world’s best, heaveny souls inc.

about two summers ago and three heartaches past      Suqi decided she needed a new soul       because        she couldn’t continue living with the one she had

her soul worked fine       she’d had it for years and the man who’d sold it to her assured her it was fine             it was an old soul            which meant it had more lives than one                         it would make her feel calm and wise

but it was so old it was like an out of tune jukebox             and it had a lumpy feeling to it      in some places             it felt like things were missing         holes were inside of her             she felt hollowed         when she showered             she felt water run through her

i assumed it was part of aging              her soul was getting older             and getting dementia             i thought she’d get used to it                  i tried to get used to it              i had never mentioned that i noticed changes in the way she was acting

she had problems with her heart too                 it ached                                                                  she figured it ached because she had lots of existential questions                         she asked them all the time                                                                                                                                                                   to me

of course I couldn’t give any answers                        i’m a buddhist    i go from day to day        without questions                                                   so how would I know                                                                                                                                                                but she was desperate             she wanted to get rid of her soul for as long as she could remember since the day she was born

i thought i knew why i had fallen in love with her     because she was able to accept anything                        and still appreciate life for what it is

Suqi asks too many questions                                                                                    i have a feeling i don’t ask enough             maybe i don’t expect too much                         from my soul                the soothing comfort of down feathers from underneath            that quiet om feeling when everything is going to be fine                                                                                                                                                            just don’t ask too many questions

i felt there was no reason to get rid of her soul             it had been promised to her family by a traveling salesman              who said it would last her a lifetime                  i figured it was going to be fine until our bodies gave out                         til they died                        because besides               it happens                        there are people who exchange their souls for new ones                         i’ve never known anyone that’s had it done                           it’s expensive         but Suqi was feeling heartache             and asking questions                                                                                                                                                             why this?            why that?                         when did?             how did?           really? i mean, really?             does that even make sense?  it doesn’t make sense                         is it me?            is it us?

what about us?

still i loved her                         still i love her                        but i felt Suqi was being difficult            she was testing me                        she just wanted her way            and it was my job not to fight her because we had had this fight before

the marriage counselor said if it was easier for me to give in                because i’m a buddhist                                                                                                                                                            i should give in

it never occurred to me that her soul was really causing her heartache             it never occurred to me that her soul was at fault                                                                                    so i didn’t do anything            and for a long time Suqi didn’t do anything

she hates consumer products but she likes to go shopping            doesn’t make sense            i know

after so many questions unanswered            a sense of loss            a sense of hollowness                i was convinced             she had heartache                                                                                      i didn’t

so i said             sure            let’s get you a new soul                                                            we’re moving into a new house            we may as well get you a new soul            but then she asked how i’d know it was a good soul            i don’t want another soul that hurts            how will i know how to get a good one?

i said we’ll search google and we’ll look up soul shops and i’m sure we’ll find several places that sell them                         there will be so many we’ll click on a link at random                                                                                                                                                            it will be a place that offers lots of souls where we can make a choice as to what constitutes a good one by trying them on

Suqi knew that you just cant walk into a place and buy a soul                                                 she knows this about consumerism            tax, warranty, surcharges, insurance

these places would be equipped with delusional traps                        we would go to a warehouse with subdued lighting where classical music  was playing  encouraging us to try on souls for size                                                 and she would              while listening to the whispers of other customers examining other souls                                                                                                                                                             “oh are you buying that soul              my uncle tim had one and literally lived in it for the rest of his life”

“that’s a great soul             my sister suffered from depression after her husband died in a plane crash              she bought that soul and slept like a baby”

“my father had religious issues after he discovered he was gay               since buying his new soul he gets up every morning and heads straight to the gym to do yoga            naked                        says its liberating            he’s fifty-six”

Suqi said i can’t deal with that kind of thing             i said okay

suqi                                     what are you going to do?

she said i’ll call alicia

alicia is an expert                                                                                                                                    alicia has been an expert on anything spiritual we’ve ever done all our lives                                     alicia has been a great advisor on everything

sex health nutrition

suqi calls alicia            its hard sometimes to reach her            alicia may have a new boyfriend            she changes them fairly often            she’s been married four times and each time it seems fine                        but then it turns out that it’s not fine                        or not fine anymore                        she has to change                        she probably changes souls                        it could happen

she could be an expert on souls

but for some reason alicia is unavailable                        she’s on vacation or she’s at some new job or volunteering at a community college             she’s inaccessible and cant return suqi’s phone calls                        i said well                        you’re going to have to call somebody                                                                                                                                                            how about a holy man            why don’t you call a holy man            you know two holy men            they ought to know what’s good for your soul

she said which one should i call?

i said call them both                        she said which one should i call first?

i don’t know

why don’t you call Rami?

Rami is a rabi                                                not from israel but from south carolina                        he’s a great rabi but grew up in the south listening to country music from his neighbors                                                   he has a dark complexion with yellow teeth and knows all the jewish holidays inside and out                         has curls for sideburns              recites things from his holy book                         when he recites something from his holy book we immediately stop and listen                        but we don’t go to him for his attractive appearance or his wisdom on literature or his tips on how to curl hair                        we go to him for his country music            which has a lot to do about soul

while he recommends us new artists to download we sing-along to the music he plays in the background                                                                                                             suqi calls him but it turns out that souls are not part of his expertise                         he tells suqi he knows nothing about what could separate a poor soul from a good soul

he suggests we call pedro            he should know more about it                                                                                                            he lives in berlin

i find this puzzling                                    pedro is our friend from high school that decided to move to berlin when he was twenty-one                        to revolutionize his sexual practices                        rimming            fisting                                    that sort of thing    without feeling guilty

he said he feels guilty doing it in New York            which doesn’t make sense                        because politicians do it all the time         but maybe they go away            then come back            and get sent to prison             because they were caught rimming            fisting                        that sort of thing

Suqi figured he’d know a thing or two of where to find a good soul                                    i wasn’t sure of the logic                                    whatever

he was visiting rome for a seventy-two sexual marathon in an underworld similar to caligula and suqi couldn’t reach him

suqi             i said                         if you want a soul today and wont stop fretting without one            we’re going here                        i point to a link on google that says WORLDS BEST, HEAVENLY SOULS                         they have two locations                        the flagship is in pasadena              not california                   texas     and the other is in jersey

so suqi worries            should we go to the one in jersey?

i said we could call and ask them how many they have in stock                        i dail the number             a woman with a strong indian accent answers                         i say i have a serious question                                                do you have souls for women under the age of forty?

she says “what?”                                    i explain                                    if i was looking for a soul that wouldn’t cause heartache and wanted to make the most responsible choice                                     should i go

she said i dont think theres much of a difference       i said you mean you dont have a soul that would save a soul from heartache?

she said i dont know        i really dont think so     but maybe                                                who knows

so i said suqi lets go check it out                        lets go and try some on and see how they make you feel                        she said              but what if the store in texas is better                         i said lets go to jersey and if you dont like what you see or feel or whatever we can book a flight for this weekend                        you know we dont  have the money                           the moving costs is already cutting into our savings                                    this soul problem has come at a bad time                                                                                                she starts crying                         i go get groceries because i think she just wants attention              she needs to grow up

we drive to jersey         and the store is by one of those malls with a food court      a shoe store                           a gap                        a banana republic         and a visible changes             which i thought no longer existed                                                                        its a big empty storefront with a sign painted                                                                                                                                                  WORLDS BEST HEAVENLY SOULS

its encouraging i say                                    theres a big truck outside with caskets                                     she asks   are they in there?     i dont know   i’ve never done this before

so i get her into the store and we start looking around trying to figure out where to start             there is a helpful fat midget               mexican of course                            very laid back and he wants to know if he can help

can you tell me where the souls without heartache are?    suqi asks

it all depends on what you want

i want something thats going to make me happy             all the time suqi says

no i say              you want something without heartache     thats what you said                            heartache comes with happiness

the midget smiles                                         if you really want to be happy you want one of these he says pointing to a mannequin wearing a gold and white unitard                         but if you want it to be without heartache and moderately happy you want one of these                        he leads us a little further into the showroom                                                 he points to a unitard that is pink with silver glitter all over it

my wife              he says             loves this one      she wakes up fresh every morning and makes frijoles con huevo all because of this soul     he runs his hand lovingly over its glitter and rubs it on his cheeks          trying it on makes you feel what you would feel if you bought it                                    you can take this home but really we give you a liquid and a syringe and you have to give yourself an injection in the meatiest part of your body                         wherever that might be                                    you fall asleep and when you wake up                                                voila!

go on                        he says              try it on                        try them all

this soul is $900            or $799             i dont really remember     but it was some outlandish price  to somebody like me who figures you pay around a hundred bucks for an okay soul                                    but                         this is a special top of the line

for somebody with heartache             i say nothing and he tells suqi                   go on try it     try them all    so suqi grabs one off the rack and walks to the dressing room

she’s wearing the pink one with glitter all over it                                                 she’s lifting her arms and walking on the balls of her feet                                     looking in the mirror   and asking me to look into her eyes to see if she looks any different                                                 she tries on the gold one and asks me the same thing     i tell her i cant tell a differnece                                                                                                                                                    shouldn’t you  feel something?       i feel like i’m shopping             she says        like for a new pair of shoes                                    that sort of makes me happy                            why don’t we get you some new shoes then i ask     its cheaper             it doesn’t take away heartache she says

i know she’s liking them all    because theyre all new    but mostly shes not sure   and im bringing her others that i find in the warehouse

i’m starting to get embarrassed because other customers are waiting in line for the dressing room

meanwhile workmen are bringing in more caskets and people are working around with unitards of all different colors                         i’m beginning to feel weird about this                                         like this is all a scam                                 but the midget smiles and keeps running around trying to help all the customers

the proof is in the injection he says                in the end its your soul and youve got to live with it

suqi keeps trying on unitard souls and ive bailed out because i’m not really into this     i keep thinking that what you do with a soul is you learn to live with it                                                                  you know?   somehow                                                                               you learn to live with your soul

you buy one that seems humanly adequate                then you learn to live with it no matter what                                    even it gives you heartache

but suqi believes differently        and samantha               shes my half-sister                        has already told suqi that if you want a great soul         an amazing state-of-the-heart                         like a celebrity soul       you have to get it custom made      what do you mean custom made?   i would have to know what constitutes greatness to make something custom made                                    do you know?                                                                                                                                                            suqi said no      so i said forget custom made                                        custom made is for people who are geniuses        they know all there is to know about what souls should do and feel like         i dont have any idea what a soul should   do        except that theyre meant to last forever and be filled and then passed on                                                 not get up and bite me and give the love of my life heartache if she doesnt want it

i want a soul that leaves me alone                                                 i’ll leave it alone

we’re going through this soul thing and suqi has finally narrowed it down to two                                     meanwhile the mexican midget has told us his life story                        he is                         it turns out                                     a relative of a witch doctor in monterrey mexcio where he is from   which is why he is in the soul business                         because he believes in it and wants everybody to have the soul he deserves                        he offers that service at WORLDS BEST HEAVENLY SOULS                        which is why he wants suqi to get the soul that is best for her

yes       thats what suqi wants too i tell him

at this point i am getting antsy and slightly desperate to get out of there     suqi i say             if you dont like this one why dont you take the one next to it      the tag says it comes with creative flare     this is no solution but she finally makes a choice

the soul of her choice is as white as hospital linen                   midget is writing us up and packaging the unitard and the syringe and the fluid that contains the soul                         other salesmen are telling us what a great choice we made         we’re out the door and into the car and suqi says

i think i made a mistake

we go back in and suqi says        i’m really sorry to trouble you                                 but the midget is not troubled       my dear senorita  its no trouble               its your choice and we want you to be happy with it         theres a store credit

so suqi goes back and starts over                                     she decides fairly quickly  this time            the pink unitard with glitter all over it      am i right she asks?     youre right i say       and he writes it up

we’re halfway home when suqi says to me   eric     do you think we made a mistake?                             i say no

i didnt make any mistake    no mistake                                     but what if this is the wrong one?    i ask                        what would be the right one?

suqi forget it       it doesnt matter

you know what martha said to jiliian when she quit her job and said to her boss to hell with you                                                    she said “Atta girl!”          i said  dammit                         we dont know if we got the right soul!        we dont know if we got the right house!       we dont know if we got the right anything!                                                                                                                                                                                                theres no way to know      let us live happily in ignorance

we went home

that night i injected her                   for an hour suqi wasnt sure if it was the right soul  because she said she coudnt feel anything                                          it starts working in the morning i told her                                                    remember?                                                                               i’m sure they gave us the right soul                 why would they make a mistake like that?

but before we got into that we found the bill        and the label on the syringe appeared to correspond with the receipt

now we’re waiting for morning      for the great soul that suqi selected so carefully           the sould that is going to take away her heartache and leave her feeling happy                          without holes in her body

she’s going to wake up and have a shower and feel the warm water all over her skin                            nothing is going to run through her anymore                                      if it does           we’ll have to take her soul back and get an exchange                        or a store credit               or our money back

but we wont get our money back                        because something tells me you never get your money back                                                                                                                                    you just get the heartache

Caring for Alicia:

September 27, 2009

The children on the rooftop courtyard have been throwing laughter ever since this morning. I can hear them as I tiptoe from bed to table. The blinds are half-opened, the window is barely raised, and there is a faint breeze coming in through the opening. Alicia is asleep with her eye mask on. Ken is away in New Haven covering a story about a girl found dead at Yale University. I slept over in case of an emergency.

Last night, at around 1:30 in the morning, Alicia asked me what I’d like to watch on television, but I was ready for bed and didn’t feel like watching anything.  I had been here since 6:30 pm and trying to get over a mild cold. I had been congested for three days and could hardly breathe. During the rub I had put a cough mask on to avoid spreading germs

I woke up at 9:32 and stepped out of the apartment for a coffee and a plain bagel at the corner deli. I sat on the stone perimeter of an oak tree and watched people rush by, heading towards the subway station. The clock two blocks south from me struck 10:07 and a man asked me to move. Black as beetle and pushing a cart piled with purses, shades, wallets, and sport caps. He didn’t speak very good English. I heard an accent as he apologized.

I walked into the apartment at 10:16 and had fourteen minutes to set things up. I took off my shoes, put on my shorts, washed my hands and placed the cough mask over my face.

Small ice packs (that I had left for her so she could ice if something ached) were scattered around like leaves on pavement. One was by her right ear next to the face towels under her shoulder; another had fallen on the floor, another was above her head like a Christmas tree star; two were under her left hand. I grabbed all of them and tiptoed to the kitchen.

The room is all shadow now except for the yellow bars coming in through the blinds. They cast a cage-like cell over her bed sheets, and her face is like a gray field before morning —ceramic cheeks with a hint of blush under her eyes.

As I pull the rolled towels out from under her left hamstring, I try to be as quiet as a cloud. She probably took a sleeping pill when she could no longer bear insomnia. I feel guilty about starting punctually, right at 10:30, so I can be done with her by 3:30 at the latest.

When I first learned how to slip the heating pads under her body, far enough to reach her inner thigh, I was terrified to move her. The action alone would take me ten to fifteen minutes.

I pull the sheen pillowcase underneath her and slide the heating pad in. I think of how well I’ve mastered the move, with grace—like a slip of paper under a stack of magazines without a single fold. I grab the ends of the sheet by her right leg and drape them over so I can begin rubbing. I take out the body cream. Her elbows are close to her body. Her head is turned to the left. As I brace her thigh with my left hand, making sure it doesn’t rotate in or out, my right hand pulls/plucks the tendons and ligaments under her leg like the strings of a guitar—so she can get out of bed and walk without tearing.

I hear the children outside the window. Alicia whispers intermittently,  “All done,” letting me know I can move on to the next muscle.

October 2, 2009

It hasn’t begun yet.

As my hands are smothered in cream, rubbing her thighs as she lay sleeping, I’ve thought of how unfair this complicated equation is. A negative variable against another. I’ve had an intestinal parasite eating away at me for two weeks, and it’s made me weak. I should be in bed. Someone should be taking care of me.

When I mentioned it to friends, they suggested liquids, saltines crackers, chicken soup, chamomile tea, Gatorade—so far I still feel insipid.

I rub her thighs, her hamstrings, her calves, her ankles, her knees, her thighs; I take out the heating pads; I wrap her legs in Ace bandages; I slide her gently off the bed—my legs burning in squat position because of the dehydration; my left arm holds her legs; I lift her back up and sit her up; I feed her, make her breakfast, set up the bed with the mountain of pillows and folded towels, help her clean the house, undress her, her socks, her shorts, her undergarments; an hour or two later, I do it all in some reverse order; I put her down.

Sometimes I feel like I need to faint. I feel ill; I cannot find the compassion. It’s labor. It’s heavy. I would call in sick if I could —but how is that fair? How does a father call in sick when a child needs him?

October 25, 2009

I was walking to Alicia’s this morning and noticed the leaves in Central Park turning red and yellow. One year ago I met her. I was living in Brooklyn at the time, and was nervous to see her. Her caregiver at the time had warned me not to get too close, ‘You’ll injure her if you touch her shoulder, so don’t.’

This Sunday is hers. I take care of her all day and I have no other obligation or appointment. I move from doing one thing to the next without rush. There is no need for speed, so I breathe in with every task: rolling the wraps, setting the heating pads, rubbing her. I feel like I’m always rubbing her.

I thought I was doing fine, that I wasn’t bothered—this feeling: here, rubbing her, again, like yesterday and the day before.

She wants to make spaghetti for Ken, she wants a cupcake from Crumbs down the street, she wants me to change her bed sheets, she wants a tissue, she wants the phone, she wants the remote control, she wants to see a livelier spirit in me, she wants me to be happy. I don’t feel like speaking. I don’t feel like being here.

We’re in the kitchen. She is telling me, no, maybe the bigger pot so we can make more sauce, you don’t have to dice the onions so fine, he won’t care, can you turn the water on? if you open the fridge I can tell you where the meat is, I like the pasta overcooked, can I get a plastic cup, Did you wash your hands? I’m fine, I can do it. Can you get me a fork? That’s too heavy, can you get me a lighter one?

The pasta is in the Tupperware dish and the sauce is simmering, I start to undress her and prepare the bed. Oprah is on television, it’s an episode about where in the world people live happiest. She asks me, of all the places I’ve been which has been my favorite and why? My answer is short. I say Zurich. I say it without thinking.

November 1, 2009

I am trying to walk into it with an open mind. Yesterday was my only day-off, and because of schoolwork, all day I was busy. There was no time to let my mind go.

When I walk in Ken and Alicia are sound asleep. I creep between the mattresses to get the heating pads. In the dark I rub her as Ken releases gas and snores. The children in the courtyard are playing again, and I can hear their voices. I don’t know why, but their laughter makes me emotional. I want to be a child again.

It is 12:03pm. When I get to her left hamstring, she turns on the television to watch the NYC marathon. Her attention is on the television and I am getting upset because she isn’t paying attention. I can’t continue the rub until I hear her say, “All done.” If she’s distracted, I rub longer than I have to.

She looks at me and asks, “How you doing Spice-rack?” She calls me Spice-rack.

“Good,” I say.

Ken has a day-off, which means he’ll spend the day watching football. I put her shoes on, her jacket, and the foam support under her arm. They both go downstairs to get some fresh air. I read at the table and tell them to enjoy themselves.

When they walk in my nose is still in a book, and as I continue to read I overhear them giggling with one another, making cartoon faces and laughing. She’s so lucky to have him, I think. He has stayed with her after everything, infinite like gold. Eight years like this and his love goes uninjured.

She can sense I am not in the mood. She watches Cougar Town on television because she has a soft spot for Courtney Cox.

I adore her, I care for her, but it’s my job to rub her. That is all. I just want to do my job. Like construction work. House cleaning. Difference is, she’s flesh and blood, delicate reinvention of skin and bones. I can’t mindlessly rub her like sweeping the floor or scrubbing the sink.

November 22, 2009

Before I walk in the door I light a candle. I stopped at Magnolia Bakery and bought Alicia a Key Lime Cheesecake—her favorite—planned on singing Happy Birthday. But I have to sing it twice. She is sound asleep.

She pulls off her eye-mask and fills her lungs and blows out the single candle. She wants to start her day off with a bite of Key Lime Cheesecake.

She’s at her desk. I can hear her blowing her nose. She’s crying over birthday cards she’s received.

Earlier, she walked to Columbus St. —which is too far and it injures her toe—but I told her, “It’s your toe, this is your day. Do whatever you want.” The sun is diving down through the barren branches of late fall, coming in through the window. She nods in agreement, staying quiet. She smiles at the floor and stands against the wall waiting for me to undress her.

Novemebr 25, 2009

Sometimes her mother calls, like today. She is telling Alicia about Split-Pea soup. They always talk about recipes. Alicia turns the speaker on so I can hear her mother’s voice. She smiles because of how much she loves her mother and how much she misses her. When she was diagnosed with lupus, and polymyositis, and Ehlers-Danlos, her mother became agoraphobic. She couldn’t leave her house anymore, and since then they call each other at least five times a week.

‘Oh Sweet pea, you have to add the bacon before the broth so the grease is in there the whole time,’ her mother says. She sounds like a young girl. The kind of woman that sounds more like a child as she gets older.

‘Okay, mom. I love you. And tell Skeeter if he wants to ice his hand he can do it for twenty minutes, but then he can’t get up and start doing stuff because he’ll just injure it again. Okay? He has to wait a few minutes.’

‘Oh, I know honey. You know your dad. He’ll do whatever he wants.’

November 29, 2009

We’re walking back from the pool. It’s been a long day. I am going on my eleventh hour of caring for her. I take a kitchen stool with us when we go to the pool so she can sit at every half block, like that she can rest her toe. I hold the seat upside down and place it on my head as I walk. People eating in the restaurants we pass look at us funny, and she mentions how she loves it, that we’ve become the ‘strange’ people —it’s so New York she says.

We sit on the stool, and I have to face away from her to give her enough room to sit. We’re on Amsterdam and it’s about 10pm on a Sunday night, few people around. The wind blows south like a clearing, and neither of us speaks. We look at the car lights and the apartment buildings. I see people inside their homes watching television or putting holiday decorations up.

I close my eyes and imagine our bodies like spirits, fractions so light we can’t hold on to them anymore. The wind curls and hurls us down the street in somersaults. Faint electricity shoots up through my body. It’s the closest thing to letting go. Alicia turns her head and asks, ‘You ready, Spicerack?’

The Line Between

I hadn’t had a job in two years, lingering in Alicante, Spain with my boyfriend; he was Spanish. I look back on it now and I guess I can categorize myself as a depressed person, there wasn’t much I cared about: I gained twenty pounds; sat in front of the television and watched hours of trashy talk shows; my hair grew long, and I tried to grow dreds as an excuse for not washing; I didn’t wear a belt. When I showered I bothered with only rubbing between my legs and my mid-section. I forgot the space between my toes and behind my ears. My boyfriend was always away, working, creating ballets for dance companies, being the choreographer he had always dreamt of being. I stayed behind in a small ‘pueblo’ without any friends or any desire to step out of the apartment. It would’ve been different if I would’ve tried to cross the line of my indifference. But I didn’t know what I wanted. There was no compass that existed.

But I though of traveling¾ that could be a way to get another perspective on life. When would I have a chance in my life again to make a choice independent from any obligation¾choose as I wish, north, south, underwater even.

We didn’t live too far from Africa, and I had always wanted to go visit Morocco. I had dreamt of a dinner party where I ‘d have guests compliment the carpet rug in the living room and ask me where I got it. “In Marrakesh,” I’d tell them. “Dirt cheap at the market.” They’d say, “Oh, I’ve always wanted to go to Morocco.” And I’d say, “You must. There’s no place like it.” I’d feel that I had done something in my life worth talking about.

It seemed like a good idea. Two friends living in Frankfurt wanted to come down to visit me. It was summer, hot, itchy, but they’d need more culture than a small Spanish town to keep them entertained. Cyril was French and Marthe was Swiss; a young couple of two years. We had all danced together in the same dance company in Holland¾when I had been a dancer¾and Cyril had been my lover for a few months, before deciding that he’d rather be with women. I didn’t let that get in the way of keeping our friendship. He cried as he apologized, for having the audacity to be brutally honest.

A day before they arrived in Spain I searched the Internet for affordable ways to get to Morocco. I had a bit of money saved, but not enough that I could lavish in flights and four-star hotels. I found that if we took a train down to Almeria, an hour and a half away, from there we could take an overnight boat for only fifty Euros, one way to Tetouan. It seemed like a romantic idea¾we could drink beers out on the roof deck and look at the stars as we rocked above the waves of the Mediterranean Sea. Constellations would pronounce themselves much more clearly, and maybe there’d be a sign.

Cyril and Marthe were not in the most amiable disposition when they arrived. Between expressions of affability, they’d bite each other’s words and argue about petty things, like how he should have salad instead of fried shrimp because it was better for him, and he was trying to eat healthier. Why don’t you just worry about yourself and let me eat what I want. Because you told me to remind you. But we’re on vacation.  Tsk …D’accord, tres bien. I felt like the center weight of their balance, but I was terrible at the responsibility. Whenever I’d feel any hint of tension I’d turn my palms down and let them fall at their own accord. I turned away and waited for the wind to soften.

We arrived to Almeria as scheduled, at 9:05pm, and boarded the boat El Sol del Mar. We left Spain as the sky turned purple away from orange.

At ten pm, the maintenance crew on the boat closed the roof deck because they claimed it’d be too dangerous for passengers on such a windy night that was anticipated by the weather forecast on the radio. We had to go undercover inside the boat, yet it was difficult to find a seat or even an area on the floor to put out backpacks. Every room on every floor was filled with families, Moroccan I supposed: children, women, men, hauling large suitcases and extra large, black garbage bags filled with what seemed to be presents and more fabrics. Wholesale boxes of toilet paper, packages of soap, unused bath towels, plastic toy trucks and dolls. These things were everywhere, for relatives in Africa I assumed. Every floor we checked was crowded with bodies sleeping on the floor, on seats, under seats. We heard Arabic whispers in conversation. Men played cards on the floor. Finally, we found a booth in the cafeteria and used our backpacks as pillows, and we slept a few hours until morning.

It was only four hours until sunlight crept in from the windows. We peeled open our eyes and rubbed our necks and backs as we prepared ourselves for docking. The roof deck was open again, and we stepped out and inhaled the sea air as we saw Africa on the horizon, a thin body of tan beneath a thin cover of gray clouds.

We docked, got off the boat, and everyone scurried to certain areas of the small town, knowingly as if they had all done it before. When we saw the signs in Spanish it occurred to us we weren’t in Morocco yet. We were still on Spanish territory.

At seeing our confusion, a kind Arabic man who spoke perfect English informed us that we needed to take a bus to the border in order to get to Morocco, from there we’d have to take a two-hour taxi to Casablanca, which was where we wanted to go. He was headed to the border himself so we followed him.

The ride was only ten minutes. We arrived and saw the same families that had been on the boat there with their suitcases and black trash bags. They were yelling in Arabic over a wire fence, carrying all their possessions, and filing into a long line that seemed as if it hadn’t moved all morning. Marthe rolled her eyes. We assumed this was the line we would have to wait in to get through immigration. But as we walked in that direction, the man that has escorted us told us not to go that way, and to follow him directly to the small office that stood at the center of the wide gate.

“Passports,” he told us, and all three of us obediently took them out like school children. Everyone near us, between yelling the arching screams over the fence, looked at us with a blank expression. We were the only foreigners in site.

How we crossed was simple. Small house offices were lined up one after the other: at one we gave our passports, the next we paid an entrance fee, the next we exchanged money, and at the last we retrieved our stamped passports. But along the way, walking the few steps between one office to the next, I kept looking to the right and noticing a small tunnel made of wire fencing, about a meter and a half wide, filled with the families that were bringing toilet paper, plastic toy trucks, and bath towels into the country. They were pushing and shoving. Some boys were standing on the shoulders of men, some were holding on to the walls of the fence like spiders. Women were screaming, some pleading. I had no idea what was happening. Why were they over there, and why were we over here? Orange dust swept up from the ground and stung my eyes. The man who had been helping us kept saying, “Just keep moving, keep going.” I remember him pushing my back.

At each office, two guards in dark blue uniforms stood stoic and still. Other guards were trafficking the tunnel, and the people inside reminded me of cattle. They were crowded and must have been suffocating.

Before we walked into the office to exchange our money, an Arab woman with a soft pink headscarf was pleading to one of the guards. One hand was in a fist over his chest and the other held a plastic bag filled with Q-tips and cotton swabs and a bottle of alcohol. The guard looked over her, past her head, and did not move. We walked into the office, and I heard her scream, a loud shriek, like a crow’s caw. The people in the tunnel continued to scream. It was all a cacophonous language I didn’t understand. Cyril and Marthe were silent, moving quickly. I remember my hands sweating. I too was silent.

There was a rumble outside. And I heard the woman scream again. When I stepped out of the office, I looked for her. But she was gone.

“Just keep moving,” the man said. I looked back, tried to find where she had gone, but I didn’t see her.

I turned my head forward, towards the edge of the border where Africa awaited, and saw the soles of two feet on the ground with a woman’s skirt blown up to her chest by the wind. I slowly passed her and noticed it was the woman that had been screaming to the guard. The woman with the pink headscarf. I tiptoed past her and discerned the crimson color of blood dripping down her tan cheeks. Her eyes were closed, she was not moving at all. Guards stepped over her as if she were a big stone in the way, and we continued to walk as the dirt swirled like a potion.

Cyril and Marthe rushed into the last office to retrieve their passports, and I followed with a sense of a pause in my mind as to why no one was helping her. I wrote a story in my mind, of how she had a child, or a father, and how he needed medical supplies and all she wanted was for this one plastic bag to get past the border. People on the other side waited for her.

Marthe found a taxi within seconds, before I could finish collecting my thoughts. I sat in the passenger side, and as it slowly drove through the crowd of families waiting for relatives to get across, a young girl startled me by jumping in front of the window and pressing her face against the glass. She had chestnut curls and looked about eight years old. Her eyes were the color of green marble, and I lost myself in them. She cupped her hand next to her cheek and held it there, waiting for me to give her something. But I couldn’t roll down the window. The taxi began to speed away as he got closer to the main road, and the young girl with the haunt of the country began to disappear in a cloud of dust; her eyes faded like stars. Once we reached a sense of quietude out on the road, the driver played a cassette tape of Arabic chanting, and I stared out the window towards the mountains. I stared at the land. I stared for two hours and felt pathetically inconsequential.

Sorting Light – Why I Write

Sorting Light ⎯ Why I Write

I can’t pretend to be the kind of writer that used to write stories as a child, because I didn’t. And I didn’t read books in my bedroom after my parents had gone to bed, with a flashlight under my sheets the way you see precocious kids do in movies. I never paid attention to writing, or the idea of reading a book, because I thought it was boring. When it came to writing, there was only one thing I enjoyed, and that was writing in cursive, for the mere movement of it. I’d write my name on a ruled sheet of paper until the page was covered, and start at the exact spot on every line so the script looked tidy.  Sometimes I’d change the size and style of my handwriting in an attempt to give the impression that my name had different personalities. I avoided thinking of words to form sentences that made any sense. All I wanted was to feel my hand move, to enjoy the curves of capital letters and the loops of ‘e’ and ‘o’. It was easier to follow the movement without having to think, the way one sings ‘wa-ter-mel-on’ when one doesn’t know the lyrics to a song⎯ mindless, but in complete absorption with the act itself. Little did I realize that I was reiterating to myself, “This is your name. This is who you are.” Mario Zambrano, Mario Zambrano, Mario Zambrano. And when a page was full I’d stare at it, and then forget the name was mine. Days later I would find the piece of paper buried between the pages of a schoolbook.

What is certain about those years as a child is that I was creative. I loved crayons, I loved spices, I loved pretending to be someone else, and most of all, I loved to dance. One night while I was dancing with my mother at a cousin’s wedding party⎯three feet tall, with my head down looking at how quickly our feet moved ⎯I’d look up and notice people around me in a semi-circle cheering me on, smiling and clapping their hands. I remember thinking that I wasn’t doing anything particularly special, or funny, or entertaining. I remember a sense of letting go, and how the music had found its way inside my body. My arms, legs, and torso set off like a pack of wild dogs to an open field. A sort of light turned on, and even though I couldn’t see it, people around me could, and they enjoyed watching me. I wasn’t fascinated because I was being watched, but because I owned something that could illicit admiration. My body was telling stories⎯quick, lithe, fluid⎯and it was a thrill, one in which I lifted my arms and enjoyed. After that night, I decided to ride that sensation for many years. I became a dancer. It left no room for words on paper. Reading books and writing stories were beyond me.
While I was a dancer, most of my free time was spent coming home after a day of rehearsal and playing music on the stereo while lying on the couch; on bus tours through England, with a dance company I was with in Holland, I would sit by a window with my headphones on and indulge myself with aspirations ⎯ which always had a way of consuming me; on Atlantic flights, when most of the company members were achy and anxious to de-board in New York City, I would watch an in-flight movie. Never did I open a book, especially not a novel. And when I’d feel a poet’s urge, which did come to me every now and then, I’d open my journal ⎯ filled with things to do and doodles ⎯ and write a few lines, mostly run-on sentences. I’d share them with a friend sitting next to me. He’d say it sounded beautiful, but he didn’t get what I was writing about, to which I’d close my journal and watch the rest of the in-flight movie. There were hardly any hints that I would want to dedicate myself to writing, or to ever take it seriously.

Now that I write ⎯ and think as writers think ⎯ I ponder the role of the writer, and find that my experience as a dancer has been different. Writing is an art form that I am slowly getting to know. There are certain similarities, of course (discipline, dedication, devotion), but there is a great divide between being a performing artist and a creative one. When you are a dancer you step into a studio as if it were an empty page, but you don’t write. The first sentence isn’t up to you. You don’t choose voice, or point of view. You wait to be told what to do, and what to say, stylistically; you are the ink and the font. You are a muse. You listen and pay close attention to the choreographer, and the manner in which to execute language (because the choreographer is always grappling with his intention, and what he’s trying to convey, and the dancer has to stay with him, willing to continue the revision process).

As much as I enjoyed dancing, being in the hands of choreographers, there came a time in my career when I discovered how much of a puppet I was⎯like Pinocchio, but human flesh. I compromised my creative nature for the sake of the choreographer’s. And when I discovered this, I was deeply disheartened; though I had a profound love for dance (and still do), I felt cheated. I didn’t want to be oil paint for someone else’s work. I didn’t want to be the guitar strings for someone else’s music. And though I can still recall the thrill, the lights, the music, being in front of an attentive audience, I decided to let it go. Because to be a dancer one has to have absolute commitment. There is no compromise. It includes aches in the body; being told you’re approaching something too theatrical, or too sentimental; spending hours every morning in ballet class⎯barre, center, an hour and a half⎯so that the body doesn’t forget the outlines of aesthetic principles. This devotion, I thought to myself, this investment, is for someone else’s creative work, and when I stumbled upon this way of looking at the way I was working, I no longer wanted to be a dancer, not for a dance company, not professionally. If I’d dance, I’d do it for myself. Alone, most likely, in the quiet space of a creative field that is in the mind. To me it’s a place of solitude.

I spoke to a close friend about quitting, a dancer in Batsheva Dance Company in Tel Aviv, Israel. She looked at me and said, “Don’t you believe in what you’re doing?” I looked at her, wanting to defend some sort of innate desire to be independent. “What about believing in myself?” I told her. I had no idea what I was talking about. I had no idea what I wanted to do. I had choreographed like so many other dancers do when they feel a creative itch, but I found myself too sensitive towards it. I had to see what I created, repeatedly, the way a writer reads a sentence and rewrites it, again and again.  But knowing how difficult it is to be a dancer, I couldn’t use people as instruments.

I found choreographing too impinging, and I’m too sensitive to be in the care of other artists’ egos and insecurities. I left dance all together because I felt it was the only way I could rediscover myself as an artist, a singular creative. I wanted to work alone. Never would I have guessed that I would discover writing and literature.

I started reading very late. I was twenty-two. And by reading I don’t mean reading because I was assigned something, but because I wanted to read, without regard to speed. I took my time and allowed myself the experience of a novel, the experience of a story (something I had never experienced growing up). I learned how books could have different effects on a reader, and how they could be read for different purposes. I read Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone in a single flight from New York to Amsterdam, but Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being took me three weeks to complete, because of its richness. I learned that novels require different attention, and different kinds of commitment. Some are meant for pleasure, a ‘reader’s holiday’; others are intended to shift the way you think about something, or the way you feel about something, and it was these sorts of novels I was attracted to: Virginia Woolf, especially, along with authors like Italo Calvino, Ian McEwan, Haruki Murakami, and Jeanette Winterson. Their work showed me how the novel could work as an art object and contain prose that worked as a sort of magic trick. I was, and am, fascinated by them.

It was when I read The Waves by Virginia Woolf that I devoted myself to appreciating literature. And it wasn’t necessarily how it made me feel after I read it (because it touched me), but how impressed I was with the orchestration of the sound, the music, and the rhythmical prose. It made me look at fiction in a new light. I found it astonishing, beyond what I had ever imagined literature could do or be. The Waves was an exemplary model of craft in every sense, the shifting of perspectives, the streams of direction following a character’s interior mind. I felt a sensuous quality in her work, and it reminded me of a grace I had felt as a dancer. I felt I had found an author I considered genius.

It wasn’t surprising to me, more sensational, when I was on the balcony of my home in Spain, reading A Room of One’s Own, engulfed by Woolf’s argument of needing time and space to write that I looked up, after I had felt a breeze, and thought Virginia Woolf was there next to me! She was present, a version of her was. And it sounds insane, I know, but it must have been the prose, the authenticity of it, and the fact that I was so immersed in the art of her language. I felt she came to life⎯a most incredible magic. I felt, Yes! That’s what I want. I want my words to come to life like that.

At the time, I was taking online literature courses from a university in England called Open University, and at the end of that year, I registered for my first fiction class. The language I had used in the stories I submitted was too sweet, the way a child drizzles maple syrup on his pancakes. I tried so desperately to sound beautiful, and I realized, too, that even though I had had a career in dance, in this new art form I would have to take my time. I would have to endure the patience that comes with developing my voice as a writer. I’d have to start at the beginning all over again, and learn the steps, the tools, the grammar and style in order to make words come to life on the page.

Luckily, I was given a Distinction in that class, encouraging enough to continue, and a year later I was awarded a Writers’ Choice Award on a website community for writers. That too was encouraging, because for three years, during the transition of art disciplines in my mind, I looked towards anything around me to see if I’d notice anyone clapping or cheering me on the way they did when I was younger. If my writing could find some sort of recognition, then I would know that I had some sort of light inside that I could nurture, and love, without fear of it not coming from the same pool I had felt my dancing had come from, a place of inherent love.

It’s clear to me now that I don’t write because I want to be acknowledged. I just like to be creative, and I like to be alone, and these two things are at the root of my disposition. That’s why when I find myself here in New York City, attending fiction workshops and literature classes, talking and talking about art, and prose, and poetry, and how to do it well, and how others do it well, I find myself wanting to walk away, past the skyscrapers, over the Brooklyn Bridge and down to Coney Island, onto a boat that will take me afar, where I’ll hopefully find a hut on a desolate island and write stories without judgment or speculation, a place where I can write for the mere creation of it. And how does one know if one has done it well? How can one know when what one has written is good? Is there such a thing? I like to think that as long as art is honest, it’s good.

I think of Virginia Woolf, and how she argued that one needed a room of one’s own in order to write. Yes, she was considering the role of woman, and how she needed income in order to afford a room ⎯ she literally meant a room. But, I think Woolf also meant something else. I think she was referring to the space in the mind, in the self, where a writer can find peace, where he can take his time to impress himself into the world of fiction. And once there, do it, without distractions and without disturbances. He can write, and continue to write until he stops and takes a deep breath.  It’s this that I love. I felt it as a dancer, this possessing, and I have sensed it in writing ⎯a sort of light that takes over. It’s why I am attracted to anything creative.

There are two books on my desk at the moment: Jacob’s Room by Virginia Woolf and The Essential Writer’s Companion. I think of what would happen if I were deserted on an island, alone, with only these two books as examples, as teaching tools to create a world of fiction. Besides grammar, because all art disciplines need shape and structure, Woolf’s novel could teach a writer everything ⎯ at least the kind of writer I am interested in being. It begins with a woman digging her heels into the sand, revising a sentence in a letter she is writing to a Captain Barfoot, and her eldest son, Archer, shouts, “Ja⎯cob! Ja⎯cob!” Immediately, the reader hears a voice, a character, and it’s this essential element in fiction that I find crucial when it comes to turning on the dial of that special light. Because stories, after all, are about people. And be it the voice of the characters or the narrator herself, it’s through voice that a reader will feel a sort of trust, and once done, the story comes to life. An experience occurs.

It wasn’t so much a ghost that I felt that day in Spain on my balcony, reading A Room of One’s Own, but soul. And if I were to learn anything from Jacob’s Room, if I were to read it repeatedly, I’d sense spirituality, and I’d strive towards that when I write, wanting to put myself into my work.

On the matter of finding this spirituality, I don’t think I can find it in a classroom. Other writers have mentioned it before, Mario Vargas Llosa, Orhan Pamuk, that writing is a solitary act. One sits alone. And even if he is surrounded by rattling conversations at a coffee shop, or by bird songs in a park, he is in direct conversation with the artist. He listens; he follows the direction of his imagination, and makes choices for a good story told to him from a voice whispering inside. This act is much more intimate than following the directions of a choreographer, but alas, it’s an effort towards realizing an art piece that comes from within.

If I were alone on a desolate island with the two books I mentioned, all I would need was pen and paper to exercise, which is also an over-looked importance in finding voice. Exercise. A writer can’t spend more time reading, or more time discussing, than he does writing. How will he give life to his prose if he doesn’t exercise? How will he deem any sort of grace if he never gets exhausted, and then tries again? Writing, like the body, needs to take shape. Muscles need to by chiseled and strengthened, and the body has to have a sense of ease when it’s dancing. Same for writing. I guess because of my past career, I have this innate discipline to repeat things, and not because dancing is about obsession, but because through the continuous act of trying, you learn, and get closer to the refined quality of finesse.

I like that I can feel a sense of dancing when I write, that the two disciplines I cherish (though I also cherish music, and film, and cooking, and rearranging the house, and gardening, and photography) can overlap and compliment each other. I like that I have found a certain sort of companionship with writing. Because once a voice is born, it becomes alive, and as a writer you listen like a good friend to what the voice wants to say. And like all relationships, it takes time, patience, and compassion in order to reap the benefits of a most wonderful love affair.

At a Party

So you know Louise.
It was her birthday this past Monday; she turned 47; last night was her shindig at her quaint apartment on the 22nd fl near Washing Square Park. She was kind enough to invite me.
I bought her Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close – I don’t need to explain why.
I met lots of wonderful people, about 30 were invited.
I am leaning against the couch with a glass of wine in hand talking to a beautiful German woman named Sabine, and out of the corner of my eye I see Bjork and Matthew walk in.
Yep, there she is, two feet away, standing there all uncomfortable because she has just arrived and scoping the party, trying to decide how to dive into it. She checks me out -literally scans me head to toe, and I know this because my peripheries are well trained. But I continue talking to Sabine because I don’t want to be rude.
A few sips later, we’re both leaning against the couch, shoulder to shoulder, but in different conversations – Bjork and I. In a moment’s breath we turn and look at each other, and smile.
Later, while we’re both leaning over the table picking at some food, I tell her, “Can I tell you a secret?”
She looks at me and I tell her I was a dancer, and that I’ve danced for Bill. I think she knows him I tell her, and she says, “Yes, a little bit.”
“When I was younger, I improvised to your music nonstop, and I just wanted to say thank you,” I say.
She smiles, extends her feeble little hand, and I shake it.
Then I can tell she’s uncomfortable, because she just wants to be a girl at a party; she doesn’t want to be the star that she is, and so I smile, and turn towards the glass door that leads out to the balcony. I have a cigarette and look up towards the lavender clouds against a dark blue sky.

I should mention, he is very handsome, but she is absolutely beautiful.