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AZ Quotes |
Monday, December 13, 2021
Monday, July 01, 2019
George Sand
"The world will know and understand me someday. But if that day does not arrive, it does not greatly matter. I shall have opened the way for other women." ~ George Sand
Thursday, July 06, 2017
Sincerely, the Sky
Sincerely, the Sky
by David Hernandez
looking up into my vastness.
to find on my vacant face,
of telephone wires?
bright blue now because of physics:
my light from the sun
You know my variations—
How often I find you
and distressed, head thrown
not the darker version of myself
To you I am merely background.
Remember I am most vibrant
Do something with your brokenness.
by David Hernandez
looking up into my vastness.
to find on my vacant face,
of telephone wires?
bright blue now because of physics:
my light from the sun
You know my variations—
How often I find you
and distressed, head thrown
not the darker version of myself
To you I am merely background.
Remember I am most vibrant
Do something with your brokenness.
Yes, I see you down there
What are you hoping
there within the margins
You should know I am only
molecules break and scatter
more than any other color.
azure at noon, navy by midnight.
then on your patio, pajamaed
back so your eyes can pick apart
but the carousel of stars.
You barely hear my voice.
when air breaks my light.
~ Writers Almanac. "Sincerely, the Sky" from Dear Sincerely by David Hernandez, © 2016. Aired by permission of University of Pittsburgh Press. (buy now)
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| Chania, Crete 2014 |
Friday, February 24, 2017
The Wheel
Lula thought it would be nice to ride on the back of the bike while everyone else walked. And it was an excuse to finally get away from her mother who privately complained about the heat when no one was looking. The day was too hot for picnics, too hot for conversations and boiled eggs with crusty bread. The sun danced through the sycamores, wild strawberries were waiting to be picked and tasted off the vine, and the forest air was thick with bees and the heady fragrance of summer flowers. Who cares? Besides Mon had offered.
“We’ll be the first to pick the spot for lunch. And the rest can meet up with us.”
Mon, short for Monique, was between thirty and forty. She was tall and blonde with sporty short hair, thin glasses, white shorts, a denim shirt, boat shoes, no socks. From behind, she could have passed for a boy. A former aristocrat, she was the village pharmacist and her mother’s new best friend since they moved to St Omera. Mon’s family and cousins would be there. New friends for Lula, who’s eyes were often found glued to some Gaston Lagaffe comic book. There was talk of pate (was it made from horsemeat?) with brined black olives, Justine’s homemade cellar cider and a roaring spit fire into the night.
Although she had never been alone with Mon before, Lula said she would like the ride very much.“There’s a little lake close to here pass the field” said Mon. “If you want, we can take a dip to cool off. I know the path and the spots where you can see the dragonflies. We’ll be lucky to have the whole lake to ourselves before everyone else. Today is a perfect day for a swim.”
Truth be told, Lula didn’t know how to swim but she had no way of telling Mon. The moment had already passed. She obediently climbed onto the back of the bike, her legs straddled on each side. She didn’t know if she ought to hold onto the seat or place her hands intimately around Mon’s waist. Instead, she settled for one hand on the seat and the other faintly, nonchalantly even on Mon’s hip. Was this the proper etiquette? She had no clue and plus they weren’t related so it made Lula all the more uncomfortable to be touching another person. The notion of touch was strange and shocking. Grotesque and exciting. Several times, Lula walked into the intimate moment while her parents kissed, her mother instantly withdrew, sitting as still as a mannequin, denying what had happened. By “parents”, she didn’t know what quite to call them yet, it was her mother and recent step father. Without a word, she found a man in their living room one day, then Lula was at a church and posing in front of people she didn’t know, her mother’s co-workers at the pottery factory where she worked as a secretary. The wedding was in the newspaper. Her step father was a refugee from a place with a recent war, a former astrologer, the first bi-racial couple to be wed, the caption read. There’s a picture of them signing the civic marriage certificate in front of the mayor, and in the background, you can see Lula making a face, lips frowning and eyelids inside out with her school friend Martine.
Mon took off and started peddling. The path was heavy with nettles so the pace was slow and leisurely. Occasionally, a light tap beat against Lula’s sneakers, a reminder of the spokes of the wheel beneath her. Trees lined the meandering path, everywhere around her a flowing buzz and blur of green and yellow. Flashes of speckled sun glared into Lula’s eyes. Above birds flew, not in formation but scattered like a broken arrow.
They approached a big dip on the path and then something heavy rubbed against Lula’s ankle.
She thought for some time if there was something wrong with the bike, (a flat tire, perhaps?) for the scenery around her stood still. Lula felt a rush of heat emanating from her legs and then a sensation of pressure. Mon was now standing on the bike using her legs to pump but the bike would not budge.What if it was her foot that caught on the wheel? Lula found it alarming that she wouldn’t dare look down. She could not. She looked at the sky above again but there were no birds. She studied the pattern of Mon’s shirt, its uninteresting lines, blue against white. There was. There was an unmistakable pressure on her right ankle. A deep pressure and an alarming sound that sucked the breath out of Lula. Was that a snap of a twig or of twisting bone?
Please stop, please Mon! That was what she wanted to say but her lips could not move. The back of Mon’s head stared back into Lula’s brown eyes. There was an abundance of wispy blonde hair. So pure, so careless and messy. In the summer light, it almost looked like golden wheat. There was perspiration, collecting on the sides of Mon’s neck, as both her hands gripped the handle bar, working no doubt, and her legs stood perched and flexed ready to unblock whatever it was that impeded momentum.
Now, Lula could have shifted and removed her ankle from the wheel, if it was caught. She could have firmly squeezed both her hands around Mon’s waist to let her know that she ought to stop whatever she was doing. She could have whispered into Mon’s ear, Excuse me, so Lula could release her trapped ankle. This solution was so obvious, so direct and painless. And yet, it didn’t occur to Lula. She could not wield her own voice. Not yet. Could not command it to speak up. Mon had done nothing wrong. She was so kind and affectionate. A woman with such peaceful and perfect features. Noble even. Who had three high born children of her own, who themselves at fifteen, thirteen and eleven were robust, blue eyed and blonde, who rode horses and swam in lakes, who were beautiful and looked up to. Lula could not insist that Mon was responsible for this predicament. Even if she did say, Please stop, she knew it would sound insolent, vulgar.
But there was more. Had Lula felt this before? This complete separation of self from body? When was it? She imagined being on an airplane, her body limp, resting on someone’s lap. Only a dress on, naked legs. The humdrum and draft of filtered air. She was cold, hot tears against cheeks, a scratched throat from screaming until there was nothing left to utter. A barren well that echo chambered silence. She wanted to know what it meant to feel this void again. Was it anger? Was it guilt? Was she abandoned? What was happening? Lula wanted to know what was going on. She wanted to know what would happen, in this moment.
Mon’s right foot inched forward, calves ready for the finish. A wave of hot coals rushed over Lula’s ankle, punching upward into her temples and brain. She felt a rush of sharp pricks and spikes. She thought of a hammer beating against a nail, beating against a nail, and a knife against an onion, the disgusting pungency of onion, the overwhelming smell, the cutting and slicing, the heavy knife inconveniently cutting and jabbing, stabbing and jabbing, releasing fuzzy stupid membranes, inflamed and vulnerable, the forever damaged peptides.
All this felt riveting to Lula. Mon’s impossible pedaling, so patient and constant, so present. Lula could no longer hold on, could no longer deny the exuberant flow of intraocular fluid that swirled now and escaped those bloodshot eyes, finally tearing, finally, until nothing could reach Lula, not even Mon’s maddening scream when she looked down and caught sight of the wheel.
“We’ll be the first to pick the spot for lunch. And the rest can meet up with us.”
Mon, short for Monique, was between thirty and forty. She was tall and blonde with sporty short hair, thin glasses, white shorts, a denim shirt, boat shoes, no socks. From behind, she could have passed for a boy. A former aristocrat, she was the village pharmacist and her mother’s new best friend since they moved to St Omera. Mon’s family and cousins would be there. New friends for Lula, who’s eyes were often found glued to some Gaston Lagaffe comic book. There was talk of pate (was it made from horsemeat?) with brined black olives, Justine’s homemade cellar cider and a roaring spit fire into the night.
Although she had never been alone with Mon before, Lula said she would like the ride very much.“There’s a little lake close to here pass the field” said Mon. “If you want, we can take a dip to cool off. I know the path and the spots where you can see the dragonflies. We’ll be lucky to have the whole lake to ourselves before everyone else. Today is a perfect day for a swim.”
Truth be told, Lula didn’t know how to swim but she had no way of telling Mon. The moment had already passed. She obediently climbed onto the back of the bike, her legs straddled on each side. She didn’t know if she ought to hold onto the seat or place her hands intimately around Mon’s waist. Instead, she settled for one hand on the seat and the other faintly, nonchalantly even on Mon’s hip. Was this the proper etiquette? She had no clue and plus they weren’t related so it made Lula all the more uncomfortable to be touching another person. The notion of touch was strange and shocking. Grotesque and exciting. Several times, Lula walked into the intimate moment while her parents kissed, her mother instantly withdrew, sitting as still as a mannequin, denying what had happened. By “parents”, she didn’t know what quite to call them yet, it was her mother and recent step father. Without a word, she found a man in their living room one day, then Lula was at a church and posing in front of people she didn’t know, her mother’s co-workers at the pottery factory where she worked as a secretary. The wedding was in the newspaper. Her step father was a refugee from a place with a recent war, a former astrologer, the first bi-racial couple to be wed, the caption read. There’s a picture of them signing the civic marriage certificate in front of the mayor, and in the background, you can see Lula making a face, lips frowning and eyelids inside out with her school friend Martine.
Mon took off and started peddling. The path was heavy with nettles so the pace was slow and leisurely. Occasionally, a light tap beat against Lula’s sneakers, a reminder of the spokes of the wheel beneath her. Trees lined the meandering path, everywhere around her a flowing buzz and blur of green and yellow. Flashes of speckled sun glared into Lula’s eyes. Above birds flew, not in formation but scattered like a broken arrow.
They approached a big dip on the path and then something heavy rubbed against Lula’s ankle.
She thought for some time if there was something wrong with the bike, (a flat tire, perhaps?) for the scenery around her stood still. Lula felt a rush of heat emanating from her legs and then a sensation of pressure. Mon was now standing on the bike using her legs to pump but the bike would not budge.What if it was her foot that caught on the wheel? Lula found it alarming that she wouldn’t dare look down. She could not. She looked at the sky above again but there were no birds. She studied the pattern of Mon’s shirt, its uninteresting lines, blue against white. There was. There was an unmistakable pressure on her right ankle. A deep pressure and an alarming sound that sucked the breath out of Lula. Was that a snap of a twig or of twisting bone?
Please stop, please Mon! That was what she wanted to say but her lips could not move. The back of Mon’s head stared back into Lula’s brown eyes. There was an abundance of wispy blonde hair. So pure, so careless and messy. In the summer light, it almost looked like golden wheat. There was perspiration, collecting on the sides of Mon’s neck, as both her hands gripped the handle bar, working no doubt, and her legs stood perched and flexed ready to unblock whatever it was that impeded momentum.
Now, Lula could have shifted and removed her ankle from the wheel, if it was caught. She could have firmly squeezed both her hands around Mon’s waist to let her know that she ought to stop whatever she was doing. She could have whispered into Mon’s ear, Excuse me, so Lula could release her trapped ankle. This solution was so obvious, so direct and painless. And yet, it didn’t occur to Lula. She could not wield her own voice. Not yet. Could not command it to speak up. Mon had done nothing wrong. She was so kind and affectionate. A woman with such peaceful and perfect features. Noble even. Who had three high born children of her own, who themselves at fifteen, thirteen and eleven were robust, blue eyed and blonde, who rode horses and swam in lakes, who were beautiful and looked up to. Lula could not insist that Mon was responsible for this predicament. Even if she did say, Please stop, she knew it would sound insolent, vulgar.
But there was more. Had Lula felt this before? This complete separation of self from body? When was it? She imagined being on an airplane, her body limp, resting on someone’s lap. Only a dress on, naked legs. The humdrum and draft of filtered air. She was cold, hot tears against cheeks, a scratched throat from screaming until there was nothing left to utter. A barren well that echo chambered silence. She wanted to know what it meant to feel this void again. Was it anger? Was it guilt? Was she abandoned? What was happening? Lula wanted to know what was going on. She wanted to know what would happen, in this moment.
Mon’s right foot inched forward, calves ready for the finish. A wave of hot coals rushed over Lula’s ankle, punching upward into her temples and brain. She felt a rush of sharp pricks and spikes. She thought of a hammer beating against a nail, beating against a nail, and a knife against an onion, the disgusting pungency of onion, the overwhelming smell, the cutting and slicing, the heavy knife inconveniently cutting and jabbing, stabbing and jabbing, releasing fuzzy stupid membranes, inflamed and vulnerable, the forever damaged peptides.
All this felt riveting to Lula. Mon’s impossible pedaling, so patient and constant, so present. Lula could no longer hold on, could no longer deny the exuberant flow of intraocular fluid that swirled now and escaped those bloodshot eyes, finally tearing, finally, until nothing could reach Lula, not even Mon’s maddening scream when she looked down and caught sight of the wheel.
Friday, September 16, 2016
Dwell
Dwell as near as possible to the channel in which your life flows. ~ Henry Thoreau
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| nonviolenceunited.org |
Wednesday, September 07, 2016
Almond & Chocolate Biscotti
Nothing beats a good almond and chocolate biscotti. An explosion of almonds, a daft drizzle of chocolate - all you need is a cup of good coffee for dunking and your day is made. Make some today, you won't regret it! Here's the recipe.
Friday, August 19, 2016
Bebe in the Making
Random pictures condensed into a 6 min video of our life pre and post bebe. Enjoy!
Wednesday, November 04, 2015
Move Within
By Rumi
Keep walking, though there's no place to get to.
Don't try to see through the distances.
That's not for human beings. Move within,
but don't move the way fear makes you move.
Keep walking, though there's no place to get to.
Don't try to see through the distances.
That's not for human beings. Move within,
but don't move the way fear makes you move.
Thursday, August 20, 2015
Reinvent
What to do with overproofed, yeasty, ethanoly dough? Don't throw it out, as I was about to. Solution: make flatbreads and pizzas.
Surprisingly, I hardly tasted the pungent yeast. With some garlicky hummus, no one will ever notice.
Surprisingly, I hardly tasted the pungent yeast. With some garlicky hummus, no one will ever notice.
Finally, used the frozen leftover raclette cheese that was in the freezer for over a year! Here's a healthier (not really?!), vegged up version of a tartiflette.
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
Buns!
Craving chinese milk bread, aka hokkaido bread aka pain brioche, I made my homemade "lactation" version adding a generous amount of flax seed and brewer's yeast. So delicious #crackbread!
My sun
Two months later and I'm finally posting our beautiful news. Born on June 19th, (20.5 inches / 7lbs 12oz) at the UCSF Benioff Hospital in San Francisco, he has toes and feet so soft like his papa, little hairy ears I can't stop touching, a mini mohawk any san franciscan hipster would be proud of, cute hiccups I know too well from early mornings when he was in my belly and plump cheeks of apples, I want to kiss all day!
Meet Luca Xan Brehaut.
Luca has an Italian name because 11 months ago we were in Venice where everywhere I turned, there were creatures mating (cats, pigeons, horses - was the universe conspiring!?) His middle name is Xan (pronounced “Zan”) after my maternal grandfather. A yogi and healer, grandpa Xan loved animals. Legend as it that one day in the market, grandpa saw a large turtle chained at the neck. He took it home, healed it with special herbs and released it into the Phnom Penh river.
Already smiling and cooing, Luca's droolie kisses are the best part of my day.
Meet Luca Xan Brehaut.
Luca has an Italian name because 11 months ago we were in Venice where everywhere I turned, there were creatures mating (cats, pigeons, horses - was the universe conspiring!?) His middle name is Xan (pronounced “Zan”) after my maternal grandfather. A yogi and healer, grandpa Xan loved animals. Legend as it that one day in the market, grandpa saw a large turtle chained at the neck. He took it home, healed it with special herbs and released it into the Phnom Penh river.
Already smiling and cooing, Luca's droolie kisses are the best part of my day.
Saturday, February 14, 2015
Power
by Adrienne Rich
Living in the earth-deposits of our history
Today a backhoe divulged out of a crumbling flank of earth
one bottle amber perfect a hundred-year-old
cure for fever or melancholy a tonic
for living on this earth in the winters of this climate
Today I was reading about Marie Curie:
she must have known she suffered from radiation sickness
her body bombarded for years by the element
she had purified
It seems she denied to the end
the source of the cataracts on her eyes
the cracked and suppurating skin of her finger-ends
till she could no longer hold a test-tube or a pencil
She died a famous woman denying
her wounds
denying
her wounds came from the same source as her power
Living in the earth-deposits of our history
Today a backhoe divulged out of a crumbling flank of earth
one bottle amber perfect a hundred-year-old
cure for fever or melancholy a tonic
for living on this earth in the winters of this climate
Today I was reading about Marie Curie:
she must have known she suffered from radiation sickness
her body bombarded for years by the element
she had purified
It seems she denied to the end
the source of the cataracts on her eyes
the cracked and suppurating skin of her finger-ends
till she could no longer hold a test-tube or a pencil
She died a famous woman denying
her wounds
denying
her wounds came from the same source as her power
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond...
by e.e. cummings
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
Thursday, April 10, 2014
Friday, February 14, 2014
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