Category Archives: The South

Ten Sonnets for Electric Motherfuckers: The Second Decad (Prelude to Acid Motherfuckers United until the End of Time)

Photograph by Jose Padua
These Boots Were Made for Acid

Some velvet morning when I’m an electric motherfucker.
Some velvet morning when I’ve spent my whole life without
ever having watched ET. Some velvet morning when I’ve
spoiled the tailgate party by being so high on antidepressants
that I don’t give a fuck about who wins or loses but how
enormously I’ve killed everyone else’s enormous high.
Some velvet morning when my brain is filled with visions
of roadkill and dark swamps at midnight when it’s daylight
savings time. And I am the apparition of America made great
more than four hundred years ago. I am fetal acid syndrome
in the downward facing dog position. Some call me Feliciano
Balastiqui, some call me Bobbie Gentry when I am really Nancy
Sinatra. Flowers growing on a hill, dragonflies, daffodils, and
dumbass turds, all because of the virus that was going round.

What Thou Lovest Well Remains High

You must remember Nancy Ly, the loveliest girl in seventh grade?
When she smiled the sixties melted away into seventies dominoes,
toppling over into communism, threatening coach, corner store,
Karen from corporate, because what thou lovest well remains, the
rest is napalm: there’s nothing more American than having the
chance to kill and taking it, nothing more dead than someone made
dead by America (unzip your pants and whip out your freedom);
when you piss in the wind you’re the greatest pisser in the history
of the world (when you piss, all other countries hold out their
hands). And the war in Vietnam ended and another war began:
war is in the heart, piss is in your veins, the scent of burning meat
wafts through the air like glory, morning glory, and the widows
are so young and beautiful, and the widowers rub their hands
together as if cold, their hearing diminished, the memories fading.

Introducing Lucille Alvarado Paquin

I missed so many parties in the 80s being so straight laced, you know.
Lots of coke and shit and disco on the sound system all night. I had
a boyfriend then, his name was Vince, I’d say Vince let’s do something
and he’d say I know what you wanna do, Baby. He was wrong, like
predatory lending. I had a car, it was brown, I had a scar, it was pink.
I got this tattoo in ’91 in San Francisco. I was a divorcée, hanging out
with Ted from Flipper. He was cool but too intense so you knew better
than to ever think of marrying him. I got a job. Moved up the corporate
ladder. Bought a condo in the Mission. You know the deal. Life. It’s the
only thing worth living for. I got a bigger place now, with a parking space
that’s just for me. I go to the gym, work out like a fucking hurricane
that’s been downsized to a tropical storm. Then I get back to work. You
know what it’s like. You’re my friend. I feel like I’ve known you all my life.
And that one day, like Aeneas said, it will please us to remember even this.

Introducing Fruit of the Loom Billy

When I was a boombox blasting tunes at the gazebo and
you were a package of frozen Jimmy Dean sausages, I’d wait
until the last Merle Haggard tune I had on cassette finished
playing, until you were all soft and defrosted and started
smelling less like ice and more like ground pork to take you
home, put the frying pan on the gas flame stove, then dropping
you in there, sizzling out that sweet burnt meat smoke, making
my lips quiver, my tongue moisten like my long gone old lady.
She was never fond of Ray Bolger, never learned to wait out
a traffic jam with cigarettes and southern junkyard style, but
man could she put those sausages away, crack eggs until all
hostilities ceased. We lived our lives out, there in Florida, improving
as well as we could, loving up every last link, using up the oil,
frying on up to the day our frozen faces turned to soft frowns.

Poetry Is Metaphor for the Whole World, Motherfucker

Poetry is the diaspora of the soul’s elements, set adrift
by empire and exploitation, capitalism’s gravity, oppression’s
guardian angels, its memes and its tropes drifting from flower
and tree like pollen and weed, covering poetry with layers
of allergen, making us sneeze or even shit the moment
a beautiful truth takes aim for frontal lobes, turning memory
into a warehouse of logo and product placement. The poet
gives sanctuary to the refugees, gives them shelter until
they’re ready to go out into the world again as poems, until
some reader for some establishment lit mag throws them in the trash
or clicks delete with a smirk and sends the poet an email saying,
“we are honored you sent your poems to us,” or some bullshit line
like that, “although we won’t be using any of them, we hope you find
a place for them elsewhere, motherfucker”—or words to that effect.

Feliciano Balastiqui in Apocalypse for Upper Class Concepts of Time

And in 1982 I was punk rock Stephen Dedalus
or was I punk rock Leopold Bloom, either plump
everyman or hard core artist with involuntary grunts
and twitches, a wannabe funk pioneer playing bass
like Bootsy or a government worker for the department
of one way streets. No, this is neither celebratory poem
nor congratulatory panegyric full of happy cultural
references to people who inspire you, or simple good
examples; I am neither cheerleader nor prophet of doom
and lost elections, but a reminder to fight fire with shit,
which fuels the fire and makes the flames go higher
burning up the institution, filling up a fascist’s nose with
a big fat stink. Do you smell that? I love the smell of shit
in the morning. It smells like [shrug] revolution, motherfucker.

Introducing Bob Dobalina, Karen from Corporate’s Husband

Karen call the cops, there’s a man blasting Wu Tang Clan from
his mini-van, his kids look like two junior socialists and his white
wife has obviously been indoctrinated by liberal professors and
doesn’t know the danger she’s in and how good Americans will start
to suffer even more. Karen, call the cops, he’s waiting by the curb
reading Colson Whitehead’s least popular book, I can smell him from
here, he’s wearing Pakistani musk, furrowing his frou frou eyebrows
as he finishes the second chapter like a dude who’s never watched
Fox News. Oh Karen my Karen, the way you move reminds me of the
dancers at Hanna’s on Savannah, makes me think dirty words like carburetor
and diesel fumes, or Harry Crews around the time of Feast of Snakes,
so come on hop on my choo choo, ride my great big straight to the lower
peninsula. We’ll drop a bomb on the commies, we’ll host a massive
tailgate tequila party, so wake up, Karen, wake up or we’re all through.

A Mild Philippic Delivered by Godzilla on the Occasion of America’s Pandemic

For I have forsaken all boats and sailing ships, persisted in my
efforts to walk treacherous paths toward America in this its summer
of sustained disease, for I am devoted among all monsters in my
distaste for the lumpen bourgeoisie, their wicker chairs and their
sentimental black velvet portraits displayed on living room walls.
For I appear upon the horizon amidst furious storms, full of fury
and indiscretion in my actions against the agency of colonizers
and other usurpers of nature’s crown, power passed on from one
generation to the next through primogeniture. So, cease ye your
jollifications, I am here, with my fire and big teeth. Take me to your
leader. Take me to your knowledge management specialist so I
might know all your history and understand mine even more. Then
bring me, in all its disgusting privilege and heretofore untempered
glory, like a burger on a paper plate, bring me the head of Bob Dobalina.

A Minimalist Wind for a Minimalist Sailboat

What difference would it have made if the seventy-six hundred island
kingdom were named after Philip II of Macedon, instead of Philip II
of Spain. Would indigenous people have escaped slaughter, would there
be no Rodrigo Roa Duterte death squads today hunting down suspected
drug dealers and other manufactured bad guys, and would my people be
allowed to get high in peace? Would a philippic would still be a philippic,
Philip Seymour Hoffman dead, and Philip Glass’s magnum opus Godzilla
on the Beach
begin “One, two, three, four, five, Godzilla arrived on the
beach holding his giant boombox playing Steely Dan’s ‘Hey Nineteen,’
twenty, twenty-one” and all the way up to seven thousand six hundred
something? When I lost my job we moved out to the country where a
woman smiled at me because she thought I looked like Cheech Marin
in his younger years and I thought, Man, she must be fucking high.

Like Caine in Kung Fu

Wednesday morning in our rented house, with my wife and daughter
out for a bike ride, my nine-year old son in the living room, I’m in
the shower with the door open when I hear a voice from down the hall
saying “Dad?” and I say, “Yes, I’ll be out in a minute,” because sometimes
he needs assurance that someone is there just as I treasure the comfort
of knowing I am here, still, in this world, where in a movie Val Kilmer
played Philip II who ruled over Macedon until his assassination in 336 BC,
and Samuel L. Jackson played hitman Jules Winnfield in the 1994 film
Pulp Fiction. When I finish my shower and get dressed, I join my son
in the living room, happy that I am neither king nor hired gun, but am simply
a father and husband, walking the earth, living for a time in rented rooms
under a sky that sometimes storms and sometimes shines over lovers and
thieves, murderers and learners, and the trees, mountains, and rivers that
flow everyday and endlessly, giving back what they owe to the sea.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua

Ten Sonnets for Electric Motherfuckers

Photograph by Jose Padua
1982

Everything in the world that’s electric
eventually dies. Jimi Hendrix, Frida Kahlo,
Isadora Duncan, Federico García Lorca—
all eventually died, killed by vomit, fever,
suicide, accident, assassination—all killed
eventually, as in a great heavy metal song,
by death. And those lesser known as well, all
sooner rather later, beforehand not afterwards,
and sometimes even now. Is it any wonder that
when the power goes down we call it a black-
out? Is the irony lost on us that an early way to
cover up one’s stupid mistakes was to use
Wite-Out? Prince Rogers Nelson recorded 1999
in 1982. What the hell did you do, in 1982,

master class

motherfucker, and don’t tell me all about Anna Livia
Plurabelle. Was that some porn star you had the hots
and VHS tapes for, and when the technology went to
DVD to Blu Ray to streaming nasty adult channels
24/7 you said fuck it, I ‘ll write a book? James Joyce
had balls, James Baldwin had balls and Gwendolyn Brooks
would have cut both these dudes, she was cool like that.
This is my master class, your check was supposed
to be in the mail to me yesterday; I don’t take PayPal
and I have trust as well as anger issues, just ask my mom,
but wait, you can’t, she’s gone, because she was electric,
too. And bless these tasty vittles upon my table, Werner
Herzog, pull these statues down from the mountain like
it’s 1982. Let’s hypnotize the ruling class this time.

Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now

Hang it all, Steven Patrick Morrissey, you’re like
a girlfriend in a coma who won’t stop talking. There
can be but one Electric Warrior and you didn’t make it
because you couldn’t make it and you definitely weren’t
it. Now your country is full of people who are darker than
you, but then pretty much everyone is darker than you
because you’re one pale ass motherfucker. When you
were electric your lights never went out, and now that the
lights are off you’re always home. And I love the chiaroscuro
you walked upon, Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio; though
I never killed anyone I did, once, when I was young steal
an extra large bottle of Tylenol for my mother. This was before
the Chicago Tylenol murders in 1982 and I figured that until
I learned how to tear bad shit down I’d better learn to steal.

You Don’t Know What Love Is

Let us take a moment to consider the glory of the
suburbs, the vast expanses of neatly trimmed lawns,
the loving six- or eight-laned avenues of strip malls
anchored to big box stores, and the banks who keep
our finances and keep them healthy and the tasty
splendor of one thousand restaurant chains we love
to frequent with alacrity and the enthusiasm with which
we sit at multiplex theaters watching Lego versions of
all the classics from Lego Moby Dick to Disney Presents
The Wretched of the Earth in 3D
with Dolby What the Fuck
Is This a Rocket Attack Sound. And I am a lover of all
the art from which I may not recover: Eric Dolphy playing
flute at his last recorded concert; a yellow rose when
it’s laid just so on black marble in the early evening light.

Canto LXXXI

What thou lovest well remains electric like the ocean’s
breaking waves; what you break turns dialectic like
a brick thrown through the window of an oligarch’s
flagship store. This is the language they understand,
this is the beauty that moistens their flesh, this is
the alpha and omega of surge protection for those
with too much buzz. Just as book creates meaning and
meaning creates life, it’s the cop who spawns the uprising,
the insurrection that makes the change. I am rewriting
the Book of the Dead to incorporate changes for old
institutions that refuse to die. I was somewhere around
the springtime of my life, wandering the city streets at night,
my head full of rum and longing, my chest full of smoke
and dreams, when I saw, in the cat’s mouth: the brick.

Lestrygonians

To whom it may concern. Although I still express myself
through the written word I am rebranding my activities.
Henceforth, refer to me as lifestyle model. Entrepreneur.
Writer is such a boring label. Sitting at my desk, writing.
Going down the long treacherous American road, words
in my head. Now I sit in my studio, creating lifestyles.
Creating capital where there once was art. Selling poetry
snowglobes that you shake to create a new poem. Because
in America we are a people of leisure: verbal affluence;
prosperity diction; luxury grammar with deep pockets. It’s
all in my annual report. So look back in anger all ye popstars,
business gurus, and influencers of the corporate daisy chain.
I’ve learned the art of your deal. My windows are already
broken, wild beasts know my name. I am your competition.

Rubber Bullets and Electric

This is an elegy for those who couldn’t be stopped by rubber bullets,
who cried through tear gas attacks but kept striding forward,
who marched in love all day in sweaty, dirty clothes like drifters
in search of a cool breeze. This is for those who were dragged into
cellars or thrown into the river, the children put in cages and made
orphans, laughs turned into endless lamentation, curable diseases trans-
formed into death sentences. But this is also for those who took hard drugs
for the singular tone of contentment they provided, no matter how long or
how short, who tripped their brains toward infinity like noonday surfers
on speed. The summer sun sets as always in the west, over mountains of
angst and imbecility, the grey-green sea churning like industrial waste,
swelling the canal’s banks, yellow sky brightening even the insides of dank
caves on black Fridays. This is for everyone who had to be taken away,
everyone who walked that long hard walk because they were electric.

Head

With antifa hath no xenophobic, homophobic sons of bitches a
comfortable sports bar for drinking domestic brew and eating greasy,
fatty snacks; with antifa seeth no woman named Karen an unblemished
memorial to Stonewall Jackson teaching her heritage and history and
her right to take dominion over all other heritage and history; with antifa
selleth no Thomas Kinkade on QVC, his paintings and memorial shot glasses;
with antifa sniffeth no drug-sniffing dogs on the border of Mexico and Texas,
no notched-belt sheriff with an itchy trigger finger and a pink poodle named
Maurice on the Rio Grande River; with antifa no hawk in sheep’s wool
dyed blue in elected office, his fingers holding a blunt, his lips giving orders
to kill. The drone misses its target between bride and bridegroom on their
wedding day; Lee Greenwood sings “at least I know how much I suck” at
the county fair. With antifa Mr. Bob Dobalina can’t shut the gate to his
gated community. With antifa a man without a face mask gets fucked.

Melquíades, He Sees Everything Like This

When I was freaked with acid one Fourth of July the
world seemed to emerge as if from some southern gothic
film. I stared at friends and neighbors as they told stories
then shut squeaky windows in response to my silence,
which made me laugh. City traffic moved like fast highways,
but on looking over to the next lane I’d smile, thinking: oh,
they’re tripping too
or oh the basilisk is getting too close and
I’d look far far away. Superstars with big hits and fancy cars
ceased to exist because we were all big hits, climbing the
pop charts like sweltering heat up glass tubes as the changing
light changed into something that wasn’t light, feeling that
nothing in this world would ever crush me again. Later that
year I read, for the first time, One Hundred Years of Solitude,
and started, finally, to leave all my busy old friends behind.

Introducing Feliciano Balastiqui

And so there were ghosts in the house that papa built four hundred
years ago, restless witches and tidy men and vice versa. Several lives
later Thatcher made war in the Falklands and Reagan made love to
an image of America corrupt as the villain on a nighttime soap opera.
I remembered Lightin’ Hopkins and Lester Bangs who left the planet
that year, when I’d been alive for a quarter century like one of several
coins you’d drop in a cigarette machine. I tried to be swank and cool with
ostentation but I always ended up being subtle and shit when I wanted
to be blunt and bold and full of pulchritude. And it was four and a half
noisy centuries earlier when Ruy López de Villalobos named the Islas del
Poniente for King Philip II of Spain, who’d attempted to make the Inquisition
more electric. If only I could scratch it from today like a particle from the
future in quantum physics, changing a particle from far far in the past.
If only I could gather all my spare parts and shine the rest of my days.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua

Memo in the Form of a Sonnet to the White Supremacist Who Referred to My Wife as a Breeding Vessel for the Hispanic Invasion

Photograph by Heather Davis and Jose Padua
Despite my name being Jose I am
not Hispanic but Filipino, which means
that as far as you’re concerned my white wife
is not a breeding vessel for the Hispanic
invasion, but for the Asian invasion. Please
take note of this. Because the Asian invasion,
and all the other invasions you fear, are gaining
strength like tropical depressions, and as the days
go by your vessel will lose more and more
of its buoyancy, more of its ability
to breed. Which means, as far as my wife and I
are concerned, that there’s still hard, hard work
to be done. That, like a sturdy vessel riding
high upon the waves, we we will continue to float.

-Jose Padua

First published, in a slightly different version, at Vox Populi.

When I Was a Massacre of Epic Proportions

Photograph by Jose Padua
When I was a massacre of epic proportions
and you were a murmuration of sad songs,
we lived in a different world. Our meals
were simple, gathered from ground and sea
and cooked over an open fire or sometimes
not cooked at all. My face had fewer lines,
I could lift my weight in apples because
my weight in apples was less than my weight
is now. I began measuring these things in
cinder blocks, this being a denominator as
common as panic in a rapidly beating heart.
Being a massacre, I could make my way
through the world so easily. A war in Asia,
a clash of ideals in Europe, a steady conquering
of the poor and toothless in America—
all were places and occasions where I was
welcome, where everyone would stop what
they were doing to say “Oh, it’s here” each
time I showed up. When I left, you’d linger
with your sad songs, tears running from your
eyes, dampening the gathered souls like a
warm summer’s rain. Tonight there are empty
seats on an airplane going from China to Japan.
There’s a restaurant in Bagdad where dust
hasn’t been wiped from the tables in years.
A child in New York stares out his bedroom
window at the quiet street below. I sit in a room
like a diminished tone of muscle, because there
is nothing so beautiful as these stark days, nothing
as soothing as white noise from an old radio.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua

High

Photograph by Jose Padua
My response to the current plague is to wake up
a little later each morning. The kids are home

from school and don’t need to go anywhere, don’t
need to learn anything, at least not right now.

Because what is there to learn during a crisis
except how to stay alive, keep your heart beating

like a disco song? I remember the 70s, remember
being so impressed by the beautiful color speed

came in. Those beautiful old days when my legs
could still take me to far places. I go to sleep

early now, lie down when I’m tired, don’t stay up late
writing poems and stories listening to Pharoah Sanders,

the New York Dolls, or Disco Tex and the Sexolettes.
Holy Christ was that a song, or was that a sign

that someone was glad to see me since the last manifestation
of apocalyptic ennui? I walk slowly down the stairs now

in deference to my arthritic knees, aware that my sense
of balance is something like a hit of acid, those long-ago

nights when I’d look at people without nodding
even more than when I wasn’t on acid, or mushrooms.

Oh what a feeling that was, oh what a way to feel
the non-ache and flexing muscle around my

Filipino-American or sometimes just American
young bones, and bones seem more important now,

like the bone-in pork at the grocery store, which I go to
wearing a mask, mittens, goggles, and galoshes

because I like that alliterative ambiance. I like the way
a man is a man and a woman is a woman and a they

is a they doing it so gloriously for theyselves
or I mean themselves, or whatever safe space selves.

I eat quickly now like a meal is a moment so easily
stolen from you, watching the evening news

while taking slow gulps from my glass of cold water,
so far from those days when we drank Schlitz

or Michelob and thought Coors was the ultimate beer
when nowadays we say, oh seriously, fuck Coors

and fuck beer. I want craft brew with a hint
of cardamom and orange peel, served in a mug

that bears the logo of my favorite non-profit organization.
Treat me like my name is Bill Murray and my middle name

is Fucking. Believe in me like my name is Don Corleone
and it’s the first half of The Godfather, before he got old. But

my name is Jose Padua and my pronouns are motherfucker,
motherfucker, and motherfucker’s. How did it end up like this

in these horse’s rear-end times? Why do I have to translate
for you my existential bewilderments? Why am I on the

bullet train back from New York when my friends are
riding coach, I guess I’m lucky that way. And I’m amazed

at how my son from such a young age made sure to describe
the precise thing he wanted like ice cold water or a cream

cheese sandwich, make sure not to cut it in half ‘cause that
sucks; how my daughter paints pictures of things the way

she sees them, stripped of the spectacle of corporate costume,
entrance music, and color scheme; how my wife stands so long

like a walk through a garden when it’s a house we live in and
not the open earth under a starry distant sky between river

and mountain. Right before the plague we packed up that
old house out in small town America. Half our neighbors

were crazed, the other half wholesome as the virgin breath
of infants; they made shelter from an atmosphere of rolling

coal and diesel fuel. I think it was Guy Debord who said
it’s so much easier for mainstream media to cover a brand

than a genuine human being. Either that or me in a dream
where I’m smart and lucid and have read every paragraph

Guy Debord ever wrote in the original French. My name
is Jose Padua, it’s just a name I’m saying again because

this is a time of modern plague and shit. It’s a time of
plague and they’re asking us to choose between

the lesser piece of shit and the worst piece of shit. Then
telling us that if we hold out for something better then

we’re a piece of shit, too. I remember humanity before
it became nothing more than an empty shell; then I remember

that humanity was always an empty shell. Every moment
the memory’s different. So we take the kids out back,

bounce the ball around or throw it in the alley away from
everyone else. Look up at the wires on telephone poles,

the loose strands that keep us connected to other faces
and ways of life. I hear a voice in the distance saying

something I can’t understand. And footsteps which
means to leave them some space, let them go on their

way like disarmed enemies. This is America 2020 and
I feel like I’m back on acid again. Staring at people,

my head still as a traffic signal. Blinking, flashing,
shining color as if to say, yeah, move on, and call me

motherfucker. And up above us it’s a cloudy sky. And
the birds are flying, they’re keeping their distance from

one another, making dark wide circles in the scraping air
as they fly so beautifully high, so beautifully high.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua

A Brief Story About My Head and Other Fragile Sensibilities

Photo by Jose Padua
So I tried jumping up and down, my head tilted to the right. I did it several times, at two in the morning. There was no one awake in the house to see me doing it, though I was careful not to jump too hard—I didn’t want to wake anyone up. Because even if I were to explain it to my wife Heather and to my fourteen year old daughter Maggie and to my seven year old son Julien, there was something about it that felt ridiculous. It would have been like someone coming down the stairs to see me not hard at work writing, but in front of the television watching Little House on the Prairie. Yeah, I love that show.

All right, I’m lying about loving Little House on the Prairie, which isn’t to say that back in the day, in the house I grew up in, I didn’t enjoy having it on in the living room, watching it with my mother. I especially liked Alison Arngrim as the mean and nasty Nellie Oleson. Nellie Oleson had attitude, and from what I remember, she liked to mess with people. Years later, Alison Arngrim would write about her work on the show as well as her real life struggles in Confessions of a Prairie Bitch: How I Survived Nellie Oleson and Learned to Love Being Hated.

I haven’t read the book, and I hadn’t thought about Alison Arngrim in a long, long time, but somehow I thought about her when my ears started to clear up. When, after jumping up and down a few times, I began to hear something beautiful in my right ear—sound. Sound from the outside world and not that of my heart beating or the blood rushing through my veins. Sound, like water dripping from the faucet. Sound, like the asshole next door with his unmuffled pickup truck, running the noisy engine for ten, fifteen, twenty minutes before finally driving off to who knows where. Sound. It was what the instructions I found somewhere on the internet said I would get. Sound—it’s what I got back in my right ear that Monday night.

Sunday, the day before, my ears had been congested for about a week (they’d been clogged on and off since December of the previous year, when I had pneumonia). With the general fatigue, achiness, and congestion that accompanied pneumonia having come back, it seemed like a good idea to go to a doctor. What’s more, with Maggie feeling like she’d come down with the flu, it seemed like a good idea for her to go as well. And so, as usual, we got in the car—Heather, Maggie, Julien, and I—and headed up to the Front Royal urgent care center, which was the only place open on a Sunday.

We got there at three, and not long after that one of the nurses led us all into one of the examining rooms. She took Maggie’s and my blood pressure, and left. Soon, the doctor opened the door. He looked at us and right away gritted his teeth. The look in his eyes seemed like scorn or disgust.

“OK, what are you here for?”

“Well,” I said. “My head is congested and my ears are all clogged, and I’m also having some chest congestion and trouble breathing.”

“And what do expect me to do about it?” He practically barked his words at me.

Maggie looked over to Heather, surprised at the doctor’s hostile tone. And I raised my voice a bit in response.

“Well, I’d like to know if there’s anything I can do,” I said. “I had pneumonia last month, and I’ve been feeling bad again for a week, so I thought I’d better have it checked out.” It was hard for me not to add, “Do you have a fucking problem with that?”

The doctor lightened his tone slightly—very slightly. “All right, let me put it this way. What are your expectations?”

This time, I had to refrain from saying, “My expectations when I come here are to be seen by a doctor who’s not going to act like a total dickhead.”

When he listened to my lungs, he said, “They’re completely clear.” And then, as I took another deep breath he added, “a little wheezing is normal.” I was ready to smack him. And, as Heather told us later, she was too.

The tension never let up. Even when he examined Maggie, he seemed ready for confrontation. His advice before leaving didn’t go much further than “wait it on out” for Maggie, and “blow your nose” for me. Usually, when we go to the urgent care center, we get a decent doctor. This was not one of those times.

Later that night, I googled the doctor. He lived in one of the towns out here in the valley. Right away, I found, in the opinion section of his town’s little newspaper, an op-ed piece he’d written. The paper titled his piece “Madison County physician decries warming ‘hoax.’” Among the doctor’s opinions was that “global warming/climate change advocates are part of what will undoubtedly be known as the greatest hoax in modern times and Al Gore as the 21st century’s greatest snake oil salesman.” Further searching found a letter-to-the-editor where he decried how “the self-reliant and personally responsible” are “in conflict with the dependent and entitled”—with him, of course, being among what he considers the “the self-reliant and personally responsible.” I wondered if the scorn he showed Heather, Maggie, Julien, and I was in response to his looking at us as part of an “increasingly dependent and entitled segment of the population.” Indeed, I wondered exactly what it was he saw.

The next night, after a day in which I blew my nose and drank plenty of hot drinks—after a day when the clearest sound I could hear was that of me chewing my food when I ate—my ears were still clogged. Then I jumped up and down. And Little House on the Prairie wasn’t the only thing that went through my mind that night. I also thought about House of Pain’s song “Jump Around.” And the Mikey Dread song, “Jumping Master.” And, I thought about the time when I was five, jumping up and down in the apartment in DC where my family lived at the time. Jumping over and over and hearing later, from my mom, that all the plaster in the ceiling of our downstairs neighbor Eleanor’s apartment, came crashing down while I was jumping. Eleanor, who’d had polio when she was a child and had to wear leg braces to walk. Eleanor, who couldn’t jump.

Over five decades later, there in the Shenandoah Valley, taking my kids to school the morning after a night when I jumped up and down, up and down, my ears were clogged again. After dropping them off, I turned up the car stereo so I could hear the music better. The song was Ahmad Jamal’s “ Marseille,” featuring vocals by Abd Al Malik. The vocals were in French, and in English they say something like this:

Marseille, I often walk your streets alone
And then, too often I am gone
Marseille, my lonely heart needs your caress
My life, is full of deep regret
Your sun, is unrelenting till it sets

And even though I have never been to Marseille, and have never even been to France, and even though my French is bad, I am feeling it. Feeling it, even when I’m not hearing it well. Feeling it even, sometimes, when I’m not seeing it. And sometimes, though not as often as I used to, I am walking. To somewhere and from somewhere, with the emphasis sometimes being on the former and sometimes on the latter. Sometimes, too, I will jump. I jump less often than I walk, but I do jump, because it’s my privilege. It’s something I’m entitled to do. And, for now, it’s something I depend on.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua

Bright Moments and Other Entries in the Discography of the Sky

Photograph by Jose Padua
Before we left the old family house in DC, where we spent that weekend, my seven-year old son Julien said, “Wait, I need my Rahsaan Roland Kirk CD.” Searching with Julien the day before, I’d found a few Rahsaan Roland Kirk CDs in the vast collection of LPs and CDs in the basement, and he didn’t want to go back to Front Royal without borrowing at least one of them.

Of the three I’d found—Rip, Rig and Panic; Simmer, Reduce, Garnish & Serve; and Bright Moments—Julien chose the last to borrow. As soon as we got in the car, he asked me to slip Bright Moments into the car stereo, and I did. Meanwhile, he called out the window to my brother Tony who was standing outside our car, “Make sure you have some Ornette Coleman records.” Which meant, I suppose, that he wanted to borrow some Ornette Coleman CDs next time we were in DC. And then we drove home, west on 66, listening to Bright Moments.

Earlier that weekend Julien was watching one of the Spiderman movies when his big sister Maggie switched the station to see what was going on with the Grammy Awards. Onstage at the time was Ed Sheeran singing that “I’m in love your body” song, and Julien immediately said, “I don’t like this stupid guy!”

Around that time, Maggie had been working on learning to play one of my favorite Ryuichi Sakamoto songs, “Bibo no Aozora” (Beauty of a Blue Sky). Sometimes, when Julien was with her in the hall where our piano was in our Front Royal house, she’d try to teach him the opening notes to Thelonious Monk’s “Ruby, My Dear.” He wouldn’t get very far, but whenever he sat there with her at the piano, even if it was only for half a minute, he seemed intrigued by the possibilities.

The next day it was Valentine’s Day. On that day, twenty-one years earlier, Heather and I had gone to Planet Fred near Dupont Circle in DC. They had a martini special going on that night and a DJ was playing a mix that included things like Count Basie, Duke Ellington, and, I think, Glenn Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade.” I don’t remember for sure if “Moonlight Serenade” was playing, but that’s what it felt like. Ever since that night we’ve been together, with the years going by fast like blue skies and each day opening up like the album cover of a double LP. Which was what Bright Moments was—a double LP. You opened up the cover and on each side was a sleeve with a separate LP. We’d only borrowed the CD, although the double LP was also at the house. That, we couldn’t play in the car, though. And today, Heather and I are celebrating twenty-four years together.

This photograph of Heather, Maggie, and Julien was taken earlier that month in 2017 in Clearbrook Park, north of Winchester, Virginia. It was one of many days when we went out without any real plan and no idea of what we were going to do. It was one of those blue sky days. It was a sane day in the middle of an insane age. All we knew was that as soon as we were finished doing one thing, we’d move on to do whatever we had to do next.

-Jose Padua

It Happened One Night

Photograph by Jose Padua
Not a day or week goes by
working late at night
downstairs in the dining room
of our hundred year
old house when I don’t
imagine that when I stand up
and go to the kitchen
for a glass of water
or after midnight snack
or into the living room
for the cushioned splendor
of our beat-up old sofa
to give my back a break from
the stiff wooden chair
I sit on when I write
that I’ll look up
and suddenly see
a ghost, a spirit, a misty
entity that will make me
gasp, then yell or shout,
waking up everyone
in the house,
and they’ll come down
the stairs to see me,
the color gone
from my cheeks,
my knees a little weak,
my hands trembling slightly
as if I’d just crossed paths
with the infinite,
or put too much jelly
on my toast.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua

Days of Cinnamon and Other Kinds of Sound and Ache

Photo by Jose Padua
That morning, at the grocery store we always went to in Front Royal, I saw one of the cashiers I hadn’t seen in a while. A tall woman about my age or maybe slightly older, she was standing in her aisle, supporting herself with a cane. I nodded and said hello as I walked by on the way to the produce section where I got garlic, an onion, four tomatoes, and two potatoes then turned left. I picked up a cheap jar of olives, then headed back down to the meat and poultry aisle to get ground turkey and some chorizo sausage. Circling around to the other side of the store, I picked up more milk and some creamer before turning up the aisle back toward the checkout lanes.

When I got back to the front of the store, the woman was still there, standing on the aisle down from her cash register. “Are you ready?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“All right, I got you.”

As I put my groceries on conveyor belt, I noticed that it hurt for her just to move down the aisle to her register. “How are you feeling?” I asked.

“Well,” she said. “It’s just my second day back. You haven’t seen me around because I’ve been out since January when I had surgery on both my knees.”

“Oh my,” I said. “And now you have to stand all day again.”

“Yeah, it’s back to doing this.”

“Do you get a decent break where you can rest your knees?”

“Well, not really,” she said, and she went on to explain how after they did the surgery on her knees at Warren County Memorial Hospital in town she developed a blood clot that went up to her lungs. For that she had to go to INOVA Fairfax hospital, where she had to stay for a while, away from home and away from her husband who can’t drive.

“Oh no, that’s rough,” I said, knowing how depressed I would get if I had to spend so much time away from my wife Heather and my kids Maggie and Julien.

“Then, when I was back home after the clot, I was doing errands. Coming here for groceries as a matter of fact, when I fell coming out of the cab I took to get me here. I hit my head and had a concussion and hurt one of my knees again, which put me back in the hospital again.”

“Oh wow,” I said. “One thing after another. I hope things get a little easier from here on out.”

“Well, it is good that I’m back working, because now my husband can’t.” And she explained how her husband was working at a juice factory, but because he has COPD and because of whatever gets into the air at the juice factory he can’t work there anymore.

We talked for a while after she’d finished ringing up my groceries. I wished her luck, an easier time, disability benefits, a winning lottery ticket, and about a dozen other things before I went back to my car.

It was a beautiful spring morning. I had the windows rolled down and Miles Davis’s “Spanish Key” playing on the car stereo. It’s the sort of music that’s probably better suited for night time, driving through some busy part of a big city or else driving fast down some highway at three in the morning, but I turned it up anyway.

Back at our house in Front Royal, I brought the groceries in, then put the deep skillet on the front burner of the stove, added some cinnamon, cumin, nutmeg, and a couple of cloves, and turned it up to medium. On another skillet I added some olive oil, and put the chorizos on low. I sat down at the kitchen table, where I pulled apart a bulb of garlic, peeled it, and chopped it all up, then did the same thing to with an onion. When the aroma of the spices in the deep skillet began to waft through the kitchen air, I added olive oil, and threw in the garlic and onion and stirred it for a couple minutes. Then I took the ground turkey and stirred it in before taking the chorizos out of the other skillet and bringing them to the table and cutting them up. After adding those to the mix, I peeled the two potatoes, diced them, threw them into the skillet, then diced the tomatoes and threw them in, too. Last were the olives, two bay leaves, and a little more cinnamon. Then I covered the skillet, turned the heat down to low, and sat down at the computer to do some of the work I get paid for.

I knew that because Julien had his swimming lessons that evening, I wouldn’t get a chance to make this dish, picadillo, later in the day, which was why I cooked it in the morning. When Heather got home from her office in Rosslyn that afternoon, she and I could take Julien to his swimming lesson uptown. Maggie could stay at home and relax for a while and then just have dinner heated up for us when we returned.

When Heather, Julien, and I got back, the dining room table was set and the picadillo was heated up along with some rice I’d cooked right before we left for swimming. We ate dinner, then Heather helped Julien with his homework while Maggie went off to talk to one of her friends on the phone. I walked down the hall and into the parlor, which was where my old stereo with the turntable was set up, and saw that Maggie had two albums out that she was listening to while we were at Julien’s swimming lesson.

The first was Neil Young’s 1972 album Harvest. It’s not my favorite Neil Young record, but somehow it was the only one I had on vinyl there. The other record Maggie had out was the pianist Stanley Cowell’s 1974 solo record Musa: Ancestral Streams. This is one of those records that has followed me wherever I go. Many times “Abscretions,” Equipoise,” “Travellin’ Man” or some other tune from the album will start playing in my head. After hearing it there, I usually like to hear it for real, in the air, filling up a room with its intricate motions and delicate gestures. It’s why, if it’s at all possible, I don’t like to be very far from this record. There is, within its tones and melodies, a kind of magic—magic being something I’ve actually always depended upon. Because despite the often desperate climate of these times here in America—as well as so many instances in the past when I could have easily ceased to have faith in these things—I continue to believe that magic is the adjunct effect of action, and that the power or even the simple possibility of each of these must never be underestimated. In other words, despite the awfulness of any situation, I still believe that good things can be made to happen, and that pure pessimism is for assholes. At any rate, that’s what I always try to tell myself.

The next day, the cashier at the grocery store would again be on her feet all day. I’d be doing my easy work, taking breaks when I want and sitting down, eating well, hearing music in my head, driving, and sometimes panicking, worrying, despairing over all the things that will never get done. It’s not fair, it’s not equal, and I am never doing enough to remedy these situations and predicaments and I am always at a loss as to what I should do next. So I write another poem, another essay, another fragmented bit of remembrance. I keep on going even though my audience is small, I keep thinking even though my thoughts often go in circles, I keep breathing even though the spring air makes me sneeze and always reminds me that, for most people, living is something that is never fully comfortable. I’m good with that and with all the things that are beyond me. And sometimes, even though I am often reluctant to do so, I am happy just to speak to people.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua

Half Dreams of the River and Everything It Gives Us and Everything It Takes Away


That Monday, as usual, I picked up my daughter Maggie from school, then drove over to my son Julien’s school, where she and I waited for him in the queue of cars. When the queue started to move and we picked Julien up, he sat in the back, buckled his seat belt, and asked Maggie, “How was your day?”

“Ah, it was good,” Maggie said.

“Did you make any bad choices?” Julien asked.

“Er, no,” Maggie said.

“Are you sure?” Julien asked.

“I’m sure,” she said.

When Maggie and I asked Julien if he made any bad choices in school that day, he just laughed, which means that although he doesn’t know how to say something that sounds like an answer without actually being an answer, he does know how to act as if none of this is important. With the school year soon coming to a close, the questions, of course, have changed. Me, I always feel a sense of relief at the end of the school day, and even more so at the end of the school year. And I wonder how much less I’d know, even at my age, if I’d never made at least a few bad choices.

The next day, when Julien got in the car, he asked, referring to the music that was playing, “What is this?”

“You know what this is,” I said. “You know who’s playing.”

“Rahsaan Roland Kirk,” he then said, meaning that although he may forget the sources of inconsequential information, he doesn’t forget what’s worth remembering. So, even though he may not request the music of Miles Davis, Oliver Nelson, Serge Gainsbourg, and Lizzy Mercier Descloux as much as he used to, he still remembers their names and the sounds they made and the notes they hit with elegance and skill.

Last week, Heather heard that a good number of people driving by the weekly Vigil for Democracy/Anti-Trump demonstration at the gazebo here in Front Royal were giving our side the finger. Sometimes it’s a young mother or father with kids in the car, driving by and seeing signs that say something like “Trumpistan: Government by Billionaires for Billionaires” or “Trump’s Agenda Is Toxic,” then flipping off whoever is holding that sign. We’re also seeing more and more pickup trucks bearing Confederate flags around town, which means that spring is slowly making way for summer here in the valley. We’d taken a break from the demonstrations since the big one Heather helped organize in March. “But yeah,” she said. “We need to start going again. While we’re still here.” And, it’s also something to come back for from time to time.

Last week, it rained most of the time. Last week, on the way to a doctor’s appointment in Winchester, we took Gun Barrel Road again, but parts of it were so flooded we almost had to turn around. Last week, I could hear our neighbor yelling at someone in the rain. Last week, I heard the sound of rain on the tin roof at night or in the afternoon or in the morning and the rest of the time, when I didn’t hear it, I was waiting for it. Last week I didn’t feel well for a few days. Last week the world seemed to smell sour and dank without interruption. Last week even laughter felt heavy. Last week was like that.

Later in the week, though, Maggie hooked her phone up to the car stereo. While we waited for Julien to get out of school she played East River Pipe’s “Life Is a Landfill” and Stereolab’s “Come Play in the Milky Night.” They were songs I would have played, too, but because she was playing them she was OK with them being played loud, so she played them loud and I was OK with that. I listened to the words, “Life is a landfill, baby/ All this garbage piled high/ Black dove filled memories/ Secret wishes to the sky.” They’re sad words, yes, and the music is sad, too, but it all adds up to something beautiful. “Come Play in the Milky Night” is a much more upbeat song, but it has no words. We listened as we watched the monster truck in line ahead of us.

“Don’t you wish I could pick you up from school driving a monster truck?” I asked Maggie.

“Oh, yeah,” she said.

“You’d be proud,” I said, and we kept on listening to the music. When the queue started moving, we pulled up to see Julien giving us that look that says the distance from wherever we are to home is decreasing. It’s a relaxing of the brow, that rapid eye movement from squint to revelation. It’s a smell of roses that somehow don’t make you sneeze.

On Friday, Heather worked from home. I took a break from work in the morning and sat down on the sofa right before Heather went out to do an errand. Pretty soon I was asleep. About an hour later I woke up to see some tiny girl walking in the door. I didn’t know who she was. She was as small as a baby, but she walked straight and smoothly like a girl on a box of salt, waiting for all that white stuff to dissolve. I started to get scared, though, wondering what this little girl was doing in our house. That’s when Heather walked in the door, and the odd little girl was gone. I figured that I must have been dreaming. Dreaming because we are animals. Dreaming because every story we tell is a story about ourselves, full of details we’re surprised we remember, details we know and details we don’t know. Dreaming because having a story to tell is like having sharp claws, and a quick swipe of language can draw blood. Sometimes I feel like I need a bandage all around me. Sometimes I feel as if I’ve just seen a ghost.

On Saturday, we found ourselves in Paris for a performance of selections from La Boheme. What was surprising about this was not that we were seeing opera out here, but that after living in the Shenandoah valley for ten years, this was the first time we had ever been to Paris. We hadn’t planned on it. We’d only heard about this performance an hour before it was set to begin. Maggie had spent the day with some of her friends from her old Montessori school. They were about to drive off from our house when one of them said, “Oh, do you want to go to Paris to see these opera singers?” A few minutes later, that’s where we were headed—east on John Marshall Highway, a left on Pleasant Vale Road after passing through Markham, then north on Winchester Road to Paris, Virginia. And though in Front Royal the rain had cleared, in going to Paris we were heading right back into it. But because we were going to the opera we were OK with that.

In Paris I took a photograph of Julien listening to opera for the first time. He was suspicious at first. It was like riding a two-wheeler for the first time—you’re not sure if you can do it. During intermission we all went next door to the Paris Apothecary. It’s run by our friend Susan, and she sells herbs, spices, tea, coffee, shrubs, wine, elixirs. It was a good place to take shelter from the week. When one of the opera singers came in and walked by we said hello. When she was gone, Julien asked, “Is she famous?”

“No,” I said. “But she should be famous.”

Heather and I shared a glass of wine and Maggie ate a banana nut muffin, but all Julien wanted was water. Like a river. Like the light rain that was still falling outside. All he wanted was water, and as he drank it he had a look in his eyes that seemed to say that the distance between here and home was diminishing with each sip.

-Jose Padua

Photograph (of the mist in Paris, Virginia) by Jose Padua