Where did November go?

The Apology

Slim,

     I felt like crap. I slept most of the day. Completely out of it.  I'm sorry you stood at the door knocking and no one letting you in out of the wicked heat. Wicked. It is 111° today! Good weather for having a fridge on the blink. It works on the weekend because I am there to bang and start it up. I wonder if I have to toss out more milk products today when I get home. Life is grand.

     I only wish I hadn't torn to shreds that picture I drew for you. Of us. I know that's why you cruised by. To bring it scotched back together for me. Can 57 pieces of Bristol, a portrait of our quotidian make? 
     No need for forgiveness. You have me, caro mio. Every wretched little bit of me. 

     I wanted to cook you a meal tonight, but it seems like the warm front may have spoiled most of my edibles. Besides, we could both use some gelato tonight.

     Just come in through the side gate when you're done with work. I had Guiliano come over and fix it, finally. His daughter is doing much better, he says. Poor girl. Lucky she has such a hard working father to love and look after her. I don't know what I'd do in her place.

I'll be waiting for you,

M.

September

     September was my month. My month to take a really big, fat break from the facts of existence. I lay my head on the whimsical airs that permeate the hot density of the fleeting, yet arresting Summer. And while this ethereal persona deconstructs itself into a vanishing act, I push through with my lethargic attempt to join the falling of the leaves. To make naked. To bare myself from that which keeps me safe and sometimes guarded. After all, I am body. So, I stripped myself pure. It was not intentional, I swear. The cry of a baby is never a manipulative form of destruction, but rather an awakening into a life unknown where one hopes one may be love. And that I am. Love. If anything, it is quiet a thrill to relish in cumulative events of self realization.  "... And you got moxie!" he clamored. He steers me in, I admit. Closer to my secret place.
     Inadvertently, the change we oftentimes fear, we seldom rely on. I have decided I shall rely on Fall. I believe I have shed significant ego thus far. And so, I am perfectly attired to become a beggar child of the Redwood forest. That mustard-seed-size faith they profess is contained in my side denim pocket. I'm blindly enthusiastic, you see. An unshelled experience awaits us ahead. It's only a short drive north. I flourish in anticipation.

Trill

Definition:
1. to sing or play with a vibratory or quavering effect.
2. to resound vibrantly, or with a rapid succession of sounds, as the voice, song, or laughter.
3. to utter or make a sound or succession of sounds resembling such singing, as a bird, frog, grasshopper, or person laughing.

Usage:
Thou shall not trill...
-when one is fussy at ages 17, 26, 34 or 42
-during mass.
-in bad company.
-while lamenting over a teensy-weensy reason.. or for no good reason at all.
-when leaving behind an obsolete, ineffective version of one's self.
-naked in the wilderness.

When to trill...
-when one is fussy from months 1-8
-while speaking Spanish.
-over the loss of someone meaningful like a family member or an old time friend... never an ex-lover.
-when resembling a puma in an effort to seem like a good, playful parent during playtime.
-to seduce a jerk.
-to mock Edith Piaf.
-in extreme boredom...
  and before yawning.

Curly Chubby Cherubs

Luscious golden locks bouncing all about and bellies jiggling,
Up the canyon they went hastily, hand in hand, excited and adventurous.
The sky-sea is vast and dark, fully lit, 18 karat luminescence.
With their jaws suspended in awe of such a sight,
They became two little naked shooting stars.
Jubilant by the gift of a wish: one for you and one for me,
They crinkled their eyes to add might to a liquid dream,
And their shyness overcome by a little boy and girl embrace.
With chuckles and giggles of nervous laughter,
This instant admired by the silver quality of innocence,
Authentic and real as their souls.
For one should cast one's pearls before swine;
The process of knowing one's value before taking it to the pros.
Two Curly Chubby Cherubs who recognize this art.

A drag or two

A smoker's permission to breathe,
Old Hollywood style.
To have a companion when in need of one,
A distraction,
Or be comfortably alone at the café.
To cheat a friend out of their undivided attention,
And delight in an exclusive occupation.
To have something to live for,
Or to make one's prime a foe.

Burning cash.
Easily, anxiously.
And a bitter kiss.

For Nicky

The Firefly

You, enchanting firefly. Utterly and perfectly entangled in the scintillating cobweb you have come about. Perversely indulgent. You can't move, you can't do a damn thing! One inch forwards, sideways, backwards signifies binding yourself furthermore into this harness you've masterfully, though unwillingly engineered. Nice armor. Hat and glove sizes fully considered. If only for your crafty, selfish ways and not your boundless naivety. Well, I hope you simmer in it! Simmer in the juices that your exhaustion immerses you in. Luxuriate furiously in the empty pleasure.
Fester, fester, rot, rot.
I am a true believer. An intrigued passerby and my heart shines timidly. Though I am warned by trepidation, your enticing luminous appearance hastily draws me in... blindly, magically. Soon this habitat in which you reside comfortably numb in brings a sense of familiarity to me that I am only able to find in a Lynchean dream sequence. Free fall. Slowly, I acquaint myself with the inability to hold onto my wisdom, a branch, something! The euphoria has overcome me. It paralyzes me; overwhelms me. A victim of my own wishful thinking. Oh clumsiness, oh frailty. I have no options. No choice, but to... burn, burn, burn! I burn my wings, so that I may hum my way out of the wicked charm that you momentarily possessed over me, enticing firefly. The combustion scars my optimism ever so briefly only to find myself suspended upon the grasp of thin air. In levity. Then fall flat on my face, on the abrasiveness of the hot asphalt.
Wait... I am awake again. I am alive. I am new. Thank you oh so beautiful firefly for reminding me that I have two valiant feet to walk away.

The faintest light

Be wary of these walls foolish girl, for you might bump into them.

These walls will prevail here in this place, but you shall have to find your own.
Let us turn on that faint light, as to hear the whisper of their echoes.
For even lavish radiance can be blinding.
Prepare my flesh for the bruises which will not be avoided.
Allow me to be foolish.
Allow me to be restless.
I have yet to learn from these love shattering events.
For in the darkest hour, fright is at its peak.
Let us turn on that faint light, so we can see within our reach.

Grita el corazón

A veces no tenemos otra opción más que escuchar al corazón...

Que la vida es loca,
Sin pensar algunas cosas,
Que tan fácil te equivocas.
Pero cuantos, quienes, comos?
Sospechando sin cesar,
Mi cabeza, aplasta el domo.
Este si, este no,
Por aquí, y lejos no,
Me dices si y quiero yo?
Como buenos gemelos rivales,
Que pelean su verdad,
Tan semejantes en sus males!

No hay evidencia de firmeza,
Hoy, esta no saldrá a jugar,
Y la culpable es la pereza.
De la iglesia a laborar,
En el camino hacia la casa,
Quisiera parar y dejar de llamar,
Ese extraño sentimiento,
Escondido en la verdad,
Que tanto añoro y bien lamento.
"Amor, estoy aquí!"
Grita el corazón,
"Pero primero te escucho a ti."

Carlita means little Carla

"The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls."  Pablo Picasso 

     She was five years old and there she sat holding the tight hand of her mother, Blanquita (little Blanca) on a long, ten-hour bus ride that departed at twelve o'clock, 'pumpkin time'. Off they went to the north end of the pistolita (little gun), because that's what Florida looked like to her. 

     What could possibly have possessed Mum to yearn for this authentically novel life full of the highly rumored encouragements for opportunity?
    "Let's go back to Mama Gloria's." She wisely advised her mother, as the dark hour kept swallowing the inseparable duo into its undefinable depth. Clearly, this adventure into the crepuscular unknown was unmistakably a very, very bad idea. All Carlita had packed in her suitcase was her daily routine which she had keenly perfected at Grandma's: first, ditching the pre-kindergarten attire upon stepping foot onto the cold tile of the house's entryway; then, a quick lunch or sometimes an even longer lunch if forced to eat pacaya - a very bitter and cynical vegetable; - later, a couple of hours of the old lady's telenovelas; some coloring frenzy; scattered chapters of Machiavellian teasing of Uncle Carlitos (little Charles) - a blessed, little chap with down syndrome - and finally, the anticipation of Mom's return home from her second job at the University, so that she could complete some extraneous playtime. Most of the time though, while too-tired-to-play Mom rested her eyes, little Carla would content herself by puppeteering Mom's index and middle fingers into two miniature businessmen with mustaches who intended to open an apothecary in the more upscale neighborhood.

     But by then, their home seemed a million light years away standing old and decrepit on a grassy hill of San Salvador's soil and hopefully illuminated by a vigilant Spanish moon. This memory and her 360 color crayons was all she carried with her. How could she possibly be prepared for this absolute uncertainty of a place?

     Blanquita looked down at her infant and pulled her as close to her bosom, as anyone can enter another being's soul. Fighting her quiver, she attempted to comfort the child until an uncontainable strength within her materialized itself into a phrase: "Where ever you go, there you shall be." She continued, "... and there I will be with you."

.................

This woman was the most stoic form of determination I have ever known in my life. I am blessed she was my mother. Lucky me. That day she put in my suitcase the handiest tool of all.

Bliss

I have a burden.  It's in my heart.  It will not let me breathe.  It makes my head swell and my eyes drip.  I feel crushed by the air.  It's heavy.  I must love it for I allow it.  I must dive in it and be thankful for it.  It is my lover.  It demands my attention.  It wants my peace, my time, my effort.  My throat is clenched.  I long to be heard.  It is imperative that I be loved or I will not survive.  I want to float into the heavens and be featherweight happy.  Bliss.  It's called bliss.

The blue sheep

The hues of my real life soft spoken-ness bring out the bold in these posts... so do you.

It feels yummy in my mommy's belly,
I do not want to come out and play.
What is this game you've invented anyway?
"Simon says walk this way."
Don't care much for 'ol Simon,
Didn't either yesterday.
My legs are awkward, my talk is funny,
You're better off without me honey.
The world's gone mad,
And I'm not glad.
The school's a gag,
Brainwashin' a drag.
My religion? You want that too?
You'll find my "hello my name is" tag
Up ol' Simon's wazoo.
This blue sheep has gone astray,
Did not RSVP to the main flock's part-ay.
No dire cause, no serious dismay,
Not my herd, not this state of play.
I guess it's okay.
It's better this way. 


I nuzzle my flaws, my reservations, my dark side... and that huge zit on my chin. I'm so happy I'm different.
I'm so grateful I'm me.
I'm so grateful I'm me. 

Something to write about

The page I first wrote a sonnet on is now turning yellow. It was an assignment for English Lit when I was a Senior in High School. The muse of my poem was a boy with whom I was irrevocably smitten. He didn't know I existed until the inelegance of puberty had matured enough to morph my body into an exquisite, little fairy at age 17. He, of course, then noticed. We kissed and fell into first love's grasp.

Because the teacher questioned the authenticity of the sonnet, she gave me an A-. I deserved an A+.
Bitch.

Sonnet
The look upon those eyes of dearest care
which melts the heart in tears of disbelief,
have stricken me to fall in madmen's dare
for you have filled my soul with mellow grief.
The treasure of this truth kept unrevealed
has left you much uncertain of your will
confessing hymns will keep and force lips sealed
with nothing else to feel, but fear to kill.
The reason of this silence, sound of youth
disquiet rules the noble hearts of fools,
with love so strong and painful as to soothe
the lives of two when distance of truth rules.
     How further will this jewel keep unrevealed?
     When two of hearts in silence have been healed.

First thing on the list

Here i am. Welcome. I have scratched the itch to write.

With a little push from my kid sister and some inspiration from Julie Powell's blogging adventure, here i am plastering these walls with words, where thoughts, dreams, hopes, fears and passions belong .

We will soon be introduced properly, but first thing on the list: the purpose of this blog. It is the bastard child of loneliness and depression and God bless it! (Seriously, I live in L.A.) Arising from internal forces 'tis The C List, i.e. how I shunned from falling into the abyss of insanity. The creative calling was not to be ignored. I welcome it and you and will try not to sound too narcissistic or self-absorbed. Already, this is a great start.

A warning: English is not my first language. I'll fancy the enchantment upon unveiling a new word for its poetic charm or handy practicality, but I will sometimes write in Spanish.

This is exciting. Let the thickening of the skin begin. I'm not sure how much longer I can continue to be an 'eternal optimist'. Please put me out of my misery.