A quick thank you blog

Is it just me, or has being an adult always been difficult?  Over a month ago I turned 29 (I’m still trying to get used to seeing that big number) and one would think that by this age you would have things figured out… Well I definitely do not… I am still learning how to cook, I’m trying to find the balance between house work, school work and having somewhat of a life… Which I end up avoiding regardless (I regret making plans as soon as I agree to, and find myself hoping those plans just don’t go through)…  I have become more a-social than before (didn’t think it was possible jajajaja)…. I rather avoid human contact…My dog and my books have proven to be better company, less judgmental, less disappointing, more genuine … and definitely more logical than some humans… School workload definitely helps with this limited-human-contact-phase I have entered; having returned to do my masters in an area of which I know nothing about was definitely challenging, but I am enjoying the journey…

As a graduate student, with a puny pay check every two weeks is quite difficult to economically cover all expenses… My income is destined to my rent and other bills, and that’s it… Not that I need any material stuff, however, sometimes I can’t even buy groceries.. jajaja  If it weren’t for my parents, I’d be a homeless student… Living in  my car with my dog.. still not being able to feed either of us…
For the past two months my parents have been buying groceries for my brother and I (he is in a similar situation, with minimum wage he barely has enough to pay his bills)…

Thank you to the most selfless, hard working, patient, loving, understanding people I know… Thank you for still supporting me, even when I am at the threshold of being 30, no job, no income.. no way of helping you guys out. Thank you for all the sacrifices you guys make, for even to this day looking out for the offspring that cannot sustain herself.. Thank you for being patient and encouraging… For believing in me, when I really can’t…

Not that my blogging about the amazing parents you guys are will help in any way… But at least it will remain somewhere in the endless cloud of shared-intangible-information that I am gratefully lucky to be your daughter… I hope you are right dad, and that my studying so much will, somewhere in the future, pay off… I hope I will not disappoint you and that, at some point, I will be able to care for you guys the way you have cared (and continue to care) for my siblings and I.

Thank you, gracias, grazie, merci… Words just aren’t enough… And it will never feel like I can do enough to return all the love, kindness, patience, support, advice, teachings… everything that you guys do for us… I love you both so very much.

In her head

Take a deep breath, ignore what goes around… never mind that you’re running late… never mind all the due dates that are approaching and you can’t concentrate to get your things together… never mind the fact that you couldn’t talk to your psychologist… just breath… type, type, type, just type.. the familiar noise is rather soothing…
Once again I fucked up, how cliche is that.. It’s ok to make mistakes… in the end you just get back up…blah blah blah..
What if you don’t want to get up, what if you are just tired of keeping up appearances, the mask that tells people that everything is ok, that nothing affects you and that you have your shit together…
What if you believe what he tells you and decide to stay negative, because you are a negative person, complicated, demanding…. things you already knew about yourself. You know you’re fucked up..  So why would you have to get up, and try again.. does it matter?  What if you want to believe him and stay negative, demanding and fucked up.. ..

It’s been a difficult past few weeks, I would even dare say it’s been a difficult past few months.. What happens when the magic ends and all you are left with is the empty reality of the same mistake repeated again and again… With additional shit, and new defects that you didn’t know you had.. All of which just add on to the already too large pile of self loathing reasons you have… Breath… put the mask back on.. and come back to type later… for now, that is all you can do… Exchange the knife, gun, pills… (or any other unoriginal way you can think of ending your life) for the familiar sound of the keys you press…

Maybe that will remove some of the stress, allow you keep calm until your class.. “Remember you are facing a lot of people.. we don’t want people to know, we don’t want people to see us” … I know Ana, I know…



Long over due

It’s quite sad to admit that my keyboard feels foreign to me, we use to be so in tune… It’s been over a month (*cough* four months *coughs*) since my last post, which wasn’t even a blog post… ( Un análisis de A History of Mary Prince, a West Indian Slave).  For an aspiring blogger, I am slacking way too much.. In all honesty it might have even been on purpose, or not; for various reasons.  As I have explained before, my blog is my “pensieve”, my “I hope to get some insight”; it allows me to “exorcise my demons”, to analyze and attempt to understand… everything, or at times, nothing.  After experiencing several incidents that some may refer to as “emotional break downs” (fuck it, I’ll be honest, I’m slowly decomposing mentally and emotionally), without any form of improvement or a true form of release, it becomes rather clear that one should sit down and write…. I am not entirely sure why it has taken me so long to start writing, but I could argue certain points that could potentially be a factor… Due to the date of my last actual blog (Without answers or reasons) which was three days after my bhai passed away (walaikum salam), I felt lost in a sea of disbelief and numbness (nine days previous to that I got divorced); quite honestly I have only vague recollections of those three months after my bhai’s death (it’s such a heavy word to write, think, or say, was it always? Or is it just now that the weight of his absence reminds me that he’s no longer here?).  I stopped blogging, however, I didn’t quite stopped writing if that counts; I absentmindedly wrote my essays for class and finals.  Perhaps I needed the break, to say that I read and wrote a lot is an understatement… But then again, perhaps I needed to miss the light silhouette of the symbols that label each key, feel it’s smooth square surface, feel the distinctive rod-shaped-markings that differentiate the “F” and the “J”… Now that I find myself here typing, I have come to realize that in fact I have actually missed it.. Just feeling the synchronized fluidity of my fingers as they glide over each of the keys, pressing down softly and firmly… I even missed the “click, click”…. Why in the hell did I stop blogging???!!!  I am still unsure…

I miss you bhai…

I must admit that those may not have been the most pressing potential factors to my slacking… Perhaps I didn’t want to see the truth, or put the feelings into thoughts, and into words…making them tangible.  Once you do that, there is no turning back, at least for me; it’s more real than before, it’s tangible, it’s visible, it’s there…
Once you reach a certain age, one doesn’t expect certain “incidents” could occur… One can be terribly wrong… So far this year has been about facing my fears, in very extreme ways I might add (dear universe, I share your morbidly sardonic sense of humor at times, but damn…).

I’ll start with the least pressing one, which is this new phase in which I currently find myself in… two steps away from the third floor… And I still don’t have a clue as to what being an adult is…I can honestly say, however, that I am extremely happy to not have any human children; four legged ones are so much better.  Yet I still feel lost as to what to do when it comes to existing in society, and having it see me as an adult.  I am still learning how to cook, and how to balance my time between school/work and all the adult things we have to do (cleaning, laundry, organizing… “adulting”)…

The most pressing one is the challenge of facing the obstacles that harshly contradict your morals, beliefs, integrity, etc… In this particular case I’d say it’s the challenge of not giving in to the depression that consumes you when your reality shifts radically and suddenly.  My theory is that our minds react to these radical-reality-shifts the same way our bodies react to the varicella virus; the older you get, the harder it hits you…

Over all, however, the hardest challenge is to keep going..despite anything, keep going with a smile on and positive disposition… try not to become a cynically empty shell, as tempting as it may be…



Un análisis de A History of Mary Prince, a West Indian Slave


Detrás de las palabras

            “Sir, this is not Turk’s Island,” estas son las palabras con las que Mary Prince enfrenta a su amo, un borracho violento sin respeto por nada ni nadie; ni siquiera a su propia sangre.  La violencia no es lo único que se puede esperar de un corazón envenenado por la crueldad de la codicia y la superioridad.  Es importante notar la puntuación en las palabras de Prince ya que revela el respeto que ella mantenía hacia su amo, implica también que Prince era consciente de su lugar y que no cruzaba la línea de amo-esclava, pero que buscaba, o quizás, esperaba justicia.  Prince relata que había llegado a tiempo para rescatar a la hija de su amo, Mr. D—.  A través de este corto pasaje el lector se entera de que el episodio de violencia bajo los efectos del alcohol no era nada fuera de lo común en su amo de hecho, la implacable ferocidad embriagada con la que atacaba a su hija sucedía a menudo, la pobre muchacha quedaba herida y magullada, pues éste la golpeaba hasta que “she was not fit to be seen.”  Esta frase le transmite al lector el mensaje de que Miss D— no podía ser vista por la gente de la comunidad blanca, por el hecho de que los esclavos no tenían peso ni importancia en la sociedad no había ningún inconveniente en que éstos la vieran.  No contento con agredir a su propia hija y disgustado con el altanero atrevimiento de las palabras de su esclava, el viejo amo borracho comienza a desquitarse las ganas implícitas de desfogar su ira, “he turned around and began to lick me” (Prince 77).  Este corto pasaje también le revela a al lector el hecho de que Mr. D— no tenía escrúpulos hacia la humanidad, pues si maltrataba así a su propia hija, qué se podría esperar del trato que daba a sus esclavos, a quienes no se les consideraba personas.

A raíz de este suceso se originan las palabras de Prince, quien decide no callar su injusto encuentro.  Este es el punto crucial del pasaje ya que le permite entender al lector que Prince tenía experiencia previa hacia ese tipo de mal trato; el cual, dada la respuesta de Prince, se puede asumir que sucedía de igual, o con más intensidad en las Islas Turcas.  Su palabras encierran un cierto tipo de aceptación en aquella experiencia pasada, más el decidido rechazo en el presente denota una cierta denegación hacia el mismo.  Su respetuosa resistencia a subyugarse completamente se puede considerar una forma de frágil esperanza que le permite a Prince poder, de alguna manera, sobresalir de su oscura y dolorosa realidad.  Las palabras cinceladas de Prince le manifiestan al lector la bondad de su corazón, quien a pesar de ser consciente de las consecuencias que tendría al interponerse ante su amo, toma la decisión de rescatar a Miss D—.  Es importante resaltar la omisión en el nombre de Miss D—, esta omisión se da a manera de protección hacia un individuo que conforma parte de las injustas e insoportables agresiones físicas, nada ajenas para Prince.  La empatía que Prince demuestra al proteger a una mujer blanca, hacia quien no tenía otra obligación más que acatar órdenes, le demuestra al lector su compasiva naturaleza; forjando, tal vez, una nueva efigie hacia la errónea imagen que se tenía sobre los esclavos.  Otro aspecto clave detrás de las palabras de Prince es que logra desmantelar la realidad de los avasallados sin voz, es decir, con su relato Prince cuestiona el establecimiento de un sistema que se creía infalible y justo; donde la conducta del amo no parece ser constante entre una isla y otra.  El profundo relato autobiográfico de Prince se desentraña con un tono de sutileza brutal por medio de la cual describe sucesos de su experiencia, sucesos que “se repiten,” sucesos que han marcado su ser a un nivel más allá de su físico.  La áspera experiencia contenida en este pasaje, que Prince comparte con sus lectores, está llena de un denso y oscuro significado, el cual saca a relucir una realidad acerba que ha quedado incrustada en la memoria de Prince, y de aquellos que ella representa.  Un ejemplo muy evidente está en la forma en que Prince relata su arriesgada hazaña en rescatar a Miss D—, “I ran as fast as I could to the house, put down the water, and went into the chamber, where I found my master beating Miss D—, dreadfully.  I strove with all my strength to get her away from him; for she was all black and blue with bruises.  He had beat her with his fist, and almost killed her” (Prince 77).

Sin embargo, es interesante notar que Prince a través de la grave profundidad de sus palabras, innegablemente tácitas, permanece cautelosa detrás de su sutil relato.  Esto le da a entender al lector que esta mujer, a pesar de haber sufrido mucho en las manos de un representante del imperio británico, no ha permitido que su corazón y juicio se contaminen con la inclinación de rebelión y venganza, sino que conserva su cálida bondad, abogando por los que permanecen bajo el yugo de la esclavitud y sus ciegas injusticias.  Sin necesidad de detalles explícitos que podrían llegar a rayar en lo sangriento y desagradable, Prince logra transmitir una realidad ignorada de una manera estrepitosamente escalofriante; la conjunción de sus palabras acarician al lector como un viento helado y decoran un panorama implícito, como cuando relata la agresión del amo hacia su propia hija “he had beat her with his fist, and almost killed her” (Prince 77).  Con sus palabras Prince llega a interactuar con sus lectores de una manera en la que les permite llegar a formar parte de la historia, sintiendo la indignación que ella esconde en sus tajantes y firmes palabras.  Al mismo tiempo el lector llega a cuestionar el sistema y el concepto de la esclavitud a través de los ojos de alguien que lo ha vivido en carne propia.

El pasaje logra resumir la pronunciada agonía en la experiencia que Prince relata a su audiencia, al no repetir las abusivas y abominables palabras de su amo, “the words were too wicked too bad to say,” por ejemplo, Prince manifiesta el horror que se esconde detrás de su narración, la cual palpita con vida y oscila con el peso de lo que realmente sucedía en las lejanas colonias británicas; las cuales se escudaban detrás de un sistema careta con el que se justificaba el vil concepto de la esclavitud.


Obra citada

Prince, Mary. The History of Mary Prince: A West Indian Slave Related by Herself. Ed. Moira Ferguson. Rev. Ed. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan P, 1997. Impreso.






Without answers or reasons

According to Merriam-Webster dictionary reality is the quality or state of being real, seemingly quite an easy definition to understand; however, reality is quite difficult to grasp, comprehend and sometimes even accept. Though fairly easy to define, reality is often times subject to debate.  Things that seem obviously real to some of us may not be so real or obvious to others; one could conclude that this disparity is particularly due to reality’s dependency on an individual’s perception.
To an anorexic her starving-skin-stretched-over-bones body is still fat, to a small boy the playground is a world of adventures, and to a young-virginal-heart love is filled with bubbly-happiness that consumes it.  Yet reality is not always correlated to our perception, most of the time reality is a beam of amalgamations of events or situations that, when they cross our prism-like perception, it breaks into the many facets that intricately conform its structure.  At times we may perceive only one facet of reality (we tend to go with what we prefer over what is), by the same token reality hits us like a bucket of ice-cold water, undoubtedly clear… yet, we are still incapable of fully understand it.  This is when reality become surreal, as if it was covered by a blurry veil that inhibits our perception to begin grasping it’s surroundings.  All the facets that would make up a particular situation are not perceived correctly (even after it has taken place), hence we are left in a wraith-like state, incapable of co-existing with what somehow has become a hazy reality. Interactions with other people during this state are rather dream-like and slippery, yet somehow, they become permanent.  The last 72 hours have been spent in a dull veil of pain, a great heart left a void on this Earth…  The world has hardly noticed (somehow life/reality keeps going, though at times it would make sense if it would just stop) and I find myself questioning if all of this is real. I suppose the fact that things don’t seem to change, day in and day out we keep facing the same situation… gradually among it all, reality begins to settle in. No matter how many times we question why, we don’t find answers, we don’t understand the reason. It is what it is, all we can do is try to accept the reality of things…

I want to dedicate my blog today to a very dear and unique individual, someone I was lucky enough to call brother; though we were genetically distant, our bond as a family grew effortlessly.  This family bond we had was not due to me (I’m socially awkward and weird when it comes to dealing with people), that’s just the type of person my bhai (brother in blangla) was.  He was gifted with charisma, an unbelievable talent to start conversation with strangers (whom quickly became friends), a unique and overly positive disposition to help both kin and foe, and a smile that somehow explained everything.  He wasn’t afraid of greeting people, he wasn’t afraid of interacting with others, and he never held a grudge even towards those who were unfair with him.  In my opinion that is such a brave, cherish-able and admirable trait.
I have yet to meet someone as pure, loving, care-free, car-obsessed, reckless, honest person, and I doubt I ever will.  He was one of those rare individuals that hardly seem human; a misfit of the world, mainly because of his heart of gold.  Quite truthfully, calling him human would limit him in a way that only humans can be limited.  Most of us have this hesitation when it comes to helping others, somehow we always measure the outcome prior to helping; not my bhai, he was always ready to help (even if he was incapable of doing so).  I even came to suspect that the word “no” did not find itself in his vocabulary.  Was he perfect? No, he wasn’t perfect, perhaps that is the only trait that made him human. Regardless of the mistakes that he made (much like any of us do), at the end of the day his smile summarized the goodness that characterized him.  This was so vividly noticeable that people were simply enchanted by him, it was difficult not to love him, even when he pissed you off, his smile would melt your heart and you couldn’t not love him.

Good-bye bhai you leave us behind in a world that didn’t know how to keep you, I know you are (as you always did) taking care of all of us, you have shown us so much love, compassion and patience, it is now our turn to pick up from where you left off.  I can only try to be able to hold only a fraction of your love for people, your understanding and disposition to help, even in the strangest of situations.  When ever I smile at someone, I will do it in your name, when ever I meet people I will think of you and try to show them my best self so I can be there for them as you always were.  I will honor you and remember you by following your example, by being patient and caring with others. I will do my best to always keep a smile on my face, even when people or situations are not kind in return.  Thank you for being a part of my life, thank you for your example, thank you for always being there.  May you rest in eternal peace, you have earned that much and more.

Until we meet again bhai.

Confesión de un alma perdida

A mi amor desahuciado,

Tengo algo que confesarte, sé que no hablamos y que talvez ya no exista en tu mente; pero la verdad es que todavía me dueles.  Siempre me pregunto en que estás pensando.  Me pregunto, por ejemplo, si te acuerdas de nosotros, o de los sueños que compartíamos, o de los momentos que vivimos.

Por mi parte te cuento que los pedazos que quedan tienen demasiados filos agudos, cada tajo se vuelve más profundo, me recuerda que ya no te tengo; y otra vez te pierdo.  Te cuento tambíen que existes en el dolor de no tenerte, caminas por los recovecos vacíos de nuestros sueños, te encuentro en mi cama vacía, te escucho en el eco de mi risa perdida, te siento en el rastro de tus caricias, y te amo en la sombra de nuestra historia.

Y así, nuevamente, consigo un instante contigo.

Una entrevista en la eternidad de la mente

-La puerta del carro se abrió, la mano de mi acompañante me detuvo, y la realidad de nuestra situación se escurrió en el interior del carro.  El aroma de su cuerpo seguía impregnado en mi piel, confirmando las cálidas e intensas caricias, los besos empapados de pasión; a través de la puerta entre abierta el aire de la razón, que se difumaba poco a poco, me devolvió la cordura .  Cómo justificar esa historia?.-
Me dijo con un aire de culpa.  -Una historia alimentada por la lujuria y la pasión del placer. Yo quería que me toque, y él quería tocarme…  Cómo decirle que no, si mis labios se marchitaban sin besos.-
Continuaba hablando , distante y pensativa.  -Mi piel hirviendo de deseo y de una pasión acumulada, anelaba caricias y miradas, mordidas y lamidas; poco a poco se apagaba mi fulgor. Yo quería que me toque, y él, quería tocarme…-

Recuerdo como sus mejillas se sonrojaban con la memoria, con una leve sonrisa me miró a los ojos, bajó la mirada y se mordió el labio inferior; estaba un poco avergonzada. En ese instante, sentí un tren de emociones, todas jugando con mi corazón, causando un vacío inmenzo en mi interior; maldito sistema simpático. Ahora, al recordarla, me falta el aire y siento un leve vacío.

Yo quería escucharla y ella quería contarme, la incité a que continuara con su historia, le dije que no tenía porque sentirse avergonzada, que me gustaría seguir escuchándola.  Sus grandes ojos verdes, un poco inocentes, me regresaron a ver, otro sentello rojo decoró sus mejillas, se volvió a morder los labios; y mientras miraba por la ventana de mi oficina- afuera empezaba a llover-, Irene continuó con su historia.

-Me bajé del carro y me alejé lo más que pude, la magia del momento me abandonaba, pronto me siguieron la razón y la culpa.  Pero mientras caminaba de regreso al café, me ganaron los recuerdos de sus labios paseando por mi cuello, por mis hombros… Sus manos explorando mis muslos y mis caderas por debajo de mi falda; recordé como sus manos cruzaban por mi cintura, y paulatinamente, conquistaron mis senos… Los botones de mi blusa no fueron un gran adversario para sus dedos, que con prisa, encontraron mis pezones…  Mis rodillas temblaron cuando recordé su lengua explorando mi boca, deslizandose por mis labios, descendiendo por mi cuello, sus labios descansando en mis pezones, continuando su recorrido por mi cintura, y poco a poco llegando al oasis de mis caderas… Cada beso, cada caricia, cada palabra, provocaban trémulos por todo mi cuerpo.  Yo quería que me toque, y él, quería tocarme…-

-Qué pasó después?- le pregunté intrigado, su dulce voz me cautivaba. Sus cejas se juntaron levemente, su pequeña naríz se arrugo un poco, bajó sus ojos grandes y me dijo
-Yo no permití que continuara.-  Alzó la mirada, la profundidad de su alma tan visible en sus ojos, y mirándome fijamente, me dijo: -él no era mío, ni yo suya, simplemente no podía suceder.-  No lo dijo triste, ni molesta, lo dijo con firmeza, como para asegurarme que ella quería hacer lo correcto.

La entrevista de Irene, junto con otras entrevistas cortas, formaron parte de un ensayo que publiqué para una de mis clases.
Pero es la de Irene la que recuerdo mejor, y con cariño.  Para que mentirles queridos lectores, si la verdad es que durante el poco tiempo que la pude conocer, después de su respuesta, de la pasión con la que hablaba, de  la fluidez de sus gestos, la inocencia en su pasión, del humor que compartíamos, de su mente profunda, y de sus ojos infinitos, me enamoré de ella; pero ella, toda ella, ya no le pertenecía a nadie.