Traveling to school by dinghy, I wonder what that does to your brain--the splash of the oars, the way the water moves under the shallow hull. The morning light has begun to gather at the mouth of the bay like a waiting audience. Soon nothing on this earth could please it. The same dogs bark, and people shout across the road about ham and cheese. Newly hatched chicks run after their mother. Tallulah goes up the stairs to her class. I define “ostentatious” and “inveigled.” Rowing back across the bay is like being in slowed-down time, eternal, perfect time.
Friday, February 14, 2014
I remember being here before—the heat of summer, making the distances seem far—measured by sweat and the weight of the things I was carrying. I remember the in-between, having arrived at the edge of something and conscious of the way the future seemed a threatening blank, a time when whatever we do now will be judged by criteria that can only be guessed at. And now that particular future (as it was then) has come and gone, has become the past. Sampled, lifted up and examined, laughed over. So many of the same people are here, looking the same—the same places, looking pretty much the same. We’ve traveled so far, it seems, to arrive back at a familiar destination.
I’ve started teaching again, a lit class, a few high school students. Having been responsible for a baby’s life, keeping a child alive, happy, students don’t seem scary the way they used to. Improvisation, experimentation, the kind of play with abstract symbols and concepts that gives you the feeling of leaping off a cliff and spreading your arms wide like those crazy base jumpers soaring from some point high in the Alps to land, safe but not the same, at the bottom—this is what I hope, deep down, to teach them.
Posted by CLANK at 6:49 AM
Saturday, February 8, 2014
Monday, February 3, 2014
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Sunday, January 5, 2014
I find myself walking along the side of the highway--an unbusy stretch, exits to Mayagüez, San Juan, and the Plaza del Caribe mall. That’s where I’m going, as the cars pass, none of them slowing, as they have in some other places I’ve lived, to offer me a ride.
Still, it’s not so much culture shock as unexpected enthusiasm. The “first world” is new again. After a couple of years away it suddenly all looks good again--the smart phones, the cars, TJ Maxx.
Here, along the highway verge, are odd castoffs from that world. Plastic bags with chicken bones, broken beer bottles, an occasional high-heeled sandal. A couple of those paper lanterns that achieve liftoff thanks to a candle, crashed down among leggy cotton plants, their soft spilling tufts sticking out of birds’ nests.
Posted by CLANK at 7:03 AM
Monday, December 30, 2013
|To the mall|
Posted by CLANK at 2:53 PM