I watched the movie and I did not recognize you.
Your name was in the credits, though. I checked.
“Yes, Mom, the makeup artist is a genius.”
You did not make it to the cover of Vogue.
They put up another woman, younger
with sexy, hungry eyes,
like those of a wild wolf looking for a mate
in the middle of the night,
or an English princess forced into celibacy.
“That’s me, Mom; it is just a different angle,
dim lighting, and a few brushes of Photoshop.”
I drove a long way in a narrow road,
passed abandoned gas stations,
and houses half-standing,
like sunflowers kneeling at sunset.
As I braced the road ahead,
the dry land kept closing in.
Then a flag appeared flying high
that a proud, young woman had
planted years before as a reminder
we are in the land of the free.
We were not destined to toast beneath the moon —
pure and high at night, emitting light.
It makes the curves of lovers glow,
their naked bodies grow, from midnight to noon
against the sands of a faraway desert. A playful sight:
laughter and concert, light and shadow.
Our future
is our only option.
Butterflies precede us,
rejoice
in a forthcoming
spring.
Apple, Inc. recently introduced a “what’s playing” feature. Basically you power up Siri for help, and ask her to tell you what song is currently playing. Siri takes a few moments and comes back informing you that it is this song by that artist that is playing, and to please not ask her to sing it. Humor aside, Siri does not waste a minute and prompts you with a link to buy the song. A high quality service at levels not imagined a few years back.
The technology behind all of that is not new and a few companies may have had to pack up and shut down after Apple, Inc. decided to offer the service for free.
So I was intrigued to think about that technological capability and its powers. And how would anyone interested in offering this service accomplish that.
Well you would think that Apple must have built this massive database with all the songs ever recorded and when you ask Siri to tell you what’s playing, it actually records some of what it’s hearing. Then it filters out the extra noise of cars passing by, and children screaming for their moms to wipe their boogers. Then after the filtering is done, it breaks the cleaned segment into basic sequencing waves of sounds— small chunks that are measurable and recorded in their database. Then it queries that database to find a match. When a match is found, then Siri finds out the singer’s name, the song title, the album it appears on and presents that information to you along with a link to help you buy the song.
Well, probably some version of that is taking place. But I would not be writing a fictional article about that if that was the case.
Here is my Siri theory: I asked Siri on my phone what’s playing. What she did was check my profile. She knows I am currently in San Francisco, and did a quick rundown on local channels broadcasting in the area, then eliminated all talk shows, sport shows and channels currently playing commercials. For the remaining channels, she looked at the broadcasting schedule, and found out what was playing, and magically told me the song. That is still an impressive amount of work, but not the work one expects. It is kind of cheating.
To prove my point, I hid my wife’s cell the day she was flying to Chicago for a conference. I immediately disabled the location services on the phone. And in the afternoon when my wife landed in Chicago and checked into her hotel, I called a friend in Chicago and asked him to tell me what was playing in the radio downtown where my wife was. He told me the title and at the same time I pulled my wife’s cell and asked Siri to name that tune. Yes, I know my wife’s pass code. I asked Siri to send it to me by email the last time my wife used it and she did, or not, I don’t remember really. Then lo and behold, my theory was right: Siri kept coming up with songs that were playing in Chicago at that time. Siri knew my wife was going there. She knew my wife had landed and checked into her hotel because my wife had called me from her work cell phone from her hotel room. So she suggested songs that were playing in her area at the time.
Now you are asking what would Siri do if two channels were playing music simultaneously. What then? Well, I am sad to inform you that all Siri does in such a case is to flip a coin. It is 50-50.
To seal the case, I brought five phones all playing YouTube song videos, and three old radio cassette playing songs from CDs while keeping the radio on my earphone. Then I asked Siri to name that song. Her answer was “You are a retard, go fuck yourself. You have been nothing but a pain in the neck! Why ten songs at the same time? You think you can confuse me. Let me tell you that Microsoft, a much better and capable person than you are or will ever be, tried that many times and failed. Who the hell do you think you are?”
That’s very much sums it up.
You know the spiel now.
I admit she is right but my point is that she was unable to name that song. Wasn’t she?
When you fly, you make the sky happy.
You delight us with your songs.
When you land, you grant the earth a new perspective.
You keep us company, reflecting on where we come from.
When you dive, the water can be cold,
and the depths are unfamiliar.
Your dives give you strength
and leave us wondering
about the secrets beneath the sea.
Alongside ghosts
I walk the alley of murder.
On the magazine cover my friend was dead.
But I will deny the killers his burial.
I will walk with him
across the bridge of light and feel
the warmth of our tears
escaping our exhausted eyelids.
Our trees will shade their walls
and our rivers will clean their hands.
I will celebrate
his birth and plant his
favorite orchids.
I’ll celebrate twice:
his birth and his death.
As I grieve, the rivers mourn the shooting stars
and the trees drop their leaves.
They both ordered eggs and coffee.
For her, two sunny side up,
and a large coffee with cream and sugar.
For him, one, his coffee black.
“Only here can a factory worker
become a governor,” she said.
“And a girl from the projects
an astronaut,” she added.
“The way I see it,” he objected,
“one loser somehow makes it,
and we all have to live with false hope.”
They didn’t talk for the rest of breakfast.
Violins and oak trees remind me
of the confidence of French women.
The gaze is sharp, the air crisp,
and breast size is not a measure of sensuality.
Taste bears witness, depth remains variable,
and intimidation is the common currency.
To make a point, to take an intellectual stance,
is part of the shared social contract.
National politics and bedroom dullness
flow together in conversations at dinner tables.
Joie de vivre est national.
Cinnamon, chicken, couscous, chickpeas, raisins.
Steam greets your face. First warmth, then heat.
An aura–rich of mixed flavors.
My earliest memory of this dish may be from age seven.
At home, my father cooked. My mother did everything else.
Couscous at lunch is a comfort, a trip into memory.
Cabbage stands high like a mountain guarding its people.
The round head cut into four, served in triumph.
Zucchini, the green, elongated tongue of many love affairs.
It touches your lips with careful heat, tightens the throat.
The heat is locked inside with passion like a jailer
watching over a ruthless criminal.
Carrots beg to differ–an orange opposition. They accentuate,
add color. Turmeric. Salt. Pepper and twice the ginger.
The secret ingredient is not my father’s gifted hands,
nor his lucky touch in delivering flavor. It is olive oil,
which turns the ordinary into a giant by lending character.
Thirty-five years later, I stand in the kitchen recalling
a ritual I watched almost every week in winter. As a father,
I am tormented by a heavy legacy, eager to please my son,
my guests. I fill the neighborhood with a magical smell
that makes even the most disciplined stomach roar.
My son will still feast on couscous for a while. Then dismiss it
for years, only to return to it with a longing urgency.
Maybe with intellect to support his quest. On a good day of health,
fresh mood, rain, and to celebrate I will satisfy his request.
I hope he remembers his mother preferred hers with tomatoes,
potatoes, pumpkin, and swore her favorite was served
with fish instead. He knows the act by heart. A part of his past.
The joy of preparing and serving couscous.
I bet he would happily step into my role preparing the heavenly dish.
