Upside Down Kris

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...

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...

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 ...

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...

Who do you want to be? What a central question, one that my brain has been buzzing around for years. It has been in the forefront a lot lately, partly because I just finished the book Atomic Habits (which I totally recommend). It makes total sense now, but I hadn't really thought about the fact that my sense of self dictates the habits that I take on or that don't stick. What we choose/ don't choose to do largely depends on our values and how we see ourselves. Consequently, when we shift our view of our identity that automatically changes our habits. Seeing as how January is generally accepted as the hot spot of resolutions, it's the perfect moment to write down my ideas for my ideal self: *creative     *musically inclined     *sympathetic *nice     *polite     *giving (time + resources) *empathetic     *a good person     *caring *energetic yet grounded     *an avid reader *someone you can count on    ...

Storm Emilia  A great big ball of wind was rolling down the pavement toward me. I staggered under its might. The gale was blasting against me and anyone challenging it. I bent under its force with my head as low as it could go. I tried charging it, but it knocked my breath from me. I was gasping and couldn't take it anymore. I realized my eyes were closed and I forced them open into slits, searching for cover. Two men–one in a pumpkin orange vest that was clearly visible–had taken refuge in a covered alcove to the left. I battled the wind one step at a time until I joined them. I filled my lungs and recharged. Another young women who had been just a few feet behind me stepped off the same course to wait with us. The men stayed content in the background while us women put our heads or hands out at intervals to see if the wind's fury had been placated. At a certain point, the other woman and I both decided to brave the wind even though it was still blowing. We looked at each othe...