CHURCH
The fragrance is thick. Audrey imagines a thin, blue cloud swirling into her lungs. This is contested ground. At each corner of the sanctuary, separated by wooden screens of one sort or another, guards smile. The Coptic guard there; the Catholic guard next door. Here the Orthodox, there the Protestant. Audrey imagines God prepared for an operation by these theological surgeons, each ready to cut along his own dotted line. She remembers Solomon and the baby, She bites a cuticle and shifts her backpack.
GARDEN
They say that some of the olive trees are two thousand years old, and for the religious Christian tourists, that information itself is almost holy. They breathe out quietly: "Here, maybe," one says, touching the arthritic trunk of one of the oldest -- or at any rate ugliest -- of the trees. Maybe here Jesus prayed. Audrey has no idea who the "they" that "say" are, but she avoids this place except when the tour buses have gone. How do you live in a city that everyone else imagines?
MARKET
Her favorite vendor sells cucumbers: "Meh-la-fa-fo-neem!" he growls, waving his hand in the air. "Meh-la-fa-fo-neem!" This is the richest place in the city, ripe with the tang and sweetness beneath the skins of a thousand lemons, a thousand berries. At the edge of a poor neighborhood, in back of the narrow alleys of the ultra-orthodox, here there is only plenty, exuberance of color, and ripe, naked fruit. It has been the favorite place to bomb, not for the produce but for the people, bursting their skins, letting their juices cover the ground.
POOL
Which stones would she cast here? Anger. Bitterness. Envy. She watches from above as men and boys approach the water for tashlich. But even if she were to hurl the stones in her heart out of a boat in the middle of Galilee or miles out from Jaffa? Surely they would only drop to the bottom and shift, grinding against others' grief and hatred.
MOUNTAIN
A mountain, really no more than a hillside, but the orange trees have come into flower and the air is sweet with a perfume that is heady only because it is real. Until she came to this country, she had smelled that honeyed fragrance only from the necks of dime store bottles. This hillside is where Christ preached, they say, and this is where Mussolini built his ghastly church, the black excrescence high above the lake. Blessed are the orange blossoms, for they do not last, but neither do they intentionally betray.
DESERT
Near Bethlehem, Herod's palace emerges out of the dust at a great distance. A giant anthill. High up, they say. So high that he could see his enemies on the horizon like so many sand flies. Could prepare for them with his multitude of weaponry. What if I had seen it coming, Audrey wonders. Does a man's heart look like an army of insets if it marches forward to harm you? Herod was paranoid, they say. As if trusting were wisdom.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Fucking (Taboo Exercise from Weds)
By the time I was seven, my mother had probably fucked every adult I knew. Everyone except perhaps old Richard, the skinny man with tobacco-stained lips who had both a cane and a shotgun and lived by himself in a shack below the pond. My father had also fucked every grown-up around, including Richard. Man, woman, skinny or fat, black or white, cute or ugly, the etiquette was to call it “fucking” and to try everybody at least once.
I didn’t much notice or care. None of us kids did. It affected us only in that it was another game we’d play down at the old barn. Besides rocket ship and horses and kings and queens, we’d play fucking. Lying naked, stiff as boards, on top of each other, we’d try not to laugh. That corner of the barn was where Milky, one of the wild cats, had delivered her kittens and it always smelled like fur and damp hay. For a second or two we’d feel someones hipbones pushing into our belly or a knee poking into our thigh. Then we’d start to feel too squished or ticklish and we’d run off to go make a maze through the hay or go swim in the pond.
Sometimes, for organizational purposes, we’d line up girls and boys, other times youngest to oldest. It didn’t matter much, for we were always an odd number and fucking wasn’t even our favorite game. Our favorite game was to climb to the second story of the barn and then jump out of the window, a huge mountain of hay strategically placed below to break our fall.
Our other favorite game, especially when it was cold outside, was to sit around and talk about sugar: the best kinds of candy, what ice cream flavor you’d pick if you could have just one; we’d spend whole afternoons like this. I told the story again and again about the time someone came down the road with a pack of strawberry bubble gum. The grown-ups hid it and a few of us found it above the bookshelf and split the whole pack, just the three of us.
Late at night on the knoll, while drumming and peyote kept the grown-ups occupied and the stars were so bright we had to squint, we’d nestle our sleeping bags close together and whisper about the chocolate chips hidden in the back of the kitchen larder. We wished we were brave enough to scramble down the hill by moonlight, sneak into the kitchen and then open the door to the cool larder, darker even than the night outside, and make our way, hands grazing burlap sacks of brown rice, chickpeas, and black beans, until we’d reach the very back where the chocolate chips were waiting.
In summer, the sugar talk died down because there was so much fruit. Naked bodies everywhere—and watermelon! Walking across the rim of the pond to my mother it was hard not to trip on all those penises. Black or reddish orange, brown or pink, they were all such strangely lifeless lumps. The vaginas were better. Still at eye level, but mostly hidden behind curls. It was only when the women squatted down to pee, or bent over to pick up something left behind, that I’d get a glimpse of all the complications inside.
By the end of the summer, I’d turned seven and now it was only the older kids changing bodies that interested me. The kids that had taught us how to light fire to curled manzanita bark (raising the burning wood to our lips and loving the smell before we began the fits of coughing) were now going off in small groups on their own. We couldn’t find them anymore to ask them to play and when we did, they’d shrug, or say yes, and then soon forget us standing there. They still came to the pond, though. It was too hot to spend the whole day without getting wet. But now they kept their clothes on until right before they dove in. I’d get just a glimpse of a few black sprouted hairs, oddly drawn against pale skin or a blur of small breasts that drew in tightly at the nipples, like badly blown balloons. I wanted them to stand still, but they’d streak past and be gone, swallowed up by the pond. The water breaking then resolving back to it’s smooth surface. Their bodies just shadows below.
I didn’t much notice or care. None of us kids did. It affected us only in that it was another game we’d play down at the old barn. Besides rocket ship and horses and kings and queens, we’d play fucking. Lying naked, stiff as boards, on top of each other, we’d try not to laugh. That corner of the barn was where Milky, one of the wild cats, had delivered her kittens and it always smelled like fur and damp hay. For a second or two we’d feel someones hipbones pushing into our belly or a knee poking into our thigh. Then we’d start to feel too squished or ticklish and we’d run off to go make a maze through the hay or go swim in the pond.
Sometimes, for organizational purposes, we’d line up girls and boys, other times youngest to oldest. It didn’t matter much, for we were always an odd number and fucking wasn’t even our favorite game. Our favorite game was to climb to the second story of the barn and then jump out of the window, a huge mountain of hay strategically placed below to break our fall.
Our other favorite game, especially when it was cold outside, was to sit around and talk about sugar: the best kinds of candy, what ice cream flavor you’d pick if you could have just one; we’d spend whole afternoons like this. I told the story again and again about the time someone came down the road with a pack of strawberry bubble gum. The grown-ups hid it and a few of us found it above the bookshelf and split the whole pack, just the three of us.
Late at night on the knoll, while drumming and peyote kept the grown-ups occupied and the stars were so bright we had to squint, we’d nestle our sleeping bags close together and whisper about the chocolate chips hidden in the back of the kitchen larder. We wished we were brave enough to scramble down the hill by moonlight, sneak into the kitchen and then open the door to the cool larder, darker even than the night outside, and make our way, hands grazing burlap sacks of brown rice, chickpeas, and black beans, until we’d reach the very back where the chocolate chips were waiting.
In summer, the sugar talk died down because there was so much fruit. Naked bodies everywhere—and watermelon! Walking across the rim of the pond to my mother it was hard not to trip on all those penises. Black or reddish orange, brown or pink, they were all such strangely lifeless lumps. The vaginas were better. Still at eye level, but mostly hidden behind curls. It was only when the women squatted down to pee, or bent over to pick up something left behind, that I’d get a glimpse of all the complications inside.
By the end of the summer, I’d turned seven and now it was only the older kids changing bodies that interested me. The kids that had taught us how to light fire to curled manzanita bark (raising the burning wood to our lips and loving the smell before we began the fits of coughing) were now going off in small groups on their own. We couldn’t find them anymore to ask them to play and when we did, they’d shrug, or say yes, and then soon forget us standing there. They still came to the pond, though. It was too hot to spend the whole day without getting wet. But now they kept their clothes on until right before they dove in. I’d get just a glimpse of a few black sprouted hairs, oddly drawn against pale skin or a blur of small breasts that drew in tightly at the nipples, like badly blown balloons. I wanted them to stand still, but they’d streak past and be gone, swallowed up by the pond. The water breaking then resolving back to it’s smooth surface. Their bodies just shadows below.
Short Sequences
From atop the brilliant structure, the city of Paris sparkled with its colorful lights. The busy street noises could not be heard from this high up. The arguments and deadlines all came to a halt. Everything looked pristine and neat. In the distance the Sacre Coeur glowed in its white light. The Seine River peacefully carried boats of tourists. Notre Dame’s belles were so faintly heard from the peak of the Eiffel Tower. I point out all the Parisian landmarks with complete ecstasy.
“It’s not coming out correctly in my pictures!” I hear someone say.
“The weather is awful!”
“It’s humid and I need a shower!”
“We’ve been walking all day and my feet are aching!”
In the summer heat, everyone has become rather unpleasant. I sit and sigh, my travel book open, and I try to read.
There in a foreign city, all the comforts of home are gone. My own bed, my own shower, my own reminders of home. Instead, the luggage’s stand against the walls. Our toiletries line the bathroom counter. My personal space now includes three others. My bed doesn’t feel friendly.
~ ~ ~
The grass is cool against my skin. We sit and admire the spectacular light show. The entire tower is completely engulfed by sparkling lights. Tourists and natives alike pause to see the glimmering tower. Some watch in awe. Others mutter about their tired feet. Some distance away a baby cries. Someone is hungry nearby. With the abundance of people around the tower, it’s hard not to be sucked into their conversations. While someone is laughing merrily by the fence, another couple argues about money or direction or something. I am only the silent observer sitting underneath the tower’s beauty.“It’s not coming out correctly in my pictures!” I hear someone say.
~ ~ ~
There in our hotel room we collapse wearily into our beds.“The weather is awful!”
“It’s humid and I need a shower!”
“We’ve been walking all day and my feet are aching!”
In the summer heat, everyone has become rather unpleasant. I sit and sigh, my travel book open, and I try to read.
There in a foreign city, all the comforts of home are gone. My own bed, my own shower, my own reminders of home. Instead, the luggage’s stand against the walls. Our toiletries line the bathroom counter. My personal space now includes three others. My bed doesn’t feel friendly.
~ ~ ~
Alas, I am alone. It is peaceful and quiet in my head. The surrounding tourists blur together and all I hear is me. The beautiful Italian ruins are reminders of the history of years ago. Their legacies and their mistakes. I bask in the beauty of the architecture as I am alone with my camera. A couple interrupts my reverie and asks if I can take a picture for them. I happily oblige and upon their thanks, I return to my personal bubble, intoxicated by the sheer excitement that I and the travelers around me feel. The amazing walls that have crumbled and weathered away show no signs of weakness. Their immense size, though beaten and damaged, stand ever so tall with their stories ready to be told. I close my eyes and listen.~ ~ ~
The metal bars and gates are clear indications of the day and age we are in. everyone has a digital camera glued to their hands. What a different view it must be to see the brilliance of man in a two by three inch screen. I steadily climb the rugged steps of the Coliseum eager to absorb in all that has occurred here. The fights, the crowds screaming, the Emperor with his bemused smile. Then I stop and wonder what all these tourists are thinking. The immense capacity of man’s intellect. The power of man’s strength. All of it combined right here, right now. Thousands of years’ work present here all in the same place under the same sky.~ ~ ~
There is a stone hallway in which I rejoin my fellow companions. Water bottles in one hand, cameras in the other, their faces show signs of exhaustion from the walking and the heat. I smile brilliantly in return.
Back on the Horse (Incorporating Someone Else's Dream)
“Incorporating a dream”/Getting Back on the Horse
The night after I almost drowned, I dreamed of drowning. It took much longer than I remembered and the river currents that had, during the day, been merciless, at night were gentle and comforting, coaxing me under. During the day, a small girl had panicked in the water and wrapped herself around me, inadvertently pinning my arms. When I struggled to free myself, she clung more tightly, and screamed. Down we went.
At night, the child was still there, her arms still wrapped tight, but she was quiet enough that I could hear the rush of the river filling my ears and the aborted shout in my own throat as water filled my mouth. Separated from air and sun, the current carried us down. Our upper bodies melded but our four lower limbs floated free behind us, as if dancing.
There was music. Not a typical funeral dirge, or even Brahms, but something that sounded like the melody of a popular television theme song. Something that stirred up sentiment not because it was good but because it was so reassuringly familiar.
When I woke the next morning it was as sunny as every day in August and we returned to the river. The day before, my mother had heard the girl’s scream and dove in after us, catching us on the river bottom and carrying us to shore on her back like a large turtle. Today, she said, it was time to “get back on the horse.” I splashed and played with the little girl for long enough that my mother was reassured. Then we got out and had lunch.
That night I dreamed again of drowning. The theme music was louder and began even before we’d gotten in the water. The current pulled us under. This night it was insistent, heavy-handed, pushing us down and then staying there on top of us, heavy. The little girl was blonder than before. She seemed to be wearing a light pink blush and a little lipstick, but perhaps it was just the light.
In the morning, we put on our bathing suits and sun screen while my mother packed lunch. At the river, we swam and played. At lunch, the young girl and I quarreled over the sandwiches. One had gotten soggy and neither of us wanted that one.
That night, I dreamed the forest was burning. I was on a log ride, sitting alone in the hallowed wood as it made it’s way up to the top of the chute. I could see the blue pines and madrones, their tips red with fire. Then, the log tipped forward, the chlorinated water spashing up onto the boat, and I raised both arms as I began my descent.
The night after I almost drowned, I dreamed of drowning. It took much longer than I remembered and the river currents that had, during the day, been merciless, at night were gentle and comforting, coaxing me under. During the day, a small girl had panicked in the water and wrapped herself around me, inadvertently pinning my arms. When I struggled to free myself, she clung more tightly, and screamed. Down we went.
At night, the child was still there, her arms still wrapped tight, but she was quiet enough that I could hear the rush of the river filling my ears and the aborted shout in my own throat as water filled my mouth. Separated from air and sun, the current carried us down. Our upper bodies melded but our four lower limbs floated free behind us, as if dancing.
There was music. Not a typical funeral dirge, or even Brahms, but something that sounded like the melody of a popular television theme song. Something that stirred up sentiment not because it was good but because it was so reassuringly familiar.
When I woke the next morning it was as sunny as every day in August and we returned to the river. The day before, my mother had heard the girl’s scream and dove in after us, catching us on the river bottom and carrying us to shore on her back like a large turtle. Today, she said, it was time to “get back on the horse.” I splashed and played with the little girl for long enough that my mother was reassured. Then we got out and had lunch.
That night I dreamed again of drowning. The theme music was louder and began even before we’d gotten in the water. The current pulled us under. This night it was insistent, heavy-handed, pushing us down and then staying there on top of us, heavy. The little girl was blonder than before. She seemed to be wearing a light pink blush and a little lipstick, but perhaps it was just the light.
In the morning, we put on our bathing suits and sun screen while my mother packed lunch. At the river, we swam and played. At lunch, the young girl and I quarreled over the sandwiches. One had gotten soggy and neither of us wanted that one.
That night, I dreamed the forest was burning. I was on a log ride, sitting alone in the hallowed wood as it made it’s way up to the top of the chute. I could see the blue pines and madrones, their tips red with fire. Then, the log tipped forward, the chlorinated water spashing up onto the boat, and I raised both arms as I began my descent.
Going Under
You go, out. Like someone shut you off at the mains. One minute you're rattling down the hall on a gurney and the next minute there's a huge light in your face, a sun from somewhere else that's shining on you like they were going to extract information. You can feel the poke in your hand and the bruising push when they get the needle into a vein. And they tape the needle to you. You worry that they haven't given you enough juice, that you'll stay like this, feeling like a warm marshmallow, instead of going under. That you'll have to scream when they start to cut. So you try to tense up against the blade that you know is up there somewhere, but your stomach muscles have gone on leave.
And you do go, out. Like some big New York City power failure, all systems down. And you know it not because you feel a slide or a drop but because you're back again, all of a sudden, and if you're back, well, then you must have gone right off that cliff of consciousness.
When you get back, it's not like waking up, where wisps of what you were dreaming stay for a minute and then drift away. It's like somebody took a chunk out of your whole world. "Back then" is completely adjacent to "right now." And the pain. It isn't like then, in your hand, even though you're still hooked up to that jellyfish bag on a pole. Now it's your gut you can feel, heavy and stiff and old, tight in its bandages. And your throat sticks to itself, and your tongue has expanded while you were away so that now it fills your whole mouth.
So all you can do is bray for a nurse. Because you do and you don't want the doctor to tell you what they found while they were inside that missing piece of your time, cutting out whatever they finally found that doesn't belong. And you sure as hell wish somebody would come say something. Now that the power's back on, you really want to know.
And you do go, out. Like some big New York City power failure, all systems down. And you know it not because you feel a slide or a drop but because you're back again, all of a sudden, and if you're back, well, then you must have gone right off that cliff of consciousness.
When you get back, it's not like waking up, where wisps of what you were dreaming stay for a minute and then drift away. It's like somebody took a chunk out of your whole world. "Back then" is completely adjacent to "right now." And the pain. It isn't like then, in your hand, even though you're still hooked up to that jellyfish bag on a pole. Now it's your gut you can feel, heavy and stiff and old, tight in its bandages. And your throat sticks to itself, and your tongue has expanded while you were away so that now it fills your whole mouth.
So all you can do is bray for a nurse. Because you do and you don't want the doctor to tell you what they found while they were inside that missing piece of your time, cutting out whatever they finally found that doesn't belong. And you sure as hell wish somebody would come say something. Now that the power's back on, you really want to know.
Special Shoes (a foreigner's perspective)
Mr. El-Baz knew how to use his feet. Having relied on them as his main mode of transportation for most of his life, they were the one appendage that had not let him down. Leaving his brother-in-laws brick tenement building, his only directions had been to turn left and go straight until he had seen enough then turn around and retrace his steps. A religious zealot, his brother-in-law had no interest to explore a city so corrupted by sin. Mr. El-Baz wrapped his coat around his thin shoulders, turned left into the bitter wind and headed towards the heart of the city. A light snow began to fall as Mr.El-Baz passed a large green park lined by tall Mulberry trees, freshly dusted in crystalline powder. A few hundred yards away he saw what looked like heavily bundled people flying back and forth and round and round on a big flat pure white stone. Veering off course, Mr. El-Baz approached the flyers and squatted down by the edge of the circle feeling the ice with his ungloved hand. Mothers and fathers straddle frightened toddlers moving slowly, speaking in soothing tones. Young girls and boys joyfully shouted taunts as they pulled each other into their own respective vortexes of fun. Hand in hand, little girls flew by him singing beautiful folk songs. Stepping out on the ice to follow the beautiful sound, Mr. El-Baz soon realized he did not have the special shoes. Sliding towards the center of the rink, his steadfast feet gave way and down he went with a painful thud, knocking the back of his head on the ice. Momentarily dazed, Mr. El-Baz opened his eyes to see an official with a long white beard and thick red suit approach him. Frightened and embarrassed, Mr. El-Baz reached for his papers, not wanting to make any additional trouble. After examining his head, the official led him to the edge of the rink, laughing in a deep voice, and patting Mr. El-Baz on the shoulder. “Merry Christmas” he said as he sailed off. Mr. El-Baz held out his papers, that was not his name.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Octopassion (taboo exercise)
Two weeks ago, Mrs Greer, a widow with no children, agreed to take her young nieces to the aquarium. While the two girls ran ahead chattering with excitement Mrs Greer took her time, peering into each tank and feigning curiosity. Honestly she would have preferred a flower show.
And then it had happened—the experience she (privately) referred to ever after as the true beginning of her life. Mrs Greer had visited the aquarium at least ten times since then. Maybe more. She always returned to the same rectangular tank, and each time found herself more enthralled by what she found there. Glistening iridescent skin, sinuous tentacles, a gracefully bobbing head, and those eyes—bright and penetrating, eyes of extraordinary intelligence. This was no insensate fish; the octopus staring back at her had a mind, it had memories and emotions. From the first she never doubted it.
Mrs Greer put a finger on the glass, and on the other side, in the very same spot, the octopus placed the tip of a purple tentacle. It was their ritual. Each alone, yet together. As she met the creature's gaze she felt her cheeks flush and her chest constrict. When had she last been looked at in this way, what man had known her—had wanted to know her—so deeply and so well?
Mrs Greer looked around. It was late in the day, near closing time. She dipped a hand in the water and the octopus extended a tentacle. When they made contact she felt an electric shock of pleasure so acute she had to stop herself from plunging into the water. The octopus unfurled another tentacle. It was holding a lump of red coral; a gift. Mrs Greer's eyes misted over as she gently accepted the coral. There had been other gifts; a strand of shimmering kelp, a green pebble, the jet-black eye of a fish. She kept these treasures wrapped in silk in her jewelry box.
At night alone in her bed, Mrs Greer could hardly bear the pain of their separation. Those tentative daytime touches were not enough; she craved the embrace of all eight tentacles, imagined the exquisite sensation of the tiny suction cups on her bare skin, the beaklike mouth plucking gently at her earlobes. Mrs Greer knew that her octopus, having spent its life exploring secret caves and crevices, would eagerly investigate the most secret spaces of her body, and she cursed the chilly water and unforgiving Plexiglas that kept them apart.
And then it had happened—the experience she (privately) referred to ever after as the true beginning of her life. Mrs Greer had visited the aquarium at least ten times since then. Maybe more. She always returned to the same rectangular tank, and each time found herself more enthralled by what she found there. Glistening iridescent skin, sinuous tentacles, a gracefully bobbing head, and those eyes—bright and penetrating, eyes of extraordinary intelligence. This was no insensate fish; the octopus staring back at her had a mind, it had memories and emotions. From the first she never doubted it.
Mrs Greer put a finger on the glass, and on the other side, in the very same spot, the octopus placed the tip of a purple tentacle. It was their ritual. Each alone, yet together. As she met the creature's gaze she felt her cheeks flush and her chest constrict. When had she last been looked at in this way, what man had known her—had wanted to know her—so deeply and so well?
Mrs Greer looked around. It was late in the day, near closing time. She dipped a hand in the water and the octopus extended a tentacle. When they made contact she felt an electric shock of pleasure so acute she had to stop herself from plunging into the water. The octopus unfurled another tentacle. It was holding a lump of red coral; a gift. Mrs Greer's eyes misted over as she gently accepted the coral. There had been other gifts; a strand of shimmering kelp, a green pebble, the jet-black eye of a fish. She kept these treasures wrapped in silk in her jewelry box.
At night alone in her bed, Mrs Greer could hardly bear the pain of their separation. Those tentative daytime touches were not enough; she craved the embrace of all eight tentacles, imagined the exquisite sensation of the tiny suction cups on her bare skin, the beaklike mouth plucking gently at her earlobes. Mrs Greer knew that her octopus, having spent its life exploring secret caves and crevices, would eagerly investigate the most secret spaces of her body, and she cursed the chilly water and unforgiving Plexiglas that kept them apart.
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