Monday, July 3, 2017

day of noodle

Hisashi strolled through Takashimaya Yokohama looking at various sale items. He was early, so he looked over the flower selection, making a mental note to pick up roses on his way out. Maiko would be surprised and pleased.

He turned the corner and spotted Ginza Tenichi where he was meeting Ottokar, the German architect working on final changes to his company's new building. Hisashi had been assigned to entertain him until he completed the project. The bartender approached him as soon as he sat on his stool. "Your best daiginjo, two cups, and keep it coming."

Later, he would think back to this moment and realize that he had killed Otto before the man ever walked into the bar. But in the moment, as he scrolled through text messages from girls who wanted to own him, he was oblivious and resigned to another tedious night of entertaining the boy genius from Dusseldorf.

never letting go

Words gather together, a comical speech.
Two orphans laugh awkwardly, standing across from the gin.
Did you crack the window?
Was it meant to be so?
I'm not giving up.
I'm never letting go.

Dance faster, sing louder,
Spit as far as you can.
When dawn shines her light,
We'll see who triumphed.
Was it the girl in the striped dress?
She's never letting go.

The blue sea is roiling,
The deck to's and fro's,
But his legs hold him steady,
His whistle encourages, that cheerful, expected sound.
He thinks of her letters, on yellow crepe paper.
He's never letting go.

Thursday, December 29, 2016

broken treasure

The first art piece I ever purchased - a pottery cat with angel wings - sat broken on my coffee table. Elizabeth was profuse in her apologies. It had certainly been an accident. And I forgave her immediately. There were too many pieces to glue it back together. I threw it in the trash.

Thursday, December 8, 2016

not what the postman brought

In the wee, nippy hours of the Arizona night, while others slumber restlessly or dream of lovely things, I sit awake and ponder this unidentified thing inside my body. Will it be a momentary discomfort that I'll prattle on about some day, sitting with the other ladies at the old folk's home? Or is it a demon seed sent to wipe me from the planet, robbing me of the easy years when I'd planned to travel, write, and paint? Time will tell.

Saturday, November 19, 2016


Although I have not lost any of the drive and determination to fight discrimination and injustice, my morning meditation took me in an interesting direction today. Since 1995, I've used a small daily devotional called Pocketful of Miracles (Prayers, Meditations, and Affirmations To Nurture Your Spirit Every Day of the Year) by Joan Borysenko. I'll begin by telling you that I don't do a devotional every day. I'm fairly fickle, in fact. So when I do open this devotional, I often feel I've been led to a particular message.

Today, the message was about forgiveness. More specifically, it was about admitting to myself that what qualities I find most deplorable in others, I may discover in myself, if I am willing to release my defense mechanisms and honestly examine my own heart and soul. This is not the first time I've heard that message, of course. But I willingly followed the thought.

Today's devotional used Hitler as an example. Certainly, Adolph Hitler was a horrific example of how one human can lead others to commit atrocities on an immense scale. His behavior and the actions of his followers should be condemned in the most emphatic language possible.

But in looking at myself, the devotional suggests that I view Hitler as an aspect of myself, as one more altar of God. So as I began my prayer and meditation, my thoughts went immediately to Donald Trump, which is ironic because I meditate to calm myself and Trump has repeatedly raised my stress levels. So there I am, incredulous, looking at his face in my mind and wondering what I'm intended to do with THAT.

The answer came, of course. Trump dismisses women as being worthy only as measured by their appearance. Who do I dismiss? Trump often denies his history or rewrites his history in a more palatable version. What of my history have I rewritten? Trump belittles people, openly mocking their physical attributes. Who do I belittle and mock? Trump dismisses whole swathes of people, signaling his willingness to ignore their humanity and right to exist. What group of people do I dismiss?

I see the altar there. I understand what I'm meant to do. I need to let go of my pride, my judgemental nature, and any likelihood I may have to make broad assumptions about people BEFORE I approach the altar. But when I think of Trump and those who happily follow his horrible example, I can see I have many repetitions of this particular meditation ahead of me. Yes, I am a stubborn woman. I fight personal growth. I hold on to the deplorable within my heart and soul. But God's message is that there IS hope for me. I just need to keep the image of the altar in my mind.

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

asked him twice

When I came downstairs the next morning, the door to the master suite was ajar and there wasn't a noise to be heard. I called out Michael's name, but there was no answer. In the kitchen, I started a pot of coffee. I checked the fridge for creamer. Milk would do. Where was Michael?

I opened the door to the garage. Michael's car sat beside my own. I closed the door. The wonderful smell of freshly brewed coffee greeted me. Is there anything sweeter? I poured a cup, added milk, and gazed at the door to Michael's room. If he was awake, why didn't he answer?

Were you guys lovers still?

No. Well, yes, but not like before. I had my own room on the third floor. We agreed we could each date other guys. But we still fooled around occasionally.

But not that night?


Go on.

So I walked over to his door and pushed it open. (pause) The first thing I saw was blood splatter on the wall above the headboard. Only I thought it was paint, and I wondered why Michael would do that. I decided to wake him up. I could see he was in the bed. There was a pillow on his head. I lifted it up and tried to make sense of what I was seeing. It was totally unrecognizable as a face. It was destroyed.

Is that when you left the house?

(Nodding) I panicked. I knew I needed to call the police. But we had weed and quaaludes and acid. I gathered it all up, jumped in my car and drove out to the lake and hid it under some rocks. Then I came back to the house and called the police.

Why did they arrest you?

The neighbors saw me leave and come back. The police were convinced I'd thrown away the murder weapon. I had to show them where I'd stashed the drugs before they believed me.

Paul, we've known each other a long time. I know you loved him. Are you sure you didn't snap and do this terrible thing?

(Long pause, then quietly) If I did do it, it wouldn't be good for you to know I did it, Jackie.

Tuesday, November 1, 2016

desert dessert

After the drought, and that mourning quiet,
you come to me in sweet expectation.

I drink in the breath of sighs and smiles,
and feel my desiccated soul grow plump with love.

I'll never feel normal again.
I'm on the other side of loss.

But your kisses remind me I'm still alive.
And your touch keeps me nourished.

Each time we wind ourselves around each other,
I'm a little farther from my pain.

Sunday, October 9, 2016

my mother loved blue

She grew up next to the ocean in Norfolk, VA. It seems as if every conversation I had with her during her last few years included some reference to the beach or the ocean. Her favorite painting that hung in her office throughout her career featured beautiful sand dunes with a hint of blue ocean and blue sky beyond the dunes. When she was 82, I took her on a cruise and we were able to rent a little beach cabana on the cruise line’s private beach day. She wanted to go in the water and I watched as she slowly made her way down to the shoreline. I had offered to walk with her, but she wanted to do it by herself. As soon as the water was up to her ankles though, the sand became too mushy and she lost her balance and plopped down on her bottom. I raced down to the water to help her up. I asked her what she wanted to do, prepared to do anything for her in that moment, even swim into the ocean with her, which is not my favorite thing. But Mother, embarrassed by her public tumble, wanted to go back to the beach chairs. After a few moments, she turned to me with tears in her eyes and confided that her fantasy had been to run into the ocean as she had done so many times as a young girl. In her mind, she was still that young girl, running free, unencumbered by age or physical restraints.

My Mother loved blue.

Her favorite ring was a turquoise and sterling silver ring that she bought while visiting her Aunt Ruth in New Mexico back in the 1960’s. If you know her well, you know that she always had that ring on. She had many rings, but wore that one the most. It's a huge ring and her hand was small, but it looked like it belonged there. She also had another ring which featured a small aquamarine surrounded by diamonds. She bought it with a portion of the money that she inherited from her mother when she died in the 1970’s. By today’s standards, that ring isn’t all that fancy, but Mother kept it in the safety deposit box at the bank for the longest time, only bringing it out to wear on very special occasions. Then, she simply kept it in her jewelry box. At some point I told her that she ought to wear that ring every day. Why not enjoy it all the time? But taking the ring out of her jewelry box and putting it on meant the occasion was very special and she liked doing it that way.

My Mother loved blue.

Unfortunately, Mother also frequently got the blues. She suffered from major depression and did throughout her entire life. She took anti-depressants but did not want to. So every now and then she stopped taking them. Eventually another low point would come and she'd go back to the medication. But perhaps because she was trained as a counselor, Mother was not the type to be ashamed of being depressed. She served as a kind of poster child for the Mental Health Association of Georgia, the year that the organization focused on depression. She was interviewed and appeared in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution discussing her struggles and even toured around the state doing public speaking engagements. After each trip, she would come back and tell me about whatever group she had spoken to and the interactions that she had after each speech. The stories were very colorful and sometimes quite poignant. I like to imagine that she touched a lot of lives through her frank and unashamed discussions about her own experiences, not just that year, but always.

My Mother loved blue.

When I moved into a new house in 2008, Mother sent me a check to buy some new towels. She always said one should buy new towels at least every other year or so. I looked at a lot of towels. My master bathroom was devoid of color. The huge walk-in shower was surrounded by glass, so there was no need for a shower curtain. The large picture window had the look of stained glass, but was all just pattern, no color. The towels I kept going back to were a beautiful marine blue. I finally bought them, two bath towels, two hand towels and four wash cloths. Mother always said to buy more wash cloths because they don’t last as long. When she came to visit for two months that winter, she exclaimed about how beautiful the color was. I didn’t realize until that moment that I'd bought the towels for her.

My Mother loved blue.

But when I think of her, she's a kaleidoscope of colors with her rich life experiences and her broad knowledge of so many subjects. She joked that she was a jack of all trades, master of none. But that's not really true. She was a well-read and smart woman. She could have done or been anything during the course of her life. She chose to be educator, counselor, missionary, mother, musician, music lover, minister, world traveler, speaker and avid reader. She was many things to many people. She was my worst critic, but also my sometime champion. She rescued me when I needed rescuing. She laughed deeply at my stories and antics.

Sometimes I like to think about her as that little girl, on a beach somewhere, running in the surf, arms outstretched, hair flying, legs covered with sand, the smell of sea salt in her nostrils. For the rest of my life, I'll look for her in the blue ocean, in the blue sky and in every young girl I see running on the beach. Maybe you will too.

Saturday, October 8, 2016

chained (and a note to john mccain)

It's raining in Phoenix again. This morning when I took the dogs out, I studied the gray clouds and thought it might rain, but it didn't look like a thunderstorm sky. But we've had lightning and thunder so loud that both dogs are glued to my side.

I can't help but think of my friends who have evacuated the Florida, Georgia and South Carolina coasts ahead of Hurricane Matthew. They're tired, depressed, and worried about what they'll find when they return. Sitting here, enjoying the sounds of the rain on my patio, I almost feel like I'm being disloyal.

My thoughts also wander to the people of Haiti. The devastation and misery is overwhelming. The people must feel chained to their circumstances, with no choice but to fight for survival. A lot of really smart people have tried and failed to "fix" Haiti. I see so many "pray for Haiti" memes on Facebook. The cynic in me thinks a check to disaster relief would be a wiser choice.

This is also the morning that American voters are reeling from the newly released audio/video of Donald Trump bragging about getting away with sexual assault because he's a "star." He obviously thinks that sexually assaulting women is funny and he looks forward to doing it with great anticipation. It's not shocking to me because I've believed Trump to be a dangerous, disgusting pig for many years. But I am still amazed that so many people still support and defend him. I believe they're chained to him, unable to admit they were wrong all along. And rather than free themselves from his dead weight, they'll drown with him, their last words being, "He's not THAT heavy," before their chains drag them into the abyss.

John McCain, I'm talking to YOU. Jeff Flake is obviously an idiot who will never let go of the Trump chain, but there's still hope for you, John. Prior to unleashing the moronic Sarah Palin, your legacy was solid. I disagreed with you on almost everything, but I admired and respected you. You had honor and integrity and you courageously spoke out if your party made a drastic wrong turn. Even after Sarah nearly destroyed your reputation, you quietly soldiered on. The day you stood on the Senate floor and denounced the attacks on Huma Abedin, I thought, "He's back. The decent, strong, courageous Maverick is back." But your silence on Trump will prove to bury your good name permanently. Yes, you've said a few things here and there. But where is the Maverick? It might cost you this election, but here's what you need to say RIGHT NOW:

"I made an error in judgement endorsing Donald Trump. The man is unqualified to serve as President of the United States. He has said horrible things and I have mostly stayed silent, for which I will forever feel ashamed. But I'm speaking up now. I can no longer endorse Donald Trump. I will NOT vote for him. I strongly urge you to vote for anyone BUT him. He is NOT QUALIFIED to serve as President of the United States."

Yeah, I know. John McCain will never read those words, much less say them. But he should throw off that heavy, fetid chain and try to rescue what little is left of his legacy.

So here I sit in my temporary paradise, listening to the dripping of water off the eaves of my house. The sun is shining again. Rain never lasts for long in the desert. I savor it when it comes. I just wish it could be a source of joy for everyone today.

Tuesday, October 4, 2016

zut alors

Dappled shade decorates the retaining wall at the back of the yard. Tall oleanders rise in front and above the wall. And somewhere beyond the wall, voices are rising in arguing tones. And even though I can't make out every word, it sounds like the practiced fuss of a couple who has disagreed about something on many occasions. I know that sound.

Today brings contemplation of my own love and life. What felt forever may, by my choice, become quite ephemeral in the grand scheme of things. Looking back in time, forty years seems a very long time to be in relationship. But if I live forty more years, it could seem like a blip on the radar. The thing is, I think I might like myself better in a life without him in it. What a strange precipice I find myself on.

"Zut alors!" I heard that clearly enough! And now I understand why I couldn't make out what they were fighting about. They're speaking French. In Phoenix? I guess people come here from everywhere. And as I'm learning, even if two people do speak the same language, they may still find each other incomprehensible. Common language never guarantees common understanding.

And so it goes. In these quiet days, I gather the strength I'll need to make this change. I'll throw out canceled plans, too much texting, and his inability to focus on my needs. But with them will go hilarious laughter, passion, and history. What a mixed bag. But self-respect really does trump romance.

Mohsin Hamid said it best:

“If you have ever, sir, been through a breakup of a romantic relationship that involved great love, you will perhaps understand what I experienced. There is in such situations usually a moment of passion during which the unthinkable is said; this is followed by a sense of euphoria at finally being liberated; the world seems fresh as if seen for the first time then comes the inevitable period of doubt, the desperate and doomed backpedaling of regret; and only later, once emotions have receded, is one able to view with equanimity the journey through which one has passed.”

Something to look forward to, no? My goal is a simple one. I want to feel authentic. I've done a bit too much bending, reshaping, and stifling. I'm in a stuffy little room of my own making. I simply must get out of here! So, hand on doorknob, I pause. Zut alors, indeed. Just a sec - almost ready.