Tag Archives: journaling

sketches from a village in ladakh

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5 July 2010. Day 2 in Likir

Yesterday was a blur. After two hours drive, and another two spent leisurely walking around Likir, I arrived at my home stay, where Ama-le invited me in for lunch. I was famished, as it was near two and I had only eaten handfuls of nuts and dried apricots all day. I sat on a wooden platform just barely higher than the dirt floor, and Amale brought me a plate of eggs and khambir, the local bread. I hadn’t eaten eggs in fifteen months, but I wouldn’t—couldn’t—tell her that, and proceeded to eat, while she had kholak—barley flower and butter tea.

The house is still under construction. During the day, Indian boys mix mud to line the inside walls, so the house is covered in dirt. The hallways and rooms hold small dirt piles, and in the meantime everyone lives around them. When the boys leave, the house is dusted and cleaned back near its normal state.

Ama-le says “skyot-le” and I follow her outside near the fields, where we sit down and begin collecting rocks into a bag, the reason for which I’m not sure, but I enjoy it. It brings me back to my favorite pastime—rock and seashell hunting on the beach.

When I finally admit that I need water, we go back inside. We clean the shrine room, taking everything out onto the balcony and dusting. I dust the thangka paintings and photographs of lamas with the utmost care, afraid of ruining a precious family heirloom. When Abi-le appeared, I tagged along with her to clean and shine the butter lamp holders by the stream in the cold glacier water.

When I met my Ama-le and introduced myself, what followed was a butchering of my name unlike any other. “nyerangi minga Angmo in-le,” Ama-le said, or, “your name is Angmo.” It took me a few seconds to figure out that I’m Angmo, as it does each time anyone says “Angmo-le”.

I climbed up the hill behind the house for a birds-eye view of upper Likir. How do I describe such an incredible place without the usage of a cliché? It is everything I ever dreamt about, read about, heard about. I almost cannot believe what I see—stunning snow-capped peaks everywhere I look above, and green everywhere below.

Read more: Photographs from Likir / Life in Likir / On Likir: musings

 

 

 

a lonely animal: inside the writer’s workshop

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The writer is a lonely animal, spending the majority of the day in solitude. Occasionally there is musical accompaniment, occasionally there are cafes bustling with people. Mostly, there is only the writer, with a pen and paper.

I have been writing ever since I learned how, but I never called myself a writer until recently. It doesn’t pay the bills (yet), and most people that I interact with can’t comprehend what it looks or feels like to be a writer. It looks and feels, in a word, lonely. However, it is indescribably fulfilling.

To elaborate, this is sort of what it looks like, superficially:

The Writer’s Sanctuary: volumes of filled journals dating back to 2006, a recent issue of Poets & Writers magazine, inks, paints, pens, brushes, glues, tape, stacks of photographs, and a record player and vinyls in the background.

The Writer’s Coursework: books on writing intermingled with two works by French literary critic Roland Barthes, as inspired by Jeffrey Eugenides’ The Marriage Plot and the video B*tches in Bookshops.

The Writer’s Shelf: notes on deadlines; inspirational quotes, reminders, and scribbles (see below); tiny canvases waiting to be finished; an envelope stuffed with plane ticket stubs and foreign currencies; a stone elephant from India; a golden elephant and bell from Thailand; vintage photographs of Mt. Fuji and an unknown girl in a library who looks like a relative; blank notebooks; and a transparent pink folder containing typewritten pages from the past few years, awaiting edits.

Inspirational quotes, reminders, and scribbles:

“All composite things pass away. Strive for your own liberation with diligence.” – Buddha

“You write to please yourself, you write to move yourself, to engage yourself in the asking of questions that are important to you.” – Jonathan Safran Foer

saturday, december 2011. i need to write yet i find myself doing anything but writing. today is a perfect example of life lately—doing anything & everything except what feeds my soul. not writing makes me cranky. my thoughts are clouded; i can’t tell up from down. when i don’t write i lose sight of who i am.