Sunday, April 03, 2005

I Knew A Man

After writing my last blog entry I booked a last minute vacation package at the SF Holiday Inn Civic Center for that thursday. The vomiting began as soon as I was ready to go to my father's. It lasted for four days. And nights. The first night the worst, vomiting every 10-15 minutes all night. The next night I feel better in a hot bath, floating, dozing in a nest of naps. Yerba Maté tea the first thing that stays down. Agave. Saturday, my brother collects us at the hotel from the smell of room service. We have a good day.

My father is ready to die. The doctor has prescribed a series of 25 radiation treatments which he will refuse. He will be seeing a Chinese herbalist on thursday. "I'm 81 years old," he says, "I am ready to die." He is a philosopher. And an artist. And an Indian. Are they not all the same thing?

There will be an opening at the San Francisco City Hall of works from the Precita Eyes Mural Center on Wednesday, the show will continue through April. Then, May is Mural Awareness Month. You will be able to see my father's work with the Mural Center at these events.

I am not able to fly back stand-by or pay to change my return on tuesday. My morning flight is cancelled. Many flights are cancelled that day and the day before. We wait a long time in the LA airport. I noticed on Joy's blog that if I had tried to fly back on Monday we may have passed each other in LA. I have a vision of Joy in something long strapped onto saxophone & wheeling her words & wear. I leave several frantic messages to Pueblo. I am so disappointed that I will miss the reading & awards ceremony. I am so disappointed--and that is (such) a feminine sentence, that is, in "feminine speech patterns" as I studied it in college linguistics. But, that is the point: feminine speech. The event was to have been a Celebration of Women Poets. I had read through all of the poetry awards submissions and was especially loooking forward to meeting some of the high school students. So many suicide poems. Blatent letters to bland depictions, detachment of the soul to over-attachment to some boy. I estimate, while sucking on lentil soup & coffee at the International terminal in LAX (source of my illness?), 80%. Some of me is glad for poetry. Some of me is sad. So many poems & lvs w/out a name.

I'm exhausted & ravished by the time I get home. We order sushi. I don't know why the first solid food I always crave after these bouts is raw fish. My native ancestors? The Chumash who built the world's first plank boats? I also crave miso soup. And sesame fried rice balls stuffed with sweet black bean paste. I don't turn on my computer. I schlepped my laptop, but was always too sick to read.

Someone from the Mural Center went to Isla Mujeres and brought back some chaya cuttings for my father. He must have gotten them from the mujeres, the women's collective. It has been 3 years since I've been there. It's an interesting magic.

I woke up early and see the emails on Corky & Creeley. I am still processing Octavio's passing. I am still writing elegies in my head. The words are like leaves that won't stay put on the tree.

2 Comments:

Blogger Peter said...

Lorna I am so sorry to hear about your father. I hope he has a peaceful passing.
Peter

3/4/05 19:12  
Blogger Okir said...

It sounds very difficult. I'm reminded of my mother's death a year and a half ago. It's good that he is ready; I hope that will make it easier for him and your family.

Jean

3/4/05 21:39  

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