The Hugeamungous Link

This is the biggest link, goodbye! Actually, this is a Hugeamungous link. Just click it and you will find lots on interesting stuff. You might find the meaning of life, the theory of the human evolution unraveled, you might find life in another planets, you might travel to Costa Rica, or to France, and live the rich life, as those girls on that MTV show "My sweet sixteen" (those girls are so spoiled! my God! and I'm sure there are boys with rich parents that are just like them!) (*envious sneer*) (Bitches!) You might also find the love of your life if you click this link. You might see the center of the earth. You might see the center of your heart. You might even smell things through your computer with that new technology. You might find the power to thinking things and make them move (telekinesis they call it, I call it luck) (*another envious sneer*). You might find your biggest wish come true! You might also find that your lover is hooking up with your secretary, (regardless that you are male or female, or that your lover is male or female, or that your secretary is male or female, you might find them), but not only that, after that you might also find that your secretary has been screwing the janitor, who in time has been fucking your teenager son/daughter, while he/she visits your house to "fix" the plumbing, and then you realize that you started it all by 1. hiring that secretary, 2. taking the janitor to fix the plumbing for the first time, 3. by cheating on your secretary with your lover. Also, if you click this amazing, hugeamungous new link, you can win a trip to Las Vegas and spend all the money of your sweet sixteen girlfriend, while you ask yourself of senseless things like: the world's beginings, the meaning of life, and that enormously intersting question, that would enlighten your existence fully: How the hell did this guy come up with a word like: "hugeamungous"? Who knows, one day, if you click, you might find out!

Update on the Mother of all knots, and apologies

The apologies are for that post/story: The Yogurt; of September 25th. But the apologies are not because of the story, they are because of the font. In some computers, I have seen, that the font is very small, and almost unreadable. I will fix it right now. So, if you skipped it for its font was unappealing (which I don't think you did), go back, The Yogurt is going to look lots better (it also has less errors than the first one).

As for The mother of all knots, posted on: September 13th, I'm still working on the knot.

The Challenges of TomoRRow

Oh, I've been anticipating this post for a long time. I have! I wanted to write it badly, but couldn't find the words. It's not like I have the words tonight, it's just that tonight I am going to be brave enough to write it, without knowing the outcome.

The Challenges of TomoRRow.

No, I'm not going to go sci-fi on you. Not at all! Although it wouldn't hurt, now that I think of it. TomoRRow brings all of these images into my head like, the deep, black ocean of space (merde! so cliché!) (Cliché is in French?!) (Oh my God!, it is! I always knew it, but never stopped to think about it, hmm, so the parenthesis should say: "merde!, très cliché!") Moving on from my tangent. As I was saying, Challenges of TomoRRow brings images of the deep, black ocean of space, of highway lanes on the surface of Saturn's rings; of blue, cold, windy atmospheres in Pluto; of glowing, flaming reds in Mercury; of seas of smelly methane gas on one of the moons of Jupiter (I actually read an article about that, and I wondered how a "sea" of gas would look, and this is what was concluded: "when you dip your hand in it, it is slightly colder than the air above, but it doesn't feel like water would feel, it is like dipping your hand inside a whirlwind, that waves slowly, even thickly between your fingers. But then you cannot see the surface of this sea methane, for it is covered by a greenish fog that hangs on top of it, swirling and lurking, as the sea is not solid, it is just heavy, concentrated gas, just hovering on top of another solid, which we would call the "sea bed"." My mind is digressing once again!).

But no. I am not going sci-fi on you. Not at all! Although images keep coming: of stars, of three suns burning, of two moons shimmering, of the sun just walking along the horizon, instead of rising on top of our heads (and you don't have to fly deep space to experience that, just hang around in Antarctica, or in the North Pole with Sandy Claws... The sun just drifts around you, and not over you! It makes sense, since the north and south pole don't ever get direct sunlight. But to actually SEE the sun just go around the horizon, it is incredible. I can only imagine how lost people would get... That's another thing I learned, or unlearned, and that people missed when they didn't go see March of the Penguins! ... And again, I trailed off.). I will start again.

No. I am not going sci-fi on you. Not at all! Although images keep coming. But no. I just wanted to talk about the word: Tomorrow. Such a nice word, isn't it? It suddenly, for nor reason, fills your lungs with pride or maybe with hope, with the hope to see a future day? The hope to live one more day? It brings images of light, of freshness, of birds chirping of the sun rising, and it would make sense, as the word comprises of: To (direction) Morrow (which once meant: morning). Oh, But No. What I want to point out is the fact that tomorrow is written with two "R's". I was surprised the day that I stopped and looked at the word when I was chatting with a friend. I had typed: "tomorow", and I had always typed it like that, with one "R". But then, I looked at it, and, for some reason, it hit me that it looked odd, that is was missing something. I went to my trusty dictionaire and found that it had two "R's". Then I made a comment to my friend, whom I was speaking to, and he said that it took HIM a while to remember that its double "R". This statement, coming from a native English speaker, appalled me. But soon I got over it, because I myself forget how to write Spanish words, like "necesitar", I forget if the "C" goes where the "S" goes. (That word is "to need", its variant: "necessary" is also confusing to me).

But Tomorrow is one of my favorite words (in English, and I love to read it from the English as if it were Spanish, which would sound: toh-moh-roh, or toh-moh-roe, depending on my mood). It is one of my favorite words, along with "bus" (in Spanish is "bus" too, but instead of reading it "bus", you would read it "boos", but a very short "oo", don't go booooing around; so, it sounds very funny when someone just comes and says "boos".).

So yes, Tomorrow is one of my favorite words, for many reasons: because it makes you procrastinate in your own self-contained thoughts; because it makes you digress from your current subject; because it makes you forget the "R's", the "C's", the "S's", the "OO's"; because it makes you totally go on a tangent that doesn't really go anywhere; because it makes you go very repetitive; because it brings flash-backs from the future, because it lets go of flash-forwards from the past; because it brings images of the deep, black space and a parenthesis that went after it concerning French; because it makes you remember things; because it makes you go "clichéry"; because it makes you think of what is coming, or not, or it just entertains you when you read it in Spanish: toh-moh-roh; or because it is just such a beautiful, beautiful word to look at: Tomorrow (proud T, repetitive O's, and the finality of a W, and, of course, the mysterious and intriguing double R). But it is one of my favorite words because it makes you realize, and it makes ME realize, what a liar I am, because tomorrow is a word that ultimately makes me go, and in itself it is, soooo sci-fi.

Joel's Interactive Program (JIP)

I present to you J.I.P., an effort to make this place more enjoyable and busier, and more interactive ... (*whispering to himself*): mainly for me. Because, (*clearing throat*), I love writing but I also need to reeeeaaaad! Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince won't last much longer, Ok!

So, I've created this idea. YOU give a title, any title, a very random title, and I will write about it. What do you think? Or maybe better, I shall write a story from your title, that will make it harder... and maybe even more interesting. YOU can also suggest a sentence, a very random, crazy sentence, the least sense the better, and I shall write around it, or WITH it. I don't know. You can suggest whatever you'd like.

So, ok. Homework.

1. Think! (because I'm running out of neurons!) (altho I have a list of titles here, but I need encouragement).

2. Give me a title! (whatever, as random as you can) (ex. "The Correct Toe"), (I've also been thinking of doing a series of stories with the titles of the songs from a CD) (hmm) (I can foresee copyright battles)

3. Or, Give me a sentence! (even more random-er than the titles) (ex. "And saw Pedro sleeping blessedly with his face stuck to the ceiling") (*wink*)

Please! Pleeeeaaaase! Help me!

I await (*bloodshot eyes*) for your COMMENTS. Just click right below of this sentence! Come ooon!

Repressed anger.

STuPID, FUCKINg, genes of mine! ASsholes, basTArDS, moTher"F"ing genes of mine! FuCKErs, dAmNED genes of mine! I hate them!

Except the precious chromosomes that invented my feet, those, THOSE are the best genes ever! My feet are the best, my toes even... They smell a bit, but, hey, genes are not perfect.

EXcept! The Rest of the GENES, they are all a big lot of SHITTERS!, DAMN YOU ALL. Genes puÑeteros!, cABRonES, HIjos de PuTA!! Malditos! aaAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaAAAAah!

Ok. I'm good now. Let me just cut this arm off, and I will be just dandy!

The Yogurt (based on veridic events)

There it was. There is nothing else in the fridge. Just the pale light, just the cold. On the door, there are all sorts of sauces: bar-b-q, ketchup, mustard, grape jelly... On the lower shelves there are some bottles of beer and soda cans. But on the top shelf, there was nothing, nothing but the heavenly-looking cup of yogurt.

Its flavor was strawberry, and you could taste the rich, thick, gooey white substance on your tonge. "Umm", you think. And as you reach in to grab it, a thought pierces your mind. "Don't. Don't, it will bring illnesses towards you".

The yogurt didn't belong to you. It belonged to your Chinese roommate, he who has been fighting the people upstairs for the past two weeks. The people upstairs are loud; he is fed up with them. But you... you are not bothered. Actually, you couldn't care less. the last time you ate his yogurt he flipped out. He ranted about everyone slurping his yogurts. You didn't know he was going to go like that, and your other roommate, the Japanese girl, she said that he wouldn't mind. She lied to you, a fellow woman, how inconsiderately conniving.

But the yogurt looks so tempting in the fridge. All alone, on its own shelf, waiting, seducing. You slammed shut the fridge's door. To open it seconds later, slowly, hopeful that the stupid, beautiful thing would not be there. But, it didn't work. It was still there, looking at you, calling at you. Oh, the hell with it, right?

You grabbed it. You tore the cover. You sank a spoon in it, and you licked that spoon as if you were having an orgasm. Like your first one. Maybe you will be dead tomorrow, killed by your tantric Chinese boy roommate. Your Japanese girl roommate will laugh at your corpse. She never liked you. Who cares? You are having the orgasm that was waiting for days in the cold, white insides of that fridge. And the sweetness of the illegal, and the sweetness of its strawberries melting around your tongue is so good.

The end.

(The preceding was a fictional story based on veridic events. The characters are fictional, the situations are half-true. Any likeness to real life is just pure coincidence).

Talking about food

Today I went to the dentist. I don't like the dentist. But I like the nurses of the dentist even less. There are like four. So I go into the cubicle to get my mid-year check-up and clean-up (for some reason I think I'm not saying the right words...). In my mind I was wishing that the pretty nurse didn't take me, not because I didn't like her, nooo, she is beautiful to look at, when you are laying down with your mouth open. The thing is... she is a bit rough. And my gums are tender. But to my gums relief, this lady came up and did me teeth.

Have you notice that they talk to you while they scrape you teeth? I don't if it just them in that office, but they all have a story whenever they are cleaning up your teeth. It is nice tho, it takes your mind more or less away from the pain in that small area where your teeth are attached to your gums. But then it is bad because you want to answer something, and sometimes they expect you to answer with your mouth agap, and their fingers inside... uuhh it gave me chills.

I hate going to the dentist. Not because I don't like the people in the dentist's office, they're the nicest people in the world actually, very nice, the doctor is too, very... outgoing, speaks his mind. But, ooh, i don't like the pain in my mandibles after I return home.

Tengo ganas de comer pescado.

Tengo unas ganas enormes de comer pescao. Un filete de dorado bien sasonado con pimienta y oregano. O un salmón bien horneado, que quede bien rosadito con mucha mantequillita deretida. O una serenata de viandas con bacalao. O me conformo con un fillet-o-fish the Mc Donalds. A lo mejor ando preñao.

I'm in the mood for fish. A "dorado"(mahi mahi) fillet seasoned with pepper and oregano. Or salmon roasted pink, with lots of melted butter. Or a "serenata" (mix of root fruits: potatoes, sweet potatoes, carrots, pumpkin and others with no translation) with codfish. Or I would even go for a fillet-o-fish from Mc Dondalds. Maybe I'm pregnant.

The truth about this picture

It is weird to see pictures in websites of places where you have been. I've been on this plaza three time in a month. This plaza is called: Plaza Colón. (as in Christopher Columbus).

Puerto Ricans have a saying: "Cuando Colón baje el dedo", (when Colombus puts his finger down). It is used whenever you have something that it is impossible to acomplish. If there was a translation it would be, maybe: "When pigs fly". Because pigs won't, and the Statue of Colón will certainly won't put his finger down. Unless, of course, there is a mutation in the pigs DNA or a bad earthquake brings the finger down. I remember calling this plaza the plaza of the cockroaches. Because there were a lot in the bottom of the fountain located under Columbus. But that was way back. I didn't see one the three times I walked by.

As I was saying: it is weird to see pictures of places where you have been. Because I can see the changes in this plaza. Those craggy, branchy trees next to the round balcony are now a lot taller and full of leafs. I stood right there in that round balcony, and there are big trees that, if I were to take that picture again today, you wouldn't see it.

Also the picture looks as if it were of another country, because the picture is taken from an angle that you would not be able to get, unless: 1. you lived in San Juan, or 2. you were a professional photographer, or 3. you were very determined.

Do you see the brown construction in the background? That is the Fuerte San Felipe, (one of the to fortifications that crown the north coast of Old San Juan). The sky blue/grayish buildind was a Hooters, I don't remember what it is now, I think it is not being used. Next to that is Café Berlin, the restaurand/bar/lounge that I went the other night. To the right you can see a lot of trees, under those trees there is a bank, don't remember which one... On this plaza also the movie: Desperado, with Antonio Banderas, was filmed, some scenes anyway, and the bank was also in the movie. Wait. Now that I think of it, I believe it is a Museum (It would make sense of the lot of trees, because it is a garden, I remember the garden).... Hmm. I'll check and get back to you.

This plaza is like the begining of old San Juan. If you go north, between the former Hooters and the Fortrest you will eventually find the other fortrest, called: El Morro. If you go south, like down the stairs of the round balcony, right in front actually, there's the Tapia Teather, behind the teather, there are hotels, bars (Señor Frogs is near), and the docks where the cruises... well dock. To the east, walking parallel to the Hooters, you will find the Old San Juan City Hall, and the governors house La Fortaleza, and also, the famous bar-infested San Sebastián Street.

Again, it was weird when I first saw this picture (which I used in a previous post, as you may already noticed), because I walked right down those stairs, crossed the sidewalk, crossed the street, went behind the teather, and came in to Starbuck's, (that reminds me, that I hate coffee, but I looove cheesecake). I just thought of showing you were I've been.

Me dieron ganas de caminar. (Now I want to walk).

I'll tell you how it goes.

French Class

Parler

Je parle
Tu parles
Il/Elle parle
Nous parlons
Vous parlez
Ils/Elles parlent

(tada!)

March of the Penguins and Other LoveBirds

Lately, everything overwhelms me. Everything beautiful overwhelms me. Everything sad overwhelms me. Everything happy overwhelms me. Everything about "leaving and returning" overwhelms me.

Today I went to see March of the Penguins. Everyone I talked to about going to watch the movie/documentary was like: "Joel, that is just boring". I decided, then, that I would enjoy life by myself. I didn't ask them this, but, how something that you don't know could ever be boring? And some people might say: "Joel, but you can watch that on the Discovery Channel". I would answer: why pass up the oportunity of watching it big, in full detail...? (You've seen more mediocre things, anyway).

The movie was so interesting and beautiful. I want to go to the South Pole now. In October or November, when summer starts, and it is less cold, maybe like cero degrees instead of -58 degrees. To make such a movie is to endure so much. You have to love film, you have to love nature very much, and have such patience and wonder towards those beings that you want to capture, beings that do not pose, nor care about you at all. At least penguins are not agressive.

With the movie I learned how intelligent animals are, or just penguins. I learned how penguins are so much like any human being. And maybe also, how they are more intelligent than human beings. Animals, or penguins, use their common sense ALL the time. Unlike many human beings. But penguins also go mad, and loose their minds with bad decisions. The penguins walk for many miles, more than 50, thats more than Puerto Rico's distance from north to south, and sometimes they walk more, depending on how much ice is frozen on the ocean surface. Guided by instinct they go deep inland where the ice is thick and it won't break on the next summer season, so that the chicks won't fall into the cold waters. They walk. But sometimes they slide on their bellies, propelled by their legs. And I couldn't help but think that some people did things the hard way for no reason (others don't of course; but I've heard people say: "pasa trabajo", as if to say that you should do things the hard way instead of doing them the easy way... why? It doesn't make sense).

Penguins form a partnership, male and female, to breed one egg. One! And there are so many perils ahead for that egg. The mother makes the egg, but she has to transfer it to the father, because she had use her resourses and has to go back to the sea to feed. The transfer is hard, they have seconds for it, if for some reason the egg rolls away from the penguins thick, black feet, the egg freezes, cracks and dies withing seconds. The parents have no purpose anymore and leave. The mothers that had a succesful transfer hurry to the sea, but the ice is frozen so they have to walk even longer than the first time. The fathers stay with the egg, for another month. All males engaged in a simultaneous bond, all hurdled together for warmth under the blizzards.

And so, when the females finally come back, the egg has hatched into a grey chick with black eyes, fragile and tender. And transfer time is back again, and the same rule applies, because the chicks are not yet able to walk by themselves. Seconds away from under their parents flap of skin, and their little bodies die as ice hardens their insides. The loss is unbearable. They made desperate grunts that sounded so sad. And then, they go mad, they try to steal another penguins chick, but the group doesn't let it happen. And so, the males go back to the sea after almost 4 months without eating, their path is even longer than the female's, as the ice keeps freezing, and that's why there are less males than females, perhaps.

I've told pretty much the whole movie by now. But it is not as rewarding as it is to see how these animals chose this place to live, and how they manage to survive in it. Because that's the place where they were born, and just because of that single reason, they always go back to the same exact place to breed. To love.

To love.

How can a bird love? I don't know. Maybe they don't even call it love. Maybe some scientist only call it "the instinct of survival" (I just made that up, by the way), the instinct of keeping the race growing is what make these penguins protect that chick, and endure the hardships of going hungry and exausted... But, isn't that what humans do? (Most of them anyway, the responsible ones, the loving ones). Humans, above all, want the well-being of their children. Why? Because the children have to be better than the parents? But why do they have to be better? Because the parents love them unconditionally? But why is that love unconditional? There is no reason for wanting the well-being of your children, really, there isn't, if you think about it. Love is not learned, it is just born, it is instinctive.

And how can a bird love a human or viceversa? Oh, how can a dog love a human or the other way around? I don't know. Who knows? No one. But I want to believe that my little Cockatiel, cared for me, or us. Coki, his name was, he died last Sunday. And even though he was just a bird, he was our bird, and we played with him for the six years that he lived, because we had him since he was just a baby chick. It was so sad to see his bright yellow body sitting on the floor of the cage, as if he was just tired, like a duck sitting on the grass. His head, with the orange spots on the sides, lowered in front of him, his beak touching the bottom of the cage. I had to touch his soft feathers for the last time, and it surprised me how alive he felt. But, he didn't respond. I remember when he survived the rocking chair, when one of his nails was broken and never grew back, poor thing squealed, whenever he was touched with the Vick's. And when he survived the rat glue-trap, somehow he got stuck on it, his beak his wings all stuck to the glue... he looked so glad, with his chest proud, after I cut the feathers to free him, and cleaned him... battered but alive. I didn't know how much I cared for him, or how much I loved him until he was gone. I hope that he felt my instinctive love when he was alive, because I felt his whenever he, lovingly or instinctively, would walk up to my hands and whistle with me.

Home is where the heart is, I said once... A friend said to me once... Some unaccounted person said once... If you were born in a place of friggid temperatures and dangers, but you were warm under your parents loving flap of skin, over their thick feet, and you walked on their feet as they taught you, and they cared for you with love, you are bound to go back to that place. You will go back by instinct not knowing exactly what you are doing. When you finally arrive, you say: this is where it all started, this is where I'm supposed to be right now, this is what I must do, this is where I help the circle of life. And when you're task is done (in the place that you called home, in the place that you were born, in the place that you played with your friends when you were little), you grow up, or if you are already grown up, you grow a little more, and then you leave. Just to come back home again, next year, and instinctively love once more.

Vacations

... ...
...
___

Breath

Yes. Breath. Because tomorow's post will be... strong (I think). I will start writing, right now.

Another thing. This blog will start a new thing. Something... Interactive... we'll see.

So now. Clear your minds for tomorow (or a couple of hours). Just Breath.

Family Guy! and "Pum!" Ice Cream

Tonight I'm inclined to the dark sides of not posting.

I'm enjoying a rich "Pum!" ice cream. What is "pum!" ice cream? Well, if an ice cream vending car went through your neighborhood when you were little, the car would always call the children with a very creepy bell ring than went: PUM!... and after like 5 senconds: PUM. Five seconds: PUM. It was like the call from the devil. All the children from the street would come out to buy. It has been ages since I've had Pum Ice Cream. It is so soft and it melts in your mouth so easily. Soft served ice cream at your door. Genius!

ps. Depending on your cognitive ability and on your cultural background: "pum!" could sound like: "ping!" or "pang!" or "pom!" or "ting!" or "supercalifragilistic!"

Anyway. Since I'm not in the mood of writting a lot, here is a link, so to change the view from "letters" to "moving image". The link is from that sweet ("suite!") show Family Guy. When I was in Orlando, one of my roommates owned the first three seasons of the show. I had never watched it before. But then, that's the only thing we would all watch at night. Family Guy. We knew most of the jokes by the end of our stay in Orlando... For those who don't know the show, (like I once were), most of the jokes are just because they're random. One more thing: hopefully you can see the clip. And another thing: Ipecac, one spoonful of it is used to make people regugitate whenever they have consumed a poison.

Enjoy.

http://www.milkandcookies.com/links/33774/

Joel: Poetry-Hater

For that title alone, I am going to get lynched (or as the dictionary says: executed without due process of law, especially hanged, and in the pressence of, or by a mob). I can see the mob already ganging up on me. I can smell their smells. I can taste their bitterness.

How can I hate poetry? Oh, I hate poetry. I thought of saying: "I 'do not like' poetry", but it is not true, I hate it. I cannot stand it. Even if it is published on a book by the most renowned person... But, don't get me wrong. I can manage to enjoy some of it. Yes. It is like "reggeaton" music. I hate it, but after a while you have to sing the song (if it is one of the better ones, of course) and sometimes even dance to it. So yes, I can enjoy some poetry. I enjoy "more" the poems by people that I know in person. I won't read poetry from people that I don't know, unless it is for some technical reason (being which: that I need to count verses from some poem, that I need reference for some reason, that I have been recomended poems of someone whom "I would like", or I don't know, it even has to do with the mood that I'm in). So. Poetry, big no, no.

That being said.

Yesterday was the presentation of a magazine that the University of Puerto Rico, specifically the English Department, published, it is called "Tonguas" (get it? tongue=lengua). And I was so very happy to have two stories published in it. Very happy to see my babies in page 77 ("Los Nuevos Miércoles"), and page 82 ("The Echo of the Night on the Distance"). The magazine is an expression of "young art"; more multilingual and democratic it cannot be. There is photography, there are paintings, drawings, there are short stories, and poems. I, being a poetry-hater, can say that 98% of the poems are good. I also have to make a confession: I was on the editing team of this magazine (I have a credit, woohoo!), and I HAD to read a LOT of poems. And I learned that poems were a different kind of writing.

What I hate about poems is the "full of themselves" quality that they have. Poems are so selfish. They try to be so pretty and/or so demanding of so much attention, and I'm not that person. I have to read a poem at least three times to get half of it. My brain doesn't compute their intricate word choice. It just doesn't. Poems are so small and still they want to be this grandiose thing... Oh, but wait. Then you have the five, six, seven pages long poems. Don't even get me started with those. Isn't poetry suposed to be concise? Why is this poem ages long? I don't know. If the poem doesn't keep MY attention (because it wants my attention, and not some elite person) on the first page, then it dies. I'm really sorry to say it. (Although, the same eye goes for narrative, but I'm more lenient with stories).

I also learned that poetry was about images; about choosing the right words and connect them. But, with word choice, rhyme and sound are neglected (most of the time). I love poetry that rhymes. Even if I don't get it, those poems I like, sometimes maybe love... That is why music is so liked in the first place (at least most of it), because the lyrics rhyme. (Oh God, I can see frowned brows everywhere!) (Oh well). And sure, there are lyrics that don't rhyme, but in some way they have some kind of rythm, or beat.

So, on the presentation of "Tonguas" there was an open-mic. And guess what was the main course. Poetry. I was like: "Damnit!" I sat there, listening. And what impressed me more was not the poems, but how people would speak them. Some were very shy, some were very outgoing and loud, and kept the audience. But, poems, very little of them caught my attention, (altho I stayed for the whole thing; there was a lot of people). The best thing that was read there, was a nice short story. Also, there was a poem titled: "Conjugando verbos" ("conjugating verbes", you caught it) that I particularly remember because of the word choice, which was a grammar-class-like love story, which I found very original. Also, there was a poem in which ALL the words started with a "P", all of them (except for articles and conjunctions and whatnots), I also found that one very original. Also there were poems with a hip hop beat to them, they rhymed or had a beat, and they were the ones that stayed in my mind (altho, I don't like hip hop that much). So I guess I hate poems because I find them lacking much originallity?

I cannot help to hate poetry. I can't. I've searched for a poem that could/would change my life, but I haven't found it.

I write poetry, rarely. Sometimes I hate some of my poems, specially my old, inexperienced ones (not to say that I'm experienced now...). So, I write them rarely, and I try to make them as literal as possible, because, for me, there isn't a stupid-er thing than to write something "creatively" and then someone doesn't get it, or doesn't know what to think of it, or doesn't get the purpose of it. You can draw all the conclusions you want from a poem, or from a story, but, you, as a writer, want at least ONE person to know exactly (or somewhat exactly) what you meant when you wrote.

So, because I am a poetry-hater, because I am an "I- don't- get- your- deliriums- of- granduer- you- stupid- poem" person (notice that I say this about the poems, NOT about the people who write them, because I know they are capable persons... it is "I" who has a problem (we say that all the time: "its not you, its me..." whatever... so I'm going to shut up)...

People with stern faces stare at me. There is a man with a black hood over his head next to me (that covered his whole head), his arms are tanned, tatooed, sweaty and hugeamungous. There is another man on my right, he is skinny, and his hair is gray, dirty gray. Behind me there is another man, I can't see him, (duh!), because I watch at the angry mob. The sun is pounding on all of us. It smells, but I can't pinpoint the what it is, like blood, like unbathed people, I think there is also a hint of rain inside my nose. And as I look over the buildings of the "plaza", the sky is darkened, and rumbled towards us. The man with the hood pulled me, and guided me through the mob. People spat at me, telling me: "poemcist!", "son of the devil", "blasphemous", "motherfucking-bitch-ass poem-hater!". I couldn't understand. Others pulled at my clothes. My hands bound with metal casings, I held my clothes as good as I could. Some people hit me, even a stone struck me on the head. The man with the hood protected me. We were near the platform, and as we went around it, I saw the blood. Dry, clotted blood, mixed with mud, under the wooden trapdoor. We climbed the platform. The executioner (the man with the robe, of course), slid a thick rope around my neck, he hung the other end on the piece of wood that would hang me. He tightened the rope. The people were screaming, kill him, kill him, hang him already. And then, I saw a glimpse of the executioner's eyes, through the peepholes of his black hood, it seemed that he pitied me. And then, he pulled on the lever that opened the trapdoor into my doom. My neck cracked with a hard yank, and I knew I was gone there, but before I lost all life, the executioner took his hood, he was, Joel. He didn't say anything, but I knew he was a poetry-hater too. Then, the people started to poke me with sharp spears, and that's when I bled. Gladly I was dead. But then, with a mighty thunder, the rain splashed over everybody, and the mob ran, as if they were running for their lives, and my blood, was washed away, so that it wouldn't stink along with the sweat of the people.

On a scroll of parchment that Joel gave me... I, Joel, found this (written in long hand-writing):

I, (Poetry-hater, rhyme-lover, postmodern, bittersweet writer...) present you!... chan chan chan chan chan! (drumroll): a poem by me.


Postmodern Joel
(a cultural poem that is vital)

One day in May, I discovered
what postmodernism meant.
It was such a truth uncovered
that my grand mind only dreamt

of a boy who struggled
trying to find words to say
for a poem that juggled
in absudity and dismay.

Joel, the boy was called
by his brother and sister
by his missis and mister,
until they were appalled

by his postmodernism phase;
when he started to tatoo
intricate poems on his face
caused by an “evil craze”

inside his mind and index finger.
To his yard he darted one day
before lunch, on the grass he lay
rhyming words which lingered,

so they could have a nice sound
and impress many masters.
But he lacked cultural ground,
held nothing but disasters.

So he waltzed to the library,
took some pretty looking book
that had cultural poetry.
He read, and read and then went red

‘cause he understood nothing
he intended to understand.
He came back home pedalling,
and started to tatoo his hand.

He stopped half way up, couldn’t do it:
write culturally about his town,
or him, or whatever was around;
and so follows, what he came up with:

after waking from a deep sleep in May:
Postmodern Joel, it was titled,
a cultural poem that was vital
‘cause of its absudity and dismay.

October 8, 2004
8:35 PM



And on the bottom of the scroll parchment was this:

"All Rights Reserved"

And this:

"Yes, you may say whatev..."

And after the "v" there was just a scribbled line.

Rain, Wind and the Ocean

I promised a good post. So this post is about... eeeh... hurricanes and tornadoes. And I can hear you say: "Again?! But, Joel, you just did a post on hurricanes not too long ago", and I would go: "You just want blood don't you?" And you would be like, looking at the ceiling as if I wasn't talking to you...

No. I like blood. But I love rain. "Blood and rain" (Nice title for something. Wait for it. I mean it.) And today I saw in the news that there was a "marine tornado" (or a whirlwind [marine whirlwind, I guess], or, as the dictionary says, a waterspout) near the Puerto Rican north or east coast, I didn't hear well... But it doesn't matter, they showed a picture, and it was impressive. I hope I see one myself. They are an exciting sight next to the hurricanes (which I had a nice dream about... that's another post, tho). They occur only on the ocean, there are witnesses that say that they have touched land. I hope I get to see one, I hope I don't get caught in one!

So, now, here, something nice.


Rain, Wind and the Ocean

Rain and wind unite on the ocean, as if they were a marrying couple. The wind came first. With his white tux flying in the space. He rushed through the aisle with hurry, but he had to, the aisle is the size of the Atlantic. His hair is invisible, but you can feel it, you can hear it flapping against his face. It is long. Long and soft. If you were going to run your hand through it you would feel every cold strand caressing the tips of your fingers. Then came the rain. With her white wedding dress falling and spreading, like water, all over the aisle. She also rushed through the aisle, rustling, a murmur that she did whenever she took a step. Her hair is black, and even longer than her future husband's hair, fuller, deeper, if you were to brush it, your hand would be lost in waves of blurs, like fog.

And they married. The bells of the tides jingle in your mind.

The wind grabbed the rain. He took her on his arms, and walked back to the doors of the Atlantic. You can see her dress just everywhere, there is no escaping it, there is no escaping that a piece of it falls over you, or that it sweeps your feet. But the wind is strong and quick, it quickly takes the dress off of you.

You were invited to their wedding, and you didn't know. You don't even know how you came to see their union on the ocean, you are just there, present, for no reason. Maybe you were just walking by the ocean and you saw the multitude of people, and when you came inside the ocean, the Atlantic ocean, you were just taken aback by the bride's and groom's beauty. Their almost pure, transparent beauty. But, you were also invited to their reception. And you didn't know. It was not far from the ocean. It was on the coast. You just followed them, like a zombie, like a hummingbird to the flowers. You were so amazed by their grandeur that you couldn't just leave without watching them dance at least one piece.

And there they were. Both of them. Near the coast. The wind started to rotate on the shallow end of the beach. The rain started to twirl and wave on the deep end of the beach. And then they both reached onto each other's arms and danced. From the sky you could see their power. The clouds started to point down into the center of them. They couldn't stop dancing the slow first dance. The wind's invisible hair was mixed with the rain's dark hair and they turned into a gray vortex that connected the sky to the coast. And when they touched the ocean, the ocean flew around in circles, and was sucked into their whirl, pulled up from the beach, like the mercury rising with temperature. Slowly rising, until at the top, the ocean rained down upon all of us: a multitude gathered in disbelief. The ocean was sprinkled from their twirl... And when the music was over, the ocean was left free, splashing in circles, as if it were a flower, and then, in circles it gushed down into the beach. Wind and Rain married on the ocean. And You, I, Us were invited to watch their magnificence.

wow

I swear, You swear, We all swear

We all make promises. So I am going to promise you that I won't swear any more promises. Ok? Now, I swear that we all swear at some point in time. So, I am going to swear so many things now, that you won't believe. And I am going to do this because I swore on this blog for the first time, only two days ago. (or maybe I did before, but I don't remember). Now, how many swears can you cram in one post? fuck, shit, fucka, ass, asshole, shitface, bastard, bitch, motherfucker, cunt, dick, cocksucker, whore, slut... Ok, I can't do this tonight, for some reason I am "très" tired (I drank some sangría on an empty stomach... maybe that is it). But I'll throw in some spanish too: cabrón, pendejo, mierda, puta... Damnit! I can't remember more... Oh well. I tried. I guess this is the lamest-est post ever. Fuck you, assholes.

This was such a PG blog. What has become of the world, using so profane words. I shall never use them, unless it is totally necessary. Or whenever the fuck I want!

(I promise a great post for tomoRRow) (*wink*)

The mother of all knots

Imagine yourself in a graduation gown. Remember the thing that hangs from your squared hat? (How is it called? someone please...) Ok. Now, imagine lots of those clingy, strandy things just knotted together. Like ten of them. Like ten of thousands of them... How knotted together? Well, imagine that you put them in one of those nets and then put it in the washing machine. And, after that, in the dryer... That is how knotted they are.

In my power I have a blanket that has those little threads on the edges. My mother washed it in in the washing machine, and they got knotted together. And then she said that "I" did it; because I changed the clothes from the washer to the drier. I said: "It could have happened in the washer..." She just didn't say anything, gave me the blanket and politely (and there is no sarcasm on that adjective... no, really there is not) asked me to untie the threads. I've been working on it for the past week. It is a nice blanket, pretty; that is why I do it.

<---- This is the knot.

This is how it has to look.----->

EMERGENCY!

Oh Dios! (Oh God, remember this for next time!)

I almost died. Today, suddenly I saw I had lost Posts from this my beloved, (your beloved) blog. I almost had a heart attack, after so much work, after sleepless nights and after hungry days to write everyday!!! I had lost posts! I almost cried. My children have been lost forever in the doomed bottoms of some bottomless pit, the ones that have the pikes poking upright at the bottom, like the fatalities of Mortal Kombat... I felt my heart being robbed from my chest by Liu Kang, or by Shang Tsung (shit! I looked for a list of characters [to write the names right], and there are SO many that I don't know anything about... I remember the first three Mortal Kombats and that is all I know... Old school, those were the best, then all of the others games kept being the same 2-D graphics and the uppercuts were not as exciting as when the first Sub-zero applied them after the reasonable freezing of the opponent... Good times) (that reminds me that I don't play games as often as I did before. I remember once playing Donkey Kong Country, for Nintendo 64 [I think] for eight hours straight. Donkey Kong was a nice game, when you had to throw the barrels to hit the Croc, so awesome.) (That also reminds me that I still have to finish playing: Zelda, The Windwaker, there are very little games that I play until the end, and those are the Zelda ones.... I usually finish, but sometimes I get tired before I get to the end... The Windwaker, tho, I need to finish; to know what happens to Link...) (Bytheway, there is a new Zelda game coming... which looks awesome, but they moved back the release date for and undisclosed date for next year... They are making it better, Yes! But, you'd think that I am hardcore gamer, NOT AT ALL, I only play fighting games [good ones] like: SoulCalibur, SuperSmash Bros... and of course, everyone loves that famous fighting game: Mario Kart... No Resident Evil (it scares me and then it bores me, and then it scares me again), no Final Fantasy (nasty RPG's, who invented those? and why people fight with stupid numbers?, that is good only for trading card games, which are also (most of them) boring) (like this post so far) (I will make it up) (You will wish that it kept itself boring!)

Back to my heart being ripped from my chest. There is a bloody mess on my desk, and I can see my heart still beating on the surface of the desk, the veins and arteries still attached into my body, through my broken ribcage. I can see bone, glistening bones poking out like white claws. I can see a red hole in my chest; it is hugeamungous, deep and dark, dark, dark red. The blood is boiling in there, like lava in a crater, it is dripping from the inside of my shoulders, maybe from the stalactites that are my collarbones (they are also broken, because of the impact into my sternum when my heart was torn out). It is like a cave in there. The blood vessels are like a spider web and then there is a pipe in the middle of it, it leads down into the boiling blood, into the guts, into the stomach. My heart is still pumping blood, how can it still be alive, how can I still be alive?! Oh my God! I'm going to die! I grab my heart, it feels squishy. I grab it gently because it seems very fragile. It is hollow inside, and I knew that, so many science classes have taught me that it is hollow, but I expected it to be stronger, like the muscles on my recently discovered forearm (*wink*).

Stupid Marron 5! my heart is drying on the desk and they are immutable to my pain, and they keep singing about broken smiles (*wink*) and about saying goodbye! Is it that I have to say goodbye right now? NO! I have much to do still! I have to go to Las Vegas, to San Fra, to Paris, to Japan, to New Zealand and visit my Kiwi friend (*wink*). Oh, my God, there is something in my eye now (*winkwinkwinkwink, tear, wink*) Fuck! Damnit! Ow! My heart fell from my hand, it slipped off like soap. And it hurt when it hit the ground, it felt like a punch on the back... not to mention that the heart pulled on my blood vessels, that felt weird, because I felt as if worms were... well worming under my skin. I took my heart from the floor, carefully, with both hands. And now, the red, palpitating surface of it has dust and "basuritas" ("garbagie thingies" from the floor, that may include, but are not limited to, hair, crumbs of whatever, dirt, dust, germs etc). So I tried to blow them off. It doesn't work as my heart is very, very sticky. So I try to take the off with a sweep of my hand, and it just makes it worst. Then I feel my heart drier and drier, and I think, oh God! My blood is clotting! So I spat on my heart. It doesn't work. It actually burns. And then I remembered that spit is an acid enzyme that starts the decomposition of food. And, I imagined my heart being corroded by my own spit. So I quickly put my heart over the boiling blood inside my chest area. I dipped it in there and I think I made it all better. Of course, now I have all of that "basurita" in there. It is sure going to feel like pebbles inside the shoes....

How do I close my chest now? My heart is safe inside my guts, probably some veins need some leakage-repair, I will call the plumber tomorrow, maybe he can fix the sink for free after he asks for my eye to pay for my arteries. ("To pay an eye" or "it costs an eye", Spanish saying that denotes that you are paying a lot!). So, since tomorrow I will be one-eyed, I can go buy that telescope I always wanted, yes, the one which you can only use one eye to look thru! Oh god. Nop, aluminum foil won't work to close my ribcage. Aha! If I pull them together I can Krazy Glue them. But wait!, Where's my sternum, that could be handy, it would be like repairing a broken figuring, you just glue-in the missing piece. It must be here somewhere. How did it go under the bed? But as I was leaning to get my sternum my heart plopped out of my chest again, along with my intestines. Oh, my mother's going to kill me when she sees all this blood on her newly-waxed floors.

Heart is one thing. But intestines. They are just nasty. They are as soft as the heart, but you can also feel lumps inside of them.... I could only think of shit. And to think that shit lives like right next to your pancreas.... Anyway, I set the heart on the bed, until I pulled the 3 miles of intestines inside. They didn't looking right. They looked like when you take folded sheets and then try to put them back in, they don't really fit, even tho you folded them back... Yes, the intestines were like that, after you take them out there is no way that they are going to fit inside again. So, I had bumps on the skin of my stomach after that, the doctor called them: hernias. No doctor, no, that's my guts sticking out, he just couldn't get it. So yes, as you can imagine I survived. I crazy glued my sternum, put my heart inside my chest and went to the hospital. They said that without medical plan they couldn't do anything, and that I looked fine anyway. So I took their word for it. Altho, when I walk I can feel things moving inside, like a maraca, I'm sure I will get used to it. Oh and yes, as for those "pebbles in the shoes", well I do feel them, but I'm sure that my white cells are making a lot of puss to get them out. I will get a huge zit very soon on my butt.

And after all that, I went back to the blog, and realized that my posts were not lost, that they were just unorganized, because the dates and times were changed when I (finally) set the correct time zone on the blog settings.

Today I Discovered my Forearm

Babies are so curious and they get so surprised when they discover something. You can see it in their eyes, they widen in such a wide way. They discover their feet. And you try to figure in your mind: what the hell is this baby thinking. Maybe they are asking themselves: what is this pinky thing? (if the baby is white of course, they look pink, if the baby is black he will ask "what is this milk-chocolaty thing"). And so they start to pull on their toes, and to feel that it hurts when they pull them, but they pull them nontheless, because the toes are so many and so small and so different from each other, and at the same time they are just... toes, and they are so funny and so... new.

The baby pulls on the toes and the toes slip from his fingers, and then the fingers slap on his face. At first he is indignant, and he contorts his face in mild pain, and that is when he discovers his hand. And that his hands has many elongated extensions, just like his feet, and his hand is much easier to get into the mouth. And he shoves his fingers into his mouth. Oh, they feel so good on the gums. But, what is that? Another foot? And the baby lifts up his feet, and they look the same, and he cannot believe it. It is so radically awesome! Two of the same! Then he pulls on both feet with both hands. The foot with the drooled hand slips off, the other foot reaches the mouth. Oh, it tickles. And the baby smiles, leaving and briefly forgetting his foot. Then he discovers the hand that brought the foot to his mouth. And he lifts his other hand. They are equal, they are the same: pink (or milk-chocolaty), plump, small. The baby straigthens both his index fingers and puts their tips together. Whoa! whoa! wow.

Today I discovered my forearms. I looked at them as if I was a baby, naive, curious, wonder-struck. I don't know why, there is no reason really, because I have seen my forearms before, but maybe it was just the light that I was under, or the way that I had them... I was sitting on the floor at some bookstore, holding an open book, and I saw them. And I let the book fall from my hand, and started flexing my forearms, opening and closing my fists. The way that they are colored (or their tan) is ligther, a LOT lighter that the upper part of it. It was a whiteness where I could see my veins, where I could see my life flowing down into my wrist. I flexed my forearm, and I saw how it changed in size and shape while I moved my fist. How the muscle feels when it is strained like that.

There is a tendon right in the middle of my wrist; it bothers me whenever I touch it, because I imagine the pain I would have to endure if that little tendon is ever bronken. I can see the two parts snapped apart under my skin, hurting, drilling a pain of a humoungous needle... On my left wrist you can see a thin, single vein that rides over that tender tendon, and then it branches out into smaller veins, which get lost at the start of my palm. On my right wrist there are three veins that ride over this tendon, one of them is twice the size of the one on my left wrist. It makes my skin bulge up a bit. And if you follow it, you can see it run into the side of my thumb, very nicely disguised.

I can feel the vein: so soft; my life runs through there. I have seen other boys/men (I've only known one girl) with bulging veins on their forearms, and I can't help to touch (given that I have confidence with this person, of course). The touch is so... indescribable. They are so tender under sleek skin, under tight muscles. I, on the other hand, don't have these veins bulging all the way down my forearms... I've been told that my skin is thick, I have proof that it IS thick: when blood samples are needed from me, 1. a very acurate and expert nurse is needed, or else I endure pain beyond comparison, and/or I end up with a big, black bruise on my arm; 2. or they have to get the blood from the top of my hand, or on the bottom of my wrists... (the thought alone makes me shiver). So, I don't have veins on my forearms, but I can touch them on my wrists, and on the top of my hands, and when I touch them, and when I touch someone else's, is as if I could feel their lives in the tips of my fingers. It makes me realize how beautiful, complex and equal we all are deep down; and how exposed, and how fragile we, human beings, really are.

Update on the "gata en celo"

It seems that there is, indeed, a new cat in my street. It is white and it has blonde rings on his tail, as if it came from space, or from The Jetson family. It seems the cat is deaf-mute (or mute-deaf), because I snuck up on it, and it didn't move until he saw me, (I was like five inches away from it) and then it skidded away without making any sound, except , of course, its legs rustling on the ground while it skidded. And yes, all of this info is just assumptions... everything is yet to be proved. Another thing, the sex of the new cat is undertermined as of now, so I don't know if it is on heat.

But the theory that there were two cats that night falls into place, because I only heard one, and if this new cat is deaf-mute, then it makes sense that I only heard one cat. But the boxes shaking... And, again, the cat was screeching as if it were threatened... but this mute-deaf cat is smaller than our neighbors black cat, and mute!... I dont know, maybe there were two cats and a person...

We will inform you of any other updates.

Quote of the week

"Wouldn't life be perfect if... sweatpants were sexy, monday mornings were fun, junk food didn't make you fat, friends didn't cause drama, boys [and girls] weren't confusing, nothing was regrettable and goodbyes only meant until tomorrow..."

by: Caitlin [or she just had it, I copied it], a.k.a. Catalina

La gata está en celo

The cat is in zeal? (I tried to translate this, I don't know if it is right, for I have never used the word zeal. I looked in two dictionaries... Never mind. On the third dictionary I found the right word... so the title is this:

The cat is on heat. or The cat came into rut. (the she-cat that is, notice it is "gatA" instead of "gatO"). (I shall never use the moronic, online free-translators... Damnit).

Anyway, past the American/Hispanical imparedness...

Last night, more like this morning, for it was 3:05 AM... I'm chilling, talking to my Kiwi friend, and just after we say our goodbyes there is a rustle of boxes outside my window. Ok, so I can't see because my window is closed, because the air conditioning is on (it is hot here, it was like 105 degrees faranheit five days ago), (another thing, my window faces the backyard, through which you can see the wall that divides my yard from the cemetary) (because, I have said this before, there is a cemetary behind my house, a municipal, huge one). So. Ok. The first thing that comes to mind is the cats. But then, the boxes started to move more, as if someone was searching in them. So then, I think some thief have jumpep from the cemetary into my back yard and is now searching for something interesting to sell, at some random corner. So, I don't open the window. As if I was that brave!

So then, my mother comes into my room and whispers: "did you hear the racket outside?", and I'm like: "Hell yeah" (I didn't say hell, I just added it to this writing so to make this more enjoyable and more like a fictional story, and also to save some long adjetive describing my tone of: "of course I heard it") (I see now that I should've just written the damn adjective). And then I said: "That was surely the cat". My neighbor's midnight-black cat, which name is Salem. And my mother goes: "But that was too much racket for a cat", and I said: "I know, but I'm not opening the window". She opened it. There was nothing, or no one. So she went to bed, and I stayed up a little longer. And then something else falls in the yard (there are so many things in my back yard, empty boxes most of it, because there is like a terrace area where we (meaning my mother) keep all the shit). So, something else falls, it sounds like boxes, and a second later I hear a furious snarl. A very very threatening cat hiss. Nasty sound. You know sometimes cats only hiss... like you only hear air coming from their twisted mouths... Well, I heard the air from this cat through my window, so just imagine how threatened this cat was. And then the cat started screaming a snarled meow, like a mixture of hissing and meowing at the same time but louder.

It must be a cat on heat, I thought. But then, I re-thought: "but cats don't make that sound when they are in heat!". Yes, they don't, I've heard those too: they are very loud sensual meows, as if the cat is being squeezed and he just goes with a mellow long meow. But these sounds were of being threatened, of fear or of attacking another cat...

I will never know if there was someone there or if there was a new cat in town... for I just turned the light of the outside off (which is, oddly enough, in my room, because of some horrible engineering), and went to bed. I will never know because I didn't open the window.

Hispanically Impared and a cucubano

If you heard "hispanically impared" what would you think? Would think that being hispanically impared would mean something like: hispanics are living impared? I can't even think, but it seems as if it were something that revolves around hispanics, like being hispanic is an impediment.

Well, you are wrong (if you thought that, like I did when I wrote that first paragraph... *coughs* just now).

I just laughed when a friend wrote "for the hispanically impared", meaning those people who don't speak spanish.

I don't know where I'm going with this post. I just wanted to say that "hispanically impared" just made me laugh. It's just that I wrote something in spanish and the I translated it so that "hispanically impared" people could read and understand what I wrote in spanish. Hispanically impared. Does it sounds offensive? I don't know. Sorry if it does.

Anyway. I wanted to say that I saw a Cucubano today (cucubano is a very puertorrican word (I think), for the hispanically impared that is a Firefly, and for the "puertorricanly impared" that is a "Luciérnaga" (that is for those who don't speak puertorrican spanish, hahaha, I'm having so much fun, I should be a teacher....).

Anyway, so, I saw a cucubano tonight. It has been AGES and AGES since I last saw a cucubano. They are such sad and happy creatures. Their light is so dim, and green and sad. But seeing them (or IT) made me so happy that I stayed at the university tonight. I remember that behind my old house there was a humongous brush and a creek, and the trees, and there were cucubanos there everynight, they were many minute, dim, neon green lights floating carefreely in the dark sky. With the years lights in the city slowly turn the lights of from the cucubanos, and they are now barely seen. I also remember that when I first moved into this house... (which, for those of you who don't know, behind the back yard wall there is a huge cemetary) ... so when I first moved here there came two cucubanos into my room. I was in my bed looking at the ceiling. All the lights were out, because my mother didnt want bugs to come inside, since there were no screens on the windows and doors. So I was staring at the ceiling and suddenly there were two green eyes looking at me. Whoa! But then I realized they were cucubanos, and I watched them. If you turn the lights on them, they kinda look gross, like little cockroaches, or not as nasty... maybe like common black small bettles... So, I fell asleep with them, flying around my ceiling...

Why do I bring this up? I don't know. It just popped into my mind. The post was supposed to be about spanish/english things... I guess I'm not in the mood for a class.

I'm just marvelled at how these insects have a light in their... asses. If they were any other insect I would have smashed it with a sandal, without any thought, or remorse.

Well then. I fulfilled today's post. I covered other languages, and I wrote a warm post at the same time. Entertaining AND educational. Some entomology, and some puertorricanisms (if that word exists at all), and some translation. I'm doing good. Now, for the hispanically impared: "adiós, and look for those cucubanos..."

A Day Off

Blah blah. I don't care. I'm taking today off! ... No, screw you!

Physical Distance; and I put the luggage away

I once said to someone something like this: "Distance is the worst thing people do to each other". And I believe in that, deeply. Just look at the people around the world. Look how the world turns with people killing other people, just because they don't look into the eyes of the other and see their souls. Just because they don't stop and think: why do I hate this person so much to the amount of killing? And it is because people are growing far appart from each other, so they don't really care about the other, because they don't KNOW the other. Neigbors that enclose themselves in their houses, teenagers that reject other teenagers (and I say teenagers because that is were is most apparent, not to say at all that grown people or kids don't do it).

But that is on the general aspect of distance.

Distance also grows among family members. When they fight over some stupid reason, no calls, no visits. When communication lacks and the parents split (or when the love gradually ends). Or when children have to move on with their lives and move away from their parents. Or when lovers have to divide because of whatever reason. When friends just live away from each other.

And that's where the Physical Distance comes around. The miles appart are like a barrier, they act as silencers, when you don't see the people that you have left behind, it is easier to forget them, it is easier to... disappear. Sure there's the phone, sure there's mail. But soon even those devices are avoided, confidence is slowly lost, conversations are akward and monosyllabic. Soon the things that were common between them are no longer the same, interests change and that is when you realize that you have lost something good.

Of course, you will try to make the encounter as enjoyable for the other as you can, but it is just hard. Eventually, if you break the distance, the love, the friendship and common things will rebuild themselves. But, again, only if the distance is cut short.

If distance is the worst thing people can do to each other, just imagine, then distance is the ultimate, most horrible "worst" for people who love each other.

Why would you leave the people that love you in the first place?


After a week of relative well-being, I finally decided to put my luggage away, how wrong it was to just leave it in front of my bed. Wrong because I should have put it away as soon as I came back from Orlando, I should've. But then, I couldn't hold myself up, because of the sadness, so that is why I left it thrown on the floor. But today I put everything away, and every single thing that I pulled from the bags reminded me of something I did. Then, I cleaned up my drawers so that everything could fit, and I found so many old trinkets. I found letters I recieved, which had events that I can barely recall. I found Valentine cards that were given to me by people whom I can barely picture in my mind, their faces are blurry... (I even have one signed by Elizabeth, and I don't remember no Elizabeth! someone please!) I also found pictures of me, when I was like 8, and 13, and like 16. I saw how much I have changed, how distant 8, 13 and 16 look now, and remember how far 23 looked from those ages. I don't even recognize myself. I wonder what was I thinking when the pictures were taken. I used to not show my teeth, somehow I thought I didn't look right if I showed my teeth (or I was told once to not show them, and it stuck with me...), but I was wrong (or they were wrong), teeth in pictures... Very good. But then, how did I change so much? I didn't even realize, even my thoughts are different...

I am guilty. Guilty of not following my own advise. But I have only just realize, not too long ago, that distance is the worst, and all of the repercusions that it brings... I have only just realized that. I'm trying to be less introverted, so that's a start.

In those Valentine cards, almost all my friends, wrote to me "never change". My answer now is: "I didn't... ...It wasn't me... ...I just couldn't help it".

¡¡¡La Madrastra!!!

(The Godmother!!!)

It just doesn't sound as stunning in English. (As it happens to other words in English, they don't sound as good in Spanish, like "Awesome!", there is actually no translation for that word, but its equivalent would be "¡Brutal!" (brrrootahl), and "brutal" is an awesome word, and awesome is a "brutal" word). (ok, I went on a trip).

¡¡¡La Madrastra!!! (try to roll the "R's" a lot!)

La Madrastra is a soap opera. My soap phase is long gone when cable came into my house, thank God. But there is something about the actress who is La Madrastra. Her name is Victoria Rufo, and she is hot. She's like 40 or 50, but I've always thought she is beautiful, and has a scenic presense that no one can compare. I remember watching her soaps when I was little. And then, there was this looong gap of years when she wasn't in soaps anymore, and when she came back I couldn't resist watching. She has always done the "good" characters, and most often than not, her characters are called María. (In Mexico, there is something very subliminal and unconcious about naming the lead, most sufferable characters María. Like the virgin Mary? I dunno, a random thought that just waltzed by my mind).

Ok, so. La Madrastra, aka: María (Victoria Rufo, woohoo!!) is such a compelling soap that even Americans are watching it. (I don't know many, but I know they mention the soap in some American shows, like E!'s "The Soup") That's good. It shows that the Mexican soaps are slowly taking over viewers from other languages. It also shows that they are good. Actually, they are not good, they are just MADE so that you just HAVE to keep watching.

Mexican soaps, as many others from other Hispanic countries, are full of cliché (outloud monologues anyone? or voice-over thoughts? hmm). And the stories are mainly all the same: someone keeps a secret and everyone is trying to find what it is, and when it comes out into the open, hell breaks loose.

So, La Madrastra is no different. It's just that the acting, and actors (actresses) are kindda better than in other soaps. (and of course, is Victoria Rufo, she can do a soap by herself!). And also, the characters are, the most of them, evil, even María is kindda hard headed... so that is an appealing thing. I guess.

The main storyline revolves around María, whose children don't know she is their mother, but she can't tell them that she is, because they think their mother is dead, among other reasons that I don't know yet. I don't want to watch the damn soap, I don't, but everyday it sucks me into turning on the tv, little by little, and watch, it's inevitable.

So, now that I have seeded your brains, find La Madrastra. If you are in PR, turn on the TV on Univision (11) at 8 PM. If you are somewhere else, tune in those spanish-speaking cable channels, turn the close caption on, and if you understand at least a quarter of they are saying, iIassure you, you'll be hooked. Don't fight it, like I am. I'm saved today cause it's weekend... that soap is haunting me!

¡¡¡La Madrastra!!! It sounds so "brutal", like The Godfather, it's bigger than itself. Awesome!

Adventures in people-watching or 30 people you will encouter on a doomed trip to San Juan

I was meant to be somewhere yesterday, and I was, on time, and it happened that the people that I was suposed to meet didn't show up. Well, it was not arranged, it was more like a public meeting, and I thought I would find people that I knew there, but I didn't.But, I saw so many interesting people on my way to the above-mentioned "place". People watching is such an interesting sport... You have to be very careful that the person doesn't realize that you are watching him/her. Here is the list of interesting people.

1. A police guy at the train station: why do policemen have such tight pants? This guy looked like a girl.

2. A man with a bicycle in the train: he didn't have anything interesting, he just had the bicycle in the train, that is not uncommon (it is almost encouraged) but it was the first time I see someone with a bicycle in the train.

3. A goth girl: I sat next to her on the bus, she had tight black long pants with like gothic prints/desings (also black, so it was very tasteful), she had a kind of net on her shoulders and on one arm, and her makeup was, of course, dark on the eyes, white (but not too white) on the face, but the weirdest thing was that she had one of those old fans (like the ones the Chinese use...) the fan had a Paris landscape on it. Very interesting.

4. Two drunk men on the bus: not too far back on the bus, there were two drunk men, you KNEW because one of the was loud, and the other was holding a bottle, with some liquid, wrapped in a brown paper bag.

5. A dominican lady: A very thin and tanned lady got on the bus with a huuuugeamongous bag (it was from a store, don't remember), she sat in front of the drunk men. It happens that the drunk men were talking about countries, and when they mentioned Dominican Republic the lady got upset and went on argueing with them. It got so loud in the bus... God!

6. The bus driver: he finally stopped the bus and got off of his seat, and I thought, oh he's coming, but he didn't, he got off the bus. By the way, the bus driver was an intersting person too: he was not short, but his head was very close to his shoulders, as if he didn't have enough neck... or maybe I was seeing things.... So then, the bus driver comes back into the bus and points to the two men.

7. A chubby policeman: again, they have such tight pants... it hurts me. This guy was also interesting, he was almost like a twin of the bus driver, only younger. He slumped over to the drunk men and kindly asked them to get off. The drunk men didn't even notice the cop until he was actually in front of them, as soon as they saw they shut up. But they had to get off. As they got off the quiet drunk man (he was bald with white hair on the sides) fell on the ground, and the other helped him, as did the cop.

8. A nice looking spanish-like lady, she had a white stripe of hair on her hair (her her her her) which was brown. She had two bags.

9. Two old ladies, they stood up from the bus station as quickly as they could, meaning slowly. Then, on of them had trouble getting on the bus, so the bus driver knelt the bus for her. The spanish-looking lady, put one of her bags on her shoulder and went to help her up. And then, when they were leaving the bus, the one lady couldn't get up from the seat, so the spanish lady helped her up and out of the bus. That spanish lady was so nice. I would've done the same, granted that I was sitting where she was.

10. A fat guy, oh my god, he wasn't that fat, he really wasn't, he was average fat, I don't know, I'm sure he uses extra-large shirts...OK... anyway, he stank. Of sweat. I'm sure the goth girl beside me could smell him too.

11. One of many bums: he ran side by side of the bus when the bus was crammed in traffic.

12. A beautiful girl in Starbucks: I went inside Starbucks and was looking at the sweet things they have there (sweet! as in Suite!!! Internal Joke, nevermind). So I ask her for the cheesecake and she goes: "Oh", and it was a pleasurable "Oh" too, "si te gusta el cheesecake, ese te va a jukear (hookear)" ("Oh, if you like cheesecake, that one will hook you forever"), and in my mind I was, oh my God, if you could be more beautiful I would die, and said: "de verdad?, ah pues vamos a ver" ("really?, well we'll see"). Then, I was eating the cake (with a frappucino, which is nothing else but a raspberrie Icee/slushy, overpriced as you know), she came about and asked if it was good. And I was like: "oh yeah". Hmm, I think I might come back to that Starbucks...

13. Two boys playing background music at the lounge/bar/restaurant that I went to meet the people: they were your typical troubadours, or your typical artirts, one of them had a marked beard, not long, just uneven, unkempt, but not in a nasty matter, he still looked pleasant, I don't know how to explain it. Like a groomed hippie? The other was more like normal people, but he was playing a keyboard that he had to blow on a nozzle to make the keys sound, it was a very weird instrument, it sounded like an accordeon; the other was playing a guitar; they were good.

14. A little girl: not older than 4 or 5, she was so cute, she was jumping on the couch of the restaurant. She had blond-white hair and she was so small and interesting to look at.

So, I got tired of the lounge/bar/restaurant and took a walk in Old San Juan.

15. A not-so-old lady bum, on crutches, blond, asked to me for change in English... Do I look like I know English? I didn't say that, I just kept on walking. I really can't help every bum I find. Even less so when there are so many in San Juan.

16. Ooh! a guy with SO many tatoos in Wendy's: it was impossible not to look at his arms and legs, he had a black dot at the poing of his right elbow... interesting.

I walked back to the lounge/bar/restaurant, not without noticing that there was an Aquarium next to Wendy's in San Juan, how weird, I never knew that... I shall go back. So, since there was nobody that I could recognize in the bar place, I left.

17. Three lady tourists: the bar is in front of a Plaza (Plaza Colón it is called), the three ladies were taking pictures in front of the statue. It's weird because I've never thought of taking a picture with it, altho I have thought of taking pictures of statues in other places... hmm.

18. The bum-lady on crutches again: I saw her again when I was walking down the street near the Starbucks, and then I asked my self why was she on crutches, and when I looked at her one foot, the ankle was black and the flesh was open... *shivers* and she had a bandage but it didn't do much... And I asked myself how a lady, non native, late twentyish or thirtyish, ended up like that...

19. A dancing bum, this one was cheery. He had craggily, dirty hair, a red shirt, and as always, every bum carries a bag, so he carried one. He was dancing on the sidewalk to the oncoming cars... some cars even waved to him...

20. An old lady at the bus stop, She was old. White, big, bushy hair; a loooong and ample gown, (it looked like a sleeping gown to me, then again, old ladies use these all the time). Very thin, very white (new maybe?) tennis shoes... I noticed her because she threw a napkin to the sidewalk. And then, with her cane she pushed it away from her, as away as the cane got it. 30 seconds later she stands up, walks up and kicks the napkin off from the sidewalk onto the street. And then she sits back down...

21. Another bus driver: at first he seemed very nice, he even stopped for some people that were not on the bus stop. But then, one of the persons didn't pay the quarter, and:

22. It was another drunk man. The man didn't understand what the bus driver was saying so he just stood there, asking "¿qué?"

23. A dominican, 40-something, guy came about, he was with him, and he tried to give the driver the quarter but he couldn't find any... (this guy was intersting because he talked in a funny way, that I cannot describe... like if everything was a joke to him... like if he were a clown, the same goes for his clothes, he's shirt was white striped and tight, his pants were broken on the bottom and on the knees, and he had a visor...

24. An old man wearing big sunglasses at night. So then, since they didn't have a quarter, this weird looking old guy w/sunglasses gave them a quarter, saying the drunk guy was his friend. He had a balding head and his hair looked dirty too, (so many dirty people yesterday...), his face was so tanned, and then he had sunglasses, and it was already dark, so he looked over the glasses at everything. "Thank you", said the dominican guy, for the quarter. While the drunk man tried to shake the hand of the bus driver who just dismissed him. The dominican guy pulled him towards a seat in the back saying: "I don't want you to get bruised" in a very dominican funny way... Then the drunk man shook the hand of the old man with the sunglasses.

25. A young guy who was lost. He asked for another bus that would never go to the bus stop that he was standing on, so the bus driver let him in, and said to him that he had to take another bus at another stop... But the bus driver was very nice... altho the young guy had to pay the quarter. The young guy was also interesting, he had a tatoo of a green, weird looking star with a circle on his ankle, his hair was poking like the crown of the Statue of Liberty, he had sunglasses clinging on his temples down under his chin, and a portable CD player, he was going to the university...

26. A lady sitting in front, talking to the busdriver, the only thing interesting about her was that she was talking to him as if he was a cousin or something... which was weird to me... and she also had a big wart on the side of her upper lip.

27. A girl with her nasty belly protruding from her shirt, she must have been like 17. One of those unkempt people. Her bellybutton was humongous, I think even bottomless. There are unkempt, dirty people, but you can see it is because they either worked, or they are old, or they are bums. She was just dirty by nature. Of all the dirty people, she was the one that repulsed me the most.

28. A very ugly, dirty man. Not even him seemed as dirty as she did. He got on the bus and said: "good evening" to the bus driver. He was wearing work jeans, and his blond hair was dirty and oily, his thin face was caved in, like he didn't have cheeks, the underpart of his fingernails were black. And he was missing a lot! of teeth. (maybe that's why he didn't have cheeks, duh!).

29. A stoned guy, he too said: "good evening" to the bus driver, and even knocked on his fist (as a salutation...), he said that the bus driver was a gentleman. And then when he walked by me, I saw that he was wearing on his ankle, under his sock a "prison bracelet" (I don't remember how they are called, but when prisoners are left free before they're time is due, the prison personel put those on them so they can keep track of them).

30. And of course, ME. A guy wearing a yellow Snoopy shirt, thinking that police pants are too tight and painful to look at, because there is security on every train station... Also thinking that the day trip wasn't doomed after all. He sits at the window of the train, with his hands and arms over and on the side of his head so that he can see through of the glass at the darkness and at the beautiful lights of his city.

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Thank you again.

The Saddest September 1, of 2005

Today, is a sad day. Because I have nothing to post about. No, that's not right, I do have something to post about, but I have forgotten what it was... And it was so brilliant too. Shit. Its going to be the first night in... (how many days?) that I don't post anything... Damn. Damn my forgetful mind!

















But wait! WAIT just ONE second!

I just posted! Oh my God! It's the happiest day of my life! To see the end of a good thing and then to see that it wasn't...! Im so great!




but... I wish the same thing happened to other more meaningful things. Life only goes forward. It only lets you to look back into the memories.

But I posted. :-|