lunes, octubre 31, 2005

Tales from the crypt







Someone I know wanted to share some stories with the world, and I shall be her medium, without changing a single word.

One time on the day of the dead something horrible happened, on the day of the dead lots of people were dead, quite a few, there weren’t that many people left in that country, only four people.

The four names were Señora Lupe, y Señor Miguel, Señora Angela and Señor Angel. And those people were very very nice, except one of the people was very mean and very rich, and he never likes to share his money. His name was Señor Angel.
Do you know why he does not like to? Because one day his mother died and the day she died all the pennies were there, she had a hundred million pennies, and she had it because she wanted to be rich, and so why she wanted to be rich is that her father was never rich but, her father told her “be rich when you grow up, be a helpful girl”. So this is how she dies, she got very ill, she had pneumonia and that day she was about to get up to get all her pennies and her money out of the bank but it was too late, she fell and died.
That is the day that Angel had to come to her, but when he found out that she was really dead, it broke his heart because he really loved her. And then he really wanted money because he wanted to pay for another mom. So every day he forgot and snip snap the tale’s told out.

Una vez había un caldero y este caldero no era como los otros calderos porque si alguien se muere ese caldero va a poner ese muerto, niño o niña en él. Y, estaba ahí una vez un niñito caminando por el caldero. El caldero no sabía, no tenía orejas o algo más…

domingo, octubre 30, 2005

pumpkins and calacas in a season of syncreticity

It has been a weekend of cultural events, some more haute than others...

I. and I made it to La casa de la guerra by nine in the morning, prepared with our best listening skills and her box full of art supplies. She was instructed that she must remain absolutely silent or else the daddy monster would be called and remove her from my presence. We were seated right next to the ofrenda in honor of the Juanes (Rulfo y Sor Juana) and she silently marveled and mouthed commentary to me... thankfully there was no copal being burned until later, because even though I love the smell, it provokes a violent string of sneezes which when one is trying to listen attentively in a small enclosed space, is not optimal.

She happily colored, wrote words and ate pan dulce with minimal interruption and in fact I was able to enjoy quite a bit of the congreso. Of course in her huipil she smote all who approached her, and late into the night at the closing reception (sans child by then for appropriate elbow rubbing oppotunities) both her dress and her gorgeousity were still a topic of discussion. Strangely this never embarrasses me, perhaps because I am totally and perdidamente enamored myself.

One of the presenters, our newest faculty member, presented an extremely interesting reading of Glantz's prise-winning novel, and she read a part which sucked me in, ripe with blood, carnage, open-heart surgery, and devastating love (I know, just my style) and he brought to light these two quotes which spoke directly to me, as if their hands reached from the page and wrapped their sense around me in a beautiful mortuary embrace:

"palabras, palabras, palabras dichas sin iliación, sin sentido ¿o lo tienen? Deben tenerlo, son palabras que salen del corazón y que uno no cuida, aunque sea un error, ¿no dicen que se puede matar y ofender a muerte con las palabras?" (45, El rastro)

"Esta tarde, mi bien, cuando te hablaba,
como en tu rostro y tus acciones vía
que con palabras no te persuadía,
que el corazón me vieses deseaba;

y Amor, que mis intentos ayudaba,
venció lo que imposible parecía:
pues entre el llanto, que el dolor vertía,
el corazón deshecho destilaba.

Baste ya de rigores, mi bien, baste:
no te atormenten más celos tiranos,
ni el vil recelo tu inquietud contraste

con sombras necias, con indicios vanos,
pues ya en líquido humor viste y tocaste
mi corazón deshecho entre tus manos."
(Sor Juana)

And as I am disappearing into my interior world, my peque catches my eye, drawing furiously, finishing one page, flipping to the next in her diary: hearts, and hearts and more hearts wrapped up in trees, framing the pages, pulsing among stars... tangentially listening, I imagine, and in an inspired creational fervor. (Her mother's daughter?)

Today, we played out our Sunday morning ritual, skin against skin, kisses and snuggles, warmth... She sleeps, like me, with as little as she can get away with, and this makes morning colder, but much more enticing for closeness. It is always me that is rustled from sleep much sooner than I would like, but one can hardly complain about such bone-smashing attention.

We went to the pumpkin patch, took a ride on a horse-drawn carriage, traipsed through a maize maze... no skeletons dancing on graves today, but soon the dance of living death, or dying life will unfold in a parade of beautiful children, reflected in shards of broken glass, molten, pouring down the throat of the swan... an interrogation, a petition at dawn.

sábado, octubre 29, 2005

feeling better already

Y'all know I can't stay in a funk for too long. Things are already looking up, if not on the economic front, totally, it seems that things happen for a reason and it isn't all bad.

Last night we saw Keb' Mo'. I had never heard him or even heard of him, but who am I to disparage comp tickets, right? So after a very long day, as Thursdays always are, Ana offered to watch the princess I. and I got to go childless for two whole hours of bluesfull bliss. He was amazing, amazing. First rate guitarist, and a hell of a voice, and to top things off he had Susan Werner join him for a surprise visit on stage, and she just stole my breath from me, singing jazz-standard 20's style songs, that were hauntingly profound... (I can be anything for you baby, but I can't be new.) It was great to be enveloped in the walking blues, but again, Campbell hall is only so good when what you really want to do is move your body.

Today Tim and I were talking about this, as we sat in uncomfortable chairs for several hours (and he drew silly pictures and passed them back to us for comment- he always does this at every conference we go to, it is a miracle that he got tenure) at the yearly Mexicanist conference. It isn't that the presentations aren't good, in fact many are excellent, but neither he nor I can seem to sit still for very long. I think I am developing (or accentuating) ADD as I get older... in fact, my mom always wants to diagnose me, and one of its outward manifestations in women tends to be depression... so maybe she is right, though things have been mostly under wraps these days, even things that make me feel sad or scared or even panicked are not making me feel helpless, nor sunken in a mire of personal misery - thank god! But I actually got a tremendous amount out of the conference, perhaps moreso afterwards going to one of the professor's house for the evening reception and hanging with other (ha! I include myself in this group?) writers/ critics. I really enjoyed their company but had to withstand embarassingly glowing praise from my profe's as they introduced me. I swear, I can't take compliments, I just turn bright red and have to act silly and hide my face behind my shawl or scarf or whatever I have at my disposition.

I have lately, as I mentioned before, been on mental stimulation overload with all my reading and such. What happens when you combine romantic Spanish poets, Baroque poetry with neo-platonic tendencies, cybernetic nihilism and a good dose of eroticism? Stories and poetry that will most likely offend the masses. Ah well. I don't have to justify myself or my writing, and just because I explore eroticism and violent death doesn't mean I am fantasizing about inflicting it on anyone. Last night, before my feminist epistemology class (where I had a big presentation) I got the chance to listen to writer Margo Glantz (in whose honor this conference is being held) talk about her work and about one of the classes that she is teaching while at a big elite University here in Cali. which needs no introduction. She was discussing a re-reading of Greek creation myths and how all of them unfurled from the point of a woman's rape - that is, occidental tradition is founded on the most basic of violences against women. She also discussed one of the more productive and more forgotten authors of the Siglos de Oro -María de Saya (I think) who was anomalously extremely violent, gory and erotically graphic, and who always had her married women characters dying horrible deaths at the hands of their husbands. I was also watching a PBS special the other night about three different women, one from Italy, one from Iran, and one from Guatemala that had fled their countries and abusive marriages ending up in the US. I think the most heartbreaking story was that of the Guatemalan woman who has been seeking political refugee status for the last ten years because of the systemic lack of protection for women in domestic violence situations in her country. It said that something like 70% of women who were murdered were done so by their spouses and that the police refused to become involved.

Meanwhile, we had an "experiential learning activity" in the women's studies class, and there is always this weird dynamic in that class because there are these little cliques of sociologists (half of the class) that often don't get along and seem to spend a lot of time whispering amongst themselves. Nothing like a group of women to cut eachother down. But while we were doing one of the activities I was given the "disability" of not being able to talk, and after we processed and debriefed, I came to the conclusion that it isn't just that I need to talk about (or write down) my experiences, but that I actually am physically and mentally unable to process functionally without doing so. I finally (after all these years) discovered what my predominant learning style is, it is not auditory, nor visual, nor experiential, but verbal. I must verbalize in order to be able to understand my world. (It isn't just about me needing to capture all the attention in a room, or at least not entirely).

So with all these things bouncing around my head last night, no wonder I couldn't sleep, and no wonder I chose to write a micro-story of an inverted creation myth in which it is not the woman that is violated, but rather, she is the assassin - à la Quinto Jinete (though not nearly as good as his could be, no doubt - it is just that we have been having this ongoing conversation about liberation and matriarchy)

And then, of course today as I sat through my first talk (not part of the conference, but rather the translation studies focus group) on a local writer's translation from Sanscrit of the Goddess praising texts, and as he was discussing Kali, the goddess of destruction that emerges from the head of the Devidurga, I realized that last night, Kali had sprung forth from me too.

Ah yes, that is all for now, just enough to process my day, before another all day jornada at tomorrow's clausura.

miércoles, octubre 26, 2005

Not a writer, not today

Today was a bad day. In general and specifically.

Alhough I did get a free call from Costa Rica with the thingy that Oscar had me download. Very cool. I would make a link here, but I am too lazy and he already made one on the blogueros site...

I disappointed several people. I hate that. I hate feeling like even though it has nothing to do with my choice, I have let people down. It is the worst feeling for me. That was how my day started.

There was a high point when Allison found me at my outdoor grading-post and fed me a lovely Tuscan bean and teriyaki tofu salad, and I got to stop by the music department for their Wednesday lunch concerts, and listen to some lively gypsy music (think Dhjango Reinhardt style).

Midway through the day, though, my economic stability was whisked from beneath my feet, and I was left feeling speechless, sorry, and horribly frustrated at the same time. I don't have an answer or a solution. I never seem to. It makes me feel totally impotent and useless. And scared.

But on other fronts:
K. has a new love interest. I am so excited for her, and after a long conversation (vicarious pleasure and very naughty girltalk) I was, as always, more informed about the world than when I started. One of our topics was the gestalt theory of psychology and how compelling it is when we meet people who share common parts of our whole, but how absolutely destructively magnetic (because of its rarity) it is to meet a person who not only shares several of our individual properties, but whose emergent self coincides with our own. I have been thinking about this idea quite a bit. It isn't enough to have the same, or similar, parts, but that the sum, greater than its individual components, must somehow coincide. And in the same way how compelling it is, and seemingly impossible, that someone with extremely different foundational components can somehow end up with coincidental emergent properties. Another (stemmed by the fact that new beau is an epidemiologist) topic was HPV. It seems that HPV is prevalent in something like 90% of the adult female population. What?! And (or more aptly, because of this fact) latex or any other type of condoms do not protect against this STI because the virus is too small and permeates the microscopic pores of said barriers. No, not to worry, there are only 2 strains, 16 and 18 she thought (I have done no more research, big surprise) are symptomatic and lead almost invariably to cervical cancer, and these are not necesarily the most ubiquitous. I guess the scariest part is that there is no way for a man to know if he is a carrier unless a partner of his has an irregular pap-test and is subsequently diagnosed. Or maybe it is scarier that no one told us this in sex-ed classes... ever! Ah well. All the other juicy details of our conversation are not for public consumption, but involved much giggling and snarky remarks. Our forte.

Meanwhile... Jeffy my dear, and perhaps some other of you dears, is going to participate in NaNoWriMo. That's write, right, rite. Writers unite in a month-long frenzy towards a common goal: to write a novel. I, sadly, am not a writer. Not yet, perhaps not ever. This school year is designed specifically to break my spirit and drive me into myself in a comatose state of self-denigration. I cannot write. I mean, not that I don't want to, but that there is NO WAY that I can do what I want to until this evil malignant exam that is looming is dispatched with the style and grace that I am sure you all expect of me. (Ha Ha. I am just hoping to not fall flat on my face and be banished from academia for my utter unworthiness. Even if I am unworthy, I am still trying to trick them into letting me into the club.) So, I will longingly think of all you writers out there and melt in anxious expectation to read said products, while I stew in my own chaste, self-denying misery. Enjoy it for me, ok?


So. Off I go to read more baroque theater, and to like it dammit.

lunes, octubre 24, 2005

High fantasy

I should be shot. Or perhaps spanked? I am the worst, succumbing, of course, to buying I. a halloween costume to assuage her dress-up needs and cultural expectations of which I claim to not partake... even though she looks adorable in her renaissance style princess garb. And of course, I had to foment the shoe fetish that my child has already begun to demonstrate, black dress shoes, with black sequins...

Now, if I were Idealist Savant I could pull off wearing a tiara and transparent high heels of the cheap streetwalker variety (no aspersions being cast) but I am sadly not into lycra, leather nor lace... although... nah. So I guess my kiddo is going solo.

And I thought to myself, what does a master teacher/ mentor/ parent have that seems to elude me? Well, as we should all know, they model the behavior that they would like to see (hear) reproduced in their disciples. Lamentably, I have much to learn before I can model the appropriate ways to circumvent such pervasive cultural norms, or meet with self-desired expectations.

sábado, octubre 22, 2005

S N L

These are some rotten sound quality speakers if I ever heard them! Ahem. I haven't listened to what was being posted, just turned the phone on and let it rip... The first jam in several months that I went to, and, well, it was just after harvest:) My current state prevents me from any sort of cogent argument, or capacity for discernment, so... until then... Have a laugh if you want.

this is an audio post - click to play



this is an audio post - click to play


this is an audio post - click to play



this is an audio post - click to play

viernes, octubre 21, 2005

weekend awaits

Too little work, too much red wine. Typical Friday.

Spent the evening with Kirsten and Pepe, and I. and they had a repeat of last weekend's pool antics. Innocent youth, indeed!



I hope the weather gets better.

Things are not always as they appear...

Thinking on our need to visually interact with the world...

I am eternally fascinated by the fact that there is NO SUCH THING as reality. I mean, what one person literally sees is totally different than what another does. For example, just last week I was feeling depressed about getting older (I know, I know, I am not allowed to get that way until I am at least out of my twenties... I just feel so much older than I really am, I have always been a fish out of water), and also feeling generally unhappy with my physical appearance, when I am confronted by a very different interpretation of who I am.

Really, mostly I hate looking at myself, I am fully incapable of not honing in on my myriad imperfections. As a kid I had a word for them (I am starting to sound hyper neurotic, ok, I confess.) "imperfecacies" I liked the idea that I had created a unique word to drive home my ultimate unloveability. This was somewhere between the ages of 11-13, when, as we know, we experience hell on earth as our bodies go absolutely wonky in a matter of minutes and then fail to right themselves for several years all while our consciousness of "others" has magnified in its depth one-hundred-fold. I still can't trust my own eyes to determine what I really look like. Honestly, I never look the same twice.

But as I was wrapping up my teacherly duties, erasing the antiquated chalkboard (I always wear black and I always end up with dusty handprints in the most innoportune of places) two students who were waiting to accompany me to my office for extra help were giggling. "she's soooo cute." I look up. The other says, "She's always saying that." and the first says, "You are, you're so cute, I just want to hug you!" I smile. "Well, uh, I do like hugs and I probably wouldn't have a problem with you hugging me, but, maybe we should refrain..." (I am laughing). Student two, "you're like, the most laid-back instructor ever!" Me, "I try." Student 1, "How old are you?" Me, "uh. 27." "Really? you look so young! I mean, it's a good thing... we thought you were much younger. You're just so sweet."

I know, I have a deceptively angelic look about me, but little do they know... about the devil inside. (sorry, had to do it, INXS jumped out).

It is always nice to be appreciated, and with this particular class, I have several puppy dogs (boys and girls) that follow me out after classes, just to talk politics or music, or history, and mostly I think it is because I make them feel safe and I take the time to really make each one feel special (at a university this size, these classes are often the only ones in which their instructor knows their name, at least until they get to their final year and take seminar classes). Which brings me to the point. It is amazing how transparent we are as beings, how we transform what is on the outside by what is seeping out from the inside. If one is looking with eyes of hate, there will always be a fault, a flaw, an "imperfecacy" to be found, but if one is looking with eyes of love, well, that is another story completely.

Now if only we could teach ourselves to look at ourselves with such acceptance.

jueves, octubre 20, 2005

chained to our cars



Can someone please explain to me why I will always want to ride one of these? What is the underlying sexiness in a car? An object of leather and steel, that peels out across the empty horizon.... Why are we so terribly attached to something so emotionally intangible?

Quotes of interest

Since I am too swamped to write anything worthwhile...

Two Rimas, enveloped in romanticism, for crying and one theoretical framing that is good for a laugh:

XXIII
Por una mirada un mundo;
por una sonrisa, un cielo,
por un beso..., ¡yo no sé
qué te diera por un beso!


XC
Es un sueño la vida,
pero un sueño febril que dura un punto;
cuando de él se despierta,
se ve que todo es vanidad y humo...

¡Ojalá fuera un sueño
muy largo y muy profundo;
un sueño que durara hasta la muerte!...
Yo soñaría con mi amor y el tuyo.

---Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer (1836-1870)

And from a pro-sex feminist radical: (aside, from this earlier movement, it would seem, there stems a movement which is snarkily referred to as "do-me feminism"... but I kinda like the idea myself;)

"My sexual semiotics differ from the mainstream. So what? I didn't join the feminist movement to live inside a Hallmark card."
---Pat Califia, "Feminism and Sadomasochism")

miércoles, octubre 19, 2005

Overload

My brain is on overload. Quite certainly in every way. I like it, the feeling of losing myself inside the proliferation of maddening sensation, overwhelming.

Work is overtaking my humble attempts at writing. I want to write, a whole novel, I want to read, a trashy book, or one of high childhood fantasy, or just sit with my child and read a story of thieves and princesses locked in towers. But work calls, and the doing of gender prevails... (god I forgot how horribly repetetive sociological texts tend to be.)

This afternoon I sat in my usual place - I have found (while it doesn't rain) a place where I like to work, I let the sun beat down on me, bleaching my hair little by little. It is close enough to a bathroom, and my classes, and distant enough from my awful desk... I can see my tree, but I can't sit on the soggy ground. It is a productive place. While I read about the unequal gendered division of labor, not a new concept for me, I am torn between wanting and simultaneously rejecting the idea of picking I. up from her after-school Spanish class to walk her, on her first day, to drama. (I had made sure she had extra snack this morning, and also sent another one with M. just in case) I waver and waver, it turns into a full-blown moral battle in my head. I call to change plans three times because I finish my language test in just 10 minutes and this evening's seminar appears to be cancelled for a brief moment. I curse myself for being a control freak. I call again to say that I better not go, that I. isn't expecting me and that it would set a bad precedent. I secretly think, dammit, I should just let somebody else take care of things once in a while, this is unfair to me, to always be stressing about the upkeep of the child. I call again because I cave and I want to see her, participate (usurp parental authority?). And then I call back once more because class isn't cancelled after all. Saved from my own complicit acceptance of subordinate status.

After "doing gender" and revelling in "gender trouble" for the better part of the afternoon, I come home. I have no energy to make food, though I was imagining polenta, (even though I am the only member of my household that likes it)... there was leftover seafood risotto from last night, and pasta and chicken with a mushroom cream sauce (I have taken to using vermouth in all my cooking) but I was once more confronted with the fact that while we are both tired, and spent, I am the one invested with the making of dinner. I am too tired to be annoyed.

Before I take a scalding shower to focus my scattered energy on the paper that I write for tomorrow, I snuggle briefly with my child as she is settling in to watch "They Might Be Giants" puppet alphabet video that Jeffy sent and just arrived (she loved it! thanks;) and I am tempted to make an experiment of her.
"Come here sweet pea." (what is it with Americans and our ridiculous custom of calling our children vegetables? pumpkin, among others)... and the sly researcher in me slips out... "who's my good little boy?"
"I'm not a boy, I'm a girl."
"Are you?" I feign surprise.
"Yes"
(grumbling from the peanut gallery, "Ilana don't start with your strange ideas, don't confuse her.")
"How do you know?" I prod.
"Because I wear girl clothing." (aha! she is already socialized in distinctive gender markers, but does not conflate genitalia with sex category)

Silence.

"Well, boys can sometimes wear girl clothing too, it's ok. But I wear it more."

I smile to myself, my child is amazing. I'm convinced. I know some people might be horrified by this, but I think it is fabulous that at such a self-regulating age she is able to be not only tolerant of difference but fully open to it. Maybe there will be substantive change... maybe there is hope for the future?

domingo, octubre 16, 2005

Azucar!

Eddie Palmieri was amazing. Sadly the venue was the same place that I administer final exams and decidedly not conducive to mass uprising in fluid motion. I played the "congas" on I.'s thighs and chest as she curled in my arms, secretly unzipping the front of my little black dress and taking great pleasure in my dismay. When the salseros went over the top, I. was a dancing fool, shaking her hips in her little flapper dress (part of mom's care package and the only suitable occasion that I could think of to let her wear it out in public) with Laura and Líber. I limited myself to chair dancing and air drumming, I just always feel so self-conscious getting up and dancing. M. wanted to go to the stage, but we two are totally incompatible in all ways dancing, and I prefer to only minimally make a fool of myself when at all possible. Instead I lurked in the back of the auditorium and finally let the drums overtake me, rolling in waves of rhythm, as I. showed us her dancing chops. (I swear I have no idea where she gets it from, I mean the music, we can take credit for, but the moves on this child - I think she was on fire today, she and Pepe kept flashing eachother at the pool, whispering, giggling, love was in the air).

But speaking of letting go, the other night, we had very good Morrocan food, and just before we could sneak out, unscathed, the belly-dancer made me get up, quite tipsy on red wine, and dance with her in the middle of the restaurant. I would have been totally mortified (save for the red wine, which as we all know by now, loosens my grip on reality) but for the fact that the waitress was a dance major and I knew her from last year's Portuguese class, and she came to dance too. In fact it was a strange situation, where do you put your eyes when someone comes shaking her firm, yet aging body at you. She was clearly enjoying herself, enjoying the confrontation, the slight discomfort in my demeanor, this is me, ME! uncomfortable, (you are all surprised? I am!) Her eyes locked on mine and there was nowhere to hide, as she danced towards us. "She's a lesbian," I affirm, knowingly, "I think she likes me," I joke. "No way, did you see her checking me out." We laugh, of course that is her job, to flirt with the clientele, but then she makes me come with her, refusing to take no for an answer (my first three responses) as I trip over my feet, she holds court, and several giddy college girls come and dance too, but she keeps dancing closer to me, whispering that I am a natural, that I have done this before, encouraging me to shake my curves with abandon, running her hands along my arms. Undressing me with her eyes. I dance for three songs before finally bowing out (feeling very ill from eating, drinking and then dancing so vigorously) and as she thanks the room, I look for a few dollars to tip her. M. is watching, laughing. She whispers in my ear again that I have beautiful hair, that I must be lying about not dancing, she tells M. that I am great. I offer her a few dollars and she holds her breasts out to me. "You have to put them somewhere," I am forced to slip a bill in each side of her shimmery, gilded bra. "Ah perfect, nice and even!" (I laugh because I have a manic need to feel balance always.) M. laughs, "You were right, you totally win that bet. She couldn't take her eyes or her hands off you." I smile. I know. That's why I don't like to dance, I hate letting go of my control.

sábado, octubre 15, 2005

Black as night

Thinking on "matrophors", matricide and individuation (feminist theory, if there could possibly be such a thing, and why am I so turned on by the jargon about the sex wars of the 80's?) So...here's another little ditty from my wasted mtv youth (according to third wave fem-speak, I am a gen X-er, but I think I am a little too green for that), and of course, the Black Crowes:

this is an audio post - click to play

viernes, octubre 14, 2005

This week in film

Ok. So, I finally broke down and made myself a shedule for things to do. I used to be a fanatic list maker, and I suppose these things never really go away, but for the last year or so, I have been managing to keep reality (partially) bounded and myself (primarily) on task without the aid of any sort of personal organizers. Not that I have a problem with them, I even have a little PDA that served its purpose when I was managing the lives of 20 odd exchange students and host families, but let's face it, my life is just not that exciting to warrant an electronic babysitter for my brain. I can pretty much keep everything straight, even meetings and such (because I mostly don't go to any, but the really pressing ones, and for those you get fifteen email reminders up until the day of the meeting, so, clearly, there is no need to keep track of them). My mother, or my father, on the other hand without their PDA's would have the world cave in, Dad because if it's Tuesday, you must be in Timbuktu, and Mom because she freelances in courts all over the state, so she needs to know where and when her presence is required. As I said, I am far less important to most people, and as long as I manage to squeeze myself through the bars of my personal prison at the appropriately allotted times, I get a pay check and I get the graduate student A's (I don't think that they give anything but these in grad school, not that I care, although I did get a few A+s last year just because I was loveable, no doubt).

Up until last week everything was going swimmingly. Until. dun dun dun. I started feelling super tired, and night is falling earlier, and I am get decidedly acheiving less productivity than what is required of me, and I can't even seem to help I. get her homework done on time. So I caved. And I made a list of work to be accomplished by each day of this next week, building in the inevitable leeway, that is required of me, and my tenacious case of procrastinatis. And in that I built myself a Friday afternoon nap. And I was taking it (the best part about coming home early from work to an empty house is that you can park the bike, run inside and just take your clothing off and lounge with no one asking questions or requiring attention) when the phone rang fifteen minutes in, and jerked me back out of my delicious slumber. So, I figured that I would take advantage and post a commentary on the last several films I have witnessed especially because it has been that sort of a week.

So, before I begin, I must confess that I often forget what a public forum this internet thing is, and I was pleasantly surprised by a newfound friend (that's you Santiago, if you stop by any time soon) who contacted me specifically because of a review I published online. It was about his movie. Ugh. Sometimes I really should stop myself. No, in fact, it was a fair and honest reaction to the film that I saw at a festival last year, but still, if I had imagined the director actually contacting me to talk about it, well, I don't know, I guess I might have felt less confident in my affirmations. Whatever, he's an interesting fellow that I am glad to have "met", and is currently in Paris, working on his second film (being sponsored by the Cannes festival), so perhaps it is better that I didn't pull any punches after all. But honestly Ilana, you never do know when someone might stumble upon your writing. I'm feeling a little sheepish. Usually I just hide behind the fact no one, or hardly anyone could possibly be interested enough in my life/ writing to pore over the now upwards of five-hundred posts (in exactly one year of blogging - clearly it met a need in my life that was lacking) and find anything damning. But I could well be wrong about that. And I forget about those little things called search engines that do the sorting for us. Ah yes, wouldn't anonymity be a wonderful thing. Sometimes I toy with the idea of erasing this blog and starting anew (of course after letting y'all know where to find me) but I just don't see the point, and, after all, I'm secretly a confrontational person, and I like to be known.

That said, I am still going to say some nice things, and some not so nice things about the movies I watched, and I hope that those people who take offense to what I say will just keep moving.

La niña santa, directed by Lucrecia Martel. This I got to see on the "big screen" in the university film series. I loved it. Perhaps it was nostalgia for the interior of Buenos Aires hotels, in that timeless phase, a place that could have been as easily 1970 as now. It examined the sexual coming-of-age of a thirteen or fourteen year-old girl, who lived with her mother in the family hotel, in discrete terms. I mean that not because of a lack of graphic skin shots (although this would be true, too) but rather in that the action of the film is highly limited, and the emotional movement, as examined from an exterior point-of-view, is almost imperceptible, and yet, unmistakeable. It focuses on the protagonist's encounter with a man her father's age, in a sort of a staid Lolita way; once he unbridles her desire he is faced with his own perversion. She wants to save him, and he wants to flee from ackowledgement, but the gears have already been set in motion, and the ending is a perfect closure, the last moment of ignorant, little-girl bliss, just before the bomb is about to drop. Perhaps, I might add, it included the most beautiful solo-sex scene I have ever encountered on film. I don't think that a male director could have pulled it off with his young actress, but it was absolutely, one-hundred percent, believable in the hands of a woman. What times those were. Sigh.

Solas, directed by Benito Zambrano. I really liked the edginess of the main character, a whiskey guzzling, chain smoking 35-year-old woman who finds she is pregnant by a man much like the father that she so despises. It is a study in the language of hope, and redemption but without being cheap, or cute. Extremely well acted, as she and her mother rediscover themselves, she learns to forgive her for not leaving the drunken brute of a father that she had, and she gains an adoptive grand-father for the baby that she ultimately keeps. Extra points for gorgeous, brilliant dog, and taking the risk of sexualizing the aged (on film, I mean, really, I don't think it ever really goes away, does it?)

Carandiru, directed by Hector Babenco. This is the kind of movie that is like a brutal fist to the face. I loved it, and, it will be a long time until I am able to watch it again. It is a fictionalization of the uprising of Carandiru prison in Brasil in 1992 in which 111 inmates were killed by the storming police. The point of view was extremely interesting, taking as its focus the AIDS outreach work of a doctor who visited the jail, and became acquainted and even friendly with the prisoners, all of whom, like Babenco, were excellent storytellers. This was the logical extension of his 70's film Pixote and many of the characters and themes seemed like grown up versions of his child prison, including the queen culture within the jail and the brutality, desperation and social situations that made it inevitable for many of the prisoners to be where they were. Babenco truly humanizes the experience, even as he purges the demons and monstrosity of a society whose distribution of wealth is so disparate that real change almost feels like an impossibility. The most impacting scene was, perhaps, one of the prison's hallway stairs running rivers of blood, and then buckets of soapy water being splashed upon them, merging together in pink foam.

Broken Wings, directed by Nir Bergman. This was a fabulous, moving film out of Israel, and perhaps what was so refreshing for me, not living there, is that it was not about "the situation" in any way. It was a film about a family in crisis, about a daughter who felt responsible for the death of her father and for the maintenance of her family as her mother struggles through the postmortem depression, losing her other half and her stability, beginning to try and live again, and a son who is brilliant and has no desire to return to school, because he realizes the absolute insignificance of human life, its intranscendence and uselessness. It was beautiful and crushing as the family ties unravel, the younger son has an accident because the daughter slipped on her "motherly" duties, failing to retrieve the youngest daughter. It ruefully examines the trials of a free-market economy on an individual scale, the drive for fame and personal recognition and its juxtaposition with family duties, and maintains high emotional tension throughout, culminating not in a Hollywood ending, but in a sense of resolution, possibility and the discovery of hope.

Copacabana(2001), directed by Carla Camurati. Perhaps this is not the best Brazilian film I have seen, no, I am sure of it, but it is the very first that I watched without subtitles, and actually understood the whole thing, so it is a milestone for me, anyhow. Who cares? I know, this does not belong in a serious review, which is why this is all decidedly non-academic. It is an interesting take on the development of a city through the eyes of a ninety-year-old photographer who "dies" and is mysteriously revived by his Virgem de Copacabana who it seems was really an indigenous virgin whose features were discovered and described by a native of Perú (a story much like the story of Juan Diego and Tonantzín, México's Virgen de Guadalupe) and who miraculously set sail, landing on Brazilian shores, the very same one who has accompanied him his whole life since the time he was left on a church doorstep at birth. It is fun, light, a little slow, and a bit repetetive, a film that reflects the experience of listening to your grandpa tell the same story for the umpteenth time, but still wanting to be there, to see the story through. It is a woven tapestry of voices and memories as his friends and he reminisce about days gone by. Incidentally, there was a strange rap over a sampled base of "Gangster's Paradise" which as a recurring theme, added to the meta-referential narrative, despite its not really being tied in at the end.

Twenty-nine Palms, directed by Bruno Dumont. I picked this movie, I'll be honest, because it was French, and because it was about a place that I had visited, and enjoyed, just this last year in the Joshua Tree desert. It was, perhaps, the single-most egregious waste of celuloid that I have seen. Ever. It meant to be a self-reflective portrait-a-deux but failed miserably for the following reasons. 1) There was no plot. None. Just two marginally attractive individuals driving in a Hummer with really grating music that sounded Balkan, but that bore no relation to what was going on in the film. 2) Not only was there no chemistry between the actors, who were, supposedly ardent lovers, but the gratuitous sex, while vaguely monstrous, was not exciting in any way shape or form. It seemed like a film that couldn't decide whether it wanted to be an art flick or a porno, and fell short on both accounts. The character's emotional interaction was bizarre, and undecipherable, but not disturbing in any intellectual capacity, just boring and useless. She was an insipid French girlfriend (not that this is a general characteristic), who had random bouts of unfounded jealousy and an American boyfriend with a terrible French accent, who made awful gurgling noises and crassly insensitive pillow talk, and who had nothing interesting to say, although he was apparently scouting some sort of a location for a shoot. 3) Gratuitous violence that culminates in senseless yet pointless murder of, big surprise, the insipid, mentally ill girlfriend, but only after an unexpected and ridiculous rape scene in which boyfriend is the recipient of sexual violence while girlfriend, already naked far too many times to shock or appeal, watches, and both make animal sounds, which also don't surprise because they have been grunting throughout the film. You just don't care what happens to them, because they are such empty figures and their attackers are so divorced from any meaning whatsoever that there is never any grounding point. Rarely am I so put off by a film, I can almost always find something good to say, but this was, simply put, a pointless pontification on the pointlessness of bad art, which, if it had meant to be this, might be ok (though highly doubtful), but then the question bears, why bother? And why should I care?

On deck for tonight or tomorrow:
La finestra di fronte, directed by Ferzan Ozpetek
and
8 Femmes, directed by François Ozon

martes, octubre 11, 2005

Phone call

It was so good to hear your voice(s). Really, an undeserved treat for me these days, who can't seem to focus on work or get any productivity squeezed from my defiant brain. It sounded like there was much joy on the other end of the line. I wish I had been there with you, with my glass of tinto in hand. It would have been a perfect end to my day. No, it was a perfect end to my day, even so, it wasn't nearly long enough. There is always so much more to say than what we are able to manage in the brief moments allotted. With the price of minutes, ticking away, the devil must be paid... I am so glad to know you, to have met you. You really have no idea. I hope to see the pictures soon. Thank you for thinking of me, it was really special.

Lacunae








lunes, octubre 10, 2005

WKTKFK?

There are reasons I don't turn on the tv, and these are just a few:

"Republicans owe the country their best. Just like Democrats do." Says Seculo, a conservative opposed to the moron's most recent nomination. Since when are partisan politics supposed to enter into the supreme court? And then he continues,
"Conservatives have worked for a decade to fill this position with a good conservative judge... and she is simply not good enough."
And, time the f. out: Doesn't one have to be a judge first to be on the supreme court? No, of course not, our non-president wants to leave a lifelong legacy of mediocracy in his wake. (Taking ineptitude to new heights, representation for the middle American) I can't even begin to state how furious I am that a pissant who has never served on the high court is suddenly the chief justice, but this? This truly takes the cake. Says the putrescent pile of smut, aka grand high master, "She's the kind of candidate I said I would nominate, a good conservative judge." Clearly his oratory skills are his forte, and his persuasive electric personality leaps forth from the screen. Let's just all pull out the white hoods, why don't we?

domingo, octubre 09, 2005

waiting for mail

Weird. No, really weird. I am waiting for mail because I got the most cryptic and yet strangely familiar emails in my inbox from a person who shall remain nameless for the time being, so as not to cause any cosmic rift or strange voodoo effects.

Sometimes things (people) find us at the most exquisite of times (ok that's not how you use the word in English, but it tickles me that in Portuguese esquisito means weird and not delicately delicious) at least it is this way for me.

Spent the day by the pool at faculty housing, Kirsten's friend was house-sitting and we lounged about the pool with children that were double-teaming us with obnoxiosity. Yesterday we spent the day at Lake Cachuma, it was beautiful, just on the other side of the mountains, but with very different vegetation than the ocean side. The wind whipped across the lake, and brought white-tipped waves that dashed foam against the rocky shore. We met friends at Cold Spring Tavern, and in honor of the last time we were there (last year with K.) I started the night off right with a Kamikaze (vodka, triple sec and lime juice or something like that). Again we had a strange meeting, as there was a bachelorette party going on, and they asked if it would be ok, because somebody was about to take their shirt off. I laughed inwardly, and said my child had seen worse, thinking that it was the women who were going to go topless, but no, it was three men (who I must say had very nice looking chests) who it turned out were administrative something or others at on of the schools at my university, and acquaintances of Iván's (small world). The women shreiked and I. covered her ears with napkins shook her head and muttered conspirationally, "Strange people".

Today she has been pushing my buttons to no end, and when she wouldn't get dressed, in frustration, I said " Just put the mmm. (purposefully omitted word) dress on" and she looked at me, mimicking with even the words I didn't say, shaking her head playfully at me "put the damn dress on." (For the record, I had really refrained) and for the rest of the day she was hooked on the word "sexy", calling Christa and Kirsten sexy, repeatedly. I finally asked what it was that made Kirsten sexy, and she said, "big boobs and high heels." (which made Kirsten laugh quite a bit, because the former is not one of her attributes). I was vaguely horrified. Where did my child get this idea? And why is she so damn sharp?

viernes, octubre 07, 2005

What is it with men and women's panties?

Ok, so I thought about writing this last week, when it actually occurred, but things happened and my mood was foul and I had not energy for a silly post on underpants and biking in mini-skirts. But I realize that you all, that is, at least the male group of you, oh dear readers (which is sadly over-representative, as one very savvy person recently noted, it is overwhelmingly male this world of cyber geekdom, and here one can self-propagate with no more than the desire to do so, and the time to waste), seem to be fascinated with the mere mention of female undergarments, or lack thereof. I mean, really, one passing mention of panties in a sea of blather, and all your antenna were pricked... So, in honor of the enthusiasm of the likes of Oscar, Dean, Yuré and others who may have excercised greater discretion, I suppose I shall go there after all. Shy demure little me? Why yes.

So I have been on a gender bent of late (of late? you ask incredulously, when are you not dissecting the meaning of sex and its social constructedness? ah yes, sometimes I forget, I swear...) but honestly, honestly... you can't possibly be as unidimensional as you purport, I think it is more about the fact that your brains are programmed to leap for the moving target (vestigial hunting skills), but the polivalence kicks in after a while, doesn't it? (Oscar, I might add, has proven it to me with his excellent second chapter) You all really feel things beyond pure animal impulse, I'm sure of it, just like I am sure that it is as easy to lead you astray with a few pointed comments (the power of the tongue) as it is to take candy from a baby. We know these things about you as women, we just normally adhere to our moral standard and don't use them against you, pobrecitos.

I jest. (about which part? you guess;)

So my thought about last week, of course, was that wearing mini-skirts and riding bikes can lead to accidents on several fronts. I discovered this empirically, I am sad to say, and because the topic arose, I thought I would examine, from an objective academic stance, what currents of power are at work under these particular circumstances (he he).

Yes. A case study in the dangers of moral turpitude, or, in my case, just plain old turpitude. I am not, in general, a mini-skirt wearer. But, because Kirsten and I had such fun dancing around her living room in such garments, and I got such enthusiastic feedback, I thought I would do so more often. (ok, not really, I was simply out of laundry and I a had just shaved my legs, so I felt like I should take advantage.) I own exactly four mini-skirts, two of which are soft, stretchy cotton, and meant for travelling, black and grey respectively. One is a shiny black material, acceptable for clubbing (which I never do), but way too short for me to ever really dare going out in, so presumably it could be used for dress-up/ role playing, but I've never gone there, maybe someday. (Aside, this reminds me of Sole's literary fondness for the oldest profession... I think, actually, that we are all whores in one way or another, it is just that some people actually know their price and can name it... but I digress...)

So the last mini-skirt I own is a cream-colored cotton, with a vegetable-ink print and geometric designs, and generally is beachwear. I didn't realize what a difference it makes to have a bathing suit on underneath as opposed to one's unmentionables, but at least for me, it changed my whole approach to biking.

So, as usual I was running late, you might think that I would be able to get myself dressed and out of the house by 9:30 but I can never seem to get things to line up, and I end up racing in a laughable "sprint" on my clunker of a bike to my office with only a few spare minutes to grab my books and (in a river of sweat mixed with the perfume of a recent shampooing) present myself as possessor of knowledge (actually, of course, this goes against my teaching philosophy, teacher as obelisk of power, but you know what I mean), and so by the time I realized my folly it was too late to do anything about it. There was no turning back in search of more suitable garb.

This particular skirt, you see, has absolutely no give. It doesn't stretch, so the range of motion of legs is greatly limited by its confines. Not wanting to rip the seams, I was forced to allow it to just keep riding up, and up, until it barely covered my upper thighs. Now, you might think that I am not shy, and I suppose this is true, but I do have (an albeit liberal one) a sense of decorum, and flashing every passerby on my ride to work wasn't on my agenda for the day. This is when I had my first vision of bloody, mangled bike wrecks, just as I was approaching the intersection of highspeed bike lanes at the peak traffic moment (10-15 minute before the hour). Imagine maneuvering this downhill slope, while trying to wiggle the skirt back down to a halfway decent locus and with one hand casually draped so as not to blind innocent eyes. I had to make a choice, safety or propriety... we can all guess which choice I made. Meanwhile I was pondering, while breathing in the rich smell of sweetly rotting eucalyptus, the fact that accidents were likely to be caused by such blatant disregard for human decency. Not by me, of course, although I was very close to flipping my bike, I managed to hold it together, squeezing my thighs as tight as I could while still pedalling at a furious tempo. While passing the bike-lane construction site, just before my final resting spot, I realized that if I were cuter, this could have been, indeed, a dangerous situation, capable of causing grown men to drop heavy machinery and such. (One summer in Spain, when I was 13 and decidedly more attractive than now, just such a thing happened with a member of the royal guard falling from his horse.) Fortunately for everyone involved, I don't suffer from the Santa Barbara barbie disease. Although it seems this mini-skirt biking ordeal is becoming a wide-spread phenomenon. 5'10 blondes from all over are wearing negligible strips of fabric that mascarade as $50 jean skirts (from Abercrombie no doubt) and flaunting their pastel wares while on bikes. What can explain this madness? The confluence of the only readily available form of locomotion coupled with lagging identity development? The insidious and ignominious effect of marketing on impressionable minds? Or perhaps, they are all aliens, yes, here to colonize the masculine mind.... Er. No. Well, I for one, have learned my lesson, no bikes and miniskirts to work, only the beach, when it is abundantly obvious by my lack of shirt that what is peeking out from beneath the Barthian textile is none other than a tame blue swimsuit. No more moral delincuency for me, and maybe my inherent clumsiness may be curbed.

And speaking of moral turpitude, on a totally unrelated note, or a tangentially related one at best, I needed to share this with somebody, so it might as well be everybody. I don't really know how this is possible, because I don't really write such atrociously brazen things (do I?), but on my other "literary" site, in just this last week these have been the (scandalous) searches that have brought people to it. And besides the obvious titles, I know I have written about no such explicit things, I don't think.

“guiding a woman, through words and touch, to a powerful orgasm” (Chicago)
“que es un mitomano” (Peru) “definicion de” (México, D.F.) “mitomano” (Salinas, CA) (D.F)
“ice queen clothing” (Oklahoma)
“tip para cara manchadas” (Colorado)
“the house of the rising sun” (3x Connecticut, Pennsylvania)
“gyn + shame” (Germany)
“meet and have sex with fat face sitting woman in Minnesota” (LA)
and my personal favorite, with proper subcontinent accent:
“live photos of sucking and caressing the nipples of sexy women by men and sexy men by women (sexy sexy photos)” (India)

So in closing, to return to the overlying theme of gender that pervades this post, how many of these searches do you suppose were originated by female subjects? Hmmm?

Rosalía and the river

Given the amount of energy invested last year in my studies of metapoetics in Darío, it is no surprise (to me) that I find this to be fatally prescient. No, it isn't that, so much, what then? The "¿Qué me pasa que eu non sei?", that underlying pain that requires of a few lonely beasts to use words to attack the silence, the solitude, the knowing and feeling of other's pain. I was trying to explain to my professor that instead of just a repetitive lament, writing, for some people, is a way in which to order the entropic universe; that feeling imagined and future pain with deep empathy, and writing it as if it were one's own, is a state that would almost have be present in order to truly live in the interstices of the language that one manipulates, in which s/he acheives greatness. I saw that in Darío, despite his weakness as a man, and his mysogynist tendencies (in his nouvelles manquees he intimated the secret desire for a female partner of his mental stature, unlike the simple second wife that he had chosen) there was that long-suffering ache, the hollow inside, the infinitely breaking soul. It wasn't just the alcohol, though he would have wanted to be a Verlaine sipping absinthe, and it showed through despite the stiflingly erudite francified forms that he magistrally managed to couple in the Spanish language. It was the horror vacui, the horror of the empty page, the fright confronted with the blinding white of nothingness, and inability to express itself. And here it is again, in Rosalía del Castro, simpler, less imposing, maybe more lyrical, fifty odd years before. And it reminds me of something, something I cannot place, like a forgotten lyric that dances behind our clouding memory, a misplaced object that calls to us, and needs to find its way home. From Folhas Novas (it is much more beautiful, I think in Gallego, which sadly, I don't speak, but which remarkably resembles my brand of Portuñol)

¡Silencio!
A man nerviosa e palpitante o seo,
as niebras nos meus olhos condensadas,
con un mundo de dudas nos sentidos
i un mundo de tormentos nas entrañas,
sentindo cómo loitan
en sin igual batalla
inmortales deseios que atormentan
e rencores que matan,
mollo na propia sangre e dura pruma
rompendo a vena hinchada,
i escribo..., escribo..., ¿para qué? ¡Volvede
ó mais fondo da ialma
tempestosas imaxes!
¡Ide a morar cas mortas relembranzas!
¡Que a man tembrosa no papel só escriba
palabras, e palabras, e palabras!
Da ideia a forma inmaculada e pura
¿dónde quedóu velada?

jueves, octubre 06, 2005

Closer to fine

I know that with one solitary voice I can't do justice to this song, but it has been my constant companion since I was 13, so it will just have to do... for those not in the know, it is by the Indigo Girls, and is another case of a song that shifts meaning drastically as one's life rolls along. Ah yes, how I love semiosis.

this is an audio post - click to play

miércoles, octubre 05, 2005

Putting feminist pedagogy into practice

Ahem. I am a bad daughter. A bad sister, a bad wife. I am a halfway decent teacher and a good mother and lover. And a total failure at being what one would typically consider "a woman". My mom called last night, after I finally caved once more to I.'s pleas for a blanket-bed on the floor to the right of my bed. She arrived on Sunday and called twice, once from the airport in Charlottesville, once from her home in New Hampshire. I didn't answer, or listen to my voicemail, or call back. She called Monday afternoon and I still didn't respond. Tuesday she sent an urgent email, and as luck would have it, I forgot my phone at home, so I emailed back that I had been busy and that I would call that night. She was at rehearsal until 11 her time, I went out to dinner. I half-listened to and erased all my messages before I got to the restaurant. I came home feeling strange and sad and sort of styrofoamy, if that makes sense, which it probably doesn't. I was feeling outraged by my University's policy on addressing sexual aggression against its female students after a long extemporaneous office hours meeting with a student who has been having trouble but really wanted to talk about personal issues. I was feeling like a bad daughter, sister, student, spouse precisely because I realized that I am willing to take an hour and a half out of my day to "counsel" a student (because I feel it my duty to respond when someone asks for help) and can't seem to find time to send mail to my family or give the attention that they deserve. Ach.

Then the phone call. Then me being too tired to do a video chat. "Did you get the package I sent?" she asks, I try to file through my porous cerebellum (she is always sending something)"No, I think they dropped a slip last week, but I haven't gone to the post office yet." "You really should." "I know, I'll go tomorrow, I just lost the slip."
I race out the door cursing at 8:05 with the munchkin in tow, as she eats a banana for breakfast in the car. I take her in to the play yard, confer briefly with her student teacher, who needs me to resign a human subjects release form, which I happily do, and I peel off to the post office, which, of course, I forget how to get to, and end up an exit past where I need to be. I pick up the package, come home and irony of ironies, it contains the following:

self-addressed stamped envelopes for my parents
pink clothing and princess dresses for my daughter
random mail that I don't want
hot-pink leopard print underwear for me

Here's the worst part. I needed the underwear, having left the house this morning with my favorite black pants and the absence of underclothing. The printer didn't work and I raced sweatily to the Instructional Computing lab (now our department is not supporting the printing of teaching materials because of budget crisis) to act like a total moron because I have never been in one of these labs before, make a mad dash to make copies of the test that I am about to administer, arrive at class only 8 minutes early (which for me is late), dripping, with banana and yogurt in hand (no time for breakfast) bottle of water, reading for other classes and my rank book. They can't possibly know how totally unkempt I actually am, I think, but I am left, as my kid's heads are bent in concentration, to ponder the neatly dressed, beautifully put-together young ladies in my class and my ego deflates in horrific ways as I confront the fact that I will never be that kind of woman. I will never be neat and tidy and shrunk to fit between the lines of matching pink coordinates. And I think about my commitment to certain feminist ideals, and realize the folly of my ways, that is, I can't understand why it causes me pain to not be able to mesh with the ideal of womanhood that I have in my head, even when it really goes against everything I believe in, and yet, it does. All this, and I keep smiling, answering questions, holding the hands that need to be held, encouraging others to take a risk, to get themselves out of bad situations, to strike a balance. I opt to write instead of run, deciding to postpone once more the excercise that my body is craving, because I feel the need to write these things down before I implode, only to have one of my lovely colleagues point out to me that my white t-shirt is on inside out.

Moral: I guess I should just own up to being a scrub because there is no changing me.

lunes, octubre 03, 2005

Tails from the O.C.

As usual trips in the car are eventful, this time, of course there was no damage incurred other than a battery that mysteriously would not turn the engine over when I tried to take it out with Eric (guess the car didn't want us to go to the library to study, ha ha, we thwarted her alright, and even got work done there!) but worked for M. making him think that I was smoking something... which chronologically would not be accurate, and a small person falling asleep with gum in her mouth on the trip back, requiring clever wielding of kitchen scissors and a badass mama...

And as usual, we did little beyond preparing fabulous food, imbibing too much vice of all sorts (let's just say I. found an adult entertainment video Saturday morning while the whole house slept and we did homework together at the dining room table, she asked me, with feigned innocence, "what does this word say?" "decadence, now go put that away you don't have permission to look at that, it's bad... (no, ilana, it isn't bad, it isn't age appropriate, rewind, reframe) I mean... it is bad for little girls, it is a grown up thing." sly look, mention with secret glee and curiosity every half hour for the rest of the day - say no more) and deep laughter to shake my soul out of its cleverly cyclical funks.

Lucía is at that madly in love with her child stage, not that the stage ever ends, but it morphs. She is over the hump of the horrible "oh-my-god-what-if-I-drop-my-baby" phase, and nursing, nursing, nursing. I can't say I miss having liquids leech from my breasts unexpectedly and in great gushing rivers. Must rethink this desire for other baby in future. Adopting might be nice. I. would like a brother from Africa and a sister from east Asia. It all seems highly dubious given my current circumstances, but, what is life for, if not fantasizing about alternate realities. Ah but babies, babies... (which reminds me, Yuré, darling, good luck to you guys, and get some sleep now while you still have the chance). I. wants so badly to have a sibling or three, and she seemed to be modelling her good sistering skills. No other major events save for a tiff between her and Miranda, which lead to eye-poking and tears, and then brilliantly I got them back to their former state of friendship by spilling my water on I.'s head and then she on Miranda which all came to an abrupt halt when Miranda bloodied her foot on a rose thorn and I. followed rapid suit, both howling in agony, and Dennis had to hijack an aloe bush and slather it on her foot until his child calmed down, and I on my own.

Of course, the best and most relaxing part of the weekend, after meeting the beautiful Wes Balam, (beyond being far from my computer and my obsessive interactions with her) were the animalitos, featured here are Brando (the perro guapísimo) and Cleto the previous stray who now, a year later was not only his skittishness, but more than happy to climb right on top of me, unsolicited, and caringe (Note to ESOL, you didn't fail to learn this word in English class, it is a verb I invented years ago to describe the caressing and nail insertion in ecstatic blissful pleasure that is often accompanied by nose-dripping in (male) cats) for hours on my soft sweater.

But as they say, a picture is worth a thousand words (and some might just be worth several thousand;) So I'll just shut up now, because nobody really wants to here me blathering on about my unevenful weekend anyway. Note 2: the gorgeous architecture is not from Anaheim but rather from the brief interlude in L.A.'s historic district on the way home, can you believe we didn't make it to a museum after making a plan? Breakfast on Sunday turned into a huge taquiza of left-over carnitas, pollito deshebrado, huevos con chorizo, quesadillas de nopal con cebollita de cambray, arroz rojo with coffe and pan dulce to kill us, and we ended up staying until it was too late to be worth stopping at the museums so we just drove around like psychotic tourists and shot photos through the window and the sunroof.