Sunday

My vacation also felt like this lady's hat (front cover of the New Yorker by Maira Kalman).

Los cuatros Pablos

(perdon....mi español no es bueno)

1. El primer Pablo llegó a mis 16. El era un jardinero. Yo era su ayudante. Pablo me alimentaba de cuentos de plantas silvestres y hongos. Me intoxicaba la lengua con los nombres de algunas plantas en latin. Malum. Malum. El hablabá lento, surfeaba las olas de todas sus palabras. Su uniforme de jardinero era un pantalón de pechera y un sombrero de Van Gogh. Pablo nunca me besó. Nunca me tocó. Sin embargo, un día, me llevó de trás de unas plantas de alcatraz y ahi escondidos, sentados y callados, le hicimos el amor al tiempo.

True North

This morning Jimmy Page has blue wings.

I listen to Led Zeppelin’s Ramble On. I travel to 1974. I’m on Paradise road with my father. We pick-up a hitchhiker, a shirtless hippie man with dirty blond hair. In broken English, my father tells the skinny Jesus that we are only going to the store to buy milk. Only. In broken Spanish, the hippie informs us that he is heading north. El norte is not here. My father lied to me. The north is not a small apartment for eight people. The north is not a grapevine. The north is not a place where tired children help their parents pick table grapes. The north is not a place where a teacher tells her student that from now on durazno will be peach. I want to go north.

Ode to Saura

I’m descending to my rabbit hole and I'm taking little Anna Torrent with me.

In this hole, I see that woman who once paid me 40 centavos to leave her house. That woman was my madrina. She didn't have time to spend with me. She was too busy watching telenovelas. Here, go buy yourself some candy, she told me. I took the coins and planted them in one of her geranium pots. My fingers angrily inserted the coins deep into the soil. I heard the sweet, snapping sound of roots breaking. I left her house with a smile on my face.

Cinema

I like the word, rechifla.

Me rechifla el cine, you said.

The term is perfect for me. I fell in love with Santo films on Sundays. They were perfect for those good versus evil mandarin days. And when I didn’t get the cute guy at 16, $5 gave me a piece of John Hughes heaven. Five dollars went far in those days, I felt smart with Zhang Yimou’s red lanterns. I got high with Wong Kar- Wai.

I discovered you in Krzysztof Kieślowski films. You were the blue candy wrap….. the string on Veronique’s hand. I waited too fucking long to touch you. I was five Julio Medem years away from you. I wanted to be your Lucia all night and your red-headed Clementine Kruczynski from Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind all day.

Now we share strong coffee and clean house on Sunday and feed two big, fat cats. We argue about Y Tu Mamá También while folding laundry. I love it, you hate it. Sometimes we hold each other tight in the kitchen and fill the little hole on that Angkor Wat wall we saw in a film.

because you should look at the stars

Originally uploaded by Olivia Bee

this is a beautiful video .........song by elliott smith

Because you should sing on Sunday too

this is a cover of an old Elliott Smith song.......scott matthew and holly do justice to this favorite of mine..........