Monday, March 23, 2015
Sweet Nile
My little Nile. I hear you breathing and see you smiling behind closed eyes. What are you dreaming? I wonder. Your frail little body, vulnerable and open to the world the way only a newborn is, twitches. Your innocence fills me with awe and tenderness. Your trust breaks my heart. I want to protect you from all the evils of the world, but know it's impossible. In my arms, right now, as I bounce and watch you, you're in your safest place and you know it. You sleep a light slumber. One moment in dreamland; another awake. You rewardp me with toothless smiles and my heart hurts. The love I have for you is overwhelming and crippling. You came into this world to make it a better place, starting with me. I'm becoming a better person because of you, my little one. You're teaching me patience when, at three in the morning, you want to play instead of sleep. Or when you cry for no known reason. I, like a zombie, hold you and smile as you coo and flash gummy grin after gummy grin.
Nile. You who's named after the fiercest of rivers. Nile. You're my sweetest lullaby. You're my cave of wonders. You're my gift from God. I don't think you'll ever quite know how much I love you. At least not until you become a mother yourself. Until then, I'll continue to watch you and hold you and love you. Always. Forever.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
The Eternal Neutrality of the Concave Chest
He literally took my heart. Ripped it out, actually -- bloody and still pumping. I could feel an echo, a memory, of where it used to be. I asked him to take it. I watched him, encouraged him even, as he held the glimmering blade and shoved it into my waiting chest. The pain was exquisite torture, but less intense than heart-break. His stoic nature fascinated me, it seduced me into masochism; he didn't reveal emotions -- no pity, no fear, no remorse, no sadness. It simply was. I didn't exist to him. I was a shell, a vessel, a body; I was emptiness. I wondered what he would do now that he held the crimson, palpitating muscle in his hands. But he didn't want it; he just tossed it. This time though, it didn't hurt. His rejections no longer mattered because I no longer felt. Never again would I experience sorrow or anger, pleasure or joy, love or hate. Heartless, I was immune to emotions. I questioned to what extent -- would I still be filled with peace when I closed my eyes under the warm sun? Would a star-dotted sky still take my breath away? Would the blue and white salty waters of the world remain a source of solace and amazement? How would my mind react now that it no longer had to battle my heart? Was I done dreaming?
I watched him walk away, his dark silhouette growing smaller and smaller into oblivion. As his figure faded into the horizon, so did every memory I had of him. Now that my heart and my mind were no longer connected, I was free of emotional ties. My memory stored images, stories I associated with him, but they no longer held an impact, it was almost like they never happened. The only pain I could feel was in my chest, in the hollow space between my breasts. The blood had stopped and the skin was rapidly regenerating, so much so that I only had a light, star-shaped scar where the knife had penetrated. I waited a few moments before walking towards my new life.
*************************************************************************************
We met my last year of college. I was young, free-spirited, and full of ideals -- I romanticized revolutions of the past and of far-away lands, I believed we would all one day be equal and I had no doubt that happy endings existed. Up until then, my life had been full of ups and downs, spirals and twists, but never once had my faith in liberty, justice and love wavered. I ran free.
I never expected to meet him; it was just one of those things that unexpectedly falls into your lap and it seems so right, that we associate it with fate. My first impression of him was that he was fat, and that he donned a shuffle when he walked. That view faded soon enough -- his fat transformed into big, powerful and masculine; His shuffle became a dominating stride, confident and war-like. I was hooked. I was never naive, but I possessed a strange innocence that was inherently genuine. With him, I relaxed and allowed my heart to feel. And it felt. For the first time, I met a man I wanted in my life and that I could see a future with. My mind was a bit more stubborn. A true cynic, my mind battled my heart. I wish my mind was the victor. But my heart was strong and relentless and no matter how hard my mind fought, whenever I saw his face and his dimpled smile, my heart triumphed.
To this day, I don't know what I saw in him. He was average looking, rough around the edges and could not put a sentence together without first peppering it with profanity. He lacked tact and always said the wrong thing. More importantly, with him, I never knew where I stood. Some days I was sure he cared, but he just lacked the sensitivity to express it. Other days, most days, I wondered why he wasted his time and mine when his heart wasn't in it. It wasn't anything he said, but everything he didn't say. It wasn't anything he did, but everything he didn't do. He was the secret garden I wanted to discover, the ocean of thoughts whose depth I wanted to explore. He was so close, but always so far.
We continued that way for months. The deeper in love that I fell, the more I had to lose. Everything was always his terms, his conditions. I found myself fading away. Instead of the outspoken, opinionated rebel, I was now nice and sweet. Women should be seen, not heard. I worked hard at being a "girl" - upbeat, pretty, and sensitive. But it wasn't me. As such, I slowly evaporated. I learned to smile and nod, to keep opinions to myself, to aim to please. My fire dimmed. My spirit died. Without realizing it, I gave him a marionette me and he didn't want it. I, on the other hand, wanted all of him. I wanted his confidence, his smile, his entitlement and privilege. I wanted the man he was the during the day and the child he was in his sleep -- sweet, unguarded and innocent. That's when I loved him most, while he slept. There was nothing I longed for more than sleeping by his side -- our limbs radiating heat, his breath lullabying me into the most delicious slumber. Months later, after I surrendered by body to him, I reminisced to those nights when I watched him sleep and felt true intimacy, the intimacy the union of our bodies never experienced.
In retrospect, I guess I always knew how it would end; my intuition prophesized it. I knew my heart would break, I just didn't expect the intolerable pain, the flooding tears, the swollen eyes, the emptiness... I knew he could never love me. He wanted more; he needed more. Or maybe, he wanted less; he needed less. We were different. We didn't share ideals. We didn't share backgrounds, statuses, minds. I was the intellectual to his jock. I was the irrationality to his common sense. I was the pauper to his prince. My creativity outshone his dullness, intimidated his blandness. His neutrality confiscated my confidence, brought out my insecurities, made me run and hide. Occasionally I would reemerge, take a swing at him, a jab, a round-house kick -- anything that would evoke an emotion. But nothing ever did. He would just look at me, silently. He would look at me, but he would never see me.
Finally, the frustration of loving a creature like him caught up to me. Away from him I was miserable, always questioning myself -- was I not smart enough? Pretty enough? Thin enough? Fat enough? Why wasn't I enough? I couldn't do it anymore; I needed to break free.
It was clean break. He was unfazed as always. "It's not that you're a bitch or anything," he said. "I'm just at that age, you know? I should be looking to settle down and shit and I don't feel we are at the same mental level. I can't date just to date."
*************************************************************************************
The last time I saw him was a cold, spring evening. For reasons I'll never understand, he asked me out again. "To celebrate our birthdays," he said. That night was perfect. We talked, danced, kissed. That night, everything seemed more alive: the stars shone brighter, the air was crisper, my heart beat stronger. Everything was magic. For just a few hours, I surrendered to the fantasy. But this wasn't my fairy tale. This didn't have a happily ever after. Heartbroken and half-naked, I fought the tears that were welling up in my eyes and watched him turn his back and walk out the door one last time.
*************************************************************************************
Even after we stopped seeing each other, he haunted my every waking moment. He wasn't present anymore and it hurt. My mind, cynical and independent, celebrated my freedom, but heart couldn't stand it -- it was destroyed.
Night after night, I dreamt of him. In my dreams, he never acknowledged me. I searched for him, hoped to gain clarity, find answers. I needed something to kill my love and steal my hope. But nothing changed. Instead, I surrendered to desperation and embraced the pain, as intricate as butterfly threaded lace and as poisonous as a black widow's kiss.
After a while the pain replaced him and I became dependent on it. Like a heroin addict, I injected suffering into my bloodstream and needed it to function. As long as I hurt, my love lived. I wondered if I had been brainwashed by soap operas. I remembered writing my thesis paper on the virgin/whore dichotomy and examining the two distinct roles as they are portrayed in short stories and soap operas. In one of the books I used, Cleófilas yearned for the passion of soap operas "because to suffer for love is good. The pain all sweet somehow. In the end."
Somewhere between writing and loving, I believed it. My love justified my suffering. My suffering justified my love. I moved through the world in penance, preaching the gospel of a disillusioned heart and disappearing dreams. The more I hurt, the more I loved, the more worthy I became.
One day, I woke up and looked at my reflection; it terrified me. I didn't recognize myself. I had become what I thought he saw: a shell, just a body void of the purest essences that had once been me -- vivacity, courage, pride, passion. That was the day I knew he had to cut my heart out.
I watched him walk away, his dark silhouette growing smaller and smaller into oblivion. As his figure faded into the horizon, so did every memory I had of him. Now that my heart and my mind were no longer connected, I was free of emotional ties. My memory stored images, stories I associated with him, but they no longer held an impact, it was almost like they never happened. The only pain I could feel was in my chest, in the hollow space between my breasts. The blood had stopped and the skin was rapidly regenerating, so much so that I only had a light, star-shaped scar where the knife had penetrated. I waited a few moments before walking towards my new life.
*************************************************************************************
We met my last year of college. I was young, free-spirited, and full of ideals -- I romanticized revolutions of the past and of far-away lands, I believed we would all one day be equal and I had no doubt that happy endings existed. Up until then, my life had been full of ups and downs, spirals and twists, but never once had my faith in liberty, justice and love wavered. I ran free.
I never expected to meet him; it was just one of those things that unexpectedly falls into your lap and it seems so right, that we associate it with fate. My first impression of him was that he was fat, and that he donned a shuffle when he walked. That view faded soon enough -- his fat transformed into big, powerful and masculine; His shuffle became a dominating stride, confident and war-like. I was hooked. I was never naive, but I possessed a strange innocence that was inherently genuine. With him, I relaxed and allowed my heart to feel. And it felt. For the first time, I met a man I wanted in my life and that I could see a future with. My mind was a bit more stubborn. A true cynic, my mind battled my heart. I wish my mind was the victor. But my heart was strong and relentless and no matter how hard my mind fought, whenever I saw his face and his dimpled smile, my heart triumphed.
To this day, I don't know what I saw in him. He was average looking, rough around the edges and could not put a sentence together without first peppering it with profanity. He lacked tact and always said the wrong thing. More importantly, with him, I never knew where I stood. Some days I was sure he cared, but he just lacked the sensitivity to express it. Other days, most days, I wondered why he wasted his time and mine when his heart wasn't in it. It wasn't anything he said, but everything he didn't say. It wasn't anything he did, but everything he didn't do. He was the secret garden I wanted to discover, the ocean of thoughts whose depth I wanted to explore. He was so close, but always so far.
We continued that way for months. The deeper in love that I fell, the more I had to lose. Everything was always his terms, his conditions. I found myself fading away. Instead of the outspoken, opinionated rebel, I was now nice and sweet. Women should be seen, not heard. I worked hard at being a "girl" - upbeat, pretty, and sensitive. But it wasn't me. As such, I slowly evaporated. I learned to smile and nod, to keep opinions to myself, to aim to please. My fire dimmed. My spirit died. Without realizing it, I gave him a marionette me and he didn't want it. I, on the other hand, wanted all of him. I wanted his confidence, his smile, his entitlement and privilege. I wanted the man he was the during the day and the child he was in his sleep -- sweet, unguarded and innocent. That's when I loved him most, while he slept. There was nothing I longed for more than sleeping by his side -- our limbs radiating heat, his breath lullabying me into the most delicious slumber. Months later, after I surrendered by body to him, I reminisced to those nights when I watched him sleep and felt true intimacy, the intimacy the union of our bodies never experienced.
In retrospect, I guess I always knew how it would end; my intuition prophesized it. I knew my heart would break, I just didn't expect the intolerable pain, the flooding tears, the swollen eyes, the emptiness... I knew he could never love me. He wanted more; he needed more. Or maybe, he wanted less; he needed less. We were different. We didn't share ideals. We didn't share backgrounds, statuses, minds. I was the intellectual to his jock. I was the irrationality to his common sense. I was the pauper to his prince. My creativity outshone his dullness, intimidated his blandness. His neutrality confiscated my confidence, brought out my insecurities, made me run and hide. Occasionally I would reemerge, take a swing at him, a jab, a round-house kick -- anything that would evoke an emotion. But nothing ever did. He would just look at me, silently. He would look at me, but he would never see me.
Finally, the frustration of loving a creature like him caught up to me. Away from him I was miserable, always questioning myself -- was I not smart enough? Pretty enough? Thin enough? Fat enough? Why wasn't I enough? I couldn't do it anymore; I needed to break free.
It was clean break. He was unfazed as always. "It's not that you're a bitch or anything," he said. "I'm just at that age, you know? I should be looking to settle down and shit and I don't feel we are at the same mental level. I can't date just to date."
*************************************************************************************
The last time I saw him was a cold, spring evening. For reasons I'll never understand, he asked me out again. "To celebrate our birthdays," he said. That night was perfect. We talked, danced, kissed. That night, everything seemed more alive: the stars shone brighter, the air was crisper, my heart beat stronger. Everything was magic. For just a few hours, I surrendered to the fantasy. But this wasn't my fairy tale. This didn't have a happily ever after. Heartbroken and half-naked, I fought the tears that were welling up in my eyes and watched him turn his back and walk out the door one last time.
*************************************************************************************
Even after we stopped seeing each other, he haunted my every waking moment. He wasn't present anymore and it hurt. My mind, cynical and independent, celebrated my freedom, but heart couldn't stand it -- it was destroyed.
Night after night, I dreamt of him. In my dreams, he never acknowledged me. I searched for him, hoped to gain clarity, find answers. I needed something to kill my love and steal my hope. But nothing changed. Instead, I surrendered to desperation and embraced the pain, as intricate as butterfly threaded lace and as poisonous as a black widow's kiss.
After a while the pain replaced him and I became dependent on it. Like a heroin addict, I injected suffering into my bloodstream and needed it to function. As long as I hurt, my love lived. I wondered if I had been brainwashed by soap operas. I remembered writing my thesis paper on the virgin/whore dichotomy and examining the two distinct roles as they are portrayed in short stories and soap operas. In one of the books I used, Cleófilas yearned for the passion of soap operas "because to suffer for love is good. The pain all sweet somehow. In the end."
Somewhere between writing and loving, I believed it. My love justified my suffering. My suffering justified my love. I moved through the world in penance, preaching the gospel of a disillusioned heart and disappearing dreams. The more I hurt, the more I loved, the more worthy I became.
One day, I woke up and looked at my reflection; it terrified me. I didn't recognize myself. I had become what I thought he saw: a shell, just a body void of the purest essences that had once been me -- vivacity, courage, pride, passion. That was the day I knew he had to cut my heart out.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Father's Day
The doors slide open and they walk in - a mother and her two little girls. The little ones, still pre-school age, are messy – frizzy blond curls, wrinkled dresses, sticky hands and smiles. All three sit in seats perpendicular to mine. They laugh, play and enjoy each other. At the next stop, the door connecting the linked cars opens and the girls squeal in excitement. It is Daddy. Their young faces reveal the joy and love that's only apparent when one is still innocent and trusting, before life has hardened one up and taught to conceal what one truly feels. He comes closer. "Daddy! Daddy!” they cry in unison. He sits next to me, the too familiar stench of alcohol rushes into my nostrils. They compete with each other for his attention. "Look at my earrings, Daddy!" "I have this much money left, look Daddy! I have 6 left!" Daddy smiles, an absent and slightly menacing look plastered on his face. "What's that on your ears?" His tone mean and aggressive, almost threatening. The older girl's smile drops, but she doesn’t untape her dangling paper earrings. His attention turns to the younger one, his eyes scrutinize her sticky fingers, her outstretched palms holding copper-colored coins. He looks at the mother, stating, "you spent it all at Starbucks." She laughs and says, "No." He keeps insisting. The older girl withdraws and moves closer to her mother. The little one looks at him adoringly; he is still her hero. His eyes are locked on the mother's, who smiles uncomfortably. The younger girl, sensing the sudden tension, automatically draws her thumb into her mouth for comfort. Daddy turns to her and slaps her hand out of her mouth - "We don't suck thumbs!" She whimpers, lightly, but doesn’t cry. At that moment, BART stops -- 24th Street, my station. I wonder how much time the girls have left before they realize their father, like mine, is nothing. I wonder when they will awaken from their fantasy.
Once upon a time, I was that little girl. In my eyes and in my heart, my dad could do no wrong – he was my everything. He was the first person I trusted completely, blindly, without a doubt. I thought he would always be there. Back then I could not imagine life without him. Now, I cannot imagine life with him. I don’t remember what the breaking point was. I don’t remember when I lost all faith in him. I don’t know if it was a series of events, or one particular incident. In retrospect, I think I chose to hide the truth from myself. I guess I did not want to face reality; I didn’t want to admit that my father was a coward, a liar, a selfish being. I knew why we had left our family home without him; I knew what he did to my mom; I knew why Mari and I had to walk to school past the train tracks at 6:30 am Monday through Friday; I knew why my mom had to work; I knew why my uncles and my grandfather would drop food off for us; I knew why he scared me at night. But in the day, in the sunshine, he was my Daddy.
I looked forward to the afternoons I would spend with him. Mari wouldn’t come. A lot of the times it was just Gugu and me. Other times it was just me. He would take us to a bar and we’d have banana splits; he’d just get hammered. I loved ice cream. I loved him. I didn’t even mind the music. It must have been 1989 or maybe 1990. “Ven Devorame Otra Vez” was at its peak. Lalo Rodriguez’ voice boomed throughout every jukebox in Masaya “…devorame otra vez, ven devorame otra ve / Ven castigame con tus deseos mas / Que el vigor lo guarde para ti / Ay ven devorame otra vez, ven devorame otra vez / Que la boca me sabe a tu cuerpo / Desesperan mis ganas por ti…” It’s my punishment song. I listen to it when I feel like crap and crap still isn’t enough. I put it on repeat and remember. I remember what he lost because he wasn’t a man. More importantly, I remember what I lost, what I allowed him to take from me – hope, faith, and innocence.
It’s a weird dichotomy, my feelings towards him. Part of me remains that little girl and loves him. Another part hates him. I want to protect him and slash his heart out. That’s why I hate Father’s Day. It’s selfish of me, but I don’t need another reminder of what I don’t have.
Back-track to Father’s Day 1991, Nuestra Senora del Pilar, third grade: My class was going to perform Roberto Carlos’ “Amigo” for our Father’s Day assembly. We rehearsed every day for weeks, Sor Carmen accompanying our childish voices with her guitar. I was ready to sing, I knew every word – I still do. But the day of the concert, I didn’t show up. It was a Saturday and I stayed home. I don’t know what happened, if my mom just couldn’t bring me to school or if I made the decision not to go. It was probably my decision; I probably wanted to punish him for not visiting me that week. I do remember feeling guilty, heartbroken, wondering if he showed up and I wasn’t there. I cried myself to sleep that night. Even now this song fills me with nostalgia and melancholy; it still makes me feel remorseful.
Fast-forward to March 2010: My friend and her dad share a birthday and often times celebrate it together. I guess it was a big one because they surprised her dad with a ten-piece mariachi band. She and her father waltzed around the room “…tu eres mi amigo del alma en toda jornada / Sonrisa y abrazo festivo a cada llegada / Me dices verdades tan grandes con frases abiertas / Tu eres realmente el mas cierto de horas inciertas…” It was “Amigo”, a haunting memory from my childhood. I stood there, wanting to disappear so no one would notice the tears that were starting to well up in my eyes. I was eight again.
I want to let go of the memories; I want to forget the past. I don’t want to hate my dad, but it’s also too late to build a relationship with him. Frankly, I don’t want one. There’s just so much I don’t understand. I don’t understand how the arms that hugged me could bruise, how the lips that kissed my cheeks could verbally assault, and how the dad that loved me, who was supposed to take care of me, could abandon me. I hope that the day I have a family of my own, my children have a good dad.
The BART doors close behind me. For their sake, I hope I’m wrong about those little girls and their dad. I hope I’m jumping into conclusions, assuming, projecting. I hope theirs is a good dad, who loves them, who’s there for them, who won’t abandon them.
Once upon a time, I was that little girl. In my eyes and in my heart, my dad could do no wrong – he was my everything. He was the first person I trusted completely, blindly, without a doubt. I thought he would always be there. Back then I could not imagine life without him. Now, I cannot imagine life with him. I don’t remember what the breaking point was. I don’t remember when I lost all faith in him. I don’t know if it was a series of events, or one particular incident. In retrospect, I think I chose to hide the truth from myself. I guess I did not want to face reality; I didn’t want to admit that my father was a coward, a liar, a selfish being. I knew why we had left our family home without him; I knew what he did to my mom; I knew why Mari and I had to walk to school past the train tracks at 6:30 am Monday through Friday; I knew why my mom had to work; I knew why my uncles and my grandfather would drop food off for us; I knew why he scared me at night. But in the day, in the sunshine, he was my Daddy.
I looked forward to the afternoons I would spend with him. Mari wouldn’t come. A lot of the times it was just Gugu and me. Other times it was just me. He would take us to a bar and we’d have banana splits; he’d just get hammered. I loved ice cream. I loved him. I didn’t even mind the music. It must have been 1989 or maybe 1990. “Ven Devorame Otra Vez” was at its peak. Lalo Rodriguez’ voice boomed throughout every jukebox in Masaya “…devorame otra vez, ven devorame otra ve / Ven castigame con tus deseos mas / Que el vigor lo guarde para ti / Ay ven devorame otra vez, ven devorame otra vez / Que la boca me sabe a tu cuerpo / Desesperan mis ganas por ti…” It’s my punishment song. I listen to it when I feel like crap and crap still isn’t enough. I put it on repeat and remember. I remember what he lost because he wasn’t a man. More importantly, I remember what I lost, what I allowed him to take from me – hope, faith, and innocence.
It’s a weird dichotomy, my feelings towards him. Part of me remains that little girl and loves him. Another part hates him. I want to protect him and slash his heart out. That’s why I hate Father’s Day. It’s selfish of me, but I don’t need another reminder of what I don’t have.
Back-track to Father’s Day 1991, Nuestra Senora del Pilar, third grade: My class was going to perform Roberto Carlos’ “Amigo” for our Father’s Day assembly. We rehearsed every day for weeks, Sor Carmen accompanying our childish voices with her guitar. I was ready to sing, I knew every word – I still do. But the day of the concert, I didn’t show up. It was a Saturday and I stayed home. I don’t know what happened, if my mom just couldn’t bring me to school or if I made the decision not to go. It was probably my decision; I probably wanted to punish him for not visiting me that week. I do remember feeling guilty, heartbroken, wondering if he showed up and I wasn’t there. I cried myself to sleep that night. Even now this song fills me with nostalgia and melancholy; it still makes me feel remorseful.
Fast-forward to March 2010: My friend and her dad share a birthday and often times celebrate it together. I guess it was a big one because they surprised her dad with a ten-piece mariachi band. She and her father waltzed around the room “…tu eres mi amigo del alma en toda jornada / Sonrisa y abrazo festivo a cada llegada / Me dices verdades tan grandes con frases abiertas / Tu eres realmente el mas cierto de horas inciertas…” It was “Amigo”, a haunting memory from my childhood. I stood there, wanting to disappear so no one would notice the tears that were starting to well up in my eyes. I was eight again.
I want to let go of the memories; I want to forget the past. I don’t want to hate my dad, but it’s also too late to build a relationship with him. Frankly, I don’t want one. There’s just so much I don’t understand. I don’t understand how the arms that hugged me could bruise, how the lips that kissed my cheeks could verbally assault, and how the dad that loved me, who was supposed to take care of me, could abandon me. I hope that the day I have a family of my own, my children have a good dad.
The BART doors close behind me. For their sake, I hope I’m wrong about those little girls and their dad. I hope I’m jumping into conclusions, assuming, projecting. I hope theirs is a good dad, who loves them, who’s there for them, who won’t abandon them.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, June 11, 2010
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.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
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.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
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...
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
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.
Monday, June 7, 2010
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.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
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....
Saturday, June 5, 2010
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.
Monday, May 24, 2010
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!
Friday, May 21, 2010
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.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
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.
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