an observation

I have noticed that lately I have been writing much more than usual. And sleeping significantly less. Why, you might ask (or you might not)? Let's just say that I have found inspiration and a curious adrenaline rush in sadness. And I'll leave the hermeneutics to you.

color vision

I have a friend who makes everyone else seem color-blind.

This evening we were conversing about the colors of certain numbers, and we soon moved on to particular words. "Give me a Spanish word that I don't know," she suggested, "and I'll tell you what color it is."

"Luciérnaga."

A moment or two while she absorbs it. "I see a green-gold color. I can't decide between the two."

"You're sure you don't know that word?"

"No idea whatsoever."

Staring in wonder, "it means firefly."

a vision

This afternoon (and a glorious, springlike, non-februarian one it was) I was gazing out of my window as the ten-till-the-hour traffic shuffled along the street below, and I caught sight of a long, casually elegant figure, indefinably harmonious with the form and movement of his bicycle, clad in dark earth tones and donning a beret, gliding past the parked cars which glinted in the sharp winter sunlight, clutching a large drawing of a face resembling that of Abe Lincoln. I watched, mesmerized, unsure of where I was for a moment, and the mirage soon disappeared around a corner. "Wait!" I wanted to shout, "Come back--I want to be your friend." But the shock of disorientation and the restrictiveness of social inhibitions and probably a dash of inborn cowardice held me back. But maybe that's not the end of this story. Maybe he will appear in my world again, maybe there will be new characters and varied settings and different reactions and maybe even dialogue. Who knows? Life's an adventure. If you look closely enough, you may find that every day you are in a new place, with new people to meet and new temples to visit and new flavors to try. Carpete diem, amici mei, carpete diem!

¡estáis con chocolate!

If chocolate were an illegal substance, I would be a wanted criminal. Then again, so would Costco and Ghirardelli. So at least I would be in good company.

I once went to a chocolate museum in Astorga. That would be a museum about chocolate, not made of chocolate, though that would be pretty sweet (please excuse the terrible pun). Also in Astorga I posed as Rapunzel and saw a couple of bona-fide Camino de Santiago pilgrims and some beautiful graffiti, and my namesake washed her hair in a fountain. Lovely memories.

Was there a point to this? Ah yes, these brownies are starting to make me feel ill. Or perhaps the nausea stems from that anxiety and dread which come from being four weeks behind in a class whose (can I use that possessive adjective here? hmm, it seems I can and just did) midterm exam begins in exactly twelve hours. Probably a little from column A, a little from column B.

prose versus poetry

I don’t really like prose. Wait, let me clarify that. I dislike poorly-crafted prose, such as that which I’m forced to wade through as I cram for my history midterm (once-a-week classes just cannot motivate me to keep pace). Take this example: “On March 4, 1801, Thomas Jefferson walked from his boarding house to the Capitol for his inauguration, ostentatiously avoiding the pomp and ceremony he thought had grown out of hand under Washington and Adams.” That is the opening sentence of a chapter, the eighth to be precise, in my widely-used and, I believe, in many circles highly-regarded textbook. Ostentatiously avoiding pomp and ceremony?? Really, who writes this nonsense? I could do better than that. Which brings me directly (was that direct?) to my point: as my prose is generally poorly-crafted, I tend to dislike it. Thus I opt for poetry instead, or something at least closer to poetry than to well-crafted prose. Not that my poetry is worthy of any praise, either. But I find it more rewarding to have written something in which I have wrestled with every word, syllable, sound, and shape, depositing my ideas and emotions and responses to my world into the tiny loops and folds of an elaborately wound mass of linguistic yarn (see what I mean about my prose?) Anyway, that is why I enjoy reading (and writing about) poetry more than I do prose: precisely because it is more difficult. And when we dare to penetrate the unknown, when we embark on a journey into the darkness in search of a trace of light and fight to return not only alive but living and knowing and feeling and thinking and being more and better than we were before, that is what it means.

whatever you do, don't touch that button

How quick and perilous is that little button that reads SEND
The roles reverse and rather than my commanding the computer to send
I am compelled against my better judgment (what place has that here?)
to click (so easy!) the small rounded rectangle (deceptively harmless!)
that mocks me with that awful four-letter word:
“Send!” it commands me and I obey and instantly those words propelled into cyberspace,
which spits back at me sugary naïveté and piquant anxiety turned bitter regret and acidic fear.
Where’s the undo button? but it’s gone and the shadow of shame grows with the passage of time
because I interpret silence as mocking and disdain (can I be blamed?)
and my precious silly dreams suffer one more puncture wound at the elusive hands of reality

a nascent friendship

excitement and anxiety and fear

new texts to read and to write and to translate

raw humanity examining its world
from behind a pair of vigilant eyes
that sparkle
with light tinted by colors
of desire of knowledge
of love of pain

beauty and truth and hope

and faith

walk with me talk with me
fly with me to the sky with me
wander with you ponder with you
explore with you see more with you
smile with me stay a while with me
grieve with me believe with me

what a morning

1. woke up on the couch, lights on. 3rd night in a row without sleeping in my bed. surrounded by piles of homework, practically untouched.
2. email from B. took a full minute to catch my breath.
3. feeling clueless in latin class. hadn't done the homework, forgetting old stuff. composed responses to B.
4. literature class. again, lost and forced to be a spectator because I haven't done the work. kicking myself for falling so far behind, dreading the exam, hating myself for being such a selfish, uncaring butthead toward L.
5. class ends. my prof asks me to teach his intro lit class on friday. we'll be discussing a favorite story of mine, which B recalled to my memory just a few days ago. vaguely wondering about mysterious cosmic connections, flattered, excited, scared out of my mind, I accept.
6. a quiet spot by a large window. my headphones singing to me anthems of naalalula, I sit watching the falling snow and begin my latin homework. along comes L. greets me with a smile. (why doesn't he hate me?) shares some news, talks about the future. makes me four separate offers. I can't help but accept his friendship, at least. and would it be so hard to return the favor? he leaves, my head drops onto my knee. it's heavy and dizzy. it's only noon. watch the snow, catch my breath.
7. finished my latin homework. emailed B. walked home surrounded by white. blow-dried my pant cuffs. picked up pen and paper. exhaled.

rax ub'aq'wach

¿Cómo pueden dos puntos de tranquilo cielo azul
rodearse con dos huracanes?
¿Cómo pueden tonos puros del cantar del azulejo
convertirse en sirenas de peligro gimiendo?
¿Cómo pueden refinadas y suaves záfiras
como rocas del monte silvestre pinchar?
¿Cómo queda plácida esa superficie cristalina
mientras fondos furiosos esconde?
¿Cómo pueden ser bases de llamas de pasión encendidas
a la vez que lágrimas por el viento invernal congeladas?

Time out

Sky Child, why do you mourn?

A question I cannot answer--

It is not that the question is not directed at me; for the more I think about it, the more the epithet fits.

It is not that I do not trust the inquirer; no, I would no sooner divulge an answer to anyone else on this earth.

It is not that the question is unfounded; my body language, now as ever, betrays my emotion.

Still, the words do not come and the OED cannot help me now.

My stubborn neurons, failing to attach sufficient postage to the letters that are supposed to form words en route to my vocal cords, which, for their own part, have become paralyzed--their typical response to stress--refuse to offer an explanation even to me.

I sit on my heels and watch the rain--the droplets cling to the fine wire mesh which sways in the breeze and they grab bits of light from the streetlamp so they become stars in some distant galaxy--yet it is right here in front of my nose--which shivers as if to acknowledge its own existence--and though the windows are shut and I know (or I thought I knew) the gaps between silicon dioxide molecules in the glass are far smaller than the drops of dihydrogen monoxide which are attacking the pane from outside (or is that in and I am left out?), yet somehow two or three have gotten through and landed on my cheeks and I don't even know how or why.

But there is that woman with a French name dispensing ancient Mayan cacao remedies on the tv screen and in my mug and it feels better for a while, warmer, at least.

Then I shut it all out. Time will not stop and wait for me to sort out the world as it is right now; instead, it runs on while I am unconscious of its course. Then, for variety, I reverse it. Now I am on the outside and I have shut everything else in. And I go seeking the sky–oh, how gorgeous!–endless expanse of air, my element, my substance.

Breathe.

And float down again.