk off a girl pressed us one dollar and two coins, and we used this as an olive branch - Jerry and I offering it to one another before he took the coins and I the dollar.

We parted good friends, brought together in camaraderie by Jerry's story of a true asshole of a busker, the infamous bridge troll who acted like he owned the pitch and re-tellings of the man in the three piece suit.

I.M. Pei was once my hero in elementary school.

I decided to walk to Karen's flat a couple of T stops down, which turned into rather a longer adventure than I expected, especially as I had eleven dollars worth of quarters in my case to further increase the poundage of my already absurdly heavy case. My legs were owned when I arrived. We had a wonderful conversation over her home-made lasagna and some salad, though we never did get to the pumpkin ice cream. By the time I returned to Harvard for the night I was completely exhausted. Most importantly, I felt alive again.

Gorgeous moment of a bridge





Earnings: $15.75 + €1,00 + 1 CAD, 3 hours (about 1.5 singing)
Song of the Day: Somewhere Over the Rainbow - Israel Kamakawiwo'ole

Boston Deaf, Day 2

I set out again after five days largely composed of further rest. I intended to try a pitch at three and then another after an hour break (10.18.10). Upon arriving at the Public Garden, however, my prospective pitch was occupied by an accordionist and violinist playing Irish jigs. They seemed to be doing well and I asked them when they might finish - they very nicely told me to return in an hour. It wasn't worth trying a short pitch before so I headed off in search of a post office. This turned out to quite the search: I directed in turn to four different people before I found the place, and thus used up my hour.

The duo were beginning to pack up just as I caught sight of them again back in the Garden. We switched off smoothly, chatting a bit about our experiences. They wished me luck and promised me I'd like this pitch, even offering to hold it for me the next day. The spanish guitarist from the other night rolled in simultaneously but deferred with no complaints to me, only asking how long I might be. Busking in Boston might not be terribly lucrative, but I've come to enjoy how civilized it all is. That night was a model of how pitches should be managed - shared and rotated with smiles and encouragement, not jealously hoarded like some in Europe.

It was a very slow pitch. Not so slow as the other night, happily. As promised, I loved the pitch, regardless. It's a gorgeous spot to play, with the little river passing below and skyscrapers in the distance not so dense to block out the sky but rather accentuate it's deep beauty. Light faded slowly in a very beautiful, golden way. I began with I Will Follow You Into the Dark and two girls sitting on a park bench down by the river immediately took notice, smiling at each other and looking up at me just beneath the outstretched limb of a tree with looks that spoke of their feelings of luckiness. I smiled back at them (but I don't think they noticed). Buoyed by this favorable attention, I launched into a section of my best songs - Hallelujah, etc. I hadn't warmed up much (my voice or body) so this rash decision hung over the rest of the pitch a bit.

Sort of like Edirne, I didn't particularly notice or care about my cash flow. I can't even recall who tipped, or for what songs, or what times of the pitch. The whole hour and a half sort of blended into an otherworldly, experience, encapsulated apart from the before and the after. I think it was the light - soft watercolors draping the cold stone bench - and the fact that with my limited energy and the growing cold I could really only focus on my songs and nothing else. Around five the temperature dropped significantly. Instead of shivering I simply tensed up. My leg's are still stiff and sore from that. The flow of people and appreciation felt surreal - an ebbing energy I could really feel, with dry spells when I felt I was the only one in the park (these were nice in their own way) and sudden rushes with pausing passersby and tips.

I do remember my set of happy songs did best. As always I knew they would, but something about having sung those songs hundreds of times to predictable responses always makes me want to sing others. I think this is why I'm not really a "busker" in the perfect sense of the word. I'm more keen to be surprised by reactions to more obscure songs than to fashion my art as a product catering to the passing customer. My audience boasted a surprising percentage of tourists - I think I heard more conversations in foreign languages than English. Perhaps this was also a factor of my tippers hailing from afar: when they neared to tip I caught the tails of their remarks to each other. I tried my foreign language set when I realized this, to mixed results. I reveled in the confusion from Liberta. I think a young Chinese couple heard me singing Ue Liang Dai Biao Wo De Xin, and tipped me for that during Ue Wo Muite Arukou. For whatever racist reason, any time an Asian tips me I count it a particular success - the occasions are so few. On this night I got another occasion to remember in this vein, when a college-age Chinese girl came up to my case after wandering the Garden nearby a while to tip me, bending at the knees and looking at me intensely as she slid a coin tip gently, her fingers releasing them close enough to the bottom that they hardly made a sound.

The local demographic boasted a surprising amount of middle-aged ladies. I received many wistful half-smiles from Gotta Have You. They gave me appreciative looks, generally, mostly surprised and put-upon/guilty, but I don't recall receiving a single tip from one. Some donned thoughtful looks and questioned their husbands with their eyes. On passing me a third time, for-instance, one had the gall to comment to her walking partner, "Look, it's filling up." It was hard to suppress a laugh - at the ridiculousness of the statement (I'd hardly made anything) and the haughty way she said it. Her nose was actually rather directed quite high in the air, and the conversational tone she employed spoke of aristocracy discussing a peasant and his turnips.

Fleetwood Mac fit the mood perfectly. Towards the end of my pitch my passersby became much younger, and I took the opportunity to sing my obligatory Kina Grannis song for the new city. I've developed a ritual of singing her Valentine single and Falling Slowly from Once in every city I visit. Many young men passed, usually leaving a quarter before taking a photo. One young man in particular shot my photo for a good fifteen minutes - which got rather obnoxious after a while. I felt a bit invisible, ironically, being framed and not spoken to like I was a statue. But for most passersby, that's precisely what I am. The girls from the bench passed by near the very end, telling me they'd been listening the whole time. They requested I Will Follow You Into the Dark again. And as I began, a friend of theirs who had a special liking for that song happened to approach.

Crystal turned up around six. I'd saved Your Song for the occasion, but she surprised me by requesting Fly Me to the Moon, which I'd just sung and replacing that request with Yesterday. She looked quite fetching and though freezing half to death as we walked off, I felt something like a man of the world walking off to a coffee shop with her.

Crystal and Zebra holding down the pitch

My older brother Kevin happened to have an overnight in Boston (as he's a pilot). All three Ho brothers gathered in one place is something of a rarity. It lent to great conversation about our futures - felt like what family should feel like, I thought - the perfect capstone to a beautiful, if un-lucrative evening.

Earnings: $11.92, 1.5 hours
Song of the Day: Let it Be - The Beatles

What, I write songs too? Part V

Well, Brent's been the main sufferer of my mild cold. But he snores his fair share too so I don't have too much sympathy.

I've uploaded:

High and Dry
Liberta
Yellow
Exit Music (For a Film)

I plan to re-record Exit Music a full step down in full voice, but.. later.

The outro of this song needs serious assistance (yay for Maria in advance!), but I'm pleased with the way the concept panned out. Mostly. 5 4 3 2 1 is a sort of calming exercise my counselor in Vancouver taught me - a way to get back to oneself in the now, really feel and inhabit the presence. You name five things you see, one at a time, concentrating on nothing else but the seeing of that thing. When you say in your head "I see the chair," really see the chair, feel it with your eyes like you're drawing it. Then five things you hear, then five you feel. Four of each, three, etc. Repeating the same thing is fine - just choose the first thing you notice for that sense.

Falsetto balance an issue :(. On an interesting side note, I wrote this song misguidedly convincing myself it was directed with completely platonic intent. A few days later that notion was thoroughly disabused. Link here.

5 4 3 2 1

Look here, stay here,
Don't fall in your head.
See me, hear me,
Feel now instead.

See five, brilliant green
In the still on your floor.
Hear four crickets chirp.
Feel the air fill your core.

CHORUS
Come out, come back down from your cloud,
And see the wood beneath you sway.
Hear my voice flying high.
Feel your heart beat, and you won't float away.

See three, royal blue
In the warmth of your sheets.
Hear two boots on stone.
Feel the covers hug your feet.

CHORUS

Count one, singing soft.
Sing loud with me.
Be now, know here.
Sing one, sing one.

See five, hear four, feel three, sing two, know one.
See five, hear four, feel three, sing two, know one.
You're back on the ground.

Boston Deaf, Day 1

Um, I'm an idiot. Or, as Crystal puts it, stubborn. As we all know well, I'm not entirely well but upon arriving in Boston (where my idea was to write and not busk so much) I promptly busked. Spoiler alert: it sucked. Predictably so, as the intangibles behind a performance become magnified on the street - slightly low energy translates into drastically lower funds, etc. Coming from Florida I'd forgotten how cold New England falls are, and ventured out to busk in a thin (but fabulous) button-down and white jeans. So I think I got a bit of a small cold. Not a big deal. But certainly, I've got some maturing to do.

I guess I just missed busking. Even though I made nothing, I rather enjoyed myself for my two short pitches (10.13.10). I got off the Red Line in South Station to acquire a map - the only thing I've been collecting from the cities thus far, although I'm missing one of Stockholm. Crystal recommended I try just outside of South Station - and the pedestrian traffic did look promising. I wandered into a costume/card shop in Fort Knox Square (square is rather an odd term for a very tiny, paved pedestrian triangle) and the flamboyant worker pointed me to the nearest CVS for my 1.5 liter water bottle. He also acquiesced to my polite entreaty to play facing his shop (not directly in front of the entrance, of course) so long as I didn't suck.

After a month of no busking I started off very happily and energetically. Business people passed thick and fast throughout, but unfortunately never slowed. I got a lot of surprised smiles, but these were very fleeting. The average footspeed was quite absurd - they were all nearly jogging. After three songs one man paused long enough to drop me a dollar - but he, too, was in such a rush he literally dropped it, not looking back, and missed my case entirely. Luckily, the wind pinned my earnings (all of them) against the case. A girl working the flower shop across the way observed me coolly - I couldn't tell her opinion - and after that third song I began to get quite cold. My chosen spot was in the shade of the Fiduciary Trust building, which channeled wind quite handsomely - not to mention the surprisingly significant wind created by the speedy passersby.

That's one thing to mention: tall buildings. I'd forgotten about them in Europe, for everywhere I went the buildings remained at human scale - looking up I'd see more blue than gray. I wonder if the literally oppressive ambience - as they shade and thereby cool everything, as well as stagnate the air - contributes to more antagonistic attitudes towards buskers in the States. One man stopped and sat on the parapet down a few meters down during my first song. He called some of his buddies and by the time I left he and four friends watched me out of their peripheral while chatting happily away. They wouldn't even meet my eyes when I nodded towards them graciously, however, and naturally didn't tip me a cent.

I gave up and headed towards Downtown Crossing on the costume shop man's recommendation. The plaza in front of the Border's he recommended was occupied by another busker, however, and I knew I needed something of a rest before my next pitch, anyhow. I struck up a conversation with this busker, a young man named Nathan, who gave me advice on busking in general and why he does it without my asking for it - I suppose that's our (busker's) preemptive strike-like defense mechanism: we naturally start validating ourselves when asked by a passerby. It was strange to hear many of my own thoughts towards pedestrians voiced to me like I was one. He invited me to watch ten minutes of his pitch to observe his tip-flow, which ended up being nothing - after which we shared a wry smile.

I tried to take shelter from the cold inside the Borders, but the store was, hilariously air-conditioned so it wasn't really any nicer. Nathan was packing up his guitar, so he walked me to the Public Garden. He'd made $14 while I was inside, which brought his day's haul to $20. On the spectrum of buskers his is an approach much divergent from mine. While I try to scope out locations and intuit times, then give it my all in the two to three hours I sing max in a day, he'll sing for seven hours a day, in the same location each time, so that inevitably he'll catch a lucrative hour or a single generous tipper. He's thrown his voice entirely, smokes and is struggling to defeat a heroin addiction. Extremely kind in a way I admire, clasping hands with beggars and exchanging smiles without guilt for not giving anything. I think his honesty and inner goodness must show in his performances.

The bridge in the Public Garden was claimed by a sub-par latin guitarist with an amp, so we headed back the other way and ran into Chun (who I was there to meet) almost immediately. I bid Nathan good luck and farewell. Chun and I walked back to the Park Street stop on the Common and I set up a pitch facing the entrances with my back to a large map. I think I shifted positions after nearly every song but all to no avail. The Bostonians passed largely oblivious, and hardly even noticing. I was rather cold so my voice (which already wasn't great) rang out in poor shape, but I held my own in energy and quality. Night had fallen, however, so perhaps even my bright white jeans weren't enough to distinguish me from the murk and warrant a tip. At the end Chun tipped me a dollar and we jumped onto the Red Line for a dinner at her flat.

Earnings: $2.00, 45 minutes
Song of the Day: I Will Follow You Into the Dark - Death Cab for Cutie

Wait, Gaines(ville), Day 2

I am allergic to my house. This is a problem. Simply put, I can't record, sing, write, or really focus on much of anything when I'm busy sneezing and hacking up my throat all the time. That and I'm not entirely well yet - but progressing happily along. I've noticed quite the direct correlation between weight and temperature sensitivity. While in 10 degrees celsius weather in Norway I felt a bit cold with a hoodie on, but really only when standing still for a while. Here in Gainesville when it dipped to 77 degrees fahrenheit outside I felt frozen. Amusing, mm? (Avoided the "eh," there). I've regained half my errant weight and crested back over 120 pounds, so things look good.

Much of that weight gainage owes to my unrestrainable need for a creative outlet. With music and drawing subjects limited, the readily available kitchen suffered my adventurous spirit for a few weeks. As I don't particularly enjoy dessert or deep-fried foods, my mission largely rode on volume, cream, and oil. For whatever reason I cooked vegetarian a few nights, which threatened to hamper the realization of my goal, but a generous thickening of the cucumber/mushroom/onion sauce with sour cream and an improvised eggplant parmesan flash fried in copious amounts of oil saved these possibly disastrous nights.

My main take-away from life at home, however, is a feeling of gratefulness for not having a laptop. It's phenomenal how much time evaporates with even the best intentions as soon as one plops in front of a screen. While I've certainly spent a fair bit of time on others laptops and have often felt the need for ready internet quite keenly, it's all worked out much better sans l'ordinateur. I'm clearly fossilizing at a very fast rate, sending letters by post (many of which never reached their intended destinations - a large culprit being the Polish Postal service), preferring ground transit to air, feeling loathe to enjoy phone or computer usages - and, well, I like the dirt.

Song of the Day: Libertà - Pep's

Wait, Gaines(ville), Day 1

I attended a Kina Grannis concert last night (10.7.10) here in Gainesville. I've been gone so long that downtown looked completely unfamiliar. Her openers were wonderful, and her singing was utterly surprising. You see, it's extremely important to me how someone sounds live. While I was chatting with Tomek in Wrocław about music, we both agreed that the mark of a good musician, especially electronic or any other highly produced music, shows in their bare, acoustic performances. Kina already uses very little adjustment in her records or videos, but I'd assumed many takes and nudges went along with the added harmonies and synths, etc. Well, she sounded nearly identical live. Head voice and inflections: perfect. Transitions, tempo: perfect. She seemed completely drained of energy from the long tour but her voice and her musicality shone in spades.

I waited after the show to tell her I'd sung her single Valentine on streets across Europe and it turns out she's busked in New Zealand, herself. I think that's my next continent to conquer. She asked for my blog link - I am absurdly flattered. I spoke with her openers, Matthew Mayfield and ImaginaryFriend while waiting the hour for the line to die away. They gave me encouragement and hope - words of advice that confidence and passion, above all other things, win out. Since being back in Gainesville I've been subtly pushed towards taking music even more seriously and I find myself on a bit of a crossroads.

I have this philosophy about the honesty of busking, but the lure of recording and trying YouTube and MySpace is both strong and terrifying. I still want to be a school teacher or art therapist someday, but this fits into my philosophy on teaching, too - what will I have to teach if I haven't lived? My convictions remain strong - to postpone whatever further schooling in exchange for living and traveling and having something to teach my future charges - too long have I been cocooned in the world of education. I've never understood teachers who head straight from their own college schooling to instruction - I believe a teacher has a responsibility to see that which he teaches about, not just read about it. I doubt my world history teacher ever left Florida. And thus my plan-less free lifestyle.

So I ask once again for feedback - and this time it's incredibly important - as to whether or not I should pursue music in a more commercial vein. For if I am to settle in the States busking will be largely insufficient. I've apologized often for the quality of my sound files - I think I'm afraid to record well. If I've support, I'll be sure to find some way to improve that quality in earnest. So tell me what you think?

What, I write songs too? Part IV

More covers and an original. I think standing further away from the dinky recorder thingy has helped my strainedness. That and being outside - something about singing outdoors makes me do better. Course lots of problems still around but feh. And I'm rushing less!

I've uploaded:

Stand By Me
Let it Be
Fake Plastic Trees
Better Together

The original song I'm including was written a year ago, also. Sort of the culmination of my (rather morose) summer quartet. I'm happy to say I think the lyrics speak for themselves. Link here.

Someone New

You said you needed time away from him
Before you could think of me.
You said that you could see how good I am,
So I hung on to hope for us.

CHORUS
I guess I'm glad you're moving on,
That someone new has caught your eye.
I understand he's changed your mind,
But I don't get: why he's not me.

I know I fall too fast and too deep,
But I had faith that you'd find me.
I thought I was quite a catch. I was so sure
There was no way you'd pass me by.

CHORUS

I heard that patient love moves,
But maybe just not mine.
I didn't want to hold you back,
And now I see I never could.

CHORUS

I just don't get why he's not me.
No I don't get why he's not me.

Whoa, I draw too? Part I

Whenever I travel I tend to draw. While in Europe this generally fell to the wayside in favour of singing - my creative energies being... limited. I also decided send many of my drawings via mail so my photographs are of subpar quality but feh, I feel like I'm always apologizing for low quality - they are what they are. I grayscaled them all, though most were all originally on paper of other colours (as befits my obsession with fine stationary) because I felt like it. Yea.


From the magical hostel in Stamsund looking south over the little harbor into which I could take Roar's rowboat, on a misty day. The lighthouse in the distance is approximately where I drew the next one.
Day: Sustained by Surplus, Sun, and Songs in Stamsund, Part III


I drew this sitting on a rocky promontory looking back towards the Norwegian mainland. Bright, hot for Norway, no one about, the end of a gorgeous day.
Day: Sustained by Surplus, Sun, and Songs in Stamsund, Part IV


The day after my magical night singing on the Charles Bridge in Prague I was intent on drawing Frank Gehry's Dancing House (Fred & Ginger) building. Not because I particularly admire the building, but rather because Jess once sent me a postcard of it and I thought it'd be cute to return the favour in pen and ink - incidentally the only thing I drew with this trip.
Day: Czeching Praguematically for Police, Day 3


This was the product of my sychronicitous night in Krakow, drawing by the soft lights of Rynek and the light of a very bright sunset colored moon. A small group of girls joined me and we ended up playing a bit of music there near eleven at night. I added the moon, in the wrong location, at the most admiring one's behest.
Day: Busking at the Kraków Dawn (Ok, Night), Day 3


Architect Mimar Sinan's self-declared masterpiece, the Selimiye Cami in Edirne. A dome with a greater span than that of the Aya Sofya, incredible minarets, astonishing tilework, etc. I drew this my second day in Turkey, feeling unwell and hiding from the intense heat by remaining inside and drawing through two prayer times. I learned the Turkish hand motion for excellence from on-lookers.
Day: Edirne-ly missing America, Day 1


A little cartoon I drew for the kindly middle aged man who helped me get to Kadıköy, İstanbul. I wanted to illustrate that I needed to meet up with a friend - beneath a large flag at a bus station (which actually was a boat station. whoops). I'm particularly proud of my self-likeness.
Day: Incapacitated in İstanbul, Day 1


The view across the Bosphorus to the European side in the afternoon light. I sketched this quickly to pass some time while waiting for Murat. The large building is the Haydarpaşa Terminal, the terminus of all lines from Asia.
Day: Incapacitated in İstanbul, Day 1


The beginnings of a sketch of the Baghdad Kiosk in Topkapı Sarayı. A classical music concert (four piece) was setting up for a televised broadcast, and the shutting off of the area shortly after I began stopped my progress abruptly.
Day: Incapacitated in İstanbul, Day 1.5


This drawing elicited an amusing exchange with a Turkish man who couldn't understand why I didn't simply take a photograph. Topkapı Sarayı was nearly emptied of tourists by now, in the early evening. A soft breeze and cooler temperatures with perfect shadows.
Day: Incapacitated in İstanbul, Day 1.5


The inner court of Topkapı Sarayı closed not long before sundown. I'd planned my wandering within so that I'd saved the outside bits for last, to maximize my twenty lira ticket's value. I knew I couldn't capture the amazing detail of the Imperial Council Hall's canopy, so I drew the exterior, facing the inner gate. In the time I drew no more than three other groups passed through the huge courtyard - all locals. Near silence, surprising amounts of wildlife, cool lighting. As earlier I was asked to leave not long after I began so they could close the outer sanctum, too.
Day: Incapacitated in İstanbul, Day 1.5


This mosque, Yeni Cami overlooks the boat terminus on the European side at Eminönü. I came here to draw mostly as an escape from the rain and the closed attractions. I sat on the side of the north-south (ish as the mosque is of course oriented towards mecca) axis, with both windows open and gusting damp air at me. The detail in the blue tiling was absolutely remarkable.
Day: Incapacitated in İstanbul, Day 2


A quick sketch of the mihrab in the Şehzade Cami on my harrowing trek through the more western bits of İstanbul. I hadn't the energy to make a full rendering of the space (which wasn't particularly remarkable) and by the time I got to Sultan Selim Cami I made nothing more than a quickly felt contour drawing.
Day: Incapacitated in İstanbul, Day 2

What, I write songs too? Part III

I think I'm rather overdue for musical update. As always my recordings are one takes so apologies (this time I seemed rather more prone than ever to rushing... ah well). I'm slowly figuring out how far to stand from the recording thing, but I still haven't managed to fiddle with the device to stop the high notes from sounding strained. Since I'm home I figure I'll try to update as many missing Songs of the Day as I can, so expect quite a few musical updates in short order. I realize I'm still a year behind on my originals, which is no good, eh?

I've uploaded:

House of God, Forever
I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You
Mad World
The Mario Kart Love Song
Dreams
Painting By Chagall
Say
Kids
Winter

I wrote the following song after a particularly.. haunting visit a year ago, when I felt terribly inept. Link here.

Purple Dress

Follow me, circular,
Up spiral steps in sickly light.
Relax your lips, your eyes, your cheeks,
Let the weight you hold fall on me.

Your purple dress in sharp relief,
On the dirty blue of my couch.
You whisper strained, "I'm too good for this,"
I know, but I can't show you.

CHORUS
It's not my place.
It's not my place.
It's not my place.
It's not my... my place.
Not my... my place.

A single tear crawls down your face,
And I can only watch it.
Your shoulder trembles beneath my palm.
I just want to pull you tight...

CHORUS

I ask if I can sing for you,
Or if you need to be held.
You shake your head with a little smile.
Your eyes dry up, and you wall yourself away from me.

CHORUS

Eastern Expenses

Edirne:
Hotel Anil, three nights: 75,00 TRY
Tavuk Döner: 4,00 TRY
Çiğer Tava: 9,00 TRY
Minibus: 2,00 TRY
Internet: 2,00 TRY
Köfta and Rice: 4,50 TRY
Bus to İstanbul: 10,00 TRY

Total: 106,50 TRY
Earnings: 75,90 TRY
Net: -30,60 TRY

Turkish Net: -30,60 TRY
TOTAL NET: -28,75 TRY

İstanbul:
Pide: 12,00 TRY
Topkapı Sarayı entrance fee: 20,00 TRY
Groceries: 28,63 TRY
Little Caesar's: 9,75 TRY
Bus x3: 4,50 TRY
Ferry x4: 6,00 TRY
Tünel: 1,00 TRY
Taxi: 4,50 TRY
Ferry to Güzelyalı: 15,00 TRY
Bus to Bursa: 3,00 TRY
Metro and Bus to Teleferik: 3,50 TRY

Total: 107,88 TRY
Earnings: 7,25 TRY
Net: -100,63 TRY

Turkish Net: -127.53 TRY
TOTAL NET: -129,38 TRY

Bursa:

Bus: 1,50 TRY
Antacids: 4,50 TRY
Lahmacun and Dürum: 8,50 TRY
Bus to İstanbul: 18,00 TRY

Total: 32,50 TRY
Earnings: 0,00 TRY
Net: -32,50 TRY

Turkish Net: 160,03 TRY
TOTAL NET: -161,88 TRY

İstanbul:

Metro Ticket: 1,50 TRY
Rice and Salad, many times: 16,00 TRY
Saka Hotel and transit: 217,00 TRY
Internet Cafe: 1,00 TRY
Flight to Gainesville: 1636,00 TRY

Total: 1871,50 TRY
Earnings: 0,00 TRY
Net: -1871,50 TRY

Turkish Net: -2031.53 TRY
TOTAL NET: -2033.38 TRY
TOTAL NET excepting emergency: -163.38 TRY
TOTAL NET excepting nothing: -2414.48 TRY

Incapacitated in İstanbul, Day 2.5

Monday (9.13.10) marked the end of the Bayram. My hosts needed to return to work and they had a cleaning lady coming in so I had to vacate their flat at eight in the morning and head off to the bus depot. I woke up feeling truly horrendous. Over the past few days my brothers and I had been in contact to try and find me a way home - hopefully as inexpensively as possible. I'd originally planned to leave through Syria and book it to Tel-Aviv (one of Continental's only destinations East of Germany) but on checking visa requirements once again in Bursa, I discovered that contrary to what I had previously read, I couldn't enter Syria. Just one month back the government had changed it's policy for American citizens entering by land, and I'd now need to have obtained a visa from the Washington, D.C. embassy many months in advance.

The flight I'd attempted to purchase to notoriously relaxed Amsterdam (which also has an international zone so I wouldnt have to violate my 90 day Schengen stay) bounced for whatever reason. At eight in the morning, fatigued beyond all belief, pained in the abdomen and with a splitting headache that even impeded my ability to see, I let go of my stubbornness to save, my pride to break even and bought the ticket my brothers recommended me, which would leave the morning of the 15th and arrive twenty four hours later in Gainesville. At this point I feared appendicitis and for whatever combination of reasons I wanted to be in America if I needed an operation. In Gainesville, my brothers noted, there's Shands.

And so, after months of counting every last grosz, cent, crown or kurus, I halved my savings account, my safety net, in a single transaction. My brothers insisted that while saving money is well and good, the whole being alive thing was worth it. If I wasn't desperate and half-delirious my pride may have won out - so perhaps it's good I was so unwell at that moment.

The travels back home passed miraculously. I could hardly stomach anything and spent most of my time trying to sleep away the headaches and pain. Every six hours or so (it wasn't precisely so regular) I was hit by a wave of fatigue that completely incapacitated me for hours. Somehow these waves hit at precisely the right times, and I'd awake or come to myself just in time to keep going.

As soon as I arrived at the Bursa Otogar, for instance, I curled in a little ball in a restaurant booth and passed out. I awoke just half an hour before my bus, enough time to post my letters. A nice young man with a guitar sat nearby and I had him play me something - he played brilliant flamenco style guitar, technically virtuosic but with little musicality or rhythm - and at his bidding I sang a soft I Will Follow You Into the Dark over which he soloed. I boarded the bus and the fat man beside me with the kindest eyes, like a worried uncle, looked after me. I literally passed immediately after I took my seat but he made sure I was up to accept the cakes they passed and the drinks. At one point, near the end I was half-way delirious and spilled my leftover juice all over the both of us. I apologized over and over but he shushed me like one would a child, insisting it was no problem. I couldn't focus again, couldn't read but I didn't need to - he disembarked with me at Esenler, İstanbul and informed the attendant on the ground where I needed to go, worried all the time for me and not even noticing his spoiled white shirt. Something like a concerned angel, the care in his eyes keeping me afloatas much as his actions.

I was once again alert for the Metro ride to the airport. Alert while I scoured the terminal for someone who could help me - as Delta'd already closed. I wanted to move my flight earlier. No one could assist me and I turned my energy to finding lodging. I knew I hadn't the energy to go to the Hostel I'd picked out - it was doubtful if I could find my way back well, or deal with the rush of people and the lack of air conditioning. I haggled, weakly, with the travel agent downstairs and he put me up in Saka Hotel, providing me with free private transit back to the airport for the morning of the flight, at three in the morning.

My energy ran out when I arrived at Saka Hotel. For the next thirty three hours I spent most of my time trying to sleep away my discomfort, emerging once for the internet cafe and other times for rice and salad at the next door döner stall whenever I felt I could eat. I became rather well acquainted with the bed and the television. One of five channels would air English language movies or shows and these helped while away the time. Some felt like dull anaesthetics that hurt as much as they helped - Gossip Girl, English Club-TV - but others made me forget a little - Adventures of Merlin, White Oleander. My cycles of fatigue continued and I feared I'd sleep through my shuttle ride to the airport.

I awoke before my alarms, relatively energetic, and remained that way all the way until I reached the gate, two hours prior to departure. Only then did the fatigue knock me out again. I woke again minutes before boarding closed. I woke again just before landing in Rome and perservered long enough to get through baggage re-check, new security, finding Delta, eating a bowl of fruit before passing out again in the stall of the fancy cafeteria "Food, Inc." I'd sought out a couch in the disabled area but the cruel male worker would have none of it, telling me, sardonically in a "it's not my problem" sort of way to "Call an Ambulance!" when I told him I was very unwell. In the cafeteria a worker tapped me on the shoulder to wake me and tell me I wasn't allowed to sleep there - but perfectly this was after an hour and half had elapsed and just minutes, again, before my flight closed boarding.

The plane was delayed on the ground for nearly three hours during which I was alert and talking relatively happily to my neighbors about possible busking destinations in America. Only after we took off did the fatigue set in. I woke directly before dinner then passed out again a few hours prior to landing, only to wake again exactly at the call for the initial descent - enough time to fill out customs forms et al. I felt moderately human and hobbled my way quickly through customs, bag re-check and security, and despite having just under an hour in Atlanta before my next flight departed I made it with the perfect time to spare, about five minutes. I passed out on the plane to Gainesville, felt alert until I arrived home, then passed out soon after.

This was all to relate just how fortunate my times of incapacitation were. Somehow everything conspired for me, even the delayed plane or the disgruntled cafe workers. I've been home over two weeks now and I'm itching to head back off. My mother wants me to remain and assist her with the house but I feel stagnant and my allergies are going crazy. I plan to jet off as soon as I feel human in the morning. It's funny how you don't know what you have until you're missing it. I never noticed being healthy, feeling strong, having energy - I just took it for granted. Even if I ever took sick I'd be able to think well or get up and walk about without feeling like my legs would give out and after a few days I'd be generally fine. I think I'll take that youth less for granted now.

Feeling Bursa and Bursa, Day 0.75

Fatih and I planned to hike up Ulu Dağ but despite my efforts to hide my discomfort and weakness I had to back out in the end, on the stairs leading up to the Teleferik, as even walking up a couple steps exhausted and pained me (in the stomach). Worried, we took his car on a tour through Bursa to search for an open pharmacy - something that required quite a lot of looking as everything was closed for the Bayrami. We found them eventually I proceeded to stay in the rest of the day and the entirety of the next day.

Teleferik

I wasn't entirely idle, however, as we spent a lot of time watching movies they'd downloaded or playing starcraft 2. In fact, I managed to finish the missions (Fatih seemed eager to watch me play, and I was only too happy to oblige him. Since moving made me rather unhappy, this was the perfect pastime. The afternoon of 9.12.10, however, Melek had a guest over and we needed to vacate the place for a few hours. We set off downtown and I was determined to draw the interior of the Ulu Cami. I parted with Fatih there and sat within for awhile.

Ulu Cami

Now, two things interfered with my drawing the space. First, I was very very unwell at this point. I had a bout of intense fatigue and for most of the day I could hardly concentrate enough to write my letter, or even move. I spent most of the time sitting in a window vestibule, looking forlornly out at the beautiful day. After lunch time I felt strong enough to walk. I got a nice lunch from the lahmacun salonu across the way, where both patrons and workers took immediate interest (and photos) of me, happily engaging me in conversation once they found I understood their Turkish. Luckily, I had ready topics, as that day was quite a significant one.

9.12.10 marked the referandum for Turkey's new constitution. My hosts variously supported or opposed it for similar reasons: it would usher in more rights (to women, for instance) but also concentrated the power a bit more dangerously in the governmental structure, with the judiciary coming under the purview of Parliament, rather than being the independent body it had been. Most those I met approved of the ideas in the new constitution, but some were afraid of what this concentration of power could mean. Specifically, what with the highly religious present prime minister backing the new constitution, they were afraid of an Iran-like outcome.

The advertising for this referandum reminded of that for Proposition 8. Obviously the scope was vastly different, but the campaigns and even the population count of those affected (California is huge, people) matched nicely. The government plastered signs everywhere which bore "Evet" - Turkish for "yes" - in large red letters, and little else. While I was in İstanbul I constantly heard the prime minister booming away passionately from trucks trundling slowly around, using "Inshaallah" and "Demokrasia" and "Evet" over and over again. The opposition, much less powerful, simply copied the "Evet" poster, just substituting "Hayır" in the same place. Like Prop. 8, I began to forget which stood for which. Interestingly, the one-or-the-other choice presented by this referandum garnered me some sympathy from my Bursa hosts, who thought the low voter turnout in America was pretty ridiculous. They'd never had to choose between two unsavory options before, and this provided a bit of insight as the the impossibilities created by the two-party system.

The other reason 9.12.10 was a big day was the basketball game. Turkey hosted the FIBA World Championship this year and their team had actually progressed to the final, to face (of course) the United States. The game was this same night and my following of basketball (due mostly to my brother) came through for conversation, as I actually knew two of the chief players for Turkey.

I left the restaurant to hobble about Bursa a bit, taking a tour of the more westerly historical areas. I made a big wobbly circle from the Ulu Cami, with frequent rests inside mosques, all of the same ornate but humbly sized T-plan style. When I returned the other deterrent to drawing evidenced itself in full force: my otherness. While I finished my letter or curled up in stomach pain in the vestibule, visitors kept coming up to me for photos or to talk. My chosen window lay in the rear of the mosque, so most of these were young women. They all took inordinate interest in my hair.

Reactions to my hair are something I haven't really written about but which make me rather amused to remember. In every place I've traveled through, someone makes a comment on my hair. At Gosia's house, for instance, her father asked me if it was natural (one of the most common questions), as many Polish girls dye and straighten their hair to approximate the same effect. Melek liked to pet it and constantly marveled or complimented it. Paweł commented that musicians sort of have to have long hair. Someone, I forget who, wouldn't believe I didn't use straightener. Another kept asking what brand of dye I used.

Sick.

Once I finally started to draw what was to be a quick sketch, two young children hung about me a while, talking animatedly with me and interspersing their nice interactions with entreaties for money. They'd ask how much my water cost, or my bag, or my watch, or my camera - and wouldn't believe when I replied that I hadn't payed for any of them. I felt uncomfortable around them but somehow enjoyed their company in my sickness, too. They seemed to find me something of a curio and displayed my journal drawings to passersby in the mosque after I'd showed them. It was one of fathers in these passing groups which finally escorted these two children away from me, gently. I didn't remain much longer. On the bus ride back, ticket-less as ever, a young man swiped for me and refused payment of the fare.