Neurotic, Capricious and Maddening...What Else?

Open [Hearted] Letter

2012-01-24T02:17:00.003-06:00

To Whom It May Concern:

It is 2:17 a.m. on a Tuesday, January 24th. The year is irrelevant, since years float by like the fragment of a leaf being carried away swiftly in the turbulent current of an ageless mountain spring. I hope that, no matter where you are when you read this, you are happy and in relative peace with yourself. Life is short, many say...but have you really opened your eyes to see what this means? It means second chances only come once. It means every day is a clean slate...sure...we carry some things from the previous day with us or previous months...but technically, as soon as you open your eyes when you wake...that new day is completely in your hands. How will you choose to live those next unique 24 hours?

Me? I just got done giving my fishies a much needed bath. I spoke to each of them, as I they waited impatiently in their little measuring cup while I washed their bowl. Like you would talk to a child that won't sit still through dinner...so you promise them dessert or a reward if they just wait. A 27 year old woman, talking to her fish at 2 o'clock in the morning, while the rest of the world seemingly sleeps. Alas, the reason for this letter is not to dissect the many ways I am dysfunctional in a society that embraces even the most absurd of behaviors. No...

I write because, lately, there are words that have taken new meaning or perhaps regained new life. Love. Loss. Need. Lonely. Us. Promises. Dreams. Life. In a myriad of love songs created or poems written about the beauty of our surroundings...I never once felt that burning grip around my chest, tugging it down towards the pit of my stomach...longing. Not once did any word read compare to the bottomless abyss I found when looking in your eyes as you spoke of a long lost memory...your hands moving fast, accompanying the description you carefully laid before me. I write because I should be sleeping, but when I close my eyes...all I see, hear, feel...remember...is your beauty, your freedom, your words. Is this reason enough for a letter?

How else can I explain that when I think of you, my mind is overcome in an aurora borealis of heartbeats? That while you are off sailing seas of possibilities in a dream land where anything is possible...I am laying sideways on a cramped couch, with my toe uncovered and frozen, but with a huge grin on my face (albeit heaviness of the heart) thinking of when I'll get that jolt of life ... that breath of air again?

Time is all there is. Time both crawls by and speeds past us in a blink. But certain things, although evolving in many ways, keep their core. My heart remains untouched. My words may look the same, but imagine me reading this to you in a place where only we belong...and you'll see the words are non-existant...or not important...

But, for tonight, they had to find their way out into the universe. They cannot be contained or diminished. The fight will continue and the rewards will be worth every single thing that shows up along the way.

Life is short...But let's make it long.

Counting my heartbeats...or the ticking of Love's clock,

Yari

Goodnight, Stimpy (Uncle Edwin's Story)

2012-01-19T03:23:00.002-06:00

I scrambled out of my parents' beat up Mazda hatchback, slamming the door forcefully behind me. Mom's voice broke through the squeaking of the window of the car, making its way down slowly.

"Don't go to bed late and don't eat with your eyes, Yaritza!" She looked up at the grimy apartment and yelled, "EDWIN! EDWIN! Open the door! La nena is coming up!...EDWIN!"

By then I was climbing up the dirty tile stairs up to my uncle's latest apartment. The fifth one in the last 3 months. Tugging on the straps of my overstuffed backpack, I tripped on the final step...just as my uncle opened the door, saying "Be careful, Frijolita". I dusted my knees off, and gave him a hug. Dad honked as they drove away, with my uncle waving them off and grabbing the backpack off my back. I stepped into the hermetically sealed flat, looking at my home for the next few days like some sort of dusty museum of the random. I ran to the balcony and stood on the ledge looking down at the cars passing by the narrow street below, one flip flop falling off my foot as I balanced myself. "Yari! Are you crazy!?", I heard my uncle yell after me as he threw my bag on a corner of the couch and hurried to grab me by the waist, pulling you down from the ledge. I looked up and smiled as he put his giant hooded jacket on me, zipping me up while gnawing his lip...concentrated.

"We're going to grab dinner, pimpollita." Pimpollita means, literally, little bump or boil. I never knew why he called me that. "But tío, it's hot out, I don't need a jacket." "Yari, it's almost nightfall and we're walking a mile to the Chinese food place. I don't want you getting sick when it gets colder at night." So, out the door we marched along...in the 'cool' Puerto Rican eve. By cool, I mean low 70's and me sweating my tiny behind off the whole way to the restaurant for take out and back to the apartment. The whole walk went by with my uncle gripping my hand tight, till both our palms were uncomfortably sweaty...dragging me along the narrow streets downtown. He'd walk quickly, half muttering words to himself or making small noises with his mouth, popping his lips, sniffling his nose like he had allergies, gripping my hand tighter every few steps and tugging his shirt collar over and over. Once back in the apartment, we'd sit quietly on an old dinning room set for two in his poorly-lit kitchen. I'd look over at the sink while we ate, and count the coffee mugs waiting to be washed.

“Tío…”, I’d pipe up from my side of the tiny table. “Hmm..?”, he’d acknowledge without looking up from his plate, gripping a balled up napkin on his left hand, almost like one would hold a rosary while saying silent prayers over and over. “When’s the last time you did the dishes?”, I’d ask carefully, trying to not make him feel judged. He looked up and methodicallyuncrumpled the napkin he had been clinging to, wiped his mouth over and over and pushed whatever ball of food he was chewing on at the moment to his right cheek while he answered. “Those are from today. I felt like drinking coffee. Just used a clean mug every time”, he said looking into my eyes and winking at me. I smiled, thinking he looked like a chipmunk holding his food in one side of his mouth, cheek puffed up. The rest of the dinner went by quietly, with my feet dangling from my chair, toes slightly scraping the cool marble floor.

As soon as we were done, he’d grab our take out boxes and throw them in the trash. I watched, waiting for the routine. My uncle was a living routine. At least that’s what I thought…Uncle Edwin sure acts funny sometimes.

The trashcan was already empty before he put our take out boxes in it. Two small boxes in a completely empty trash bag. He’d reach under the sink and pull out the air freshener, bug killer spray and a new bag. He’d spray the freshener inside our trash, over and over. Sweep, spray…sweep, spray. Cover the freshener, check on the lid, check on the lid, smell the bag, uncover the freshener and spray again, cover the freshener, check on the lid, tug on the lid and put the freshener on the counter. Pull the bag out of the trash can, tie it once…twice…three times…tug on the knot…tie it once more, shake the bag, tip the bag, check for leaks, inspect the floor around the trash bag. Grab the bug spray, spray the bag, cough, Yari coughs, spray the bag, ask Yari to cover her nose with her shirt, cough, shake the bag, spray the bag, spray the trash can, ask Yariif she’s ok, cough, spray the bag. Put the bag on the tip of his shoes, so it wouldn’t touch the ground, and cover the bug spray. Tug on the lid, check the lid, check on the lid, uncover the spray, cover it again to make sure it clicks, again…check on the lid, tug on the lid, check on the freshener one more time, check the bug spray again, put both under the sink and announce he was taking the trash to the dumpster across the street.

I ran to the bedroom window, which let you see the stairs and the alleyway he had to cross to throw the trash. I was to keep an eye on him to make sure nothing happened…in this quiet part of town with no traffic or pedestrians. He walked down the stairs, stopped halfway and checked his pocket for his keys and looked back at the door. He climbed back up to the door, tried the key out to make sure it would open it, then locked it again. I felt him jiggling the handle a few times then try the key once more. Opened the door, closed it. Locked it. Walked down the stairs, checked the pocket for keys. Moved the keys from back pocket to front pocket and sighed, calling out my name “Yari…don’t open the door for anyone, oiste? I’ll be right there.” “Okay, I’m watching you. There’s no cars coming, hurry up so we can play Risk”, I yelled back. He shushed me, and headed down the rest of the steps, continuously checking his pockets and pulling the keys. He jogged to the dumpster and threw the bag in, closed the lid. He turned around, walked a few steps…then went back to the dumpster and rattled the lid. He then opened it and looked inside, then slammed the lid. Walked away, looked back...and I could tell he was struggling against his need to go back another time to make sure the trash was inside the dumpster, where he left it. I watched him dart up the stairs and lock the door a few times once he was back inside.

By now, his ritual had taken up most of our night...I looked up at the clock on his grimy wall and it was already 9:15 p.m. I sighed, and waited for him to say the words that would bring our night to an end...a long, drawn out end. "Charito, I'm gonna get the restroom ready so you can shower and we can go to bed. Go get your clothes ready. Your bag is on the top bunk bed". Yes, my 34 year old uncle slept on bunk beds. Anyways, I ran off and while I was gathering my pajamas, I heard the unmistakable sound of a chancla smacking against the bathroom wall or floor...killing a roach. I cringed and waited for him to get the shower going. He came out and told me to hurry up before I used up all the hot water. I went in and gave the bathroom a quick inspection, making sure the deceased was still squashed on the floor and hadn't reanimated to seek vengeance when I was mid-shower. After my shower, I got into my Batman pajamas (yes, they were boy pajamas, don't judge) and climbed to the top bunk to untangle my mane of curls. Through my curls I looked at my uncle do his thing...again.

He looked for his clothes. Stared in the mirror. Took out his contacts. Looked at the mirror for a long time. Opened the drawers, remembering he already had the clothes, closing the drawers. Looking in the mirror. Securing the contact lenses case over and over. Sniffling his nose even though he didn't have allergies. Excessive blinking. Licked his lips, bit his lips, cleared his throat. Look out the window. Look in the mirror. Check his drawers for clothes, look at the bottom bunk and seeing clothes there. Sitting on floor and taking off his sneakers and socks, placing them perfectly against the wall. Sniffling his nose. Biting his lip. Clearing his throat...looking up at me "I'll be right back, frijolita". Once in the restroom, I knew it would be at least an hour before he came out...so I laid in the top bunk, staring at the ceiling that ended up being entirely too close. I scanned the edges of the ceiling for spiderwebs...or worse...spiders. Nothing. Cars zooming by. His throat clearing. The shower going. Clock ticking. Cars zooming. Silence. The banging of him dropping the soap. The sound of him throwing said soap away and opening a new one. Clearing his throat. Mumbling. An hour later, the door opening and the smell of Irish Springs flooding the hallway, into the room.

He was dressed in jeans, a Lacoste polo and a belt. It made no sense to me...any of it. He was going to bed...so why dress up? But it was my uncle Edwin...who always had something "off" about him. We were taught to just accept it. It is who he is and he never harmed anyone by being himself. Either way, he stood in front of the mirror...nose sniffling, clearing his throat and grabbed the hair brush. I counted...he had a pattern, of course. He'd hold his forehead skin while he brushed his hair roughly 15 times to each side, then run his fingers through it, then put gel, then brush it roughly 20 times to each side, then run his fingers through it, then comb it to the front...then to the side...then to the other side...then his fingers through it...then his bangs...then comb it back...then brush...(you get it). After 15 minutes of hair brushing, he'd put clean socks and his sneakers back on. Why? Why? Don't ask Yari, just watch. He looked in the mirror...and at my reflection from the corner of the mirror and make a funny face. I giggled, eyelids heavy...exhausted from watching him. How did he do this every day? How did he ever get anything done? He fixed his polo collar, tucked in his shirt and fixed his jeans to cover the top of his sneakers...and pulled his jeans up and spent 10 more minutes rolling up and pulling down his socks until they 'felt right'. Then jeans back down, over his sneakers, then brush his hair...look in the mirror and gnaw his lip. Finally...Lord...finally, he crawled into the bottom bunk bed and turned on his cd player with T-Rex or The Beatles on. I smiled, tapping my toe on the wall to the beat..and waited for it.

He would yawn in an exaggerated way, clear his throat loudly and say, in a goofy voice "Goodnight, Ren". I grinned in the dark and, in the same voice, said "Goodnight, Stimpy".

...If you've followed me this far on this post, I commend you. It exhausted me to think of his ritual, and utterly drained me to type it. But, hang on. There's a point to the back story, and its this:

When I was a bit older, I went on a trip to visit my family in Pennsylvania, and my uncle Edwin came with us. If you haven't guessed by now, he has severe OCD and slight schizophrenia. Manic depression. Name every possible mental health issue, and he probably has it. He hadn't traveled outside his hometown, since he moved back there from NY when he was 7. He only left his house for work or a quick errand. He never slept away from his house. So, needless to say, this trip to PA had him more on edge than usual...but with much persuasion from my grandmother, my father and other aunts...we managed to get him on board.

We were scheduled to stay for 2 weeks at my aunt's house in Allentown, PA. It was my parents, my grandmother (dad's side), my uncle Edwin and yours truly. We arrived on a Tuesday evening, around 10 p.m. and after the typical 'catching up', everyone trickled to their rooms for some sleep. I was sharing an empty bedroom (my aunt had just moved in, didn't have furniture) with my uncle. We were in sleeping bags and a tiny heater in the corner...it was winter. I woke up at around midnight, to quiet crying. When I opened my eyes, my heart leaped a few times when I saw my uncle, knees cradled against his chest and leaning his back against the wall...mumbling to himself and kind of crying. "Edwin...", I whispered. He looked over at me...but didn't really see me. It was the scariest thing I'd ever experienced. I didn't know if he had snapped...what do I do? I'm 10.

I slowly slid out of my sleeping bag, and walked out of the room. I got my Dad, who was incensed that Edwin (whom he teasingly called "Sassy") couldn't just be normal and let us have a decent night's sleep.

"Leave him alone, Carlos. Be soft with him...", my aunt whispered as she walked behind him to go help defuse the situation.

Dad barged into the room, I was leaning against the hallway wall outside. "Sassy. What's wrong? Why aren't you asleep?"

"I can't sleep unless I'm in my bunk beds. I can't sleep. I want to go home. Take me home. I don't want to be here. I want my bunk beds. I want my bunk beds. I want my bunk beds...", my uncle cried over and over.

"Edwin, you freaking idiot, you don't need your bunk beds to sleep. And why are you sleeping in your jeans and sneakers? How are you supposed to relax with all that clothes on? Who the hell do you think you're going to meet at night that you're dressed like that?", Dad barked. "Millie, are you seeing this? He still sleeps with his shoes on. This is Mom's fault. She never made him take them off as a kid. Edwin! Stop crying!"

"Carlos, don't be so rough with him! If he wants to sleep dressed like that let him!", my aunt Millie yelled.

"Don't call me Sassy in front of the nena, Carlos!", my uncle Edwin whined back...referring to me.

"I will call you Sassy. Because you're a Sassy little girl. Pansy. Why can't you just go to sleep? I'm not taking you home. You're here for two weeks. Get used to it! Shut up and go to sleep, Sassy girl", Dad snarled.

"Don't call me that!", Edwin yelled. "Carlos! Leave him alone!...Edwin do you want to sleep on my bed? Is that better?", my aunt said softly. Edwin started mumbling about his bunk beds over and over and over. Non stop. Rocking back and forth.

"What's wrong with Edwin...?", my grandmother's voice came from down the hall.

"Nothing! He's being a baby. This is your fault, Mom. Look at him! You let him do whatever and indulged his weird habits and look at him now!", Dad yelled.

"Carlos! You're worse than he is making this scene! You're supposed to calm him down!", my aunt yelled.

"Well does anyone need coffee and a sandwich? I'm already up and in the kitchen making one for me...Edwin, quieres cafe?", grandma screamed from the kitchen. "Yari, here have a sandwich and coffee..."

"Mom!!! Stop feeding her all the time! It's 1 o'clock in the morning and you're giving her coffee!", Dad said while coming out to the hallway...face red...eyes agitated..."Yari! Don't you dare eat that sandwich this late at night! Your Mom's gonna kill me for giving you food all the time! Mom! MOM stop making sandwiches!"

"Carlos, please lower your voice I'm getting a migraine...", my aunt whispered.

"I'm leaving. I can't sleep here. I want my bunk beds. Carlos take me to the airport right now!", cried my uncle from the doorway.

And in the sea of finger pointing, resentment and coffee...I spoke up.

"Edwin, do you want to sleep on the couch? I'll lay on the floor next to you and it'll feel like bunk beds. You'll be higher and I'll be lower, right next to you...", I asked carefully.

Edwin paused for a second...and smiled. "Okay, frijolita. But be careful that I don't squash you".

So...the crowd dispersed...and I brought my sleeping bag to the living room floor, next to the couch. My uncle settled on the couch. The lights turned off. The apartment got quiet. He twist, he kicked, he turned, he sighed...The digital clock in the living room now read 2 a.m. He twist, he kicked...he was having a hard time. I reached my hand up and rubbed his forearm and said "Goodnight, Stimpy". He sighed and I could almost hear him smiling..."Goodnight, Ren". Sleep.

The next morning my grandmother, aunt and parents left to go sight seeing. Edwin, the hermit, refused to go...so I stayed with him. All day...

My family got back to the apartment at around 4 p.m. that afternoon...my dad slowly opening the front door into the living room.

"Oh..my...EDWIN! WHAT DID YOU DO?!", Dad yelled.

"Oooooh myyyy GOD. Edwin...are you insane?! THIS IS MY LIVING ROOM! Oh my God Oh My God my head...Oh My GOD!", my aunt said...a pained expression on her face...grabbing her head.

"What's wrong?! Is Edwin ok?? What's wrong?!", asked my grandma, still outside and unable to look into the living room.

"YES, MOM, Edwin is FINE. Look! Look at what he did!", Dad screamed. "Are you freaking crazy, Sassy?? You bought a BUNK BED? You bought a bunk bed and set it up in a living room?? Of someone else's house?? Edwin what were you thinking?!"

"Ay Dios mio, Edwin but where did you get a bunk bed?? How did you set it up! Yari! Why didn't you stop him from buying it!?", my aunt sighed.

"I'm going to make coffee...I can't handle this right now...", my grandmother sighed, making her way to the kitchen and taking in the scene:

Edwin and I, sitting on the top bunk. Both of us in pajamas and eating a huge bowl of Cheerios...watching cartoons...

My aunt walked away. My dad stared at us, shaking his head..."Yari, eating a huge bowl of cereal? Your Mom's going to kill you...or me. God dammit, Sassy."

...It's 3:13 a.m. Goodnight, Stimpy.

Come Pick Me Up

2012-01-18T14:36:00.001-06:00

I feel lost, alone…like a kid that was left behind in an amusement park. The rides are fun, they are a distraction…but at some point you want to find the person you came with so they can hold your hand and guide you back home. Does he try walking back home? Why didn’t anyone notice he was gone…not in the car on the way back? Did they mean to leave him there?

There are glimpses of how things could be. Could. I hate that word. I hate maybe, could, wish. Saying something could be ok or better, means you have no faith at all in it every coming to fruition. It’s admitting all you’re doing is sitting and waiting for things to magically happen, and if they don’t, you won’t fight to at least get the ball moving or move forward. You accept what is and remain stagnant.

I feel like…I’m chastised for not daring to dream, for being sad, for feeling normal things anyone feels…For feeling real emotions and staring them in the face, trying to work my way through them. Then I turn around and push the negativity aside, and dare to hope…only to be told “Well don’t go hoping too much, this is real life, not a youngster’s dream. Could. Perhaps”. So what is it? Do you want me to hope and try to be happy? Or do you want me to be a realist and live my life in the box I’ve been in my whole life? Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Don’t be sad. Don’t be happy. What am I supposed to be?

It’s a bit disheartening when people who are supposed to be by your side, encourage you to chase after something, are the first ones to cut your wings before you take off. As a friend, it is their duty to tell you of some details you may be ignoring on your quest for something new. Understood. But to look at the situation and point out how it’s bound to fail because it doesn’t follow some sort of pre-manufactured recipe for success is of help to no one. If we all followed the same rules and lived our lives according to what worked best for someone else…wouldn’t that pretty much guarantee we are bound to be unhappy forever? You like oranges. Oranges make you feel safe. Oranges work for you. Oranges make your life complete. Guess what? If I ate oranges as much as you did, or put all my trust in them, I’d be dead. Literally. I’m diabetic. Can’t have oranges all the time. Half a banana is what keeps me alive and is good for me. You hate bananas? What a predicament.

Silly example? I know. But sometimes I would like for just a bit of support from others…at least if they love me. Life isn’t scripted. Life isn’t perfect. There are no white picket fences. Beauty fades. Money fades. Some people have goals that include big names, titles…grandeur. Recognition. Good for them. That makes them happy. That’s not my cup of tea. I want to, well, live. I want to walk outside and not be thinking “I hope someone notices I’m wearing this or I can afford that. I hope I get a pat on the back for being a big shot and rubbing elbows with important people”. I want a peaceful life, where I can be passionate about what matters to me. Love. Family. Freedom. Music. Art. None of those things pay the bills…but all of those things are what make up what I value most, have always valued most in my life. The bills will be there. Work will be there. I have no desire to be known for wearing a power suit. I want to be remembered when I’m gone, for loving whole-heartedly. For giving my hand when needed. For contributing peace, equality, basic rights to this world. If I ever have a child, I want the kid to grow up knowing what matters most. What we take to the grave. We don’t take possessions. We take memories, life triumphs, loving moments. We take life with us. I want her to remember me for being there with her, dancing in the living room and being silly on random afternoons. I want her to always carry with her the I love you’s I told her through the day. To take my voice with her, and hopefully my advice. To remember my eyes and how hard I tried to pass on to her the good memories that were passed on to me. Not that I was busy making a name of myself so I could afford to give her material things, missing key moments in her life. Quality of life. Everyone talks about it, but does anyone really know what makes their life worth living? Even if you have to work hard to keep your family afloat in these tough times, those few minutes a day you take to actually LIVE your life, share yourself with others…we always remember that. Always. I had an outstanding childhood. We were dirt poor, I seldom had new toys, and my first cell phone was at 18 with my own money…and I can truly say I LOVED my childhood. Because my parents were my best friends and I never lacked memories. They were free. They were good. They will never fade. Which is why I share them with you, friends. Because they were too beautiful for me to keep for myself.

I want to walk out the door every morning, knowing I am about to change someone’s life that day. In a tiny, insignificant way…or in a larger scale. I want to share myself.

Someone come pick me up, will ya? The park is closing…they’re turning off the rides and it’s getting dark. I’m hungry. I’m cold. My feet hurt. I just want to go Home.

15 Years

2011-12-06T14:07:00.004-06:00

Nana,

I didn’t forget this year. Today it’s been 15 years since you passed away. As is my own tradition, I am writing you how I am currently taking this day. Last year…last year I forgot. I woke up and felt so sad, but didn’t realize why until Mom reminded me of the date…and I felt so much shame. How could I have forgotten? What kind of a mindless existence was I trapped in that I let something like you slip from my thoughts? The year before? The year before was agonizing. I wrote you this little gem http://thesqueakyhamsterwheel.blogspot.com/2009/12/december-6-1997.html and cried until my chest felt dead…maybe that’s why I forgot last year…because I felt dead. This year…oh this year…I have so much to tell you.

I didn’t forget this year. Actually, this year I’ve spoken about you and every single memory I can come up with kind of non-stop. There were moments I had with you, that I hadn’t thought of since even before you died. You were so wonderful, abuela. I was so, so lucky to have you long enough that you’re part of the core of what makes me, Me. Fifteen years…gone by in the blink of an eye. That post from two years ago…I am so far away from that place…from those thoughts. From that confused state of anger and resentment. I was trapped, Nana. Prisoner of a past I could not let go of, tied to a life that was a lie to who I truly am…I wasn’t living. I hated thinking of you, of the rest of the family back home, of my past. I despised reliving the decisions I made without thinking of the consequences. Most of all, I was so ashamed of who I had become. A stranger to family and friends…a shadowed reflection in the mirror…my eyes barely recognizable. I felt old. I felt weary. I felt so, so alone in a world with 7 billion other beating hearts in it…mine was deaf, blind, mute…weary.

I am sorry for living my life that way for so long, Nana. For being afraid of trying anything that would make others disappointed or sad in me…when they didn’t even take a step back to consider that, maybe, I wasn’t happy at all. Please sit down for a second, and let me catch you up on what’s happened since my last letter…

I just finished my first semester in college. I can feel your smile as I typed that. I think I did pretty good, too. I was working full time and went at night. It was hard, to keep my focus…my brain isn’t what it used to be. Better late than never, right? I’m already enrolled for next semester. Three classes this time…I wish I could be telling you this over the phone. Um. Anyways. I moved out of my parents’ house, again. Now I have a tiny one bedroom apartment overlooking an empty field. It’s small, but warm…and I get to see the most amazing sunsets every afternoon when I get home from work and stand on the balcony. I have new people in my life that have just…brought me back to life. They’re the ones bringing the Yari you knew back to working conditions. I’m painting again. It had been 10 years since I picked up a paintbrush. I’m playing guitar and writing new music…easily been 5 years since I did that. I’m working more on my photography. So much more. Daily. The thing is, the world looks so different now, Nana. The sunsets are no longer the end of a day…a blue sky peeking through some trees is no longer just a Tuesday afternoon…everything is beauty and life. Grandma, everything is Love. I dream almost every night now. The nightmares…so very few of them. Remember I was having those recurring nightmares, every other day since I was 7? I haven’t had one in almost 6 months. I’m off my anti-depressants. I haven’t cut in 3 months. I’ve been patient and kind with Dad. I think I forgave him, finally. I’ve been talking poetry and art with Mom again. The other day we went for a drive, just them two and I, and we sang in the car. Remember the old songs? I was always singing every time we went for a drive? We sang them…together, laughing and…you were on my mind so much that night. My best friend, he knows…what you mean to me. He knows how much all these small changes are adding up to bigger things in my future. Most of all, he understands. Everything. All the things that made me a weird kid, I don’t have to explain them to him. It’s unspoken. Even in silence, we see the world the same way…and he’s pushed me to get out of the wallowing and self-pity…he’s pushed me to take risks and chase after the 200 thoughts that drift out of my head and into the wind…To make things happen. And. They are happening. I am smiling.

Fifteen years and I can only say this: My heart aches in a different way. I now miss you because I cannot share with you all the good in my life. My loves. My secrets. My freedom. I miss your voice. I miss your eyes. I miss your support. But I no longer feel empty when I think of you…because I am becoming who you always knew I would be. I am making it up as fast as I can…

I love you with all my heart. Fifteen years…but…I am here to tell you, I’m 12 again. Those 15 years have slowly been erased…and I’m starting it over. This time, with you right here with me. You have never been gone.

P.S. You would LOVE my new coffee maker.

Let Me Count The Ways

2011-11-27T11:01:00.001-06:00

I love you more than...

My oversized flannel shirt, after my night time shower.

My uncle's schizophrenia.

The opening theme song to The Office.

A slice of cheesecake from my favorite Brooklyn joint.

My mother's OCD.

That email from my bank on Thursdays at 3 am, saying my paycheck has been direct deposited.

My grandmother's voice, as she sang in the kitchen at the break of dawn...and the sound of metal spoons stirring in ceramic mugs.

The smell of wet dirt and the cool, misty wind that announce the coming of rain.

Slowly finger picking my guitar strings from Am to C...and the knowledge that a song can start at any moment.

An original chicken sandwich from Burger King, add cheese and tomatoes.

My father's sentimentalism.

Watching the sun rise over Arizona, slowly flooding the desert in a golden haze. Every formation illuminated. Every cactus given a 'Good Morning'.

The sound of my grandfather's keys as he opened the gate to the front porch after a long day at work...the faint rustling of a paper bag on his left hand...which promised fresh pastries.

My aunt's random text messages wishing me the best of luck in all I do and reminding me how much she loves me...how proud she is of me.

Sleeping.

Taking pictures of my feet...everywhere I go.

Monopoly.

The way my dog Blue runs laps around the house when I get home.

My childhood memories.

The first Coke Zero in the morning.

The feeling of my feet sinking in the sand and having the ocean in front of me.

Sitting under a tree, on a cement picnic table in the middle of nowhere, on a breezy spring morning.

More than the things that once seemed to be the only reasons I could ever smile during a lifetime.

More than you will ever know. More than I can even understand myself, sometimes.

More than yesterday...but never more than tomorrow.

More than more.

The universe, it knows.

Maybes

2011-10-24T20:19:00.002-05:00

My feet were tangled, with my thin flannel sheet wrapped around them. I kicked hard, trying frantically to free myself, and my arms reached out into nothingness at the same time. I was looking for something, someone, anything. Suddenly, I was falling and there was nothing I could do to stop it. What felt like a long free fall, was actually just a 2ft fall from the couch to the floor...landing hard on my side with my wrist twisted the opposite way. I felt it pop and gasped out in pain. I laid there for a few minutes, letting the pain in my wrist slowly subside -at least it wasn't broken- and allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness around me. My hand good hand reached over to the dull, green blinking light a few feet from my head. A swift slide of my thumb and the screen on my phone came to life, temporarily blinding me, but showing me the time. 2:25 a.m.

I crawled back up and got on the couch, staring at the ceiling...or where I know the ceiling is...since it was pitch black. My mind drifted to the reason I woke up in a panic.

I had been walking through a park in Pennsylvania, down a long path lined with orange and red trees. My favorite season engulfed me, and the cold air nipped at my nose. I hurried along, hands in my pockets and my black combat boots crunched the leaves underneath my feet. All of a sudden I heard her talking next to me, coming out of nowhere. I looked over and it was my sister Cathy, wearing a gorgeous dark green coat and a Kermit the Frog beanie. She reached for my hand and I held on to her cold fingers as we kept walking into the forest. She said it was a weird year, a year for growth and for change. She walked with me all the way to the edge of a noisy stream, picked up my hand and kissed my fingers, slowly, one by one. Her green eyes peered into mine, and I felt a cold run up my spine. She whispered, "Keep your eyes open, gorgeous. Don't get lost trying to chase ghosts." Just like that, she disappeared between the trees and the leaves around me rustled eerily.

I crossed the stream, it wasn't deep. The water was cold, but my feet stayed dry...I only assumed the water was cold because my toes felt cooler as I walked through it. When I reached the other side, I looked around me and it had started snowing. The snow had this iridescence quality to it, so it looked like everything was covered in purplish pink cotton candy. He stepped out into the clearing, dressed in black...all black and a gray baseball cap. He rubbed his hands together, blowing into them, shaking off the cold and snow. He seemed happy to see me, and walked up to me, giving me a tight hug. I tried kissing him, but he turned his face and just gave me a sad smile while whispering "Let's go for a walk, Yar." My stomach churned, and some crows made a ruckus in the distance. He tugged at my hand, it seems I had slowed down. "You already know what I'm going to say, though, don't you." I simply nodded, and waited. "I just had certain plans I wanted to achieve in life, babe. Maybe I'm not meant to want more. Maybe happiness is relative. I want to work on some projects and...well starting over in life would never allow me to accomplish them. Maybe things aren't bad enough to go chasing after 'maybes', ya know?" I swallowed hard and nodded rapidly, looking at my feet as we walked further away...the stream was barely audible by now. I wiped the tears off and I heard him sigh.

When I looked up to say something, he was about 100 yards away and getting farther. I called after him and was torn between chasing...and letting go. I tried lifting my foot, and roots had coiled around it...around both my legs, actually. I struggled to break free, but I started to slide down a hill. I called out his name, he was close enough to hear me still, surely. No answer. I slid faster and a root snaked around my neck as the other ones pulled me by my feet. I reached out and as I fell off the side off the cliff, I felt his foot stomp down on my hand to hold me in place off the side...My wrist popped. I looked up, and once he made sure our eyes had connected, he lifted his foot and I fell into darkness...

And woke up on the floor, with a sore wrist and my chest on fire.

It's been a while since the nightmares made their rounds...

For The Love Of Bacon (Untitled Poem)

2011-10-19T14:13:00.003-05:00

I ask you if you love me

You say what you love first.

My crazy curly hair

The freckles on my nose

I make a face and laugh.

You snuggle close and sigh,

"I'd give up all I have,

to get lost in those eyes."

My mouth twists in doubt,

and you just continue...

"I love your artful soul,

the song that lives within you...

The way you give your love

to anyone who'll have it.

Your toes, your hands, your voice

your every little habit.

The way you see the world,

your mind, how it shines through.

That silly hat, your twirl,

The passion you exude.

But most of all I love

What I mean to you.

The way you say my name,

that YOU love me, too."

Reluctantly conceeding

to your lengthy proclamation.

"Fine, you win", I say,

"Now let's go grab some bacon."

~ Yari

How YOU Lost Your Friend

2011-10-17T12:46:00.003-05:00

Hello,

Even that 'hello' seems like a forced greeting, since you simply deserve for me to spit on your face and nothing more.

I want to start by stating a simple thing. I am 27 years old, and I've been able to form my own thoughts and decisions for quite a long time. So if you think I'm writing this because someone else is pulling my strings or trying to pin me against you (i.e. your WIFE. Woman you married and are married to, yet continue to disrespect and treat like a tyrant), you are wrong. I know, I know. You're sitting there shaking that empty, retarded head of yours thinking you're the victim and the world just doesn't understand a complex individual like you...Complex. Can you even spell that word? Moron. You still, to this day, blame ME and HER for the dissolution of our friendship. How is it my fault? Are you still telling people left and right, telling her, that *I* chose to end this friendship? I chose to walk away? I chose to not talk to you anymore? How is it HER fault? Did you really think your true identity would be kept secret from me? Your WIFE didn't have to tell me ANYTHING about you that I didn't already know. Your actions speak for themselves. Loud and clear. You're a monster, a liar, a scumbag, a waste of perfectly good oxygen, a waste of tax payer dollars...yes...a huge pile of garbage.

So, Step One: Stop thinking your life is a joke and you lost me as a friend because of any other reason that wasn't YOU. YOU did this. YOU. YOU pushed me to the point that I HATED even knowing you existed. I hated that I ever associated with someone like you. I'm embarrassed to even remember the period of my life you were in it. You treated ME in the most disrespectful way I could ever imagine...and I took it. For months. Day in and day out. Until I realized you are NOBODY. Nothing. Insignificant speck. Guess what? All your Twitter "buddies and gals", they all realize what and who you are...one by one. So keep nurturing those relationships and discarding true people in your life that have been there when no one else was. I can't WAIT to see you fall and see your pathetic life out in the open for all to see.

Step Two: What I really, really wanna do is tell your new 'friend'...that I was there. A year ago. I bet she doesn't know all the dirty stunts you've pulled and people you've manipulated for years, does she? Does she know how you've treated your wife for years, when all she did was love you and forgive...and STILL forgive...every day? She has carried your flaws, your blame, your short comings, your mistakes. She goes out into the world every morning and carries YOUR SHAME. You selfish, tiny creature. Does she know how you treated me? The only friend you had that didn't mock you or ridicule you publicly on Twitter? You think all those people you talk to, that reply to you really give you a second thought during the day? Get over yourself. You're not even worth a decent conversation. Yet I made it work. I found ways to talk to you, to get to know you, to support you in your choices to better yourself...Silly me, thinking that once you got a better job you'd stop your pussy whining all day long about how hard you have it. First day at the other job, you're already complaining that your boss is this and that...Forget you. You're a loser. You'll never be happy with anything you have. Even when the GOOD things fall right on your lap, you will shove them off and then complain to whoever will listen about how hard your life has been...

Step 3: Stop HIDING behind a uniform and playing GI Joe. There are millions of men and women who server our country in a respectful manner. Giving their ultimate sacrifice. You use your service as an excuse to complain. You use your service as a sob story to get you laid and get you pats on the back from people that have no idea the evil you're capable of unleashing. And because I know this is your favorite excuse: "I'm like this because the Army made me this way", please, stop it right now. You have ALWAYS been like this. There is NO VALID EXCUSE for the behavior you continue to show the world. I wonder how many people would still look you in the eyes if they knew who you really are...what you are...what you've done. You are a disgrace to those who take their pledge seriously. You are a disgrace to the few of you who really have gotten to know you. You truly are your parents' child. Every last gene of them. Which brings me to this...

I wish I could say I regret meeting you...but meeting you brought to my life one of my best, closest friends: Your wife. Too bad you can't see what you have, what you've had and what you could've had. If you had only grown up, asswipe, you would have gained so much.

My purest sense of joy is that when time has passed...and all of us are old:

I will be happy with what little or much I have.

I will have a handful of friends, including your wife, who I'll share every aspect of my life with.

I will have learned lessons from life and used them to live healthier, full of peace and free.

You will be alone.

You will be plagued with regret, sorrow, bitterness and heartache.

You will have only meant something to your parents (maybe, because you're not much to be proud of) or your sister (because the poor soul just doesn't know any better than to love her brother)...but once they die, no one else on earth will think of you twice.

You WILL sit there and wonder where we all went...and I'll make damn sure that every year, you get a postcard of a smiling me. A smiling her. A smiling few of your friends that gave you a chance to be a better person.

Face it or not, the truth has been coming out slowly to those who have dared to see it. You dug your own grave. And the only tears soaking it, will be your own...

Because in a year from now, that new friend will be gone...and it's up to you to find yourself a new victim. I sincerely hope they all know that...every single new friendship you start.

Oh...and dude...you're not convincing anyone, by the way. Just own it at this point. It makes people roll their eyes and look at you like a piece of pigeon crap every time you truly believe we bought the lie.

The Boob Post! (Cancer Sucks)

2011-10-06T14:16:00.003-05:00

It’s okay to write about boobs. It really is. Fun bags. Tatas. Maracas. Melons. Face pillows. Whatever you choose to call them is perfectly acceptable to me. Behold! It’s October, officially making it National Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

However, my question to you is this: Why wait a whole year to promote breast health or give a big push for women to give themselves self-exams? Cancer does not wait til October every year to rear its ugly head…so, why should you only check then?

My grandmother was, for lack of better poetic wording, the joy of my life and the backbone of my existence as a child. Strong, bold, stubborn, hard-working, dedicated, selfless, beautiful and full of life. That’s the main one…right there…full of life. She embodied everything life should be. Lived to the fullest, unapologetic…she was the definition of both loving and being in love. Therefore, to see her life ending before my eyes in a little over a year after being diagnosed with breast cancer will forever be one of the most painful things I’ve endured. Yes, I. I’m selfish. I want to talk about how her pain and suffering affected me. Because, in a way, I hold a small grudge against her. She knew she had cancer. For 12 years prior to her death she knew she had a bump in her breast she should’ve taken care of…but she never told anyone. By the time the symptoms got out of hand, the small lump in her breast had now spread to her other breast, her neck and lodged to the bottom of her brain. Was she afraid of going to the doctor? Why didn’t she tell us? Did she not notice it getting bigger every year?

Did she know what it did to us to see the matriarch of a family line…of our little tribe…struggle with the chemo? Did she realize what it was like for those who needed her and looked up to her to see her first, become unable to hold food down? Then her speech slow? Then spend most of her days in a bed? How was I supposed to understand that the same woman who had taught me to cook and fed us all daily, flawlessly making her way through a kitchen, was now using a walker and barely keeping her balance against the counter as she struggled to fry a piece of fish for me in an effort to prove to us (or herself) that she could still do things? How could I process in my goofy pre-teen head, that this human that had taught me most of what I needed to know about life and how to live it…was now laying in a bed in her room…trapped in her own body? She lost all motor skills, all ability to speak and her feeding tube was the only thing keeping her relatively healthy. She’d lay there, feeling pain or maybe wanting to talk, and all I could see was her staring up at us with a few tears in her eyes. Prisoner in her body. Prisoner to cancer. That thing in her breast was as old as I was…and it had been small in the beginning. Maybe a small surgery and a short round of chemo would’ve helped? Maybe not? But she ignored it.

The rest of the details, all the way to the end, are irrelevant. It was the death that can never be forgotten. It was the person that can never be replaced or let go of. If anything, it showed me we’re all breakable, fragile. So, I ask this of you…

You all probably have family members who are selfish, like me. People that will never forgive you for not doing the best you can to keep yourself healthy in order to share a full, happy life with them. If you’re selfish and don’t feel like doing it for you…do it for them.

Squish your boobs! Squish their boobs! Squish your girlfriend’s boobs! Squish everyone’s boobs! If you’re a guy? Squish your boobs too! (Yes, there’s breast cancer in males, too.) The point is don’t be afraid. Save your life…save A life. All year long, squish because you love.

If you’re already battling cancer, stay a survivor. We are all rooting for you. Squish yourself twice for good measure.

Here’s links to great sites about boobies (not porn) and breast cancer boob help!

http://www.thebreastcancersite.com/

http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org

http://www.nbcam.org/about_nbcam.cfm

A Better Side Of You To Admire

2011-09-17T21:22:00.002-05:00

There's a couple walking by the river. Arms linked. They're young...maybe mid to late 20's. He tucks her hair behind her ear and kisses her forehead. She simply nudges his nose with hers. They keep walking, stopping every few steps to look at the water or remind each other they're together, with a soft gesture. Pretty soon, darkness engulfs them in the distance...and they blend into the reflections and shadows at the end of the walkaway.

I stare at my half full...half empty...half a glass of some blue martini. It doesn't even taste right anymore. I push the full cup of soup away from me and look back out towards the river flowing quietly, carrying it with it troubling secrets under it's surface...downstream...away from here. The ferry floats by like an illuminated ghost. Red bulbs. White bulbs. Sloshing away. Saturday night. Somewhere to go. The napkin falls off my lap onto the floor. I leave it there.

I pay my tab...for half a martini and three spoonfuls of soup. Yet, it feels like I paid with my entire soul. I look at the river again, it looks darker and I catch my reflection on the glass windows. It's almost comical. I take a picture, and instagram it. Because I feel the need to capture the loneliness I'm exuding, staring back at me. Or maybe to remind myself of what I've always thought as a child: No one should have dinner alone. I grab my wallet and slide out of the booth, hands already tucked in my hoodie and looking at the floor as I quickly make my way out of the restaurant. The young host said goodnight as I passed him, and I barely registered it...simply nodding at him in a rush towards my room.

The elevator doors opened, releasing me into the confines of a narrow hallway...

I walked into my room and my curtains were drawn, revealing the view out at the river...the old bridge crossing it. The couple was making their way back from their walk, this time their arms around each other...sort of playing with each other's feet and laughing.

Closing the curtains, I turned and faced the empty hotel room. And that's where I found myself. Not by the river. Not at home. Not with anyone. A large, two bed hotel room...full of darkness and cold. For one person.

I miss you.

Dear Erin:

2011-09-15T21:47:00.003-05:00

It's been two years since I last saw you...going on 3.

There have been highs and lows for both of us. Moments of intense joy and open communication...and long periods of silence...where we miss each other, yet, we know we're both okay.

I was talking about you the other day...about a particular memory I have of you.

My dear, you were always so sure things would end up okay in the matters of your heart. I had never encountered anyone so sure, serene, strong, certain that who she loved was who she was meant to love.

The world around you was stacking the odds against you. Doors were closing left and right. Lights were shutting off. Watching you love so intensely without knowing really where it was headed was scary, inspiring...but scary. You put yourself out there...because you felt it inside. You felt something inside you that no one else could feel. Something bigger, solid, strong...I couldn't see it...but it was as clear as daylight for you.

I look at it now...and I am in awe of you, my dear twin. In completely awe of all you've been through and continue to go through at times...but how it all just unfolded exactly as you were sure it was meant to unfold. I can almost see your wide smile and your eyes peering into mine, whispering "I told you so..." into my head.

I understand now...everything. That undying fire you felt...that feeling that no matter what you have to fight through, all will work out in the end...because the universe wants it to be. That feeling that this is what it's supposed to feel like, that this is worth fighting for because it is unlike anything ever felt. Peaceful. Calm. Even when the storm is headed towards you...staring you down..you know that through the pain...you'll emerge victorious at the end. It was worth it.

Today is your birthday, Daisy Jay. Erin. Twin. Plookie. Every possible name we ever had for each other. Today is the third year I've been a part of your life and you've been a rock in mine. I love you and those gifts you brought to the world, Cora and Emma. You're family. My family. I can only hope I can see you soon. I miss your eyes. Your strength. Your laughter. Your light.

Thank you for teaching me lessons. For preparing me. For being my heart.

Have a happy, peaceful birthday. You were right. You were always right. And it's beautiful.

Here's to you, me and Chief Brody...yumyumyumyum

Oh, Brother...

2011-09-12T21:55:00.003-05:00

"Mom?", I whispered carefully, trying to not disturb the stillness of the night around us. The sun had set long ago and my mother had decided to curl up in bed with me to have a long poetry reading session.

"Hmmm?", she grunted back...slightly jumping at my question, as if my voice had ripped her out of the dream state she was falling into.

"Why don't I have a brother? Or a sister?"

A long pause lingered in the air before I heard her throat clearing and the familiar clicking of her tongue against her palate. This small gesture usually meant she actually had given the answer some thought before wording it in a way I would understand. As well as a 6 year old could understand the deeper topics in life, anyway.

"Well...", she began, "...I guess we're happy with just having you, Yari." She turned her face towards me and found a small, shiny pair of eyes staring directly at her...expectantly. She sighed and continued, looking at me..."Why do you ask?"

"All my friends have brothers and sisters. My cousins have brothers and sisters. Why not me?", I remember asking a bit more forceful.

"Because, Charola, it just hasn't happened. Besides, aren't you happy being the center of our attention? Being the only girl and the baby of the family? What if you had a little sister and no one payed attention to you anymore?", she reasoned.

I mulled over this question. I was the only child, which had it's perks. I was the youngest grandchild and the only female in a long parade of boys. The princess, so to speak. That, too, was good to have. I had my own room and I didn't have to share my toys. Comfortable living situation, indeed. But...

"What do you mean it hasn't happened? Have you guys even tried?", ever the clever child.

Mom shifted next to me a little uncomfortable and cleared her throat again. "Yes. But I can't have any more babies, Yari. Ok? The doctor says I can't."

Sadness and hopelessness crept on me like a suffocating blanket, but I would not cry. I swallowed and my throat seemed tight. Dry.

"What about adopting, Ma?"

She looked away from me and at the ceiling for a long time. Her lips parted slightly and she mumbled, "Dad doesn't want to."

"Why?"

"Because he says there's no way of knowing if that child has genes from their parents that would make them prone to being violent, alcoholics, hard to handle or sick...", she finished, quietly.

"What??!! Genes don't make people be violent. It's how their mom and dad raise them to be! What if their sick? We'll take care of them. I'm tired of being alone. I'm tired of not having someone to play with. I want a big brother to stop the other kids from picking on me at school, Mom! I want a sister to braid my hair or a little brother to teach how to play basketball! You guys shouldn't have had me so I could be a lonely kid!", I all but sobbed out.

Her hand quickly found my bangs and her fingers quickly went to work running through my hair, pushing it away from my face.

"Charo, you're not alone. You have lots of cousins and friends. Not just at school but here in the neighborhood. More importantly, your family can also be your friends. Your uncles and aunts, c'mon Yari, you always treat them like your buddies and they treat you the same. Your dad...me...we love being your friends. You're funny, fun, smart, sneaky and loving. So kind, Yari. You're like a little grown up...it's the weirdest thing.", she added, smiling.

"Besides, Yari, want to know what one of my favorite quotes says? Since we're being poetic and deep, little philosopher?"

I smiled in the darkness at the thought of me being a philosopher. I even pronounced the word slowly, half giggling..."fi...lo...so..fa"

"Yes, filosofita. The quotes says 'There exists companions disposed to break one another to pieces, but there exists a friend sticking closer than a brother.' Don't worry, Yari. You'll find friends that won't even make you miss not having siblings. Ok?", she smiled at me, slightly tickling my foot with hers.

I curled up laughing, and nodded into her chest...

And so it was. Through the years I've made friendships that I would not trade for a sibling. I've found people who I've developed such a connection with, bond, need for their affection and constant contact that it defies any logical explanation. Complete strangers that have no reason to have anything remotely in common with me...

When I have been in my darkest moments...there have been a handful of you to pull me out. You are my brothers and my sisters...or even better. Because you HAVE to love your family, no matter how they choose to treat you. I chose to love you and you guys chose to love me back, no strings attached, through it all.

For you, out there in the universe, thank you for adopting me. For the memories. I love you.

Oh, and Mom? I still would've liked someone to stop me from getting my ass beat daily in school. Hmph.

Onward

2011-08-31T20:56:00.003-05:00

I took the long way home,

down the road lined with spirals of broken glass.

The light of the moon reflected off them

A myriad of flashes, mirroring my face.

In my back pocket, a few old coins -

the good luck coins blessed by an ancestor

using the name of an unreliable deity.

I would have no savior

no luck, except my own.

No future except the next 3 steps I took.

You took it all. Every last beat.

In the smoke of the incense,

I see your eye. Controlling. Watchful.

But I'm walking on home.

I have my place in the darkness.

Somewhere to live in the light.

Fight. For me. For you. Fight.

So I stand here, uncertainly sure.

Confusingly clear.

I ask of you...no. I simply ask

Are you sure?

Are you ready?

Are you in?

Dreams Are Made Winding...

2011-08-28T17:57:00.003-05:00

Going along the lines of my last post...

This was my first rock concert...big name band, I mean...that I ever attended. System of a Down. New Jersey. I was 15.

I told my parents I was going with some friends to NJ to spend the night in Phillipsburg at another friends house. In actuality, I left right after school and drove to a motel near the venue (a hotel would not accept a minor without an adult/credit card). I paid for my room cash and took the bus to the venue. I was at the gates by 7. I stuck to a group of guys that were in their late 20's so no one would card me, because I'm a ninja like that.

I was scared out of my mind. I had never been in a concert for this type of music (tho I loved this band and knew every song by heart) nor had I been in a mosh pit with this kind of intense energy/anger. I had been in other mosh pits tho, so I figured I'd join this one. I was fearless. I was dumb.

It was during this song up that I posted the video to that I got my first rock concert injury. It was during one of the heavy, slow parts of this song that the mosh started moving angrily...we were all blinded. Suddenly I felt intense stinging, pain on my left hip...and warm water trickling down my thigh. I looked to my side and some dude was wearing very long spikes on his wrists and while swinging in the mosh, he had successfully lodged three of those spikes on my hip. I shoved him off me with all the anger I felt at that moment for his stupid move (you dont get in a mosh pit to hurt others, at least that's not how it's supposed to be...unspoken rule), and as the spikes slid out of me more blood kept coming out. I freaked out and he kept apologizing. I asked him for his shirt, which he gladly gave me, and I pressed it tight against my wounds as I poured water on it from a water bottle. Burn. Sting. Pain pain. I tucked the shirt as a gauze on my hip and my jeans kept it in place tightly. I limped away and missed the rest of the show. It was almost done anyways.

That night after I showered at the motel, I ran down the block to a 24 hour Walgreens and grabbed antibiotic ointment, gauzes and alcohol. I came back to the room and took care of things, then went to bed more worried about my parents finding out what had happened or where I was...instead of being concerned that the wound might get infected...

Alas, no one ever found out. As far as my parents know, I had a great sleep over in NJ, 45 minutes away and came home safe and sound the next morning by noon.

Shhh...keep my secret.

The Good[Cool] Kids Are Texting

2011-08-27T23:11:00.003-05:00

I never once lied, as a child. Well. I take that back. I lied once.

There are things in life, which I cannot resist. Powdered sugar is one of them. So are donuts. When you combine the two, now you’ve created a super food which overpowers every thought in my head if placed within a 50 ft. radius of me. That being said, I was 5 years old and was coming out of my room and into the kitchen, to get ready and have my supper. The food still had a few more minutes to go before it was done, but my mom had placed two small powdered donuts on a Barbie plate, in the middle of our dining room table already. My eyes zoned in on them. A shark, eyeing its prey from underneath…preparing to launch a surprise attack on the unsuspecting. “Yari. Don’t eat the donuts. Those are for after you eat your dinner. Ok?”, said my mother in a soft, but serious tone. I pried my eyes from my delicious goal and reluctantly met my mother’s gaze. I nodded, indicating I understood the instructions. “I’m watching you. I’ll know if you touch them, so don’t lie to me. Do you understand?”, she re-iterated. I sighed, seemingly defeated and simply sat at my place on the table, head laying on my hands. My mother walked away to take a quick shower, and little Yari was left all alone in the kitchen…with two donuts a few inches away from her tiny, eager little hands.

My mother came down the hall, fixing her clothes, shaking her wet hair. I jumped out of my chair and went to grab water, pretending to be suddenly thirsty and taking down big gulps. I turn around to go sit back on my place, and my mother is staring at the empty Barbie plate. She looks at me, eyebrow raised.

“Yari. Did you eat the donuts?”

“No.”

“Yari. I know when you’re lying to me. I’m going to ask you again and tell me the truth. Did you eat the donuts?”

“No! Mom! I didn’t touch them!”

“Where did they go, then?”

“I don’t know! I was over there drinking water. You saw me.”

“Yari. Are you sure you didn’t eat the donuts? Are you lying?”

“No! I’m not lying! Look inside my mouth! *opens mouth, confident the water washed all residue away* See?”

“I see. But if you don’t know what happened to the donuts, and if you didn’t touch them or eat them…then what’s this?” *walking up to me, pointing at the powdered sugar residue all over the front of my shirt *

Needless to say, I never lied again. The look in my eyes, my body language…gave me away as soon as something was remotely off with me. Let’s not mention that they thoroughly explained why lying was wrong, and how it hurt others at some point…made them disappointed in me. Apparently those were enough reasons for me not to do it.

So time passed, and I was the good kid. Straight A’s with my homework done within an hour of being home from school (if I hadn’t already finished it at school already). Never talked back to my parents, accepted my discipline, helped around the house, respected everyone, didn’t sneak out or tried drugs. I was the daughter all my parents’ friends wanted to have. “That Yari, she never gives ya’ll any worries…”, they’d comment. My parents would simply smile and nod. I was rewarded with their trust, with privacy, with them letting me go out with my friends and come back whenever I deemed it was a responsible time to be home (I was always home by 11 p.m., even if they never asked me of it) and I was left to be judicious in my use of the internet when I was 14.

So. I was left alone. I was trusted that I wouldn’t lie about who I was talking to, what I was talking about and that I wasn’t lying about going to bed. I had earned that right to privacy. So, I started lying. About texting a friend, when I was really texting boys. About what I was doing with my free time. No, I wasn't on the phone with my friends or reading a book or just laying down in my room doing my own thing...I was exposing myself to people who were brought up different than I was. People that weren't innocent or naive or going through the same stages of insecurity that I was. No. They had malice and poor intentions. And I was prime territory to claim.

By the time they realized they should probably monitor what I was doing, it was a little too late. I had seen and done things no teenager had business even knowing about. I'm not saying I am ungrateful for the trust they had in me...and after all, it was I who violated their faith in me and my decision making...

I guess I wrote this out of concern for many of my friends who sometimes want to provide their kids with technological freedoms. I am not a parent, so I would not presume to think I could do better or that I have the right approach. Each person knows what works in their case. I simply want to warn of the danger of blurring that line between being a parent that kids can consider their friend...and being the parent that tries desperately to be cool, turning their face away when they should be monitoring closely.

The end. Heh.

More Nothingness

2011-08-24T21:48:00.002-05:00

I find myself at a loss of words when it comes to this corner of my life. I wish I could say the lack of thoughts shared is due to nothing new happening in my life. No.

I started school last Monday. 9 years after graduating HS, I'm finally having my first day as a freshman in college. It was pretty much as terrifying as I thought it was going to be. I was lost. Out of place. Awkward. The chair-desks were too tiny for a fat girl. But I survived, and look forward to finishing the semester with a decent grade. Nothing fancy. Maybe make a friend. I'm too old for these expectations.

I'm drowning in a sea of emotions. Most of them good. The rest are bouts of stress, confusion, worry, panic...I feel like something has to give.

Maybe if I want something bad enough, the universe will conspire and make it happen. It already did once. I just need for it to continue where I want it to go. Before I kill myself overthinking, overworrying or simply being impatient.

Fresh Outta Nice

2011-08-17T10:38:00.003-05:00

For about two months now, the "new guy" at work - whom which I have a love/hate relationship with - has been coming to me for advice on what to do with his recent love issues. Every time, I have told him to take it easy. He just got off a 15+ yr relationship, in which he only stayed out of duty and his 'honor'. He's struck up several romances at the same time...but not wanting to be in a serious one. I warned him one of them...if not all....would at some point demand more from him than he was ever intending to give.

This is today's convo. He picked the wrong day to come crying.

New Guy:

well kinda good. i have to talk to the austin about things...she's getting clingy.

Yari:

New Guy:

she's probably not going to take things so well

and it kinda bothers me

i told you she was moving to pecos, right?

Yari:

I'm shocked that she wont take things well...really...this is my shocked face.

and yes you did.

New Guy:

well i've guarded myself from the beginning

and somehow it backfired

and she wants more than i offered to give her

and i won't ever move to pecos

and i don't want long distance even if it's 1hr away

and even though i'm sure they are wonderful children, i don't want to raise 4 kids

Yari:

yeah.

New Guy:

and she is a great person and we've had some wonderful experiences

and she understands me and gets me

and we can relate...but...see above

Me:

did you tell her that from the beginning. right off the bat?

New Guy:

well i kinda. first of all, she only talked about moving to pecos as a thought or a dream..then it was going to be next year, then it turns out she is moving tomorrow

so she knows i was out of the relationship and wasn't ready for anything

Yari:

doesnt matter...kinda doesn't cut it.

if it was a dream

or next year

New Guy:

she hasn't pressured me into anything and she tells me that...but then she turns around and does pressure me in a way.

Yari:

youre never moving to pecos...ever. She should know.

no, but she's sure as hell hoping you change your mind

New Guy:

sigh

Yari:

sometimes, i really wonder if im the only one that can see crap happening to people.

I mean, surely youre not that naive!

New Guy:

lol i'm not

but i have hopes

Yari:

hopes that you can have your cake and eat it too.

New Guy:

nooo

if i get serious with a certain someone...i really don't need anymore cake

and that's the honest truth

i really thought things were over and gone between me and the other girl... and i would just ride things out with this one..seeing each other every 3 or 4 weeks, ya know...?

so it would be ok

Yari:

you just wanted to stick your finger

in every cake

taste them all without having to pick which was your flavor right away

and not having to pay for any of them

New Guy:

what! i pay

in my own way

New Guy:

it was supposed to be me time i guess

Yari:

No, they pay

and it was supposed to be time for you, like I told you weeks ago

not to be looking to be tied up again

especially when your feelings are so conflicted

New Guy:

*silence*

Yari:

i wasnt trying to bust your balls before because i was trying to be a bitch

I was simply telling you how it was gonna go down

when you made certain choices and you led these chicks on

it doesnt take a scientist

just some common sense

we live in a world where people are lonely

people need love

are looking for company

for the 'right one'

its not a world where you can tell every girl pretty things

make her feel nice, better about herself, loved during sex

and expect her NOT to assume its a lot more serious than it really is

this isn't a trip to Sam's where you can sample crap

and not buy

these are people

people that sometimes have been through rough situations

broken hearts

so for you to come in with your romanticism, pretty words, making them feel good about themselves when no one else has done that for them in a long time

yeah...feelings happen.

New Guy:

then i'm better off just being a recluse and never show off my light

Yari:

show your light to whores

cuz theyre the only ones that wont get attached

and you can keep your freedom

New Guy:

i don't want hoes

ho's

Yari:

oh well.

New Guy:

lol

Yari:

that's what girls end up being

when they run into you

they give you deep stuff back

only to be kicked to the curb and made think it was never serious

just a good time

New Guy:

wow

tell me how you really feel...damn

but that's not the truth

even if you feel that way

Yari:

sure. whatever helps you sleep at night

youre all about being blunt and honest

because that's what friends do

i dont like half the crap you tell me

but I take it

because youre outside my box

and you see things I don't

about myself

about my actions

But your arrogance and inability to learn to love yourself...your reluctance be by yourself... all these will be your own downfall

and this time you wont be able to blame it on doing the right thing

on being the man you thought you should be

because now you have choices

you have freedom

to NOT repeat history

many don't get that chance

you have it

New Guy has logged off.

And then, it rained...

2011-08-12T12:28:00.004-05:00

Yes, yesterday,
I woke up old.
My face was long
The feet were cold.

I wore sandals
Instead of Chucks
Tried to call in
But I ran outta luck.

Work killed
Meetings blew
Wasted the day
Feeling blue.

At 5 o’clock
I made it home
For a second
Lighting shone.

And then it rained…

It rained, poured,
I splashed my feet
A kid again,
The water sweet.

My father sung
My mother danced
My toes in mud
Three dorks, enhanced.

The dogs hid
The neighbors thought
“What weird people-
Playing in that lot”.

I went inside
Dried my face
Feeling happy,
Back in place.

I woke yesterday,
Feeling very 27.
Then it rained,
And I was once again, 7.

~Yari

How, When, Where

2011-08-01T14:36:00.002-05:00

When I was 12, I discovered Neruda’s “Sonnet XVII” in the dark, cool corner of the public library in my small hometown. I was sitting across from my mom, as she took down notes from some old novel she used to like as a teenager, and I remember reaching over and tapping her hand with my fingertips. She looked up and shushed me, even before I had opened my mouth to say a word. I nodded as if to tell her I remembered, yes, we were in a library and I had to whisper.

“Can you give me a page from your notebook? I want to write this one down and take it home”, I whispered.

“Which one? Are you sure you really want that one? You can only do 4 every time we come, otherwise you’ll end up copying the whole library and taking it home with you. Let me see…”, she whispered back, grabbing my book and reading the small sonnet I was pointing to.

She read slowly, with a soft sigh towards the end and gave me the book back. She quietly and methodically tore a page from her notebook and handed it to me.

“I always liked Neruda, too. That one is beautiful. Good choice.”

“Yes, I love the part where it says ‘I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where’. It seems silly, right Mom? You love from the heart. And you love because you want to…”, I giggled back with a certainty that she felt the same way, surely.

She gave me a strange look and said, “It means something else too, sometimes. But you’ll understand when you’re older. And no, I’m not explaining it now. You wouldn’t get it.”

I made a face, knowing she had anticipated my request for an explanation and went on to write down the poem down in my best penmanship. Something about poetry demands to be written exceeding your best efforts. Not sloppy. Rounded letters…no smudges. It’s art in words. It’s a story. It’s love. It’s pain. It’s history.

I took the page home, and folded it just once…neatly tucking it in a tin can where I had all my other poetry. It’s still there, 14 years later. Fourteen years changes a lot of things in a child’s mind. Time always gives experience. You’re no longer a novice, naïve when it comes to a skill, a pattern…life.

Those words mean a whole different world to me, now. The entire poem takes a new meaning.

The how: There is such thing as a love so powerful it cannot be contained in the confines of a simple heart. It would be like trying to hide the sun in a coin purse. It would burst at the seams, flooding the universe with its light. How does one explain that love to someone that’s never felt it? To people that have their own ideas of what love should and shouldn’t be. Textbook love. Predictable love. Rehearsed love. Pretend love. How can you love someone with such passion, blinded adoration and that life force feeling that runs from the tip of your toes up to the hairs on your head?

The when: Every nanosecond of the day. And then the days blur together and you lose count of how long you’ve loved this person. Because, now, all you know is that you go to sleep feeling loved and loving. If you dream, even if they’re bad, you don’t wake up feeling desolate and alone in the world. Someone makes it right by just listening to you and reassuring you that while the dream world may have fallen apart, the real world…which now feels like a perpetual fantasy…is very real. When? When you close your eyes while soaking up the sun and all you see is love. When you do day to day things, and now they seem to have a purpose. A reason. You’re no longer just existing…you matter. You belong. You are loved. You love. Always. Not a moment where that disappears. Even when it seems to be at its worst, that when it never fails, never waivers. The ‘when’ may be warped slightly…but there it is. Faithful. Strong. Always.

From where: A love you never knew existed, so it absolutely catches you unaware and leaves you wondering where it’s coming from? Where had it been hiding? Has it always been there? Waiting to be uncovered? How did you never notice it before? How can you even begin to understand where this love originates? Was it the first time you heard love say your name? The way it still stops your thoughts…stops you on your tracks to hear your name, so commonly used before, fall of love’s lips like the song of angels. Was it something bigger in which love pulled through for you? The way love looks at you…Oh the way you’re looked at. Where does is that look of unadulterated adoration birthed? Simply looking into their eyes and feeling like a blind man seeing for the first time. Loving from the darkest corners of your mind and body, unlike you’ve ever loved before. Where, indeed.

So yes, now it makes sense to love things in secret…since I know what he meant when he said “between the shadow and the soul”. A part of you that no one can touch. No one can take. Safe from the world and life and the passing of time. My treasure. My smile. Mine.

Sonnet XVII

~ Pablo Neruda

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,

Or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,

In secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms

But carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;

Thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,

Risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.

I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;

So I love you because I know no other way

Than this: where I does not exist, nor you,

So close that your hand on my chest is my hand,

So close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Get The Sensation of You Coming Home

2011-07-25T02:42:00.003-05:00

Like a lamb taken to slaughter.

I'd imagine that's what it would look like, anyways. If it were a cute little cartoon lamb. Big, tear-filled eyes. Long, sad face. Face red and blotchy from crying. Being dragged slowly by a tight rope around it's little neck to the final destination. At some point it may have tried fighting it, pulling on the rope...running the other way. But now it simply walks towards the end, defeated. It no longer can avoid the execution to be passed on this life. So, the little red-eyed lamb with the tear-stained face simply walks, staring blankly ahead. Selfless.

What happens when you want others to see the light you see...but they can't?

What happens when you fight tooth and nail to protect what's yours...but in the end it simply wants to go on it's way?

What happens when you understand, there is no full happiness in life...and you accept it and work your way around it...but find yourself doing it alone?

What happens...what happens...I don't know.

I do know this. It is 3:00 a.m. again, in my world. It is so sad, to think of a life with no sun in it. Of a lifetime with no one there to hold your hand. Of love, without someone there to share the other Twix bar in the pack.

It's all so very, very sad. Especially when the lamb was so happy skipping around a flowery meadow...a few minutes before the rope was tied around her neck.

Leave Me Hanging

2011-07-18T15:36:00.005-05:00

I am here.

I stare you in the eyes.

I have my voice.

I am not afraid to let it be known.

I don't fear expressing my love.

My need, thoughts...devotion.

I take my steps proudly.

I do not hide you or myself in shadows.

I am not ashamed. Of what is.

You see, I proclaim my allegiance to the world.

I preach my love to whoever will listen.

I embrace my life

and what now is,

with no regrets.

But every day, you lurk in shadows.

Every day, you tip toe back and forth...

...back and forth.

Stop and go.

Free or hide.

I take the leaps, I look stupid.

I take them. It's my choice.

Even if you're not with me,

against the world...

I refuse to lose my voice.

-Yari

My He[Art] Story

2011-07-15T08:29:00.002-05:00

The receptionists were whispering back and forth about what their plans were for the weekend, and somehow the conversation turned into how the younger one met some Puerto Ricans at a club the week before...and they talked funny Spanish. I kept my eyes glued to empty spot on the wall in front of me, but couldn't help smiling at that last remark. "I didn't even think they were Puerto Rican, they looked black! Did you know Puerto Ricans look like black people??", she continued telling her co-worker. I looked down and suppressed a sigh, with a grin on my face...wanting to walk up to the desk and mumble "Yeah, and we look white, too. We're eeeeverrryyywheeereeee."

Just then, I heard: "Yar...it...za?" being carefully called out by a guy standing at the end of the hall. Slowly, I made my way to his side, where he stood in his black scrubs and brand new tennis shoes. He shook my hand, and told me to follow him to this room that smelled too sterilized for my comfort. After the initial triage, and the 'cool hat' comment towards the end, my new friend John gave me a run down of how the stress testing and other testing were going to go down. I nodded, and offered an 'ok' where I thought it was needed while looking down at my shoes. He paused and asked if I was sure I was ok, to which I just gave a weak smile. He handed me a gown and asked me to let him know when I was ready, and that he'd take good care of my t-shirt and guitar pick necklace.

A few minutes later, I was laying on my back and he adjusted his glasses as he softly gave me a run down of what would happen next. He kept apologizing for how cold the alcohol pads where he was cleaning my chest and stomach with, and as he prepared the area around my collar bone he made a little double take and said "Hey, that's a tattoo!" I laughed nervously and said "It's okay to rub alcohol on it, it won't come off. Go at it." He let out a small cackle and shook his head. He quietly kept prepping my torso with really, really cold little echocardiogram stickers...then cleared his throat "So...music? The tattoo? The pick necklace?" and looked up at my face. I told him I liked playing guitar and well, loved music in general. It was a big part of my life. He smiled and said "Real guitar or Rock Band?" I answered, "You're already putting cold goo on my chest as I'm uncomfortable being fondled by a stranger...and you're finding new ways to make me dislike you?" He laughed and apologized some more.

He goes to the treadmill and looks over at me saying "Alright Rockstar, hop on. Also, are you from around here?", he asks as he looks over my chart one more time...I whisper back "Nope. Moved here 7 years ago." "Where from?" "Pennsylvania..." "What?! Pennsylvania? Are you from there?!" "Nope. Puerto Rico." "Holy hell you're Puerto Rican?" "Yes." "Talk Spanish to me!" "No." "Oh come on! I need to hear it. I need the accent. Say anything!" "Anything." "Don't be a smartass, Rockstar. Come on. Dime algo en español!" *sigh* "¿Que te parece si empezamos este examen y dejamos las pendejaces pa despues?" "Oh wow that was awesome!" "I just told you to get this test over with already and we can chit chat later." He laughed and started the treadmill as a second tech walks in.

The old lady walks in and immediately comments on my tattoo, showing me her faded one with a few notes on it too. I nervously pull my gown up, keeping up with the treadmill and tell her I got mine recently in Marfa. She goes off on how she loves the whole art scene in Marfa. "Not just the fancy painting kind, either"...she goes on..."But the poetry, they work textiles, music...so much life in such a little place". I tell her I'd love to move somewhere like that...or San Antonio. Where I can really dive into different scenes of what makes me happy. Writing, poetry, painting, jewelry making, photography, music...oh the music. I feel myself rambling as John interrupts, "You do all that? Really? Do you have stuff I can read? Paintings I can see?" "Well no...not really." "Liar. Show me." "No." "Come on...you're Puerto Rican. A musician. A writer. God knows all that other stuff you said. You're an artist stuck in Odessa!" *sigh* "Wait she's Puerto Rican?!" "Yeah born and raised there, Glenda!" "What on earth are you doing in Odessa, girl?" *sigh*

The doctor walks in, cranks up the treadmill and asks "Who's Puerto Rican?" "She is! And she plays guitar and writes and takes pictures!" "What are you doing in Odessa, Yaritza?" *siiiiigh* "I got married to someone from Presidio, so I moved here. Been here ever since." John says "I dated someone from Presidio once. What a horrible place." Glenda says, "Presidio? There's nothing there but sand and a Stop sign!" The Doctor says, "Presidio...from Puerto Rico. You got the bad end of a deal, young lady." I take a deep breath and with a big smile ask, "Can we drop the subject guys? You all really are putting in a great mood for our first date. Really. I'm wooed by you all." They all laugh and leave the room one by one...

John stops the treadmill after I signaled that I was done. He laid me on the bed and jabbed stuff around my chest and under my left breast trying to get a picture of my heart. He said "I'm sorry if this hurts, I'll be quick." I said "That's what he said..." and he just gives me a look that was between disbelief and trying hard to not laugh as he was doing a procedure. "Do you always have to make a joke, Yaritza?" "Yari. And yeah, this is already awkward. I might as well lighten up the mood." "That's true. Where do you work?" "Hospital. IT." "A nerd too?! Do you wanna hang out sometime? Grab lunch at the hospital?" "Eh...heh. I'm kinda busy all the time." "You blowing me off, Rockstar?" "I'm taken, heart boy." "You're too smart for your own good." "That's what my momma always said." "Ok, get dressed. It was nice meeting you, and I hope I'll see around soon!" "Wait...like you hope I have heart disease and I have to come here often?" "No no no! Stop twisting my words! I meant like...around. Not here. God. You're a pain." "Nice meeting you too, John." "Bye, Yari."

I strolled out of there and he walked me to the front desk, giving me half a hug.

I looked at the art on the walls. It was pretty. Marfa pretty. My heart felt good.

What I Wish I Had Told You - Pt 5

2011-07-07T09:10:00.002-05:00

There's mistakes...

and there's MISTAKES.

You were the latter. Although at least through you, I've gained more in my life than I ever thought possible.

Where do I begin with you? The thing is...I wasn't even going to blog about you. I was going to write it off as a lesson learned in life and move on. At some point up until very recently, I even thought I could stomach being part of your life again. If only...if only...

You see, dealing with you is like dealing with a stupid kid that lies about even the smallest of things. Just for the sake of lying. Because, surely you don't think the people around are STUPID enough to not see right through you and know exactly what you're doing and with who...at all times. That's the worst part about you, I think. That when you get caught in a lie or doing something wrong...you sit there with this retarded look on your face...like someone's talking Chinese to you and you just have no earthly idea what could possibly be wrong or what you did. It's maddening. Really. I've never wanted to beat someone until they're spitting up blood, curled up on the floor like the little pussy they are...like I've wanted to beat you.

Or maybe, just maybe, what I hate most about you, is that you feed everyone you meet this sob story. Trying to portray yourself as an honorable man who's put a lot on the line for the rest of us. Pretty much making up a fake persona in your head...that's nothing like what you really are. A stupid, dumb, idiotic kid who is ungrateful and cruel. A kid who wouldn't know what a rough childhood is. Sure, you had MINOR family issues...but don't we all? Don't all of us go through traumatic things and at least try to come out victorious in the end? You use mommy and daddy telling you what to do as a kid as an excuse to do vile, disgusting things to others. To people who have done nothing but back you up, through the hell you've put everyone through...in the end they're still there. THOSE are the ones you hurt, neglect, disrespect...I need to stop. Because there are no words for how low you really, really are.

To think that at some point I wanted to be in your life forever...that I wasted so much energy having faith in you, listening to you, loving. Love. You took from me things I can NEVER get back. I gave them whole heartedly to you...and it was your DUTY as an HONORABLE man, as a GOOD person in general...to not accept them, to be honest, to be a man.

You are not a man. You are a boy. You're a monster. You're a liar. You're a cheat. You're nothing but a whiner. Woe this. Woe that. People would kill to have the kind of chances you've been GIVEN in life. GIVEN. Handed to you. Without you having to do anything back but appreciate it and make yourself a better person.

Why did I write this? Because for a split second, I had hoped that maybe cutting you out of my life would have shown you that there IS such a thing as consequences. There IS such a thing as ENOUGH of you. I had hoped that losing a true friend, who above all else wanted nothing more than for you to soar in life the way I knew you could, would jolt you into realizing the world is a bigger place than you. Than your life. Than your whining and your tantrums.

Selfish. Asshole. Cold hearted monster. Those eyes, in which I thought I used to see love and kindness, now I think of them as clear pools where only pre-meditated horrors are brewed. Dead eyes. Like a shark.

Why ... indeed...did I take the time for this? Because during that split second...I actually considered trying again. Helping you again. Being part of the support system you turn your back on and hurt so easily. When I went to your Twitter timeline...I saw. Nothing has changed. You're still up to no good. You're still living your life inside a social network. Inside your phone. Texting this, tweeting that. You have no talk about college, life, bettering yourself. Just being your usual, childish...stupid self. Actually stupid. Acting stupid.

Did I mention, you were stupid?

P.S. You're not all that.

P.S.S. You're stupid.

And also, when she comes down...

2011-07-04T19:51:00.002-05:00

I'm sitting here replaying this song...over and over in my head. Watching Seth Avett sing this with every cell in his body. With Yari drowning here...with every strum.

Love...relationship...a true, dysfunctional, timeless one is described so simply.

I hope. I hope. But sometimes, change doesn't come. Will it be too late, by the time Hate opens his eyes and says 'Sorry?'...Whatever.

Do yourself a favor. Watch the video. Breathe in the lyrics. Wake up...and choose. Love is patient...to an extent.

To my son Seth, that will someday come...eventually...because I've dreamed him so...I chose your name right.

Love writes a letter and sends it to hate.
My vacations ending. I'm coming home late.
The weather was fine and the ocean was great
and I can't wait to see you again.

Hate reads the letter and throws it away.
"No one here cares if you go or you stay.
I barely even noticed that you were away.
I'll see you or I won't, whatever."

Love sings a song as she sails through the sky.
The water looks bluer through her pretty eyes.
And everyone knows it whenever she flies,
and also when she comes down.

Hate keeps his head up and walks through the street.
Every stranger and drifter he greets.
And shakes hands with every loner he meets
with a serious look on his face.

Love arrives safely with suitcase in tow.
Carrying with her the good things we know.
A reason to live and a reason to grow.
To trust. To hope. To care.

Hate sits alone on the hood of his car.
Without much regard to the moon or the stars.
Lazily killing the last of a jar
of the strongest stuff you can drink.

Love takes a taxi, a young man drives.
As soon as he sees her, hope fills his eyes.
But tears follow after, at the end of the ride,
cause he might never see her again.

Hate gets home lucky to still be alive.
He screams o'er the sidewalk and into the drive.
The clock in the kitchen says 2:55,
And the clock in the kitchen is slow.

Love has been waiting, patient and kind.
Just wanting a phone call or some kind of sign,
That the one that she cares for, who's out of his mind,
Will make it back safe to her arms.

Hate stumbles forward and leans in the door.
Weary head hung, eyes to the floor.
He says "Love, I'm sorry", and she says, "What for?
I'm your and that's it, Whatever.
I should not have been gone for so long.
I'm your's and that's it, forever."

You're mine and that's it, forever.

Stuff

2011-06-23T23:59:00.002-05:00

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

2011-06-23T10:16:00.004-05:00

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

2011-06-22T14:54:00.002-05:00

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

2011-06-21T22:51:00.002-05:00

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

2011-06-20T16:16:00.003-05:00

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

2011-06-20T10:13:00.002-05:00

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...

2011-06-14T22:28:00.001-05:00

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

Daddy Beerest

2011-06-12T20:01:00.002-05:00

"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

2011-06-12T12:06:00.004-05:00

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

2011-06-11T00:15:00.002-05:00

"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

2011-06-06T01:20:00.003-05:00

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

2011-06-04T02:08:00.003-05:00

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

2011-06-03T22:06:00.005-05:00

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

2011-06-03T15:29:00.004-05:00

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!

2011-06-01T01:15:00.003-05:00

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

Low Pressure

2011-05-31T13:16:00.002-05:00

I lost my lid at lunch. Actually have lost it all day long. I needed to talk to someone.

I even resorted to dialing my best friends numbers...Arelys and David. It's like I went back to 10 years ago and how they made everything ok. They were my rocks. No one answered. I left voicemails that will probably make them doubt my sanity.

I drove around town for a bit, but my chest felt tight and I started sobbing. I don't know why. I wasn't thinking anything other than feeling trapped and hopeless. I pulled over in an empty parking lot.

I frantically looked in my purse for something with sharp edges. Credit card didn't do it. Pen didn't do it. Damn me for cleaning out my purse and car. Nothing around me.

There, in a tiny compartment, laid my tire pressure gage. I looked at it for a few seconds, flipped it over...and found a sharp edge in the most unlikely of corners.

I hit a new kind of low today. Crack addicts have nothing on me. I'm better than this. Or not.

Some Kind of Wonderful

2011-05-30T22:47:00.003-05:00

I kept climbing endless flights of stairs. When I finally reached the 9th floor, the doors opened, almost like I was inside an elevator. My best friend David was standing there and almost looked shocked to run into me. It was awkward and quiet. He didn't give me the hug he usually gives me...the same hug he's given me since first grade with a strong smooch on the cheek. It was strained, and inside I felt like sobbing. We had been best friends since we were 5...but I guess me moving away from Puerto Rico and rarely keeping in touch with him had finally taken it's toll. He was wearing his scrubs (he's a nurse) and asked me if I was there to visit lil Cristina Roman. She was a thing younger girl from church that used to follow me around when I was in PR, looking up to me and such. Cool lil girl. Anyway, it seems she had gotten into some kind of auto accident that destroyed her face. I felt awful, though I really don't know why...I hadn't been that close to her.

We walked into her hospital bedroom right as her mom was walking out. I liked her mom, Norma. She took one look at me and gave me a limp hand shake and in no way seemed happy to see me. I felt sick to my stomach again...that's two people that apparently got used to me not living in PR anymore and had no idea how to treat me. I leaned over her hospital bed and Cristina's face was wrapped in clear, cling wrap paper. Her face looked pained, and her body thin. I couldn't look at her longer and left the hospital.

Roy was meeting me downstairs, and we were walking down a nice street somewhere in the northeast with row homes and trees lining it for blocks. The leaves were that poignant shade of dull orange...maybe late October, early November. It was cold and we had our hands tucked in our pockets. He asked if I wanted to go have a few beers at a local bar around the corner, to which I said sure...but I was nervous because I heard it was a rough crowd. I didn't have a good feeling. He was wearing this big, dark blue coat and he zipped up higher, shivering slightly while saying "It'll be ok".

We made it as far as the sidewalk in front of the entrance to the bar before I heard him mumble some curse words and yelling me to run. I felt a burn on my back, shoulder and right arm at the same time I heard shots ring out. I kept running fast, screaming for Roy to talk to me. I knew he was hit too but I could hear him running behind me so I didn't turn to look around. Pretty soon I made it to a gray house and started knocking on the door. A beautiful woman with Native American features opened the door. I was taken aback by her beautiful eyes, dark and scary...her full lips...sensuous. She asked me where Roy was, and I looked over my shoulder. I was alone. I started sobbing and the pain on my shoulder was worse, blood was dripping everywhere and I felt nauseous, weak. She told me to come inside, that she was Roy's wife and would take the bullets out while he got home. Three kids came out of their rooms...a girl and two boys. They stared at me wide eyed as she took out 4 bullets of my arm and shoulder blade, then poured whiskey over my wounds.

There was a knock on the door and it was Roy, pale and bleeding worse than I was. I sat down and tried to act calm, to hide my panic. She was out in the doorway tending to him and I heard the kids whispering to each other about my hair. I looked over at them and the girl piped up "You have really nice hair. Can you curl mine like yours?" I nodded towards the woman and said "If your mom says it's ok, I'll fix your hair". She rolled her eyes and said "She's not my mom. She's dad's new wife." I flinched and looked down for a few seconds, composing myself and the youngest boy was staring intently at me. I smiled softly at him and he said "At least we like you. We didn't even get a say in anything when he picked her. You seem nice." I leaned forward and gave all three of them a kiss on the forehead. I told them it was great to meet them, and to take good care of their dad. I slipped out the back door into the alley. Some of their friends were pulling into the house along with Roy's mom. She gave me a quick hug and asked me if I had met his wife. I just nodded and then his wife was there in the alley with us, out of nowhere appearing between us.

The wind blew through her hair, and she gave me a serene look. His mom said "She truly is a beauty. So feminine, so delicate...some kind of wonderful. That's what he says when you ask him about her. He just says she's some kind of wonderful." I nodded and said "She's beautiful".

I got in the back of a car, and it sped off. I leaned my forehead against the cold window and it had started to snow.

I wanted to wake up already.

Re

2011-05-29T16:01:00.003-05:00

It was your birthday, your 12th one. You had called a few minutes ago, and as I answered the phone, I looked out the window out towards your house. There you were, on the phone, leaning on the porch talking to me. My heart skipped a beat and for the 5,908th time, I stuck my hand out my window and told you to look my way. I saw a smile spread on your face and wave back at me as you said "I'll be right there to show you my birthday gifts, Yari!"

I hung up but kept my eyes on you, waiting for the routine to unfold. Our days together had started since I could remember. Our parents had been best friends growing up, so it was normal for us to grow up together...not to mention you were my boy next door...or down the road. You get the point. So there you were, hopping on your bike and tucking something in your pocket before speeding down the hill from your house and onto the road to mine. Pedaling fast, as if you knew I almost couldn't breathe until you were spending time with me. My best friend. The first crush. Our first love. Love? At that age? We used to hold hands since we were 5, remember? You'd tell everyone I was your girlfriend and I'd blush into a pile of nervous giggles. Our folks used to joke about when we eventually got married. Except it wasn't really a joke. Everyone assumed we would. I digress.

You threw your bike on the lawn and skipped inside my house, like you had all your life, giving me a quick peck on the cheek. My heart thudded but I acted cool, calm, not even amused. We went to my room and you pulled my boom box to the bed, kicking your flip flops off and laying next to me as we shared a pillow. "Look at what my grandma bought me!", you whispered as you pulled out a new cassette. The cover art was red with a shell in the middle and the words "Re" on there too. I squinted and saw that it was Cafe Tacuba, after which I half shrieked in excitement as we popped it in. It was magic. It was loud. It was foreign and alive. It made everything seem colorful. I loved it. I loved you. Us.

You said your favorite was "Ingrata"...But I loved "Las Flores", mostly because that's when you reached for my hand and intertwined your fingers with mine brushing my thumb with yours as we stared at the ceiling. You then turned sideways to face me, I did the same. I thought maybe this would be my first kiss. At 11, I thought I was long overdue for mine...stupid kid. You showed me your hand and you had this new, shiny silver ring with coral designs on it. Little red and blue waves and a kokopelli figure in the middle of a circle. I thought it was the most awesome thing I had ever seen. You said your folks got it for your birthday too, that you had wanted it for a while every time you visited the local surf shop. Did your folks know the kokopelli was a fertility deity? Did you? I did, but I didn't say anything...no one likes a know it all.

I tried it on, and it was too big on all my fingers, except my thumb. It looked perfect on my thumb...so I sighed and twirled it a few times and pulled it off to give it back. I looked up and you were looking at me smiling and leaned over, kissing the tip of my nose. I'm pretty sure I died a few dozen times all over, but remained the cool rock on the outside. Then, as simply as you would give a friend a piece of gum, you said "Keep it. It'll fit on your ring finger when you're older. You're my girl, already." I gave you the tightest hug I've ever given anyone in my life, I believe...and then we went to play Nintendo at your house. The days went on as usual. Life went on as usual.

It's been fifteen years, now in May, since you gave me your ring. I've moved countless times and those I've loved are countless more. This morning I was cleaning out my room out of every memory I ever had of my childhood. Pictures, toys, everything I've kept for years. I opened my jewelry box, and there it was. Your ring. I slipped it on my ring finger, and it fit. I kept it. Because some things are always good to remember.

Happy Birthday, Alex.

I See You

2011-05-29T01:40:00.001-05:00

I used to be so in tune with my mind...and I trusted my memory completely.

Long trips were boring. Short trips were boring. Walking around the house alone was boring. Being an only child, was boring. So there I was, finding ways to keep myself amused for as long as I can remember. Staying out of people's way. But I didn't mind it. I liked being alone...having my peace and quiet. Maybe that's why I decided to start memorizing my surroundings, both at home and on drives. Or maybe it was my crazy thought that someday, I'd lose my eyesight. How glad would I be that I memorized how to do everything without the aid of my vision then? Yeah. At 5 years old. I was afraid of going blind.

So I started closing my eyes during the day and walking around my room. Bumping into things, tracing them with my hands and making mental notes to remember where everything was...how many steps it took to get from point A to point B. Then my exploring expanded to the rest of the house, with my mother asking what on earth I was doing now. Now. I was always doing something off setting, I suppose. Soon, I could find my way around easily in my bedroom...around the house...the yard...my grandmother's house...with my eyes shut tight. It made me listen more and I started appreciating the sounds around me...like the wind rustling through the mango tree and how the avocado tree had a humming coming from it, which accompanied with a sharp sting to my neck, taught me to stay away from beehives.

The drives. Again, I would have my head leaned against the back of my seat, in the back of my dad's Oldsmobile. I started off small, of course. Just playing a game with myself in which I'd close my eyes as soon as we took off from our house, and in my head I'd try really hard to place us, without opening my eyes. I'd think "Ok, this curve feels familiar, so we must be passing the corner store and the bright orange house must be coming up...that tree with the red flowers is ahead. When I open my eyes, I will have timed it right and I'll be exactly in front of the tree." I was. The rush of excitement this gave me, to know that if I payed enough attention, I'd always know where I was without using my eyes, was what made this probably one of my favorite passtimes as a kid.

I don't remember, exactly, when I stopped doing this. But I do know one thing.

Tonight, I was coming back from the bar at midnight. A little tipsy, very sad, melancholic, lonely and my phone was dead. I leaned my head back on my seat and felt a smile creep up the corners of my mouth. I knew exactly what I was doing. I took a deep breath and stole one last glance around me before shutting my eyes. The familiar glare from the headlights of incoming traffic and the dull shine from the light posts down the streets. I let my body relax, knowing exactly what move came next...I could see it. Going under the train tracks, veering slightly to the right at the fork...Turning into Pearl Street, I could picture the houses, the businesses, the abandoned field and I kept counting in my head how many light posts we passed, how many seconds more until we'd be reaching Fitch Avenue. I felt the car slowing and slightly turning left and I said "In a few seconds, we'll pull into the front of my house". I counted in my head, felt a few more motions and opened my eyes...

We were home.

I need to listen to my heart. I need to memorize everything I hold dear. In case I go blind one day...I'll still find my way back to it. To you.

I Think I Need A Sunrise...

2011-05-26T23:40:00.002-05:00

I woke up elated, ended up mad.
I woke up so happy, finished it sad.
I wanted to write, but I forgot.
Wanted so much...this is all I got.

I cannot fight the battles alone
Or carry the weight uphill by myself
It is not my job to have enough faith,
To pretend I am a perfect woman.

It is my right to feel, to love, to live.
To encourage, to demand, to support.
To speak freely and listen equally so.
Understood? No. But to understand.

I'm tired. Weight of the World is on replay. The blade is cool. You find peace. I cannot, obviously, bring you any.

"She said I think I'll go to Boston...
I think I'll start a new life,
I think I'll start it over,
where no one knows my name.

I'll get out of California,
I'm tired of the weather,
I think I'll get a lover
and fly him out to Spain...

Oh yeah and I think I'll go to Boston,
I think that I'm just tired
I think I need a new town,
to leave this all behind...
I think I need a sunrise,
I'm tired of the sunset,
I hear it's nice in the Summer,
some snow would be nice...

You don't know me, you don't even care, oh yeah..."

~"Boston" by Augustana

You Are...

2011-05-19T08:20:00.002-05:00

The sound of rain drops hitting the banana leaves and my tin roof at night...and the cool breeze that came with it through my windows, bringing me the sleep of those who have no cares in their mind.

Sleepless nights where words overwhelm and thoughts race.

The blood in my veins...the language of my tongue...the one that finishes a thought...the other half of my being.

The rush I feel in the pit of my stomach when I'm the next one in line to get on a roller coaster half ready to chicken out...but so ready for the ride.

Like that pang I feel in my chest when I Brandi Carlile screams at the end of The Story...or when that feeling of...alive when I hear the solo in Weezer's "Perfect Situation".

You're the moon and the stars, and the humbling feeling they give me when I look up at the desert sky...and how it almost feels like they're shining solely for me.

The sound of a spoon clinking against the edges of a cup, early in the morning...when my grandmother was up making breakfast and starting her day...

The taste of water after a long day at the beach...sweet, fresh and soothing. Like you almost forgot what water really tastes like when it's not from the ocean...

Like the smile my grandfather gave me when I made a good move while playing dominos on a Sunday night, out on the roof of the house. That smile that said he was both stuck with a crappy move because of me...that I had foiled his plan...and that he was also proud of how quickly I was becoming good at beating him.

That huge ball of fire setting down, sinking into the horizon at Huntington Beach...and the innumerable sparkles dancing across the beach as I stood on that pier thinking I would never witness anything as beautiful in my life.

You're the laughter that I've held in for years, that now flows out of me like a morning song out of a Scarlet Tanager...feeling both naturally and foreign to my ears...Robert Browning said it best: "What are the voices of birds, but words, our words, only so much more sweet?"

That first bite of cheesecake...

That first sip of Diet Coke in the morning...

That upside down kiss between Spiderman and Mary Jane...

That one you close your eyes...and see yourself raising your unborn children with. That non existent house needing to be fixed up. The unfought arguments over silly things. A future both real and completely imaginary.

The one you knew existed somewhere, out in the universe, but never dared to look for.

The one you feel you've met in a previous life...and all you're doing now is reconnecting...filling in the blanks.

That sigh. That smile. That absent glance out into nothing, half hoping to find those pair of eyes staring back at you.

All. Nothing. Everything. You are. You will be. Completion. Revival. Pain. Love.

Wear my ring. Wear it around your heart.

You are...

...Home.

Lists: I also like Songs

2011-05-16T08:43:00.002-05:00

So, I cheated. I was supposed to do this for 30 days...which, I had every intention of doing. But I got side tracked with life. It happens.

However, here's the list, if you care. Facebook can lick my butthole. I love my blog.

day 01 - your favorite song - "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" The Beatles

day 02 - your least favorite song - "Slow Motion" crap by Juvenile

day 03 - a song that makes you happy - "Come on Eileen" Dexys Midnight Runners

day 04 - a song that makes you sad - "Accidental Babies" Damien Rice

day 05 - a song that reminds you of someone - "Queen Bee" Taj Mahal

day 06 - a song that reminds you of somewhere - "Caravelas Y Diablitos" Fabulosos Cadillacs

day 07 - a song that reminds you of a certain event - "You Make Me Smile" Blue October

day 08 - a song that you know all the words to - every song? lol..."El Fin De La Infancia"...took me weeks.

day 09 - a song that you can dance to - sigh..."Gasolina" by Daddy Yankee. I tear it up. Or "Swing" by Savage.

day 10 - a song that makes you fall asleep - "Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel)" Billy Joel

day 11 - a song from your favorite band - "Weight of the World" Blue October

day 12 - a song from a band you hate - anything Kumbia Kingz...

day 13 - a song that is a guilty pleasure - Walk Like Winter - AFI

day 14 - a song that no one would expect you to love - "Aca Entre Nos" - Vicente Fernandez

day 15 - a song that describes you - "Tomorrow" Blue October

day 16 - a song that you used to love but now hate - "Wasted" Brandi Carlile

day 17 - a song that you hear often on the radio - I don't listen to the radio...

day 18 - a song that you wish you heard on the radio - "I and Love and You" - Roy

day 19 - a song from your favorite album - "Pies a Cabeza" - Mana en Vivo

day 20 - a song that you listen to when you’re angry - "Walk" - Pantera

day 21 - a song that you listen to when you’re happy - "I'm Yours" Jason Mraz

day 22 - a song that you listen to when you’re sad - "Raining in Baltimore" Counting Crows

day 23 - a song that you want to play at your wedding - "Sh-Boom" The Chords

day 24 - a song that you want to play at your funeral - "If I Ever Leave This World Alive" - Floggin Molly

day 25 - a song that makes you laugh - "12 Drugs of Christmas" - Tenacious D

day 26 - a song that you can play on an instrument - "Fade to Black" - Metallica

day 27 - a song that you wish you could play - "The Cave" - Mumford & Sons

day 28 - a song that makes you feel guilty - "Whiskey Lullaby" - Brad Paisley ft Allison Krauss

day 29 - a song from your childhood - "The Way You Make Me Feel" - Michael Jackson

day 30 - your favorite song at this time last year - "Just Dance" - Josh Turner

Lists: I like Movies

2011-05-16T08:17:00.003-05:00

So, a friend of mine tagged me on this list thing on Facebook. I still can't wrap my head around the FB concept...not really sure why I even have one. Alas, I rather share this on my blog than do it on Facebook and get 36 "likes" and 20 unnecessary comments about people pretending to know what crap's all about.

Yeah, I had a cup of bitter this morning. Excuse me, if you don't like it.

1. A movie that makes you laugh - Anchorman

2. A movie that makes you cry - Awesome tie between (500) Days of Summer and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

3. An actor you consider sexy - Oded Fehr

4. An actress you consider sexy - Judy Garland

5. A great director - Juan Antonio Bayona

6. A great adaption - Shawshank Redemption

7. A feel-good movie - Friend Green Tomatoes

8. A feel-bad movie - Sin Nombre

9. A movie that scares you - An American Werewolf in London

10. A beautiful movie - What Dreams May Come

11. A really bad movie - Teeth...

12. A movie you wish more people would see - Paper Heart

13. One actor from Ocean's Thirteen - Pitt

14. An actor or actress you would like to marry - Tatum Channing

15. Best cartoon/animation movie - The Emperor's New Groove/Finding Nemo

16. A good dystopic movie - District 9

17. A WW2 movie - Jakob the Liar

18. A teenage-movie - Breakfast Club

19. A-America-is-best-country-in-the-world-movie - Independence Day

20. A great documentary - Born Into Brothels. (Watch it!)

21. A Las Vegas movie - National Lampoon's Vegas Vacation

22. A great 90s movie - The Matrix

23. Best Hitchcock movie - The Birds

24. A Tarantino movie (sorry I couldn't help it) - Pulp Fiction!

25. The first movie you remember seeing - The Wizard of Oz

26. An actor you consider fantastic - Sigh. Heath Ledger.

27. An actress you consider fantastic - Kate Winslet

28. A movie that rocked your world -

29. A (great) Swedish movie - Låt den rätte komma in.

30. A great European movie - Undertaking Betty

31. A movie you would like to see - Star Wars...first one.

32. Last movie you saw - Love and Other Drugs

33. BEST MOVIE EVER - Jaws :|

Let's Play A Game

2011-05-16T00:54:00.003-05:00

I'll rip my red bow from my hair,
and light the canvas on fire.
No one said it would be fair,
Quickened exit, running tired.

It's a two way street, life. You give and you take. I don't like putting myself out there, and people expecting my honesty...at all times...only to be re-payed in dismissal when the coin turns.

We all have our demons...secrets, fights, confusion...Confusion. What a word. I hide nothing, ever. For better or worse. What you see, find, hear and talk about with me is all you get. That's me. So there I am, vulnerable. Open. Exposed.

It's not fair to get the door slammed on my face.

We are all our own brand of tired. No man is an island. No man's problems are unique to him. No one is in life alone. You want understanding? You have to let people in.

Ugly sides. We all have them. But it's time to shut down. I have to be up in 3 hours. I'm not going to sleep. Just lay here and give in to this gut instinct telling me to shut out everyone again. To go back to square one. Love all, trust few...if any.

Everyone's out for now. No one is allowed close to me anymore.

Friday, the 13th

2011-05-13T14:10:00.002-05:00

I overslept again,
But really I'm undersleeping.

Last night's paint wouldn’t come off my hands.
My hair refused to settle,
So a tangled mess it is.
Like tiny snakes coiling around my face,
Getting in my eyes
Crying ‘Revolution!’

My favorite shirt had a stain,
So I stared at the closet
Time ticking, Tick Toc…
My feet are swollen…
Late for work. No time for thoughts.
Car smells like ass and
Won’t…refuses to start.

No breakfast. Hands shaking.
Stupid diabetes, stupid sun in my eyes.
Thirty calls waiting for me,
Everyone forgot how to work.
Hour long support call,
To be made feel dumb. Die, Bob.
My stomach is in knots.

Forgot my meds. I'm sad.

Trying to put on make up,
I broke the spongey face sponge.
Now it looks like it has a mouth.
Garble garble. I giggle. Danny says I’m weird.
You’re weird too, Danny.
Dropped the foundation all over my pants,
At least they’ll look blemish free?
Boss cussing and slamming mouse,
I sit here wondering why my car smells.

I need to walk away from my desk,
NO COFFEE IN THE BREAK ROOM!
Chatty redhead bores me,
Says she makes good coffee.
Made some from home,
That tasted like coconut
And looked like tea.
You talk too much, woman,
And your coffee is weak.
Sit back down. Wait for lunch…

Traffic, almost died, hot outside.
I got trapped in middle lane,
And had to take the long way back.
Food was cold, lettuce was warm,
Diet Coke was watery. Strike two.
Guy turned illegally, I swerved,
Cussed out loud. Thought of mom.
Thought of Dad. Thought of soon.
Elevator broke at work,
Climb up three floors.
Can’t eat lunch, phone is ringing.
On call weekend. All coworkers gone.
I like Thor. Just not his hammer.
It’s Friday the 13th…

And my car smells like ass.

This Time...No.

2011-05-11T08:20:00.003-05:00

You stepped out in the rain where I had been standing in for hours, looking at you through a glass window playing a show to a coffee house crowd.

I was afraid to look in your eyes, so I just stared at the floor around your feet and whispered "I'm confused". Your voice was quiet, apologetic and short..."I know. I'm sorry."

I wiped my nose with my sleeve, and realized for the first time since I was standing there that I was cold. I nodded, still looking at the floor. "Ok" was all I managed to mumble back before I turned around and started walking down the streets. Rain sloshing everywhere. I wasn't sad. I was angry. My phone vibrated and I read your text message "You knew this was what you signed up for." I shoved the phone in my back pocket, you were right. What could I say.

I hailed a cab, the driver was an older Cuban man with a big cigar and postcards of La Habana all over his roof. I told him to take me to the party and that he smelled like my grandfather, sweet vanilla and tobacco smell. He dropped me off at a coliseum and gave me $5.00 to get me something to eat, and for a second, he was grandpa. He drove off and I felt like I missed the opportunity to catch up and see how he was doing.

I walked into the party, and there were beautiful glittery purple balloons everywhere. Everyone was dressed in black and neon blue, dancing to smooth jazz and wearing flip flops. I walked to the center of the dance floor and looked up at the disco ball, sparkling specks reflecting all over my face. I missed you already. I pushed you out of my head and pulled a flask out of my jacket pocket, and downed it in one try. I threw the flask at a blonde across the dance floor and hit her on the nose. I was escorted out, into the desert. An owl was on my shoulder and it told me to go sleep...and I told it to fuck off. It blinked and flew off. I giggled. I missed you more.

So I went to the end of a rock formation, and heard coyotes howling in the distance. It scared me. I looked at your picture in my phone and let my body tip forward off the cliff and down into whatever awaited me at the bottom.

I'm really tired.

That, frankly, will not fly...

2011-05-09T21:28:00.002-05:00

You are here to share to share the highest highs...and lowest lows.

When the going gets tough...We lash out in self defense. Things are lost in translation, and we're left confused...or are we? Maybe we're right in our initial assumption. After all, we're told to trust our gut. Our initial reaction to something. Maybe it is too much to expect the world to be created in 7 literal days. So if you can't rely on simple, unadulterated faith in something...and all you have is your primal instincts screaming the way it would watching something burning to the ground...

What is there left to do but to shut your eyes tight, grip your pillow...and wait for the world to stop spinning? Hope you don't die in the process?

Everything does look perfect, from far away.

Love Grows

2011-05-04T21:28:00.003-05:00

"Love isn't always there. Love isn't born, it grows."

I remember the slight hurt and shock I felt when I heard mom say those words to me when I was 10. She had been talking about how stubborn she was when she was engaged to dad. That he annoyed her with his persistence, and his being 4 years younger than her. I cringed further when she stated she had accepted dad's engagement ring because she felt pity for him...because it was the right thing to do. Shortly thereafter, during a small argument about dad not having enough money to buy her an ice cream cone, she had returned the ring to him...leaving him devastated in the driveway of the old house.

That night, my grandmother had given my mom a stern talking and shout fest. Told mom that the world didn't revolve around her pride and capricious ways. That she had to grow up and do the right thing...stop toying with a man's emotions. To pick...once and for all...all in or all out. Mom went to my dad the next day and felt bad that he was so broken so she asked for the ring back. Dad was beyond happy...time moved forward and they got married. Mom says no sex was had during the honeymoon, and even after that it was sporadic. She didn't feel any attraction to him, just fondness. Years went by. I was born. I remember them always holding hands everywhere...dad worshiped the ground mom stood, pretty much. I remember her devoting herself to me and doing a lot of the silent treatment to him.

When I was 12, Grandma died (Mom's mom) and things got strained between my folks. A few years later, when I was 16/17, Dad left us. Mom was mess. At first I blamed her, for being cold to him...for being, in nice words, a real bitch. I thought she got what she deserved. To be alone and miserable and forgotten. But...then I thought of that conversation. Of how she hadn't even married him out of love, just duty. So I asked her...why did she care now? She simply said "I grew to love him. To need him. To consider him my best friend, my partner and my prince charming. I grew to trust he would be there until we would die. Yari, I got on my knees and begged him to stay, the last night he was here. ME. On my KNEES." I just looked away and said "We're better off, Mom".

That picture up there is one of my favorite picture of my parents. I don't know when it was taken...but they look happy. Both of them. Care free. Somewhere between no love to heart breaking divorce, that picture was taken. Oddly enough...that's how they look now. That happy.

Was all the other bullshit necessary, to find happily ever after?

Wynken, Blynken and Nod...

2011-05-02T16:38:00.004-05:00

I was living in Pennsylvania again. In the little row home on Oak Street…where the melting pot of the Caribbean took place in Allentown.

I had three sons, who were not home yet at 7 p.m. and I was worried. So I zipped up my heavy coat and headed out into the snow covered alleys to look for them. For some reason I had a picture of them in my pocket, already sensing something had gone wrong with them. Three olive skinned boys, all with olive skin and big brown eyes rimmed with dark lashes. Their heads a mess of soft, loose curls and their smiles all accentuated with deep dimples on their cheeks. I teared up looking at the picture and my chest tightened up. The oldest looked about 13, the middle one looked 11 and the little one looked to be 8. Where was he? Why wasn’t he out here looking for our sons in the snow? I checked my cell phone and no texts or calls. He didn’t even notice I left the house to look for them.

I heard kids yelling out in the distance, and then two gunshots. Silence. I ran and kept falling face first in the snow, and I screamed out “Abdiel!” No answer. My eldest wasn’t answering. I finally reached the alley and simply saw two bodies laying in the cold, a few feet from each other and their blood staining the snow covered pavement. I screamed. I knew. I was late. I saw Abdiel running away from me, even though he heard my cries and screams. My pleas for him to stop. Another teen was trying to hold me up as I walked to the bodies of my younger sons. He kept rushing me with the story, how some of their friends were playing with a gun and accidentally shot my sons. That his friend didn’t mean to do harm…that he would call an ambulance and be right back. I sank to my knees between their bodies, my eyes darting from one face to the other, looking for life. I kept mumbling, and half screaming “Xavi, talk to me, papi, please open your eyes. Mi amor please, wake up, bebe” to my youngest, his mouth and face covered in blood, his curls matted with it. Nothing. My middle one was on his stomach, his backpack crushing him and blood pouring from his chest under him. I shook him, “Jay, please papito talk to mami, breathe mi angel. Dios mio por favor, baby just open your eyes”.

I knew where my oldest son was going, and I kept calling my husband’s name asking him to run and stop him. I left him voicemails, he wouldn’t answer the phone. I texted him. No reply. I just kept thinking, my only one left is going to find those other boys. They’ll shoot him too. So I started running down the street and around the corner where I saw him go. I kept turning corners and coming upon empty streets as the snow piles grew heavier. I finally reached the street where he was, and saw him throwing himself with a knife into the middle of a group of older boys. I screamed his name again, to stop…But all I had left after a few steps was my 13 year old, on his knees with the blade in his stomach. Looking up at me crying and unable to talk, lip quivering. I felt the world go black as he gasped out “Mom…”

I was in the middle of English class, and I was 15 again. The classroom was dim and I could feel the rain beating the roof hard. Muggy afternoon in Puerto Rico. My English teacher, Mrs. Rios, asked me to come to the front of the class. I tried to get up, but my knee wouldn’t bend. My left knee was stiff and hurt like it was burning up from the inside out. I kept trying to get up but had no strength, so I kept wobbling back to my seat in pain. I finally was able to get up, and my best friend Arelys was carrying me from one arm…and David from the other. I told them “I’ve missed you guys so much. We haven’t seen each other in years. You were always my best friends.” Arelys said “Of course I’m here for you, mama. Thinks with me are always the same”…David leaned over and kissed my cheek, whispered “Te quiero, mi negra”. I was so happy I had my two best friends from 1^st grade back that I forgot the pain, but I realized I was walking on a slushy surface. I looked down and the floor was a giant pancake covered in slippery syrup. I laughed as Mrs. Rios started screaming in Spanish “Oh my God, the floors are pancakes. Everyone pick it up before the syrup runs through the floor and it makes a hole!”

But I saw myself sink, almost like in quicksand, up to my neck in the middle of the pancake. Except now it wasn’t a pancake. It was soggy wood that had scratched my body all the way to sticking into my neck, almost severing my head off. I looked around me at everyone’s horrified face…probably because my head had detached completely and now lay in a pool of blood. I felt my lips getting cold, and the last thing I saw was a stray dog, sitting at the corner of the classroom…that now looked like a porch. It stared at me, licking its nose.

I don’t even know what to think anymore.

New Ink, New Tune

2011-04-25T21:01:00.002-05:00

So, I got my first tattoo. Today. In Alpine, TX.

I've been wanting one for a while...never could decide what I wanted...or if I was brave enough to carry it.

This weekend I went to see the Railroad Revival Tour: Mumford & Sons, Old Crow Medicine Show and Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros. It awoke something in me, along with a good person I have in my life and the overall experience helped me realize the answer to my tattoo was simple: Music. There you have it. A bass clef and two notes.

Tonight, also, I wrote a new song. I haven't written one in a while...but the words just came out at the moment...so why not?

Here's the link to the mp3:

http://kiwi6.com/file/c6n217gw6a

Lyrics to "The Night Was Ours":

We walk the streets,
our arms entwined like drunken snakes.
Beneath our feet,
the path just winds to the unknown.

Past boarded doors,
and dusty windows with "For Sale"
Down corridors,
our breaths now hike. our voices meek.

Speed up, my dear,
the dawn is breaking, we're headed home.

This night belonged
to words you mumbled on my mouth
To that old song
that flowed between us with the wine.

This night was bred
by secret dances on a bus
our lips are red
from kissing slowly all along...

Keep up, my love,
the sun is chasing us towards home...

And when we wake
Don't be surprised if it's all gone.
The love was made,
The time now came to be alone.

And when you wake,
Don't cry a tear if I'm not there.
The dreams we made,
Will still be tangled in your hair.

Go sleep my dear, we made it home.

(Copyright Yaritza Carrillo 2011)

I Was Cool

2011-04-19T20:26:00.005-05:00

Before I began my obsession with my now favorite baseball player, Chipper Jones, in the mid 90's...there was my first favorite baseball player. Ken Griffey Jr.

He was everywhere. In his Mariners uniform. Adonis in the flesh. But he's not the focus of my post...he's merely the reason. The muse. The backbone.

I was 10 years old when I was awarded a 'back to school' scholarship that was available to low income, public school students in Puerto Rico. You were awarded $300 for all your school supplies and uniforms. More importantly, this was the first time I was allowed to get whatever I wanted, to make my own decisions with MY money, as long as it was for school (and that it wasn't a pony to ride to said school...it was Puerto Rico. The ponies weren't that odd of a thing).

Ten year old Yari was a straight A student, with big glasses and one friend. I had gum spit at my hair on a weekly basis. I was tripped daily either at the lunch line or on my way to my seat in class...or both places, on good days. If any of the popular, troublesome kids ever talked to me...it was to get their homework done by me or to copy off my exam. I didn't get invited to parties. I didn't have a Walkman, much less a fancy CD player. I didn't have money to buy cds...or even a radio that would play them at home. I simply had a small boom box, with fake plastic chrome in which I would record songs I liked off the radio stations and make my own mixed tapes. I had no t.v. in my room, and I was the proud owner of a 9 year old Original NES console, handed down to me after being beat to a faded pulp by my 6 older cousins. I wore sneakers from Payless or Kmart and my school back packs (and lunch boxes) were also hand me down ones from my cousins. Broken, dirty and not in any way girly.

That being said, and forever embedded in your mind, I will start by saying that the check died within 3 hours of being in my hands. My parents went to the bank with me, to the place I had a savings account under my name with a whopping $10 in it. I cashed the check and put it in my 'wallet'...or shall I say $1.00 plastic wallet from a nearby dollar store. I had a mission. I had a purpose. I did not deviate.

I walked into the nearest Foot Locker, almost in an overwhelming state of smugness. I could already hear my dad warning me to not do what he thought I was about to do. It was my money. I needed shoes for school. Ken Griffey Jr had released his new sneakers two weeks ago. Green and black Nike shoes, with a white sole and black laces. They had air bubbles in the heel. Air bubbles with green rubber inside. They were beautiful. Everyone in school had them. At least everyone that mattered. All the cool guys who stood up to teachers and got into fights, gaining everyone's respect and admiration. All the rich guys who wore designer jeans and had dads that dropped them off in new cars. I would be like them. Surely the shoes would make me like them...

I went to the back of the store and didn't see them anywhere, feeling my heart race at the possibility of being too late to the party. An associate walks towards me, and looks down at me with a forced smile. I just mumble "Ken Griffey?", and he takes me to the end of the wall where they have just brought in the same model sneakers but in new colors. Black and red, with the white Nike swish. $185.00. I asked for a size 8.5 and didn't even bother trying them on. My dad was already arguing with me, calling me insane for spending more than half my money on shoes. I paid, grabbed the rope on my black and white bag and walked out of the store feeling like I was worth a million dollars. Like I had been given a second chance at life. Like school couldn't come up the next day soon enough. I then went and bought 3 new baby blue polos for my uniforms, a Hurley backpack, a Nike Trapper Keeper and bought my mom, dad and aunt a slice of pizza.

The next day, I didn't let my dad drop me off three blocks away out of fear of his beat up Oldsmobile breaking down in front of my school and humiliating me forever. No. I was dropped off in front of the main gates, and I slid out coolly from the front seat, ignoring the creaking noises the car's door made as I swung it closed. I made it three steps into the school yard before being rushed by everyone. Every. Single. Kid in my grade made a circle around me, knelt down to look at my shoes (even though they had the same ones that were merely 2 weeks old). Where did I find them? Oh the mall. How did I get those colors? Oh they just brought them in. Did I just buy them yesterday? Yeah, with my own money. Oh do I have the newest Hurley backpack too? And a Nike Trapper Keeper? Yeah, I bought those too. Will I sit with you at lunch? Will I play basketball with you at recess? Sure! And so, I was escorted to our classroom for the next week, and was the coolest girl they knew...

Then, the following Monday, the new AIR Jordan's came out.

My Trapper Keeper wouldn't close right, and it would keep snapping on the fleshy part of my thumb. Someone had spit a piece of gum into my Hurley backpack. I walked the three blocks from where dad dropped me off, and no one said hi or knew I existed. As I looked down at my Ken Griffey Jr. shoes on the way up the stairs, I saw a black smudge on the white part, and a white scratch on the black part...and just like that, I was me again. I was the same Yari, with outdated $185.00 sneakers.

I have never been able to splurge like that again...to waste my money away on petty, popular things without sacrificing the responsible things like bills, rent...etc. But I am happy with what I do have. Because nowadays, I buy things for me. Because I like them. Wether they're the latest or the coolest, it bothers me not. No one can keep up with the latest trends. That's all they are: trends. Why should I bother spending money I don't have, buying things I don't need in order to impress people that aren't worth it?

Sure, it was 17 years ago. Sure, it was only for a week. Sure, I spent my money stupidly...but for one whole week:

I. Was. Cool.

Fortune Teller

2011-04-12T11:45:00.003-05:00

I was sitting on a boulder, overlooking a valley at sundown. It looked like it could've been Los Angeles...or maybe it was some small city nestled in the desert. The lights from the light posts in all it's streets were coming on as darkness approached and the sky was painted in that range from burning orange where the sun is dying, to the navy blue where night began pushing out its stars.

You sat next to me, taking in the scene and occasionally looking over your shoulder to make sure we were still alone in this part of the woods...or maybe to make sure our old Shelby was still where we left it. I reached over and grabbed your hand, which was fidgeting nervously on your knee...like you were expecting for something to happen at any second. You turned to me started, and where I once saw warmth, love, life and mischievousness...now I only saw fear, pain, dull coldness and death. I smiled, trying to revive the part of you I lived for every day - yet, you simple gave me a blank, empty grin back. It made my chest ache. I looked away first.

"What do I do?", you asked and sighed. I dreaded answering. I dreaded seeing what your brown eyes would reply to my words.

"I don't know the future, bub. No matter what you pick, an element of your past life or what you think is happiness will be lost. Think what would make you content, at peace. That will then pour out into others in your life. You can't love others and make them happy if you don't love yourself and are happy with your life"...I spit out quickly, looking over at you and seeing your shoulders sag even more. You looked down at your Vans and I pulled you closer to me, and you softened up. I cried against your neck. I cried for you. For your confusion. For your loss. For your pain. For how helpless I felt at not being able to erase your woes for you. I cried for me. For all the things I wanted to say but couldn't. Because I'd have to stop hugging you at some point.

Then I opened my eyes and we were sitting on a pier, and it was daytime again. The ocean was crashing below us and jellyfish of all sorts of colors were floating up from the water and around us. You went to touch one, and I grabbed your hand.

"They sting. Don't touch them!", I said angrily...not really sure where the anger came from.

"They taste like beer. And I'm sad. I'll do whatever I want!", you yelled back and walked away from me. Then it started raining and I used my guitar as a boat, because the waters were rising quick. I yelled out your name, but couldn't see anything past a few feet in front of me...just gray water and rain splashing. I heard my cell phone ring, and when I answered it was my grandmother asking if I was coming over to eat or not. I was so taken aback by the sound of her voice, and by the fact that she was still alive that I couldn't answer. I just did that sort of laugh/cry thing one does when immensely relieved and happy, saying "Abuela" over and over.

Then it stopped raining..and you were there, with your Vans in your hand, drawing things on the sand with your big toe. I waddled over and walked out of the ocean, and you handed me your plaid shirt so I could warm up. You had doodled a heart with my name on it and a crab was messing up my name as it walked over it. I started crying because my name was ruined. You laughed and said I made you smile and simply walked over the heart. I seemed to be the only one upset over the tragedy of your doodle. I grabbed the crab and threw it in the water, saying "Cabrón!" and sniffling. You grabbed my hand and handed me a beer.

Then Rage Against the Machine's "Bombtrack" blared into my ear, and I found that your hand had turned into my pillow pet.

There...it all it's glory, was Tuesday morning. I want more dreams. I want more answers.

So I try to understand,

what I can't hold in my hand,

and whatever I find...

I'll find my way back to you.

And if you could try to find it too,

cause this place is overgrown with works in bloom...

"Home" is wherever we are
if there is love there too.

~Jack Johnson "Home"

Wisdom

2011-04-08T16:26:00.004-05:00

I hold it true, whate'er befall;

I feel it, when I sorrow most;

'Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all.

~Alfred Lord Tennyson

What a crock of garbage.

Do you know why some people go through life with a seemingly perfect life? Because they're oblivious to their surroundings and to what life could possibly offer if they but strayed a little from their paved path.

Why does everyone have a yearning to be a child again? To go back to the care free days when your toughest decision was what cartoon to watch and if to have that 12th chocolate chip cookie. No thought of life, loss, love, heartaches, health, work, economy...future. No sitting there at night missing anything...because you don't know what missing is yet. You've never had it...why would you miss it?

Then you grow up and experience things. You decide one day you want to take chances, you want to think outside the box and take everything head on. In the end, you find yourself with two life lessons: You learned something new about yourself and now you have something else to trouble your thoughts. You were content before...now you're miserable because you had a taste of something you can never have again. You spend the rest of your life wondering if you can have it again, if you need it, why did you do it...so much for peace.

Mr. Tennyson you were drunk or high when you wrote that. I rather never feel the pain of loss, the void, the bleak hopeless darkness than have 10 seconds of wonderful, lose it, then spend the rest of my life with memories of what was.

Crabby: Read and Act Accordingly

2011-04-07T16:16:00.003-05:00

While speaking with a friend of mine today, he was explaining to me how he was a typical Aries sign as if somehow that explained how he is (which is confusing and mysterious and a puzzle and ever amusing). Right. Anyway, I realized I've never really payed attention to astrology stuff, aside from knowing I'm a Cancer and that I love to eat crab. I mean, my sign is a crab.

So, upon a more detailed examination of my Zodiac sign (Or reading the first Google link for 5 minutes), it turns out that I am pretty much every single thing a Cancer should be.

Read. Digest. Act accordingly and be nice to me, I'm a crab:

Element: Water

Ruler: Moon

Metal: Silver

Anatomy: Breasts (rawr)

Main Traits: Gentle, conservative, feeling, nurturing, defensive, contemplative

Description 1:

A crab is able to walk or run sideways. Similarly, Cancer natives can sometimes "move about" in life, in a figurative sense, in an indirect manner. The crab's body is covered by a carapace (shell). Cancer natives are self-protective and sensitive, and often retreat into themselves when hurt. Crabs are able to resist changes in the environment, thereby protecting themselves from hostile elements in various habitats. Similarly, Cancer natives are thought to avoid too much change, and to be on the defensive.

Cancer (me):

Moon in Cancer natives have a large potential to be able to get in touch with the feelings and moods of others.

Their memories of the past are outstanding, especially for all things emotional.

Cancer people are never detached—they cling to things, their home, and people they care for. They seek out security and familiarity in all they do. They look for peace and quiet. Their attachment to all that is safe means they are a little leery of change.

These peace-loving souls dislike superficiality in all of its forms. They are devoted and accommodating.

Because of their strong attachment to, and memory of, the past, Cancer natives tend to whip a dead horse. They may dwell on hurts long after everyone else has moved on.

When they feel they have been taken for granted (which may be often!), they don't always confront others directly. This is when they can use roundabout ways to get your attention.

One of the most delightful characteristics of Cancer people is their loony sense of humor. These people can be extraordinarily funny. Their moodiness can baffle others, but their unique outlook on life is something most people can appreciate.

When treated with tenderness and understanding, Cancer natives return the favor with warmth and protection. Give them security, and you'll take the crabbiness out of the Crab, at least for awhile.

These people are wonderfully dependable overall, despite their occasional mood swings. Make a friend of a Cancer, and you will be taken care of for life.

These people come across as gentle creatures. There's something familiar about them — they're the guy or gal next door. When they enter a room, they don't walk in with a splash. Instead, they move to the sides and weave their way inwards. These people have a familiar feel to them. Because they are rather sensitive to their environment, they can get flustered easily, especially in public.

Their first instinct, when threatened or on unfamiliar ground, is to protect themselves. When new situations present themselves, they can immediately withdraw or act shy.

Cancer people are looking for structure and security in their partner and their relationship. These people function best when their partner displays strength, financial and emotional stability, and know-how.

These people seem to resist change and to shy away from direct confrontations.

Their motto is "The best offence is defense".

Their sex drive can be very tied up with emotional need. At their best, they turn others on with a protective, almost therapeutic way about them.

These people are threatened by indifference. They can be argumentative.They have defensive reactions and bursts of emotional displays when they feel cornered.

With reassurance and confidence, these natives are protective, helpful, and dependable in the long haul. They prefer to handle situations peacefully and humanely.

Cancer men and women show their love by caring for you. They pay more attention to your feelings than your words, and observe you rather carefully.

These lovers are always worried they'll be left high and dry. If you've hurt them, they'll have a hard time forgetting. Every so often, they'll retreat into themselves (not unlike a Crab), and it can be difficult to pull them out. This is when they use their extraordinary "nursing" abilities on themselves, instead of you...

Recognize their attachments to their family and home. Help them to feel confident with you—when they are fearful of being rejected.

Well...then...who's still around? Lulz.

Tracking Ghosts

2011-04-07T10:14:00.002-05:00

You ask me if I remember

My head simply tilts

How does one forget,

when a dream was built?

You run against the wall

I flinch and look away

Am I your savior? Or ruin?

Let me carry your weight.

I cannot speak your code,

Just sit and wait confused.

There's 30 shades of wonderful

and all of them are you.

You have no asked for it,

so I will keep it locked.

A heart is not what's needed,

I will remain your rock.

Grab my hand...

Don't say anything.

Pearls

2011-04-04T20:38:00.004-05:00

I sat in front of her, with my feet safely tucked under me, and watched her for the longest time without saying a word.

Her hands moved rhythmically and meticulously over the pattern on a white pillowcase, threading the needle tightly into an intricate pattern I could only hope to mimic one day. Some day, on a Sunday, when I were old and tired, I would also sit on my second story balcony in the afternoon sun and let the warm island breeze run through my hair as I embroidered my day away. I would let my glasses rest on the tip of my nose, and every now and then hum a song from years ago, sighing exasperated whenever I cross stitched the wrong line. I would rest my eyes by staring quietly at the houses in the small valley below me...the same one where generations before me worked the land and built their homes and where the new generation, my grandchildren, are now running through the tall grass chasing fireflies. And some day, a long long time from now, a tiny squeaky voice would break my inner thoughts...

"Nana?", I asked.

"Hmmm?", she'd mumble back, as her hands went back to work on her embroidery, not even bothering to look up at me.

"Why do you have so many colors of thread, but always do your flowers in red and pink?"

"Because I like red and pink flowers", she whispered lazily.

"I like orange flowers, Nana. Do you have orange?", I asked as I tipped my chair back and leaned it against the wall, grazing my toes on the balcony beams.

"Yes. But you can make your flowers orange when you learn to do this. I like mine like this", she bit at the remaining piece of string after she had secured the knot. Tucking her hair behind her ear, and gnawing her lip a bit, she looked inside her fabric and string box for something.

"Nana, what were you humming?", I leaned my chair further back, balancing on it's hind legs.

"Just a song. Stop leaning on the chair, you're going to fall", she said finally looking over at me, but not really seeing me.

"What's the song about? The sun?", I said - ignoring her request and now rocking the chair back and forth, hitting the back of it softly against the wall and staring at the sun beginning to make it's way down the sky.

"No. About a boy who used to sing to a girl he was in love with. Stop rocking the chair, you're going to fall", she said a bit more sternly and started to embroider the leaves for her flowers in a bright green.

"Why did he stop singing, Nana? No I'm not." I swayed my legs wildly as I felt the chair wobble, giggling.

"Because her dad didn't want them to be in love, so he lied to his daughter and told her the boy didn't love her anymore. She drank poison and died. The boy didn't sing again. Stop it with the chair, Prieta. You're gonna fall and hurt yourself!", she snapped slightly at me.

"Nana, why do you sing sad songs? Sing happy songs. About the sun and kissing!", I said loudly as I pushed my chair back strongly, with both feet planted on the balcony beam. Immediately I felt a snap in the plastic material and the chair give way under me, making me fall backwards and bumping my head on the floor.

She looked over at me as I started to tear up and was rubbing the back of my head. It burned and the wait for her to scream out her long stream of curse words and 'I told you so' was grueling. But, after a few seconds she pushed her glasses back down to the tip of her nose and said "Because I like sad songs and when you grow up, you will too...go get another chair".

I quickly went to the opposite end of the balcony and dragged a metal chair this time, and started leaning back on it as she resumed her humming.

"Nana..." I started.

"You're going to fall again", she said as she stared at the cars making their way up and down our corner of the mountains.

I let my chair fall forward and sat up straight. I stared a the cars for a few minutes with her in silence before I resumed, "...can we do orange flowers now?"

She looked over and pulled me on her lap, kissing the bump on the back of my head before combing my hair with her fingertips and pulling it back up in a tidier pony tail again.

She put the new pillowcase on my lap and spread it neatly, before handing me a needle with bright orange thread.

"Yes, you can do it. I only like pink and red."

Strawberry Shortcake

2011-03-30T16:53:00.002-05:00

What happened to you?

Where did it go wrong? Why?

Don't be so sad. Don't cry anymore.

Close your eyes. Dig your toes in the sand. Don't swallow the sea water. Put sun block on. Go snorkel with dad. Enjoy it, you're growing up.

Where did you go...? You're all grown up and broken on the floor.

Why are you so sad, little one? Go sleep.

Anatomy of the Episode

2011-03-29T15:37:00.003-05:00

The word episode makes it seem like I'm having a psychotic breakdown of sorts. Which I am...but why not say I lose my shit for a few hours, then I'm back to normal. Normal? There IS such a thing?

I already know when it'll happen, probably two or three hours before it hits me. Sometimes the night before. But how do you show up at a hospital emergency room or a doctor's office and say "Hey, my chest feels like it has a ton of bricks on it? See my hands? They're shaking. I can't breathe...No. Stop telling me to slow down and breathe, I'm telling you I can't! My heart is beating irregularly and it has stabbing pain that's intermittent. What do you mean nothing is wrong with me?" Yeah. Try that little number a few times before you just decide to ride these off at home, in the comfort or discomfort of your own loneliness and misery.

Yes. Loneliness and misery. Both created by me. Because in the midst of my increasing agitation and frustration, that negative feeling in my chest turns to anger at everyone around me. Anger and bitterness and resentment. I have two reasons to hate people. If you're a friend, then you know by now I have these moments often...and you should know what I need. Well, you should know if I could make up my mind. I push everyone away because I know I'll lash out at them, but then I'm angry and resent them because they're not attentive enough or say the right things. There is no right thing to say. It's a trap. Run away from me. I'll twist your words and make you feel like a piece of crap...because I feel like a piece of crap. The other reason I hate people is that somehow, behind their reasoning (their clear minded, well balanced, healthy brain reasoning) I should just be able to be talked out of these episodes or talk myself out of them. "You're ok. Just relax." Jesus. I'm okay? It's okay that the chest pain now is spreading like fire down my left arm? It's okay that I can't take a breath without bending over in pain? It's okay that my hands can't stay still long enough for me to get a grip on myself and not the nearest sharp object which will be used to slice myself? How is that ok? How is it okay that if you ask me "What's wrong?", I have no answer.

I don't KNOW what's wrong. I DON'T KNOW. Nothing triggered it. Nothing extraordinary happened in my day. Nothing good or bad. It could be a completely plain, uneventful day and I'll snap. Out of nowhere. I'll feel trapped and betrayed and spiteful and alone and God only knows what other feelings. Dead. How can I feel so full of rage and feelings, yet dead? Don't you think I'd like to know how to NOT do all those things to myself? To stop? To be normal?

I'm so busy trying to hide that I'm all sorts of messed up so that I can provide ya'll with support and an ear and a friend and advice...

Don't you know me by now? I'm not asking for the same in return. I'm asking to stop even attempting to process how it is that I function. I don't even know how I function. Who are you to say what I need or don't need?

Just say "Sorry you're screwed up. Anyways, here's a hug and a Diet Coke. Lemme know when you're done self destructing."

1:19 P.M.

2011-03-25T12:45:00.002-05:00

What goes through a person's mind when they come face to face with death or the possibility of it?

Sure, there's the usual "I wonder if it'll hurt" if it's in case of an lethal injury or terminal illness. Some people may just lay there and try to remember if they at least turned off the stove at home or fed the cat before finding themselves in a situation where the end of their life is a few breaths away. Others are laying there wishing to be in the arms of who they love the most in these final moments, with thousands of words they want to say and feelings they want to make sure everyone knows before they're unable to express them any more.

What does one think of, when one is in complete control of when that day, hour...second comes? When the decision is utterly in your hands? Do you plan ahead or are you so angry at the world and your life that you just end it? Just like that. No final farewells, no last hugs or one last kiss. Most people would call that an act of selfishness. But, what if there's a wounded animal, without any hope of recovering? Doesn't the vet putting that dog down or the farmer shooting that horse or the little girl flushing that goldfish down the toilet just want to end that poor animal's suffering? Why would you prolong it's existence? Just so you can look at it because you can't bear parting with it? There it is, ill and struggling to even take a breath, and all you care about is that you have them for a little while longer. Making it about you. Aren't you the selfish one? Or maybe you just feel guilty that you could've done something to prevent it, so you rather place them blame on them?

I'd want to know that I was a good daughter. That I was forgiven for my lies and other disappointments I caused my parents. That I didn't mean to lose my faith in God, but it's more like I lost faith in myself. God never disappointed me, I disappointed Him. That they didn't do anything wrong, and they were as good parents as they could be with what they had. I never lacked love or shoes or food. I lacked strength and a healthy mind. That I was overall a good girlfriend and wife, and whenever I did stray or hurt with words, I am very sorry for that. That my friends understand there really is nothing they could've done. Absolutely nothing. I've always been different. I've always been this. I've always been too smart for my own good and skeptical about most things in life. I've always loved deeply, strongly and selflessly. That I rather your happiness, than mine...because I can never be happy, so one of us might as well be. I'd want to know that I made someone's life different for the better...and that if it was for the worse, that I am, too, forgiven for that. I'd like to hope that I am cremated and not buried. No sense in putting my loved ones through a funeral. Just go home, listen to music and live.

It's 1:50 p.m. now. This is my apology. I am sorry where I lacked. I am sorry where I over extended myself. I am simply sorry if what I do may hurt some of you, but please refrain from calling me a coward or selfish. I am neither. I am simply, tired.

The Limits of Sanity

2011-03-21T12:18:00.002-05:00

Albert Einstein, you sly dog, you. Here you provide us with this gem: "Insanity - Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results". You did, however, fail to explain to us who is the insane one. The one doing the same things over and over, or the one getting the same thing done over and over to them?

See, never should we underestimate the effect it has on someone to be put through a horrifying, exhausting, draining, never-ending cycle. Is the perpetrator insane for repeating a specific behavior, even when his or her victim begs for them to quit? When they are being told they are ruining someone and mentally or emotionally scarring them forever?

Maybe the madness lies in receiving blow after blow, and making yourself get back up and give this person another chance. Because, perhaps this time around they see how you're breaking under their force and they'll open their eyes, change their approach and help you instead of end you. Are you really the only one who sees things clearly and consider them with heaping doses of common sense? How much is too much before you get to the limit of your sanity?

Ah...the limit. That moment where you are at a loss for words because you've said it all before. You've begged, yelled, requested and cried to no avail. That precise second where your hands start shaking and this undying stream of curse words come out and you drown in your sobs because, what else can you do? You've been telling someone to remove the noose from around your neck but they've been so busy stuck in a loop, they actually ended up kicking the chair from under your feet. And STILL, they see you kicking and gasping for your last breath and they say "I can do better. I can change. No really, this time will be different...", and they go off in their own monologue without noticing you've stopped kicking and struggling, and now you're just dangling limp, swaying in the wind.

And then they cut the rope...and bring you back to life...and now it's the moment Einstein needed to give us a bit more guidance in...or maybe not. Forgiving is an action. So, if you forgive and give another chance...you are actually doing something, over and over.

I see what you did there, crazy haired genius...I see.

We're all insane.

Prison Breaks and Getting Caught

2011-03-18T12:24:00.002-05:00

Last night, I fell asleep watching Scrubs...So, naturally:

I am in the middle of a prison riot. We're all wearing blue jumpers, light blue and the prison itself has no roof, so there's a light drizzle making everything wet around us. There's fights everywhere, and it quickly becomes apparent I'm the one that's supposed to lead my friends out of there. Break them free...So I start yelling out on top of all the noise and screaming, people are getting beat up and stabbed left and right, but someone grabs my hand tight and I look up and it's Turk. He gives me a quick kiss and I start pulling him through some hallways and through the rest of the mob of prisoners. JD and Dr. Cox quickly join us, somehow we're all wearing the jumpers and face masks. We finally find a way to an outside alley, where there's a car that is supposed to be our getaway vehicle...but whoever the driver is, keeps letting go of the breaks and making us run further. Every time I reach the handle they let go and I hear someone laughing inside. I turn around and the cops grabbed JD, Dr. Cox just disappeared and Turk is pissed off that whoever I found for us to drive us to safety is being a douche.

From there I'm somewhere in the forest, or at least in a woodsy place with tall pine trees and little cabins that are gift shops. There's people dressed in medieval clothes, like it's some sort of Renaissance fair and when I look up a hill, there's someone actually slaying a goddamn dragon. A live one, and people are clapping. Nice show, I guess. I am with a friend of my mom's, who I've only seen twice in my life (in real life) and we're looking around in this little country themed shop at some place mats. All of a sudden, she says my mom is there with my aunts and I freak out. I hadn't told my mom where I was going, I had lied about where I was going to be and I didn't want her to see me. Also, I'm wearing this countrified sun dress my mom made me, that would be recognizable in an instant, so I dart outside the back door of the store and hide. There's quite a few windows in the store, and I hear my mom talking inside and saying how pretty it is outside. There's also a lot of room between cabin and cabin so if I make a run for it, in my stupid dress, she'll see me. So every time she looks out a window of the store, I'm sneaking around the other side of the cabin hiding from her. Eventually she says something like "I could've swore I saw someone familiar out there..." and she walks out of the store and starts circling the cabin, and we're playing this stupid hide and seek game for a few minutes before she catches a glimpse of me...and just says "Really? Again? Find yourself a place to live. You're no longer my problem."

So I just sit there, on a giant rock, with my flowered dress and faded boots and the sun is shining through the trees...and I have no words to say.

LOL...Oh wait...

2011-03-17T13:40:00.003-05:00

“Sometimes I lie awake at night, and ask, 'Where have I gone wrong?'

Then a voice says to me, 'This is going to take more than one night.'”

- Charles M. Schulz

There's an episode of Friends, where Phoebe has a new boyfriend who is a psychologist. At first, everyone is curious about him and jumping at the chance to get a sort of free consult out of the whole deal. However, later on everyone was getting a tad bit exacerbated at how he always had a way to analyze what they said without them asking for his input. At some point, someone said something very uncomfortable or painful, and Chandler made his usual one liner joker to lighten up the moment. The shrink said "Do you always use humor as a self defense mechanism?", and I sort of made a face at the t.v. Is that what I did? Use humor at the worst possible moments as a way to not cope or deal with what is happening?

Pretty much.

It's very safe to say that I am pretty much useless when people are going through a hard time. You all know the grandmother story...but, I've never told you how my initial reaction to her cancer diagnosis was. By the time they caught the cancer, she went from looking healthy...to being in a wheelchair in a span of two weeks. I couldn't take it. Couldn't get a grip on the reality that was quickly headed my way. This was the woman who was the light of my life, crumbling before my eyes quicker than I could put her back together. So I did the Yari thing, and withdrew. I stopped going to her place altogether, even though she lived next to me and I was there every day of my life since I had been born. I think three weeks went by where I didn't call her or go see her even for a second. When I walked in to her room (because my mother forced me to go) on a Saturday morning, she looked up from here wheelchair and smile sadly, saying "I thought you didn't love me anymore". It broke my heart. It still does. It makes me feel fresh waves of shame wash over me and regret...every time I remember that. I simply answered "It's cuz you're a Transformer now..." Nice joke, Yari.

A few years after that, my best friend Rebecca's dad died in a horrible accident. Terrible death (but aren't they all, in a way?). My best friend...and I couldn't make myself call her or go to her house to offer my love, my hugs, my help...anything she might need. Again, my mother dragged me to her house and made me go up those stairs to face her in her time of need. I was wondering what to say, how to react, where to stand as soon as I got up there. I made it in her doorway and she threw herself in my arms, sobbing and screaming. The pain was too great in my heart and the grief took over...I cried with her. Between sobs I whispered "Now is an appropriate time to get drunk while your mom's home". She laughed sadly...I felt horrible that I had made a joke. Bad, Yari.

Recently, one of my best friends was going through a tough time in a relationship. After dealing with several emotional blows, she was at that stage in a break up where you realize it's all over and that other person really is 'ok' with just letting you go. She was on her knees on the floor, crying out and asking why this had to happen...gasping for air. She completely broke in front of my eyes. She leaned her head on the floor, screaming her heart out and crying some more...and in that second all I could come up with, in my head, was to ask her "When did you take up praying like a Muslim?" Thankfully, I shut my mouth just in time and simply let her cry. Unable to find the words to comfort her.

So on...so forth. I don't know how to say the right thing when it's needed the most. I end up sounding insensitive or like a jerk. I end up seeming like those people who always make everything a joke. I have so much I want to say, in my heart and head, but always seem to lack the words.

If you're one of those people in my life, and I've done that to you...please forgive me. I care. I know it's not a joke. I want to fix it all for you. Make your troubles go away. Make you happy...

...all I have is the hope that I can provide a 'lol'. That and awful gas.

Quiet

2011-03-15T12:36:00.002-05:00

Silence is my enemy.

I used to think I was afraid of the dark...maybe I'm just afraid of the silence that usually accompanies it.

The quiet is a perfect place for my brain to turn on me, and I can't escape that. The lack of distracting noises, conversation...music...the lack of any noise opens the gates in my head and I can't stop myself from jumping from fear to fear. From regret to regret. From worry to worry.

I'm tired of that perpetual feeling of doom in the pit of my stomach...of needing reassurance everything is okay.

I hate the silence.

Burden

2011-03-14T21:50:00.002-05:00

I'm supposed to ask for help.

I'm supposed to lean on friends.

I'm supposed to be okay.

But I'm not doing any of those things.

I'm perfectly fine providing support, an open ear, a comfortable shoulder, a clear mind...free of judgement for others. I'm okay troubleshooting issues with my loved ones, trying to help them fix things in their life...even though it really isn't my place to even offer my .02 cents at times.

Why can't I give myself to others? Rely on their concern? Believe them when they say they're there for me? Why do I feel like a whiney piece of crap stuck on repeat...burdening over and over with my anxieties, insecurities, depression...pain?

I keep putting up the walls. I keep burying myself deeper and disconnecting. I just want to be okay. Not even good...just okay. I want to get things off my chest and not listen to my brain when it's picturing my friends rolling their eyes at me as I talk.

Why don't I trust anything...

I can't breathe. There's a block laying square on my chest, compressing my lungs. My jaw hurts from tension. My head is pounding. Crying didn't help.

Lexapro, you have failed me tonight. At least keep doing your magic...keeping the dreams at bay...because tonight I can't survive them.

The good ones or the bad.

Elephant Shoes

2011-03-10T16:24:00.002-06:00

I accidentally thought of you.

It wasn't like other times, when you were just in the back of my brain all day long, waiting for your chance to spring forth and flood my every thought.

There were times when I'd purposely go look for reminders of you, where I could find them. This was not like that.

I have been known to listen to songs that remind me of you, on quiet nights, and feel the yearn for your smile...your eyes. You. It wasn't what happened on this occasion, either.

No mourning took place. No regrets. No walk down memory lane. It was just your name and an odd sense of nothingness inside.

I accidentally thought of you...and I'm glad. It just means I had finally forgotten.

Are You Aware the Shape I'm In?

2011-03-08T15:14:00.003-06:00

I went to the doctor yesterday for a full blown assessment. First time I've been to someone to handle my diabetes properly...

My labs show my A1C levels are at 13.3%...they should be under 8% in order to not be injecting myself with insulin. So before throwing me to that...the doctor has put me in a 1500 calorie diet. No pork. Avoid sodium. No whites: rice, bread, crackers, tortillas, pasta. Only 2 fruits a day. The rest has to be vegetables and 10 grams of grilled poultry or fish. My Metformin was increased to 1000mg, twice a day. My Actos to 45mg. Another one called Onglyza was added to my repertoire. As I type this, I want to cry.

I am 26 years old. ...You know what. I'm not even going to go there. I did this to myself. I have the anger one gets when one is starving, but is hours away from eating. I have that constantly as it is, now with the diet it's tenfold. Here's to not dying before I'm 30. Here's to not hurting like I do every day, in every way. Fine shape I'm in.

And then, some days, you really shouldn't listen to music.

Load the car and write the note
Grab your bag and grab your coat
Tell the ones that need to know
We are headed north

One foot in and one foot back
But it don't pay, to live like that
So i cut the ties and i jumped the tracks
For never to return

Ah Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in
Are you aware the shape I'm in
My hands they shake my head it spins
Ah Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in

When at first I learned to speak
I used all my words to fight
With him and her and you and me
Oh but its just a waste of time
Yeah its such a waste of time

That woman shes got eyes that shine
Like a pair of stolen polished dimes
She asked to dance I said it's fine
I'll see you in the morning time

Ah Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in
Are you aware the shape im in
My hands they shake my head it spins
Ah Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in

Three words that became hard to say
I and love and you
What you were then, I am today
Look at the things I do

Ah Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in
Are you aware the shape I'm in
My hands they shake my head it spins
Ah Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in

Dumbed down and numbed by time and age
Your dreams to catch the world, the cage
The highway sets the travelers stage
All exits look the same

Three words that became hard to say
I and love and you
I and love and you
I and love and you

You Know I'd Kiss You Better

2011-03-03T08:51:00.005-06:00

I have no idea how I had gotten to that place, or where it was. All I knew was that I was standing in a cold, damp alley about to walk in through a metal door into a building. There were no signs to indicate what was waiting for me behind the door and I shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, as the cold crept into my feet...Converse are never good 'soggy weather' shoes.

My stomach felt like a small pit full of angry snakes, lashing at each other. I sent one last text message and tucked my phone in my back pocket, then opening the metal door to face the rest of my night. A gust of warm air full of cigarette smoke hit my face as I blinked a few times to discern what it was I had just walked into. The poorly lit bar was crowded, with a mix group of people I couldn't really pinpoint with a specific 'style' to them. I kept getting bumped into and stared down at, making me uncomfortable and not welcome that night.

I was getting ready to head back out that place when I heard an amp vibrate and pierce my eardrum with feedback. Nothing makes me zone in as the sound of a guitar being tuned, so my neck snapped back towards the stage where a group of men stood getting their musical instruments ready. I pushed my way through the lumps of people gathered in their drunken haze, completely forgetting how intimidated I had been by them minutes ago. I found a spot by the left side of the stage, my eyes lighting up as I saw him adjusting the strap to his guitar and pulling his jeans up slightly. He kept covering the mic as he leaned back to shout directions to his drummer and I heard them all break out in a hearty laughter...making me grin involuntarily at these 'boys' doing what they loved.

He leaned closely to the mic and after scanning the room with his eyes briefly, he gave a quick introduction to his band and welcomed everyone to the gig. I heard some girls give out a few shouts from the back of the bar and he simply let out a soft giggle, looking down as his foot tapped softly from one button to the next on his pedal. I could've swore I saw slight dimples forming on his cheeks as he grinned to himself. Then, in one swift movement and a after a brief countdown from the drummer, he let out the cleanest riff I've ever heard to introduce a soft bluesy tune. The rhythm spread through my body like wildfire...It's a feeling I can't expect everyone to understand. I hear live music and I feel it from my toes to the back of my eyeballs. It was beautiful, it was raw and it was flooding me. He closed his eyes as he belted out a few verses, and other times he simply smiled as his fingers glided over the guitar neck in a simple, yet soulful scale.

After a few songs, the band excused themselves for a small break and I reluctantly stole one last glance at him as he put his guitar down on a stand. I found a spot at the bar and ordered a Newcastle while I sat picking the label off the bottle absent-minded. I had a few chugs and found myself needing one more...or three, I thought. I felt a warm hand snake around my low back and someone pressing against my side, sliding me a new bottle of Newcastle over into my hands. I looked up startled, and found a pair of chocolate eyes smiling at me devilishly. His plaid blue flannel shirt had it's collar slightly crooked, and I was more than willing to fix it quickly while flashing him my most sincerely smile. I turned to my beer and took a few gulps before he leaned into my ear and whispered "Take it easy, I want you to make it through the whole show, this time. You left too quick last time." Giddiness, butterflies, relaxation. All at once just feeling his hand on the small of my back and his voice sneaking inside my ear. I turned on my stool to face him, and he slid comfortable against me as I held him close in a tight hug. He smelled like vanilla and mild cigar. He smelled of music and poetry. I teasingly messed his buzz cut and grabbed his chin, simply nodding in agreement to what he had asked. He winked and kissed the tip of my nose, leaving me slightly dazzled as he headed back on stage to resume the show.

He set up, and grabbed the mic...giving everyone another welcome and this time staring dead at me all the way across the bar to where I still sat on the stool. He smiled big and said "And this special welcome and next song goes out to my Curly girl"...and I got lost in his voice as he sang one of my favorite covers. My heart thudded harder against my ribcage and I heard him slide my name into the song, making it impossible for me to hide the blush that crept up my face.

...And then I woke up, craving tacos. It was a nice break from the nightmares.

Glycerine

2011-03-02T16:07:00.003-06:00

I'm never alone...I'm alone all the time

People always seem to have the primal urge to let you know you're not alone. The human desire to nurture those in pain or those who are unprotected, vulnerable is something we all feel at some point towards someone we care for in our life.

While I have been on the end where I pester others who are in a funk, where I try to tell them it'll be ok and at least make light of a dark situation...The reality is we are alone. Even when surrounded, our own mind separates us from any connection that maybe once made us feel alive. Even when people are just a text away, or a call away...even right next to you...how is it possible to feel the echo of one's own thoughts bouncing off the emptiness we're living in?

While I appreciate the well wishes, and I know I can trust most of you to be there for me...it doesn't mean I should automatically feel like I'm positioned in the middle a giant group hug. For one thing, the people I want to hug most some days, aren't even in the same state as I am. Some are even off the mainland. Does that mean they say they're here for me, but in reality they aren't? No. It just means that the capacity I need them in, can't possibly be met by a greeting on a phone. Distance hurts...and it hurts more when I have built this cave I'm hiding in.

Everyone is waiting for me to come out...to rejoin the festivities. Truth of the matter is I don't really have energy or desire to do so for now or in the foreseeable future. I just want to be let feel the things I want to.

I spread myself too thin...in too many different directions. Now I have lost myself and I'm not getting my pieces back from the places where I left them.

What is there left to share with anyone, today? A shell of who I used to be. A ghost that wakes up every day and tries the best to simply survive.

Would you be so kind as to give me part of me back?

It Continues...

2011-03-01T23:28:00.002-06:00

Three years ago, I bought my first laptop. The first gadget that was solely for my use. My haven.

I decided to start a blog, merely to feel fancy when I sat on my favorite recliner after a long day and I put my thoughts down in my personal little corner of the internet.

My laptop died today, bless it's little overused e-soul, and now I sit here on my favorite spot of my huge couch posting my first blog from my new laptop. Three years later.

Some of you have been around from the beginning. From the silly posts to the heartbreaks to the dreams and nightmares. The poetry and the rants. The memories and the desolation periods.

Thank you, the few or many of you, for taking the time to see me exist here on days where I don't know what to write. On days where I weighed you down with my negativity and depression. On moments where happiness poured out of my pours.

It's a shiny new keyboard...It's all new. I can write anything I want...and these keys have never written those thoughts before. Here's to three more years of you, me and the words in between.

There is no delight in owning anything unshared. ~ Seneca

Walls

2011-02-21T10:08:00.002-06:00

I bump left and right.

There's no entrance...no exit.

No light. No air. My clothes feel tight...

...my throat closing up on me.

I'm falling.

Days crawl.

Tired. No sleep. No peace for evil nights.

Echo.