Thunder Thighs

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….

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.

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….

Hey!

Thunder thighs.

Thuuuuunder thighs.

Thuuuuunder thighs.

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.

Pointing and laughing, they belted out once again…. Hey! Thunder Thighs.

I stopped, tilted my head and stared down.

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.

I continued on, and they provided me with my personal soundtrack.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Watch out! Thunder thighs is on the move!

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.

I started moving again.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

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.

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. 

In the coming years, I’d become increasingly aware of my growing body, maturing much faster than what seemed to be imaginable to me.

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.

THUNDER THIGHS

THUUUNDER THIGHS…. The memory echoed.

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.

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…

HEY! 

Thunder Thighs! 

Stop moving! You’re gonna kill us!!

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…

I felt ashamed to be so fascinated by these curves that invaded my body.

But fascinated I was.

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.

Until one day I saw myself in my entirety. Completely bare. Uncovered and fully vulnerable.

I looked down at my thighs. My thunder thighs.

Thick and brown, propelling me forward every day.

Yes… there was thunder in my thighs.

Thick and commanding, ripping through the air. Announcing the coming of the storm that is me, and my body, and my power.

There was thunder in my thighs and I began to recognize that they did, in fact, make people shake.

Yes, children of 13, hold on to your imaginary poles… there is some mighty thunder in my thighs.

Mutherf*cker

There's a Bukowski in my heart, and it wants to come out.
But I tell it -No! Don't give in! Stay there.
But he sits there like a pimple,
Boiling and pulsating,
Breathing heavy gin breaths
Spitting every so often
Those bitter lime peels.
There's a Bukowski in my heart and it wants to come out,
But I say
NO MUTHERF*CKER!
Stay there
Don't give in
Don't fall apart
Don't stick that cigarette in your mouth and start sucking down anything above a 7%
But he sits there, pulsating
Angry and bitter and sad
And then the old lady at the bar
Taps me on the shoulder and says
My God dear, you have a beautiful smile.
Mutherf*cker.
There's a Bukowski in my heart
Rolling over, farting and starting to snore.

Ghost Chaser

I’m a ghost chaser.

I find myself constantly chasing ghosts.

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.

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.

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…

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 Tree of Knowledge.

And then the gardener starts up his leaf blower and you know that apple has been bitten. 

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.

I saw it and I chased it.

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…”

As if they knew what I was going to discover.

“Don’t”

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

I turned back around and stared at the brightness of the statue, the lightness of her, singing white in that field of dying yellow.

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.

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?

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.

Who are you? What haunts you? What galaxy of vast infinite stars lay in your eyes?

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.

Ghosts, all the time ghosts.

“Don’t,” the blades were telling me. Was I ready? It didn’t matter anymore, I’m here. Chasing ghosts.

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.

I’m a ghost chaser, I come from a long personal history of chasing ghosts. I myself am a ghost, I suppose.

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?

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.

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.

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…

I’m a ghost chaser.

How many....

How many sighs, of so many different colors.

The gold ones that float to the top in relief, in satisfaction, in the blessing that has been you're purgatorial life.

I've been waiting.... I've been waiting... I've been waiting so long....

I'm not even sure,
What,
I
have
been
waiting
for....

Is... this... it.

How many more sighs of blue grey
Sinking down

Day 0

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..."

Hoping he'd carry away my burdens. Why? Why? We didn't even try.

Trying to feel angry. Trying to feel betrayed. Trying to feel what you're supposed to feel when things just fall away.

Rising out of me, bubbling, bubbling... then falling flat. Swept under the door with sighs of blue and gray.

Wanting to yell and scream "what have you done to me?!!"

Opening my mouth, ready for steam...

Calling out...
Please, mom, can I stay?

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...

Picking at the ribbons that keep me to you, unearthing the anchor that kept you at my bay. 

Maybe it'll just crumble.
    She thought.
Maybe it'll just crumble, and I'll slide on through. Then that will be that. Issue resolved.
    She stared at her feet and thought.

The tiles beneath her bare feet

Dear John ... Or, How I learned to stop hatin' and love the V-bomb

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.

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.

She takes a few silent breaths, looks up at the flickering light and with lips of petrified tree bark says,

“Hello, I am 32 and (sighhhhh) I have never had a Valentine…”

The few silent bodies in the room shift uncomfortably in their creaking chairs and begin to whisper “oh my, not one? … never? … oh… noo….”

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:

 “When I was 21, my boyfriend took me on a romantic hike.”
“The bitch broke up with me on Valentine’s day”
“He sent flowers to my home, my work AND left some on my car.”
“She make me cupcakes, they were the best thing ever.”

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^th 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.

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!”

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.

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…

Ok, maybe eating chocolates does make everything better.

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.

And so the hate on love just continued to build.

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^th, when the street corners started to fill with contraband merchandise.

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.’ 

Right?!

Meh.

So how did this all start? Where did it all go to hate?

A cartoon flashback….

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.

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.’

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.

And that was good enough for the communist in me.  Bring on the rage.

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. 

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.”  

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^th or February 15^th, 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.”

So it’s February 14, 2012 and this is my Dear John letter to hatin’ on love.

Dear John (aka 23 year old grumpy Lu),

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.

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.

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. 

Hope I don’t see ya’ around anymore,

(almost) 33 year old Lu.

p.s. I know where you stashed your old love notes from high school, you hypocrite!

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. 

Godspeed...

(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 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.

Whirr, suck, creak. Whirr, suck, creak.

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.

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.

Hello. Is that you Tom?

Yes David.

How are the rest of the men?

Intact.  

Very well. Godspeed.

Godspeed.

Whirr, suck, creak. 

Whirr.

Suck.

Creak.

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. 

Perhaps this is why I wanted them dead.

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... 

in the quiet universe.

Their determination haunted me. It possessed me.

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.

I had no remorse. 

I tore a piece off of my Hawaiian BBQ and licked my lips.

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.

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.

I closed the box.

Whirr, suck, creak.

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.

Godspeed, sir.

Godspeed. 

Days 28 - 31 (July 6 - 9, 2011) ... These parts of Me ...

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.


With that... my entry for the second half of the week of July 6th -

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

And it feels fine.

365Beautiful .... Day 27... (July 5, 2011) BRAIIIIINS

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

God... I hate math. 

I really do. 

But there I was, doing it all on my own. 

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" 

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.

Hey Lu, you got a big, juicy, beautiful brain. 

365Beautiful, Day 26... (July 4, 2011) ... Boom! Boom! Boom!

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.

But, it's fourth of July ... and fireworks have to be lit.

(Legal notice: the fireworks in the photo are coming from a few blocks away, NOT my parent's front yard.)

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.

But we were together, and we did enjoy each other's company.

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.

My mom looked at me and said "don't say that we don't love you."

Jokingly I said "Javier (my nephew) loves me."

She rolled her eyes and told me to "shattap."

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:

"I don't believe it!"
"It's true"
"Bullchet!"
"Whatever"
"Get out of here!"
"Believe what you will"
"Faking Bullchet!"
(My brother usually does the cursing.)

It's more amusing than frustrating, really.

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.

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.

I felt content. Everything in my little world was right for the night. If I could only hold on to this feeling...


(feel free to insert Journey jokes now.)

365Beautiful, Day 25 ... (July 3, 2011) ... One in front of the other..

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. 

So you will all have to stare at a photo of my crazy feet. 

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. 

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.

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. 

We followed this rule pretty well, until it I was the last one standing. 

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. 

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. 

I had planned my move for over a year.

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. 

Then I sat in my parents living room and solemnly said "I have something to tell you..."

I can imagine the multitude of things my parents were thinking, and based on their reaction... moving out was not one of them. 

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."

So I packed up my things and moved. 

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.

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... 

This is my right foot, this is my left... and everyday I can put one foot in front of the other and... go. 

365Beautiful Days 17 - 24 ... (June 25 - July 2, 2011) EXHALE....

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

FELT... they had of me. 

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. 

I should be smarter. 

I should be prettier. 

I should be more talented. 

I should be wittier. 

I should be more clever. 

I should be, I should be, I should be...

But what am I? 

Well... I'm not perfect. I know this. 

I've beat myself up many times for just not being "that." I'm not that. Why am I not that? 

Sigh....

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. 

Neurotic. Maybe. 

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. 

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. 

I get it. 

I get me too. Somewhat. I'm getting there. 

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. 

365Beautiful Day 16... June 24, 2011 ... Bugs!

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.

Amazing.

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.

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. 

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. 

"How could you do this to me? Why won't you set me free." 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

"He told me!" I said, and happily bounced out. 

(post data: I haven't killed a spider since this day.) 

365Beautiful... Day 15... Friends.. how many of us have em... (June 23, 2011)

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.

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.

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.

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!. 

365 Beautiful... Day 15... (June 22, 2011) ... More Words

I know yesterday I talked about words, but I wanted to talk about words some more... because I love words. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

365 Beautiful... Day 14 (June 21, 2011) ... Words

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."


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.


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.


Something like "Dear John, The poem on page 45 reminded me of the time we forgot the time...."


Ah yeah, I'm a hopeless romantic sometimes, but I feel that these little treasures fuel my imagination and hope for the human race.


Aside from their potential for harboring memories, I also love the way words can move you, can provoke memory or emotion.


Pablo Neruda has a poem, La Palabra that says:


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… 


or... in translation... 


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...

365 Beautiful... Day 13 ... (June 20, 2011)

ja

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.)

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. 

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. 

It's a bit comical to me, actually, that Angels Trumpets receive the coos, when their flowers are, in fact, very harmful. 

Well if you hadn't known it yet, now you do. Angels Trumpets are a highly toxic flower that causes hallucinations. 

Oh, but everyone loves to look at them. 

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. 

I think I'm a bit like the scruffy little flower... and I really don't mind.