Upside Down Kris

Blank Curtains   The shimmery curtain sashayed its stuff, swaying evocatively on the light breeze whispering from the window. It swishes, then delicately folds again, dancing with feminine movements that her partner lacks. The other half of the curtain is stuck in the corner, standing stagnantly by the closed side of a window. Morning and noon are juxtaposing each other, fusing their essence together in the lazy beginning of afternoon. Murmurings from outside filter through the thin, gauzy drapes dropped in front of a thin slit in the window's rib. Where does Sunday go–this Sunday and all the others with little (or too much) to do? They get sucked into the fan in front of us, new or not. The day goes 'round and 'round on the gray propellers. They go slow enough that I become entranced by the rhythm, yet they are a blur, just like the other Sundays of this month.  I get pulled in by pure fascination of its movements, but let's not forget the fan provides coolness, a resp...

Who's Got Mail? "Letters are tumbling into her wide bag," I hear my brain comment.  Wait a minute! What was she doing with that cascade of envelopes?  I stop in my tracks, my shopping bag slopping from my shoulder and onto my forearm.  "She is a postwoman collecting mail from the mailbox," my brain explains.  I had never noticed that box before: or rather, I had seen the royal blue rectangles around the city but had never recognized the symbol on the front that stood for post (a crown over what looks like Aladdin's lamp).   I had never really paid attention although I pass one almost every day. Isn't it interesting that something may be there all the time, but we don't see it? Maybe even more fascinating is the day we notice it. What makes us finally focus our attention on the something? Or clears away whatever was blocking our vision? Or makes us look up, opposite to what we normally did at that point in the street/country/ city? It was the movement...

Feed the Birds "Feed the birds, tuppence a bag..." Do you remember that poignant scene from Mary Poppins in which the elderly woman is feeding the birds in front of the cathedral? Sometimes when I see a flock of pigeons in the square that scene pops into my brain.  It was no different this morning. "Feed the birds..." was playing in my head as if I were watching the movie again. Only the main character was a man, one with dark skin. He was sitting on a bench in front of the cathedral, reaching inside a plastic bag for birdseed. (It actually looked a lot like dry oatmeal. Maybe it was.) Pigeons–gray, blue, light brown–flocked around him and landed on the bench behind him or beside him. Immediately , my eyes welled up. Was it because the scene reminded me of my favorite childhood movie? Maybe. But there was more to it. There was something pure, something genuine in the feeding of the birds that Mary Poppins had understood. And the fact that this man–like the bird woma...

S ummer Food Scrock, ping, scrock, ping... The tails of the green beans snap as I cut into them with my thumbnail, flipping the tiny chunks into a bowl. Ping, ping, ping. Suddenly, I look up and see the trees from the back porch of the house where I grew up. I am no longer in the cramped kitchen in the tropical paradise where I live, but back in my own backyard. Well, the yard that comes to mind when I think of home. I am separated from the outside by some screens. The sun meets the green and softens it, dappling spots on the ground. I am sitting at the table, letting my hands pop the beans as I observe outside. It is a long, stretched out summer evening, just like the one in my island home. I always associate preparing green beans with summer–not as a chore, but as an accompaniment for the sunset, the rhythm of my hands adding to the rosy rays of the retreating sun as it starts to give way to the coolness of the evening. But then my mind flips to corn on the cob, the chrysalis shaped ...

  The Shaman He was intimately holding an inanimate object, cooing to it in a voiceless voice. The sky was dark, but the light highlighting the boardwalk behind me gave form to some shadows. The shaman's stick was leaning on the church's doorway and his bed things softened the entrance. In the past, a black beggar used to sleep there. Then, an elderly woman hissed at him one day in a "shameful" whisper: "In God's doorway!" He then shambled up into the sunshine, never to return. The shaman took over the shrine, holding the holiness in his intricately carved stick with a swirl at the top. Sometimes he grasps it, staring at it as if he is beheld by his own spell.  Today the shaman was holding a stuffed animal, affectionately murmuring to it. I must have been staring because the fuzzy thing suddenly came into focus: it was none other than Cookie Monster! While I agree that Cookie Monster is a good companion and confidant (when I was sick I would curl up with...

  I, the Giant "Interesting choice of housing," I compliment them, but just in my head. I'm not sure they will be able to understand me, you see, for I am a giant. I don't think most creatures understand Giantese (it is too loud with large letters, as you can see.) Even if they could understand me they wouldn't believe that I meant no harm with the comment. Speaking just makes them freeze and my shadow makes them scurry away. Anyway, their hangout is quite curious to me. Instead of the wide open space of the floor which I realize can be daunting and full of perils (mostly giants like me), they have selected the quiet, closed transparency of  the clear handle to my Blender. While the logic may seem baffling (they are obviously easily spotted), I suppose in this way they can keep an eye on me. They have chosen the handle as their hideout and not the blade basin, which is smart, but how the devil did they get in there? Ah, through a hole in the top of the handle, I s...