Room Rhapsody

Rooms are like clothes and photographs- they tell stories. As I look around mine this afternoon- my mind goes tripping down the trails of my life... remembering what has been that has brought what I see around me.

Tucked into the glass doors of my secretary I see the pictures of people I hold dear (from California, Louisiana, New Hampshire, Rhode Island, Connecticut, New York, Georgia...). Above them are verses which I have printed on parchment paper and magazine cuttings of India. Behind the pictures I have lists of IP, e-mail, and street addresses, letters, and a piece of paper on which my dad has scrawled guitar chords.

Inside my secretary it all gets even better. I hide my few paperbacks behind the glass doors and verses. I have my Hindi dictionary and Indian travel guides,  empty and half-filled notebooks made with hand-crafted paper, anthologies, and several Russian novels. The top shelf has my CDs and DVDs (Pride and Prejudice!) and the bottom shelf has my diary and Bible and hair-spray (which I have yet to use but am glad I have) and a canister of Starbucks Hot Chocolate powder which my siblings gave me for my birthday.

The drawers below my desk each have a specific purpose. One has all my scarves (I have a good twenty, half are from India). Another is completely devoted to letter-crafting- I have stacks of stationary, boxes of cards and envelopes, and a couple compact water-color sets (a nod to past and present wistful artistic leanings).

The bottom drawer is a mystery drawer. I'm not exactly sure what it's for. Generally speaking it's hard to open. But I know that inside I have a scarlet tapestry almost as large as me- covered in patchwork and embroidery which I bought in Pushkar, India. And also in that drawer I have a painting done by an artist who I thought was going to shake my hand but who kissed it instead.

My bookshelves are my favorite part of my room. I have about fifty small, gilt-edged books  (arranged by color) from a collector's library which grace the bookshelves over my windows- flanked by carved elephants. My main bookshelf (which my sister and father made when I was six) has lots and lots of hard-backs, all there for one of four merits: being very old (i.e. 100-200 years), being very beautiful (inner beauty counts!), or being on India or poetry. The exceptions are my diaries. There are four currently full- massive bulks full of my scribblings. (And if you ever see them in person, don't you dare read them or I'll have to do you in!)

In other places I have stacks of my drawings from 2nd grade and the novels I wrote when I was twelve and thirteen. And somewhere I have packages of letters tied up in ribbons- and a  shoe-box in which there are the sleeves of my favorite pajamas from when I was nine, a pine-cone from a sidewalk in California,  an empty shampoo bottle from Venice, a wind-up musical bell, shards from a wooden box, and magazine cuttings (who's value, I happen to know, lies solely with the blue-eyed-blonds they feature. One of them is of Prince Harry- you will forgive me.)

I happen to think Shakespeare wasn't really Shakespeare. He only willed away  his second-best bed (by which we know he hated his wife) and a great deal of money. Could someone so in love with language really not possess a single book for posterity to gossip about?

But then again, I think if I was Shakespeare my biographers would have a hay-day with my will. From the bottle-caps (which I collected when I was ten) they'd think I drank.  From my three plants they would have no idea I killed five. They would probably think I actually used my hairspray. And as I wouldn't will my bed (best or second best) to anyone  they would probably come up with something about me hating men.

But while I must concede that the contents of one's room are wide-open to misinterpretation, I yet maintain that they are also glimpses into entire lives- open to countless conjectures and hypotheses.

Thus I sit here and wonder freely: what would I find in your room? And what would it tell me about you?

Ode to the Wall

I wrote this poem exactly a year ago for a World Literature class I was taking. It was meant to be after the fashion of Pablo Neruda (who liked to write odes to menial objects such as tomatoes, artichokes, "broken things," clothing, etc.) however I'm afraid my poem turned out a bit too metaphysical to be truly called Nerudian. Still, of the poems I've written it's one of my favorites.

the wall

impenetrable, impassible

my constant companion

I've seen you a leviathan

and I've seen you blue

covered in clouds and rainbows

you are the artist's easel

the fingerprint of restless minds

easing passions

in white you have flashed

inspiring the relentless

pencil of the engineer

sketching the future

on your surface

inside of you

building

dynasties from the cradle

when first we picked up mud

when first we created

on your inviting canvass

you were familiar

you stood as a child

his fists clenched

stubborn

defying the world

to knock him down

but you are also soft

when I clung to you

back to back

curled in a ball

you hid me

when I beat you with my fists

you let me beat

you still listen to my tears

matching my cries with your own

reminding me I am finite

you have heard every secret

but still you keep mine

you keep me in

you keep them out

you are my eyes first sight

and my body's last blanket

- 3/11/10

Gogyohka-Thursday [26]

our voices are caught

on a tape recorder

we know we'll be squeaky

our grandchildren

will think we were mice

Missing Peaches

Some of my favorite memories convene around peaches. I recall a summer day on the wharf in San Fransisco where we wandered a Farmer's Market taste-testing. I saw a store there which sold every  imaginable kind of mushroom. We had Gelato and I bought several small "refreshing" misting bottles- one the scent of Douglas Fir, another of Roses. 

Another memory is peach picking at a near-by farm. It was a rainy-weekend so the farm wasn't getting enough business, so we purchased twenty bags of fruit at a peerless price. The peaches were at their peak- they fell off the branches at a touch. We picked and we ate- and ate, and ate. I have never since tasted such perfection.

Peaches. I miss peaches.

But this eternal winter! Weeks of whiteness- then speckled gray. I had forgotten what the ground looked like. For a while there I would walk down something resembling tunnels at my school -the snow was nearly up to my shoulder. (Lest the image be exaggerated, I must here remind you I am vertically challenged.) My father thought the streets resembled toboggan runs. My brothers made a fortune shoveling driveways.

And now winter quakes. I remember the first day I smelled the earth again- wet, whimpering, gasping for breath. We have had times where it rained, sleeted, and snowed all in the same day- but still the  mail came and still the ice on the lakes turned from white... to a shivering gray... and now it is gone.

My uncle in California asked me if I can see the ground. Yes, I see lots of it. But I  also see great mountains of snow yet lingering.

I drove my brothers to church today in rain. Weather.com had a flash-flood advisory. On the way there we groped our way down mountain sides thick with fog. On the way back I had to cross the ever-glaring double-yellow-line to drive through the shallower portion of an enormous puddle.

All is wet. All is melting. The skies are doing a victory-dance.

I pray it is not a premature celebration. Because I long for thick grass, for picnics, for games in open fields, for wanderings barefoot through trees, for parties with music and food (where the sun is invited), for white clothes, for water, for fish on the grill, and for the sun rays and warm breezes caressing my bare arms and face. And I miss peaches- trees laden with the ripe and luscious.

Dream Burning

"Trying not to hope too hard for what I want."

Maybe it's me- and maybe it's just being human- but I get awfully attached to the plans I make.

"Trying not to go too far with all the dreaming."

And then something happens. Castles in the air, castles made of sand, fall, break, and are washing away...

"Oh, the disappointment so hard to handle."

I mourn the dream which has died- clinging to the sheer knowledge that He holds my life in His hands.

"I'm still in the dark, lighting candles."

I think if I could plan my life out years in advance I would. And yet for all the grand plans I've made- I think I can say that not a single one has worked out the way I had wanted it to.

("Oh, the disappointment, so hard to handle...") 

God always has different plans than mine. And his are always, without fail, better than my wildest imagination.

("I'm still in the dark, lighting candles...")

I think the hardest part of doing something other than I planned is explaining to people what happened to their unmet expectations.

"Late at night I lie awake, think I should go / Catch a train to stranger towns / Where no one knows me."

But because He knows better than them- and better than me- I'm taking every dream I ever had and laying each down, a fagot on the pyre of faith... watching them go up in flames.

"Now that I have got somewhere, where will I go?"

One foot in front of the other- I watch God write my life-story. He uses all my favorite plot devices. And he gives me wonderful surprises I neither deserve- nor asked for. Am I so stupid that I forget he knows the deepest desires of my heart?

"Love's a train to city lights / Where someone knows you."

So I'm giving my life- and the future I want- to Him. Again. and Again. and Again.

*Set to the lyrics of Lighting Candles by The Weepies. 

Gogyohka-Thursday [25]

[wheeze] Excuse me

[gasp] if this Gogyohka

[closes eyes] is interrupted

[ATCHOO!!!!]

by sneezes.

[s]Crumptious Crinkle Cookies

Ah, it's been too long since I've touched on food! Around the time my mother gave birth to my first brother a women from the church brought her a box of beautifully stacked and powder-sugared dark-chocolaty brown Crinkle Cookies. My mom got the recipe and they’ve been a favorite ever since.

            No camping trip was complete without them.  Before we would leave my mother would bake a double or triple batch (store them safely in Tupper Ware), and we would be sure that at some point on the trip (I remember particularly the time we camped in DC) around the campfire (after red beans and rice) the container would be pulled out and we’d share in our favorite cookies.

           At least- they were MY favorite cookies (right up there with Girl Scout Thin Mints). My sister became their primary baker for some time- but for a while now I’ve been the leading producer. I’ve made them for birthday-gifts, thank-yous, and farewells. Today I made them for church.

            Once a month our congregation unites for a luncheon, followed by a special topical message by my pastor. It falls to our family's lot to bring a main dish- (stews, enchiladas, soups)- singles bring desserts.

            WELL, I thought. I am single. Cookies are in order! I whipped out the batter. My fingers nimbly worked off chunks of dough, rolled, and powder-sugared them single handedly. How long to bake the cookies for is always a bit of a trick. I’ve over cooked and undercooked- but never had one I didn’t like. But maybe I’m biased. ;-)

Below is another vanity picture.

Gogyohka-Thursday [24]

 

I dreampt

you had fake eyelashes

and wanted to listen

to a vinyl record

in the car.

-5/10/09

I Did. I Did Go Back.

I told you I'd be back soon. Wednesday I was again at my beloved Metropolitan Museum of Art- one of my favorite places in the world.

It was a lovely day. Spring has blessed us with a premature visit (how long she'll stay, who knows- but I'll take what I can get). I spent the bus ride down chatting with my art teacher (whom I adore). She entrusted to my oversight four students (for various reasons- one had some sort of disability, another she hoped would pick up some of my enthusiasm). How could I not be enthusiastic? -to be back in that great room (they too were overwhelmed), to be back on those great stairs (they could not but help but like them), and to again sit before the product of brilliant genius?

This time I decided to critique my favorite- Graziella by Lefebvre. I wonder if he knew- Lefebvre did- when he painted for the Paris salons- that a hundred and fifty years later a college student in a leather jacket and Indian scarf would sit at his painting's feet in a museum in New York and fall in love with his fisherman's daughter (forlorn, wistful, her blue dress and black hair flowing in the wind- scarlet flowers in her hair and at her feet)?

As I sat there- those who passed marveled as well. Fellow classmates told me they'd considered my piece for their own work. A three year old girl commented to her mother, "She's be-oo-tiful." (I agreed, and the girl hid behind her mother's skirt.)

It was not like in past times where I could go where I wished- my group members needed to spend time with their paintings and we had a list of works to see scattered all over the museum. Still, I tackled my task of instilling enthusiasm in my group and I think, even had I been apathetic, the sheer beauty and grandeur of the place would have won them over on its own.

I had an uncanny moment when I was taking them down the circular staircase in the Medieval Wing to the Cafeteria- I again pointed out the Renoir painting across the way (this time making sure to note that it'd graced my childhood bedroom wall). It was the same time of day. The same stair-case. The same phrasing. And again a guy said, "You should be an art major." Oh, the predictability.

We went on our art-hunt. [We EVEN went to the Egyptian wing. The Egyptian guys are cuter than the Geek and Roman dudes. Just sayin'.] We plagued the guards with questions. "Where is this one?" And where is THIS one? And THIS one? And THIS one? It was surprising how unhelpful they could be- even when they knew what we were talking about. Normally I probably would have gotten a kick out of making them work for their money- but after talking to about ten guards I just wanted to get the whole thing over with. More on guards later. [Villa of Publius Fanius Synistor is, by the way, not just a painting. It an entire room painted from the floor through the ceiling and found in the left side-gallery adjacent to the Roman gallery.]

Our pilgrimage ended in the American Wing. I've never been fond of the American Wing- despite my love for writing desks I just. can't. spend. hours. staring. at furniture. But the American Wing does happen to have my favorite of the Met's statue gardens. 

I was exhausted. One of the girls wanted to go see the furniture. The other wanted to talk on her cell phone. The guys were still in the European wing critiquing. I curled up on a high-backed stone bench (over which cascaded ferns and vines), cast my eyes on the meditating Cleopatra across from me (and at times studied the intricate delicacy of a goddess's ivory fingers), listened to the soft, echoing murmur of the occasional person passing by... was vaguely conscious of a painter a few yards away... and at last fell asleep.

It was a sweet sleep.

A guard woke me up. "EXCUSE ME!" Her voice was harsh, grating, and  strained. "EXCUSE ME!" I sat up with a sudden grace which surprised me. "YOU HAVE TO SIT UP IN THE MUSEUM!" I replied with a cheerfulness I usually don't possess upon being just woken up.

I was awake. And refreshed. But I wondered if there really is a rule about sitting up in the museum... (After all... the STATUES lounge around.)

The gift shop was calling me (and the pair of earrings I have these long years coveted.) I looked for them. I even contemplated buying them. But they were gone- bought, I suppose, by somebody with more money than me. So I looked at hundred-dollar jewelry boxes, seventy dollar wallets, and priceless art replicas before being informed there was a calender sale (it is, after all, almost March) and I got an arsty calender thingy for two dollars.

The bus was leaving. I ran through the Egyptian exhibit. I ran through the lobby. I danced down the front stairs (glancing out wistfully at 82nd Street) and ran past the fountains to the bus- where my teacher stood  alone, waiting. She smiled. "Did you see anyone on your way out?" "No." She teased me- something to the effect of- "We were probably waiting for you."

And again we were gone. Good-bye, Met. See you later.


*Head photo by John Glines. Used by permission.

Gogyohka-Thursday [23]

sorting through the mountain

of papers on my desk...

letters, forms, receipts...

and oh, look!

money!

Oysters on the Half-Shell

 

My brother and I with various relations set out

hand-in-hand down shadow-clasped lanes.

Clouds dancing with sunbeams, wind playing with my hair-

the day I first had oysters on the half-shell.

Whiffs of Eucalyptus, my mother’s smell to me

called us further into the valley,

till the great trunks, like sentries, as we passed bowed away

and we found ourselves on market street.

Tents, an encampment, lining the square-

their admirals busy selling their wares-

while civilians rushed, oblivious of war,

to buy peaches and strawberries and pears.

We wove our way, like cats in a kitchen,

through the masses and hubbub of happiness,

till one stand we came to, full of oysters on ice

and my uncle bought four to share.

They looked like old men (yes, they did), to me-

oiled and wrinkled with age.

But the murmurs of wonder, and licks of delight

caved my spirit, and I said, “I’ll try a bite.”

The sauce went on, the hand was held out,

and the oyster was put to my mouth.

SLURP! GULP! SQUEAL! SQUEAM!

Oh, horror! On the shell of an oyster!

The sauce was all gone, I’d have spit it out-

but ice bulk of the oyster filled my mouth.

I gagged and I gulped and I smiled through my tears,

my tongue massaging my teeth.

“Do you like it?” they asked. I don’t know what I said.

 I swallowed, murmuring something to pass time.

 And the next thing I knew, it was over and done

and we moved on under the smirking sunshine.

Gogyohka-Thursday [22]

strangers talking

fighting the silence

latching onto passing thoughts

nodding and laughing

too easily

And Then They Grow Up!

WHACK! Jr. just hit your friend's child. "NO, Jr.! No! No!" Tears. Hugs. And play resumes.

That was when Jr. was 3... and 5. But then one day you blink and Jr.'s 7, then 9, then 11, then 13.

We all remember the transition (gradual, and more often then not awkward and turbulent) that we (that is our parents) made as we transitioned from kids, to children, to something confusing, and finally into adults. Yet from cradle to cars (keys, jobs, weddings, what-have-you) there are countless steps and countless changes which constantly keep us on our toes and more often than not leave us marveling.

I'm no parent (though I have experienced my own), but I had just such a moment the other day- when I realized someone wasn't so little any more.

My little sister is every bit the seven year old. She says the funniest things. Last month it was, "Linda, you're a piece of WORK!" (Yes, she said that, with admiration lighting up her eyes. We explained to her what that phrase meant- and she was old enough to laugh at herself.) Then just the other day (perhaps influenced by the stories of Abraham and Issac's lies about their so-called "sisters"), "The Egyptians would want to marry you, you're so beautiful!"

Anyway, we had a less than pleasant interaction when she did something at the dinner table and I cried out, "That's MEAN!" The situation was resolved between us (or so I thought), but then 12 hours later she came up to me and said, "When you said that in front of everyone, it hurt my feelings."

The truth of her statement went to my heart. Here she had a problem with me and she was doing what she was supposed to do- coming to me privately and talking to me about it. While I (as if she was still three) had called her out on her issue publicly. 

When did that happen? When did she stop being three? Here is my nearly eight year old sister (just a few short years away from puberty) becoming, though so far from an adult, fully an individual- and my sister twice over in the Lord. I owe her the same courtesy I do everyone- no less because I  held her as a newborn and changed her diaper and still have to remind her she doesn't always know what she's talking about (and I still have to put her food into the microwave for her because she can't reach) and because she still wants me to do good-night stories with her teddy-bear.

I don't know how one deals with the foolishness and ignorance of youth- even while giving them the respect and entrusting them with the responsibility which is the very thing which inspires them to grow. I guess it's the age-old question. I'm asking it already. My parents asked it. And their parents. Nobody seems to have the answer- or to have done it perfectly- but we're growing up anyway.

Ode to My Cup

Just for fun, -one of the poems I've written lately. (This is what happens when you leave a foot or more of snow on your roof!)

Standing on my windowsill

blinking in the morning light,

reflecting the falling crystals

melting in and outside-

catching water droplets

which would otherwise

hit my head

keeping water off my books

and the foot-board of my bed.

The thick sound of plunking

as each drop hits the base-

a thunder, gently rumbling

keeping rain at bay.

The water quiets, swelling now

it rises against the rounded steel

it looks to overflow, perhaps

in its helping, welling, zeal.
It’s gathering in the showers,

it’s hiding pools in its caves-

my cup from foreign places

now foreign rains contains.

But I am safe, with my soldier near

(I don’t care so long as I’m dry).

Though wet, I think him as glad as me-

I imagine he overflows with joy.

Gogyohka-Thursday [21]

My  little sister and I

have made a pact:


only one drawing

(green giants, red sky)

on my desk at a time