The Perfect Job

What's your perfect job?  Mine would be sitting at my computer and writing each day.  Well, since I do that but still have to earn my living, I am now on the eve of attending the TESOL conference. TESOL means thousands of people from all over the world, hundreds of talks, and very few jobs posted. What's always shocked me is how a profession (ESL) that is filled with low salaried jobs holds its yearly conference in pricey hotels with high conference fees.
 The last time I went began my Spanish odyssey, first with an interview for a job at ACHNA in Madrid.  Gary interviewed me and he was so charming, I immediately took the job though there were others that were higher paying.  He was a great director and unfortunately was lost to AIDS. 
   Madrid was one of those defining moments in my life.  Many of the friends I made stayed with me and the job teaching adults English was great with an endless supply of stimulating materials. Madrid itself was fun too but I moved on (and stayed) in a more peaceful Barcelona.
   I don't expect any life defining moments at this conference except to reconnect with old friends and look and see if that ever elusive perfect job is out there.

TESOL- teaching English to speakers of other languages

The Old First Ward

The old first ward in Buffalo is one of the oldest neighborhoods in the city.  It's where the Irish first settled when they came to the city to work in the grain mills that are now imposing hunks of metal shading the small houses.  Since the neighborhood is still home to Irish bars and neighbors, it's the place to be for St. Patrick's Day with its annual neighborhood parade.  Nothing could be more welcoming than seeing the mix of floats commemorating deceased community members, police and firemen unions and a variety of other organizations that remind that Buffalo is still a union town even in these times.
    Attending the parade makes me realize everyone except me and my friends know everyone in the vicinity, and greet each other effusively as they march by.  I have a flash of that feeling I know so well, that of not being a part of a place.  And that leads me to the disturbing story of a Congolese refugee and his family who moved to the First Ward and were victims, not once, but twice, of arson. 
  A long time resident of the community was indicted for both incidents of arson.  There were the usual expressions of disbelief, and fortunately, great sympathy for the victim who had survived the horrors of Congo only to suffer in the First Ward. 
   This crime tainted the sweet camraderie and charm of St. Paddy's Day in what is called, the old neighborhood.

http://www.buffalonews.com/city/communities/south-buffalo/article748930.ece

International Women's Day

Today I was pleased to read my friend Raquel's FB post about IWD in Latvia- she said women were carrying flowers on this beautiful day.  In China, women have the day off!  Here we are moving backward in a frightening way.  The state of Virginia just passed a requirement of ultrasound for woman seeking an abortion.  And we all know about the horrors of Rush Limbaugh.  So much hatred  against women. 
   This is a poem of witness I wrote that appeared in my first chapbook:

Birthright

Past knots and tendons,

I look

through bone

and see,

in centuries past-

my face shrivel

as flames rise higher.

The point of a sword

slashes my belly.

Today, head to toe in black,

I barely breathe,

walk the required

steps behind.

The open hand

of my husband

reddens my cheek.

In  India, China girls

form the Greek chorus,

and chant,

Never born,

Never born.

The business of writing

     I'd like to ask my writer friends how much time they spend writing and how much time do they spend on what I call the "business of writing".  I long to get back to the unfinished short story or the possibility of a poem.  Instead I'm focused on promotion, sending out work to perhaps be published, e-mails, preparing for poetry readings, and spending too much time applying for elusive grants. 
    Of course, I'm aware that I shouldn't complain and I'm lucky anyone would read my work at all.  It's just that I'm overwhelmed.  How did they do it?  Those writers who put in a full day at some office and came home to write long into the night.  I can't shake off the day jobs of which I have two and I need some time to do nothing when ideas may appear.  And I don't even have a family.  So I'm impressed by those of you who manage.   Any hints?
   After my trip to California, I've become fascinated by earthquakes.  Here's the Chronicle's page that shows how many and when they occur.
http://www.sfgate.com/earthquake/
   I have a poem 18 minor quakes that perhaps I've posted before but need to edit.  Did I mention editing on my list?
  

The Low Country- a visit and a bit of the past

     Long stretches of marshland extend in all directions from Charleston's harbor and the surrounding barrier islands  The landscapes are marked by water, church spire skylines, and the beauty of the Atlantic with miles of beaches illuminated by glorious sunsets.
     Charleston itself is called the holy city for its array of churches reminding us of the religious past (and these days, present) of this country.   Houses in town have the porches we imagine when we think of southern mansions, but because taxes were based on frontal space, porches often face the sides of the buildings giving an off center feel to the streets and an insight into economics, even of the wealthy who could afford such structures.
     And that leads, as it always does, to slavery.  The slave museum stands on the site of the slave market of Charleston, in operation until the 1860's.  As recently as the 1960's it was occupied by a car dealership.
     Here you can peruse copies of the records of sales with listings of human beings with their traits (good breeder, half worker, cotton and rice worker, butler, healer) and the cost of each.  Shocking to say the least.
     Not to forget that New York City had a bustling slave trade into the 1700's and in the 1990's construction in the financial district unearthed a slave cemetery.  Slavery is the dark spot on all of America but it's here in the South that the marshes remind of the slaves struggling to clear this land for the rice and cotton plantations.  Slavery is still present in the beach resort where not a single African-American face appears.  It's in our hearts as the landscape leaks the blood of those who came before us.

Siberia and me

"Why did our father grow up in Siberia?" my sister asked.  One more unanswered question in his life filled with more unknowns than knowns.  My father died long before we were curious enough to ask such things. 
     All I knew was his childhood took place long before the Stalin deportations of Latvians to Siberia.  In one week in March of 1949 over 27,000 Latvians were sent to the gulags, including my mother's brother.  For an incredible book on gulags, I recommend "Gulag" by Anne Applebaum.
    So back to the question.  Enter Google where I actually found some answers.  The Latvian colony of Lejas Bulana settled in 1858 (aka Bullanas) still exists in Siberia.  It was rediscovered in 1975 by filmmaker, Ingvars Leitis who traveled there never expecting to find the language and culture still existing.  Roberts Kilis wrote his anthropology dissertation for Cambridge University on the Latvian community there.
  Bits and pieces is how I cobble together a past for my relatives.  Latvia was under the rule of the Russian Czar who offered free land to those willing to make the trip to Siberia.  And it turns out Catholics in Latgale (the province and religion of my father) had great difficulty in acquiring land in other areas because of discrimination. 
   So my grandfather must have been an adventurer.  Even today any journey to Siberia is hard.  Imagine it with a family a hundred years ago.  What I do remember were my father's stories about his childhood, included here in this poem.

His Life

Ed hopes his father

had a secret life.

My father had many;

two wives before mother,

a son left behind.

The war years

spent in Europe´s darkness,

in uniform,

rooting through trash

for food.

His secret languages

Russian, Polish,

we imitated in childish babble,

I learned sister, pillow, dream.

Siberia of childhood

giant summer fruit,

green winter lights

He brought to a farm,

half a globe away,

leaving a pile of unknowns

a lifetime to decipher.

Pre-sales for my chapbook are now starting:

Memories, Dreams, and CG Jung

Saw the film, "A Dangerous Method" which gave a most unflattering view of CG.  Thought the film had to have been made by Freudians who have mostly fallen out of favor except for when Jeffrey Masson analyzed Freud's seduction theory in the 80's.  Anyway, there's nothing sympathetic about Jung in the film.  He has no financial worries because of his wealthy wife who worries about being attractive to him while he carries on with a brilliant patient.  Freud (in the film) claims that relationship was the reason for his famous break with the man he had considered to be his successor.  I wonder if that is true or just the writer of the script taking liberties.
    Despite the portrayal, I've always been a fan of Jung and how he dabbled in the esoteric and found meaning in connections, not to mention the archetypes that make sense of our unconscious.  And that leads me to dreams.  I found an old journal from when I was in Malaysia and a dream  I 'd written down- I was in a small plane crossing the creek in Varysburg (the small town where I grew up).  I wanted to pay the pilot but only had foreign coins. 
    When I read that, I thought of how much meaning it held.  It took me two decades to return to this place where I began this strange and beautiful journey. 

Where is home?

    One of the themes of my writing has been the concept of home.  An astrologer might say it's because I have an emphasized fourth house or it may simply be status of "spiritual refugee" that is part of my  inheritance.  This week I lost another home- my ex partner is moving from the flat where I lived for fifteen years, the second longest I've lived anywhere except for my childhood farmhouse.   I have attached part of a grant application.  For those of you who might say, how personal and indulgent- I agree, but then again I just attended a Pecha Kucha event where almost every video and every piece of art included the artist him or herself.  That will lead me to another one of my pet discussions- what is art?  But that will be for another time.  And this is an essay!  Don't judge too harshly.

When I returned to the United States after many years living abroad, I found myself in Buffalo, not more than 30 miles from Varysburg, New York, where I grew up.  A search for a home that took me to Europe, Asia, and South America has come full circle. My parents were refugees fleeing from Latvia after World War ll and they ended up living in Western New York.  As a result of their experience, I have internalized the refugee nostalgia for a home that no longer exists, an idealized view of a home we are all searching for, whether it is an unattainable fantasy or the tangible place we construct and painstakingly decorate. 

Home in its infinite visions and possibilities has been a defining element of my writing and by extension, so has finding my (or my characters’) place in the world.  My first homeland existed only in a dream space.  Sleighs floated silently across snowy horse paths, saunas were built on hillsides next to lakes, and wedding celebrations lasted for five days straight.  This was the Latvia I grew up with, cobbled together from my parents’ stories and which probably never existed.  This place was my starting point.

     Growing up on a farm combined with the customs of a Latvian speaking culture gave me a unique view of the world.  That combination in the pre-ethnically diverse US gave me the role of an outsider looking in.   There was a bright shiny life that as a working class child of immigrants who had an eighth grade education, I didn’t have access to.  Yet it is precisely this background that has allowed me to live simultaneously in two different cultures and be open to experiencing many different lifestyles.   This has served me well whether I’m writing about immigrant life in the US or life as an expatriate in Spain or looking at how things work in small town America.  In my novel, “The Whisper of Silver Birch” I include dainas, the ancient poetic form of Latvian folk songs and in “Summer Scaffolding” I use details from my apartment  in Barcelona.

     I am a writer with deep roots in that farmhouse in Western New York, but one who has had the opportunity to move with ease in different cultural contexts and languages. I speak Latvian, Spanish, and French (fluently at different points in my life). I’ve had the opportunity to live and work in Colombia, Spain, and Malaysia and have used many of my personal experiences as a starting point for my fiction.  These places also came to represent home for me. 

       Presently, I teach adult refugees and I hope I can provide them with some of the linguistic tools to be able to make their home in the United States much as my parents did.  I hope they will be able to tell their stories in a way that gives them acceptance and respect in the community. I have come full circle in the immigrant experience, now working with refugees.

Slows down to a crawl plus poem

Life slows down to a crawl- almost a week of a particularly virulent cold.  My activities have been reduced to lounging on the sofa watching Downton Abbey, one of those dress up dramas that can't compare with "Upstairs, Downstairs".  The predictability of the plot is reassuring and perfect for lying around. The one day I ventured out to the store I was behind an elderly man and realized I was buying the same things he was (orange juice and milk). This slow pace could be a foreshadowing. 
In naturopathy a heavy cold is considered cleansing.  Our teacher said illnesses in children often resulted in growth spurts.  I had a growth spurt of a different kind, new thoughts came to me, things I had discounted or put aside and now can re-visit.  Does anyone remember the TV series Ally McBeal?  I always found the baby that appeared in scenes ridiculous but I have found myself having similar dreams.  Often there are neglected kittensthat I've forgotten to feed.  Last night it was a baby I found on a countertop.  I asked it if it was hungry- I was pleased to tell everyone it answered yes in English.  I fed it a bottle and spared it a few moments of play.  The symbolism is the baby represents some part of yourself you have not been nurturing.  At least in this dream, I gave it something to eat.
    So today, I can emerge slowly (even reluctantly) from this space I've inhabited for so many days.

Here's a poem I wrote ages ago but have reworked for some drama.

THE CENTURY TURNS

            Amphibious we swim

            some of the time,

            emerge sticky, dun colored

            from the murk of our ancestry.

           

            You are too much mine.

            Erased by foreign lands,

            too much acquiescence,

            for us there is no tomorrow,

no promise of children.

Your suit hangs,

shoes polished to the sonance

of Paris streets.

Your country, Congo,

is left behind.

At night,

the distant drip

of blood

seeps behind our walls.

Do things work in America?

I'm no stranger to bus travel and could relate grueling bus stories from trips in Mexico, Latvia, Colombia, Greece, etc. etc.  But America?

Buffalo- Toronto, Saturday morning.  First surprise.  I arrive around 6:15 (early as usual for any form of tranportation).  Already there was a line at the gate.  First clue- the man in front of me was ranting about Greyhound's terrible service.  I said, "Oh, no, you're a pessimist.  The bus will be here at 6:45."  The line grew longer and the crowd started to get impatient.
     Yes, there was a bus but the driver got out and announced, "Room for 3 passengers."
    I was shocked.  The image of American efficiency was something I always held dear in my years living abroad. 
    An hour later, another bus arrived.  This one was shoddier and older than the first one.  People started to push and I told one man he couldn't cut in line (as if this was my job). 
     Finally most of us got on- about fifteen people were left behind to who knows what fate.  Next, the driver went to get a coffee while we all sat waiting, too broken to complain.
   I'd chosen this particular time because it was supposed to be a direct bus.  Well, our first stop after the border (another ordeal) was the very first town, Fort Erie, where the driver picked up mail.  We stopped in every other town en route.  At one point there were passengers standing- something that I thought wasn't allowed.
    My return trip was quite different.  The bus left on time and though it stopped everywhere (my ticket was for a direct bus), I was mentally prepared.  By the time we got to Niagara Falls, it was just me and the driver.  I got a spectacular view of the Falls lit up at night.  He was from Montreal and we discussed gun control, elections, and Quebec referendums until we pulled into Buffalo.  When I got off in Buffalo, we shook hands. 
    My idea of American efficiency was shattered but I had a sense that humanity wasn't lost even in this impersonal world.


My bus poem which has appeared on this blog before:

The Lake

Something in me

loves a bus.

Starting at birth.

my father brought me home

in early November snow

on a bus.

There was Marilyn, circa 1956

all Bus Stop glamour,

and in Cleveland,

the sleek Greyhound sign,

recalls Edward Hopper

and the dusty 1930’s.

 “You have a blessed day”

the new goodbye as I board

wondering how to do just that.

Ashtabula, Erie, Buffalo

and all points east,

their vowels satisfy.

Something in America

so hates the city,

it bleeds out

 a slow death

 of the  light

and sound

and life

of this lake.

Rebirth, Change, Possibility

Like almost everyone else, I'm evaluating my habits and trying to restart my life.  After all, it is January 2nd .  So far, I've already made it to the gym and avoided having my lunch while lying down on the sofa.  And despite a small slide with chocolates (Christmas leftovers), I'm feeling good.  I returned from a wonderful trip out west- so much beauty and kindness!  So 2012- let's see what happens. 

Here's the link to a story I wrote on the theme:
http://www.fictionaut.com/stories/teresa-peipins/new-years-resolution

  I even found an old poem which shows New Year's a theme I have always been attracted to.  I have a new poem too- still in progress for a later posting.

New Year

Erase the year
with alcohol dampening
the brain and
as the custom of this foreign land,
race the block
at midnight,
empty suitcase in hand,
assuring all voyages succeed.
Against the night sky
filling with debris and rockets,
I cling to an age-old illusion,
rebirth-change- possibility.

Ghosts of Christmas Past and Three Kings

When I was celebrating Christmas in Madrid many years ago, a friend (Patricia) asked me why Americans got so depressed and weird about Christmas.  Now, while spending my first complete holiday season in the US after years abroad, I have the answer.  Expectation.  It's in the crazed shopping and the pressure of obligation to get everything right from gifts to treats.  I feel overwhelmed.  The encroaching darkness, the chill to the air and too much sugar, alcohol, and salt don't help.
     Nothing can ever live up to the idealized media image of a holiday celebration.  When I was a child, my sister and I (having learned this in school) waited up for a Santa Claus who never arrived.  My Latvian parents weren't up on that tradition.  Christmas meant a tree, midnight mass, and a big meal.  Gifts we received from relatives were things like fruitcakes that were never quite right.  Gifts were a regular part of my life, just not at Christmas so I was never deprived in that sense.  My father always returned from his visits to Buffalo with books, chocolates (he preferred Swiss) and paper dolls.  My uncles spoiled us with bags of candy. 
     I'm over the hump and starting to relax.  I look out at the neighbor's cloth snowman swinging like a dead body from the porch next to the illuminated reindeer and smile.  My class of adult refugees is practicing "Jingle Bells" for our party.  Shopping is done and I can stop running around.  And, on Saturday I escape to Berkeley where I get to spend the rest of the holidays with my Jewish friends.



Here's a poem about King's Day- a fun holiday in Spain.  I am missing my past visits, the great friends and glorious meals.

Epiphany

The Three Kings are lost

in whirling snows.

Camels sink unsure

in lands

past sands and tropics.

My door has no shoes

Waiting for favors or coal.

My favourite, Balthazar,

for the name

and stately beard

shakes his head no.

Here in white

crusted snow,

ice fills each empty step.

The good life with bicycle

First of all, I don't drive.  I can hear the cries the disbelief- what? No way? It is by choice.  I took driver ed back when I was 17; I was never one of those who drove on their 16th birthday. I never kept it up or even got a license.
 There is a precedent to this behavior-neither my father or mother drove.  In his case, he did drive a tractor but I'm not sure that counts.  My parents came from Latvia to the US in  the '50's when public transport was widespread.  And I spent ages living abroad where a car isn't essential.
That brings me to my bicycle.  When I returned to the US, to Buffalo, NY, one of my first purchases was a bicycle.  For a city with an interminable winter, it's a challenge to see how long into the cold I can ride it.  I usually last until the first snowfall.  This year I may break my own personal record.  It's December 10th and my bike is still locked to a post (covered area) in the backyard waiting for the next ride.

My short story 'Midnight in Barcelona' is in Ride, collection of stories about bicycles!

http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=httppeipinsbl-20&o=1&p=8&l=as1&asins=B006JULSGK&ref=tf_til&fc1=000000&I

How connected are you?

    How old are you?  Where do you live (I work with a woman who can only get dial up in her neighborhood)? With this information it's easy to determine how plugged in you are.  My number one electronic device is my laptop.  I panicked this morning when it struggled to start up and the screen went black.  What would I do without it?
    I work on it (job 2 with ETS testing), write daily, watch movies and an occasional TV show, listen to music, and manage my ever expanding virtual social life.  Without it, I'd be lost.  Far less so are the other devices in my life.  I've taken to leaving my phone (gasp!) at home when I go to job 1 (teaching) so I get a break from texts or voicemails.  That and the fact I have an MP3 say a lot about my age.  I only use the MP3 on long bike rides or when I'm travelling and can't get to sleep in a strange room.  I remember the endless loop of music in the hot Miami apartment of a friend's while sleeping on a blow up mattress that even through sheets made me sweat.  AC, like heat, is expensive.
     Then there's my kindle.  I haven't decided yet what role it will have.  So far, I'm revisiting old (free) classics like Moby Dick, Little Women, and for some reason, freebies in  Spanish.

The great divide is greater with the electronic world:
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/12/04/opinion/sunday/internet-access-and-the-new-divide.html?_r=1&partner=rss&emc=rss


Transit morning traffic,
truck stopped
cars workbound,
a child, coldproof in mittens,
waits with his father.
Inhale, at this moment,
in this tableau
no one escapes.

No cryonics,
no tucks or lifts,
nothing will free
you from what waits.

Bread, Freedom, and Social Justice

This is the slogan for the latest protests in Egypt that have become violent.  The battle is not yet won there and the military continue in power.  It seems like the same battle over and over again but at least there is a battle!  It's as if we have collectively woken up from a slumber of over a decade where no matter what corporations, banks, or politicians did, there was no way to object.  Beginning with the Arab spring and continuing all over the US, that has changed.
What does the future hold?  2012 doomsday predictions may go the way of the Y2K frenzy but there is an economic crisis and the future looks challenging for many of us.  Occupy Wall Street and its offshoots provides a beacon of hope that we can fight the terrible inequities and injustices that have created a tiny powerful wealthy ruling class and a diminishing middle class. 
Another movement that gives a glimmer of possibility is the local Farmers and Builders http://www.farmersandbuilders.net/   This group started with a Buffalo urban farm and is now expanding by buying empty lots in a blighted neighborhood with the idea of starting a farm and a community.  And if the future is bleak, that is the perfect start to another way of life that is respecting the earth and its inhabitants.

Where does your writing take you?

     When I began nanowritmo (that write a novel in November free for all) I had a vague notion I'd be writing about Colombia.  Instead I find myself in the complexities of a father daughter relationship in a small American city.  What happened?  There is no real control over the writing process; it leads you.  You may nudge it but it has its own life full of surprises.
    Then I'm left with the question- when will I ever write about my year in Medellin?  There is a surfeit of material- the Latin boyfriend, the violence in the streets, and the extremes of wealth and poverty.  The list goes on.  This was my own "year of living dangerously" or stupidly as I could say, years later, looking back.  Why did I ever go to Medellin to teach English at the height of the drug lords' power?  It wasn't like I hadn't done some research so there are no excuses.
     I went to South America expecting Europe.  The first awakening came at the airport in an enormously long line of passengers transporting TV's and anything else that might fit onto a plane.  A guy next to me launched into how thieves cut fingers off to steal rings and how they could be identified by their bloody pockets where they'd stuck the fingers.
     Next the school, a binational center, picked me up from the airport in a bulletproof car.  That should have been a clue.
    In my year in Medellin I saw a motorcycle shooting (it supposedly cost $50 to have someone shot), the glass out of the lobby of my apartment building shot out, I had to get under a table in a restaurant because of shooting, and I watched tanks drive up the street where I worked. Excellent fodder for writing. 
     Yet there was an enormous beauty in the landscapes.  Driving down the mountain roads to the city, the city glittered in the night.  I had a fantastic set of friends- we cooked French meals, hiked, and read poetry together. 
      So much more to tell- the friend's brother who was addicted to crack (bazuko in those days) and stole everything in her house, and another friend's house with her deceased brother's room preserved as if he were still alive.  My dear friend Patricia with her gorgeous smile, Lai Yin from Malaysia and our meals together talking for hours. So against that backdrop of fear and violence, there was a great deal of love.
     One day perhaps I will tell those stories, but not yet.  Here is a poem from those days....

Santa Fe de Antioquia

The smell of decaying fruit hangs

in the hot sun,

A green as strong

I´d never seen

in years of temperate moderation.

Ceilings beyond reach

in a room very old,

matching the inhabitants

busily fashioning

caskets out of wood,

the family trade.

Neatly stacking them

just beyond the bedroom

where I sleep in coolness,

for babies, tiny and white,

for adults several wait.

This night double church bells

announce another lost.

Bats flutter, then

rest flat

           blotting out paradise in palm trees.

My personal nanowrimo

It's that time of year again.  Everyone's a writer or can be.  Who came up with the idea of nanowrimo?  How many people actually go through with it? http://www.nanowrimo.org/ The idea is to write a novel in a month and there are websites to sign up with and post your daily number totals.  Entire classrooms, even in high school, sign up for the task.
  For me, nanowrimo gives me external permission to get away from the endless editing and the business of trying to get published (sending work out is a huge undertaking in itself).  It gives me permission to do what a writer does, which is simply write!  I am often so involved in the other aspects of writing (editing, etc) that I forget what it is to be involved in a story to the point that it is the backdrop to my life. It's what I think of the moment I wake up; it's what (or what happens to the characters in the story) makes me cry or dance around my living room.  I wrote my first novel when I was 21 or so and this obsession so frightened me (I though I was going crazy) that I avoided writing for many years. 
So for nanowrimo I set no goals for myself.  I don't even bother to sign up anymore.  That would defeat the purpose.  I simply write as much as I can.
  The idea I started with this November is "What would make you take up arms?"  What's your starting point?  What would make you take up your pen?  Go with it and enjoy.

Theater, a speech, and this human birth

I saw a student production of "Enron". While the acting was good, the play was lacking in drama.  Instead of a story unfolding a la Richard lll, the play was preachy and finally, despite music and dancing , somewhat dull.  To qualify for drama, the character of Jeffrey Skilling could have been revealed.  After all, there is a curiosity as to what makes a "villan".  Was it simple greed or some damaged part of his character?  Theater should provide more than just "information." Even entertainment would do.

   On a different note, Leonard Cohen won the Prince of Asturias (highly regarded Spanish) award in "letters".  His acceptance speech is among the most moving I have ever heard. 
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TLe0p0rZDr0&feature=share  He says  "You are an old man and you have not said thank you.. I have come here tonight to thank the soil and soul of this land that has given me so much".

My birthday is coming up and I am getting older.  I haven't thanked the earth for this life (the Buddhists would say for this human birth), for having had so many possibilitites, and for so much beauty and the possibility of more to come.  

Through rain, through snow, occupy Buffalo!

What does your ideal world look like?  Mine looks like this one if I could just change a few essentials and add: universal health care, affordable housing, higher education at lower cost, public transportation, a safety net, and employment opportunities.  That was the Europe I lived in for 2 decades and now is threatened by the same forces that have decimated the US economy- speculation with pensions, a housing bubble, and extreme wealth inequity. 
   So I am grateful to those intrepid Buffalonians that can hold meetings and even sleep in a city square through freezing rain and wind.  I am grateful to see people of all ages including retirees, veterans, and college students fighting the good fight. 
    They can represent a majority that never vocalize their concerns, like the lost souls taking the city bus on their way to the endless appointments in the social services bureaucracy (at least in NY state there are social services).  They can represent my Burmese student who washes dishes in a suburban restaurant.  He finishes work at 10 but after 2 buses and a subway ride only gets home at 1 AM.  They can represent many of my part-time co-workers who have no health care or even myself, facing a very uncertain financial future. 

Bhutan, Buffalo- thoughts on marriage

This week I went to a Bhutanese wedding which was exotic and totally different from Western weddings.  "Say yes to the Dress" (TV show of women shopping for bridal gowns) pales next to the Bhutanese bride and groom in their golden bejeweled outfits.
http://www.buffalonews.com/city/communities/west-side/article582237.ece Blessings are given by the guests and flowers lightly tossed on the couple's heads. 
    In Bhutan, marriages are arranged.  In this case, the couple had met just once before the wedding when they discussed their future plans and what they were looking for.  The two came from similar backgrounds which goes a long way to creating compatibility. 
    What works?  In the US, attraction (falling in love) outweighs all other considerations.  In one of the French films I've seen recently, a woman talks about her potential partner and says, "We feel the same way about food."  That wouldn't even enter into the American equasion.
    I was never interested in marriage, something I attribute to watching my parents' marriage and growing up in the feminist era.  Did I miss something besides a big party?
Do public vows change the nature of a relationship (of which I've had one very long and a couple of shorter ones)?  Does getting married mean that you take on the very slow painful evolution of the archetype of marriage in a society in which gender roles are blurred and changing?
   Like most people I would like to fall in love.  These days I'm looking for an editor (just kidding).  By that I mean  a relationship of sharing each other's interests on a deep level.  That plus the other factors of attraction and compatibility.  And food?  ( it doesn't hurt).  I went out with a vegan for a few months and going out wasn't much fun.  Does marriage have to enter into this?  So far, it hasn't.
    And then, a poem:

Madrid Morning

An old world Madrid morning

turns the room sepia,

traffic screams

the dust of the plain

settles in my throat.

The room never lightens

past this shade,

ghosts inhabit all gaslit corners.

You turn over

each movement gains a response.

Around us now crashes

ago crumbles,

but steadily, calmly, you emerge

from the debris

to offer the tangible,

a taste, a touch.

I struggle to dream less,

pleasure is here, possible

your voice reminds.

My body agrees

I fight the voices of reason,

the ones of fancy

to drift above and escape in time.