H B/D 2 U... H B/D 2 U!

Monday will be my niece’s birthday. Preparations are underway. She is now two years old—though she should be, in fact, only one year and eight months.

She was born four months too early.

The doctor said she’d probably not live to see the outside of the hospital. She weighed just under a pound and a half when she was born. Fully formed, she was the length of my hand from the wrist to the tip of the middle finger. She hardly moved. She breathed on her own, though; the doctor said my sister’s high blood pressure accelerated the baby’s lung development.

At the hospital, we had to scrub any visible body parts, wear a suit and mask, sign a document affirming we were not sick nor had we been sick the past two weeks, before they let us into the little room inside neonatal ICU where they kept the lost causes. When she was born, she was alone in that room. Two months later, she was still there and had a couple of little friends to keep her company. Only two of them made it out of the little room.

We were warned she’d be sickly, probably a weakling. The doctors said she’d probably develop slower (physically) than other kids. But she proved them wrong.

She is tall, for her age, and despite her fine features she is the perfect weight for a two year old. She is strong, strong-willed, and hard-headed. She speaks in nearly-whole sentences, always makes sense, is outgoing and friendly, and can exhaust my mother in an hour flat. And she has eyes that can melt a grown man’s heart in no time.

Talk about hybrid vigor! Part Spanish, Lebanese, Filipina, Latina (god knows what combination of sub-groups these last two entail), she chose the best features from each race like a picky shopper at Pavillions.

Her party is tomorrow, Saturday. We’ll have it at home. Two or three people will be cooking whatever weird foods this mini-United Nations assembly will require. Between friends and relatives, we’ll have about ten countries represented (from the former Soviet Block, through the middle east, to western Europe, to Central and South America, and South-East Asia), and of course the United States, with as many languages spoken throughout the party at some point or another.

Sometime during the party, we’ll watch sports on t.v. while the kids play in the jumper outside—probably soccer; we’ll likely play poker while the kids watch The Incredibles, or Shark Tale, or my personal favorite: Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. The kids will demolish a gaudy little star filled with candy, fill their bellies with all those things their parents spend most of the week keeping from them, and hopefully fall asleep sometime around eight, so the parents can have their party.

Sometime around ten, everybody will go home. It will have been just another birthday party—like there are so many in this family. But, when we put her to bed, I will know it was not just another party. It was a special party, for a special little girl that saved her life and my sister’s by sheer force of will, a little help from a German doctor in San Bernardino, and what I choose to call divine intervention. And though nobody will mention it, I know there will be three people there who will say a little prayer of thanks.

It’s going to be a great day.

El Seminarista De Los Ojos Negros

Crecí con judíos y árabes, enemigos mortales durante el día, en los negocios, pero amigos y compañeros por la noche. Viejos exiliados de patrias que los ignoraron cuando vivían ahí y los olvidaron en cuanto se fueron, se hicieron amigos porque nadie mas recordaba el olor del mediterráneo, y el seco y frió viento del desierto, y la guerra mutua que compartían—aunque en su tiempo fuesen adversarios. Jugaban backgammon y comían cabras. Tomaban ron y compartían los descubrimientos de su nueva tierra.

Entre estos estaba la poesía. El viejo, mi viejo, pasaba horas hablando de poemas, o recitando, u oyendo a otros recitar. Recuerdo que tenían un juego en el que se comunicaban con puras líneas de poemas. El chiste era tener una conversación común, de temas políticos o lo que fuera, pero usando solo líneas de poemas famosos que todos conocieran. Así pasaban horas. Nosotros los niños no divertíamos muchos oyéndolos.

Uno de los poemas que mas recuerdo, tal vez por la melancolía que los viejos demostraban al recordar amores perdidos, era este. He aquí, por ellos, los que ya no recitan mas poemas:

El Seminarista De Los Ojos Negros

Desde la ventana de un casucho viejo,
abierto en verano, cerrado en el invierno
por vidrios verdosos y plomos espesos,
una salmantina de rubio cabello
y ojos que parecen pedazos de cielo,
mientras la costura mezcla con el rezo,
ve todas las tardes pasar en silencio
los seminaristas que van de paseo.

Baja la cabeza, sin erguir el cuerpo,
marchan en dos filas pausados y austeros,
sin más nota alegre sobre el traje negro
que la beca roja que ciñe su cuello
y que por la espalda casi roza el suelo.

Un seminarista, entre todos ellos,
marcha siempre erguido, con aire resuelto.
La negra sotana dibuja su cuerpo
gallardo y airoso, flexible y esbelto.

Él solo, a hurtadillas y con el recelo
de que sus miradas observen los clérigos
desde que en la calle vislumbra a lo lejos
a la salmantina de rubio cabello
la mira muy fijo, con mirar intenso.
Y siempre que pasa le deja el recuerdo
de aquella mirada de sus ojos negros.

Monótono y tardo va pasando el tiempo
y muere el estío y el otoño luego,
y vienen las tardes plomizas de invierno.
Desde la ventana del casucho viejo,
siempre sola y triste, rezando y cosiendo,
una salmantina de rubio cabello
ve todas las tardes pasar en silencio
los seminaristas que van de paseo.
Pero no ve a todos; ve sólo a uno de ellos,
su seminarista de los ojos negros.

Cada vez que pasa, gallardo y esbelto,
observa la niña que pide aquel cuerpo
marciales arreos.
Cuando en ella fija sus ojos abiertos
con vivas y audaces miradas de fuego,
parece decirle: "¡TE QUIERO..., te quiero!...
¡Yo no he de ser cura, yo no puedo serlo!...
¡Si yo no soy tuyo, me muero, me muero!..."

A la niña entonces se le oprime el pecho,
la labor suspende y olvida los rezos,
y ya vive sólo en su pensamiento
el seminarista de los ojos negros.

En una lluviosa mañana de invierno
la niña que alegre saltaba del lecho
oyó tristes cánticos y fúnebres rezos:
por la angosta calle pasaba un entierro.
Un seminarista, sin duda, era el muerto,
pues cuatro llevaban en hombros el féretro
con la beca roja encima cubierto,
y sobre la beca el bonete negro.
Con sus voces roncas cantaban los clérigos;
los seminaristas iban en silencio,
siempre en dos filas hacia el cementerio,
como por las tardes al ir de paseo.
La niña, angustiada miraba el cortejo:
los conoce a todos a fuerza de verlos.
Sólo, sólo faltaba entre ellos
¡el seminarista de los ojos negros!...

Corrieron los años, pasó mucho tiempo...
y allí en la ventana del casucho viejo
una pobre anciana de blancos cabellos,
con la tez rugosa y encorvado el cuerpo,
mientras la costura mezcla con el rezo,
recuerda muy triste las tardes de antaño,
¡al seminarista de los ojos negros!...

Miguel Ramos Carrión

Anything But Temptation!

I worked a long day today. I was there at 7:00 a.m. and left at 9:00 p.m. I am officially tired.

So I got home, looking for dinner, wanting to relax... read a little of the ongoing conversation over at the good doctors' blog (look for Sigmund over on the right).

Imagine my surprise when, just as I am settling in to a good bloggin' session, my sister comes out, money in hand, and sends me to the store!

I am tired, I say. I want ice cream, she replies. But we (yes, we) are going on a diet tomorrow, says I. C'mon, says she. I went. Women always win.

Most of everything I am has been defined by women: Grandma (who hated me), Grandma (who wasn't my grandma, and took me for the child she never could have), Mom, Sis, Ex-wife, OtherSis, Daughter, Niece. Bossy bitches all of them--I wouldn't want it any other way.

So, having had my dinner, I now sit in front of the computer, cup of coffee to my left, bowl of peanut-buttery ice cream to my right, my own blog in front of me.

I can resist anything, except temptation, the man with the green carnation said once.

I need a portrait like Dorian's portrait. Beauty becomes the wicked.

And whoddathunk peanut butter would go so well with ice cream? Ralph's is having a "buy one get one free" on tubs of ice cream tonight.

Yes, tubs...

Yes, yum!

To His Coy Mistress

Lover's Knot

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave 's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Andrew Marvell

The Heavy Life of Pansies.

And then he came upon a stone that looked like it was left from recent road improvement work, off to the side of the road and only slightly dusted by the recent wind. He sat and looked at the building on the opposite side of the soccer field. A wide, slightly slanted, multi-level roof covered in red clay “tejas”, trying hard to blend in with the much older buildings that surrounded it, as if anyone would miss the new construction, the brand new wooden beams still smelling of fresh stain, the large and shiny silver cross upon its peak: Don Bosco.

My mother tells me that she wanted to have a boy and a girl—in a house with a white picket fence, but neither dogs nor cats, because she’s allergic to them. She was happy when she got pregnant the first time; the doctor said she’d have a boy, and it’s good, she thought, to have the boy first. He would grow up big and strong and protect his little sister and everybody would be happy. About six months into the pregnancy, while my father beat her, she broke her back, or was it cracked? Either way, she was in bed the rest of the pregnancy, which was difficult and painful—but she had her boy.

The doctor told her she couldn’t have any more kids, that it would kill her, and that she’d better take steps to prevent any future pregnancies. But she wanted her daughter, and a little over a year later, I was born.

I’m not a girl.

I still wonder if what happened after had something to do with the way she felt, or if she treated me differently because of it and that’s why I was like I was. What ifs, though, are just the kind of waste of time people of leisure do to replace a life well lived. My mother raised my brother and me pretty much the same way, and still we came out very differently. I am gay; he was straight. He was always very masculine, but I (up until the fourth grade) was very effeminate.

This is the story of how that changed.

People were playing soccer, a friendly game taking just the near half of the field, a priest or two competing with the kids right out of catechism class. On the opposite side of the field, two teams of elementary kids were changing into their bright red and blue uniforms, about to start an official league game. Two joggers crossed his line of sight, on their way around the grounds. Freshly-planted shrubs lined the road that led to the rectory behind the church. As he followed the joggers with his eyes, he noticed father Mario, long black coat and ecclesiastic collar on, making his way out to him, on his daily walk after the morning’s mass.

Kids always called me names. I was the “typical,” girly little boy all the bullies tease, and all the other kids tease too because they’d hate to feel they’re at the bottom of the teasing ladder. I had plenty of bigger problems in my life at the time, though, so it was ok. Getting teased, and sometimes beaten and generally derided and mostly ignored still hurt, but deep down inside I still had my mother, and that’s all that mattered, and my books, and I had church. I went to church despite my parents’ best intentions. They were progressive, revolutionary, educated, agnostic. I needed a God a little closer to the ground—one you could talk with, not discuss over dinner. My aunt, who thought it was miraculous that I wasn’t retarded, had given me a bible that I carried with me and read whenever I had a little free time. I started going to church (which was only a couple of blocks away, and very near my aunt’s house) three or four times a week. I asked the priest to teach me catechism, because my parents wouldn’t take me. It is because of that priest that after all these years I have not lost faith in the church, because despite the evil in some men’s hearts, I know there are far more whose great wisdom and boundless love and generosity far outweighs their animal cravings, men of good heart who do not publicize their good deeds and thus go unrewarded, unknown, and end up grouped with the criminals through no fault of theirs.

Let’s call him Father Mario. An old man recently moved to the tropics from Andalucia or some other place with a heavy accent who nonetheless tamed his tongue to speak to us natives softly and wisely. And then there was Mr. Velez, who taught biology and drove a CJ9, and talked to us all the same, even me. When other kids would tease me and even my older brother would say nothing, Mr. Velez would quickly distract the group and get attention away from me. I think he avoided chastising them because he knew he would not always be there and kids are vengeful and hold grudges a long, long time.

I didn’t play sports because I was no good at them—I was no good at them because nobody would play with me. But that, too, was ok, because it gave me time to read, and reading one learns more, and when one knows more, the adults show interest, and ask “important” questions and smile and nod knowingly and hand out candy and money. I should have had an old man, an accordion and a tin cup, for all it was, but it was positive and I felt good, so I didn’t mind.

I didn’t mind till I was in the third grade. That year, I started liking this girl in my class. I even wrote the little note with the fateful “circle yes or no” at the bottom. She was so pretty, I thought, and smart, and funny, and she played all the sports during recess and knew the answers in class. I thought she was smart enough to be my girlfriend. But she wanted nothing to do with me, because of what all the kids were saying about me, she said. She wanted a real boy for her boyfriend, and whatever I was, I was not that. So I got to thinking.

I was a reasonably smart kid, and I knew what boys were and what girls were: I had read all about it in the Encyclopedia Britannica. I knew I was a boy, but what was real?

I would look at the girls, in their little groups, holding hands, and giggling, and playing with dolls, and brushing their hair, and generally being girly. I would look at the boys, picking their noses, and spitting, and hitting, and kicking, and playing with dirt, and generally being boyish. I analyzed every aspect of my being. I took note.

One day, in fourth grade, a little boy started teasing me. Thing is, I always was taller and stronger than anybody in class. I never used that against them, and they soon forgot it. But I was still stronger. The boy kept teasing me and at some point I turned to him and told him to stop. He ignored me and kept going. The teacher, busy with her lecture, did not hear or if she did, did not interfere. The boy continued. I told him to stop, again. He didn’t. I told him I would choke him till he passed out. He didn’t stop. I knew he wouldn’t die if I let go of him just as he passed out, so I got up and grabbed him by the neck and started squeezing. He punched me, kicked me, scratched at me. Other kids tried to stop me. The teacher grabbed me by the wrists and tried with all her strength to pull my hands apart. But I kept squeezing. The boy turned blue and pretty soon passed out. Everybody in class was screaming.

I let go of him. His limp body fell to the ground with an undignified “plop.” I returned to my desk and sat down. The other kids told the teacher what happened, and she led me by the hand and I went quietly to the principal’s office. I sat there, across the hall from the kid, who was taken there after he came to. The nurse had checked him out and said he’d be fine. After a while, almost as if they had timed it, his parents and my parents all came into the office, quietly. There was no shouting, no arguing, no name-calling. The principal took them all into his office and they talked for a few minutes. After that, my parents took me home, and his parents took him home.

I wasn’t punished. Nobody ever mentioned it again. He was at school the next day, and nobody said a word.

But the kids didn’t tease me again. Ever.

We missed you at mass today, Father Mario said. At fifty or so, he was quite ancient to the boy sitting on the stone by the side of the road. With his hand on his waist, the priest leaned back and took a deep breath. The boy did not respond. Are you ok? Still no answer. The priest sat on the stone, by the boy, who now had a tear at the corner of his eye. We leave tomorrow, the boy said. The boy and the priest then prayed things would come out ok. The flight was scheduled for 9:00 a.m.

When other kids tease you, what hurts the most is not what they think, but rather that they’re confirming what you already thought about yourself. Was I not raised by straight parents? Did I not hear everything a patriarchal society has to say about men of questionable masculinity? When even your parents hate you, where do you go for love? Four times a week, I’d be at church, praying things would change. I would pray to God that His most divine hand should come down from the heavens and touch me lightly and make me someone else.

And one Sunday he answered. He said: “heal thyself.” And so I did.

By this time, I knew every nuance and subtle movement my body would make when I willed it to move. I was in the fifth grade, danced every chance I got, played whenever the neighborhood teams were one kid short. I was still girly, but I knew precisely in what way I was girly, and went about changing.

Absolutely every tiny little bit of my personality today was, at some point, evaluated, checked, weighed for masculinity against the standard set by my peers. Whatever did not measure up was replaced with a similar, more masculine bit of behavior from those around me. I write like a priest I once knew. I speak like a teacher I once knew. I drive like a friend from high school. I cross my legs precisely like the tennis coach in high school. I hold my bottle of beer like my father’s best friend. I curve my a’s like my father did. I kick soccer balls like my fourth grade best friend did. I twist my fork in my hand when I eat like my father’s engineer friend used to back in the day. I sit just so, and hold my book on my knee while I read because that’s how I saw it done precisely when I needed to know how to do that.

This is not a sad story. Everybody, without exception is changed by their environment. I am glad that my experience led me to the point where I selected what would change me and how. I am precisely as I have chosen to be. Who can make that claim? Those who’ve picked up bad habits subconsciously should reconsider how they let themselves be so misguided. Those who pick up good habits subconsciously can hardly be proud of the happenstance. I am precisely as I chose to be. My hair parts on the side I chose in the fifth grade.

The few people who know this story are usually saddened by it—which never ceases to amaze me.

The airport was big, and cold, and full of strangers. I, who can never remember anything, remember that day quite clearly. We sat by a planter so we could hide if they came looking for us. We looked down, kept quiet, pretended we weren’t really there. I was by then an expert at disappearing and by the end of that day, we had indeed disappeared—never to be seen again by those who had so threatened us. We were running away. I, who had changed everything, fought everything and won, was running away. That day I saw my father’s fear in his eyes and knew that even strong, brave men fear something. He feared for us, and so he gave everything up and ran, like a scared little girl from a bully, holding her dolly close to her chest.

Somehow, that made me feel better.

Lengua Franca

In the beginning, I spoke no language. I don’t mean that when I was born, I couldn’t speak—nobody can. Rather, I mean that when the time came when everybody expected I should say something, I didn’t. For months, people thought I was retarded, that all I’d ever do would be cry and mumble and cry some more when nobody understood. But I was a crafty little sucker. My mom and I figured a way to communicate with signs and nods and looks and grunts. She says that I showed enough curiosity and responded appropriately to stimuli, so she figured I was just going to take my time. She waited.

At a time when other parents would show their kids off when they said “mama” or “papa” or any of a myriad dumb monosyllabical repetitions of something they didn’t really understand, I stayed quiet. My mother didn’t begin to worry until I was almost potty trained, but said not a word.

Then, one day, I started talking in full sentences. I went to bed one night without a word and woke up in the morning and said something along the lines of “good morning, mom; what’s for breakfast?” She had the sense to say nothing more than “cereal and milk. Go sit at the table and I’ll bring it to you.” Later, she’d tell me how happy she was, but that morning, she told that little boy nothing for fear of embarrassing him into silence.

------------------------

In the middle, there was the war. I’m almost sick and tired of how all my stories have the war in them, but wars are pernicious, ubiquitous, insidious, intrusive things that tend to get all up in your business and wreak havoc with your social life, especially when you’re just old enough to join society on your own. Those were the days when I was supposed to “go out and play,” and many kids did. But my parents, being the revolutionaries that they were, were involved in all that clandestine shit democratically-inclined, socially-responsible people do when under a foreign-imposed dictatorship—so they feared for their kids. That meant limited “go out and play” time. We even had “people” (ain’t it funny how some people “have” people?) who drove us to and from school.

Those were boring days.

I spent nights teaching myself German from a book. Now, if you speak German, which I don’t, you’ll understand how funny it would sound if you never heard it before but tried to read it aloud from a book. Well, my dad told me to stop. He was pretty successful and well-liked, so a friend of his high up in government arranged for me to go to the University of East Berlin (was there only one? Why did we just call it “the” University of East Berlin?). This was after the war, and we weren’t hiding no mo’, no mo’…

Then they suggested, politely and sweetly, like people often offer when showing you the barrel and quietly unzipping, would I want to go to the University of Moscow instead? But I’d have to wear olive only. Too old to go unnoticed; too young to go into the army; I would join the army and go abroad. Untrustworthy people have a habit of not trusting anyone, so they take other people’s kids hostage to ensure loyalty. Hell, when you’ve killed enough people, you just don’t know who’ll want to kill you, so you take steps… and that sometimes means stepping on poor fools’ toes. I was that toe.

Two weeks later, I was in San Francisco.

------------------------

You’d think July would be a warm month, and it mostly is. But when you come from the tropics, just about anything north of South Beach is worthy of a light jacket. It was 50 degrees in San Francisco. I was freezing!

Whatever language you speak, you can find a karaoke bar somewhere in San Francisco playing your very own version of I Left My Heart (In San Francisco). If you’re lucky, they’ll even have imported beer, from your homeland. Cold!

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Everybody Speaks Spanish in America—and if not, they should. Twenty years, my dad lived in the United States, and never needed English. Many people oppose this view thinking that they can legislate what people do with their tongues—and that works about as well as telling people what to do with what God put between their legs. Even—or rather, specially—in America, one cannot force someone else to speak a language that would be beneficial to all. I think everybody should speak English, but then I also think everybody should speak Arabic, Chinese, French, Spanish and Russian. In the United States, you have the perfect right to be as much an inconvenience to everybody else as your tax dollars allow. Contrary to popular opinion, this is a good thing. Ultimately, the ramifications are far more positive than negative, in my humble opinion.

I never needed English, either. But I craved it. I hungered after it like it was a twisty doughnut right out of the oil, dripping in sugary goodness at four o’clock at the local Korean guy’s shop. It was like a cigarette after an eight-hour drive down the coast with my mom and my ex-wife. There is something far beyond the doughnut and the cigarette about each experience, and if you don’t know it, I won’t waste your time explaining it.

I learned English because I had no choice. It took three months. I have been madly in love with the language ever since. Only half-humorously, I’d dare say everybody should learn to make love with their tongue, and every tongue is different—if you catch my drift. I love oblique, multi-lingual humor caused by poor translations.

And I write in English, and my Spanish-speaking friends ask “why?” And I write in Spanish, and my English-speaking friends say “uh?” And when I can, I throw in one or two phrases from other languages I picked up. It is in the nature of English to be open, welcoming of other languages, ideas, the very essence of other languages. At a time when others fight to keep their “cultural” identity and “purity” of their language, it’s reassuring to see American English saying: “Bring me your tired, poor, huddled masses yearning to be free..."

Miguel

Miguel

My little friend Melinama made herself into a character from South Park. I have always wanted to kill Kenny--I mean, be in South Park, so I copied her, shamelessly and without honor.

But at least I told you I did.

so there!

:-P

So, yeah, this is how I see me in my head--a little less green, perhaps...

So if you find me around the school yard, say hello!

Siempre Hay Una Primera Vez.

Ok… here goes.

First, an explanation: I don’t know you people—what’s more, you don’t know me. Nothing I tell you here means anything to anybody but me, but somehow just typing it here makes me feel better. So I will cry my fucking eyes out and type, and write, until I can cry no more and my fingers can type no more. Because this was going to be a sappy, romantic, tender story of two kids falling in love after waiting and saving themselves for love, and finding each other one day… and living happily ever after.

But there is no ever after. Or there is…there is a hell and one can only crawl out of it by clawing one’s fingers on the searing walls and burning all the way to the bone till one is out. But I am overly dramatic so I can feel better.

Here is the real story, the one no one knows, the one I never told.

Sexual abuse runs in my family. People who were hurt as kids hurt each other and their children, perpetuating hatred, and self-hatred, and more than hatred, self-disgust, which is different and more bloody.

My father took advantage of my mother, and thus began a family. She was 16 and he was 27. She was a desperate girl trying to get out of the house, and out she got. But this isn’t their story.

My father liked to touch my brother’s and my body, us naked, sitting on his lap. He didn’t think much of it, and neither did we. Eventually, we told him to stop, and eventually we forgot all about it. I was about 8 when we stopped him—and don’t even know how it was that we stopped him… only that one day we said “no more” and it was no more. But this is not his story.

But my younger siblings weren’t so lucky. They couldn’t tell him to stop. He went too far, at least with my sister. He hurt her more than anybody I know has hurt anybody else, and I know people who have killed. There were dark years, when she wished she were dead, or she acted like it—but God Himself might have had a plan for her, for she is saved. He gave her a Pearl, for she is dearly paid for, and a savior—a little bit of Heaven that defied death to stay with us—a blessing, a miracle that fit on the palm of my hand when she was born and weighed but a pound and a half if she held her breath. And parent and child have saved each other. They’ve made a single heart out of their broken hearts and it is strong and keeps them going. But this is not their story.

This is my story, and I am guilty.

I see my past like most people see their future: ghostly images, ideas, shadows in the dark—patchy, broken, edgeless, indistinct. That I could swear to see clearly, there are only three days I see like people tell me they see their past. The rest are but dreams that come and go and leave me in peace most of the time. I always wondered why my past was so tenuous, intangible, and then I thought that it was (like my dreams) deniable and forgettable, and perhaps that was the point. Little by little, the dreams come back and knowing I can face them and facing them I understand. I understand I knew. I knew and chose not to know. I saw and closed my eyes. I hid in church and prayed on Sunday and Wednesday and Thursday and Sunday. I read the Bible from cover to cover, and then started again. By fifth grade, I had read it three times, neatly commenting on the margins in a pen of different color every time—to keep me busy. And I studied, science, math, history, whatever, poetry, anything, something, keeping busy… tiring myself so I could sleep deeply enough that I would not wake up in the middle of the night. And I forgot—and I didn’t have to think of it anymore. But I knew. I knew. I know.

He is dead now, and with him died my chance to get rid of this. I’ll take it to my grave, and if the pain is all I have to pay it will be lightly paid. But this ends here. Every kiss I give my children, every hug, a gentle caress, whatever, a little voice inside my head tells me to be careful. I live with them as if a camera were watching and a judge whose power I cannot contradict will judge my every touch upon them.

But this is not their story. If they never know of the sins of my father—or mine—then I will not have lived in vain.

I say this only so the rest will make sense. And now the story of my first time. Read it now and tell me how sweet and sappy and romantic and tender it may sound, knowing what I have always known. I could not simply lie and say that waiting felt right and so I waited. I could not say simply that I was busy and so there was no time. I would be lying if I said anything but this: I touched no human before she touched me because I loathed the feel of human flesh upon my flesh. The smell, the taste, the idea. I craved it, but I could not bear it. She doesn’t know the story, and I will never tell her, but I will always love her for this, and one day, hopefully, my children might know that I still love her, though they won’t know why.

We met in school. She is a year younger than me, but we were in the same grade because I was held a grade because of the language when I moved to the United States. By sophomore grade, we were good friends. By senior year, we were Friends, the six of us, and though we were all to go to Prom together, I danced with her and she with me. Remember “Take My Breath Away”? I do. We danced all night, selfishly leaving our respective dates alone until it was time to go home. We didn’t kiss, but I was in love. She loved me, too, but we didn’t talk about it then.

And then we went to college, too far to visit, except when we went home. One summer, I came home and didn’t go back to school. I was 19 and she was 18, and she came to visit and we went bowling and held hands, and talked until four in the morning. She drove me home and we stayed in the car, talking more. Then it was time for me to go home, and she said “kiss me,” and I said “I can’t” and meant it. She thought I didn’t like her, and unable to explain I just repeated “I can’t” and she saw I meant it. I saw it in her eyes long before I felt it on my lips, but she kissed me. And I kissed her, and we started dating. She was going to school locally, so she’d pick me up on Friday night and I’d spend the weekend with her till Sunday. One weekend blended into the next and the next and before I knew it I was 20 and she was 19, and we were happy just kissing.

We had been dating a year, and everybody thought we were sleeping together, and we got tired of saying we weren’t, so we just didn’t say, but we didn’t. We held hands and hugged and kissed and I forgot how I didn’t like that. We slept together, hugging all night and touching. She taught me what intimacy meant. And then we decided to do it.

This is one of the three days.

It was crisp, and bright, and wonderful. It was a Saturday night. We had gone to dinner and to the movies, and held hands, and kissed. Spandau Ballet was playing in the background, which gave us plenty of time to undress each other (with the lights off, of course).

That night I knew a kind of love I hadn’t known before. It was wonderful. A year later, we were married, she was pregnant (yes, they happened in the wrong order, but we were getting married anyway, so it was ok by us). We stayed together as long as we could, but it turned out we were always better friends than lovers. Eventually, we split up. But we are friends, better now than before. And I am grateful for her love. And I love her now more than ever before, because she’s given me two children. And what if it didn’t work out? You don’t have to stay together to be great together. It is best this way.

Still, I must say that it would have been better to wait. There was nothing wrong with what happened—on the contrary, I don’t know how I could have gotten past the problems I had had it not been for her. I never had to figure it out, so I won’t start guessing now. Still, there was a certain childishness to our intimacy I can only understand now, in retrospect, seeing it from the maturity of knowing what a relationship is. I mean, Spandau Ballet? But seriously, we each had a lot to work through and we hadn’t. We did the best we could and I hope to God things worked for the best—but I can’t help but feel they might have been better if we’d known each other better. Financial security is never guaranteed, nor is stability in life, but it cannot be denied that both improve as one matures, physically and emotionally.

I am eternally grateful for my children, and so I cannot for a moment wish things had been different, lest they not be with me today. Nonetheless, knowing how my life went after, I think it might have been better for my children to have arrived when we had our first apartment, when we were both working steadily, when things were just running more smoothly. I still wish they had come when we were past the holding hands or “getting to know your body” stages. I wish they had come when we were ready for them to come. Of course, many will say that just because we were having sex it didn’t mean we had to have children…and that is true. But we were young, and more often than not it happens. Even if we hadn’t had the children, I do not feel I reached the level of emotional maturity required to care for anybody other than me until I reached 25. Perhaps others reach it sooner—good for them. Let them have sex. Let them have children. It is their decision. If I knew then what I know now, my children would have a better father—in my own humble opinion, and then again, whose opinion matters on this but mine?

Yes, I know this is overly dramatic. No, I don’t care. Yes, thank you for reading it. Yes, your comments are welcome: God knows I’m more than willing to question my opinion when confronted with better ones… just make sure they’re better ones.

Now I’m tired of crying and remembering and it’s late and I have to get some sleep. If this needs editing, I’ll do that later.

I’m just out of energy.

Tenemos Papa!

with due credit to the folks @ monty python.

(The door flies open and Cardinal Ximinez of Spain (Palin) enters, flanked by two junior cardinals. Cardinal Biggles (Jones) has goggles pushed over his forehead. Cardinal Fang (Gilliam) is just Cardinal Fang)

Ximinez:
NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition!Our chief weapon is surprise...surprise and fear...fear and surprise....
Our two weapons are fear and surprise... and ruthless efficiency....
Our three weapons are fear, surprise, and ruthless efficiency...
and an almost fanatical devotion to the Pope....
Our four... no...
Amongst our weapons... Amongst our weaponry...
are such elements as fear, surprise...
I'll come in again.

(Exit and exeunt)

Chapman:
I didn't expect a kind of Spanish Inquisition.

(JARRING CHORD)

(The cardinals burst in)

Ximinez:
NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition!
Amongst our weaponry are such diverse elements as: fear, surprise, ruthless efficiency, an almost fanatical devotion to the Pope, and nice red uniforms - Oh damn!
(To Cardinal Biggles)
I can't say it - you'll have to say it.

Biggles:
What?

Ximinez:
You'll have to say the bit about 'Our chief weapons are...'

Biggles:
(rather horrified):
I couldn't do that...

(Ximinez bundles the cardinals outside again)

Chapman: I didn't expect a kind of Spanish Inquisition.

(JARRING CHORD)

(The cardinals enter)

Biggles:
Er... Nobody... um...

Ximinez:
Expects...

Biggles:
Expects... Nobody expects the... um...
the Spanish... um...

Ximinez:
Inquisition.

Biggles:
I know, I know! Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. In fact, those who do expect –

Ximinez:
Our chief weapons are...

Biggles:
Our chief weapons are... um... er...

Ximinez:
Surprise...

Biggles:
Surprise and...

Ximinez:
Okay, stop. Stop. Stop there - stop there.
Stop. Phew! Ah!... our chief weapons are surprise... blah blah blah. Cardinal, read the charges.

Fang:
You are hereby charged that you did on diverse dates commit heresy against the Holy Church.
'My old man said follow the...'

Biggles:
That's enough.
(To Cleveland)
Now, how do you plead?

Cleveland:
We're innocent.

Ximinez:
Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!

Superimposed caption:
DIABOLICAL LAUGHTER

Biggles:
We'll soon change your mind about that!

Superimposed caption:
DIABOLICAL ACTING

Ximinez:
Fear, surprise, and a most ruthless –
(controls himself with a supreme effort)
Ooooh! Now, Cardinal - the rack!

(Biggles produces a plastic-coated dish-drying rack. Ximinez looks at it and clenches his teeth in an effort not to lose control. He hums heavily to cover his anger)

Ximinez:
You... Right! Tie her down.

(Fang and Biggles make a pathetic attempt to tie her on to the drying rack)

Ximinez:
Right! How do you plead?

Cleveland:
Innocent.

Ximinez:
Ha! Right! Cardinal, give the rack.
Oh dear... give the rack a turn.

(Biggles stands their awkwardly and shrugs his shoulders)

Biggles:
I...

Ximinez:
(gritting his teeth)
I know, I know you can't. I didn't want to say anything. I just wanted to try and ignore your crass mistake.

Biggles:
I...

Ximinez:
It makes it all seem so stupid.

Biggles:
Shall I...?

Ximinez:
No, just pretend for God's sake. Ha! Ha! Ha!

(Biggles turns an imaginary handle on the side of the dish-rack)

(Cut to them torturing a dear old lady,
Marjorie Wilde).

Ximinez:
Now, old woman - you are accused of heresy on three counts - heresy by thought, heresy by word, heresy by deed, and heresy by action - four counts. Do you confess?

Wilde:
I don't understand what I'm accused of.

Ximinez:
Ha! Then we shall make you understand! Biggles! Fetch...THE SOFT CUSHIONS!

(JARRING CHORD)

(Biggles holds out two ordinary modern household cushions)

Biggles:
Here they are, lord.

Ximinez:
Now, old lady - you have one last chance.
Confess the heinous sin of heresy, reject the works of the ungodly - two last chances.
And you shall be free - three last chances.
You have three last chances, the nature of which I have divulged in my previous utterance.

Wilde:
I don't know what you're talking about.

Ximinez:
Right! If that's the way you want it - Cardinal! Poke her with the soft cushions!

(Biggles carries out this rather pathetic torture)

Ximinez:
Confess! Confess! Confess!

Biggles:
It doesn't seem to be hurting her, lord.

Ximinez:
Have you got all the stuffing up one end?

Biggles:
Yes, lord.

Ximinez:
(angrily hurling away the cushions)
Hm! She is made of harder stuff! Cardinal Fang! Fetch...THE COMFY CHAIR!

(JARRING CHORD)

(Zoom into Fang's horrified face)

Fang:
(terrified)
The...Comfy Chair?

(Biggles pushes in a really plush comfy chair)

Ximinez:
So you think you are strong because you can survive the soft cushions. Well, we shall see. Biggles! Put her in the Comfy Chair!

(They roughly push her into the Comfy Chair)

Ximinez:
(with a cruel leer)
Now - you will stay in the Comfy Chair until lunch time, with only a cup of coffee at eleven.
(aside, to Biggles)
Is that really all it is?

Biggles:
Yes, lord.

Ximinez:
I see. I suppose we make it worse by shouting a lot, do we? Confess, woman.
Confess! Confess!
Confess! Confess!

Biggles:
I confess!

Ximinez:
Not you!

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

(Incluido aqui en honor a mi hermano)

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

En nombre del padre, del hijo...

I do not remember the details of this story; I just don't feel like doing the research. If you want, look them up. It'll do you good.

Many centuries ago, after the Christians had unsuccessfully attempted to take the holy land on a number of occasions, and the Turk had taken Constantinople, they set out one more time. The Christians now gathered an army to take not the holy land, but Constantinople. The Infidel had taken European land and that cannot be allowed. So, off they went.

Now, Constantinople, currently Istanbul, was populated by both Muslims and Christians, both of similar ethnic stock. Just looking at their faces, you couldn’t tell one group from the other. So, when the Christians (white, armored, heavily armed, God-fearing folk looking out only for God’s best interest) got there, they set up a siege, like was so common in those days. Inside, a war started between the Christians, who wanted to throw the gates open, and the Muslim, who thought (rightly enough) their lives were in danger.

Time went by, as often does when there’s nothing to watch on t.v. and there’s a hostile army at the front gates, especially if your neighbor’s also trying to kill you. Eventually, the Christians inside the city won, and threw open the gates to welcome their “saviors.” But the saviors came in to find a bunch of brown people oddly dressed—some of whom claimed to be Christian. Well, everybody knows Christians have fair skin, light eyes, and questionable personal hygiene (or they did then), so they threw all the brown folk into pens.

The #2 guy at the time, having successfully gathered up all the little brown ones, came to the #1 guy and told him (I paraphrase): “we got ‘em. What now?”

The #1 guy thought about this for a while, realizing how difficult it would be to separate them, and feed them in the meantime. So, in his infinite, divinely-inspired wisdom, he told the #2 guy (I paraphrase): “Kill them all. God will recognize his own.”

So they did.

Things haven’t gotten much better since.

UPDATE: goes to show you how little I know. This is actually from the Albigensian Crusade, and the poor fools allegedly murdered by order of the papal envoy were French, from Bezier. Turns out it was Christians against Christians. How odd!

Life, at the end.

Life, at the end,
Might seem a long and bumpy road.
Or it might seem
A crazy, twisted maze.
Or a question
Left unanswered
To the end.

Life, at the end,
Might feel cold
Like a lonely winter night.
Or maybe wet
Like a hot summer night
Spent
With unwanted company.

Life, at the end,
Might seem undone,
But then the doing
Is at an end
And all that’s left
Is the life lived.

Life is just life
Until the end
And sighs count
More than breaths
Though fewer.

Life is a hand outstretched
That, at its end, is reached,
A welcome back, a hug.
And all I want from life
When it should choose to end
Is but a smile into
The life that’s next.

Innocence

Inocencia, al final (Parte I)

As part of an ongoing conversation originated and aptly hosted by someone whose contribution to the world of blogging I admire, I am hereby including my two cents, hoping to move that conversation forward and perhaps start my own right here. The subject matter starts with teens and sex. As I see it, it moves well beyond that, into the society’s perception on sex/sexuality from the cultural and the economic views and how this taints its interactions with its own component individuals and with other societies around the world.

There is a fallacy commonly encountered in the United States that assumes that we are technologically, culturally, and economically more advanced than any other country, that we lead the vanguard and that where we’ve been, others are now going. The inference here is that there is an inevitable path of development, and we are blazing the trail, unrewarded pioneers to the benefit of the backward and underdeveloped rest of the globe. This theory’s proponents see the fall of the Soviet Union as proof positive that American-style capitalism is the way to go; much in the same way that people who see the sidewalk wet are absolutely certain it must have rained—even as I stand, hose in hand and covered in soapy suds, beside my car.

This theory seems to support that a completely unrestrained, unregulated, unfettered (free!) market will naturally resolve all problems, even those not commercial in nature, given enough time and allowing for cyclic fluctuations, adjustments and corrections. Obviously, education would improve, as people soon realize that better-educated children yield more profit. Clearly, there will be sufficient investment in infrastructure, as anyone with eyes will see that a solid foundation is a prerequisite for growth. Evidently, socio-cultural and religious influences will vanish, replaced with common-sense, politically correct, situational ethics under the ongoing framework of the common good and individual success. The world will be a better place. Apple pie. Kumbaya.

A miniscule, well-nigh negligible corollary of this theory suggests that accelerated maturity is a desirable characteristic of youth, whether it is achieved naturally or artificially. We extol the prodigies. Nobody ever told Mr. Fisher to slow down (and see what happened?). Discarding the idea of maturational readiness like so much road kill, we push, we prod, we demand, outright expect a quick end to childhood while simultaneously (and ironically) standardizing our approach to the point of rendering it useless. Children who need baby-sitters are a bother; children who can baby-sit are an asset. Mass marketing requires an asymptotic approach to the elusive common denominator that is universal mediocrity. We want more out of our young, but less out of our adults.

And that is where sex comes in. Biologically, we are mature when we can procreate. The instinctive continuation of the species supercedes ethical, moral, and social directives at some point, but until that point is reached, at least behavior and perhaps even attitudes and beliefs are substantially the result of our upbringing. But the ongoing competition to see who dies with the most toys exacts an ever-higher offering from us of the thing our children most need from us: attention. There isn’t enough time to spend time with them. In a culture that celebrates single-parenting and by virtue of equality has transformed both parents into providers (leaving few if any nurturers), the ones who stand to lose are the ones for whom we are doing it all: ourselves.

I am not a social conservative by any means. I have supported every single point above as it came up for discussion a la carte, only now to realize how they compound, how they aggravated what I did not like in how my parents raised me and like all the less in how my ex-wife and I are raising our children. But we all have excuses: my parents had a war to worry about; so do my ex-wife and I, but of a different nature. I-Pods aren’t cheap, and kids must have them, or other luxuries, and we are bad parents if we don’t provide them--well, maybe not bad, but not great. Toilet paper isn’t getting any cheaper, either, or any of the other necessities. Any step that does not lead to career advancement is financial suicide.

Recently, I read an exchange between somebody in the U.S. and Chile. The general idea began with the Chilean stating that she thought Americans were crazy partly because of their incessant litigation and money-grabbing. The American replied indicating that the United States imported in 2002 about $3.8 billion in Chilean goods, which represented 6% of Chile’s GNP for that year, but only 0.06% for the United States. This means that the American economy is 100 times greater (in dollars, not quality) than the Chilean economy, despite America’s population being only 20 times that of Chile—implying a five-fold in productivity. I will not dispute the numbers here, but I fear there is a price to be paid for such efficiency, and it comes in human lives. Children’s lives. Innocence. We did not stone innocence to death; much like Midas, we buried it in gold.

Let me be clear: I am most positively on the side of the elimination of innocence as quickly as practical and humane for the individual child. However, knowledge does not equal wisdom. We are our children’s conscience. I will further suggest that it does indeed take a village. Much like I tell kids (even my own) that if their parents didn’t teach them manners at home, they’ll get manners beat into them by strangers, I feel this applies to language, virtues, vices. I teach not just my children, but also all those other children who can see me, who can hear me. And mine learn from you. Human behavior is infectious, contagious. Globally, what we do as a country is seen by other countries and absorbed like water by the sands of the Sahara. Might is right. My country right or wrong. Love it or leave it. Apple pie. Kumbaya.

Do you know how many people saw ET? Star Wars? Titanic? Ya think that doesn’t sink in? Now more than ever the idea that acting locally affects global thinking can be interpolated into every blog thread. It’s chaos theory at its weirdest: the elimination of China’s political repression of its citizens indeed depends on my kids not bullying other kids, and not permitting those other kids bullying still more kids. The flapping of the wings by a butterfly in New York can bring about a storm in Kenya. Are there butterflies left in New York?

We talk about teens and sex like it was an isolated phenomenon. I suggest it is intricately linked to the price of grapes in Chile. I can only hope that I am explaining intelligibly enough why I think that teaching my children better vocabulary decreases their chances of promiscuity later. Self-respect, respect of others, respect of the planet, aren’t all these just the same thing? I can hear Dr. Harry Wolper shouting now: Sunombitch, it’s the Big Picture!

Otro Sueño

This is a comment I left on another blog. I like it, so I'm putting it here. It is part of an ongoing conversation I'd invite everybody to join. That ongoing conversation can be found here.

I don't want to turn this into a silly conversation, but I'd like to illustrate a point with a silly story.

When I was 17, I had a dream about the Pope and Ronald Reagan. They were both new to me at the time and I liked them both. I still do.

In my dream, I came home from school early and found two limos parked outside. Now, please keep in mind that I lived in the ghetto, in San Bernardino, California (about 1.5hr east of L.A.). I walked into our appartment to find the Pope and Ronald Reagan having a normal conversation (both dressed in full regalia sp? and eating chicken. My mom was coming back from the stove, bringing another plate of chicken.

They were friendly, funny, NICE! To this day, I like them both (though I may disagree with their points of view) and find them extremely approachable and personable. I'd vote for the Pope and pray with Mr. Reagan, if I could.

Ultimately, the greatest role of rulers is to keep the status quo, despite how badly they may want to change. Change, when it comes, usually happens to them, not from them. Them's the breaks. I may never know how each of these men would feel about my life, but it is to their credit that they got me to care about theirs, and that is a plus.

I hope they're up there enjoying my mom's chicken now.

miguel Homepage 04.08.05 - 6:55 pm #

Cuerpo Vacio

Cuerpo de Lagrimas

El cuerpo pide mas
que carne
amor
y quiere mas
que un beso
cuando el hambre
llega.

El alma siente
mas que un corazon
cuando se va la luz.

Y vos que sos
tan solo
carne y corazon
no calentas
el alma
no llenas
el cuerpo.

Memoria

Memoria

Bendito el dia que llegaste a mi vida,
Dandole forma a mi alma intangible
Y realidad a una ilusion increible
Evocando una memoria lejana y perdida.

Me enseñaste a dormir desnudo y a soñar sin pena;
Me enseñaste a gozar mi vida e ignorar la ajena;
Me enseñaste, amor, lo que el amor no puede
Y lo que sin deber con gusto a diario cede.

Amarga despedida, sin pretenciones de olvido,
Diciendo gracias no solo por existir,
Sino tambien por haberme hecho sentir,
Aunque solo un momento, que yo tambien he existido.

This I Believe

Sancho Panza y su amigo. 

No naci en este pais, sino en otro, pero aqui formule mi personalidad de adulto; aqui hice mi vida y para bien mas que para mal estoy contento con ella. Todo aguanta mejoria, pero creo que es inutil vivir del arrepentimiento. Creo que el mundo necesita mas idealismo: --amar sin esperar ser amado, --ayudar sin esperar ser pagado, --vivir sin esperar ser necesitado. Creo que no tengo que estar loco para ser Comunista y Catolico a la vez. Creo que algun dia mis hijos me perdonaran mis pecados, y espero Dios siga su ejemplo. Creo que solo un tonto espera que la historia lo absolvera. Creo que si soy loco, no soy el unico, y todos se beneficiarian de un poco de locura de vez en cuando. Dicese que el que gana la guerra escribe la historia, pero creo que la verdad esta escrita en cada grano de arena, en cada gota de sangre, en cada piedra que marque una tumba fria, aunque ya no recordemos el nombre del que su paz disfrute. El futuro es el nieto del pasado. Tal vez la sangre sea mas espesa que la amistad, pero se seca mas rapido al salir de las venas. Creo que el que habla del valor de la vida lo hace solo porque la usa como moneda para pagar por lo demas—el que la vive no la vende. Se que el viento no siempre sopla en la misma direccion, y pienso que solo un mal marinero se deja llevar solo por el o la corriente. Se remar. Y, cuando es necesario, bajo el ancla. Se esperar. Pero a veces camino cabizbajo, con mi propia nuve, el gris del mundo entrecortado por el prisma de una lagrima. No soy mas fuerte que nadie mas—ni mas debil. Creo que la memoria de los momentos amargos nos dan mas dulzura en los momentos felices. No quiero vivir en la estepa tranquila y aburrida; quiero valles y montañas, dulce sol y terribles tormentas. Quiero nadar en las tibias y claras aguas del caribe y ser barrido por sus huracanes—no porque los quiera, sino porque estoy dispuesto a enfrentar lo peor para vivir lo mejor. No tomo para emborracharme, aunque a veces lo haga. Bailo aunque se burle el que baile bien, porque disfruto yo mas de mis ataques epilepticos sin desperdiciar mi tiempo fijandome en el. Creo que solo tontos juegan la loteria, pero se que el que no la juega nunca gana. Quiero morir llorando, no por triste—por feliz!

No news is (often) good news.

This is a case where no news is EXCELLENT news.

see? the thing is that most april's fools days somebody i know (and not always the same person) makes a total and complete fool out of me, mostly publicly, and sometimes in a painful, gotta-go-see-about-that-bruise kinda way.

but not today.

it might be premature, but it is as it is so far today.

i would say hallelluiah, but i don't know how to spell it.

IN THE MEANTIME, [comment removed by author]

My name is Miguel and I approve this message.

[link removed by author]