tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77239985204710335572024-02-20T00:11:19.209-08:00A WRITER'S NOTESAprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7723998520471033557.post-63668778543164819582013-02-23T12:00:00.000-08:002013-02-23T12:00:40.451-08:00MUSHROOM HOUSES<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8qUp5qWCCWzEorWUdbZW3NJIBQiMtduOzQbFSkLarFFH4nyZGPumSPf-ZsJpuv9Q2tF3OpBZ2UilN_FWOmgsHlMaiOQUKpaB_JvBONWPhNqMWatu3aNL6ERveqZuYVh9b7vYaqFHf0V4d/s1600/mushroom+house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8qUp5qWCCWzEorWUdbZW3NJIBQiMtduOzQbFSkLarFFH4nyZGPumSPf-ZsJpuv9Q2tF3OpBZ2UilN_FWOmgsHlMaiOQUKpaB_JvBONWPhNqMWatu3aNL6ERveqZuYVh9b7vYaqFHf0V4d/s200/mushroom+house.jpg" width="157" /></a></div>
"Follow your obsessions," a writer said, or probably many writers have said. And for a few months now I have been obsessed with mushroom houses. I'm not high. I don't eat that many mushrooms, magic or otherwise.<br />
<br />
I think it started when I discovered, via a now-forgetten series of random links, the photography of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/mister_mushroom/4626497327/in/set-72157623913095663" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">"Mister Mushroom."</span></a> </span>This guy photographs bright colored miniature sets staged with figurines--Moomin Valley, Totoro, gnomes, mushrooms, and other fanciful flora and fauna. His whimsy returned me to childhood and my once sincere belief in gnomes, thanks to a gullible mind, indulgent grandma, and the encyclopedic book "<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Gnomes-Deluxe-Collectors-Edition-Huygen/dp/B006OHTITM" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Gnomes."</span></a> I'd curled up for hours as if it were the Bible. Replete with maps, statistics, tales of encounter, and detailed drawings, the book read like a nonfiction for this seven year old. (I watched the "Smurfs" in those days too, who of course reside in mushroom houses.)<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikE0fijX9EIrwN66a5nroLqNs6N0yTGTJQvgHYPFeHn7ZFY5dohYEo4kBhlFzYv2h3p5y8OgDEWLIVbWOEXfgNFefQ6yNdTP1hE2noPDI2LBGnDdI2Sm7QoUr39C8ZKEwG-jZ18ZIetBIb/s1600/mushroomhousefinal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikE0fijX9EIrwN66a5nroLqNs6N0yTGTJQvgHYPFeHn7ZFY5dohYEo4kBhlFzYv2h3p5y8OgDEWLIVbWOEXfgNFefQ6yNdTP1hE2noPDI2LBGnDdI2Sm7QoUr39C8ZKEwG-jZ18ZIetBIb/s200/mushroomhousefinal.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYONWJQogWDY-okKL5N1hcZcFCHjDFwaabFdTrPh6PYDyuG10eGlYP0XmFjHw2OrEvXNEfVrPlVgI3pIjlGIRnVA1bTs7NTmzqgOCeVN_228G6ySYlTixwI_0sJW1moavtoL5DUFgn8KEa/s1600/9147429-mushroom-house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYONWJQogWDY-okKL5N1hcZcFCHjDFwaabFdTrPh6PYDyuG10eGlYP0XmFjHw2OrEvXNEfVrPlVgI3pIjlGIRnVA1bTs7NTmzqgOCeVN_228G6ySYlTixwI_0sJW1moavtoL5DUFgn8KEa/s200/9147429-mushroom-house.jpg" width="195" /></a></div>
I wouldn't mind being a child again for a moment, believing that if I opened the door to one of these houses, I could step in...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<br /></div>
Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7723998520471033557.post-72652388267674284222013-01-24T15:02:00.002-08:002013-02-23T11:25:26.416-08:00CORNFIELDS+PHOTO ESSAYS+MINI VANS<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifHtB9MJ2TIPvUdMAr6u8mCAK3V8Yxif0RcWrvVh-PODgDDwf905i5xQ6H-wLym38wjF4_XC5uRnHyqhM6e-9zmrSioJEGvRq8HBbYJ1EefbAliMelw5mmnqhCObzsB2PFJVXM54oQMWAY/s1600/cornfield.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifHtB9MJ2TIPvUdMAr6u8mCAK3V8Yxif0RcWrvVh-PODgDDwf905i5xQ6H-wLym38wjF4_XC5uRnHyqhM6e-9zmrSioJEGvRq8HBbYJ1EefbAliMelw5mmnqhCObzsB2PFJVXM54oQMWAY/s320/cornfield.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A quick update: I'm excited to share that the new season of<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><u> </u><a href="http://cwp.fas.nyu.edu/page/readingseries" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>readings at NYU</b></span></a></span> will launch on January 31 with the beloved Lorrie Moore. I can't believe I'm going on five years coordinating these readings, while surrounded by all of these remarkable people. (I never imagined, as a kid raised in the cornfields of Ohio...)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Did I say remarkable? Strike that, I meant fabulous. Check out this photo essay of a day in the life of professor and writer <a href="http://ditlo.com/2013/01/09/darin-strauss/#st" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>Darin Strauss</b></span></a>. I wonder if his talent and photogenic quality will just sort of ... rub off on me? Sink in via osmosis? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Speaking of talent, I've recently hired Bianca Stone to illustrate my first book cover. That process is in early stages, and as we know, anything can happen--but it's not too early to laud her gorgeous illustration for <a href="http://whoisthatsupposedtobe.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Ana Bozicevic's book</span></b>.</a> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> A fun and nervy part of working on a first book is asking for blurbs. "I read the whole thing" would be fine (takers? Mom?). I want to ask my dream blurb-er, Li-Young Lee, who is teaching at this year's <a href="http://www.kundiman.org/retreat/" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b>Kundiman Retreat</b></span></a>. (What? He's what, where?) I remember clutching a copy of "Rose" at his reading in San Francisco, circa 1994. Years later, I drove him around in a mini van when he read at University of Maryland. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Do writers remember their <strike>groupies</strike> van drivers? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Finally, I want to congratulate my coworkers for their new writing projects unveiled this week. Adam Soldofsky is the author of pamphlet #49 published by <a href="http://greyingghost.tumblr.com/" target="_blank"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Greying Ghost Press</span></b></a>, and Zachary Sussman launched his website <a href="http://www.zacharysussmanwine.com/" target="_blank"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">The Verbose Vine</span></b></a>, which compiles his prolific work as a wine writer. Happy reading! </span>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7723998520471033557.post-16351662600890000712012-12-16T12:32:00.002-08:002013-01-10T07:20:10.654-08:00HE DIED IN HIS APARTMENT, NOT FOUND FOR DAYS<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:DocumentProperties>
<o:Revision>0</o:Revision>
<o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime>
<o:Pages>1</o:Pages>
<o:Words>417</o:Words>
<o:Characters>2382</o:Characters>
<o:Company>NYU</o:Company>
<o:Lines>19</o:Lines>
<o:Paragraphs>5</o:Paragraphs>
<o:CharactersWithSpaces>2794</o:CharactersWithSpaces>
<o:Version>14.0</o:Version>
</o:DocumentProperties>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:TrackMoves/>
<w:TrackFormatting/>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:DoNotPromoteQF/>
<w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther>
<w:LidThemeAsian>JA</w:LidThemeAsian>
<w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
<w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/>
<w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/>
<w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/>
<w:OverrideTableStyleHps/>
<w:UseFELayout/>
</w:Compatibility>
<m:mathPr>
<m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/>
<m:brkBin m:val="before"/>
<m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/>
<m:smallFrac m:val="off"/>
<m:dispDef/>
<m:lMargin m:val="0"/>
<m:rMargin m:val="0"/>
<m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/>
<m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/>
<m:intLim m:val="subSup"/>
<m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/>
</m:mathPr></w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
DefSemiHidden="true" DefQFormat="false" DefPriority="99"
LatentStyleCount="276">
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="0" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Normal"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="heading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="35" QFormat="true" Name="caption"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" Name="Default Paragraph Font"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="59" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="0" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-priority:99;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-qm3yvibCySwrPnZTxHq-0I_7F6YsWdfE8yiO6EP019BbaEY2T5hND-qOw3DCAFOGCiPCWFS03Fq16WAeT1pGQYRj_UvHnLlBiviK5WZRIvl0hL2xbq4DONfUv3o_00VKcSgE3VZW9n_-/s1600/stanthonyofpadua.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-qm3yvibCySwrPnZTxHq-0I_7F6YsWdfE8yiO6EP019BbaEY2T5hND-qOw3DCAFOGCiPCWFS03Fq16WAeT1pGQYRj_UvHnLlBiviK5WZRIvl0hL2xbq4DONfUv3o_00VKcSgE3VZW9n_-/s320/stanthonyofpadua.gif" width="219" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">St. Anthony, patron saint of lost souls.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial;">He was <i>that</i> guy. The weird guy on the second
floor of my apartment building. In his 50s or 60s, hard to tell, bent over, his
arms always held oddly a few inches away from his body, like a pigeon about to take flight.
Shuffling the hallway in dirty sweats, socks, flip-flops. I’d pass him on my
way down five flights of stairs. He’d be sitting on the stairs, drinking beer out of a
round Tupperware container, smoking a cigarette. Damn, I’d think, and call the landlord, indignant.
More “No Smoking” signs were hung, up high out of the reach of graffiti and
angry pens. But no matter, every few days the smell of smoke wafted up the
stairwell. I'd tell myself it was the price of having a rent-stabilized studio. I'd try to remember all of the great things about my place, my neighborhood. I soon stopped calling the landlord as annoyance faded into pity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Over the two-and-half years I've been living in my building, I started
hearing rumors about the guy. He’d lived there for 33 years,
enabled by rent control and a disability check. Once, he’d harassed a gay man who
had lived in the building, leaving threatening Post-it notes on his front
door. I decided upon a simple, yet
self-protective <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">modus operandi</i>
whenever I saw him: I said hi, half-smiled, and scurried away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">We
exchanged few words, and always random: once, he was reading a thick novel while he sat in usual his
spot on the stairs, the Tupperware of beer close by. He looked up at me and
said, “Did you know surgery was invented in the war? That’s right, on the field
they had to learn how to operate on wounded soldiers.” “Really?” I said, “that
makes sense.” Another time, I had my dog as well as my neighbor’s dog in tow.
“They multiplied,” he said, expressionless. “Um, yeah!” I’d say, in that
forced-cheerful tone, “Have a good one!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">A few
months ago, he posted in the lobby a meticulously hand-written list of items
for sale. It went something like this:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>4 UNICYCLES good cond. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>5 BICYCLE INNER TUBES<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>1 TRUMPET<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>1 OBOE<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>2 CLARINETS<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>3 RECORD PLAYERS<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">3 TOASTERS<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">5 TEN SPEED BICYCLES need repair<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">1 SNOW SHOVEL<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">1 AQUARIUM<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">LOTS OF BOOKS AND RECORDS <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Later, when
someone—probably the cleaning crew--had taken it down, he reposted the list,
with a note added on top: IF YOU TOUCH THIS YOU DESERVE TO DIE PIECE OF SHIT
HAVE SOME RESPECT FOR PROPERTY ITS U.S. of A LAW CODE 11.89123.1. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial;">More recently, a few Dilbert cartoon clippings from 1994 were pasted to the elevator wall next to the buttons. I thought it might be his doing, though I can't be sure. It was as if someone was communicating in code. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">This past
Tuesday, a neighbor I'm friendly with called me at work. The guy had died inside his
apartment. No one had known he was missing until people noticed an awful smell. Tuesday morning, police and firemen and EMTs flooded our building. He had been dead for three, four days. ODd on heroin. The fellow who lives below him, a kid in his 20s, said blood seeped through the ceiling, for reasons no one's yet confirmed. The photo on his cell phone is out of a horror movie, red dripping down a wall. He was the first to call the super. Some neighbors hadn't known the dead man's name. A few folks who’ve been in the building for decades said he’d once been a teacher,
accomplished jazz musician, a decent guy. One warm-hearted woman from my floor said he’d been trying to redeem himself in the past year, was funny and
kind to her 4-year-old. Someone else said, maybe now he’s in a better place. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial;">H<o:p></o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">is name was Mike. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7723998520471033557.post-39687352551749255392012-10-07T19:57:00.002-07:002012-10-08T08:07:52.563-07:00MUSINGS ON "JONAH" AND OTHER POEMS BY TOMAZ SALAMUN<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong style="border-width: 0px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px; outline-width: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Jonah</strong></span><br />
<div style="border-width: 0px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 19px; margin: 10px 0px 15px; outline-width: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">how does the sun set?<br />like snow<br />what color is the sea?<br />large<br />Jonah are you salty?<br />I’m salty<br />Jonah are you a flag?<br />I’m a flag<br />the fireflies rest now</span></div>
<div style="border-width: 0px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 19px; margin: 10px 0px 15px; outline-width: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">what are stones like?<br />green<br />how do little dogs play?<br />like flowers<br />Jonah are you a fish?<br />I’m a fish<br />Jonah are you a sea urchin?<br />I’m a sea urchin<br />listen to the flow</span></div>
<div style="border-width: 0px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 19px; margin: 10px 0px 15px; outline-width: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jonah is the roe running through the woods<br />Jonah is the mountain breathing<br />Jonah is all the houses<br />have you ever heard such a rainbow?<br />what is the dew like?<br />are you asleep?</span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIUTtJBgY7FefiUhnwROTY56SAMOk1XhYnBiOLInKeZSsVMNwqDZdPt4MpOEB4VcVqb75vQx6Pvo9-4zRpv1cn5awrdxxHVeXZMNvGe7GAcrifTA6VZdlAi-ZWVYRVYnSqX8CPmIpQaGuN/s1600/tomaz.salamun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIUTtJBgY7FefiUhnwROTY56SAMOk1XhYnBiOLInKeZSsVMNwqDZdPt4MpOEB4VcVqb75vQx6Pvo9-4zRpv1cn5awrdxxHVeXZMNvGe7GAcrifTA6VZdlAi-ZWVYRVYnSqX8CPmIpQaGuN/s1600/tomaz.salamun.jpg" /></span></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><b><br /></b></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I first read Tomaz Salamun in graduate school at UNC Greensboro. My favorite writers then were Robert Hass, Raymond Carver, Milan Kundera, Vladimir Nabokov, the dead Russians; I was easily influenced by what my teachers taught and my friends liked. One day, a fellow student, frustrated with our workshop's narrative, predictable, linear, very 90s poems (it was the early 90s, after all) brought in a pile of poems that included Salamun's "I Have a Horse" and "History":</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;">Tomaz Salamun is a monster.<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />Tomaz Salamun is a sphere rushing through the air.<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />He lies down in twilight, he swims in twilight.<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />People and I, we both look at him amazed, <br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />we wish him well, maybe he is a comet.<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />Maybe he is punishment from the gods,<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />the boundary stone of the world.<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />Maybe he is such a speck in the universe<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />that he will give energy to the planet<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />when oil, steel, and food run short.<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />He might only be a hump, his head<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />should be taken off like a spider's.<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />But something would then suck up<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />Tomaz Salamun, possibly the head.<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />Possibly he should be pressed between<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />glass, his photo should be taken.<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />He should be put in formaldehyde, so children<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />would look at him as they do foetuses,<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />protei, and mermaids.<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />Next year, he'll probably be in Hawaii<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />or in Ljubljana. Doorkeepers will scalp<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />tickets. People walk barefoot<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />to the university there. The waves can be<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />a hundred feet high. The city is fantastic,<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />shot through with people on the make,<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />the wind is mild.<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />But in Ljubljana people say: look!<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />This is Tomaz Salamun, he went to the store<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />with his wife Marushka to buy some milk.<br style="background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />He will drink it and this is history.</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;">I was in love. I had that Emily-Dickinson-quote feeling, the top of my head coming off: </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, serif;">" </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"History and "I Have a Horse" I think are better poems than the first one here, "Jonah." But somehow Jonah became one of my favorite poems, part of my blood and bone. It felt familiar and strange, its simplicity and tender voice refreshingly transparent, earnest, sweet, at a time I was trying to wrap my mind around, say, Jorie Graham's poems, or prying my eyes open through a 18th-century British literature class (the mention of "Clarissa" is like Ambien to this day). In an Irish literature class I was gulping down quantities of Yeats and yet remained stubbornly attached to his early sentimental pieces, "He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven" and "When You Are Old and Grey." They reminded me of the very first literary poem I remember loving, Wordsworth's "Daffodils." I didn't understand the complexities of Irish history, didn't care for Yeats's creepy seances and communing with afterlife, just as, I confess, I'm still shaky on the Eastern European history informing Salumun's poems. Being versed in the historical contexts of these writers' lives would only deepen my appreciation for their poems, but I don't think the poets would disapprove of my limited knowledge of politics. The language alone offers abundant beauty and lasting resonance. </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I remember running to the Poets House in the mid 90s for a reading by Salamun, that feverish feeling of anticipation, the thrill of hearing the word live. I've kept the poster for that reading the way a Deadhead would keep a bumper sticker of dancing bears. The poster is in a box of keepsakes in my closet, along with ticket stubs for Pavement and Yo la Tengo, a map of Greensboro, xeroxes of poems, dog-eared and coffee-stained. Ah, grad school.</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Katherine Mansfield said, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;">“To be alive and to be a writer is enough.”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"> To be a reader--a close second indeed. Tomaz Salalmun reads on Friday, October 12, 5pm at NYU Creative Writing Program. </span></span></div>
<div style="border-width: 0px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 19px; margin: 10px 0px 15px; outline-width: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="border-width: 0px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 19px; margin: 10px 0px 15px; outline-width: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7723998520471033557.post-10977519065038122582012-09-15T13:27:00.000-07:002012-09-17T07:45:52.003-07:00BEING BIRACIAL
<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5sGjWHLObb5rydfqx6t-_tIOalJN_M82KX4aGOAyTMohmYUot_dwyrDLiju1JDepMSHxQV7vwy8RQTr7Qk2TbZMyJvd0hILYWkTWYlxe5JXY88Zs076SbBll_-1Ckl3OKn4EKiczRgbHd/s1600/bully_report.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5sGjWHLObb5rydfqx6t-_tIOalJN_M82KX4aGOAyTMohmYUot_dwyrDLiju1JDepMSHxQV7vwy8RQTr7Qk2TbZMyJvd0hILYWkTWYlxe5JXY88Zs076SbBll_-1Ckl3OKn4EKiczRgbHd/s320/bully_report.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve been asked to submit some poems and an
essay to an anthology of poetry by biracial writers. The “poems” part is
easy, but I’ve been stewing over the "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">prose piece between 200 and 2000 words. It can take the form of a brief biography, an anecdote, or a full-fledged essay. We only ask that it be relevant to the experience of biraciality." </span></b></span></span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve competed in two bicycle races, therefore
I am biracial? Twice a week I slather on my mudmask--love my bifacials? I
watched a rerun of the series finale of “Friends” last night: bye Rachel?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I suppose the editor is referring to my ethnicity, my
Caucasian father and my Japanese (Mongolian, technically) mother. My father was, by all appearances, a white
dude. So white, he was pink-cheeked, pink-nosed. He had blond hair and blue eyes. He was also adopted as a baby in a Chicago hospital. I never heard a word about his
biological mother--I imagined a knocked-up Irish Catholic girl--so in fact, my father might be of mixed race himself.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My essay could end here. But questions about my father’s actual lineage aside, what’s more important than DNA is that I’m perceived as
biracial. “I have a Caucasian father and Japanese mother” I tell people who
ask. Actually, that’s a lie. I say <i>American</i> father—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Caucasian</i> sounds too clinical--and people get it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Talking about race is like asking
how gravity works, why aren’t we floating and bumping around like multicolored
balloons?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We say, re: gravity working, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It just does</i>, so that we can attend to more immediate matters, like
what’s for dinner or the traffic light turning red or is that good-looking guy straight.</span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Maybe what's meant by "the experience of biraciality" is: “What is it like to not
be 100% white in America?” </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was bullied by Japanese kids as a child growing
up in Japan (my hair was too light, my eyes too roundish), so for a moment I thought I was white. But then I was bullied through elementary, middle, and high school in Ohio (I was Chinawoman, I was greasy-haired chink).
Biracial means, to me, not being asked to a single prom or homecoming dance. It means spending my teenage years living vicariously through Molly Ringwald in John Hughes movies. It means vowing to dye my hair blond, wear colored contacts, and find the best damn
mascara in the world to camouflage my slanted eyes. It means, in college, reading about the demographic breakdown of my class and realizing that I AM the ".002% Asian American Students from Ohio." </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Just a few years ago, a woman asked me my name. I said "April." She said, "Angel?" I said "APRIL." And she said, "Eggroll?" I was too flabbergasted to reply. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I should have said, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"What is this, free association? </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You must be 'Bad Perm White Lady'." </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As a poet, there seems little left to say about
being harassed. Childhood is traumatic. Kids are mean. Adults are mean. You're ejected from the safety of the womb and it’s all sticks and stones from there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> So what? </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Maybe the best poetry about being called chink
isn’t in words, but in actions. I fight a little harder for the underdog
because I am one. About five years ago, on a D.C. bus, I watched a black guy harass an Indian woman, perhaps a university student, from the looks of her heavy backpack. He looked like he might be a vagrant; it was a battle for power, the bullied kid setting fire to a kitten. <i>Where you from</i> he said. <i>You from India. You seen the Namesake.</i> <i>Go
back home</i>. The girl sat still, her mouth shut, her eyes looking straight ahead. I walked/lurched up to the front of the bus and told the driver. He actually pulled over and stopped the bus. As I took my seat again, the driver stood up and faced us. "Don’t be making trouble on my bus or you will
walk. You hear me? You will get off my bus and walk." I clapped my hands, I sat two feet from the giant bully of a man and cheered.</span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p><br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7723998520471033557.post-89514161145228778162012-07-20T12:47:00.002-07:002012-07-20T13:09:24.155-07:00"little plum": erasure poems<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9AeDEFTdqQJ9_-sCrDww32mzIMrL3iD27cnqmlAFwuUHSjYizO-yp9n1HjdkW1j5ITwLODT43-2PN1yWmGRGjp03B4pn-XxPrXJppR5DJ21h-kLN9OmRH2VYxEeN6u2quvhYmkTCjtsFc/s1600/littleplum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9AeDEFTdqQJ9_-sCrDww32mzIMrL3iD27cnqmlAFwuUHSjYizO-yp9n1HjdkW1j5ITwLODT43-2PN1yWmGRGjp03B4pn-XxPrXJppR5DJ21h-kLN9OmRH2VYxEeN6u2quvhYmkTCjtsFc/s320/littleplum.jpg" width="247" /></a></div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9AeDEFTdqQJ9_-sCrDww32mzIMrL3iD27cnqmlAFwuUHSjYizO-yp9n1HjdkW1j5ITwLODT43-2PN1yWmGRGjp03B4pn-XxPrXJppR5DJ21h-kLN9OmRH2VYxEeN6u2quvhYmkTCjtsFc/s1600/littleplum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><div style="text-align: left;" unselectable="on">
</div>
</a><div style="text-align: left;" unselectable="on">
</div>
These erasures are from two facing pages of<em> Little Plum</em>, a young adult book published by Rumer Godden in 1962. <br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>messages<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> happen.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Garamond;"> Miss Flower’s bowls and tea</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Garamond;"> happen.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">teas sets,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">cups,<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>bowls.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(a Japanese<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>teapot.)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Japanese people seem to have tea with<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">everything –
green tea – I can make that<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">with paint
water.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> (shiny black</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Garamond;"> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>lacquer<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>bowls.)</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">II.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>dolls are used to
having<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">dollhouse food<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the size of half your little
fingernail.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>each bowl held rice,</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> fish as
small as ants,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>silver in <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>red sauce<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Japanese <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">people are
very fond fish</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Garamond;"> vegetable,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"> cake, <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>sugar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were chop-<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">sticks made
from pine needles.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the tea
was hot. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the teapot<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">looked<span style="mso-tab-count: 4;"> </span>real. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7723998520471033557.post-92099354206392158112012-06-12T14:01:00.001-07:002012-06-13T06:10:46.324-07:00War Hero<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHIaoRd-j8XcF0uz2MTvpUwW0NZfn6U7IE6SLXcvm8Yl9IMtrAc-_nikZd005PK-ck1l8cJlSw37DF39pCC3VSWYIJPvn7WJ-J9r1YRrmbqIHK9mBmc-zTP78PHGH2aJ_VHlZMnBmLlYse/s1600/Obaasan1_sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHIaoRd-j8XcF0uz2MTvpUwW0NZfn6U7IE6SLXcvm8Yl9IMtrAc-_nikZd005PK-ck1l8cJlSw37DF39pCC3VSWYIJPvn7WJ-J9r1YRrmbqIHK9mBmc-zTP78PHGH2aJ_VHlZMnBmLlYse/s400/Obaasan1_sm.jpg" width="268" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">My Great-Grandfather</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My great-grandfather, Naoyuki Kuzume, was a Lieutenant Colonel in the Pacific War. Growing up, I know just this: his name is in Japanese history books. He fought an important battle. He committed suicide upon defeat.<br /> In my child’s mind, I picture seppuku,
ritual suicide by sword, an image later colored by reading Mishima in my
college Japanese lit class. I see a faceless soldier on his knees. I see little
else, no cave wall nor jungle terrain, no humidity nor heat, no sun nor moon.
He is a sentence in a book I can’t read; he is the sound of pride in my
mother’s voice.<br /> In graduate school, I begin asking questions.
I Google his name. I buy and study a book about his last battle on the island
of Biak, New Guinea. The book is self-published by the author, the verity of
details murky. Some likely facts: he is the leader of approximately 11,000
Japanese soldiers occupying the island, valuable for its airfields (a refueling stop on the flight between warring countries). The Japanese general has recently
restrategized in the Pacific-- reduced its defense perimeter and essentially
abandoned its troops in New Guinea. </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR7TK1zU3CumGL8LFsAw9hJPUZLZJ82jQu6yz0mT5dz_Bw7JbKh8b02Vni-38O0uudG9p9oIO3Yl5Q-Uqhxtxd9eXMR7xho0jG4Wp-QPpiBDXVED2PJkt8qb8yqrR_ReTuTYVnXquKTDyY/s1600/Sgt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR7TK1zU3CumGL8LFsAw9hJPUZLZJ82jQu6yz0mT5dz_Bw7JbKh8b02Vni-38O0uudG9p9oIO3Yl5Q-Uqhxtxd9eXMR7xho0jG4Wp-QPpiBDXVED2PJkt8qb8yqrR_ReTuTYVnXquKTDyY/s320/Sgt.jpg" width="224" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">US Army Sgt John P. Gallagher- </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">South Pacific- WWII- Island of Biak 1945 </span><br />
<a href="http://www.ww2incolor.com/us-army/Sgt.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">http://www.ww2incolor.com/us-army/Sgt.html</span></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> MacArthur heads up the mission to overtake
Biak, a mission known as Operation Hurricane, May 27, 1944-July 22, 1944.<br /> “’The light
enemy resistance at the beachhead held little hint of what was to come’,
recalled MacArthur. Lieutenant Colonel Naoyuki Kuzume put up a fierce defense
that included tanks, which was rare for Japanese troops in this theater of the
Pacific War. Kuzume utilized his knowledge of the island's topography and
devised a brilliant defense plan that fully utilized the terrain...<br /> It was the first time Japanese troops effectively used caves as defensive strongholds. Before this point, Japanese troops defended the islands at the beach; when all was lost, surviving troops formed a <i>banzai</i> charge, and the battle was over. After the battle, the Japanese began to include caves as an option, which dramatically increased American casualty rates during operations to secure the subsequent islands...<br /> His
effective defense even rendered the airfields, newly captured by the Allies,
useless. On 28 Jun, Kuzume's command post, located in one of the numerous
caves, was breached. He committed ritual suicide."<br /> Most of us are
descendants of soldiers, survivors, war heroes. Facts can be researched,
stories recorded, but the question I struggle with now is: How do I feel? As I
read war narratives--while drinking my iced coffee in a Park Slope cafe--I feel proud. Wait. Proud?--though he was partly responsible for the deaths of hundreds of
American soldiers? Proud of his intelligence? Proud of his sense of honor and
duty?<br /> I also feel profoundly sad. Heatstroke, skin ulcers, malaria--there were many more dangers than gunfire. The troops had few rations (supply routes cut off by
American military) and survived on potatoes in the dark passages of caves they’d
tunneled into. One reseacher even suggests there was evidence of cannibalism in the caves.<br /> Did they know they wouldn’t escape?<br /> Is such suffering lightened, transformed when undertaken for love of country and
emperor worshiped as god?<br /> Last night, instead of working on this blog, I watched "Duets"
on Hulu. Life as a writer is a series of
confrontations and evasions, attack and retreat, even though no one is
forcing me look back, to ask questions such as: where is the body?<br /> I turn up the volume on the TV. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></div>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7723998520471033557.post-35902735435310422202012-04-29T12:49:00.003-07:002012-04-29T12:54:28.871-07:00Happy Grandparents' Day, Grandpa David!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizWIvvm90tCUmE-4-9dSQCchnPDS2M1hNo1Vwgvi73b15gvVa5PvteHyz4ebUI0HPqgOwUTM9aUVLT5wwt8NnJxbWC5pd8g1Sh7ZURNJajNYWk_1VdM5fF4TVJ3p6EHEsJMRhWVOQCYsyP/s1600/solar-systems-greatest-grandpa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizWIvvm90tCUmE-4-9dSQCchnPDS2M1hNo1Vwgvi73b15gvVa5PvteHyz4ebUI0HPqgOwUTM9aUVLT5wwt8NnJxbWC5pd8g1Sh7ZURNJajNYWk_1VdM5fF4TVJ3p6EHEsJMRhWVOQCYsyP/s1600/solar-systems-greatest-grandpa.jpg" /></a></div>
April 27 was my father's birthday. He would have been 74. The day also happened to be Grandparents' Day at my niece's preschool. I talked to my niece Izumi, who is four, on the phone yesterday:<br />
"Hi!"<br />
"Hi! I'm Izumi!"<br />
"Yes, hi! I'm April! I miss you!"<br />
"I miss you too!"<br />
"I heard yesterday was Grandparents' Day at school. What did you do?"<br />
Silence. My sister, in background: "Remember, you had lunch in the gym with Reiko <i>baa-chan</i>?"<br />
"Oh. Yeah! We ate lunch! in the gym!"<br />
I spoke to my sister, who worries about how to explain Grandpa David's passing to Izumi: if my sister were to say Grandpa David "got sick," would Izumi become frightened every time someone sneezed? I realized that as the family storyteller, I could take it upon myself to explain her Grandpa's life and death in a sensitive, yet meaningful way:<br />
<br />
Dear Izumi,<br />
<br />
On April 27, 1950-something, your Grandpa David was born in a Chicago hospital on a cold, windy day. Grandpa David was special from the very beginning. His birth mother loved him soooo much, she wanted to give him a happier home than she could. So one day, when the stork dropped him off on her doorstep, she wrapped him in swaddling and took him to the nearest hospital. There, from a row of gleaming white baskets filled with little pink babies, Great Grandpa and Grandma picked him out, adopted him, and brought him home. They were so happy! He was their little angel.<br />
As he grew older, his blue eyes remained blue and his blond hair remained blond, suggesting an Irish-Catholic background, though only God really knows.<br />
Grandpa David was a mischievous, bright, handsome boy. He went to high school in Euclid, Ohio, where he was a four-time track and cross-country champion, just like your mom.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWvKrqAkBpkh9bAi4ZEUfEBjQivbdFA6-JoSTqyAC6yohT8InRvh8K_ak3HZasZAAOtAmUKJ8zFCfgKlHeP_NYrCQDypt-_GYl6UNoVVOXjVplg5fWT2JRec8OWGVdJyjK5sDh7RbekEmK/s1600/image005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWvKrqAkBpkh9bAi4ZEUfEBjQivbdFA6-JoSTqyAC6yohT8InRvh8K_ak3HZasZAAOtAmUKJ8zFCfgKlHeP_NYrCQDypt-_GYl6UNoVVOXjVplg5fWT2JRec8OWGVdJyjK5sDh7RbekEmK/s320/image005.jpg" width="303" /></a></div>
When he was 18 years old, on New Year's Eve, he ran away from home and enlisted in the army. He almost wound up stationed with Elvis Presley, but Elvis had a movie to make and was sent off to Hawaii. Too bad. Grandpa David did some stuff in the army and traveled to Japan, where he fell in love with the country and its traditional, yet modern ways. He returned to the U.S. and attended Ohio State University, where he studied to be a creative writer. When he realized that the writing life was totally depressing and futile, he went back to Japan, met Reiko <i>baa-chan,</i> and got married. A Japanese-American stork dropped off your mom and me as little babies on their doorstep, and he spent the next 17 years working and raising a family.<br />
One day, when he was an older man, he was struck by a serious illness. An illness so rare you should think about it again, because it will never come up, I promise. He went to the hospital, fell asleep and never woke.<br />
Why? Sometimes that just happens to people, and we don't know why.<br />
The good news is, now Grandpa David is in Grandpa Heaven, which is right next to Doggie heaven, where dogs frolic amongts giant slabs of bacon and tennis balls all day long. Grandpa heaven is a giant living room strewn about with Laz-y Boys equipped with cup holders. Each Grandpa has his own TV screen that shows Superbowl games and James Bond movies 24/7. The best thing about Grandpa heaven is that they have strict visiting hours for Grandmas coming over from Grandma heaven. They can only nag their husbands on weekdays from 1pm-2pm.<br />
Yes, Grandpa heaven is a very happy place.<br />
The only problem is that children are not allowed there. But if you have a message for him, all you have to do is say it aloud, and he will hear you. You might not hear a reply right away, but if you really listen, you might hear a little voice that sounds like a rustle of leaves or whoosh of wind through the window screens: "Love ya, sweet cheeks. Sorry I missed Grandparents' Day."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7723998520471033557.post-34563921769431459272012-04-15T20:43:00.005-07:002012-04-16T09:25:15.094-07:00confessions of a Luddite<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNCR6EQq53HbK8KBih81vhcq-7K5-JLYcNKqq5uMHibC1T2Ra03E2-TxVT1j4lBjGaKmDSTS3syCcCEvSGhRxWZlK8WNCTJCXI9QCoFF39Zp3NncysKU9YwWbnbGoZIYe7dlZtYWUYNY4R/s1600/Nightingale-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNCR6EQq53HbK8KBih81vhcq-7K5-JLYcNKqq5uMHibC1T2Ra03E2-TxVT1j4lBjGaKmDSTS3syCcCEvSGhRxWZlK8WNCTJCXI9QCoFF39Zp3NncysKU9YwWbnbGoZIYe7dlZtYWUYNY4R/s320/Nightingale-3.jpg" width="274" /></a></div>I still have a flip phone--a banged-up but 100% operable, slick Sony Ericsson. When I left my cell phone charger at the Super 8 in Wooster, Ohio, last December, I couldn't buy a replacement charger at any store in NYC. The clerks at two Radio Shacks laughed; the salespeople at two T-Mobile stores stared as if I were speaking in the grown-ups' language of a Charlie Brown TV special. (Mwah-mwah, flip phone, mwahm wahma?) Best Buy was a beacon of hope: the label on an antique cell charger promised to work with my phone. It didn't. But the Best Buy guy told me I could just buy one on E-Bay for 99 cents, duh, which I did.<br />
<div> Homeless people have better phones than I do. Some of them also have MP3 players and portable DVD players, neither of which I have ever owned. </div><div> Correction: I owned a Nano for two of weeks. A well-meaning guy I was dating gave me his semi-operable Nano for Valentine's Day (he had a new one). You couldn't forward or rewind, but you could poke "play" and hear some dance beats. He asked for it back after we broke up. I lose umbrellas, gloves, hats, scarves and sunglasses on subways as quickly as boyfriends, so I've never invested in music gadgets since my COBY CD player broke around 2001. Needless to say, I do not own a Kindle. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_vQt8gYjgn3XcOcDXPPfwgtsUYXnbAgEqzZTdjqL6HRitU8l2cBiTCKFykhMq_zyg39Jy65v8Lovlm6c-Rcz9ysasGRqAJxroR2amuag7JET5hNrRR0KeNGubTRCqD6-nJpu5uMAGfaN7/s1600/nightingale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_vQt8gYjgn3XcOcDXPPfwgtsUYXnbAgEqzZTdjqL6HRitU8l2cBiTCKFykhMq_zyg39Jy65v8Lovlm6c-Rcz9ysasGRqAJxroR2amuag7JET5hNrRR0KeNGubTRCqD6-nJpu5uMAGfaN7/s320/nightingale.jpg" width="243" /></a></div><div> I'm terrified of the day my phone dies, when I will have to face again the option to upgrade to the new century. Despite my Amish-like ways, I'm a loyal Apple devotee. I love my Mac laptop. I have a crush on i-phones and i-tablets. But I shudder at the thought of being reachable 24/7, of being tempted to check work email or update my status or snap photos of the Jesus silhouette on my French toast or Google the Moore-Willis daughters at any given moment. I like to uni-task. I try not to text and walk at the same time. If I'm texting, how I can be fully attentive to my surroundings? How will I notice the pattern of clouds above or the scent of lilacs and dogwoods in bloom as I pass by? How will I have uninterrupted expanses of time to reflect, meditate, daydream? </div><div> Whenever I obsess about the evils of new technology and its devastation of attention spans, I think of Keats reclined in the tall grass and a nightingale close by singing. I imagine him listening, uninterrupted, still, enchanted, inspired. I can't picture him with a cell phone vibrating beside him, a Word window popping open on his tablet, a Facebook news stream updating him every millisecond with the status of his 999 "friends." He couldn't have tweeted an "Ode to a Nightingale" in 140 characters (although some scientific advances, like a TB vaccine, would have worked in his favor.) </div><div> One of the highlights of my weekend is turning off my phone, shutting down my laptop, and curling up on the couch for a nap. Mattie drowses at my feet, and it's so quiet I can hear us breathe. </div><div> </div><div><br />
</div>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7723998520471033557.post-19835991504054666022012-04-11T15:28:00.000-07:002012-04-11T15:28:21.438-07:00not tonight dear, i'm watching law & order<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDa_l3KLqzEuxxxfJDMWrVLtZD299Zb8r-Tp338_6CWIQhAwwCK3F1pjJo-SMAimkjvwHluSs6_KoIBWdnYXF3umSEJ6q2Z6HPv5C3iG0355XAq8z0ilAL9_bSdtHt8hXL1gGKEtV2lTrT/s1600/law-and-order_jpg-2136.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDa_l3KLqzEuxxxfJDMWrVLtZD299Zb8r-Tp338_6CWIQhAwwCK3F1pjJo-SMAimkjvwHluSs6_KoIBWdnYXF3umSEJ6q2Z6HPv5C3iG0355XAq8z0ilAL9_bSdtHt8hXL1gGKEtV2lTrT/s320/law-and-order_jpg-2136.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The postcard project is a challenge: apparently, I have zero time each day to write. That's right, no time on the 45 minute subway ride to and from work. No time while watching <em>Law and Order: Criminal Intent. </em>No time during my lunch break at work, and certainly no time on weekends. The post office is extremely far away (next door), and I'm not sure they make postcard stamps anymore. I have a repetitive stress injury in my right shoulder. I'm getting a migraine almost daily, I ran out of pens and paper. I'm plum out of ideas. I'm not sure where mail drop-boxes are, or if snail mail even exists. My fingers are frozen. I'm a terrible writer. I quit.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><strong>Postcard #1, Revised<o:p></o:p></strong></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Every day is every day is every day.<br />
I'm thinking of too much<br />
at once. Of an hour lost in a station<br />
where engines idled in the tracks,<br />
where fume and perfume and goodbye<br />
fought for air. Every day is night, every night<br />
another morning. I've walked into this season, <br />
this ocean before. I didn't know I was weary<br />
until you asked. I won't speak of flowers<br />
or weather, of which enough has been said.<br />
I'll spend most of my life <br />
softening into forgiveness. The task<br />
has chosen me. A fortuneteller<br />
once told me to listen<br />
as a whale listens <br />
for pitches too high, too low<br />
for most ears to comprehend.<br />
I'm swimming to the source.<br />
I'm holding my breath.<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><strong>Postcard #2</strong> <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><em>(Experiment: rewrite the poem backwards in couplets)<o:p></o:p></em></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I'm holding <o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">my breath. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I'm swimming <o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">to the source.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">A fortuneteller once told me <o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">to listen <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">as a whale listens <br />
for pitches too high, <o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">too low<br />
for most ears to comprehend.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> </span><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The task has chosen <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">me. I'll spend most of my life <br />
<br />
softening into forgiveness.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I won't speak of flowers<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> </span><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">or weather: enough <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">has been said. I didn't know <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I was weary<br />
until you asked.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I've walked into this <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">season, this ocean <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">before. Every day is night, <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">every night<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> </span><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">another morning,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">an hour lost <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">in a train station. <br />
I think of too much<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> </span><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">at once. Every day <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">is every <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">day is <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">every day.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><strong>Postcard #3, draft #1<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><em>(Experiment: rewrite with "every day" as anaphora, using the same words in original)<o:p></o:p></em></span><br />
<em> </em><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Every day is a fortuneteller.<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Every day is holding <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">its breath. Every day is flowers <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">or weather, morning or night.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Every day I’m softening <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">into forgiveness. Every day is a season, <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">an ocean I’ve walked into <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">before. Every day is another hour <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">lost in a station, fumes swimming<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">in the tracks. Every day I’m weary<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">of perfume. Every day I won’t speak,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">won’t listen to the ocean’s pitches.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Every day is a whale<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">and I’m thinking of too much at once,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">fighting for air. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Every day is a fortune, every day a task<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">that has chosen me.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><strong>Postcard #3</strong></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><em>(Experiment: with scissors, cut the poem so each line is its own slip of paper. Rearrange.)</em></span></div><em> </em><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Every day is a fortuneteller.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> Every day is holding <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">its breath. Every day is flowers<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">lost in a station, fumes swimming<o:p></o:p></span></div> <span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">fighting for air.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> Every day is a fortune, every day a task<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">in the tracks. Every day I’m weary<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Every day is a whale<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> or weather, morning or night.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Every day I’m softening <o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> into forgiveness. Every day is a season, <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> and I’m thinking of too much at once<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Every day is another hour <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> that has chosen me.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><strong>Postcard #4<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><em>(experiment: use a new anaphora, rewrite with same words as original)</em></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">since a flower is a fortuneteller<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">since every morning is holding its breath<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">since every train station is another lost hour<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">since the weather is every softening<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">since in the tracks another flowering<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">since in every ocean, a whale fights for air<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">since goodbye is a perfume<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">since night is forgiveness<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">since listening is saying and saying is a flowering<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">since every day is at once <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">since choosing is a task<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">since you asked me to--<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7723998520471033557.post-4648179745335325092012-04-02T15:32:00.002-07:002012-04-02T19:23:11.010-07:00Postcard #1 (April in April Poetry Month)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwu5PI5G-vR4KkInFqO1hQFCF6E3FeU90QJSN6rBK52pfH1GnxyseTwtKYz9S8fLgobFhKFO5Wx5SfJ8yJ3UasXa5_n0gjfaPDwlXyUYFNV3vYXCCyoZ73mUA1BzOfk6hKekneBma8cuay/s1600/bluewhale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwu5PI5G-vR4KkInFqO1hQFCF6E3FeU90QJSN6rBK52pfH1GnxyseTwtKYz9S8fLgobFhKFO5Wx5SfJ8yJ3UasXa5_n0gjfaPDwlXyUYFNV3vYXCCyoZ73mUA1BzOfk6hKekneBma8cuay/s320/bluewhale.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><b>APRIL is poetry month. </b>How lovely to have an entire month named after Me and my Profession. I'm participating in a poetry postcard project with fellow writers in Kundiman (an organization for Asian American poets). The challenge: through the entire month of April, write a new poem on a postcard every day and send it the next name on the list, flooding mailboxes with my genius verse. Mailmen will weep! Mountains will move! Hearts will throb with inspiration! Meanwhile, my own mailbox will be bursting with gorgeous lyric and sultry song. My mailman will finally believe that not only 1800-PET-MEDS and student loan companies are after me. Nay, I am sung to by Orpheus himself, by all the Muses and their daughters, by the most talented Asian-American bards of our time! (PS: You don't have to be a poet to do something everyday for a month. What will you do for 10 minutes every day to bring joy or change into your life?) <br />
<br />
<b>Postcard #1</b><br />
Every day is every day is every day.<br />
I'm thinking of too much<br />
at once. Of an hour lost in a station<br />
where engines idled in the tracks,<br />
where fume and perfume and goodbye<br />
fought for air. Every day is night, every night<br />
another morning. I've walked into this season, <br />
this ocean before. I didn't know I was weary<br />
until you asked. I won't speak of flowers<br />
or weather, of which enough has been said.<br />
I'll spend most of my life <br />
softening into forgiveness. The task<br />
has chosen me. A fortuneteller<br />
once told me to listen<br />
as a whale listens <br />
for pitches too high, too low<br />
for most ears to comprehend.<br />
I'm swimming to the source.<br />
I'm holding my breath.Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7723998520471033557.post-72858541059337818982012-03-29T19:29:00.002-07:002012-03-29T19:36:51.396-07:00writing & jealousy<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD2SyenE6l3zziA3FgqMIbpla7ZUrnlivPI8_-78_4HWHb7tRcf1-0AdtTN2RbIyzmLBLaAGRi5HtscYZyICEcH_htFYA3tS4bBJ20UTKE9dVt70zkNH6Xc7xbYPAQSMYNvexFEvZgcvzj/s1600/greenwithenvy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD2SyenE6l3zziA3FgqMIbpla7ZUrnlivPI8_-78_4HWHb7tRcf1-0AdtTN2RbIyzmLBLaAGRi5HtscYZyICEcH_htFYA3tS4bBJ20UTKE9dVt70zkNH6Xc7xbYPAQSMYNvexFEvZgcvzj/s1600/greenwithenvy.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who's top banana? </td></tr>
</tbody></table>I know two perfect litmus tests for my spiritual condition at any given moment: 1. waiting in a long line at Duane Reade, and 2. hearing the good news of another writer.<br />
The line at Duane Reade is easier to manage. Say the line's snaking waaaayy back to the dental floss display, and you have nary a sightline to a cash register. You can huff loudly, mutter<i> fuck it,</i> and leave. No one will think you are evil. In fact, people may follow suit and decide to eat Chinese dumplings around the corner instead.<br />
But hearing about another writer's <i>amazing</i> accomplishment--juicy prize, cash award, plum teaching job at The Best University in the Universe--that's a different story. If you happened to glimpse this news along with 97 thumbs-up on Facebook, you can't walk out of the Facebook store. You can't un-read it. In that split-second, you've waited a half hour in line, overheard a loud cell conversation, witnessed a toddler tantrum, been rung up by an apathetic cashier, and argued about how the sign said 2 for $6 so why are you being charged $9.99?! and ruined a perfectly decent mood.<br />
What to do? You can swear off the Book of Face. Or you can bitch to another writer about how so-and-so got the watchamallcallit and won the thingamajig. Only another writer will do, because no one else will know what you're talking about, because no one else reads poetry. <br />
Or, in a case of mixed metaphors, you can shake it off like a dog shakes off water after a bath. That's right, let that bad vibe shimmy down your spine. Wiggle and flick. Regain your bearings. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in humility, breathe out ego. Breathe in gladness, breathe out. Breathe in gratitude, breathe out.<br />
There now.<br />
Shoulders down. Chin up. Look the world in the eye, brave writer. Say: <i>Congratulations, my friend.</i> <i>Well done. </i>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7723998520471033557.post-17007315652419297262012-03-25T12:28:00.009-07:002012-03-25T19:18:39.156-07:00your great-grandmother survived hiroshima. think you got problems?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqmj7luuP9BYI-wPB0ah17ouxjhOTKOWIBAEKrK2gF895mVYHzQ4Say217h3VcR3K2Ovt0v-TRjyjUH-fuwQf3FY9th0ZbrJqZUf_R48aVWcwD8cnu24dIE4XLn5Q4P1TCQpUH6Ph8Vc5o/s1600/230px-Nagasakibomb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqmj7luuP9BYI-wPB0ah17ouxjhOTKOWIBAEKrK2gF895mVYHzQ4Say217h3VcR3K2Ovt0v-TRjyjUH-fuwQf3FY9th0ZbrJqZUf_R48aVWcwD8cnu24dIE4XLn5Q4P1TCQpUH6Ph8Vc5o/s400/230px-Nagasakibomb.jpg" width="334" /></a></div>"to survive--it's such a dangerous thing"--Eugenia Leigh<br />
<br />
My great-grandmother Kunie was a survivor of Hiroshima: a truth handed down through my mother's generations as matter-of-factly as the good tea set. I never deeply considered nor fully absorbed this truth--that is, never felt it in my heart, my bones--until I took my first writing workshop in college. I turned in a poem containing the image of my mother as a month-old fetus in the womb of her mother, Kiyoko. I described how during the morning of the bombing, pregnant Kiyoko was at home in Otake, a town about 20 miles from Hiroshima. My brief poem evoked a universe creating my mother at the same moment when a bomb destroys the old world. I hardly knew what I had written.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">-- <br />
Kiyoko, who lives with her husband and parents, is safe at home, while her mother Kunie is walking toward Hiroshima. Kiyoko could easily have been Kunie. My mother-as-fetus could have been within three miles of the bomb’s epicenter. By chance she was not.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>To explain: in the days before August 6, 1945, the Japanese government called for volunteers in Hiroshima prefecture. There are maybe quotation marks around “volunteers.” Someone—say, a low-level clerk with hunched shoulders and bloodshot eyes--handed out postcards door to door. These notices asked each household to send at least one person into Hiroshima to tear down structures that were potential targets for Americans. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> What kind of structures?</i> I've yet to ask my mother. <i>Schools? Temples? Government buildings? </i>So many questions behind each word she's told me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> Kiyoko's husband reads the postcard and shouts something in a fury:<i> my father-in-law is dead! What else do they want? This family will not sacrifice anything more!</i> He slams his fist into the wall, he rips the card in half. Later, when no one's watching, Kunie pastes the torn halves together, using a smear of soft rice for glue. Someone must go, she reasons. Maybe Kiyoko--but she is pregnant. Maybe her son-in-law--but he is stubborn.<br />
On the morning of the bomb, Kunie, not Kiyoko, is riding a train to Hiroshima, along with other volunteers. Suddenly, an air raid siren slashes the air like a scream or the color silver streaking through the sky. The brakes squeal and stop the train with a gasp. The conductor orders everyone off.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> Kunie steps out onto the grass and walks through an open field. She walks toward Hiroshima, because that is where she is going. Why would she walk in any other direction? She walks into a morning of blue sky, a blue-sky morning, the kind of morning that begins any day of disaster.<br />
When the Wright brothers dreamed, did they dream of such a clear, crisp blue?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">--<br />
On the frontier of science, everything touches everything. Smoke and vapor are time-travelers. Dust and ash leave trails for you to follow: along them you can walk backward half a century, walk forward, where everything touches everything, like love can, or an x-ray. What does the future look like? It glows in the dark.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7723998520471033557.post-84817537378399361172012-03-17T14:26:00.011-07:002012-03-17T15:31:51.140-07:00gas stove explosion, mon amour<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeDQmYhkYengMNNnUYT95eQ1HNZPmjCPia4GL2jjkvoWEgJzZKmHAeuh_CuT1BNxqH_cdynBsXWccwC3UEopGspL0nfwTNimsR0vgw32CzbssbaCHVetaPTMLO-N2S7i9nSENB0wnmF7HS/s1600/8148011-fire-of-gas-stove.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeDQmYhkYengMNNnUYT95eQ1HNZPmjCPia4GL2jjkvoWEgJzZKmHAeuh_CuT1BNxqH_cdynBsXWccwC3UEopGspL0nfwTNimsR0vgw32CzbssbaCHVetaPTMLO-N2S7i9nSENB0wnmF7HS/s320/8148011-fire-of-gas-stove.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>West Virgina, 2004. Fear #32: fear.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal">Eight a.m. I’m the first one awake this chilly October morning, here in a farmhouse-turned-meditation retreat center. I’m bunking for the weekend with seven women I barley know. Not my thing, but I’ve just moved to the area to begin graduate school. I want to see the autumn leaves, I need to make new friends. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> Cold and stiff from sagging bunkbed-sleep, I stumble into the kitchen, a drafty room overlooking woods on one side, adjoining the great room on the other. The old house seems to ache for generations under its roof: grandparents and babies, nosy aunts and conspiratorial teens, drowsy fathers and waddling toddlers. The towering double-door fridge wants to feed hungry farmhands, not a bunch of skinny yogis. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> I start pulling food from cupboards, thinking I'll cook breakfast for everyone. I just need to figure out how to light the massive stove. Eight burners, two ovens, a griddle that could fry a half-dozen flapjacks and a side of bacon. The stovetop's still cold, as it was last night when we’d arrived, fumbled in the dark for light switches. Someone found a crumpled piece of paper in a kitchen drawer. Someone else said,<i> ah, directions, a gas pipe here, a valve there, a few twists to open it. Lefty-loosey, righty-tighty? </i>A soft hiss I didn’t hear, didn’t follow with my imagination into the black belly of the stove, a cloud trapped, swelling all night, and no pilot light to burn it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Gf2ZqNlcNGcFOsJin3eTUX9Dj6owzaZAlTsAAt54M7Aghb4lcvCdAKXmBaCJ6Zmu1z2D5ppd4UiCmenRSx1XN57P8qm17GaR5gmx94eUK0oxzpMja85bReEqoyclPLuQUz6RDmaTyjjL/s1600/match.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Gf2ZqNlcNGcFOsJin3eTUX9Dj6owzaZAlTsAAt54M7Aghb4lcvCdAKXmBaCJ6Zmu1z2D5ppd4UiCmenRSx1XN57P8qm17GaR5gmx94eUK0oxzpMja85bReEqoyclPLuQUz6RDmaTyjjL/s320/match.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> I meant well. I meant to climb out of my shivering loneliness and do something nice. I meant to invite my new friends into the cold kitchen with the wafting scent of maple syrup and apple pancakes. I meant to brew coffee and pour milk into a glass creamer like my grandma would. I didn’t know about the all-night hiss, the vapor waiting patiently for a spark. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> I hold my face inches from the stove and peer into its iron skeleton. I see a tiny pipe that might be a pilot. I light a match and stick it in. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>I can't remember the explosion. Can’t remember a sound, a flame, a flash, whether a ball of heat or wave of pressure pushed me, sent me staggering back.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> I smell burned hair, burned skin. My face is hot. My face is very hot. I take the one or two long steps to the kitchen sink and thrust my face under a running faucet. I shout for ice. <i>No ice,</i> someone says, <i>no cold water. Lukewarm water's best</i>. Someone leads me to the bathtub where water flows thicker, faster. I kneel and twist my neck awkwardly so that my face can meet the stream. My face won’t cool. I can see--at least I can see. I start crying. As if a valve or pipe has been opened within, the tears flow, for fright and fury, for the city and friends I left behind, for strange hallways and unknown paths ahead. I can't stop crying. I sit on the tub's edge with my head dangled down, gasp into a paper bag.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLSQR9GO_Zw53cwNXwYwcNvDcOGCnam-VLGd_p_U-PdFcoUn9iQnQR7EikW4hDTdVWpNpb-YYQcKpn-siyGgTC12HXGoIfMvEfWIXZQXYmqKB0bWkdO-A-J22fpN1ByH7qHlANKRwULsy_/s1600/Hiroshima.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLSQR9GO_Zw53cwNXwYwcNvDcOGCnam-VLGd_p_U-PdFcoUn9iQnQR7EikW4hDTdVWpNpb-YYQcKpn-siyGgTC12HXGoIfMvEfWIXZQXYmqKB0bWkdO-A-J22fpN1ByH7qHlANKRwULsy_/s1600/Hiroshima.gif" /></a></div><o:p> </o:p>An ambulance comes. An ambulance for every tear, every heartbreak. The ambulance that took my father, the truck that rescued my great-grandmother in Hiroshima. I lie down on a stretcher in the back, feeling foolish, helpless, the way one feels inside the wispy flaps of a hospital-gown. <i>How bad is my face,</i> I wonder. <i>Do blisters take a long time to appear?</i> <i>Why is my face still warm?</i> My pulse races.<br />
<i>-Is there a mirror? </i>I think, or say aloud.<br />
-We don’t have a mirror.<br />
<i>-You're lying, you just don’t want me to see, my face is burned that badly.</i> I feel lightheaded. The ambulance ceiling moves close, faraway. Shiny metal, as if it could be easily rinsed. What my father saw. What Obaasan saw, or no, she would have seen the sky. <br />
-No, we really don't have a mirror.<br />
<i>-I don’t believe you.</i><br />
-Here’s some oxygen. Just breathe. Long, slow breaths.<br />
-You’re okay. <i>Iiyo.</i> You're okay, you're okay. </div>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7723998520471033557.post-2357298167153441432012-02-20T09:59:00.000-08:002012-02-20T14:54:09.438-08:00Should I Stay or Should I Go? Tales of Chronic Mover<div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiOsHCpYyg9-h7XVXWfpSAxjEosGk8741XDt_W5mNRIbwXNmqMjx1XDUx9Lo0-zNeDY9yx84MTOoYR7ZOj-1-7TupXLBI4CILeOAvxJvlMBg5z6kNNsGhmtV3-8h346uNs0wuDFbFPkfWj/s1600/supplies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiOsHCpYyg9-h7XVXWfpSAxjEosGk8741XDt_W5mNRIbwXNmqMjx1XDUx9Lo0-zNeDY9yx84MTOoYR7ZOj-1-7TupXLBI4CILeOAvxJvlMBg5z6kNNsGhmtV3-8h346uNs0wuDFbFPkfWj/s320/supplies.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Fear #29: putting down roots; fear #30: uprooting: I just renewed the lease for my studio. May 1 will mark the beginning of my third year. I can't remember the last time I lived in the same home for more than two years. I've cycled through different residences every year or two like cheap dresses from H&M. Each move makes sense at the time--rent hikes, roommates, grad school, pests, restlessness for a better space. But now, as I approach an unprecedented third year under the same roof, my itchy feet (incongruous with intense hatred of actually moving) suggest other causes for my chronic moving syndrome. </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> One possibility? I moved--or was moved, with my father at the helm--ten times in the first ten years of my life, continent to continent, coast to coast. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I've asked my mother if moving with two small children was difficult; her vague answers depend on her mood. In a good one, she'll say, "Oh, your father was adventurous, I was happy to go where he wanted to go," or "We were young." In a bad mood, she becomes defensive, as if the question were absurd, an accusation. </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">-- </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5iQVRjpHMK2Dy9M_oCrB4_wT0uB_LUnyJXSveoEzq0A0LoHYhvQ_TMn5EnHTjarVBmpQJdyIEMccYRmxJE7SeqzRgY6rd9weQ4xOUDQXbq6O3iWuWO_FQG57PpKVy87oa3M1OXGvJC59a/s1600/blackberries.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5iQVRjpHMK2Dy9M_oCrB4_wT0uB_LUnyJXSveoEzq0A0LoHYhvQ_TMn5EnHTjarVBmpQJdyIEMccYRmxJE7SeqzRgY6rd9weQ4xOUDQXbq6O3iWuWO_FQG57PpKVy87oa3M1OXGvJC59a/s320/blackberries.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The most tumultuous period is the relocation from Japan to Oregon to Ohio, a span of only two years. In 1978 my parents, baby sister and I fly from Tokyo to Portland, the city Papa's chosen as the ideal American home. We live in the Mallory Motel for two weeks while he finds a house. The first, a two-story rental in nearby Tigard, turns out to be impossibly smelly. Family lore goes that the previous tenants had owned pet snakes which roamed freely through the rooms. I can't recall the stink, but I remember fragrant blackberry bushes in the yard; I remember walking with Mama to the giant grocery store, where she lets me pick out Brach's candies, each kind--butterscotch, cinnamon, peppermint--heaped in its own dazzling clear bin. We move from stinkville to a ranch house set deep into woods. The entire house is carpeted in wall-to-wall shag, each room its own vivid disco hue: lime, pink, orange, aqua. One night, my parents see--out of nowhere--the owner of the house standing in the living room. The next day, they learn that he had crashed his motorcycle in the night and died. Convinced they've seen a ghost, we move into an apartment, where we finally settle down for a year. Our neighbors include a Hawaiian family, and I make friends with their daughter, Bufferin. </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> One May afternoon, ashes sprinkle from the sky and dust our picnic table. With the side of my hand I scrape ashes into a jar, a souvenir. It's 1980, and a furious Mount St. Helens has erupted. </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4fEeBayN5wRP9jCTpwFcTL1B96bYA0e3aefTeJ-9UAYOYUrEgqgFVF6U-ncZJ1sHMUvo6rAcfc1LYfNTZmEg_6fD_nrz5PvOTA7IT8T7eEYPTxuSFz6rkgL71WOJHZSL0prmyuiP4ucF_/s1600/220px-MSH80_st_helens_eruption_plume_07-22-80.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4fEeBayN5wRP9jCTpwFcTL1B96bYA0e3aefTeJ-9UAYOYUrEgqgFVF6U-ncZJ1sHMUvo6rAcfc1LYfNTZmEg_6fD_nrz5PvOTA7IT8T7eEYPTxuSFz6rkgL71WOJHZSL0prmyuiP4ucF_/s320/220px-MSH80_st_helens_eruption_plume_07-22-80.jpg" width="219" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> We're leaving again--because the volcano chased us away, I believe, but in fact Papa's bankrupt. We're going to move in with his parents in Ohio, he says. And we're going to make a vacation out of it. We pile into our rust-red Toyota hatchback, the back seat folded down where my sister and I lie on blankets. As if he hasn't a care in the world, Papa drives us through the Pacific Northwest into Yellowstone National Park, where we stop for several nights to see geysers and wild animals--moose, elk, buffalo. We meander across Montana, the Rocky Mountains, North Dakota, we drive and drive until the land flattens like the underside of the glacier that scraped it clean. </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> We move in with Grandma and Grandpa Heck, into their log cabin overlooking Lake Erie. Sassafras Lodge, as they've named the house, with its fireplace, toy-filled loft, and sprawling yard overgrown with mint and ivy and bluebells, is the ideal home for two girls age 5 and 9. That is, unless they are stuffed into it along with four tense adults and one jumpy Boston Terrier. </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg36MubZs2xsyEyBeiAB9wP0s50lQdskwJGBZ_q061SZq5nq9ujcYnE-_5CspQiiec_TWb_mROIFAsbA-2utWymDnRUUmmSnT-PL4ix0QqoDsjxD1pSRM4Av_NTo-pRiuUPvph2zU_Xrrq3/s1600/gnomes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg36MubZs2xsyEyBeiAB9wP0s50lQdskwJGBZ_q061SZq5nq9ujcYnE-_5CspQiiec_TWb_mROIFAsbA-2utWymDnRUUmmSnT-PL4ix0QqoDsjxD1pSRM4Av_NTo-pRiuUPvph2zU_Xrrq3/s320/gnomes.jpg" width="223" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> After five months of play, church-going, and overheard arguments, we move three doors down into a furnished two bedroom beach-rental. Ninety-seven creaky wooden stairs descend from its back patio onto the beach. Despite Papa remaining unemployed and Mama suffering from cabin fever and insomnia, the place is fun for us kids. I traipse over to Grandma's to eat graham crackers with cold butter, and to read my favorite book, an illustrated encyclopedia on gnomes. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">One of my favorite chapters details a gnome's house, showing a map of the interior--cupboards, sleeping quarters, cellar</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">. I tell my grandma: "I think I saw a gnome, behind some ivy." "Yes, yes," she says, "I'm certain he was there." </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> As the economy sinks and gas prices soar, we kids canoe, fish, swim, and build castles and miniature lakes in the sand. My family lives off food stamps for a while, government-issued cheese, canned peaches, peanut butter. Finally, my father lands a job at the local nuclear power plant, and he buys his first--and last--house, the three-bedroom, split-level home my mother resides in now. </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> She is the opposite of me, deeply rooted into her space, with her hoards of newspapers, knick-knacks, books, the appliances and furniture of my childhood grimed with dust and memory. Her belongings carry the weight of gravestones.</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> My one-room studio remains a little too tidy, the walls blank, impatient white, as if they are holding their breath to see what will be nailed down, who will stay. I'm eyeing a loft bed at Ikea, and thinking robin's egg blue for the walls.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfIlevGuyJrTSwuzSdOuR5hS5nfDdw3xxMOlki1UYZ0fEKAF4zeNeSGfNjc6ZQ79wj2GvMNrYIqr3ut5zRtnd4dDnSNUlAh7Ntlj0gGCMexsV9mrSckdJxiePz8-ta1OW27b6g4oSXYv1Z/s1600/Rien+Poortvliet-house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfIlevGuyJrTSwuzSdOuR5hS5nfDdw3xxMOlki1UYZ0fEKAF4zeNeSGfNjc6ZQ79wj2GvMNrYIqr3ut5zRtnd4dDnSNUlAh7Ntlj0gGCMexsV9mrSckdJxiePz8-ta1OW27b6g4oSXYv1Z/s320/Rien+Poortvliet-house.jpg" width="315" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7723998520471033557.post-18771456538350132312012-02-05T19:06:00.000-08:002012-02-05T20:36:02.341-08:00white light/white wedding: how afterlife revealed itself to me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl_qrahksSyjh19yl_L4l2dhkV7JrnStdU8oey9HiD7h40ruYoQ_G9OH-sjky1FeXR5QN27nMyVNiEvbxVJDEm8kfVItxDO09iA1Clh-9poGsXekcBz52b4b3dJA3rnx9GVuKyU9aSIR52/s1600/London.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl_qrahksSyjh19yl_L4l2dhkV7JrnStdU8oey9HiD7h40ruYoQ_G9OH-sjky1FeXR5QN27nMyVNiEvbxVJDEm8kfVItxDO09iA1Clh-9poGsXekcBz52b4b3dJA3rnx9GVuKyU9aSIR52/s320/London.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>fear #25: this is all there is; fear #26: death <br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>London, England, spring 2005: </i>My lucky friend is marrying a Swede in London, and I'm aboard the airport "Super Shuttle" van at 4:00 am, en route to fly out for the wedding. Preparing for this trip has been overwhelmingly stressful: passport, flights, accommodations, dogsitter, wedding outift, etc. At last, my enormous suitcase is packed, and though I'm painfully under-caffienated and sleepy, I'm headed to Dulles International Airport.<br />
The driver asks us dozen passengers: "What airline you taking from Reagan National?" Mayhem erupts: half of us have flights out of Dulles in Virginia, half out of Reagan in D.C. The driver shouts to his dispatcher on his radio, who promises to send another van--as soon as they can rouse a driver, presumably fast asleep somewhere in a bed. Meanwhile, we are hurtling through suburban darkness in the wrong direction.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div> In a foggy panic, I strategize with a fellow Dulles passenger: we'll get out and take a taxi. One hour and one hundred dollars later, we finally arrive curbside at the right airport. When the driver opens the trunk, my suitcase is gone. Vanished. I must have left it in the van, or lost it in the befuddled transition. What to do? The wedding is tomorrow evening. A few angry calls to Not-So-Super Shuttle avail nothing.<br />
I board the plane with a wallet, passport, and one change of clothes for a three-night stay.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW7xfK5sUrZQA2c-5okiJ609etYUH7j-S-FqVIjUrFX5nWD7wnxkD53UqwLbD8zg7RNiDfw3nBeBhpauMnRXxAMwPYzu78W_25RJTFBPHclEebLqtG_rACtREhdiGj04yhhDYA9_Y6Lqhu/s1600/keats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW7xfK5sUrZQA2c-5okiJ609etYUH7j-S-FqVIjUrFX5nWD7wnxkD53UqwLbD8zg7RNiDfw3nBeBhpauMnRXxAMwPYzu78W_25RJTFBPHclEebLqtG_rACtREhdiGj04yhhDYA9_Y6Lqhu/s200/keats.jpg" width="155" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John Keats</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Nine hours later, underdressed and empty-handed, I arrive at the door of my home-stay near Hampstead Heath. "Home-stay," a British style of lodging, wherein guests stay in the homes of owners, enjoying the coziness of a bed-and-breakfast without the costly frills.<br />
The next morning, I eat breakfast with the owners, a quiet, middle-aged married couple. After discussing the nearest clothing stores, we chat over coffee and pastries. I ask them about the house. It's their empty nest, they tell me. They lost their only daughter to cancer about ten years ago.<br />
"She would have been--oh, about your age now," the father says.<br />
"I understand," I say. "I lost my dad when I was 18." <br />
The rest of that day is filled with desperate clothes-shopping efforts in the morning, wedding festivities at night. The following day, free to sight see, I plan to visit Hampstead Heath and the Keats House. My hosts offer to drive me there.<br />
I feel like a kid out with my parents for a Sunday drive: that safe feeling of being in the backseat; sun flickering though the window, turning my closed eyelids red; the steering wheel snug in the father's hands. We stop for lunch at a modest restaurant, and then go walking on the Heath. I'd long dreamed of following in the footsteps of the Romantics: to feel the steady walking rhythm of Wordworth's lines, to see the light and textures that glow within Keats's lyrics, to hear his nightingale and my heart beat in the landscape of my heroes.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWTzCDIOeFnR6cyRzXYLk6NVkjvj_Tg8mXAUmUMR30lEEawKHWh3kq_oE7OHyRt0QyXx93EPAXpjMvH_vTqhNd4UqyeJIZPqMd7pqUuT8D1ku2QqIxX0-CM-egcxba04r9r2sMnPxMMjSu/s1600/hampstead-heath.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWTzCDIOeFnR6cyRzXYLk6NVkjvj_Tg8mXAUmUMR30lEEawKHWh3kq_oE7OHyRt0QyXx93EPAXpjMvH_vTqhNd4UqyeJIZPqMd7pqUuT8D1ku2QqIxX0-CM-egcxba04r9r2sMnPxMMjSu/s400/hampstead-heath.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> The Heath is less park, more nature preserve: acres of woods, fields, hills, ponds, and thickets fenced off and undeveloped for centuries. Its charms are subtler than I'd imagined, observed in the stately girth of trees, the knobby, wrinkled tree roots to trip over, the patches of swimming-holes glimpsed through tangled greens. I'm aware of my walking partner, this grieving father (mother chose to rest on a bench), pointing out the sights with pride, as if he were partly responsible for creating them. I'm aware of myself beside him, like a daughter, dependent on his knowledge (where should I get a dress? how do I get to the Underground?), perhaps acting a little needier than I am.<br />
The next morning is my last: I'm at breakfast again, talking to the father. For the first time, he tells me his daughter's name, Sybil. A rising star in law school. Working <i>pro bono</i> for clients in need. In her last days, she bought an apartment for her parents. She watches over me, he says, and presses his palms into his damp eyes.<br />
For a moment--how can I say this?--for one or two long seconds, here at a table cluttered with coffee cups and jam jars and baskets of bread, as I sense how much he misses his daughter--just as I miss my father--I'm overcome with <i>absolute conviction</i> that our two lost beloveds are in the room. I suddenly know, as well as I know 1+1=2, that a supernatural-something exists beyond the comprehension of my five senses. The feeling comes, and then goes, like a slight breeze, a sliver of moon disappearing behind clouds.<br />
Not ghosts, not angels--merely a presence, a something. When I return to the U.S., I can't describe the moment to my friends without breaking down in tears. Maybe sometimes you have to go far away and lose everything to get closer to home.Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7723998520471033557.post-27160655604128872012012-01-29T20:17:00.000-08:002012-01-31T07:33:04.097-08:00dognapped! how mattie was kidnapped & held for ransom<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbqYdBQ87z3g6myl_DakrNG6p6EziSf_jQhvlHCglOmcBEoD0TTwYy3ZC1hwrnWZ2CNSC3fm_tHLp27zibey7mXhHyF2Y5Be4A1xPA0SSDV-reUeA2eqPZoxfteCkgixVhZXLyfRf4AHqT/s1600/mattie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbqYdBQ87z3g6myl_DakrNG6p6EziSf_jQhvlHCglOmcBEoD0TTwYy3ZC1hwrnWZ2CNSC3fm_tHLp27zibey7mXhHyF2Y5Be4A1xPA0SSDV-reUeA2eqPZoxfteCkgixVhZXLyfRf4AHqT/s400/mattie.jpg" width="263" /></a></div>fear #22: harm to my dog; fear #23: loss of my dog; fear #24: people<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><i>East Village, NYC, August 2002: </i>Less than one year after 9/11, and my world is chaos both inside and out. A seven-year, live-in relationship has ended. Through a friend of a friend, I’m subletting a five-floor walk-up studio for $1,100 in the East Village. It’s me, my cat, my journal, and a case of Rolling Rock. And oh, and my new dog Mattie.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Mattie: a 17-pound, fluffy black cocka-something I’ve adopted on a whim. A friend had discovered her while loft-hunting in Chinatown. Apparently Mattie’s former owner had left her to the apartment superintendent, but <i>he</i> already owned a rottweiler who ate small dogs for lunch. I find Mattie alone in an empty loft, leashed to a radiator, with a bowl of water on the floor. She clamps onto my leg for dear life. I never knew you could stroll home with a new dog like a lamp you just picked out from Crate and Barrel. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> Mattie arrives in shaky health. The vet guesses her to be 3 or 4, never spayed, and she has blood in her urine. She needs to pee constantly. We take countless trips to the vet (and the curb) with no improvement. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> Meanwhile, a girlfriend and I impulsively sign for a two-bedroom rental in Williamsburg. I inform my sublettor that I’ll be leaving at the end of the month. My sublettor and I have no proper lease for my studio—just our signatures scrawled on a torn piece of notebook paper. I promise to pay him the next month’s rent, even though I’ll be gone, so I'll have given him proper 30 days’ notice. He wants the money now, but I won’t have it until payday. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> The next day the sublettor calls me at work. “I’m in the apartment,” he says. “You need to put the $1,100 check under the door or I’m not letting you in.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “You need to leave the apartment or I’m calling with the police,” I tell him. He refuses to leave. I call 911 and two cops meet me on the apartment stoop. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> We climb the five flights of stairs as I explain the situation. I open the door to my apartment. There's a broken picture frame on the floor. He's gone. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> And so is Mattie. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> I begin sobbing. “He—he took m-m-my dog!” The two policemen listen to me intently, as if I’m the city mayor, not a hysterical chick who’s lost her pup. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> "M'am, this is extortion," they explain, "and it’s against the law. In fact, if he were holding your dog for more than $1,500, it would be a felony. Call him up. Tell him: the money for the dog. One clean exchange, otherwise he'll keep holding your dog for more money."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVV05BoFqygrkLzY-qWbSWALIj6SBHZF-AVN4tlrcAlmLNEzwcFYw01tHmwcVQK47y1JACayHgpbek9Ou_C9oaa4RIvjjXeOKGzjZyS6UogWejSZ_ox-k7J1orTtkDyVvfDHZYCZZY7-9f/s1600/14lawandorder-blogSpan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVV05BoFqygrkLzY-qWbSWALIj6SBHZF-AVN4tlrcAlmLNEzwcFYw01tHmwcVQK47y1JACayHgpbek9Ou_C9oaa4RIvjjXeOKGzjZyS6UogWejSZ_ox-k7J1orTtkDyVvfDHZYCZZY7-9f/s320/14lawandorder-blogSpan.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> Since when is my life an episode of “Law and Order”? My best friend arrives, the only person I know who has $1,100 cash and is level-headed enough to talk to a dognapper. The cops coach him on the phone script and he rings up the sublettor. My sublettor wants to meet at the GNC on the corner of East 14<sup>th</sup> and 1st Avenue. He’ll bring the dog for the cash.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> The cops prep him for the meeting. “Here’s the cell number,” they say. “We’ll be staking the place out from the Blimpie’s across the street. First sign of trouble, you call.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"> I can only imagine one scenario: Mattie’s dead. This sublettor, this friend of a friend, seemed a normal enough guy--in his thirties, a little nervous maybe, but not a murderer. Now he's suffering from post 9/11 trauma, he's freaking out over the economy, he's practicing taxidermy on my dog. My friend heads out like a knight into the city's dangerous wilds.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> The wait is interminable—long enough to empty a bottle of wine and a box of Kleenex. Finally, the phone rings. “I'm here with Mattie,” my friend says. I sprint downstairs, and my friend steps out of the police car, a bundle of fur, my Mattie, cradled in his arms. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> Back in my apartment, he fills me in:</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “So I go to the GNC store. He’s there but he doesn’t have Mattie. He wants $500 bucks now, and then he’ll get the dog. I tell him the dog for the money, one exchange, just like the cops said. He refuses and walks out the store. Suddenly, these two huge guys in t-shirts and gold chains appear from the vitamin aisle, follow him out the front door, and nab him. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> "‘Mister, you got 30 seconds to stop being a jackass,’ the bigger one says. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> "The two cops from Blimpie’s squeal up in a car. Then I realize: <i>The guys decked out with the bling are undercover cops</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. The police sent them into the GNC. </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"> "They want to handcuff him but I tell them it isn't necessary. They push him into the back seat. ‘You're gonna take us to the dog.’ We drive to the lower east side, where h</span>e was keeping Mattie at his girfriend’s place.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> "The cops have all his information. You have up to seven years to file a report.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Later that evening, after drying my eyes and assuring myself that Mattie is safe on my lap, I confer with my friend, and we decide to give the rent money to my dognapper. My friend meets him late that night at Starbucks with the cash and a note I’ve written. “I have seven years to press charges,” I tell him. “Please don't ever contact me again.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"> Mattie gets major surgery soon after: a new holistic vet, whom we still visit today, quickly diagnoses her as having stones in her bladder. He removes two nickel-sized rocks that look like pretty agates you’d find on a beach. She’s about 13 or 14 now and in great health--considering she was abandoned, adopted, kidnapped, and operated on before turning four. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> It's taken me years, but I've paid back my friend, moved into another studio, signed a real lease, and remain on excellent terms with my landlord. Mattie's innocent regard for me--her eyes misty blue now from age--never suggests her dramatic beginnings. When she isn't napping, she follows me everywhere, wagging the stump of her tail merrily, busy as a bee's wing.</div>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7723998520471033557.post-63875136469227808772012-01-19T18:59:00.000-08:002012-01-20T07:56:58.246-08:00remembering losing a parent, 20 years later<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ5KalI9-stCXofCmzPMTKd6qAaGTRrQBz8Ulh1aBvsysK01LEvrsbrIz8ykv53xwTNSisLypVI4D0SrCwj4EcQIl0l2i-SQwwGXaOoAYVYKum7oOEwfHM8GNDvFWOOvkrN6wh6cBhZmuO/s1600/sc006c5958.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ5KalI9-stCXofCmzPMTKd6qAaGTRrQBz8Ulh1aBvsysK01LEvrsbrIz8ykv53xwTNSisLypVI4D0SrCwj4EcQIl0l2i-SQwwGXaOoAYVYKum7oOEwfHM8GNDvFWOOvkrN6wh6cBhZmuO/s400/sc006c5958.jpg" width="371" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Fear #430958: Fear of Abandonment<br />
<br />
February 13 will be the 22<sup>nd</sup> anniversary of my dad’s passing, due to complications following a cerebral aneurysm. He was 52. He missed my sister’s birthday, Feb. 11, by two days. Valentine’s Day by one. My sister’s first child was also born on Feb. 11, 2008. My niece's delight over her birthday is helium in the heavy-weird days of February. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> Early January, 1990: I’m a freshman at the College of Wooster, a small liberal arts school in Ohio that thrives in the shadow of its more famous neighbor, Oberlin. I’ve just returned to campus following Christmas break. The old snow is piled a foot deep on the pastoral grounds, and I’m walking from the cafeteria back to my dorm following lunch.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Is it along the trampled, snowy path that my R.A. finds me and says: “Your father is in the hospital, you need to go home?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"> I do remember a white field of snow, walking beside the tennis court. I remember packing some clothes. I remember that my cross country coach is driving the car, and that my best friend Carolyn is holding my hand. Perhaps we’re both in the back seat, leaving the passenger seat empty. I remember watching the rows of cornfields flicker past us as we travel the two hours from school to my home. Or do we drive first to the hospital?</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Days and days and countless car rides back and forth between home and the hospital. Surgery and improvement. Hope and then complications. In the waiting room, every detail seems absurd: the choice of fabric on the chairs, the large potted mall-plants, the empty Pepsi can in one of the pots. I watch people come and go and think: God has chosen this woman to live, or that man, while my dad lies in a white bed. </div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"> No child should see a parent’s body lifeless: I’m telling you this, doctors of the world. Perhaps someone thought we needed closure, or proof, or to say something. Perhaps someone didn’t think. One nurse has tears in her eyes, a wisp of a memory I'm still grateful for.</div> On the last day we’re given a plastic bag emblazoned with the hospital’s name and logo. The bag contains a few personal effects: a belt perhaps, a comb and his hair. Is this a ritual in American hospitals, or the odd afterthought of a nurse meaning to be kind?<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"> Sealed in a plastic sandwich bag, his hair is still high up on a shelf in the closet of my old bedroom. It’s reddish blond, the color faintly seen in the highlights of my <span style="font-style: normal;">hair in the sun. </span></div>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7723998520471033557.post-36690463343845740052012-01-14T12:24:00.000-08:002012-01-14T13:33:57.784-08:00i was chased by a bull<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnc70vWH1Pj2Feo-5Le4EsJA51rMAquVfSwEmFfvjG-iRHyJLOyvSyG7xjR7Lbot4RnHIBUdaaaNwbJ5YiadVpdvbvrNGP-lnHGJp7E2bdPE7XJKwJvoRooliaHJF-HViBan3aYVPV6WDV/s1600/bull.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnc70vWH1Pj2Feo-5Le4EsJA51rMAquVfSwEmFfvjG-iRHyJLOyvSyG7xjR7Lbot4RnHIBUdaaaNwbJ5YiadVpdvbvrNGP-lnHGJp7E2bdPE7XJKwJvoRooliaHJF-HViBan3aYVPV6WDV/s320/bull.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Fear #10: Uncertainty<br />
Fear #11: The unknown<br />
Fear #12: Big animals<br />
Romance, finance, jobs, real estate, getting out of bed in the morning--any worthwhile venture invites uncertainty, challenges us to meet the unknown. One of my goals this year is to schedule an overdue trip Japan. What's been holding me back? For starters, the only time I've returned as an adult, about 10 years ago, I got shingles before departure, had a migraine at Aunt Yoko's, and was chased by a bull. While the last scenario is unlikely to recur (unless I embark on a new career as a toreador) it's the perfect example, literally and figuratively, for risk-taking:<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW4-7Vw8sy02BSVCpDROqHdbfWWD6lUDje-dU0GSXPditi7gkYwJW40cLzwcjZH6Jj3YaXP2SbgXxbtSDfhwDml3uiXVrmBMq1xkGOPEUt_Pr2ToG4bPyCSX7hWw6f2PoacHRFSLK_S7Ar/s1600/oki+coast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW4-7Vw8sy02BSVCpDROqHdbfWWD6lUDje-dU0GSXPditi7gkYwJW40cLzwcjZH6Jj3YaXP2SbgXxbtSDfhwDml3uiXVrmBMq1xkGOPEUt_Pr2ToG4bPyCSX7hWw6f2PoacHRFSLK_S7Ar/s200/oki+coast.jpg" width="131" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This and following photos are mine: so remote<br />
are the isles that I couldn't lazily Google images.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> I'm traveling with my younger sister Julie, who's teaching English in Shimane prefecture, on the southeastern coast of Japan. We're headed to the nearby Oki Islands for two nights, a remote locale in the Japan Sea that is known--if known at all--for raising horses on wild land. I'm drawn by the poetry of free-roaming horses; I'd taken pilgrimages to Ocracoke and Assateague in the U.S. for the rare sight. Alas, in Oki the horses are raised for sashimi, but the chubby equine enjoy magnificent vistas before landing on sushi platters.<br />
Just getting to Oki is inauspicious. We take a ferry--the sole mode of transport--on a blustery day. Inside, there's a single enclosed mainhold for passengers. No seats, just a carpeted floor with a few hard pillows strewn about. One side of the room is Smoking, the other Non-Smoking, a distinction marked only by the open aisle in between. Above the heads of reclining smokers, mostly businessmen, clouds of cigarette-smoke billow and trespass to the wrong side. The stench combined with pitching waves conspire for a stomach-churning case of seasickness. Green-faced, Julie and I curl up on a cold bench outside. I stagger to the concessions-stand and mumble <i>kusuri</i>, medicine, too weak to summon any other words from my spare arsenal of Japanese vocabulary.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpZwt5mnMUyJanm3QhDqyzbVndfrgM9TIX5m2BREpOUypT_fXYffhyPMkUEkLT2qxGHJv9JfBzNPHd0K3ybx8GQlIDOx9emwNQNcF_kdDYJSg_cVmR_MjIJCxh0KvPfNQ5jGwjXxKvnyM7/s1600/horeses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpZwt5mnMUyJanm3QhDqyzbVndfrgM9TIX5m2BREpOUypT_fXYffhyPMkUEkLT2qxGHJv9JfBzNPHd0K3ybx8GQlIDOx9emwNQNcF_kdDYJSg_cVmR_MjIJCxh0KvPfNQ5jGwjXxKvnyM7/s320/horeses.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> Thanks to <i>kusuri</i> and fresh air, we recover by the time we dock and arrive at the traditional-style inn: shared hot bath, kimono-style bathrobes, and no central heat. Julie and I roll ourselves burrito-like in blankets and sleep with our legs under the blissfully warm <i>kotatsu</i>. This is, in my opinion, <i>the</i> most genius Japanese invention, a staple of every household: a square, quilted coffeetable with an electric heater underneath. In winter months, the <i>kotatsu</i> is the hub for all activity: eating, reading, watching TV (but not sleeping, unless you are two <i>baka</i> tourists visiting in the chilly off-season.)<br />
The next day, a bit stiff and arthritic, we walk to the scenic seaside: horses gallop and graze in open, gold-grassed fields. A mare and her colt nibble weeds against a backdrop of cloudless sky and sheer stone plummeting to white-capped ocean. We're the only humans in sight.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsLxz5vUWc08CLbcgdL0s0ZQedsVmhxfme90gOfQC0eXAM1fcS-Cn7X_1x7aftVahqU7G2QsEGq_XeRHCYpfyTOQgxlsGxbA38hFpVr0BWF0HM0gGF12svpX0TATlqGZdWt39gbEnnjT6T/s1600/bull.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsLxz5vUWc08CLbcgdL0s0ZQedsVmhxfme90gOfQC0eXAM1fcS-Cn7X_1x7aftVahqU7G2QsEGq_XeRHCYpfyTOQgxlsGxbA38hFpVr0BWF0HM0gGF12svpX0TATlqGZdWt39gbEnnjT6T/s320/bull.jpg" width="213" /></a></div> In the distance, we spot an animal grazing alone just at the lip of the cliff. "Look at the pretty cow!" I say, snapping photos, hoping to capture the dramatic scale. We hike along a vague, winding path toward our cow. The cow takes notice, begins to meander toward us. Big cow. Cow breaks into a trot. Big, big cow. Broad shoulders, massive, square chest. Horns? Ain't no cow, damn bull, zig-zagging closer and closer. Julie and I grip each other and turn the other way. What does it want? The jacket tied around my waist is flapping madly in the wind, but I'm too scared to take it off and look like a matador waving my cape. I desperately calm the flapping by pressing down my elbows. The bull bellows and beelines toward us.<br />
"Wh-wh-what do we do if he charges?" I whimper to my baby sister. "If we run it'll chase us."<br />
"We could lie down and play dead?" Julie says.<br />
Noting the complete lack of fence or shelter within view, two outcomes flash through my mind: gored in the kidney, or mashed into <i>mochi</i>.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX3i87WuOVY62XOBeS8eKpLGDxknj5mcvvoxPiuhQnbU5BoMkWRvpWYYBNrt-CbKzx5K0Do_JeGtGMULhSPmPI_y0DQrMv2MqyjF07_P4lMYfu9aGt-o74-JsPUa6sKmIPeNo45bFZaTY_/s1600/mare+and+colt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX3i87WuOVY62XOBeS8eKpLGDxknj5mcvvoxPiuhQnbU5BoMkWRvpWYYBNrt-CbKzx5K0Do_JeGtGMULhSPmPI_y0DQrMv2MqyjF07_P4lMYfu9aGt-o74-JsPUa6sKmIPeNo45bFZaTY_/s320/mare+and+colt.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><i> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">We agree upon the lying-like-possums-plan, and slither away as quickly as possible without running. Then, for no apparent reason, the bull gives a haughty snort and slows down into a walk. He backs off, eyeing us warily, as if to assure that we exit his territory.</span></i><br />
Goosebumped, mad-scientist hair on end, we speed-walk back to the cold inn. Along the way we notice that every other house (where were they before?) has a barn and animals--cows, horses, and bulls. We later learn that, after horse sashimi and tourism, bull-fighting is the third most profitable industry in Oki. Ah yes<i>, </i><i>bull-ru once charge German rady</i>, the innkeeper says nonchalantly. We are too polite to query further; we mustn't insult our hosts nor the bulls. Being sick on the ferry-ride home isn't so bad, as the enchanting Oki Islands disappear behind us.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVC5mImUJO1C0dH1zfwgbY3k7aynDw4pBOP0zqeAEh7Amd1aP8tKSRSgCJY8J5s1z6kS06y6mQf5MQfTRHVCrrQSK0g8nG7dpK5ibpfNECVwFsKMauYbcHI0kI9Tm1UWiIsGhbAQCwwpmW/s1600/hills+are+alive.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVC5mImUJO1C0dH1zfwgbY3k7aynDw4pBOP0zqeAEh7Amd1aP8tKSRSgCJY8J5s1z6kS06y6mQf5MQfTRHVCrrQSK0g8nG7dpK5ibpfNECVwFsKMauYbcHI0kI9Tm1UWiIsGhbAQCwwpmW/s320/hills+are+alive.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My impression of Maria von Trapp, before spotting the bull.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> </span> </i><br />
<i><br />
</i>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7723998520471033557.post-59790313207636954502011-12-04T20:12:00.000-08:002011-12-06T10:22:52.122-08:00what to tell your gradeschool bully after the 20yr reunion<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHOOxNf_98IdPIo82J_ViKagfMI0zcGVs0nEW2iYC3honcGJGEBHffLXvQXNYjjBMoghSuOx3e5elcFHwPEDqjAeMMgWDsNRzLiTLSwfoCUdZ9aB1Bdk6zTk2teTSgBVbuZAmMov5bSNAQ/s1600/farkus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" dda="true" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHOOxNf_98IdPIo82J_ViKagfMI0zcGVs0nEW2iYC3honcGJGEBHffLXvQXNYjjBMoghSuOx3e5elcFHwPEDqjAeMMgWDsNRzLiTLSwfoCUdZ9aB1Bdk6zTk2teTSgBVbuZAmMov5bSNAQ/s400/farkus.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Dear Tim Timinsky*,<br />
<br />
So great to see you at the 20-year High School reunion! What a blast. I wasn't thrilled with the pasta buffet, but otherwise, I had ball.<br />
<br />
That night, I realized that time does heal, and I've totally forgiven you for calling me China Woman in fifth grade, thereby establishing my permanent nickname, C.W., all the way through high school. Let bygones be bygones, right??? We were just a buncha kids. Life's too darn short to keep a grudge. <br />
<br />
Anyhoo, so sorry to see that early male pattern baldness runs in your mother's family. I mean, wow. I barely recognized you! The one earring is a good call--draws the eye away from the trouble spots. And that extra 100 pounds you were griping about? Don't worry, hardly noticeable, especially when you stood behind the bar and played Tom Cruise in "Cocktail." That was funny. I'm sure you won't turn out like your brother Jed. Ran into him at Walgreen's--I see he's using a walker to support his weight gain. (I assume the oxygen tube was for something else?) <br />
<br />
So cool of your probation officer to let you stay out past your curfew for the karaoke contest. (BTW, I believe you when you say you'd just "borrowed" your neighbor's car and drove to Juarez. The courts need to start acknowledging the gray areas between "borrow" and "steal" re: cars and oxycontin prescriptions.) I'm sure I'm not alone in saying that I appreciate the 600 hours of community service you've been doing. Route 20's median has never looked better. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjUZPo-B6s6UsUS2fWWt8ehTOfpWI3gEEynzVFoKngJLZ2f0cl452hnFX_1hUutCF1U4pGQPofDSK821GoU3wB5zA-ARDMANJx-6zapmY7SWysqfFHrkH5y2nrJ32HJlMw_hmYTJu2uw_7/s1600/50021.6a00d83451b05569e20133ecb0c0e0970b-pi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: right; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" dda="true" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjUZPo-B6s6UsUS2fWWt8ehTOfpWI3gEEynzVFoKngJLZ2f0cl452hnFX_1hUutCF1U4pGQPofDSK821GoU3wB5zA-ARDMANJx-6zapmY7SWysqfFHrkH5y2nrJ32HJlMw_hmYTJu2uw_7/s200/50021.6a00d83451b05569e20133ecb0c0e0970b-pi.jpg" width="165" /></a></div>Couldn't believe my ears when you said Shelly ran off like that on Xmas day '03. What a witch! You were THE quintessential high school sweethearts. So romantic how you proposed to her in 12th grade when she got pregnant. NOT cool of her to show up to the reunion with Danny Robeson--and with their new twins! OMG, weren't you and Danny best friends in high school? Oh well, times change, right? I mean, who knows what might happen!? Maybe you and I will even become friends! How freakin' nuts would that be? <br />
<br />
Well, gotta run--I've got yoga class and then I'm meeting my writing group for dim sum in Chinatown. Hope your mom's basement has finally aired out and that your gun collection wasn't too damaged by that little fire after all. Here's to an awesome 25th in 2014!!<br />
<br />
Your friend,<br />
April "C.W." Heck : )<br />
<br />
*all names and some details have been changed on this blog site<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmaIE2YwGjI2LkP2szYDxYd2PgaVCoglH3ERn2pZu162UiqfT6UKYDAN5AIooON4J9Rs8ryjhxrKpTTtBnv9qRH7ew8QJppFhYXzoisPlXijxChHTh6VvjPu9ldbVgCfK7CSPPPITi7jcx/s1600/ralphie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" dda="true" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmaIE2YwGjI2LkP2szYDxYd2PgaVCoglH3ERn2pZu162UiqfT6UKYDAN5AIooON4J9Rs8ryjhxrKpTTtBnv9qRH7ew8QJppFhYXzoisPlXijxChHTh6VvjPu9ldbVgCfK7CSPPPITi7jcx/s200/ralphie.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7723998520471033557.post-20658405874685417602011-12-03T09:29:00.000-08:002013-01-10T07:17:47.400-08:00romance + rejection--meet marty<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSHjE2L7RGN1-h-pdD3hufPQRKsZHpie7WTrQuSmBHknJ6K7MXeZuIhD6EgMz3Bad8BnUBtdnUAWh5VaGOec85sVV4uCaPMcWD8Wz7Mi_3ROVhswGFuDPv5ERt9GSFOKTWWd8q6_zTLht5/s1600/tumblr_lpsp0bgQwy1qd71d4o1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSHjE2L7RGN1-h-pdD3hufPQRKsZHpie7WTrQuSmBHknJ6K7MXeZuIhD6EgMz3Bad8BnUBtdnUAWh5VaGOec85sVV4uCaPMcWD8Wz7Mi_3ROVhswGFuDPv5ERt9GSFOKTWWd8q6_zTLht5/s400/tumblr_lpsp0bgQwy1qd71d4o1_500.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">summer lovin': let's recast Sandy as a skinny<br />
Asian American nerd with an overbite, and see what happens.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i>Summer, 1989</i><br />
<i>Cedar Point Amusement Park, Sandusky, OH</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">The miserable summer after high school graduation--the summer of Chaz, my first kiss--my best friend calls to tell me I can get a job with her, living and working at Cedar Point Amusement Park. She's working at the Chuck Wagon in Frontiertown, and it's </span>totally awesome<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">. The only catch: my job is in the "Restroom Hosting Division." Potty Patrol. </span></i><br />
<br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Potty Patrol, where the retarded and underaged employees work. But I'm willing to scrub toilets all summer if it means leaving home.</span></i><br />
<br />
Cedar Point: 364 acres of rollercoasters, french fries, and farmer-tans on a little finger of land jabbing into Lake Erie. Rednecks from Indiana to Pennsylvania save their nickels to visit the park. And 4,000 college students arrive on Memorial Day to work, party, and get laid all summer long.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibyrnT1OVc8zTZjR_BJ6nqcJmtXf5POPSFnJ7GBYSpPazYq4DmaqyCrP1SmALb3LOqyKhA9v5spHpg0cNKrI2Z-IwMcNtWuSDTbng2GBWpGnxIMl_gLifkg8U5Nfua9cMuL_FCd-LtWXIQ/s1600/WomanScrubbingToilet-250x165.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibyrnT1OVc8zTZjR_BJ6nqcJmtXf5POPSFnJ7GBYSpPazYq4DmaqyCrP1SmALb3LOqyKhA9v5spHpg0cNKrI2Z-IwMcNtWuSDTbng2GBWpGnxIMl_gLifkg8U5Nfua9cMuL_FCd-LtWXIQ/s200/WomanScrubbingToilet-250x165.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
For the first time, I'm not the only ethnically challenged person around: among the hordes of my horny coworkers there are blacks and Latinos, plus gays and straights, class presidents and class clowns. There a few kids dressed in all black who seem especially welcoming to me.<br />
<br />
We work six days a week and drink seven. We swill rum and Cokes in our dorm rooms, on bunk beds under Echo and the Bunnymen posters; we sit on the shore with six-packs and listen to Depeche Mode tapes. Seagulls mew. Waves tumble and splash the distance from Canada. We question authority and mourn the lack of meaning in our lives. For the first time, I think I'll fit in someday.<br />
<br />
One night, wobbly on gin and lemonade, I'm wandering by the boys' dormitory and a guy's leaning by the door and says, <i>Hi there</i>. He's wearing short OP shorts and a polo with the collar up. He's older and taller and tanner, and we go walking to the beach. His name's Marty and Marty magically produces a blanket from the thin damp air. (These events make sense using drunk-logic, when everything's fast-forward, close-up, then lost like film loops on the editing floor.) We're sandwiched together under the midwestern summer stars, the air thick with sweat, dew, pinewood, diesel. <i>I love you,</i> he says.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsnsVuFtkPlJxqxPp81ebtycvcebq9yTDoQBPprqWLAVaqn3WKH6t8D8KZ8FSICtnl9nzV3VeXGpnyFvLmcRGcXJuJFhGVcWfNjLd3YM6qneBC2QC2dT40coXyW2wJn8HwOAl2aJX5fsV0/s1600/s559.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsnsVuFtkPlJxqxPp81ebtycvcebq9yTDoQBPprqWLAVaqn3WKH6t8D8KZ8FSICtnl9nzV3VeXGpnyFvLmcRGcXJuJFhGVcWfNjLd3YM6qneBC2QC2dT40coXyW2wJn8HwOAl2aJX5fsV0/s200/s559.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
How stupid am I to believe him? Remember, until then I know only three things about boys:<br />
<br />
1. Blow jobs do not involve actually blowing (like hair dryers)<br />
2. It supposedly tastes like salty mayonnaise.<br />
3. Chad likes Jenny and not me.<br />
<br />
I won't know the cardinal rule about dating until I'm about, oh, 38: sex <span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: line-through;">equals</span> love.<br />
<br />
I've read Thomas Hardy and aced geometry. I can swim 50 yards in 30 seconds. But no book smarts, no athletic skill has prepared me for boys. A film strip in 8th grade about zits, fallopian tubes, and rubbers did not prepare a girl for anything but the art of passing notes in the dark.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuq_8VRgRgFfSLlLH2OpeiKZJUwwxqOssCAez8kNT_Uyi5clE1WtZ5mn4rcSV31u9EjakLHxw6co5dfiP45YXV2q0wj4tob1S9HeoVWlaPM7qVbU9j_rhZXczThCWoGJFN57XwAdVnWuHE/s1600/Thompson%252BTwins%252Bttwins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuq_8VRgRgFfSLlLH2OpeiKZJUwwxqOssCAez8kNT_Uyi5clE1WtZ5mn4rcSV31u9EjakLHxw6co5dfiP45YXV2q0wj4tob1S9HeoVWlaPM7qVbU9j_rhZXczThCWoGJFN57XwAdVnWuHE/s320/Thompson%252BTwins%252Bttwins.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">hold me now: there are phases in life when music<br />
saves you. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For a week I don't hear a word from Marty. Then I remember that he works the birthday-game booth, handling giant 12-sided dice and half-dead prize goldfish. One day after potty patrol (and washing my hands) I visit/stalk him. His coworker has flowing red mermaid hair and grapefruit sized boobs. She looks--as most girls do--light-years more sophisticated and knowing than I am. They trade sly looks--was that an eye roll?--as Marty mutters hello. People gather around the booth and take turns throwing the dice across casino-green felt. Marty won't look at me as calls out the winners: <i>February. July. December.</i><br />
<br />
April doesn't turn up. April goes home. April builds her alcohol tolerance and tape collection and leaves that fall for college.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7723998520471033557.post-71893975961094001372011-11-28T17:34:00.000-08:002011-12-03T09:49:28.132-08:00fearless or reckless, continued<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBIEbqwz_7Tkn6FQXnpNJEBdv1DPEBty01YqdhHVwYJroi-cOnh1pd35ghf5npV6GHKFhRiiurY9pVyMZpuLmvfHg1cIA4DMhyk9PfqH3h54DEbQFYlPJr1MH9pEt5sdHRCRcFjCQuRo0G/s1600/alb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBIEbqwz_7Tkn6FQXnpNJEBdv1DPEBty01YqdhHVwYJroi-cOnh1pd35ghf5npV6GHKFhRiiurY9pVyMZpuLmvfHg1cIA4DMhyk9PfqH3h54DEbQFYlPJr1MH9pEt5sdHRCRcFjCQuRo0G/s400/alb.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Summer, 1994</i><br />
<i>MFA Program at UNC Greensboro</i><br />
<br />
Albuquerque isn't a pretty town: its outskirts are suburban sprawl--strip malls and gas stations, fast food and titty bars.<i> Happy Hour Special!</i> <i>Eat a 72oz steak for free!</i> I’m embarrassed pulling into the KOA campsite, paying the ranger $15 knowing that I have no tent, no stove, no friend, no frisky labrador nosing around campfires like the other campers. I must look insane. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s stunning how lonely one becomes in three days. In my mind I’ve been gone for weeks. Without the warmth of familiar contact, I feel like part of me is vanishing, my skin’s becoming transparent. I call up my younger sister Julie, a freshman at our shared college alma mater in Ohio. Since our dad died four years ago--suddenly, of a cerebral aneurysm--we’ve become close. She’s my ally in the resistance against our grief, our halved set of parents, the conflicting messages of approval and abandonment they've given us. She’s my sole source of unconditional love. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I feed quarters into the campground's one payphone, Julie’s worried but supportive. She will wire $100 via Western Union and we vow not to tell our mom about my whereabouts—a promise kept for over ten years, until the truth seems too distant to hurt her. If I have any inkling of turning around, it’s because of my sister. <span style="font-style: normal;">A responsibility I feel in my bones, but can't speak with my tongue.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The next morning, I buy a cup of coffee and a pack of $1.99 Basics and study the atlas. The Grand Canyon is reachable in a day. I commit a portion of my new $100 to the trek and a night at a Flagstaff hotel. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3w_-BDDRcVUaEYeiIs8aBJTPWFXEfwYkD15Qcj3muBNeH-Rik23MmSL-TQhtBPA5QJkRg9R8jax9s2LjI7kvL9o-FOIWZ5R88ipQdWPOJTp3-tyZrgzTJvgKp6109582wvLf3Ls_vqnQS/s1600/GRCA_f1vy1ki6_yaki01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3w_-BDDRcVUaEYeiIs8aBJTPWFXEfwYkD15Qcj3muBNeH-Rik23MmSL-TQhtBPA5QJkRg9R8jax9s2LjI7kvL9o-FOIWZ5R88ipQdWPOJTp3-tyZrgzTJvgKp6109582wvLf3Ls_vqnQS/s640/GRCA_f1vy1ki6_yaki01.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">What can I tell you about seeing the Grand Canyon alone? I sit on its edge and look and look. Silence is painted upon the chasm of red and purple rock. That far-off air is infused with palpable stillness, historical, hazy, thousands of years old. The air there is not the air I breathe. The canyon isn't real--not in the way that oceans or the Rocky Mountains, which I've seen, are real. Perhaps it’s the foreignness, the inability of photographs to contain and express true heights and depths. The inability of any medium to prepare viewers for the canyon's alien compositions.<br />
<br />
I long for an epiphany, for the cliffs to reveal their secret hushed blues. I want to tell you something magical. I want to tell you one day that the place changed me forever.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But the moment extended is a little like New Year’s Eve. Too much anticipation and fantasy has preceded it and the actual moment can only fall flat. I smoke a cigarette. A couple in identical sweatshirts pass by and complain about the smell. What is it about tourists in matching outfits? My butt's getting tired sitting on a rock. I know I’m supposed to ride a donkey or sail in a hot air balloon or embark on an eighteen-mile hike surviving on granola and juniper berries, but I’ve driven all day. I’m exhausted by all of this, by dazzling scenery and excitement, by cigarettes and loneliness. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXGOK6oMTg-mmv0pkBe455AwKVnBVq1JMmGbuL5mcAjEjVE5HP3YMMxcGy-9q7XRxGZfAxqX7AYoYRH01oskgZlx83C2QcKFVZElJk78ctKEHO1CbEu0zP-kfwTqZZEf5OSdWjwQh36E5Z/s1600/fehw7g90iy1nnfn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXGOK6oMTg-mmv0pkBe455AwKVnBVq1JMmGbuL5mcAjEjVE5HP3YMMxcGy-9q7XRxGZfAxqX7AYoYRH01oskgZlx83C2QcKFVZElJk78ctKEHO1CbEu0zP-kfwTqZZEf5OSdWjwQh36E5Z/s320/fehw7g90iy1nnfn.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>That night, I check into a cheap motel room. For the first time I’m really afraid. The door, which opens into the parking lot, is made of thin plywood, easily kicked in. The knob has a simple lock that even I could jimmy with a credit card, if I'd had one. I get a 7-Up from the vending machine and come back to find <i>Hustler</i> in the musty nightstand drawer. The magazine scares me most. As if the owner has left his residue on the sheets and blankets. As if he is the same sort of man who might break down the door. The campgrounds are inexplicably less scary, my car resting in the open, among scorpions and coyotes and lightning bolts. Nature isn't sleazy or mean. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I want to go home.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">--</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
And fear did bring me me home. My real fragility and need for comfort were exposed under the wide desert sky, whether I sat on the edge of a canyon, a hotel bed, or some unmet disaster. Running away had nothing to do with Nate, and everything to do with grief. A reason I couldn’t articulate to myself, the grief was so fresh. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My dad’s parents, Geraldine and Parker Heck, had both died during my first year in graduate school. They were in their 80s and had been married for over 60 years. They had gardened and cooked and grayed together in a retirement community of their choice. Losing their son had sped up their deterioration, worn down their lifelong Christian faith to threadbare and breaking. Oh, the doctors called the last illnesses dementia in my grandpa and pneumonia in my grandma, but I saw (the way poets see) that they had died too soon of broken hearts. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The late autumn night I learned that my grandma died, I ate mushrooms and drank Mad Dog 20/20 with my Chinese friend Jarhead. We ran through the college golf course where the hills were hillier and the greens were greener. We took turns watching each other gallop across the field and giggled at the distorted sense of near and far, large and small. The stars hung starrier in the sky, hammered sterling and drunk and glittering. I hardly knew Nate yet and I was already running away. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh3uaz5s10jgWU5NqzhbyBy-d_vh9WKoqdldv-oT-mzineMmJHNdDOwsx2ruVVOfh5wkQZHUHwZHK2vUkr49kmNgQNWRVJ4HZjCooTbT2qcffVKjdXeceW4qxB345aU2hp83SB0eIwdcYm/s1600/U2tree-originalbw2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh3uaz5s10jgWU5NqzhbyBy-d_vh9WKoqdldv-oT-mzineMmJHNdDOwsx2ruVVOfh5wkQZHUHwZHK2vUkr49kmNgQNWRVJ4HZjCooTbT2qcffVKjdXeceW4qxB345aU2hp83SB0eIwdcYm/s640/U2tree-originalbw2.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><br />
</div>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7723998520471033557.post-44336561371193178472011-11-26T14:15:00.000-08:002011-12-03T09:49:44.177-08:00fearless or reckless?<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr_2f5IgW93hHQiZCrj6NX4AyfQQ7tsWhnuq-KD0y1Ia35IORql5aHWO-mdO5FJ6CFgyoFrLDCO_fx242ycV3n2P4CbarcIt8O4shRVvlJ9Sp3HvG10JrVsibF6l6ubRnqXGxw7tdyXpNO/s1600/Steve-Slater-Steven-Slater-JetBlue-Jet-Blue1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr_2f5IgW93hHQiZCrj6NX4AyfQQ7tsWhnuq-KD0y1Ia35IORql5aHWO-mdO5FJ6CFgyoFrLDCO_fx242ycV3n2P4CbarcIt8O4shRVvlJ9Sp3HvG10JrVsibF6l6ubRnqXGxw7tdyXpNO/s640/Steve-Slater-Steven-Slater-JetBlue-Jet-Blue1.jpg" width="337" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Steven Slater, JetBlue flight attendant,<br />
curses passengers, jumps down<br />
emergency chute, becomes folk hero.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><i>Summer, 1994</i><br />
<i>MFA program at UNC Greensboro</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
As I sail my car over the border between Texas and New Mexico, the vista suddenly blossoms open, a burst of shimmering land, atmosphere, sky, each intensified and vivified by abundant oxygen and freedom.<br />
<br />
A perfect 360 degrees of brown and sage desert wrinkles and flattens toward a clear horizon. No roof, no billboard, no smokestack, no fence. The only sign of humanity is the singular stripe of highway which arrows before me, beckons west. I realize have never <i>seen</i> the sky until now, I have never felt so small.<br />
<br />
I turn up the radio: "Where the Streets Have No Name." If the landscape could make a sound it would be the cry of this guitar. If sound had a color it would be the color of this sky. If despair and joy could manifest into one tangible form, it would be the knot in my throat, wanting to fly out and burn and scorch into a black smudge under this piercing sun.<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
To arrive here from North Carolina on a whim, I've driven my '91 beige Ford Tempo, alone, for two and half days. Spent the first night in a rest stop, half drunk and dozing in the backseat. I reached Oklahoma on the second night. I rented a campsite and slept again in my car, a little comma sweating, twisting over seat belt buckles. Despite the 80 degree heat and humidity, I slept with the windows rolled up, afraid of mosquitos and vandals. </div><br />
I pull off the freeway and park in a rest area, which looks like a movie set from Star Wars. I've never been to the Southwest and everything is exotic, other-worldly. The picnic tables and benches are bright aluminum, with aluminum canopies reflecting the hot white sun. Each unit seems to be welded from a single piece of metal which might, in a strong wind, overturn and wheel through the desert like a tumbleweed. Everything man-made looks untethered and silly in this landscape, overwhelmed by proportion, easily smashed under weather's thumb.<br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZPY4HKYfmPx_qmV0WzBHF5HqVjQ8z6asyunEKPm8oYpBX2i9xadC53VbKHqQnwdESo-5HXI5LgzcrxI8TUgwIbWbygKBVgcdjMMbwzjjxDzBVaPaYCGPJJ0WDzrYan_6iRjwVNfR48z_R/s1600/indie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZPY4HKYfmPx_qmV0WzBHF5HqVjQ8z6asyunEKPm8oYpBX2i9xadC53VbKHqQnwdESo-5HXI5LgzcrxI8TUgwIbWbygKBVgcdjMMbwzjjxDzBVaPaYCGPJJ0WDzrYan_6iRjwVNfR48z_R/s320/indie.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is a reenactment of Nate played by an <br />
actor, emblematic of 100 hopeless crushes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I sit and eat a peanut butter sandwich and think about Nate. My beautiful, dark, doe-eyed roommate, the object of a terrible crush. The night I'd run away, Nate had disappeared into his room with his girlfriend, a gentle hippie named Josie. I was in the kitchen, cleaning up the remnants of a dinner party I'd thrown and which no one attended as promised--only Nate, stupid Josie, and our other roommate Jonathan.<br />
<br />
I'd spent the whole day tidying our rented house, shopping, preparing an elaborate seven-layer lasagna that could feed the UNC basketball team. As I wrapped up the pitiful pounds of leftover lasagna and downed the remains of the cheap merlot, I thought of Nate screwing in the next room. I thought of each of my 11 friends who did not come to my party. I thought of the bleak, hollow summer spanning before me, the poems I wasn't writing, the lack of gravity under my feet. Filling up the days, completing another degree seemed tedious chores.<br />
<br />
The thought of leaving was a match struck in the dark: sudden light, a whiff of sulphur and heat, a space instantly transformed. It was 3am, the house oblivious. I threw some clothes into a duffel bag and threw the bag into my car trunk. In five minutes I was on Route 40 West. I headed southwest by chance, simply because the nearest interstate traveled there.<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">At my shining Star Wars table I light up a cigarette. I have no credit card, no phone. I have a car, an atlas, and $200 in my checking account. I'm 22 years old, and can start my life over--if, in fact, I'd ever started it at all.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifzKlbxKKh2zzT7JaSQO-Bpd4ba2nzLojLLIyjQiX_y6NSNdomxZqk5vVPRHdrds1l6XuUdaI9xzZR5c473CSbReoMHHljpb4Mg4N-sSiNUZ-ftHPrVNnK8GePa-yi_I43TbKxvu9hQd8P/s1600/5891012587_66707011ed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifzKlbxKKh2zzT7JaSQO-Bpd4ba2nzLojLLIyjQiX_y6NSNdomxZqk5vVPRHdrds1l6XuUdaI9xzZR5c473CSbReoMHHljpb4Mg4N-sSiNUZ-ftHPrVNnK8GePa-yi_I43TbKxvu9hQd8P/s320/5891012587_66707011ed.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7723998520471033557.post-78549114126632076462011-11-21T18:58:00.000-08:002013-01-10T07:17:31.061-08:00rejection+romance: the first kiss<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLd7rSj2V1ypB0RixYneqExaY5-jiBdKFrMODoLdpwUX3DVdAUmFi0fHw6piNsB0FML-J55BKhTERXLFk6yWRx-RJoCs_GGndL9C0tKCGJW_rNFZ69aGJTGBc6c8ZOyOGZWGB2wYtY3jLy/s1600/764.otc.476x.kiss.skow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLd7rSj2V1ypB0RixYneqExaY5-jiBdKFrMODoLdpwUX3DVdAUmFi0fHw6piNsB0FML-J55BKhTERXLFk6yWRx-RJoCs_GGndL9C0tKCGJW_rNFZ69aGJTGBc6c8ZOyOGZWGB2wYtY3jLy/s320/764.otc.476x.kiss.skow.jpg" width="320" /></a>Ah, the first kiss.<br />
<br />
Molly Ringwald & what's-his-name in "16 Candles." Molly Ringwald & Andrew McCartney in "Pretty in Pink." Eric Stoltz & Mary Stuart Masterson in "Some Kind of Wonderful" (she's hot, yeah?)<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Dear God, please, please let my first kiss be like a kiss in a John Hughes movie.</span><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
I'm 16, a senior at Madison High School, Madison, Ohio. The Blue Streak is our mascot, Ronald Reagan our president, and nothing's changed since my chink-days on the playground. Sure, I'm taller, more active--cross country, swim team, marching band, French Club. I've graduated from spelling winner to highest levels of nerddom: a sculpture wins an art show; I'm badminton champ in P.E.; I hold third chair, clarinet, in band. I'm even salutatorian of my class of 300.<br />
<br />
Still, nothing's changed. I'm one of two Asian-American kids in my class. Timmy Stanton is the other one. Timmy has a Korean dad who owns a Chinese restaurant. There's a rumor of a black child in the school district named Love Singleton, but I've never seen Love for myself. Timmy Stanton and I are pioneers in a sea of pink-white, all-American teens who dribble basketballs, dry-hump in back seats, and aspire for fall admission into OSU.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVCc7UwFzP55vdhknRWFbtjhWsR0180gwRSC6FVu99mMYVSw6lQEf4kRoiK56AKZWdpQ7LICPH5kR5X4Xxrxd-lz1T0_-gvhiITIgGOnNLs0Hk4PsskBxPxgswnACWHbkvLd9MIBeunZMV/s1600/274876-asian_nerd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVCc7UwFzP55vdhknRWFbtjhWsR0180gwRSC6FVu99mMYVSw6lQEf4kRoiK56AKZWdpQ7LICPH5kR5X4Xxrxd-lz1T0_-gvhiITIgGOnNLs0Hk4PsskBxPxgswnACWHbkvLd9MIBeunZMV/s200/274876-asian_nerd.jpg" width="163" /></a><br />
<br />
Prom season, who do people tell me should be my date? TIMMY STANTON. Fuck Timmy Stratton. His nose too wide and porous, his house smell of sweet and sour pork.<br />
<br />
I want to go to prom with Matt Hudson or Steve Gibbons or Scottie Smith. I want to date the quarterback-types who date cheerleaders who give blowjobs under the stadium bleachers. I'd give a blowjob. I'd sneak under the bleachers and undo a varsity jacket and stone-washed Guess jeans. <i>Tastes like salty mayonaise</i>, I've heard one of the popular girls say.<br />
<br />
No, no prom, for April, no kiss, no fairy godmother and bibbidi bobbidi pumpkin coaches--not until after graduation.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikEzXSTVwy18laPqxRaBAqClvAYAvWjQK25twvYGIn4N4P43CT2LTTZs80MZ6QXFyd80GqLFa85GhjTKDT0vGk1VhoZbZOCusw1SwMe9zcqIHws0jR35nn-dsOcCDQD1hC11EmN6MlJcWH/s1600/snow_white__dwarfs_dancing_wallpaper-1920x1440.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikEzXSTVwy18laPqxRaBAqClvAYAvWjQK25twvYGIn4N4P43CT2LTTZs80MZ6QXFyd80GqLFa85GhjTKDT0vGk1VhoZbZOCusw1SwMe9zcqIHws0jR35nn-dsOcCDQD1hC11EmN6MlJcWH/s200/snow_white__dwarfs_dancing_wallpaper-1920x1440.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Summertime. Better late than never. His name is Chaz, and he isn't Chinese or Japanese or dirty knees. Chaz is blondish, shortish, popular-ish. Chaz is two grades below me and drives a AMC Pacer and hasn't heard yet that I'm a nerd. We hook up at a party. I'm drinking wine coolers through a straw, we're giggling, we're on the parents' bed. The kissing's juicy and rushed and uncoordinated--not that great and not that bad, like wine coolers.<br />
<br />
Then--I don't know where I get the idea, from Judy Blume or salty mayo or natural mammalian lust--I move my hand below his belt. I've no idea what I'm doing ... and then... Chaz tells me to stop. Amateur that I am, even I know stopping's no good.<br />
<br />
Chaz gets up and leaves the room.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx_SWvy3XYoBQ45o7d9Tfw7W5amLx3birRTMiF2M_Pwa7n2wpqQqLj3P8amSlADA2yHoIHVUoWb7yhNYxSxp3MXylgkeuLlELVewdfpIL9O_iFXS2yhAXmv1wA9xQ_Vkq9aPXZM3eT27v0/s1600/amc_pacer_dl_wagon_woody_1978-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx_SWvy3XYoBQ45o7d9Tfw7W5amLx3birRTMiF2M_Pwa7n2wpqQqLj3P8amSlADA2yHoIHVUoWb7yhNYxSxp3MXylgkeuLlELVewdfpIL9O_iFXS2yhAXmv1wA9xQ_Vkq9aPXZM3eT27v0/s320/amc_pacer_dl_wagon_woody_1978-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;">
What did I do next? Did I sit on the bed alone? wash my hand? get another cooler? Half an hour later, I see Chaz through the cracked door of a bedroom and <i>Chaz is </i><i>making out with Jenny. </i>Jenny from the cross country team. There's tongue action, there's hip action, there's swivel and thrust between jeans. Hands disappearing. My Chaz, my first kiss, my first went-down-there is now going down there with Jenny. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I wander into the den where five kids are squeezed across a couch watching Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs on TV. Snow White--the adult version. Someone's found the porn tape in Jenny's dad's toolbox in the basement. Flickering hills of flesh on screen, entwined limbs and tongues and appendages I can't count, and suddenly I can't drink and watch at the same time, as if swallowing, as if tasting has become all wrong. </div>
--<br />
I dreamed of being Molly Ringwald. But I could only hope to be as cool as her sidekick, Duckie. I could listen to Duckie's soundtrack, to the Smiths and New Order and Psychedelic Furs, I could sit in the rain alone by the graffiti.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBa4hwrowoTYAL1W-hLyveggraduHEcB6wDCnD-QpWYuvNMyFe_QhShAMpkZVN59OiQonGkx3ReNoZVO63SiQtZil_sWZ5dtO3Bh5Zi7NjHpIBfWPwjvQVMnx83pb8J67ew9JJ9JgvwHnk/s1600/duckie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBa4hwrowoTYAL1W-hLyveggraduHEcB6wDCnD-QpWYuvNMyFe_QhShAMpkZVN59OiQonGkx3ReNoZVO63SiQtZil_sWZ5dtO3Bh5Zi7NjHpIBfWPwjvQVMnx83pb8J67ew9JJ9JgvwHnk/s400/duckie.jpg" width="344" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i><br />
</i>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7723998520471033557.post-4482152188320873392011-11-20T10:28:00.000-08:002012-01-25T18:59:15.160-08:00rejection+race<div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin: 0px;"><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp0Vve3GOkPTtUSh-LbtNmePmU5DRX2pR1Lc6f2KP_6IcOMygpM1KEj-VPj4MGhqkSnHRW5_JQiZtGd_1aWTTUXdH0hjQw5VD6iyvnPJKnCdZJDKHvx_L2nhBvVXR59JDhgZZm8CMra-yO/s1600/asian+massage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp0Vve3GOkPTtUSh-LbtNmePmU5DRX2pR1Lc6f2KP_6IcOMygpM1KEj-VPj4MGhqkSnHRW5_JQiZtGd_1aWTTUXdH0hjQw5VD6iyvnPJKnCdZJDKHvx_L2nhBvVXR59JDhgZZm8CMra-yO/s400/asian+massage.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Objectification as a group = rejection from the mainstream?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>August 27. Evening. I'm born in a hospital in Tokyo, Japan, to a caucasian American father and Japanese mother. A six-pound bundle of flesh, blood, and tears, I am presented to Mr. David Edwin Heck and Mrs. Reiko Kuzume Heck.<br />
<br />
We move to Yokosuka, home to an American Navy base when I'm one. and I attend kindergarten and first grade at a school there. The school yard stands on a cliff overlooking a rough blue ocean, its white-frothed waves as peaked as knives. At recess, the Japanese kids call me <i>gaijin</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, the Japanese word for </span><i>foreigner</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. It is not a nice word. Tears brim and cloud my eyes, I trip and fall onto my hands and knees on the dusty playground. More names and laughter sound from my small classmates. I ask my mother later at home to explain </span><i>gaijin</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Asking for translations becomes frequent--pinning down nuances, identifying linguistic tenors like </span><i>derogatory</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and </span><i>joking</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and </span><i>kind</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin: 0px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjPLJj1vmM0x9EA_wKkLIL8uzaVZdvOPTar2EW8EM1QgDaDGFRA9hTewdGk_sZAHQLX31nOyrWYOnIBjF1r_ozKn12zDlgmdhqvl-vDQ7plPF1zoub5jHIXYDEB3OPPWXTTxMikmHT9wh8/s1600/gaijin-sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjPLJj1vmM0x9EA_wKkLIL8uzaVZdvOPTar2EW8EM1QgDaDGFRA9hTewdGk_sZAHQLX31nOyrWYOnIBjF1r_ozKn12zDlgmdhqvl-vDQ7plPF1zoub5jHIXYDEB3OPPWXTTxMikmHT9wh8/s200/gaijin-sign.jpg" width="200" /></a>When I'm seven, my father decides to relocate us to America. I'm overjoyed. <i>Gaijin</i> no more! I conclude--logically, I believe--that the word <i>foreigner </i>suggests the possibility of <i>native. </i>The foreigner who is alien in one land must come from somewhere, must have a homeland.<br />
<br />
So I'm stunned when the kids at my new elementary school chant: <i>Chinese, Japanese, dirty knees, look at these. </i><span style="font-style: normal;">When they say: </span><i>Hey </i><i>chink! hey gook!</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> They say </span><i>Pearl Harbor</i> <span style="font-style: normal;">and shape their fingers into little guns pointed at me, the enemy. I say the words myself to prove my allegiance, I perform the crude gestures that accompany their rhymes. </span>There are weeks, maybe months during which I don't understand the idea of sides, of enemy and ally, us and them, me and you.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjePAUvf7qpnDcAcjpTICIQo8tKnka4Gt6BHR5A8-73Te1jJAAjc-h8fRaPy9RfGrRlR8OAOgEF8nWWcBOZ8qC3KvRktp1QBzVhOGuprqW0EDWJI8G4HMODemgcEI5dFpL1A3w97y4F6eW9/s1600/chink.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjePAUvf7qpnDcAcjpTICIQo8tKnka4Gt6BHR5A8-73Te1jJAAjc-h8fRaPy9RfGrRlR8OAOgEF8nWWcBOZ8qC3KvRktp1QBzVhOGuprqW0EDWJI8G4HMODemgcEI5dFpL1A3w97y4F6eW9/s200/chink.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I vow to dye my hair blond<br />
and surgically alter my eyes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Before this crucial transition, you could say that I had no notion of Other until my wordless, internalized notion of Self was shattered. These are days when my sense of identity is as dispersed as molecules of dust and light in a cloud, as vague, amorphous, darkening. If was capable of defining myself before being labeled, if I were sophisticated enough to possess the language of identity, I must have used words like <i>fine </i>or <i>whole </i>or <i>good girl</i>. I must have had a notion of myself as something native to its surroundings, a little animal curved into its nest, a builder of forts and igloos, a percher of tree limbs and laps. I deduce this by tracking the emotional terrain backwards in time: if I suddenly wasn't fine, at one time I must have felt fine--felt at peace, felt an instinctive belonging. Felt safe.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">At my new American school I make A's while fantasizing about an island in between the U.S. and Japan, land of misfits, maybe Hawaii, maybe somewhere, land of half-and-half and quartered and pained. The worst part of school is at the end of the day. We're all lined up in the gym, organized into squiggly long queues according to bus routes. The giant, squealing room contains a dangerously low adult-to-child ratio--a free-for-all for calling names, making faces. I lower my head and stare down at my aluminum, square, Mork-and-Mindy lunchbox, at the dorky alien with his best friend. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">At home, my father tries to soothe me, "Asian women are beautiful. You're beautiful, and the other kids are just ignorant. They're jealous." When I look in the mirror and see my small, slanted eyes, my crooked overbite, my bobbed hair which is neither black enough nor brown enough, not straight enough nor wavy enough for anyone's liking, I know someone is lying. Someone is not to be trusted. </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6dzljqI4ekiIKB0UGJz3bHcTY3as2ldHouSmcaWPZAhvNdjH9B_XQKfSsEJQ1FnTyun9ifShH9uxmf-Yg4zOkVZpXMSjAfnME8ZD4o02a1Sf4zVc3m1W24Jq-5zRHxmjvGXT7K_R8Gn8r/s1600/baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6dzljqI4ekiIKB0UGJz3bHcTY3as2ldHouSmcaWPZAhvNdjH9B_XQKfSsEJQ1FnTyun9ifShH9uxmf-Yg4zOkVZpXMSjAfnME8ZD4o02a1Sf4zVc3m1W24Jq-5zRHxmjvGXT7K_R8Gn8r/s200/baby.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me with my mother and father.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin: 0px;"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"></div></div></div></div>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16805128816627889438noreply@blogger.com