Thursday, September 16, 2004

'Cause ultimately, it's all about the kids



Tuesday, September 14, 2004

Saying nothing at all

I'm not always ready to write. I'm not always inspired to pen something. But sometimes I'll read a poem, a piece, an article, anything, and I just want to write. The need springs up in me. The itch. In fact, there are times when I come across a written work and wish I'd written it.

There are times when I just see so much beauty in it that I wish I had created it, to know I'm capable of that.

But I'm not always inspired. Plenty of times I have felt too down to write. I just want to sleep the time away, forget the verbs and adverbs and all the letters in the words.

And people run through the world blind to all-around them, in a mad rush to exit the forest. What's to fear about trees?

And the gods go unnoticed more every day. What's to forget?

I just came across both of these notions, and normally I'd write but not today. There is so much I wish I knew how to say I end up saying very little, if not nothing.

If you haven't figured it out yet, this post is about nothing. Nothing at all.


Monday, September 13, 2004

Honestly, this is not the post I wanted to write

When people come into our lives, seldom do we even consider the fact that one day they will leave us. Everyone you will ever love will one day leave you or die, Tyler Durden told us in Fight Club. Yet we don't think about it. Either because we're caught up in the moment(s) or because we subconsciously choose to forego the mere thought of the end, it's not a typical consideration at the early stages of a relationship. Any relationship.

I don't mean to be apocalyptic, but in the circle of things the universe has a way of reverting back to the way it was. Everything old is new again and in general, things seem to end where they started… ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

And so those we love can go away sometimes. They might return, visit, come to see us. In those moments we may relive that initial feeling as if magically transported through time and space. But even that comes to an end. And then distance sets in. And we miss people and things, feelings and emotions. We feel "saudades."

This is all in reference to how people leave us, or are left by us, in the course of life. I'm feeling it more today because sometimes home can be so very far away. Or at least feel that way. And because you can't go back there. And because of the prodigal son, who is sometimes a daughter, and how one should in fact give to one just as one gives to the other. But yet, out of the two, the prodigal and the one who remained, who is the father, who is sometimes a mother, to have coffee out on the porch with? Who will (s)he choose to spend the quiet moments next to? And is it even a choice, or just another of those subconscious decisions we're not aware we make?

And it also has to do with perception and reality. Who are we, really? Pessoa said, "I am not who you think I am. I am not who I think I am. I am what I think you think I am." We perceive ourselves to be one way when we're really not like that at all. And it is so with those who come into our lives, those same ones who leave us. Are we really loved? If so why? And what about the individual is so worthy of so worthy a feeling?

Often we are left before we ever get to answer that question.

I don't know why I'm loved or even what about certain people I love so much. Sometimes it's beyond words. I can't explain it, or understand it. And somehow, that makes all the sense in the world.

Have a safe trip back.


Thursday, September 02, 2004


I was a very proper child. I was quiet, keeping to myself; shy, even. I played by myself without making much noise so that you'd hardly even know I was in the room. I had a large miniature car collection that I lined up across the floor in my room, creating endless traffic jams and adding voices to the tiny, invisible people behind the wheel that were just trying to make it home.

Back then I was always the hero of the story. I'd save the girl, my people, and come home to a large feast. But then you grow up and you let go of some of those dreams. You learn to view the world differently and that gives you freedom. No longer burdened by the stereotypes of the hero (doing the right thing) you learn to do things your own way, stand your ground in life, and become yourself.

You grow because you witness, and live, and feel. And sometimes what you witness, and live, and feel, make you bitter. It affects you negatively and you don't like the person you become. I certainly wish I could spend my days playing with my miniature cars. Things were a whole lot simpler back then. I miss that. I don't like the world I live in. The truth isn't true and the lies have been bought and paid for. And I don't know who to believe, the ones who deceive me knowingly or the ones who have come to believe the lies.

The people that have don't need and those who need can't get. The rich get richer and I can't get overtime anymore. And my city is overrun with gangs and wannabe gang-members who wear the colors and throw the signs just to get home from school without getting jumped for their boots. With all the injustice I see, I wonder when I'll grow out of this I-don't-really-give-a-fuck-anymore stage and start caring again.

But I have a good thing now, so I try to steer clear of all that. I just want to lay next to her and smell her hair so I don't fight much. I don't speak as loudly about certain things. I'm going back to that kid who sat in his room, lost in the things he loves. I'm proper again, but I haven't really mellowed out. I'm just biting my time, learning to live with the things that aren't so right. Because I can't fight everyone's battles. I can't fend off all the attacks. But I can make her smile like she does, and that's more than enough right now.

But who knows, maybe one day I'll get to play the hero again.