notes from the underdog

It is cramped in here. It is shallow. It is dusty from decades of breathing the same air.
Nothing new grows here. But all that is here remains.
Things die, but they are reborn in the identical form. There is no evolution here.
Words do not travel through space here. They fall into traps that litter the air.
Sometimes a rainbow appears. It is like a mirage, but it is pretty, and we like pretty. No matter it is not real. No matter it will soon disappear.
It is cramped in here. It is shallow.
It is time for dinner. I’m coming, mum. I’m coming.

unrealized realizations

So many feelings in me that I cannot untangle from this sticky, incenstuous web. So many thoughts, the ghosts of which leave pale streaks of unforgiven moments across my heart. Unrealized realizations, weighing me down. How to scrape away the disenchantment. How to release the dread of repetition, of magnetically making the same mistakes over and over again. So many untruths blocking out the light. A thick film of insincerity, angular like a diamond’s surface, obscuring my desires for tomorrow and deflecting beams of truth that were homeward bound, shooting them off into opposing directions at sharp angles, away from me, away from my need.

last dream just now

many of us are gathered in a room. i think all of my friends from everywhere in the world are there, but the lights are down, so it's just a feeling. we are all adults, but in this room we are all children again, and awards are being handed out by our teachers.

"ilana..." there is clapping, and i can see myself from the back of my head, and my teacher approaches with a long rectangular box and opens the lid for me... "we know you always wanted a portfolio..." and inside the box there are long paper scrolls, on which are written all of the words i wrote over the next twenty years, but never recorded or published.

the handing out of awards is over, and my mother approaches the teacher. i am not there but i can see and hear everything. my mother says "tell her not to leave..." and then "...tell her to come home." my teacher says, "no, larisa. i would love to lose her." my mother says again, "tell her to come home..." and my teacher says, "no, ilana must fly. she's the moth and the flame."

que sera sera

Clara pulls up a chair next to mine, and the circle is complete again. She is a very tall woman, and remains gracious despite her years. When she dances, she opens her arms wide as if to hug the entire room.

Seated now, her fingers work quickly to fix the crumples in her dress. Then they turn in onto themselves, chipping away at each other.

Suddenly, Clara turns to meet my eyes with a precise and concentrated gaze.

Is today Wednesday? she asks.
It’s Thursday.
So tomorrow is Friday?
Yes, tomorrow is Friday.
Well then, says Clara, throwing her head back and laughing wildly, GOOD SHABBES!!, GOOD SHABBES!!

Then she stops laughing, and seems lost in thought for a moment. She turns her wide shoulders back to the others in the circle. Some are asleep, or staring blankly at the air in front of them. Others are following the flying balloons with their eyes. The most able reach for them with their feet and hands.

HEY! Clara booms into the circle over the chorus of Toombalalaika. ARE WE GOING TO THE CASINO TODAY? CAN WE GO TO THE CASINO?

The balloons fall to the ground, and a long bright orange scarf comes out. We all hold on and push it through the air together. Clara loses interest and walks away down the hall.

Leila wakes up and finds an orange scarf in her hands. She searches for an explanation.

This is Tuesday morning Dance Therapy class in the Dementia Unit of Emmy Monash. I am doing some writing for them. This is research.

Every song that plays on the stereo is plucked from our youth, danced to at endless celebrations. Those who can sing along. The others sing too, you can tell, but they do not move.

Clara comes back and wants to dance with the man on my left. He can’t stand, so she holds his hands high and sways before him.

The music changes from Jewish folksongs to old classics. I am somewhat relieved. I did not want to cry.

A new song begins. All of a sudden, from the circle there rises a chorus of voices. First three of four, then six or seven, then, I can't believe it, they are all awake, and singing…

When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother
What will I be?
Will I be pretty?
Will I be rich?
Here's what she said to me:

Que sera, sera.
Whatever will be, will be.
The future's not ours to see.
Que sera, sera.
What will be, will be...

When I grew up and fell in love
I asked my sweetheart
What lies ahead?
Will we have rainbows
Day after day?
Here's what my sweetheart said:

Que sera, sera.
Whatever will be, will be.
The future's not ours to see.
Que sera, sera.
What will be, will be.

My eyes burn. Clara opens her arms wide.

a freelancer's afternoon

I move from coffee shop to coffee shop, carrying my white pages. Here I sit by the window, warmed by the sun. Here I retreat to the garden, pretend I am far away. I choose cafes for their music, and their tables. Now I sit on a long, wooden thick plank communal table, drinking carrot juice. French dub plays, and the rhythm of my writing changes. Jeremy calls, and we sigh at the week’s injustices. Ohad sits at a café in New York, and we commune over sms. We are planning our travels this year, next year, and 2009. We are sure things will happen just so. But this is too much distraction. I have work to do, and that’s how I justify my smoothies and lattes and muffins. They play the blues, and it helps me settle. And just then the hostess says, the boss just called, he wants us to close early, I’m sorry. No problem, I say, I wasn’t focusing anyway.

I move on down the street, hoping to find something new.

This is Ormond Rd, Elwood Village. And I come here to keep working on my white pages. The words will come. The words will come.