Detached and Subdivided in the Mass Production Zone

Danzón

2011-12-05T10:56:00.001-08:00

The telephone call came Friday night, about the time when most of the seagulls in Oxnard had returned home to Anacapa Island. Our cats knew something was wrong. V had been expecting this call since he came to live in the United States. We packed our bag quickly. The cats just stared at us. V, who rarely wears anything, but tennis shoes, told me, " I think I'll wear my brown shoes this time." We spoke little on our three hour flight to Mexico City. We sat with a handful of memories of her and let our airplane food go cold. Most of my memories of her are hand-me-downs from V's recollections. I replayed over and over the time she sat down with V to teach him how to write silla and mesa. I thought of the photograph she gave me where she's standing so proud next to her little boy whom she had dressed like a German little boy from the mountains. V didn't have a smile for the camera. Last July, V asked her to dance danzón at La Ciudadela. He took her by the hand, and even with her bad knee, they danced slowly to the nectar of music.

Perhaps every son should dance with his mother at least once.

The Bad Catholic girl

2011-11-21T11:53:00.000-08:00

When I did my First Communion I got an attack of the giggles.
I was nervous. The priest gave me an evil look and didn't give me the body of Christ.

You and Whose army?
You and your cronies.
You forget so easily.
We ride tonight.
We ride tonight.
Ghost horses.
Ghost horses.

When I finally stopped laughing. He came back and gave the left overs of Christ.

I miss you, blog.

2011-10-31T20:56:00.000-07:00

Facebook is a plastic keychain of a motel room. Sometimes it feels like a Charles Bukowski ham sandwich at a Greyhound station in Los Angeles back in 1987. Vic tells me you get out what you put in.

I have a great deal to learn.

Facebookeando

2011-09-26T21:12:00.000-07:00

Yeap.

I arrived.

....and this was their reaction:

First Day Of School

2011-08-31T22:23:00.000-07:00

1. A student had an epileptic seizure within the first three minutes of school.
2. A student burst into tears uncontrollably after seeing a seizure for the first time.
3. Eighteen students looked at me thinking: Can we trust you?
4. A student told me in a scared, quiet voice, My daddy died last year.
5. My principal told us she is going to change our mascot from Cougars to Cyber Cougars (we are a technology school...whatever that means). I googled Cyber Cougars and I got escort dating services, playboy clubs, porn...

........

5. My husband sent me this text message at lunch: Te amo harto, harto, hartisisisimo

I know I sound corny and mushy, but I'm gonna be okay.

Sniff.

School

2011-08-29T22:38:00.000-07:00

There's a place where I don't listen to punk rock or say the F word. I don't blog there. I don't text there. I get excited about fractions and solid figures at that place. I don't worry if I look dumb for singing about a baby beluga or apples and bananas. I even smile when a little face recognizes a long vowel. Yeap, I like that place.

For my homegirl in Calahorra 'cause she understands a girl's dark forest

2011-08-28T01:39:00.000-07:00

and because she understands a sick ~~motherfucker~~ film when she sees one too.

She's a badass!

Teacher returns or as my English limited students say: ai' viene la teacher!!

2011-08-24T11:12:00.000-07:00

(I made some corrections to this post many hours later)

1. I'm returning to school today----~~just to set up my classroom.~~ I didn't do ~~shit~~ much. I wasted most of the time talking to other teachers about CST scores and about our 10 week vacation.

2. Tomorrow I'll be at a teacher training. I'm still planning to attend. On a positive note, I'll see old friends and we'll talk about, yes, CST scores! Ahem, at those trainings, I avoid sitting next to teachers that constantly brag about their progeny's successes.

3. On Friday I'll return to school----just to set up my classroom. A promise to self: avoid teacher friends and any discussion about CST scores!

4. Next Monday: the school year starts, officially. Lots and lots of meetings on that day about, yes, our CST scores and about how we are going to improve them next year.

5. On Tuesday: more and more meetings about CST Scores . The principal would probably do some scolding for not meeting the API and AYP on the CST Scores. She'll remind us that fourth grade teachers are the best! (At this point in my career, the only thing worth giving a fuck is student learning and NOT about fourth grade teachers).

6. On Wednesday, gulp, students officially start school. The first day of school is bitter sweet. I'm happy to see fresh new second graders in my classroom, but I can't help missing my previous students.

p.s.

The CST scores are up on the internet. I promise Homeland Security won't be after you if you see our scores. I am a public employee, therefore, my CST scores are available to the public (~~motherfucker~~!). If you know the name of the county where I live and the name of the school district where I work, plus! the name of my school (hint hint it starts with Mck) you'll see my grade level scores (second grade). You won't see my personal scores, but you'll see my scores combined with the other second grade teachers' scores. No names are made public! (Thank you, Goddess of Standardized Assessements!)

Good luck finding me.

Oh, and my students did very well on the CST. I'm so proud of them! For your information, I had a bunch of bright students, but with major behavior issues, ~~fuck me~~! I was ready to quit back in May. Also, I should mention that my students are limited in English and the CST is in, yes, English! Further, most of my students live under the poverty line and you how that is, poverty and education. I can cry you a river.

(I haven't seen Waiting For Superman, but I was told about the scene at the beginning of this video clip. I don't support Charter Schools, but I DO support effective schools and effective teachers).

His Bicycle Helmet

2011-08-11T14:16:00.000-07:00

They had been waiting for the bus too long.
Too long to piss her off and too long for him to tap to his virtue,
patience.
We should ride our bikes, he told her.
It's too far, she said.
But what she meant to say was that she didn't have hope.

A five mile ride to the West would allow them to catch a train or a plane
To Shanghai.
To Paris.
To Buenos Aires.
They still had a million places to go.

They rushed West.
But he got lost on the way.
She looked for him.
Here, was the bed where he was born.
There, was the peluqueria where he got his first haircut.
Follow this road to his school pencil box.

Have you seen this man? became her mantra.
How could he vanish?
How could he leave her behind with the darkness of the familiar?
Her childhood home.
Her elementary school.
The rusty seesaw at the park.

She opened her messenger bag to touch his white bicycle helmet.
He had left it behind.

(a dream i had two days ago about V and i)

Vinyl Angels Watching Over Me

2011-08-09T01:13:00.000-07:00

I went to see my doctor on Friday. Since my doctor's office is located in Ventura, I didn't want to waste the opportunity to visit one of my favorite thrift stores in that city, The Coalition Thrift Store. This store raises money to support survivors of domestic and sexual assault. It provides them with food and shelter. The store has scary looking posters of battered women throughout the store, but this depressing sight, and I say it with great shame, didn't diminish my archaeological curiosity to find artifacts that once belonged to a Jeff or a Debbie in suburbia. That day, the angels of vinyl were watching over me because I found lots of great records.

I bought this Yes album because it stretches my attention span. It teaches me to sit and wait for bees to make honey. The songs have a faded fabric with little holes. These open spaces invite your index finger to go in and search for the warmth of words. With patience, you'll hear wind chime kisses and 4 pm guitars. I promise.

I bought this Van Morrison record because it brings back a memory I have of my mother and I at a laundromat. We are in Modesto, California. She is folding shirts and I'm bouncing a ball on the floor. Then, a shirtless long haired man walks in to wash his clothes. I stared at him long and hard, making my mother feel uncomfortable. I stared at him because his body radiates a light I have never seen before, a light I want to follow and kiss and touch and leave my mother behind for the first time.

I like this early Neil Young record. He sings like a man with no self esteem. This is a man you want to take home and feed homemade bread and raspberry jam. But, women be warned, his songs make you bleed and your wounds will dream a million hanker chiefs.

I also bought a Buffalo Springfield album. I couldn't say no to Neil Young's Mr. Soul. How could I say no to a clown who is sick and does a trick of disaster?

The other album I couldn't say no was to a Simon and Garfunkel record. I didn't discover Simon and Garfunkel's music until the late 1980's. My younger sisters and I used to drive to Santa Barbara in the afternoons. We had little money for that expensive place, but we didn't care. A fog would sometimes accumulate on the 101 freeway. I remember how our hearts sang America not giving a damn about the lack of visibility on the road. We sang I'm 18 and aching and I don't know why . My sisters and I are in our 40's now and we still don't know what Mrs. Wagner's pies taste like.

p.s.

To a friend in Miño, Spain (yeah, you, Mr. B!) : You convinced me to allow comments again. Thank you.

Summer of Failure

2011-08-02T15:01:00.000-07:00

1. I'm a lover, not a baker. I failed as a baker last night as i made another attempt to bake zucchini bread . V liked my bread, but, you know, he's sweet and very kind to my performance in the kitchen. I gave some bread to the seagulls this morning and they didn't like it. My heart broke into smithereens.

2. This was going to be my summer of sewing, but instead it's turning out to be my summer of viewing. I am addicted to the TV shows, The Wire and Mad Men. Don't get excited, I didn't buy a TV, I rent the DVDs from Netflix and I watch them on my laptop. Oh, dear lordy, I had forgotten the pleasure of sitting on my ~~big, round~~ ass for hours while watching TV shows!

3. I'm supposed to train on my bicycle each morning. I'm supposed to ride my bike 8 to 10 miles a day so I could make the pilgrimage to San Francisco next summer with V. But, yeap, instead I spend mornings listening to my 99 cent vinyl records. I'm finally learning to appreciate real' early Joni Mitchell and James Taylor. I love, love Joni's I had a king.

Here is a visual of my road to perdition:

( I dig those groovy album covers.)

4. When I'm not watching TV shows or listening to James or Joni, I listen to NPR. I also watch cooking videos on youtube, I read blogs, I read short stories, hell, I dance around in my living room to this song (another record from my 99 cent vinyl collection). It is fun to pretend to be a beatnik from the early 1960's that pretends to be Zelda Fitzgerald in the 1920's. When V gets home from work, he likes to be my F. Scott.

Wait, I'm not done.....

Since this is the summer of failure, when I'm not being a lazy ass at home, I go to, yes, my favorite places in the world, thrift stores. This summer I'm determined to find the tackiest, cheesiest and shittiest records of my childhood. So far, I've had two successes. I found, ta-da! Seasons In The Sun and I think I Love You. Remember that good feeling you got as a child when you sang songs you didn't know were shitty? Do you also remember singing Goodbye Papa, please pray for me in the shower?

Here's The Partridge Family singing I Think I Love You. This is my little homage to David Cassidy, my first childhood crush.

Of course, my summer would not be such failure if I manage to find the Holy Grail of shitty music: The Night Chicago Died.

Yeah!

V tells me I'll get additional accolades if I manage to find the Spanish version.

My $1.95 dream

2011-07-14T13:39:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I fullfilled a dream. I bought a copy of Peter Frampton's Comes Alive! at the Boys and Girls Club thrift store. The record was $1.95.

I've had that dream since my breasts were two pink strawberries and my lips were too big for my face. This dream of mine goes back to those days when my mother hung saints over my bed to protect me from evil and to keep me away from sin. I have to admit, I begged my parents for the Peter Frampton Comes Alive! record many times. But my cries at Woolworth's and at JC Penney went unheard as they never bought me the album. Their ears didn't hear beyond Vicente Fernandez and their wallets were not able to reach past frijoles and lentejas.

Peter Frampton was as close as I ever got to having my very own Justin Bieber. I didn't workship Peter. My bedroom walls were not decorated with Frampton posters. I didn't dream of licking his salty white skin at night. I didn't throw my Scoobie Doo panties at him, either. I didn't even like most of the songs in the album. However, I did workship one song, Do You Feel Like We Do. I spent a great deal of time listening to this song that lacks a question mark at the end. Don't expect poetry in this song. The lyrics were not written with the hands of the moon. You won't be able to queeze any light out. The song was mostly written with a wad of Bazooka gum inside a mouth.

Well, woke up this morning with a wine glass in my hand.
Whose wine? What wine? Where the hell did I dine?
Must have been a dream I don't believe where I've been.
Come on, let's do it again.

Later on in my life, I would discover that if I wanted to take the rock and roll hedonistic road, I would prefer a morning with Jim Morrison and a beer in my hand, but, nonetheless, the question sang by Peter Frampton repeatedly, Do You Feel Like We Do intrigued me. It fascinated my dizzy pre- adolescent brain. I wanted to feel the answer. I wanted to drink from the answer. I wanted to believe there was another world to feel other than my world at projects on 135 Eliza Court. I used to wait patiently for KMET to play this song while listening to Fleetwood Mac and Ted Nugent dumb songs which was a small price to pay but I didn't care. When the station finally played the song, I'd lay on my twin bed and allow the hands of rock and roll caress my brown legs. I let the music draw maps on my brain and dig deep into my heart. I used to close my eyes and beg the Virgen De Guadalupe for forgiveness for allowing this question to reach under my skirt and blouse, kissing every dream it could find.

My father who worked 10 hours a day cutting celery under the California November rain.
Do You Feel Like We Do?

My mother who worked nights packing chiles in little boxes.
Do You Feel Like We Do?

My homegirls at Haydock Junior High who longed for Colonia Chiques 13 tattoos on their arms.
Do You Feel Like We Do?

La Bright Eyes, pregant at 14.
Do You Feel Like We Do?

La Dimples, sent to juve at 13.
Do You Feel Like We Do?

Juanita's papá standing drunk on the corner of Cooper and McKinley.
Do You Feel Like We Do?

Los illegals waiting for white men at 5 a.m. on Coloria Road to prostitute their hands and sweat.
Do You Feel Like We Do?

Mr. Franklin, my algebra teacher who calls us dumb, dirty no good Mexicans.
Do You Feel Like We Do?

Please, Virgen Santa, just this once, I want to feel. I want to feel.

Part Two:

Part One:

From PBS: P.O.V

2011-07-13T11:39:00.000-07:00

(I used to love watching P.O.V. on PBS when I had a TV)

Watch the full episode. See more POV.

Argentina arrived this morning

2011-07-05T22:41:00.000-07:00

It was difficult not to open the big package when it arrived. I had to wait for V. It was only fair as it was addressed to both of us. I kept the package away from my sight and far away since I know I lack self control.

Thank you, Mr. Crónicas!!!!

Your kind letter and awesome gifts touched us both. How did you know I love Steinbeck? (and stickers!!!! How did you know I place them on my laptop?)

The only jewelery I wear are dangling earrings and string bracelets. At this moment, I'm wearing a one-string bracelet that was given to me by a Buddhist monk. He told me it was my connection to humanity. It is old and raggedy. But now, I will wear the bracelet you've sent me. It will be my new connection to humanity...to Argentina...to you, Mr. D.

Thank you so much!!!

Grizzly hugs and artichokes!

L.

Assange-Zizek on Democracy Now!

2011-07-05T08:56:00.000-07:00

Watch live streaming video from democracynow at livestream.com

Mekspsycho

2011-06-29T23:37:00.000-07:00

I'm not going in search of Roberto Bolaño's Mexico.
I'm not going to chase jaraneros.
I'm going...I'm going hoping V finds freedom of speech.

Hasta la victoria!

In the pockets of dead Marines

2011-06-21T22:19:00.000-07:00

trash
a crumpled up napkin
a piece of paper
a spoon to eat with
some money
pictures
letters
a sonogram picture of a fetus from a pregnant wife

(From NPR's Fresh Air that was aired on June 21, 2011. Jess Goodell spoke about her eight month experience recovering and processing the remains of fallen troops. She wrote a book with John Hearn, Shade It Black: Death and After in Iraq).

i want to work for this school

2011-06-20T16:29:00.000-07:00

Little Hands

2011-06-18T01:35:00.000-07:00

Le dí la mano a 21 estudiantes. Me despedí de ellos por última vez. Las lunas de sus manos sudaban. Algunas estaban sucias y pegosteosas. Otras manitas solo tenían hambre y rios de soledad. Le dí la mano por última vez a esos niños que dibujan cuartos con paredes naranja y gente de palitos morados. Se fueron esas manos que todavia dibujan flores del tamaño de las personas..

Something is Happening

2011-06-12T20:59:00.000-07:00

Please hear me out, I'm gonna share with you some facts you didn't know about my husband:

1. His political Facebook page gets more than 4 million views a month. Yes, 4 million!!!

2. Don't google his name, you won't find him on Facebook. Is not about his name or ego, it's all about El Movimiento.

3. I have to say he is not the only one who works his ass off on this Facebook page, there are other incredibly smart men that also contribute to the page, so please allow me a few seconds to tell how proud I am of my husband and the men who spend hours and hours fighting against the corrupt Mexican government.

I won't tell you his Facebook address. V. has made it clear he wants to keep his blog and his Facebook separately as much as possible.

Today I went with him to Los Angeles to a political rally. He was concerned I'd get bored, but I didn't. Are you kidding?! I love political rally desmadre!!! Besides, the situation at my work is in the shits, I desperately needed some L.A.

But, wait! Why am I telling you this? Because he won't. Because he's too humble, too proud...too human.

Before the rally was over, the Mexican national anthem was played. I looked at him and told him: this is too nationalistic for me-even the U.S. national anthem is too much for me. He looked at me and told me, I agree. Let's go.

I don't know where his Facebook page is going to take him(us), but something is happening.

Teaching is a motherfucker

2011-06-11T00:23:00.000-07:00

A parent came to my classroom this morning to tell me three of my students sexually harassed her daughter during recess. This is what my male students told the girl:

Your zipper is down. X's zipper is down too so he's gonna stick his dick up your ass until you scream ooooh aaaah ooooooooooooh!

Obviously, disciplinary action was taken against these boys. I'm still dumbfounded that these words came out of 8 year-olds.

Oh, dear God, I don't think I'm going to make it.

5 more days of school

2011-06-09T23:48:00.000-07:00

(If you recall, I transferred to another school this school year. I work in the 'hood where I grew up).

1. I'm exhausted.

2. I still have one student that cannot read.

3. I feel like I'm angry all the time.

4. I see students eating Hot Cheetos for breakfast.

5. Parents are afraid to tell their 7 year-old kids "no."

6. A mother shows up to school with needle marks on her arm.

7. I feel disappointed.

8. Some parents know more about their cars than their child's academic performance.

9. C. told me several times during the school year that his mother didn't love him. I told him, Of course she loves you, C. When he earned an award for improvement in reading his mother didn't attend the awards assembly.

10. A first grader was spotted going around the 'hood and knocking at people's doors. He'd say: I'm hungry. Can you give me something to eat?

11. One of my students showed up to school with a black eye and a bruise on his face. He claimed he fell at the park.

12. Some parents don't see their children due to their working schedule.

13. Teaching was a motherfucker this year.

14. Ms. A, my mom said she can't come to the conference because she's gonna watch the telenovela.

15. Me: Señora, le llamo porque su hija no pone atención a la lección. Se pierde en su mudo y a veces se ve preocupada.
Señora: Aaay, maestra... es que (starts crying) su papá tiene dos meses en Tijuana y no ha podido pasar la frontera. Yo ya no se que hacer.

16. I'm drowning.

Bicycling In The Afternoon

2011-05-30T20:58:00.000-07:00

Forgive my bragging, but V is the best bicycling companion. He is patient with my speed. He gives me tips to improve my riding here and there. And he never ever leaves me behind in the dust.

(Pacific Ocean on the right and train tracks too. I like to wave to the train riders when they pass by)

Slowly, I will get better at this cycling gig and I'll be able to join my V on longer rides. Patagonia here we come! Um...okay, just Ojai for now.

Your revolution will not televised, hermano

2011-05-29T01:28:00.001-07:00

ramon_27_05_11desalojo-24, a photo by acampadabcnfoto on Flickr.

(Somewhere in Spain. Thanks to acampadabcfoto for this photograph)

Goodbye, Gil

Si las balas de los narcos fueran de chocolate....

2011-05-28T23:44:00.000-07:00

Zaragoza, Spain via France arrived this afternoon

2011-05-16T21:49:00.000-07:00

Thank you, Mr. Fermín.

Your beautiful books and your kind words arrived in our mailbox this afternoon.

Gracias por llevarnos a donde sueñan las xerófilas.

Hugs, bread, and pensamientos...

L and V

Mexico city, 1973

2011-05-15T23:46:00.000-07:00

1. The moon followed me to Mexico City.
2. I drank coca-cola in a glass bottle.
3. My father took me to a record store.
4. I stood in the middle of the record store staring at a poster of Creedence Clear Water Revival and other rock and roll gods.
5. Rock music played loud.
6. My eight year old body shivered.
7. I had found my very own Villa de Guadalupe.

I'm Shiva Your Destroyer

2011-05-08T01:41:00.000-07:00

I'm having breakfast with my mother and sisters in about 7 hours. We are going to celebrate Mother's Day.

Several years ago, for a Christmas celebration, I stormed out of my parents' house and told everyone, especially my siblings to go fuck themselves. When I got home I couldn't stand the loneliness of my kitchen appliances. I got in my car and drove back.

My mother gave free hugs on Christmas eve. It was the only hug I would get from her all year. I had to go back.

(This film reminded me of somebody I know: me)

A day at USC (University of Southern California)

2011-05-05T22:24:00.000-07:00

We went to the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books at USC last Saturday.

We wanted tickets to see a conversation between Patti Smith and Dave Eggers, but it was sold out.

Instead, we got tickets to see Michael Pietsch talk about the David Foster Wallace's Pale King. In our brains the panel started at 5pm, but on paper it started at 4pm. We missed it. Oh, well.

Despite my liberal views and my anti private university views, I've been a fan of SC since the early 1990's. My former boss was a physical therapist for the USC football/basketball teams in the 1970's. He got me hooked on SC with his football stories.

My boss used to take me to USC football games. We used to sit in the alumni section with the rich and beautiful. I think he wanted to impressed me with his wealth and status. It only made me sad, but it helped me understand John Cheever stories a little better.

My boss wanted me to do a Master's in Physical Therapy at USC. One day I went to work and I told him: I'm quitting physical therapy. I'm going to be a teacher. We never saw each other again.

Career Change

2011-05-04T22:57:00.000-07:00

I'm having a stressful week at work. My students are taking the state test. I have worked hard throughout the school year, yet somehow I feel really discouraged and defeated.

The accordion feels like me.

Feria del libro

2011-05-01T19:26:00.000-07:00

At Los Angeles Union Station on Friday: I stared at this mural while my husband called his bank to report a lost credit card. It is strange how we lose things on trains. It wasn't a great start for our adventure in Los Angeles.

Downtown Los Angeles. While waiting for Feria Del Libro En Español to start, we walked the streets of L.A.

At Feria Del Libro: This man works for Real Academia. He gave an interesing speech about, yeah, Spanish. At one point in the middle of his speech I turned to V. and told him: I want to listen to this man for a long time. He had a sugar cookie and tea way of speaking. I started daydreaming about whispering in his ear: watchale! parkeando! troca! Okay, stop dreaming, this man actually told really good anecdotes about Spanish words. My favorite one was the origin of the word, California. I'm not a storyteller, so google it. You will find out why the Spanish named this state California. Hint: It has nothing to do with fornication. Now, the man on the right took the conversation even further (sorry, I'm a lousy photographer). He talked about the Spanish we use when we text and the Spanish we speak in the United States. He is worried. He wants to invent an app for our cel phones that will respond to any ill written text that says: Aquí no se aceptan mensajes mal escritos. My husband and I have had a long discussion about the Real Academia since Friday. He defends it with tooth and nail. I compare the Academia to the porn industry. Okay, bad and dumb comparison, but have you ever noticed how porn always leaves you with an empty feeling? That is, even though porn/language is exciting, it's repetitive and boring. I admit my vocabulary in Spanish and ahem, English is mediocre, but what if my Spanish were top notch, why should I settle for cutting and pasting words that already exist. We should leave space for creating and inventing new words.

Paco Taibo II at Feria talking about his book, Pancho Villa. Mr. Taibo is my buddy! I normally don't like to speak to famous authors when I meet them ( I haven't met many). I find it unnecessary to ask for their autographs and to drool all over them (okay, I did ask Allen Ginsberg for his autograph back in the early 1990's--and for the record I did drool when he said: hey! haven't I seen you before?! How cool is that?!). Anyway, my husband talked to him. Mr. Taibo was really kind and humble! He talked to us as if we were going to sit down and munch on tacos de tripa, drink atole, and talk Pancho Villa.

And he curses like a sailor just like me!!

This is for Mr. Blecua because I soak my tongue in the streets of California.

Test

2011-05-01T12:43:00.000-07:00

I took the day off from work on Friday. Stress at work is high. I needed a mental break. My students will take the CST on Tuesday (the CST is a test, a very important test, but I won't tell you what the initials stand for since I was asked to sign an affidavit saying I won't talk about it).

My principal, who takes things a step further has "encouraged" teachers to avoid teaching Art, Music, Science, and Social Studies and to focus on test prep, test prep, and test prep. If we wanted to teach these subjects we had to justify its importance over the CST by writing a paper. So, for the last month, I've been obediently reviewing Math for two hours and Language Arts for four hours. I've been obedient for several reasons, I'll just mention two: My students are limited in English. The CST is in English and they need all the practice they can get. Two, we actually have teachers at our school district that say: Those Mexican children bring our scores down. My students are Mexican and don't worry, I'm too tired and stressed to lash out my anger at those teachers..today.

You see, the game/threat is simple: If our school does not meet its academic score/goal on the CST, the state will take over. I asked my administrators many times to explain "take over," but nobody really does and with my hyperactive imagination and pessimism, sometimes I think the worst:

These are not good days for education.

Santa Monica Mountains on a Sunday afternoon

2011-04-17T23:24:00.000-07:00

When people used to ask the little girl where she came from, she just lifted her index finger and pointed to the blue sky. One day the sky was gray.

Her Spanish words were skinny and thristy (y tenian piojos) and her English only filled up a small paper bag. How would she learn to fill silence with color?

She told people she wanted to die at 86. Then, she went to a thrift store and got herself a green chair.

Tell me the story again, you know, the one about the the little roadrunner that stopped.

Wind and plants talking to each other. They left her out of the conversation.

FolkStreams » Pizza Pizza Daddy-O

2011-03-26T14:58:00.000-07:00

FolkStreams » Pizza Pizza Daddy-O

before i sleep

2011-03-23T22:19:00.000-07:00

1.I don't have a middle name but i think it should be mediocrity.
2. My parents were going to named me Lucas instead of Laura.
3. I have 22 students. 14 claim their father beats up their mother.
4. I used to think I would end up in a mental institution. There's still time.
5. When I was in college I stole money once to buy food. I went to Kentucky Fried Chicken and bought myself a piece of chicken, mash potatoes and a buiscuit. Out of shame, I don't go to KFC anymore.
6. My last Christian prayer was in 1976. I prayed to Santa Maria one night to make me beautiful. I woke up the following day and I was still ugly.

Goodbye, Honeysuckle

2011-03-19T22:27:00.000-07:00

She didn't fit in the terra cotta pot we bought for her years ago. Her roots were craving land. She was too big for our balcony. We gave her a trim. We took her out of her pot and placed her in a Trader Joe's bag. It hurt too much to place her in a trash can. We put a sign on the bag, took her outside, and hoped for the best.

Within a couple hours she was gone.

Goodbye, big girl. I hope you are happy in your new home. May you stretch your roots now.

1973

2011-03-19T02:46:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I bought a hippie shirt. I paid $1.99 at the thrift store for white cotton and little blue flowers.
I brought it home in plastic bag.

I looked at it this afternoon and shame filled my heart. At 45 I'm still searching for my lemon sun of 1973.

My heart is a dumb bass drum.

Soothing

2011-02-27T22:36:00.000-08:00

V and I drove for hours on a long highway in Durango, Mexico. The far away sun was a polaroid. We stopped in an empty shopping center and walked around looking for store to buy water. We saw a garden in the middle of the center, but instead of plants it had lots of heart shaped stones. There was a child playing with the stones. She was arranging them, this way and that way.
Look, the mountains have snow, we have to go.

(dream)

For a girl in Calahorra

2011-02-20T23:25:00.000-08:00

I got the bottle of mezcal ready. Play your soul, girl.

Day Two (Four days without students): Spring Fashion Preview!

2011-02-20T15:02:00.000-08:00

1. Our dryer, Big Rhoda is alive and well, thanks to the brilliant mind and hands of my darling, amazing, dazzling, too damn cute, and sexy husband. It is too bad he shaved his beard four days ago. I really like my husband shaggy and fuzzy.
2. I don't know what it means, but after five years of marriage, I realized that on weekends I dress like my husband. Our weekend uniform is jeans and a t-shirt. It's comfortable, fast, and easy dressing with what this society considers to be men clothing. Oh, by the way, fuck society.
3. But lately, my legs and thighs have been craving skirts. Floral skirts. Tight skirts. Peasant skirts. Is it my biology saying "hello?"
4. I also have a craving for cute granny sweaters in all pastels colors.What the hell is going on?!
5. I buy most of my clothes at thrift stores. My husband does not like thrift stores. Actually, he doesn't like to buy clothes. Clothes do not interest him. Some of our best figths have been about clothes.

Dirty Laundry Display #1A:

On our return from Mexico last November, my husband wore a t-shirt with some communist propaganda printed on the front. Obviously, TSA questioned my husband's t-shirt at the airport. Oh, crap! I imagined the worst: V. in Guantamo, waiting 20 years for a trial. I felt really scared. So, when we got home I told him not to ever wear that damn communist t-shirt ever again.

Ding! Ding! Ding! Clue number #1:

You never ever tell my husband what to wear and what not to wear! (I know, I know, I should know better).

Ding! Ding! Ding! Clue number #2:

You never ever buy clothes for my husband. Okay, so I'm a slow learner because the following week after our trip, I went shopping for the most pro United States, the most patriotic, the most conservative, the most Republican, the most "I want to kiss your ass, TSA" t-shirt I could find and bingo! I found it! It was only 99 cents!!! What a deal, man!

Gulp!

What followed at the sweet home of V and L was a marital quarrel worthy of an HBO special. Yes, V. refused to wear the t-shirt. V brought in politics, religion, history, Palestine and even Peje to his defense. I had nothing, except for a good dose of of "American Paranoia" and lots of fear of Homeland Security, TSA, and Guantanamo. He smashed me with his well-construtive defense. Argh! Now, the poor t-shirt sits lonely in the closet.

(if you are interested in this FREE t-shirt or just want to be "COOL" with TSA, email me. I'll send it to you).

Four Days Without Students

2011-02-19T13:06:00.000-08:00

Day One:

1. My dryer died Friday morning. Its name was LE8207W2, but it longed to be called Rhoda. Goodbye Rhoda, we will miss you.
2. I had breakfast by myself. My husband had to work. I multi-tasked while I ate breakfast (Sorry, my Bhuddist friends). I ate eggs with veggies, pancake with blueberries, a ton of coffee, and orange juice. I ate while watching a ton of "how to fix your dryer" videos made by guys named Jim, Joe, Eddy on youtube. I always trust chubby guys named Eddy, especially if they have a nice smile and a round chunky belly.
3. I somehow ended up watching a ton more videos about brilliant mathematicians. Happinness is learning about Kurt Godel's mathematics and not having to take a test. And who needs drugs when you have Cantor's mathematics? What a high!
4. Of course, these youtube videos let me to my old friend, Ted. Yes, Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber. He's not really a friend, but Ted takes me back to the early 1990's when my little sisters and I competed for the unabomber look on Saturday mornings. I always won. Of course, it helped me to be a little weird and antisocial.
a) If I could time travel, I would want to spend one day with Van Gogh and another day with Ted Kaczynski. We wouldn't say much. I'm not a good talker. I want to be with them for the silence of their mouths. I think I would hear music in Van Gogh's every day objects, but not in Ted's. Ted's coffee was probably sad.
b) I keep a picture of Van Gogh's little bedroom next to our bed because all the solitude of one day fits in his room. I don't keep a picture of Kaczynski's little cabin. My husband would find it weird and I would too. It would actually remind me that he killed three human beings. Perhaps one day I'll buy a water color painting of Thoreau's cabin instead.
5. I went to a laundromat to dry all of our clothes by myself. My husband didn't go because he had been working all day and well, he deserved to rest. Laundromats are lonely places, especially, on a Friday night. There were four of us doing our laundry. The three other customers were mexican like me. They were are single young guys from Mexico, illegals, probably. All had this "What the fuck am I doing in this country?!" look on their faces. I felt sorry for them. I graded some papers because their sadness was contagious.

I like this song. It's a waiting song.

Spain visited us this afternoon

2011-02-12T16:08:00.000-08:00

I was watering my thirsty honeysuckle plant when the doorbell rang. Our cats ran under the bed at the sound of the bell. V opened the door. From the balcony, I could hear him talking to a woman, a religion sales person, perhaps. Poor lady, I thought, V will have no mercy on her. V hates it when people try to sell him religion. A minute later he walked in with this huge packet. Gifts from Spain: Beatles’ Rubber Soul (LP!), a little bit of East Berlin, a little bit of punk, and vida.

Thank you, Noemi. I haven't been this high in such a long time. Thank you..

1977
When my older sister was not playing the hell out of her James Taylor records, she would let me listen to her stereo. It was on that stereo that I listened for the first time to Michelle on the radio. I didn’t know who the Beatles were. I imagined an old man wearing a black vest and a white shirt singing this song. Only an old man would repeatedly say I love you, I love you, I love you. I didn’t have many possessions back then, except for a book with more than 400 pages I had found in the trash, a blue bra that waited patiently to fit my breast, a scar on my leg that wouldn’t heal, a library card, and this old man’s song that said, I need to I need to, I need to…..

(Dammit, Noemi, I even love the smell of the record)

Today we dance

2011-02-10T21:59:00.001-08:00

Portland: chica del acordeon
Originally uploaded by this ordinary life

Yeap, 5 years of marriage today......I'm sorry for getting mushy on you....it has been a very romantic week for the two of us:

1. We watched a great film, Carlos(!). Okay, not a romantic film, but it was made for us. Hasta la victoria!!!!

2. Italian dinner. Ravioli. Yummy.

3. Last night somebody tagged the wall across from our house. It said: WONT CARE. We wondered if it was political, social, or simply bad grammar.

4. I got a bad cold and my husband, like always, spoiled me.

5. So... we dance.

el y yo....5 años

2011-02-10T21:46:00.001-08:00

couple
Originally uploaded by Omiso

No somos ellos...

pero..........

casi
casi

(perhaps in ten years we'll look like that)

(this photograph was taken by Omiso....thanks for sharing!)

and 5!

2011-02-10T21:41:00.001-08:00

Originally uploaded by Aëla Labbé

The first time I saw my husband's face was in 1989...in my head. I didn't meet him until 2001.

(not us in pic...but....this photo is from Aela Labbe...many thanks to Aela)

Mothers, don't raise your daughters to be chicken shit

2011-02-06T17:04:00.000-08:00

(Thanks to J.C. and Noemi for the video)

I'm a 45 year- old chicken shit next to this girl. I wish I had courage like her....chant like her....protest like her......here in my neighborhood there are many houses for sale as the housing crisis worsens, nonetheless, the streets are quiet....our silence against corporate greed is shameful.....

Wanted: more women like Asmaa Mahfouz

2011-02-05T10:55:00.000-08:00

(recorded on Jan. 18, 2011)

I want to talk in technicolor

2011-01-19T22:02:00.000-08:00

old lady with red sweater, dream # 1,347

2011-01-16T01:54:00.000-08:00

She came early morning. I sat on the back seat of my little car. I made sure all the doors were locked. She stood outside wearing a granny hat and an old red sweater. What was she holding with both hands? A purse? A book? Gloves? The sun was cold. She looked at me for a long time.

What do you want?! Leave me alone!

This is for Noemi, a girl in Spain

2011-01-15T00:19:00.000-08:00

I heard a song on Noemi's blog. It was the first day of 2011. I guess you can say it was my first song of the year. She removed the song from her blog due to some poetic justice, so I'm taking the liberty to post it here. Sorry, Noemi, "justice" in my house is just like Harvard professor, Henry Louis Gates Jr. used to say: "just us."

I don't know anything about La Mala's music. Actually, I don't know a damn thing about La Mala, but this song kicks ass (Sad reality: the fact that I keep saying "kick ass" whenever I like a song, tells me I would never make it as a music critic for Rolling Stone).

My husband tells me that Noemi and I "almost" have the same taste in music. By the songs she posts on her blog, I can tell she and I are equal opportunity listeners. I believe we can lend our ears to any song we like and not give a rat's fuck whether it is good or awful. I'm sure once stoned, we will even listen to a punk version of Copa Cabana.

For the record, I don't know much about rap or hip hop or whatever music is being sold to the skinny jeans generation. So, if you're expecting a Rolling Stone-esque type of musical critique of Mala's song, I'm going to disappoint you. Too bad. So sad. My only claim of rap knowledge is that when I was 14 or 15 or 16 years old I heard this one day:

But for the record, at that age I was still in love with this:

Okay, back to La Mala. Like I said, I know nothing about her music. She speaks rapid Spanish and I have to click replay over and over in order for my California Spanglish ears to grasp meaning. This song caught my attention and added fuel to my recent obsession of landscape. You see, ever since we returned from our recent trip to Mexico city/Puebla/Veracruz, I've been thinking a great deal of landscape and deception and how sometimes my brain fills in the spaces that are unknown to me with pretty lies. The culprit of my recent thoughts is this film, which my husband and I watched when we were in Mexico:

Yes. The setting of the above film is Barcelona and not East Los Angeles. I, ignorant of Barcelona, had previously filled the unknown territory with this:

Perhaps now you can understand how my brain fills those unknown spaces. But Mala sings conozco esta zona /esta mona no se anda por las rama.......sin embellecimiento en este carro sin asiento....

Years ago, while waiting for the bus to take me to the airport, I asked a homeless woman who sat on the bus bench but with no plans of going anywhere: Does Berkeley lose its charm after a while? She looked at the hills and said, yes.

I want to be a mona. I want to learn to truly see landscape....even if I see la misma mierda.

Reconsidering suicide: a little penguin shows me the way

2010-12-27T22:14:00.000-08:00

(from Werner Herzog's Encounters at the End of the World)

home

2010-12-27T01:21:00.000-08:00

Kathi taught me visit the beach at 4 a.m. It was good to learn to wait for the sun with her. She showed me how to bathe under a meteor shower one night and she never mind that I stayed up late talking to her husband about Nixon and Henry Kissinger. Kathi also taught me how to smoke pot. I didn’t know how to smoke regular cigarettes, so learning the fine art of getting stoned proved to be quite difficult for me. I was a shy and an uptight girl so to release the “I” from the cage, Kathi had to play Girl by The Beatles.

Now, listen. I want you to follow the rhythm of the song and after each time John sings " aah, giiiiirl" I want you to inhale long and hard. Got it?

At the end of the song I was flying.

It became routine to have The Beatles’ music playing on the background whenever I was at Kathi’s house. She sensed I was lost. She used to tell me that a Beatle’s song would always take me home.

Tonight my husband sleeps. I want to sleep and dream with him, but my thoughts and worries keep me awake. I already played Norwegian Wood and I me Mine over and over.

I want to go home.

(Kathi...I'm sorry I can't take away your Parkinson's Disease. I'm sorry I've never been a wise kinda of a friend)

Sugar Cookies

2010-12-22T20:06:00.000-08:00

Are we conventional?

I ask my husband as I bake sugar cookies.

Depende, he says.

He expands on the definition of conventionality in a long Spanish narrative.

My ADD brain starts to wonder.

I wish I could speak Spanish like him. I stick my finger in one of his words.

Mantequilla.
Azucar.
Canela.

Sprinkling cinnamon on sugar cookies is conventional, I tell him.

But going to bed at 6:30pm is not conventional.

Ven.

We lay next to each other.

Tired.
Sleepy.

I turn on my side and grab Disgrace by J.M. Coetzee.
He falls asleep.

I start crying after reading four pages.

I close the book.
I reach for his hand.

I’m asking the wrong the question.

May I please I have a side order of blue pills?

2010-12-17T17:55:00.000-08:00

I argued with the sales clerk for a while. She had neglected to give me the drugs that came with the Disneyland tickets. I was freaking out. Thoughts of being inside the amusement park with Sleeping Beauty under the influence of REALITY terrified me. I wanted my blue pills!

Just look at the fucking video!!! You'll see that you only gave me the tickets!

I woke up. It was only a dream.

p.s.

My husband and I went to Disneyland last year and hated it the experience. However, we had a good laugh too. I never had a craving for blue pills until this dream.

(I can't claim to be a Traffic fan, but I love love love this song. I also like Mr. Winwood's face here. I want what his lungs inhaled)

Xalapa, Veracruz

2010-11-29T22:59:00.000-08:00

Llegamos cansados a Xalapa. Era noche y hacía un poco de calor. Xalapa parecía la prima de Portland, Oregon, pero con shorts. Llegamos a una posada de esas hippiosas donde yo me hospedaba cuando tenia 20 y algo años. La verdad (y me da vergUenza admitirlo) ya me acostumbre a los 4 star hotels. Creo que me voy a ir al infierno por gustarme las botellitas de shampoo que ofrecen esos hoteles y las toallas limpias y ah, la maldita plancha. No se como pude vivir a lo raugh and tough cuando era mas joven, quiza la media tonelada de marihuana que consumía me ayudaba, no se. Ahora que no consumo ni un miserable joint pues me costó trabajo dormir tranquila en esa camita de dos estrellas. Eso si, dormí bien abrazadita de V toda la noche. Cuando V se caso conmigo me prometió protegerme de los psycho killers, republicanos, itchy bichitos, pero no de los grizzly bears. Por lo menos no había osos grizzly en Xalapa. Anyway, teniamos 31 horas para encontrar son jarocho y la gente que sabía de esa música no nos daba esperanza de encontrarla durante la semana.

(Post edit: F__! What was I thinking? I deleted some private information)
Pero caminando por las calles de Xalapa encontramos libros...

Encontramos poesia....

Boleritos....

y jaraneros rasta

Y por fin a lo que vine....

Gracias, maestro Saul

I love jarocho music even more....

Cuando sea grande quiero tocar asi...

Puebla, Mexico

2010-11-28T18:51:00.000-08:00

Miraba las manos de una anciana y pensaba: prefiero el chocolate que la vejez.

Vendía cafe amargo en las calles de Puebla. Le compre tres bolsitas.

Cuando Antonia se fue nomas le dejo tardes vacias en una plaza de puebla.

Su soledad le regalaba sueños de miel con guayaba.

Me pidieron que les hablara algunas palabras en inglés. No sabía que decirles al principio. You are beautiful, les dije. Callaron por un momento.

En serio?

Si.......

Estaba un hombre a su lado predicando la palabra de Jesus. Ella pensaba en Francisco.

Saliendo de Puebla, en camino a Xalapa, Veracruz...me encontre a este payaso. Adios, Puebla, Adios.

Después.........en el autobús hacia Xalapa mi esposo dormia a mi lado y yo escuchaba jaranitas y requintos en mi ipod. Soon.

Taco Macho or Deep Throat a la Mexicana

2010-11-28T15:56:00.000-08:00

Puebla:

Tired and hungry we stopped at a restaurant to eat tacos. Try the machitos, I was told. So, I ordered the machitos (taco on the left). It was one of the best tacos I've had in my life! The meat texture was hard and creamy. It was delicious!

Then.....

I asked the wrong question: What kind of meat is this?

It turned out I, yes me! ate the PENIS of a bull.

I don't know what else to say......

Ocixem Trip

2010-11-27T15:06:00.000-08:00

La religión se marchó, pero me quede con este esqueleto pa' acordarme de dios.

Dicen que por las noches no mas se le iba en puro llorar.

El Chavo del Ocho doesn't live here anymore.

Cuando Luis se fue pa' Watsonville, Calfiornia, Josefina le esperaba aqui. Ella pasaba ratos escuchando una y otra vez Si no te hubieras ido del pinche Buki. Nadie se atrevia a decirle que Luis habia muerto cruzando el desierto.

Chanito, the dog, still dreams in green, red, and white, but the serpent and the cactus are gone.

Revolución con sabor a menta.

Biutiful. Peinful.

La sirena. El diablito. El borracho. La bandera. El nopal. La chinga.

Te ví en la calle de Jesus Te Ampare.

Cuando se murio mi madre se me obscureció el camino

Tomorrow morning

2010-11-20T19:34:00.000-08:00

Nuestros boletos dicen que llegaremos a las 5 a.m. a la ciudad donde solamente hay un angel. La gente decia que era el angel de la independencia, pero nunca lo fue: Me trajeron pa'l otro lado.

Mexico, escuchas ladrar los perros?

u

Morning prelude

2010-10-31T18:34:00.000-07:00

V rides his bicycle to work every morning. He tells me the world looks different from two wheels.

This week he came home one day and said: Mira..

(taken with his first cel phone with a little help from bach)

i can have my cake and eat it too

2010-10-31T18:13:00.000-07:00

My birthday month celebration came to an end yesterday as we celebrated my 45 years of existance in this wonderful galaxy.

I'm a cake snob.

In most situations I'm a humble down to earth girl who buys her clothes at thrift shops and drives a 14 year old Honda. But if I'm going to eat four million calories I want every damn one to be worth the extra pound I'm going to gain. Dammit! For the last 4 years I've been going to the fanciest bakery in the county and I buy the most expensive cake I can find. As you can see, there was some serious psychological birthday drama in my childhood so this is my therapy. I'm convinced that a trip to France's bakeries will cure me from my birthday hang ups.

I "accidently" tasted the frosting before cutting it.

November trip

2010-10-25T22:59:00.000-07:00

Because its music comes from soil and water. Because its music is handmade and raw. Because the requinto and the jarana are my good companions after work. Because I always wanted to dance my pain away on a tarimba. Because Hernan Cortes arrived here in 1519 and I still haven't. Because my abuela used to dressed me up with a white skirt and a black delantalito when I was 6 years old. Because there's a home for me in its music.

The following video's quality is poor but it has soul. It is unprocessed music. It is 100% organic and local. I love it. I can't wait to step on a tarimba.

November, please come soon.

what can i say?

2010-10-24T00:35:00.000-07:00

youth 101

2010-10-22T10:44:00.000-07:00

During my second year in college ( at a university located very close to the Orange Curtain and far away from Truth) I took a tv break bewtween my exercise phisiology class and my abnormal psychology class to watch the Challanger. We were excited for Krista McAuliffe and her space dreams. I had big career dreams too. I was going to become a successful physical therapist, perhaps I would even work for the USC football team. As I sat down watching the challanger I learned what happens to youth's dreams.

my birthday wish

2010-10-19T06:47:00.001-07:00

my birthday wish
Originally uploaded by mario leko

I've been 45 years old for more than 30 hours. The world did change. I got some new skin cells and I think I heard another
of my gray hairs scream: "fuck you, L' Oreal!"

My darling husband hooked me up with the digital world and gave me a fancy cell phone for my b-day. I'm learning to text message.
Thanks, V!

(and thanks to mario leko for the photo)

Sunday in the afternoon

2010-10-10T21:35:00.000-07:00

they went looking for seahorses

your shadow is a great companion.

Mama take this badge of me. I can't use it anymore. It's getting dark, too dark to see.

even the dog left

It's been so long since I saw you.

Pelicans dream of Anacapa Island.

girl and sea

I said good morning to 17 pink sugar elephants, but they wouldn't speak to me.

(photo taken by V.)

October wish # 3: my father's health

2010-10-08T23:21:00.000-07:00

I got the telephone call yesterday. You know which one I'm talking about.

Blood work.
An MRI.
The visit to UCLA Medical Center.

The fucking visit to UCLA Med. Center.

Welcome to the hotel california
Such a lovely place
Such a lovely face
Plenty of room at the hotel california
Any time of year, you can find it here

October wish #2: Don Cornelious and I

2010-10-05T21:42:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid I was a girl with a mission. My goal in life was to dance on Soul Train. I spent 274 Saturdays afternoons practicing my busta moves. So, on this lovely evening, Don Cornelious has given me the best present ever! He selected me to appear on his tv dance show. He knows I worked my ass off in the 1970's.

Thank you, Don Cornelious!

October Wish #1

2010-10-04T22:21:00.000-07:00

Excuse me while I indulge this month on me, me, and me! It is my birthday month and dammit, I will cry if I want to.

Actually, work is kicking my sorry ass. It has been a difficult school year. I need this space to release some tension. I have sweet students. They are bright and most of the don't speak English, but I'm working long hours. I can't really complain, at least I have a job, like, you know?

Okay, going back to my first October wish: I want to teach Math with this energy and passion. In my fantasy it would be possible to teach algebra and functions and number sense in this manner to 22 second graders.

Can you spot me in the crowd?

Sundays with V

2010-10-04T07:09:00.000-07:00

He doesn't dream of having a million dollars. His dreams don't include a Pulitzer Prize. When he looks at a list of donations he is not impressed with the man who donated thousands of dollars, he's impressed with the person who donated and chose to remain anonymous. His little camera has a tiny black spot on the lense, but refuses to get a new one, "why? It's only dust," he says. He's a good son. He calls his mother every Sunday and he actually has things to talk about. "What about the person I was before I met you?" "What about all the people I hurt with my lies, my wicked ways, my cynicism, my destructive ways. etc.?" He loves me.

We went out to breakfast yesterday. On the way home, i connected my ipod to the car's radio because I wanted to listen to a recoding of jarocho music. He wanted to film the farm fields of our town. He didn't mind the music.

I think we are learning to listen to music together.

p.s. Sunday drives make him happy.

Life before V

2010-10-03T05:09:00.000-07:00

cuando vivía solita en la casita de la calle g

Aquí dormía. Dejaba las cortinas abiertas para hablar con los higos de octubre. Soñaba naranjas polacas y despierta caminaba con más deudas que vergϋenza. Tenía un novio por internet de Uruguay que pasaba horas hablandome de Rimbaud, pero a mi me interesaban más los fideos y el sonido de sus ll’s que mojaba en agua. También tenía una amiguito cyber de sol y polvo. El vivía en Argentina y me regalaba canciones de Sui Generis. Huí con miedo y miel cuando me regaló quiza porque. Y tenía a Javi.

Javi de España.

Javi de los domingos.

Javi de la mañana.

Javi secreto.

Abriamos el icq los domingos para escribir la pornografia de los violines. Tocabamos avispas con los dedos. Rompíamos teclados. Desnudabamos amapolas. Pero todo terminó cuando hicimos el error de hablar sobre los minutos esperando el metro y de las 9 horas en mi trabajo.......... y el maldito foco de la cocina. Why did he have to tell me he was a law student?

Un día mi cyberboyfriend de Uruguay me acusó de mitomanía y muy amablemente me mandó a chingar a mi madre. Me gustó la palabra mitomanía por sus alas sucias y por su sonido de una sonata de Beethoven.

Debo decir que dias después conocí a una amiga de mi ex-cyberboyfriend , una araña linda y patona y me enamoré de ella porque la luna todavia la seguía.

Un día la invité a mi cama y se quedó.

15

2010-09-26T23:37:00.000-07:00

I'll be 45 soon. V and I have been dreaming of ways to celebrate my 16,000+ days in this planet. Seattle in October would be a lovely gift in orange and gold. Boston is far but we can't stop dreaming of maple trees. Regardless, my birthday is near and I can't help having birthday flashbacks.

Here's one:

When I was 14 years old I was aware that I was not a pretty girl. I knew my parents would not throw a quinceañera for me 'cause I was not princess material, I was more of a Josefina girl ( by the way, my personal definition of a quinceañera is a fucked-up party for young Mexican girls who are willing to learn the fine art social conformity and who are willing to full fill some sick psycho sexual fantasy of their fathers. Okay, perhaps I'm exaggerating a little, but I think I'm damn close).

My parents still asked me if I wanted a quinceañera, but I think they were just being courteous. I told them I didn't want one which was a great relief for them since quinceañera fiestas do cost a lot of money. Of course, I didn't let my parents off the hook that easily, I told them I wanted a big stereo instead. What can I say? Rock and roll and big ass speakers excited me more than parties for 15 year old girls.

When my birthday arrived, my father took me to the Mexican side of town where they had cheap mueblerias for poor immigrants. I took a Blondie record with me to test the loudness of the speakers. I played Dreaming over and over until I found the stereo I wanted. I received strange looks from the sales clerk for wanting loud rock for my 15th birthday.

My brother helped set up the stereo in my bedroom. He was impressed with the size of the speakers, but not the my taste in music. He kept shaking his head as if those brand new speakers and my new stereo would be wasted on rock and roll. My four sisters came to my bedroom to see my birthday gift and to give me a sorry looks. They didn't understand why I had chosen a stereo instead of the quinceañera. They told me that if I had gotten a better haircut and with a little make-up perhaps I would have been a decent 15 year old. But there was no turning back, I knew the stereo was worth it. When you're a Josefina girl you learn quickly you don't have much in life. That day, on my 15th birthday, I had music in stereo.

To the punkish Josefina girl I was in 1980 who danced this mess around and shouted Why don't you dance with me?!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VN8hV4AyNss

And because dreaming is free---and because I didn't give a flying fucking fuck if my speakers were wasted on Blondie.

day in the city of angels

2010-09-19T00:34:00.000-07:00

We spent the day in Los Angeles. 'Went to a Dodgers game, Chinatown...and walked the streets of L.A.

I don't ever wanna feel like I felt that day....take me to the place i love ..take me all the way

-red hot chilli peppers

I'm turning tricks, I'm getting fixed, I'm back on Boogie Street. You lose your grip, and then you slip into the masterpiece. And maybe I had miles to drive, and promises to keep: You ditch it all to stay alive, a thousand kisses deep.

-leonard cohen

her hands turn red cause the days change at night.. change in an instant... the days change at night...change in an instant...she had to leave los angeles
-x (an "old" punk band from L.A.)

Mr. Mojo Risin...Got to keep on risin...Mojo Risin..gotta Mojo Risin...Well I just got into town about an hour ago...took a look around.. see which way the wind blew..where the little girls in their Hollywood bungalows...Are you a lucky little lady in the city of light..or just another lost angel...

-The Doors

and she gave away the secrets of her past and said 'I've lost control again'

-joy division

(this photo is for c.v.)

oh, god, I must be dreaming...time to get up again...time to start up again...pulling up my socks now...where did the night go?

-gil scott- heron

strike, dear mistress, and cure his heart...Severin, Severin, speak so slightly...Severin, down on you bended knee..taste the whip, in love not given lightly..taste the whip, now plead for me

-Velvet Underground

(the architect of this building is Frank O. Gehry)

Sunday drive

2010-09-06T13:04:00.000-07:00

We took a Sunday drive yesterday afternoon. On the left was the Pacific ocean and on the right, hills. Our old Honda moved on the highway of concrete without saying a word. Summer had abandoned us earlier that morning. There was no use going after it. We still have the ocean.

sigo guardando música

2010-09-05T01:33:00.000-07:00

y hago una cuerda con esta canción porque era 1985 y el final no llegó.

losing

2010-08-31T23:28:00.000-07:00

The ear infection i have makes me crave music. Losing my hearing scares me. I save sounds. I save long hair music on the leaves of my dining table plant. That wobbly chair saves that Incredible String Band song I can't find on YouTube.
******

I'm teaching second grade again. I didn't like first grade. I lost my patience for shoe laces and the random Spiderman pajama stories.

*******

My parents bought me a little used radio when I was 11 years old. I used to sleep with the radio on hoping Gimme Shelter would come on. One day I woke up in the middle of the night and this song was playing:

I wanted to save that song.

To iphone, or not to iphone: that is the question

2010-08-01T16:35:00.000-07:00

Next Thursday and Friday I will attend a workshop on how to use the ipod touch in my classroom and on my last week of vacation I will attend another two-day training where I will learn how to use the Promethean board. Yes, I have to say good-bye to the white board and the document camera. Most schools are already using the Promethean boards, but since we are a poor school district we are a bit behind in technology. Here's a video of a Promethean board just in case you don't know what I'm talking about.

At home I've been debating with myself if I should get an iphone. My current cel phone has abuelita written all over it. I think I'm the only person in the universe who doesn't send text messages. Well, there is my husband, but he doesn't even have a cel phone. We are not technophobes, on the contrary, we embrace technology, remember, we met on the internet. My family tells me it is very difficult to communicate with me since my cel phone does not accept text messages. They tell me I'm missing all the family juicy gossip. By the way, we also have a home telephone which we never answer when it rings. Our philosophy is that we will CALL YOU when we NEED to talk to you. The same goes with my cel phone. I know, sometimes we can be arrogant assholes and incredibly selfish with our time.

I really don't know if an iphone and I will get along. I do like the idea of writing/texting people instead of talking to them. I'm a lousy talker. "Um" and "like" run amok in my speech and for the life of me I hardly speak in complete sentences. If you ever meet me, I guarantee disappointment. Yet one factor that bugs me about smart phones is that so many people walk and check their phones simultaneously. People, multitasking is so United States and it's really gross! And whatever happened to sitting alone and thinking? If Rodan were alive today his Thinker would be checking his phone. Forget having a conversation with a person under 25, that individual will check his/her cel phone several times.

It even bothers me that I spend time thinking about iphones. I should be thinking more about BP, Arizona's SB1070, and Wikileaks these days, dammit. These days I feel really stupid and contagious as that ol' Nirvana song goes. This is what I look like when I think of getting an iphone:

First Grade!

2010-07-28T22:36:00.000-07:00

I received a telephone call this afternoon. My request to transfer to another school was accepted. Starting August 18, I will teach (drum roll, please):

FIRST GRADE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

New school. New grade. Goodbye second grade....Hello, First grade!!!!!!!!!!!

These are not my future students. I just found this video on youtube. I will teach in the so called "bad side" of town. Most of my future students live on or below the poverty line (I chose that school for that reason). I have a difficult and exciting school year ahead. I'm happy. I feel like I'm going back to my roots.

Some Songs Are Better When I Don't Understand The Language

2010-07-27T16:23:00.000-07:00

I love this song because it fills my mind with an empty highway. Seaguls that have no place to go. A red dress with a bullet hole that hangs on a clothesline. I'm sure the song tells another story.

Now, I speak Spanish, but for the life of me I have a hard time understanding these women when they sing and I love it! Perhaps they're not even singing in Spanish and I'm showing my dumb fuck colors. I do pick up a word in Spanish here and there, but I lose the rest of the language. I think these women enjoy teasing my ears. Please pay attention to the lady’s “ay!” (one of the few words I do understand) at the beginning of the video because, I swear, each “ay!” tells a story that lasts 100 years in a dream. In the middle of the video, the “doñas” sing and my “I” gets lost in their songs. Depués las canciones llenan mis manos de almendras y mi casa se llena a olor de membrillo. I don’t understand the hand clapping, pero el sonido despierta palabras muertas, palabras de sal….palabras de pan…palabras de caña....palabras de chocolate....de agua....de beso...de mantequilla....de ti...

I like to think the next song is about a yellow bicycle I never had when I was 12 years old. This song is about the long white socks that reach just below my knees and about the short skirts that protected me from lust at 15. It tells a story about long hair parted in the middle and about the notebook where I wrote down that I was going love you forever.

post edit:

I almost forgot Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. One time I rode in a taxi in San Francisco, California. The taxi driver didn't speak English. I didn't speak Pakistani, but both of us spoke Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. In this video, he sings the famous Allah Hoo. I like to think this song is about what the philosopher, Wittgenstein said in his Tractus Logico- Philosophicus that Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent (By the way, I didn't undertand Tractus, it went over my head, but those words stayed with me). So light a candle or place some LSD on your tongue or do whatever you do and listen to this song with me.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=adEgRNT3tlU&videos=4t6VNeptkfs

Pow! Whack! Bam! Thud! Doink! Oof!

2010-07-26T23:43:00.000-07:00

My computer caught an evil virus this morning. It happened while I drooled over some chisel's art work on Flickr. His profile had a website so doofus me clicked on it and mother flickr! I got a winner! A bunch of dreadful little windows kept popping on my computer screen. Oh, rats! that's all I needed on my vacation. Little scary messages began to appear on the screen informing me that some virus was going to look up my credit card information. Gasp! I reached for my cel phone and I called my credit card company to tell them to put a block on all purchases. Then, I did what any respectable dame would do in my case: I borrowed my husband laptop to navigate the rest of the day on the internet and I waited.

When my husband came home, I told him the bad news about the virus, plus I added an extra sentence: I swear I was not looking at any porno sites. My husband knows me too well, Mondays are not good days for youporn. Ahem. Anyway, he spent hours fighting the virus and in the end my husband won. He kicks ass! Of course, he will never brag about his amazing computer knowledge.

So, V.. if you are reading this, you have a beautiful brain and an amazing heart. Thank you!

L.

p.s.

te amo, Panchito Rogaciano Goodrollinthehay Zapata!

garbage

2010-07-19T00:24:00.000-07:00

Many years ago I participated in a all-day Buddhist meditation retreat. From 8:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. I had to meditate, walk, meditate, participate in dharma a discussion, eat in silence, walk, meditate, meditate, meditate, meditate, and meditate. I had false expectations for that day. I really believed it was going to be peaceful and beautiful. I was wrong!

It was hell.

Prior to that day, I had studied Eastern Philosophy by taking some courses at my local college. I had read some books on meditation and Buddhism. I even participated in half hour meditation practice once a week at my local Buddhist Center. I was ready for this day or at least I thought I was.

We started the day by meditating for 30 minutes. That was fine. Then, we walked mindfully. That was fine too. We meditated again. Still fine. We walked again. Okay, still fine. By the third meditation, my legs were cramping. My back was aching. I had a non stop parade of bullshit thoughts. I constantly had to remind myself to bring my mind home. I had to remind myself to become an observant of my thoughts.

When lunch time came around, we were told to eat in silence. Since I'm not a very social person, as a matter of fact, I can't stand most people in the planet, I liked this idea very much. But something awful happened to me while I ate my vegetarian Vietnamese lunch in silence, I had a horrible craving for a diet Coke. My desire was not for any ordinary diet Coke in a can, no, I wanted a Double Big Gulp from 7- Eleven. Now, I don't shop at 7- Eleven regularly, but that day I wanted a 64 ounce cup of cold Diet Coke. When lunch was over, the head Buddhist monk told the group to rest or to go for a quiet, mindful walk. I pretended to choose the walk, but when nobody was looking, I ran to my car and I drove around town searching for a 7- Eleven. Luckily, I found one not too far from the Buddhist center and I bought my Double Big Gulp!

After lunch we continued with the meditation routine, well, except for that constant need to pee. Around 3:00 p.m. I was hating life. The non stop parade of bullshit thoughts continued, but this time, the thoughts became quite stupid. For example, I remember contemplating this thought: Why did I stop being a Catholic? Catholics don't have sit for hours and endure mid thoracic pain. They don't have to sit and watch the brain produce a never ending flow of shitty thoughts. At 4:00 p.m. I hated everybody in the room, including myself. Why are we sitting here, pretending we are at peace? Hahaha people who think that Buddhism is peaceful should experience this meditation hell! How did we arrive at this silly romantic idea of Buddhism? We silly Westerners only see the surface of Buddhism. We are suckers! Around 5:00 p.m. I was having a Pink Floyd moment: Okay, if there is no self, who is producing these thoughts? Who is watching this parade of thoughts? (panic!),

When meditation was over, I told my friend I wasn't feeling that well. He actually had a peaceful look on his face. He told me that his first meditation retreat was hell too. He said, "All these inner garbage comes up." My friend went on to tell me that on a week-long meditation retreat, he was able to deal with the garbage and move on to the next step (there's another step? fuck!)

On my drive home all I wanted to do was cry and I did. I sobbed non stop all the way home. At times, I wanted to get out of the car and run and scream and cry until my body completely dissolved.

This past Friday, I told V. that on my next summer vacation, I wanted to go away for just a week. Not only for my sanity, but for his too. V has to deal with the "nice Trying" and the "grouchy Trying." I told him I wanted to go to a place far away from people and civilization. I want to be alone for a week and meditate, read, walk, and dig my hands in soil that is not located in a pot. Where is this place? I don't know, but I know it's not Club Med. I made it clear that if I went alone, he had the right to take a one week vacation alone too. He asked if I was sure I wanted this. He knows me too well. He knows that I get nervous easily and if he decides to take a long bicycle journey, I can't bitch and moan about safety and the road.

When I started this post, I originally wanted to write about the photograph below. I saw this photo in the Los Angeles Times. I took a pen and wrote a dialogue. It sounded funny this morning and I wanted to share it with you, but as I write this tonight, I ask myself: Why did I write this?

It has been a joke in my family that I dislike pregnant women, especially, first time mothers. I'm intolerant of their bullshit halos they carry above their heads, as if pregnancy has never occurred to anybody else but them. I can't stand it when they rub their bellies in public and their angelic faces scream: look at me! I'm so cute! When V and I were in New York, we rode the elevator at the Whitney Museum. There was a pregnant young girl riding with us. She try to pull the cute pregnant act on me and I just gave her this "fuck you, I'm not impressed with your pregnancy! Are you aware of the environmental consequences your child will bring to this planet? and how your ego's ignorance will most likely damage this kid forever? " look. My malice made her so uncomfortable, she ran out of the elevator as soon as the door opened.

My vacation has been overall pleasant. But all those hours at home alone is slowly releasing my inner garbage just like that meditation retreat.

I'm sorry.

Roll Man from Cheryl Dunn

2010-07-16T09:49:00.000-07:00

http://www.cheryldunn.net/#/film/Roll_Man

Mcliving?

2010-07-16T00:06:00.000-07:00

I read a post by Jimena. It left me with this question: Do I have a talent for living?

This is my fourth week on vacation. I’m enjoying it now. I no longer feel I’m chocking on freedom. My life has a routine, a rhythm. Many years ago I used to think having a routine was bad. Boring. Robotic. These days I welcome it. Perhaps I have no talent for living. I look forward being kissed by my husband every morning before he leaves for work. I always mumble something irrational and go back to sleep for another hour. Then, I get up, brush my teeth, clean the cat box, make the bed, play the same old game with Moshki where he hides under the sheets and I pretend I don’t know his whereabouts, start a load of laundry, listen to Democracy Now while I make breakfast…..eat.

Not much talent needed to live this way.

Things i shouldn't do on vacation

2010-07-06T14:40:00.000-07:00

i should not waste time drawing on chalkboard wall.

i should not waste time taking pictures of my sleeping cat. oh, walker evans would NOT approve (moshki, you bastard! i just changed the sheets!)

i should not waste time going to antique shops and buying photos of unwanted and forgotten people.

i should not waste time reblogging pictures on tumblr.

i should not waste time reading.

i should not waste time/money buying a cheap camera for $7.95 at the thrift store 'cause i don't know how to use it.

i should not waste time staring at these two housewives. oh,

i know they're up to no good.

i should not waste time taking a photograph of kierkegaard. come on, L! enough! you have laundry to do.

Hill Street

2010-07-03T01:32:00.000-07:00

I grew up in ugly, run-down apartments that were located in streets with beautiful names like Paradise, Butterfly, Hill, and Eliza.

In 1977, the year I lived on Hill Street, I began to shed most of my Spanish. I let phrases and words dripped out my mouth. I dropped them on the ground, not to dispose of them, but like Hensel and Gretel, I needed them to track my way back home....perhaps one day.

Amapolas de octubre

Camposanto

Aguacero

El molino a las 6 de la mañana

I was 11 years old. My brain was becoming intoxicated with the sweetness of American English. I held on tight to all the Spanish I could, I really did, but English was my new playground. American English was a girl with a mini skirt. The floral swimming cap with a chin strap I wanted to have. It was a red popsicle in my mouth. It was the news of a young girl’s attempted suicide. It was white tennis shoes. Always white tennis shoes.

Just because...

2010-06-30T23:49:00.000-07:00

Because I was not 16 in 1971. Because when I listen to this song, I crave long straigt hair and a joint. Because when summer starts I want to pack up and go to Big Sur. Because V. is sleeping right now and I'm not sleepy. Because V. has to work too much. Because I stay home and fight the domestic blues.

I love my town's public library.

2010-06-29T15:28:00.000-07:00

Housewife Blues

2010-06-29T00:18:00.000-07:00

I don’t remember how to sit down and do nothing.

I fill my vacation days with 1950’s suburban housewife (bullshit) projects. Painting projects. Sewing projects. Cooking projects. Cleaning projects. Planting projects.

The goal was to learn patience by using my hands, to join the “handmade movement,” to consume less, to create more, to become more artsy, blah, blah, blah.

Thus far, I’m doing a lousy job. My sewing machine is kicking my ass. I have a love hate relationship with “The Beast.” All I wanted was to put two pieces of fabric together and The Beast didn’t let me. Fuck you, sewing machine! From now on, my cushion covers will be made in China!

Yesterday I was able to do nothing. Well, by nothing, I mean, I actually went back to bed after breakfast to read a John Cheever short story. If you’ve read The Country Husband, you know that’s probably not a good reading choice for the suburban housewife blues. If you haven’t read it, please, do take a walk on the dark side of Shady Hill. Mr. Cheever will have no mercy on your bourgeoisie ass.

To my horror, I’m turning into one of the characters in the story, Mrs. Wrightson, or worse, Mrs. Julia Weed.

Mr. Cheever writes:
Then old Mrs. Wrightson joined him on the platform and began to talk. “Well, I guess you must be surprised to see me here the third morning in a row,” she said, “but because of my window curtains I’m becoming a regular commuter. The curtains I bought on Monday I returned on Tuesday and the curtains I bought Tuesday I’m returning today……………Now I’m praying to high Heaven that the decorator will have them in the right length, because you know my house, you know my living room windows, and you know what a problem they present/ I don’t know what to do with them.”
“I know what to do with them.” Francis said.
“What?”
“Paint them black on the inside, and shut up.”

I don’t remember how to sit down and do nothing.

Wishing I had a TV....again

2010-06-28T17:16:00.000-07:00

I love your films, Ms. Agnes Varda

Watch the full episode. See more POV.

Lost

2010-06-25T10:02:00.000-07:00

1. Four years of early mornings.

2. Courage to drive from California to Madison, Wisconsin and from there to Vermont and back home.

3. 1974.

4. The feeling my 17 year- old body used to get when it listened to Jethro Tull’s Aqualung.

5. The Van Morrison cassette I played over and over on my walkman when I was going to San Francisco for the first time. I had eight 20-dollar bills neatly folded in my shoe, a ham and cheese sandwich in a paper bag and songs that filled my heart with possibilities. Hark, now hear the sailors cry. Smell the sea and feel the sky.

6. All the unimportant little details of the night I met V. –even the ones under the chairs and tables.

7. The brown, hippie-looking mug Paul gave me. It made coffee taste like anthropology, history and religion. It was big enough for Western civilization to fit in it and I still had a little room for creamer.

8. My peasant skirt dreams.

9. The days, minutes, and seconds I wasted loving Mr. H. Philosophy didn't love me back.

10. The pink, ugly bed I once had because I floated on the Mississippi every night.

(if found please call)

If I had a TV tonight....

2010-06-22T23:04:00.000-07:00

And this is what I've missed (yeah, in my best Californian accent, i have to say: like, not having a tv, totally sucks, man!)

And then again, fuck TV! I can watch the following online (and you too--well, if you're into trains, hobos, the 1930's, wondering, hitchhiking, and just going somewhere)

Thank you PBS!

Oh, be patient it takes several seconds to see the "play" button.

http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/films/rails/player/

The Goodbye Children

2010-06-18T23:58:00.000-07:00

The walls of my classroom were bare. The artwork was gone. The paragraphs about cheetahs were gone. The multiplication stories were also gone. My students and I sat down in the empty classroom to eat donuts. We drank cold milk. We laughed. We cheered. It was the last day of school.

Here are some of the memories they left with me:

John: His eyes have seen cocaine. He has seen Las Vegas, but not Disneyland. He has seen rifles. Chocolate ice cream is not part of his life.

Sebastian: On the first day of school, he said his father was black and his mother Mexican. His father was in prison for beating up his mother. “I’m not really that good,” he said.

Ruben: One day he came up to me and asked me if he could sing a song for me. He sang Sweet Child O’ Mine by Guns and Roses. He became rock and roll buddy.

Lisa: Her Math skills were below grade level, but she made her crayons sing on paper.

Jo: She had a difficult time making friends. One morning she went to recess with a folded photograph of a woman. When I asked her who the woman was, she said it was her mother. She missed her. The mother has been in and out prison for quite some time.

Cindy: The war in Iraq. The foreclosure crisis. But a big pink bow on her hair always made the world a little better.

Gary: He has a serious speech problems. His speech is unintelligible. The first weeks of school he often hid under his desk out of frustration. I had to learn how to listen to the voice in his heart.

Mary: "Ms. A., Jenny told me the color of my skin is ugly." (Mary is African American).

Karen: She didn’t want to be in my classroom at the beginning of the year. She cried continuously. She wanted to be in the cool teacher’s second grade class ( I think I have a reputation of being strict and making students work hard. I just don't settle for less than their potential). On the last day of school she gave me this card:

Post edit: Of course, the names of the children have been changed. I gotta protect the innocent and my job. :)

To my husband: I'll miss you and I'll see you again on July 11

2010-06-10T23:03:00.000-07:00

Moshki (when he was a kitten) wearing his soccer jersey. World Cup starts today.

........

2010-06-06T14:04:00.000-07:00

I am listening to this song because there’s no more arroz con leche in my cup.

I am listening to this song because all the paper airplanes I sent to Michoacán did not return.

I am listening to this song because I forgot the square root of 8, but not the word cempazuchitl.

I am listening to this song because even though Octavio Paz was an asshole, I still want to walk on his piedras mudas.

I am listening to this song because sometimes you want to return to Mexico and I only know how to live in the land of frozen vegetables.

Music

2010-05-31T23:10:00.000-07:00

My husband doesn’t like to talk about music. He’ll keep John Coltrane a secret. He’ll tell you he has never heard of that Leonard Cohen song. And if you insist on Johnny Cash, he’ll just gently and very politely close the door. You will never hear him make a comment about music or God. He won’t trash Lady Gaga in public like I do. He will not praise Miles Davis in the presence of people. He thinks people sometimes get wrapped up in their opinions about music and as a result, the music itself gets lost.

Our music taste also differs. My music taste is eclectic. His taste doesn’t have a label. Don’t get me wrong, my husband loves music, but his love is private. When he came to this country four years ago, he brought 7 books, 3 music CDs, 10 music cassettes, and some clothes in a suitcase. He placed his books in the bookshelf. He placed his clothes in the closet with mine, but he stashed away his music in a box. He tells me I’m always welcome to listen to his music, but sadly, I don’t like some of his music.

When I go on and on about music, he listens to me patiently. He loves that I’m passionate about music. In fact, he supported my love of music by buying me an ipod for my birthday. He taught me how to download music (legally) from the internet. He even bought me a kick ass set of headphones. He is tolerant with me on weekends when I play a Nina Simone song and then immediately after that, some Jarocho music.

Since we don’t share the same taste in music, I’m slowly collecting musical stories of our life together. My husband does not like to listen to music with other people, not even with me, but many years ago, we listened to Lhasa de Sela together. Not even John Coltrane’s A Love Supreme has managed to achieve this gathering. I think it was Lhasa’s voice that brought our music taste together. And one day when I was stuck in dark woods of my depression, I asked my husband to sing one of his favorite songs:

(cuentame otra vez cuantas sirenitas se llevarón a Alfonsina)

Cinco sirenitas te llevarán
Por caminos de alga y de coral
Y fosforescentes
Caballos marinos harán
Una ronda a tu lado

Y los habitantes
Del agua van a jugar
Pronto a tu lado.

My husband and I are a couple without a love song or any other song. We will never say:

Honey! They’re playing our song!

At our tiny wedding, there was no Moondance. There was no Casiopea.

In this collection of musical memories of our life together, I’m discovering silent songs. Today, when my husband rode his bike to the beach, he came back with a white little rock. He placed the rock on my hand and told me:

Mira lo que te traje.

We share silent music.

(On June 17, 2010 my husband and I will attend our first "official" music concert together. The musician we are going to hear had difficulty getting a visa to perform in the U.S. He is from Cuba).

Goodbye, Mr. Japanese man, goodbye...

2010-05-22T15:14:00.000-07:00

I traded my 1998 Honda Civic for a Volkswagon bus. It's light blue. A piece of sky on wheels.

When I got in my new VW bus, I couldn't distinguish the brake from the gas pedal, a problem I've had since I started driving. Perhaps I don't know when to go and when to stop. Maybe is just the going I fear.

From my VW bus window I could see pick-up trucks falling from the sky. Red ones. Green ones. I saw a Doris Day woman in a pink pick-up truck screaming for help. She knew her life was going to end once the truck hit the ground. I saw a family inside another pick-up truck. They were banging on the windows, crying for help. Then, I saw him, a calm and collected Japanese man in his truck. He was falling too, but he was not afraid to die. He wore black rim glasses from the 1950s. He wore a white shirt and a black tie. He turned to me, smiled, and waved goodbye. I waved back.

Goodbye, Mr. Japanese man, goodbye...

The above is another dream I had this week.

The video below is a TV car commercial I watched years ago in a laundromat. Since I don't have a TV set, I'm easily attracted to the light and the colors of the screen. It feels like seeing fire for the first time. The song and the woman's voice caught my attention too. Oh, and I didn't give a rat's ass about the car.

two

2010-05-15T21:39:00.000-07:00

#1

I found my neighbor's dog in my living room. I didn't really know how this tiny, white Chihuahua managed to end up in my place. He was cold and scared. I didn't have a blanket to keep him warm, so I went to the kitchen and got a pot. I filled it with water. Then, to warm up the water, I put the pot on one of the stove's burners. I turned it on. I gently submerged the dog in the liquid. I heard Greg, my neighbor, calling for his dog. I ran out of the house to tell him the Chihuahua was safe with me. We went to the kitchen to get the dog, but to my dismay, the water was boiling, with doggie inside. I removed the the burning hot and wet dog and held it in my arms, feeling guilty and stupid, I screamed.

#2
My husband and I went to the local train station to purchase roundtrip tickets for our summer vacation. The name of the destination doesn't really matter. We had chosen that place for its gigantic watermelons and honeydew melons that grow in the summer. As we waited in the long line, we talked about children. We talked about children because we watched a little, annoying brat cry in the station. When we see annoying children like this little Mussolini, we fill our heads and hearts with a strange mixture of arrogance and gratitude and give thanks to the Buddha for choosing not to have children (we don't know who else to thank). Unfortunately, my husband decided to share some secret information with me. He chose the long line to make this confession:

He has seven children: six children living in Mexico and one child in California.

I reacted strangely to shocking news. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I numbed myself.

I didn't really care about his children in Mexico. I was curious to know about his child in California. When?! How?!

It turns out my husband had an affair when he came to this country in 2006 with a girl named Susie. They had a son.

In a matter of seconds my husband became a strange man. The man I married one February morning, the man who makes me an omelette with broccoli and corn every morning, the man who loves to place his hand in my sweatshirt's pouch was gone. Así nomas. Se fue.

Filled with numbness I stood in line imagining the watermelons bursting, exposing their sweet, red flesh to the hot and dry summer.

The written content above is a recording of my dreams from Thursday and Friday night. It has been a long time since I had "vivid" dreams. I won't analyze these dreams. I’ll just expose them to the air like Tibetan prayer flags. I do admit I woke up feeling mad at my husband. I even woke him up to ask him about Susie.

There is no Susie.

I used to have a recurring dream with Glenn Gould. In my dreams his fingers played an ocean instead of a piano. His fingers produced violent ripples and splashes of water, thus, releasing beautiful music. Glenn Gould has been away from dreams for quite some time. If you see him in your dreams tell him I want him back.

naranja dulce, limón partido para mi madre

2010-05-09T01:41:00.000-07:00

Today is Mother’s Day. Here are some random thoughts about my mother and I:

1. When I had a cold, my mother used to clip a handkerchief to my sweater and wrapped a pañoleta around my head. This made me an incredibly happy child.

2. My mother almost died when she gave birth to me. Years later, during one of our many fights, she told me I continued to kill her a little every day.

3. Growing up, I saw little of my mother. She was a migrant worker. She left every spring and returned home every fall. She came back home on the day I made sure I didn’t step on any pebbles on my way home from school or on the day I kept my fingers, tongue, and eyes crossed for a long time, or on the day I continuously said the magic words: please come home, please come home, please come home, please come home, please come home, please come home...........

4. I didn’t learn to read until I was in second grade. Reading didn’t make sense to me until the day she sat me on her lap and read me a book. She never read to me another book, but that enough for me to fall in love with books.

5. Unaware of my presence, one of my mother’s friends told her that of all her daughters, Carmen, my sister, was the prettiest. My mother nodded in agreement.

6. Accidentally, she ran over my dog with my father’s Grand Torino. She didn't apologize.

7. Once, after not seeing each other for a long time, she sent me a Greyhound one-way ticket home. I was in deep shit and hungry. I got on the first Greyhound bus immediately.

8. Years after graduating from college, my mother told me she was disappointed in me because I was a communist, a feminist, unmarried, and penniless.

9. When I finally got my first apartment, I told my mother I was leaving home because I didn’t want to take care of her when she was old and frail. I wanted a life of my own. A year later, I ended up in the hospital for three weeks. She took care of me the whole period.

10. On the way to a panaderia in Modesto, California, I told my mother I didn’t love her. She cried nonstop. I was 10 years old. Perhaps I should have said I don’t know how to love you instead. We still don’t know how to love each other.

almost

2010-05-05T21:51:00.000-07:00

life map

2010-05-02T19:56:00.000-07:00

I had a life plan:

I was going to be a physical therapist.
Heal anterior cruciate ligaments and rotator cuffs.
Buy a house.
Marry a guy named Michael or Pedro or Hakim.
A Jacaranda tree would have been nice.

I don't know when or where my plan changed.

I think it was the afternoon I read Araby.
Maybe my Dr. Martens are to blame.
Or my bob with a Madonna bow.

Perhaps it was the Los Angeles river that flows on a concrete channel.
The Oxnard strawberry fields I had left behind.
The long bus ride from Seal Beach to ugly Wilmington with the smell of bleach on my hands.
My walkman playing How Soon Is Now? over and over.

Was it the encounter I had with the man from Pakistan?
His letters from Karachi.
The unheard prayers to Allah in the City of Angeles.
The candles to the Lady of Guadalupe at Plaza Olvera.

Was it the downtown streets of a L.A?
The midnight heroin boys.
The homies from East Los dancing cumbia with the dead.
The taco stand on Broadway and 7th selling tacos de lengua perdida.

The long wait for the Greyhound bus to take me home.

I took a photograph of one of the few childhood photographs i have of my siblings and self. The shortest girl is Trying (circa 1967).

My husband on his first day of kindergarden. I met him in April, 2001. I married him in 2006.

My father.

My husband wearing his German Boy outfit.

Maria, my grandmother.