Hey everyone! I'm so sorry for my extended leave of absence, it's been on crazy, crazy few months... I'll catch you up on it later, but to begin with the positive, my short story La Catrina is being published! It will be featured in the Oklahoma Windmill Journal in the spring :)
I have lots of other things to talk about, but it will be a while =/ can't wait to start blogging again! Adios mi cabrones! :)
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Maybe
I know how to break a creator’s heart.
Simply tell them, “maybe”.
Maybe things will change, maybe tomorrow won’t be the same, maybe I’ll answer the phone when you call.
There is no word more venomous, more potent, more damning than the word ‘maybe’ to a creative person, for the creator knows that ‘maybe’ does not exist in creation.
No, in creation, there simply is or there isn’t.
What artist traces a line onto a blank canvas with the word ‘maybe’ in mind? What composer inserts a note in just the right place, hoping ‘maybe’? What writer frantically scribbles down a passing thought onto a note-pad thinking, ‘maybe’?
No, the creator knows.
The creator knows what is and what isn’t.
Should something unwanted find its way into the composition, a misplaced line, a wrong note, a poor choice of words, it is destroyed.
The creator sees the grand result before it even exists, and in the struggle to snatch it from vision to reality, knows what must stay and what must go.
‘Maybe’ has no place in the vast world of creation.
Maybe the sun will rise for just one more day, maybe the moon will come out for just one more night, maybe your heart will beat just one more beat.
No, there is no such thing.
So now you know why every time you tell me ‘maybe’,
you maybe just broke my heart.
Simply tell them, “maybe”.
Maybe things will change, maybe tomorrow won’t be the same, maybe I’ll answer the phone when you call.
There is no word more venomous, more potent, more damning than the word ‘maybe’ to a creative person, for the creator knows that ‘maybe’ does not exist in creation.
No, in creation, there simply is or there isn’t.
What artist traces a line onto a blank canvas with the word ‘maybe’ in mind? What composer inserts a note in just the right place, hoping ‘maybe’? What writer frantically scribbles down a passing thought onto a note-pad thinking, ‘maybe’?
No, the creator knows.
The creator knows what is and what isn’t.
Should something unwanted find its way into the composition, a misplaced line, a wrong note, a poor choice of words, it is destroyed.
The creator sees the grand result before it even exists, and in the struggle to snatch it from vision to reality, knows what must stay and what must go.
‘Maybe’ has no place in the vast world of creation.
Maybe the sun will rise for just one more day, maybe the moon will come out for just one more night, maybe your heart will beat just one more beat.
No, there is no such thing.
So now you know why every time you tell me ‘maybe’,
you maybe just broke my heart.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
The Mobile
I was walking around campus one day at night, I really like to do that, and casually looked up at the stars. I began to contemplate everything, the everything of life. I looked up at the night sky, simple to the eye, yet supremely complex and incomprehensible. I looked up at the night sky as perhaps a child would look at a mobile hanging over the crib. A mobile that has been gently nudged into motion, swinging slowly in perfect symmetry and balance.
All things are set in marvelous, miraculous motion. And we, the awestruck infants, are dazzled by its complexity. Everything that is has been gently nudged into being. A cosmic force, a gentle touch, an epic event, a minor occurrence.
And we spin in perfect balance, never failing, never changing in absolute perfect harmony. We are but the molecules of the everything, the tiniest parts of a grand whole that constitutes a mere part of an even greater sum.
Who are we? Where are we? Why are we? In our confusion, many times we forget. This we are, here we are, because.
We are the grand composition, inseparable from the parts that constitutes us, indivisible from the whole which we make up.
All things pushed forward must stop, and so must we. The mobile must eventually stop spinning, the gentle nudge creates only a short spectacle, and so all that we are must end. Yet, while is the end we fear, it is the end that makes all things brief, beautiful, and true.
Looking up at the stars, I feel a great sense of self. As the earth spins closer to another day, around a sun that will shine for at least another morning, centered in a vast universe that is a mere pinpoint in space, I do not feel lost.
All things are brief, all things are beautiful, all things are true.
All things are set in marvelous, miraculous motion. And we, the awestruck infants, are dazzled by its complexity. Everything that is has been gently nudged into being. A cosmic force, a gentle touch, an epic event, a minor occurrence.
And we spin in perfect balance, never failing, never changing in absolute perfect harmony. We are but the molecules of the everything, the tiniest parts of a grand whole that constitutes a mere part of an even greater sum.
Who are we? Where are we? Why are we? In our confusion, many times we forget. This we are, here we are, because.
We are the grand composition, inseparable from the parts that constitutes us, indivisible from the whole which we make up.
All things pushed forward must stop, and so must we. The mobile must eventually stop spinning, the gentle nudge creates only a short spectacle, and so all that we are must end. Yet, while is the end we fear, it is the end that makes all things brief, beautiful, and true.
Looking up at the stars, I feel a great sense of self. As the earth spins closer to another day, around a sun that will shine for at least another morning, centered in a vast universe that is a mere pinpoint in space, I do not feel lost.
All things are brief, all things are beautiful, all things are true.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Heavy is the Head that Wears the Crown
Sometimes I feel like practicing my rhyming LOL
I've seen the crowds rise to their feet,
I've tasted victory on every feat,
I've heard the praise for every obstacle I meet,
But if they only knew the throne is such a lonely, lonely seat
Heavy is the head that wears the crown,
For after the crowds disappear and the sun goes down
These castle hallways haunt me so
Fear follows me wherever I go
I built my palace on a lake of tears,
On broken swords and shattered spears,
And a mighty ruler learns after many years
That the powerful don't show their tears
And I'd give all the riches and all the fame
I'd give England, France, and Spain
Just to know that tomorrow won't be the same,
To know these thoughts won't be in my brain,
To lose myself and take a different name,
But there's no rest for the king
And I know what tomorrow will bring
For me the sun won't rise and the birds wont sing
There's only this painted frown,
Heavy is the head,
Heavy is the head that wears the crown.
I've seen the crowds rise to their feet,
I've tasted victory on every feat,
I've heard the praise for every obstacle I meet,
But if they only knew the throne is such a lonely, lonely seat
Heavy is the head that wears the crown,
For after the crowds disappear and the sun goes down
These castle hallways haunt me so
Fear follows me wherever I go
I built my palace on a lake of tears,
On broken swords and shattered spears,
And a mighty ruler learns after many years
That the powerful don't show their tears
And I'd give all the riches and all the fame
I'd give England, France, and Spain
Just to know that tomorrow won't be the same,
To know these thoughts won't be in my brain,
To lose myself and take a different name,
But there's no rest for the king
And I know what tomorrow will bring
For me the sun won't rise and the birds wont sing
There's only this painted frown,
Heavy is the head,
Heavy is the head that wears the crown.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Disorder
It is difficult to say why it happens, difficult to say exactly how it feels, and difficult to share with others.
I want to tell the whole world what's wrong, and all at once keep it to myself forever without telling a soul.
I want to scream a million different things. Things about the torturous mind, about the hopelessness, about why the caged bird sings.
It watches like a falcon, silently waiting and watching, and then quietly pounces on every hope and joy until none remain.
It stalks the jungles of my thoughts like a jaguar, full of hunger and silent malice.
It strikes like a cobra. One brief violent flurry of fangs and venom, and then suddenly nothing.
Nothing, like it had never occurred, the mind can't seem to ever recall how it could have felt the way it did five minutes ago.
It leaves no scars, no clear marks, no blood, no bruises... it leaves not a trace of its lethal injection, barely a memory even remains.
But it happens, and it happens frequently. My hands begin to shake, my vision begins to blur, my breathing becomes strained, and every friend in the world melts into the earth and does not exist.
There is only me and the python, only me and this disorder, and it is a battle I fight very much alone.
I want to tell the whole world what's wrong, and all at once keep it to myself forever without telling a soul.
I want to scream a million different things. Things about the torturous mind, about the hopelessness, about why the caged bird sings.
It watches like a falcon, silently waiting and watching, and then quietly pounces on every hope and joy until none remain.
It stalks the jungles of my thoughts like a jaguar, full of hunger and silent malice.
It strikes like a cobra. One brief violent flurry of fangs and venom, and then suddenly nothing.
Nothing, like it had never occurred, the mind can't seem to ever recall how it could have felt the way it did five minutes ago.
It leaves no scars, no clear marks, no blood, no bruises... it leaves not a trace of its lethal injection, barely a memory even remains.
But it happens, and it happens frequently. My hands begin to shake, my vision begins to blur, my breathing becomes strained, and every friend in the world melts into the earth and does not exist.
There is only me and the python, only me and this disorder, and it is a battle I fight very much alone.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
La Catrina
(I'm definitely not done editing this! It has some flow issues to correct, but I thought you guys might enjoy the rough draft :D )
The streets of Mexico are alive tonight. Rows upon rows of candles cast their flickering light on the cobblestone streets, allowing the townspeople to steal glances at the brightly colored flowers and ofrendas. The smell of freshly baked bread fills the air, mingling with the incense, and chocolate, and roses. Men on stilts strut about the village as children skip along below. Mariachi music dances within the listener's ear, bright colors and candy skulls fill every empty void; the streets of Mexico are alive tonight.
A young girl paces slowly towards a small framed picture with candles surrounding it, her zapatas clicking along on the tile. She is wearing a traditional dancer's gown, the many folds dragging along the floor as she walks. She kneels down and places a doll amongst the candy skulls, flowers, and candles, right next to the framed picture. The doll is a catrina, a day of the dead figurine resembling a skeleton. It depicts a woman wearing a traditional dancer's gown, its many folds bunching up on the ground as it is placed at the ofrenda. "Ay Esperanza, I miss you Esperanza, if only you were alive tonight."
And suddenly, the young girl was in a different place. A place where there was dancing, and long flowing gowns, and everything around her began to dance as if it were all part of some grand Jarabe Tapatio, and her heart was full. She felt a wholeness again that she thought had been lost to pain, sadness, and emptiness. She felt a presence she had so missed and so longed for, an incredible warmth that brought her relief at last.
Just as soon as the dance had begun, it ended. And the candles faded, and the music stopped. The sweet smells dissipated, and the presence was dropped. And there she sat, the bottom of her gown forming a great circle on the floor. And she cried, and she cried, until she could cry no more. "Ay Esperanza," she wept, "Ay Esperanza, if you were only alive tonight."
And she looked up at the sky, perhaps wondering if she would ever dance with her mother again. "Ay mi madre," she cried, picking up the catrina and holding it close to her heart, "ay mi madre, me duele tanto, me duele tanto, if only you were alive tonight."
The streets of Mexico are alive tonight. Rows upon rows of candles cast their flickering light on the cobblestone streets, allowing the townspeople to steal glances at the brightly colored flowers and ofrendas. The smell of freshly baked bread fills the air, mingling with the incense, and chocolate, and roses. Men on stilts strut about the village as children skip along below. Mariachi music dances within the listener's ear, bright colors and candy skulls fill every empty void; the streets of Mexico are alive tonight.
A young girl paces slowly towards a small framed picture with candles surrounding it, her zapatas clicking along on the tile. She is wearing a traditional dancer's gown, the many folds dragging along the floor as she walks. She kneels down and places a doll amongst the candy skulls, flowers, and candles, right next to the framed picture. The doll is a catrina, a day of the dead figurine resembling a skeleton. It depicts a woman wearing a traditional dancer's gown, its many folds bunching up on the ground as it is placed at the ofrenda. "Ay Esperanza, I miss you Esperanza, if only you were alive tonight."
And suddenly, the young girl was in a different place. A place where there was dancing, and long flowing gowns, and everything around her began to dance as if it were all part of some grand Jarabe Tapatio, and her heart was full. She felt a wholeness again that she thought had been lost to pain, sadness, and emptiness. She felt a presence she had so missed and so longed for, an incredible warmth that brought her relief at last.
Just as soon as the dance had begun, it ended. And the candles faded, and the music stopped. The sweet smells dissipated, and the presence was dropped. And there she sat, the bottom of her gown forming a great circle on the floor. And she cried, and she cried, until she could cry no more. "Ay Esperanza," she wept, "Ay Esperanza, if you were only alive tonight."
And she looked up at the sky, perhaps wondering if she would ever dance with her mother again. "Ay mi madre," she cried, picking up the catrina and holding it close to her heart, "ay mi madre, me duele tanto, me duele tanto, if only you were alive tonight."
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Hey there roomie!
Whether it is based on my predisposition to dislike people or not, I seem to have bad luck when it comes to sharing a room or space with people, AKA, "roommates". Each and every time that I've had one, they've always managed to annoy the crap out of me. I am the sum of my experiences, so I guess I'll leave this question up to you to answer.
Is it my problem that I haven't liked all these people, or perhaps I have just been unfortunately paired with crazy people?
---
My troubles began when I was very young and had to go to camp Y'Shua, a fat camp masquerading as a Christian learning retreat. During the day we would be forced to run a few laps, crank out a few push ups, and throw some frisbees. And dance, we can't forget the dance. I didn't have a roommate really, for all the males shared a big room with wooden bunk beds.
I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and climbed the wooden ladder to my bed to settle down for the night. A counselor came in for a mandatory thirty seconds of prayer, and then the lights went off. I thought it was time to sleep, until...
"Nunnapeeds man."
The voice came from some top bunk in the corner. It was said with such confidence that you could tell he had been waiting all day to say it.
"What do you mean dude?"
"I mean nunnapeeds man, shit, they're here... in the trees. I saw one."
"No shit?"
"For real."
My eyes widened, not because I believed in nunnapeeds, but because I was appalled that a sixth grader was using such language.
"What's a nunnapeed?" A scared voice asked from below me.
"You don't know what a nunnapeed is?"
"No."
"You're a lucky bitch. Well I guess you've been one up until now, 'cause I'm fixing to tell you. Nunnapeeds are little people that live in the mountains and trees, they got sharp teeth and sharp claws. They eat babies. I know this 'cause I used to have a little brother, but we took him hiking one day and a damn nunnapeed ran out and took him. We was looking for a long time for him, until I found his body... but the insides had been taken out."
I wondered what business a baby could possibly have in the wilderness. Who takes babies on hikes?
"No shit?"
"No shit."
I really wanted to sleep. There was a shuffling noise from across the room, and a shaky voice said, "I saw one. Today."
"You seen one?"
"I did. He was crawling by the rocks over there... there was blood on his mouth."
Everyone began whispering amongst themselves. The original storyteller, none too happy that someone else had witness a nunnapeed, disputed his claim.
"You didn't see shit, bitch. I lost a baby brother to the nunnapeeds, if you'd-a seen one then you'd be dead."
Then there was silence, and half the people in the room woke up to shaving cream on their faces, no doubt the work of the nunnapeeds.
---
I had just won a free trip to Washington D.C. because of an essay I had written over conserving energy. All the winners had received letters telling them that they would be sharing a room with two other people during their week long stay in the capital. This all seemed fine with me at the time, but then....
"You see them Mexi-Can maids? Can ya talk to 'em?"
"I can, but it would be rather unprovoked. You don't just randomly approach people and talk to them because they can speak English, do you?"
"I reckon not but that's 'cause I don't speek a for-ran language! If'n I did, then I sure as hell would use it!"
This was the general dialogue I had with my roommates. The essay contest had been for rural students, and I was the first minority they had ever laid eyes upon.
"I'm roomin' with a gen-you-whine Mexi-Can!" I heard one of them say during a phonecall home. "He speaks real Spanish!"
During our week in the capital, my roommates frequently spoke about bombing the mosques they saw near the embassies in order to, "see how they like it!" and liked to play with the idea of shooting the first gay person they saw.
Our group left every morning at the ungodly hour of 6:00 a.m., but my good ol' roomies liked to keep me up until 4 a.m. Their methods of doing this varied greatly from day to day. On a good day for me, it would simply be a televised cocktail of NASCAR, ESPN, and E! entertainment. The last one made it to my list of things that I may never understand, right under "Biopolitics and Autonomo-Politics of the body." On my worst nights, though, it would be because they brought some girl back to the room.
"Aw shit I got a pretty lady to fuck with tonight!" One exclaimed after he got off the phone with the pretty lady I just mentioned. It's worth mentioning that this is the same guy who has a girlfriend back home, and who "lead the group in prayer" the next morning. Those nights I would call home to talk to family and friends.
"Why are you calling so late?" my friend asked.
"Because the bumpkin found a hooker."
I eventually took a little bit of revenge, however. My last night in D.C. was approaching, and one of my roommates was on the phone with a potential "pretty lady."
"Alright babe I'll wait." He said, putting the phone down and holding it to his chest,
"Ay amigo!" He said, looking at me. "I wanna tell my lady that she's beautiful in Spanish, how do I do that?"
Had I answered, "mi amor, eres linda", it would mean no sleep for me and another awkward phone call home at 3 a.m. Knowing this, I responded with...
"Eres un puta fea, y tambien un gordita."
"Don't puta mean bitch?"
"No, it's our slang word for a young woman. Use it."
---
I am so lucky at the University of Oklahoma to have no roommate. However, OU does operate with suite mates... people who share the bathroom that joins the two rooms together. I walked by the door next to my dorm, and noticed that my suite mates were named, "Ian and Gregory."
When I finally met them, I noticed how money was dripping from their every pore. Their room looked like something out of a PB Teen magazine, with letters attached to each decorative item and corresponding prices on the page. The bathroom we shared had already been furnished with mats and scented candles. Not that I minded.
They both spoke with an prep school type accent.
"Well hello there," Ian or maybe Gregory said with what seemed to be great effort, "looks like we'll be sharing a bathroom. Let's go ahead and create a schedule for showers and cleanup time."
"Oh, okay..." I responded.
Then Ian whispered something to Gregory (or maybe vice-versa?),
"Oh, yes. Well, as you can see we have outfitted the bathroom quite well, quite well indeed. We assume you want to contribute as well?"
"Sure..." I said.
"Okay good, could you provide maybe a trashcan for the bathroom? If it's maybe not too much trouble?"
"Sure." I said again.
I already had an extra trashcan because I have no roommate, so I just put a bag over it and set it in the bathroom. I thought it would work just as well as any other trashcan... but then I overheard Greg's (Ian's?!) reaction...
"Wow, he really is poor. You were right. Look at this."
Is it my problem that I haven't liked all these people, or perhaps I have just been unfortunately paired with crazy people?
---
My troubles began when I was very young and had to go to camp Y'Shua, a fat camp masquerading as a Christian learning retreat. During the day we would be forced to run a few laps, crank out a few push ups, and throw some frisbees. And dance, we can't forget the dance. I didn't have a roommate really, for all the males shared a big room with wooden bunk beds.
I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and climbed the wooden ladder to my bed to settle down for the night. A counselor came in for a mandatory thirty seconds of prayer, and then the lights went off. I thought it was time to sleep, until...
"Nunnapeeds man."
The voice came from some top bunk in the corner. It was said with such confidence that you could tell he had been waiting all day to say it.
"What do you mean dude?"
"I mean nunnapeeds man, shit, they're here... in the trees. I saw one."
"No shit?"
"For real."
My eyes widened, not because I believed in nunnapeeds, but because I was appalled that a sixth grader was using such language.
"What's a nunnapeed?" A scared voice asked from below me.
"You don't know what a nunnapeed is?"
"No."
"You're a lucky bitch. Well I guess you've been one up until now, 'cause I'm fixing to tell you. Nunnapeeds are little people that live in the mountains and trees, they got sharp teeth and sharp claws. They eat babies. I know this 'cause I used to have a little brother, but we took him hiking one day and a damn nunnapeed ran out and took him. We was looking for a long time for him, until I found his body... but the insides had been taken out."
I wondered what business a baby could possibly have in the wilderness. Who takes babies on hikes?
"No shit?"
"No shit."
I really wanted to sleep. There was a shuffling noise from across the room, and a shaky voice said, "I saw one. Today."
"You seen one?"
"I did. He was crawling by the rocks over there... there was blood on his mouth."
Everyone began whispering amongst themselves. The original storyteller, none too happy that someone else had witness a nunnapeed, disputed his claim.
"You didn't see shit, bitch. I lost a baby brother to the nunnapeeds, if you'd-a seen one then you'd be dead."
Then there was silence, and half the people in the room woke up to shaving cream on their faces, no doubt the work of the nunnapeeds.
---
I had just won a free trip to Washington D.C. because of an essay I had written over conserving energy. All the winners had received letters telling them that they would be sharing a room with two other people during their week long stay in the capital. This all seemed fine with me at the time, but then....
"You see them Mexi-Can maids? Can ya talk to 'em?"
"I can, but it would be rather unprovoked. You don't just randomly approach people and talk to them because they can speak English, do you?"
"I reckon not but that's 'cause I don't speek a for-ran language! If'n I did, then I sure as hell would use it!"
This was the general dialogue I had with my roommates. The essay contest had been for rural students, and I was the first minority they had ever laid eyes upon.
"I'm roomin' with a gen-you-whine Mexi-Can!" I heard one of them say during a phonecall home. "He speaks real Spanish!"
During our week in the capital, my roommates frequently spoke about bombing the mosques they saw near the embassies in order to, "see how they like it!" and liked to play with the idea of shooting the first gay person they saw.
Our group left every morning at the ungodly hour of 6:00 a.m., but my good ol' roomies liked to keep me up until 4 a.m. Their methods of doing this varied greatly from day to day. On a good day for me, it would simply be a televised cocktail of NASCAR, ESPN, and E! entertainment. The last one made it to my list of things that I may never understand, right under "Biopolitics and Autonomo-Politics of the body." On my worst nights, though, it would be because they brought some girl back to the room.
"Aw shit I got a pretty lady to fuck with tonight!" One exclaimed after he got off the phone with the pretty lady I just mentioned. It's worth mentioning that this is the same guy who has a girlfriend back home, and who "lead the group in prayer" the next morning. Those nights I would call home to talk to family and friends.
"Why are you calling so late?" my friend asked.
"Because the bumpkin found a hooker."
I eventually took a little bit of revenge, however. My last night in D.C. was approaching, and one of my roommates was on the phone with a potential "pretty lady."
"Alright babe I'll wait." He said, putting the phone down and holding it to his chest,
"Ay amigo!" He said, looking at me. "I wanna tell my lady that she's beautiful in Spanish, how do I do that?"
Had I answered, "mi amor, eres linda", it would mean no sleep for me and another awkward phone call home at 3 a.m. Knowing this, I responded with...
"Eres un puta fea, y tambien un gordita."
"Don't puta mean bitch?"
"No, it's our slang word for a young woman. Use it."
---
I am so lucky at the University of Oklahoma to have no roommate. However, OU does operate with suite mates... people who share the bathroom that joins the two rooms together. I walked by the door next to my dorm, and noticed that my suite mates were named, "Ian and Gregory."
When I finally met them, I noticed how money was dripping from their every pore. Their room looked like something out of a PB Teen magazine, with letters attached to each decorative item and corresponding prices on the page. The bathroom we shared had already been furnished with mats and scented candles. Not that I minded.
They both spoke with an prep school type accent.
"Well hello there," Ian or maybe Gregory said with what seemed to be great effort, "looks like we'll be sharing a bathroom. Let's go ahead and create a schedule for showers and cleanup time."
"Oh, okay..." I responded.
Then Ian whispered something to Gregory (or maybe vice-versa?),
"Oh, yes. Well, as you can see we have outfitted the bathroom quite well, quite well indeed. We assume you want to contribute as well?"
"Sure..." I said.
"Okay good, could you provide maybe a trashcan for the bathroom? If it's maybe not too much trouble?"
"Sure." I said again.
I already had an extra trashcan because I have no roommate, so I just put a bag over it and set it in the bathroom. I thought it would work just as well as any other trashcan... but then I overheard Greg's (Ian's?!) reaction...
"Wow, he really is poor. You were right. Look at this."
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