clarahsu – Page 30

Being Something Else

It’s slowly happening: pink antennae bobbing on a woman’s head, Pocahontas in her skimpy frilly outfit, a man wearing a diamond studded crown. And there will be more today, I’m sure, slowly emerging in downtown among the shoppers—the devil, the clown, the fairy queen, the tea kettle, the pretzel! T’s the season to be something else.

Halloween being on a Monday, we have the whole weekend to play. Dressed up. Dressed down. Our imagination gets a good work out. One day of the year (and a few days before) we get to exercise it unrestrained. But what about the other times when we settle for the old humdrum?

Last year Bill Mercer and I read Love and Death at Sacred Grounds during Halloween with our faces painted. The inferior quality of the paint made our skin unbearably itchy. We ran to the bathroom cursing and washed our makeup off . I guess that is a good reason why we’ll just be ordinary this year.

Who’s My Community?

“I’m not bored, but lonely.” Said a friend.

She is an smart woman who has an active career and constantly doing “things”. What’s lacking is someone to share her intelligence with—a companion for the mind and spirit.

I have felt the same way for many years. Surrounded by friends and family, the feeling of isolation is curiously intense. It was not until much later in life that I realized my community did not necessarily include my parents and siblings, and the people who I socialized with. What was lacking was an intrinsic connection. It was never clear to me what it was until it was found, and then I knew.

My neighbor Richard complained that when he got together with his friends all they did was argue.

“A bunch of old farts.” He said with contempt.

“But you join them every week. Maybe that’s what gives you pleasure.”

“I guess so.” He shrugged with a laugh.

Mr. Petey Goes To The Doctor

If cats have nine lives, we have seen our orange furry son Petey living through his third. Petey was rescued from the Martinez shelter on the day of his execution. After living with us for a short time, he developed some blockage in his urinary tract and was on the verge of death. We found out just in time to save him. Since then Petey has been the man of the house. With his tail forever up he walks with a sexy strut. Lately we notice he is losing weight and his alluring behind has turned skinny. A visit to the doctor shows that he has irregular heart beat and may have recently suffered a stroke. Now Petey takes three pills a day.

Lucky for Petey he gets special diet for his urinary condition and medications for his heart. He would not survive if he was born in Morocco or Turkey where cats are everywhere and people don’t have the luxury to care for them. The value of a life is dependent on its location. Isn’t it also the case for human beings?

Chance

Welcome to my office at Mission Pie. The address: 2901 Mission Street, San Francisco. I’m there almost every Monday, and sometimes on other days too. If you’re a regular as I am, I’m sure we’ve met each other at one time or another. But I’m not here to tell you how great their pies are (they have great pies) and how bright and airy the place that makes it very suitable for writers because you can experience that for yourself. I want to tell you a personal connection that happened years ago.

The day after 9/11 in 2001 I sent out an invitation to my Clarion mailing list to attend a candlelight vigil on Friday. Many people came. After poetry and music we lit the candles and walked around the block in Chinatown. Then with a prayer and blessing we dispersed. I did not know most of the people who attended that night but we all felt we needed to have each other.

About a year ago when I went to Mission Pie the owner came up to me.

“I’m Karen. I met you at Clarion’s candlelight vigil. It was a beautiful experience that I’ll never forget.”

And now I am in her care, eating her wonderful pies, drinking her teas, claiming a space to further my poetry.

Heart and Mind

fiery heart — The True Color Of Heart by Fiery-Fire

“I change my mind.”

“I have a change of heart.”

Why are these two conditions stated differently? It seems the mind is being controlled by us, as we are able to select from whatever thoughts and ideas that it has formulated to make a decision. But the heart! The heart “sees” and decides, and the change has already happened before we know it. I think that’s why we say follow your heart and never follow your mind.

The heart is a pure source. Like the right peg in the right hole, when they are engaged a new dimension opens up. The heart declares. It doesn’t provide information or analysis. It doesn’t compare and contrast. All that is the work of the mind. Perhaps that is why the mind is in constant conflict.

It is a matter of trust when following the heart. Life will be different, not better or worse; and it will be true—at least for the moment.

A Glass Of Tea

It happened in Rotterdam in the Netherlands. Walking down an aroma filled neighborhood to find a place to eat, I was attracted to the large rotating lamb and beef shwarmas on gas flames in front of a small restaurant. But what caught my eye were the little clear glasses filled with bright green leaves that most of the customers were drinking out of. Curious, I ordered “one of those”.

They called it “Moroccan whiskey”—mint leaves, boiling water with lots of sugar. It was so sweet it melted my teeth. But it was also extremely addictive—taking me back to my mother’s womb where the only thought was to suckle and nothing else. In time, I learned that for each serving of tea you need two glasses. One was used to agitate the sugared water by pouring it repeatedly back into the teapot. The other was for drinking. This social drink brings people together and I think you can talk about anything when the tongue is sweetened.

Photo by themoroccandream.blogspot.com

Passing Through

How many doors do we walk through in a day? Have we ever stopped to ponder what will happen when we walk into a room or out of a room? Into and out of the street? A building?

It seems that I’m entering and existing all the time. Each partition that holds me even for a moment is filled with possibilities. I have met strangers who have become friends, found lost things, memories, and food for poetry. Time moves things around, even within my own room. I discover forgotten bills hidden under piles of books.

Try to “go gentle” but oftentimes it is not up to me. A storm may be brewing next door; a new reality when I open my eyes. Each day is as unpredictable as the next. I wonder how I get from there to here.

Old Forms, New Dare

Jannie Dresser started a poem a day internet class in January. Every day she sent out a prompt. I didn’t follow the prompts all of the time, as the ultimate goal of a prompt was to come up with a poem. Occasionally Jannie asked for a sonnet, or rispetto. When that happened I had no choice but to follow her instructions.

Fortunately the internet is full of information, and examples of structured verse are readily available. Still, the struggle was real and through this practice I realized what an art it is to write in a particular form. Limitations and rules force a person to be creative.

Well, none of my form poems turn out well but I have much more appreciation and respect for forms. Jannie is taking a break this month and a few of us in the class have taken up the responsibility to post a prompt. Last night’s was to write a sestina—a long poem of 39 lines. I found myself in a puzzled place, trying to fit the same six ending words to each line over and over. It was a long time before I emerged, a bit frazzled, with a poem that looked like a hipster in a historical costume.

No Notes, Please

A violin student came into my studio for a lesson on singing and listening.

“I can’t sing.” He said sheepishly.

“Of course you can.” I said. “Sing with me.”

We matched pitches, going up and down the scale. His voice was shaky at first, but soon he was able to hold a note for a few seconds and hop up and down small intervals. A big smile spread across his face.

He didn’t know about the major musical periods. When I began to explain he took out his notebook and started writing.

“No notes, please.” I said. “Just listen.”

He was not used to doing that, and felt uncomfortable. He was a good student.

I played him examples: Bach, Mozart, Chopin, Gershwin. We talked about musical lines that run horizontally and chords that move a piece of music vertically. He asked questions now, of things he didn’t understand.

At the end of the lesson he didn’t want to leave. A good student. I look forward to seeing him next week.

What We Imagine

“Look what you have done,” The Pig said to the Monkey, “invited an uncombed and unwashed Kwan Yin.” They looked on as Kwan Yin approached, disheveled and barefooted, her robe haphazardly folded together. from Journey to the West

I read this classical Chinese novel as a child and this is one of the passages that has remained with me. Kwan Yin, the revered Goddess of Mercy appeared like an ordinary person hurrying to solve a crisis after being woken from sleep. She was sensual, soft with her hair down and her face freed of make-up. This moment was observed by the Pig and with that, animal, human and goddess all came down to the same level.

A friend and I talked about subtlety in writing, how it gives room to the readers to imagine for themselves. It is what I imagine that I remember.