309/365

woke up from a poem
calling itself a dream.
syrah coated throat
the mind rests briefly
only to return to the wheel.
somewhere in between
i thought of a childhood friend-
porcelain skinned, red hair and
his subtle stutter caused by his
mother’s mania. laying awake
in the darkness transported
back to that house, our neighbourhood
knowing that time: is now
no more real than a fever dream.

296/365

there was so much light at the house on the water
pouring in through the giant bay window, reflecting
off the yellow table. yoko was absorbed by heat
and delivered her kittens in my parents underwear drawer
one day after school when i was home alone. wolfie died
their. the chronology in a knotted mess. kaveh cried
throughout the night, but it was okay, i was finally not alone.
there were smiles and sunday boat parades. they bought
me a boat from marin surplus that could take me to the sea.
i manoeuvred it in between the yatchs and sailboats through
the canal. one night i took my dad to the mouth off the bay.
it was dark. he sipped his wine. the waves were strong.
i was only twelve maybe thirteen. i had kissed a girl and drunk
until i puked already, but he didn’t know about either.
he trusted me to steer the boat. i felt like a man. this was
the house where i knew i didn’t need them anymore.
the sunshine and the boats brought smiles and freedom.
i learned about led zeppelin and bob dylan there. i learned
about the power of turpentine to dilute stiffened dried paint
and release it unto a canvas. i learned the beauty of being alone.
sitting on the roof at night watching the stars, leaving the window
open, a cool breeze on my naked chest, as i fell asleep.
there was so much light at the house on the water
pouring in through the giant bay window, reflecting
off the yellow table.

255/365

i don’t remember deliberately hiding my heart in its barbwire cage. i don’t remember whether this was a deliberate or necessary act. i don’t remember its state at the time of encasing: a fragile flower. a tiny mirror ball. a flickering flame. a handful of fireflies. i know it was alive and needed safety, after the nights in the dark and the hands and the terror. i don’t remember when the cage began to unravel or when the heart outgrew it, pushing outwards so the barbs tore the muscle walls, leaving scars as they released the light. the rusted wire embedded in the flesh like shrapnel. pulsating in my chest- a bizarre metamorphosis, real time evolution. i don’t remember exactly when some bad company pried the remaining pieces with southern comfort, gin and peach shnapps out on the hills after midnight with a brand of vulnerable masculinity that thrived on bleeding hearts. unclenched fists letting go. gentle breaths on tiny fires. i don’t remember passing it around too much after that, exposed and hungry for love. i don’t remember what they did to it or what it did to them, the girls and women in my life. i would hope they danced in its light and felt the warmth from the flames they fanned, but there’s no doubt they choked on the metal pieces now rooted in flesh. i don’t remember it falling a sleep or waking back up. i don’t remember how it became this way or what to call it now. sometimes when i lay real still i can hear it beating irregularly in my chest. what’s asking for, i’m still not sure.

242/365

i could only wait
so long before taking
a deep measured breath
and this first step.
never one to visit fortune tellers,
with their tarot cards and starsigns,
superstitious relics in a museum
of memories and faded ambition.

getting into trouble, for falling behind
unawares the journey had begun long ago,
who’ll be the arbiter of justice
when there is no map or compass.

lost in an empty factory-
the machines long gone quiet,
the labor fled,
commodities left to rot
in an invented country without borders,
it’s flag an old soothsayers robe soaked
in lavender and rosemary.

it was the longest minute of my life,
choosing to act, instead of
watching and waiting.

we all have happy childhoods
if we squint and pretend.

i could only wait
so long before taking
a deep measured breath
and this first step.

165/365

george was an arab.
a pretty big kid
even in third grade.
his family owned a gas station
in the neighbourhood
and he had my features extenuated:
olive skin, large nose, thick eyebrows,
hairy arms, deep brown eyes.
to everyone else, we were probably
similar- the same really:
iran. iraq.
arabia. middle east.
foreign. different.
but i was already taught
through two thousand years of history
that we were not arab,
we were persian- cyrus and darius
persepolis and farsi and all that jazz.
it’s crazy how important
being and not being are to people.

he invited me to his house once.
we ate with our hands
and played his atari 5200.

one day on the field at school
after everyone had gone home
and the sun was about to set
in that hour when kids get on bikes
and beat the dark home for dinner,
a gang of us were loitering about,
when suddenly a few kids
had him pinned to the ground and were
pedling a bike with their hands
and pressing the back tire to his ass
yelling insults and laughing.

i was frozen with fear.
remembering the sweet generosity
at his house, his mother insisting
i eat more, her kinds eyes
and broken english
“we are same you and us.
both from middle east.”

i didn’t know how to help george
so, i watched for a while and the quietly
straddled my bike and made it home on time.

we were probably the same.   
being and not being
are important to people.
needless to say george
never invited me to his house again.

116/365

childhood is the bleary undone (dream)
you glance at through bewildered rheumy (eyes.)
incoherent recollections whispered like (prayers)
in the fog of precarious (memories.)
faded photographs locked in the (closet)
with the threadbare (stories)
you play on repeat like a favorite (record)

the first house i remember living in
is a house i don’t think we lived in.
it’s my mothers childhood home.
it’s in tehran.
it’s october
it’s nineteen seventy eight
i am four and tiny like a rag doll
the nation is about to be awash
in the young blood of revolution:
a fire at the cinema rex
were four men doused the building
with airplane fuel before setting it alight,
would spark generational anarchy.
it was all the talk in our house,
i assume.

i don’t remember all the rooms
it was small and packed with people—

(To be continued…)

107/365

when he was seven
the biggest miracle
in the world were
the silkworm larva
that he brought home
from school to care for—
and the fact that they
ate mulberry leaves
and that there were
mulberry trees
along the street
on his way home
and that mulberry fruits
were called toots
and were part of the culture
he was clinging to
as he learned the meaning
of the words wonder
and assimilation.  

the eggs had taken fourteen days
to hatch into larvae
and they had been eating
continuously since:
masticating machines
pulsating like veins
freed from a body.

they were covered
with tiny black hairs,
and when their heads turned darker,
they began to molt.
emerging
white
naked
with little horns
on their backs.

he was too young
to differentiate
science from fiction   
magic from reality.
earlier in the year
his teacher
had taught him a new language-
imagine more than one way to name
the moon,
songs,
friends,
acceptance,
home.

their bodies had become
slightly yellow like butter
and the skin had become tighter.
the larvae had entered
the pupal phase and enclosed themselves
in a cocoon made of raw silk
produced by their salivary glands.

as an only child in solitude
he would listen
for what was happening inside,
wondering if the loneliness he felt
was everywhere.

the final molt from
larva to pupa would take
take place within the cocoons,
which provided a vital layer
of protection during the vulnerable,
almost motionless pupal state.

he gently pushed the edges
wondering what would
emerge—
how had (t)he(y) changed

soon they would release
proteolytic enzymes
to make a hole in the cocoon
so they could escape as moths.

the moths would not be capable
of functional flight,
they would emerge with the ability
to lift off and stay airborne.
they fluttered about the box
and on his fingertips
like blind aliens
but sustained flight
would not be achieved
because their bodies
would be too big and heavy
for their small wings.

he doesn’t remember
what happened to the moths
after that.

lessons were learned
pictures where drawn
and the miracles were
probably thrown into the trash.

93/365

time-lapsed
is the best way
to experience plants.

this day was unhurried
and layered:

exited and entered
from one book to another,
bought the old barn
tinted paint for her room—
the short thrill
of running in a storm—
takeout pizza
from john’s  
two films
about flawed characters
doing their best.

the younger one
is drafting a song
about insecurity and being a ghost
the older one,
tired on her bed
plucks chords
before sleep.

time-lapsed
is the best way
to experience plants,
because sped up
they look more alive,
curving and yearning
toward the sun.

but children?
best to slow
them down
to still frames
lest they
burn out
quickly
and flicker
like errant
flames
left out
in the wind.

81/365

i remember the indian
who sat on the stoop
at that apartment
behind the wall,
the one near the highway,
next to where they put him in jail,
the one we moved too with maryam
after the accidents and the yelling
finally calmed down.

she’d sit with her knees tucked to her chin,
rocking back and forth
a frail nervous leaf skittering on shallow puddles
we all knew were evaporating by the second.

we moved so many times,
that we never grew accustomed to roots.
we moved so many times,
it became hard to know how to be a we.

i was full of cloistered prayers
i never believed in and barely knew
how to sing, ask, or demand.
i never learned the right verb for prayers.

now i’m all empty pockets
with the linings ripped out,
so everything rattles around inside
like a dirty jar.

even the pickpockets
can’t make sense of this mess
inside.

53/365

looking back it seems
that i mostly learned
how to be a man
by having kittens
as a boy.

something about the need
to coax the attention
felt more earned—
than say,
the desperate gushing
of an eager puppy.

such mercurial
sacks of guts and bones.
the damp noses,
the risible rate
of their minuscule hearts,
the narcotic vibrations
of their soporific purr,
the inexhaustible eyes:

intrepid
audacious
lion-hearted

looking back it seems
that i mostly learned
how to be a man
by having kittens
as a boy.

52/365

as a kid
he’d get lost
in atlases
almanacs
record books
and books about space.

there was little time
for fiction
when surrounded by
such fanatical facts.

he could tell you:
your weight on mercury
or that a year on mars was 1.88 earth years
or that venus is the hottest planet in the solar system
or that jupiter has more than double the mass of all the other planets combined
or that saturn has more moons than any other planet
or that together the planets make up 0.14% of the solar systems mass,
99% of which is the gas giants

he watched:
et
close encounters
communion
star trek
star wars
the last star fighter
enemy mine
aliens

there was a hopefulness
just beyond his reach
in all that space.
a magnitude
that made his lonely childhood
days spent in mostly solitude  
feel more meaningful
or insignificant

he cold never tell
which he felt
or why.

June

The first thing to mention, I guess, is the smell of wet grass, and how it smelled of freedom and luxurious boredom. Bahia Vista was the neighbourhood where I grew up which was made up of semi-detached town houses in which lived most of the minority population of Marin County. We were black and Vietnamese and Laotian and Iranian and Latino. Looking back I guess you would classify us as lower middle class, perhaps poor, but when I was eight, I didn’t know what other neighbourhoods looked like, and since the Bahia Vista housing complex each had a tiny bean shaped pool, and in the center of the house was a large grass field, dotted with a few climbable trees and small hills perfect for rolling contests and Star Wars Action figure worlds, I felt I was in heaven.

I am sure they watered this grass field throughout the year, but it wasn’t until the summer holiday when I noticed the sweet smell of the grass and the tiny droplets hanging on each blade from the massive sprinklers. The same sprinklers we ran through, in our swim trunks, on the way to the pool.

Sometimes we would take a day-camp trip to McNear’s Beach. This public pool was bigger and deeper than our neighbourhood pools. It was chalk fool of sun-burned bodies, all clamouring for swimming lanes and giant marco-polo games. It was overly chlorinated and I guess we didn’t know about goggles in the eighties, so our eyes burned raw as we ingested push-up pops and waited to pass the swim test to be able to play in the deep end. It was eight feet deep, which was an ocean of difference compared to the mere four-and-half foot depth of the neighbourhood pool.

June has always meant freedom to me. The beginning of summer, coconut smelling sun tan lotion, the ice cream truck, staying out passed dark, summer camps to Santa Cruz, horseback riding, time spent on rivers, the beach, sometimes lakes. Overtaking the neighbourhood. Staying up late. Watching too much TV, eating too much junk food. Everything about June is too much. It’s also the end of school, homework, rules, structure.

June is the childhood portion of the year.

It is clear that June is the best month of year. Did I mentioned that it is my birthday month? Not only that but I was born on June 21st- the summer solstice. The longest day of the year. The epitome of the previously mentioned freedom. 21 has always been my favorite number. I like seeing it on jerseys, on roulette boards and as a jack and an ace.

June is the end of school and responsibility and the start of summer. It is anticipation and countdowns followed by sweet release. These days June is also Father’s Day and our anniversary. It is the time of year we board airplanes and head home to the US to eat burritos and watch summer concerts. We take road trips and drink too much beer and eat too much corn. Peaches and cherries. We barbecue and see old friends. We rarely wear shirts and build that base tan, ready to get really dark. We stay up late and wake up late and reconnect with family and nature and books and ourselves.
Although much of what I have described is still a few weeks away, tomorrow is June 1st, and I can already feel the magic in the air. Everything feels different in June.

What are some of your favorite June rituals? What is your favourite month?Why? I am curious what my southern hemisphere friends think of June.

empty bottles and full ashtrays

when I was child in my house,
there was a book
of poems
written by Hafez,
and my parents didn’t have to tell me
that it was filled with magic.

like an ancient soothsayer-

it’s unadorned cover
was dressed in an olive canvas skin-
the spine barely bound
by course crumbling string,
the pages were delicate leaves
veined by a fluid Persian script-

it followed us
from house to house,
year to year,
across a childhood
and into the ether of memory
and vital forgotten momentos.

i explored its mysticism
early Sunday mornings
as my parents slept in their room.
the book laid open upon the table with
empty bottles and full ashtrays.

unable to read the text,
i held its fragile frame
in my lap,
gently running my fingers
across the pages
and the cover…

i made wish.
begged for a direction.
prayed,
they would stay together.

i’m not sure who ended up with the book of Hafez poems.
as far as I could see,
after the divorce,
it lost most of its magic.

Voice Like A Lullaby

“Get away from that door.” My mom had just gotten home from work and walked upstairs.
I ignored her. If she really meant it she would try again.
“I said get away from there. You’re going to disturb her.” She was whispering forcefully.
I tried my luck one more time. I couldn’t look away. What was she doing in there under that sheet? With those beads? That ancient looking book? Is that a compass? Why is she muttering to herself? What is she muttering to herself? She stands up. Arms in the air. Kneels down. Forehead to the ground. Repeat.
“I said go downstairs!” The whisper was gone, her voice clear, her hand on my shoulder physically pulling me away. “Now!”

I saw my grandmother kneel down again, clutching a string of beads, her head to the floor one last time, before I gave in and slunked then trotted downstairs- two steps at a time, straight to the fridge for a banana.
“What is she doing in there?” I asked my mom ingesting half the banana in one bite.
“Do you have to eat like an animal? You’re going to choke.”
Finishing the second half of the banana, I asked, “No really, what is she doing in there?”
“She’s praying,” my mom had shoved me out of the way and was starting to dig in the refrigerator, pulling out an assortment of boxed and sealed left-overs for dinner.
“Praying? What does that mean?” I was perplexed. I had no idea what to do with information that my grandmother who had arrived from Iran late the night before, and was going to stay with us for six months, who I hadn’t seen since I was five, I was seven now, who had brought two massive suitcases that stood full and unopened upstairs, who was my dad’s mom, was upstairs praying.

I had out run my mom from the car earlier to set eyes on Maman Soodie, only to find her in a trance, under a sheet apparently praying.
“Why are you ignoring me?” I needed answers.
My mom was busy pouring an eggplant stew into a pot for warming and setting a pot to boil for rice.
“It means that she is talking to god, by reciting lines from the Koran.”
God? Koran?
“She will do that five times a day when she is here and I need you to not stand at the door gaping at her. It’s a very private act and she doesn’t need you disturbing her.” She started to cut some radishes like flowers and throw them into a blow of cold water to help them open up.
“I wasn’t disturbing her. I was just standing there, quietly watching.” I stole a radish and popped it into my mouth. I love the subtle spice. I stirred the stew and watched a few tiny bubbles begin to pop like a lake of molten lava.
“Can you not argue and just promise me that you won’t bother your grandmother? And go set the table. Your dad will be home soon and I want to eat as soon as he gets here. I am starving.” She handed me a stack of four plates.

Four. Not three, but four. It was so exciting to have an additional member added to our family. It had been just the three of us for so long that having another body in the house was a novelty and a treat. I didn’t know at the time how much I would learn from Maman Soodie and how long those memories would last.

“Jabiz Joon come here and let me hold you. I have missed you so much my heart has been broken.” Her voice sounded like a lullaby I recognized from years ago. She was out from under the sheet and heading toward the kitchen. Her face and her voice came rushing back to me from the time before we left Iran and came to America. From a time where we played together while she watched me when my parents were out. From a time that she was my friend, my story teller, my grandmother.
I ran to her as she sat in a chair at the dining room table. She scooped me up into her lap, hugging me tightly, rocking me back and forth.

She said a bunch of things in Farsi I didn't understand, like I was her liver, but I could feel were affectionate and then she said, “Oh how I have missed you. Tonight I will tell you the story of the Persian Prince Rostam.”
“Can you also tell me what you were saying to god?”
I noticed that she and my mom exchanged a quick look. It was fleeting, but I saw it.
“Let’s start with the fairy tales and move onto god later.”

A History Of Cars

The first car I ever remember is my grandfathers BMW. I think it was white. I was three maybe four, sitting on his lap as he pretended to let me drive it. The tiny round lights up front. Tan leather seats. Maybe a wooden gear shift knob.


Next, America. 1980. Our family owned a sparking metallic green Volkswagen Bug with brown interior. I loved the little side triangular windows and the way it never felt completely insulated. Gusts of wind entering from random empty spaces in the car. The engine made it feel like a rocket.


1986 Our first showroom floor brand new car- A Nissan Sentra. Silver and with zero perks. It was the base model and had no features expect maybe a fan, but that didn’t matter because it was our first new car with the new car smell and the pricing sticker on the window as we drove it home. Four doors and a trunk, we were moving up in the world.


I learned to drive with that car, my dad and I out near Handy Man and the Dump. Francisco Boulevard- our hood. It was a stick shift. One day he let me drive it into the city and somehow he forced me onto one of the crazy steep streets. And while I begged him to take over he refused. “If you really want to be a good driver, you have to learn how to handle this.” I used the emergency break and found the sweet spot on the clutch to get us home. I was terrified and sweaty, but now I am grateful for those hard lessons.


1991- I bought my first car. A royal blue 1979 VW bug. I was still in love with bugs. My parents agreed to match whatever I had saved, so for $1700 I had my first car. I will never forget the feeling of popping in the Appetite for Destruction cassette and heading toward Jason’s house. The feeling of freedom was intimidating. I knew at that moment that I could, if I wanted, drive away from home, never come back and go anywhere I wanted.


I abused that car. We jammed up to eight people in Ole’ Blue. I once almost drove it off a cliff after a party, damaging all four wheels. I left it on fourth street and drove home. In the morning, my dad asked me where my car was and I had no idea. After a while I remember, and when we went to get it, he nearly lost his mind with anger. The wheels were all shaped like squares. We had to have it towed to a shop.


In the end, I never once changed the oil or took it to the shop. I put gas in it and drove, until one day it stopped on the highway somewhere near Larkspur. I had it towed to the dump for $25 bucks and never saw it again.


Our family car lasted well into my high school years and actually drove me down to San Diego my first year of college. The whole family including my grandpa, who we dropped off in LA. We packed all my sheets and towels and stuff and headed south.


A few months after that, my parents finally threw in the towel and separated for good. I am not sure what happened to the car, but the next time I came home my dad had bought a new Eagle Summit. (Some kind of Dodge copy) I don’t remember what my mom was driving. I moved back in with my dad by X-Mas and he left for Iran shortly after that. He left me the car with the understanding that he would help me pay the payments if I could pay the insurance.


I had this car for a while. A few years. Driving it to College of Marin and La Petite and Bank of America where I work. Until I got too many tickets and had my license suspended. I couldn’t afford the insurance any more and couldn’t get a hold of my dad. I didn’t know what to do and the idea of selling a car was too much for me, so I drove it to the dealership, handed over the keys and I said I don’t want this car anymore, you can have it back. The guy looked shocked; I am pretty sure no one had ever brought a car back and said take it.


I walked home.


I didn’t have a car when I moved back to San Diego, but I used to spend a lot of time in The Red Wolf, Jeff’s truck. I have no idea what make it was, but we used to abuse that car too. It had a kick ass stereo and we played it pretty loud. One Halloween we dressed up like girls and drove it to Santa Barbara. The last night at Bob and Ari’s place, a fire extinguisher was set off and covered everyone and everything with green dust. For some reason this green dust stayed in the Red Wolf for months after.


Back home living in San Francisco my car was the Muni. Buses from Haight to downtown and the N Judah line trolley to SFSU. One summer we decided to buy a VW bus to drive across the country on a two month road trip. We painted forest green and lined the floor with black shag rug and purple velvet curtains. It made it to DC and New Orleans and finally back home. Anthony didn’t know how to drive a stick so I would get it started out of the gates and switch seats once we were in 3rd or 4th gear. Mary and Cortney never drove. I loved that car. We kept it for a few weeks after the trip, but parking was a pain the ass so we sold it for nearly what we paid for it.


Then off to Mozambique and back to NYC. No cars. Shapas. MTA, bus, train, feet.


In Malaysia we bought a tiny purple Proton. It got us around and my only real memory was the terror I felt driving Kaia home form the hospital in it. Sold it before we left.


Doha- we bought the car I have hated the most. A white Jeep Cherokee that was the biggest piece of garbage I have ever owned. Bought it from a lying Qatari and there was something wrong with it for three years. Sold it before we left.


Jakarta- Leased a big black Toyota van and actually had a driver. 75 year old, nearly blind Sunario. It was practical and roomy. Sunario was great with the kids. He barely spoke but he helped us get by in Jakarta or he ripped us off, hard to tell in Indonesia.


And finally, Singapore. We own a ten year old Hyundai Verna, which ironically is very much like our Nissan Sentra. It gets us around and is nothing special. We have to sell it in March because in Singapore you are not meant to have cars that are older than ten years. I wonder what car we will have next.


Each one of these cars has a million more stories, but this was just a start. Which car would you like to hear more about?


I didn’t mention the various Fords that Jason owned, but they too were near and dear to my heart, but that is another post as well.


Tell me about some of your cars.

Open The Sky

I’ve decided to move my Monday/Wednesday runs to Tuesday/Thursday. Exciting news right? I know you were dying for this information so you could carry on with your week. The change of the schedule was not the point of this introduction. The following scene in the kitchen around 6:00pm which was made possible by this timetable shift.


Start scene:


A father and daughter excitedly unpack the necessary ingredients to make dinner- frozen soy nuggets, pasta with tomato sauce, broccoli, and red pepper. The girl chooses the first song and in a effort to please the dad starts with Michael Jackson’s 1990’s classic Do you Remember.


Daughter- You like this song right? See. I used my song choice for you.


Father- Great choice.


He turns it up and there is a vibrant festive mood in the kitchen. It doesn’t feel like a routine tired Monday night. They are alone together and happy to be working on a shared task. The girl lights the stove and starts the water boiling. The father cuts up the broccoli and red peppers.


There is dancing. Alone and together.


The father thinks about how he should cook more often with her. Next she plays a One Direction song and as he watches her dance about the kitchen, the father is saddened and excited to see her so grown up. He remembers her as a baby and the nights he held her in her room listening to Jack Johnson sing Ben Harper songs. He remembers the overwhelming sense of joy she emanated as a baby when he smelled her hair and kissed her gently in the darkness. How her presence changed his life forever and allowed him to finally let go of so much anger and pain and just be himself. He owes the person he is to the person she has always been. And now, in this kitchen she looks like a young women. A tween. A teen. A confident queen.


She does this weird Spanish dance with eyes low and fingers snapping imaginary castanets.


Father- Where did you learn that dance?


Daughter- I don’t know. It just felt right.


She smiles coyly and the father realizes that this phase in her childhood is rapidly changing. She is still his little girl, but he realizes that he needs to talk with her more and spend time exploring ideas with her and less time hyper-parenting and setting up boundaries. They listen to The Who and Kelly Clarkson. Singing out loud…Since you’ve been gone and teenage wasteland.


Parenting is about creating a childhood the adult version of your children want to revisit. It is about planting experiences that will blossom into memories. Sometimes, the simplest seeds, like making dinner with music and dancing, will grow into the mightiest trees.


…


Marin bought the girls some plain notebooks today and Skye turned hers into a book of poems. She said that they are learning about poetry in school and she is ready to be a poet. Another big thank you Gillian. After scrawling the word powems on the cover, she proceeded to crank out a few quick rhymes: Skunk on Trunk. Dog on a Log. Cat on A Bat. I’m a Flower Look At Me and Ice Cream Ice Cream, Quick Quick. She spent the next few minutes reading her verse to her dolls.


It was a thing of beauty. A moment of poetry.


…


Getting back in the swing of things at school was not easy today. My body and mind are still floating under the sun in Tioman. I wish there was a way we could teach in the wilderness all year and come back to campus once a year to…..well, I don’t know what we would do, but I wish we could teach kids in nature more often than we do.


There are so many things that need to get done in the next few weeks (22 school days) but I am pretending that it will all happen without too much anxiety and stress on my part. I know that I should start to panic and get things done, starting tonight. But it is Monday, I just got back from a trip and Game of Thrones is not going to watch itself. So tonight will not be the night I start my mentor comments or give some feedback on a formative assessment I sent out last week. It will happen this week, it has to, probably tomorrow night, but tonight is begging for a slow transition from island life.


…


Played a lot of guitar after school today. Working up a batch of songs I will be playing in a few weeks. I’ll be opening for Scott Macdonald at the Little Island Brewing Company. Details forthcoming and needless to say I am a bit nervous. I haven’t performed in a while and there is a chance there could be a decent crowd from school. I am excited about this batch of tunes. Eclectic and diverse for sure and they feel good to play.


I’m reading some books about The Big Lebowski given to me by Katie Day and they are keeping my attention, but I am on the hunt for some “rock-my-world” fiction for the summer. Any suggestions would be welcome. I cannot wait for the Joshua Mohr memoir. Anything else out there that I should get my hands on?


…


electricity
tore open the sky tonight.
everything’s a buzz

Bigger Pieces of You

One of my favorite toys as a kid was my dad’s wine opener. It was one of the ones that has two long arms that rise as you twist the cork; I used to pretend it was a scrawny metal robot doing jumping jacks. I used to grab it from the table on Saturday mornings from the rest of the debris as my parents slept upstairs. The smell of stale smoke and wine fumes in the air. Glasses laced with ruby rings and overflowing ash trays. The stereo was still on and a Neil Young record sat gathering dust. The low grade buzz silenced as I turned it off and sleeved the vinyl to make sure it was safe.


I would lay on my stomach and use the wine opener to attack Luke as if it was a droid from Tatoonine. Until of course Han Solo would come and save Luke yet again and defeat the wine-opener droid.


My childhood was lonely but happy. Filled with hours of solitary play. I don’t ever remember anyone actually actively playing with me. I often entertained myself on the periphery of political debates, long hours in the darkroom and empty Saturday mornings.

…

I took some kids from my Mentor class to dinner and laser tag tonight. Not everyone could make it, and it was the smallest group I have taken out to date, but they had a blast. It was a good reminder that all connections and teaching need not always be for every kid all the time. You spot teach and connect with those who need it when you can. This random group of six kids tonight, would not have been out together if it wasn’t for our outing. And a few of them probably would not have been out at all. We ate, We chatted. We shot each other with lasers and then we went our separate ways.


If you want to build community and connect to kids they need to trust you and they will never trust you if they only see you in teacher mode. They need bigger pieces of you. Some people might not agree or not have the time, but the truth is that the student teacher relationship is a human one, and as humans we need to let down our guard and relinquish the authority teacher student dichotomy. You want a kid to trust you, they need to know you. I know that an few hours eating Nando’s and running around in the dark is not enough for this kind of connection but it is a step in the right direction.

…

“Wow I didn’t know guitars could sound like that.” Kaia listening to the solo at the end of Seven Nation Army on the way to McRitche today. She has been obsessed with the song since she saw a middle school mad play it at Sound Asylum.


I was so proud of my girls for hiking the trail with zero complaints. Kaia even had blisters and she sucked it up. They were wet and muddy and hot and sweaty and all into the creeks and trails and having fun in the jungle.


Kids need so much more time in nature than we give them. Living in a city and following an intense structured international school system, our kids need dedicated consistent time running and playing in the mud. Free to get dirty and make mistakes and take risks.

…

I closed my eyes and thought of a memory:


I was living in Mission Beach with Jeff in a one bedroom place that housed his motorbike in the living room. I can’t recall how long we lived there or where I slept. Did I have a room? A bed? That detail feels unimportant. I do remember flooding the floor one night. Riding his bicycle to Caroline’s house for a keg- me on the handle bars screaming and waving away the people. I remember cockroaches and the darkness, but somehow seldom the ocean. Why did I not learn to surf in those days or ever swim in the wave? I worked at a series of shitty jobs and called you on the payphone from across the street because I was lonely and only your voice seemed to make it all go away.

Electrifying

It is 1984? 85? I am in fifth grade. I think.


Because I went to school in the Canal, the “poor” part of Marin County (one of the wealthiest counties in the US of A) I attended an after school daycare program led by the Canal Community Alliance. This program for kids like me, Trista, Etoyia and Diane allowed us to do all the cool things that the kids with money in the rest of the county did on a fairly regular basis.


The CCA took us to Santa Cruz for camping, kayaking in the bay, horseback riding out at Tennessee Valley Road and even once on a river rafting trip on the American River. Basically every single cool thing I did as a kid, I did because of the CCA. And the “they” I am referring to were three women who ran our small part of the larger center. Michelle, Cindy and Martha.


Looking back, I realise that much of my understanding of how to treat women must have come from these three amazing people. They were young(ish) I have no idea how old they might have been. They were dedicated and taught us so much. They were filled with joy and passion and really seemed to love us. I would love to get in touch with them, so if anyone on FB can wave some magic wand, that would be priceless.


This in particular memory is set in Michelle’s car, a blue Honda hatchback if my memory serves me well, and if not, let’s pretend this is fiction. We were winding through the hills in Berkeley headed to The Lawrence Hall of Science for some weekly outing.


The music was loud and the windows were down. I seem to remember sitting shotgun, and I have no idea who else was in the car, but I remember Michelle singing at the top of her lungs; her face projecting a magnificent smile. And me…tiny, shy, skinny me, singing along with her.


“I’m not a woman.
I’m not a man.
I’m something that you’ll never understand….
I’m not a human.
I am a dove.
I’m your conscious.
I am love.
I would die for you.
Baby if you want me to.”


I could not have known what all the words meant, but I remember the music put me on the edge of something that felt forbidden. There was a sensuality in it that as a child I found dangerous and enticing. As a parent, the idea of a sexual awakening in your child is terrifying, but as a ten year old it was electrifying.


1984 was an intense year in many ways. The details are fuzzy of whether my parents were on or off in their on-and-off again relationship, but I know that grade five was a big year for me. I grew up a lot that year. And listening to Prince in the car with Michelle had a lot to do with it. I’m not sure when I first saw Purple Rain, but I know I had also recently somehow watched Flashdance. Like A Virgin was released that same year. It was an stimulating introduction to adolescences that had come early for me.


For as long as I can remember it is that sensual electricity that made Prince, Prince.


Years later at 1576 parties, we would spend the nights bouncing our bodies around the living room, creating tamer versions of mosh pits- Pearl Jam and NIN fueled testosterone displays, but late in the night when we had tired from that nonsense, I would often play Little Red Corvette and Purple Rain as a way to, well, be another kind of man. And that is what Prince has always allowed me to be.


I may not be familiar with his entire catalogue, but the songs of his I do know where instrumental in making me who I am. And it is the ten year old me, who mourns his death with the heaviest heart. At the tender age of ten, when I needed it most, Prince taught me what it means to be human, and I have been confused and excited about it everyday since.

…

Spent some quality time with just Kaia and I today and it is crazy what a cool little person she has become. There is so much less parenting involved when we are not all together as a family of four.


We just chatted, had a slushy, rode the luge and walked the beaches of Sentosa, while waiting for Skye to wrap up a birthday party.

Have Some Water

This is how daddy doctor cures all ailments:

Hey daddy, I don’t feel too well. I have a bit of a headache and I think I am warm…Have some water and let’s see how you go.

My stomach hurts and I think i have diarrhea….You are dehydrated. Drink a bunch of water and we’ll check back in soon.

Daddy, I have a scratch on my arm and it really hurts…Let’s get some water and clean it first. Then have a glass of water to get you grounded.

I feel like I need to pee all the time, but when I go nothing comes out…That’s an easy one you need to drink two huge glasses of water for the next few hours.

I have a cold sore and my gums are sore…You need to gargle
some salt water for that.

I think there is something in my eye. It really hurts…Wash that out with some water.

I feel like I am about to throw up…Drink some water.

I feel car sick…Have a sip of this water.

…

I was helping Skylark brush her teeth this morning and started to think about how all these little shared moments are slowly slipping away. Kaia is very independent these days with her personal hygiene and there are very few things she needs me to help with.

But with Skye, we are still learning and so there we are brushing and talking and teaching. Sometimes it feels a bit like a chore: how much longer do I need to brush her damn teeth, but on mornings like today, when I stop and thinking about it, I realize that these moments are what her childhood is all about.

“Still not wobbly daddy.” She says disappointed but optimistic. She has been waiting for a tooth to come lose for a while now. I cannot wait for the day when her first tooth finally falls out. It might not seem like much to you and I, but I’m pretty sure the idea of losing her first tooth occupies a lot of time and space in her little mind. I want her to know it occupies a lot of space and time in my mind too.

…

Had to take a break tonight. Decided not to run and no working on the novel. Something has got to give. It is the week before my big trip to Kenya, and although it is all but ready, I still find myself worried about the smallest details.

It is nerve wracking to take other people’s children to Africa.

So today, after teaching three classes, and an English department meeting, I had a meeting with the kids and parents going on the tip to alleviate any stress and answer any questions. It went well. We have a good looking crew, but i didn't get home till after six, and by the time I ate, got the kids in bed, and had a second to decompress, I realized that it might be okay not to run or work on the novel tonight.

I have learned that goals are met when we do not give in and quit, but since I have been on a bit of a roll lately, I am also learning that you have got to give yourself some outs occasionally- tonight is my out.

Once this piece is done, I hope to read a bit, maybe watch Portlandia and crash early. Tomorrow is a big day; we are only a few sessions away from the publication of our first middle school literary magazine.

…

People are already starting to post articles about the “unelectablity” of Bernie Sanders, and how although she might not be the best candidate for progressive liberals, that Hillary is the best candidate we got. I don’t have the energy to get into why this thinking is dangerous, right now, but I will say that as of this moment I want to put out my official endorsement for Bernie Sanders. I have not voted for years, but I really hope he gets the nomination.

…

Observations:

• Water cures everything. 
• The little details in a child’s life should be important to the parent just as much as the child, because they are fleeting for both. 
• Sometimes even the most goal oriented people need a break. 
• Progressives are more afraid of republicans than they are passionate about their values. 

1. What’s your cure all? 
2. What’s your breaking point? 
3. Clinton or Sanders? Why? Go? (If you are GOP, write in your candidate and reasons too. I’ll humour you.) 

Too Much

Start here...hit play:

It's 1987, 88? I am in grade seven or eight. Alone in a room. A record crackles. I'm lost in its jacket-- contemplating madness. Seems so appealing. Exotic. A free exit if it ever gets to be too much.

It's my dad's record. It was, but it's mine now. I've absorbed it from him and all the baggage it carries. Not sure who I am singing it to, but it feels necessary....like a hobo in the snow. Who have I let down in so many ways? I glimpse a future. There's a mirror, some makeup, a smile, some emptiness.

My old heart is still a mess...

Are you gonna love the man, when the man gets home....