Tuesday, December 10, 2013

Mama Gloria, cuéntenos un cuento

“Yo lo que sabia era de las vacas…” 

En una tarde cálida y llena de curiosidad espontánea. Acostadas alrededor de la abuela, sus nietas escuchan y anticipan una amigable intimidad con ella. La abuelita procede a relatar su nacimiento.
"Mi Mama salió en la mañana y fue a lavar un gran canasto de ropa sucia al río. Cuando regreso a la casa estaba tan cansada de lavar la ropa que se acostó a dormir. Dice que unos gritos de bebé la despertaron y que cuando vino a sentir tenía ya la cabeza de su niño en medio de sus piernas. Inmediatamente la vino a asistir su madre. Ella le corto el cordón umbilical y no sé con que se lo corto y si estaba esterilizado porque en ese entonces no habían doctores que asistieran a las madres para tener sus criaturas. Eran las mismas de la casa las que asistían. Luego, la abuela del bebé hirvió agua y rodeó al bebe con botellas de agua tibia para guardarle calor. Así nací, fijate."

Son sus anécdotas y dichos como "Chancleta vieja que boto no la vuelvo a recoger," que despiertan nuestro corazón al recordarle.
Su folclor...
La manera tan consagrada en que comía su pollo: hasta el ultimo huesito!
Su sensibilidad, su humor, su lucidez.
Y su dedicación espiritual hacia sus seres queridos.

Abuelita, cuanto te extrañaremos.
Tus nietos, tus hijos, tus amigos. Tu familia terrenal.
Allí donde ha dejado una herida tu partida, allí mismo entrará tu luz. 
Y rodeada de luz estas.
Te vemos hermosa, feliz y plena.
En un lugar maravilloso donde descansarás tras una vida larga, dura y colorida.

Te amamos Mama Gloria.

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

A Valentine Gram For Little D

Bubbly, bubbly fun,
You sweet tart with a bit of tang.
So vibrantly amusing
With your social graces.
All joyous treats,
For those of us
Charmed enough to have you.
How sweeter is my spirit
To have been birthed your kin.
Delightful and caring,
Oh lovely Daniela.

Thursday, January 24, 2013

Goodbye Luna

If only I could accord the world today with my radiance.
That I might be useful to it, but the darkness of the night dims my serene maturity and reduces it to solitude.

I already miss thee heavily.

The new year had barely made an appearance with its northern crisp and usual unwarranted airs of good fortune.
We were candidly amused by this winter's splendor, seeking refuge in feasts indoors.
The toasty fireplace, the warm chocolate, the soft beignets.
I accept praise for the exquisiteness of my culinary endeavors that make you grin. This more than satisfies me.
It had been a mere two weeks since the weight of the world had turned your posture concave into a human shell.
No other conviction reigned your intelligence but the good old 'woe is me' with a hint of fatality.

That afternoon, while the clergyman's memorial echoed in the back drop, you broke down before me with a ghastly sense of defeat, yet still and steadily picketed your way through my defenselessness with a big, fat sign of a game bird.

Emptiness has punched itself into my stomach.

Having but released a single breath from a beautifully arduous attempt to resuscitate you from your perceived unredeemed existence, you take mine.

My efforts perfectly exhausted.
I was redundantly, involuntarily exiled from your kingdom.
Many moons we harvested together, but today there was no place for a hopeful maiden.

And now I too am morose.

I weep for the nights past and pray for our separate beatitude.
That we might catch up to it. 

Goodbye Luna. 

My blank page,

I abandoned you.
I had no self to offer you though, as I couldn't even reel myself in.
I was consumed.
Too busy filling a void with an illusion.
Nurturing a fantasy that had a bitter end.
Denial can feel eternal.
This self awareness only breeds from pain and the wise words of a soul mate if you are humble enough to listen.
Stubbornness has its tipping point.
I am finally here.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

For Japan, With Love

I am participating in The Bloggers Day of Silence, an event created by Lydia of Ever Ours and Lucia of Utterly Engaged to help support the online fundraiser for the tsunami disaster in Japan. All the donations to For Japan, With Love will go to ShelterBox, an organization that will provide disaster relief tents for families as well as blankets, water storage and water purification equipment, cooking utensils, a stove, a tool kit, a children's activity pack and other necessary and vital items.

Please  join us in this show of support and help spread the love. Every donation counts and will make a difference. Let's all do what we can.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

The North Wind

Photo by PB
Angel flakes,
Pillows and throws,
Chocolat à l'ancienne, butterflies in my hair,
Cashmere dreams,
Tulle ruffles grazing the warm wooden floor.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011


Like waiting for Godot or Judgment Day,
The thrill of the moment and the apparent sense of forever,
Unwavering hyperactivity of nothingness,
Meaningless more often than not.
If only there was intent... but, even that would get old soon,
Just the fleeting satisfaction that it brings temporarily.

No, not mere pessimism just bumming around,
Laying about,
Looking for boundaries perhaps,
Longing to be contained in a model that is unequivocal, ratified,
But what composes such matter?
Does it take a master to distinguish it? Identify it?

Oh teach me this language you speak of,
I do not know it.
I am foreign and it resists me,
Eternally doomed in the fear of the unknown.
How does one come to dread oneself to this extent?
This space?
Some say it could be considered a game,
More so than joy it is Chinese torture.
Chews up all self assurance steadily with angst,
Creeps up on you too.

A mirror is simply not enough.
A sense of becoming that which we are not comes to mind,
So that the essence that births the form dissolves any false ideas,
All illusions.

If only you'd just give in, scatterbrain,
Once everyday, just once everyday.
The lightness which expels you may just show its face.
Let it introduce itself to you,
It just may.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Well, I Have Lost You

Well, I have lost you, and lost you fairly,
In my own way and with my full consent.
Say what you will, kings in a tumbrel rarely
Went to their deaths more proud than this one went.
Some nights of apprehension and hot weeping,
I will confess, but that's permitted me.
Day dried my eyes; I was not one for keeping
Rubbed in a cage a wing that would be free.
If I had loved you less or played you slyly,
I might have held you for a summer more.
But at the cost of words I value highly,
And no such summer as the one before.
If I should outlive this anguish, and men do,
I shall have only good to say of you.

~ Edna St. Vincent Millay

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

The Apology

     I felt like crap. I slept most of the day. Completely out of it.  I'm sorry you stood at the door knocking and no one letting you in out of the wicked heat. Wicked. It is 111° today! Good weather for having a fridge on the blink. It works on the weekend because I am there to bang and start it up. I wonder if I have to toss out more milk products today when I get home. Life is grand.
     I only wish I hadn't torn to shreds that picture I drew for you. Of us. I know that's why you cruised by. To bring it scotched back together for me. Can 57 pieces of Bristol, a portrait of our quotidian make? 
     No need for forgiveness. You have me, caro mio. Every wretched little bit of me. 
     I wanted to cook you a meal tonight, but it seems like the warm front may have spoiled most of my edibles. Besides, we could both use some gelato tonight.
     Just come in through the side gate when you're done with work. I had Guiliano come over and fix it, finally. His daughter is doing much better, he says. Poor girl. Lucky she has such a hard working father to love and look after her. I don't know what I'd do in her place.

I'll be waiting for you,

Friday, October 1, 2010


     September was my month. My month to take a really big, fat break from the facts of existence. I lay my head on the whimsical airs that permeate the hot density of the fleeting, yet arresting Summer. And while this ethereal persona deconstructs itself into a vanishing act, I push through with my lethargic attempt to join the falling of the leaves. To make naked. To bare myself from that which keeps me safe and sometimes guarded. After all, I am body. So, I stripped myself pure. It was not intentional, I swear. The cry of a baby is never a manipulative form of destruction, but rather an awakening into a life unknown where one hopes one may be love. And that I am. Love. If anything, it is quiet a thrill to relish in cumulative events of self realization.  "... And you got moxie!" he clamored. He steers me in, I admit. Closer to my secret place.
     Inadvertently, the change we oftentimes fear, we seldom rely on. I have decided I shall rely on Fall. I believe I have shed significant ego thus far. And so, I am perfectly attired to become a beggar child of the Redwood forest. That mustard-seed-size faith they profess is contained in my side denim pocket. I'm blindly enthusiastic, you see. An unshelled experience awaits us ahead. It's only a short drive north. I flourish in anticipation.

Monday, August 30, 2010


1. to sing or play with a vibratory or quavering effect.
2. to resound vibrantly, or with a rapid succession of sounds, as the voice, song, or laughter.
3. to utter or make a sound or succession of sounds resembling such singing, as a bird, frog, grasshopper, or person laughing.

Thou shall not trill...
-when one is fussy at ages 17, 26, 34 or 42
-during mass.
-in bad company.
-while lamenting over a teensy-weensy reason.. or for no good reason at all.
-when leaving behind an obsolete, ineffective version of one's self.
-naked in the wilderness.

When to trill...
-when one is fussy from months 1-8
-while speaking Spanish.
-over the loss of someone meaningful like a family member or an old time friend... never an ex-lover.
-when resembling a puma in an effort to seem like a good, playful parent during playtime.
-to seduce a jerk.
-to mock Edith Piaf.
-in extreme boredom...
  and before yawning.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Curly Chubby Cherubs

Luscious golden locks bouncing all about and bellies jiggling,
Up the canyon they went hastily, hand in hand, excited and adventurous.
The sky-sea is vast and dark, fully lit, 18 karat luminescence.
With their jaws suspended in awe of such a sight,
They became two little naked shooting stars.
Jubilant by the gift of a wish: one for you and one for me,
They crinkled their eyes to add might to a liquid dream,
And their shyness overcome by a little boy and girl embrace.
With chuckles and giggles of nervous laughter,
This instant admired by the silver quality of innocence,
Authentic and real as their souls.
For one should cast one's pearls before swine;
The process of knowing one's value before taking it to the pros.
Two Curly Chubby Cherubs who recognize this art.

A drag or two

A smoker's permission to breathe,
Old Hollywood style.
To have a companion when in need of one,
A distraction,
Or be comfortably alone at the café.
To cheat a friend out of their undivided attention,
And delight in an exclusive occupation.
To have something to live for,
Or to make one's prime a foe.

Burning cash.
Easily, anxiously.
And a bitter kiss.

For Nicky

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

The Firefly

You, enchanting firefly. Utterly and perfectly entangled in the scintillating cobweb you have come about. Perversely indulgent. You can't move, you can't do a damn thing! One inch forwards, sideways, backwards signifies binding yourself furthermore into this harness you've masterfully, though unwillingly engineered. Nice armor. Hat and glove sizes fully considered. If only for your crafty, selfish ways and not your boundless naivety. Well, I hope you simmer in it! Simmer in the juices that your exhaustion immerses you in. Luxuriate furiously in the empty pleasure.
Fester, fester, rot, rot.
I am a true believer. An intrigued passerby and my heart shines timidly. Though I am warned by trepidation, your enticing luminous appearance hastily draws me in... blindly, magically. Soon this habitat in which you reside comfortably numb in brings a sense of familiarity to me that I am only able to find in a Lynchean dream sequence. Free fall. Slowly, I acquaint myself with the inability to hold onto my wisdom, a branch, something! The euphoria has overcome me. It paralyzes me; overwhelms me. A victim of my own wishful thinking. Oh clumsiness, oh frailty. I have no options. No choice, but to... burn, burn, burn! I burn my wings, so that I may hum my way out of the wicked charm that you momentarily possessed over me, enticing firefly. The combustion scars my optimism ever so briefly only to find myself suspended upon the grasp of thin air. In levity. Then fall flat on my face, on the abrasiveness of the hot asphalt.
Wait... I am awake again. I am alive. I am new. Thank you oh so beautiful firefly for reminding me that I have two valiant feet to walk away.