clarahsu – Page 35

What’s Real, and What’s Not

Garlic, green onion and cilantro are considered to be foul-scented ingredients. They are not used in a true Chinese vegetarian restaurant, like Lucky Creation, located on Washington Street in Chinatown. On the back of the hole-in-the-wall place is an elaborate alter filled with flowers and fresh fruits for Buddha. Monks and nuns eat there, so do intrepid travelers and locals like me and Dore, who enjoy most of what they serve on the menu.

One late night we passed by Lucky Creation. They had already closed. But when they saw us gesturing at them they opened the door and let us in. Ever the hard working people, the cook went back into the kitchen and prepared our dishes while the other workers sat at the round table continued with their dinner. I smelled something unusual, an aroma that I never associated with a vegetarian restaurant. As I looked over to their big table I saw an array of dishes—beef, pork, fish—all real and generously prepared with garlic, green onion and cilantro—not the imitation gluten-meats that they serve to their customers.

“You guys are not vegetarians.” I exclaimed, shocked.

“Of course not.” Said the lady owner. “We’re all meat eaters. It takes a lot of energy to run a restaurant. We need strength.”

“But…but, what does Buddha have to say about this?”

“Oh he understands. We all have to make a living.”

Our noodle dish arrived with crispy puff gluten, three types of mushrooms and a black bean sauce. The little restaurant had turned surreal as I wondered about the fat belly of the golden Buddha. He seemed to be chuckling at us.

What Pain Does

Pain is a most debilitating sensation. I am in pain, and for almost a week, keep wishing that it will go away. It won’t. It gets worse. My back is inflamed and blistery. The body needs help.

“You have shingles.” My doctor said as soon as she heard my description of the angry rash. She gave me a prescription. Thank goodness for western medicine. Knowing that I’m in possession of a pill that can kill off the virus makes me feel better already.

Funny how pain can seize the mind and paralyze it. Instead of feeling sorry for myself I want to write something cheerful. But as the body slows down time also comes to a standstill, and in that stillness only one sensation prevails. I want to scream, but no sound comes out.

The 3300 Club

GeriDigiornoNancyKeane — Nancy Keane at SF Poetry TV Show. Click to watch.

The 3300 club is at the junction of Mission and Valencia. It has a big old neon sign and coins itself the “garden spot of the Mission”. I can’t imagine anything growing in there but drinks. On poetry nights they give out free snacks.

I have been to the bar twice to hear friends read. The club’s owner, Nancy Keane, eluded me both times. We finally met when she came to the TV studio to tape her reading for the SF TV show.

Nancy has been running the club since 1956. As we sat down to chat, she handed me a small flyer. Surrounding the texts was a garden window hand painted in pastel with flowers decorated inside and out. It was her latest project, Nancy explained. She was participating in the 100 Thousand Poets for Change and raising money for the 826 Valencia Project that provides free after school tutoring to students.

I came to realize the glow on her face was the garden that I had missed at the club.

Elegy TO A Pair Of Babouche

You have served me well, my alligator-head babouche. Your orange and black colorings always bring people’s attention to my feet. When I slip you on each morning I’m reminded of Morocco.

Your daddy was Mohammad, and you were born in the little room behind Ben Youssef Madrasa in D’jmaa Elfna Square. He displayed all his children in a shop next door according to size and color. When he found me sitting at his front door, hot and dusty, he invited me inside for tea.

You stood out from all the others, my dear alligator-heads. Your strong sisal bodies were hand crocheted into this curious shape. “Try them on.” Said your daddy, and we were a match.

Here in San Francisco you walk on carpeted floor and never fail to charm my friends. But after four years my big toes wear you thin, and like all things, I see the end approaching.

It is always a dilemma for me when I have to dispose of the things that I love. I write this not so much for you, but for me, so that should I come upon this entry many years from now, I may remember you.

Photo by Andy Stock

My Writing Buddy

Having a writing buddy is to have someone hold me accountable to my work. Jeanne Lupton and I have been meeting every Monday morning since 2009. Mostly at Mission Pie in San Francisco, sometimes at Leila’s Cafe in Berkeley, we take our meeting seriously and rarely have we missed a week. When I was working on the second draft of my memoir I promised to show her a chapter a week. I was eternally struggling with grammar and syntax. Jeanne patiently corrected and explained to me my mistakes. It was her steadfastness, expectation and our discipline that made me finish the book in a timely manner.

Writing is a solitary undertaking but sharing is an integral part of the process. When I look back, we have worked through a variety of works: my book, Jeanne’s draft on her poetic memoir, poems, stories and her incisive tankas. What can be accomplished over a cup of tea is truly amazing.

The Shop Without The President

Syria 2004 026 — Fahrenheit 911 showing in Damascus

On our way to Damascus in 2004, Dore and I stopped at Homs, a city that served as a mid-point between Krak des Chevaliers (a crusader castle) to the west and Palmyra (an ancient ruin) to the east. As soon as we got settled, we searched out the souk, the market place where everything is sold. Syria was known for its textiles and I was especially drawn to the fabric shops. It was late in the evening. The shops were still open but the regular shoppers had pretty much gone home.

I walked into this particular shop because of the rows of eye-catching and colorful fabrics. They were folded and stacked neatly on the shelves. A young man was working in the shop. He greeted us and made tea. While Dore and the man struck up a conversation, I pulled out various fabrics to admire the beautiful patterns and shades. Then I heard Dore said, “You don’t have your president in the shop.”

One could not miss the Syrian President for a moment. The photo of Bashar al-Assad was prominently displayed as soon as we crossed the border. It was in every hotel, restaurant, barbershop, etc, and the few homes that we had visited. His omnipresence was suffocating, to say the least, but somehow he was not in this little shop tonight.

The young man had nothing good to say about his President. “Are you not afraid?” I asked him. Everyone we had met so far would only praise their beloved President to the hilt. Even the nomad who treated us like friends in Palmyra steered clear from politics.

“No.” He said. “I’m young and I think differently.”

Seven years later, there are many more young men who think differently. Every day when I read the news, I can’t help but think of him, and wonder if he is among the dead and injured, or has become a leader or organizer, pushing his country toward a new dawn.

The Poet’s Gallery

2005. The gallery space was formerly a butcher shop located right across the street from North Beach Pizza. As I walked into the gallery, Philip Hackett was sitting at a table conducting business. Artists wanted to schedule show time, poets wanted to sell their books, the installer needed a final nod on the display. When we finally had a moment together, he pointed at the front corner of the gallery and asked me to make a display there.

“What would you like?” I asked.

“The Chinese instruments from Clarion. You can also display your books. I’ll sell them for you.”

I didn’t have a book so I decided to make one. I printed the pages out and hand bounded them with ribbons. Philip was pleased. He told me about the upcoming North Beach Poetry Festival and invited me to read at the gallery.

The festival was a most impressive event with a packed audience from morning until well into the afternoon. It was a bonanza for the art community. But it was also too good a thing for San Francisco. Money was always tight, and in 2007 the gallery space was taken back by its owner. The setback didn’t stop Philip. He now produces regular readings as well as art shows in twenty cafes around North Beach, calling himself The King of Poetry.

Credits: PH Images

Poems On Leaves

I found a big bowl of leaves soaking in water next to the fireplace at Carlos Ramirez’s home. Some were brown with hints of red, some yellow green; the leaves were collected from the magnolia trees in his Mission neighborhood. The fall colors and clean water added a playful and soothing element in the living room, a reflection of the poet’s personality.

“I write poems on the leaves after I wash and dry them.” Carlos told me with twinkle in his eyes. He showed me the finished product, stacked together loosely and wrapped in a plastic bag.

“They are mostly haikus. Some are just thoughts. I use a brush tip pen.” His childlike smile spread over his great white beard.

We read them, leaf by leaf.

Il Postino

My children came to visit me on Mother’s Day. I had the day mapped out. When they arrived we went to the cemetery to place flowers on my stepmother’s grave. Then we drove to Spreckels Lake in Golden Gate Park and placed flowers on a bench in remembrance of my mother. Some years ago my father had the Park & Rec install a memorial plaque on it. Then we went to my father’s house and cooked dinner.

When I told my children the after dinner entertainment was a movie I had rented for them, they laughed as if it was a conspiracy. “OK, Mom. It’s your day so stuff us with what you like.”

IL Postino (The Postman) was a 1994 Italian movie about a simple postman in a fishing village who befriended the poet Pablo Neruda. The unlikely friendship led to a desire for the postman to write poetry, with the encouragement of the great poet. Massimo Troisi (the postman) delivered a memorable performance. It was his last film. He passed away ten hours after the final scenes were shot, of heart failure.

I don’t know how much my children got out of the movie. They were more moved when I told them about the death of Massimo. But to me, when one human being elevates the mind of another and both find value in the exchange, it is intensely beautiful. Like a starburst, life is changed, no matter great or small.

Walking Through a Wall

“We can all do it if we go slow enough.” The ever enigmatic Angar Mora of the WOW Salon of the Imagination says with a straight face. As he speaks he walks very close to a wall and for an instant I really feel he is disappearing into it. Is it mind over matter, or is he demonstrating the fact that we are all made out of the same atom? I prefer not to analyze. At the moment when I believe in Angar it really happens, or that it has already happened, that he has actually walked through the wall from the other side into the room.

How long does it take to change the mind? It depends on the power of the narrative. If we have conviction it happens instantaneously.