Worthy Labor

Two observations.

1. In all the things I have considered doing after my service (photographer, musician, writer, farmer) an element of creativity is at the root of each. I cannot divorce my mind from the need to express something of myself to the world outside.

2. Whenever something strikes me – in music, in literature, in attempting to live an examined life (and seeing the lack of these elements in the lives of others) – an intensely emotional (positive or negative) response ensues. My conscious speaks before I do.

Given these desires and interests I cannot conceive languishing at any labor, given that whatever labor it may be is positive, helpful, and worthy of the effort. Until now what I have undertaken has benefited me directly, but also (I like to think) the world around me. I see no reason to stop this labor of love. Others may read these words and think – youth + idealism = fantasy. This is only the case should you allow it to be so. We live in the world we make, the world we create – I plan to continue engaging the world around me in a consciously creative role: with all the rewards and frustrations therein. To do any less is to admit defeat.

Some days one doesn't even need to pay attention to learn new things; today for example. I learned all about deed restrictions, subdivisions, and "civic committees". You buy a home (in a subdivision of your choosing), sign along the dotted line (deed restriction), and pay other people to act as your proxy in dealing with neighbors, monitor the length of their lawn, the trees they plant, and if or not their car is an "eye sore" (civic committee). While deed restrictions and subdivisions may have their perks ("clean" neighborhoods) the fact that you pay other people to take over the normal functions of healthy community tilts the scales against them. No thank you, sir. Take your manicured lawn and cedar picket fences born of litigation and injunction - I'll keep my loud neighbors with their cars on blocks and mismatched bushes. I imagine that if we look hard enough the junk-heap where America dumped their downtowns won't be far from the drain field behind such "communities".

In sadder news Hunter S. Thompson committed suicide recently. I suppose he lived too hard and too fast for too long. He was a challenger, and too often we never met the challenge face to face. It is unfortunate that our faults and fantasies will never be scrutinized by the likes of HST again. Perhaps the American Dream will never be found.

In the Philippines my life has been dominated by two near-diametrically opposed places – town and country. Similarities exist between the town and country but these shared traits are not what strike me day in and out – that space is reserved for their essential differences. The discrepancies require of me either a steeling against, or a relaxing into, every coming and going; both actions require great effort and focus to occur smoothly.

A kind of purgatory exists between town and country, one that moves with the river’s depth. Some days purgatory lies at the head of the dump where bankeros pilot their boats across a wide channel – during dry months it exists wherever my feet first enter the verdant water, beginning the wade across. This is the place where, as each new crop is sown, I watch the forest behind my house burn and the diesel and trash fueled fog of town fades behind (or rears ahead of) me.

Here I watch the bats catch dinner when the sun falls below the mountains. I rarely linger and almost never pass this way during the day; trips to town are the providence of cool mornings, not the afternoon. It is here where I alternately wash the city from my mind and brace myself for the onslaught of noise and discomfort invariably found in town. My mind, like matter, can only occupy one space at one time. By crossing the river I am afforded a long moment to ease between each world; something, without which, I would be loath to move at all.

Town is where my office lies – where the market, mail, and internet may be enjoyed (or cursed, depending on the day). It is where I must go to attend meetings, visit various offices, and develop film. Town is necessary, but it is not pleasant. In town my worst qualities most consistently appear. Impatience, anger, condescension, intransigence – and for these reasons I avoid leaving the barangay. Yet I do come to town often; each time brings challenges so old I am surprised at the intensity and difficulty they present. Never once have I been allowed the luxury of simply moving about my business unmolested; always observed, evaluated, and categorized. This scrutiny has bred a kind of personal hypersensitivity to my obvious differences; in this I have no envy for celebrity, and all respect for privacy.

In town the places I frequent become safe houses. In these places I am known. My preferences noted, remembered, and repeated (a definite example of “white-privilage”), “Tofu today? These bananas/mangos/tomatoes are fresh! Internet? Stamps?” So too are the homes and businesses of friends. In these buildings my name is known and novelty is shed; all other time in town is spent moving between these locations.

The country is, mostly, an extended safe house – a place where I can know and am known. It was not always this way and momentarily reverts with each new place visited or new person encountered. Because fewer people reside in the country I was quickly absorbed into the lives and landscape. Of the fact that I am other there is no doubt and it remains the unbridgeable gap. I could live here a hundred years and would always be other. In relation to my outsider status the difference between here and town is that people have observed, evaluated, and categorized me into their lives – I am no longer novel and require no further superficial study. The constant state of city novelty disallows my assimilation there – here my continued presence has overshadowed my newness and erased it.

And so these two places, and the zone between, have assumed their roles in my life. The necessary evil, the breather, and my comfort zone. These cookie cutter descriptions do not hold or imply the all of anyplace, but represent the rough categories they occupy in my mind. Even in challenge there is beauty, and the preferred location tarnished by unexpected difficulties. Always and everywhere one must remember and appreciate what is positive; and ready themselves for things otherwise.

In my family there are many traditions. Through-out my service these traditions have provided a ready supply of warm memories; enough to sustain one even during long absences from their source. In an effort to bolster, refresh, and remember (but not replicate) some familial activities, I have resumed a version of our Sunday evening dinner of pancakes or waffles. In many ways this simple meal, like the seasons, provided comfort and context well past my formative years. Even now the sound of batter hitting a hot griddle conjures up images of a slightly frazzled father mumbling about baking soda and sour milk, futilely attempting to manage the pans clattering about the floor.

When others hear of our Sunday night pancakes the general reaction is one of puzzlement, or thinly veiled amusement. What most people don’t realize is that pancakes-for-dinner is an ages old Danish practice. The Danish perfected the art of the pancake after my forefathers discovered fire and iron and have handed down, father to son, recipes in the traditional manner (grunting, chest beating, drinking raw eggs) ever since. The Danish word for pancake is kierkegaard, which literally translated means: a mixture of flour and eggs that questions our very existence.

Though the usual transmission of pancake recipes is from father to son, I have decided that in this case traditions may be modified. As you all know the pancake is the ultimate soul food. Don’t worry, in the absence of a skillet or griddle, your frying pan will serve well enough.

Mix together in a large bowl:

1 ¼ cups yellow cornmeal (check the feed store)
¾ cup all-purpose flour
4-6 tablespoons sugar (depending on your taste)
4 tablespoons dry milk powder
1 ¾ teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon salt

In another bowl, mix together:

1 2/3 cups water (milk in the absence of dry milk powder)
4 tablespoons of unsalted butter, melted (or vegetable oil)
2 large eggs

Pour the wet ingredients over the dry and gently whisk them together, until just combined (over mixing makes tough cakes, old Danish secret). Expect a thin batter.

Lightly oil your griddle, heat, and then sprinkle water on the surface. If it sputters, pour a generous amount of batter onto the skillet (if the water boils, the griddle is not hot enough; if it evaporates, it’s too hot). Wait until the batter bubbles all around, some of them popping, then flip. You can use a spatula if you like; if you’re tough, just flip it with the pan. The pancake will raise slightly as it cooks, needing less than 45 seconds to finish. Eat. Next time I’ll share a tradition from my mother’s side: Saturday afternoon hide tanning.

P.S. A slightly different version of this recipe may be found in the newest edition of The Joy of Cooking.