(Slowly) Letting My Hair Down & Some Images of Dhaka

This week, I was reading a series of Tweets called "Let's Be Messy on the Internet Together" by Creatrix Tiara, and I really resonated with the pressures of 'being an expert' and 'building a brand' influencing what one posts on their blog/social media. It's what has kept me from posting more deeply personal and not-quite-there-yet material on this blog -- I'm not really a blogger, per se, but I like to play with ideas and put them out somewhere. I'm also a recovering perfectionist and putting out lower-grade material freaks me out a little bit. Yet I am drawn to it still. There are several articles that talk about the less professionalized internet (oh Xanga, my first home) and I want to harken back to those days at least every so often, when I'm not sharing my obviously fabulous life stories and pitch perfect advice.

A photo of my bed in disarray -- a.k.a my creative process.

I realize that I haven't been talking a lot about Dhaka in terms of its images. Part of that is because I am still living here and it's hard for me to both experience and reflect at the same time. But another part is that I've been feeling a little bit protective of the experiences I've had living here, for fear that they'll be misinterpreted or that I'll be judged for certain things. People don't have a good understanding of what it's like to live in this city, and sometimes neither do I. The pinhole vision I've got is so based on my class and language access and spaces I inhabit. Yet the things that have now become common to me were not common at all before; the histories that I've been reaching back into just open up new questions about what life looked like in the time period I've chosen to focus on -- the late 80s and early 90s.

I think giving a long view of the city would be too much to do in these types of posts, though I long to do it justice in my fiction. But I have been collecting images here -- for the first several months I would write down 10 images a day (an exercise adapted from the advice of the great Lynda Barry). Here are several I want to share for now:

The crashing sound of a transformer bursting creates a momentary silence, then a sprig of yelling voices after

Punctuating our conversations about social space with the sound of killing moshas (mosquitoes)

 A corner stall selling hardwares -- no wider than one man -- with its shopkeep napping like a little boy on his folded arms

Sitting on a rickshaw caught in traffic, the inexplicable joy of seeing a fruit tree filled with large bats swooping overhead

 Recording the hum of the CNG as it accelerates onto a flyover

Painstakingly sounding out the words to a chapter book with my father over Skype

The moment after the lights cut out, a thunderclap

Got Ourselves a Bleeder

 

Street art on a closed sliding door; a painting of a monocle-wearing man's face whose beard is made of letters.

And now, a personal anecdote from my travel in Spain.

In Madrid, the streets are narrow and sidewalks accommodate one person, maybe two, at a time. It’s hot and you’re ill and wandering around. The perfect way to spend a vacation. For a moment, you stop to consult your GPS and that’s when it comes on. The nosebleed actually announces itself.

You can feel the blood sluice down your nasal passage, thick and warm. You turn your head skyward but it’s a little too late – several drops of blood escape onto your arm and the pavement. It’s fortunate that you’re wearing a rust-colored dress. You close your eyes and with one hand pinch your nose. With the other, you fumble for your bag. No tissues. Not even a crappy napkin from the coffee shop you’d just left. You don’t know any Spanish and can barely walk two steps without shooting blood out of your face. You resolve to pace back and forth ineffectually.

Someone taps your shoulder. “I saw you!” Suddenly there are a stack of paper towels in your hand. The shop across the street has a glass storefront window and the very kind woman inside has run across the street to help you. You can’t thank her enough, smiling through a mound of reddening paper.

You soak through all the towels in minutes.

Hurrying along the curling streets, you pass an older couple who tells you (in Spanish, with gestures) to go to a church nearby. She adds a lot of explanation that you can’t understand. You wander off in the direction of the church, but when you get there it is closed. A couple is standing in the doorway, looking a bit concerned as you approach. They point towards a bar across the square, but it also looks closed. Then you see the water spigot at the edge of a nearby playground.

The little kid who holds the lever for you is your new best friend. He gives you enough time to wash the blood off your arms and face before bounding away. You thank him with a thumbs up sign. You’ve never used the thumbs up as often as you have off of US soil. It’s not a universal symbol – not by a long shot – but people can deduce a lot from it. That you’re American, that you’re content with something, that you probably don’t speak their language… You have to throw away the towels you’ve been holding, but that means you’re back to square one. As you calculate the distance between your location and the metro, you’re worried the blood will come back.

Someone makes a noise and you turn around. The bearded man from the couple has come up to you with a half empty packet of tissues. You give another thumbs up sign.

“Broken?” he asks.

You smile, wondering if you should make up a story. “No, just dry.”

I’ve been processing some of the images and experiences I’ve had while traveling, and I’ve come to realize that I’m most inspired by the small moments. I’ve been dying to tell this story of my Epic Nosebleed, otherwise known as the day I made many temporary friends. I’ve been struggling with a less image-based piece of writing for a few days now and so it’s nice to return to something that’s a little more concrete.