I hope some day to bake the perfect cookie :)

I guess I believe in the joy of little things...

Bahá'í International Community's letter to Ayatollah Qorban-Ali Dorri-Najafabadi, Prosecutor General

http://bic.org/assets/open%20letter%20response%20English.pdf

Therefore I am...

What a strange relationship there is between sorrow and joy…
I suppose any strong emotion reminds us that we’re alive, that we… are.
A single tear fills our heart to the brim and leaves us worn, exhausted and yet grateful that we’re so blessed as to feel and be moved and be reminded of our simple existence.
It is the moments of sorrow and joy that we will remember when looking back on our lives.
I have cried and I have laughed, I’m tired and worn and therefore I am.

My treat...

When happiness is questioned, a frown replaces the smile.
When faith is questioned, reassurance and trust becomes doubt and fear.
When love is questioned, the butterflies become an upset stomach.
I’ve realized I tend to question all that is good. I wonder if people’s laughs are fake, not to mention my own. Generosity makes me squint my eyes as if that way I can see their true intentions. Either you think I can’t afford it, or you don’t want me to think that you can’t, or you want me to feel indebted to you forever because of a Coke, or maybe you want me to trust you so that you can steal my identity… it’s never just a Coke. Oh, I forgot one: Does he think that makes him a man? Or: Does she think that proves her independence and equality? Actually that one is usually directed towards myself.
Anywho, like my aunt says, I think we should trust our feelings more. Not the ones that tell us to shoot the woman with the mullet, the ones that tell us: laugh, trust, love…

Knock On Wood

Isn't it true that the second we make a decision or come to a conclusion we're tested?
... happens every time...
It's almost like you gotta think twice before you think about something.

It's almost like you gotta to knock on wood after making New Year's resolutions because, God forbid, you might have to carry them through.

Say you decide to be caring and selfless and then next thing you know it's you and an old couple in the rain and only one taxi... and you know you can out run them...

The Dreaded Towel

This past year was one of many realizations. Many things fell into place. It seems a bit late in life to start figuring out who I am, where I belong, where I'm from... but thankfully one of my main realizations has been finding out that I'm not alone, that there are many others like me and that this pubecent confusion I feel I'm going through might very well be a life long companion.

It's incredible that nothing in my life has changed except my perception of it and yet, somehow, that changes everything.

A friend once told me she realized she was waiting, waiting for her life to begin. In my way I think I've always done that too. Whatever I've done, wherever I've been, the friends I've made have been, in my mind, temporary.

I'm now visiting my parents and for the first time ever allowing them to give me sheets, a normal sized towel, pots, silverware... things for my house, things that will weigh me down and although externally I'm just exchanging a hand towel for one that takes up 3 times more space, I'm also accepting that my life is happening right here and right now.

I'm no longer passing though.

How about being human?

We allow ourselves to be animals and we strive to be God
People say, "Be a man!"... "Act like a lady!"
How about trying to be... human??

Choices

She went over to his apartment
Clutching her decision
And he said, did you come here to tell me goodbye?
So she built a skyscraper of procrastination
And then she leaned out the twenty-fifth floor window
Of her reply
And she felt like an actress
Just reading her lines
When she finally said
Yes. it’s really goodbye this time
And far below was the blacktop
And the tiny toy cars
And it all fell so fast
And it all fell so far
And she said:
You are a miracle but that is not all
You are also a stiff drink and I am on call
You are a party and I am a school night
And I’m lookin’ for my door key
But you are not my porch light
And you’ll never know, dear
Just how much I loved you
You’ll probably think this was
Just my big excuse
But I stand committed
To a love that came before you
And the fact that I adore you
Is but one of my truths

...

She’s choking on the smoke
Of unthinkable choices
She is haunted by the voices
Of so many desires
She’s bent over from the business
Of begging forgiveness
While frantically running around
Putting out fires
But then what kind of scale
Compares the weight of two beauties
The gravity of duties
Or the ground speed of joy?
Tell me what kind of gauge
Can quantify elation?
What kind of equation
Could I possibly employ?
And you’ll never know, dear
Just how much I loved you
You probably think this was
Just my big excuse
But I stand committed
To a love that came before you
And the fact that I adore you
Is just one of my truths
So I
I’m goin’ home
To please the one I so love pleasing
And I don’t expect
He’ll have much sympathy for my grieving
But I guess that this is the price
That we pay for the privilege
Of living for even a day
In a world with so many things
Worth believing
In

-Ani DiFranco

Why do I identify so much? I've never chosen between two people. I guess for me it's choices in general. The fight between body and soul, heart and mind, reason and desire. The line is not only gray it's multicolored. Should we pursue what is good for us or what makes us happy, or are they one and the same? How to distinguish between true happiness and the untrue?

My favorite twos

When I really like something, I buy it in twos. Problem is, because I like those things so much, I always have to go back for more; two doesn't last very long. So today I was wondering why I don't just buy 100 packs and save myself the trouble. I think in part it's because I like to have as little stuff as possible at any given moment, but also because I enjoy the going back for more part. I guess I should clarify that the only things I'm actually thinking about are coffee and shisha supplies. Is that all I care about? I think I could be happy without any other material possession... except maybe my camera... and my laptop... I don't have those in twos. Of course coffee is more complicated because there's the freshness factor, which, of course, is crucial. I forgot to put that on my survey. I got a coffee mug painting for my birthday; it's beautiful :) How can a mug collage not make one happy? Impossible.

Black, Strong, Nutty... and with a Good Finish

He borrado 2 veces este post...
Tal vez no hay nada que quiero decir...
En realidad hay mucho que quiero decir pero una "personita" tiene razon cuando dice que soy muy reservada.
Una "personita"... jajajaja!!

Te hago un cafecito?
Ya!

I'm bad...

I think only one person will have any idea what I'm talking about, which is of course... nothing.

So let's change the subject...

How about a poll:

How do you like your coffee?

Options:
a) nutty
b) earthy
c) with a good finish
d) with just the right acidity
e) citrusy
f) chocolaty
g) smooth
h) like my men: black and strong
i) like my men: brown and sweet
j) other

*I'd love to know what other is.

Nihil volitum quin precognitum

(no puede quererse nada que previamente no haya sido conocido)

Inspired by Benetton

Last night I had a strange train of thought after I witnessed a car crash from the 12th floor of the apartment building where I sleep but don't live. The last part went something like this:

• My Benetton bag I bought at a flea market, aka Cumavi
• Benetton adds
• "Benetton couples" (interracial)
• Couples
• Sex
• Love (yes... it was in that order)
• The need to love
• The need to be loved
• The realization that the need to love is stronger than the need to be loved

It makes me wonder, have I ever been in love? I know I've thought so at the time, but when it's over I think... naw, I wasn't in love... it wasn't real... I was blind... it was stupid... I wasn't in love.

And now I've become this completely rational, cold minded person, that doesn't believe in romance, or butterflies (the stomach ones), much less soul mates. I snicker at hand-holding and intimate whispers.

...but try as I may to ignore it, the need to love is strong.

Oh my...

I'm playing chess with myself. It's one of those long drawn out games. I feel like the world has stopped, but then I'm reminded... no, just your world. I've always wondered if we all look at the same object and call it green but really see different colors. It would explain really bad taste. Our minds do crazy things; at this point I don't think anything would surprise me. It's actually really hard for me to seem, sound, be excited, surprised, shocked, or any other kind of strong emotion. I once got really excited during a game of ultimate frisbee; everyone slowed down and glanced at me nervously not knowing how to interpret or react to my enjoyment. Watching TV with my brothers one day, I said, "Ugh, she's so ugly!" My oldest brother asked me why I was always so negative. So I decided to be positive. When the next girl came on the show, I said, "Wow, she's beautiful!!" To this they responded, "Okaaay...", "Not really." I was confused, I didn't know what was expected of me. When I heard some people talking about Princess Diana's death, I said something like, "Well, it's about time." I felt like I should add something to the conversation... except their mouths dropped open and they stared at me in confused disbelief. Emotions, primarily expressing them, has never been my forte.

Nagging little secrets

Ok, so I really need to work but I need to get this off my chest first... I once beat an old couple to a taxi in the rain.

Ahhh! There, I said it!

Part 1 'n a half

I'm not sure I want to go into the messiness of my early teenage years, however, I think that's when the seeking really began. Except I was looking in all the wrong places. I tried on multiple identities, none of which would fit. I somehow managed to think thongs were comfortable (I know, it's beside the point... or is it?) I used to fall asleep (or try to) to Vonda Shepard (I know, that's also strange). I suffered from insomnia, which let my obsessive compulsive nature out of the closet. I would often get up to clean my room at 3 in the morning... or write... or other such things. I would usually sleep through class (if I didn't skip) and accomplished failing Spanish even though I would correct my teacher in my mind. The one thing I loved was work... and other such things. I would usually get there before I needed to and didn't need to be asked twice to stay longer. I worked on holidays with pleasure. Being a fourteen-year-old waitress at an invisible Chinese restaurant seemed to be my only floating device, and I was no where near land. Actually, there were a few islands like the ones that float on the Lake Titicaca (home to the tribe that existed before the sun); women that have forever left their mark on me, floaters themselves, possibly even farther from land than myself. They taught me to distrust men whether or not they meant to and by doing so, in a way, made me very much like the men they resented. Together we shared cigarettes, coffee and our hearts.

It seems I never got around to the subject. From what little I remember of those years, oddly clear through the fog, surfaces part of a Creative English assignment. I don't remember what the subject of the paper was but I quoted someone with this phrase,

"Abraham believed by the virtue of the absurd."

My teacher decided to anonymously read my paper to the class, which resulted in uncomfortable giggles and comments like, "is that a suicide note Miss ...?" I kept quiet while inside a heated debate raged. Was I suicidal because I doubted? Or were they zombies simply waiting for the day to topple over without ever having opened their eyes, much less their minds, to the world pulsing around them. Whether I was suicidal or not, is now irrelevant (as I am still here, the world pulsing around me). At that time I questioned, I doubted, I disbelieved, but worse of all, I didn't care.

Go ahead and cry now
Just give in to the madness
The only way to feel your joy
Is to first feel the sadness

-Vonda Shepard,

I guess when life is complicated, simple is good.

... to be continued

A Glorious Mistake

I should've never started to read dooce, now I'm hopelessly addicted and will forever be delayed an additional 5 minutes before I start to do whatever I need to do (notice the new addition to Where I procrastinate...)

At the flip of a coin

Smoking, why do we start? I honestly don't believe that those who don't are stonger, smarter, more sure of themselves, I just think they were lucky. Is that my excuse? Well, yes, as a matter of fact it is. When one fraction of a second is all that is needed to doom you for the rest of your life, are we really that guilty? The apple was poisoned, the ginger-bread house was a trap, I was lured with false promises and now I'm forever guilty of my innocent crime. Now I feel weak, dirty, bad, stupid. Do people usually dig up other's dirt from before they were 13? Does that not seem illogical? It's just hard for me to accept that humans with braces, that still don't choose their own clothes, that haven't ever had a pimple, that can still hunch their shoulders and not wear a bra, are completely accountable for their actions. Don't worry (you self-righteous-non-smokers), it doesn't make it any easier to quit. You still have your advantage. However, has it not happened to you (by you I mean those of you in my same plight) that when you quit you become self-righteous? It has happened to me. I tell myself I pity my ex-smoking -buddies but maybe I'm just suddenly lonely. You know there are support groups for ex-smokers? Most people don't believe it's such a big deal. Yeah, you're just lucky. And here I am writing about it and all I can think about is how much I want a smoke. And I KNOW it causes cancer, and I KNOW it's the one responsable of my shortness of breath, my coughing, my worthless immune system, I KNOW. Why does that mean nothing to me? I pretend it scares me but it doesn't, not as much as a cheap horror film; so, no, I can't say it scares me. Smoking is my Humbert.

Odio la vaselina

Una excusa es siempre una excusa. No importa si de verdad el perro se comió tu trabajo final, sigue siendo una excusa. Lo importante es que no tienes el trabajo, no por qué no lo tienes.

Hace como 10 días que estoy resfriada. Cuando me enfermo siempre dura una eternidad. Y siempre se torna somato psíquico, o quizás siempre es psicosomático. No lo se. Lo cierto es que hace 3 días que no hago más que trabajar y dormir. Cómo por obligación, no he estado tomando café ni fumando shisha, ni siquiera me he estado arrancando el pelo. Bueno, hoy tome café, ¿es señal de mejora cuando vuelven los vicios? Bueno, mi resfrío coincidió con la regla. Pero sigue siendo excusa.

No quiero salir de mi casa, como para no regresar a la realidad. Incluso es la primera vez en días que reviso mi correo y leo los pensamientos de mis “fellow procrastinators”, como si la realidad virtual también implicara demasiado esfuerzo.

Me haré otra taza de café… umm, parece que estoy volviendo a la vida.

He vuelto con una galleta de miel que en mi reciente ocio he recubierto tiene suero de leche…ugh, ¿por que? También me he enterado que los dulces de ajonjolí tienen aceite de oliva… ¿por que? ¿Por qué se empeñan en destruir mis pequeños placeres? Podría convertirme en “the magician”, pero no sé a qué protestaría con mi silencio.

En un rato voy a una fiesta de cumpleaños. Habrán aceitunas, cubitos de queso, maní, gaseosas, conversaciones excluyentes y otras abiertas, risas, historias vergonzosas, preguntas desinteresadas, respuestas vacías, música, tal vez baile (mas incomodo que divertido), silencio, ruido… Yo iré, porque es mi amigo, porque quiero ir, porque es malo ser antisocial… Pero sé que seré antisocial y sé que cuando alguien me diga, “¿Nos vamos?”, me sentiré aliviada. ¿Entonces por qué voy? Porque la línea entre realidad y fantasía ya es demasiado indistinta. Porque me siento demasiado cómoda en mis sueños. Porque excluir a los demás de mi vida se ha vuelto la norma.

Creo que con suficientes libros y kilos de buen café no me molestaría vivir en una isla desierta. ¿Eso debería preocuparme? Me imagino que si. Me imagino que lo mejor será no publicar esto para que los pocos que leen mis pensamientos no se asusten de mi indiferencia. Pero estoy cansada de fingir y de que los demás finjan. Así que no destinaré mis pensamientos a ser un eterno borrador. Después de todo, ser humana no significa llevar vaselina en los dientes y la sonrisa siempre lista. Esos humanos me inspiran desconfianza. Con cada sonrisa me hacen dudar más y más de su felicidad. Bueno, supongo que es normal en una escéptica.

What forces us out of oblivion...

Fast 2005

Nixon ran away today. It's almost midnight and I can't sleep. I knew he was thinking about it, I should have told someone. If I pass by la casa 1 tomorrow and he's not there... It would be my fault. I don't know if people would blame me but I would.

Sleep is a waste of time anyways. I haven't been getting my 8 hours of sleep, much less the 10-12 I was used to back home. It's good for me though. I was so aragana. I sat in my hammock all day, drinking coffee and daydreaming. I still daydream once in a while but for the most part I don't have time for it anymore. I don't think I'll feel like I'm doing enough until I have a study circle everyday. Hopefully that will start soon. I can start Book 3 this week because I already have the books.

Nixon, where are you? Te imagino caminando, solo, de noche, con hambre y con sed, llorando y llamando a tu mama aunque sabes que no te oye. Lo siento Nixon. Lo siento porque no tienes una mejor vida. Lo siento porque no vives con tu familia... porque no tienes todo lo que yo tuve. Te quiero mucho. Y me duele que sufras... y yo se que no me duele tanto como a ti y me siento hipocrita por atreverme a pensar que entiendo porque no entiendo. No entiendo lo que es tener a una madre que no te quiere ni se interesa por ti. No entiendo lo que es nunca haber conocido a mi padre o tener un hermano que me viola. No entiendo nada de eso. Nunca lo entendere porque no lo he vivido.

Andrea es la niña mas linda del mundo con sus colochos, su sonrisita, su naricita y su pansota... y su mami no la quiere. Y ella quiere tanto a su mami.

Kimberly, ni se queria ir. Y su mama se quejaba de que la hayan acostumbrado a estar chineada. Pobresita, la acostumbraron al amor, al calor de alguien que la abraza y le da un pico y le dice, "¿Como esta mi gordita bella?"

Los gemelos... ni se que decir. Los quiero demasiado. Ahora se lo que se siente querer a alguien tanto que no lo quieres soltar. Entiendo por que mi mama siempre quiere abrazarnos y decirnos que nos quiere. Yo quiciera tenerlos de la mano por el resto de mi vida y verlos sonreir y amarlos y darles todo, todo lo material y espiritual que pueda, llevarlos a la playa... llevarlos a un parque, a comer a McDonald's, verlos aplaudir y gritar cuando les de el Happy Meal.

Son las 12:06 a.m.

Part I

I used to live in the jungle. I know, it sounds exciting. And it was, at least at the beginning, until I started to get really, really bored. When I confronted my parents with my dilemma, they had two different responses: My mom would smile at me with compassion and then change the subject and my dad would offer solutions that could keep me and my offspring occupied for a lifetime. He would say, "Write a book." Not write a story, write a BOOK! He would also suggest I write poetry; at 10, 11, I still had no interest in such an endeavour. "Learn to play a musical instrument." Of course all of these would have been extremely valuable ways of using my time had I had any interest in them at all.

I eventually became an obsessive compulsive reader. I would go into the room where we stashed practically everything from food to art materials to medicine and, or course, books and I would go through all our books looking for ones I had yet to read and separating those I had no interest in (there were few of those), I would then proceed to stack them in the order I would read them in, pick up the one at the top, settle in a hammock of preference, depending on presence or absence of guests and availability of hammocks. I would then read all day, taking short bathroom breaks, on my way back from which I would refill my coffee mug and settle back into my hammock. Later on, my reading was also interrupted by periodic outings for a cigarette, which involved getting out of smelling range from my parents. Once I had a separate "rancho" I would usually read and smoke there, specially after my dad built a huge roofless bathroom with a bench-bed; there was no longer any reason to go down to the house, except for coffee. I used to consider making my own little fireplace at my house so I wouldn't have to go down to the house at all. Not that I didn't like seeing my family, it just seemed so convenient.

Let me explain why I got so bored, while my parents didn't. Adults have a sense of purpose that keeps them motivated, that makes them feel guilty about sleeping in, that allows them to perform tedious tasks dutifully. Children don't have that sense of purpose, they don't really understand, until they're older, why certain things are good and others bad. My parents had and have an unquestionable faith in God and in service to humanity that I certainly did not understand at age 11. I wasn't at all sure what I believed in for many years. I was, in fact, very Nietzsche like in my questioning of the world and all that is accepted as good, correct and holy. I became more and more critical as years past by, climaxing with complete rebellion at 14, which then progressively dwindled to somewhat clear and open mindedness at 15-16. And then I became a seeker.