“You’re so cute…”

“… that I just want to punch you in the face.” 

An ex-boyfriend said that once. I didn’t get his logic then, but I think I understand glimpses of it now. 

Do you ever look back at photos and stare at the eyes of the people in them? I like to do that. My mother once said that all of my childhood photos have sad eyes in them, maybe this is why I focus on the eyes. 

Tonight, I stared at one particular photo that was taken days after returning from Argentina. The person whose eyes I’m looking at are so tragically sad, it makes me want to cry. 

Somedays Way Way To Go

Someday, you’ll bring me flowers because you’ve gotten to know me well enough to know that as much as I hate them dying, I am quite fond of the gesture. And you’ll learn that from every flower you give me, or every bouquet you carefully pick out for me, that when the flowers do eventually die, that I’ll keep one stashed between the pages of encyclopedias and dictionaries I do not flip through but keep in a dusty library to dry flowers out. Or in this media infested age, I’d snap a photo of them; upload them for the world to wonder the origins of those flowers that changed the scenery of my home. You and I will share the secret that it was you. 

Someday, you’ll snap a photo of me, without my knowledge. And you’ll have caught a glimpse of me in a manner that no one else in the world could ever possibly imagine but you. And you won’t write a thing (or maybe you will), you’ll just put it out there for the world to see and they’ll see through your eyes something close to what it was you captured. I’ll look at it and know, because it’ll be a secret only we two could ever understand. But you’re going to be as compelled as I am, to showcase me to the world. Parts of me, because you’ll selfishly retain other parts for yourself, and I’ll be okay with that too. 

Someday, you and I will wake up and lie in bed for hours staring at the miniscule details of our faces and really understand the parts that make us these beings in bed in that moment. We won’t say a word, because it’d be unnecessary. We’ll roll out of bed, collecting coffee mugs and Sunday Times and climb back under the covers while we catch up with a world outside our home. 

Someday, you’re going to know me better than I know myself and vice versa, and we’re going to drive each other so mad and snicker like fifth graders. In a moment of frustration, I’ll pause and really appreciate that I get to spend my life with someone who is willing to stay by my side even after I show him all the parts I think are the worst of myself. I’m going to let you win an argument too, because I’ll have learned with you that compromising is okay and I shouldn’t be afraid of it. 

On the Mind

There existed 4 other items… then only the last remained.

5. Insanity isn’t classy.

We’ve convinced one generation after another that success is based on monetary value. Dare to break free.

Monday’s Contemplations

Since my trip to Argentina, I returned with many itching questions about identity. For Argentina, the questions sparked when I spoke to family members who were just reuniting with the babies and toddlers, now in their 30’s and 40’s, who were kidnapped 36 years ago during the coup d’ tats. I wondered, what happens to the person you think you are based on discovering the people you thought were your parents, aren’t actually your parents— at least by blood— and in some cases were in fact the people responsible for murdering your birth parents because they were left-wingers (or other subversive) on the “wrong side” of the fight. Who are you then?

In Guatemala, the question that is raised, is… how do you form an identity (whether you be Maya or Ladino), in a post-war country that refuses to acknowledge, therefore refuses to teach, the attempted extermination of their own people? Who do you become? How does government denial shape the person you think you are? 

In New York, based on many conversations I’ve had with people ranging from unhappy drones in corporate America to “farmers” in just everyday functioning jobs that pay the bills… who do you think you are? My buddy just posted an illustration he did for an article titled: Out of work and coming undone. Who am I without a job? That’s my question.

If you went to work today, and got fired, how would this change your perspective on the person you are? How much of your identity is based on what you do to make money? If you aren’t satisfied*… then why have we let these jobs define us? 

** I first wrote happy, but happy seems to imply that I have this unrealistic notion of always being in this state. So I’ve changed the vocabulary to “satisfied” because it seems to register easier in people’s heads.

Birthday 27.

Yesterday was my birthday. I arrived exhausted from my flight from Guatemala, but my mother greeted me with: the song won’t come on! The song she was referring to was, Estas Son Las Mañanitas. She plays the spanish version of the birthday song for me every year, be it at home or on the phone when I am not near her. 

There were several 10 minute naps peppered throughout the day, but never being quite able to succumb to sleep. My mind and heart were occupied with the anticipation of a someone showing up to sweep me away. 

At three, my recently reconnected (from a once upon a long time ago meet up) buddy and I met up for the January birthdays hug exchange! We followed up with a cup of chai/joe at MUD and then I accompanied him to the MegaBus stop in Midtown. Warm hugs were appreciated. ^___^ 

Rushed home for my 6pm dinner, arranged by my favorite lady, Meg. Turns out, there was no need to rush. So I lay on my bed, with my dog, thinking about he and I having made three years of companionship. “Reunited” by Peaches & Herb played in my head. 

Then, anticipation turned into the realization that two important people were not going to show up! Regardless of the reasons, I suddenly felt a strong sense of abandonment. Not exactly what anyone wants to feel, especially on their birthday. Anger took over, which was really masked deep hurt. Later in the evening, some clarification eased their failure to be present, but sitting here now, I’m realizing I am still feeling abandoned. 

Meg however, along with Kross, came to the rescue. Dinner took place at The Green Table at Chelsea Market, a place I’ve been wanting to dine at. The wine, the appetizers, the dinner, my dessert were all amazing. Thank you for keeping me in your hearts and giving me warmth on my birthday. 

So my 27th, it’s already experienced a bumpy transition. I hope for the strength to cut off the pain— in whatever form it appears in. I hope to forgive and forget, because right now I’m harboring hurt. But, I hope to show the people who’ve called/emailed/tweeted/texted the same importance they have shown me. 

xx.