I will write tomorrow for I am exhausted today.
I remember the woman who stood up to describe her occupation…it was listed on the application as sprayer. With a word of titles and social status & judgments I had thought it a relief to have none. She described brushing, tearing and then cussed. I liked her and planned a good opinon of her until she spoke one word. I changed my mind. I have here once lived in a place. I traveled on a road I had seen thousands of times before and found freida place. Only it was spelled frieda. Only I had never noticed it in either context. I past humdingers, and I laughed. I thought of all the experiences that fit that word. I past the house where Jesus lives, and found an abandoned Spanish monastery with a wall made of bougainvillea that climbed up the eucalyptus. This house is to be my home. The cherry blossoms are in blom again and have since recovered from a near slaughter. I misread the freckles…or maybe I did not, and all of the curses were to lead me to where I am going. Or maybe they were not curses at all, but blessings because they brought me to where I am now. I drive down this road, I have driven down so many times before. I pass the house I was destined to live in and the lights are all out. There is no life there. There is a curb I knew intimately for a few hours of my life. I wonder why there are smoke stacks coming from the top of rose hills…Wednesdays darlings born april 10th…delilahs darlings born april 17th…sovereign. The gentleman eyed my purchases and handled the books as priceless pieces. He commented on each carefully chosen title, and I could feel the beams from my soul rejoice and my mouth unable to contain my happiness at his praise, this person a stranger, and their high opinions so easily given to me. A woman called today looking for cogan books. I was sorry to have to be the one to disappoint her. I saw this figure, tall and dark. I recognize the sounds of footsteps immediately and the original alarm subsides and turns to warmth. It is my father. Because your heart is bid goodnight get swept off…shared sauce on fingertips…blessed blessed the words runs through my head so I will not forget. I remember the woman with a daughter who wore dora lightup shoes and did not own any English words. The words of Pablo Neruda are never as beautiful as when they are spoken in Spanish. But not my Spanish. The Spanish that you are born to…someone once called me probresita. Smudges are not controlled…but I love things that cannot be controlled. No. I love the beauty in things that are beautiful even when they are imperfect. Because they are imperfect. He will paint like van gogh. You brought my light. I wish that life was not fleeting and that love could not be lost and that courage could be taught. I wonder that I could not always see the beautiful things. Every great tradition… my soul breathes again. I will offers my thought deliberately. My fingers are stained with the color of earth. I need a proper inkwell…ujjahi breathe.