Musings

The suffusion-diffusion of the soul: it comes in waves,
and your brown curls are dancing across your back,
which shivers beneath my fingers. I want
to rush at you, like the waves, but am afraid to break
upon your shore.

Michael's Engagement Party

On the elevator, on the way up to the party, Jack slipped his arm in mine and whispered, "Who would have thought that Michael and Sarah are getting married? I laughed. "Well, she's a smart woman - she caught him and decided not to let him go." The man standing next to us must have heard, because he said, "Well, you're very cyclical about this girl, aren't you?" "I'm a very cynical person." I replied, but after he left, as the doors were closing I called out, "I didn't say there's anything wrong with not letting go of the person you love". I still don't know if he heard. After the doors closed, Jack told me, "You're just jealous.". His fingers were worming their way around my waist.

When we got to the party, it was just as I expected: Food of gilded gold, beautiful to look out, but it tasted like crap. I ate mostly out of boredom, in order to avoid socializing with people I did not know, people I barely knew, and people I wished I did not know. Jackie was in the corner, talking to a swathe of staggering girls about Da Vinci - or rather, about his thesis on Da Vinci.

I was in the middle of stuffing a particularly large piece of sushi into my mouth, sans chopsticks, when Michael's uncle Bill walked by, arm in arm with his new boyfriend. "This is Michelle, Michael's ex-girlfriend" he said. I nearly choked on the fish. "No, friends, we've always been just friends." I said. "No, but I thought you were his girlfriend" the Bill said, and I gave him the look of death. "This is my friend, Charles." I nodded politely. Charles asked me if I knew when they would start the dancing. I excused myself to look for the ladies' room. On the way, I wondered how much younger Charles was than Bill, and who was on top when they made love.

During the tabled part of the reception, Jack and I sat next to Michael and Sarah. As "close childhood friends", we were expected to act as the bridges between Sarah's world - and now, Michael's world as well - and the world of Michael's past. As the evening progressed, full of witty banter shot across the table like doubles playing tennis, an invisible net between us, I realized that my circle of three had now become four - four movie tickets, four places to reserve at the restaurant, four seats to look for on the subway.

At one point, Michael asked me about a party I had gone to last week. "It was an engagement party", I explained, and immediately was prompted to launch into details about the couple, one of whom, it turned out, had gone to high-school with Sarah. "Well they were friends, and finally they realized they were attracted to each other - more than attracted - in love with each other I guess, since they decided to get married." My palms grew sweaty as I spoke, and I could not look Sarah in the eye. My gaze kept on wondering to her left hand, which was resting gently on Michael's thigh.

On the way back from the party, Jack told me, "It wouldn't have worked out" "What?" I said. "You and Michael" he said. 'Well you're way off the mark. I think Sarah will make him a lovely wife." I replied, ashamed that I could not keep from yelling at him. "Can I come in?" he asked, when he dropped me off at my door. "No." I said. I did not even bother to say goodnight, but merely turned around and walked up the steps to my building. I could sense him standing behind me, watching me climb, and thought for a second that I saw him out of the corner of my eye when I turned my head slightly at the threshold.

My apartment was exactly as I had left it: a mess. I kicked off my shoes - a pair of red heals that squeezed my toes like a python - and poured myself a bottle of red wine. I picked up the newspaper, but was too distracted to read. The war-pictures on the front page reminded me of something a friend had told me in highschool:"Sometimes life feels like a war of attrition, a constant low-scale struggle that kills and never ends. That's why telenovellas can go on forever - because the dramas in our life continue indefinitely - well, until death, I guess." That statement really creeped me out. I was convinced my friend was suicidal, so I referred her to the school guidance counselor (nicknamed "Guido counselor" for the way he wore his hair), and that was pretty much the end of our friendship. I think now she lives somewhere in Minnesota with her girlfriend.

But tonight, I pondered how cool it would be if you could buy bullet-proof vests for life. I pictured myself -black pencil skirt, blonde hair in a bun, patent leather stiletto pumps, and of course, my black-belted life--proof-vest - I would be invincible. With that image in my mind, I spilled red wine on my dress.

Thank God for dry cleaners.

Pondering Exile in the Temple of Dendur

The bulrushes do not breathe:
they are mirrored in Central Park trees,
who shiver outside of the glass.

The bullrushes frame my faces's reflection
in the rippling pond. Once Moses was framed
in their green, along the Nile, cradled in a brown ark.

Tar mingled with the drops of breast-milk
that fell from Yocheved's teat, as she bent over
the sleeping child to kiss his cheek.

Batya was bathing by the bullrushes
when she encased the baby in her alabaster body.
At night, her body was a stone shrouded in white sheets.

Her breasts were drier than desert winds,
so Yocheved nursed the baby, with the milk of her bones
and the mud of her skin. And he carried her uncle's bones

through split seas and desert winds. At night, he dreamt
of the bullrushes' breath. During the day, he heard the voice of God
in the burning flames and desert winds. God heard the voice of the Israelites

in mounds of mortar. I hear only the sounds of my breath,
mingling with the stillness of the bullrushes, like me, exiled
to foreign waters that do not split like the alabaster bowls of time.

Petals Can Not Say Goodbye

Before you walked away:
Purple petals snore softly into pools of white water,
my fingertips rippling like wind across your back.

Now:
Forgotten fissures crack through my spine;
I am an empty vase dreaming of purple flowers.

Psychedelia (In memory of my grandmother)

Beneath your fluttering eyelids,
your green-flecked eyes struggle to stay open,
urged on by the drone of my voice,
buzzing about the weather and school
and all those small glorious things
I want you to care about.

"Morphine" the nurse calls, "morphine".
Your hands fall into mine like autumn leaves.
The white drops drip into your blood like rain;
I imagine them mingling with the purple of your veins.
The canopies of your eyelids are still,
shielding your eyes from mine.

Are you falling asleep
in a shower of purple flowers,
or drugged dreams I can not fathom,
and who will protect you from the storm
when my hand slowly disentangles from yours?

Golden Fall

Sun-light plays on the leaves,
turning their green into gold like a leprauchan.

I close my eyes, basking in the warmth of the sun,
as once I basked in the warmth of your body;

your fingers playing upon my thighs,
turning them into gold,

waiting to be molded by the shape of your lips
and worn by your sighs.

Rabbit Fur

Silk cords fasten and unfasten themselves around your waist,
pink and crimson playing beneath my fingers,
burrowing into the warmth of you,
like the pink wetness of rabbit's nose,
and your hair's brown strands tickles the back of my palm.

"I think I love you" you whisper,
and my lips freeze; only my hand remains suspended in motion,
furrowing itself into crevices that conceal the mystery of creation
they say.

I say nothing, allowing you to translate my silence into the language of your desires.

"Coward" you say.

I always knew that sex contained the truth.

Sestina Exercise, Unedited

Sepia-tones seeped into our lives like mud;
fresh flower decompose softly into its brown hearth,
wet from our tears and salty like the cookies
you once baked, for our anniversary - remember?
I almost choked on the chips, black knobs
harder than your nipples, chilled beneath my fingers.

Your mouth was warm and wet on my fingers,
as our boots tramped through the mud.
Afterwards, we drank tea in a kitchen with iron door-knobs.
Your hair smelled of New England as we wrapped around each other by the hearth,
and I promised myself I would always remember.
But the images faded; I savor the crumbs, but the cookies

have been eaten by summer spats and late nights at the office. Damn the cookies!
I want the willows of your hair in between my fingers,
the press of your lips on my cheek whispering, "Remember? Remember?"
I could fade into the mud,
to ashes sleeping in the hearth,
never to feel the pleasure of iron door-knobs.

But instead I must remember
the feel of the knobs
of your breasts, our feet squelched with mud,
the saltiness of your cookies,
the lace patterns of our fingers,
holding each other by the hearth.

I dreamt last night of your body by the hearth;
marble thighs and a silver whisper, "Remember? Remember?",
and I was burrowing my lips into the beauty of your fingers,
my fingers felt for your breasts' knobs,
and I was going to eat them like cookies,
but when my tongue licked, you turned into mud,

wet, brown mud
that smoldered of shit like a half-kindled hearth. Worse than the salt-cookies
I remember. My fingers froze in the mud of your body;lips sealed to your nipple-knobs.

I am still trying to decide if this was a nightmare, or a dream of paradise.

Untitled Exercise of Procrastination

"You look so beautiful" they say, and their words are darting into me like serpent-tongues, or diamonds serating skin upon her fingers. In an arbor of golden palm-leaves, I learned to love the pink slivers of your tongue darting into me like a knife, and the blood was almost purple when it trickled down my thighs - the color of ripe figs, green seeds sweetly sucked between our teeth.

The trees are leave-less now. They shiver in the sun. I spin webs of glass around my fingers, trying not to flinch at the touch of handshakes. The murmuring creases of my dress remind me of winds in summer forests.

I walk into the cold night for a smoke and solitude, trying to ignore the shimmer of evergreens reflected upon marble statues that are lit by installations whose strangeness is called art. If I believed in love, maybe I would cry. Instead I bite my lip and take a long drag on the dwindling grey stub, watching its ashes pollute the sidewalk like a car.

Fall - 4 minute exercise

"You have two minutes" she said, and my turqoise sweater was scratching my arms, and my words were a swirl of porridge melting into rotting milk, and I wanted to hug her, but my arms were so itchy, and I felt my feet become tree-trunks. The earth was not brown, but almost golden, with the fading yellow leaves that crunched like cookies beneath my boots. I was afraid to whisper, afraid that my voices vibrations would creep around the milky white of her neck, spreading tentacles like octupi, but could I really compare our love to an octupus? And was it our love, or just mine? And what kind of a creep was I anyway, to ponder octupi tentacles at 10 am over pancakes, on a Sunday, as she read the New York Times. "The two minutes are up", she said, popping a forkful of syrup-covered cake into her mouth. I shrugged. "You win - this time." I said. She laughed, and the sun reflected off her coffee-stained teeth. It was an autumn sunlight, full of the promise of future snowy mornings.

Unedited Writing Exercise, Inspired by Reading "The Achor Book of Chinese Poetry", as well as some Indian poetry.

You float in and out of my life
like the moon.

I trace you in the blood
between my thighs.

I search for you by darkened tree-trunks;
stirred by the river's waters, you try not to move.

A ribbon of moonlight shadows my footprints,
but I do not sense your silence.

"I give up", you once told me,
and I begged that we should live apart.

But the moon can not give up her love of the sky.
She glances at the earth with longing, as I kick the red rusty dirt,

wishing I could wane into the darkness
rather than read by the light of your eyes.

Midnight Boats

The roses were sleeping, their red petals snoring beneath midnight winds.

The winds rose from the sand that chafed at our bodies.

Our bodies were two boats drifting away from each other across rivers that foamed like untamed mares in the wind.

I wish I were a mare, my black mane fanning out behind me as I run through the grass, allowing the blades to caress my bare toes.

I try not to trample the snoring roses, as the midnight winds bear me farther and farther from the river where I once paddled the raft of your body.

The raft was too light for two people, but who knows if it could have borne the weight of two horses, or a horse and a man, or a man and woman who sometimes feels like a horse?

Fragments

"Fragments", she said, "It was all fragments." We were lying on her couch sipping red wine, and I could smell the alcohol on her, see the red smudges like lipstick stains in the corners of her mouth. "I thought it would mean something, I thought -". And she was crying. I wanted to stroke her chin, but my hands felt glued to the glass. "Sh!", I said, "He's an idiot." "No, no, he's not." she said. I nodded. We drank in silence for a while, until it got late and I had to go home. I kissed her cheek on the way out, leaving a trace of wine on her skin.

I didn't get to Jake's until nearly eleven. I was a little bit tipsy by then, I think, and I can't remember who started the kiss, and it seemed that I couldn't tell where my body began and his body ended, and we were on the hardwood floor, and it didn't matter. Our clothes were strewn around us, oceans of flannel and silk whose waves sometimes jutted into his mouth, my ear, his thighs.

Afterwards, neither one of us spoke for a while. He was stroking my arms. I wanted to ask him to spill the fragments he had told her like fine wine, to whisper that it didn't matter that two hours ago she had been sitting on his couch, that three months ago she had been lying here, like this maybe, her feet on top of a crumpled plaid shirt, his hands working their way down her rib-cage as the wooden floor began to hurt her sides. I wondered why I hadn't asked him that night at the bar, when he offered to buy me a glass of white wine. "Don't cry", he said, "Don't cry". In my sleep, I dreamt I was crying, and Jake was kissing my tears, and murmuring gibberish about the power of healing.

When I woke up the next morning, I was still lying on the floor, but Jake had covered with me with a blanket, and left for work. His note told me there was coffee for me, his love, in the kitchen. So I drank.

She called me at work. "I'm sorry about last night. I was kind of - I don't know, kind of -" I interrupted her. "No need to apologize. I'm your friend. I'm here for you." There was a moment of silence, and I could envision her nodding on the other line. "Thanks." she said, "Thanks. That means a lot." "I have to go now", I said, "I have a big assignment." "Sure, I understand." she said, and we agreed to meet for lunch sometime next week. After I hung up, I looked down at my desk: A laptop beside dozens of stickies, pencils that needed sharpening, pens that had run out of ink, random photographs: of me and my parents, of me and Jake, of me and my friends. I thought of her sitting there last night, saying, "Fragments, just fragments", and how her legs matched the color of Jake's thighs.

But I no longer believe in the magic of colors, and sometimes even wear pink and red to work on dress-down Fridays. Jake thinks that red is my best color. He thought that her best color was blue, because she has blue eyes - the color of water, she said he said, as the Cabernet ran dry. I am working on a report on water, while pondering his lip upon her lip, his thigh upon her thigh.

His lips were playing her legs, tucked under her body like sleeping gazelles, surrounded by the foliage of her blue tulle skirt, that matched the pools of her eyes. "I think I lost my dance.", she said. "You'll get it back", he replied, the rythm of his lips percussing against her thighs. "You're just saying that so you can get laid", she said, pulling away her legs and gathering the leaves of her skirt around her knees. "I love you, and I want to make love to you. Is that so terrible?" he asked, bending towards his favorite spot behind her ear. She sighed. "You're either the corniest or the most romantic person I ever met."

She allowed him to play her like a violin; wooden and hollow inside, she lay still beneath his trembling fingers, silent in the serenading caresses of their moonlight sonata.

The next day, she danced perfectly - not a step out of place. Her dressing room was festooned with flowers. She returned home quickly, to put the flowers in water before they died. The dark blue couch echoed the colors of the sky, and the moon peaked through an open sliver of window. Once the flowers were asleep in their vases, the silent violin lay down on the couch and cried.

Tus Ojos

Dentro de tus ojos,

no puedo llorar.

Pero a veces caigo,

en el deluvio

de tuas legrimas,

un deluvio mas grande

que mi miedo,

mas pequeno

que mi amor.

Sarah

1.

She smelled of stale urine mixed with perfume, and her dress was thin enough that he could see the point, half-way across her breasts, where her bra ended. Her cleavage spilled out a little from her dress, so you could see just enough to make you want more. She didn't move gracefully exactly - her walk was awkward, and she hunched her shoulders slightly. But she knew how to salsa and shimmy - sober, with the lights on.

The first time he met her, he was at a party, in the process of getting wasted. She was two drinks behind him. The entire evening, every time she laughed she caught his eye. Well, he was no fool. He had long ago learned to pick up the signals women sent - when to smile, when to flatter them (always), when to pull them closer while you were watching TV….

2. Their first date was a fiasco: They were supposed to meet at some new club downtown. They circled around the club for an hour, only to find each other just as someone pulled the fire alarm. "Who pulls the fire alarm at a club?" she asked. He shrugged. That was the night he first noticed her awkwardness.

They bumped into some friends of his, and decided to all go out for coffee together. She clearly felt out of place. After a few minutes, she got up. "I think I'll go now", she said, waiting for the requisite "I'll go with you", but he remained silent. He watched her ass until she turned the corner.

3. After that, Ed had little desire to see Sarah again; finding cunt had never been a problem. Yet still, something about the way her hair danced when she shook her head while laughing stayed stuck in his mind, reappearing at awkward moments, like the middle of board meetings, or when he and Christine were in bed.

He and Christine had been "not going out" for years. She was always up for sex, except for when she was "in a relationship", but such relationships tended to be brief, and to end in crying followed by late-night phone-calls. This was followed by what he termed "comfort sex", pointing out that it has Biblical roots, and could be traced back to David comforting Batsheva "with lovemaking".

4. "Lovemaking" - God, that word was so corny, it made him shudder the first time Sarah used it in bed. She thought he was shivering with delight, and began kissing his thighs. He soon found that using that word gave him a 90% chance of getting a blowjob.

They were living together when she used that word for the first time. They had gone on a second date, of course. She had called him, offering to come over to his house with a bottle of wine.

Christine had once told him, "We women aren't as stupid as you guys think. When we choose to come over to your house with a bottle of an inhibition-reducing substance, we know exactly what we're doing."

The morning after he and Sarah's second date, Ed called Christine to tell her she was right.

5. Soon Ed and Sarah were living together, though neither one was quite sure how it happened. The melodies of their lives became a fugue, sometimes harmonious, sometimes dissonant.

He loved it when she sang in the shower, letting his tenor join her soprano, and soon they were a tangle of arms, legs and suds.

He also loved it when he woke up in the morning to the smell of omelets, or how his sheets were always clean. Not that she did all of his laundry of course: "No way am I washing your dirty underwear", she'd say, jutting out her chin like a rebellious five-year old. He discovered that angle was perfect for kissing.

He saw Christine less and less. One day, she called him. "Just because you have a relationship doesn't mean you can neglect our friendship. I never abandoned you for my boyfriends", she said. He was tempted to say, "Those weren't boyfriends. They were two-week fuck-buddies who bought you coffee", but he knew she was right, so he said, "Where do you want to meet?"

Their coffee-date was fun - more fun, in fact, than he had had in a long time. He and Sarah had stopped going out a while ago, and the smell of omelets and clean sheets was beginning to lose its charm. Crunch-time at work meant little time for joint morning showers, and Sarah rarely wore her skimpy negligees anymore.

Meanwhile, Christine seemed to have blossomed in Ed's absence. Had she always been this hot, or had something about her really changed? How could he not have noticed that her breasts were shaped like flowers, waiting to be plucked, stroked and smelled? How could he have missed her straight black hair falling gently on her shoulders?

It was not until he was halfway home that her remembered to feel guilty about having those thoughts. "You're with someone now", he reminded himself, "You're with someone else".

7. He was greeted by a passionate kiss the moment he walked through the door. Sarah looked amazing. She had done her hair, and was wearing a dress that begged to be taken off. "Do you like it?", she asked, noticing the path of his eyes. "Wow." he said. She laughed, her eyes glittering, her hair jingling in the way he had found so charming when they first met. "We're going dancing" she said, taking him by the hand. "Wait a minute", he said. She stopped. "What is it?" "I have to pee."

Throughout the night, dancing with her and later on in bed, he thought he could stay with her forever. The next morning, waiting for her to bring him breakfast in bed, he chided himself for being so corny.

8. When Christine called him the next day, his first reaction was not to answer, but then he felt guilty - after all, she was his friend…Apparently, she had just broken up with her new boyfriend (funny, she hadn't mentioned him when they went out for coffee) could they maybe meet during his lunch hour? She needed someone to talk to - his house were near his office, it would be the most convenient place.

He wasn't exactly sure how it happened. First, they were sitting together on the couch, and she was crying. Then he was putting his arm around her, then they were kissing and his hands were moving down, taking off her shirt…

Afterwards, they got dressed silently, without looking at each other. They walked out of the house, he ahead, she following behind. It was only when he turned to lock the door that he saw her face, and even then he refused to meet her eyes. "Thank you" she said, pecking him on the cheek and running off, leaving him to lock the door and go back to the office alone.

9. That night, Sarah said he was tense. "What is it?" she asked, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Nothing." he snapped, pulling away.

Later, he could hear her in the bathroom crying. A few months ago he would have knocked on the door, pleading until she unlocked it and let him comfort her. Tonight however, he was not in the mood for those games. Besides, he was tired and had a very important meeting at work tomorrow. So he turned off the lights and went to bed.

10, When he woke up the next morning, she was not there. He panicked. Could she have left? But her clothes were still strewn across the floor, and her book was still on the nightstand. There was no way she would have left without her book. Could she be in the bathroom? He tried the door. Locked. "Sarah? Sarah?". He started banging. "Sarah?". "Mmm" her sleep-filled voice wafted through the door.

"My God, Sarah - are you ok? If you don't open up in ten seconds I'm going to bang down the door. Ten, nine…" He heard the patter of her bare feet, a click, and then - "Hi." she said. Her hair was a mess, and she was still wearing her work clothes. "Hi." he said. She crumpled into his arms.

11. He had to call Christine to let her know it could not happen again. He had almost let one stupid (yet pretty amazing) fuck ruin his relationship with Sarah. That morning, holding her in his arms while she cried, he realized that she was his, and he was hers, and that was that.

When he told this to Christine on the phone, she laughed at him. "You sound like a guy in some fucking movie", she said. "Well, sometimes life imitates art." "Bravo, how Oscar Wilde of you." He laughed.

They agreed to meet one last time at his house, to discuss what had happened. "Don't worry", she said before hanging up, "I won't be bringing a bottle of wine."

12. They were in the middle of it, on the living room floor, when Sarah walked in. She stood silently transfixed like a greek statue, as Ed and Christine, alerted by the click of the lock and the clang of high heels, tried to disentangle leg from leg, thigh from thigh.

Christine got dressed quietly, as Ed sat, still naked, on the floor, looking down at his feet. Sarah remained a stone as Christine walked out, but she jumped when the door banged. She sat down on the couch; each waited for the other to speak.

"What do you expect me to say?" she asked. "I expect you to scream at me, to tell me that I'm scum, that I - oh God, Sarah, I am so sorry." "Are you? Are you really sorry?" "Yes, you have no idea how much I - she called a few days ago, saying she had broken up with her boyfriend, needed someone to talk to, and it - it just happened, and today, I wanted to meet Christine, to tell her why it could't happen again -" "But you fucked her anyway." She laughed, but it was not the kind of laugh Ed knew. "You fucked her. You -" and she was crying.

He got up to hug her, but she pushed him away. "I need to be alone." she said. "I'm not leaving you." he replied. She laughed. "So now you love me? Now, when it's too late?". "Is it too late?" "I don't know, I don't -" This time she let him hug her when she cried. It took a few minutes before he realized that he was crying too.

13. When they had cried until they had no more tears, they sat silently in the dark apartment, holding each other. "Where do we go from here?" she asked in an almost-whisper. "I don't know." "I'm going to go shower.", she said, slipping beyond his reach.

As he listened to the water, he tried to remember why they had decided to live together, to imagine a life apart. He couldn't do it, but wasn't sure if his failure was because he had to pee. Yesterday he would have peed while she was in there, but today he felt the need to protect himself, as if seeing him tend to his biological needs would give her some sort of power over him.

Damn it! He really had to go. So he knocked on the door. "What is it?" "I have to whizz". She laughed - the old laugh, the one he knew. "Come in."

She had pulled the curtain shut around her; in the past, she would leave it open, allowing him to admire her body.

The toilet flushed, accompanied by shouts of "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!". "What's wrong?" he asked. "The toilet took all the cold water.", she said. He knocked on the curtain. "Can I come in?" All his knowledge of how to read girls' signs was finally failing him. "Fine" she said, and, as he pulled back the curtain, "but that doesn't mean I've decided to stay with you." "I know", he replied, as he bent down to kiss her collarbone. She allowed his lips to work their way downwards, lingering across her breasts, on to her belly, and finally between her thighs.

Afterwards, he remained kneeling on the tile floor, feeling her taste in his mouth. The tip of his nose brushed her pelvis. His knees were killing him, but he felt unable to move. The warm water flowed down his body, joining the river of suds that surrounded his feet.

"Get up," she said, "your knees must be killing you." "I can't." She laughed. "I feel like I'm in a movie." He could feel her body trembling.

He had always both admired and loathed her ability to disassociate herself from a situation, to recognize - and ruin - the corniness of romantic moment, but now he realized that she had never disassociated herself at all, that she had been using her words to distract him from her trembling inside.

He looked up and saw she was crying. He shifted position; the tiles felt cold against his buttocks, but the warm water helped with that, and at least now his knees didn't hurt. He pulled her onto his lap; she lay her head across his chest. "Maybe we should separate." she said. "Maybe." he said, stroking her hair.

The air was full of possibilities. In a few moments, the water would rise, and one of them would have to get up to turn off the shower. But for now, they were content to hold each other just a little while longer.

Poem Written in the Voice of Frida Kahlo

Diego, all about Diego:

Sangre de mi sangre,

the moon, the sea,

the soles of my feet -

the yawning yellow,

the pomegranate purple,

the brown breaths of trees.

Our veins flow into each other

like great tributaries

of soaring rivers, soaking

murmuring mud.

Quero morir en la risa d’este rio.

The roar of your white waters,

your toad-green eyes,

your thorns piercing my thighs,

Mi Diego, mi Dios -

tuas legrimas en mis ojos

I paint you with my eyes.

Blood-petals drip

from your flower-fountain;

I squeeze grapes from your vine.

I breathe you in,

exhale you,

sip you like a wine.

Untitled

In a night of synaptic silence:

I eat out of the palm of your hand,

cupped round like a globe

to my curved lips,

silent as the bells

of abandoned churches,

where only the monk

runs his fingers along rusty ridges,

refusing to look at the stars.

He fondles his Bible

like an erect phallus,

as your fingers crawl

up my thighs.

Like the sound-waves

of his whispered prayers,

our bodies' hymns will fade

into a dusty dawn.

Beauty

She was a dancing sculpture: Alabaster skin peeking out from chiffon, china-prints of flowers under fading sunsets. When she twisted her arm she looked like a tea-pot. Her feet were not dainty; they were set with the heaviness of stone. Her hair, falling in brown waves to her shoulders, did not quite conceal a water-stain on her marble cheek.

At night, cracked and broken, she went back to her cupboard. In the morning, she draped silk over her shoulders, pulled her hair into a chignon, and danced arabesques in the sunlight. The only traces of her fissures were slight slips at the end of twirls, and a crystalline line through the place where, in another world, she might have had a heart.

Broken Words

I am pretty sure it is a faux pas to start off a blog entry with a quote from the Mexican artist whose life and work have inspired me, but I will take that chance:

Frida Kahlo once wrote in her journal, "Feet, what do I need them for when I have wings to fly?" These words are accompanied by cracked and broken feet of stone. For me, this image, and the words that accompany it, encapsulate the feeling of broken-ness that can permeate our lives and our art. I think this feeling of broken-ness goes by many names, and some might call it existential loneliness. This loneliness is discussed in the works of Rabbi Joseph B. Soliveitchik's classic work, "Lonely Man of Faith" - for it is from a place of alone-ness that spirituality emanates. Thus, in order to find God, Moses and Elijah each must journey by themselves into the wilderness, though the ways in which God appears to them are almost polar opposites: God appears to Moses through the burning bush, a show of might and miracles, while God appears to Elijah in "a still small voice", a voice that comes after a mighty wind, earthquake and fire have each passed by, but none of those mighty miracles contained the Divine Presence. (1 Kings:19).

I see art as a way of listening to and expressing the silent voice within us, whether it is through visual, musical, or literary works, as well as through other genres I am neglecting to mention, especially in our multi-media age, when new genres are being born every day.

So what is the purpose of this blog? I suppose it is a place for me to post some of my work, a way of ensuring I set aside time to write. Most of the works here will be works in progress, and I always appreciate (constructive) feedback.

As for the phrase "palavras quebradas", it is Portuguese, a language dear to my heart, since I am half-Brazilian, yet a language that my skills could use much improvement in. I found the beauty of the assonance of As too tempting to resist however, and had to put it in my blog's title.

I hope you will enjoy this blog, and I hope that I will enjoy writing for it. I will try to make future posts less tangentially rant-like.

PS: Link to the Amazon page for Frida Kahlo's journal, which has the image shown in this post.

Link to the Amazon page for "Lonely Man of Faith"