Are you done doing what you were doing?

 Are you done doing what you were doing?

No, I am not done.

There are songs to hear and words to write and figure out what the next step is.

And in working through that dilemma, I did a small dive into the past, ten, twenty years past. Of moments that I captured in a space that I forgot about. 

Just like the wild wind blows

nope, it's "just like the white-winged dove"

Whatever, Stevie. Oh, here's a song.

I found God
on the corner of First and Amistad
where the west
was all but won
all alone
smoking his last cigarette
he says, where you've been
he says, ask anything
where were you
when everything was falling apart
where all my days 
were spent by a telephone 
that never rang
all I needed was a call 
that never came
from the corner of First and Amistad 

Chorus:
lost and insecure
you found me, you found me
lying on the floor
surrounded, surrounded
why'd you have to wait
where were you, where were you
just a little late
you found me, you found me 

In the end
everyone ends up alone
losing her
the only one who's ever known
who I am, who I am not, and who I want to be

no way to know
how long she will be next to me 

Chorus:
lost and insecure
you found me, you found me
lying on the floor
surrounded, surrounded
why'd you have to wait
where were you, where were you
just a little late
you found me, you found me 

Early morning
city breaks
I've been calling
for years and years and years and years
and you never left me no messages
you never sent me no letters
you got some kind of nerve
takin' all I want 

Chorus:
lost and insecure
you found me, you found me
lying on the floor
surrounded, surrounded
why'd you have to wait
where were you, where were you
just a little late
you found me, you found me

The lyrics: I'm on vacation every single day because I love my occupation.

The reality - I'm on vacation every single day because I don't have the energy, capacity or wherewithal to even try right now.

every single day

there is a feeling

that this never ends

and it never began

we just landed

on this page

somewhere in the middle

try as I might

I cannot breathe

too deep

or laugh

from my belly

and the air is cold

on my skin

in the space

between you and me

are the ghosts

of songs and whispers

and lies

pushed down deep

with a swig of whiskey

every other day

could be just like

the vacations

we never took

and the days the sun set 

without our eyes

or our care

We never know

the beginning

or the end

we only have

years at a time

telling the story

of our rhymes

Where were you?

Indeed.

Where was I?

We'll never know

all the places

that could have been

as time passed by

Now, I'm done.

passing emotions inspired by song

"put me out of my fucking misery" - linkin park

She was pissed. She was always pissed. She walked into rooms looking like she'd had nails for dinner. And her mouth, she kept tightly closed lest the nails come shooting out like darts. There were a lot of reasons for the anger and the frustration, but it was generally the state of the world that kept her on edge.

"Turn off the television," her therapist advised. 

She laughed because the world wasn't the same as the therapist reminisced about. It was more than the television, it was the text messages, alerts, livestreams, Twitter feed, the satellite news, and every email laying out exactly what was happening in real time.  

Maybe if there was someone to love, to distract her on those long and lonely nights. But it had been years, and no one ever was invited to stay longer than a night. 

Her most sustained relationship had been with Rafa. She had thought they were friends, that perhaps, he was a mentor. Thirty-five years older than her, it never struck her as anything else until that one night when she had been moved to tears with anger and frustration at the hypocrites, the duplicitous party leaders, who posed and smiled with arms linked with each other ignoring the issues she had been working on. He ushered her out of the gathering, and they had stood outside her car until she could breathe normally again. 

"It seems like there is more going on than tonight," he said, probing.

She couldn't speak of all the reasons for the emotional outburst of anger, but a sad and overwhelming feeling of utter loneliness suddenly burst forth. With a heavy sigh, she told him about being in a room full of supposed friends and how he was the only friendly face. He had laughed and reminded her of a long-ago conversation. There are very few friends in this life, he had said. Most are acquaintances that are in our lives by circumstance and proximity. I only have a handful of friends, he had told her. It is wise to remember that when you're naming people in your life. 

"How will we ever make a difference if you can't count on anyone - friend or acquaintance?" she had asked him, counting on him to provide some sort of hope. 

They had been sitting in her car and he turned towards her in the driver's seat and joked with a smile, "Oh, you wanted to accomplish something with the Democratic party?"

She had laughed and thought, ok, here's a friend, and she shook off the last of the tears, allowing the anger to recede back into the low and constant simmer she could control. Just at that moment, when she could contemplate what the next steps she would take, what help she might need from him, he asked if she was feeling better.

With a nod and while she was still wondering her next question, he leaned towards her and asked if she needed a hug. The memory of the last time she and Jeremy were sitting in the car had flashed quickly and she thought, I could use a hug. 

Arms still wrapped around each other as much as the close quarters allowed, Rafa said, "I'm going to give you a kiss, ok?" And he kissed her forehead. She smiled at the fatherly gesture. And then his lips moved to her mouth and he kissed her lips. While she sat perfectly still at this development his hand moved to cup her breast. The loneliness, once again, overwhelmed her and she sighed. 

"I'm not comfortable with your hand there," she said and extracted herself from his embrace. 

That was the last time there had been any real conversation or knowingness before a kiss, and a hand or mouth on her breast. And even though she had allowed her body to be touched and loved on since then, she would remember that small betrayal as a reminder of why the men were acquaintances and she had no straight male friends. Jeremy was her last friend.

"the little things give you away" - linkin park

I have a question

Note -- this was sitting in my drafts -- for nearly 20 years. It was missing the question and I read it today and figured out what the question was. 

I have a question for you

the moment I wake up

I'm here everyday

in the same place

with the memory of your touch

on my pulse

and a whisper of your breath

on my lips

I have a question for you

that needs to be answered

in every way

that I can think of

how do you sleep without me?

last word

I think of all kinds of stuff
at every love song
and in between breaths

who will have the last word?

"put me out of my fucking misery" linkin park

I know what my last word will be
your name

poem: bookstore

I want to work in a bookstore
I want to stand in alphabetical order
alongside Plath and Poe
and wander over to Dickens
after a short stop at Twain
and a cup of tea with Angelou
and a long visit with King, Stephen
all thrilling fun and painful insight

I want to work in a bookstore
and show you the way to a chair
with your stack of books in hand
wishing you could buy them all
and taking the preview for all it's worth
and watching you find a page
that you must own
that you must remember

I want to work in a bookstore
that's dark and cozy
and smells of secret worlds
and magical truths
that makes me wish for a long, long life
and a speed reading class
and a memory that is endless
and a comfy chair

art

I like to find myself immersed in ideas springing from whatever art forms I can find

sometimes books, sometimes music, sometimes a movie that 1 million people saw and only 12 people liked and I become lucky number 13

and it makes me want

I want to dance to a hidden beat that comes from deep in the earth and from the cries and yearnings of my ancestors generations remembered only in the whispers of a forgotten dream

I want to ride through the prairie lands on horseback feeling the summer wind on my face and through my hair using all of my strength and energy to simply breathe and be alive

I want to howl and yelp and sing from a hunger for truth and understanding and for some tiny bit of solace from anywhere and anything beyond me

I want to write and discover stories in the folds of my brain and in the movement of my hand across the page or over a keyboard something true and lasting and forgotten by all

I want to talk for hours with people who know things and believe with all their being in what they speak but are open to the idea that what they know is very little

I want to love wholly and completely the accidental humanity in whose path I find myself

artist paparazzi

I have watched this video quite a few times. Greyson Chance (if there was ever a name made for an artist) singing "Paparazzi."

Side note: the first twenty or so times that I first heard the original Lady Gaga version, I had no idea what the hell she was talking about. Why was she singing some weird freaky love song to her Papa? That was my question. Lol.

So anyway, I've been listening to the beauty of Greyson's voice, his passion and clear talent on the piano. He has since appeared on Ellen and she jokingly talked of the interest from his classmates since he sang at the talent show (especially the girls!).

There is something inherently attractive about talent, right? Or creativity? Expression? What is it? Is it the passion for life that is clearly demonstrated at that moment of art?

It's a clear: I want to be around that. I want to have that. Others have approached me, listen to me after a poetry reading or speech when they may have not otherwise. Or they didn't think about there was any value before. And suddenly there is. Perhaps the reason for paparazzi in the first place.

my culture, my language, my life... and now.

The first time that I watched the movie about the tejano singer Selena, I was saddened that I hadn't known of her and her music before she died.

I remember hearing of her death only because of the controversy that it had created with one of Gil's favorite radio personalities, Howard Stern. He had commented about her death, and in his unique style, found a sick and twisted way to make a joke. From what I recall part of the joke had to do with the craziness of the situation itself, in that the murderer was a business partner and fan club president who was believed to have stolen from the fan club and Selena went to meet her by herself in an early morning meeting at a hotel room. And then, of course, some comments about the music in general because he, like me, had no clue at all about tejano music, its popularity, its draw, or her tremendous role in the genre.

This became relevant for me because Selena's cross-over album and concert tour that was to begin in the summer of that year was being sponsored Sears, and I worked at the credit card call-in center for Sears. Fans were outraged by Stern's jokes and called for Sears to boycott advertising on his show. We were all briefed on a press release, and on what to say to customers if they called in about the issue.

Tejano music was absolutely nothing that I knew anything about and so I knew nothing of Selena. I was much more aware, saddened, and shaken by Kurt Cobain's death the year before. Knowing very little of the singer's popularity and huge following, it all seemed very much out of left field and I don't actually remember receiving a complaint from a credit card customer or hearing anyone else in the department having received one.

At the time, I didn't speak Spanish and was still carrying the idea that I never would learn, and had sufficiently forsaken my family's ethnic background for many, many years at this point. My mother doesn't speak Spanish, can't even roll her r's. My father is not fluent either. My grandparents spoke to me in a weird combination we know as Spanglish, and always accepted and understood my responses in English. My name does not translate into Spanish.

Which brings me back to the movie of her life story. An ironic factoid was that Selena herself was not fluent in Spanish. She sang the songs in Spanish, but did not speak it, as her parents didn't speak it to their children. English was their language. And yet, she was a cultural icon of this ethnic music genre, tejano, that was absolutely Spanish-language only. In just a few brief scenes, this cultural/ethnic/language clash is played out when Selena is about to be interviewed by the Mexican media and her family is afraid of what will happen when her fans find out she doesn't speak Spanish.

I watched the movie on cable, obviously after its release in 2007, not sure exactly when. But it was definitely after a personal shift in my thinking. And the music, in the context of the movie and her life story, was powerful. Her voice was beautiful and amazing. And if the scenes demonstrating her performance power over an audience weren't crazily exaggerated, her tremendous popularity made sense to me now.

And the tragic end of her life made me sad, and that sadness stayed with me for a long while. But added to that sadness was the fact that I hadn't known of her. That I didn't know what the words meant to "Como La Flor" (Like a Flower). I was sad that I hadn't thought to listen to Spanish-language music. That I hadn't danced a cumbia or a salsa at my wedding. I was sad for the culture that I hadn't thought was a part of who I was.

This, of course, is all very relevant now. We come full circle over and over again, don't we? I just watched a video, posted by a new friend, of Frida Kahlo and a song, in Spanish, called, "Esa Noche." A love song. I don't understand all the words. I am still learning Spanish. But the music alongside another cultural icon that I had known nothing about before a movie of her life was made here in America, was powerful. And I was moved. And I was brought to a weird and crazy thought that I had believed I was over.

I was going to repost the video on my facebook profile. And then this idea that maybe I shouldn't because I am running for office, and people who don't know me, might think I'm all about Spanish music, and might define me by that, as they have already defined me by my speaking out for comprehensive immigration reform, for my speaking out against 287(g), for my being of some mixed heritage that is clearly not European.

This is what societal intolerance does to an individual. Even to one who is trying very hard to live love, acceptance, peace and justice. Even to me.

This is the confusion it imparts upon children, upon our brothers and sisters, literally, our brothers and sisters (like me) who absolutely forsake all the beauty of a multi-cultural background. Who don't speak Spanish or their parents or grandparent's native language, who refuse to teach it to their children, who change their name, or the pronunciation of it.

This is why we have to do better. Because we can do better than severing off the beautiful things - language, music, art, history - that make us who we are - a connected humanity.

So, of course, I am learning Spanish. Of course, I am teaching my son. Of course, I reposted the video. And of course, why I am here today.

quick-paced dialogue

so once a year I write... I think it's cuz I only get one idea a year.
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"That's what I like," and then she paused and looked for just a brief moment as if she would continue, her mouth not quite open, but not completely closed either. And then nothing.

"What?" he prompted and then waited for over a minute.

"Well, I really like that type of interaction, the quick-paced dialogue."

He burst out laughing. "Do you see the irony of that coming from you?"

"Hey, you can admire, you can really like the thing, the one thing that you are incapable of," she said, smiling.

Reflecting on his relationships, with Lisa, with everyone, actually, reflecting on his life, he was struck by the truth of that statement. He looked at her closely, feeling an inexplicable gratitude that they were in this moment. As if the mistakes, the uncountable moments of anguish, frustration, frantic searching that they each had experienced separately and sometimes together through the years had culminated in this moment and all those moments were washed away in some sort of fragile hope that he hadn't considered was possible before.

She was watching him, watching all that was going through his mind as it flashed in his eyes, as one thought disappeared into another in the twist of his mouth.

There was a brief moment, when their eyes locked, when a kiss was considered, in the fragile space between them. Quickly, she hugged him, as a preface to goodbye, she pressed her cheek into his, her right hand cradling his other cheek and whispered, "Thank you. I wish I could do for you what you do for me."

And what he felt was an opening of space, a lifting of something heavy off his whole being, and it gushed out in one large exhale and a hint of tears in his eyes. Eyes glossy, he sighed again, and the events of the past few weeks, with Lisa, with his parents, spilled forth beginning with, "Yea, it's been a tough month."

The next day, after the drive home, and a good night's sleep, when they talked, the only words that she could find that put into the sense of release that she felt from the time spent with him were, "I feel like I've had a vacation."