I've waited a hundred years
But I'd wait a million more for you
Nothing prepared me for the privilege of being yours
If I had only felt the warmth within your touch
If I had only seen how you smile when you blush
Or how you curl your lip when you concentrate enough
I would have known what I was living for
What I've been living for

Your love is my turning page
Only the sweetest words remain
Every kiss is a cursive line
Every touch is a redefining phrase
I surrender who I've been for who you are
Nothing makes me stronger than your fragile heart
If I had only felt how it feels to be yours
I would have known what I've been living for all along
What I've been living for

We're tethered to the story we must tell
When I saw you well I knew we'd tell it well
With the whisper we will tame the vicious scenes
Like a feather bringing kingdoms to their knees


Turning Page - Sleeping At Last

Scopes

"The great spiritual battle begins — and never ends — with the reclaiming of our chosenness. Long before any human being saw us, we are seen by God's loving eyes. Long before anyone heard us cry or laugh, we are heard by our God who is all ears fo us. Long before any person spoke to us in this world, we are spoken to by the voice of eternal love."

On Dating Girls Who Read...

"Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived."

could the

pit of my stomach stop swallowing everything whole
or at least take a few words with it
like when i say too much
and think too much
and say too much
and i think most people
would prefer the quieter type
but i tried being agreeable before
(too, too agreeable)
and i am tired of hiding my fire
with past-ashes and sunbeams
bring on the night,
bring on my thirst for adventure
and someone who will run with me,
hand in hand,
fearless.

Canon

things are blinding and beautiful
i am ready to grab hold
steady waiting slating fists uncurled
into night's brisk warmth
seize me gently in your wind
wrapped safely
wrapped safely
i am safe
i am home

slow motion time warp

"Will you love me for me?
Not for what I have done,
or what I will become..."

Everything is gelled still,
like those weird squishy toys
that you could turn inside out
and hit people with
without hurting them.

I miss the way my heart felt
when it danced among waters
too bright, bright blue
to ever be still.
It's all just atmosphere.
It's always atmosphere.

Like, my mouth spins shut terribly
like my gears are broken and my
thoughts keep leaking, exploding
and they run, run, run
my thoughts are ugly and raw
and they do not taste good on my tongue.

I said I had no reason to write,
when what I meant was,
"I have every reason to write,
I just cannot bear to see myself
scribbled in a language I call my first."

I can't cry in public here,
I do not miss home,
I miss where my heart is.
Where did you go?

I am squeezing my eyelids shut now,
clenching knuckles-white and swollen,
bended knees on foreign ground,
whispering, pleading,
I was never enough I am still not enough
but I know that You are More Than Enough,

so take these tired limbs
and all the monsters they cling to,
and light them on fire,
so I can feel again,
so I can burst from the ashes and soar.

Jesus, I haven't talked to you in awhile,
and I'm sorry. I miss you more than I can say,
I haven't forgotten,
the way You stood next to me that night
when the world had reared its ugly head
beckoning for me to stay,
when You broke all the chains I had placed round my wrists
when You danced with me,
when no one else would,
and I'm sorry.

I am sorry I am trying too hard
to see me the way You see me,
and even at that, I am failing,
and I can't call myself beautiful just yet
I am sorry, just sorry.

I have not forgotten You, I have not forgotten your Love,
but I am afraid I have forgotten the me that is Loved by You.
Where did I go? Where did I go?

Creepy crawly

Sometimes, insecurity is a fun and curious thing that one can't help but lapse into when faced with unfamiliar situations...or boredom.

Today I noticed a girl in my class who was left-handed. Not a big deal, right? But all of a sudden I found myself far too aware of my own, common right-handedness and its frightening unoriginality. I kept thinking, how much more interesting would I be, if only I wrote with my left hand! Imagine the sort of subconscious arousal that would stir among the common observer! If I were as extraordinary as this left-handed girl, I could charm anyone I met! Imagine: without a thought, I would tuck a stray hair behind my ear (with my left hand, of course), playfully gesturing to all spectators (on my left side, of course), look, look at my left ear! I would radiate among a crowd of un-noteworthy right-handed folk, all too generous with their rash displays of right-ears! I would conquer the world!

I also noticed that she had a large mole on her left shoulder, which to the common eye may seem boring, revolting, even, but I found myself envious of this seemingly trivial characteristic that seemed to have voluntarily sprouted, just for the sake of pairing with her distinctive left-handedness. Now, I have plenty of unsymmetrical details and flaws, but none of which had I found as charming as the mole on that girl's left shoulder! Why can't I have a mole, positioned right above my shoulder blade, so as to say, "Hello, aren't you intrigued?"

I found myself rotating through a cycle of jealousy/anger/insecurity/boredom for an hour and a half, enraged about all things wrong with my body, furious that they would never be adorable/mysterious "quirks"!

Then, just when I felt I couldn't resist the urge to grab the pencil out of the left-handed girl's fist and throw it at the wall, I realized the stark contrast between my café-con-leche skin tone and the strikingly pale areas near my knuckles where my rings used to be.

leitmotivs

Some things only come to rest on the sides of my skull at midnight.

I have strange dual tendencies to assert self-sufficiency while also making obvious invitations to tend to everything within me that is too ugly or weak for my own introspection to acknowledge — all a rash attempt at self-preservation, at building defenses with transparent bricks to cover all bases — both protecting my heart and letting love be seen if it can't help itself.

I find myself making absurd comments, ridiculous pleas for attention that I immediately regret, instantly wishing to withdraw for fear of being "that girl", wishing I were Landon's Jaimie, wishing I were quieter, wishing I were shyer than I am, wishing I were less "loud" and "out there" and instead more "adorable," "steadier" — but I can see that my strained desires to be what I am not do not come from any real "quality standard" out there, but from a history of distorted truths about romance, about what is truly captivating about being a woman. Maybe I was born loud, born to flit from heart to heart, hair flowing freely in the winds of adventure — and maybe someday, to someone, that will be more than enough.

It's hard to remember how Loved we are, sometimes.

One of infinite flaws... why, when man's natural inclination is to be unique, to feel original, do I cling so desperately to boxes of my former selves? To familiar imaginary "self-characters" that deliver charm and wit through careless blunders? I am more careful than I think, anyway — or maybe less, I don't know. Introspection can be dangerous.

A new word I encountered in "Essays on Love" -

leitmotif (leit-mo-tif, also leit-mo-tiv)
noun. a recurrent theme throughout a musical or literary composition, associated with a particular person, idea, or situation.


The idea of a worldly romance is interesting in the way we cling onto these "leitmotivs" — these characters of relationships (e.g. the way both of us didn't know how to ask for the check in Spanish, that one time when we couldn't get the ice cubes out of the pitcher) - and the more leitmotivs two people acquire, the more their relationship is substantialized, is confirmed.

I think that's why I talk so much (too much) about things sometimes. One of infinite flaws. Maybe all of us do this — to remember, to realize, to make real a few of life's most extraordinary moments to ensure that at least some part of the "love" will exist outside of ourselves, just in case it ceases to exist between us. It's similar to the experience of seeing a movie alone, and refraining from discussing it with anyone afterward. The experience slips through your fingers, no matter how memorable the film; you forget funny lines, well-filmed scenes, moving scores — your experience lasts only for the brief moment in which it took place, and in the grand scheme of time, without reinforcement, without relaying your experience to others, without wishfully placing bits of your reality in others, the moment vanishes. All we are is dust, anyway.

strange

Strange how things happen sometimes — how people enter your lives at times all too perfect, all too "coincidental." (Oh hey God, is that you?)

You are just like him, in so many ways — that same quiet laugh, that same hesitance/confidence, ... the same eyes. A bit eerie. Thank goodness I caught myself.

I built these walls much higher than I could have imagined.
Maybe that's okay for now.

Cats and Dogs

Somewhere underneath the floorboard
I will sweep my garden

Underneath the cupboard
Lives a mouse
And he discovered there was nothing there

Nothin there to discover

Fallin from the sky
There are raindrops in my eyes
And my thoughts are diggin in the backyard
My roots have grown but I don't know where they are

quixote!

When I'm tired I don't have the energy to be anxious

these silly things

This is such a strange time in my (our) lives, when we are never standing still; we are always leaving one home or another. Reminds me of that one scene in Garden State that I really liked, the one where Zach Braff talks about this time, when you sort of don't feel at home in your real home and you don't really ever feel at home until you make your own home, and fill it with people you love or something. I might have made that last part up.

So I probably don't fully agree with the sentiment behind it, but it's a nice little scene anyway. Really captures this. This sort of in-between, numbness/yuck that keeps crawling up the sides of my stomach when I least expect it. That wasn't meant to be literal at all, for those of you who went there. Yeah. Stop it.

You know, or maybe you don't, that sort of stomach-lurching anxiety that you feel when you stand on bridges very very high above water, or ride elevators with glass walls and imagine the floor giving way, and all the beautiful reds that our bodies are made of painting the elevator chute in bright, Andy Warhol/Jackson Pollock splashes.

I always sort of laughed at writers who write like I'm writing right now (Chuck); I thought they were trying too hard, that their monotony and bite were just forms of faked anger forcing its way through the bestsellers. I guess I'm sort of a jerk that way, thinking that. I'm sorry. I sometimes wonder if I should stop typing, and sometimes I do, and go back and delete lines, but I think this is one of those times where I'm not going to. (I'm sorry, I'm so sorry). I don't really feel like myself right now, I feel like Joanne-and-five-shots-of-espresso-too-late, which I must have thought was normal at one point but right now I don't. Better espresso shots than other kinds, I suppose.

This is one of those times when I should just quit while I'm ahead and I'm not even ahead (of what, I've always wondered). I'm leaving for Spain very, very soon.

New blog!

Hola! Hice una bitácora/blog nueva para mostrar mis experiencias en España. ¡Mira!

Hi! I made a new blog to document my experiences in Spain. Check it out at http://joanneinspain.blogspot.com.

I will continue to update this blog as well, but my travel blog will be the place to go to for anecdotes, stories, and general ramblings about Spain. Yay.

I haven't been here in awhile...

My thoughts have been fleeting, flimsy, filled with too much and too little — I haven't been here in awhile, I haven't felt compelled to write in awhile, I haven't felt compelled to think about anything in awhile, other than Harry Potter.

the dreaded diamond

Don't pretend you've been worried
You've got a heart-shaped face, but a self-shaped heart
And I won't pretend that I've been careful
'Cause I know that we've both got doubts

At least, I've got doubts big enough to drown you
I've got doubts big enough to swallow you
And I am not opposed to that

The chase, the catch, the court, the ceremony
It's enough to make anyone's stomach turn
How does she know that he's not lying
As mom and dad are crying
How does he know she'll be a faithful bride
Just because she's dressed in white
Well, that can't be right

But I see how she looks into his eyes
How she stands at his side
And how he holds her when they dance for the first time
He says, 'You're the only woman I could ever want'
She says, 'I'm so happy, I can barely breathe'
And they keep dancing
They just keep dancing
It's simple, and it's true, I hope it's true

Well, I have the world on a string
But it's bearing down on me
I'm afraid this hand could never bear a ring
This hand could never bear a ring
I watch the young feast on love
Me and my old, old soul
Spinning their storylines from my cold, marble pedastal

Maybe, someday, someone will help me realize
I've been overthinking it this whole time
And it will come easy, so much more effortlessly
Than I could even imagine right now
Yeah, this is just a phase
I hope

I hope

conjuntos

I am beginning to see how my mother and I are alike. Both easily brought to tears — she, often drawn to a quiet fury, dwelling deep in her stomach and only surfacing to stream down her cheeks, a softly rolling soul-release; I, often erupting in loud, dramatic rage, a jungled-rainstorm at my worst, a turbulent hurricane at my best. Both of our hearts leak freely, and often.

We are both introverts who love working with people. She, the practical, registered caretaker, registered businesswoman, eager to help and hesitant to hurt. I, the almost-writer/almost-musician/almost-girlfriend/almost-a-lot-of-things, nurturing a deep sense of loyalty to lands I've never met, and an impulsive people-person, sometimes saying too much and withdrawing for extended periods of time in hopes of the world forgetting my blunders. We are both within and without ourselves, all at once.

Most importantly, most tragically, and perhaps most admirably, we are both our best and our worst with each other. I am snappy and irritable — a preening princess and arrogant "young adult," demanding quiet and privacy most often when both are easily accessible. I am not who I love. She is fragile and also arrogant, "taking care of things" in a hurried, contagious manner, voicing the day's complaints as readily as I am to retreat to my room when it's too much to handle, as if hoping her perpetually wrinkled brow is carved deep enough for others to empathize without having to ask, she is proud, and serious, and not who she loves.

Despite all of this, we both stay awake until 2am, drinking coffee sometimes just an hour before bed, finding our mutual yearning for peace satisfied in a cup of cheap Folgers, and the way she sometimes sits next to me without saying a word, setting a glass of water next to my stack of books, and I reach out my hand to touch her wrist, the spot where her vein is bluer than most, and look at her to say, "It's okay, I understand, I'm sorry" and she nods, too tired to respond, and we just sit. We sit at the end of the night, at the beginning of the day, caught somewhere between the sun and moon, weighing all our worries on the kitchen table and letting them sit with us, as if they are as unmovable as our love for each other, as if our problems are as quaint and negligible as a sometimes-beautiful still life. My mom and I, we are most alike in that way — when we both just sit.

59 Days

I haven't turned the ringer on in weeks. It's been nice. I wonder why the world (well, at least this side of the Atlantic) starts the days so early. Wake up at 6am, scarfing down a bagel, gulping down hot coffee, crashing at 9pm — talk about tragedy. We all need siestas, don't you think? We too often forget the night! Who are we to devote ourselves to the day so completely that we end up abandoning and neglecting la noche as if she were the unwanted, second-rate sister? I have found that some things are more beautiful at night – like lights...

Makes sense though, doesn't it? That sometimes, it takes the darkness to see the brightest things. Like stars. Great metaphor, isn't it?

A small puddle of milk sits at the bottom of my elephant glass. A few cookie crumbs and chocolate smudges on a tiny plate we use to hold teacups (why do teacups need their own plates, anyway?). Strange; one of the living room cushions that my grandmother left teetering on the armrest somehow found its way halfway between the table and the sofa, and just sits, as well — suspended above the carpet, like someone wanted to build something there, but got bored.

I saw a young man today who looked no older than 17, but he had a beard. A full-grown beard, too, but on one of those faces that will always be boyish and bright. He spoke erratically, sometimes pulling his words out with his hands, then waving them in the air, sort of shoving them at us gently, as if his words refused to speak for themselves – reminded me of when my mom would introduce me to her friends when I was younger, and she would nudge me forward (sort of forcefully, actually), and make me tell them my name. "Joanne," I would say shyly. Then hold up five or six fingers, depending on how old I was/what I felt like saying. I don't think I was even shy when I was younger. I just liked the idea of it.

I like the idea of lots of things, which isn't always bad, contrary to what "they" say. Whoever "they" is. I like the idea of sitting at an outdoor café, people-watching while drinking cold cerveza and eating some obscure Catalonian seafood dish and writing. I like the idea of walking alone at night on old streets, smelling cigarette smoke while hugging myself with a leather jacket.

I also like the idea of bullfighting. I know there are a handful of animal rights issues with bullfighting, which I won't get into (mainly because I honestly don't know enough) — but that is probably why I like the idea of it, and not really the bullfighting itself. Well, I don't know. I've only seen bullfights in movies. But like I said, I like the idea of it — man mating with death, man facing himself and the bull as equals — if only for the fight — then engaging in this dance, this enchanting tease of man's mortality. In a movie I watched recently, the main character said, "One decides to become a bullfighter on an empty stomach." I liked that. Another man in the movie said, "To be a bullfighter, one must like the idea of death" (or something like that). I don't like the idea of death, necessarily — but I like the idea of accepting it.

I do not know why we are so possessive of this life. It is a blessing to be alive, and we should treat it as such — a blessing. We are not enough to take credit for it. We just aren't.

Forgive me, if I'm completely wrong about any of this — seriously, forgive me: this is why I am drawn to Spain. It is a people of tradition, and celebration, sure... but also a people of tragedy. How morbid!, you're thinking. Ha, for a second I imagined what someone else might think, reading that — masses of wandering Spaniards, smoking cigarettes and grimly staring into the night sky, cursing life and all its atrocities! That's not the picture I'm painting here.

I mean to say, a people of tragedy that understands our finitude, and because of this, truly lives. I feel like we try too hard to make a living in America. We are constantly fighting against/for ourselves, trying to live longer, work harder, be better, move faster — and for what? As if we stand a chance against death. If you figure that one out, let me know. Even so, I can't wait to see what is beyond this life.

But for now, in our strange condition, why not really live — why not find work that fulfills us, that sets our hearts on fire or brings our soul to rest, and real peace? Why not fill our days (yes, fill our days, not spend our time) talking over wine and tapas, resting when we feel tired, and really living when we don't?

That said, I haven't even been to Spain yet. So maybe none of this is true. I guess we'll see. For now, I like the idea of it all... don't you?

like I said...

I like the way this city's heart beats. I like the way everyone breathes here, like each breath might be our last, but even if it is, we're going to spend it laughing licking lavender ice cream, sidewalk-sitting amid the city hubbub. I like sharing our Mountain, our green lake, our towering gray edifices that come to life at night, our narrow streets and splashing feet. I like it, a lot.

come to me tenderly in the June night

Frank Sinatra had four wives. Three kids.

I wonder if the last wife was his favorite. I mean, they were married the longest. Or if the first one was. I mean, that's when he released his best songs, after all. Or I wonder if his songs were so enchanting then because he hadn't loved yet. Sometimes, I think the best art comes from being unfulfilled (unfortunately)...

I wonder.

I also wonder if good ole Frankie was involved in the Mafia, like they said he was.

I wonder.


I stand at your gate.
And the song that I sing is of moonlight.
I stand and I wait
For the touch of your hand in the June night.
The roses are sighing a moonlight serenade.

The stars are aglow.
And tonight how their light sets me dreaming.
My love, do you know
That your eyes are like stars brightly beaming?
I bring you, and I sing you a moonlight serenade.

Let us stray 'til break of day
In love's valley of dreams.
Just you and I, a summer sky,
A heavenly breeze, kissin' the trees.

So don't let me wait.
Come to me tenderly in the June night.
I stand at your gate
And I sing you a song in the moonlight.
A love song, my darling, a moonlight serenade

tropical rain

Finally, some silence,
and a book,
and tea,
and home creaks,
and a blanket,
and tired feet,
and a heavy heart
(that smiles)
and I am thinking of you,
and feeling at peace,
for now.

Nos vemos pronto, Barcelona...

I can't wait! I've spent most of my free time reading student blogs and browsing LonelyPlanet for more info about Barcelona... I feel like I'm already in love. Or lust, at least.

I can't wait! At first, I was worried about not having enough time to see everything I want to see — three months isn't a very long time when you're with the one you love, after all — but I am already crazy about a city I've never met, so I am sure that my trip abroad won't be the last time I see España...

Countdowns:

3 days until I see my best friend.
17 days until July 4th.
59 days until my Bikram punch card expires.
70 days until Spain.
95 days until my birthday.
192 days until Christmas.
206 days until I am reunited with my other best friends.

Dang. Blessed.

fruit anxiety

I think I am allergic to bananas. I just tried to eat one and my entire mouth erupted into pain, like tiny little men were shoveling chunks of flesh out of the sides of my cheeks and my taste buds were crawling into their own little bomb shelters, sucking themselves into my tongue and shriveling into nothing. I don't think I'll be eating any bananas for awhile.

tiger's milk

It's funny how desperately we want to be known, and how hard we try to remain mysterious.

(Addiction to image projection!)

"When there's a burning in your heart, don't be alarmed."

okay, now I get it

Wow. Just finished what I know was the hardest final exam of the quarter (and my time in college so far), and I feel SO accomplished. This class has been the bane of my existence/my sole cause for celebration this quarter... but now looking back, it has taught me so much about who I am as a learner, and who I might be as a teacher.

When times got tough this quarter, I started lapsing into this cycle of doubt about why I'm here at all (who is my education benefiting, anyway? why do we need to learn any of this? who said all this knowledge is a good thing?). I am seeing now, though, that I could have been learning about anything in this class — seriously, underwater basket weaving, rodent psychology, anything, and because of the professor — who set an incredibly high standard for us — his careful attention to class structure, and his evident passion for the subject material, I took away much more from this class than a compartmentalized understanding of ancient comedy...

I have faced myself. I have leapt fearlessly (okay, not that fearlessly) off the academic pedestal on which I once held myself, and dived headfirst into the grueling stink of humility and hard work. Okay, so the late nights, the frustration, the banging of head-against-laptop/books were not nearly as poetic of events as I would like to think they were. But nonetheless, I walk away from this class incredibly, incredibly humbled.

This is why education is truly important. It is not about learning facts, understanding theories, even applying knowledge; it is about developing our selves, about embracing our finitude and simultaneously coming to terms with the true magnitude of our potential. This is why, at one point, we should all consider ourselves students. We can take that and apply it to as many situations as we want. More specifically, I guess, I'm seeing the value in learning, going to college, and playing into this whole "school system". The system itself may suck — but the concept of learning stays the same. When we learn, we are. We access that crazy dialectical relationship between who we have become and who we could be. We face our limits and our capabilities, all at once. This going-to-school thing just gives us a venue through which we can see how we've learned. Hmm.. this all sounds very individualist, and that's not really what I mean. I think humility is one of the greatest lessons we can learn from our education. But true humility doesn't come without challenge. It doesn't really matter what we learn here. It matters how we learn it. We go to school and learn how to thrive. How to grow. How to stare a challenge in the face and make out with it!

It's a real blessing to be able to walk away from this class with a less-than-decent letter grade, and know that I learned more in the last 10 weeks than I have in a few quarters. I walk away knowing I poured everything I could possibly manage in this class, with the time I had this quarter, and in this specific circumstance. It's been quite the journey this quarter. I think it's coming back. That whole passion for teaching thing... Hmmm. This is incomplete. But I no longer want to write. More later...

miniature memories

Flannel and the flag of Portugal and Rover mold and tapping furiously away at keys the occasional throat-clearing and shhh the rest are sleeping and a giggle every now and then "my, how much tea you have!" and lots of laughing always laughing green couches sneakers slippers socks tea for the tired girl who laughs like the sky and the strange creatures we all are when we don't sleep - it's the newest intoxication - perhaps i never knew myself well-rested.

una guía

I guess this is where we sit
smooth caffeine man riding waves in stomach caverns
tapping frantically away - plastic instruments
etching photons (or whatever) into word bombs
this is when we behave like particles:
stop - shake well,
"separation is natural"
the less we talk, the more we write (right?)
I am a sitting, swimming duck.
complacent and smiling
furrowed brows underneath brown skin
hardened carefully by salt and tears
Are we ever fighters by choice?
Who knows for what any of this is?
fluorescents are sometimes
like butterfly wings fluttering
in sunbeams drenched golden bright painful
streaming, constantly streaming
thank you for making it known,
when my toe dips water-wrinkles
you see them on the other side!
I am here! I am here!
waving from the other shore
reeds leaning toward that celestial thing
we cannot conjugate 'ojála' or something
something makes...
we are always getting..
more ambiguous

???

yawning - i'm wide awake, it's morning

I cannot wait for that open stretch of sky
hanging heavy, hanging bright
buildings tall scraping clouds
endless hills rolling down
my mountainous home
To curl up in an overstuffed forest,
listening to the car-sounds crackle
while city lights twinkle merrily
I am home-healthy -
drinking rainwater slipping down windowpanes
loud open-mic close-mic checking
bustling footsteps soundless on wet pavement hardly
waiting, hardly alone
always the singular, it, am, I
I cannot wait for that open stretch of sky
soaring hand-planes out car windows
rap music rap lyrics wrapped candy bars
dribbled concrete littered happy
jungled, hyper caffeinated
red lights and late nights
I cannot wait, I cannot wait, I cannot wait.

But part of me stays here, with you
with our eye-conversations and night-games,
staying in flannel, laughing hazelnut by the spoonful
entertaining footwear and felines,
(and footwear and felines, and footwear and felines)
I stay here with you
foreign films and guitars, strumming, humming
dancing spaces apart held together
by arm-wings and closed lids
humming
I stay here with you
sun-warmed hearts, books in tow
love-language heard through the stars
bodies in grass, elbows dirty
smudged faces sighing smiling
I am always losing gaining time
staying still moving forward
laughing quietly at the night -

I cannot wait, but I will stay
and we will leave,
"this too, shall pass."

sleep, don't weep

Strange title for this post, seeing as I have yet to sleep for more than five hours in one night this week. Being this tired has done several things to me: 1)drastically worsen my communication skills, particularly in the English language, 2)incite sporadic, furious rants about absolutely NOTHING, 3)allowed me to feel estranged from the world every now and then. For example, right now I can hear laundry-toilet water running through the pipes above and around me. I can hear the murmur of the ventilation system purring in the background of this basement. I can feel a small tendon located underneath my thumb, probably connecting it with my wrist — it is sore and afraid to move quickly. I can smell bonfire smoke on my clothes from several nights ago, despite my recent clothing-washing and three additional sheets of fabric softener, the flame-smell has woven its way into the fabric of my favorite college sweatshirt... I'm not really complaining. One of the rings on my hand, the one my mom gave me, is turned, palm-side. The tiny design-less band of metal that now faces me is plain and mocking. I have three very definite tan lines on my fingers. Look at my old skin. Look how it pales in comparison to the new me.

....years of twisting and turning all to become unfurled and still

"shut up i am dreaming of places where lovers have wings"

I like listening to music, I like fighting the urge to sleep, I like the feeling of victory in the battles vs. me, I like going on dates with me, myself, and i (three's company!), I like my friends in the daytime, and I like my friends in the nighttime, I am not sure how much I like the ones who are only suited for the latter, I like eating food I've never eaten before;

Things are strange after midnight, like the sound of knuckles rapping against a door (scary), or the sound of a gentle knocking (hi, who might that be?), i like the sound of laughter when i'm walking home from the library, i like when I almost fall when I'm skating and I like the feeling of victory in the battles for balance, I like it, I like it!

(Oceans never listen to us anyway!)

I feel silly, poetry is silly sometimes, who do we think we are?

*plans for this weekend include sleep, and lots of it.........

[Snippets from great conversations]

Experienced vicariously:

"There are no guarantees, no control, no safety when it comes to the heart. Go for it. Love today. Whether or not its here tomorrow or not. Love is different than being foolish, you know the difference. Be bold! Love! Give! Don't hold back! A broken heart can heal but you can never assuage regret."

Grappling a bit, recently -
listening to me more than usual,
and Him,
and both are saying,
that my soul should be at rest -
which I think it is, now -
and that love will come when it does,
and that Love is already here.
I may walk slower now,
a bit warier, a bit wearier,
but I am walking -
and that's what counts.

just breathin

1, 2, 3, fresh air in --
a flutter of wings/
the clouds parting/
my heart bursting/
best friends' eyes/
hands held/
stretching/
grass blades leaning/
your arms/
first time talking/
sunbeams screaming/
a small step forward --
Out --
makeshift metals quiet/
dirt paths/
smoked meat/
bare feet/
yawning sky/
crispness/
slant of light/
clenched fist --
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9...

sort of

I've started listening to love songs again.
I've started scribbling smiley faces in the margins.
I think it's beating
I think it's beating
I think it's beating
(If a heart beats loudly in its cavity,
I mean, a really powerful,
obnoxious, sort of >BOOM!<,
over, and over, and over,
desperately,
fiercely...
... and no one's around to hear it,
... does it still make a sound?)

crinkles

heavy lids, sore arms, great week, great friends

giving up (almost)

I have never been one to settle, when it comes to dreaming. Sure, sure... what I want has changed over the years, but the idea of "giving up" has never been a reality I've chosen to embrace. I don't plan on starting anytime soon, so I won't.

Still — I've been a bit restless about all of this. This him and her stuff. He and she. Whatever it is. I would like to feel loved and wanted. (Wouldn't we all?) I'm also, of course, jaded and tired and sort of worn down from all the chasing I did in the past...

So I think I am giving up. I mean, we'll see how everything works out. But I woke up today with a heavy heart, and I believe that it's worth listening to. I'm tired already, and we haven't even held hands. I suppose this whole "giving up" thing is part of not settling (?) Whatever it is, it feels weird and right, and good, I think.

I want to love recklessly, I want to love fearlessly, and I want someone who wants the same.

swimming ducks

People in this town move slow and conscious (not cautious) like the smoke that curls unevenly from their lips.
They smile from the inside out (sometimes they never make it past the corners of their mouths) like the smoldering blush of a child running indoors.
The fog, the permanent overcast, may seem "dark and mysterious" to the passerby, while in it we hold all our spirits, bundled up tight and heavy like our last names and call logs.
We sit in our homes, murmuring in response to the television--
or sit hard-tailed on sidewalks, chilled only to the skin in, where our hip-hop/indie-rock souls rage fierce and unadulterated,
or sit gossiping/philosophizing/writing/laughing loudly in coffeeshops, wired and loopy.
But we're all wired and loopy, running thin on this strange hum,
this strange home-hum;
California's street sounds and sunbeams had muffled its dull roaring,
but it is back now,
steady, and mine.

Japan

A thousand thoughts at once:

- An 8.6 earthquake strikes, and the first news articles to be published are about how the Japanese economy will be affected?? Following those articles was a long stream of tweets about how Disneyland is flooded. Really? No stories about relief, medical aid,....PEOPLE? What is the world thinking?

- How safe and silly and blessed we are to be here, where the closest we will ever get to a tsunami is during winter quarter, when it rains on our drain-less campus... Gratitude pouring out by the barrel.

- How terrible is it that it took an earthquake for me to put down my textbooks and think about all of this?

Be thankful, be joyful, pray for those in Japan who were affected...

I'm trying to make my "have-to"s into "get-to"s, and it has made a radical difference--

I get to study, I get to have an education to work for, I get to feel tired because I have had so many opportunities to do what I love, with all the energy I have.

Perspectacles......

hopes as high as mountains

Those thoughts, the ones that blind-side you at 2am, the ones that make sleep cower in fear, the ones that keep dreamland waiting.

There are two kinds, I think.

First, of course, the ones that leave you breathless and grinning--those thoughts that trump your already deafening heart beat, the ones that chase sleep away because "reality is better than your dreams."

Second, the kind with which perhaps we are all too familiar... The painful ones, the ones that saunter slowly toward the front of your mind, the ones that twist themselves around your eyes and limbs, the ones that leave only when your spirit collapses and crumples, when you let the sadness win because it is easier to give it a victory than to stand lonely on the battlefield.

Fence-sitting and all, now. Maybe he was right; I am a little masochistic (but mostly scared). I am more afraid of the first kind than the second, you see. If we're talking about people here, the first kind is terrifying. It is the instigator of the second kind. It is the kind of thoughts that can't exist perfectly without the hulking possibility of the other.

There was a point in my life where I took pride in loving recklessly, in chasing dreams (and people) with gumption, with no regret! Perhaps I was wrong to take pride in it, and wrong to think I even had "ganas" to begin with.

I remember the first time I was really seen. It didn't work out, I ran away--in part because we weren't right for each other, and only now am I realizing that the other part was... fear. I remember how I let my fear ride in my stomach, how I was chilled at the idea that I deserved to be seen as someone who was... worth it.

I may have "loved" recklessly, but perhaps only to disguise whatever fears were lurking underneath. I am so much more, and so much less than I thought. Aren't we all?

At this point, I wish I were fiercely determinist, if only to be consoled that whichever choice I make will be what I had no choice in making. Eh, I don't even know if there is a choice to make. Either way, I am awake and restless. Waiting, or something, I guess...

green, purple, pink, yellow, blue

The colors of my Post-it flags!
The colors I dream in!
The colors of our:
- music
- souls dancing
- sun-laughter
- moon-whispers
- smiles!

OH, the smiles!
After a strange (and somewhat startling) period of bleakness and despair, I was reminded by a handful of loved ones that I look much better smiling than I do crying, and that some things stay true, no matter how I feel.

No elipses for this one.

just dreamin

You are there, somewhere;
still and strong and waiting too
with sunrises peeking through your teeth
and sunsets cradled in your arms
You are there,
as broken and as beautiful as all of us,
eyes open, chin lifted
waiting patiently.
Our eyes are set the same way—
forward, glancing eagerly toward the horizon,
waiting patiently.
Your fingers fit between mine,
and my head belongs
small against your chest,
where I will listen for days and nights
to that stalwart, gentle rhythm
that will always guide me home.
You are there,
sneaking peeks at the moon,
as if you know there are things too great for us,
things too magnificent for us,
but we will reach anyway,
arms stretched and waving,
together flailing,
till the sky takes notice
and smiles,
pulling clouds over us
(because I think we will like it that way)
while we dance recklessly in the rain,
like two crazy romantics,
for whom all the clichés come true.
You are there,
and we will fight because we love.
We will yell and hurt and laugh and love
fully and jealously,
with a love that snarls menacingly at any threat,
with a love so large and whole that it cannot help but protect,
and fight,
we will always be fighting
(for, with, against)
and our love will conquer everything that comes our way!
You are there, somewhere;
leaning your head on the window,
staring out into the night sky,
waiting, patiently.

mango mandarin marvelous

Mmm. The times we spend murmuring
secret languages to each other between
softly parted lips,
all the while forgetting
where we place our hearing parts,
where we place our beating parts,
where we place our heating hearts.....
lying smoky curled laughter
lined with alabaster shrapnel shards
a forgotten lover seeking cover
where did you go?
where did i go?
while we glanced around corners
(but never behind our shoulders)
staring up at the sky,
saying,
"This will never be us again!"
when did we stop seeing?
and the night's twinkling, loving look
seeps soft guilt between my teeth
could we have told time?
i could laugh forever,
i could lie forever,
but those shoulder-glances
and moon-dances
will never suit.
could the velvet sky embrace me?
could i hide in its folds,
forever kept behind the moon?

mouse

a good, relaxing night of fellowship, yoga, and green tea...

i am so easily swayed by other people's emotions
(dangerous)

toasty

warm from conversations with warm people

familiar things,
like sand in my shoes and a salute to the sun saying,
"i'll see you again, you'll always be there, and thank you! thank you for your gifts!"

a quick sprint down memory lane...

I just spent an hour rereading 110 pages I wrote all about you and me. It's a funnier script than I thought.

Funny to see how sincerely I believed I would no longer think about any of it after a year or two.
Funny to see how animated, how nervously I wrote my character,
and how captivating and mysterious I wrote yours.
Oh, the lies we tell ourselves!

Today my friend told me I had a "fast imagination."

Things keep making more and more sense.


--

12:46am: Really cool title of an event I was just invited to--"Do you love the world enough to really see it?"

español malo con un corazon sonriendo

Lo dice con la felicidad de una niña en Navidad...
Estaré bien. Estaré contenta. (Estoy contenta).
El mundo nunca puede darme toda que Usted puede.
Mi padre, mi padre más fuerte que todos,
Gracias por su Amor,
Gracias por su luz,
Gracias por me dando paz,
y un corazón feliz,
cuando todo me parece feo y oscuro,
¡Gracias!
Yo quiero cantar de su Amor en los valles,
de la arriba de las montañas,
en todos los lugares que nadie puede
respirar sin hacerse enfermo,
Espero que su Amor se extiende
a los sordos, a los ciegos,
pues pueden conocer su gracia.
Se quiero. Se amo.

Guilt-trippin, in a good way I hope

When I lose the motivation to do homework, I remember...
what a blessing my education is, how hard my mama worked to get me here, what a small fraction of the world's population gets a college education, what a small fraction of those who have the opportunities to a college education actually take them;

When I feel like being selfish, like keeping things to and for myself, I remember...
how blessed I am to have such a closely-knit group of friends to share my life with, how rare and special it is to be so vulnerable with people I have known for a short time in relation to some I've known for decades, how wonderful it is to have things to share! how awesome and privileged am I to have accepted my past--well, at least enough to share it-- and how awesome it is to have physical, tangible things to share with others;

Perhaps most recently relevant...

When I settle back, into missing, into loving too much (and too little) people who are no longer a part of my life, I remember...
what a blessing it is to be Loved in the first place, to have loved/Loved, to catch even the smallest glimpse of what Love is like, to know the truest, ultimate source of Love is beyond anything we can and will comprehend.

Gratitude pouring out by the barrel.

Storing me behind my ears...

At the slightest glance you seemed there,
a shaking blue figure in a sea of orange haze,
a starry-eyed soul cast in shadows too long,
but I saw wrong,
and the rhythm found me laughing again,
sharing a swollen sadness with no one,
disguising a gaping heart-hole with
three smiles, carefully placed...
I'm falling,
and turning,
and twisting,
twisting, and shouting
Everything is hot here,
Everything's aflame.
Chin upturned,
I squinted, searching for the hand
I used to hold so willingly,
(I could never bear clenching these fists alone)
There was nothing to reach for,
and I plunged further into the inferno.
Take this, one last time,
my last whispered "Goodbye! I will miss you! I have always cared!"
while our words sit in stifling air,
I will be gone before the echoes reach your ears.

I. Love. Teaching.

After a grueling 9pm-2am shift last night (okay, it wasn't that bad--I got to ride the new Bronco Delivery tricycles, one of which I think I broke, but let's not talk about that), I wasn't too excited to wake up at 8:30am on a Saturday to help fourth graders with their writing. Regardless, this morning, grande White Chocolate Americano w/a splash of Chai in hand, I picked up my fellow tutoring folks and drove to an elementary school in downtown San Jose where we were to tutor for a couple hours.

I LOVED IT. Okay, it's not like I haven't helped gradeschoolers with their homework before, but this was different. The Saturday academies where we tutor focus specifically on helping kids with the writing portion of those silly, state-mandated standardized tests that we all had to take when we were younger (no idea what the actual name of the test is). The assignment was for the children to create a story about spending a day with anyone they would like. Ideal companions were anyone from Justin Bieber (yeah...kids these days) to grandparents to famous soccer players. It was so cool, watching the gears turn in their heads and witnessing those brilliant moments when they would think of the perfect sentence to write down. I love it. I cannot think of a job more rewarding and fulfilling for me than teaching. To be able to witness that every day? So. Cool.

I also never thought I would want to work in Elementary Education--don't get me wrong, I still prefer Secondary Education to that--but it's not as bad as I thought it would be. I didn't think I worked well with kids, but honestly, accepting that thought was my first mistake. It's not a matter of working with kids, it's a matter of working with people. Younger, shorter people--who are much brighter and more capable than most people give them credit for.

I can't wait to have my own classroom. I hope I'll be blessed enough to find a job at a school where the students matter, where learning matters, where teaching matters. I am so excited! Five hours of sleep and all, my heart and mind feel incredibly restless! I can't wait to teach!

English is silly.

1) We always, in all circumstances, capitalize the word "I." Could we be any more self-centered?
2) My watch works, or functions. It does not run. Distorted concepts of time, no?
3) Borrowed from a lecture by Joel Salatin -- we love playing the victim. That's why we call them "stoplights" not "go-lights."

living on power naps & prayer

"Don't worry, about a thing, 'cause every little thing, is gonna be alright."

I like life better through quick blinks and jolts. I like sleeping too. Ah, but how can I ever fully reap the benefits of sleep without fully experiencing the detriment of sleep-deprivation? If you think you can answer that question at first glance, I think you need to try staying up a night or two!

(Plus, when sleep-deprived, your dreams are more vivid as a result of your body overcompensating for lost REM sleep! How fun, right?)

Thrills and Thrills and Thrills!

I will be in Berkeley Sunday night/Monday morning! Although it won't be my first time in Berk, I am especially excited to get away this weekend and explore the city. The Santa Clara bubble is too much to handle sometimes. I can't WAIT. Indian food, Pegasus Books, and my dearest cousin, here I come!

Education and Culture

Thought spill, go. I want to be an English teacher; where do I start?

I. The Dream

As an educator, what would my goal be? Should teachers reward academic achievement or effort? Initially, I leaned toward the former. This is problematic. From the standpoint of a university student who has been privileged enough to participate in higher education and been taught to learn competitively, academic achievement seems like the obvious choice. But in teaching younger grades, such as elementary and middle school, I also think it's important to instill the intrinsic motivation in students necessary for them to ever truly learn beyond what it is put in front of them. Here is the dilemma: what do you do with the high school students? When do we transition from praising stalwart efforts to actually achieving academic skill? Earlier on, I would think...perhaps I don't know enough about developmental psychology and all of that to draw any real conclusions. What does one do with the student who tries and tries and tries, but never produces quality work? Or the student who misses class, disrespects the material, yet produces outstanding work? I don't know.

II. The Dream -- Refined, and...Unclear

Okay, so when I first started testing teaching English as a career choice, I imagined myself teaching in my old high school (which is a place of secondary education radically different from others in terms of attitudes, acceptance, and so forth--I was blessed to have attended a high school that was so intent on fostering my personal growth as well as my academic growth). As I've learned a little bit more about classroom structures and philosophies of education, I'm beginning to see how things aren't so cut-and-dry. I think some high school teachers' dreams are to teach the Advanced Placement classes, where students are eager and willing to learn--whether it be for the sake of learning, or for the sake of getting into a good college--nonetheless, generally speaking, students in Advanced Placement classes tend to do better in school. That one's not difficult to understand. What about the others?

III. Culture

So the more I poke at this whole teaching thing, I find myself being pulled toward teaching bilingual students, or perhaps students who tend to struggle with English more than my high school classmates who on the whole, represented the group of English-speaking middle-class Americans that I think most educators shape their curriculum around. Here's another problem. In a high school English class, which seeks to enrich both mastery of the English language as well as an understanding of literature, how much effort do we put into making the classroom a place of mutual cultural respect, tolerance, and enrichment, while giving students the tools to operate "successfully" in American society? It is a shame that our culture prides English as much as it does, but it is a reality that we must face. So, what do we tell the native Spanish speaker who loves to read, yet has not developed the extensive vocabulary of the native English speaker next to him/her? Yes, perhaps my job would be to teach English, but to what extent? The native Spanish speaker may have a profound understanding of the common themes in literature, maybe even moreso than another English-speaking student, but to what extent would I recognize this understanding, if not communicated through "standard, middle-class English"? What if she communicates her ideas with outstanding precision--in Spanish?

IV. Belonging

Some may believe that an educator's sole job is to teach the respective material to students to develop understanding, skills, whatever. I agree with this description of responsibility, but as active workers in an environment as people-centered as a high school, those who work in schools would be remiss not to make strong efforts to create a sense of belonging in the high school. How does this come about, outside of the classroom? Would it be appropriate, or even effective, for teachers to try and develop students characters and ethical decision-making skills as well as a thriving storehouse of academic knowledge? (Note: When talking about "morals" and "ethics", I am referring to a more basic level of treating others with respect and academic integrity, not the gritty stuff dealt with in larger-scale politics). I'm considering beyond the basic classroom poster that says, "This is a safe zone." Is it important/good for teachers to discuss these issues with students?

V. Last thoughts...

Should higher level philosophy courses be taught at high schools? At which grades? Is this sort of inquiry dangerous? Would students rise to the challenge?

1:06

sometimes, our arms are all we've got to wrap ourselves in
and it don't matter how many times we're gonna try,
but these hearts keep swellin,
keep swellin loud n clear.
they haven't asked about it in awhile,
they haven't asked why my eyelids stopped flutterin'
they haven't wondered why the walls so tall now,
and it's kinda nice on this side of things,
it's kinda quiet.

humility/hubris

Montaigne and Huemer were wary thinkers. They strived to avoid the sort of epistemic hubris that dogmatists exuded, and in doing so, challenged the very concept of knowing. I am not sure why I feel so unsettled.

There is this mental/oral blockage that rises slowly and inhibits my speech, particularly occurring when in the presence of academic faculty, and I'm not sure why. Well, I am completely sure why. Specifically in the field I have chosen to study, there is a handful of selected few students that possess extraordinary stories, extraordinary abilities to think and communicate their thoughts with a precision and elegance that baffles me. I know that some people are just smarter in certain ways, but that doesn't change my frustration (if anything, it adds to it). I like entertaining the thought of learning so much more that all there is that is left to do is teach. I love it, in fact. There is nothing that I have felt more deeply invested and interested in than what I am studying now.

I guess there is one part of me that thinks, "Well then, go on and study it. Do it. Live it." But the other, much louder and larger part screams in defiance, reprimanding my selfish pursuit of knowledge (what the hell is the point? as if I don't isolate my thoughts enough already!). I do not think I can compete with other thinkers of my time. I just don't. And if you know me, you should know that I am usually optimistic, occasionally cynical, often-moved, sometimes sad, yet rarely do I consciously and willingly accept an attitude of defeat, from myself or from others. So here it is, for the first time in a long time: an attitude of defeat.

Why do I let speaking trouble me so much? It is frustrating, to be able to form my thoughts so easily on paper, sometimes easily in class, but consistentlywith severe difficulty when alone with someone of higher academic standing; aha, hello deep-seated insecurity...

Perhaps that is one of my less tangible dreams: to understand. And I know this is foolish in so many ways--understanding these theories and thoughts, if anything, can be isolating. I see that already in the faces and mannerisms of my fellow students--the world is one that no longer values these questions, and as he put, "it is also one that fails to understand that all other subjects originated from philosophical inquiry." He was frustrated.

That is where the philosopher's arrogance comes in, and it is foolish and prideful to honestly believe that one discipline yields more importance than any other, but perhaps it is also foolish and prideful not to acknowledge one that serves the others in so many ways. I guess I am frustrated--with myself, with my studies, with what I have chosen. I am frustrated in a silly way; I have chosen all of these things, intentionally and consciously. I guess, I am more afraid then frustrated. Of what? I am not sure....not sure at all.

staedtler

Recently, I have been overwhelmingly introspective and involuntarily outgoing, all too conscious of the words I have said and the words I haven't said, and not conscious enough of the words I choose to say. I wanted to write earlier, in hopes of flushing out some muddled thoughts, utilizing this whole public blog thing as a sort of self-constructed mandate to be more explanatory, but after thinking too hard about all of it, I sort of just laughed and stopped thinking. After all, who the hell do I think I am, thinking about me so often?

Is too much introspection selfish? I am not proud of my pride, but I won't deny it—there is some sort of strange triumph I feel in giving time and respect to my thoughts, to allowing myself a few moments of reflection in days in which there should be no such leisure, but it is shameful and silly at the same time. Who am I to think that what I do is worth thinking about?