There is no school for the next three weeks.
No students.
No lesson plans.
No exams to grade.
No conferences with parents.
No California Standardized Test preparation.
I can go to the restroom anytime.
I desperately need to rest.....meditate.....touch sand....sit down....
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Sunday
Thoughts of the end of the world arrived early today. These apocalyptic thoughts made me hungry for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a Czeslaw Milosz’ poem I read many years ago when I was in my 20’s. The poem is called A Song On The Day The World Ends. Without an ounce of shame,I wrote a pseudo version of that poem, um, well, it's more like a shopping list for doomsday.
Oh, and Mr. Milosz, please forgive me........
On the day the world ends…...
A man rides a bicycle to work.
A cat sleeps and dreams of a big juicy moth.
An apple rots on the ground.
On the day the world ends….
A seahorse gives birth.
A 17 year-old boy shoots up heroin.
A mother washes a spoon.
On the day the world ends...
White seagulls fly to Anacapa Island.
Chavela Vargas sings yo quiero luz de luna
A first grader learns to read the word, mat.
On the day the world ends......
I wear blue jeans and an old red sweater.
I don't remember Nietzche.
I don't remember God,
The periodic table,
Or Daniel Marrodan, the Argentian boy who broke my heart at 15.
Oh, and Mr. Milosz, please forgive me........
On the day the world ends…...
A man rides a bicycle to work.
A cat sleeps and dreams of a big juicy moth.
An apple rots on the ground.
On the day the world ends….
A seahorse gives birth.
A 17 year-old boy shoots up heroin.
A mother washes a spoon.
On the day the world ends...
White seagulls fly to Anacapa Island.
Chavela Vargas sings yo quiero luz de luna
A first grader learns to read the word, mat.
On the day the world ends......
I wear blue jeans and an old red sweater.
I don't remember Nietzche.
I don't remember God,
The periodic table,
Or Daniel Marrodan, the Argentian boy who broke my heart at 15.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Returning
I'm returning to work tomorrow. I can't complain. With the budget crisis here in California, having a job is a priviledge. Resting the body and mind was good. I painted with Matisse. I read a little Zizek (just a little). I listened to Nina Simone and Karen Dalton. I even watched this great film called The Road (I haven't read Cormac McCarthy's novel). I sat down and did nothing (something very difficult to do in these United States). Overall, my vacation felt like the following song in this video......I didn't attend Woodstock (i was too young and too busy sticking my tongue out at the wind), but can you find me in the audience?
Friday, November 27, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, November 23, 2009
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.
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.
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