Lucia has something to say

Watchin' the Grammys in Gotham

noreply@blogger.com (Lucia) — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 01:47:00 +0000

I 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 here.) And I've spent the week ordering tents for and thinking about going to Haiti.

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.

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.

Out with the Negative

noreply@blogger.com (Lucia) — Mon, 07 Sep 2009 21:14:00 +0000

In 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.

Garden Pests

noreply@blogger.com (Lucia) — Sun, 14 Jun 2009 12:44:00 +0000

My 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.

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.

Conversation on the Bus

noreply@blogger.com (Lucia) — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 23:07:00 +0000

There are some conversations. That shouldn’t happen. On a bus.

Because only one side is heard. By those nearby. It seems private. But it isn’t.

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.

Here is his side of the conversation. Boiled down. To the core.

Hi. Did you go?

Planned Parenthood?

You should have asked me. You would have saved a lot of cab fare if you had gone to Planned Parenthood.

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.

You need to learn to be tough Clarise.

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.

Four Days in Panama

noreply@blogger.com (Lucia) — Sun, 17 May 2009 12:11:00 +0000

Geckos 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Life. And Art.

noreply@blogger.com (Lucia) — Tue, 17 Mar 2009 11:33:00 +0000

I love how the subconscious. Breaks through the cracks. Like a seed splitting the earth. To make itself known.

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.

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.

Something missing. Michael suggested something with color. Light and whimsical. I perched a blue bird. On the barbed wire.

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.

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.

It’s not done yet. Artists on an assemblage listserv. And others. Have offered ideas. My favorite? To embrace it.

Mexico: Abbreviated Escape

noreply@blogger.com (Lucia) — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 14:18:00 +0000

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.

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.

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.

Lunch

noreply@blogger.com (Lucia) — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 12:58:00 +0000

We 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.

Visitors from India

noreply@blogger.com (Lucia) — Thu, 02 Oct 2008 14:49:00 +0000

There's quite a nice post. About our visitors from India. Fair Trade Friends. Written by a Madison Magazine blogger.

Philippines: Try Before You Buy

noreply@blogger.com (Lucia) — Sun, 28 Sep 2008 17:11:00 +0000

If 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.

The big Southerner started the conversation. The one with the shirt sporting jumping fish. And lures. Lures. “Found her on my first time out!”

“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.

“So y'all came for the same thing?” he asks. They all nod their assent.

Yes. Yes, indeed.

And I became quiet. And began. Unabashedly eavesdropping.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.?

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.

Philippines: Crossing the River

noreply@blogger.com (Lucia) — Wed, 24 Sep 2008 22:55:00 +0000

The 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.

Philippines: Road Trip

noreply@blogger.com (Lucia) — Mon, 22 Sep 2008 12:20:00 +0000

My head near the window. I try to dry. My wet hair. Soaked by sweat and humidity. All I can do. Is pull it back with my fingers. From my face. We fly past sari-sari stores. Fruit stands. And small flags flapping along the road. We pass a sign that says “Pulis.” Which I later understand. To be police. Women cross the road. With babies. Too close for comfort. The humidity. Grabs at my roots. I am tired. I have not adjusted to the time. And by the time I do. I will be back home.

The Teflon Princess: A Fairy Tale

noreply@blogger.com (Lucia) — Sun, 21 Sep 2008 18:40:00 +0000

Once. Upon a time. There was a Teflon princess. And a real princess. Teflonia, as she was wont to be called, expected flowers. To be laid. At her feet. The real princess, let’s call her Lucia, was embarrassed. When flowers. Were placed at her feet. She wanted. The flowers. To be distributed equally. One to every one. The real princess. Had a deep sense of fairness. And equality. And responsibility.

One day Teflonia was waving at her admirers. Taking in their adulation. As she straightened her taffeta and smiled. She dropped the scepter of responsibility. She reached for her tiara. To be sure it was still there. But she took little notice. Of the absence of the scepter. The scepter others had picked up. Out of the dust.

Teflonia’s days grew lighter. Without the scepter. As others toiled with the responsibility. But the day arrived. When the scepter was returned to Teflonia. She took it with a flourish. Without a nod or wink. Without a look of thanks. Without a single flower. For Teflonia thought. Mostly of herself. An outlook. Perfected by princesses throughout the ages.

The real princess. Became weary. Of the Teflon princess. She thought about the Biblical parable of the Workers in the Vineyard. Who each started work. At a different time of the day. And yet. At the end of the day. All were paid the same. Her sense of fairness. Violated. She spent days considering. The path ahead. She was unsure. And she is unsure still.

Philippines: Childhood

noreply@blogger.com (Lucia) — Sun, 21 Sep 2008 03:14:00 +0000

I wish in all cultures. Childhood was sacred. But it's not. I'll be on my way. In just an hour or two. From Manila to Olangapo City. To Preda. They work with abused children. Children trafficked into brothels. Children in jail. Both difficult. And sad. That this is an everyday occurrence. The children. Draw pictures. Like the one here.

Automaton

noreply@blogger.com (Lucia) — Tue, 16 Sep 2008 21:08:00 +0000

Am I the only one? Who thought McCain's interview on the Today show this morning. Was laughable at best. And pitiful at worst. That he had only. Twenty seconds of on-message talk. That he repeated. Over and over and over again. It was like listening to an endless loop. On an automaton. I have trouble believing. A man who talks about greed. When he owns six houses. Or is it seven? Himself.

Silk Music

noreply@blogger.com (Lucia) — Tue, 12 Aug 2008 03:46:00 +0000

My Indian-American neighbor. Plays Bollywood music into the night. The love songs. Punctuated by sitar and sung in beautiful reedy voices. Leak through her screens. Into the night air. Where they whorl. And come through my screen. Covering me while I fall asleep. Like a fine silk sari, so light, I hardly know it's there.

The Bike Elevator

noreply@blogger.com (Lucia) — Tue, 24 Jun 2008 12:10:00 +0000

Madison is a great city for biking. For most of my commute to work, I take off-road bike paths. Past community gardens. To the path along the lake. Where there is a bike elevator. To take up the hill to the Capitol.

You'd think that only the out of shape. The new. The wimpy. Bikers. Would be on that elevator. But every morning. I roll in. With muscled women and men. In biking clothes. Who take the elevator.

I roll in to the right. And am joined by another 2 or 3 bikers. The elevator is just the right length. For bikes. Sometimes. Someone who wants to get on when it's full. Pulls up their front tire. And rolls in vertically. And up we go. I ask, "4 and 5?" And press the buttons. And we ride up. Together.

Dreams

noreply@blogger.com (Lucia) — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 23:46:00 +0000

One of the questions. We asked often. Was "What are your dreams?" Asking about dreams. Is a way of defining. What people would like to happen. Between here. And there. These are the dreams. Of olive wood carvers. And women who make couscous. Of mother-of-pearl artisans. And olive farmers. Of mothers. And grandmothers. Of fathers. And sons.

"I have many dreams. The simplest is that the situation would get better."

"I want to buy a house and get married."

"We all have the same dreams. Peace. Dignity."

"I want my children to finish school, and then come back to be olive farmers."

"Stability and peace."

"That my children can go to university."

"I would like a house by the sea."

Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace

You may say that I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will be as one

Food!

noreply@blogger.com (Lucia) — Mon, 02 Jun 2008 16:14:00 +0000

No time to write. But I'll leave you with some food.

An Even More Abbreviated Photo Essay

noreply@blogger.com (Lucia) — Thu, 29 May 2008 15:15:00 +0000

Control. Alt. Delete. From the West Bank side of the wall.

Egypt: An Abbreviated Photo Essay

noreply@blogger.com (Lucia) — Sat, 24 May 2008 20:51:00 +0000

Egypt: Sloppy Traveling

noreply@blogger.com (Lucia) — Mon, 19 May 2008 23:40:00 +0000

If I had seen me in the Cairo airport, I would have me pegged. As an inexperienced traveler. Which couldn’t be farther from the truth.

It wasn’t that I picked the slowest immigration line. (I have a knack for that and can pretty much do that every time.) And it wasn’t that I went straight to exchange $50 into Egyptian pounds. (Which may have been my wisest move during my 2:00 a.m. arrival.)

It had to do with getting to the hotel.

This is a photo from my room window. It’s fairly evident now that I’m here that the airport is probably a 5-minute walk from the hotel and that if I had a really good slingshot, I might be able to clear the pool and zing the concrete wall of the air control tower.

After waiting for a hotel van, I gave up and took a pre-paid cab, which in many countries is regulated. Here, it appears they can charge based on the miscalculations of blundering travelers, which was, in this case $10. This $10 carried me and my suitcase, by car, less than eighth of a mile, right up to the door of the hotel where it was evident that the cab driver knew sufficient English to say, “Driver tip.”

By the time I stumbled into my room, I had dispensed a ridiculous $15 in tips for getting into the cab, using enough gas to idle a car for 20 minutes, and having my wheeled luggage brought to my room by a well-tipped hotel worker. I flipped on the bathroom light and pulled up my bangs to see if “Sucker” was imprinted on my forehead.

And sure enough, there it was. I couldn’t read it, of course, because it was in Arabic, but I’m fairly sure it was there.

Intro. Vert.

noreply@blogger.com (Lucia) — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 01:58:00 +0000

I’m not sure why. I felt the need. To take a 10-question introvert-extrovert test. I already know. I am an introvert. I’d estimate. If the test gave a percentage. I’d be about 85% introvert.

I need time alone. I like quiet conversations with just a few good friends. I’m never bored by myself, but can be genuinely numbed of mind by party banter.

The extroverts of the world set the agenda for social norms. It’s time for a revolution, my friends. As Jonathan Raush said, “We can only dream that someday, when our condition is more widely understood, when perhaps an Introverts' Rights movement has blossomed and borne fruit, it will not be impolite to say I'm an introvert. You are a wonderful person and I like you. But now please shush.’”

Haitian Art

noreply@blogger.com (Lucia) — Thu, 13 Mar 2008 01:34:00 +0000

Some of you. Have been asking. To see some art I bought in Haiti. So I took photos. Of my two favorite pieces. I’m a great lover of recycled drum art. Cut metal mermaids and fish. Starfish and seaweed. I bought a lot of drum art. But these pieces are special to me. Both infused with Haitian voudou. The photos don’t do them justice. Since spirits avoid capture.

The first is a voudou ritual flag deluged with sequins. A drapo. To honor the spirit and inspire devotees

The second is assemblage art. When I bought the piece, the gallery owner asked if I wanted to meet the artist who was out back. He said that his work wasn’t as good since he “repented” from voudou. But this piece, which the artist called the butterfly angel, was imbued with some of the milder gentler benevolent spirits. Who bring lightness. (It’s too bad the photo doesn’t show the wonderful rusty bent nails congregated on the top and bottom.)

Need a really good laugh? Read the customer reviews for the Playmobil Security Check Point on Amazon.com.

Swept

noreply@blogger.com (Lucia) — Wed, 05 Mar 2008 12:24:00 +0000

I am swept by the tide. Island to island. From Port-au-Prince to Whidbey Island, between Seattle and Vancouver. This sounds more idyllic than the reality of airports and a stop in frigid Wisconsin. To exchange summer clothes for winter. To perform between-trip banalities.

The rest of the week will be spent with friends from Weave A Real Peace. People with whom I can be my authentic self. Instead of my representative self. Of an organization. Or a movement. Or a group. Just me.

I had hoped to write more. About Haiti. But life. Keeps moving.

Currently reading: Breath, Eyes, Memory by Edwidge Danticat