I want to paint words on a huge white canvas
because I think that words speak louder than actions
because words come out of my mouth like three dimensional objects
I fill the room with objects that say so much about you
because I want to describe feelings and moments
because i'm speaking too much
I need to put my words on canvas
because paper isn't enough anymore
because we need permanence
I need permanence
because sometimes I don't sleep late at night
because there are curators that can keep my words safe
I want it to be in a museum
because our love deserves to be exhibited
because it's important and special
I want it to be different from everyone else's
because we need permanence
because I want permanence
lunes, 2 de agosto de 2010
martes, 5 de mayo de 2009
coexistence.
we have tuned in together
skipping across a foreign land
trying to lyricize the melody
that keeps us from growing apart
trying to musicalize the poetical rhymes
the ones we have ocasionally written with contempt
but most of the times with ungrateful joy
it has changed a lot with time
it's hard to skip along a land we know so well
we know the plants and how they smell
we know the weeds and let them grow
because we have accustomed to their ironic beauty
now we want to cut the weed
without thinking it would grow once more
and substitute the lily flowers
while we leave their roots intact
maybe we'll move to a different land
so we can skip along it
trying to know the strange creatures that populate it
we can lyricize the melodies of their sounds
the chirping of birds or the rattling of snakes
we can poetically construct a whole new place
and we can cohabit in it
maybe this time we won't let the weed grow
maybe this time we won't get accustomed to the ironic beauty
of sarcasm, of lies, of superfluities
I doubt it
I know we all do
we love the irony
it works great for poems
skipping across a foreign land
trying to lyricize the melody
that keeps us from growing apart
trying to musicalize the poetical rhymes
the ones we have ocasionally written with contempt
but most of the times with ungrateful joy
it has changed a lot with time
it's hard to skip along a land we know so well
we know the plants and how they smell
we know the weeds and let them grow
because we have accustomed to their ironic beauty
now we want to cut the weed
without thinking it would grow once more
and substitute the lily flowers
while we leave their roots intact
maybe we'll move to a different land
so we can skip along it
trying to know the strange creatures that populate it
we can lyricize the melodies of their sounds
the chirping of birds or the rattling of snakes
we can poetically construct a whole new place
and we can cohabit in it
maybe this time we won't let the weed grow
maybe this time we won't get accustomed to the ironic beauty
of sarcasm, of lies, of superfluities
I doubt it
I know we all do
we love the irony
it works great for poems
lunes, 16 de marzo de 2009
crafts & words.
your eyes like blooming
spring flowers
following sunlight
two mirrored images
overlapping words
across my forehead
they're made of yarn
embroidered with your needled hands
over the lace of my skin
then the needles turn to fiber
a soft textured material
which sinks into the filling under lace
melting wired veins
run beneath it all
metallic ink
then a press that burns the words
of a poem that reflected
in a pair of mirrors
of a pair of flowers
spring flowers
following sunlight
two mirrored images
overlapping words
across my forehead
they're made of yarn
embroidered with your needled hands
over the lace of my skin
then the needles turn to fiber
a soft textured material
which sinks into the filling under lace
melting wired veins
run beneath it all
metallic ink
then a press that burns the words
of a poem that reflected
in a pair of mirrors
of a pair of flowers
sábado, 24 de enero de 2009
not finished, just a draft for some school project.
It’s funny how I react towards instructions, building a book with a story based on a personal experience doesn’t make much sense to me, it’s not about not having an interesting life or not remembering a great event in my life that’s worth telling about, it’s quite the opposite, I have many memories that I find worth telling, because they involve wonderful people that have made my life amazing. So, in the event that I may start to frustrate over a school project that involves doing so, I chose to follow a different path. Not writing about a specific event, but a specific thing that fascinates me.
I’ve always been fascinated by language, well, to be honest, not always. When I was younger I didn’t have the knowledge to understand how it affected daily life and how important it was to be clear in communication. But, I certainly remember when I first started to read. How amazing it was to be able to read every single billboard, to read little books, to read in school and to feel tremendously excited to be one best reader’s in my first year elementary school class. I have many memories regarding books. I had an episode in my life when I read so much I had my memories mixed up with chapters from books and dreams. It was difficult for me to feel like I belonged sometimes, because I had this love for reading while my fifth grade classmates didn’t care the least about books. I felt strange.
Since falling in love with language was a slow learning and discovery process, I will have to guide you in. Probably, the moment when I discovered the amazing quality books had, was when I went on my first vacation. I was ten or eleven years old and went to visit my aunt (along with my cousin) to Oakland. This was also the first time I ever rode a plane. It was exciting. But, the part of this trip that I want to talk about isn’t precisely about riding the plane or traveling, it’s about writing. My aunt is really different from what I’m used to at home. She moved to Oakland many years ago and formed her life up there, she married a Hungarian man, had two daughters, etcetera. She doesn’t act Mexican anymore and has a big house and a wealthy life. She speaks English most of the time and acts like a gringa tourist when she comes to visit us. That’s just the way she is. When we went to visit her she advised my cousin and me to keep a journal of our trip so we could remember it for a long time. She also took us to a bookstore and I was really excited and wanted to buy the whole store, my cousin didn’t care that much for the books, she wanted clothes or toys. She gave us a couple of notebooks she had laying around her house and we kept them with us at all times. It’s true; I sometimes kept a diary back home, like those girls in movies, but mostly forgot about it later. But my aunt was actually developing her life inside the culture that these movies were showing. So, we kept a journal. I loved writing in it, the most random details, little secrets I wanted to keep from my cousin and so on. After I came back, writing became natural to me. I always told my mom to take me to bookstores and I was excited with history lessons at school. I loved to learn through reading.
Reading in English was the start of a weird love/hate relationship with language; it wasn’t completely natural for me to be reading in English since I was speaking Spanish all the time, but it did help a lot in improving my English grammar and opposed to my speaking, which came mostly out of the television, movies or music. Living in Tijuana, which is just across the border from San Diego, made English common, I could hear it every time we crossed the border to shop (either for groceries or clothing), I saw on local television, I could hear it on the radio. Living between these two exchanging cultures all my life was perfectly normal. Until I came to live in the next-door city, moving from Tijuana to San Ysidro, which is, ironically, just across the border. Then, the fascination that came with crossing the border pretty much died, the amazing United States were amazing in fact, amazing on many levels. School was virtually free and it was really worth it, the teachers were really prepared, the school had all the equipment, a beautiful library, trees everywhere, new computers, etc. But it was boring, really, really, boring. College came with the realization that I loved Spanish far much more than English, which, I already knew, because from were I left on my loving language journey before, until that time (when I finished high school/started college) came I was mostly reading Latin American literature. But, taking an English class, having to write essays in English and finding the common “writer’s block” way too common was frustrating. I was angry with myself for not being able to accomplish beautiful papers and express my ideas clearly.
I’ve always been fascinated by language, well, to be honest, not always. When I was younger I didn’t have the knowledge to understand how it affected daily life and how important it was to be clear in communication. But, I certainly remember when I first started to read. How amazing it was to be able to read every single billboard, to read little books, to read in school and to feel tremendously excited to be one best reader’s in my first year elementary school class. I have many memories regarding books. I had an episode in my life when I read so much I had my memories mixed up with chapters from books and dreams. It was difficult for me to feel like I belonged sometimes, because I had this love for reading while my fifth grade classmates didn’t care the least about books. I felt strange.
Since falling in love with language was a slow learning and discovery process, I will have to guide you in. Probably, the moment when I discovered the amazing quality books had, was when I went on my first vacation. I was ten or eleven years old and went to visit my aunt (along with my cousin) to Oakland. This was also the first time I ever rode a plane. It was exciting. But, the part of this trip that I want to talk about isn’t precisely about riding the plane or traveling, it’s about writing. My aunt is really different from what I’m used to at home. She moved to Oakland many years ago and formed her life up there, she married a Hungarian man, had two daughters, etcetera. She doesn’t act Mexican anymore and has a big house and a wealthy life. She speaks English most of the time and acts like a gringa tourist when she comes to visit us. That’s just the way she is. When we went to visit her she advised my cousin and me to keep a journal of our trip so we could remember it for a long time. She also took us to a bookstore and I was really excited and wanted to buy the whole store, my cousin didn’t care that much for the books, she wanted clothes or toys. She gave us a couple of notebooks she had laying around her house and we kept them with us at all times. It’s true; I sometimes kept a diary back home, like those girls in movies, but mostly forgot about it later. But my aunt was actually developing her life inside the culture that these movies were showing. So, we kept a journal. I loved writing in it, the most random details, little secrets I wanted to keep from my cousin and so on. After I came back, writing became natural to me. I always told my mom to take me to bookstores and I was excited with history lessons at school. I loved to learn through reading.
Reading in English was the start of a weird love/hate relationship with language; it wasn’t completely natural for me to be reading in English since I was speaking Spanish all the time, but it did help a lot in improving my English grammar and opposed to my speaking, which came mostly out of the television, movies or music. Living in Tijuana, which is just across the border from San Diego, made English common, I could hear it every time we crossed the border to shop (either for groceries or clothing), I saw on local television, I could hear it on the radio. Living between these two exchanging cultures all my life was perfectly normal. Until I came to live in the next-door city, moving from Tijuana to San Ysidro, which is, ironically, just across the border. Then, the fascination that came with crossing the border pretty much died, the amazing United States were amazing in fact, amazing on many levels. School was virtually free and it was really worth it, the teachers were really prepared, the school had all the equipment, a beautiful library, trees everywhere, new computers, etc. But it was boring, really, really, boring. College came with the realization that I loved Spanish far much more than English, which, I already knew, because from were I left on my loving language journey before, until that time (when I finished high school/started college) came I was mostly reading Latin American literature. But, taking an English class, having to write essays in English and finding the common “writer’s block” way too common was frustrating. I was angry with myself for not being able to accomplish beautiful papers and express my ideas clearly.
lunes, 19 de enero de 2009
about giving up and other stuff.
I usually write a lot whenever the weather feels very autumn-y. It turns out, yesterday morning I had to go to school and since it was a saturday morning, they had started cleaning later in the day. It was really nice. Somehow, autumn managed to move itself across winter and transfered to january, not that unusual, considering that our weather is often unpredictable.
It would be very nice to have autumn around for next month and have a nice birthday filled with tree leaves and the smell of wet soil. I like the smell of wet soil. But, not the smell of wet palms, it gives me an allergy.Funny way of getting around the nice stuff to find the pessimistic side of everything.
I'm feeling very nostalgic and very romantic, these recurring feelings I thought were finally moving away. I havent dipped my feet in the sand and in the freezing water of the beach (often very dirty water in Tijuana). My eyes are very heavy and my hair very dirty.
It would be very nice to have autumn around for next month and have a nice birthday filled with tree leaves and the smell of wet soil. I like the smell of wet soil. But, not the smell of wet palms, it gives me an allergy.Funny way of getting around the nice stuff to find the pessimistic side of everything.
I'm feeling very nostalgic and very romantic, these recurring feelings I thought were finally moving away. I havent dipped my feet in the sand and in the freezing water of the beach (often very dirty water in Tijuana). My eyes are very heavy and my hair very dirty.
viernes, 16 de enero de 2009
10 p.m.
whining at 10 p.m.
It's such an early surprise, the way you look at me makes me feel insecure.
Then, I stopped liking my favorite dress, the way it fit my body wasn't the same anymore or the way I felt specially pretty with how the colors made my face look. The dress had a funny way of making me see a reflection that I liked. It was merely an illusion, the illusion a pretty dress can cause on a not so pretty girl. I don't need a dress to feel prety. I need myself to feel pretty, to be pretty, to see myself in the mirror wearing nothing but a bit of self respect. Not a dress, not your views or your ideals of beauty, but my own, even if they're not perfectly defined yet.
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