bowl of cherries

cherries

dark and sweet
as your kiss
the one I want and cannot have

but right now
I have this taste of summer
on my tongue
feet bare
in front of this kitchen sink
spitting seeds as the sun slants
liquid-slick and ephemeral
as the bitter finish on my tongue
so pink and so lonely
for the company of yours

cherries in summer
(just like you)
always leave me wanting more
slightly dissatisfied
but also grateful
for the sweetness they bring

a skirt and a bra, honey
and I’ve got a mouth full of summer
so melancholy for the memory
of this moment
before it is even gone

 

–Charla M. DelaCuadra
Photo via WolfBlur

On goals…

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Me and my scuffed sneakers on a gorgeous tile floor — Barcelona, Spain.

A chat with a friend last month got me thinking long and hard about goals.  Goals — those things we had all throughout our growing-up years, shimmering ahead to work towards, keeping us moving ever-forward.  A week or so prior to our talk, I realized that hovering here in my mid-thirties, goals are conspicuously absent.  I mean, I have the vague desire to travel as much as possible, to succeed at work, to surround myself with people I love and trust… but those big goals I had outlining my paths over the last three+ decades?  Conspicuously.  Absent.

This worried me.  My school years were full of both immediate and longer-term goals.  Learn to ride my bike.  Get straight A’s.  Become section leader in band.  Pass that year’s Advanced Placement exams.  Get into a good college.  Graduate with honors.  Get into a good grad school.  Get an advanced degree.  Get married after getting my degree.  Find a job.  Find a job in my field.  Find a full-time job in my field that would allow me to do the very adult thing of saving for retirement.  The realization that I didn’t have an immediate goal hovering out there… bothered me.  I wondered if I had gotten less ambitious.  If perhaps I was less driven than I had been.  That possibility rattled me as much as the lack of a goal, to be honest.  Being smart and driven were things I felt were part of my identity.  If I wasn’t, then what was I?

(To be clear, I do have some “goals” in the back of my mind, but they are the kind that are on autopilot.  Pay off my student loans in X number of years.  Keep saving for retirement, that pie-in-the-sky happening that may not ever materialize for my generation.)

As my friend and I chatted, she reminded me of the plethora of things I am doing right now that I should be proud of, and I am so immensely grateful for her reminders.  It helped me find a little perspective, but it also made me wonder: are we focusing so hard on setting goals that we are missing the joys of those we have successfully achieved?  To be honest, I am not sure I ever have stopped to enjoy mine.  What a sobering realization.

This past weekend I had very little desire to do much of anything.  I felt guilty napping the hours away, but a small part of me did realize that there is a season for everything, and there is an ebb and flow to life.  We need idle times to give productive ones their verve and satisfaction, just like we need seasons of striving and seasons of reaping what we’ve sown.  That seems to be my big lesson recently in terms of goals: that I can be a person rather than a perpetual motion machine, and that I can (and should!) enjoy the fruits of my labors from time to time.  Otherwise, what is the point?

Fates, Furies, and Florida

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A couple weeks ago I had the immense pleasure of attending a book talk by none other than the amazing Lauren Groff.  She was at Vroman’s in Pasadena promoting her new book Florida with grace, poise, and temporary tattoos (!) for all of us in attendance.  As a huge fan of both Fates and Furies and Arcadia, it was a delight to hear her speak about reading, writing, politics, and a love/hate relationship with Guy de Maupassant.

Groff treated us first to a reading from the first story in Florida, “Ghosts and Empties,” followed by a refreshingly direct Q&A session.  When asked about a writer’s responsibility and political engagement, for example, Groff deftly explained how she abandoned a recently finished draft just after the 2016 U.S. elections — that it was a kind of book we could no longer afford to indulge in.  She does not write overtly politically, but rather tries to work sideways to get to the things that really matter right now.  She finds she is writing less and throwing more away, as I am, so I found immense comfort in her assurances that it is okay to admit we are struggling as writers in the current environment.  I was likewise pleased by her encouragement to spread empathy and be kind to each other.

Groff’s writing shows great consideration for words, so I was intrigued but not surprised by her ability with languages.  She spent time in France as a teenager where she discovered and loved the work of Guy de Maupassant, that master of the short story form, before beginning to hate him as an avatar of toxic masculinity.  To this day she tries to read in French at least once a week, and admits that French has deeply affected her English.  She self-deprecatingly says she is terrible at writing in French, although she she’d love to do so.  Or Italian.  Or German.  (I find written German to be deeply satisfying from a grammatical perspective because I am such a nerd, so I can relate.)

An anecdote about reading to her son, and how it created a special bond between them, really resonated with me.  It is amazing how reading together gives you the same points of reference.  You share and can understand each others’ canon.  It crystallized for me how much I enjoy reading the same books as a close friend, or watching a show with someone dear.  It enhances your ability to speak each others’ language.

As far as her new work, Florida is where she calls home, so the stories she weaves in this collection are steeped in a sense of place all the more authentically.  The women she writes about are her but not her.  And while she lives with her novels every day, her short stories orbit in the back of her mind until they demand to be written.  Personally, I can’t wait to see what comes out of her orbit.

Thank you, Lauren Groff!

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Cravings

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San Francisco, 2018

 

Empty.

 

Yearning.

 

She craves the raspy-nothing of sandpaper

to free her from

 

skin.

 

To open her to the light flash whiteness of wider, more infinite

skies

plains

roads

heavens

twilight

living

being.

 

Sun to bleach her bones.

 

Cravings unsated, raw.

Itching for release

 

and

 

redemption.

–Charla M. DelaCuadra

 

 

“…than all the blue in the world.”

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Female nude, Pablo Picasso

“238. I want you to know, if you ever read this, there was a time when I would rather have had you by my side than any one of these words; I would rather have had you by my side than all the blue in the world.

239. But now you are talking as if love were a consolation. Simone Weil warned otherwise. ‘Love is not consolation,’ she wrote. ‘It is light.’

240. All right then, let me try to rephrase. When I was alive, I aimed to be a student not of longing but of light.”

― Maggie Nelson, Bluets

 

It is difficult, but I am trying to be a student of light.  I find I get caught up in longings, in the ways I wish things could be different.  It is a challenge to be content in the present moment, but I am working at it — every day.

Travel-minded

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Pont Saint-Michel, Paris

Perhaps travel cannot prevent bigotry, but by demonstrating that all peoples cry, laugh, eat, worry, and die, it can introduce the idea that if we try and understand each other, we may even become friends.”

–Maya Angelou

 

I’ve got an intense case of wanderlust.  Photos of faraway places have me itching to plan a trip somewhere — Portugal, Cambodia, Seattle, Uruguay, Kenya, Vancouver!  Somewhere new I can discover!  I also got to see a few people that are very dear to me this week, leaving me with a deep appreciation for some of my closest friends.  Somehow my general concern for the state of the world combined with my feelings this week are encompassed in this wise quote by Maya Angelou.  Happy Friday, friends!

ponderings

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What is the nature of wanting?

Of contentment?

How can those slippery not-quite things

be found?

be sated?

be kept?

be held on to?

–Charla M. DelaCuadra

 

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about disquiet, and about contentment and happiness.  As we step forward into the week, here is a poem I wrote some time ago, compact in size but broad in scope.  Some thoughts to ponder.