Teatro de la Vida

poem draft : hearing the call

2012-02-07T12:12:00.001-05:00

i'm still working on this one...

see how the ocean waves comes in
quietly retells how we come from
and are called back to it

tears remind us of our watery home,
the concoction of salt, mineral, fluid
where our comfort lies

for many, we are the first generation of women
allowed to be completely free
and with access to that freedom

we birth our ancestors, listen to our ancestor voices
moreso, hear our own calling and realize the voice
behind that call is our own

no longer must we mask ourselves for survival
masquerading to fit
…

poem : wedding day

2012-02-05T11:16:00.000-05:00

Oya in an aubergine dress
bare shouldered
orange jewels along its seams
flowering belt draping her hips
tied at the back in a taut knot

Oya’s eyes ablaze
something is coming, even on this day, it insists

Oya, always ready for what approaches

poem : telegram

2012-02-04T18:30:00.000-05:00

exile means no place is home
exile means every place has the chance serving as home

Making his way from Habana to Matanzas, Bobo sends a telegram:

PREPARE YERBA
LLEGA CABALLO
ALTO

poem : dark mother

2012-02-03T00:11:00.000-05:00

arms extended
luminous dark
the night sky
stars
markers for those pains
healed into brilliance

humid air surrounding her
radiance of waters
welcoming yemaya

yemaya, mother of fishes,
yemaya, rejoicing in oya

oya
our first and last breath
her arms forming the center of our lives
the hurricane of the world outside
oya
sheltering

poem : the call

2012-02-02T20:10:00.000-05:00

the sky was born in anticipation of our people

the sky was born for us
fresh creation

I watch birds now, communicating through movement,
look now, a flock making circles in the courtyard,
landing then skittering off again.

across the evening sky, a smaller flock approaching
joining the larger one

one bird, perched in the high trees, calls out

the sky, flaked in orange and purple
the sky, a beacon for our approach.

poem : a warning

2012-02-01T22:00:00.000-05:00

sometimes it’s bears meandering through the streets
walking up sidewalks, onto porches
breaking the front door
searching

sometimes lightening bugs gathering at the second floor windows
peering in, hoping for conversation

occasionally there are ants along reeds, around puddles of water,
following each other into the house, crawling along baseboards

no matter the animal
multiples of them, seemingly out of place,
mean trouble

poem : invocation

2012-01-30T12:08:00.000-05:00

distant voice heard at the corner
blame it on the wind
front door blown open
can’t keep accusing the weather

giggles behind you
the spirit in you knows
Eshu must be fed first

hungry as a child
bring some candy

mischevious man
pour rum in gulps at any crossroads

old now
light his cigars

omi tutu, axé tutu, onã tutu, ilê tutu, tutu Laroyê 1

quick now, keep up
Eshu works all corners, all doors, all paths
pour palm oil greedily
wherever two streets come together

and if you are lucky
days later
your dream will have you in the kitchen making café
walking out with small white cups of espresso
while Eshu runs between your steps

there is a party happening tonight
and Eshu is happy about it, has come early

look down
grab a hold of him
marvel at his wild face near yours
love the wilderness living within him
let him wrap his legs around your waist
let him hug you hard
his hand possessively at your neck, fingers in your hair

if Eshu is with you none are against

welcome Elegua welcome

1 fresh water, the spirit is fresh, the way is fresh, the home is fresh, Eshu is fresh.

wordle

2011-11-17T13:48:00.003-05:00

I'm working on a new novel in poem form. Adding all the text from my notes and writings into wordle.com helps me see what my emphasis is and helps to bring about ideas for writing. I'm loving my writing now when, that is, I can get to doing it!

poem : hemming blues

2010-05-27T10:15:00.002-04:00

I'll ask you this: what will I keep of yours
I'm asking you, what can I keep
when you are so far away?

what can I get away with
what can I steal now
to win your smile?

like sand, what grains of yours
can I move, piece by piece, each day?
somehting you won't notice
and you realize only weeks later
it can't be found and I'm walking around
my pockets full of you

why do I have to come up with these ways to take you?
why do you make me find ways to steal you?
my hands in my pockets, not claiming my thievery

I keep this
have to keep this part of you
warming between my hands

anything for the chance to find my fingers in your tufted hair,
to call your scent home

this is the story of that nudge calling us
this is the story of that calling
that shoulder pass that sparked this whole world

with hands full we call out our new names
turn at knowing our new names
start our lives again

I scatter some sand, baptized by earth
you sprinkle the water, baptized by water
I pass the flame, baptized by fire
you blow the smoke, baptized by air

made living, this love
made living, this love
we bring

poem : octopus

2010-04-10T20:29:00.002-04:00

octopus

I've given in to celebration
tartsweet candy piled high in my palm
I lick it down before i can secondguess

the new year creeps in
and I am resolute

no longer searching for magicians
after all, I too carry magic

no longer conspiracy
I am a conspirator

and, even if I'm the one raisinghell, poking dragons,
my hands reaching out
I need someone who'll slay them

a small red circle stains my palm
a signal to all
I've given myself over to the sweetness of being saved

poem : the sky within

2010-04-01T20:23:00.000-04:00

the sky within

for T

words hidden just for you
I leave hints beneath your skin
strands linking us
strands of light linking us
despite our struggles
the air we breathe in
full breaths me into you
you into me

can you find me?

there in your heart
there on your lips
the life the life we share
the ways we come together
come apart

come together
breathe me in
let me give you

you hold me hold my heart
in your breath

you hold the sky within
hold the sky within

me

Vacation : March 24, 2010

2010-03-24T23:59:00.000-04:00

My one goal today: drive so fast out of Texas the boundary line would show up on mapquest as a burst with the words POP and BAM surrounding it.

I stopped in Mt. Vernon for food (somhow, I can't manage the toasted breads, texas-shaped waffles and boiled eggs of hotel continental breakfasts) and ended up at a place that had, as its special, a fried vegetable of the day. Of course I tried it: fried broccoli. Not tempura. Just fried. With ranch dressing, of course (this is the South).

I flew through Texarkana but had to stop once I got into Hope, Arkansas. While my mom is one of those old school "Clinton is still sexy" baby boomer women, it never occurred to me this was his hometown until I saw the huge sign stating so. I knew I was in a different country when I stopped for gas and asked for directions to the local post office. Four minutes of directions later, I found myself at the post office - perfect. Even better, I drove back toward the highway easily and ended up right in front of Clinton's childhood home. There was a railroad track right across the way. I managed to buy a Clinton magnet for the parents and mailed a package of little goodies I'd bought so far for the kid.

I was already loving this trip - buying from small, independent stores and restaurants, stopping at only the smaller towns, talking with folks. I was having a good time and everyone was friendly. Still, I was ready to be in Tennessee already.

I'd been looking at schools that offer graduate programs in ethnomusicology but, in searching for these and in reading more and more I realized that the music that attracted me most was the music based in Southern cultures. Blues, jazz, folk. I was starting to fall in love with the blues without even realizing. So, my trip was for a real vacation but it was also to immerse myself in those areas with direct experiences rooting it.

Ah, I thought I'd never make it to Memphis but, crossing that beautiful bridge, overlooking the Mississippi River, I felt at home. Truly at home. In conversation with T later that evening he thought it might be deja vu but it wasn't like I'd been there before in an awkward sense. Rather, I drove in knowing I'd been there before.

I unloaded my stuff in the hotel, washed up, made myself pretty, and walked over to Beale Street. Oh, I had a good time just walking downtown. I got a couple of pics of The Orpheum too. I managed to find food at almost midnight at Mr. Handy's Blues Hall, where I drank my new favorite beer, Samuel Smith's Nut Brown Ale and cajun bbq'd shrimp and boiled potatoes. I spent about 10 minutes flirting with the cooks, who were relaxing after a long night of cooking. It was nearing 1 a.m. and the place was closing. Still, I couldn't get the recipe off anyone but, what looked like dried pine needles in the bbq rub on the shrimp must have been rosemary. An excellent meal.

Walking back to the hotel was easy, while a trolley ran through midnight, the walk was nice. There were big clouds, nearing 50 degrees and a slight, humid wind. I was four blocks from the Mississippi River and felt it. It really is a different thing to live near water. A prerequisite for the soul, if you ask me.

I had a conversation with someone I was seeing last year, who happened to call just as I was packing up the day before I left, who told me to be careful because of the crime. I could understand that - I'm a woman traveling alone into a number of cities known for their nightlife. But she showed her racism by adding that there were a lot of blacks in Memphis (who knew!), trying to connect one to the other. But I'd never felt safer. I knew this place. I had been here before. I knew the statue on the riverbank honoring a black man who saved the lives of a dozen folks when the ferry was capsizing. I knew the one-block park a block from The Orpheum. I knew these folks. They, like this river, were mine.

I happened upon five taxis waiting along a side street, where one Panamanian driver smiled at me and said "good evening sexy lady". I also had one guy walk opposite me but still at a respectable distance when he asked if he could come home with me. I said no and crossed the street but I never felt unsafe. I actually tried not to laugh out loud as he called out to me after to say "you've got it coming and going". Well, I can't deny that.

I slept great. I've never slept better than this first night in my new home town.

Vacation : March 23, 2010

2010-03-23T23:59:00.001-04:00

Last year's vacation consisted of mirroring my days off to the kid's school's days off. I didn't realize how much I needed real time off until I left this morning, hoping to make a big beautiful belly button on the southern half of the united states (SA to Dallas to Memphis to Clarksdale to New Orleans and back home).

I started slowly, packing my bags yesterday (despite being off since last Friday), packed my jewelry and packed snacks. I also got to see T, which was a great goodbye to my trip but probably helped in my moving more slowly this morning.

I decided against breakfast because it was almost 10 a.m. but went up the street for a triple latte at Olmos Perk at The Yard. I'm never sure about going there but I, for one, have had plenty of Starbucks lately and, the purpose of my trip was to enjoy and support real places and real folks. I wasn't in there two minutes before seeing a poet friend of mind hanging with some friends. Then they were out of medium cups so I got an extra couple of ounces as a pilon. The barista liked my hat (my traveling fedora, that is). Then, while I flirted with a girl who kept bumping into me, the customer behind me commented on how he liked my tattoo (I just got it so I'm still in the new-baby-moment, wanted to discuss its multiple meanings, how I feel now as a tattooed person, other obnoxious things).

Well, this boded well for me. I walked out happily with my cafe and took the short road up to Austin to meet Lilia and Carol, a couple of sweethearts, for a quick lunch before heading further north.

After a long, enjoyable lunch, I headed up the great white highway toward Dallas. It seems, whenever I have my doubts that the country isn't full of glorious liberal communities who love their people of color I end up on this same highway: filled with private christian campuses, dixie flags and lots of country radio stations. It's at this time that I realize I forgot my phone charger. Of course, just as I debated getting it fed exed to me, I realized that Sprint is like Starbucks - one on every corner. Within a mile I found one, bought a car charger and was on my way again.

I got to Dallas by 7 or so and was ready to rub my own butt to sleep (note to self: buy cushion for softer rides). I thought to watch porn and write some poems in a half shirt and panties but, somewhere around 10:15 p.m. I realized I didn't want anything from my snack pack (fruit, nuts, vitamin waters and cocoa) so I did a web search and ended up in Dallas' gay hood, at a friendly Cosmic Cafe.

Two humongous samosas and a chai tea later, mama was happy.

Not that I forgot about the porn (okay, well, HBO late night) and jammies (plus a late night "I miss you already" call with T) and I was off to bed.

freedom

2009-12-11T00:05:00.002-05:00

seemingly easily understood word - freedom - but I'm like those academics and that one crazy dude who created the most renowned dictionary of the time - I have working drafts of what the word means.

maybe my definition has to move more along the lines of the photographic dictionary, with images which evoke some emotion that awakens the majority with some understanding.

if so, mine would be a split screen of the wreck of a campsite, mid-morning, no breakfast or fire started, much packing to do, and the woman who thinks you two are "dating" has made you momentarily mad but starts hammering that tiny nail in by making you the bad guy to the 10 year old child for not letting them paddle in the canoe. split with the image of a phone call-less week and this new, beautiful ebony djembe drum made with earth-friendly wood and, stamped on the goat skin head, the words "freedom drum".

so, camping started my week wrong but meeting a couple of really great academics [who knew?]this last week, buying thoughtful gifts for friends and family and, more than anything, sitting quietly this weekend and feeling, really feeling, that crispness like an early winter's breeze, of freedom. A sensation I haven't had access to in over a year. I'm finally starting to breathe deeply again.

hush now

2009-08-23T23:35:00.003-04:00

haven't completely forgotten about my blog but, like my poetry, I seem to start a line or two then the only appropriate next line is an empty space

not sure how this started but it seems to be plenty affecting

and it may coincide with my own dating scene, not being completely able to speak up/say it/give my point of view.

i spent more of the day cleaning up the house, getting rid of old stuff, recycling. now i watch the banana trees wisp across the living room windows, giving the illusion that it's fresh outside and, for some unexplained reason, hot in the house.

heading for bed.

resolutions - a little late but still

2009-02-09T10:30:00.003-05:00

1. Change my name (again) and flash on memories of prior names when people address me by them.
2. Repeat (as well as possible) accidents that proved to be valuable.
3. Speak slowly, luxuriously.
4. Hear voices but consider their weight in proportion to the sky/nature.
5. Give in to my demands.
6. Theaten myself for not giving in to my demands.
7. Sleep on the fault line and dream precariously.
8. Set an extra place at the table.
9. Crete my personal vision statement.
10. Plan my escape.

Proposition 8 National Protest

2008-11-13T12:05:00.003-05:00

I'm posting this because it's necessary to continue the dialogue however, while I do see the need for continued discourse and protest, I would rather tell California that I won't be visiting them any time soon than to hold a protest in Texas (or any other state not allowing marriage for queers) when there is so much work to be done here. It's a bit hypocritical that we are pointing fingers at California when we have made a point here in Texas to make marriage equal one man + one woman.

lipstick economy

2008-11-13T11:59:00.004-05:00

I've been looking at and buying lipsticks (even as I've now stopped buying espresso-laden drinks on Fridays before work, or eating out as often, or buying bras). Who knew I was taking part in an indicator of a tough economy!

lipstick (ascending) by claes oldenburg

delhi delhi bo-berry banana fana fo-fairy mi my mo-merry delhi

2008-10-16T10:26:00.006-04:00

Lilia and Carol visited in August and took some great photos. I managed to take one of my little one, the Delhi monster, as she dried off over a grate on the sidewalk (after playing in the fountains).

In another the group of us saw La Virgen in an organic interpretation of the mixture of stale water, slime, trash and leaves. Hey, she's been spotted on a pizza pan, ice cream spill, as a water stain and on toast. No surprise she'd show in a passageway for rain runoff.

We walked a little of downtown and saw the renovated plaza created in front of the church that was here at our city's founding - San Fernando Cathedral.

The streets have been paved with stones and great fountains have been set up. The plaza is an expansion of the city's Main Plaza, just across from the courthouse and leading to a quiet part of the Riverwalk.

Lilia sent me the link to her photos and I got them just in time - the weather has been rainy the last few days, leading to a cool day in the 70s. Perfect for the pumpkin patch trip I planned for Delhi this weekend, and more perfect for walks downtown.

looooove fall, loooooove bryn christopher

2008-09-09T00:17:00.000-04:00

Maybe it's fall that calls out all the sweater-wearing, deep thinking, thought provoking music and art and dialogue but even San Anto is feeling it. There's the city's fall arts festivals, which includes fotoseptiembre, the international accordion festival, dia de los muertos, jazzsalive and more (yes, my birthday!).

Then there's new albums like that one of Bryn Christopher. I've been listening to BBC Radio 2 for some time now at work. The accents remind me work is not the only thing in this world and the music selection is American + more/better. Think Otis Redding with 80s music but smart enough to avoid all the techno.

Nice.

poem : untitled (I get it now)

2008-09-03T00:16:00.001-04:00

I get it now
that love of language connecting each word with someone
the roundness the bright knowing coming through
when you say lie back

take it in

Farewell to Paula Gunn Allen

2008-06-01T10:51:00.003-04:00

Native American poet Paula Gunn Allen died May 29, 2008.

Snowflakes, leaves, humans, plants, raindrops, stars, molecules, microscopic entities all come in communities. The singular cannot in reality exist.

National Poetry Month

2008-04-30T12:24:00.000-04:00

April marks National Poetry Month and some sites and spaces are offering poetry daily. I like that idea but thought I'd look for poetry in unexpected places.

Some of those listed will be "recognized" poems, others are found or created poems (by me or others).

Poetry, I think, is the best of written arts - it doesn't have to explain everything - doesn't have to have excuses (though often carries many) and charms, entertains, awakens and educates all in one breath.

Here are some National Poetry Month links:

poets.org
knopf press/poetry
npm events in san antonio

Use this month as an excuse to say more than you should, to be messy but lyrical in your delivery, to not hold back. Use this as a time to close your eyes but see everything.

all the best,
jo

April 30 : Jolene (2 ways) by Dolly Parton and Ray Lamontagne

2008-04-30T09:57:00.001-04:00

I have always loved Dolly Parton. I used to hang out at Azul, my once haunt in Austin, and Joel, a barista there would play old records. We spoke secretly of our mutual major crush on Dolly as he spun her albums.

Well, in listening to BBC's Radio 2, I came across Ray Lamontagne's new single, Jolene, was taken back to the first song with that name. They seem to go together - Dolly begging a woman not to take her man and Ray talking about how this woman's undone him at the core. Seems Jolene's still at it. These are as poetry examples? Well, of course! Narrative poetry is the best and just as Helen of Troy began a war, Jolene transformed the two who wrote about her. This is poetry's goal.

Dolly's contribution:

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene,
I'm begging of you please don't take my man.
Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene,
Please don't take him just because you can.

Your beauty is beyond compare,
With flaming locks of auburn hair,
With ivory skin and eyes of emerald green.

Your smile is like a breath of spring;
Your voice is soft like summer rain,
And I cannot compete with you, Jolene.

He talks about you in his sleep,
An' there's nothing I can do to keep,
From crying when he calls your name, Jolene.

And I can easily understand,
How you could easily take my man,
But you don't know what he means to me, Jolene.

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene,
I'm begging of you please don't take my man.
Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene,
Please don't take him just because you can.

You could have your choice of men,
But I could never love again.
He's the only one for me, Jolene.

I had to have this talk with you:
My happiness depends on you,
And whatever you decide to do, Jolene.
Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene,
I'm begging of you please don't take my man.
Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene,
Please don't take him even though you can.Jolene. ( Jolene.)

Ray's contribution:

Cocaine flame in my bloodstream
Sold my coat when I hit Spokane
Bought myself a hard pack of cigarettes in the early morning rain
Lately my hands they don't feel like mine
My eyes been stung with dust, I'm blind
Held you in my arms one time
Lost you just the same Jolene I ain't about to go straight

It's too late I found myself face down in the ditch
Booze on my hair
Blood on my lips
A picture of you, holding a picture of me
In the pocket of my blue jeans

Still don't know what love means
Still don't know what love means Jolene
Ah, La, La, La, La, La Jolene

Been so long since I seen your face or felt a part of this human race
I've been living out of this here suitcase for way too long
A man needs something he can hold onto
A nine pound hammer or a woman like you
Either one of them things will do Jolene I ain't about to go straight
It's too late I found myself face down in the ditch
Booze in my hair
Blood on my lips
A picture of you, holding a picture of me
In the pocket of my blue jeans

Still don't know what love means
Still don't know what love means Jolene
La, La, La, La, La, La, La Jolene La, La, La, La, La, La, La Jolene

April 29 : All She Wrote by Harryette Mullen

2008-04-29T21:43:00.002-04:00

Forgive me, I’m no good at this. I can’t write back. I never read your letter. I can’t say I got your note. I haven’t had the strength to open the envelope. The mail stacks up by the door. Your hand’s illegible. Your postcards were defaced. Wash your wet hair? Any document you meant to send has yet to reach me. The untied parcel service never delivered. I regret to say I’m unable to reply to your unexpressed desires. I didn’t get the book you sent. By the way, my computer was stolen. Now I’m unable to process words. I suffer from aphasia. I’ve just returned from Kenya and Korea. Didn’t you get a card from me yet? What can I tell you? I forgot what I was going to say. I still can’t find a pen that works and then I broke my pencil. You know how scarce paper is these days. I admit I haven’t been recycling. I never have time to read the Times. I’m out of shopping bags to put the old news in. I didn’t get to the market. I meant to clip the coupons. I haven’t read the mail yet. I can’t get out the door to work, so I called in sick. I went to bed with writer’s cramp. If I couldn’t get back to writing, I thought I’d catch up on my reading. Then Oprah came on with a fabulous author plugging her best selling book.

April 28 : May Day by Phillis Levin

2008-04-28T21:20:00.000-04:00

I've decided to waste my life again,
Like I used to: get drunk on
The light in the leaves, find a wall
Against which something can happen,

Whatever may have happened
Long ago—let a bullet hole echoing
The will of an executioner, a crevice
In which a love note was hidden,

Be a cell where a struggling tendril
Utters a few spare syllables at dawn.
I've decided to waste my life
In a new way, to forget whoever

Touched a hair on my head, because
It doesn't matter what came to pass,
Only that it passed, because we repeat
Ourselves, we repeat ourselves.

I've decided to walk a long way
Out of the way, to allow something
Dreaded to waken for no good reason,
Let it go without saying,

Let it go as it will to the place
It will go without saying: a wall
Against which a body was pressed
For no good reason, other than this.

April 27 : The Healing IMporovisation of Hair by Jay Wright

2008-04-27T21:23:00.000-04:00

If you undo your do you would
be strange. Hair has been on my mind.
I used to lean in the doorway
and watch my stony woman wind
the copper through the black, and play
with my understanding, show me she cóuld
take a cup of river water,
and watch it shimmy, watch it change,
turn around and become ash bone.
Wind in the cottonwoods wakes me
to a day so thin its breastbone
shows, so paid out it shakes me free
of its blue dust. I will arrange
that river water, bottom juice.
I conjure my head in the stream
and ride with the silk feel of it
as my woman bathes me, and shaves
away the scorn, sponges the grit
of solitude from my skin, laves
the salt water of self-esteem
over my feathering body.
How like joy to come upon me
in remembering a head of hair
and the way water would caress
it, and stress beauty in the flair
and cut of the only witness
to my dance under sorrow's tree.
This swift darkness is spring's first hour.

I carried my life, like a stone,
in a ragged pocket, but I
had a true weaving song, a sly
way with rhythm, a healing tone.

April 26 : A group of girls from Minnesota or black mascara by Maureen Owen

2008-04-26T20:48:00.001-04:00

Not trees trace so just kids we hung
slim buckets of chokecherries from our wrists

in neighboring galaxies Giant Star Factories take control
composed of cold hydrogen gas and dust

7,000 light years from earth
slender-toed geckos step onto the moon

On the road between 2 baptisms and a shower they rang
to say shallow water the mouths drop open

not where you stand but how long you can
stand standing there
in constant hypothesis

the trees are passersby
mercurial
damp light
flat orange moon
velvet navy-blue sky

fire berries
from here we see the beautifully attired drive tough Ford pickups

the oncoming
organizing principle
brushed out

the dancers take turns leaping over the bonfire into
Qué pasa USA?

haircuts in London are really pretty backward
London—you are definitely not going to have a manicure there!
in LA toes must match the hands or else just don’t leave the house
in NY it’s more brunette

Outside a refrigerator floats in the blackness shiny amid sharp stars
& the turtle who holds up the world holds up
the world

April 25 : Dangerous for Girls by Connie Voisine

2008-04-25T10:24:00.002-04:00

It was the summer of Chandra Levy, disappearing
from Washington D.C., her lover a Congressman, evasive
and blow-dried from Modesto, the TV wondering

in every room in America to an image of her tight jeans and piles
of curls frozen in a studio pose. It was the summer the only
woman known as a serial killer, a ten-dollar whore trolling

the plains of central Florida, said she knew she would
kill again, murder filled her dreams
and if she walked in the world, it would crack

her open with its awful wings. It was the summer that in Texas, another
young woman killed her five children, left with too many
little boys, always pregnant. One Thanksgiving, she tried

to slash her own throat. That summer the Congressman
lied again about the nature of his relations, or,
as he said, he couldn't remember if they had sex that last

night he saw her, but there were many anonymous girls that summer,
there always are, who lower their necks to the stone
and pray, not to God but to the Virgin, herself once

a young girl, chosen in her room by an archangel.
Instead of praying, that summer I watched television, reruns of
a UFO series featuring a melancholic woman detective

who had gotten cancer and was made sterile by aliens. I watched
infomercials: exercise machines, pasta makers,
and a product called Nails Again With Henna,

ladies, make your nails steely strong, naturally,
and then the photograph of Chandra Levy
would appear again, below a bright red number,

such as 81, to indicate the days she was missing.
Her mother said, please understand how we're feeling
when told that the police don't believe she will be found alive,

though they searched the parks and forests
of the Capitol for the remains and I remembered
being caught in Tennessee, my tent filled with wind

lifting around me, tornado honey, said the operator when I called
in fear. The highway barren, I drove to a truck stop where
maybe a hundred trucks hummed in pale, even rows

like eggs in a carton. Truckers paced in the dining room,
fatigue in their beards, in their bottomless
cups of coffee. The store sold handcuffs, dirty

magazines, t-shirts that read, Ass, gas or grass.
Nobody rides for free, and a bulletin board bore
a public notice: Jane Doe, found in a refrigerator box

outside Johnson, TN, her slight measurements and weight.
The photographs were of her face, not peaceful in death,
and of her tattoos Born to Run, and J.T. caught in

scrollworks of roses. One winter in Harvard Square, I wandered
drunk, my arms full of still warm, stolen laundry, and
a man said come to my studio and of course I went—

for some girls, our bodies are not immortal so much as
expendable, we have punished them or wearied
from dragging them around for so long and so we go

wearing the brilliant plumage of the possibly freed
by death. Quick on the icy sidewalks, I felt thin and
fleet, and the night made me feel unique in the eyes

of the stranger. He told me he made sculptures
of figure skaters, not of the women's bodies,
but of the air that whipped around them,

a study of negative space,
which he said was the where-we-were-not
that made us. Dizzy from beer,

I thought why not step into
that space? He locked the door behind me.

April 24 : Bones by Haki R. Madhubuti

2008-04-24T19:50:00.000-04:00

she riffs in less than fifty words
poems that unveil a people's bones.

improvising veto-proof likeness
she cleans neighborhoods of celebrated ignorance
among the weak, wicked and wise,
among the wounded, weary and brief winners.

with oxygen lines,
with a vernacular voice and memory
she sings, swims and dances to the merry movements
of the underlooked, bloodflow, heartdrums
and blistered feet of betrayed generations.

this museum of a poet is not about
impressing enemies, friends or lovers,
her urges are to write gladness, grief and melodies,
always probing for trustworthy tales
of her deep-south multitudes. acutely
aware of the exaggerations of politicians,
public intellectuals and the criminally rich
she is our brilliant testifier.

April 23 : songs referencing candela/fire

2008-04-23T23:52:00.002-04:00

There are plenty of songs which reference fire - but these are in my head today:

from Jimi Hendrix:

look at the sky

turn a hell fire red lawd
sombodies house is burnin down down down

look at the sky turn a hell fire red lawd
sombodies house is burnin down down down
down...

from Celia Cruz

Muchacha, dice tu abuela,
que no entras en la cocina

que ella que tiene gasolina
no debe jugar con candela.

from Buena Vista Social Club

El cuarto de Tula; le cogió candela
Se quedó dormida y no apagó la vela.

Tula está encendida llama a los bomberos
Tu eres candela ¡afina los cueros!

El cuarto de Tula; le cogió candela
Se quedó dormida y no apagó la vela.

Songs are poems. Don't tell yourself they aren't.

April 22 : Beyond Having by Ray Gonzalez

2008-04-22T23:26:00.000-04:00

I'm infatuated with Ray Gonzalez' work. It's great, just great.

And, always, there is desire like
the orange and banana changing
texture on the kitchen shelf.
Their skins sink slowly into themselves.
There is the liquid of lust and thirst,
an open gloss of choice and cutting,
a lying down toward the wind,
the heaving you were warned about.

And, soon, there is love like
miniature spellings embedded in the shoulder,
waiting to be misspelled, washed,
brought back by perception that fades
with what moves below the arm,
hinging on a doubt cried away.
There is the mistake of giving name
to the prune, the print bitten off
and covered over by black hair--
its numbers kept secret,
long strands in the tale of the carpet,
the pomegranate, the hundred ways
of staying there.

And, besides, there is danger of riding desire
until it carves you into its swollen throat,
steel-cry of possession and the infinite blessing
of fingers missing from the first time,
fingernails tracing the shape of the strawberry
to memorize roughness without leaving.
There is the flavor and the understanding,
a place to rest the eye after traveling,
a force that binds you together
without you knowing red marks
on your back are places where wings
would have risen if you were an angel.

April 21 : Praise Them by Li-Young Lee

2008-04-21T23:11:00.000-04:00

The birds don't alter space.
They reveal it. The sky
never fills with any
leftover flying. They leave
nothing to trace. It is our own
astonishment collects
in chill air. Be glad.
They equal their due
moment never begging,
and enter ours
without parting day. See
how three birds in a winter tree
make the tree barer.
Two fly away, and new rooms
open in December.
Give up what you guessed
about a whirring heart, the little
beaks and claws, their constant hunger.
We're the nervous ones.
If even one of our violent number
could be gentlelong enough that one of them
found it safe inside
our finally untroubled and untroubling gaze,
who wouldn't hear
what singing completes us?

April 20 : After the Movie by Marie Howe

2008-04-20T23:03:00.001-04:00

My friend Michael and I are walking home arguing about the movie.
He says that he believes a person can love someone
and still be able to murder that person.

I say, No, that's not love. That's attachment.
Michael says, No, that's love. You can love someone, then come
to a day

when you're forced to think "it's him or me"
think "me" and kill him.

I say, Then it's not love anymore.
Michael says, It was love up to then though.

I say, Maybe we mean different things by the same word.
Michael says, Humans are complicated: love can exist
even in the murderous heart.

I say that what he might mean by love is desire.
Love is not a feeling, I say. And Michael says, Then what
is it?

We're walking along West 16th Street—a clear unclouded
night—and I hear my voice
repeating what I used to say to my husband: Love is action,
I used to say to him.

Simone Weil says that when you really love you are able to
look at someone you want to eat and not eat them.

Janis Joplin says, take another little piece of my heart now baby.

Meister Eckhardt says that as long as we love images we are
doomed to live in purgatory.

Michael and I stand on the corner of 6th Avenue saying goodnight.
I can't drink enough of the tangerine spritzer I've just
bought—

again and again I bring the cold can to my mouth and suck
the stuff from
the hole the flip top made.

What are you doing tomorrow? Michael says.
But what I think he's saying is "You are too strict. You
are a nun."

Then I think, Do I love Michael enough to allow him to think
these things of me even if he's not thinking them?

Above Manhattan, the moon wanes, and the sky turns clearer
and colder.
Although the days, after the solstice, have started to lengthen,

we both know the winter has only begun.

April 19 : This Is Just To Say by William Carlos Williams

2008-04-19T12:21:00.000-04:00

Everyone loves William Carlos Williams. My favorite of his is "The Red Wheelbarrow" but this piece is definitely up there. It's a lover's note in a sense, don't you think?

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

April 18 : The earth is blue like an orange by Paul Eluard

2008-04-18T01:19:00.001-04:00

Paul Eluard was one of the surrealist poets, writing at the same time one of my favorite painters was producing his work - Rene Magritte. I strive for this level of detail and surprise. Magritte said his images' evocations were "endowed with the power to delight and surprise" - he called that power poetry.

The earth is blue like an orange
Never a mistake words do not lie
They no longer give you cause to sing
It’s kisses turn to get along (hear each other)
Madmen and lovers
She her wedding-ring mouth
All the secrets all the smiles
And what garments of indulgence
To believe her quite naked.
The wasps are flowering green
The dawn is worn around the neck
A necklace of windows
Wings cover the leaves
You have all the solar joys
All the sunlight upon the earth
On the roads of your beauty.

April 17 : Exiled by Edna St. Vincent Millay

2008-04-17T01:35:00.000-04:00

One of my favorite poets, Edna St. Vincent Millay, held on to her idealism while also calling attention to the world around her. She managed to do it all while also giving space to her more personal (read: intimate/romantic) work - without apologies.

Millay's poem is one of multiple options of today's Poem in Your Pocket pieces. That's right! April 17th is Poem in Your Pocket day - finally letting you smile with mischief when some says is that a poem in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

Searching my heart for its true sorrow,
This is the thing I find to be:
That I am weary of words and people,
Sick of the city, wanting the sea;
Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness
Of the strong wind and shattered spray,
Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound
Of the big surf that breaks all day.

Always before about my dooryard,
Marking the reach of the winter sea,
Rooted in sand and dragging driftwood,
Straggled the purple wild sweet pea.
Always I climbed the wave at morning,
Shook the sand from my shoes at night,
That now am caught beneath big buildings,
Stricken with noise, confused with light.

If I could hear the green piles groaning.
Under the windy, wooden piers,
See once again the bobbing barrels,
And the black sticks that fence the weirs;
If I could see the weedy mussels
Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls,
Hear once again the hungry crying
Overhead, of the wheeling gulls;

Feel once again the shanty straining
Under the turning of the tide,
Fear once again the rising freshet,
Dread the bell in the fog outside,
I should be happy!—that was happy
All day long on the coast of Maine.
I have a need to hold and handle
Shells and anchors and ships again.

I should be happy, that am happy.
Never at all since I came here.
I am too long away from water;
I have a need of water near.

April 16 : various fortune cookie fortunes

2008-04-16T01:07:00.000-04:00

I sometimes use the tiny miracles in fortune cookies to bring about ideas for my writing. If I order chinese food, rather than open it after dinner while they process my credit card, I throw it into my purse or leave it on the dining table or in the car. When I need some moment in writing, I open up these tiny things.

Here are some that are hanging out on my writing desk currently:

Right now is also the perfect
time to pamper yourself.

You will be compelled
to manifest
self-transformation.

If the world seems cold,
kindle a fire to warm it.

Sometimes I use the "learn chinese" word behind the fortune for added ideas.

boyfriend [nan pun yau]

I agree [waw tung yee]

Thank you [xia xia ne]

Interesting, no? Almost like poetry in your pocket (see April 17 for more on that).

April 15 : What the Men Talk About When the Women Leave the Room by Dionisio D. Martinez

2008-04-15T02:44:00.000-04:00

The room itself. The women. The absence of women

in the room. What the absence of women does

to a room. The sound of all thsoe women getting

up and leaving; all of them at once, like wild

birds or hunger. How the world can be conquered

if only... Just don't tell the women.

What the absence of women will do to men

eventually. Fears. Men talk about fears, bad

dreams, women leaving, the room swelling with

the absence of women. Bad dreams have a way

of walking in the room when the women leave.

Each dream is an afterimage of a woman leaving.

April 14 : Delhi by [Unknown Poet's Name goes here]

2008-04-14T03:00:00.002-04:00

This is a perfect addition to my own loving response it being National Poetry Month. The little one and I went to Luminaria, the huge, now annual event, celebrating San Anto's arts. We turned onto Houston Street from Alamo Plaza and found a young women with a post showing we could get a free poem. The poet in me laughed because, as other poets know, most poems tend to be free. Still, I liked that I could find a quiet moment in a noisy evening. My baby is now immortalized (again) through poetry.

Even better, this small, meditative moment opened the door for me to see some old school poet buddies I hadn't seen in years. A very nice thing.

When I was born
fireflies floated
outside the hospital window.

P.S. If you know the poet's name please send it to me - it would be great to include it here!

April 13 : holding by Jo Reyes-Boitel

2008-04-13T02:34:00.000-04:00

All the poetry events in town, the search for found or rediscovered poetry and even my own application for graduate school have woken up the gutteral part within myself, that core chakra. It pulls out this possessive, compulsive part of me, this passionate part. Ay, that's enough, no? Here's a poem I wrote this last week. Most certainly a draft.

I’ll ask you straight up: what of yours can I keep
when you are so far away from me?

what can I get away with? stealing that will give me
a slap on the wrist, some should have known better glance?

what can I move a little of each day, in such tiny bits
you will not notice until finally it is in my pockets

and you realize, weeks later, it can’t be found
I keep it – rub it between my fingers,

hands in pockets, claiming I can’t recall? why
do I come up with these scenarios for taking you?

for the chance to acquaint myself with your tufted hair,
to call home your work smell cardboard and cinnamon

to have you say my name, to lift it from within yours
this is not obsessive love, this is ownership

as much as it is the story of your calling me over to you
it is all the same

April 12 : Jam by Karen Chase

2008-04-12T14:13:00.002-04:00

Our love is not the short
courtly kind but
upstream, down,
long inside — enjambed,
enjoined, conjoined, and
jammed, it's you, enkindler,
enlarger, jampacked man of many
stanzas, my enheartener — love
runs on from line to you, from line to me
and me to you, from river to sea and sea
to land, hits a careless coast, meanders
way across the globe — land
ahoy! water ahoy! — love
with no end, my waters go
wherever you are, my stream
of consciousness.

April 11 : Postcard sent by Del Wieding

2008-04-11T05:45:00.001-04:00

I got this postcard after seeing a friend of a friend just before I moved away from Austin (two years ago in February). I remember thinking I was lucky to get it in the mail before turning in my keys to the former apartment. When our mutual friend had get togethers in San Marcos, Del was always there with a kind smile.

Talk about "found poetry". I've since framed it and added my own touches with a three dimensional frame.

Dear Spirit
Beloved
Such a pleasure to see you and a joy
to hear your voice. A big hello to you
and your daughter. I wish good
days for you, happiness, truth, creativity.

April 10 : Poem #3 by Sonia Sanchez

2008-04-10T11:03:00.000-04:00

I gather up

each sound

you left behind

and stretch

them on our bed.

each nite

I breathe you

and become high.

April 9 : Garabato by Virgil Suarez

2008-04-09T10:37:00.002-04:00

One of my favorite poets - someone who knows how to chill, get deep, laugh and make you think. I miss the way we used to hang whenever he came through San Anto.

In the beginning was the hook like instrument
used to cut grass & sugar cane, made from the wood
of the guava tree. Depending on the creativity
of the devotee, it was painted or adorned with beads
& cowries. Ritual instrument of Elegba, Holy Child
of Atocha, whose domain is the Crossroads.

In Los Angeles, at the public schools, I drew
Chinese characters, or what I thought were

Chinese characters). Sometimes I copied
them down from the backs of Chinese fortune

cookies, to keep the bullies who beat on me
at bay. I told them I knew different forms

of martial arts, mainly Kung Fu & Karate. They believed
me at first, then grew skeptical over time & cornered

me outside in the hallways. I stood dumbfounded
& overwhelmed by the fact that I was about to get

my ass kicked. I‚d pray to Elegba & all the Orishas
that I wouldn't get my ass kicked--as I did on many

occasions. The elementals didn't work. My mis-
fortune cookies always came through: You will

make no friends. You will always be an outsider.
Not knowing the price, you will pay much dues.

Nothing has helped heal the mental blows, except
for this poem now & for all who kicked my ass

because I didn't speak English right or dressed
with the wrong clothes, or didn't comb my hair right,

I say this: this poem is my garabato. Con Safos.

April 8 : Self Portrait by Edward Hirsch

2008-04-08T14:38:00.002-04:00

You can hear this poem read by the poet here.

I lived between my heart and my head,
like a married couple who can't get along.

I lived between my left arm, which is swift
and sinister, and my right, which is righteous.

I lived between a laugh and a scowl,
and voted against myself, a two-party system.

My left leg dawdled or danced along,
my right cleaved to the straight and narrow.

My left shoulder was like a stripper on vacation,
my right stood upright as a Roman soldier.

Let's just say that my left side was the organ
donor and leave my private parts alone,

but as for my eyes, which are two shades
of brown, well, Dionysus, meet Apollo.

Look at Eve raising her left eyebrow
while Adam puts his right foot down.

No one expected it to survive,
but divorce seemed out of the question.

I suppose my left hand and my right hand
will be clasped over my chest in the coffin

and I'll be reconciled at last,
I'll be whole again.

April 7 : Walk on the Water by Samiya Bashir

2008-04-06T23:30:00.003-04:00

Featherstep dragonfly shooflyshoe.
Lightheart salmonleap waitingbear dodge.
dryeyed postsigh morningscalenoslippers.

Armswing synchronicity. Chinup.
Lookahead sunrayriding ripplesail faith.

Move.

April 6 : Stop Signs by Willie Perdomo

2008-04-06T23:24:00.003-04:00

I took a class with this crazy wonderful man who did slam like I always wanted it to be done - with truth of having lived a life instead of narratives taken from the new york times and reworded to show empathy.

I started this poem
on the ride back to Heathrow
It could have been the A train to the Bronx
but the stars in the magazine
would have said the same thing
Cancer has difficult choices ahead
Aries finds romance in unlikely places

I felt like telling you that I'm not sure
how one is supposed to read the signs
unless they're falling all over you
If it was up to me I would grab
the ones that shoot across the sky
shake them hard one time
blow on them for good luck
and let them roll
But I had to catch myself before I
slipped and broke something so
I flipped it one time
If you can be with the one you love
Don't love the one you're with

In the middle of Piccadilly Circus
Eros was pointing the wrong way
Cool ass swans broke off into
schools of six and suggested taht I
leave you a note before my flight
Damn your Spanish was good, too
Hablas Espanol?
Si.
Te quiero.
Y yo te quie-roh too.

April 5 : William Sloan Coffin

2008-04-05T17:06:00.002-04:00

I got this on the backside of a postcard - a quote by Rev. William Sloane Coffin, a clergyman and longtime peace activist - and thought this would be a perfect example of delivered poetry - arriving right in my hand!

the world is too dangerous for anything but truth
and too small for anything but love

April 4 : juba (for Renita) by Letta Neely

2008-04-04T22:25:00.001-04:00

I read this poem as a favorite a couple of years ago at one of the bookstores in Austin. I would give $50 if this woman would print another book - she's great.

u be a gospel song some a dat old time religion where the tambourine git goin and the holy ghost sneak up inside people’s bones and everybody dancing and shoutin screamin and cryin oh jesus, oh jesus and the people start to clappin and reaching back to african rhythms pulls through the wombs of the middle passage and women’s hats start flying while they dance the dance they do gets hotter and holier and just the music has brought cause for celebration.

Yeah, u be a gospel song, girl like some a dat old back in the woods, Mississippi river kinda gospel and i feel the holy ghost when you is inside me and the tambourines keep goin and folks is stamping they feet and oh no, it’s the neighbor knocking on the door askin is we alright say we screamin oh jesus, oh jesus and i heard us but i didn’t hear cuz i was being washed in the gorgeous wetness of your pussy being baptized w/ole time religion the oldest religion there is 2 women inside the groove of each other

we come here

we come

we come here

to be

saved

April 3 :: The Torn-Up Road by Richard Siken

2008-04-03T07:22:00.001-04:00

One of my favorite new poets, here is part 2 of the larger poem "The Torn-Up Road". Forgive me for not being true to the spacing.

I want to tell you this story without having to confess anything,
without having to say that I ran out into the street to prove something,
that he didn't love me,
that I wanted to be thrown over, possessed.
I want to tell you this story without having to be in it:
Max in the wrong clothes. Max at the party, drunk again.
Max in the kitchen, in the refrigerator light, his hands around the neck of a beer.
Tell me we're dead and I'll love you even more.
I'm surprised that I say it with feeling.
There's a thing in my stomach about this. A simple thing. The last rung.

More about Richard Siken.

April 2 : i carry your heart by e.e. cummings

2008-04-02T01:07:00.001-04:00

one of my favorites - today in honor of my Delhi, who chipped a tooth today while in school - chipped so beautifully I was envious.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

April 1 : A List

2008-04-01T00:42:00.001-04:00

While enjoying an infrequently slow morning by myself and with an actual breakfast I finished an incredible latte from Panera and read the local daily news. This is a poem that the paper probably would not have recognized as a poem:

Today's list
10 most commonly used
nouns in the English
language

1. time
2. person
3. year
4. way
5. day
6. thing
7. man
8. world
9. life
10. hand

from askoxford.com

Raul Salinas, cabio sile

2008-02-21T16:55:00.001-05:00

In memory of Raul Salinas. 1934-2008

all my eggs + one basket = ?

2007-08-27T10:10:00.000-04:00

I've been depressed, in that dichotomous way I do:

I've given my attention to my daughter's room since she deserves it. Her room was a modge podge of stuff with no order, no unifying color. Now, with a new desk, a lounge chair, cubbies and her room rearranged, she's loving it. My mother made me cry last week when she told me that Delhi had a great sense of humor and that she wouldn't know what to do if she didn't have her close. I've been thinking of grad school somewhere far away.

I have to force myself to bed and can't sleep but I can sit for a minute and fall asleep so hard I'm dreaming instantaneously. Sometimes I'm so relaxed my muscles feel soft - I'm not used to that feeling. Other times my back is fine then tenses up so completely I can't turn around when I'm parallel parking.

I've started writing but have this complete distaste when I'm doing it. Almost nausea, almost hate to look at the page.

I've gone back to music as a way to escape some - Annie Lennox helps some.

I know I'll be okay. I think I'm just surprised at how long it seems to have taken me to bounce out of this funk. Maybe it doesn't help that I haven't been meditating regularly or that I don't have a good friend to talk to (or rather, that I can view right now as someone I could talk to).

madre!

2007-08-08T13:59:00.000-04:00

ya no se como lo hago...
me estoy poniendo loca - poco a poco.

I managed to write some on a piece I'd started about a month ago. It's turning too narrative but I've managed to separate the piece into parts so I'm hoping the narrative becomes okay as I add in some of the more personal tones.

My computer is acting up so I spent about an hour cleaning through it and got rid of 50 versions of my resume through the years, as well as those of others I'd created, old graphics, etc. Still have a lot to go through. By then I was a zombie. I'd not slept any (Delhi got sick on the ride home from Austin on Sunday night and, it turns out, actually was sick - keeping me up all night with uneasiness, hurting stomach, throw up, odd food requests, etc.)

The day before, I stayed with my mom, cooking and washing clothes, cleaning up, etc. She still can't put any weight on her foot and she's not in a good mood about it. Worse, I wouldn't have gone to Austin at all for the day if I knew what was happening at the house. We spoke the next day and my mom said that my father didn't cook anything, didn't ask her if she needed anything - general ass behaviour. It made me realize that, while I am not the best at naming/finding/acquiring home or at being in a secure and loving relationship, my parents are horrible examples of both. I started realizing that my daughter's ease in establishing home and her possessive though tender love are symbols of growth past the examples previously worked out.

Like always, I'm an intermediary of sorts. I sometimes wish I weren't.

While in Austin I did get to see Carol and Lilia for a bit. They moved to a new place so I bought them some dinner - it's not easy to cook when boxes are everywhere, I know that from experience!

I also got to see Sunny, who is on her way to Minnesota (a surprise to me!). It was so good to see her. My nickname for her does suit her - whether she would agree or not is another thing. While we talked for some time, I think it was just the best when, in saying good bye, she told Delhi "see you in Minnesota". Had I written in here we were planning a trip to Minneapolis/St. Paul to see my "homeland" (as much home as any other place in this hemisphere)? Yes, I'm planning a trip in November.

I miss school - I was thinking about that today. I'm going to find a couple of strange classes to join. My mind is wandering - I suppose that's a good thing.

ah, there it is

2007-08-02T14:36:00.000-04:00

I haven't written in about a month. Well, that's not true. I have written tidbits here and there but nothing with any energy or daimon attached.

As soon as I finished class I picked up a book by Oscar Hijuelos. "A Simple Habana Melody" seemed perfect. The last few weeks I've been listening to couple of hours of latin jazz and classic salsa on Trinity University's radio station. It's actually replaced my church going (in a good way) and reminded me of my consistent love of music and its history and origins. It's good to get back to all this.

But I wondered why I haven't had this incredible desire to write and, to be honest with myself, I'm missing that regular expression of being in community with others and of being with someone. I don't think it's a bad thing that I like to write "in relation" with others - with their energy present even if I wish I was one of those broody writers who are alone for hours and sigh deeply while debating life's future. And they write magnificently (most).

I did find an incredible passage in Hijuelos' book, just as I'd found many that motivated me in "The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love". It spoke to my own lack of desire for creating art:

... there existed within him a numbness to feeling? This disheartened Levis (the central character), for without emotion there would never be music, and without music his life would be a living death.

So it happened that without intending to the composer sank into a deep state of apprehension... he could not imaginethe point of his continuing existence. In those moments, as he went driving through the streets of that splendid city [Havana], he truly believed that he would never compose another piece of music again - not a tango nor a bolero nor a lyric opera nor another zarzuela, not even another simple Habana melody - as he once often did with effortless control.

Israel Levis, returning from the concentration camps during WWII, to his native Habana, could not wake up that part of him that worked to create music.

I'm not being fatalistic (even if it sounds that way) but not being creative is the definition of not living (for me).

I'm working now to wake up that part of me.

a graduate...almost

2007-08-02T13:29:00.000-04:00

I need to do the formal things but I am now a graduate. I made a B in my Geology class. A couple of days ago I actually drove by SAC and had the idea that I had to get to class. I realized that part was over but that I really did like taking courses. And the fact that I made a B amid the job change, child, flu and my own procrastination.... well, I'm surprised and a little proud of myself.

So now I have to complete the paperwork, transcript request, etc.

What's next?

crunch time but my mind is wandering...

2007-07-24T00:25:00.000-04:00

I have three phobias which, could I mute them, would make my life as slick as a sonnet, but as dull as dishwater: I hate to go to bed, I hate to get up, and I hate to be alone. --Tallulah Bankhead

This last few weeks have been immense. I've not talked to any friends. Cliffy stayed at the house the weekend before last. Like always, it was good until after she left. I've had this stomach virus off and on for weeks and got the final brunt of it last week, missing two days of work - not my choice, especially considering it's a new job. I'm loving work and even went in this weekend to show Delhi the space and get some cleanup done. School is kicking my butt and I'm supposed to be awake to write my extra credit paper. I was so sick I couldn't even get up to get to class so I missed a test - good thing is that I'm not penalized - bad thing is that my final test counts twice. It's been 4 or 5 days since the worst of it and my neck is still tight and my ribs hurt tremendously.

Amid all this, I've had on my mind the realization, yet again, that there is so little in this city for me. I'm at the opposite side of the wheel that I was in when in Austin - there I'd lost my job but found a city that, while not perfect, was close to sharing my energy/frame of mind/frequency. Now, I've got a great job, keep getting promoted and pay raises but don't have community. It hurts me.

Delhi surprised me this evening and folded some of my clothes that I'd washed and made my bed (if you know me, you know I don't make beds). I told her I really appreciated it because those were ways we could help each other - in just the few moments we have free. We'd been having so many talks where I was doing the talking - I'd neglected the community-vision of my parenting - that eventually she never talked. This weekend she spent some time at my mother's house but I picked her up Sunday morning and told her that I wasn't going to rationalize or guilt her but that I would very much like us to work together to clean up. It took forever but we went through some clothes for school, threw away old school stuff, put her books away and checked off the school supply items we already had.

I'm trying to make the most of the space that I do have. I would very much like to be in a space where I could say what I wanted, where I could let out my wittiness without apologizing, where someone who tells me they should marry me means it - some place where I'm able to write so that I'm not getting frustrated with my little mama. I would like to stay peaceful with her. We work so much better. I don't know that I'm capable of making peace with this city or with the luck that's given me career opportunities but I can make peace with my Delhi.

the empire of lights

2007-07-12T23:29:00.000-04:00

This summer's been unusual. Night birds, not present last year, have been singing outside my apartment starting at 12:30 in the morning for the last month. The night sky is gorgeous almost every night. Venus has been sitting low in the horizon just as the sun goes down really late in the evening. All of it brings up in me this joy of nature but also that strange, almost romantic uneasiness in the air.

I walked out of my geology class tonight feeling pretty good. I made a 70 on my first test (not my favorite moment) but my test on Tuesday left me with an 88 in my hand tonight (much better). I'm also tremendously enjoying work. I am surprised and happy for the change in my space.

I realize now I just wasn't a good fit for my previous boss, despite my trying to support women and be part of the academic world. I thought it was me, that maybe I should have stayed in nonprofit but it really was something that had little to do with me. I realized that when, on Tuesday, my previous boss emailed me, suggesting that I took the personal information of the young woman who I'd had such trouble with in my office almost from the start. I was able to feel empowered enough to say, point blank, "why do you think it would be necessary for you to ask me if I'd taken personal information?" - a question she did not answer.

Forget all that - I'm writing today because of the beauty of my space, my luck in being where I was at exactly 9:05 p.m. today. As I walked out of the Geology and Chemistry Building, I saw the deep color of the trees, the burgundy-colored stones on the pathway, the dark faces of the buildings and, in looking up, saw the sky still bright - like a deep ocean blue - but still obviously colored in daytime blues.

I said one word: Magritte.

my child

2007-07-01T14:50:00.000-04:00

The thought of raising a child still terrifies me. With good reason - my child is truly the kind wished for in the late 1800s, when children were viewed as "small adults" who made their decisions, held conversations and generally were seen as good company.

Summer is a hot blooded time for both of us - she adores and gains freedom and I search for but cannot get my hands on freedom. Of course, I'm taking that college course so that has taken my sectioned time for freedom/play/personal enjoyment - much like my sleeping again has taken my time from writing.

Still, Delhi's been hanging at my mother's way too much. I still remember my mother's "Oh God" when I told her, sometime in March, that Delhi would be born June 15 or 18 or 21. I had had a dream of the calendar and my circling a day. She wasn't boohooing my dream - my mother was just freaked because, in her words, "She'll be a gemini! My parents were both geminis!". She said further: "Well, I was under them but this one will be under me!" The evening I had Delhi my mother made one soapy, googly look and I told her "under you, huh?"

We still talk about Delhi's immense personality and how she is like the threat of a huge thunderstorm when she approaches with something on her mind.

So lately, she's been pushing, with all her logic, how upset she is with the summer camp she's attending part-time. I have her at another summer camp between 1 and 2 times a week but can't afford to do it all week right now. By August she'll be going every day anyhow because this free summer camp she finds "just awful" ends in July. I was so fed up with her rationale and her consistent pecking at either me or my mother about just how awful the summer camp was I showed her our budget for the month. This worked for a couple of days.

Then I amended the budget to show just her expenses. We were both surprised that she manages to swindle me out of more than half my check. Her immediate face indicated she thought that perhaps she was deserving of more. My face, on the other hand, must have shown my disgust at having paid her basically $100 an hour for work she may have done around the house (and not with the greatest output either!). So this kept her quiet for another few days.

Next I told her about my cracked tooth and it was either two days of summer camp more for her or me repairing a tooth that was bothering me and that could crack on me. She didn't immediately agree with the urgency.

Finally, yesterday, I reminded her that I needed glasses and those would be about $250 and if I had to hear, even once more about how she didn't like the free camp, she wouldn't be going to the cool camp that costs money at all for July because that was costing me $260 for the month. Well, my mother came to pick her up this morning for the free camp and the first thing out of her mouth to my mother was about how mean I was.

Kills me that I taught her, from the beginning that she needed to use her mouth to enact change. Kills me more that she seems to have received the stubborness on both sides of the family.

Girl In A Coma

2007-06-25T23:30:00.000-04:00

I heard about this great girl punk band, Girl in a Coma, and fell instantly. They are from San Anto! They should have been playing at the gay pride fest - they are really good. And their videos are genderqueer/questioning/feminist - well done. Even better, they are backed by Joan Jett's label. Sweet Joan Jett.

Here's one of my new faves:

Road To Home-Girl In A Coma

2007-06-25T23:29:00.001-04:00

sleeping

2007-06-25T16:33:00.000-04:00

I have slept all week. I've not slept great but I have slept and I am so thankful for it. Of course, I did not write but you can't have it all!

I especially thankful for the sleep because my work has been increasingly demanding since I'm leaving the department for another. Add to that my child's recent expectant behavior (it is her birthday - that's her reasoning) and a test on Thursday and I had to give in to sleep.

So by 10 or 11 I've been the good girl and gone to bed.

I felt better this week, not just because of sleep but because I was able to tell a number of people what it was I really wanted in my life, what kind of people and how I couldn't feel less than totally free and so I couldn't conform to others ideas or expectations.

Delhi Micaela Reyes Boitel

2007-06-20T10:32:00.000-04:00

My baby is 8 today. She's so fresh and mature looking, it kills me!

I got an email this morning about how we (Delhi and me) have been named "family of the month" at Family Pride. Believe it or not. Here's the link.

I just think about Mica (as we call her when we aren't asking her to complete her chores - it's Delhi Micaela then) as that tiny kid with a huge guitar who played with Lourdes Perez. Here's a link to my memory of it.

call for submissions

2007-06-19T11:20:00.000-04:00

Some really great mujeres in the RGV are putting this together. Send your work!

Café Revolución Presents:Voices Against Violence! Zine

Second issue

Deadline: July 1, 2007

Voices Against Violence! Zine is accepting submissions for the second issue. Please send in your essays, poetry, personal accounts, artwork & photography to be included.

What is the Voices Against Violence! Zine? A small publication, chapbook style, with writings from people in the community who have been affected by domestic violence as well as survivors of domestic violence.

We encourage the public to submit because domestic abuse affects the community as a whole. The Voices Against Violence campaign, part of Café Revolución, is a series of events and workshops throughout the Rio Grande Valley that helps break the silence on domestic violence, encourage others to come forward and weave a collective consciousness in our community.

Send submissions & questions to:

noemi.mtz@gmail.com

horticulturelandia@gmail.com

For more information, scope out:

http://www.caferevolucion.org/

http://myspace.com/voicesagainst

fraud

2007-06-18T10:44:00.000-04:00

I felt like such a fraud when I entered this weekend. I haven't completed the writing I've been wanting to, haven't completed even cleaning the house!, and felt as though I was holding myself back, wasn't allowing a clear view for anyone, even myself. I really felt like some dark cut of glass - transparent but with this coloring that doesn't let you decipher everything.

I was told by someone last week that they were checking on me by checking on my blog. This isn't all of me, I realized. This is very little. I mean, I've been up to so much, there have been so many changes that I can't keep up with them. Not in a physical way but mentally. It seems all these things in my life are having a tremendous impact on me.

For instance, I would not have thought that taking 6 little girls out for my daughter's birthday would have made me feel so feminist and capable of awaking young minds. And, conversely, would make me want to have more children so deeply.

Or, having a peach for breakfast on Friday that blew me away with its texture and smell. I haven't been awake in my body for a while so I was taken aback by such an incredible thing: dirt and humidity and sun and perfume and musk all at once. Or, in going to lunch with a faculty member here - the Indian food we ate intoxicated me. I love my body very open to experience. The textures and tastes filling me. It can be overload but it empowers too - and not just my writing.

I did settle down some after Carol and Lilia's arrive Friday evening. We went to go see Gaytino!, a performance piece by Dan Guerrero, son of the "father of Chicano music", Lalo Guerrero.

Conversations with my sister friend Carol this weekend let me talk something out - always helping me see more of something long before I would have on my own (mostly because of avoidance or denial). I always felt this dichotomous idea that I had to choose to be in a relationship or choose my creativity.

While my creativity is by no means destructive (i.e. Sylvia Plath), I've felt it spinning a little beyond my control. I can manage it but wonder if, given some foundation, it might come out more tactile. Right now it feels like a fire in me that threatens to take everything in the air and make it something else.

I'm mis-saying because it is not destructive - I just wonder if, with more avenues to express myself, I might be able to keep the emotional fuel of my creativity in check. That this might also encourage better sleep and more consistent self-care (right now I'm eating one end up eating one meal a day and way too many cups of coffee).

And while it's not specifically an intimate relationship but more like connections with people that can aid this, I of course think about relationships. Since moving here, this is the most personable I've been. I'm really feeling available, open, transparent. Or, at least trying for transparency. I have reminded myself people will like me if I'm this way - and if they don't, at least I wasn't lying and they weren't interested in some part of me that was not complete truth.

Before the gay pride festival on Saturday, Carol and Lilia and Delhi and I went to Casa Chiapas for lunch. The festival was sweet, much smaller than ones I've been to in San Francisco and Austin but also very community-oriented - no entrance fee, lots of community booths, local talent performing. Most of the larger ones do out of town talent and charge $10 to get in. We didn't get there until 5 p.m. or so and so I was surprised I didn't see more of the people I knew there. In looking at the website they were there - I guess I arrived too late. I did see a former co-worker from when I worked at the San Antonio Symphony. I knew she was family but I think I surprised her because she didn't clock me that way.

At Casa Chiapas, I felt all Kitchen Table Press, we were talking about defining as queer vs. lesbian vs. bisexual and how neither world cares for those who are not "gold-star lesbians". That was a huge discussion for me that I don't want to talk about now.

So, I felt a little better by the time the mujeres left late Saturday. Still lots to process and I would like to talk a little more about it. Of course, despite my increased socialness, I find myself alone tonight. . . and what I have in my head is way too big for some shallow conversation.

my niece

2007-06-14T10:03:00.000-04:00

Well, here she is everyone - Deja Matilda, my niece.

See, she does look like me! I'm trying not to make a "that's what you get face" but my brother said, over and again, that he didn't want his baby coming out looking like me. Hmmm.

Con mas ganas - she even has my curly locks! I'm already whispering tips on how to manage the untameable hair.

My mother said I could trade my child in for this one since mine looks like my brother!

pull my finger

2007-06-14T00:33:00.000-04:00

Well well, someone's finally come out about the gay bomb. I think they did their testing in several major metropolitan areas a couple of years back. Talk about "don't ask don't tell".

cafecito y conversacion al estilo David y Bathsheba

2007-06-13T01:34:00.000-04:00

Sometimes together, sometimes separate... Cliffy spent last night. Her household was crazy and, with Delhi staying at my mom's because of late nights working or class, I really didn't want to go to an empty house. Usually I love the opportunity but not lately. As is often between Cliffy and me, we seem to help make transitions easier.

Truth is I have had relationships on my mind - I think I've done this discussion before on this blog. At this point i should just reference previous entries rather than reiterate my damage.

More truth: I was told goodbye by a new friend yesterday. He had great compliments and told me I was amazing. It's nice to know I have viewable traits but it seems to hurt me more than honor me when I'm left standing alone.

I didn't complete my art piece for Esperanza's queer exhibit. I don't know how much of a part of the queer community I want to be a part of here. It disappoints. Defines you on your behalf. Does not listen. I attempted creating a homage to my coming out as a 5th grader so long ago, including who it was I fell in love with (my mother's best friend, a potter), what I was having dreams about (marrying a woman with longer white hair (scares me to think it might have been my ex wife, Ya Vez!), becoming a full time writer and having children), and what I hoped for (freedom - yes, even then).

My childhood house was not so free - we were exiles in the city/state/country/male world. All this became too much in my mind and I could feel that blending of my creativity that I try to keep separate: sewing, writing, painting, furniture building, cooking, sex, emotional expressions - all one jarbled thing too hard to swallow.

So Cliffy, knowing I haven't been sleeping, followed me to bed. I tried going to bed early. I've always been the kind that gets tired early and, if i got to bed right when I feel it, I can sleep pretty well. But if that momentary feeling passes me, I'm awake again, hyper alert until, like right now, I'm awake at 1:30 in the morning.

Cliffy was so sweet, rubbing my head. I was able to sleep, even if I had the same dream I've been having all week: these men (mostly), Africans mostly, who were criticizing me. I thought they might be artists and that they didn't want me in their circle. I couldn't figure it out, especially since I get along great with those who are not from this country - some 3rd world woman connection.

Before I went to sleep Cliffy told me that I carried a lot of creativity, that that is what didn't let me sleep. It hurt because here I am feeling that I don't do enough with my talents while at the same time holding myself back because, partly, I really believe that I already make it impossible to be matched. And I'd be lying to myself if I said I didn't want family and a partner and this whole mad scene. No, it won't follow a typical relationship but it will be one - in my mind anyway.

I've been reading more about Edna St. Vincent Millay (Vincent her friends called her). I told Cliffy that was exactly what i wanted. that she could write feminist work and still write about her individual journey and her lovers and it was all powerful. Plus, she was openly bisexual, free to express herself with a man who was at a point in his life where he could put his work aside and help her. There's my dream. Yes, I'm jealous as hell. and I adore Vincent now.

Miguel called me as i was getting out of class tonight and I met him for coffee. We are starting to make the coffee gathering a regular thing. I'm glad for it because he'll be out of the country for a month teaching a class in Monterrey and he's great company. So he gets a beer (Dos Equis draft) and I get a black & white (condensed milk and two shots) and we talk about trading beverages since he needs to stay up with class preparations and I'm the one who needs to sleep.

We are planning to meet each other at the border when I go down to McAllen next month for mujerfest. I'm going to be reading my work. It's been awhile but I'm trying for more theatrics this time. I'm tired of my own confinement.

There's a lot of change happening - I am at a cusp once again. This last year back in San Antonio have made me look older and I find myself more easily upset or rather, less tolerant of those who are not emotionally available or grateful.

It would be nice to find freedom in this city. It would be nice to be with who I wanted, when I wanted. It would be nice to create the work I need to complete.

I'm going to bed. Wish me luck.

woo hoo!

2007-06-12T16:13:00.000-04:00

lordlordlordlordlordlord

I got that job I applied for a couple of weeks ago at the downtown campus. I am delirious with happiness - more pay, closer to home, closer to the arts/downtown scene, well-established program and easy going folks...

As my friend Rafael used to say: Thanks God! [insert sexy Dominican accent here].

La Lupe... a su manera

2007-06-12T11:15:00.000-04:00

Every once in a while I come back to this blog with a reminder of La Lupe, that incredible singer who doesn't compare. She's part of the reason I started writing this blog - to remind myself of the powerful women around me, to remember that, like her, I can take in all the world around me and then throw it back out - as an artist, as a woman, as a crazy healer.

Who can forget her song "Que te pedi", a song every incredible breakup should have in its soundtrack:

hoy pides tu las estrellas y el sol
no soy un dios
asi como soy
yo te ofresco mi amor, no tengo mas
[you ask for the stars and the sun - i'm not a god - but as I am I offer my love - I don't have more]

pero que te pedi,
tu lo puedes al mundo decir,
que supieras que no hay en la vida otro amor
como mi amor.
[but what did I ask of you - you can tell the world that there is no love like my love]

Or her "La Tirana", which deconstructed men's views of women:

Segun tu punto de vista

yo soy la mala

vampiresa en tu novela

la gran tirana

[according to your point of view, I'm the wicked/bad one - the vampire in your novel, the great tyrant]

That song has defined my work in destroying expectations of femininity or, better yet, removing masculinist silencing.

PBS' Independent Lens series featured La Lupe recently in a documentary. I missed the only showing because I was in class. And when it was due to air again, my local PBS decided to do a fundraiser instead. I shouted to the tv "I'll give 10 bucks if you put La Lupe on right now!" but they didn't listen to me.

Everyone should check out the website about the show, though. I'm not kidding. La Lupe expresses the pent up rage and passion that so many women carry (or wish they carried) but have trouble releasing. I love La Lupe and, wherever she is right now, she knows it. Bella!

bright idea

2007-06-08T11:46:00.000-04:00

The city decided to install a light on one of the telephone polls behind my ghetto townhome so now I feel like I'm living in some horribly written (and quite boring) noir novel. I like my bedroom to be light. I'm not one of those who needs it so dark I couldn't see if someone was right in front of me. I think I like it with more light because my eyesight is so bad.

Anyhow, now even with the shades drawn, I get these lines of light in the most unique oily-orange yellow shade I've ever seen. I don't know if it's the light's intensity that's disturbing me or that I like the color so much. It makes streaks across the hardwood floors. This with the insomnia (going on 2 months of hard core now) and the cats outside having sex (yes, really), and I could write a B-rated movie in no time. I just need a suspicious character and a cheating spouse (there's a bad joke in there).

I got to touch minerals yesterday in my geology class, which is going much better. The sleepiness hits me at 8:15 and I'm dying through the last 45 minutes. The professor, pretty cool and nerdy, reminds me of someone so I look at him too intently - it's the goatee and bald head. I forget my look can be pretty powerful when I'm actually thinking something.

My mind's not on school yet though - so, while I'm learning I still do the giggles when he talks about the cleavage of a mineral, whether a mineral has "distinct cleavage" or "underdeveloped cleavage". And then there are all the descriptive words for the minerals - greasy, soapy, silky, earthy, resinous. I start drifting - wonder how to describe my own cleavage or someone else's. Reminds me this poetry journal I picked up that ended up with almost a dozen poems with pelvic references (i.e. bowl, bell, box, chalice, door, etc).

We talk about streak - when a mineral is rubbed across unglazed porcelain - how some will leave a line of powder which defines them. Shoot, I know a couple of people who've left their powdery mark on me. God bless them!

So, as you can tell, I'm not concentrating. I'm getting off not just on the suggestive language (all disciplines should start this way as a means to facilitate learning) but to the language itself. No, not writing much... when?

I have the art piece to complete for the Esperanza's Que Queer exhibit that I have to turn in tomorrow and Delhi's birthday hijinks tomorrow. My god, a van full of 6 girls. The giggle vibrations alone could cure carpal tunnel as a form of alternative medicine.

Why do I always get so hot in the summer? It must be my Caribbeanness and all this sun. I must be giving something off too because yesterday some 20 year old asked me to join him for lunch. I was telling Vandi, my gay man husband, and he told me he was jealous of the potential. It's about time. I've been jealous of him for years - able to go to a bath house that doesn't have signs on it that say "Tea Time at 12 and 3 p.m." or "No sex allowed". Mama's hot I guess...

Mi'ja!

2007-06-06T20:23:00.000-04:00

I've made some changes recently. I know I do plenty of griping on these pages. It is an online diary so I have that privilege. BUT, it starts wearing a woman down to just realize how the legislature is fucked up, how local government doesn't listen, how radio stations need to improve as the traffic worsens (I like my ride to be comfortable and interesting and I like to do drag performances to Alicia Keys' music), etc...

All that said, I'm trying for quiet activism. No, I'm not here to support a presidential candidate and I don't have the time for political marches down Congress Ave. to the state capital. I don't have time to pass out safe sex literature and free condoms and gloves through the bars until 2 a.m. I don't even have much time for free graphic design work for area nonprofits like I used to do.

But, I wrote letters to my leg representatives while they were in session. And, despite my earlier discussion about the local blindness of national groups like Family Pride, I submitted a story as a queer family for their "family of the month" media effort. I loved (despite myself) that they included single parents in their questions, that one-parent led families were, in fact, families. On top of that, I served as a interviewee for Rosie Molinary's recent book release, Hijas Americanas: Beauty, Body Image, and Growing Up Latina. More cool that she's set up an interactive blog where you can win books, dialogue with the author, and scope out featured Mi'jas (daughters). Well, I thought, why not enter my info? And, I was chosen!

Click on the pic to see me, featured. Cool, eh?

Strange that I wrote lesbian within it. I guess in thinking of identity that's a more palatable one... but I haven't used that as a marker in a long, long time. Still, I feel fortunate. It's amazing how questions can provoke your thoughts, make you question and reaffirm.

Okay, I'm off. Got writing, got to put the kid down, etc.

fajando con la poesia // fighting with poetry

2007-06-06T15:21:00.000-04:00

I've started reading Edna St. Vincent Millay, a poet whose work I'd actually dismissed on more than one occasion. She's best known for her short, alerting pieces like "First Fig":

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--
It gives a lovely light!

which every high schooler read and said YES! about. I've often critiqued my own work negatively, thinking I spend too much time relating to the home, creating home, etc., while still trying for feminist defining. I have read Millay's work and now find some comfort in knowing she was able to do similar things and to do so successfully. Yes, I'm still on my quest to devote more time to my writing.

I get caught up in doing other things though and if it's at all creative, I lose my ganas for writing. I think that's why I like to be a little pent up too. Have a little denial in my life or someone who tells me no.

But still have freedom. Think polyamorous relationships or open marriages. There might be other options but no amount of meditation will remove that fire from me. I was having a simple coffee yesterday evening with a friend of mine. This was after my first day of class (yawn!) so I was now fully awake - and we talked about how another friend views him as shy, nice, even religious. I laughed because it only takes us minutes each time to start talking about how there's too much fire in the room or how it's sometimes good to stay good friends with an ex (yes, in the biblical sense). More fun is that we have most of our conversations in Spanish and some words differ in meaning between Cuban Spanish and Mexican Spanish.

When we did start talking about our exes, I mentioned always seemed to be in a fight (Siempre estabamos fajando) and he laughed. I realized that fajando meant something totally different for him... something along the lines of what you do after you fight. Either way, ours were physical exchanges...

I got off topic... within one blog entry! My god, my mind is everywhere instead of right here. Alright, so one thing I am aware of and actively trying to develop is less fear in my writing. I want to go all the way. And I mean less fear elsewhere too. Mami 'ta lista!.

seek release/From dusty bondage into luminous air

--Edna St. Vincent Millay

deflated queer pride

2007-06-04T03:44:00.000-04:00

It's Gay Pride Month all over the world.

Locally, all the events can be found listed on the really great online gay news source, Q San Antonio.

Trouble is, I'm just not feeling so gay lately. Too much on my mind? Distracted? (I've used that word A LOT lately). Puede ser.

Side news: I start school on Tuesday. I have told everyone that if I don't pass this class I'm not bothering getting my BA - this is the last class I need. Shit! I have no nails left to chew. If you have some I could nibble on, please come over.

Music news: I now remember why Gladys Knight was and always will be one of my favorites. The woman's wonderful when I'm writing. As a side to this self-reminder, I cleaned up my desk to make it "writer-friendly". Now just to get rid of the new pile of paperwork that somehow ended up on the dining table... I'm going to bed!

new poem : the world should end

2007-06-04T03:27:00.000-04:00

with dough rising in warm bowls, towels holding in the yeasty exhalations of floured mounds

with the oven warming, hands stretching the dough – braiding it as the dough takes it space, rests on baking sheets

in small, walk-through kitchens, the oven waking up the heat in our homes

smelling of salt and water and wheat, warming the air

with butter, pulled from a cool fridge, moistness collecting at the top, the plate cool to the touch, butter knives showing how soft we’ve gotten

at a table full of those we adore, who are here or have already left – the whole house foggy with the steam of fresh bread pulled open by smooth hands

with an offering to the things that made us, the things we have made, the things we were given that brought us here

new poem :: corrections

2007-06-02T04:55:00.001-04:00

corrections

Go where your body and soul want to go.
– Joseph Campbell

In my head last night,
some reclaiming of the history between us

how we walk through our days still asleep,
our bed clothes on, hair in disarray

Sometimes the arms crossed mean cold weather,
at others, the cold look I’ve carried since not hearing from you

Instead, you should be near me –
eyes closed awaiting my kiss

how my face rests against your chest
this daydream of hair
another form of sleepwalking –
making the impossible a thing that can be

sleepwalking teaches:
if I talk to a plant, she quivers in knowing
if I am hurt and someone thinks of me, I feel that love
if, an hour after our last kiss, you are discovered in the distance,
our secret is found out

and the whole of this ground moves into a slight breath
now preciously releasing that moment when one of us turned to the other, realizing

d - r - a - g - o - n days

2007-06-01T15:52:00.000-04:00

I've have the song "dragon days" by alicia keys ruminating the last day or two. Probably because I made fast potential friends with this guy and now haven't talked to him. I tend to get people fired up and may have done this here too. Maybe that's why I stay away from some people sometimes. The soul woken up, brightened, is quickly noticeable to others and, as I learned from a curandera years ago, those things call out others. That calling out isn't always positive but can be expressed through jealousy, anger, corruption, mistrust.

I think I have to much fire in me, in my personality. If I was writing more I might process the flame out of me more easily. Instead, I have the lyrics in my head and they won't leave:

Like a desert needs water
I need you alot
So baby
Dragon days, I need to be saved
I'm missin you
In the day you drag on and on
Don't you wanna play?
D-R-A-G-O-N days
Got me D-R-A-G-G-O-N

Got to put my mind on other things.

I am happy to be leaving on time today. My boss didn't show today so the office was all mine. Cliffy's coming by today for dinner. Delhi has her guitar lesson. Tomorrow I'm going back to the Botero exhibit with Terri. My parent's are doing a cuban-style cookout (black beans and barbeque). It's Friday. I have a dry patch of skin on my left upper arm. I got new shoes. Okay.

dream

2007-05-31T21:32:00.000-04:00

I had a dream Tuesday night that there were two, bulky looking men who handed me a baby to take care of. I realized as they were passing her to me that she was my niece and, in looking at the men, I realized they were police or at least uniformed.

This goes back to my feeling of motherliness. I don't know if the dream is in response to all this feeling (though, who imagines a baby just handed to you?) or if I'm anticipating a possible outcome considering what's going on in their life.

Here's a pic of them. My scanner broke so I took a capture shot from the webcam, hence the strange look.

Cute, no? Mati (Deja Matilda) and my child, Delhi Micaela! Pictures of me in the 1970s look the same!

safe space :: madison, wisconsin // not a safe space :: guantanamo

2007-05-30T23:15:00.000-04:00

I remember a couple of years ago I was invited, along with ten or so other queer activists, to a media training workshop given by a media education group in Madison (pictured). Madison is a super safe space and probably #1 city for lesbian couples. I was able to walk around freely, buy books from one of the oldest feminist bookstores in the country, enjoy a cup of coffee at one of numerous available cafes. It hardly seemed like real life.

We learned how to work with the media, be responsive to queer issues discussed in the media (mainly print), and respond timely with concise information, quotes, stats, etc.

We did a couple of samples together, disciminating a couple of topic points and focused on Guantanamo.

I never spoke up but should have. While the others talked about human rights, Geneva pacts, etc., I thought about how I, as a Cuban American, saw those who were kept at Guantanamo as Cubans. Despite their being from Yemen, Saudi Arabia, Iraq or Afghanistan, I saw them as now under the military thumb of Americans on land that was seized by Americans but that belonged to Cubans and Cuba. How must the Cubans view not just Guantanamo but Guantanamo's new role, new duties?

It hurt me that there were no screaming Cubans outside Guantanamo. It hurt me that I couldn't say anything. I had more than one relative or family friend stay in the prisons of Cuba after the revolution. The desperation they must feel - their lives squandered, military personnel and government officials surrounding them like parasites. My Tio Cheo made it out of the prisons and was one of the Marielitos but he was never the same. He drank himself to near death, smiled a faraway smile sometimes and, in looking at you in the face, would look like he was going to cry. He died of cancer. There's no story in the world out there for him. My grandfather's cousin, Pedro Luis Boitel, was more well known but died during a hunger strike on May 25, 1972. I was not even one year old.

Well, today, another Guantanamo detainee died - killing himself rather than staying there. My god, what possible information could they still be trying to collect after being subjected to mistreatment, forced detainment, and inconsistent protections and legal aid for 5 years! When are they gonna shut this crap down? And I don't just mean the camp but the whole damned base!? The House of Reps is trying to shut the camp now.

I'm really hurting today. I read the news item while at my desk at work earlier today and felt so ridiculous, trying to balance numbers while one man was dying. I keep crying.

did you say mother?

2007-05-29T15:20:00.000-04:00

While SA is known for its #1 murder-suicide rates (ex or lover killing a partner/wife), we may soon have the designation of #1 state for murder-suicides of abusive mothers with children -

One mother hung her babies. Yes, hung them. With rope. In a closet.

Another used a stun gun on hers. Multiple times.

Still another bit her son repeatedly. Gave him black eyes.

My brother was arrested a couple of weeks ago and, despite the bond, was picked up last week because of the warrant out for his arrest - he is already on parole. His daughter, who looks surprisingly like me, is just gorgeous (not just because she looks like me). I wish, considering how he and her mother have been inconsistent, thinking of themselves more, etc, that I could have the baby to raise. I told my mother I would do it without hesitation.

More odd, I've had this incredible mother drive in me lately. I really do want another child. I don't want to have to make it because I think, given my situation, that would be an ego-based decision. Also, I don't think I could handle the physical demand - I had a hard time the last time around. Rather, adopting or being with someone with kids - those are things I'd really like to do.

And while I know there's no way in hell that it's fair to compare mothers, to pit them against each other, I try, harder and harder everyday, to be a damned good mother. At least once a week, someone will look at me with a questioning eye, or ask - outright - if my child is mine or where her father is. My child is getting asked the same question at her school - where, even at age 7 and 8, kids know the difference between "absent father" and "no father".

And for all the heavy-handed queer parenting surveys of the past, one thing is clear - queer parents are raising their children in increasingly diverse settings, teaching them to accept others, to see past preconceived notions and stereotypes. When asked about her father, my child will tell anyone - families come in all shapes and sizes - we just happen to be a small family of two living in a house of love.

No, queer families are not beyond the hideousness that is shown in the media. In fact, queer women/lesbians are made to feel even more responsible for any upbringing that is not excellent (I know - I carry the burden!). But, hopefully, given our attempts and desire to create family - our need to not be alone but to develop community - we may have the kind of support to avoid stories of broken children and broken families. Seems the straights can, once again, learn from us. Lord, let's hope we let them - division only makes for more of the stories linked here.

asleep

2007-05-29T13:21:00.001-04:00

I just realized how truly asleep and bitter I have become - how I do not fight for my freedom. While I can claim awareness and separateness from the way this country works itself into our minds, I am still part of its system. It's distasteful, truly ugly -

"We felt that doing nothing in a period of repressive violence is itself a form of violence. That's really the part that I think is the hardest for people to understand. If you sit in your house, live your white life and go to your white job, and allow the country that you live in to murder people and to commit genocide, and you sit there and you don't do anything about it, that's violence." - Naomi Jaffe

How do I take part, really take part, in no longer being a silent participant in all the hate, this war, the terrorist economy?

Cindy Sheehan has quit her activism, begun in 2005 after her son's death while serving in the military. The recent vote allowing for more funding and no deadlines for Iraq did it to her. It took her a lot to give up. She had all kind of poeple on her side but, instead of realizing that she was working within the dichotomy provided by our government (reps vs. dems, soldier supporters vs. war haters, etc.), she grew frustrated. Not to say that she wouldn't have grown frustrated if she'd taken steps outside of these spaces, but she might have felt as though she was really reaching something. Instead, Cindy discovered a movement "that often puts personal egos above peace and human life."

No surprise. Most of my activism work has revealed that ugly truth. It was just a month ago that I got this forward in an email about a supposedly great article about liberation - i clicked away only to see my ex supervisor from allgo talking what he used to always talked while he stuffed his mouth with tacos and mexican cokes - but there was little movement.

I'll be open to say that I didn't care for Cindy's "insider" view - that she was devasted that her son entered a war neither of them supported but couldn't change his opinion or his reasoning - sometimes saying nothing implies support - or that she thought she could work within the system because she was an average American mom (make note Americans - your voice is no stronger than anyone elses' in this place) - but I know the hurt when you discover those who were on your side were not really on your side or worse, are with you only while your face is sweet and your mouth is using the same language they would have you use.

Pobrecita - her struggle is not just the struggle of being an activist in a fucked up system - it's the struggle of what a mother has to do in order to grieve for her son. She should not have felt so alone in either of these processes.

parenting/mothering - can you feel the madness already?

2007-05-25T12:18:00.001-04:00

I have been debating writing articles again - I did so years ago in alternative monthlies, etc. and got into trouble for my big mouth. Still, I loved the rush of having to cement your thoughts, back them up - who likes a blowhard at the bus stop who is telling you that the economy is not in recession? Give me facts, brother!

So, in looking at all of my areas of expertise, I realized that one, I don't know anything and 2, I have an inappropriate crush on (adult) Hillary Duff and I get to see lots of her while my child is, like a drug fiend, turning on the tv constantly to catch "just a few minutes!" of the Disney Channel.

Yes, I've had a hard time focusing lately - but this did remind me that I am a pretty interesting parent. I think there are a lot of artsy-new world parents out there whose kids are exceptional, charming and already activists, artists, orators. So, why not write about parenting, mothering specifically I suppose since I am a mother - though I do like being labeled a parent instead. "Mother" seems to imply ownership or rights to another individual - hardly fair to tie someone down, no?

And I'm not saying here that I'm a great parent - just an interesting one. Those who've taken on parenting (no, not just those who've made kids) all know we have our moments where you really want to go to the bathroom not to pee but to get away for a few minutes!

Coincidently, I came across NY Times columnist Judith Warner's blog. Pretty cool and she is level headed. I like that she proposes her own questions and assumptions and expands and answers these. Check it out for yourself.

Also good, scope out this she recently said:

I think we can learn that families need, in a very concrete way, to be supported – not through nice phrases about “family values” or “valuing motherhood,” but through measures that make life more affordable and less scary. We mothers need to feel that we are not essentially on our own in dealing with and caring for our children. We need institutions we can trust – from pediatric care practices on up through good day care and public schools. We need political leadership to develop incentives to make companies more responsive to families’ scheduling needs. We need, as a nation, to put our money where our mouth is on family values.

Boy, am I living this realization.

corrections

2007-05-24T13:20:00.000-04:00

I have two ideas in my head regarding Cliffy:

1. I was so wrong to ask for my house key. I can trust her - she's not the kind to go to my house without first calling to make sure - and i do still care for her tremendously. she's always got something going on with family or work and just can't give a lot of time.

or,
2. My house key floating around with her is a symbol of my heart out there, exposed. I can trust her with my home but not with my heart. I love her but we have never been something that she could manage and I realize I can't either.

So, she leaves me a message to say that she has a lot going on but then cuts herself off to tell me that I don't want to hear it. That hurts because it's untrue.

So I'm having these pieces of conversation with friends and we talk about the hurt that stops us from really enjoying ourselves, even stops us for allowing another person to enjoy us. In doing cleanup on the blog, I went through some entries from after my breakup with Ya Vez and, despite all the turmoil, I was happy to hear the young voice that was ready for the next step, for the future.

Eddie had said my voice changed. Maybe the bulk of this change happened with Cliffy. Our relationship struck me deeply and wasn't ever clean or smooth, despite our outward appearances. Ya Vez was intense and she really screwed me up but I came out of that fire reborn - a phoenix truly. I find myself still struggling a little, acting out my life and developing goals because I'm hoping some part of me will wake up and complete those things I know I want to accomplish. I felt horrible having to tell Cliffy that she was so far away from me. I've had some conversations with strangers in the last few days that have, whether by phone or in person, been so close. But, I remember Cliffy's slow withdrawal. How she could be sitting two feet from me and not be there.

I started a poem in my head last night, "corrections", that put these somnambulistic ideas to the forefront, that talked about the energy of arms crossed, the intent on our faces and in our bodies, the way someone closes their eyes while waiting for a kiss - that trust. The way a face may rest at someone's chest. Somnambulistic because we so often sleepwalk through our lives. I'm not necessarily pagan or wiccan but know that everything carries its distinct energy and, in bringing things together, energies are heightened. Like talking to plants, praying for someone miles and miles away, believing you are not alone.

que queer

2007-05-22T16:11:00.001-04:00

I'm developing a piece for the Esperanza P&J Center's call for submissions for Que Queer, a art exhibit for queer/trans/2spirit/etc to be displayed during gay pride month.

I thought about it for 2 weeks and really wanted to do something but didn't really feel the ganas. Then, in cleaning up my room and storing winter things, I found these bits and pieces of cards, notes, reminders, etc of my ill fated-much emoted relationship with Cliffy.

So, I'm working on a piece and have 3 days to complete it. Crazy, no? Ay, why not.

Cliffy and I were disasterous and wonderful and she always, always made me want to write.

mea culpa - refusing mimetic expectations of behavior... or, I've been a very bad girl

2007-05-22T12:14:00.001-04:00

In my search for obscure texts to stimulate my writing, I came across the philosophy behind generative anthropology.

This ability to make meanings, this mimesis, makes us learn from others in order to remove that source of learning as a threat or to redefine that source. If that's the case, for philosophers working in generative anthropology, Western Culture might be seen as the ultimate example (i.e. "melting pot"), taking ideas from the individuals present, consuming them and regurgitating a new, clean version, sometimes without the persons present.

In some ways, in dealing with an issue with my daughter, I directly think of what my mother did and, adding some of my ideals and the feminist liberal thinking I brainwash into my daughter, inevitably do something near opposite my mother's example.

I love this idea, even if it seems to argue with itself - isn't activism a constant revolution in the mind, where we live in the world of dominance but end up tearing it away? I suppose I could go Audre Lorde here and say we cannot tear down the master's house with his tools, but there is something in Plato's idea that poets don't tell truths, they are guided by madness, inspiration (when we are lucky) - they reorganize mimetic ideas to retell, redefine what is viewed. Well, maybe he just didn't like poets - he did place philosophers as the highest ranking citizens. Hmmm.

I am saying all this, and its in my mind because I've been trying to write about the politics, around food sources, energy sources, individuals, etc - but hate that I always seem to write better when I'm getting laid. How high-minded is that? It's like I can't focus - my mind so busy I need something to just settle me down.

I have been reading the santeria stories of Oya. I'm still working on that play in poem form and came across one where Yemaya (orisha of the ocean, mother) tricked Oya (orisha of the cemetary, warrior, lover) into trading her the ocean for the cemetary. Oya, angry over being tricked, still ended up in charge of the winds, of abrupt change, of fire and earth and renewal.

I like staying in that space. It allows me to trick myself into writing and, if I fail and just get laid instead, it allows me to find the power through that doorway. No guilt here. Guilt implies conflict and, if I am creating, there is no conflict, only joy. Sheer, immense joy at accessing freedom.

new shoes

2007-05-21T04:02:00.000-04:00

I am feeling a little like this today:

all glittery and frosting, tired but chipper. mm hmm.

poem fragment : untitled

2007-05-21T01:33:00.000-04:00

Considering I haven't written in about 3 weeks, I am submitting my humble effort, completed today, while listening to Delhi and Roberto during the guitar lesson. Oh, I did have "Cry me a river" by Julie London (meow!) on my mind.

places for palm rests

loosened shoulders

feet up

we can say all we want -

that the person we love

is our home

but where do we put our dirty dishes?

not my best, so to make up for it here's some gorgeous fotos of Julie London.

town? hall? meeting?

2007-05-18T12:10:00.001-04:00

Well, if you think of townhall meetings there are usually a bunch of riled-up people in attendance who are ready to have their voice heard. I was thinking Harper Valley PTA.

Alas, what I attended the other night was not a townhall meeting. It was an information session, complete with opportunities to pick up information at the front table, opportunities to join stonewall and/or new era democrat organizations and, of course, opportunities to give money in support.

I think money should be given to those things we believe in. I think people who have money don't give enough and those who don't have a lot tend to give more than they should, especially since these organizations don't go out of their way to recognize those who are working class, queer (not lgbt or some other alphabet representation) and/or aren't american citizens.

The audience was given the opportunity to ask questions at the end of 1 1/2 hours of tedious discussion about what each organization does and who they represent (well, everyone, of course!). Thank God, they sometimes remembered why we had all gathered and actually gave some information about the bills.

Also cute was that Paul Scott, Executive Director of Equality Texas, in seeing children at the event and in pulling a sympathy card (1 stone => 2 birds), talked about the changes in child protective services that were set to happen LAST year.

Oh, but back to the questions - we were allowed to ask 3 questions total and I, of course, submitted one that was glossed over, something along the lines of "why is it that, within media directed to and for queers, organizations like yours look for "normalized" versions of queers, i.e. partnered, middle class, American citizens. What is your organization doing to address the needs of those outside of this realm, who will be most affected by the upcoming laws?

And Paul Scott talked about how "we haven't done enough in communities of color" same as Randall Ellis used to say "we need to do more work with people of color" except Randall was attractive to men of color (just ask Vandi!) and seemed to get it, even if he didn't know how to get into poc communities. Then Paul Scott decided to talk about transwomen inclusion, sidestepping his apologetic and well-intentioned sentence about poc. Yes, the trans group in Austin was right in protesting LGRL's standards at the time but one minority as an example for another isn't an easy alternative. Both have their own unique issues.

The guy from HRC didn't say much beyond Paul Scott, except to say that his organization is viewed as white, upper middle class men who like to go out - and then he didn't quite refute it. Well, I suppose, since he was Latino, he refuted part of it.

I won't even comment on the whole Democrat representation because not one but two democratic organizations were present, assuming we will all sheepishly vote that way. I suppose I shouldn't get angry anymore - I don't have the typical mindset and there is no way that someone with my kind of lip will ever make it to that kind of stage.

Onto better things... It's Friday!

blindness

2007-05-17T22:18:00.000-04:00

I'm parking at Crossroads Park & Ride lately. The good: I'm saving gas - this is especially good since I recently saw an executive from one of the oil companies excusing every "presumption" the American consumer has about oil production and the reason for increasing gas prices. I was actually convinced for a moment - I was coaxed in by his answers that seemed to make sense. I mean, sure, why not dig deeper, open up Alaska more, for more opportunities? And of course he is for alternative fuel but he makes sense when he says that corn isn't the answer because it's a food source and that can go to people! I just don't feel qualified enough about the history around this but I need to be. It's ridiculous to me that I don't have the information I need to either really agree with him or be able to refute him.

The bad of the park and ride: having to wait for the ONE bus that comes every 1/2 hour of so that goes from UTSA (my current income source) to the park and ride. I'm not a patient woman so I work late to get to the bus stop 2 minutes before the bus is supposed to arrive only to have to wait 10 more minutes. I haven't been doing my yoga or breathing lately, or writing consistently! so, I have been a little ansy.

Another plus side: I've been reading books on the ride up and down to the University. I just finished Blindness by Jose Saramago. It took me a while to get into it, then I was completely engrossed and disgusted, then I didn't want to read any more of it, and then I was glad it was done. What turmoil! I need a light comedy after that book! The story goes that this white blindness takes over a country, leaving everyone without vision while the country stops production, falls into anarchy and its citizens become less and less human. It's a macabre work, almost as emotion producing as when you truly learn of destruction (9/11, Darfur) and see it. I haven't had a book affect me that way in awhile but alternative realities and science fiction have their base in truth and theory, in probable outcomes when looking at the world right now - and that is scary enough.

I think, as a writer, it's curious that the book shows a writer who, with blank paper and a ball point pen, manages to write his and his family's story, despite blindness, and likes ballpoint pens because he can feel where the marks are. It is also sad that he quietly dismisses his own story as not as valuable as that of the main narrator and the group of people she is saving because the narrator is the one person who can still see and, among her group, are those who were the first to be blinded.

More later. I'm still processing.

ah, parenting, the lege and media for the single queer mother

2007-05-16T14:37:00.000-04:00

Almost a year ago I went to a gathering Family Pride put together with Equality Texas. It was a media training meant to inform queer parents on how to deal with the media but, more than that, it was an opportunity to have the organizations meet would be queer media darlings for future stories.

At one point one of the Equality Texas staff (nameless) suggested my daughter and I could be on the cover of any number of pamphlets they had which shows a rainbow of faces, with pairs of adults and one or more children all around. I haven't gotten that call. I don't fit the preferred mold of queer parent: two, intelligent (possibly educated) adults in a committed relationship for 5 of more years, with kids (bi-racial or opposite gender from the parents is the best!) who happen to have a huge back yard with oak trees and a dog.

Talk about minority in a minority in a minority.

So, I get emails from Family Pride regularly. They are numbered to show the 52 things I can do to be an out and proud family. And I got one, sometimes two, emails a day awhile back when Kevin Bacon was "challenging" us to give money to this national organization. But I didn't get an email telling me they were having a coloring contest where children could draw their family and say why they loved their family. Well, that contest has ended and here are the winners. Of course, everyone is paired up. Are there no single queer parents out there?

Equality is no better. I would love to support them but with brunch fundraisers costing $75 minimum per person and not even a reduced amount for children (do we not have children?), it would be $150 just for me to watch my daughter play with the scrambled eggs with her fork and sneak the 3rd waffle so that later I'm cursing the maple syrup high she would walk out with.

I have to hand it to them, though. Initial emails from "friends of Equality Texas" didn't give prices and I actually debated going and realized that if I had to go 3 pages into a website to get the price for this brunch I could not afford it. Those guys at ET really have earned their degrees in media presentation, I'm telling you.

I'm going to a LGBT Legislative Townhall tonight to see the latest on some of lege work that may affect queers in Texas and the US.

Among them:

Before Congress
The Hate Crimes bill
The Employment Non-Discrimination Act
"Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell" repeal

Before Texas lege
Hate Crimes bill
Insurance Nondiscrimination
Student Harassment Bill
Foster Children’s Bill of Rights
CPS reform

It's gonna be a fun night.

happy mother's day

2007-05-09T16:02:00.000-04:00

I got this card from mothers rising: http://www.momsrising.org/motherecard/

I spent last night running around. I developed a tremendous migraine on the way home and ended up sitting in the car for a few minutes with the air conditioner blowing on high right into my face.

Once that left, I had a good time with Delhi. She was in trouble with me earlier in the week for stealing my cell phone (a sign of the more difficult things that will come). We drove around looking at rental properties and making comments. Then I went home and cleaned up the house.

I'm feeling like my foundation's a little uneasy this week. It doesn't help I've not slept more than 4 hours in the last two weeks. It really doesn't help that my mother keeps putting this mini crisis about my niece in my lap or that she's being super controlling.

I hate that the city, long known for recognizing the needs of youth and admitting they have to address them, cannot offer true alternatives to after school care and summer care for kids. Maybe then I wouldn't have to hear from my mother that if I move 2 miles further and Delhi's school is further she wouldn't be happy to pick her up. I completely appreciate her help with my daughter. And I was super stoked to be able to help her with her car when she needed it - I don't often get the chance to help her, but I don't understand why driving a little more is that big a deal, and why she can't see how a move would be an improvement for me and for the little one. I mean, saving money and being in a safer neighborhood would be great, the chance of Delhi liking her school would be even greater.

So I find myself more than naturally upset that, for the things I want to accomplish, there aren't many resources available. How am I to work a full time job to support my child but not have adequate funding or spaces for quality child care? When I found out I was pregnant I went on assistance (food stamps, TANF, and child care assistance) for 3 months and was on WIC for a year. I needed the temporary support and it was helpful. My next job paid too much and I really was okay without the additional help. It's unfortunately, however, that unless you are without adequate income you can't find alternate ways of supporting. And I'm not exactly living in a co-op friendly city or I would see how to encompass alternative parenting circles so that my daughter could enjoy other children and parents can support each other.

I had a dream a couple of days ago that I was looking for a large home to rent with a couple and their kids. It seemed perfect. There was always someone to play with Delhi, I could cook and have people enjoy it (delhi's not a big veggie fan) and have other things taken care of and we were building community. It's a slow process, I suppose, building that trust and not giving a shit about what people on the outside might call you. I'm tired though. Just plain tired.

I think that the country needs to have done more to support women than just have it recognized by some male president and co-opted by consumerist culture. Oh, Anne Jarvis, where have we gone wrong?

just like Bobo...

2007-05-04T13:24:00.000-04:00

man, my grandfather was like no one else. this week my mother's car was being repaired (still!) from the accident she had in november. there was one part that's held the repair techs up so all week I've dropped off the tiger, picked my my mom (the lion), and drove to the park and ride to take the bus to work, leaving my mom with the car for her work.

it's actually been nice, a new morning ritual away from the routine, and i've been able to hear all kinds of stories.

i got a new cell phone because the cricket plan I was on estaba narajas girl so. the little one was desperate to have the phone, I suspect to call me to just say hi, and she took with her to school today. i called it just to be trouble but had put the ringer really low so she didn't hear it. so this morning, because she slept at my mom's i had to pick them both up and take myself to the park and ride first (with one bus, I'm 15 minutes late - the bus before gets me there 30 early!) then my mother was going to take my daughter to school. we told her that she might be late.

well, as soon as I was dropped off, my daughter pulled the cell phone and told my mother the time continually. I left a message at my mother's work to see how they got along this morning and my mother wrote:

i just got your message, she got off fine, in a hurry and reading the time off of the the dammed cell phone every three seconds and telling me what time it was. she wanted to know why we didn't take her first, i told her that it wasn't just about her, if you missed the bus, i would have to take you all the way out there and if i had an accident because of her rushing me she would probably be two hours late because it takes the police that long to get there. she finally put the phone away and didn't give me the time anymore. god, she's just like bobo.

I've been hearing family stories all week because of the time we are spending together. including stories about Bobo, my grandfather and mother's father. I've also been hearing how the Cuban parenting method endeavors, despite distance to culture and family - my cousin, with 3 of her own, recently overhead her youngest (4 years old) tell one of his brother's friends (at 15 years old) that he was going to set his ass on fire.

Seems like the less Cuban is in the kid, the more they express it.

hair

2007-04-29T18:37:00.000-04:00

ya soy blondie. i cried after I left the hair dresser's yesterday. I washed it because they put so much shit in it I could have played the terminator on television - fui indestructible - la mujer was so trying to hit the street to go to the last days of (insert holiday with racist history background and a money-maker for a city with little permanent, foundational income) Fiesta!

My mother wanted to see it but I didn't want to go out of the house and she ended up coming over. Cliffy was there and told me she liked it. When my mom arrived, she loved it and said I was guera and could do that - I don't know about that - I told her I was yellow. Rudy/Vandi loved it. I told him I looked trashy and he said "exactly!" as a positive thing. My mother asked me what he'd said and when I told her he said it looked slutty, she agreed in a positive way. Mierda.

La Vandi hits the town! - que caprichosa

2007-04-29T18:12:00.000-04:00

My baby, Vandi/Rudy, came into town last night with no notice. The cosmos was working for both of us as he decided he would put aside sleep (he had to be at work at 7 a.m. this morning!) and I, by some miracle, had the little one at my mom's house.

I was in love again. I'd missed my man. We had such good times while at allgo. He is one of the few things that made that experience worth it. And he was looking good! We laughed when this one man was burning a hole into him and, two minutes later, that man's boyfriend comes back from wherever to stand next to the burner.

Then Rudy met potential husband material at the 2015. I got to see Giovanni and John and Terry, surprisingly, showed - she's already had a full day. Then we went driving around to find the bathhouses (which always make me jealous) and then ended up at IHOP, where we made the server giggle - she was getting orders wrong. Man, it was nice to have a little freedom!

I couldn't wind down, stayed up until 5:30 then crashed. Now I'm thinking it's 1 pm. and it's almost 6 in the evening!

Damned, I missed my Vandi!

Pilon: He brought me my (acquired) print of "El Tacon", part of a loteria series allgo did that shows a huge drag-sized red sequined high heel. Beautiful.

new poem : flood

2007-04-27T11:16:00.000-04:00

New for me, I've started using visual work as an activator for my writing. They serve as exercises to get me writing if I don't have a set idea when I sit down. I've always used music but haven't found a lot lately that motivates me (though Robin Thicke, Rob Thomas and Mary J. Blige do now have my head).

With that said, I thought I'd share a poem I wrote last night along with the work, by Eric Drooker, which motivated me.

Flood

They sicken of the calm, who know the storm. --Dorothy Parker

1.
I am in my work, joyous
when the ghost of our lives together
returns

I turn, not knowing who would tap my shoulder just then
and I cannot say enough - please, I cannot go

easier to force myself out of sleep,
even refuse it in the days that follow

than to return to that moment
and give my back to the possibility

2.
I am disrespectful of borrowed things,
turn library book pages into dog ears

the pages are full of art - if they are
good works they understand:

a painter hears something,
puts those words into images

I am to remind -
the colored canvas, the book itself
they must not just speak, they must also listen

3.
glittered sand left on the stairs, on the bed
you leave these markers everywhere

on the day of the largest tornados in 50 years,
that ribbon of water between two countries

chortles - there should be no fear
those who've passed the water know already

you cannot sleep: this is nothing
the flood is still a long way coming

2007-04-27T10:26:00.000-04:00

I love Paulo Coelho's work and found, recently, that I actually like the man too (at least what's present in his blog - I know that blogs don't reveal everything!).

He's brave enough to put the first few chapters of his new book, The Witch of Portobello, online. Bold too, to state his personal goals. Despite a new book coming out, the demand of his time that will follow and the journey each new book brings, his is making himself new:

Time and life have changed everything into something perfectly understandable – and I need mystery... I want to fill my life again with fantasy, because an angry god is far more curious, frightening and interesting than a phenomenon of physics.

And finally, let me look at myself... I shall remain what I am and what I like to be, a constant surprise to myself. This I who was not created by my father or by my mother, nor by my school, but by all that I have lived so far - suddenly I forgot and am discovering it all over again.

I am at that cusp. Perhaps we all are. I had a great day yesterday. I saw an old friend yesterday. We went out (if you could call it that) about ten years ago. To be again face-to-face with myself at 25 was interesting. I remember that time as the first year I committed myself to writing, recognizing the importance, a la William Carlos Williams, of what is found in poetry/what it can provide. My friend told me my voice had changed, that when I'd left a voice message saying "It's me, ..." at first he didn't know who the "me" was. I liked that there was some marker to show my growth. Voice is incredibly important to me as someone who reads her work aloud.

God, I also remember those as the first years I actually let myself open up emotionally. I did it in a retarded way (still do!) - going back and forth, not trusting what I was sensing, opening up too late or being naive in the wrong places, hard in the wrong moments.

I also got to talk on the phone with my Rudy, cabroncito de east osten. He's doing well and we are going to go out next week for drinks, some catching up time. I told him he was going to have to find someone to spank me because I have so wound up! Oh, but that's another topic all together... Rudy's great. He's such a wonderful spirit and, with most everything that doesn't turn out, he will tell me "ah, it's alright girl. don't worry about it" and he means it. With Rudy it's not about washing hands or forgiving/forgetting or karma. It's about moving on/beyond.

What a great opportunity Coelho presents - it reminds me of a time with Cliffy, when we (or just me?) were transforming, initially for the best : "Ourselves but not ourselves - so much more."

one dream from RGV

2007-04-24T13:56:00.000-04:00

I am feeling a little ghostly today. Have been feeling that way since Sunday really. Visiting Gloria's grave took more out of me than I realized. Delhi even asked me if I was sad. I guess it was obvious I wasn't in the good mood I'd been in earlier.

Saturday night I had a dream I was helping this guy put together a poetry gathering and we were working on publishing a book. It was good work. It felt solid. You know how good it feels to be productive and nothing be in your way.

Out of nowhere this wave of sadness hit me and I felt like I was being called from San Anto. I didn't know if it was something about my family or Cliffy or my own life now or what. I just didn't like the overwhelming feeling. It scared me. And since that dream I have been upset on a number of levels:

- that I feel held back by family and by those who won't express themselves openly
- that I feel that incredible guilt to stay here despite my desire for continued growth
- that those who are holding me are or have been held back to and I want to show understanding but instead I carry some anger

there are other things - I'm having a hard time verbalizing it. All I know if that the anger, frustration and sadness that I felt in that dream was so profound (like a dark ocean wave thirty feet over my head) and so unexpected it seemed to call me - I remember gesturing to my work, to show how busy and happy I was in all of it. As though get it to understand I was in a good place. I woke up right then so I obviously didn't win that argument.

peppery

2007-04-23T15:11:00.000-04:00

I had some powerful dreams while in RGV this weekend. I'm still processing all the info too - it's madness.

I will add these in, and a description of some of what I did while in Edinburg et al as I can.

I did find out I am allergic to pepper so I am still feeling the sleepiness and puffiness of that confirmation. It's too bad, too. I don't always like beef jerky but this one was super peppery!