Roma children in MacedoniaI've been called gypsy so many times I might as well come up with some fabulous bohemian story of where I'm from. I know it has a lot to do with all the colorful linen I wear in the summer heat; and matched with my dark skin, I suppose I sort-of-can-almost get away with the name Esmeralda or Carmen--though just the thought of it makes me cringe. I also happen to know a little more about real life, modern day, "gypsies"; and how far from the romanticized ideal (puffed trousers, fortune telling and caravans) they truly are in today's world. When I lived in Macedonia, I worked closely with the Romani people of the Balkans, a.k.a. gypsies. They are a remarkable people--by no means a homogeneous group across Europe--with exceptional survival skills honed in through years (generations) of persecution and discrimination. In Macedonia, a majority of them are refugees from the war in Kosovo. The Roma are the underdogs of Europe, and treated like invisible citizenry. We don't ever hear about them in the media, despite the fact that they are ever present (have you heard of Charlie Chaplin?) and have been an influential cultural force (Gogol Bordello and others have popularized their musical genre). In fact, many of the Romani are stateless, with no formal documentation or legal status in their country of residence--which I suppose fits with the idea of traveling gypsies with no real home or settlement. But if you were to ask a Roma person whether they have chosen to live a life at the periphery as pariahs and outcasts, they will tell you that they've never really been given much of a choice. When we think gypsy, we're really thinking more along the lines of Bohemian lifestyle and fashion--never the Romani people. The word "bohémien" was the common term in France for the Romani (who traveled to Western Europe through Bohemia), which was then extended to artists, writers, musicians and actors who lived "unconventional lifestyles" regardless of ethnicity and origin. The history of the Romani people itself, however, really does capture the imagination as it covers the great distance from India to Western Europe. There are several theories for the migration of the Romani from India, which has kept an aura of mystery to their story and cultural identity. 
Me and my colleagues (left) posing with the Roma refugee band "Roma Talents" (right) in Skopje
This is the title of my friend's blog who has decided to go on a four month voyage into South East Asia. It cracked me up reading the title as there has been such mix reviews of Elizabeth Gilbert's bestselling memoir Eat, Pray, Love. It was published in 2006, and yet it is still finds its way into the current motif of travel and "finding one's way in life"--not always in good favour, and sometimes the opposite--like in the case of my witty friend's blog, who's applied it as a satirical reference to Gilbert's fantastical story, which, let's face it, won't happen to everybody who decides to let loose and seek out pleasure, the Divine, and their future husband number two (who happens to be a sexy Brazilian). There might as well be nymphs and fairies in her story, and I'll still believe it all happened to Ms. Gilbert.
There is a fundamental core to her story though, which I think reaches out and grabs the reader in a surprising way. For me, it was instant jealousy that slapped me across the face. Who wouldn't be? She gets to go on a year long sabbatical across three exotic countries, fully funded by her publisher as a free-lance writer! But after the initial phase of green-eyed envy, it did make me think about what freedom really means and how malleable the whole notion is to us.
I go back and forth between the idea that "everywhere we are in chains" (thank you Monsieur Rousseau), and the idea that we are fundamentally in charge of our own destinies, thus having some leverage over Rousseau's metaphorical chains. I suppose my sentiments lie somewhere in the middle, because I do feel the pull of both ends of the spectrum in very tangible and real ways. For instance, it would take a lot of work for me to be able to go spend a year abroad without a job, a home, or money, to feed me all the gourmet pasta and risottos I want. On the other hand, I am privileged enough to have some power over the decisions I make in my life that will inevitably affect my entire future. I'm not rich, nor am I poor (monetarily), but I do have the freedom to choose. I am my own decision-maker; and this is the most powerful tool a person can have at their disposal.
My sketchbook sits loosely on the top of the drawer, its pages hungry for some action. I've let it sit there for some weeks now as I immerse myself in all things foreign. Some artists work differently; they make their first impressions on the faithful pages of their sketchbook the moment they encounter the new. Their impulse to create provides them with the tools for discovering and making sense of their immediate surroundings. I am similar in this way; my work aids me in my explorations like a an anthropologist in an unfamiliar setting--though the setting is usually a very abstract place in my mind. What I do a little differently however, when encountering new terrain, is act like a bean that needs some soaking, before it either softens to a yummy consistency or begins to sprout new life. My sketchbook isn't with me while I soak. My art making momentum gets into gear a little later as I adjust and find my creative footing.
Instead, it is my journal that is my soaking companion. It never leaves my side and seems to be my outlet of choice from the get-go. To me, both writing and drawing evoke the same cathartic qualities in documenting experience; but writing helps to ease in the first wave of processing, before I am even able to compose a picture with images interpreting my own words and insightful revelations. Reading text will trigger different patellar-like reflexes, while seeing and observing images may trigger another. This applies to me when using one or the other as my mode of communication; but together, they make for a very powerful narrative.
It's been a while since I've written in here. Suffice it to say, the absence has had more to do with positive developments in my life, rather than a lack thereof. In fact, there is much to say to fill these virtual pages with thoughtful ramblings--but I will refrain myself for now, for fear of getting way too ahead of myself. All the good and the freshness of the past month need some more brewing for my palette to really taste its permanence. Translation: I am still in recalibration mode, absorbing and taking in as much as I can before I make my next move. This could take months, or perhaps even a full year (Lord forbid!); but I'm in no hurry. Life's transformative projects have no deadlines.
Some people are asking me, "what's the game plan?" or "what will you do?" (I feel like these questions act as "sanity-checks", making sure I'm still thinking logically, etc. etc.) Do I really need a game plan, or some sort of strategy right now? How about the pursuit of happiness? Is that alright? Not good enough to some. Apparently, I need to spell it out like some mapping device that starts from point A to point Z. It makes people less worried if you're able to calculate how you're going to get from here to there. Truth is, it's more about them, then it really is about me. It puts people off guard, and can be considered burdensome, when one admits to a lack of a game plan. It seems the only thing that will prove I am getting out of some sort of rut is if I focus on more tangible outcomes; like getting a job and re-inserting myself into the mold of what's expected of me. I call this dreaming small. But who's to say I'm in a rut right now, and not when I actually did have a good paying job, which lent some semblance of a "career", and kept a roof over my head? Oh sure, I was really happy then. A big fat WRONG. I was miserable. And because I was miserable I manifested miserability into ever aspect of my life like a shot of the heebie-jeebies right in the vein.
It troubles me when I sense judgment in their tone when people "voice their concerns" to me; especially from those who don't even know what's really going on, and only bear witness to my life through a telescope and not a microscope. Or worse, when they fail at trying to do it subtly. It's patronizing and unnecessary. For the first time in my life, I feel good about the chain of events that have (within, as well as outside my own control) led me to this place; right here, right now. So maybe the contours of my future are looking a little less defined these days, but that's just because I haven't predetermined my own trajectory--I'm focusing on the ride, and feel myself growing and evolving in myriad ways. The rest will work itself out--I'm not exactly a loose canon with zero sense of responsibility. I'm not a teenager anymore and haven't been for a decade.
All I've got going for myself are a bunch of ideas that have inspired me in ways that I haven't been in a long while. This should be enough to appease all of those who think me aimless and in need of guidance. I'll be the first to admit if I haven't a clue, and I am no stranger to seeking guidance when I truly need it. But today, this just isn't the case.
Roma children in Macedonia
Me and my colleagues (left) posing with the Roma refugee band "Roma Talents" (right) in Skopje
