The Sailor and the Pearl

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

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

One day, a ship wrecked
and a sailor drowned.

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

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

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

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

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

He wanted what was there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They would never be the same.

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

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

Seaside Lullaby

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Day in the Life of a Dork

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

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

I was asleep sooner, gosh…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hidden Oasis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mourning a Ghost

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

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

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

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

I will clean the mess left behind.

Ghosts don't exist.

The Hour of the Wolf

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time

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