Why, I have asked of you,
did you leave me,
as a frightened teenage mother would,
naked and crying
on my parents' doorstep
to live my life
knowing I had come from you 
without every knowing you?


Why, I have asked
when bad things happened 
(and bad things have happened)
why have you forsaken me?


What I failed to see is the way in which
you are the water that fish swim in
and the world through which I move


I do not have the faith of saints
or profits
or even that of mystics.
But I have been given the gift of knowing you
as I know the breath I have been given.
 
I thought I had fallen
in love before
when I felt the need
to have you
near me
but I am always
with myself
so falling in love
this time
has been different.
 
I begin to dance
with fragments of glass
staring back and forth
so I cannot count myself.

I try to catalogue
all the little pieces
of me that have 
fallen along the way.
Fractions of a 
smaller self that
I cannot reconcile
with the women
who surround me.

Like a word repeated
over and over and over
and over and over
I become syllables
without sentiment
movement
without context.

I attempt to gather my 
soul into these skins
and remember the 
memories my freckles have
but they have scattered
to the four corners of
a foreign moon.

And I find it easier
to identify with the
caterpillar in his chrysalis
than the girl who
wore my eyes yesterday.

But she nestles,
that familiar stranger,
making a womb
of my left ventricle
and whispers to me
all the stories my mind
cannot remember.

She sits there,
my wild-haired fever-
dream child
and taps out the re
percussions
of a life she lived
in my other skin.
 
(This work is still in progress.)

They call it Peace
but there is rarely
tranquility
waiting
for my home
to shift and di
vide
beneath and 
from inside me.

I find no silence
between my 
private spanglish
dialogues on
identity and the 
frenzied flapping
banner sounds my
resolve makes as

tied to the gently
shifting pillar of
my soul

it snaps
in the roaring winds
of political static and
the sleet of loaded
stares
and empty promises
as swells of swaggers
and shrugs give way 
to tides of eyes that
lap at my ankles 
and work their way 
up.

In this torrent,
my stripes do 
waver.
But just because
I haven't killed some
body
doesn't mean I haven't 
served my country
because my boarder
doesn't stop
at Texas
and my passion doesn't 
know 
what a passport is..

Foreign winds may
cause me to swell
with pride and
curious currents
carry me higher.
In persistent turbulence
I loose my teather
and frayed edges
give way to feathers
where uncoordinated flapping
becomes driven
flight.  
 
The corn plant doesn't set down deep roots
it sets down cultures
and its small base and rasping voice
take too much from the earth
and leave too little nourishment to their posterity.

Q'anil

10/16/2009

0 Comments

 
To love well is to teach well is to occupy a space that can never be emptied, even through absence.

Your artist's eye takes my picture and maps me in soft charcoal, but does not attempt to pin me to your self-portrait.

You do not blaze trails or demand passage into wild territories.  You tread lightly, leaving only slippered footprints to chart what you can, and so find subdued places I did not know existed.

You visit the shadows and dance there.  You burn incense, and sing in low voices, but light no candles to chase them away.

You know that the best way to share a flame is to stand by my side.

You teach me well because you teach me from a place inside myself and so occupy a space that can never be emptied, even through absence.

----------


Amar bien es enseñar bien es ocupar un espacio que nunca se puede vaciar, tampoco por ausencia.
Tu ojo de artista toma mi retrato y me traza en carbonilla suave, pero no intenta a sujetarme a tu autorretrato.

No ardes senderos ni exiges pasaje a territorios agrestes.  Te andas con pie de plomo y dejas solamente huellas.  Trazas lo que puedes y así encuentras lugares que yo no sabía existían.

Visitas a las sombras y allá bailas.  Quemas incienso y cantas en voces bajos, pero no enciendes velas para perseguirles.

Tú sabes qué la mejor manera para compartir una llama es ponerte a mi lado.

Me enseñas bien porque me enseñas desde un lugar adentro de mi propio y así ocupas un lugar que nunca se puede vaciar, tampoco por ausencia.

 
I recently heard someone say, “Culture is like the water fish swim in.You don’t realize how important it is until you’re out of it.” That has certainly held true for me in the short time that I have been living in Guatemala. The culture here is rich and many of the people are open and willing to share their homes and traditions with an interested visitor, so my experience has been enriching. However, there remain gaps in our understanding and communication because culture and cultural differences go far deeper than we are able to see. Therefore, they are often difficult to identify and even more difficult to understand let alone resolve. Perhaps for this reason, we end up using shortcuts, which too often take the form of force. This force is particularly evident where religion is involved.

I don’t claim to be an expert on religion, my own or anyone else’s.What I know is only my personal experience and the experiences that people of my own faith and others have chosen to share with me.
 I believe that religion is an innate and important part of our humanity and I don’t wish to criticize its existence. However, along with being an enormous asset and source of strength, religion can also be one of our most caustic weapons. With time and fervor religion and dogma begin to take on a life of their own, almost as independent and tangible as that if their creators.

Like all species, religion evolves within an ecosystem.
 It strikes a balance with the culture, resources, and needs in its environment.Scarce or important resources are sacred. A code of conduct reflects the needs and expectations of the culture and guides the interactions of the community. Stories and lessons of cultural identity are passed on to successive generations.

But what happens when we take this species out of the cultural context in which it developed?
 If done with knowledge and consciousness, it could adapt and add to the diversity of the area where it is introduced. However, when done with force, it could easily follow in the path of the cane toad in Australia or the zebra mussel in the lakes of Minnesota and become and invasive species that causes a grave imbalance and loss of important resources and heritage. Scarce water or plants that were previously sacred and treated with respect become part of a domain to be dominated and used with little discretion. Respect for elders and traditional wisdom is replaced by a value for the youth and physical ability, and causes upheaval and discontinuity within families.

Of course, the results depend on the disposition and cultural awareness of the people introducing a religion to a new area.
 As I said, it can be an informative and diversifying experience for everyone involved, but only if done with awareness, tolerance, and a desire from both sides to gain understanding.

 
One of my favorite pastimes is indulging in a good book or music with a riveting melody or pensive lyrics. As a Peace Corps volunteer in a somewhat rural area in Central America, both of these things are hard to come by (in English) and expensive. I, of course, have my iPod, and the few books that I could fit in my suitcase. The Peace Corps office, much to its credit, also has a library of books (mostly in English) left behind or donated by other volunteers. I am very much appreciative of the opportunity that this affords me, but I have had a hard time finding books that interest me. There is a surplus of romance and mystery novels and a conspicuous absence of classics.So, this past week I downloaded the Barnes and Noble eReader and signed up for an online account on their website. With my download and account, I received a free e-copy of a pocket dictionary and five classic novels (only two of which I have read).

In the past week, I have purchased three more e-books and spent countless minutes browsing online book clubs and digital titles.
 At first, I was simply excited about cheap and easy access to titles I had been meaning to read for ages (since many of the Barnes and Noble classics collection are available in digital format). However, I have found myself daydreaming about e-book possibilities. With smartphones and data plans, I could avoid ever having to carry a huge purse again! Those who know me know that every purse I buy has to accommodate at least the following: a cell phone, keys, and two pens (black and blue) in a smaller pocket, minimal makeup, planner, journal, and a good book. This kind of technology could mean that a bag would only have to accommodate a smartphone, keys, one pen, and my journal (which doesn’t feel quite the same digital). I may one day become a complete blog convert, but I am sure that the day is far off. I love the feel of writing on paper, and I don’t quite trust my internet connection (or phone battery) to be there every time a thought comes into my head.

This line of thought led me to thinking about a home organizing show I saw once where they put an entire (very large) cd collection onto an external hard drive and got rid of the hard copies.
 How far are we from doing away with bookshelves, cd collections, and entertainment centers? Will our children carry a Mac notebook in place of a Mead notebook? What does this mean for dating?

To some of you that last question may have seemed discontinuous.Think about it.
 The books, movies, and cds that a person has tell you an enormous amount about them. What their sense of humor is (Big Chill or Borat?), if they are studious (non-fiction or the 10 minute toilet reader?), and even their political leanings (Ani or Alan Green?).With a move of all media to an external hard drive, evidence would be virtually (no pun intended) inaccessible to observation while they are finding their car keys or changing their shoes. What’s more, how much a person has says almost as much about them as what they have. Personally, I know that the advent of the iPod has meant that my Vengaboys cd from high school has stayed around long past its expiration date.

If the space that an album, book, or movie takes up is only a question of mega bytes on a hard drive (which are increasing exponentially in capacity and decreasing equally in size), will we ever get rid of our outdated media again?
 Filling a box for the local book sale or reselling old cds is one thing, but what is the motivation to push delete on your online library or iTunes account? Does Moore’s Law mean that we can afford to hoard?

 
Metallic taste in my mouth,
sand between my teeth.
Electric red heat
flows from my heart 
to my shoulder blades
where razor-tipped wings push
beginning to sprout.
Tearing.

I walk almost
alone
past shops.
Their neon lights read
sweat, blood, and pride
sold here.
The face confronting mine
reads
"Give me your purse
bitch."
What did you expect
when globalization has been
white-
washed
across culture?

Tingling pain aches 
in the base of my stomach.
Freezer-burned marbles
ingested one by
one
sharpened on my tongue
and spat back out.

A voice on the radio is far too
composed.
A partly cloudy evening with a high of 
fifteen.
We go now to news of 
self 
importance, qualifications and credentials.
I cal home looking
for sympathy
and find instead an
argument
on modern society.
No, Mom,
I don't 
think
it's a race
thing.

Bones sweat
tremble even.
A cold hand grips,
spreads like spiders' webs
and creeps like Jack Frost.

Newspapers are reporting
rising crime
in the area.
But, we don't have enough 
information
to follow up
on your
case.
There are too many 
in the area
that fit that
profile.

I want to laugh so hard
I cry.
Hot salt tears
acidic enough
to remove graffiti;
big black spattered
scars
that have laid claim
to my vitality.
 
I buttoned my coat sideways today.
A little like me,
sealed,
but the seams don't match.

I'm standing backwards on a bus 
because there isn't enough room to 
turn around.
Nor do I want to.

Because even if there was room,
if there weren't so many
people
headed to the same place I am.
And assuming I wanted to see where 
I was going
instead of where I'd immediately been.
I have just plain to much baggage 
to allow me to turn around.

Such a simple pivot is made amazingly
complicated
by the weight
of the words
that i carry in a beach bag
by my hip.

There are the planners,
and calendars,
the interesting bit of plastic I found
on the street this morning
that I thought might be useful
even though I can't imagine what for.
And there are the color-coded
red-green-blue
seven-forty-five-to-half-past-when
schedules.

That heap of organization 
would tumble and bubble
pell-mell
from the bag by my hip
(that matches my jacket
and scarf
and the cuffs on my mittens
that no one can see anyway).

All of my right-angle efforts
neatly-filed papers
planners
and crisp-edged folders
risk being defiled
on the muddy-boot rivers
that run the length of the aisle.

All of it would explode
if I were to try 
to turn around.

So I stand there
sandwiched like so much tuna
between a man I am sure showers 
less often than I cut my hair
and a woman
wearing almost enough perfume
to cover him up.

I ponder all of this
and I decide
I'm fine.
In fact,
I am perfectly content
to watch the green light 
on the back of the bus
inform me that it is now safe
to open the door.

    Picture

    Poetry/Essays

    Ever since I was little I have enjoyed playing with words.  I recently went through some of my old journals (which I have been keeping since my freshman year of high school) and dug up some of my favorites.  Some of them I revised a little, and some I left as is.  Not all of the sentiments still ring true, but it is an interesting experience for me to reread and share them.  It's a little like opening an old letter from someone you haven't talked to in ages.  I am still writing plenty and I'm sure that there will be more poems and essays about my current experiences here soon.  Buen provecho!

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