Liberty in LA

One might think that a trip to Los Angeles with such banal and bourgeois surroundings at the Bonaventure would provide no spicy anecdotes for bored lunch time perusal.

One might be right.

Nevertheless, given that the last time I made my way to spend a night at a bougie hotel with Jenny, it ended in near tragedy, panic attacks and the mentada multa and subsequent traffic school (which may have finally been resolved, but I can't quite say as the return receipt has yet to arrive from Ventura), the most egregious events were happily not motorized.

My Dad calls early, 7 am, too early. The bed groans under our weight or upon release as I bounce down the frigid stairs in a desperate attempt to catch the caller. He says that the train tracks are under repair and that they have a bus service whose schedule does not follow, in any remote way, the train schedule that it purports to replace. Traffic is stymied by the onset of rain, and we get stuck in traffic in Chinatown, having chosen to follow the internet directions instead of the clearly marked road signs. (Note to self, in future, follow road signs.) Slightly better than mediocre Chinese food is partaken of, there is minor whining which changes to glee as we pull into an hotel dignified enough for the reigning principessa.

"Will they have chocolates on the pillows?" she wants to know. I smile thinking only that I want double sheeted bedding, and never again will I be happy with less. There are cement fish spouting water in criss-crossing arcs over the passageway to reception. There is a happy child that sees her Zadie and lets mommy go to the movies, grown-up movies. Of course this may be stupid, it must be, but I sob silently at the close of El laberinto del fauno. I know I am supposed to be outraged. I know that Del Toro's use of the fairytale genre permits a beating-over-the-head sort of didacticism that any type of realist narrative would not, and that the hyper-naturalist violence, the saw cutting through bone, the needle piercing the lacerated skin, the beastial impaling of a man's face with the open end of a bottle are two naked and bereft of metaphor for any sort of epic fantasy. I know that the offering of oneself before spilling the blood of an innocent is what is meant to be our lesson. To question authoratarian brutality, to disobey, to resist. And the little girl that lies dead, her alternative, her fantastic escape does not comfort me in any way. I want my baby back. We cross the street.

And now I am the wicked mother again because I turn off the TV. Damn idiot box, does more damage in five minutes... But that wasn't my story. Neither was it the definition of love, or not love, as a willingness to die for someone. I have to reconsider my concept of love, perhaps. But rather, I was appalled to be confronted on the sidewalk, in front of the LA public library, camera in hand. Says the security gaurd. "Excuse me, but you can't take pictures. This is private property."
I look down at my feet, up at the public library. "You mean to tell me that I can't take pictures of the PUBLIC LIBRARY?" I read and point. "No, see," he points, "This sidewalk is private property, everything that looks like this, it is prohibited..." he pleads with his eyes for me to understand. I stand there looking quizzically, debating whether or not I want to pick a fight. Do I step off the sidewalk into the street and take a picture of him standing there, looking official? Do I suggest that as far as I knew the government had a 10 ft lien on the land contiguous to public thoroughfares, and that sidewalks, by virtue of their continuity were considered property of the government and that he was in no way vested with the powers of the government to tell me that I was on private property? "Huh. What will they come up with next?" I muse, annoyed, "Controlling airspace, eh?"

It doesn't help that a mere 500 feet later a police officer stops us from crossing a street by yelling from thirty feet away in garbled language. "Behind the fire hydrant!" he waves his gloved hand. The street is empty. We wait. It must be a film shooting but there are no posted signs or orange filming tape. Nothing happens and then he waves us across. "Idiots." I fume, as if we could possibly be expected to know what other people are doing with no direction or signage. A thought crosses my mind. No, not that. Soon there will be postings proliferating stating every last sort of prohibition possible. "Private property, it is strictly prohibited to have dirty thoughts on this sidewalk, nor may you spread blasphemous rumors, nor launch multi-national offensives (these perhaps should be posted outside the oval office)."

What is wrong with people. And the fashion and architecture exhibit at the MOCA does little to lift my mood, but wonders for my smug sense of superiority until I finally stumble upon a retrospective of Tracey Emin's work in the gift shop, and I am sucked into the dark painful inner/underworl of her whorish bed and vomitous rejection of puritanism and a society that punishes women for being sexually voracious. (And why shouldn't it? says the voice... the obnoxious one that means to be grandatherly and is the voice-over of everycomercial and all the propaganda in my head). I am not terribly struck by the aesthetic of the art, but fascinated by the discurrir de conciencia in her writing. File this away for future reference. Remind myself that whatever my likes and dislikes are, my perversions and subversions, I am so, so, so fucking vanilla. I can live with that, actually. I embrace my mild-form bougie aesthetic and preference for hotels with down comforters (even though I am allergic) and chocolate mints that come with the turn-down service and food that requires more elaborate preparation than being thrown in a vat of molten lard.

After discovering a Yucatecan restaurant not far from Downtown (Chichen Itzá - very good, and resembles to a decent extent actual cuisine from Yucatan). We go to the Redcat to see the staged reading of "Splitting Infinity" it one first prize in the nanotechnology institute's competition. It was well structured, well acted, well researched. But there was something missing. Perhaps it was that I was left with the feeling that there were too many pat clichés, and that American theater so often falls into those categories of hackneyed trite one-liners on religion and scientific practice. It was ambitious, but remained somehow mostly surface. It was taped for airing on NPR. We'll see, I'll listen again and see if I change my mind. (And yet, it was a lovely close to a pleasant weekend.)

Traffic update

Just in case any of you were wondering how the traffic school saga ended...

Let's begin with a shot of me, trembling with fury as I speak on the phone with Rudy, yes, Rudy, I believe the same one who initially graded and LOST my test.

"It says here that you finished on the 9th."
"Yes, unfortunately, on the certificate that was mailed to me, it says the 18th. 8 days after the due date in the court."
"Well the one that I am sending you now says the 9th."
"When will it be here."
"Well, tomorrow there is no mail, so on Monday we will send it out."
"Priority."
"I don't see why we would do that."
"Because, you see, the due date was the 10th and Monday will be the 22nd. I still have to get it to the courts."
"Well, I'm not a supervisor, if I send it priority, I'll get in a lot of trouble."
"Then who do I speak to in order for you to send it priority?"
"The administrative manager, Marcos. On Monday."
"Marcos," I repeat, my voice wobbles, "Marcos, what?"
"I can't give you that information, but I can give you his extension."
"Ok, please do."



And let's end with me curled in a ball on my bed, not exactly sobbing. I. coming towards me. "Shhhh. Mami. Don't cry." climbing on top of me, wrapping her little arms around my neck. "I should sleep in here with you tonight. Since you're having a hard night."

I shouldn't have let her stay. I should have stuck to my guns, despite the howling, and the promises that tonight she won't ask, she promises... But there is just one more reason that I fail as a mother. Guess it is a good thing that I'm not good enough, after all.

Santisima Fe

Para Omar, por si se da una vuelta por estas partes quien me recordó que todavía hay poesía por escribir. (Y con todo el perdón por lo absurdo de mi poesía de chamaquita)

Poema para ser escrito (o leído) en un tranvía (o pesero) un día, subiendo las (otras) lomas:

Santísima Fe

Perro primordial
tras
callejones de coca-cola
basura beat
en un
micro mugriento
la guadalupe, la güera, la guerra

casillas cayéndose
con
la decadencia de décadas
y
más miradas
esperanza espesa
me pesa


(Septiembre? 1998)


City (e)scape

No tengo hora ni fecha
no existo

Soy el canto desesperado de un grillo
no existo

Soy las nubes espesas de lluvia negra
no existo

Soy partículas de veneno en el aire
no existo

Soy el agua sin rumbo, soy la mirada de un hombre
soy el panteón de vivos

no existo

(Septiembre? 1998 - tumbada en el pasto de La Ibero)


Soledades
Círculo que expande
un verde feroz que me lastima
los ojos

Son muchos, dialogan con mi soledad
Aquí está la vida:
en el gusano morado
en mis libros
en el rumor de voces ajenas -
destinadas a otros oídos

Círculo que se cierra
un cielo gris


(Septiembre ? 1998)

Dedos
hundidos en la piel
estiran, esfuerzan

--no hay ley
ni hay justicia--

palabras
no invitadas a la mente
provocan, persisten

--no hay tiempo
ni hay escape--

dientes
sonriendo desde el suelo
destrozan, decaen

¿Cuando los perros retrocedan,
habrá fin?

(Octubre 1998)

Espejismos

Y si yo te pidiera

¿Me dirías no? Con tus ojos fríos
Con esa voz seca,
reservada
hastiada de…

Aquella cosa,
llamábamos libertad.
Tan infrecuente en nuestros días
en nuestras horas
en nuestra soledad

Creemos que queremos algo
que creamos algo, que tenemos

La última palabra.

Abro la puerta y me asomo.
El frío de tu voz me congela
No me nombras,
ni me has dicho nunca
aquella palabra
que me daría vida.
Sólo la guardas
con gula,
disfrazada de frases banales,
epítetos huecos,
para pintarme la máscara
de lo que podría yo ser.
De lo que debiera ser.
De lo que no soy ni seré.

¿Fuerza en potencia?
¿Tela desgastada?
¿Madera rota?
Inservible, al fin…

Y si yo te pidiera,

¿Me dirías sí?

Left behind

The room was filled with people who loved him. People who worked with him. People who liked him. People who remember him.

I drove over, dressed more formally than is my custom, having managed to avoid stains from the juicy mango that I sliced for my child's "choice class". I guiltily talked on the phone, following up on the idiocy of traffic school from the day prior, and established that something, we are not sure what exactly, is in the mail. I imagined he would be there waiting. That I would arrive at the office, the fourth floor, not my floor anymore, and he would be there. I envisioned his open door, the door that still taunts us as we walk down the dark hallway.

I truly believed for a fraction of a second that he would be laughing with us, at the absurdity of one more event.

Instead I arrived and cut flowers. I wasn't on any steering or organizational committee this time. But that means very little. There are things that need to get done, and we do them, so that things come off perfectly, so that no one notices the seams. Everything neatly stitched together. No unseemly noises floating in to offend the sensibilities of the VIPs. Jocelyn and I cut, and cut, and arranged flowers. I am glad. I was not there to hear the things that were said at first. The ones that made some people seethe with fury. I was busy cutting, trimming, arranging, cleaning. It is safer that way. Everything in its place. Not a single piece out of line.

Then I listened to his brother. And his friends and everyone else that was touched by him. We were all touched by him, and now, it fades. We forget, just a little. We don't want to, but it is the natural process, and the immediacy of the ache diminishes. I imagine another scenario. The need for testimony. Who would come to my funeral, I wonder? What would they say? Or if the roles were reversed? What purpose would be served?

There is the eternal displacement. Someone is always away, at work, distant. They will return.

Julie calls me from Amsterdam, it is 1 in the morning. She is heading to Paris, to see her boyfriend and his family. "Are you ready for that?" I ask, with dread and trepidation in my voice. I don't want her to expose herself to the pain of rejection. I want to protect her from what I can't protect myself. "No," she replies. We laugh. Sadly. I ask her how her visit to her father in Canada was. I ask her about her mother. She bought a house in Amsterdam, she is what she is, says Julie. She doesn't ask for more.

"I have to go to the funeral now. It doesn't seem real." I try to comfort her, to cradle my friend from ultramar. I know the loss, the shock. Her friend, a girl she worked with, was murdered in her parents house in Nigeria. She muses that it is the kind of thing you read about in the paper, but not the kind of thing that happens to someone you know. Her father worked for one of the big oil companies. I sigh, knowingly. "So many people, you know?" One miniscule life touches so many contiguous lives...

How can we know the effect that we have? When does the sense of indignation go away? The sense of injustice. Why do people like el Generalísimo get to live out their entire life, fed, enrobed in riches, to die a natural death, and these innocents, so many innocents, die violently, abruptly? What fault of their own was it? Who will remember them? Who will remember me? Who will take my oceans of words and make some meaning from them all? Who will edit a life into a few short lines of a bio-bibliography? Who will not forget?

There are only so many people in this world that we get to have, to truly know. I didn't know him, not truly, and yet I did.
His sister, Kathy, marvels at the crowd, she says that they are the fortunate ones, that we are the ones to feel the daily tug of loss. She thinks about how every life has this sort of ripple effect, and asks herself how she can behave to have the most positive effect on those around her. I wonder that too.

I wonder if loving is ever really enough for other people. Or for ourselves. I return, and am drawn in once again by the power of the word. Poetry in motion, raw emotion, goodbyes.

Sometimes I wonder if every encounter, every life that floats by us, or that we float by, isn't just some sort of eternal beginning to the ultimate goodbye.

Java jitters

I am not a coffee drinker.

Let's just start with that. I love the taste of coffee, the warmth as it slides down my throat, the roasted nutty smell of the brewing. The blanket of rich headiness that invades as you tip your nose over the edge of the mug. I have a beautiful little italian stove-top espresso percolator, from the 60s, that my mom purchased in Spain. It is the kind that looks almost like a scolding matron in a stiff silver skirt. It generally sits unused on my counter.

This morning as I dropped my child at school, it occurred to me that a nice cup of joe would hit the spot. I served myself in a styrofoam cup, in the school's kitchen (while cringing inwardly about the CFC's that I would be causing to be released into the ozone) and paid my spare change into the donation box. Not bad. It was one of those professional grade brewing machines, not the coffee-pot type, heating-plate warmed kind, but the ones that seem to continually brew on demand. I stooped, and used vanilla flavored Coffee Mate, as there was no cream.

Yes, I confess, like the little girl in Airplane! I like my coffee like I like my men... er. Creamed and sweet? That can't be right... I have learned to accept my foibles, and for the most part forgive myself, and indulge. But, I digress. Everything up until now is perfectly normal, we agree?

I drink the coffee, with no top, while driving on the highway. There must be a law against that. In fact, in the traffic school that I just completed, there may have been an entire section on driving while "drinking" and other such negatively influencing habits on the open road. Aha!, I think. I will check my mail, I have time. I will have a productive morning.

I make these mental notes to myself, and I park, let the warm sun invade me, walk happily past my front door the extra 300 feet to the mail. I think to myself: It is only 9:15, I could even do laundry, I think I'll check and see if there are machines open. Then I can work while the laundry runs.

Au contraire... I stop at the mail, and carefully dig through the multiple days' accumulated junk: circulars, flyers, student loan consolidation. DMV... hmmm. No, they shouldn't be writing me. Where is the damn certificate for the traffic school? My heart starts to beat, faster, all thoughts of leisurely laundry are banished, and I pointedly click my heels on the pavement at a somewhat more elevated pace. I pick up the phone, I open the computer, I find the phone number, I dial. A boy answers and I tell him that I have not received a certificate and more than 3 business days have passed. He asks me to hold and stupidly I wait, and I wait. And I wait some more. With each minute I become increasingly irritable, but I decide to hang up and dial again, nothing like re-engaging and causing some noise.

This time a girl answers. She asks me my name and driver's license number. She tells me that their records show that I never took the test. Never took the test? "That's strange," I reply, trying to keep a lid on the boiling pot of hysteria that is brewing beneath me, "because I have the test, the answers and the record of fax transmission that say I did in fact take the test." She asks if I will speak to someone in administration. "Gladly," I reply, tersely. I know it isn't her fault, meanwhile, while holding, I am desperately searching through all the piles of paper in the known universe for the supposed papers that I claim to have.

I knew this would happen, I think. When I called the same night I took the test, and the guy pulled it out and graded it, I knew he would probably stick it somewhere and not finish the process... Thank God I saved those papers, or at least I think I saved them. I remember saving them, thinking it might be important. Where the fuck did those papers go?!!!

The administrator comes on the line. I still have no real papers. I lie stupendously. He tells me they have no record of my taking the test. I repeat that I have papers that prove I did. He tells me to fax them. I ask him who will reimburse me for the cost of the fax and he says no one. I say very politely, or at least what attempts to be polite, as my body twitches and writhes in caffeine induced speed, "I fail to see how I should have to pay for a service for which I have already paid when I followed your instructions to the letter." "Well we can reimburse you for the course, and you can use another school." "Noooo. You see your company is endorsed by the court, which means that you are expected to offer a certain standard of service. I already took the course. I need it to be over, as I already took the test." "You see, we don't have your test." "But that is not my fault, you see." "Ok, hold on a minute."

I return to the cabinet, an aneurism threatens to appear as my temple pulses. My breathing is getting shorter as I border on frustrated fury-induced hyperventilation. Where are those fucking papers?!!! Ah! Here they are... breathe, breathe... I gloat just a little because now I can actually prove that I am right.

"Ok, if you have the original transmission certification, we will reimburse you." "Thank you. And you will notify me by email." "You can call back. We don't email." "That's funny, because it says here on step for of your instructions that your company will email the student." "Where? Oh, uh... it does say that, doesn't it." "Yes, it does." "Well, then we'll email you." "And you will send the certificate immediately." "Yeah we'll drop it in the mail today." "You will rush it. Yes? When will it be here?" "I'll send it priority, it will be there Friday, Saturday morning at the latest." "Good. But you see there is one small problem. I needed the test to be dated before the 10th." "We will back date it to the day of the original transmission." "Ok. Just making sure."

The coffee courses through my veins. I strain against the urge to yell, to tell the guy that he and his entire staff are a lot of inept morons. I refrain. I tremble with rage. I get in my car. Driving angry... wasn't there something about this in the course? This can't be good for anyone. Especially not me. I send the fax again. I come home. Two hours later, there is still no email, but, finally the coffee has worn off, just a little.

Frigid

It has never been this cold in SB. Never, in all the years that I have lived here... ah yes, only three winters, but still. I keep waiting for the rain, but instead, this, frigid arctic wind that settles down.

Mexico city was balmy in comparison. New Hampshire was too, says my father who just left.

My child won't go to bed, she's says it isn't fair that she has to sleep alone. I tell her life isn't always fair, the cat comes to my room no matter how I try to get her to stay with I., but she isn't buying it. She snuffles and mopes, and the heat blasts in dueling furnaces. My hands hurt as they wrap around the bicycle handle bars. My nipples hurt as they scrape against formerly tender fabric.

My laundry still sits in neatly folded piles (folded and washed by dad, bless his heart). I turned the left-over salmon from our frozen night on the partially proteced out-door dining area on one of the various wharfs into a dill mousse. I invent a soup of swiss chard, mustard, collard, turnip greens, with a splash of cream. We eat rice crackers, and an Italian black truffle cheese, hummus, a Basque sheeps milk cheese. We finish off the Washington state Reisling. It is cold outside. Mys kin hurts.

I braved the frozen streets, downtown, barren save for a few restless souls (or soles). Watched Notes on a Scandal. I love Judi Dench. The script was great, her delivery was phenomenal. There was something about loneliness. A line, about how certain people don't understand what bone-crunching loneliness is, what it is like to make an entire weekend around taking a bath, about having no one to touch them... It occurs to me that failure to thrive is not just for infants who don't receive the necessary physical affect. I say this as I try desperately to send my monkey off to bed for the fifth time this evening. "Just one more kiss mommy!" She stops and gazes lovingly at me, rests her hands gently on my face, strokes my cheek as I have done to her a million times, at least.

It is amazing, and yet, we can be accused of being too physical, too sappy, cloying, and sweet. Sometimes when you don't know where to draw the line, you run the risk of simply drying up. Or freezing.

La Martinona

There are the joys of a squiggly body snug up against one's own. I hate sleeping alone.

There's no place like... home?

30 hours after arrival and the fall out just keeps falling.

Travel with children may seem daunting, but is not so bad once you bite the bullet and just go. No, the problems come from the ineptitude of the supposed adults who are working. Granted, there were a few moments, when everything was, "mommy will you buy me a present" and "I need to pee" two minutes after you have gotten onto periférico and the flow of traffic inches you along in its swell.

Pointed and precise letter to airline about idiot's mishandling of fragile package. Done.

Trip to urgent care to address sudden and unexpected conjunctivitis. Done.

Reading and work that was squashed during three weeks of "vacation". Um... let's just not talk about that, shall we?

Unpacking and accomodation of clean clothing (yes, one more pet peeve of mine is to arrive with dirty laundry so at 1 am I was busy running laundry, while "exploring" the bodega)... not to mention the library of cine nacional (hey, I was doing research, was I not?) and books that were snatched up in a buying frenzy from second-hand booksellers and Ghandi alike. Don't even get me started... (or maybe I should).

Traffic School whose date for completion was extended (once and only once) until January 10. Shit! Shit! Shit! It wasn't entirely my fault due to the spotty internet connection (fishing for wireless from the neighboring houses...)

Ok. So the headache is gone because the doctor prescribed Celebrex, and my child has no more earache because she finished the course of antibiotics before we left. My father arrived and so did the "Reyes" with I.'s direly desired "Littlest Petshop" (don't ask, don't tell). The cat, beyond shredding a few toilet paper rolls was loving (even to the rats) and I arrived bearing gifts of hand-made crafts, wine, cheese and coffee to mitigate her devilry a posteriori.

It is good to be home, after all. Though I was sad to leave, especially after starting to get the hang of the big city again. There was so much to see and do and feel, It was all unprocessable. Perhaps I shall write here a few thoughts, like the novelty and overwhelmingness of wandering through the city streets, the metro, Coyoacán, Chapultepec, the Zócalo, alone with no one but my daughter, or the incredible embarrassment at not knowing (or remembering... did I ever know, I don't think so) about the actual "sitting" of Shive (we American jews are so casual). I may indeed post some photos, but with calma... there is too much to do... Wasn't it said that you need an entire vacation to recover from vacation?