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I wrote this two days ago, in my blog. I will post it here to contextualize what I'm actually feeling right now:

10/21/08

"There is a breaking point. There's a point where you must stop and look around. You look around and you look, and you look…and you look. And at this point, you notice that everything is different. You expect it to be one way, and it isn't. You expect it to be the way you imagined: everything perfect; everything sunny and shiny and shimmering. This, this is the breaking point, that you realize life sucks because it's hard, and it's hard 'cause it sucks. There is no breaking that cycle; that circuit is constant and current. And no matter how you look, no matter which way you squint your eye, and stare away, everything stays that dismal color of gray.

I'm not at this point. But. I see it off in the distance. I see myself fast approaching to this land of lack; this colorless canvas of melancholy, and I'm not all too surprised.

Ok, I'm bracing myself for the sudden halt of what I'm doing to my life. I'm willingly making myself vulnurable again. I have to stop and question where my self esteem failed me, and why I can't seem to stop myself for self inflicting torture.

Why do I love them? How can I love them?

Him?

Somewhere I fell for his sweet talk, and that insatiable smile he gives me when he stares. That smile he gives me, and only me, when I'm in the room (not to say he doesn't give it to someone else when I'm not; this I'm aware of). He's too much like me to handle.

I've always said I want to date myself, but after meeting him, realize it hurts too much.

I've fallen again, and this time I don't care. This time, I will go along with the lie, aware of it's pretense. I will hold on to it and let myself love him. I will love him. And I will hurt. And I don't care because…

…because there is a breaking point, and I'm not there yet.

The world is gray, but his eyes are blue. So blue.

-T"

10/22/08

Now to vent:

I walked home today from his house, late and sans sex. On my walk home, I rewrote that stupid entry into my Blogger, over and over again, trying to find that place I had been standing. Looking back and looking for the chalk outline of my body on the ground. I'm a character, fictional and over the top. And my foils were just gaudy. There was the man stopped at a red light, screaming at himself in the rearview mirror for something trivial; there was the speeding cab driver unconcerned for any drunk pedestrians who happened to be stumbling across the street; there was the homeless man snoring to himself while cradling his 40oz. in his arm. I've never felt so understood by my surroundings.

The air was cold and smelled of epiphany. My kafiyeh kept the wind at arms length--the same kafiyeh he scoffed at with a turned up nose, and an arrogant wallet. I let myself love him, or better yet, needed to love him. Once again, I became, not a man--a person--, but a sex object. Dark skin, dark eyes, the Other. My audience is full of perverts and I'm growing tired of hearing their cat calls. And I almost cried upon realizing his whistles were disguised in his whispers-his wolf cry in the soft "baa" of the sheep.

I felt cheap.

I grabbed my things and left, refusing his money for a cab. Keep it, I'd rather walk than have to thank you. How foolish I am. A part of me hoped for some climactic chase: him running out bearfoot down the street, begging me to understand; him following me in his car, pleeding with me to let him give me a ride; or, something as simple as repeated phonecalls. I got nothing. Even as I turned the corner onto my street, my heart still thought for certain, it surely couldn't be over. Push open the door, T, he's not coming.

And so here I am, at my breaking point. And it only took a day for it to happen. His eyes stayed blue, but my heart, it went color blind.

Hello gray world, my train has stopped.

-T

Life Lesson #243

There is a breaking point. There's a point where you must stop and look around. You look around and you look, and you look…and you look. And at this point, you notice that everything is different. You expect it to be one way, and it isn't. You expect it to be the way you imagined: everything perfect; everything sunny and shiny and shimmering. This, this is the breaking point, that you realize life sucks because it's hard, and it's hard 'cause it sucks. There is no breaking that cycle; that circuit is constant and current. And no matter how you look, no matter which way you squint your eye, and stare away, everything stays that dismal color of grey.

I'm not at this point. But. I see it off in the distance. I see myself fast approaching to this land of lack; this colorless canvas of melancholy, and I'm not all too surprised.

Ok, I'm bracing myself for the sudden halt of what I'm doing to my life. I'm willingly becoming the "other woman" again. I have to stop and question where my self esteem failed me, and why I can't seem to stop myself for self inflicting torture.

Why do I love them? How can I love them?

Him?

Somewhere I fell for his sweet talk, and that insatiable smile he gives me when he stares. That smile he gives me, and only me, when I'm in the room (not to say he doesn't give it to someone else when I'm not; this I'm aware of). He's too much like me to handle.

I've always said I want to date myself, but after meeting him, realize it hurts too much.

I've fallen again, and this time I don't care. This time, I will go along with the lie, aware of it's pretense. I will hold on to it and let myself love him. I will love him. And I will hurt. And I don't care because…

…because there is a breaking point, and I'm not there yet.

The world is grey, but his eyes are blue. So blue.

-T.(C).

Confused and...

Scared and,

Tired and,

22.

I've made a mistake.

Argh.

June, that's when I last posted. It's now mid October and I'm so nervous to start writing again. Why? I'm not sure; it's not as if anyone reads this (those that try never really understand all of my personal references, and in all honesty, I'm not too concerned with spelling things out for my audience), so why do I feel such unease when convincing myself to start blogging again? I'm too caffeinated at the moment to figure it out, and too young to be capable of it anyway.

Yesterday was a grand day. I sat in the passenger seat of Hollywood's parental SUV with the new crew of ladies accompanying me to Fright Fest. It's insane how quickly things can change. A year ago yesterday, I didn't know two of them, and was only reconnecting with the other. And while I was laughing and talking, a part of me was sad to think that it could all change again. What shockwave will come and disrupt my life? What event will lead to me growing closer or farther from my team of gays? My roommate is my best friend, and I never see him anymore. I don't mind it; I love him nonetheless, but I miss him.

The rides were crazy and hardly worth the wait, but what I find worth "it" is the day I got to spend laughing, screaming, and of course…eating.

I have a new job (for now) and it pays the bills.

My love life is non-existent. So, I cling to the residue of what once was, and try and convince myself I'm ok. That part of me has eroded completely, and yet I hold on to it like a peninsula to some great body of land. I know eventually I'll have to let it go and gaze at it from the shore, and island off in the distance, but for now, I'm too scared to let go. I grow tired of being independent (note the absence of the prefix "co," haha). Blah.

Ugh, ok I need to go work out; I need to drop a few more pounds before I parade around LA half naked for Halloween.

This was a nice refresher though, I'm sure I'll blog again once I'm dead from my cardio.

-T

The story of T.

Stranger: "Oh, what big biceps you have!"

T: "The better to carry around my emotional baggage with..."

~The End~

Honored.

Today:

There was a debate for immigration in one of my classes. My group unanimously voted me speaker. I was caught off guard. Afterwards a girl says,

"I don't know how you can major in Political Science..."

I reply,

"Um, I can't--I'm an English Lit Major."

"Oh, I just figured you studied Political Science because of they way you were so informed on the topic."

Yes, I am informed. Yes, I read immigration theory. But why this idea that in order to inform yourself on a topic, you must study it in school.

No, it is my brown skin and la viaje de mi Familia that causes my interest in the subject. It is the exodus of my people that causes me to inform myself. It is the discrimination they face, and their troubles I take for granted that instills an obligation in me. It is my grandmother's story, her pain, her risk, her life. It was the first generation's struggle that has allowed me to live in a third floor, exposed brick (fireplace included) apartment in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in Chicago, sipping Pinot Noir with my roommate.

I do not study the things I study because I have an interest in them, or because school forces me to. I study them because they are more a part of me as the melinin in my skin, and the breath in my lungs.

Thank you Grandmother.

-T

No Obligation Instilled.

Ok, here we go.

So whenever I start to blog, I have a list of things I want to address when beginning. The funny thing is that when I actually sit down, I'm at a loss of words. My fingers can't possibly convey the incredible amount of Feeling happening in my heart, mind, skin, bones. Everything feels. From the bottom of my pinky toe, to the follicle of my eye lash, everything feels. It's quite the phenomenon really. But anyway, now that my momentum is gaining inertia, let me begin.

C: He texted me recently. Out of the blue, I get a text. My night?: ruined. Well, not ruined, I exaggerate. But I was smacked in the face with a catalogue of emotions I had put away in my nightstand.

Why?

He texted me, and I wasn't ready to hear from him—not yet. Just when I put his shadow behind me, he jumps out from behind a bush and scares the living daylights out of me. And now here I am, trying once again, to shove his larger-than-me body back into a dresser drawer. I finally deleted him from my facebook. I needed to. Does that make me Immature? Yes. But am I feeling better from not constantly checking his status? Yes.

Now time for a little self-validating:

I'm 21, smart, and cute. I have a personality that warms the hearts of people everywhere (a bit stand-offish at first, yes, but warm nonetheless). I have a strong grounding of the reality around me, that albeit, is probably the locus of my neurosis.

Ok, now for the critique:

I'm an idiot, a martyr, and have absolutely no language to verbalize my emotions.

Haha. Yes, this is me.

I understand why he couldn't handle me. It's not even the fact that I still have emotions for him (although I do). What really hinders my progress is the fact that I actually let myself grow intimate with him. Never have I felt this. The Three before him were mere possibilities, a need to find out if I could be intimate with them. They were a Willingness, whereas C was the actual act. I let him in to my paper house and he ran in circles with a flame torch in hand. And now, my home is tattered and in great need of patching up.

God T, when are you going to give it up? It's been months and still you feel the need to negotiate emotions about him on your blogger. Fuck.

I'm an idiot. And I'm proud of it.

 

Ok, now to move on. I've always had these visions of grandeur, that one day I would write something epic. Something that would stop someone in their tracks and have them see a shade of the rainbow they've never seen before. I wanted to make their skin scream with understanding, and their hearts beat for the first time. I've grown up since then.

Now, all I want to do is write for the sake of writing. I'm unconcerned with epic. No, Truth now guides me. I want to sprawl my soul out onto paper and spell out the universe in an anecdote. And when I say "guides me" I mean the vision of, not the actuality. Haha, I'm far from being where I need to be to make sense on paper. My writing is nothing more than a precursor for the man I will one day be (again, a new refined vision of grandeur, haha).

I can't stop thinking about a verse from Stephen Crane's "War is Kind." It's insane:

 

XXII

A man said to the universe:

"Sir, I exist!"

"However," replied the universe,

"The fact has not created in me

A sense of obligation."

XXII

When the prophet, a complacent fat man,

Arrived at the mountain-top

He cried: "Woe to my knowledge!

I intended to see good white lands

And bad black lands,

But the scene is grey."

 

Do you see? This is true brilliance. No epic, no fantastic eloquent deviation, but just truth. My field is grey, my heart burns with it.

Ok, I have shit load more to say, but I've procrastinated enough from my Finals. It feels good to write again, Blogger. You are my vice.

-T

Swim Bather 29

(I warn whoever is reading this: It won't make sense unless you're familiar with Whitman (and If I know my friends well), let me apologize in advance.)

Ok, it's about 2 in the a.m. here. Here I lie in bed, listening to song 3. Tonight I lied on my back and let myself float down the river to sensuality. I, the 29^th bather, grabbed his hand and listened to his rhetoric. He recited his sweet sweet lines and let me feel again, touching that calous shell to my chest, neck, and cock.

Shh, he sings his song to himself, while I listen with entirely too many commas. My song whistles in tall grass, can you hear it? My barbaric yelp is no match for his.

I feel so clean.

-T

Disappointed For No Reason

Ladies and Gentlemen.

I don't remember the last time I posted something. It's been a while, and yes, I've been yelled at enough, ok, I get it. So here it is, an update. Or actually, I know the reason why I'm blogging, and it's less an update and more a trip down memory lane—a lane that leads to the yonder years of my emo-ness.

I just finished having a serious convo with C. We're officially just friends now, both of us have signed away our possibility with each other. And although this is the outcome I was hoping for, I'm oddly devastated. There's a part of me that is angry/sad/defeated/confused. My longest "serious" relationship lasted a month and a half, and it was hardly a relationship, in the contrived sense that you associate with the word. That boy did something to me; he was able to get me to open up. I did things with him, I never imagined I'd be comfortable enough to do with a man, after so short a time. Of my current friends, only 3 of them have seen me cry over my family, another saw me drunkenly cry over a man who was representative of my social positioning in the hierarchy of the Gays, and only a handful have any idea of the horrors I had to live with as a child. This man, this boy, he saw it all. I showed him all. Well, not all, but I gave him insights to those things that no one ever gets. My friends haven't learned about me because I chose to inform them. They saw it because they happened to be with me at the moment I cracked. Obviously, the amount of time I spend with them allowed for that to happen, it was only a matter of time, but a month and a half? And he didn't think I was opening up enough for him. I poured my heart and soul out to him, and he repaid me by criticizing me for being uncomfortable hearing about his baggage with his ex-boyfriend after only a month. Ridiculous, really. How dare he? And I'm here, made out to be emotionally incapable of a relationship, when really I'm the one that's emotionally mature beyond his years, but full of so much emotion, you'd never realize it.

Yes, this is what I wanted, for us to be friends, so where is the nexus of this blast disappointment? I don't care anymore. I just don't care. I'm not a creature made for dating. My heart belongs to too many for me to give out anymore. So, instead, I'm going to sleep—sleep some human sleep—and pray for God to give me another heart.

-T

Madre.

OK, quickly before I start reading my Queer Theory:

I've just left my Motherhood in the [Latin@] Community experiential learning class, and I'm dripping with thought. Today, we tried (unsuccessfully, I think) to define what "motherhood" is. Adjectives such as Loving, Caring, Guiding, Nurturing were quickly fired, but how is that specific to Motherhood? Is a father not loving? Caring? Guiding? Nurturing? I raised this question, and was rebutted with the word Creation. A mother gives birth. Again, I raised "What about women who are unable to conceive?" What about those women who adopt, are they not Mothers?

I was then giving a very confused ramble about how the "creation" isn't only physical, but one of bonds; a mother creates the dynamic of a child's love. OK, fine, but how is that any different from what a man does when he adopts.

I'm trying to pinpoint the locus of Motherhood; it's vital to my work and conception of the women around me. I'm not trying to be misogynist by any means, quite the contrary: I don't think there's a bigger feminist who was born equipped with a penis, than me. I'm simply trying to locate the root of what it means to be a mother. I can define it in context to the oppressive patriarchal society that I live in, but not its core; not the heart of what Motherhood is, or stems from. What defines it from Fatherhood, other than the presence of two x chromosomes?

And why does my conception of women rely so heavily on this? I think, because somewhere in the dark shadows of my soul, is this need to be a Mother. Or not to be one, but to have a child love me with the passion that is given to a Mother, in particular to the mothers in my Latin@ community. I want my child to be, not a part or continuation of my world, but I want her to BE my world, and through her, I will discover myself. I will realize what it means to be alive: to proliferate love--make it eternal. Is it possible? Does my phallis undo any possible chance I have at being loved to that extreme?

Oh, this penis of mine: it hinders me so. Priveligdged, I am, but not internally. I'm proud of being "man" but I can't help but notice how much harder it is to understand my female sisters. I wanted to volunteer for an orginization that empowers highschool latin@ women, an orginization that sparks ideas of feminism in these young women who have no idea how to verbalize their oppresion. But, I was denied, because I'm a man. I'm horribly saddened over the loss of growth I could have had through these women who were wholly different than me.

What is a Mother?

Not me, at least not yet.

-T

Almost…

Ok, here it is: my first honest to God blog of the month.

This past month has been pathetic. I found myself enjoying, obsessing, and writhing—all because of a boy. Yes, I did it once again, only this time there was something different: the boy was genuinely interested. He was a "good catch" so to speak, on paper at least. He's the type of person anyone can force themselves to get along with, with ease, but on the same token, he's the boy who distracts you long enough for you to realize you've wasted too much time. And so here I am, two months later, and realizing I'm still not ready for a relationship. I'm 21 years old, and I've never had a serious relationship. I question myself: constantly: rigorously: unfairly. And for what? To appease some weird desire to be coupled? To fit in with the mainstream? Do I need to prove to my friends that Yes! even I can be loved by a man!

"I love you," he says, "but I feel sorry for the man who falls in love with you…"

How encouraging my friends are, brutally honest with a belt in hand, ready to whip the sense back into me. But I don't feel sorry for that man; a choice is needed, and his would be respected. I would never force someone to stay. Go, it would be easier for the both of us, but the choice is his. His feet will follow his brain or his heart. Both will be painful, but I can't pity a man who does what he thinks is right.

Ok, fuck this controlled ramble. Here's the truth: I'm fucked up, in the head. And I'm highly aware of how fucked up I am. The truth is that I would LOVE to find my soul mate, but honestly, I'm scared. I'm scared that when I find him, he will not be able to handle my neurosis. My fears and phobias, my disorders and complexes will be too much for him, and he'll run. He'll walk backwards as fast as he can, until he stumbles off the curb and is smashed by a CTA bus. And so, I rationalize being alone, it's best for me. Here I am martyring myself for a man I don't even know yet. Typical, T, typical indeed.

A few more updates before I sign off for the night:

My sister hasn't spoken to me in about a month. She reminds me so much of me. She will be everything I'm not, and can't be—she will be Great.

School is overwhelming: my workload is the densest it's ever been.

I can't find the time to write anymore. I'm getting scared that my dream of writing is going to spit in my face and laugh at me with blood-shot eyes.

I now have two pillows on my bed, the irony is unsettling.

-T

Neo-nuevo.

It's pathetic how much I've been neglecting my Blog. But! No worries, I am sane once again—the variables that were confusing me have been dealt with. Although, I'm not sure if the variables are gone for good, they have certainly been put in check.

Things to reprioritize:

1. My Family
   
2. My Friends
   
3. School
   
4. Reading
   
5. Writing
   

I'm officially taking a break from Nightlife. It's too expensive, and too full of temptuous (yes, I just made that word up, Thankyouverymuch) gay men.

I will find solidarity in my Independence, and visit a man I wish I knew better: me.

 

-T

Just Breathe

And my lungs hurt.
And it's raining outside.
And I have two papers due this week.
And I have to miss volleyball again.
And I miss my sisters.

--I woke up today feeling "off."

Lost: Home; Part 2.

I've lost my way. It's dark and my glasses are of no use. The map I have is for a different country, and my friends have forgotten to speak my language.

There is a glimmer from a candle's flame off in the distance. And I walk, slowly, towards it, with an impaired leg. I will reach that candle eventually, but I pray it's still lit when I do.

-T

Venting.

Ok, I know I still have to finish my blog from last night, but...I need to vent right quick.

Where the fuck do people locate authority to speak on a subject, they know nothing about? How the hell are you, perfect example of the hetero normative, going to tell me that the military isn't racist? or that it doesn't target minority groups to enlist? It is not as simple as saying "It's their best option." You fucking idiot. The options are not 1.) sell crack, or 2.) enlist (His words). How can you deny that the military is highly disproportionate when talking about race? How can you deny that although African Americans only make up 13% of the American population, this percentage is highly misrepresented in the 40% that make up our military? You probably didn't even know those numbers before ignorantly stating your uninformed opinion. I'm sorry, but being poor isn't genetic. Minorities aren't naturally inclined to join the Marines or the Navy. Recruiters target minorities. Isn't it odd that in all forms of media, minorities are absent or highly misrepresented, but wait! Look there! That advertisement for the National Guard, a face that looks like me! So No, I will never see someone like me in an advertisement for Abercrombie & Fitch, and Yes, in advertisements for Harvard, I will always be in the back and to the right of the white student, but you for sure better believe my skin tone will be up front and in your face when you see an ad for the Armed Services.

In my paper for a class, I'm focusing on how pathos motivates revolution, and how that pathos translates on to paper, and then which forms of it are best for specific arguments. Here is a perfect example of Anger the way bell hooks talks about it. I am pissed, pissed at a society of people who don't recognize my life and the difficulties I face for having a higher concentration of melinin. I am pissed, pissed at people who claim to be from my gay community, but who are ignorant to the previlige they recieve for their white skin and blue eyes. You and I are not the same White gay boy. Our experiences are not equal. We both may have a Neo Nazi smash our heads in for holding hands, but don't you dare try and assume you know what it feels like to have to wear that fear in the color of your skin.

I'm too angry to keep typing.

but this is not El Fin, not by a long shot.

-T

P.D. Oh, and it's been a few years since I've updated my percentages, so they may be a little off.

Feeling.

It's been a few days since I've blogged. I know, typical. Here are things bothering me:

 

I've been feeling weird lately. It's not the normal uneasiness I usually feel, but instead, it's more the numbing of pain—because of exposure—and then you realize why it doesn't hurt anymore. I guess, you would think I would prefer not to feel it anymore, but the source of that feeling is still there, I've only just become tolerant of it. The weirdness comes from not wanting things to change, good or bad, mainly because I'm just coming to terms with how things are now. And yet, here I am, rocking the boat: new friends, new family, new Boy. And I find myself sitting back, blankly staring at my computer screen, not knowing what to say, with a bucket of peanuts calling my name next to me. The best way for me to describe it is like when your arm falls asleep. You don't realize it's going numb, until it's too late, and you know you have to move it, and that when you do it will feel better, but you also know that for those 45 seconds that it is filling with blood, the bitch, is gonna hurt. I'm not ready to move my arm yet, not ready at all.

 

Yesterday, I was at Nookie's, at 3 in the a.m., with K and sitting at a table across from us was a two top of women. I don't know how it happened, but we managed to find ourselves in a convo about seat 1's roommate and his battle with Bulimia. In the process of the convo, it became apparent that my knowledge of the subject was based on something more intimate than medical books. And yet, I wasn't embarrassed. Oddly enough, I had a sort of pride filling me, not because I had suffered through something, but because I had fought with it and won (or at least I like to think I've won).

"This isn't a competition of who's life was harder" Of course it isn't. If that were the case, I would lose. My hardships in life have privileged me to meet people whose lives are testaments to their dedication to survive. Yes, the path behind me is dark and muddy, but it isn't anywhere near the mine riddled swamps of others. My mother may have beat me into silence, but she never broke my fingers on the trunk lid to our car. I may have been choked for not buying milk fast enough, but I was never raped. I may not have had a bed to sleep on for 3 of the past 5 years, but I've never had my mother burn my hands so bad that my fingers melted together. And so yes, I felt Pride in me. No more questioning God "why?" but instead, just being aware that I persevered. I did, and I'm proud of it.

 

This entry was meant to be longer (I have much more on my mind) but I'm too sleepy to keep typing. Too sleepy.

 

Sleep some human sleep.

 

-T

Shame…

Today, I felt it, for the first time in a long time; not just the general feeling, but the salty grime of it that comes when you realize you're different—when you realize you're gay. A table walked into CPK today, a party of four business men. I, talking to another server, was telling him how amazing my date was the night before. And this party of four business men over heard me, and continued to walk past me, making me the center of all their jokes for the duration of the meal. And I turned my head out of surprise, and there he was—Senor Shame. He came up to me and placed his hand on my face, smiling, always smiling. I closed my eyes but his breath was still there, hot and moist. And then he left me to go join the party of business men, and they laughed at my expense.

A part of me wanted to walk up to them and flare my wrists with Pride, but instead I gave the table to someone else. I've let my community down; I've let myself down. And this shame I feel won't shake. I deserve this feeling, I think. The grime will build up on my skin, hardening, always hardening; and soon, the residue will be so impenetrable, that next time, I won't flare my wrists but I will cut with words. Anger as a powerful tool—my black feminists would be proud.

It won't shake. He won't shake.

 

-T

Fear.

He is crazy. And I like it.

Come Cummings, I love you.

Why am I in love with this man? He's, seriously, Brilliant in more than the common sense. When I read the words he speaks, from some fountain of truth, that only he knows the location of, I'm left utterly breathless. How does he affect me so?


"here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)"


Sigh. Who are you? And when did God kiss you on the forehead?

One day, my friend. One day.

-T

Sigh.

And I've lost my phone.

And my head hurts.

And I have to work a double.

And it's cold outside.

And I have so much work to do.



It's Valentine's Day.


-T

Conformity: I remember you Scrivener

I: surrounded by Books, buried under massive piles of paper, next to heaps of dirty clothes, feet away from bags of garbage. This clutter is offensive, but I find it ironic (as I take a break from finishing my midterm) how the state of my bedroom is representative of my life. I read too much for my own good; I have more school work than I can handle at times; I don't have time to run my errands; I can't seem to throw anything away, out of fear I'll need it one day. Here, on my bed, where the questions in my head become concrete, I am suddenly at ease with this—my room. I may not be white or a woman, but here, in my Chicago apartment, I have claimed a room of one's own, and I've never been more ready for self discovery.

My Self is here: on the light and in the shadows, that paint out My stories on My walls—their stage.

Ah, Bartleby! Ah, Humanity!

There is hope for us yet.

-T

No Love No Glory—Most Of The Time

It's a little past midnight and I'm sitting in bed, not sure why I do the things I do. I can't stress enough how odd this feeling is of not knowing what your fingers will type before you press your hand to your keyboard.

I love my friends, I do, but sometimes I just stare at them unsure of why we get along. Is it wrong of me to think this? Why do I find it so easy to get along with people? I have tons of friends—most people really take a liking to me, but why? That is something that still confuses me. I don't really have all that much to offer, well at least not in terms of intimacy. Few people know who I am, and those who do only think they are privileged because I let them, because that is all I have to offer: the pretense that I've allowed them in somewhere dark and shattered. Very few people have seen this place; my sisters are the closest to understanding me, but even they are in the dark about certain parts of my life. My friends are kept at arms length away. Most of the time, when I let them closer, they get worried or frustrated, and I lose my ability to joke with them.

Today I watched the SuperBowl surrounded by friends who know nothing about me, minus the information I can put on paper. Stats: 21, Mexican, attending DePaul, single, 5 siblings. It makes me sick how shallow everything is. I lose touch with those I love; I can feel the lightening pull on my heart as our distance grows greater, like a healing wound. Yes, wound, because for me, to love is to hurt. It is to risk it all for someone who can step down hard on something fragile. And yet, I do it, every once in a while. How can I expect to be with someone when I can't even figure out the dynamics with my friends?

"No, don't cook for me. It makes me feel weird…" He didn't believe me, but what can I say? I need to be alone, I think.

The sensation of touch is too much for me when coupled with emotion. For now, it is bearable because I only need to process the physicality of it. I wish I could describe this overload of sensation I feel—how sensitive my body can get, but all that is nothing in comparison to the maxed out shortage of my brain and my heart. It isn't a boyfriend that I want. It's Plato's Form, his ideal. I am in love with a man that doesn't exist, and I think I'm coming to terms with this. I'm starting to understand it. His Form is dangling from a star above my head, and I keep trying to jump from my bed up to grab it. Instead I land on the ground and scab my knee. I've come to the point where I've stopped jumping, but now I sit and stare at it—staring at it with curiosity. Soon, I will altogether forget it's there and just lie down and go to sleep, but for now I'm still mesmerized.

I was once told "Always aim for the moon, because even if you fail, you'll still end up among the stars." Yes, among the stars with no air to breathe or heat to warm me. Oddly enough, that doesn't sound too much different than now.

-T

Lost: Home

Today I learned how to argue against the use of an owner's tools to dismantle his own house.

Today I learned how the name "The Second Great Awakening" is misleading as it was only a continuation of the first.

Today I learned how Hawthorne was the only writer willing to risk his reputation to create strong female characters—the only to come out of the Romantic period.

Today I walked into my apartment building after an insightful day of classes and I found a homeless man sitting on the stairs, minding his own business, drinking wine out of a bottle.

I responded with laughter, or actually more of a chuckle. "How odd" I thought, "to find a homeless man sitting here on my steps." Of course I then felt guilty for finding the situation humorous. I barely made it home ok; I was shivering and freezing and glad to be in the warmth of my building. I'm sure, yes I am, that he felt the same when he found a building with a door ajar. A building where he can sit and drink away the problems and worries that a homeless man has and feels: "Where will my next meal come from?" "Where will I sleep tonight?" "Will I die in my sleep from the cold?"

I stood there at the bottom of the steps with a look of curiosity on my face as I assessed my emotions and processed my guilt. Up I climbed, weary of the possible reactions this stranger might have. "Hello." I said as I approached him. He responded with a small wave, one full of fear and shame, those emotions being mirrored in his desensitized eyes that dared not make direct eye contact with me. He was afraid of me. Me: able bodied, latin, middle class, male, student. I suddenly realized the labels he used to name me, whether he knew it or not. It's easy as a minority to label those better off then we—white, middle class, heterosexual--but then find it so easy to forget, we too are oppressers to someone else. Why would he fear me? This hurt me to the very core. There was a stranger in my building, and it was him that feared me. I had the power to cast him back into the cold. To force him to leave this, his momentary vacation from the bitter cold of the outside.

Once inside my apartment, I debated taking him a sandwich and an extra sweater—I knew his time in my building would be short lived. I texted my roommate out of surprise and told another friend via instant messenger. Both of them responded with warnings: "Stab him!!!" "Call the police!"

But why? He was no harm to anyone. I was told I would be responsible if anything bad happened. But aren't I already responsible? How easy it is to pass off blame to those who are oppressed. "That homeless man shouldn't have come into your apartment building." But he was only responding to the most primitive of instincts; he was only looking for shelter, for a room of one's own. And I am here, being told that I have to take that away from him, even if he only has it temporarily. I couldn't. I wouldn't. I had so little growing up. And here was a man who had even less than I did at my worst. Pathetic is what I felt. I felt pathetic. How ironic. Here I am sitting in my apartment arguing with my friend, trying to make him see the generosities fate has offered me, and how because of these generosities it is up to me and others like me to make up for the lack of privileges others are born with. "There are people in place to deal with these sorts of things" I'm told.

How very American.

We institutionalize a problem and wipe our hands free of responsibility and guilt. "Let the police deal with it." And so the police can come and take him away and drop him off at a shelter, where he will be given an uncaring hand of generosity with an expiration. He will be forced to leave as soon as someone else comes along needing his spot, and there's a line outside. "You just have to be more careful" I'm told. Yes, more careful. And so I will wait for my bullet proof vest in the mail before worrying about what will become of this man. I will offer my assistance as long as, and only if, I am safely seated behind a barrier of bullet proof glass. How intimate is this compassion we have for each other! I'm embarrassed to say I have so much and give so little. Embarrassed indeed.

The frog must be kissed before he turns into a prince. When will the rest of the world understand this? And better yet, who will lay their lips on his when we finally do?

Embarrassed Indeed.

-T

New Beginnings: How Many Do I Get?

I have caffeine running through my bloodstream at the moment and can't seem to come up with a single thing to type. So instead let me explain this new Blog. It is where I rant. Yes, Rant with a capitol "R." Save your criticisms about how unaware I am of my audience, when in fact, I know my audience quite intimately. He is 21, slightly in shape and someone who has no idea what the first thing to writing something worth reading is. Yes, I am my audience and I fill my prose with curly que anecdotes and allusions to things only I know. However, as Humbert Humbert refused to admit to having, I have a slightly fancy prose style. My blog is also highly accurate in regards to the things that fill my head all day. Whether it be some weird metaphor of a snowflake falling, or a retelling of an event that happened minutes before opening the lid of my laptop, they are harshly picturesque of my psyche. If this is true, "Why," you may ask, "do you feel the need to preface the contents of your blog?" I don't know. Well, perhaps it's because it was the first thing that came to my mind, and some day down the road, I will come across this entry and think to myself "Hm, you were young." And feel slightly nostalgic of who I used to be. Ok, not slightly, considering the concept of lost innocence is something I'm obsessed with:

who are you, little i

(five or six years old)

Ok, I'm done.

-T

Nieve

Down he falls, slipping and sliding on the breath of the North wind—a snowflake: quiet, young, cold—aimlessly wandering here and there, extra-vagant in the original sense of the words. Down he falls, unaware of the street that awaits him below, where he will be trampled by Chuck Taylor and rolled over by Firestone. Down he falls, should you tell him(?) what lies beneath? Pushed aside, he will lose his white coat and carry the burden of truth on his skin. Turned black, he will forget what it means to be young and forever (or at least until he dies) look towards the horizon in hopes a moment of epiphany can save his mind and soul from his affected perception of reality. Should you tell him? Inform him of the ground before he falls? Try and convince him not to leap from his ledge on the cloud? To stay safely tucked away wrapped in his comforter of cumulus? Or is the question will you tell him? Thus, separating the rhetoric from the action. I do not know what you will do. But I know what I want.

 

Quiet: Don't tell me a word.

-T