It's a funny thing, this guy-girl...romance......weird...hookup-But wait! Let's just be friends...
intimacy...weird-But I want the goods still-no don't touch-but touch me when I want it-haze.
It's weird, quite frankly.
You meet this human being. With dignity and God-given value and shit. You explore their idiosyncrasies and circle around their core, getting to know just enough before any real bond is formed. And you realize: You are fleeting and are only filling a concave hole in a heart for the time being.
And you dance around these feelings. Back and forth between inadequacy and ecstasy and shame-Woops, they know my secret and the thing I'm self conscious about without enough Love to support and contextualize it. Woops-I said the wrong thing at the wrong time, but had it been five minutes ago I would have caught you in the right mood and you would have been all for it. Woops- my buzz is gone and I no longer want you like I did yesterday for the 5 meaningless minutes that served no other purpose but to fulfill my fleeting longings.
You cry sometimes because you're mad. And not mad at them because you have no ground to stand on. But at yourself, for the cards you've been dealt and the lack of lemonade you've made with these seemingly pre-destined lemons and the things you've given over all too quickly and rashly.
It's weird. This getting to know a person.
Not because you have some sort of thing in common that you like to share-like David and I who share insights about spirituality, books and existential crises or how undisciplined I am, and how his funny email about customized doorbells makes my morning and helps me get out of bed. Or like Dave and I who share politics, a love for fashion, laughter and Black comedy and/or occasionally revel in the fact that I once woke him up by taking off his covers which resulted in an awkward surprise for me (yes, they both have the same name). These people-for whom I have an unlimited supply of conversation topics, meaningful silences, news articles, quotes, insights, tears, old memories and jokes for-hold weight in the grand scheme of my life. And this one guy, lightweight floating around in Annery's realm of escape- how much value does it (this rendezvous) actually have?
But, we proceed with getting to know each other, jumping over the awkward hurdles of un-compatibility and marked difference for the sake of fulfilling this concave hole in our souls that longs for another-that longs for intimacy.
And it's not you-the particular shape, hair type, eye color, laugh, smile, dance, sense of humor, interests that bring us together. It's not me-my shape, my eyes, my smile, my movement, my interests, my quirks that draws you to me. It's something more individual that has nothing to with me and nothing to do with you. Me, just a variable standing in place of any other random symbol or co-efficient that was available at the time. You, just a factor close by. Available.
Yet, we explored. Lonely souls explored closeness. Fleeting closeness-but closeness nonetheless.
And it may or may not have made a dent in a broken nervous system that was tired of crying without being held. Being held by another being who needed to be held may not have been a total waste... But there's something wrong here, something inconsistent and mirage-like. I choose reality, please, with three doses of laughter with my closest friends.
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Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
"Us" and "them"
When I go about my daily tasks, i.e. chores: ironing, picking up the clothes lying around in my room, cooking, etc. I often think about my mom. I get flashbacks to her daily routines. I think about her urging me to pick out my clothes the night before school or about preparing my lunch the day before instead of waiting to do it half an hour before I walked out of the door the next morning. I think about her ironing on Saturday nights while watching Sabado Gigante or mopping the floors on a sunny Saturday morning instead of running away from chores under the excuse that it's a "nice day outside."
Now, don't get me wrong. I haven't always had these flashbacks and I don't always follow in my mother's footsteps in this way. In fact, I am nowhere near as clean and organized and disciplined as she was during my childhood. But, as I strive to be more organized and disciplined post-college, these memories inspire and motive me.
Going back in this way helps normalize what I'm doing and deters me from sitting down in front of facebook, for instance, or from taking a nap when I know I should be getting ready for the next day. I suppose that for most of us this process is more subconscious. However, for some of us, the households we grew up in do not inspire such actions. For some of us, our childhoods consisted of parents who did not work, suffered from some mental or physical illness and were bed ridden most of the time. Some of our parents did not wake us up for school--we woke ourselves up. Some of our parents did not iron or mop or pick up the clothes on the floor consistently, except for some small bouts of inspired moments when this was the case. And I imagine that for those of us whose parents struggled in this way, inspiration to go about completing daily tasks must come from somewhere else.
I think about these things because of my line of work; because everyday my job reminds me of the lines that are drawn between "us" and "them." My job causes me to think about thinking patterns that shape our behavior or our potential to learn and grow. And often, we are products of the upbringings we had--with the possible exceptions of those outlier children--the Rory Gilmores and the Barak Obama's and the genuises who managed to pull themselves up by the genetic bootstraps they were given. But for most of us, we are direct products of our environments. When we experience this kind of lack, where do we get the tools we were "supposed" to get when we were 5 years old and the foundation for our adult lives was being laid?
Now, don't get me wrong. I haven't always had these flashbacks and I don't always follow in my mother's footsteps in this way. In fact, I am nowhere near as clean and organized and disciplined as she was during my childhood. But, as I strive to be more organized and disciplined post-college, these memories inspire and motive me.
Going back in this way helps normalize what I'm doing and deters me from sitting down in front of facebook, for instance, or from taking a nap when I know I should be getting ready for the next day. I suppose that for most of us this process is more subconscious. However, for some of us, the households we grew up in do not inspire such actions. For some of us, our childhoods consisted of parents who did not work, suffered from some mental or physical illness and were bed ridden most of the time. Some of our parents did not wake us up for school--we woke ourselves up. Some of our parents did not iron or mop or pick up the clothes on the floor consistently, except for some small bouts of inspired moments when this was the case. And I imagine that for those of us whose parents struggled in this way, inspiration to go about completing daily tasks must come from somewhere else.
I think about these things because of my line of work; because everyday my job reminds me of the lines that are drawn between "us" and "them." My job causes me to think about thinking patterns that shape our behavior or our potential to learn and grow. And often, we are products of the upbringings we had--with the possible exceptions of those outlier children--the Rory Gilmores and the Barak Obama's and the genuises who managed to pull themselves up by the genetic bootstraps they were given. But for most of us, we are direct products of our environments. When we experience this kind of lack, where do we get the tools we were "supposed" to get when we were 5 years old and the foundation for our adult lives was being laid?
Platano-Chocolate chip bread
There is platano-chocolate chip bread sitting in my kitchen and it wasn't made by me.
For those of you who don't know, Dominicans do not make bread out of platano--at least not usually. "Platano is for mofongo, mangu, fritos, tostones and sancocho! Maybe sometimes a pastelon or two!" Shout the purists. But the new generation always has something new to say to the purists and new lines to cross.
I suppose this is what happens when you put people of different backgrounds in the same house, in ways reminiscent of the Arabic sounds found in Flamenco or the accordion used in Merengue borrowed from the Germans who brought it to the Caribbean; or the Catholic churches in Central America incorporating rituals rooted in Mayan spirituality. Syncretism.
So I go about my business frying my platanos and someone says,
"Hey, this is kind of like a banana. I'm making platano-chocolate chip bread." And it appears on my kitchen table as a gift. it's delicious.
But don't be deceived, sometimes mixing isn't that delicious. Like hot sauce and ice cream is still not fun, no matter how exotic it may sound (unless you fancy that kind of thing).
We don't mix for it's own sake. This "platano-chocolate chip bread"-style syncretism is organic, natural. It's not coerced. And organic mixing--when it results from a genuine love for the different items before you--is beautiful. Kinda like my love for the folks I met at Gordon. Cambridge-Latina meets white-suburban crunchy folks and by deafult, makes a concoction of platano-chocolate chip bread, among many other syncretisms.
For those of you who don't know, Dominicans do not make bread out of platano--at least not usually. "Platano is for mofongo, mangu, fritos, tostones and sancocho! Maybe sometimes a pastelon or two!" Shout the purists. But the new generation always has something new to say to the purists and new lines to cross.
I suppose this is what happens when you put people of different backgrounds in the same house, in ways reminiscent of the Arabic sounds found in Flamenco or the accordion used in Merengue borrowed from the Germans who brought it to the Caribbean; or the Catholic churches in Central America incorporating rituals rooted in Mayan spirituality. Syncretism.
So I go about my business frying my platanos and someone says,
"Hey, this is kind of like a banana. I'm making platano-chocolate chip bread." And it appears on my kitchen table as a gift. it's delicious.
But don't be deceived, sometimes mixing isn't that delicious. Like hot sauce and ice cream is still not fun, no matter how exotic it may sound (unless you fancy that kind of thing).
We don't mix for it's own sake. This "platano-chocolate chip bread"-style syncretism is organic, natural. It's not coerced. And organic mixing--when it results from a genuine love for the different items before you--is beautiful. Kinda like my love for the folks I met at Gordon. Cambridge-Latina meets white-suburban crunchy folks and by deafult, makes a concoction of platano-chocolate chip bread, among many other syncretisms.
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