Friday, August 28, 2009

Another August, full of loss... R.I.P. Senator Kennedy

to whom much is given, much is required...

I'm sitting in my living room, listening to the many words being spoken about the passed Ted Kennedy, and that was one of the quotes that stuck in my ear. To whom much is given, much is required.

The Lord blessed Ted Kennedy with such an amazing family, and with such compassion and passion for his causes...

The Lord has blessed me... He's given me much...

...and much is required of me.

The world is waiting on me.

I'm coming.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Happy birthday to THAT guy...

I should have never told you that you would be part of my birthday series... I should have just written about you and let you figure it out... but, I probably would have said too much, as is my fashion... and then you would have known too much about yourself.

So, I'll keep it at this:

I'll never forget the days of texting while in the same building, staring at each other, of "confession of the day"s, of the way my thigh was black and blue after you sunk your teeth in it (or how damn good it felt), of how you had the tendency to make me feel so special and cared about, of how you made my 21st birthday, of how fucking awesome your kisses were, of how I was telling people about your smile before we even shared an in-depth conversation, of the way I was terrified when I saw that smoke come out of your drink, of how much I thought you looked like a cute little kid before you kissed me for the first time


how we almost got arrested. (lol.)

There's so much I could say... you know how talented I am with the words... but like you, I can be deceptive when I want to be.

Happy birthday, counselor. I'm happy that your sexy ass is my friend... and I can't wait to see what you have to offer the world. I'm proud of you. And I'll get you a strawberry soda anytime... lol.

There's nothing better I could have been doing with my evenings as a fresh UF grad, then sitting in your living room, my sweatpant-clad leg over your sweatpant-clad leg, reading poetry to the most erudite brotha to ever be underage.

Well, you're not underage anymore :) My little baby's growing up... lol.

Happy birthday, kid ;)

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

7:11 am

it only hurts when i breathe.
like, seriously.
breath emitted
--fffppphh.... ow, shit--
you hurt me with every God given, life dependent
this isn't entirely new,
or, maybe it is.
because i've never lost a man
who lived inside
the very walls connected to my heart.
you lived in me,
and now i wake,
womb empty
holding my hands in my lap,
feeling your absence like a child lost
or aborted:
always guilty,
always missing
with every strained breath;
every sigh against the sunrise,
muted Monet pastels viewed through saltwater tears,
the intake and slow exhale
in a darkened theatre chair;
the silhouette of you lives in me,
constricting my breath with every rise of my chest,
reminding me of the folly of our

Monday, August 24, 2009

starting anew

Things I learned today:

1. The way I looked when I was in eighth grade is vastly different from the way most kids look today in eighth grade. A few students today at my new job thought I was a student. Granted, I was sitting down, and they obviously mistook my older face for that of a youthful, beautiful young'n, but once I stood up and they still thought I was in the eighth grade, it hit me: although I may think I have waaay too much ass and chest to look like I'm thirteen, most thirteen year olds today have more ass and chest than I do. Blame it on the additives in the food. I don't get it.

2. Kids today are spoiled. Okay, so I was spoiled also (meaning, I didn't have to do much work outside of school, and my parents pretty much gave me what I wanted, though I wasn't a spoiled brat by any means--and yes, there's a difference), but these kids have iPods, cell phones, all type of foolishness... and they are 11! Okay, so some are older, but still! Damn, cell phones were just coming out when I was in middle school...

3. Women should not have to tuck in their shirts. So, my new supervisor of my supervisor came to visit and told us all to tuck in our shirts... me, being used to this accepted sexism, stood there... until I realized that the supervisor meant me as well. I have not tucked in my shirt since I was a child. Especially in my time working with the city... I used to do the half tuck when I wore gym shorts (tucking in the front part of the shirt, pulling it out a little, and leaving the back to hang over my gym shorts), but as time went on, and we switched to khakis (which accentuated my ass just a little too much), I left the shirts straight down. This way, they covered my front and back. As a lady with a lil' back, I don't enjoy tucking my shirt in so my ass is on full display. But I'll just act like the boys I work with--tuck it in only when the supervisor comes to visit.

4. I'm losing my patience with children. Don't get me wrong--I still love kids to death, but I am losing that all-encompassing adoration I used to have for them when I first started. There's nothing wrong with this--I don't think you can work with children and simply adore them to the point that you let them get away with bloody murder... you have to be disciplined with them also. So, no, I'm not to the point where I can't work with them anymore (I'll always be able to work with kids), it's just that I'm getting older.

Okay... that's all.

Day 1 down, days 179 to go...

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Happy Birthday to the extraordinary homie/lover/friend

You might have accused me of thinking too much into the future in other instances, but I never thought about your birthday, and whether we'd be celebrating it together. I never thought about whether we'd be celebrating my birthday together. I guess that was just too far into the future for a girl who has the bad habit of losing men she loves (this is take two).

But, damn, didn't we celebrate some great times together?

There was the night we met, when you practically materialized in front of me... remember how I put my number in your phone, and I told you not to waste any time contacting me and not to play any games? You texted me before I even got home to tell me to have "sweet dreams."

Or, what about the first time I spent the night with you? Remember going out to my friend's birthday party first? I got so drunk, and so obnoxious (totally not my style)... I'm surprised you still took me home with you... but I chalked it up to showing me how much you cared about me. Remember the sweet hours we spent in bed the next day, not doing anything but touching and talking? It stormed all day, but all I knew was I felt so comfortable in your arms.

There was my friend's wedding... we sat at the table and talked all day long and drank that watered down complimentary punch outside... it was so fun to drive to the ocean with you, and you kept me so calm when I thought we were late and that we had missed the entire wedding.

Gosh... what about all the times we went out? I'm sure you'll never forget me climbing the stairs in Roxy's, counting in Spanish and French... or our in-depth conversation about how Beyonce was my lesbian lover... and how the female bartender agreed with me and we both told you she was so hot. There was Blue Martini and Antigua, where we always put on a show... remember when the lady came up to me and said, you all are so cute together, I hope you last... that was probably the beginning of the end.

We had holidays as well... you had to go home for Thanksgiving and Christmas, but you sent me sweet messages, and then when you came back, you held me closely in your arms and pressed my lips against yours. We had Valentine's Day together, my first ever with someone... you left me a scavenger hunt with cute notes, and it was the first time I'd ever got high... we had New Year's, when I wanted you to practice your stroke at the stroke of midnight... (once a writer, always a writer.) We even had Memorial Day...

Immediately, I loved you. You were a friend, a lover, and a boyfriend. We spoke of things I never told anyone; you saw me cry, you saw me when I was goofy, you dealt with me when I was drunk, when I was high, when I was wanting all your free time. We could be silly together, clowning on each other while eating Little Caesar's pizza, drinking while watching the Playoffs, chilling while watching the Super Bowl. We could be sensuous together... we took every shower together; we took naps together, curled up in each other; we spoke late into the night, in the darkness, pressed closely to one another.

It's a sunny Saturday here in my world, to be filled with mundane tasks... I wonder what the weather's like where you are... I wonder if you're celebrating with your new girl, or with your family, or whether you're celebrating at all.

(I hope you have a good time. Birthdays don't come around very often, you know.)




Te extraño mucho, cariño…

Sunday, August 16, 2009

a birthday wish on the shooting star of my adolescence

It was four years ago, today. August 16, 2005.

I can't remember whether I was already moved in, or whether I was moving in, but my mind leads me to believe that my parents and I were moving my stuff in that day. I was on the campus of the University of Florida, waiting on the slow dormitory elevator with God knows how many other kids, getting dropped off for "the best four years of [my] life."

It's all quite vivid in recall: I remember being on my period, I remember sweating in the Gainesville heat, I remember walking into room 507 for the first time, and seeing my suitemate who was so short and petite, I was afraid I might break her by merely standing too closely to her.

I remember my parents taking me to the store, and I remember buying that T.G. Lee "Blue Drink" (delicious, despite the slight aftertaste), and I remember my parents helping me with everything. I remember my mother making my bed for me and helping me arrange everything in the room. I remember my dad's short temper as he tried to find a parking space in the overly-crowded parking lot.

I remember the way I felt when they pulled away from the curb and left me standing outside the place that would come to represent a type of hell for me: as my sister, father, and mother left, I felt a type of anxiety of excitement. I was officially living by myself, kind of... I had my own address, my own mailbox key... my car was back in Orlando, but that didn't matter as much. I was officially a college student, I was officially legal, and at all of eighteen years old, I was on my own... and in love with a man. A real, six-feet-four-inch tall, gorgeous, man.

It's no coincidence that the day I moved to Gainesville and his birthday were the same day. Four years later, I look back on the day I moved to school with the type of excitement memories can bring about sometimes. There's nothing like your Freshman year of school, and it saddens me that the fantasy before the reality was so damn delicious it was hard to cope after the summer turned to winter. It took almost two years for me to regain the type of anxious excitement I had for Gainesville when I first arrived. That could easily have been all my fault, but I didn't know what to do, or how to do it. So I did my best.

Sometimes, I'm sure people wonder why I still write about things that have passed. The memory of moving to school, I'm sure is understandable, but why would I write about the man I loved, who now doesn't know the woman I've become, and doesn't care to know that woman? I'm sure it could make me seem fixated on the past, or stuck in a dream never to come to fruition.

Well, it wouldn't be the first time someone would accuse me of being so "stuck" in the past. And it won't be the last time someone will accuse me of something so foolish. Not to mention, it was then and will always be another time when someone is wrong.

Four years ago, I loved someone for the first time with my whole entire childish heart. I thought of ways to make him smile, I worried about whether I sounded okay and intelligent during our instant messages, I went to sleep smiling and thinking of him; some nights, I watched the sun rise while listening to his voice in my ear. He left me sweet messages when I had to go to sleep before he was finished with his work, and I created voicemail greetings just for him. For a very short amount of time, I loved someone with my whole heart, while at the same time, they seemed to do the same. I will never, no matter how hard I've tried, or how old I grow, never forget that feeling. It has not been duplicated. It won't be. I don't want it to be.

Four years later, the idealism is gone, as are the people we were then, as I've said many times. I don't go to sleep praying for him to walk through my door anymore, but I still pray for him and I think about him often. I wonder what kind of relationship we could have had, if it had an opportunity to grow. I wonder what type of man he is now, whether he still wears his hair cut short, whether he's a father now, whether he's happy. Gone are the days when I long to know his every move, even when it hurts. Now I simply salute him from afar, wondering if, maybe I'll see him next lifetime...

Four years later, I've loved someone else, and I've liked plenty others, but never will I be able to recapture the innocence of how I tripped and fell into a man so wholly, so unabashedly. For some reason, this year, I've thought of him often, and today, I remember the day when I became an official college student, but more than anything, I remember the fact that it's simply his birthday.

So, why still think of someone like so, you may wonder? Why even remember that it's someone's birthday when they probably won't speak to you again? Why?

Because there's a point in life when you learn the difference between selfishly wanting someone and selflessly loving someone. It's the the difference between adolescence and adulthood; the difference between loyalty and trend; the difference between fireworks and a shooting star.

This is something I didn't know then, and something that I embrace now.

Happy birthday.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

i'll send you on your way, but you stay with me

i have four hundred, fifty-seven messages in my inbox

(that's facebook and gmail combined... plus the two from myspace)

and my voicemailbox is full

and it's very possible that my beta fish

has died from not being fed for three days.

i just can't move

from your bed


the way i wake up

and you're waiting for me


how did you sleep?

my mother thinks i'm on a typical excursion

and my best friend thinks i've been abducted

but i just can't


the warmth of your embrace

the sexiness of

your dorkiness

and how you always ran over that curb

at Little Caesars,

at least,

not until i wake up.


it's stronger than a craving
for that perfectly cooked
chicken and sticky rice
in a chinese kitchen in a manhattan winter;
deeper than
curiosity killed the cat, you know
but a necessity
of a desire
to feel your teeth
pinching my skin between
and to see again
the passion we tripped on
a july night
with a backpack at my feet
and black gin between us.

"best" is a tiny word with huge connotations

I say you the fuckin best,
(that's what you wanted to hear)
you the fuckin best,
(so i played you wrong and let you believe it)
you the fuckin best,
(you can only be the best when you can get it anytime, anyplace)
you the fuckin best,
(and you might have made it there... if you weren't so insecure)
the best I ever had,
(and so damn... young)
the best I ever had,
(so call me a liar, a cheater, heartbreaker, bitch, whatever)
the best I ever had,
(the fact still remains that you ain't no Drake type)
the best I ever had...
(and you're not C either...)

Thursday, August 6, 2009

"this goes out to you, you..."

My babies had their annual end-of-summer dance show this evening... and it was so much fun, as always.

Every year, they show the tape from the summer previous... and tonight, while watching last year's show, I saw just how much the kids have grown up... I mean, there's a young lady who's about ten now, and almost as tall as me, and I remember her being in my group the very first summer I worked with the kids, back when she was five and only came up to about my hip.

Time is flying by.

No matter how frustrating life gets, no matter what bullshit goes on in the workplace, no matter how much the kids frustrate me when they act out, nothing makes me feel better than when I'm simply trying to walk down the row of seats to go to the restroom, and when I have to stop at each individual chair about twenty times because all the kids want to give me hugs. (as if they haven't seen me all day, or all summer, for that matter.)

Like I learned my first summer, the unconditional love of a child can help heal all types of ailments... cynicism, self-depreciation, rigidity, and most of all, broken or fragmented hearts.

Thanks to the kids who saved my heart.

Monday, August 3, 2009

When misery compliments your art and happiness murders it

I've thought about this ever since I was heartbrokenly sobbing over one of Frank Sinatra's most timeless, heartwrenching, and transcendent albums, In the Wee Small Hours. The first time I was introduced to this album, I myself felt like Frank: hopelessly, endlessly, unrequitedly, in love.

I used to spin the album for hours, crying while transfixed at the fact that someone who lived way before my little love happened seemed to have felt just like me. (or I, like him.)

in the wee small hours of the morning,
while the whole wide world is fast asleep,
you lie awake, and think about the girl
and never ever think of counting sheep...
when your lonely heart has learned its lesson
you'd be hers if only she would call,
in the wee small hours of the morning,
that's the time you miss her most, of all...

This album changed me. I can't pinpoint exactly how it did so, but it changed me. Something within me shifted during all those nights of feeling hopelessly unwanted, comforted only by the sound of Frank's voice, ruefully reminiscent; sadly cognizant of things too late; aware of the foolishness in his own love, but sans the power to do anything about it.

always get that mood indigo,
since my baby, said goodbye
in the evening, when the lights are low,
i'm so lonely i could cry...
'cause there's nobody who cares about me,
i'm just a soul, who's bluer than blue can be
when i get that mood indigo,
i could lay me down and die...

I thought of this album this evening because within these past two months, I've gone from something to nothing, with regards to relationship. Not to mention, I really messed up something that really mattered to me. (Something I said I would never do again.) But, the point of it all is that, when things were going and I had something going on, I had much less to say. In fact, I had practically nothing to say. I couldn't really write any articles about single life because technically, I wasn't single. And I certainly didn't feel the waves of cynicism that tend to abound when I'm fully single.

But, when things are messed up and fall into the cynical relationship realm that only things in my life can, I find I have so much to say... the words just kind of flow from me; the ideas and thoughts run rampant. And times like this remind me of Frank and that album.

Frank Sinatra had many other albums, and many other wonderful songs. I LOVE Frank Sinatra, I've read about Frank Sinatra, and if Frank Sinatra was still around, ancient though he would be, I'd be trying to see him and hear that voice. But there's something distinct about the Frank of In the Wee Small Hours and the Frank before that. There's something in his voice on that album that says, this is serious. It's beautifully sad. There are no other words for it.

i dim the all the lights, and i sink in my chair,
the smoke from my cigarette climbs through the air,
the walls of my room, fade away in the blue,
and i'm deep in a dream, of you...
the smoke makes a stairway for you to descend,
you come to my arms, may this bliss never end
for we'll love anew, just as we used to do,
when i'm deep in a dream, of you...

It fits with my theory that a writer's work is best complimented by sadness. Think about it... what emotion can people pinpoint better? In anger, people react differently... some people get quiet, some people yell, some people throw things... in happiness, everyone is different... some people smile a lot, some people laugh, some people walk differently... but in sadness? There's something universal about sadness that makes it so easy to pinpoint.

I received a fortune cookie my Freshman year of college, when I felt sad enough to disappear, which ironically said to me: happiness is not something you remember, it's something you experience. To an extent, I understood what the cookie was saying. For some reason, I can remember so much easier the way it felt while lying on my back in my twin bed, looking up at my green lamp spinning in slow, deliberate circles, feeling tears sliding into my ears while I listened to Frank alone on a Friday evening; I can remember that much easier than I can remember the rush of joy and butterflies to my stomach when that guy surprised me in the park with a rose... I struggle to remember the joy, but the pain I remember effortlessly.

It makes me wonder... I don't plan on being unhappy for the rest of my life for the sake of my art, but I've noticed that my work's quality and pace can sometimes suffer when my happiness grows. But when misery is afoot... make way. I might not be pleasant to be around, but you can bet you'll have something great to read.

I wonder what Frank would have to say about this...

what good is the scheming? the planning, and dreaming,
that comes with each new love affair?
the love that you cherish, so often, may perish,
and leave you with castles in air...
when you're alone, who cares for starlit skies?
when you're alone, the magic moonlight dies,
at break of dawn...
there is no sunrise, when your lover has gone...

Sunday, August 2, 2009

with August, something is always lost

i stand in the shower,
head pressed against tile,
muffling my anguish
with my half-damp bathcloth,
hoping no one hears the gasps
that resound.

i try to calm the furious raging
of a head ready to explode,
but all i can do is remember
every time we showered together,
locked in delirium,
ten, twenty, thirty minutes come to pass;
your shower curtain watched
with curious eyes
as we stared each other down
while you lived inside me.

i prefer to drown
the fact that
just about moved on from everything,
because my heart can't do
the thought of you
so over
the foolishness of me.
so i dry my eyes
turn off the shower water
and step back into reality,
eyes red, memories stifled

until my next shower.

Saturday, August 1, 2009

when sleep turns to dreams


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