Two Weeks Late and a Dollar Short

It's been two weeks and I have neglected my dear blog. During the two most eventful weeks of my life, I found myself the most disconnected from the world, with only infrequent contact with those nearest and dearest to my heart. The only constant was perhaps my trusty camera which was there to document everything, when my words couldn't

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¿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?

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

Scene 1. Act 2. Line 53.

I am told that I am good at writing dialogues. Perhaps that's the reason when it comes to interacting with people the words that I want to hear, the words I already have written in my head are ready, but when they don't come out I am often disappointed. What happened to that perfect phrase I had in my head? What happened? Why are they silent? Or, where did that come from? I find myself left with wanting more, or needing less, or simply being in a state of unfamiliarity. Why? You might ask? Because there are very few times when what I have written in my mind is translated well into real life. Real life is not scripted. Repeat. Real life is not scripted. Recently I wrote about a true moment. A moment that I witnessed of a girl crying in her car. It happened. It was REAL. I didn't write anything but what I saw, and I was told in a workshop that the whole scene was cliche and needed to be cut. As a writer I saw what was meant. As a human I thought, "We can't cut this

And then. . .

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