324/365

i hate the emptiness
and what it demands.
every night a bout with the
dim shadow begging to be
made corporeal. how many
words can there be to name
this infinite pedestrian panic?

a girl’s father is swept away in a flood
as she plays a styrofoam guitar.
nothing but rice to eat and a gentle
glimmer of sunset on the muddy monsoon
river. weaponising material poverty
like a mallet to instil gratitude.
without sacrifice, empathy is just guilt
dancing with shame.

i remember long afternoons
waiting out the rain, the smell of burning
plastic garbage damped. the sound of droplets
like machine gun fire on the zinc roof. how absurd
youthful optimism looks through the long lens
of aged realism.

i hate the emptiness
and what it demands.
but god damn it, if i don’t
extract something from it
every time.

310/365

it’s just light-
the pale red sun
makes the still
sea shine like
peach colored stone,
marbled with granite
grey ripples, gentle
lapping waves at the
bow of the dhow
heading north. the sail
taught with an invisible wind.
a lone dolphin dancing
in the wake. everyone
but a young man tending
the rudder are asleep.
there is no land to be seen.
last night a foggy dream:
we must be near tanzania
by now you think falling
back asleep. where did they
say we are going?

238/365

they didn’t come to the rescue
busy navel gazing
and wallowing in privilege,
distracted by ingratitude.
kens and karens.
you and me.

it no longer works
protested the denizens of the global south,
the people of color,
the global majority,
the colonised. the oppressed,
the ones with the passports that require
permission to travel. to escape.

sharing vapid anecdotes-
performative alley-ship,
white saviourism of adventures
in the bronx, africa-
saving the world.

it’s her,
he thought,
and he felt guilt.
tattered clothes
turned to uniforms,
wanting to help
to do right
to do good,
but self preservation will always
obstruct revolution when
we pretend to fight for others.

at dawn, the dreams are jumbled
with the burden of shame.

in a house by the sea,
twenty years ago,
sleeping to the sound of rain
on a corrugated zinc roof,
teaching under that tree,
so earnest and naive,
but there i go again,
shining the spotlight on me,

this work should have always been
an honest evolution.

158/365

somewhere off the coast
of inhambane,
passed the breakers
in the open ocean,
down about twenty meters
in the purple brocolli coral,
a brightly colored
nudibranch gently
munches on a sponge,
while a fleet of manta rays
hovers in the darkness above,
like they have for
millions of years.

i know because i saw them
there once and i can’t imagine
they have anywhere else to be.

150/365

you wanted this one to be
pretty and gentle,
and it’s those
kinds of memories
you were harvesting
as you scooped the litter box
and emptied the trash-
balls of feline urine,
tiny turds,
and soggy onions.

the carousel slide projector
of the past doesn’t work properly
without regular use:
the rotary tray
gets jammed,
the fan overheats,
the images fade.

that night in the ocean
in mozambique,
poached with alcohol,
phosphorescence in the waves,
a star smeared sky.
you were all there,
individual participants
erased with time,

that dawn on the bridge
in angel’s camp,
the stench of the campfire
clinging to your reckless hair,
every color of the sunup
palette in use,
a rope around your ankles
your heart in your throat.

that random tuesday morning
you slept in late
skipping class
to wake up to the rolling fog
devouring mount sutro
and parnassus
like a ravenous serpent
until it arrives at you
sitting in its gapping maw.

you wanted this one to be
pretty and gentle?
all it takes is the time and effort
to plug in the carousel
and blow the dust
from the slides.

Joy

Tonight, as I sit typing on this quiet Christmas Eve, waiting for the kids to fall asleep, so we can wrap the presents and put them under the tree, I want to write about joy.


Anyone reading my posts the last few weeks, may have noticed a lack of joyful posts. The reasons for my somber posts should have already been made clear, so tonight I will not dwell on the past, but focus on the present- this moment. Tonight. And the meaning of joy.


I want to write about how joy is sometimes the simple awareness of reality. I am not one prone to elation. I've had my moments, but my times of pure jubilation are not too common. I am not sure how others receive or spread joy. I am a quiet about it and seldom make a fuss. This reserved behavior might be mistaken for joylessness or worse a quiet despair, this is not, in fact, true


Let me tell you about today’s joy:


At lunch, Kaia was asking about the nativity story. Marin and I did our best to fill in the blanks. It was a hodge-podge retelling for sure and I felt the need to add some historic context about how the Romans had occupied Israel and a few details about the crucifixion that had Skyelar pretty freaked out, but Kaia seemed interested.


The conversation spilled over into our walk to the movies: We talked Genesis and the Bible; Kaia was a bit taken aback that according to Christians, only people who accept Jesus as their personal savior are allowed into heaven. We spoke about sin and Islam and the patriarchy. We spoke about Greek myths and the power of folklore and storytelling, we spoke of ancient people and how Science has revealed so many thing we didn’t know about in the past. We spoke of evolution and the big bang, of Persian culture, and the invasion of Muslims to Iran in the 1300s. We spoke of Farsi and traditions. We spoke a lot. She asked many questions and pondered in the silences.


“I just don’t understand why so many people think they are right, when they can’t all be right. Why not just try to accept the fact that we are all different? ” This brings me joy.


The AC in our car is broken. Today as we drove home in the rain, the inside of our car felt like a furnace. The windows were fogged up, we were sweating and a horn heavy Diana Krall X-mas carol had me wishing for death. We were tired and cranky, but as I sat there sweating my mind drifted to the many chappa rides I endured in Mozambique. I thought back to the hours and miles I collected suffering quietly in the name of adventure.


I thought about how soft I have become in my old age. Sitting in the comfort of my own car, with my family, complaining about the heat. This somersault of the past and the present brought me joy.


We watched the Griswald Christmas Vacation movie tonight and Mairin was a bit nervous that it would be inappropriate, and oh boy was it. The language. The weird sexual innuendoes. All of it was weird and fun and magical. Our kids are so sheltered sometimes that it was fun to discuss what it means to “shit bricks.”


We watched the movie. I had a glass of wine in my new red wine glass, no more plastic cups for me. We ate cookies and laughed and relaxed. This brings me joy.


Joy is not a state of ecstasy for me. Joy is being awake to my life as it passes by. Small photographs and memories. Tiny dreams come true. The realization that this is life. Everyday. Everything. It is all here to enjoy and devour and ponder and live through.


I hope that you are able to glimpse a few of these moments, and capture the fleeting flakes of joy as they fall around you.

Mess Of My Life

It was raining as we drove to school this morning and the sky was lit like a silver dream- various shades of whites and blacks and greys and tinges of burning light reflecting off the wet concrete, made me reminisce about other rainy days and nights:

Like that one Christmas Eve, way passed my bed time, driving down fourth street with my mom, looking for parking to do some last minute shopping at Macy’s. The windows streaked with rolling raindrops lit up like tiny globes filled with rainbows.

Or that Saturday when I was nineteen or twenty and still working at the Bank of America in Corte Madera, hair bleached blond, eyes droopy with late nights, and still they gave me my own desk to open accounts and manage people’s money. We were popping into work to pick up my paycheque and 10,000 Maniacs sprang from the CD player in my old trusty blue VW bug. The heater barely kept us warm, “A cold and a rainy day. Where on earth is the sun hid away? A cold and a rainy day I shiver, quiver, and try to wake.” Emily​ smiled at me as I ran back into the car trying unsuccessfully to avoid the rain. We were happy and in love. Things were working out for us. For me. I was so grateful that she was there with me, running such a mundane errand. We had no plans and nowhere to be. No one to be. That night we would drink with the gang and fall asleep in each others arms listening to music in the mess of my life. Years of distant infatuation and unrequited love and pining had resulted in late night showers, early morning kisses and rainy day Saturday errands.

I’m in my tiny house in Mozambique. Training ended weeks ago and it has been raining everyday since training ended. The roof is made of zinc and the rain sounds like a machine gun pelting bullets upon my head. The sound is so loud it cancels out the thin sound of Elliot Smith’s voice on my tiny tape deck. I am alone and brave and scared and full of adventure. A mattress, my thoughts and a guitar my only possessions of note. I pull a garbage bag over my head as I run to school; I didn’t pack rain gear for a two year stint in Africa- I arrive to my classroom which lacks doors or windows or desks, so the kids stand around a giant puddle in the center of the room and we stare at each other unsure of what we are meant to do. The rain turns the land into a series of rivers we must navigate back home to suffer our own nights in the darkness. Somewhere out there, there is a flood that will wash out bridges, towns and force women to have babies in trees. The food in town is running out and I’m excited, because this is what I signed up for.

…

I woke up this morning so tired that while I was making our bed in the darkness I felt so dizzy I almost fell over. I thought about calling in sick to rest and finish my reports, but knew it was easier to just suck it up and get through it. I thought about how my body has been through so much more when I was young. I wondered if I still had “it.”

I was reminded of the days in San Francisco- I was working at three restaurants- Pier 23, Rumpus and Kulleto’s. Combined I worked well over forty hours a week. I was taking twenty credits to get my BA in Creative Writing. Busy writing cliche stories and reading Nabokov and Mary Shelly. Most nights after work, I would join my crew for post work drinks at some bar in North Beach, draining our hard earned tips into pitchers and shots. I’d stumble home well after two am on most nights, ready and up for classes the next morning by nine or ten. After lunch, I would do whatever school work I had and be back at work at one of the restaurants by five. This was my schedule for nearly two years and I somehow survived till graduation.

In New York when I was in my late twenties, I was earning my master’s from Columbia taking twenty credits and working full time at a high needs school in The Bronx. I would wake up before six and take a train and two buses to work, over an hour away. I would teach my ass off in an environment that made me cry on most days. After taking the train back home through Harlem, I would take a nap then work on any assignments that were due that week. I would eat dinner and be in my classes on most night from six to ten. On nights I didn’t have classes I attended International Socialist Organisation meetings to discuss the relevance of Marxism in the 20th century. Nights were spent staying up late chatting with Ari​ about films, books, and life. Weekends at brunch with Mairin​, Risa​, Greg​ and Dara​ . Whle weekend nights we raged against the dying of the light in the various NYC bars.

So yeah, even at forty two I think I can interview for a new job, take kids to Kenya, teach all week and write eight million report card comments and run a 10KM race.

Like the B-Boys say:

Soul fire
Soul fire
And we ain't got no water
We don't got no water

Time for living time for giving
No time for making up a monster to sell
Time for living time for giving
No time for breakin' out a lie to sell

Changing Times

This is why I love the new social media:

Hi! i've been trying to keep in touch with my former english teacher in Quissico (mozambique) who has the same name as yours! But a former pcv in cumbana is back in moz visiting and he provided me with the second name! so i was just wondering if it is you!

I received this Facebook message from a former student in Mozambique. When I lived in this tiny town in 1999, we didn't even have a phone. We had to drive about two hours to call home, now someone is finding me online and on Facebook. I have written Justin back and I hope it will help me reconnect to the place that has had a very profound and powerful effect on my life.