inspiration

Golden Hour.

I feel like I have lived a thousand lives. Ones more tragic than the next. Then the sun hits every inch of my skin and I feel born again.

Different.
Brand new.

It’s the shadows from the golden rays that peek through the blinds. Straight from the outside, for I am always inside. It’s neither cold nor warm, just this glittery feeling of gold etched in your face and every parts of your skin. It’s what photographers try to photograph and emulate. With artificial lights and colors. Holding still until the light is just right.

It’s through the shining of this magic hour I think of everything. Every sun drenched memory. Every crazy golden moment. My breathing gets slower and my eyes start to well with tears. Each tear sparkling with the effervescent sun.

If I loved you last, I would love you best, I kept telling myself. I say this to the shadows that wave with each motion of the words. I don’t know what love is anymore. We are all rose gold and amber in this light. We are all love in this glittery way of speaking. We are all warmth in this sunset of light that we see before us. Yet, I don’t even know who the “you” is anymore. At this moment is could be anyone. I could have loved you more. I could have believed every single word you said. Instead, I find myself talking to shadows to keep away all these ghosts.

We were once all silver and now we’re gold. In this golden hour, one of the loneliest moments. As the gold sprinkles across its flecks on ever inch of the white room. When you’ve let everything go, it’s when you start all over again.

If I loved you last, I would love you best.
The sun sets and the darkness overcomes us.

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“Quédense, unos minutos con nosotros…”

“4 and 3 and 2 and 1”..

It’s the street where we grew up. It’s the block where we came from.
To the people who look like us, who talk like us, that grew up just like us.
No matter what people say. People can’t help but think we are all the same.
We are loud in the quietest of places.
We are overly expressive in the sounds of the oppression.

We are the bad bass on every street corner. Playing the same played out Chente song.
Big banda, cumbia, salsa, ranchera songs that your heart can’t help but mimic into heart beats.
Watching your head sway as your feet mimic the beat in your Nike Cortezes and your Converse Chucks.

It’s Domingos in the church in our Sunday best.
Clutching our Jesus pieces and praying tomorrow would be better day.
Light a candle to guide your way, because Mañana is another day to be extraordinary.
As we rush through the rituals and sign of the cross at the entrance of the wooden gates.
Paciencia y fe, as we look to the cruz.
Paciencia y fe, because we have nothing to lose.

We are bright colors on your plain unmarked white walls.
We are Graffiti on your pristine street signs.
We are Old schoolers playing oldies as if time never skipped a beat.
Los viejitos on the front lawn in their lawn chairs with the same stories of what could have been.

We are big hoops and bright red lips.
We are the loud printed fabric that clings to our every curve.
Ladies with the big bags walking on the sidewalks in the sunshine.
Always places to go. Always places to be seen.
Walking out the streets like this week’s Vanidades cover.
Even when you mocked us. Even when you said we were too much.
Mucho mas y todo eso.

We become your aesthetic.
We become your mood board.
Your own reflection of cultura that you seem to know more about then me.
We become what every young person thinks they know about but they never truly lived through. Because if you knew what we lived through can’t be taught, until you lived through these breaks. You can’t scream out our words in the attempts of filler space.

Latino and Proud isn’t a t-shirt you can put you.
Latino and Proud isn’t this seasons look in this month’s Vogue magazine.

You ask me where I am from.
You ask me where I am going.
We all beg to leave but afraid we stay.
We can’t be proud.
We can’t be who we are.
Unless it better fits your mood, another look to add to this month’s pinterest board.

So, when I tell you I am Latino and proud. I watch you shiver in places in your newly bought huaraches. Hiding behind your $99 dollar serapes that the urban commercial markets be capitalizing on.

You want to be like us.
You want to act like us.
You want to take everything from us.
But don’t let us be proud of who we are.
Until the next season fad shows up.
Another culture to add to your bookcase.

When the chorus comes in, don’t forget where you’re from.
Latino and Proud, then on to the next song.

Self portrait with Chopped hair.

IMG_4079

We grow our hair like weeds for people that will never love us. To later chop off all the dead weight, once they leave us. This time, I wanted to do the leaving. I wanted to cut the man at the source, and resort to every dramatic episode I could think of. Because it was never his choice. It was my choice, my decision, and it was my turn to leave this time.

If you cut your hair, I will leave you.

How I watched every strand of hair grow to the middle of my back. How happy he seemed as he ran his fingers through it, paid no mind to the person before him. It’s when I think I have him, that he leaves without notice. His ghost that trails behind then lingers once he leaves. It’s when I think I have won, that I have lost everything before me.

When you believe you love someone, you’ll fall for anything. Even something simple as leaving every strand of hair on your head, just as they like it. I loved him, from the deep parts of my soul, to every long strand of hair that fell across my back. I watched as my hair became my shield, my armor from the world. My way of hiding these feelings of doubts and worries. My hair continued to grow into a tangled, tousled, mess. I continued to listen to his threats, as empty as the love he gave me. No matter how long my hair grew, he never came back.

Frida Kahlo - Self Portrait with Cropped Hair - 1943

I wanted him back for all the superficial reasons I hated. I wanted to stop this numbing suffocated feeling of being alone that drugs nor alcohol could fill. My hair continued to grow and I continued to wait. He said I was perfect and to never change. If I cut my hair, he would only leave me. He would never come back. And I continued to wait. Until the weight of my hair became the weight of my worries. Until my hair became heavy, that I could no longer hold my head up to the sky. We do these foolish things for love but at what cost does it love us back? At what cost do people understand that we are people underneath all that hair? That our hair doesn’t make you love us any less. There were days I wanted to rip every strand from my head. Tear apart the existence of what I believed he wanted. Because for a brief moment I was perfect to you, don’t I ever think of changing.

I watch as the strands of hair fall to the ground. Inch by inch. The memories of you and the ghosts before you. If you cut your hair, I will leave you.  I try to keep myself composed. Hold the tears back. Love was never what held us together. The strands of dead hair that laid before my feet; bear witness to this change that comes over me. I am more exposed to the world without my shield. I am showing the world who I really am, beneath the hair.

 

When the final strand of hair falls, I will forget you. Someone will come in and sweep away the memories scattered on the floor. It won’t be me this time. For the first time, I have stopped listening to ghosts.

 

Forget you.

The minutes turn to hours. These months are moving faster then days in the year. When did that happen? When did months fly by faster then the actual days. Something is missing. Something is losing it’s place with me. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s slowly further from my reach, way beyond my grasp. If I reach for it, it’s no longer there. Disappeared into the months that move faster than the days.

Its was either you or me. You with your sad, melancholy feelings. You with your never ending excuses, line after line of lies that you word so eloquently. You against the world, or something like that. Anchors holding you down, to help you from steering off course. We were all pawns in your game of life. Another person you lined up, to shoot back down again. YOU are what matters. YOU are what holds all this clout.

You, you, and only YOU.

Selfish is, as selfish does. Cherry pick only the things that matter and that fit our needs. Everyone against you. Everyone having what you wanted. Everyone having what you needed. These countless stories of being the warrior in battle, going off to war. As always, only you.

You.

How could I have been so stupid? How could I have been so blind? How could I have believed these stories that were mere myths to an average person. That was you. All you, right?

You.

When I no longer have to pick up the pieces of you, its becoming easier to forget you. When your ghost stops haunting my sleep, it’s easier to forget you. To leave these memories and misplace these feelings of what never was. I could never be that selfish. I could never be that petty. Maybe I was a fool in believing, a fool in deceiving all these lies. You were the master conductor of this orchestrated drama. How delicately you picked at your strings and watched people come back to you. How violently you cut those same strings when they didn’t seem to fit in your world. I could forgive you. Forgive every single perfectly worded explanation. How can I forgive a person, I am already forgetting?

If only you knew how easily people can misplace you. How easily they can forget everything. All I want is to forget everything about you. Its easy to make up mythical stories of battles and wars. Stories about the world being so tragically against you. The minutes turn to hours, the days become months, and like a well dressed villain your name seems to escape me. You are easily forgotten, and forgetting you is easily done.

5/10/2014

 

Goodnight, Bad Morning.

Goodnight, another bad morning. 

There was something peaceful about watching you sleep. Knowing that for once you would have nothing to say. Keeping everything inside, when in turn you would die to tell everyone. Inside where no one not even I would hear. Moments like these don’t last forever. Eventually that moment between night and day, we are bound to wake up from. At this point I didn’t care about anything. Not this time, not at this moment. Not the feelings, not the honesty about these reactions. I don’t think I ever slept for fear of waking up and knowing you’d be gone. Gone to reality. Gone to someone else. Gone to the person you were in the daylight.

For those moments when you slept, I loved you so much that my body ached. I loved you so much that it hurt my head. I knew this couldn’t last forever. Doing all these wrongs, never made a right. The morning would wake us and back to the carriages that were already turned into pumpkins. Back to the terrible reality that awaits us. Back to the doors to our souls we close so tightly behind our hearts. But when the night skies fight with the daylight thats when I loved you best. Thats when I felt everything and in turn said nothing. Maybe I was always dreaming. Waking up never felt as good as this moment. I could love you forever if I wanted to. I just don’t think I can. I don’t ever want to wake up.

Doing all these bad things, never made me feel good. Wanting you now, never changed who you were when we woke up. Even good nights have bad mornings. Even you will wake up to be as rotten as the rest. But that moment where the night fights with the daylight, is when I always loved you best. When my body ached from my head to my toes. When no matter how many times I cried out to you, you stayed right where you were. The only times I could have you is when the night would fight with the light. I know I have to wake up from this. I know I have to wake up to who you really are. We are the most terrible people in the most perfect lighting. But at this moment, this current state, even terrible people can sometimes be beautiful too.

What a beautiful state we’re in. 

3/16/2007

Blank.

Everything is vanishing faster than it appears.  Sand through the hourglass. I am chasing through the words finding myself falling to catch them. If only this were easy, if only this wasn’t so hard. It’s all just a game that my mind can’t quit playing. Searching through every never ending crevice and coming up empty handed. Finding the words to supplement everything you want to say and coming up blank.

Blank.

Racking my brain waiting for a sign. Looking to the clouded skies to find some piece of mind. Coming up empty as the fog clears through the sky. My mind goes a mile a minute but I can’t slow it down to grab the words to say what I need to say. I can’t formulate the magic to bring everything to the light. I come up empty. How long will this last, I’ll never know. A day, a week, a month of this empty space running through my brain. I’ve got nothing. Its the vacant silence that scares me the most. The moment the night hits my eyes and the whole world disappears. Words have a way of haunting you but they have a funny way of disappearing when you need them the most. You never know how much you need something until it’s gone. You never know how much words can mean to you, until you can’t reach them. Thats all you do, reach for something and obtain nothing.

I can’t stop it. I can’t keep fueling the fire. I given in to the notion that the words will find me when I stop looking for them. They’ll appear once I stop forcing them. Masterpieces aren’t built on illusions, but the will and the need to show to the world what we need to say. I just wish I could put together everything I need to say. Show to the world every single emotion I want to say out loud. But I can’t, all I do is come out empty.

Everything.

Blank.