Matters of death and life

Death.

So final, so divisive and unwielding. What is it in the human animal that makes us look on in morbid curiosity as others suffer. How is it that we can even attempt to capture a glimpse of others pain, and yet, we do. Last night, just behind my house an unhappy woman opened fire on a group of unarmed, unsuspecting ex-coworkers. She killed 6 people before killing herself, five of them were women. Most within my general age demographic. I don't know why that disturbs me more, but it did. People in the midst of their lives, maybe happy, maybe not, perhaps gliding gently through, unknowingly or perhaps in a turbulent torment of self-awareness. What pains me most, I think, about living these moments vicariously, is that I always feel the pain of the survivors, the ones left behind. I don't fear death as much as I fear being left behind, alone. And of course the newspapers don't afford the families an ounce of dignity or privacy. This broke my heart, as it was meant to, "I just want to hug her while she's still warm," he said through sobs. What is that impulse? As if that last moment of human warmth could make up for a lifetime of accumulated wrongs for which we would wish to seek absolution, or a lifetime of foreclosed upon happiness that we would hope to imbibe, if briefly, for one last, fleeting moment.

Flesh slackens. Every day there is a little more death. Coretta Scott King died. I saw that, and her children are undoubtedly crushed and distraught, as I would be if I were to lose my mother, but there is something so much less tragic, and unfairly she will be remembered by most as the wife of a great man, yes, a great woman by her own right, but a survivor nonetheless.

And the moron of a man that calls himself our president declaims in the five seconds of the State of the Union Address to which I am accidentally subjected while passing an open store, "Human life is a sacred gift from our creator and we must not destroy that." (or something to that effect). Hypocritical bastard. Why is the life of a no-nato more important than the thousands of lives we destroy every single day that we are slaughtering civilians and "rebels" alike in Iraq (and elsewhere)? What privileges do our unborn deserve that the unborn of other lands, too foreign and distant to even exist in our imaginary beyond the images of towering dictators and behind the curtains of secrecy and torture, don't? Perhaps the precious life that the gun-toting Texan so vehemently defends, righteous in the eyes of his fabricated god, will serve as fodder one day for the self-same disgruntled masses: hand-gun wielding miserable, outfitted through NRA-sponsored ease with the tool for their very own destruction?

I sit in the darkness for the second time today, tilt my head back, close my eyes. I feel so tired. It is like a wave that settles in without apology. And then she calls in a panic, climbing from the back seat to the front, "Mommy". It is that rise of pitch, terror inspired... she always thinks I have died when I close my eyes and don't answer, for just one second. It might be a tiny little sadistic impulse on my part, or a secret pleasure, like the adolescent fantasy of authoring your own demise only to be a fly on the wall at your funeral, to see how badly everyone felt, but mostly it is a moment robbed for myself, a second to let the sadness sink in, before I have to turn the happy switch back on, to bring in the piñata that she picked for her party. Yes. Life. It has this way of calling us back.

Sunday, more of the same

I. and I got up early, began our new excercise regimen, showered and breakfasted. She took a few pictures of our morning, since we decided that today would be dedicated to doing our work instead of writing poetry. Then, she dropped the camera, but happily it was not terribly injured. Now she is off at the zoo and I am reading (surprisingly) in several languages that I don't actually speak. It turns out that I can actually understand technical French, hmmm. Ok, now I am back to work.

Saturday morning decadence

Ah yes, breakfast in the sun with my baby, her staple, oatmeal (hardly elegant) and a fresh pot of Hazlenut roast (decaf - the real stuff makes me too damn jumpy). Now that we have a little sitting area the interior seems so dreary. We haven't had a meal at the table in a week. Palabra.

So we sit together contemplating the colors of the day and I steal a few more minutes before returning to the interminable task of cleaning up after ourselves. Laundry and straightening day, to say the least, not to mention all the reading that taunts me in its neat little pile. We decide to write poetry instead. Or rather she dictates and I scribble madly, trying to keep up as she declaims in her most sweeping, dramatic voice, pausing as her scribe fumbles for the pencil that slipped from her hands. Every word of these poems, to follow are hers, in that order with that poetic intention, she even came up with the titles after composing each thought. Then, after she finished composing, she dances around in circles, climbs up on my lap for more kisses and hugs (we played for a good half hour rolling around like kittens on the bed as she shrieked with laughter and I gnashed my teeth at her, threatening to eat her up). "Can I kiss the flowers for a minute?" she slides back down, points at the thorny rose bushlets, "it would be hard to kiss that one, because if one of the thorns got stuck in my lips - ouch - then you would have to get tweezers and that would hurt a lot!" I nod complicitly. She flits about kissing the kissable flowers, the orchid and purple Campanula, the little red roses and the rosemary ("That one I will definitely kiss!" she affirms emphatically). She avoids the other thorny rose, and comments on the justice of the situation, it is fair because neither get kisses. She then recalls the poor lonely violets (on the other side of the door, a midnight gift from my neighbor Kirsten, the bearer of flowers and kindness). She kisses them over and over, every single flower, "I threw love all over them!" she cries, and then her face brightens, "The only way I can give love to the rose plants is if I blow kisses." We sit for a few more minutes, watch a few bikers race by on the bike path, families amble past with children in tow, vagabonds push carts with which they absconded from the nearby shopping center. Mostly it is quiet. Save for our morning owl, that lives in the Eucalyptus out the bedroom window.

A perfectly poetic morning indeed: (I repeat, I was floored by her poetic notion)

"Graceful trees" (by I.)
The trees are so graceful
as the birds sing pretty songs
and the eagles fly high
still not believing
that down in the mountain
there is the tree that waves all around us.


"Powerful beauty"
How beautiful the flowers sing
and how powerful they sway
with all the rocks surrounding them
while the tree graces them with
lots of powerful beauty.
How the eagles fly high above
with the only grace
of our thoughts.

"Nighttime in the air"
How beautiful the iceplant stands
Surrounding us.
How short the long day,
with people walking around,
in the night,
in their cars
kids playing baseball
in the nighttime
of the darkness all around us.

And finally, reflections on her impending birthday:

I'm happy because
my birthday is every weekend
and I am happy because
my friends get to play with me.
And I am happy because
I get lots of cards from my friends.

-snip, snap, snout, this tale is told out! -

Pop songs and such

I was just thinking yesterday. Yes, thinking, me. Who knew? About how at certain times, like yesterday, for example, certain media speak more strongly to us than others. I am movie-saturated with this film course, though I must admit, I love watching several mentally challenging films a week, and speaking of saturated, the film I watched today, Ripstein's "Lugar sin límites" was so heavily saturated with red, it was almost overwhelming, but somehow quite appropriate for the film. But it always the radio that gets me. I can't explain it, ever since I was a little girl listening to the top 40 in my bedroom for hours on Saturday mornings, draped gymnastically over the edge of my bed, hanging upside down. I have been listening to NPR for five minutes each morning. And in the afternoons, if I drive. I have been stripping the gears of that poor Toyota, but perhaps soon will not have to do that. I actually broke down in tears as the morning edition reporters reported on a little girl, seven, was tortured, starved and ultimately beaten to death by her mother's boyfriend. I. sat quietly and listened. They were very matter of fact, not at all sensationalist, which is the only reason I can actually listen to the news, but as I was getting my little one out of her car seat and holding her hand as she clutched at mine, shivering in the morning frost, she caught me, "why are you crying Mommy?" "I'm not," I try to wipe the tears from my face. "Yes you are. Are you sad about that little girl?" "Yes." "That's horrible, somebody should have helped her." "Yes." "Mommy? I love you." "I love you too baby." "So much?" "So much." "You should have turned the radio off, Mommy. I shouldn't be hearing those things."

I agreed, and after I walked with her through the breakfast line and sat her at the long institutional cafeteria seat, opened her sealed utensils and poured her milk, I walked back out through the double doors, turned, like always to wave and she was searching for my eyes too, we made one last moment of eye contact, I changed the channel to a pop radio station. And everything still made me weep. No luck. Isn't it funny? There is this Ani song from her Dilate album where she says "And every pop song on the radio, is suddenly speaking to me. Yeah art may imitate life, but life imitates TV." And then I tripped over this lyric en francais:

L'étrangère:
Il existe près des écluses un bas quartier de bohémiens,
Dont la belle jeunesse s'use à démêler le tien du mien
En bande on s'y rend en voiture,
ordinairement au mos d'août,
Ils disent la bonne aventure, pour des piments et du vin doux;
on passe la nuit claire à boire, on danse en frappant dans ses mains,
on n'a pas le temps de le croire, il fait grand jour et c'est demain.
On revient d'une seule traite, gais, sans un sou, vaguement gris,
Avec des fleurs plein les charrettes, son destin dans la paume écrit.

J'ai pris la main d'une éphémère, qui m'a suivi dans ma maison
Elle avait des yeux d'outremer, elle en montrait la déraison.
Elle avait la marche légère, et de longues jambes de faon,
J'aimais déjà les étrangères quand j'étais un petit enfant!
Celle-ci parla vite vite de l'odeur des magnolias,
Sa robe tomba tout de suite quand ma hâte la délia.
En ce temps là, j'étais crédule, un mot m'était promission,
Et je prenais les campanules pour des fleurs de la passion..
Quand c'est fini tout recommence, toute musique me séduit,
Et la plus banale romance m'est éternelle poésie..
Nous avons joué de notre âme, un long jour, une courte nuit,
Puis au matin: "bonsoir madame", l'amour s'achève avec la pluie.
--Paroles: Louis Aragon. Musique: Léo Ferré

And instead of making me sad, it made me smile like a damn fool. Now, if only my French were better, I might not feel this way, but it is indeed odd, or perhaps not so, that the expression and scope of human emotions is not a culturally unique sensation, but rather quite universal. Ah, the beauty, of course, of the internet is that you can piece together meaning with the aid of instant translators, absolutely unsatisfactory for any sort of real work, but just fine for those few words of which you have no knowledge; it often helps to translate into various languages and from them to others (that is if you count yourself as, albeit partially, multilingual, because then you get a more shaded meaning...) Now the daunting task is the book I have to read on Ladino for research purposes that hasn't been translated into either English or Spanish. And the professor says, oh, you'll have no problem, it is all technical language. Ah yes, I am not a "linguist" either, so it will be equally unintelligible for me in any language is what he must have meant. Ach. I will try, and feel a little proud of myself if I actually acheive extracting any meaning whatsoever from the (happily) diminutive tome.

There is something so sad in a sunset

And at the same time, there is something so hopeful. Closure on one stage of life means the beginning of a new one. Does this mean I stop being a writer and start being a photographer? Heck no. It seems that my same impulse to shut down writing forums has been shared among many of my beloved, ah yes, but I can't seem to stop myself from writing. I don't think I can.























Says I. "You're doing horrible art. Because it takes too long." Ah yes, now I am off to Narnia for the night, but I shan't have aged when I return.

The Doctor is In

So, as much as I shudder at musical theater (ah... ok, there is a small inkling of culturally encrypted joy derived from it, but I am too snobby and avante-garde to admit this... and there are composers, like Sondheim, that are extremely clever and therefore warrant a second thought... ) I. has been marching around the room and the bed, listening to "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown" and you know the really silly thing? There are places on the album where I just weep. Sure, you say, that is just your highly sentimental sibilant self that wants to cry. Perhaps. I did cry myself to sleep tonight and then wake myself up with that tight, salt-dried cap on my cheeks, burning from the heater without which I freeze but with which my nasal cavities dry up in cracked and bloody misery unless I hydrate myself extensively, which propitiates the need for frequent midnight trips to the bathroom... En fin! Still stuck with me. But my point, if it is that I ever have one (which is rare, I'll admit) was that there is some great wisdom to be had in this little musical score, and maybe it is good to cry myself to sleep sometimes, I haven't let myself do that for years, and it felt strangely satisfying.

Other than the songs where Snoopy is declaiming about his need to bite someone... (from a dog's eye view) I found this to be terribly amusing in that painful way.

[CHARLIE BROWN]
Oh, Lucy. I'm so depressed. I don't know what to do.

[LUCY]
I think what you need most of all, Charlie Brown, is to come
right out and admit all of the things that are wrong with you.

[CHARLIE BROWN]
All right, I'll try
I'm not very handsome or clever, or lucid,
I've always been stupid at spelling and numbers.
I've never been much playing football or baseball
Or stickball, or checkers, or marbles, or ping-pong

I'm usually awful at parties and dances,
I stand like a stick or I cough, or I laugh,
Or I don't bring a present, or I spill the ice cream
Or I get so depressed that I stand and I scream...

Oh, how could there possibly be
One small person as thoroughly, totally, uttlerly
Blah as me.

[LUCY]
Well, that's ok for a starter.

[CHARLIE BROWN]
A starter?

[LUCY]
Certainly. You don't think that mentioning these few superficial
failings is going to do you any good, do you? Why, Charlie Brown,
You really have to delve.

You're stupid, self-centered and moody

[CHARLIE BROWN]
I'm moody

[LUCY]
You're terribly dull to be with

[CHARLIE BROWN]
Yes I am.
And nobody likes me,
Not Frieda, or Shermy, or Linus, or Schroeder-

[LUCY]
Or Lucy.

[CHARLIE BROWN]
Or Lucy.

[LUCY]
Or Snoopy.

[CHARLIE BROWN]
Or Sn-
Wait a minute. Snoopy likes me.

[LUCY]
He only pretends to like you because you feed him.
That doesn't count.

[CHARLIE BROWN]
Or Snoopy.
Oh why- was I born just to be
One small person as thoroughly, totally, utterly-

[LUCY]
Wait!
You're not very much of a person...

[CHARLIE BROWN]
That's certain

[LUCY]
And yet there's a reason for hope.

[CHARLIE BROWN]
There's hope?

[LUCY]
For although you are no good at music,
Like Schroeder, or happy like Snoopy,
Or lovely like me,
You have the distinction to be
No one else but the singular, remarkable, unique
Charlie Brown.

[CHARLIE BROWN]
I'm me!

[LUCY]
Yes- it's amazingly true,
For whatever it's worth, Charlie Brown,
You're you.

[CHARLIE BROWN]
Gosh, Lucy you know something. I'm beginning to feel better already.
You're a true friend, Lucy, a true friend.

[LUCY]
That'll be five cents, please.


And I am reminded that I should go back to therapy (I stopped going at the end of the quarter and didn't go back, not because I had a problem with it, but rather that I just felt too depressed to go. Don't ask.) My big problem, of course, is that I can't ever be honest with the therapist, not really, and not because I fear their judgment, (or at least I don't think that is it) but rather because I find the details to be utterly banal and useless (and besides, I can write about them) or because I don't like to lose control. I have only ever had female therapists, and perhaps that is the problem? It is like having a male masseur... I am not sure that having an unknown man digging his hands into all my sorest spots would be ultimately beneficial, and I am somehow more willing to trust women to know when to stop, but I have never fixed a problem with them either. What I really need is a massage, and perhaps more therapy, but a massage should come first. The other day I got a short-lived and non-monetarily binding one (often the best, but not at all reliable in terms of duration of said massage) and the whole left side of my back was in an excruciating sort of unmanifested pain. It hurt like hell, but I hadn't even realized. There are many things like that in life, I suppose, and until you go poking around, you don't realize what exactly they are.

The stupid thing about therapy, for me, I suppose, is that I never feel like I get to any new insights that I haven't discovered on my own, and what I really want is someone else to tell me HOW to do the things I already know I should. Perhaps what I actually need is a personal trainer, a coach of sorts, for all things (not just in the physical realm). I am programmed in the following way... I will perform beyond the standard that is set for me, often far beyond, but I have a terrible time setting a standard for myself. As I was lazily peddling home, past the athletic fields, with my tire only partially inflated (this makes riding quickly terribly cumbersome) avoiding the lacrosse balls that were winged at the fence, and what felt like my head, past the soccer goalpost, I stopped, well, slowed down, if that is at all possible, to watch a keeper as his trainer slammed the ball down against the astroturf, and it rebounded 10 feet in the air as he raced from a lying down position into a full extended leap. I thought to myself, "I used to do that." What made me stop? Expectations. An unwillingness to forego other more important things like reading books alone in my bedroom. Hmmm. Sounds like a lame excuse. It could be partly because I despised with such vehemence the jocks in my high school, the pretty people parties, the snotty exclusionary policies, the excess, the self-righteous entitlement. I never felt safe among my fellow athletes, I never felt like I could give myself over to that fluid entity, a team. I could direct it, sure, shout instructions from my safe vantage point behind it all, react to the sudden drilling attack, deflecting, diving, punching the ball back out into space. But mostly, it was a solitary activity that disguised itself as a group one.

I am torn, of course, between my desire to be alone, and my intrinsic social nature. I wonder if there is really any answer to these questions. I think, probably not. But the most impressive thing is, of course, that to discover these things one need not have any interlocutor at all, beyond the blank page. Sure, interacting with others around these issues can be validating, but at the same time, superfluous. So why, I ask, shall I pay for someone to sit and listen to my bullshit, when I can rant for free to no one, and ultimately get the same response. Silence.

Stupid, but fun.

I love languages I love them...I get so excited about etymologies, I know I am too dorky for words. Ha! But I am having so much fun in my linguistic history class, even if I have to practically muzzle myself not to shout out answers and give the others a chance.

Words I learned in the last few days: Acuñar = to coin a term... I don't know why I didn't know this but I didn't.
Tamizar = to sift (also, I am outing my deep ignorance, but hey, where else?)

But this was the greatest divertissement: Tranzar (of unknown pre-latin origin) = to make a deal / agreement. Ok. I didn't know this use, but rather the Mexican lexicon = estafar = to scam/ cheat i.e. "Si no tranzas, no avanzas"
and the Argentine use Tranzar = follar (esp), fajar (mex) = to hook up (with or without sex) and the funniest part is that in Brazil (not surprising, I suppose) "Transar" means exactly that, or rather to have sex. Now, the really funny part is that they really are just deviations of the basic concept of a transaction/deal, but it is perhaps telling to see how those deviations themselves diverge so wildly from one hemisphere to the other. Hmm. now that I think about it, I recall a visit with my cousins in Boca Ratón when I was 14 and becoming acquainted with the local usage term "scamming" which meant, "hooking up". Curious indeed. Ah... ok, I am truly revelling in my geekdom.

Perdida en el mar

Barcos de vela
Originally uploaded by lunita.

What I wouldn't to give to be Alvar Núñez Cabeza de Vaca... Then running aground, shipwrecked, would mean adventure (not to mention linguistic acquisition) instead of just this. A sunset without the spectacular colors. Opaque, embracing it all tighter, to find that it has slipped away, like sand between fingers, air, nothing, vaccuum, emptiness.

Watchin' the river flow

Ausencia V
Originally uploaded by lunita.

"Wish I was back in the city
Instead of this old bank of sand,
With the sun beating down over the chimney tops
And the one I love so close at hand.
If I had wings and I could fly,
I know where I would go.
But right now I'll just sit here so contentedly
And watch the river flow.

People disagreeing on all just about everything, yeah,
Makes you stop and all wonder why.
Why only yesterday I saw somebody on the street
Who just couldn't help but cry.
Oh, this ol' river keeps on rollin', though,
No matter what gets in the way and which way the wind does blow,
And as long as it does I'll just sit here
And watch the river flow."
---Bob Dylan

Residuo

De tudo ficou um pouco
Do meu medo. Do teu asco.
Dos gritos gagos. Da rosa
ficou um pouco.

Ficou um pouco de luz
captada no chapéu.
Nos olhos do rufião
de ternura ficou um pouco
(muito pouco).

Pouco ficou deste pó
de que teu branco sapato
se cobriu. Ficaram poucas
roupas, poucos véus rotos
pouco, pouco, muito pouco.

Mas de tudo fica um pouco.
Da ponte bombardeada,
de duas folhas de grama,
do maço
― vazio ― de cigarros, ficou um pouco.

Pois de tudo fica um pouco.
Fica um pouco de teu queixo
no queixo de tua filha.
De teu áspero silêncio
um pouco ficou, um pouco
nos muros zangados,
nas folhas, mudas, que sobem.

Ficou um pouco de tudo
no pires de porcelana,
dragão partido, flor branca,
ficou um pouco
de ruga na vossa testa,
retrato.

Se de tudo fica um pouco,
mas por que não ficaria
um pouco de mim? no trem
que leva ao norte, no barco,
nos anúncios de jornal,
um pouco de mim em Londres,
um pouco de mim algures?
na consoante?
no poço?

Um pouco fica oscilando
na embocadura dos rios
e os peixes não o evitam,
um pouco: não está nos livros.
De tudo fica um pouco.
Não muito: de uma torneira
pinga esta gota absurda,
meio sal e meio álcool,
salta esta perna de rã,
este vidro de relógio
partido em mil esperanças,
este pescoço de cisne,
este segredo infantil...
De tudo ficou um pouco:
de mim; de ti; de Abelardo.
Cabelo na minha manga,
de tudo ficou um pouco;
vento nas orelhas minhas,
simplório arroto, gemido
de víscera inconformada,
e minúsculos artefatos:
campânula, alvéolo, cápsula
de revólver... de aspirina.
De tudo ficou um pouco.

E de tudo fica um pouco.
Oh abre os vidros de loção
e abafa
o insuportável mau cheiro da memória.

Mas de tudo, terrível, fica um pouco,
e sob as ondas ritmadas
e sob as nuvens e os ventos
e sob as pontes e sob os túneis
e sob as labaredas e sob o sarcasmo
e sob a gosma e sob o vômito
e sob o soluço, o cárcere, o esquecido
e sob os espetáculos e sob a morte escarlate
e sob as bibliotecas, os asilos, as igrejas triunfantes
e sob tu mesmo e sob teus pés já duros
e sob os gonzos da família e da classe,
fica sempre um pouco de tudo.
Às vezes um botão. Às vezes um rato.

---Carlos Drummond de Andrade (1902-2002)


Or in English, with the exception that I think "botão" should have been translated as "bud" as in "botón de rosa" instead of "button", which is thoroughly anticlimactic and furthermore does not create a reasonable contrast with "rat"

And for Sole, in Spanish.

Quote of the day

Yesterday - Mirsky's talk on modern Jewish myth. Closing remark on Q + A.

"And that's the happy news from Judaism: Without sex there is no knowledege."

brilliant.

hee hee hee.

My kid and Idealist Savant are on the phone right now having a philosophical discussion about abolitionists and political activism... "boycott, boycott, don't eat at restaurants! don't take busses! and you know what? the bus driver was losing money, and you know what? Some white people joined in because they thought Martin Luther King was right! But some people still don't think that he's right... most white people..."

She doesn't get tired. I don't understand it because this morning I rousted her out of bed and the house before 7:15, I hauled ass with her in the trailer, and got her a breakfast by 7:30, and she hates getting up in the mornings.

Meanwhile I made it to campus, parked and got to my classroom over ten minutes before it started and then proceeded, of course, to sweat rivers down my escote... Sigh. Class was fun, we learned a list of Hellenisms and all their Italian counterparts (professor is an Italian linguist) to the Spanish or English words. I have to remember not to talk too much, it just pains me when the professor asks a question that is sooooooo obvious and there is a dead silence in the air for over a minute... I can't bear it... My class was fun too. I have a good, if somewhat strangely homogeneous group (there are so many of them, it has to be more than 30), they are engaged and nod understandingly as I give them in-depth and totally anal retentive (yes) explications of the finer grammatical points that they have no necessity of really knowing... I made everyone stop and take a few minutes to reflect on Martin Luther King, and why it was important to think about human rights, and the privileges that we have, and I taught the words for equality and injustice. True ,this is only their second quarter of language, but I think, what better way to get them interested in the language but through things that I am passionate about. I tied that into Bachelet and the results of the Chilean elections. Thanks to Sole, who last night gave me a crash course tutorial replete with thorough yet concise and precise analysis of her strengths, weaknesses, history and authority. I briefly discussed torture and the new trend of left-ward leaning governments being elected in Latin America. Then I got on with my lesson about indirect object pronouns and the verbs that love them.

I always leave feeling totally happy and at one with the world. Of course this feeling soon wears off, but today I ran into an ex-student at the café - a really interesting man, probably around 60, and African American man who had been in Vietnam. He is the kindest man, so effusive and warm, grateful for my teaching. He told me he loved my energy, and not in that hippie woo-woo fucking yoga consuming Californian way, it made me feel like things are still a little worthwhile, in fact as we talked, I found myself telling him about the fact that I am still so hopeful for the future (this truly shocked me that I would watch those words march out of my mouth in a vaporistic procession). But it is true, I am suddenly hopeful... Listening to I. talk about gender/racial/socio-economic equality as if it were the most obvious and logical choice... My student was talking about repatriating Africa... I wonder what it would feel like to feel that there was a place to go home to, I mean truly go home to, even if you had never been there. I know maybe I am supposed to feel that way about Israel. I know my mom would be happy if that were the case, but alas, it is not, nor will it, likely, ever be. As a child, during my Mafia obsessed stage, I imagined Sicilian landscapes as the home that I was meant to have and didn't. I still pine for Miramar in ways that are baffling and thrilling all at the same time. My childhood home I have no desire to ever see again. And D.F. - God we were watching clips from Mexican films at the turn of century... 1897... I have nostalgia for other times, but places? When will I ever find a place that tells me I am home? How will I know. I don't want to wander forever.

I drove the car again today. It fills me with terror and at the same time a secret glee. I am overcoming my demons... I am conquering my fears. I suppose the big test will be taking the highway somewhere by my own instigation. But that can wait. I didn't crash, and I only stalled once as I was pulling into the TJ's parking lot, actually right on the ramp in to drop of my very last videos - Head On, The Black Stallion (Ford Coppolla did this one, I had no idea) and Kinsey, which I watched with my mom until 1 in the morning (fun and interesting, but not mind shattering, though a dorky Liam Neeson with slightly sagging skin and ripped abs was a sight for sore eyes) on Friday after we were drinking wine with my neighbors and admitting that I was the one that made the brownies.

Ah yes, but I digress. So, my curtains are hung, my bed is rotated and my bedroom rearranged and my rug underneath vaccuumed for the first time in (cringe heartily) a year and a half (in my defense, up until two months ago I never vaccuumed once in this house, I wasn't the designated driver... of course all that has changed, and I re-hung paintings that had been taken down, and shifted seating arrangements, and framed my newly de-molded directors's chairs that catch the afternoon sunlight, with plants, real live ones that I haven't killed and have indeed remembered to water. I have two plants mounted on the wall in front of my kitchen window, and I am keeping the dishes done as soon as I finish a meal. I even finished my paper that was exactly one month late, yesterday and emailed it to my professor. Ugh. This is the first time that I have been late with an assignment... ever. Wait, no, I had to ask for a two day extension on a animation programming project my Senior year of college because I had had to fly to NH for the weekend for the obstetrician, and hadn't had the capabilities to work from home (this was pre-Mac conversion). So I am amazed that I could even deign to give myself a whole month... but then I just couldn't seem to work this break. Getting a whole 20 hours to myself may have had something to do with my boosted productivity, or maybe it was just the euphoria of meeting new people. I.S. gives the following advice: expand your social circle, expand, expand, expand! She suggests going out with everyone and anyone that suggests it, male, female or anywhere in between. That sounds like I might shoot myself in the foot when I should be locked in my castle reading, but I am having lunch tomorrow and hosting a dinner party Friday night. Again, like with the car, baby steps...

Sunday, bloody Sunday

Ah yes, Sunday it is, though tomorrow there is no class and no "work" in honor of the most beautiful Dr. Martin Luther King. If there were a day on which it were more apt to begin again, with a dream, I am quite sure I would be hard strapped to think of one. I. gesticulates vehemently, "it is RIDICULOUS!" she proclaims, "that people should be unkind to other people just because of the color of their skin." I nod vigorously, "I mean," she pauses for effect, "I'm a little brown, but that doesn't mean I can't be friends with people who aren't."

Oh, my sweet baby, I must be doing something right. Even if I can't seem to steer clear of drama in my life. Today has been like raking my soul across the coals, long and ending in that warm haze that comes after several glasses of vino tinto.
This is no state in which to make life changing decisions, and yet, those decisions, I think, are already made. Perhaps it is better to let sleeping dogs lie.

Mom left this morning, not everything that was aimed for accomplishment was acheived, but then, when is it ever? I did, however obtain curtains for both my kitchen and my bedroom window (Mom was adamant about my not flashing the neighbors. I insisted that I didn't care, but she finally won.) Of course, the power tools, along with half of our acquired goods have fled my home, as well as the hands that know how to use them, but on autonomous fronts, I did drive the stick shift all the way home without stalling or crashing once. A feat for which I wish I felt a little more glee. At the car dealership the men were very nice, and thy suggested I try to sell it to a third party, but frankly it seems exhausting. But little trips to the supermarket aside, I don't think I want to take a 6 hour drive up north in the RAV, having to constantly be thinking about when to shift which gear and when to leave it in neutral in order to slam on the brakes (you are all cringing... I know, I should never do that, ah yes...). K. is waiting to make some waffles for me, and I would like to be alive to partake of the goods, but I am in no real rush, otherwise to sell it. Though a nice new car smelled so good, and... No, Ilana, you must stop this. Used car, used car, it is just that I don't want to deal with repairs and unreliability in cars, with men it is bad enough.

I spent the afternoon speaking Portuguese, I know that sounds stupid, but it made me really happy to spend several hours conversing in a language not my own. I felt this sense of pride in my ability as I. played with a little girl a few years her elder and I spent the afternoon celebrating the filing of a colleague's dissertation. An incredible woman, 60 something, she has worked with inmates in several correctional facilities and started her own publishing company and poetry magazine. I got to speak with some of her guests from Açores, and I really understood, and I really was able to communicate in more actual Portuguese than Portuñol (I am learning, little by little, but then when we tried to speak French it just all fell apart, my French is truly dismal, but next year I will start classes again, that is, if I don't find an Alliance Francaise this summer to whip me back into shape like so many years ago.)

Ah yes, so the evening ended with a wine party at my friend, the sociologist's house. She just had her floors redone, it is hard not to harbor ill will towards people who can afford a house in this market, but I will forego my petty envy. Some day I too, will be able to own a house, and maybe even be happy with someone in it. I'm not holding my breath. I am cold and a little tipsy, so it is good that I was driven home by other than myself. I. is off with her daddy, and that means that I have the entire day tomorrow to do work. Will I remain undistracted for the balance of the day? We shall see. I could do worse things than to get distracted a little, and in fact I have done some of them today.

filmic language...

So I am finally! taking the course on Latin American cinema, and I must admit that it kind of feels like cheating to watch two films a week and get academic credit for it. The other day we watched "Crónicas" (Sebastiáan Cordel)and Ecuatorian/Mexican co-production which was a terribly hard-hitting and brutal piece(and I shall process with as many of y'all that'll listen - Jeffy, my dear, you are it:)but amazingly done. Today we watched Suite Habana (Fernando Pérez) a Cuban-Spanish co-production. Stunning, beautiful, an hour and a half with no dialogue and no need for it... Poetry in the movement of the rotors and the fan blade, the buildings in decay. The sad eyes, everywhere, the streets and the water. I was reminded, of the melancholy of ¿Quién diablos es Juliet? with the culminating scene of the waves crashing over the retention wall. John Lennon and Silvio, and Che, sad eyes, a failed revolution. I wonder if I am not just overly sensitive to the sadness in everyone, overly susceptible, my mom might say, it just seems so ubiquitous... I had a few thoughts on it and they follow, in spanish, I am afraid.

Señas particulares, "deficientes auditivos" gritos, "Giovanni!"
cebolla púrpura, metate, separación de frijoles, arroz
olla express, cemento, ventilador
culitos ricos
la poesía moderna
manos, edificios coloniales, lectura de cartas,
lavandería de sábanas blancas, sangre,
ojos tristes, una voz lejana, altares,
zapatos lustrados, tacones,
"un rayo de luz", guantes de látex
tomando la presión
luz que filtra por la escalera,
construcción
el ventilador desnudo se apaga
un vuelo a Miami
bicis, lágrimas, abrazos
la espera, flores, tumbas con lápidas descubiertas
ojos tristes, besos al aire,
la despedida, dolor y procesión,
negra espalda al sol,
una aguja con hilo, botón,
la madre duerme
un libro protege
el ferrocarril, un conejillo de indias,
globos que golpean, la ascención
un payaso cansado
la bandera cubana por arte de magia
el despegue
la desaparición por las nubes
revolución gris bajo la lluvia
Che enmarcado, John Lennon mojado
los pilares en decadencia
la imposibilidad del trabajo, la campana, la falda roja
cerrando, amarillo, verde, rojo, azul
luz naranja
reloj, traje sombrio
el aire que pasa por el encaje de
la ventana abierta
un animalito enjaulado
una cara enjabonada
jicarazos, la gordura, planchado
imagen, vidrios rotos, hierro forjado
papá, besos y amor
atravesando paredes,
yéndose, yéndose
una cosita, sólo una,
una bocanada de humo -
la mano en súplica
teatro de sombras
caderas de hombre joven, las manos,
cabello mojado del baño, invertido,
los zapatos renovados
bicicleta para dos, habas pintas
perros ladrando
el verde lo lleva, lo lleva en brazos,
la revolución persiste, en la tele,
en blanco y negro
la revolución persiste y no hablan
la cabeza de lechuga cortada,
el cuchillo - herramienta no arma,
rastrillo, sofrito, olla de barro
una concentración perfecta,
el amor en los detalles, en el cariño
contraluz, dolor, un huevo roto, una sonrisa
el trabajo detrás de la reja
salsa, bolero, lámpara, crepúsculo
revolución encendida, un momento de complicidad
silencio, masticando,
Silvio y sus mariposas
siglos en un segundo, moros y cristianos
un matrimonio perdido, una escalera a oscuras
un vals con la boquita pintada
aplausos, estruendo, sombra invertida.
El Salón Benny Moré, azúcar moreno,
himnos, la virgen del cerro iluminada
las muchedumbres y el béisbol bajo
las luces, el baile, danzón, el abanico en la mano
la luz de la luna, una noche compartida
dueto de saxofón y piano
vestido plateado, pintura por manos artríticas
trasvestis, un farol, muro de retención
desenmascarando masculinidades,
el rugir del barco saliendo del puerto
paisajes, alegría y color
en el lecho a dormir, el beso
la noche caída, un trago largo
velando el sueño, piel arrugada
inocencia, cuadrada - la madre muerta
la soledad, la soledad, el humo.
Las cortinas de gasa, la puerta cerrada
el rumor de las olas que rompen bajo la lluvia
el café, cambio de guardia, ojos que no ven
corazón que sí siente
la ciudad borrosa
olas que se desbordan, asaltan las calles
edificios ancianos explosión.

Little Earthquakes

"Give me life, give me pain, give me myself again"
--Tori Amos

Here I am, just me. It seems so strange. No one left to read, but me, the way it was before. The way it should be. The way it will be, once I am me again.

Once I am me again I will write one long love letter to myself (instead of the secret words of naked honesty that I hide from everyone) I will remind myself of all the good things I am, instead of the bad. I will sit down and in my most alluring cursive loops I will pour out my heart in ways that I have never directed at myself. I will count on nothing, I will keep my eyes open for possibility. I will smile more than the day before. I was hugged by a stranger today, waiting to pay my rent, standing in line so that the university's billing department would lift its mistaken embargo on my registration. This might seem strange, but in fact, I often find myself basking in the warmth of unknown people, I can always smile through the pain. It starts to make sense, like this was always the way things had to go, and that each step was the right one at the right time to be here, where I am, now.

I don't want to depend on anyone but me. I won't even if it hurts like hell to wean oneself. I need to learn to give to myself, to sustain myself and be kind. I am starting a garden in my front patio, I have begun with seats in the sun and a table for my tea, and I have inherited a number of plants and acquired a few more my mom bought for me. She is the one with the green thumb, I have always killed every living plant in my custody. I will be a better gardener. I will be better to myself. I see the plants as metaphors for myself, they need care, love, water, sunshine, but they are also unable to ask for help and if they are the objects of overbearing scrutiny, overzealous attention they wither, just as if they were utterly abandoned. If I can care for the plants, perhaps then they will care for me in their own silent way. It isn't unreasonable to have something exclusively for its beauty. To posess it for nothing more than the aesthetic harmony it casts on our soul?

This was a story of external histories, not interior morphologies, but it seems that the encounter is always paramount. I held my breath through the gasping little death on the screen. I cried and shuddered at the human destitution. In the mind of a killer, it doesn't know why it does what it does. There is a code. A code of ethics. A code of reasonable expectations. I need to remember it. It is good to be back in class, back in front of a class. Every trimester I feel a little better, there is a gliding, smooth-motioned skating swirl, and things fall into place as they should. There are smiles, they feel safe and cared for, and I feel good giving them that safety. I will let that be the only thing. The rest is beyond my control, and I have relinquished it to the voracious nothing, like ripping petals from a fresh flowerhead and letting them rest on the wind.

I will not be perfect. I will not be better. I will simply be me, which will have to be good enough, even if I always say and do the wrong thing. I will not apologize for having needs, or for being free.

Bringing home the bacon (or adventures in food porn)

What is a girl to do? So much work to do, and so little desire to do it? Ah yes, have her devilish jet-setting ;) co-conspiritor visit and then do what they do best...

What do we do best? Well the first night we just shared sly stories, and the first morning we actually (believe it or not) took our work, together with picnic, to school and accomplished some. (No after-school care for the week shot my big notions of productive days all to hell, but such is life). We made excellent use of yams (no, nothing unkosher) a ground nut stew, fabulously decadent and yet, quite simple. The girl knows how to get mileage out of pepper flakes, I tell you.

I. spent the evenings "obsessed" as she says, with the fabulous books that Sole sent her via Paquetería Libélula (thank you, thank you, thank you - she's so proud that "she is now beginning to read chapter books!" and Narnia now has a keyhole to our home!) K. acted as proxy and read several chapters a day to the insatiable I. with dialogue in proper Brittish accent and all.

Seeing ourselves vastly over-provisioned there was guilt, but not shame, as she confessed to me that she has succumbed to her love of bacon, after a 15 year embargo on meat, on our walk to pick up the girlchild on day 2. This is where things got hairy. Mmm. Bacon, never ever buy it, and not because I am Jewish. But I felt obligated to have some. It was like there was a message from God in my ear, you must buy bacon, you must, you must...

That, and Jenny's virtual presence and commentary about having collard greens with bacon drippings put us over the top. I say us, but of course, I really mean only me. Ah yes, so what do we do instead of work? Because I figure what is one more unproductive day in a string of about 40? I can start work tomorrow, isn't how the mantra goes. New year's resolutions and all. I will start work tomorrow. Ach. that is almost true, oh wait, it is true. Dammit. I say, "let's just write the day off, come on... I want to play today." Twist, twist, twist that arm, I know I can be so convincing when I try.

We begin at 3 with a bottle of Spumante... I must confess champagne has always been too dry for my tastes but I could (and do every New Year's) down several glasses of Asti in a matter of minutes. There is however more to this than mere hedonistic gluttony. K. and I have a tradition with this drink, back in our wild Bryn Mawr days we used to climb up on all the collegiate gothic structures and sit on the roofs and drink, one bottle each, it is a miracle that neither of us slid off the inclined plane in a drunken stupor, but we always managed to make it out unscathed. I bought this bottle with just that tradition in mind. So no Thomas Great Hall to scale, and poor old Phelps hardly seems worthy, it might even be as anti-climactic as the PISB's patchy aluminum roof. Plus there was a kid involved here. Ok, so, the setting was my living room, and after we finished the bottle, and pored over pictures on her computer of... wait, that's secret... she says, "let's cook!" and I say, "Let's indeed!"

The silly drunken flush has already started creeping into my cheeks. What shall we make? "Pumpkin bread!" I announce, I have to give some presents to my professors. "Oh, and the ice cream!" My ice-cream maker has been used a total of two times, both with K. manning the wheel. Clearly not hard to use, but far above my field of vision, if I actually liked sweets, I might make sorbets (which I do happen to like, lemon or raspberry best) but I can't be bothered in general, but K. came equipped with Maya Gold chocolate and we had procured cream (also rarely in my house) so as to prepare a decadent treat.

"We need something else to drink," she looks devilishly my way, "how 'bout a black russian."
"No vodka, I only have rum, vermouth and triple sec... none too appealing."
"We could use rum."
"I could go to the store and pick up bacon, too." I tell you, the devil, the devil...
"Can you drive?"
"No, but I can still walk... oh wait!!!" I remember a small bottle of black cherry vodka that I stuck in the freezer several months ago with the intention of using it in just such a flourish of brilliance. She pulls the Kahlua from its nest among my stock pots, and gets busy preparing our demise.
"It's hot!" I say, and pad out the front door, closing the outer blinders, coming back in, shutting the door behind me and switching the deadbolt with a click.
I start to undress in the kitchen, "let's take pictures," I smile. She reminds me, "oh shit, the last load of laundry!" and I giggle uncontrolably... "I'll go," she starts towards the door... my savior. I run upstairs, breathless, to pee and I. looks at me. "Were you naked downstairs?" "No, not completely, just like this, in my bra and panties." "Ok." Phew! that's totally normal in her world, she can't be bothered because she is watching The Last Unicorn for the umpteenth time and is reciting lines by heart.
K. comes back with the laundry, and says, "ok, now..." and she takes off her pants and wraps her loosely woven shawl around her hips like a sari, "out of respect for it being midday and there being a child present." ha ha ha. We run out of our black russians and she suggests we try them with rum... The pumkin spice bread is emitting an earthy smell, and the chocolate, cream and sugar have just come to a boil, and are setting in their custard state as she fishes out the vanilla bean and adds the eggs. Then she gets another devilish grin and throws in a japanese tea-cup full of Kahlua... Guess I. will sleep well tonight...

"So, Ilana," she smiles as we dance around the kitchen to 80's music, "this is so quintessentially us... getting naked, talking about sex and making amazing food." And of course we discovered the root of all our kinky commonalities! An early-life obsession with the "New Nancy Drew Case Files" (see it wasn't just me who read them for the racy BDSM undertones, HA!)
Ah yes. We take several pictures, still lifes and live action with silicon spatulae, (food porn, nothing more, I swear ;) we find ourselves pleased and take a break for her to continue reading the Chronicles of Narnia, and I take that opportunity to make wild-alaskan salmon with a sauce of mango puree, soy, japanese ginger, mustard and a new twist to an old recipe, persimmon preserve that I made around Thanksgiving and had no desire to eat on toast. This was accompanied by nutted currant couscous and (baconless) collard greens. So, in honor of food pornographers everywhere, I share only the most sensual of our collection.

Sitting here in limbo

Sitting here in limbo
Originally uploaded by lunita.

And on that note...

A favorite poem:

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could.
To where it bent in the undergrowth,

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I --
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.

---Robert Frost

And a favorite Song:

Crossroads
I’ve got nothing on my mind: nothing to remember,
Nothing to forget. and I’ve got nothing to regret,
But I’m all tied up on the inside,
No one knows quite what I’ve got;
And I know that on the outside
What I used to be, I’m not anymore.

You know I’ve heard about people like me,
But I never made the connection.
They walk one road to set them free
And find they’ve gone the wrong direction.

But there’s no need for turning back
`cause all roads lead to where I stand.
And I believe I’ll walk them all
No matter what I may have planned.

Can you remember who I was? can you still feel it?
Can you find my pain? can you heal it?
Then lay your hands upon me now
And cast this darkness from my soul.
You alone can light my way.
You alone can make me whole once again.

We’ve walked both sides of every street
Through all kinds of windy weather.
But that was never our defeat
As long as we could walk together.

So there’s no need for turning back
`cause all roads lead to where we stand.
And I believe we’ll walk them all
No matter what we may have planned.

---Don McLean

At a crossroads

There is something so poetic in the image of a crossroads, out in the dusty countryside, with nothing but fields of corn, and a guitar strapped to your back. Time to sell your soul to the devil and never come back.

Sure, the romanticism is a product of a cinematographic education, steeped in solitary soul-searching images. I watched Walk the line about the life of Johnny Cash the other night, there was a similar image of the lone figure walking out into nothing. There was a cruel father, a better sibling that died, a lifetime worth of pain. There was redemption, too. I spent half of the film surreptitiously wiping the hot tears that sprung from my eyes off my cheeks, and the other half trying to contain myself from rhythmic chair dancing. There is nothing like a person in the next seat that you don't know to force decorum, I say, but then wiggle around a little just the same, pumping my thigh and tapping my heel to the cut-time.

A crossroads. I haven't felt much like writing these days. Not at all, and not because of anything but an ennui that has settled in over me. It is raining and grey out my window. There is a small person painting with her new paints in the other room. And still I have all sorts of wild hopes for the year 2006.

Stop writing, says the voice, give it up. The other says, no, there are people that count on you to keep writing. Not so. I choose to revert to the none-of-the-above category. Sink or swim? Write or erase. Become. Become. Become.

It is that, it is the becoming, it is the possibility of a new year, unmarred by future unhappiness, or even of past. Dancing in the livingroom with Kirsten, as the other neighbors look on, we dance around one another, the children are playing with puppets, they are watching movies, they are splitting their lips on each other's heads, but it is all fine, and the Cure somehow seems so happy as Smith's voice wobbles, "boys... don't... cry." And we listen to George Michael's Faith and Aretha Franklin, and Gloria Gaynor and PFunk, Stevie Wonder, Neil Young, Bonnie Raitt. It is all danceable, it doesn't matter, with several glasses of champagne under our belts and several more to come. Write or give up? Stand strong of cave? Become or just be?

I don't want to stop writing, I don't, I don't. I don't think I can, I can tell you all not to be bothered, I am a phantom, disappeared because of something that I looked for and found. But never stop writing, never again. How to sum up a year of tragedy? With hope?

I didn't know what to write about, I said to J. "I can't think of a single thing that happened last year of which to be proud."
"You wrote a novel!" J. points out. Oh yeah. That hardly counts, I reply, because it was just something I did to keep from my life totally exploding, I really don't deserve any credit for it at all and after all, it undoubtedly sucks eggs in terms of any sort of quality. That said. I suppose it is at least something that I can make the notch on the belt with, as I prepare to tighten it in the coming famine... Everything else from last year, mostly including my own behavior, has been decidedly shameful. So this shall not be a recap of the year in culminatory swells of glory. 2005 was an ingnominious sort of year for me. I guess it is ok to recognize that some years will be that way, and not get hung up on it.

So, to move forward. There are already several promises for 2006 that offer to shed some light onto this blackened catfish of a soul that I have been toting around strapped to my back. Will I sell my soul to the devil to learn to play? Or will I wave to him, blow him a kiss as I lift my chin up and just keep walking. Walking, walking. It will all be ok.