Monday, January 30, 2012


Make the best use of what is in your power, and take the rest as it happens. - Epictetus

Take a break. Ck my web. Enjoy my fantasies. Live them. Produce them.

Best price in hair care, shampoo, cut & dry: $18 Sasoon Academy in San Francisco 359 Sutter St Other cities hv similar services. Look for the “Academies or Schools” in cosmetology.

EAT on $1. a plate: from any Safeway's (big stores, more selections) FROZEN FOOD SECTION. Excellent selections of ON SALE from different brands. Main courses, desserts etc.

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Jobs in Oakland. Jobs in San Franciscol


Keep searching. Keep working @ finding a job.
Can't help U r a while. The info I given U in the past is still relevant. Go back 2 my past postings.

Friday, January 13, 2012


TODAY: Full & Part time Jobs in Union City. Hiring now, Apply here.

Abuelita (excerpt)

When she sees them she has to focus: Now let’s see, who is this…? It might take her a while. Because it’s difficult to accept,for instance, that abuelita still walks for her. To accept her presence, like last thursday morning at the peak of the rush hour on crowded BART.

There she was, like a superimposed image on a photo, there she was between the suits and briefcases, The Chronicle, New York Times, the lap computers. An etheral presence. The light radiating from her made it impossible to concentrate on details, colors, clothing, what was she wearing? Her smile, concluded Reyna María jumping out at her station. I’m not going to tie myself in knots about this. I’m just going to be happy she came to me this morning, let me see her. For she has been dead for decades.........................

Thursday, January 12, 2012


When U r job hunting, whern U do the rounds, remember:
On my mind a quote, from The NEW YORKER, THE ANSWER MAN, by Stephen Greenblatt: Wonder did not depend on the dream of an after life; in Lucretius it welled up out of a recognition that we are made of the same mater as the stars and the oceans and all things else. And this recognition was the basis for the way he thought we should live–not in fear of the gods but in pursuit of pleasure, in avoidance of pain.

Saturday, January 7, 2012

While U r JOB HUNTING, I write poems 4 Ur delight. Enjoy.


A city in Perú comes alive in all its beauty and ocean colors in the poetry of California writer
Camincha. Published by: MyStoryLives.


I come down to the Coast that has the seducing curves of my

negrita, who sings, Tamales calientiiiiiitos!!!!!!!! Through

the streets of my city on saturday nights. And the voice

of my cholo with his eagle–beak nose, skin the color of mud,

my color. My Inca whistles at my door. Sharpens my knives and

scissors big and small.

I come down to the Coast. To blue, green eyes. Full bearded

Europeans. The cafe latte skin of my criollas and criollos. To

flat streets that roll to the ocean. To its white foam. To the heat

of its shade. The tears of its garüa. The corner of La Picaronera.

The callejon next door. The European chalet. The Gardens of

La DiagonaL Ice cream from D'onofrio. The church across

Parque Central. The benches of Alameda Pardo. Sunday's

promenades. The British-Peruvian school, blue uniform, hat,

white shirt, red tie. Ferocious exams. Matinees at the Excelsior:

The cowboy and the girl.

I come down to the Coast. I take El Expresso to go to Lima, El Urbanito

to El Mercado Central, to La Tiendecita Blanca where our mothers

bought Crema Chantilly to decorate birthday cakes and still serves

butifarras, paltas rellenas, tamales, empanadas, humitas. Memories jump

through the intersection of' Larco and Pardo, f'ive blocks in diameter,

with a rainbow of flowers in its center. I walk to Schell where my school,

San Jorge, used to be, then to Porta that saw my growing up years.

El Terrazas still a block away, looking forward to its next Baile de

Carnavales. Would you like to dance? sounds in my head. Dance? His

eyes full of adoration. EI Malecón gives me his cliffs that roll to the

Pacific while the scent of jasmine, dahlias, sweet peas, honeysuckle,

sweet narcissus, stalk my steps . . . .