Feels like ages since I had the opportunity to sit down and write. Must say it did affect my mood some because I couldn't. Am I addicted? Or do I just need to vent whatever eats away inside? Caro and Granna had an argument the other day about Morris. Morris is our father. His real name is Maurizio, but somehow Morris sounded better when he was young and eager to conquer the world. It's what he once told us, some time before their divorce and when we all seemed like a happy little family. Anyway, Granna heard something she wanted to share with us, his daughters. She felt we were entitled to know. And we would probably learn about it sooner or later in a letter or so.
Morris and his family are planning on leaving Delaware to return to the West Coast. Apparently he found a new job and needed the challenge. His wife liked the idea as well and they somehow must have agreed it would be best for their kids to grow up in a more sophisticated area of the world than in some lame village in Delaware. Oh. I didn't know what to say at first. Especially when Granna said he wanted to be closer to us, for as long as that lasts since Caro will be off to New York next year. Yes. Dad is moving to OUR town and within the next 2 months. Come again?
Caro was at Granna's for a change, had a fall-out with her precious little coven of hysterical friends. So Granna decided to tell us after dinner and expected us to be happy. I don't really feel anything in particular but some curiosity, Caro however really really really flipped out. Which is weird, since she is the one who misses Morris the most and kind of like mom, resents him for leaving us. Maybe that's what made her throw a fit. Mixed emotions. Am I glad I don't do any of that.
Then Caro kind of took her frustration out on Granna. Who is one fine lady if you ask me. And smart. The more I spend time in her company and presence, the more I realise she isn't just a loving mother and grandmother who once had a flourishing career as an actress. She really has personality, not exactly something you'd expect of a person who enjoys being somebody else all the time. Granna rocks! She didn't mind for Caro to be her obnoxious little self and even encouraged her to speak her mind. Although they heavily disagreed.
Caro felt we had to tell mom. And not wait for some letter to arrive to drop the news. Granna insisted we should keep quiet about it and let Morris and Sally (that's our mom) deal with it their own way. Granna said Morris would contact mom himself. Oh. I don't think I want to witness when that happens!
So, I had some time to think about all of this. And I think it can really be fun to finally meet our little brothers and sister. Have I already told you that dad's new wife is black? And that their kids must look the cutest? I sometimes wondered about them, you know. Yes. The idea of meeting them now somewhat excites me. To some degree.
Wednesday 23 September 2009
Friday 11 September 2009
Tainted Love Poem
Facebook is kind a cool. I joined a few groups, mostly about writing or writers. And poetry. Now I have never really been into poetry a lot, although I do remember that when we lived in San Francisco, my mom's friends had lots of people over for artsy stuff. Ira and Leonora Kelman, their names suddenly came back to me. Been thinking about it for days now. Ira and Leonora were artists themselves, and rich too. Leonora's family left her a huge inheritance and she could easily have spent the rest of her life doing nothing but waste that money away. Instead she decided to help aspiring artists and friends, like my mom, to find their way in life. Which is admirable, if you come to think of it. But they're still flaky in my book. I don't know. You have to be crazy to some extent, right? I mean, why take in a single mom and her two kids? And why have all those young artists over every weekend? There was always something going on. Exhibitions in the garden, poetry and literature on Sundays, recitals in the evening hours and not to forgot those ouija board sessions. Because we moved into the basement, they continued their ghostly stuff in the garden chalet.
Anyway, I do remember some of the poetry people. One of them was a nice and elderly lady, Imogen Bradfield Baker. Not like the rest of them, who were mostly in their early twenties and obsessed with the idea that having reached the millennium would mean magic to their artistic careers.
Imogen Bradfield Baker had lived an interesting life back home in England and managed to escape an unhappy marriage by poisoning her husband. He was a ruthless man so she told me. Nobody really cared much for his death. The local authorities in the village where Imogen and her husband lived, never cared to investigate the rather strange circumstances surrounding his demise. The whole village benefited from it, and Imogen became their first and only heroine. Her husband owned a lot of the land and houses. Imogen just gave it all to the villagers who were indescribably thrilled, of course. So no way would they do anything to incriminate her. Not even when Scotland Yard came to ask some questions, since Imogen's husband did have some friends due to his membership as a freemason. But that inquiry never amounted to much, if anything.
It's Imogen's story I had in mind when attempting this poem for a group in Facebook. The Tainted Love Poem group, founded by a poet in Canada, Ken Chichester. It's amazing how all of a sudden you get introduced to people who exist in other places, who share their minds and lives from behind their computers. Maybe I am warming up to all of this after all. And as you probably understood by now, I changed my mind some about poets and poetry. Back then in San Francisco, what did I know, right? I was just a little kid.
The photograph
She tried so hard
To touch his face
But glass and dust
Seemed keen to erase
Her sighs of love
Her sighs of nurture
Kept cruel and wicked
From melting as one
He sat there looking smart
In an armchair warm and comfy
His eyes glazed in a void
While she attempted more
And more and more
No less
The love she once gave
But never returned
She gives and gives
And gives
No less
The glass was cold
The dust remorseful
Crumbling under cloth and water
Drops of hope
The glass shone brightly
Reflecting her eyes paired with his
As close as she'll ever get
So long
A warm kiss
Anyway, I do remember some of the poetry people. One of them was a nice and elderly lady, Imogen Bradfield Baker. Not like the rest of them, who were mostly in their early twenties and obsessed with the idea that having reached the millennium would mean magic to their artistic careers.
Imogen Bradfield Baker had lived an interesting life back home in England and managed to escape an unhappy marriage by poisoning her husband. He was a ruthless man so she told me. Nobody really cared much for his death. The local authorities in the village where Imogen and her husband lived, never cared to investigate the rather strange circumstances surrounding his demise. The whole village benefited from it, and Imogen became their first and only heroine. Her husband owned a lot of the land and houses. Imogen just gave it all to the villagers who were indescribably thrilled, of course. So no way would they do anything to incriminate her. Not even when Scotland Yard came to ask some questions, since Imogen's husband did have some friends due to his membership as a freemason. But that inquiry never amounted to much, if anything.
It's Imogen's story I had in mind when attempting this poem for a group in Facebook. The Tainted Love Poem group, founded by a poet in Canada, Ken Chichester. It's amazing how all of a sudden you get introduced to people who exist in other places, who share their minds and lives from behind their computers. Maybe I am warming up to all of this after all. And as you probably understood by now, I changed my mind some about poets and poetry. Back then in San Francisco, what did I know, right? I was just a little kid.
The photograph
She tried so hard
To touch his face
But glass and dust
Seemed keen to erase
Her sighs of love
Her sighs of nurture
Kept cruel and wicked
From melting as one
He sat there looking smart
In an armchair warm and comfy
His eyes glazed in a void
While she attempted more
And more and more
No less
The love she once gave
But never returned
She gives and gives
And gives
No less
The glass was cold
The dust remorseful
Crumbling under cloth and water
Drops of hope
The glass shone brightly
Reflecting her eyes paired with his
As close as she'll ever get
So long
A warm kiss
Thursday 10 September 2009
Candlenut dinner
Granna can be a wicked old lady. She's been pushing me, or rather daring me to join Twitter as well. Must admit that me joining up in Facebook was also her idea. Granna is addicted to gossip, preferably thrown up in smelly digital gutters to satisfy the thirst of million other junkies like her. She follows Perez Hilton for crying out loud! Caro and her friends used to read his blog when they were younger, but it kind of lost its appeal when they realised it didn't make you look good if it was on your resume. Granna doesn't care about all that and laughs whenever I try to talk sense into her. She says it's all very funny and innocent and that Perez Hilton is a caricature reminding her of a guy she once dated when she was an actress, young and beautiful and in the prime of her life. "Yes, but Perez is gay," I then told her, expecting some other lame excuse to validate her peculiar taste for spending time online. Granna then replied that her friend was gay as well, but that she used to dress up like a man and he got a kick out of that. It's moments like these when I really wonder about the woman who has been watching out for us ever since we moved into the neighbourhood. Her living room is filled with photographs of her children and grandchildren, her late husband sits distinguished in a beautiful painting done by an artist friend. Nothing in her house makes me think of her as someone other than a loving and giving person who cooks fabulous meals and who shares sweet stories of her blessed childhood.
Caro called. She'll join us some time later. Granna prepared a special dinner today. We're celebrating. It's the 5th anniversary of us moving in next to her. She says she knew we'd all be friends and had a strong notion about me. Whenever Granna decides to focus her attention on me, it makes me feel weird. I have never told her about my thoughts and how I know deep inside I have lived before, even though I can't remember where and when, and who I was. But she seems to know something too she is not sharing. Yet. Every now and then she asks me a question, out of the blue. I am not sure whether she expects me to respond, or if I am to just sit there without being able to give an answer. Because I can't. Give answers.
Like if I knew why it wasn't Jesus they worshipped in San Cristobal, but his cousin John the Baptist instead. Or what wine they served at some party in the White House 80 years ago. Say what?
No. Never had anything with candlenuts in it before. The smell coming from the kitchen reminded me I was hungry. Granna made a dish she learned to cook when she lived in Hawaii. She says the candlenut carries its name because in the olden days, it was used to burn and set afire to give light. In Hawaii they named it 'Kukui'. Strange idea. To eat something that was also used as a torch of some kind? I closed my eyes and something weird happened. I saw flashes. Faces of people I didn't know, sounds and languages I couldn't understand. But I knew the smell of the candlenuts triggered this.
So finally a few pieces of the puzzle were handed to me. Albeit as illusive as ever. Not remembering facts, but remembering a memory of something. Knowing there are memories hidden inside, almost aching to come out.
Still, I'm happy with what I got.
Caro called. She'll join us some time later. Granna prepared a special dinner today. We're celebrating. It's the 5th anniversary of us moving in next to her. She says she knew we'd all be friends and had a strong notion about me. Whenever Granna decides to focus her attention on me, it makes me feel weird. I have never told her about my thoughts and how I know deep inside I have lived before, even though I can't remember where and when, and who I was. But she seems to know something too she is not sharing. Yet. Every now and then she asks me a question, out of the blue. I am not sure whether she expects me to respond, or if I am to just sit there without being able to give an answer. Because I can't. Give answers.
Like if I knew why it wasn't Jesus they worshipped in San Cristobal, but his cousin John the Baptist instead. Or what wine they served at some party in the White House 80 years ago. Say what?
No. Never had anything with candlenuts in it before. The smell coming from the kitchen reminded me I was hungry. Granna made a dish she learned to cook when she lived in Hawaii. She says the candlenut carries its name because in the olden days, it was used to burn and set afire to give light. In Hawaii they named it 'Kukui'. Strange idea. To eat something that was also used as a torch of some kind? I closed my eyes and something weird happened. I saw flashes. Faces of people I didn't know, sounds and languages I couldn't understand. But I knew the smell of the candlenuts triggered this.
So finally a few pieces of the puzzle were handed to me. Albeit as illusive as ever. Not remembering facts, but remembering a memory of something. Knowing there are memories hidden inside, almost aching to come out.
Still, I'm happy with what I got.
Saturday 5 September 2009
Secrets (1)
Tommy gave me two keys last year. A blue-tagged key from a deposit box in the city. A golden key that fits the front door of a house somewhere in Florida. He was in one of his strange moods and not very talkative. I loved watching him as he sat on the porch, smoking a cigarette. His eyes always seemed to look beyond the horizon, as if he had places to go. Often I'd expect him to jump up and disappear just like that. But he never did.
It was on an evening when mom was home and life seemed tranquil. My sister Caro had a boyfriend with whom she spent hours chatting and Granna was visiting her grandchildren in Santa Barbara. Mom was tired and listening to music. I can tell in what emotional state she is in depending on the music she plays. This time it was an old record from the Rolling Stones. It has this song on it, 100 Years Ago? I don't know. As if she insists on hurting herself. My dad gave her that album when they just met and they told us that story over and over again, of how they first kissed on '100 Years Ago.' I think my mom still loves my dad. That's why it never worked for her and Tommy. Anyway, I could tell she needed some time alone, so when I said I'd be at Tommy's, she just nodded and blew me a handkiss with a sheepish smile. Sometimes I really wonder who's the parent and who's the child!
We had some sort of instant understanding, Tommy and me, from the moment I met him, when I handed him the keys he'd dropped and when he thanked me for it. There was something that made me pay attention. So when I saw he was still outside the store, I was so happy. As if I had just found a part of my life that was missing.
Back then my first idea was to introduce him to mom. We had a small apartment above the garage for rental purposes, our last tenant had moved out a week ago. If this guy needed a place to stay, he could stay with us! So when he said he was just passing through, I must have showed my disappointment. He asked me why I looked so sad all of a sudden and I just blurted it out. "You seem like a nice guy and I was thinking, maybe you can date my mom? But if you're just passing through, then it's not such a good idea. But if you're looking for a place to stay, we have a nice room with a kitchenette over our garage."
Tommy then looked at me somewhat surprised, followed by a huge smile that made his face turn into one of the most handsome faces I'd ever seen. "You know what?" he said, "why not give this town a chance, you're right. You're a good kid and I like your style. So yeah, show me that room you got because honestly, I could do with some sleep right now. And about dating your mom, don't get your hopes up, I'm not looking for an instant family to take care of. Besides, I think your mom's old enough to make up her own mind about men, don't you agree, kiddo?"
Fair enough. So Tommy came into our lives and stayed over our garage for 6 months. Sometimes he came for dinner at the house, fixed some of the stuff that needed to be fixed and he even found a job at a gas station. Him and mom got along fine, but they never dated. Mom was away for work a lot and with Granna taking care of us when we came from school, she liked the idea of having a man around nearby in the evening hours. Caro also liked Tommy, but she never really saw him the way I did. When he moved out to live in a house closer to the beach, I was devastated for a while. But then I realised I now had a place and someone to go to when I needed to be away from home. And life was good again.
It was on an evening when mom was home and life seemed tranquil. My sister Caro had a boyfriend with whom she spent hours chatting and Granna was visiting her grandchildren in Santa Barbara. Mom was tired and listening to music. I can tell in what emotional state she is in depending on the music she plays. This time it was an old record from the Rolling Stones. It has this song on it, 100 Years Ago? I don't know. As if she insists on hurting herself. My dad gave her that album when they just met and they told us that story over and over again, of how they first kissed on '100 Years Ago.' I think my mom still loves my dad. That's why it never worked for her and Tommy. Anyway, I could tell she needed some time alone, so when I said I'd be at Tommy's, she just nodded and blew me a handkiss with a sheepish smile. Sometimes I really wonder who's the parent and who's the child!
We had some sort of instant understanding, Tommy and me, from the moment I met him, when I handed him the keys he'd dropped and when he thanked me for it. There was something that made me pay attention. So when I saw he was still outside the store, I was so happy. As if I had just found a part of my life that was missing.
Back then my first idea was to introduce him to mom. We had a small apartment above the garage for rental purposes, our last tenant had moved out a week ago. If this guy needed a place to stay, he could stay with us! So when he said he was just passing through, I must have showed my disappointment. He asked me why I looked so sad all of a sudden and I just blurted it out. "You seem like a nice guy and I was thinking, maybe you can date my mom? But if you're just passing through, then it's not such a good idea. But if you're looking for a place to stay, we have a nice room with a kitchenette over our garage."
Tommy then looked at me somewhat surprised, followed by a huge smile that made his face turn into one of the most handsome faces I'd ever seen. "You know what?" he said, "why not give this town a chance, you're right. You're a good kid and I like your style. So yeah, show me that room you got because honestly, I could do with some sleep right now. And about dating your mom, don't get your hopes up, I'm not looking for an instant family to take care of. Besides, I think your mom's old enough to make up her own mind about men, don't you agree, kiddo?"
Fair enough. So Tommy came into our lives and stayed over our garage for 6 months. Sometimes he came for dinner at the house, fixed some of the stuff that needed to be fixed and he even found a job at a gas station. Him and mom got along fine, but they never dated. Mom was away for work a lot and with Granna taking care of us when we came from school, she liked the idea of having a man around nearby in the evening hours. Caro also liked Tommy, but she never really saw him the way I did. When he moved out to live in a house closer to the beach, I was devastated for a while. But then I realised I now had a place and someone to go to when I needed to be away from home. And life was good again.
Friday 4 September 2009
Dreams
My mother is a caterer. She travels a lot to cook food for artists and business people, she works for a small company she co-founded. When we lived in San Francisco, she tried to stay home for us and worked at a restaurant. But she needs to move around. It's who she is. She once joked she has gypsy blood. I don't know. I tried to focus on the thought of having gypsy blood, but so far no luck. I haven't seen any glimpses of past lives being a gypsy. Not that I can remember anyway.
My sister took her notebook with her when she left to stay at a friend of hers. I don't have a computer myself, because mom has one I am supposed to use for homework and all that. But it's in her room and I don't like to have to sit and write in her room. It makes me feel uncomfortable. Or maybe I just miss having mom around.
I'm at Granna's now. We sometimes sleep over. Granna has plenty of space since her kids moved away and her husband died. Her son Elias bought a computer for her, to stay in touch with the family. She knows how to use MSN, how to find the latest gossip and she likes to watch clips on YouTube of people she once knew. I don't know. Granna used to work as an actress. She is still beautiful, but old. Too old to get a decent role I guess. Granna told me it is important to follow your dreams and your heart. Is it really?
My sister Caro will be off to college next year. Doesn't seem like she has the brains for it, but she will go to New York and get with the program of... environmental studies. Yes. I am not kidding. It was a shock to us all. But her grades seem fine and she really is determined to go to New York. I haven't asked her about it yet. We hardly see each other this summer.
My dreams? It's what Tommy asked me too, when we last spoke about 3 months ago. I don't know. For me it seems hard to have a dream, any dream at all. The idea I have lived before and am in fact a very old person, that just keeps lingering and whenever I try to dismiss the thought, it comes back. So lately I have come to the firm belief that the paths you take in life are predestined. So what is the purpose of having dreams, if somehow things are written in stone already?
My sister took her notebook with her when she left to stay at a friend of hers. I don't have a computer myself, because mom has one I am supposed to use for homework and all that. But it's in her room and I don't like to have to sit and write in her room. It makes me feel uncomfortable. Or maybe I just miss having mom around.
I'm at Granna's now. We sometimes sleep over. Granna has plenty of space since her kids moved away and her husband died. Her son Elias bought a computer for her, to stay in touch with the family. She knows how to use MSN, how to find the latest gossip and she likes to watch clips on YouTube of people she once knew. I don't know. Granna used to work as an actress. She is still beautiful, but old. Too old to get a decent role I guess. Granna told me it is important to follow your dreams and your heart. Is it really?
My sister Caro will be off to college next year. Doesn't seem like she has the brains for it, but she will go to New York and get with the program of... environmental studies. Yes. I am not kidding. It was a shock to us all. But her grades seem fine and she really is determined to go to New York. I haven't asked her about it yet. We hardly see each other this summer.
My dreams? It's what Tommy asked me too, when we last spoke about 3 months ago. I don't know. For me it seems hard to have a dream, any dream at all. The idea I have lived before and am in fact a very old person, that just keeps lingering and whenever I try to dismiss the thought, it comes back. So lately I have come to the firm belief that the paths you take in life are predestined. So what is the purpose of having dreams, if somehow things are written in stone already?
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