It's 6 AM and New Year's Eve and if you asked me to tell you how I was feeling right now - I know I wouldn't be able to. I never thought that I would ever be surrounded with so much love in my life and still feel so uncertain about everything to the point where it was harder to sleep at night.
I keep wondering if it's worth me getting upset over this. Wasn't it a loss in the first place? What if you woke up and the thing you thought you had always lost... might not be lost after all? Does that mean that even if you go through all the effort of searching for it - that if it goes lost again...everything is back where it was? And I remain the same?
Somehow, no matter how many times I might try to tell myself that you can't feel loss over something already lost...that I inevitably will. Because initially, isn't it always 'hope' that we feel anyway? 'Hope' that we could find that missing piece to our puzzle...and then when the hope disappears, it isn't necessarily the actual piece that we're missing. I think I'd start to miss the feeling of hope that it was ever there in the first place.
I am a step away from possibly knowing everything...or maybe even having more questions than I know what to do with. How do you differentiate between the questions of a 6-year old and the logical questions of a 23-year old? You can't, I guess. There is probably little difference of importance in my mind between: "Whose nose do I have?" and "Were you economically in hardship when you made that decision 23 years ago?"
Who knows what is going to happen on Friday. I am not even sure if I have an idealistic pan out of how I would want it to go because it hasn't crossed my mind.
But one thing is for sure...please don't ask me how...I have missed you.
Showing posts with label early mornings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label early mornings. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
A Day To Remember (or perhaps to forget)
There are four pages of a scribbled letter tucked inside my black and white marbled notebook. It was the beginnings of a future blog post for this blog - my annual letter to my birthmother - telling her the struggles and triumphs of my 23rd year of being alive.
For the past week and a half, I, for some reason, kept holding off actually sitting down and typing it out here, not because it was too personal or too gritty...honestly, if you had asked me why I wouldn't have been able to give you a straight answer. Maybe it was because I have been so consumed with the move from Dundalk. (Yes, I have finally LEFT Dumb-dalk for good...and will post pictures of the barren room once I find my camera in one of these boxes that are looming in my room.) Whatever the reason, it just never got done.
And maybe it was a sign that I was meant to read it to her in person...
I don't really know where to begin with the rest of this post. I was trying to think of some clever epithet that might transition into the whole point of the post - but at this point, my brain is too fried with an excess abundance of emotion and utter cluster-fuckery (I just made that word up.) to even be witty or even give a hoot whether I am witty or not.
December 23, 2008 @ around 1 AM will be forever seared in my brain. If and when I have children, and I reflect on this tale to fill bedtime story nights, I will probably still struggle to piece together just exactly what got seared into my brain: a cautionary tale or a Christmas miracle. It is too early yet to decide.
But whatever it will be - what it is right now, at the present, is the exact time that I was trying to get rid of a nasty migraine by sleeping it away... and my 2nd night sleeping on the mattress that is in what will eventually be my bedroom in my Aunt's house. It seems ordinary and simple enough, and started out as any other night ...except that 1 AM will also forever be seared into my brain as the time my mother came into my bedroom to wake me up with the news.
The news that my birthparents have been searching for me and want to meet me.
It is now 11:02 pm of the very same day and I think I must have written the above sentence or said variations of it to myself at least a hundred thousand times. And yet even with saying it a hundred thousand more, I do not think that the sentence's true meaning will ever fully sink itself into my brain and channel signals of acknowledgement to my being.
Even now, there is still detachment from that sentence - as if tomorrow that whole sequence: me sleeping, my mom rushing into my bedroom in her jacket, shaking me awake, her eyes lighting up, and me sleepily opening my eyes to watch her lips move to form the words of that very same sentence....that whole sequence will be nothing but a dream. An afterthought to another dream that I had had.
But a part of me knows that it wasn't. That it was real. But I am not ready to believe that part. All day long I have been trying to figure out how to sum up how I feel and I just can't...it is hard to explain how in one moment - everything has changed with nothing happening. How just words could change my entire world and turn it upside down with no action following.
I am, Blog, scared shitless. Today I have felt happy, annoyed, joyous, angry, resentful, sadness, fear and frustration in succession of each other and even at times, simultaneously.
I have so much to say and yet have no words to say it with.
I have so many questions and yet am not quite sure I want to know the answers.
I want...and yet wish it was easier just to walk away...at the exact same time.
And despite all these crazy feelings - the one thing I keep dwelling on is the revelation that they searched for me.
For the past week and a half, I, for some reason, kept holding off actually sitting down and typing it out here, not because it was too personal or too gritty...honestly, if you had asked me why I wouldn't have been able to give you a straight answer. Maybe it was because I have been so consumed with the move from Dundalk. (Yes, I have finally LEFT Dumb-dalk for good...and will post pictures of the barren room once I find my camera in one of these boxes that are looming in my room.) Whatever the reason, it just never got done.
And maybe it was a sign that I was meant to read it to her in person...
I don't really know where to begin with the rest of this post. I was trying to think of some clever epithet that might transition into the whole point of the post - but at this point, my brain is too fried with an excess abundance of emotion and utter cluster-fuckery (I just made that word up.) to even be witty or even give a hoot whether I am witty or not.
December 23, 2008 @ around 1 AM will be forever seared in my brain. If and when I have children, and I reflect on this tale to fill bedtime story nights, I will probably still struggle to piece together just exactly what got seared into my brain: a cautionary tale or a Christmas miracle. It is too early yet to decide.
But whatever it will be - what it is right now, at the present, is the exact time that I was trying to get rid of a nasty migraine by sleeping it away... and my 2nd night sleeping on the mattress that is in what will eventually be my bedroom in my Aunt's house. It seems ordinary and simple enough, and started out as any other night ...except that 1 AM will also forever be seared into my brain as the time my mother came into my bedroom to wake me up with the news.
The news that my birthparents have been searching for me and want to meet me.
It is now 11:02 pm of the very same day and I think I must have written the above sentence or said variations of it to myself at least a hundred thousand times. And yet even with saying it a hundred thousand more, I do not think that the sentence's true meaning will ever fully sink itself into my brain and channel signals of acknowledgement to my being.
Even now, there is still detachment from that sentence - as if tomorrow that whole sequence: me sleeping, my mom rushing into my bedroom in her jacket, shaking me awake, her eyes lighting up, and me sleepily opening my eyes to watch her lips move to form the words of that very same sentence....that whole sequence will be nothing but a dream. An afterthought to another dream that I had had.
But a part of me knows that it wasn't. That it was real. But I am not ready to believe that part. All day long I have been trying to figure out how to sum up how I feel and I just can't...it is hard to explain how in one moment - everything has changed with nothing happening. How just words could change my entire world and turn it upside down with no action following.
I am, Blog, scared shitless. Today I have felt happy, annoyed, joyous, angry, resentful, sadness, fear and frustration in succession of each other and even at times, simultaneously.
I have so much to say and yet have no words to say it with.
I have so many questions and yet am not quite sure I want to know the answers.
I want...and yet wish it was easier just to walk away...at the exact same time.
And despite all these crazy feelings - the one thing I keep dwelling on is the revelation that they searched for me.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Music was my breakfast this morning...
Who needs eggs and bacon when you've got Kanye West and Holly Brook? I had these two songs on rotate all morning long on my drive into work. And you know what? They are playing right now, too.
I have a big collection of music because for me, it's what keeps me sane. Sometimes there are just no words to explain the emotions that you feel and its just better described through lyrics. Thank God we've got some brilliant artists out there so I can release my good and bad energy every morning drive with my iPod cranked up loud.
This song is the 2nd song off of Kanye West's last dropped album: Graduation. "Champion" is awesome to me because even though the tone of the song is upbeat and kind of a "dance track" sound, if you listen to the lyrics, they are super bittersweet. It completely reminds me of my personality when shit goes bad: I smile, and seem upbeat, keep focusing on the positive yet I'll never forget that there is still sadness and frustration in my life. And eventually, I know I'll get back to being the "champion" that I know I'm supposed to be. I am quite aware of all the controversy that surrounds Mr. West, but I am not one to make sudden opinions about music artists based on what I hear in the media and what I see displayed on my TV screen. So he hit some guy...everyone's entitled to get pissed off, right? Good music is good music to me and if it helps me out of my emotional distress - well then, I'd hit that papporazzi myself.
I absolutely love Holly Brook. I love her look, I love her style, I love her voice. When I first found her album "Like Blood Like Honey", I listened to every single song more than ten thousand times over and over again. I found myself nodding vigorously with tissue clasped in hand as I listened to every lyric like it was a Lifetime movie special thinking, Oh my God, Holly Brook - you GET ME, you REALLY GET ME. This song is just one of my many favorites from this album, and if you ever get a chance you should really listen to it from cover to cover. Every song is completely melodic and brilliantly written. Plus I think that you'll agree with me when I say that after listening to it in its entirety, you feel like you should have somehow gone through a life changing journey or something and become completely depressed when you realize you've been just sitting on your couch surrounded by a pile of used tissues that equate to the amount of sorrow that you actually have in your life. *le sigh*
PS. For both of these, it really is worth it to check out the lyrics.
I have a big collection of music because for me, it's what keeps me sane. Sometimes there are just no words to explain the emotions that you feel and its just better described through lyrics. Thank God we've got some brilliant artists out there so I can release my good and bad energy every morning drive with my iPod cranked up loud.
This song is the 2nd song off of Kanye West's last dropped album: Graduation. "Champion" is awesome to me because even though the tone of the song is upbeat and kind of a "dance track" sound, if you listen to the lyrics, they are super bittersweet. It completely reminds me of my personality when shit goes bad: I smile, and seem upbeat, keep focusing on the positive yet I'll never forget that there is still sadness and frustration in my life. And eventually, I know I'll get back to being the "champion" that I know I'm supposed to be. I am quite aware of all the controversy that surrounds Mr. West, but I am not one to make sudden opinions about music artists based on what I hear in the media and what I see displayed on my TV screen. So he hit some guy...everyone's entitled to get pissed off, right? Good music is good music to me and if it helps me out of my emotional distress - well then, I'd hit that papporazzi myself.
I absolutely love Holly Brook. I love her look, I love her style, I love her voice. When I first found her album "Like Blood Like Honey", I listened to every single song more than ten thousand times over and over again. I found myself nodding vigorously with tissue clasped in hand as I listened to every lyric like it was a Lifetime movie special thinking, Oh my God, Holly Brook - you GET ME, you REALLY GET ME. This song is just one of my many favorites from this album, and if you ever get a chance you should really listen to it from cover to cover. Every song is completely melodic and brilliantly written. Plus I think that you'll agree with me when I say that after listening to it in its entirety, you feel like you should have somehow gone through a life changing journey or something and become completely depressed when you realize you've been just sitting on your couch surrounded by a pile of used tissues that equate to the amount of sorrow that you actually have in your life. *le sigh*
PS. For both of these, it really is worth it to check out the lyrics.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Four Bucks and a 35 mph wind chill...
So this morning I ran out of the house and forgot to pack a lunch. And then got to work and realized I only had four bucks on me. Rather than spend four bucks on something substantial (and let's face it, who here knows where I could get something "substantial" for four bucks? - Didn't think so.) I decided to go to the 4th level where there are vending machines.
Ahh yes, vending machines that hold to key to unhealthy living. All the unwanted fat and calories I could possibly ask for in just one package of self-dubbed "Homemade Grandma Cookies" or in "Fiery Habenero" Doritos which by the way comes in a bag no bigger than the palm of my hand and holds about the portion size of a 6-month old. (Doritos are my secret enemy. I LOOOOVEEEE Doritos. I have three bags at home hidden in a secret place for that certain someone who likes to come over to my house and chastise me for eating so much junk food. Take that, John Basedow, Jr!! :-))
I just finished my feast of Peanut Butter cookies, Cheese crackers with peanut butter filling, and Salt & Vinegar chips (I know it sounds disgusting right now but it felt soooo gooooood going down). To balance out the equation, rather than buy my regular binge drinking can of Grape soda, I opted for the 20 oz. bottle of Aquafina. That's right. I went for the 20 oz. Boo yah!
The wind is ridiculous near my building. Most likely because of the water, and how close we are to it - therefore when the winds pick up - they really pick up. Therefore, in the mornings, I grab the warmest clothes I can find. And seeing as I haven't got too many sweaters/long-sleeved shirts on hand (don't ask me but once I moved into Dumb-dalk I couldn't find half my winter or fall clothing that I once had) I tend to grab summer clothes and layer like a crazy woman.
But apparently this isn't good enough for the "semi-business casual corporate" world that I am in. Whatever that "Semi-business casual corporate" nonsense is. I got called in and told that what I was wearing yesterday was too casual and crossing the line. Not in detail, just that - that it was too casual. But this morning, it came upon someone to tell me in detail why specifically my outfit was too casual yesterday. Apparently - the "flannel" material, mixed with the attached "hood" was too casual. Flannel? What if I am cold? I had a decent shirt underneath but I was freezing in this office.
I was also told that my brown cords were "pushing it" that I had on today. Since when are cordoroys "pushing it" with the code? Do they want me to freeze my ass off and get the chills?
It was suggested to me that maybe I should go back and revisit the employee handbook for the dress code... I suddenly feel like I am back in Catholic middle school.
Ahh yes, vending machines that hold to key to unhealthy living. All the unwanted fat and calories I could possibly ask for in just one package of self-dubbed "Homemade Grandma Cookies" or in "Fiery Habenero" Doritos which by the way comes in a bag no bigger than the palm of my hand and holds about the portion size of a 6-month old. (Doritos are my secret enemy. I LOOOOVEEEE Doritos. I have three bags at home hidden in a secret place for that certain someone who likes to come over to my house and chastise me for eating so much junk food. Take that, John Basedow, Jr!! :-))
I just finished my feast of Peanut Butter cookies, Cheese crackers with peanut butter filling, and Salt & Vinegar chips (I know it sounds disgusting right now but it felt soooo gooooood going down). To balance out the equation, rather than buy my regular binge drinking can of Grape soda, I opted for the 20 oz. bottle of Aquafina. That's right. I went for the 20 oz. Boo yah!
The wind is ridiculous near my building. Most likely because of the water, and how close we are to it - therefore when the winds pick up - they really pick up. Therefore, in the mornings, I grab the warmest clothes I can find. And seeing as I haven't got too many sweaters/long-sleeved shirts on hand (don't ask me but once I moved into Dumb-dalk I couldn't find half my winter or fall clothing that I once had) I tend to grab summer clothes and layer like a crazy woman.
But apparently this isn't good enough for the "semi-business casual corporate" world that I am in. Whatever that "Semi-business casual corporate" nonsense is. I got called in and told that what I was wearing yesterday was too casual and crossing the line. Not in detail, just that - that it was too casual. But this morning, it came upon someone to tell me in detail why specifically my outfit was too casual yesterday. Apparently - the "flannel" material, mixed with the attached "hood" was too casual. Flannel? What if I am cold? I had a decent shirt underneath but I was freezing in this office.
I was also told that my brown cords were "pushing it" that I had on today. Since when are cordoroys "pushing it" with the code? Do they want me to freeze my ass off and get the chills?
It was suggested to me that maybe I should go back and revisit the employee handbook for the dress code... I suddenly feel like I am back in Catholic middle school.
Monday, November 5, 2007
It's tragedy that brings back reality
It was Friday night and I had just finally gotten my phone back. Six voice mails, a couple of unseen texts...nice to know that even without my phone I am still loved.
I grabbed a taxi home again since my Dad wasn't going to be home until close to midnight. I got another fantastic taxi driver whom I've decided to wait until a later blog post to write about. (Because I have been keeping a journal of all the taxi drivers that I have met over the past few years of using their transportation services. And since my use of them is coming to an end shortly, I decided to blog about my experiences, each and every one of them, in order to make my Ode to the Taxi Driver: My Long Lost Salvation)
Once I got home, my roommate was already up and in the kitchen with one of her friends making a "penis cake", that is, a cake shaped like a penis. Along with chocolate "penis pops", that is, chocolate molded in the shapes of penises on sticks. You know, to suck. (Okay, okay, enough of the sexual innuendo.) She was preparing these little "fun treats" for the bachelorette party the next night for one of her friends who is to get married in the next couple of weeks.
Gen-gen gave me a holla on my phone and said that he and Alex were set for a night out on the town. One, because her parents were out of town and two, because Gen-gen got his parents to watch the dog for a weekend. So he could party, of course. It was not my intention to really PAR-TAY, but I would be stupid if I didn't admit that every single time Gen-gen and I go out, insanity ensues. Craziness.
Well, Gen-gen headed over to my place. I excused the mess, because just like Goosey, I am not particularly a slob or messy persay, it's just that I tend to lay things here and there throughout the week because I am too exhausted to put them away in their place. So I wait until Friday night to put everything away to let the week start out nice and clean. Except that when Gen-gen came over, I hadn't gotten a chance to motivate myself yet.
He fell onto my bed and then lay there as I walked around trying to get ready. He asked me how my week went - which led to another conversation, that led to a delightfully wonderful conversation and revelation (which will end up being the next post).
We head out to Mosaic with Alex and two of her friends. This Filipina girl whose name I didn't catch and her boyfriend, I (To keep anonymity). Let me talk about I for a second - this man had to be double the age of the Filipina girl (who looked like she couldn't be any older than 24 or 25). Not only was I older than the hills in age, but he was older than the hills in dress, mannerisms and...well, absolutely everything. There's a difference between a person's age and then a person acting and dressing, and being consumed by that number. I was one of these people, evidently.
He is Russian (of course, right? Gen-gen and Alex are.) and he has this very creepy look about him. The kind of perv, I would take girls into dark alleys that are half my age look. The "I am Soviet, hear me roar!" kind of look. Not only that, but he began dancing, if that's what you would want to call it. I don't even think all the dictionary knowledge in the word could help me describe to you how terribly horrible this man was at dancing. Think about the stiffest dance you could possibly think of - add in a little bit of attempt to roll your hips - except instead of rolling them in a sexy way, you're literally plummetting them into the side of your dance partner awkwardly. All the while your right arm is pressed in the air bent at the elbow while your right leg is up and you're trying to do some half-Funky chicken dance. Except that "The Chicken Dance" isn't playing: "This Is Why I'm Hot" by Mims is. Yes, it was that bad, people.
Okay, now that I've gotten that out of my system...
After the club, Alex and Gen-gen and I headed back to his place. I noticed a missed call around 11:30 from my mom. She never calls that late. She's never up that late. So I called my VM and listened to the message.
My Dad had come home from work at Nordstrom's with a horrible pain in his side, puking all over the place and just feeling incredibly lousy. He had decided to head to the ER at St. Joe's and my aunt had agreed to take him. They had found a kidney stone about 3 milimeters inside of his kidney. She wanted to let me know that we weren't going to be going to my nephew's birthday party the next day.
Since it was so late, Gen-gen let me crash in his guest room. I had passed out on his couch a few hours before and woke up around 4:30 AM, and walked up to the guest room and collapsed out on the bed.
Around 7:00 AM my phone goes off. I wake up and with sleepy eyes gloss over the screen of my cell while hanging out of the bed. I can barely make out the numbers but they look like my parents' house number. I picked up the phone.
"Hello?" I attempted to force myself awake but sitting all the way up and rubbing my free hand against my eyes.
"Em, your father is missing," came the clear, yet shaking voice of my Mom.
"What the f$%k?" was the first thing that came out of my mouth. I was wide awake now. "What are you talking about, Mom?"
"Your father is gone, he's missing. I called over at the hospital just two minutes ago and the nurses station said he was discharged at 4:20 AM this morning. But he never came home," came my mother's voice from the other side of the line. It came over with an eerie calmness, the kind that let you know that she hadn't let the news sink in yet - but that she was overwhelmed enough to know she needed someone to talk to.
"Well, wait - he never called you or anything? He couldn't have left the hospital by himself," my mind was racing to try to find some logical explanation as I tried to stay calm for my mother's sake.
"No...he never called. He never said anything. In fact, I had talked to him right before I left you that voice message last night and he said he was going to have to stay overnight there to try to get the kidney stone out. That was the last I heard of him. I don't know what else to do," she said.
"Have you called C?" C is my oldest brother whose a cop in Harford County.
"No but I am going to, he'll know what to do about these things." My Mom is the kind of person who thinks that a person's occupation makes them the Einstein-know-it-all of anything and everything related to that occupation. Since my brother is a cop, my mother felt that there had to have been some special "way" of talking to police officers for missing persons, so she enlisted my brother's "expertise".
Two minutes later, I get another call.
"C is out calling the police, looking for your father," she said.
"That's great. They'll find him, I know they will Mom."
"...I think he might have committed suicide."
I didn't know what to say. I don't even know whether I was quite awake enough right before she said it - but I certainly fully awake after it was said. I had been so calm, so collected just several miliseconds before and now, in an instant, I felt the lump of fear clump itself into the back of my throat, forcing me to forget to breathe and let all the effort of breathing go into creating hot stingy tears that wasted no time occupying my eyes.
"I really think that's what he did," she said, "He's been just so happy recently. Even your sister has noticed."
I couldn't tell you what I thought of that comment because I was too caught on what she had said prior to that. Suicide? My Dad had been extremely happy recently - but I figured it was due to what he kept saying - that he had finally found a decent medication that helped to keep a constant and steady control on his once fluctuating moods. He didn't feel so up and so down anymore. He felt like he had a better control over his daily situations that would have normally caught him in a frenzy in the past. I had been so happy for him - why couldn't she be? Why did that have to be a "sign" that he would take his life?
And suddenly, like a flashback from a movie, I was taken back to middle school, and even just two years ago. Saw the vision of my father collapsing onto his knees in the bedroom, my mother standing over him with a menacing glare, his body so limp, so lifeless...and then the look on his face - so incredibly draining just to look at the expression on his face. I remember feeling my heart sink into the pit of my stomach to the point that I felt the thump as it hit the inner foremost wall of my stomach cavity. And yet even with my belly full, I felt so empty and helpless at the sight of my father so weak like that. Weak beyond anything anyone should ever feel at anytime. I could hear his voice just as I did two years ago, "I can't do this anymore...I can't do this anymore. I just don't want to live anymore..."
I choked back the tears and caught myself from sinking deeper into the past.
"No, Mom. He was fine, he is fine. He was so happy the last time I saw him. We'll find him. I am coming home now. Just relax. Do not scare the kids," I said, pulling the covers off and stepping into the chill of the guest room.
That man who was the man I saw two years ago was not the same man I saw a few days ago singing along to Carrie Underwood on the radio, I kept thinking.
Despite my best efforts, once I hung up the phone with my Mom I felt the tears start to flow and just let them flow. If there is anything that I have learned in the past few months it is to let the emotions I have out when I have them - holding them in is only going to prolong and worsen the pain later on.
I text J, a little freaked out still. J agreed with me - that my Dad would be found, that he wouldn't do something like that, and that my Mom was probably just overreacting as always. For Dad's sake, I hoped to God she was just being overdramatic like always.
I woke up Gen-gen and he took me over to my parents' house, all the way supporting me as I kept talking out loud to myself about my parents, about how much they have always been flitty in the past but no matter what, even if it was against my better judgement, I was always there for them. I have always been there when they needed me...even if it wasn't reciprocated.
We drove up to my parents' house and Gen-gen offered to come in with me but I told him that he didn't have to worry about it - and could just go home and get some rest for the both of us. As we were pulling into the neighborhood, we past a police car exiting as we were entering.
Once I got to the front door, my brother called me to tell me they had found him. He was already at the house down in the basement, and my Mom was sitting in the kitchen.
I suddenly let out a deep breath. It felt like I had been holding my breath that entire time and just at that moment had finally let it all out.
Standing in that kitchen, I stood there looking from my Mom, to my older brother, and then all around at my little brothers and my younger sister and realized then that sometimes it's tragedy that brings us back to reality.
As the police escort arrived to at the front door, I didn't hesitate in giving my Dad the biggest never-ending hug I had ever given him, never wanting to let go.
I grabbed a taxi home again since my Dad wasn't going to be home until close to midnight. I got another fantastic taxi driver whom I've decided to wait until a later blog post to write about. (Because I have been keeping a journal of all the taxi drivers that I have met over the past few years of using their transportation services. And since my use of them is coming to an end shortly, I decided to blog about my experiences, each and every one of them, in order to make my Ode to the Taxi Driver: My Long Lost Salvation)
Once I got home, my roommate was already up and in the kitchen with one of her friends making a "penis cake", that is, a cake shaped like a penis. Along with chocolate "penis pops", that is, chocolate molded in the shapes of penises on sticks. You know, to suck. (Okay, okay, enough of the sexual innuendo.) She was preparing these little "fun treats" for the bachelorette party the next night for one of her friends who is to get married in the next couple of weeks.
Gen-gen gave me a holla on my phone and said that he and Alex were set for a night out on the town. One, because her parents were out of town and two, because Gen-gen got his parents to watch the dog for a weekend. So he could party, of course. It was not my intention to really PAR-TAY, but I would be stupid if I didn't admit that every single time Gen-gen and I go out, insanity ensues. Craziness.
Well, Gen-gen headed over to my place. I excused the mess, because just like Goosey, I am not particularly a slob or messy persay, it's just that I tend to lay things here and there throughout the week because I am too exhausted to put them away in their place. So I wait until Friday night to put everything away to let the week start out nice and clean. Except that when Gen-gen came over, I hadn't gotten a chance to motivate myself yet.
He fell onto my bed and then lay there as I walked around trying to get ready. He asked me how my week went - which led to another conversation, that led to a delightfully wonderful conversation and revelation (which will end up being the next post).
We head out to Mosaic with Alex and two of her friends. This Filipina girl whose name I didn't catch and her boyfriend, I (To keep anonymity). Let me talk about I for a second - this man had to be double the age of the Filipina girl (who looked like she couldn't be any older than 24 or 25). Not only was I older than the hills in age, but he was older than the hills in dress, mannerisms and...well, absolutely everything. There's a difference between a person's age and then a person acting and dressing, and being consumed by that number. I was one of these people, evidently.
He is Russian (of course, right? Gen-gen and Alex are.) and he has this very creepy look about him. The kind of perv, I would take girls into dark alleys that are half my age look. The "I am Soviet, hear me roar!" kind of look. Not only that, but he began dancing, if that's what you would want to call it. I don't even think all the dictionary knowledge in the word could help me describe to you how terribly horrible this man was at dancing. Think about the stiffest dance you could possibly think of - add in a little bit of attempt to roll your hips - except instead of rolling them in a sexy way, you're literally plummetting them into the side of your dance partner awkwardly. All the while your right arm is pressed in the air bent at the elbow while your right leg is up and you're trying to do some half-Funky chicken dance. Except that "The Chicken Dance" isn't playing: "This Is Why I'm Hot" by Mims is. Yes, it was that bad, people.
Okay, now that I've gotten that out of my system...
After the club, Alex and Gen-gen and I headed back to his place. I noticed a missed call around 11:30 from my mom. She never calls that late. She's never up that late. So I called my VM and listened to the message.
My Dad had come home from work at Nordstrom's with a horrible pain in his side, puking all over the place and just feeling incredibly lousy. He had decided to head to the ER at St. Joe's and my aunt had agreed to take him. They had found a kidney stone about 3 milimeters inside of his kidney. She wanted to let me know that we weren't going to be going to my nephew's birthday party the next day.
Since it was so late, Gen-gen let me crash in his guest room. I had passed out on his couch a few hours before and woke up around 4:30 AM, and walked up to the guest room and collapsed out on the bed.
Around 7:00 AM my phone goes off. I wake up and with sleepy eyes gloss over the screen of my cell while hanging out of the bed. I can barely make out the numbers but they look like my parents' house number. I picked up the phone.
"Hello?" I attempted to force myself awake but sitting all the way up and rubbing my free hand against my eyes.
"Em, your father is missing," came the clear, yet shaking voice of my Mom.
"What the f$%k?" was the first thing that came out of my mouth. I was wide awake now. "What are you talking about, Mom?"
"Your father is gone, he's missing. I called over at the hospital just two minutes ago and the nurses station said he was discharged at 4:20 AM this morning. But he never came home," came my mother's voice from the other side of the line. It came over with an eerie calmness, the kind that let you know that she hadn't let the news sink in yet - but that she was overwhelmed enough to know she needed someone to talk to.
"Well, wait - he never called you or anything? He couldn't have left the hospital by himself," my mind was racing to try to find some logical explanation as I tried to stay calm for my mother's sake.
"No...he never called. He never said anything. In fact, I had talked to him right before I left you that voice message last night and he said he was going to have to stay overnight there to try to get the kidney stone out. That was the last I heard of him. I don't know what else to do," she said.
"Have you called C?" C is my oldest brother whose a cop in Harford County.
"No but I am going to, he'll know what to do about these things." My Mom is the kind of person who thinks that a person's occupation makes them the Einstein-know-it-all of anything and everything related to that occupation. Since my brother is a cop, my mother felt that there had to have been some special "way" of talking to police officers for missing persons, so she enlisted my brother's "expertise".
Two minutes later, I get another call.
"C is out calling the police, looking for your father," she said.
"That's great. They'll find him, I know they will Mom."
"...I think he might have committed suicide."
I didn't know what to say. I don't even know whether I was quite awake enough right before she said it - but I certainly fully awake after it was said. I had been so calm, so collected just several miliseconds before and now, in an instant, I felt the lump of fear clump itself into the back of my throat, forcing me to forget to breathe and let all the effort of breathing go into creating hot stingy tears that wasted no time occupying my eyes.
"I really think that's what he did," she said, "He's been just so happy recently. Even your sister has noticed."
I couldn't tell you what I thought of that comment because I was too caught on what she had said prior to that. Suicide? My Dad had been extremely happy recently - but I figured it was due to what he kept saying - that he had finally found a decent medication that helped to keep a constant and steady control on his once fluctuating moods. He didn't feel so up and so down anymore. He felt like he had a better control over his daily situations that would have normally caught him in a frenzy in the past. I had been so happy for him - why couldn't she be? Why did that have to be a "sign" that he would take his life?
And suddenly, like a flashback from a movie, I was taken back to middle school, and even just two years ago. Saw the vision of my father collapsing onto his knees in the bedroom, my mother standing over him with a menacing glare, his body so limp, so lifeless...and then the look on his face - so incredibly draining just to look at the expression on his face. I remember feeling my heart sink into the pit of my stomach to the point that I felt the thump as it hit the inner foremost wall of my stomach cavity. And yet even with my belly full, I felt so empty and helpless at the sight of my father so weak like that. Weak beyond anything anyone should ever feel at anytime. I could hear his voice just as I did two years ago, "I can't do this anymore...I can't do this anymore. I just don't want to live anymore..."
I choked back the tears and caught myself from sinking deeper into the past.
"No, Mom. He was fine, he is fine. He was so happy the last time I saw him. We'll find him. I am coming home now. Just relax. Do not scare the kids," I said, pulling the covers off and stepping into the chill of the guest room.
That man who was the man I saw two years ago was not the same man I saw a few days ago singing along to Carrie Underwood on the radio, I kept thinking.
Despite my best efforts, once I hung up the phone with my Mom I felt the tears start to flow and just let them flow. If there is anything that I have learned in the past few months it is to let the emotions I have out when I have them - holding them in is only going to prolong and worsen the pain later on.
I text J, a little freaked out still. J agreed with me - that my Dad would be found, that he wouldn't do something like that, and that my Mom was probably just overreacting as always. For Dad's sake, I hoped to God she was just being overdramatic like always.
I woke up Gen-gen and he took me over to my parents' house, all the way supporting me as I kept talking out loud to myself about my parents, about how much they have always been flitty in the past but no matter what, even if it was against my better judgement, I was always there for them. I have always been there when they needed me...even if it wasn't reciprocated.
We drove up to my parents' house and Gen-gen offered to come in with me but I told him that he didn't have to worry about it - and could just go home and get some rest for the both of us. As we were pulling into the neighborhood, we past a police car exiting as we were entering.
Once I got to the front door, my brother called me to tell me they had found him. He was already at the house down in the basement, and my Mom was sitting in the kitchen.
I suddenly let out a deep breath. It felt like I had been holding my breath that entire time and just at that moment had finally let it all out.
Standing in that kitchen, I stood there looking from my Mom, to my older brother, and then all around at my little brothers and my younger sister and realized then that sometimes it's tragedy that brings us back to reality.
As the police escort arrived to at the front door, I didn't hesitate in giving my Dad the biggest never-ending hug I had ever given him, never wanting to let go.
Monday, September 24, 2007
My Near (almost, not really) Brush with Death
This past weekend was the return of Buzz @ Glow. Of course, we all went. By we I mean: J, me, 'Nard, unni, & Gen Gen. Missing in action? Paul & Est unni. Why? The near brush with death.
The weekend before had been my crazy one and not only was it extremely emotional, but it was also Tiesto Live @ Love...outside. I decided against that due to the extreme cold, and opted for the nice, inside, cozy atmosphere with George Acosta @ Ibiza.
But not before driving by Love to say hello to my brother and Est unni. This is where this all began. She gave me hugs and kisses, as usual and then I went on my way to Ibiza.
Skip to this weekend. Est unni and Paul are all ready to go for Return of Buzz. Everyone is. A day before the event, I feel there is something terribly wrong - Paul hasn't called me back. My brother always calls me back. My clairvoyancy is kicking into high gear and I fear... well I fear something bad is happening.
Paul finally calls me later on and says that Est is sick, but it's probably just a cold and they'll see me for Buzz the next night.
Uhh, yeah. In so few short moments, we see Est, we see Paul, and then Est collapses with chills, Paul thinks she's faking, then Est is rushed to the hospital, and the doctors immediately suspect that it's ("dun dun DUN") meningitis.
They run tests on her, and then to be safe, and for good measure, they toss her butt in the ICU. Guess who's laughing now, my brother? He literally felt TERRIBLE for just prior telling her she was faking it (but in my brother's defense, Esther unni has always sorta... dramatized things before for attention. But only in a cutsey way.)
What do our dumbasses do? We still go out. Party. I mean we bought the nearly $30 tickets ahead of time. Why shouldn't we? And it was not just us - we brought other friends.
The place was packed and it was noisy. Exceptionally noisy. So noisy that even though the music was good, J and I kept looking at each other with the same uncomfortable glance because a massive amount of people were all around us - it reminded me of that time in New York with Gen.
So we left ...called to see how Esther unni was, and she had worsened. They hooked her up to IVs and morphine due to the amount of pain. Paul said that the doctors said that we should all be worried about possibly catching it if we had been in contact with her. Oh, great.
We got home really, super late. I was exhausted. Exhausted from worrying about my sister, and exhausted from all those damned people. J & I collapsed on the bed and passed out for several hours.
When I woke up, I had a fever, my throat was raspy and my nose was stuffy. I started freaking out. Big time. J said maybe it was because I was dehydrated, and to keep drinking fluids and to make sure I ate something.
I ate like a fat kid loves cake...and more. And drank Deer Park like it was going out of style. I kept overheating really fast though. So I ended up forcing myself to sleep all day with no covers, and trying to relax, and think happy thoughts like "no meningitis for me, no meningitis here!"
Paul called me late Saturday and asked if I was okay. I told him my symptoms and he said that I shouldn't worry. But if I do think I have it - to go to the doctor or a clinic and get those two day antibiotics or whatever.
So far, I just have a headache today, and a slight stuffy nose. I know, technically I shouldn't be at work if I think I have it - but I am at this point where I really don't think I do. I read on the internet that the best way to catch it would be through transfer of bodily fluids - and Esther unni and I didn't do any of that. Plus, I think that chills is a big thing that comes with it and I haven't had any chills yet.
So this is Monday. Let's hope for a quick and painless week. BTW, this Dritho-scalp has sorta been working...little pieces of hair growth here and there. We'll see though. My fingers are definitely crossed.
PS. Omgosh, Goose. I've gone through "Dying", "Light of the Moon" and "Cartwheels" and I love them all. Every single song. Some I already had - but most I didn't. I have connected on so many deeper levels to every single lyric in each song. Thank you so much.
The weekend before had been my crazy one and not only was it extremely emotional, but it was also Tiesto Live @ Love...outside. I decided against that due to the extreme cold, and opted for the nice, inside, cozy atmosphere with George Acosta @ Ibiza.
But not before driving by Love to say hello to my brother and Est unni. This is where this all began. She gave me hugs and kisses, as usual and then I went on my way to Ibiza.
Skip to this weekend. Est unni and Paul are all ready to go for Return of Buzz. Everyone is. A day before the event, I feel there is something terribly wrong - Paul hasn't called me back. My brother always calls me back. My clairvoyancy is kicking into high gear and I fear... well I fear something bad is happening.
Paul finally calls me later on and says that Est is sick, but it's probably just a cold and they'll see me for Buzz the next night.
Uhh, yeah. In so few short moments, we see Est, we see Paul, and then Est collapses with chills, Paul thinks she's faking, then Est is rushed to the hospital, and the doctors immediately suspect that it's ("dun dun DUN") meningitis.
They run tests on her, and then to be safe, and for good measure, they toss her butt in the ICU. Guess who's laughing now, my brother? He literally felt TERRIBLE for just prior telling her she was faking it (but in my brother's defense, Esther unni has always sorta... dramatized things before for attention. But only in a cutsey way.)
What do our dumbasses do? We still go out. Party. I mean we bought the nearly $30 tickets ahead of time. Why shouldn't we? And it was not just us - we brought other friends.
The place was packed and it was noisy. Exceptionally noisy. So noisy that even though the music was good, J and I kept looking at each other with the same uncomfortable glance because a massive amount of people were all around us - it reminded me of that time in New York with Gen.
So we left ...called to see how Esther unni was, and she had worsened. They hooked her up to IVs and morphine due to the amount of pain. Paul said that the doctors said that we should all be worried about possibly catching it if we had been in contact with her. Oh, great.
We got home really, super late. I was exhausted. Exhausted from worrying about my sister, and exhausted from all those damned people. J & I collapsed on the bed and passed out for several hours.
When I woke up, I had a fever, my throat was raspy and my nose was stuffy. I started freaking out. Big time. J said maybe it was because I was dehydrated, and to keep drinking fluids and to make sure I ate something.
I ate like a fat kid loves cake...and more. And drank Deer Park like it was going out of style. I kept overheating really fast though. So I ended up forcing myself to sleep all day with no covers, and trying to relax, and think happy thoughts like "no meningitis for me, no meningitis here!"
Paul called me late Saturday and asked if I was okay. I told him my symptoms and he said that I shouldn't worry. But if I do think I have it - to go to the doctor or a clinic and get those two day antibiotics or whatever.
So far, I just have a headache today, and a slight stuffy nose. I know, technically I shouldn't be at work if I think I have it - but I am at this point where I really don't think I do. I read on the internet that the best way to catch it would be through transfer of bodily fluids - and Esther unni and I didn't do any of that. Plus, I think that chills is a big thing that comes with it and I haven't had any chills yet.
So this is Monday. Let's hope for a quick and painless week. BTW, this Dritho-scalp has sorta been working...little pieces of hair growth here and there. We'll see though. My fingers are definitely crossed.
PS. Omgosh, Goose. I've gone through "Dying", "Light of the Moon" and "Cartwheels" and I love them all. Every single song. Some I already had - but most I didn't. I have connected on so many deeper levels to every single lyric in each song. Thank you so much.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Early Mornings
I woke up at 4:30 am this morning, wrapped in my sheets, my legs coiled over the side of the bed, and my head buried between my two pillows.
When my eyelids finally pushed past the sleepy-crusts that were dried along the edges of my face, I noticed that it was still dark out - and my TV was still running.
It was on some old drama/action flick. Some unknown piece of cinematic junk but regardless, I have a feeling that whatever dialogue or plot that was going on in that movie affected what was happening in my dream.
Now I don't dream too often. And I usually dream in sequences - meaning I will go sleeping for a while without dreams and then within one week, all of a sudden, I will have three or four dreams in consecutive nights.
I had this dream that I climbed into this black Scion, and it was mine, of course. I had the feeling that I wasn't supposed to be driving, so I realized that it is a present time dream - I have a license but I am still not able to drive by myself yet.
Anyways, so I find myself on this dirt road path. It's windy, and misshapened, and headed into this wooded area. Rather than be scary, it's almost peaceful and serene, and calming. I have the feeling that I have been here before, and there are bits and pieces of the scenery around me that I recognize from other dreams.
Finally, I reach my destination. I walk out of my car and towards this huge structure. Let me try to explain it to you - never at any one time am I able to see the entire structure for its full being - possibly because it represents a lot of different things for me. What I do know is that it is dark, but well lit when it needs to be by candlelight, or dim mood lighting - like in a theatre.
I get the sense that the building is very organic. Made of trees, dirt, water - completely one with the earth. And as I am walking through the hallways of this place (that seem to be made of dirt tunnels) I am passing by hundreds of people. People in groups, people in classes, people making art, people reading poetry out loud to each other. Everybody is dressed in this neo-bohemian chic kind of style. The kind of clothes I remember wearing in high school.
I am wandering through the halls, and I feel at home, and at ease - but I also don't know where I am headed. Suddenly, I find this lady. Her name is Grace, or Tanya...I can't really remember her name. But it sounded sweet, and it sounded familiar. She is a few years older than me, possibly in her 30's. She has long brown hair that is naturally wavy, and she has a head band keeping her bangs from her forehead. She has a gentle face.
There was something about the way our conversation was going that made me feel that she was an old friend. The way she spoke with me was as if she had known me for years. She would smile, and touch her hand to my cheek and nod for emphasis as I continued to speak.
I don't know the entire conversation, in fact, I only remember bits here and there of what we were saying. I remember telling her that I was having trouble falling asleep and staying asleep. I told her I was having trouble finding myself through my dreams, finding myself through my day-to-day routine. Not "finding myself" as in my sanity - as in finding myself on a deeper scale. On an emotional and spiritual scale, the confidence that I used to have in that part of my soul that I have long become a stranger to. But I didn't have to explain all of that to her. She already knew exactly where I was coming from.
She told me to sit and to wait for her to come back. So I sat propped up against one of the dirt covered tunnel walls and waited patiently. It didn't seem like she was gone for long. When she returned, she had a pile of papers.
"These are you, E," she said offering me the pile of papers, "I have known you all your life. Remember the first handmade card you sent me from school?"
On top was a construction paper handmade card that I had made for Fourth of July when I was in preschool. It was tied with red ribbons on one side to keep the pages together. It was white on the front and had the American flag on the front.
"Yes, I remember now. I remember...but it just seems so long ago, and I don't know if my mind and my soul can remember who I am," I said feeling tears come to my eyes as I sat running my hands through the pages in the pile, realizing that they were every single short story, every single poem and art project that I had ever written or created since a little girl.
She put her hand on my shoulder and crept down to me.
"No matter what, these are you. They were you, and they are you. You never left your soul - you just took different roads - different paths- but they are all paths and roads within the same place that you have always known. You just need to patient to get back to the main road and the main journey."
She gripped my hand and bade me to follow her down the dark tunnels. We passed by people that looked familiar to me: people I had met in workshops in New York, in Philly, people who I had taken writing classes with, people from my high school, people that I had encountered through all my artistic journeys and endeavors. They were selling wares - their art, their poetry, or they were reciting poetry, and writing. The whole world in these tunnels was extremely comforting to me, and I felt like I never wanted to leave this place - or at least make sure that I came back more often than it seemed I had been going.
Finally, we reached one of the little kiosks that were within the tunnels. It was close to the main front entrance of the place because I saw a ray of light in front of us. She smiled and went through this kiosk of books, rummaging to try to find for me what she thought was exactly what I needed to get out of this slump.
She pulled out a book full of pages and pages of stories and pictures of crowds. Paintings, photos, artwork of people's faces, and groups of people in one place.
"If you read these stories, and these poems that are inside here, you will find that they are filled with a message and feeling and sense of hope and calmness. You will find the words are soft to the sound - soft to the lips as you pronounce them...and you won't have problems sleeping ever again. These will give you peace of mind. If you stare at the pictures of the people long enough - you will find that you know each and every single one of them by heart. They are your friends, they are people who love you, they are your family. They are here for you, as much as I am."
With that, she placed the things into a sack for me and handed it to me. She grabbed me into a big hug and held onto me tightly, kissing my face on the forehead and both of my cheeks twice.
That's when I woke up. That's when I started writing this blog and going through the massive piles of poetry and prose books all over my room.
The first book I picked up was a Pablo Neruda book of poetry and as I flipped through the pages, the first page I stopped to was this one:
Too Many Names
Monday is tangled up with Tuesday
and the week with the year:
time can't be cut
with your tired scissors,
and all the names of the day
are rubbed out by the water of the night.
No one can be named Pedro,
no one is Rosa or Maria,
all of us are dust or sand,
all of us are rain in the rain.
They have talked to me of Venezuelas,
of Paraguays and Chiles,
I don't know what they're talking about:
I'm aware of the earth's skin
and I know that it doesn't have a name.
When I lived with the roots
I liked them more than the flowers,
and when I talked with a stone
it rang like a bell.
The spring is so long
that it lasts all winter:
time lost its shoes:
a year contains four centuries.
When I sleep all these nights,
what am I named or not named?
And when I wake up who am I
if I wasn't I when I slept?
This means that we have barely
disembarked into life,
that we've only now just been born,
let's not fill our mouths
with so many uncertain names,
with so many sad labels,
with so many pompous letters,
with so much yours and mine,
with so much signing of papers.
I intend to confuse things,
to unite them, make them new-born,
intermingle them, undress them,
until the light of the world
has the unity of the ocean,
a generous wholeness,
a fragrance alive and crackling.
When my eyelids finally pushed past the sleepy-crusts that were dried along the edges of my face, I noticed that it was still dark out - and my TV was still running.
It was on some old drama/action flick. Some unknown piece of cinematic junk but regardless, I have a feeling that whatever dialogue or plot that was going on in that movie affected what was happening in my dream.
Now I don't dream too often. And I usually dream in sequences - meaning I will go sleeping for a while without dreams and then within one week, all of a sudden, I will have three or four dreams in consecutive nights.
I had this dream that I climbed into this black Scion, and it was mine, of course. I had the feeling that I wasn't supposed to be driving, so I realized that it is a present time dream - I have a license but I am still not able to drive by myself yet.
Anyways, so I find myself on this dirt road path. It's windy, and misshapened, and headed into this wooded area. Rather than be scary, it's almost peaceful and serene, and calming. I have the feeling that I have been here before, and there are bits and pieces of the scenery around me that I recognize from other dreams.
Finally, I reach my destination. I walk out of my car and towards this huge structure. Let me try to explain it to you - never at any one time am I able to see the entire structure for its full being - possibly because it represents a lot of different things for me. What I do know is that it is dark, but well lit when it needs to be by candlelight, or dim mood lighting - like in a theatre.
I get the sense that the building is very organic. Made of trees, dirt, water - completely one with the earth. And as I am walking through the hallways of this place (that seem to be made of dirt tunnels) I am passing by hundreds of people. People in groups, people in classes, people making art, people reading poetry out loud to each other. Everybody is dressed in this neo-bohemian chic kind of style. The kind of clothes I remember wearing in high school.
I am wandering through the halls, and I feel at home, and at ease - but I also don't know where I am headed. Suddenly, I find this lady. Her name is Grace, or Tanya...I can't really remember her name. But it sounded sweet, and it sounded familiar. She is a few years older than me, possibly in her 30's. She has long brown hair that is naturally wavy, and she has a head band keeping her bangs from her forehead. She has a gentle face.
There was something about the way our conversation was going that made me feel that she was an old friend. The way she spoke with me was as if she had known me for years. She would smile, and touch her hand to my cheek and nod for emphasis as I continued to speak.
I don't know the entire conversation, in fact, I only remember bits here and there of what we were saying. I remember telling her that I was having trouble falling asleep and staying asleep. I told her I was having trouble finding myself through my dreams, finding myself through my day-to-day routine. Not "finding myself" as in my sanity - as in finding myself on a deeper scale. On an emotional and spiritual scale, the confidence that I used to have in that part of my soul that I have long become a stranger to. But I didn't have to explain all of that to her. She already knew exactly where I was coming from.
She told me to sit and to wait for her to come back. So I sat propped up against one of the dirt covered tunnel walls and waited patiently. It didn't seem like she was gone for long. When she returned, she had a pile of papers.
"These are you, E," she said offering me the pile of papers, "I have known you all your life. Remember the first handmade card you sent me from school?"
On top was a construction paper handmade card that I had made for Fourth of July when I was in preschool. It was tied with red ribbons on one side to keep the pages together. It was white on the front and had the American flag on the front.
"Yes, I remember now. I remember...but it just seems so long ago, and I don't know if my mind and my soul can remember who I am," I said feeling tears come to my eyes as I sat running my hands through the pages in the pile, realizing that they were every single short story, every single poem and art project that I had ever written or created since a little girl.
She put her hand on my shoulder and crept down to me.
"No matter what, these are you. They were you, and they are you. You never left your soul - you just took different roads - different paths- but they are all paths and roads within the same place that you have always known. You just need to patient to get back to the main road and the main journey."
She gripped my hand and bade me to follow her down the dark tunnels. We passed by people that looked familiar to me: people I had met in workshops in New York, in Philly, people who I had taken writing classes with, people from my high school, people that I had encountered through all my artistic journeys and endeavors. They were selling wares - their art, their poetry, or they were reciting poetry, and writing. The whole world in these tunnels was extremely comforting to me, and I felt like I never wanted to leave this place - or at least make sure that I came back more often than it seemed I had been going.
Finally, we reached one of the little kiosks that were within the tunnels. It was close to the main front entrance of the place because I saw a ray of light in front of us. She smiled and went through this kiosk of books, rummaging to try to find for me what she thought was exactly what I needed to get out of this slump.
She pulled out a book full of pages and pages of stories and pictures of crowds. Paintings, photos, artwork of people's faces, and groups of people in one place.
"If you read these stories, and these poems that are inside here, you will find that they are filled with a message and feeling and sense of hope and calmness. You will find the words are soft to the sound - soft to the lips as you pronounce them...and you won't have problems sleeping ever again. These will give you peace of mind. If you stare at the pictures of the people long enough - you will find that you know each and every single one of them by heart. They are your friends, they are people who love you, they are your family. They are here for you, as much as I am."
With that, she placed the things into a sack for me and handed it to me. She grabbed me into a big hug and held onto me tightly, kissing my face on the forehead and both of my cheeks twice.
That's when I woke up. That's when I started writing this blog and going through the massive piles of poetry and prose books all over my room.
The first book I picked up was a Pablo Neruda book of poetry and as I flipped through the pages, the first page I stopped to was this one:
Too Many Names
Monday is tangled up with Tuesday
and the week with the year:
time can't be cut
with your tired scissors,
and all the names of the day
are rubbed out by the water of the night.
No one can be named Pedro,
no one is Rosa or Maria,
all of us are dust or sand,
all of us are rain in the rain.
They have talked to me of Venezuelas,
of Paraguays and Chiles,
I don't know what they're talking about:
I'm aware of the earth's skin
and I know that it doesn't have a name.
When I lived with the roots
I liked them more than the flowers,
and when I talked with a stone
it rang like a bell.
The spring is so long
that it lasts all winter:
time lost its shoes:
a year contains four centuries.
When I sleep all these nights,
what am I named or not named?
And when I wake up who am I
if I wasn't I when I slept?
This means that we have barely
disembarked into life,
that we've only now just been born,
let's not fill our mouths
with so many uncertain names,
with so many sad labels,
with so many pompous letters,
with so much yours and mine,
with so much signing of papers.
I intend to confuse things,
to unite them, make them new-born,
intermingle them, undress them,
until the light of the world
has the unity of the ocean,
a generous wholeness,
a fragrance alive and crackling.
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