Tag Archives: nonfiction

IN DEFENSE OF A SEDENTARY LIFESTYLE – Roberta Moore

Whenever I get the urge to exercise, I just lay down and it goes away.

Unlike most people I know, I hate exercise; it’s exhausting and it’s boring. What’s the point of running nowhere? When I get in a swimming pool to cool off on a hot day, I float on my back watching the cloud formations in the sky until I lose direction. Then, I get out, lay on a chaise lounge, and enjoy a vodka tonic with lime. I just don’t get the point of swimming back and forth in a lane. Since I quit the gym I feel so much better; relaxed, and rested.

I believe in economy of style; I always take the shortest route from here to there. Where is the elevator? Working up a sweat doesn’t feel good to me. I agree with Robert Browning: “less is more.”

Exercise may be good for you; I’m not so sure it’s good for me. The most productive thing I can think of is to lie on my bed and contemplate the ceiling. Living a “healthy” lifestyle adds years to your life, I agree. The quality of life is what is healthy, and what adds years. Lying around reading, eating and drinking, listening to music, seeing a play or a movie, and laughing at the cosmic giggle adds quality. Studies show that laughing reduces stress and adds years. In fact, there are actual “laughing clubs” where people just stand around laughing and building up their 6-pack abs. I fear those same folks also worry too much about what they eat and probably deny themselves biscuits and gravy.

My best friend tells me not to stand in front of the microwave, not to drink anything alcoholic and drive, have water with me at all times and drink plenty of it, not to overspend, get a flu shot, wear sensible shoes, and always look both ways when crossing the street. She loves me.

Like a dutiful citizen, not only did I vote this week (correctly of course), but this morning, I went for my annual flu shot. So, two good-for-me-and-the-world healthy things in one week!

While waiting in the clinic for my turn at not getting the flu, I couldn’t help but notice all these young, pony-tailed, perfect-bodied, flip-flop-wearing, yoga mat-carrying, women. Where did they come from? I guess I need to get out more often, huh pal?

Okay, so healthy food choices: Macrobiotic? Organic? Vegetarian? Vegan? High fat with no simple carbs? No sugar? Balanced diet from the four food groups? Gimme fatty meat, preferably red; plenty of cheese and butter; french bread; and sweet, greasy fried carbohydrates, ice cream, and a Hendricks martini with a twist.

The great philosopher, Redd Foxx, once said, “Health nuts are going to feel stupid someday, lying around in hospitals, dying of nothing.”

Roberta Moore
This is my first submission to any publication. Audrey Ferber’s class in the OLAD program has changed my life from a political junkie to a creative writer. I am endlessly surprised at what comes out on the page as I discover my own voice.

The Watch
Mixed Media Paper and Digital
Yousef Kazerooni

Yousef Kazerooni
Yousef is a queer artist who grew up in Iran. After immigrating in his early twenties, CCSF became his home. He found an international community of students, and traveled to different parts of the world. Yousef is a storyteller and his work is inspired by mixing different cultures and traditions.

Interview with Athena Kashyap

The following is an interview by Thomas Hesketh, Poetry Editor of Forum, with Athena Kashyap.

What’s it like to be named after a goddess?

Well, the thing is it’s not just any goddess, it’s a Greek goddess. A lot of Indians have the names of goddesses. Growing up in India with the name of a Greek goddess is kind of unique, but I think that my mother liked the name and she also liked to do things that stood out. I have a whole essay devoted to what it was like growing up with a Western goddess’s name.

Can you bring us up to date as to what your present situation is?

I grew up in India and I moved to the U.S. when I was 18 to study. I lived here for twenty years. My husband and I then relocated back to Bangalore. We’d never lived there as adults. We were there for seven years. We thought it was going to be just a year or two, but it ended up to be seven years. Then we came back two years ago and have been here ever since. We moved back into the same house we lived in before. So, it’s all back to square one.

Do you consider yourself bicultural?

Oh, absolutely! I was in India until I was eighteen. I turned eighteen, and a day or two later I left to continue my education here, and I’ve been in the U.S. most of the time since.

How do you begin your poems?

You know, with poetry, I actually work on a computer, but my advice to young poets would be to just find a poet they really like, and study them, and maybe try and write a couple of poems in their style. That would teach you far more than any other thing, to really get inside the head of one poet. They say that really good poets find one poet that they can learn from, and then are able to do their own thing, to have their own voice. So I think finding that one person is a key point and then learning the craft well enough so that you develop your own voice outside of that.

Do you write for a particular audience?

I would like to that I say that I write for a general audience, but I find that when I went back to review my choice of titles, and what I put underneath those titles, and then definitely in my recent book itself, Sita’s Choice, I had to keep in mind that the audience does not have any background in Indian culture. While writing the poems I didn’t do that, so then I had to add in relevant background information.

The Glossary at the end of Sita’s Choice was very helpful when I was reading the poems. As the title suggests, it is evident the collection revolves around Sita, the Indian goddess, and her story. Is this a prominent theme in your writing in general or just true in this collection?

That’s true just in this new collection. My earlier collection, Crossing Black Water, was about borders, and all kinds of borders, actual physical geographical borders, borders of mountains, rivers, political boundaries, such as Pakistan versus India, and also psychological borders between life and death. So, in both these books, I took on a big idea as a theme and linked poems, which is why each of them has taken me so long to complete.

I notice you used the term “linked poems” in both your last response and in your Introduction to Sita’s Choice. Did you decide on a theme for the book and then write the poems or did you write a collection of poems, and then cull those poems to include ones that matched a theme?

That’s a really good question. I think with Crossing Black Water I had a number of poems already and I saw an underlying theme, and that’s when I pushed that situation a little bit more to complete a book. With Sita’s Choice, I had a couple of poems about women. I had about three of four that I had pulled out from my first book before it was published, because I had this idea I would write a separate book about women. The second book took me a little longer. I’m not sure I would do that again, because these books take so long, because you cannot manufacture poem about something on demand. Some are a little more manufactured or constructed that I would ordinarily have liked!

How do you practice your craft as a poet, and what themes interest you?

Well, for me it’s the idea, I get an idea about something, like in my first book, Crossing Dark Waters, I have this poem about the new wilderness, and this is a poem about how we lost the wild. I always write a lot about nature, but we’ve lost the wild in us. There’s no wilderness anymore; the only wilderness there is, is in our minds. Books have taken the place of woods and trees. I’ve had this notion for a long time, and I didn’t take notes on it. I didn’t take anything. I just had it, you know, permeating in my mind, and then finally one day I wrote it. That’s after I had been thinking about it so much. I think that some of my good poems, without question, some of my better ones have been a result of that process.

Another example is that I have a poem about my father’s death when I was nine years old, but that poem came after so many years of letting the emotions sit, and then I wrote it in one sitting. Some of my better poems happen after an idea or emotion has percolated for a while. I find since I just started writing again, my poems are very different than before, and I’m very excited about them because I’m working more with tone. I feel a lot of my older poems are very serious poems and are not very playful. Now, I’m working more with tone and play, but also issues such as, what does it mean to be an ex-pat in India, and then, vice versa, a Westerner really into yoga. These cultural juxtapositions are really interesting to me now, and I feel that I can really play with them.

To the extent that your poems speak broadly about women’s rights and the women’s situation in India, are your observations meant to be limited to India or do they extend worldwide to the status of women?

I’ve taken the example of India, but I think all women can relate to the feeling, maybe the burden, of taking care of the house and children just on her own. Certain gender roles, and violence against women, are universal, which I tackle, and I also think the village-city dynamic that happens, that is very pervasive in India. You can look at it in a universal light. Farms have been becoming non-existent for a while now in the U.S. I think they have been dying out at the rate of several hundred every day since the fifties. They are still a part of life in India, but they are on the verge of contracting. So, I would like to think that my poems are universal to the condition of women.

Who do you claim as an influence in your poetry, starting you to write?

While when growing up, we went to English inspired schools, British inspired schools, so we had a very heavy Shakespeare curriculum, and a lot of the old classics. I particularly liked Shakespeare’s beat, the iambic pentameter. When I first started writing, I would have that beat in my head, and I really liked the poetry we were reading. When studying in the U.S., I liked Irish poet Seamus Heaney. I liked a number of the American poets as well, such as Sylvia Plath, but now my interests are turning to Indian writers who also write in English, and I’ve found that I’m particularly drawn to the ones who are most solidly bilingual. I’m looking to them more for inspiration.

I really like Arun Kolatkar who spoke only Murathi until he was about 15 or 16 years old, and then picked up English on his own. That’s what I mean when I say bilingual. They have a very Indian kind of world view because they’ve spoken their regional language, and then they’ve embraced English.

Your themes have some political connotations to them, don’t they?

Well, it’s political in the sense that everything has become political when it relates to myth and religion and in India. Myth is still religion, so people had fought and killed over Ram’s birthplace, Ram from the Ramayana. They have been trying to prove that his birthplace is actually Ayodha under a Muslim mosque. It has created a lot of unrest and murders.

The poems that I’ve read in Sita’s Choice include settings that are both rural and urban, and women in both contexts.

My Leela poems. She comes from the village and moves to the city. I was looking at the Leela poems and Leela as a modern day Sita because she has connections with the land and I was thinking that about that connection.

I’m entranced by the adoption of the goddess Sita as a pivotal point or point of departure for your poems and I’m interested in whether you wrote poems about life and about women and then adopted Sita as a common unifier or whether it was the reverse?

I had some ideas and Sita seemed to fit into them. I do feel that the idea of going back to the land, which Sita represents, is a universal kind of movement happening right now. We’ve gotten so distant from the land and our food production. I think this idea in the Bay Area is very big, right now, the whole movement of going back to the land, and even in the Obama White House, everybody having a back garden. Consciousness of getting back to the land and being close to the source of our food, was an idea already here, and Sita happened to be this wonderful person in mythology who pulled it together. She was born of the earth. Her mother is Mother Earth, and she goes back to the land. I kind of saw that as a great rallying cry for not only women, but for people, the human race, to go back more to the land as opposed to getting further and further away, the way we eat being distant from the actual way food is produced, so I’ve always been interested in food and how it is produced. I think that some of those ideas were percolating. When I teach a class here at CCSF, in one of my classes here I focus on food, so I always have that at the back of my mind. Sita has brought it together.

In Sita’s Choice, you’ve divided the collection into several different groupings: “Sita’s Septet,” then there’s “Body,” “Seed,” and “Soil.” I think you’ve just spoken to that, but did you write the poems thinking of those topics, or did that arrangement occur to you after you had reviewed the poems that you had written?

Well, I had number of pregnancy poems and then poems about little children, and one thing Sita is really revered for is her being this amazing mother. A lot of Indian Hindu women really look up to her for being an amazing mother, so I had these children poems, a Seed poem, and then I had poems that were more cultural. Actually, the Theyyams poem was a major part of the Soil section; because it is coming back to tradition, part of Soil means coming back to tradition, some aspect of it. And, then I had Body, like the physical manifestation of sexual harassment. It has to do with the physical differences of body and gender. So, I had these, but coming back to your question of whether what preceded what, I think I had the poems and then I tried to write one poem that spelled it out. It was Body, Seed, and Soil. Might have been too deliberate!

You have graced us with allowing us to publish “Theyyams” and you have said that you had intended to include it in Sita’s Choice and you did not. Is there a particular reason for that?

Well with “Theyyams,” I had labored on it, done a lot of work on it, and I was going to have it with my Soil section in Sita’s Choice because it’s coming back to the land, but it’s a very interesting poem in other ways because you have male actors dressing as females and seen as female goddesses. They’re very empowering female goddesses, so much so that, you know, everybody bows down to these goddesses, and like Markkam, who I write about, she was subject to total sexual harassment. In the myth she was accused falsely of adultery, just like with Sita, and then they murdered her, but she came back as a goddess, so I thought these were wonderful poems that would kind of highlight the themes in Sita’s Choice, but I felt the book was just getting very unwieldy. It’s got a number of poems, of pages already, and I didn’t want “Theyyams” to become too lost in it. If I had to do it again, I would have included it, because, as I said, I had put a lot of work into it.

Is there any practice you would advise students to avoid?

Yes, I would tell them not to write when they are not inspired. I’ve written many a bad poem when I’m not inspired (Laughs).

What are your sources of inspiration outside of poetry?

I love history. I was a history major. I read a lot in terms of magazines, now. I always enjoy reading literature, fiction, so I read a lot. I find I actually start writing more poetry when I just do more general writing. So, I think writing begets writing.

What would you recommend to community college students studying if they had an interest becoming a writer in general, perhaps with an emphasis in poetry?

When I think for a poet, a general round education is a really good one, because poetry deals a lot with ideas, and I think having a background in history, taking a number of courses across disciplines, and then also reading the newspaper, getting up to date with current events, and generally broadening the mind. All of this helps in becoming a poet. Reading about science, anything that matters in our world today.

Poets were the original philosophers. Poets deal with really tough questions, with life and death, with science and matter, so depending on what area you focus on, you can get really deep in that. You can take a lot of sociology and anthropology classes to talk about the culture, the clash of culture, but a poem can do that just as effectively.

How do approach organizing your poems for a small collection?

I would suggest there are two ways of doing it. One is to do it in a highly regulated, organized way, the way I organized Sita’s Choice, with Body, Seed, and Soil. It was very systematic. The other way is completely arbitrary; you simply toss up the poems and let the randomness speak for itself.

I’ve organized thematically. I’ve also used what I would consider the stronger poems initially, followed by the . . . you can look at it as a musical score. You want to entice people, initially with some stronger notes, and then you can vary it; you can sometimes ask yourself am I getting too heavy, so then I would intersperse it with lighter poems.

What draws you to the prose poem?

I just find more intense writing that is not really in a more common poetic form, because it’s not condensed enough, but it’s a little more intense than I find myself writing within my prose writing. So I would consider that in a prose poem every line is weighted, and so it is not condensed enough to be a poem. I think a poem is reductionist, in a way. When that doesn’t happen, but the writing is distilled more intensely than regular prose, that’s what falls into a prose poem.

When you edit and revise your poems, do you work with a group of people that you trust?

I have a poetry group that helps. My husband was a big support because he has a really good knowledge of mythology, so he was able to provide some missing information that I needed. My poetry group has been helpful as a first response and it’s helped me a lot to have someone respond to my work, to see how what’s working and what’s not.

Photo courtesy of Athena Kashyap

Athena Kashyap
Athena Kashyap is the author of Crossing Black Waters (SFA Press, 2012) and Sita’s Choice (SFA Press, 2019), both collections of linked poems exploring borders and women’s issues in India respectively. She was born in India, but currently makes her home in San Francisco, where she teaches English at City College of San Francisco.

A journal excerpt: Too Gay to Pray Sometimes – Christine Alicea Gaan

Growing up I avoided birthday parties, so I didn’t have to play 7 minutes in heaven with Victor or so I didn’t have to pretend I was excited to kiss Evans during spin the bottle; but mostly so that no one would see my accidental smile when the bottle landed on Michelle, and everyone screamed, “Do it! Do it!” I’d pretend I didn’t want to and play it off as if I was daring, but it was one of the only feelings I was able to recognize as my own. The only feeling that made me feel like being me was okay. That feeling also made me feel like I was turning my back on God, that I traded my faith and sold my soul to his brother.

For a really long time I believed that all the bad things that happened to me were because of the one piece of me I couldn’t deny, and when I’d meet with my the pastor he demanded that I speak the “truth”, rid my insides of my filth, clear my holy spirit from my sins; even though they were just thought and feelings. He was more focused on the perversions of my mind than on the perversions of the men in my life and our secrets. The devil came to collect, often.

I was 15 when my mom first saw me kiss a girl. She watched from her car as the girl, who walked me home, believed it was safe enough to put her lips to mine and there I was…leaning in. I was breathing in full breaths, steadily and my mother was choking on all the moments she thought she failed me.

I was sent to live with her sister in the middle of Bumble Fuck Nowhere, Colorado. Falcon High School was predominantly white, but I found brown bodies that waved me over at lunch. This could be my do-over. This is where I could ask for forgiveness, and mean it. When she asked if I liked girls I stared at her with the face of disgust, the one I learned from my mother. When her white cheeks turned hot pink and her face fell I said “But I’d never tell,” and when she reached for my hand I suddenly wanted to cry and smile at the same exact time.

My mother’s sister helped me get ready for a school dance. She put my hair in curls, dabbed lipstick on my cheeks, and asked if Paul would be there. He sat with me on the bus, and sometimes we played tag on our quads, and I had suddenly realized…he might be there. I gave my aunt a smile while hoping he wouldn’t find me so that I wouldn’t have to hold my breath in lieu of crying when he placed his hands on me.

My safe brown bodies made room for me, and laughed when I wouldn’t take a sip of the vodka they snuck in. They didn’t know that the other me had been getting stoned since she was 12 or that the current me was in the middle of repenting to God.

A hand turned me around by my waist, and my eyes found hers, complimenting her entire being. In my group she was met with dismissal, still she grabbed my arm and pulled me out onto the dance floor, where I was excited to have that moment and I wanted to live in it, but was too scared to even touch her. This time we weren’t underneath the school bleachers, alone. We were in a crowded room and my friends were watching, and Paul…and God. She was brave enough to step closer to me, I could feel her breath and even though our lips never touched, I felt that silent kiss, lingering in the space between us. My body felt like it had been set on fire, and God was watching me throw away all of his good graces to dance with the fucking devil.

I found Paul eating chips and swapped her out for him instead. I let his hands explore places mine hadn’t even deliberately gone before. I let him kiss my neck, and when she stormed off in tears I pretended I didn’t know why; and when Ebony said she thought she was a dyke my only defense was that she wore “skirts” because apparently girls in skirts can’t be gay. When I found her again she was being slammed into a locker, and they were screaming “dyke” into the air like they were performing an exorcism. I could hear the moments their hands made contact with her body, and I could feel the sting of my mother’s discipline. Instead of trying to help her I was frozen with fear and drowning in my shame.

I called my mother’s sister to pick me up early and during the entire ride home… I had hoped the car would crash. And that I would be the one who didn’t survive it. That entire ride home I prayed to God and said that I couldn’t live like this anymore. I couldn’t be two different people in the same body and that I was certain his brother poisoned me, like he did Eve, came to me in the form of freedom and said I could run with it, all while he held onto my lungs.

I called my mother, told her that I was straight again, cried and asked for her forgiveness and promised what I hadn’t even been able to deliver to God. I was almost 16 when I returned home. I was quiet and I didn’t complain anymore when she bought me pink shirts and jean skirts. I hung out with older boys, who were legal enough to buy me Bacardi and who took me in when she put me out.

I was 16 the first time I had slept underneath a slide because “boys will be boys” and I had too many hangovers. I was stoned enough to decide to bargain with God. I promised that I would talk to him every single day, that I would believe in him, but that if he wanted my faith then I needed to trust that as long as I was honest, giving, as long as I was respectful and strong, that as long as I was forgiving…he would not penalize me, for the one thing I just couldn’t “get right”.

I have been queer since.

I have endured the death of my relationships with people who celebrated my existence before I was even born. I have done my walks of shame in the high school hallways and scrubbed the slander off my locker. I have been met with judgement from my own lgbt community and I have had to mold and remold myself. I have remained patient throughout the growth of my society, and I have grown the sharpest backbone, and the thickest skin. In my challenging God, I found safety in my grandmother’s arms, and a shield in the form of a baby sister. I found paper and pen and in my refusal to give up I have experienced a love that swept through me, giving me an infinity of hope; that has proven time and time again that there is always a rebirth.

Sometimes it feels like I’m at war with both God and the Devil because not everything can be accounted for, not every moment is a predestined one, and not every single thing happens for a reason. I know this because sometimes children are born lifeless, and sometimes an entire race has the skin on their back split open, for the vultures. My life happened because I was born. The things that happened, happened because people took advantage of my uncertainty and my trust. Not every struggle comes with a lesson, though I wish they did because it would make it easier to be less angry about them sometimes. Forgiving isn’t up to God, neither is Karma. That’s the Earth’s decision to set the balance between time and chance sometimes. It’s up to me, and how I choose to react and what I choose to forgive.

My queerness is not up for debate these days. My queerness is not a bargaining tool. It is not something that happened to me. It is not something that requires repent. It is not a dysfunction in my brain. It is not boredom. My queerness is filled with an abundance of love that surprises even me sometimes. It is not an afterthought or a decision. It is not dirt on my skin. It is not the determining factor of what happens to my soul when I leave this Earth. It is not a ball and chains at my feet. My queerness has no definitive line, no boundary. It allows me the capacity to pardon my memories, and it gives me the strength to wake up every day and be myself without shame. There is nothing shameful about love. There isn’t anything shameful about being alive and wanting to live.

Christine Alicea Gaan
I’m a queer, Boriqua-Indian from Jersey with a bit of a potty mouth, who believes actions & words should be considered lovers, & in actively standing up when you know something isn’t right. My attitude will never depend on how you treat me but on who I want to be.

Hebe
Photography
Nikii Davidson

Nikii Davidson
This little Hebe flower is one of my favourite San Francisco blossoms. Its a close up shot with a macro lens on my Google pixel.

Taking tea: Experience During my Travels – B. Lynn Craig

I am a tea drinker. I’m not fond of coffee. During the early part of my life I drank Orange Pekoe black tea. I had it with lemon. When I graduated from high school, I got a gift from my elderly neighbor – a fancy cup and saucer with painted yellow flowers and gold trim. The cup survived several moves, but eventually it got broken.

After I moved to San Francisco, I went to the Japanese tea garden in Golden Gate Park in the spring when cherry trees were in blossom. At the Tea House with purple wisteria hanging over the roof toward the pond I had green tea. It is important to drink it when it is fresh, because it becomes bitter if it sits too long.

In 1971 I moved to London, and in winter my English boyfriend took me to a country inn and it had snowed. The inn was several hundred years old. There we had “high tea” in a large cottage like building with a low ceiling. Tea came with trimmed cucumber sandwiches and scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam. Black tea was served with cream and sugar.

Jonathan, my English boyfriend, has been to Morocco before, but this time he took me with him. During our stay in Marrakesh, in the mornings we would go to the open air market where the food was prepared. We would get fresh doughnuts and take them to the tea stall, where we had mint tea. It was made by taking a handful of fresh mint, twisting it into a tall glass and pouring hot water over it. Brown sugar was chunked off a large cone and put into the tea. This was in autumn and all of the colorful harvest was in the market square.

In 1971 I was in Afghanistan when it was peaceful and ruled by the king. We would travel in the country on narrow roads, and would come upon three sided tea shacks and have tea. I remember one orange tea pot with white polka dots that was broken and put back together with big brass staples. Clear tea was first poured hot into and around thistle shaped glasses to sterilize it. This tea was thrown on the mud floor. The second glass of tea was for drinking. It was best to drink hot tea, because the water was boiled and therefore safe to drink. Tap water in third world countries is dangerous.

Sometimes in India I traveled by train. When the train stopped tea sellers would come to the train windows bringing tea in wood fired crude clay cups. The clay cups contained tea that would have smoky taste from firing. When we finished with the tea, a cup would be thrown out the window to break up on the roadbed for the train tracks. This was very ecological, leaving no trash on the tracks. In Northern India the traditional chai, Eastern name for tea, is made with milk and spiced with cardamom. This is a usual regional drink.

I traveled on to Nepal. At the outskirts of Katmandu there is a Monkey Temple. This is a large square white building with a sizable four-sided triangle on top painted with a large blue eye on each side. There was a concession stand that sold tea in disposable cups and snacks like a samosa, which is dough stuffed with spiced vegetables such as potatoes and peas. As I was sitting about to put a snack in my mouth, a furry paw with long claws snatched it right in front of my face. When looked into the monkey’s face fangs were bared. He took the snack and raced away, leaving me with only the tea.

In the fall of 1985 I traveled with a group of 19 friends via the anniversary tours. We went to Japan, the Soviet Union and Mongolia. We flew to Tokyo and went to the Society for the Preservation of Japanese Arts and Crafts. Since there were 19 of us, a traditional tea ceremony was performed for us in a small room with a painted scroll that usually depicts the season. There was also a flower arrangement and a charcoal cooker for hot water on a straw mat floor. A woman in kimono crawls toward the seated guest and proceeds to make tea for him. A fine powdered bright green tea and water are poured into a tea bowl and stirred with a fine bamboo whisk. The tea bowls are each individually made and many are kept for generations. Some are made in the following tradition: they are covered with paper when they are fired, so it makes an iridescent pattern that is unique to each one.

We took the bullet train to Yokohama where we boarded a ship that took us too Nakhodka, Russia (that was Soviet Union in 1985). We boarded the Trans-Siberian Railway train in an area that is called the Far East. We were in a car to ourselves with an English-speaking official guide. We traveled first class, but it was called “soft class”, and second class was called “hard class”, because they were classless communists. We were treated to beautiful fall colors as we went through and endless forest that went on for days. In each car there was a large tea maker called “samovar”, tea was available 24 hours a day. Black tea was served in tall glasses contained in a fancy metal cage like holder with a handle called “podstakannik”. Sometimes the wealthy had ones with a silver holder. 2 cubes of sugar were wrapped in paper showing the Trans-Siberian Railway. I brought some of them home to show my family and friends.

When we reached Lake Baikal, the deepest fresh water lake in the world, we transferred to a Mongolian train. We progressed to Ulaanbaatar, which is the capital of Mongolia. Third of the people there had high walls around their yards with a yurt inside. Our seven-story hotel, which was the tallest structure there, looked down upon the city. We went to a very old Tibetan style Buddhist temple in the fall with that seasons leaves in color, and we took photographs. The temple had sloping roofs that ended with sculptured animals. Next day it snowed, and we went back and took what looked like a winter scene of the same temple. In the Mongolian city museum we had tea. Blocks of large disks of tea in the far past were used as currency. The national drink is fermented mare’s milk. Next is tea mixed salt and butter, useful in high harsh Himalayan environment, because they need fat and salt in their diet.

After returning home to San Francisco in 1985 I continued to drink tea. I have a classic iron tea pot with a removable screen cup that is used in Japan. It is important to remove the tea once it is brewed, because it becomes bitter. Sometimes I make jasmine tea that has little fragrant flowers in the tea. Jasmine tea was created in China. Other times I drink Japanese tea that is made from roasted rice. Some of the rice grains pop like tiny popcorn. Sometimes roasted rice is mixed in with green tea when it is prepared. Currently I drink black tea with cream and sugar most of the time, which is a habit that I picked up in England.

B. Lynn Craig
I was born on March 9, 1942. My father was a beekeeper. I graduated from San Francisco State in 1976 cum laude. I worked as a social worker for the city for 10 years, did private counseling, worked on a doctorate in Human Sexuality, and was a professional dominatrix.

Tokyo in Bloom
Photography
Nadine Peralta

“Taking Sides” by Roberta Moore

My left foot is a perfectly fine 72-year-old foot, with slender toes, a slender ankle and a proportionately shaped calf. It has a low arch, but an arch nonetheless, so it can enjoy any shoe style. It is the best foot that I put forward.

Its counterpart has a completely fallen arch. So much so that it actually has developed a callus where the arch would be, if there was one. The arch fell down in 1980, when I picked up my sleeping infant from a playpen and saw stars. I had slipped a disc and pinched a nerve. I was in pain for a year. It was further injured a few years later during an unrelated surgical procedure when the lymph system was accidentally cut.

Because of the cut lymph system, the same poor right foot also became swollen ever after. The foot is flat, the toes are fat, the ankle is thick, and even the calf is out of shape. It cannot stand on tip-toes, run or jog. My daughter has always lovingly called it “Mommy pig foot.”

For several years, high heels worked better than flat shoes, because they actually held the arch up into position. Even though the feet would have liked to take a long walk once in a while wearing athletic shoes, they were both happy enough. Over the years, as the right foot falls more and more, balance becomes an issue, and they now need low, block-style heels. The left foot resents this restriction, as it has always enjoyed styling in high heels. If I had two left feet, perhaps I’d be a better dancer.

These feet of mine are a constant reminder of the dichotomy of life; mine anyway. I think I’m a prominently left-brained person; fairly organized and methodical. I wish I were right-brained though; more creative and freer.

Choice or decision? Choice is no reason, just choose. Decision is with reason. Left brain is decision, right brain is choice. Putting my left best foot forward makes me think that I’m holding something back besides my right foot. I fear that I’m blocking my creativity with my stubborn left brain, and ugly right foot.

I practice a daily writing exercise because I don’t trust myself to let my creativity flow however it will, without a metronome in 4/4 time.

Roberta Moore
This is my first submission to any publication. Audrey Ferber’s class in the OLAD program has changed my life from a political junkie to a creative writer. I am endlessly surprised at what comes out on the page as I discover my own voice.

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PABS

PABS
As a Philippine-born visual artist, I continue to explore concepts of identity and of home through the lens of the Filipino diaspora. My work draws from Western art history, Filipino and American cultures, post-colonial life, and pop culture.