Give Green Foam a Chance...

Today promised to be a good day.

The winter chill in the air hung gelatinous-like that morning as the mist caused fat drops of dew to burden innocent blades of grass. When you think you'll almost overdose from so much freshness. I had left my bedroom window open to let the cool air balance the warmth enveloping me from my heavy blanket.

Was that right? I squinted my eyes, but my poor vision still couldn't make out the blurry red digits on the clock. I finally rationalized that I had to sit up, so I did to grab the clock to place it about six inches from my nose to finally make out the time-- 5:27 A.M. Damn...hate it when I forget where I put my glasses....and double-damn, why is it so damn early?

But I could hear the sounds of my mother and father in the living room already preparing for the day.

---The whirring of the blender as my mother made us fresh juice. Not sweet tropical concoctions you'd like to see in a pineapple shaped glass with a cheesy mini Hawaiian umbrella sticking out of it. No, she liked to create these thick green cocktails of bitter vegetables and fruits that my mother was certain would extend our life spans for at least another 38.45 years. She meant well and it made us all feel like we were healthier, and to say the least...we were all 'regular' as can be.

---The crackle of the morning paper as my father skimmed the sports pages. His occasional clearing of the throat even though it wasn't necessary at all. And the shuffling of his house shoes against the worn down shag carpet to see if the neighbor was letting its dog poop on our lawn. "I'll catch that son of a bitch, one of these days, goddamit." This was his morning prayer.

---And the low hum of the Buddhist monks tape playing in the background...the somber bells chiming....the incense slowly wafting into my room beckoning me to wake up...

I heard my mother's small feet coming closer and closer to my room. Maybe if I tried real hard, I could fall back to sleep and she would give me another hour or so to dream. Or I could fake it...but she would know. I closed my eyes and I held on tight to my sleep for just a second longer before I finally had to let go of its soft, comforting hand.

"Indie...Indie wake up. Here's your juice." I opened my eyes half way and saw my Fosse mug brimming with green foam. A clear straw sticking out like the broken stern of a ghost ship slipping beneath the unwelcoming murkiness of a swamp.

"Thanks..mom...just..." I yawned for added effect,"...put it over on the table and I'll drink it when I wake up."

"Indie, you're waking up now. We have to get the day started. Lots to do. And drink your juice before it starts to change color...you won't want to drink it when it's brown." She put the cup on my table and walked out the room.

Hmm...I thought to myself. My tolerance level wouldn't really change if I was drinking green foam or brown foam....it's pretty much the same to me. I shrugged and decided it best to just get up and shower.

+++++++++++++++++++

My mother and father owned a little convenience store/deli. They also served Chinese fast food there and so that morning we had to stop by Mr. Hawkins Wholesale Butchery to pick up some things. I sat in the crowded mini-van we three shuttled around in. My father with his Hollywood Casino baseball cap made out of jean prominently displayed on his head. His favorite story was of him winning five hundred dollars at the slots. "I sat on that damn stool for four hours! I swear my butt cheeks were ingrained in that son of a bitch!" He was also wearing the sweater grandma had knit him for Christmas two years ago--the one with the hunter in khaki shorts shooting the duck in the sky...a sad creature with a broken neck suspended in red yarn.
My mother seemed to always wear the same thing when in fact she just bought the same outfits in mass quantities. My favorite was her blue and green tropical two piece (it came in both pants and skirts). She would use this as the base and then layer accordingly as the weather deemed fit. Today, since it was a chilly morning, she had on two sweaters and her large itchy red jacket.

A normal child would be abhorred at the fashion indescretions my parents were prominently displaying in public. But I had gotten to the point where I thought it was adorable. Embarassment was obsolete now. I loved my parents and I was happy for them, who cares if they wouldn't be showing up on anyone's Best Dressed List. Those are for pretentious yuppies anyhow. Its good when you get to the point where that war-craved teenager fascade of "you" against "them" melts away and you can finally appreciate your parents for just being human.

"Indie, you stay in the car. Let the engine keep running to keep it warm." Dad pulled into the delivery driveway of Hawkin's and I always was worried Dad would back up into one of those dividing poles, but he never did. I always admired him for that.

My parents climbed out of the vehicle and walked into the warehouse and I sat there in silence and wondered how many sad unknowing pigs were being slaughtered in that vestibule right now. All that squealing...crunching...bashing. But I saw a couple of men in white frocks, hair nets, and goggles walk by and wondered how sanitary could it really be with all that blood and gore. Would Upton Sinclaire be rolling in his grave or resting peacefully?

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Mom and Dad started getting hungry so we decided to go eat at this Vietnamese Pho restaurant my father's friend had just opened up. The building had been previously owned by five different other owners, none of them lasting for more than six months. This one had been opened for about a month now and everyone in the neighborhood was counting down. We walked into the building. A not-so friendly petite woman directed us toward a table near the window. We sat there and my mom and dad spoke in Chinese.

"Where's Frank? Do you think he's cooking? Maybe he's not even here in the mornings...maybe he comes in the evenings..."

"You should ask...ask that lady. But she might not even know...she's just a waitress..I don't like the looks of her."

The lady sauntered over and took our order.

Before she left my dad asked her in Vietnamese if the owner, Frank, was there. She said he was in the back and would go get him.

My father nodded in triumph. Dad told mom to get him some Vietnamese newspapers to read while they waited which he thought were on a table next to the cash register. Mom walked over there but came back with the 5-pound telephone book instead.

"There's no newspapers over there. Here, read the phone book."

My dad didn't even bat an eyelash. He merely placed the yellow bible in front of him, raised his glasses, and flipped to the coupons. "Look 10 bucks off an oil change. Tell me when the waitress isn't looking and I'll rip it out."

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

A Penny for Your Thoughts....

...and a nickel for your troubles.

I've been away from my computer lately. Busy with the store and just trying to simmer in my own juices. Contemplating life.

Computers (though they are wonderful in their innate ways) causes me, I find, to just waste time. When I'm sitting in front of my monitor I contantly check my email when I know I just checked it five minutes ago. And I constantly read my friends' blogs and other websites, when I've already read entries five times. So I've decided to reduce my intake of my computer time due to the high productivity calories....not nutritious just filling. The creation of the Internet was both a godsend and a bane to society..or at least those are my thoughts.

And I'm on the verge of a new premise for a story that has been brewing in my brain. Hope it doesn't disappoint...

A Day by Any Other Name.....

So to break from tradition, I'm writing a more common blog entry because my muse has taken leave (at least for two weeks! I found the ticket stub to Hawaii on my dresser...and she didn't even invite me..the nerve!) and my inspiration seems to have dried up into a sickly purple-brown prune. And I can't stand the thought of someone stumbling onto my blog only to be greeted by that painting of my crabs. Crabs! That's no welcome mat!

I'm not even going to mention the fact that today is the day that will not be mentioned (wink wink you know what I'm talking about). Nothing special for me. Not this year. How sad. But that's life and I'm not going to worry about it. If it wasn't fated for me to be spoiled with rose petals, cheap red wine, and calorific Swiss chocolates, than I'm better for it. (And I can drink red wine 365 days a year! Thank you very much!) The world has brainwashed us into thinking that the amount of love we feel should be measured by how large that stuffed bear on your bed is, or how many roses your boyfriend was able to afford. That's twisted and delusional. That bear will end up dirty and tattered at the Goodwill store by next year and those roses began wilting the very second the florist cut their roots off....Pleasure and happiness is constantly fleeting.

On the other hand, the weather was real nice today, I tell ya what. One of those days where you want to go splash around in the creek and get all bronzed from the sun's kisses. Or sit on a rock and see if an unknowing fish will bite that shiny hook disguised in the slimy blood of a worm bait. Or sit in the middle of a meadow of sunflowers and contemplate why doing nothing can bring such contentment...

I on the other hand was not splashing around, or baiting a hook, or amongst any sunflowers of any sort. I was helping mom out at the old shop and it was like any other day except for the fact that instead of my customary "Have a nice day!" at the end of a transaction, I wrapped up with "Happy (day that will not be mentioned wink wink)!" Some of the highlights of today was when:

1. A man bought $5 worth of ginseng candy. Who buys that much ginseng candy? (BTW gross!)

2. A woman buys 8 cans of tuna fish. That's alot of dolphin safe cans. And she referred to saltine crackers as "cookies you eat the fish with."

3. A man came in looking awfully nervous because he didn't have a gift for his girlfriend for (the day that won't be mentioned) but I helped him pick something out nice and his nervous disposition melted away.

4. Four different customers came in and told me what a nice lady my mom was and that I was lucky to have such a kind lady as my mother. I already knew that :)

5. I finished my Su Tong novel and was disgusted at how he depicted women in it.

6. Learned that my mother lived in a big house with marble floors when she was in Vietnam but when she came to America, she was sewing sombreros for $2.75 an hour.

Later on in the day...

I got another rejection email from one of the places where I sent in one of my short story submissions. Boo-hoo. I feel like a dope. Like they don't get me. Come on, am I that complex? Maybe, maybe not. There's not enough petals on a daisy to play that game. I guess the market for short 'short stories' hasn't gotten it's spotlight yet. But the other day at Barnes & Nobles, I saw an anthology for the shortest short stories in the world and they were pretty much one-liners! Now if those got a real publishing deal, than surely....no, I'm not gonna jinx myself. The clammy veil of rejection easily wears away and only makes your eminent success that much sweeter. I guess all I can do is keep submitting...until my fingers break.

After watching Arthur des Pins's "La Revolution des Crabes", I was inspired to paint this cute little piece. If you get a chance, check out this animated short film-- you won't be disappointed. 

Mermaids in the Sea

It seemed so hard.

To admit to myself the feelings that had been boiling in my belly. It reminded me of the huge pots of water grandmother would put on the stove to boil the crabs or the crawfish for Sunday lunch. When I was barely able to reach my grandmother's waist, clinging to her dirty apron, and my hair was tied in long pigtails, I would imagine a Tom Thumb miniature version of myself trapped in a pot, climbing on top of the reddening shell of a blue crab, trying to get away from the boiling liquid, but getting sleepy from the hypnotizing heat never to wake again....or at least that's how I wished those crabs met their fate, in a warm, relaxing bath, getting drowsy and then pitch black--but no pain. But in retrospect, that was much too idyllic and naive of a thought. I wondered what was worse, to be a crustacean or a human. I guess they were both on par with each other.

The waves lapped their tongues onto the shore to taste the sand, only to repel backwards from the saltiness. I sat there on the large boulder that we used to play on when we were little girls. The innocent times of when the gray clouds were brought on because she and I were witches casting spells on evil demons (not because it was supposed to rain.) When grandmother would wake us up at the crack of dawn to look for buried chests of gold and jewels (not to dig for clams for that week’s dinner.) When the seagulls were our loyal messengers gathering for their next mission, (not because the old beachcomber was throwing out stale pieces of sourdough into the wind.) When we were mermaids in the sea...

I had thought the situation up and down and decided that there was no good way things could end up. Someone would be hurt. I was going to be the martyr because it was my own fault for prying...for getting in the way...And if there was ever a decision of whether the gun should be aimed at me or her, I would willingly place the barrel against my own temple, pull the trigger, and fall into her arms, no question, before she could even let out a breath. There were so many times when I wanted to tell her that, but I was afraid she would think me too self-righteous.

I pulled my shawl tighter against my shoulders and wondered where she was. Earlier that morning, I had hesitated as I let the phone ring into my ear. I wondered if she could tell that I had unsuccessfully finished dialing her number for an hour before I could muster the courage to press the last 7th digit. She picked up after the third ring tone and seemed a bit startled that it was me. I told her to meet me at our old place and she agreed without a question. I was glad for that. She never made things harder than they had to be. I thought it best that I be the one to tell her. To let her know all that was, all that would never be.

I saw a dark figure against the edge of the tide about a mile off. I waved and she waved back.

Before I knew it, we were sitting on the boulder side by side looking at the sinking sun like a broken pirate ship slipping beneath the waves. There was a golden silence. No "hello's" or "how ya doing's." Fluff like that was obsolete for old friends like us. So then I told her.

The words fell out of me. Each word painfully pulled from my lips. Bricks that fell from my tongue only to crush onto my toes leaving me to wince at each sting.

But it was the only way to purge these troubled feelings that had formed between us. And I knew that if the rift were to grow any larger, I would lose her forever. And usually, the times when the truth is hardest to admit, is when its most necessary, the only cure for the self-inflicted wounds that had so naturally appeared on my body.

After I finished, I searched her face for some semblance of a reaction but all I saw were her glassy eyes looking far off into the distance. Her long lashes fluttered as a breeze wrapped around us but she didn’t even shudder at the chill.

I wanted to shake her. Make sure that she understood that the only reason I was saying the things that I did was because I felt she deserved the entire truth.

I didn’t even consider the possibility of losing her even after telling her this truth. All I could think of was the “before”, the veil that she had been under, the unmoving stage curtain that never allowed the show to begin. Because for so long we had all been living on the surface, in some kind of fantasy, a castle in the clouds made out of goose feathers. And it seemed to have gone on so long that it had somehow transformed into this hideous concrete reality. But I wouldn’t let her live in make-believe fortresses or walk on brittle sidewalks any longer.

Finally she sighed.

“I’ve missed you. Not just lately. But for a long time now. So many things have changed and…” I could see her clawing for the right words like she always did, trying to make things sound so storybook, straight from a novel. But it only made her seem more vulnerable. “…and, I guess I should have known all along. I was just not letting myself see it. Isn’t it amazing? The way you can fool yourself into holding onto something that’s not there, believing in some invisible safety net when you’ve already hit the ground, broken and bleeding. The power of desire, delusion….make-believe.”

She finally looked at me, and of all things, she smiled. It was a heartbreaking smile that simultaneously conveyed her resolute passivity and invariable forgiveness. “In the end, we’re all just a bunch of insignificant fools.”

I wanted to break down into hysterical sobs. I wished she had slapped me and run off into the distance, never to be heard from again. Or scream at the top of her lungs that she despised me with all her heart and she couldn’t believe that I had the audacity to call her my friend. Needed her to show me some semblance of anger…to justify my actions as wrong-doings. I wanted to feel her hatred for me that matched my own self-loathing.

So we sat there in silence not knowing what the days ahead of us would hold. Absorbing the words that had been exchanged between us. Me, wishing mine had hurt her more, and not expecting hers to have cut me so deeply.