Paris in Prayer

So there I was at 1:30 pm signing paperwork – this time at another sushi restaurant. But this time, I’m determined to stay there for a long time. I’ve learned my lesson – a job isn’t granted as easily as I thought it would come here in LA. My resume only shows legitimate work experience from NY, and I’m an LA native (brain Twizzler). It’s the actor’s dream job- my new place is a dinner hot spot – and yes, dinner’s only. That means I can up my game in modeling and learn under the tutelage of an experienced acting teacher. Day classes mixed with seeing sun and when night falls, I’ll be there to bus empty glasses and bowls onto my silver tray. It’ll be a lifestyle I won’t settle for, but I expect to set challenges to hone my craft and image as a talent in this industry.

Minutes later, I find Blue Bottle on Beverly on purpose- the taste of drip coffee ‘dripped’ into my mind. I sit looking opposite from the glass door; moments later, I look back and it’s Jake Gyllenhaal. In the awkwardness of wanting to take a picture and then post it on Facebook, I stage the sequence of surprise of both my new job and Jake on my news feed. I open the app again and scroll to find other news- Paris has been hit in a terrorist attack.

I pray and pray. Lord have mercy with your people- with our people.


The Bells of My King

“Mr. Sark, will you come over here?”

Stumbling to find his balance, he pushes off the fence; the remains of blood become the shadow of of an unfair trial. He approaches the battered villagers who are all holding bats fixed with 3 inch stainless steel nails to make it look like the gaudiest attempt to the start of a mass murder.

His voice is singular and under scrutiny.

“Mr. Sark, we are presuming you will now renounce your love for your king”.

Only the harp of the cold midnight air breaks the costly silence. His body feels the numbing sensation of the frozen concrete beneath him. He uses his wooden staff to prop himself to a knee.

“Thirteen years ago, you all voted exile- I was to never see my motherland again. But as if that wasn’t enough, you all called us back from the Island of Trope to have us publicly shamed and executed on my mother’s soil. Your god is plastered on walls and fills its pride on being an image on marble statues. But my king travels with my people.¬†And we too have journeyed with Him. And so here we are about to face our death. You chirp your bell as if it is time for us to renounce our king. But your bell is sweet music to our ears- there is no other verse so melodious than the one He whispers in my heart right now.”

“I love you. I love you, oh, child of mine.”

The Birds of a Rustled Feather

The birds hovered over a rustled feather. Why was it there just lying on the ground? This pack didn’t congregate if they didn’t see crumbs. But they did this time. The feather was the stage for many questions. Like a dandelion whisked by the movement of the hourly wind, this feather seemed to travel a few meters heading to its north. Over the immediate hedge, one of its cousin birds looked down below; his view wasn’t showing anything but a rocky blue.

“Jarre did want to travel more this year. I guess he left us without saying bye”.

Not being able to hold in the truth any longer, Homel spoke up in a grainy voice.

“He told me he was leaving. He couldn’t find community within us. He was always sharing when he found food, but the rest of us didn’t think about helping each other out. We love to play¬†survival of the fittest, but he left to see if there was another group of birds willing to love. Even if it meant that he’d fly off this island and risk his life.”

The birds’ attention quickly zapped as they heard a thud of crackers broach the entry point of their small cave. They hovered around it and feasted.

Homel grew teary eyed and whispered, “Jarre, you risked your life, but you gained your soul”.

Chateau de Pomegra

Changing gears for one post, I was biting into my pomegranate in its original context- whole and careful to bite in clusters without singling them. I also eat the entirety of the seed; it’s a bit chalky and dry once the juice funnels down my esophagus. So it led me to ask why do we associate grapes to wine? Were the sugars in grapes surprisingly much more than other fruits? Hence, the way forward to modern cellars and menu lists?

One forum writer and reader says, “Simply put, wine is the fermentation of the juice of fruit”. When I type in pomegranate wine in Google – there isn’t much that satisfy my curiosity palate. Sure, some wines explain the olfactory hints of pomegranate but the ingredients don’t directly hit the tip of my tongue.

I would like to see people experiment. Viticulture is great but horticulture can be so much more. It can be “pomegranately” beautiful.


I feel plump and round. The purple in me is royal. The canopy is the visor of my comfort. It’s Day 1 of three possible days for me to be picked off my vine. I see my master coming towards me. He’s wearing his Cordura picking bag and it’s half-full. He tastes a sample and knows I’m ready. It’s time. I land on top of my friends. “Hey, excuse me. Sorry. Wow, cozy.” My master’s ankle isn’t too well. He’s limping and putting more weight towards the right. I’ve never noticed. It feels different now that I’m about and moving. He steps on clay and limestone repeatedly. I see a great deal of the sky. It soon becomes the roof of a different canopy. We’re in.


There is a canopy over my heart. My roots are digging deeper to search for richer nutrients. The Council of Antiox gave me the lowliest of lands. I was the last among my peers to be given a plot and now even the short end of a carrot looks down on me. But it’s exactly where I need to be. My master has given me responsibility. He graces me with favorable climate and strategizes my vines to yield fruit in the most maximum way. He will watch over me. He will pluck the dead from me. He will come at his most optimum time to tell me I’m ready. I will not be fruit that is not under ripe or over ripe. My name is Concord. I’ll meet you at your dining table.