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.