tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63549012310180447822024-03-14T04:31:01.318-07:00Spinning This Beautythoughts. sights. spirit. art. life in color.Shidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.comBlogger77125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6354901231018044782.post-21160443802144786622011-11-06T23:37:00.000-08:002011-11-06T23:37:33.568-08:00Octopus Dreams (from a novel-in-progress)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">My body is not a body. My body is a boat. There are no passengers. Only this engine roaring inside of me. This life I must make sure never stops. It trusts me. But I have to trust it back. I have to let myself understand why I am on this sea at all. I open the tiny door beneath me. Take a look inside. The engine is shiny and new, not the dirty overused thing excepted from a boat that has worked as much as I have, that has had its parts inspected and searched, broken down into a thousand little pieces, put back together again. Slowly, piece by piece. The will to live is not difficult to find when you can control your heart beat, when you can remember that there is more than just you in this world, that you are a boat yes, but this thing moving beneath you is the sea. It does not end. I open the tiny door. Take a look inside. The engine moves with a rhythm so sweet it almost makes me cry. I rock the engine gently back and forth, encouraging its movements with my own. Or maybe it is the sea holding its hands out, cradling us in its prayers, letting us understand how fluid we must be if we are to survive at all. And deep inside the waters I see that black thing. Perhaps it is a boat that sank long ago, skeletons and chipped golden teeth, the silver and gold bangles, the jewels and rubies of a better life, stuck inside its engines. People change their minds. People do not listen to you. The impossible thing is that someone will learn how to stay away from what is yours. The sea is black now and something wraps itself around me, sucks everything out from me. I open that tiny door. Take a look inside. There are tentacles wrapped tightly around my engine. It is a black thing now. It struggles, my engine. And then it no longer moves. I am no</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">longer a boat, but a sunken treasure. I do not know how to save such things. I am tired of trying. I let her devour me, those black octopus legs. I will not ask for any more saviors. She does not dare look me in the eyes.</span>Shidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6354901231018044782.post-18149987009149166672011-07-19T00:40:00.001-07:002011-07-19T00:40:27.822-07:00A Reading.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/8b4-3Buv-aY?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Shidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6354901231018044782.post-66543332142652828472011-07-19T00:11:00.001-07:002011-07-19T00:11:29.642-07:00Mantra of the WeekSay it with me now...<br />
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"I trust my own power and energy, I am dynamic & strong as I move forward with Love."Shidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6354901231018044782.post-47698264033702450722011-07-07T15:48:00.000-07:002011-07-07T15:48:39.262-07:00Haven't Written A Poem In A While...<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;">But here's one from the novel I'm working on. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Before time- I am.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Before silence and the thought of sound- I am.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">First there was the word, but before that there was love.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">God fell in love with creation- and so he made us.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">He created spring and trees</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">And crumpling leaves and a place to lay your head and love </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">the earth, and to love someone else, because love is not something </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">you keep for yourself.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">The blossoms will walk in my shadow</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">And still tomorrow </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Her face will look more and more like mine</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">And she will have my eyes and my hair</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">He will look at her and see me</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">And that is enough to let me </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Rest my soul down and bear this burden no longer.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">After everything dies</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">And everyone leaves this land</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">And everyone will try to remember</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">But will inevitably forget</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">And everything becomes backwards</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Still, these two full moon eyes of mine- this love </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Like how I imagine God felt when he birthed us into being- </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Still after all this- I am.</div><!--EndFragment-->Shidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6354901231018044782.post-4456773182716734592011-04-29T17:12:00.000-07:002011-04-29T17:12:49.971-07:00GANESHA<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.0pt; margin-bottom: .25in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-size: 10.0pt;">My father. Auspicious, kind, gracious. Eternally pure. He does not have an elephant’s head and yet some say we look alike; the same confidence in our stride, I think. I was made from nothing; from the absolute emptiness that comes in between words and the beating of one’s heart. My conception nothing more than an idea arising in my mother’s mind. The mother goddess. The embodiment of the total energy of the universe and yet I had to come along to make sure she was protected while she bathed. Was there no one to hire for such services? Imagine, coming into this world. So much color and beauty, yes much sadness too, but there were mangoes to eat and sweet rice that could stick to the roof of my mouth, and there were rivers to swim in. And what do I find out is my purpose after all? What do I get to do? Guard the door while I bathe, Ganesha, make sure no one comes inside. Ganesha, you cannot fall asleep, someone will come inside while I bathe. Why can’t you just do what I ask of you<i>? </i></span><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-size: 10.0pt;">Many say I was enthusiastic about such a role, because that is what my mother insisted on telling people. But the truth is I wanted a life of my own, more of a purpose than making sure no one disturbed my mother while her fingers pruned and her naked body soaked in the tub. I wanted to swim with a mouth full of mangoes and sticky rice. Father was away at war or some battle. If you ask me though he was probably getting high and fooling around with that dark skinned woman with the long tongue I always heard my mother ranting about. Kali this and Kali that. Kali the almighty warrior. Kali who is black, who is time, who is death, who can outdance us all. How could I have known what my father looked like then, if the only thing in this life I had seen was my mother reaching for her towel and the view of the mountains from the doorway to the bathhouse? No one had even tried to disturb my mother since I had come to life, and when my father came finally and when he tried to make his way through, I felt oddly excited and protective. This was my sole duty in life and there standing face to face with my father, although unknown to me, was my greatest test of all. Let me in, let me in, he demanded. No one goes in unless she approves, I said firmly. I stretched my hand out a bit preventing him from moving any further. And I wonder, thinking now about this, when I had my old head- the one I was born with, the one that somehow also came from a part of him that was busy flying around in the universe, if he looked in my eyes then and could see himself. One swing to the throat, and my head rolled onto the ground. For a few minutes my mind still worked, and I could understand what was happening around me. Mother storming out from the bath, her towel wrapped around her naked body. Water dripping into my eyes from the edge of her towel blurred my vision. She saw my head and shrieked. What have you done! What have you done! Our son’s head is on the floor! And father, well father did not want to disappoint his goddess. I could hear him explaining himself as I watched in the blurriness the metal bracelets on my mother’s ankles make a noise like a song. No god wants to disappoint his goddess. An agreement was made. The first animal my father saw would replace my head. And what am I thinking then? That eyes would soon shut and my body would have a new head, and I wondered would it still be me? I prayed for a clean and wise animal- with much aspirations and desire in this life to be something more than a doorman. An elephant walked past us then. An elephant. A magnificent creature if I have ever seen one. Its head was cut in a flash and merged together with my body. My old eyes shut as my new ones opened. And yes, still it was me.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx9UZTA7EwoXeLf29AdjgEyWVbthiR8PxOHjclk5zj_zOnjsMzT3k4RCNcj5TxdrC81NmJcjoPj6VVIgooLMU4Odehvlrfo0_264nxuw46Bl7xOdwkQhZZpGEn2axRSfUkmCsrNGZECnY4/s1600/ganesha.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx9UZTA7EwoXeLf29AdjgEyWVbthiR8PxOHjclk5zj_zOnjsMzT3k4RCNcj5TxdrC81NmJcjoPj6VVIgooLMU4Odehvlrfo0_264nxuw46Bl7xOdwkQhZZpGEn2axRSfUkmCsrNGZECnY4/s320/ganesha.jpg" width="254" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.0pt; margin-bottom: .25in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
</span></div><!--EndFragment-->Shidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6354901231018044782.post-60027513821011864132011-04-06T16:33:00.000-07:002011-04-06T16:33:57.281-07:00Two Moments and a Question<div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">1. In my backyard there's a Hindu Temple. It's not really in my backyard but a fifteen minute drive from my parents' house through the canyons of Calabasas there's a Hindu temple. My dad and I drove up to it on Saturday and when we got out of the car it felt like we had made it to India. People bring jugs and jugs of milk, bananas, apples, to offer to Lord Shiva every Saturday. Milk is poured onto the statue of Shiva, thirty minutes worth of milk. Everyone's chanting, the only words I know are "om, shanti, shanti" so I say them loudly to make up for all the other words I don't know. I lift my hand in the air when the others do and grab the incense smoke and bring it towards my third eye. I put my dollar in the donation plate and drink the sacrificial milk they spoon into the palm of my hand. On the ride home my dad says, "That was a waste of milk, there are so many poor people in India who would love to drink that milk." Later that day my stomach hurts and I think it may have been the milk. </div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">2. That night sitting on the patio of a restaurant bar in Venice with friends I haven't seen in a while. A few drunk men ask if they can put their beers down on our table. "It'll cost you $5," I say as a joke. They're young in an obnoxious way and one of them who looks like he has two black eyes or maybe just hasn't slept in a while, takes out a 5 dollar bill and throws it on the table. I explain it was a joke but my friend takes the money and they decide it's OK to join us and offer us some beers so we won't say anything. My friend makes a joke about him having to pay to talk with her. He takes a dollar out and throws it on the candle burning in the middle of our table. I try and rescue the dollar from the flame and blow it out but half of it's already gone. I ask him why, and he can't seem to think of a good reason or any reason at all.</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Question: Was putting my dollar in that donation tray the same as my black-eyed friend burning his?</div>Shidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6354901231018044782.post-41015431506435157582011-04-01T18:35:00.000-07:002011-04-01T18:36:41.157-07:00Movie Of The Week: The Fall Will Lift You Up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>I love movies. My family didn't have money to go on luxury vacations to foreign lands when I was growing up, so the theater became our escape. We'd sneak our cheap, market bought candy inside, and laugh and cry and twist and turn in our seats, and when it was all over we felt that something had happened.<br />
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That's why when a movie comes along like The Fall, I want everyone to know about it. It's a 2006 film directed by the award-winning music video, commercial and film director Tarsem Singh, the genius also behind The Cell. It's a visually stunning film that weaves reality with the fantastical world of one man's imagination. Roy (Lee Pace), an injured and bed-ridden stunt man befriends five year old fellow hospital patient Alexandria (Catinca Uncaru) and begins to improvise an "epic tale of love and revenge" with The Indian, The Ex-Slave, The Explosive Expert, Charles Darwin and The Masked Bandit and their enemy Governor Odeus as the central figures. Roy uses his story in order to persuade Alexandria to bring him the pills that will end his life. The Fall will surprise you and stun you in all the right places and will remind you what movie magic and epic storytelling are really all about.<br />
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The Fall is available on DVD.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/nuJEMMfSFI8?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Shidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6354901231018044782.post-62097495460489878782011-04-01T16:32:00.000-07:002011-04-01T16:32:10.940-07:00Holy HoliHoli is the festival of color celebrated in India, Nepal and Sri Lanka on the last full moon in March. Winter's gone and spring means color, lots of it. In some cities women beat men up with sticks as those in the crowd sing Holi songs and shout Krishna, the ultimate prankster's name, in others the festival lasts for sixteen days, but for the most part this time is considered to be the happiest and colorful day of the year. When else can the elite, shop owners, and beggars come together for some hard core dye-throwing action? It reminds me a little of New Year in Thailand- everyone excited to dunk each other in water. There's a sense of playfulness and revelry that's rare, and when we let our inhibitions go for just a moment we realize how connected we really are to each other. Even though you want to get mad because some stranger has just dunked a bucket of ice cold water on your head while you were walking to the pharmacy because of the fever you've caught from being wet for two days straight, you just can't. I imagine it's the same with Holi; it's not the most comfortable feeling, but it's a risk everyone's willing to take for such a moment of pure beauty and joy. Maybe all of life should be this full of color.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_QxtyebpF1rhrYSebBpv_fno6LzPCpTxzij9YpHnlgEyh80_A-6ofqtsO3HINDd0uJED4zL5QijGhGMswoSW5si9oMiDyRrJzPuRUoFcvDpIXXtKTizLfSrYc5pJLKMZoVkSVosc42Fu5/s1600/s_h03_32115262.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_QxtyebpF1rhrYSebBpv_fno6LzPCpTxzij9YpHnlgEyh80_A-6ofqtsO3HINDd0uJED4zL5QijGhGMswoSW5si9oMiDyRrJzPuRUoFcvDpIXXtKTizLfSrYc5pJLKMZoVkSVosc42Fu5/s320/s_h03_32115262.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDt5I5W_qEGFAgaYHjVLIS51r8HTdYtWj025HnDKovEMYtthiDFvYJU33Ksf5kkE3Hvw42Okl7T_hTcw0hVv1S2lHGEdw-6bbTxrQHJoOc8FSsI26y3-Qkv4isuJ5DJiBJNdc6Z5MeofFT/s1600/s_h16_19117799.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDt5I5W_qEGFAgaYHjVLIS51r8HTdYtWj025HnDKovEMYtthiDFvYJU33Ksf5kkE3Hvw42Okl7T_hTcw0hVv1S2lHGEdw-6bbTxrQHJoOc8FSsI26y3-Qkv4isuJ5DJiBJNdc6Z5MeofFT/s320/s_h16_19117799.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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Photos taken from:<br />
http://www.theatlantic.com/infocus/2011/03/holi-the-festival-of-colors-2011/100032/Shidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6354901231018044782.post-45706248824717272662011-04-01T12:09:00.000-07:002011-04-01T12:09:52.593-07:00Persian Food At Its Best (and it's not in LA?)<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #191919; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 17px;">I come from a land where the scent of kabob fills the air- Los Angeles. It’s the mecca of Persian food outside of Iran and with so many places to choose from, including my mother’s house, it’s difficult for things to go wrong. When I moved to San Francisco, seeing that my cooking skills were not as up to par as my mother’s, I was on a mission to find the best place to eat Persian food. Sadly, it’s been a difficult journey filled with stuck-up waiters, bland and overpriced food, and a lack of that homey feeling I so much associate with Persian food. With every journey though, there are moments of pure triumph and this moment happened for me when I stepped into Lavash, a Persian restaurant in the Inner-Sunset.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #191919; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt;">The space is quite small, but the décor and lighting and genuine hospitality of the owner and wait staff made me feel right at home. Lavash isn’t trying too hard, allowing customers to have a comfortable fine-dining experience. I went with a large group of people and the wait staff was quite accommodating. My group, knowing my expertise in such matters, allowed me to order for everyone. Start your night off right with their Yogurt Salad- a mix of yogurt, cucumber, and spices- it sounds simple but it will blow you away. The Kashk-eh-Bademjan is also a great starter- seasoned roasted eggplant topped with roasted garlic, mint flakes and saffron. Moving on to the main course the kabob is a must, a Soltani combination will allow you to experience both the koobideh (ground beef) kabob as well as the barg (sliced beef fillet). Also, Lavash had my favorite dish at its best- Zereshk Polo. It’s a rice dish with barberries, raisins and sauteed onions served with chicken spiced with cumin, turmeric, and saffron. Each spoonful sent me right into my mother’s kitchen. Wash everything down with a glass of aromatic Persian tea and you’ll be raving for weeks about one of the greatest dining experiences in San Francisco.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;">Lavash <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;">511 Irving Street, San Francisco, CA 94122-2513<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">(415) 664-5555 </span><!--EndFragment--> <br />
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">http://www.lavashsf.com/</span><br />
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</span>Shidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6354901231018044782.post-1083977906886742032010-10-22T10:53:00.000-07:002010-10-22T10:58:42.151-07:00Seven Eleven<div class="MsoNormal">It was a strange day. Ninety two degrees and June in San Francisco. You had a seven year old’s craving for a Slurpee even though your were twenty five, and I had a roll of quarters in my pocket to do laundry later. Yours and mine. We stopped at Seven Eleven, remember you kept opening the door and closing it just so you could hear the bell? You did things like that back then, things I found amusing for only a little while, and remembering those same things now I realize it’s what I hated most about you. You pulled the lever on the Slurpee machine while I looked through magazines. Sometimes it was nice to take a break from all that contemplation your twenties brought, all that thinking of what your purpose is in life, why you’re dating such a loser, and just flip through pages and pages of meaningless gossip. Other people’s problems. A hand reached over me for an issue of French Vogue. Yes, Seven Eleven carried French Vogue if you can believe it. “Excuse me,” the man said with an accent. I looked up and he was wearing an oversized grey hooded sweater. The hood slipped for a second and there he was, His Holiness The 14<sup>th</sup> Dalai Lama. I wanted to get down on my knees on that dirty Seven Eleven floor under those neon lights and bow. And pray. For what? This holy man, dressed like a thug even, radiated something. A glow in his eyes, perhaps the same glow the monks who came searching for him saw too. A glow that said all is well. All is well. He looked so happy and proud reading that magazine and I just stared, I mean stared so hard he noticed. “This issue I edited,” he said. His face was on the cover with a rainbow behind him. I wanted to take his hand and put it on my forehead, to make him bless me. He smiled and headed towards the register. I followed him ghost-like. I wanted to keep him away from you. I wanted everything holy and unreal about this moment to be mine. I wanted all the blessings for myself. He paid for the magazine and the Indian cashier looked irritated by the Dalai Lama’s slowness. He handed the cashier a dollar and asked for change. Quarters. “No change,” the cashier said, “none.” I couldn’t see his face then with his back to me but I think even the Dalai Lama would’ve been dissappointed. I tapped him on the back. He turned and I handed him my roll of quarters. Placed them gently on the palm of his hand as if I was the one blessing him. He smiled and he knew that I knew. He bowed slightly and I bowed back, and that was enough. Just as the bell on the door rang and he left me I heard you slurping in my ear. I never did see you after that.<br />
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</div>Shidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6354901231018044782.post-85718618718768641502010-10-19T17:04:00.000-07:002010-10-19T17:04:45.222-07:00Dear Write Her<div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Dear Write Her-</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">It’s Sunday. Which means I’m slightly hungover. The sun is suprisingly out today in San Francisco, and even though the wind is knocking everything in disorder, the outside world looks so inviting. The last thing I want to do right now is write. Last night I seemed so motivated, so passionate about writing, so dedicated to the process when I was telling the handsome German PhD student about my MFA program and that I was writing a novel. “Most people spend so much time talking about writing, and not enough people actually do it. You have to just do it,” I told him. And as the third filthy martini I was drinking began to sink into my brain, I thought of the five or six pages I’d written last week. And I wondered- would it ever be enough?</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I’m not going to waste this space complaining to you. I’m blessed to have the chance to even get to do this. How many people can say they really get to follow their dreams? I can. And it feels fucking fantastic. I’m grateful, really I am. But days like today when I’d rather be watching trashy television or doing some other activity that requires no usage of my brain, days when I don’t feel so focused and inspired, which happens often, even when I’m not hungover, days where I will find any excuse, whether it be scrubbing the toilet or getting that well overdue bikini wax, if it means I don’t have to sit in front of the blank page, how do I sit down and just fucking do it? How do I push those thoughts out of my head that this is all a waste of time, a selfish act, that I will never be one of Oprah’s Book Club selections and will never be able to pay my student loans back, that I’m doing all of this for nothing? How do I find patience when I’ve been brought up in a world of immediate gratification and quick fixes? I have a story and I feel it breathing and moving inside of me, but I’m 25 years old and I’m not sure if I have what it takes to get this thing on paper. And sometimes I’m immersed in my work and feel energized and like I’m on the right track, and then I step back and think it could quite possibly be the worst thing I’ve ever written. It no longer makes sense and I just want to go back to writing poems. I’m afraid I won’t be patient and thoughtful enough, that I’ll grow tired of investing so much in this story and want to move on to something that is real and makes more sense to commit to. Something noble like being a doctor or moving to Africa and making sure everyone has clean water to drink. Do I really have it inside of me, or have I become one of those awful posers who talks the talk but barely walks the walk? Am I crawling here? Help me Write Her. Help me.</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br />
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</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Sincerely,</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">S.</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Dear S.,</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">After three filthy martinis I wouldn’t want to write either, except maybe if it was to write someone’s number down. We all deserve a break sometimes. And perhaps instead of getting mad at yourself for not feeling inspired while hungover, just let it go. Give yourself a break. I can tell you’re not a slacker and you deserve it. I just hope you got that handsome German guys number.</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Moving on though, I want to talk about those days, I’m hoping there are many of them, when you’re not hungover. Those days that are wide and free and carry a potential for creativity, and yet you are dreading the moment you finally, after the toilet has been cleaned and your vagina is looking spick and span, sit your ass down to write. A writer is a human being, and like any human being is merely a collection of all the smart and inspiring things other human being have told her. Plus some semi-smart things she’s managed to come up with on her own. Here I will try to pass on my collection to you, with bits and pieces I’ve added on myself.</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">The thing that really helps me get going is to leave the house to do my work. Writing is your job, and it’s important that your brain is aware of this. The great thing about this job though is that you get to pick your own hours. Perhaps your characters are morning people, or you like working after lunch, or late into the night. My peak time, the most inspired I tend to feel, is between noon and 5pm. I highly recommend this time slot, and if you choose it I’d say get out of your sweats, gather everything you will need, and pick a coffee shop or a library if you don’t like too much noise, and go there with the intention of getting a certain amount of work done. Page limits work best I believe. The point is, make it a habit to go to a specific place with a specific goal, and thus set yourself up for the writing to happen.</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Recently I spent a good amount of money to attend a seminar on publishing where accomplished writers passed on the depressing news that this was in fact harder than it seemed. And as I tried to scheme up a way to get a refund, and then as I hoarded a stack of expensive cheese onto my plate because I realized that I couldn’t get a refund, one of the writer’s actually said something useful. Something that has stuck with me ever since. First off, make sure your expectations are realistic. You’re twenty five and could possibly be the next Zadie Smith, but also you’re twenty five and probably have your head far up your ass. Meaning, your first book will more than likely not be your best book, and that getting a book deal may not happen. If you’re aware of this and honest with yourself and can somehow find a way in your lovely heart to accept this, then I believe you’ve taken the first step on the path to being a good writer. It doesn’t mean you have failed. On those days where you weren’t recovering from a night of mayhem you tried your hardest, and you will probably write something great, but just in case it doesn’t happen, it’s not the end of the world. You will still breathe and be healthy and find people to love who will love you back. You will have a bed to sleep on and food to eat and at the end of the day you will know that you have tried. And there will always be another way to make money. Selling your eggs for example.</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">He also said something along the lines of - writing occurs in mountains, and that it’s best to write from peak to peak. Meaning start at a high point and end at a high point. Don’t leave off at a low point, when you’ve run out of ideas and there is nothing left to give. It’s best to walk away on a good note, knowing that there is something to come back to the next day. This way you’ll actually be excited to return.</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">My grandfather, may he rest in peace, till the day he died was always telling me what a great lawyer I’d make. Every one on one talk we ever had eventually lead to this. And the truth is that I’d probably be a bad ass lawyer. I even thought of going to law school before I got my own MFA. But I would probably die of boredom in law school and hate the rest of my life because I was doing something that to me is uninspiring and too structured and realistic. I love creating complex worlds and characters, bringing forth the poetry of life onto paper. And yes, there have been moments where I’ve been beyond jealous of friends who were in law school while I was getting my MFA. They were buried in books and had to take seven hour exams, but at the end of the day they knew that with their degrees they could be lawyers. Getting an MFA doesn’t make you a writer. Writing makes you a writer. Nevertheless, there’s something alluring about a stable path, about knowing there’s a light at the end of the dark tunnel. But you and I, Shideh, both know that we are not the kind of people who get off on this. We get off on sentences that make us want to be better human beings, better writers. It’s the period after that sentence we beg for, that moment of relief when we are beyond certain that everything in fact happens for a reason. It’s a character doing something we would have never expected, our stories surprising us, taking on a life of its own, that we moan about. So when you ask me what if you’re doing all of this for nothing. I say to you following your dream is not nothing. The experience of putting love and care and patience and thought into something is not nothing. You’re taking a risk in something you believe, but the trick is to believe it everyday, to never lose sight of the beating, breathing center of why you even do this at all. Because, goddamnit, there is something inside of you, and if you let it, it’s dying to come out. </div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">The most important thing I want to say to you is that patience is ultimately the key. Writing my first book, although was one of the most torturous and exciting things I’ve ever done, was mostly a lesson in patience. Like you, I’m not the most patient human being on Earth. I’ve spent a lot of nights getting drunk myself and sleeping with the first handsome and witty boy I met because I didn’t have the patience to let love into my life. But that gets boring, and one day you wake up next to a guy whose name you don’t remember and who’s somehow less funny when the sun is out, and you realize that you’re ready to wait it out until you find the real thing. I see writing as a metaphor for any beautiful and essential experience we want in this life. Whether it be a relationship, losing weight, kicking bad habits, creating good ones, creating something bigger than ourselves- these all require a boat load of patience. But here’s the most profound part of this whole process. You can relax and take a breath because you have plenty of time. You have plenty of time to think you’re doing an amazing job, to step back and realize you’ve missed something, and to dive right back in. Grab time’s hand, and carress it, massage it and tell it you love it, and allow yourself the privilege to take this one day at a time. The fact that you are even writing this letter to me makes me certain that you’re not crawling. Maybe you haven’t got the walk quite down yet, but baby steps, Shideh, baby steps. Be kind to yourself, and most of all believe. You’re already living your dream.</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Yours,</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Write Her</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br />
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</div>Shidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6354901231018044782.post-29172395640371633842010-09-29T10:08:00.001-07:002010-09-29T10:08:47.743-07:00Another Collaborative Poem With Fifth Graders And Me<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Something In Somethingness<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 18.0pt;">By: Ishaan, Annie, Skylar, and Shideh<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Yellow surrounding me I’m drowning in my sick.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 18.0pt;">There’s nothing in a brain.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 18.0pt;">People everywhere like soft pillows.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 18.0pt;">As you know something in somethingness would <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 18.0pt;">cause an overexposure to our skin.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I’ll be your telephone when I’m twenty.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 18.0pt;">People nowhere to put pencils in their pants.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Forever came and went <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 18.0pt;">and still I couldn’t find you.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->Shidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6354901231018044782.post-8739693150836698382010-09-29T10:05:00.000-07:002010-09-29T10:05:02.805-07:00A Thing To Get Caught On<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">I keep coming back to that day by the pool <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">when I was little and it seemed like an ocean to me. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">And how hairspray made you look <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">bigger than you really were,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">and your nails so red I thought if I put my tongue <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">to one it would taste like a cherry.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">I keep coming back to when you told me so sadly,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">but with much assurance- <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;"><i>Life without love is nothing</i></span><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">It’s a memory.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">But it’s also a dream.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">And there’s no way of knowing <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">that it really happened.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">Except that it did. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">I’m caught on it, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">on those trees that hung on our words <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">as if they too were listening.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">I can’t get it out of my head,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">but I also don’t want it to leave me alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">And I’m sure mother will soon bring <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">the watermelons out for us.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">After my boyfriend in high school gave me a hickey,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">you asked me why he was biting me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">And we laughed, but then you got serious and told me<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">you never knew what sex was.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">It was never a beautiful thing for you,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">you said you didn’t love my grandfather.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">He was your cousin, a brother really, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">and there is no passion in that.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">I saw in your eyes then that<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">all you perhaps had wanted in life<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">was someone to want you enough <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">to suck all the love out from inside you.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">When you still remembered things <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">I wish I’d asked more questions.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">But still I’m caught on that day.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">I keep coming back to it as if <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">by the broken tiles of that pool,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">near the jagged rocks that lined the edge,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">somewhere in the deep end <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">are the answers I’ve been looking for.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">A way of understanding you and what love is, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">and what it means to remember,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">and how easy to forget.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">I close my eyes, dive inside, and <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">reach my hands out, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">blindly touch the surface of <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Baskerville;">the things you taught me long ago. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><!--EndFragment-->Shidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6354901231018044782.post-23546063797282829862010-09-29T10:02:00.001-07:002010-09-29T10:02:38.930-07:00A Collaborative Poem Written By Fifth Graders And Me<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Domination Poem<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 18.0pt;">By: Ishaan, Annie, Skylar, and Shideh<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.5in; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 18.0pt;">A brick is hard and heavy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I will let fear rule my life.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Red is dominating the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 18.0pt;">People underneath a bed because they’re sad.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 18.0pt;">The word almost is not in my dictionary.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Giant machine hands are ripping <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 18.0pt;">everything in half.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 18.0pt;">The young ones will soon learn <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 18.0pt;">that everything is a circle.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><!--EndFragment-->Shidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6354901231018044782.post-69286023283461240302010-09-29T09:59:00.001-07:002010-09-29T09:59:51.398-07:00Daylight Lover<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">To learn how to love is a test,</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">a beautiful time to not dissapear.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">And back then, when I didn’t know her<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">and women wore skirts above their knees<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">and walked freely on the streets of Iran,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">except for the occasional ass grabbing,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">grandmother didn’t cry so much.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">And she didn’t have to pop <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">five pills to feel at peace.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">Back then she wore fur coats<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">and pearls that slipped on her skin<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">as she sat cross legged <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">at my mother’s wedding<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">in a dress that made her look<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">as beautiful as the bride,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">while she dreamt about <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">kissing her dentist.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">She asks me if I have a boyfriend,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">and then she asks me again.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">And then she asks me a third time <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">because her mind is empty and <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">free of all things except this moment.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">It’s a disease but it’s also <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">what some people call Zen.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">She clings onto thoughts that seem new <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">and unspoken while her brain slowly shrinks.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">It’s a folding upon itself, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">a quiet collision of death drawn out.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">First you leave the stove on, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">and then your tongue <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">can’t catch the right words,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">and the next thing you know<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">you’re not walking anymore<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">and your daughter has to spoon feed you<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">they way you did when she was little.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">It’s a disease but its also a circle.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">And you realize that life was <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">never really meant to be angular.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">And when little children walk <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">past you giggling, you laugh too <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">because there is something in them so near<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">to where it is that you are going. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">Grandmother looks at me and <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">asks me once more if I have a boyfriend.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">No, I tell her again because I am certain of it,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">but this time there are also tears in my eyes<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">and maybe she’s so empty she can feel it too.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">So she drops it and tells me <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">that my breasts are getting too big,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">and then breathes in the Santa Monica Friday <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">afternoon wet beach air (or just the air)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">and smiles because the sun is beating <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">on her body and she can’t remember much- <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">good or bad- but she is a daylight lover, and<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #333399; font-family: Baskerville;">does not expect tomorrow to ever really come.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><!--EndFragment-->Shidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6354901231018044782.post-69732052929786430362010-08-23T21:36:00.000-07:002010-08-23T21:36:31.643-07:00So, so close. I won't stop trying. Never. I won't.http://lib.store.yahoo.net/lib/glimmertrain/2010-June-FO-Top-25-list.pdfShidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6354901231018044782.post-54835496119675637762010-07-19T23:31:00.001-07:002010-07-19T23:31:40.506-07:00For The Birds<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He sits on the bench in front of the café,</div><div class="MsoNormal">and then inside the café talking to himself.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But on his feet are clean white sneakers,</div><div class="MsoNormal">on his wrist a watch with accurate time. </div><div class="MsoNormal">His hair long, unwashed. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He sits on the bench in front of the café, </div><div class="MsoNormal">and then inside the café talking to himself. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Outside he kneels on the crowded </div><div class="MsoNormal">San Francisco sidewalk</div><div class="MsoNormal">tearing up a fluffy pastry into little pieces. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He spends twenty minutes making a pastry pile.</div><div class="MsoNormal">A dog stops his owner to watch.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He cleans his always dirty hands on his jeans,</div><div class="MsoNormal">sits on the bench lighting up a joint,</div><div class="MsoNormal">letting the birds devour his pile. </div><!--EndFragment-->Shidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6354901231018044782.post-12498839778225083002010-07-07T21:30:00.000-07:002010-07-08T12:52:58.135-07:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 2.0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"> </div>Shidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6354901231018044782.post-87325909721953325962010-05-22T10:34:00.000-07:002010-05-22T10:34:36.166-07:00Bad Date Poem<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"> For: Safiya Martinez<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve been going on bad dates lately </div><div class="MsoNormal">for the sake of poetry. </div><div class="MsoNormal">So I can write good poems. </div><div class="MsoNormal">But it hasn’t been going so well. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Maybe I should try going on good dates.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But then you’d be </div><div class="MsoNormal">reading just </div><div class="MsoNormal">another<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">bad </div><div class="MsoNormal">poem.</div><!--EndFragment-->Shidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6354901231018044782.post-241221184873414282010-05-18T14:04:00.001-07:002010-05-18T14:09:16.391-07:00Residues<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga_BtA40kx0Pu3GaFK9yN1WxbZ81DHdjMzvpQnjgDMa2pnQC780uvOgny9W-1hAt2dZHZrtwt01L00EvWjLM-0ZrcufpZImbj_tGU9AoodNAGPmO7KAzyx1h7O7VZ9Vw-GznekQQl4GqQY/s1600/2870909284_5289c96287.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga_BtA40kx0Pu3GaFK9yN1WxbZ81DHdjMzvpQnjgDMa2pnQC780uvOgny9W-1hAt2dZHZrtwt01L00EvWjLM-0ZrcufpZImbj_tGU9AoodNAGPmO7KAzyx1h7O7VZ9Vw-GznekQQl4GqQY/s320/2870909284_5289c96287.jpg" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><br />
</span></span> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">Kajik the fortune teller owns a Persian restaurant <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">where the only thing on the menu is kabob.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">You have to call and make sure he’s working, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">that it’s not too busy, that he has time to see you. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">I order two skewers, on lavash bread soggy with grease,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">a yogurt drink with a hint of mint. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">There’s a round belly under his apron, like a story hiding. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">And underneath the aged circles of his eyes,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">the sweetness of a six year old sucking on a candy <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">as if the entire Earth rested inside his warm mouth. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">He doesn’t say a word to me, but brings coffee after my meal.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">The dark, Turkish kind where futures leave footprints. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">I drink fast as two wrinkled men play backgammon, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">take half bites out of sugar cubes, sip on their tea.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">“You’ve almost died twice,” Kajik says, finally sitting,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">examining the designs inside the cup. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">It’s an excavation of broken bones.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">One of the old men snaps to a song in his head, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">does a slow shimmy as he wins, knocks knocks on wood.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;"> “Be careful with the drinks,” he continues, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">stops then, “show me your scars.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">I show him the one on my wrist, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">from when I was twelve and tried to scare<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">my older brother by banging hard on his window,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">the end of the thin, stitched line, where my vein begins. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">“Stay in control or you will find bigger scars,” he adds,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">then sighs like his heart is expanding with<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">my wrongdoings, the thought of death. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">He twirls the cup in his fingers, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">smiling as he finds more fossils of my future,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">“You like to hurry love,” he says, “slowly, slowly. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">Love is patience and you’re not there yet. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">But yes, you will write something and everyone will read it, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">don’t ever stop doing that.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">He takes my hand inside his own,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;"> “You will be fine,” he says, “ just fine.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">And even though it’s just left over <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">coffee in a cup, my mouth tastes bitter, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">and the flies have begun to circle <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">the kitchen in the back, I believe him. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">When I ask him why he doesn’t do this often he tells me, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">“It hurts too much, seeing everything. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">And one time I looked into a cup and it was empty.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>Shidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6354901231018044782.post-16092623297292646162010-05-18T14:02:00.000-07:002010-05-18T14:10:20.069-07:00When A Color Stops Being A Color, Becomes Something Else Completely<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><br />
</span></span> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Eighteen facing seats shining empty.</div><div class="MsoNormal">School is cancelled because men have </div><div class="MsoNormal">been hired to beat those wearing green, </div><div class="MsoNormal">to go inside dorm rooms smash computer screens</div><div class="MsoNormal">break beds turn trash bins upside down. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Where does one hide rebellion? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman Italic';"><i>It was imperative to have the leader's vision, and it was<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman Italic';"><i>announced then that his vision is this, that he elects Ahmadinejad.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">They have been told green is bad. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Green is the color of Allah-hatred. </div><div class="MsoNormal">They only take orders from their superior. </div><div class="MsoNormal">He is a man of good faith, </div><div class="MsoNormal">and so they believe him.</div><div class="MsoNormal">They are promised more money </div><div class="MsoNormal">than they make in a year. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Lunch will also be provided. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman Italic';"><i>The foundations of Islam and the foundations of Shi'ism and Velayat <o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman Italic';"><i>are such that we have accepted the Velayat. When the Velayat has an opinion, <o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman Italic';"><i>everyone's opinion must follow, because if it's outside of this there is no place for you. You're an outsider.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In Freedom Square notebooks under protesting arms, </div><div class="MsoNormal">bandanas cover warm mouths, foreheads glisten </div><div class="MsoNormal">from the sweat of remembering. Dark eyes. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Finely tweezed eyebrows. It is a sea of green. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman Italic';"><i>Over 18’s went into one container and the under 18’s into the several other containers. The number of children under the age of 18 was greater. They filled three or four containers of some 25 people in each.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Old women with inflamed ankles the size of fists, </div><div class="MsoNormal">green veils cover their roots as they march, chanting</div><div class="MsoNormal">DEATH TO THE DICTATOR! </div><div class="MsoNormal">Even some of the clerics join, white cloth around heads, </div><div class="MsoNormal">hands rising to the air as if in conversation with God.</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is not what Allah meant at all. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman Italic';"><i>For illiterate people and those not able to complete their ballots, you must do <o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman Italic';"><i>so for them and complete them accordingly (for Ahmadinejad), no matter <o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman Italic';"><i>who their vote was intended for.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tear gas. Batons against bones buried </div><div class="MsoNormal">underneath skin. An eye desperate to shut. </div><div class="MsoNormal">It smells green, the air, as if the lentils </div><div class="MsoNormal">have sprouted, the goldfish are swimming </div><div class="MsoNormal">freely in bowls, as if spring has finally come. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman Italic';"><i>Sweets and pastries were offered and the forces were organized into two shifts.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sidewalks are blood stained, </div><div class="MsoNormal">the air burning like someone’s ashes. </div><div class="MsoNormal">A girl has been shot. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman Italic';"><i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal">The protestors are running </div><div class="MsoNormal">the other way. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>I thought that I was continuing the path of my uncles and our martyrs. All my interest and enthusiasm: to have the integrity for martyrdom.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">With chaos comes heartbreaking <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">slowness, loudness turning quickly into quiet. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The only thing heard, <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">the shaking of the fig tree leaves, <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">green, wild with<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">remembering.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">*All quotes taken from- “Iran: Basij Member Describes Election Abuse” by Linda Hilsum<br />
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</div>Shidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6354901231018044782.post-15383304343971695742010-04-24T22:46:00.000-07:002010-04-24T22:46:14.660-07:00On Being A Kid AgainToday we took a short walk in Half Moon Bay, guided by a local friend of ours. The ocean on one side, tall trees hovering above us as we tried to spot out butterflies. I walked behind my friend and tripped her, felt like a mischievous little girl again, she got pissed and chased me around, and we laughed because it felt so good to be in the pit of nature. Our phones were in our cars, laptops far away, we had somewhere to be, yes, but it didn't matter too much because for a moment we were children again just taking a walk, in awe of everything that surrounded us. To always see the world this way, to not forget what it was like to be a wandering child, to be free in that way seems now, even in the movement and continuous flow of the city, like the only thing to do.Shidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6354901231018044782.post-5074512548928967712010-04-11T23:22:00.001-07:002010-04-11T23:22:40.955-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkPwS7bYv2YA_iyyRMGzyOVTF5ucZOFT1G8hPKyJEryNbJbMZ6wS9gUTno2MewaclzQwBRXfPn0uTmgPJ0E_dYQUBVDDy-y5RcB_-eUp0oUk2YHB1GM8t-GZEeLsh1aiw8ltjkkdwXk_1E/s1600/5ab8b4a12bd2f27d6b693572bd44ebfea4e815da_m.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkPwS7bYv2YA_iyyRMGzyOVTF5ucZOFT1G8hPKyJEryNbJbMZ6wS9gUTno2MewaclzQwBRXfPn0uTmgPJ0E_dYQUBVDDy-y5RcB_-eUp0oUk2YHB1GM8t-GZEeLsh1aiw8ltjkkdwXk_1E/s320/5ab8b4a12bd2f27d6b693572bd44ebfea4e815da_m.png" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0d9eVJU20WbTTgWe7WMenpM4NFNzju7cFTBiQM51_N8XiYEBHlBEdC0SqZ23c4kW4U3AJDsB3hS9Rco_Xgp07e9-afrfmMaLg-qnfbysjWfj1QhAykBjeveC7Q2NT5-7sSnEzZG8X2vpb/s1600/0c9abd7dbe6fcf16fb0babb8f510342dbcdb831c_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0d9eVJU20WbTTgWe7WMenpM4NFNzju7cFTBiQM51_N8XiYEBHlBEdC0SqZ23c4kW4U3AJDsB3hS9Rco_Xgp07e9-afrfmMaLg-qnfbysjWfj1QhAykBjeveC7Q2NT5-7sSnEzZG8X2vpb/s320/0c9abd7dbe6fcf16fb0babb8f510342dbcdb831c_m.jpg" /></a></div>Shidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6354901231018044782.post-75759774287050913242010-04-11T23:15:00.001-07:002010-04-11T23:15:28.396-07:00Conversations With Luis<div class="MsoNormal">(On A Bus)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He’s riding a bus </div><div class="MsoNormal">in Ecuador and I’m </div><div class="MsoNormal">in a San Francisco bed </div><div class="MsoNormal">talking stretched out </div><div class="MsoNormal">Spanish into a computer</div><div class="MsoNormal">screen, because the last line </div><div class="MsoNormal">of his e-mail said </div><div class="MsoNormal">I still love you. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I last saw him it was only</div><div class="MsoNormal">three days after the first, he </div><div class="MsoNormal">walked into the waves, promised</div><div class="MsoNormal">not to come out until I left. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I wanted to be the girl who </div><div class="MsoNormal">stayed, but ambition was </div><div class="MsoNormal">kicking my insides, and</div><div class="MsoNormal">mother laughed when I told</div><div class="MsoNormal">her about it over the phone. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I had things to do, a bus to catch. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I think I’m a fool, </div><div class="MsoNormal">no I know I’m a fool,</div><div class="MsoNormal">better not think about it-</div><div class="MsoNormal">maybe just be foolish</div><div class="MsoNormal">this once, sip Monday night</div><div class="MsoNormal">champange, believe</div><div class="MsoNormal">under covers that romance </div><div class="MsoNormal">didn’t die-that it’s sitting </div><div class="MsoNormal">on a rattling bus saying </div><div class="MsoNormal">my name out loud.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> (A Few Feet From The Beach)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Strange number on my phone tonight- his,</div><div class="MsoNormal">the country of him entering my home.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Outside it rains even though today</div><div class="MsoNormal">was sun packed, the park full of half naked </div><div class="MsoNormal">bodies, a girl wearing socks walking </div><div class="MsoNormal">a tight rope just to see what it felt </div><div class="MsoNormal">like to move with a sole of precision.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He’s sitting a few feet from the beach </div><div class="MsoNormal">in Salinas, where he lives with his mom </div><div class="MsoNormal">and a tio, asks me when I’m coming back.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tomorrow I say, even though we both laugh </div><div class="MsoNormal">I start thinking of ways to be next to him again, </div><div class="MsoNormal">ways of turning life into an action – </div><div class="MsoNormal">a movement, a decision.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The porch is smooth and sleek when my neighbor</div><div class="MsoNormal">steps out shirtless because I’m speaking loud</div><div class="MsoNormal">broken Spanish. It’s too late to take it back.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Cut off<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>silence of the night a string of </div><div class="MsoNormal">rainbow Christmas lights even though </div><div class="MsoNormal">it’s March, and the garden is empty, </div><div class="MsoNormal">except for the little chairs kids sit on.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Go back inside, warm dry house feels </div><div class="MsoNormal">suddenly alone. Wait for strange numbers, </div><div class="MsoNormal">the country of him to become my own.</div><!--EndFragment-->Shidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6354901231018044782.post-60402286830149086032010-03-20T02:07:00.001-07:002010-03-20T02:07:58.563-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitYutT48njsUTYBYNKDo_y6gpy6Dolr4XpDbcJMJj5z9u6sAKeJ-NlT1QYDT5-KdlpVnvxhhyphenhyphen7a7iYyI-PPx_ypXKxorW6xO38OfENdH_NwM4yF0q5piGqEbwRIO61fVE33lq9Bozu0edL/s1600-h/04da88bc3b5f796b145b5759e177102a35262dfa_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitYutT48njsUTYBYNKDo_y6gpy6Dolr4XpDbcJMJj5z9u6sAKeJ-NlT1QYDT5-KdlpVnvxhhyphenhyphen7a7iYyI-PPx_ypXKxorW6xO38OfENdH_NwM4yF0q5piGqEbwRIO61fVE33lq9Bozu0edL/s320/04da88bc3b5f796b145b5759e177102a35262dfa_m.jpg" /></a></div>Shidehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11705322579060282470noreply@blogger.com0