Finger drum snapping desks in half. The page, mostly white, waits. Anna, wrinkled, knee bent prophetess waited for the savior. She could see the holy glow from the baby in the poopie diapers. She was not deterred by his baby sized hands, feet, or goo-goo ga-ga’s. Anna the prophetess died before any crowns were bestowed on appropriate heads. She is still waiting.
Expectation. Heart beat. Sleeves get itchy. Expectation. Is like hungry for un chewable meal. Expectation expectation. Hope with certainty. We are to ask with expectation that God listens and answers. The problem is even though we say we are open minded, open ended we see the answers in multiple choice. A, B or C.
But the answer ends up being purple linen or 9827 or parsley. I was only look for A, B or C.
Emails entice expectation. We need to talk. Anticipation. Hesitation. Exasperation. Wet napkins soaking up spilt water. The plants are still dying. I can’t decide if they are being over watered or desiccated. One still blooming spring leaves. I hate to tell it, its heading on September the month of expected change the month of summer ended with school books opening. The heat is still outside. And the heat is still inside. My bones.
Expectation in stomach cramps. She is not allowed out of bed. Her stomach is not hers anymore. It’s her baby’s. Unborn child creating chain of commands pleas for help and distraught mother.
Tick tock click clock the clockmovefaster has the day ticking away. Lunch expectation. Playing games without the teachers finding out. The playground no longer has jungle gyms and other 3 foot tall playmates, but strings and forks and napkin rings, credit cards and new definitions of wonderland. I no longer know who I am or what cards I am holding in this game and if I am the gingerbread man or fairy princess or the plastic figurine colored blue with the smiley face or silver shoe?
Friday, August 31, 2007
a post i forgot to post
It was Wednesday. The day before the day before the day the day of THE DAY.
T – 3 = now
Solve for x.
X is a variable mysterious as the human heart
Ventricles, red blood cells, incessant ticking
Friends’ paper castle were collapsing; saliva swapped up and down the California coast
The Grand Canyon almost built and the white board almost cleaned.
The phone rang but alacrity was missing.
Sonnets pressed between the pages like clean sheets, unslept, blinking away the night noises.
Such was Wednesday August 22, 2007
T – 3 = now
Solve for x.
X is a variable mysterious as the human heart
Ventricles, red blood cells, incessant ticking
Friends’ paper castle were collapsing; saliva swapped up and down the California coast
The Grand Canyon almost built and the white board almost cleaned.
The phone rang but alacrity was missing.
Sonnets pressed between the pages like clean sheets, unslept, blinking away the night noises.
Such was Wednesday August 22, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
GRRRRRRRRRREE
Yeah!!!
I finished the GREs. and i did so much better than i thought i would. i dont ever have to take it again. i got a 1320 or a 1350 (i dont rememeber which, my brain was so fried after the yicky test).
it feels so great to have actually accomplished something.
yeah
check. now onto the portfolio...
I finished the GREs. and i did so much better than i thought i would. i dont ever have to take it again. i got a 1320 or a 1350 (i dont rememeber which, my brain was so fried after the yicky test).
it feels so great to have actually accomplished something.
yeah
check. now onto the portfolio...
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Verbosity
It’s not just fat cells hanging
from her underarms and thighs.
It’s words: language that’s been chewed
over and over and over again.
A paste, cloying in her veins
Regurgitated,
they slither, and crawl,
words without meaning, leaving tracks:
Breathless lung gossip.
Incessant verbs, nouns, and adjectives.
Conjunctions.
I am a hapless reservoir collapsing under the weight of listen.
from her underarms and thighs.
It’s words: language that’s been chewed
over and over and over again.
A paste, cloying in her veins
Regurgitated,
they slither, and crawl,
words without meaning, leaving tracks:
Breathless lung gossip.
Incessant verbs, nouns, and adjectives.
Conjunctions.
I am a hapless reservoir collapsing under the weight of listen.
La La La for Lalo
Para Lalo (otra vez)
An orange has been sitting on my desk for 3 days now. It is still orange. It was given to me by a co-worker who gives me her healthy food when she becomes overwhelmed by health food and goes to Carl’s Jr. Oranges can not be eaten at the desk. Hands get sticky as will the mouse, the keyboard, and possibly important papers. It reminds me of Lalo. Lalo from McHenry library who was also Cuban, I think. Lalo who is dead. Lalo who is now a metaphor with a moral. Lalo who once consumed me with regret. Lalo whose death made me writhe on my dorm room floor, screaming. Lalo who told me jokes. Lalo who drew me maps. Lalo who helped move Renee’s furniture. Lalo who fixed computers with a smile. Lalo who I think of whenever I hear Coldplay. Lalo, for whom I watered the redwoods with tears. Lalo who’s sister was named Sunshine. Lalo who I pretended to ignore sometimes. Lalo who brought me a flower, when I brought him a handful of summer grasses. Lalo who was older than me. Lalo who bought me Falafels. Lalo who I gave a high-five when he dropped me off. Lalo who scared me because he was nice to me. Long before his desk became a memorial full of pictures, catholic candles, and a photocopy of his handwritten will full of inside jokes. He had a bottle of carrot/orange juice upside down on his desk for months, months and months. I would give him a hard time about it, ‘what if it fell over and broke?’ I would tease. ‘it would probably stink, but it hasn’t broken yet, and its decorating my desk’. He put a paper party hat on the bottle. I miss Lalo for what never was. I miss Lalo and I want you to miss him to. Lalo is more than metaphor. He once had breath and muscle and freckles.
For Lalo today, I will buy paletas y tacos and I will not be afraid. And that is all I can do.
I was late to work today because there was a car accident on Figueroa by the convention center. I knew there was more traffic than usual, but I didn’t know what to do so I just stuck it out. I eventually passed the car smashed up, the car overturned, the police officer directing traffic with white gloves. How many people were angry because they were late, sucked in that breath hateful breath with remorse, upon realization that life may have been lost on the way to work. How many people were still angry and drove quickly, running red lights because they were late to work still, not realizing that there were bodies driving those cars now rendered un-drive-able. What was the police officer in the white gloves thinking? How many car wrecks has he had to sift through? I placed my hands at 10 and 2 as the tears crept up and made nests out of my eyelashes and gently pressing the gas, continuing toward work.
For Car A and Car B whose drivers may be in the hospital, or the morgue, or with a few scratches and new appreciation for life, I will breathe today and not worry about things that I could worry about.
I will not be afraid and that is all I can do.
An orange has been sitting on my desk for 3 days now. It is still orange. It was given to me by a co-worker who gives me her healthy food when she becomes overwhelmed by health food and goes to Carl’s Jr. Oranges can not be eaten at the desk. Hands get sticky as will the mouse, the keyboard, and possibly important papers. It reminds me of Lalo. Lalo from McHenry library who was also Cuban, I think. Lalo who is dead. Lalo who is now a metaphor with a moral. Lalo who once consumed me with regret. Lalo whose death made me writhe on my dorm room floor, screaming. Lalo who told me jokes. Lalo who drew me maps. Lalo who helped move Renee’s furniture. Lalo who fixed computers with a smile. Lalo who I think of whenever I hear Coldplay. Lalo, for whom I watered the redwoods with tears. Lalo who’s sister was named Sunshine. Lalo who I pretended to ignore sometimes. Lalo who brought me a flower, when I brought him a handful of summer grasses. Lalo who was older than me. Lalo who bought me Falafels. Lalo who I gave a high-five when he dropped me off. Lalo who scared me because he was nice to me. Long before his desk became a memorial full of pictures, catholic candles, and a photocopy of his handwritten will full of inside jokes. He had a bottle of carrot/orange juice upside down on his desk for months, months and months. I would give him a hard time about it, ‘what if it fell over and broke?’ I would tease. ‘it would probably stink, but it hasn’t broken yet, and its decorating my desk’. He put a paper party hat on the bottle. I miss Lalo for what never was. I miss Lalo and I want you to miss him to. Lalo is more than metaphor. He once had breath and muscle and freckles.
For Lalo today, I will buy paletas y tacos and I will not be afraid. And that is all I can do.
I was late to work today because there was a car accident on Figueroa by the convention center. I knew there was more traffic than usual, but I didn’t know what to do so I just stuck it out. I eventually passed the car smashed up, the car overturned, the police officer directing traffic with white gloves. How many people were angry because they were late, sucked in that breath hateful breath with remorse, upon realization that life may have been lost on the way to work. How many people were still angry and drove quickly, running red lights because they were late to work still, not realizing that there were bodies driving those cars now rendered un-drive-able. What was the police officer in the white gloves thinking? How many car wrecks has he had to sift through? I placed my hands at 10 and 2 as the tears crept up and made nests out of my eyelashes and gently pressing the gas, continuing toward work.
For Car A and Car B whose drivers may be in the hospital, or the morgue, or with a few scratches and new appreciation for life, I will breathe today and not worry about things that I could worry about.
I will not be afraid and that is all I can do.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
ubiquitous
What does a window feel during a rainstorm? Is it moment of stoicism; of standing firm and protecting the interior from the cold and the wet. Does the window look inward longingly to the warmth and dry interior? Or is it a moment of being realized. The raindrops slide down the glass like caressing fingertips. Tired of always been seen through but not seen, does the window want to collapse into the embracing arms of the rain, so thankful for being noticed?
I have been collecting things: couches, tables, rugs, bookshelves, curtain rods. The newness has worn off and I am tired. I am packing my bags in my mind. I have a list of things that I need and a list of things I don’t. As Ani puts it, “let's go down to the east river and throw something in, something we can't live without and then let's start again.”
The Gossip is a back and she is tired. So only a few hushed and rushed whispered have splintered their way from her lips to my ears and I am grateful.
I feel dusty. Like a cabinet left alone too long.
If I say I am sick of words, am I betraying my art? Let me explain. I am sick of words that pour like unfiltered water. The teeth and tongue like rocks in the river do not tame the flood, but spur it on with splashy noise. Words to guitar music in front of church. Words with static over the radio. Words over telephones. Words shouted through doors. Words like unbrushed hair. Words like a cake baked with no measuring cups. Words like a desert full of sand.
Have you ever been chewing gum and then lost all motivation to chew it? It’s still full of sugar and flavor but you gag on it and eventually spit it out.
Have you ever been clapping your hands and stomping your feet and looked down to realize you don’t recognize your hands or your feet. Your feet stop moving, you hands keep clapping and you’re confused.
Have you crossed the street to avoid saying hi to a friend whose face is sunburned and hair hasn’t been washed in days, maybe weeks. He carries a sign claiming hunger. My feet made for the crosswalk, but my hands made for my purse. “Hello, AJ! How are you? I have a multigrain and fruit bar, and peanuts, which one or both do you want?” I hold the two in front of AJ. My namesake. He chooses the slightly smooshed fruit and grain bar. I ask him how he has been. He doesn’t seem gregarious today so smile and look him in the eye. He looks me in the eye and I cross the street. This is after a 2 weeks of avoiding him. What kind of friend am I?
I feel spurious when I am there. I smile and comb my hair. But I want minutes of silence to loose myself in prayer and tears. I want space. But I also want to be apart of the neighborhood. I don’t know what to do. I feel as uncomfortable as a barbed wire fence.
It’s 3.13 in the afternoon and I am going to go sort paper now. Good bye.
Its 5.00 and Misty got mugged. Empty pockets and a black eye. Payday for homeless people with SSI is the same time of the month and a good time for mugging. Misty whom I do not trust. Misty whom I would not want to invite into my house. Misty whom I want to talk to. Misty whom I want to cook for. Misty Misty Misty. Your stories are fabulous and your hair is in shambles. Your arms are pure muscles and your boyfriend and you bike around the streets collecting cans and noticing cars.
I have been collecting things: couches, tables, rugs, bookshelves, curtain rods. The newness has worn off and I am tired. I am packing my bags in my mind. I have a list of things that I need and a list of things I don’t. As Ani puts it, “let's go down to the east river and throw something in, something we can't live without and then let's start again.”
The Gossip is a back and she is tired. So only a few hushed and rushed whispered have splintered their way from her lips to my ears and I am grateful.
I feel dusty. Like a cabinet left alone too long.
If I say I am sick of words, am I betraying my art? Let me explain. I am sick of words that pour like unfiltered water. The teeth and tongue like rocks in the river do not tame the flood, but spur it on with splashy noise. Words to guitar music in front of church. Words with static over the radio. Words over telephones. Words shouted through doors. Words like unbrushed hair. Words like a cake baked with no measuring cups. Words like a desert full of sand.
Have you ever been chewing gum and then lost all motivation to chew it? It’s still full of sugar and flavor but you gag on it and eventually spit it out.
Have you ever been clapping your hands and stomping your feet and looked down to realize you don’t recognize your hands or your feet. Your feet stop moving, you hands keep clapping and you’re confused.
Have you crossed the street to avoid saying hi to a friend whose face is sunburned and hair hasn’t been washed in days, maybe weeks. He carries a sign claiming hunger. My feet made for the crosswalk, but my hands made for my purse. “Hello, AJ! How are you? I have a multigrain and fruit bar, and peanuts, which one or both do you want?” I hold the two in front of AJ. My namesake. He chooses the slightly smooshed fruit and grain bar. I ask him how he has been. He doesn’t seem gregarious today so smile and look him in the eye. He looks me in the eye and I cross the street. This is after a 2 weeks of avoiding him. What kind of friend am I?
I feel spurious when I am there. I smile and comb my hair. But I want minutes of silence to loose myself in prayer and tears. I want space. But I also want to be apart of the neighborhood. I don’t know what to do. I feel as uncomfortable as a barbed wire fence.
It’s 3.13 in the afternoon and I am going to go sort paper now. Good bye.
Its 5.00 and Misty got mugged. Empty pockets and a black eye. Payday for homeless people with SSI is the same time of the month and a good time for mugging. Misty whom I do not trust. Misty whom I would not want to invite into my house. Misty whom I want to talk to. Misty whom I want to cook for. Misty Misty Misty. Your stories are fabulous and your hair is in shambles. Your arms are pure muscles and your boyfriend and you bike around the streets collecting cans and noticing cars.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
3 quick writes on discreet topics
4.18
Sit. Wait. Wish. I have been sitting all day almost. Waiting all day almost. And Wishing all day, most certainly. The day seems longer when that thing in beneath your ribs is beating and you can feel it and its in your ears and its in the cubicle walls and its in the blinking of the clock and its in the whirring of the computers and moan of the printer and opening and closing of doors. Sit. Wait. Wish. Pray. That is what I do all day. I woke up this way, but I was not born this way. Why is this always about me. Because I am me and I am all I know my POV and what I ate for lunch and how I am estranged and how I do not look forward to going home and how I am tired. And the library books I owe the library and the checks I owe old friends. And friends makes me think of health insurance which makes me think of Michael Moore which makes me think of CEOs in yachts smiling which a doctors number in their pocket on speed dial. Most of my co-workers hate the doctors and never go unless something is bleeding that wont stop bleeding with a bandaid. And that heart beat is back smoothing out the edges of a face, wanting to collapse in someone’s arms, put the bookshelf back together again. I have never seen it whole. But I must sit. And wait. Waiting is harder than expected. Waiting less glorifying that doing, but often more the better choice. Waiting is what I have been doing my whole life a girl once told me. I am waiting for one foot to move forward when I am walking. I am waiting for one person to be the person. I am waiting waiting. But what about the sunsets you see between footsteps and the people you meet between handshakes. Wishing. Half hearted complaints of a better life. If that is wishing I don’t want it. If wishing is hope than I want three tablespoons of it in my morning coffee instead of 1.
4.27
3.15
City skyline at night makes me want to say “winsome smile”. But that is a cliché. but it is true as those tall-manmade building sparkle in the night sky and smog I am won over. I forget the symbol of wealth that they are. I forgot the symbol of oppression that they are. For a moment they are just beautiful. And I feel like everything is going to be okay. But the hunger in my stomach reminds me that the concrete, if it had a heartbeat would not be beating for fairness, or concern, but for greed and for power. Cupidity makes the window shine. Pride and self-reliance keep the walls from crumbling on the weight of themselves. There are living breathing bodies in these buildings at night: the janitors and the workaholics smile at each other but usually do not speak the same language. 9/11 reminded us of how the living breathing bodies are fragile no matter their portfolio or resume. I am driving through this place of darkness because it is night and though LA glows from afar the streetlamps don’t reach into the streets where the sidewalks are uneven and dirty. I am being judgmental of the people who are slaving away. The sweatshops are sweaty but the CEOs feel just as trapped? He fingers his collar of his shirt, rubbing his neck flab. What will we do with this place? Build trolleys and houses, re-zone the streets, and get more cops. But still I am reminded that no fire in the wall of a city is there without the lords knowing. This city is still here because God is gracious to the women in heels doing power point presentations. To the bike messengers with their side satchels. To me typing here. To him worrying there. The lord is kind. And the buildings are a toothy smile. Sincere and obvious with their 90 angles.
3.25
Okay 3.01
Faith faith faith faith is it the thing with feathers is invisible to the naked eye is it what keeps my heart below my ribcage moving though I know not what my aorta is or hemoglobin is. I misspelled aorta on the first try and I deleted it. Does that make you loose faith in my ability to quickwrite without self censor ship. I want to get the GREs over already and I have faith that I will do OKAY but what if I don’t. Faith makes me think of Mother Teresa and how I am still trying to watch that move about her. Faith makes me think about if I am faithful or not and to what and to what not. I am wearing the shirt that I drank too much sangria in. M is wearing a yellow shirt that is very similar. Yellow. That is. What color is faith. I think it might be sky blue on certain days when you are in Kansas and there is a lot of wind and no smog or cell phone messing up the air. Faith is believing in things yet not seen but knowing that one day you will see them. I do not have faith in humanity alone. Nor the LAUSD. I have faith in possibility when God is up in that mix and God is in more places than I can count. M was telling me about his faith the other. Does faith twinkle the sound on my cell phone that alerts me to a new text message. Our world is not so different from harry potters. But the good is a lot gooder and evil more simplistic. I need more gas in my car and I did not have the faith in goodwill towards (wo)men to stop last night after 10pm in my neighborhood. Faith Faith Fiat Fiat means let there be (I believe) and that is very similar to faith. Amen means so be it which is very similar to Fiat. All of these things makes me think of banana slugs which makes me think of fog and snow which makes me think of how complicated the natural world is which makes me think how complex the invisible emotional world is which makes me think there must be a God a kind and caring God because for heavens sake I have faith that I am here for a greater purpose than to process health insurance renewals and only God could provide me with a purpose greater than that because everything else without God kind of feels like paperwork. Have you ever tried to say I love you and mean it. Ube Caritas et amor. the phone rings and its 3.11
Sit. Wait. Wish. I have been sitting all day almost. Waiting all day almost. And Wishing all day, most certainly. The day seems longer when that thing in beneath your ribs is beating and you can feel it and its in your ears and its in the cubicle walls and its in the blinking of the clock and its in the whirring of the computers and moan of the printer and opening and closing of doors. Sit. Wait. Wish. Pray. That is what I do all day. I woke up this way, but I was not born this way. Why is this always about me. Because I am me and I am all I know my POV and what I ate for lunch and how I am estranged and how I do not look forward to going home and how I am tired. And the library books I owe the library and the checks I owe old friends. And friends makes me think of health insurance which makes me think of Michael Moore which makes me think of CEOs in yachts smiling which a doctors number in their pocket on speed dial. Most of my co-workers hate the doctors and never go unless something is bleeding that wont stop bleeding with a bandaid. And that heart beat is back smoothing out the edges of a face, wanting to collapse in someone’s arms, put the bookshelf back together again. I have never seen it whole. But I must sit. And wait. Waiting is harder than expected. Waiting less glorifying that doing, but often more the better choice. Waiting is what I have been doing my whole life a girl once told me. I am waiting for one foot to move forward when I am walking. I am waiting for one person to be the person. I am waiting waiting. But what about the sunsets you see between footsteps and the people you meet between handshakes. Wishing. Half hearted complaints of a better life. If that is wishing I don’t want it. If wishing is hope than I want three tablespoons of it in my morning coffee instead of 1.
4.27
3.15
City skyline at night makes me want to say “winsome smile”. But that is a cliché. but it is true as those tall-manmade building sparkle in the night sky and smog I am won over. I forget the symbol of wealth that they are. I forgot the symbol of oppression that they are. For a moment they are just beautiful. And I feel like everything is going to be okay. But the hunger in my stomach reminds me that the concrete, if it had a heartbeat would not be beating for fairness, or concern, but for greed and for power. Cupidity makes the window shine. Pride and self-reliance keep the walls from crumbling on the weight of themselves. There are living breathing bodies in these buildings at night: the janitors and the workaholics smile at each other but usually do not speak the same language. 9/11 reminded us of how the living breathing bodies are fragile no matter their portfolio or resume. I am driving through this place of darkness because it is night and though LA glows from afar the streetlamps don’t reach into the streets where the sidewalks are uneven and dirty. I am being judgmental of the people who are slaving away. The sweatshops are sweaty but the CEOs feel just as trapped? He fingers his collar of his shirt, rubbing his neck flab. What will we do with this place? Build trolleys and houses, re-zone the streets, and get more cops. But still I am reminded that no fire in the wall of a city is there without the lords knowing. This city is still here because God is gracious to the women in heels doing power point presentations. To the bike messengers with their side satchels. To me typing here. To him worrying there. The lord is kind. And the buildings are a toothy smile. Sincere and obvious with their 90 angles.
3.25
Okay 3.01
Faith faith faith faith is it the thing with feathers is invisible to the naked eye is it what keeps my heart below my ribcage moving though I know not what my aorta is or hemoglobin is. I misspelled aorta on the first try and I deleted it. Does that make you loose faith in my ability to quickwrite without self censor ship. I want to get the GREs over already and I have faith that I will do OKAY but what if I don’t. Faith makes me think of Mother Teresa and how I am still trying to watch that move about her. Faith makes me think about if I am faithful or not and to what and to what not. I am wearing the shirt that I drank too much sangria in. M is wearing a yellow shirt that is very similar. Yellow. That is. What color is faith. I think it might be sky blue on certain days when you are in Kansas and there is a lot of wind and no smog or cell phone messing up the air. Faith is believing in things yet not seen but knowing that one day you will see them. I do not have faith in humanity alone. Nor the LAUSD. I have faith in possibility when God is up in that mix and God is in more places than I can count. M was telling me about his faith the other. Does faith twinkle the sound on my cell phone that alerts me to a new text message. Our world is not so different from harry potters. But the good is a lot gooder and evil more simplistic. I need more gas in my car and I did not have the faith in goodwill towards (wo)men to stop last night after 10pm in my neighborhood. Faith Faith Fiat Fiat means let there be (I believe) and that is very similar to faith. Amen means so be it which is very similar to Fiat. All of these things makes me think of banana slugs which makes me think of fog and snow which makes me think of how complicated the natural world is which makes me think how complex the invisible emotional world is which makes me think there must be a God a kind and caring God because for heavens sake I have faith that I am here for a greater purpose than to process health insurance renewals and only God could provide me with a purpose greater than that because everything else without God kind of feels like paperwork. Have you ever tried to say I love you and mean it. Ube Caritas et amor. the phone rings and its 3.11
Monday, August 06, 2007
Ninjas or Pirates?
1. She came home with a friendship bracelet and a purpose for her life. I came home with the confidence to change lanes on LA freeways but not much more than that. I feel like I am floating. Not like water lilies, afloat yet anchored to the nutritious muck below. I resonate with the dandelion seed, blown, unaware of up and down, of to and fro, of where I’ve been and what it is I am carrying. Gambol, little dandelion seed.
2. What motivates you? Is it money, peer pressure, fear of punishment, hope of healing? I don’t believe in altruism. A list of choices: A – Z is there. But right now only choice C and D are visible. D sounds as fun as jumping off the golden gate bridge so you opt for C hoping it will take you somewhere else with greater vision, and longer arms.
3. I am sandwiched between a gossip and listener of advertisement laced static radio. Sometimes I just have to walk away.
4. What is this alone business. My space. For me. No one to annoy me. No one to talk to. I have my thoughts to keep me company. And then my thoughts grow louder and louder so that even when people speak I can not hear them. My eyes are open but not seeing. I am a living parable.
5. I work not in the valley of the shadow death, but in the valley of the shadow of sleeplessness. My friends are as awake as computer screens. Twittering eyelids and constant complaints of exhaustion. Depression, hypochondria, stress are as contagious as the flu. I try to be as up to date on my vaccinations. I have a bottle of vitamin C at my desk. But my jaw has been tensed and my head hurting. Did I lock the back door?
6. Shards, opprobrium, pedantic, recalcitrant. I am alive in words unspoken. Rusted as the gate next door.
7. This Sunday I stood in the back of the school auditorium next to M, the homeless druggie and her boyfriend as A sang a hymn laden with her aged voice. M was crying. I surveyed the room. I saw my neighbors. I saw the man I met at the Laundromat. I saw M’s tears. Now that this dandelion is floating, she is freer. And I felt at home in the conglomeration of colors and backgrounds, young and old, well dressed and undressed. M went outside and rolled a cigarette. I went up and took communion. A continued “His Eye is on the Sparrow”.
8. When I left the house this morning I was greeted by the man rolling his shopping cart down the street pulling recyclables out of trashcans. He stopped and smiled. “You sho’ do look pretty today,” He said, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his glove. The morning air felt fresh. My car was almost trapped between a parked big rig and the trashcans, but I was able to maneuver my way out. “Thank you.” I said and smiled. A genuine smile. I felt welcomed by my new street.
9. My new street has many more trees, less apartment buildings and fewer cars, less drug rehab houses, more homeless people, a Honduran restaurant instead of a car dealership. It’s closer to the 10 freeway, church, and work. Farther from the F dash bus stop. Same amount of ice cream trucks. It’s wider, there are less cars double parked. More USC students. More well-painted exteriors, less police patrolling. Same amount of corn being sold. My new apartment is on the first floor. Has a million doors and keys. I’ve been upgraded to the United States type of toilet and can flush toilet paper. Rent is more. Space is more. Garbage disposal works. There is a professional gardener. The driveway is even narrower. A white woman lives next door and weeds her own garden. On the other side a dog, a big dog.
10. Amy Winehouse. So she has a song on the radio called rehab. I haven’t heard it played there, but I people have told me. I am in love with this girl but not for that song in particular. For the memories. My sister and I, car windows down, radio blaring and we are singing to Amy Winehouse. California races by the window. My sister and I tapping on the steering wheel or car door to the same beat. Amy mixes current subjects and beats with Billie Holiday’s sound. She is an intelligent lyricist. Although many of her songs are on clichéd topics of love, heartbreak, and cheating, the perspective and words she chooses are felicitous, concrete, and refreshing. Go listen to Amy.
11.Other peoples (ex) boyfriends: One texted me, somewhat of a goodbye text of appreciation and I am there for you. Another’s responded through email conversation and etc that as he is there for his daughters he is there for me. Another, not boyfriend, but patriarch, is forced into such a role by me asking questions and for help and waiting with expectation, as he is now the closest thing we have to a DECNMKR for the family. Blink. So touching all this male presence in my life. Typed. Texted. Questioned. None of it was free and it’s not gaining much interest. Well that’s not true. I may get a discounted surfboard. I have borrowed a dolly (for moving things, not for playing dress up with) and a water-vacuum. And rope, a flashlight, a shirt I will never wear, and an umbrella were what my grandfather left me. Along with the memory of going to the planetarium on Friday nights, drawing on napkins at restaurants the latest thing I learned in school.
12.“That is like saying Ninjas or Pirates and choosing PIRATES!” My cousin retorts.
2. What motivates you? Is it money, peer pressure, fear of punishment, hope of healing? I don’t believe in altruism. A list of choices: A – Z is there. But right now only choice C and D are visible. D sounds as fun as jumping off the golden gate bridge so you opt for C hoping it will take you somewhere else with greater vision, and longer arms.
3. I am sandwiched between a gossip and listener of advertisement laced static radio. Sometimes I just have to walk away.
4. What is this alone business. My space. For me. No one to annoy me. No one to talk to. I have my thoughts to keep me company. And then my thoughts grow louder and louder so that even when people speak I can not hear them. My eyes are open but not seeing. I am a living parable.
5. I work not in the valley of the shadow death, but in the valley of the shadow of sleeplessness. My friends are as awake as computer screens. Twittering eyelids and constant complaints of exhaustion. Depression, hypochondria, stress are as contagious as the flu. I try to be as up to date on my vaccinations. I have a bottle of vitamin C at my desk. But my jaw has been tensed and my head hurting. Did I lock the back door?
6. Shards, opprobrium, pedantic, recalcitrant. I am alive in words unspoken. Rusted as the gate next door.
7. This Sunday I stood in the back of the school auditorium next to M, the homeless druggie and her boyfriend as A sang a hymn laden with her aged voice. M was crying. I surveyed the room. I saw my neighbors. I saw the man I met at the Laundromat. I saw M’s tears. Now that this dandelion is floating, she is freer. And I felt at home in the conglomeration of colors and backgrounds, young and old, well dressed and undressed. M went outside and rolled a cigarette. I went up and took communion. A continued “His Eye is on the Sparrow”.
8. When I left the house this morning I was greeted by the man rolling his shopping cart down the street pulling recyclables out of trashcans. He stopped and smiled. “You sho’ do look pretty today,” He said, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his glove. The morning air felt fresh. My car was almost trapped between a parked big rig and the trashcans, but I was able to maneuver my way out. “Thank you.” I said and smiled. A genuine smile. I felt welcomed by my new street.
9. My new street has many more trees, less apartment buildings and fewer cars, less drug rehab houses, more homeless people, a Honduran restaurant instead of a car dealership. It’s closer to the 10 freeway, church, and work. Farther from the F dash bus stop. Same amount of ice cream trucks. It’s wider, there are less cars double parked. More USC students. More well-painted exteriors, less police patrolling. Same amount of corn being sold. My new apartment is on the first floor. Has a million doors and keys. I’ve been upgraded to the United States type of toilet and can flush toilet paper. Rent is more. Space is more. Garbage disposal works. There is a professional gardener. The driveway is even narrower. A white woman lives next door and weeds her own garden. On the other side a dog, a big dog.
10. Amy Winehouse. So she has a song on the radio called rehab. I haven’t heard it played there, but I people have told me. I am in love with this girl but not for that song in particular. For the memories. My sister and I, car windows down, radio blaring and we are singing to Amy Winehouse. California races by the window. My sister and I tapping on the steering wheel or car door to the same beat. Amy mixes current subjects and beats with Billie Holiday’s sound. She is an intelligent lyricist. Although many of her songs are on clichéd topics of love, heartbreak, and cheating, the perspective and words she chooses are felicitous, concrete, and refreshing. Go listen to Amy.
11.Other peoples (ex) boyfriends: One texted me, somewhat of a goodbye text of appreciation and I am there for you. Another’s responded through email conversation and etc that as he is there for his daughters he is there for me. Another, not boyfriend, but patriarch, is forced into such a role by me asking questions and for help and waiting with expectation, as he is now the closest thing we have to a DECNMKR for the family. Blink. So touching all this male presence in my life. Typed. Texted. Questioned. None of it was free and it’s not gaining much interest. Well that’s not true. I may get a discounted surfboard. I have borrowed a dolly (for moving things, not for playing dress up with) and a water-vacuum. And rope, a flashlight, a shirt I will never wear, and an umbrella were what my grandfather left me. Along with the memory of going to the planetarium on Friday nights, drawing on napkins at restaurants the latest thing I learned in school.
12.“That is like saying Ninjas or Pirates and choosing PIRATES!” My cousin retorts.
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