On Friday the 13th of October 2006 I returned safely to the Twin Cities. I hope to post some last photos, a couple of audio tracks and to write a final entry or two wrapping up my Peace Corps experience in Kyrgyzstan. But for now, I am going to order a pizza and watch Sunday NFL football.
signing off,
Larry
Suleyman Mountain Sunrise
Young Man training atop Mount Suleyman before a rising sun. Osh, Kyrgyzstan: Aug.13th, 2006.
The Weeping Man
The man was half-naked, his bronze chest streaked with drying mud, “Ayeeeeeeeeeeeee!” he screamed, throwing his arms in the air, “I don’t want this! I don’t want it.” He collapsed in a heap, folding awkwardly upon himself like some abandoned puppet.
I watched him from my balcony, as a theatre-goer might watch a thespian. Then, the reality of it—of him—needled its way into my emotional fabric. I looked east, down the long front side of my apartment building, and saw heads emerging from windows and other beings stepping onto terraces to stare at this man wrapped in terror and pain and sadness.
His crumpled form sat below me, perhaps ten feet away and I could see his back swell and deflate under his breath.
A stillness invaded the courtyard and a silence crept out of the madness of the world and appeared to be moving toward him, hunting for him. He wailed and the guttural, inchoate sounds that came out of him seemed dredged up from some darker, primordial day.
I shuddered but continued watching.
He breathed, sucking air over his teeth and again let out that aborted, primeval noise… he drew in another breath and again returned his torment to the world…
Slowly, out of this repetition a rhythm was born and these methodic sobs crashed forth like great waves tugged from the sea by the moon.
It seemed he cried for all of us and tethered his tears to our souls through the enchanting sound of that sad mantra.
I sighed deeply and withdrew, but I will never forget the weeping man.
I watched him from my balcony, as a theatre-goer might watch a thespian. Then, the reality of it—of him—needled its way into my emotional fabric. I looked east, down the long front side of my apartment building, and saw heads emerging from windows and other beings stepping onto terraces to stare at this man wrapped in terror and pain and sadness.
His crumpled form sat below me, perhaps ten feet away and I could see his back swell and deflate under his breath.
A stillness invaded the courtyard and a silence crept out of the madness of the world and appeared to be moving toward him, hunting for him. He wailed and the guttural, inchoate sounds that came out of him seemed dredged up from some darker, primordial day.
I shuddered but continued watching.
He breathed, sucking air over his teeth and again let out that aborted, primeval noise… he drew in another breath and again returned his torment to the world…
Slowly, out of this repetition a rhythm was born and these methodic sobs crashed forth like great waves tugged from the sea by the moon.
It seemed he cried for all of us and tethered his tears to our souls through the enchanting sound of that sad mantra.
I sighed deeply and withdrew, but I will never forget the weeping man.
Lessons Learned in Kyrgyzstan
“Come with me.” He said and put his arm around my shoulder. We walked outside onto the porch and into the fresh air, then down the stairs and into the flower garden. In the distance I saw a group of children playing soccer and others completing their yard work. The grounds of the orphanage included stables, a few acres of farmland, a pig pen and dozens of caged bunnies.
“You see,” he said, “I used to get drunk every night and chase women. I lived most of my life like that. One day I asked myself, Stephan, what have you done with your life—what do you have to show for yourself?—and the answer was nothing.”
He leaned over and stuck his nose in the white blossoms of a rose and inhaled.
He raised his head and we continued strolling, “At that point in my life I already had a fairly successful business, but I realized that didn’t matter. I looked around and saw all of these children on the streets, abandoned and begging. And I said, there’s something I can do.”
Several of the children spotted Stephan outside and began shouting, “Pappa! Pappa!” A little, sandy-haired girl with wide eyes glowing above her smile sprinted into Stephan’s arms. He lifted her up and looked at me, “now I have twenty-one children that all call me pappa and everything I do, I do for them.”
I took another look around the orphanage and felt as though I was in the center of big family. Stephan knelt and set the little girl back down and looked up into my eyes, “Life should be about love.”
“You see,” he said, “I used to get drunk every night and chase women. I lived most of my life like that. One day I asked myself, Stephan, what have you done with your life—what do you have to show for yourself?—and the answer was nothing.”
He leaned over and stuck his nose in the white blossoms of a rose and inhaled.
He raised his head and we continued strolling, “At that point in my life I already had a fairly successful business, but I realized that didn’t matter. I looked around and saw all of these children on the streets, abandoned and begging. And I said, there’s something I can do.”
Several of the children spotted Stephan outside and began shouting, “Pappa! Pappa!” A little, sandy-haired girl with wide eyes glowing above her smile sprinted into Stephan’s arms. He lifted her up and looked at me, “now I have twenty-one children that all call me pappa and everything I do, I do for them.”
I took another look around the orphanage and felt as though I was in the center of big family. Stephan knelt and set the little girl back down and looked up into my eyes, “Life should be about love.”
New Technology at our Center!
A couple of weeks ago we purchased our Television, Satellite dish, DVD player and few other odds and ends for the Center for American Studies. Now students have access to 3 english language news stations (BBC, EuroNews and CNNi) to improve their listening comprehension, pronunciation, vocabulary and knowledge of world events. The news channels are turned on (according to our posted schedule) 2 hours each day and we have two movie clubs as well.
I'll have to post some new photos of our center soon. Gotta run!
Larry
I'll have to post some new photos of our center soon. Gotta run!
Larry
FIRST ANNUAL OSH STATE UNIVERSITY FILM FESTIVAL!!!
Please see the advertisement below regarding the First Annual Osh State University Film Festival. Entries will be accepted from around the world.
CALL FOR ENTRIES
FIRST ANNUAL
OSH STATE UNIVERSITY
FILM FESTIVAL
OSH, KYRGYZSTAN
SEPTEMBER 5TH AND 6TH 2006
(Please include the following information along with your entry)
Title:
Date Completed:
Director Producer Name/Organization (if any):
Address:
City:
State:
Zip:
DVD Format Only (Sorry Compatibility Issues)
Synopsis:
Running time:
History : Festivals, TV, awards, etc. (will be used for programming notes)
(By submitting your film, you agree to the following)
LEGAL STUFF: I understand that submission of my work authorizes the Osh State Film Fest to use the work for exhibition, education and/or publicity purposes related to the festival; that the Festival will handle DVDs with a maximum of care but cannot be held liable for any damage or loss during shipping, preview, or screening; and that the Festival is also not responsible for any claim involving copyright, trademark, credits, or royalty infringement related to the work. Work will not be returned !! But it will become part of a really cool permanent collection on Indie Film in Kyrgyzstan (that will be used for educational purposes only).
Signature_________________________________________________________
Send Entries (and a copy of this completed form) to:
Glenn Brown
Osh State University
Faculty of World Languages
250 Kurmanjan-Datka St.
Kyrgyzstan, Osh
714000
***BECAUSE OF SHIPPING COSTS FROM THE U.S. WE WILL WAIVE ALL ENTRY FEES***
CALL FOR ENTRIES
FIRST ANNUAL
OSH STATE UNIVERSITY
FILM FESTIVAL
OSH, KYRGYZSTAN
SEPTEMBER 5TH AND 6TH 2006
(Please include the following information along with your entry)
Title:
Date Completed:
Director Producer Name/Organization (if any):
Address:
City:
State:
Zip:
DVD Format Only (Sorry Compatibility Issues)
Synopsis:
Running time:
History : Festivals, TV, awards, etc. (will be used for programming notes)
(By submitting your film, you agree to the following)
LEGAL STUFF: I understand that submission of my work authorizes the Osh State Film Fest to use the work for exhibition, education and/or publicity purposes related to the festival; that the Festival will handle DVDs with a maximum of care but cannot be held liable for any damage or loss during shipping, preview, or screening; and that the Festival is also not responsible for any claim involving copyright, trademark, credits, or royalty infringement related to the work. Work will not be returned !! But it will become part of a really cool permanent collection on Indie Film in Kyrgyzstan (that will be used for educational purposes only).
Signature_________________________________________________________
Send Entries (and a copy of this completed form) to:
Glenn Brown
Osh State University
Faculty of World Languages
250 Kurmanjan-Datka St.
Kyrgyzstan, Osh
714000
***BECAUSE OF SHIPPING COSTS FROM THE U.S. WE WILL WAIVE ALL ENTRY FEES***
Going to Goa
April, 27th: Just a brief update: I will be out of the country from the 28th of April until the 11th of May. I will be meeting my Dad and Eileen in Moscow and then going down to Goa where we will join Solena for a week of rest and relaxation on the breezy Arabian Sea shore.
Be back soon...
Enjoy Life.
Larry Tweed
Be back soon...
Enjoy Life.
Larry Tweed
From Such Darkness We Are Born: Or, Why God Believes in Atheists.
My world was dark until 30 seconds ago when the velveteen voice of a Muazzin—one who calls Muslims to prayer—drifted into my dreams. I am neither a Muslim nor a Christian. I am nothing but a man, but I find an affinity for those who search for Love, Wisdom and Morality. The Muazzin’s melodic voice, amplified by bull-horn speakers fastened atop a stuccoed minaret, descends upon this city reminding me that devotion is manifest through both words and actions and that our love should be repeated many times each day, every day…
ALLAHU…AKBAR…the long drawn syllables of these two words pour over space and time and suffuse the atmosphere with unassailable beauty. Muazzins from other mosques around the city awaken and a musical round of harmonic devotion begins. I am neither a Muslim nor a Christian. I am nothing but a man, but I love the call to prayer…
The last wails from a distant mosque drift and fuse with the clamor of the waking world. The eastern horizon’s hold on night has come loose like the slow uncapping of a plastic egg. I set aside my dreams and lie upon the faded pillows of my couch, folding my arms behind my head to improve the view outside my window. A morning dove warbles and preens on a bending branch just beyond my balcony. Below, a dog knocks over a water pale, woofs and scutters off. I rise and stretch and yawn like a lazy lion.
Before long, the white enameled kettle on the grease splattered two burner stove is boiling and steaming. I turn off the gas and spoon two heaps of Dunn Brothers’ dark roasted Sumatran grounds into my plastic coffee press. I lift the kettle off the stove, tip the spout and watch a thick stream of hot clear water pour over the grounds, extracting their dark essence from within. I place the lid and screen over the press, leave the coffee steeping and go back into my studio to gather the dishes I scattered about the night before. Wedging cups and bowls, pans and utensils between curling clenched fingers, I walk gingerly back to the kitchen and deposit the flea-market of dishes into my sink. The rich aroma of coffee has already filled the air around the room. I take the ball of the press and force the rod and filter down, through the water, to the cylinder’s inner base. The liquid inside turns completely opaque.
A few minutes later I’m standing on my balcony sipping my Sumatran. Beyond the courtyard’s scallop-roofed shanties a perfect nickel-sized sun shines listlessly through the fog that has wrapped the world in a blurry gauze. I stand on my balcony and sip my steaming coffee. Shadows hang in the morning mist—dark apparitions trapped in the vapors of a rainy, ink-washed night. Even from up here, I smell the earth and think about my mother. Spring is her season. I remember watching her once while she was planting. She spread her fingers and sank them long up to their webs and balled a palm-full of earth like an ice cream scoop and raised it to her nose. She closed her eyes and inhaled the decaying, musty loam…and then she smiled knowingly.
From such darkness we are born.
ALLAHU…AKBAR…the long drawn syllables of these two words pour over space and time and suffuse the atmosphere with unassailable beauty. Muazzins from other mosques around the city awaken and a musical round of harmonic devotion begins. I am neither a Muslim nor a Christian. I am nothing but a man, but I love the call to prayer…
The last wails from a distant mosque drift and fuse with the clamor of the waking world. The eastern horizon’s hold on night has come loose like the slow uncapping of a plastic egg. I set aside my dreams and lie upon the faded pillows of my couch, folding my arms behind my head to improve the view outside my window. A morning dove warbles and preens on a bending branch just beyond my balcony. Below, a dog knocks over a water pale, woofs and scutters off. I rise and stretch and yawn like a lazy lion.
Before long, the white enameled kettle on the grease splattered two burner stove is boiling and steaming. I turn off the gas and spoon two heaps of Dunn Brothers’ dark roasted Sumatran grounds into my plastic coffee press. I lift the kettle off the stove, tip the spout and watch a thick stream of hot clear water pour over the grounds, extracting their dark essence from within. I place the lid and screen over the press, leave the coffee steeping and go back into my studio to gather the dishes I scattered about the night before. Wedging cups and bowls, pans and utensils between curling clenched fingers, I walk gingerly back to the kitchen and deposit the flea-market of dishes into my sink. The rich aroma of coffee has already filled the air around the room. I take the ball of the press and force the rod and filter down, through the water, to the cylinder’s inner base. The liquid inside turns completely opaque.
A few minutes later I’m standing on my balcony sipping my Sumatran. Beyond the courtyard’s scallop-roofed shanties a perfect nickel-sized sun shines listlessly through the fog that has wrapped the world in a blurry gauze. I stand on my balcony and sip my steaming coffee. Shadows hang in the morning mist—dark apparitions trapped in the vapors of a rainy, ink-washed night. Even from up here, I smell the earth and think about my mother. Spring is her season. I remember watching her once while she was planting. She spread her fingers and sank them long up to their webs and balled a palm-full of earth like an ice cream scoop and raised it to her nose. She closed her eyes and inhaled the decaying, musty loam…and then she smiled knowingly.
From such darkness we are born.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
-
http://www.paid-to-promote.net/member/signup.php?r=ahmadabdulosmanmukarra
http://www.paid-to-promote.net/?r=ahmadabdulosmanmukarra
