ROOTS

Struggling to comb my hair, I tug at my roots. I find strands curled around my brush, on the floor, woven between knuckles, clinging to a sweater days later. They'd held on though I'd forgotten them as they left my scalp. Sometimes I look to myself in the mirror - that one stubborn lump of butter in the melting pot, the drop that's spattered out and burnt to the coil of the stove. It's difficult to be sure of where you come from when all you have are bits and pieces, hints and jokes, no one in the family ever stayed in one place.

The roots in my hair plunge out from every direction they please, as did my family. From Mongolia to Africa, Romania to Lebanon, Armenia to France, Switzerland, Germany, even disappearing to Egypt, Australia. They refused to conform to any straight lines or single colors, and so here I am with my hair, and with my skin, my colorless eyes, my Afro-French nose.

There's a pride that comes with always following the muddy paths of my hair, a wanderer. Our roots define us until the day we get up, get out, and discover new ground to call home, for a while.

Silence in Firenze

Il Bisonte

My scribe is barely balanced in my loose hand, as I stare up at the ceiling. The building was once a stable, and the grinding of the press wheel still sounds like hooves demanding freedom. We sit in the hay loft. Feeding troughs are thoughtfully nuzzled in the high corners of stalls, on display with respect. They observe chalk spills throughout the day and like to watch rough hands smear the hot ink off the corners of copper plates and onto newsprint. Ink embedded in fingers and in the purposeful imperfections of the copper is never quite washed away despite copious amounts of kerosene and incessant scrubbing. Engraved in the walls is the aura of great beasts clacking their shoes on the cobblestone. They watch over me, with a wisdom behind their deep black eyes.

Accanto della Strada

We are seated on the grass, or climbing a gallant tree. I enjoy smoking pipa with the face of an old man, lip pouted, corners of my mouth tightly facing downward, eyebrows raised. Our picnics are taken very seriously. We’ve collected cheese and bread and prosciutto, nutella and strawberries, grapes, olives, tomatoes; no forks or knives or spoons. We have no knowledge of the correct wine to drink, so we pay very little and drink both red and white, then red again for good health. Without the introversion of utensils or glasses we share the moment wholly. Someone grasps the bottle, vermillion elixir dripping down their chin. Seated in a circle we beam at one another, already discerning the significance of an afternoon. It has been a long walk uphill to be seated at the side of this road.

Cortile

In the studio courtyard someone crouches low under the bush with a sketchbook, drawing a pink flower. I watch as their eyelashes bounce up and down and up and down without attention to the journey from plant to paper. Leaves are tugged by the wind and wisps of hair curiously follow. Wisteria grip and devour the walls but for someone, this particular flower has stolen the day.

Pranzo

On breaks from turning the press we head around the corner. We call this place the Communist Café. The old masters like their cappuccinos and their cigarettes. The window displays salty tomatoes and prosciutto proudly erupting out of Panini and pizzas. Old men here argue with the bend in their elbows, women with a manipulated movement of their loose buns.

Piazza Santa Spirito

A man like Popeye sells sangria. He reaches over the counter to hand a woman a bottle, arms bursting from the navy stripes of his shirt. “Prego.” I’ve been sketching a seagull from the steps of the church for several minutes, and Antonio’s vast nose beckons me to his table; so do the sharp smells of his cheeses. The mercato is a maze of blackberries and greens and honey and lovely people smiling not with their teeth but with their tongues and throats. The fountain in the center of the square houses flirtatious young girls and boys and a collection of pigeons squabbling over bread-ends and rolling berries. Tomorrow the mercato will be a forest, no longer of good smells but of colors and fabrics and boxes of mismatched jewelry pieces. Pipes made from wood and granite, smooth against fingers and distracting passersby from the cigarette vending machine behind them. Scarves in bright yellows and deep blues found in the attic and brought to breathe in the streets. By five o’clock the only sounds will erupt from the bursting of the fountain and the moaning of gypsies.

Bar i Dolci di Patrizio Cosi

Bombolo, bombolo cioccolato, budino di riso, parigina, and my favorite risella for breakfast. The most rich café latte one only could dream of warms my throat. Before work, women and men bustle through, hollering their orders at a man and his son, of whom I have become quite fond. The espresso machine is jostled and cranked and steamed, clutching and releasing its parts as needed. I wrap my fingers around the tall glass carrier of my coffee, noticing the warmth is just as the taste and the smell. “Grazie,” begins to sound rather rushed even from my own mouth, until the man’s son intently looks upon my eyes and nods “Prego,” with his brow and a sincerity such a young and busy man does not ordinarily possess.

Ponte

On the bridge just beside the Ponte Vecchio, I used to stand and watch as brave friends climbed over the wall to perch beyond the edge for lunch. I’d take pictures, and admire their gumption. I do not regret holding back, nor do I wish to redeem the moment. They found peace there, hanging off the bridge, and I found peace in admiring them.

Balcone

Here we sip our tea and look out on the great red mass of il Duomo, asleep with assured power. My toes curl around the guard rail, my fingers around the little plastic mug. Warm April wind reminds us to stay here for as long as we are allowed. Little one-seated cars and vespas beep at each other below us, and men holler down the streets as they bring down the grate to close up their cafés and trattorias. The sky is pink and gentle, but still rooftops stretch upward in a forceful dance, knowing they belong there in place of the meager clouds. The air smells warm and sweet. Breathing is far more pleasant here on the balcony. Silently, I inhale the knowledge of a thousand woven hours, though I am in love with one simultaneous breath – captured and set free.

Cimitero San Miniato

High above the city in the hills, white tomb stones blare back at the sun.  A couple cast in limestone fool their admirers: everything is alive in the cemetery. Sleeping lions guard tombs from the steps and the roof, angels nap against the stone, hooded women weep, and the Wailing Jesus drips metallic tortures on the grass. It is as if I were isolated and alone until I found this place. A friend lights up his pipa from a rooftop nearby, and I climb the wall to join him. We sit there, knowing a great kinship with the nameless who surround us. I accept this meditation and renounce my constant need for contact and conversation, and the illusion of the wisest path to appreciation. I sit, taste the sweet smoke, and desperately clutch the stone wall of a new home. Here I greet silence. 

90 Summers for Young Women

      It’s difficult to describe the Bung porch. It lives in the pine grove, covered in old rocking chairs spiritedly painted green and white. It’s a great wide structure built from the very forest it has settled safely under. If one were to look upon it with unknowing eyes, it would seem just a very brown porch – the entrance to a room with threadbare furniture, and another with shiny picnic tables, and the kitchen, and the mysterious attic where counselors evasively disappear to. One might notice a rather aged woman rocking back and forth, and admire her pink lipstick and perplexing smile. If an explanation were desired, the received answer may sound something like this: “Bung is short for Bungalow! It was named ninety years ago, a very, very old building--”

            When first constructed it was a curious collection of harvested trees. The first Waukeela women gave it life. But it is our feet that have named it, trampled over its floor for those ninety years – my own for merely twelve. We are the ones who have repeatedly broken its creaky screen doors with a careless slam, and called Ralph Mead to fix it.

            When I look upon the Bung I feel its roots firmly planted in my eastern ground. Pine trees have grown around it, at a distance out of reverence, but grasping forearms under the earth. It welcomes little girls to pile on its steps and kick its walls and weigh down its floorboards. They are waiting for the bugle to blow, for the mail to arrive, to be lead across the road to Crystal Lake. They eat peaches before 3^rd period, sticky nectar rolling down their chins and little fingers, all the way to the green painted floor. Clever girls hide the sweet mess with the toes of their sneakers. Thumbs pound fruit stickers into the wall under a white thumb tack. They run off, hardly aiming as their bare pits fly into the forest, devoured like a fleshy bone. The grove could have grown here for no better reason than to cradle our old peach pits and apple cores and scraped knees.

            I find myself wishing to grab their little shoulders, spin them around and show them my home. Sometimes they are the unknowing eyes, floating right over the magic of the Bung porch. They see a rusty roof, covered in pine needles, and think of their white houses with shiny porcelain sinks. But summer will end, months will pass, green and white shorts will be put away in boxes and closets, and winter will remind them of its warm and welcoming rocking chairs. Perhaps after a good many years have gone by it won’t take winter to have them longing for the comfort of the Bung.

            I sit there, deep in summer silence, and watch the trees sway. I feel their reassurance, a tap on the knee from wind through great boughs. The floorboards creak as I rock back and forth, pressing a naked foot into one of the beams standing tall at the edge of the steps. There is an airy tunnel in the trees, like a tiny glass window cracked open to admire the lake beyond the grove. It’s mesmerizing, this little time piece of crystal water, a mercury pool emblazoned by the sun.

            Her lipstick voice appears like buttery corn bread beside me. A giraffe winks up at me from the front of her bedazzled beach shirt. She whispers stories of old camp, of dangerous traditions and simpler days. She loves the little childish string that pulls the light off in cabin ceilings. I love the copper color of her skin, white hair, pink lips, and her boundless apple toned hat. She loves the movie Secondhand Lions with a tremendous southern shriek. I love the color of her voice as she recites the weather. Her laughter is expansive and unrepressed. She isn’t waiting for the bugle to blow, or the mail to arrive. She’s been waiting for the Bung porch since she was fifteen, and camp was new.

            Ralph comes bumping by in his brand new truck, designed to survive the roots and the rocks. He emerges with great power, slamming the door shut with a blaming eye in my direction. His booming voice erupts from an enormous belly, approaching my chair. But I smirk right back at him, and Stevie Ma’am chuckles supportively beside me. Without much more, the left side of Ralph’s face curls upward from the corner of his mouth and his old eyes. He turns with a wave and a guffaw, on to other young women to badger. As he walks away he sings back to me, “she’s got rings on her fingers, rings on her toes…” and I hope he never leaves the earth.

            My feet have grown strong on these smooth green floorboards, little daggers that they used to be. The honor of the rocking chair once lived far above my tiny head, unattainable and considerably feared. The slim occasions I came close to relaxing in the woven seats were atop the laps of older girls, adoring of my shy silence, unaware of the truth of my terror at their magnificently tall bodies, smiles, and confidence. They had the privilege of experience, and with that came a great power I thrived to possess. But my body was not big enough. I was frustrated by my meager legs, frozen against those of the older girls, my toes only reaching the tops of their knees. Now I stretch my legs to rest my rough feet high up on the beams of the Bung porch while air wafts through the undersides of my own knees.

            The walk back to the cabin in rainy darkness is easy. The roots never trip, the rocks never scrape, I am all too aware of their old patterns soundly glued to the damp ground. A little cot and four sleeping girls await my return. I have perfected the art of opening a cabin door in the middle of the night – a silly thing to practice, but intrinsic to a counselor’s evening routine. It takes a quick jolting motion to open the screen door just a couple of inches, then a sneaky hand to dart in and clutch the screeching spring in order to safely widen the passageway. I am most at ease in this squeaky bed where I first learned to fall asleep without my mother’s calming hand. Rain clatters down on our tin roof, easily confused with a threatening hail. But I am reminded that the canopies are replenished tonight, after laboring to keep us cool and safe for weeks. The pounding raindrops and damp smell of wood lull me to sleep, to be woken by the bugle, wonderful and shrill, beckoning me back to the Bung porch for breakfast and another twelve years.

On Art

Perhaps a true statement: A lyric essay flows very quickly in all different directions.

It is interesting when we begin to think about organized thought, our brain as our map and our map [is] our brain. Follow exact directions and the destination will present itself as simply as it appears. 

If a constrained essay presents itself to us as a navigation system, a lyric essay presents itself as a fine friend and I driving a black Toyota pick-up down a cliff-side in search of an isolated party haven in the woods. We are laughing and meowing and screaming and rather dramatically unsure of the outcome. Occasionally a friend’s madness is wisdom, and an essay’s madness is adventure. Occasionally all things are reversible, and nothing is very much as it seems, and when we reach the bottom which tends to look like the top, we understand more about ourselves and of course we understand nothing. 

If we were to surgically remove our mind from our brain, I believe we would in fact have a concrete road map. Perhaps in doing so our lives would be simpler, the universe would be simpler, and we would know many things. The destination would present itself quite as simply as it appears. It often happens that we surgically remove our brain from our mind. The outcome is poetry, and our brain cannot begin to recognize it. Few of us have the strength to avoid our brain gnawing at our mind for long enough to understand any poetry at all. What our mind understands is the direction each individual travels. It understands this because it is aware there is no possible way of seeing it, only a hint at feeling its presence. But then few of us have the intelligence to mediate our brain and our mind in order to create organized art: the “lyrical” essay.

When first scribbled, the lyrical essay is the beautiful infinity of the mind. But, soon revised by the brain that desires to connect with many other minds, the essay becomes quality – organized train of thought. Indeed, something which does not exist, but renders that foolish feeling of experimental arrangement.

We may observe a painting, or an etching, or some kind of sculptural creation with much scrutiny. We may consider ourselves higher than what appears to be a third grade scrawl; superior of mind. We may be correct. What the artist has profited from may insult us because we have paid to see art in action. We have paid to see pure-organized-art. Bread & Puppet proclaims, “Art is FOOD. We cannot EAT it but it FEEDS us.” We need it, but we cannot understand it.

We are asked the question: “What is art?” We answer: “Art pleases us.” “Art is beautiful.” “Art provokes thought.” We are being asked the wrong question. If the question lies: “What is thought?” We answer: “Thought is pure.” “Thought is inspiration.” “Thought is art.” Have we now reached greater understanding? No, what we have reached is only more questions. Thought is art.

I draw in charcoal, because a mark is erasable but remains. I embrace the thick black chalk on my palms and elbows, ashen freedom. I etch and print, soaking up the smells of solvents and inks, and allowing them to saturate my skin. I type, correcting as I go, revising and cutting and pouring over notes. I am consumed, and it consumes me. I obsess. If art is food I am starving. If art feeds me I am over-fed. If thought is art, I am an artist, but if art is thought, I over-think. 

Some Silly Poetry for my Vermont Readers

Preserved Hours

The Vermont air was like a crisp green grape.

You settled into your snowshoes

The way one would a bed in the dark, but

You fell over with one easy step.

We unbuttoned our icy jaws.

I’ve never remembered why we laugh,

Forever uneager to expel the cliché.

We laugh like Katy’s black truck

Bouncing down the cliff-side.

Our boots stopped at the edge of the forest –

You were afraid of the dark.

We didn’t all know each other,

 You confessed with your teeth.

The canopy fluttered its hands inward, like

An invitation you’d never been offered.

You meowed to me with cat eyes

Exploring your surprised satisfaction,

Inhaling the blue darkness.

Snow crunched and flurried as we howled.

We laughed with our bellies,

Penetrating the hollows of the forest.

The woods were silent with shadows and nobodies.

Somnolent Summers

I believe in taking naps. I believe in long languorous sleeps. In the deepness of summer, when I wake up feeling stale and sweaty and dehydrated, I know my greatest peace. Sometimes I doze off on the porch in a familiar chair, sometimes in the sand with the little waves of a lake glazing over my toes, sometimes in the grass with the boy I love, or in a hammock with my best friend in the middle of the night. On very lucky days, I fall asleep surrounded by dandelions, my mind wonderfully muffled with wine. The ground is cool and the air is hot, and the vast sky is clearer than i have ever seen. The clouds move slow, and lull me to sleep. 

Often, I nap in my beloved red subaru on the side of the road. I wake up with a pinch in my temple, suffocated by my own breath with the deep, low sun piercing my eyes. But as the door opens, I gulp that first heap of fresh air, remember the function of my own legs and rediscover freedom. And simplicity. I drive home with all four windows squeezed inside all four doors, letting Vermont air and dirt twist and turn about the layers of my clothes and hair. I think about my dreams – when I nap I remember. When I nap my dreams laugh; they enjoy their time inside my head. They bring me clarity, and perspective. The day slows down, summer slows down, and the things I love stay in one place. Life’s finality melts away because the world is silent and patient, and so I nap.

Jack Frost Nipping At My Nose With The Promise Of Eggs

Recently, I was greeted by the biting cold of home. It happened almost instantly: my nose dried out, the skin on my knuckles started to crack like boiled tomatoes, and my eyes became watery with the sheer shock of the temperature. A splendid welcoming! The cold is different from the winds of Chicago, it doesn't take a single break to re-accumulate. Its jaws force us to cuddle up inside by the fire, which I must say is rather pleasant.
The moment I arrived home I had a great long sleep. It was five o'clock in the afternoon. I felt as if I hadn't slept in months, and I awoke to complete silence on my living room couch. I sat, and waited for the crackle of the fire to make its way to my thirsty ears. I looked up to the crumbling wood ceiling, and in a nasty web was a poor deceased fly. It hung ominously, but before thinking a beat on the unpleasantness of the thing, I felt a pang of relief to finally be in a place where flies can execute their short life-cycle. I had not seen a bug since August.


In the morning I was disoriented, and not entirely certain what to do with myself. I stumbled downstairs, surprised to meet my mother there. The coffee was the first thing to go on. Then I pulled out a small frying pan with a wobbly handle and took great pleasure in heating it up with some olive oil on the stove. I made myself eggs. With extra drippy yolk - possibly my greatest source of happiness. A thing so infused in my taste buds that I had to tattoo it on the back of my neck. I smothered my toast with pesto and oil and placed my eggs on top. I immediately washed my dishes (something I never used to do while lounging at home) and wandered to the couch to sit again by the fire. The coffee smelled heavenly, and felt at home in the tight grasp of my fingers. I took a large bite and the warm sunny mess came dripping down my chin and onto the plate. The salty tang of an old love affair was practically unbearable, but I was starving for more. It was not a breakfast to sustain myself or to build my energy. It was a reunion.