Upside Down Kris

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...

The Summer Zone   Time has been dilating lately, reaching for the far ends of the universe. It's a breeze rolling over my consciousness that then floats past. The light stretches out into the evening like an extended prism–beams extending in all directions that are also accompanied by long shadows.  Since the end of the season of most of my interests (swing and Spanish), my sense of time has expanded. For most of the year, Time contracts and collapses leaving me to sweep up the remaining pieces and trying to figure out how I could use them. I scramble to grab onto Time's limbs, trying to feel the connection once again. Now, with less things to do, I bounce off activities, sending ripples in Time. The ripples vibrate back to me at low frequencies, like the hum that escapes me when I hang laundry in the summer sun or the memory of crickets calling in the dusk on summer evenings at camp.  While I am enjoying the non-pressure, it also makes it hard to get things done. Duties ...

  Works of Fire In some hours crescent comets will shoot across the sky for the people expecting them. They will mesmerize in hot colors: steamy white, electric blue, bursting red–even the green will be warm in its yellow after-tones. There will be golden falling stars, chandelier-like glitters that will slowly filter to the ground or drift into smoke. All the Americans under the sky above the USA will lean their heads back in awe. At least the ones who have come out for the fireworks...Some may park at a safe distance from the launching sites and press their faces against car windows. That's what I would've done as a little girl, anyhow...and now. The fireworks that stuck to me when I was a kid were down in Albany off a hill. I remember walking blocks downtown  to a grassy spot which was the best place to catch the fireworks (was it in Washington Park?). We would unroll the blanket and then wait. Waiting was part of it–that glorious, dipping your head to watch the stars paint...

Me vs. the Sea It happened last week. It was powerful and frightening–the stuff that stories are made out of. I was rolling in the sea. No, more like I was being pummeled by the sea. Liters and liters of it poured over my head, pouncing on me and then drawing back. I knew not to panic: hadn't I learned anything from lifeguard training?  Shouldn't I just stand up and put my feet on the sand? Instead, I reached my hand over my hand, instinctively searching for a sense of up because down had fallen away from me. I suddenly knew why people drown: it's easy to be sucked in by the power of the sea's pushes and the loss of a sense of direction. I needed to breathe. All of a sudden, the surface surfaced as my hand stuck out. I pushed up and gulped air before the sea rolled in again.  I staggered to my feet but another wave crashed into me, pulling me under again. This time the water was shallow enough for me to find my ground. The sea was ferocious. I just wanted to get out uns...

The Flight of the Butterflies They were flitting over the sea, entering and exiting each other's orbits like two satellites searching for the same signal. They crossed invisible yet obvious paths in the sky over the sea. They were graceful and seemed in love, so much so that they spiraled toward each other endlessly. They were so lovely that it took me a minute to realize why the sight stood out, apart from their inherent beauty. Then, it hit me: two butterflies fluttering their ivory wings over a feild was a common sight. The same gossamer creatures circling over a sea where they couldn't land was quite another. Why were they doing their mating dance over the sea? How had they gotten there? I had seen similar specimen glibly gliding over the flowers planted in the nearest plaza, and was equally as entranced by them. But the plaza was pretty far away for a tiny butterfly. Had they flown all the way to the beach to catch a glimpse of the vastness of the sea, maybe to take a chan...