Category Archives: Essays

The Beginning for SOCS

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The Beginning

You are in a hotel room.  The drapes are drawn. No one else knows you are here.  There is a white covering on the bed—something light that flutters with the fan blades as they go around and around, just like your thoughts.  He has gone.  You don’t know whether to be glad about this or sorry, for with him have vanished all of the terrible things in your life along with all of the best ones.  Mainly, you will now need to decide for yourself what to do next.  What will you have for dinner now that his needs do not need to be taken into account?  When will you go to bed and what side of the bed will you sleep on?  It is like beginning a new life with all of the “musts” and “shoulds” erased.  You can do anything in the world that you want to do.

You take off your dress and then your underwear.  You can have another piece of pie without wondering what he will think the next time he looks at you naked. No one to calculate what went where and when.  Is the roll over your waistline evidence of that triple chocolate ice cream cone?  That extra inch on your thigh the milk you have in your coffee each morning? 

You step to the mirror and look closely, not overlooking for once.  Are your curves artistic or simple obesity? Do you yourself care so long as no one else is looking?  Is his leaving a blessing or a curse?

You move out to the terrace.  It is dark and no one is looking.  The night air has a slight movement that you would not be noticing if you were clothed.  It is almost sensuous, this movement of air like light caressing fingers—the way he could never quite make his fingers  behave enough to be.  Nature has become your lover and perhaps this will be enough. Always before, you have replaced each one who left, but maybe this time you will not bother.  You and the natural world will conspire to meet your needs and you will be shameless in your environment, carefree in your living.  You will pass before mirrors without looking away, even when you stand as you are standing now.  Without cover.  Without any flattering draping or cloaking color.  You.  No longer us.

 

The SOCS prompt is “In The Beginning” (Image generated making use of AI)

Yoli’s Sorrows

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Three days a week, I teach Spanish here in my house  to Yolanda and Pasiano’s children as well as Yolanda’s nieces and stepdaughter. Her daughter Yoli was so sleepy during lessons today that I asked if she wanted coffee or a caffeine pill and she said no. I asked if she had to go to school and she said no she was on vacation and I asked if she could sleep when she went home and she said yes.

While I was driving her home, I asked why she had trouble sleeping and she said, “Guerra” (War) and then Donald Trump. She is so worried about the threat of a nuclear war that she can’t sleep! I talked to her and said it helped me to listen to podcasts and she said she listened to them but they were all about Trump and his actions. It just breaks my heart.

I told her I couldn’t sleep for the same reason and I decided I just needed to do what the Mexican people have always done under repressive regimes–– Spanish, French—even the Aztecs. To pull in to contact with family and friends and to do as much for each other as we can to make a different world for those around us. She has no power to change Donald Trump. She can only affect the world around her and try to get as much joy from it as possible.

Then I sobbed all the way home after leaving her off at her house and had to go to the bathroom mirror to catch sight of myself and take myself in hand. If I can’t even do it, how can I expect a 14 year old girl to do so?

Permanent Bond for MVB

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Permanent Bond

Today as I walked by a shelf in the studio, I read the glue label marked, “Permanent Bond,” and my mind flashed back to when my niece gave birth. It was very important to her that she and her husband be left alone for a few days to bond with their child. My mother, who raised three girls without once hearing the b-word gave the sidelong look but said nothing.

Then my mind flashed back further. I had been called from the porch by the wild cat I had adopted two months before and sat with her as, like a ditto machine, she pumped out three small copies of herself. After these two most intimate hours of my life, how could I have given any of the kittens away? Of these four cats, two are now long dead, but the others have been with me for 11 years and I now have a name for the warm fullness I felt for the three tiny gray kittens.

These cats who leave small piles of organs in doorways—who insist on curling up on my hip or my shoulder as I lay reading, in spite of my allergic reaction to them—who meow insistently at  closed doors and shower cubicles. “Now, now, now, “ they insist. These cats who bring in baby rabbits, fleas, ticks, and the disembodied tails of salamanders to wriggle out of sight under the sofa—who bring me their infected cuts and  ears torn half-way off in cat fights—who, as kittens, could curl up three to a flower pot leaving the flower intact . These cats who know how to form a beautiful still life each time they come to rest—these cats to whom, I must admit, I have become bonded.

When I try to imagine where I will be in ten years, I see myself living somewhere wild, getting to know the local animals, getting wiser. I know that much of what I’ve learned about humans, I’ve discovered through living with animals. You have to be calm. Quiet. Let them come to you. Don’t grab and don’t make swift movements.

Some might call people with the temperament to calm animals boring. But if you look closely, you might see through to the quietness that fills out their beings. They have let the calmness take over. They have ceased fighting it.

I feel what might be this calmness, but wonder if it is instead numbness. And my mind works out the answer. Numbness is filled with emptiness whereas calmness is filled with small details. The line of blue bottles on the shelf. The red leaves at the very tip of the otherwise green plant. The curl of the cat’s head thrown forward onto i’s stomach. The outflung paw. The dear face of this most beautiful cat that I saw being born.

The MVB prompt today is Permanent

Wire Crow

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Wire Crow

A black crow formed of bent wire, specific in its detail, with the look of chicken wire, yet individually twisted. You had seen me come back to it again and again at the art show and you had taken note. You, who usually worried me about how hard I was to buy for, asking what I wanted, making me responsible for my own gift. How I hated Xmases and Birthdays for this reason. Hard enough finding the perfect gift for you and each of your 8 children and my family, but to have to determine my own needs and wants? Unfair.

Yet this gift, a surprise on my 42nd birthday, so perfect. A reminder of that black crow poem you had written about the end of your first marriage and the decline of your second—that poem that ranged so far and wide that it included even me, gathering your children and taking them to safety when we broke down on the freeway. The first poem not about other loves and past loves, where I was the heroine.  A part of your official biography.

This crow, then, has seen beyond you. Seen your death and my relocation. It sits on the highest shelf of my sala, bent over a mata Ortiz lidded bowl, an ear of corn rising up from its lid, as though the crow is about to feast. It is one of the objects that gathers you around me, even now, 23 years after your death. The wooden statue you carved in Bali, Your giant spirit sled of copper and hide, Your Tie Siding sculpture that fills the corner near my desk, The spiral lamp–one of our favorite collaborations.

My whole life a continuation of that collaboration—your pulling out of me the art and words that surround me now on my walls, my tables and swirling through my head, disconnected or connected. Metered in rhyme or collecting into paragraphs. All parts of my life ones we bolstered in each other, pulling the world in around us with wood and stone and metal and paper and ideas and words. That metal crow a part of all of it that I have overlooked for so many years now. Of the few objects brought the long miles from California to Mexico, this crow was selected innocently, perhaps more by intuition than by conscious thought, and yet it stands, highest of all, to project its message.

No one who has formed us ever dies. New loves do not cancel out the old. Like one glorious recipe, our lives accumulate ingredients. Sweet and salty, tart and crusty, effervescent and meaty. Like your presence. Ironically represented by that crow that is mainly emptiness, really. Or perhaps unseen mass. Like thought. Like poetry. Like love. Like a forgotten important detail suddenly remembered.

 

Leaves in a Dry Wind: NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 20

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 Leaves in a Dry Wind

I was in Ethiopia in the drought years of 1973 and 74. I saw the sacks of grain for sale in the market in Addis Ababa that said, “Gift of the people of the United States of America.” The grain was being sold and the money pocketed by government ministers. One month the teachers in my school (Medehane Alem T’mhrtebet) elected to forego our salaries and use the money to buy food and hire trucks to take it to the drought areas. I was on the committee set up to deal with this transfer, but the government said it could not allow private citizens (or expats such as myself) to handle the money or the distribution. What actually happened was that the government did hold back the money, but they merely used it to pay our next month’s salary. Not a penny of that money was ever used for drought relief.

Many people at that time were not even aware of the drought because the starving people were not allowed to migrate into the cities but were held back by military. We were only aware because we traveled out in the country via bus. Dead cattle dotted the countryside and in places people formed human chains across the road to stop the buses. This was in Wollo Province, enroute from Addis to Dessie. We threw all the food and money we had out of the windows of the bus, but then traveled on. There didn’t seem to be anything being done at that time nor any means for anyone to deal with the problem.

There was one relief agency and I can’t remember whether it was Swiss or Swedish, where the aid was brought to Africa and distributed by the country it was being sent from. I had a friend who was employed by this organization and I traveled with him at one point. He told me that this was the only aid that was actually getting to the people and that no other country actually sent people to insure that the aid was being distributed to the people who needed it. This was a long time ago and my memory is spotty, but I am thinking that they were setting up schools that he was inspecting, but it may have been other agencies.

We traveled from Addis past Bahir Dar and Lake Tana (source of the Blue Nile) and Gondar, up to Asmara. This was through the Semian mountains, noted for shiftas (robbers) and we traveled by caravan with armed guards as actually I had earlier when I had come out of the Lalibela region and back into Addis. Other trips were to the Awash Valley and then later to Gambela, to camps where Sudanese refugee camps had formerly been set up. My friends were Ethiopian nurses there.

When we traveled to Harrar, it was because all of the schools in Addis had been closed down due to student demonstrations and strikes. They had started stoning buses. The rumors were that the buses were all owned by members of the royal family, but I don’t know if this was true. In spite of the fact that almost no students were still attending school, we teachers were told that so long as one student showed up for class that we needed to show up. On my last day of school, I was on a bus that was stoned. A large stone shattered the glass near the window where I was standing, as the bus was full. The next stone whistled past just grazing my ear. After that, the buses all stopped running and they closed down my school. We had been wanting to go to Harrar, so we traveled by train. The trains were totally full with people standing and sleeping in the aisles as well. At times we would see people standing by the side of the tracks with camels. Someone from the train would open one of the doors and throw huge sacks of smuggled goods out to these desert nomads who were contraband runners.

After a few days in Harrar, we rode the train back into Addis and as we rode into the city, we saw the students swarming over the tracks behind us. I think we were on the last train back into Addis. The revolution had been going on for some time but we were just seeing it as student protest. The military later took over the airport and the night of my birthday and good-bye celebration, (my sister and I were due to leave the next day to travel further in Africa and then to go back to the states to see my father who was very ill) the coup was staged. The military had used the students to start the revolution but in the coming years, most of the young people I knew were killed by one wave of revolutionaries after another. They had more or less been used by the military for their own purposes and my only friends who made it through that period alive were ones who came to the U.S. or Canada.

My boyfriend who was shot defending me the first day after the coup miraculously survived a bullet that went all the way through his body and out the other side. I stayed for another month until he was out of hospital, then came back to the United States and have never returned to Ethiopia. My boyfriend became involved in politics and two years later, he was warned to leave Ethiopia by yet another wave of revolutionaries espousing a different branch of communism. When he refused, he was assassinated in the road right outside the hospital where we had spent our last month together.

I blindly stumbled through this very sad and violent slice of Ethiopian history not fully understanding all that was going on. My efforts to write about it since have always been stopped by my realization that I really didn’t fully comprehend the magnitude of everything that was happening and probably still don’t. But, for sure, I realize that my experiences in no way equalled those of Ethiopian citizens caught within those circumstances. They could not just travel blithely through them as I did. And few of them lived to tell the story I am telling only sketchily, according to my own experience and probably faulty memory.

I was there for that lavish celebration staged for Haile Selassie’s birthday. When members of the royal family were arrested after the coup, they were put in the prison that was on the other side of the garden wall of my house near Mexico Square.

In my years in Ethiopia, I had seen Selassie riding around the countryside in the backseat of his Rolls Royce, sitting on a jumper seat to raise him up enough to see and be seen through the windows, his Chihuahuas running back and forth in the back window. Everyone along the roads bowed as he passed and Andy tried to pull me down into a bow. “It is for respect for our emperor,” he told me, but I told him I refused to bow to this man who lived in a palace and rode through his country in a Rolls and walked through the marketplace dispensing birr notes to the people when other subjects were starving. If he saw us, and if he saw the little Volkswagen bug parked at the side of the road, little did he know that one day he would be driven away in a car exactly like it.  History can be chilling and its stories full of ironies that, known by few, blow away like leaves in the winds of the next event and the next and the next.

For NaPoWriMo day 20, we are to relate an historical event.

That Woman in the Mirror, For SOCS, Mar 22, 2024

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That Woman in the Mirror

The woman in the mirror has a better sense of humor than I do. This is because she does not need to depart to go into the world. She controls what is behind her and in front of her. Her wounds are my wounds. Her wrinkles are the selfsame wrinkles that fail to respond to the expensive face cream my sister sent me for my birthday. A gentle hint that my apparent age reveals her age, 4 years older.

The woman in the mirror does not necessarily reflect my feelings. She sometimes freezes in surprise at my tears. Chides me to get a hold on myself. She steams over at times and refuses to confront me. She does not flinch at sprays of toothpaste or a misting over of hairspray. She grows younger as the layers thicken. The woman in the mirror chides me to refresh my lipstick, define my eyebrows, pluck hair chins. Slowly, slowly, she ages—turning into first my mother and then my Grandmother, whom I had thought I had left so far behind. That self-pitying look? Shame on her, I chide. Those ever-lowering breasts, that additional girth? I will never get like that, I think, and then I remember.

There is a mirror in my house where my Grandmother cannot find me—a full-length miracle mirror where the one looking back at me is a woman in her 40’s, just barely overweight. She is my grandmother, stretched out—lengthened and diminished in width. It is the sort of mirror that was once seen in fancy dress shops that encouraged women to buy and buy. Like The Hollywood shop from fifty years ago, now long abandoned, shuttered and replaced by a Radio Shack…but whose charms can still lull me into a luxurious feeling that all is well. I am as I should be.

I flip off the bathroom light and move to the bedroom to catch a last glimpse of me in that magical full-length mirror, then climb into bed to dream and dream those slender dreams that, if we are lucky, are the ones that remain in our memory long after the mirrors have cracked and crumbled, like other more recent memories that fade quickly to give way to the past.

For the Stream of Consciousness Friday Prompt: The Room I am In

A Letter from My Future Self, for Thursday Inspiration, Nov 16, 2023

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A Letter from My Future Self of 2038

 A Letter from My Future Self of 2038

Dear Remi,

Remember eight years ago, when you took this new name for yourself?  I notice you’ve slipped back into the “old” name (Judy) and the “old” you that you professed just five years before to no longer identify with.  What happened?  Was it merely the resistance of old friends to call you by this new name? Or was it that you slowly slipped back into being that person–more laconic, giving in to the heaviness and inactivity of age?  Did you also give up on romance and change and the excitement of the possibility of forward progress?  Did you decide to stay where it is easier with an established routine, people to clean your house and wash your clothes and mow your grass and clean your pool?

I’m wondering if you are thinking about how that is working out for you. I see you even more tied down than before–five cats instead of one, making plans to start more programs for the young people of your community, but will this be enough?  That sense of urgency and of time passing that has kept you vaulting from your bed and running outside to try to breathe at night—is it caused by any physical condition or is it me, prodding you to be young for as long as you can and to experience more before you sink into that routine that is the reward for doing all that you meant to do in this lifetime? Is it time to retire and to smooth your own pathway, or is it still time to leap over barriers such as this barrier of yourself and go boldly out into the world to see what else is there?

I’m not trying to prod or push you or suggest the way.  I am, after all, a figment of your imagination as surely as your present view of yourself is.  I understand that two foot surgeries in two years slowed you down and changed your exercise patterns as well as the patterns of your day.  I also realize that friends moved away or moved into new lives and that this also made you turn inwards.  There are reasons of one sort or another for everything we do.  We all have excuses.  At 90 years old, I have excuses, too.  I know where you ended up but I also know that there are a limitless number of me’s.

There is the me that succumbed to Alzheimer’s, as your sister did.  There is the me who moved to Italy and moved off into a new life that I only hint at here.  There is the me who has devoted herself for the past 20 years to making her small town a better place to grow up in.  There is the me who finally took off in that boat and went all the remaining places there were to go.  There is the me who grew grumpy and reclusive and eventually became dumber than her Smart TV.

There is even the implausible me who did all the “shoulds” and got her other books published—who maybe even got back on the agent/publisher treadmill and did it the “right” way. There is the me who found more romance, the one who converted her entire house into a dog kennel or cat sanctuary, the one who built the house on the adjoining piece of land and hired a nurse/housekeeper and invited her friends to come grow old with her.  There are so many potential me’s that I hope it is making your head swim and that I hope will make you think about what you want to do with the remaining 30 or so years of your life.

Things are not over.  In the first thirty years of your life, you grew up, went to summer camp, counseled at summer camp, went to University, sailed around the world on a boat and saw all else that life could be, got your masters degree, emigrated to Australia, taught for two years, traveled for four months through southeast Asia and Africa, moved to Africa and had various adventures, good and bad.  Fell in love, taught school in Addis Ababa, moved back to the U.S., taught for 7 more years, fell in love, built a house, edited a creative writing journal for teens, traveled to China and Great Britain and Hawaii.

Then you had a dream that knocked you into a recognition of your subconscious.  You quit your job, moved to Orange County, CA, wrote on the beach, moved to L.A., fell in love, studied film production and screenwriting at UCLA, worked in a Hollywood agency, joined a writer’s workshop, joined an actor’s studio, worked for Bob Hope, gave poetry readings, was co-editor of a poetry journal, fell in love again, married, moved to the Santa Cruz mountains, became an artist, traveled and did art and craft shows for 14 years, became the curator of an art center, lost your husband, moved to Mexico, self-published four books, traveled, taught English and art, fell in love a few more times, started a poetry series.

This is what can be done in thirty years.  So, what are you going to do with the next thirty?

Love, Remi–twenty years older.

For the Thursday Inspiration prompt, the words are home or letter. Thanks for the suggestion, Forgottenman. For the prompt, I am reposting this blog from 5 years ago, as reading it has actually accomplished its original purpose once again.  Moving to Italy? Probably not.  Moving on? Perhaps…We’ll see. It did prompt many possibilities.

Thundersnow and Other Previously Unknown Facts of Life

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I was just Skyping Forgottenman and he commented on the massive thunder there.
I remarked that at least that meant no snow and said I wondered why it never thundered before a snowstorm. 
He answered that it did.  Thundersnow.
At which point I had to look it up and sure enough, this is what I discovered thanks to Google:

thun·der·snow
/ˈTHəndərˌsnō/

noun
  1. snowfall accompanied by thunder and lightning.

    “thundersnow happens in Iowa about once every winter”

    Gobsmacked. How can I have never heard of this?  Had any of you heard of it?

Family Reunion

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Family Reunion

Thunder crashes, warning that her homecoming will not be ideal. These people know all her dirty little secrets and as is symptomatic of siblings, even those supposed to be mature, they are sure to reveal some of her past sins. She once wrote an award-winning satire based on her family,  but of course the irony was wasted on them. She came from a literal and humorless family. She had actually considered skipping this reunion, but then reconsidered. Once she has sold her newest story to the New Yorker, the trip will be tax-deductible, and where is she likely to find better material?

Prompts today are dirty, symptomatic, waste, satire, thunder and homecoming. Photo by Ben White on Unsplash.

Looking Out, Looking In

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Looking Out, Looking In

I feel that Stuart’s decision to spend the afternoon with us is symbolic of his final acceptance of me after all these years. He’s been married to my friend Sarah for twenty-five years, helped raise her sons after their father’s death, but has always been suspicious of me. We have, however, spent the afternoon trading quips and now he is trying to show us the stars.

Sarah’s messing with the connection between the Smart TV and Stuart’s computer may serve to disunite their long union. He is frantically trying to undo whatever she has done so he can show us his video of the Grand Design Spiral Galaxy as well as a number of globular clusters .

Once he succeeds in showing it to us, our reactions to this amazing display are varied. He explains that the globular cluster comprised of hundreds of thousands of stars that is attached to our universe is perhaps the core of an old galaxy.

The present day galaxies he shows us are designated by a capital M followed by a number. Our reactions to this amazing display are varied. One of the galaxies looks like fireworks to my friend’s oldest son. I think M3 looks like the venation on a leaf and the other son sees M5 as a flower with the stem cut off. In the middle of M51 there is probably a black hole, Stuart tells us.

“Where does something go when it vanishes into a black hole?” I ask. “Matter can’t be created or destroyed, right?” That’s not especially true, says Stuart, who as a scientist is not accustomed to our level of ignorance about the workings of the Universe.

Nonetheless, he is patient in his attempts to show us the wider world, and this visit, I have begged him for a second nighttime viewing. The first time he showed me the world of our universe in his high powered telescope, I was amazed, feeling as thought I had perhaps had a new religious experience. As it is without, so it is within, I thought. Is there a black hole at our center? Is it going to swallow us? We are like two opposite ends of the spectrum, Stuart looking out and me looking within, each of us with a spot to fill that is suddenly a speck in a complex world.

Words of the day: venation, symbolic, frantic, disunite and reaction.