July 26, 2010

Dancing barefoot in the mud, under bubbles and wish lanterns and a full, full moon, and the powerful sound waves vibrating through all of our tiny absorbent bones.

Free children on a summer night doing nothing but getting drunk off of each other and rum and lemonade and the air. The lights and the contagious energy and the bobbing heads in the crowd and the glow sticks and dirty dirty feet. 

Moments for having and for letting go. 

Yousry and I pulled over onto the side of the highway because it was raining so hard. We paused on the side and ate dried fruits and hallah bread. 

Then the sun came out and we were greeted by the greenest, most open hills and mist weaving in and out and up and around them. 

Skinny-dipping in Ithaca dams, connecting the dots of the Big Dipper and exhaling and inhaling to experiment how my body naturally buoys. 

Setting up a life at home that I pushed into momentum and get back to to continue friendships and projects that only just began. 

Watching the pink clouds with Katya, the clutch moment of drunkenly bringing out the papaya with our new tent neighbors Eric and Joe. They were great.

Getting to share so many moments with Yousry, sharing a burrito and soup and peanut butter jelly sandwiches and people watching with him. Playing with Maddie and Asher with him, making rain sticks and banging on pots and pans and empty water jugs. 

The way Yousry laughs.

The subtlety and sincerity with which he acts and moves and appreciates.

Pointing out the funny signs and license plates while getting stuck in traffic, the favorites: “FUN4GRLS,” and “Vehicles with Division 1 and Division 3 explosives, use Exit 11,” wondering where the man with the trailer with the horse in it was doing four hours after we drove past him,  talking about how to listen to music and deconstruct it, singing along to the Locomotion, silently taking in the open green mountains and the mist rising above them. 

Making it back to eat with my family, listening to Veggie Tales and trying the seafood pancake that Dad made and the chicken and spinach and pearl meatballs that mom made for us. The laughter was good, being back felt good.

Hearing Katya and Yousry’s muffled laughter through the floorboards. 

Grandma tripped on the gravel while going for her morning walk. She cut her lip and scraped her knees and elbow.

I helped her put bandaids on her elbows. It scares me how fragile the body becomes.

We had lunch today on the kitchen table, with steamed cabbage , homemade dumplings, and cut up tomatoes. We were both reading books, mine in English, hers in Japanese. We talked about them in Chinese.

That was pretty wild.  

July 17, 2010

Exploring the graffiti at 5 Pointz with Jamaal and my new friend, Colette. Fucking unbelievable tags.  That’s all I can really say. If you come to New York, I will take you. 

Waking up at 5AM in Ceci’s to a grey morning and a pang of panic in my chest. I couldn’t fall back asleep, I was too excited. Rooftops in East Village in the still of the morning. I thought about the Nuyorican the night before, about Ken Arkind and his ability to make my heart fly and drop several times in the span of forty seconds, about Mike and his words and my captivation, about the photographs on the wall, about Stacey and her stutter and the man who loved her because of it. I thought about all of them and wondered, as I do every time, how it is that people can twist my insides like that. With such a control of words, being able to say things I wish I could find the words and courage to say, things that I didn’t even know I wanted to say. 

The paper trail I leave behind. Ticket stubs, receipts for quesadillas and blueberry scones, empty metrocards, the signs of life. 

I heard my momma’s voice over the phone yesterday. She had a layover in Amsteradam. 

People watching in Grand Central, I saw Sam Jacobsen and called to him to come join me. I told him, it’s more dense, fast paced, and black around this time. There are more colors on the weekends, more people stopping to pose for pictures. We talked about the importance of history in the present. It wasn’t until this summer that I was interested in the lives of people and their actions and power dynamics between cultures to tell us how this happened, why that happened, and what all of it means. 

The city is a giant puzzle piece that I am only beginning to piece together. 

There are languages in cultures that don’t have words for ‘right’ or ‘left,’ but ‘north’,’south,’ ‘east,’ and ‘west.’ Directions are not relative to themselves, but to the magnets of the earth. To be that in tune with the earth’s pulls to always know which way is north. I walked out of the Bleeker St station and asked a man which way east was. The city is a giant puzzle piece that I am only beginning to piece together. 

I went to go watch this free documentary about female body-building in Tribeca by myself, mainly because I’ve never really gone to a theater to watch a movie by myself, and because I’ve never seen a documentary about female body-building. I went in thinking that it would probably take itself really seriously and that I’d be the outsider silently chuckling to myself, but it turned out to be really interesting. It was about how the sport of body-building is a double standard for women because they have to be muscular and have feminine sex appeal. So when Bev Francis showed up on the stage as one of the most muscular women in the world, but with a very masculine physique, officials of the sport freaked out and didn’t let her win because she was “threatening what it means to be a woman.” Even in this arena where women can finally truly challenge men physically, there is this still this limit and boundary on how far a woman can go, because she must still be sexually appealing. Crazy shit. 

Waking up next to Lynn yesterday morning made me really happy. You are like home, I told her. 

How many people remember 9/11 clearly. 

I remember that they shuttled us into Ms. Frascella’s room to tell us a bomb went off in New York City. Mom brought me home and didn’t want me to watch the news alone. Martha was there because her niece was in the Pentagon. She was too distraught to go home. 

It was a Tuesday.

The running trains, signs of life, of order. 

Tasting the platanos, sopa con frijoles verdes, arroz, y pollo de Colombia. Sharing this meal with the Eduardos. They explained to me how everything is cooked and what it means to Colombian culture. Talking about racism within the Latin American communities, and how education starts in the home, and not necessarily in schools.

The old man saw me struggling with my bag to find my wallet as the subway was pulling in. He gave me his extra card. He laughed, It’s a perfect day for positive karma.

What it was to eat with my entire family last night. “Welcome home, everybody.” It’s rare that we get to do that these days, with everybody. 

Full, full days. 

The contrast between the energy of his speech as a young revolutionary and as a sick, old man is pretty intense and remarkable. 

July 14, 2010

It’s a bit longer, but if you have a chance, I would strongly recommend listening to this. A bit of a reminder to be humble and really remember why it is that you believe in something. 

Two other thoughts that just crossed my mind. 

One, before I die, I want to be in Mexico during the Great Monarch Migration and experience one of the ceremonies, (if this is in fact true) held at the cemeteries, at which the people welcome back the monarchs and the spirit of the dead that the monarchs embody. At least once. 

Two. This has been an idea sort of milling around in my mind for the past few weeks, but I think I want to continue with the interview project and interview Eduardo and Enrique about what their experience in America, or in Queens, specifically, where there is such a meshing of culture and language and accents. And especially now that there is so much turmoil about illegal Mexican immigration and the Arizona laws. Eduardo has mentioned to me once about the ignorant stereotyping of some New Yorkers where every Latin American is a “dirty Mexican,” who should “go back to their country.” He told me, “I came here legally. I pay my taxes. My kids have the right to attend these schools.” 

Heran, if we could, I wish we could find that man that we talked to on the floor of Penn Station, the one we couldn’t fight about Latin American immigration because we quickly realized that we didn’t have any street credit to have legitimate views enough to fight back. But I think I need to start formulating my views about all of this immigration mess. 

My parents are immigrants. 

I am from a family of immigrants. 

I can’t just brush this one off and pretend I’m white. 

The video. Real legit. 

July 13, 2010

An old Indian man walked slowly into the store today. He stopped and looked at the cake displays for a little while and then smiled. He bought a tiny 2x4 heart shaped cake covered with milk chocolate and vanilla ice cream. It is enough for 1-3 people. I wondered who he was going to share it with. 

The Roots show in Prospect Park was like a giant 8,000 person dance party with incredible musicians with incredible energy and all these people who came to be together and listen to the music and take in the summer night air and pay too much for beer and ice cream. I ran into all these old friends and we pushed our way to the front to dance just as the Roots started covering Sweet Child of Mine. Hannah and I were mesmerized by dancing beautiful black women, a little too blatantly. 

I think I need to let go of the panicky need to have full days. I need to learn to let go of the hour or dollar badly spent, that didn’t necessarily result in anything of value or of meaning. Like when plans fall through and I rethink the round-trip train ticket or when I buy an expensive salad that wasn’t that good. 

I need to learn how to try my best and have my days, and then let them wash over at the end of the day. 

July 10, 2010

My momma and grandma have been away for two weeks. My dad and I have opposite work schedules, which means that he leaves before I get up and I come home after he has gone to sleep. There was an odd sense of loneliness that I couldn’t really shake from my body the first few days of the week. Coming home to a still, dark, and quiet house without anyone staying up to feel your presence or absence. But every night, I walked into the kitchen and found that my dad left me a plate of food he cooked that night and little notes that said “Mel, food for you!” The first night, I started crying then and there, feeling overwhelmed by his little gesture. We’ve been leaving each other notes and food, to take care of each other and show signs of life. 

I started sleeping at my sister’s. She got a new queen-sized bed and pretty sheets from IKEA. Waking up periodically through the night and having a breathing body next to me felt really safe. Midnight snacking on lobster ravioli and salads with candied walnuts and gorgonzola. I’m beginning to remember how beautiful and sacred it is, to have this life companion to grow alongside and be the archive for every stage of my life.

Hannah’s here in the city this week. It made me really happy to see her face in the park, to be able to hold her hands and see her smile and hear her words. Tasting gelato on my tongue on such a hot day. We tried to find the free show in Central Park, but stumbled upon a secret nook by the pond instead. It was hidden by tall, tall blades of grass and a dark path. We sat in awe, trying to comprehend how we could simultaneously hear the loud crowds and amps of the concert in the distance, as well as the chirping of crickets in the grass, how we could see tall corporate skyscrapers in its frantic and important reality and the still reflection in the water. We watched an old man in a gazebo across the pond, tossing in pieces of bread to feed the fish. 

Sharing dosas with good people on the Upper West side. Hannah and I both had never had one. They are like these crispy Indian pancake/crepes filled with goodness. Then we shared a peanut butter cookie. 

Getting off the 7 train is starting to feel less panicky. I’m starting to see the constants, the large white “MUDANZA” truck across the street, the woman scraping ice off a large block selling shaved ice out of her shopping cart, the Ecuadorian man that tries to give me fliers every time I pass by, the flower shop on the right, the empanada truck before the office. The receptionists are beginning to put my face to my name to my voice to my presence. They don’t ask me what I need anymore, and instead smile when I walk right through to Ale’s office. 

Trying to make casual, everyday interactions in Spanish the norm. Asking for the keys, trading food in the kitchen during lunch, setting up chairs, asking about people’s days, making jokes, introducing myself. It’s happening, slowly, (and sometimes quite embarrassingly,) but surely.

Waiting for Lynn outside of her large threatening corporate office in the Wall Street area. I haven’t seen her since March. I jumped her and made fun of her. Look who works in serious-land now. Sharing bread and pretzel twists on the floor by the big window in the bookstore. Babe, it’s real good to see you again. 

Pieces of toast with butter, honey, and cinnamon in Ceci’s apartment as the air conditioning cooled the sweat off of our sore bodies. There’s something about the brick walls and her easel and wood floors and the noise from St. Mark’s wafting in. Slipping in and out of sleep as she came back and fed me spoonfuls of the passion fruit icy she bought from the street. She sang me lullabies from her childhood.

Sitting across from a man reading a Chinese newspaper and realizing that I can’t really navigate around and through my parent’s most fluent language. 

Testing the way words feel in my mouth as they become concrete in sound waves. 

Little Eduardo and I ate pizzas during our lessons yesterday. They had a lot of cheese and mushrooms on them. The birds kept flying around. 

I connected the dots of the Big Dipper by the river last night after getting off the train. It looks real purdy up there still. I think it always will. 

Waking up on the Newmans’ couch this morning after a really really warm reunion of my high school boys. We all looked each other in the eyes, holy shit it’s been a year already. Cheers to us, boys. Cheers to us and to being here right now with each other. Look how much we’ve grown. Look how much we haven’t. 

Bred, Asian people BBQs. with Jeff and Evan. Enough said. 

Pushing Livy and BB on the swings today as they asked me if I remembered the time we baked cookies, played circus, braided my hair, read “Toad and Frog” before bedtime, played hide and seek. Of course, darlings. Of course. 

I’m excited to wake up in my own bed in the morning. 

Song for a Young Queen, by Chris Thile 

Avery brought a picnic basket.

to our picnic, the one where we had to migrate because parking security told us to. 

There were cherries, and brownies, and eggplants and lentils and a round of happy birthday. Hey Heran, I’m honored to have been able to usher in your twentieth year of life with you. 

Chris Thile and The Punch Brothers had so much life in their playing. I’ve never seen a band have so much fun on stage before, doing nothing but playing their little hearts out and inviting us in. 

The magic garden at nighttime, with the Christmas lights in the trees and the secret fountains. 

Splitting a bottle of wine with Heran on the rooftop as the moon rose higher and higher and we were graced with some shooting stars. 

I’ve never seen a shooting star from my roof in my life. 

July 2, 2010

This old warehouse is known as 5Pointz and is sort of a place of pilgrimage for graffiti artists in the city. I passed it on my first day to Elmhurst in the aboveground 7 line and was like, “holy shit, did anyone else just see that?!” It has become one of my favorite parts of the trek out to Queens every day, and is especially incredible when I catch the subway as the sun is setting. If anyone is ever in the city with me, I want to go explore it in its entirety. 

Ale asked me to bring some of the community members to the Rally against Domestic Violence at 103rd the other day. Crucita was introduced as “the most beautiful woman in Corona tonight,” and as she stepped up to the podium, I understood why. Her arms and face were completely mutilated by acid burns and sores from an ex-boyfriend’s actions, but she had so much fight and strength in her, and spoke with such a drive to want to empower other woman and men to use their voices and get help. What it is to be able to live and fight through that. That was certainly beauty in its purest form.  

Brooklyn rooftops at night, not needing much but the light from city line, good people, and a beer. My body woke me up this morning as the sun was yawning. I didn’t comprehend, but only saw, the early early blue orange morning in industrial Brooklyn through those sketchy makeshift window panes. 

Eduardo and little Eduardo took me through the neighborhood today and brought me five minutes away into an Asian community of supermarkets and noodle shops. It was something else, being in the epicenter of the meshing of Mexico, Colombia, Paraguay, Argentina, Ecuador, China, Japan, Vietnam, and Korea. 

Only in New York. 

Cooking salchicas y papas with Enrique and Germán last night before the committee meeting. I think I’m finally getting the hang of keeping up with their conversations and jokes in their rapid spanish. “Keeping up” might be an overstatement. More like, “barely treading and not drowning,” which is an improvement, certainly. 

Mama, Grandma, and my two aunts are heading off to France in a few hours to spend time together. I made them crêpes this morning with strawberry rhubarb jam and blueberries. I kept thinking to myself, good thing they’re eating this before they get too spoiled in France. 

June 30, 2010

“Artistiya” by Regina Carter. Known for her “contemporary interpretations of African melodies.” 

PS. If you have good speakers with a loud bass, when you play the mp3 file, TURN THEM UP!!! 

Regina Carter on violin, Will Holshouser on accordian, and Yacouba Sissoka on Kora, the most badass instrument ever (besides the didgeridoo, of course)

I just heard her on 88.3 FM while making a grilled eggplant, apple, almond, tomato, toasted sesame oil salad.

It was a very enjoyable hour.

I also heard Hannah Cressy’s voice. That made it better too.