So, my grandmother cooks delicious pancakes for breakfast. Thin, like crepes. The kind my father cooked every sunday when I was growing up.580. Birmingham. Thin windy cave like road in Berkeley. A eulogy. Martin Luther King Blvd. I park and my friend Jubilith gets out of the car in front of me where she has been practicing a speech for tomorrow when her company, Theater of Yugen, opens for a visiting Japanese Noh performance. We are early and I, by pure coincidence have parked behind her. We sit in Jubilith's car like teenagers discovering freedom at the lightening speed of technological progress in a midcentury melodrama, even though we are not.
Then, the Tibetan teahouse. The religious have set up stalls of delicious food - mango sticky rice, papaya salad, pad thai, roasted squash, curries, an overwhelm of food. The monks and nuns cannot handle money so you have to trade your money for special coins to pay for the food. And then all the guests sit together on benches and broad tables in the middle of the courtyard and talk about going away.
The Sierra Mountains, mist, is that snow? yes that's snow. the mountain top. on the mountain top. Decent into night. The night. Flat night. Asher calls, my brother. Parked on the pitchdark shoulder of the highway with a bad connection. We are struggling with our dad getting remarried because it confuses our sense of family - how to maintain a relationship with our mom who is so still and a relationship with our dad who is moving, moving. How do we relate to both of them? There are no cars here on the nighttime highway in Nevada so it feels safe.
Driving.
I splurge for a motel 6 a few hours from Wendover.
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