Random Thought and Declaration:
One day, if I have a lot of money, I will do something nice for the people who make Pandora Radio possible. For now, that I have no such wealth to speak of, I will say “thank you, thank you, thank you…especially for what you play on my favorite station “the Shins Radio.” It makes my days better, my thoughts flow and makes my heart dream on.
Continue readingCheated?
*
Bloom: “Do you feel cheated?”
Penelope: “The trick to not feeling cheated is to learn how to cheat.
So – I decided this wasn’t a story about a miserable girl, trapped in a house that smelled like medical supplies, wasting her life on a dying person she sometimes hated – no.
This was a story about a girl who could find infinite beauty in anything, any little thing…and even love the person she was trapped with. And I told myself this story until it became true.
Now – did doing this help me escape a wasted life? Or – did it blind me so I wouldn’t want to escape it? I dunno.
But either way I was the one telling my own story so no – I don’t feel cheated at all…”
(from the card trick scene in the film “The Brothers Bloom”)
*
Happy Returns
It feels so nice to be happy to be home….
I walked through the apartment and was happy to see all of our things: my plants, my kitchen; the familiar way the light filters in through the blinds. Every simple little thing brought me joy, from walking around in my underwear to making coffee and putting away dishes in my little kitchen. The trees have all gone green in the week that we were gone, and they have that wonderful newborn green color that only early spring brings. All the leaves are not full grown yet, so the scene outside my window seems like a pointillism painting; like a fuzzy vibrating texture of thousands of miniature leaves on big, full-grown tree limbs. I got a particular sense of joy and satisfaction when I put an empty egg carton into the paper side of my recycle bin, loving that recycling is part of my life, after having come from a home where everything is thrown right into the garbage…all going to the same wasteful graveyards of the worlds landfills.
I am happy.
I am not making an adult-with-a-BFA-worthy amount of money, I have not lost the 10 pounds I have been talking about for a year, I still don’t have a plan, only a “what-the-plan-isn’t” plan and I have a long list of promises I have made to myself but haven’t kept.
I do have a job, I have lost four of the ten pounds and I have plenty of hope and optimism in my heart to keep me working towards all the other stuff. I have love. This makes me one of the luckiest people on earth.
Every return home like this is a reminder of the days when home was not such a happy place – when my heart ached for some nameless thing and felt no such comfort. So, for all of the things I may not have accomplished yet, I know that my life is in a happy place.
The September pact:
I will love you always, be in love with you always
You will keep my memories safe,
of happy times and brilliant youth
I will notice every detail
You will be magical for me
Always
September
There is something about this time of year that makes me breath deep and my heart beat faster. I love it. I am absolutely in love with its unmistakable presence: the crisp quality of the light, the clearest skies, the bright outline of everything…the way you can see every leaf on the trees, the cool evenings and the warm days. There is a delicious sense of coziness, something warm and earthy that speaks of apple pies, butternut squash, warm cider and pumpkin ravioli. There is a sense of sharing between the summer and fall, mingling in the same month, playing with each other to give us this magnificent mix where we can still have beach barbeques and ice cream dessert and then enjoy an evening fire with roasted marshmallows.
It’s magical really.
As soon as I can feel it I am drawn outside, enchanted and under its spell. I find it difficult to come indoors, as if my soul is preparing to turn inward during the colder winter months. I want to absorb every moment of the perfect temperature, the clean air, the huge skies and the sounds that speak of September. When I think of this time, certain friends come to mind, with whom I spent the most amazing Septembers, staying outside until late each night, drinking and eating, talking and laughing, watching the wood burn in the fire and smelling the dark, lush green world that surrounded us. We were happy, we were safe, we were simple; we were together.
They sealed my September pact. I will love this time in a special way forever, no matter where I am. I will love it, always. Deeply. Endlessly.
I wish you all this September love.
Huge blue skies, high above the lush green
clear and luminous like no other
Clouds of the most brilliant, pure white
The smell of new books…
the feeling of their pages under your fingers
mixed with crisp, cool air and warm sunlight
Wood burning, orange flames dancing
Spiders smoked out of their hiding places
and running from a fiery death
Friends
Love
familiar voices
my new family
Pumpkin carving, beer brewing,
apple sauce on the stove,
warm cider in our cups.
Beautiful long red hair,
loving her last batch of Black Eyed Susans -
his big, boisterous laugh.
The cats, the dogs, the deer,
the easiness of it all.
Big, smiling brown eyes, fishing rod and tackle box in hand.
Closeness…
Days spent outside until the last possible moment,
cool nights glowing with warmly lit windows -
Home.
The September pact:
I will love you always, be in love with you always.
You will keep my memories safe,
of happy times and brilliant youth.
I will notice every detail.
You will be magical for me.
Always…
September
Continue readingIn Defense of Peanut Butter
I often joke and say that when people ask me how many times I’ve been in love, I answer: “Three: with coffee, my boyfriend and Italy.” I have traveled to Italy since I was a little baby, and as soon as I realized I could make my own money and pay for my trip, I have been going as often as possible.
…and I truly do have an ongoing love affair with Italy. Over the years I have learned to love it for all the good and bad, and for the most part it has wholeheartedly loved me back. It’s a “happily ever after” story except when it comes to one thing: peanut butter. It is the major consensus that most Italians think peanut butter is disgusting. I rarely use that word; disgusting, because I reserve it for the very strong emotion it evokes. Unfortunately, over and over, I have had to endure horrified faces, tongues sticking out to mimic vomiting and scrunched noses on faces with eyes looking away in scathing disapproval. Its not only Italians either; many non-Americans (South American, Asian and European in general) think that the creamy, nutty spread is gross.
I j u s t d o n o t u n d e r s t a n d.
Look, I can understand someone from a small town on the Amalfi Coast thinking a deep fried Twinkie is gross. I can see the reasoning behind the disapproval of the Big Mac value meal. But what did peanut butter do?!? It’s just…crushed nuts! Why is that so wrong? Is it rich, and decadent? Maybe. Ok, sure. I could even accept someone saying that they disapprove of Jiffy-type peanut butter because of all the extra stuff they put in it. But what about me, and the healthy, no nonsense, “just peanuts and a little salt” peanut butter that I eat? Oh dear, its enough to bring a tear to my eye and make me want to stomp my foot in frustration. Love me AND my peanut butter!!
Can we all take a moment to talk about things like Nutella, marzipan, blood pudding and fondue? So, slathering milk chocolate and hazelnut spread on a croissant, as part of your regular breakfast practice is ok, but a tablespoon of peanut butter gets the gross face? Dipping things in a gigantic bowl of melted cheese gets to pass GO and collect $200 but peanut butter gets to go sit in the corner with a pointy hat? Peanuts, almonds, hazelnuts, pecans: nuts are soooo yummy. I say no! No more gross faces! I fly my peanut-butter-lover flag high and will stake it anywhere, even right in the heart of my beloved Rome! Throw tomatoes at me if you want, turn your nose up at me and look away with your head thrown back; you are mistaken! There is nothing gross about peanut butter… its just peanuts!
Some of my favorite first pages (arguably some of the BEST first pages…)
“Barrabás came to us by sea, the child Clara wrote in her delicate calligraphy. She was already in the habit of writing down important matters, and afterward, when she was mute, she also recorded trivialities, never suspecting that fifty years later I would use her notebooks to reclaim the past and overcome terrors of my own. Barrabás arrived on a Holy Thursday. He was in a despicable cage, caked with his own excrement and urine, and had the lost look of a hapless, utterly defenseless prisoner; but the regal carriage of his head and the size of his frame bespoke the legendary giant he would become. It was a bland, autumnal day that gave no hint of the events that the child would record, which took place during the noon mass in the parish of San Sebastián, with her whole family in attendance. As a sign of mourning, the statues were shrouded in purple robes that the pious ladies of the congregation unpacked and dusted off once a year from a cupboard in the sacristy. Beneath these funereal sheets the Celestine retinue resembled nothing so much as a roomful of furniture awaiting movers, an impression that the candles, the incense, and the soft moans of the organ were powerless to counteract. Terrifying dark bundles loomed where the life-size saints had stood, each with its influenza-pale expression, its elaborate wig woven from the hair of someone long dead, its rubies, pearls and emeralds of painted glass, and the rich gown of a Florentine aristocrat.”
From The House of the Spirits, by Isabel Allende
“A secret’s worth depends on the people from whom it must be kept. My first thought on waking was to tell my best friend about the Cemetery of Forgotten Books. Tomás Aguilar was a classmate who devoted his free time and his talent to the invention of wonderfully ingenious contraptions of dubious practicality, like the aerostatic dart or the dynamo spinning top. I pictured us both, equipped with flashlights and compasses, uncovering the mysteries of those bibliographic catacombs.”
From the first page of chapter 1 in The Shadow of the Wind, by Carlos Ruiz Zafón
“Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice. At that time Macondo was a village of twenty adobe houses, built on the bank of a river of clear water that ran along a bed of polished stones, which were white and enormous, like prehistoric eggs. The world was so recent that many things lacked names, and in order to indicate them it was necessary to point. Every year during the month of March a family of ragged gypsies would set up their tents near the village, and with a great uproar of pipes and kettledrums they would display new inventions. First they brought the magnet. A heavy gypsy with an untamed beard and sparrow hands, who introduced himself as Melquiades, put on a bold public demonstration of what he himself called the eighth wonder of the learned alchemists of Macedonia. He went from house to house dragging two metal ingots and everybody was amazed to see pots, pans, tongs, and braziers tumble down from their places and beams creak from the desperation of nails and screws trying to emerge…”
From One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel García Márquez
Continue readingA “La Sebastiana”
Yo construí la casa.
La hice primero de aire.
Luego subí en el aire la bandera
y la dejé colgada
del firmamento, de la estrella, de
la claridad y de la oscuridad.
Cemento, hierro, vidrio,
eran la fábula,
valían mas que el trigo y como el oro,
había que buscar y que vender,
y así llegó un camión:
bajaron sacos
y más sacos,
la torre se agarró a la tierra dura
- pero, no basta, dijo el constructor,
falta cemento, vidrio, fierro, puertas – ,
y no dormí en la noche.
Pero crecía,
crecían las ventanas
y con poco,
con pegarle al papel y trabajar
y arremeterle con rodilla y hombro
iba a crecer hasta llegar a ser,
hasta poder mirar por la ventana,
y parecía que con tanto saco
pudiera tener techo y subiríra
y se agarrara, al fin, de la bandera
que aún colgaba del cielo sus colores.
Me dediqué a las puertas más baratas,
a las que habían muerto
y habían sido echadas de sus casas,
puertas sin muro, rotas,
amontonadas en demoliciones,
pertas ya sin memoria,
sin recuerdo de llave,
y yo dije: “Venid
a mí, puertas perdidas:
os daré casa y muro
y mano que golpea,
oscilaréis de nuevo abriendo el alma,
custodiaréis el sueño de Matilde
con vuestras alas que volaron tanto.”
Entonces la pintura
llegó también lamiendo las paredes,
las vistió de celeste y de rosado
para que se pusieran a bailar.
Así la torre baila,
cantan las escaleras y las puertas,
sube la casa hasta tocar el mástil,
pero falta dinero:
faltan clavos,
faltan aldabas, cerraduras, mármol.
Sin embargo, la casa
sigue subiendo
y algo pasa, un latido
circula en sus arterias:
es tal vez un serrucho que navega
como un pez en el agua de los sueños
o un martillo que pica
como alevoso cóndor carpintero
las tablas del pinar que pisaremos.
Algo pasa y la vida continúa.
La casa crece y habla,
se sostiene en sus pies,
tiene ropa colgada en un andamio,
y como por el mar a primavera
nadando como náyade marina
besa la arena de Valparaíso,
ya no pensamos más: ésta es la casa:
ya todo lo que falta será azul,
lo que ya necesita es florecer.
Y eso es trabajo de la primavera.
- Pablo Neruda
Walking in the rain…
I saw a woman walking in the rain this morning. It was a steady mist, too light to be rain but more than just a little moisture in the air. The first time I saw her I thought she was just going somewhere: maybe to work at someone’s house. Then as I pulled back into the driveway I saw her again, and realized that she was taking her morning walk, apparently not phased at all by the weather. I saw her face then, and saw that she was an older woman, maybe in her early seventies, short, thin and dry, with the look of someone who has worked hard in her life, but not beaten or weathered. She was wearing a skirt that came below the knee, with white socks pulled up just below that and a long, oversized windbreaker. I imagined she was Slavic of some sort, with a wonderful accent and hands that had the faint, lingering scent of bleach…or maybe onions. I bet she could tell me some stories…I wonder where she was born.
Well, I like her. Anyone that would walk in the misty drizzle (and does not come off as disturbed of some sort, like the crazy lady who walks around the neighborhood yelling at people in passing cars, in a floor length shearling coat until July) is A ok in my book. To me, that little thing speaks volumes about a person’s character. She is definitely NOT the kind of person who would say, “You can’t go out walking! It’s misting, and it could rain at any moment. You’ll get sick. This isn’t weather to walk in,” or “but my make up will run, my hair will frizz, my shoes will get wet.”
Seeing her made me smile.
I would like to imagine that she was born into a family of five brothers and sisters, one boy and four girls; outside of Budapest. She lived on a farm, and fed the pigs as a girl. She speaks broken English, has a knack for healing people’s aliments and though she never speaks about them, sees the things that weigh on their hearts. She makes a mean pot-pie type of thing, and can down a good shot of something strong from time to time. She doesn’t buy things like skin toner or mouthwash because she has been using her own concoctions since she was a girl. She remembers her mother and grandmother well, has killed a chicken in her time, and never took well to cordless phones but likes watching television. She keeps a clean house, still irons the linens and keeps a dish of hard candies by the bed, along with an old rosary. She was never the pretty one, but not the ugly one either. She went largely unnoticed. She married a man of few words, and sometimes wonders what he is thinking, even after all these years. She likes birds. She uses a broom more than a vacuum and keeps her onions, garlic, potatoes and oranges in a hanging basket near the sink. I’d like to bring her something freshly baked, warm and wrapped in a dishtowel.
I think she may be sitting at her kitchen table now, having some tea, in a cup with a chip on the rim and crack in the handle.
My 1st memory of food…
One of my first memories of food is that of my mother jarring tomatoes in our small apartment in the South Bronx. I must have been about four years old… It was late summer, and the entire hallway, kitchen and living room were taken over by crates and boxes of tomatoes. As the days went by, the acidic smell of the tomatoes mixed with that of the moist cardboard, filled every corner. I remember her working so hard, late and into the night. I remember her setting me up for a late night bowl of cereal: my seat was a crate and my table a box of tomatoes. The smell permeated the taste of the sweet milk and cereal, changing it to something strange but not unpleasant.
Throughout the process my grandmother would stop by to inspect her work: the critical eye of the veteran scrutinizing the new foreigner, judging her for not even being Italian and trying to jar her own tomatoes…
As the days passed the smells changed with each step, and the boiling stage brought our small, 5th floor apartment from hot to unbearable. I was watching my mother and noticed how tired she seemed. I wondered why, why was she doing all this? So late one night, the light coming in from the kitchen pulling me from sleep, I shuffled in and asked.
“Why? Why baby? Tomorrow I will show you, I promise.”
The next day was a Sunday, and my mother made the typical Italian “Sunday dinner” for my family (including my aunt and uncle, my cousins and my grandparents): pasta with tomato sauce, meatballs, eggplant parmesan, pork and sausages. (Now, I doubt the memory I have of what that dinner tasted like came from that day, because my mother has made that meal many times since, and the description I am about to give most likely comes from the culmination of enjoying a lifetime of that deliciousness.)
The meal was perfect: a silky tomato sauce, ground meat sautéed in white wine and garlic; perfectly browned, moist and firm meatballs that melted in your mouth; pork so tender that the fork slid through it like warm butter…and so full of flavor that people’s eyes closed as they ate it; plump, juicy sausages that had just the right amount of crunch with a firm outer skin… The table was quiet. I looked around to see everyone just, eating. No talking, no commenting, just forks moving in plates. I think I remember my uncle make a kind of humming noise as he chewed… Finally my father put his fork down for a moment and said, “My god honey, this is delicious!” My grandmother offered no compliments, but her empty plate spoke volumes and she shuffled uncomfortably in her chair. My mother shot me a quick look and with a sparkle in her eye and responded, “it’s the sauce I jarred myself!”
My grandmother raised an eyebrow. My next bite tasted of satisfaction and victory.
