Moonshine Junkyard

she only wore white around the rancho, because it kept her cool, she said, in all that central valley stagnant dry heat. but the truth was, it reminded her of home, of her family in their soft clean lace and silk, flowing, pure, fresh. she knew she romanticized home, but one minute detail, the smell of honey or jasmine on a windless morning, could take her back. back to the hidden turquoise pools and her older sisters' laughter as they tossed mangoes from the treetops, how the fruit would bounce on the earth and sometimes split, and Matilde would run pick up the sticky chunks, red juice dripping off their fingers, licking her fingers like a little monkey to the sounds of her sisters giggles and secrets. she had been fixteen years old when she first saw walter. she was dazzled by the angle of his tall frame, the foreign sounds that jumped stacatto from his tongue, and his suits so bright the sun bounced off his chest. he came to talk to her father, el General , choosing men from the

matilde looked around as the dust settled, moscas and ants, skittering up the gravelled road, beyond the wooden sign and the well and the oak tree, following that car as it sputtered out of sight. Her oldest son, proud and strong and handsome. Too handsome, she thought worriedly, thinking of his espejo, the way he peered into it for too long, reflection of his father's tall grace. walter walking on the farm with the younger boys; matilde alone in the white house, shading her eyes, crying again, for her sister, for her sons, for the old songs and dances of home. she cooked a pot of rice and slices of fried pork for dinner. the boys came running when she called them: i must remember, i am blessed. but this is a small world, these are narrow roads and slow cars and horses and fields. there, san francisco, money and expenses and big wide roads and women and trolleys. the dangers her son faced, he who had held his baby brother high in the air and looked at her proudly, saying "mama

california: secret roads lined by eucalyptus take you out to lagunitas. there are wineries and pear orchards and pumpkin patches, hayrides, mount tamalpais, sea lions. north of the golden gate, the climate is almost mediterranean: apple trees grow out of sandy soil, firm and tart fruit, blossoming trees with petals floating on coastal breezes in march and april. champagne is made here, and up north marijuana grows in fields cultivated with care and precision, and all the world is green. escondido: where i was born--hidden, the word means. what is hidden here? spanish treasure, hidden in the green valley between the desert and the sea. or is this place itself hidden, tucked in, like kissing an infant good-night, among avocado groves, peacocks, pomegranites, plums. chicken feathers and dirt roads, a mysterious house that burnt down to its spindly frame, hospital, down the hill, loose and free, out to the mall, the cinema, the sea. or older, the people that made jewelry from shells and bo

here i have a blog of my very own...my own tiny corner of the mysterious and indecipherable cyberworld.