Sunday, December 28, 2003


I am afraid of my family. Tentative in the speech, in te embraces thqat would be natural, in the things I say, already wrong not two minutes in the meeting. I am afraid of disrupting, of being a brat, I am afraid of ridicule and judgement, of shaming and burdening my mother. I am afraid of falling into the sharp-tongued sullness that is my worst trait.
I am in earnest to promise myself that this will not happend, that I will not add to the grief of my family, to the troubles and tension of my family. Because I love them, I do, more than I can even say. Slothful and cowardly as I am I must remind myself that I love and care for these people, that I am proud of them, admire them. That they form the richness of my life's tapestry.
It's time to be helpful, to love, to forget all bitterness and zeal. Because I can never see throught the 'falsehood' of these holidays. Because I am not Chrsitian but I do celebrate this time, in the name of the thirty so people who will dine with me tomorrow. Because it is more than presents, it is the smell of moss and pasture and pineneedle and the memory of those hazy instants when glow and drink and laughter become too beautiful to bear.
There are new children now, my niece and nephews. I am no longer a child, to ignore my calling. Selfishness is to be silenced because this is what I want. I want those children happy, I want to give presents because I love to give presents and once again the desire to create, to make, to give away and make happiness is strong in me.
What can I do with this imperfect understanding? What am I in my smallness to love the world and my family so much? What to make of the urge to do good?
I am here and I will remain. I am on my way to my hometown and I will do what I can to enjoy it.
Thank you my darling Millie for Winter Rose, it'll keep me going these days.

We all have our drugs. mine is writing, reading. To loose myself to imaginings, to forget all others for the pleasure of fiction. It is a drug as consuming and confusing as any pot the pot the others could smoke.

I lull myself to sleep with the chatter of my aunt and mother, with the gentle rocking of the highway. The arms of prismatic noon warmth hold me. I sleep.

The comforting smell of fur, to caress, to softly bring to the skin. One feels one knows nothing. Careless, disgusting child.

I look out the window and there are the old remains of an hacienda, well known friends of previous trips. Of the early years i can recall only trees, that vague sense of waking up to the rain and the muddled greeness of the woods. What is it that has changed? It is a cold stepe of squalid houses. it is something more, quite another menaing. Cacti and an old tired donkey.

We start out well, with laughter and children and play. I want to see them open their presents tomorrow night.

I am trying to recall the wonder of sites too well known. The brief musical whistle, the couple on a bicycle, the open arms of the magueys. Pale faded sprouts and yellowed grass.

Friday, December 19, 2003

It's been ages since I've last been here, a lot has happened since then. I am happy again and that is probably the reason why it has been so hard to write. Not euphoria nor a dreamish calm. I'm just plain happy, content one could say.
I am back home since Wednesday, free from school even though wearisome thoughts keep slinding in an out. Things left half way, grades that are not pleasing that are not ENOUGH.
It's merely a mark