you spent the night with me again
shared my free and fragile perch
beside another indeterminate road
darkness never really fell
dreamtime made its motion felt
but not its forward pressure
shadows only wheeled, deepened, enlightened by turns
around bluegold opalescent light-diagonals
summer thunderheads were cumulating
over the western mountainsides
and sunflowers the color of monarch butterflies
the glow of undiluted sunlight
profused themselves on all sides
surrounding, taking no sides
complementing the cloudviolet
with a shelter only slightly less impermanent
and exposed than niche of wire mesh fence
we stationed ourselves in
trying to head off the storm again
sincerity and patience admirable
for knowing it would probably fall the same
luminous detachment as commendable in this space
as in daylight's tangle of desire
the only difference, there, necessity
and here at last truly freed from need and time
a struggle elemental as before:
still the gorgeously oppressive sky before it smothers
or distill those heavy stormclouds
and pour out all the life I/you/we deserved
but no, as here: never all cloudcover
and never really clear
no more to make of this lowering and exquisite potential
than of the last promise of abundance passing over
only sun seeking release through insufficient fissures
and your face, for a moment, gilded in stormlight
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
that laughs at the obstacles
Carne asada grilled outdoors, by an Argentinean. Tinny Tecate from a can that looks way too much like Coca-Cola (the can, not the beer). An embrace, a kiss on the cheek, or a handshake from each person on arriving. None of those noncomittal waves at the room in general, like I'm used to getting by with. I like it so much better - me encanta - the way Spanish-speakers greet each other.
Dinner starts around 11, and this seems nothing out of the ordinary. Our host brings the meat, balanced on a heavy wooden slab, fresh from the grill in the order of our requests: first the rares, then the mediums, last the well-dones. A dozen small courtesies at the table, that I never learned as a child but wish I had. Half a dozen dirty jokes, of which I understand all but the punchline (and, for the most part, wish I hadn't). Jokes that make their object the indigenous country person or the status-seeking city-dweller, or the particular South American nationality of whoever sits next to the speaker. If other topics lag, there's rapid-fire commentary on soccer, for which ardor does not seem to abate with the end of the World Cup. Somebody asserts, "You don't have to know soccer to be a commentator. You just have to know how to talk."
I didn't come here expecting to be at the center of the conversation. To say the least. But it's fascinating: much the same dynamic appears that I encounter at English-speaking parties. What I find is that I really don't know how to connect with the greater part of the conversation. And not for language, but for diversity of life experiences. For lack of pop-culture education or recent TV viewing. For dislike of raising my voice across a yardfull of people. But it all becomes the same workable challenge: navigate the mostly unfamiliar waters with an accepting grace, with a dash of ironic detachment, with genuine appreciation for the inexplicability of other human beings.
And, just as in English, one or two astounding conversations may surface from the static, tuning in like surprise radio stations out on the late-night highway. This night brings two such gifts. One, the life-story of an Ecuadorian who spent 10 years in Amsterdam and New York before settling in Albuquerque with his partner and young son. The other, a Texan who grew up in Spanish-speaking South Texas, but who asserts when somebody labels him chicano, entonces, that he never once heard of the Chicano Movement until his university years. He tells me about a year of digging latrines and building schools with the Peace Corps in Paraguay. Of having missed being witness to the assassination of a vice-president, by only a few city blocks. And of watching a kind and intelligent group of Franciscan nuns, after the coup that removed a corrupt local boss, avoiding death threats and bringing the inspiration of local power back to the people well before the government presence finally arrived in the pueblo.
Somehow, a lovely paradox grows here. Unexpected and welcome as a volunteer flower in my barely-surviving vegetable garden: spending time with people who speak a language different from mine is easing the sting of separation that's lived with me, sad and parasitic, all of my English-speaking life. When factors less essential than the medium of communication seem the obstacles to connection - personal interests, personality types, social class - it's too easy to be distracted, alienated, by what divides on the surface. When the language itself instigates the separation -- a divide that can't possibly be crossed in the space of an evening -- I'm relieved from duty to my anxiety and expectation, to simply enjoy the state of unknowing. Supported, of course, by the kindness of a few translated words here and there. By the knowledge that I am progressing, however slowly, toward that elusive prize of bilinguality. And by the fact that the beautiful fellow traveller who brought me to this gathering has already gifted me with a connection that bridges all of the above. A connection that laughs at the obstacles of language, life experience, expectation, pessimism. That builds bridges in total disregard of reason. That ignores the voices in my head to tell me, You may not understand it all but you are, in fact, understood.
Dinner starts around 11, and this seems nothing out of the ordinary. Our host brings the meat, balanced on a heavy wooden slab, fresh from the grill in the order of our requests: first the rares, then the mediums, last the well-dones. A dozen small courtesies at the table, that I never learned as a child but wish I had. Half a dozen dirty jokes, of which I understand all but the punchline (and, for the most part, wish I hadn't). Jokes that make their object the indigenous country person or the status-seeking city-dweller, or the particular South American nationality of whoever sits next to the speaker. If other topics lag, there's rapid-fire commentary on soccer, for which ardor does not seem to abate with the end of the World Cup. Somebody asserts, "You don't have to know soccer to be a commentator. You just have to know how to talk."
I didn't come here expecting to be at the center of the conversation. To say the least. But it's fascinating: much the same dynamic appears that I encounter at English-speaking parties. What I find is that I really don't know how to connect with the greater part of the conversation. And not for language, but for diversity of life experiences. For lack of pop-culture education or recent TV viewing. For dislike of raising my voice across a yardfull of people. But it all becomes the same workable challenge: navigate the mostly unfamiliar waters with an accepting grace, with a dash of ironic detachment, with genuine appreciation for the inexplicability of other human beings.
And, just as in English, one or two astounding conversations may surface from the static, tuning in like surprise radio stations out on the late-night highway. This night brings two such gifts. One, the life-story of an Ecuadorian who spent 10 years in Amsterdam and New York before settling in Albuquerque with his partner and young son. The other, a Texan who grew up in Spanish-speaking South Texas, but who asserts when somebody labels him chicano, entonces, that he never once heard of the Chicano Movement until his university years. He tells me about a year of digging latrines and building schools with the Peace Corps in Paraguay. Of having missed being witness to the assassination of a vice-president, by only a few city blocks. And of watching a kind and intelligent group of Franciscan nuns, after the coup that removed a corrupt local boss, avoiding death threats and bringing the inspiration of local power back to the people well before the government presence finally arrived in the pueblo.
Somehow, a lovely paradox grows here. Unexpected and welcome as a volunteer flower in my barely-surviving vegetable garden: spending time with people who speak a language different from mine is easing the sting of separation that's lived with me, sad and parasitic, all of my English-speaking life. When factors less essential than the medium of communication seem the obstacles to connection - personal interests, personality types, social class - it's too easy to be distracted, alienated, by what divides on the surface. When the language itself instigates the separation -- a divide that can't possibly be crossed in the space of an evening -- I'm relieved from duty to my anxiety and expectation, to simply enjoy the state of unknowing. Supported, of course, by the kindness of a few translated words here and there. By the knowledge that I am progressing, however slowly, toward that elusive prize of bilinguality. And by the fact that the beautiful fellow traveller who brought me to this gathering has already gifted me with a connection that bridges all of the above. A connection that laughs at the obstacles of language, life experience, expectation, pessimism. That builds bridges in total disregard of reason. That ignores the voices in my head to tell me, You may not understand it all but you are, in fact, understood.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
gypsy list
- the dizzy disorientation of waking up alone in a strange bed (not even a bed, a truckbed): a reboot for the mind
- the loveliest slant of new light, anywhere, at 6:30 a.m.: a few of earth's resources still unexhausted
- the edge to early air that makes even the familiar a mystery
- the crazy root-tangle of inscrutable dreamtravels: product of a manageable discomfort, an acceptable level of insecurity, an intentional degree of self-unmaking
- the gratitude for the essentials: water. stretches. public restrooms. that extra hat or pair of socks at 3 a.m. sheltering tree companionship. moments of profoundly unbroken silence. the birds that begin to imagine light at 5. strong coffee on waking. so few needs. in-dependence, for a blessed moment.
- the loveliest slant of new light, anywhere, at 6:30 a.m.: a few of earth's resources still unexhausted
- the edge to early air that makes even the familiar a mystery
- the crazy root-tangle of inscrutable dreamtravels: product of a manageable discomfort, an acceptable level of insecurity, an intentional degree of self-unmaking
- the gratitude for the essentials: water. stretches. public restrooms. that extra hat or pair of socks at 3 a.m. sheltering tree companionship. moments of profoundly unbroken silence. the birds that begin to imagine light at 5. strong coffee on waking. so few needs. in-dependence, for a blessed moment.
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