On Autism and Personal Growth

“Hello Leo, * hello Leo,” a circle of children and adults sings to an eight-year-old boy whose cherubic face sits upon an otherwise gangly body. “Hello Leo, so glad you’re here today!” the group finishes, just as the increasingly frustrated and reddening boy yells, “Stop it!” in his best Hulk impression. The teaching assistant to his left, optimistically termed a ‘buddy,’ gently rubs his back, gradually bringing him back to a calmer state.

Like the rest of the students in the male-dominated classroom, Leo has autism: Asperger’s Syndrome, specifically. This places him on the ‘high-functioning’ end of Autism Spectrum Disorder, and at times, he is no different from a neurotypical developing child. He loves Candy Land, enjoys tag, is especially bossy in that purely childlike way, and interacts with other people.

As a teaching assistant with the Autistic Children’s Activities Program in Portland, I taught, played with and guided children with autism, many similar to Leo, for two consecutive summers, five days a week, eight hours a day. Beginning the job after my freshman year of college, my only real interaction with developmentally disabled individuals had been brief, and my knowledge was largely theoretical. I was eager to learn quickly and draw connections to ideas I had previously explored in only an abstract manner.

The program proved difficult yet immensely enjoyable, both for the children and for me. From such mentally, physically, and emotionally trying lessons, I became skilled in reacting correctly and effectively redirecting negative behavior. As a result, I grew closer to the children, and autism gained a face – or several. I had incidentally but gladly become some form of spokesperson in my community and resident expert within my peer groups for this cause, which in the process also became my cause.

I dug into articles, studies and personal stories regarding autism, restructuring my experiences with Leo and his peers into an academic framework. In those summers, I felt incredibly challenged and fulfilled, and I learned to apply that drive and sense of purpose to other areas of my life. I saw that learning is a continual process, with new input constantly feeding older neural pathways as well as acquired information in an ever-adapting feedback loop. It is up to us to keep that loop alive and functioning on a higher level, and to stimulate it by improving and being improved by the lives of others.


*Name changed for privacy of family.

Of Rats and Undergrads

Tomorrow we begin running mazes and other experiments with lab rats in Behavioral Neuroscience, and I am rather eager.

ATTN: Call for Portland Puppeteers!

After taking a puppetry course in Munich, Germany, with two established puppeteers, I became set on continuing my newfound passion in Portland. Sadly, however, my attempts at forming a meet-up group fell through when I realized there was a large fee involved. I have yet to lose hope, though, and wanted to to pose the question to anyone who happens to stumble across (or upon, rather) this blog:

Would you be interested in getting together to practice and puppetry techniques or potentially even perform in public?

In Munich, I created two intricate marionettes and directed, choreographed, guided other group members in and performed my own piece in a small theater. I feel rather attached to the figures now and would like to have the chance to practice manipulation and animation with others interested in the art once again.

What say you?

On [Re]settling

It has been extraordinarily surreal coming back to Portland and being at Lewis & Clark (College) once again. The taxi ride from the airport was the most extreme - and justly caused - bout of déja vu I had ever experienced. The driver was none other than the kind Russian man who drove my father and me the first time I came to Portland ever, and the third, when I returned alone. I would have been so agitated if I took the MAX first, what with the wait time, heavy luggage and more sitting in moving objects.

I had the most bizarre, sleep-deprivation induced dreams on the plane. One of them had me in an airbus, which my actual plane was as well, but it had a variety of transformative qualitites and at the end of the trip, we reached a tunnel in which the airplane mutated into a train/bus-like machine and we had to crawl up through the crevices like reverse spelunking. Another part of the dream was my imagined arrival in Portland. I flew over the city in the airbus - before I knew its true nature - and watched as every European city I had visited in the past year morphed to form a super city, with monuments and buildings from all, plus glorious bodies of water. There were some recognizable Portland elements and we flew through the streets, which were reminiscent of Seattle or San Francisco in hilliness.

I was and still am so overjoyed to be back in PDX. The day after my arrival, I went to a show at Mississippi Studios with my friend Sandra. Talkdemonic, a stunning Portland band, headlined the show. The opening band, Deelay Ceelay, had a visualizer with images related to the lyrics or electronic melody of the music. The second band, Church, was pretty fabulous, and the members moved like dinosaur puppets. The funny and interesting remark of how easily one could guess what a person is like while sexually intimate based on his/her moves onstage came up during the pause in performances. Honestly, try it sometime. You'll see.

You can sample some of the music and read a small blurb about the event here: http://www.melophobe.com/concert-reviews/talkdemonic-deelay-ceelay-church-mississippi-studios-portland-or/

While reacclimating, I came to the realization that I am now far less concerned about self-image than I was before Munich. Also, I have stopped feeling the need to edit or modify others, or be wary and nervous regarding how their appearance or behavior reflects on me through my association with them. It's much easier now to take people as they are without constantly [mentally] nit-picking or attempting to edify. Unlike my pre-college or even pre-Munich self, I don't give a damn anymore about others' hair length or preferred style of dress, and I stress less over whether two people I care about are completely harmonious in conversation. Instead I focus on whether they are kind to one another and there is platonic, romantic or familial love there to make the interaction and my reaction a calm, positive one. I have stopped obsessing over what my family thinks of whom I date, and in doing so, I have freed myself of a great deal of emotional unease and also happened to notice that the person I am now dating respects and is respected by my family.

This weekend was just as glorious as the last. I had a chance to enjoy the Belmont Street Fair, the sun, many cafés, some time to myself and much-needed biking from the college to SE. I no longer feel robbed of a Portland summer, as I was lucky enough to experience falling in love with this city all over again. I think it's happened four times now, whenever I return or feel newly free.

Departure from Munich

All of these disorganized contemplations were originally written down at the end of August, just before I returned to the US:

Soon everything in my microcosmic splice of the world will change.

Sadly I must say good-bye to Ivanna and Nicole in Munich and my relatives in Zürich, but in the U.S. I will be closer to my immediate family and friends, as well as everyone from the program who has now begun repatriation. I take great comfort in knowing that Emily and I will never be far apart, despite the evil geography may inflict the year after next.

When I am back in Portland, I will…
- Take out graphic novels from the public and Reed library and read them voraciously
- Get anatomy and botany books from the library, sketch the images
- Buy a pack of Cloves
- Organize what stuff I want to keep and what I can spare
- Get my bike repaired, take it in for a tune-up and ride all over SE
- See Cecily, Jenifer, Sandra
- Go in for a yoga session at Yoga Pearl
- Eat at Blossoming Lotus
- Rent LOTS of movies, start up Netflix again
- Have my first legal US drink in a bar
- Visit all the places to which I feel so connected

Am I ready to sum up Munich yet? Not thoroughly, but I can start to process it all. Often I need to do this once I have left a place and gotten both physical and emotional distance from it. It’s certainly true (though no less pretentious) to claim that a year abroad can mature a person tremendously, but like everyone else, I did a lot of this in the last year of high school and first two years of college. This time, however, it’s been entirely my own doing. No boy has helped me learn what I wanted while I’ve been in Munich. If anything, perhaps I’ve seen a bit more clearly with P. and C. what dating is like when you don’t constantly see the person. My pacing is all sorts of messed up.

Stockholm

Most delayed post ever.

Classes have started up again and I am back in Portland. As I was in Zürich for two weeks, distracted by lovely people and without my laptop, the Stockholm post never made the leap from paper to blog form. Then there was the whole falling in love with Portland all over again, which demanded my full attention and a good week. Yet I typed up all of this earlier and want to follow through just to tie loose ends. Here is the tardy but just as worthwhile collection of observations and musings from Sweden:

Friday, July 31st
I'm quite satisfied and sleepy at the moment. Södermalm, the area where I am staying, is apparently the hipster hang out neighborhood. The streets are filled with numerous second-hand shops and cafés. I was feeling lackadaisical, so as I worked my way over to a highly recommended, cheap vegetarian restaurant for lunch, I dawdled in front of and within some of these shops, resisting temptation except for a long glass bead necklace and two handmade espresso cups. Walking out of the hostel after dropping off my heavier bag, I felt that loneliness creeping up again and started to miss friends and access to the internet. This is likely because the city reminds me so strongly of London - in terms of price, high fashion, diversity, enormity and a stunning metro system - and I remember what fun I had in London with Monica. Zur zweit zu reisen macht alles viel angenehmer.

Flying in today was remarkable for the view - I had never really processed the fact that Sweden is made up of a land mass and countless small islands. It looked as if a toddler had let globs of wet sand plop into a low tide pool; such was the disorder and frenzy with which they seemed to be arranged.

Vintage, vegetarian, a third V fails me here, but I shall have to do with these for the time being. Seems more than survivable. I saw a lot of this island and the surroundings of Central Station today before pausing at a cemetery with a beautiful church and riding the Katarina elevator up for a glorious panoramic view. It's hilly here like San Francisco or Seattle, and there is a great alternative newspaper that rivals The Mercury or The Stranger in quality and wit. Parts were in English, which was appreciated.

I also explored a small library today and was thrilled with how the rooms were organized by genre, each with its own theme. Sci-fi/fantasy had a dragon lurking in the corner, plush pillows and dark color tones. The teen section included photos by a local photographer of Stockholm youth and their stories to match, while the reading area looked incredibly Seussical, with bold red carpeted steps to sit on and a swirly felt plant to keep readers company. Seeing a flyer for the free film evenings that occur every Friday, I was overcome with the desire to watch many an Ingmar Bergman film back in Portland, making a night of it and taking advantage of Netflix or Movie Madness once more.

Ok. Today shall be full of relaxation and tomorrow of art. Fair deal. People-watching is a marvelous hobby. Oh how cute bikers as well as boys with large-framed glasses and messenger bags flock this city! Further observations of my species today include the outrageous number of blonde pregnant women I have seen today. How many within the span of a few hours, you ask? Thirteen. 13! Industrious people. Perhaps Swedes are taking over the future? Judging from Ikea and Smörgåsbord, it doesn't seem too bleak. This is enough to make me doubt that the birth rate in Western Europe is still falling dramatically... and apparently only 15% of Swedes are blonde and 30% have blue eyes. I need to work with combinations and permutations to figure out why the fraction of pregnant, blonde, blue-eyed Swedish women all pooled together within my line of sight. Yes, yes. Selective perception and confirmation bias, I knowww.

Plans
Saturday: Kulturhuset, National Museum, St. Jakobs Kyrka, Moderna Museet, cafés
Sunday: Street, Grandpa, Judits Second Hand, Stadsbibliotheket, cafés + restaurants
Monday: breakfast! Relax, drink coffee, browse shops and read in the park


Saturday, August 1st
Psst... Swiss National Day! For some reason I felt compelled to record my first thought of the day in terrible morning handwriting: "I often find myself in the initial stages of waking up, when you attempt separate dreams from reality." It's odd how that first thought feels like an epiphany when you awake and like nonsense later on. After this false brilliance (mediocrity is my specialty, really), I set off to overdose on art once again. Later I wrote:


I just gulped down a cappuccino after three hours at Moderna Museet, two at the National Art Museum before that and a significant amount of time ogling the many rooms of the Kulturhuset, Stockholm’s public center for visual and performing arts. They have a noteworthy and extensive graphic novel collection, a modern and inviting layout – it’s an enormous building, but doesn’t suffer any loss of warmth or comfort as a result – and a fantastic space for young people to create all forms of projects, from collaged greeting cards to iron-on patch designs. There are multiple little galleries within the mammoth building, and particularly enthralling is a film piece in the first exhibition room I entered.

The concept used has been applied many times before, but the artist managed to make it feel novel. He affixed a small video camera to his head and recorded his movement all over the city. Occasionally the perspective would switch to show his back, from the head to waist, or pull further out and show him from afar, but the viewer never glimpsed his face. Mostly it had the feeling of a non-violent first person shooter and it felt like seeing what the hit man or the guy from Splinter Cell does on his off day. The video game feel was strengthened when he would pick up an object and it glowed a little – like when you find a health pack in a game, or like when Mario finds a power-up mushroom. One object was a giant red flower, which gradually lost its yellow glowing aura until he gifted it to a passing woman. The transfer was lovely and both she and the flower glowed. At several points, he threw a one-cent coin into a fountain or lake, and with that, the entire area lit up with the same yellow glow. Also, towards the end of the film, he hiked up a remote hill further away from the city, and every time he glanced back at it over his shoulder, the entirety of Stockholm was illuminated.

The visit to the National Art Gallery was a nice and peaceful one, and I particularly enjoyed the exhibits of Swedish design and of the black and white photographs from Hans Hammarskiöld. If you find yourself in Stockholm but without too much money (a right tragedy in this costly city), note that the National Art Gallery has one free exhibit and the Kulturhuset has several free galleries. Now that I reconsider it, I am not disappointed that I didn’t go to Brandström & Steve, a design gallery and showroom, as the exhibit in Kulturhuset on transforming everyday objects and how we relate to design (hi, Objectified) was significant and enjoyable enough. I am still thinking of that glorious treeless tree house in Charlottenborg, in Copenhagen. I want to sew imaginary creatures and create dioramas using postcards and photos of the Swiss Alps as a background. I want to make stop motion films, take beautiful black and white photos, write comic books. I want to scream from having swallowed so much of others’ creative output in these past few days and not producing enough of my own. I could explode with unused ideas and anxiousness. I need to talk talk talk to someone and eject all this rushed, violently loud energy from myself. I continue to read until my brain has grown bloated with images and perfect, exquisite story-telling from “Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close.” I am devouring so much, a dangerous amount of cultural material and it’s making me anxious to move around rapidly. I will not see the Dance Museum here; I cannot stare at old ballet slippers behind glass and still shots of famously choreographed dances. I need my bike and love and to be surrounded by people until I can’t stand them anymore.

Yes, tomorrow is for markets. Last night I spoke for a half hour with a cool Dutch girl, and earlier with an Argentine guy who studied civil engineering and saw so much of Europe for the first time in the past seven months. In these conversations I liked the articulate, mature version of myself that I presented, but in actuality I am redundant, just recycling ideas discussed with just as much passion but another individual twenty-four hours previous. Oh. My heart just leapt as I glanced over the glass table with postcards, candy wrappers, business cards and flyers wedged underneath and recognized a MACBA ticket stub. The contemporary art museum in Barcelona, a two-minute bike ride or seven-minute walk from where I lived, was a place I frequented heavily in March. I will avoid saying something trite like ‘it’s a small world,’ but now you know I am thinking it and thus I cannot hide from the cliché tackiness of it all. That’s quite all right, really. Uff. It's nearly 5 o'clock. My legs and feet ache terribly from walking miles through museums. I cannot tackle one more today. Peace of mind is required.

Sunday, August 2nd
Last night I opted for socialization with pricks rather than more alone relaxation, drawing or reading time. I still cannot say whether this was the best decision, but I know I would have slightly regretted it if I hadn’t made the effort. I can be by myself whenever. I shouldn’t go out of my way to do so in Stockholm. After a day of museums and seemingly enormous and rapid thoughts screaming through my head, demanding to be expanded on or at least processed, I went out with the Irish rugby team from my hostel. Oh lord. I knew exactly what to expect, though, so I just had two beers (on the team’s tab, which I didn’t argue) and talked mostly with a German girl from the hostel who lives in Munich (!) and will begin studying psychology at LMU this fall (!!). I emphatically recommended professor Öllinger, whom I had Winter semester. The Dutch girls and the Italian guys were also fun, though one of the Italians seemed particularly edgy due to the volume of the team. Some members were actually rather nice – most of them meant well, anyway – and I learned a lot about women’s rugby from a female player. Violent sport but definitely more interesting than football.

It was so good to speak German with the other girl, and we were guilty of using it as a linguistic secret weapon against the Irishmen. The Dutch girls caught some of it and giggled along. When we headed back, we complained breathlessly and not without agitation about one particularly moronic guy. I mentioned how much more I enjoy and appreciate my own friends, now realizing that people with such idiotic behavior exist in the world. But ok, this is not the time or place to linger on such ideas. I am going to a market and then one more gallery (this is a crazy undertaking, I’ve already come to terms with that) and the library today. Sadly, nothing opens until noon, so I am sitting at a picnic table in the fairytale-like Högandsparken now. I’ve taken to breakfasting on trail mix, apples and bread in the miniscule grassy area behind the hostel in the mornings while watching the dog-walkers pass. Ah Street should be open by now… at the early hour of 11! Brief warning if you come here in August or late July: many restaurant owners are on vacation. Three apparently wonderful restaurants I wanted to dine in yesterday were ALL closed. It was somewhat lousy, as each was a backup for the previous disappointment. I was not too heartbroken, though, as I found sushi and cookies at the end of the journey. Also, my navigational skills have become superb, which is great fun and surely a result of frequently traveling alone. Success!


Later:
I am feeling a bit melancholy. Street, the large marketplace and ongoing art fest appears to be hibernating. My shins hurt terribly from too much walking (in practical shoes, however) and I’d like to move on now, but it’s somewhat mandatory to take a break. There is a pretty park here by the water where I tried to lie down before being bombarded with cigarette butts and prickly grass beneath me. Distraught, I followed the river to a place where willow trees skim the water’s surface and there are actual lily pads. It’s just as polluted here, but the sound of the water and tugboats going by is calming. It’s weird getting depressed for no apparent reason. The walls of one café/bar here are covered with giant flower mosaics with fractured mirrors as a background. It’s right next to the freeway, which adds an industrial, concrete feel, like that of North Portland – half gentrified, half mechanical and poor. The factories on the other side of the river make this comparison complete.

12:40pm
So I retract what I said before, though it was accurate in that small window of time. Going into a neighboring café was a lovely move and didn’t feel monotonous in the way I had feared, i.e. too much of a good thing/overdosing in café culture. It happened to be vegetarian, inexpensive and equipped with a marvelously quirky interior. Sitting with my coffee and perfectly sized sandwich while looking out at the water, I am content. Minutes before, I felt swarmed by cigarette buts, bumblebees and empty glass bottles. Now I look out and notice how terrifically the bikes are arranged along the railing, in an above/below, diagonal/straight pattern. What I especially love about these vegetarian artsy and cheap cafés in Stockholm (or about the two I’ve experienced so far is the table where you grab silverware and other items. In addition to napkins and such things, there is a bounty of free food and drink. An extravagantly prepared salad with fresh vegetables, whole wheat and often homemade bread or Wassa crackers, butter, four different pitchers of water, one with lemon slices, another with orange, a third either with cucumber or plain and a fourth dyed red by the raspberries swimming at the bottom. There are generally pots of strong coffee and black tea as well, which is fantastic. You are assumed to require a great deal of caffeine, having come in search of it and all. There is also an implied sense of trust in this, as you are expected not to take advantage of the system and sneak twelve pieces of bread.

Another element that aided in my mood change earlier was noticing a group of four young travelers who looked from their map to the place where Street should be with obvious frustration. Kindred spirits! I just saw them walk by the front window, seemingly less downtrodden. I believe I was also deeply affected by the book (Jonathan Safran Foer’s), as the issues of mortality and loss of family members are constantly addressed, and the characters are impossible not to relate to. This is no Brecht-like non-Aristotelian literature where you are made to observe and ponder the characters’ situations without empathizing, that much is certain.

It’s also becoming my favorite book, taking the place of “Eva Luna” and “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” which are in an ongoing battle of magical realism for first place on the list. As it is my potential favorite book – though I am aware of how pointless it is to set apart any book as more meaningful or good because of my personal liking of it, a person is allowed to have a specific taste – it feels as if I have developed a relationship with it, and I can’t bear the thought of it ending. Just described in the last chapter read was the main character’s grandfather’s experience of the Dresden bombing; how they shot the carnivores that got loose at the zoo, how everything was on fire and soon reduced to rubble, how the bodies were collected by the river - 220 altogether, four of which ended up ‘coming back to life’ after hours of unconsciousness.

I know this is a work of fiction, but this event is real, too real, and my Oma lived it. I have never discussed the bombing with my Oma, but I know she fled soon after, as the Russians came. I know of her childhood and teenage years in Dresden, of her uncle’s farm where she played with her cousin, and of how that farm is now part of Poland. I know the two of them once used the pigs’ feeding trough as a boat and took off at full speed down the creek. She later worked on a farm collective with other women as part of the wartime duty, and she once loved a soldier whose ring she lost on the day he died. I know she slipped into Switzerland despite it being highly dangerous, how she worked as an au pair and housekeeper for her older cousin’s family in the French part of the country, but couldn’t understand the butcher’s bastardized Swiss-influenced French. All of these things have made themselves known to me through her recollection of anecdotes, but I don’t believe I can ever bring myself to ask about the bombings.


The hipsters are all awake and flocking the street. Stockholm doesn’t wake up until noon on Sundays, it appears, so it makes sense that the galleries and libraries should act accordingly. A man just passed clutching eight baguettes in his arms and I mistook them for an infant. There was something so loving about how he handled them. How can I even think to leave this café? As usual, I am hiding behind a wall so that the terribly friendly and stylish barista will neither see me nor judge the length of my stay. I promise I will not abuse the free coffee, as I’ve just had a cup! Someone is adding to the bike pattern. Shame, though, he chose to be conventional and rest it on the ground. The elevated bikes on the railing always seem to be in motion, which I prefer.

Unrelated Aside:
This notebook [in which I originally recorded these musings] is my equivalent to a person to turn to for shared laughter and acknowledgement – “Did you SEE that?” – which, at face value seems rather pessimistic and morose, but I’ll take irritatingly redundant and inconcrete self-reflection over drunken Irishmen any day. Does this seem too selective? I don’t really give a damn if it does and this question is entirely rhetorical, yet it’s becoming increasingly more apparent that I’ve started to look to Susan Sontag as an ideal. Careful now, that will only bring trouble.

Really though, I was without the notebook for several hours in the city and became horribly agitated. It was like like being without my travel companion. Tonight was nice, however, and I explored, went back to Chutney (vegetarian restaurant of my previous raving), window-shopped and spent time in a park.

Monday, August 3rd, nearly 10am
It’s hard to see individuals who are highly self-aware nevertheless let others control their actions. R., the Dutch girl with whom I spoke for such a long time the first night, is frustrated with her friend and travel partner, who keeps going out and partying, then sleeping half the day away. Understandably, R. feels that they haven’t experienced as much of Stockholm as a result of this behavior. She lamented the fact that they have been to the zoo, but not a single museum. “If she wanted a party vacation,” R. said about her friend, “we could have just gone to Spain.” I invited her for coffee and breakfast, an offer which she considered and seemed to appreciate, but ultimately she chose to call her mother and ask her advice on the situation. Naturally I was sad not to be of more help, but there were many other factors, which we briefly discussed, causing her to be upset. I nearly wanted to shake her at one point – you know what you want! Don’t let others push you around!

In other news, I am flitting away my last few hours in Stockholm on a bench at the grassy patch by a plaza. Café? The more I write, the more of my book I save for the flight and layover. It’s so tempting, though! Also, the Kulturhuset is closed Mondays, so my original plan to hang out there until I board the shuttle has been shot. Oh, hell with it. I will read my book until the end, then browse bookshops in the airport and sleep on the plane. I’ve seen a magnificent amount of this city and don’t feel that I missed out on anything crucial I was dying to see. Favorite parts? Second-hand vintage shops, the reflective and sparkling water, Moderna Museet and the two vegetarian eateries. The creative space in the Kulturhuset is surely my absolute favorite aspect, though.

I just wrote four postcards to my aunt and uncle, grandmother, brother and sister-in-law and parents. I feel a dangerous hand cramp coming on due to all the writing. Oh! I can’t wait to bike through the English Garden again! I’ve missed Munich, to be quite honest. It’s not Berlin, but for one year, it was mine. It’s interesting that when I travel and when I am not visiting family, but planning it all out on my own or with friends, I choose only cities. The countryside is gorgeous, of course, but I want to absorb as much culture and history in the few days I have as possible, so cities seem optimal. Plan for the next few hours: pick up food at a grocery store, browse around in shops once more, take the metro to the library, play there, head back to Central Station, take the bus, get to the airport, check in and dawdle until the flight.

As a result of the BCN incident, I have vowed to be absurdly early for flights from henceforth. Rather one hour early than ten minutes late. I’d like to keep what little money I have.

In a stroke of genius, I opted to create my own sandwich instead of buying one of the overpriced, bland, non-vegetarian options and just removing the meat. A half-inch slice of brie and a streak of butter on a droopy, lackluster piece of bread masquerading as a baguette? Appetizing. I bought garlic bread and a wheat role, a red pepper and a small tin of black olives. Pepper and olive slices on garlic bread are inordinately delicious, it would seem. After I ate in the sun, next to the well-manicured flowers, I casually made my way over to the library, as I’d have been somewhat disappointed not to have seen the interior. It was stunning and awe-inspiring, and I so loved the feeling of being engulfed by the immense, rounded shelves. I grabbed a book of Pushkin poems, Douglas Coupland’s “JPod”, a tiny book of drawings and Jack Kerouac’s posthumously published play “The Beat Generation.” I became engrossed in “JPod” and gobbled through 60 pages of it in that marvelous library.

10:25pm
Planes, trains and automobiles. Today has been full of prolonged transportation or waiting to get on the next form of transport. The S-Bahn to Marienplatz takes SO LONG, and I’ve fished my book, read the Herald Tribune cover to cover, drawn, depleted my iPod battery and taken a multitude of naps. The fact that I haven’t eaten anything substantial since a small yogurt in Copenhagen at 6:30pm and the glorified sandwich at 1pm before then is starting to wear on me. Perhaps a friend at Stusta will be awake and willing to feed me? Don’t set your hopes too high, there. There is basmati rice at home, oil and some spices… That may be sufficient, though far from interesting.

Five more stops! The rain beats down the walls and windows of the train.

I miss carrots, avocados and blueberries. Frankly, I miss my mother quite a bit as well, and am anxious about having to share her with Oma and the Bauers soon. Ohjeohjeohje. Baldbaldbald. Bald is soon auf Deutsch. When you rewrite or repeat a word so much, it loses its particular meaning and becomes part of a pattern, visual or auditory. God I am tired, and eager to cease this chaos of constant motion. This doesn’t happen until PDX. Soonsoonsoon.

Zürich and last days in Munich update still to come.

For the Love of Libraries

On Tuesday evening, my friend M. told me of this library, one of the largest in the world dedicated to children's literature, that is in an old castle and within zone one on the metro/bus system, just an hour away. We make plans to go, and on Wednesday we set out, each with our small food supply for the trip and what we assumed would be a long stay at the library. We talktalktalk on the way there, but once we reach the spot, we see that it is completely magical and are momentarily struck by silence and awe. It is like a tucked away cove in Munich that everyone remains hushed about; there are bike paths that sprawl out over the whole area
and a gigantic field of sunflowers, straight from the cover of Everything is Illuminated.

The tiny old castle looks more like a church, and has a little moat, plus a lake and a stream nearby. People are out sunning, eating and laughing loudly at the restaurant as their skin freckles and browns. We later got ice cream, after hours of reading, and watched the bikers go by and the sunflowers continuously stretch toward the sun. First, though, we went to the study halls, where there were desk areas, like cubicles without the walls, with plenty of space to spread out books and research. There were so many marvelous books, and I spent forever with one written in 1862 called The Science of Fairy-Tales. It was incredible and had an entire chapter dedicated to story-telling. My mind is full of these stories and theories, on which I took extensive notes. There was a gallery dedicated to Eric Carle, one of my favorite children's book authors and illustrators - the one who did The Hungry, Hungry Caterpillar. He is German-American and spent half of his life in each country. For this reason, in addition to his talent, German educators love him. There are even Eric Carle pillows and mugs with the caterpillar's image.

A crazy event was going on outdoors in the same caterpillar theme. Gaggles of children and their parents were making masks, building things, screaming a bit, and playing in a fabric tunnel. One girl had a butterfly painted on her face, but on either side of her mouth rather than on her cheek.
She looked like she could swallow everything.

We went over to the library soon after, where there were so many different sections, each divided by language. I especially loved a book of tales by Jim Henson, or later adapted by him, at least. M. got Where the Wild Things Are in Russian, since she just wanted to use the pictures for ideas in an art project. I had a book on anatomy and started drawing the heart, and another book that I remember reading once I upgraded to chapter books in school. It was called The Borrowers and had to do with tiny people who live under the floorboards and in the walls, like mice. They hang stamps on their walls like paintings, use thimbles as pots and carpet swatches as rugs. I remember being fascinated by it as a child.