Tuesday, September 30, 2008
a quick note on the economic crisis.
i just wonder, how could a corrupt capitalist and materialist and vain nation full of such greed, gluttony, constant splurging, indulgence, and consumerism last much longer, before just collapsing, and destroying itself?
Monday, September 29, 2008
in my dreams last night
2 and a half years ago
The air is cool at night, still, and even in the shadows during the day. But in the direct sunlight it is hot, and I sweat a little under my arms and where my backpack straps hang on my shoulders. My skin is starting to darken. I like it better when I am not so pasty. The sun on my face feels so good. I like pushing my hair completely off of my cheeks and forehead to expose my naked skin in the face of the sun. I love doing it in the middle of the day, on the mall, while I stand next to the cacti garden in the grass. The skies are always a perfect cyan-blue and just one or two clouds rest in the sky like stretched-out cotton balls. I close my eyes and throw my head back while I breathe in deeply. I stretch out my fingers. I can feel the summer rays warming the tiny brown freckles on my nose. Then a quiet, refreshing breeze picks up my delicate, white Mexican dress, hecho de mano, and blows my short, brown hair all over my face. Brown like my wooden desk, like my café eyes, like the tiny freckles on my nose. My bangs get caught in my eyelashes. And I smile, then peek at the sun.
I did that today, and thought: maybe Chris will walk by and say Hello to me. You did in my dreams last night. You found me in my dreams and hugged me. I looked into your eyes. Those eyes of yours, like kaleidoscopes, twisting between green, yellow, and brown. They are saucers full of fresh limes, lemons, and honey. And my dreams were so vivid last night, like they actually happened. I woke up missing you, and thinking about your eyes. This is how I started my day today.
So I stood there with my hands sprawled and face smiling into the sun waiting for you to tap me on the shoulder, waiting to hear a spoken Hello. And I thought: well maybe I will see him later because it’s Thursday and I think you have a class on Tuesdays and Thursdays at four like I do. Because sometimes I get to see you in the afternoon right up until class at four and you are always too far away from me to say Hello. I know that you see me, too. But you don’t stop and wait for me to catch up, you just keep walking, Chris, you keep walking away from me and pretend that you don’t see me even though I know you do. You walk away from me and won’t even say Hello. You won’t even acknowledge that I exist. And you just walk away and won’t even wait for me to catch up and I’m just left with more wanting, more silence. You won’t even say Hello. I just want to say Hello. Or a tap on the shoulder.
Last week you wore a green collared-shirt. I could see you buildings away. I always liked it when you wore green. It makes your irises look like fruitful marijuana buds.
But I guess a dream is just a dream, and something broken and left in the past just can't be restored in the future. Like an old building made into a museum. Just dead things there to look at, not to be alive anymore in real life.
The air is cool at night, still, and even in the shadows during the day. But in the direct sunlight it is hot, and I sweat a little under my arms and where my backpack straps hang on my shoulders. My skin is starting to darken. I like it better when I am not so pasty. The sun on my face feels so good. I like pushing my hair completely off of my cheeks and forehead to expose my naked skin in the face of the sun. I love doing it in the middle of the day, on the mall, while I stand next to the cacti garden in the grass. The skies are always a perfect cyan-blue and just one or two clouds rest in the sky like stretched-out cotton balls. I close my eyes and throw my head back while I breathe in deeply. I stretch out my fingers. I can feel the summer rays warming the tiny brown freckles on my nose. Then a quiet, refreshing breeze picks up my delicate, white Mexican dress, hecho de mano, and blows my short, brown hair all over my face. Brown like my wooden desk, like my café eyes, like the tiny freckles on my nose. My bangs get caught in my eyelashes. And I smile, then peek at the sun.
I did that today, and thought: maybe Chris will walk by and say Hello to me. You did in my dreams last night. You found me in my dreams and hugged me. I looked into your eyes. Those eyes of yours, like kaleidoscopes, twisting between green, yellow, and brown. They are saucers full of fresh limes, lemons, and honey. And my dreams were so vivid last night, like they actually happened. I woke up missing you, and thinking about your eyes. This is how I started my day today.
So I stood there with my hands sprawled and face smiling into the sun waiting for you to tap me on the shoulder, waiting to hear a spoken Hello. And I thought: well maybe I will see him later because it’s Thursday and I think you have a class on Tuesdays and Thursdays at four like I do. Because sometimes I get to see you in the afternoon right up until class at four and you are always too far away from me to say Hello. I know that you see me, too. But you don’t stop and wait for me to catch up, you just keep walking, Chris, you keep walking away from me and pretend that you don’t see me even though I know you do. You walk away from me and won’t even say Hello. You won’t even acknowledge that I exist. And you just walk away and won’t even wait for me to catch up and I’m just left with more wanting, more silence. You won’t even say Hello. I just want to say Hello. Or a tap on the shoulder.
Last week you wore a green collared-shirt. I could see you buildings away. I always liked it when you wore green. It makes your irises look like fruitful marijuana buds.
But I guess a dream is just a dream, and something broken and left in the past just can't be restored in the future. Like an old building made into a museum. Just dead things there to look at, not to be alive anymore in real life.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
paralyzed
I remember,
when his hands held baseball bats,
when there were blisters from weight training,
and when his fingers squeezed mine.
Now,
those fingers are trapped, curled in.
Chipped, calloused pieces of skin
have formed rough elephant scales on the outer palm
where he grinds against the rubber of his wheelchair.
I wonder why
he just doesn’t wear gloves
and his tired eyes tell me
I won’t ever be able to understand this notion of pride.
when his hands held baseball bats,
when there were blisters from weight training,
and when his fingers squeezed mine.
Now,
those fingers are trapped, curled in.
Chipped, calloused pieces of skin
have formed rough elephant scales on the outer palm
where he grinds against the rubber of his wheelchair.
I wonder why
he just doesn’t wear gloves
and his tired eyes tell me
I won’t ever be able to understand this notion of pride.
love da pups
i just love it when the puppy sneaks off with one of my Brooklyn shoes in her mouth! it's just so cute, so funny... like "oh, this disgusting pizza shoe looks delicious! this shoe is mine!"
Monday, September 22, 2008
feeding the pain
My mother, she’s told me how fat she was in high school. She didn’t go to prom, she didn’t go to homecoming. My Dad is the first (and last) man that she’s been with. Oh, she was fat.
She lost in all in college, all the weight, at least. She’s never gained it back. I’ve diagnosed her as chronically anorexic, and I think she binges in secret when no one else is home. Her weaknesses are dark chocolate and buttery biscuits. She prides herself on how little she eats—and the only time I make her proud is when I eat as little as her, too. I, on the other hand, pride myself on how I can eat as much as my Dad. Two plates of spaghetti, really Brooke? she’d yell at me during dinner, Your Father eats two plates of spaghetti! That was third grade, when I was a skinny little thing, a tom-boy.
But now we’re talking 17 years old.
“You’re going to school like that?” she said to me while she was lying in her bed, her body tangled in the rumpled blankets, watching the morning news. She was still in her night gown, her hair all a mess. Every day I tried to sneak past her double doors to go to school, to evade her. Usually I could make it, but Fridays were her day off.
I turned to her, angry on the outside, and started to speak, “Yes…”
She looked so small in her huge bed. A seething person, she was merely 5’3”, her beady dark eyes beaming on me. “Every day you go to school with your hair in a pony tail, jeans, and a t-shirt,” she snarled. “Are you wearing any make up? Do you appreciate anything I buy for you? That brand new mascara?” My mother smacked her hand against the mattress, her lower jaw hanging open revealing her jagged teeth.
I stood in s i l e n c e, my battle-cry against her, which would destroy her little by little as my high school years spun me upside down. I stared at her.
“Don’t you have any respect for yourself? Any dignity?” she barked. “Is this how I’ve raised you?”
Yes, I do have dignity. The words pounded against the inside of my skull, rhythmically and repeatedly, harder and harder. I stood in silence.
“Huh?” she shouted. “Answer me!”
“Can’t you even say good morning to me?” I snapped at her. “Jesus.” And I walked away. As I skipped steps down the stairs, I hooked my pointer fingers through the belt loops of my Lucky’s so my butt crack didn’t fall out. The pants were a size 7.
You can barely squeeze into those jeans, she spat at me last week, accusing me, eyeing my body up and down, shoulders to feet. Why don’t you wear shorts anymore? Huh? Why? Do they even fit you? The ones I just bought for you? Do they even fit? My mother, she was just worried. This is how I could hold my silence. I knew better; I knew that she was afraid, afraid that I would get fat like she was fat. She was projecting her own fears and insecurity onto me, the psychotherapist explained to me, and that I was not actually fat and that I did not actually disappoint her. They were her problems, not mine. But more importantly, my mother’s told me that, obesity runs in the family, and what you look like is important.
So, I’m not fat, I would tell myself, You know that, you eat healthy. Who was I trying to convince? I knew I was at a healthy weight, and I understood it, but I didn’t feel it. I didn’t feel not fat. I wondered, how could any mother in the world say things like that to her own daughter?
***
I pushed through the front door and dropped my backpack at the bottom of the stairs. “Hello?” I announced to the house. Anybody home? Only the little Shih-Tzu came sliding across the tile to greet me.
“Awesome,” I said aloud to myself. I headed straight for the kitchen. I gazed into the abundant pantry full of low fat, nonfat, fat free, low calorie, sugar free, and/or low sodium processed foods. It was early afternoon and the house was shining bright. The blinds were pulled on the windows and the sky was hot and clear.
My eyes squinted, searching. I wanted to eat something. I was not even hungry. But my mother was gone. Now was my only chance. I pushed aside some boxes of whole-grain crackers and Slimfast meal bars. And there was a brand new package of Double Stuffed Oreos.
My Dad liked to sneak in treats for my sister and me.
The plastic wrapping crumpled in my hands. I thought about how my mother and how I would never talk to her. It’s not that I didn’t want to talk to her, but what could I possibly say? She didn’t care about anything that was important to me. She couldn’t look past my clothes and the number on the scale. I mean HELLO, I thought to myself, I play Varsity Soccer for chrissake. I weigh 135 pounds! I am 5’7”!
I read the label. Double Stuffed Oreos, two cookies, 140 calories, 7 grams of fat. I had become a calorie counting machine. I ran upstairs to my room with the unopened package of Double Stuffed Oreos tucked under my arm. I locked the door, and sat onto my bed eating the Oreos one by one, alone, in silence. The chocolate cookie smooshed into the crevices of my molars and stuck in between my front teeth. The Double Stuffed cream splooged out of its sandwich against my cheeks. My tongue pushed the food around inside of my mouth, and as I swallowed, a strange satisfaction overcame me that was not nourishment. I looked down into the three rows of cookies and one row was entirely gone. I swallowed hard and thought, Oh shit, not again?
I slipped the tray of Oreos back into the plastic wrapping and tucked it into my pajama drawer. I flossed thoroughly, brushed my teeth twice, washed my face and hands to erase any evidence. I knew she’d be home soon.
She lost in all in college, all the weight, at least. She’s never gained it back. I’ve diagnosed her as chronically anorexic, and I think she binges in secret when no one else is home. Her weaknesses are dark chocolate and buttery biscuits. She prides herself on how little she eats—and the only time I make her proud is when I eat as little as her, too. I, on the other hand, pride myself on how I can eat as much as my Dad. Two plates of spaghetti, really Brooke? she’d yell at me during dinner, Your Father eats two plates of spaghetti! That was third grade, when I was a skinny little thing, a tom-boy.
But now we’re talking 17 years old.
“You’re going to school like that?” she said to me while she was lying in her bed, her body tangled in the rumpled blankets, watching the morning news. She was still in her night gown, her hair all a mess. Every day I tried to sneak past her double doors to go to school, to evade her. Usually I could make it, but Fridays were her day off.
I turned to her, angry on the outside, and started to speak, “Yes…”
She looked so small in her huge bed. A seething person, she was merely 5’3”, her beady dark eyes beaming on me. “Every day you go to school with your hair in a pony tail, jeans, and a t-shirt,” she snarled. “Are you wearing any make up? Do you appreciate anything I buy for you? That brand new mascara?” My mother smacked her hand against the mattress, her lower jaw hanging open revealing her jagged teeth.
I stood in s i l e n c e, my battle-cry against her, which would destroy her little by little as my high school years spun me upside down. I stared at her.
“Don’t you have any respect for yourself? Any dignity?” she barked. “Is this how I’ve raised you?”
Yes, I do have dignity. The words pounded against the inside of my skull, rhythmically and repeatedly, harder and harder. I stood in silence.
“Huh?” she shouted. “Answer me!”
“Can’t you even say good morning to me?” I snapped at her. “Jesus.” And I walked away. As I skipped steps down the stairs, I hooked my pointer fingers through the belt loops of my Lucky’s so my butt crack didn’t fall out. The pants were a size 7.
You can barely squeeze into those jeans, she spat at me last week, accusing me, eyeing my body up and down, shoulders to feet. Why don’t you wear shorts anymore? Huh? Why? Do they even fit you? The ones I just bought for you? Do they even fit? My mother, she was just worried. This is how I could hold my silence. I knew better; I knew that she was afraid, afraid that I would get fat like she was fat. She was projecting her own fears and insecurity onto me, the psychotherapist explained to me, and that I was not actually fat and that I did not actually disappoint her. They were her problems, not mine. But more importantly, my mother’s told me that, obesity runs in the family, and what you look like is important.
So, I’m not fat, I would tell myself, You know that, you eat healthy. Who was I trying to convince? I knew I was at a healthy weight, and I understood it, but I didn’t feel it. I didn’t feel not fat. I wondered, how could any mother in the world say things like that to her own daughter?
***
I pushed through the front door and dropped my backpack at the bottom of the stairs. “Hello?” I announced to the house. Anybody home? Only the little Shih-Tzu came sliding across the tile to greet me.
“Awesome,” I said aloud to myself. I headed straight for the kitchen. I gazed into the abundant pantry full of low fat, nonfat, fat free, low calorie, sugar free, and/or low sodium processed foods. It was early afternoon and the house was shining bright. The blinds were pulled on the windows and the sky was hot and clear.
My eyes squinted, searching. I wanted to eat something. I was not even hungry. But my mother was gone. Now was my only chance. I pushed aside some boxes of whole-grain crackers and Slimfast meal bars. And there was a brand new package of Double Stuffed Oreos.
My Dad liked to sneak in treats for my sister and me.
The plastic wrapping crumpled in my hands. I thought about how my mother and how I would never talk to her. It’s not that I didn’t want to talk to her, but what could I possibly say? She didn’t care about anything that was important to me. She couldn’t look past my clothes and the number on the scale. I mean HELLO, I thought to myself, I play Varsity Soccer for chrissake. I weigh 135 pounds! I am 5’7”!
I read the label. Double Stuffed Oreos, two cookies, 140 calories, 7 grams of fat. I had become a calorie counting machine. I ran upstairs to my room with the unopened package of Double Stuffed Oreos tucked under my arm. I locked the door, and sat onto my bed eating the Oreos one by one, alone, in silence. The chocolate cookie smooshed into the crevices of my molars and stuck in between my front teeth. The Double Stuffed cream splooged out of its sandwich against my cheeks. My tongue pushed the food around inside of my mouth, and as I swallowed, a strange satisfaction overcame me that was not nourishment. I looked down into the three rows of cookies and one row was entirely gone. I swallowed hard and thought, Oh shit, not again?
I slipped the tray of Oreos back into the plastic wrapping and tucked it into my pajama drawer. I flossed thoroughly, brushed my teeth twice, washed my face and hands to erase any evidence. I knew she’d be home soon.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
counter!
so last night was interesting at work. i am trained as a baker, i can do it all... toss the pizza dough high in the sky, spread sauce across the crust, sprinkle zee cheeze a la zee pizza, etc, AND i am trained on ovens (da ovs). we like to shorten words at my work... ovens = ovs, delivery = deliv, sandwich = sammie, pizza = piz (pronounced peets)... and i have a few special nicknames for things like garlic knots = naughty knots, dough ball = dough bally ball...
anyway, so, i'm trained as a baker but last night i was scheduled for COUNTER, meaning i am the customer service queen and i take orders all night from the customers (including their money), wipe down tables, refill red pepper shakers, and pour drinks or open beer bottles. that's about it.
early in the evening an elderly diabetic man, who struck up conversation with me about diabetes because i was wearing last year's JDRF (http://walk.jdrf.org/) tshirt. SO GET THIS, this man told me that he was diagnosed with TYPE 1 at the age of 40. this man has an identical twin brother, who was living on the opposite coast, and his identical twin brother was diangosed with type 1 at the SAME TIME he was!!!!!! that's just crazy.
then, there was the spunky outgoing and overly friendly woman with a new yorker accent, big dangly earring and long pink and green finger nails who just spent 15 years in south florida but has a hollywood area code. "you got a beautiful smile," she said lookin' straight at me after ordering her salad, chicken parm, and water in a bottle, please, sweetie. "whaddya do for fun honey?" she said to me. "uhm, i like outdoor stuff..." "...oh and there's plenty of that to do here! huh?" "...yeah." 45 minutes later after she finished her meal, she re-approached me at the register and leaned forward over the counter with a napkin in her hand. "my name is millie," she said, "and, i'm new in town. here's my number, we should hang out. hang out with me."
the night ended strangely, with a whiny dude trying to get me to give him free jalapenos and peppercinis on his cheese slices. i said, "those are toppings. it costs extra." "...what? seriously? two slices with two toppings for $7? what? seriously? that's a lot of money!" if he weren't so rude and annoying maybe i could try to sympathize with him a little. i like to "hook-up" customers where i can, with coupons they don't have, drinks they didnt pay for, etc. but he was getting on my nerves and trying to take advantage. "yes, a single cheese slice is 2.25. each topping is .60 per slice. do the math." oooh i wanted to kick him out. especially after he came back a SECOND time, ordered a THIRD slice with jalapenos, and when he got his slice he complained (lied) to the baker on ovens that he had ordered TWO slices, not ONE, and she looked over at me wondering if this was correct, and i said NO, HE ORDERED ONE. he said, "i wanted two." "...then come over here and pay for another." he left. and supposedly the girl on ovens said he tried taking another order that didnt belong to him.
anyway, so, i'm trained as a baker but last night i was scheduled for COUNTER, meaning i am the customer service queen and i take orders all night from the customers (including their money), wipe down tables, refill red pepper shakers, and pour drinks or open beer bottles. that's about it.
early in the evening an elderly diabetic man, who struck up conversation with me about diabetes because i was wearing last year's JDRF (http://walk.jdrf.org/) tshirt. SO GET THIS, this man told me that he was diagnosed with TYPE 1 at the age of 40. this man has an identical twin brother, who was living on the opposite coast, and his identical twin brother was diangosed with type 1 at the SAME TIME he was!!!!!! that's just crazy.
then, there was the spunky outgoing and overly friendly woman with a new yorker accent, big dangly earring and long pink and green finger nails who just spent 15 years in south florida but has a hollywood area code. "you got a beautiful smile," she said lookin' straight at me after ordering her salad, chicken parm, and water in a bottle, please, sweetie. "whaddya do for fun honey?" she said to me. "uhm, i like outdoor stuff..." "...oh and there's plenty of that to do here! huh?" "...yeah." 45 minutes later after she finished her meal, she re-approached me at the register and leaned forward over the counter with a napkin in her hand. "my name is millie," she said, "and, i'm new in town. here's my number, we should hang out. hang out with me."
the night ended strangely, with a whiny dude trying to get me to give him free jalapenos and peppercinis on his cheese slices. i said, "those are toppings. it costs extra." "...what? seriously? two slices with two toppings for $7? what? seriously? that's a lot of money!" if he weren't so rude and annoying maybe i could try to sympathize with him a little. i like to "hook-up" customers where i can, with coupons they don't have, drinks they didnt pay for, etc. but he was getting on my nerves and trying to take advantage. "yes, a single cheese slice is 2.25. each topping is .60 per slice. do the math." oooh i wanted to kick him out. especially after he came back a SECOND time, ordered a THIRD slice with jalapenos, and when he got his slice he complained (lied) to the baker on ovens that he had ordered TWO slices, not ONE, and she looked over at me wondering if this was correct, and i said NO, HE ORDERED ONE. he said, "i wanted two." "...then come over here and pay for another." he left. and supposedly the girl on ovens said he tried taking another order that didnt belong to him.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
a house of my own
"only a house as quiet as snow, a space for myself to go, clean as paper before the poem."
-esperanza
-esperanza
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