On the way to work, listening to Akon and Young Jeezy, I realized I wore a skirt in high school: in 10th grade and for the graduation ceremony. Both of them green. Just to clarify - 5th grade wasn't the last time I'd worn one.
I miss Cliffy today. Have kept myself busy but still feel it. Maybe it's because I could imagine her hands up into my skirt. Maybe because I think she would have liked living here instead - that we could have made a go at it and things would have been good since we'd still visit Austin plenty and she'd be able to see her family more.
In looking for places to live, there were a couple of really great spaces not too far from her mother.
Argh! I need to pull this stuff of Cliffy out of me. It feels like I'm full of deep ocean water and reminders of her are small pieces of paper floating on the top. They cling to me but can't necessarily be cupped out.
Showing posts with label ocean. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ocean. Show all posts
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
throwing it in the ocean
I have this short poem I wrote for the manuscript. I thought I'd put it here.
the coffee press
over cafe con leche and pan tostado
Pipo would tell me
throw everything to the ocean
each time he moved
all that came along was the coffee press,
seersucker suit and white loafers
two and a half years later, I am still in boxes,
holding close only the mortar and pestle he gave me
in each move, less and less goes in boxes
the ocean is always swallowing us, Pipo says,
returning only the necessary
I had jury duty today and thought, since I was downtown, I would leave this shirt I had recreated for Cliffy at her work. I didn't want to see her. The last words she told me, right outside my door, was that she'd call me. No call yet. I don't know what I would tell her if she did call.
Still, I didn't know how to get this shirt to her without having to see her. I was presuming she wasn't going to want to see me anyhow. All the signs told me not to bother. I mean, on the highway back toward town there was a huge recliner on the highway blocking my way. As I got a block away from the day care she works at my radio started buzzing in and out like some magnetic freakout then, just as the light on Trinity and Cesar turned green, the car ahead of me went and, defying the lights, this truck barreled into it right in front of me. It had taken the red light on the cross-street. Majorly fucked up scene.
I drove past the back entrance of her job and had to back up because all I wanted was to find her car and hook her shirt on the it somehow. I couldn't find it but a woman was just walking into the day care's gate and I called out to her and asked her to give it to Cliffy. She told me that Cliffy was actually watching her class then so she could give it to her right away.
So, I was happy to at least not see Cliffy directly. My mother told me to just throw the shirt away. Another friend told me that it was a good shirt and I should just keep it. I was true to myself in that I wasn't giving her the shirt in order to see her again or be near her. Rather, it was important to me to complete the promise I'd made to recreate her shirt for her in the way she wanted. I didn't realize until now, writing this, that I might be doing it in reaction to Cliffy's not keeping her promise.
I'm still not feeling well and this kind of action just tells me I'm still reactive instead of proactive. In many ways, I feel like bringing everyone down a peg, calling them on their shit. I feel like fighting.
Krissy told me yesterday, in our time together, that I was like a mama leopard, some big cat, who was napping. I was loving and warm but everyone should know not to agitate me. This cat's awake today - and not liking what she sees.
the coffee press
over cafe con leche and pan tostado
Pipo would tell me
throw everything to the ocean
each time he moved
all that came along was the coffee press,
seersucker suit and white loafers
two and a half years later, I am still in boxes,
holding close only the mortar and pestle he gave me
in each move, less and less goes in boxes
the ocean is always swallowing us, Pipo says,
returning only the necessary
I had jury duty today and thought, since I was downtown, I would leave this shirt I had recreated for Cliffy at her work. I didn't want to see her. The last words she told me, right outside my door, was that she'd call me. No call yet. I don't know what I would tell her if she did call.
Still, I didn't know how to get this shirt to her without having to see her. I was presuming she wasn't going to want to see me anyhow. All the signs told me not to bother. I mean, on the highway back toward town there was a huge recliner on the highway blocking my way. As I got a block away from the day care she works at my radio started buzzing in and out like some magnetic freakout then, just as the light on Trinity and Cesar turned green, the car ahead of me went and, defying the lights, this truck barreled into it right in front of me. It had taken the red light on the cross-street. Majorly fucked up scene.
I drove past the back entrance of her job and had to back up because all I wanted was to find her car and hook her shirt on the it somehow. I couldn't find it but a woman was just walking into the day care's gate and I called out to her and asked her to give it to Cliffy. She told me that Cliffy was actually watching her class then so she could give it to her right away.
So, I was happy to at least not see Cliffy directly. My mother told me to just throw the shirt away. Another friend told me that it was a good shirt and I should just keep it. I was true to myself in that I wasn't giving her the shirt in order to see her again or be near her. Rather, it was important to me to complete the promise I'd made to recreate her shirt for her in the way she wanted. I didn't realize until now, writing this, that I might be doing it in reaction to Cliffy's not keeping her promise.
I'm still not feeling well and this kind of action just tells me I'm still reactive instead of proactive. In many ways, I feel like bringing everyone down a peg, calling them on their shit. I feel like fighting.
Krissy told me yesterday, in our time together, that I was like a mama leopard, some big cat, who was napping. I was loving and warm but everyone should know not to agitate me. This cat's awake today - and not liking what she sees.
Saturday, August 06, 2005
cansada
estoy cansada ya de cajas!
on the plus side, I'm having zen moments where I realize I don't need anything.
My grandfather once moved to Texas, despite hating it, because he got in an argument with my aunt. Several months later, he bought a ticket to visit Florida and my mother, as a surprise to him, was going to clean his apartment while he was away.
She noticed two things were gone and knew that he was moving back - the blender and the coffee press.
She called him and said "You staying? What do you want me to do with your stuff?" To which he said "Tiralo al mar." She retorted, "The ocean here is 3 1/2 hours away."
He didn't care about stuff - just wanted to be where he felt the urge to be.
on the plus side, I'm having zen moments where I realize I don't need anything.
My grandfather once moved to Texas, despite hating it, because he got in an argument with my aunt. Several months later, he bought a ticket to visit Florida and my mother, as a surprise to him, was going to clean his apartment while he was away.
She noticed two things were gone and knew that he was moving back - the blender and the coffee press.
She called him and said "You staying? What do you want me to do with your stuff?" To which he said "Tiralo al mar." She retorted, "The ocean here is 3 1/2 hours away."
He didn't care about stuff - just wanted to be where he felt the urge to be.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
the ocean sends her hello - and with her plenty of change
mmm mmm mmmhh
I got home Sunday evening and unpacked my bags, left huge piles of California all over the living room and washed all my clothes. I took a shower and washed all the rest of the California air and smell away. Tangible stuff washes out anyway.
The coordinator for the VONA writing sessions, Diem Jones, sent an email today to close our time at VONA, reiterating what he'd said when we closed the session on Saturday morning : our lives would be different now. He spoke not just as people of color moving back into a white-dominant world but artists moving back to a world often without creativity/appreciation.
He spoke of attendees of the past who've changed their lives once they've gone to VONA, moving away from home or to the San Francisco area, completing manuscripts, separating themselves from people or things that didn't support them, finding new partners.
I cannot wash off the beauty of the women in my writing group : Robyn, Teri, Onome, Spenta. All incredibly talented and with such a bright light in their faces. They are powerful.
I'm electric. Thinking again about how I ended up in Willie's class by some misguided luck due to electronic communication (Eleggua handles this, no? The orisha of communication and open doors knowing I needed a self-test...), I cannot imagine another way now of having my writing come together. When I typed out a couple of the poems I'd written throughout my week at VONA, I could feel my mind recalling the different ways to set a poem on the page, considered word choice, included concrete images and figurative language. All conscious choices. The act of writing, however, was collective memory tapping my temples. Damned, I didn't know how incredible it could feel to be harnassing some bull of an idea and know that, all along, the creature was lovingly waiting for me to see it.
I got home Sunday evening and unpacked my bags, left huge piles of California all over the living room and washed all my clothes. I took a shower and washed all the rest of the California air and smell away. Tangible stuff washes out anyway.
The coordinator for the VONA writing sessions, Diem Jones, sent an email today to close our time at VONA, reiterating what he'd said when we closed the session on Saturday morning : our lives would be different now. He spoke not just as people of color moving back into a white-dominant world but artists moving back to a world often without creativity/appreciation.
He spoke of attendees of the past who've changed their lives once they've gone to VONA, moving away from home or to the San Francisco area, completing manuscripts, separating themselves from people or things that didn't support them, finding new partners.
I cannot wash off the beauty of the women in my writing group : Robyn, Teri, Onome, Spenta. All incredibly talented and with such a bright light in their faces. They are powerful.
I'm electric. Thinking again about how I ended up in Willie's class by some misguided luck due to electronic communication (Eleggua handles this, no? The orisha of communication and open doors knowing I needed a self-test...), I cannot imagine another way now of having my writing come together. When I typed out a couple of the poems I'd written throughout my week at VONA, I could feel my mind recalling the different ways to set a poem on the page, considered word choice, included concrete images and figurative language. All conscious choices. The act of writing, however, was collective memory tapping my temples. Damned, I didn't know how incredible it could feel to be harnassing some bull of an idea and know that, all along, the creature was lovingly waiting for me to see it.
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