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Wednesday, October 6, 2010
I Want to Remember
I want to remember
crawling into bed beside you
the way I remember
reading a poem aloud for the first time.
Remember how my teeth tasted of blood
as I traced my tongue
along each word,
dissecting every letter
before letting them spill and dribble
over my chin.
I want to remember you
as if your body were the machete
my abuela picked mangoes with.
The smooth blades of your fingers
waiting to unleash
flesh ripe with imagination.
Pressing myself into your back,
I let you linger in the soft pink
of where throat meets infinite matter.
Your skin smells of
the dried leaves of el yagrumo
after its rained
for the first time in months.
How I wish I could reach my fingertips
into the puddles of your shoulders,
paint my face
with the earth of your heart
and wait patiently for the coquis of your eyes
to come out so I may catch them,
collect them in old glass jars
and hang them from
the ceiling of my small arms
before making love to you
in the halo of their song.
Your hands trace
the outline of my
thoughts, lips, breath, hips
as though they were sepia toned
photographs of beloved childhood memories.
Every freckle reads like a last glimpse,
every scar a thunderstorm in July,
every curve your father's favorite
Pablo Neruda poem.
It's all yours. It's always been yours.
And as I begin to fall asleep,
my neck drunk on the kisses
of your long black eyelashes,
you cup my face
in the lines of your hands,
settle the wet of your mouth
over my nose,
and exhale all the obscure plants
that have separated my chest
from your fragrance.
Here. In the shade of wilted prayers
and broken bookshelves,
I have found our love.
Que caigamos siempre
de la altitud infinito.
**Written 2009, published in my undergraduate thesis titled Y Para Borinquen
crawling into bed beside you
the way I remember
reading a poem aloud for the first time.
Remember how my teeth tasted of blood
as I traced my tongue
along each word,
dissecting every letter
before letting them spill and dribble
over my chin.
I want to remember you
as if your body were the machete
my abuela picked mangoes with.
The smooth blades of your fingers
waiting to unleash
flesh ripe with imagination.
Pressing myself into your back,
I let you linger in the soft pink
of where throat meets infinite matter.
the dried leaves of el yagrumo
after its rained
for the first time in months.
How I wish I could reach my fingertips
into the puddles of your shoulders,
paint my face
with the earth of your heart
and wait patiently for the coquis of your eyes
to come out so I may catch them,
collect them in old glass jars
and hang them from
the ceiling of my small arms
before making love to you
in the halo of their song.
Your hands trace
the outline of my
thoughts, lips, breath, hips
as though they were sepia toned
photographs of beloved childhood memories.
Every freckle reads like a last glimpse,
every scar a thunderstorm in July,
every curve your father's favorite
Pablo Neruda poem.
It's all yours. It's always been yours.
And as I begin to fall asleep,
my neck drunk on the kisses
of your long black eyelashes,
you cup my face
in the lines of your hands,
settle the wet of your mouth
over my nose,
and exhale all the obscure plants
that have separated my chest
from your fragrance.
Here. In the shade of wilted prayers
and broken bookshelves,
I have found our love.
Que caigamos siempre
de la altitud infinito.
**Written 2009, published in my undergraduate thesis titled Y Para Borinquen
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Mi sangre es me orgullo.
How do we measure our success?
I've found myself scribbling notes in a small notebook I've carried around since I left Funky Door where I kept a daily log of what I accomplished. Only now those small squares checked neatly with each task completed have been replaced with passing thoughts, stories that come in an instant and are left undeveloped. Brain fetuses, if you will.
Andrew needs yellow onions. I miss my mother. His grandfather's hands seem so delicate now that he faces death. Download The Last Samurai's soundtrack, you've forgotten how much you've missed it until this exact moment.
It's true, about your grandpa Joe I mean. The idea came to me when we were visiting him in Modesto. Your mother and Ana had left with Aaron to try and find the changing room for the baby, leaving your father, you, your grandparents and myself. Your father was too busying watching the game, blaring indefinitely on the TV perched atop the machines your grandfather was tied to. The two of you spoke of inconsequential things: the weather in New York, how tall Max had grown and what his plans for the upcoming holidays were. Sitting in the slopped plastic blue chair, I crossed my legs and trained my eyes on the bloated veins of your grandfather's arm rather than the shadows of his pale face. I wanted to blend away into the walls rather than endure another minute of feeling so absolutely isolated - at least your mother's family remembered my name, knew that I had graduated from college over a year and a half ago. But I was at a loss with your father's family. He himself had shown little interest in getting to know me, how could I expect his father to?
"Mare-e-l, is it?" I cringed, trying quickly to relax my face before they could perceive how the common mispronunciation still affected me. "Yes?" The pink of my palms turning white with anticipation.
"How was Florida?"
I smiled and gave some bullshit answer. Who was I to be Debbie Downer when the man was on what could potentially be his death bed? No one - not even those who found out their father had cheated on their mother after 26 years of marriage and who was losing their family home and was unemployed without a dollar to their name - could compete with open heart surgery. It wasn't worth it. He nodded, pulling his night gown tighter around his exposed chest and turned to you and your father, rambling on about hot rods and car shows.
That's when I saw your grandmother.
I don't know the circumstances under which your grandparents fell in love, nor am I aware of how they chose to raise their five sons. I'm not sure if it ever occurred to them during their life together if they were unhappy or if either ever doubted their faith in God. But in the few minutes I watched you grandmother shuffle her size five feet across the dirty hospital tiles, I saw a woman afraid of losing her husband. It was a quiet fear, but it filled the room despite her efforts to hide it. Sitting at the edge of your grandpa's bed, she twisted her hands, her eyes glassy as she fell in and out of the conversation she hadn't been invited to join. I couldn't tell you if she was afraid of death itself or being alone. Maybe it was having to face something completely out of her control. Whatever it was, it had taken her captive - robbing her of her courage and poise. I wish I could have been strong enough for the both of us. I wanted to shake your father and convince him to comfort her. I wish I could have been as personable as my mother in that moment, disregarding the emotional distance between us and taking her frail body into my arms. I wanted to ask her in what successes she had chosen to measure her life - maybe I could have returned to her in that moment all that she had lost and which seemed to spill freely among us.
I wish, but it nearly 8 o'clock and therefore time for your grandfather's sponge bath and medication. So instead of being strong, I averted my eyes and said goodnight and promised to visit with you soon. A promise as empty as I felt.
Over these few months, I've put into question constantly what my successes would be. I want to know that if my heart were to give out at any moment, I would be proud of myself. Of my failures, my triumphs, my misfortunes, my decisions, my writing, my ability to love, all that I had seen and discovered. But stepping into the elevator, surrounded by cold stainless steel and the small whimpers of your tired niece, I couldn't account for any of those things.
Who was I, really? And who could I choose to be? More importantly, how does one differentiate those two entities?
I wish I could tell myself.
I've found myself scribbling notes in a small notebook I've carried around since I left Funky Door where I kept a daily log of what I accomplished. Only now those small squares checked neatly with each task completed have been replaced with passing thoughts, stories that come in an instant and are left undeveloped. Brain fetuses, if you will.
Andrew needs yellow onions. I miss my mother. His grandfather's hands seem so delicate now that he faces death. Download The Last Samurai's soundtrack, you've forgotten how much you've missed it until this exact moment.
It's true, about your grandpa Joe I mean. The idea came to me when we were visiting him in Modesto. Your mother and Ana had left with Aaron to try and find the changing room for the baby, leaving your father, you, your grandparents and myself. Your father was too busying watching the game, blaring indefinitely on the TV perched atop the machines your grandfather was tied to. The two of you spoke of inconsequential things: the weather in New York, how tall Max had grown and what his plans for the upcoming holidays were. Sitting in the slopped plastic blue chair, I crossed my legs and trained my eyes on the bloated veins of your grandfather's arm rather than the shadows of his pale face. I wanted to blend away into the walls rather than endure another minute of feeling so absolutely isolated - at least your mother's family remembered my name, knew that I had graduated from college over a year and a half ago. But I was at a loss with your father's family. He himself had shown little interest in getting to know me, how could I expect his father to?
"Mare-e-l, is it?" I cringed, trying quickly to relax my face before they could perceive how the common mispronunciation still affected me. "Yes?" The pink of my palms turning white with anticipation.
"How was Florida?"
I smiled and gave some bullshit answer. Who was I to be Debbie Downer when the man was on what could potentially be his death bed? No one - not even those who found out their father had cheated on their mother after 26 years of marriage and who was losing their family home and was unemployed without a dollar to their name - could compete with open heart surgery. It wasn't worth it. He nodded, pulling his night gown tighter around his exposed chest and turned to you and your father, rambling on about hot rods and car shows.
That's when I saw your grandmother.
I don't know the circumstances under which your grandparents fell in love, nor am I aware of how they chose to raise their five sons. I'm not sure if it ever occurred to them during their life together if they were unhappy or if either ever doubted their faith in God. But in the few minutes I watched you grandmother shuffle her size five feet across the dirty hospital tiles, I saw a woman afraid of losing her husband. It was a quiet fear, but it filled the room despite her efforts to hide it. Sitting at the edge of your grandpa's bed, she twisted her hands, her eyes glassy as she fell in and out of the conversation she hadn't been invited to join. I couldn't tell you if she was afraid of death itself or being alone. Maybe it was having to face something completely out of her control. Whatever it was, it had taken her captive - robbing her of her courage and poise. I wish I could have been strong enough for the both of us. I wanted to shake your father and convince him to comfort her. I wish I could have been as personable as my mother in that moment, disregarding the emotional distance between us and taking her frail body into my arms. I wanted to ask her in what successes she had chosen to measure her life - maybe I could have returned to her in that moment all that she had lost and which seemed to spill freely among us.
I wish, but it nearly 8 o'clock and therefore time for your grandfather's sponge bath and medication. So instead of being strong, I averted my eyes and said goodnight and promised to visit with you soon. A promise as empty as I felt.
Over these few months, I've put into question constantly what my successes would be. I want to know that if my heart were to give out at any moment, I would be proud of myself. Of my failures, my triumphs, my misfortunes, my decisions, my writing, my ability to love, all that I had seen and discovered. But stepping into the elevator, surrounded by cold stainless steel and the small whimpers of your tired niece, I couldn't account for any of those things.
Who was I, really? And who could I choose to be? More importantly, how does one differentiate those two entities?
I wish I could tell myself.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Restless.
Andrew's laptop battery is at 52% and dropping, so I'm going to make this more a stream of consciousness than a developed post. Mostly because I need it, and partly because I hope someone skims this while browsing through the endless expanse of blogs on this site and happens across this. If that's you, I hope you read this and relate, maybe even find something that settles with you.
Listen. Carefully. Without all that internal bullshit you claim to be so important. The daily strife and let downs that come with age - the realities and responsibilities that are required of you, regardless if you've invited them into your life or not. Let it go. Give yourself permission to take a break for a minute and really dig into what's bothering you.
I know this isn't what you had anticipated. Who could have foreseen what being 23-years-old would entail? But remember that you're only 23. You're old enough to realize that life is difficult and as a result there will be days you feel defeated and inconsequential. But refrain from allowing yourself to only see who are by the wrongs taken against you, by the scars that now seem to litter the soft pink flesh of where wrist meets arm.
You are too young to bend beneath this and become the calloused shell of the entity you instead wished to become.
46%. Life is not black and white, invite yourself to take refuge in that. In shades of gray comes beauty - an endless ability to live without boundaries, without inhibition. Escape the confines of your mind and the walls you've put up against yourself.
Don't make it a habit to find comfort in your sadness or she may never leave. Treat her like a child. Sit with her from time to time, take her into your lap and study her, allowing her to take your full attention. But at night, you must be strong. No matter how much she may beg and scream, you must be strong. You cannot pacify her by letting her into your bed or she will stay with you, taking refuge in the dark shadows of your skin. And as you grow, so she will shrink away until she is no longer needed.
Stand up to what has been given to you. Take pride in what is asked of you, not matter how difficult the task. These moments and how you handle them will define you, not your moments of weakness nor the shortcomings you find an easy excuse.
Be strong. Above all else have courage and faith - if in nothing else, than have it in yourself. You are not the drinking vice that grips your mother, you are not the jobs you have been repeatedly turned down for, you are not the cancerous tumors in you grandmother's brain, you are not the woman your father had an affair with, you are not the fire that destroyed your best friend's childhood home.
Let. It. Go.
You are none of these things, so pardon the offenses they have brought against your understanding of what life is. They're apart of life, but they are nothing more than insignificant details. Do not allow them to pock your face, to rot beneath your fingernails, or wait in the wet recesses of your brain like some forgotten grenade.
LET. IT. GO!
Scream until you feel the blood in your throat rise. Run until your bones break. Cry until you've thrown up. And when you are done, face all those things, hold them up to the light of your heart so you may see how they are transparent.
They are not you.
And when you know this as an indefinite truth, kiss them on the mouth and send them forever into the night. Release forever what it is you see as black and white!
They are not you. Be strong.
38%.
Listen. Carefully. Without all that internal bullshit you claim to be so important. The daily strife and let downs that come with age - the realities and responsibilities that are required of you, regardless if you've invited them into your life or not. Let it go. Give yourself permission to take a break for a minute and really dig into what's bothering you.
I know this isn't what you had anticipated. Who could have foreseen what being 23-years-old would entail? But remember that you're only 23. You're old enough to realize that life is difficult and as a result there will be days you feel defeated and inconsequential. But refrain from allowing yourself to only see who are by the wrongs taken against you, by the scars that now seem to litter the soft pink flesh of where wrist meets arm.
You are too young to bend beneath this and become the calloused shell of the entity you instead wished to become.
46%. Life is not black and white, invite yourself to take refuge in that. In shades of gray comes beauty - an endless ability to live without boundaries, without inhibition. Escape the confines of your mind and the walls you've put up against yourself.
Don't make it a habit to find comfort in your sadness or she may never leave. Treat her like a child. Sit with her from time to time, take her into your lap and study her, allowing her to take your full attention. But at night, you must be strong. No matter how much she may beg and scream, you must be strong. You cannot pacify her by letting her into your bed or she will stay with you, taking refuge in the dark shadows of your skin. And as you grow, so she will shrink away until she is no longer needed.
Stand up to what has been given to you. Take pride in what is asked of you, not matter how difficult the task. These moments and how you handle them will define you, not your moments of weakness nor the shortcomings you find an easy excuse.
Be strong. Above all else have courage and faith - if in nothing else, than have it in yourself. You are not the drinking vice that grips your mother, you are not the jobs you have been repeatedly turned down for, you are not the cancerous tumors in you grandmother's brain, you are not the woman your father had an affair with, you are not the fire that destroyed your best friend's childhood home.
Let. It. Go.
You are none of these things, so pardon the offenses they have brought against your understanding of what life is. They're apart of life, but they are nothing more than insignificant details. Do not allow them to pock your face, to rot beneath your fingernails, or wait in the wet recesses of your brain like some forgotten grenade.
LET. IT. GO!
Scream until you feel the blood in your throat rise. Run until your bones break. Cry until you've thrown up. And when you are done, face all those things, hold them up to the light of your heart so you may see how they are transparent.
They are not you.
And when you know this as an indefinite truth, kiss them on the mouth and send them forever into the night. Release forever what it is you see as black and white!
They are not you. Be strong.
38%.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Gustavo Santaolalla: Leyendo en el hospital
(**Thinking of this as an addition to my last post. This song definitely influenced many a journal session for me. I invite it to do the same for you.)
Writing as a means...
When I was a sophomore at the University of Tampa, I partook in a class titled "writing as a means of self-discovery." I had heard mixed reviews on the class, but more than anything, I was looking for an outlet to relieve a backup in my writing I was experiencing at the time due to a number of cross-roads I had come to in my life. For one, I had made the decision to transfer after my best friend - only friend in Tampa, to be completely honest - and roommate admitted to me she was looking to go back to Colorado. Another being I had unexpectedly fallen in love (Ugh, I just cringe at the thought of him actually being a factor in my decision making at the time, but I hadn't dated in nearly two years and was somewhat desperate. So, moving along...) with a friend of a friend living in San Rafael who wanted nothing more than for me to move back and be with him. Add the fact that despite my severe hatred of Tampa, my family lived two hours away whom I was very close with and saw often and there you had it - one gigantic mind fuck for my 19-year-old self to handle. So, what did I do? I signed up for the class and prayed that the answers were somewhere within myself only needing some arbitrary writing prompt found on my 10 plus page syllabus to be set free.
Funny how life seem to repeat itself? Different names and places, of course. Maybe even different circumstances, different dilemmas. Yet a dilemma nonetheless. Understanding this, it occurred to me one night to revisit that syllabus and start the process over again. Only I had lost it in one of my many cross-country trips and turned to facebook stalking to try and find one of the classes ex-students for help. Luckily it didn't take long, and tonight I'd like to share with you the list of questions that in many ways changed me and my writing forever. Plan on having many of my answers posted here among my other posts. Whatever you find missing are those pieces I'm sure I still find private and hard to share. After all, we can't go exposing all of ourselves to one another...I don't plan to until I'm at least in my mid-60s anyway.
My only request is that if you choose to use these questions, to only do that for yourself and not go re-printing things or claiming them to be your own ideas. Also what's listed below isn't verbatim to what was given to me originally. The person who was so kind to help me did have some of the questions written out, but others were simply guessed at based on her own answers. Enjoy <3
WRITING AS A MEANS OF SELF-DISCOVERY
Responsive Journal Questions
Illustrations and other scraps are encouraged !!!
1. write 5 sentences about a time when you felt you were genuinely sensitive to another human being’s feelings or situation.
2. write 5 sentences about a time when you either lost or found faith in yourself.
3. write 5 sentences about the first trip you remember taking as a child
4. write 5 sentences about stress and what makes you feel that way
5. who are you particularly sorry you’ve lost touch with?
6. who do you confide in?
7. who seems to most enjoy your company?
8. what makes you laugh?
9. recall a time when you really wish you’d said “yes” but didn’t.
10. what things do you find yourself most envious of?
11. describe the happiest people you’ve known.
12. make a list of five true compliments you could give yourself. Make a list of five each to give your parents and siblings. If this is hard, describe why.
13. describe the thing that you would most love to do that you’ve been putting off for some future time.
14.how would you imagine and like to be more respected in personal or professional ways than you feel you currently are?
15. Over the course of your life, who were the people who most helped you to believe in yourself and how did they do so ?
16. Write one paragraph each about how you are like each of your parents… the good and the ill.
17.Look down the road ten years in to the future. List the top three goals you have for the person you will be at that point. In a well developed paragraph for each goal, examine the value to you of that goal. In another well-developed paragraph for each, plan your route to reach that goal.
18. Without thinking about it first, write down the first five things that come to your mind in response to the question “what are things to be afraid of?” After you’ve written your list, write down the first five things you would have been afraid of at six years old. Then look over your lists and think about why each thing might be on it. Write one paragraph about two of the items on each list.
19. “Pages for an autobiography”
a . record as many new year’s eves as you can recall, going back as far as you can recall.
b . Write about all of your “best friends” going back as far as you can recall.
c . Write about learning each of the following for the first time:
i. Riding a bike
ii. Dancing
iii. Playing chess
iv. First kiss
v. Driving
vi. Typing
vii. Manners
viii. Using a computer
d. Write about all of the places you’ve lived.
e. Write about the first people, other than your family, that you remember in your life.
f. Write about all the vacations you’ve gone on, as far back as you can recall.
g. Write about things you’ve collected / collect now
h. Did you have a first love?
i. Write about any serious injuries you’ve had.
j. Write about all of the religious institutions or places of worship you’ve attended.
k. Write about the gifts that you have given your parents
l. Write about the last 10 times you’ve cried
m. Name all the pets you’ve had.
n. What was your first paycheck?
o. List all the things you’ve wanted to be (professions/careers)
p. When were you your happiest/saddest?
q. List your greatest successes/failures.
r. List books that have touched your life.
s. Who have you been in love with?
t. What makes you angry?
u. Write about outfits/clothing items/etc that you have been very attached to, as far back as you can recall
v. List a dozen books you’d like to read
w. List your fondest memories of your mother and your father
x. List any memories you have attached to scent
y. Is there anyone in your family you cant stand?
z. Is there any friend that you’ve helped recently? How?
20. Make a list of things you have, and things you don’t have, but need.
21. Write 5 adjectives about yourself. Survey 5 people close to you and get their answers to this same question. look for similarities.
Make comments on the outcome.
22. Complete the statements:
a. I’d be willing to die for…
b. I would be willing to physically fight for…
c. I would argue strongly in favor of…
d. I would quietly take a position in favor of…
e. I will share only with my friends my belief that…
f. I prefer to keep to myself my belief that…
23. Consider the following incomplete sentence: “I respect _________” Fill in the blank with the first ten things that come to mind. Repeat for each parent. Reflect on each list with at least one paragraph.
24. Recall a time when you felt a need to start protecting yourself. What prompted it? How did you feel? How have you continued to protect yourself?
25. List 5 people, non-family, you are grateful for, and why?
26. What were your early nightmares, and why were they scary?
What are your current nightmares, and why are they scary?
27. Describe a time or two that really tested your integrity or honesty.
28. What should a mother teach her daughter? What should a father say to a daughter?
29. If you hope to marry… how would it be similar or different from your parents ?
30. Who do you believe would make the greatest sacrifice for you?
31. Thank someone.
32. What do you think you “can’t?”
33. When can’t you say no? Who is it hard to say no to?
34. The most free, bold way you’ve expressed love…
35. What are you still holding onto that you'd be happier if you let go?
36. What problem have you been putting off facing? Describe it. How and why have you been putting it off?
37. Can you recall a tine that felt like a misfortune, even a disaster, but turned out to be a blessing?
38. What 3 or 4 things could you do to infuse your life with more beauty?
39. Describe the most significant disillusionment in your life. What illusions crumbled? What truths took their place?
40. “only the mirror can tell use who we really are…” agree or disagree? Write a 2-page essay on this.
41, Write about someone you’ve seriously wronged and never fully apologized to. Write a sincere apology.
42. For 6 nights in a row, record 5 streaming minutes of thought. No filters.
43. Complete “I am the kind of person who…” leave room to continue this exercise
as it changes or evolves.
44. List 7 of the people that you know best. For 3 of them, in their voice, complete “I am the kind of person who…” as you previously did for yourself.
45. Write, at any length you can, about your earliest memory.
46. Write about a time:
a. You were part of a team or group
b. Have these times been frequent enough?
47. Pick someone from your list of people in #44 and write a 5-minute stream of thought for them… like you did in #42.
48. Your Lifeline
a. Draw out your actual lifeline- birth, current and death.
b. Who are you? (nouns)
c. Your epitaph
d. Your obituary
e. Write about two ideal days in your ideal life
f. Your life inventory
i. Happiest period of your life
ii. A turning point
iii. Your lowest point
iv. What you want to stop
v. Things to get better at
vi. A peak experience
vii. Peak experiences you'd LIKE to have
viii. Values you are struggling to establish
ix. One missed opportunity
x. What’s something you want to start doing now?
g. Write and sign a “self-contract” about what you will commit to do for yourself.
49. Think back upon your life to an experience you feel may have scarred you, perhaps a time of intense or painful abandonment, betrayal, victimization, violation or shame. Write at least 2 pages.
50. Re-read what you just wrote in #49… now write about healing.
51. The most important things I believe about love are…
52. “Ask for what you want.” What do you wish you’d asked for that you didn’t? What do you wish you could ask for now?
53. Is there anything you’re doing now that you don’t fully believe in?
54. When did you feel your most wonderful, lovable, beautiful, whole? How old were you? What were you doing? Sights, sounds and smells…
55. Were there groups or other models when you were a teen that provided a sense of identity? How have you evolved?
56. Write a paragraph about an encounter between two people, any kind. Engage all 5 senses.
57. List ten people from history whose lives you would have liked to live. Write a couple of sentences for each.
58. List ten events in history you would like to have witnessed. Write a couple of
sentences for each.
59. Reflect on early years of your life. What unhealthy or unproductive themes or needs were formed? Write 1 pages about them and how to modify your life to be more productive and happy.
60. What have you found hardest to forgive? For how long? Will you be able to forgive it?
61. There are 2 students in the same class. One female, shy, pudgy, lacking confidence. Another, male, asks pudgy for coffee after class. 1 page of dialogue SHOWING what each is feeling. No “he said” or any descriptive, stage direction stuff.
62. Write a paragraph each about 3 public heroes of yours, 2 private.
63. “Future book” Write 2 pages. Your life will end right now. What will never happens which would have happened if you’d lived. Involve yourself and others.
64. “If you see in any given situation only what everyone else can see, you can be said to be so much a representative of your culture that you are a victim of it.” Are you a victim of your culture?
65. Do #17 again. Have your goals been modified?
66. Do #20 again. Have your needs been modified?
67. Re-read your journal. Write 2 pages about yourself as a stranger.
Funny how life seem to repeat itself? Different names and places, of course. Maybe even different circumstances, different dilemmas. Yet a dilemma nonetheless. Understanding this, it occurred to me one night to revisit that syllabus and start the process over again. Only I had lost it in one of my many cross-country trips and turned to facebook stalking to try and find one of the classes ex-students for help. Luckily it didn't take long, and tonight I'd like to share with you the list of questions that in many ways changed me and my writing forever. Plan on having many of my answers posted here among my other posts. Whatever you find missing are those pieces I'm sure I still find private and hard to share. After all, we can't go exposing all of ourselves to one another...I don't plan to until I'm at least in my mid-60s anyway.
My only request is that if you choose to use these questions, to only do that for yourself and not go re-printing things or claiming them to be your own ideas. Also what's listed below isn't verbatim to what was given to me originally. The person who was so kind to help me did have some of the questions written out, but others were simply guessed at based on her own answers. Enjoy <3
WRITING AS A MEANS OF SELF-DISCOVERY
Responsive Journal Questions
Illustrations and other scraps are encouraged !!!
1. write 5 sentences about a time when you felt you were genuinely sensitive to another human being’s feelings or situation.
2. write 5 sentences about a time when you either lost or found faith in yourself.
3. write 5 sentences about the first trip you remember taking as a child
4. write 5 sentences about stress and what makes you feel that way
5. who are you particularly sorry you’ve lost touch with?
6. who do you confide in?
7. who seems to most enjoy your company?
8. what makes you laugh?
9. recall a time when you really wish you’d said “yes” but didn’t.
10. what things do you find yourself most envious of?
11. describe the happiest people you’ve known.
12. make a list of five true compliments you could give yourself. Make a list of five each to give your parents and siblings. If this is hard, describe why.
13. describe the thing that you would most love to do that you’ve been putting off for some future time.
14.how would you imagine and like to be more respected in personal or professional ways than you feel you currently are?
15. Over the course of your life, who were the people who most helped you to believe in yourself and how did they do so ?
16. Write one paragraph each about how you are like each of your parents… the good and the ill.
17.Look down the road ten years in to the future. List the top three goals you have for the person you will be at that point. In a well developed paragraph for each goal, examine the value to you of that goal. In another well-developed paragraph for each, plan your route to reach that goal.
18. Without thinking about it first, write down the first five things that come to your mind in response to the question “what are things to be afraid of?” After you’ve written your list, write down the first five things you would have been afraid of at six years old. Then look over your lists and think about why each thing might be on it. Write one paragraph about two of the items on each list.
19. “Pages for an autobiography”
a . record as many new year’s eves as you can recall, going back as far as you can recall.
b . Write about all of your “best friends” going back as far as you can recall.
c . Write about learning each of the following for the first time:
i. Riding a bike
ii. Dancing
iii. Playing chess
iv. First kiss
v. Driving
vi. Typing
vii. Manners
viii. Using a computer
d. Write about all of the places you’ve lived.
e. Write about the first people, other than your family, that you remember in your life.
f. Write about all the vacations you’ve gone on, as far back as you can recall.
g. Write about things you’ve collected / collect now
h. Did you have a first love?
i. Write about any serious injuries you’ve had.
j. Write about all of the religious institutions or places of worship you’ve attended.
k. Write about the gifts that you have given your parents
l. Write about the last 10 times you’ve cried
m. Name all the pets you’ve had.
n. What was your first paycheck?
o. List all the things you’ve wanted to be (professions/careers)
p. When were you your happiest/saddest?
q. List your greatest successes/failures.
r. List books that have touched your life.
s. Who have you been in love with?
t. What makes you angry?
u. Write about outfits/clothing items/etc that you have been very attached to, as far back as you can recall
v. List a dozen books you’d like to read
w. List your fondest memories of your mother and your father
x. List any memories you have attached to scent
y. Is there anyone in your family you cant stand?
z. Is there any friend that you’ve helped recently? How?
20. Make a list of things you have, and things you don’t have, but need.
21. Write 5 adjectives about yourself. Survey 5 people close to you and get their answers to this same question. look for similarities.
Make comments on the outcome.
22. Complete the statements:
a. I’d be willing to die for…
b. I would be willing to physically fight for…
c. I would argue strongly in favor of…
d. I would quietly take a position in favor of…
e. I will share only with my friends my belief that…
f. I prefer to keep to myself my belief that…
23. Consider the following incomplete sentence: “I respect _________” Fill in the blank with the first ten things that come to mind. Repeat for each parent. Reflect on each list with at least one paragraph.
24. Recall a time when you felt a need to start protecting yourself. What prompted it? How did you feel? How have you continued to protect yourself?
25. List 5 people, non-family, you are grateful for, and why?
26. What were your early nightmares, and why were they scary?
What are your current nightmares, and why are they scary?
27. Describe a time or two that really tested your integrity or honesty.
28. What should a mother teach her daughter? What should a father say to a daughter?
29. If you hope to marry… how would it be similar or different from your parents ?
30. Who do you believe would make the greatest sacrifice for you?
31. Thank someone.
32. What do you think you “can’t?”
33. When can’t you say no? Who is it hard to say no to?
34. The most free, bold way you’ve expressed love…
35. What are you still holding onto that you'd be happier if you let go?
36. What problem have you been putting off facing? Describe it. How and why have you been putting it off?
37. Can you recall a tine that felt like a misfortune, even a disaster, but turned out to be a blessing?
38. What 3 or 4 things could you do to infuse your life with more beauty?
39. Describe the most significant disillusionment in your life. What illusions crumbled? What truths took their place?
40. “only the mirror can tell use who we really are…” agree or disagree? Write a 2-page essay on this.
41, Write about someone you’ve seriously wronged and never fully apologized to. Write a sincere apology.
42. For 6 nights in a row, record 5 streaming minutes of thought. No filters.
43. Complete “I am the kind of person who…” leave room to continue this exercise
as it changes or evolves.
44. List 7 of the people that you know best. For 3 of them, in their voice, complete “I am the kind of person who…” as you previously did for yourself.
45. Write, at any length you can, about your earliest memory.
46. Write about a time:
a. You were part of a team or group
b. Have these times been frequent enough?
47. Pick someone from your list of people in #44 and write a 5-minute stream of thought for them… like you did in #42.
48. Your Lifeline
a. Draw out your actual lifeline- birth, current and death.
b. Who are you? (nouns)
c. Your epitaph
d. Your obituary
e. Write about two ideal days in your ideal life
f. Your life inventory
i. Happiest period of your life
ii. A turning point
iii. Your lowest point
iv. What you want to stop
v. Things to get better at
vi. A peak experience
vii. Peak experiences you'd LIKE to have
viii. Values you are struggling to establish
ix. One missed opportunity
x. What’s something you want to start doing now?
g. Write and sign a “self-contract” about what you will commit to do for yourself.
49. Think back upon your life to an experience you feel may have scarred you, perhaps a time of intense or painful abandonment, betrayal, victimization, violation or shame. Write at least 2 pages.
50. Re-read what you just wrote in #49… now write about healing.
51. The most important things I believe about love are…
52. “Ask for what you want.” What do you wish you’d asked for that you didn’t? What do you wish you could ask for now?
53. Is there anything you’re doing now that you don’t fully believe in?
54. When did you feel your most wonderful, lovable, beautiful, whole? How old were you? What were you doing? Sights, sounds and smells…
55. Were there groups or other models when you were a teen that provided a sense of identity? How have you evolved?
56. Write a paragraph about an encounter between two people, any kind. Engage all 5 senses.
57. List ten people from history whose lives you would have liked to live. Write a couple of sentences for each.
58. List ten events in history you would like to have witnessed. Write a couple of
sentences for each.
59. Reflect on early years of your life. What unhealthy or unproductive themes or needs were formed? Write 1 pages about them and how to modify your life to be more productive and happy.
60. What have you found hardest to forgive? For how long? Will you be able to forgive it?
61. There are 2 students in the same class. One female, shy, pudgy, lacking confidence. Another, male, asks pudgy for coffee after class. 1 page of dialogue SHOWING what each is feeling. No “he said” or any descriptive, stage direction stuff.
62. Write a paragraph each about 3 public heroes of yours, 2 private.
63. “Future book” Write 2 pages. Your life will end right now. What will never happens which would have happened if you’d lived. Involve yourself and others.
64. “If you see in any given situation only what everyone else can see, you can be said to be so much a representative of your culture that you are a victim of it.” Are you a victim of your culture?
65. Do #17 again. Have your goals been modified?
66. Do #20 again. Have your needs been modified?
67. Re-read your journal. Write 2 pages about yourself as a stranger.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Her name's Indi. Yes, like Indiana Jones.
Sitting here on my bed, Indi curled up on my pillow, cold mojito by side, I'm ready to write.
It's been a few days and quite frankly, there isn't much really to convey. I will admit that in the time that has passed since my last post, however, I've had what could quite possibly be some of the best days I've had in the state of Florida. Who knew that owning a dog could bring such meaning to your life? Now listen, I did the whole vegetarian thing for nearly a year (mainly for health reasons) and have never considered myself that annoying friend in your usual group who constantly talks of animals rights - although I'm not against them, I just feel they should be approached similarly to religion: what you believe is quite a personal thing and should therefore be kept that way unless in a setting that allows for you to elaborate on such beliefs appropriately (meaning church and/or PETA rally, not your best friend's niece's 1st birthday).
With that said, Saturday was wonderful. Andrew and I woke up early, spent most of the morning falling in out of sleep letting what was to be hurricane Danielle pass by before heading to Dania beach around 4 that evening. The beach had been found quite serendipitously and only the night before when I needed to get out of the house. And so it was decided while washing the sand from our feet we would bring Indi there the next day. Now, again, I realize she's a dog. But having driven here back and forth from Cape Coral nearly every weekend and having little to no contact with other dogs aside from our neighbors, we thought it would be a good treat for her. Not to mention it might be the only time in her short doggy life she'd see the ocean and actually get to swim in it. There's absolutely in no way a chihuahua mix weighing less than 10 pounds would survive the cold water of Santa Cruz...
Walking up the wooden ramp leading to the beach, Indi instantly perked up and started pulling at her leash - an image I could only equate with a young child on Christmas morning. There was no way to know what was under the tree, but the idea of it being there was enough to have the entire family awake at 6 am.
And it was. We're not quite sure what she's mixed with (we jokingly say she's half Chihuahua, half fruit bat/fox/meerkat/velociraptor and whatever else may come to mind the moment a passerby asks us what she is exactly). But at the moment, all I could see was the happiest dog alive, running the course of the beach, being chased by bigger dogs and chasing smaller ones. She wasn't that excited about the water, especially when Andrew walked out into its oncoming waves, dunking her in and pulling her back out again. She rolled in the sand, got in a few fights, made some friends, and within an hour was hiding beneath our chairs to escape what was left of the day's sun. It was overall what you would call a good day.
Do I think it's kind of sad it's taken me nearly 5 years of living in Florida or traveling to the state often to have a day like that? Maybe, but it was worth the wait. I used to making fun of people who idolized their pets, carrying them around like children and throwing them birthday parties. And although I will never subject Indi to a purse unless sneaking her past security at Target because I feel guilty for leaving her in the car when its a bazillion degrees outside, I do love her. Unconditionally. So much so that I will openly admit I've seriously considered getting a tattoo of her portrait.
Relax, it **probably** won't happen. But hey, why not? Let's just say I'll sit on the idea for awhile first.
It's been a few days and quite frankly, there isn't much really to convey. I will admit that in the time that has passed since my last post, however, I've had what could quite possibly be some of the best days I've had in the state of Florida. Who knew that owning a dog could bring such meaning to your life? Now listen, I did the whole vegetarian thing for nearly a year (mainly for health reasons) and have never considered myself that annoying friend in your usual group who constantly talks of animals rights - although I'm not against them, I just feel they should be approached similarly to religion: what you believe is quite a personal thing and should therefore be kept that way unless in a setting that allows for you to elaborate on such beliefs appropriately (meaning church and/or PETA rally, not your best friend's niece's 1st birthday).
With that said, Saturday was wonderful. Andrew and I woke up early, spent most of the morning falling in out of sleep letting what was to be hurricane Danielle pass by before heading to Dania beach around 4 that evening. The beach had been found quite serendipitously and only the night before when I needed to get out of the house. And so it was decided while washing the sand from our feet we would bring Indi there the next day. Now, again, I realize she's a dog. But having driven here back and forth from Cape Coral nearly every weekend and having little to no contact with other dogs aside from our neighbors, we thought it would be a good treat for her. Not to mention it might be the only time in her short doggy life she'd see the ocean and actually get to swim in it. There's absolutely in no way a chihuahua mix weighing less than 10 pounds would survive the cold water of Santa Cruz...
Walking up the wooden ramp leading to the beach, Indi instantly perked up and started pulling at her leash - an image I could only equate with a young child on Christmas morning. There was no way to know what was under the tree, but the idea of it being there was enough to have the entire family awake at 6 am.
 |
| Indi on her way to Grandma's yet again. |
Do I think it's kind of sad it's taken me nearly 5 years of living in Florida or traveling to the state often to have a day like that? Maybe, but it was worth the wait. I used to making fun of people who idolized their pets, carrying them around like children and throwing them birthday parties. And although I will never subject Indi to a purse unless sneaking her past security at Target because I feel guilty for leaving her in the car when its a bazillion degrees outside, I do love her. Unconditionally. So much so that I will openly admit I've seriously considered getting a tattoo of her portrait.
Relax, it **probably** won't happen. But hey, why not? Let's just say I'll sit on the idea for awhile first.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
August 24, 2010. 2:11 AM
This feeling is familiar. This emptiness, if it should be called that, which seems to all together consume everything down to the marrow of my bones. And laying here in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar place, I'm at a loss. I simply have no where to run.
When I was 15-years-old and my father was stationed in Oakland, he opted to live in Novato rather than in Alameda, where the housing and schools were run down. A blessing in disguise as that house and what lay beneath it would be where I found refuge, even long after we had been forced from its walls.
At this exact moment, I wish I could close my eyes and transport there. Sneak out of the maids quarters tucked behind the kitchen on the first floor and where I called home for three years to walk out into the cold night and start another transformation. Rise from the ashes of my teenage self to describe the despair I carried before falling asleep to dreams filled with wild sage. I was lost, but only for the night. With morning always came some unspoken promise of change, mapped out within the pages of my journal. All that was left to do was translate it to myself.
I always went to the same place - an old abandoned runway the Coast Guard had taken over when the Airforce left, building a brick wall along its tower to keep the passerby and occasional drug addict out. But I was determined, I refused to stay away. And so its cement floor, infested with owl pelts and overgrown weeds, became my sanctuary. The estuary my alter, Third Eye Blind's self-titled album my bible.
Even in college, I went back there. Sometimes to sit, to scream, to smoke a joint and just melt away into the far off howl of a coyote. I was alone to be whatever or whomever I wanted, and in that there was peace.
But who am I now? I feel myself slipping away at moments. I've seemed to have lost my purpose among the gray tiles of this house, misplaced it in one of the thousands of job applications I've sent out into the world.
I've called out of her, my purpose, you see. But she no longer responds to me anymore and I've grown quite tired of waiting.
I'm counting down the days until I'm back in California. I don't plan on telling anyone that I'm coming home. I doubt I'll stay anyway, just be there long enough to collect what little belongings I have left and say my goodbyes before coming back here. I applied to a TEFL certificate program in Prague. It's 4 weeks, enough time to disappear. And then from there, I don't know. Maybe I'll go to South America, maybe I'll try the bay again. I just need to find answers, I need to start learning how to ask the right questions - I'm afraid I haven't been for the last 23 years.
All I'm sure of is that I can't continue this way. I choose life. I choose all the matching suitcase, owning your own home, raising kids in the suburbs bullshit. But for now, I have to scare myself. I have to do the things I've only dared speak of when alone, when wishing of what will become of my life.
I should say I'm counting down the days I can return to that runway for the last time and leave knowing I have the strength to never come back again. I told myself I would lay down among the fog of that city. I told myself this would never consume me again.
More importantly, I told myself the world would remember Mariel. Here begins that story.
When I was 15-years-old and my father was stationed in Oakland, he opted to live in Novato rather than in Alameda, where the housing and schools were run down. A blessing in disguise as that house and what lay beneath it would be where I found refuge, even long after we had been forced from its walls.
At this exact moment, I wish I could close my eyes and transport there. Sneak out of the maids quarters tucked behind the kitchen on the first floor and where I called home for three years to walk out into the cold night and start another transformation. Rise from the ashes of my teenage self to describe the despair I carried before falling asleep to dreams filled with wild sage. I was lost, but only for the night. With morning always came some unspoken promise of change, mapped out within the pages of my journal. All that was left to do was translate it to myself.
I always went to the same place - an old abandoned runway the Coast Guard had taken over when the Airforce left, building a brick wall along its tower to keep the passerby and occasional drug addict out. But I was determined, I refused to stay away. And so its cement floor, infested with owl pelts and overgrown weeds, became my sanctuary. The estuary my alter, Third Eye Blind's self-titled album my bible.
Even in college, I went back there. Sometimes to sit, to scream, to smoke a joint and just melt away into the far off howl of a coyote. I was alone to be whatever or whomever I wanted, and in that there was peace.
But who am I now? I feel myself slipping away at moments. I've seemed to have lost my purpose among the gray tiles of this house, misplaced it in one of the thousands of job applications I've sent out into the world.
I've called out of her, my purpose, you see. But she no longer responds to me anymore and I've grown quite tired of waiting.
I'm counting down the days until I'm back in California. I don't plan on telling anyone that I'm coming home. I doubt I'll stay anyway, just be there long enough to collect what little belongings I have left and say my goodbyes before coming back here. I applied to a TEFL certificate program in Prague. It's 4 weeks, enough time to disappear. And then from there, I don't know. Maybe I'll go to South America, maybe I'll try the bay again. I just need to find answers, I need to start learning how to ask the right questions - I'm afraid I haven't been for the last 23 years.
All I'm sure of is that I can't continue this way. I choose life. I choose all the matching suitcase, owning your own home, raising kids in the suburbs bullshit. But for now, I have to scare myself. I have to do the things I've only dared speak of when alone, when wishing of what will become of my life.
I should say I'm counting down the days I can return to that runway for the last time and leave knowing I have the strength to never come back again. I told myself I would lay down among the fog of that city. I told myself this would never consume me again.
More importantly, I told myself the world would remember Mariel. Here begins that story.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Wait, what happened?
“As accidental as my life may be, or as that random humor is, which governs it, I know nothing, after all, so real or substantial as myself" - Anthony Ashley Cooper
God, how brief and powerful we are. Leaving breadcrumb trails of chaos and brilliance as we go, hoping to revisit those moments in which we choose to define ourselves - revisit the accidents we would later deem as our finest moments. Because in reality, it's all an accident. An ongoing change in plans that will never truly be what you had anticipated.
You know those moments when all these aspects of your life seem to intervene in one, obscure place? One that on any other day you would let slide from you, allow to be washed clean with sleep. But on the day you decide to really look, allow yourself to collaborate with the world even if only a minute scale, something opens up to you. You feel as though your bones are in tune with the rotation of the earth - that you can only exist on the most organic level there is. Nothing is foreign, nothing is at war, nothing can disrupt what you know as "myself."
It had been raining all morning, putting Andrew and I into a haze. But there was a guitar he wanted to show me, so we went. Sitting in a far corner, I let my eyes close and listened as his hands played a number of familiar melodies he had picked up over the years. Things only he, the musician, would hear differently on this guitar as opposed to his own. Once with his capo, once without. Once on body with a cut-out, once without. Once on a nylon-string, once on a metal. I caught myself drifting when Ivo approached us, his head turned into what Andrew was playing.
He was reserved, embarrassed almost of his accent, but eager to talk. He was from Brazil, he explained, and wished he could play Flamenco guitar the way Andrew had taught himself. There was nothing special in the meeting, not really. I coaxed Andrew into admitting he had been trying to learn Portuguese for awhile, and listened as Ivo taught him some phrases. His mouth contorted as he tried to slow down the guttural noises of his native language for Andrew to perceive indefinitely.
I asked if he knew any Bossa Nova. He did, smiling childishly as he tuned his guitar. It was then, when the room was empty except for the three of us, the impending rain casting our bodies in deep shades of gray, that I suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of peace. We really take for granted the things in one another that connects us to this earth. For this man, these songs were his home, a stepping stone in his career as a musician, the soundtrack to his childhood. It was one of many things that created Ivo, and that we were lucky enough to witness.
I had a similar experience the following night while waiting alone for the nurse to start an IV.
It was close to 9 PM and Andrew had ventured off to find food. The nurse had told me she needed to start therapy because of my severe dehydration.. It wasn't so much the pain I suppose that scared me, but the idea of this foreign thing siting in my vein, pumping me full of salt and drugs.
So I sat, waiting, my brain turning over itself. Should I ask them to wait until Andrew was back? Or would I pretend to be the brave woman I wished I was? I dimmed the lights of the room, standing half-naked over my bed, scanning my body for some unseen illness. This was the place where people came to die, after all. There had to be something wrong with me to deserve all this pain. "Unwarranted" would not suffice. I heard a soft knock and slid back under the tattered blanket Andrew had found among a number of cabinets.
My nurse was young, blonde, and tired. Her face course from a 15-hour shift. I whimpered a hello, watching as her small hands worked swiftly to unpack what was to be my IV. I swallowed hard, exhaling loudly to catch her attention.
"I'm pretty scared of these things." I admitted, attempting to smile. Removing her rubber gloves, she patted my hand, her skin uneven to the touch. "It's okay."
It wasn't that comforting, but she tried. I had never met this woman in my life and most likely would never see her again, but for these few minutes, we were inextricably interconnected. I tried not to hold my breath, and she promised to do her best. That was all we could ask of one another. I yelled anyway, sounding to most in the hall outside my door like Steve Carell in the waxing scene of "40-Year-Old Virgin." But it was over with, and I was proud of myself when Andrew walked in looking surprised that I had gone it alone.
We all need to feel like we belong to something bigger than us. We need to know that we can approach a stranger, whether to talk guitars or to admit we're afraid, because it means we're still human on a human level. Not simply people who go through life without seeing the forest for the trees. And when we can recognize one another for our strengths, not our weaknesses, we set one another free. And most importantly, we give ourselves permission to be "us", inherently, regardless if accidental or not.
Monday, August 9, 2010
God bless you, Steve Zissou
I couldn't begin to explain my love for this movie (especially this scene). It simply is the best movie ever.
Recent writings
Roadmaps.
In the moments
following a heavy rain,
I hear you.
Softly at first,
Like a mother might
hear her child,
thirsty from chasing
half-forgotten dreams,
call out to her
for a glass of water.
Then, as the storm passes,
the trees quiet,
lost in their earthly contemplation,
your voice comes swiftly,
enveloped in the pink gossamer
of a morning dove's chorus.
Forever filling images
of a rapidly fading Florida
with your presence.
Always soft and deliberate.
It is in this exact moment,
when it is I feel
so utterly inconsequential
and diminished
that I fall in love with you
again.
I want nothing more
than to acquiesce to you.
Flesh and bone becoming
salted and uneven pages,
the words speaking of
fragmented desires and
plagues unknown.
Black ink ebbing and flowing
as equals,
together making the woman
seeking the roadmaps of your hands
to guide her home.
But like the storm,
so he, too, is fleeting.
Inhibited and grey.
Yet, she always waits.
Sitting and reveling in his brevity
before patiently returning
to the house of her chest,
putting out the candle
she lights every night
and that once drew him
to the windows of her heart.
-Written 7.19.10
South Beach Speculations
There's something about swimming in the ocean that allows for a rebirth that only salt water can bring. The soul seems to be swept clean, picked apart with each passing grain of sand. Made transparent as though returning to a state of sea glass. Each vein turning to foam, bloated with the ashes of dead fish and oil. But she, the ocean, remains intact although slightly altered. Her presence a reminder that we came from her belly and will some day return through her mouth.
-Written 7.23.10
In the moments
following a heavy rain,
I hear you.
Softly at first,
Like a mother might
hear her child,
thirsty from chasing
half-forgotten dreams,
call out to her
for a glass of water.
Then, as the storm passes,
the trees quiet,
lost in their earthly contemplation,
your voice comes swiftly,
enveloped in the pink gossamer
of a morning dove's chorus.
Forever filling images
of a rapidly fading Florida
with your presence.
Always soft and deliberate.
It is in this exact moment,
when it is I feel
so utterly inconsequential
and diminished
that I fall in love with you
again.
I want nothing more
than to acquiesce to you.
Flesh and bone becoming
salted and uneven pages,
the words speaking of
fragmented desires and
plagues unknown.
Black ink ebbing and flowing
as equals,
together making the woman
seeking the roadmaps of your hands
to guide her home.
But like the storm,
so he, too, is fleeting.
Inhibited and grey.
Yet, she always waits.
Sitting and reveling in his brevity
before patiently returning
to the house of her chest,
putting out the candle
she lights every night
and that once drew him
to the windows of her heart.
-Written 7.19.10
South Beach Speculations
There's something about swimming in the ocean that allows for a rebirth that only salt water can bring. The soul seems to be swept clean, picked apart with each passing grain of sand. Made transparent as though returning to a state of sea glass. Each vein turning to foam, bloated with the ashes of dead fish and oil. But she, the ocean, remains intact although slightly altered. Her presence a reminder that we came from her belly and will some day return through her mouth.
-Written 7.23.10
Move number 1,387,623 and counting
 |
| Hallandale House, courtesy of Google Earth. |
But all of them combined have nothing on what's been going on the last few months.
Sitting on the couch in the Hallandale house (I'm not really sure where "home" refers to these days, so I'll title each house accordingly for the time being), it's the first quiet I've had in nearly a week. On Tuesday morning, my mother called me frantically, asking that my sister, boyfriend and I return to Cape Coral after realizing there was no way only her and my brother could manage packing alone.
All of this began about two years ago when my father went to Iraq as a civilian civil engineer employed for Michael Baker. We, like many families around the world, were financially crippled by the end of 2005. The economy had started to turn seriously sour and to make things better, my dad had been "passed over" by the Coast Guard (i.e. was forced to retire when he didn't qualify for Admiral). It was decided my parents didn't want to continue living in the bay area of California and would move to Miami, Florida. Here my mother could visit her home country of Puerto Rico more frequently, but my dad would have the job security of living on the continental U.S.
Right, job security. Like that was going to happen.
Not to mention like most baby boomers, living in an apartment (even if it was 20 minutes from South Beach) wasn't enough. They had three kids, a dog, two cars, and wanted a place that we could finally paint the walls in. So they found a house in Cape Coral and moved without really consulting us, the three kids, who were busy working a summer camp in Oakland back out west. In all honesty, we weren't that surprised nor did we really care. The move had yet again been taken care of without us - out of sight out of mind.
The Cape Coral house became our meeting point: while I still attended school in Tampa for the first year my parents and sister lived there, I would eventually rejoin my brother in California, looking to the guest bedroom that I helped decorate as a comfortable, temporary place only inhabited during holidays and summer vacations. It's always an odd feeling when you move out and your parents home, no matter if its the one you grew up in or not, no longer feels like home to you. I knew all the decorations, always felt a sense of calm when entering the house after being away for months but remembering its familiar smell. And yet, if I was to ever get a glass of water in the middle of the night, I'd find myself searching all the kitchen's cabinets, never quite sure of where everything was. I couldn't tell you where we kept the spare keys to my dad's Chevy, or where my mother kept the queen bed's spare sheets. My pictures were in all the frames, but I felt like nothing more than a familiar stranger to this place.
It was during my graduation, when my mother, sister and father were visiting, that they told us they were going to foreclose. The whole event, including my ceremony, was a blur. My father hadn't been himself - Iraq had physically and mentally altered him into an entity that I found hard to believe had been the man I'd known all my life. And while my mother and sister had been eager to see us all together again, the year without my father had taken an equal toll on the both of them. For my mother, it was struggling without the help of the man she'd relied on for more than 26 years. For my sister, it was trying to pick up the slack of a house that had been neglected while trying to cope with the failed attempt to study Interior Design in San Francisco. It was the first time in my life I felt the five of us didn't really know one another anymore, that we were becoming one of those American families who simply drifted apart.
"But how could we?" I cried to my boyfriend one night. "We're not white! Didn't you see my father? He won't even hug me. He won't even touch my mother."
My father returned to the states and left Michael Baker, taking a job offer in Virginia to work with the Army. We were moving yet again, and this time it was going to be sloppy. The Cape Coral house hadn't sold yet nor had my mother been given a transfer for her job. In February, I flew out from San Jose, helped put together a small shipment of furniture, clothes, books and utensils and drove with my dad to Orlando where we caught a train that would put us just outside of DC.
I knew I was helping, but all I could think was how much I hated this. Why couldn't my brother be the one to help? He was the eldest, this was his job. My father and I sat in our small sleeper cabin for nearly 13 hours, hardly saying a word to one another as we awoke to fields blanketed in crisp, white snow. How could this be it? How were we supposed to survive this? I had imagined my life, our life, to be so different. I was supposed to graduate and get my dream job while my parents retired and enjoyed one another for the rest of their life. I never believed another move like this would happen, one rushed and outlined in the faded fabric of an amtrak train. I was begin to doubt life as an adult was meant to be happy one. Maybe college was it, your last hurrah - the memories that would help you get through the rest of what was to become a mundane schedule filled with stress and heartache.
He cried when he dropped me off the airport a few days later and made me promise I'd help my mother when the time came. Which leads us to this point, why I'm writing this.
We left Tuesday only planning to stay a few days, but that ended up being five. What was going to Puerto Rico? What was going to Virginia? What could be thrown away? What did my sister and I want to take to the Hallandale house? What could Andrew and Marcos take back to California?
What. What. What. What. What. All wrapped in stolen newspapers and bubble wrap, placed in cardboard boxes labeled neatly in thick, Sharpie. My entire life was yet again going into storage, just like all that I had left behind in San Jose and Oakland. Stuffed into basement corners and closet shelves. I felt like a drifter, a nomad, completely disconnected from the idea of a home.
We worked slowly, at times allowing ourselves to revisit old pictures and trinkets not yet unpacked from when we first moved in. Knowing that my sister, boyfriend and I would come yet again when my mother was feeling lonely or needed to finish.
The Hallandale house is quiet, and I invite it in. I think of my room, just around the corner from where I sit, filled with what little clothes and belongings I chose to bring when I came.
How it's all temporary. How I'm trying to figure out if I should stay or continue to fight to go back to California...a place that I'm already starting to forget. It may be move number 1,387,623, but I still feel like that little girl who didn't know what to expect when the big truck came to take all of her things away to some unknown place she isn't sure she'll like, but she has no choice discovering.
So what is home? And how do I find it?
Sunday, August 8, 2010
A new beginning
Sitting down to this, I feel the same disquiet and elation as I would starting a handwritten journal. Partly because I know that I've never been one to feel particularly inspired while sitting at a laptop - I still hold very romantic sentiments toward penning in fine black ink amongst the pages of my Moleskin. And because having written since the 5th grade about everything and anything, I've become an earnest writer who refuses to hold back. Journaling has become a permanent means of self-discovery and therapy, therefore it serves no purpose to me to edit for the sake of self-image. And because this is publicly accessible on a far larger scale than my Moleskin, I'll take a moment to make a quick warning to those who choose to proceed with this blog, especially those who know me personally:
Seeing as how I'm making a general effort to stay committed to this whole writing thing (and posting it to the online world), please note that I will probably write about you at some point if you cross my path on a regular basis, more so if we're close friends and/or family. And for those of you I may never have the pleasure to meet, well, you are also equally warned that I'm an avid people-watcher. If you make a fool of yourself in public, or say something quite wonderful that I happen to overhear, there's an 89% percent chance you'll come spilling out onto this in some way, shape or form, sooner or later.
This will, therefore, be a "quilt" (if you will) of me. Whether written speculation or photography, I'm striving for this to be the interactive forum I feel I've been needing lately - one in which I can really connect with myself and those who decide to follow me rather than comment on statuses and stalk through thousands of photos. More importantly, however, I want this to be a springboard into my (potential) writing career. Having taken a well needed although far too long hiatus from writing after finishing my undergraduate thesis in May 2009, I'm at a point in my life where I need writing and I need to feel excited about it again. My life has been one lacking order and cohesiveness - ironically more in the 15 months I decided to take my "break" more than ever - with the exception of writing. So here it is, a promise to myself and those of you who are crazy enough to read this shit: this is my officially coming-out-of-retirement statement. From now on, I will post an annoying amount of pictures, poems, short stories, rants/complaints, revelations, and everything in between that may or may not have anything to do with me.
I'm excited. Aren't you?
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