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2 O'Clock

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2 O'Clock  A tooting–no, fluting–invited my ear into the night. Focusing my sense of sound on the the evocation, I became sure that it wasn't a flute. It had none of that tinny sweetness that I associated with a flute. No, it was fuller, broader...the notes were rounder than the sometimes shrillness of a metal flute. I say it was a recorder, a recorder passing under my window to charm me out like in the story of the pan piper and his rats following the sound to and into the river. The sea is so near that he wouldn't have to lead me far... The night piper was playing a familiar tune, one usually accompanied by a drummer. And although my brain was a mass of melma (mush from half consciousness), I searched and searched my memory banks...I beckoned it to come ashore and give my mind the name it needed. The song was percussive and had a modern feel, yet I knew it came from a more complex, classical piece. The melody became stronger until it swelled beneath my window. Then, the s...
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Daily Deed

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Daily Deed He was poking around the spigot, hoping for a few drops, wishing the faucet was running. And although he was a seagull, I could feel his want. I approached at a slow gait while he gave me the side-eye. When I got too close, he waddled away. I decided to wash my feet then and there, though I had been planning a longer walk through the sand. I would take the short way home instead of de-sanding myself at the next washing station. I jammed in the metal knob that was as hard to press as it was high (how did children manage, I wonder?) It was just in my reach and I kept my eyes on the gull as I lifted one foot under the strong stream of water. "Look, I turned it on, Buddy!" I announced.  He looked at me askance.  "Hey, I finished!" I called out to him when my feet were wet with no grains of sand sticking to them. "And I left the water on!" He wouldn't come near, however, until there was sufficient distance between us. I watched from the railing a...
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Into the World

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Into the World  My head's out in the world while my body's inside my world. (That is, my apartment.) I close my eyes and suck in warm moisture, letting it grace my skin. It is my favorite wake-up tool–sticking my head out of the window. Forget about coffee or even tea...all I need is a good whiff of morning air.  I remember establishing this ritual in Northern Italy. During the winter the first inhale of the day was so frozen that it stung my nostrils. Still, I loved it and still do. It creates a connection that helps me land in the world after being in Slumberland. It signals to my brain: Hey! It's another day!  Sometimes the pistons in my head are firing before I'm ready for the day to begin. Thoughts are shooting off in all directions as if sparking even if I don't remember turning the engine on. It's like I am in the middle of an old Western movie shooting my gun in the air, trying to get control over the horses galloping around me. I often have to get up an...
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The Boon of Wrinkles

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The Boon of Wrinkles Those crinkles under the eye that mean movement, the creases of my cheek almost matching a semi-circle departing from the edge of my mouth travelling into the caverns of my nose and down the other side...these are the markers of time that I'm so excited to see because they mean momentum: they mean change. You have no idea how hard I've worked to get here–to regain lines of feeling. It has taken four years to see my face almost even; that instead of strange tingling pins and needles I sense cool fingertips touching my chin. My eye still trembles under the force of keeping my cheek taut, like my legs in some yoga positions. I am more proud of my face than my legs, however. In yoga stretching and softening, softening and stretching leads to less shaking in a fairly short time with regular practice. Physical therapy, on the other hand, means coaxing muscles which are dormant under sleeping nerves into action. When you can't sense your muscles, it's an i...
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On Carnival

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On Carnival   I lift my chin to the soft air, slightly humid molecules caressing my skin. Few sounds float to me, and muted ones at that. After the partying from last night, the city is sleeping in–apart from me and a couple of people on the street...and the guy in the window in the building to the right observing the strollers like me.  Last night it seemed like all of the island was here, on the streets filling up cafes and restaurants–even convenient stores–buying anything they had to offer. Chatting and chortling, glasses clinking, the business of moving and voices, costumes glittering and the joy bursting from being out and celebrating.  Listening to the main concert were two guys with elaborate teddy costumes. Someone (maybe themselves?) had taken a slew of plush animals and swirled them onto a black robe and top hat...crystals sparkled from the teddy's tummies. A friend of mine had make-shift boots that upon closer look were just some lucid fabric wrapped around hi...
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The First Hour

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The First Hour It was the hour of the street cleaners.  What hour would that be, I hear you asking. 8:00–not that early, but not late either, as far as rising goes. But this is a subjective matter.  In New York the streets would be popping, bustling like a bee hive. But here, the day has barely begun–just  a few  waiters are balancing coffees for the early birds overlooking the sea. Most restaurants haven't opened yet...an Italian-owned café down the street from me has just enough space to see some feet under the shop shutters, still getting things together. How bizarre it is to pass by a place that has become fixed in your brain at a totally different time. I am used to Santa Catalina with the slow stroll of tourists or an elderly cane-bearer, but also to the zigzag of last minute crossers and the rumble of vehicles carrying people and goods. I have even crossed the square at night, heading home after a rehearsal or an event happening there or simply for an evening ...
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Vulnerable, Yet Hard

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Vulnerable, Yet Hard There he was: toothless with a grubby yet heavy duty mountaineering backpack      by his side, like always. Yes, I am aware that this description reigns in contradictions, but that's my impression of him–vulnerable yet hard. I don't know how I knew he was toothless. Maybe it was the hallows of his cheeks. They were haloed by a camouflage hat atop a mop of silver hair. His skin was a  wrinkled reflection of his clothes–a topography of time, weather, and living. I assumed he slept there, on the ledge under the display window of a store no longer there. Swirls of gray left  the windows on one side to interpretation. The other was locked under a rolling shutter, shutting out passers-by from  what was inside. The man's eyes–when I dared to meet them–were pinched with pain and defensiveness. I wonder how long he had lived on the street to make them so acute. I see him on my way to Spanish class twice a week, but today I took the boardwalk the...
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