"And now, Li Li has her moment,"

the director looks at me confidently. I have been dreading this all day. I knew it was coming. There on a steel bridge over the smudgy Chicago River, the camera is about to roll. This film will be distributed internationally, I'm told. My Russian-spy kidnapper (actually his stunt double) has just been popped into the water by my rescuer's bullet, and I, in my blue, lace lingerie and heeled, black boots, am in a crumpled position on the grated, metal road, head cocked listening to the director's game plan.

on the set of March in the Windy City

Alright, I say behind my over-made-up eyes, "Li Li", it's show time. Think of your village back in Guang Dong, of the fantastical, horrifying life you have led in the Chinatown brothel and have just now been allowed to live for a bit longer. Think of the cold gun just recently dropped from beneath your chin. Think of your depressed husband back in the university apartment, writing his depressing dissertation on nuclear destruction. Think of last night's dishes waiting for you in the very small sink in that apartment kitchen. Think of how fake this anguished, mental breakdown is going to look when it gets broadcast worldwide. Action. "Aaaaahhhhh!" 

Eyes Bigger

We crane to see, need to solve, grope to find. A multitude of mirrors bouncing back to expand our jittery, blinking lense:  the oracle of others, shining with praise or checked with opinions, the Hubble spacecraft hurling sights over the humanoid fence line, the dentist unmercifully angling his cold, circular plane to publicize my shy molar crevices. We are purveyors within and without. But still we look, rummaging through the inventory.

Makeup companies, furnishing empires on jet black mascara and velveteen shadow, know the power of the eye. The lady dons these wares and captivates the frame, inviting mystery and a plummet into secrets. How short or long the fall, one chances to find. But depth is seeking depth, and can't rest until it is sufficiently lost in its sea. So many jump and are disappointed by the painted shallow.

Time to See

I have no time to see
the bridges
the graven dates
the rivers leaning against the town
like a dog at your knees

but I see them in a bookstore 
as I pass after work
a thousand miles away, no, three
 “Best Towns of... “

I miss you, America

Reduction

By your forty-somethings, you've tried quite a lot. Books and bars, roadtrips with mixtapes, delicacies with extra legs, degrees, fundraisers with aprons, fitness programs, color swatches, knives, briefs, thongs, hair cuts, jobs, mentors and mentees, rivals and friends. Sometimes the approach was with the point of a toothpick, sometimes running headlong with two buckets swinging. This year, just before Christmas, you decide Santa cannot possibly come unless this room is truly cleaned. That means sorting. And tossing. Of course, Mr. Bear-Bear is a keeper, as well as the 1970's dollhouse passed down from Gung-Gung's generosity. But it's a start. Reduction.

After my job running federally-funded energy programs became "unstimulated", my life got reduced to the best of necessities. I was given the gift of meaningful time with the kids and hubby plus a new, spartan, laundry-when-you-need-it attitude along with the no-frills-groceries budget. Limitation became freedom. And I decided I was in no rush now to refill my clean life-fridge with containers of imperceptible and inedible food.