charlobo-a-go-go

I wake up every morning, give thanks, and have my breakfast with Bambina. We chat about the day to be, and this is my routine. 

I drive away from the house with a wave and a horn toot to a smiling little face, and turn away down the hill.

And as I turned, I saw a garbage truck pause in the middle of the road. Not wanting to start a cuss fest this early, I wait patiently to safely pass. I notice a young man in a bright madras plaid shirt (that’s not him, but you get the point) walking in the opposite direction. He makes eye contact with the garbage truck, and looks at a car and motions  like he’s going to get into the car. But I know he’s not. He leans over the car as if to put in key, but I know he’s not. I watch and then I see it. The tell. The splash of glass as he makes a jabbing motion with his hand to break the window. The garbage truck moves, and I move with it, heart sinking that this is taking place only a block away from my house.

I see him in my rear view now, walking quickly away, skipping almost, untold treasure in his hand. I wonder how long would it have taken to call the police. I think of the person whose car it was, and whatever did they lose? Don’t they know, in this neighborhood, that you can’t leave things in your car? More importantly, has he done this before? Is he going to do this again? 

Then I remember that I live in a bubble, and I need to see this around me to stay fully present. I say a short prayer for the victim and for the thief. I know times are tough, but you shouldn’t have to steal things to make ends meet. The image of this sticks in my head for the rest of the day, and until today when I’m just sitting here thinking about it. I wish for hope instead of desperation for all people involved. I try to stay positive in a world where I see cars broken into often (and like today’s event, I sometimes see it happen in front of me).

Broken glass, stolen things, shattered lull, but trying to stay hopeful - just another day back in reality. 

Charlene

I resolve to write more, to be more, and to give more. 

I resolve to take more pictures, sing more songs, and every now and then see the sun.

I resolve to eat more vegetables, fish, and cook more of my own food.

I resolve to not take shit, and if I have to put up with shit, I will be graceful about it. And then I will take vengeance— I mean, I will be graceful about it.

I resolve to excel and to not rest in this endeavor.

I resolve to cut through the crap and handle my business.

I resolve to write letters even though people don’t write me back, and that’s okay. That’s not a hint.

I resolve to create daily, in my work and in my home.

I give myself twelve months to accomplish these things.

Charlene 

I am sitting in my in-law’s house while my husband is out with his brothers installing a television mount. We’ve been here for a few days now, and I’m ready to go home. Home’s home to me, and while I’ve been coming to this house now for a few years (seven, to be exact), it’s not home. 

Christmas is really about watching Bambina be Bambina, spoiled with presents upon presents, things that are great for her to play with, things that I’m wondering - where am I going to put THAT in my already overcrowded house. I am so grateful that she does not want for anything. She has all she needs - toys, clothes, and my favorite thing, a large family that will always provide.

I decided to stay back with Bambina and my mother in law to get some space - so much of vacation is not vacation to me. It’s a lot of work and not that much play. I have been hungering for a place to read, a time to blog, and this is going to be it. I’ve managed to read three of the Harry Potter books in about two weeks time, and I’m trying to plow through assigned reading for work too. I got two books I wished for on my Kris Kringle list, and well, it’s a happy problem. Too many books. We all should be so lucky.

As we close out the books on this year, I can only say that I always feel like it’s a work in progress, steps toward the next year, what I am doing for the future. I don’t know if I’m done with anything, just getting closer…a little here, a little there, but I’m not ready to say, I’ve accomplished my goals. Yes, there are some here and there, but I’m not done. No way, no how. It’s only going to get better.

A raised glass for you all.

Char

I love this time of the year because of the cool weather means bundling up, breaking out the warm weather gear, and toasty rooms. Love that feeling. It also means that we’re coming up on the end of the year and the retrospectives on damn near everything. The year in gossip/sports/music/whatever. Along that same vein, it’s time for looking forward to things too.

Starting anew is nice. You shake out the old gear and it’s all brand new again. Clear out the closets and drawers, purge the hard drive. Soon enough there’s room for new stuff, and the old stuff looks new again. 

Thanksgiving has that way of setting off a series of events that leads to the newness of another year. Enjoy it while it lasts! 

I went to Border’s with Bambina the other day, and while watching her play with Thomas and the Tank engine table at the back of the kids section by herself, I mused over her singletoness. As an only child, she plays quietly by herself and yells only in the company of the familiar. It was a bittersweet moment because I would love to see her throw down with a sibling, to chatter with another little voice, but those things all come in time, I hope.

I saw earlier a woman in a niqab around the store. She and I made eye contact and said hello to each other. I saw her with her husband soon after, and then came rushing to the table their three daughters. They reached around and grabbed the trains and started playing with them as kids are apt to do. Bambina stepped back and watched them take the train she was playing with. She made do with a sign and Mr. Toppenhat. The mom waved hello at Bambina and kid that she is waved back. The mom walked up to Bambina and handed her something, and I watched them interact. I wasn’t being nervous, but I was happy enough that she offered something to my child.

Meanwhile, the three girls were runnin’ thangs at the table, and Bambina contented herself to eating chips I bought earlier as she sat next to me. The mom chided her girls to share with Bambina. She’s so quiet, I thought to myself, I hope she doesn’t raise a fuss. She didn’t. God bless that child. I walked up to the table and found a train that wasn’t used and passed it to her. She went to the table and played quietly with her train.

Soon, moms takes her girls away. I took the gum from Bambina so she wouldn’t presumably lose it or try to eat it with the paper on. Later I looked at it over dinner, and it was from Saudi Arabia. Not opening it, I smelled it and it was so heavily perfumed, sweet and heavy. From the moms or the gum, I have no idea.

I love bags. Purses. Totes. Suitcases. I don’t know why, but I know ever since I was a child, the accoutrements for containing things has always been intriguing to me. Boxes, folders, satchels.  I study their construction, their materials, and their general aesthetic.

I think bags say a lot about a person. Their station. Their position. Their ability to care for something. Their taste (or lack thereof). But most importantly, if you want to know a lot about the person, crack the bag open and see what’s inside.

See, we can get all deep about this and talk about your bag reflects your inner working, etc., but it’s not that serious. What’s in your bag really reflects what’s important to you.

I change my bag every so often depending on what the occasion calls for, where I’m going, and what I need to carry. Some days I need my laptop, some days I don’t. Somedays call for books, some days don’t. Don’t even get me started about what is in my makeup kit. Geez. But there are things that I transfer from one bag to the next: my rosary from Rome, my Moleskine, my phone, a pen.

My bag today is a reflection of my work and creative life, I suppose. I won’t get into too much detail, but if I were to fall off the face of the earth for a time being, I think I’m good.

I’m going to throw this out to you all…what’s in your bag? And…while we’re at it, check this out: What’s In Your Bag?

Sonnet 17

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, 
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. 
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, 
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms 
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; 
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, 
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. 
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; 
so I love you because I know no other way

in which there is no I or you 
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand 
so intimate that when you fall asleep it is my eyes that close

Pablo Neruda