A summer siesta

Courtesy of Casa de Queso.

I'm needing time to

think
write
read
discover
prepare
settle.

The Slow-Cooked Sentence will be on hiatus while I build a new life for myself and my family in Seattle.

A lesson with fire or how words ignite

Courtesy of Daniel Y. Go.

I've kissed one Indian in my life, a bartender named Ray who served me shots of tequila and pitchers of cheap beer when I was a younger, single and (often foolishly drunk) woman living in Idaho.

One night Ray ended up at my apartment, which was a stumble up the hill from a favorite bar. Did we walk there together? Did he show up at my door? All I remember is us in my living room, me sitting on top of the furnace, him standing between my thighs, and his brown face and black hair smelling of alcohol and cigarette smoke.

I wanted his kiss to crackle like a forest fire: pine trees bursting into hot, bright torches, while the forest floor's carpet of dry needles smoked. Instead of burning ember, my lips touched powdery ash and I pushed him away, tired, annoyed that he was there, that he was keeping me awake when my boyfriend would be calling soon. My boyfriend, a penniless intern, and I had an agreement: He'd call collect, I'd refuse the charge, and then call the payphone back so we could talk for an hour or more on my dime. What we never talked about were the flames I stoked.

It was my dance, first with fidelity, then freedom, that sprang to mind when I read a poem from Sherman Alexie's newest book. "War Dances" is an excellent collection of short stories and poems that refract on the stories' themes of race, religion, sexuality and family, and it won the PEN/Faulkner Award this spring. But with this poem my memory shifted like a kaleidoscope and the pieces rearranged themselves and seared me. Here's an excerpt:

... I was working the night

Shift at a pizza joint and you were away at college. You dated a series of inconsequential boys. Well, each boy meant little on his

Own, but their cumulative effect devastated my brain and balls. I wanted you to stop kissing relative strangers, so I called you at midnight as often as I could afford. If I talked to you that late, I knew

(Or hoped) you couldn't rush into anybody's bed. But, O, I still recall the misery of hearing the ring, ring, ring, ring

Of your unanswered phone. These days, I'd text you to find you, but where's the delicious pain

In that? ...

Diving into traffic

Seattle street sign, 1956. Courtesy of Seattle Municipal Archives.

I aimed the nose of my minivan in the general direction of Green Lake, which promised respite from the record heat, but my optimism at navigating Seattle's rush hour traffic and finding this shimmering lake evaporated when I swung onto Aurora Avenue. Instead of seeing cool water and shaded paths, I was squeezed between bumpers and inching closer to the Space Needle.

This was the wrong view.

So I did the next thing that came to mind, I made a sharp right into a row of apartments, opened a map and turned on the GPS unit. Seattle should be a simple city to learn; most streets are governed by the compass, running either north-south or east-west. It's an hourglass, its middle cinched by a ship canal connecting Elliott Bay to Lake Washington. It's a city of rolling hills, speckled by lakes and ringed by tall mountains. But as I scanned the map for a street close to Green Lake, a conversation outside my window caught my attention.

"When she threatened to stab you, was she holding a knife?"

"Yes, but not today."

I looked up.

There was a cop. There was a man

And then there was me and my four kids in a minivan, just a knife's throw away.

I punched in the first street I could find, hit "GO!" on the GPS screen and sped off.

The kids flung questions as I followed the directions on the mini computer screen.

"I didn't really understand what was going on Mom."

Turn right.

"Someone wanted to stab that man."

Then slip under Aurora Avenue. Turn left.

"But why?"

Turn right.

"I don't know."

Turn right, again.

Then right, again.

"Something's wrong with the GPS, Mom. We're driving in a circle."

We laughed. Apparently, the street I typed in was a small stretch of road linking longer streets. We looked around, saw signs pointing the way to Green Lake and our nerve-jangling trip came to a safe end.

Divers at Green Lake, 1936. Courtesy of Seattle Municipal Archives.

The water cooled us, the shade soothed us, and (bonus!) there was a diving board. But no one tried a jack knife.