Skip to main content

The Things Which Float to the Top

I am a soup on the stove, blue orange gassed fueled fire heating me up slowly, until 
gradually I start to simmer. The tiny bubbles which disturb the smooth liquid surface are the things I cannot control. They are the tiny irritations in life which can't be avoided. 
The great moments which are needed.
As quickly as they began 
they are lost in the movement of the liquid that is life. 

Tiny bits of chicken from the bottom of the soup surface 
at times 
and bounce off the bottom of the pot. Those are the things I wish to avoid. 
The problems which are so heavy they sink back down to the bottom of the murky soup not to be seen for awhile. They are things like my dad, who deserves to be compared to chicken. And things like my grandma who died without letting me say good-bye.
How selfish of her. 

The heat increases  
and I bubble. 

I am a soup on the stove. 
The blue orange fueled fire has not increased. Only
the heat in the soup has. 
I bubble and boil and these, these are the things 
I can't avoid . They are the things that build and build over time. They are 
the people who disappoint you, the ones who's gaze you can't meet.
I avoid them, because,
they'll see themselves tumbling from the pedestal in the reflection of my eyes, clear
and unblinking.
These are things like people who weren't the friends I thought they were. Friends I trusted my heart to only to have them treat it as badly as the men who put distrust there in the first place.  
It is me, and all the moments of humanity, where things weren't just right, I 
wasn't just right, and I tumble and fall ungracefully in front of the world. And the world?
Well it doesn't turn away but 
only stands there to watch. 
They are him and those moments I am so afraid to be happy I can't breath. Even when I only see the reflection of us in his eyes. 

But, 
they are also all the times there are tears, 
from laughing so hard they are squeezed out the corners of my eyes like the last drops being rung from a towel, because
I can't stop laughing. 
They are the bubbles that join the blanket of boiling soup
that is my life.
Each bubble something
that makes the soup, 
soup.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

¿Y la Prieta?

My grandma, Ita, called me Prieta. She called me this because my skin is toasted brown. When I was born my mom says I was light skinned, but she knew “que iba ser morena” because the inside of my little baby thighs were already darker than the rest of me. In the sun, I turn a darker brown. I get even more Prieta. It was a term of endearment. My sister, who has a light complexion, was called guera or guerinchi. When I tell people who don’t speak Spanish what Prieta means, dark or the dark one, their eyes open wide and a small gasp escapes. I see the offense they feel for me sprinkled on their faces like the freckles I will never have. When I try to explain, the offense still shadows their eyes. That is the problem with Spanish. Wait, maybe, that is their problem with Spanish. Even when I explain, they are suspicious. Their faces ask, “Is this true?” as if I am setting them up for a joke. But how can I explain the cultural and literal meaning of a word at the same time?
3 comments
Read more

Los Dichos

No hay mal que por bien no venga. Tanto quiere el diablo a su hijo que hasta un ojo le quiere sacar. Mejor sola que mal acompa ñ ada. Tanto pedo para cagar aguado. Lo barato sale caro. Más seguro más amarrado. Para buen entendido muy pocas palabras. Para cada roto un descocido. Hijo pepe mariquita! Para pendeja no se estudia. Limosnero con garrote. Soy como Orozco, cuando como no conozco. La zorra nunca ve su cola ni el zorrillo su fundillo. El muerto y el arrimado al los tres días huelen. Amores de lejos, amores de pendejos. Estaba haciendo chili con la cola. Me  da diarrea con gusanos. Enfermo que come y mea, y el diablo que se le crea. La esperanza es la última que muere. El flojo trabaja doble. De noche todos los gatos son pardos. Una cosa es Juan Domínguez y otra cosa es no la chingues. Es de Don Cuco, entra la bola no se supo. Primero me besa un ciego. Dime con quién andas y te diré quien eres. No porque te levantas más temprano
2 comments
Read more

Stream of Conscious Wednesday

At Village Inn, my favorite writing place. This one, is my favorite in the city. Bright orange booths with light fixtures out of Rock Hudson's Pillow Talk, and witty quotes on the wall like, "Never trust a skinny chef."  The cloudy skies stream in through tinted windows and continue to draw me away, seduce me into daydreaming about all the things I should be writing and trips I should be taking and money I need to be saving. So I can go high and low and down below the country's line I have never crossed before.  Then I look back to the screen and I think, Ita, Ita, what do I write about Ita. My thesis, a memoir, and Yeah, my stories are that interesting. There are many, but I need pictures, I need something, because right now they are floating, tiny little words on paper bouncing around outside the atmosphere of my brain.  Oh, there's an art show soon. I should go. It's starting to rain and it makes me think of dancing. Dancing Donna Summer style wi
3 comments
Read more