May 2012
1 post
Okay, yes, the next holiday after Spring Break. My life must be really that busy I can’t even write a line a day.
Some questions to myself, Did I really sob when XXXXX died on the Grey’s Anatomy finale? Did XX really scream at me, say she’s going to call the police on me, and then walk off as I was dismissing the rest of my sweet second graders?
All I know is I’m going...
April 2012
2 posts
Last day of Spring Break. There is a scratchy piece of cardboard on the back of my throat, and this bed feels so comfy. I want to feel release, I want to enjoy that bowl of udon at dinner, and the way the light falls in this room, and I want to let go of all that I cannot control. Which is a lot. But I just want to feel like I can make an impact, that matters. I also want to let go of that.
I...
It is good to walk those carpeted stairs, and sit by the windows that stretch from floor to the lofty ceiling, surrounded by all these books. A solace in a hometown.
It is better to find old friends, meet their loves, and realize that these are bonds you cannot shake with time.
March 2012
7 posts
Who is Xiao Long? And who would buy me The Hunger Games? I am so confused and so thrilled. (!!!)
What if the world was overrun with zombies? What is this being infected? What does it say? All lofty wonderings for doomsday entertainment.
Ain’t gonna lie, I love Rue. That girl made of all things sweet and redeeming, sobering and necessary.
What makes someone not give up? What is that ingrained thing? Why those hot tears? Why that awful trail the eraser leaves, making the paper thin with frustration?
Falling asleep to Oscar Peterson, Cole Porter, and the space heater is churning like a purring cat, warm against the length of my leg.
Let me come back to this.
Today, the wind whipped around cold and made my hair a curtain across my face. One way I am mean to myself: I choose fatigue and sadness. I do not want to.
So, today, I am grateful for loved ones gathered near for a Sunday breakfast, my love who doesn’t let go of my hand, and a warm apartment full of people, themselves full of worry, creativity, and stringed...
I miss my parents from last year. The ones that would give me boots for Christmas and pots of plants for Valentine’s Day. I just need to see a smiling face at the end of every wretched day. I need to know I’m okay.
February 2012
17 posts
My baby looks like a tired puppy.
The kindergartners went up there and sang, “It don’t mean a thing, if it ain’t got that swing. Doo wop.” And their hands flew left. “Doo wop.” And their hands flew right. And again, “Doo wop” and back again. Ella, we still singing you.
And he went over to her, picked all the things off the floor and put it in her desk, and then bent over to tie her shoe. That kid is golden. And I only have one more week with him. Oh break my heart now.
I loved making all of you laugh, all your giggle-monsters, and the ways your eyes creased with delight, and the way your little bodies stood straight up, and I just want to remember how much I love you.
I’m sometimes a little shocked and surprised I live the life I live — both the grateful and the appalling.
They love me, especially when I’ve been away, for two hours.
Fell asleep to the sounds of bubbling adobo sauce on the stove and basketball like a lullaby on the TV.
Valentine’s Day in the classroom:
helium balloon, paperbag mailboxes, gigantic heart-shaped boxes of chocolate, tiny cards of tweeny pop-culture celebs with heart stickers that don’t stick, and trying to temper all the excitement without any imploding or exploding.
Valentine’s Day in the real world:
black and white silent film, a very tired body, and glad for the thought...
Some unexpected events: snapped my glasses in half, woke up at 10, scrounged the fridge for a late lunch, meandered through costco with a blurry headache, loved the peace the rain brought, and watched the long-awaited walking dead with my love. I suppose it is true that the best days off are when you do nothing at all.
Horses at the racetrack, and around they go, split seconds of speed and a blur of muscle and hoofs. First time for everything; have a happy 30th Andy, dear friend.
Yesterday,
Will you let me love you forever? Yes, yes, and yes. Yes, yes, my love. My forever love.
He said under his breath, while we were all gathered in a circle, “Wow, now that is art.”
At the back of my throat is a stale piece of cardboard, and my limbs are muscles that need all the holding it can get, but all you needed was kindness and all I needed was for you to shop shouting at everyone and everything. Why are you so angry? And why am I so worked up that you are? I need to remember how to create a haven, when all I know is how to create a place where you wonder and stretch...
The sizzle of bacon, the fragrance of garlic, the layered hearts of an artichoke, and just this night is enough. Billie Holiday, you also have your ways.
“And then…we could have a pillow pet party.”
“YEAHHHHHHHHH!” he squeals, on our carpeted stairs. Fluffy vest, and a voice that melts my heart. This is all after he offered to buy me a pillow pet for Christmas, which he will bring to my house tomorrow. Made my night.
Her smile is a sweet gift each time, her voice low though she is a child, and there is something golden about her spirit. Solid, and golden.
It is so much just to see your face. How much rushes back at the sight. Because there is only so much honesty and so much a memory can hold.
January 2012
21 posts
I found myself writing frantically at 6 this morning. The slanted light, the bizarre dream, the itch to look at the clock, the reminder to breathe, breathe, breathe. Who knew it was so hard to be without you? It’s a once familiar feeling that is so ill-fitting now.
The best way to be safe is to move away, I tell my kids. How many fists do you see move? How many times do you wish you could run?
He rests his head on my left thigh, and I wonder, what did I ever do to make all the animals like me?
Are all presidents this good looking?
relatedly: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zEJ2ZLkjqQI&feature=player_detailpage
We scraped the fish from under its charred skin, and wrapped it under layers of herbs, with a translucent wrap - dipped it in fish sauce and called it a new year. Did he say, as he reached for the lettuce, “I love Oakland!” And I suppose I knew what he meant, as out-of-context as his expression was. It made sense, yes. Happy new year, new year, new year.
Remember that you are made of the kind of stuff that lasts.
She found all her pockets unzipped, and inside — nothing. This is not what one looks for. No, not this kind of moment.
The sun hovers like a muted light bulb, strings spread out everywhere. The earth tries to hang on and pull itself close. We are trying, yes, trying. I would hang onto you like the sun and earth in its dance. There is darkness and light in all of this. Please do not be scared of all that is dim and for the tunnel we find ourselves in. I know you are grateful for whatever light we have. Me too.
Let me remember this — the ocean spread out from left to right, skyline blending in with horizon, and our feet dangling over the rocks.
Not so sunny San Diego, and an out-cold nap.
I have a dream…
that there was no such things as guns and gangs
that there was no garbage and clothes on the streets
that there were no robbers
that there was no shoes on the telephone wires
that there was no cussing (that people always spoke nicely)
The dreams my students came up with, on their own, for our MLKJr. art project.
It is often like this, on the drive home: hold on, this...
I wish I could capture that energy, and the easy way my kids laugh, and how the smallest things excite them — like the putting of a fish in the water bowl, as the new class pet slithers out of its hideout. They remind me to smile and be content.
Just let me lie still and breathe as deep as my lungs can take me. Why is it that, “dear jesus, oh my God please help me” is always the first thing on my lips in the murky morning?
“You lucky dogs, you.”
Today, I found myself in line at Petco, buying ridiculous amounts of things for a pet garter snake. This habit of risky decision-making of mine better come without too many regrets.
He tells me, “You would do anything for your kids.”
The best ideas are created in the shower, with that hot curtain of water on my back.
If I could hold on to one thing, it would still be Azucena’s smile.
And Paula’s laugh. And the way Damonie runs. And how Jarvell bounces back. And Ben’s silhouetted wave at the top of the slide. And getting to leave with the sun on my back, and come with the sun in my face.
Why does one jarring moment hold so much weight against all the other sweet ones?
Damonie, I want to remember that you are a child — even when, in your anger, you break the eraser I gave you that morning in half, and the pieces lie in crumbs of pink rubber. I want to remember that when I told your dad how proud I was that you did turn it around, your choices showing your ability to shine — you reached your arms out to hug me goodbye.
You are so eager, and I hope...
It takes the magnet of a sunset to darken the woods before the end of our hike.
It takes half an hour to meander the edge of the mountain, from Skyline through the Oakland Hills, until we find ourselves at the bottom of its northern neighbor in Berkeley.
It takes no money to ease ourselves pass the toll booth at the magestic Claremont Hotel, to give the four of us a free thirty minutes to...
Oh, to start the new year full.
Morning, simple praise and a cool, pale rock in the lines of my palm. Afternoon, a languid nap and driving through the forested hills. Evening, surrounded my aunts, all of which are borrowed. It is a treasure to be surrounded by laughter and to step into that warm, pulsing circle that is family. Night, the flickering screen in the arms of my love.
December 2011
1 post
My fighter’s heart.