Stuff

Sometimes things sort of end abruptly.

I feel like I can't compete. Maybe I can't. I just have to learn to accept that. I'll take what I get, I suppose. The rest I'll be quiet about. Don't really think it's worth saying much anymore.

Here's to not sleeping tonight, even though I feel exhausted.

Here's to waking up to silence.

I'll close into myself. Again. I can't compete. With her. Them. It. Any of it.

Enjoy your thing.

I'll do mine.

Kids Say It Better

As I was walking by our bulletin board at work, a faded piece of paper caught my attention. I'm glad it did...

Our bulletin board is divided into squares, each assigned to an employee of IT. You can put anything that means something to you, makes you laugh, pictures...whatever represents you.

A co-worker had a sheet of paper labeled "What love means to kids between ages 4-8". The rest was history. Below, are a few of my favorites:

"Love is what makes you smile when you're tired". ~Terri, Age 4

"When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You just know that your name is safe in their mouth." ~ Billy, age 4 (That one killed me. Because it's perfect.)

"Love is like a little old woman and a little old man who are still friends, even after they know each other so well."~ Tommy, Age 6

"Love is when my mommy makes coffee for my daddy and she takes a sip before giving it to him, to make sure the taste is ok."~Danny, Age 7

"Love is when a girl puts on perfume and a boy puts on shaving cologne and they go out and smell each other."~Karl, Age 5

"If you want to learn to love better, you should start with a friend who you hate..."~Nikka, Age 6 (Amen, Nikka)

"Love is when you kiss all the time. Then when you get tired of kissing, you still want to be together and you talk more...My Mommy and Daddy are like that. They look gross when they kiss."~Emily, Age 8

"Love is when Mommy sees Daddy smelly and sweaty and still says he is handsomer than Robert Redford."~Chris, Age 7 (LOL, Truth)

"My mommy loves me more than anybody. You don't see anyone else kissing me to sleep at night." ~ Claire, Age 6

"Love is when your puppy licks your face even after you left him alone all day." ~ Mary Ann, Age 4

"Love is when you go out to eat and give somebody most of your french fries without making them give you any of their."~Chrissy, Age 6

"Love is what's in the room with you at Christmas if you stop opening presents and listen."~Bobby, Age 7 (Damn...)

Last but not least...

"Love is when you're kissing someone, and you're so happy with life in that moment...you start crying...Only to find that your tears are mixed with the tears of the person you're kissing...because they feel the same." ~ Yari, Ageless.

One Ear and Out The Other

My mood ring has changed colors at least 3 times today.

It was black when I walked into work.

A soft rose, amber color at lunch while I was away from everything.

Back to black when lunch was over.

I have no other feelings right now, other than feeling discouraged and disappointed. My life has been an endless parade of pats on the back, pep talks, supportive sermons, favors, selfless giving and listening for the last couple of months now. I usually don't mind, I mean, that's what good friends are for. Right?

It just seems like I waste so much time and energy on those who simply do not want to change. So it doesn't matter how hard I try to break through...to rise above...to better myself...Every day, I find myself stuck in the same conversations. Every day I get slapped in the face by someone who I had high hopes for. I know the people I love are smart. They know better. So how infuriating is it to give all I have to give...only for them to not even show a little bit of will power to help themselves.

My mood right doesn't lie. I'm sick of shallowness and insecurities. Of the incessant whine fest. What's worse? When I am needing to be sad, once again, I am not allowed. They DARE make me feel selfish for needing my own time and space. For showing signs of fatigue.

How can people live through life being so goddamn selfish? Ignorant. Buffoons. Leeches. I am happiest when I am allowed to be myself and when I at least have the satisfaction of knowing that all my time and love spent on others, went for a good cause. It made their life better. It changed them for something positive.

Stop using me. Please. By God. Stop using me. My real friend is my guitar. My real friend is a book. My real friend, knows something is wrong, without me even showing signs of it.

Here's a quarter. Call someone who cares.

I Wear No Pants

I really don't. Not when I don't have to. The way I see it, I came into this world pantless...so if I should die unexpectedly, I would also like to go pantless. Unless I die in my cubicle at work. That would suck. I don't want to leave the world in dressy pants and with a badge on.

I've never been able to decide if I like warm colors or cool colors more... in my surroundings, paintings (by me or others) and my projects. As a child, I leaned more towards oranges and reds - since they reminded me of my favorite painting as a kid, "Flaming June" by Lord Frederic Leighton. I had a chance to go see this painting several times in person, at the Museo de Arte in Ponce, Puerto Rico. I think I first saw it when I was 7 years old. They have it at the top of the stairs you walk up to the museum...greeting you. I stood there for a long time, thinking it was the most beautiful scene ever depicted of a woman. Sensual. Erotic. Soft. Warm. Peaceful. I wanted to be her. To have an orange dress. To lay there curled up, beautiful without a care...It still hangs in that museum in PR. Maybe I'll see it someday. She, too, refused to wear pants.

As I got older, I dove into the sea of blues, teals and purples. They always seemed to remind me of a far of dream I may have had. A happy feeling. Blues, greens, teals, purples...all made me think of fairies and weeping willows. I love weeping willows. My favorite tree...Monet. Monet loved painting willows in shades of blue and purple...soft hints of teal. Any time I see a weeping willow I feel like carving my name on it. Like writing a poem while laying under it. Like drifting off looking at it sway in the wind, carrying the name of my lover with it. I wrote a poem once, about a weeping willow...several. You know me. Hopeless dreamer. I dream in blue.

As of late, I find myself learning to appreciate who I really am. I am happy with the person Yaritza has become. I may be fucked up in multiple ways, but it seems I've learned to take from life what matters most. Moments. Beauty. Experiences. Memories. I over-analyze that which is often overlooked by most people. I don't expect perfection out of people. I don't judge or pick at their flaws. There's so much...awesomeness in things that just happen. In the unplanned. In the unrehearsed. Those are the things that make life. The things that show you when something is being done, said or given straight from the heart.

Expectations? I define them differently. While most of the people around me base their likes, dislikes, looks, ideas and actions on what's the latest trend or on what they've been taught as 'the norm'...I like to accept things as they are. Value them. They always teach us a lesson.

For example, I'm completely in love with this father and his daughters. It takes a lot of guts to sing in front of people...to let yourself be heard. Even if you don't sing pretty. Even if you seem nervous...what's more beautiful than a father and a daughter sharing this moment? They aren't doing it for the fame. They aren't thinking of getting her a record deal in ten years. He simply witnessed in his daughters the passion...the love for music that lives in him. So when I watch these, they never get old. Because I am not finding what's wrong with it...I am witnessing something few people have their whole life: Freedom to be themselves.

So I leave you with Jorge and his daughters Alexa and Eliana. Alexa does the best covers with him...and Eliana...well she got caught singing passionately...for a few seconds:

Eliana:

Alexa:

I want my chance to share with my kids what I think matters most. Not impressing people. Just being you...and like Alexa says...someday, they too will whistle.

I Must've Sneezed

You know the drill. I can't breathe. I want to walk out of here. I want it all to end.

I can't stop it this time around.

Maybe I need to walk away. For everyone's sake.

Help.

I Have The Right

I have the rights...the back up. But I do not have the voice.

I have the right to want to be left alone. To choose who I feel like talking to and who I don't. The right to think you're stupid, even if you're my friend. The right to feel hurt. The right to want and expect more out of things...not just settle and play understanding, patient all the time.

Why do I take the time, to tip toe around and make everything comfortable for others? Why? I don't get the same back. In the smallest ways, I bend over backwards to do what I'm told to do, to ensure you're getting out of this more than the 50% you're putting in. 50%...right...

Oh the irony...my coworker just walked in here talking about how life is all about compromise. Compromise. What a concept. Tit for tat. This for that. I'll do this for you and you'll do this for me. Healthy. Balanced.

I'm sorry I'm not your ideal. I'm sorry every now and then I seem to have this crazy notion that maybe I should expect more out of something I'm pouring myself completely into. I'm sorry I even try to speak my mind, most the time. Because the truth is...

You'd hate my mind. If I were honest. You'd hate it. You'd hate every detail about me. If you really knew the amounts of resentment and issues locked in there that I smile through and push aside, you would all hate me.

But, no. I'm nice Yari. The listener, the patient, the bend over for you, make it easy for you chick. As soon as I ask to be someone in your life. For recognition. For thanks. For validation...I get the "You knew this is what you signed up for" or the "Why are you selfish?"

I don't need anyone. I don't need anything. It may be void. It may be empty. But at least I don't have the need to ask for anything from anyone that will give it begrudgingly.

Oh and Ryan Dunn...sorry you're gone man. But drinking leads to that. So. Another man gone. Go be a Jackass wherever you are now. I always wanted to hug you...then knee you in the nuts.

Some Pain...

You wouldn't wish on your greatest enemy...

Daddy Beerest

"Celebrating ends in tragedy. Tragedy ends in celebration. As for me, I want to live my life between celebrations and tragedy...and learning from them. Being a better person that knows how to deal with both, without escaping to a bottle. I will break that cycle. I will not be the past." ~YIP

I think I was 3 and that's the first clear memories I have of going to dinner on weekends with my family to our favorite italian restaurant for gourmet pizza. I think the place was called Palermo's. Dad always ordered beer with our pizza, so did my uncles and aunts. Even Mom ordered this beer called Pink Champale...just one. But, I remember me sitting next to my dad in that poorly lit restaurant, glasses clinking left and right, and me struggling to look over the table since I was so short. Every new beer they brought my dad, in a frosty mug, he'd dip his pinky finger and let me taste it. I thought it tasted horrible the first few times, but the smile my dad gave me...almost like he was proud of me...always made me ask for more. Mom would give him a glare, that I didn't understand back then. He'd simply say "It's just a taste".

The older I got, he'd let me sip from it or finish off the mug. Again, I thought it tasted something awful, but I didn't gag anymore. He'd smile at me and pat my head or tuck my hair behind my ear and call me "muñeca". His little minime. His doll.

There was always beer at home. One six pack at a time, but always in our fridge. If he was working outside and it was hot, he wouldn't drink water. He'd drink a few beers. If he got home from a long day at work, he'd drink beer. If he was doing laundry or building a toy for me, there was beer. When family died, there was a lot of beer. When someone got married or there was a party, there was beer. When we'd go out and eat, there was beer. When he took me on sales calls with him, and I'm talking about me being 4 or 5 years old, we'd go to lunch at some hole in the wall bar and shoot pool, while he drank. Never more than 3 or 4 beers. But there I was, a child in a bar, shooting pool with my dad at 1 p.m. on a Wednesday while he sipped on his beer and I drank a Coke, with a few sips of his beer.

I do not remember a moment where Dad chose not to drink. I do, however, remember the fights. Mom asking him why he had to always drink. He'd claim he wasn't drunk. That he only had one or two. Mom would ask "But why do you NEED to drink every day? Yari is watching that. Your dad died of liver issues and was a drunk. You don't need to keep the cycle going, Carlos!". He'd say "I drink because I want to, not because I need to. If I didn't want to drink I wouldn't. Simple. It's hot out. It was a bad day at work. I just want a beer without having to fight, Coly." Mom would leave in a huff...I'd be confused. He wasn't drunk, so why did Mom mind?

He started getting home late every night. He claimed he had meetings with clients and they could only meet at bars or restaurants. He'd reek of beer, but didn't seem drunk. Then again he just came in and hop in the shower and go to bed. He didn't have time for me anymore, and when he did, he had to go buy a case instead of a six pack. If we went to the beach we'd spend half a day getting beers and getting his cooler ready. He played with me some in the water, but always went back to get more beers. The fights got worse at home. I was 7...and one night...9 o'clock rolled around and he never got there.

I remember Mom sitting on the porch, in our rocking chair and me sitting on the swing next to her. She didn't say a word, but I knew we were waiting for him. It got later. This was not an age where we had cell phones. So if he was dead in a ditch, we'd find out late at night when the cops came knocking our door. We finally went to bed, in an absurdly quiet house. Mom didn't even lay down with me, even though I needed the comfort. I was worried. Uneasy. Then, I heard the front door opening, his keys jiggling against it and scraping. I laid still in my bed, not wanting any of them to know I was still awake. I heard dad mumble something, and Mom yelling hysterically "What happened to you? Why are you covered in blood? What happened to your arm?? Carlos! It's 2 am where were you?!". There was more yelling, things slamming...mostly from Mom. Dad just seemed quiet. Then everything went silent. I heard him open the door to my room, where I laid in my twin bed with a canopy. Staring at the Rainbow Brite design on my bed sheet and canopy sheet, concentrating on the red stars and counting them. The moon always shone into my bedroom so it was light enough that I could make out details. He sat at the edge of my bed and I scooted over. He laid next to me, in his work clothes and laid his right arm over his forehead. I saw it wrapped up in a cast and bloody...and I felt like crying. I was terrified. But I stayed quiet. Then, he just cried. Not loudly. Not saying anything. He just laid there and cried. I didn't ask anything, just turned my back against him and stared at the wall. It felt like he needed privacy...or maybe I didn't know how to handle it. The next day details emerged. He had gotten drunk with a client, fell asleep at the wheel on the drive home and had a head on collision with a family that was traveling in a station wagon. He almost killed everyone, including 3 kids. He almost got his ass beat by the drivers of that other car who were in a rage that a drunk driver almost ended their family.

He stopped drinking. Completely. For a few years. Then it was back to just one every now and then...then one every day...then 4 or 5 every day. Never drunk. But drinking, nonetheless. When he left us and went to live with that lady, I was 16 and knew better. This time he'd call me drunk. Piss ass drunk. She'd let him drink all he wanted. So I'd get a 10 minute call with him saying "I love you so much Yari. Please forgive me"...and the rest was an endless babble of slurred words. Promising this. Promising that. I'd say "Dad, stop drinking. Please". He'd get incensed and say he wasn't a drunk. That he didn't have a problem. I said "Fine, then bring me a case of beer. I'm not old enough to buy yet".

And he did. He was living with that lady but stopped by the house every afternoon after work and drop me off a case of Michelob or Lowenbrau. I can't imagine what it did to my mom to see me drinking at 16. One beer...two beers. At most. Not drunk. Not even buzzing. But I drank every day. Then it got out of hand when I was old enough to buy in PR (18). I was drunk every night...but I could stop. If I wanted to. Right?

Nowadays, he gives me a sad look when I'm drinking...why? Hypocrite. You taught me the best, Dad. When I'm agitated, I drink. When I'm happy, I drink. When I'm hanging with friends, I drink. When I'm feeling alone, I drink. Sad? Drink. Monday? Drink. Wednesday? Drink. BBQ with family? Drink. Lunch after church on a Sunday? Drink. Funny thing is that I remember exactly why I started drinking. One night, as I was getting drunk for the first time with my buddies in PR, I said "I'm not drinking because it tastes good...I'm drinking because it helps". So I forced myself to like everything I drank.

Is that what I want for my children? For my family? Friends? The fact that every time they see me or hang out with me I have a beer in my hand? I will be damned if I turn into my father.

Just like I can choose to drink, just one. I can choose not to drink. That gives me power. That gives me faith. That makes me better than my blood line. That is ensuring that, whenever I do have kids, they see that I only drink...moderately...when it merits it. Not using life's events...or non-events as an excuse.

I won't be stuck with another one like my father. Ever again.

Rednecks in Space

I was standing around the side of a road, sort of on a hill overlooking the town below. I hate when dreams start that way...because...there must've been a reason I was standing there. What had happened all the way up to that point that led me to be standing by myself on a rock covered road at dusk? Anywho...

A friend of mine walked up to me, and I could already feel the dread of having to talk to him. He annoyed me. He walks up and as I'm attempting to give a polite Hello, and starts choking me while shouting nonsense about me lying to him and betraying him. Even then, he's not scaring me. He just looks like a stupid kid having a tantrum because he didn't get things to go his way. So with all the anger I can muster, I stare him dead in the eyes and knee him in his balls and then step on his foot with my heavy boots. He let's go long enough for me to turn around and walk away, flipping him the bird.

Just then this pick up truck pulls up and I see some friends in the back and a bloodhound. I slide into the front seat and it's apparently either Woody Harrelson or a guy I used to date for a few months back in PA, Ryan. It keeps changing every time I look from him to the road. Most of the time it's Ryan. Anyways. We're zooming down the highway at an incredible speed...it's a gorgeous afternoon, where the sun is starting to lower and everything around us is covered in a bright golden haze. I felt happy. I reached over and held his hand, and looked at his tattoos. Again, it was Ryan so even in the dream I knew it had been almost 10 years since I saw him. "Your tattoos are awesome. I love that you ended up getting the full sleeve. I remember this one was my favorite", I said as I traced an old Celtic design he's had that laces through his knuckles and fingers. He just lifted my hand in his and kissed it, like he used to do, giving me a little wink. We kept driving and somehow crossed into Arkansas. We drove by a huge football field that had the Razorbacks mascot painted on the field and I said "Oh wow look...the Razorbacks...We should move to Arkansas, babe." He said "I'm not redneck enough to live in Arkansas", to which I started laughing and said "Look at you! In a pick up, with a fat girlfriend, a dog in the back seat and wearing a John Deere shirt driving through Arkansas! Can't get much more redneck than that!" He starts laughing and in that second he's Woody Harrelson wearing a beanie and much younger...early 20's?

We pull up in a mall in California, and he goes to pee and leaves his son with me. His son, which I'm assuming is my son too since he called me "Mom", drags me to a surf shop in which we look around at the clearance rack. I buy him a Billabong cap he wants and some Fox t-shirts. I want a black Roxy beanie with glitter for me, but know I can't spend the money. Just then Woody/Ryan comes back and tell us there's trouble. We hop in this...space ship and take off at warp speed, with me navigating us through galaxies at a time, with some sort of ghost lady popping in and out of my field of vision. We arrive in this planet, and I'm walking out in space...thinking "Am I dead?", as shooting stars fly around me. I walk inside the welcome lobby of said planet, and it looks like a high school. Nice.

I start running in and out of classrooms and they are all art classes. I walk into the girls' locker room and it's humid, steamy. I hear some chicks laughing and decide I can just go pee somewhere else. I don't want anyone to see me there. By then I'm running back to the ship, my son is pulling me along because the ghost lady is chasing us. As I'm running down a glass floor that has stars embedded in it, I look to my side and there's this sculpture of a box with two heads sticking out of it talking. I stop, and it's the heads of Groucho Marx and Dick Van Dyke telling jokes back and forth. The heads turn and smile at me and thank me for visiting. I laugh and hop on my ship.

At first the ship looks like the Serenity. I slide in the front seat and get her going, turning out of the planet and taking off into space. Woody/Ryan stood behind me and I leaned my head back against the chair so he could kiss my forehead as I'm flying us back home. I take in the view...the expansion in front of us. Open space with a planet here or there coming up quick in front of us. I press a button and we dish the outer shell of the ship and we take off like a blur in space, in a new ship that's the size of a small car, sleek, shiny.

We land back at home, back in the mall in California and Ryan says "Let's go get that beanie you wanted and go home"...and we sorta fade off in a sea of people. I stay behind a bit and noticed that now my boyfriend was missing a leg, and walking on a prosthetic one. I felt sad and wanted to ask him if he lost it in the trip...

I woke up. I felt sick to my stomach. It was Sunday.

The Art of Remembrance

"You know what sunsets make me think of?", I said absent minded, as I posted this picture into my Twitter account.

"Hmmm", Ricky said quietly as he backed the car out of the grocery store parking lot, only half paying attention...to me or maybe the cars.

"That E. E. Cummings poem. You know, the one that says 'I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)'...or something", I looked up and he sort of gave me a strange look.

"What do sunsets like, make you think of people or miss someone?", he said.

"Well, yeah. I always get melancholic when the sun is setting. You've noticed, right? I think of people, I miss people...Don't you ever think of anyone or miss anyone when the day is drawing to an end?", I asked with my voice raising slightly.

"No. I guess not.", he admitted sort of sheepishly and turned on the radio, to drown the silence.

How do you not remember someone or think of a specific person at times? I've carried everyone I've ever loved, in any capacity, with me my whole life.

They are in that warm wind that blows through my hair as the sun shines through my eyelids.

They are in that right song playing at the right time. In that familiar look a complete stranger gives you that you thought you'd never see again.

If I have ever loved you...If I have ever called you a friend...If we have ever crossed paths. I take you with me. Everywhere I go.

Some of the most moving things ever said...wether in a book, movie or poetry...I have completely identified with. Like in the movie Stepmom, when a mother that's about to die from cancer, tells her daughter: "You can miss me. AND. Take me with you. When you're in trouble, have me there. When you fall in love, have me there. You can. On your wedding night. When your babies are born. I want to be there. Will you take me?"

Such simplicity in the act of remembering, yet it involves effort. Passion. Love. It involves selflessness.

So every time the sun sets, and my eyes sort of glaze over...

Or some other time when you're talking to me and I seem to be far off somewhere else...

Leave me be. I am thinking of someone. I am missing someone. Dead or alive. Good or bad. I am taking their heart with me, in my heart.

Do you ever take me with you?

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

E.E. Cummings

The Hamster Never Stops

I sometimes wonder if there are others out there like me. People that as long as they are awake, they have a series of thoughts running through their heads. No down time. No relaxation. Always thinking.

For that matter is there any one out there that can survive months at a time on 3 hours sleep at night? Crashing occasionally on a Saturday and sleeping 6 hours?

This thought came to me earlier as I was dusting my dresser and putting my laundry away. Even then, my brain could not just focus on the task at hand. One specific moment that sort of infuriated me with myself was when I was on my knees, picking up some lose change that had rolled under the bed after refusing to stay in my pocket earlier in the day. As I was contorting my body to fit between the large dresser and the bed, and under the god forsaken bed...like a goddamn gymnast of sorts...I found myself thinking about 4 or 5 different things. One of them was updating all my blogs, and putting down some design ideas I had for them. Another was about 3 songs I wanted to record, tonight if possible. A stray thought went to my San Antonio trip that will take place 2 weeks from now and how nice it would be to spend time with a good friend. I was also counting the change as I picked it up and admiring the design on the back of the pennies...which sort of was very patriotic...which led me to think of Captain America's shield...which then prompted me to think of how excited I am to watch Captain America this summer...which for some reason shot me into thinking of how cute John Krasinski (Jim from The Office) would look as Captain America...and then I thought of that adorable, helpless look Jim has when he looks at the camera at times during The Office...which then had me smiling like an idiot and awwww'ing in my head because my friend Roy has that look at times too. Then I was thinking I needed to vacuum. But first I needed to grab my laptop, so I could blog about how I always felt like writing down my thoughts....AAAAHHH!!!!

Am I the only person that would go absolutely insane, not so much for the lack of sleep, but due to any inability to express what I think of on a daily basis? If I did not have Twitter or my blog or my music...I would be lost. Not because I necessarily need any of you to read this to feel validated. Not because I need anyone replying to my most boring and mundane tweets to feel like I matter in the world. But my reason for sharing, sometimes a bit too much, is simply because I would like to think that the reason that thoughts and feelings pop into my crammed head...is so they can be put out there in the Universe. Even if no one acknowledges them, they're out there...floating into space and not taking up all the GB space in my tiny brain.

Hell, even now, I am in the middle of watching a zombie movie and my mind did a few hundred things, wrote a few dozen verses for a song and managed to remember that I wanted to write this earlier in my blog and simply got carried away with something unimportant...like staring at that gnat that's flying around my room driving me insane.

You, out there, taking your time to read this or my tweets or listening to my songs...or watching my videos. Thank you. For not letting me simply be white noise in the world.

Perhaps humanity in general would be in better shape if people simply took the time to express themselves in other ways other than killing each other or hate.

Back to zombies. I'm sure no sleep will come tonight...but if it does, know this:

I am dreaming, good or bad...and even in the middle of those dreams and heavy sleep, I am thinking of you.

P.S. Before I clicked 'Publish Post', I got up and walked around the kitchen in the dark because I felt like I would explode if I laid in bed for 4 more seconds. Then I went and brushed my teeth...again. Because I felt like it needed to be done...again. Then I looked at my clothes for tomorrow and felt fat. Then I made a promise to myself to go run at night for a bit tomorrow. Then I coughed and my ovaries hurt. I thought of never having kids. Then I came back to bed and found the perfect Jim face and plastered it on my post. Then I posted this.

Utopia

What you cannot turn to good, you must at least make as little bad as you can. ~ Utopia, Sir Thomas More

One cannot yield trust, love and respect under one's command...or simply willing it to be there for the taking. It is earned, valued, and freely given.

It should be fair, it should be balanced...I should be your equal.

I will not bow just because you ask me of it. I will not always be the understanding one, just in order to avoid you stepping outside of your comfort zone.

Effort. Sacrifice. Love is verb. Actions. Selflessness. Honesty.

Love is given. Not asked for.

What will you give?

New Tune, and Goddamn Eyes

It was meant to be different. Alas. It came as it should have. Here's to vodka and three chords...and the truth.

Link to my new original: http://kiwi6.com/file/7inr71j6up

Those Stars

A light that shines like fire
the diamonds beaming through
Like beacons of desire
Those eyes that live on you.

I wanted them to guide me
down roads and up cliffs, higher.
Through valleys of eternity
Where love and sin conspire.

That glow that danced alive
I've lost the sight of it.
Those pupils burned so bright,
On your skin of cinnamon.

Like open windows to your soul
I let myself fall in
Now lost empty holes,
Where it ends, not begins.

Tiny races of your presence
still linger, raw on me.
A living map that tells our story
where bruises scream "Love Only Me".

Don't close them yet, I'm not ready
To live a life of gloomy dreams
Where light and promises are dormant,
and love lies dying on its knees.

~ Yari

The Past is the Future

To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved. ~ George MacDonald

We are often told we should not let past experiences determine what the future of a current situation will be. After all, no one person is the same as the next. No one action that has worked infallibly in the past will guarantee 100% the same result this time around.

History repeats itself...True. When all the conditions are there for it to do so. How often does that happen? Life and the Universe are a constant changing thing. In the end, you can only trust that this time around things will be different...that you can trust your gut. You can trust people and things to be nothing like what you've dealt with before.

That being said...when asked to trust someone, even when something small about them raises alarms that remind me of previous experiences, I try to be understanding. To give chances. Because I've been chastised before for implying someone is just like someone else I met before....

So... Shouldn't I be allowed to prove that I am different? That I am trust-worthy? That this time I could change history?

What's good for the goose is good for the gander. If you don't allow things to be different...then I won't either. The past will be your future. And all will be in vain.

Hey there, JD!

I called your momma today, JD. Last time I heard her voice was when she was 4 weeks pregnant with you. Last time I saw her, was for her birthday...on February 14, 2007.

It wasn't always like that, you know. The years of silence between us that transpire nowadays are something foreign to our friendship.

It was the first day of first grade. Mrs. Barbarita sat us in alphabetical order in that tiny, dark classroom. Your Mom sat in front of me in every class after that. She's a Hernandez. I'm an Irizarry. All the way til 11th Grade, our last year together. But on that first day of elementary school, she was quiet and nervous and shy. No one spoke to her or even seem to acknowledge she was really there. At lunch time, I noticed she was following me around the school yard and in the cafeteria. Sitting next to me but not really looking at me. The next day, the same thing happened. She seemed to just always be with me, but we never spoke to each other. She was my best friend. I was her only friend.

JD, your mom slept over at my house every other day from that first week of elementary all the way to high school. I'm not kidding you. Your grandmother would come pick her up after being at my house for a week straight, and she'd cry her eyes out and refuse to go home. So she pretty much lived with me most of the time. We'd get up early and share uniforms to school and my mom would check both our notebooks to make sure our homework was done. My mom would comb both our hair and make us dresses, JD. My mom is your adoptive grandma. She loves you too, by the way.

In second grade, your momma shaved her eyebrows completely off at my house one night. The next morning, I drew them in with eyeliner and fixed her bangs so that it would cover them. That same year, when we were 7, I had my tonsils taken out and your momma came to see me at the hospital that same day. I woke up from anesthesia to her crying draped over me on the hospital bed asking me not to die. I couldn't really talk because my throat hurt, but I patted her hair and whispered I was fine and gave her one of my Lisa Frank pencils I had gotten as a Get Well gift. She lifted the ice pack from my throat and kissed my neck.

When we were 8, your grandfather was in a really bad wreck and was in a coma for a week. Your Mom was so scared and stayed with us for about a month straight while your grandpa was in a hospital out of town. She kept asking me if your grandpa was still handsome (his face was reconstructed due to the accident) and I'd tell her that he looked just the same, even better. That the important thing was that he was alive and he would talk normal one day again. She seemed content with just taking my word for it. She trusted me always. I trusted her.

When we were 10, I stayed over at your mom's house and we sat in front of her mirror at midnight, chanting a chorus that was part of an urban legend. After the third chant, a lady called Mary would appear in the mirror and we had to turn on the lights or she'd leave marks on our bodies. We got as far as the second chant before we heard a noise outside and ran scared for cover under the heavy comforter. We held each other and said Hail Mary's until we fell asleep. The next morning, she had scratches on her back. We never told anyone.

She kissed my first crush, Alex, in front of me one night at a pool party when we were 12 and dated him for a year after that. I never once felt angry or hurt with her, even though til this day she still apologizes.

At 13, we had our first kiss. With each other. It was awesome.

At 14 your grandparents moved to another town and took her to a new middle school. A week later, I had arranged to be transferred to that new school and my family found ways to drive me to that new town every morning so I could be in school with you.

At 15, we both tried cocaine together at her uncle's house. I felt ashamed. She got hooked. I never tried it again and a month later, I took her to live with me for a while til she cleaned up. It was rough and she tried to quit her life a few times during that time...but I'd lay there at night and talk about how she was my sister and how she needed to hang on one more day...Because we had to grow old together. We had to have our double wedding...raise our kids together...Live next to each other.

Life happened, JD. I was a bad friend to your mom. I've been in and out of her life, sometimes for years at a time, since I left PR in 1999. She wrote to me and called me every day during the first two years I was gone...I stopped answering her letters. I changed my phone number. I got married. I moved away even further. She was never a part of any of it. Yet every time I called her out of the blue, she would talk to me like we had just spoken the day before. Normal. About her day at work and a guy she was seeing. About her grandmothers passing away and her parents divorcing. All these things happening in her life, while I was MIA.

Then she got married, to your dad, two years ago. I got an email with a picture of her in her wedding dress, that same day of the wedding. It simply read: "I miss you. You should be here. I love you, sis." I cried for a while in my room, staring at her pic. Feeling like scum for not being there...not even in a call. I sent her a text back saying I'd call her soon...

A year later she sent me another email with a picture of you, still inside her belly. That email said "Still waiting for a call. I miss you and love you as always, Sis. Please. Call." I felt even worse, JD. I promised myself I'd call her that night after work...

I called her today, on your 8 month birthday. You've been in the world for 8 months...JD. My most precious nephew. You look like her. Your nose especially. You also look like your aunt, Desiree. I'm sorry I wasn't there to greet you into the world. I'll make it up to you...

Thank you for making your Mom so very happy. For keeping her level headed and responsible for me. For helping make the right choices, when I haven't been around to help.

She won't let me go away again, JD. I know it. I don't want to run away anymore. I don't want to miss any more of her moments...and I want to be there for all your firsts, lil man.

I love you,
Tia Yari