I almost forewent the ashes today. It’s a strange holiday, a day when you hear a reading reminding you not to do your good deeds and your prayer and your fasting to be seen by men, then you turn around and ask for a penitent’s mark in the most conspicuous place possible, to wear around town the rest of the day. The churches are packed. Everyone wants ashes. Plenty leave mass as soon as they get them, before communion, parading their own disregard or ignorance of the reason for the ashes, and thereby creating an irresistable temptation for those who stay behind to feel self-righteous. It’s a mess of misplaced movtives.
That’s not why I almost skipped the ashes, though. My reason was banal: I was busy. I was as busy as I’d ever been at work, and didn’t I have a duty to my employer? Could I really justify not only slipping out for mass at noon, but to a mass that was guaranteed to take twice as long as usual?
But then there I was in front of the line, and Father Arne was rubbing his thumb in the little brass bowl and lifting it to my forehead for a smudge. Remember, Man, that you are dust and to dust you shall return.
After that there was nothing left to do but go back and crouch in the hallway—the chapel itself being completely full—until mass resumed. I couldn’t leave now that I’d gotten my ashes. (A whiff of self-righteousness—or was it jealousy?) And what happened then? A thought, a picture in my mind of a beach, my jeans rolled up above my calves, my feet pressing into the wet, coarse sand, and a person waiting in the foam, holding onto a little rowboat, asking me where I wanted to go. I said I didn’t know. He laughed.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Advice
May you always keep a fresh face to the world.
Resist the downward tug in your cheeks; recognize, see the way
the creases of your lips tend to pinch together, and fight it. Lift!
Keep your cheeks fresh and soft, like babies’ butts.
Or, get acne if you need to
and hold on to the embarrassment of not being ready for the world.
You’re best when you’re tender like that.
Wear your scars inside. Bury them
deep in your viscera, mark up your lungs,
your liver, your heart, your pancreas.
Feel them inside as much as you have to, as much as they mangle you up,
but then save them for the autopsy.
That is the secret to a clean face, to a forehead
with no thin lines, to a kind of lightness around your temples
that raises your lashes, opens your eyes, making them enormous orbs, deep and bright.
Resist the downward tug in your cheeks; recognize, see the way
the creases of your lips tend to pinch together, and fight it. Lift!
Keep your cheeks fresh and soft, like babies’ butts.
Or, get acne if you need to
and hold on to the embarrassment of not being ready for the world.
You’re best when you’re tender like that.
Wear your scars inside. Bury them
deep in your viscera, mark up your lungs,
your liver, your heart, your pancreas.
Feel them inside as much as you have to, as much as they mangle you up,
but then save them for the autopsy.
That is the secret to a clean face, to a forehead
with no thin lines, to a kind of lightness around your temples
that raises your lashes, opens your eyes, making them enormous orbs, deep and bright.
Monday, January 3, 2011
A Most Capital Bird
What is it about the vulnerability of a flock of ducks crossing a busy street that makes a human heart ache? Tonight as I left the office I saw in McPherson Square Park a whole convention of mallards had gathered, dozens upon dozens of green headed males waddling and quacking alongside their brown-headed lady mates.
Not all of the ducks had made it to the park, though. In the crosswalk at 15th Street, several more pairs were waddling their way across traffic lanes, stopping to peck at the crumbs and fast food bags they found along the way. They seemed happy, in that high spirited, we’re-dallying-on-our-way-to-a-holiday, ducky sort of way.
Watching them, I felt a clenching sensation in my chest. Dusk was failing, and the ducks were barely more than silhouettes--and low to the ground at that. The stoplights were red in all the right directions for the time being, so that the busy intersection was clear of cars. But that would soon change, and the headlights of the taxis and towncars would bear down on the birds, neither seeing nor caring for the peril.
Danger. Danger! I almost ran out into the street to spook the ducks and hurry them along to safety on the far curb. Something held me back; I’m not sure what. So instead I stood watching on the corner, twisting my fingers in my pockets. The lights turned green. A big maroon taxi, headlamps blazing, came careening down the turn lane. In a moment more, he would sweep right, right into the place where the last mallards huddled, oblivious. The car came, took the corner fast. The ducks had mostly had the time they needed--thanks to some incredible dumb luck, it seemed--but there was one male who was still dawdling. From the opposite side of the street, I couldn’t judge the distances and angles. I didn’t know if he would make it clear. I watched and listened for a thump, squawk, and feathers.
He was safe. The car passed, and I could see the last mallard hopping up onto the curb, toward the safety of the square, a bit more briskly than he had a moment before. Ducks in the city were still ducks in danger, I knew, but my task of worrying here was done for the day.
So I thought, until I turned ninety degree to cross J Street and saw four more stragglers scampering—as much as ducks can scamper—the other way, toward the Metro station. They seemed to be intent on riding the subway. So was I.
I overtook them at the top of the escalators. A number of homeless men in old, heavy coats were resting and panhandling under the canopy. When they saw the ducks, they laughed and teased. Then one of them threw a piece of white bread on the cement and the four ducks converged with the shamelessness of wild creatures who must perpetually forage, yes, but also with the silly, high-chinned pride and grace which is forever a duck’s, no matter his country.
Not all of the ducks had made it to the park, though. In the crosswalk at 15th Street, several more pairs were waddling their way across traffic lanes, stopping to peck at the crumbs and fast food bags they found along the way. They seemed happy, in that high spirited, we’re-dallying-on-our-way-to-a-holiday, ducky sort of way.
Watching them, I felt a clenching sensation in my chest. Dusk was failing, and the ducks were barely more than silhouettes--and low to the ground at that. The stoplights were red in all the right directions for the time being, so that the busy intersection was clear of cars. But that would soon change, and the headlights of the taxis and towncars would bear down on the birds, neither seeing nor caring for the peril.
Danger. Danger! I almost ran out into the street to spook the ducks and hurry them along to safety on the far curb. Something held me back; I’m not sure what. So instead I stood watching on the corner, twisting my fingers in my pockets. The lights turned green. A big maroon taxi, headlamps blazing, came careening down the turn lane. In a moment more, he would sweep right, right into the place where the last mallards huddled, oblivious. The car came, took the corner fast. The ducks had mostly had the time they needed--thanks to some incredible dumb luck, it seemed--but there was one male who was still dawdling. From the opposite side of the street, I couldn’t judge the distances and angles. I didn’t know if he would make it clear. I watched and listened for a thump, squawk, and feathers.
He was safe. The car passed, and I could see the last mallard hopping up onto the curb, toward the safety of the square, a bit more briskly than he had a moment before. Ducks in the city were still ducks in danger, I knew, but my task of worrying here was done for the day.
So I thought, until I turned ninety degree to cross J Street and saw four more stragglers scampering—as much as ducks can scamper—the other way, toward the Metro station. They seemed to be intent on riding the subway. So was I.
I overtook them at the top of the escalators. A number of homeless men in old, heavy coats were resting and panhandling under the canopy. When they saw the ducks, they laughed and teased. Then one of them threw a piece of white bread on the cement and the four ducks converged with the shamelessness of wild creatures who must perpetually forage, yes, but also with the silly, high-chinned pride and grace which is forever a duck’s, no matter his country.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Fish Food
I returned from a 5-day jaunt through Malaysia and Cambodia this morning, and with many a happy tale to tell of it. I saw thousand-year-old ruins and the second-tallest towers in the world. I squeezed into a compact pick-up truck with eighteen Cambodians and was guest at the family birthday dinner of a dozen Kuala Lumpurians. I attended mass on a giant raft, and walked through the cabins of a Portuguese warship. I did and saw and met so many wonderful things and places and people...and at the end of it, what I think of the most was getting a fish foot massage.
What, you may ask, is a fish foot massage? The easiest way to understand is to walk around Pub Street in Siem Reap, Cambodia for five minutes, during which time you're guaranteed to pass by at least three fish parlors. The concept is straightforward. Big fish tanks, filled with schools of sardine-sized fish, are brought out in front of the parlor. A board extend across the top of the tank, for customers to sit upon. As you approach the tank, the fish start to swirl and mass toward you. "They know, they know!" says the man taking your money.
You take off your shoes and hop onto the board. Then comes the second-hardest part: you lower your bare feet into the school of fishes. As you do, you can see their little red mouths and dumb eyes gaping at your heels and toes. And then, when your feet hit the water, they go to work.
I said that lowering your feet into the fish was the second-hardest part. That's because the first-hardest part is keeping them there. At first, there's the tickle, which is hard enough to endure. Then, once the initial shock is over, the whole concept of the thing begins to prey upon your mind. The fish, you see, are eating you. With each little bump from their lips, they take away a tiny piece of your outer skin layer. They call this "exfoliation." I call it a half-click too far past creepy.
I didn't last long, probably only a quarter of my twenty minutes. Even so, when I pulled out my feet, I could tell that they were suppler and shinier than they'd been, probably since birth. As I left, I saw that another man--a friend of the man taking the money, it seemed--had come and was leaning over the side of the tank. His hand was trolling listfullly through the water, while the fish nibbled at the morsels around his knuckles.
What, you may ask, is a fish foot massage? The easiest way to understand is to walk around Pub Street in Siem Reap, Cambodia for five minutes, during which time you're guaranteed to pass by at least three fish parlors. The concept is straightforward. Big fish tanks, filled with schools of sardine-sized fish, are brought out in front of the parlor. A board extend across the top of the tank, for customers to sit upon. As you approach the tank, the fish start to swirl and mass toward you. "They know, they know!" says the man taking your money.
You take off your shoes and hop onto the board. Then comes the second-hardest part: you lower your bare feet into the school of fishes. As you do, you can see their little red mouths and dumb eyes gaping at your heels and toes. And then, when your feet hit the water, they go to work.
I said that lowering your feet into the fish was the second-hardest part. That's because the first-hardest part is keeping them there. At first, there's the tickle, which is hard enough to endure. Then, once the initial shock is over, the whole concept of the thing begins to prey upon your mind. The fish, you see, are eating you. With each little bump from their lips, they take away a tiny piece of your outer skin layer. They call this "exfoliation." I call it a half-click too far past creepy.
I didn't last long, probably only a quarter of my twenty minutes. Even so, when I pulled out my feet, I could tell that they were suppler and shinier than they'd been, probably since birth. As I left, I saw that another man--a friend of the man taking the money, it seemed--had come and was leaning over the side of the tank. His hand was trolling listfullly through the water, while the fish nibbled at the morsels around his knuckles.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Two Poems Called "All Saints' Day"
Seven years ago, I was inspired to write a poem on the Feast of All Saints, i.e., November 1st. Today I got the same urge. I thought I'd post both poems:
All Saints' Day (November 1, 2003)
This morning is cold and empty.
Last night’s decorations, the scarecrow on that porch,
the black cat cutout in this yard,
lay dead now—their ghoulish souls vanished ‘til
incantations at next summer’s campfires call them back to life.
Here the gory entrails of a pumpkin strew a gutter;
here yolk splatters a driveway;
here toilet paper clings like stale bandages to a skeletal tree.
As usual, the ghosts have gorged and titillated and made flight
before the frost descends
on the wrinkling pumpkin rot of unflickering cackles,
on the husks of bare vines in razed fields outside of town,
on the damp leaves clumped in the brown grass,
crystallizing time,
revealing what still moves in their absence.
All Saints' Day (November 1, 2010)
3 pm in Manila.
On Katipunan Street a man tries to sell me an umbrella the size of a golf course; half a block later, his tag-a-long grandchildren shout at me—brazenly, shyly—in Tagalog. Then they dash away, screaming giddy that such wickedness could come through them.
The banks are closed today. “Tomorrow, sir,” says the lonely guard, when I ask about exchanging Korean won. “You come back tomorrow.”
My sidecar ride back is fast, the streets being empty and the driver anxious to unloose his horsepower on the motorbike. My head nearly hits the roof.
“It’s raining,” says the gateman to me, a note of amusement in his voice, as he raises the crossbar for my gimpy, grocery-laden gait. And so it is. It’s raining. Not a fierce night-train typhoon like we’ve been having recently, but a soft rain, like a lamb’s fleece tossed into the air to unfurl, falling gently to rest upon the place beneath.
Across the street, under the carport, a dog perspires in his afternoon nap. He lays on his side on the cement, breathing slowly, regularly. He’s some kind of beagle or basset hound—probably the very dog that Socrates swore by in Athens. It’s enough to make a fellow wonder: O dog, where are you now? And what is your secret? All the people missing today, out at the cemeteries, are they going to notice you when they get back? The dog doesn’t answer; he just sleeps away to the patter of the rain on the roofs and cars and telecom poles and leaves and grass and the hardened patch of cement suffering Chinese water torture under the runoff spout, until he’ll wake up, shake himself off, and get about his business.
All Saints' Day (November 1, 2003)
This morning is cold and empty.
Last night’s decorations, the scarecrow on that porch,
the black cat cutout in this yard,
lay dead now—their ghoulish souls vanished ‘til
incantations at next summer’s campfires call them back to life.
Here the gory entrails of a pumpkin strew a gutter;
here yolk splatters a driveway;
here toilet paper clings like stale bandages to a skeletal tree.
As usual, the ghosts have gorged and titillated and made flight
before the frost descends
on the wrinkling pumpkin rot of unflickering cackles,
on the husks of bare vines in razed fields outside of town,
on the damp leaves clumped in the brown grass,
crystallizing time,
revealing what still moves in their absence.
All Saints' Day (November 1, 2010)
3 pm in Manila.
On Katipunan Street a man tries to sell me an umbrella the size of a golf course; half a block later, his tag-a-long grandchildren shout at me—brazenly, shyly—in Tagalog. Then they dash away, screaming giddy that such wickedness could come through them.
The banks are closed today. “Tomorrow, sir,” says the lonely guard, when I ask about exchanging Korean won. “You come back tomorrow.”
My sidecar ride back is fast, the streets being empty and the driver anxious to unloose his horsepower on the motorbike. My head nearly hits the roof.
“It’s raining,” says the gateman to me, a note of amusement in his voice, as he raises the crossbar for my gimpy, grocery-laden gait. And so it is. It’s raining. Not a fierce night-train typhoon like we’ve been having recently, but a soft rain, like a lamb’s fleece tossed into the air to unfurl, falling gently to rest upon the place beneath.
Across the street, under the carport, a dog perspires in his afternoon nap. He lays on his side on the cement, breathing slowly, regularly. He’s some kind of beagle or basset hound—probably the very dog that Socrates swore by in Athens. It’s enough to make a fellow wonder: O dog, where are you now? And what is your secret? All the people missing today, out at the cemeteries, are they going to notice you when they get back? The dog doesn’t answer; he just sleeps away to the patter of the rain on the roofs and cars and telecom poles and leaves and grass and the hardened patch of cement suffering Chinese water torture under the runoff spout, until he’ll wake up, shake himself off, and get about his business.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Weak Ankle
Reporting in from Seoul, South Korea. I've flown here for the weekend--Halloween weekend--to visit my high school friend, Andrew Brenfoerder, who lives here now, and who has graciously lent me the floor of his 6x12 foot bedroom for a few days. Floors are almost always heated in Korea, though, I discovered, and so with some down comforters it makes for a cozy arrangement.
Tonight I'm on my own while Andrew is on a date. I decided to venture out from the Hongdae district where he lives--a yuppie, university neighborhood full of hip shops, cafes, knit scarves and skinny jeans that reminds me of Portland, Oregon--and try to find my way back to the Hong River, where we went for a run this afternoon. Specifically, I wanted to stop and see the shrine of some Korean martyrs set up there.
I got lost. The route takes you through a darker, less populated part of Seoul, and I couldn't find the open path through the maze of apartment complexes and convenience stores to the riverfront. Fortunately, I found a couple of coffee shops where I could stop to ask for directions. The first barista I tried spoke only one word of English: "Sorry." The second place I stopped, a brightly decorated spot that's reminiscent of a childhood nursery, the barista spoke only a few words more. But she tried her best. We scratched out some words on a pad of paper. A lightbulb went on. She took me outside and pointed down the street, making an arm-pumping walking motion: "you long (legged, I assumed). Maybe five minutes?" Then she bent her wrist to the left. "Left turn?" I asked. She nodded. "Hill," she said. "Church on the hill?" I asked. She nodded happily.
On my walk back from the shrine, my ankle started to hurt. I remembered turning it during my run earlier, and supposed that this was just delayed payoff. I decided to stop back at the nursery-land cafe for a rest.
That's where I am now, surveying the remains of a good cappuccino, and a "sweet pumpkin tart," which the barista worked very hard to be able to pronounce in English when I asked her about food.
It's chilly outside, but warm in here. I've got a whimsical, wonderful novel, The Once and Future King, with me. I'm lonely, but also happy. This weekend is All Hallows' Eve, one of my favorite times, a time to glut on ghosts and black cats and spells and skeletons and all things dark and macabre and spooky. Then to know that all these vanish as the sun rises on November 1, because we are not left alone.
Tonight I'm on my own while Andrew is on a date. I decided to venture out from the Hongdae district where he lives--a yuppie, university neighborhood full of hip shops, cafes, knit scarves and skinny jeans that reminds me of Portland, Oregon--and try to find my way back to the Hong River, where we went for a run this afternoon. Specifically, I wanted to stop and see the shrine of some Korean martyrs set up there.
I got lost. The route takes you through a darker, less populated part of Seoul, and I couldn't find the open path through the maze of apartment complexes and convenience stores to the riverfront. Fortunately, I found a couple of coffee shops where I could stop to ask for directions. The first barista I tried spoke only one word of English: "Sorry." The second place I stopped, a brightly decorated spot that's reminiscent of a childhood nursery, the barista spoke only a few words more. But she tried her best. We scratched out some words on a pad of paper. A lightbulb went on. She took me outside and pointed down the street, making an arm-pumping walking motion: "you long (legged, I assumed). Maybe five minutes?" Then she bent her wrist to the left. "Left turn?" I asked. She nodded. "Hill," she said. "Church on the hill?" I asked. She nodded happily.
On my walk back from the shrine, my ankle started to hurt. I remembered turning it during my run earlier, and supposed that this was just delayed payoff. I decided to stop back at the nursery-land cafe for a rest.
That's where I am now, surveying the remains of a good cappuccino, and a "sweet pumpkin tart," which the barista worked very hard to be able to pronounce in English when I asked her about food.
It's chilly outside, but warm in here. I've got a whimsical, wonderful novel, The Once and Future King, with me. I'm lonely, but also happy. This weekend is All Hallows' Eve, one of my favorite times, a time to glut on ghosts and black cats and spells and skeletons and all things dark and macabre and spooky. Then to know that all these vanish as the sun rises on November 1, because we are not left alone.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Boulders to Sand
Transportation in the Philippines is like a jar of rocks. To fill every space, you start with boulders (if your jar is the aquarium at Sea World) or at least some decent stones, like David might have slung at Goliath. Call the boulders "airplanes" and the stones "buses." There are a couple of national discount airlines that hop around among the various domestic islands; or, if you want to take the ultra-cheap route, you can stick out your thumb for overnight bus trips.
Once you've got your boulders and stones in place, and once you've arrive at your city, you need something more targeted. You need some pebbles. Depending upon whether you want to pay for the shiny, tumble-polished variety, or just pick from among roadside debris, you'll either hail a taxi, or hop inside a Filipino innovation known as the "jeepney." A jeepney looks like a smallish 1950s single-wide chrome diner on wheels. You can find hives of them under highway bridges, or just wave at one on the street if it seems to be going in your general direction. Climb in through the open back and inside you'll find vinyl-upholstered benches lining the length of the vehicle on both sides. It's best to grab a seat near the rear if possible, because once thirty more people squeeze in with you, you'll find that exhaust fumes are better to breathe than nothing at all. Most jeepneys have names: for example, "Miranda," "Roadrunner," and "Jesus Christ."
After adding the pebbles and reached your area of town, it's time to really fill in the cracks. You need something small, something fine-tuned, something that really knows the neighborhood. You need sand; which is to say, you need a tricycle. In the Philippines, a trike (as they're usually called) is not a red peddle-pusher for kids. It's a small motorbike--decade-old Hondas and Kawasakis are most popular--with an enclosed sidecar attached. Riding in one of these is similar to being dragged down the street in a tin lunch box. Though their top speed is only about 30 mph, the only padding between your rump and the road is the single bike wheel to your right, and the soldered iron shell around you. That said, because the trikes can only run locally, the drivers know their neighborhoods backwards and forwards, and if you remember to negotiate a price before climbing in, they won't even be able to extort you.
So there you've got your jar of rocks: boulders, stones, pebbles, and sand. Its a haphazard blend, but strangely beautiful the way it all comes together.
Once you've got your boulders and stones in place, and once you've arrive at your city, you need something more targeted. You need some pebbles. Depending upon whether you want to pay for the shiny, tumble-polished variety, or just pick from among roadside debris, you'll either hail a taxi, or hop inside a Filipino innovation known as the "jeepney." A jeepney looks like a smallish 1950s single-wide chrome diner on wheels. You can find hives of them under highway bridges, or just wave at one on the street if it seems to be going in your general direction. Climb in through the open back and inside you'll find vinyl-upholstered benches lining the length of the vehicle on both sides. It's best to grab a seat near the rear if possible, because once thirty more people squeeze in with you, you'll find that exhaust fumes are better to breathe than nothing at all. Most jeepneys have names: for example, "Miranda," "Roadrunner," and "Jesus Christ."
After adding the pebbles and reached your area of town, it's time to really fill in the cracks. You need something small, something fine-tuned, something that really knows the neighborhood. You need sand; which is to say, you need a tricycle. In the Philippines, a trike (as they're usually called) is not a red peddle-pusher for kids. It's a small motorbike--decade-old Hondas and Kawasakis are most popular--with an enclosed sidecar attached. Riding in one of these is similar to being dragged down the street in a tin lunch box. Though their top speed is only about 30 mph, the only padding between your rump and the road is the single bike wheel to your right, and the soldered iron shell around you. That said, because the trikes can only run locally, the drivers know their neighborhoods backwards and forwards, and if you remember to negotiate a price before climbing in, they won't even be able to extort you.
So there you've got your jar of rocks: boulders, stones, pebbles, and sand. Its a haphazard blend, but strangely beautiful the way it all comes together.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)