The Road to Machu Picchu

It's still dark when we board the bus. My stomach growls with hunger and anticipation. I unwrap my cheese sandwich and eat it. I'm still hungry and so I eat my second cheese sandwich and my cookies, but save my banana for later. The trip begins. The sparkling Cusco lights slowly fade as dawn creeps in. The sun, rising in the east, softens the city view, varnishing and sculpting doorways, alley ways and snow-covered mountaintops. Except for the bus driver and me, everyone else sleeps. I sit in the front where I have a clear view of the slowly awaking world. I shuffle through my iPod in search of the perfect soundtrack; not just anything will do. It needs to be mellow, but inspiring. It needs to be thought-provoking, but open to interpretation. I look out the window as we make our way through the hills, each rolling of the wheels taking us higher and further away from Cosco, the center, and bringing us closer to the reason we are all on that bus -- Machu Picchu.

I close my eyes and allow the sounds of gipsy guitars to transport my thoughts. I try to keep my mind blank; it's hard. Images of ruins, mountains, temples, jaguars, lighting and thunder, beautiful and ancient brown people worshiping pagan Gods and sacrificing virgins run through my head. It doesn't matter if I keep my eyes open or closed, the visions never fade.

I'm aware of our surroundings once more. We have left Picasso's Starry Night. The golden orbs disappear, melting into a watercolor world of marigold yellows, flushed flamingo pinks, lapis lazuli blue. The bus stops and we exit. It's breakfast time. The town is picturesque and quaint; it doesn't seem real. Buildings appear to be molded from the rocks they rest on. People bustle around, making their way to work and school. With their brightly colored garbs, they resemble exotic birds of paradise. The women's long and ebony braids swish down their backs; I want to pull one. It's been way too long since I have felt the weight of a braid against my back and with my short, black hair barely ponytail length, it'll be a few more years before I do.

We walk toward the restaurant and makes me think of the house in "Blue Lagoon". Let the bonding begin! After all, we are going to be together for the next 4 days -- hiking, complaining, laughing, sweating, eating, sleeping and not showering together. Oh boy...

Another bus ride. But then, we are there! We unload and start getting ready for the next 4 days. I'm excited and a bit unsure about what to expect. The hike is only 27 miles, all of which are covered over FOUR days. Twenty-seven miles. That's a marathon. People run marathons in a handful of hours. Maybe it won't be so bad...

Everyone puts their backpacks on. Mine feels heavy. I contemplate eating my banana, but it's mushy and let's face it, it won't make my backpack any lighter. It doesn't matter though, I'm too excited to worry about lugging the extra weight on my back. I pick up my walking sticks and trip over them. But I just smile, regain my composure and run after the group. We stop and take our group picture. We are all clean, fresh and smiling. It's obvious it is day 1.

The next 4 days aren't easy, but they are an experience and a test for perseverance. The trek is exhausting. The mountains are stairways to heaven. We climb and climb, one leg after another. It just seems to never end. Each mountain is steeper than the next. My heart pounds hard in my chest. My breathing is heavy. Sweat drips down my face and into my eyes. My shoulders ache from the weight in my backpack. Walking downhill is no better. The ground is slippery and the steepness we climbed, is the same steepness we need to descend. The thought of slipping and breaking my neck crosses my mind several times. I try to not think about it and just focus on climbing and using my walking sticks properly. Being clumsy by nature, and a distracted dreamer, isn't doing me any favors. I've slipped twice. The first time was at the bridge before the hike had even begun -- I almost went over. The second time, I slipped right after replying, "I'm okay," to one of my new friends. Famous last words. Luckily, I am blessed with ninja reflexes and caught my fall with a sexy, white motorcycled-gloved hand. I knew those gloves would one day come in handy.

The weather is fickle and unforgiving. It pours one minute, the next is all sunshine, my skin scalding under the hot, hot sun. The wind combats our bodies, an invisible, violent, and swirly force that hurts. The temperature drops, only to rise again. We peel off layers of clothes, then pile them back on when our flesh goosebumps. We pull our rainwear on, the plastic swishing with every step we take. Swish! Swish!

My legs are covered in welts. I have 42 mosquito bites split, unevenly, between my calves. It seems like my left calf is more appetizing. The itching is overwhelming. I have bug repellant and even with that, the Mosquitos don't stay away. I scratch until I'm close to bleeding. I think of the possibilities of scars and stop. I like wearing short dresses.

There are no bathrooms. We have to squat every time nature calls. At night the temperature drops to zero. All we have is a plastic tent and a sleeping bag to keep is warm. I sleep with my hoodie on. The same hoodie I've been sweating in all day. The floor is hard and makes my back hurt. I don't have a pillow. My tent mate snores. Loudly. I try to sleep with my headphones on, but we don't have electricity and I need to preserve my iPod and iPhone for train and bus ride back. Sacrifices must be made. I lay awake in the dark. I hear the wind blow. I picture the sky. It was majestic before I went to bed, the onyx background lit up by an infinite quantity of sparkling stars. I had tried to take a picture, to capture the mystery of the orbits on film, but I couldn't do it. Instead, I have to rely on memory to keep it alive.

As hard as the hike sometimes feel, I am appreciative of every second. I haven't felt so alive in a year. I can feel every muscle working, every fiber breathing. Nature engulfs me and it's beautiful. I try to take in every tree, every plant, every insect and animal -- snakes, tarantulas, hummingbirds. I'm captivated by the vibrancy and vividness of it all. The colors inspire life. I fall in love with an orchid that's so electrically bright it seems unreal. I want to touch it, but it doesn't seem right to tarnish its essence with my grimy hands. Everywhere I look, there's something that makes me feel so blessed to be alive. The air is thin, but it's crisp and clean and I greedily breathe it in. We are high up and it's misty. The hills, rocks and trees are gently cloaked in magic and mystery. For a second, I wonder if I'm dreaming. I feel as though I've been trekking forever, and not just a few days.

At night, we have "happy hour". The porters set up a tent and kerosene heater and we all sit around the table, eating popcorn, crackers with jam and butter, coca tea and our favorite, Milo. Yummy Milo. It's powdered hot chocolate that we mix with powered milk and deliciously hot water. After happy hour, we feast. The porters, led by the Chef Sebastian, prepare delicious meals three times a day. Dinner always starts with a soup, followed for a 4 course meal and dessert. Yes, dessert. My diet is much better here than it is at home. Can I bring Sebastian back? Too bad I'm feeling sick. By day two, the thought, smell and sight of food makes me sick. I can't eat in fear of vomiting. I don't drink in fear of awakening my hunger. Good thing the hike is only four days long.

The second days if definitely the hardest. The road is treacherous and the steepness of the incline is undeniable. I wonder how I will make it to the top and how I will make it back down. I question my vacation choice. Memo to self: Next time, take the train. But like everything else in life, nothing last forever. We make it to camp, eat and sleep. "Tomorrow," Roger promises, "will be much easier."

He doesn't lie. Day 3 is difficult, but not as brutally intense as the previous day. We end early and explore. He takes us to an Inca site that is not known like Machu Picchu. We walk, hike, play and take pictures. Then we return to camp. Machu Picchu awaits us.

That night, the heavens cry. There are fireworks in the sky. The rain falls hard, beating against our tents. The lighting turns night into day and thunder serenades us, keeping us awake. I want to leave my tent and dance in the rain. But for once, I resist impulse and instead, I lie there, listening. Finally, the storm seduces me into a deep slumber. At 3:30 am, we all rise to begin the end of the trip.

It's dark when we head off. I'm excited, sad, anxious. We hike and hike. The ground is muddy and as I hop and skip in excitement, mud splatters all over, staining my dandelion t-shirt. Kassandra and I race to the fifty hand-and-foot climbing stairs. We can't wait to reach the Sun Gate and gaze upon Machu Picchu at sun rise. It's hard to keep up with her, she's 6"2, almost a foot taller than me. I try though. Our efforts are in vain. Machu Picchu is thickly veiled in clouds and mist. Once the group is all together, we hike some more and finally, there it is, Machu Picchu.

After four long days, we made it. It's breath-taking. Magic and mystery. Solace and support. Reality and other-worldliness. I try to picture people living there; working, learning, fighting, loving, raising a family. It's hard to do. Wide-eyed and impressionable, I silently absorb my surroundings, carbon-copying them into the most graphic memory chip my brain contains.

El Last Shaman de Cosco

Tomorrow is the first day of the Inca Trail. I'm so close to seeing Machu Picchu, something I have wanted to experience since I saw the first photograph. While walking around Cusco, I came across a shaman shop. I went in to buy a good luck charm for a friend back home. Like me, she could really use it. There, I discovered they did coca leaves reading. Now, I'm not what anyone would refer to as a mystic -- I'm a skeptic through and through. However, during difficult times, when I feel lost and in need of answers, I seek in places that I hope will give instant gratification or at least some sort of comfort to my otherwise restless existence.

So, I decided to do a reading today. It was pretty interesting. The shaman was beautiful to me. He wasn't classically handsome, but he had a beauty that came from within. His face was heavily lined and his features, strong Inca ones, possessed a strength and joy that I only dream of having. He seemed at peace with himself.

He placed a basket of leaves on the table and asked me to take 7 and lay them in front of me. He said we would start with a general reading. He took each leaf, held it up and studied it in silence. Then he spoke. The first leaf was for my health. The second for my fortitude. The third for my relationship with human beings. Number six was for knowledge, something I possess he said and I'm always in search for. The seventh was for my harmony -- I'm not very harmonious. He said I won't be until I'm content with myself, my job, those around me and am one with nature; when I wake up in the morning grateful to be alive. I don't remember the ones in between. Much of what he said made sense. I'm not in good place right now. I have great qualities, he said. I'm extremely intelligent, I'm kind, hard working but I'm not happy.

He then asked me if I had any specific questions. I did. They were the same ones I always have. I asked about him. He said to close my eyes and pick a leaf. The leaf was split, like a snake's slithering tongue. He looked at it and said he wasn't convenient for me. I spoke, making him laugh with my outrageous comments. He said I needed someone who was my equal. I needed a man that I admired, one who understood my intelligence and my heart. He said this one didn't. I need someone I could talk and debate with. With him, I may never find happiness.

It's not what I wanted to hear. It made me sad because, even though I know he isn't for me and he doesn't care, he's all I want. I don't know how I will gain the harmony I need, when I still feel empty and broken-hearted. I know my feelings don't matter, that they won't or can change anything when he doesn't see me, or even want me. It's my fault; I search for him in my dreams. And, even in my dreams, our paths don't cross. Even in my dreams, he doesn't want me. I want to stop caring and hurting inside; I just don't know how. I know he doesn't deserve me. But even knowing that doesn't make it go away, nor does it diminish what's in my heart.

Lucky 13

The long anticipated girl's night out. Lucky 13. Or is it Lucky 7? It doesn't matter, it's the 13th therefore, for our purposes, it's Lucky 13. Tonight is going to be magical; you can feel it in your bones. It is your lucky night. The thing about luck though, at least what you learned from watching leprechauns on Charmed, is that it can go either way. Let's hope your luck tonight is good, regardless of tonight also being Friday the 13th and a full moon -- the freaks come out at night.

There's 4 of you tonight; all different and all attractive. Each of you is dressed to impress; each showcasing her own personal style -- brightly colored jeans, silky tops, feathered earrings, short skirts, tall boots, mini dresses, a white bandage. It's no accident you came to The Knockout tonight. All of you plan on being the knockouts for the night. No pun intended.

You walk up to the door and look at your friends, their ids are out. You search in your bag for yours, but your broken finger slows you down. During the search for your card, you drop your mini Swiss army knife. The bouncer picks it up and looks at it, looks at you. He raises an eyebrow. You, in all seriousness, say the first thing that comes to mind, "The first rule of Fight Club: you do not talk about Fight Club." He laughs. Loudly. Your friends don't know what to think. One is used to you and just laughs with an eye-roll. Another looks a little nervous. The third just calls you "estupit" as she stifles a giggle.

You tell him you broke your finger a number of weeks ago and need the knife to cut the tape every time you re-bandage. He looks at you with an interested gleam in his eyes, looks at your friends. He's charmed by their looks, amused by your words. He let's you in, waiving the cover charge.

It's gonna be a good night. An unpredictable night. Your favorite kind.

The excitement is contagious and shared by all 4. there is no other motive other than let loose and have fun.

For one of you tonight is a stress reliever -- working 7 days a week takes a toll and a girl's night out is the perfect outlet. Hubby can stay home.

For another, the entertaining and possibly wild outing is needed to block the pain of a recent break up. Boys watch out!!

You and your other friend, the crazy one, just need to go out. You're both thinking of tonight as your "debut". You both plan on dancing and mingling and possibly flirting. Definitely flirting. This night, you plan on showcasing and embracing and possibly flaunting. Definitely flaunting. Tonight, there's no holding back.

You walk in. You're met by an instant heat wave - the place is packed. You push and are pushed as you all make your way to the bar.The music is loud. Its old school. You're back at your middle school's playground. Except that now you drink. The bartender, middle-aged and tough-looking, approaches you: one redstripe for crazy, one margarita for wife, one cranberry vodka for newly single and for you, vodka soda (less calories and you are wearing a very fitted dress). No cosmos here. The Sex and the City gals are much more sophisticated than this foursome. Cheers!

Drinks in tow, you hit the dance floor. THe music vibrates inside you. Your bodies move to the rhythm, you effortlessly sway to the beat. Your drinks swish with every movement, they bounce with every step. Someone bumps into you and there goes your drink. Oh well... It was too strong anyways. You're wearing heels tonight and drinking always gives you a strong case of spaghetti legs. You put the glass down and dance.

You look around and notice one of your friends is missing. In the corner, you spot her. She's getting her long awaited kiss. He's cute. Totally her type. Tall, dark and handsome. Non-squishy. Her golden eyes flash mischievously and her skin, already damp, glistens under the dim lights. She's having a great night. Go crazy!

The foursome is down to three. At least for the next couple of hours.

You spoke too quickly. The trio is down to two. Newly single is newly entertained. You'll be surprised if she decides to take a breathing break in the near future. Wife and you exchange a look, it's just the two of you for now. At least you still have someone to dance with. It's better that way; you don't like the sometimes sticky fingers these boys have and neither does her husband.

The music is getting louder. The beat is stronger. The bass pounds alongside your heartbeat. You and wife look at each other and laugh -- you're both having the time of your week for sure. This is what being young is all about it. All the worries and stress of the week forgotten for several hours.

In the dark you spot him. From across the room, your eyes meet. Your smile is tentative. It's him. The one who broke your heart. You realize you've stopped dancing. Your legs feel heavy, your heart races. Wife looks at you, a puzzled look on her face. You don't speak. You don't know what to say, what to feel. Part of you wants to run the other way, pretend he isn't there. Another part of you wants to run to him. But instead, you look at wife, smile and keep dancing.

The lights come on. The 4 of you reunite. Newly single and crazy are back, satisfied smiles adorn their faces. The night is over. As you walk out, you take one look back, see him and without regrets, leave for good.

Rolling Dice

Tell me a story.
Give me your dreams.
I want to know how you got here.
I need to know how you became what you are.
What's inside you? I want to see.

Weave your hopes and your pains.
Make a quilt.
It's patched with insecurities and fear;
tightly threaded with obscurity and selfishness.
Let's use it as shelter.
You protect yourself with it.
I want to borrow it.
Like you, I want to use it to distance everyone away.
I don't want anyone to know me either.

I'm not a gambler -- the risk is too great.
The die roll but never stop.
What are the chances of being a high-roller?
Per my history they're slim to none; I will lose it all.
I already have.
Decades ago it happened.
Since then, I've never been able to win again.

The die always roll a blank.
Broken dice. Broken spirit. Broken dreams.
Gambling is a risk. Everything is lost.
Don't gamble unless you can afford to lose.
It's a recession. I can't afford to play.

I don't possess anything of value.
What can I offer?
I have no barter, no high stakes.
I only have what you see.
I can only offer what I am.

The die roll.
I wonder when and where they will stop.
 

MUNI

"blah blah blah blah..." I'm standing at the bus stop with my headphones on. Mellow tunes blast into my ears to match my mood and the sunny yet over cast day. "I'm sorry, what was that?" I ask the MUNI employee. He says, "You look so lovely standing there, even drinking coffee." I thank him but have to correct him -- it's hot chocolate, I don't do coffee. "Even better," he says.

I'm waiting for the 48 at West Portal; the bus is here but the driver is on her break. Trying to be nice, he asks if I want him to let me on the bus while I wait for the driver to return or if I want to continue waiting outside. I opt for the outdoor option; it's too nice a day to be locked in when I don't have to - I'll save that for when I return to the office Monday. After tasting freedom for one delicious week of lounging, swimming, eating, surfing and hiking, it's hard to return to captivity.

He introduces himself - James. He asks about me - what do I do? Am I in school? Did I go to Carnaval this past weekend? I answer his questions - I'm in insurance; I'm done with school but still sometimes flirt with the idea of grad school; no, I didn't go to Carnaval, I was out of town and just got back for my high school friend's wedding where I was a bridesmaid. He was under the impression I was a lot younger than I am and tells me so. Again, I thank him. He goes on to say that I seem so put together for being so young and how at my age, he wasn't nearly as mature or as established as me (he's 46).

Offhandedly, he observed the disparity in maturity between men and women. "Women," he said, "mature so much faster than men. Why do you think that is? Is it genetics or the other chromosome?" I'm no scientist but still managed to have answer: "Double standards. Women have it so much harder. Men are automatically born with the privilege of being male. Women need to put more effort to get the same recognition as men professionally, scholastically and personally." Good boy, he agreed. He even took it a step further: "Many men are mama's boys too." And, good girl because I didn't argue.

Mama's boys. It's funny the way women rear sons to remain boys for longer than they should, while teaching daughters to be women. At that moment, the driver returned and turned the bus on. I said good-bye to James and hopped on the 48.

FIFA 2010

The World Cup begins tomorrow. I'm so excited because today on Facebook, I liked Budweiser so I would be able to do the many faces of the World Cup. I started by choosing my favorite team - Brasil. Using my profile picture, I showed my team spirit by painting my face green and yellow. Then I moved on to country after country. I stopped after 12. I figure putting different pictures of me for different countries was the fairest way for me to chose my team. Or teams. My top three (solely based on my pictures) are:
Italy
Germany
Chile
Japan isn't bad either, it gives me a Geisha look that's pretty fun.
I even did Mexico, but only at my cousin Jorge's request. I hope they lose though; they're too conceited. I'm rooting for my top 4 (Brasil and my favorite 3 pictures). But who knows who will win?

I used to watch that stuff growing up. I remember watching the 1994 Worl Cup in which Brasil took the title (they're the best team in the world - it's a fact) with my mom, sisters, uncles and grandpa. It was exciting and after the win, my sisters, mama and I went for a ride with el abuelito down Market Street - everyone was cheering and honking their horns! That's right Italy, in yo face! They got schooled! Ha ha!

I should go clean. I'm supposed to be productive. My sister is spending the night tomorrow and I don't want her to think I'm a slob or a slacker. Though, we grew up together, and we lived together, so she may already be aware of both. I'm not a slob though; nor a slacker. Just a little bit disorganized. Okay, go clean.

Aloha: Hello & Good-Bye

Sometimes you just gotta say good-bye. I guess it's time I said it. It's been 68 days (yeah, I've counted -- what happened to me?! I'm such a girl, yuck...). I'm tired of mopping. Life is hard enough without added heart-break. Wish I knew how to start. I saw the new profile picture and as terrible as it is, I think it's so cute. That's scary. My sister says I have the "battered woman syndrome" because I defend and love someone who hurt me so much. But, I can't blame him. He didn't do it on purpose. I can't deny his selfishness though, nor his lack of respect for me. She says I'm a weird girl, thinking and saying how adorable that picture is. A normal girl would hate on it, call it what it is -- ugly. She says she's going save it to her computer and send it to me as a postcard or as a card on holidays when I'm feeling blue because of him. I already missed Christmas. And Easter. I'm not planning on missing anymore holidays.

For Easter I wasn't just heart-broken though, I was also sick. I think he makes me sick. Literally. The first time my poor little heart broke I ended up having pneumonia - that was October, a few days before Halloween. The second time, when it just broke beyond repair, was April 3, the night before Easter. Granted I was already feeling a little under the weather, but I was happy, excited and hopeful to see him. So much for that. I canceled my Easter plans. Instead, I stayed home coughing, weeping, feverish and sleeping. It was raining outside. It rained all day. I remember wondering if the Heavens were competing with my eyes for the downpour. I went to work the next day, refusing to stay home for something so trivial. But, I must have been a sight because I was charmingly told "you look sick" and "you should go home". I felt so ashamed, hoping my tears had gone unnoticed (except for the people I cried in front of, oh gosh...).

Now I'm just frustrated for caring, for mopping, for hoping and for blaming myself for being naive. My sister says I shouldn't feel bad, or ashamed or blame myself. She says I trusted him and gave my heart in good faith, and I can't regret it. She makes sense. I know she's right, but it doesn't make it hurt any less. It also doesn't make it any easier to accept the strong feelings I have for someone to whom I'm insignificant to. I guess that's life though. Right now all I want is a magic antidote that erases memories and heals hearts. Or Paul Walker. I do wonder if I'll ever share myself with anyone again. I don't want to. I can't eve imagine loving anyone else. Sometimes, when I think about that, that song comes into my head - "if I can't have you, I don't want nobody baby...can't let go and it doesn't matter how I try. I gave it all so easily to you my love to dreams that never will come true..." and I laugh. A lot. I must be crazy. Skydiving, surfing without knowing how to swim and trying to ride a motorcycle even when I shut my eyes at sharp turns, I can deal with. Those are risks that are exciting and fun. Physical pain goes away. Emotions though, yikes. I would have thought a month was more than enough time. Time is way up. Maybe I need an exorcism. Minus the green vomit. I want to be like I was before - happy. I want to feel the excitement I used to feel over, well, everything - cheese, a trip, a song. "I love lamp." I need a sabbatical. Machu Pichu, don't go anywhere - I'm coming to hike you and sleep in your pyramids. I plan to watch the sun set from your altitude and see it rise in full glory, the miracle of a new day marking a new beginning in my heart. I want to say good-bye. I really do. Well, my head does. My heart doesn't (it's not that bright). Sigh. Dusho, Dusho...tsk, tsk...

Lakers vs. Celtics

"Let's go Lakers!" It's a pivotal game tonight. Third game; best of seven. Lakers vs. Celtics. The City of Angels vs. Boston. West vs. East. Can't we all just get along? Honestly, I don't care about the game. I don't even know when basketball season is, I only know about tonight because my friend is a die-hard Laker fan and tried to get me to watch tonight's game. Lucky for me, I broke my TV this weekend, so no can do. Sorry Kobe. It's a shame I'm not a fan. I feel like Kobe and I are buds; he hangs out at my office everyday -- tall, dark, handsome and all cardboard. A shame, but I just don't follow sports. I don't mind them live -- I've been to see the Giants play countless times. I've even been to a couple football games -- Let's go Niners! Football was delicious though; all the food at the tailgating, hell yeah I'm there. Overall though, I lack the sophisticated and dedicated capabilities to sit in front a television set cheering for a bunch of (typically) men. I wouldn't mind if there was good food involved. But, the only thing in my fridge and cupboards right now are milk and Cookie Crisp. In other words, that ain't cutting it. So, sorry Yen, no game tonight.

Soap Operas

I broke my TV. It was an accident of course. Maybe I should clarify; I broke the back of the television that connected the viewing tube to the converter box. Now I can't watch anything unless it's in cd format and accepted by my PS2. I should’ve known that was going to happen. I was trying to "organize". Last time I tried that, I broke my bed. I am sometimes possessed by what seem like brilliant ideas and execute them by going from point A to point E. The night I broke my bed for example, I had the genius idea to move my room around and thought the quickest way would be dragging my bed, right? Wrong. My bed is huge and heavy. Apparently, I was supposed to remove the mattress and springboard first, to reduce the weight -- but how was I supposed to know? No one told me.

Anyhow, my television is now broken. At least it wasn't new. It was old, really old. So now, if I want entertainment I need to pop in a DVD. Lucky for me, I finally bought my four favorite soap operas - the Maria trilogy (Maria Mercedes, Marimar, and Maria la del Barrio) and Rosalinda. They're amusing in all of the unrealistic, sadistic, masochistic drama. Watching them leads me to question so many things.

I remember writing my thesis and concluding that soap operas are nothing but social commentary ridiculing the absurd gender role expectations in different cultures. I mean, what woman is so good (and stupid) that is willing to wait for some dude that just screwed her over, slept with her cousin, who is truly her mother and keeps her from seeing their child, while accusing her of being a whore? "Jose Armando, te amo y sin ti no puedo vivir". Come’n, you know that's a joke. Or is it? I mean, are women really that stupid? One would hope not. But (yeah, there's a but - scary), now that I'm older and more "experienced" (note that I use the term loosely), I can kind of see and almost, somewhat, slightly understand how that can be.

Love, or infatuation or hormones can be toxic and blinding, leading a perfect cynic to behave in uncharacteristic ways. I guess how far women are willing to go or how much they're willing to sacrifice for what they deem as "worthy" is subjective; it varies from woman to woman and from experience to experience. What I may constitute as total humiliation, may be nothing for another woman, or absolutely too much for another.

Now, I'm not saying that soap operas are realistic in any way but just they're not as scornful as before. I'm also not as utterly disgusted with the classic love story of Romeo and Juliet. I still don't like it, but it doesn't have the same excruciatingly obnoxious effect that it did 5 years ago, or even a year ago. It can somewhat make sense. A couple of weeks ago, re-watching Marimar, I was able to sympathize in a way I had never been able to before. Strange, how experience can lead one to view and approach things differently. Don’t get me wrong, I still feel that if I ever act that pathetic, someone should take me outside and put me out of my misery. The difference is that now I say it with a deeper understanding because I now know you can’t control your sentiments.

Human Safari

What are we? If we are all the same, why do we have shows where we display ourselves like animals in a zoo? I went to the Polynesian Cultural Center and watched a man subject himself to cultural exploitation. People watched and laughed. He was dressed in costume, his short wrap covering his thick thighs, his torso naked. It was all in good fun. He needs a job, he has a job. But, how does it feel? I feel both flattered and offended when people call me "exotic". Exotic is different, it's beautiful, it's sexualized. The warm, brown skin, the thick, wild hair, the long-lashed eyes and high-cheekbones become "the other". Identity is lost and objectification is gained. Being sexualized and stereotyped because of outwardly appearance is complicated. Yes, it is flattering to be admired and deemed attractive but it is dismissive of who one is as a person.

Categorized as exotic though, is just a mild form of dehumanization. Even Mr. Samoa at PCC, in all of his tan, half-naked glory is not fully dehumanized as he chooses to put himself on display. I do wonder how he feels to be there everyday, joking and smiling with gawking tourist, their cameras hanging around their necks and reeking of sunblock. Does he laugh at us or with us? Does he secretly wish we would all drop dead? I think I might were I in his place. But then again, I have anger management issues. Or rather, a strong case of anti-stupidity syndrome. As previously stated, exotic can't be taken as an offense when it is handed out, because most people give it as a compliment. Again, Mr. Samoa also chooses his cage.

However, not everyone has that luxury. I remember being Rio de Janeiro, Cidade Maravilhosa, a place I fell in love with and feeling angry and disgusted at the Favela Tour. Really, are you kidding me? People actually pay money to see the shantytowns populated by poverty, hunger, violence and death? This is not a zoo, but a safari -- come watch the savages in their natural habitat! Please keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times. Don't look them in the eye, they may attack. It is as ridiculous as it is sick.

Hollywood does the same thing. For a fee you get to tour celebrity neighborhoods - but really, who the BLEEP cares? I sure don't. I don't understand our obsession with stupid celebrities; it is obscene. At least these celebrities who victimize themselves because of the paparazzi, do have a lot to gain. The publicity and the feeling that you "know" them, makes them richer (and not in their spirits, but in their wallets). For every People or In Touch or whatever other tabloid cover they grace, that's another buck in the bank.

The people in favelas don't get shiet, I'm sure. I seriously doubt that those bunk heads running those tours share the profits with the "freak show". Why share when you can exploit? Why validate and respect when you can dehumanize? Even in a favela, beauty can be found. Even in poverty and tragedy, there is hope to be had. Like most of us, life isn't easy and they're just trying to make it one day at a time, so why put their reality on display?

Maybe the question I should be asking is why can't I just enjoy the show like a normal human being, proud of being a member of this wonderful and just race? Maybe I'm the freak....

Wonderland

"How can I be the wrong Alice when this is my dream?" How can I be the wrong Maria when this is who I am? Alice in Wonderland has always enthralled me. Perhaps because like Alice and cast, I am mad myself. I've always been seduced by the darkness of it all - disappearing cat, stoned caterpillar, contradicting twins, decapitating red queen, and of course, my personal favorite, the Mad Hatter. Even Alice, with her prim and proper demeanor is extremely entrancing, as she is really quite rebellious and free-spirited and as a result, she's an outcast in her world. But in Wonderland, surrounded by the quirky, the mad, and the mentally twisted, she both finds and accepts herself. In Wonderland, her purpose of life and the person that she is makes sense. She is free of facades because she believes she's in a dream. In dreams, we have no inhibitions. Instead, our subconscious is our guide and we are able to explore our hidden fears and desires in a way we are unable to awake. Look up Freud’s “The Interpretation of Dreams”.

In January, my nights were consumed by dreams that tormented me. I wanted to sleep and not dream because my dreams were so realistic and exhausting that I awoke more tired than I otherwise would have had I not attempted to shut my eyes. One dream in particular made me feel as though I was in my own Wonderland, surrounded my unrealistic possibilities that became magical realism; each stage of the dream more obscure than the previous.

In dreams though, the angst get that sometimes fills me when I'm awake is justified. When I'm asleep, the darkness of my soul makes sense; I don't feel guilty for being dark and gloomy. When I'm awake, it's different. I'm confused and unaccepting of my true feelings because I shouldn't feel "that way". I should feel happy, lucky, blessed. And I am. Sometimes.

In Wonderland, everything comes together because it doesn't make sense. In the world we live in, we try to make sense of things and become frustrated when it doesn't. But in Wonderland, everything is absurd and its absurdity makes sense because it's ok to wear a codfish as a hat, or host tea parties with talking mice and disappearing cats. Plus everything is so twisted that you do not expect a happy ending. In the real world we do. At least I do. I tell myself that because I am a good person, one day I will get what I deserve and shall experience true joy without that fear that they're just short-lived bliss teasers. In Wonderland, I wouldn't care because happy endings don't exist; at least not in the standard sense.

Maybe the reason I love Alice in Wonderland is because I can see me in many of the characters. I'm the Fat Boys - the crazy twins that contradict one another yet complement each other.

I'm the Red Queen, who cruelly decapitates and cuts off all physical bonds, even the emotional ties that remain alive in my heart - "Delete me".

I'm the Mad Hatter - crazy, witty, clever and intelligent. He's aware of realities of life and right about his vision of the world, but presents his ideas in such a way that their value is masked by outrageous ridicule. He feigns happiness, but is at the core of his being darker than the rest. He has lost faith in the world, but deep inside holds on to hope. The dichotomy of lost faith and retention of hope, makes him a most conflicted character. He's torn in transition.

There's also the White Rabbit, who like me, is also obsessed with time. Each tick tock of his clocks is a second lost as he frantically rushes in his quest to beat time.

Of course, who could disregard the Stoned Caterpillar, who always asks, “Who are you?”

Then there's Alice. She is the heroine of the story but she is also an outcast in both worlds. She's a dreamer in a time when dreaming is impossible. She lives in a jaded world where dreams don't come true. That is why, frustrated by the options presented to paths that will not bring her happiness, she follows the White Rabbit and falls into the hole. There, in Wonderland, she is first outcasted by her "normality". But, after wearing different heights, different costumes, and different selves, she finally understands that she is who she is regardless of where she may be or who may or may not accept it.

I'm ready to follow the White Rabbit. Guide me Bunny. Leche, if I get you a pocket watch, will you lead me to my destiny?

House of Mirrors

Cut me open.
Bleed me out.
With your jagged knife,
disembowel me.
Purify my soul.
Rip my heart out.
Bathe in my blood.
You must be rebaptized.

What you never wanted opened your blind eyes.
Blind, you say?
Yes, you were.
But my sacrificial mixture
of disappointed tears,
sweet sweat,
coagulated blood
and honest words guided you to a mirror of truth.

The smoke is clearing,
but it may return and thicken.

This mirror reflects another you.
It reflects a you that you don’t want to see.
It is a you that you don’t want to accept.
This is the you that you hide from:
Dream Killer, Hope Robber.
House of Mirrors.
Which one of the many yous reflected
on row upon row is the true you?
There's the clown,
the warrior,
the coward,
the lover.

The smoke thickens once more;
it burns my eyes, it chokes my throat.
Will it ever clear?

The Sailor and the Pearl

Wash me ashore your lonely sands,
the tide is high and unmerciful.
While residing in the deep end of the ocean floor,
I was captured by hungry seaweed.
It was then that I became familiar
with the secrets we are not supposed to know.

I discovered a shiny pearl,
bright and untouched,
her virginal beauty ethereal and otherworldly.

One day, a ship wrecked
and a sailor drowned.

His body,
still warm and with blood flowing
through each vein,
sank to the bottom and found its tomb.

His soul,
no longer part of the body,
rose to the top,
joining the salty, crystallized foam
sprinkled through the surface.

The dead sailor was an ancient mariner.
He had lived.
He had seen the seven seas.
He was ready to rest.
But the secrets the ocean contained awakened him.

This was all new to him.
This was a wondrous world.
Fertile.
Mysterious.
Beautiful.
Simple.

He opened his eyes - empty sockets.
He moved his limbs - fleshless and skeletal.

He wanted what was there.

He roamed this world,
unsure if it was for him.
Yet he remained in this magical land,
taking, claiming and possessing its treasures
without giving anything in return.

Night after night
and day after day,
he wandered there until
he came upon the pearl.

Seduced by her beauty,
her simple and innocent candor,
the sailor took her.

He didn’t know if he wanted her,
or what he would do, but he didn’t care.
He was a sailor of the seven seas;
he was used to taking without consequences.
He was used to a mindless, meaningless lifestyle.
The world he had known consisted of frivolous beings,
of precious stones that shattered like glass,
of freedom and irresponsibility.

This new world was nothing like his previous one.
This world was fresh, untouched;
it had a heart and a soul.
This world had protected itself for centuries;
it had not had any unsolicited visitors to tarnish its essence.
With the fearless spirit of a savage,
the world fought to remain unknown,
while simultaneously welcoming him
with the innocent naïveté of a child.

Sailor, sailor, what did you do?
You took the pearl, robbed the ocean of its beauty,
frailty, strength, happiness.
With slow hesitation, you didn’t resist temptation.
Everybody got what they wanted.

The sailor returned to the surface,
but his soul was lost in the melting foam.
His eyes were no longer empty;
his body was once again fleshed.
With him he took new knowledge.
But didn’t want it.
He left the pearl, that new world behind.
Just another vague memory of a voyager.

The sailor left, but the pearl and the world didn’t.
They stayed where they had always been,
where they would always be - fighting, protecting, welcoming.

They would never be the same.

The sailor was a brief, but permanent resident of their world.
The echo of his presence was heard in every wave.
The story he left behind was felt in each ripple, in each breeze.

The sailor left. The world was forgotten.
The sailor left. The pearl no longer pure.
The sailor left. The secrets no longer sacred.

Seaside Lullaby

The tide softly crashes against the surf. The sand darkens with every wave that gently caresses its surface. The once crumbly ground hardens, becoming as pliable as it is firm. I sit here, waiting for the moon to hide until it is time to rise up again, and think of you. You're probably asleep, your chest rising and falling with every breath. I wonder if you're alone. I wonder if you dream of me. The sound of the rolling waves is my lullaby. The steady rhythm in which they fold and unfold, leaving only a light veil of milky foam melting on the sand, temporarily quiets my unsteady soul, it gives me peace in my otherwise restless existence. I watch a couple undress and jump into the water. They seek refuge in its salty womb. Why could that not be us, I wonder? I can only dream of the magic that diving into the mystery of the ocean with you would be. I can only dream of how blessed I would feel knowing I had your arms to protect me, your breath to resuscitate me, your voice to guide me. I want to discover you. I want you to discover me. I needed you to learn the plains of my body, its hills, its hollows. I needed you to learn the beat of my heart, its percussion, its base.

The apex of the sun. I feel its warm kisses on my skin, leaving only covered areas ignored. From the top of Diamondhead, I can see everything. But I still can't see you. The light breeze dries my damp skin and ruffles my hair. I can feel my flower move, its petals waving frantically. I close my eyes and listen. I just don't know what it is I'm listening for. I want to hear the voice of God telling me to forget you. Or to wait for you, that you will come around once you're ready. Neruda was right, loving is so short and forgetting is so long.

Everything reminds me of you, of your smile, of your voice, of your dimples. A walk on the beach, a scrumptious meal, an airplane ride, diving off a rock, music, sand, Hawaiian shirts...

Why did I have so much faith in you? Why do I have so much hope for you? I read somewhere, I don't remember where, that love should be felt in the liver and not in the heart. The heart is a strong muscle, its tissue hard and thick. The liver though, is delicate. Each layer thin and easily torn. Each damage leaving a permanent scar that, if tried to fix, will only add another scar.I try to visualize my liver; it must not be a pretty sight. If my heart, a strong muscle that doesn't stop pumping life into me feels destroyed, my liver must be permanently incapacitated.

I watch the sunset from the balcony. The water is blue and calm. The brightness of it all - the golden setting sun, the turquoise water, the surfers, the white sailboat in the horizon - is in contrast to the darkness of my current state of mind, the emptiness of my world, of my soul.

I sit on the sand again, with the bright moon above me and the warm waves playing tag with my feet, and look into the horizon, getting lost in the darkness of the ocean's depth.

A Day in the Life of a Dork

Sunday morning. I glance over to check the time - 7:35. Too early. It is sinful to rise so early in the morning on a day when sleeping in is allowed. I roll ever and let sleep seduce me. 10:42. It's time to get up. Or at least to open my eyes. I give myself permission to daydream. I guide my thoughts and bring my fantasies to life. I smile as I think of all my silly hopes and just how simple, yet complicated, achieving my bliss is. I contemplate going to mass. I think St. Cecilia's might be a good choice. It's a pretty church and so close to West Portal, so close. I can walk over to Peet's for a speckled pumpkin bread and hot chocolate - low fat milk, no whip, and now, no peppermint. Or, better yet, to Starbucks since I have a gift card to enjoy.

I finally get up and go to the bathroom. I pee, brush my teeth and wash my face. I check the time again. I won't make it to mass. I refuse to rush. I lay in bed again and start watching my soap opera - "Marimar au! Costenita soy…" I text my sister to see if she made it back to Davis yet. She replies that indeed, they're back and she's at church, waiting for mass to begin. She's always been an early riser, and a responsible one at that. I text my friend, ask her what she's up to. I'm craving Oye Managua! She texts back, "2 bad. Already ate. U shuld've texted sooner."

I was asleep sooner, gosh…

Our text exchange continues. She's cool today, she has a car. I tell her to come visit, I'll entertain her. We have access to a car today and we need to do something exciting to break up the monotony of life in the Big City. The world is a scary place Charlie Brown. Crossing the border and getting lost in the chaos of Mexico seems like an agreeable possibility. I'm not sure if my green card will let me return to the States though. However, thinking about it, would I even want to return? I have nothing to return to, just responsibilities. Maybe I need a change. It doesn't matter though because our responsibilities, particularly work tomorrow, keep us here. It is unfortunate because, though we are both proud possessors of free-spirits, we both lack the financials means to be free in a way we both want and need to be.

For example, no last minute ticket purchasing to the Black and White Ball last night. Really, it's a shame, we would've been the Belles of the Ball. Or, at the very least, the sugar and spice that would give the otherwise bland, pan sin sal crowd flavor for the night.

Instead of Mexico, on this Sunday afternoon we take full advantage of our golden chariot to venture in the crowded streets of La Mission. Gracias Benjamin Bratt, you've made my old hood a celebrity. Oye Managua! Our first stop. Chancho frito, platano y queso frito, I goggle it up. No gallo pinto though, I'm watching my figure. The we walk to Mitchell's. Yum. Two scoops - oreo cookie and some hazelnut biscotti deal that isn't half bad. We walk back to the car and drive home. I left a load in the washer and it won't dry itself.

The night is young. We have a car. The possibilities are endless. Coin toss! We would've gone for that had we had any ideas. Instead we surf the web. For hours. We upload our pictures and our crushes' pictures on this baby morphing website that gives you a snapshot of what your baby would look like. Her baby is adorable. Pretty, pretty girl. Mine is not. I demand a maternity test. THAT is NOT coming out of MY uterus. It's genetically impossible. It must be HIS side of the family. We morph her crush and my crush and they make a really hot guy. I want to date him. We laugh and keep trying different combinations.

I'm craving chips. I need something salty. I walk to 7/11 for a sodium overload and return with provisions. We eat. We scan facebook. We laugh. We realize we're dorks. Actually, , we've always known that, but this reconfirms it. Coolness is overrated anyhow. We have a car and we don't go anywhere. Hmmm….

It's late so she decides to crash. Like most nights, I can't sleep. I write.

Oh Mexico, I promise, next time have wheels, we shall make a run for it. Tacos, burritos, quesadillas and carnitas, ready or not here we come!

The Hidden Oasis

You speak to me. Not verbally nor through actions.
I hear you in my soul. They say you know when you're in love.
You can feel it deep inside. I feel you in me.
You're in my core. You've become part of my essence.
I hear you. I dreamt you before I knew you.
My dream had a different ending. Dreams are fantasies,
distortions of reality, the revealing of the unconsciousness.

I slept for so long. You awakened me from my slumber.
You showed me a new world. But it was incomplete.
After hiding from my emotions, you swept into my being,
washing away my fear and from that emerged an innocent love.

It came out of me, strong and fierce. I tried to run from it.
But like a fawn, wide-eyed and frightened,
I was caught in your headlights.
You were the hunter. You shot me with your arrow,
the pain slowly penetrating my body,
leaving no inch of me unscathed.

For the first time, I didn't fight back.
The battle was over. I surrendered.
Now I hang over your mantle, a showpiece, a rare breed.
I laid down for you, for you I gave my last breath.
From the mantle, I watch and wait and work to forget.
Slowly it will happen.

What can I give you that I didn't?
What can I say that I haven't?
In your eyes I searched for truth and for hope.
I needed you to guide my way.
In me you found amusement, sincere innocence.
I nourished your ego.
All I wanted was you, unconditionally.
I didn't want gifts, I didn't want pretty words.
I wanted your smiles, your eyes upon me, your truth.

The wind blows me in all directions - east, west, north and south.
I don't know where the wind will blow me next.
The tornado continues to twist, swirl and grow.
It throws me around, but doesn't let go. I want it to stop.
I want to stay in quiet solitude.
I need to search for a desert and find its secret oasis.
I thirst for tranquility and inner peace.

I remain thirsty. I can't find a resolution. I haven't yet.
You're in every waking moment. You're in every blink of an eye.
You're in my core. You resonate in my soul.
Please, fade away. Become a memory, a distant past.
Join my father in my heart.

Mourning a Ghost

How can I miss what I never had?
How can I love what never had breath, what never had life?
Numb to the world, to gestures of love,
to smiles, caresses, soft words…

The world is your purgatory.
You go through it, waiting for Judgment Day.
While waiting there, you exist, but you don't live.
You eat, you travel, but you don't love. You live in fear.
You encase yourself in selfishness, in arrogance.
You don't feel. You don't measure the weight of your words.
You don't realize their sharpness, their double edged-ness.
To you, it's kindness. To me, it's cowardice.

I cried for you. I cried until I couldn't cry anymore.
I cried until my eyes swelled, until they turned red, slits of puffiness.
Maybe I missed what you could have been. I know I still do.
But, now I have no choice but to put you behind me.
I can't covet what I can never have. I have to let go.

I have to bury you. I must stop mourning a ghost.
I will bring you flowers in the altar of my heart.
I will say a prayer in your name. I will wish you well.
Only then will I blow out the candle that has been burning,
patiently, hoping for your resurrection.

I will clean the mess left behind.

Ghosts don't exist.

The Hour of the Wolf

"Have you ever heard the hour of the wolf?...It's the time between 3:00 and 4:00 in the morning. You can't sleep, and all you can see is the troubles and the problems and the way your life should've gone but didn't. All you can hear is the sound of your own heart."

It's that time again. Never fails. Everyday, like clockwork, I look at the screen, or the phone or my ipod just as those numbers flash and convert from one to the other -- 3:25 & 3:26. Is it a coincidence? A sign of some sort? Or is it just a twisted form of attachment? Probably the latter. Poe's Tell-Tale Heart. Pounding heart. Thump. Thump. Thump. Except here there are no floorboards. Nor no cataract-eyed old man lying dead beneath them. There's no guilty conscience. Only a mosaic of hope, annoyance, anger, confusion, frustration, love.

The time. Always 3:25, followed by 3:26. Can I forget? The phantom memory. Could've been. Might've been. Wasn't so. Obscurity. Confusion. Foggy vision. Loss of innocence. Wet pillow. Tangled hair. Vivid dreams. Wild imagination. Cruel reality. Overwhelming sense of helplessness. Woven feelings. Nothing is concrete. Everything is subjective. There is no truth. Hearts aren't autonomous.

3:25. 3:26. Your truth and my truth aren't the same. Your reality is yours and yours alone. Likewise, mine is possessed by only me. I wish I knew your truth. I wish you knew mine. This isn't a fairy tale. I can't wish upon a star. A dream isn't a wish your heart makes. You don't listen with your heart.

Am I being fair to you in my assumption? Perhaps, like the wolf, you are misunderstood. Perhaps even you misunderstand yourself. Wolves are elusive by nature. But they're fearless, loyal, devoted, loving, expressive communicators. You can't be a wolf. I don't want to judge you. Confusion tears me apart. Half of me defends you unconditionally, while they other half resents you, shreds you and buries you under negativity. I'm a wolf. I elude even myself. But I am fearless. I've descended into Hades and survived. Yet, I remain loving, devoted, loyal. Maybe that's the connection. Maybe that's why that hour haunts me. It's who you are; it's who I am.

It's the Hour of the Wolf -- "It's the hour when most people die, when sleep is deepest, when nightmares are most real. It's the hour when the sleepless are haunted by their deepest fear, when ghosts and demons are most powerful."

The Hour of the Wolf. It marinades those who are aware of its existence in its futility. The sweaty palms and rhythm-less heartbeat don't change the course of actions or feelings. Onomatopoeia. Owoooo!!!

Time

I wish I could make up my mind about what I want. My fickleness is a source of frustration. See-saw of indecisiveness. Pendelum of confussion. Tide of anxiety. Tick tock. Time is running out. Running out of what? I don't know. Either way, if I don't even know what I want, and have absolutely no idea why I was put in this earth for, how can I be running low on time? It still causes anxiety,this not knowing. I can hear the clock tick; it's in my heart, in my head, in stomach. Every breath marks a second lost, a minute not used, an hour wasted. It's a day, a week, a month, a year, a decade. What's my purpose? What's my rush? Tick tock. I'm Captain Hook's crocodile, the one that swallowed the clock. Tick tock. Tick tock. It's inside of me. Tick tock. Tick tock. It doesn't stop. Only when I sleep do I lose track of time. Almost. Not quite. What's my purpose? My destiny? Will I know it when I find it? Will time stop then? Tick tock. Tick tock. Stop! That rhymth is in everything I do. A binder. Dinner. A movie. Vacation. Tick tock. I blindly search. But I don't know what I'm looking for. All I know is that I want it to stop. The tick tock. I don't want it. Tick tock. Stop. Tick tock. Leave me alone. I'm not old. I'm not behind. I'm where I should be. I'm where it's right for me. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Or am I? There's no way to know. No way to find out. Is where I am where I should be? Is who I am who I should be? Tick tock. Time stop ticking. Let me be me. Let me not care. Let me not measure myself by what I've accomplished or haven't accomplished during my time on earth. People tell me I have my whole life ahead. The tick tock tells me I don't. It tells me to hurry. Reminds me I'm behind. I'm never catching up. Rush. But to what? Tick tock. Reminds me I don't have a path. I can't rush because I don't know what to rush to. Tick tock. Tick tock. Stop ticking. Let me live. Maybe I'm late. Maybe I'm early. But maybe, just maybe, I'm just on time.

The Crazies: A True Story

Psychopaths. Sociopaths. My family is crazy. I'm sure there are many more "-paths" that apply, but those are the only terms that I know. My paternal grandmother was bipolar. Actually, I hope she was because then her actions would make sense. However, she was never officially diagnosed.

I asked my therapist if I'm bipolar (yes, I have a therapist and I love it -- imagine, I get to talk about ME for 50 minutes!). She said "No." Her confirmation was good to hear. I mean, I know I'm not crazy crazy, but when you come from a background of people with major emotional and psychological issues, it makes you wonder. I act out sometimes. But, it turns out that I am nothing but an extremely complex individual torn between the dichotomy of polar personality characteristics. As a result of my diverse dualities, I get anxious and as I've programmed myself to go through life feeling as little amount of emotions as possible, I don't know how to handle it so I surrender to my impulses. I enjoy being impulsive. It's fun. I get to experience things that other people may never experience because of their conservative natures. However, being impulsive is not the same as being spontaneous. Impulsiveness can get you in trouble.

Just in case anyone is questioning it, no, I don't have multiple personality disorder either. I asked. I ask a lot of questions, keeps my therapist on her toes. She thinks I'm defensive. And guarded. I think I amuse her. Oh, I'm also too intelligent, probably for my own good. She's never said the "for my own good" bit, I added that on my own. I make a lot of assumptions. The thing is, I'm usually right. Kinda sucks. Often times, I wish I knew nothing then I could drown in the bliss that is ignorance!

But really, my paternal side of the family is filled with wack-jobs. Those things can be hereditary. I think it skipped my sisters and me. But, what insane person would admit to being insane? The Mad Hatter sure doesn't. And he isn't. He's in Wonderland. He's quirky, complex, entertaining -- too deep for most commoners to appreciate. The Mad Hatter, he's my soul mate. Well, the Johnny Depp version at least. His cuckyness is saturated in his muchiness; I have muchiness too. Yeah, I really do appreciate the emotional layers that compose that character.

Back to the crazies though. They don't possess that nuttiness that's charming. The Mad Hatter is charming. My own sanity imbalance is endearing (so I'm told, but I agree. I'm neither boring nor lacking personality). Their insanity is disturbing. It's mean. Not all, just certain individuals, but those are the ones of my focus.

There's Mimi, who's dead but left her mark. Don't know if she became the person she was because she was bitter, malicious, or just really not all there. Crazy. Mean. Spiteful. Her redemption was Clayton. Poor, innocent Clayton. Clayton, who at my age can't walk, talk, or function as a productive individual in society. Clayton, who will never experience love, heart-break, joy. Clayton, who depends on the kindness of others to survive. She loved him. His love, devotion, and blind faith in her saved her.

Then there's Tita. Funny, Mimi and Tita are namesakes. Memo to self, never name one of my offspring Esther. Maybe Tita is normal now. She's a mother, a wife, and per Facebook, appears happy. But can someone like her really change? This is the girl who would try to drown her sister and my little Gugu for kicks. This is the chick that stalked her crazy ex-boyfriend, ignoring the restraining order he had against her. This is the girl who claimed to hate her sister, who called her ugly, a nigger, who tried to dehumanize her. If that's not crazy, I don't know what is.

Then there are the aunts. Two of them. Sisters. Both equally crazy. One is suicidal. Lady Lazarus. "The peanut-crunching crowd shoves in to see them unwrap me hand and foot. The big strip tease." A show with no final act. The other aunt, well she is just iiiiinsane. Amen. That's all I gotta say about that one.

The men are more sane. I don't know enough about them because I'm smart enough to keep my distance.

The cousins are normal; most, at least.

My sisters are too.

So am I.

I'm biased though. Kinda. But really. I'm actually pretty fair and quite objective. I see my flaws. I can own them. I'm arrogant, overly proud, suffer the tragic hero complex. Hubris. To quote Pacino in The Devil's Advocate, "Vanity - definitely my favorite sin." Mine's pride, but same difference. They're tightly intertwined.

To conclude, I'm not crazy. Just half my family. There must be something in the Nicaraguan water or in the Alvarado surname. Glad the mad-Alvarado chromosome isn't contagious.

Friday

Only in San Francisco do you see a grown man serenading the foggy morning, dancing, singing at the top of his lungs while swaying to his own beat from street corner to street corner.

It was easy to see that his expressiveness was not so much due to his carefree personality (though maybe it was -- it's not like I know the guy), but he was probably on something. Regardless of the reason for his exuberant outburts, it was still quite amusing and brought a certain joy to those watching.

Fighting time to make it to the office by 8:30 (I wish I started at 10), I wasn't able to stop and check out the show, though I was tempted. Instead, I walked a little bit slower and allowed a smile to spread across my face. I felt my cheeks turn into apples as I took one last glance back before crossing the street and making my way to the wonderful world of D&O.

Gotta love Fridays!

La Fe

I want to return to those times. When I believed. When I knew, without a doubt, that God existed. When praying to Him and la Virgen was a part of my morning and evening ritual "Padre nuestro que estas en el cielo..." I remember being four, sweet and innocent, and asking Baby Jesus to take me up to Heaven during the night, so I could sleep on a big, fluffy cloud but he had to bring me back in time for school. I truly did believe in the Holy Family; I believed in Their power; in Their ability to make miracles.

My request for a cloud persisted, I knew in my naive little heart, that if I asked enough times, He would listen and answer my prayer. In His own way, maybe He did. One night I went to bed, like always, asking for my fluffy cloud. I fell asleep and I felt a presence with me on my bed. I couldn't turn, it felt as another body was lying there next to me. I frantically patted my bed and it was empty, the only body on it was me. But I still couldn't move and I still felt the presence. So, I did what any normal child would do - I freaked the hell out! Maybe that night, He came to keep me company since my being alive and all might cause confusion in the astral plane. I now think it's a funny story, but I wish I still had that determination, that faith that didn't waver, that persisted, that knew that They were there, listening, loving us, guiding us.

I don't know when exactly it was that I lost my faith. I know I still have some of it, I can feel it inside of me. But it's deeply hidden. It's obstructed by fear and disappointment, always disappointment. When one loses faith in those one loves, faith fades. For me it was my dad. He's been the greatest disappointment in my life. I now pity him -- I pity his weakness, his pathetic-ness, his fear. I feel ashamed to come from him. I feel torn about it. He's my dad. I shouldn't be ashamed of him. I should love him. I should respect him. But I can't. I don't even know if I want to. His selfishness robbed us of so much and his actions continue to haunt me. The memories of words said, of things done are embedded in me. It's hard to let go. It's hard to forgive. I felt God cheated my mom, sisters and me for putting us through that. Maybe it was fate, inevitable. I am who I am today because of it. But sometimes, I wonder if that's a good thing.

I faced disappointment again. I felt guilty. I've been punishing myself for letting it happen. I've been feeling shame for putting my guard down, for trying to open up to him. Like my dad, he also is tormented by inner demons. Like my dad, he's selfish. But something in him awakened something in me. He made me feel alive in a way I had never felt before. I don't understand why or how, because he never did anything or said anything. It was just something about his presence, something that I saw and felt in him that both mesmerized and terrified me. Something he doesn't see in himself.

I thought that perhaps God had put him in my path and that I would find happiness with him. But he's damaged. I don't know how long he's been that way; I don't know if he can change. I would have done anything to heal him, to help him find himself, but his stoic nature pushed me away, his indifference broke my heart, tore it to pieces. Again, my faded faith started to fade even more. Another disappointment. Another scar. Another lost dream.

Mi mama dice que la fe es ciega. Yo peleo con ella, le digo que como puede creer sin prueba, como es capaz de poner todo en algo de lo cual no ha visto. Pero ella me dice que nosotros somos prueba, que nosotros somos la creación de El. Somos hijas de un Rey. Ella cree y no deja de creer. Hay veces su fe me da lastima, que siempre sigue sin dudar aunque su vida nunca ha sido un cuento de adas. Pero mas que todo la admiro. Miro todo lo que ha vivido. Todo lo que ha sacrificado. Todo lo que ha echo. En esos momentos se que lo a logrado por su fe; en su corazón nunca esta sola. Eso me avergüenza. No de ella, pero de mi misma. Yo quisiera tener fe como ella. Quisiera ser constante en mi vista acerca de la religion. Miro como ella no deja de luchar, y la manera en la que siempre nos da fuerza, amor, y alivio y me rompe el corazón de no ser mas como ella. Ella es feliz y sabe su valor; ella sabe quien es. Sabe que es hija de Rey y por eso no deja de luchar y de darse su lugar, siempre encontrando fuerza en Dios y la Virgen.

Lately though, in trying to find my happiness again, I've realized I can't blame God. Or free will. Or try to convince myself that ignorance is bliss. Ignorance is ignorance. Ignorance is despicable. Happiness comes from within, from loving and accepting oneself. You can't measure your worth by others' standards. As much as it hurts, every wound, every disappointment is a lesson learned. I now know that I do possess the ability to love, fearlessly and genuinely. Maybe la Virgen is still watching out for me, silently guiding me, leading me to finding, accepting and loving me. Maybe there is still hope for me, maybe my faith can be restored. Maybe all I need to do is to open my heart, let my guard down, and surrender to the beliefs I was raised on. "Santa Maria, madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros los pecadores ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte..."

The Gipsy

The fortune teller took the deck of cards and held them in her hands. She bowed her head and prayed in silence. She looked up once more and silently began to scramble them. The girl looked as the old woman shuffled the almost tattered, worn-out deck. She then gave the cards to the girl and asked her to play with them, to allow her energy to feed the cards. The girl took them between her hands, she craddled them, she felt their thinness, their creased wrinkles, she sensed their power, the wisdom, knowledge and secrets they contained , she spoke to them, allowed them to feel her inner desires. She hoped that they would speak through the old woman, that they would help guide her and find her path. She was instructed to split the deck into 3 piles and hand them to her, pile by pile, in the order of her choice. Once done, the reading began.

The old woman spread the cards out as the girl watched on. She started speaking of things familiar to the girl, she started speaking of him. It scared the girl. He was the one who possessed her heart, the one who occupied her mind. She wanted to give up on him, but she didn't know how.  The lady said he loved her in his own way but he was unable to show or say it; he didn't know how. He never learned to love. Instead, he learned to be a man - closed, strong, masculine, responsible. He never learned to feel vulnerability, to put his guards down, to allow his gentleness to show. "He needs to find himself," the woman said.

The woman assured the girl she had a bright future ahead. She said she would be happy. She said if he was meant for her, he would return. It was up to him to make the change. The girl left as confused as before. She didn't know what she should do about him. She didn't know how to help him. She knew she wanted to make him happy, but understood that his happiness was beyond her control. Only he could find it. She hoped that he would hurry, that he would search for her, and that she was still waiting for him when he realized he loved her.

Falling/Landing

In my dream I'm falling. The abyss is deep, never ending. I wonder when I will hit the bottom, when will every bone in my body pulverize. I'm looking forward to the moment when by body and the granite up ahead meet, I fear the anticipation of the unknown more than I fear the reality of my death up ahead. I know what will become of me once the fall ends. I don't want that shattering finality to my mortality, but I don't want this racing heart-beat, these fluttering butterflies housed in my stomach, the shortness of breath - all symptoms brought on by the irrevocable fear of not knowing when everything will end. The journey is scarier than the outcome. The outcome is final, the journey is a process.

I'm awake. I'm alive. I realize your my abyss. I think I finally hit your concrete. My bones aren't broken, only my heart is. I wonder if this is our finality, if it truly is over. I'm unsure as to whether or not I want to climb your walls again, once again hoping I won't fall and get hurt. But your walls are slippery, treacherous. I don't want to think about it. I want to believe, like before, that it is over. But it is hard to release all hope when you desire something so much.

I'm dreaming again. Falling. I don't know what path to choose. I don't know if I'm ready to let go. To move forward. To forget you. I'm split. Half of me can't wait to forget your name, your face. My other half fears the possibility of one day no longer loving you, of forgetting you, of forgetting the way you make me feel. I don't know what's a greater evil - leaving you behind me, or holding on to you.

Mass

I'm not big on religion. I was at one point, but I was a child. I don't remember now if I really enjoyed it or I think that I did because I knew all the prayers and it was something we did as a family. By the time I was 8, my view of religion started to change.

My mom sometimes calls me a "rebel without a cause." I always think I have a cause - justice. It is because of justice that I tried to turn my back on religion as I held it responsible for many of the injustices in my life.

When something is hammered into me and I'm expected to accept a truth that is not my own, I get angry and in that anger reject all that is presented. Growing up, mi abuelita tried to force religion, God, y todos los santos upon me, shoving them down my throat and leaving me with a bitter and resentful after taste. She never understood that her violent attempts caused just the opposite of what she was trying to accomplish. I stopped praying and began to doubt, to question, stating that if there indeed was a God, I needed proof and that if I doubted, it was because I had a brain and that was, furthermore, a compliment to the Almighty, as I was living proof that we were created in His image.

Now that I'm older, I'm trying to return to my religious roots; I go to church pretty often, I try to pray, but it's difficult. I'm not sure I have faith. At times I think I do, but more often than not I question the existence of a being I have never seen and perhaps haven't even felt. Then I feel guilty. i feel guilty for doubting - faith is blind, therefore hard to accept. Then, whenever I'm faced with torment, I wonder if it is my punishment for lacking faith, That doesn't seem fair though. I'm still a good person and I try to do the right thing, so being punished for questioning wouldn't be right, especially if God is indeed the just God I believe him to be. He must be. He needs to be. He feeds hope. He lifts spirits. He heals broken hearts. How can I believe again? How can I stop doubting?

As far as mi abuelita is concerned, she is still a major reason for my religious allergies. I don't know why, maybe because I'm now an adult and she has absolutely no leverage over me, even when I'm feeling God, I deny it to her. Yesterday was her birthday, I called her para felicitarla (note that I decided it wasn't worth the effort to go out of my way to visit her. It makes me sad but none of my grandparents ever inspired any natural tenderness in me, instead I just feel a sometimes duty-type of love). She asked me when I was going to visit her. For some reason though, talking to her brings me back to my childhood and makes me defensive. I said I didn't know, that I was busy. She said to come over para platicar. I said I'd see when I had time and sure we could talk, as long as religion was kept out of the conversation. I knew what I was saying, just as I knew what she would say. She scolded, accused me of "always being against God." I just cut her off, wished her a Happy Birthday and said good-bye.

I went to mass this morning. As usual, I sat in the back - alone. There was an older couple sitting behind me. After a while, I just walked out because the guy made me sick. He was so grumpy, so unwilling to be there. He made comments the entire time, I'll admit it, I talk in church when I go with other people. I got shhh-ed last time I went with my mom and sisters. But my observations are smart and witty - they're funny. Gugu laughs even as she tells me to shut-up. This dude though, he was just negative. Today, in celebration of Chinese New Year, there was a special ritual. At the end of it, we were instructed my the priest to bow 3 times to the Ancestors' Shrine. Then to bow again to the main celebrant and to one another, wishing everyone New Year happiness. At this point, Grouch the Rude says, "I'm not Chinese." Are you being serious right now?? It just made me sick, to be in the presence of such ignorance. I stayed a few more minutes before walking out in search of food and to get away from the lack of respect of others' culture. Just bow dude, it doesn't cost you anything. Or better yet, don't come.

It was all bad though. I went to the 9:30 AM mass, labeled the "family mass." There were so many families, so many children. There was this cute little girl sitting in front of me, she was maybe 2 and full of energy. At one point she took a rolled up program and started howling. It was disrupting, but super adorable and funny, it made me smile. Going to mass also reinforces my desire to have a family and not be an old mom. In a way, it makes me sad. I don't want to yearn for something that is not in my horizon. What if it never happens? I know I shouldn't think like that, but sometimes it's hard to remain positive and hopeful. Patience is a virtue. I'm not virtuous. I have NO patience. Maybe Sor Isabel was right when she prophesied how much I would suffer if I didn't learn to be patient. Maybe that's my personal cross to bear. Learning patience is like having faith - I see them, understand them, but I'm not sure I'll ever possess either. Here's to hoping and trying. At least I never really give up, which means that somewhere in me faith, patience and hope dwell.

Lucky Forehead

Yesterday, as I crossed the street while minding my own business, this dude walks up to me and declares, "You have a lucky forehead, it's full of light." It was a sunny day though and I do have an oily complexion. But I guess that's not what he meant because he continued, "You are a very lucky person, but your luck has not yet manifested itself. 2010 is when it will happen. Mark my words. 2008 and 2009 were not lucky years for you; those years were full of up and downs." Of course the whole time he's talking I'm standing there with a smirk on my face, while wondering, "is this dude for real?" and, "am I that gullible?" He seemed harmless enough so I thought I'd humor him, so I stood there listening even after the occasional arm pat and hand squeeze. He then took a piece of paper and wrote something on it, crumpled it into a tiny ball, and set it on my open palm. He then asked me 3 questions:

1. Pick a color besides red and black (my 2 favorites!) - I picked blue.
2. Choose a number between 1 and 5 - I chose 4.
3. My birth year - 1983.

He wrote my answers down and showed them to me. He then instructed me to open the little ball in my hand. I unrolled it and EUREKA!! They were my answers - how did he know?! LOL I must admit, I was kind of amazed; it was pretty cool, creepy and suspicious all at once.

He also asked me what kind of luck I most desired - success, love, health. I'm healthy, success is relative, and yes, I'm a girl so yeah, I said love (surprise, surprise). He said this is my lucky year for love. Apparently, there are 2 fellas out there with exceptionally awesome taste and therefore in love with me, but I only love one of them (gasp!). Then, I don't remember what else he said. He said something more about love, maybe that it would all work itself out? I don't know. He told me to remember his face, that I would see him again in April. Hmmm, wonder if I should be creeped out?

Yes, I gave him money - my lunch money. I wanted Thai, but since they only take cash, I was forced to eat clam chowder instead, yuck! But at least my charming Prince of Parfait hooks me up. I can get a medium or large soup for the price of a small.

What's peculiar to me is that I think I crossed this fortune-teller once upon a time; the whole episode feels repeated, though not entirely déjàvu. I just have a vague sense that this has happened to me before, with him. Maybe he's my Guardian Angel of Hope, or perhaps he is a real-life clairvoyant. Then again, he may be just another weirdo loose in the streets of San Francisco.

Epilogue - Walking back to the office, clam chowder in tow, I caught him talking to some dude. I guess homeboy didn't buy it and walked away. I caught up to him and asked, "what did he tell you?" Dude said, "That I have a lucky forehead and this is my lucky year." I exclaimed, "he told me the same thing!" I admit I felt kind of cheated, but went on to share the q&a session. The guy seemed impressed, whether it was genuine or for my sake, I can't say. When we parted ways (after he asked if I gave him money), he told me, "maybe you will be lucky this year." I hope so.

Dusho

Images of you filter through the blink of an eye:
you smiling, you tickling me, you eating,
you kissing me, hugging me, you sleeping,
the relaxation of your face, of your dreams,
softening your masculine features,
changing the man you are during the day
into an innocent child oblivious to the harshness
of the world at night.

You're not the dutiful husband who worries over a skipped meal.
You're not the sweet, sad-eyed boy who whispers, "I love you",
without the expectation of hearing the words he longs for
but is yet to hear in return.
You're just you - humble, kind, generous, strong.
You're just you - proud, fearful, selfish, insecure.

You're just Dusho.
Mi Dusho.

Wisdom of Clarion Alley

"Love doesn’t die just gets buried under fear and failures to be brave. It gets buried under all that sludge."

Philosophizing love on the walls of a San Francisco alley. Random sage asserting the truth - though truth is subjective. A warrior of love defending Love's honor - Love doesn’t die. Is that a romanticized observation or is that a fact? Guess that is both the beauty and foulness of abstractness, it can be molded and manipulated into anything. Love is an abstract idea, an intangible sentiment. The way love manifests itself in me is different than it does in someone else. The sage is right though; too often love, or the potential thereof, does get buried under the fear to allow oneself to love and be loved, it gets buried under the fear of failure to be brave, the fear that the risk will be fruitless, that it will shrivel into nothingness instead. Then the potential of the beautiful possibility of love gets buried under the sludge of cowardice and mediocracy.

What is the world's greatest evil then? It has to be fear to love, because where there is love, fear is absent. Fear is what leads people to lie, cheat, steal, kill, and hurt others because they feel they are inferior and are afraid to accept human kindness and love for humanity. Love on the other hand empowers and gives one the feeling of invincibility, the feeling that anything is possible - si se puede. The hippies had it right in the 60's - peace and love, that's all we really need.