Letter 21

"Un cuento sin ritmo / Time is Fluid"

This line appears in Letter 21 (for the Quioxtic) in Ana Castillo’s “Mixquiahuala Letters.”  It is one of pure simplicity and beauty.  I am grateful that Castillo left the translation. 

Letter 21 undoubtedly captures the role of setting within a passage—the vivid details, colors, sights, sounds, and tastes.  Castillo seemingly takes us to a place that we are not native to.  She makes the foreign familiar.  I’m struck by her interplay between acute description and the senses; it’s evocative and brings out much appeal for the reader.  This is best depicted as she sets up a serene scene of nature’s beauty, “The sea was a sapphire, a fluid orchid” (Castillo 70).  There is no doubt she balances illustrious imagery mixed with a keen awareness of her surroundings.  A technique that she successfully tries to impart on the reader as we follow the soothing ebb and flow of the ocean’s tide that is complimented in yet another line, “There are voices everywhere, but they are unintelligible sounds, not syllables that form words, messages, but sounds just the same, a grating sound that blends with other sounds blended with that of the sea that eventually becomes single drone” (71). 

However, what is most unique about Letter 21 is that just as it sets up a scenic splendor for the reader, Castillo juxtaposes and unravels it with images of darkness.  As Teresa departs from the evocatively pleasing, we are taken directly to the provocatively unsettling—into the markets of women with squinting and distrusting eyes, jeering men who view women as objects.  There is an uneasiness about the scene: an alleged tour guide is pictures laughing and “like an imp” (75); an image of men “bludgeoning” sea turtles (73); and a subtle line, “One man’s invitation was heard over ht sea’s warnings” (73).  Such foreboding images are immediately juxtaposed by a return to the sea’s tranquility where women are viewed playing at the shore and completely immersed in nature to the point that, “The familiarity made her smile” (73). 

Still even with these dark, lustful, perverse, and untrusting feelings, we as the reader, are still able to continue on.  By the close of Letter 21, we exhibit a complete 360 as Teresa ends with, “i don’t want to go on with the story. You know the rest” (74).  Personally, this was an alarming moment.  Initially, we become engrossed in the sensory appeal of such an idyllic paradise, which is subsequently broken down and transformed into a living purgatory where the inhabitants as victim or villain to perverse darkness.  Ultimately, we are left to question how can ugliness exists admits such beauty?  For Castillo, the role of setting comes to the forefront in establishing the stark contrast between these two worlds as she draws us into the beauty and darkness of Teresa and Alicia’s relationship, charted by the progression of their letters.

Sketch Paper in the Makings

Complication:      how will I lose the extra 20 pounds

Setting:                Harvard square coffee shop

6-Worder:           Before the accident I loved yoga

　

Last week it was bacon and eggs, this week chocolate and almonds. The choices always changed, but the fad of crash diets never seemed to go away. World renowned nutritionist shared their latest and greatest in the top trendy tips for shedding undesirable weight, even including pocket sized inserts with recipes ‘on the go’ that could be gently folded into small squares like the wafer-thin origami paper sold at the corner store. Of this Jenny was an expert, sifting through health magazines and though she would never attempt to make what was suggested, she did know how to fold one hell of a peace bird. But as the number of work parties and social engagements increased, along with the time spent carefully shimming out of a too-tight this or that, Jenny came to the crossroads of resigning her next paycheck to a new wardrobe or conjuring up a new way on how to lose the extra 20 pounds.

It began in Algiers Coffee Shop in Harvard Square, somewhere between buying a decafe moca latte (today with skim milk) and rushing to make it in time for the 7:15 red line. Jenny felt her side hit the pavement, the wet and cool sensation between the burn of a freshly formed skin scrape. A neon yellow insert gracefully swooped down on her face, the typeface a very bold and jarring font:

READY TO GET TRIM AND SLIM?

YOGA CLASS WITH LYNNETTE

8:45 PM TUES/THURS STUDIO 246

BEGINNERS WELCOME

Chalking up the incident as fate, Jenny took the helpful hand of a kind and unsuspecting bystander and decided Lynnette’s flawed flier but encouraging words was her pound busting ticket to figure freedom.

* * *

She went to her first class the very next night with a bright blue mat slung smartly on her shoulder and donning black lycra capris (careless of however snug they were). Flitting to the back of the studio, Jenny kept to herself and laid out her mat smoothing any bumps. The crowd was an anticipated bunch; bronzed buff 20 somethings mixed in with a tie-dye wearing, tree hugging folk. And then the elusive Lynnette entered. It was apparent that the energy in the room suddenly increased as she bounced in bopping to her own tune. Her hair was a fiery red, crazily crimped and made quite a statement against an electric magenta one-piece workout suit. Without wasting a moment, Lynnette popped a homemade CD, plopped her limber and lean body down on her mat and entered in a pose that was mimicked by the crowd, seemingly signifying the start of class.  Here goes nothing thought Jenny as she sighed and took a deep breath in.*

*The rest being worked into a process paper--any feedback welcome!

Before the Accident I Loved Yoga

Before the accident I loved Yoga. That’s what you once said. In between the arguments, after the affair with another woman, and before the divorce. Your hair was that rusty brown color. The kind with an amber tinge, clinging onto a multi-dimensional summer hue bound to fade as the leaves began to fall from the trees. Your eyes had last that magnetic sparkle, your body hunched and limp. But the ardently fever manner in which you said those six words was…undeniable.

You bought your first yoga mat at Wal-Mart in a clearance bin misplaced in the pet aisle. You had just quit smoking and needed a new hobby. "Teal has always been my favorite color," you said and tossed it in the cart. But the mat looked green to me. The next day you found a studio and enrolled in class. You came home all smiles. Suddenly, the beat up packs of Marlboros found their way to the trash.

There was always something about those classes—almost therapeutic. Sometimes you’d see a new face; other times you’d hear a new story. Often times at night you’d give a peek into this life. The splendor and flow of life pumping in and out somewhere between a downward dog and warrior goddess pose. But you always went alone.

Your brother passed on the fourth of July. The stench of a wasted life hanging on heavily in the thick summer air. "You know it wasn’t an accident," you always said. You refused to listen to the stories, the reports, the autopsy results. And you were right, though changed forever. That’s when you stopped yoga class. That’s when you turned to other demons—sinking away sorrows from the swig of a glass. You became slovenly and unkempt. You did not come home on some nights. You were no longer mine.

The days grew shorter and the nights longer. And the demons raged harder inside. You found a new girlfriend, the attendant at the Park and Ride across the street from your favorite bar. A short and perky spinster, edgy and naïve, seemingly at the same time. A brunette bubble-gum teenage dream. But she could not bail you out of jail.

After rehab, you claimed yourself a changed man. But not like the one that you were with yoga. You wanted—no pleaded to move back in. You were no longer welcome. Even after the lawyers signed the divorce court papers for you, even after your best friend picked up the last of your belongings, and even after you started smoking again; you never brought up that day.

Moore's Mastery of Human Emotion

“Life is a long journey across a wide country.  Sometimes the weather’s good.  Sometimes the weather’s bad.  Sometimes it’s so bad, your car goes off the road” (115 Four Calling Birds, Three French Hens)

This line resonated deeply with me while reading Moore’s Birds of America perhaps because of its bitingly witty and realistic depiction of life as we know it—people dealing with each other and people in turn, dealing with life.  Moore exposes the rawness of human emotion, vulnerability, awkwardness—all tightly packed in just a few simple lines.  Time and time again she asks us to question: can life be hilarious and sad at the same moment? 

In Four Calling Birds, Three French Hens, it comes apparent early on that the vignette is not merely about the death of a beloved cat.  “Told without directly telling,” we know the image stand for so much more.  We laugh as Aileen trips up in banter with her husband “Are we talking a psychiatrist or affair?” (116). But there is a darkness to the scene, an indescribable pathos.  This common thread carries throughout.

A similar experience occurs in Which is More I Can Say About Some People where Moore delves into the complex dynamics of a mother-daughter relationship as they journey across Ireland.  The tone is set clearly from the start as Abby’s anxieties prove to serve as more than just marital difficulties, “…but without a steering wheel suddenly seemed emblematic of something” (29).  Here we “know without knowing” circumstances.  Such technique becomes a hallmark of Moore’s writing.

Stylistically, Moore nails it.  Her characters are awkward, lonely, intelligent, distressed, and grateful.  They face moments of resignation, they experience some form of reliance, and they overcome change, abandonment, sickness, and loss.  They become more than a “type,” rather can be named with those we can call our own.  These concepts are intertwined on an even deeper level as Moore explores elements of human displacement and the geographical, emotional, and psychological components that place into her each and every depiction. 

I have to wonder how this piece would fare on the big screen….

Fairy of the Forest

What you have heard is true.  The trees whispered in the forest.  I sat with Genevieve in the wet moss on hard rocks.  A squirrel flitted from tree to tree, effortlessly.  The leaves lay barren on the ground, crinkled almost hiding out brown paper lunch bags.  Will we see the forest fairy again?  She asked.  My mind left the dreary day, entering another world.  Where there were tiger lilies and a pretty pond.  The kind with those quaint Japanese fish.  We ducked behind a willow tree and saw her.  Glistening and glimmering in the summer sun with a warm and inviting laugh.  Is she real?  Can I touch her?  Genevieve followed her down a winding path.  But is snaked off too far and she could not catch up.  In the horizon dark shadows loomed.  A broken bird wing, strewn haphazardly on the ground.  I return to the present.  A light breeze strikes to the bone.  It hits the child deep within.  The one-eyed wolf looks lustily on.  Can we ever turn back to those fairy days?

I See the Sea

"What do you see when you look at this picture?" the therapist asked me holding up an ambigious blob.  Between the CSI crime scene-covered pink-clouded demon, I recalled this somewhat symmetrical scene of chaos.  Oh what a bittersweet symphony.  But there was beauty in this disaster, mainly the way the image brought me back to the beach in my lazy childhood summer days...

As a whole it created a magical, mystic, sea faring crab - much to the kind my mother cooked during those summers, of which we ate with great delight.  Then top center a sheel that brought me back to a cool and smooth surface that touched my ear as I ardently listened for the whisper of a waves voice. Side left, a sea horse like the one I painted a stain glass window decoration of when we found ourselves stuck inside during a sticky summer rain.  To the right, a leaping whale that brought a smile to my face as I reminised on all the secret what watches we'd go on in the private cove.  But most important of all, a ray of light form the lighthouse, a forever standing beacon to the shore, signaling us back home.

These images flood to my mind in an instant, bringing beauty to the disaster of my exsistence.  I give the image one last glance and reply with haste, "It looks like an intergalactic scene of interception."

Key Phrases:
*A flying frog fearlessly soaring from tree to tree
*A somewhat symmetrical scene of chaos
*A beady-eyed insect trudging its way along
*A beautiful disaster
*An outstretched and tortured soul
*An intergalactic interception
*A pink-clouded demon
*A bitter sweet symphony
*An out of control CSI scene
*A magical sea faring creature of kindness (crab, fish, shell, sea horse, whale)

Vance

A night no different than any other,
Except for maybe a lingering cloud,
Grey in hue, full of clutter and confusion,
That led you astray,
Nobody could predict that it would be your last day.

Of the things we'll miss the most,
The first would be your smile.
Warm and inviting, full of sparkle and shine,
That I can recall even as a child.
Or bright eyes full of vigor and curiosity,
Animated to every occasion.
That carefree attitude, living in life's moment,
Worriless of tomorrow's looming shadows.
A bird freely flying, in and out,
Sometimes too high, sometimes too low,
But with good company and cheer,
Staying afloat.

I never knew the saying that,
Each man's life touches so many others,
Would be true,
Until it came to you.
A cataclysmic, abysmal hole tearing deep within our hearts,
For now is what we are left with.
The minutes, hours, days, months, and years will pass,
In your absence.
Will time ever heal all?

No man is a failure who has friends,
And that you part with more than most,
That you can truly call your own.
Along with countless family,
Who will never forget your legacy,
Here's to you in loving memory.