sumptuous

Please spend your next lazy Sunday with Maryam at My Marrakesh. You won't be sorry. She creates a portal of sumptuous visual bites and stories from faraway lands. See:










Read: a sample of Maryam's writings


I peer out from the balcony, and the view of the Eiffel Tower makes me catch my breath.

Not a single locust in sight.

I sit in a cafe with Tara of the blog Paris Parfait. The waiter says "avec plaisir" and takes our picture. Tara's eyes are enormous and a color so remarkable that I can't help but stare. She relates tales of Middle Eastern intrigue. The tales, all true, involve her in complex and astonishing ways. She then tells me of her novel in progress. I feel a kind of longing that is hard to describe; a longing for a book of my own - not fiction, but truth. I wonder - shyly - if I can add that book to my list of dreams that I dream by day.

I then realize that my problems, though big - though quite big - are really only small. As I walk back to my hotel I smile at the passersby. They smile back at me.

Image acknowledgements: (1,2) Steve McCurry, (3) persisting stars, (4) Maryam Montague, (5)BabaSteve, (6) morgueprincess, (7) Aline Thomassen

movie sunday

I am hoping to inspire [the American public] in some way, to become active, and to do something.
Michael Moore on Sicko

I was dreading going to see Sicko. I didn't want to be brought down, man. I don't want someone shaking his fist in my face in a rant that's supposed to make me care. I've got other things going on.

As a recent LA Times article relays, the movie doesn't follow the same trail leading to a suit being protected from handheld cameras by security guards. It takes a circuitous route, back and forth between people's stories, happy and sad. There's lots of laughter and good feeling about your fellow man or woman. There's a certain function and flow about town in the places Moore visits, in the people he meets. Of course, these places are in other countries. The people he visits in our country share their dysfunctions and heartbreak so that we can see that things aren't working as they should, and that every time we don't want someone in our faces with their rants to try to make us care when everything in our worlds is just peachy, somehow things aren't peachy when you become indifferent.

In one segment, a video recording shows a cab dropping off an elderly, disoriented woman wearing a hospital gown and nothing else. The cab does a quick u-turn to reach the curb. The door opens, and she gets out. She shuffles up the street, not bothering to find the sidewalk for awhile. And then she does her own u-turn thank goodness, up onto safer ground. By this time a shelter worker goes out and greets her, then brings her inside. In this country, hospitals have taken to acquiring cab services to take indigent patients to shelters. That is the most humane thing they can think to do. We can't treat you, so we'll drop you at the next Salvation Army doorstep.

I try not to think about my health too much. I am an irregular visitor to doctors' offices. All in all, I've got good health. I have also been without health care coverage for about 5 or 6 years of my adult life. That's my little Aetna bio. Although it's one of those things intensely personal that we relate to me rather than we, our own physical health, I do believe that we are supposed to care for the sick and the poor. Why is it that a doctor would ever have to refuse to make someone well and order them a cab instead? We create these moral dilemmas for ourselves as Americans because of greed; ultimately greed separates you from your neighbor--there's no sharing in greed. So we live in indifference I think, because our collective moral health isn't good. Look at the south side of Chicago vs. the north, New Orleans and so on. It's not that we don't care as individuals, or maybe some don't; it's the characteristic of societal systems who don't care that we shouldn't be accepting. No one wants to change a system, though, and why should we? It's working just fine, and if it's not for some people, well they need to go and fix it themselves. I'm too tired for all that.

ny children

Project description
(from the organizatation's website)

Photograph one child from every country on earth. Each child must live in New York City.

Children from 148 countries have already been photographed. The search for the remaining 46 continues as the project moves toward completion.

* * * * *

Check out the cute pics!

happy birthday america!

photos by Mari

internet radio

pastemagazine.com

savenetradio.org

summer

Katherine O'Brien


I love the light in these photos, shooting up in a diagnal like they're a pair. I happened upon this woman's site when I was searching for photos of Chapel Dulcinea, designed by the architect Marley Porter who built One World Theatre in Austin. If you love church architectue like I do, you'll be charmed. And back to Katherine O'Brien, her images are fun to sift through, and full of life.

Ode to 4 chicks and a dude

Oh my goodness, the time is near. One chick and her dude are about to leave the H-town flow. Why would they want to go and break us up?

My stories are sometimes repeats of everything you already know, but I'm going to retell it anyway. Houston living has been a poof of magic that began on the 4th of July, 2004. That is when four people who really didn't know each other, save for some degrees of separation, had cause to move to this city beyond their better judegment and became instant, rollicking-good-time friends.


The Family

There is a tan, shuttered, two-story house with a red door that sits on the corner of one of Houston's tropically beautiful streets. This is our house, where we meet. The front room is blue, the kitchen white, but our favorite room is in the middle. We were all just there the other night for the Sopranos finale. Joel had spent the earlier part of the day making a Sopranos mix with songs either played on the show, about endings, or mobster-invoking. There was no fanfare about it. You had to clue in. When I heard Van Morrison's "Comfortably Numb" I thought of Christafah, tragic, putting-a-hit-on-your-lover Christafah, and I looked straight at Joel. I knew what he had done. The Sopranos previous episodes were playing in a loop to the soundtrack, the ladies started to roll in with bags of stuff, we were home.


Always give your love away

I have to write this one in stages, a little each day, like an ethnographer. It's cute the way we met, setting up dates to try each other on, but that's pretty typical. Michy, Ho, and me were tight from the beginning. I think that has a lot to do with the fact that our brothers, all three of them, have friendships that go back years--all the way back to the mall on West Campus. And we three have a great fondness for these brothers of ours. It was natural for us to be family. It took the other three girls a little longer to come around, first-year medical school for Steph and Heidi getting in the way. Mari hadn't even moved here yet. But once year two came around, the appeal of medical-school block parties, filled with prematurely mature, fastidious medical students lost its luster.


Adieu, adieu, adieu

It's almost time now. Last night we had our going away party. Sunday brunch in a few hours will be the last planned gathering. It's hard to say goodbye to your family even though you know your love won't change a bit. The people who fill up your day-to-days are the ones of envy because they get to have you more. Michy and Ho, we won't get to have you more anymore. We have to give you back to your people in Dallas, but we sure will miss you.

picture book

I looked through a box of pictures last night. Most of them span from ‘94 to ’02. A five-year gap tells me that digital has definitely put a damper on my picture box. It’s great to email photos, but the old-fashioned kind feel more life-like. I was looking for one picture in particular, of a past love. It was a spontaneous shot that a friend took as he and I were sitting in the grass. She liked to take her camera with her wherever she went, and one day she gave us a few of her shots from that day in the park. Sometimes one photo can tell you someone’s entire story. I don’t know if the picture would tell him, the past love, the same story as it does me, or even whether or not it would be a special one, with special meaning to him. It is for me. I remembered it last night and began digging for it.

I don’t organize my photos, other than a few from college graduation or big trips. The rest join the heap. I go through them one-by-one when the mood strikes. Last night the ones of Jeff and Bekkah stood out. The best ones were from the early days when Bekkah used to wear a long pony tail, slicked back, and the ones from trips I used to take to visit them in New York. Pages filled with so much energy that the memory of how it was in those moments came right back, I remember.

I’m tempted further through my life, my friends, all those people who are somewhere else now. I ran into the ex in the photo this February. I hadn’t seen him in about 7 years. When he walked in for some reason he looked left and I looked right toward him. In that one look it came back, our moments together, or just him. Time travels around inside us like a Ferris wheel, making stops mid-air. I found the picture I was looking for at the bottom of the heap.

Swishy ears

The baby fawn made it, and I was wrong about her age. She was only a few days old when her mom left her. My mom has seen her again on the porch that sits just before the edge of the greenbelt.

Who ever thought of such a thing as a greenbelt? They are grand and named well--snaking cricks, chalky, crumbling limestone rocks with loads of trees all around . . . Austin. So beautiful, my Austin. I went kayaking on Town Lake this weekend. We went to the spot I used to go to when I was a kid, right by where the Zilker train goes by. Little Gussy had to hop the tracks. He sat at the bow of the yellow boat, wondering why I was taking him somewhere strange again. But he liked it in the end and let his little ears swish in the wind.

Here is a poem.

burning bellies are tedious
and come out the blue

or a dream
that wasn't you.

someone else whispers secrets
to wide eyes

is it true!

Spring is for babies

My mom called to tell me that a baby fawn is curled up in the corner just outside her front door. She says it looks about 3-4 weeks old. She called the Parks and Wildlife Dept. to find out what to do. They said that the mother is out foraging and will find the safest place she can to leave her baby while she's gone. She may not return for up to 11 hours. My mom told them that she had put cat food and water out, and they said, "Oh, no, don't do that." She should leave it alone to wait for its mom.

Good job doe. Your baby is behind a brick wall, in the corner of a porch that sits up high, by a light and a watchful lady. Within the last six months or so, when staying at my mom's house, I was awakened by a band of coyotes, almost laughing at their prey. They howl like hyenas, and it isn't pretty. Little Gustavo was asleep next to me one moment, and then burrowing his head into my neck to hide the next.

I'm so glad she chose the porch. It's perfect. Little fawn like Bambi is all alone right now. Wish for her to see her mom again.

Frozen blog.
Ice flaking
under a jumbo orange ice scraper.

So, last night I got all dressed up in some JLo high heels, valleted my Hyundai, and stood at a round plastic white table under a heat lamp waiting for my blind date. I can't tell you how excited I was for this date. I called him up on Wednesday to see a Daveed gig on Thursday. He was on call, so we made it Saturday dinner instead. Dinner. How nice. A Saturday night date. How nice. So, I went shopping and bought makeup, and round-brushed my hair dry. (I despise the blow-out process). The heels are 4-inch, people. Tall times. Excited girl.

When you're in the middle of the blind date, it's not as exciting as the anticipation of it. It's kind of like an interview: yes or no, someone you've never met before whom you will likely not see again, and this lack of investment in one another makes it a little bit of a bummer. You long for someone you know better when it's over. I will say that I am blogging today because he asked me about my writing a lot, a turn where I most certainly would have kept straight. So that's good.

Somehow my interior life has deflated over the course of a year. The job has encouraged fewer conversations, certainly--working life with all its trappings. Overall, though, I'm still. That's why I haven't written.

I'm going to try to rustle something up in the near future, something grand.

Besides the fact that Hurricane Rita sounds like a wicked cocktail, Gus and me have decided to get outta dodge. Austin-bound and I hope there's a big party over there. Priorities and ducks are straight in a row.

kiss kiss,
Sistra

The GRB

Today I met Charles and Sandra, Ira and Shantrelle.

GRB is not only fun to say, it's home to several thousand people in need--the George R. Brown Convention Center, downtown, right across from Toyota Center and Minute Maid Park. I went down with my med school girls, Steph and Heidi, cute twenty-six year olds in their white coats and scrubs. It was early, we had coffee, and we wound our way through stairwells and elevators until we made it to a large area in the back designated the medical clinic. Heidi gave me the rundown on the shower area set up by Home Depot, private with features you'd find in your own home, the laundry, cafeteria, children's play area, pharmacy, information booth and so on, everything sanitized behind pink-curtained walls.

The mood was calm, air-conditioning pumping through the place, people just waking from sleep. Heidi and I joined a group whose job it was to direct people seeking medical treatment. The greatest service you could provide was being a guide. So many volunteers--750 Muslims alone today were there. So many booths. So many evacuees.

Two parents lost their toddlers in front of our station. One of the mothers spoke Spanish and was commanding her older daughter to ask me for help. She cried, but we weren't worried. We knew the little one would be right around a corner, and she was. Another woman grabbed my hand (we spoke Spanish as well) and asked me to help her find the elevators to the third floor for food. So many people say, "It's that way," and point. I walked the people where they needed to go. On my way back, Charles stopped me. He was elderly and smelled a little of throw-up. He showed me his "Non-resident" pass when I asked his name and told me he'd had a stroke. He meant awhile ago. He meant that it made it difficult for him to read and find his way. He needed me to help him, and I think he chose me out of the crowd as I was walking by because I was about the height and build of his wife. What had happened was that he'd gone to the restroom and lost his wife in the process. Out he came into the crowd of people, not seeing her, disoriented. I wasn't sure what to do exactly. Apparantly a day or two earlier they'd had a large sign posted that read "Lost People." If you lost someone you could just stand there until someone came looking for you. This morning there was no such place. I just stayed with him, trying to get some more details about where he'd been when he last saw her. We wandered a little and opted to have her paged on the next hour. I got him a chair and told him I'd be back.

In the meantime back at my post, Sandra told me she didn't think she could walk, so I wheeled her to registration, through triage, to the waiting room, and behind the pink shower curtain where an attending would help her with her insulin. By that time it was back to Charles. He sat with no Susie, his beloved, which I kind of anticipated. He couldn't remember from which facility he'd come that morning to search the GRB for his two sons. Someone suggested that we register Charles in the locating computers so he could locate himself and find out where he'd come from. When we did that it took him about a minute to realize that he'd sat down right next to Susie. No lie. She had a few curlers wrapping her soft gray hair. When he recognized her she turned her head away. She couldn't look at him. I thought, well I'd better make sure she's pleased. She was smiling like a blushing teenager.

My final adventure was meeting Sandra's six-year old, Shantrelle, a saucy, bubbly, chubby thing with smooth-braided hair and pink clothes from head to toe. She wanted me to let her wheel her mama. I took them upstairs to lunch and got Shantrelle to show me her stuff, counting by fives, telling me about how she could beat up some dumb boy. We said blessings for the food, a long "Ah-men" in unison. She peeked at me when I did that. Cute, happy Shantrelle. Quiet mom, muttering to herself much of the time, saying more thanks, trying to keep some personal space as if she wasn't out in the open all the time, sharing her thoughts and hip pain and wellness check-up with a strange woman in a big yellow volunteer t-shirt.

For every evacuee who gets a Chevy or apartment or new job opportunity there are a thousand who don't, thousands who are dependent on others for today, for tomorrow, for something as small as a safety pin, as big as methadone, as personal as condoms, as dire as your partner when you've lost her.

I will write more about Houston when I have more to share. My company sent out an email letting us know how much money they are contributing, but I can't help but be disappointed. You feel better when you do, not simply give. We are experts in a service that people need. So why not donate our service? Maybe we'll get there. I'm working on coordinating it from our Center but am finding that my attempts to get the right person are falling in with a huge pile of others offering help.

That's one thing I am getting much more of a sense of since I last wrote--the mood of the city. It helped to drive around to the different donation drop sights. Everyone is calm and whistling while they work. The local news tonight even showed a couple of survivors expressing that they're finding this to be a blessing instead of a tragedy because of the opportunities people want to give--landlords giving free apartments, Chevies with nothing down, everyone approved who was in some way affected by the hurricane, and now jobs. Jobs was the theme of tonight's news. The job fairs begin tomorrow; groups are coordinating efforts to prepare resumes and proper clothing, connecting companies who want to help by employing people with those looking for jobs.

I watched Donny Deutch being interviewed on CNBC last night and he and the anchor were wistful for a Guiliani figure absent in the midst of this new tragedy. The funny thing is that I have never seen people so hungry to help. People usually want quite the opposite--to be left alone to live their separate lives, unaffected, uninvolved because the world, the media, the war, the Republicans, the politicians, the teachers, the parents, they are all to blame.

Class ceilings are lifted for a moment, like we're all in school again and you can be anything you want to be. It could be because it's okay to help the victim instead of the status quo. It could be because we are the status quo, cooped up in disconnectedness, wanting something else.

We are all connected here it seems, it feels, doing and giving, caring, listening, feeling, and whistling while we work. Sometimes it's nice to be without a leader to see what happens when the people are left to rely upon their own instincts.

here's a little mexico for you . . .

Today Carolina said Mayan prayers for me, rubbed me down in honey, and sprinkled white and red flowers all over my body. She told me that I would be protected, and when in doubt to remember the spirit of the white flowers and look to the left. The flowers in the plunge pool floated toward the left, and the birds' singing came from the same direction. The red flowers are for love.

The present is a night breeze on the veranda with dozens of croaking frogs so happy after the rain. Soft Spanish guitar in the background, distant chatter from the open-aired dining hall, and a few pool balls being struck from time to time.

To be here in this place is to be quiet in one's soul, not restless for something else. We are on the grounds, off road five miles, through dried-out brush that guards this tranquility like spines of a cactus--hidden life as busy as stockbrokers or journalists while the people walk slowly, strolling through garden lanes, listening. Time to take in the world. Place is all things sometimes.

How I love my puppy, let me count the ways . . .

Who Keep Up With Me Through My Blog

For those of you who keep up with me through my blog, I am presently watching the delectable "Dangerous Liaisons." I am presently getting dumber each day (from watching so much TV).
Things I would like to do if I found time:

1. Sit on a stone bench next to John Malkovich while his hair is tied in a limp black bow so as to feel dangerous.

2. Take French and Spanish while eating olives and drinking scads of wine.

Interruption for good quote from Miss Glenn Close:
"You'll find that shame is like pain--you'll only feel it once."

3. Find the Houston Opera (I'm detecting a theme).

4. Embroider.

5. Run a race.

6. Get a dacshund.

7. Buy a modern, energy-efficient, earth-friendly condo with a roof garden.

'nother quote
"Men enjoy the happiness they feel. We can only feel the happiness we give."

8. Scratch that. Build a roof garden.

9. Make pottery.

10. Pick up a book.

11. Drink tea.

12. On a blanket.

13. In the sun.

Enter Keanu Reeves. He's in this movie?

14. Paint on some canvass with acrylics on my fingers.

15. Be a joiner maybe, less of a shut-in.

Okay, so classes and clubs and general hobby suggestions are yours to give to me. If you are female, you should feel great happiness from this gesture. If you are a male, I will kiss you or hug you or something.

I miss the cold. It's been warm and sultry too long, and I won't get a winter this year. It must be perfect in the Carolinas. My dreams lately have been spent in tussles with the weather. I'm rolling in waves and can't touch ground. I'm running a marathon and beating the boys; then the ground is thick-cut grass over a marsh, and my sneakers sink; storms come to take me into the water. Last night I was in my grandfather's house, and he was there. I wanted to live with him, but people were leaving the city. I glimpsed the sky and saw storm clouds urine yellow and black in shapes like pencil drawings of falcons.

I've never dreamt about waves before, so much water in these dreams. Maybe my psyche is soaked because I live in a city with no drainage. The roads are flood plains. I used to go up high in the sky in my sleep and be afraid of falling. Now I'm in tussles. I feel like drawing or going for a walk on the beach without having to turn around and come back.