clarahsu – Page 19

At the Poetry Salon

Clara, Cake+Jack (1) — Cake for a January Birthday, & Jack Foley

The salon downstairs has become too small to accommodate the monthly gathering. Today Richard Loranger suggested that we should take down the wall that separates the living room and Dore’s office so we might have more space. “Everyone brings a hammer to the next Salon!”

Mary Rudge, featured poet, gave copies of her poems out for the audience to “sound”. Different voices assumed different characters, all under the theme “Occupy”.

It was Anna Wolfe birthday. Steve Arnston brought over a yellow cake topped with two-inch-thick cream. We sang “Happy Birthday”. Last month was Susan Pedrick’s. I like it when people choose to celebrate their big day at the Poetry Hotel.

Marsha Campbell read from the proof copy of her new book. She was ecstatic, gave me one of her framed drawings, titled “Lust”. Jack and Adelle Foley read their choral piece “The Dance of the Seven Veils”. Sensuality crossed paths in the poetic minds.

Photo by Dore Steinberg.

Click to Publish

Years ago I walked into Tower Records and was shocked that their LP collection had shrunk into a corner. The world had changed to CDs without me. Today the same sense of awe strikes me when I receive a print on demand book from Amazon. A book is printed and shipped within days. There is practically no cost for the author to publish a professionally printed book. E-Publishing has evolved to a point that cannot be ignored.

Things that have become/are becoming obsolete: typewriter, newspapers, land-line phones, encyclopedias, film cameras, the Yellow Pages, etc.. I don’t have nostalgic feelings for these things. And for authors, this might just be the golden age of publishing.

Pages…Good Grief!

As much as I like to read, I balk at books that have more than 300 pages. It seems an impossible task–a steep climb that will never reach the summit. I’m the kind of person who goes to the end of the book and reads backward, as if by doing so I can grasp the essence of the text with minimum effort.

It’s restlessness, wanting to eat a full meal without taking the time to properly digest everything. It’s anxiety, being locked into a single volume for an indefinite period of time. It’s the fear of commitment, wanting to read everything but unwilling to sit down for one. After I work out all my neuroses I might just be able to read a book.

Handmade Shoes?

Was it a gimmick or was it for real? The salesman told me the particular pairs of shoes I admired so much were hand-made. At the time I wasn’t thinking. But after I walked out of the store I was struck by his statement. Aren’t all shoes to some extent sewn or glued by hand? Maybe not! In that case I might be well behind the times.

What is “hand-crafted coffee”? What is a “sustainable” and “green” product? These buzz words do not make sense. When I ask I often don’t get an answer because the persons who use these words don’t know the meanings themselves. It seems the more we depend on machines the more we promote the image of human connection. But do I really think about the growers and pickers and how they sweat and labor in the sun when I drink my cup of coffee?

Photo by Zeva Bellel

Love Dance

“If you ever doubt my love, hurt me. If there is no reaction, then my love for you is dead.” Passion comes and goes. To sustain loving feelings is a mammoth task. In time we change and grow and become different people then when we first fall in love. There is a lot of stuff to work out if we want to stay together. Most of us fail. Some receive another chance, but most of us are lonely.

“Deal with it,” a friend comments, “That’s why the clubs are full of people.” We are isolated social beings, dancing in a room, coming together, breaking apart.

Affordable Mistakes

To learn is to make mistakes, but to admit error and learn from it requires faith. There are life threatening situations that definitely need immediate intervention, such as when a child blindly runs across a street or a drunk driver on the road. But there are many occasions where mistakes do not physically endanger ourselves and others, and to fully understand the consequence of an action is to be allowed to live it.

Allowing someone to make mistakes is different from “tough love”, where one person has power over the other, and the reward is given rather than self generated. It is very hard for me to watch my children flounder. It’s even harder to watch myself flounder. It takes faith that at some point we might learn something from the experience, and go on giving ourselves permission to make mistakes.

A Prohibited Meal

The only illegal act my father ever committed was taking the train from Hong Kong to China. He stayed there overnight. When he came back I tried to sniff the purported fragrance from his clothes. Not a trace could be detected. Years later when I went to Guangzhou I specifically asked to be taken to such a place, where at the show window the merchandise was lined up in a row, their bodies shiny (already cooked I suppose), hung by the necks, oil dripping down the little singed tails. They put the slices in a clay pot with daikon radishes and carrots, sizzling hot. Red meat, chewy, but it didn’t taste like chicken.

“Dog…” I said to my friend, “It’s not what it’s trumped up to be.”

He shrugged, “People are into wild vegetables these days.”

Photo from uncorneredmarket.com

Roadblock

Three students did not come to their lessons yesterday because the Bay Bridge was closed. Ironically, the violin teacher, who lives in the East Bay showed up to work before nine. The bridge closing was a wonderful excuse for…?

I shouldn’t be too harsh on the parents. Raising kids take tremendous energy and dedication. Once in a while we all need a break. What’s better than having the transit authority to stop you from getting to where you’re supposed to go?

Earthquake, bad weather, ball games, holidays (we just came out of three months of that) are all legitimate routine disrupters. We can rightly blame the external forces and enjoy some “stolen” moments—putting down that burden of self-sacrifice for just a little while.

Breakfast is not Served

An early morning walk in Chinatown made me realize that nearly all of the restaurants had stopped serving breakfast. I was pining for a waffle, the old fashioned kind that was a little burned on the edges with a pat of butter melting in the middle. Or maybe an egg with a watery yoke. That would be fine too. But walking up and down the hills I was not able to find a place that would provide what used to be standard comfort food.

Although on the outside it is still funky and bizarre as if it is suspended in another time, Chinatown is changing subtly. The men sitting in the bakery drinking coffee and buying lottery tickets will gradually fade away, so will the homemade basement temples, and the old gangsters who talk football at one o’clock in the morning at Sam Wo. But I think in the gift shops they will always have something to sell to everyone. Like a charm on a red string, for protection.

Assyrian Dolmas

Unlike the ones that are wrapped with grape leaves, Assyrian dolmas are tomatoes, peppers, onions, zucchinis and cabbage stuffed with rice, meat, parsley, basil and spices and simmered. They were on display, arranged in two glass dishes; and as soon as I walked into the tiny Magdy’s Cafe I knew I wanted to try them.

A couple of customers came and went. My friend and I were the only ones left.

“Do you like the dolmas?” Fred, the owner asked. When I said yes he beamed.

“I knew you would. My sister made them, with the supervision of my 93 year old mother.”

Fred’s family moved from Turkey to Iraq and then to the United States. When he heard about our travels he sat down and chatted with us. Fred told us there’s an Assyrian church in the Sunset, and a big community of fifty-thousand in Chicago. They still speak Aramaic, the language in Jesus’ time.

And here, at Clement and 31st Ave, we discovered another gem of San Francisco.