clarahsu – Page 9

Grumpy

When he sets up a system he expects it to run like clockwork. He has no patience for misinterpretation. He does not excuse forgetfulness.

When the system breaks down his blood pressure goes high. Small things manifest into unmanageable events. They rule the moment and the moment after. They become the day.

It’s a day of confusion. Too many people coming and going with not enough “in” and “out” signs to keep track of everybody. He even puts on a pair of blue jeans for the occasion.

The food grows cold. The clock hands turn.

He is given a little clip-on button that says “Happy Father’s Day”. He shakes his head.

It’s not happy at all. In fact, it is terrible.

Don Brennan, Dan Brady and I met weekly at La Boheme Cafe in the Mission several summers ago. We had decided to translate Chinese classical poems. Soon our small group more than doubled in size when friends heard about our endeavor. After a few productive sessions the group slowly turned into a social gathering and nothing of any significance was produced. We disbanded when the summer was over.

Once in a while I would look at a Chinese poem and decide to translate it. It’s a healthy mental exercise, keeping in mind the compact nature of each Chinese character and trying to find its concise equivalence in English. This week, one line in a Su Shi’s poem reminded me of a line in Joyce’s Finnegans Wake. When put side by side they complimented each other. Now I have arranged lines from various poets of the west to dialogue with Su Shi’s lines. The straight translation has morphed into a poem that is not quite Chinese or English, not East, nor West, but maybe an interesting meeting of minds.

The Rhythm of Words

The long and short of it is that rhythm makes things interesting. Without a beat we’re dead. My attempt to read Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales in Middle English begins with knowing something about the iambic pentameter. Soon a delightful rhythm surfaces. If I can’t get five stresses in a line I’m saying it wrong.

What goes down must come up seems like a simple enough concept. But having a sense of rhythm is not inherent in all of us. Like swimming, skipping, or striking a ball, it is a coordination that needs to be taught. Where to speed up, where to pause. Imagine learning to recite Chaucer at a young age!

Killer Instinct

Waking up in a riad (a traditional Moroccan house) I found long lines of ants on the floor going into the toilet. When I told Janet, my French hostess, she replied with a smile and a shrug, “It’s OK. They live here. We all live together.”

There was a time when I would not hesitate to slam down on cockroaches, spiders and ants that invaded my space. But as I age I find myself not so quick on the hand. Janet’s words have stayed with me. I pick up spiders with a tissue paper and shake them out of the house. Other times I watch them scurry across the floor and disappear into their own hiding place. As long as they don’t bother me, I don’t bother with them.

To get rid of aphids on plant leaves, my Australian brother-in-law recommends a spray mixture of piss, garlic and water. Just the thought (smell) of this cocktail deters invasion of the most annoying kind.

Day at the Beach

Sand burned our feet as Jeanne Lupton and I walked toward the water on Ocean Beach. It was a rare day in San Francisco. No fog, light breeze, temperature in the low seventies.

Low tide, exposing pieces of broken sand dollars, crabs, and blobs of jelly fish. The breeze lifted vapor into the air and masked the beach with mist. I combed the beach, always looking for nature’s gifts, and found a stone lined with a fossil.

We sat on a log. My cell phone rang. It was father. He was waiting for Meals On Wheels and they have not shown up. I called them. They said they are running late with the delivery.

The sea’s haunting voices rushed into my left ear. Its ten thousand echos pounded my mind. A dog rushed into the waves to retrieve a stick. Happy, happy.

The Only Difference

Avotcja, who works in the penal system, said, “The difference between the ones in jail and us is that they get caught.”

The winners—The difference between winners and losers is that the winners get picked.

Maybe that’s the only difference. Right and wrong, good and bad; who are the judges who declare one winner over the others? Majority rules even if they are dead wrong. Famous today, gone tomorrow are the American idols. Isn’t it still true that most artists and writers become known only after they are dead?

My dad used to tease me, said I’m a sour grape. Maybe, but that’s only because he likes his grapes sweet.

The Conversationalists

My dentist and my hairdresser like to engage in chit chat while they perform their job. My dentist takes great care in asking questions that I can answer with a grunt. She takes the tools away from my mouth sensibly when she expects a longer answer. In this way the whole teeth cleaning process is very civilized, though I’d much rather close my eyes and get it over with.

Slightly different with the hairdresser. I have gone to her only three times in two years but she remembers that I teach piano and I am a poet. She remembers my father and my children. We speak as if we have known each other for years. Only sometimes I wonder if it is at all necessary to talk.

If we run into each other in the street chances are we would just say hello.

Escape from Jury Duty

Jury duty brought out something in me that was unexpected. On the one hand I wanted to get out of there as fast as I could to resume my life. On the other hand I wanted to be picked, selected out of a roomful of people with no names and faces, picked to have a moment of recognition.

Sitting in the jury box seemed like some kind of achievement. But when the judge explained that the case was a petty “crime”, I realized that it was something I couldn’t care less about. No matter how nobly this sense of citizenry duty was burning it was time to scheme for an escape.

I told the judge I was opinionated, that I would try my best to be partial and listen to the arguments on both sides. I said it with enough hesitation that I was bumped off the box quite immediately by the lawyer.

Then the moment of glory: to walk out of the court room while the others continued with the process of elimination. I reserved my big smile until the doors were closed behind me.

Pining for an Owl

northern_pygmy_owl — northern pygmy owl. Click photo to Lindsay Museum's website.

I touched the snake. Surprisingly, it was not slimy but dry and smooth. During these “pat the critters” classes at the Lindsay Museum in Walnut Creek I learned about animals together with my children.

The owls stood in a row. They were injured (by people or from accidents) and would not survive in the wild. So were all the animals displayed in the museum. It was a living sanctuary for the rescued. I had brought birds there that had been attacked by our cat Itsy. Some of them survived. Most didn’t.

We borrowed a rabbit and I think some guinea pigs home. My children went on to have their “own” pets. I wanted the owls because they could turn their heads completely around. But they told me at the museum that owls don’t make good pets. Besides, they were not up for adoption.

A Misplaced Concert

On the long stretch of South Habour Road I drove back and forth. The street number for the Craneway Pavilion was no where to be found. At a guard post I asked for directions. The Pavilion was the last building on the water edge.

This convention center in Richmond was an out-of-the-way place for a concert that featured Afghani singer Ustad Farida Mahwash, rubab virtuoso Homayoun Sakhi and the Sakhi Ensemble. The concentration of Afghan immigrants in the Bay Area is in Fremont. Shouldn’t such a concert be presented in the famed “Little Kabul”?

In the large hall a food vendor was selling chicken kabob dinners next to the audience. As the music played, the aroma of spices and grilled meat drifted through the air. Mahwash’s voice spiraled higher and higher. Homayoun’s rubab and the drummers played faster and faster. And I was transported to a colorful and rich place full of textures and intrigues—maybe it was Fremont after all.

Author: clarahsu