Sunday, June 20, 2021

Non-participation Trophy

Imagine that you’re asked to play a game, and as you play, you keep losing. You learn the rules better, and keep playing. You still lose. Eventually you find out that there are a hidden set of rules that are set up to make sure you never win.

Would you continue to play? Would you call it unfair and find something else to do? Would you cheat to try and win anyway? Would you team up with the winner, to gain whatever amount they decided to share? Would you find the hidden rulebook and start to change it, so the game made sense?

If you tried to change the rulebook and couldn’t… would you still choose to participate?

Wednesday, January 27, 2021

Seek First to Understand -An Essay

 Seek First to Understand - An Essay

Elihu Yale seated at table with the Second Duke of Devonshire and Lord James Cavendish

Decades ago, I had a Family Member (with capital letters) who came home from a lecture They’d attended. With a sense of enlightened optimism They swept back into the house and shared something newly learned.


“I just heard this great quote today: ‘Seek first to understand and then to be understood,’ Isn’t that just wonderful? What a wise thing to say! I want to live by that.”


They repeated it several times in the coming weeks. Admonitions to Themselves to hear out others with whom They didn’t share the same point of view. In my naïveté I thought this quote would be a force of good. 


Then, as it always did, the tone of our family climate soured in three or four days. 


There was a misunderstanding, and our Enlightened Quoter was livid. They sought to punish another family member without hearing the whole of the story. 


The other family member protested, and began explaining their side of the story. 


“But, you didn’t see everything that happened! Before you came into the room—“


“—SEEK FIRST TO UNDERSTAND!! Didn’t I just remind you of that this morning? That means you have to understand why I am mad right now!!”


After that point, the wise quote was never cited again, except to prevent all other family members from seeking to be understood. The very opposite of the saying’s intention. The irony was lost on the One who wielded it. 


Many more times, “SEEK FIRST TO UNDERSTAND” was shouted, and when we all finally realized that in order to live with half a sense of peace, we were never going to get a word in edgewise, we stopped fighting, but a deep sense of resentment set in. 


Years later, my best friend could clearly see that our relationship was dysfunctional and advised me to have a heart-to-heart with this Family Member. 


“I can’t,” was my reply. “It’s against the rules. And if I say anything at all, there will be a fight.”


My friend was stunned with me. But eventually, after much discussion, she saw that the power dynamic was incredibly lopsided between said Family Member and I — and with everyone in the family, really. 


My friend has never blamed me for my resentment, nor any attempt I’ve made to re-gain power. She has never told me to put on a happy face, but has advised cutting that family member out of my life. 


The difference is, my friend actually sought to understand me. The Family Member has not. 


If you’ve gotten this far in my little story, I hope you’re seeking to understand why I bring it up at this time. 


I will direct you to the headlines of a certain prominent east coast newspaper over the span of about 5 years. And the people who benefit from those headlines. 




Titus KapharEnough About You (2016).


Saturday, January 9, 2021

Revenge Smoothie

 This is a story about revenge.


It has been said that revenge is a dish best served cold. Perhaps this fictional warrior planet simply didn’t have the capacity to do it any other way. Or perhaps they thought it was dishonorable to add dissembling to vendetta. In my case, my revenge came in the best way possible. Innocence. One cannot calculate how to pull off what I did… if “did” is the right word.


Massachusetts. 199… let’s say 5. I was about nine years old. My mother would drop me off in the cosy suburban area on the other side of her college campus. One of her old acquaintances lived there with her professor husband and their two male children, about my age. My sister and I would while away the time and attempt to study while my mother was in class and couldn’t directly watch over us. 


It was a hot, humid, almost unbearable spring day, and I wanted to get as far away from sunlight as possible. Even pine-tree dappled sunlight that came through the paneled bay window of the professor’s study. While wandering around the house in my light pink socks, I was unusually stopped by the lady of the house. She handed me a small tumbler. About half an inch of thick, opaque, pink liquid sat in the bottom of it. “Try this,” she half-barked. I got the distinct feeling that I was not allowed to say “No,” or “But why?”


Out of politeness, I said “Oh, it’s good.” It was sweet and cool, both of those things were good to me on a hot day like this was. 


Just as quickly as she had caught my attention, she went on to whatever she was doing in the kitchen. I went back to finding a place relax or play. 


A few minutes later she came and found me. She told me to drop whatever it was that I was doing and come and have the smoothie she had made for me. My sister wasn’t there, but I noticed that she hadn’t made any for her sons or herself. Just for me. I knew that it wasn’t for a lack of food that the smoothie had be presented. But I took the sweet drink, in hopes of a greater refreshment than when I tried the sample. It was now in an extra tall tumbler, and full to the brim. I had to be very ginger about my movement to not spill some of the mix. The first mouthful was almost as good as the sample I had earlier. The second, too. But right on the heels of it came a bitter, over-ripe aftertaste. On the third sip, it tasted downright rotten. 


One more for politeness, and then I stood on my tiptoes to push it onto the kitchen counter. 


From behind me I heard a voice yell “You will drink it all! You will finish it.” The lady of the house came walking, stomping almost, towards me and reminded me that I myself had said it was good. 


I didn’t know that kind of polite conversation was binding. 


She stood over me until I was done. Never mind that it wasn’t a meal time, and the heavy drink was too much for one who was not hungry. As I swallowed rotten mouthful after mouthful, I began to wonder if she had put something in this concoction that was supposed to induce weight-loss. After all, almost all of my classmates teased me for this matter, and no doubt she had opinions about it, too. I didn’t know whether to be insulted or not. After all, I have absolutely no idea what she put into the blender that day. 


Sulking, I finished off the glass and ran back to playing, making sure to not force a “Thank you,” form my lips as the “treat” wasn’t really desired. I found my own way to entertain myself, as I often did, and didn’t feel hungry as meal time came and went.


***************


When my mother arrived, it felt like it was about 7 pm, and upon having some free time, she began to chat with her old friend. They talked in English and Spanish, leaving me out of the conversation, as I was monolingual. The sun set and I, who had been nursing a stomach ache, told my mother I wanted to go home, that I wasn’t feeling well. I walked outside into the covered parking space beside the screen door of the kitchen. I hoped it would help my mother want to leave. It didn’t. 


I tried to focus on anything but the growing pain beneath my left rib, singing to myself, talking to myself, walking in circles beneath the orange ceiling light of the parking area, the pattern of beige moths’ wings making the whole room seem to flicker. 


Before the conversation seemed to be showing any signs of ever slowing down, my mind and body seemed to descend into a worse and yet worse state. I was sweating, I thought from the heat, and would have been asleep if not for the piercing pain constantly growing, keeping me awake. 


“I want to go home and sleep in my own bed. I’m feeling really bad!” I moaned. Through my choppy, too-real-to-be-normal vision, I could see that my mom was too chipper to be going anywhere soon. 


“Okay, baby, we’ll leave really soon. Just a few more minutes.” 


At some point my dad called to ask where we were. I remember talking to him on the white, block-like receiver of this woman’s kitchen phone. The spiraled chord seem to go on forever. I could have walked into the parking space outside with it. I asked him if he could come get me. He assured me that mom and I would leave “soon” and also told me that he wouldn’t come to rescue me from this place. 


Defeated, I went back in, and sat at the office-supply strewn table, to silently try to not feel a thing. 


I tried putting my head down on the polished oak wood. Not more comfortable, and no chance of sleep. 


And then it happened. My beautiful revenge. For the bad smoothie. For the pushiness. For the long time I had to wait. 


Without remembering what had happened the moment before, I vomited… all over the pretty oak table. It spread out like a liquid tablecloth, in a fluid motion, quickly and evenly. The two women screamed, stood and picked as many objects off the table as they could before my tyrannous fountain overtook them. I got the stapler. And part of the legal pad, which was cardboard-side up. I got little spots onto both of their clothes, I later found out. 


The woman of the house ran to get her nice dishtowels to mop up my fragrant and all-too perfect gift. My mother informed me later that I had passed out from the pain, and that I sat back for just a moment with my eyes rolled back in my head. 


Clammy, I stood up and with the two women screaming around me, I walked outside briefly to give them space, and for a moment felt badly about the trouble they were going through and the shock they incurred. I heard the woman of the house ask in a shocked tone:


“Did I feed her something bad today?”


“No, no,” my mother reassured. “Kids are just that way sometimes.”


And as I thought about it, I noticed I wasn’t in pain anymore. I was slightly cold, and still quite tired, but no funky vision, no sweats, no pain. 


We left not too much after that. And when I walked out of that door, I think we both knew she did feed me something bad, and I’m pretty sure she never force-fed children strange drinks again. 


Because I apparently said “I’m sorry!” weakly, after it happened, I was immediately absolved, and the only other thoughts turned towards me that night were ones of sympathy and pity. 


This is a story about revenge. And innocence. It is best served at body temperature, spread evenly across the offenders dinning room table. 

Tuesday, October 13, 2020

 A poem I wrote in 2016. 



Sunday, August 14, 2016

Point du lac, MA

My journies have taken me to the east coast again, for the first time in at least 17 years. For 5 weeks this summer, I took on a housesitting assignment in Massachusetts. I watched over a little cat in a little house overlooking a stupid-beautiful lake. In my mind I refer to it as Point du lac

Walking through Quincy Market, now above 5 foot tall was strange and exciting. 

Returning to my old town will be it's own post, I'm sure. 

Here are some photos: 
"I think I'll go to Boston..."
My favorite thing ever as a kid!
I only walked past it, but hey! Memories!










Point du lac




Monday, April 18, 2016

In the Details


 Hello my dear readers! It's been forever and a day since I last updated. However, some time ago I was able to have a nice little shoot and I've finally got some photos to share. La Grande, OR was the next town over from where I was living for about 3 months (5 months if you count this summer).



 I left the house with a messy bun and a shiny chambray shirt. Nothing too special. But as we went to La Grande and did a little shopping, my mom found a fun, over the top, costume jewelry necklace. She let me borrow it for the rest of the day, and went on about how good it looked with the shirt. When we came across this beautiful blue mural on a downtown street corner, my sister decided it would be fun to snap a few photos.

Popped collars, shot callers!
 It's curious how that one, little, detail (the necklace) made me ever so down for an impromptu photo shoot.


 I definitely thought I'd be living there a little longer, but I'm glad I have pictures of this beautiful street corner as a memento of this lovely area.


I love that my white streak shows!



Saturday, October 24, 2015

A Single Pink Drop



In the home I'm temporarily staying in, the shower-head has a lovely pink scrubbing towel draped over the back of it. Every 6 seconds, a single pink drop falls between the steams of water. After it falls past the scrub towel it's impossible to see. As fascinated as I was with it today, I told myself that it was completely impossible to follow it after that point. 


I said that to myself while crying. As it turns out, my temporary home was supposed to be my permanent home. Some details, that were out of my room mate's and my control, state that I have a limited number of days I can stay... And then? Then what? No idea. Hence the tears. 


Flashback to my previous location. I wasn't pleased to have to withdraw from classes. I wasn't pleased to have to talk about the finances of departing from school with a woman who I was sure didn't care about me, either way. As I got up to leave, I thanked her out of principle, and then told her I liked the poster on her wall, full of positive thoughts. 


Her manner changed. She smiled and agreed with me. Then she spoke a blessing over my life. 


"You will find a path in a place where you think there is none."


As I thought  back to that moment, I didn't realize that I had extended my hand. Within 6 seconds, I felt a single drop fall into my palm. If felt so different from the pressurized streams of water. And yet I had just said to myself that following the path of that drop was something that could not be done. 


That's the "impossible" for you. Effortlessly proving us all wrong.


So what has been impossible for me, lately?


For years, I've wanted to record albums, give recitals and do live events. I've wanted to learn all about French art songs (I love the way Debussy flirts with the jazzy and a-tonal, and it suits my voice), and all kinds of styles. I've wanted to share my art with friends, and make more friends that way. But getting started is a challenge. And asking for help is akin to begging, at least for me. 


But what if I asked anyway?