tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44845781909016333082024-02-18T22:03:35.545-08:00Spaz' Guide to LifeWell... that was awkward. Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484578190901633308.post-28895351135504117272014-04-30T23:04:00.000-07:002014-04-30T23:23:30.543-07:00Thunder Thighs<div class="MsoNormal">
One summer, when I was 13…. 13 and dorky and completely
unaware of myself, of the world, of anything and everything that would come to
formulate my experience in my adulthood… 13 and suppressed by my own spirit’s
refusal to leave the sanction of the small bit of innocence I managed to hold
onto….<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One summer when I was 13, and dorky, and happy to be taking
in the trees of Yosemite National Park, I became aware of my body. In a giant,
unwelcome flash of consciousness, I became aware of the meat on my bones. Dark
and thick and filling up the clothing on my body like a butcher fills his
casings with sweet, sweaty pork and beef. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was walking across a bridge, I remember, that allowed for
a cool river to run beneath it. People were splashing each other with the
crisp, cold water on that warm day. It was when I was walking across that
bridge that I heard it, for the first time… and not for the last time….<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hey!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thunder thighs. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thuuuuunder thighs. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thuuuuunder thighs. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oblivious. I was completely oblivious that these words
filled with hate and disgust were being violently thrust in my direction. It
wasn't until I heard a wave of laughter coming from the stream that I looked
down and realized someone was saying something to me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pointing and laughing, they belted out once again…. Hey!
Thunder Thighs. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stopped, tilted my head and stared down. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A group of boys and girls, just about my age. Pale, thin,
with hair looking like a field of wheat in the process of both death and
rebirth. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I continued on, and they provided me with my personal
soundtrack. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Watch out! Thunder thighs is on the move!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stopped and looked at them again. They all stood, legs
apart, grasping onto the air as if they were holding on to imaginary poles,
waving their bodies back and forth as other spectators looked back and forth
with embarrassed amusement. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I started moving again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I kept on moving. Pulling at my shorts. Pulling at my
shirt. Pulling at my pride. Pulling at my spirit that wanted to make one last
getaway into the sky.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Later that night, I heard my brothers socializing around the
camp fire. Thirsty for a bit of joy, I looked out of my tent and saw highlights
of the same wheat fields that once waded in the water. I sealed the zipper, and with it, I sealed up my body. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the coming years, I’d become increasingly aware of my
growing body, maturing much faster than what seemed to be imaginable to me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pulling at my shirts, pulling at my pants, pulling at my
spirit that wanted to fly away every time I heard a cry of mockery or lust as I
walked down the street.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
THUNDER THIGHS<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
THUUUNDER THIGHS…. The memory echoed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I quickly began to have a hungry desire to detach myself
from my body. To fantasize about slithering out of it, discarding it in some
putrid gutter where it belonged. I covered it, slathered it with men’s clothing
too big. Hiding it from everyone. From myself. Covering mirrors in the bathroom
after showers. Removing anything that reflected from my path so that I wouldn't
catch the disease that was me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For all the compliments and admiration I began to receive
on the shapes my body made when I entered my 20’s, all that ever echoed back to
me was…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
HEY! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thunder Thighs! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stop moving! You’re gonna kill us!!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not exactly sure when it happened. Why…. But sometime…. Some
short years ago, I caught a glimpse of my naked back in the mirror. I raised my
arms, lowered them again. Raised my arms. Lowered them again. I became fascinated
with the curves of my shoulder blades, the changing shapes of my back, my arms…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I felt ashamed to be so fascinated by these curves that
invaded my body. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But fascinated I was. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I secretly explored them. Finger by finger. Scientifically examining
just what all of this was that hung on to me like a thirsty child at his mother’s
chest. How every last bit of it moved, flexed, flowed, bounced, was pulled and
retracted, was pushed and pulled and beaten time and time again by the sun, the
wind, the heat, the dagger words and that still clung to me. Thirsty. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until one day I saw myself in my entirety. Completely bare.
Uncovered and fully vulnerable. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked down at my thighs. My thunder thighs. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thick and brown, propelling me forward every day. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes… there was thunder in my thighs. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thick and commanding, ripping through the air. Announcing
the coming of the storm that is me, and my body, and my power. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was thunder in my thighs and I began to recognize that
they did, in fact, make people shake. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, children of 13, hold on to your imaginary poles… there
is some mighty thunder in my thighs. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484578190901633308.post-33527025052538124612012-08-04T22:22:00.001-07:002012-08-04T22:22:51.886-07:00Mutherf*cker<div><p>There's a Bukowski in my heart, and it wants to come out.<br>
But I tell it -No! Don't give in! Stay there.<br>
But he sits there like a pimple,<br>
Boiling and pulsating,<br>
Breathing heavy gin breaths <br>
Spitting every so often<br>
Those bitter lime peels.<br>
There's a Bukowski in my heart and it wants to come out,<br>
But I say<br>
NO MUTHERF*CKER!<br>
Stay there<br>
Don't give in<br>
Don't fall apart<br>
Don't stick that cigarette in your mouth and start sucking down anything above a 7%<br>
But he sits there, pulsating<br>
Angry and bitter and sad<br>
And then the old lady at the bar<br>
Taps me on the shoulder and says<br>
My God dear, you have a beautiful smile. <br>
Mutherf*cker. <br>
There's a Bukowski in my heart<br>
Rolling over, farting and starting to snore. </p>
</div>Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484578190901633308.post-287137069958507802012-08-03T12:34:00.002-07:002023-02-10T23:00:48.226-08:00Ghost Chaser<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXSl7caeioh4PGL_wZrz1KoSF-gYJiE34ftafUFnCqeqNIDHAduO_UZbG8yG1iDZnO9HPSd02MLUtdP8pASjFAjirE0J8JKVn_0WEUyR1vxfsVbrl1yW-cQbHAGeGRx5NU0mCEiJ8L4uk2/s1600/1343964536504.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXSl7caeioh4PGL_wZrz1KoSF-gYJiE34ftafUFnCqeqNIDHAduO_UZbG8yG1iDZnO9HPSd02MLUtdP8pASjFAjirE0J8JKVn_0WEUyR1vxfsVbrl1yW-cQbHAGeGRx5NU0mCEiJ8L4uk2/s320/1343964536504.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">I’m a ghost chaser.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">I find myself
constantly chasing ghosts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Under the bed, in the closets, in hallways and alley ways
lifting and tossing stones along the way. I sit at bus stops and train stations
and wait for them to come. I get on the bus with them, watching them, hunting
them, but never seeking to demolish them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">I’m a ghost chaser. I
come from a long, personal history of chasing ghosts. Thirty three years,
perhaps. I feel it may be more like twenty-five, starting sometime after I
turned eight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">I realized this yesterday as I was walking through the
rolling gardens of Mater Dolorosa, a retreat center for people seeking a bit of
respite and refuge from their worlds. They come seeking answers, seeking
questions, seeking some sort of peace of mind, or piece of mind. The grounds
are littered with bloody Jesus’. Bloody Jesus. Every so often you come across
an altar with a bright white engraving of one of the stations of the cross;
Jesus falls for the first time, Jesus falls a second time, Mary wipes his blood
and sweat. It’s all, in complete honesty, frightening. Each little station of
the cross has a small wooden bench you can sit on, so that you can contemplate
that particular station of the cross. In between the stations are a few statues
of various patron saints. Diego, St. Paul, St. Bernadette, St. Me… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">The small hills rolling underneath the altars are well
manicured green lawns or miniature landscapes of cacti and succulents
stretching out into the sun. There are three pathways carpeted with fallen
leaves from the giant rubber trees that line the area. If you walk slow enough,
you’ll travel through space and find yourself isolated somewhere in the Garden
of Eden, just before Adam & Eve ate from the </span><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Tree of Knowledge.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">And then the gardener starts up his leaf blower and you know
that apple has been bitten. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">On one of my walks I spotted a rubber tree standing in a
large open field. The field was not well manicured; it wasn’t cared for by
gardeners. It didn’t seem that it was cared for by the wildlife neither. There
were no small rolling hills, no cacti, not a single blade of green grass. It
was yellowing and dying, like an old letter in an attic that was never sent. Lying
flat and defeated on a bed of dirt, its tiny mouths of dried grass and weeds staring
at the sky like open mouths waiting for droplets of water to fall from the
greedy clouds. Fading away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">I saw it and I chased it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">I was nowhere near equipped to go on this little journey, a
whole 20 some yards away. I was wearing my soft cotton shoes, the ones I wear
to feel light. The weeds’ splinters immediately began stabbing my toes and every
so often I’d get one of nature’s little ninja stars jabbed into my sole. They
kept jumping at my feet, stabbing me, making me look down at them. I’d pick
them off and they’d look at me saying “don’t…” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">As if they knew what I was going to discover. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">“Don’t”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">I did anyway, and I got to the tree, which was encircled
with fading brick. At it’s base, in front of me, a low-laying bench, one to
kneel on – to pray on. It obviously hadn't sprouted from the earth. It was
obviously built, and built well, by someone, sometime. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">I thought it was a bit curious for there to be a praying
bench at the base of this tree, on this land filled with bloody Jesus’ and
small wooden benches to contemplate his pain and grief. Yet here, a tree. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">I dusted off the bench, as if it were to do any good after
years of neglect, and knelt, looked up and saw the carvings on its branches.
The typical initials and hearts and a few dates. Who were they? Why were they
at that tree, in that field, in that retreat center, in this world, in that
time, in that state of mind. Who were they? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">I heard a rustling in the weeds and noticed a few small quail
running through the patches of desert sage that were, despite all their odds, thriving
in the field. Then, an altar appeared. Well, I suppose it was always there, and
always unnoticed. It was a small square structure, with small wooden beams for
a roof and small wooden benches for walls.
I walked another ten yards to it and discovered a small statute of the
virgin sitting, alone and white, on a small wall made of the same brick
surrounding the tree. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">I stepped over the bench and sat for a while. At the base of
her feet was a small cactus plant, dying. Strange, I’ve never seen a dying
cactus. I’m sure they die, I’m sure people see it, but I’ve never seen a dying
cactus plant. There were a few other remnants of what I can only imagine were
at one point a small bouquet of roses. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be there, so I looked
behind me to see if there were any gardeners chasing after me, waving their
leaf blowers telling me to get out of there. But there weren’t. Instead I
discovered that there was a small concrete path leading right to the altar. It
was broken and some weeds had already penetrated its innocence, but there it
was, leading directly to where I was sitting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">I turned back around and stared at the brightness of the
statue, the lightness of her, singing white in that field of dying yellow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">And I started crying. Not a mournful sob, not a confused
lost cry. It was a simple cry, with no real emotion attached to it. I started
crying in the middle of nowhere, with nothing in particular to cry about. At
that lonely altar in the dead field full of life. I started wondering who else
cried there, why was I feeling their sorrow or joy or whatever it was that was
driving my tears out of me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Staring at the dead bouquet of flowers, I felt compelled to
arrange them. They still smelled like roses, but they were hardly recognizable
as roses. Skeletal. How long had they been there? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Then I realized… I can’t help but to think about ghosts all
the time. Everyone’s ghosts. Living ghosts, dead ghosts, ghosts who want to be
thought of and ghosts who want to be forgotten. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Who are you? What haunts you? What galaxy of vast infinite stars
lay in your eyes? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Who was here? What was their sorrow? Why did they cry, why
did they come to this place and these grounds? So many questions about ghosts
haunting the halls, the beds, the grave yard in the rolling green hills, the
lit windows downtown, the busses and the bus stops - each one of them leaving a
lingering scent. But I’m not afraid, I’m never afraid. I’m curious, curious to
know what stirs inside of this world, living and dead. Curious to look into
windows and see the other side of the world that doesn’t know I or you exist.
Living in sorrow, making cups of coffee, parting bread, slipping into cool
sheets in the middle of the night, staring at walls, being the person the world
doesn’t know. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Ghosts, all the time ghosts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">“Don’t,” the blades were telling me. Was I ready? It didn’t
matter anymore, I’m here. Chasing ghosts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">I chase them down, look for them, want to hold them and
comfort them and tell them they can haunt me if they want to, they can seek me
out in dying fields and barren hallways, in passing glances and carried off in
clouds of violet sighs, in old letters and photographs that fall at my feet
when I open books. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">I’m a ghost chaser, I come from a long personal history of
chasing ghosts. I myself am a ghost, I suppose. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">I feel like I’m restless. I’m constantly shifting and
traveling and redefining which way is up. I’m never still, stirring and
tumbling constantly, inside of me. As if the nerves in my body are those broken
concrete paths being penetrated by dying weeds and small patches of desert
sage. I’m constantly searching them, hacking them down, clearing them away and
then watching the weeds take them over. Crossing them again, pulling at the
blades, standing aside and watching them take over again. Finding my way
through to liver rubber trees with ghosts that hang from its branches, kneeling
at my spleen, rolling through my lungs, taking naps in the caves of my temples,
sitting still in my intestines; tumbling, tumbling, tumbling and at night
laying in the grass, in the middle of my chest, staring that the stars that
illuminate my brain. What ghosts am I chasing?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Just as I see the world filled with ghosts, my body is an
inverted universe – this is where I exist. Bleed and bruise I’m sure to do, but
the millions of particles in me are a universe, condensed in meat and bone. The
energy inside of me, the energy that is me, pushing, breathing, thinking,
beating, is me. My skin, nails, hair, everything grows and heals and scars from
the inside. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">The world external another universe, breathing into me,
pushing into me. The world external, my world internal, energies like a magnet
pressing us together creating more energy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">What place is there for ghosts? Maybe this is why I’m always
chasing ghosts, what place is there for them in the ever constricting space
between our warm bodies and the cool universe? What of the ghosts, of their
stories, of their memories and open windows… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">I’m a ghost chaser.</span><o:p></o:p></div>Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484578190901633308.post-16956113899400579312012-06-21T02:04:00.001-07:002015-01-30T17:52:12.974-08:00How many....<div><p>How many sighs, of so many different colors. </p>
<p>The gold ones that float to the top in relief, in satisfaction, in the blessing that has been you're purgatorial life. </p>
<p>I've been waiting.... I've been waiting... I've been waiting so long.... </p>
<p>I'm not even sure,<br>
What,<br>
I<br>
have<br>
been<br>
waiting<br>
for.... </p>
<p>Is... this... it. </p>
<p>How many more sighs of blue grey<br>
Sinking down </p>
</div>Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484578190901633308.post-26220537796928002512012-06-10T02:16:00.001-07:002015-01-30T17:52:12.981-08:00Day 0<div><p>Maybe yesterday was my apocalypse. Today my 2012. Cleaning out my wounds with secret bathroom tears. Whispering to the ant on the sink "why? why? we didn't even try..."</p>
<p>Hoping he'd carry away my burdens. Why? Why? We didn't even try. </p>
<p>Trying to feel angry. Trying to feel betrayed. Trying to feel what you're supposed to feel when things just fall away. </p>
<p>Rising out of me, bubbling, bubbling... then falling flat. Swept under the door with sighs of blue and gray. </p>
<p>Wanting to yell and scream "what have you done to me?!!" </p>
<p>Opening my mouth, ready for steam...</p>
<p>Calling out...<br>
Please, mom, can I stay?</p>
<p>And so I lay here in a child's bed, thinking of another place I'd rather be instead, another place I'd rather lay my head, another way for my soul to be fed... </p>
<p>Picking at the ribbons that keep me to you, unearthing the anchor that kept you at my bay.  </p>
</div>Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484578190901633308.post-84788513727439647822012-05-25T18:58:00.003-07:002015-01-30T17:52:12.995-08:00<div><p>Maybe it'll just crumble.<br>
    She thought.<br>
Maybe it'll just crumble, and I'll slide on through. Then that will be that. Issue resolved.<br>
    She stared at her feet and thought.</p>
<p>The tiles beneath her bare feet</p>
</div>Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484578190901633308.post-82403475901692240342012-02-14T12:34:00.000-08:002015-01-30T17:52:12.989-08:00Dear John ... Or, How I learned to stop hatin' and love the V-bomb<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk6pnvdDraZs8OuwYLQ-x3Nh98kfxwL33PpGctSLA2kAtApUzmS88U8ttu04Eevp4xVRxYI4bFNUmpUZ-W9yu6nMisYJzS1HOkhThRBWtBlN3xLPBxFWP0mzc1agzJSuJeaque1DPQ98kI/s1600/old+valentine+card2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk6pnvdDraZs8OuwYLQ-x3Nh98kfxwL33PpGctSLA2kAtApUzmS88U8ttu04Eevp4xVRxYI4bFNUmpUZ-W9yu6nMisYJzS1HOkhThRBWtBlN3xLPBxFWP0mzc1agzJSuJeaque1DPQ98kI/s320/old+valentine+card2.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Scene: You walk into a large, empty, decrepit gymnasium. Up
on the left corner of the roof, there are various shades of brown and beige
making their escape from an inverse crater caused by last winter’s storm. To
the right, a bucket catching the 10-second interval drops of water coming from
a wet roof that, for whatever reasons, has defied natural law and refuses to
dry up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">There are a few mis-matched chairs arranged in a scattered
and poor-excuse of a U shape in front of a podium. The podium’s laminate face
shines in the flickering light and makes it the most ethereal thing in the
down-trodden room. You walk toward the chairs, drawing “eeks” and “ooos” from
the elderly wooden floor beneath you. You pick the chair that doesn’t look up
at you in fear and take a seat. As the chairs moan and groan with every deep
breath you take, a woman in her early 30’s stands and walks behind the podium. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">She takes a few silent breaths, looks up at the flickering
light and with lips of petrified tree bark says,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“Hello, I am 32 and (sighhhhh) I have never had a Valentine…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The few silent bodies in the room shift uncomfortably in
their creaking chairs and begin to whisper “oh my, not one? … never? … oh…
noo….”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This is the scene I conjured up in my head almost three
years ago when I hit the 30 mark. I was going to have to seek intervention of
some sort because all of my friends, males and females alike, had some
Valentine’s day story to share. They were of varying degrees of intensity and …
sentiments, but stories nonetheless:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> “When I was 21, my
boyfriend took me on a romantic hike.” <br />
“The bitch broke up with me on Valentine’s day”<br />
“He sent flowers to my home, my work AND left some on my car.”<br />
“She make me cupcakes, they were the best thing ever.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And then there’s me, now almost 33 years old with not one
Valentine’s story to share. That’s right, folks, I have never had a Valentine.
Every year, February 14<sup>th</sup> rolls around and I find myself pumping my
own gas, clearing insurance fliers (not flowers) from my windshield, eating a
Twix bar I bought for myself because the box of chocolates got lost in the
mail. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Every year I also find myself being sought out by friends
who tell me “you should come hang out with us, we’re having an anti-Valentine
party! Who needs ‘em?! Screw them!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">After about 23 years of not having a Valentine, I started
dreading the days when giant stuffed teddy bears made their appearance on
street corners with heart-shaped balloons, red and white carnation arrangements
and ridiculously large cards. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As if the size of the card is going to cover-up the size of
the mistake you make just a week ago, as if a giant stuffed teddy bear is going
to really tell a person how much they love them even if it is sewed onto that
plush heart he’s holding. As if sending flowers is going to make them want you
more, as if eating chocolates is going to make everything better… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Ok, maybe eating chocolates does make everything better. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This was my 23 year old self. Hatin’ on Valentine’s day,
pumping up my sarcasm to 11 around my friends who had a Valentine. Sending out
“I hate you every day, I don’t discriminate” messages to my loved ones. All the
while, secretly hoping that whatever person who was somewhat in my life at the
time would just say something, do something, show me something. But it never
came, the flowers, the chocolates, the cards, the stupid child-labor teddy
bears. None of it ever came. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And so the hate on love just continued to build. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It began to boil around mid-January, when the stores started
putting out red and pink colored foods. Increased in early February, when people
started putting cut out hearts and cupids in their windows and finally
over-flowed around February 10<sup>th</sup>, when the street corners started to
fill with contraband merchandise. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">One year, my older sister thought it would be “cute” to give
me some love on Valentine’s Day and gave me a couple of flowers along with a
“Grow-A-Man.” A small, space-material doll shaped like a man in boxer shorts
that you would submerge in water to expand out. I gave her a snarl and said
“yeah, thanks.” In my head I was thinking ‘man, what a bitch.’ </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Right?!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Meh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So how did this all start? Where did it all go to hate? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A cartoon flashback….<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I used to be so enthusiastic about Valentine’s day, I loved
everything and everyone. I would get excited giving things to people, because I
could. I do remember laying on the floor with my Big Bear pencil and writing
every person’s name in my class on those Strawberry Shortcake cards and putting
them on people’s desks. I didn’t care that no one had a crush on my, that my
hair wasn’t pulled on the playground or that I wasn’t chosen first for
kick-ball. I just had massive amounts of love for my friends, because they were
my friends. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Gradually, I started gaining interest in a number of other
things, but my love for my friends was always there. Even as the loneresque
punk rock high schooler that was actually a pretty well-known geek, my bad ‘The
red seas of my heart will part and fill the sky with my bloody Valentine’
poetry was shrouded in good intentions. It should have read ‘I love you
pimple-faced, bipolar bastards even if you do get me in trouble with the
Algebra teacher.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Well, after my schooling was over and I became an adult and realized
that the rest of the world thinks about things other than taking over
administrative building, smoking pot on magazine production nights (sorry mom)
and shoving chapters of information into my brain. I suppose I had lost some of
this love-fest- connection with my friends who had gone off and done things of
their own and created their own experiences. I suppose it was after I graduated
and jumped out of the metaphorical threshold of the world yelling
“Here I am, baby, all smart and powerful and shit!!” that I began noticing that
people buy each other crap on Valentine’s day. That I wasn’t receiving this
crap, and so, did that mean then that I was less of a person? That I was going
to be forever alone? Then, one day, someone told me that Valentine’s day was a
holiday conjured up by American Greetings and See’s Chocolates to boost sales. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And that was good enough for the communist in me. Bring on the rage. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So here I am, almost 33 years old, sitting on my bed, alone again.
Granted, this year I made an important decision to wake up alone this morning
in the name of personal growth. Nevertheless, here I am drinking ONE cup of bay-leaf
tea (helps your pooper shooter, try it). Looking over at the ONE empty can of
diet soda I had with my meal last night, thinking about making ONE breakfast
sandwich… and I’m perfectly content, alive, healthy, and on my way to having
the cleanest colon on the eastside. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This morning I woke up and told my 23 year old self that no,
Lu, Valentine’s Day wasn’t a conspiracy against you invented by greeting card
companies and chocolate manufacturers to make you feel more alone and grumpy.
No one really knows who this St. Valentine is, actually. He was said to be a
Catholic priest who secretly married Roman soldiers and their young lovers when
the king outlawed marriages (single men fought better in wars, I suppose?).
Others say he was a Catholic something or other who was jailed for something or
other and on the eve of his execution, wrote a letter to the jailer’s daughter,
with whom he had the hots for, and signed it “your Valentine.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As you can tell, my historical facts may not be all that
accurate but the point is that Valentine’s day has been celebrated for thousands
of years. This is a fact – bitter, angry, raging, 23 year old Lu. People love
each other on Valentine’s day – you old ninny. And being single on Valentine’s
day doesn’t make you any MORE single than February 13<sup>th</sup> or February
15<sup>th</sup>, nor any other weekend in February when your coupled up friends
go out and have dinners and conversations together, with or without you. So why
should stuffed animals and mylar balloons make you feel anymore alone than on
any other night that you are, physically, alone? You remember, those nights you
sit in your booty shorts and t-shirt, eat weird crap and watch bad movies, fart
and say “gah’damn I’m so glad to have some alone time.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So it’s February 14, 2012 and this is my Dear John letter to
hatin’ on love. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Dear John (aka 23 year old grumpy Lu),<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Seeing people in love makes me believe in love. Watching my
sisters get flowers makes me feel happy that the people I love have people who
love them. Hearing my friends tell stories of how they received tokens of
affection, with smiles on their faces makes me smile as well. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And while I may not have an enormous stuffed animal sitting
on my chair – that I would probably put in storage tomorrow – I know that I am
loved as well. I know this when I receive those early-morning messages that
wish me a great day. When my friends care enough to share their feelings of
gratitude toward the people in their lives, when I see my 73 year old father
give my 72 year old mother potted flowers (they last longer), when the kids
around me in all their little-kid enthusiasm trade hand-made cards, yeah, I
feel the love. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So, so long, grumpy-puss. I don’t want you in my life
anymore. I’m no longer scared of your Valentine’s bombs, your creeping feelings
of self-pity and misery. Your “woe-is-me” ice cream buckets and empty bottles
of wine. Be gone with you, bitter Betty, there’s no room for you inside my head. I don’t want
to wallow in your mud anymore. If people want to give each other stuff, let them give each other stuff, because people like getting stuff like you like people telling you to have an awesome day. I’m going to love today, like I’m going to love
tomorrow and everyone in my days to come. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Hope I don’t see ya’ around anymore,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">(almost) 33 year old Lu. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">p.s. I know where you stashed your old love notes from high school, you hypocrite!
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And so I say Happy freakin' day to you all. Make it awesome. No, make it freakin' awesome. Hell yeah. I'm loving all this love shit. </span></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/K8fykuW4IHk?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484578190901633308.post-30028592542260205232011-09-27T12:25:00.000-07:002011-09-27T12:30:55.929-07:00Godspeed...<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>(Note: As you may have noticed, I've abandoned my 365 project a bit. I'm looking to restart it soon, now that I'm in a new space which I hope will lend itself to creativity. In the meantime I'll be posting some random blog entries such as this one, in which I force myself to examine my recently acquired God complex.)</i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I was sitting there ever so nonchalantly eating my absurdly large portion of Hawaiian BBQ, watching darkness slowly approach. The ceiling fan above me was whirring, breaking the stale silence in the room. Every so often it would begin to wobble creating a concave air pocket with its blades as if it was taking a deep breath to continue on with its never-ending duty of keeping me cool in my own private hades. I sat in the middle of the small kitchen, on the wooden chair with a creaking, broken back, left leg flung over right, slowly masticating on the piece of meat in my mouth. My tongue searching and sucking at the strands of meat wedged between my teeth.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Whirr, suck, creak. Whirr, suck, creak.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Those are the sounds death makes as it approaches through the broken tile on the lopsided floor of an empty kitchen in the hills of Highland Park.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">On the counter in front of me they marched on, caring about nothing more than survival. Restless and determined with a wild kamikaze spirit, they moved their legs across the sleek tile. Greeting each other with hurried furor.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>Hello. Is that you Tom?</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>Yes David.</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>How are the rest of the men?</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>Intact. </i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>Very well. Godspeed.</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>Godspeed.</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Whirr, suck, creak. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Whirr.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Suck.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Creak.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Soon they will be no more. There was a strange calming sensation running through my core. For days they had been the source of my agony, causing me fits of frustration and pain. My small yelps in the middle of the night awakened no one in my lonely quarters and were carried away by the whirring of the ceiling fan. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Perhaps this is why I wanted them dead.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Their presence was a menacing reminder me of how alone I had been for the past few days in that lopsided studio with broken tiles, in that big lot with dusty pathways, in that big city with rolling hills, in that big state with crashing shorelines, in that large and confused country, in the bustling world... </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">in the quiet universe.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Their determination haunted me. It possessed me.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So I ended up sitting there, in that kitchen, watching them die. I lured them in with peanut butter laced with poison to take back to their colony. To their women and children.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I had no remorse. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I tore a piece off of my Hawaiian BBQ and licked my lips.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I knew they weren’t going to die there, in front of me. I knew their hurried determination would give them no clue as to what they were feeding on. I knew that somewhere in the quiet universe, I was disrupting the symphonic chaos that is life.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Perhaps one of them figured it out, perhaps it was seeking justice or looking to reason with me; marching itself up my leg, through the pant folds and over the perilous loose lint, up my forearm and stopping on my knuckle that cradled the now lukewarm Styrofoam box.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I closed the box.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Whirr, suck, creak.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I lowered my head to take a closer look at the renegade and said the only thing I knew to say before I placed my heavy cold finger upon his head.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Godspeed, sir.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Godspeed. </span></div>
Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484578190901633308.post-3067365092095436592011-07-19T19:11:00.000-07:002011-07-19T19:15:01.754-07:00Days 28 - 31 (July 6 - 9, 2011) ... These parts of Me ...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTxK2SRI97429xvpovotwDsYJAbNhOHpPgdmnds_3klPd5DvlG7rIqBa03LOL4D1_of_PODYzmwaTPJUriiVImoo6pv__WBAvCF0jbBx2bkIq8_3Rz6Sd5IZ_qdbE-mQTtFPpbIjN_BiH9/s1600/shot_1310696506907.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTxK2SRI97429xvpovotwDsYJAbNhOHpPgdmnds_3klPd5DvlG7rIqBa03LOL4D1_of_PODYzmwaTPJUriiVImoo6pv__WBAvCF0jbBx2bkIq8_3Rz6Sd5IZ_qdbE-mQTtFPpbIjN_BiH9/s320/shot_1310696506907.jpg" width="318" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4udmn9nWpXE/TiYwkHj4x4I/AAAAAAAAAao/n0RdpwOz8ns/s1600/071711174414.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4udmn9nWpXE/TiYwkHj4x4I/AAAAAAAAAao/n0RdpwOz8ns/s200/071711174414.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_QAS16G-6nEG_erTsUM_A9F6ManQfNaVoDy-gJgjErn9A0_TN73URNKFQQU0Pm7Oi-HNt8-0RquBsW8sWySiTog_pz9Rua4c4gJwPEAfNV2nN4y9-7VibbJldkLD9VrGFMPaebm8O7LnY/s1600/1310701331180.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_QAS16G-6nEG_erTsUM_A9F6ManQfNaVoDy-gJgjErn9A0_TN73URNKFQQU0Pm7Oi-HNt8-0RquBsW8sWySiTog_pz9Rua4c4gJwPEAfNV2nN4y9-7VibbJldkLD9VrGFMPaebm8O7LnY/s200/1310701331180.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4RcpUw8QCxrmemYfKq8lDsx_vsKn7dNycLKROA_4uCQeY2nWCN34D-RyAUZrBGBE6n4upvP9FdWLfYwOCeIBJq-BTryPx9dTa6GfiVF9rbIIzcfVCg1L8HTnEnBNCnpsS5uQRO4F3HRKZ/s1600/1310697016640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4RcpUw8QCxrmemYfKq8lDsx_vsKn7dNycLKROA_4uCQeY2nWCN34D-RyAUZrBGBE6n4upvP9FdWLfYwOCeIBJq-BTryPx9dTa6GfiVF9rbIIzcfVCg1L8HTnEnBNCnpsS5uQRO4F3HRKZ/s200/1310697016640.jpg" width="131" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I seem to be failing miserably at being able to upload my entries on a daily basis. As such, I've decided to give in and take my entries from daily to weekly. Given the amount of free time and resources I actually have right now, I think it would be much more manageable. However, I'm still going to continue taking a photo a day and using them to illustrate my entries - which was my main objective to begin with. That's why I'm not going to change my project name - it will continue to be a 365 reflection of beauty in my world.<br />
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<br />
With that... my entry for the second half of the week of July 6th -<br />
<br />
When I was at UCLA, I wrote for the Latino newspaper, La Gente de Aztlan. As part of our training, our media adviser gave us the duty of creating a newspaper that reflected who we were.<br />
<br />
My end product looked more like a zine constructed in a garage rather than a newspaper. Images pasted together, headlines and pull-out quotes masquerading as ransom notes. My adviser liked the idea. I did too, but I still felt a little apprehensive of my collaged personality.<br />
<br />
When I was in High School, I found myself hanging out with a group of students who were of mixed cultural backgrounds. I really enjoyed their company and our discussions that we'd have in the student garden. On one of those days in the garden, one of the males in the group (admittingly, one I had a crush on) turned to me and said "you're amazingly beautiful." It caught me off guard and I blushed, it was an incredible feeling to hear that. Then I came to a point where I felt I wanted to fill the part of me that had a passionate connection to my own culture. I was and still am proud of my family's heritage and history and it's something I had always enjoyed reading about. I connected with a Latino group on campus and went to one of their meetings during lunch. That same day, the "friend" who had, just weeks before, told me how amazingly beautiful I was saw me walking out of the meeting space and approached me to declare "I didn't think you were like that, like one of THEM."<br />
<br />
I assume he meant like a person who was a "separatist," as they would often describe some of the cultural groups on campus. I say assume because they didn't speak to me after that day. It was hurtful. I let one of my many pieces come out and suddenly I was an ugly person to them.<br />
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I still feel fragmented, made up of pieces haphazardly pieced together and bound by reused tape and clamps. The things I enjoy are varied, the things I'm passionate about spray themselves across a spectrum of personalities. Some people would say eclectic, others would say indecisive, but I no longer think ugly.<br />
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The photos above were taken in my apartment, which houses many of my various interests and personality ...errr... traits. I threw in an obscure picture of myself as well, a sort of representation of how I often portray myself in the "real world."<br />
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I'm often told "you don't talk much" or "you seem very complex" when I'm sitting at a table full of talkative people. I usually agree and smile. Well, it's not that I'm very quiet, nor that I'm complex. I'm just a bit of everything so showing nothing is sometimes easier for people to understand or accept.<br />
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But, this is who I am. I'm constructed of various parts of the world that have been somehow cemented into my being like a strange piece of folk art. I could probably stand in between the Watts Towers and be akin to the giant structures.<br />
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As I've gotten older, I've come to accept and embrace the many pieces of me. The top photo, I feel, is very representative of me. I had decided to paint my model doll one day, and couldn't decide what color to paint it nor what face to give it. So I took each "limb" and painted everything that came to mind. If you'd ever want to see me naked - well, there I am. In all exestentialchicanasurrealistnerdgeekglamopunkrockartsyfartsypoorkidtechnofileguerrilla glory.<br />
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And it feels fine.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTxK2SRI97429xvpovotwDsYJAbNhOHpPgdmnds_3klPd5DvlG7rIqBa03LOL4D1_of_PODYzmwaTPJUriiVImoo6pv__WBAvCF0jbBx2bkIq8_3Rz6Sd5IZ_qdbE-mQTtFPpbIjN_BiH9/s1600/shot_1310696506907.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTxK2SRI97429xvpovotwDsYJAbNhOHpPgdmnds_3klPd5DvlG7rIqBa03LOL4D1_of_PODYzmwaTPJUriiVImoo6pv__WBAvCF0jbBx2bkIq8_3Rz6Sd5IZ_qdbE-mQTtFPpbIjN_BiH9/s1600/shot_1310696506907.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"></span></a>Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484578190901633308.post-25494069406211561722011-07-08T19:05:00.001-07:002011-07-08T19:06:17.896-07:00365Beautiful .... Day 27... (July 5, 2011) BRAIIIIINS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGsP1Pz7g45CRrkQprg8S8KZZgvhaa4ez5Se4LqFmb2_uTFt2kNY3AgQKYEAawVagaEVIiMV5y0kgzp79CqNW8h3myRll7eUnoD-XTMuroVG3bIX0gTQczH_w4r3PnL0KX1jAbcbG8QO_7/s1600/shot_1309391785582.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGsP1Pz7g45CRrkQprg8S8KZZgvhaa4ez5Se4LqFmb2_uTFt2kNY3AgQKYEAawVagaEVIiMV5y0kgzp79CqNW8h3myRll7eUnoD-XTMuroVG3bIX0gTQczH_w4r3PnL0KX1jAbcbG8QO_7/s320/shot_1309391785582.jpg" width="319" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It's the first day of summer programming at one of our sites, and this site in particular takes a bit more work than our other site. Mainly because there are more logistical pieces to it involved, including estimating students, lunch costs, numbers of canned corn to buy and evening out the amount of weiners to bun per pack ratio - which is always very puzzling. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I've been the director of this youth program for two and a half years and I find it very satisfying. I enjoy putting pieces together and creating new things. This position has allowed me to do so and allows me to continue to do so - despite how tired I may feel. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I was sitting at my desk today, with two pencils in my hair, a calculator on my desk and stacks and stacks of papers on either side of me when my back started to hurt... a lot. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I sat back and looked around and realized just how immersed I was in my work. But I was figuring things out, numbers, pounds, averages, percentages, probabilities. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">God... I hate math. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I really do. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But there I was, doing it all on my own. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My brain must have been smoking at this point and maybe working a bit on the delusional side because I sat there for a good five minutes with a satisfied smile on my face thinking "gah-dang I have a big brain" </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Ah yes, I may be clumsy and forgetful, but I can crunch the fraction out of the cost of a food program for 160 kids.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Hey Lu, you got a big, juicy, beautiful brain. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484578190901633308.post-71271292632601981592011-07-08T18:54:00.000-07:002011-07-08T18:54:33.348-07:00365Beautiful, Day 26... (July 4, 2011) ... Boom! Boom! Boom!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QlQE4iHiNF8/ThZhmu7lPtI/AAAAAAAAAUw/Gue7JihrOMk/s1600/070611003607.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="178" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QlQE4iHiNF8/ThZhmu7lPtI/AAAAAAAAAUw/Gue7JihrOMk/s320/070611003607.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I will admit, I'm not a very patriotic person. I lean to the left in my political and social views and I frankly don't care for the corruption and torture this country has historically spread throughout the world.<br />
<br />
But, it's fourth of July ... and fireworks have to be lit.<br />
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(Legal notice: the fireworks in the photo are coming from a few blocks away, NOT my parent's front yard.)<br />
<br />
My family may, or may have not, lit fireworks on the fourth of July. My nieces and nephew may, or may have not sat in lawn chairs and let out little screams of excitement when colorful sparks flew across the sky.<br />
<br />
But we were together, and we did enjoy each other's company.<br />
<br />
When I got to my brother's house, my family was all there drying off from a day-long swimming session in the pool. The BBQs were just cooling down and beers were almost all consumed. Despite all of that, as soon as I walked in, my sister jumped up and ordered burgers to be thrown on the grill. My nephew took over this assignment and I was told to sit down.<br />
<br />
My mom looked at me and said "don't say that we don't love you."<br />
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Jokingly I said "Javier (my nephew) loves me."<br />
<br />
She rolled her eyes and told me to "shattap."<br />
<br />
Somewhere in between, my oldest brother and I got into some random argument (about cell phones I believe) which is what we typically do when we're in a room together. Argue about something I think is right and he thinks is wrong. Well, to say they're arguments is a little misleading. It's more of a one-liner ping-pong game:<br />
<br />
"I don't believe it!"<br />
"It's true"<br />
"Bullchet!"<br />
"Whatever"<br />
"Get out of here!"<br />
"Believe what you will"<br />
"Faking Bullchet!"<br />
(My brother usually does the cursing.)<br />
<br />
It's more amusing than frustrating, really.<br />
<br />
Later, we strolled to the front yard to watch the "uncertified" firework show in Pacoima. As the fireworks went up, I told my nephew stories of when we were kids and how my dad used to build contraptions similar to the ones used in Mexico to hold fireworks. He asked if they had always been illegal and I explained that it wasn't too long ago that they outlawed the firey suckers.<br />
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They sky kept going BOOM BOOM BOOM, for two or three hours straight. Everyone was smiling, happy, enjoying the night. Everything negative I felt the week before was being burned away.<br />
<br />
I felt content. Everything in my little world was right for the night. If I could only hold on to this feeling...<br />
<br />
<br />
(feel free to insert Journey jokes now.)Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484578190901633308.post-23805782932964838552011-07-08T18:28:00.000-07:002011-07-08T18:28:50.197-07:00365Beautiful, Day 25 ... (July 3, 2011) ... One in front of the other..<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QM4-hv0L08A/ThZjOwW3PhI/AAAAAAAAAU4/9cPkg1cQDXA/s1600/shot_1309882713619.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QM4-hv0L08A/ThZjOwW3PhI/AAAAAAAAAU4/9cPkg1cQDXA/s320/shot_1309882713619.jpg" width="319" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I wish I could have taken some sort of collage-y photo with one foot in one city and the other in another city, but alas, I do not have the equipment to be able to do so. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So you will all have to stare at a photo of my crazy feet. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I went to do laundry at my parent's house today. I moved out roughly two years ago now and I've been managing well on my own so far, despite my mom's belief that I might burn down the apartment or some 7ft tall Frankenstein type would be waiting for me at my door every night. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I moved into a small duplex in Mt. Washington (near Highland Park) and I can't say I regret the move. I feel it's actually made me a better person.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Moving out of my house was an incredibly big deal. My parents are extremely traditional and follow the belief that children should live at home up until they get married. Even then, they should still return home as much as possible. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We followed this rule pretty well, until it I was the last one standing. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Now, I love and cherish my parents and am grateful for everything they've done for me... but they were driving me nuts. I felt my relationship with them tearing apart. I hated the way I felt and I didn't want to blame them for it, but tongue just couldn't stay dull toward them. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I was 30 years old, having completed my B.A., with a pretty good career path and enrolled in a Master's Program and yet, I felt I was not growing. Well, perhaps I was, but I was growing in this strange diagonal direction downward. I was single, not looking to be married anytime soon, not looking to be in any type of serious relationship because I had school on the mind all the time, and I just knew... I would be feeling this for a very long time if I didn't make the move. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I had planned my move for over a year.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Yes, I spent over a year rehearsing my speech, researching apartments, rehearsing my speech some more, practicing sprinting, dodging and blocking until I finally got the steal nerve to sign the lease on my apartment. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Then I sat in my parents living room and solemnly said "I have something to tell you..."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I can imagine the multitude of things my parents were thinking, and based on their reaction... moving out was not one of them. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">They were devastated, but accepting. My dad very matter-of-factly said to me "we don't want you to leave, but we also don't want you to be unhappy. Your happiness is more important to us."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So I packed up my things and moved. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I know my mom still worries about me, as I worry about her, but I also know that she's a lot more understanding of who I am. Now when I go over and see them, I know that I can sit and have a meaningful conversation with her and my dad about anything, without the ugly feeling of resentment and suffocation creeping up on me.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm so happy. I'm so happy to be able to write this all down and look at my apartment and look at my home and say, this is where I am, that's where I was... this is where I live, that's where my heart is... </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This is my right foot, this is my left... and everyday I can put one foot in front of the other and... go. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484578190901633308.post-87595839337499422682011-07-08T18:05:00.000-07:002011-07-08T18:05:19.339-07:00365Beautiful Days 17 - 24 ... (June 25 - July 2, 2011) EXHALE....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FhCt23G0lXA/ThZjcBZkZaI/AAAAAAAAAVA/REa_3l35Tgo/s1600/shot_1306135746558.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FhCt23G0lXA/ThZjcBZkZaI/AAAAAAAAAVA/REa_3l35Tgo/s320/shot_1306135746558.jpg" width="319" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I know this may seem like a bit of cheating on the whole 365 posts concept, but the truth is that this was a bit of a tough week. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I had written about 3 entries for the week and thought of going back and filling in the other missing days with things I remembered, but it was all a bit muddled. So I decided to write one entire entry for these 7 days, as I've been reflecting a lot on what's happened. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As much as I try to focus on everything that is positive in my life and in the world (the whole reason for me taking on this task), I still find myself battling with dark feelings of loneliness, uncertainty and sadness. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I spent this week doing a lot of reflecting on myself, who I am, who I want to be and how I've gotten where I am. I feel I've spent a good portion of my life trying to please others or live up to expectations I felt others had of me. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">FELT... they had of me. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I can't seem to pinpoint how I began to do this to myself, to piece together what people thought of me and assign those assumptions to expectations for me. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I should be smarter. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I should be prettier. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I should be more talented. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I should be wittier. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I should be more clever. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I should be, I should be, I should be...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But what am I? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Well... I'm not perfect. I know this. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I've beat myself up many times for just not being "that." I'm not that. Why am I not that? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Sigh....</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The end of this week was a bit tough for me. I experienced a bit of tension and confusion. Every time this happens I pull into my shell and mull over every single detail that just happened. Then I think of what I should have done or said. What I should do next. What holes to re-patch. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Neurotic. Maybe. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">However, on Saturday (July 2nd) afternoon, I sat on my couch watching television and finally exhaled. Perhaps this is all, everything, getting easier with time. Perhaps. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">People who meet me for the first time often tell me I'm extremely quiet. It's true, I am. I am because I like to observe people around me, what they say, how they move, how they laugh and if their eyes match their actions. As a result of doing this for years on end, I've come to become a pretty good judge of character. That's not to say that I'll judge your actions or cut friendships because of faults.... but that I understand. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I get it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I get me too. Somewhat. I'm getting there. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Every time I exhale after some crazy sort of tea-cup ride spin in my life, I know I'll get it a little bit more. </div>Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484578190901633308.post-2265727756269280032011-07-08T17:46:00.000-07:002011-07-08T17:46:30.755-07:00365Beautiful Day 16... June 24, 2011 ... Bugs!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg78E7UZp0li7FBbLMo0M66Q8TaM2GW1_egT_10MufFFziUnt5o8WKzrH262bDrr4CuhywKhPRGiCLE65nuH3hrJPhlSpX9bBGpXZN-8Km39q6vWPSL1vVdWOUwHbxsZ3r5D1P_sNheurbx/s1600/shot_1308938281415.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg78E7UZp0li7FBbLMo0M66Q8TaM2GW1_egT_10MufFFziUnt5o8WKzrH262bDrr4CuhywKhPRGiCLE65nuH3hrJPhlSpX9bBGpXZN-8Km39q6vWPSL1vVdWOUwHbxsZ3r5D1P_sNheurbx/s320/shot_1308938281415.jpg" width="319" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">The kindergarten kids from the program went on a field trip today and I acted as driver and chaperone, which I always really enjoy doing because it takes me away from my desk. Their destination was the Kidspace Museum in Pasadena and neither they, nor I, really knew what to expect. The central building of the museum housed an intricate climb and slide play area where the kids could pretend that they were ants. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Amazing. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I remembered the multitude of times I squatted in front of an ant hill in the summer and watched those tiny soldiers march in and out of their tiny hilled home. No, I wasn’t a torturous child, I would watch them in awe and wonder just what they were thinking, doing, what the inside of their little home looked like. I wondered if they young ants played and were scolded by their mother and if the older ants felt tired at the end of the day. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I walked around the building taking in all of the other exploration centers that were set up for the kids and found myself inside of a tiny bug zoo. The outside looked like a rock cave with a floor that felt like dense sand. Inside there were a series of glass cases arrange in a circle with a bright black light above them. Most of the bugs were hiding under sticks and rocks, except for the stink bug pictured above. I squatted there for a bit, just like I did when I was a kid and stared at it. It seemed to be frozen in time, it’s abdomen raised to the sky and head charging forward. I’m not exactly sure, but I think it may have been staring me in the eye. For just a few seconds it was me, 5’9”, two arms, two legs, four eyes (I was wearing my glasses) and this stink bug, 2” long, six legs, having a staring contest. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Then I realized that there was a thick pane of glass sitting between us and perhaps it wasn't a staring contest that we were having, but a silent conversation. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">"How could you do this to me? Why won't you set me free." </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">It occurred to me just then how awful and pretentious we humans can be. We go around and collect these living things that are not like us and put them in glass boxes and cages where sticky-fingered children bang on their new home hour after hour. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I realize that I set up this blog to talk about all of things I find beautiful in myself and the world around me, and what I've just said sounds a bit... bleak. No worries, I'm getting there. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">So I squatted there, like I used to when I was a kid, and stared at this stink bug who at some point in his (or her) life was running under some fallen leaf, gathering food for sustenance when it was suddenly plucked from it's only known existence. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">How easily we go through life and forget that everything around us, outside of us is alive. Trees, birds, spiders and insects and everything else we may run and scream from. We get engulfed in our credit cards and 3D movies, internet connections and dating services. We not only don't make time to stop and smell the flowers, but we don't take a second to realize the world we're living in. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I used to think I was a bit nuts for saying hello to birds and spiders, perhaps some people think I am. I really don't mind that opinion though, I'm happy to be able to disconnect from my social existence to say hello to my instinctive world. It's a beautiful world under those rocks and leaves. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Not too soon into my telepathic conversation with this stink bug, two little girls ran into the cave-zoo. I smiled at them and said "say hi to Roger." They looked at me puzzled and asked how I knew that, since it didn't say it anywhere. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">"He told me!" I said, and happily bounced out. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">(post data: I haven't killed a spider since this day.) </div>Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484578190901633308.post-75413104125690267742011-06-27T18:33:00.000-07:002011-06-27T18:33:07.206-07:00365Beautiful... Day 15... Friends.. how many of us have em... (June 23, 2011)<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr5UGTgI1NpJAKTnMZgb0Bfn2XzE1MG46XnMqs4dB26WHvJju0xIkJ3igwk8l7KyZUCHyAwZjkbIbHTIBDbwEZ7xF44TGXoiQeXxTzEnOOCpAIKJORBPs9IZxWXN7FejEouqBEeNlkiEQM/s1600/PhotoBooth-Picture" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr5UGTgI1NpJAKTnMZgb0Bfn2XzE1MG46XnMqs4dB26WHvJju0xIkJ3igwk8l7KyZUCHyAwZjkbIbHTIBDbwEZ7xF44TGXoiQeXxTzEnOOCpAIKJORBPs9IZxWXN7FejEouqBEeNlkiEQM/s400/PhotoBooth-Picture" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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Today is my friend Todd's birthday and a few people gathered at the local watering hole for a few drinks and to wish Todd well, including yours truly. I was feeling a bit ... off... tonight because of something that happened to me earlier. I didn't want to let it get to me and I was trying my hardest to put it in the back of my head.<br />
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Luckily, the night turned out to be incredibly entertaining. All of the people gathered around the table were in high spirits having continual conversation all around the table. Todd sat with his wife and was beaming with light and happiness. Slowly the event that had me continually shrinking into my own brain started to vanish, and I started to become immersed in the light of the people around me.<br />
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In all honesty, I can't say that the all of the people who surrounded me are, or ever will be "true" friends. Those that you can call to bail you out of trouble... or worse. But they were people who allowed me to share in their joy for that night; and, in doing so, pulled me out of some place I probably would have rather not been. I was able to refocus my priorities, feel an appreciation for life and re-envision what I wanted for myself.<br />
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The night didn't transpire in some magical place filled with luxury and decadence. It was.. in a bar. What I've dubbed "the old man bar" at that. But still, I feel thankful that I was able to share in at least a few hours of "funnitude" with Todd, my friends and his friends. Thanks for a beautiful night Todd, and Happy Birthday once again!. </div>Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484578190901633308.post-39110445790955278822011-06-23T17:53:00.000-07:002011-06-23T17:54:52.379-07:00365 Beautiful... Day 15... (June 22, 2011) ... More Words<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgieZZ66AzSzyZJNMh3BsrXPuWrVddAgpd88VV6wz3j19-iwRhX_KP_dgHRlyaxs99qddUk2XR4FoI3gHKxvWaJMqyVEj-aSoIbruNnCS0_gd4TAz3qUD5khtaeeQExGX_BlkfSa-ZQal3J/s1600/shot_1308857348790.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgieZZ66AzSzyZJNMh3BsrXPuWrVddAgpd88VV6wz3j19-iwRhX_KP_dgHRlyaxs99qddUk2XR4FoI3gHKxvWaJMqyVEj-aSoIbruNnCS0_gd4TAz3qUD5khtaeeQExGX_BlkfSa-ZQal3J/s320/shot_1308857348790.jpg" width="318" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I know yesterday I talked about words, but I wanted to talk about words some more... because I love words. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I love writing. As difficult as it's been for me to actually post what I'm writing online, I still love this journaling process. It's been three weeks since I've started and I really can't believe how fast the time has gone by. I've also found that this has become very therapeutic for me. Not only in the sense that I'm attempting at deconstructing what I thought was beautiful in myself and the world, but simply that I'm writing my thoughts down. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I often feel that people are extremely rushed, myself included. Always going from point A to point B and sometimes making detours at point C. There's always something to get done within the next minute, always something to say to so and so before you forget. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But we rarely take the time to listen to each other, to understand what other people have to say. We also forget to listen to ourselves, and to understand what we really want or, more importantly, need. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This process really is forcing me to think about myself, what I want, need, desire and dream of. I've been able to evaluate and reevaluate the things around me. Writing is allowing me to listen to myself, and in doing so, I find myself wondering what other people have to say. Every person has a story to tell, and those stories... like Robert's or Paco's or my parents and many more I'm sure to encounter, resonate with beauty. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484578190901633308.post-44819124846491214852011-06-23T17:26:00.000-07:002011-06-23T17:56:15.360-07:00365 Beautiful... Day 14 (June 21, 2011) ... Words<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigbNAFpcEUO9O94yjc9mtUQyW1nnR7xqF6Hl8LYQaJ_yCIAq4iga4rGlV_Zjte-ZKyvVrmMOjmVpFNdeb_JtUnpgQKG6Z20S66uV5XVsJeaQC6H2tNtydaY2l9LOiTvDEXtYk09reyz16b/s1600/wearenerds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigbNAFpcEUO9O94yjc9mtUQyW1nnR7xqF6Hl8LYQaJ_yCIAq4iga4rGlV_Zjte-ZKyvVrmMOjmVpFNdeb_JtUnpgQKG6Z20S66uV5XVsJeaQC6H2tNtydaY2l9LOiTvDEXtYk09reyz16b/s320/wearenerds.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I have a great love for books. I wouldn't say an unnatural love, just a great, deep love. I've often been asked if I'd get one of those Kindle or Zoobs or whathaveyous and I immediately and firmly reply "no."</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">There's nothing more gratifying than reaching the last page of a good book and closing its back cover. Or folding down corners of pages and making little doodles in the margins, or sticking little mementos in between the pages and finding them later, like bus tickets and photographs.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">One of my favorite past times is going to old bookstores or to flea markets and leafing through the older copies of books. While I'm intersted in the books themselves, I'm also secretely hoping that an old photograph falls out or that I stumble upon a dedication on the front pages.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Something like "Dear John, The poem on page 45 reminded me of the time we forgot the time...."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Ah yeah, I'm a hopeless romantic sometimes, but I feel that these little treasures fuel my imagination and hope for the human race.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Aside from their potential for harboring memories, I also love the way words can move you, can provoke memory or emotion.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Pablo Neruda has a poem, La Palabra that says:</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: inherit;"><i>Todo lo que usted quiera, sí señor, pero son las palabras las que cantan, las que suben y bajan… Me prosterno ante ellas… Las amo, las adhiero, las persigo, las muerdo, las derrito… Amo tanto las palabras… Las inesperadas… Las que glotonamente se esperan, se acechan, hasta que de pronto caen…</i> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: inherit;">or... in translation... </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;"><i>You can say anything you want, yessir, but it's the words that sing, they soar and descend...I bow to them...I love them, I cling to them, I run them down, I bite into them, I melt them down...I love words so much...The unexpected ones...The ones I wait for greedily or stalk until, suddenly, they drop...</i></span>Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484578190901633308.post-13637614101098901402011-06-23T17:03:00.000-07:002011-06-23T17:03:54.068-07:00365 Beautiful... Day 13 ... (June 20, 2011)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeJNCxRaarYAD59ShbrRTJPW2o5gFXwn-2BBIxz0f1yRGCe7-qnZp8utCgTTbRT_2T36KEbfxx_06BSv8BB2NxqqM7dCOYpv9XztEwWMowKxtHmG1fGKBU_yMpOQQWOULeCF1kmrVjCryy/s1600/shot_1306941196066.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeJNCxRaarYAD59ShbrRTJPW2o5gFXwn-2BBIxz0f1yRGCe7-qnZp8utCgTTbRT_2T36KEbfxx_06BSv8BB2NxqqM7dCOYpv9XztEwWMowKxtHmG1fGKBU_yMpOQQWOULeCF1kmrVjCryy/s320/shot_1306941196066.jpg" width="319" /></a>ja</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">These rough looking flowers are growing downhill from my apartment. (Note: as of today, June 23, these flowers are gone. I think this post is more relevant to me now.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">They're prickly and jagged and don't look very appealing. But their colors are beautiful. From one bush sprout these tiny purple, white, pink, yellow and orange flowers. One right next to the other, scratching at each other's branches. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I don't think anyone in the neighborhood really likes them, the people walking their dogs never really pay any attention to them. Yet they always point at the pink and white Angels Trumpets that peek out from a few of the homes. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It's a bit comical to me, actually, that Angels Trumpets receive the coos, when their flowers are, in fact, very harmful. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Well if you hadn't known it yet, now you do. Angels Trumpets are a highly toxic flower that causes hallucinations. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Oh, but everyone loves to look at them. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The other prickly little things just down the street from them, though, are completely harmless. The bees flood to them to extract their nectar and they stretch out their petals like little spikes when the sun comes up. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I think I'm a bit like the scruffy little flower... and I really don't mind. </div>Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484578190901633308.post-32584067022128386712011-06-23T16:51:00.000-07:002011-06-23T16:52:23.032-07:00365 Beautiful... Day 12 (June 19, 2011) ... Aves<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-BZ08o-zYVZVOFSxbrqU9zSab_O26pYIYFFUK4dUkQdWkwYRPzNewUk38KnE279eppL2veTn0MkBVgYQSqAb63BWLQpJnbDLqseAFtIVpjQrFcjdGck9olcmbHg7pdF2dzvbwNDdU08SJ/s1600/shot_1307913935961.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-BZ08o-zYVZVOFSxbrqU9zSab_O26pYIYFFUK4dUkQdWkwYRPzNewUk38KnE279eppL2veTn0MkBVgYQSqAb63BWLQpJnbDLqseAFtIVpjQrFcjdGck9olcmbHg7pdF2dzvbwNDdU08SJ/s320/shot_1307913935961.jpg" width="274" /></a></div><br />
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While I know today is father's day and it would make more sense to do an entry about how beautiful I think my father is, I felt compelled to share this snapshot. It still relates to my father, and my mother.<br />
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For as long as I can remember, my parents have had birds in the home. Sometimes they've been loud squawking ones, other times they're quiet and demur. These birds in the photo have been a part of our backyard for what seems like years. Although, I know it hasn't been more than a couple of years.<br />
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They're very quiet and have attempted to procreate many times over. Some have been successful, others not so much. When the female is placed in a neighboring cage after she lays her eggs, they seem to gravitate to each other through the cage.<br />
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I could be completely misinterpreting it and it could be out of fear and not companionship that they do this. Nevertheless, these birds are beautiful creatures. I've always had an affinity toward birds, perhaps because they remind me so much of my parents.<br />
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I love how delicate they seem and how strong they really are. How they're able to fly for miles at a time with things so light as a group of feathers attached to their bodies. I love that they're always singing and constantly moving. How they build their homes where a home needs to be.<br />
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I love them so much I've had one made a permanent part of my body. (I believe this will be another entry sometime in the future.)<br />
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I love to imagine that I can be a bird and fly home when I want to, or see the world when I need to.Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484578190901633308.post-65422174932807627582011-06-23T16:40:00.000-07:002011-06-23T18:01:17.684-07:00365Beautiful... Day 11 (June 18, 2011) ... Dedication<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-v3-Jcjum9zU/TgPKpIcSz7I/AAAAAAAAATI/tDaluuF_Ufo/s1600/shot_1308416022418.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-v3-Jcjum9zU/TgPKpIcSz7I/AAAAAAAAATI/tDaluuF_Ufo/s320/shot_1308416022418.jpg" width="274" /></a></div><br />
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I work at an organization called Proyecto Pastoral, for those of you who weren't aware. Every year they host a woman's conference. Over 300 women attend and are provided with workshops on healing, wholeness, health and empowerment, among others. From the very beginning, I took it upon myself (and the rest of the youth program staff) to coordinate the Young Women's workshops.<br />
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It's always an empowering day for everyone, that goes without saying. The thing that always strikes me the most is the work that is done behind the scenes. When all the women are in the workshops, the staff and volunteers are outside hauling boxes of free items, cases of water, folding and unfolding chairs, dragging garbage bags back and forth. It's incredible, the amount of energy that goes into creating this day long conference.<br />
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Today was the third conference I assisted with. I regret that this was the only photo I was able to snap of this day. The photo above is one workshop I was assisting with on, of all things, deconstructing beauty.<br />
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It was pure coincidence, honestly.<br />
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Most of the young women in the workshop talked about beauty being on the inside and creating power with our personalities. Those young women who had more traditional views of beauty were younger women, and those who had not been a part of the conference before.<br />
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The young women who said that beauty was defined by our internal strengths all had attended the conference year after year.<br />
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This is amazing - I thought.<br />
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Later that day I went down to help out with the end of day logistics, and as I mentioned before, its wonderful to see everyone working so hard to make the day happen.<br />
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What I really wish I would have gotten a photo of were the 8 or so women (staff and volunteers with the organization), gathered to sip on margaritas with pride for the work they had accomplished that day. Myself being in one of this group, looked around at the rest of the women sitting there; their hair disheveled, t-shirts dusty and faces dirty and flushed from the sun, and thought I had never seen more beautiful women in the world.Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484578190901633308.post-51498704874299482122011-06-20T13:15:00.000-07:002011-06-20T13:15:45.882-07:00365Beautiful... Day 10 ... Sighs (June 17, 2011)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GCTBYIRLSME/Tf-V5jB-32I/AAAAAAAAAS0/tefkrimzHZE/s1600/shot_1308364696302.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GCTBYIRLSME/Tf-V5jB-32I/AAAAAAAAAS0/tefkrimzHZE/s320/shot_1308364696302.jpg" width="274" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This afternoon I was able to take a drive down Pacific Coast Highway as the sun began its descent into the horizon. I'm not a very big beach person, but I can't deny the beauty, serenity and power of the ocean. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I snapped a few photos along the way, and this one I caught while I was pulled over at a small turn-off. I found myself sighing every time the waves hit the rocks and taking deep breaths when the tides pulled back. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I talk a lot about emotion, and I know I'll talk more about it as the days pass, but maybe my (and others) connection to their emotions is what can make me (and others) radiate with beauty. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I find sighs to be extremely powerful. It can be filled with desperation, with hope, with memory, with love. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I imagine that if sighs could be physically manifested with color and texture, each one would be different, like snowflakes. Our lungs transforming into factories of breath and emotion, assembling our sighs and pushing them up our esophagus. Some emerging from our mouths pink and soft like cotton candy, other heavily floating out gray and dense like rain clouds. Sometimes they'll come out in prolonged puffs of glittering gold powder, floating with the wind and other times in different bubbles of colors: pinks, greens, blues and purples, tickling our noses and making our toes wiggle. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The connections we can have to our bodies are amazing, I think I'll continue assigning colors to my sighs. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484578190901633308.post-90411161897518591922011-06-20T13:01:00.000-07:002011-06-20T13:01:07.685-07:00365Beautiful... Day 9 ... Robert... (June 16, 2011)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQMxvbQaUSjarzyviH_G0_XIeb3lsWuM-ZbChS8lvgYWMNakf2Qz42tqh5E55LShUnpayc6kVCNgDRvfHZSHVzq9jriOMRp1qU4a4oQENGlPNIdfAMsFHKtaMWsROK3xsU_sEepdjftK36/s1600/shot_1308172592467.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQMxvbQaUSjarzyviH_G0_XIeb3lsWuM-ZbChS8lvgYWMNakf2Qz42tqh5E55LShUnpayc6kVCNgDRvfHZSHVzq9jriOMRp1qU4a4oQENGlPNIdfAMsFHKtaMWsROK3xsU_sEepdjftK36/s320/shot_1308172592467.jpg" width="274" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I actually took this photo yesterday at the game and was split on which one to use as my daily entry, but I thought this was too important not to share, so I'm using this photo today to introduce you all to someone who I met and was moved by. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When we took our seats at the game, I immediately noticed this backpack in front of me and the man sitting next to it, clutching an aluminum cane. At first I thought he was waiting for someone, but after the first couple of innings it became clear that he was here to enjoy the game on his own. Every once in a while he would respond or laugh at one of our comments about the game or the environment we were in. By the 7th inning, we decided it would be a good idea to buy our new friend a drink, and so leaned over and asked him what he was drinking and so opened the door to hear his story. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">His name is Robert, and as you can probably tell from the photo, he is a Vietnam veteran, serving between 1967 - 1968. His cane helps support his leg, that was shot up in battle. He also dons a tiny camouflage hearing aid makes up for the loss of sound he became afflicted with after an explosion. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Shrapnel flew all around him and hit his body and face. He turned to me and pointed to several small scars on his chin and cheek as he told me this. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He received three purple hearts and was sent home in a wheelchair. They told him he wouldn't walk on his own again. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He picked up his cane and showed it to me. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"It's hard for me to get up those stairs (in the stadium) but I ain't in no wheelchair though." He said proudly. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I asked him what he did now and he told me he played guitar with some friends, just for fun. When I asked if he ever had public performances he shook his head. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Only for the kids." Robert and his friends play for the kids in the Children's Orthopedic Hospital. He takes bus after bus to get there because they won't let him drive, on account of a seizure he had years back. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Since he can't work, he's decided to spend his days "doing things." Going to a baseball game, to the park, to play for kids at the Children's Hospital. Anything to get him out of the house and moving around. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I don't know much more about Robert, but his story was beautiful. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">To all the Roberts of the world,thank you for sharing your stories and your courage with us. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484578190901633308.post-62492251280708496892011-06-20T12:42:00.000-07:002011-06-20T12:42:07.669-07:00365Beautiful.... Day 8 Something out of Nothing (June 15, 2011)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyzMHbq6b6r3JBfA4lnNloVfjwf1XZLT24fYJf8euMN7SVT1qtAcETBMpqJ7U67qVaS1DoimsRuNmAJ1JjIgwc6xFOQfSnB6yXvq-meMMGCstRuKtpALBpw1mKFY_C3PjHw5UAQJKB_R4D/s1600/shot_1308172556949.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyzMHbq6b6r3JBfA4lnNloVfjwf1XZLT24fYJf8euMN7SVT1qtAcETBMpqJ7U67qVaS1DoimsRuNmAJ1JjIgwc6xFOQfSnB6yXvq-meMMGCstRuKtpALBpw1mKFY_C3PjHw5UAQJKB_R4D/s320/shot_1308172556949.jpg" width="274" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Today I had the pleasure of taking in a Dodger game with Paco. We were sitting in great seats, under the shade with a perfect view of the field. We started talking about the left-field Pavilion and relating stories about those being the seats that riff-raff would buy. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"That's where we sat when I was a kid!" I said happily. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Exactly," he joked. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I laughed and felt content that I was one of those riff-raff individuals that sat in left-field Pavilion and heckled the other team when they were in the outfield. Throwing popcorn and peanuts at each other and taking in the sun. We may have really been riff-raff to some people, but the times we spent sitting in the Pavilion were full of laughter and smiles. It didn't matter that we bought the seats at a discounted rate, that we couldn't really see who was at bat, or that the sun was bathing us in its summer rays. What mattered was that we were there, enjoying the day, being kids and being alive. They were beautiful memories that flowed through my head as we sat and talked. I kept turning to the Pavilion to see the groups of families running up and down the bleachers, throwing their legs over the rows in front of them, enjoying their popcorn and hot dogs. They probably paid close to nothing for their seats, but there they were, enjoying their day. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Happiness can be so simple sometimes. A smile, a ray of sunshine, a crushed peanut under your shoe.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Such a great something out of seemingly nothing. </div>Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484578190901633308.post-27285438505398254352011-06-20T12:32:00.000-07:002011-06-20T12:32:09.124-07:00365Beautiful, Day 7... Music & Memory (June 14, 2011)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5uEjQloXdg8/Tf-ZYJ36I1I/AAAAAAAAATE/i3i1Ij9ssXs/s1600/shot_1304442085897.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5uEjQloXdg8/Tf-ZYJ36I1I/AAAAAAAAATE/i3i1Ij9ssXs/s320/shot_1304442085897.jpg" width="318" /></a></div><br />
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</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i>A quick note about this week's entries: I've been attempting to use my mobile blogger as I don't have internet access at home. Unfortunately, every time I try to post after I've written a lengthy entry, my app freezes up and my entries are lost. Luckily I draft them and can re-type them later. However, I think I may have to keep my entries short if I use my mobile app from now on. The next several entries are all of those I hadn't been able to post because of this, so please excuse the numerous posts today. Hopefully I'll be on track after today. </i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Sometimes I stand in the middle of my apartment and think about the things I would grab if there were a fire, earthquake or if there really were a giant T-Rex coming up the street (an odd and recurring dream I have). I've made my "escape" plan to begin in the living room with the photo of my parents and family, then the vinyls off of the bookshelf and my small record player. I keep it unplugged when not in use, for easy access. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">While I'm not the most well-versed person in music out there, I still have a deep connection to music and melodies. I have an extremely hard time gauging moments in my life by time and space. I can't really recall if something happened 5 years ago or 10. I often find myself counting backward from the present moment in order to get a good idea as to how many weeks, months, years ago something happened. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">But I can tell you if that's when I bought my first Iggy Pop album. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Or if I was listening to The Cure. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Or if I secretly played that R.E.M song over and over and over again. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">My connection to music runs deep, and I find that my day isn't complete until I hear one good song. Just one. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Today I woke up feeling especially blue. This sense of depression and loneliness came over me and I couldn't exactly explain why. I thought I wouldn't be able to find the strength to think of anything to write about, how can I find beauty on a day like today? </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I decided to play the Lou Reed album I bought at the flea market while I was getting ready for work. While not the most uplifting crooner, his voice began to warm me up. First my toes, then my knees to my fingertips and into my heart. It was a warmth that didn't make me bounce with happiness, but rather sway like the cool branches of the tree outside my door. It's a strange sensation to explain, but it felt as if I were connected to all the lovelorn sighs, quiet giggles, crumpled love notes written on coffee-stained napkins and fading photos wrapped up in ribbons and twine hidden away in nostalgic shoe boxes; beautiful memories that time can't contain. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Lou Reed - A Perfect Day </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 10px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 10px; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; text-transform: capitalize;">Just A Perfect Day,<br />
Drink Sangria In The Park,<br />
And Then Later, When It Gets Dark,<br />
We Go Home.<br />
Just A Perfect Day,<br />
Feed Animals In The Zoo<br />
Then Later, A Movie, Too,<br />
And Then Home.<br />
<br />
Oh It's Such A Perfect Day,<br />
I'm Glad I Spent It With You.<br />
Oh Such A Perfect Day,<br />
You Just Keep Me Hanging On,<br />
You Just Keep Me Hanging On.<br />
<br />
Just A Perfect Day,<br />
Problems All Left Alone,<br />
Weekenders On Our Own.<br />
It's Such Fun.<br />
Just A Perfect Day,<br />
You Made Me Forget Myself.<br />
I Thought I Was Someone Else,<br />
Someone Good.<br />
<br />
Oh It's Such A Perfect Day,<br />
I'm Glad I Spent It With You.<br />
Oh Such A Perfect Day,<br />
You Just Keep Me Hanging On,<br />
You Just Keep Me Hanging On.<br />
<br />
You're Going To Reap Just What You Sow,<br />
You're Going To Reap Just What You Sow,<br />
You're Going To Reap Just What You Sow,<br />
You're Going To Reap Just What You Sow...</span>Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4484578190901633308.post-60256533884232786052011-06-14T16:11:00.000-07:002011-06-14T16:11:16.773-07:00365Beautiful, Day 6... Strength<div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1_ZcT2pAVw7lG23gW4LumFZUtws0wTnpCNX9i-Ws6jkIfK7mbZogwB5gHwZweJe8r0kGdos-egLGrGJfzBPtVQMjXn6x-V8Nh6QeNjvY8VOZK9fkohET3oC4SfNLtzhIC2fXZrGauJLH0/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1_ZcT2pAVw7lG23gW4LumFZUtws0wTnpCNX9i-Ws6jkIfK7mbZogwB5gHwZweJe8r0kGdos-egLGrGJfzBPtVQMjXn6x-V8Nh6QeNjvY8VOZK9fkohET3oC4SfNLtzhIC2fXZrGauJLH0/" width="276" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;">I'll be the first to admit, I'm far from being perfect. I make major mistakes. I've made some pretty irresponsible decisions. I'm sure I'll continue to make mistakes.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">But I have grown stronger. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I've had people tell me that I'm admired for being a strong woman. I smile and say thank you and admit I'm not as strong as I appear. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">No, no, no Lu... you're a strong woman. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">So I put on my strong woman mask and get on with my day, pressing forward like the strong woman I'm supposed to be. Jumping in head-first into controversies and challenges. Swinging left and right until I emerge, victorious or not, bruised and battered. Then in my own private corner of the ring, I slide my mask off and let the tears roll. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">All of the hurt, deception, disillusionment, failures, loneliness bubble up in my intestines, boil up in my heart and overflow out of my tear-ducts. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I used to say, this is not what strong women do. Strong women don't vent out their frustrations in tears. They stand up straight, have stares as hard and cold as steel nails. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">They're not soft nor sensitive. They don't allow the trials and tribulations of their daily lives to boil up inside of them. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I wasn't a strong woman, I thought. </div><div style="text-align: left;">And it made me feel ashamed and saddened that I was potentially living a lie. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">That was, until I really did break apart and a weak, ugly woman inside of me came tumbling out. Those tears that were shed were not of that of the aftermath of a battle, they were those of lost control, of illogicality and self-deception. Cursing and spitting, that was a woman who had given in to envy, jealousy, hate and rage; her body was tarred with darkness. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">That was not the weak woman I perceived to be peeling off her armor, tired from a day's fight. That was not the weak woman I perceived to be staring me back in the mirror when conversations of the heart were had between my soul and my brain. That was not the weak woman I perceived I was. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And so I know, I must not have been that weak woman at all. I shouldn't be that weak woman again. It's the strong woman inside of me who can protect me from this, the one who acknowledges her heart and creates an empathetic connection to the world with emotional zeal. Recognizing that strong women do tire and find their times to release, reflect and revolutionize the ways that they see the world. I'm sorry for allowing that temporary instance of darkness overcome me, but I can't say I fully regret it. It was this way that I realized that my perception of the woman I am was marred. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">It's the strong woman inside of me, and every strong woman I know, that allows us to get up in the morning, regardless of the heartache, the challenges, the bills we have to pay, the roads we have to travel or the weight of the shields we have to carry and say "let today be a beautiful day."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>Luchita_Librehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17242492543973961174noreply@blogger.com0