I left my words on the front step.
Your kitchen smells of winter,
the bedroom of spring.
I left my words on the front step.
Your kitchen smells of winter,
the bedroom of spring.
Noses up! Attention!
Dad & I perk our noses in the air
as we part the orchard’s dark on Grand Avenue
with exaggerated pranayama inhalations
to absorb the scent of the orange blossoms.
Ojai, a place I’ve never been before,
orange blossoms, a sensation I’ve never smelled,
have no reference tab in the black book of metaphors.
Reference & comparison fall aside
as the thick, undulating pleasure
seeps into my chest, hushing my mind
into a dizzy state, drowned with sweetness.
I reach for metaphors;
I settle on closing my eyes.
A dry, hard lump, the shriveled foreskin
corn husk embalms
the white masa and a brown stain of cooked pork.
Eyes first, she offers me the tamal.
When I lift it from her grasp, her split palm opens
like dry-lipped mudcracks in Arizona in June.
The fissure on her hand crosses the life line, the love line, x-ing them out.
My pocket shimmies with coins and they fill her craters.
Here I am, hopping buses across the clay-rich countryside,
a region of Mexico that quenched Spain’s gold throat nearly five hundred years ago,
and to take a bus this woman, who could be
my great grandmother, who could be dead by now,
must steal her way onto the bus, slipping off ten minutes into the ride,
in the back pocket of a family.
It’s not about the wad of week-old tamal
or about the fact that it costs the same as the bus ride,
and that, this time, she pays it up—clinks into the driver’s neat stacks of change,
still warm from my pocket—
but feeling the gold marrow of my body
blushes my neck and my face contorts with…
And I don’t want to have it, to be burdened with gold teeth,
but now that I am, I must eat wedged tamales until I die of thirst.
I sit in my bus seat, knees pulled tight to my chest,
hugging all the pieces of myself, terrorized by their departures from each other,
by growth, by intellect, by simple observations.
Plus Shipping and Handling
by Elton Glaser
I’m waiting to see if all these insights, these dark
Residual visions of insomnia, will burn down to
Vapor and ash that hour after dawn,
That hour when the tired sun pulls itself up
Behind the luminous maples, each leaf
Shining as if lit from within.
Already the grackles are out walking knock-kneed
Over the lawn, like a flock of philosophers
Who have laced both shoes together.
Already the dog next door, his howl halfway between
A wolf and a vacuum cleaner, is making me think
Of sprinkling poison on the pork chops.
And those early strollers in their stretch pants, squares
Circling the block, pace by again and again,
Gazelles of polyester in the first light.
With my Buddha belly and my Confucian stoop,
I can face the east from either side of
This seesaw trauma of the soul,
At one end, crisis, at the other end, Christ,
As if I didn’t have enough to do all day
Solving the mysteries of the quotidian,
Enigmas that leave me so weak I’ll need each night
Baling wire for the brain cells, and another
Martini I.V., olives flavoring the drip,
Hex of the meat-haters, curse of the smoke-chokers,
Who must have found some way to live forever
In pure fear of the flesh.
Deep in the farmlands, the good folks busy themselves,
Up with the dew and the rooster, storing the hay,
Stacking the canned corn in the root cellar.
And somewhere lovers are brushing the crumbs of wedding cake
From their sheets, mouthwash in the champagne glasses,
Aspirin in the bride’s pink hand.
Here, where the clocks conspire and the church bells
Certify the day like a notary public,
I’m wrapping my throat against
The cold gold of October, a new scarf of
Polynesian pinwheels woven in the wool,
To keep my voice warm for
Crying out at an revelations on the sidewalk,
Sudden epiphanies delivered by the fall
And paid for in pain at full price.
Dance lifts a sullen crowd like sugar,
spins them amongst strangers,
dabbling in criss-cross talk,
the caller’s voice indecipherable
from interior thought.
Up and down the line
we wobble, floating tops,
spun off a string
to rock solo
and–in breath–be held again.
old Irish green, the hills
dip into silver-blue before a rain;
we all come back to it,
even those who never knew it,
with the tumble of a beater
across the Bodhrán.
Oh, partner, swing me round!
Lost the tune to a ten-year-old
and, by now, I’d better be heading out of town!
Is a love of food contagious or is it the kind of affliction that grows slowly, rooting itself in the same streams where our blood flows and our senses determine our preferences?
Today happened to be Easter Sunday, a fulfilling day of procrastination, brimming with food joy and enjoyment, song, sweets, and a mix of strangely wonderful company. I woke up hesitant about taking on this day, a part of me afraid of all that homework, and my whole body deliciously sore from climbing yesterday. I spent the morning comparing plane tickets and transport methods, planning the future (exciting, some may say, but still my least favorite activity), and arranging applications. I hadn’t eaten when I looked at the clock and it said 1:45, so I went over to the Catholic church which host a lively potluck on the second Sunday of the month. They always are thrilled to see me, surprised they hadn’t yet scared me away and happy to give me a hug and introduce me to all the new volunteers, intently showing me the single me as though a Jewish, non-religious girl could keep up with the Catholic dating scene. I shaved ham bones for a half hour chatting it up with the local ladies group members, whose names all seemed to end with -Ann. Leeann, Laura-ann, Sue-ann, what have you.
At three o’clock the food’s all spread out in a colorful, steaming display across the wall, a twelve-year old squints at his saxophone from behind his rimless glasses, playing the latest for middle school band, and the crowds are arriving, with all the customary baggage, and finding seats at the round tables. The baggage is all most of them have; the majority of the guests or “clients” as some of the servers irked me by saying, are homeless and trying to get by.
Volunteers serve up generous portions as the guests walk along the buffet wide-eyed, grinning, and with profuse gratitude. I remember many of them from when I used to come monthly, and when I welcome them by name they appear startled and look up from the steamed veggies, tamales, turkey, scallop potatoes, and deviled eggs, all of which I’m serving with five serving utensils between my fingers. “Good to see you again,” I say. And it’s the truth; many of them I’ve had long conversations with about their family, immigration, troubles, and joys.
After eating (somebody brought chocolate covered strawberries!) we cleaned up in the kitchen and discovered we had still barely made a dent in the plentiful ham, with five full trays remaining. All the food tastes good but the sheer excess of it fills any desire I have to eat much, especially meat, and apart from not particularly liking ham, it feels even worse to eat it during Passover. So I grabbed a load of cookies and apples and headed over to my school’s café to cook for tomorrow’s Passover Seder.
With lots of friends in the kitchen, I made Charoset, salad, stuffing, and broth. Other people made matzo balls from scratch, horseradish sauce that was magenta from the use of beets, stuffed roasted chicken, and chocolate cupcakes. Who’s flying to Arizona? It’s doubtful I’ll write again about the Seder considering the last time I published was February, but hey. That’s the latest.
For all those who know me, but don’t see me it could be one of two reasons (to generalize). I live in Arizona–way out there. And I’m taking a load of writing classes this semester, so when I’m being studious and generally when I’m procrastinating, too, I’m indoors or on a porch somewhere, unfortunately not running up hillsides and down gullies. Only sometimes. And less often naked.
I actually like doing this: writing about what I do with my silly time and my silly self. The self is always of interest to the self itself.
Have a great evening, week, and year, even if you’re on the lunar calendar or do not abide by time. Enjoy experiencing life with your self. It’s the only way to go.
Now this isn’t all that abnormal since we’re at a mile altitude in Prescott. However, these are fat flakes that glide down like loose paper, swaying side to side. After finishing my intensive month-long college class, this afternoon feels freakily free. I’d effectively worked down the lists and lists of things I had to in order to graduate, get a summer job, and finish this class.
So I came home to do some good old fashioned domestic multi-tasking. So far I’ve sent emails while making orange soup, since it turns out we had a lot of past-due veggies that were orange of all colors. I also went on a short walk while that was simmering to grab a bedside table from the sidewalk that needed an adoptive home, especially now with the snow. That table’s going in the living room, which I’m redesigning. I’ve also started a no-knead bread recipe that I found on the New York Times. I guess the reason no-knead isn’t as big as a craze as it should be, since you barely have to touch the thing, is because it has to rise eighteen hours. Yes, if it was rising now—I’m waiting for the mixing bowl to dry itself—I would still have to wait until I woke up tomorrow morning to bake it. So basically what that means is I’ll have to go buy bread anyway tonight. So I’m going to try this recipe, but make a quick bread, too.
I just finished baking an apple bread. Going from being a student to a domestic live-in. But after, doing a deep clean of the kitchen, making a beet stuffing with my roommate, and playing cards with her, I’m getting out.
It’s been a huge shift since coming back from Guanajuato, Mexico. It was able to work through the culture shock a little bit during the writing class I just finished, in which I wrote about my love-hate relationship with Guanajuato. More like it changed from annoyance to enjoyment. I’ll post it when I’m satisfied with it.
Also there are the changes like learning to speak English again, and to write in it. And to be hanging out with old friends who I haven’t seen in eight months or more, and to be going out a lot less, just because there is more of that culturally down in Mexico. I’ve been going on more adventures outside and no more hitchhiking.
I miss it down there so much and will go back as soon as I can, but not too soon because I need to be where I am right now, being with the place and people, and just living with what is. And that ain’t hard.
Thanks for reading!