Ten pausa

Por cinco meses: nada.
Y hoy: la posibilidad de rescate.

"Were you Frida?"

A pretty young stranger at the next table pauses my exit with a question: "Were you Frida at the halloween party?" A city of 20 million plus and, clearly, not enough eyebrows. "No, but I get that a lot."

Was I Frida? Was I Frida on halloween? Was I Frida at a party? Prosthetic eyebrows? Plastic flowers? Failed Billie Holiday? Fitting disguise? Was I Frida at 16? Was I Frida yesterday? Halo of frizz? Mustache dust? Open chest? Was I Frida at 22? Bloody grin? Gritted teeth? Joyous rage? Radical rejectedness? Was I Frida? Pubic hair? Men's shirt? Cigarette? Was I Frida? Feckless heart? Reckless feet? Sharp bite? Slurred Speech? Was I Frida? Eyebrows met?

Every day, I thank 16-year-old me for her gumption and rebelliousness.

With Mint Tea On a Sunday Night; Weightless

What She Knew

People did not know what she knew, that she was not really a woman but a man, often a fat man, but more often, probably, an old man. The fact that she was an old man made it hard for her to be a young woman. It was hard for her to talk to a young man, for instance, though the young man was clearly interested in her. She had to ask herself, Why is this young man flirting with this old man?

—Lydia Davis

Je suis la belle et la bête.

Let us not self-destruct with longing and ennui. Let us not light the match of guilt and despair. Let us instead play records, turn on the fan, add ice, clean the cob of all its corn, and leave the rest to Amélie.

Partners in Youth

"Oh baby baby. Stay young with me forever. We'll pass the time
sitting on porches, sipping whiskey lemonades and listening to
long-dead singers croon about broken hearts and lost loves. I'll
fix up your bike and you'll cook the banana pancakes on saturday
mornings. You'll grade papers and I'll make sure there's always a
cold one waiting in the fridge. We'll shop together at the farmer's
market and feel damn smug sipping stumptown in mugs you once
made and we always bring from home. But until then..."


A love letter, a promise, a fantasy from friend, fellow, alma gemela Robyn.

Questions [Part One of Many]

What is whimsy? How does it differ from romanticism, escapism, indulgence? Can it hold its own against duty? Does it impair or enrich conscience? Is it an act of privilege or necessity? Is it a support or a catalyst?

[Let me check with the chef.]

Things I have done in the last five days:

Set up a bank account.
Hallucinated sufi music.
Tried on 347 sari blouses.
Eaten 4 types of paranthas.
Listened to an Israeli qawwal.
Spent 2+ hours at Jama Masjid.
Gone to a bar in a kurta-pajama.
Created an online photo portfolio.
Acquired a potential freelancing gig.
Been recognized because of my glasses.
Run into an old friend in a public place.
Pulled my first post-collegiate all-nighter.
Shared an autoriksha with 2 lovely strangers.
Eaten 10 bowls of homemade fruit chaat (approx.)
Been cellphone photographed by 3 teenagers (approx.)
Had an hour-long conversation about Indian aesthetics.
Seen the precise spot where my Mum first asked my Dad out.
Hesitantly/unwittingly photographed a famous photojournalist.
Discovered the existence of an Instituto Cervantes Center in Delhi.
Watched Egyptian whirling dervishes against a lit-up Purana Quila.
Listened to carnival-tango-flapper-jazz by a Mexican Argentinian band.
Had 6 day-dreams about a green-sari, white-rose-in-hair, literary romance.
Met the wonderful, seedha young man who's marrying one of my best friends.

The Spoof is in the Sniffing

Imposter lilacs,
hanging off the trees: I can
smell your trickery.

Progress Update

The troops have found no
battle, and so are picking
daises in the field.


Over and out.

Did you hear?

Went to the woods and
found you wandrin'; emerged, and
found myself--afield.

Subsisting on fantasy

So you aren't lithe, French, Mexican, an artiste,
long-limbed, the dancing lover-muse of Degas,
Gauguin, Matisse or Pissarro; you own two
records and no player and the older you get,
the less you can sing, but the more you feel
your throat swelling.



You can always solace yourself by wrapping
a faux-impressionist painting around your hips
and walking flat-footedly across town on a cool
evening in July, a weathered book under your arm.