Trujillo

Pink centimeters of corn

the kinds that are too tough

you chose them in the market

Parakeet hanging up beside the linen

laundry line, low hanging electricity

My feet often burn when I sleep

Corn, feed the grey pieces to the parakeet

Pull a linen drape across her cage

Is it a pity that she does not speak?

The market: it is a cool day

for you to walk cane-less

one heel thicker than the other

You ask me to steady you

as we climb the ruin

you excavated as a child

before they brought electricity

washing machines

Take two rocks between your fingers

bend with your strong knee

to touch my burning feet

Kernels of corn -- I know you

Pull back the drapes

parakeet, one heel thick

Atlantic Letter, Third Draft

From this knee-deep tide, between the sand

and the tongue of the Atlantic sea,

the white of sails is reflected in the waves.

The fathers of our fathers stand

beneath the cosmic map, a western wind.

The leaves here are new,

though for many millennia they have grown

in the Old World; seeds caught between the heels

of knights crossing the desert of what is now

pronounced Lebanon.

Love is a strange thing.

When in the morning I drove to these low tides

I wanted to believe that I had forgotten

the hollowness in the center of your back.

We cannot choose the parts of the body we will forget.

The moon wants to forget that in one thousand years

she will break, scatter through the darkness

touching the arms and legs of her earth.

Dream Mappers

For your reading pleasure, a writing exercise. This morning I had a horrible case of writer's block. After what seemed like hours of nothingness, I did what I am sure my mother would have recommended I do-- I applied some essential oils to my wrists and the back of my neck. Then I laid in bed for approximately 45 minutes and just tried to clear my mind. Just before I got up, I was thinking the mantra, "as a writer, it is my job to build a bridge between the logic of the world and the logic of dreams." Where did that line come from? I do not know, but it was very helpful in getting this writing exercise done.

“When I’m dreaming, certain things make a kind of logical sense—but as soon as I wake up, the whole dream-structure of logic just collapses, it falls apart.”

“Yes, yes, that is very common.”

“A long time ago, I decided to give up trying to ‘understand’ my dreams. The whole business is just too frustrating for a rational thinker like me.”

“Many of our clients describe themselves as rational thinkers, Mr. Walker. Seeking to understand a dream is a rational pursuit; rational people seek to understand each aspect of their lives. And here at Dream Mappers we help our clients build a bridge between the worlds of sleep and wakefulness.”

Miss Sonari (at least, that was how she had identified herself over the phone) spoke in a quiet voice that at once calmed and unsettled Donovan Walker. Donovan imagined her sitting cross-legged in a dark, candle-lit room in the Midwest, perhaps surrounded by tarot cards and small trays of incense. He knew that in reality, she was probably sitting at a desk, reading from a Dream Mappers call center script while assessing how much she could charge him for an initial consultation.

The phrase, rational people seek to understand each aspect of their lives—the phrase was so good, it must have been canned. Yet, Donovan could not help turning it over in his mind—when he dismissed dreams as not worth understanding, had he dismissed along with that an entire sphere of undiscovered logic?

“In wakefulness,” Miss Sonari continued, “we are instructed on how to behave, speak, think. Are you an educated man, Mr. Walker?”

“Yes, I hold a master’s degree in engineering,” Donovan paused, and then continued, “I read often, books, newspapers, blogs. I have traveled to many places in the world. I do consider myself to be educated in the many ways one might come to be educated.”

“When you travel, do you travel alone?”

An odd question, Donovan thought. He could not anticipate where Miss Sonari was going with her questions, so, intrigued, he answered, “When I was in college, I used to travel with my friends—sometimes there were five or ten of us. But lately, I have preferred to travel alone. And I prefer to travel to places off the beaten track—the towns that are not accessible by railroad, the ruins that have not yet been restored. Why do you ask?”

“When Columbus discovered the Americas, he was with a crew of men. It was also known that thousands of native people already occupied the Americas, meaning, Columbus did not so much ‘discover’ the Americas, as he was among one of the first Europeans to disembark on her shores. Still, we love to imagine that one man single-handedly discovered two continents over eighty times the size of Spain.”

As Miss Sonari talked about Columbus, the strange aura that had cloaked her voice lifted. Donovan wondered if she worked at Dream Mappers part-time and studied history at the local state college part-time. He wanted to ask her, but she still had not made her point, so he tabled the question and waited for her to continue.

“We revere the lone hero. We have been trained to revere the lone hero. So it makes sense that you have developed a taste for traveling alone and for exploring the supposedly unexplored. Society has made you this way—has made us this way.”

“So, what you’re trying to tell me, Miss Sonari, is that my sensibilities, beliefs, values are nothing more than societal constructs?” Donovan had read his Nietzsche, his Foucault, his philosopher-of-doom just like the next college-aged disciple of truth, and he was getting impatient with Miss Sonari. Now he was sure that she was nothing more than a college student piecing together lines from a script with tidbits she had picked up from her professors. “Look, this isn’t anything I haven’t heard before. I was mistaken when I called Dream Mappers, and I am sorry for wasting your time.”

Donovan was about to hang up the phone, but being a generally polite man, he waited for Miss Sonari to say goodbye. Instead, what followed was a thirty-second period of silence, and then, “are you still on the line, Mr. Walker?”

“Yes,” Donovan responded reluctantly. He suddenly felt foolish for waiting for her to say goodbye. She was not a relative or business associate, not even an acquaintance; she was more like an automated operator than a human at this point, and he probably should have just ended the call.

“You are a rational man, Mr. Walker, but you have been recently troubled by a recurring dream. It is a dream so disturbing to you that after dismissing the logic of dreams for so many years, you have decided to call us here at Dream Mappers today, at 5:30 in the morning, for help deciphering your dream.”

Miss Sonari’s voice again became calm and quiet. The way she spoke, it wasn’t something you found in a call center script. “Please forgive me if I came off as pretentious earlier, Mr. Walker. What I wanted to tell you was that society trains us to interpret symbols in one way, but dreams, dreams are private, and teach us all our own individual brand of logic.”

Donovan lit up the screen of his digital alarm clock. It was now 5:53 AM, approximately thirty minutes until sunrise. “I have been having a recurring dream,” he said. Scenes from the dream began to flash in his mind, and he recalled how he suddenly woke up at 4:33 in the morning, on the ground beside his bed, with one arm fully extended under the bed, as if trying to grab hold of something just out of reach.

Miss Sonari was silent, and something about her silence struck Donovan as genuine. “Let me tell you about it.”

A bird flies over the Grand Canyon, a national park as dream inspiring as any. 

2013 Update

I've gotten the question "do you have a blog?" quite a few times in the last couple of months. The answer is, of course, yes I do have a blog. This is my blog. And it is woefully out of date.

I say woeful not just because it's been three months since my last entry, but also because a lot has changed in those last few months. Here is a quick list of what's up with the Victoria of 2013:

-- She has finally gotten really into creative writing again. Studying fiction, poetry, and doing a lot of non-fiction work this quarter. Writing is really the best.

-- She almost went vegetarian, but failed after her first grocery trip. Maybe in 2014?

-- She moved to a new house in East Palo Alto (and has amazing roommates, which makes it the best).

Here are a few things that have not changed:

-- She still procrastinates more than she should (exhibit A: writing this when she should be reading for class).

-- Her hair is still the same length. Had it trimmed over winter break and it has already grown back.

-- Same music tastes. Arcade Fire will forever be my teenage/twentyage favorite.

-- Same wardrobe. Donations always welcome.

-- Favorite book is still A River Sutra. Let me know if you'd like to borrow a copy, but be forewarned that you may not like it.

Happy New Year to all. Expect more photos, stories, and poems later. 

Here's a favorite from the Hawaii Museum of Art. Left hands are mischievous. Even decay thinks so. 

Sunday adventure, 3.18.12

Last Sunday (on the eve of finals week), Lauren, Jared, and I decided to go on a walk around Stanford. It had been grey and windy for much of the day, but that didn't stop these intrepid explorers from braving the elements of gloom and wandering out into the great unknown around Cantor Arts Center.

We all wore black coats.

First stop: Mausoleum. It's a widely known fact that there are two sets of sphinxes at the Mausoleum-- a crude, "heathen" set in the back, and much more sophisticated set in the front. Both are terrifying in their own ways.

Second stop: The Cactus Garden! Years ago, a friend and I decided it might be a good idea to pick cactus fruit from the garden. Turns out, that's a sure way to get cactus needles on your hands, arms, and whatever other parts of your body or clothing come in contact with the cactus. This time, Jared located a discarded piece of cactus fruit on the ground which we all bravely tried: tasted like cucumber.

Third stop: The back of Cantor, which had a lot of fences around it. Some were toppled over, so we couldn't really tell if it was off limits or not. Jared was once kicked off the roof of a Hogi Yogi when trying to report a crime, and it didn't go on his permanent record, so we decided we weren't too concerned about whether or not we were breaking any trespassing laws. All we found, however, were stairs that led to a locked door and more modern art. Oh, and more fences.

Fourth stop: Stone River by Andy Goldsworthy. Built from Stanford buildings destroyed in the 1906 and 1989 earthquakes, it's a cross between ancient civilization and the Great Wall of China. Jared made a decent attempt to walk across it (he made it probably 10 or so feet?) Lauren made it about 2 feet. And, constrained by my bulky boots, I just stood back and cheered (pressured) them on. Unfortunately, some of the stones are loose, so it's probably a very bad idea to attempt walking the 320 feet.

Fifth stop: My apartment: where we realized that one of Lauren's fingers was frostbitten (well, just very, very white), where we had tea in odd cups (i.e. a jar that once held peaches), where I accidentally ruined my tea by adding 3 teaspoons too many of sugar, where we watched Lana del Rey music videos, and where we congratulated each other on making it back alive.

I befriend a sphinx at the Mausoleum (who refused to look at the camera)

Jrd & Lrn "pose naturally" at the Cactus Garden

Caught in a labyrinth of modern art and shelter

Wondering if this piece of modern art is climb-able (it wasn't)

Ruins of a recent civilization: we had to google the location of this one in the cold

Meeting America

This morning I went to LACMA (the LA County Museum of Art). Out of all the wonderful and deeply beautiful exhibits there, the one that has stuck with me the most was “Glenn Ligon: AMERICA.” The Picassos, I walked past taking completely for granted. The Peruvian art, I thought would resonate with me, but once you’ve been to the ruins in Cusco, a mere handful of artifacts can’t compare. I did not like the Pacific Island art exhibit, and felt largely neutral towards the California design exhibit. I loved the permanent collection of Islamic Art. But why, why has the Glenn Ligon stuck with me? The first piece of his that caught my eye was a pink mural: “SWEETHEART To dream that your sweetheart whispers funny things in your ears is a sign of Joy” is stenciled on the mural in red. Below: “417” and at the bottom: “To see him walking or flirting with someone else denotes a misunderstanding.” I took a picture of the picture and e-mailed it to a friend of mine, who had recently e-mailed me about a series of dreams she had had. I later discovered the excerpt on his mural, along with excerpts from other pieces in this dream series, came from an obscure African American guide to dream interpretation. These dream murals were placed at the entrance of the Ligon exhibit and therefore, were my point of exposure to the world of Glenn Ligon. What I came across next, was a wall lined with three tall murals (I’d guess, six feet?)—each black, furiously covered in black stenciled writing. I stood in front of the murals and I read the words: “I remember the very day I became colored,” “I do not always feel colored,” and “I feel most colored when I am thrown against a sharp white background.” I read the words over and over again, as they were repeated dozens of times, running from the top of the mural to the very bottom. I read the same refrain, summoning every ounce of my English major-ness to the forefront of my mind, trying to extract every bit of meaning and moment the piece had to offer. Later, I sat in the dimness of flickering “AMERICA” neon reliefs and tried to figure out how many words I could make from the seven letters in America. I'm not sure if this was what Glenn Ligon intended, but from the lights I pulled many, many words, among them: air, rice, crime, rice.

bejarista?

I had originally wanted to name my blog "ista"-- something about that ending fascinates me. In my mind's eye, I envision femininity and boots (and maybe some kind of red and yellow flag...) Unfortunately, "ista" is owned by one, Konrad. He made the blog in 2000, and since then only has posted one post: "first day out of the sphere looking over the bridge to asia." With an intro like that, we can only imagine what happened next.

I've heard that other members of my extended family occasionally go by "Bejar" (short for their last name, my middle name-- Bejarano). So, I thought, why not add some "ista" to my name?

If you are familiar with my poetry blog, you know that it was not much of a hobby, and more of an after-afterthought. I can't say I hope this blog will be different. But I do know it is easier to speak than it is to write.