Night Train Haibun: in which my father throws suitcases out a window

My father, in his prime, was not a calm person. He could be adventurous, but would suddenly panic, as he did on the night train to Florence, Italy.
We were abroad, the six of us, each with a large brown canvas suitcase. The train stopped at the Florence station—Firenzi—for three minutes. Then it went north, no doubt into the Balkans or Bulgaria, carrying those other passengers—gypsies, guitarists, soldiers, assassins—behind the iron curtain.
So we were instructed to hurl first our heavy suitcase and then ourselves on to the platform. Before the train even stopped my father was cramming his suitcase through a cracked window and heedless of four children who might be left behind, he leaped from the train.
He was hysterical, but unscathed. We survived our disembarkation and saw Madonnas draped in blue, and Jesus bleeding on numerous crosses, odd fare for Jews. We ate pasta.

blue mussel shells open—
the briny taste
I will acquire

I often think I would have been happier if I’d stayed on the train, vanished into Macedonia or Armenia, been in my thirties when the Berlin Wall came down and gone some place like Norway to work in the hotel business.

fountain’s sprawling gods,
cathedral’s great shut doors,
my father points, points.

Google Street View Is Blurring the Faces of Ancient Gods

My husband Rich Feldman found this for me–and we checked google and it is true!



“Ever notice how all the faces are blurred in Google Street View photos? That happens thanks to a privacy-enabling robot. But it’s not a perfect robot. The Google Street View robot not only blurs the faces of humans but also of statues, despite the fact that statues have no notion of privacy. Makes you think, doesn’t it?
Prolific French illustrator Marion Balac certainly believes so. In a new work called “Anonymous Gods,” the artist collects Google Street View images that include statues of gods and their blurred out faces. One’s the Sphinx outside the Luxor hotel in Las Vegas. Another is the monument to St. Francis in Caninde, Brazil. There’s even a giant Buddha on the side of a nondescript road in what appears to be China. So many gods. So few faces.”

To see more:


The Rising Moon of Heaven by Baro Shalizi

I’m delighted to post an excerpt from Baro Shalizi’s novel in progress, THE RISING MOON OF HEAVEN below. He describes the book:

With inspiration from a verse in Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat:
Behold! The Rising Moon of Heaven again
Seeks us, my love, through the quivering Plane trees;
How often, hereafter, rising will she search
Amongst these leaves, for one of us in vain!
The novel follows the lives of two young Afghans, as exile, loss and separation, destroys their world and threatens to crush their soul and spirit.

Baro received his Creative Writing Certificate from the Santa Fe Community College and is currently on the editorial staff of “The Santa Fe Literary Review.” His bio note: “Born in India to an Indian mother and Afghan father, I was raised in Afghanistan until the family was forced to leave following the coup that overthrew the King. I have lived in Afghanistan, Pakistan, the Soviet Union and the US. I obtained my B.A. in Russian Language and Literature from Brandeis University and my M.A. in International Law and Business from The American University in Washington, DC. I currently live in Santa Fe, NM.”

The novel is currently looking for representation from an agent, or an editor interested in publishing it. Please feel free to comment as a reader, too!

This is the first of two sections–stay tuned to read the second in the next few days.


Kabul, June 1973
“What are you doing here?” his father demanded.
What in Mr. Shahir’s youth had been a lean, athletic body had now, in his middle years, turned fleshy, a result of countless hours behind a desk. His once thick, brown hair was now sparse and lightly sprinkled with grey. Nonetheless, his energy was palpable. Piercing, intelligent, hazel eyes were hidden behind the reflection on his glasses. His high forehead and hooked nose were reminders of the many Arabs and Jews who had settled in Afghanistan over the millennia. While many Afghans claimed descent from the lost tribes of Israel, others prided themselves on their descent from the Prophet Mohammed.
“Wha—What do you mean?” Mirwais stammered. As it was, he was quite put out that no one had met him at the airport. And now without so much as a hug, an Assalaam Alaikum—Peace be with you, his father was yelling at him. He couldn’t recollect when he had last seen his father so angry. Surely his coming home, even if unexpected, couldn’t be grounds for such anger. “It’s my summer vacation,” he said, on the brink of tears. “I wrote and told you I was coming home today. Didn’t you get my letter?” Mirwais’ two dogs, Golla, a German Shepherd and Jolly, a Black lab, were jumping all over him happy to have him home. Obeying his hand signals, they immediately sat.
“A letter? Coming home?” His father responded, still shouting. “Didn’t you write just a few weeks ago asking permission to spend your summer vacation with your friend Valodya in Leningrad?” Mr. Shahir took off his glasses and brushed a hand across his tired eyes. “Well, don’t just stand there, answer me.”
“Yes, I did, Daddy-jan, but then the Soviet authorities denied me permission to travel from Moscow to Leningrad. I sent a second letter. Perhaps Mummy-jan received the letter?”
“Your mother and sister, Ariana, are visiting your grandparents and Roxana in India.”
Mirwais’ mother, originally from India, often visited her parents in Bombay. Two years ago when he’d turned fourteen and left to attend boarding school in Pakistan, his grandparents had invited his sister, Roxana, then twelve, to live with them and attend school in Bombay. His parents felt that Ariana, who had only recently celebrated her tenth birthday, too young to leave home.
In a milder tone, Mr. Shahir added, “Well, Bachim, my son, now that you are here, we might as well make the best of a bad situation. Don’t just stand there, come on in. Wash up and get changed for dinner, it will be served shortly.”
Mirwais didn’t need to be told a second time. He whipped past his father, almost slipping on the highly polished marble floor. Lovingly he ran his hand along the beautifully carved, wood balustrade as he ran up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, he stopped to look at his favorite painting, a scene depicting horsemen in traditional Afghan outfits admiring the world’s tallest statue of the standing Buddha in the Bamiyan Valley. When the artist had delivered the painting, Mirwais had been so enthralled that his father had framed a photo of the painting for him.
Mirwais jogged down the maize of corridors, right then left then right again until he was in front of his bedroom. Once inside, he let out a deep sigh as he took in the familiar surroundings—the rich, red, Afghan carpet, hand-knotted in Mazar-i-Sharif; the bed with the soft, white duvet and hand embroidered pillows neatly stacked against the headboard; the many books on dogs, horses and pigeons mixed in with old school books lay askew on the table; the familiar photos on the wall. His eyes sought out one photo in particular, a young girl, her auburn hair tumbling down in loose curls past her shoulders, her skin flawless—golden, the color of honey, her large almond shaped eyes looking out on the world with wonder—Anahita, his closest friend, confidant, and cousin. He flopped onto the bed and let himself melt into the soft bedding, never taking his eyes off the photo.
One of the servants brought up his suitcase and shyly welcomed him home. Mirwais quickly unpacked, then went to the bathroom to do his ablutions before saying his evening prayers. As he washed his face, he looked at himself in the mirror. Smiling, he spoke to his reflection, “You sure are a handsome chap.” Effeminate in looks, his friends and relatives jokingly called him Pretty Boy.
Blushing, he remembered the time when his cousin Anahita’s girlfriends had teased him mercilessly. “Oh, Miro, what I would give to have thick, wavy hair like yours,” one girl said as she ran her fingers through his hair. Another added, “And those beautiful, sensual lips—are they naturally so red or do you use lipstick?” The comments were greeted by a round of laughter. “And those eyes, they remind me of my Labrador, so gentle and soulful.” Another round of laughter followed. One of Anahita’s friends, Fawzia, a particularly brazen girl, had eyed his crotch and asked, “Can you prove that you’re a boy?” Mirwais, too bashful to respond to such an open challenge to his manhood, had run away, but not before glancing at Anahita. She stood apart from her friends, her gentle brown eyes open wide, focused on him, a look of sympathy mixed with something else—expectation? What had she waited for—for him to stand up for himself, defend himself?
At sixteen, he was barely five and a half feet tall and weighed only one hundred and ten pounds. As if to compensate for his lack of physical stature, nature had bestowed him with an unusually sharp intellect. He had completed his first year of college while his peers where still in their junior year in high school. Unfortunately, Mirwais had little interest in intellectual pursuits. His father often reprimanded him, “If only you would apply yourself, you could be an A-plus student.” His mother just as frequently interceded, “Honey, let the boy be. He’s a teenager and a B + average isn’t all that bad.” In high school, Mirwais was bored in class and had often played truant. He’d dropped off his books at home and spent the rest of the day with his dogs, horses and pigeons.

Having said his prayers, he joined his father at dinner. Not a word was spoken while they ate. Mirwais played with his food, looking over at his father a few times, but he was lost in a world he wasn’t willing to share. After a servant cleared the dessert dishes and they were left alone again, Mirwais cleared his throat, “Is something bothering you, Daddy-jan?”
“Bachim, you must be tired from your trip. I suggest you go straight to bed,” his father replied, not looking at his son.
Mirwais wanted to stay, to ask more questions, but dared not. He had too often paid the price for disobeying his father. Sleep was hard coming that night. He wished his mother were in Kabul. She would tell him what was happening, but she was in India. He longed for Anahita—someone to share his fears and concerns with, but she was far away in America.
He awoke to the sound of gunfire and the high-pitched scream of fighter jets flying overhead. He bolted up in bed and looked out the window, the mountains were barely visible, the inky mantle of night was slowly lifting as dawn smiled upon Kabul. Jumping out of bed, he hurriedly put on a light-weight shirt, tumbling onto the soft silk carpet as in his haste he stuck both feet in the same pant leg. He cursed under his breath. Slipping his feet into a pair of sandals, he rushed outside. Golla and Jolly came bounding across the lawn, the minute they saw him. The scream of the planes continued. Mirwais got on his knees and hugged the two dogs all the while staring into the sky. The dogs trembled as jets thundered overhead. He had wanted to name his German Shepherd, Bullet, after Roy Roger’s dog, but his father insisted he use the Afghan word for Bullet, Golla.
As dawn’s light gently flooded the sky, Mirwais saw dozens of fighter jets and military helicopters crisscrossing the skies over Kabul—a swarm of angry bees. In the distance, he distinctly heard the sporadic staccato of machine-gun fire. Both dogs cowered. “It’s okay,” Mirwais reassured them, scratching behind their ears. What was going on? Why all the fighter planes and the gunfire? It was too early for Jashen – Independence Day. Had Pakistan invaded? It was a possibility. Ever since Pakistan’s independence, tensions had been high between the two countries, each claiming the stretch of land Pakistan called the Northwestern Frontier Province and Afghanistan called Pashtunistan.
Abdul Karim, his father’s chauffeur, was standing by the fountain in the center of the garden, face upturned, his boat-shaped Persian lamb’s skin cap pushed back to give him an unhindered view of the sky. “Salaam Alaikum, Mirwais-jan,” he said on seeing his employer’s son.
“Walaikum Assalaam-And Peace be with you. What’s going on?” Mirwais asked. His eyes searched the sky, as if expecting the answer to be emblazzaned there in large letters for all to see.
“I don’t know,” Abdul Karim answered. “But whatever it is, it can’t be good.” Taking Mirwias’ hand in his as he had often done when Mirwais was a little boy, Abdul Karim hustled him out of the open and toward the house. “We should ask Sadrazam sahib, I’m sure he’ll know.” Mirwais was touched by the chauffer’s implicit trust and confidence in his father. Even though Mr. Shahir had long ago resigned as His Majesty, King Mohammad Zahir Shah’s Prime Minister, out of respect, everyone still called him Sadrazam sahib, Mister Prime Minister.
Upon entering the library, Abdul Karim immediately snatched off his cap. Mr. Shahir was fiddling with the knob on the radio in search of the latest news. Radio Kabul was blaring military music. Impatiently he drummed his fingers on the table. As he reached over to turn the dial yet again. The announcer blared: “We interrupt this program to congratulate the people of Afghanistan on a successful coup d’etat! His Excellency, General Mohammed Daoud, has overthrown the corrupt and ineffective monarchy to bring democracy and equality to us, the people. Rejoice! We have been released from the yoke of tyranny! Long live the republic of Afghanistan! Long live President Daoud!” Military music blared again. There was always military music after a coup, never popular music—the people’s music.
Mr. Shahir leaned back in his chair, a faint smile on his face.
Mirwais, his voice quivering asked, “What tyranny, what is he talking about? His Majesty was a benign and benevolent king, loved by the people. What does all this mean? What will it mean for us?”
In a rare display of affection, Mr. Shahir ruffled his son’s hair. “Everything will be just fine. There’s nothing to fear. Some time ago, I was notified by Mr. Anderson—you remember him, don’t you?”
“You mean the USAID chap with the red hair?”
“That’s the one—”
“I remember him well.”
“Actually, he’s a CIA operative, but as I was saying,” his father proceeded, “Mr. Anderson informed me that the Soviets were going to make a move on Afghanistan—”
“But surely the Americans,” Mirwais interrupted, “will come to our aid. After all, from Turkey to India, we’re the only democracy. They won’t let the Soviets take over Afghanistan.”
“According to Mr. Anderson,” Mr. Shahir continued, “during the SALT II Treaty negotiations in Moscow, the Soviets and Americans came to a secret agreement that required Afghanistan to slip into the Soviet sphere of influence in return for Egypt moving into the American sphere.”
Abdul Karim blanched on hearing the Super Powers were involved—nothing good ever came of a coup orchestrated by the Super Powers.
Mirwais asked, “Mr. Anderson’s a spy—an undercover agent?” Could his father hear the excitement in his voice? “Did he tell you himself? Is he a double agent? Will he be coming by the house again?”
“Bachim, don’t be naive. In the world of espionage, these things aren’t talked about openly, but I knew—”
“Yet you trust Mr. Anderson?”
“Yes, to the extent that one can trust a foreign agent, I trust him. He, poor fool, is one of those rare Americans who genuinely believe that his country wants to spread democracy and help poorer nations. He appreciates my nationalism.”
“So, Mr. Anderson warned you of the coup?”
“No, he only knew that the Soviets and the Americans had come to an understanding regarding Afghanistan—”
“Just like that, the Super Powers swapped Afghanistan for Egypt like toys, with no regard for the desires or aspirations of the people?” Mirwais was outraged. “What gives them the right to play with other people’s futures?”
“For a change, Bachim, you’ve asked a truly insightful question. Not long after my conversation with Anderson, General Daoud Khan approached me with a plan to overthrow the king. He wouldn’t have taken the risk of asking unless the Super Powers had given him the green light. We planned the coup meticulously.”
Mirwais and Abdul Karim looked at Mr. Shahir wide-eyed. “You helped plan the coup?” For a brief moment Mirwais stood stockstill. “But, Daddy-jan, how could you—overthrow the King—a close friend, didn’t you feel guilty?”
“Ah, Bachim, if only politics were that straightforward and simple. But, yes, you’re correct, I have a great deal of respect for His Majesty, but it was necessary to avert a civil war and bloodshed.” Mr. Shahir looked at his son—his eyes pleading for understanding, forgiveness? Mirwais stared back, not understanding what was expected of him.
“I’m surprised Daoud Khan would work for the Soviets, he’s such a nationalist—and it’s even more surprising that he would ask you to help. He, of all people, knows how much both Super Powers dislike you.” Mirwais smiled to himself thinking of all the times his father had foiled both Super Powers’ ambitions and assisted the King in maintaining Afghanistan’s neutrality.
“That’s precisely why he came to me.” Mr. Shahir looked out the window at two sparrows squabbling in a nearby tree. “Daoud Khan, in addition to being a nationalist, is also self-centered and egotistical. He’s never forgiven His Majesty for declaring Afghanistan a Constitutional monarchy and forcing him to retire as Prime Minister.”
“Daoud Khan is taking revenge?” Mirwais’ eyes flew around the room, alighting on photos of his parents with the King and Queen, with Daoud Khan.
“In some ways, yes. If he didn’t agree to head the coup, the Soviets would have found someone else. He saw an opportunity to forestall the country from becoming a Soviet client state, gain power for himself and at the same time take revenge on his cousin.”
“So … he’s using the Soviets and they are using him.”
“Yes, and that’s what worries me. At some point Daoud Khan and the Soviets are going to clash. When that happens, the Afghan people will get crushed like a grain of wheat caught between two mill stones.”
Mirwais pictured the Afghan people crushed to dust, pulverized, decimated. Why would his father be a willing participant? “You haven’t finished your explanation, Daddy-jan. Why did Daoud Khan ask for your help? Why did you agree?”
“Ah, yes,” his father responded with a small laugh. “The President knew I’d help minimize the fallout from a coup. My insights and recommendations averted a bloodbath, and by timing the coup while the King was out of the country, I believe I saved the lives of the Royal Family. Knowing his ego, had I denied him, the whole family could have ended up in prison or worse.”

Axle Arts


Wilderness Acts
2 Locations:
The Leonora Curtin Wetland Preserve:  Sept 28 – Nov. 9
Axle Mobile Gallery: Oct 17 – Nov 6 ( for daily location)
Reception for the artists
Sunday, October 19th, 1-4 pm
at The Leonora Curtin Wetland Preserve
Bobbe Besold, Lisa Freeman, Cheri Ibes, Caity Kennedy and Matt King, Don Kennell, Ana MacArthur, Jacqueline Mallegni, Dominique Mazeaud, Michael Motley, Mayumi Nishida, Conrad Skinner

Twelve artists are at work now making sculptural artworks using natural wild-crafted materials for this pair of exhibitions.  One will take place along a walking path at The Leonora Curtin Wetland Preserve, another inside the Axle Mobile Gallery.

The Leonora Curtin Wetland Preserve is a 35-acre nature preserve located just south of Santa Fe. The preserve is adjacent to El Rancho de las Golondrinas in La Cienega. This rare natural cienega, or marsh, hosts a bountiful diversity of plants and wildlife, including wildflower meadows, huge cottonwoods, reed-filled wetlands, and a tranquil pond.  The preserve is part of the Santa Fe Botanical Garden. 

DIRECTIONS: The preserve is located on the I-25 West Frontage Road south of Santa Fe. From I-25 take Exit 271 for “La Cienega” and turn onto West Frontage Road heading north. The parking lot entrance is 1½ miles north after turning onto West Frontage Road.  Hours: Saturdays: 9-12, Sundays: 1-4



Today in the Spiritual Quest/Speculative fiction class we shared a pomegranate. The fruit is associated with death and re-birth, with Persephone who ate a few seeds and hence has to remain underground during the winter.

So maybe people were a little nervous taking a taste!

A Jewish teacher once told me that as there are 613 miztvot (commandments, or some say, good deeds) there are 613 seeds in a pomegranate. I didn’t count, but like the idea. The Kabbalists say that since some mitzvas can only be performed in a male body and some only in a female, there is reincarnation or transmigration so one soul can complete all.

Soon it will be Rosh Hashana here in New Mexico, with my yard full of sunflowers and grasshoppers. Every year one praying mantis appears–this year it is on the door of my studio. A sweet new year and shalom to all.


Couples: Trying To Understand Coming of Age in the 1960’s

I’ve been reading, of all things, COUPLES by John Updike. In my youth, it was a book I searched for when I was babysitting.(And found, sometimes in an underwear drawer). It was about sex, my teen-aged mind assumed. Now I’m discovering that its sometimes purple sometimes exquisite prose is something that would have been decidedly yucky to my adolescent view–the misery of marriage. Which frankly is somewhat yucky to my more than middle-aged one.
However, I’m an archeologist in my own life, often wondering–just what were my parents thinking? They weren’t WASP-Y swingers, as in COUPLES. Or wildly attractive New Yorkers (MAD MEN). But I was raised in the suburbs in the sixties.
Maybe it is because I recently have been reminiscing about elementary school. Or talking to a friend about whether our teen-age years were uniquely bad–driven by social chaos to a more than usual existential pitch. Maybe I’m just trying to make sense of parts of my past because I’m writing more fiction.
Or maybe, as a male friend said about MAD MEN and our generation, “We are ALL Sally.”


Jose Romussi…

In my endless quest for quirky textile art I was glad to find this.







Seriously!? There are so many great embroidery artists out there!

These works are by Chilean artist Jose Romussi, who now lives and works in Berlin.  Romussi’s creations have a very playful vibe to them.  In his series Dance, featuring vintage ballerinas, his thread takes on the shape of the dancer’s costumes.  In his newer work, he appears to be inspired by the forms of the face.  See Romussi’s other work on his website.

By the way, I’m loving the quote in the last picture!

Images found here and here.

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Road Trip #2 by Devon Miller-Duggan: Reaching a Destination

It was wonderful. The first day, which was supposed to be 10 hours, turned out
to be more like 13 courtesy of the insanity that is the DC Beltway, my
stubbornness, and an accidentally silenced GPS, so I ended up on 95 heading
south instead of 81. It was still a wonderful day. Once I turned the GPS back on
and paid attention to it, I spent a rapturous hour following its instructions
through the exquisite Virginia countryside back to 81. That was the only
muck-up. For which I can take no real credit, since once you turn right off of
81 onto 40, it’s pretty much a straight shot. I’d done the drive once before,
but with my elder daughter and her College of Santa Fe roommate from NYC and
loved it then. I remembered Tennessee as being seriously beautiful (true for
eastern TN) and that the Panhandle of Texas was weirdly thrilling (I have a
funny relationship to the accidental state of my birth). And it was. As was the
gradual movement toward bigger and bigger skies, and then bigger and bigger

A solo roadtrip is very, very different from a shared roadtrip (of which I am
hugely fond). The solo version is a weird, alternate-dimension space in which
you really need to pay attention to things like when the next rest-stop is, how
your body is feeling, where the next gas station is, whether you’re signaling
lane changes, and how the driving cultures differ from state to state.
Everything else is pretty unimportant, as long as the weather doesn’t make
itself an issue. Everything. You really do need to pay attention, to be deeply
mindful of things you don’t tend to think much about, even though they are
themselves odd things—important, but without inherent profundity or connection
to anything else in your life. I suppose the 2,000 mile drive is as close as I
will ever come to the focus, work, and quiet of a week of zen sesshin or a solo
trip on the Appalachian Trail.

I arrived in Santa Fe safe and sound, and feeling better (though tired—next year
I’ll give it 5 days), more myself, than I have in years. More alive to all the
things that are right, blessed, good, and joy-giving in my life than I have been
able to be for years, maybe forever—which is not to say that I have been unaware
of them, or un-alive to them, but that there’s been a scrim, a membrane between
my heart and those gifts for a long time. I wasn’t a different person, and not a
converted person, just a person with a great many cobwebs blown away by 4 days
of road and solitude and huge skies. The last time I experienced anything like
this was the day my first working SSRI kicked in and I felt as if one of those
huge, spherical diving helmets had been lifted off my head without my ever
having known I was going through life wearing one. All of this sounds very
dramatic, and it wasn’t. In some ways that was the best part. I got to Santa Fe
a little early to check in at the conference, had lunch at a diner I like and
read for a while, then went up the hill to St. Johns, where the Glen is held,
checked in, unpacked, went to the reception to find and hug my Glen tribe, and
just slid into a scene I know and love.

So step 1 in Moving Through the Existential Crisis of 2014 was letting go of my
only-in-my-head nemesis and actively wishing her happiness. Step 2 was a bag of
plastic beach-toy sand-mold letters (which is another blog entry altogether).
Step 3 was 4 days alone on the road through radically changing landscapes. It
certainly isn’t the recipe I was looking for back in January. And all through
the intervening months. And it is certainly not what I’d ever have thought would
work. Which is undoubtedly the nicest way it could have happened–by surprise.