not my girls

not my girls.jpg

FADE IN: masseuse at work. 

I don’t know who started it but I don’t like it (she laughs).

Why doesn’t the man take on a married name like the woman does? Women have been branded like a cow (she laughs). You say, “Oh, hi Mr. Smith,” and you have no idea if he’s married or not. How many married men actually wear their rings? I see women proud to sport around a big rock on their finger, but men? (she laughs).
These are old social habits that we accept as the normal. I want to know who made these things up? Do you know who? (she laughs).

Haha, it’s our culture.

Yes, but no. I do not agree and I will not allow it. Not in my home and not with my girls. My girls are going to know independence. They see their mom working a full-time job, going to school, putting her own money in the bank. My girls know that a woman does not need to rely on anyone but herself. No rock will make them feel powerful. Education, confidence, intelligence, virtue, yes, those things will make them feel proud. And my girls are beautiful – half Russian, half Thai. Oh my goodness, I have a big road ahead of me (she laughs). No, they will not be dumb girls. I am a fantastic mother, and student and daughter and friend. Yes, I have my husband but we are two independent people, we are equals. I like it like that, and I am setting an example for my girls.

FADE OUT.

cool like that

cool like that

A BAR. NIGHT.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

He leans in throwing caution to the wind this time.

She tilts her head back and guffaws.

He repeats his line, thinking it’ll be funny the second time.

It isn’t, but she stares into his eyes just the same.

Complex everything, this woman. Like a cat.

He looks away with a smirk – she’s into me.

He takes a swig of his scotch, cool like that, and asks for the check, “It’s on me,” he tells her.

Her red, half full.

“You heading out,” she asks.

“I thought we could, uh…” he smirks.

She stares at him. That cat again.

He smiles at her.

“I’m going to finish my wine.”

“Sure. I’ll, uh,” he sits back down.

[beat]

“Cheers,” she says as she sips her red.

FADE OUT.

gracias a la vida

Violeta Parra was Chilean

Thanks to life (Thankful for life) (Thanks to Life)

which has given me so much

He gave me two eyes,
when open

perfectly distinguish
Black White

And in the sky,
her starry background

and the crowds,
the man I love.

Continue reading “gracias a la vida”

drip-drop

drip-drops

A drip-drop of sweat.
Suspended
And then — crash!
Like a coin in water, the ripples explode and then — stop.

I look at it.

A flash —
All the healthy eats
Yoga drips
Facial cleansers/toners/creams
Naps
Sun rays and tree shades from Jackie walks
Arguments with lover (not fights, don’t call them that)
Fears
Dreams
Anxieties
Hopes
Gluten-free organic ice cream
7am wakes and late night meetings
Freeway-traffic-pondering’s and —
Hold up!
Shazaam’ing music that glitters the soul.

This drip-drop comes loaded.
It leaves the body, rich with substance and prana
only to die, stained here on this cycling bike.

Don’t you know? —
This drip comes from a machine of a woman.
A warrior, with super-sonic strength;
metal armor to shield her from doubt,
and a heavy burdened crown, a reward of perseverance.

This drip-drop is evidence of
elbow grease soaked in thick, raw passion.
Well, now you know.

a month since

Liza Fernandez

A month since my birthday.
The birth of this body, this time, this heart, this mind.
A time to celebrate.
A time to reflect.
A time for silliness.

Fingers, toes, legs, arms, all in place.
Skin taut and elastic (for now).
Heart wide open.
Mind even more expansive than yesterday.
Curiosity killed the cat, not quite yet.

Here’s to failing.
And failing again.
And failing one more time.

Continue reading “a month since”