En route to somewhere

THURSDAY
The roommates celebrated our last official night together over homemade sticky toffee pudding in our house. Congregating around the table brought overt reminders that three of us were en route for the summer, one for longer than that. But all of us amid packing and organizing thoughts found time for the gooey warm toffee-soaked dessert that has become a specialty.

FRIDAY
A woman with three little girls sat in the row in front of me as I boarded the plane from L.A. to Cleveland. I enjoy children, but not on airplanes. This leg especially was a poor one for such proximity, since the five hours required to traverse above the flyover states were supposed to be my time to catch some z’s. Instead the perfect pitch of the baby’s cry pierced the air, hatcheting away at it as if silence were corn stalks, ripe for the taking.

SATURDAY
In Cleveland at an absurdly early hour, I chatted with a warm soul of a woman named Windee, who had been married to a guy in the army and through his job had lived in Frankfurt, Okinawa and Alaska, among other military outposts. As we spoke about Frankfurt, she remarked that moving back to Ohio and seeing trash littering the streets was disconcerting, since Frankfurt possessed neat, clean rows of streets.

I sat waiting for my last plane to arrive and 100 kids magically appeared, all wearing t-shirts emblazoned with “Camp Robinhood” on them. It quickly became obvious that out of us four adults, we would be flying to New Hampshire on a shuttle plane. They botched my name, trying to say it aloud over the P.A. and asked, “Are you ready?”

“Sure.” (I’m always ready.)
“Now, since you’re flying as a UM…”
(I cut in) “Um, what is a UM exactly?”
“Unaccompanied minor.”

Which meant, kids, that they had me down on a list of those 14 and under… Baby face only goes so far, really. But out of her embarrassment, she escorted me onto the plane before anyone else, giving a very VIP sensibility to my last leg of the journey.

SUNDAY
I’m tired. And moody. Meaning my introvert is seeping out of orifices I didn’t even know I had. My extrovert is slumbering and I am counting the minutes until her hibernation is complete. Like tomorrow. But the exciting news is that I got the mentor I requested: Jeff Friedman. He writes some fantastic lyrical narrative poetry and lately has been delving into midrash more heavily. At tonight’s reading, he shared a poem written from the perspective of Ishmael and one written from the perspective of Hagar. Interesting. I will enjoy his comments on my Sarah-inspired poem, among my other midrashic feats.

SF- Cafe Gratitude

In the spirit of what lies underneath the surface, Cafe Gratitude embodies the charming friendliness of this city in which I currently dwell. Spiritual quotes don the walls as points of intrigue upon which the eye should rest and contemplate the life you are living. Every detail has been considered in this being an authentic evaluation of the kind of footprint of gratitude that will be left on the earth. Even their logo which shows an orchard full of barren trees that appear dead, positioned next to a person wearing sunglasses reflecting back an orchard burgeoning over with oranges. The tables are all communal seating arrangements, which is both fun to feel as though you are snooping into someone else’s conversation and giving the sense that all of us are fellow sojourners stopping in for a quick bite.

Ah, but what a lovely couple of bites they were. Raw food when done well can be such a revelation! I accompanied my friend Pam, another veggie-friendly and foodie-adventurous soul, to Cafe Gratitude for dinner. Trying several different things is always the best way to approach a new restaurant. All of their menu items are named with a self-affirming statement, the sentiment of which I appreciated, but found that in such an extensive menu as theirs, they created roadblocks for my eyes. We started with the live samosas (I am insightful), crafted of a dehydrated spinach tortilla-like wrap enfolding cauliflower and macadamia nut “potatoes” and carrots, then garnished with a spicy mint chutney. Great flavor. My complaint usually with raw food is it seems to be under-salted and bland. Not so with anything we tried tonight. Good crunch and portion size.

Next came the salad and entree of house special enchiladas. As a vegetarian going on almost seven months soon, the bane of my existence happens to be the salad. I have unfortunately shelved it as the “last resort” in my mind for desperate times, so salads these days have to be pretty spectacular for me to raise my eyelids in their direction. The “I am satisfied” salad truly lives up to its name. The combination of the crunch from the raw beet and carrot matchsticks, coupled with the brazil nut “parmesan”, tomatoes, mixed greens and sprouts felt nothing close to boring. Pam ordered the Asian Sesame salad dressing which was an excellent dressing so full of flavor.

Our house special enchiladas were made of the same deydrated spinach “tortillas” and then stuffed with their pate consisting of radishes, sun-dried tomatoes, sunflower seeds and other crunchy unnameables. A sauce of brazil nut cream and salsa verde was drizzled over the top, accompanied by sides of Mexican slaw (delish) and quinoa (yummy). I enjoyed watching all the young San Franciscans eating their raw food, dancing and singing happy birthday to a fellow patron, listening to the two mariachis play one song and then walk around to the tables with their paper bag open like an empty stomach.

Along the walls are paintings of life situations that I suppose are intended to conjure up scenes of gratitude. One shows a boy swinging over a lake, holding onto the rope with only one hand, the other a nub. The next scene shows an elderly black woman holding a terry cloth towel in an open doorway smiling, as if she is welcoming in the supposed to be homeless man who looks more like Freddy Kruger in a cape.

The food was great and I think several things made this place stand out and shine for me:

1. The intentionality of the concept- being grateful for the food given by God through the earth as our provision and finding goodness in the simple beans, grains, vegetables and nuts that can provide delicious food that is nutritious and still connected to the earth in a one-off relationship.

2. The server genuinely seemed to enjoy us and oozed a non-New Age friendliness. The people across from us asked about the enchilada and laughed at my sneaking in and out. The big mural on the bathroom wall inciting me to “choose” and then giving the cheesy pictoral scenes (see above) or phrases like “not enough”, “more” and other negative phrases. It is a choice… hmm.

3. Realizing that breaking bread with someone whose company you enjoy has to be one of the richest things life can offer. There is redemption and life borne out of those moments. They are few and often only a glimpse of awareness breaks through the fog of the multitude of other things that would command our attention to let us know, “hey, you, this is going to be a keeper of a memory.”

I left Cafe Gratitude with a grateful belly, good fodder for later discussion and a good friend at my side.

NOISE: normal volume level
GROUPS: good for groups or making friends if one-on-one
KIDS: as long as your kids are into raw food or are little vegetarian/vegans
AMBIENCE: folky, homey, communal, hippie-cool

Bangkok Lychee Lotus

This drink is totally inspired by one of my favorite restaurants in Chicago, VTK. I had a similar cocktail there about a month ago and have been wanting to drink something similar in SF, but to no avail. The closest thing I could find was Poleng’s “Poleng Me” cocktail- a great combo of spicy and sweet. Enjoy this with friends!

2 oz. Pear Vodka (Grey Goose or Absolut)
2 oz. Lychee juice (pureed lychees)
1 small handful cilantro leaves
1 pinch of chili peppers (less or more dependent on heat desired)

Muddle the chili peppers with the cilantro and a few small cubes of ice in a large glass. Then pour in the vodka and lychee juice. Garnish the serving glass with one lychee and pour in the cocktail. Enjoy with thai food or some light summer cuisine.

Soon and very

As a child, the night before the first day of school always found me lying in bed, eyes wide open. I would envision meeting new people in my classes, bending the spine on a fresh notebook, opening the box of sharp chalky colored pencils. In those days of uniforms and far too early wake up calls, the night owl in me emerged.

Just last night, I began packing for school. Can I begin to say the word excited / tres heureuse / muy alegre! This residency will be held on campus and I am looking forward to resuming some conversations begun in January with quirky kindred spirits who see the world in word images, looking for the right poem in which to take up residency. With this voyage comes the revealing of my new mentor. I have thoroughly enjoyed working with Alicia. Her comments to me on my writing and work are precious. She is precious with insights like the pencil-marked “ha!” found jotted out in the margins, next to bits she thinks are particularly clever or fun.

Being an artist involves more than the gift or talent. There is a honing of the skill and practice of the craft necessary. Where emotions are concerned, they are to be funneled into the writing. Passion is a double edged sword in its own way though. Passionate people do seem excited, vivacious, energetic, but these belong to only one end of the spectrum. On the other end lives the moody blues and they I find, sometimes produce the best thoughts on paper.

Somehow it has come up often and lately that I should:

a.) read some of my poems aloud somewhere
b.) get published

And my response to these statements are yes and yes. Soon and very. For now, though, I relish in the anticipation of new words, new images tangling themselves in my mind during the professional rest afforded by a jaunt with the small bandy of poetic renegades in a state far and away from the everyday noises and blur.

Sans yeux qui peut voir la verite

“Not a word from their mouth can be trusted; their heart is filled with destruction. Their throat is an open grave; with their tongue they speak deceit.” ~Psalm 5:9

“Car rien n’est sûr de ce qu’ils dissent et ils ne pensent au’à nuire. Ils ont la flatterie dans la bouche, mais leur gosier est une tombe ouverte.” Psaume 5 :10

Une tombe ouverte – quelle image. Je vois sa bouche, qui dans sa baîllement indique la profondeur et la largeur. Ce soir, j’ai osé revenir à un endroit qui a était par le passé consideré sûr, et qui est tout à fait récemment devenu corrompu. L’incursion était assez innocente, mais les echos de la voix de cette personne avait disparu de ma tête il y a une semaine et demie. Je sais qu’il est une illusion. Je le sais, mais tout çela n’a pas arrêté les frissons de courir le long de mes bras ce soir ; avec reconnaissance j’ai couru dans les bras de la poésie sacrée – celle que mon Père donne comme point de repère, remarquable ci-dessus. Pendant la journée, il y a eu des conversations qui remarquent mon laconisme, et tout est enveloppé dans le secret des heures hors du travail. Ce que m’avait semblé pardonné par l’intermédiaire d’un rêve lucide il y a une semaine et demie a maintenant eclaté ouvert pour dévoiler le puanteur et la griffe qui portent le nom du trompeur partout. S’il vous plaît, priez pour moi cette semaine. Je me sens le point du couteau si coupant et je suis très heureuse que le bouclier a été réparé dans un endroit tel que la France il y a quelques semaines.

Some thoughts on living

Today my doppelganger became a wife.

Back during school days in Mill Valley, Loren and I used to confuse people unwittingly. From far off they would see me and yell, “Loren!” We even started at the same time working at my current company and my boss would accidentally sometimes call her by my name and vice-versa. My favorite Loren and AZ moments involved such antics as chasing a fire truck and ambulance in the neighborhood on foot to see what the ruckus was all about one evening. That coupled with all the laughs and deep heart to hearts. Today, the classic moment of the wedding involved the minister asking her, “Loren, do you take Shawn as your lawfully wedded wife?” And in that full-bellied chuckle of hers, she and I both laughed.

I am in a constant project of better ways to simplify and organize my living space and have been like this since I was young enough to move furniture. Tonight, all I moved were four thick photo albums, which truly encapsulate the past eight years of my life (and even some further back). As I tucked each of the albums into their new homes, I cracked them open and loved the faces smiling out at me. There is such richness and beauty in seeing and knowing in the “now” but being able to go back to the “then.”

This afternoon before the wedding, I meandered into downtown San Rafael and happened upon the Italian Street Painting Festival. Free to the public, several street blocks have been cordoned off with bodies sprawled all over the hot black pavement. Boxes of chalks and pastels lined the periphery of the squares commissioned by companies and local artists as their plots of land for two whole days. Monday morning a truck will come wash away all the carefully constructed pieces of chalk art, all the color running into one. It was remarkable to see the execution and skill etched into something commonplace like the street. Replicas of Mucha, Vermeer, and La Gioconda shimmered off of the ground in their chalky residue. While I fully appreciated the finished pieces, I kept finding my favorite drawings to photograph were those in process- a fully shaded three-dimensional eye belonging to a roughly outlined canvas; fish swimming with their mouths open in an O of surprise swimming in the black untouched background.

Some of the photos from the album: Mindy and I riding the bronze boar statue at a winery in Napa; Katy and I in college fully scarved against the wind in Boston; Pam holding Lucy at her 30th birthday brunch; Barb and I squeezing out gigantic smiles our first year in MV; Mai Mai and I posing in the ceramic shell at the Monterey aquarium; Loren and I staring down the camera with our broad, mischevous smiles… The list goes on. I wouldn’t trade any of these people and the breadth of being they have brought into my life.

The journey, the process fills in the gaps of our lives, even as they can seem blank gestures held against the faint white chalk outline of the overall picture. Thanks be to our Creator who sees us and knows us well enough to know that we need each other to make the journey. That and we need those mistakes of semantics or movement that draw the laugh from deep within until the guffaw emerges. Think of it as the cross-hatching of texture into what could be a flat painting. Life with texture is anything but normal, but the fodder it gifts is irreplaceable.

(Leave a comment if you would like to see the chalk art I photographed today and I will upload them).

Oh, the drama! *cue fainting woman*

Our illustrious little San Francisco opera is in the midst of a hot scandal. Three days before “Don Giovanni” opened, the soprano slated to tackle the role of Donna Anna was released (read: fired). Here’s what’s important for us non-opera kids: usually when they “release” a singer, the terminology is oh so genteel. She or he is “taken ill” or needing to step down for personal reasons. In this case, the word was “fired.” People are all abuzz and claiming it’s a racist act. The powers that be claim it was because the soprano was not living up to the potential of what is required of a singer taking on Donna Anna’s role. What bothered the soprano most is that the first she claims she’s heard about it was the day of the dismissal. Hmm on all fronts. And stepping into the soprano’s shoes is a friend of Katy’s from the conservatory whose student performances brought tears to my eyes and chills to my arms. I am so excited that she has this opportunity, but it is mired in so much drama and bad PR. Now, as the good people in PR will tell you, there’s no such thing as bad PR. So as the New York Times and other publications cover this scandal, let’s all say a quick shout-out on behalf of Elza since she’s so in the middle of a nasty situation.

Like any good lover of drama, I will be joining Katy for the Sunday afternoon performance. Oh yes, that will be a ticket I will be glad to hold onto.

For more on the Don Giovanni scandal from the SF Chronicle, click here.

To read an op-ed piece from the New York Times, click here.

absolutely deceived

there are words to describe this
but they elude me, you
bequeathed to me these moments
of dull self-derision

i am hollowed out by your paring knife
cutting away at all those soft
fleshy parts leaving this void that
echoes into the deeps, a stone skipping
across still water, momentarily struck,
then still again-

there are words to describe this,
perhaps stolen too, them, tucked
away in your pocket, awaiting ransom
just so i can speak at last.

i am wide-eyed in wonder at your capacity
for evil, smooth scaled and fork-tongued.
i just wanted a taste, to bite down into
the bright green skin, the tender flesh,
to see and know good from evil

but the joke was on me.