clarahsu – Page 11

Edge of the Canvas

When I was a child I learned to color within the line. The line is the boundary that must be observed. It is true in life too. When I step out of line I invariably violate someone, some things, some laws. The funny thing is that it is also most exhilarating to go beyond what is comfortable, expected, and even respected.

In the creative process there is no line and the canvas has no edge. There is no comfort zone but a determination to move forward. Among all the yes, I’ve done it’s there has to be many more, no, but there’s more.

The challenge is finding ways to break the line and keep breaking it.

“Can you go past your dreams to the pure light of dreaming?” James Broughton.

The Solar Eclipse

The sea was an absolute sparkling gray this afternoon. Clear sky with softened wind, we predicted there would be a fine viewing of the solar eclipse. Some friends went down to the Ocean Beach. I looked out the windows of my father’s house at 6:30. The sun was still strong and high and I didn’t have any protective eye-ware.

Squeezing my eyes to a slit I took quick glances at the sun and instead saw something black half-covering a circle right next to it. Was it the moon? The two heavenly spheres seemed to be side by side but I couldn’t be sure.

I could say I saw the eclipse, even if I was just imagining it.

Photo from sfappeal.com

Babouche Revisited

It took some time, and, as Dore said, some webbarizing—meaning solving technical issues on the web without knowing what I was doing. My book of short stories, Babouche Impromptu and Other Moroccan Sketches, has been reissued with more stories and a new look, and it is available now on Amazon.

The love story of a Berber and his charge, and a message from the Sahara were added to the collection. Babouche Impromptu opens with an extensive introduction by Jack Foley that included some of my recent poems.

A kindle edition is also available.

I invite you to read the stories, and leave a comment on the “Customer Review” if they move you. Thank you.

Jazz Night

They were all accomplished jazz musicians, coming together for a concert in the Marin. Five people. Five instruments. They played. There was no fire.

I wanted their sounds to amalgamate. I wanted them to combust, to turn their individual beauty into something larger and new. Out of five musicians there should have been born a sixth, with elements of the parents and a unique voice that makes its presence known.

Not easy, with everyone’s busy schedule. Clearly the musicians have not rehearsed. You can’t have a child if you don’t come together to make love.

Their solos were filled with virtuosity, going their separate ways.

Image taken from: therefectoryrestaurant.com

Stop Thy Traffic!

The word “traffic” is etymologically linked to “trade” and “commerce”, the passing of one object for another. In Italian, “tranfricare” means to rub across, touch repeatedly, handle.

Why the sudden interest in “traffic”?

Shakespeare’s Sonnet #4:

For having traffic with thyself alone,
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.

It doesn’t take much to understand what “traffic” means in this context. It’s an elegant substitution for “masturbation”. “Traffic” has action, sight and oh, can we imagine the sound too?

Good for Shakespeare! He was trying to get the young man to plant his seeds instead of wasting them; not one, two, three, but four sonnets now. How many more on this topic did he go on?

Definition of “traffic” from: http://www.etymonline.com

Poetic Theft

Poets steal ideas all the time. We steal fabulous lines to use in our own poems or prose. We steal words, forms, style, rhythm, etc. to suit our purposes. It is because nothing is very new under the sun. We constantly regurgitate and recycle. Recognizing that there is something worthy to steal is a compliment to the author. The point of stealing is to give the stolen materials new lives, making them thrive in a different dimension.

I’m always impressed by Ray Charles’ version of The Beatles’ The Long and Winding Road.

Rudyard Kipling says it well in his poem, When ‘Omer Smote ‘is Bloomin’ Lyre (‘Omer refers to Homer):

When ‘Omer Smote ‘is Bloomin’ Lyre

When ‘Omer smote ‘s bloomin’ lyre,
He’d ‘eard men sing by land an’ sea;
An’ what ‘e thought ‘e might require,
‘E went an’ took—the same as me!

The market-girls an’ fishermen,
The shepherds an’ the sailors, too,
They ‘eard old songs turn up again,
But kep’ it quiet—same as you!

They knew ‘e stole; ‘e knew they knowed,
They didn’t tell, nor make a fuss,
But winked at ‘Omer down the road,
An’ ‘e winked back—the same as us!

Closing of a Circle

On May 15, 2011 I began my first blog. My intention was to write a short account with a minimum of one hundred words every day. While I came close (350 entries) I did not make my goal. The excuses: it was difficult to have internet access while traveling in Turkey. There were also days that, due to various conditions, the mind drew a blank. I have since learned to forgive myself and go to bed.

Some of the blog entries have been incorporated into my poems. It is also quite satisfying to know that friends have been reading and enjoying the random topics. The readership (if we can trust the statistic counter) has increased from less than ten people a day to consistently over one hundred in the last month.

Today marks the closing of one cycle and the beginning of a new one. I want to say thank you, readers, whoever and wherever you are. Thank you for dropping by, taking a look, before you go on to the rest of your day.

Summer Treat

There’s nothing more wonderful and satisfying than eating a bowl of ice cream. Strawberry, almond fudge, chocolate, cookie and mint all in one. A little sweetness goes a long way. But THIS? This makes the rest of the day beautiful.

Mitchell’s the one in my neighborhood. They have exotic flavors like ube (purple yam) and cantaloupe, and the Filipino traditional dessert, Halo Halo. There is always a line out the tiny shop, even in the dead of winter. I admire the ice cream eaters and shiver at a distance. San Francisco is just too cold for me to entertain the idea of eating ice cream.

But here I am, tasting the famous Tucker’s ice cream in Oakland. That’s the way to do it. Cross the Bay. The temperature is significantly higher and the sun is not covered by the fog. A real summer calls for a real treat.

(Thank you, Jack!)

Cemetery Run

It was ten in the morning. The fog burned off earlier here than other parts of the San Francisco Bay. The cemetery was full of life on this Mother’s Day, especially in the section where there were many Chinese. Their tombstones were much more colorful than others, with carvings of phoenix or dragon, and names written in both English and Chinese.

In front of a few graves, picnics were laid out with a variety of food like roast pork, fried dumplings and rice wine. Stick incense and bunches of spring flowers still in plastic wraps rose from the flower holders. Children skipped between the stones and played hide and seek. Loneliness was not in this cemetery, except for me, perhaps, who came by myself.

Little grubs had been making the carved letters on my step-mother’s grave their home. I poked the dried yellow crust away. One little worm fell out. Next year I have to remember to bring a brush.

A Little Paradise

The Chinese restaurant in Richmond where I went to celebrate my goddaughter’s graduation was filled with customers. Graduation, Mother’s Day, Birthday—there was no lack of reasons to eat out. People with reservations walked happily past the ones who waited in line. The waiters worked like busy bees. Their attitude was excellent and they were extremely efficient: taking orders, serving, giving out clean plates in exchange for dirty ones, cutting the cake.

The slow economy was incongruous with the busyness here. Here the workers had jobs and diners had money. Everyone was having a good time. A little paradise. A lobster-sea cucumber-abalone-rock cod-coral shrimp-paradise.

May the world be kind to all.