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So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.


The Profile


Zanzibar
Age. 33
Gender. Female
Ethnicity. that of my father and his father before him
Location Altadena, CA
School. Other
» More info.
The World









The Link To Zanzibar's Past
This is my page in the beloved art community that my sister got me into:

Samarinda

Extra points for people who know what Samarinda is.
The Phases of the Moon Module
CURRENT MOON
Croc Hunter/Combat Wombat
My hero(s)
Only My Favorite Baseball Player EVER


Aw, Larry Walker, how I loved thee.
The Schedule
M: Science and Exploration
T: Cook a nice dinner
W: PARKOUR!
Th: Parties, movies, dinners
F: Picnics, the Louvre
S: Read books, go for walks, PARKOUR
Su: Philosophy, Religion
The Reading List
This list starts Summer 2006
A Crocodile on the Sandbank
Looking Backwards
Wild Swans
Exodus
1984
Tales of the Alhambra (in progress)
Dark Lord of Derkholm
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?
The Lost Years of Merlin
Harry Potter a l'ecole des sorciers (in progress)
Atlas Shrugged (in progress)
Uglies
Pretties
Specials
A Long Way Gone (story of a boy soldier in Sierra Leone- met the author! w00t!)
The Eye of the World: Book One of the Wheel of Time
From Magma to Tephra (in progress)
Lady Chatterley's Lover
Harry Potter 7
The No. 1 Lady's Detective Agency
Introduction to Planetary Volcanism
A Child Called "It"
Pompeii
Is Multi-Culturalism Bad for Women?
Americans in Southeast Asia: Roots of Commitment (in progress)
What's So Great About Christianity?
Aeolian Geomorphology
Aeolian Dust and Dust Deposits
The City of Ember
The People of Sparks
Cube Route
When I was in Cuba, I was a German Shepard
Bound
The Golden Compass
Clan of the Cave Bear
The 9/11 Commission Report (2nd time through, graphic novel format this time, ip)
The Incredible Shrinking Man
Twilight
Eclipse
New Moon
Breaking Dawn
Armageddon's Children
The Elves of Cintra
The Gypsy Morph
Animorphs #23: The Pretender
Animorphs #25: The Extreme
Animorphs #26: The Attack
Crucial Conversations
A Journey to the Center of the Earth
A Great and Terrible Beauty
The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian
Dandelion Wine
To Sir, With Love
London Calling
Watership Down
The Invisible
Alice in Wonderland
Through the Looking Glass
20,000 Leagues Under the Sea
The Host
The Hunger Games
Catching Fire
Shadows and Strongholds
The Jungle Book
Beatrice and Virgil
Infidel
Neuromancer
The Help
Flip
Zion Andrews
The Unit
Princess
Quantum Brain
The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks
No One Ever Told Us We Were Defeated
Delirium
Memento Nora
Robopocalypse
The Name of the Wind
The Terror
Sister
Tao Te Ching
What Paul Meant
Lao Tzu and Taoism
Libyan Sands
Sand and Sandstones
Lost Christianites: The Battles for Scripture and the Faiths We Never Knew
The Science of God
Calculating God
Great Contemporaries, by Winston Churchill
City of Bones
Around the World in 80 Days, by Jules Verne
Divergent
Stranger in a Strange Land
The Old Man and the Sea
Flowers for Algernon
Au Bonheur des Ogres
The Martian
The Road to Serfdom
De La Terre à la Lune (ip)
In the Light of What We Know
Devil in the White City
2312
The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August
Red Mars
How to Be a Good Wife
A Mote in God's Eye


want to read: Last Hunger Games Book, Honeybee Democracy, The Bell Jar
The Juanes Module


Juanes just needed his own mod. Who can disagree.
Cambodia
Sunday. 7.19.09 12:50 am
We're walking through the jungle.

It is oppressively hot, but I've grown accustomed to the heat and I am wearing long pants for modesty and protection from the sun and the jungle. The ancient stone path beneath our feet is covered in a thick layer of white sand. We are headed towards Ta Prom, the Jungle Temple.

Our tour guide informs us proudly that this temple was featured in one of the Tomb Raider movies. The film crew didn't want to damage the stone walk leading to the temple with their movie trucks, so they laid down sandbags on the walks to protect them. When they left, they did not take the sandbags with them. Slowly the bags had disinegrated, leaving the path looking like the beach that it resembles today.

There is no resentment in his voice: he loves Angelina Jolie. So does everyone here in Cambodia. She cares about the people, he says. He is proud that Angelina chose Cambodia as the place from which to adopt her eldest child.

One striking thing about Cambodia is how empty it is. After the busy streets and markets of Ho Chi Minh City, the streets and temples of Siem Reap seem quiet, even when you account for the smaller size of the city.

Approximately one seventh of the population of Cambodia was murdered by communists during the 1970s during the reign of the bloodthirsty Khmer Rouge. Even now there are deaths each year from the old landmines that the Khmer Rouge left buried around the country. The absence of these people and the descendents they never had makes the empty streets of Siem Reap seem even emptier. The city and countryside seems dampened, like a profound quiet had settled upon it out of which the people were only now emerging.

Our tour guide tells us that his mother had ten children.
"I am the only one left," he says, "the Khmer Rouge killed all the rest of my brothers and sisters." His voice carries no hint of emotion, just the straight-forward, even tone of people for whom hardship has become a way of life. Someone asks him what Cambodians think of Americans, and he breaks into a wide smile. "In Cambodia we say, 'Japanese are very photographic... Koreans are very pushy... Americans are very friendly... and Cambodians are always smiling."

We reach the Jungle Temple, with its many smiling faces. It seems that despite their history, the Cambodians have been smiling since the days of Jayavarman VII in the 12th century.



The roots of the silk cotton trees drape over the walls into the enclosures. Roots of other trees have erupted out of the floors in quieter parts of the temple. The jungle is slowly swallowing Ta Prohm back up. But for the huge smiling stone faces, we are mostly alone.

We walk slowly from the temple and beautiful music reaches our ears through the trees. It is a group of crippled musicians, each with some part of his body destroyed by a landmine. Most of them are blind, some others are missing legs, faces, arms, feet. They are seated on a brilliant woven mat playing traditional Cambodian instruments with skilled hands. Their sign introduces them as the Crippled Musicians Prasat Preah Khan. They are selling homemade CDs for $10, on the honor system since very few of them can see. I buy one, stuffing my money into the small box they have placed in front of their mat.

The magical sounds of the Cambodian violin follow me long after I have left jungle.




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At the Crossroads
Monday. 7.13.09 5:48 pm
Well, it's official. Thalweg and the Welshman have departed Providence in search of greener pastures.

In the case of Thalweg, I was able to drive with her across the country and see her new place and help her move in and show her around and introduce her to some locals. It was really nice to feel connected to her new life and to get to spend some quality time together before being apart.

In the case of the Welshman all I really wanted was a designated moment when I could talk to him about his life and his plans and how he felt about all of it. My attempts were cancelled, thwarted, and then ruined, however, and eventually he was in a hurry and he left before I got to say goodbye at all. That left me feeling a bit depressed and confused. It's not fair of me in a way because he has so many friends and he hasn't the time to say a special farewell to each of them. I guess I best just let him be and not bother him by writing. (Shall I bind myself to that proclamation?)

But alack, the fallout of all this is that I'm faced with the compound problem of missing two of my favorite people and not having anyone to talk to about it. Once again, I'll have to go through the painful process of diversifying my friend portfolio.

But so far I've done nothing but play a lot of DDR and catch up on my summer sci-fi/fantasy reading. Which isn't really all bad, either. And, as I am currently falling asleep on my desk, I shall go play DDR now.

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Crow
Friday. 7.10.09 10:50 pm
He's from somewhere near London; I am getting better at guessing. As we speak I become aware of my loud, crass, American voice. Some of the New England heaviness has invaded it over three years, and it grates against his voice like the squawk of a crow against the song of a nightingale.

He wants to know why I never come down to the bars. He doesn't want to offend me, but he says that he has never seen me as I look tonight. Very few people ever do: tonight I am disguised as a bird of paradise.

I reveal to him that I do not drink. He nods towards my drink on the table, a clear contradiction.

How can I explain why I am here?

Shall I say, "I am very busy playing my part in a little charade?"
Shall I point out to him each of the actors, each with his hidden motive shimmering just beneath his painted face, each knowing full well the hidden motives of the others?
Shall I explain why despite this knowledge that the actors continue playing their scene, feigning other emotions, projecting other motives?
Shall I tell him that it is quite equally for the benefit of the actors as the audience that they refuse to break their characters?

I shrug, loathe to add my harsh, guttual verbalizations to my response. I look at him narrowly. I could call upon my chameleon voice and in moments we could both be from somewhere near London, urbane and pithy. But I am tired of acting. Dejection is warping my mask at the edges.

I hear the intrusion of the DJ's voice in my ear, suddenly too close. "Don't be tired, pretty girl," he whispers, "Keep dancing, pretty girl."

I shudder involuntarily: I have missed one of my cues. My public needs me. The kind, patient, fun-loving outside part of me. Not the inside part of me, ugly and clever.

"I'll have to come down to the bars more often," I lie, smiling. My disguise is otherwise perfect, but my voice is the voice of a crow.

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Don't Shake the Baby
Tuesday. 7.7.09 4:15 pm
Be it extremely emotional, controversial, messed up, or whatever, this entry has been password protected.

If you know it, enter it; or, ask me for it.

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Yes, a Penguin Taught Me French in Dear Antarctica
Tuesday. 6.23.09 9:33 pm
Today we learned a little bit more about our upcoming deployment to Antarctica. Here is the basic lay of the land:



We will be deploying out of McMurdo, where there are penguins:



and we will be camping in tents in the North and South forks of upper Wright Valley.


(For us there won't be any snow)

On the right side of the map you can see the great Mount Erebus, an active volcano with an active lava lake, one of only three active lava lakes in the world! Mount Erebus is completely covered in snow, so there is always the danger that a huge eruption could send giant mudslides and torrents of water down the sides of the mountain. This is called a "lahar". Another worry is the chance of pyroclastic flows. Pyroclastic flows are incandescent clouds of ash and rock fragments that rush down the sides of volcanoes at more than 300 mph. They were responsible for killing most of the people who were killed at Pompeii, and more recently, a pyroclastic flow completely wiped out a town in Columbia, killing more than 40,000 people in the matter of seconds.

Luckily, Erebus hasn't shown any signs of having an explosive eruption, and we are going to be too far away to be in danger.



The Antarctic Dry Valleys are pretty much the coldest and driest places on the Earth. In this way, they are a very good analog for the planet Mars, which is also extremely cold and dry. The temperatures of the Dry Valleys will likely be between -35 C and -3 C while we are there (they drop to low as -60 C in the wintertime), and the temperatures on Mars can be anywhere from -143 C at the poles to +5 C in Gusev Crater.

We'll be attempting to study how water (what little there is) moves through the always-nearly-frozen landscape of the Dry Valleys from the great ice sheet that surrounds the valleys to its final resting place in little saline ponds or cracked permafrost ground. We are also studying how the rocks in the Dry Valleys are chemically weathered. We have some evidence to suggest that the way that rocks weather in the Dry Valleys is very similar to how they weather on Mars. Thus we can get a little taste of ground truthing without making the epic journey to the surface of the Red Planet. This will likely involve a lot of flying about in helicopters:



Chillin' out in small yellow tents:


And generally checkin' out the sweet glaciers:



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Working Too Much
Friday. 6.19.09 12:45 am
Why am I still here?!?!?!?!?!!?

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Nocturne in mE flat
Thursday. 6.18.09 8:37 pm
Nighttime. My office. The rain is coming down steadily outside my window. I am listening to Nocturne in D Flat, Op. 27, Chopin. I am in love with Nocturnes. I am in love with the night, I am in love with the rain. I am so filled with love that it is brimming right over, spilling all over my paper-laden desk and dripping down the sides. A Prelude follows the Nocturne. It is hesitant and hopeful: I am neither of these things. My feelings for the night are too passionate to sympathize with the Prelude. I am committed, I have already leapt into the darkness, sparing no thought for what will be there to catch me. My fall will be cradled by gauzy darkness. Another Nocturne, Op. 15 No. 2 in F sharp minor. This one transports me to a grand house, long, long ago. I am looking in on the parlor, the night is warm and still outside. I hear the music warbling softly to itself from another room. There is love here, too. Music from another room.

In other news, I have gotten involved with a couple of new things:

1. Ballroom dancing (again) [Tues]
2. Greek folk dancing [Wed]
3. Cake Decorating #2 [?]
4. Learning Chinese [Mon]
5. Going to gym in the mornings [every day?]

We'll see how that last one works out tomorrow, depending on how late I have to stay here before I finish my paper.

In other other news, my cat viciously attacked me again today. I've been a little afraid to go home. Thalweg isn't going to be back for another week, so it's just me and my water gun versus the Beast. And I accidentally dyed all of my socks bright pink. But I am going to Maine for the weekend to pick blueberries and eat lobster. I also found my perfect town and neighborhood and library, were I ever to live in Rhode Island permanently.

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I dance dance dance and I dance dance dance
Monday. 6.15.09 6:41 pm

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