#zoo animals for westerners to gawk at

[kafkasdiariies]

Taj Lake Palace, Udaipur, India ANJCI ALL OVER

#taj lake palace #udaipur #india #rajasthan #architecture #lake #i cropped out the child bc foreigners are not #zoo animals for westerners to gawk at #plus i don't like people in travel photos #architecture edit #mine #not my original photo #1k #2k #3k #4k #5k #8k

[amphoras-of-wine]

Can Netflix (and western media in general) just stop treating ultra-orthodox Jews like some kind of anthropological zoo animal? We're not there for you to gawk at and pretend to understand. Just stop.

#for the love of god #you don't know shit about them #the jews are tired #jews #rant

[imhereforbvcky]

Team Re-Building - Part 1

Summary: (Sam Wilson x reader, FalconCap humor/fluff) After the events of EndGame, the remaining Avengers head out on a mandatory team building exercise at your cattle ranch. The week turns out as unexpected for you as the idea was for them.

Prompt/Request: “Is that a horse?! Do I look like a cowboy to you?” For mine and @justsomebucky’s Cap² Challenge. I separated the prompt a little for flow, but I think I kept the spirit of it.

Warnings: None. Probably swearing. I’ve got a mouth and I can’t control it.

Word Count: 2061

A/N: This is just a little 2 part series. Part 2 is totally done. I’m planning to queue it to post in just 2 days! yay! 2 in 2 days, that’s easy to remember.

“Are you sure this is it?” Bucky muttered. His eyes followed the wrought iron banner propped between two enormous raw logs rising to form the arched entry. Dead center, the flying K brand stood dark and resolute against the bright afternoon sun.

“No,” Rhodes grumbled, “I haven’t seen a road sign for at least fifteen miles. Just dirt and tumbleweeds.”

The group held a collective breath when the modified jeep rattled over the cattle grate beneath the arch. The all-terrain vehicle had been waiting for them at the tiny regional airport when they’d landed. Now it made sense. The road went from grated dirt to a rugged two-wheel cut path over hill and stone.

Sam tried to convince himself it was all part of the experience, but frankly, the kinds of experiences he preferred usually involved a cold beer on his patio or a jog along a beach. The mountains were, admittedly, something to see. Jagged stone fingers clawed out of the hills, reaching unknowable heights into the unending blue sky. The photos on the brochure hadn’t done it justice.

Still, he just wished he wasn’t seeing them with clenched teeth and fists tight around the roll bar of the jeep as it hauled them all further and further from civilization.

“Why are we doing this, again, Sam?” Wanda asked, her arm darting out to his shoulder to brace against the jostling.

“Team building?”

“And there’s no ‘team building’ in New York?” Bucky complained, leaning past Wanda to glare at Sam.

“Couldn’t we have done a trust fall or something?” Rhodes agreed with a smirk on his lips at his own joke.

“How long’re you gonna hold that over my head?” Sam complained.

“'Til that face you make stops being funny.”

“Well, that’s exactly why we’re here.”

“I still don’t see why we had to be here,” Bucky insisted.

“Look, if any of you have figured out how to skip out on Maria Hill’s orders, you let me know the magic words and I’ll get us out of shit like this next time.”

Before too much longer the little caravan had made its way over the foothills and pulled up to a large cabin. It looked old, like the stones had been there as long as the mountains themselves, but the logs were freshly sealed and the chairs on the sprawling porch looked deep and inviting with soft leather cushions and bright red pillows.

“Hi there!” The voice that greeted them sounded like it was made there in those hills. It rolled gently and warmed like the sun on the breeze. “Welcome to Kestrel Point.”

“Thanks for accommodating our crew,” Sam stepped forward, offering his hand. “Sam Wilson.”

A laugh tumbled out. “I think we know who you are. All of you.” Your smiling eyes darted to the group behind him, still righting themselves after climbing down out of the jeep.

Sam wasn’t quite used to that yet. Sure, he’d been an Avenger for years now, had worn the armor of a hero. But after the Decimation… after the fight in upstate New York… after he picked up that shield… Being known had a different weight to it; sat just a little heavier on his shoulders.

“Right,” he shook his head and glanced back at what was left of the team, at those who’d survived, who hadn’t been left too worn to continue the fight. It was his team to lead now, his to rebuild and hold together.

You watched the struggle dance across his features and saw it echo in the furtive glances among the others. But you didn’t remark on it, nor did you hesitate. It was your job to help them find their rhythm and rebuild their strength, not to dwell on the present cracks in the armor.

Offering the same wide smile, you introduced yourself and a few of your staff before clapping your hands together, brows leaping with excitement. “Well let’s get started! My guys will take your bags to your rooms, and if y’all will follow me, we’ll get you matched up and get you started.”

When you turned toward the barn, nodding for them to follow, there was no argument. At least not that you saw. Mainly because you didn’t wait for one. That didn’t mean there weren’t protests. There was a flurry of wide-eyed glances exchanged from everyone but Clint.

For once, Clint felt right at home. He’d made a beeline for the stables and perched up on the split-rail fence with all the ease of familiarity. They might be thick western saddles here instead of the sleek black tack of his memory but the sound of twisting leather and long swooshing tails took him right back. With a distinct brand of nostalgia, he recalled rows of agile white Lipizzans, practically glowing under the circus tent lights. Visions of children gawking at larger-than-life Percherons filled his head and a slow grin eased over his face.

While your ranch hands tied the last of the horses in a row before him along the fence, ready and waiting, you lead the rest group inside. They weren’t quite ready.

“Is that a horse?!” Sam balked as he approached. It suddenly all clicked for him what Hill had been planning and he was not a fan. He liked the smirk on Barton’s face even less as watching him stroke a hand down the nose of a particularly antsy Quarter Horse. “No. I think there’s been a fundamental misunderstanding on our end.”

You laughed as he backed away. “Miss Hill warned us this was not the most uh… experienced group,” you tucked your worn leather utility gloves in your back pocket and gently slipped your fingers around his bicep, easing him forward. “You have nothing to worry about Mr. Wilson. We’ll take it slow.”

You were meant to be comforting him, but the moment he felt your contact and looked down at you with the softest, deepest umber gaze you’d even laid eyes on and it was your breath that caught in your chest. The words suddenly vanished on your tongue and it was all you could do to mimic the slow pull of his smile at your playful word choice.

“Do I look like a cowboy to you?” he asked, teeth flashing that smile.

You coughed on a laugh and looked at your feet. Boots. That’s right. They needed boots, that’s what you had been doing before. Before Sam Wilson and his damn smile.

“Not yet,” you agreed, shrugging one shoulder. “But we’ll take care of that.”

It took three full days to get everyone sufficiently steady on horseback. By the morning of day four, you’d decided it was sink or swim. The herd had nearly eaten through the winter pasture and before long the creek cutting across the valley would be swollen and racing with snowmelt. If you didn’t drive the cattle up to the newly sprouting summer lands soon, it would be too late.

A little instruction on the trail, couched softly in teasing and laughter might get the team where they needed to be skill-wise. If not, your own team flanked the Avengers, just in case. They might fight aliens and save half the galaxy, but they had never chased a scared new calf down a ravine.

Well, maybe Clint had.

He was, of course, a natural. Animals were his thing. Particularly large gentle ones whose affection could be bought with food. He’d spent his down time near the stables, figuring out what Apollo’s favorite snacks were and had stuffed his pockets with broken carrots.

The others… well they were lucky if they’d encountered a horse at a petting zoo before that week.

Bucky hadn’t seen a whole hell of a lot of cattle in Brooklyn between 1917 and 1943. And after that, war and survival had pretty much been his sole priorities until very recently.

Rhodes had no interest. He was a modern military man with his own Iron Man suit. Let’s face it; he had a better ride and more pressing matters anyway.

Wanda spent most of her life in a concrete cell. You weren’t sure if she had ever even seen a horse in person before climbing out of that jeep on your ranch. But she took to it pretty well. Those with a gentle demeanor usually did. You’d paired her with a sweet old mare that didn’t spook easily. Eventually the slow sureness of the horse seemed to have a calming effect for Wanda. She found herself enjoying her time away from so many people, away from their thoughts and fears. You could imagine her leasing out a ride now and again when she went home.

Bruce was… well half Bruce and half green and far too big to sit a horse. Didn’t stop him watching and teasing, though.

And Sam. Sam was maybe the most fun for you. He was all city, all soldier. Stiff but determined.

“I know you’re not laughing at me!” he hollered as you circled back and eased to a trot beside him. He looked so stiff and uncomfortable; you just couldn’t help but snicker. “Not again.”

“I’m sorry,” you managed, wiping tears from the corners of your eyes, grin so wide it hurt. “Just… You’ve gotta relax.”

“There’s a thousand pound animal between my legs!”

“And you think clenching up is gonna keep him from throwin’ you?” you teased.

It didn’t help. Logic flew out the window when fear came knocking. Sam only glared in your general direction, too anxious to look away for long. But you saw him fighting back a smile.

“Alright, well I think Ranger’s been a smooth ride and it’s high time you return the favor,” you tried again, reaching over and untying the lead you’d left on Sam’s horse.

Sam glanced down at his steel grip on the pommel. “What do you mean?” he asked, eyeing Ranger as if there was some lever that would make this all easier.

“You’re ex-military, right? I assume you had to carry a person at some point in your training?”

“Para-rescue. Carried injured friendlies out all the time. How’s that supposed to help?”

“Was it easier if the payload was stiff as a board or if they moved with you?”

“Alright, alright,” he chuckled. “I see your point.”

“It’s a ride not a beating. Treat it like a lady,” you joked, encouraging him to push again into a trot and offering advice as you continued alongside. “Move with him. ‘ll be easier on your ass and his back. Relax and let your hips roll.”

“Do you talk to all your clients like this, or am I just lucky?” He was smiling now, still looking down at his horse.

You, however, laughed beside him, relishing in his flirtatious nature. His easy smiles and quick wit had captured you early on. It had been a while since you’d enjoyed someone’s company this much. “You’re definitely somethin’.”

“That didn’t sound like a good thing.” He pouted, but with that little shine in his eyes, that extra roundness to his cheeks that betrayed the grin beneath. Like it was just waiting to erupt and brighten his whole face. The longer you spent near him, the greater the pang deep in your gut at the thought of what that full smile might look like. Would it be better than these secret hidden ones? Would it warm you head to toe? Ignite this heat that seemed to spark from something as small as a little grin?

You needed to breathe, get your head back on your shoulders. With a swift squeeze of your knees your horse notched forward.

The more Sam had talked with you, joked, and flirted, the less he had time to worry about his horse. He relaxed, consciously or not, he and his horse settled into a rhythm.

Satisfied with his ability and desperately needing the distance, you led the way out onto the soft green acres that sprawled beneath the rough granite peaks. Fresh spring leaves quivered in the breeze and blankets of snow still dominated most of the mountaintop.

You pushed ahead into a canter, resuming your duties checking in on the other guests – the other Avengers. But not before turning over your shoulder with a grin just for him, just for Captain goddamn America.

“I think I’m the lucky one this time.”

Part 2 >>

#sam wilson x reader #sam x reader #cap2challenge #samcap x reader #falconcap x reader #sam wilson fanfic #sam wilson imagine #avengers fanfic #avengers imagine #team rebuilding #team rebuilding part 1 #team rebuilding 1

[yuying27]

With cdramas becoming so accessible to western audiences, im experiencing a redux of the feeling that whi//te media writers really need to watch, digest, and maybe even do a little research before writing their haha funny social media hot takes on media that requires a life time of cultural context to fully understand, and the bare minimum, 30 minutes of "should i really be trying to apply my western pov on this instead of just enjoying and putting my experience in the backseat until I know more?"

I dunno i think maybe im just sensitive to the feeling of being gawked at like zoo animals constantly. Theres definitely a different feeling of weird outside spectatorship whenever westerners consume asian media. It happened with kp//op, now its happening to cdramas.

[artblanche]

Primitivism: a product of fetishization

Primitivism is an aesthetic that calls to the ‘primitive’ experience. Think tropical plant motifs, animal print, and tribal lifestyles. It “borrows” ideas from non-Western or indigenous people and relates it to modern Western life. Artists that use primitivism in their work often idealize a simple, tribal lifestyle. 

Nude with raised arms (1907), Pablo Picasso

The reverse of technology is what draws them in. Europe during this time, the 19th century, was going through an industrial revolution. This rise of city life and labor made many Europeans long for the days of a slower lifestyle that was more connected to nature. Europeans also started to travel more and were able to bring back artifacts and novelties from whatever exotic location they were off to. This time was also when the primitive artists wanted to go against the strict European art academies and salons, the ones who controlled every aspect of art that was shown in galleries and that was taught in schools. Previously, all of the work that was featured in these galleries were done by artists who were well off and attended fine art schools and only certain types of art could get featured. The rigidity of this institution grew tiring to artists and in order to find inspiration for art again, they went to countries whose ideals and perspectives on life were different. Many anarchist movements were happening during the 20th century because of industrialization and colonialism, so primitivism coincided with those anarchist ideals. Instead of idealizing the city life of Europe (and showing some sort of patriotism), they rebelled against the progression of cities. 

Seems innocent enough, right? A modern anarchist just wants to reconnect with the lifestyle less contemporary. Ah the joys to leave the hustle and bustle of Europe and escape to the beaches of Tahiti…

But any look into history will show you why this concept is distasteful and racist.

Time and time again in history (shit, even in modern day) the ideas of marginalized groups are taken and used for profit by the dominant group (usually white people). There was the incident in 2018 where Kim Kardashian had her hair done in cornrows and called them “Bo Derek braids” and news outlets just … went with it? There was the incident in 2013 where Selena Gomez wore a bindi in several of her performances. Even in everyday life, you could see someone wearing a headdress, a kimono, blackface, etc. at a Halloween party just for ‘fun’. The point is, this concept is nothing new and has been exemplified in history in many ways. 

Primitivism is just that, cultural appropriation. The way that the aboriginal people would look in the paintings was often distorted and exaggerated. One of the most notable primitive artists, Paul Gauguin, would often sexualize and belittle Tahitian people in his work with vague cultural and religious symbols. He toyed with the idea of, how will these people react when I introduce them to my profound religion? Many of his paintings mix the religious ideals of various aboriginal beliefs with Christianity and he’ll show Tahitian people in Christian prayer poses. “He portrayed the natives as living only to sing and to make love,” said Nancy Mowll Mathews, author of Paul Gauguin, An Erotic Life. 

Let’s use one of Gauguin’s paintings to show misrepresentation of culture. In the painting La Orana Maria (Hail Mary) (1891), Gauguin depicts the Christian Mary as a Tahitian girl with a child on her shoulder, the child of Christ. The fruit laid out in front of her in a ‘fata,’ a platform used by the Polynesians to make offerings to the gods. ​In the middle of the painting, the two women posing are inspired by Javanese Temple, Borodurur, that he kept photos of. In the very back, to the left, is an angel with black hair hiding away. He blends 3 different cultures into one painting but doesn’t depict any of the aspects correctly. He blends the stories together and recreates Tahitian life as if it were going through different religious and cultural changes. The Christian Mary is good . . . a Tahitian woman is good . . . now imagine them together. And that seems to be the biggest issue with primitivism, the fact that cultural significance of certain religious symbols are forgotten about in the name of art. They pick and choose the best aspects of cultures and religions and mesh them all into one painting, and ignoring all the parts that don’t fit the aesthetic. After all, this is an art style based off of the ‘primitive’ experience and is subject to everyone and their own aesthetic. Why include poses from temples in Java, Indonesia in a painting blending Christianity with Tahitian life? (It’s purely for aesthetics)

Remember how I mentioned the industrialization and colonialism in Europe during the 20th century? Well, their colonialism got so extreme that 90% of Africa was under European control. The fascination with this ‘exotic’ country and it’s people started to rise- and primitivism was a product of this fascination. They viewed African people as inhumane, hypersexualized, uneducated spectacles that needed to be observed. And thus came the creation of human zoos, featuring people of color (and mostly African people) to be gawked at, poked and prodded. Millions of visitors came to these zoos and supported this dehumanization of people. These zoos were closed as embarrassingly late as 1958. In 1994, there were plans in France to create a human zoo showcasing an Ivory Coast village where the people involved were contractually obligated to be topless. Disgusting.

History is important to keep in mind when determining if something is culturally inappropriate or not. Just because it happened a certain number of years ago and isn’t happening today doesn’t mean that it never happened nor should it be forgotten about. And just because the exact same thing isn’t happening now doesn’t mean that something with the same theme isn’t still happening. Human zoos no longer exist, but did racism end with it? Prejudice and misrepresentation often times get neglected or overlooked but it is important to talk about topics like this to keep people accountable and to learn from. 

Styles like primitivism are now synonymous with artists like Picasso and Gauguin who had no right to claim it as their own in the first place. Their style is the exaggeration, exploitation, and dehumanization of indigenous people that they were able to get recognition for. Now, African artists are speaking up against the harmful misrepresentations and are having problems with reclaiming their culture from this grossly misrepresented art style. Francis Nnaggenda, a contemporary Ugandan artist, says, “People tell me my work looks like Picasso, but they have it wrong. It is Picasso who looks like me, like Africa.”

Cited Source: 

“Art History 101: Why Primitivism Was Cultural Appropriation.” How To Talk About Art History, 26 Oct. 2016, www.howtotalkaboutarthistory.com/uncategorized/art-history-101-primitivism-cultural-appropriation/.

#arttalk #arthistory #primitivism

[erincardenthailandblog]

Siem Reap, Cambodia

Siem Reap, Cambodia was my first destination on my six week long holiday traveling across South East Asia. I traveled with Lisa and Sam, two girlfriends from my organization. We stayed at a wonderful hostel. This was my first hostel experience and was by far the best hostel I stayed at. It had great energy. The people were super friendly, it served delicious food, and played good music. We stayed in a six person all female dorm with bright green walls.  I only complained about two things. One, the top bunk was really high and a hassle to climb up. I kept forgetting one thing on my bed and would have to climb all the way up to retrieve it. I felt like most of the time spent in the hostel- apart from sleeping- was spent climbing up and down the stupid ladder.  Also, there was no a railing to keep the sleeper from rolling off the bed! One online review of the hostel was written by a young woman who had fallen off the top bunk and had to be rushed to the hospital for multiple stitches in her chin. Yikes. Second complaint: there was a bathroom in the room, which later proved to be a luxury in a shared dorm however, the toilet was separate from the shower and the sink, which made absolutely no sense to me. The women staying in the room were really nice and laid back. One woman was from Germany and she was backpacking around SEA alone. Another woman in her 30s was from Portland OR. She had quit her job and was also backpacking across SEA alone for 8 months. I was impressed by their bravery and independence.

On our first day in Siem Reap we went on a bike tour to the countryside. We went to a temple that was incredibly unusual because it was seemingly empty and also included a big cemetery. The cemetery was beautiful. It was full of giant, brightly colored “tombs” that looked like pieces of art. Just like in America, the more money you can pay, the more elaborate your burial site is.  Our tour guide was wonderful and only 21 years old! He told us about the Cambodian New Year that was coming up. It is celebrated in a similar way to that of Laos and Thailand (a three day long water fight). He told us that women in the rural areas of Cambodia are not allowed to talk to men but during these three days celebrating the New Year they are in fact allowed to talk and be in the company of men. That said, the most these women are allowed to do during this time is hold hands with men. He also told us that during these three days every house and business is decorated for the New Year, if they are not, it is believed that the spirits will not bless them.

After visiting the temple/ cemetery we biked through a beautiful rice-farming village. The roads were made of dirt and were incredibly bumpy. I still can’t believe we didn’t fall off of our bikes. The houses we passed were made of palm tree leaves and the walls made out of sheets of steal and/ or long planks of wood. The children playing outside were very friendly and all waved and said “hello” as we rode by. We passed by a young girl standing outside her house built out of planks of wood. She was barefoot, wore a tattered dress, and carried a naked baby on her hip. We rode past motorbikes full of 4 or more boys who looked like they were six years old and who were unaccompanied by an adult.  We passed by huge heaps of rice laid out on the grass to dry.

Our tour guide informed us that most Cambodian rice farmers still use cows as opposed to machines to harvest rice because machines are very expensive to purchase. The people living in these rice farming villages harvest rice to feed and sustain their family. They do not profit off exporting the rice. He also told us that the Cambodian people are suffering because the government is kicking people out of their homes and into the streets in order to build big buildings for businesses. He also told us that hundreds of people die every day in traffic related accidents because there is not enough money to build safe traffic infrastructures. He told us that the government is bad. That people are unhappy. That although Cambodia is a “democracy” the government ignores what the people want. Although it was upsetting to hear, I was thankful to be on a tour that didn’t gloss over the negativities. I was thankful that this young tour guide was showing us Cambodia through his eyes.

Towards the end of the tour the heat was rising fast. We biked very slowly and there was a slight breeze because of the fact that we were biking, not walking, but the sun was wildly aggressive. It was the strongest sun I had ever felt. Beads of sweat dripped down and my face and the sunscreen on my face mixed with my sweat got into my eye and that burned. At that point we were riding down one dirt road that had flooded. There was so much water we couldn’t see the ground and couldn’t gage how deep it was exactly but I managed to ride through it with only one eye open. Immediately after enduring this we turned around the corner and biked into insane traffic. I survived and was thoroughly impressed with my biking skills.

The next day we awoke at 4 am for our tour of Angkor Wat- a complex of dozens of temples and the largest religious monument in the world. It was built in the 12th century as a Hindu place of worship but quickly converted into a Buddhist place of worship. It is also one of the Seven Wonders of the World. If anyone reading this has watched Idiot Abroad, Carl went there. Long story short, Angkor Wat was amazing but it was the worst tour any of us had ever had. Our tour guide rode with us in the tuk tuk from our hostel and we were all rather grumpy and not very talkative because of the fact that we were tired from waking up so early. Our first stop was to the ticket office where our guide told us to stand in line. We waited thirty minutes only to find out that he had placed us in the wrong line. So that blew. But once we purchased our tickets and arrived at Angkor Wat our annoyances were soon forgotten. It was very peaceful and the air was cool. Cicadas roared. The trees stood tall and majestic. The air was fresh and smelled sweet. We walked along a dirt path in silence towards Angkor Wat. It was a rather powerful experience. Our tour guide had informed us that he was taking us through the back end because there were fewer tourists. Once we arrived to the front side of Angkor Wat though we realized that all of the other tourists were there watching the sun rise. So although we had a quiet walk to Angkor Wat, we had completely missed the sunrise, which was the whole point of waking up at 4 a.m. Darn. Our guide was also impossible to understand and he failed to walk with us. Sam and I would stop to take a photograph and he kept walking forward while talking only to Lisa. As our tour continued and it got hotter, Lisa noticed that he smelled like whiskey. She asked him what he had done the previous night and he said that he had just bought a house so he had a house warming party and went to bed really late and almost missed the tour completely. So, although we had a massively hung over, or maybe even still drunk tour guide and an F- tour, Angkor Wat was amazing and the tour did not ruin the experience in the least. The temples were absolutely stunning. My favorite was Bayon, a temple decorated with huge carved Buddha faces. In order to enter every temple we had to climb up insanely steep stone stairs that children were not allowed on. There were however, a lot of older people. I saw more elderly people than young people throughout the tour. I couldn’t believe it. I could hardly walk up the stairs. And in the unbearable heat! They were in amazing shape. I was very impressed. All in all we had spent almost 7 hours at Angkor Wat. We left exhausted and filled with awe.

The next day I spent the afternoon touring the War Museum, a civil war museum with a collection of military vehicles and weapons. I spent less time looking at the military equipment and more time reading about the Cambodian Genocide (1975-9), which I am embarrassed to say, I had no idea about. I learned about Tuol Sleng S-21, a high school that was turned into a torture prison for suspects of Pol Pot, a Cambodian politician who led the Khmer Rouge. Three million victims were murdered in a large field outside this prison. I was horrified to learn that the genocide took place so recently and that the country is still suffering. Every Cambodian, in his or her way, is still struggling with the recent events of the past. The consequences of this atrocity have affected many parts of life in Cambodia- failing infrastructure, lack of education, poverty, thievery, and prostitution are only some of them.

It was our visit to Tonle Sap Lake that awoke a feeling of great tension between being both a tourist in SEA, but also a teacher experiencing and upholding the local way of life in one part of SEA- rural Thailand. Our visit consisted of riding in a speedboat, operated by one young boy and one older man, down a river while gawking at the way the local people live their life. The entire experience felt rather exploitative.  It was a strange concept to be paying money to see the way local people live their life. I felt as if I were at a zoo, looking at these people as if they were animals behind glass. There we were, a group of the many Westerners who float down their “side walk” every day gawking at them.

This feeling of tension did not however, subdue my great admiration for the many ways that the villagers have created tremendously resourceful ways of living on the lake with the rising and falling sea levels. Houses built on stilts are the means in which inhabitants can survive during the rainy season (June- October). Residents have to tie their homes to treetops in order to keep them from floating away. Wood and palm tree leaves are materials not only used to build living spaces within the homes, but also as kindling for fires used to cook. Bamboo sticks are used as paddles so villagers can better navigate through the waters and fish cages are also made out of bamboo. Villagers sleep and sit on straw mats and this straw is used to generate electricity for kerosene lamps used after dark. I admired their many recycling methods and wish more Westerners would appreciate and even learn from this level of resourcefulness.

While I recognized the riches of this community that are often underappreciated by Westerners who are spoiled by modern conveniences and blind to the genius behind this kind of resourcefulness, I was also aware of the problem of waste. Along the sand lay heaps of scattered garbage. Water bottles, bags, containers, soda cans, straws, and other pieces of plastic trash floated along side our boat in the muddy water. We were told that the inhabitants drink, bathe, and defecate all in the same water. This water. I was informed that waterborne disease is the most common cause of death in children under five for these village communities. Whether this is really true or not, I do not know.

I’ve learned that there are many kinds of travelers. There are those who come to SEA so they can limitlessly treat him/herself with the strength of their currency. There are travelers who come to indulge in the party scene, spending every night slurping down $5 buckets of alcohol. There are travelers who break away from their 9-5 job and come to relax on the various beautiful beaches. There are young travelers who come in search of “finding themselves.” Maybe I am this kind of traveler. Maybe I am a combination of all of these kinds. When I began my summer holiday I was focused on myself. I was focused on how traveling across SEA for six weeks would enlighten me. I was focused on the beautiful explosions of sights and sounds, feelings and tastes that I would have and would carry with me for the rest of my life. Touring Tonle Sap Lake made me recognize the privilege I have in my ability to just pass through. Traveling to Cambodia taught me how to shift my focus of travel from myself to the bigger picture. Touring this village made me stop and question the blindness many travelers have, myself included. It taught me that even when you are “staring” at all the new sights, and delighting in all the sensations that come with traveling to a new place, it is important to reflect on what is seen, heard, and felt, on a deeper level.  

Living in Thailand and conversing with people who have also traveled around SEA has taught me to challenge my understanding of what I consider to be “quality” ways of livelihood. A friend helped me understand that as first world American, it is easy for me to tour Tonle Sap Lake and feel uncomfortable, as if I am glamorizing their “poverty.” But who am I to say that they are in fact, living in poverty? That is a rather patronizing statement made from a bias point of view because I am comparing their way of life to that of a Western way of life, which simply is not fair. Yes by American standards these villagers would be considered “poor” but by SEA standards they are not. As someone who wants to travel as an educated, self-aware, open-minded individual it is important that I view, understand, and appreciate this part of the world not through the lens of an American with American standards, but as someone living in a new part of the world with completely different standards from the ones I was raised in.

Traveling to Cambodia taught me that as a tourist it is my duty to look, but more importantly stop, question, and reflect on the significance of what I discover. And not just for myself as the individual traveler, but for the world. And when I think of the world I think of the limitless tiny narratives that shape human experience. I think of how our version of the world is constructed through narrowed lenses, illustrated, and shaped by what we allow ourselves to see, feel and accept. Traveling taught me to search deeper for these pieces of narratives that are harder to recognize in hope that I may be able to build a better understanding of the landscape of myself and the landscape of the world around me.

I have opened my eyes and absorbed so much of the riches found in SEA. I know that when I go home my life in NYC will look completely different. Traveling and living abroad, no matter how hard at times, is truly magical.

#siemreap #cambodia #holiday #backpacking #southeastasia #hostel #biketour #ricefarming #village #ankorwat #pol pot #tonlesaplake #lakeliving #tourist

[wallervisualanthro-blog]

Cannibal Tours

Talk about cringe-worthy. From the tourism to the filming to the written discussion, colonialism and exotification is staring you right in the face. The stark juxtaposition of wealthy European tourists and the native communities being visited in Papua, New Guinea highlights many different trends of race, class, values, and traditions.

As the tourists are boated around and guided through the different communities, the only thing I could think of was a zoo. The tourists looked as if they were on a tour of a zoo, taking pictures of different “exhibits,” entertaining themselves by trying to interact with the “exotic” people in front of them, and buying souvenirs that will surely prompt numerous stories back home.

Just as I disapprove of zoos for animals, I also disapprove of this style of interaction with people from different cultures. It is dehumanizing and belittling, and it suggests that cultures deemed “primitive” are acceptable for gawking by curious others. This is exactly how the field of anthropology began, and it is a style that we have worked hard to erase from our methodologies as anthropologists.

Just because a particular culture prioritizes different values and ways of living does not mean that their culture is less advanced or more primitive than Westernized cultures. This is a common belief that really needs to be debunked. 

I think that this film had an opportunity to make more of a statement about cultural tourism than it did. It was fascinating to hear the perspectives of some of the New Guineans living in the communities frequently visited by tours, but I think that I would have liked to see a bit more meaningful engagement between the tourists, the community members, and the filmmaker instead of it remaining superficial. 

[danalberard]

52 Ways to Enjoy the Unexpected Buffalo

Earlier this year, the New York Times revealed its 52 Places to Travel in 2018. Much to the delight of fans of the 716, Buffalo was featured among the likes of Colombia, Australia, South Korea, Italy and exotic locales across the globe.

“Buffalo is making a big comeback in large part by re-purposing its historic buildings and long dormant grain silos,” The Times noted. “Downtown Buffalo now buzzes with life thanks in part to the ever-expanding Canalside entertainment and recreation complex and a host of new dining and drinking establishments.”

To offer some insider knowledge to those prospective travelers who have had their interest piqued by the Times, we’ve put together this awesome list of 52 Ways to Enjoy the Unexpected Buffalo. From food to beer, art and culture, shopping, outdoor adventure and world wonders, this list only scratches the surface. So come join us in Buffalo. There’s never been a better time to visit!

1. Sample the Delicious Dozen on the Buffalo Wing Trail A pilgrimage to the place where the wing was born is only appropriate, right?

2. Bite into a Beef on Weck Sandwich Thinly sliced roast beef, piled high on a caraway and coarse salt encrusted roll. Drool away!

3. Smell the Roses on Garden Walk Buffalo Colorful displays by Buffalo’s greatest gardeners await when you tour over 400 private and public gardens on the largest garden walk in the US.

4. Kayak Through Towering Grain Silos of Elevator Alley You’ll find yourself gawking toward the heavens in this manmade canyon along the Buffalo River.

5. Watch a Performance at Shakespeare in the Park BYOB&W (Bring Your Own Blanket & Wine) to this summertime staple of Buffalo theatre.

6. Visit Frank Lloyd Wright’s Martin House Complex FLW called this quintessential prairie-style home a “perfect composition”.

7. Explore the Mighty Niagara Falls State Park You’ll get so close the the roaring power of Niagara Falls that you can literally reach out and touch it.

8. Take a Silo City: Vertical Tour The remnants of Buffalo’s industrial prowess are now yours to summit on this adventurous tour.

9. Catch a Live Jazz Show at the Colored Musicians Club A jazz club unlike any other, the CMC has been making music for over 100 years.

10. Watch a Movie at North Park Theatre From classic favorites to modern masterpieces, a nostalgic movie-going experience is always playing at this beautifully restored, single screen theatre.

11. Enjoy the Music of the BPO at Kleinhans Music Hall The Grammy award-winning Buffalo Philharmonic Orchestra is always in tune at this magnificent concert venue.

12. Cheer on the Buffalo Bisons at Coca-Cola Field Peanuts, Cracker Jack and the ol’ ball game are on deck for summer’s favorite pastime. Be sure to say hi to Buster Bison and the crew.

13. Carve up the Ice at Canalside Skating, curling and the Buffalo-born ice bikes are yours to enjoy at our waterfront winter wonderland.

14. Experience Buffalo Bills Tailgating at New Era Field Believe the hype! Nothing compares to the camaraderie and energy of tailgating before a Bills game.

15. Hike to the Eternal Flame at Chestnut Ridge Park Nestled in the middle of the woods at this state park, a natural gas spring burns beneath a magical waterfall.

16. Climb the Silos at Buffalo RiverWorks RiverWorks is Buffalo’s summertime playground! Test your climbing skill by scaling a towering concrete grain elevator.

17. Hop on the Water Bikes of Buffalo Pedal your way down the Buffalo River (yeah, you heard that right) on these floating bikes.

18. Watch a Sunset at Wilkeson Pointe Situated along Buffalo’s Outer Harbor, a sunset at Wilkeson Pointe is the perfect way to cap off a warm summer evening.

19. Shop for Easter at the Broadway Market Butter lambs, placek, horseradish, and polish sausage; the East Side’s favorite local market is the place to complete your holiday shopping list.

20. Get a Taste of Nostalgia at Parkside Candy Since 1927, the talented confectioners of this old-fashioned ice cream parlor have satisfied many a sweet tooth.

21.Get Your Fill at Food Truck Tuesday in Larkin Square Tacos, poutine, pizza and shakes, there’s a food truck for everyone’s favorite flavor. And this is the place to taste them all!

22. Catch a Fish Fry in Buffalo This ain’t your typical fish n’ chips. There’s a reason so many Buffalo expats crave this dish. Hint: it’s the huge portions served with all the fixins.

23. See the Sights on an Open Air Autobus Seeing the architectural marvels of Buffalo AND feeling the summer breeze. What’s better than that?

24. Get Artsy at the Albright-Knox Art Gallery The Albright-Knox is home to one of the greatest collections of modern and contemporary art in the world. That’s right, the world.

25. Take a Free Tour to the Top of City Hall The Art Deco masterpiece of Buffalo’s skyline is free to tour every weekday at noon and culminates with an elevator ride to the very top.

26.  Hike the Terrain of the Niagara Gorge Just minutes from Niagara Falls you’ll find spectacular scenery and solitude on the trails that take you deep into the gorge.

27. Learn About Buffalo’s Presidential Past at the Theodore Roosevelt Inaugural Site One of Buffalo’s many presidential landmarks, the TR site is one of only four places where the oath of office was spoken outside of the nation’s capital.

28. Have a Pint with a Side of Presidential Trivia at Founding Fathers Pub Buzzfeed called this one of the 19 Bars in America You Should Drink at Before You Die. We agree.

29. Board a Ship at the Naval & Military Park Ahoy! The largest inland naval park in the United States displays a decommissioned cruiser, destroyer and submarine.

30. See a Broadway Show at Shea’s Performing Arts Center The crown jewel of Buffalo’s diverse theatre scene. Catch a performance in this opulent former movie palace.

31. Enjoy Top Speed Tobogganing at Chestnut Ridge Park Whether you’re 8 or 80, you can plunge downhill on a toboggan on these retro sledding chutes.

32.Watch a Grain Silo Light Show at Canalside Buffalo lives up to its title as the “City of Light” with a dynamic, colorful and dazzling projection display on the side of a grain elevator, visible every night until 11pm.

33.  Indulge in Buffalo’s Very Own Sponge Candy Crispy, airy, chocolatey and simply delicious, many cities have tried their hand at sponge candy, but you can’t beat the Buffalo recipe.

34. Explore Arts and Crafts Roots at Roycroft Campus This National Historic Landmark where the American Arts and Crafts Movement was born has been restored to its former glory and invites you to stay, shop and eat.

35. Bite into a Chargrilled Hot Dog at Ted’s Paired with an icy loganberry drink and order of handmade onion rings, a charred dog topped with the works is a Buffalo specialty tough to top.

36. Spend a Night at Hotel Henry After nearly $100 million in renovations, the former Buffalo State Asylum for the Insane is now an award-winning hotel and restaurant.

37. Visit the Burchfield Penney Art Center Discover Charles Burchfield’s Buffalo roots and other Western New York artists at one of America’s finest regional museums.

38. Get Outdoorsy at Tifft Nature Preserve Traverse the trails and paths of this natural wildlife sanctuary, all within the Buffalo city limits.

39. Visit Vidler’s 5 & 10 in East Aurora Knick-knacks and tchotchkes as far as the eye can see (over 75,000 to be exact) at this famous five and dime.

40. Tour FLW’s Lakeside Masterpiece at Graycliff Estate The summertime home of the Martin family, this Frank Lloyd Wright-designed retreat is the perfect bit of timeless architecture outside of the big city.

41. Set Sail on the Spirit of Buffalo No matter the occasion, this 73-foot schooner offers cruises for families, wine lovers, beer lovers and sunset lovers.

42. Travel Back in Time at Old Fort Niagara Dating back 300 years, history buffs will feel right at home among historic relics and reenactments in the oldest buildings left on the Great Lakes.

43. Geek Out at the Buffalo Museum of Science Put on your thinking caps and venture from the microscopic to the interstellar at this multi-level museum.

44. Make it a 4AM Night in Allentown Some of Buffalo’s best bars, dives and taverns are in the artful, eclectic Allentown neighborhood, which benefit from one of the latest “last calls” in the nation.

45. Catch a Live Show at Sportsmens Tavern Touring bands and local musicians frequent this unassuming Black Rock bar that boasts a live concert every single night.

46. Have a Day in the Elmwood Village Shopping, cafes, breweries, awesome eats and historic charm, packed into just a few easily walkable Buffalo blocks.

47. Experience the Beauty of the Botanical Gardens Built within Olmsted’s South Park, the botanical gardens bloom with an amazing array of exotic flowers and themed greenhouses.

48. Take a Walk on the Wild Side at the Buffalo Zoo From the rainforest to the arctic, let your inner animal lover roar at one of the oldest zoos in the country.

49. Rev Your Engines at Buffalo Transportation / Pierce Arrow Museum You wouldn’t know it just looking at it, but within the walls of this museum is an impressive collection of cars, motorcycles, bicycles and even a replica of a Frank Lloyd Wright-designed filling station.

50. Explore Buffalo’s Background at Buffalo History Museum Relive Buffalo’s heyday and historic moments in politics, industry, innovation and sports at the Buffalo History Museum.

51. Snap a Selfie in Front of Buffalo’s Best Public Art Local artists and international mural superstars have transformed the walls of Buffalo into colorful canvases all around town.

52. Sip on Craft Beer at Nearly 30 Local Breweries From pilsners to IPAs and experimental brews, Buffalo’s booming craft beer scene offers great beer made by great people.

The post 52 Ways to Enjoy the Unexpected Buffalo appeared first on Visit Buffalo Niagara.

from Blog – Visit Buffalo Niagara https://www.visitbuffaloniagara.com/52-ways-enjoy-unexpected-buffalo/

[legendaryalpacaoverlord-blog]

Cannibal Tours

1)     What do you think about what groups are being essentialized in the ethnographic film?  

Focusing the film on the two different groups, the western and northern European tourists and the New Guineans, made for an interesting dynamic. We were able to see both perspectives for what they were. We could follow the tourists and see the wonder on their face as they took pictures with their Nikon cameras, but we could also glimpse the curious yet wary nature of the New Guineans as foreigners explored their homeland with such open fascination. As the viewer, I was able to understand the sentiments of both sides. I’m sure there were times I resembled the tourists, for instance when I visit family in Louisiana who speak and live very different lives from my own. I wasn’t snapping photos while stumbling across the 80-year-old floorboards, but I was constantly taking in my surroundings and making mental comparisons to my home back in Maryland. I find I feel most like the New Guinean natives when student tour groups parade through the hallways on campus. It definitely makes me feel like a spectacle when all those eyes stare at you as if to say “Wow! A real, live college student.” It’s strangely unnerving, but then I think that’s exactly how I probably looked coming to Towson as graduating senior from high school.

2)     What does MacCannell mean by the term 'ex-primitive'?  

 ‘Ex-primitive’ is a term MacCannell uses to describe those that fall under the “Other” category, but have abandoned their primitive ways to take on the practices commonly found in the industrial world. The author’s use of the word “primitive” here is described as performative or an act.

 3)     Who is being exploited?  

 Both the tourists and the native people are being exploited. “The relations between tourists and recent ex-primitives are framed in a somewhat forced, stereotypical commercial exploitation model characterized by bad faith and pottery suspicion on both sides (100).” The native people seen while on these tours are turned into oddities to be gawked at and their livelihoods questioned. Even in the case of well-meaning tourists, the exchange that happens between the two different groups is representative of the interactions between people and zoo animals. The tourists are exploited of their money, with some going as far as withholding their capital to further delay the eventual integration of “primitive” people.

 4)     What is the touristic ideal of a 'primitive' and how is that witnessed in the film?  

 “The touristic ideal of ‘primitive’ is that of a magical resource that can be used without actually possessing or diminishing it. Within tourism, the ‘primitive’ occupies a position…based on a desire to deny the relationship between profit and exploitation (102).”

 5)     Is there a multiple complicity taking place?  

 In the case of the tourists, the constant bargaining for lower than the asked for price is a form of complicity. Haggling prices has become an accepted practice among tourists when visiting other countries, such as Thailand and some locations within China, because it is believed how the locals do business. But in reality, this is not truly the case, which is later expressed by one the New Guineans who is exasperated with how stingy the tourists are being. If there is a price listed, simply pay that amount. But the natives are also engaging in complicity when they lie about their cannibal practices, especially where the acts took place.

6)     Why the focus on the Sepik river and its peoples?  

 The choice of using the Sepik region is to show that the primitive “other” no longer exists (100).

7)      What is your overall assessment of the film?

 This film has forever morphed my image of touring and vacation getaways. While I can watch how the tourists are mingling with the locals, adapting bits and pieces of their culture as they see fit, and harshly criticize their actions—the way they act in the film is how many tourists act regardless of race or ethnicity. Overall, the film opened my eyes to the fact that many of us are guilty of being cannibals, in the sense that we are always greedily consuming other cultures and their traditions and their customs. At least after watching Cannibal Tours I can be more conscious of how I go about myself when abroad, or even outside the limits of my comfort zone.

[moreweirdfuture-blog]

DUST (奇妙な未来 # 002)

Her flight to Oregon was long and boring, and the only detail Marris remembered was a message a previous passenger had scribbled on the back of a coffee-stained aviation catalogue:

 eighty percent of dust is human skin

 For the rest of the day, she pictured a military grade laser aimed down from space with the explicit instruction to fry her epidermis.

 Two minutes after Marris’ plane landed in Oregon she was sent to fix a weather anomaly. The sandstorm had grown from passing tumbleweed to full blown gale. Marris pulled her jacket over her head and ducked low to keep the sand torrent from stinging her cheeks.

 “How long?” she yelled from over the roar of sand and wind. “How long has it been like this?” She covered her mouth with her sleeve.

 The western obelisk extended far into the sky and was a signal repeater for the intelligent sand. Power outages had already been reported across Eugene.

 “Since yesterday evening,” the technician shouted back. The storm could calm itself within seconds and resume as quickly. Marris took a soil sample during one such moment of calm and tinkered with the obelisk’s settings. But the storm picked up as if to resist, so the team bounded across the barren field and crammed into a tiny Honda. The car shook violently, but not enough to arrest her anxiety.

 Months ago she had been hired as a climatologist to replace the woman who preceded her. She could be fired for any reason. We reserve the right. Those words hugged Marris’ chest until she felt a tight and narrow pressure constrain her breath. It didn’t help that a coworker had asked her to identify the differences between D-camphor and R-camphor. She became so paralyzed with stupidity that she wondered if it was a test whose results would resurface as evidence in front of the jury empaneled to judge her merit. She had spent that entire week tinkering with the weather code to prove to herself that she was capable. 

 She was returned to her apartment, a squat yellow building situated downtown between the flat freeway and junk riverbed. Her room was cold with one large bay window. She imagined she could disappear into it and spend the rest of her days gawking at the crease of garbage across the street. Outside, the sandstorm blotted the sky like an insect swarm advancing in startling subtlety.

 It was too late to do more work, but work was all Marris could think of to keep occupied. A layer of grime covered her belongings despite having wiped them down just an hour earlier. How much dirt could there possibly be in the world?

 She emailed a geologist at the nearby university and reviewed the weather code for clues about the disturbance. She fell asleep to a stream about desertification. The entire hotel jolted in temper tantrum and she woke.

 She had been dreaming of her husband and figured he was probably painting at that moment. Her husband liked to wake up early and walk down to the ocean to paint.  

 “World’s empty in the morning,” her husband said. “Makes me think of ancient times.” It too gave Marris pleasure to imagine a world before human ego. 

 The apartment intercom sounded and removed her lucidity. The smooth voice reminded everyone to stay calm. A Barometrix advertisement played, and she fell asleep to the blur of smiling faces and children skipping underneath vaulted domes.

 She unpacked her things while she ate bread and chocolate and the television played an old horror movie where the world was on the brink of collapse because temperatures had risen and temperate regions became price grabs. Her phone sounded early the next morning, long after the television signal had dropped.

 Marris met the geologist outside a coffee shop near the university. Bits of sand hung in the wind like tissue butterflies.

 The geologist sipped his coffee and eyed the vial. He promised to return the analysis results within a couple days.

 On her walk back to the apartment, her doctor called. Marris had forgotten all about the therapy visits that Barometrix required of employees. “I will,” she said. As soon as she answered, the city moaned like the corpse rising from dust. Lights blew out in cascade, and for a few minutes, Marris stared at the sky, empty except for a black wall hanging on the fringe.

 When the power returned, an update from the technicians revealed the obelisk was functioning properly, which confused Marris. She was certain the sandstorm originated from a miscommunication between the obelisk and intelligent sand.

 She phoned her husband and they talked for an hour. She was cautious to fall asleep, as though if she weren’t careful the awful dreams would creep in.

 The next morning she was driven to the power distributor, where the software technicians led her around a building with a low, beige ceiling and every window faced a multi-level parking garage anchored by kaleidoscopes of abelia. They tweaked the intelligent sand’s conversion behavior and updated its firmware. The city had grown impatient, but within days, the weather programming returned to normal, and the regular rain and growth schedule resumed. Marris relaxed for the first time since she had arrived.  

 A school friend phoned that he was moving west for work, so they met at the airport and went for lunch. Lorne had a narrow, tall body with a quick mouth and indestructible, black hair, and a lazy way of smiling, like he wasn’t really trying and was genuine and nice with it and had nothing to hide. His eyes stayed verged on eureka, and it unsettled Marris, like he was always one step ahead of her in a lemniscate. In all her memories of him, he was standing in front of Bunsen burners and chemical compounds. Because life was a competition, Marris was glad that they lost touch not long after she found work as a climatologist. Lorne preferred classrooms, formulas, and abstract this and we conclude that, and just the idea of walking into an ivory tower of whiteboards and Rosetta reminded her of his egg headed friends who made her mad as hell.

 She met them once at a get together in Pullman. They gawked at her like she was an animal of too questionable a cachet to be enshrined at their zoo. They discussed stochastic environment models and n-gram weather plotting. She tried to change the topic, but one had the audacity to say, “I guess you know enough to smile and nod,” and she never liked them since. Marris could have sworn she caught Lorne laugh at the comment. Probably he hadn’t, but he certainly didn’t say much about it, other than, “Aren’t they the type?”

 That got to her more than anything.

 She realized he had been talking for long enough that she couldn’t remember when she stopped paying attention.

 “We’re getting married so we can buy that second house,” Lorne said. Marris felt herself flatten. “He doesn’t love me,” he insisted. “It’s an economic arrangement.”

 “How about the job?” she asked. Lorne dabbed his mouth with a napkin and smiled.

 “That’s why I wanted to meet,” Lorne said. “We will be working together soon.” He leaned back and Marris’ skin began to itch. “So,” his way of beginning an explanation annoyed Marris to death, because whatever followed would be just as coherent without, “Barometrix is looking to expand its product line, and the presentation I gave last fall on advanced methods for cellular conversion must have caught their attention.”

 She wanted to go back in time. She had staked Oregon out on her own. For all it mattered to her, she had created the damn state, and here he was gerrymandering it.

 They paid and walked to the parking lot. Pink hibiscus choked the wet asphalt. Out of nowhere, Lorne turned around and drew in a breath.

 “Don’t be unhappy, Marris.” Marris couldn’t figure out for the life of her why he would assume she was unhappy, so she asked what he meant. He searched for the meaning in a paint splotch, like you just couldn’t wait to hear the read on that one, and said, “I had a dream I could breathe underwater. Isn’t that weird?”

 “Yeah,” she said and nearly slipped on a petal.

 “It made so much sense, so I got up and,” he put his head under a make-believe faucet, “of course I couldn’t—“

 “That is such a strange dream.”

 “—But I was the only one who knew about this secret that had evaded science,” he said and grinned. “No one else but me knew.” He let her go, like he was ready to die and didn’t need company for the journey across. “I was the only one.”

 She got in her car and watched his vroom the corner and disappear.  

 Marris felt gross the rest of the day, like all the world was running sideways and she missed the memo.  

 She liked reading and spent a few hours with Time to get her mind right. She enjoyed the article about a new tier schedule for Internet prices, and another about soaring oxygen costs in Indochina, where the author went into excruciating detail about dirt.

 An internal company memo circulated that Lorne Jimenez was the new head of product management and she read a listicle placing Barometrix as number one in a top three list of climate conditioning companies that year.

 She went for a swim in the rooftop pool. The air had grown sticky with sand and she ate avocado with baked egg and cantaloupe. She covered her face with a book, and hours later everything was sparkles. She peeled the book from her eyes and fixated on her highlighting: it wasn’t until…2024…scientists… manipulate precipitation…reverse…desertification. The air still smelled like wet jasmine and straight black clotted her periphery. It frightened her to imagine a world where the weather was not programmed. What would you do if you had no water? Pray for rain?

 A pen pal of hers from Zimbabwe messaged that he had become enrolled in a climatology course, and Marris felt a surge of pride. She had been fostering his interest in the field, and it was all the news she needed to get her to smile.

 A dull hum caught her attention the next day—a rattle of glasses, passing conversation, wheels crunching gravel, and it played together so well Marris felt a hidden smartness, like all of the random noises you heard in your life might actually add up to mean something if you really wanted. The therapist would be delighted to hear such a positive remark. Marris got a kick out of defying people’s expectations. Each time she did, she was proving someone a fool.

 “Is it useful to know that?” the therapist asked during her visit. Marris always asked, “what’s wrong with me?” as a joke. It really bothered her that the therapist had not picked up on the habit after four months. The room was warm and a dim white light cut through the blinds, a paste-white, mechanical glare that made Marris sleepy, like she was being examined under a microscope and there was nothing to do but close her eyes and wait for it to be over.

 The therapist was a young woman who always looked like you were one second away from telling her the best story since Moses. She was pretty and it bothered Marris, because she did not trust pretty people: how could anything bad happen to the good looking? Marris had hoped for an older man who would intone “Mmm! I see,” no matter what Marris said, and Marris would arrive at her own solutions, and he would smile and nod, all the while tracking her success with a wise detachment. He would compare her life to a molecule, or the weather, and suddenly it would all make sense.

 But Doctor Parnham was not like this at all. She seemed treadmill in every way, and Marris knew it was true because of the family photos all over the walls, all of them smiling in front whatever. Marris wondered why she would be forced to endure it.

 Marris considered mentioning her epiphany, but she was irritated enough to hope being uncooperative might be the most frustrating thing for a therapist, like all that school time would amount to nothing in the face of disinformation.

 The therapist scribbled responses to questions on a tablet, but paused when she asked how Marris’ husband was. Marris responded, “Fine, I spoke with him night before.”

 The therapist lifted her head and looked inquisitive, like this was a topic they had discussed and resolved in a previous session, but Marris didn’t care. In fact, she savored the look of indignation that crossed the therapist’s face.

 “How was he?”

 “Fine,” Marris said, hoping to avoid the topic. The therapist tapped her pen against her clipboard, mentally practicing a response.

 “Can I ask what you—“

 Marris’ phone rang and she excused herself to answer it. The signal to the power distributor had failed without warning and the city sat in chilly stillness. She apologized even though she was not sorry and left.

 They packed into the helicopter, along with Lorne and a few other technicians scrambling with code on screens. The ground pulled away and Marris’ stomach sunk. The chopper deafened her, and the cacti shrunk like pygmies, and the brown bougainvillea kept dying everywhere they flew, and she saw rectangles of blue on and on in the opposite direction, getting microscopic until they were gone. Lorne’s hair whipped about and he smiled to calm her.

 When they broke over a mountain range, the helicopter hovered smartly for a few moments, and Marris felt a supreme stillness, maybe the best there ever would be, before the pilot jumped. A plume of sand and glass zapped the obelisk, slicing it like glue and mucus straight through until the structure toppled sideways and made Marris’ heart thud like it was the first and last kiss. But it was Lorne’s expression that shocked Marris the most. The rest of them were yelling jesus this and mother of god that, while Lorne kept mumbling under his breath, “A man is but the product of his thoughts,” over and over, and it gave Marris a chill to hear him so religious. 

 A national weather advisory kept people indoors and Marris couldn’t keep a connection because the old power grid had not been used in decades. Marris stared at lines of weather code for five hours. Her apartment rumbled. Her contacts fused with her eyes until blinking just left her blurry. Pizza crust and napkin wedges got all excited when the geologist called and insisted they meet within the hour. Marris rushed to meet him. To make it in time, she stubbed her toe and hopped from the apartment in mismatched socks.

 They met near midnight at his lab, a musty prefab structure that a passing philosophy major might mistake for maintenance. Every few minutes, the geologist looked behind him and patted his khakis. He could not input the passcode to the laboratory correctly until his third try. Marris imagined the alarms that would sound and it made her armpits sweat. A few more turns and Marris arrived in a room that reminded her of Lorne, stuffed with scales and incubators, a wall of wilted plants, stacks of chemistry books and grimy tech magazines, fluorescent tube lights and rows of soil carefully labeled and stocked in petri dishes.

 The geologist prepared a glass slide and cover for the specimen, and it clicked when he set it beneath the microscope.

 “Ordinarily,” he adjusted the microscope lens, “this could wait until morning.” He mulled his beard. His voice got conspiratorial. “But this isn’t ordinary.” He encouraged Marris to look, and Marris saw the sand grain close-up, like her husband’s paintings, big circles of amber and spirited rivulets of gray and blue, all lightning and motion like they had an appointment in Nantucket and were about to shoot off that way at any moment.

 “This,” he explained, “is a normal intelligent sand molecule.” He introduced a heat source and the sand liquefied. He removed the slide and prepared another specimen. “Now, a sample from the soil you provided me,” the geologist said in clinical cadence. He provided the same source of heat, but the sand remained immobile. This contradicted the behavior Marris had encountered in the weather code.

 “Is there something wrong with the conversion code?” Marris asked.

 “I thought so,” the geologist explained. “But watch…” his voice hung in the air. He stared at the wall and nothing happened for half a minute, except him mumbling C’mon like a criminal flirt. He concentrated like he was trying to move air, and the entire slide leapt as if propelled by thought. “Someone’s re-written its conversion mechanism.”

 Marris covered her mouth so the scientist couldn’t see her terror. She thanked the geologist, who insisted they talk more, but she hurried from the lab and down the windy corridors, forgetting where she was every other minute, too busy emailing Anitha to schedule a meeting for the next morning.

 On the taxi home, she discovered sections of code she remembered writing months earlier—edits to what catalyzed the intelligent sand. Not heat, to counteract drought and deforestation, but thought—more specifically, the language of thought: mentalese.

She called Lorne, but his phone went to voicemail. She was rushed with nerves. She needed to keep this a secret and not disclose her own involvement. Maybe if she kept quiet, someone else would be blamed?

She found research articles filled with words like thought ordered mental expression. She arrived home so delirious with concentration that she jumped when her phone buzzed. She set it between her neck and shoulder, and her husband’s voice bled through. But her husband must’ve been about some nonsense, though, because she remembered none of it. She woke to the wah, wah, wah, busy tone, realizing only after wiping the dried drool off her flannel that she was late.

 The company headquarters absorbed the pinnacle of a craggy rise near the ocean, tucked behind the freeway and bound by dead juniper, blazed from a firestorm years earlier. The sun shimmered off the glass, and no one dared walk on the lawn that became intelligent sand the closer you got to the beach. Marris swiped her employee badge and took the escalator several accordion style intervals to the third floor. It bothered her that everything about the building seemed inescapable, from its design, from the way people nodded at you, to the denim and plaid, and the espresso that made Marris want to plow through time like a bulldozer, forehead first, and hope she might emerge lobotomized, anything to escape the copy-paste mannequins she had been led to believe were human.

 Her supervisor was a gray-faced woman named Anitha who had the habit of staring straight ahead like she was off somewhere else whenever she was under stress. 

She did not bother explaining that it had been her own desire to tinker with the weather code that was causing all of the disturbances. 

 The group of them packed into an elevator and it hummed its descent beneath the rock. When they reached sufficient depth, the walls illuminated in hexagons. Lorne delivered Marris to a room where she equipped protective gear while scientists in smocks pressed buttons that flung sand sideways and upwards, and it turned into rain, and then glass, and melted, and then tiny sinks with oblong holes absorbed the pellets through plastic tubes.

 The sandstorm had already cost the city one million dollars’ worth of damage. Much of Oregon and Washington succumbed to quicksand and sinkholes. Gas lines had broken and homes caved in after severing from their foundations. Seismologists anticipated a magnitude-9.0 earthquake, which, when combined with the sandstorm, the sloshing, sliding, shaking and flooding, the region would upend, paving the road for the final wave, where the real destruction would begin.

 They were under direct pressure from the government to fix the issue immediately, and in case Marris forgot, screens throughout the laboratory hallways broadcast news of the growing storm until Anitha shut them off and mumbled, “not helping.” 

 The pressure made her fret, and Lorne was as useful as a map of your hand.

 It seemed to Marris that he was purposefully sabotaging the process, but she couldn’t prove it, just that he was slow as molasses and didn’t seem to be doing much.

 When showed the culprit code, he examined it with his chin set into his hand like the French sculpture and said, “Ah.” 

 An hour later Marris found him in the experimental chambers looking like he had discovered how to turn water into money. He pointed at her when she entered. A grain of sand popped through her protective armband and stung her skin. “Ow!” she exclaimed and rubbed at the sting. “My God,” he said and chuckled.

 By sunrise, Anitha emerged with Lorne, who looked like he had just been forced to swallow medicine, and Anitha waved her hand. “It’s fixed,” she said, and within moments the sandstorm receded, and Marris felt the Earth’s intestinal grumble come to a sudden and final halt.

 Anitha and Lorne met with a team of lawyers to advise how to explain the anomaly to the National Weather Administration. The meeting adjourned after hours of legalese, where plausible and accountability were the only words Marris could make out.  

Before she left, Marris found Lorne smoking in front of a hexagonal pulse with his hair unraveled, right next to the elevator.

 “The rest of the team headed home.” Marris noticed her echo. He rubbed his chin like he had taken a wrong turn.

 “I saw a man yesterday,” he finally said and politely coughed smoke to the side, “who looked like he wouldn’t know how to open a door if it said ‘push here’ on the front.” He smiled. Marris blinked. An exit sign loomed above his head.

 “I’ve been up since the sundial,” Marris said. “Call it a night?” She gathered her belongings to leave. Then he looked her square in the face and it felt like skilled karate.  

 “Do you ever wonder what it would feel like to burn?” She thought it was a strange question and she paused.

 “I don’t like to think about that,” Marris said and suddenly got sick. Lorne’s eyes thinned.

 “Oh, right,” he wiped his face, “your husband died in that,” he exhaled and searched for the word, “firestorm,” he put the cigarette out in the wall, “a few years back.”

 The air evaporated from her lungs.

 “I hope you’re not mad,” Lorne said and stared at the wall.

 “How did you—“

 “I looked at your psychology evaluation in the company database.” He smiled. “How else would I have known?” He pushed himself off the wall. “I’m so tired,” he admitted, “so,” he cleared his throat, “agreed, let’s call it a night.” He walked past her, and the pulsing white wall lamp hurt her eyes.

 Marris had not realized Doctor Parnham submitted her evaluation. She looked at her employee profile in the Barometrix database when she returned home and it read patient grief over husband death unresolved recommend leave of absence and she wanted to be done with that doctor then and there.

 Marris sunk into her bathtub and let the water rise to her neck. It was so hot she grimaced to withstand it. The popcorn ceiling glared at her, and she wondered how long it would take for the ceiling to disintegrate into nothing if left up to time. She fell asleep in the tub and dreamt her husband visited, but there was nowhere to sit with the place submerged in water. Her husband walked out, flying the five hours whence he came all the while texting her about how they would never meet again. Marris woke up short of breath and exhausted. She immediately emailed him a synopsis of the strange dream and ignored the return-to-sender failure notice.

 She feared returning to work and the ensuing conversation with Anitha. She had already made plans to fly back home and disappear under a mountain of sheets. She played the different scenarios over in her head.

 But when she returned the next day, Lorne was gone, and the headquarters looked like a tooth hole. Half the building had collapsed in on itself.

 FBI agents and news reporters cast their shadows like a parallelogram. Anitha was caught answering questions, and a film crew stuffed microphones everywhere.

 One of the detectives spread his hands wide. “Sorry ma’am,” he said. She showed her employee badge and he grumbled into a two-way radio until a large man with short mustache appeared from a car.

 She was escorted home in a Lincoln with tinted windows and was instructed to stay in her apartment. The news broadcast Lorne’s face, and the only words Marris could make out before she got sick was wanted and terrorist.

 By ten, the night had gotten dry and cold. She smelled sand and beach on the horizon.

 “Excuse me,” Marris said to an officer standing outside of her place. She did not have solution for her contacts and could not remove them properly without. The officer smoked a cigarette and put it out on the patio outside of her unit and shook his head no as if to tell her to go away. She took her contacts out and blinked—she could see nothing, like the world was all one blob of color.

 She fell asleep near midnight with the television flashing across her face.

 A car alarm woke her, a nonstop honk that echoed in the night and invaded her dreams. The moon hung like an eyelid, and Marris heard scratching at her front door. She could see nothing, and she called out “Hello?” but no one answered back. The clock said it was two in the morning. She walked to the middle of her house. The car horn got louder. A cone of lights flickered through her window and she got an awful feeling like she should hide.

 “Marris?” She heard a man’s voice from the other side of the front door and knew it was Lorne, because he was speaking through a smile, like he already knew she was home but felt the sociopathic urge to be courteous just the same. “Marris,” he said. She tensed up in the same way she did when she imagined the dead creeping up behind her and she found it hard to move. “Are you there?”

 Suddenly it sounded like a million pennies flinging against her walls and plaster going hara kiri. Skeletal light poured through the front door. She felt the path to her room and the door fell in chunks.

 She flung herself beside her bed and shoved the side table, sending perfume and a lamp clacking to the floor. The sound would not stop, and like light speed anorexia, the wall ate away at itself.  

 “Marris?” Lorne asked from over the roar. He stumbled in the dark, looking for a hidden treasure that he would compel to reveal itself. His voice was low and casual, and she could feel his smile, like the nurse swabbing your arm before slipping the needle. “I know it’s late.” His omniscience bloated the house. Through the eyelash size slats that grew lengthwise on her walls, his teeth glowed. Glass chewed through sheetrock. His point of view guided its trajectory. The moonlight poked through pea shaped holes emerging in the walls and she covered her ears but could still hear glass crack and wood hiss. The ceiling fragmented into ash that coated her hair, and pellets of sand and dust stung her shoulders. Although it was only a minute, it felt like hours, with every moment worse than the one before. His footsteps got louder, then paused, poised to find the spot marked X, when confetti red bombarded the house. The footsteps funneled down her hallway until a hush as thick as space consumed the house and he was gone.

 A police siren blared and Marris let out a long breath. Two paramedics lifted a rise of white cloth into an ambulance. A wake of trees toppled sideways like country cows sat parallel to a row of cars that had split like cake.

 Marris waited in the police station until morning, a coffee cup between her hands to warm her, and her eyes blanked out on a disposition report that said, please press hard, you’re making five copies.

奇妙な未来 

The koi pond reflected a levitating sand Shiva. His many hands all pointed to something just beyond Marris. The statue angered her, like most religious art, because it assumed there was beauty beyond what you could see and feel, and there was hardly even that.

 A nurse who kept apologizing for the wait said her name was Ophelia and led Marris down a maze of halls with twisting juniper and barred windows. She wasn’t sure if anyone was actually looking at her or the human shape in her place. She was about to turn and walk out when she found Lorne sitting in a wheel chair perched next to a sandbox. He stared at the sand and she stood beside him. His wrists were strapped to the chair and his hair looked like wrinkled seaweed. He smiled at her when she approached.

 “Oh,” he said and couldn’t have looked happier. “Marris, did you know some zircon sands are four billion years old?”

 “I’ll be right over there,” the nurse said and pointed at a bench that looked too small for a child. She pulled out a book and began to read. The walls were all pink wallpaper torn in the corners like someone got bored, and a stale odor made her grimace. She was convinced Lorne was faking it. She snapped near his ear when no nurses were looking, and a man who she thought was an orderly walked by her and hissed, “You’re not nice,” which seemed to be the worst insult she had ever heard at that moment.

 Two psychiatrists in long coats walked by and Marris smiled at them, and when her gaze shifted Lorne was staring right at her.

 “What’s going to happen to me?” he asked. Marris dug a hole in the sandbox, and Lorne looked pleased. She studied the room and waited until no one looked. She held her hand over the sand and within seconds it rearranged like she had never been there.

 “Our mother feeds us life,” Marris said, “so that we may in turn feed her with our death.” He looked up at her knowingly and smiled. 

 When the visit had ended, the nurse appeared. As she wheeled Lorne down the hall, he turned and asked, “Ophelia, did you know zircon sands are over four billion years old?”

 On her way back home, Marris realized how much of an invasion of privacy it seemed to have her psychology profile available for company viewing. She assumed it was something only supervisors and managers had access to, but she took it upon herself to look up Lorne’s profile, and sure enough, she could read his and anyone else’s. She didn’t want to nosey about in other people’s business, especially not in what had become a federal case, but she did read Lorne’s: patient fear of abandonment manifests in hyperlocution, which seemed an awfully condensed sentence for such a complex person. It didn’t make too much sense to her, but she felt responsible nonetheless. She also got it into her head that none of it would have happened the way it did if she had not been forced to talk to that idiot doctor.

 Her flight to Seattle was prepared, but before she left she felt it necessary to pay her therapist one last visit.

 “This visit is unnecessary, Marris,” Doctor Parnham explained. “The therapy was a mandate only for Barometrix employees.”

 It bothered Marris that she used the word unnecessary.

 “Oh,” Marris said. “I know. I just felt like I had made so much progress.”

 Doctor Parnham smiled, but the interest didn’t seem to go deeper, and Marris felt her face flatten and her fingers tighten.  

 “So,” and it reminded her of Lorne and irritated her all over again, “you are moving back to Seattle?” she asked.

 “Is it important to know that?” Marris asked and the Doctor smiled and shrugged lightly as if to say nothing was important, if you wanted it like that. 

 Marris looked outside, past her tacky pictures and into the sky beyond, where the clouds sat in the sky, fat and young.

 “Marris?”

 Doctor Parnham began to rub her eye. 

“Oh god,” she said and excused herself. She blinked rapidly and turned red-faced.

“I think,” her eye twitched shut and she flinched in discomfort, “I’ve got sand in my eye.”

  Marris had a window seat on the flight, and her favorite parts were when the plane lifted off and landed, and hovered just enough so she could see the patchwork of ground below and she could imagine what it looked like in ancient times, before anyone existed. She woke to a disaster film where someone said, “Your son wants to go into a helicopter and drop a bomb into a tornado,” and she laughed hard enough that the woman next to her laughed too.

#Sand Can Save Us All #The Desert is Your Friend #Sociopathic Climatologists #Company Mandated Psychiatry #Intelligent Sand #Surreal Spec-Fi