Redefining Insanity: one lumpy cotton thread at a time.

I stood at the train station in Delhi as the moon rose and rocked back and forth on my over burdened heels: everything that I needed in the world, along with some more unnecessary tid-bits, was strapped firmly to my back. On the train that night I didn't turn on my I-pod but strummed the strings of my banjo, making up tunes about nothing and ballads for the men pissing on the train tracks. Here in Sewegram, across the street from the last ashram that Gandhi lived in, my bag still remains only half unpacked as all the unused goods have sifted to the bottom.

Another meaningless anecdote: Janelle and I got out of the taxi in front of our home-stay after a harrowing encounter with a drunk and forward man in the the city. To our surprise, we were confronted with yet another drunk man, eyes glazed and empty, who followed us to the front gate trying to convince us that we owed him money for carrying our baggage. we didn't have any baggage, we insisted, and slammed the gate in his reeking face.

I meant to make an insightful metaphor about baggage (inspired by a margin note in my notebook: "metaphorical baggage blog!") , but you'll have to fill in the rest.

Just get rid of as much as possible. Yes, even the melon ball-er.

Here in Sewegram, where Gandhi spent the last years of his life, many people are currently trying to live life by Gandhian philosophy, which is based around community, self-sufficiency and a slew of other pillars of truth that are currently on America's "endangered characteristics" list. I am sure that many of the 14 followers of this blog have not thought about oppression today (except, I'm guessing, Claire Noone! Ministry of Despair!), especially the oppression of themselves. More and more, day by day, I am become exposed to the bits of myself that have been molded by ideals, rules and laws that are not mine, and that I am increasingly coming to odds with. I know I have said this before, but the capitalist system is broken, dare I say BAD, and is inextricably based on the exploitation of people. Your really just have to think about it, but there is no legitimate way to put "equality" and "capitalism" in the same sentence. Unless your writing a blog, of course.

Don't call me a Commie yet, folks, I haven't gone there either. Rather, I am exploring the no man's land of economic theory, which is to say I don't understand anything. But I am imploring all of you to pay close attention to the way companies and industries create our needs based on fads and "science." The fact that we all have "serious" needs, everyday, that are never really satisfied should be the first blaring signal of opression: we are oppressed by our needs, and by the system that perpetuates those needs. As an American student, it physically pains me and befuddles me to think of a life without work and sacrifice to "make ends meet." It confuses and frightens me to think of not being in college. But these are only a couple of Life-Styles that have been created by other people in another time, and there are ever more to be explored...what if the days of the week were renamed after the colors of the rainbow and love was the national currency? What if a nation was defined by the people in who shared the same watershed rather than the same government? Yes, I know it sounds like I'm about to prance off to the next Phish concert, but I want to pose these ideas as potential reality. If you were born on Green instead of Wednesday you would never think twice. There are some serious possibilities here. Sounds insane? perhaps. but bear with me, you all listen so well...and sanity has proven boring, elitist and just plain crummy.

So here is one more anecdote from my idyllic life in rural India: Today is my free-day, and I woke up at 5:15 this morning and braved the cold to the room where my Anthropolgy/Social Movements teacher was holding his daily yoga class. It was still dark then, but by the end of class the sky was the color of cotton and the sun hung low and red on the horizon. I fetched my bathing pail and filled it with hot water from a barrel that sat sat steaming over a small fire. In the bath room I poured deliciously warm water over my goose-bumped skin and delighted in the scent of my Indian musk soap. As the sun rose higher, I joined my class mates on the patio for tea, and practiced spinning carded cotton into lumpy strands of thread. Later I took lessons in spinning from a man who cooks his daal in a solar oven and grows his food and medicinal herbs in his yard. He gave me a guava as a parting gift.

My soul is singing to the sky.