New Year, new new things

A new year has started.  A new month a new semester, brand new everything.  And I am in a completely new place.  Gone are the gripes of yesteryear and all those previous blog posts.  I have none of that to co,plain about anymore. Now there are brand new gripes such as: being unemployed, new and strange cultures, same old cultures, and many more.  Honestly though life is...smoother.  Which isn't to say that student life is easy.  Its a brand new set of difficulties.  And of course my own personal hang ups.  But we'll sort that all out as we go along, won't we?  And I guess that attitude, and the freedom to actually hold that attitude is what's keeping me sane lately.  I've also been doing a lot of thinking and developing my own mini philosophies.  Among a great many other things, the new me is greatly concerned with School and focus, fashion and personal style, and (of course) expanding upon the adoption of RISK!


(Did you like how I did that, by the way?  See, its still an informal blog, but with a thesis statement and subtopics.  I find it useful since I tend to meander a lot as I'm typing these things.)


My education and the focus I devote to it are really important to me right now.  It took a lot for me to come here.  A lot from myself and a lot from those supporting me.  My first semester I managed to pay off mostly on my own thanks to the generosity of my previous employers.  I suppose I also earned that generosity after suddenly growing a pair after six yeas, even though I started dying a little inside each year since about 2007.  At that point it was the longest I'd ever held a job, and I thought that staying in one place was the proper, adult thing to do.  It might have been but that wasn't the kind of adult I wanted to be.  I was basically working for the weekends when I could cut loose and be myself, and for the free stationary and print and copy services that I could use for my other projects.  My other projects being the poetry, short story, art, and cultural events and publications that I really should have been doing in the first place.  No one ever told me that a job is the thing you do on the way to building your career.  Or perhaps they had told me and I'd simply forgotten.  Regular paychecks tend to do that.  


But I did grow a pair.  Yes, it was either that or lose my mind completely; I realized that when the times I left from work and started driving down the highway considering whether I should fake my death and run away or actually make it a real death became an almost daily activity.  But that's not the point.  I'm here.  I left.  And after beating myself about it for an entire semester, still wondering whether or not I was doing the right thing, I've come to accept that the investment has been too great to squander.  I am still me.  I am still loved by those who I love.  (Long distant texts, calls, emails and care packages prove this)  I do still hold a certain level of celebrity somewhere (google me sometime).  And most importantly I am indeed doing what I'm meant to be doing.  There's no need for external evidence in this case.  I feel it.  I feel it every time I sit in a class and am overcome with exhilaration just from being there.  I feel it when I look around and everyone seems to be struggling with what feels like leisure to me.  I even feel it when I'm the only one guffawing loudly in a class because I'm the only one actually paying attention.  This doesn't mean I get to relax.  No, quite the opposite.  I have to excel in this case.  I have to be the one that the lecturers and professors remember.  I'm learning, yes.  But I'm also networking.  This is going to be my career at some point.   Somehow.  Haven't quite figured that bit out yet.


I've also become a bit concerned with my own personal style and sense of fashion.  Being here hasn't just changed the way I feel about myself, its also changed how I look.  Though you probably won't be able to tell after the Christmas break, I've lost a lot of weight.  I'm swimming in my clothes once again.  My t-shirts fit me like clothe sacks.  On windy days I feel like I'm wearing a spinnaker. (I'd like to go sailing someday).  My pants are even more ridiculous.  I don't even unzip or unbutton them anymore to get them on or off.  And if I want them to stay where I put them, I have to put them just under my ribs.  I'm also 28 years old.  A fact which makes me cringe every time I think of it.  I shouldn't be dressed like a hip-hop video reject.  I'm not a wannabe thug.  I don't think I ever have been. Not seriously at least. (GCG fo life tho!)  

As I was thinking about this, wandering around Manhattan this holiday, I realized that the way I dress says so much about who I am that I really aught to take a more active role in it.  I should be projecting my personal image of myself; the me I want to be.  Even if I don't believe I am that person yet, I should be taking steps in that direction.  What type of man is that, you ask?  Well, a writer and a thinker for one thing.  A carefully put together wardrobe should indicate that quite nicely, I think. Luckily I already started with the glasses.  I didn't know what I wanted at first, but I did know I didn't want any brand name markings that were readily visible.  That's one of the first points.  I am myself.  I'm not Nike or Playboy.  I refuse to be a walking billboard.  I refuse to be a swoosh.  I still like Adidas stripes though.  That'll be a struggle to overcome. The point is, no more branding that isn't my own.  I may make a few t-shirts in the future.  Make celebrities out of the people I choose to honor.  And Milner shirts are definitely in.  Even if its not shared by everyone, my opinion of what I see as the Milnerite ideal is still pretty great.  I'll get the whole collection and wear the MH proudly.  The rest is really too long to go through without a very long explanation.  I'll probably save that for another post.  Several other posts.  I'll save that for a publication of some sort.  The point is...no more spinnakers.  No more clothes that don't fit.  I'm not trying to be a gangsta.  I'm not so insecure as to try and make myself look like something I'm quite obviously not.  And definitely no hoodies.  This is the year of the button downs; the boat shoes, and on special occasions, the blazer & graphic tee.


My motto of RISK! isn't exactly a new thing, but I've been putting new thought into it.  Last year, it came to me without me even knowing what it was.  That New year celebration filled with drunken fireworks and friends and frightening displays of spontaneity (I really did think of the party at the same time that I put the ham in the oven that day) filled me with a feeling that I would carry with me for the rest of the year.  I stared at the scraps of red firecracker wrappers and shattered pieces of newsprint that replaced the topsoil in my backyard all day as I tried to put a name to the feeling.  It was my cousin Delsia who gave it to me in one of our conversations that displayed how frighteningly similar we are.  We'd been thinking the same thing at the same time, and it took us coming together to figure out what that something was.  "RISK!" she said.  "That'll be our secret word for this year."  RISK! in all caps, with the exclamation mark.  Not a noun, it wasn't just a thing.  Not an adjective to describe the things.  It was a verb.  And the explanation made it a demand.  A challenge.  No point sitting around waiting for something wonderful to happen.  RISK!  Take the chance.  Make it happen.  Of course now that I've made it happen, I don't think I ought to stop.  

There are things that scare me.  There are things that I'm afraid of.  Failure is chief among them, but there's also embarrassment.  Ostracism.  But these are all things that I learn from.  Failure is important to the learning process.  If I don't know when I'm wrong, how can I ever be right?  Embarrassment?  Well, that's just pointless.  If I'm being myself; my wonderful, corny, overly sentimental self, then there's really nothing to be embarrassed about, is there?  Somewhere out there beautiful women smile wide at my corniness.  Somewhere out there a troupe of cocksure men want to hug their brother and talk about the last movie they cried to. I'm 28 years old.  I've found my place.  It was hard to get to, but I've found that place where I belong.  I'm all out of embarrassment.  I am also away from that place, and I have been before.  I can always go back there.  Its always waiting and sometimes I carry a bit of it with me.  I am an outcast everywhere I am.  There's nothing to fear there either. But more than that, fear itself keeps me from living.  I am a writer, and inspiration comes from life; from living and observing.  I can't afford to have anything get in the way of that.

So lets see where this all takes us, shall we?  I have a feeling its going to be a good year and that at the end of it I'll be closer to who I want to be.  I'll be that unparalleled scholar, not only gaining knowledge but applying it daily.  I'll be identifiable to myself and others, and a whole lot more confident in my own clothes.  And I'll be prepared to take greater risks, and that will make life so much more...more.  Its going to be a good year, even if its going to be the last.   

What have I learned today?

"Silence is not a natural environment for stories. They need words. Without them they grow pale, sicken and die. And then they haunt you."

From The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield

Full disclosure from here on out. Can't stand to be haunted. Besides, who's reading that would be offended?

Besides. I get to be selfish. At least here. This...is for me.

Today's the Same as Yesterday, Only Today I Know

So I'm single again. Officially. No, I won't be gorging on Ice cream. No, I didn't cry myself to sleep last night. I'm not a woman. And I won't be heading out to promptly bang every woman I can find. I am a man, but I'm not a stereotype.

I am, at present, eating alone. but I've been doing that for a while now. So how do I feel about it? Oddly...free. Relieved. And of course, guilty that I don't feel worse than this. Sadness has always been something I shrugged off. An emotion that doesn't really require immediate action. if any action at all.

But that was before Merri. Back then we'd both be sad for a bit, and I'd toss my lode into the pile of sadness that I generally ignored, and she'd still be sad. And I'd feel guilty for not being sad. Which would make my great pile of sadness impossible to ignore. There was a lot of crying in those days. Mind you, there was also a lot of undirected anger in the days prior to them. Had I not had that time; had she not happened to me; I'd have probably become like one of those that I now try to avoid. (Violent when drunk, Constantly spoiling for a fight, seeking sex filled relationships with women who don't seem to mind being slapped around every once in a while.)

Yesterday, upon reading her reply, I was sad. Quite sad. I was, however, also angry. Angry that this had to be done by email. That I had to be ignored to the point of outrage before she finally just told me. And what impotent outrage. A letter. A short story. A recounting of waking dreams as I calmly went about my day and pretended nothing was wrong. As if I didn't already know what was wrong.

I guess I'm still a bit sad, and a bit angry. but as I said, this has been happening for a while now. The only difference is I don't have to feel guilty about my imaginary accusations and doubts. And I don't have to feel guilty about fantasizing about other people as the memory of her voice, her face, her touch all fade. (That's a lie. How can I forget that face?) I don't have to worry about who's going to see me when I'm out with friends, smiling and looking happier than i ought to. And I especially don't have to feel guilty for thinking, "She calls me more than Merri does." I don't have to feel bad about liking this fact.

But that's still significant, isn't it? She calls? She calls...often for no reason. Perhaps, with this release, I'll be seeing more clearly now.

A final note: I think at the core of my relative un-sadness is the implaccable thought that...we'll be together again. We've circled one another so expertly in the past that I can't imagine we won't be together again in the future. i'm not counting on it, mind you. Not aiming for it. but I do believe it. Just like i know we were broken up before I was actually told, I know we'll be getting back together. I'm just waiting on confirmation.

You always know.

Realizations

My grandmother is getting old.  No, scratch that.  My grandmother is old.  Even after the stroke and the cataracts and...and everything.  It never quite occurred to me.  The rest of the family say she's gotten skinny.  Frail looking.  I remember her eating a slice of buttered toast and a cup of milky tea for breakfast, then go run one half of a farm with no more help than it takes to say "Do this" and immediately follow up with "You're doing it wrong!  I'll do it!".  I was convinced she was simply fueled my cruelty and spite.  Why else would she disturb or saturday morning  cartoons by forcing us to help with the laundry?

Who needs laundry anyway?

But last week she fell.  She'd already had a stroke leaving one of her sides paralyzed.  It affected her mind as well, the stroke.  She has long, long periods of confusion.  Not one of her children is called by the name that corresponds with their faces.  Though, I think there's simply a mis-correlation of what she knows and what she feels at work.  My dad, for instance, has been taking care of her.  He's now the man that's almost always there.  The one that relaxes with her out on the front porch on evenings, watching the vehicles go by, listening to the sound of the breeze and the summer flies.  And so, she calls him Albert.  Not after her son, I don't think.  But after her late husband.  And I am the stranger.  The burly one that she knows, but hardly ever sees.  The one with the beard and mustache now, when she's none me as a small, skinny, fair faced boy all my life.  I'm also the dark one.  'The Black one' as she used to call me.  And I'm either Johnny or Henry, who are first cousins to my uncles and Aunts, the offspring of my grandfather's brother.

"When's Johnny coming?"  She said to my dad as he cleaned up her ear with the corner of a rag dipped in Hydrogen peroxide.  Only she said it in Spanish, just as she'd always insisted on speaking for as long as I'd known her.  "Cuando Johnny vas a venir?"  My dad, as is the custom, replied in english, pointing to me.  "He's right there.  See?  See Johnny there?"  I tried to take the look of worry out of my eyes.  I tried to make my face calm, passive.  I even tried to smile a little.  Her eyes touched on mine for barely a second before she looked at the space just above my right shouider.

"Adonde?"  She asked weakly.
"Right there."  My father pointed, and he reached over to squeeze my arm.  For a long moment she stared at the space above my shoulder.

"No lo veo."  She said simply, and gave up looking.  She looked sad.  When I came in she barely looked up at me, or at my aunt.  She'd stopped bleeding from her cut ear and my dad was holding a bit of crushed ice wrapped in a dishtowel to it.  There was a bruise on her forhead as well, not swolen but clearly blue.  When he pulled the ice away I could see that she had been bleeding, the evidence was in her hair and on her clothes.  It wasn't a lot of blood, but it was too much for a little old lady, which I suddenly realized is what she was.

She looked so sad too.  She had her head propped up in her palm and her eyes closed while everyone rushed about.  She didn't seem too happy about the whole incident at all.  My dad mentioned that she didn't want to call anyone.  I got the distinct feeling that it was more about embarrassment than anything else.  My dad and aunt had a brief arguement.  Well, it was hardly anything like an argument compared to the words that get exchanged on my mom's side of the family, but their tones were harsh.  They talked about 'proofing' the house.  How did she fall?  Where did she fall?  How did she get outside in the first place.  What was she doing out there?  Why was she left unsupervised?  And with each condescending question and retort I saw my grandmother grow smaller and smaller.  More frail.  More old.  And it wasn't just my imagination either.

My aunt hurried into the kitchen and started boiling water and smashing cloves of garlic and other herbs which she would later mix in a small bowl.  A naturally antiseptic wash, with which she later cleaned up the rest of Mama.  My dad took the opportunity to show me the rest of his work.  In truth, it wasn't so much his digression as it was mine.  Or, maybe it was both of us really.  I'd been staring at a jar on the table.  A wooden box, really.  Round, with a series of ringed bevels all the way to the bottom.  If it weren't for the differences in grain I'd have thought someone had carved it out of a single piece of wood.  Just a nice shape, purely for aesthetics.  But then he showed me, with a bit of a turn and a pull, that it opened and had a wide space inside.  A sort of groved locked box.  It was nice enough, I suppose.  Clever.  But I felt the urge to sort of show it up, as if it was the most clever thing I'd ever seen.  That only encouraged him.  I don't regret it, mind you, because he took me to see his other creations.  His jewelry, mostly.  Wooden earings and the most beautiful wooden bangles I'd ever seen.  They were purple heart, he told me.  And He'd aparantly started with the out layers, resulting in a few pieces that were speckled yellow and blue, and culminating with other pieces that were luxiuriously dark and polished to a shine.  They were beautiful.  Honestly beautiful.  And without any special adorations or designs.  He'd simply polished them down to their natural, beatiful state.

I wanted them all in that moment.  For Merri.  I'd like to adort her arms with them all the way up to her shoulders.  I'd let her glow compete with their glow, so the world would know that she's even more lovely than these.  The loveliest thing nature's ever made.

By the time we got back from our digression Mama was eating, though grudgingly so.  My aunt was smearing spoonfulls of beans onto tortias, along with some cream cheese, and feeding it to her.  She ate.  She fixed her face into a scowl of disgust, and stared at every morsel pensively before she took a bite, but she chewed, and swallowed, and ate her fill.  And occasionally she stared at me.  Not at the space above my right shoulder, mind you.  Me. 

My aunt said something condescending and ridiculous.  Something like "Mama, you musn't go outside again."  Mama just glared at her out of the corner of her eye.  And she stared at me.

"Have you eaten?"  My dad asked.  I hadn't.  I'd been on my way out to meet my cousin at a game when they'd called to tell me she'd fallen.  "There's food in the kitchen."  he said.  "Help yourself, you know where everything is."  I didn't know where anything was.  I'd known when I was a child, maybe.  When everything was slightly above my head and I'd have to climb on somthng, or reach for a long pot spoon so I could reach for something else.  I'd know where everything was when I washed the dishes and hat to put everything somewhere.  I hunted for a plate.  A knife and a fork.  A cup.  I wound up with a plastic children's plate that had been placed too close the stove at one time.  Alladin's face and body had been melted into a black and brown swirl.  I also wound up with a spoon instead of a knife and fork.  "Que estas comiendo?"  My grandmother asked me.  I suddenly felt unsure, as if I'd invaded her space and had somehow deigned that, after countless months of not seeing her I could come into her home, dip into her pot, push my feet under her table and eat.  And i also felt the fear of disrespect.  Disrespect for my grandmother by not answering.  "Beans and tortilla."  I replied.  She looked at me with a wry smile on her face, as if she'd caught the distinct scent of a bullshitter.  "Te gustas los frijoles?"  She asked.  I nodded my head yes, and remembered a dozen smacks in the back of my head, with my grandmother shouting in broken english 'What if I was blind?" and I quickly found my voice.  "Yes Mama" I said before even taking my first bite.  The beans were cold.  Saltless.  The tortillas warm but dry.  I tried not to let my displeasure show on my face.  Mama grinned at me.

I think that was the point when I truly realized it.  She wasn't as much sad or senile as she was lonely.  And old.  But perhaps the two go hand in hand.  When she came out of her fuge, when the pain of her fall and the embarrassment of so much fuss subsided, she seemed to realize that she was surrounded by her family.  I looked behind me, over the my right shoulder.  There was a small shelf on the wall that had always been there ever since I was a child.  It was crowded with medication bottles and knick knacks, things she'd sewn and put together.  Decorations that were once vibrant and delicate creations, and had now yellowed with dust and time.  "Porque no puedes venir?"  I heard her say.  My dad took up the charge of the question.  He followed her gaze to my turned head and said "Because he's eating.  Let him finish eating."  But in that moment I understood her.  And I understood that she was speaking from a place of plain lucidity.  And my heart sank.  "Porque no puedes venir?" She repeated.  I still don't have an answer.

Eventually, she continued like that, speaking in the present.  Speaking to me.  Not Johnny or whatever ghost of the past hung over my right shoulder.  My dad started talking about Meghan.  How he met her at an artisans fair.  How she seemed to really like that camera of hers.  My grandmother interrupted, as is her right as matriarch, telling us that she needed a picture of me.  No, of us.  "The two of you."  She said in english, which I still think requires quite a bit of effort for her.  "Just like that."  I realized then that we were, perhaps, an image of the past.  Of my dad and his dad, sitting at the table and chatting.  Two men wearing the same smile.  The same forehead and brows.  The same nose.  The same blood.  My aunt was still trying to squeeze an oath from her.  "Say 'I will not go outside'."  she ordered.  Mama looked at her askance for a second, as if reminding her sixty-something year old daughter to whom she was speaking.  "Say it, Mama."  she persisted.  "Say 'I will not go outside."  Mama raised her one working hand in a motion of annoyance, but was too weak to swat with it.  "Yes mommy!"  She declared in frustration and turned back to me.  "Tu madre sabes que tu estas aqui?"  I told her she probably didn't.  "Estan en Belize?"  she asked.  I told her no, she'd gone to New York.  Mama nodded her head, and immediately set out to feed me.  She told me there were plaintains hanging in the kitchen.  That I should take some.  There was soursop Ice in the freezer.  Have some before you go.  She told me that I missed out on the cashews and the tambran, and the golden plums and breadfruit. 

And then she said good night.

My aunt took her into the bedroom and got her changed.  She took a warm washcloth to wipe the blood from her hair and neck, and got her out of h er bloody camisole and into something clean and warm.    When she was done getting Mama ready she came out and we started packing up to go.  By the time we were out of the door my grandmother had wheeled herself out of the bedroom using a broom as an oar.  The exact same method that got her out of the house and falling out of her wheelchair in the first place.  But she was smiling.  Sort of.  It was a mischievous smirk really, as she waved something in her good hand calling out 'Vayan a su casa!"

And that's the memory I have now.  A smirking, joking, little old lady.