Gado Gado, the Low Down and a Recipe

This isn't a food blog! Though it probably looks like one. It's just that Gado Gado is such a fun and funny sounding word, and a food many people probably haven't heard of or eaten before, that I wanted to include a visual, and a little info.

Gado Gado is a mixed veg plate which often includes big chopped pieces of potatoes, cucumber, tomato, tofu, and cabbage, as well as bean sprouts, egg, carrots, green beans, and whatever else the warung might have hanging around.

Warung basically means restaurant in Bahasa Indonesian. Often you'll also be able to find gado gado at a little street stall.. or at night, places by the river, or on the main drag of Jogjakarta, a street called Marlioborough, you can find vendors who have laid down big blankets on the sidewalk and you can sit and order gado-gado and a jahe (sweet ginger tea), among many other things. For midnight snacks, hot watery chocolate milk and instant noodles, like Ramen, whether fried or in a soup, are also favorites.

All for less than a dollar, always.

I became very choosy about my gado gado, having sampled it from many places from around the city. The ibu on the corner near where I lived- she made it in a small cart which she ran with her daughter, open only for lunch, and the favorite among local becak drivers. Hers had a spicy sauce and always fresh crunchy veggies, though I was also partial to the warung outside my school whose gado gado included packed clumps of steamed rice called lontong, which had been wrapped and soaked overnight in banana leaves. YUM.

Much of the success or failure of the dish depended on the consistency and flavor of the sauce, a peanut sauce with a lot of ingredients in it. I loved to watch the ibus make the sauce, grinding and mixing all the ingredients up with mortar and pestle, pinching a bit of this, tossing in a splash of that... I'm salivating just thinking about it.

I am on a mission to find the best Gado Gado in San Francisco, but the mission hasn't begun yet. It's a mission I just decided upon right now. I think there are less than five restaurants even in the running, based on a quick and cursory search on Yelp for Indo food in the area. I will report back on my findings. In the meantime, here's a recipe so you can make gado-gado at home!

Sambal Kacang (Peanut Sauce)

Makes about 280 ml / 1/2 pint / 1-1/4 cups of sauce

This is the best-known, most popular sauce for satay. It is also used for gado-gado, and goes well with any grilled meat.

If you like your satay sauce chilli-hot, there are several quite passable powdered instant sauces on the market. For making it yourself, there are various so-called short cuts, most of them involving crunchy peanut butter. Avoid these; the method described below is as easy, cheaper and much nicer.

112 ml / 4 fl oz / 1/2 cup vegetable oil
225 g / 8 oz / 1-1/3 cups raw peanuts
2 cloves garlic, chopped
4 shallots, chopped
A thin slice of shrimp paste (optional)
Salt to taste
1/2 tsp chilli powder
1/2 tsp brown sugar
1 tbsp dark soy sauce
450 ml / 16 fl oz / 2 cups water
1 tbsp tamarind water or juice of a lemon

Stir-fry the peanuts for 4 minutes. Remove with a slotted spoon to drain in a colander, and leave to cool. Then pound or grind the nuts into a fine powder, using a blender, coffee grinder, or pestle and mortar. Discard the oil, except for 1 tablespoonful.

Crush the garlic, shallots and shrimp paste in a mortar with a little salt, and fry in the remaining oil for 1 minute. Add the chilli powder, sugar, soy sauce and water. Bring this to the boil, then add the ground peanuts. Simmer, stirring occasionally, until the sauce becomes thick; this should take about 8-10 minutes. Add the tamarind water or lemon juice and more salt if needed.

When cool, keep in a jar in the fridge. Reheat as required for use with satay or as a dip for lalab (crudites) or savoury snacks. The sauce will keep in the fridge for up to 1 week.

The vegetables:

112 g / 4 oz / l cup cabbage or spring greens, shredded
225 g / 8 oz / 2 cups French beans, cut into 1-cm / 1/2-inch lengths
4 medium carrots, peeled and sliced thinly
112 g / 4 oz /1 cup cauliflower florets
112 g / 4 oz / 1 cup beansprouts, washed

For the garnish:

Some lettuce leaves and watercress
2 hard-boiled eggs, quartered
1 medium-size potato, boiled in its skin, then peeled and sliced;
or 225 g / 8 oz of slices of lontong (optional)
1/2 cucumber, thinly sliced
1 tbsp crisp-fried onions
2 large krupuk, or a handful of fried emping, broken up into small pieces (optional)

Boil the vegetables separately in slightly salted water, for 3-4 minutes, except the beansprouts which only need 2 minutes. Drain each vegetable separately in a colander.

To serve, arrange the lettuce and watercress around the edge of a serving dish. Then pile the vegetables in the middle of the dish. Arrange the eggs, sliced potatoes or lontong, and sliced cucumber on top.

Heat the peanut sauce in a small saucepan until hot; add more water if it is too thick. Adjust the seasoning, and pour the sauce over the vegetables. Sprinkle the fried onions on top. Serve warm or cold. If you want to serve hot gado-gado, it can be reheated in a microwave oven. When reheating, however, do not include the lettuce and watercress, cucumber slices, fried onions, krupuk or emping. Add these garnishes immediately before serving.

Recipe from:
Indonesian Regional Cooking
By Sri Owen
St. Martin's Press, 1995
$18.95 Hardcover

You can use whatever veggies you want- this recipe doesn't call for as many as I'd use- I'd also toss in chopped cucumbers and tomatoes (raw) shredded carrots, etc. Bon Appetit! Or rather, Selamat Makan!!

Just Go For It!

What would it be like to be that kid- to play the character of Max- in the upcoming film, Where the Wild Things? He's probably only 10 years old...and already, his life is taking on such magnificent proportions. I hope child actor fame doesn't mess him up.

I have never looked forward to a movie so much!!

I was sitting on the couch reading the NY Times magazine cover story about Spike Jonze, the director behind Where the Wild Things are, the movie. More specifically I was reading about him and Maurice Sendak, and the "leaky valve" they share.

John B. Carls (a Hollywood producer) said that despite their 42 yr age difference, Sendak and Jonze are "both still very much connected to that child self. There's a valve in all of us that shuts itself off between childhood and adolescence and adulthood. With Maurice, there's a leaky valve. Spike is the same way. He sees the world as a big playground."

I'm not saying that all life should be fun, or that we are only here to play. But what strikes me about this notion of the world being a big playground is that natural, effortless way we can perceive possibility. There is a mantra we hear as children, that Anything is Possible! It gives us so much reason for hope and so much to look forward to. Somewhere, reality starts becoming more evident, starker, with expectations, obligations, and failures with real consequences. Such is life, right? But it was amazing to read about people like Jonze and Sendak, who seem to operate outside this realm. They have an idea, they believe deeply in it, and do whatever it takes to see it come to fruition.

I have ideas. Tens, hundreds of them. Books I want to write, stain glass panels I want to create, entire collections of quilts I want to design; dances I want to choreograph, photographs to compose. At most, I make lists of these ideas for future projects. I am almost certain they will never get made. I worry about not having the skills, the resources, the time. My doubts and worry choke my creativity. My motivation wanes as I don't believe I have what it takes. What caused this Inability to Do?

I don't know what would ensue or result or splash off the page or canvas or bound in leaps across a stage, if I didn't feel this sense of needing to weigh the costs against the benefits, doing some kind of risk analysis (is it worth the time? the money?) Furthermore, I fear letting others down, letting myself down, embarrassing myself with bad decisions, asking for collaborative help for something that doesn't go anywhere.

A knotted tangle of reasons starts to build a strong case for Why Not To....the playground is more a labyrinth of tunnels with varying degrees of darkness, where things MAY be possible...At Your Own Risk.

In reading this article, I thought about my own childhood, and adolescence. I recalled feelings of being on the top of the world, and then a going through a period where I realized I was probably more mediocre than excellent, but unable to let go of ideas of greatness, and the dreams of forging my own path, but somehow too scared to take necessary risks that that kind of achievement and ambition require.

I am reminded of the importance to be brave. I remind myself that exploration and adventure are exhilarating- and it's overcoming the fear and seeing yourself do those things you didn't think you could do- that the same thing that makes it scary makes it exhilarating. And that's why I love to travel. And swim in the ocean even when it's rough, and struggle to write things that press beyond the bounds of what feels comfortable in my psyche.

And I'm not talking about verrry frightening things with really huge consequences either- yesterday I tried making lasagna for the first time, and I was mildly petrified it would turn out horribly. I was afraid I would've wasted $24 on ingredients, and two hours of time, only to humiliate myself in front of my friends, who had already begun salivating at the prospect of a meaty, cheesy, veggie-laden lasagna. By the way, just an important quick fact about me- the only cooking I do is heating up cans of soup.

I chopped carrots, celery, onion, a red pepper. I learned a smooth and efficient French technique for chopping, easy and effortless! Blanched the veggies, then sauteed the sauce- ground beef, stewed tomatoes, tomato sauce and paste, stirring in the vegetables... cooking the lasagna noodles, layering them, with the sauce, sliced zucchini, ricotta cheese, mozzarella, it became clear. There was no way this wasn't going to be success. And even if it didn't, I was having a great time. Cooking is creating, and I think it gets the endorphins flowing. Thirty minutes after baking, everyone dug in. Mouths stuffed, sounds of sumptious satisfaction came spilling out between mouthfulls of lasagna.

It was DELICIOUS! Somehow, I feel reborn. Breaking up the dams that keep me from trying things I am curious about. Letting the creative juices flow. Letting go of the fear! Cooking lasagna!

I had major help from a friend, which was essential. If it eases the transition into your new Go-Getter ways, I recommend a kind, patient and supportive hand-holder. If no one is around, I recommend reaching out to that part of yourself that forgives yourself easily, and holding your own hand, and then smiling, while you take the plunge.

Carpe Diem!

Living in the Mission

Yes, the Mission is hip. It's where the young people live. The artist types and pseudo artist types and lots of other people too. And still very Latino, though Gentrification's got a pretty good grip on the neck of this neighborhood.

I enjoy being spoken to in Spanish, assumed to be Latina, and I can keep the pretense of my faux racial identity by conducting a short grocery store conversation. At the cashier, the woman will tell me what I owe in Spanish, I process it as quickly as possible in my head, hand the bills over; I can say "no bulsa" and "gracias" and "adios" and feel like my gentrification footprint is a little smaller, or at least, a little less visible.

Of course, anyone who's even lived in this country for five minutes, or watched a Taco Bell commercial for that matter, probably knows "adios" and "gracias" but the key is- using them in conversation, and being in the US and participating in the framework where Spanish is the first language, the language of choice, the assumed language-- makes me feel like I am still traveling a little bit. And I enjoy that.

Neighborhood buildings are covered in amazing, vibrant murals. Neighborhood sidewalks are covered in pigeon shit.

In terms of having a "San Francisco Experience" I am happy I get to live here, and with such cheap rent at that. But if I ever ease my way into being a legitimate resident, with both feet in the door (a rare, rare thing for me), I am kinda looking forward to moving to a new hood.

Well, I'm looking forward to being by the water. I want to hide a little bit when I say it, but to be completely honest, I think I'm a SoCal girl at heart. Venice....I'll get to you, eventually. There. Written in the dotmatrix ink of cyberspace, perhaps it will one day become a reality.

Down with Potato Power

Oh, did I need to clarify? I wrote the below post, the review of the Scent Opera, which premiered at the Guggenheim earlier in the summer, in June.

It was published on a blog about NYC.

So, what else is new.

I no longer eat potatoes. Furthermore, I have a personal vendetta against them.

When I first found out I'd have to give up potatoes, I grieved. The doctor/nutritionist had drawn a prick of blood from my ear lobe, and did an allergy test. He determined I had an intolerance for potatoes- my favorite food. Aware that all things need to be kept in perspective, I allowed myself to be mildly devastated.

Of course, I questioned his credentials. But as he was very expensive, I decided to at least try out his advice. I told myself I would not eat potatoes for two weeks and see what that was like.

Anyone that has lived with me knows (boarding school roomies, college roomies, post-college flatmates) that I always keep a big box of instant Potato Buds at the ready. If I've had a long, hard or bad day, I can be found at the kitchen counter pouring a heaping mound of those dehydrated potato flakes into the deepest bowl the cabinet holds. Maybe I'm exhausted, maybe I'm fighting tears, but autopilot guides me. I boil some water, grab the milk from the fridge, the butter too, some cheddar cheese, and position the salt and pepper. I wait for the water to boil, and imagine taking my first creamy bite, and know the tension will already be falling from my shoulders.

The water boils. I pour it atop the mound of flakes, until they are three quarters submerged. Next, a few splashes of milk. Then the butter, slices of cheese, two pinches of salt, and many grinds of fresh black pepper-- stir it all together-- make sure it's evenly mixed-- and then, as I almost cannot stop the drooling saliva from streaming out of my mouth, I fork as much as the utensil will hold, into my mouth. My mouth rejoices at the familiar flavors and comforting, creamy texture.

If the day has really sucked, I will eat another bowl, and then another. I don't drown my sorrows with ice cream, pot, or booze. It's all about the instant mashed potatoes.

So when the doctor told me it was a No Go on the potato, I began to panic.

Quitting potatoes, cold turkey, even for the first two weeks, when I promised myself it was just an experiment, was not easy. At brunch I'd stare longingly at someone else's homefries, hashed browns (the most painful for me, I truly love hashed browns, the greasier the better, like McD's breakfast ones and Waffle House franchises scattered across the south). It was the worst if the person I was eating brunch with didn't finish their potatoes and left them on the plate, and I had to watch them until the waitress finally would whisk them away. Going out to eat- all the things I would jump on- soup of the day is Potato Leek (YES!) now meant salad instead. Because I cannot bring myself to say "hold the potatoes" if the chicken or steak entree comes with roasted potatoes, or scalloped potatoes (another favorite), or mashed potatoes, I sigh and resign myself to the fish.

But before I knew it, I felt amazing. I had so much more energy than I used to- and my head felt clear. The usual battle against lethargy I had long waged, seemed to have struck a truce. My brain fog dissipated. And forgoing the potato was the only thing in my life that I had changed. The rest of my eating habits, sleep, or exercise regimens (lack thereof) had not changed.

I realized, all those years, when I had been so devoted and loving toward potatoes, they had been doing me wrong. Interestingly, or maybe not, the thing that was helping me cope, was making me feel like crap in the first place. I had been eating them up, and they had been keeping me down. I was furious! Ungrateful tubers! I vowed never to reach out to them again.

And so, to this day, my Potato Buds box sits unfinished, atop the fridge. My roommates have no interest in them, they cope with their bad days in other ways. I keep the box there to remind myself of not only my willpower, but the added determination I feel when giving the box the evil eye.

Skimmed Review of the Scent Opera (article published in a NYC blog)

Approaching the imposing Guggenheim on 89th Street and 5th Ave elicits a myriad of responses. Is it a staid fortress? Glorified toilet bowl? Gorgeous mammoth of sensual design? However you may feel about one of Frank Lloyd Wright’s most famous designs, one thing is clear- programming inside the museum remains on the edge of contemporary art.


Next month kicks off a new season of Works and Processes, one of the most exciting and interdisciplinary performance series to be found in New York. Produced by Mary Sharp Cronson and billed as “groundbreaking and carefully crafted programs that provide unprecedented access to today's leading performing artists, choreographers, composers, writers, directors, poets, and minds,”
(http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/education/works-and-process)
the performances often blur the boundaries between genres, pushing each art form into the avant garde. What makes the evening special, however, is that the performances are paired with an inside look into the conception, development and intentions of the works- with talks or panel discussions given by the artists prior to the piece. Rarely do we get to experience work with the creator’s insight, in a state of the art auditorium and intimate setting. At 285 seats, performances are often sold out.


Such was the case at the world premier of the Scent Opera, an operatic performance in which scents- yes aromatic wafts- performed the libretto.


The “olfactive libretto” was written by Stewart Matthew in collaboration with French perfumer Christophe Laudamiel
http://perfumer.s-perfume.com/christophe_laudamiel.html. New York-based composer Nico Muhly and Icelander Valgeir Siggurdson wrote a score so strange and beautiful it could be easily be performed as a work in itself. Capturing the imaginative whimsy and at times overwhelming visceral power of smell, the music was able to achieve an artfulness and nuance that surpassed the scents.
Each character in the opera was a smell- and the story arc- though seemingly convoluted- involved a cast of characters that were ensconsed in a struggle between nature and modernity.


During one half hour of music, scents that evoked nature tangoed with scents that evoked technology, each scent making its appearance in six second bursts. Earthy, dank and mulchy smells flitted and fought with metallic smells. There were twenty three scents in all. Often, it was too much for my nose and stomach to bear, and small waves of nausea pulsed through my body during particularly climactic moments of the opera.


How did we as the audience receive the smells? Enveloped by darkness, we sat with an interesting technological device- a microphone of sorts- at an adjustable length underneath our noses. Throughout the course of the performance, audience members either brought the scent-emitting microphones closer to their nostrils, or was often my case, pushing the device further away.


The scents came out in bursts, a stream of air with the odor riding in the vapor.


While unsure if I enjoyed the experience on a sensorial level, given the heavy olfactory barrage, I was awed at the innovation of the idea, and thus delighted in the opportunity to hear the creators speak about the work.


Laudamiel, Stewart, Muhly and Siggurdson spoke of the relationship of scent to music, with Laudamiel noting, ‘Perfumery should be the same kind of discipline as music or visual art,’ (The Wall Street Journal). Muhly explained how perfumes are like chords, with a series of notes that are released to varying effect. Matthew discussed the future of scent as an artistic medium, and all shared quirky anecdotes about sending vials back and forth across continents as the libretto’s “characters” came to take shape. Beyond the fascinating look into the evolution of this project enabled by the panel discussion, the creators were available to chat during the elegant reception following the performance.


Tickets for Works and Processes performances are $30, $25 for members and $10 for students.
Refer to http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/education/works-and-process/events-schedule
For the Fall 2009 schedule.

read in reverse

Hmm, so if you're interested in the Alaska story in terms of flow or chronology, you should read the last two blog posts in reverse order.

First read "Lost Cats in Noe Valley" and then read "Losing Time Means Losing My Mind"

Losing Time Means Losing My Mind

Another excerpt in working on my Alaska story. I am not sure what form this story is going to take- only that I know I want to write about my experience in Alaska and I'm just posting these as I go. I will tighten it up hopefully sometime later. I think it will help to just get my words out there. Releasing the pieces, as unpolished as they are, helps take the pressure off the delusionary quest for (personal) perfection....better just to write and move on and keep writing and keep moving on.

On my arrival in Nak Nek Alaska:

I got off the plane and looked around. I like small airports, one baggage claim, one airstrip. I feel like my arrival matters, I will not be lost in the mayhem. I collect my bag easily, but there is no indication for where I should go. There is a huge yellow school bus with a man holding a sign, “Trident Cannery” and almost everyone from my plane starts filing onto that bus. I want to go with them. Safety in numbers. Before climbing up the steps of the bus, the man I sat next to on the plane turns back and gives me a sad smile and a thumbs up. Suddenly I feel my only friend is leaving me. The school bus pulls away.

The parking lot, if you could call it that, is clearing out. A woman jumps out of an SUV with a big shaggy golden retreiver and asks if I’m LuLing. Yes…just like that? I'm the only one to pick up? I don’t know what to think, so I think nothing.

We drive. The dog calms me as I reach over the back seat to pet it. I let it lick me generously. I let it lick away my salt and my fear. There are endless fields of wildflowers. We make easy small talk about the weather up here, the population (300), what kind of wildlife roams (bears, moose, caribou, foxes, wolves), and after about twenty minutes, we’ve pulled up to a compond with some rusty boat hulls in a gravelly parking lot and shanty-looking clapboard buildings dotting a sprawling uneven acreage.

(Note to self: It hurts to go over this in my head. Do I need to recall the details? Can I just talk about the stuff I want to talk about? Do I have to tell the story with any kind of narrative cohesion? I only want to recall some, not all, of the memories. But will it make the story patchy?)

My dorm is called Waldorf Hysteria. I think it’s funny for the first day and by the third, I resent anyone making light of the shit we suffer through.

The only thing that can preserve my sanity, that can run its fingers over the fissures beginning to crack across the surface of my body and mind, is time. Time is the panacea, the caulking. Time means sleep, getting to eat, dialing the phone to the one voice out there who can soothe me. But time is always one step ahead, taunting me, as I chase its slithering tail. I cover my ears, and blot out its laughter.

We work sixteen hours a day, every day of the week. That leaves eight remaining hours that should, arguably, belong to me. But there is a line for the shower. There is a line to do laundry. There is a line to get food. There is a line at the payphone. I swat mosquitoes, exhausted and aimless, waiting. I wait to turn on the hot faucet and wash the sick stench of fish off my skin. I wait to dump my clothes in the washer. I wait til the Polish girl is done yelling at me because I have removed her clothes from the washer and some have fallen on the floor. I wait with my plastic tray to lift a lifeless heap of cafeteria grub.

For those of us desperate for time, waiting is the tax we pay. With pain, I watch my minutes pass. The first second of a new minute is a seed. The subsequent seconds build around the seed, packing around it, morphing and coalescing into a ball. After sixty seconds, a new seed forms, and the seconds pack around it, and each minute becomes a round hard unit, like a marble. As I stand waiting, hungry, tired, sweaty, itchy, longing, dirty, I watch as a big hand reaches into the last stash of my equanimity and pockets my marbles. I am losing them, and I feel my undoing.

Lost cats in Noe Valley and a Trip Back to Alaska

I'm house-sitting my cousins' apartment in Noe Valley. It's sunny, the wind is blowing, like an animated conversation between the trees and the hills. Back and forth, the swishing sounds and gestures of agreement (swaying this way) and disagreement (swaying that way). Everything is moving outside. It feels alive.

Inside I am working on my Alaska story. I will include its beginnings at the end of this post.

I almost had a heart attack this afternoon when I couldn't find the cat. I walked around the house, here kitty kitty....Micah....Micah where are youuuu? Micah, come out...I want to give you a treat... treat treat treat.....Micah...

Nothing. No sign of her. Went upstairs and looked all around the bed and the cushions on the floor, trying to suss out her secret sleeping places...Micah..I looked for her perched atop the bookcase or some other sneaky high landing...Micah come here girl.....

nothing.

I swallowed my panic. It was not going to help. First, I had to comb the house. I looked in the bathroom, in the shower, behind the curtains, under the sink. I looked in the spare bedrooms, even though the doors were firmly shut. My eye gravitated uneasily to the wide open window. My stomach rolled and I felt sick. I walked over to the window and looked down, holding my breath. I did not see any blood, any fur, any signs of distress- no limp and lifeless cat two stories below on the concrete. I kept pacing the house, kept looking back at the window, pacing the house, calling out her name, looking at the wide open window, cursing myself for leaving it open, and thinking, how the hell am I going to explain this? I lost your cat. I fell asleep for 15 minutes and when I woke up your cat was gone. Poof. Honestly, just like that....

Just then, out of nowhere, Micah strolls up beside me. Purring. When cats purr it's like there's a little engine inside their bodies, the whole thing whirring, the thin rib frame of it containing this warm emitting buzz and purr...and she looks at me quizically like, "Oh me? Were you looking for me?"

I can breathe again, and pour myself some juice.
And get back to work.

And here is what I'm trying to do with my Alaska story beginnings. Please excuse it, it's very rough. * * * * *

As I reached the designated gate at the Anchorage airport, it hit me- like the shattering thin glass of an exploding lightbulb- that I had given almost no thought at all to the reality of this little adventure that was in store.

The gate area was small, dingy, and gave a bad first impression. While the rest of the airport was rather new, slick, and allowed sweeping views of nearby mountains, the gate area looked like a community rec center that lost its funding years ago, but continued to leave its doors open for vagrants to wander in off the streets, and find respite from the cold. There was free coffee. A man who looked like he was battling a meth addiction was downing packets of splenda (also free). I counted the open sores on his face. A number of people looked like they had definitely done time. It’s a different crowd when most people prefer to be lying down and sprawling out on the unvacuumed carpet instead of sitting in the seats.

The only neatly dressed person was a girl in her late teens. Pouty lips painted a light glossy pink, hair smoothed into a ponytail, skirt short but not sluttily so. She had a stern aloofness that felt distinctly Eastern European. It took several seconds to realize that among the ex-cons sat a mail order bride, about to meet her Alaskan bushman for the first time. She made a regal effort to look only straight ahead, nonchalant. She crossed her legs at her ankles. With her air of forced superiority, I thought she seemed to be doing a good job steeling herself for what was to come. Perhaps I should figure out how to steel myself for what was to come?

I felt a wave of commiseration. A soft glow of realization began spreading through my mind- Maybe there was still time to turn back. Despite already dreading what I was about to get into, and having no idea of the nature of my work contract, I turned to the age-old comfort of relativity: a stint of factory work was surely child’s play compared to marriage. With her small hands tugging on the hem of her skirt, and my inability to think through my actions, who between us was the child anyway?

I took a deep breath and poured a cup of lukewarm coffee. I sat down. I felt pretentious reading my book. I watched the second-hand do its slow sweeping rounds, brushing back time from the face of the clock.

We boarded a tiny plane where we could choose our own seat, I sat next to a man covered in tattoos- sometimes I see auras and his relaxed me. It turns out he was petrified of flying, and I had to talk him through the turbulence as we suddenly saw nothing but the thick pillow-stuffed clouds tearing apart in the grey sky around us. When he gave me his phone number in Seattle, where he was going back to after several months of working on the crabbing ships, I pushed the scrap of paper down into the seat pocket in front of me when he wasn’t looking. Later, I felt guilty, and realized now was not the time to accumulate bad karma.

Writing Prompts: Sound, Texture, Taste, Color, Animal

So last night I went to my new writing class. I'm not sure if I will continue with the whole series, but the teacher was an excellent facilitator-- open, warm, nonjudgemental, quirky, spontaneous. I think seeing those qualities in your writing instructor enables you to do those things more readily yourself.

The class is meant to almost help you start over in your head- to lose all the preconceived notions about how to write, or what good writing is- to turn new soil and allow fresh ripe fruit of the imagination to become full and juicy in the greenhouse of your mind.

Her technique is rooted in the sensorial experience so we did a writing prompt that focused on Sound, Texture, Taste, Color and Animal. We used each of these as platforms to do a writing exercise describing ourselves. Aerobacize the mind, Leslie said.

I'll share my rapidly scribbled stream of consciousness jottings here:

I AM THE SOUND OF....

fire before it's made, the waiting as the wick leans its ear into the lick of heat

clouds forming

isolated droplets of the lightest, most gentle intermitten rain, hitting the waterskin drum surface of an enclosed pond, sometimes hitting a lily pad, sometimes not

I AM the sound of....

the furthest furthest imperceptible echo of an animal that has barely escaped its predator, the hooves and fearhorror lingering as dissipating palpables in a distantly reverberating terrain

I AM the sound of.....

a piano lid being slammed shut.

I AM THE TEXTURE OF....

tracing paper, the way fog obscures mountains in the distance

melted icecream disappearing down the drain, escaping, not something you'd want to lick up off the dirty sink surface yet are still sad to see go

I AM the texture of.....

a slightly bruised dark red cherry- one that you are on the fence about as you're scooping up cherries at the grocery store and decide, oh what the hell, and toss it into the plastic bag

a glacier cracking, revealing the electric blue slush of water below

I AM the texture of.....

melting wax that's almost too hot, pooling in your palm, except it's perfect to burn a little, like that.

I AM THE TASTE OF....

saffron rice, both cooked and uncooked
the taste of water is the pot with the rice, minus the water the pot, and the rice

I AM THE COLOR OF....

turquoise, but minus the kick, more seafoam, less committment, a little toothpaste, with a whole assortment of things dropped in: the sun, a volcano, broken pieces of firetruck, pieces of conch shelles, stained glass, cathedral buttresses, bricks from the Great Wall, angles of the Jewish star, a moonbeam as a strawstick, stirring the mix, blinding, breathtaking, and dull, when stirred long enough.

I AM THE ANIMAL....

part goldfish. little. unassuming. iconic. dumb. somehow with a unicorn brow, with gazelle spirit, gazelle timidity, tigress temper, dolphin in the eyes- empathy, playfulness, if you can get into the waters deep enough.

Fog Brain Gets Ready for Writing Class

Okay! Today is the right day for a new post. Why? I ran into the former-lawyer-rare-law-books-bookstore-owner at lunch this afternoon. Apparently we enjoy the same Atlas Cafe. He was both easy and difficult to recognize. He looks like he would be a famous actor, so I was sure if I had seen him in movies or in real life.

He had brought what looked like a miniature version of the NY Review of Books (have they gone small, like Rolling Stone did? And others?) and I was reading Francis Ford Coppola's literary journal Zoetrope: All-Story. Meaning, it's all stories. All short fictional stories. I was getting familiar with the latest issue as I am applying to be a reader for their editorial team. I love reading. I love thinking about what I am reading. So, I hope they will let me be a reader. They apparently get 10,000 submissions a year. I imagine a mountain of papers, piling up in the office, and the way you dig is with your eyes. What a journey.

Well, there is a lot to write about. I slept fitfully last night, terribly. In my sleep I remember saying to myself, "this is the worst night of sleep I've ever had." It definitely wasn't, I can already think of four other nights which were worse (freezing on Mt. Merapi in Java last year, the overnight train ride sitting on the hard seat for 17 hours where Booth slept UNDERneath our seats, with the spittle and the sunflower seeds and shoes and grime, so I could lay down on his seat--) and a couple others...but anyway. It was a bad night's sleep, and I tossed and turned, stopped and started, all punctuated by the confusing life story of my dream's protagonist, a man named Narcisco Rodriguez, a Latino baseball player turned fashion designer. I could not understand what he wanted or needed from me, but I was tugged along the whole ride, at the expense of my rest. I hope he is happy, wherever he is now.

So I awoke in a fog. I wanted to write my cover letter for this readership thing, but I couldn't think. It was as if the fog from the Bay had somehow rolled into my cranium, usurping, filling every groove or crease, or fogging up every synapse, or messing with whatever happens in the technoworks of the brain, fogging me up, fogging me down. I went to get a coffee, well, an iced and minty decaf from what, in my limited expertise, is the best coffee in San Francisco. Philz. For $4.00 i was taken to an entirely new psychic realm. The fog is dismantling. A whole new sensation is settling in.

In half an hour I have to leave for my writing class. It's a new class I have decided to explore, in efforts to bulk up my writing muscles. I am trying to get all the creative juices flowing- at this moment I intend to apply to MFA programs in creative writing. The most essential element of the application is the manuscript/writing sample, 20-30 pages. I really need to revamp what I've got, or start on some totally new projects. And I figure a class is a good way to get some inspiration and direction.

Ok just looked at google maps topographic and the address for the class is Hill St. This hill looks like no joke. Better jump on my bike, now.

Saved by the Book

What does it mean when someone says, "It saved my life"? Just how close were they to the edge?

Today I wandered into a cavernous room, full of natural light, ceilings high and reaching up into that great height, stacks and stacks of antiquated books. Leather bound, like the volumes in a stately home's private library, or in one of those secret collections that only historians gain access to in the library. An older man with a full head of white hair, seated behind a typewriter, looked at me quizzically before answering his own question, "Are you looking for something in particular?"

He told me most every visitor is a wanderer, straying out of the layperson-friendly Bolirium Books just across the way. His bookshop is a specialty shop for antique law books-- and he proceeded to show me court documents from Salem in the early 1800's (Dartmouth would be buying those) and other ancient legal miscellany. This place is more like his office- when he acquires something, he already knows who he should sell it to. He is something of a matchmaker, between the book and the library, whether the library be public or private.

I was so happy to be free from my terrible job, my bizarre and manipulative boss, the toxic spill that had begun leaching into the groundwork of my mind. I have time to explore, finally, this neighborhood that I live in, inhabit, but don't feel I interact with, or contribute to. This bookshop and others housed in the nondescript building I always passed on 18th and Mission comprised a fascinating floor of printed matter. You had to be buzzed in. I felt like I had entered a secret club but no password was needed, just an interest in books.

So up there on the third floor I spoke with this kindly older man who had a zest for antique legal documents and books. It was great. I suppose in theory I could imagine these kind of people existed, but I had never met one, and so I felt that much more informed of the greater scope of my fellow humankind.

Anyway, when I asked if he had been a lawyer before he said he had, and when I asked how he was enjoying his encore career in owning this shop, he said it had saved his life. I wonder how he came to rescue himself, or how these books, and this venture, came to rescue him.

From my Airplane Window, 16A

I would say, "I can't believe I cried during that stupid movie, Bridal Wars!" But of course I can. Of course I did. In the movie Anne Hathaway and Kate Hudson play best friends who both share the same dream of having a June wedding at the Plaza Hotel. In my mind this is a very stupid dream and thus a stupid premise for a movie. They fight for the same date, their friendship torn asunder, everything gets ugly, they hate themselves, then they make up. As tear after tear rolled down my cheeks, I could feel the large man beside me wondering if he should say something, or look at me softly and sympathetically, or just continue reading his book and pretend he couldn't feel the penetrating weepiness coming from the window seat to his left. He continued to read his book.

We are thousands of miles high. Below us, major thoroughfares cut through black squares dotted with orange lights. The roads slice through space but there are no cars to be seen. A baseball field is a tiny clamshell of empty green. An illuminated ghost sprawl grid of a city. We are on the brink of a huge body of water. But where are we? I guess Lake Michigan, but I have no idea. It's the only lake I can think of, vaguely in the middle of the country. But it's so big it looks like a sea.

Outside my little skyhole window, deep orange glows, painting a thick band until it fades to the place where the sun's breath does not reach. Various blues mix in the expanse.

I'm listening to the airplane radio channel, in the mood I call my "Airplane Mood." Unmistakeable. It's the mood I always experience when flying. It's very nostalgic, biting the vaguest lip of hope. I think to myself, if I can muster my most, I know it will work out ok.

Even though for years I have been flying these distances, back and forth, coast to coast, continent to continent, never getting any closer to the answers...only coming up with the latest batch of questions. Dusk fades to evening.

I turn on the overhead light. I am in the spotlight of this row, the limelight of my story. Isn't it funny? In the film or play of my life- I am the star, the hero...and the villain. The protagonist and antagonist. I rise. I fall.

I tunnel east.

I look outside. This is not the first time I've thought to myself, "This is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." I live for this---- this moment of awe. This taking-my-breath-away. This feeling of awe, for some reason, though it does not answer any concrete questions like, "What will I be when I grow up?" "Should I even be dating at all?" "What city should I live in?" "Should I apply to graduate school?"-- is still an answer. Perhaps, the answer. When I wring my hands with a question like one of the above, often tormented by lack of direction in life and love, I channel a sunset like the one I see outside-- as I fly high above everything and perspective is restored-- and answer a concrete question with an abstract sunset, and somehow it still makes sense.

When should I quit my job? Sunset.
Should I fly home for july 4th? Sunset.
Can I really live so far away from my whole family? Sunset.
Should we break up? Sunset.

Sunset.
Anticipating my next barrage of anxious questioning....the sun continues blazing...pooling puddles of deep amber on the horizon. Colors bleed across a darkening sky. I feel the next insecurity rise and so I look out-- the sun responds, still setting. Its steadiness is is comforting, and its artfulness is exhilarating.

The burning river of red, the slow swallow of night. The daily giving up, the sun's surrender. I see the half moon settle brighter and brighter into its throne. Trading places. And hours later, trading places again. They share so well, day and night. Is it the same, life and death?

Or do the sun and moon simply fight this changing of the guard in a language we don't understand?

Lunch with Xander

Exhausted at work, trying to kick the minor caffeine habit. I like the idea of habit and routine- but not the reliance or addiction it may encourage. I don't want to be addicted to anything. But I could use more structure, and more zing! in the morning. A couple glasses of water doesn't quite get you going like a steamy chai tea latte.

Yesterday was sunny, Memorial Day. I totally forgot to memorialize. Ironic?

A moment of meditation for all those who have served, and honor to my grandfather, who is thankfully still here to tell his war stories. My favorite one is about the guy who somehow knew the day he was going to die, wearing his coat on a hot day, feeling so cold. He was also from New Mexico-- which I consider to be the most mysterious state in the nation.

I had lunch with my friend Xander yesterday. I met him in Ulan Bataar, Mongolian, he was a social studies teacher at a local Mongolian high school and I was writing for the English paper, the Ulan Bataar Post. It was trivia night at the expat pub. I played with some Peace Corps volunteers who hailed from various remote parts of the country to do some organizational stuff in the capital. I helped my team with one answer. I knew the name of the Russian dog that had been sent to the moon, Laika.

Anyway, now Xander and I both live in San Francisco and instead of lunch in the remote countryside where we each were riding horses into the Mongolian steppe, we now walk around and patronize cute brunch eateries. While I much prefer tofu scrambles and freshly squeezed OJ to endless bowls of mutton dumplings, there was something a bit off in walking with Xander down Valencia Street. Where was the cool lake air? I am too tired to go into all the thoughts I had about Mongolia and loss and thinking to myself, Why can't I just walk down the street and have it be just that- walking down the street? Why does it become an elegy to past sacred experiences that are so distant and no longer?

Xander and I were looking for Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway. Every used bookstore had Orlando or To the Lighthouse....but Mrs. Dalloway is in hiding. I believe so deeply in supporting used and independent booksellers. But I'm afraid the Amazon is the only place Mrs.Dalloway cannot hide.

Back to work. Fingers heavy.

Why is it that so few people seem to love their work?

Am I making this up or is there some kind of pressure to wear a new outfit to work every day?

I find the prospect tiresome, and I resent it slightly. Today, in a mixed gesture of simplicity and "Does it even matter at all??" I decided to wear the same exact thing I wore yesterday. It made me feel peaceful, like I could do whatever I wanted, and meet no resistance internally or externally. I cruised into work in a good mood.

Over the next couple of hours, work got a lot less peaceful. I am trying to maintain my equilibrium and my tranquility. Growth and development can be an agonizing process. There are a lot of snaggles and kinks in the transformation. We are a very young non-profit foundation so I am learning a lot of lessons about organizational management (and mismanagement). I feel at times that my spiritual endoskeleton cannot support the weight of this non-profit's growing pains. Coming to work is like participating in another culture, observing new customs, procedures and protocols, rules of communication, behavior...everything is different-- and while I have never really worked in a conventional work environment anyway.. this is certainly a new experience, and one that I find very draining.

Sometimes I feel this environment to be very toxic. The problem with having grand visions and boundless idealism is the continuous stream of disappointment, the crushing blows of even the most minor reminders of reality's limitations. Ie, your staff is not going to work seven days a week, no matter how badly you want that. I see how painful this is for my boss. She is in her final stage of life and she finds it very difficult to imagine leaving this plane without a passionate disciple to step into her shoes. She has very unique feet. I can see how her shoes might fit her, and not anyone else. I don't want to squeeze into them. I am trying to wriggle out of that. I am not sure what I am doing here, besides earning enough for my sunny room in the Mission district and the cost of living in this world, and trying to make her anxious and angry moments less exhausting for her and everyone else. Is this what it takes, to support myself? At the risk of not supporting myself, in a less tangible, but more important way?

The lesson I am discovering today: While one must earn enough to pay her physical rent, she cannot overlook the necessity of paying her pyschic rent. And I am coming up short every month. In fact, I may be coming up short every single day.

Morning Question:

What is the difference between impulsiveness and spontaneity?

Writing Exercise

I'm in way too many writing groups, behind in all of them, reminded of how badly I want to write- and how I never seem to find the time. I have essays bubbling over in my head, with the words swimming against the current of life's constant occupation with the banal-- a few words have the stamina and weightiness in my mind to string themselves into sentences that yank themselves into existence- making their way thru my fingers toward the page. It's kind of sad- so I have little to share as of yet, but I thought I'd include a small writing exercise I did in one of my writing groups.

The exercise was to draw from a list of trees or animals (I chose trees), and write about yourself "When I was a young child, I was a (blank) tree...," "When I was a teenager, I was a (blank) tree...," and "By the time I reached my twenties, I had become a (blank)...."

I think we wrote this in five to ten minutes, so it's very rough. But I want to keep this blog active, so I'm going to cull from all corners of my life- including haphazard stream-of-consciousness jottings. So here we go.

* * * * *

When I was a young child, I was a birch tree. Just like a birch, I had supple limbs, boughs that bent like they would snap. They never did. Resourceful, I supplied myself from myself. My skin was paper. I began to write. It was fun playing with the wind.

When I was a teenager, I was a maple tree. Maple trees are temptestuous with the seasons, and many times over these years I would change colors, especially when the cold set in. My cheeks flushed crimson, knowing the turning hand of earth and those not yet men. Uncorrupted, I still trickled a sweetness, my laugh like syrup.

By the time I reached my twenties, I had become a fern- closer to earth, less conspicuous, a soft lining for the forest floor. I don't have a trunk anymore, I am made of less, spread out more, travel, remain rooted lightly. I lap up the light in all directions. I leave less of a trace. I am one who always seems to know which way the water goes.

Acupuncture and Refrigerators

Just back from acupuncture- tenderness in my inner ankles, in the place between my thumb and index finger, a tingling rush from the center of my head. The sensation is something like having an egg cracked on top of my head, and instead of a sticky, runny yolk, cascading down and onto my shoulders, there is a cool blue light, with a consistency of mist, spreading out all around my skull, soft and rushing quietly like a very mini waterfall pouring from the top center of my head. It feels sublime.

During acupuncture I often experience a series of break through moments. One is enough, and none is okay too, but of course I prefer multiple revelations to one, and prefer one to none. How do I describe the state I'm in whilst I'm in the chair? Not awake, not asleep. Not here, nor there. My eyes are closed, but I am still seeing things- flashes of light when the reflective surface of a car drives by the front window of the room, and light shines and reflects everywhere. In fact, I have no idea if this is really the case- because my eyes are closed I cannot see if there actually was a car that just drove by. It is just my guess.

Sometimes I do fall asleep, and I dream. Othertimes I am in the neither here-nor-there place, and I still dream, a different kind of dream. So perhaps dream is the wrong word. But there is sometimes a loose narrative, visual imagery, sensory involvement.. Last week I was tunneling through the universe, in its infinite darkness, following the inner spiral of a conch shell, elongated, and a creamy pink. Like the kind we find on the beaches of Shelter Island, where we go every summer, they are never complete. Often broken and lying around like ocean's porcelain set after an earthquake, scattered like tiles and shards of bone, I like to pick up the shells. I used to only want the fullest, most complete ones. But now I realize, the more broken they are, the more you can feel of the inside curvature, the smooth pink insides. And that was where I was traveling during last week's acupuncture session, along the smooth pink spiralling inside of an infinite conch shell, tunneling deeper to the heart of space.

What are the kinds of revelations I have? Today I experienced a sensation of being leveled very flat. Myself as I know it or feel it, is usually three dimensional, rising upwards and outwards in space, holding volume, being mobile. For a brief moment, I felt myself suddenly only a very thin horizontal layer, like I had been gently compressed, I didn't feel any weight on me, but I occupied only a space like a piece of paper lying flat on a desk. I was like that- a piece of paper- that experienced emotions and sensations, lying softly on a flat surface.

What came to me when I existed like that, as a sort of piece of paper? When I am 28, I will spend a long time in India. Maybe a few months or a year.. but I am sensing longer rather than shorter. It will be a transformational time. Every time is in some way transformational- and some more profound than others. So what I should've said is, it will be a profoundly transformational time.

Something else very important came to me. I needn't put so much pressure on myself. I thought I had to be doing something big now. NOW. Opening an art gallery, publishing a book, getting a MA or MFA, some kind of concrete forward movement to justify and show to the world at large that I was making an evidential progress- that I was not a waste of a person or a family's resources, that I had reason to keep existing. It is strange- to not choose to exist, and yet to feel obligated to justify your existence. Perhaps it is just me who feels this obligation- to prove that you are worthy of this life experience- anyway, this is a longer conversation thought I can tell, and I am already late to meet my friend two blocks away.

Refrigerator men are in the kitchen, our frig is having trouble, again. A big machine, it's so strange, its like a body- sitting there, stationery, stalwart. We open its door, and inside its constantly cold body, we store the things to put into our bodies. When it's sick, it can't maintain its body temperature, it buzzes louder and louder, calling for attention. Some men come, the refrigerator doctors, and do some minor surgery. Everything is better. Cold again. Its cavernous chest can now hold our things. Except the acupuncturist just to me- no more cold foods. Steamed vegetables, soup, warm things. Avoid juice (no juice!? I often wake up and CRAVE juice, in my mind thinking "mmmmm I want juuuuuuice...", and if I want fruit, dried fruit. So, foreseeably, if I am dedicated enough to follow her advice, I might not be using the refrigerator at all.

Questions of the early afternoon

Some things I am thinking about before I get ready to go across the street to acupuncture:

Does Costco culture make Americans less spontaneous?

Can you be successful at a job where you don't believe in the company's mission?

If you are not a new agey person and yet you see visions, how should you make sense of this experience? What should be done about it?

Is it wrong to buy goods you know to be stolen?

What, if anything, should we feel obligated to do if we are part of a neighborhood's gentrification?

Ok now I have to get ready to go. I will however try NOT to keep thinking about these things as I am lying back in the reclining chair at the acupuncturists, because that is my favorite space to let my mind go, and only feel the changing sensations in my body.

Talk to you later.

What has happened since?

It's a grey and drizzly day, which I am so thankful for. The weather has been so good, too good- debilitatingly good. I moved to California because I had notions of endless shorelines and radiant sunshine, and I was not mistaken. But productivity nosedived as I felt I owed it to myself to spend as many waking walking minutes in the sun as possible, to compensate for those couple of long winters in Scotland and captive living in NYC, no matter how long ago they were. It seems as if prior Vitamin D deficiency is a condition that could require a long convalescene..much time to repair....perhaps involving many trips to the Caribbean, Mexico, and anywhere else I need to justify spending endless amounts of time. Ok I will pass on Mexico until the whole Swine Flu thing blows over.

So, as this morning's grey curtains parted and afternoon dreary skies remain, I have already achieved something monumental: narrowed down health insurance plans to four options. This process has taken me months, unforgivably, but it seems impossible to foresee what will be the best line of defense against unknown events. But impossible or not, it has to be done. I do believe that whatever work you do, you should do it well, even if it's not your passion, because it can make a huge difference in someone else's day, if not life. My insurance help-agent saint or whatever she would be called, Rachel, has held my hand through the process, and finally made it manageable enough that I can now call my parents without dreading this inevitable topic of conversation. I can't believe I'm blogging about choosing health insurance so it's time to talk about something else.

Except one more thing- you know you have a good friend if he/she is willing to sit down with you and help you narrow down those four options to a single one- a plan of action. So, thank you Eric, and for our date on Friday afternoon to take care of this exciting business. I will buy him an icecream in compensation. Even with four possible plans, I am still bogged down in the existentialism inherent in choosing an insurance policy. He will steer me clear of these conversations that paralyze my decision making process on purchasing a plan: What is life? What is health? What is fear? How do I balance those, with cost? What is money? What is money to me when aiding or impeding to feeling safe? Feeling free? AI YA

Work. Work just got a lot better. I am now resident biographer of my fascinating boss. I am no longer strictly relegated to trolling around facebook and myspace, trying to make the vast world of social networking relevant and useful in promoting the activities of my non-profit. The first chapter is about how she would like to die.

Acupuncture. Acupuncture is, for better or worse (but probably a lot better) my new drug. Because I now have to get ready to leave for a networking event (on "networking" days I am always sure to wear my unique Camper boots that people can't seem to notice without making some kind of comment-- so that's my trick for getting people to talk to me. I'm not shy-- but I'm also not the first to make the first overture-- except when I met Tom, because he was wearing even more "flair" than me- I was indeed wearing my boots, but he one-upped me, because he was wearing a plastic sword in his belt.)

So, I will talk about acupuncture tomorrow. And my nightmarish day yesterday, which involved lots of losing. Losing a bike, my patience, my way, my words, almost my mind, (but only for a moment). I also took a bite into a melted chocolate truffle that exploded in a flying chocolate puddle all over my clothes. It felt like some kind of metaphor for my current life. I am trying to get to the sweet core, all at once, but instead it's very messy and unpredictable.

See you soon!

Hot Hot Hot!

San Francisco heat wave. It's 10:30pm and mid April, but if you closed your eyes, you would think it was an East Coast summer night. It's actually HOT. Just two nights ago I was sleeping with my windows tightly shut, and even the sleeping bag draped over my duvet for added warmth. Today I am reeling from Vitamin D Delirium, and so I came up with a new nickname for sunstroke: Vitamin Delirium. It feels so good......until it feels so bad. Yesterday was the same way.

It was brilliantly sunny, blinding. It felt well over 80 degrees, the sky was cloudless, the grasses looked parched, there was a distinct summer buzz in the air. Everyone was out. We walked along Crissy Field, by the water and marina, bikini-clad bodies burned and browned themselves and somehow people were crazy enough to do sports in this heat- running, volleyball, frisbee, I could barely get myself to keep walking. In the car, DJs, in their famously smooth voices, made comments to their listeners about making sure to stay cool in this heat wave. I love when DJs play "cool jams" to take some of the simmer off the summer.. it reminds me of when I was in Taos New Mexico and a bolt of lightning struck the mountain and started a forest fire- and for twenty four hours the DJs only played songs that had the words "rain" or "water."

After lying out in Dolores Park, full of unemployed or springbreaking sun worshippers, we devoured ice cream. Jarema got the salted caramel and honey lavendar. I am relegated to sorbet, always. We walked and walked, with the heat rising up off the asphalt... it's so great having Jarema here, and imagining walking around the Mission as if it were only my first couple of times. It does feel like a small town, and in some ways, I do miss the anonymity of New York, and in other ways, that was one of the things that always made it so easy to leave.

I bought two beautiful succulent plants. I cannot rest my feet enough. I just wanted to tell you, simply, how hot it was today. Jarema loved it. I found it oppressive. I'm not siding with papa on this entirely, but there is something about the cold I crave on a night like tonight.

9-5: Workin the Grind

I steal out of work early, it feels covert, exciting. I'm leaving at 4:50, skimming ten delicious minutes off the hour. 9-4:50 sounds so much better than 9-5.

And yet, I'm not home til 5:45pm. It's nearly six, and the weight of the day is heavy on me. I come home exhausted. Part of me, the part that listens to the heaviness of the limbs, wants to flop into bed and feel the tension drain from each isolated muscle, taut with its own tension. The other part of me sends quick messages to my collective being, to rally, to generate internal momentum, to salvage and redeem the day. Pluck the remaining hours from the dark hand of night! Get out and do something!

I loathe to think that what I enjoy of my life must happen between 7-11pm. I always think, this is when I should focus on my writing, since I'm in two writing groups and about to fall behind in both. But it just feels like another chore. It feels like I need to be outside- or if I'm not going to be outside, I need to be at least outside my mind. Before I started working, and I was writing my memoirish pieces, there would be whole days devoted to digging through the recesses of my mind, unearthing the humor and pain, traversing those psychic seas with bravery. Now, I cannot imagine mustering that energy- to steer through my memories with focus and direction. The thought of it overwhelms me, I'd rather just go and get an icecream cone and watch the sunset from my periphery.

My favorite after work activities include: tennis, ice cream, pizza, movies. I feel like I am happy simply, with these ingredients, sports, sugar, cheese, an engrossing moving image that distracts me from the petty drama of my own life.

Speaking of sugar, I saw an incredible film by the same name. It follows a fictional dominican baseball player pitching for the dream, a chance to play pro ball in the US. With beautiful and honest feeling cinematography it traces his journey from the island to Iowa, where he starts out playing for the minor leagues. Iowa is a perfect place to capture the stunning rural landscape while evoking the cultural isolation a Dominican would feel in a place like the midwest. I usually find baseball so intolerably boring. This movie reminds me, there is the symphony of suspense in all things- if examined in a particular way.

I write a lot for my job but when i come home I have lost the inspiration for my own writing. Today is a rare exception. I think it's because the nice spaced-out guy at the cafe made me a regular latte instead of a soy chai, and my mind is zooming with a vague dull throb. I know that sounds oxymoronical but fatigue+stimulant= mental run-off trapped in heavy fingers, words spurting out, little aim.

I want to write in a new language. I'm reading the Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. It has tons and tons of reviews, critical acclaim. Only fifteen pages in, I know I like it, I like the author, I like what's happening in my mind when the words tunnel into. But sometimes he's talking to us, as readers, too much, too gimmicky. And I think,who am I to say? I'm the one trying to pass off personal emails as essays I want published in the Paris Review. I need to start over, or somewhere, or at least sometime soon.

Words can fly, I know they can, but it's kind of gross and sad, I see clipped wings all around my feet. Working on sweeping it up, working on it.

For now, I release these words and jump in the shower. Wash it all away, and start again.

Once in a Blue Moon

late this afternoon, 5:45pm
A rainbow had the whole bus excited, pressed to the left side window, taking photos on our phones. A communal joy in witnessing and capturing a rare natural splendor.

There was something very prophetic in the atmosphere, something revelatory, the kind of moody air where i imagined if ever there was a loud voice to come booming from the clouds, or a bird to crash into my window with a message in its mouth, this would be it. the sky was dark when i awoke, despite the arrival and passing of dawn, and it rained half the morning while at work. it had this earth-quenching effect, after this endless string of sunny days, i could feel the rain was sorely needed, a sort of universal thirst had taken hold, and was being sated. and so it rained and rained and the sky had that seasoned edge to it, after a storm, low powerful clouds, thick and lined dark grey at the bottom, and like a Wong Kar Wai film shot in mostly a blue hue, the day had taken on this surreal and painterly charge. the sky felt weighty with implied importance, like the last verse of a poem. i guess it was the final chapter of the day, before evening sets in.

Now it's night, and in my window I see the moody drift of clouds passing over the light of the moon. My room is a theater of the Moon- I watch her rise over the horizon, lifting higher and higher, til the highest corner of my window. All from my desk, as I surf the internet, contemplate my next steps, I watch the Moon's gliding steps upwards, a direction I hope I can follow.

It's always hard writing the first sentence after any kind of break from the practice of writing. It's only been several weeks but once I fall off the bandwagon of writing, the feat of getting back on takes on an irrational dimension. Falling off the practice of writing, for me, unfortunately also means falling off the practicing of seeing- in the way that ee cummings said it, where you see with the "eyes of my eyes" and listen with the "ears of my ears," perceiving with an experiential depth that motivates me enough to share these experiences.

Yesterday I went to see a play called "SF Follies" with my eighty four year old boss, coworker, and coworker's boyfriend. The set was very camp, with a sparkling glitz. The show was fastmoving, overtly upbeat, a quick survey of San Francisco's history through the decades and a survey of its various neighborhoods and their stereotypic reputations. Parts were funny, I listened to the sound of my own laugh. It struck me as very odd, the way my body moved and the sounds came out when humor was triggered in my brain. I felt like I was having an out of body experience during the whole show.

It started when I was taking the bus to the theater. I was developing a bit of a headache. It was a so bright and sunny outside that everything seemed whitewashed that morning, light brushed this blinding sheen on the reflective surfaces of cars, on the pavement, on the sweat shine of people's faces. The bus passed through the Tenderloin district, I saw a woman shooting up on the street. A boombox was haphazardly positioned on top of a shopping cart full of junk, while another woman, with her hair in every direction and her large breasts sagging to the bottom of her shirt, danced. I was happy, in some sad way, to see drug addicts dancing. It made me think, maybe they are actually having a good time. Maybe in some way, they are having a better time than me. I know that is a weird way to think or perceive the situation, but for a second, that was the thought I had.

There were a couple of male junkies too hanging out in this particular cluster that I got a close look at as the bus was stopped at a light right beside them. But the one who held my attention the longest was a woman whose face had the most mangled expressions. I couldn't fathom how her facial muscles were moving in such a way, stretched taut so far apart from one another, with each feature seeming to operate in isolation- there was no unity to the way her mouth was moving with what her eyes were doing or how her head was shaking-- I couldn't make out if she was laughing or yelling or smiling or contorted with pain...it made me very uncomfortable.

Of course, in the play, it was so comedic and satirical and they made a few jokes about the Tenderloin being right around the corner. I thought of the term, "tenderloin" and it sounded soft, malleable, like meat you wanted to marinade. It didn't sound like a name for a crackhead neighborhood. Though maybe it connotes a sexual vulnerability, which in some twisted way, could be fitting.

After the play we were supposed to discuss with the producer the possibility of adapting the play to focus on Haight Street and the Summer of Love (1967) and that general era, to be performed at the B+B where I work as a kind of supper club/theater review. I couldn't hold a sentence together, I tried to smile agreeably and nod my head when I thought something productive had been said, but my headache had gotten worse and I was starting to feel like someone in a wax museum. I looked a lot like a person, but I didn't feel like a person, I felt like I was posing beside my boss as the illusion of an assistant. Fortunately, my coworker is very charming and with-it, and she exuded 100% human-ness.

When I got home my migraine took hold and I drew the curtains and kept all the electrical appliances as far from me as possible. Normally I have no qualms about having my computer screen up and facing my room, my phone next to my ear as I speak, my printer sitting solemn and boxlike on the corner of my desk. But with my migraine throttling, I became very sensitive to the unhealthy waves I was perceiving radiating out of these machines. My phone was hot in my hand beside my head, it felt dangerous--- as if it finally made sense why people wear the earphones and are wary of the radiation. The cablebox for our internet is visible from my bed, and its flashing green lights darted, blinking madly, and with my head pounding at the vaguest semblance of light, appeared as some kind of single deviant constellation that had descended into my room.

This is only the second migraine I've ever had- the first was in Colorado several years ago where even the light of the stars felt blinding, the crescent moon lshone ike a volcanic furnace in my eyeballs. I drank tons of water, slept it off, and this morning I awoke, reborn.

Living the Dream

Yvoire, France.

Today I basically had the dream day that I would like to use as my model for Dream Life. It was strikingly simple. Which makes me happy, to think I am satisfied with something rather low-maintenance. (Though it does involve being in a beautiful place.)

I woke up at 7:30am. Had breakfast with my better half. Ate something light but also something sweet, which puts me in a good mood, because eating dessert for breakfast makes me feel sneaky, but as a semi-adult, like I am getting away with it. It wasn't terribly unhealthy: cornflakes, a croissant with nutella, and a cup of hot chocolate with a shot of espresso tossed in.
The caffeine perked me up.
Tom left for work/class which means I have the day to myself.

Spent a couple of hours browsing the web. Caught up on the news, looked at some impressive and inspiring things people are up to (grassroots NGO's, photo-essays in remote regions of the world, these kinds of things get me energized to make something of myself), and talked online with a couple of friends- which makes me feel less like a lone satellite orbiting in a meaningless void. Keeps me close to home.

My friend Gozaldi, from Indonesia, was online.. I even knew which internet place he was at, I could imagine him in the booth, drinking some overly sweet soft drink and chainsmoking. He never realizes how far down the cigarette has burned and inevitably huge clumps of ash will fall onto the keyboard. It was so nice to know exactly how it was all going down, thousands of miles away, somewhere so different from here it is difficult to even fathom. He and I brainstormed Indonesian names for the gallery I want to open, I like all the double-words in Indonesian, like "gila-gila" (which means crazy), "laki-laki" (boy/man), "cumi-cumi" (squid), "jalan-jalan" (take a walk), but none of those are exactly fitting for an art gallery. I was glad to have another fond memory of Indonesia, the quirky fun of those words popping and rolling off my tongue.

We then talked about his "soundpedia" the sound art installation he is making to tell the history of Indonesia since 1850 (through sound and musical composition). I am again reminded of the fascinating, tumultuous history of Indonesia and affirmed in my desire to facilitate greater exposure to the really cool and innovative art happening there now.

Then I went for a walk: which today brought me to the harbor and lakeside of the vast Lac Laman, or when we are in Switzerland, Lake Geneva. I found some trails that led through woods alongside the lake, and stretched my legs, got my thoughts circulating for my writing. A couple of small boys hid under a wood-planked bridge and as I walked by/over it, poked sticks up at my feet. It was so cute!

I marvelled. This village is centuries old. Stone fortress like buildings, dead ivy sprawled and clinging to their sturdy yet forlorn surfaces, narrow little pathways between more ancient architecture... the sound of gulls squawing. Big stones by the water had a strange discomforting moss on them that looked like the toupee my middle school French teacher used to wear (RIP M.Slater). There was a species of bird I had never seen before, plump and black and white, hanging out on the dock, a pair of these birds, something of a cross between a penguin, duck, swan, and dodo. Bizarre, right? There was a huge swan- looking at it- I felt it must have been a mutant or a freak. When I think of birds, I first imagine a sparrow or swallow, something tiny and chirpy that darts around deftly. This swan looked like the t-rex of birds. I found it frightening, sculptural, dangerous.

How weird is it that the Queen owns all the swans in England? I was glad this swan is in France, a French swan, because I had a feeling it would not bow down to the Queen. How unnecssary is that- for the Queen to own all the swans? Is it just to remind us of an unnecessary unappealing British need to own lives, which they deem inferior, and feel justified in possessing, en masse, by some divine allowance? Very strange to me. Poor swans. Where other birds can live in freedom, the swan is the serf of the Queen.

Anyway, listening to the lapping of waves on the pebbled beach brought my thoughts elsewhere, and yet focused them at the same time. So now I am properly inspired to write about the disintegration of my time in Indonesia, some key moments in that confusing, colorful, depressing, rainy chapter of my life, and how it led me to China..where I gratefully and athletically pursued Redemption!

In short, I love life in this tiny French medieval village. I feel like I could write a thousand essays if I lived here.

Cheese is the new Freddie Kruger

Tom doesn't want me to keep him up but it's actually his fault because he brought us to eat fondue, even though he read my previous blog post that expressly stated I was sick of cheese and bread. What did we eat tonight? Yep, you guessed it.

The cheese was in fact delicious, but had an effect similar, but different, to a double espresso. It made me feel woozy, giddy, drugged. I dread sleeping, what mayhem will wrack my dreams tonight I hesitate to imagine.

It was midnight and the city was nearly comatose. Walking on a winding, little cobblestone alleyway, a line of MGMT's hit song, "Time to Pretend" wafted out of one of these archaic and movie-set apartments, with the high ceilings, ornate metalwork balcony and the stone gargoyles above. As the city of Lausanne lulled, I was jerked awake with the vivid memory of watching Andrew and Beno do their MGMT act (back then it was The Management) in the backyard of Fountain (a street at Wesleyan with student housing), a late spring block party, everyone was there. The night air was sweaty with possibility, beer flowed from the kegs. How could I ever imagine that later, I would see their faces on a huge plasma TV at a junky expat bar in China, or hear that unforgettably catchy line drifting near the ancient cathedral in Switzerland?

Did they see this all coming? What can we see for ourselves?

---Now I'm writing this the next morning. I was right- my dreams were a disaster. I was in several car crashes, driving a car maniacally in reverse, at about 100mph, not knowing how to brake. After several attempts at getting someplace and bashing up the vehicle, I thought in my sleep, which shouuld I distrust more, cars or cheese?
I also dreamt of being conned into trying on a unicorn hat while a man tried to steal my things, and arguing with old friends. Needless to say, this morning, as I try to finish my writing excerpt on my time at the rainy season in Indonesia, my time at the monastery in China, and a Swedish girl with a mushroom top haircut.

Swiss Miss

Lausanne, Switzerland.

It's a grey day, drizzly, the kind that you can be thankful for, if you were looking for an excuse to stay in. I have a big excerpt due tomorrow, for my writing class that I'm taking in San Francisco, and I was afraid I'd feel guilty for being in Switzerland, having never been, and not even inclined to walk around.

From my perch on the big bed, I see all sorts of houses everywhere. Some are plain, concrete and stucco looking, bearing no resemblance to the marvelous and historic looking houses we saw yesterday in the small towns in champagne-country as we drove through France. The kind with high arched windows, strong wooden shutters, ornate stonework, lined behind cobblestoned streets. But some of the houses in my view are more interesting- with peaked tile roofs and billowing chimneys. We chose a room that faces the street, instead of the more expensive one, which was significantly smaller and had bad feng shui, but which faced the lake.

Taking a break from my writing, I walked down to the lake. I like being in countries where I don't speak the language, I feel like I get to disappear a bit, and become half human, half ghost. I feel free of normal societal participation. This is a sensation I really enjoy.

Approaching the lake.... this lake is as big as a sea!
Mist rises off the water and the blue is almost a grey. A few gulls swoop listlessly and a flock of geese pass, making a noise unlike anything I've ever heard. They didn't sound like other geese, their sound was a rather high-pitched whirring, and made me wonder if it was not in fact the sound of their wings rotating, rather than a noise coming from their long throats.
Mountains rose ever so faintly in the back of the bluegrey skyscape. Snow caps.

I crouched down to collect rocks. I was mesmerized by their lines, some looked like they had the pattern of bamboo etched in them like a lithograph, others were wrapped in perfect stripes. I collected as many rocks as I could carry, which was not many, as I was very hungry, and feeling weak.

I dreaded buying something to eat. I would even say I was despairing just a little bit. Not because I am nervous about speaking bad French (which I am), but because after only a couple of days in Europe, I am already sick of bread, ham, and cheese. Every time I take a bite I think of my heart getting thick and clumsy. I found a sushi place!

They were speaking Cantonese!

So I say, Hey, you're speaking Cantonese! And then we proceed, in this Chinese tongue, to discuss the brief trajectory of my immediate life story, as well as telling them my mom is from Hong Kong, that I am just here traveling, they tell me, enjoy your lunch, and other things that just don't translate easily into English (eat slowly, walk slowly).

And I walk back to the hotel feeling just a little bit less out of place, and loving the diaspora.