{"id":14428,"date":"2011-11-04T10:03:27","date_gmt":"2011-11-04T17:03:27","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.amptoons.com\/blog\/?p=14428"},"modified":"2011-11-04T10:03:27","modified_gmt":"2011-11-04T17:03:27","slug":"i-fell-in-love-with-all-that-struggled-in-you-not-to-drown","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/amptoons.com\/blog\/?p=14428","title":{"rendered":"I Fell in Love with All That Struggled in You Not to Drown"},"content":{"rendered":"<p>This was for a long time what I thought I was going to call my second book of poems, though I was told to shorten it to &#8220;All That Struggled in You Not to Drown,&#8221; because the poem of the same title, a long love poem for my wife, is my favorite poem in the book. Recently, as one of the readers in &#8220;Body of Work,&#8221; the <a title=\"QUILL\" href=\"http:\/\/queenscouncilarts.org\/quill-queens-in-love-with-literature\/\">Queens in Love with Literature (QUILL)<\/a> kickoff event for 2011-2012&#8211;I am on the QUILL advisory committee&#8211;I had the opportunity to read &#8220;I Fell in Love with All That Struggled in You Not to Drown&#8221; accompanied by dancer\/choreographer <a title=\"Keomi Tarver\" href=\"http:\/\/www.keomitarver.com\/index.html\">Keomi Tarver&#8217;s<\/a> improvisations. The entire event was about the interplay between dance and poetry. Mine and Keomi&#8217;s performance was captured in these two videos. The text of the three poems, &#8220;Poem from the Barnes &amp; Noble Cafe,&#8221; &#8220;I Fell in Love with All That Struggled in You Not to Drown (Movement 1)&#8221; and &#8220;Waiting for It All to Crumble Step by Step Beneath My Feet,&#8221; appears below. (Unfortunately, I don&#8217;t know how to make this WordPress template play nice with the original lineation.) I hope you enjoy them:<\/p>\n<p><strong>Part 1<\/strong><br \/>\n<iframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"http:\/\/www.youtube.com\/embed\/Q1nH7NuXEJ0\" frameborder=\"0\" width=\"420\" height=\"315\"><\/iframe><\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p><strong>Part 2<\/strong><br \/>\n<iframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"http:\/\/www.youtube.com\/embed\/Smw3Y-oR72A\" frameborder=\"0\" width=\"420\" height=\"315\"><\/iframe><br \/>\n<!--more--><br \/>\n*********************************************************************<\/p>\n<h2>Poem From The Barnes and Noble Caf\u00e9<\/h2>\n<p>1.<\/p>\n<p>When I started walking<br \/>\nI wasn\u2019t counting steps.<br \/>\nI was thinking how these days<\/p>\n<p>were not what I\u2019d hoped<br \/>\nlife would reduce me to,<br \/>\nbut when I crossed the street,<\/p>\n<p>the switch that throws itself<br \/>\ninside my brain<br \/>\nwhenever I walk alone<\/p>\n<p>threw itself, and I was mouthing<br \/>\nnumbers, tallying each stride<br \/>\nas if I were building meaning.<\/p>\n<p>Then I was here, in the bookstore,<br \/>\nlooking for that volume<br \/>\non Iranian cinema, which I found<\/p>\n<p>more easily than I thought I would,<br \/>\nso I rode the escalator<br \/>\ndown to Music\u2014a whim;<\/p>\n<p>I haven\u2019t bought a CD<br \/>\nin months\u2014and almost knocked<br \/>\nan olive-skinned man<\/p>\n<p>with a black and white keffiyeh<br \/>\nwrapped around his neck<br \/>\ninto Britney Spears\u2019 nearly naked<\/p>\n<p>cardboard flesh. I grabbed his arm<br \/>\nto steady him; he gripped me back,<br \/>\nand someone slowing down to watch<\/p>\n<p>might\u2019ve thought we were old friends.<br \/>\nHe continued on. I turned, stared<br \/>\nat the fringed fabric hanging down<\/p>\n<p>the brown leather of his jacket\u2014<br \/>\nso much like a tallis, I thought\u2014<br \/>\nand recalled my own keffiyeh,<\/p>\n<p>bought twenty years ago,<br \/>\nafter Sabra and Shatila, from a<br \/>\nBlack man with French-tinged English.<\/p>\n<p><em>A shill for the Arabs<\/em>,<br \/>\nmy grandmother bit into air<br \/>\nI know she wished was him<\/p>\n<p>when she saw it. I wish<br \/>\nthe keffiyeh had meant<br \/>\nsolidarity, or sympathy, or anything<\/p>\n<p>better than escape, but it was<br \/>\nan escape, and wearing it<br \/>\nwas a kind of freedom,<\/p>\n<p>as there is freedom in wandering<br \/>\nthese aisles, putting aside<br \/>\nTangerine Dream for Axiom of Choice,<\/p>\n<p>for a blues compilation we could dance to,<br \/>\nor for the Klezmatics, whose music<br \/>\non the sound system also<\/p>\n<p>invites dance, and so I\u2019m dancing<br \/>\na small shuffle into Show Tunes,<br \/>\nremembering Surprise Lake Camp\u2019s<\/p>\n<p>Fiddler On The Roof, the boy<br \/>\nwho played Tevye, fat and athletic,<br \/>\nand when he danced, his belly<\/p>\n<p>bounced out from under<br \/>\nhis white shirt, and his tzitzis twirled<br \/>\nin the red stage lighting<\/p>\n<p>like poorly placed stripper\u2019s tassels,<br \/>\nand we all clapped, laughing,<br \/>\nsinging along, hoping<\/p>\n<p>it would never end. I moved him<br \/>\nthe way I move myself, step-by-step<br \/>\nthrough the choreography,<\/p>\n<p>keeping time with a chord<br \/>\non the grand piano<br \/>\nthat echoes in me still<\/p>\n<p>as I bring the songs I want<br \/>\nto the cash register. I sign for them<br \/>\nas I\u2019ve signed for so much else in my life<\/p>\n<p>and take the escalator up three flights<br \/>\nfor a cup of mint tea. Turning<br \/>\nfrom the counter, I catch<\/p>\n<p>in the corner of my eye<br \/>\nthe keffiyeh from downstairs<br \/>\nopening to a square, folding<\/p>\n<p>to a triangle, and the man<br \/>\nI bumped into smiles at me,<br \/>\nnods at the chairs he and his friends<\/p>\n<p>are getting up from, drapes<br \/>\nthe cloth around his neck,<br \/>\nand leaves. On his table,<\/p>\n<p><em>The New York Times<\/em>: priests<br \/>\nusing children for sex,<br \/>\nand George W. Bush wants<\/p>\n<p>money to promote marriage<br \/>\nand to fight a war he says<br \/>\nwill rid us of our fears.<\/p>\n<p>I\u2019m thinking how much<br \/>\nthe world needs fear right now,<br \/>\nto step back from the mouth<\/p>\n<p>of what has not yet happened,<br \/>\nlike you\u2019d want a suicide bomber to do,<br \/>\nor a soldier with orders to shoot civilians.<\/p>\n<p>When you and I danced at our wedding,<br \/>\narms raised, hands tracing<br \/>\nPersian rhythms in the air,<\/p>\n<p>and when they lifted us on chairs<br \/>\nand danced the hora, your family<br \/>\nand mine, whatever we erased<\/p>\n<p>it was not difference,<br \/>\nand so music is an answer<br \/>\nto the question I\u2019m trying to ask,<\/p>\n<p>for it is nothing when we come together<br \/>\nif it is not rhythm and melody,<br \/>\ncounterpoint and harmony,<\/p>\n<p>and you push yourself against my mouth,<br \/>\nand I\u2019m kissing every year you\u2019ve lived,<br \/>\neach thousand years of your country\u2019s history,<\/p>\n<p>the centuries of Islam, carpets<br \/>\nwoven, children<br \/>\nnursed, harvests<\/p>\n<p>lost to the weather, the will<br \/>\nof god, all of it<br \/>\nvibrating live beneath your skin,<\/p>\n<p>and you guide me, with your own hand<br \/>\ntake me to the spot<br \/>\nwhere fear and hope, pain<\/p>\n<p>and joy, merge to become<br \/>\nthe irreducible fact of your flesh,<br \/>\nand it\u2019s like when the band reaches<\/p>\n<p>the last beat, and the dancers<br \/>\nhang suspended<br \/>\nin the final resolution:<\/p>\n<p>It is peace, and if they, if we,<br \/>\ncould stay there, there would be peace.<\/p>\n<p>2.<br \/>\nI remember Joe taking Patty and me one night to Jones Beach. Don\u2019t try to swim, he warned. The undertow will drag you out. We walked in up to our ankles. Patty started dancing, kicking her legs up in a clumsy can-can, splashing me till my shirt was soaked through. When we got home, we slept in the same bed.<\/p>\n<p>After the murder\u2014Rose, Patty\u2019s mother, was found stuffed in a hall closet, stabbed sixteen times with a serrated knife; Joe was the only suspect, but there wasn\u2019t enough evidence to prosecute\u2014after the murder, I kept to myself, huddled with friends Patty didn\u2019t know. When she came to tell me she was leaving to live with her aunt in New Jersey, I stood away from her, a monosyllabic Bye! my only answer.<\/p>\n<p>When Joe came a few weeks later to collect his stuff, the woman from next door hid in our hall closet, the one where the termites had swarmed earlier in the year. She knew, she said, things she was afraid to tell the cops.<\/p>\n<p>That was also the year Sandy got sick for the last time, and she knew she was going to die, had refused to be my girlfriend because of it. I didn\u2019t go see her, never, that I remember, worried she might want to see me\u2014and then she died.<\/p>\n<p>I\u2019m not being hard on myself.<\/p>\n<p>I know I was only thirteen, and love at that age denies dying, but now I\u2019m forty, and the little boy who calls me Richard instead of Dad could die tomorrow. As could you. As many will, even perhaps the man with the keffiyeh, in whose paper I read another headline: three youths, Arabs, arrested in France for bombing a synagogue I could\u2019ve been in, and of course Israel should pull out now, and of course Palestine\u2019s independence should be declared this moment,<\/p>\n<p>the earth transformed to a tent where we all break bread,<br \/>\neach of us carrying what we\u2019ve seen<br \/>\nthe way musicians carry music<br \/>\nin the moments before they start playing.<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 90px;\"><em>This poem appears in my first book, <a href=\"http:\/\/richardjnewman.com\/my-books\/the-silence-of-men\/\">The Silence of Men<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n<h2><\/h2>\n<h2>Waiting for It All to Crumble Step by Step Beneath my Feet<\/h2>\n<p>I watch you walk away from the first sex we\u2019ve had<br \/>\nin more months than either of us would like to admit,<br \/>\nand my breath catches at the light shining<br \/>\nfrom the full nakedness of your back, as if your skin<br \/>\nhas taken in the long brightness that held us<br \/>\nas I held you holding me, and now<br \/>\nthat the sun has moved past our window,<br \/>\nyour body alone illuminates this room;<\/p>\n<p>and from the garden downstairs<br \/>\nthat is a garden I have carried in me<br \/>\nsince I was younger than the little boy<br \/>\nwhose play date has granted us these hours,<br \/>\nchildren\u2019s laughter, an adult\u2019s call<br \/>\nnot to swing so high, and the same squeak<br \/>\nfrom when I was Shahob\u2019s age<br \/>\nof the swing itself, a rusty metronome<br \/>\nkeeping the beat of my life in Jackson Heights,<br \/>\nwhere I never thought I\u2019d settle down.<\/p>\n<p>Yesterday, I sat in the garden\u2019s south end<br \/>\nthinking that I have never almost died,<br \/>\nnot even the way my friend<br \/>\nwho would\u2019ve been beneath<br \/>\nthe World Trade Center<br \/>\n\u201calmost died,\u201d except<br \/>\nshe\u2019d found just months before<br \/>\na new job in another state,<br \/>\nso she was teaching<br \/>\n<em>The Comedy of Errors <\/em>in Colorado<br \/>\nwhen the first plane hit.<\/p>\n<p>The garden\u2019s morning quiet<br \/>\nwas more quiet than usual.<br \/>\nNo pigeon congregation searched<br \/>\nthe circular wood-chip middle for food;<br \/>\nno squirrels foraged; but then<br \/>\na black shape spread its wings against the leaves,<br \/>\ncasting a shadow on the 52 building\u2019s back wall,<br \/>\nand I understood the bones picked clean<br \/>\nthat we\u2019ve been stepping over<br \/>\nwhen we walk the quiet center<br \/>\nthe garden is at night.<\/p>\n<p>The hawk allowed the air to carry it<br \/>\nto a branch midway up the oak that wasn\u2019t here<br \/>\nwhen this grass was a football field for me and Claudia Joel<br \/>\nand Sundays meant dinner and <em>Wild Kingdom<\/em><br \/>\nat grandma and grandpa\u2019s. In one episode,<br \/>\nMarlon Perkins\u2014or maybe it was his assistant Jim\u2014<br \/>\nwrestled in a South American rain forest river<br \/>\nan anaconda thicker in my memory<br \/>\nthan my thighs are now. I didn\u2019t know<br \/>\nthe scene would not have made it to the screen<br \/>\nif he had died, so when I saw the snake<br \/>\npull beneath the river\u2019s current<br \/>\nwhat I was sure would be<br \/>\nthat man\u2019s last living day,<br \/>\nI closed my eyes,<br \/>\nas I close them now,<br \/>\nwanting to see the moment<br \/>\nhe broke the water\u2019s surface<br \/>\nback into life, but it\u2019s Armon\u2019s<br \/>\nface that comes to me,<br \/>\ntoo scared to climb the fence,<br \/>\nand so he turns, hoping there\u2019s a path<br \/>\nto lead him to the other side,<br \/>\nbut it\u2019s moonless mountain dark,<br \/>\nand he cannot know that where he steps is dirt<br \/>\nthat\u2019s been waiting at the cliff\u2019s edge for days<br \/>\nfor a reason to crumble.<br \/>\nTomorrow,<br \/>\nwe will hug his parents and his sister<br \/>\nin their grief and maybe find some words<br \/>\nto help them heal, but also<br \/>\nwe will stand there giving silent thanks<br \/>\nour son is not the one we\u2019ve come to mourn.<\/p>\n<p>Before you took him with you to Iran,<br \/>\nShahob drew a map connecting here<br \/>\nto wherever there was in his imagination,<br \/>\ntracing each part of the journey<br \/>\non its own sheet of paper. This way,<br \/>\nhe explained, I could find you in an emergency,<br \/>\nand you would not get lost on your way home.<br \/>\nHe mixed and matched the sections<br \/>\ntill the contours fit the shape<br \/>\nthe trip made in his mind;<br \/>\nwe taped them together and he smiled.<br \/>\n<em>Now I can leave,<\/em> he said, kissing me.<\/p>\n<p>The night President Bush ordered our military<br \/>\nto teach what the TV news commentator called<br \/>\n<em>the true meaning of terror <\/em>to <em>those monsters in Afghanistan,<br \/>\n<\/em>I dug with Shahob through the rock<br \/>\nhiding in our living room<br \/>\ndinosaur fossils we had to find<br \/>\nbefore he could sleep, so focused<br \/>\non digging ever deeper into the private earth<br \/>\nhe\u2019d conjured for us to explore<br \/>\nthat I did not once raise my eyes to the window<br \/>\nframing the column of white smoke<br \/>\nstill rising from the lower Manhattan skyline;<\/p>\n<p>and as I sat yesterday in the garden,<br \/>\nfilling myself with these memories,<br \/>\nthe moment came back to me when watching<br \/>\nthat same smoke through that same window<br \/>\ntransformed the child safety bars<br \/>\nthe law required us to install<br \/>\ninto the bars of a closed cage, and I thought<br \/>\nhow each day since Shahob was born<br \/>\nhas mapped our lives for us,<br \/>\nand will do so until we die.<\/p>\n<p>The hawk took off again,<br \/>\nswooped low to the ground,<br \/>\nbut nothing was there for its claws to close on,<br \/>\nso it rose, majestic, to rest its wings<br \/>\namong the branches keeping sunlight<br \/>\nfrom the spot in the children\u2019s garden<br \/>\nwhere parents set their sons and daughters up<br \/>\nto play with water.<\/p>\n<p>When I tell you what I saw, you\u2019ll insist<br \/>\nthose mothers and fathers need to watch the sky,<br \/>\nthat a bird of prey wants prey and doesn\u2019t care<br \/>\nif it\u2019s a pigeon, a squirrel or a child.<\/p>\n<p>\/\/\/<\/p>\n<p>The phone rings<br \/>\njust as the flush<br \/>\nfinishes: our boy<br \/>\ncalling that he\u2019s ready<br \/>\nto come home.<\/p>\n<p><em>I worry for him<\/em>, you say,<br \/>\npulling on your clothes,<br \/>\npicking up where we left off<br \/>\nbefore we got undressed.<\/p>\n<p><em>Before you know it,<br \/>\nhe\u2019ll be old enough to draft,<br \/>\nand if it\u2019s not Iraq, it will be Iran.<br \/>\nImagine! My son drafted<br \/>\nto invade my country.<\/em><\/p>\n<p>You lie down next to me,<br \/>\ndraping one denim-covered leg<br \/>\nacross my penis<br \/>\nthat is half in love<br \/>\nwith rising again.<br \/>\nSmiling at the inhaled pleasure<br \/>\nthe gesture draws from me,<br \/>\nyou push my arms<br \/>\nabove my head. <em>This was fun,<br \/>\n<\/em>you whisper, as if our son<br \/>\nwere already home. <em>If we had time,<br \/>\nI\u2019d do you again, with my clothes on,<br \/>\nand the rule would be<br \/>\nif your hands moved<br \/>\nfrom where they are right now,<br \/>\nI\u2019d stop.<br \/>\n<\/em>I smile back<br \/>\nbut then you\u2019re out the door,<br \/>\nand I know you\u2019re trying not to make the list<br \/>\nof all the ways you\u2019ve thought that he could die<br \/>\nbefore he should. Me? I\u2019m replaying<br \/>\nthe magician we watched last night,<br \/>\nthe tablecloth he pulled from underneath<br \/>\na wine-glass-filled service for four<br \/>\nwithout spilling a single drop.<\/p>\n<p>Shahob asked me how it\u2019s done<br \/>\nand would not accept my ignorance.<br \/>\n<em>What do you <\/em>imagine<em> the secret is? <\/em>he kept asking,<\/p>\n<p>because nothing he imagines<br \/>\nfeels impossible to him.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<h2>I Fell in Love with All That Struggled in You Not to Drown<\/h2>\n<p><em>First Movement<\/em><\/p>\n<p>Inching the car today<br \/>\npast what Shahob called <em>snorts<\/em><br \/>\nfor his first eighteen months of words,<br \/>\nthe rhythm circling in me<br \/>\nwas a riff the composer in my head<br \/>\nlifted whole from the song\u2014<br \/>\nLynyrd Skynyrd\u2019s \u201cGimme Three Steps\u201d\u2014<br \/>\nthat sent me back to Floral Park, the bird<br \/>\nJamie and I watched flap wounded to the ground,<br \/>\nand how he lied when the cops found his gun.<\/p>\n<p>Then the beat changed, fast<br \/>\ntriplets I drummed the wheel to,<br \/>\nconjuring you instead, pen in hand, the desk lamp<br \/>\ncasting your shadow large against the wall behind you.<br \/>\nYou whisper the lines to yourself as you write them,<br \/>\nbelieving this joy language brings<br \/>\nis all you\u2019ll ever want. You\u2019re seventeen,<br \/>\nand your poems hint, or maybe more than hint\u2014<br \/>\nI\u2019ve asked but you say you don\u2019t remember\u2014<br \/>\nthat a daughter\u2019s life, or a wife\u2019s,<br \/>\nis less than you hope for, and so maybe<br \/>\nyour parents feared the promiscuity they were taught<br \/>\nthat women who dare what I am daring<br \/>\nhere at my desk<br \/>\nbecome addicted to, or maybe<br \/>\npoetry kept you from your schoolwork.<br \/>\nAll you\u2019ll say is they pressured you to stop<br \/>\nand you did.<\/p>\n<p>The traffic eased,<br \/>\nand the DJ played \u201cBorn To Be Wild,\u201d<br \/>\nand as I sped singing past Lakeville Road<br \/>\nhoping to make up lost time,<br \/>\nI was singing for you,<br \/>\naching to know the girl you were,<br \/>\nto have been the teacher, no, the friend<br \/>\nto whom you showed that first ghazal<br \/>\nyou couldn\u2019t keep to yourself,<br \/>\nbecause love means giving the world<br \/>\nthe room it needs to move through you,<\/p>\n<p>and <em>love<\/em>, in this past I am imagining for us,<br \/>\nwas the word you stitched your couplets with,<br \/>\nas it was also, corny but true,<br \/>\nthe chorus I turned the car off in the middle of\u2014<br \/>\nThe Beatles\u2019 \u201cAll You Need Is\u2026\u201d\u2014when I parked.<\/p>\n<p>In class, we talked fashion: piercings<br \/>\nand why men shouldn\u2019t wear thongs<br \/>\nunless they\u2019re strippers<em>,<br \/>\n<\/em>and not one of my students<br \/>\nthought pink on a man<br \/>\ncould mean anything but gay,<\/p>\n<p>and I remembered\u2014<br \/>\nno, it wasn\u2019t memory;<br \/>\nyou\u2019ve never told me\u2014I imagined<br \/>\nyou getting dressed for school the first day<br \/>\nof the public womanhood<br \/>\nthe ayatollahs gave you no choice<br \/>\nbut to learn to wear.<\/p>\n<p><em>The breeze has been my lover,<br \/>\n<\/em>you recite to yourself in the mirror,<br \/>\n<em>and the sun,<\/em> and you tuck<br \/>\nunder your chador<br \/>\nthe last few strands of hair<br \/>\nyou need to cover, check<br \/>\nthe length of your sleeves<br \/>\nand that your ankles<br \/>\nif you have to run<br \/>\nwon\u2019t emerge into light.<br \/>\n<em>And I have let the ocean pull me naked to its chest,<br \/>\nand with my fingers probed the earth\u2019s flesh,<br \/>\nand filled my mouth with its fruit.<\/em><\/p>\n<p>Then you pick up your book bag, call goodbye,<br \/>\nand appear next in this film I\u2019m scripting<br \/>\nwith the front door closed behind you,<br \/>\na fledgling crow with no wings to spread<br \/>\nand a gauntlet of enemies to walk.<br \/>\nYou move out into the gaze<br \/>\nof Tehran\u2019s great male eye,<br \/>\nstepping small onto the street<br \/>\nwhere, when you were eight,<br \/>\nyou left that flasher<br \/>\nstanding by your sister\u2019s bike,<br \/>\nconvinced you wanted<br \/>\nwhat he held in his hand<br \/>\nand all he had to do<br \/>\nwas wait right there<br \/>\ntill you returned<br \/>\nwith your mother\u2019s permission,<br \/>\nand he did wait\u2014you watched him<br \/>\nthrough the front window of your house\u2014<br \/>\nlong enough that you feared<br \/>\nhe\u2019d never leave, but then, finally, he left.<br \/>\nNow, stripped of any words<br \/>\nthat might protect you,<br \/>\nconvinced your cover<br \/>\nwill never cover enough,<br \/>\nyou move forward,<br \/>\nfilling your eyes with nothing<br \/>\nthat is not the three inches of air<br \/>\ndirectly in front of your face.<\/p>\n<p>****************************************************<\/p>\n<p><em>In case you&#8217;re interested, I have since changed my second book&#8217;s title to <\/em><em>Because Men Only Understand Cliches<\/em>&#8211;mostly because I think it makes a really interesting follow up to <em><a title=\"The Silence of Men\" href=\"http:\/\/richardjnewman.com\/my-books\/the-silence-of-men\/\">The Silence of Men<\/a><\/em>, which was the title of my first book.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>This was for a long time what I thought I was going to call my second book of poems, though I was told to shorten it to &#8220;All That Struggled in You Not to Drown,&#8221; because the poem of the &hellip; <a href=\"https:\/\/amptoons.com\/blog\/?p=14428\">Continue reading <span class=\"meta-nav\">&rarr;<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":49,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-14428","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/amptoons.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/14428","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/amptoons.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/amptoons.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/amptoons.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/49"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/amptoons.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=14428"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/amptoons.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/14428\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":14431,"href":"https:\/\/amptoons.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/14428\/revisions\/14431"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/amptoons.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=14428"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/amptoons.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=14428"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/amptoons.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=14428"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}