Leaving My City

One of these days,
I will learn that everything ends.
I will learn it before I begin,
tentative and shy,
hesitant and unsure of my place and role
in this new endeavor,
my next grand adventure.

I will learn my lesson before I begin
and save myself trepidation and heart ache
because I will know that this too will end.

Every life that is born,
every flower that that blooms,
every summer that blossoms and burgeons
green and lush around me,
every friendship I form,
every city that spreads herself out before me,
calling me to explore her details,
beckoning me to call her home,
will fade and fall from my grasp.
I cannot be constant.

My job will change,
as certainly as the seasons will.
I will take every tantalizing secret
I have teased out of my new home away with me,
only to forget her,
never to revisit,
never to know when she has changed her ways.

No matter the promises I make
or what I say,
no matter how much I declare and demand that this time,
this one time,
this will be a working relationship only,
I will love her.

Then, with the certainty of the oceans
that the tide will recede,
the day will come,
when I walk away,
when I do not turn back for one last glance,
but linger, lovingly in her alleys,
–even in the by ways that once caused me pain–
one last languid look of a lovers eyes
pass over the paving stones
and plaster facades
that took me so long to appreciate.

I step off the platform.
I wait for the train to depart.

Written after Epsilon visited at University F

You came into my life
a brief whirlwind at waist level,
stained my small sterile solitude with your palms,
echoed laughter and cries of jousting in the stairwell
won the hearts of my colleagues and comrades,
– fellow satelites, orbiting our families and communities,
waiting to settle–
and left.

I come home to a room, scattered with
train tacks,
pine cones,
twigs,
pieces of asphalt picked up from the play ground,
feathers,
dried flowers,
crayons,
cheese rinds,
bread crumbs,
sheets
-bundled and thrown under the bed we shared-,
a single sparkled sock.

The vestiges of your visit
call to me from the floor.
You destroyed my world
by breathing life into it.
I cannot go back.
Nor can I step forward to find you again.

Birds

A flock of starlings play over the highway
Congealing, thinning, torquing
A study of viscosity in a moving fluid.
A trail of birds bleeds black across the sky,
Pulled by the currents of their whimsies.

Hauptbahnhof

Berlin
A city under perpetual construction
that I once related to, erroneously, I am sure,
through my family's memory of partition,
during a rainy summer
forty-nine weeks ago.

I sit with the smokers outside the station,
a black chiffon skirt flutters in the breeze.
I can see the TV tower - shining in the sun-
that stood across the plaza from our hotel.
I know it still. He does not.

Spanish music blares from the cafe--
we shared an intimate early tapas dinner in Alexanderplatz.
I was so proud of him that night.

Tri-colored flags ripple in the wind,
the feathers of my earrings dance in my shadow.
They will not go far, they whisper.

This year has passed with me in stasis,
while he has grown and stretched and carried on.

It is time for me to catch my train.
We are no closer to reunification.

Copenhagen

There is a curious camaraderie of conferences,
Coffee, cake, conversation--
Colombian, Danish, Deutsche.

I hate when someone comments
on the rich diversity of an event.
I know they can count their diversity
on the fingers of one hand.
I am always one of those fingers.

In the kitchen of a shared hotel suite,
We sit over coffee and eggs
Taking about our parents, our boyfriends, our kids - real or imagined.
We are three shades of brown
With three mother tongues
From three different continents
Bound together on a fourth
by circumstance, laughter, and concern over how our talks were received.
We are the X-Y diversity of this meeting.
Together, we make half a hand.

I hold up three fingers.
I flip them upside down.
We or Me.
It is a subtle change.
It is a phenomenal shift.

***

I am exotic, by color and culture --
Always passing, a hair's breadth from belonging.
Twice exiled, I spend afternoons on the balcony with nomads.
The Iranian pontificates on the duties of political exiles to their home countries.
Should he go back? Should my grandfather have left?
The Lebanese discusses the dominion of depression on a thesis,
And the anxiety of an arranged marriage.
The Romanian speaks to me in Spanish -- allowing me to answer in English.
Like me, he has no identification barring his passport.


I have lost my country.
I have put aside my child.
This is all the community I have left.
It is a strange solace for my solitude.

Homesick

Sometimes,
in the stray moments of a passing day-
between paying the bus fare
and finding a seat-
I find myself staring
at the candy colored currency that occupies my billfold
and the shiny brass coins of this foreign land.

I long for the certainty of the greenback of my childhood.
The unassuming grey green ink,
all cut to the same size;
the thin grey disks of different diameters,
that my fingers recognize without my fumbling eyes.

Washington, Roosevelt, Jefferson, Lincoln, Hamilton, Jackson,
accompanying me through the streets
and into shops,
exchanging hands at the farmer's market, yard sale, for the Craig's List find.
I'll give you a bit of history I learned in school
if you'll give me the comfort of old habits,
known foods, and familiar culture,
both the good and the bad.

First snow

Today has been a hard day for stupid reasons. Lots of emotional ups. Lots of emotional downs, mostly conspiring to keep me from getting much work done.

At some point, I looked out the office window to see the ground covered in a thin layer of white. Closer to the window, the white is speckled with dots of green, blades of grass that have yet to realize that their time is up for now.

Across the street a large white paper star hangs in a darkened window, lit from the inside by Christmas lights. Their neighbor's house is well lit; a chandelier shows me their library. It looks cozy. My office is warm. I am lucky to live in such an age, to be born in such a class, that the threat of exposure is as far removed from me as the thought of snow was to my grandparents.

I face a quiet street. Even now, as people head home, I only see a few headlights slowly maneuver the slick roads. Not many tracks on the sidewalk, either.

Epsilon had his first snowball fight today. He saw the snow falling and declared that Santa would come. I missed the snowball fight. Maybe I'll surprise a stranger on my way home in his honor.

Bathroom humor

Kurt in the car
Gottlob at the zoo
Bertie at the pig-sty
Cantor on the loo
They are all doing maths
Mathsy mathsy poo.


Brought to you by a women's bathroom stall near me.

News of deaths come in groups

How do I grieve for you
When I knew you just as Uncle,
and not by your given name.
When the sum total of our interactions
amount to small talk,
often with Daniel,
on days I came to visit other members of your family,
conversations in your perfect English
between two men left out
of the women's talk,
and an awkward kiss, long forgiven,
the day your brother came out of surgery.
There is not enough fabric there
to stitch a mourner's shroud.

Your family has given me so much
love and nourishment.
Your part in that must be acknowledged.
You, the strong, quiet, sometimes overbearing patriarch,
who knew to keep his distance
from the firy naive feminist
with strange beliefs and weird customs
transplanted from a curious land.
In that space, and I imagine wisdom,
something improbable grew.
Now its roots are struggling
to find something to cling to.

Fridays Females

"Is this area J?"

"Huh? Yes."
I turn to see
a small woman - made up far to well to be in line at the airport
at 5:30 am.
She smells of cigarette smoke and fragrance.
Hoop earrings highlight her jaw line.
She could be one of my undergrads.

We make it through security-
 45 minutes until our flight.
"Do you want some coffee? My treat.
 I just need to find a cash point."

She's definitely too happy to be at an airport at 6 in the morning.

We settle down for toast or porridge,
cappuchino or tea,
and confess our lives to each other,
newly bonded as we were,
sleep deprived and punchy-
complete strangers and travelling companions.

She's visiting her new boyfriend.
Military.
He's stationed abroad for a year,
she's doing all the travelling now.
She hopes to bring her son over next month,
she doesn't know if his school will let him have the time away.
Maybe for Christmas.

"How old is you son?"

"He's five."
He's very good at abstract thinking-
tested borderline autistic.
She got pregnant in college.
Married.
Kept performing.
Finished her degree.
Graduated with honorable mention in music.
She pouted when her professor wouldn't let her sing at the last performance.
Thwarted,
she went home
and into labor.

Happy graduation, Mom!

Her marriage didn't last,
but they still get together for lunch.
Her son sees them as good friends.
He has the kid during this visit.
No angst.
He's seeing someone.
As is she.

Her new boyfriend?
He's so GOOD to her son.
Her son loves him back.

She needs to figure out what to bring back her son. I give her suggestions of things that have been big hits with Epsilon, and we march off to our plane.

I can't get her out of my head. What would I have done with the cards dealt to her? Would I be the chipper young woman eager to fly to see her new lover, would I still be the older, weary one, trying to make it through the predawn commute so she can put in a reasonable day at work? Or third.... well, lets not talk about third ... 

Friday's Females

I was listening to This American Life this week. The first part of it involves comedian Tig Notaro's talking about her recent breast cancer diagnosis. Cancer's not funny, but in the hands of a skilled and introspective orator, it is an amazing and powerful story. She was scheduled to perform a few days after she was diagnosed, and, unsurprisingly, she didn't feel up to giving her prepared show. Instead, she gives an impromptu 30 minute performance, talking about her cancer. The full show is available at Louis CK's website for $5. About half of this performance is available for free on TAL's show. It's worth $5 for the extra 17 minutes of material.

Mathbabe linked to Effing Dykes recently. In particular, she linked to this post about women's bodies. If you don't know the original Whitman poem "I sing the body electric," spend some time with that poem. It is a beautiful declaration of love for the human form, done in, what now seems to be, a non titillating way, but was nonetheless  scandalous in the 1900's. When I first read it in college, it was amazing to me that somewhere, in the English language, there was a written document appreciating the human form without sexuallizing it, told, lovingly, from the point of view of a queer man. Effing Dykes does the same in her  post "The Body Electric," with a focus on women's bodies. I think it may be the most powerful statement I have read about bodies for a very long time.

To round out my Friday Fantasia on the female form, take a look at Jo(e)'s post. She has a series of naked photos of friends and colleagues, usually taken at conferences, though this is not. I love Jo(e)'s blog, and I love her (and her friends') frankness with their bodies.

Mediterranean meeting

We look like students
who can't decide
if it is more important to study for exams
or enjoy the last caresses of summer.

Someone rolls out a chess board.
A third person comments on the game.
A few laptops lay scattered across the picnic tables,
their owners squinting at the screen.
The rest stare at pieces of paper--
when not distracted by pigeons
fighting in the tree. 
A group wanders down a dirt road to try to find the ocean.

There are worse ways to spend an afternoon.

Sidewalk Chalk

Before the buttercups and wisteria
have brought forth their color,
before my border hedge fills in
to block  the view of my neighbor's son
                             playing basketball,
a burst of pastel brightens my day--
calcium carbonate on concrete.

It bloomed yesterday afternoon,
amidst the laughter of toddlers--
not quite a promise of new life,
but potential all the same:
for their bright future,
for the hope of spring,
for the good day
that starts with a smile on my face.

Laundry

They hang like albino bats --
a tight white cluster on the clothes rack--
the morning after I realize I need to do whites.
I imagine sometimes,
during this sexless solitary period,
if I let them be at night
instead of returning them, folded, to their drawer
they will fly off
to seek adventures with sonar
that I cannot have.

Ritual blessing

To -----,
Make your own luck,
From ----

What more can an uncle say to an infant?
What more can he do
for a foreign ritual,
but press a flower
into the pages of a book
affectionately called "The Bible"?

May your personality flower,
Evolve and expand,
Inflate or bounce.
May your inherited temper cool
to 2.7 Kelvin.

Make your own luck,
Unruled by the conditions set for you at birth.

Overheard

Some people complain that cell phones force other people to listen in on completely trivial conversations of complete strangers. Every once in a while though, I get to eavesdrop on a couple that are so stable in their relationship that the banality of their conversation makes me smile

The Business of Living*

Did you drill the holes in the chairs?
...
Good, I know you were worried about that.
....
Are you coming down with a cold?
...
There are nettles in the pot.
...
I had a great day, I went to some museums.
...
I took some pictures of things I think you would have liked.
...
The week's almost over.
...
Did you get my text with the flight number.
...
I'll see you the day after tomorrow.
...
It's not the best way to spend a Friday night.
...
I love you.



*Many apologies to my house guest for my eavesdropping on, adapting, and then publicizing her intimate conversation.

Twelve years and I'm still not used to his leaving.

I don't know that I will be able to write a post after my partner leaves, so this is left scheduled just in case. From Khalil Gibran's The Prophet, his chapter on Joy and Sorrow:

Then a woman said, "Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow."
      And he answered:
      Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
      And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
      .....
      When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
      When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
......     
      Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.
      Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
      Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
      When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.

This, too, will pass, I know. Just as the glorious six months we had together as a family slipped quickly through our fingers, this absence, too, will slip quickly by.

Holiday Horror Stories

I got my tentacles on a copy of Eldritch Tales, a collection of H.P. Lovecraft's works. The edition is a black paperback with fake gold gilding and full page prints interspersed in the stories.

Epsilon curled up with me one day while I was reading this tome, and demanded to know what I was reading. So I began spinning a scary story about a print in the book. All week, he demanded that I "read" to him from the "big book." I finally buy him a scary book of his own.

The Spider and the Fly, is a book with lyrics written by Mary Howitt in 1829. The poem is a bit sexist, but it can be forgiven given the publication date. The illustrations, done by Tony DiTerlizzi are phenomenal for a children's horror picture book. It won a Caldecott Honor, and I'm only surprised that it didn't win the prize.

But back to the Eldritch Tales, Lovecraft is a master of language in his prose, but this volume had some of his poetry. It is clear why Lovecraft's poems are not recognized as literature. But they are perfectly pleasant to read.

V. Homecoming

excerpted from "Fungi from Yuggoth"

The daemon said that he would take me home
To the pale, shadowy land I half recalled
As a high place of stair and terrace, walled
With marble balustrades that sky-winds comb,
While miles below a maze of dome on dome
And tower on tower beside a sea lies sprawled.
Once more, he told me, I would stand enthralled
On those old heights, and hear the far-off foam.

All this he promised, and through sunset’s gate
He swept me, past the lapping lakes of flame,
And red-gold thrones of gods without a name
Who shriek in fear at some impending fate.
Then a black gulf with sea-sounds in the night:
“Here was your home,” he mocked, “when you had sight!”

Atheist's Prayer

The closest thing I have
to a God's unconditional love for man
is my relationship with you
and the love we hope to give our son.

Because you are not to me
as would be the Christian God,
omnipotent and unchanging,
(as we must seem to our child)
the closest I can come
to the black despair of losing faith
is the realization, after we have been apart for too long,
that we did not grow in step...
that you are a distant discordant major seventh away.

While losing you is not religious persecution,
not even close,
I sometimes think of the innumerable heroes
who sacrificed their beliefs for their lives
or the other way around.
I wonder-
Know-
what I would sacrifice to keep you.

black is brown is tan

We went to the library over the weekend, and my partner checked out a book from his childhood that had me in tears on the drive home. This is saying a lot, given that we only get books for Epsilon at the library. It is a truly well written kid's book, and I highly recommend it for anyone with an interracial family. But that is not the point of today's post.

I think most of the tears came from the realization that black is brown is tan, one of the original children's books about interracial families, was written in 1973, when a family with an African American mother and a white father was still not recognized as a family in 29 states.

black is brown is tan
is girl is boy
is nose is
                   face
is all
       the
       colors
of the race

And then of course there are the words that ring comfortingly true to a brown girl growing up in a white suburb, who could not stand to see any part of her skin in her field of vision when she was hanging out with her white friends in high school.

i am black I am brown the milk is the chocolate brown
i am the color of the milk   chocolate cheeks

Or the "Well, duh!" moment in the verses for the father:

i am white the milk is white
i am not the color of the milk

I've read several children's books about race and family, about bi-racial or multi cultural homes. They all sound the same after a while, and they are all published in the 90s or the naughts. I know how my family and the families of some of my friends are currently struggling with the interracial choices my generation has made. But these lines were written a few years before my birth.

there is granny white and grandma black
kissing both your cheeks
                                                        and hugging back
sitting by the window telling stories of ago.

My partner finished the book, I wiped my eyes and finished driving home. As we talked about the book throughout the day I realized that the color difference between my parents is at least as, if not more extreme than the color difference between my partner and I. No one blinked an eyelash about that aspect of my family, since we were not inter-racial in American eyes. We now live in a cosmopolitan enough setting that few people bother us. But if I can get a job near my partner, that all is going to change.