InnerCHANGE Storybook Contributions

Here are two "stories" that'll be going into the InnerCHANGE storybook; a time capsule of sorts. The first is simple enough and the second is a song I wrote (the first and only song I've written in fact) after "witnessing" a lot of the violence here in Caracas. Thinking about the violence, I was struck by the fact that there are a whole lot of songs against violence, but ironically the people committing violence never listen to them. On the other side, the song writers/singers typically don't have any real experience with violence either. So it's about that if the lyrics aren't obvious enough. Maybe I'll take a video of the song or something and put it up. Maybe. None the less, here are the stories:


Lime

I like to cook. While taking Spanish classes in Guatemala this past summer, I picked up a recipe for a simple salad of shredded carrots, onions, and tomatoes with nothing more than a generous helping of fresh squeezed lime and a pinch of salt for the dressing. Upon arriving in Caracas, I was happy to find the same ingredients and promptly added the salad to the meal repertoire.

This salad needs a lot of lime. I'd cut the limes in half and squeeze it over the carrots. Only the limes didn't behave well. The juice never fell straight down into the bowel or plate. Rather it shot out in spurts and streams to the side in a completely unpredictable fashion. I tried to adapt as best as I could, tilting the limes to the side, rotating and manipulating them until I had curved my arm into a knot. But alas, the counter and my torso would come away with more citrus than the salad. This went on for weeks. I smelled delightful.

One day I needed some things from the market. I happened to be buying cabbage from one particular stand and noticed some limes. The very pregnant woman at the stand handed me the cabbage and I asked for half a kilo of limes as well. As she placed them in the bag, she looked at me and said "You have to cut them down from the top, not from the side" and illustrated with her hands. I nodded my head and heard myself say "oh yeah, I know". Only the thing was, I didn't know. I'd been cutting my limes from the side, not cutting them from ends with the nibs.

When I started learning Spanish, I picked up a bad habit of nodding like I understood everything. At that time, I usually only understood about ten percent of what was being said, but I knew I couldn't improve unless people talked to me. So I lied. I learned to bob my head understandingly and throw in a lot of "si" and "claro" (clearly). It's a bad habit, especially now when I have a much better grasp of what is being said. Yet as much as I'd like to blame that habit for my response to the woman, the honest truth is I couldn't stand the humiliation of being taught something as simple as how to cut a lime.

When I got home, I tried it. The knife sang right through the two nibs without a thought of resistance. I picked up an oblong hemisphere, gave it a squeeze and behold! Lime juice, more than I had ever thought possible, poured out in a simple stream without any unruly outbursts. I was floored. I had no idea that a better way to cut a lime was even possible.

Life post-vertical-lime-cutting-discovery has been good. However, I'm never sure if I should tell others about this method. I have a feeling that they already know. But, if I ever notice someone cutting one from the side, I'll offer my own story, and tell of the lady that taught me how to cut a lime. They'll just not smell as fresh as they did before.

Song

It's just another song in vain to stop all the violence
It hears the stories, screams the news and still can't break the silence
With ironic lyrics and emotional cries
It's impotent to change a thing or dry tear filled eyes.

They'll sing it by the fire, they'll play it in their Ipods
Hippies bounce their heads in approval and folks singers sing along
Everyone who hears it is predisposed to agree
But friends of fists and triggers will never even hear it in the breeze.

There's a verse about war where innocent children are being killed
Where both sides are really brothers as they meet with their guts spilled
There's a cry of meaninglessness with a call to stop
But the verses' author has never even seen real blood drop.

When the bullet came in the door, I should have care a little more
But it's real hard to care when there's no blood on the floor.
My God what can I do once the man's been shot?
Where's an act of love so violent that makes all other acts not?

It's just another song in vain to stop all the violence
It hears the stories, screams the news and still can't break the silence
With ironic lyrics and emotional cries
It's impotent to change a thing or dry tear filled eyes.