Category Archives: Whatever

Is it a sin if it’s an idea

11 Friday Jan 2013

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white-rabbit-art-print-20-Corella-Design-on-etsySo I sat here and tried to write. Write about freedom. About the incredible people whose dedication has been inspiring me lately, about the ideas I’ve mastered over periods of listening, reading, debating and understanding.

I sat down with the sole intention of writing about concepts and philosophy. I decided I was going to write about the satisfaction I cherish over being able to never fool myself into thinking that, staying in the dark and hanging on to whatever ignorance I was never smitten with, was my way out of misery.

I sat down and stared at the white screen as I quietly waited for the right words to come to me.

Well, it didn’t happen. Ideas never translated plans into words and all I could possibly focus on was how sad I felt. I intellectualized my sadness, of course. I knew its cause, I knew exactly what led me to feel this way and why, as a human being, I’m vulnerable to this particular kind of pain. I understand the pain I feel and reason with it, however, it refuses to reason back. I am left behind, empty-handed, without assuming I have any rights to debate over what it is that I should do after feeling the way I do.

My pain has a name and because its name is cursed and its owner has left the building, the idea of him is all I have left. When an idea, not individuals, is all one has left to look up to, intellectualizing emotions is nothing short of extraordinary.

As I sat and contemplated how the belligerent feeling took over, I noticed my emotional actions could and should be forgiven.

I was, after all, crying for an idea and a good idea is as mighty as a mountain. It is the fabric I use to fashion my convictions which, like the skin that faithfully encases my body, is always ready to keep me together even through the most ferocious of rants. ~

The inadequacy of being one

14 Monday May 2012

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I got this world of mine and nothing else. A pint of hope and a bag of assorted images that cut through the day like the sharp blades of Atilla, like the faint late afternoon sun cutting through the thick Los Angeles fog I’m so fond of – sometimes.

I got a piece of fierce imagination when it comes to everything that is impossible and a feeble capacity to shy away from its fire. It warms me at night and fuels the engine that runs these heavy legs I use to walk. This flame is never weak.

I got a hole in my chest and it’s so empty I keep telling myself I’ll find a way of filling it, be it with greatness or passion I will find a way to keep it covered with whatever comes my way and is compatible. I believe in it and I go on. Barely getting the meaning behind this endless wishful thinking I cling on to. Miserably.

I got all of this and some of that and constantly remember that regardless of what I firmly believe, I am nothing but one and just one doesn’t make a million; hell, it doesn’t even make ten, so

I got nothing.

And nothing beats begging for crumbs ~

Freud wouldn’t have liked me

28 Saturday Apr 2012

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Not even for a second.

Introverts, he believed, were oddly engrossed in themselves. Belief, as a matter of fact, is something Freud wouldn’t admit to engage in since believing is a type of verb individuals who don’t rationalize their motives too well like to use too often.

Oh well, oh well… Freud would analyze me, puff his cigar away and simply conclude that my lack of excitement in enjoying group activities is nothing but a sheer desire to be dominated by a masculine, superior and rather overwhelming figure that would force me to cultivate my submissive self.

Freud would walk me to the door and tell me to leave. He would then walk back to his study to sit and ponder. Was it doubt that suddenly clouded his senses? No. Was it an honest fear that forced him to wonder whether he had mistaken me for an introvert too hastily? No. Would he ask himself any questions at all related to my prognosis? Probably not. What he would definitely do, however, was to whisper to himself presumptuously that I might have been one of those cuckoos who are much in love with the mysticism Jung attached to psychology…

After all, who in the world would believe that judging value would top rationalizing intentions as the best approach to understanding the psyche? Only one of those filthy bastards is all!

Yes. Freud would have hated me but I would have loved him.

To sit and play with words and roles that would drive him mad. To forcefully be the one female who makes him wonder if he would ever really understand a woman and if so, what kind of woman would this be that all her secrets were to be unveiled by such a filthy old man like himself?…

Not me. ~

Save twilight

26 Monday Mar 2012

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…and let the pleasure we invent together/ be one more sign of freedom.

While I was gone, the rain cleaned my city.

The city of angels sometimes needs some cleansing. My city, a place where a couple of tourist guides, zip cars, celebrity home tours and tap cards won’t quench one’s thirst for grandeur, didn’t miss me… still I could hear the rain pouring down my streets from the golden gate bridge.

I can’t stop myself from thinking that while I was gone the city didn’t feel I had been gone at all, partially because I’m never truly gone but mostly because my presence is nothing but a type of sub-existence.

Living as any one might live, not doing more than one could and not doing less than one should. That’s the type of sub-existence I speak of. Always afraid of proving myself so I will never prove myself wrong and then, when I surely do prove myself wrong, the city understands and those gates of tinsel are open again, whispering ‘this is home’. This is home.

The roughness never frightened me, the stories never deceived me but I, I have disappointed myself. I hurt myself greatly but that surely doesn’t change much of anything. Life is a drag but it can also be the stuff of wander… and wandering is something I could never leave behind for it is part of the type of person I am. So,

I pack up my bag, fix up my mascara, put on my high-heeled boots and walk determinately to that flying machine that will take me home. A home where not money but aspiration is the currency that speaks the loudest.

Where dreams are usually put down to sleep before they get a chance to check the sunset in Malibu.

 

*quote from “A Love Letter” by Julio Cortázar.

A Cliché

15 Thursday Mar 2012

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,

I read somewhere that courage must be extensively used and often trained. Like a muscle, the poem assured me, it might shrink if it’s not put to use.

One might think that agreeing should be enough. Nodding and smiling strangely while admitting I’ve failed to realize the obvious ~ prior to the acceptance of this unspoken treaty of simple truth ~ should be enough but no. It isn’t. Accepting the fate of understanding and admitting my previous unconscious and unspoken belief wasn’t enough.

I preferred to carry on and consume myself with remorse.

I waved a white flag and willingly waited for the impatient remarks with a bouquet of purple hyacinth in hands. I wanted to be reprimanded for my mindless bigotry.  How could have I hated so many precisely because they lacked the one quality that must be used like a muscle before it’s correctly executed by its conqueror? How could have I been so selfish and even cruel? After all, cowards must not know there is something called courage that is not quite a quality inherent in humanity and yet, it’s constantly admired and seen as one of the noblest if not the noblest characteristic a man could possess.

Courage is not for all and because of that I should not expect it to be showcased as if it were a trait evenly present in all subjects of the human kind. Courage is that extra dedication one owns and displays humbly to those who never thought they would ever come to the point of really needing it.

The cliché becomes the truth and truth is that courage springs from the most unpretentious of soils.

Or so I heard.

About Men (Songs Of Our Fathers)

22 Wednesday Feb 2012

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My ancestors believed no man should run away from his responsibilities. Yes. To face your demons, your foes and your lovers with the same integrity of character was just another name for being a man (or a tough and girlie woman like me).

My ancestors didn’t have balls they had a foundation.

While others were running away or begging for mercy under the shinny blades of foreigners, my ancestors were declaring independence, creating their own language and declaring war on anybody who attempted to keep them tamed. My ancestors created a new nation out of love for their own kind and respect for what they pursued to be a free civilization.

My ancestors believed that to exist without lingering under the shadow of an overpowering church was a truly free-living experience and so they marched and created a new State.

My ancestors loved the ocean, the sweat and tears of their brothers and sisters and found the thrill of crying quite fulfilling since melancholy was just another name for love.

Often enough, my ancestors believed they could too be weak and fall under the spell of a proposal they would not be able to refuse but until then, they were sworn to be men and men don’t fucking run away.

When someone I know refuses to solve a problem like a man solves a problem, intrigue kicks in. How could one prefer to run when the only alternative is to stand and speak up? I don’t know and I could not be certain for sure. Until the moment I get an answer I’ll repeat: a man doesn’t run away, create excuses, refuses to listen, no.  A man doesn’t need a strategy to escape when the problem can be solved and a man doesn’t run away when the problem doesn’t have a solution, a man stands and faces the consequences simply because it is his responsibility.

After all, cowards are wimpy and the world always enjoyed whipping chicken butts into butter.

My mind walks

12 Thursday Jan 2012

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Humans are funny.

They look back in wonder as if they never set foot in the past, as if the time that has (mistakenly) been robbed from them was the Buddha’s belly of prosperity, Santa Claus’ bag of spite or even a lucky charm taken from the shallow margins of the Ganges in India.

The past is a word seldom used with the lightness it deserves: time is a concept turned into a commodity. We learned to value it too much. Placing things or others on a pedestal was never the best way to keep them close and cherish the presence of the love you feel for them.

Anything we hold too dear, too precious and too frail may soon turn out to be wasted without being used, like the time one could say I wasted putting these words down onto a blank screen. The past is what we make of it, just like our future.

Anyway, without getting too deep into the philosophy of time past, I’d like to share yet another silly rambling related to a memory (from my past) that remains close to my heart. Are you ready for this? I’d like to talk about a…

film. No joke!

In the past, when I was a kid, ~ or a girl, or whatever ~ I grew up watching films. Marilyn Monroe, Audrey Hepburn, John Cusack, Jack Nicholson, Morgan Freeman, Johnny Depp, Tom Cruise… no. Nope. None of the previously mentioned stars appeared in the films I grew up watching.

My stars were quite different, indeed. I was raised with a type of freedom that allowed me to not want to do what I was… allowed to do (thanks mom! Thanks dad!). I wanted to embrace the freedom of not indulging in it and thriving in a type of cinema I still find quite fascinating to this day: the underrated.

I don’t say this and take pride in what I now rationalize and believe to be a tremendously bold choice for such a young mind. I rather speak of this fact with a deep knowledge that I would have never learned English or learned to love film or care for music and letters if I hadn’t watched a simple and completely forgotten, existentially boring, mind blowing etc etc etc classic of the 90s alternative (read NERD) scene: Mindwalk (thank you physics teacher!).

Mindwalk set the tone and the rhythm I faithfully danced to throughout my early teenage years. It molded and folded and forged who I am now. It gave me something other films could have never given to me: a necessity to question even those certainties a suicidal man carries like heavy rocks in his pockets as he walks into the lake…

So when I think of the past and I hope to see it in a bright shade of pink, I rather not; I see it fuzzy and grey, but full.

Full? What’s there? you ask.

A huge, grey mass of questions and suspense.

~ Just like it should be.

Here is a taste of Mindwalk:

What we leave out of living

13 Tuesday Dec 2011

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There’s a reason for things to happen, or so I tell myself.

There’s a reason so the reason won’t escape its cycle leading back to meaning. Reasons like to find more reasons to hide or pretend to be what they are not. Reasons like to blend in with trends, file suit then fall out of fashion. Reason pretends to hide in plain sight although I see it everyday. I hear it. I smell it, and then I let it go.

I don’t intend to play its game because I’ve figured it out; empty spaces are filled with reason, crowded camps are numb and hollow. Reason only is where there’s none.

When I heard a bird stop by and sing about the kind of luck I never dreamed of having, it came to me: the luck I never dreamed of having was mine all along, I never had to dream about it in order to obtain it.

Reason is what you grasp without twitching your forehead. Reason is the know in the knowledge of being and reasoning is all we leave out of living.

We’ve been doing it all wrong, not I. Not I, believe me.