Spinning This Beauty

Octopus Dreams (from a novel-in-progress)

2011-11-06T23:37:00.000-08:00

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 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.

A Reading.

2011-07-19T00:40:00.001-07:00

Mantra of the Week

2011-07-19T00:11:00.001-07:00

Say it with me now...

"I trust my own power and energy, I am dynamic & strong as I move forward with Love."‏

Haven't Written A Poem In A While...

2011-07-07T15:48:00.000-07:00

But here's one from the novel I'm working on.

Before time- I am.

Before silence and the thought of sound- I am.

First there was the word, but before that there was love.

God fell in love with creation- and so he made us.

He created spring and trees

And crumpling leaves and a place to lay your head and love

the earth, and to love someone else, because love is not something

you keep for yourself.

The blossoms will walk in my shadow

And still tomorrow

Her face will look more and more like mine

And she will have my eyes and my hair

He will look at her and see me

And that is enough to let me

Rest my soul down and bear this burden no longer.

After everything dies

And everyone leaves this land

And everyone will try to remember

But will inevitably forget

And everything becomes backwards

Still, these two full moon eyes of mine- this love

Like how I imagine God felt when he birthed us into being-

Still after all this- I am.

GANESHA

2011-04-29T17:12:00.000-07:00

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? 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.

Two Moments and a Question

2011-04-06T16:33:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

Question: Was putting my dollar in that donation tray the same as my black-eyed friend burning his?

Movie Of The Week: The Fall Will Lift You Up

2011-04-01T18:35:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

The Fall is available on DVD.

Holy Holi

2011-04-01T16:32:00.000-07:00

Holi 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.

Photos taken from:
http://www.theatlantic.com/infocus/2011/03/holi-the-festival-of-colors-2011/100032/

Persian Food At Its Best (and it's not in LA?)

2011-04-01T12:09:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

Lavash

511 Irving Street, San Francisco, CA 94122-2513

(415) 664-5555
http://www.lavashsf.com/

Seven Eleven

2010-10-22T10:53:00.000-07:00

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^th 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.

Dear Write Her

2010-10-19T17:04:00.000-07:00

Dear Write Her-

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?

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.

Sincerely,

Dear S.,

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Yours,

Write Her

Another Collaborative Poem With Fifth Graders And Me

2010-09-29T10:08:00.001-07:00

Something In Somethingness

By: Ishaan, Annie, Skylar, and Shideh

Yellow surrounding me I’m drowning in my sick.

There’s nothing in a brain.

People everywhere like soft pillows.

As you know something in somethingness would

cause an overexposure to our skin.

I’ll be your telephone when I’m twenty.

People nowhere to put pencils in their pants.

Forever came and went

and still I couldn’t find you.

A Thing To Get Caught On

2010-09-29T10:05:00.000-07:00

I keep coming back to that day by the pool

when I was little and it seemed like an ocean to me.

And how hairspray made you look

bigger than you really were,

and your nails so red I thought if I put my tongue

to one it would taste like a cherry.

I keep coming back to when you told me so sadly,

but with much assurance-

Life without love is nothing.

It’s a memory.

But it’s also a dream.

And there’s no way of knowing

that it really happened.

Except that it did.

I’m caught on it,

on those trees that hung on our words

as if they too were listening.

I can’t get it out of my head,

but I also don’t want it to leave me alone.

And I’m sure mother will soon bring

the watermelons out for us.

After my boyfriend in high school gave me a hickey,

you asked me why he was biting me.

And we laughed, but then you got serious and told me

you never knew what sex was.

It was never a beautiful thing for you,

you said you didn’t love my grandfather.

He was your cousin, a brother really,

and there is no passion in that.

I saw in your eyes then that

all you perhaps had wanted in life

was someone to want you enough

to suck all the love out from inside you.

When you still remembered things

I wish I’d asked more questions.

But still I’m caught on that day.

I keep coming back to it as if

by the broken tiles of that pool,

near the jagged rocks that lined the edge,

somewhere in the deep end

are the answers I’ve been looking for.

A way of understanding you and what love is,

and what it means to remember,

and how easy to forget.

I close my eyes, dive inside, and

reach my hands out,

blindly touch the surface of

the things you taught me long ago.

A Collaborative Poem Written By Fifth Graders And Me

2010-09-29T10:02:00.001-07:00

Domination Poem

By: Ishaan, Annie, Skylar, and Shideh

A brick is hard and heavy.

I will let fear rule my life.

Red is dominating the world.

People underneath a bed because they’re sad.

The word almost is not in my dictionary.

Giant machine hands are ripping

everything in half.

The young ones will soon learn

that everything is a circle.

Daylight Lover

2010-09-29T09:59:00.001-07:00

To learn how to love is a test,

a beautiful time to not dissapear.

And back then, when I didn’t know her

and women wore skirts above their knees

and walked freely on the streets of Iran,

except for the occasional ass grabbing,

grandmother didn’t cry so much.

And she didn’t have to pop

five pills to feel at peace.

Back then she wore fur coats

and pearls that slipped on her skin

as she sat cross legged

at my mother’s wedding

in a dress that made her look

as beautiful as the bride,

while she dreamt about

kissing her dentist.

She asks me if I have a boyfriend,

and then she asks me again.

And then she asks me a third time

because her mind is empty and

free of all things except this moment.

It’s a disease but it’s also

what some people call Zen.

She clings onto thoughts that seem new

and unspoken while her brain slowly shrinks.

It’s a folding upon itself,

a quiet collision of death drawn out.

First you leave the stove on,

and then your tongue

can’t catch the right words,

and the next thing you know

you’re not walking anymore

and your daughter has to spoon feed you

they way you did when she was little.

It’s a disease but its also a circle.

And you realize that life was

never really meant to be angular.

And when little children walk

past you giggling, you laugh too

because there is something in them so near

to where it is that you are going.

Grandmother looks at me and

asks me once more if I have a boyfriend.

No, I tell her again because I am certain of it,

but this time there are also tears in my eyes

and maybe she’s so empty she can feel it too.

So she drops it and tells me

that my breasts are getting too big,

and then breathes in the Santa Monica Friday

afternoon wet beach air (or just the air)

and smiles because the sun is beating

on her body and she can’t remember much-

good or bad- but she is a daylight lover, and

does not expect tomorrow to ever really come.

So, so close. I won't stop trying. Never. I won't.

2010-08-23T21:36:00.000-07:00

http://lib.store.yahoo.net/lib/glimmertrain/2010-June-FO-Top-25-list.pdf

For The Birds

2010-07-19T23:31:00.001-07:00

He sits on the bench in front of the café,

and then inside the café talking to himself.

But on his feet are clean white sneakers,

on his wrist a watch with accurate time.

His hair long, unwashed.

He sits on the bench in front of the café,

and then inside the café talking to himself.

Outside he kneels on the crowded

San Francisco sidewalk

tearing up a fluffy pastry into little pieces.

He spends twenty minutes making a pastry pile.

A dog stops his owner to watch.

He cleans his always dirty hands on his jeans,

sits on the bench lighting up a joint,

letting the birds devour his pile.

2010-07-07T21:30:00.000-07:00

Bad Date Poem

2010-05-22T10:34:00.000-07:00

For: Safiya Martinez

I’ve been going on bad dates lately

for the sake of poetry.

So I can write good poems.

But it hasn’t been going so well.

Maybe I should try going on good dates.

But then you’d be

reading just

another

bad

poem.

Residues

2010-05-18T14:04:00.001-07:00

Kajik the fortune teller owns a Persian restaurant

where the only thing on the menu is kabob.

You have to call and make sure he’s working,

that it’s not too busy, that he has time to see you.

I order two skewers, on lavash bread soggy with grease,

a yogurt drink with a hint of mint.

There’s a round belly under his apron, like a story hiding.

And underneath the aged circles of his eyes,

the sweetness of a six year old sucking on a candy

as if the entire Earth rested inside his warm mouth.

He doesn’t say a word to me, but brings coffee after my meal.

The dark, Turkish kind where futures leave footprints.

I drink fast as two wrinkled men play backgammon,

take half bites out of sugar cubes, sip on their tea.

“You’ve almost died twice,” Kajik says, finally sitting,

examining the designs inside the cup.

It’s an excavation of broken bones.

One of the old men snaps to a song in his head,

does a slow shimmy as he wins, knocks knocks on wood.

“Be careful with the drinks,” he continues,

stops then, “show me your scars.”

I show him the one on my wrist,

from when I was twelve and tried to scare

my older brother by banging hard on his window,

the end of the thin, stitched line, where my vein begins.

“Stay in control or you will find bigger scars,” he adds,

then sighs like his heart is expanding with

my wrongdoings, the thought of death.

He twirls the cup in his fingers,

smiling as he finds more fossils of my future,

“You like to hurry love,” he says, “slowly, slowly.

Love is patience and you’re not there yet.

But yes, you will write something and everyone will read it,

don’t ever stop doing that.”

He takes my hand inside his own,

“You will be fine,” he says, “ just fine.”

And even though it’s just left over

coffee in a cup, my mouth tastes bitter,

and the flies have begun to circle

the kitchen in the back, I believe him.

When I ask him why he doesn’t do this often he tells me,

“It hurts too much, seeing everything.

And one time I looked into a cup and it was empty.”

When A Color Stops Being A Color, Becomes Something Else Completely

2010-05-18T14:02:00.000-07:00

Eighteen facing seats shining empty.

School is cancelled because men have

been hired to beat those wearing green,

to go inside dorm rooms smash computer screens

break beds turn trash bins upside down.

Where does one hide rebellion?

It was imperative to have the leader's vision, and it was

announced then that his vision is this, that he elects Ahmadinejad.

They have been told green is bad.

Green is the color of Allah-hatred.

They only take orders from their superior.

He is a man of good faith,

and so they believe him.

They are promised more money

than they make in a year.

Lunch will also be provided.

The foundations of Islam and the foundations of Shi'ism and Velayat

are such that we have accepted the Velayat. When the Velayat has an opinion,

everyone's opinion must follow, because if it's outside of this there is no place for you. You're an outsider.

In Freedom Square notebooks under protesting arms,

bandanas cover warm mouths, foreheads glisten

from the sweat of remembering. Dark eyes.

Finely tweezed eyebrows. It is a sea of green.

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.

Old women with inflamed ankles the size of fists,

green veils cover their roots as they march, chanting

DEATH TO THE DICTATOR!

Even some of the clerics join, white cloth around heads,

hands rising to the air as if in conversation with God.

This is not what Allah meant at all.

For illiterate people and those not able to complete their ballots, you must do

so for them and complete them accordingly (for Ahmadinejad), no matter

who their vote was intended for.

Tear gas. Batons against bones buried

underneath skin. An eye desperate to shut.

It smells green, the air, as if the lentils

have sprouted, the goldfish are swimming

freely in bowls, as if spring has finally come.

Sweets and pastries were offered and the forces were organized into two shifts.

Sidewalks are blood stained,

the air burning like someone’s ashes.

A girl has been shot.

The protestors are running

the other way.

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.

With chaos comes heartbreaking

slowness, loudness turning quickly into quiet.

The only thing heard,

the shaking of the fig tree leaves,

green, wild with

remembering.

*All quotes taken from- “Iran: Basij Member Describes Election Abuse” by Linda Hilsum

On Being A Kid Again

2010-04-24T22:46:00.000-07:00

Today 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.

2010-04-11T23:22:00.001-07:00

Conversations With Luis

2010-04-11T23:15:00.001-07:00

(On A Bus)

He’s riding a bus

in Ecuador and I’m

in a San Francisco bed

talking stretched out

Spanish into a computer

screen, because the last line

of his e-mail said

I still love you.

When I last saw him it was only

three days after the first, he

walked into the waves, promised

not to come out until I left.

I wanted to be the girl who

stayed, but ambition was

kicking my insides, and

mother laughed when I told

her about it over the phone.

I had things to do, a bus to catch.

I think I’m a fool,

no I know I’m a fool,

better not think about it-

maybe just be foolish

this once, sip Monday night

champange, believe

under covers that romance

didn’t die-that it’s sitting

on a rattling bus saying

my name out loud.

(A Few Feet From The Beach)

Strange number on my phone tonight- his,

the country of him entering my home.

Outside it rains even though today

was sun packed, the park full of half naked

bodies, a girl wearing socks walking

a tight rope just to see what it felt

like to move with a sole of precision.

He’s sitting a few feet from the beach

in Salinas, where he lives with his mom

and a tio, asks me when I’m coming back.

Tomorrow I say, even though we both laugh

I start thinking of ways to be next to him again,

ways of turning life into an action –

a movement, a decision.

The porch is smooth and sleek when my neighbor

steps out shirtless because I’m speaking loud

broken Spanish. It’s too late to take it back.

Cut off silence of the night a string of

rainbow Christmas lights even though

it’s March, and the garden is empty,

except for the little chairs kids sit on.

Go back inside, warm dry house feels

suddenly alone. Wait for strange numbers,

the country of him to become my own.

2010-03-20T02:07:00.001-07:00

All Arrows Point Up

2010-03-20T02:06:00.003-07:00

On the boat to Maya Bay Kitty Sak

points to the map of scars on his body,

“Tsunami,” he says, “everything turn black,”

and then he dives into the water as if he’s forgiven it.

We feed bananas to monkeys, which is easy

at first, but they want more, always more,

and by the end they’re hissing, and eventually they

become bored by us. Our lack of bananas.

Someone rolls a joint, the smell overwhelms

those who want to smoke go to the back of the boat

where everything is Rasta.

The scars are like teeth marks, except

there was no animal. Kitty Sak takes a drag,

coughs out a laugh despite his

jagged skin, “Good shit,” he says.

On Kho Phi Phi island all arrows point up,

it is the only thing that makes sense, the only way to go.

I’m enamored by the woman who runs our guest house,

we pay three dollars a night, there are no windows but I

don’t care because she tells me I’m pretty, makes

me papaya salad, crushes chili peppers into it with her

bare hands, “I find you boyfriend,” she promises me.

When the tsunami came, first the water pulled

back, in preparation, the fish scammered to shore,

and the hungry people went running into the

water, grabbing the slippery silver flesh by

the handful, thinking about how lucky they were.

How they didn’t even have to work for it.

A loud breath, everything swallowed whole,

even the elephants followed the arrows, stampeding

towards the sun, gathered those they could with their

trunks. And Kitty Sak climbed that tree, hands

gripping coconuts, waited however

long it took for everything to turn black.

May The Crumbled Mountain Find You

2010-03-20T02:05:00.001-07:00

William Faulkner's Nobel Prize Speech 1949

2010-03-15T23:10:00.000-07:00

I've been preparing a lesson on conflict in fiction for a Teaching Creative Writing class, and I came upon this speech. I hadn't read it in a while, but it always just lights something up inside me. Makes me want to write until my hand falls off, or at least until my sciatica kicks in again. It brings urgency to life, and makes our truths feel essential.

I feel that this award was not made to me as a man, but to my work - a life's work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit, not for glory and least of all for profit, but to create out of the materials of the human spirit something which did not exist before. So this award is only mine in trust. It will not be difficult to find a dedication for the money part of it commensurate with the purpose and significance of its origin. But I would like to do the same with the acclaim too, by using this moment as a pinnacle from which I might be listened to by the young men and women already dedicated to the same anguish and travail, among whom is already that one who will some day stand here where I am standing.

Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only the question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.

He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid; and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed - love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.

Until he relearns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure: that when the last dingdong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.

Note To Self:

2010-03-15T23:06:00.001-07:00

2010-03-15T23:05:00.001-07:00

In Seven Bowls - On The Year 1389

2010-03-15T23:00:00.001-07:00

In Seven Bowls – On The Year 1389

New years smells like fire,

the canvas bottoms of our feet

almost melting from jumping

over mountains of burning coals,

the things we wanted to let go of.

Zardee-yeh man az toe,

sorkhee-yeh toe az man.

Take my dirtied yellowed year,

And bring me your fresh, new red one.

New years smells like vinegar soaked

air, like copper, garlic, the sweet, dry

fruit of the lotus tree, a pink hyacinth

flower. A child, protected by all of this –

even the fish darting into each other,

fed by me, and then again by mother –

their gold skin flickering inside our lives,

as the lentils began to sprout.

Grandfather posed in the garden

wearing a half smile, a blue suit,

while grandmother dipped her calloused

feet into the pool- handed

me a few crisp dollar bills while she

spit out what was left of the sunflower seeds.

There are photographs, and then there is a

feeling like everything in the world

can be contained in seven bowls, is as simple

as the letter “s”.

New Years smells like freshly diced

herbs, buried with mother’s bare hands

under saffron coated rice–

white fish, smoked whole, our mouths full,

thin bones tickling the backs of our throats,

preparing us for spring.

When Golden Mouths Speak

2010-03-15T22:59:00.001-07:00

Tongue in my ear at the Beauty

Bar after two for one martinis at

Café Flor with Carter and Tim,

like talking to your grandfather

except with more gold in their

mouths. Shared travel stories with

Carter, we’d been to some of the same

places. I felt old, unknowingly wise.

He said he loved her in Vietnam,

loved her on the water canals near

Bangkok, loved her even in Phnom

Phen when he saw the shrine of skulls,

when he thought there was no more

love to give. She died last month,

and I was jealous of him. Losing all

that love, that empty space inside him.

Later Megan and I buy beers, the cheap ones,

dance in the center of it all hands raised

to the sky as is if pretending for

a moment we’re not looking for love,

or a tongue, or a touch to fill ourselves up on.

We buy beers, Megan and I, the cheap ones,

ask for olives because we forgot to eat.

Stomach feels like a cave, the air growls inside.

A tongue in my ear at the Beauty

Bar, direct road to the weakest of

knees, to a shoulder, an arm spinning

me around and around, feeling that

womanly way again, finding balance

even on this sticky floor.

Tongue admires things only seen

in the dark pink light of a body

heated room. My eyes, hand, the

glowing white of teeth. The only

thing we are certain of is movement.

So we dance, dance-

fill ourselves up with that.

I hope somewhere Carter feels it too.

2010-02-08T18:04:00.001-08:00

What I Learned When The Birds Flew Away

2010-02-08T17:57:00.000-08:00

I like you better when you’re naked, out of

suits buttoned up shirts, almost like a child,

that easy to love. But you look at me as men

do, while the curls on your chest wrap around

my fingers. I take shade off of lamps to see you better

with, put glasses on, know then nothing

is touching you but the hands of me, the hip bone

on hip bone of the thrusting us.

I like you better when you’re drunk enough to kiss

each of my eye lids, my mouth even

though people are watching. You rub the knot

of my neck, slip your cold hand across the back

of me, you keep it there as if trying to find

something to belong to.

I like you better, when you’re definite like rolling

R’s on Spanish tongues, not smelling the sweet

frosty way she does, or looking at your watch

after we’ve only just made love.

The sky is blank then, the canvas of a crippled artist,

no flock of birds- reminders of migration, movement

beyond what no longer works – what is, always is, never

better.

First Rejection Letter...Not So Bad.

2010-02-08T17:55:00.000-08:00

Dear Shideh:

Thank you for sending us "Go, Go Fatty" for the short fiction contest.

Although your story did not make our top 10 finalists, it came very close. We were quite impressed by the humanity in your writing, particularly in the scene with Mrs. Lou and the narrator.

Thanks for sending us your work. Best of luck placing your story elsewhere. 

Sincerely,
Jill Meyers
Editor

Zanmi Lakay

2010-01-21T12:00:00.000-08:00

We are all aware by now of the events that have taken place in Haiti, and the hundreds and thousands of people who have been affected by this. I had the privilege of attending a yoga class, a benefit for Haiti, and met an amazing woman, Jennifer Pantaleon, who runs a non-profit organization called Zanmi Lakay. Jennifer has been going to Haiti for years now, helping street children by improving their educational and economic opportunities, as well as providing photography workshops as a means of self expression for them. Things were bad before the earthquake, and now leaving for Haiti in the next week, she's not sure which of her kids she will find when she gets there.

I know times are tough right now, but things could be a lot worse for us all, so I'm asking you to donate anything you can to the work of Zanmi Lakay (Jennifer is a volunteer, so all your donations would go strictly to the kids). Below you'll find a link to the website as well as a donor link, please let me know if you have any questions or problems with your donations. Also, if you can please forward this to your friends and family it would be greatly appreciated. Thanks so much for your time, and I'm sure we can all take a little step to make a big difference in the lives of these children.

Best,

Shideh

https://zanmilakay.donortools.com/

http://www.zanmilakay.org/

Like Your Hips Sway - A Poem For Haiti

2010-01-21T11:58:00.000-08:00

The bones were found under the rubble,

the once swaying hip bones of yours,

the parts of you already suffering,

even before the ceilings crumbled, the

buildings collapsed into your bodies,

because there was never enough food to eat.

There is no medicine,

no room in the hospitals.

Dead bodies on the streets

lay still uncovered, even after a week

of the after shock.

Where do you put them? Where is there a

place big enough to fit all this sadness?

And here, we say Namaste and do your

Afro-Haitan dance moves with our eyes closed

on yoga mats placed two inches apart,

because there is not enough space

in this room for everyone’s love for you.

We give everything

we can, not because we know you,

but because those are your bones, your houses,

your country. Because we want to see you dance again,

to rise from what has fallen, let your hips sway again

like the wild winds of this shaking Earth.

Feeling Kind Of Sexy...

2009-12-02T20:26:00.000-08:00

One Night Stand - A Love Poem

2009-12-02T20:08:00.000-08:00

He fell down the stairs in my apartment tonight,

because the lights were off and all he could see

was his own reflection in the mirror across

from the stairs. I thought it was the way to the

bathroom, he says, hopping his way

back into my room.

You would know where the bathroom is.

You would have things in my bathroom.

A toothbrush, the pages of my magazines

folded where you think the girls are hot.

A special mirror to see things closely with.

You would have your own shelf filled with

the floss you forget to use.

His pain is not turning me on. His pain makes it difficult to enjoy

any of this. And now he’s next to me in this bed

where you used to sleep, where you used to put your

hand on my belly and tell me you wanted to plant things in there.

He’s naked under my covers with

an aching knee. Painful, I’m sure, but he just won’t shut up

about it. I start touching him so he will, below the waist where

it counts, and he gets quiet. But it doesn’t feel right

in my hand. And when I kiss behind his ear, he doesn’t

seem to like it the way you do, keeps trying to pull me towards

his mouth. And all the time I want to taste the crystal salts

of your skin again, like being pulled under a wave and my feet

not touching anything, to know that you keep

a space for me in your life, maybe even the size of the

crescent moon of a clipped finger nail, or perhaps a whole

finger, or one of your hands, just in case things are

different one day, just in case people do change and you

think of planting things again.

But this guy. This guy whose name keeps

slipping my mind, like a bar of leftover soap,

all tangled up with hair, and his aching knee,

his horribly aching knee, it all feels a little, a little unlike

you. You’ve never broken a bone. Never twisted any

part of yourself.

And I think for a second what the point

of all this is. If only to feel loved

for just one night? If only to write even one poem?

Look At These...

2009-11-17T00:43:00.000-08:00

When Long Beards Meant Patience - An Experiment In Words

2009-11-17T00:36:00.000-08:00

Sun. Stronger than Los Angeles. Hot and wet in Cordoba. Still the gypsies. They wear thick layers. No matter how rosy their babies cheeks get. They ask for dollars. We give coins. No. Dollars. They say. They are greedy. We learn to give nothing. To ignore. Their voices. We live here now. We learn like locals. To not find sorrow in such pleas. Tea houses are of the past. Kept on cobblestone streets. When the Muslims. The Jews. The Christians. Lived here in peace. 500, 000 inhabitants in the latter half of the tenth century. Then most populated city in Europe. Perhaps the world. Time when learning from each other took place. Before bus bombs. Midnight raids. Before long beards were something to be afraid of. When they meant wisdom. Being a patient man. Over past few years over 3,000 immigrants have died en route to Spain. More security systems. They take more dangerous routes now.

Water pipes. Hookah. Shishah. Nargeela. Pots of tea. Refilled by our Morrocan friend. Asden. Suenos de Andalucia. Like a dream. The tea relaxes us. Makes the tiles on the walls more blue. Seem closer to our faces. Makes everything seem like a dream. I ask him in nervous Spanish. Where I can find hashish. He smiles with small teeth. Says here. Asian girl from San Diego. In my program. Tells us little kids pull eyes with their fingers when they pass her on the streets. They say. Chino. Chino. Her family is from Thailand.

The mullet is back. Even handsome men. With mullets turn ugly. Cold beer. Olives in a bowl. Afternoon snack. Half of non EU immigrants in Andalucia from Morocco. The Moroccans sell scarves in the plaza. One looks like my dad. Has same round belly. Jolly smile. He tells me he’ll give me a discount. Only if I buy two. I buy three. Mostly for the discount. Simpsons in Spanish. Same stories. Voices higher pitched though. Throws everything off a little. We watch this every day over lunch. Maria is too young to be my mother. But here she is. Making me ham and cheese sandwiches. Frying everything. Re-using grease. As if something precious. There are no vegetables in this house. Today instead of Simpsons. A family stands on a roof. A neighborhood sinking in New Orleans.

Asden invites us over to his house. Further than where we usually go. No cab will take us. We take the bus. He wears a crisp dress shirt. A table covered. Feta cheese. Warm pita bread. Chorizo. Hummus. Dates. A bowl of grapes. He’s taken his time with this. I eat the feta with fingers. Think of my mom. Her loss of appetite. How many more months of chemo. Windows open for more air. Asden rolls hashish joints. Four of them. Passes them around our circle of five. Almost one for each of us. As soon as one leaves my hand. Another arrives. Feels like we are sitting for too long. Everyone feels like their own planet. Made of different things. Far away from me. My planet. Through the windows a loud flapping noise. Three of them. Too loud to be birds. We duck. Run into the other room. Watch Asden hit blurred black with pillows. He looks like a warrior. They fly back out. He closes the window. Bats he says. Just bats.

More things fried. Still the family stands on the roof. Someone videotaping this. Someone watching this close enough to help. Someone can show us this. Someone can get higher ratings because of this. But without touching this family’s planet. Someone can put their hands out and reach. But doesn’t. Everything is covered in water.

Once, Once

2009-11-09T14:39:00.001-08:00

Once, she said this hot sun

hit her head so hard, fired up

all the molecules inside of her,

all it did was make her think love.

Once, she wrote a poem about

this folded neatly

in an envelope she sealed

with her saliva for him, all

the time wishing it was a kiss.

Once, there was a kiss,

but also there was nothing.

Once, before everything was,

the sun conversed with the still

black moon, wondering what lonely

means, if life could exist

under such a pitch black night.

The sun said, I will pour

everything into you, so when I leave

this place you will not forget what

light feels like, you will not forget

my hot lava love.

And so there was a marriage,

With candles everywhere, stars really,

no minister or witness to clap or to cry,

the sun’s bright arms stretching, wrapping

itself around the dark moon, and

only the Earth, watching, waiting

for a kiss between the two.

Once, not too long after,

the moon feel in love with

the pull of the ocean.

Once, he got an envelope, opened wet

edges, read words, ate them up

like expensive oranges.

Once, love grew forth from a mouth

like a tree with too many leaves,

covered all things like a warm mother’s hand.

2009-11-05T11:25:00.001-08:00

Fly, Howl, Love : A Tribute To The Life Of Forugh Farrokhzad *

2009-11-03T09:43:00.001-08:00

Our house was at the end of an alley,

at the end of all things it seemed

when we were little girls living

among the shadows of

the walls,

the trees bearing figs, sour

cherries.

And Forugh, always with her notebook,

filling those pages with what?

It seemed so big in her small hands then,

that notebook,

as if she herself could fit inside those pages.

She would climb trees,

hop on walls,

howl like a wolf,

fight with boys she would rather have

been loving.

She put her arms out one moonless night,

pretended to be an airplane, to be the entire sky,

and I watched from the dull pond, home

to the red goldfish and brown frogs,

because my eyes were stuck on her.

Everyone’s eyes were stuck on her.

At sixteen,

when she married, moved to a city named

after a song,

she found something like freedom

in plucked eyebrows,

eyes lined thick with black,

in painted lips red,

and short, short skirts.

But more than that

it was perhaps her disheveled hair,

those ink stained hands

as blue as oceans on a map,

taking over the entire earth it would seem with

such small hands.

Holding a paper that had been folded and

squeezed between her fingers

for days, years, her entire life

as she walked into that editor’s office.

They would call her a poetess,

because poet would mean

being a woman didn’t matter.

And it always matters.

And even in such freedom,

she lost him.

An unfit mother they proclaimed,

a whore making love to all the world

with her words.

I have sinned a rapturous sin

in a warm enflamed embrace.

Sinned in a pair of vindictive hands,

arms violent and ablaze.

When someone wants to reach the heart

of this Earth,

it becomes impossible

to not always do just this.

I want to hang my heart like

A ripe fruit

On every branch of every tree.

Even in the beginning, even on

that fig tree at the end of the alley,

at the end of all things,

she hung it there too.

It still sways in the damp air

as if no one is watching.

There is no box large enough to hold

the way a woman

sees a naked body,

to hold such small hands,

her hands, with those large blue inked oceans

like true, replenished skin.

I will not speak of death,

of cold lips,

and the movement of machines,

of skin and bone touching concrete loud enough for

all to hear.

But I will say that always, always at the center of it,

even by that dull pond as I watched her write,

fly, howl, it was always love.

Yes, so love begins,

and though the road’s end is out of sight

I do not think of the end

for it is the loving I so love.

She was buried under the snow.

Perhaps the truth was those two young hands

those young hands

buried beneath the snow-

and in the coming year when spring mates with sky behind the window,

fountains of green saplings, will erupt-

saplings that bloom, beloved, my truest friend.

*Based on a “A Brief Biography” in Sin-Selected Poems of Forugh Farrokhzad

translated by Sholeh Wolpe

The Winter Boyfriend

2009-11-03T00:15:00.000-08:00

Yes, fall is here. The moon is out sooner, we all have mashed potatoes on our minds, and apparently everyone is trying to find a lover before Christmas rolls around. Just yesterday you were half naked on the beach reveling in the sun and your single-hood, planning out your summer rendezvous over a pitcher of beer. Now with Halloween behind you, with the inevitable realization that it soon will be cold and rainy, that you'd rather be wrapped up in a blanket with someone else to keep you warm, that holidays mean family, which means questions, lots of questions, and expectations, lots of them, are we all just rushing to find that special someone...even if he's not so special?

A few years back, visiting some friends in New York just prior to the winter season, we came up with the term "winter boyfriend". Someone, in essence, who would make it easy for you to never have to leave your house, showing up with hot soup and warm cocoa even a blanket to wrap around you on those cold winter nights. Someone to take home to your family, just so your mom can stop asking you if you're a lesbian. I'm not saying the "winter boyfriend" is essential, or even necessary, considering you can watch Netflix on your computer, and my roommate makes a kick ass lentil soup. Things are looking good, but could he, perhaps make things better? I don't know, I would tell you if I did, but I've never had one of my own.

Maybe that's why couples have been popping up left and right, or maybe you just weren't noticing before. I doubt it, you would notice these things. There's something about this time of year that makes us all just want to be loved, and maybe that's OK, normal by some standards. So I'm going to say it, a lot of people love you, they really do. I'm one of them. So enjoy the love you are privileged enough to have, be grateful for that because your winter boyfriend, well, he may be busy until spring.

Things To Be Seen...

2009-11-02T23:49:00.000-08:00

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Just Bodies, Only Light

2009-11-02T23:42:00.000-08:00

Every morning I expect San Francisco rain,

but umbrellas aren’t what they used to be.

The sun comes instead, lights up the hills,

the houses – the pinks, the blues, the yellows.

And I begin to think everything

I’ve ever heard is a lie.

That truth like this sharp light peering

through my kitchen window,

will never last,

was never here at all.

Even love,

because it felt me in that bed,

with curtains pulled,

sheets awry,

it twisted that womanness into me,

with an arm outstretched waiting for

my head to rest.

But that was just you,

I see now a boy trying

to be a man,

with tattooed stories I will

never know,

just another body in a bed.

You zipped up,

made promises to me

with cold metal in between

your fingers, as I

wondered if I could keep love

in only a room.

And in that darkness,

but outside

the sun being Sunday and all,

I agreed,

convinced myself too

soon, that your body

was not just a body,

that this light

had been here

all along.

On Writing...

2009-10-28T10:35:00.000-07:00

A Note From The Universe

2009-10-28T10:26:00.001-07:00

Now let me get this straight, friend:
You want things that you don't yet have,
people in your life who you don't yet know,
and events to take place that haven't yet
occurred, so that once these "things"
come to pass you'll feel happy, confident,
and fulfilled; accomplished, desired, and
appreciated; treasured, adored, and
like one bad mamma jama, a beautiful sight to see?

But... wasn't that your rationale for
all the other stuff you wanted, t
hat you now have?

Whooohoooooooo!
The Universe

Chana Masala, Een Cheekee Dana, Indian Pizza?

2009-10-26T19:44:00.000-07:00

Colorful Bollywood movies, spiced chai tea, Frida Pinto, the Indians must know something we don't. Some ancient om-shanti secret where things just fall in to place, where the flavors are just right. Recently, moving to the Bernal Heights neighborhood of San Francisco, I passed the corner of Cortland Ave. and Mission St. and was immediately overtaken by the smell of garlic, cumin, curry, and ooozing, cheesy, goodness. Even though it was ten am, I wanted to go inside and eat that smell.

Zante's Pizza, is an Indian restaurant, but it's also a unique home for pizza- Indian Pizza. The wait staff is courteous, re-filling your water glass every two minutes like every other Indian restaurant, but Zante's is a different experience all together. Options include vegetarian Indian pizza, with a sweet and spicy curry sauce, cauliflower, ginger, spinach, eggplant, green onions, and cilantro, all mixed with a delicious white, Indian cheese. Or an alternative for meat lovers which adds lamb, tandoori chicken, and prawns. Vegan options and a create your own pizza option are available. So the next time you're deciding between lamb curry and a slice of mushroom, just go to Zante's and have a little taste of both worlds. Namaste.

Zante's Pizza is located at 3489 Mission St. in San Francisco (415) 821-3949

2009-10-25T23:13:00.001-07:00

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A San Francisco Sunday (Hungover)

2009-10-25T23:07:00.000-07:00

The sun hit San Francisco just right today. And despite my hangover and inevitable realization that I'm getting older and can't handle having seven beverages in one night, downing beers after vodka tonics, after vodka tonics, after more vodka tonics, I was able to revel in the joy of a San Francisco Sunday. A few weeks ago at Dolores Park my friends and I listened to a man sitting under a tree playing his guitar, singing, fondling a harmonica. We sang along to his songs, closed our eyes for a moment, and let his music take us away, cheering him on as he rolled a joint. He told us that he came to this spot often just to play and sing for whoever was willing to listen. I headed to Dolores Park today, hoping to find this same man under the same tree playing his guitar, hoping to ease my hangover with the sweet sound of his music. And among the half naked bodies, the dogs running around with sticks in their mouths, people guzzling champagne out of bottles, the jugglers, bums, and little children, the grass a field of happy bodies, I found him under the same tree. He sang some Gillian Welch, Elliot Smith, a few Beatles songs, I clapped for him so he knew I was listening, that someone was willing to listen. He uncorked a bottle of red wine, poured himself a glass, lifted it to the sky, praising the city, the sun, the people around him it seemed. And then I closed my eyes, let the sun soak up my aching body, swore to myself I'd never drink again.

More Things I Like To Look At.

2009-10-20T23:12:00.000-07:00

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Cheese

2009-10-20T23:03:00.000-07:00

I don't know how to quite put this. But I think I've fallen in love with cheese. I think about it add odd times of the day, during yoga, watching a movie, especially the melted kind I can pick at with my fingers. It's overpowering sometimes, my love for cheese. I try to say "skip the cheese" when the waiter takes my order, but those words hurt, I want to say instead, "extra cheese, more cheese, cover it with cheese." Is it possible to be in love with cheese? Cheese is there when I need it, waiting in the fridge for me, cheese doesn't tell me it likes me and then never calls, sticks its tongue down my throat as if it means it and then pretends nothing ever happened. Oh, cheese. Thank you for being you. Thank you.

2009-10-14T22:45:00.001-07:00

fffound.com

Origin Of The Veil

2009-10-14T17:13:00.000-07:00

The 1979 Islamic Revolution transformed the country of Iran from a constitutional monarchy under the Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi to an Islamic Republic under the Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini. Most people believe that under the notion of a perfect model of splendid, humane, and divine life for all the people of the world, Khomeini introduced the Sharia, or Islamic law, literally meaning -the path to the water source; forcing women to cover most of their body, but mainly, the evil, seductive forces that lay within the strands of their hair, all of it, under the thick fabric of a chador.

The truth, however, is another story. The Ayatollah Khomeini, being a stingy man, who didn’t believe in giving into the material pleasures of worldly objects and experiences, was sick of paying for his wife’s monthly hair removal bill. For, like most Iranian women, Khadije Saghafi was hairy, and her husband believed that if she was covered at all times of the day (and sometimes at night, even in their bed) she wouldn’t care if her husband, or anyone else saw her hairy legs or her hairy arms, or the hair that extended from the side of her face down to her chin. With the new implementation of the veil, his wife’s body and most of her head covered, he would only have to worry about paying for her eyebrows and maybe the hair on her upper lip at most, to be removed by Haleh Khanoom who owned the salon down the street. And thus, “O Prophet! Tell your wives and daughters and the believing women, to cover themselves. Thus, they will be recognized and avoid being molested. God is the Forgiver, Merciful,” from the Koran, turned into seventy four lashes on your bare back for being a slut and not covering all of your hair and body, well except your hands and feet. Let us not forget that Khomeini had the best interest of all his fellow comrades’ in mind when making this law.

It is rumored though that Khadije, frustrated with the summer heat and the layers of thick fabric she was forced to wear by her husband and his regime, being an educated woman, and having read the Koran in its entirety at least two hundred times, and finding no text stating that a woman’s entire body and hair should be covered, was so angered by her husband’s new laws, and his underlying frugality when it came to her hair removal needs (for it wasn’t for him or for any other man that she did it, it was more for herself, to feel beautiful and clean and to respect and care for her body-which she saw as her own private temple, or mosque in this case) decided to walk naked through the crowded streets of Tehran. It was a boiling summer afternoon, too hot even for tea, and she walked with the most beautiful arched eyebrows, the smoothest arms, legs and upper lip anyone had ever seen, and a well managed, thin strip of hair below, thanks to the always reliable Haleh Khanoom and the thin, white string she had used to turn Khadije’s young body into silk.

The religious clerics, and Khomeini himself thought she was a ghost, a smooth-skinned phantom sent by Allah himself, a sign that Yawm al-Qiyaamah or the Day of Resurrection was upon them. Tears formed in their eyes as they got on their knees and bowed to her, mumbling Allah O Akhbar under their breaths, suddenly feeling the heaviness of their sins, and praying for forgiveness. But the women- well, the women knew better than that. And as their husbands meditated on their useless, wasted lives, and watched the phantom move through the city, stopping even the loud shouting of men in the bazaars, the cracking of sunflower seeds between their teeth, the persistence of car upon car on the freeways, as even the birds came down from above to watch, the women lined up outside of Haleh Khanoom’s salon, and waited their turn.

Things I Like To Look At.

2009-10-12T12:29:00.000-07:00

fffound.com

Heaven And Hell

2009-10-12T10:45:00.000-07:00

From a book I'm reading, Comfortable With Uncertainty by American Buddhist nun Pema Chodron...

   "A big, burly Samurai comes to a Zen master and says, 'Tell me the nature of heaven and hell.' The Zen master looks him in the face and says, 'Why should I tell a scruffy, disgusting, miserable slob like you? A worm like you, do you think I should tell you anything?'
   Consumed by rage, the samurai draws his sword and raises it to cut off the master's head.
   The Zen master says, 'That's hell.'
   Instantly, the samurai understands that he has just created his own hell-black and hot, filled with hatred, self-protection, anger, and resentment. He sees that he was so deep in hell that he was ready to kill someone. Tears fill his eyes as he puts his palms together to bow in gratitude for this insight.
   The Zen master says, 'That's heaven.'
   The view of the warrior-bodhisattva is not 'Hell is bad and heaven is good' or 'Get rid of hell and just seek heaven.' Instead, we encourage ourselves to develop an open heart and an open mind to heaven, to hell, to everything. Only with this kind of equanimity can we realize that no matter what comes along, we're always standing in the middle of a sacred space. Only with equanimity can we see that everything that comes into our circle has come to teach us what we need to know."

2009-10-10T17:14:00.000-07:00

www.fffound.com

So Love Begins

2009-10-10T17:10:00.000-07:00

Yes, so love begins,
and though the road's end is out of sight
I do not think of the end
for it is the loving I so love.
-Forugh Farrokhzad

2009-10-07T19:19:00.000-07:00

fffound.com

No Sex And The City

2009-10-07T14:47:00.000-07:00

Carrie Bradshaw has nothing on me, well except the Jimmy Choo's on her feet and Mr. Big on one arm. I'm not saying those ladies were sluts, because I think there's nothing wrong with sleeping around...if that's what you're looking for. But let's say, you're living in a city, you drink those cosmos but can't afford the fancy meal, so you eat burritos instead, and you have your Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda who support your every move, but what if you're not just trying to land in someone's bed? It's easy to say yes. It means not having to be patient, not having to wait to see if anything worthwhile can come out of this. How do you land into someone's life, and not just their bed? Or rather, let someone land in yours?

The answer is simple, I have no clue. Let's be honest, if I did, I probably wouldn't be writing this. I really, really don't know. I'm not sure anyone does for that matter ( it took Carrie six seasons and a blockbuster movie to figure it out). But after almost five years of being single, I think I finally can make certain statements with confidence. I'm no expert on relationships, or sex, or love by any means, but I definitely have an immense amount of experience on screwing things up, disappointment, and the inevitable realization that if you're looking for true love, you must truly love yourself first. Here are a few pointers to help you on your path to finding your Mr.Big. And please be advised that these are merely pointers...nothing I say, or any one says for that matter can change the truth, that when the time is right he will come.

1. Is it ever OK to make the first move?: I say, yes. I'm not saying to buy him a drink, or put your hand down his pants in the middle of the bar. But if you have someone's attention from across a crowded room, and he has yours, don't look away. Stare long and hard, maybe that will give him the courage to come talk to you. And if that doesn't work, then don't be afraid to approach him. You're an attractive, intelligent woman, surrounded by your equally attractive and intelligent friends, and this will frighten some men. Oh, how easy would it be if life were actually like Facebook...you could send him a friend request, or poke him, or go through his interests and see if you have anything in common, if his status says "single". But, actual life is so much more exciting than that. Smoothly make your way over, come up with something clever to say, and see where it goes. What have you got to lose, really?

2. Numbers have been exchanged, there's a spark, what do you next?: Leave the premises immediately. No more drinks for you. If you stay long enough, have a few more drinks, his eyes will start becoming sweeter, his jawline more chiseled. You will start to feel even more tingly down below, making it a lot more tempting to shove your tongue down his throat. So let's leave it on a good note, and see if he's interested enough to call.

3. It's been a week and he hasn't called...is he just not interested? Maybe he didn't store my number correctly? Maybe his phone fell down the toilet and he's been coming back to that same bar every night waiting for me to appear? : OK, stop. Breathe. Let's focus on reality. He hasn't called, he hasn't texted. Most likely, he just wanted to get laid, he has a girlfriend, or he's too insecure. Do you really want to be with someone like that? Men are single focused creatures, they can only focus on one thing at a time, and if he's not focusing on you, I think it's best to just move on. However, I always say that if you felt a crazy spark, and the curiosity will not let you go...give him a call or send a text. If you get nothing, definitely let it go. You will thank me later.

4. So he called. We hung out. He's really cute and sweet, but there's something missing. Do I give him another chance? Should I go out with him again? If you're bored and having nothing better to do, and are keen on torturing yourself, maybe. But the key here is to never settle. I'm not saying have a checklist of qualities, but have a vision of what you are looking for. Don't just go out with someone to avoid being by yourself. If you're not having fun or enjoying yourself with someone, a few more dates won't change much.

5. He called. We've been hanging out, and I really like him! Congratulations, but no one cares. Just kidding. Take it slow, enjoy yourself, learn how to compromise, but don't compromise your beautiful self for anyone.

So moral of the story, after many years of not finding anyone who really does it for me, anyone I'd actually want to spend an extended period of time with...you just can't give up. Yes, sometimes it sucks, and yes, other times it doesn't. But we must enjoy our freedom, this time to explore ourselves, to understand what kind of person we want to be, and what kind of relationship we want to have. And the truth is, we can never predict when it will happen for us, but with a little bit of patience, and a lot of grace, we can just know that it will. And maybe, that's enough.

2009-10-02T11:13:00.001-07:00

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Cool Things You Probably Have No Idea About But Should Be Doing in SF

2009-10-02T11:08:00.000-07:00

Good Morning Sunshine! So, there are some things I know. Other things, I know I don't know. And then there are the cool things happening in San Francisco that I manage to find out about. October seems to be festival season, the most beautiful month of the year people tell me, so I'm planning to take full advantage of that. I've gathered all my sources, even the top secret ones, and have compiled this special list for your pretty eyes.

October 2- 4: Hardly Strictly Bluegrass
Yes, MC Hammer will be there. But so will Gillian Welch, Neko Case, and Amadou and Mariam, and the sun, yes it will be sunny, so no excuses.
http://www.strictlybluegrass.com/

Through Oct. 24: I Heart Hamas
A one woman show featuring Palestinian-American Jennifer Jajeh and her surprisingly funny encounters in Ramallah and here at home.
www.ihearthamas.com

Oct. 17-18: Treasure Island Music Festival
With a very smart line up this year featuring MGMT, Girl Talk, Passion Pit, Beirut, The Flaming Lips among many others. Dance the day away on this magical island!
http://www.treasureislandfestival.com/

Oct.30: Spookfest 2009
With artists like Basement Jaxx, Diplo, and the Crystal Method playing in rooms called The Death Dome and The Deadly Disco Dungeon, you really can't go wrong. Be prepared to get sweaty.
http://www.giglocator.com/evil-105s-subsonic-halloween-spookfest-c1bc02f53e/

Nov.10: Saul Williams
I know I'm getting a little ahead of myself here, but...
"I am in the process of creating a masterpiece. I am not referring to any album, book, film or creative endeavor, rather, I am referring to the process of self-realization that aligns one with their highest and innermost ideals and values and renders them fully alive. It is a process of overcoming the obstacles imposed upon self, by self, perhaps society, and a fearful mind that refuses to accept the upward spiral of being. " -Saul Williams
Saul Williams is a performance poet whose lyrics will bury themselves in your soul, and leave you no choice but to want to be a better human being.
http://www.last.fm/event/1244956+Saul+Williams+at+The+Independent+on+10+November+2009

2009-09-29T21:53:00.001-07:00

You Al Capone, I’m Nina Simone

2009-09-29T21:36:00.000-07:00

If I had my way I would’ve been a killer.
But the only thing I had was music.
Well, the sea first.
It was always the sea first,
music, second.
You can quote me on that.

Mama called it the devil’s music,
because she knew
God so well.
I liked the sound
of that,
but still when I was a young girl,
played for the first time,
they made her move
to the back of that music hall.
White gloves covered her black, black
hands and she held onto the tiniest purse I’d ever seen.
My hand hovered over those keys, stopped the sound
until they let her back to the front.
What can you fit in a purse so tiny?

I married a white man once,
he was a creep.
You can quote me on that.
He never said it,
none of them ever do,
but he wanted me to change.
And I don’t do that,
it’s just not my thing.

But I tell you what is my thing –
raspberries.
That’s all I want now.
Not to change the world,
because I can’t.
The rich are getting
richer, the poor poorer
and me,
well I’m just getting old.
And I’ve realized it just ain’t my job to change this world, Baby.
You can quote me on that.

All I want now, are the raspberries
that grow in my garden.
This tree bearing fruit for winter.

Not even love,
it’s too much lava, and I’ve been
burning up for many years now.

I don’t want to change the world, not
anymore.
I just want my raspberries,
and a man
who is rich, and who can give me
a boat- a sailboat.
I want to own it,
let him pay for it.
You can quote me on that.

First, was the sea and then came my music.
Not this dirty black jazz the white people hear,
but this black classical thing, the Duke and I play.

I don’t know how Mama did it,
with a purse so small.
I always wanted the things
my hands hold
to be bigger.
Big enough to fight
the voice that told me once –
Because you’re black.

And now, all I want are
raspberries.
And sailboats.
And the sea, it was always the sea first.
You can quote me on that.

A LA Girl Learns About Public Transportation

2009-09-22T13:48:00.000-07:00

It's true. I hate to say it. I almost don't even want to say it. But I have to. I miss my car. I miss seeing my reflection in it's shiny black surface. I miss walking outside of my house and knowing that it's right there, just waiting for me. In Los Angeles, it seems, your car becomes something more than a means of transportation, it becomes your best friend - dependable, comforting, willing take you far away from whatever it is you are trying to get away from. I grew up in cars, changing radio stations, helping my mom talk her way out of speeding tickets. I never rode a bus really; except for the bright yellow school bus with hot leather seats where the cool eighth grade kids got to sit in back. I sat on my Dad's lap when I was eleven, steering his car around in the high school parking lot. Growing up in the suburbs, a car meant freedom, a way to get to the city without the embarrassment of having your parents drop you off, sometimes even walking you to the door of the party you were attending. Somehow I never let go of this association. Recently having moved to San Francisco, to what at times seems like an entirely different universe, I learned about the convenience, disturbance, and inevitable heartbreak of the public transportation system. Running after the 24 bus a few days ago, I had time to really think about this. Here are a few do's and don'ts of riding public transportation that may be helpful to you.

DON'T talk to the drunks with pocket knives however nice or attractive they may be. There's a difference between a ruggedly sexy man who's had a few too many, and seems to be covered in dirt because he just returned from a camping trip, and the alcoholic who many many years ago was handsome but now walks around with a pocket knife attached to his belt, a forty in his hand, asks you how your day is going and then tries to hold your hand. Know the difference. And if for some reason you confuse the two, immediately get off at the next stop.

DO always carry an iPod, book, or magazine. You never know when that J train is going to be forty five minutes late, and looking busy or entertained is a great way to keep the crazies from talking to you.

DON'T stare at the couple smoking crack on the bus. He will turn around and cast a Satanic curse upon you. And if for some reason you fail at this, immediately get off at the next stop.

DO always give your seat up to the elderly. However, if someone is missing all their teeth do not automatically assume they are elderly.

DON'T accept gifts from strangers. I know the bracelet looks cute, but seriously, you have no idea where it's been. And the goo covering the box doesn't look too promising.

DO know alternate routes. You're a city girl now, which means you need to be self-sufficient. Being stranded isn't fun, and knowing alternate ways of getting where you want to go, oh let's say if the J train is forty five minutes late, is quite important.

Keep reading for more on this SF adventure...

The Sweet Days Of Shirin

2009-09-11T20:31:00.000-07:00

Shirin,
is as sweet as her name,
recites Rumi and Hafez.

Writes poetry
in the silence of a room no one can enter.
The ink spills from her fingers,
big black drops

that help her to breathe.

They have closed her University this month.
The men with the guns
and dark eyes,
who fight for a God
they secretly fear,

but say still they love more

than anything.

During the day she covers her hair,
her shoulders,
her long legs,
her sins
beneath a chador.

On the streets of Tehran
she is just a face

in a sea of faces.

She walks by the gate of her University today,
peers through the window of her old classroom.
Her teacher sits inside
on a small yellow chair,
shedding tears for the beautiful voices

she is beginning to forget.
Shirin feels the end of a long gun dig inside her back.
Move along
there is nothing to see here.
This time they are right.

There is nothing.

She makes a quick stop at the corner.
Meets with Mahtab,
who places a small bag in her hand.
This goes unnoticed
within the bustling noise of the bizarre,
the cracking of pistachios,
the loud voices of tired men-
tired even of their own oppression.

Later that night she arrives at her cousin’s house.
His parents in the country side for the weekend.
Within the doors she hears silence.
She follows the long hallway,
down the stairs,
through the basement doors.

She hears music

alive like a beating heart,
her chador comes off,

she breathes again.

Someone places a glass of whiskey in her hands.

She is kissed by all,
even men with dark eyes.
Instead of guns,
they hold her hand as they enter another world.
She carries two white pills to the tip of her tongue,

as she recites a prayer silently.
This is a different kind of poetry.
She empties the rest of the freedom pills in a tray,

glasses usually filled with tea,

now tipped over with dark fluids that burns when it goes down.

She passes the tray around,

the way her mother taught her to-
polite,

respectful,

quietly,

elders first.

She makes sure to skip no one.

When Did Tea Become So Smart?

2009-09-10T10:48:00.000-07:00

I drink tea. A lot of tea. I prefer it over coffee, and when your parents drink it seventeen times a day, you seem to have no choice. So what happens when an avid tea drinker discovers a new breed of tea? Intelligent, zen-filled, therapeutic tea? Well, she stops wasting hundreds of dollars a session on therapy, and starts ripping those tea bags open every day - hoping, praying that the little paper on the end of the tea bag will know just what to tell her. Because it was, in fact, just written for me. Here's just a taste of what my Yogi Tea has been saying...

Realize that the other person is you.

When we practice listening, we become intuitive.

Let love elevate yourself to excellence.

Your greatness is not what you have, it's what you give.

Your destiny is to merge with infinity.

2009-09-09T22:00:00.001-07:00

My Pillow

2009-09-08T18:49:00.000-07:00

I hug my pillow at night

as if it is a body

My pillow doesn’t

toss and turn at night

or roll over and push me off the bed

I do not wake to its morning breath

or an emptiness next to me

before the sun has even risen.

My pillow is soft

and a late sleeper

and fits no matter how I turn myself.

Glasses

2009-09-08T18:45:00.000-07:00

Without my glasses,

I cannot see

the naked way he looks.

The way his mouth moves when he speaks.

The scar on his right shoulder

he does

not look at because his brother

died in that accident-

an upside down tree,

with roots in the sky,

branches spreading along his arm.

Without my glasses,

the world is

mumbled secrets,

forcing me to reach my hands out.

Forcing me to touch the curves

and corners of created things.

To mistake his hands for mine,

to find sad things beautiful,

touching these scars that still bleed,

as I feel my way

around.

2009-09-08T18:13:00.000-07:00

Stairs

2009-09-03T11:21:00.000-07:00

At the bar last night, the man with the unbrushed blonde hair left a set of stairs at the door.
"Nice stairs," the bartender told him as she grabbed his beer.
"Where do the stairs lead to?" my friend asked.
"A wall," he said.
"What color are they?" she asked. He drank his beer and continued to ignore her.

Tequila and Love

2009-09-01T23:54:00.000-07:00

I’ve been thinking lately about sex
and why I seem to have so little of it.

It feels almost
like a waste
of a body.

And then I think about
patience
and why I seem to have so little of that too.

And my yoga teacher’s
shiny head as he walks around the room,
approaches me
smelling of lavender
and lemon grass -
like a foreign country.

He presses down on my shoulders
as my body twists upon itself.
Your body is open -
he tells me -
You are willing to change.

I’m happy that he notices.
It feels good that someone notices
these things.

I’ve been thinking about stuff like that,
sometimes even when
a boy I meet at a bar asks me to dinner,
shows me his tattoos
explains what each one means
as if taking me on a personalized tour of his life -
tells me he can hear the ocean from his room when he sleeps,
tells me he’s a good cook.

And me,
I’m one of those eager tourists,
the one with headphones on at the museum-
the one carrying a map,
spending her money on cheap souvenirs.

I’ve been thinking about stuff like this,
sometimes even while
I drink his tequila
so he doesn’t feel alone
and he grabs my hand,
his palms wet -
like he’s been looking for it all night long.

And in the dim light
with the loud bass surrounding us,
the homeless man asks us for a cigarette,
lights it up and stands next to us -
too close perhaps -
so black he is glowing.

And inside of this buzz
I begin to confuse the burn of tequila,
with the warmth of love.

Where Shall I Put All These Gifts?

2009-08-27T13:54:00.000-07:00

I went to an amazing class yesterday - The Lyric Documentary. And even though I'm bitter number three on the waiting list I thought I'd share an excerpt from a handout that was given to us.

From "Walker Evans And The Picture Postcard" an excerpt from Vladimir Nabokov's The Gift:

"The sun playing on various objects along the [right] side of the street - like a Magpie picking out the tiny things that glittered. And at the end of it, where it was crossed by the wide ravine of the railroad, a cloud of locomotive steam suddenly appeared from the right of the bridge; disintegrated against its iron ribs; then immediately loomed white again on the other side; and wavily streamed away, through the gaps in the trees. Crossing the bridge after this, Fyodor, as usual, was gladdened by the wonderful poetry of the railroad banks; by their free and diversified nature; a growth of locusts and swallows; wild grass; bees; butterflies - all this lived in isolation and unconcern, in the harsh vicinity of coal dust glistening below, between the five streams of rails, and in the blissful estrangement from the city coulisses above; from the peeled walls of old houses toasting their tatooed banks in the morning sunshine.

Where shall I put all the gifts with which the summer morning rewards me, and only me? Save them up for future books? Use them immediately for a practical handbook called "How to be Happy?" Or, getting deeper, to the bottom of things, understand what is concealed behind all this: behind the play, the sparkle the thick green greasepaint of the foliage?

For there really is something - there is something! And one wants to offer thanks, but there is no one to thank."

First Day of School

2009-08-25T23:25:00.000-07:00

First day of graduate school means I have to start doing things I've been putting off for way too long. Like tweezing my eyebrows. Like changing that bulb on the ceiling light. Like writing this blog. So here I am, my attempt to get my words to you as fast as I possibly can.

At my orientation for my MFA program yesterday one of the professors compared becoming a writer to volunteering to become a manic depressive. I laughed it off, but I looked around at the other slightly worried faces and began to think - is it possible to be a writer...and be happy? The odds seem against us - a depressed, alcholic, narcissistic writer - yes. But a well- balanced, functional human being who enjoys writing, loves it, intends to devote her whole life to it, but who would sometimes rather just drink a pitcher of sangria in the middle of the day, and can still get her shit done - can this be possible? I say...yes! Yes, she can. Yes, she will.

You will laugh here, maybe you will cry - I won't judge you, maybe you will want to be a better person because of this, or maybe you will want to pack your things and move to an island somewhere very far away and never speak to me again. But my hope is that you willl want to stay and keep reading. And you will see, this I'm sure of, that the beauty was there all along.

Please stay tuned as I continue this journey, friend. Your presence would be greatly appreciated.