San Juan Beach, 1990 y 2011
Ai, mi nena Riley, two years old and growing like a weed. Her father on a plane back to the States, and me here in San Juan, adjusting to single motherhood. Around the corner she comes in her Little Mermaid bathing suit.
“Mami, yo quiero jugar con Daniel. ¿Esta bien?”
“Sí, beba. Con cuidado. Take it easy. I’ll take you both to the beach, a la playa, en un poquito.” I’m trying to keep it bilingual, but my Spanish is abysmal…
———————————
Ah, la playa… San Juan beaches are sunny, filled with naked babies running amok. Radios blare with competing salsa and rap stations; their owners oiled up, brown, and horny. They take no notice of most of the mothers, holding out for “Let’s Get Physical” bikini babes.
From the water’s edge, there are two worlds. Looking seaward, the Atlantic, churning at a faster pace here on the north side of the island; to the south lies the Caribbean, the true waters of Puerto Rico, lapping toes, warmer for swimming, perfect for gathering shells. Look toward the city, and brightly colored houses line the shore, while in the distance, the hotels and casinos loom over this strip of sandy paradise, reminding everyone of where they work, who really runs things.
The ocean is calmer than usual today, and in the distance, and angry iron steam engine of a storm is headed our way. We’ve had our hour, and now it’s nature’s turn. Soon, one huge clap of thunder will announce the current Apocalypso, dancing its way through town, ripping fronds from palms, chasing the parrots and finches back into El Junque, the rain forest. We gather our belongings like parachuters pulling in silk from the edges and, children in tow, laugh and chatter as we make our way back to our houses… but no farther. The bright lights and constant ding ding clatter spindlecircle of the casinos can wait.
The first drops of rain splat like water balloons, an assault on flowers but heaven for the kids, who now run “nakey,” whooping in English y espanol, each child learning from the other. A salamander takes refuge around the corner from her usual front wall and welcomes me with a blink.
—————————-
“Riley, do you remember Puerto Rico?” I ask, slopping mochaccinos onto the table at a Madison café. “Do you remember little Daniel?”
“Yeah, but that was years ago,” smirks the seasoned traveler, the product of a broken home that Mom stitched together to shelter only two. “Oh, the salamander, I called him Eddie. But mostly, I remember you losing your sunglasses all the time.”
I sip hot cocoacoffee and exhale. “That was a tough time, you know.”
“Yeah. My only regret is losing all the Spanish I learned. And I miss the helado man… that ice cream was the best ever. Tasted like heaven. Oh, and the finches we had, Migdo and Pigdo. Will we go back someday?”
“Sí. beba, otro día. Cuando hay bastante tiempo, y mas dinero.” Teasing her with forgotten language.
“Wait, I’ve got it!” she squeals. “Yes, honey, another day. When there’s enough time and… more dinner?”
Hell, that’s close enough for jazz.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Photo of Riley and Amy and an ice cream cone from the Barlow/Dunn vaults, rights reserved by poet
Heretomost at Real Toads wanted a description of a bit of scenery, sandwiched in between two pieces of dialog. This starts with Riley as a two-year-old child and ends when she was 23, looking back. She remembers little of our time in San Juan, and almost nothing of her father’s deep troubles that ended our marriage. Just as well. Remember the good times, the warmth, the mingled scents of salt air and jasmine, the… salsafied satisfaction of Puerto Rico. Peace, Amy
Now and Then
New guy on the block.
He sits at an outside table and
eyes my scarf with the absolute contempt
usually reserved for racists and politicians.
(Hmmm. I grab a coffee,
sit at a table near him, knowing he’ll
start talking. Everyone does, with me.)
He starts right in with
“Do you know I am Armenian?”
No, I didn’t, cuz we’ve never met.
C’mon over and sit awhile with me. I’m Amy.
“I’m Armand. Do you know about
scarf you wear? You should.”
No, tell me about it, please, Armand.
“That scarf is from Muslims.
Same pattern Arafat wore, that dog.”
Yes, I know, but what does that have to –
“Many years ago, Muslims drove
Christians out of Armenia. You wear
this symbol like it’s just a scarf.”
(I reflect on Freud. Sometimes a scarf is just a – )
“Where you buy that thing?” he spits.
On the street in New York, from
a really nice homeless guy. Besides,
it’s cotton and I’m allergic to wool, so –
“Well, it off-fends me grrr-reatly,” he stammers,
“I wish you take it off. Glad Mama not here.”
Come inside the café with me, then, it’s cold out here.
(We sit; I’ve bought us a round and some pastries.
He was stuttering before; now he’s calmer.)
Why does my wearing this upset you?
“It reminds me of the atrocities.”
Tell me more, cuz I’ve never heard about this.
“They don’t teach Armenian Genocide in school here?”
Um, no.
“Figures. OK. In 1915, Muslims tie Armenians
together with rope, march them into desert. Leave
them to die. They rape many women, throw
babies into river, shoot fathers in front of families.”
Good Lord, I didn’t know that.
Did your mother lose people?
“Parents, the sister, brothers, many cousins.
She still light candles for them.”
I’m so sorry. I can’t even imagine…
(We sit in silence, bonding over strong java.
He is teacher; I am student.
I slide the scarf into my purse, for now.
Later, I’ll head for the library.)
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Armand was right. In 1915, extremists who called themselves Muslims (note the distinction between my phrase and the media’s “Muslim extremists.” There is a world of difference, just as the most radical members of the Christian Right should be called “extremists who call themselves Christians”) emptied whole villages in the region called Armenia, long a haven for Christians in the Middle East. The atrocities were not deemed strategically important enough for America to intervene; even the British ambassador could not urge England to do anything.
The Armenian Genocide served as a “blueprint” for the plans of a failed art student from Austria to foment terror against many “others,” including Jews, gay men and lesbians, Jehovah’s Witnesses, those with mental disorders, and on and on. His name was Aloys Schicklgruber, but we know him better as Adolf Hitler.
As for the scarf, Armand and I continued conversing until he understood that I was not wearing it as a political statement. He also thanked me for learning more about the Genocide, because, as a homeless man from another country, he is usually disregarded.
The Turkish government steadfastly refuses to apologize for the incident; in fact, they fund many American colleges where Turkish professors teach revisionist history.
Heads or Tails
Symbiosis
Play or battle?
Neither realizing
both have scales
and cold blood
More things in common
than not
So it is with the game of war
played out across the globe
The US, the big fat crocodile
Everyone else worldwide
viewed by our military leaders as
slippery, needlekiller snakes
Croc’s jaws are mighty,
but venom has its own power
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Mama Zen’s Words Count prompt at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads gave us several gorgeous scientific images by Maria Sibylla Merian. I chose this because I could not ignore the balance of this drawing; and yet, there’s also an imbalance. So size “matters,” but the lithe serpent has fangs. This could go either way. The huge, well-fed croc (America) seems to have control over the snake (pick a country), but will that be the end? Or shall the snake morph into Medusa, exacting her own revenge… or quagmire? As a tiny scale on that croc, I wish I had some sway, some say, over who the hell is grinding our military jaws in MY name. Both let go, everybody wins. Aren’t we above animal games?
NOTES ON ILLUSTRATOR: Ms. Merian was a woman ahead of her time. She traveled (with her daughter and – GASP! – no male guardian) in 1699 to South America to illustrate wildlife. Click on the “Toads” link to see more of her artwork, which is all public domain. The name of her insect collection, published in 1705, is Metamorphosis Insectorum Surinamensium; however, this is obviously from another collection.
Also posted at my snake-free swamp (in the very best M*A*S*H sense of the word), Poets United. Peace, Amy
First, watch this classic, short clip from “Sunset Boulevard,” with Wm. Holden and Gloria Swanson
Studio Blues (the session)
So we’re sittin around
mid-session/post-mortem
We are, so far, not happy
It doesn’t sound like us at all
The urge to get it right
to project confidence and
unity in the band’s sound…
Technology can get in the way:
Today was a clusterfrack of
padded drums with five mikes
and 64 tracks on the sound board
and an OCD tech whose mantra is
“Perrrrrrr-fect”
(If he were a makeup artist,
a single smudge would be verboten)
Inquisitive as to our dissatisfaction
(this being an old-style jazz recording)
he joins us and digs into the
delicious coffee cake make by
the bass player’s girlfriend. I activate
the discussion: “It’s too clean.”
Tech gets defensive. “I’ve made
stellar recordings for (so-and-so)
It takes the master’s touch to clean up
the blips and merge all the tracks.”
“Look,” sez I, “let’s do a Sinatra session.
Strip the drums – Mike, use brushes
Jimmy, get your stand-up bass, no more electric
Screw the keyboard effects, Stu, just
tickle the baby grand in the corner. One
mike on that, and I’ll sing in the center,
Billie-style. Lower the lights and let’s
get the mood right.” Tech is instructed
to merge all tracks simultaneously and
create a single, live session. “But there
will be off notes and sometimes the
guitarist squeaks on the strings!” frets he.
“You need reverb, some sweetening…”
I honey/hotsauce him: “Listen, babe,
I’m a singer, not a vocal machine, and
we want soul, not squeaky-clean.
“Wanna know how we did it when
I started out? Watch this and
get schooled, learn from someone
who came up in smoky clubs.
“Dusty Springfield sang sitting on a toilet
because the sound was better in the bathroom.
We didn’t NEED reverb then…
We had voices.”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Well, the Real Toads had a “come one, come all” today, so I thought I’d pick up a prompt from The Sunday Whirl. This comes from my “old school” background in music, where the singers whose catalogs I raided (Sinatra, Billie, Bennett, Satch, Nat “King” Cole, the early years of Barbra Streisand) all had one thing in common: They recorded live with their band or orchestras. No fiddling around with the sound post-session.
Once Madonna came on the scene, she was sued for using a second singer’s voice to give her own so-so voice that high-nasal feel (She lip-synched most of “Like A Virgin” at the Grammy Awards, but no one noticed because she was writhing on the floor). Studios full of baffles, drum rooms, and solo vocals recorded separately after the band, a jillion tracks they could add later, as well as reverb (the first vocal enhancement) and eventually the vocanizer, which not only “sweetens” a vocal flat note but was used by Cher on “Believe (In Life After Lov e)” – that “it takes ti-i-i-ime” computerized effect, used to create an interesting vibe.
MY PEOPLE SANG. Sinatra always had an audience (women had to remove all clinky jewelry); Billie sat in the middle of a circle, mike suspended from the ceiling; Streisand, accompanied by full orchestras in her 20s, had a knack for getting her emotional performances on the very first take. Nat live in sessions, playing his own piano? The livin’ end.
In other words, things change, but I don’t have to follow the trend. None of the recordings you have heard from me have ever had any monkey business, no sweetening, etc. Pure, simple jazz. Peace, Amy
Dark Voyage
Another dark alley
Why aren’t there ever any
light alleys? she quirks to herself
She waits for the next john to be sexed
Pawns her body for a fix
Used to be kicks
First the hash pipe
Upgraded to Opium 5.0
The real deal, the needle
Heroin
Looks like a smear of poop on foil but
once it’s lit, it’s hit and
she isn’t worth shit
Heroin, a nightmare cannibal picnic
sliding down the clever beanstalk
into the tar pits for a long slick sick soak
Heroin. She’s nodding, her mind
smolders with visions conjured from
the greasy plank decks of the U.S.S. Sheol
She forgets the mess under her dress and
presses her mind against a wall of sounds
When she wakes, her stomach will ache
She’ll john once more to score
to black it out
to empty the chasm
already scraped bare
The addict: A mind forever voyaging
through strange seas of thought, alone
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image: Wikipedia Commons
Kerry at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads wanted us to write using a line from a William Wordsworth poem, since today would have been his 243rd birthday. The Wordsworth line I chose was, “A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.” This is how I see many addicts: isolated, caught in a foreign place (even if it’s his/her home town), and always wondering. The “aloneness” of the line grabbed me by the ear and said, “Listen!” And so I did. And then I picked up my pencil. This is also for the Poetry Pantry at Poets United… proud to be a member! Peace, Amy
Attica Arrest(ed development)
One day, by my driveway
A man in a used sedan was stopped by a cop
for D.W.B. (Driving While Black)
I know this is so because I asked the officer
why the man was pulled over
Officer Smithjones replied,
“He was driving with an impaired view of his windshield.”
Come again?
“He had Mardi Gras beads hanging from his rear view mirror.”
Oh. Then my sharp little pie-eater opened wide,
first muttering, then sputtering, uttered at top volume
(for the benefit of staring, but unconcerned, neighbors):
“All the rednecks in this town with
big fuzzy dice like dried-up 20-mule-team
cajones hanging in their big ole trucks, and
you stopped this man over a string of beads?
And you wonder why people decry we’re a
‘don’t-let-the-sun-set-on-your-ass’ town?”
To make it more poignantly, patently ridiculous,
the poor guy was trying to make his way to AA
Ironic, since that town
almost drove me to drink
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For dverse, our ‘bartender’ Kelvin asked for poems in the form of an anecdote. Keep it short and sweet and interesting. Also for Sunday Scribblings, where the prompt is “sharp.”
I still can’t believe I survived five years in a town where someone flew a Confederate flag in front of his house and the “N” word was used without hesitation. Of course, I have no time for racism and I do call it out. I hate being in a Wonder Bread crowd and people assuming I’m “one of the gang.” I’m social justice, hard core, sharp tongue and all. It loses me friends, but when it does, I say, “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” because they were not friends to begin with – friends share values, like integrity.
True story, edited from an old version. Though I knew many wonderful folks during our years there, the authoritarian figures were often racist and WAY out of line. I believe it’s part of the blowback of never having reconciliation sessions after the “Attica Prison Riots” of the ‘70s.
For Peggy Goetz’s prompt at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads , a poem about going outside (mind, body, spirit, your choice!). I’ve been trying to hang with the Real Toads during NaPoWriMo, because it’s a small group of intensely focused poets who gracefully critique each other’s work). This will also appear on the sidebar at my first and always poetic home, Poets United (proud to be a member!).
Inside, Out
It stirs within him
The call to get out
To explore the
yet to be, yet to see
He stretches,
not wanting
to leave home yet,
but knowing it’s time
The way to the door
is dark, narrow,
but he’ll squeeze
through the gate into…
Bright lights
Much noise
Something pushes him on
Then a woman’s cry –
sharp as a thumbtack and
bright as an Easter bonnet –
sings across the hall:
“It’s a boy!”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
How to Raise a Valedictorian
Study together.
She, homework.
You, Woolf.
Release her from school for
antiwar protests and call it
civics lessons
Ban video games
Tell her God gave her beautiful,
but smart takes work
Love unconditionally
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Trifecta’s Weekend Challenge was 33 words of advice. This worked for my daughter Riley, who is currently a top student at Laguna Beach Institute of Art and Design. Did I mention she doodled in the margins of her homework? That she came out to the entire student body’s parents during her speech? (She was already out, “gender queer,” to all her friends, and didn’t lose one of them.) Can you tell you much Lex and I love this young woman?
The picture was taken by Lex as we were being goofy after the ceremony. Silver becomes her, but her heart? Pure gold. Peace, Amy
Higher Math
Nickels and dimes
And twelve shiny quarters
Clinked, one at a time,
into their secret stash,
a souvenir metal box from
their trip to Hershey Park
Back when Dad was still home
And before Mom’s blues set in
Saving up to buy her
a present, to cheer her up
It’s our job, says sister to little brother
Little boy nods and digs deep into his
back pocket for another precious dime
Soon they’ll have enough for
that perfume she loves… loved
Loose change changes into loss
as Mom finds the cache of coins
Swipes smalldream savings
Asks Next Door Sally to watch
her sleeping ones while she makes a
midnight milk run. Sneaks off to
the casino, where nickels and dimes
become more shiny quarters and then
slot machine fodder. Then on to the ATM…
Three months later, waking the kids
in the back seat, she drives to Mickey D’s
for breakfast (won’t hurt them for a while,
she reckons). Combs their hair, checks
for lice as she softly inflicts blame on
their father for walking out. “Let’s get
moving or you’ll be late for class.”
The present for Mom, long forgotten,
but her betrayal festers within them
School teaches her kids
addition.
Mom teaches them
subtraction.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image from Wikimedia Commons, by photographer William Holtkamp.
This mom may live just down the block. Right now, things are OK, but eventually, boredom and that damned little addictive gene could give way to drinking before lunch. Or a divorce leaves her broke, while the Trophy Wife is pregnant with “Dad’s New Family.” Perhaps she is simply depressed and, on a lark, tries meth at a friend’s house (the first hit’s always free).
There are a thousand ways women are blamed for these situations, and in some cases, it’s true. But no matter who leaves whom, or who takes what, the kids pay the price. And the kids in this poem were ready to give their all for their mom.
“Irony.” The prompt at dverse poets today. Also at my gambling-free hangout, Poets United. Peace, Amy
Babes in Boyland
Modeling’s a groove
Tyra taught us to mooooove
and stretch and maybe
we’d get in a video on TV
Clothes fitted to each curve
The more verve you show
the more photogs you blow
The more rich guys you know
the more places you go
You fight the urge
to binge and purge
Pout you lips in a kiss
It all comes down to this:
I’m the seventh blonde-
wigged nurse in pure Bond-
girl form or maybe
a Robert Palmer baby
Justin’s lip-synching
when he’s not drinking
Oh, wait, he’s winking
AT MEEEEEEEEEEEEE
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
NaPoWriMo #4, for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, which asked us to write to a clip of Justin Timberlake mouthing the words to a Killers song. Watch the clip, see what I wrote, and then follow this LINK back to the Garden to read others’ work!
Riley turned me on to Top Model, and the more this little proto-Feminist watched, the more I was fascinated and repelled by the lengths to which women will debase themselves to become models, Barbies in search of their Dream House. It’s a fleeting career at best, and these girls undergo breast augmentation, booty augmentation, lip augmentation… everything except self-esteem augmentation. Riley could have been a child model, but I wouldn’t have it. Glad to say, Tyra has proved me right! Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 