So right now...

I want to die. Honest.

So Duvet again...

I've been talking a lot about love lately, to others, to myself, to no one else. The fact is, love has been the greater preocupation in my life for some time. Amidst the whirlwind that my life has been it was a constant. What does it mean? How is it formed? When? Why? Do I still believe in it, do I still believe it was ever meant for me?
I was nineteen on Wednesday and I had intended on at least writing a birthday post but I was entertained by other more vain concerns. I've been reading a charming romantic novel about a young Egyptologist. The college settings, the passion for work, the fear of forming a relationship. I suppose I sympathized with the character. The scenes of first love... I think I sympathized with the writer. Yes I want to be loved too, like that, vous n'avez aucune raison de rougir, I want to fall back and be courted and feel very wanted. I want it to be as simple as that.

Of course it never really works like that, and I'm going to have to snap out of this one before attempting to become a candidate for the Nobel Literature Prize.

For the last few days I've been experiencing a strange sort of feeling. It's the simple realization that I have nothing more pressing to do than sit back, talk to my friends, read my books and write whatever I please. And so I try to create a new set of responsabilities, a new set of goals so I won't drift, so that I won't have to think about the inevitable. And now, what do you want to write about now?

Last night I fell asleep reading something I wrote fours years ago. It meant something, i was writing about something then, something I cannot quite recall then. It feels like I'm loosing precious time, every second, every breath in which the doubt still exists.

Violins, a beautiful violin as she sings. Where am I? Will I be here tomorrow? I feel so unreal.

I am listening to the Duvet Remix, slowly, beat, as if rising from within my chest, readying for the greater beats, for the final burst. I am falling, fading, drowning. Help me to breath. Not at all. I think I'm only half-alive, because when I am dying I feel very much alive, but now. What is my purpose, where do I go from here, once this terrible pain fades what do I do with my life? What do I mean? Tempo, tempo. Ooooooh. If I could write down what music means, what it does to the soul or the eyes, where music takes me. Drums more drums.

Where do I go from here?

Time

So I'm sitting here at school, in front of a school computer, with so many people around me, hearing their hushed conversations, looking at their fleeting shadows on the walls...

I'm sitting here and all I can think is how the hell did I wake up today still being myself. Somehow I had kid myself into hoping I might turn into something else overnight, a mouse, a mushroom, a rose... anything. I was hoping that sleep might work its own strange magic and make me forget, tear out the parasite from my breast.

But it hasn't and it never will. There is no such an easy answer.

Today as I trudge along the world thinking I don't really care about anything anymore, neither reading, neither writing, neither little school projects, I realize the only possible solution is time, a long unimaginable period of time that might extract the image from my eyes, the smell from inside my head, the feel of arms and murmur of words. Only if I think in terms of months can I live, months in the future in which this dull ache of emptiness might fade. Months where little by little these delirious happiness and this agonic sorrow might stop.

I have to go now. I really do. I don't know anymore, I don't know how I'm going to get through today.

Everything, she said, I would give everything...

"Ah, he knows not that it was I who saved his life," thought the little mermaid. "I carried him over the sea to the wood where the temple stands: I sat beneath the foam, and watched till the human beings came to help him. I saw the pretty maiden that he loves better than he loves me;'' and the mermaid sighed deeply, but she could not shed tears. "He says the maiden belongs to the holy temple, therefore she will never return to the world. They will meet no more: while I am by his side, and see him every day. I will take care of him, and love him, and give up my life for his sake."


If I should stay,
I would only be in your way.
So I'll go, but I know
I'll think of you ev'ry step of the way.

And I will always love you.
I will always love you.
You, my darling you. Hmm.

Bittersweet memories that is all
I'm taking with me.
So, goodbye. Please, don't cry.
We both know I'm not what you, you need.

And I will always love you.
I will always love you.

I hope life treats you kind
And I hope you have all you've dreamed of.
And I wish to you, joy and happiness.
But above all this, I wish you love.

And I will always love you.
I will always love you.
I will always love you.
I will always love you.
I will always love you.
I, I will always love you.

You, darling, I love you.
Ooh, I'll always, I'll always love you.

Songs

Just little snippets of songs. I've been busy and working, worrying about school, about the future. Maybe more than anything trying not to think about it, even though it has become sweeter, milder, more like a faint aftertaste than the fulltorrent of pain. It doesn't feel like I'm dancing upon sharp knives anymore. So I think I can stop being dramatic now.

I feel... faintly happy... faintly sorrowful...

Just little pieces, things that jump at me between sleep and laughter and words filling the blank pages of my books...

I guess you could say
I'm a little afraid
What if you go away?
I've seen it before
I've been there before
If I have to love myself
Tell me how to love myself
What's there to love about myself?

Sixpence None the Richer

I'm not afraid to feel
I want you to love me
Cause you are the one
Cause you are the one
Cause you are the one

His Infernal Majesty

I know what you need.
This will really work.
In ancient times if you were sick,
They’d make you bleed.
Oh honey I know it hurts.

Rasputina

So I'm feeling strangely light, strangely free, somehow as if acceptance is finally working... and I'm thinking "when you're on your knees, things seem closer somehow"...


Lately I'm not the only one
I say never trust anyone
Always the one who has to drag her down
Maybe you'll get what you want this time around

Wicked Game

I brush my hair. I wipe the tears off my computer but let them run down my face; sometimes into my hair, sometimes over my lips so I can drink them. Blessed are the tears for they make me feel alive... alive when I am so dead.

I'm praying that this might just be another time in which she is underestimating me, another time in which my own self-image is tainting her view... because if it is not then I am hopeless and there is nothing more.

I brush my hair and I look at the shadow I cast over my grey walls. It's not an unpleasant silhouette, that of my hair falling over my hair. I suppose I am not unpleasant sight. I suppose I can still live upon delusions of beauty now and again, as if behind the veil of my hair or the elusive quality of a shadow I can begin to believe I am beautiful... I am worthy...

I promise myself I won't touch the mirror, but I'll keep my gaze fixed only on my eyes which are beautiful by themselves and I'll try not to think of the rest as I wonder if anyone would ever love me...

School

I'm sitting on the TV couch trying in vain to start my psychology project, mentally berating myself from all the time I've wasted, and my mother was watching this utterly stupid movie and I just screamed at her without meaning and I wish she was just away having fun somewhere else so that she doesn't have to notice how broken I am.

She notices I'm stressed. She hates it, she hates me for what I just did, thinks I'm an ungrateful little bitch who can't take into account the years of love and care she has bestowed on me.

How bitter is the taste of her victory. That she is right. That she has raised a wretched little monster who cannot even speak to her civilly.

Today I wanted to be good, I wanted to do good, I wanted to smile and think that what I did was what I should have done. So I woke up and went to my college course and took notes and tried to find out when I have the blasted English exam for college admission. And here is the crucial difference in my life, the way in which the two most important people in it can hurt me. Because when I, without being asked, washed the plates of everyone's breakfast at my father's house I got nothing, not even a passing thank you, not even a kind look. Simply nothing.

So why do I bother to please someone who does not care? Why do I bother if he will never care?

And now I should have started working hours ago but I didn't and I'm snappish and in an awful mood and cannot even begin to conceive how people can stand being in the same zip code as me when I am this bitchy.

And every time I move a hand or take a breath I am thinking, she doesn't approve of this, this mess of papers that is my project, how could anyone? And no matter how much I try finally, in the last lap, in the last second I always manage to do something or be something that somehow in a mysterious aberration of the law of equality manages to erase every good thing I have ever achieved.

I just don't know... I'm so tired... and I keep thinking, that if only for the sake of my mother I should put a bullet through this silly little skull of mine...

Expectations

Before anything else, yes I am feeling better. No, I still can't get over the suicidal urge but at least it's not pounding in my head constantly anymore.

I'm tired beyond anything and not trusting in hope anymore. My belly is in agonizing pain and I should go take the cramps medicine thing before I enter shock...

It's not like I can write or even THINK about writing. I have a thousand things to do and I want to do none of them. Somehow I'm working under the impression that whatever I do, however hard I try doing it, simply won't work. I get the feeling that the 8.88 of my fifth semester is going to chase me with a vindictive passion long overdue. It seems like the last stroke, as if the only thing worthwhile in me, the only thing that ever gave me value is... just not as good as I thought.

And if I can't be the best I can then what good is working anyway? What good is staying in or the weekends to do the same dreary work if the result will be the same... grey, half-good, half-interesting.

I can't live like this... how can people manage a 10 for average? How can I be that excellent, that good? By working for one, by not being here but back in my Psychology work...

Oh, did I tell you? I think I'm in love... my heart is still pounding... fancy that...

God, sweet God I've spent the last 45 minutes huddled in my bed trying not to be heard while I cry. God I think I'm dying, I think I'm shattering. God O God I'm trying not to tremble and I'm just thinking can somebody hold me I'm in pain, I can't stand the pain.

And it had been a year since I last considered wildly what could be found in my house that could kill me, what would ever give me a quick painless death. I was thinking, my mom's pills, no. Any chemicals in the kitchen, no I'd have to investigate.

I'm so scared. I don't want to hurt people anymore, I don't want to be a burden anymore, God I can't face life anymore. I'm so scared, I'm so scared...

To the Moon and Back

It’s strange when you are trying to remember why you liked certain things, certain people, certain days. At the moment I’m remembering why I loved Savage Garden.

It has been a hellish weekend and I’m not sure if I should be glad it’s over. Tomorrow I’m going to have to wake up some two hours earlier to attend a conference and it doesn’t seem to matter how much I actually sleep, but I am always tired, always at the point of exhaustion.

Suffering, they say, takes its toll.

At the moment I’m watching Darren’s baby face fill the screen and his voice fill my ears. This was probably back in 1998 when I was still in primary school, maybe twelve years old. That I was then and am now in love with this band and this particular song and video is not surprising.

She’s taking her time
Making up the reasons
To justify all the hurt inside

I’ve been trying very hard since Wednesday to become better, perhaps to apply finally, the effort and work I should in the things I do. Not going last night to Andy’s house was my way of trying or maybe it was my way of punishing myself for all the time I waste. I’m not particularly sure of the amount of work I’ve accomplished since then.

Because when you ask yourself if you are doing the best you can, when you’ve been accused of slacking, of not taking things seriously enough and you answer that yes you have, this is not your best, this is not all that you can become… then God you don’t seem worthy of anything anymore.

Guess she knows from the smiles
And the look in their eyes
Everyone’s got a theory
About the bitter one

There’s a very beautiful girl in this video, wearing the sort of tiny green dress I’ll probably never even dare look at. I’ve been avoiding the temptation to think about this for sometime, quite a long time actually. But I don’t know if when I look in the mirror I can say I like myself anymore. And it’s not like I’m doing anything about it, because for the first time I’m not. I don’t do exercise, I’m not eating less. And even when I know this is not the best I can look, I’m just not making an effort.

I wish right now that I had even a particle of what is a good singing voice just so I wouldn’t have to feel so patently ridiculous while I wait for my mother to leave the house so I can sing and cry at my heart’s content. I want to watch the screen and tell myself this is beauty, this is genius, this is what you’ll never achieve because you simply can’t be bothered.

They’re saying
Mama never loved her much
Daddy never keeps in touchThat’s why she shies away
From human affection

I’ve never actually said how stupid, how utterly ugly I believe suffering makes me look. I don’t like looking at myself cry, I don’t like other people seeing me cry or scream or simply stretched out on the floor because it is a sorry sight. Because there is no beauty there is nothing ennobling, nothing poetic about this. This is why I find it so hard to think of myself in love, to imagine myself with anyone, because if I even dare to envision it I’ll be so filled with shame, with a deep sense of self-disgust and ridicule that it will make the whole exercise impossible.

So I’d rather just watch this pretty girl, looking at me with incredibly big sad eyes while Darren Hayes (who has the voice and face of an angel in this video, I love him) sings to her about love and second chances.

Well I’m not entirely sure of how I should finish this entry except that I’m not fishing for pity, that this journal is and has always been deeply private, despite the many people who read it. In a few minutes I’ll go back to writing an essay on the role of man in the movie Thelma and Louise and this will be forgotten.

Good Day and I love you all.

Breathe life into this feeble heart †
Lift this mortal veil of fears †
Take these crumbled hopes etched with tears †
We’ll rise above these earthly cares †

Maturity, I believe, is not measured by the amount of family parties you can stomach. Maturity does not depend on what paperwork you have managed to complete by yourself; it’s not a measure of how many mistakes you make, or how many points you score in an exam. Maturity is not determined by the people you frequent, the friendships you cement or those you choose love.

Maturity, however, must necessarily have something to do with how you treat them.

Maturity is not about many how colds you catch, when or how you take a bath, when or how you sleep, when or how you eat your dinner. Maturity is not dressing up for important occasions or doing your hair up every day. Maturity is not how many books you read a year or how big an equation you can handle.

But maturity is as simple as not laughing at someone when they don’t understand or listening to your children when they speak.

I don’t think anyone can become an adult instantly; I truly doubt that the moment you turn eighteen you’re automatically endowed with all the tidbits of how to operate in the world. Because society has decided that a certain numeral bestows on you the power to decide does not mean that you know how to do so yet.

Right now, at 11 pm, I cannot recall a moment in my life in which I have been so content as I am now. I cannot recall a time without strife, without constant battle with myself. I cannot recall when was the last time I could simply live… before now.

And because of this it mystifies me that so many people have decided they have issues with the person I am or the lives they lead, lives so close to my own that their mere breathing brushes against mine.

It is a frustrating thing to wish for my own place, my own space to make my own mistakes. It isn’t so bad but it’s getting worse, and when everyone’s problems are so much larger than your own brief flashes of discontent it’s hard to talk about with anyone. Not that it has ever been easy.

I’m very tired of compromising, of having to examine every move I make under some imaginary lens that tells me what is right, what is healthy, what is the best for me. I’m tired of trying think like my mother, tired of trying to not be like my father. Between two warring forces of what is mentally healthy, what is not, I just want to do what makes me happy.

I wish I could make those around me as happy as they make me. I wish I could do for them all they do for me. Except my father, I want to never so much as pass him a plate again.

I’d forgotten how it felt to talk to a brick wall. Somehow, I’d been lured into a false sense of security in which I though he might have begun to listen, he might have begun to care.

How is it that someone with so much faith in my intellectual prowess that he suggests I attempt two majors at the same time can think so little of me? I’m so tired of being confused, of being judged, of being unable to say that I am simply learning how to live. I won’t change, I won’t become anything for anyone, but I can’t help asking just… do all fathers want their daughters to become pretty, to dress up, to speak quietly, to never utter a swear word in their lives, to fall in love, marry and have a bunch of brats they can proudly call grandchildren?

Why is it that you make such a show of being different, of being modern, of not minding that I might be bisexual or lesbian or whatever… and yet you comment, you think your daughter isn’t pretty or she doesn’t take baths or she needs to loose weight. Why don’t you speak to me like you speak to your stepdaughter, why don’t you treat me gently, why don’t you gush over me and love me like you do her?

It’s different from what you did to my mother. Don’t tell me I’m not tender enough or pretty enough, I’m your daughter, you brought me here and you make yourself love or I don’t think I can live. What do I have to be, who do I have to become for you to love me?

I think I’ve reached the point in which I can decide what I want to do and what is important for me. I think I’ve reached a point in which I know what is worth it for me, what I will work for.

I feel guilty for not having studied for my exams because they are important for me. I want to pass this year and get through all the pressures and all the difficult bits because that is important for me. At the moment, learning how to drive, getting voting credential, getting my driver’s license is not as important to me as doing my homework, studying, attending my college exam class or laughing with the people I call friends is. Right now, learning how to manage money or taking note of your implied insults is not my first priority.

Out of all these years, all the days that you could have been there and weren’t, out of all the times I needed your help and you weren’t there, my high school revalidation was one in which you were. And by god you are charging me for it in tears and resentment.

You weren’t so grown-up just a few years ago. You cheated your eight-year-old daughter out of money when you were desperate. You cheated on my mother when she was pregnant.

You know what the sad truth is? You never wanted me, not really, you were too frightened to want me. And when I was a baby girl you were so good to me because I was like tiny doll someone had given you, so you’d rather I be doll forever, that I repeat what you say and think only of what think and look pretty and dress up because you are terrified that I might be a real person.

Do you know how hard it is to be unwanted?

I’ve never understood why some people can’t cry, it’s all I seem find as easy as writing or philosophy. Right now, I should be asleep, but instead I’m here sitting on my bed typing because… because every day, has something worth telling.

I have quite a cold and a nasty case of pre-exam nerves. I think I can manage if I study these afternoons, but I have to go to class in the afternoon now too and mom has to drive me there and she hates it because it’s taking precious time from her. I have no more free time at school that could suffice for studying and I’m seeing the math teacher only twice before the exam to clear any doubts and am not seeing the physics teacher at all.

I keep telling myself, if I don’t do this, all my tears, all my joy, all my resentment, all my anger will worth nothing in the eyes of my parents because I could never reclaim the confidence and respect I’ve earned from them.
That is the real problem. It has nothing with grades or lies. It never had.

Simply because it took me a long time to consturct this response for a generic message board and because I have few things of interest to share:




Double-standards regarding not only racism but most social issues are an unchecked evil. The fact that persons of colour are entitled to use "nigger" to address each other, that if I call another girl "slut" you know it's ok because I am a girl too or that stereotyping by the guidelines of race, religion, sexuality or nationality can sometimes be taken lightly is simply WRONG.

If I look at your SS banner I will not immediately assume (and act upon the assumption) that you like Nazis, are descended from Nazis, spew Nazi ideals and would generally shoot me if I even began pronouncing the word "Adonai". However, if you choose to speak to me about issues of racial "purity" as you so eloquently put it, I might be tempted to tell you that it sounds to me like you are getting your information from Nazi and eugenic studies... which are not the most reliable founts of knowledge in this world.

Though I respect your effort in standing up for your opinions AND be willing to have a LITERATE debate with others I must beg to disagree. Double-standards are wrong; I would most certainly NOT respect you were you a "Go VeGgAns AnD BlAcKs We ArE tEh SqUeE!!11! DiE eViL wHiTiEs!!1!" typing child who held the same opinions that I do.

Lordbrad:
Why is it when a white commits a hate crime, it's all over the news, but when a black commits a hate crime, it's never mentioned?

Sadly the media has proven to be less than an adequate source of getting one's opinion regarding any serious issues. The media enlarges, the media exaggerates, the media sensationalizes. The fact is, it is as probable that you will see a white hate crime "all over the news" as it is that you will see a stereotypical rendering of the "bad, rapper black" mugging someone. It's just different approaches of creating the same wrong and hateful images over two racial groups.

I will however qoute redjackcash from a journalfen.net community:

"If a black man kills a white man, I can guarantee you he will get twice the sentence of a white man who killed a black man. He will probably be arrested faster, and his trial will most likely be hurried along. He is also more likely to get the death sentence."

Think also of how the vast majority of the death row inmates in Texas, California and Florida (which have the highest rate in executions) belong into minorities.

Lordbrad:
Why should we be forced to learn foreign languages in our own country? Is this right, considering our ancestors emigrated here and learned the language, culture and way of life?

ONE, the original European settlers of the Americas did in fact NOT learn the language, culture or way of life of the native people in this continent. Mostly they exterminated or persecuted the original inhabitants then comfortably settled in stolen lands.

TWO, I do not agree with the bilingual school system I think if you are an inmigrant you should make an effort (and be aided in the effort) of learning the language, costume and way of life of your new country. Which does not mean you should forget your own. What the US needs is not bilingual education, but better English-as-a-Second-Language programs. Adapting to a new country is difficult, but one should ADAPT to the country in question, not the contrary.

I am Mexican, the daughter of two college professors and researchers and have lived two years (not consecutive) in California. The first few months I spent in the US (when I was 8-years-old) the only thing I could say was "I-can't-speak-English-very-well". Needless to say I eventually, with much help and encouragement, learned. I am now alternately attempting (badly) to learn French, Latin or Romanian. Which brings me to the next point.

THREE. Learning another language, ANY different language, regardless of where you live should be welcomed as the essential educational experience that it is. As I have perceived from my time at American schools you can actually decided which language you would rather take from a limited list of options. You might as well ask why you are FORCED to learn math, or science or history (after all, all that is really [I]over[/I] isn’t it?). A second or third or fourth language isn’t about immigrants taking over, it’s about the knowledge.

And if any teacher would tell you differently then they are being very stupid.

Lordbrad:
Why should we feel guilty about owning slaves, the holocaust and much more, when we weren't even alive during such periods of history? Is it right that we're constantly reminded of such things?

Studying history and acknowledging history isn’t about feeling guilty over it. It’s about understanding why and how it happened. I would resent it if someone tried to make me feel guilty about what happened on the Alamo. I would resent it if someone were to hold me accountable for the “Cristero Guerrillas” in my country simply for the fact that I am an atheist. BUT I will hold myself accountable for [I]knowing[/I] not only about these events but about the concentration camps, the massacre of Nanjing and the unfair and humiliating conditions in the Treaty of Versailles for the nation of Germany at the end of World War I.

Lordbrad:
Why does the truth have to be subverted to appease minorities as not to offend them? Aren't the facts what they imply, facts? Nobody has a problem pointing out that whites owned slaves.

I don’t really understand what you are talking about here. Please do refer to specific instances so I can decide whether I agree or disagree.

Lordbrad:
Why does television have a Spanish entertainment channel, a black entertainment channel, and womens' entertainment channels, but not one channel dedicated to the vast history of the white race and it's cultures and heritages?

WHICH white race? The Anglo-Saxons? The Germanics? The Slavs? The Celts? The “white race” of America is composed of all those and many more, and I do think there are enough channels, events and web pages celebrating each and everyone of those races.

Lordbrad:
Why do we have to sacrifice our civil liberties in the name of "Homeland Security", yet our borders are wide open for any terrorist to walk across? Is this right?

As far as the terrorist threat goes, it is a whole other discussion I am not willing to embark at the moment. The fact is that with all the security and “war on terror” one might want to uphold, someone who wishes to hurt you will ALWAYS find a way to do it, depending on how bad they do want to hurt you. If you wish to stop putting your citizens (whites, blacks, Hispanics, Asians and all the rest) in danger, avoid inciting the resentment and hatred of those who will stop at nothing to cause harm.

One does not treat the symptoms, one treats the disease.

LordBrad:
Why are illegal immigrants offered social services at the expense of tax payers when they're not citizens? Is this fair to American citizens?.

I did a whole project on that one. Please do realize that eventually illegal immigrants are as tax payers as well. The goods they buy and send off or keep are still subjected to tax. Not only that but due to their illegal status they are in the majority of the cases, not actually receiving all social security benefits.


Just as a closing remark…

You do not FORCE races to get along. The best you can do is help them do so and be mature about it. Eventually they will come along (please do take a look at your so called “white race” made up of so many different nationalities and ethnicities).

Mixing races is actually beneficial for humanity’s genepool. It strengthens us against disease. Inbreeding DOESN’T, do pay attention in your biology class the next time.

I'm listening to an album I got in New York almost two years ago. The first time I heard it, I was on long train ride from our hotel to The Cloisters. I remember the dark tunnels and the sudden winter city appearing in different flashes. Almost impossible to forget the brilliance of that morning in a world that was so much sharper because of the pain in it. Like staying up till morning because you are reading something so precious to you. Like hearing the gentle patter of rain and thinking, "this is it; I'm going to die now".

There were things to say then. The world meant something greater than it seems to mean now. I am happier now, that much more content, but I am aimless. I am floating through the void, distracted by everything; the barking of my dog outside, the music, the harsh electric light.

It's been months since I cried like this. But I don't feel alive anymore than I did a few minutes ago... I just feel empty, devoid of anything of interest, anything with meaning. I need to talk, I don't want to talk. I feel shattered.

I didn't remember what it was like to feel this desperate. This needful of human understandment.

Kuja

Which Anime Lipstick Bishounen are you most like? (With Pictures)
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10:15 on a Friday Night

After I've been reading on the screen for a long time my eyes begin to sting and that is when I know I should climb in bed and shut down for the day. Sometimes this happens early, sometimes it happens late.

All in all this has been a sluggish week, after the huge holiday for last week things are still to gather their normal pace. Homework has been a bore (mind you a non-existant one that causes me no amount of guilt), school is moving awkwardly, but mostly things are going as cheerfully dull as they do nowadays. I am happy that way.

Lorena is going to Peru next week and I, along with the Drama group, am going to the Festival Cervantino for a couple of days if all goes well.

Considering how disgustingly irresponsible I have proven to be this week, I had better get moving or I might die of guilt before getting one step into Guanajuato.

I suppose that was what was bugging me yesterday after having woken up after six hours of sleep. I hadn't done anything, had all sorts of small pesky homeworks to complete, had a project and a Statistics guide and I felt like doing nothing.

No wait in fact, I don't feel like doing nothing. I feel like working on my own stuff but prioritizing has taken its toll on my sense of responsability.

I got home at about 10 pm tonight after spending the afternoon with my friends and watching the movie Resident Evil: Apocalypse. On the way home the rain turned into a flood and by the time the bus dropped me off where I usually take my taxi the thing had developed into a disaster of biblical proportions. The streets were overflowing with rain, it seemed like someone was throwing buckets of water over our collective heads and I was wearing jeans and a wool sweater. After waiting on the curb for a taxi for some fifteen minutes I was feeling more like a drowned rat than anything that vaguely resembed a human.

I decided the wisest course of action was to head for the McDonald's until the Lord felt like humoring me.

Getting soaking wet is a strange thing, a strange liberating thing. There is a moment in which you simply stop worrying about the clothing, your health or the fact that you just stuck your foot into half a metre of water. I guess it's all part of the process that makes raining my favorite climate. Looking into the streets and the blurred lights between the wet locks of my hair. It gets personal there. I could say the same thing about buses, about bridges. It's something between loneliness and the universal.

I left my bagpack in Alan's car, fortunately my Statistics homework is at home. God I know not how I will get the will that this work requires. I should also start with the whole Math and Physics studying but it ends up being such a bore.

I just don't know.

I was thinking about Dante on the way home. I was thinking of the many drawings I wish I could get done, about guns and about a certain scene that occured to me. I am wondering how to fit it into Messiah and into all the work I am trying to get done.

I left my Phantom of the Opera inside my bag, inside Alan's car. I suppose it'll help me concentrate on Psychology and Philosohpy for the weekend.

Plato's Banquet was gorgeous. God if there is anything I can say about my life lately is the beautiful things I have been reading. "Ensayo sobre la Ceguera", "Phantom of the Opera", "Plato's Banquet" and just about everything else, including the psychology articles.

Getting late, getting heavy, getting harder to breathe. Remember to do this and that, remember to... I don't, not really.

Thank God this entry is over.

I am thinking. I repeat it to myself, over and over again, everyday, because it's importance never ceases to amaze me. Each day that you live is worth recording, each day has a fragment of truth, of the whole that is life, of the whole that is human history.

So I'll try to start, because I half-woke up today in this half existance that is my family's hometown. Because nothing ever seems to happen here that carries the urgency of real life, it moves slowly, like a dream, very like the motions of the living but not quite. And so it is here that the gaze turns inward and that I hear every memory, every tidbit of information about the people who gave me life.

One of my mother's old friends called today, it has been fifteen years since my mother saw her last, at her daughter's birthday party. A daughter that might be my age today. My mother went to Europe for the first time with this woman. She is most likely talking to her as I write.

There is something important there, in every word spoken here, that I relegate to memory with every trip. I have been reading "Ensayo sobre la ceguera" by José Saramago, Nobel Prize winner. And maybe it is these awkward mental notes that might eventually make a novel worth the chance.

I am roleplaying over messenger and I seem to have lost the thread of this entry... I'll try tomorrow. It's getting late.

Raining

It has been long enough since I last wrote here. Much of this time I have spent stressfully gathering the remains of my life in Santa Cruz and transferring them back to Mexico.

I am at an internet cafe, with little to do, in my family's hometown. I wait for the rain to cease.

There is a wonderful symmetry about it, how the calm can return and I can write again, because it was long ago (or maybe not so) that I thought, only pain can bring the artist in me, only sorrow can make the world worth it. But life is back where it should , even though the last months have been quite stressful and relating all that DID happen would be too much.

I've started school again, with a very good chance of actually pulling through despite all the revalidation issues.

I've started realizing that the normality in life that had been so precious to me in Santa Cruz can be kept, can remain. That I can still love school and my mother and try and be responsible. That I can do... maybe whatever I want to do.

Except writing. I've been drawing so much lately that it's frustrating, because I know and the world knows that in reality my true talent lies in the written word. An other thing I have been doing a lot of lately is reading, which might do something to explain why I can't seem to get any thoughts out. For know it's a process of getting thoughts in.

I like working and I like being here, this town is... well perfect for deep thought, perfect for working. Nothing to interrupt the steady flow of the greater conciousness. Nothing to disturb me. and I do thank my mother for bringing me, even though she thinks I don't.

I'll try to keep writing of whatever catches my fancy here, because there are little things of the past months I still have to tell, whenever they come to me. Just knwo I remember I went to see The Cure in concert, and I had the urge to write how important that was for me, how ery very important music is to me and what it means and what it is.

It'll have to wait, it's getting late and cold, and it looks like the rain.

Till later.

ART

n. The human effort to imitate, supplement, alter, or counteract the work of nature.

Nothing more than the ordinary

I've had this window opened and ready almost two hours now and the words simply refuse to form. Maybe becuase I am still slightly afraid, becuase I am still gathering and forming and holding this resolve to me. Perhaps because there are so many things to say today, so many things and so different that I know not what to say first.

Something worth writing happens every single day of your life, something extraordinary, spectacular and beautiful. Something... worth writing.

Life has been blissfully calm these last few months and I have struggled to find the meaning in that calm, to find it's own particular light. Now I have something, something that is painful and harsh and ugly to write about.

I have a girlfriend. Her name is Marissa. Do I love her? Not particularily. I like her very much, I enjoy laughing and spending time with her. But what made me say "yes" this Fiday to the "Are you dating?" questions was a far more selfish reason. I wanted to know. I wanted to experiment. I've been considering bisexuality for a long time now, some two years I think. I've never actually had a girlfriend, never kissed a woman and never particularily desired any of my close friends.

This is harshly enough, an experiment, one that I was happy to make. With that feeling of accomplishment and hope I told my mother.

It didn't come out as a surprise to her, my doubts hadn't been a secret and she had never even given me a clue of what this would do to her.

She was griefed, she was in pain, she told me I had shattered her heart. It did not happen at the same time but through the night she made it perfectly clear.

My mother isn't a prejudiced person. She has gay and bisexual friends and loves and respects them. My mother is a rational womand and I always thought a strong one. Whenever someone was wrong in this house it was almost exclusively me. I was the wild one, the irrational one. I was the young thing that had much to learn about the world and herself.

In years this is the first time that my mother has been dead wrong, has been unjust and horrible, has been weak and disappointed me. And at the same time it wasn't. I love her, and though it hurts me that maybe this will mark a time in which I will be the strong one, I know, that I want to do it. I knwo that I will do it and I know that this IS growing up. This will make me into a better person.

And though my mother has told me it is a tragedy for her and that she is tired of bearing the burden, and though the social stigma can and will be painful I can loose no respect or love or awe of her. She is human and a wonderful human.

I wanted to write my pain here, my resentment and all those little things I wanted to scream to her last night. "I hate you" "I needed your support tonight and you betrayed me" "You have hurt me more than anyone ever could" "I HATE YOU". I wanted to write how horrible it was to sleep by her side because she had demanded that I do so, that she demanded me to hear her complaints and her pain, that she kept whispering that I HAD to stay awake becuase she might die because of the sleeping pills. The terror, the pain, the impossibility of a second alone with myself to simply cry for MY pain.

I have written them. But they are not as important as all the rest.

My mother is a soft spoken woman. And I am thinking, of all the possible scenarios witha mexican mother this was a beautiful one in all its purity. In all its honesty. Because I won't stop trusting my mother and I won't hate her. She is a soft spoken beautiful human being. She has raised me and loved me and I will be with her.

It is not my fault I must repeat to myself in this next days. It is not my fault I told her last night. Because I have never and will never fear the social barriers and the prejudice. They don't frighten me. My friends know and love me, my friends understand and know of this from long ago. I am not afraid.

She is and this pain is for once HER problem. For once I will have a breath of peace and knwo that I have done all I could.

In the beginning

My father woke me up today, he was on the phone.

All day the wind has been a constant presence, it sways the great tree behind our house and makes the wind bells ring, eerily prophetic. There is a sort of haziness now, to the gardens, both front and back, a certain golden halo of sunlight that encompasses the bushes and grass and wood of the deck. I went to look at the flowers because I'm thinking of the midnight garden I want to make. I wanted roses but ours are not as particularily glorious as the other ones I'd found around the neighborhood. I was looking for that brilliant coral red in small buttons, but I found more. Violets and blues and deep crimsons in strange and beautiful shapes.

It seems I have entered a creative rampage. I grabbed the old sketches and colored them and got rid of the ones I don't really want. I'm looking through the two magazines I own, looking for something, anything that might catch my attention. I don't feel much like writting now and therefore I come here to force the writting out. To recount the deeds of the day.

I'm still in my pijamas and it's 7 pm, I have been awake since 12. I am listening to HIM and I am thinking of doing a pairing portrait, unsure of how to proceed with the man's face.

I look out the window, a crack between the white linen of the curtains, the gold has exploded into an irradescent glow this afternoon and I feel much too lazy to get up and take a bath which I should do. I don't feel too keen on staying home today, maybe I feel like calling someone. I feel strangely detatched.

My paints and sketches and other things are strewn all over the floor as the room darkens. There is a point in the day when you cease to notice the passage of time, you are suspended and every minute is very much like the next. You seem a picture frozen it time. It only happens in weekends, because the afternoon moves breathetakingly fast.

I stop the music, the world suddenly echoing of singing birds, the light is coming from the west. If I go to the kitchen door it will open into a strange vast view of the world, eternal and beautiful like the Great Garden. It's strange to think that it once was like that, that it was the cities and not the gardens that were contained.

I've been thinking of God as always. For someone who claims not to believe in the Big One I spent entirely too much time thinking about him. I was thinking about him in a strange Jungian line of thought. I was thinking of how each of us is a world contain, how it is the individual view the only one we can see and therefore it is the only truth. Are we God's Truth then? We are his world, made in his image so therefore he must have an internal Truth, unlike the world around him. Are we that then, a reflection, a flash of intuition, an imagined world in the flicker of some ancient's eyes?

There, I have gone full circle, I wasn't thinking of echoing the Revelations of the Dark Mother but I did.

I feel like showering now, wrapping this last up and getting ready maybe for dinner or a movie or something. Boredom. I should work on things pending.

Tomorrow we go see the whales maybe.