Thursday, March 29, 2012


today is the day that i stop
it is the day that i listen
                                listen to
the beat of my own heart
the bits of Morse code it uses to communicate with me
-. .. . - .... . .-. / --- ..-. / - .... . -- / .- .-. . / .-. .. --. .... -

today is the day that i say goodbye
it is the day i let go
                             go of
rock gods, drum beats,  & coded conversations

today is the day that i breathe
it is the day that i exhale
all the things i wish i´d said in the moment
the ones that lingered on my lips
only to be sw   all        ow      ed

today is the day i write
is the day i type
the stories that bubble to the surface when no one is around

Tuesday, March 27, 2012


sometimes when you're waiting for the right moment....
 it passes you by. 
the world doesn't wait for your right moment
  it keeps moving...

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Dreaming Ita

              Saturday morning I woke up with a lump in my throat. I woke to sunlight streaming in through white plantation blinds and crusted sleep in my eyes. I sat elbows resting on my knees, fingers pushing at the hair in my face, swallowing, and swallowing again, the lump as stubborn as I was. The quickly fading dream took the ache in my chest with it and began to subside the lingering emotions.
                “Are you hungry?” his deep voice interrupted my quiet.
                I looked up and saw him standing in the doorway, tall, bed-headed, and for a moment my mouth opened to tell him about the dream I had just had. The dream that kept my voice from forming words, but instead, I simply shook my head. The sound of his steps retreating on the wooden floor echoed and I sighed in relief.
                My cat, Drew, meowed as I walked past her and the tangled gold comforter on the floor. In the bathroom I locked the door, stood hands braced on the cold porcelain, and exhaled, long, from the depths of belly. Three years later and the dreams still came, some good, some bad, today’s had been good, but still a punch in the stomach that never managed to make the guilt completely disappear.

I took a deep breath and let my mind relive the dream again, before I would have to shove it down inside myself with the rest of them. I sat at dinner with friends laughing as my phone rang. When I looked at the display screen it simply said, “Ita”. I swallowed deeply and answered.
                “Como esta la chavala?” her voiced crackled with laughter.
                “Who is this? It can’t be you Ita, you’re dead,” I looked around as panic welled up inside, threatening to drown me. My friends at the dinner table kept talking and laughing as I looked around, and the colors began to blend together.
                “No mas te quiere dicir Prieta, que te quiero mucho, eh?”
                “Ita? Ita is it you? How is this you?”
                I woke up seconds later. Now I just stood in the bathroom tears quietly dropping from my cheeks into the sink as I willed my memory not to forget. 

Monday, March 19, 2012

Who Moved My Cheese

There is a book I read when I was lost in the world of corporate America. Who Moved My Cheese. The gist of the book was two mice kept going to the same place for cheese, once it was moved, one was brave enough to venture farther into the maze they were in, while the other was too afraid, and well, died I suppose I can't remember now. 

The point is he died. Wait no, the point was the other mouse was brave enough to move on, and look for something better.  The something better that we assume the brave mouse found was more cheese. Now, this is a very famous book, it works well to illustrate how people become stagnant, not only in business (corporate droid upgrade), but in life. The cheese metaphor can be applied to anything, jobs, love, life. Did I mention life? 

Einstein gave the definition of insanity as "doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." This idea has been brought up several times in the past couple days. We are creatures of habit, there is no denying that, but how do we catch ourselves from falling into a rut? From falling for the same girl/guy? From getting in the same fights with the same people? Having the same conversations? Is it as simple as looking for cheddar instead of swiss?

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

black & white

The day is crisp, the shade makes you shiver, but bathed in sunlight you're a glow with the fast approaching spring. 

We strolled slowly down the rows of merchants, tables filled with southwestern jewelry, candied corn, and eerie t-shirts with pale Tim Burton like characters and Frankenstein's wife. The brick road is narrow and we are in an older part of downtown Las Cruces, NM. Forty-five minutes away and everything turns turquoise and adobe. The air feels nicer, the bit of humidity hugs you, and your skin, thirsty, drinks it up.

Past the incense stand with bottles of Jager turned into holders we see two performers, a girl with two spoons, and a boy with a ukulele. They sing to the on lookers and passerby. Their voices sweet, compliment one another so well, that I feel myself smiling and moving slightly to a beat and words I don't know. I toss all the coins I have into a blue velvet hat on the ground. Before I walk on I snap a picture. A boy, a girl, spoons and a ukulele. 

Folk Singers Playing Farmer's Market Las Cruces, NM

Saturday, March 3, 2012

el amor es como la heroina

today i heard a phrase. a friend read these words. her words. lovely poignant words read  in a soft tone that was warm and lulling, even though the phrase had a stark harshness to it.

"el amor es como la heronia"

i kept rolling it around in my mind like a caramel, slow melting, savoring.

"el amor es como la heronia"

el amor si es como la heroina. es algo fuerta, adictivo, poderoso

but it's supposed to be good. our addictions to love is good. we all want it and its okay, even when we suffer the consequences of heartbreak.

even when the ache of strong hands against your naked skin burns with memory....

Friday, March 2, 2012

Thursday's with Carolyn & the Smokey Special

Dim lighting and a smokey feel without the smell. The voice of the singer, Carolyn, wraps around me as I stand in the doorway. "Give me one reason to stay here..." Groups of friends crowded around tables filled with amber glasses and dancing ice. Laughter erupts, and smiles grace the faces of those around me.

Chatter overlaps and wraps around and changes and morphs like small waves, moving, with the flow of our chorused voices. "Come together, right now, over me..."

We talk, we sing, bursts of laughter at the crescendo of our conversation punctuate our sentences. Small talk, big talk, serious talk, all mingled at one table where new friends, old friends, and family sit together. " "You say one love, one life...." 

"What did that mean?"       "Another mojito?"      "Pictures!"      "We had a presentation today, last minute."   "I do translations."             "These are super good."      "She made me this light Cosmo."

    "I teach French."          "What's another ghost story?"            "I'm going to Scottsdale this weekend"
 "Remember you'd get a grilled cheese?"          "This is so good."         "What do you think?"

             "I like this place. Her voice is so good."                          "Is Sarah coming?"

"Don't forget to buy the coupon!"           "And, her hair it just got bigger and bigger."          "Another?" "Aye, aye I love this song."           "Do you want me to text my hairdresser?"          

   "I want to get
another tattoo, with those vintage mics on my chest."                "A good Bourbon with ginger ale, yeah."    

"Hi!"   "Red wine?"                "I love your necklace."             "We're going to see Cheryl for the rings tomorrow."         "Have you heard anything from him?"         "My car has this scratch, down the side"                

The warm feeling of organized chaos. It's Thursday night at Mr. A's. The band keeps playing their smokey sounds. We keep laughing our laughy sounds till the very end. We each want to know what the friendly blonde bartender dubbed us as on our receipts as we pay, "Cute short pixie cut"  "Shirty" "White".

As we walk out half the band leaves, waving, laughing at the banter, half stays. We stand outside in the crisp El Paso air, still giggling, debating where to move on to, but unwilling to decide. There is a certainty though, as we depart, as a voice echos out across the tall downtown buildings, "See you next Thursday?"