Beating Cancer One Mile at a Time!

Beating Cancer One Mile at a Time!

Sympathy for the Devil

( November,2008)

"She had an overwhelming desire to tell him, like the most banal of women. Don't let me go, hold me tight, make me your plaything, your slave, be strong! But they were words she could not say.

The only thing she said when he released her from his embrace was, "You don't know how happy I am to be with you." That was the most her reserved nature allowed her to express."- Milan Kundera, " The Unbearable Lightness of Being"

"My point is, there are a lot of people in the world. No one ever sees everything the same way you do; it just doesn't happen. So when you find one person who gets a couple of things, especially if they're important ones... you might as well hold on to them. "



I never take anything back.And I will probably forget the things that were said, the things that were done...but I don't forget what I felt.You should never allow someone to make you so ridiculously happy just by their mere presence, and this was something I thought I had outgrown,the way you outgrow qualities in your adolescence that reveal your feelings,or sentiments.It was those feelings that surprised me when I felt them again, when I realized I was just as shy around him at 24 than when I was when I was 15.I don't think it is that I wear my heart on my sleeve, I just listen to it more than I listen to my head. With whomever is the right person to me,which doesn't happen often. If any of you have learned anything, it's how damn selective I am. And the fact of the matter is, as much as sometimes it felt right,this wasn't meant to be, not for now, who knows if or when, if at all, but when it happened...to me, it felt good,( so good). Not just the steamy, smoky kisses, but even the electricity I'd feel at just a glance from him that incinerated the butterflies that were constantly in my stomach, right up till that very last conversation.

I was stunned at first.I had allowed him, his presence, the thought of him, those little moments,to make me happy,ecstatic- something I try not to do to anyone. That's a huge responsibility to place on somebody." Hey you, guess what?! You make me happy. Don't fuck up!" So my shock was more at the fact that in 24 hours he made me very happy. Happy in such a surreal manner that one of the memories of that night that stung the most in the aftermath was not just the conversation I had with Boy,but this one moment of wobbly dancing.Hanging off his neck during the insistent thump-thump-thump of the Spanish music ,I looked over at four of my best friends, and they were beaming back at me. They were witnessing me on this plane of unapologetic,care-free emotion, and suddenly , one by one, they too, were dizzily floating along this euphoric altitude with me , wooed by Boy, disarmed by his charm, and the idea that they, too, can be as happy as I was in that one spinning moment.With one swift kick to reality I was bought back down. I was so drunk at the moment, the questions wouldn't come to my lips, and yet the answers jumbled onto my lap, wrapped in his cigarette smoke, ( mmm, that cigarette!)and apologetic eyes. The next day I tried to sleep, but every time I woke I just thought, " did it happen? really? how drunk was I?"But it did.

Sure, I had questions. But when it comes down to it,no promises were made. My feelings were not requested. In the end, those specific, starry-eyed, butterfly-incinerating feelings,mattered only to me. But I don't think he knew, at all, how happy that last day made me.That same happiness that made that conversation so damn shocking, stunning, numbing.

peachy

That was the thing: Once, the difference between light and dark had been basic. One was good, one bad. Suddenly though, things weren't so clear. The dark was still a mystery, something hidden, something to be scared of, but I'd come to fear the light, too. It was where everything was revealed, or seemed to be. Eyes closed, I saw only the blackness, reminding me ofthis one thing, the most deep of my secrets; eyes open, there was only the world that didn't know it, bright, inescapable, and somehow, still there.

Rice and Eggs

When I was little, I hated fried egg. The runniness of the yolk ( or la yemita) freaked me out as a child, and I always preferred my eggs scrambled on a buttered piece of tostada. Yet somehow, whenever my father had a plate of arroz con huevo frito, I always wanted to take a bite from his plate. Something about that simple little meal pleased him so much, and I too, wanted to savor the sunshine on the clouds explosion of taste that he so thoroughly seemed to enjoy. With all the cuisine my mother expertly prepared ( and expertly she did, my mother learned most of her cooking through our puerto rican, cuban, dominican and Italian neighbors in the building and through her years as a New York City waitress) he would requestarroz con huevo frito on the randomness of days.The only part of the frito I liked was the white part.. especially when it turned brown and crispy.So the inevitable would always be me taking a bite of the yellow/rice mixture and just as quickly spitting it out...then picking at the edges of the egg white while my dad yelled back to my mother that I was spitting out his dinner again.

When my parents divorced I never really requested for huevo frito. It was amazing to me when people loved the yemita cause I always associated being a kid and hating the texture and the taste. Whenever I told people I didn't like the egg yolk it was always, " are you kidding me? especially when you soak your bread in it?!" I tried it a couple of times and found it tolerable...and began to order it for breakfast from time to time.

When I got older and returned home to visit my dad, I would ask him to make it just so that I can eat some off his plate. This simple cuban dish that pleased this thin little cuban man effortlessly...it made me laugh at times.

Lately, whenver I miss him or just wish he was around for me to talk to him about everything and anything under the sun ( and if I've told any of you anything about my father, it was that I could tell him anything..whether I did so or not was a different story. But the option was there.) I make myself a plate of arroz con huevo frito. ..yeah I fry it a little more than necessary to cook the yemita thoroughly ( i still cant stand the taste of it runny..yuck). I love to cook...and for some reason huevo frito is sometimes hard for me to do..I dont turn it right, the yemita gets too overcooked or I leave it halfway runny- I can grill, bake, roast, feed an army with all the cooking I love to do..

but sometimes I can't even fry an egg.

And there was nothing I enjoyed more yesterday than sitting outside at night, eating my small plate of nostalgia, the jasmine and myrtle twinging the hot, sticky summer air, and wishing I had a hammock so I could lay down and remember a time when I could still steal pieces of white and yellow happiness off of my father's plate

The difference

"The ignorance of the English-speaking reader never ceases to amaze me"-Manguel

While reading Love in the Time of Cholera, I met sweet, handsome Pablo Charoksy, a young Argentinean man who rode the city bus with me to Miami-Dade Community College. Engrossed in the novel, somehow I still managed to become distracted by this man's intense, blue-green eyes, mainly because they were staring directly at me. Feigning lack of interest, I tilted my chin up and continued reading. Marquez was a recent discovery, his stories so absurd, crass, and yet beautiful. Bus rides to school were the only time between work and school that I could sit and enjoy the book.

I gave up, put the book away, and sighed noisily. When I did so,the mystery man finally spoke.

"What is the difference?" he asked, the "r" in difference rolling a million waves out of his mouth.

I blinked at him.

He began again. "Uh…English or Spanish? Which do you like better? What is the difference?"

He had assumed I had read the original, and anxiously waited for a response. I finally said,

"I wouldn't know. I have yet to read the original."

"Do you speak Spanish?" He looked worried when he asked me this.

"Yes."

"Oh..que lastima, to waste such a beautiful tale on the English language."

Love Letters

as always, your additions are welcome.


Dear Darla,
I hate your stinking guts.
You make me vomit.
You're the scum between my toes.
Love, Alfafa.

He's so sweet, make you wanna lick the wrapper
Love,Lil Wayne

Hey how you doin lil mama? lemme whisper in your ear
Tell you something that you might like to hear
Love,Yin Yang Twins

Black chocolate girl wonder, shade brown like Thunder
Politic til your deficit step, gimme your number
Your sexy persuasive ta-ta's and thighs
Catch my eyes like highs I want your bodily surprise
Double dime some time, Ice Cream you got me fallin out
like a cripple, I love you like I love my dick size
Love,Wu-Tang

To love is to suffer. To avoid suffering one must not love. But then one suffers from not loving. Therefore to love is to suffer, not to love is to suffer. To suffer is to suffer. To be happy is to love. To be happy then is to suffer. But suffering makes one unhappy. Therefore, to be unhappy one must love, or love to suffer, or suffer from too much happiness. I hope you're getting this down.
Love, Woody Allen

you got soul, you know what to do to turn me on
until i write a song about you
and you have your own engaging style
you have a knack to vivify
and you make my slacks a little tight
you may unfasten them if you like
thats if you crash and spend the night
Love,Jason Mraz.


Love let's go half on a son. I know my past ain't one.
You can easily get past, but that chapter is done.
But I'm done readin for now.
Remember spades face up, you can believe him for now.
But ma you got a f'real f'serious role.
I'm bout to give you all the keys and security codes.
'Bout to show you where the cheese, let you know I ain't playin.
But, before I jump out the window, what's your name?
Love,Jay-Z

AMOR MUTANTE AMIGOS CON DERECHO Y SIN DERECHO DE TENERTE SIEMPRE , Y SIEMPRE TENGO QUE ESPERAR PACIENTE, EL PEDAZO QUE ME TOCA DE TI , RELAMPAGOS DE ALCOHOL LAS VOCES SOLAS LLORAN EN EL SOL HEN MI BOCA EN LLAMAS TORTURADA TE DESNUDAS ANGEL HADA LUEGO TE VAS.
OTRA VEZ MI BOCA INSENSATA, VUELVE A CAER EN TU PIEL DE MIEL
VUELVE A MI TU BOCA, DUELE , VUELVO A CAER DE TUS PECHOS EN TUS PAR DE PIES.-
Love,Mana



But I'm in so deep. You know I'm such a fool for you.
You got me wrapped around your finger, ah, ha, ha.
Do you have to let it linger?
-Love, the cranberries

I hope you forgive me for that time I put my hands between your legs and said it was small,
cause it's really, not at all.
-Love, Maria Mena

Do, do you have a first aid kid handy?
Love,Danity Kane

Oh, why'd ya have to be so cute?
It's impossible to ignore you,
Must you make me laugh so much?
It's bad enough we get along so well..
Say goodnight and go.
-Love Imogen heap

Quand tu
Quand tu me prends dans tes bras
Quand je regarde dans tes yeux
Je vois qu'un Dieu existe
Ce n'est pas dur d'y croire
Love, Shakira

I wanna fuck you like an animal
Love, Trent Reznor

hazard

your cigarette

allures me, entices me,
and the only way I even like the smell or taste is when it rolls into my mouth from your lips,
and the smokey, sweet tinges of your tongue offset every sense in me.
the combination of rum, whiskey, and tobacco.
i dont know which is more lethal or sexy,
you, or the taste of you, and your cigarrette.