Why She Wrote

Breakdown, breakthrough

2011-04-28T13:47:00.000-07:00

Breakdown at work, breakthrough at yoga on Tuesday. The poses were more challenging this time. I found myself getting frustrated and not breathing. I still had Dad on my mind...corpse pose and I couldn't relax. My back was tight and wouldn't settle completely down onto the mat. My breathing was choppy and shaky and I felt angry tears in the corners of my eyes. And then... I don't know when it happened. I closed my eyes and was somehow able to LET GO into the moment. It was almost like an out-of-body experience: one minute I was there willing my body to breathe, relax but the anger was refusing to let me. And then, the next moment I was...free. My body became loose and relaxed, my breathing flowed smoothly. The tears that formed were not angry and bitter but came from somewhere deeper - a place of rebirth and forgiveness. I may not receive forgiveness from Dad. He is so bitter and resentful at me from things that happened so long ago, a lifetime ago...I can also choose to hold onto my own resentment towards him for things that happened long ago (and not so long ago) or I can exhale past all that pain and choose to FORGIVE. I know it won't happen overnight, but I'm so tired of holding it all in. I don't want to be an angry person, holding onto my hurts and wounds and scars as if they encompass who I am. I am so much more than all of that. So much more than residual anger. And I am capable of being happy. I wish he was, too.

The Devil, an angel, and ghosts...

2011-04-27T05:49:00.000-07:00

Days like yesterday, I realize how fucked up it is and how bitter we are towards each other. Sparring partners, that's what my dad and I are. I don't know how to have a conversation with the man and I'm not sure that I even want to. There are layers of resentment on both sides...it's because we both hold grudges and don't know how to let go of the past. I locked myself in the bathroom at work and had a good cry.

In the midst of this semi-breakdown, I don't know why I suddenly started thinking about that day two years ago when I traveled all over Dallas to three different hospitals trying to get someone to see Maya. In the parking lot at Medical City, I met a man and to this day, I truly believe he was the devil, and I'm not religious like that. But I remember his hateful black eyes, the sneer on his face...his cruel words that he spit at me and my daughter. I was in so much shock I couldn't even say anything, I just held Maya close to me and slowly backed away from him. I was too upset for words or thoughts, and once I was inside the building, I walked around in a daze. Then, an elderly woman came up to me and smiled when she saw Maya. "She's so beautiful," she said, and almost at once I burst into tears. She didn't look at me as if I were crazy. Instead, she seemed to understand and simply wrapped her arms around me as if she knew me. She whispered kind words into my ear, held, and prayed with me. I knew she was an angel.

Yesterday after crying in the bathroom, I went back to my desk and an older man that I work with came around the corner. He immediately asked me what was wrong. I felt my face crumple and hot tears trickle down. He immediately hugged me and said, "Baby, whatever it is, it's going to be okay..." I knew God sent him around that corner like He sent that woman to me that day at the hospital. Sometimes a hug and kind words have the power to make the ghosts fade away into the background and stop the old wounds from hurting, even if it's only temporarily.

Finding the magic in the motions

2011-04-26T17:07:00.000-07:00

So jaded lately; numb; not satisfied; missing…something. The magic. I’m going through the motions. I miss the girl I used to be, constantly running around with a pen and journals, wanting to document all the small details, the need to write – a fire in my veins. Writing takes a backseat now. I’m trying so hard lately to put my family’s needs above my own. It’s all a balancing act, I know. I’m trying to take care of myself, too. I was telling Andres that I truly feel as though I’ve found my religion. Yoga has been such an eye opener for me. I feel connected not only to myself, but to God, and in a way I’ve never felt before when going to church. We went to St. Mary’s on Sunday for Easter and I found that I couldn’t even bring myself to go through the motions. It doesn’t make sense to me anymore, and I felt like a fraud. I’m tired of being a robot...

When Andres was walking out the house this morning, he smiled his crooked smile and I suddenly saw an image of the boy I fell in love with. I thought, is this it? Is this what I imagined it to be? I surveyed the small house which, for the most part, always resembles the aftermath of a tornado: body parts of Mr. Potato Head are strewn about, torn up pieces of a paper plate, clothes in a pile on the couch, toys huddled up in the corner of the room. It’s a mess but I was suddenly so thankful for all of it. It’s a mess because of the two wild things that run around without a care in the world, knowing that they’re safe because Mama and Daddy are there to protect them from any monsters or The Under (thunder) from the storms outside.

From the day that I met him, I knew Andres would be the man that I would marry. But I never thought of all the things we would encounter or have to go through. At times I worry…I worry a lot. Money, the possibility of losing our jobs, no house to call our own just yet…but I know this is it. Even when the kids are screaming at each other and driving me crazy. Or as I watch our paychecks dwindle down to nothing after paying the bills. Or having two little bodies take up most of the bed and not being able to sleep next to my anchor... This is it: Him and I working on building our family. I don’t want to sacrifice the magic anymore, but learn to find it in what I have now.

Corpse

2011-04-22T18:25:00.000-07:00

I've felt shitty lately. Burning patches of skin, deep achy spots around my ankles, knees, and elbows. And the fatigue. If it was just the burning pain, I'd be okay. But I hate feeling like a zombie. Times like these is when the realization hits me: Something is wrong with you.

All I can think about lately is yoga, how good it makes me feel, and how my body has begun to crave it. Usually when I'm down and not feeling well, all I want to do is go home, crawl under the covers and sleep. Or this is how it was in the beginning. Now I find myself wanting to stretch, feel the release of my taut muscles and let go into the deep breathing. Yoga was amazing on Tuesday. Even though I was hurting, I felt incredibly strong doing the poses. I was able to take in deep breaths and concentrate and I found that downward dog wasn't such a challenge this time. Pigeon pose made me cramp up so badly last week that it brought tears to my eyes. I was afraid to attempt it this time but I concentrated on my breathing and was able to fully let go into the pose. I can't describe how good and liberating it felt. I really felt as though I were taking my body back from the pain and it was allowing me to. I no longer felt the burning skin or aching muscles. Sweat poured down my body and into my eyes. I have never appreciated sweat before but I can FEEL the toxins releasing from my body. And then it was time for the final pose, corpse pose. Laying down, flat on the mat and taking in deep breaths, I thought, "And this makes it all worth it. This is why I come to yoga."

I've spent my whole life searching for balance. You couldn't drag the Libra out of me if you tried. I finally feel that I'm getting there.

Namaste.

A small ache

2011-04-21T19:19:00.000-07:00

Over the weekend, I put Maya down for a nap and as she quietly lay next to me, I studied her wild mane of curly hair. It's so long now, past the middle of her back. I love how she uses both hands to push it out of her face. When she wants to hide, she brings it back over her eyes and peeks out from behind it's dark curtain. More and more I realize what a healer Maya is...it's probably because of all that she's been through in her young life. Pain brings about wisdom. When I am in the moment with her, I am at peace. I truly believe she is an old soul and though she doesn't say much, I know that she comprehends so much.

Saturday we celebrated the kids' birthdays at Kidd Springs Park. It was a day filled with bubbles, kites, confetti eggs, and cake with strawberry filling. Anthony and Maya had the best time and were just happy to see their closest friends. It couldn't have been a more perfect day and it was (for the most part) stress free. I think my favorite part was attempting to blow up balloons with Grandma. When she popped one of them with her long fingernail, we both jumped and grabbed each other. Then we started laughing hysterically. Edward looked over as we were laughing and said, "You crazy girls!" As the kid's took turns hitting the pinata, I looked over and saw Grandma smiling the biggest smile. I felt incredibly lucky.

Yesterday, Anthony asked me: "Do you have a grandpa?" The question took me by surprise. I felt a small ache and then: "I used to have one..." Anthony said, "Where did he go?" I said, "He's in Heaven, dancing with the angels." He dropped the subject, but the memories had already been stirred up. I had a dream a few weeks ago in which I had a video of Grandpa and Grandma and they were laughing together. Somehow, I ended up losing the video and I knew that I had nothing to show Maya and Anthony who Grandpa was. I woke up crying...Wish he could have been at the park on Saturday watching them drip bubble liquid all over their faces and jeans; watching Anthony fly a kite for the first time or seen Maya play in the dirt without a care in the world.

Hustle and bustle

2011-04-08T18:22:00.000-07:00

The Downtown library is so uninviting now. When I was 19 it was my haven. I could spend all day wandering the aisles. I drove by a few days ago wondering whether or not to go in. It looked like more of a hangout for the homeless and I suddenly grew very sad...I miss those days spent with books. I couldn't bring myself to go in so I went and sat at the McDonald's right in the heart of Downtown. There was a little elderly woman sitting in the booth in front of me. She had a purple, yellow floral patterned scarf tied around her head and Sinatra was playing on the speakers. I could hear her humming the song; she looked perfectly content. There was a mural painted on the ceiling and a woman trying to capture the image with her cell phone. And there I was, hungry, observing, writing and waiting on Andres. I felt as though I were back in my early 20s, watching the world pass me by with a pen in my hand and blank sheets of paper before me. Watched the man in sunglasses, a gray shirt, and bright red shoes run by. Old black man carrying a baby blue leather old-school style suitcase and a fedora on his head. Young blond business woman yelling across the street as her white skirt raised around her legs, Marilyn Monroe style. Hustle and bustle of all the busy people. If I asked them each to tell me a story, what would they have said?

Beautiful moments in between...

2011-04-05T20:04:00.000-07:00

A wonderful weekend was spent with my family. We all went to see Thomas the Train and they had a great time. Sometimes I wonder how people view me as a mother. I grow impatient extremely fast. Despite that, we had such a wonderful time. It was one of those weekends in which time seems to stretch on and on and Monday seems so far away.

And then Monday came, and I was feeling down…our lease is up, I am $13,000 in debt in student loans for going to a school that was a complete waste of my time, the house is always a mess no matter how much I clean, I wanted enchiladas instead of fish (stupid, I know), my thoughts shifted back to past mistakes, a chronic illness to cope with, no house of our own, no money no matter how much we try to budget, and then the worries of possibly losing my job in a few months creep in. I was so down…

I yelled at Maya. No excuse. I was just sick of hearing her throw her tantrum. Then I let more of the thoughts creep in, feeling bad for every picture not taken with her, for using her illness as a way out of things (never intentionally), and not getting to celebrate her second birthday because of the snow storm. I went into the bedroom, and wanted to cry and hide. And then the little one comes in a few minutes later and crawls on top of me…and simply lays her head down on my chest like she used to when she was a baby. I sighed and let go into the moment, the beautiful moment in between: feeling her thin arm, the rough bumps of eczema on her belly, twirling her hair around her ear the way my grandma used to do to me. Maya is instinctive when it comes to knowing when people need her and she always has been. It amazes me. I started taking pictures to make up for all the ones I never took and thought, this is it. The beautiful moment where nothing else matters. In that moment, every thought that had invaded me like a cloud of bees evaporated and I was content to hold and be silly with my beautiful wild-haired daughter.

I want more of the beautiful moments in between! I need to find one of these moments in each day…

Inhale, Exhale...

2011-03-29T08:44:00.000-07:00

Ping! Ping! Ping! I break things.

from 'Loose Woman' by Sandra Cisneros

I've been reading Sandra Cisneros again. Loose Woman resides in my desk at work and I pull it out when I'm having a particularly bad day. Her words make me feel strong and her honesty always shocks me. Sharp words...I don't remember the last time my words cut like a knife. I was reminiscing about the old LiveJournal days, re-reading words from my past. I'm not sure if I could ever write so openly again, be brazen and throw all my details out for everyone to see. I look at the tattoo on my wrist: Why She Wrote. It has faded, and the irony doesn't fail me. My words have faded too. I'm open like a wound when I write. That's where the fear stems from, fear of opening up and unleashing Pandora's Box again. When I write, I think too much. Over-analyze. About the past. About the future. So rarely am I able to capture the essence and beauty of NOW. Yoga is changing me. It forces one to BE in the present. Focus on breath leaving out of and returning back to my body. I'm almost painfully aware of everything, the tightness in my back, the burning aches of my muscles and joints, and then there they are, the words creep back in. Andres says they always return in the Spring. But I wasn't quite ready for them this time.

It's still hard for me to believe my diagnosis of Fibromyalgia, even though in the back of my mind, I always knew something wasn't quite right. Truth is that I must have had it for a while but nothing had fully triggered it until recently. But still, I don't believe it at times, even when laying in bed, the pain in my shoulders and neck dragging me down, the burning joints and fatigue. I have missed out on outings with the kids, time spent with them and Andres. But nearly a year has passed since being diagnosed, and I've been pushing myself to get better. I do have to come to terms and accept that I now have this chronic PAIN condition that no one really knows much about. My family still doesn't understand. I gave my parents some pamphlets that a woman at work gave me. My dad has his own theory that the ink from my tattoos has somehow seeped into my system and is the cause of all my problems! Dr. Sosa usually knows it all. I don't know how to explain to them or to anyone else what it feels like. How do I explain that I don't want to be touched at times because my skin burns? Or that I'll get a shooting pain in my LEG when you grab my ELBOW? Or the mind-numbing fatigue that makes me want to curl up anywhere and just sleep for 12 hours? Or the stubborn muscles that make it hard for me to get out of bed in the morning? But hot showers don't help. Heating pads don't help. Advil doesn't help. The million medicines that the doctors gave me only work half the time and then I have the wonderful side effects that are worse than my actual condition! I'm so tired of explaining. Can I just accept it and move on?

The yoga instructor has us lay on our backs, palms up, corpse pose. All tension exhaled out of the body. On Sunday, I was finally able to do this. I've been so tense and didn't even realize I was holding it all in. Sunday, he must have seen the tension in my body. He came over and softly pushed me down. "Letting go," he says. "This is a pose too. You have to learn to let it go." I felt tears in the corner of my eyes. My stubborn body trying to hold it all in until all at once, everything, all of me, collapsed onto the floor. Oh yoga, where have you been? I now picture this in my mind: acceptance as an intake of breath. Exhaling past the pain. I have to accept this new part of me now and learn to let go of the fear and pain.

Inner Editor vs. Inner Child

2010-06-16T15:10:00.000-07:00

When I was a child, around 10-years-old, I knew I wanted to be a writer. I began writing "novels". Cheap ringed notebooks and these eraser pens that I was in love with at the time were my tools. I don't remember much of my process back then but what I do remember is laying in bed and feverishly writing until my hand was cramping up and it was way past my bedtime. I believe I filled four complete notebooks at the time, but three have been lost along the way. They are probably somewhere in one of my dad's junk drawers. I hope to find them again.

I was obsessed with R.L. Stine at the time, and had his whole Fear Street collection. I structured my "novels" to read like his. I even wrote him a letter once and thanked him for being my inspiration and hero. Oh, how my dad loathed my obsession with him. He hated how "dark" my writing was and when I came home from school one day, my entire collection had been tossed in the garbage. I took it as a sign to keep on writing and am still very selective as to what writings of mine I show my Dad.

He probably would not approve of this story, that I just had published in Postcard Shorts.

Even back as a child, I remember wanting that writing life so bad, the one that R.L. Stine had mastered. I wanted to be like him and so I pushed myself until those notebooks were completely full. They were mostly devoid of any coherent plot and had horrible cliched characters but it wasn't that any of it needed to make sense to me. I just wanted to write. I found so much joy in it. It was the one thing that I felt I was good at it.

Where are those qualities now? Not that I don't find joy in it, but instead of writing, lately I find myself thinking and analyzing and the words get pushed to the back burner. They never get written. I'm afraid of sounding stupid, but here's the catch: I'm afraid of sounding stupid to myself. I know it's that horrible inner editor that is stopping me. I want my 10-year-old self to come out of hiding and bash my inner editor over the head, much like she would if she were a character in one of my novels back then.

I leafed through the pages of the one "novel" that I do still have from my childhood. I still want to be a writer, and I'd like to one day hold a published novel in my adult hands and know that I wrote it with the same persistence that I had back then. It dawned on me recently that instead of allowing my inner editor to come at me with negativity, I need to allow my inner child to have fun with her words the way she used to.

With that being said, I'll be partaking in the 3-Day Novel Contest in September and NaNoWriMo, which pushes for quantity over quality. I have participated in NaNoWriMo before and "won" back in 2005, successfully writing over 50,000 words. 3-Day Novel sounds beautifully insane and I can't wait to see what madness I will produce.

But the question looms: Why do I need the crazy deadlines in order to freely write and get rid of that pesky inner editor?

It makes me think outside of the box. It makes me feel like a child again. And most of all, because it's fun and I desperately need to find the fun in writing again.

I want to write.

2010-06-13T13:12:00.000-07:00

I used to be absolutely terrified of submitting any of my writing for publication. The thought alone used to send me into a panic. In the past month alone, I have submitted seven stories and one essay for publication.

Four stories - accepted and published
Three stories - still waiting to hear back from
Essay on motherhood and writing (the one I really wanted to get published above all of the others) - rejected.

It stung to receive the rejection email but when Kate, the editor at Literary Mama, invited me to make some revisions on it and re-submit, I felt a little more at ease. So not ALL of my writing is crap. I just have to weed out what is and what isn't. I know I won't always get that opportunity, though.

A couple of months ago, before I began writing again, I read through all of my old journals. I immersed myself in old poems and stories. I thought about the characters that I had left behind and dreamed about them. I blanketed myself in my words and hoped for them to return. I missed my writing terribly.

One day I turned to Andres, took his face in my hands, looked him in the eye and said, "I want to write."

"Is this an epiphany?" he asked.

I guess it was. What I meant when I said, "I want to write" was that I don't want to be scared to write anymore. I don't want to be scared to put myself out there. If I hadn't held back so much in the past, where would I be by now?

One rejection isn't too bad. I still have revisions to make and will re-submit that essay. And if it is rejected again, then I'll keep on going because rejection is a part of the process. A writer needs his or her words to be seen, but one rejection or the fear of it won't stop me anymore.

I'm tired of holding back when it comes to my passion.

Mom is coming...

2010-05-29T23:47:00.000-07:00

Today I held Maya in my arms and spun her around and around until we both got dizzy. When she was holding onto me, she let go and only held on with one hand, while she used her other hand to cover her mouth as she laughed and laughed. Afterward, she stumbled, and I stumbled. It was one of the happiest moments I've shared with her.

A conversation overheard: Maya and Anthony playing in the bathroom when they shouldn't have been. Anthony heard me getting off the futon to yet again tell them to stop. He yells to Maya, "You got to get out of there, hurry! Mom is coming!" They will always team up against me, and I will always secretly love it.

A New Kind of Inspiration

2009-06-16T15:53:00.000-07:00

It's been a long time since I've claimed to be a writer. When people ask me what I do, my instict is to automatically say, "I am a mother" and yes, it should be this way. That is my priority. But I'm missing something that used to be such a large part of me. I want to write again. I want to be crazy with that fire to capture it all down. Something tells me, just write. About what? Do I write a journal entry? Attempt to write a poem, or short story? Freewrite? It all seems so foreign to me, and yet longingly familiar at the same time.

Today, I went to write a poem and I felt the words wanting to pour out of me. I was careful, and a little timid to come face to face with them again. As I wrote about Maya, the words began to flow more easily and I realized that there is a way to combine the old me with the new me. I just have to set some ground rules, remind the old me that I am not who I once was; I don't want to revisit with ghosts anymore and pick apart old wounds. I don't have to anymore. For such a long time, I used those ghosts to fill up the voids in my life. I used the sadness for inspiration.

Right now, Maya is laying on the couch with her Daddy and Anthony runs around in a wild blur like a mini Tazmanian devil. This is what I want to focus on in my writing life now. I'm no longer that young girl who needs the darkness in her life. In fact, I have so much light that maybe that's why it's nearly impossible to put it all down on paper.

Soul on Fire

2009-06-05T18:58:00.001-07:00

{ Aaron Jasinski }
A few days ago, Dad said to me, "You're getting away from your natural self, Felish" and then went onto tell me about how when I was little I would write, and draw, and create for hours. My dad and I don't have the greatest relationship, but at times, he says something like this and strikes a cord so deep inside of me that I realize just how much he truly knows...and loves me.

I think my sadness has been evident lately. More and more I realize that I'm not doing what I'm supposed to be doing with my life, and I want to curse my younger self for not having the courage to branch out into my creative passions. I know that I'm still young, and that I can pave a way to that life that I want so badly now...it is just so much harder to do that while raising two kids. I think about the year and a half that I spent at the Court Reporting Institute and realize that it was a wasted effort, because that is not what I want to do. I know I could be good at it, but at what price? I need to be doing something that sets me on fire.

I read an article a few weeks ago about Suzan Lakhan Baptiste, or as the Trinidad locals call her the "Crazy Turtle Woman". It talks about her persistence to turn what was once a Leatherback turtle massacre site into one of the biggest turtle nesting grounds in the world. I was inspired by not only her bravery, but her passion for the work that she did, passion that others around her thought she was crazy for.

"'When I got started, a lot of people thought I was crazy,' Baptiste said, and she admits that she sometimes wondered if they were right. Reflecting on what she and her team have accomplished, she now believes it was worth it.

'I love being crazy, you know?' she said, laughing. 'Crazy with a passion, crazy with a dream...'

I want to be crazy with a passion. I want my soul to set on fire with what I do for a living. The question now is: how do I get from here to there?

The Parenting World

2009-05-24T07:52:00.000-07:00

{ Pablo Picasso }

The parenting world is full of smiles, laughter, horrible knock down tantrums, a little voice saying "Night night, Mama", the smell of a newborn baby's breath... I always thought that I would never have what it takes to be a good mother, or if I could even handle the responsibility of taking care of a child. I wrote an entry here, years ago, about my fear of becoming a mother and to this day, some of those fears still haunt me. The question am I a good mother? tends to rear its ugly head from time to time. I never thought I would be able to relate or communicate with my children, and the thought of having to teach them so many things throughout their lives terrified me. I am realizing now that though I gave birth to them just how much I have to learn from them and how much they have already taught me in their young lives.

I would never trade in this life for anything else. It is a wonderful world, but there is also a dark underbelly to it, that side that you never want to venture towards. As cocky and horrible as this may sound, I never thought we would be those parents - sitting in the emergency room, listening to other parents screaming at the nurses, a worried look across their faces, as they listen to their child cry or laying limp in their arms. What parent ever wants to see themselves in that situation? You don't realize until you're actually there how real it is: the uncertainty, the fear...maybe fear isn't even the right word to describe it. It's a sheer terror that crawls into the very core of you and something that you try against all odds to hide. At least, that is what I was trying to do when our little girl was admitted into the hospital last Wednesday.

I'm learning now that being a parent means being there through everything: the joy and laughter, sadness, sorrow, pain that comes from some unknown place. It is rubbing their backs and soothing away their tears as they cry, or holding them completely still as a nurse tries to find a vein in their tiny body for the fourth time...putting on a brave face and trying not to let them see you cry. Because your tears are not important now; they don't matter. All that matters is making them feel better, nursing them back to health, and being their therapy. We are all home now, back from the hospital, but still not completely out of the woods yet as we still don't know what my daughter's diagnosis will be. There's been multiple times that I've wanted to break down from all of this, but I know that won't help the situation. I can't believe how resilient Maya has been through all of this. Up until the day of her procedure, she was still smiling and laughing as if she didn't have a care in the world. If I could laugh in the face of my pain and stress how much of a different outlook would I have in life? I've always wondered what I'd be like in the middle of a very real crisis. I know I've handled it well.

I can save my breakdown for later when I know Maya is okay.

Broken Relationships

2008-12-15T14:47:00.000-08:00

I feel kind of heartbroken today. Sometimes I get jealous of the relationship that my parents have with Anthony and I start to wonder why they weren’t that way with me. I love the fact that my grandmother raised me and that I am close to her…but why can’t I be close to them, as well? I feel that this is one of the major gaps in our relationship and the number one reason why I can’t push past all of the bitterness. I want something that I can never have. Anthony loves his grandparents so much, and I don’t want the way I feel to affect that bond that he has with them. But the question now is: do I let them know just how deeply I hurt because of the decisions they made or do I try to look past it and somehow accept it?

At times, I feel like they are making up for their absence in my childhood and they are doing it with Anthony. They just took Christmas pictures with him, without Andres and I knowing and said that it was supposed to be a surprise for us. I don't want to feel this way, but looking at those pictures infuriates me. While I can somewhat understand their need to make up for lost time, I also get frustrated because I feel that sometimes they forget that he is my son, not theirs. I feel that I am constantly reminding them of this, day by day and it is draining me. How do I get them to see me as being not just their daughter, but a mother now? How do I get them to realize that nothing that they do with him can make up for what I missed out on?

Maya

2008-12-14T06:13:00.001-08:00

Maya (4D Sonogram)
Originally uploaded by unraveled

We got to see our beautiful little girl yesterday through the amazing technology of a 4D sonogram. We did this when I was pregnant with Anthony and for some reason, I thought that Maya would like exactly like him but she doesn't. She is much chubbier, her nose and lips are different, and the sonographer said that she is very, very active. I used to get worried about Anthony because he hardly ever moved. Maya is always moving, and kept yawning as we were getting the sonogram done. I made a comment about how it's because she never sleeps. I am 32 weeks along in my pregnancy and still, it doesn't feel real sometimes even though her kicks keep me up at night. I don't think I am ready for her (emotionally, physically, or mentally) but I love her so much already. I can't imagine life with two children to meet the demands of, but I'm so excited, so scared, and just ready to meet my precious little girl and hold her in my arms for the first time.

Breathe Me

2008-12-01T18:08:00.000-08:00

I think it's time for me to breathe some life back into this place. I've missed having a haven for myself. I've been thinking a lot about my writing and the passion that I once had (still have) for it. I do believe that it is still there, flickering inside of me somewhere, but maybe I just need to get reacquainted with that part of myself again. I know that words will always be there, because just when things get to be a bit too much, I always turn to them again. I wish that I could find the time, motivation, and energy to sit and write in my paper journals the way I used to but it's been so hard lately. I'm hoping that blogging will inspire me to find those conversations with myself again.

There was a speaker at my job on Tuesday for staff development day. He was specifically talking to the teachers in the room, but something that he said struck a nerve within me: "You can't teach a child to do something, and then do it half-heartedly yourself." This made me think about my writing, and my need to express myself. How can I teach Anthony and Maya to express themselves when I've been doing it half-heartedly? I don't want them in the future to notice the absence of my writing and equate that to their being in my life. I want them to see just how passionate I am about my writing and all of the other creative releases in my life.

I think of another quote that I read in a book somewhere about how absences in journals can speak loudly, or even more so, than the words themselves and this is something that I have to keep in mind too. My life is so full of wonderful things: Anthony's laughter and smiles, Maya rolling around and kicking in my tummy, Andres holding me close to him at night. It is and always has been so hard for me to capture these happy moments when they are the ones I want to remember the most.

Parts Divided

2008-07-12T11:04:00.000-07:00

{ Nicoletta Tomas Carvio }

It seems I have no place to call my own anymore. I used to have several layers, places that I felt I could go to and share pieces of myself and my life. Now, I am not so comfortable with the thought of sharing myself in a completely public place like this. I find myself at a strange crossroads. I read old journals and realize that I never thought I would be this person I am today, a wife, a mother, pregnant again. It's strange to realize that the pathways we take in life are not what we expected at all. I am happy, but I want more.

I never have time to just sit down and reflect anymore, and I feel that I'm losing a part of myself. Thinking back to my old journals and what they meant to me makes me a little sad. I used to pour so much of myself into them; now that energy is reserved for the little one who stares up at me with such beautiful, innocent eyes. And I have to wonder: am I still that girl in those pages? Motherhood is a wonderful thing, but you have to give so much of yourself to this tiny person that relies on you for everything. I would not give that up for anything, but I need to find a way to combine the person I was with the person that I am today. Just because I'm a mother doesn't mean I have to lose all the old parts of me, the parts that I loved. I love my son so much, but still at times, I feel I can give more to him, more of myself to him. And yet, I don't want to lose myself, as well.

I am a mother, but this mother is also a wife, a writer, a painter, a lover of creativity...Can I be all of these, too? How do I find a way back to this?

The chill in the air

2005-10-23T13:38:00.000-07:00

There is a chill in the air and I find myself surprised at how quicky fall has made its appearance. Yesterday, it was a sunny seventy-degrees and today it has sunk down into the low 50s. Texas weather is strange, and while I do find myself wishing for more consistency, I don't think I will ever get used to the weather elsewhere. Whereas some people get extremely depressed during this kind of weather, it makes me extremely happy. I love wearing the thick coats, scarves, boots, and gloves, drinking hot chocolate and sitting by a warm fireplace. I'm wishing for snow this year, but am not counting on it as it is extremely rare in Dallas.

A stray cat has become my little shadow over the past couple of days. I usually see him in the wooded area behind our apartment complex, but recently he has become a little more brave. While he still won't let me pet him, he saunters right up to me and rubs against me. Last night, Gizmo and I sat by the window and he was there, sitting on our roof and resembling a little white angel. He pawed at the screen and looked inside with his beautiful blue eyes. Gizmo surprised me by pawing at the screen and meowing at him, curious about the strange creature. Earlier, he came up to our door so I gave him a handful of food to eat. I don't want to get too attached but I think that has already happened. I was searching for him when we returned home, hoping that he's okay and safe.

Living it

2005-10-05T09:24:00.000-07:00

An annoying habit of mine is that I cannot write when there is no conflict in my life. Writing has always been a way to escape, to purge all the sadness, chaos, pain. When things are going smooth and there is no drama, words will not come to me. Hence, the reason why I have writer's block at the moment. I have never been more happier, and therefore there is nothing to write about. At least, that is the way my brain works. I think it is due to the fact that when I am happy, I want to live in that moment. Happiness was such a rare occurence in my life for such a long time that when it finally came creeping around the corner, I rushed to it, and soaked myself in it. I had no time to write it all down because I was too busy living it. Old habits tend to die slowly, and I find myself living this happiness and not having the chance to write it all down, which is a shame because I should be writing down every magic moment lately.

A modern day ghost town

2005-08-28T17:13:00.000-07:00

We drove through the streets of a modern day ghost town Friday night. Downtown Dallas has slowly been withering over the past decade. My father says that Dallas died on that fateful day that JFK died. Since then, it has lost its shimmer and has become home to a wide array of the homeless, and while some people are afraid to venture out onto the streets, I find that the buildings of Downtown still have character. They have their ghosts too, I'm sure. I always feel strangely nostalgic as I pass through the streets of vast buildings, but barren streets. There's something that calls out to me from the cracks in the pavement, from the old buildings with fire escapes and the strange man at the corner who screams out prayers as you walk by. No matter where I go or where I live, Dallas will always be my home. I know this in my heart.

Lately, I notice that the city seems to be trying to renovate certain areas, and I have to smile and think of what Dallas will look like in ten years. After a doctor's appointment last week, I drove down Live Oak, the street that my father used to live on in a delapidated and crumbling old house when he was a child. The old white house has since been torn down, and an empty parking lot reigns over the soil now. I became quite emotional when I looked across the street at the beautiful new townhomes and lofts that are being built. What was once one of the worst and poor neighborhoods to live in has become something new and beautiful, and I felt my mouth drop open in shock and tears filled my eyes.

Little things of vast importance

2005-08-24T10:09:00.000-07:00

It is amazing to me how such a small creature is able to brighten up my day. This past week has been the worse kind of wedding planning hell. He and I have been bickering non-stop due to our sanity being slowly stripped away. As I laid in bed and cried two nights ago, Gizmo came up to me, licked my tears away and crawled under the bedsheets with me. I consider this an amazing feat on her part as she is a very feisty kitten and doesn't like to be held or pet. It was as if she sensed that I needed someone to comfort me, and she came to my rescue. She often does this whenever I am sick or sad, getting right in my face almost as if saying, "It's okay, I'm here." I've never been a cat person and in a way, I'm still very much not one. But, I will always have a special place in my heart for this little kitty.

Andres and I have since come to a cease-fire, but I expect the stress of the upcoming weeks to be worse. In the midst of our arguing the other night, he asked if I still wanted to marry him, if I hated him. I cannot fathom why he would think otherwise, other than the fact that I was very upset. But hearing him ask me that question only succeeded in further upsetting me, because to me, its almost as if he was saying that he has no faith in us or our relationship. We have been together for nearly seven years and I have no intentions of leaving him just because we may get into a few stupid fights. To me, it was just like a slap in the face. I know where his fear stems from, but I only wish he would have more faith in us because what is a marriage without that?

Its not boredom, but impatience

2005-08-12T08:44:00.000-07:00

After months of drowning in creativity, I've reached a stopping point and I'm disappointed in myself.

Writer's block hasn't occured in about a year and now it rears its ugly head again. Nothing I write is appealing and so I end up trashing it and I know I shouldn't. Part of me says: save it for another time while another part of me screams: you're wasting your time! I can't force writing. It either flows out of me or...it doesn't. I'm bored with poetry, and I think its because I've exhausted my subjects and subject matter. Though, I don't think "bored" would be the right word to describe it exactly. To be bored would imply that my mind is blank. But I have thoughts, words, and sentences forming and jumping around in my mind but perhaps, just not the patience right now to sit and write and structure it all out.

I need to go to a poetry reading. To listen and be inspired by other poets. To just be in that comfort zone again, but the wedding is getting closer and closer and we are becoming more and more stressed. I have had a mini-heart attack every day this week, and its all due to the stress of the wedding. Truthfully, and maybe this sounds harsh, I will be glad when its all over and we can just be husband and wife.

I am looking foward to getting away for our honeymoon, as we are thinking of going to Savannah. It is somewhere I have always wanted to go as I've heard wonderful and beautiful things about it. I love places full of history and ghosts. I've heard Savannah to be one of the most haunted places in America, and the thought of that excites me.

Good enough

2005-08-08T17:13:00.000-07:00

My Carpal Tunnel is acting up, and I feel myself growing depressed as I usually do whenever I feel that numb feeling in my fingertips. Perhaps I need a small hiatus from writing because I am driving myself mad. I will always criticize myself when it comes to my writing. I will never think of myself as good enough (does any writer ever think this way)? If a writer were to stop and say, My writing is good the way it is would they keep on writing, or become hollow by accomplishing that very same act that drove them for so long? When its perfect, what else is there to say? What else is there to improve on? I think my criticizing is a way to continually push me forward, to learn more about words, language, and poetry, to never stop trying.

Is there ever a right time?

2005-08-07T00:46:00.000-07:00

At the recent onset of certain events, I have been wondering: is there ever a right time to have a child? One of Andres' cousins informed us last night that he and his girlfriend are going to have a baby. They are two months pregnant, in unbelieveable debt, and living with her parents. Obviously, they are in a less than desirable position.. We go out with them quite often and they are known for being reckless and spur of the moment. I'm worried for them, but I was ecstatic when they told me. They are going to be parents. They're going to have a baby! I still don't think that I've let it quite sink in yet. Last night, I had dreams of being pregnant and after I woke up, I jokingly asked Andres, "Hey, you want to have a baby?"

I never thought I would be the type of person who would want children. In fact, I was sure I didn't until Andres and I started getting more serious throughout the years and I see the beautiful way that he handles kids. His niece and nephew adore him, and sometimes, I still find myself not being able to communicate with them. Being the only child and the youngest of the family, I was never around children very often. More and more, I think about what our children are going to be like, who they will resemble, how we will love and spoil them rotten, if I will be able to commuicate with them, if I will be a good mother...

We've talked about when the right time to decide on having a child will be. We've pretty much decided that we're going to try after two years of marriage. But is there ever going to be a right time? There's always going to be a reason not to, the fear and uncertainty, and financial worries. Lately, we've been discussing just letting nature take its course.

All of these thoughts after I suddenly get an allergic reaction to my birth control. Could it be a sign? ;)

What you stole will never mean as much to you as it did to me.

2005-08-05T13:48:00.000-07:00

I recently discovered Copyscape and as I was inserting some old journal links, I came across someone who stole a part of a very personal journal entry of mine from 2003. I felt a wave of nausea coming on, followed by what I thought was going to be a panic attack. Then, I reminded myself that this is what happens when posting in this sometimes vicious online arena. Then, I began to feel sad for this supposed 18-year-old girl who feels the need to copy other people's personal thoughts and emotions. In a strange way, I almost felt flattered (in a pissed off sort of way) and I felt the need to e-mail her to let her know I found her out. However, my calm rational side got the best of me. I know that I wrote that entry (twice - in my paper journal and online). I know what it took to write that entry, and the emotion that I felt, and the tears that streamed down my face as I wrote it.

I know what it meant to me, and what those words can never mean to her.

Edit: I've since contacted one of the moderators from the site where the copier had my work posted. He checked into it, I provided him with proof, and her profile has been deleted. I will track this girl down again if she plans to post it somewhere else. I can only hope that she just copied and pasted my words and didn't save any of it anywhere. I feel relieved, but the sick feeling is still there...

Fear

2005-08-05T07:09:00.000-07:00

I awoke in a cold sweat last night, terrified. I haven't felt this way in quite some time, as these baby panic attacks used to be a nightly occurrence when I was living with my parents two years ago. It was always the same feeling. Frightened, alone, panicked, sure that something was terribly wrong. I pulled Andres close to me and he wrapped his arms around me, but the feeling was still there. I got up, paced around the apartment, checked my cell phone to see if maybe my mother or grandmother had called. Nothing. I called a close girl friend and made sure she was okay. She was safe in bed, and annoyed that I woke her from her dreams. Another friend of mine just left for Iraq and I wanted desperately for him to call or e-mail so that I would know he was okay. I'm sure he is. I'm just being strangely paranoid...

I find it strange that while I was living completely on my own for a year, I never got these attacks. I never felt frightened, or threatened even though the area I lived in wasn't known for being very safe. I think it was because I told myself that I had no choice. I couldn't live in fear because I was alone and I would only end up driving myself crazy and move back in with my parents. Now, living with Andres, that awful fear creeps into my chest before I fall asleep. Its been happening more and more frequently ever since he moved in, and I just can't figure out why. It alarms me, in more ways than one. I don't want to have to rely on him for protection, for that feeling of safety.

I shouldn't have to.

I grew up, watching my mother depend on my dad for everything. If he wasn't in the house, she didn't feel safe. She would get completely paranoid about making sure all of the doors were locked, all of the lights turned on, pacing back and forth about the house until he made it home, safe and sound. And the terrible thing is, I don't think she was so much worried about him as she was about herself. What would she (we) do without him? My mother never learned how to drive, how to manage the bills. She relied on my father for everything. Can you imagine how much stress that must have put him through?

I think I have a little bit of my mother instilled in me. But I don't want to be like that, like her. I shouldn't have to rely on anyone for any of those things because that is too much of an obligation. Its wrong to place all of that on top of somebody's shoulders. And it's not because I don't need or want help, but because I'm strong enough to do it on my own.

Rosebud

2005-08-01T21:10:00.000-07:00

I watched my niece fall asleep yesterday. She cried until she was red in the face and I was wet with her tears, and all because she was curious and wanted to continue exploring the strange realm of Tia Pecia's apartment. As I patted her back and her eyes grew heavy, I began writing a poem about her in my mind. A child's innocence is so beautiful, pure, and I believe it to also be holy. Children are so untainted by the world and it breaks my heart to know that several years from now, she will be a teenager. Her heart will get broken, boys will try to grab her hand. I don't want her to become jaded and sarcastic. I want her to remain in her state of childhood, but its impossible for a person not to grow, for the flower of Elena to stay a tiny rosebud forever.

Stitched into my bones...

2005-07-30T07:11:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling the need to break free, get out there, be expressive and creative. I haven't been to a poetry reading in about a month as I've been preparing for our wedding, but I am itching to go back. I don't feel that I entirely convey my emotions while reading my work and it is the strangest sensation because there is so much emotion and feeling that goes into writing my poetry. I'm not yet sure how to bring it up to the surface, which has always been a problem of mine, and not just in my writing life. Its something that I have to work on by actually putting myself out there and not being so afraid of judgment and criticism.

I've been sending out some of my poetry to different magazines and e-zines. So far, no luck but I'm still working on it, still trying. I keep asking myself if I will be okay if none of them get published. The need to write is something that is stitched into my bones. Its something that I must do because without that outlet, I would go mad. I write because I need to, plain and simple, but the need to branch out has also been plaguing me. I wonder if its because I seek some sense of validation, the answer to the question: Have I made it yet?

Or maybe it goes deeper than that, maybe its because I want to know if there are other people who have felt the same way, who can relate, and who can see the beauty in my words because they have been there before. Writers live a lonely existence. The old cliche of being on the outside, but looking in is so true in my case. I see things in a different perspective, and often catch myself wondering, how am I going to put this into words, how am I going to describe this feeling? Writing is always on my mind, which isolates and pushes me away from the crowd most of the time. But I want to be able to branch out and connect with people because of something that I have written. That is one of the best and most satisfying feelings.

Detours into the past...

2005-07-28T22:01:00.000-07:00

Is it dangerous to walk back into the past, or to take slight detours? Does it allow you the chance to re-write certain events, or does it just open a door to old pain? I have been running into so many people from my past, over at MySpace.

Earlier, I was thrown back into a wide array of nostalgia and left remembering: school dances, highschool crushes, the rare happy memories that I cherish from that time in my life. I was often so miserable in highschool, as I'm sure a lot of angst-ridden teenagers are/were. I never really knew what my place was, and often felt invisible. To this day, I find the same feeling creeping back in ever so slightly every once in a while.

It feels strange and surreal to see these people again, their small more mature faces peeking out at me from their icons. I read their profiles and see how much they've changed, and how parts of them have remained exactly the same. The latter gives me a sense of comfort, but it also alarms me.

I have to wonder: how do they see me now?

Am I still that strange, quiet, isolated, curly-haired and metal mouthed child in their eyes? I'm not sure how to go about showing people that I have changed over the years, that I am nowhere near the same person (child) that I once was, that I have grown and flourished, made mistakes and have regrets, that I am happy and in love and ready to be a wife and a mother (give or take a few years).

I have to stop and ask myself if I am okay with allowing people this new glimpse into my life. It leaves me open and vulnerable to...what? Pain, ridicule, criticism? I find it so strange that I still care what people think of me years later, people who I haven't spoken to in years. And I feel myself almost being reverted back to being that fourteen-year-old girl with the fear of people not liking or understanding her.

Is it normal to feel this way after driving straight into your past?

The battle of my emotions...

2005-07-28T11:49:00.000-07:00

Written in April 2003:

The one comment that I always seem to conjure out of people is: Why do you always look so sad? I can't tell you how many times people have directed this question at me. I used to get it while I was working at the library all the time, and now it's started at my new job too. And honestly, I don't know how to answer that question. It disturbs me, because I have this theory that maybe people are seeing something in me that I try so hard to disguise.

I wish I could be like those people that seem happy and cheerful all the time, even on their worst days. The ones with perpetual smiles across their faces. It seems that even when I'm happy, I seem to exude this sadness somehow. I'm a contradiction. I find it very funny that my name is supposed to mean "Happiness" when I think I will always have a little of that sadness inside of me...

People say that I must be a strong person in order to have gone through and gotten through some of the things that have happened to me in the past. And though I can't see that strength inside of me, I suppose I must be strong in a sense because I catch myself cringing at the thought of anyone having to go through some of the same things I have. But there is still that weak little child inside of me that I think will always be there...she's in the core of my soul.

Perhaps the sadness, the weakness, whatever you want to call it, is there for a reason. It reminds me to not take for granted this life that I have now, or maybe it's there to do nothing more than to just fill up a void, fill up the darkness that I might've allowed to consume me at one point. You never know what true happiness is until you've experienced that kind of sadness.

My thoughts have been swirling about my emotions lately. Its been prompted by a few comments I've received over at MySpace from people from my past, highschool and college. "You look so happy now!" Honestly, it makes me feel good to know that people view me in this way and that the ever-lingering sadness isn't present in my eyes anymore. I even notice it now, how my eyes seem to have a brighter spark, how most of the pictures I take are of me smiling.

Happiness and Sadness: I've always had such a warped and unhealthy view of these two emotions, which I think attributed to my so-called "depression" over the past couple of years. I think I am finally past seeing pain and sadness as beauty, of craving that inner sadness because I thought I needed it in order to believe in happiness. It was a constant cycle that I always seemed to throw myself in and I can't for the life of me figure out why I felt the need to punish myself in that way.

Even now, sometimes I have to pinch myself and stubbornly ask: Am I really happy? Am I there yet? Because even though I feel it, genuinely feel it down in my bones, sometimes it is much too easy to fall into old patterns, old addictions. I often have to step back and tell myself not go there again. I often wonder if there is some kind of chemical imbalance that causes me to sway towards my dangerous emotions, or if its simply because I am so used to having that kind of pain in my life and without it, I do not feel complete. This is a terrifying conclusion and one that I hope against hope isn't true, and isn't what I am consisted of.

I do long for happiness, for that feeling of completeness and content. But it seems that even when I have it grasped in the palm of my hand, I yearn to release it again. Perhaps its that same yearning that drives me into that downward spiral again, that at times, temporarily blinds me from seeing what I truly have, and all the wonderful things that I have been given.

My depth perception must be off again...

2005-07-27T13:46:00.000-07:00

Shot in the Heart

Stabbed in the Back

{ Luke Chueh }
Why do people feel the need to be fake? Why do people feel the need to be friendly to your face only to talk about you behind your back?

I will never understand this human dynamic. What makes people act this way? I can't say that I am an angel. I have admittedly done the same in the past. Key word there is past, though. Back when I was in gradeschool, or highschool. Now as an adult, I do not feel the need to sit there and act as if I like someone, only to talk bad about them behind their backs. What's the point? Usually, if I dislike you, you will know it. I will still respect you as a human being but it is wasted energy to pretend to be your friend when we both know that isn't the case. I've learned this from so many past mistakes.

I feel betrayed, backstabbed by someone who I considered to be a friend but who was really only a co-worker with a dislike for me, as well as a big mouth. I confided in this person, trusted them, opened up to them when my gut instincts kicked in more than once and told me not to. I feel broken hearted, because I also feel as if everything has changed (and it has) and as if I have lost a dear friend. I am not keen on opening myself up to someone who only feels the need to drag my name through the mud.

So now it is silent, and I am hoping that this person recognizes what they did and how this has affected me (and I'm sure he does). I'm not saying that I will never open up to anyone else again, but it will take me awhile after this incident. It's hard to bloom before people only to have them dig inside of you and rip out your roots from underneath you.

Return to self

2005-07-25T13:12:00.000-07:00

There's always going to be a flaw, a scar, a reason to hold back. Can't wear that dress, my legs are too chubby. Can't say that, it might piss someone off. Can't write about that, it might offend someone.

I really have to start showing my passion, showing that I am passionate about certain things if I want anyone to start taking me serious. I am so scared of rejection and criticism but I think I've finally realized that there's always going to be that one person that doesn't agree with me or doesn't want to hear what I have to say.

I guess you can say that I have been in a state of rebellion lately. Not towards anyone in particular, but more towards myself and the way that I have conformed and tried to fit myself into a shell, into the body of a person that isn't even me. I'm dedicated into finding that niche that I belong to. I need to find the person that I somehow lost along the way.

Self-Defeat

2005-07-12T22:50:00.000-07:00

Recent events at work have had me questioning myself (and my sanity). Do you ever just get to a point where you don't know who you are or what you've become? If I were to quit or get fired from work tomorrow, I think I would honestly walk out of that office with a smile on my face. I've gotten to a point where I walk into work with a bad attitude with no concrete reason for it. A few months ago, there was so much bullshit and drama and I still managed to cope with it. Then, I would have given anything for the peace and quiet that has seemed to take over the phoneroom like a plague recently. But I am still tired, and still stressed, and I still hate it there. And I honestly believe that it's because I've had my fill of office work.

I was watching a documentary last night called "Supersize She" about a female body builder. I've always considered female body builders to be so beautiful, which is strange seeing as how I usually despise the big and veiny muscles on men. However, there is something so intricately complex about a female body builder and I find myself drawn to the whole phenomenon. In this documentary, the bodybuilder, Joanne, said something that instantly triggered a kind of self-defeat inside of me: "People might tihnk that what I'm doing is crazy. I see people who work 9-5 jobs and think that they're insane." It's true. Even my father, who I rarely agree with, was saying something about this a few days ago: "I've met so many creative and inspiring people in the office where I work and over the years, the job tends to just suck the life out of them."

I can only complain so much, though, because I am not doing anything about my unhappiness at my job. At times, I can be terribly lazy. At times, I think a part of me would like to get fired just so that I would have the motivation to find another job.

The stupid little details...

2005-07-09T12:26:00.000-07:00

Life is becoming more hectic and the stress is beginning to seep through. I've had no time lately to just sit and write as I am in the chaotic process of planning a wedding as well as being concerned about my recent physical and health problems. I want to be able to just sit outside on my patio and immerse myself in the vision of the sun playing on the leaves but it seems as if all I do lately is run, run, run and plan, plan, plan. I am sick of this chaotic monotony, but the 4th of July provided some rest and comfort for the both of us. I am looking forward to my wedding but I've never been nitpicky about the little details. Everyone is wondering about the flowers, the jewelry, the food and I find myself simply not caring. When it comes down to it, I really just want everyone to have fun and enjoy themselves. I could care less about all of the stupid little details.

I just want to be his wife already!

Self-Sabotage

2005-06-22T16:02:00.000-07:00

Here's my problem: just when I begin to gain just a pinch of confidence in my writing life, I am then blindsighted (by myself, of course) and I begin to think that everything I write is crap. I am working on editing a manuscript right now and I think I have read over my poetry so many times that I am just sick of it. How do you silence that innner editor inside of you and just say to yourself, It's good the way it is? Sometimes I think I'd like to go back to the days when I was completely naive and full of creativity and I thought everything that I wrote was this amazing piece of work. If I can't see beauty in my own words, how can I expect others to see it?

Wasting away...

2005-06-15T09:06:00.000-07:00

{ Ana Juan }

As a child, when I lived with my grandparents, summers were usually spent sitting on the front porch playing with my Barbie dolls, or we would go on long drives to Corpus, Kingsville, Weslaco, the small east Texas towns that my family lived in. My favorite summer was when we went to Kerrville for the whole summer and my cousin, Kristi, and I would walk to the small, run-down movie theater everyday. We would pay only a dollar to watch the three movies the theatre was showing that day. I'm not sure why these memories keep spilling into my mind. I miss those summers full of freedom, of staying up late and sleeping as long as I wanted to. I know I will never get those days back because I am not a child anymore. I have too many bills to pay, and not enough money. Stress seems like an everyday occurence now. I long for the day for when I have children of my own, to see them really living life to the fullest, living in the spur of the moment.

I have been feeling especially sad for the past couple of weeks and it has nothing to do with those around me, with my family or Andres, or even the stress of planning a wedding. I feel as if I am wasting away at my current job, and the summers that I used to love are being sucked away from me. If I felt I was doing something important, then the stress wouldn't bother as much. If I felt I was being passionate about what I do for a loving, then the stress would all be worth it. I feel as if I am being negatively affected by a job that I despise. And I keep asking myself: is this worth it? I told Andres earlier that maybe I should apply somewhere to be a waitress, to be a bartender, to do something completely different from being cooped up in an office everyday. I keep waiting to hear back from Duncanville library on their library assistant positions but no luck so far.

The grass is always greener...

2005-06-13T14:36:00.000-07:00

Red Oak

Myth

{ Sharon Eisley }
I am beginning to wonder why I ever quit working for the public library. It was a stressful job, but the books made it so much easier to cope. When things got too hectic or crazy, I could sneak out onto the public floor and hide in a corner while reading a book. Plus, the huge windows gave me a sense of still being out in the world. I could walk by and see cars passing by, see the breeze pushing through the trees, see the rain pounding down on pavement. I saw new and different and strange people walk in everyday. Now, I see the same people everyday and we have grown into a huge dysfunctional family. Sometimes that's not always a good thing. I am stuck in a small office with no contact with the outside world and only a small glass window that looks out into the phoneroom. There is a small garden in the atrium, with fountains and even tiny birds that swoop overhead, but it all seems so cold and sad every time I walk past it, a charade of true nature.

There are several people that keep me sane during the workday, one is Andres, one is my friend (who also happens to be my manager) Lauren, and the other is Richard, who is my office mate. He is a middle aged Jewish man and we go back and forth discussing various topics and making each other laugh throughout the day. Everybody needs some kind of comic relief at work and he is definitely mine. He was recently gone for a week and I honestly felt as if something vital was missing. These three people make the work easier but lately, I find myself struggling with my day to day responsibilties and tasks. I find myself not caring and that is because I am simply not passionate about this job.

I hate Marketing Research. I hate any type of stifling office job and if it wasn't for the money that I am making, I would quit in a heartbeat. If it wasn't for the fact that I am about to get married and we have substantial bills to pay, I would get the hell out. I hate that I have conformed into this full-time madness. When I was younger I swore to myself that I would never get a job that didn't allow me to be myself, to be creative and expressive. Even though the library was a government job, it still allowed me to be myself as well as be creative. I would help organize plays for the children, book drives, decorate at parties. I could still wear my torn jeans to work and I was never told to cover up my tattoos or piercings. I miss that kind of freedom in a job.

Love of animals

2005-06-11T12:55:00.000-07:00

I feel as though the summer is being wasted. I am cramped inside of a tiny office for most of the week and the weekends always seem so short. I am tired most of the time and especially this weekend because my sleep pattern is completely off balance. We had to take my kitten, Gizmo, to the emergency room Thursday night. She was up vomiting for two hours. I am usually the one that worries and wants to rush her to the vet but this time, to my surprise, Andres grabbed her, put her in her carrier, and off we went to the 24-hour animal hospital in Irving to see what was wrong with her. This all happened around midnight and we were there until three in the morning. Turns out she had food poisoning (I didn't even know cats could get food poisoning!) and an expensive vet bill and two medicines later, she was safe at home.

Portrait of a Cat
{ Aaron Jasinski }
I wonder if my dream to work with animals will ever become a reality. My stomach literally turns every time I see a sick or injured animal. Not too long ago, Andres and I witnessed a puppy get hit by a car and surprisingly, I wasn't sick or sad as much as I was angry. Angry at the fact that people can hit a defenseless animal with their car and not even think to stop and see if the animal is okay. It is this anger that makes me wonder if I have what it takes to ever become a veterinary technician or even an assistant, for that matter. I wonder if it will hinder me from doing my job or if I could somehow harness that emotion, put my all into helping an animal recover.

The depth of emotions (specifically, sadness)

2005-06-09T15:02:00.000-07:00

Rumour of Weeping
{ Nicoletta Tomas }
I am surprised by my emotions, at times, the way I surrender to them. I don't understand the depth of them until they make themselves fully present and even then, I am left wondering why. Last night Andres and I were watching television, a movie called Instinct, and there was a disturbing scene that left me completely in tears. Even as I was crying, I realized how silly I was being because it was only just a movie! However, I often find myself in tears whenever watching the news, which is why I rarely watch the news anymore. I don't want to be ignorant about what is going on in the world. I do want to know and be aware of my surroundings and current events. But my emotions tend to get the best of me sometimes and I find myself wondering for days why the world is often so violent.

I don't want to be naive but is becoming completely knowledgeable worth the price of losing my small shreds of innocence, naivete, and happiness? These are things that I want to keep cradled close to me, and yet a part of me feels selfish for thinking this way and also knows that eventually, even these ideals are tainted. I think the closest I can ever get to these three things is being around my niece, my nephew, and my future children. Children should know nothing of immense sadness, of immense pain. The world around them should consist completely of those that they love, of being protected and feeling safe, of all the candy and toys that they desire. It's when we start to grow that these things begin to shred into pieces before our eyes and we are left feeling that isolated loneliness and loss. And yet, I think about the children in war torn countries, those starving and infected with diseases we know nothing about, those that know only about sadness, pain, and loss. It breaks my heart to know that there are children and good people dying out there, everywhere, for...what? I hurt and ache for them and will never know their type of pain. My sadness seems so small and unimportant compared to theirs.

I've experienced my own kind of sadness and loss, and I know that it's a natural part of life. And I can say, in a strange and ironic way, that I am glad I went through sadness because it has allowed me to truly know what happiness is. But I think the reason I was sad for so long was because I continually chose to place myself in situations in which I knew the outcome wouldn't be good, because I was scared of finding happiness and having it being ripped away from me. I began to realize after six years of living in sadness that I would never ever experience happiness if I didn't give myself that chance. A lot of people don't have that choice. Now, I am barely beginning to find and understand happiness and it isn't something that I am willing to give up without a fight.

Poetry

2005-06-08T08:09:00.000-07:00

Lately I have had the urge to go through all of my poetry and archive them in a binder. Perhaps it was seeing the poets over the weekend with their many notebooks and binders that inspired me. I've always had a passion for writing. It all started when I was seven-years-old and I began to keep a daily journal, which then evolved into many journals over the years. Then when I was ten, I would fill up notebooks with stories and call them my novels. I would go around the neighborhood with my grandmother and John and try to sell them for fifty cents each. I didn't begin writing poetry until 1998, though. It was a way to release the flood of emotions gathering up inside of me. It was a very sad and depressing time for me and I found that writing it down in a poetic form and then going back and analyzing helped to sort through my layers of emotions. Ever since then, I have had a on/off relationship with poetry.

Sometimes I love writing poems, but they don't come as easily to me as a story does. In a short story, I am able to mold all of these different characters and settings. I love seeing life spring forward onto the pages. Poetry is a bit different. For me, it takes deeper emotions than thought which is probably why I tend to write poetry around the times that I am riding the waves of my feelings at their most extreme. The majority of my poems are sad which is because for the majority of the last seven years, I have been in a state of sadness. Now, they are taking on a more creative route, more imaginative because I am willing to take more risks now. I don't want to be kept in a small box where my thoughts or emotions are concerned. I am allowing them the space to roam freely which is something I was afraid to do for a very long time. It's strange how I can see that in my work now.

I also noticed while going through my poetry earlier that I really used to write a lot of crap! I still write crap now but not to the extent that I did back then. I caught myself cringing when I read these poems, and wondered whether or not to include them in my binder and I came to the conclusion of how it would just be wrong to not include them. I call them 'crap' in almost a loving way, because these poems are still my thoughts, my children, and I had to carefully place them down on paper in order to get where I am today. That almost brings me a sense of closure, but not quite, because if I had complete closure I probably would have nothing more to write about and I would then be placing myself in another box. I want to continue writing poetry, and look back five years from now to see where I have gotten to.

Escapism #4

2005-06-06T13:33:00.000-07:00

Truth is Beauty
{ Amy Crehore }

The force of words.

2005-06-05T08:54:00.000-07:00

I went to two poetry readings this weekend, and met some very strange and interesting people. Among them were my two favorite characters: a radical hippie who walks around town barefoot with flowers in his hair and buttons with the word "PEACE!" splattered across his t-shirt, and a blonde crossdresser who knows how to apply make-up better than I do! Andres labeled them as a "band of misfits" and my response was, "And is it scary that I want to become a part of them?"

I only listened at the first reading as Andres and I arrived a little late. It was held at Half Price Books in the middle of a small community room. An older gentleman was the first to get up on stage. He was jittery and walked with a cane and yet, the moment he was onstage this vibrant energy spilled forth from his deep voice. I was sincerely amazed at this man's words and I was completely entranced by his poem. Another tiny, small bald man with a long white beard read my favorite poem of the bunch, something he entitled Jesus, John the Baptist, and Janis Joplin. At the end, I felt tears in the corner of my eyes. I've never been so moved or inspired by other people's poetry before.

One thing that I noticed was that a lot of the people who read their poems were very quiet and shy, reserved. Their personalities lack the amazing energy that their poems contain. The moment they were onstage, there was this energy about them that could not be contained, almost as if the words themselves were giving them power. I think of it almost in a religious sense, how these words, their words are a force that moves them, that allows them to be something more, or somebody else entirely.

I managed to read four of my poems at the second poetry reading. It was held at a small ice cream shop called Suenos Sabrosas in the middle of the Bishop Arts District. This one was more casual, minus the feel of a classroom setting that the first one had. There were seven people who sat in a small circle. They were very welcoming, and I felt inclined to share some of my work. I felt that I also got a good response. When I was reading my first poem, there was an almost surprised look on who I assume to be the leader of the group, a tall and husky bald man. He nodded his head and seemed to really ponder the meaning while I read. The thrill of getting a reaction out of someone whose poetry was amazing was almost as good as the rush of adrenaline that I got while reading.

This same man read a poem about how poets are naturally disturbed. In my opinion, I don't think writers and poets are necessarily disturbed. For some reason, I take offense to that. We are inquisitive, always questioning the boundaries and borders of life and society. It's the way in which we see the world, the way we want to record it in some way, jot it all down on paper so our thoughts, surreal or uncomfortable as they might be, are clear for everyone who doesn't understand to see.

Releasing the chaos

2005-06-02T14:56:00.000-07:00

Write like no one is watching.

This is mantra whenever writing in this online arena. I don't think I will ever be able to write as freely as I would like to in any type of online forum. If I know that someone is reading, I tend to write for my audience instead of using my journal to express myself. I begin to venus-flytrap into myself and close off the more personal. It's either due to paranoia, or there is an innate instinct that screams Wait! Stop! Cut out the details! I do use a personal paper notebook. The writing there is more hurried and rushed, almost as if I was struggling to get the thoughts out in time. Honestly, sometimes my brain thinks too fast for my hands to keep up the pace. Plus, there is the physical discomfort from my Carpal Tunnel as I have it in my writing hand. I will say that writing in a paper journal feels more personal because of the physical force that I put into it. However, writing this way comes more easily. Writing online tends to give me more relief because all of my thoughts manage to come to life. The words spring before me onto a blank screen. They are there, in clear form, instead of jagged little black scars in a notebook.

I envy those who read, think, and eat poetry, the way they spit waves of fire and it is transformed into beauty onto pages. I envy those who do not sit and analyze every line, sentence, and word, who carelessly scribble these magical creations while I keep learning to stencil my words over and over again. Will it ever be easy for me? Will I always be this hard on myself and never let the words just flow? It is this terrible jealousy that makes me want to just shut myself off from the world, close all my journals and stop writing. But writing is something necessary for me, something that can never be contained inside of my body because the words would only end up smothering me in my sleep. I wonder if it is this sense of commitment that I feel towards my words that makes me so analytical. If I didn't care and it wasn't a need in my life, would I be able to do it more freely?

Lately I have been practicing freewriting, something Natalie Goldberg discusses in her book Writing Down the Bones. The basic rules are to keep your hand moving, lose control, and not think. Streams of consciousness. For the past week, I've spent ten minutes a day writing in this way. In a way, it is very freeing but also terrifying. I've always used writing as a way to control the chaos rattling around in my brain. In freewriting, the chaos basically controls you until it is a knotted mass of words on the pages before you. It is very interesting and my goal is to do this at least until one notebook is filled with my thoughts. I was reading through this notebook last night and was surprised that I didn't remember writing all of the words and passages down. The mind is so strange and complex and I have a feeling I'm in for a wild ride.

Amazement

2005-06-02T12:46:00.000-07:00

In the atrium at work, there are several fountains that cascade by the eating area. Earlier, I saw a little boy standing by them as his father sat at a nearby table watching him. The boy was blonde and blue-eyed, and completely fascinated by the water. I stood and watched him for a moment and then to my surprise, he started jumping up and down, emitting squeals of laughter as if the fountains were the most spectacular things he had ever seen before. I smiled, desperately wanting to go and splash in the fountains, only to return to work several minutes later.

I wonder: when did I lose my sense of amazement at the smaller things in life? When did water lose its power to amaze me?

Escapism #2

2005-06-02T11:18:00.000-07:00

Turning

Girl with a Bee Dress

{ Maggie Taylor }

Is it really Thursday already?

2005-06-02T07:26:00.000-07:00

Strange how the end of the week feels like the beginning, probably because of the long weekend which managed to end on a bad note. A migraine and following panic attack led me to being in the hospital for most of Monday night. I have a small magenta bruise from where the IV was inserted. I keep poking and prodding at it, unfamiliar with the color leaping so brilliantly off of my skin. And as I was laying in the uncomfortable and meticulous white bed, thoughts of Grandpa kept spilling into my mind. It was at that same hospital that he died and I couldn't help but re-live some of the memories.

Despite that night, the weekend was nice and Andres and I managed to get some much needed relaxation. Among going to the movies (something we haven't done in quite a while!) and also going to register at Bed, Bath, and Beyond for my bridal shower, we went fishing at midnight on Sunday morning with a group of friends. Nobody managed to catch anything but we enjoyed the scenery of Joe Pool Lake at such a late hour. It was completely dark except for the two small lights we brought along and there was a raw excitement that filled the air. More than once, we saw water mocassins silently creeping along the outer banks. Maribel and I eventually drifted off together. We talked in a way that we haven't in quite some time. I worry about her happiness. I hope she manages to hold onto it for at least a little while. I hold my friends close to me and want for them, want the happiness to shield them so that we can be unison, for once.

I also joined a fitness club over the weekend, something that I needed to do in order to motivate myself to work out more and eat healthier. While I was rubbing Bengay on my many aches and pains after a tough workout, a sudden thought popped into my head. Is exercise a more modern form of masochism, doing something that can never fully satisfy, trying to live up to the perfect ideal or stereotype of society? Is it something that we do because we actually want to be healthier or because we've been brainwashed into thinking that being fat is bad? I keep asking myself why I want to lose weight and why I equate being thin with being beautiful.

For the past two years, I have felt uncomfortable in my skin, disgusted by the bulge that hangs over the waist of my pants. My face has always been very round, chubby cheeks that spawned the fingertips of old women pinching them in stores when I was a child. Andres says I am vain, constantly taking pictures of my face, constantly studying it. If I truly was vain, I wouldn't have a need for mirrors or cameras. I'd simply know that I was beautiful. I yearn so much at times for a hint of beauty in my features, my body. It is an infinite battle, constantly searching for it and at times, I do see it. In that split second of clarity, I know that I am beautiful, and that's because I know myself. But what do strangers see? Is this really vanity or a longing for validation from myself?

My metabolism has gone to shit. I have such an affinity for decadent and delicious foods which I know has started to affect my weight and health. I am not the type of person who can stop myself, starve myself. My taste buds will be the death of me. When I was younger, I used to wish that I was the type of person who could become anorexic or bulimic, and I remember telling myself, Today is the day that I'm going to stop eating. I'd try to go a day without eating only causing myself to get a migraine as well as be sick for days afterwards. It's almost as if my subsconscious will not let me punish myself in that way. I swerve more to emotionally endangering myself instead of physical harm. I can emotionally die and still keep an outward appearance of good health.

Not that I've ever had a penchant for being stick thin. I have always admired women who are so beautifully curvaceous. They've just always seemed more...womanly. I yearn for a flatter stomach, for toned arms, but I still love the curve of my hips, the fullness of my breasts. But I know I am nowhere near a healthy weight for my height. I need to work on this, not only for my "vain" reasons but because I really do just want to be healthy.

Middle Ground

2005-06-01T15:23:00.000-07:00

Somehow, along the way, I forgot what it was like to think inside the box. I've given into my cravings as if they were the last shreds to something amazing and fruitful inside of me. But I am beginning to fray under the weight of always living up to certain expectations. I cannot prefer the exciting danger over everyday treasures anymore. I'm too old to think this way, to feel as if every inspiration is a means to drive down highways at 3 a.m. I used to think that stability was a curse. Now I realize that I am moving much too slow, afraid to see what's up ahead, what is past the adolescent. I am tired of being a child and thinking like one, but I am also afraid of losing my naivete and sense of wonder. How do I find comfort in the middle?

Escapism #1

2005-05-26T15:13:00.000-07:00

Harvesting Godot

The Source

{ Robert & Shana Parkeharrison }

Stumbled across this art a few months ago. I always come back to the gallery and get lost in the surrealism. It's a nice escape from reality.

There is power here.

2005-05-25T10:59:00.000-07:00

There are layers of myself that will never melt into puddles before me, that will never be seen by naked eyes, mine included. I know of them and I kick the brief glimpses into view, but it is never easy. I don't like or cater to certain aspects of myself anymore. I don't crave madness anymore. To travel down those twisting corridors of my mind again would surely allow some of the insanity to creep in and stain who I am now. When I was younger, I would wish that I had a mental disorder to prove to myself that I wasn't just insane. Or to prove that there was a reason behind the jagged thoughts. I'm sure that everyone has some sort of mental imbalance. No one is "normal". Everyone has their quirks, their insanities (some on a larger scope). Maybe being crazy is the new normal.

I miss the naivete and passion that I had when I was younger, the will to become a writer that nourished me for so long. I don't long for the fame or money of the writing business. In fact, I don't want my writing to become a business. But I will admit that it is comforting for someone to read a poem or story or even a journal entry and to feel out the words and relate. It means that I am not the only person who thinks this way, that maybe miles away someone has thought the same thought even though they might have expressed it differently. This is the reason as to why I am drawn to this broad landscape of online journals. I would never be able to connect to anyone in China, Australia, London without this technology though sometimes my need to reach out is the same thing that hinders me.

I write because there is a fire inside of me that won't die into embers until words are released. I still have this enthusiasm for the written, but adulthood and the routine that accompanies it, these vampires suck out the joy that I once had from doing something that is internal as it is necessary for me to survive. I need writing and words just as I do breath and while that may seem melodramatic, it is in every essence, true. When I recently discovered that I had Carpal Tunnel in my right hand, it took every ounce of strength to not fall into a deep depression. How can I write when waves of pain shoot up my arm every time I get near a pencil, a pen, or a keyboard? It was one of the worst and most isolating feelings. I felt as if something essential was being stripped away from me, as if each layer of skin was being pulled away.

I don't remember a time that I didn't have this need to write etched in my cells. I believe this driving force to create was instilled in me since birth. I learned to talk before any of the other children my age but it always felt awkward. So I learned to express myself in words on paper. It was something I needed to do back then, and something that I am still learning and needing to do now. But I am never comfortable in my writing, and it is due to the fact that I am always craving the new. I think this is the reason why many writers and poets become insane. To never be comfortable with what you are most passionate about, how it is something that is needed but can never fulfill. However, I hone my skills the way a warrior would sharpen his knives. My words still mean power. If not to myself, then maybe to someone else.

Tired of not living..

2005-05-25T08:34:00.000-07:00

At times, I think I am trying to move too fast. I want everything and I want it now. Snap my fingers and bam! I want the magic before my eyes. I tell myself to be patient, the excitement of living life will happen, it will happen, be still, wait for it...but I am not easily convinced.

For the past two years, I have not been doing something that I love. Therefore, I feel as if I am living a lie. I am sick of the 11-9 madness. I know that am not being honest with myself or with what my soul craves. I want to be in the throes of my passions, to be in the midst of the chaos being whirled out through my fingertips. I want to be the characters in my stories. One of the reasons why I write is to recreate the present, to rewrite the past, to live life through my characters or express something that I can not readily express while speaking to someone. My emotions live and breathe on the pages before me but lately, I am beginning to think that it is not enough to live this way. I have become jealous of my creations. How ironic that my characters lead more interesting lives than I do.

I blame my extreme moodiness lately on the fact that I am tired of not living lately. I've turned myself into a machine, a robot. Everything that I do feels routine and I am bored with my current surroundings. I crave excitment, I miss making love, and the urge to escape (if only for a weekend) has been haunting me. Perhaps Memorial Day weekend will soothe my aches, but I have a feeling that it won't relieve me for very long.

A realization

2005-05-24T13:49:00.000-07:00

I know what my problem is. I know why I have been feeling so lonely in my writing life lately. I am still trying to find my voice. Maya Angelou, Sandra Cisneros, Anais Nin, Anne Sexton. I can read a work by any of these writers and automatically know that it is theirs. Maya Angelou's wisdom, sadness and humor is etched in her words; Sandra Cisneros is feisty and true to her roots; Anais Nin's diaries ooze with a raw and uninhibited sexuality; Anne Sexton's poetry is laced with unimaginable sadness and dark imagery. They are true to their voices. Meanwhile, I still try to find myself in other's words, try to mold my poetry to fit into square boxes. No wonder it sounds so forced! I am not being true to myself or my words because they are not mine. I edit, I cut out the verbs, adjectives, nouns because they are not mainstream. It's not trendy, but it's also not me. I am a hypocrite. Lately, I have only been writing to get a reaction, to please others, and not writing what is in my soul.

Missing risk

2005-05-23T18:39:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I want that blind naive love we had at fifteen. The stupid love that will make you go skinny dipping at five in the morning, that inspires you to get drunk and make love for hours on end, the unbearable feeling that if our hands and fingers weren't curled around each other's that we would dissipate into nothingness. I love him comfortably and it wears on me. It is exhausting because it feels as if we are both so tired, as if our relationship is sleeping.

We're in a cocoon.

It is such a strange thing to describe because we are the happiest we've been in a long time. Our wedding plans are going smoothly, but it seems as if we are simply not living life to the fullest. I can't remember the last time we had a conversation that didn't include the word "work". Is this something that every couple evolves into? When only the day to day things inspire conversation? When did risk walk out of our lives?

Sometimes I think we, as a couple, have grown too old, too fast. We're only in our twenties and living my parents' life. At times, I wish responsibility was something that didn't exist. I wish that rent money wasn't necessary and that we could pack up and just go...Sometimes I feel as if we're not living. I never fear that we will grow to hate each other, but I do wonder if we will grow to regret that we only lived half-lives. Should I feel like this at 22?

Opposide Sides of the Seasons

2005-05-23T15:39:00.000-07:00

Isn't it strange how we have memories but cannot recall the exact taste of something, the temperature, or the intensity of touch? The Texas heat spills in and nostalgia blankets me. It is only May and over the weekend, we already had 98 degree weather. I have a feeling it is going to be a cruel summer.

I recall these Texas summers, as a child living with my cousin John and my grandparents. I don't remember the almost unbearable heat and perhaps this is because I was constantly running around, rambunctious and playful even in 100 degree weather. I was too careless to feel the heat though it was evident when I finally retreated inside, dark skinned and flesh that was hot to the touch. Rarely do I venture outside anymore for recreation (especially in the heat since my dermatitis tends to break out like mad) but I had the entire pool to myself Friday and I lay floating in the tepid water for almost an hour. It felt nice to be outside despite the sweltering heat.

I've never been a fan of summer, especially living in Texas. Winter has always fascinated me and I think it's due to the fact that I've never been completely embraced by it. We only seem to get ice here in Dallas and only once in Switzerland did I see real snowflakes. The fluffy white snow entranced me and a friend and I rolled around in it, playful as children. It was one of the most beautiful sights and I long for that kind of winter year-round.

Why write?

2005-05-23T10:22:00.000-07:00

I've spread myself so far and thin that I'm not sure where I belong anymore. I crave a sanctuary, but also yearn for an audience, for people who will read and see themselves in my words. I feel alone in my writing lately. Lonely. I don't feel as if I can write somewhere (anywhere) without being judged, which never seemed to bother me before. I am thinking about just taking up my notebook again and pouring my thoughts into it. There is something so terrifying about writing without censorship, knowing that I won't hold back. Perhaps I need this lack of discipline for the time being.

As a writer, I feel that I'm always on the verge of something: a great thought, an amazing story, a piece that will leave someone in awe. Why do I write? It's a question I often ask myself. I write to purge, to control the chaos, to hone my emotions and thoughts into words where they aren't free to roam through my mind and torment me. As I write, all of the words seem so big and important. Later, when I go back to read, it all seems to mundane and unimportant. I wonder if every writer goes through this, or if I just need to believe in myself and my ability more.

Second Guessing

2005-05-07T13:10:00.000-07:00

I often second guess myself when it comes to my writing. I'm sure it's something every writer goes through at some point. At times, I am very confident that I'm a good writer, but then I begin to wonder if I am being biased. It's so hard to judge or critique my own work because I know the passion that I put forth into everything that I write. Most of the time, I only have one person in the offline world that helps me review my work but he's also biased because he's my fiance!

Lately, I've been thinking about joining some writing groups, or maybe going to some poetry readings. I want to know if my words affect people the way I want them to. I want validation. I want to know that what I'm doing is worth something to someone other than me.

Is this selfish, or do other writers crave the same? Why do you write?

I've been submitting several of my poems to different on-line magazines, and it's nerve racking but I feel it's something that I have to do for myself. Lately I've just been wondering if I have what it takes to branch out. It's not that I want to be one of those renown famous authors. I write because I love to write, because it's been a passion ever since I can remember, because there is need in my soul to pour out words onto paper. The thought of editors and deadlines would kill my spark to write. But it would be nice to see my words in print, in a book that I could call my very own. I'm sure that's a dream of every poet and writer, as well.

A new haven

2005-05-06T12:36:00.000-07:00

I'm not exactly sure why I opened up this blog. I've kept an online journal for nearly four years at the infamous Livejournal.com though my level of discomfort has been growing there. Perhaps it's just time for me to branch out, find a new haven for my thoughts.