Bring Your Cart

*a revision of an older piece*

She's taken to washing her hair in city sprinklers. Long strands of it, in public view. What's next? A fireman's hydrant? The next-door neighbor's dog's hydrant? Where'd she come from, pushing her cart along the streets. Life in a cart, how odd: but not-so-rare. I'll give you this dollar, she said, if you would go in and buy me some fries. They wouldn't let me in, she said, looking this way. Nevermind the look, I thought. Besides the sprinkler, when did you bathe last?

Downtown San Francisco, south of market, home to the homeless: the reality pitted against dreams. On the other side, the streets were filled with corporate creeps, sipping their lattes and espressos, catching buses to nowhere and somewhere--somewhere where economics grew. Mr. Suit and Mrs. Coat, radio-controlled. Speaking on static, frantic cellular phones. Nobody looks anyone in the eye anymore. Not me, especially. But then this woman, having a sprinkler walks up and does just that. With a dollar for some fries.

Back then, she said, we were artists. With our beat poetry and psychedelic trips. Have you been to blue? Where is blue, I asked. Blue is a state of mind, man. The home Dorothy talked about in Oz. But no ruby slippers clicking. Man, it's fingers snapping, tapping, raspy voices pontificating truths still existent but now somewhat dim. In blue candles drip their tears unlike your post-modern dripless candles that do not drip in shrines built to everything with plastic painted faces. Nowadays, even tears are manufactured from techno-sweat.

I looked around and began to see what she meant. Across the street the people metamorphosed into Mr. Suit and Mrs. Coat, 21st century lords. Blue sold out to multimedia guilches to manufacture uniform experiences: uniform non-conformist, individual experiences. Of instant gratification images. Monochrome colors and khaki weekends.

And then she interrupted. I really want those fries. That's right: fast-food fries for fast-track lives. Man, she said, can you stop long enough to put down your latte and step into my sprinkler bath? With a twinkle in her eye and a sneer on her lips. Refreshing. Have a show, go on exhibit: my life-in-a-cart IS performance art. Except nobody's going to look you in the eye. They're too busy watching screens and graphs on iBooks, listening to iPods and talking on iPhones. All the iWalls are up. No more moon-watching. Hurry, hurry, hurry bring your cart!

Too Darn Hot

She hit me with all that glorious hair and all. The audacity!

There we were, Jack and I, standing in line at the Roxie. Saturday night and the hustle-bustle of the Mission was palpable. It was an uncharacteristically warm night for San Francisco. The kind of Indian summer night that could've inspired Cole Porter's complaint that "I ain't up to my baby tonight/cause it's too darn hot". Neither were we up for anything much, so it was off to the movies and if we were lucky, two hours in air-conditioned darkness. Across the street, diners at the Picaro were sipping sangrias and picking hesitantly on plates of tapas like they were picking pricklies off a cactus. Too. Darn. Hot.

There we were, Jack and I, hot and bothered and nevertheless minding our own business as usual. Then BANG--"I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

"Who...wha--?" Smack into me. That hair. That hair in those jeans in this heat!

Jack, ever the protector, pulled me back instantly as we came face to face with this chick who looked like a throwback from the '80s. Hair like a tidal wave, cascading all the way down to her butt. Black turtleneck (in this heat?), shoulder pads, black jeans tucked into black boots (in this heat?). Looked to me like a Bangles wanna-be. Shocking as she was, the tsunami hit two seconds later: my brother. Right next to her. Sporting that lost-at-sea-without-an-anchor look, to belabor a metaphor.

"Oscar," I started. It was more a question, really.

He started with a stammer, then stuttered, then sputtered. Didn't think he'd manage anything, really. But when he finally did, he wouldn't stop. "Oli... ye-you remember Rebecca... ra-ran into her th-this afternoon... sh-she works for a client of ours... th-thought we could go grab dinner... we're working late on this project, you see... a project for their company and then it was seven and we hadn't eaten... all day... so busy... just a quick bite... here in the Mission... there... at Picaro... don't you remember... we went to school together... high school... basketball team... just grab a bite to eat... there at Picaro... heard they had good tapas... just a quick bite...."

Oscar babbled on and on like the damned on judgment day. And as we stepped up to purchase our tickets, all I kept thinking was: all that hair!

And poor Janine.

Home alone, having to wear that wig.

Too. Darn. Hot.

Six-Word Memoir

Check it out: Six Words

and feel free to share yours

Polvoron

I remember Sunday morning drives,
counting bridges on the way to that church.
We strolled through the market
and got sick on
polvoron and pastillas.
In the distance, the sorbitero was ringing his bell.


polvoron: candies made from powdered milk
pastillas: sweets
sorbitero: ice cream man

The Quill

Like a blunted, scraggly quill,
my soul inks its dreams along volumes
of shoulda- coulda- and woulda beens.
Dreaming is a trick of night,
as though the possibility does indeed exist
of bigger and better things.
Mornings, for what they're worth,
are brighter and brighter still.
Another day, another chance--
like a gambler sick with game.

Negotiations

"Five more minutes," whispers the little voice in the morning. Sleepily, I accept and hit snooze. And all too quickly, I am alarmed once again. "C'mon... you can work out in the evening instead," the voice urges on, "another five minutes."

"I really should get up."

"Well, you can still work out and take the later bus, you'll feel better if you gave yourself another five minutes."

Snooze-buzz. buZZ. bUZZ. BUZZ.

"That's it, there's no more time to work out. You can afford another five minutes of sleep, and then catch the bus."

SNOOZE-buzz. buzz. buzz. buzz. buzz.

"Well, you did kind of resign yourself to that later bus already. May as well get another five minutes of shut-eye..."

Why do I never have a proper comeback for that little voice?

Picture Perfect

She enters the room with her head held high, every little strand of hair in place. Her 2-inch heels are polished, and so are her legs, by the way. Chin jutting out and shoulders back, the way they probably taught her back in finishing school (back when she was just a project). The veritable Eliza Doolittle transformed into a duchess. Color-coordinated, monochrome, and matching scent to boot! (If you can imagine that!) Yet as she walked past me, on her way out the door, I did finally see a little rip. At the very bottom of her hem.

Near

Never before have my
nerves tingled the way they
now do. Inching closer,
nearer and nearer. Roused
now--abandoned pleasure.
Needing. Reaching. Coming.
No more space between us.

By The Book

There was indeed the Word, in that Book. And it was good. And then there was you, without an independent thought. How simple it must be, to have this book. To live by, sleep by, swear by, and die by. Nothing less. And nothing more--to discover, to believe, to question, to discuss.

Nothing more to argue. So that when people are hung upside down in the name of that Word in that Book. That is still good. And when people are gassed in the name of that Word in that Book. Likewise, good. Even when people fall victim to hideous epidemics... well, you say, they dare to not live by that Word in that Book. And that is why.

Simple.

So what happens when you are on the other side? What happens when you are the one tortured in the name of a word in some other book? When you are the one plagued with illness? Will you still look to your book for a prescription? Or will you be able, at some point, to improvise of your own accord?

Still simple?

The Morning Rush

The barely-awake-yet-rushing irony of morning and breakfast-on-the-go. Of coffee, of news, of will-I-make-it-on-time. For the bus, the train; the meeting, the class, the test. For the presentation, the gossip, the water cooler bets. The slowly-picking rhythm of day. While not-so-perfect strangers file alongside you. In cars, streets, lobbies, elevators. Going the same direction; ending in separate ways. We start with good-mornings and end with have-a-nice-days.

Slow

Slow is a turtle making its way across the sand to bury its eggs. It is the length of time as the tides shift from high to low and back again. It is the scorching sun, melting the ice cream cones of children playing on the beach. It is a grandmother watching the kids and remembering her own youth. It is a mother cursing traffic as she heads back home from work. And a father trapped in a meeting, looking forward to the weekend. And a girl wondering if he will call. And a sixteen-year-old buying his first car. Slow is the first two minutes after waking and the last ten seconds of a long journey. And the entire day of your big night. It is the faint ticking of the clock when you'd rather be doing something else. It is the crest of anticipation. And waiting. That is always slow.

Go Figure

My brother has a talent for figuring things out. Not a skill, mind you. A talent.

When we were kids in Manila, we always heard about how the Japanese would give their children transistor radios and have them break it apart and put it together again. The rationale was that if they could put the radio back in working order, they'd have the ability to build a better radio. This was in the 70's, of course. The dawn of Sony and Toyota. Well, my brother was not a Japanese child but he did just that. He tinkered. With everything. So much so, that now he seems to have some magical-miraculous ability about him that can figure anything out. Sometimes, I would even swear that he can fix anything just by looking at it. Case in point: the CD player in my car had been broken for maybe about six months. Lazy me, I never got around to having it fixed. And then my brother came for a visit. In the car, he picked up the faceplate of that said CD player, and with his bare hands (no joke!), tweaked and twakked. Voila! It worked like new!

So it happened that one day, my sister's toddler got locked in their bullet-proof SUV. With the keys! I guess it was one of those ultra-safety, kidnap-proof type of setups. At any rate, nobody was able to break into that car. My sister, in tears, did not know what to do. The cops were called, nothing; the marines were called, nothing; the MP's (military police) were called, nothing. Finally, they called the prison to send over the Philippines' "number one" felon known for his skill at picking locks, still nothing. Finally, my brother came. Two minutes flat and my niece was back in her mama's arms! How's that for talent?

If you ask him how he does it, I don't think he could give you an answer. It's not a magic trick or shortcut he learned from any book. It's a talent he was born with, this inclination to tinker and ability to figure things out. Maybe one day someone should try and figure him out.

The 4:45

We share this ride each evening, on the way from work. The bus smells of sweat and weary cologne and melted makeup. Of coffee-break coffee and sometimes cigarettes. People sit and stare without seeing. Dozing off, tuning out, and spacing. Minding personal spaces, wishing that last empty seat beside them will remain that way. It never does. But there's always the iPod, or the iPhone, or the iBook. Keeping those iWalls up.

Proper Etiquette for Being Stood Up

So this is what happened:

Marie my roommate set us up. Said she had a friend that wanted to meet me. Me? Said he told her he saw me with her... you remember? At the 4th of July barbecue. Supposebly, he kept asking about me. Practically insisting we get introduced.

Nah, I wasn't up for it.

You're right. Okay, okay. So I was holding out for Juan. Point is, I don't go for blind dates. So anyway, a month later, I finally agree. What-the-hell, right? It's a free meal.

Marie sets it up and everything. He was supposed to pick me up three hours ago!

Ha? Interesting you say that. She never gave me his number. No. Said he was going to know who I am and that he said to tell me to look for the guy in a blue shirt and glasses. Meanwhile, I stood in front of the ferry building, looking at every guy in a blue shirt and glasses. "Are you Sixto?" "Sixto Romero?" "S'cuse me... Sixto?" I can't count how many guys anymore.

Of course I tried calling Marie. Called her cell, home, even work--nothing! I could KILL her.

Who knows??? Gads, this is so not me. What should I do? Next ferry isn't till 4 and it's only 1, so I'm taking the bus home.

And then I'll start looking for another roommate.

Nuptials

Patiently leaning side-by-side; the bar officiates. Leaning out and leaning in, he is more sure-footed today.

What sort of detours will they take through city streets and back. What sort of lovers will they make, when one starts falling back?

Wedded is not always bliss--ask me, I know! Along with it comes blame. But never mind the callousness, or cruelty; just mind that life's a game.

The ride is an adventure, no matter what you say--but thoughts like these are not for now; they're for another day.

Morning Coffee

The space between the first chime of the alarm and first cup of coffee is occupied by several attempts at snoozing and finally, a haze dense as the proverbial San Francisco fog. Thick and heavy, my thoughts still swirling in murky dreams.

It is a scene from the Night of The Living Dead. One foot on the floor, then the other, stiff as boards and creaky. Left-then-right-then-left-then-right. Crick-then-crack. Out of bed and into the shower.

Weekday mornings are tortuous rituals. Waking up with somewhere to go. It is not--never!--Christmas morning even on Christmas. Somewhere in the space of childhood and long-forgotten school days, I grew up. It was insidious, this growing up business. But there is work and a job and all that messy stuff our parents warned us about. Payback.

So once the shower's over, and the joints loosen up a bit, I make my coffee. At first sip, I am Sisyphus again, ready to roll that rock.

Stuttering

My brother was born with six fingers. An extra pinky, to be exact. On his right hand. It would be eight more years before I met him and two years after, the finger was removed. In the meantime though, he stuttered. By all accounts he stuttered when he wet himself. "T-t-t-eacher, m-m-ma-may I g-g-go t-t-to the b-ba-ba..." then the hissing sound... all the way down his pants. And all the children laughed. As if that wasn't bad enough, he took the wrong bus home from school. And stuttered through explaining: "hu-huh-huh-Hershey La-la-lane. Nu-nu-nu-number se-seven." The bus driver wasn't too kind. Nor patient.

Imagine the damage, on someone who was discounted to begin with. And everyone--everyone--reacted the same way. The mi-minute he stuttered, their faces brightened, a light came on. "A-ha!" expressions quickly compartmentalized my brother as such, as though, so special. An item in a closeout sale. A bluelight special. Treating him like a bargain, no need to spend too much. They spoke to him in high-pitched voices and simple words; as if it was not his speech but mind that sputtered. And worst of all, they-of-the-high-pitched-voices made it worse, by finishing his struggling sentences. Yeah, that sure made it better!

There was the added issue of that extra digit, sticking off of his right hand. What sort of shot did he have at life, when life was cruel from the beginning? Adults in high pitched voices, and children quick to mock. My mom, in all her wisdom, then decided enough was enough. Amazingly, from what they say, the minute his finger was removed, the stuttering went away.

Rich's Story

--You know how in this country, say at a bar or party, people would come up to you and ask, "what do you do?" I always said, "I kill things." "Need anything killed?" And then they'd kinda just look at me and walk away. Before you get too excited, let me tell ya, I was an exterminator. Seriously. One of my biggest clients was the zoo and their biggest problem?--not fleas, not spiders. Those were nothing. NOTHING, I tell ya. Nothing compared to the rats. What's worse was we weren't allowed to use any poison. None of that shit. Well, you know, with all the animals there. It was the zoo, of course. But I had my ways...
--Glue traps? I asked.
--Oh no, no. That is just inhumane! I-N-humane! Have you ever seen a rat without any forelegs? Mother-fucking things have been known to chew off their paws or even legs trying to free themselves from those nasty things. Wouldn't do that.
--Eeeewwww!
--Ya. If you ever had to deal with a stuck rat, just step on it. Step on it. Best thing you could do. There was this one time, and nobody knows this, I sneaked into the elephant barn at the zoo. I was up in the attic with my pellet gun--have you been inside one of those? Effing huge. HUGE! This big stinky barn. I watched and waited for the li'l critters. I just sat there in the dark and waited. Prob'ly knocked off about thirty or forty of 'em rodents. Didn't matter anyway. They just keep coming back. Well, you know, rats.
He shrugged his shoulders.

Stop

Responsibility is a spider spinning its web around your once-free spirit. It traps your soul, your talents, your knicks and knacks in lovely silk. That way, you don't mind so much. Before you know it, you're middle-aged. Living in the dark with nothing fresh. For twenty years or so. The spider spins a pattern; insidious at best: work-bills-kids-alarm-clocks- food-on-the-table-roof-over- your-head- cleaning-up-keeping-up- picking-up-and- dropping-off kind of cobwebs. Under your skin. Then one day someone close to you says, "Stop!" When you didn't even realize the way you're going. In circles. All the way down. "Stop." It's time to dust those cobwebs off.

Spin Cycle

I don't know how to have a conversation. On current events or stuff of serious matters. Recently, it seemed that history got a jolt. Russia invaded Georgia. Then broke a promised truce or other form of good intention. That paved the way to hell.

And then the world went right on spinning.

Months before Putin's plan was set in motion, Zimbabwe had an election. Or two. Fair or not, it didn't matter. Mugabe turned the tables 'round. Tsvangirai was sent a-packing. As Mbeki tried to work things out: "Bobby, you be president and Mo, the prime minister is you." An absurd dynamic duo. Bobby and Mo. What's even more, Mbeki, you dreamer, you're trying to fix a country where a loaf of bread costs Z$120. And that was before Zimbabwe broke the record for inflation. 11200000 today.

The world's spinning along, tumbling.

Then China hosts the big event. Fireworks and drummers--what's this??? Let the games begin at the beginning. Michael Phelps had staked his claim in water and earned the Speedo crown. Bolt bolted to the finish line, and never mind that Leryn Franco couldn't throw. Boy, did she put on a show! Bravo to you and all Olympians. Eyes held firmly on the gold. Stop looking for the freedom, sorely lacking in Tibet! And by the way, those gymnasts... they aren't sixteen, I bet.

The world keeps on spinning. As it must and as it may.

And what is up with these elections? One too young and one too old. One is black (or almost there), and the other so white? (he's gray!) And pundits sit and bandy like vultures to the prey. A feast like this they haven't had. Delectable, enticing--tasty bits of morsels. Of polls, and gaffes all day.

How could I have this conversation. Of matters extra-large. When not too long ago the same things happened. Ask Poland, Cuba, Vietnam, Japan.

And the world just keeps on spinning. Agitating in the wash.

The Path of a Runway

Tokyo...Paris...Milan...New York...L.A...come one, come all...new this season...just off the line...for your viewing pleasure...the body-image pressure...the latest models...updated features...pouty lips are all the rage...give those eye brows another pluck...shorter skirts make longer legs...big hair's gone passe...thin is always in...and attitude is the new black...no need to think of the future...look good now...feel good NOW...have a drink instead of a think...no need to digest--there's the sink!...it's the catwalk, baby...

Such Joy Only Comes From Wandering

do not tell me of your neatly plotted life. your day-to-day existence. a line on a graph: point A to B. exciting? your arrogance confined-confounded; your life consecrated to a clock--the less forgiving god. food's always on the table and price-tagged wares consumed. and somewhere down the line you've forgotten that life is meant for living. where is the life in living when your nights drone on and on? to start all over again next morning like wind-up automatons. and me? i'm not wrapped up and tidy. my life's a present that always is. no bills to pay and no collectors come collecting. i sleep and dance and love and play and mess and laugh and shit. wherever. whenever. and long ago i have chosen. to take my chances back.

Cigarettes

I smoked a cigarette the other day. Each puff, a memory.

The first long inhale and I'm back 25 years. At age 15, hiding in the closet. Me, my friend France, and a pack of mom's Salem menthols. That first guilty puff. Madonna crooning in the background... "borderline ... feels like I'm going to lose my mind." And so we did. We were, after all, 15 and knew everything. In the States on vacation, I gave up the Salems and bought into Virginia Slims' 'you've come a long way baby'. We discovered boys that summer. And their cars. Specifically, Steve Smith. And car. Drag races at midnight along Ortigas Avenue, bar hopping in Makati (or Greenhills)--the days of Jalisco and Tia Maria. Zombies (the drink, not the boys), the rain, shoulder pads and tired old cliches that were still new to us. Smoking cigarettes--among other things--listening to Hall & Oates blaring, "(Oh-oh, here she comes) She's a man eater/I wouldn't if I were you/I know what she can do/She's deadly man, she could really rip your world apart"; or the Culture Club pontificating: "Karma karma karma karma karma chameleon/You come and go/You come and go". Then life and John Hughes happened. The Breakfast Club. I ended up in detention with Toby for sneaking into the ladies' room. To sneak a stick of Winstons. But that was before Dodgie got kicked out for pot. "Don't you (forget about me)". And long before I started following Mark Roberts around like the lovesick-starstruck schoolgirl that I was. Writing silly poetry. Until the bull came to school and followed Ms. Austen around like a--well--a lovesick-starstruck schoolgirl. Ms. Austen wore red a lot. She also smoked a lot. So did Mr. Mattox, come to think of it. He chain-smoked all the way to China, so didn't mind too much when I chain-smoked right next to him on the flight. New Year's Eve in China is dead. They celebrate it on a different date, of all the silly notions!!! And oooh--that China trip!--Angela got on my nerves with the whining. I smoked through my carton of Marlboros. That voice grated on me! Meanwhile, the Bangles were playing, "Ay oh whey oh, ay oh whey oh/Walk like an Egyptian". Which we all did of course. That is, until Madonna reinvented herself for the first time--Who's That Girl. And we all looked in the mirror and wondered the same about ourselves. "Quien es esa niña"?

Sigh. Why did I stop smoking?

The Frida Kahlo Exhibit at the SF MoMA

Or, "This is No Life Sorry"

Look at me! I said, look at me!

I am choked by thorns and butterflies dance in my hair. Do you see me now? Yes, here I am smoking a cigarette, contemplating life. Yes, she too is me: lying in bed, contemplating the death of the unborn. Contemplating. What is left of my womanhood? Here I am on the border--the great divide of what was and what will be. I am. At. The. Center.

I am of what is broken and whole. I am of rage and remorse. Do you fear me? Can you know the pain I've suffered? Of being bound in steel. Of having lived/loved/lost. Of comprehension. Of the bereft. Beyond the pretense of care? Of life that was and life that cannot be. Of pain that lives. In. Color. I am. At. The. Center.

Life is a dish simmered/stewed/stirred--salted, sweetened, soured, bittered--spiced for flavor and your dining pleasure. And like a glutton, Time sinks its prodigious teeth. And feeds, and feeds. Nipping. Here. There. Nipping. And at the center. Is. Me.

Always. The. Center. Looking at you.

Bananas

The haphazard fruit arrangement. A still-life gone berserk. Pears and apples vying for some sort of attention as if there wasn't enough space for them in a canvas. But it's not about the pears, nor the apples.

Bananas. It's all about the bananas--really. Well, actually, it's about that one banana. Yes, the lone one: unattached. Was it once a part of the bunch? Did some precocious child break it off from the rest and then decide otherwise? Or is it pretending, instead, to be part of the bunch? Ever the outsider, desperate to fit in?