Blazed by
chalk-board-erased
yellow curbs
and cloudsun mirror effect
hovered over by
mini-miniscule
treeitos y cenaitas,
they carry on from that
stepped on and run over possibility
to their crumb by crumbsoil
multi-passagewayed; multi-bodied
mansion
that I managed
to step on
while trying to get a better view
of perceived perfection
off in the distance.
It is no wonder in retalliation
and groupself over-worked protection
they swarmed insecondly;
and bit.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Shells
Shells
Remembered landscapes are left in me
The way a bee leaves a sting,
Hopelessly, passion placed, ….
All forms of landscape are autobiographical.
Charles Wright – “All Landscape is Abstract and Tends to Repeat Itself.”
I watch the tortoise on the television
with the surrounded-by-supposed-slum family
that I am living with now.
on the TV we see:
Hanging cliffs
taunted by tempting to conquer
to be conquered waves
boiled by angry lava rivers
expulsed by volcanoes
no longer able to keep it inside.
My treated like temporary sister says:
“That is the tortoise’s way to
Protect himself,
he hides under his shell.”
We shes could not help but agree.
I look outside;
it is bright and has been half the day.
Once and nine tenths again,
the sun re-introduces its beauty
from behind the clouds
making the thanks-to-the
too- much-rain
green grass
shine
and the aluminum,
can’t-keep-water-out
roofs glisten
like stones guiding
giants up this river hillmountain
that I find myself living on.
Children are out,
and one carries a turquoise toy
tortoise car up the hill
another runs a got-more-life-in- it
bike tire
down the rollercoaster road.
When too much rain shifted mud, cracking houses,
Shes did more than just pe(e)ck.
Remembered landscapes are left in me
The way a bee leaves a sting,
Hopelessly, passion placed, ….
All forms of landscape are autobiographical.
Charles Wright – “All Landscape is Abstract and Tends to Repeat Itself.”
I watch the tortoise on the television
with the surrounded-by-supposed-slum family
that I am living with now.
on the TV we see:
Hanging cliffs
taunted by tempting to conquer
to be conquered waves
boiled by angry lava rivers
expulsed by volcanoes
no longer able to keep it inside.
My treated like temporary sister says:
“That is the tortoise’s way to
Protect himself,
he hides under his shell.”
We shes could not help but agree.
I look outside;
it is bright and has been half the day.
Once and nine tenths again,
the sun re-introduces its beauty
from behind the clouds
making the thanks-to-the
too- much-rain
green grass
shine
and the aluminum,
can’t-keep-water-out
roofs glisten
like stones guiding
giants up this river hillmountain
that I find myself living on.
Children are out,
and one carries a turquoise toy
tortoise car up the hill
another runs a got-more-life-in- it
bike tire
down the rollercoaster road.
When too much rain shifted mud, cracking houses,
Shes did more than just pe(e)ck.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Bus trip: Suyapa Style
Honduras bus lingo for dummies:
Cobrador – Dude who collects pisto --- (cash), yells out orders and does other all purpose and necessary bus things constantly on the bus.
Monton --- Call it like it sounds – A TON. Though it is said more like maun – tone.
Reggaeton --- If you’re reading this definition I’m sorry but you’ve got to get with it, a Latin –fused reggae, quasi rap heavy beat and base oriented type music that has taken Latin America by storm for some time, and finally, the U.S too.
“El estadio, el estadio; Mercado; estadio!” The Cobrador yells habitually and monotonely; in the required pitch used by all Cobradors to communicate that this is in fact a bus and it is in fact going to the stadium and the market. The bus swerves to the curb and the Cobrador swings on the pole like a fireman preparing for action; he jumps to the ground with a rolling stop as the bus too finds its resting spot, beckoning passer byers and stand in liners with his welcoming routine to enter the bus. Mothers holding carrot heads sticking out of bags; sweat drenched mechanics with grease decorated necks and teenage girls, skilled in traversing diverse terrain in 8” high heels all pile in.
Off to the side is a large family scrambling for the bus. Father and son are both holding on to sister and daughter’s hand, and excited and frantic that the bus may soon leave, both men run to entry ways of the bus, opposite ones, while the girl is left laughing by herself, running after one relative to one door. As they enter, they are greeted by packed seats and overflowing aisles, and they attempt to squeeze a space for themselves and find a handhold on the metal bar above. They sway in one piece; as the bus jolts to assert its place on the motorway free for all.
The Cobrador, still beckoning on the street seeming left in the dust has not forgotten us; he in fact is only tying up loose ends, and right when it seems a tad too late, he gallops, and regains hold of that same fire pole. Once entering, it becomes clear that his job has just begun, he scans the bus and notes the new entries, some of which are obvious, some of which blend in too much with everyone else. He pushes through this continuously morphing amoeba, and begins to select those he thinks have not yet paid. As he discovers them, they pay, sometimes in exact change; L3.50, but mostly not. He shuffles through his mounting pile of pisto, fingers flying like a novelist burning up the typewriter --- L1.50 back to him, L6.50 back to her, and un monton – L25.50 to that un-latino-bus-savy group of gringos; always moving on to the next while counting the last in his hands. The bus pulsates heavy base; typically body invading and tap inviting reggaeton that is sometimes settled down by Bryan Adams or other similar eighties greats; the fuller the bus gets the bass-ier the driver seems to want the music.
This is a 1996 School bus from Lancaster County, Pennsylvania; as indicated on the side in unchangeable stenciled black letters. In the front and on the inside, it has discovered its own flair; painted in green and purple on the front are the simple words: Estadio; Mercado; Colonia Suyapa to communicate to all those deaf but literate; once again where this bus is going. This might have been painted years ago, lacking significance to the current driver, though still running the same routes. Inside is where the driver’s personality really shines. It is vital for most drivers to have some indication that God or Mary or Jesus or the church dictated trinity are in fact watching over the bus, and that he does in fact pray to or love or do something for that holy entity, if only to ensure safety for that bus. Dios es Amor is a common easy and quickly does it all encompassing favorite. With thousands of passengers a day, sometimes over a hundred traveling at a time, irratic driving and unpredictable obstacles and sharp turns, I guess he figures he needs it. To have someone to keep Mary or God or Jesus company, the driver usually has some image – pictorial or key chain style of an on the way to if not completely naked lady. This one seems more like a mermaid, swimming below his cracked and crooked mirror, letters about some God now drowning in its worn – downed-ness. Above the driver to the top left is a state of the art car C.D player, with 6 disc change availability that he chooses and abuses with the touch of a finger to mold the mood of the bus like a puppeteer with his puppets. Daddy Yankee is still his current favorite, and it blasts out of the carefully placed and carefully kept state of the art speakers.
The Cobrador swivels and swerves as he dances through, with and around passengers; rubbing hips and torso, pelvis and thighs against complete strangers; all knowing he would not if he had any other way to navigate through, all doing the same when needing to navigate too. After sudden stops and starts, unnecessary running and waiting, and waiting and screeching, we arrive at one of the destinations – the Stadium. My friends and I exit and as I wait for them also exits a 5 year old girl with her grandma. The Cobrador has beat us all to the punch, and once again, just in time, grabs on to the little girl and lands her to the ground, lets her stand close, and throws out those same arms for the older lady --- right arm offered to hold her hand, left arm guiding her safely down.
He repeats this, and he is so almost always a he, from 5:00 in the morning until 7:30 at night.
Cobrador – Dude who collects pisto --- (cash), yells out orders and does other all purpose and necessary bus things constantly on the bus.
Monton --- Call it like it sounds – A TON. Though it is said more like maun – tone.
Reggaeton --- If you’re reading this definition I’m sorry but you’ve got to get with it, a Latin –fused reggae, quasi rap heavy beat and base oriented type music that has taken Latin America by storm for some time, and finally, the U.S too.
“El estadio, el estadio; Mercado; estadio!” The Cobrador yells habitually and monotonely; in the required pitch used by all Cobradors to communicate that this is in fact a bus and it is in fact going to the stadium and the market. The bus swerves to the curb and the Cobrador swings on the pole like a fireman preparing for action; he jumps to the ground with a rolling stop as the bus too finds its resting spot, beckoning passer byers and stand in liners with his welcoming routine to enter the bus. Mothers holding carrot heads sticking out of bags; sweat drenched mechanics with grease decorated necks and teenage girls, skilled in traversing diverse terrain in 8” high heels all pile in.
Off to the side is a large family scrambling for the bus. Father and son are both holding on to sister and daughter’s hand, and excited and frantic that the bus may soon leave, both men run to entry ways of the bus, opposite ones, while the girl is left laughing by herself, running after one relative to one door. As they enter, they are greeted by packed seats and overflowing aisles, and they attempt to squeeze a space for themselves and find a handhold on the metal bar above. They sway in one piece; as the bus jolts to assert its place on the motorway free for all.
The Cobrador, still beckoning on the street seeming left in the dust has not forgotten us; he in fact is only tying up loose ends, and right when it seems a tad too late, he gallops, and regains hold of that same fire pole. Once entering, it becomes clear that his job has just begun, he scans the bus and notes the new entries, some of which are obvious, some of which blend in too much with everyone else. He pushes through this continuously morphing amoeba, and begins to select those he thinks have not yet paid. As he discovers them, they pay, sometimes in exact change; L3.50, but mostly not. He shuffles through his mounting pile of pisto, fingers flying like a novelist burning up the typewriter --- L1.50 back to him, L6.50 back to her, and un monton – L25.50 to that un-latino-bus-savy group of gringos; always moving on to the next while counting the last in his hands. The bus pulsates heavy base; typically body invading and tap inviting reggaeton that is sometimes settled down by Bryan Adams or other similar eighties greats; the fuller the bus gets the bass-ier the driver seems to want the music.
This is a 1996 School bus from Lancaster County, Pennsylvania; as indicated on the side in unchangeable stenciled black letters. In the front and on the inside, it has discovered its own flair; painted in green and purple on the front are the simple words: Estadio; Mercado; Colonia Suyapa to communicate to all those deaf but literate; once again where this bus is going. This might have been painted years ago, lacking significance to the current driver, though still running the same routes. Inside is where the driver’s personality really shines. It is vital for most drivers to have some indication that God or Mary or Jesus or the church dictated trinity are in fact watching over the bus, and that he does in fact pray to or love or do something for that holy entity, if only to ensure safety for that bus. Dios es Amor is a common easy and quickly does it all encompassing favorite. With thousands of passengers a day, sometimes over a hundred traveling at a time, irratic driving and unpredictable obstacles and sharp turns, I guess he figures he needs it. To have someone to keep Mary or God or Jesus company, the driver usually has some image – pictorial or key chain style of an on the way to if not completely naked lady. This one seems more like a mermaid, swimming below his cracked and crooked mirror, letters about some God now drowning in its worn – downed-ness. Above the driver to the top left is a state of the art car C.D player, with 6 disc change availability that he chooses and abuses with the touch of a finger to mold the mood of the bus like a puppeteer with his puppets. Daddy Yankee is still his current favorite, and it blasts out of the carefully placed and carefully kept state of the art speakers.
The Cobrador swivels and swerves as he dances through, with and around passengers; rubbing hips and torso, pelvis and thighs against complete strangers; all knowing he would not if he had any other way to navigate through, all doing the same when needing to navigate too. After sudden stops and starts, unnecessary running and waiting, and waiting and screeching, we arrive at one of the destinations – the Stadium. My friends and I exit and as I wait for them also exits a 5 year old girl with her grandma. The Cobrador has beat us all to the punch, and once again, just in time, grabs on to the little girl and lands her to the ground, lets her stand close, and throws out those same arms for the older lady --- right arm offered to hold her hand, left arm guiding her safely down.
He repeats this, and he is so almost always a he, from 5:00 in the morning until 7:30 at night.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
My life as it is now
My stomach is lined with unseen grease.
every time I enter the house, and I hear that sound
of sizzling oil, that I should probably appreciate;
small wrongly nourished babies try to kick it away.
It seems people are unable to walk down
this hilly road that lies in front of my house;
they only plod;
keeping me from and leading me
to blissful dreams
about horses.
Every time I attempt
to pour this bucket
of less than room
temperatured water
over my comfortably
body temperatured
Nakedness;
In this all-purpose pila
Wash-shed;
I wait, and stare and think
that in the waiting, staring and thinking,
the water may in fact miraculously
heat.
Ahh, lastima…
it doesn’t,
and eventually;
I count to ten
or take myself to my happy place
and let go;
shivering in shock
and unforeseen refreshment.
I like how I can buy a newspaper
and know that it will be jointly
read by the whole office;
all communal curiosities quenched
for less than 30 cents.
every time I enter the house, and I hear that sound
of sizzling oil, that I should probably appreciate;
small wrongly nourished babies try to kick it away.
It seems people are unable to walk down
this hilly road that lies in front of my house;
they only plod;
keeping me from and leading me
to blissful dreams
about horses.
Every time I attempt
to pour this bucket
of less than room
temperatured water
over my comfortably
body temperatured
Nakedness;
In this all-purpose pila
Wash-shed;
I wait, and stare and think
that in the waiting, staring and thinking,
the water may in fact miraculously
heat.
Ahh, lastima…
it doesn’t,
and eventually;
I count to ten
or take myself to my happy place
and let go;
shivering in shock
and unforeseen refreshment.
I like how I can buy a newspaper
and know that it will be jointly
read by the whole office;
all communal curiosities quenched
for less than 30 cents.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Sharing the Community Garden
Before you knock it, try it first – you’ll see it’s a blessing and it’s not a curse – Ben Harper
She came in with her mother, sat down so proudly on her own, next to the new born sister with strangely blue eyes. Her cheeks puffed out a little too much, like a chipmunk with her mouth full of nuts. Her hair was a wavy mahogany, roundly framing such cheeks, not hiding deep brown curious eyes. It struck me all not so different from mine when I was three. She looked straight and so serious, not willing to crack a smile when I tried to pursue that option.
I wanted to listen to the lady talk, so I put my hand on her head and gave her the smile she did not have and carried on. She stayed for a second, and then began circling around the room as if no one else was there, as if there was not someone in the front speaking, and even if there was, as if she herself was so invisible that her circling would be of no consequence to anyone. She circled because she wanted to know, and maybe too, wanted to be known; wanted the magic potion to wear off so she too could be a part. She went back to be with her also potion drinking mom, always a step away, looking at the pictures on the wall, the cracks in the paint, the wrinkles on the other lady’s faces, the way their lips moved up and down when they were speaking so fast.
She came back up front and made a courageous attempt to engage; staring and standing, still apart, not about to let on that she might be enjoying something or even more someone. I invited her to come closer and began drawing a picture for her; my typical cartoon face guy, the only one I can do well, with wobbly knees and no hands, playing with an oblong and oddly checkered soccer ball. I offered the pencil but that was not a risk she was willing to take at the moment. As I drew she would sporadically look away, down on the ground, hiding the smile and maybe even the laugh that such a silly picture seemed to force.
Now, the picture had run its course, all concealed chuckles had dispersed and she was simply squeezed in between the two chairs, studying the contours of my face, and the level of sincerity in my eyes. I loved her, and I showed her by patting her gently on her back and her head, as she stayed and explored being in a new person’s presence. She then left and began circling, and my attention once again was stolen by the lady in the front. As I did, I glanced to check on her and out of the corner of my eye began to notice that it wasn’t just my presence with which she was experimenting, that this was the way she began to learn and test and trust any new surroundings or possible entrees into her life. Therefore, it was OK for me to listen to the lady talk if I wanted to, I would not be neglecting her if I did. There were other presences to provide just such a loving pat in addition to my offerings, making it easier for everybody; making sure everyone could listen and love enough to be filled and in turn have enough to give. I realized, such a seed was much more able to blossom under many types of shade and sunlight and periods of rain shower.
When the lady at the front ceased, this very girl went over to another baby, just a little older from the one she was used to, held both of the baby's hands and unashamedly; with such confidence smiled the biggest smile and made the silliest faces just to make the baby laugh . It was hard to keep in the joy that flooded my body at that moment. Maybe I could not make her smile that way, but I was glad to see, there was someone who could.
~ Personal comments --- maybe you guys are starting to wonder why I am mostly putting up creative writing excersises, and not explaining my own thoughts and details of specific experiences. The thing is, these are my thoughts and these are my experiences, and instead of going on an on, as I can, about what is going on, I thought I would communicate it concisely in a form I have grown to love. I wanted to share the things I loved with you, so maybe you could grow to love them too, and in turn me. I feel a need to be honest but also realize there are certain formats for certain levels of honesty; this is a way to stay honest --- allowing someone to unpack the layers of my writing and see the levels to which things are going on in my life without directly saying it all. I hope you enjoy it and don't feel I'm being exclusive and escoteric.
P.S -- I know what that Ben Harper quote is referring to, and don't worry, that is not what I am --- just in the end, talking about love; its a darn good thing I went to Calvin, and believe in discernment.
Peace,
Rachel
She came in with her mother, sat down so proudly on her own, next to the new born sister with strangely blue eyes. Her cheeks puffed out a little too much, like a chipmunk with her mouth full of nuts. Her hair was a wavy mahogany, roundly framing such cheeks, not hiding deep brown curious eyes. It struck me all not so different from mine when I was three. She looked straight and so serious, not willing to crack a smile when I tried to pursue that option.
I wanted to listen to the lady talk, so I put my hand on her head and gave her the smile she did not have and carried on. She stayed for a second, and then began circling around the room as if no one else was there, as if there was not someone in the front speaking, and even if there was, as if she herself was so invisible that her circling would be of no consequence to anyone. She circled because she wanted to know, and maybe too, wanted to be known; wanted the magic potion to wear off so she too could be a part. She went back to be with her also potion drinking mom, always a step away, looking at the pictures on the wall, the cracks in the paint, the wrinkles on the other lady’s faces, the way their lips moved up and down when they were speaking so fast.
She came back up front and made a courageous attempt to engage; staring and standing, still apart, not about to let on that she might be enjoying something or even more someone. I invited her to come closer and began drawing a picture for her; my typical cartoon face guy, the only one I can do well, with wobbly knees and no hands, playing with an oblong and oddly checkered soccer ball. I offered the pencil but that was not a risk she was willing to take at the moment. As I drew she would sporadically look away, down on the ground, hiding the smile and maybe even the laugh that such a silly picture seemed to force.
Now, the picture had run its course, all concealed chuckles had dispersed and she was simply squeezed in between the two chairs, studying the contours of my face, and the level of sincerity in my eyes. I loved her, and I showed her by patting her gently on her back and her head, as she stayed and explored being in a new person’s presence. She then left and began circling, and my attention once again was stolen by the lady in the front. As I did, I glanced to check on her and out of the corner of my eye began to notice that it wasn’t just my presence with which she was experimenting, that this was the way she began to learn and test and trust any new surroundings or possible entrees into her life. Therefore, it was OK for me to listen to the lady talk if I wanted to, I would not be neglecting her if I did. There were other presences to provide just such a loving pat in addition to my offerings, making it easier for everybody; making sure everyone could listen and love enough to be filled and in turn have enough to give. I realized, such a seed was much more able to blossom under many types of shade and sunlight and periods of rain shower.
When the lady at the front ceased, this very girl went over to another baby, just a little older from the one she was used to, held both of the baby's hands and unashamedly; with such confidence smiled the biggest smile and made the silliest faces just to make the baby laugh . It was hard to keep in the joy that flooded my body at that moment. Maybe I could not make her smile that way, but I was glad to see, there was someone who could.
~ Personal comments --- maybe you guys are starting to wonder why I am mostly putting up creative writing excersises, and not explaining my own thoughts and details of specific experiences. The thing is, these are my thoughts and these are my experiences, and instead of going on an on, as I can, about what is going on, I thought I would communicate it concisely in a form I have grown to love. I wanted to share the things I loved with you, so maybe you could grow to love them too, and in turn me. I feel a need to be honest but also realize there are certain formats for certain levels of honesty; this is a way to stay honest --- allowing someone to unpack the layers of my writing and see the levels to which things are going on in my life without directly saying it all. I hope you enjoy it and don't feel I'm being exclusive and escoteric.
P.S -- I know what that Ben Harper quote is referring to, and don't worry, that is not what I am --- just in the end, talking about love; its a darn good thing I went to Calvin, and believe in discernment.
Peace,
Rachel
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)