Contents of my Head: A Poem

Ember and Pulse

You're still here (barely).

Candescent ember amidst rubble--
warm-reaching to illuminate
shells of dismembered love poems
those you were meant to burn
back when deep red lines like veins
stretched over immaculate white reason
and (under my inadequate words) collapsed


But I'm still here (nearly).

The stubborn pulse that lingers in evergold hope
of sustaining just one fistful of faded fire
in this far-fallen heap of unspoken verse

And I fear, I know
a pulse is not a life
an ember is not a flame
And this rubble's not a home

But I know, I fear
every poem caught in my darkness
and every landscape in your light
sometimes run away to meet in the
never-had-places of dream-drenched-hours
where we maybe (always) one day were.

(sp)

We, The Music.

My mind spins even in stillness. And like a record in a box in a basement, the silent darkness has no bearing on the layered memories of my melodies. I bear a song that you may or may not call a song depending on whether or not you would differentiate between the sound of a teardrop and a raindrop hitting a blank paper. My lyrics hold me hostage until I write them. And I sing them without permission in libraries and on church rooftops. I sing them out of key, with gum in my mouth because my song is a fearless minty fresh truth that somebody’s been waiting on a corner to hear. I have a song, that just like his, hers, and yours, feeds the space we inhabit. But only in unraveling the noise of life, can we gently pull out one perfect strand of music. The lyrics of humanity can be found saturating the most ordinary of places--bleeding from the strangers you ponder from behind dark glasses as they walk towards you in the city. Release your song into the world; sing it until you know it. Until you love it. And when you do, sing it loud enough to fill the gaps between us.

A River Knows Perfect

We live in a society which refuses to wait for you to tie your shoes. The American Dream was swallowed by the American Race and it demands progress, evolution, efficiency. But in our hearts, we long to stand still like we do in our favorite old photographs. It wasn’t until the summer of 2009 that I truly perfected the art of “letting a moment seize you.” I have Montecristo to thank for that. When I was lovingly adopted into the small community of Montecristo, for the first time in my life, I wanted to be perfect in everything I did. Not merely good, not just great, or well intentioned. No…Perfect. Perfect at the very least, like-a-4.5 GPA-and-30-extra-curriculars-on-an-college-application perfect. While I had never had an intrinsic desire to be the best of the best in academia, this tiny little community in El Salvador was a game-changer. I knew within my first two weeks that I would never again have the privilege to work for something that I loved as much as these people. So yes, the time had come to be perfect and not because it was expected of me, but because I genuinely felt that it would be criminal to give them anything less than the perfection they deserved. I figured the best way to “go perfect” was to begin with psychotic-grade, meticulous planning. In the weeks to come, my mind, my journal, and the surfaces of my room were assaulted by a barrage of project proposals, web diagrams, Venn Diagrams, outlines, and pie graphs. The family I lived with invited neighbors to come witness the insane organizational shrine the gringa had constructed in her room. Notes were color-coded, alphabetized, and prioritized according to community needs. Even the image of Gandhi on my wall with his famous inspirational words “Be the change…” was buried under layers of plans for the change I was determined to be. I was relentless. Yet still, my multiplying sticky notes of to-do lists refused to stick to the humid, molded walls, and soon fluttered to the floor like rebellious fall leaves. In my first few months in site, I was invited to the river almost every day. Initially, I respectfully declined, but in the long run my resistance proved futile--every couple hours “Mission Perfect” was interrupted by the sweet voice of children gathered at my gate, “Kalllllllliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii, Kaliiiiiiiiiiiiii, vamanos a bañarrrrr!” Ok, just one hour. But one hour often turned into six. The river was productivity kryptonite. Its spell sucked me in without fail, along with hoards of local children, aged six to thirty-two. (Note: If you think by 32 you no longer qualify as a child, go to the nearest river, start to skip stones, and it will be undeniably evident that in that place, you could even be a child at 101.) Riverside we delighted in an endless array of unproductive activities, none of which were featured on my post-it collage of elaborate work plans. River activities included water tag, sand castle construction, mango-eating contests, and face painting with a pallet of mud, clay, and pollen. Every afternoon each of us graduated from the sandy banks with prestigious degrees in storytelling, minnow catching, and tree climbing. The river taught us that it was possible to be still. And when we laughed and sang loudly to the sky, we glowed with the unspoken secret all of us shared--that it was not sunlight, but perfection itself, that glistened in the water beaded on our shoulders. And because we had it, in that moment, we were richer than kings and wiser than time. It was a secret too precious to keep or carry, but our hearts knew exactly where to go to discover it over and over again. Eventually dusk would crawl into the valley, bringing with it dusty gusts of wind, el norte, which whistled through the mangled tree branches, calling us back home. The thirsty grass crunching audibly beneath our feet, we traversed the barren pastures of cutuco trees and roaming cows. The bold colors of our swim clothes could be seen a mile away—a single vibrant streak across a brown-hued canvas. Dry season was like that, harsh and stark—the only soft strands of landscape that remained were the rivers, reduced to streams after months without the slightest hint of a raindrop. These rivers, the Hualpuca, the Lempa and their web of tributaries, were our haven. At night, the heavy cloak of heat was so unbearable that we often wandered in groups to the river by moonlight. The swimming holes were at their most magical in the dark. The blackness of night was inhabited only by fireflies, our voices, and a sky flooded with enough stars to drown the most jaded of souls. After following our flashlights home, we’d collapse in our hammocks and hurry off to dreams before our refreshed skin started to dampen with sweat once more. The only thing better than being by the river was being there next to the people I loved. In the end I did manage to eke out my fair share of “productive” projects, often against the current of country-living in Latin America. But ironically, the closest I ever came to perfection was at the river. I caught a glimpse of it one afternoon when I invented a song about animal clouds and little Estefani burst out with bouts of silent shaking laughter curled upon my lap. I was perfect one day while washing a tub full of dirty dishes alongside Zulma, our body positions inadvertently identical. I realized we did that often because we had become sisters, and this is something siblings do. Perfect was the moment I huddled in a tight circle under the mango tree with my group of teenage girls, explaining how and why to use a condom as they listened intently. It was then I knew that we had grown a deep trust by that river. And also I think back to that humid night in February when Reyna grabbed my wrists and we swung around howling by the campfire until we crashed to the ground, side by side, hysterical, and coated in wet sand. The love I gave, and the love I received--that, above all, was perfect. Over a year has passed since I said goodbye to Montecristo but my mind often drifts off to the Hualpuca on a sundrenched day. I always smile thinking that on those banks, in this exact moment, there are children laughing. And they are telling stories and knocking down mangoes the same way their parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents did because the constant acceleration of change has no bearing whatsoever on the timeless magic of rivers. Progress and productivity are as irrelevant to a river day as an Ipad is to a hug from your mother. It’s where the people go in 2013, it’s where people went in 1750. It was, is, and always will be a place of sacred stillness—a place to be perfect.

To Dad, Story Master of My World

My six-year-old body lay stretched across the hot rubber side tube of the raft. It was in that moment,cradled by the sweet breeze, warm sunlight, and low hum of the rapids behind us that Dad began his story, “When I was younger I once counted every rock in this river larger than a man’s fist...” My eyes grew wide as I turned my head towards the mounds of rocks heaped along the shoreline. I imagined all the dark wet hidden rocks, at the bottom of the river—Protectors of the crawfish kings, touched solely by the reverent kisses of passing rainbow trout. And then the rocks beneath those, entombed in thick mud, wrapped in leafy robes from many golden falls ago. I imagined my Dad’s strong, callused hands gripped around every last one of them. At the time it seemed perfectly logical. Only my dad could hold an entire river bed in his hands. Only my dad could count past a million. In nature with my father, my passion for stories ignited—stories conceived in dreams, memories, reality, or some fusion of the three. Factuality was always the least important detail. And when it came to my father, I embraced the truths with the half-truths and the myths because they filled my world with infinite wonder just the same. And as I move through the years of my life it becomes ever clearer to me that counting every rock in the river is one of the least impressive feats my Dad has (or hasn't) accomplished. Happy Father’s Day to the man who can achieve anything. Your greatest stories are downriver...

Relapse in Machismo Rehab

When it happens, it starts a very specific wave of physical discomfort—beginning with a tightening of the muscles in the back of my neck and the growing tangle of curse words breeding in the back of my throat. I take comfort in my armor--dark sun glasses and The White Stripes blasting from my headphones. My pace quickens, I pull my shirt down over my butt, hold my head up high, and start walking at an angle to create greater distance between myself and the approaching man. I hate that living with machismo has made me a hider, the kind of person that puts barriers between herself and her surroundings. But to be honest, I need my barriers to keep my sanity. And I realize that by saying this I may seem a bit crazy. That’s OK. I am. And yes, I know for every machista, there is another man just walking along minding his own business. But sadly, over the past few years I’ve lost the ability to see anything but the dogs out there. Maybe it’s an unfair prejudice, but regardless, my instincts keep me coiled like a cobra, ready to strike at anything invading my territory—perceived liars, cheaters, chauvinists, horny bastards licking their lips. I’m always expecting the worst, bracing for the hiss in my ear, the invasive gaze scanning my body as I move. And I keep a face smack on stand-by for the butt grabber moving in just as I step off a crowded bus. There are moments when I think I’m starting to make progress. I definitely know more than a few good men here who chip away at the negative stereotype in my mind. Thank God for the exceptions, the *Santiagos* out there. Santi, a 43 year-old Argentine student of mine, came into my life at the beginning of 2012 and we immediately developed a unique friendship. Our shared love of sweets, story-telling, creative writing, and Lou Reed brought us together. I was told my friendship with him was a bold move…friendship between women and (especially married) men was playing with fire according to my Ecuadoran girlfriends. “Kali, unless he’s family or gay or gay family, then you simply can’t be his friend out of respect for his wife.” So yes, at first I felt guilty for thinking of him as my friend, but as time went on I realized I had absolutely no reason to. What we had was a genuine co-appreciation and neither of us had ever thought of it as anything more than that. Simply put, he helped me heal. No matter what kind of bad encounters I had earlier in the day, there was Santi to paint over that lingering negativity in my mind. He never once looked at me with anything but a warm, friendly smile. He never spoke to me like I was some fragile little blonde doll. His first question to me wasn’t “Are you single?” “Where’s your boyfriend?” or “Do you like Latino men?” It was “Do you feel happy here?” I used to fear that I may never be able to really trust men anymore, at least not in this cultural context. Santiago reminded me that my head is holding me back from being able to discriminate between “the good guys” and “bad guys” of the world. Yet still, there are days, like today, I feel I’m relapsing and I wonder, Will I ever recover, damnit?. It was 7:30am, I was walking down Ave. America, and suddenly a man carrying a beautiful little girl wrapped in a blanket rounded the bend. He had her tiny Dora the Explorer backpack dangling from his forearm. He must have been in his early thirties. He rounded the bend so quickly; I didn’t have time to put up my usual preemptive defense shield. And suddenly he veered across the wide empty sidewalk, passing within inches of my face, making a loud wet, lip-smacking noise beside my left ear. The tension came rushing to my neck and the instant fire in the back of my throat stopped me dead in my tracks. As he walked away his daughter watched me over his shoulder, bouncing with the cadence of his steps, a sleepy haze in her dark brown eyes. I wanted to scream at him, humiliate him but nothing could come out with her looking back at me like that. So I stood there on the sidewalk, feeling paralyzed and enraged as he walked away…Every few steps he turned around to look at me, smiling, winking, mouthing words. Usually by this point, I would be in full-attack mode. Right up in his face, calling him a coward, a pathetic small man with a small mind and a small…, fingers waving in his face. But this time I was just frozen and silent. How could I tear him apart like that in front of his little girl? Would she get scared? How would he influence her relationships with men in the future? Would she end up angry like me, or worse…just indifferent? I know I will see this man with his girl again, as they walk down to her school in my neighborhood. Next time I need to do something. So I’ve written this note to give him which I carry in my pocket every day just in case we meet again. Roughly translated, it says this-- You do not have the right to disrespect me. I can only imagine you behave in this way because nobody ever taught you how a real man should act, but it’s not too late to learn. Naturally, I wouldn’t expect you to change for someone like me, the Gringa you harassed in the street. But you need to do it for the beautiful little girl wrapped around your neck. Show her how real men treat women, so that one day she will seek out a man that will treat her in a way that feeds her strength rather than rips it away. And blow kisses at her, be in awe of her--not the women you pass in the street. Please, be the man you can be. **Name changed

Notes From a Rock Collector's Daughter

People collect all kinds of things…stamps, thimbles, LPs, coins, over-priced novelty teddy bears, children from poverty-ridden nations, guns, sex toys, Star Wars action figures. I have always been fascinated by the things people choose to collect but personally, I decided awhile back to avoid accumulating much more than music and memories. (OK, let’s be real…And sun glasses). Perhaps one of the most intriguing collections I've encountered is my mom’s rock collection. To clarify, I’m not talking about precious stones, rubies or emeralds…no Mom has always had an affinity for the blue collar rocks…that round grey rock, weighing about 1-2 pounds, nestled among hundreds of other grey rocks similar in form and weight on the riverbank. The rocks that thousands of people have walked over or sat on since the beginning of time, rocks which go unnoticed with the exception of the occasional toker, contemplating the origin of the

universe through glazed eyes. Mom’s theory on rocks runs parallel to her theory on people—If you take the time to really look at them from every angle, you discover their unique beauty. Sometimes you have to roll a rock around in your hand for quite a while before you notice something special about it. This takes time which most people don't claim to have in today's world. But mom would always be the first to see that special something…a slightly curved line resembling a smile, the trunk of an elephant, the subtle imprint of a fern, or a curious black spot. My brothers and my dad and I, have been hauling rocks in our pockets and backpacks for years—from The White Nile in Uganda, the Ottawa Valley in Canada, Rio Piedra in Colombia, the Arizona desert, the stream by my house in Montecristo, El Salvador, even from the parking lot behind Target. Mom places the rocks in a special place on the deck of the house, in piles, in circles, painted and bare. Although by now she must have over 500, she could still tell you about the origin of half of them. The only thing mom manages to collect more than rocks are people to love—because as a happy wanderer in the rocky path of life, she knows that that any ordinary stranger is just someone extraordinary that you haven’t understood yet.

Baños: I'll Be Your Mirror

Woke up this morning, ten minutes before the sun, jammed a heap of clothes from the bedroom floor into my weathered, purple backpack, grabbed $40 out of my savings account (aka my old turquoise shoe with the broken sole), and hopped the trolley to the bus terminal. As I turned left down my street, the stately Virgen of Panecillo greeted me from the hilltop in the distance, the sky behind her hinting at morning. The city was quiet. The streets, empty. As I walked down Colon, I dodged a pool of fresh vomit on the corner and smiled sideways to the last of the marathon partiers, dragging their wary feet up the hill, still reeking of fishbowl cocktails and cheap cologne, imitation Cool Water, I believe. I love this city, but right now I need to get out. Baños. I had been to Baños before, but always with company. Always to distract myself—to go canyoning, adventure sightseeing or just to drink some cold beers and dance til I collapsed into a plastic chair at the nearest kebab stand. Today I’m here alone, with no particular goal or objective. It’s a five hour trek from Quito, and I arrived at noon. I will have to leave for another five hour ride home tomorrow at 10am. Quite the hike for a mission-less destination. But truthfully, I’ve always been better at accomplishing missions when I don’t have them. Baños. A small town, tucked lovingly in the pocket of the surrounding steep green hills. A handful of life sprinkled at the foot of an active volcano. A magical place where a shape-shifting flock of clouds perpetually lingers low, whispering secrets to the hilltops. Unlike the endless deep blue firmament of Quito, here the sky maintains an existential gray. The clouds cover the land like a heavy blanket, and the hills wrap around the town like a mother’s arms around her infant. The natural boundaries of this sleepy town create a safe, cozy sensation, while everything else about Baños makes you feel like you’re walking through someone else’s dream reflected in a funhouse mirror. I spent the afternoon drifting aimlessly through the streets, contemplating the buildings, the writing on the walls, the hidden corridors between spaces, the narrow thread of a waterfall drawing a white streak down the verdant peak to the East. It’s a mess, but, it’s the right kind of mess, the perfect tangled amount. Consistently inconsistent and boldly contradictory. Stretches of wall alive with graffiti depicting eyeball orgies, pin-up divas, cackling jagged-toothed children, and a wiry, somber girl wearing a bird’s head hat curled up atop a fish. I examine every word, every scribbled vow of “amor.” Every unsightly tag sprayed across a park bench. Every piece of paper posted in doorways, every torn sticker on the backside of stop signs. I peer through the cracks of every cement wall and discover hidden galleries of poems. I devour the words and images, bury myself in silent dialogue. Kneeling in the cathedral, I wander among the geometric patterns of the ceiling. My voice intuitively washes into the sea of droning prayers. Cuarto misterio. Santa Maria Madre de Dios ruega por nosotros los pecadores… The central cathedral resembles a charming fairytale castle by day. By night, it’s a Vegas strip installation, illuminated with blue neon tube lighting. Lovely old colonial architecture rubs elbows with tacky bubble-gum cement monstrosities. Sharp lines, reflective glass, half-constructed minimalist modern gaud. Bad ideas that stick like a butterfly tattoo on your wrist. In the storefronts old, tired clowns await scraps of garbage with hungry open mouths. Gaping holes in the sidewalk stand patiently, anxious to swallow up tourists lost behind view finders as they try to snap a shot in which power lines do not dissect the picturesque, textured peaks around them. A broken fountain full of rain water reflects the quiet stillness of the sky. Reggaeton base pounds over here, an Andean flute covers “My Heart Will Go On” over there, an eerie accordion moaning somewhere in between. Near the square, onlookers fixate on an artist as he pencils the speck of light into Che Guevarra’s left eye. As you stray from the heart of the town, the sound of rushing water intensifies. The simplicity of nature beckons. Near the waterfall, there’s a cylindrical tower--a cross between a giant birdhouse and a futuristic space lounge with a spiral slide mounted on the side. Something straight from the fearless imagination of an eight year old child. As the story goes a local man built it to be a discotheque with a 360 degree view of the town but shortly after opening it was declared architecturally unsound and it’s been abandoned ever since. The broken windows, vacant eyes, gaze out in all directions. In the park you’ll find a unique wooden bridge, “The Bridge of Love,” which leads to absolutely nowhere, a popular photo hotspot for young lovers, a perfect metaphor for the cynics. And what else would I find hanging above me but a giant heart shaped Jesus pendant, also starring the Virgin with the Tungurahua volcano erupting molten lava at her side. So many eclectic puzzle pieces of nonsensical whimsy, collapsed dreams, partially constructed plans, divine messy imperfection. When ugliness and beauty converge at every turn, the result is something more honest, rawer than the postcards depict. Something superior to beauty—something perfect. I see you Baños, and I think you see me too -- just another piece of the landscape that boldly doesn't fit.