Throwing ChanclasWatching
I watch the site
Incessantly.
Cases: 64,675.
Deaths: 910.
Bookmarked on my laptop.
My editor called:
First our hours were cut
Then final time cards due
Third for unemployment instructions.
It’s late afternoon. Refresh.
Cases: 65,564
Deaths: 929.
I try to do
Something.
To not waste a moment
Of this weird freedom
To be home
Without end.
I checked for symptoms.
It’s before bedtime. Refresh.
Cases: 68,568
Deaths: 1,035
I try to read
I try to write
I try to remember who
We were before this.
literarykitchen.net
Up at http://www.literarykitchen.net you’ll find the anthology that I and the other writerchicks I know have always wanted to see: places like home –an anthology of stories that saw their first sparkle of light in the writing prompts Ariel Gore gave us in her online writing courses we’ve taken over the years. Check it out. A chapter of the novel I’m working on is in here! Yay!
On New Year’s Day I got an email saying a poem I’d recently written would be up on HipMama Zine. Yay! I’ve been working on longer term projects all year so I’ve published a good deal less and nearly neglected my blog altogether. But The Husband follows my blog (has been since before he became The Husband) and suggested that I might consider going back to it more often and work on blog posts or poems I wasn’t going to put other places. Like a zine without the folding and the papercuts. So in that spirit, I give you my second day of 2020.
After a long day of driving I ended up here: https://www.hotelmissiondeoro.com/
Often when I drive from LA back to Plumas County I can’t make it in one go anymore. So I wind up stopping in Santa Nella. I never thought to even look at Hotel Mission de Oro as I assumed I was priced out, but hello Expedia and the fact that motels around there have uncomfortable beds and a price range that’s really only a $25 difference, I gave it a try.
LOVED IT.
It’s like hotels are supposed to be run. Also I have a thing for lamps.
I am a complete sucker for the whole tile thing. What’s more with the new house which hasn’t had an upgrade ever I am checking out everyone’s bathrooms all the time. #middleagednewlywed
So yeah, I liked the room.
I traveled with teenagers. I repeat TEENAGERS and as the mother of them –I knew immediately I needed to do two things this morning before heading back on the road for 5 hours.
That’s the brioche French toast & coffee at The Kitchen. Unlike the free breakfasts at nearby motels. This set me back a few dollars but it was quiet and peaceful and I could wait for food without listening to Fox News (no TV in this dining room).
I even got the chance to write:
It started my year off right , I think.
I will definitely be back. Because all of us agreed they were the best beds on the road.
This poem of mine came out in HipMama Zine today! Such a cool way to start a new year with a poem published on the first day. Many thanks to Ariel Gore for that.
http://hipmamazine.com/margaret-elysia-garcia-on-the-eve-of-fifteenth/
Two days in
And they give her
A nickname
Two syllables instead
Of three—
Her given name too full
Of beauty, of vowel, of nuance.
High school begins.
Fresh start.
The time we throw on new identities
The time we suppress the old.
I’m not allowed hugs
What makes me think I can have names?
Two syllables–
A name I didn’t chose for her
Something short, ugly
More American. Joking. Fun.
They don’t mean nothing by it.
Easy to remember:
Like knowing one’s place.
I have to be silent on this one.
It’s not my battle.
I spent a lot of time on that name,
Nine months as she turned
And kicked and got ready to be born.
I am reminded of crossings
When one of her grandfathers crossed over
having his Mayan name chopped in half
to make it easier on everyone
but the one erased.
I’m from the land of no apologies
of no forgiveness
of something you did when you were seven being held against you
from set bed times and daily chores:
that one load of laundry, empty the trash, sweep the floor
nothing in the sink; nothing on the floor perfection
A family of Latinas who call each other deep die cut names
imprinted and wrong on our light and dark skin equally
white girl. brown girl. both.
I’m from households without tv or Spanish
with loud Mexican music on a Saturday morning
to accompany cleaning
playing on an exquisite stereo
I’m from you don’t retire
you work until you die
from you aren’t supposed to have bills; pay cash
i’m from trust no one
i’m from generosity doesn’t call attention to itself
pristine vehicles and manicured lawns
because no one is going to call us out
i’m letter writing
taking it to the streets
making sure the powers that be
change their minds
whether they want to or not
I am dark lipstick
and hoop earrings
of never going outside in sweatpants
I’m on the altar of Our Lady of Guadalupe
and she watches over us all
standing up to the darkness
blue robed; gold starred
a force field of prayers
both answered and still asking for more
(with apologies to George Ella Lyon’s I’m From)
bringing relevant theatre to Plumas County
FOR DISCERNING READERS
A selfish poet
Empowering women writers to submit their work for publication
Sharp | Singular | Stories
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