08.20.08/09.07.08

08.20.08

I am hungry for home
For walking outside the front door
And seeing a familiar face
Hearing church bells toll the hours,
Announcing the solidity of time

I am hungry for my knees to see daylight
For wandering through market foods
And knowing how to pay for lettuce
And being unafraid to eat it

I am hungry for grass
For Ella rolling around int it, wild
Seeing dogs on leashes
Walking on actual sidewalks

I am hungry for sunny-side-up eggs
For cream in my Square One coffee,
A horse clip-clopping by as I sip it
The gentle scent of wind blowing through the windows

09.07.08

It is so strange to be living here. Nothing feels real. Or maybe everything is so real I don't recognize it. It is hard to swallow, hard to believe I see these things outside my window, that I step over these things with my American feet.

I feel so incredibly white.

How do I get used to being a minority? How do I behave, when I'm encroaching on someone else's very ancient territory? I feel so invasive, so rude, just by being here. What right do I have to take up space, create waste here?

There is no such thing as hiding here, no such thing as going by unnoticed.

Men bare voices, authority. Women bare their souls, their nursing breasts. Goats and chickens bare their guts. Children bare their naked bottoms. And everyone bares their spirituality. So much to see, hear, feel, sense. It bombards, surrounds, flies into my eyes like the dust from the unpaved roads. It is so present, so intense, and so real that I find it unreal.

Nevertheless, here it is, unapologetic, asking to be noticed.