My powerbook’s battery, which has been going through the kind of slow and frustrating decline (punctuated by episodes of forgetfulness and limping) experienced by all ancient things, had a sudden catastrophic stroke tonight while I was processing a photograph. I was irritated, but I am working on cultivating an attitude of zen-like peace and compassion towards technological failure, instances of which tend to increase my feelings of

a) powerlessness, and
b) dependence

in the world. Neither of those feelings is very pleasant, and I suppose I could avoid them by structuring my life so that it revolves less around tiny lumps of metal channelling electrical currents, but that doesn’t look particularly likely. That’s why I have to attempt to transcend petty annoyance and attain a state of meditative calm, instead. It’s the same sort of meditative calm I have come to feel about my lack of achievement and ambition: the calm of compromise.

Actually, I’ve been thinking more, and differently, about success lately. I feel no urgency or disappointment (at the moment) about my apparent tardiness in accomplishing what I used to consider great things. I think of my life in terms of happiness, interest, affection, pleasure, curiosity, knowledge, and understanding. Whether achievement or an impact on the universe enters the picture or not is sort of a by-the-way, at least for right now. It’s an odd place to be, because I think my 17 year old self would have called it contentment and raged against it. But I’ve been around the block often enough to know that a cycle of restlessness and discontent will come my way soon enough, and I don’t mind enjoying this sort of lazy, expansive joy while I can.

*******

It’s Ross’s birthday tomorrow! 24 orbits around the sun and he’s still making up songs in the kitchen and tugging his socks halfway off his feet when he watches tv (don’t ask). But damn, he’s a pretty one.

I’m not feeling quite so overwhelmed, but I am still very tired, despite getting back onto what essentially resembles a normal sleep cycle for this time zone. I am in good spirits, however. It has been ridiculously cold but very sunny (hooray) and I can feel the days lengthening into what will someday be a beautiful spring. I love spring. Spring makes everything worthwhile no matter how lousy a winter I’ve had, and since this has actually been the first winter in three years that hasn’t thrown me into deep gloom, I imagine I will be close to cavorting when the blossoms start appearing.

We saw Match Point with Jenn last night — not much I want to say about it other than that it was a solidly medium-good film. I thought it suffered from a few delusions of grandeur, but ultimately I was so fascinated by the un-Woody-Allen-like quality of the storytelling and the cinematography that I found myself enjoying it more than I might otherwise have. And I’m sorry, but Scarlett Johansen is hotter than a New York summer.

I have updates on various things, but I am bored by the notion of typing out the letters that will form my news, which makes me think I should probably save it until at least I am interested. OH! I do have a big announcement, which I’d all but forgotten about: My green card came in the mail on Friday! I am officially (conditionally) permanent! It quite brings a tear to my eye, after eight years in this crazy country. When you come and visit me, I will show it to you and you will be dead impressed. It is very sharp and shiny and it has an extra tiny hologram of me on the back. I am busily researching all the opportunities I can now pursue, besides joining the Peace Corps. What, you don’t think that’s a good idea?

I wore my fabulous coat to go grocery shopping at the Super 88 today, because I am a (conditional) permanent resident and boy, does that make me fabulous.

I feel like I’ve re-entered the atmosphere after floating for a week in absolute peace, and I think my shuttle is smoking at the edges. Suddenly I am in meetings 5 hours out of 8, I’m behind on a freelance project, I have social engagements to finesse, and I actually have to figure out what to feed myself three times a day. Bleagh.

Someone, freeze me in your sights so I can stop for a moment…

Dappled in Singapore time (morning) and drowsy in Boston (feels like deep night). I am back, after an epic journey — we missed our train from Newark by something like 5 minutes and had to take two buses home. Did you know that when you take a Greyhound from Port Authority to Boston you are told to go and wait at an unmarked spot called “Area X”, absent from any station map, which is basically a random side door in the building? And that when “Area X” gets shut down and the Boston bus is now boarding from an actual gate (60) no one will be there to tell you? I have a complaint letter in me somewhere, I know it, but it is not for tonight. After all, we did make it on the bus.

For tonight I am going to share with you something Len just wrote for me, which is awfully sweet because I think this is probably the only time anyone has ever composed lines of poetry about me besides that one time when I was 18 and my brooding rockstar boyfriend Kenny swore up and down he’d written me a song but then never played it for me.

Anyway, Len and I met under the ghost of a shady tree, and it was lovely to see him but strange, as he writes. It is odd to have a friend I see through the ether but am not used to looking at, and whose words I love to read but am not used to hearing. Thanks for a happy afternoon, dear, and the chance to see you peaceful and sweet yourself at last.

P.S. We are simmering beef rendang on the stove from a packet we brought back from Singapore.

After nine or ten years
everything changes.
I walk by where you used to live
and remember the storm,
and that haughty darkness of eyes and jaw
raised to heaven to meet it.
Then the rough roulette of destiny
flung us in opposite directions.
You were caught, or so I heard,
in a chariot of fire
to paradise.
Then nothing. Until

may these next ten years continue to give you
their sweetness, and safety, and strength.

Several years and many visits ago, I started leaving my parents goodbye notes in the house that they were supposed to find and read after I’d left. They were containers for things I wasn’t ready to speak out loud; mostly good things that would have made me cry if I’d said them. Not because they were necessarily particularly deep, but because as I think we’ve established, I am a big sentimental crybaby.

This time I am leaving just these pictures. They’re a lot less sappy, and a lot prettier. I am sure you are all heartily sick of hearing about how adorable my family is, but honestly, you try getting a year’s worth of affection in nine days and see how you handle it. Next week I will attempt to return us to our regular schedule of ramblings of a greater variety.

…they would be fined $500 for spitting.

Being here is heady. I just saw 50 members of my extended family and somehow went from feeling overwhelmed and grumpy to having a fabulous time in the first five minutes, despite the fact that no one could stop themselves from giving me a hard time about living in another country or taking such a short trip to Singapore. My relatives are loud and lovely and for once I don’t want to ride on through to the other side.