Because she plays with her shadow at recess. Because she builds cinnamon houses in her head. Because all her houses are empty. Because she was born in the valley of crystal meth. Because she tells me she wants a "god blanket." Because she thinks orange light is sleepy. Because she spent two years in first grade and she still can't read. Because she came to my classroom a month ago.
A 4% salary pay cut. 171 teachers are going to be without jobs next school year. Eight furlough days (employees take days off without pay). Increase class size (from 20 students to 31 students).
I went to my first protest today. I'm tired. I should go to bed. My day starts at 4:30 am tomorrow.
We spent Sunday in Santa Barbara. We visited an antique shop and looked at old postcards and black and white photographs of dead white folks. We didn’t see Mexicans. We have difficulty leaving the dead.
We visited book stores too and I walked away from Roberto Bolaño’s 2666 and Robert Crumb’s illustrated version of The Book Of Genesis. I wasn’t ready. I need to finish Cormac McCarthy's The Road and end my secret affair with J.M. Coetzee's short stories.
I took my camera to Santa Barbara and I made an attempt to photograph a stranger’s face. My hands shook. I sweated. It scared me to invade a stranger’s privacy. I was terrified when the stranger noticed the camera pointing at her. Most of the photographs came out blurry and shitty. Strangely, when I looked at the result, I felt a perverse pleasure. I felt like I had stolen something valuable. I stole a second from a stranger’s life.
Little demons woke me up early this morning.
(I saw this video on clock without hands and immediately liked it. Thank you Marcine M.)
My father left a deciduous forest in my bedroom. He left a pair of red mittens on my bed. A compass. A church bell. An empty birdcage.
He left three jars filled with dreams. They were all my dreams. My father had been meticulously collecting them since I was four. I broke two jars already.
One day he left a boat. It had some words from a Peter Gabriel song.
Lets take the boat out Wait until darkness Let's take the boat out Wait until darkness comes
( I was inspired by canto de caza's post. Thank you, bichito. Thank you, Peter Gabriel).
Había una rana en nuestra cama. Sentimos el pequeño anfibio entre las sábanas. No nos preocupamos. No había lluvia de ranas. No estabamos en una novela de Garcia Márquez.
El mundo no se acababa.
Sacamos a la ranita por la ventana. Ella regreso a su jardin y nosotros a nuestra cama.
Esa noche Todavia y yo soñamos 20 mil dias juntos.
(Many years ago we rented a vacation rental in Tepoztlan, Mexico. The house was called Casa Ana. This was our second night together..ever).
Last week there was a tornado about 20 miles away from my house.
Southern California must be out of balance.
I had a fever yesterday. I was at war. I fought the enemy with Che Guevara on my side. But in the middle of battle, my husband’s caldo de pollo woke me up. A woman must know when to choose food over war.
Why did Che Guevara choose to fight on my side? I don’t even have a Che t-shirt! Why not George Washington, Morelos, Napoleon or the 54th Massachusetts Infantry?
And who was my enemy?
This morning I didn’t go to work. I slept all morning. Chavela visited my dream. She was about 9 months old. She grabbed my husband with her arms and legs as if she were a kohala bear. Then she grabbed me. I woke up.
Southern California is out of balance.
Somewhere in my dream there's a girl on a mary-go-around and a woman at war.
I wish, I wish my baby was born And sittin' on its papa's knee And me, poor girl And me, poor girl, were dead and gone And the green grass growin' o'er my feet I ain't ahead, nor never will be Till the sweet apple grows On a sour apple tree
But still I hope the time will come When you and I shall be as one
I wish I wish my love had died And sent his soul to wander free Then we might need a ravens fight Let our poor bodies rest in peace
The owl, the owl Is a lonely bird It chills my heart With dread and terror That someone's blood There on his wing That someone's blood There on its feather
