clarahsu – Page 15

At the Spa

Lovers of music and animals, Dennis and his wife Chee get much pleasure out of recognizing the comedic moments in daily life. Around the dinner table, they tell the story of arriving in Baden-Baden, the spa town in Germany to present a piano recital. As soon as they got out of the car, they noticed an insect with a broken leg. After such famous clients like Caracalla, Brahms, Napoleon and Queen Victoria, the little insect had come to the spa to mend its ailment as well.

And the old lady who came up to wish them “plenty of oxygen”. What’s more precious than being able to breathe? A beautiful wish, especially for pianists.

Photo by Frial Ove.

A Change in Energy

CastroStreetFair — Castro Street Fair 2008

Old friends brought back old memories. My friend Dennis who lives in London is here for a visit. He reminds me that twenty years ago I was afraid of walking in the Mission and Castro. The charged energy in those areas was something that scared me. I worried about his safety; drove him to Castro but would not let him out of the car until he pleaded with me. Of course I don’t remember any of this. Since moving to San Francisco, Mission and Castro are two neighborhoods that I love, especially because of the energy. Aliveness is what they have: the colors, the wackiness, the tension, the surprises, the sensuality, the mix of people from all walks of life.

Vitality can be intimidating. Was I not alive then?

Photo from curvemag.com

Apple Mystery

The Poetry Hotel has occasional guests who stayed overnight. Hester Lox usually came after a night of volunteering for the KALW fund drive. She was small enough to fit on the green couch and would only ask for a sheet to put on top of it. In the morning she enjoyed the hotel’s simple breakfast of tea and toast. Sometimes, when the tomatoes were in season, a Turkish omelette.

The price for staying at the Hotel is a poem. Hester wrote:

Apple mystery / Peaceful. Nourishing. Sleeping / Poetry Hotel.

Maybe there was an apple involved, but I can’t remember. The mystery will remain. Hester passed away this afternoon, surrounded by friends.

Sea, Stones and Shells

Low tide. The sea receding. Wet sand under a warm sun—glassy and black. A bazaar of shells and stones, crab claws, weeds, kelps and driftwood: an open market without the hawkers.

Remnants of an animal. Only the rib cage and the spine are left. A long piece of skin torn away at one end. Nearby a blackened head with pointed ears.

A cosmic story is etched on a stone half exposed in the sand. Blotches of destiny shaped like dandelions but have few lines to connect. It’s for the one who recognizes it.

After a day’s work, I have only one stone in each hand. Both are love.

Serendipity Inside a Boatyard

Peter took me to visit his Sufi guru, who was also a master boat builder, poet and translator of Persian poetry. We went to Sausalito, where the Spaulding Wooden Boat Center stood at the foot of Gate Five Road. The immediate vision inside the center was Freda, 32 ft long and the oldest sailing yacht (built in 1885) on the west coast. Freda was being rebuilt after it sank in 2004.

While we waited for the guru, the director of the boat center gave us and another visitor a tour. After the tour I asked the visitor where he came from.

“Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.”

It was time to meet the guru so we said goodbye.

We sat with the guru in a corner of the building and talked about poetry and Clarion Music, where Peter and I first met. A rustle sound came toward us. It was the visitor from Pittsburgh. He was smiling broadly, excited.

“I have read your poetry. A friend of mine sent your poems to me and told me about you and Clarion. I visited the music shop in Chinatown yesterday.”

It took me a while but I eventually remembered his friend, someone whom I had lost contact for many years.

“Today is not about meeting my guru. It’s more about you,” Peter said as we left the boatyard. I agreed.

Rock Garden

Bones, dried kelps, twigs, driftwood, grey stones punctuated with round holes; they are spread out in the little alcove in front of my house. My friend Peter collected these nature’s gifts from various beaches, parks and forests while visiting. He is contemplating how to pass the scrutiny of airport security to take them home to D.C.

The alcove becomes a shrine. A pool of dead leaves swirl about them, making the once empty and useless space all of a sudden beautiful. I bend down to examine each piece, the sea is heavy among them. “The bones are smelly,” says Peter. They are unidentifiable. He is not sure if they are from cow or sheep or deer.

The rain comes in the evening, but the alcove is deep enough to shelter the offering. When Peter leaves I might keep the pieces he can’t carry.

What if each friend who visits me brings a stone or a twig? Is this how a rock garden grows?

Image taken from jazzfolks.com

No Touching

Traditional Chinese custom: men and women don’t touch. We bowed to each other. Hand shaking was considered modern. How did it come to be that touching was prohibited between the sexes? We could not have derived this custom from watching other animals when they copulate in the open.

Divide and conquer. To suppress the natural response of a body when touched is to submit to bondage. Was it a means for the governing authority to control the mass? And marriage was the license to touch. Who invented marriage?

With my upbringing, it took a long while for me to feel comfortable with the “western” greeting. My college roommate Mayra, who was Cuban, used to make fun of me.

“Don’t be half-hearted, girl. Give me a full-body hug!”

Image taken from en.showchina.org

Fragment—Disambiguation

Walking home. Sun was still out but the air had turned cold. Sounds of cars and trucks. Needles, fluids, rash, pills, hyperthyroidism, lymphoma, Modernist, Non-modernist, IBD, Robert Frost’s An Old Man’s Winter Night, Louise Bogan’s dreaming of a terrible beast, a chocolate cake, too sweet, Nong Thon had brown rice, a welcome treat for Dore, the vet, Cookie home after a week at the vet’s, my hat wanting to fly away with the wind, the bus came, too late, the Modernists affected by World War I, disintegration, collapse of system, society, fragmented spirit, disjointed verse, excessive vocalization is a sign of hyperthyroidism, the horse “began to paw at the air”, “we’re all women here” but who is to speak about love? Logic is part of, thank God for logic because sometimes, that sometimes the mind could travel down a straight road to arrive at, but the rest of the time, the keys, bison jerky.

The Door is Closed

I went to a shaman workshop because I read The Way of the Shaman by Michael Harner and wanted to journey into the lower and upper worlds. I wanted to meet my guardians and spirit animals and explore the worlds in the inner consciousness. The workshop was held in a hotel conference room, where there must have been nearly a hundred people. Almost all of the participants were able to journey while Michael and his assistant played the drums. They came back with fascinating accounts of landscapes and creatures, wisdom and cautions imparted by their guardians.

Almost everyone, as I was unable to journey. There was no image or sign as I listened to the drumming and tried to enter into the altered state. Perhaps I was too eager to be successful. After the workshop I continued to try at home. Candles, drumming tape, prayers…nothing worked. For whatever reason I was denied access to the spirit world.

Inside

Slice open the body and take a peek inside. Examine every inch of the intestine, the liver, the kidney, the lungs, the heart. The valves may not be functioning. The stomach lining may be corroded. We see. We diagnose. We put our findings down as knowledge. But no matter how we poke around and think we have arrived at some understanding, the body retains its mystery.

Sometimes the body allows us to do things to it. Sometimes it takes back its ownership. In the immediate picture we are capable of manipulating all of its parts by cutting, stitching, repairing, intoxicating, detoxicating. Yet the coded molecules have their own paradigm and timing—they mutate, repress, blossom—are part of the cosmos, ever changing and fascinating.

When I smell the aroma of boiled sweet potatoes, the nose is the mouth is the saliva is the stomach is the stirring in the groin is the tingling of the toes.

Image from Nano Wizard.