generation.... afraid?

I want to comment in a tv commercial I saw not long ago. Why a tv commercial? Because when you have a degree in advertising it becomes natural to really pay attention to commercials in tv and print, and analyze the tactics and objectives behind them... but when you have a degree in advertising and you're... me... then the whole thing goes to another level.

So I saw this commercial, it was a Cox Communications commercial in which there's this little kid between 2 to 4 years old. He goes around with his mom and is presented in different settings and situations. He always has some electronic device (tv, portable dvd, etc) where he's always watching "Pauly Penguin" and the kid smiles and gets all excited about the penguin every time he sees him, he even has a little stuffed Pauly Penguin toy. Then, the kid is shown at a mall (or some public place) where he's in line to meet Pauly Penguin... like you would see a kid in line to see Santa Claus. But when it comes time for him to meet Pauly, he gets close and just as Pauly is about to hug him the kid backs up, scared of the big animal and goes crying to his mom's arms. Then the kid is shown in a car seat with a portable player watching Pauly and smiling again. And at the end you hear "no matter where they are, generation cox is coming. Are you ready?"

Well... hell no. I don't think this world is ready for a generation like that. Having things too easy, too accessible, staying too much in the comfort zone cannot be any good. Are we really expecting a generation that's going to be so foreign to reality that will be afraid of reality?

"would you like to take my hand?!"

I'm listening to a Savage Garden song that takes me back to happy times and stupid laughs that make this life so special.

I often feel trapped in my own body... and often feel so free.

What am I talking about? I don't know. Isn't that so wonderful?

I write

...in short sentences and talk to strangers and call all that poetry. And I wanted to share with you a couple of poems I wrote last year. Feel special, I don't show people such things:


Un mapa viejo
me trajo a un lugar
ajeno a mis pupilas
y prohibido a mis pisadas.
Y ahora,
cuando este lugar
es más mio que de
sus propios hijos
yo quiero volar lejos
para poder quitar
los momentos de llanto
de mi memoria
y el sabor a extranjera
de mis venas por donde corre
sangre más caliente
que el sol de cinco veranos aqui.

No soy de aqui,
mis palabras no caben en el vocabulario de la region
y mis pies rehusan seguir señales
de quienes no me quieren aqui.

Mis brazos anhelan el calor
de los abrazos de mi hogar tropical.
Y aunque mis dedos se han acostrumbrado ya
a las espinas heladas de rosas muertas,
como quisieran mis manos
tocar la tierra con la que de niña jugué...
y aquellos ladrillos
que marcaban mis dedos
con colores de tierra santa.

Veo en mis sueños
las gradas del edificio viejo
donde tantos pasos supe reconocer
y los árboles que bailaban para mi
en las noches cuando el sueño
me dejaba sola
para pensar en cosas importantes
y en nombres de amores
con los que me veia
sentada frente el ocaso
a la orilla del Pacifico...
cuando el sueño me dejaba sola
para invertar palabras nuevas
con letras robadas
de nombres de niñez.
Ahora solo en sueños
veo los árboles que me vieron crecer
desde la ventana de mi cuarto azul.

Ya no sigo mapas viejos.
A donde voy
me lleva mi corazón y las memorias
de una niña intranquila
que extraña la brisa
que entraba en las noches
por la ventana del cuarto de su Libertad.

BEGutierrez
Nov. 20, 2006

------------


Creo que somos los mismos con el aire y con el frío,
o con el calor de los primeros rayos de luz en la mañana.
Con permiso de aquellos que quisieran ser nosotros
pensamos en cada gesto, cada palabra que nace en nuestro corazón.
Y nos preguntamos por qué no podemos ser perfectos.
Y nos preguntamos por qué nos cuesta tanto amar.
Y por qué gastamos tiempo en lo que no nos gusta.
Y por qué a veces las cosas salen mal.
Somos mejores de lo que pensamos,
pero debemos más de lo que llevamos cuenta
y a veces olvidamos decir gracias
y decir adiós.
Y no mencionamos cuánto amamos a aquellos a quienes amamos,
olvidando como a veces nosotros necesitamos oírlo también.
Y a veces decidimos dejar al amor pasar frente nuestro
como algo imposible, aun sabiendo que puede ser nuestro.
A veces decidimos dejarlo ir por temor a ser heridos,
otras veces es descuido.
Y todo termina en la misma conversación.
Todo nos dirige a la necesidad de amar y ser amados.
Y al ver al cielo podemos imaginar
que hay una estrellita que nos pertenece,
Y que nada nos robará la paz.

BEGutiérrez
May 16, 2006


------------


as i peel the orange i got from working all day
inside a windowless mansion
i think of the tree that gave life to it
and how it was meant to be eaten by me
only me.
yes, sometimes i think life
was meant to be lived
by me.
every petal of every rose i ever smelled
was meant to touch my skin.
there are many petals i'll never smell, touch or even see.
there are many oranges i'll never taste
but this one, this one is mine.
in all its flavor it'll serve me
it'll remind me that life is more
so much more
than a windowless mansion
were the sun never shines.
the moment comes when you realize
how life is made up of little things
of little moments
of tiny stars.
it's better to feel the air on your face
for five minutes
than to live five hundred years
in a windowless mansion.

BEGutierrez
May 15, 2006


------------

Some stories
reveal the time and place
where love began.
Some others just tell
where it all ended and why.
But my story
has not a start
or end.
The story of us is simple
you and me,
a cross,
and love.
Sinners and saints,
the story of us.

BEGutierrez
Nov. 06, 2005

Today

Take me for a ride away from here
I'll trust you to get me lost
and take me back
to more important places to my weak heart
Lead me back somewhere
make me be there on time
I can't seem to find the key
or a word in the dictionary that doesn't sound poetic
today
as I fail to be noticed or recallable by him or her.

Cliché

Sitting at a cafe reading a book.
midnight, glasses, tired eyes and a cup of black coffee.
a romantic walk on the beach... during sunset.
an ice cream truck in a hot summer.
lighting bugs and camping.
snow and hot chocolate.
waiting an eternity for something
or someone that usually means more than the life at hand.
dancing in the rain
and love at first sight,
and some combination of the two.
a broken heart
or a heart breaker.
a daughter
being her father's daughter
and some happy ending.
extra virgin olive oil
over a green salad.
peanut butter and jelly.
salt and pepper.
apples and cinnamon.
strawberries and cream.
a travel book
in the hands of that who cannot travel.
love to all
except him or her
their not one of us.
black and white.
blue and red.
two clouds, two mountains
and a yellow sun.
being alone in a city of millions.
not saying goodbye or hello.
a secret handshake
or a milkshake.
an old picture kept by your heart.
a lonely old man
remembering his days as a hero.
a sad clown
who once made you smile.
carpe diem.
seize the day.
wine, cheese and bread
in front of the Eiffel tower
or by some palace.
promises of forever and always.
a trite phrase or expression
the idea expressed by it.


is this a poem? what is a poem?

A human being in general

I miss faces and places from the past, but I know I don't want to miss out on faces and places from my future. (may 20, 07)

I look back a lot, and I figure that's just how I make sense of things. I would have been the woman that turned to salt.

But tell me, how can we appreciate the better if we have never seen the worst, of if we don't look back and reflect on it? How do we know if we're going in the right direction if we don't take a moment to examine our paths? Even in heaven, we'll have to have memory so that we know what's been given to us by grace. We have to know where we come from, we have to know who helped us in the way.... so we can recognize the gifts in the future and now.

♥

My first short story

All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction, remember that. Any similarities are pure coincidence.

"A little bit of milk and no sugar"

The day Dana left her home her mom hugged her and wished her well. Her father didn’t say anything, he didn’t say goodbye. Now, five years later, he was coming to visit. She had waited for him all day. She thought about his arrival all week. These years her dad and she had been apart felt like an eternity to Dana. And now he was coming to see her, he would be here and things between them would be fine. Even if it was only for a few days while he stopped on his way to visit her brother, at least she would get to see him again.
She waited in the blue chair in the living room. The book on her lap was the same book she had seen him reading last time she saw him. She had read it a few times because she knew how much he loved it. When he got there they could talk about the book, or about the author. They could talk about her apartment, or about the fact he hadn’t spoken to her for two months after she left until the day he answered the phone because he thought it’d be the cable company calling him back. Or maybe they would just play chess, like they used to do on nights when there was no soccer on TV. She wanted them to have a real conversation, not like the times they talked on the phone for five minutes before he would hand the phone to somebody else. They were both bad about keeping up phone conversations, even when they had so much to say. Dana’s mother always said it was because Dana was just like her dad. They both needed to see people’s faces to fully understand them, so phone calls were just not good enough for them.
She just wanted to see that face again. She wanted to hug him. She wanted to stay late listening to the stories of his life abroad, and have coffee with a little bit of milk and no sugar while watching the news. She wanted to play chess with him. She wanted life to stop for a moment and be able to feel like his daughter again.
The wait was getting too long. She was ready for anything during the visit. She was thinking of what she would say if he were to ask about her job, about the pictures on her wall or the ones that were in the copy of yesterday’s newspaper with her name in the credit line. She was looking for the right words in her head and for the right explanations to everything, when she heard the motor of a car pulling in. She saw the car out the window, and she saw him with his orange sweater; but she couldn’t see his face so she ran to the door.
“Dad” she said, in a tone that revealed her excitement, “Hi! How was the drive? Do you have any bags? Let me help you get them inside. It's been a long time. Are you hungry? I made lasagna, just like mom makes it, with extra cheese. You'll love it.”
He looked up after closing the back door of the car and saw her coming down the steps. She grabbed the bag he had just gotten out of the car and smiled at him.
“You must be tired. I like that sweater! Hurry let's get inside, it's too cold out here. I'm not used to the weather still. But tell me, how was the drive? I was getting worried about you. I thought you'd be here before five.”
“There was no rush. I tried to enjoy the drive. Did you say you made lasagna?”
“Yes, yes. Let’s go inside, you must be hungry. And maybe we can play chess after dinner. I have the chessboard you got me in Panama. Maybe I’ll finally get to win for once!”
He didn’t say anything. He hadn’t played chess since she left.

The apartment was warm and cozy compared to outside, but it was still colder than what he was used to back at home. So he didn’t take off his sweater. He looked around the place, Dana disappeared with his bag and he didn’t see what room she went into. There were photos all over the walls with cityscapes and sunsets. Next to the bookcase there were more pictures. Dana was in most of them, but he didn’t recognize anyone else. There was only one of those pictures he had seen before. They had taken it at the beach years ago. The three kids had been playing with sand all afternoon, and they were covered up in it. And he was holding his wife by the waist with his right hand, his left hand was on Dana’s head which barely came up to his shoulders. Christopher and Daniel looked like they were pushing against each other fighting for the middle of the frame. He looked at that photo until he heard Dana coming out of the room, asking again if he was hungry.
“Did you take those pictures on the wall?” he said before she could finish what she was saying.
“Most of them. Those were just for fun. When I still didn’t know many people here I used to go walk around the city after work to take pictures. And lately I’ve been doing some freelance projects, a lot of family portraits. Last time I saw Chris with his family I took their portraits and they turned out nice.”
“I liked your paintings better. You should’ve never stopped painting.”
She didn’t expect him to say that. “I think I still have some paintings here. I'll look for them later. It was hard for me to paint when I moved here. I didn't find a studio and the apartment was too small. But I can start again. And if you want to, you can take home some of the paintings I have saved. If you like any.”
“Where are the pictures of Chris you said you have? Last time I saw your brother he didn't have that little girl yet. I haven’t seen him in a while.”
“In the room. I have some copies for you.”
She looked at him. She’d always thought he didn’t like her paintings, he never said anything about them before. So she looked for clues to see he had lied about liking the paintings, but she didn’t find any. He was still looking at the pictures by the bookshelf.
“I stopped for food on the way here,” he said.
“You don’t want any lasagna?”
“Show me where I'm staying. I'm tired and my back hurts after all the driving today. I just want to rest.”
“But are you sure you don’t want anything?” she insisted. “I could make some coffee. No sugar. Maybe we can just sit and talk. You just got here.”
“We'll talk tomorrow, Dana.”
She smiled and nodded. She took him over to her room. She would stay in the room where she had set up an office. The couch there had served as a bed for many before, and she was ok with using it, but she could have never put her dad in there.
“Hey dad, there’s an extra blanket here, in case you get cold,” she said, and left him in the room after giving him a glass of water for his medicine.

The lasagna went into the fridge; she didn’t see the point of getting some just for herself by the end of the evening. She didn’t like to cook and she had spent quite some time in the kitchen just to make sure it was all perfect. She even put extra cheese in it. It wouldn’t taste the same the day after, but she tried not to think about it. She told herself it wasn’t that important after all.

She couldn’t sleep that night. She had trouble sleeping and most nights she tried to not get in bed before two in the morning, she knew she’d stay in bed for hours before she could drift away. That night was a little worse than usual. She kept going over everything she said that evening, trying to find the moment when something went wrong. I should have taken him out to eat instead of cooking, she thought.

The next day her dad woke up a little before the sun came out. She heard him looking for something in the kitchen. It was too early for her, so she just stayed in the couch. She had gone back to sleep when he came in the room, telling her he couldn’t find the bowls. She glanced at the clock but couldn’t see the time. The numbers in the clock seemed to had disappeared during the night, or maybe she was still dreaming.
“Don’t get up,” he said, “just tell me where the bowls are.”
She started at him for a moment, while her brain processed whatever he had just said to her.
“Dana, I found the cereal and the milk, but I can’t find the bowls. Do you not have any?”
People don’t eat breakfast right after waking up, she thought. He must have been very hungry. She got up, the lack of sleep had caused a slight headache. She looked for the biggest bowl she had and gave it to him. She looked at the clock and saw it was six thirty. Growing up, her dad was the one waking up the whole family on Saturdays. He wouldn’t let the kids sleep in because he wanted everyone to have breakfast together. He also made the kids prepare breakfast, he used to say their mother had to put up with that all week long and Saturdays was their turn. Daniel, the youngest of the three, was the last one to get up and the slowest to get to the kitchen to help. He was the baby of the family, so their dad was more forgiving with him than with Chris and Dana.
After getting him the bowl, Dana sat with her dad while he ate his cereal. She started telling him about her plans to take him downtown and then to the modern art museum. They had a Dali traveling exhibit she knew he’d love. She even had plans to stop by her office so that he could see where she worked. So that he could go back home and tell her mom how nice the building was and how she well she was doing at her job. But he looked confused, like there was something missing from the day’s plans. His face was so easy to read, she thought. His expression was the exact same one he had when they talked about art school and he saw the catalog of studies. That day he made fun of every single class listed in the section of the catalog. From the art history to the drawing classes, it all had seemed ridiculous to him. He wanted her to study architecture or engineering, not art. She was great at math and he told her he didn’t want her to waste her brains in something that wasn’t worth it. That night she cried and he apologized and told her to do whatever she wanted, but still was surprised when she decided to still major in art. He had the same expression from that day. And she was still smiling, as if she hadn’t noticed.
“Well,” he said, “what about that boyfriend of yours? I thought I’d meet him today.”
“He’s coming by on Monday. I told him the weekend was ours.”
“Dana, if you’re marrying him I need to meet him. And a three minute chat with him’s not going to be enough. Tell him to come today so that I can talk to him and see if he’s any good.”
“He’s a sports’ reporter, so he’s out of town covering some game. He’ll be here on Monday. You’ll get to meet him. But listen, we’ve only gone out for a couple of months. I never said I’ll marry him.”
Her dad looked at her for a moment and didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His eyes were big and his pupils wide open. His face got red and then she knew she shouldn’t have said anything about marriage. He finished his cereal and got up. Not saying a word.
She saw him walk into the kitchen and put the bowl in the sink. “Hey, dad, I just want to show you around the city. Forget about the Dali exhibit, we’ll just go wherever you want. We can even go to the library, you’ll love it. It’s huge and the building is amazing.”
She had so many things in mind. Where to go, what to do, what to see, what to talk about, she even had in mind the right places to take pictures of them together. She would try not to mention her boyfriend anymore, or marriage.

They got ready to leave and while she was looking for some change for the bus and getting her small camera he waited in the living room. He kept looking around, still feeling like a stranger in his daughter’s home, when he looked in the blue chair. It was his favorite book by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. He picked it up and saw some of the underlining was in the same places he had underlined his copy of the book. He even checked the inside cover for his name, he thought it might be his and maybe Dana had grabbed it when she moved. But it wasn’t his. It had her name and a date. Maybe it was the date she had bought it.
He put down the book on the table next to the blue chair. He wondered if that was also her favorite book. She came out of the room with a little bag, ready to go. He could tell she was excited. Her face was so easy to read.
Before she opened the door he said he wouldn’t be here on Monday. If she wanted him to meet her boyfriend she would have to ask him to come by later that day or Sunday morning. “I’m leaving tomorrow night. I don’t want to get to Chris’ house in the middle of the week. I rather he receives me before he starts his week.”
Dana was standing in front of the door. If she had just gotten out a little faster she wouldn’t have to be standing in from of that door, not knowing what to feel. She wouldn’t have to have to turn back and face him. She couldn’t pretend what he’d just say didn’t matter.
“You just got here,” she said.
Her face felt warm. She knew he would be able to tell she was upset.
“And you want to leave already?” she said, as her voice was breaking up.
“I haven’t seen Chris in a long time--”
“You haven’t seen me in a long time.” She couldn’t let him finish. She didn’t want to hear him say anything else. Everything he’d said so far was more than enough.
So she turned around and looked at him.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“No. — Why do you want to leave so soon? Chris knows you’re staying with me for a few days. You don’t have to leave tomorrow. I don’t know what else to do so that you’ll love me again. You used to talk to me. We were friends, but then you stopped talking to me. You think I didn’t know you were there all those times I asked to talk to you? You didn’t even want to hear my voice. And then you come here and you don’t even want to eat the food I make. What is it that’s so wrong about me? You need to tell me because I can’t figure it out. You got here and you didn’t even hug me. After all these years. You have no idea how excited I was to see you again. I didn’t know you didn’t want to see me.”
“You were the one who left, not me,” he said.
“This job was a great opportunity and you knew it. I needed your support. I didn’t leave you I just wanted to be somebody. Do something with my life. Life is like chess, remember? You have to think of the next move, you have to sacrifice some things if you want to win. You told me that.”
“Living alone, away from your family is not the best for you. You need someone to take care of you.”
“Is that the best for me? Depending on someone else? You don’t know what the best for me is, you don’t even care enough to ask me how I am now. You’ve never wanted to know about my job. You don’t like my photos or my friends. I even thought you didn’t like my paintings. You never said anything about them until I stopped painting. I’ve worked hard to make you proud. And I don’t know what else to do. — I need you in my life, dad. I need you to celebrate with me when I’m happy. I need you to talk to me like we did when I was a kid. I’m still here. I still need to know you love me. I didn’t move here to erase you from my life. I moved here to keep making you proud. I don’t know what else I can do. I don’t know how to get you back. I’m tired of trying so hard to be the best I can be, to not let you down. I’m tired.” She said as she sat down on the blue chair. Her legs couldn’t bear the weigh of her body anymore. She felt as if all her energy had gotten out of her body with every word she’d said to him. This wasn’t the day she’d plan, but she felt free. She didn’t know what would happen after that. He was still standing in front of her in silence. She expected him to leave that very morning, after all she’d said. He had chosen to leave her out of his life, she couldn’t make him forgive her for a sin she never committed. She would hold on to anything she could; the chessboard, that picture of them by the bookshelf, the simpler times when her dad loved her. But there was nothing else she could do about the future, or this moment.
He saw her in the blue chair and didn’t see his little daughter anymore. She was strong and everything she said reminded him of what he’d once said to his dad after returning from years of studying abroad. She was just like him. So he turned and went inside the room where he spent the night. And when he came out he was holding the chessboard she had left on the night table.
“Do you want to play?” he said, and put the board on the table. “All these years you’ve made me proud. I look for your photos on that newspaper.”
“Do you want coffee?” she said while getting up from the blue chair. She would hold on to the few words he’d said that morning.
He had told her what he wished his dad would have said. And he smiled and said yes to coffee, “A little bit of milk and no sugar.”

Noticias Libres

Needless to say, I am excited.

:D
http://www.nwanews.com/nl/Noticias/4318/

There's the link for the story.

Urge to escape

I have been letting myself down a lot lately, contradicting my very nature.
I've come to crash again great obstacles beyond my control and even when I know the most powerful thing I have against them is my attitude and outlook, I have let frustration take over my heart.....
This cannot be so. I am not this. I have to get up and be what I've always been. And smile, even when I don't have a peso in my pocket and it seems I need about a million. Or when I don't have the energy to move a finger, but I need to move a mountain.
I have to look for the energy and the hope outside myself. I don't have them. I know that. Give me the heart to come back. I want to come back to You, but I'm on the way. Don't let me be on the way. Let me escape and find Your open arms. I need a hug from you, or maybe..... un jalon de orejas. But I need to feel You, somehow, in this numbness of mine.

Something Beautiful

Sometimes things are better said with borrowed words... maybe words better heard with music. As I sit in front of this screen, once again, I wonder how hot it is outside and how I could just go out and stand under the sun until I feel sweat coming down my forehead. Just so I can feel alive. Sometimes we need prove of that, sometimes it's necessary to get out of the cool routine I hate so much. Sometimes we need to feel thirst to remember what it's like to feel human.

Close my eyes and hold my heart.
Cover me and make me something.
Change this something normal into something beautiful.

What I get from my reflection isn't what I thought I'd see.
Give me reason to believe you'd never keep me incomplete.
Will you untie this loss of mine, it easily defines me.
Do you see it on my face?
That all I can think about is how long I've been waiting to feel you move me.

And I'm still fighting for the world to break these chains.
And I still pray when I look in your eyes.
You stare right back down into something beautiful.

Email

I sent my dad an email today, after not hearing from him in so long.
39 words.

I've tried hard through the years. And this is what I ended up with, 39 words. And it might be because forget doesn't come with forgive, as people believe.

I'm keeping some mistakes

I had a shirt I loved to wear, it read, in Spanish "I'm not perfect, just forgiven." And I guess I thought, for the longest time, that grace would justify my imperfections... but then, one day, that just seemed wrong to me. Grace? justifying me? It felt as I was taking it more as an excuse for my imperfections and I guess it got too complicated and so I just stopped thinking about it. That might have been a mistake, or maybe not. Truth is, I don't know. I don't know what I should do with those questions and so I stopped asking them at loud and started embracing palpable things and wanting to make those impalpable ones into something else..... and suddenly I was called a surrealist painter.

And truth is, I'm just trying to get it. And I never seem to even come close that knowledge I'm looking for... and just like I'm with words (you see, a little confused and random) I am with pictures, images, lines. Everything about me seems to be mixed up.

But then, there are times of clarity where things just seemed to fit. And then I'm happy, and so calm. Even when I'm a bag full of mistakes and regrets... because I regret so much. I regret not calling April that summer she was gone, I regret not hugging my dad goodbye, and not writing back, and not calling back, and I regret not saying what I feel most of the time. And I regret so many things I write in this blog of my confusions.... but then again, those are my mistakes, and sometimes... sometimes I am my mistakes. And so I'm keeping them, because they make my story along with happy times and smiles. And even when I don't know what I wanted to say when I started writing this, I feel so much better. As if embracing imperfections is somehow not as bad as it sounds.

always.

Mourning.... a tribute to Keren

Mourning

Today I mourn the end of an era...
of memories made,
of stories told,
of healing hearts,
of watery eyes.

Today I say goodbye
today I let go and open my arms
to the next treasured placed in my hand.
Today I'm taken away form your arms
Today I float in the air
waiting to be caught by the future.

Today I mourn you...
your contagious smile,
your challenging thoughts,
your caring heart,
and my love for you.

Love that will not disapear because you're gone.
Love that will grow...
trust that will be stronger.
And confidence that you're just paving the way.

Today I wipe my tears
I let go
I try to leave with you a last memory
a last laugh
a last tear
at last...

posted by Quotable_keb at 12:45 AM on 4.28.2006

this poem was written by Keren.
And is now a tribute to her.
Your legacy will live in the lives of those who loved you, and in those whose life you made a bit brighter and happier.
You're with God now.

Every wish hides a wish

I don't know if that's a saying, or it my friend Ryan made it up as a line
of one of his poems, or if it is one of those invisible truths that's known
by everyone but only understood by some. Or maybe it is just a saying that
someone made up in hope to understand her fears.

What's the wish behind each fear? Is someone who's afraid of dying just
wishing to be eternal, to remain in the life of her loved ones forever, to
live and be able to feel the breeze of cool night and the pain in the legs
of the person who has walked for too long? What are we wishing for, when we
fear death? What are we wishing for?

I sit here, confused about things, because sometimes I my thoughts can't
reach beyond this ceiling. And I wonder if there's a cure for such
impediment. And if maybe love is the answer. Which sounds like such cliché,
but then... who knows, maybe, in reality is just true.

Today, I'm afraid of crying.
And I don't know what I'm wishing for.
A tribute and respects are in order for a life.

A dream made me wake up sad today

Caminé en los pasillos de la iglesia que me vió crecer. Y vi la puerta negra del lado donde el piano estaba. Y vi los microfonos que se usaban y la tarima. Y me dio miedo ver a la gente directamente a los ojos, porque no me conocian. Y no me dejaban estacionar mi carro en frente de la iglesia, porque no tenia mucho dinero o una familia de nombre. Y vi a mi mami diciendo algo que movio mi alma, algo que ya se me olvidó, pero que todavia me hace sentir triste.

Que será que me asusta tanto volver a donde fui feliz por tanto tiempo? Donde tengo tantas memorias de niña? Por qué habre visto el nombre de la iglesia en el mural cambiado... con una letra mediocre, y sentí ganas de rehacer ese diseño? Por qué me habra entristesido ese sueño, tanto que desperté sintiendome fuera de lugar?

Vi las cortinas que bailaban con la brisa que entraba por las ventanas de aquella iglesia donde descubri mi llamado al servicio, pero no senti la paz que solia sentir al cerrar los ojos y dejar aquella brisa tocarme como si fuera el mismo susurro de Dios.

Eating it up

I am reading "Playing with Boys" by Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez and I'm just eating it up, this, of course, considering that I'm a slow reader in my second language (OK, I'm also kinda slow in Spanish, but in English at least I have a bit of an excuse for it. Which is the reason why I'm fonder of short stories, because in a book, by the time I get to the last few pages I have to go back to the beginning if there's something super crucial to remember that I have already forgotten because it took me so dang long to get to those final pages. But some books are just so good and capture in a way I can't not read them, like the last one I read "For One More Day" which was amazing! And I thought I wouldn't like it-- OK, enough for the parenthesis...).

I bought "Playing with Boys" last year. After reading the "Dirty Girls Social Club" (another book I almost didn't give a chance to) I decided to get this one, I think I bought it about the time the paperback edition came out, because I got in on a sale at the bookstore by the mall. I ended up loving those sucias from the moment I read how Usnavys got her name. That was pretty great! Very nice, Mrs. Valdes-Rodriguez captured me with those few lines and made me read the book and then buy the other one. Anyway... (I think I got sidetracked again), I was going to say that I tried to start reading "Playing with Boys" when I fist got it, but for some reason I didn't like it at first, so I put it down. It might also have been that I couldn't fit any pleasure reading time in between my textbooks, work, projects, art work, and leadership activities at the UA. But this time I just picked it up and started, and I think the characters (for far) are fun and I'm liking them. And I have to say, I really got hooked when I read about Olivia and how she lived some of the war in El Salvador. It's a long story of why I love to read about the war so much. I think it has to do with the fact I sometimes feel empty as if I had to have all that knowledge running through my veins, but really can't because I was just born in the middle of the conflict (Though I have to mention at this point that the misspelling of Perquin in the second mention of it in the novel was a real turn off, not that I'm a perfect speller, but it's my country... maybe if it had been somewhere else I wouldn't have noticed, but Perquin.... I'm still not over it.) I also got interested in Olivia because she wanted to write about her mom. Just about two months ago, at the beginning of June when I was at the AAUW student conference in DC with the student advisory council chicas and Jenn asked what our first book would be about I told them it would be about my mom... and I told them why. I didn't start Tar Baby yet, I figured I'd focus on one book at the time, because these aren't textbooks dang it! I could read those from here and there and be fine with it, but I want to enjoy my reading more now and have time to.... taste it :)