The Ex-Pat Files

It doesn´t take that much...

2007-03-20T10:15:00.000-07:00

Perfect Strangers

All it takes to make me happy is some
80’s music
Preferably something New Wave
But even the theme song to Great American Hero will do.
Everybody wants to rule the world.
I think we’re alone now.
Sister Christian.

Along the same lines,
An acute expertise of television is admired.
Like knowing who The Hogan Family were,
And how they used to be called Valerie.
Small Wonder.
Silver Spoons.
Just the Ten of Us.

Candy must be tolerated.
A love of gumballs is even better
But not the white ones, and if possible from CVS
Or for 25 cents from a machine outside of Toys R Us.
Gummy raspberries.
Sour Patch Kids.
Blow Pops.

You mustn’t ask me the same questions twice because I will assume you don’t listen to me.
You must notice how I look in a way that is detailed and precise.
Like that my hair is different.
Or that I’m wearing new shoes.

You should refill my wine glass automatically
You should let me take the window seat on a plane
And you should hold my hand even if I seem like I’m not the type.

If, after the gumballs and Different World reruns,
After you’ve realized that I’m completely neurotic and quirky with a capital Q
And have childish handwriting
And that I am sometimes capable of eating 5 Snickers in one sitting,

If after all of this
You see an episode of “Perfect Strangers” and wish I were there
Then I will admit that all it takes to make me happy
Is some candy
Some Debbie Gibson
And someone like you.

Some pics from Berlin

2007-02-26T01:06:00.000-08:00

A moment...of memory

2007-02-26T01:02:00.000-08:00

I open the door and hoist myself into the grey Nissan Suburban but before I can actually sit down, I have to move the empty bottles of Poland Spring, the Maxim magazine, and the case for Bill Moyer’s latest book on tape, which seem to be perpetually on display in the passenger seat. I wonder why you couldn’t have removed these items in the time that it took me to walk from the door to my building to the door of your car because I could see you looking at me and you could have cleaned the seat, but you chose not to. You always choose not to. My fingers are cold, I have forgotten my black stretchy gloves and so before I even sit down I turn up the heat, as high as it can go, hot air blasting and burning my fingernails ever-so-slightly in a way that feels pleasurable. A good burn on this cold winter day, and for a moment I am flooded with warmth and memories of sunshine and waterskiing on the lake and a sundae with extra hot fudge at Friendly’s and the thought of the frosty caramel ice cream congealing the hot topping makes me feel cold again and a shiver gently encompasses my body. “Jesus” you say, “What’s wrong with you?” and I reply, “Nothing…it’s just freezing and your car is freezing and so I need the heat to be on as high as it can possibly go. Thanks.” And I say this firmly and with sarcasm and I shut the door and you look at me and your look says that I am slightly annoying you, that I am slightly annoying you and we have been together for less than one minute, but then you look away and change into first gear and we leave the parking lot.
We drive past evergreen trees and the truck stop diner and the Irving gas station where they have a machine with French vanilla cappuccino mix and the good kind of beef jerky that comes in a re-sealable package and we keep on driving. Driving in silence. Past the Episcopalian church that marks the end of community and buildings and signs of humanity and so now we are driving and there is only road and evergreen trees and empty apple farms and snow-covered dilapidated houses that scream echos of past glory, of family days by the fire when sledding in the fields behind the old schoolhouse was the order of any great Saturday afternoon. We, in this land of saddened ghosts, silence permeating the space between us, the space between us that is loaded with unspoken truths and perhaps even wished-for embraces, the umbilical cord of our relationship in this space, in this silence, in this car on the empty road covered with snow, surrounded by trees and darkness and moon and the frosty breath that escapes our mouths and momentarily clouds the immediate future. One of my mix tapes is playing in the car, as though the presence of the music allows the silence to be more acceptable, allows us to forget the reality and negotiations that are imperative to our ability to sit in the car for such a long time without speaking. The Boogie Nights soundtrack croons in the background and I turn up the volume and sing “Oh woo oh woo! You’ve got the best of my love, oh woo oh woo, you’ve got the best of my love.” You turn towards me in the darkness and I expect you to quip your usual, “Who sings this song?” “The Emotions, yeah I thought so, lets’ keep it that way.” But instead, you put your hand on my knee, and solemnly, almost inaudibly say, “This song will always remind me of you. Always you” and it’s less what you say then how you say it, with melancholy and sweetness and I look at you and your hand is still on my knee and I want to hold it but I don’t because it paralyzes me and I wonder if I will ever be capable of loving someone as much as I love you. And then the moment is gone. And we are reunited with the evergreen trees and lights of the Episcopalian church that will bring us to the Irving gas station and Humanity and there is silence and eternal space.

2007-01-21T23:49:00.000-08:00

This weekend I took part in a winter tradition called a Calcotada - basically you wear a bib and eat these really long onions and get super messy. I regressed to about age 4, mind you, and so when the meat portion came, being the good vegetarian I am, I dissected the head of a rabbit. Those are the teeth, and yes I am playing with it. :)

Three Kings Day

2007-01-06T04:59:00.000-08:00

Sometimes all it takes is something little.

The sun shining in the corner of a dark street.

An old man holding hands with his grandchild as he crosses the plaza.

People in line to buy cake.

Sometimes all it takes is a little sunshine on Three Kings Day to make everything seem that much brighter.

How magical.

An oldie but goody

2006-12-19T00:02:00.000-08:00

When he knew…

Her mouth is moving at an impressively rapid pace and I am watching her lips and how their redness contrast her white teeth and I wonder if she is wearing lipstick or if her lips are that color when she wakes up in the morning. Her eyes widen and she looks down briefly, grasps her cappuccino and desperately tries to savor the last drop, which by now has become somewhat crystallized and essentially stuck to the bottom of the cup. She asks me for another one of my cigarettes and I can tell that she is nervous and her fingers are tapping and she looks at me and looks away and when I light her cigarette she leans over and tilts her forehead down and the late-afternoon sun makes the red in her hair shine, and then she resumes her sitting position and it’s gone. She asks me a question but I am distracted by her hair and so I nod and smile and that is enough because she continues to talk. She brings the cigarette to the side of her mouth and shallowly inhales, letting the smoke come through her nose and it is clear that she isn’t really a smoker, that she is not really inhaling, but it makes her feel better and so I don’t comment. Because I think it’s kind of sweet and I wonder if she smokes nervously with other people or if it’s just with me. I’d like to think it’s just with me.
I tell her about what I’m doing at work and the translation makes me exhausted and I am tremendously bored by my own words but I am afraid of what I will do and what I will want if there is more than the expected silences. She seems interested, and her eyes smile, as they do, always saying a little bit more than any other part of her, and she raises her eyebrows and I wonder if I have underestimated myself because she is acting enchanted by my story and I can’t see how she can be. She laughs, and tucks a stray curl behind her ear and twists it around her index finger a number of times but then she realizes that she is doing it and she looks at me and I feel raw and so I check the time on my mobile and pretend to look for the waitress to ask for the bill. Not because I have someplace to be but because I feel like I need to leave. Because she has this ability to look at me that makes me feel uncomfortable and I spend endless minutes hoping that she doesn’t accidentally brush my leg or touch my hand, because if she did all of this control that I think I have over her will be lessened.
I ask her to tell me her plans for the weekend and she gets excited about some trip or some dinner that I can’t fully decipher because she is speaking too quickly again. She pauses though, and begins philosophizing about her fears for the future and what she wants in her life and she is having trouble articulating herself and rests one hand underneath her jaw. She is lost…far away from me, from the café, from herself. And I want to save her. Because she is innocent and lovely and I feel responsible for her in a way that bothers me, in a way that makes me feel guilty. So, I take her frigid hand, and I say, “I know. I just know”. Because it feels natural to do so and more importantly, because I do know, I do understand her.
Still holding her hand, I look at her, and her eyes have filled with tears that will never fall and she seems so desperately sad and her once animated face is completely still and she shudders and I feel it in her hand and so I let go. “Of course you know” she says. And I am momentarily shocked by this reaction and the intense melancholy of her expression and for the first time I let my palms frame my chin, and stare at her, and she wipes a tear from her left eye and asks me to stop looking at her that way, to please stop looking at her that way.

And so I do. And we are broken.

Butchers for a Vegetarian

2006-12-14T07:08:00.000-08:00

The Butcher

I used to look forward to Saturday mornings at the market.
I would arrive at the booth, legs of pigs hanging on the wall,
rows of strawberry and cherry, crimson and salmon-colored
meats lined up on colorful display,
tastefully beckoning to be consumed
to be ravished.
Next to the meat, a smaller though equally compelling section of cheeses
ivory and golden
Swiss and Spanish.
The line was always long and customers always seemed to order
An excessive supply of meat and cheese for their families
and for moments I could imagine their lives
and their dining rooms
and the generations of tradition of weekend feasts would make me feel
temporarily warm and comforted and part of a greater human community.
When it came to be my turn,
you would already have gotten out the tin that held my delicacy of choice,
and our eyes would meet and you would confirm that I wanted
the feta, the luscious, potent feta cheese that has come to
represent so many wonderful conversations and even more
wonderful dining experiences.
Sometimes you would ask where I have been in the past weeks,
or how my night had been.
Once you told me that you missed seeing my face.
Once you told me that I was more beautiful than I had been the week before, if that was possible, you added.
Your eyes penetrated mine and you would wink and I would simply melt
and as I reached for my money, our fingers would graze and rest, however momentarily in the delight of touch
of our shared touch.

How I looked forward to Saturday mornings at the market, to the wink and the eyes and the touch and the promise of a good day with some good feta.

But now, you are not there anymore.
And I don’t know what happened to you.
And I don’t ask the other butchers because I feel embarrassed
I feel that if I were to reveal myself in this way, they would understand why I had waited with eagerness in long lines for just a handful of feta, and they would think I was just
a silly girl.
But still, I search for you.
Saturday mornings, I walk by the booth and see the lines and rows of pinks and whites, reds and yellows and for a moment, there is hope
There is possibility.
But then I turn the corner and in fact you are not there,
And so I keep on walking…past the booth, forgoing feta

Hoping that one morning you will magically reappear and you will touch my hand and
tell me that you missed my face.

And there is hope...

2006-11-22T06:16:00.000-08:00

Something New

You are positive light wrapped in glowing
Energy permeating walls and barriers, embracing giggles and stolen glances
Penetrating with endless eyes whispering details of soulful memories
Of torment and history
Not shared explicitly but understood
Nonetheless

You are novel in a way that is familiar
In a way that unites past with present and leaves hope for future
Moments
Of connectedness
Deep discussion with furrowed brows mixed with nervous running of hands through hair
Space intertwined with electric tension fused with wanting and needing and a touch of fear

You let me temporarily forget about him
For the evening
For the hours that it is your presence that envelops my attention
For the reawakening of possibility not of you necessarily but of the idea of you
Of the idea of a You rather than a Him.

Weaving through consciousness
Someone old combined with someone new who is a composite of the olds who were all along fragments of imaginary idealizations
Allowing me to dream in the immediate versus the could have been or might one day be

And I am grateful of the reminder that you are there, for the reminder that You have been and will continue to be there

And so, temporarily distracted
Willing to take the ride once again...

The Kind of Night

2006-10-15T23:58:00.000-07:00

It was the kind of night when
Magic happens
When time and people have come together for the
Sole purpose of standing
still
Enjoying the beauty of
Youth
Each other
Summer
and the immeasurable pleasure of existing
Outside of self and responsibility and
damaged esteem

It was the kind of night
when holding hands was
the order
When sitting on modernist benches
Lips greeting
Oblivious to strangers
watching on the street
was the only activity worthy of
Participation
When in a crowded apartment there were just
Two people
in the room
Eyes locked
Cheeks flushed
Indulging in fantasy and fiction

It was the kind of night
where past loves are
temporarily forgotten and
future loves not ruminated
When control and
Passion are mutually exclusive and
the internal censor tick ticking away inside the brain
has been put on mute

It was the kind of night
when you could bite my nose in a
taxi line and I could
Love you for it.
It was the kind of night when love could become so simple.

Remembering you

2006-10-05T07:50:00.000-07:00

Last night I had a dream about someone....someone I haven´t thought about in years.

The dream was so vivid, I felt like he was there, sitting next to me, looking at me, consuming my presence.

I woke up from this dream, and I was shaken. Because he had been there and his company in my dream made me miss him despite the fact that he has not been part of my reality for such a long time.

It made me wonder if something has happened to him. Something that has caused our soulfulness that I had thought to be so special to reconnect for those hours of unconciousness.

Or maybe, he was just thinking of me too. Remembering me too. Missing me too.

I hope so...

Just give me a reason...

2006-09-22T02:46:00.000-07:00

I´ve had a rough week...not for a particular reason, or maybe for a lot of very particular reasons. The kind of reasons that provoke tears and self-doubt, the kind of reasons that make moments slightly less enjoyable...

But then, yesterday, I was playing poker for the first time, and I lost, and my friend said, "You´re out, but you´ve proven that you can hold on longer than expected. You´re going to be fine. Welcome to the great game".

And it was the perfect thing to say...And now, somehow, those reasons for those doubts seem ever so slightly less. And maybe, just maybe, everything will be okay.

Hiking the Pico d´ Estats

2006-09-13T05:40:00.000-07:00

Some pics from my hiking trip over the weekend to the highest peak in Catalunya...

The never-ending pendulum

2006-09-08T00:02:00.000-07:00

To my Love

In the morning when I am about to go to work, stand behind me at the kitchen sink as I wash out my coffee cup and let your finger graze the small of my back.

As I laugh too hard at a dirty joke, smile a knowing smile and in doing so encourage me to laugh harder.

When we are out in public and I am awkwardly talking too much, put your hand on my shoulder and say something witty and appropriate.

Call me a bitch when I deserve to be called one.

Tell me that I’m beautiful and that you love me immensely when you know that I need to hear it and even when I don’t need to hear it.

Be silent when we go for a drive or long walk.

Read a novel in an easy chair when I lounge on the couch watching television reruns on Sundays.

Sing with me in the shower and in public.

Dance with me in private.

Listen and remember when I reveal my secrets to you.

Acknowledge however subconsciously that I am one of the greatest friends you ever had.

Don’t interrupt me when I am sobbing while writing or reading or watching a movie.
Just bring me a box of tissues.

Kiss me on the mouth for a very long time before you kiss me anywhere else.

Look at me like there is nobody else in the room when we are at a party or bar.

Wear glasses at night. Play the guitar. Know the difference between good and great.

Call me just to say hi.

Be secure with my love and teach me to be secure with yours.

Be okay with the fact that there always will have been others and that these others will remain a part of me in some way forever.

Charm my mother. Hug children and shower them kisses.

Be patient with me when I am irritating but don’t waver in telling me just how irritating I am.

Cherish my flaws as much as I will cherish yours.

Value our independence.

Buy me flowers everyday but Valentine’s Day.

Play with my hair.

Bite my fingers. Take control. Enjoy a little role-play every once in awhile.

Love me for being dramatic and fun and serious and romantic.

Be dramatic and fun and serious and romantic in a way that is complimentary rather than competitive.

Love me enough to love me always.

* * * *

Let us not confuse solitude with loneliness.

Let us not keep important thoughts silent for so long that the truth belongs elsewhere.

Let us not play games that are hurtful and confusing.

Let us not allow for too much time to pass without communicating.

Let us not laugh just to fill empty space. Let us be more discriminating than that.

Let us not be threatened by others outside of us and the intricacy of our connection.

Let us be vulnerable to pain and loss.

Let us embrace our pasts, presents, and futures.

Let us not withhold affection. Let us not be afraid of each others’ reactions.

Let us be both emotional and stoic.

Let time seem to pass quickly when we are together and seem to be endless when we are apart.

Let us be the people we have been waiting to be and thought we had been in prior relationships, realizing now that we can only be this way, this profound inexplicable way, with each other.

Let us love each other. Let us not allow our love to be burdened by heartbreak.

Let this love be the last love.

Let this love be the love that matters the most.

A Moment

2006-09-07T04:54:00.000-07:00

"Give me your eyes...I need sunshine"

The best first line of a song ever...

Searching for Poetic Justice

2006-09-07T04:19:00.000-07:00

Seeing Ghosts

He is not real
This creature of beauty
Sitting at the bar
Ordering a Heineken

His eyes are not whispering details from our past lives
His smile does not suggest more than superficial compassion even though both his eyes and his smile sometimes pause and rest, and with each pause and rest is The Significant.
Connection.

He is not connected.
Not in the way that connection is demonstrated in outward expression
Like phone calls
Or letters
Or conversation.

He is simply a creature of beauty
Sitting at a bar
Ordering a Heineken

He is simply a ghost.
My ghost.

My favorite ghost.

And yet, when I see him
At the bar

He will again become real.
His eyes will whisper details and his smile will be meaningful
And the pauses will represent what we had been and could be.

For a moment, I will forget that he is a ghost
For a moment, I will be overcome by his presence.
For a moment, I will be okay.

But after a bit, I will remember…and we will remain two ghosts searching for reconciliation…broken eternally.