sloshed. avocado, pecan, curried yam, lime, fig, dollops of greenapple, never has channukah been so well coordinated. we shelled chestnuts, little cat-brains, my mother called them. so much wine, a special rare bottle for every dish. everyone got sauced. i tended the fire, served, showed films, demonstrated with the camera, kept busy. otherwise i would have been sitting there wondering why no one ever asked me about my life, and realizing how little of it i would be able to tell. difficult to hold back when everyone else is merry and defenses are down. but also difficult to keep my opinions (which others find offensive) to myself.

the little explosions.

my "family," this extended family and one of adopted children, includes christians, southern black jews, koreans, el salvadorans, professors, cooks, dieters, social workers who have phds in shakespeare, retirees, librarians, and cocktail waitresses. then there's me. an outsider among the outsiders. i am accepted as long as i behave and stay in place.

now my clothes are spinning, i have imported the digitals, and am downloading and trying not to flirt with one who is far away, who might be a new friend. i love strangers.

see, even the wine doesn't work. i am up and perturbed. frantic. there is no replacement, nothing will make me feel closer. we will die soon. now when my mother says old, she means over 70. somehow, i still yearn to be transformed, to be understood, in league, playful and appreciated--not a clown, not pitied. do i need to tease myself into thinking like a kid, like all this could be possible? why am i not allowed to show my disappointment.

in the suburbs, in the beginning of winter, under dingy snow, a raspberry hibiscus blooms. there are photographs of me as a naked black girl, and heirloom wineglasses and a cracked tureen. i call mother, and it is my father who stands over my shoulder, eager, dogged, just returned from taking out the sorted trash. he loans me his moonboots so i can go to the hill. he is quick to veer conversation toward sex and reproduction--one woman's grandmother never knew where babies come from: he liked that--and just as quickly, i leave the room.

i am weak, lost, evil, failed. i give him babel. i am full of contradictions, maybe i am always on the verge of getting sick, or being a better person. i am constantly irritated, maybe complaining is my job, 'it' will be reached when i am at peace, when i am resting in peace. or can i be cured of this acceleration, even when everything dissolves, charred, defected, and local: do i have the courage to guide, to speak, and can i begin simply by praising the charred, the defected, the local? will it ever be enough