La Madrugada

© 2005 Annabelle A. Udo

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En mi mente, estoy cantando a la playa por la noche. La luna esta cerca de mi--no hay coches, no hay personas, no hay luces--solamente el mar, las estrellas, y yo.

En mi voz, hay una cancion con las palabras de mis abuelos--los cuentos del corazon, los cuentos de la juventud, los cuentos de la oscura tierra de los Philippines.

En mis suenos, puedo verle a mi padre con sus amigos espirituales--los bailadores de Dios, los bailadores del Cielo, los bailadores de los angeles.

En mi alma, puedo sentir el ritmo de la vida--la musica de los espiritus, la musica de la gente, la musica del mundo.

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In my mind, I am singing at the beach at night. The moon is near me--there are no cars, there are no people, there are no lights.

In my voice, there is a song with the words of my grandparents--the stories from the heart, the stories of youth, the stories from the dark earth of the Philippines.

In my dreams, I can see my father with his spiritual friends--the dancers of God, the dancers of Heaven, the dancers of the angels.

In my soul, I can feel the rhythm of Life--the music of the spirits, the music of the People, the music of the World.

Tribes of Nature: The Poetry of Cold San Francisco Summers

© 2005 Annabelle A. Udo
(published in "Listen & Be Heard" Weekly - July 10, 2005)

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7:30 a.m. and somewhere out there is the sun.

It’s July and swirls of San Francisco fog seem to rise like the steam from an early morning cup of coffee. Meanwhile, the moon shakes off its glow from another night in the City and prepares for its shift in another part of the world. It’s quiet outside and the mean streets are calmed by the slow footsteps of its early risers. The neighbors are asleep after a wild night of partying and the elevator in the building is still.

Sitting blankly at the computer, the blinking cursor brings no words to mind only a feeling of stoned relaxation. The movement of the dust on my window indicates to me that it’s another windy day in the City and the bright horizon in the East Bay reminds me that sunny California is not a myth.

Although Mark Twain branded the City with his famous quote that the coldest winter he ever spent was summer in San Francisco, throngs of tourists flock here to indulge in this midsummer drizzle. The poetic memories that are bestowed upon its travelers are priceless—the shifting sands of Ocean Beach, the wafting sounds of an invisible accordion player in the Sunset District, the vitality of history that breathes in the architecture of Pacific Heights, the voyeuristic strolls on Haight Street, the sounds of mah jong tiles being “washed” in Chinatown.

There are many times on these cloudy days that I need to become a tourist in the City, as if revisiting an old friend, in order to appreciate the virginal experience of living here all over again. At one point arriving as a guest to the City I am now one of its long-time dwellers with tales to tell of pre-gentrified San Francisco.

So, for all you San Francisco dreamers whose soul peeks through a window as the sun comes up and then it goes down—it’s just part of the routine because I realized that part of San Francisco living is the poetic journey of just being here.

War. . . what is it good for?

© 2005 Annabelle A. Udo

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The scenes are always the same.

The mother is yelling at her child pretty much because her child is just being a child. "Stop that!" she screams at the top of her lungs as she brings attention to a situation that otherwise would've been private in Aisle 2 where Glad sandwich bags can be found. "Stop that before I slap you and make you look stupid!" An unrelated little girl looks at this family feud and her own mother pulls her away as if she had just witnessed an R-rated film.

On the N-Judah train a demon walks on. . .a homeless man making his way out to Ocean Beach--tattered and smelling like last week's garbage and today's piss. "Stupid motherf***in, buttf**rs!" was the loop of his dialogue. Over and over. It did not stop. I had to reach my destination. The trains were running late already and I just wanted to get home and eat dinner. The ride was unpleasant with the stench of one man's internal battle. I tried to picture him as a little boy. Who did this to this man? Was he a Vietnam Vet? Was the government responsible for turning this man into a monster? Did his parents beat him? All these questions ran through my mind to quell my frustrations and to shut off my olfactory system from the smell. Is it not enough that we all have to pay $45 a month to ride MUNI?!

There is road rage outside my window on a daily basis: pesky pedestrians vs. bicyclists vs. bad drivers vs. the world. Shaking fists, middle fingers, honking horns--this is truly the San Francisco Symphony.

And so, today's headlines are grim--splattered with swatches of death, not life. "More bodies recovered at London bomb site," "33 Killed by Iraq Bombs," "Car Sought in I-80 Shooting." It seems as if life is punishable by death. . .and all for what?