some thoughts on flying

With his lungs in his backpack, Marcos set out for adventure.
In his back yard, a small rainforest in south central.

I have found a sweet sad beauty. I have found a sweet sad song.
The birds are crying for the little boy who would come to their tree
Watch them grow.

Beauty is the back yard in South LA where Marcos used to play.
Like a bouquet too big for a vase the green of his backyard burst against the sky.

His teacher set books and worksheets in front of him to learn from, but his back yard was his favorite thing to study.

Quickly this little boy had his teacher wrapped around his finger. she too stood entranced by the birds and their seasons. She turned his desires into science projects, and history lessons. This boy didn’t need math.

Math counts years. A useless thing for boy who would never need more than his fingers and toes to count his age. A useless thing for a boy who would sleep through the 100 hail mary's weeped and wailed at his funeral. The birds were not so useless. They taught him to fly.

He flew away on Valentine's Day.

small stories

Episode 1:

Man A says to Woman B, “It is interesting to see how men and women respond differently to women”.

Woman B responds, “Uh, what do you mean?”

Man A says, “Both you, and Woman C are good-looking enough, it’s interesting to walk down the street with you and see how people look at you when we walk by.

“I try not to notice”

“Isn’t it a compliment? it means they see that you are beautiful.”

“It can be…I guess, but there is nothing more uncomfortable than walking by a group of guys on the sidewalk, because you know they are looking at you. It’s invasive. I keep my head up, my eyes forward, and walk fast.”

“Hmmm.”

Episode 2:

Woman Z sees Man X direct Homeless Man Y away from the front of the building, “You can not panhandle here.”

Woman Z wonders on this, the guard is just doing his job, but it sucks to be the homeless man. Where are the fields he can glean from?

Woman Z walks outside the building, Panhandler Y approaches her at the crosswalk as she waits to cross the street.

“I have no money, but you may have my orange” She holds out the piece of brightly colored fruit. She wants the orange, but she has already eaten 2 today, and she has more at home.

Panhandler Y, looks at the fruit, looks her up and down, and mutters obscenities not under his breath but its hard to be clear of what he is saying, “you want to go somewhere, we can have fun.” His eyes scan up and down her body, as if she is a barcode.

“No,” She crosses the street.

“Maybe later tonight…” He calls in a louder voice.

She doesn’t look back. It takes a minute for the violation to fully massage its way into her understanding. “I was just offering a beautiful orange, I felt sorry for him because the guard shooed him away because he is not wanted by society.” She rips the skin of the orange she had offered him, chews and swallows each juicy morsel.

Perhaps this has nothing to do with beauty. This is lack of beauty. This is aliens sculpting with life to imitate beauty that they’ve never seen. It is thirsty men drinking the sand in the desert. It is ridiculous. It is on my skin. It is a scavenger in a musty basement trying to breathe. It is children making themselves believe every noise they hear at night is a ghost haunting them. I am not okay with it. But I am trying to live in a different reality, where beauty is beautiful and it is not put to shame.

Snapshot 1:

Jesus was reclining at the table in the home of a man known as Simon the Leper, a woman came with an alabaster jar of very expensive perfume, made of pure nard. She broke the jar and poured the perfume on his head. She had carried this expensive jar a long way, through bad neighborhood just to do this thing. She had wanted to do something for this man who gave her everything, yet to whom she could give nothing. This jar was all she had. It had been passed down from her great grandparents. It was to be her dowry. It was the only worthwhile possession she had. It was the only that kept her out of the poorhouse. It only made sense to give this Jesus. He was the only thing worthy of pouring. What was the point in saving she thought to herself. Who knows what tomorrow may bring. But today, today, I can honor Jesus.

She took no notice of the men who she knew would be scoffing at her. She, with her tears and hair and nard paid attention only to Jesus.

The men at the table who had been eating with Jesus were saying indignantly to one another, "Why this waste of perfume? It could have been sold for more than a year's wages and the money given to the poor." And they rebuked her harshly.

“Leave her alone," said Jesus. "Why are you bothering her? She has done a beautiful thing to me. The poor you will always have with you, and you can help them any time you want. But you will not always have me. She did what she could. She poured perfume on my body beforehand to prepare for my burial. I tell you the truth, wherever the gospel is preached throughout the world, what she has done will also be told, in memory of her."

10 minute quickwrite: Los Angeles and beauty.

Sometimes I get tired of watching business women easily strut in 5 inch heels as if their feet were born with that severe angle in their arches. Los Angeles is most beautiful either in the distance and at night, airplane window, mountain, or hill top view. Or it can be beautiful in the details, if you read between the lines. Today I saw a homeless man cross the street, the light was green, he was 50 feet from the nearest crosswalk. His step looked like a politicians stutter, very sincerely he was trying to cross the street. The cars swerved around him but did not stop. A business man also crossed the street, and a car stopped to let him by. So the homeless man stopped too, raised his fist in the air, perhaps he said something, but I couldn’t hear. Then he continued on his way and made it to the other side. I had prayed for this. God answered my prayers. A man and a woman, looking slightly beat up by the world for they could not fit into models of beauty, walk down the side walk at lunch. The man pulls a cigarette out, lights in and hands it to the woman. Then he pulls another out for himself. I know there is more beauty in Los Angeles than this. I am looking for it. Perhaps its in my desk plant. There are so many new leaves slowing unfolding, I can’t keep track, they unwind like blossoming cigars. I don’t think I should have gotten coffee this morning. I better, drink water before, the world turns pretty just because its moving so fast and I cant make out the shapes anymore. I gave a homeless man a dollar to buy coffee. It is not my money, why should I have coffee and he should not. I wonder now if I should have given him an extra dollar to buy a muffin. I will remember this for next time. He says thank you, I wish him well and he looks offended. I try to give money food away in love and not-leave-me-alone motives. But sometimes as I hand that dollar over, with my eyes to the ground hoping they will not notice me. They have no chance of knowing ME, so I hope they will not notice me. It is hard to be a girl in this city where there is a lack of beauty so people try to find it in strangers, and whistles, and fantasies.["mb","

Observations of a Monday 8:27

I took a risk and said hello to the friendly neighborhood braggart.

I try not to cringe or feed his extravagant boasting. Today it was a sculpture.

“I didn’t know what I was doing but my friend said it if it were in a book

Of modern sculpture I wouldn’t have thought it was done by an amateur.”

“you are innately modern, I guess” He describes the sculpture. From collar bone to thigh.

This is portion of a woman that he sculpts.. I’m tired of these Women without heads to rest their thoughts in. Without arms or hands to slap or tap mores code. Without legs to walk away on. Thoughtless immobile creatures. They are only sexy with all their child bearing organs in place.


The braggart fixes my collar. A thing I never pay attention to. Half tucked, half popped. I am neither rock nor rap.