27 posts tagged “writings”

* I had to make sure my gifts would arrive in California (my brother) and Michigan before Christmas. The last day for guaranteed delivery is Friday, today. I tried to make it happen for yesterday just to be safe and to preserve some sanity while the whole world is rushing. I rushed around yesterday evening buying the standing tools for wrapping, including boxes, wrapped gifts and wrote snazzy messages at work, loitered at FedEx (nicest people, f'real. Even during this insane part of the season)  to get boxed and tape (you have to purchase tape, too, did you know that?) to make the last pickup deadline. Made it... Sweet. Wake up this morning to hear that a FedEx truck, just last night, just after the last pickup deadline, got held up by gunpoint and totally is PoofPowGone. Nothing like an early morning panic to get the blood going. I did a quick tracking search. My packages not swiped. In fact they're already in Memphis. Life is good again.

* At about 6:30 this morning on the uptown Q train, between Canal and Union Square, a young lady who was sitting and talking with her friend suddenly gets up from sitting, holds on to the pole in front of her, wrenches her feet up above her head to nearly touch the car's ceiling, and then partially upside down legs in the air stripper slide down with a partial twist down the pole. Me and another random girl across from her smile approvingly. lolNY.

* This accompanying comment thread amuses me greatly so.

* Oh and taking the whole market thing in stride with morning Trading Places references? Always good times.

* I'm a pretty happy heifer, lately. Someone out there has been trying to take better care of me than I do myself. It's an odd feeling, but I'm starting to get used to it... if only I learn to relax some, eh?

* Because I have no debit card (lost it this week), I must do a physical withdrawal at the bank. I walk east on 53rd. The light changes and I am stuck at the sidewalk bisecting Park Avenue. My ipod is pumping with some Mexican music from one of the Kill Bill movies. I feel like I should be riding a horse in slo mo. Across the street is a motor home with a giant sign saying "Mitzvah Bus" which makes me chuckle. What a great word: "Mitzvah". I always read it as "good works" though I'm almost positive it doesn't exactly. I could always pronounce Hebrew/Yiddish words better than I can understand them for obvious reasons; being accustomed to being around Jews, not being one.

  I suddenly sense someone veryclose behind me. I turn to see a woman, perhaps in her late forties. Dark Grey frizzy hair spilling from under her knit cap. Slightly unkept but bundled. One glove off, her other hand holding a cellphone to her ear. I see her looking at me, but that could be because i'm looking at her and how very much up behind me she is. There's room on the sidewalk so there's no reason except for the fact that I'm standing up against the lawn and her bag is up on it, so I turn again figuring she just wanted to place her stuff on something a half a foot higher than the sidewalk. Whatever.

  After a couple more seconds of idly watching traffic, I suddenly see her hand raised beside me. I turn and she's pointing to the Mitzvah Bus, her other black glove dangling. I pull out a headphone to hear what she's saying.

  "They don't know nothing about Jesus," she states matter of factly. The phone is still at her ear.

  I shrug, "Well, they're Jews," and I turn back to the street ready to ignore her.

  "Yes, but they know nothing about Jesus and all they believe in is money and penis envy..." she continues more but I've fully drowned her out by now.

  "Well, that's just not a very nice thing to say," I retort reproachfully. The light has changed, the taxis have slowed to a stop, I begin walking across the street again, Mexican horns blaring in both ears again. I continue to walk. She's waddling behind me, still carrying on, looking foolish. I roll my eyes and make my way to Lexington.

* Before hitting Lexington, there's a construction site, scaffolding serving as pedestrian archways. There's a gap in the plastic sheeting, it reveals a large hole in the building they are demolitioning. A man in a red windbreaker, youthful but with grey hair and grey beard, like a friendly English teacher, stands at the hole with hands in his pants pockets watching the work before him. I stop too fascinated. It's like an open chasm. No roof, light is streaming in. The large brick building once about 6 floors now reduced to 3 floors of carefully contained rubble and girders. A construction guy in bundled Carthardt gear standing a storey and a half up on top of rubble trying to light a welding torch. Behind him a digging machine. The man looks at me when he discovers a companion. I smile. He smiles. And we continue looking at the sight. I make a gasping noise.

  "I used to go here," I start. He looks at me with a slight smile and open eyes. "When this was a YWCA many years ago."

  "This must be very strange for you to see this then. You used to be up on those floors, now gone..."

  I grin sideways and shrug, "Yes it is, a little." And I look up to the open air past the exposed girders. Summer Day Camp. I was, what?, 8 maybe 10? The pool was up there and I would try the back flips. On the lobby floor was the auditorium with a stage. We performed to Prince around the time of Purple Rain so when we danced to "Let's Go Crazy" and did that one part when we simulated sex complete with the "Sss AHH!" sounds, the adults clutched at their chests. Our teacher was always so annoyed at how when we had to change for PE in the same locker room as the regular YWCA members the grown women would walk around naked. I used to go there as a child and now it was being torn down...

  "New York, it is always changing, never stays the same," I say as I continue walking east, waving goodbye.

* The transaction at the bank went smoothly enough. Amazingly no lines. As I was walking out the door, a woman asks loudly to the room, "Excuse me, did anyone leave this here?" I turn and she's by one of the tables we use to fill out the deposit/withdrawal slips. Her hand slowly goes up like she's uncertain of the outcome and you can clearly see some checks of different colors and large denomination bills... cash. I mutter a surprised Oh Dear LORD and the woman sitting not far from me on the phone is looking at her with wide eyes and gives a startled chuckle. Then a man who was on line with an extremely pale face now utters, "Oh my goodness. That's mine." And there's a collective exhalation of air and some more chuckles. The man thanks her but has that look on his face that he dodged a bullet and is amazed that he's still alive. We all smile at him and each other. I'm still chuckling as I go out the door.

* I cross Lexington again. I pass the hole in the demo'ed building. There are three men inside drilling and welding and what have you. The man in the red jacket is no longer there. I look to the right and I see two construction men over a BBQ grill with ribs and steaks piled high. A table full of food for the guys. The guy manning the grill is wearing a red Santa hat. The other guy overseeing. I smile. Crossing Park I pass the Mitzvah Bus again. I see two Hassidim and a young boy with them passing out pamphlets, their music blaring from the motor home. I trot across but I still get caught at the bisecting sidewalk and I wait again for the traffic light to change.

"What should I do about the wild and the tame? The wild heart that wants to be free, and the tame heart that wants to come home. I want to be held. I don't want you to come too close. I want you to scoop me up and bring me home at nights. I don't want to tell you where I am. I want to keep a place among the rocks where no one can find me. I want to be with you."

-Winterson, Lighthousekeeping

One thing I always tell myself is to "know your limitations". Some things you're good at. Some things you're not good at. That's that and its no use to fight such things. Sure, you could rise to the occasion and try. But you have to wonder why you're doing something. For yourself? For other people? Meanwhile whatever it is may seep into your life into an obsession. And obsessions usually aren't healthy. Or should be at least kept private. But they never, okay 'hardly ever', manifest themselves in positive ways. So why do it? Why torment yourself? Know your limitations or end up extending yourself too far. So far that you lose yourself. And where's the fun in that?

I'm not good at dating. I get it.

No, nothing happened this weekend to cause my saying this. It's just that all week I was obsessing over something to the point in which I think I've made not only my friends sick of me but I'm pretty sick of myself. Then again, maybe I was hormonal and such. That's very likely. But at any rate, I've beaten dead horses to a nice, goopy mush. No, I still don't have answers but i do know I'm not good at dating and I wonder why I do it at all.

What a weird thing this is... this whole dating thing. Just not as simple as in the movies. And yes, even the most complicated dating dynamic on screen is a 100 times more simple than doing it in real life. And there are tons of classes and books and pamphlets on the subject but still I don't thing anyone's fully "got it".

Maybe I'm not talking about 'dating'. Maybe I'm talking about 'wanting' or 'liking'. Maybe. Well whatever it is i think I'm talking about. I know I'm not good at it. And i don't have any hot water so I can't take a shower.

Sarah's Birthday

Do you ever feel like you're in pause. In some endless procrastination queue in which you'll do something later or that later such and such will happen but it never does? Meanwhile you won't get up off your ass and get started? What the hell is that about? That's just retarded. And that's totally me.

But anyway the quote above really spoke to me. Called to me and shook me to pay attention. I wrote a poem along these lines such a long time ago. Let me find it... Ah. Here it is: 

Wild women are named so only out of frustration at the hand snatched away, the far off look in response to a recitation of a monotonous work-day, her raised voice in emphasis of her-day.
Wild women become wilder at the implication – like the label fertilized the weak shoot into a straight-backed, chaos-canopied tree.
By then, wild women are deemed too far gone for the quiet life, the ease of notice, the decency.
But wild women know of a-thing and bind it by their hearts under the wire bra and gather it under their skirts, held by the supportive string by the sharp bone of the hip (where the stripper girls hold their singles). The thing, it butters their belly laughs and thrusts out their mirthful screams of mischievousness...

All it takes is one day, one moment, one hand on the small of the back – of the perfect pressure, mind you – one whispered entendre with a hint of promised innocence, one long deep sigh of patience to tested insolence, one warm tingle just a hair below the diaphragm, one moment of the sated, closing eyes rested in the crook of another’s neck. Just that one, and everything will change.

*snap!* Just like that.

Wild women know this.
Of course they do.
How else did they became wild to begin with?

And I guess that's the crux of the whole thing. wanting your freedom, your own peace of mind within the little life you know, you understand and you more or less have under control. Yet there is another call, outside of your own personal brand of wildness that doesn't mind the quiet. The wanting to be needed. The protection of another just to feel a little less alone, out on your own and 'out there'. I haven't quite reconciled these two people within me. (Ah, yes. Another instance of my dichotomous existence.) So of course, the better option is the safer option: go with what you know, know your limitations. Don't overextend yourself into something unknown, uncertain only to possibly lose yourself... again. Sure, I could rise to the occasion but doing so would leave me... vulnerable. And strength, or at least my version of it, is all I have left in this world. It's an odd world, isn't it? A very odd world with little support other than the very few who are willing to listen with no agenda and for no other reason other than they want to. And even that could change, which is the way of everything.

I'm in-between. Maturity and childhood. Being grownup and being emotionally stunted. Being free and being tied down with my responsibilities. By my limitations and by my wants.

But that's the way of women who ventured out into the wild to be abandoned there. Who had to learn from scratch and make do. Who flirts with civilization and the occasional episodes of domesticity. You dance between what you want and what is wanted from you. And the only way to navigate is with a straight back, a myopic eye, and a belly heavy with acid. Heart optional.

But I'm just rambling, what do i know?

Okays, so I have this here Vox thing which is pretty cool. Not perfect by any means, especially for what I am used to. But the way it integrates many forms of media into one platform is a impressive. Very user friendly for those new to online journaling.

So I was archiving new and old writings on a blogspot site which I wasn't too happy with. I am currently taking those writings and moving them over here to ultimately delete that site. So this is why I'm warning you:

• I am able to backdate when adding posts to Vox which is what I'll be doing in order to maintain the chronologicaly continuity of my thoughts during those periods of my life. The immediate problem is that it will show up on your Neighborhood list and not immediately thrown back a few years in the archive. So if I have had a particularly productive day of transferring posts, unfortunately you'll be bogged down with emo rantings of my 17 or 20 year old self (a very scary thing, trust me).
  

I apologize in advance for any super spam from my archiving. And I know that lately the few times I have been posting they have been really really long. I cannot help this since it seems that Vox has yet to create a "cut" feature that will save people's scrolling pages. And if they did, please let me know so I can continue being all wordy and stuff with no guilt.

I created this Vox in order to keep up with my non-online (read: RL) friends and those who are new to blogging in general. I've attached this to my public accounts for reference. Again, I don't think that Vox has enabled non-member commenting so I don't know how many of my friends have found me here. If you have, drop me an email to let me know. Evidently I have no secrets which I'm okay with.

And if anyone is interested in reading some of my retarded old school writings, I've created a tag: writings.

Also, I had already begun this process of archiving months ago with the "first" entry being from, hilariously, 10/19/1997.

And there you go. Any questions? Comments? Sup?

Blame it on my reflective mood as of late. My nights spent scouring the YouTube for Wong Kar Wai movie scenes. The slow motion staring at Maggie Cheung's swinging hips to a mournful violin as she descends the alleyway steps to the noodle shop. Tony Leung's brooding lean towards Zhang Ziyi's lips while the voice of Nat King Cole crooning in Spanish grows louder. I've been humming during idle moments. A certain order of notes while typing, while going down the hall for water, walking to the train...

During a lull in conversation in the cab during our second date.

"Quizas, quizas..." It was only a couple of words and a couple of notes. I swear, it was completely subconscious my doing that. But in hindsight- I mean, walking and laughing down the streets still warmed by the music and drink of the blues club overlooking Bleeker Street. The light drizzle of the night while hopping into a cab and then settling in silence. Quizas, quizas, quizas.

He crooked his head in thought then looked at me. "Do you know Wong Kar Wai?"

I believe I gasped. "I LOVE his movies!" Wasn't I just talking about this with you, guys? Reading and posting and such? Later in the afternoon, I actually went to Amazon to read more reviews and then order- "I just ordered '2046' and 'In the Mood for Love' just today."

"It took me some time to figure out what was going on. Didn't know there were three of them and I saw '2046' first," and he adjusted his position so my head could find better purchase on his shoulder

A week after returning from Florida, bored with the world, I met him when I crashed his last house party with his roommates before they all left the loft to live on their own. Two days later he called me which was actually quite impressive. Three weeks after that we were dancing to music by the Camaroonian band at S.O.B.'s. Five days after that, tonight, we were both chuckling at some outrageous guy in a mullet and muttonchops, wearing a red plether jacket rejected even back in the eighties and too tight pants whooping alone like a mad fan right before the performers on the low stage at the small, intimate blues club. We had become more than comfortable enough, the conversations so easy, our laughing at the same things. In the cab, I laid my head on his lap and watched him and the cab's ceiling and Broadway flash by. His hands started to stroke my hair.

"I have Netflix already delivering 'Days of Being Wild' by tomorrow or something," he continued.

"Aw, Man. That's the only one I hadn't seen out of the three." Sometimes, when I turn my attention back to him, I find him looking at me. Not looking in the standard sense but more studying me. I didn't find it creepy, just different. I like the way he looks at me.

"Well, I think you should to watch it with me, perhaps."

I started to smile, yet again. I had been doing a lot of smiling that night. He's a good kisser.

"Is that right?" I answered slowly.

"Yup. In fact I've made up my mind. You should see it this Saturday."

When he called me a few days prior, I facetiously apologized to him that I shouldn't have gotten him tipsy previously and I should have treated him like the gentleman he was and kept my hands off of him. It was bad form I insisted between smiling teeth while my eyes roamed the sky above when he met me at West Fourth Street that night. He had chuckled and "accepted" my apologies adding, Well, it was obvious how very attracted you were to me. I chuckled in return.

"We're only going to watch the movie, right?" I wasn't that tipsy this time. Nothing to muddle up the thinking. I did find myself being attracted to him. And this was the best series of dates I had  in a long time. The  first  time I felt comfortable enough to even consider-

He continued running his fingers through my hair. The day's humidity and resultant rains did nothing good for me. He didn't seem to mind.

He smiled at me. I smiled at him back as he lowered his head for a quick kiss. I forget which one of us spoke next, maybe I was a little tipsy.

"Maybe."

BodegaCat

Bodega Cat knows no fear. Bodega Cat, in fact, wants to know what the fuck you're looking at.

Bodega Cat wishes your big old feet would move out of his way while he plays with that penny that's caught under the cardboard in front of the cashier window.

Bodega Cat doesn't give a fuck about your lottery numbers.

Bodega Cat has no quarters for your laundry.

Bodega Cat also will not give you change for a dollar. Bodega Cat recommends you buy some gum or chips or something.

Bodega Cat will swipe at your damned shoelace because he felt it was judging him. No one 'judges' Bodega Cat.

Bodega Cat will allow you to pet the back of his head but only for two seconds, then Bodega Cat will rowr menacingly and claw at you to back the fuck up. Every friggin time. Don't you get it puny tall thing? Why must you keep talking to Bodega Cat like a friggin baby? Kwooty Wooty, what? I'm Bodega Cat, Bitch. You pet Bodega Cat when Bodega Cat rubs up against you. Recognize.

Bodega Cat often rubs up against people's legs to wipe something off. Bodega Cat's just keeping it real.

Bodega Cat talks in third person. You're lucky Bodega Cat is even acknowledging you. Now where's that penny?

I'm now in her bedroom on the computer. After the eating and polite conversation, they drop something on me. Well, my mother did with the prodding of the others. Now I'm in her bedroom digesting. Both the food and the new information. My mother is singing along with Ver's singing and his accompanying on the keyboard. A second man has just left the bathroom and creates a third voice. All slightly out of tune but singing with passion. Ziggy snorts in amusement while sitting on my mother's bed typing out a science paper on my laptop. Though the auditory ridiculousness does hit my ears the same time it does the boy, I'm still thinking deep thoughts.

My mother's considering leaving me. Leaving me to go back to the Philippines. Leyte is so very far away.

Leah and I were discussing families over noodles. Earlier that day I felt I got a slap in the face when I picked up my phone at work and found my mother crying on the other end.

"I miss you!" she sobbed out.

"Mom- What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Joanna," she uttered sniffing. There are only a few times in my memory I've heard my mother crying. Hearing such sounds are the scariest for a child, no matter what age this child may be.

"Where are you? At home?" my eyes were wide in slight shock and panic.

"No. I'm at work. I just miss you. I haven't seen you in so LONG!"

And I felt horrible. I mean, I thought I was doing my end. Make sure the bills get paid, Speak to her on the phone every other day. Take her out to dinner or to get a facial every couple of months or so. Ziggy sees her practically every day... I thought she was straight. But then I tried to count back to recount exactly what day I did see her last and once I was going back past three weeks I felt like shit.

Sure, I can have excuses. Plenty. And frankly the main one is that after ten hours a day at work, I'm exhausted. Her home is the polar opposite in direction to my home. And she works on Saturdays so that's not an option. And then she tends to be busy on Sundays...

"Mom. I'm so sorry. How about tonight? I'll come right over tonight and-"

"Oh, no. Not tonight. I'll be out late dancing..."

I rolled my eyes.

"Leah-" I said fueled with more than a couple lychee sangrias and in-between bites of duck noodles. "Am I evil? Am I a terrible daughter or something? My Mom was crying, Lee. Crying! Holy shit, yo-"

"Girl... You're not evil." And then we proceeded to play a version of Mom Go-Fish. My mother is like this sometimes. Child, one day she did that. And we giggled and laughed while the makeup of our dining neighbors changed several times. I abandoned the obviously weak sangria and upped it to mango mojitos.

And I told Leah about how Ziggy and I are the only family of my mother's here. All her other siblings are back in the Philippines. She was the one who had to leave to find work to send money home. And she fed them all, clothed them all, educated them all from so far away. And had my dumb ass. Leah asked when my mother would be retireing. I said "soon". In age it would be soon. In reality I want her retired NOW. She's been either a domestic or a housekeeper for so long. Longer than I feel comfortable with. She's older now. Her body is showing its strain. I wanted her to retire last year but she kept throwing up excuses for it being too soon. The social security check would be severely cut. She would lose the amazing health benefits she gets from the union. Always something more along the lines of security. She needs to work in order to make sure that everything is met, her health and fatigue be damned.

Which of course ups the pressure on me. I should be the one taking care of her. My mother's been working for others for so long in her life. As the theoretical "man" of our family unit, I should be the one providing for her so that she wouldn't have to be on her knees scrubbing toilets. This is my mother, man. I should be the one making sure that she has enough  health insurance so she doesn't tax herself anymore.

"Oh stop, Joanna," Mom would fuss as she tries to shoo my spoken concerns to her. "What would I do all day anyway? I would be bored."

What?

"Do you think she'll go back when she retires?"

"Well, I dunno," I answered Leah. "I mean, she used to mention that she wanted to go back to the Philippines when she retired. But she hasn't said anything like that lately. And, you know, she loves Ziggy and stuff, so why would she leave us?" I thought I sounded reasonable. But to be frank, this was the first time I was thinking about this possibility in a long while.

"Word," Leah chuckled. "Cause she thinks it's hard seeing you NOW..." she prodded.

"Straight UP. I mean, cause that wouldn't be like rolling over to... I dunno...  Philly or anything for a visit and such. I mean, DAMN."

Leah agreed with her laughter as she reached with her chopstick for another helping of beef. I stared at my own bowl as I started mentally flipping through the concept, the alternate reality. It was twelve hours of straight airplane time to Japan for the first leg of the trip. Then to Manila. Then another damned plane to their island. Then from the airport through the mountains to the other side of the island where her home village was. I mean, DAMN. And one plane ticket then was like, what? Two thousand dollars or something? And that was fifteen years  ago with fifteen years ago dollars and stuff... DAMN.

"I mean, I would never see here again, would I?" I looked up at Leah with wide eyes of realization. She sympathetically shook her head 'no'.

Damn.

Now they have taken out my old acoustic guitar, tuned it up and have begun playing it and singing. My mother, Tito Ver, the other guy whose name I never remember but I'm too polite to ask for, and Connie, my Godmother. The new border at my mother's house with the last one moving back to the Philippines now that her body gave out from her domestic work keeping her from working. Tita Connie just gave me a pair of gold hoop earrings. I told her she didn't have to but she waved her hands at me stating that she has a lot of catching up on her gifts to me from so many years of her and I not being together. Her life and my life had different roads for a long while, now meeting up again... at my mother's house. I smile and give her a kiss. The last gift she was able to give me when she knew she would see me was inexplicably a crucifix. With it a card expressing her apologies and personal guilt... for she feels she's been a lacking godmother to me which is why I am not a practicing catholic. Our roads took different turns.

"So tell me what you wanted to talk about, Mom," I kept pressing while eating the turkey on my plate. She was next to me on the couch pouring more sparkling apple cider into my glass goblet which was on my snack table. She put the dark green bottle on her snack table beside mine. Ver was on a chair between the kitchen and the livingroom. Other!Guy on the other couch. Tita Connie the only one actually eating her plate at the kitchen table. I would just like to add, on my plate was also some green salad with dressing Ver made, cocktail shrimp with the sauce, cold mussels, a chicken wing and rice. A very odd, eclectic buffet of food. Now you get a sense of what made me.

"Oh, well..." she started carefully. That got my hackles up. I stopped chewing and looked off into a blank corner of the room, waiting for whatever she was about to drop. What the hell was she about to drop? And in front of these other people who always seem to be here. From her church, of course. Were they trying to sell her something and she was asking, in some unnatural way, my blessing? Were they trying to sell something to me by-proxy? Going through her? Using my odd style of filial piety as an in? More insurance? Some seminar? As some here may know of me, I don't trust much, Especially when it comes to things very important to me. My money. My home. My Mother, especially. Of course, my heart.

"Well, I want to go back," she stated. I looked at her, trying to gage her meaning. It sounded somewhat non-committal. Like she said 'I want to change my look' meaning a new hairstyle and not a nosejob. "I want to go back to the Philippines and get a new lot. Someplace for me to stay whenever I go back there..." Whenever? What was she, planning on globetrotting all of the sudden? I didn't fully understand.

"I don't understand, Mom. Don't you already have land there?" I saw it, I was there. It was mostly jungle with a couple of ricefields, sure. From my memory, there was an agrarian family there who collected fruit off the land and would sell it for money. I thought she had built a house there. I thought- "What about that land there? You're just going to leave it? Not do anything with it?" I'm a American. We know the value of land.

"No, no, Joanna. I want to-" then she sucked her teeth in slight frustration. She knew it would be difficult to explain to me, especially since I went from polite, breezy daughter amongst her guests to a cut-and-dry, all about business and what-about-my-mother flat demeanor quickly. She shuffled off in her sandaled feet down the hall to her bedroom to get something to show me.

"I don't think you get what she's meaning," Tito Ver said as she disappeared down the hall. I looked at him wondering if this was his hairbrained idea. And whether he was trying to stiff my mom out of any of her cash. "She wants to buy another lot. She will show you, I drew up how the apartments would look. And it's only about 200 pesos a square meter, so it wouldn't be very much..." A peso? What the fuck is a peso in actual money? "She just wants to have something over there... you know."

Know what, I asked myself. She returned with three pages stapled together. On the first  page was a hand drawn picture of a two level building shaped like an L. There was a terrace along the outside of the second floor. The remaining rectangle outside the L was an open courtyard. The second page was a floor plan of the first floor cross section. There would be a gate so it would a closed courtyard...

"See, Joanna," she began. "It will have four 'doors', we will rent out three of them and the bigger one will be for us when we go there." Again with the slightly non-committal language. Stop trying to okie doke around the real intentions here. The third page was the floor plan of the second floor. I flipped the pages constantly. Brought the papers up to my eyes close, squinting at the lines, the arrows indicating windows, stairs, where the laundry would be. And occasionally in-between the sounds of  confusedly turning paper, they, mostly Ver, the artist whose rendering I was handling in shock, and mom kept trying to explain. And I cut through their rough English and Filipino terms. A 'lot' being obviously a section of land. A 'door' meant a form of apartments or rooms but it would be more applicable to say apartments in this case. They were talking in pesos...

"So how much are we talking about here?"

"About twenty thousand."

"Huh," I uttered. They kept quiet looking at the blankness of my face.

I tried to sift through the many questions in my head to find the one that would get the most information from them. Again with the non-straight talking and the trying to sugar coat. "Sooo... you're going to be renting out apartments here, right?"

"Right."

"So you'll need 'somebody'. Somebody to watch the place and collect the monies and such, right? When you're not there, right? Not your brother, though."

"Yeah, um... I guess."

Okay, it's getting clearer to me now. "But what about the 'lot' and the house you bought and built for your parents?" Lola and Lolo died many years ago. "what about that  house?"

"Oh, well we would have to divide... you know. I would want my own." Ah, divide... with the other children, meaning her brother and remaining sisters. The only one with sense there is my Aunt Iluminada. With the money sent back, she went and became a midwife. Now she's very successful with her own practice and a large house. Her brother on the other hand, Juan, is a dumbass. I know this. I knew this years ago when I saw him last. I was seventeen. He of course was older by at least ten years. Spoiled. Irresponsible. My mother brought me back there and being the head of the family started handing out money as well as old clothes we didn't want to help out. Juan had his young children and his hardworking wife. He had no job. He took the money and rented a scooter and joyrided up and down the dirt roads. Not your brother, I had said to my mom. Not him. He's a man and needs to not live off of you anymore. She would chuckle and look up into the ceiling in thought when I would fuss about him. But he's my brother, she would say. Yeah, well you're my mother.

So I looked at the papers again. Looked at the plans. Looked at my mother. In my mind floated the reality of plane trips, limited electricity and phones in such a far off section of the world... much less a dense, overgrown island. My mother's lack of email skillz. My not wanting to be lacking a mother. My being twelve years old again, picking up the phone from the hospice that morning and then announcing outloud in numbness I was half an orphan. My not wanting to be more than the length of an island away from her.

In the silence, Mom, true to form, started to shush and wave her hands again, as if to fan out any stresses or concern. "Oh, foo-! It's nothing. Just something I'm thinking of. When I go back this year, this is just something to see. Don't get worried about anything. Just wondering. It's nothing!"

I looked at my mother, shuffling around again. Keeping busy collecting plates and offering dessert. Pouring drinks. How she left her own parents, brother and sisters back home to go to a strange place so different from her village just to provide for them. How she's seen them only about once a decade since, finding out by telephone about the death of one then two parents. I heard her cry that night while she was on the phone. I remember that well. I am her only family here. The rest are over there. But she was my only family here as well. And I knew she missed her sisters. And i knew she missed her language. And I knew that concrete buildings can't house all hearts and spirits...

And I wondered when I would finally hit that lotto so I could make it happen for her.

What does she need? A few thousand dollars for a lot and her own roof? A way to take in income while over there so she doesn't have to work... only some thousands of dollars? Okay, I guess I could try. For her. Okay, if that's what it takes.

Wait- is she going to be like Landlady in KungFu Hustle? Shit- she doesn't even know Lion's Roar.

Maybe if I work hard enough, she'll have that place she's always wanted. Be surrounded by her family again. And maybe I'll hit that lick and have enough money to make the house nicer for her. And be there more than once a decade. Maybe more than once a year. Maybe more than that.

I'm still digesting. The music has stopped. The men have left. I hear my mother and Tita Connie speaking Tagalog in the kitchen while eating pineapple. Connie's kids are grown, one married with two babies. Connie's marriage over. She took advantage of the realestate boom of Bayonne and sold the house for a "very good price" and has moved in with mom in my old room for the next few years until she's finished working. So she can go back home to Cebu. Back to her native language Cebuano. As Ziggy and I stood by the front door to respectfully say goodbye to the departing men, my mom mentions that we have to still 'talk'. So I still have a talk to do. About future plans. Future happenings. More work to do. More things to think about.

Now the only music is pouring out of Ziggy's ipod headphones while he's still typing his report. The music's too loud. He'll go deaf, in time. But for now, I'll let him enjoy the music. Looking at the slight smile on his lips as he types, stops to check his notes and then types some more, I think his few minutes of enjoyment into his own little world is worth it. At least for now.

I had to break up with my imaginary boyfriend this weekend.

Yes, it was very iSad but I had an iRealization: iBoyfriend just isn't that into me as I had iHoped he would be.

And just so we know we're not talking about Steve Jobs or any of his products, software or well-packaged marketing devices:
iBoyfriend = boyfriend I have conjured up in my mind stemming from taking an eCrush and blowing said person up to a highly idealized version of what an RL!Boyfriend would be if and when we actually met in Real Life. Y'know: eTru Wub.

Aw, man. iBoyfriend and I were just completely great together. He and I had the same general musical tastes but where I had more aural experience in old school "roots & berries" Hip Hop and was completely entranced with that classic Jazz that would only be heard in over-crowded, dank basements of 60's New York, he really dug trip-hop and some other sort of experiemental sound. He and I merged our respective musical genres together and would spend many a night just drinking wine while having a music listening sessions, trying to blow each other's minds with one track after another while Dave Chappelle would be on mute on the TV.

iBoyfriend loves going to brunch, too. And it was fun to just walk out the house on a Lazy Sunday and just point our feet in a direction and just shuffle until we hit a new restaurant to brunch at. He often teased me for usually ordering the same type of dish: Eggs Benedict with smoked Salmon and Hollandaise sauce. I would firmly remind iBoyfriend that I found it amusing that every restuarant would name it differently (I always knew it as Eggs Norwegian from my once regular brunch spot of Isabella's) and it had become a personal goal of mine to taste all the variations of such a sinple dish the City has to offer... much like my obsession with Tiramisu.

iBoyfriend and I travelled frequently. Actually iBoyfriend didn't live here, but would live somewhere else. All the better for him to visit for a weekend or so and then I'll send him off somewhere. Then I would go and visit him whereever he is, and then have travel back home. Quality over quantity. And all the more reason to miss each other more, thus upping the Potential Angst Factor (PAF) which of course would make the sex better and keep the relationship going... oh, I've worked out this whole iRelationship iDynamic fully in my head. And then at least once ever quarter or something, iBoyfriend and I would go off on a trip together... and then miss out on all the choice tourist spots.

iBoyfriend was satisfactorily hung. Don't ask.

iBoyfriend was a nice mix of sophisticated maturity, with a puckish sense of humor. We would heckle the TV together frequently until one of us would be doubled over with tears.

Oh, oh... I could go on and on about iBoyfriend and how wonderful we were together. But being a pragmatic and proactive chick, I could see that perhaps iBoyfriend wasn't as iEnthralled with me as I had (ironically) iImagined him to be. I would try not to get too iJealous when another eFriend would comment to get more attention from eHim and it worked. When I felt the need to eStalk in order to get a more eHandle on my iBoyfriend in my eMind, I knew I had to eSnap out of it and ePull myself iTogether. If he really did iCare, he would have burst out of the cocoon of eLife and my iFantasies and ran arms open headlong in my RL*um*Life! I knew I was just being iSilly over my eCrush and rubbed my eyes drying in the eGlare of the computer. I gave myself the eTalk that there's more iFish in the eSea (who, of course, would be more Hung than just satisfactorily - I just chant this to myself at night frequently just to make the good dreams come *cough*)

So yes, iBoyfriend. I have to let you go from my ePsyche for this year. Maybe one day you'll come to your i/eSenses and see what an awesome iGirlfriend I can be... but I'm not gonna wait for you - okay, for not much longer.

I can rock your iWorld. As long as I'm not too distracted my the eNets. But you know what I'm saying.

It obviously goes without saying that with constant practice, the ability to get one's movie out from the head onto paper should get easier.

My process so far is to traipse through life, getting flashes of scenes or dialog in the imagination, hopefully being able to record them then walking away. What I'm left with is sometimes disjointed fragments that I end up staring at, hoping that I can join them together somehow into some cohesive prose.

It's a long, slow, maddening, stupid, stupid process.

I've been trying to practice. Constantly. Yes, I'll say it since I oft times have no inner censor: The tools I keep beside me while writing is a stiff drink, music, and a vibrator. Let's keep it all the way real here. What? It's for my sore neck.

Anyway. Trying to quiet distraction around me like no TV, dim lights, pulling out the internet plug, yes even shutting off the music now and then is difficult when you have all these noises competing in your head. It's hard for me to focus. The liquor isn't working. Why isn't the liquor working?

So meanwhile, self-doubt dances around you. Just why the fuck are you doing this? And who are you doing this for? For yourself, right? For yourself! Meanwhile you click refresh refresh refresh craving for feedback. Dammit. Stupid head.

The liquor isn't working. The batteries, they are dying. How did Hemingway do this?

How nice it has been to be squirreled away in my little world alone. The batteries, they're dying. Trying to reorganize one's thoughts finally. My stomach can't take another mini-pizza. Some flashes of self-professed genius. Some flamin copouts. I'm running out of pineapple juice. The liquor...

This should all get easier. Easier with practice. Practice and a weeks supply of some frozen citrus product. Citrus and whatever vodka I have left in the cabinet. Wine! I have wine. Wine and one of those giant packs of AA batteries from Home Depot. Power tools! Home Depot is for the power tools!

One day people will remember my name. They'll remember I was the crazy battery-powered, wild-haired lady sticky from improvised pulpy screwdrivers spilled all over her chest from sipping while lying down with her laptop on her stomach. They'll remember me. They'll remember me.

Wait- Maybe the liquor is working. What is this I'm doing right now?

One beautiful thing about living in New York City is that it changes all the time.

Granted, neighborhoods and their makeup changes frequently here, usually every ten years, but that's not what I'm getting at. I'm talking about how what seems familiar changes month by month by the most seemingly trivial ways. One month it's oppressively hot, then mild, then it's blanketed by a deep white. It's never the same weather-wise. And the weather determines the overall mood. Psychologically, I cannot imagine folks who live in Florida or California who have to deal with the same sort of weather all year round. It's the constant flux that keeps things interesting. Much as it is with people, I suppose. It's the constant change that builds and creates the character.

And life, much like New York, is good.

The thing with giving up television for Lent is that you have no idea what's happening in the outside world. That also includes the weather. A person in the past few months had been taking me out to dinner a couple of times. And to a couple of really nice places, no less. Hating to being in any way indebted to anyone, I insisted on returning the favor by taking him to dinner. It was agreed for Sunday night. An hour or so beforehand, on a lark, I decided to check the weather. It hinted on some sort of snow if not rain. I debated on cancelling. I didn't.

At eight o'clock, at the prescribed time, I sat at the window of a very cozy and intimate restaurant, sipping on a red watching the fat flakes of snow silently fall outside the window before me. Of a place of only ten tables, only two including mine were occupied. Manu Chao began to play over the sound system. I was very happy to be there.

It was not like the snow of a couple of weeks back which only consisted of aggrevating sleet. It was the fat, lazy flakes. The ones that sit on your black coat like dandruff and on your lashes like confetti. The ones that make you walk slower, just to gather as much on your person as a form of gratitude. It was the good type of snow. Granted, we're not Canada, but we knows our snows.

Soon, my guest joined me, and we had a lovely meal at this random place with no neon name out front; a place which I had discovered which made my meal taste even more richer. I continued with my wine and he the beer. With the amount of spirits in our systems coupled with the charismatic weather, cabs were the only option we considered. Onto an out-of-the-beaten-path bar with a hidden, speakeasy feel around St. Marks hidden within a Japanese restaurant. Then to an Irish Pub well past Harlem up around the Columbia-Presbyterian area - what neighborhood would that be considered? Irish pub in the homey spirit of a policeman's/fireman's locale. More friendly than most. An excellent jukebox and we arrived in time to watch, muted, the high points of the Oscars: Best Actor, Best Actress, Best Director then Best Film. We shouted out our faves before the winners were announced. Shouted out when they were. Clapped wildly for whomever. It was a good time.

His friend met up with us, and more drinks flowed. Not being corporates whores as I, they kept the drinks and shots of vodka flowing, much to my horror. On a Sunday night... a "school" night, no less!

But who was I to say no? It was all good.

This is something that I had written two years ago today. Something, as always, off the cuff. Recycled, cleaned up some, and reposted for your pleasure.

I remember a long phone conversation I had with my brother.

He is the oldest with me being the youngest. Over a quarter century between his birth and mine. He can recall a time well before my knowledge. He can recount a World Wars, historic moments in color with my learning of them in black and white. He remembers the generations before me.

He told me a story of our father.

me and dad

The legend of my father being chased out of the deep, Jim Crow, South, not even near a teenager, with dogs barking at his heels and a well-meant threat ringing in his ears: THEY are coming for you.

"They" being the "Them" who you cross the street for when they approach. "They" had their own services and their own amenities you weren`t worthy of. See, "You" were dirty, less human, not as good as "Them". So their water was cleaner than yours, must be since your water was labeled "Colored Only". Comfort and convenience was a begrudging privledge for you but a right for them, so you sat in the back but always had to give up a seat for them, no matter your age or fatigue. And if their children harrassed your children, don`t ever fight - not even speak - back.

But my father did, and now "They" were coming... I spent that night after that phone conversation with images of my father running for his life out of South Carolina, running from the KKK.

Now, not even a century later, there`s no more running. The daughter of that 14-year old boy never had a reason to run, nor had an inkling to stand down. I can eat where I want, drink whatever I want, work as I please and go forth with only my heart`s desires or fears being either my fuel or limitations.

Back then, this was only a dream.

And that time of fear, hatred, murderous thoughts, the separations of Church, State, Race & Creed are long thought in our past, past history. We read about them in books, watched grainy documentaries, squint at grey tones pictures of children being attacked by dogs and firehose water bruising their skins. Of marches miles long and the still-takes of the grotesque contorsions faces and mouths uttering words of hate. But then you look at the calendar and count on your fingers; it wasn`t that long ago.

Sometimes on the train or in the elevator, I look at older folks, folks who would have been there, or at least remembered. I ask them in my mind, "Where were you during Jim Crow? What were YOU doing during the Civil Rights?"

But whatever the case, it`s not then anymore. No one can dictate my person or my character simply by who my parents where and what they happened to be.

And today we celebrate the birth of a man who, along with his generation, a long line of people with a dream of today, helped me be who I am before you. My words, my soul.

Don`t you ever notice that whenever someone is killed or assasinated, it`s always on the cusp of something bigger?

Malcolm X, before that fateful day at the Audabon, had already rejected the highly seperatist views of the Nation of Islam, expanded his concept of race and inclusion after his Hajj, he was starting to adjust his philosophies to embrace the civil rights of all with the founding of his own Muslim Mosques, though his focus was on the plight of the Struggle, he started to look outside America, to the plight of colored peoples throughout the world. Before the eyes of his pregnant wife and his baby girls, he was shot down before his vision was fully constructed put into practice.

Martin Luther King started to see the roots of racism, and was going to fight it from the bottom up. He was joining the Poor People`s Movement and had even lived in a Chicago slum with his family to fully understand the different experiences of the different peoples of his country. The Nobel Peace Prize winner barely made enough to feed his own family while he was working towards the betterment of people everywhere. With so much to lose, he walked on. He was killed before his fight for the poor could fully be started.

And they did what they did almost fully knowing they themselves would never quite see the fruits of their labors. They saw old laws being abolished with new ones being signed. But they never saw them in practice. And it wasn`t too long after their deaths that a new generation were born with little to no knowledge of what others had to go through just for a better day. And perhaps, that`s the greatest thanks of all.

My father still used the term "colored" and sometimes "Negro". Nowadays, people use just their eyes without having to use labels, and even then, the color of the skin isn`t as important than the personality or the heart. Wasn`t that The Dream? Isn`t that the Truth now?

So for many, today we rest. It`s a rare Monday that`s actually enjoyed. We play with children, lie with lovers, upkeep the homes we consider our slices of heaven. We laugh with friends, perhaps a quiet moment in a coffeeshop, perhaps a precious afternoon with a hobby. This is a day in which we don`t HAVE to follow any rites today. No religious services necessary. No parades. No carols of celebration.

Go forth. Live the Dream. Be it the American Dream or the dream of your forefathers - or at least of your parents. Just Dream on. Because it`s so clear now... Dreams can come true. (1/17/2005)