Zahir Zamora and the Cat Conversation

Zahir happily danced across the apartment when she heard the phone ring.

“Hello, this is Zahir.”

“Hi Zahir, it’s Nancy.”

“Oh hey Nancy, how are you?”

“I’m fine. What are you up to?”

“I was just having a highly intellectual conversation with the two cats that live here.”

“With who?”

“The cats. Danielson and Sophie. Although Danielson was carrying most of the conversation. Sophie’s not much of a talker. She brings up some good points occasionally. It gets Danielson all riled up.”

“Where are you?”

“At home.”

“I see.”

“Yeah I was having trouble with my internet connection and Danielson made a very suggestive comment about how it’s useless to try and conquer the damn thing seeing as it is becoming obsolete.”

“The internet?”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I said. So I turned to him and said, ‘what the hell are you talking about?’ And he tells me that our system of world wide communication is such a mess and that we should take a few lessons from the cats.”

“Lessons on … the internet?

“Lessons on more capable internet programs that are less focused on technological gadgetry and more focused on magnetic energy vibrations. Apparently the cats have some sort of internal communication system that is functional around the world. He referred to it as the ‘intercat’ system.

“Daniel?”

“Danielson, his name is Danielson.  It’s Ukranian… I think.”

“Danielson talks to you?”

“Yeah! The cat won’t shut up. He’s always going on and on about how cats just do everything better. I would try to argue with him but since I can’t get the damn internet to work I can’t really back up my own arguments. He just likes to debate.

“And Sophie?”

“Sophie’s cool. I mean she shuts him down every once in a while. Like he’ll get on his big soap box about what’s wrong with the human sewage system and how we should all just really explore using a litter box because it’s far more biodegradable for the amount of waste we create and Sophie will just walk by and swat him on the nose and he just shuts up.”

“She hits him?”

“I wouldn’t say hit. More like a lite slap. But it’ll get him to quiet down, even though I can hear him grumbling as he walks out the door. Sophie can’t really hear his grumbling anymore because she’s loosing her hearing. But I know she gets just as sick of his pretentious babbling as I do. Sophie’s pretty cool.”

“Oh.”

“So…what’s up Nancy. It’s a rare pleasure to receive a call from you. How are you?”

“Oh, just blowing up like a balloon.”

“Is it kicking yet?”

“Yes.  A lot.”

“Hold on a sec…. hey Nancy?”

“Yes?”

“Danielson said if it’s a boy you should name him Danielson.”

 

Concept of a Compassion

It’s a pity to turn a page and not see the words
the mind has put to paper.
Oh, but to spend my time reading.
It’s a shame to turn a shoulder and not see the smiles
the heart has drawn to laughter.
Oh, but to spend my time observing.
It’s a burden to turn a back and not see the love
the arms have held so bravely.
Oh, but to spend my time embracing.

TAKING THE “BIG JUMP”

INTO THE UNKNOWN

theatre that Moves

It’s official!  Hugi The Great Productions is having its first show at the 2008 San Francisco Fringe Festival.

theatre that Moves

Written and Directed by Mercedes Segesvary

Starring Dalia Vidor

Stay tuned for more information about the show and check the link to the right to read more about the SF Fringe.

Yay!!!!

In The Morning

In the morning

Trying not to wake you

Just in case

You are dreaming

In the morning

A Conversation with My Self

We sat in the car well past midnight in a dimly lit alley around the corner from the intending hotel. That was where the conversation took place; an empty alley except for one little black car containing two passengers avoiding the obvious. The two of us: just sitting, conversing, in a car. The engine was off.

I pulled the knife from my heart. It was too difficult to continue the conversation with such an intrusive object in a place where it no longer needed to be. I pulled the knife and set it aside. I placed the knife on the dash board of the little black car in the dimly lit alley and that’s where I left it throughout my domination of the conversation.

My domination of the conversation included a progression of adjectives describing a necessary liberation from the present connection. I wanted out. I wanted to run like Hell and never look back. I yelled and screamed at the top of my lungs in that little black car parked in the alley with the engine off. But none of that was heard.

The knife was retrieved from the dashboard. Not by me.

I was told, by the other, to return the knife to its hilt. I was told, by the other, that if the knife were un-returned it would need a new home. I was told, by the other, that the knife’s new home would be in someone’s back.

That someone was not me.

I protested the request in that dimly lit alley.

The knife was placed in my hand. Not by me.

The other asked, “Please return the knife.”

I responded, “I don’t want to.”

The other said, “You have to return the knife.”

I contended, “I can’t.”

The other pleaded, “This night will never end unless you return this knife.”

But I resisted.

I could not return the knife to its original location. The knife’s hilt was gone from my heart and the hole had already begun closing. In that short amount of time spent in the little black car in the dimly lit alley the original wound, wreaked by the knife, was healing; culminating.

But the knife was still in my hand and the other, turning a back to me, argued that no exit would be made unless I returned the knife.

I looked down at the knife in my hand. It was a rather beautiful knife: Silver blade. Intricate gold hilt garnished with rubies and gems. Subtle curved criss-cross engravings. I clasped it with both hands. It was still warm.

The other still had a back turned to me, quietly sobbing.

I did what only I could do. I raised the blade. I raised it high over my head and with a gut wrenching force I used the knife to cut through the anguish and pain. I cut through the stifled, emotional polluted air. I cut through the layers of despair so that I could see clearly.

The other was gone.

In that little black car in the dimly lit alley with the engine off sat a single passenger with empty hands. Smiling.

Little Fire Dancer

Little Fire Dancer

How you command
The brilliant light
To dance across your body
In the obscuring night

With a delicate spin
Across the dark black sky
Your precious flames
Illuminate my eye

Hours do pass
As I watch you move
In gentle cohesion
With an animated groove

But the aphotic night grows old
In a lightening way
While you spiritedly dance
The tiring night in to day

And as the morning sun
Must pragmatically rise
For you, my little fire dancer
Some rest I do advise

Green Candidates and Spam

Green Candidatesand Spam

I will not vote for Huckabee.
I would not, could not
Choose one not right for me.

I will not vote for J. McCain.
I would not, could not
Endorse a presidential pain.

I will not vote for Mitt Romney.
I would not, could not
Give him a White House key

I will not vote for Giuliani.
I would not, could not
He does not represent me.

I will not vote for Hillary.
I would not, could not
Just because she’s a she.

I will not vote for Jon Edwards.
I would not could not
Agree with his words.

I might vote for Barack O.
I would try, could try
He’s in the know.

Big Red Building

“The big red building is blocking my view.”  That’s about all she had to say 5 hours into her 9 hour work day. 
“What are you doing to pass the time?”  My question falls upon an intriguing soul.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you you just sit there all day staring at a building?”
“No.”
“So how do you make the day go by?”
“I don’t make the day go by.  It goes by on its own accord.”
“Oh.”  And that’s about all the converstaion I can handle with her in a day.  I don’t have her patience.  I can’t sit for hours staring at a building.
“Sometimes I wish the building would stare back at me.”  She startles me enough to ask, “What?”
“Sometimes I stare, I just stare at the building—”
“The building blocking your view?”
“Yes.  I stare so hard at it and ask it over and over ‘Why do you block my view?’”
I take a moment to debate if I should even ask.  “What would you presume the building to say?  I mean, of course, if the building could talk.”
The silence on her end is expected.  With her patience, she could spend an eternity thinking of an answer to my question.  I imagine putting the phone down, going for a walk through Golden Gate Park, eating an ice cream, returning home to clean the dirty dishes from last night’s dinner party and retrieving the phone only to find she is still pondering her answer.
“I think the building would say, ‘I was here first.  You’re blocking my view.’”
“I suppose that is a very symbolic thing for the building to say.”
“Yes.  Yes it is.”

J Pipe

Do not use. Sink is leaking; is written on memo paper with a beehive drawn on the top center. It is stuck to the moldy wood cutting board propped up against the kitchen sink faucet. A pile of dishes off to the right.

She stares at the pile of dishes for a moment scratches her head then walks away. A moment later she returns with an old monkey wrench, removes a pipe from underneath the sink and heads out the door.

“You gonna fix that all on your own?” The stranger says as she crosses his path.

She stops and shows him the J pipe. “It’s cracked, see?”

He laughs and she takes a step back from his Jim Beam breath. “Shouldn’t be difficult. I just need a new part and then I’ll screw it back on.”

The stranger looks at his buddy with whom he is occupying space in front of the Hockey Haven Bar. They share a snicker. “Well make sure you get the proper fasteners.” He grabs the pipe from her. “The trick to these pipes is to slide it in at an angle, otherwise it won’t fit. You don’t want to just jam it in there, be gentle.” He elbows his buddy again. Inside joke.

She retrieves her pipe, aware of the sexual innuendo, and thanks him for his advice. “Excuse me, I need to get to the hardware store to replace this.”

“You’re in luck, they just opened.”

“Yes.” She replies. “Seems all the businesses on this block open early.”

Standing at the hardware store counter she proves she really doesn’t belong there by staring at the old man ignoring her. She’s not used to being ignored. The sales people at the stores where she normally shops for work all know her and her time constraints AND her unlimited credit. But today is a day-off and her patience is unlimited.

“Excuse me.” She says to the half deaf, bent over, white-haired sales assistant.

“Whatcha need?” Comes a response from behind her. She turns with an annoyance from being treated like a silly little girl all morning only to be struck by the sight of a gorgeous young punk rocker wearing a multi-pocketed red apron. She’s speechless.

Remembering at least why she came, she extends the broken pipe. “Do you carry these?”

He smiles. “Yeah . Isle 2.”

“Thanks.” She walks off suddenly ashamed for not having at least brushed her hair before walking to the store. She goes down Isle 1, realizes her mistake and walks to the end turning to go back down aisle 2. There are only two isles. A minute later she is back at the counter. Holding the pipe and a credit card.

“Debit or credit?”

“Debit.” She says.

He puts the key pad in front of her and she grabs it. Her left hand touches his right. She is so nervous that she holds on even tighter. Adding to her sudden embarrassment of not letting him have his hand back she forgets her pin code. But he patiently holds up the key pad. She types the number and hopes it works. Standing there, awkwardly, she wishes she was better at small talk. But the punk rocker doesn’t seem to mind. His attention is caught by the white-haired sales assistant who is serenely moving nails from one bin to another still bent over.

The card is good and the punk rocker hands her a receipt. She takes her pipe and receipt, thanks her new infatuation and walks off.

“Good luck!” She hears yelled at her from inside the bar as she passes.

“Thanks.” She mumbles and laughs to herself thinking, “What a way to start the day.”