They twitch–erratic, like wildfire–throughout sleep.
Perhaps the first sign along life’s barefoot and beaten path, no?
And you, the fool who thought yourself immune to the genetic tug of grandmothers…

What were you thinking?

Still, we don’t know for sure, some little voice of doubt and denial still mutters–foolishly hopeful as always.
Maybe the blood’s got some other story to tell…


Esther appeared in your dreams–matriarchal and earnest as always–sometime just before the stone was etched and wedged in place. Sitting in a circular scaffolding, precarious yet airy, surrounded by what you were sure were hundreds of other branch-roots–all preparing for a lively feast. Sitting and calling to you. You tried to make your way up to her, to find out what she was trying to say to you, climbing on legs of sheer faith against that familiar fear of falling. What did she want to say to you?


They twitch–erratic, like branchfires–throughout life.
You weren’t always paying attention, and when you were, it was easier to say just be more brave and fortune will favor you than it was to suck it up and take the advice you’ve often given your pop. What does the doc say?

They twitch–erratic, like signal flares–for a reason, don’t they? Fracking weirtoes! (I want to dig you in the beach again like a brave fortunate fool.)




Seeking the Bread of Life

Day 7, er, what would have been day 7 on the cleanse had yesterday evening not been a series of daydreams about bread.

I had a lot of life experience to draw from for this fanstasy, having been a teenage barista for two amazing Jewish bakers long ago (how I miss the smell of challah in the morning!), as well as having a quite recent (and quite brief) apprenticeship of sorts as an assistant to an incredibly talented baker at Hoppe’s Old Cayucos Bakery.

All night long I salivated over the memories of the scent of fresh baked bread, which of course drifts me into a recurring dream about my grandmother and an altogether different ready-to-eat aroma–tortillas.

From there, it’s a quick leap to peanut butter, the filling of choice for this latina huera.

I knew I had tired of the taste of lemonade, and that I needed to mentally prepare myself to slowly reintroduce foods again rather than lose all conviction and eat something stupid (like bologna). I started this afternoon with a cup of vegetable broth and a handful of crackers. I am surprisingly full, but I’m still fantasizing about bread and tortillas.

Last night, I dreamed my grandparents took me into their pantry, where it used to be–out in the garage across from grandpa’s tools, the air always musty and ominous. It was just like old times. My grandmother always asking me what was I writing about today, giving me 3 bottles of vitamins, some tea tree oil soap and kissing me so dramatically it squeaked like an angry fart. I retrieved the standard fare (as I did every visit), an assortment of canned soups, fruits and vegetables, and a case of ramen.

Oh, how I miss them, especially the smell of grandma’s tortillas and the sounds of all those hilariously loving kisses.