tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-299960962024-03-12T23:00:11.581-05:00Lucia has something to sayLuciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.comBlogger322125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29996096.post-84831280063512161082011-12-29T07:17:00.001-06:002011-12-29T07:32:34.880-06:00Out-of-Work Rural AmericaLocal radio. Call-in classifieds. My expectations. Set. By the station’s minimal. Factual. Web presence. Call in items. To buy, sell, trade or give away. What I heard. Was an audio portrait. Of need. Need yard work to pay the electric bill. Need to give away a dog. Need to rent out a fully-furnished room. Need to borrow a semi to pass driving test. Need housecleaning jobs. Need to sell outdated electronics at an inflated price. Need I say more?Luciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29996096.post-15431844655829627262011-05-18T07:49:00.000-05:002011-05-18T07:50:56.068-05:00The State. Of the State. Of Missouri.Missouri. Is wrapped in the moniker. Meth capital of the U.S. So I should not. Have been open-mouthed. To see on a real estate disclosure form. The following.<br /><br />13 (e) Methamphetamine<br />Are you aware if the Property is or was used as a site for methamphetamine production or the place of residence of a person convicted of a crime involving any controlled substance related thereto? Yes. Or No.<br /><br />No. My sweet new house in the woods has not been used for meth production. No. It was not the residence of a convicted criminal. No. <br /><br />The language. Around meth production. Is buoyant. And child-like. Mom-and-pop labs. Meth circles. A family. Of a cook. And addicts. Smurfing. For additives. Substances related thereto. Collecting. Mutating. Explosives and pills.Luciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29996096.post-84828599107523275982011-05-07T05:33:00.002-05:002011-05-07T05:33:49.744-05:00Talk to MeTalk to me. Of yoga and birds. Find me. In the forest. In tree pose. Waiting. For birds. To alight.Luciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29996096.post-55802436213423175142010-11-15T12:47:00.001-06:002010-11-15T12:49:55.865-06:00Beyond the Wall<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_82PYO9pSZ8Q/TOGAsbNhkeI/AAAAAAAAACI/0Dy-1eBOd1A/s1600/IMG_0996.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_82PYO9pSZ8Q/TOGAsbNhkeI/AAAAAAAAACI/0Dy-1eBOd1A/s200/IMG_0996.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539850517349503458" /></a>I love. To walk. Along the beach. Filling my pockets with shells and beach glass. So an unexpected day. In Mombasa. On a work trip. In Kenya. Presented me. A day at the beach. Which I have craved. And dreamed about. For months. <br /><br />My hope. Was to walk. But. As I neared a low wall. It started. Jambo. Hey lady! Jambo, lady! Good morning! There they were. The young guys. Selling stuff. Who I remember. Making a beach walk impossible. On my last visit. Hopeful entrepreneurs. Making a walk down the beach. Unbearable.<br /><br />So I park myself. In the shade of palm trees. For the day. With a book. And burn my face. To a bright red.<br /><br />The other memory of Mombasa. Is getting up one morning for breakfast. There were beautiful, young Kenyan women. With their plates piled high with food. Their companions portly, jowly, aging German men. In shorts. And socks and sandals. I wanted to erase this impression on this visit. Of what my Kenyan friend calls “a few bad apples.” But last night. At the table next to me. He. Said to Her. You must be hungry! You have so much food on your plate. This is our last night, darling. Together. <br /><br />And now. Mombasa. Probably rightly so. Continues. In my mind. Without changing.Luciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29996096.post-76472703833492875582010-11-12T12:56:00.001-06:002010-11-12T12:56:38.313-06:00What Could Have BeenIt could have been. A bad situation. In a long, slow swing. Around a corner. The driver squarely hit a pedestrian. He fell. Onto the hood. If we were. Stuck in traffic. In a different part of Nairobi. We would have been. Surrounded. Often. After an accident. Bystanders. Steal from passengers. Out of anger. Thankfully. No one was hurt. And the guy graciously went. On his way. As did we.Luciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29996096.post-37771750711506689612010-11-08T12:31:00.001-06:002010-11-08T12:31:36.027-06:00Tropical RainJust a few. Days ago. In Wisconsin. I was craving. A tropical rain. The kind. That falls in sheets. Straight down. Nonstop. And now. I sit. By the window. In Nairobi. And watch. The November rain. Pour. And I feel. Refreshed.Luciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29996096.post-34175737352810502022010-09-13T07:00:00.001-05:002010-09-13T07:03:07.330-05:00Privacy. Forfeited.In the airport. Men. Around me. Talk. On their phones. Without thinking. (I internally note. Thoughtless. Un-thinkers.)<br /><br />The conversation. Of the man next to me. Close enough. To read this if he’d like. Forfeits. His privacy. When he chooses to have this conversation. Right next to me. Instead of in another place. A more private. Space.<br /><br />Unfolding. He reveals. More than he probably. Knows. <br /><br />He. Kvetches about Tiger Woods.<br />He. Gets headaches every morning.<br />He. Will drive home in his jeep.<br />He. Stayed in a hotel where there were a group of football players last night.<br />He. Was in an elevator when the pizza for said football players was delivered.<br />He. Needs to do his expense report on the weekend so he can “pay for your butt to come over here to the United States.”<br />He. Wants to know whether he or she should visit the other for Christmas.<br />He. Says she needs to apply for a visa.<br />He. Wonders why every time this comes up, she has a reason why the time won’t work.<br />He. Suggests maybe they could go to Hong Kong. They’ve never done that.<br /><br />I start to wonder where she is. I imagine her. In the Philippines. And remember the men in the airport in Manila. I blogged about. A few years. Ago.Luciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29996096.post-16582752481857317092010-08-16T17:50:00.005-05:002010-08-16T18:03:19.376-05:00The Privileged Among UsHer face. Showed not a flinch. Her eyes not a flash. When I smiled. And warmly chirped, "You must be special, to have those parking privileges." In the fire lane. At the public library. Right in front. In her half ton. Big ass. Pickup truck. Surely. She believes. So thus. Now and into the future. Let us not. Let this specialness. Pass. Unnoticed.Luciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29996096.post-1372142349427258802010-08-03T07:12:00.001-05:002010-08-03T07:13:27.958-05:00The FarmhouseBefore I fell asleep last night. I visited my grandparents’ farmhouse. In that hazy underwater state. That comes just before sleep. I remembered. The lace curtains. The very steep stairs that I was forbidden to climb. The pump organ. That was sometimes attached. To a vacuum. In reverse. Which made it impossible. To hear the clear tones. Coming from one’s fingers. The kitchen where I was served packaged cookies and Koolaid. And the match holder on the wall, which always fascinated me. And I wondered. If this creaky farmhouse in Indiana. Still stands. And how many. Of these lovely old friends. Ancient, worn and wonderful. Still exist.Luciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29996096.post-29689922856747074202010-07-26T06:30:00.003-05:002010-07-26T13:36:12.865-05:00Near MissesIt has been. A short season. Of near misses. In the Johannesburg airport. On my way to Swaziland. The vuvuzelas were trumpeting. And there were planes. With nose cones. Painted like soccer balls. But it was before. The World Cup.<br /><br />Yesterday. I was in Rhinebeck, New York. Where there is great speculation. By the media. That Chelsea Clinton will marry. Next weekend. An eccentric little media type. In a light suit. And bow tie. Accompanied by a Hollywood blond. In a very short skirt. With a little dog. Stands on the corner in front of a camera. They are preparing. The environmental shots. The speculative shorts. The pre-wedding play by play. Which will fill the airwaves. But by next weekend. I will be gone from here.<br /><br />A thousand years ago. When Clinton was president. I did run into Chelsea. In the unlikelyest of places. I was in Chinatown. In San Francisco. And I looked through the shelves. Past ceramic foo dogs. To the incense. And there was young Chelsea. Telling a friend. That sometimes her parents. Burned incense. And my mind conjured. The image. On incense in the Clinton White House. Swirling through space.<br /><br />In a minute. She was gone. Young hip secret service. Checking the doors. And the street. And escorting her entourage. On.Luciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29996096.post-87056617451982907862010-07-21T22:24:00.000-05:002010-07-21T22:28:09.017-05:00A Bruised. Writer.Analysis. Of word choice. And writing style. Can leave one. Bruised.<br /><br />I went to the site. <a href="http://iwl.me/">I Write Like.</a> And popped in. A blog post. The suffocating result. Was Dan Brown. So I tried. Again. Cory Doctorow. Who I do. Not know. Again. Dan Brown. Again. Chuck Palhniuk. A trangressive. Fiction novelist? And then. James Augustine Aloysius Joyce.<br /><br />Above all. Invisible to me. Were the names. Of women authors. Ephemeral. Undetectable. Lost.Luciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29996096.post-16074241833881089702010-06-20T12:27:00.001-05:002010-06-20T12:27:58.873-05:00The VideoThe video. Of Bush. Wiping his hand. On Clinton’s shirt. After shaking hands. On a trip to Haiti. Says a great deal. About his character. And why he never should have been. President.Luciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29996096.post-43449667268475156242010-06-16T07:20:00.001-05:002010-06-16T07:22:55.927-05:00Haiti: Misconception<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_82PYO9pSZ8Q/TBjCBGEEdhI/AAAAAAAAAB4/5pkoyzCXE2w/s1600/IMG_7746blog.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_82PYO9pSZ8Q/TBjCBGEEdhI/AAAAAAAAAB4/5pkoyzCXE2w/s400/IMG_7746blog.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483345870386918930" /></a>To my eye. Very little. Has changed. Haitians. Tell me. That this. Is not the case. And I. Am thankful. To be wrong.<br /><br />They say. No, no. These. These are new piles of rubble on the street. This pile. Is shoveled into a truck. Every week. Or two. And the street is clean. Until more rubble is carried out.<br /><br />The “experts.” Disagree. Some say. It will take three years to clean up the rubble. Some say. Five. The Haitians say. When the rubble is cleaned up, the rubble is cleaned up.Luciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29996096.post-6262480155551278032010-06-13T19:01:00.003-05:002010-06-13T19:18:59.211-05:00Haiti: A Different Arrival<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_82PYO9pSZ8Q/TBVyFno40RI/AAAAAAAAABw/w-0GmuJ9yL8/s1600/IMG_7590_blog.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 208px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_82PYO9pSZ8Q/TBVyFno40RI/AAAAAAAAABw/w-0GmuJ9yL8/s320/IMG_7590_blog.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482413562258837778" /></a>Today. I arrived. In Port au Prince. For the second time. Since the earthquake. This time. Someone checked my passport.<br /><br />In mid-February. There were no commercial flights. So I flew. From the Dominican Republic. On a free flight. On a small plane. With the U.N. Humanitarian Air Service. <br /><br />We landed at the U.N. Logistics Base. Which shares a runway. With the regular airport. I walked off the plane. And into a broken Haiti. No one. Looked at my passport.<br /><br />This time. I flew American Airlines. Seven seats across. We landed. Pulled up to the jet bridge. And I thought. They were using the airport again. But I was wrong. From the jet bridge. We went to a bus. And drove past the cracked walls. And windows. Of the airport. To a new building. A small building. With a concrete floor and corrugated tin roof. That was set up for immigration. Baggage claim. And customs. Cans of food. Roll off the lurching, snaking baggage carousel. Escaped. From suitcases. Boxes. And backpacks. <br /><br />There is nothing more delicious. Than exiting an airport. And hearing your name. Shouted. By a familiar voice. I hop. Into the black car. Throwing. My luggage. Into the back seat. Looking out the windows. To see what has changed. In the last four months.<br /><br />And. I see. That very, very little. Has changed.Luciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29996096.post-13876548767807652292010-06-12T15:56:00.002-05:002010-06-12T16:00:20.605-05:00Waking from a Blog SleepStretching awake. After a long blog sleep. And travel. To Haiti after the earthquake. To Peru. To Swaziland. And back. And now. I sweep out the corners. Preparing it. Like a summer cabin. For my return.<br /><br />Tomorrow. I head to Haiti. And I hope. To again. Be. A writer.Luciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29996096.post-67705149031128534452010-01-31T19:47:00.002-06:002010-01-31T20:03:56.148-06:00Watchin' the Grammys in GothamI am perched. In a small hotel room. In Manhattan. It's been ages since I've written. I've been in Ghana for a month. Holidays have come and gone. I started an Etsy store named Found Alchemy, just for fun. (It's <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/foundalchemy">here</a>.) And I've spent the week ordering tents for and thinking about going to Haiti.<br /><br />I was reminded today. In a good way. How none of us ever knows what our days will be like. I left for NY. Thinking I hate the city. But really. I only hate. LaGuardia. Which feels like an overgrown bus station with gum on the floor. By the time I get into the city. And see the restaurants. And small groceries on nearly every corner. I like it. I get to Manhattan. And I remember it's a place where women can walk at night.<br /><br />And riding on the Super Shuttle from the airport. I was on Rockefeller and in Times Square in riding past Broadway theaters. None of which. I anticipated. I'd see today.Luciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29996096.post-20643936929624494002009-09-07T16:14:00.002-05:002009-09-07T16:17:09.273-05:00Out with the NegativeIn less than a month. I'll be in Ghana. But this week. I missed. What sounded like a great celebration. A day of running. A day to cast one's sins and negative experiences into the sea. Shouldn't we all. Have a holiday. To clear the bad juju. And launch it into. The sea.Luciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29996096.post-47233949535074109882009-06-14T07:44:00.001-05:002009-06-14T07:45:50.294-05:00Garden PestsMy friend from Kenya and I. Survey my garden. He’s giving me great advice. On organic techniques and ways to maximize a small space. We’re pulling weeds. And talking about pests. We look at some beetles. And I tell him about 13-stripe ground squirrels burrowing in my yard.<br /><br />And then. He says. “Hippos like yams.” He lives on the shore of Lake Victoria. Where hippos heave their massive bodies out of the water. A fence between them and the yams. Will do the trick. But the monkeys are another story.Luciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29996096.post-43332387394194049932009-06-02T18:07:00.002-05:002009-06-02T18:10:35.781-05:00Conversation on the BusThere are some conversations. That shouldn’t happen. On a bus.<br /><br />Because only one side is heard. By those nearby. It seems private. But it isn’t.<br /><br />He started the call when I got on. And ended it when I got off. I only heard his half. But it was too much.<br /><br />Here is his side of the conversation. Boiled down. To the core.<br /><br />Hi. Did you go?<br /><br />Planned Parenthood?<br /><br />You should have asked me. You would have saved a lot of cab fare if you had gone to Planned Parenthood.<br /><br />Listen to me. Make a photocopy of the bill. This one and the next one. And mail them to him at home or work or whatever. He’s a jerk. Tell him you expect him to pay half. It’s costing you a lot, you know.<br /><br />You need to learn to be tough Clarise.<br /><br />When I stepped off the bus. And into the park. Green all around. The conversation. On the bus. Hung in the air. Over the lake. Even after. It ended.Luciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29996096.post-34592857920361485812009-05-17T07:11:00.001-05:002009-05-17T07:13:03.821-05:00Four Days in PanamaGeckos and frogs sing me to sleep at night. A herpetologist’s paradise. And a herpetologist it is that has invited us to stay. In her home. If we don’t mind the snakes. Next to the ice cream. In the freezer.<br /><br />The house is set off the road. In the village. Down a grass path between fences. Concrete. Rented for $40 a month. A couple of bedrooms. An outhouse and a shower several yards away. Water comes in from the stream. Clean and clear. Above the point. Where it will get contaminated.<br /><br />We sit into the night. Listening to stories of snakes. And the venomous ones. That have taken lives. Because of the distance. To the hospital. Snakes are her life’s work.<br /><br />I shake the bugs from my bag and shower looking over the concrete wall. At the mountains. Showering outdoors. Is wonderful. I wish the little black and white monkeys. That she’s told us about. Around the house. Would sit on the edge of the shower. So I could see them up close.<br /><br />The real world of snakes. And the mystical world. Collide in the national park. There was a severed finger. At the site of the plane crash. On the top of the mountain. Where Omar “If I fall, pick up the flag, kiss it, and keep on going” Torrijos died in 1981. Locals living near Omar Torrijos National Park believe. That their populist leader still lives in the jungle. He’d be 80 now. And they defend his land. It’s likely that they’ll continue to do so, with faith in the unseen. Long after he would be 111. Omar vive.Luciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29996096.post-37197037411005817072009-03-17T06:33:00.004-05:002009-03-17T06:48:04.482-05:00Life. And Art.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://cheryl.yachana.org/uploaded_images/circleweb-755308.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 268px; height: 240px;" src="http://cheryl.yachana.org/uploaded_images/circleweb-755298.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>I love how the subconscious. Breaks through the cracks. Like a seed splitting the earth. To make itself known.<br /><br />It’s already been 10 days. Since I took a found art class. At Shake Rag Alley. With Michael Donovan. Since then, I’ve been away. And now. I’m back.<br /><br />I chose an industrial, metal, rigid base. Regular. Heavy. I was thinking the circle of life. The key to life. And without realizing it. I created something harsh. A blade. Cutting. And in the middle, a metal zero.<br /><br />Something missing. Michael suggested something with color. Light and whimsical. I perched a blue bird. On the barbed wire.<br /><br />The next day. When I woke. The very best of times. For my subconscious to surface. I understood. That this. Is about the obligations and heaviness. I often feel about life. The series of endless lists. <br /><br />What is so important. About the whimsical part. Is that THAT is the key to life. Not the harsh. Metal. Industrial. Regularity. Which can result. In zero.<br /><br />It’s not done yet. Artists on an assemblage listserv. And others. Have offered ideas. My favorite? To embrace it.Luciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29996096.post-61293894654392396582009-01-04T08:18:00.001-06:002009-01-04T08:21:03.755-06:00Mexico: Abbreviated Escape<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://cheryl.yachana.org/uploaded_images/cascada-722040.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 319px; height: 171px;" src="http://cheryl.yachana.org/uploaded_images/cascada-722030.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Traveling. I try to stay in the zen zone. Where the crowds don’t exist. And having been bumped up to first class. And having those flights on time. Makes the zen zone. Easy.<br /><br />The marido and I. Took the bus from Tucson. To Los Mochis. And from there. Took the train to the Copper Canyon. To Creel. Endless hours of bent legged travel.<br /><br />We took a short tour. With a boy. Of no more than 16. Whose voice was right in the middle of changing. He squeaked. A few facts. About the area. And we bumped along in a big, shiny, red pickup. Which was probably. Purchased with drug money. Since that’s a big source of income. In Creel. We went to a waterfall. With a sign. Of a woman looking more like a Playboy bunny. Than a round Tarahuamara woman. And we ate lunch. At a lake. Sitting on a rock. Eating oranges. Surrounded by pine needles. Which was nearly. Perfection.Luciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29996096.post-46716043320888047872008-11-25T06:58:00.000-06:002008-11-25T07:00:08.226-06:00LunchWe sat. In the back of the fiber arts store. Next to big windows. Overlooking the bay. Watching birds at feeders after the first snow. And we caught up. On an entire year of each other’s lives. Her time living in Paris. Visits to the Louvre. No lines at the Eiffel Tower in the low season. My travels. Haiti. Palestine. Egypt. Her job at a center for domestic violence. How they were rocked with sadness by a murder. Of an infant. The potato leek soup was warm. But in truth, not very good. I talked about the whole other life. I sometimes dream of. Reading books. Writing. Making assemblage art. A life. That probably looks. A lot like retirement. Which is distant. We each went back to work. With hopes of making the time. To see each other 2 or 3 times a year. Instead of just. Once.Luciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29996096.post-60729319433872938932008-09-28T12:11:00.003-05:002008-09-29T16:23:19.842-05:00Philippines: Try Before You BuyIf they hadn’t spoken. I would have mistaken them for businessmen. Four in all. Aged 35-60. Sitting in the Manila airport. Waiting for a flight. To Detroit.<br /><br />The big Southerner started the conversation. The one with the shirt sporting jumping fish. And lures. Lures. “Found her on my first time out!”<br /><br />“How old is she?” they all ask. “’Bout 32.” And then. He complained. About how much work. It is. To get a new wife out of the Philippines.<br /><br />“So y'all came for the same thing?” he asks. They all nod their assent.<br /><br />Yes. Yes, indeed.<br /><br />And I became quiet. And began. Unabashedly eavesdropping.<br /><br />A sharp looking guy. In khakis. Who sounded like he was from Boston. Was a big proponent. Although he hadn’t found a wife. His trips sounded. Recreational.<br /><br />Boston described. Women from the provinces with adjectives. Like “pretty,” “clean,” and “well-dressed.” And, he added, “Humble, humble, humble.” “They’ll chop off the top of a coconut for ya!” he exclaimed. And later. With a wink, wink. He added, “They’re very ‘flexible.’ If ya know what I mean.”<br /><br />The next question up for discussion: How much is she worth? $5/day? $7? $10? Yeah, they’re cheap over here. Try before you buy.<br /><br />The quiet one has been listening. He’s been here three times. But there’s no wife. They ask him, “Do you think you’ll be trying again?” “No,” he says softly.<br /><br />Boston chimes in again, with his view on relationship building. With an analogy. “It’s like cement. It takes the foundation some time to set.”<br /><br />I feel revulsion. I think how desperate these women must feel. In a country with 40% unemployment. Which is even higher in the provinces. And this. Commodification. Trafficking. Seems like the only way out.<br /><br />And the men keep coming. To buy. Cooking. Cleaning. Laundry. And Sexual. Services. Is it a good trade? Services for life in the U.S.?<br /><br />I offer my apologies. To any American men. On flight 72. From Manila. Who aren’t coming back from a foray. Because right now. I’m looking at all of you. With sad. Disgust.Luciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29996096.post-47834750840087265562008-09-24T17:55:00.000-05:002008-09-24T17:56:11.687-05:00Philippines: Crossing the RiverThe current was strong. The water was clear. Rushing over the rocks. The only way across was through. Cool water felt good on my feet. Flowing through my shoes. One woman. Lost a flip flop. Swept into the current and carried downstream. The rest of her afternoon. Was walking on the rocks. With one flip flop. And one bare foot. For me. The best thing about traveling. Is doing things. I don’t do. Every other day.Luciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05295553538430945014noreply@blogger.com1