05 May 2006
cinco de mayo
The small apartment building on Grand Avenue has a courtyard always full of shallow puddles and sour smelling flowers. Dirtball, LD and I live on the groundfloor, with a wide window facing out on the comings and goings of our neighbors. Upstairs in apartment E there is Liz --usually strung out and shrieking for her dog (Diego, chihuahua) to stop yipping. She works at American Apparel; when Creeder and I go in and flip lustfully through the racks, Liz doesn't say hi. One night she comes home at 2 am and has it out with her boyfriend on the steps by my bedroom window. I hear her pleading and sobbing (these words aren't really strong enough for the sounds she's making) and then his truck door slams. What false, flimsy barriers we construct I think as I lay there and listen through the wall to her cry and cry for hours, her life unraveling itself 10 feet from my head.
The people next door in apartment A speak Spanish. Through the screen door you can see beds in the living room and, when we sit down and add, we count 9 adults, 2 little kids on rusty tricycles, and a fat baby girl. In San Diego there are certain conculsions you can draw and we draw them, right or wrong. Most of the adults come home in fast food uniforms. Some nights Manuel and Maria put their baby in the stroller and wheel her out to the alley where they stand and talk and drink Mexican beer.
On a Friday afternoon, someone in apartment A pushes the play button and turns up the volume for the first time. Creeder and I have just come back from the beach and we are lying on the couch, laughing. Walking home we'd seen a ridiculous car --a huge BMW--black and big as a boat--the entire thing covered in neon Louis Vuitton decals (like a purse) including the tinted windows. The song plays once, twice, three times, before we let go of the car and the absurdity of this town and begin speculating on why the song is blaring on "repeat 1". We start making hatchmarks on the back of a Chinese menu. We get to 23 and then leave for a party, the song following us down the block.
They play it over and over again. Again and again and again for almost a month. The courtyard fills with this song and and the music spills through the open windows and dooors, into our heads. Liz screams down the stairs that she's calling the landlord. LD tries to translate the lyrics and Dirtball makes up her own. We live our lives on top of it and the song fades into the background.
The music itself sounds like dancing under red lanterns on a hot night. The man's voice is somehow strong and wistful at once. There are high trumpets in fanfare and guitars. It's almost like a waltz. It is a carnival, a funeral, a picnic under a tree. It sounds like a first kiss and unrequited love. Like longing.
The people next door in apartment A speak Spanish. Through the screen door you can see beds in the living room and, when we sit down and add, we count 9 adults, 2 little kids on rusty tricycles, and a fat baby girl. In San Diego there are certain conculsions you can draw and we draw them, right or wrong. Most of the adults come home in fast food uniforms. Some nights Manuel and Maria put their baby in the stroller and wheel her out to the alley where they stand and talk and drink Mexican beer.
On a Friday afternoon, someone in apartment A pushes the play button and turns up the volume for the first time. Creeder and I have just come back from the beach and we are lying on the couch, laughing. Walking home we'd seen a ridiculous car --a huge BMW--black and big as a boat--the entire thing covered in neon Louis Vuitton decals (like a purse) including the tinted windows. The song plays once, twice, three times, before we let go of the car and the absurdity of this town and begin speculating on why the song is blaring on "repeat 1". We start making hatchmarks on the back of a Chinese menu. We get to 23 and then leave for a party, the song following us down the block.
They play it over and over again. Again and again and again for almost a month. The courtyard fills with this song and and the music spills through the open windows and dooors, into our heads. Liz screams down the stairs that she's calling the landlord. LD tries to translate the lyrics and Dirtball makes up her own. We live our lives on top of it and the song fades into the background.
The music itself sounds like dancing under red lanterns on a hot night. The man's voice is somehow strong and wistful at once. There are high trumpets in fanfare and guitars. It's almost like a waltz. It is a carnival, a funeral, a picnic under a tree. It sounds like a first kiss and unrequited love. Like longing.
One morning Creeder and I are tying our shoes for a run when she looks up and asks when the music stopped. Before I can answer someone knocks on the screen door. It is Graciella from next door. and upclose, I can see that her shirt has the Jack-n-the-box logo on it. She hands me a package delivered to her apartment instead of ours and I say gracias. She stands there, though, looking sheepish before finally saying something about music that I don't quite catch. I nod and smile, two skills perfected during my own foreign childhood. She can tell I don't understand so she smiles and turns to cross the courtyard.
It's okay. I know what you're getting at -- where you're trying to go, I want to call after her. Instead I shut the door.
03 May 2006
tomorrow is always fresh with no mistakes
Gilbert Blythe said being smart is better than being pretty.
sunglasses
Some mornings
when I am feeling
particularily leveled
I like to put on sun glasses
and pretend that I am
a movie star
with a life so
sparkling and glamorous
that even the sun
shines in my honor.
when I am feeling
particularily leveled
I like to put on sun glasses
and pretend that I am
a movie star
with a life so
sparkling and glamorous
that even the sun
shines in my honor.
02 May 2006
Poem for May
This perfectly sums it all up.
The Orange
By Wendy Cope
At lunchtime I bought a huge orange
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—
They got quarters and I had a half.
And that orange it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park
This is peace and contentment. It's new.
The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all my jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I'm glad I exist.
The Orange
By Wendy Cope
At lunchtime I bought a huge orange
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—
They got quarters and I had a half.
And that orange it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park
This is peace and contentment. It's new.
The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all my jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I'm glad I exist.
bulgarians
I show my mom the picture I carry around in my notebook. It is of her, very young, holding a baby me, and standing next to my father, who is wearing a powder blue t-shirt that says "JACK". His hair is long and he has a moustache. Apparently, it was okay back then.
Little Rat peers from the back seat. Oh sick... Dad just looks so creepy like that, with that moustache. He looks like he's from Texas. Is he like really a Texican or something?
Little Rat peers from the back seat. Oh sick... Dad just looks so creepy like that, with that moustache. He looks like he's from Texas. Is he like really a Texican or something?
***
You'll be getting some money for graduation, my mom says to A. It would be wise for you to save it to help you get started with your new life.
I know, he answers. I'm planning on using it to buy a white suit.
01 May 2006
the weekend: 3 movements
Dancing Queen
Alan wore a bright red shirt, like me, and said "Don't worry. You can tell everything you need to know about your partner by looking them in the eyes and I've been doing this long enough to know you'll do just fine." He was old, real old, but his grip was firm and sure and boy could he ever spin a girl! When the fiddler stopped, he bowed a little with that old style courtly/country swagger that skipped my whole generation and said "That was lovely. Thank you." He walked away and left me standing there, dizzy and half in love at the end of the first dance.
The long rows of contra dancers ran the length of the whole hall and my friends dotted the crowd --- lowering the average participant age a great deal and significantly upping the style quotient. Throughout the evening I counted 28 sweat bands, 67 pairs of special dancing shoes, and one man, hair cut to look very much like an elf, with a baby strapped to his chest. A quarter of the men were shorter than me, easily, and my fourth partner David (after Will who seemed to be catatonic and set me back a good deal in progress) most likely spends his weekends traveling the Eastern seaboard, going from Renaissance Fair to Renaissance Fair. He was about 6''7 and before he even approached me, I'd pidgeonholed him as a computer programs IT systems analyst "I can really mess with your mainframe" snort snort sort of guy. What the heck, though, right? So, the music starts and I stop thinking about the tye-dyed bandana around his head and simply hang on for dear life. He almost swung me through the stained glass windows two stories up. It was glorious.
Pineapple Queen
While we're painting Mrs. Ford's kitchen, MA asks me me about humor of the absurd and I falter. I'm tired and my brain is still spinning from last night and anyways--I'm trying to concentrate because my mom always points out what an unskilled (putting it nicely) painter I am. My Christmas in April shirt is already covered with freckles of latex. So I don't have a good example for him but the work and conversation continue just the same and the laughter is plentiful and warm.
The house smells like urine and something dead. C and I whisper about this in the kitchen and I make some comment about it being the smell of decaying hope. (These are exactly the sorts of half glib /half poetic statements that fall out of my mouth so easily and make me wish I had a better filter. Balled up papers and plastic bags stuffed into holes in the floor and me and my frivolous self saying ridiculous things). We lean in closer to get a better look, through the grease and grime, at the wallpaper and see that the psychedelic squiggles are really stick figure girls wearing crowns and holding fruit. "I'm so happy to be the lovely, lovely pineapple queen" one girl is saying while the girl with pig tails and a tiara says "Don't you love summer and watermelon. I am the queen." I'm not kidding. So much royalty on four slanted walls.
So the afternoon goes on and we paint and paint and wipe and sweep and talk and laugh and hum a bit, too. I get to know these people a little better. My respect for their knowledge and commitment grows, my affection and thankfulness surge. The fresh white trim makes the rooms seem hopeful. "This is fun" we say to each other.
When it's time for MA and J to take the painter's tape off the wall J says "You know that thing we feared would happen...well, it's come to pass" and we see that the pineapple and watermelon queens are coming off with the tape. I start laughing. And then: suddenly, I have to leave the room because I feel a streak of hysteria coming on, a giant sadness welling up even in moment of joy.
See, the thing is that there are situations (the world of Monty Python) that are funny because of their absurdity--the sheer unlikelihood of their occurrence, the ironic possibilities that form in our detached intellects. And then there is the real world where you find yourself in an absurd situation: painting over decay and pulling pineapple queens off the walls, while floating in a deep deep pool of joy, basking in the incredible love and provision in your own life. Do you laugh or cry in these moments?
Queen of the Warm Smile
for Celeste
Your renewed commitment to
appearing approachable is
quite admirable, I'd say,
knowing as you do, first hand,
the ways that people (boys, mostly, if
we're being frank) take and take
before leaving you to wear
your strapless dress all alone.
If you smile warmly at a stranger
on the bus, and if his shirt
is free from holes-- if his style
gets him through the door at Wonderland--
I hope he notices the way you start to
sing along with the chorus the very first time
you hear a song, how radiant your smile
is in the growing summer light.
Alan wore a bright red shirt, like me, and said "Don't worry. You can tell everything you need to know about your partner by looking them in the eyes and I've been doing this long enough to know you'll do just fine." He was old, real old, but his grip was firm and sure and boy could he ever spin a girl! When the fiddler stopped, he bowed a little with that old style courtly/country swagger that skipped my whole generation and said "That was lovely. Thank you." He walked away and left me standing there, dizzy and half in love at the end of the first dance.
The long rows of contra dancers ran the length of the whole hall and my friends dotted the crowd --- lowering the average participant age a great deal and significantly upping the style quotient. Throughout the evening I counted 28 sweat bands, 67 pairs of special dancing shoes, and one man, hair cut to look very much like an elf, with a baby strapped to his chest. A quarter of the men were shorter than me, easily, and my fourth partner David (after Will who seemed to be catatonic and set me back a good deal in progress) most likely spends his weekends traveling the Eastern seaboard, going from Renaissance Fair to Renaissance Fair. He was about 6''7 and before he even approached me, I'd pidgeonholed him as a computer programs IT systems analyst "I can really mess with your mainframe" snort snort sort of guy. What the heck, though, right? So, the music starts and I stop thinking about the tye-dyed bandana around his head and simply hang on for dear life. He almost swung me through the stained glass windows two stories up. It was glorious.
Pineapple Queen
While we're painting Mrs. Ford's kitchen, MA asks me me about humor of the absurd and I falter. I'm tired and my brain is still spinning from last night and anyways--I'm trying to concentrate because my mom always points out what an unskilled (putting it nicely) painter I am. My Christmas in April shirt is already covered with freckles of latex. So I don't have a good example for him but the work and conversation continue just the same and the laughter is plentiful and warm.
The house smells like urine and something dead. C and I whisper about this in the kitchen and I make some comment about it being the smell of decaying hope. (These are exactly the sorts of half glib /half poetic statements that fall out of my mouth so easily and make me wish I had a better filter. Balled up papers and plastic bags stuffed into holes in the floor and me and my frivolous self saying ridiculous things). We lean in closer to get a better look, through the grease and grime, at the wallpaper and see that the psychedelic squiggles are really stick figure girls wearing crowns and holding fruit. "I'm so happy to be the lovely, lovely pineapple queen" one girl is saying while the girl with pig tails and a tiara says "Don't you love summer and watermelon. I am the queen." I'm not kidding. So much royalty on four slanted walls.
So the afternoon goes on and we paint and paint and wipe and sweep and talk and laugh and hum a bit, too. I get to know these people a little better. My respect for their knowledge and commitment grows, my affection and thankfulness surge. The fresh white trim makes the rooms seem hopeful. "This is fun" we say to each other.
When it's time for MA and J to take the painter's tape off the wall J says "You know that thing we feared would happen...well, it's come to pass" and we see that the pineapple and watermelon queens are coming off with the tape. I start laughing. And then: suddenly, I have to leave the room because I feel a streak of hysteria coming on, a giant sadness welling up even in moment of joy.
See, the thing is that there are situations (the world of Monty Python) that are funny because of their absurdity--the sheer unlikelihood of their occurrence, the ironic possibilities that form in our detached intellects. And then there is the real world where you find yourself in an absurd situation: painting over decay and pulling pineapple queens off the walls, while floating in a deep deep pool of joy, basking in the incredible love and provision in your own life. Do you laugh or cry in these moments?
Queen of the Warm Smile
for Celeste
Your renewed commitment to
appearing approachable is
quite admirable, I'd say,
knowing as you do, first hand,
the ways that people (boys, mostly, if
we're being frank) take and take
before leaving you to wear
your strapless dress all alone.
If you smile warmly at a stranger
on the bus, and if his shirt
is free from holes-- if his style
gets him through the door at Wonderland--
I hope he notices the way you start to
sing along with the chorus the very first time
you hear a song, how radiant your smile
is in the growing summer light.
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