You start off with a seed that becomes a sapling, nurturing, growing, watering, feeding, nourishing, and shaping this new being. You give it light, warmth, attention, love, and a desire to see it grow. Each morning, you sprinkle some water on it, finding joy in its absorption of everything that you put into it.
As it grows, it spreads its arms, reaches out its leaves, and stretches higher and higher into the air. And before you know it, it keeps going without you, keeps reaching for the heavens and the skies, the top top top of the world. And then you realize that it didn't necessarily need your warmth and love, it might have survived without you, might have been able to burgeon and spread, move high up tot he heavens without your touch and love.
But then, how would the leaves have looked so beautiful and healthy? How could you explain those nimble buds that popped out with such gusto and surprise yet wonder in the springtime air. Where do you place the energy in its growth, its speed in taking to the ground and air, the love it returns to everything around it?
Where it shall grow, nobody knows, but what you put into it will always be there somehow. It'll move, it'll change, it'll adapt to what comes around, but you can only shower it with the tiny drops of love that you have and hope that it understands something about yourself.
Thursday, April 24, 2014
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Love
The death of love is a slow and painful
process. My heart runs back to you constantly, and if only you'd reach
out to me for anything at all, I feel its death would be miraculously
healed or anesthetized. Chasing all the thoughts that run through me
head, the logical notions that this parting is actually good for me and
you, that you really are not in the place in your life to support and
give me the love I need, want, deserve, the truth of our whole
situation; none of these puts the death of love at peace, and it never
will.
This is the second night that I've woken up at 5 am for no reason, unable to return to bed. Without tears, without emotion seemingly, I think that I'm coming to accept that you may never see these words, you may never know how the death of our love is affecting us, and that there is no last message to you to give me closure; because the wound in my heart that spills out of my eyes when I least expect it is always going to leak. The physical pain in my heart will continue to stab at my soul, and I'll accept that closure was when I decided that I'd love you no matter what; closure to my free will to love who I would, put onto you when you cannot handle it, cannot support it.
I noticed that I wrote how the death of our love is affecting "us". Maybe it's symptomatic that "we" still exist in my mind that puts me at such discomfort constantly. Hoping that you'll see what you are leaving behind is too special to just let it go, that "we" will be revived. But in my deepest of deep dark gut feelings tells me I am lying to myself. After a week, you have not reached out to me, but maybe it's because I told you I need time and space. Maybe I should text you in a moment of weakness and desire to revive "us".
But no. If you wanted you would have done so. If you thought it was good for you or me, you would have done so. As your name and phone number drop lower on my list every day, I wonder how long it will be before I can come to accept it wholly. Should I send you this last email of how I will always love you, and that I hope we can still be friends? I feel that I've said this to you before already, and that if you didn't get it then, then what good would reiterating it be? Is it some shameful, desperate desire within me that puts this thought into my mind? Should I leave you be, and let what is be?
Here, I am like you; I don't know. The greyness of my thoughts are tainted by you. I will always bear this experience with me, this deep love that knows no bounds, not even its own death. As my friends hear my emotions replayed, they carry this love slowly to it's grave with me; we lay it down in the funereal earth, where a mound, a solid marker of it forever, is the first of who knows how many graves. They're helping me figure out how to dig this grave, how to mark it gently, how to lay it to an uneasy peace.
We weep over it, the tears and grunts coming slowly and longingly, something so beautiful laid to rest, something too young to be put down forever so. Buried deep inside me is this love, and it will always be there; you, my first grave, death of the first love. May you forever be well and at peace, and with time, hopefully you will reach out to me someday of your own accord.
With you in love.
This is the second night that I've woken up at 5 am for no reason, unable to return to bed. Without tears, without emotion seemingly, I think that I'm coming to accept that you may never see these words, you may never know how the death of our love is affecting us, and that there is no last message to you to give me closure; because the wound in my heart that spills out of my eyes when I least expect it is always going to leak. The physical pain in my heart will continue to stab at my soul, and I'll accept that closure was when I decided that I'd love you no matter what; closure to my free will to love who I would, put onto you when you cannot handle it, cannot support it.
I noticed that I wrote how the death of our love is affecting "us". Maybe it's symptomatic that "we" still exist in my mind that puts me at such discomfort constantly. Hoping that you'll see what you are leaving behind is too special to just let it go, that "we" will be revived. But in my deepest of deep dark gut feelings tells me I am lying to myself. After a week, you have not reached out to me, but maybe it's because I told you I need time and space. Maybe I should text you in a moment of weakness and desire to revive "us".
But no. If you wanted you would have done so. If you thought it was good for you or me, you would have done so. As your name and phone number drop lower on my list every day, I wonder how long it will be before I can come to accept it wholly. Should I send you this last email of how I will always love you, and that I hope we can still be friends? I feel that I've said this to you before already, and that if you didn't get it then, then what good would reiterating it be? Is it some shameful, desperate desire within me that puts this thought into my mind? Should I leave you be, and let what is be?
Here, I am like you; I don't know. The greyness of my thoughts are tainted by you. I will always bear this experience with me, this deep love that knows no bounds, not even its own death. As my friends hear my emotions replayed, they carry this love slowly to it's grave with me; we lay it down in the funereal earth, where a mound, a solid marker of it forever, is the first of who knows how many graves. They're helping me figure out how to dig this grave, how to mark it gently, how to lay it to an uneasy peace.
We weep over it, the tears and grunts coming slowly and longingly, something so beautiful laid to rest, something too young to be put down forever so. Buried deep inside me is this love, and it will always be there; you, my first grave, death of the first love. May you forever be well and at peace, and with time, hopefully you will reach out to me someday of your own accord.
With you in love.
Friday, October 26, 2012
A "Class"-y Affair
Last night I partook in my final dinner in Argentina, not with steak (that was done for lunch with a half a bottle of wine, and a pleasant steak it was indeed), but with a supper club dinner with a chef that uses all local ingredients. It (feels like it) is a rather new way to dine and feel special since this happens at someone's residence, like at the chef's place this time. Listening to the folks around me talking throughout dinner at their own tables, I was oddly cognizant of how out of place I always feel at fancy affairs full of pretensions. My friend was not as uncomfortable as me, so I wonder if it's because of my own confidence issues?
Whatever the case, I ate and was merry with my flight of 4 varieties of wines. The oil candle steadily burned and the food was consumed course after course. The night was pleasantly cool, only later on becoming a little more of a cooler spring evening, but by then, the alcohol had begun warming me. The white place mats held signs of my clumsiness, a splash of green with an imprint upon it revealing an unsteady hand with the place too far away.
Throughout my trip, we have been following rough guide suggestions and not really foraging through the other delicacies that lie here and there. For a first romp, it was good to be able to go to some places that served exactly what we had been hoping for, and as a credit to our guide, there were plenty of very local places where the path was not quite so beaten down. Obviously our footprints have left a mark though, so one only wonders how much more the path will be worn down.
In the afternoon, we finally made it to have our Yerba Mate kick. It's an herby liquid that felt healthy among all the good meats that we have been feasting on. I've had enough cow to last me for many months, and frankly I'm not sure that US beef can stand to the quality and price that we found here. The Mate sat idly in the gourd cup after each sip of hot water was poured in, the leaves slowly losing themselves to the waves.
The whole set of jam, bread, and light crackers was a nice late afternoon delight. The communal Mate was a nice way to chill and focus on us, though we generally opted to silence and enjoyment of the food and drink. At a very regimented pace, we left quite promptly to get home eventually to rest and pop onwards to dinner.
Before dinner, we stopped by a vegetarian hippydippy paradise where I purchased all of my Mate, one pack being produced at a co-op. I drank a lemonade spiked with ginger and fresh mint to bring about my insatiable appetite. My travels in Argentina were coming to a close, and I knew that I had just begun to understand a continent that I've heard about so much, grew up surrounded by stories and families that I never truly engaged in. The fact that Argentina talks about it's indigenous people so much, but appear so white and European, when I heard that three employees in every Starbucks is from Colombia, the way that white privilege seemed to replay itself in the streets daily, I wonder what is going on beneath the surface here. I only know that privilege in all it's forms may act or play out differently in various places, but that there is an invisible thread linking things, an undercurrent steering us hitherthither, driving things into motion. I have begun quite a while ago, but it's more important than ever to make those choices, to sway things into motion that I decide, and to not be mired down. Peek-a-boo, I can see through...
Whatever the case, I ate and was merry with my flight of 4 varieties of wines. The oil candle steadily burned and the food was consumed course after course. The night was pleasantly cool, only later on becoming a little more of a cooler spring evening, but by then, the alcohol had begun warming me. The white place mats held signs of my clumsiness, a splash of green with an imprint upon it revealing an unsteady hand with the place too far away.
Throughout my trip, we have been following rough guide suggestions and not really foraging through the other delicacies that lie here and there. For a first romp, it was good to be able to go to some places that served exactly what we had been hoping for, and as a credit to our guide, there were plenty of very local places where the path was not quite so beaten down. Obviously our footprints have left a mark though, so one only wonders how much more the path will be worn down.
In the afternoon, we finally made it to have our Yerba Mate kick. It's an herby liquid that felt healthy among all the good meats that we have been feasting on. I've had enough cow to last me for many months, and frankly I'm not sure that US beef can stand to the quality and price that we found here. The Mate sat idly in the gourd cup after each sip of hot water was poured in, the leaves slowly losing themselves to the waves.
The whole set of jam, bread, and light crackers was a nice late afternoon delight. The communal Mate was a nice way to chill and focus on us, though we generally opted to silence and enjoyment of the food and drink. At a very regimented pace, we left quite promptly to get home eventually to rest and pop onwards to dinner.
Before dinner, we stopped by a vegetarian hippydippy paradise where I purchased all of my Mate, one pack being produced at a co-op. I drank a lemonade spiked with ginger and fresh mint to bring about my insatiable appetite. My travels in Argentina were coming to a close, and I knew that I had just begun to understand a continent that I've heard about so much, grew up surrounded by stories and families that I never truly engaged in. The fact that Argentina talks about it's indigenous people so much, but appear so white and European, when I heard that three employees in every Starbucks is from Colombia, the way that white privilege seemed to replay itself in the streets daily, I wonder what is going on beneath the surface here. I only know that privilege in all it's forms may act or play out differently in various places, but that there is an invisible thread linking things, an undercurrent steering us hitherthither, driving things into motion. I have begun quite a while ago, but it's more important than ever to make those choices, to sway things into motion that I decide, and to not be mired down. Peek-a-boo, I can see through...
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Beyond the Hills
Driving on the solitary winding road that ran up the hills and into
the snow-capped peaks, the wind blew the sands at our car, great clouds
of dust and sand raced past, and the Andes stood solid in the distance.
Randomly cars would pass by, speeding on their way into and out of
those imposing tips, reminding us that we aren't the only ones around,
even if the closest we would ever get is the millisecond glimpse we
would catch of one another. What lay behind those hills stays in our
imaginations for now.
After a filling portion of the tastiest pork, we searched for the small wineries as the larger estates were mainly flush with foreign investment. It was more the fact that large estates served lower quality wines for a lot more money than the smaller ones that we made this decision. We found a small family winery that served us wine made in very Argentine fashion, fermented in concrete vats sealed with Poxy.
The old couple served us a tasting of three wines that they produced pretty much all hands on deck. While it wasn't any stupendous find, the old couple were super cute and talked about their own families' path to the western edges of Argentina as farmers from rural Spain. Their tale was reminiscent of immigrant stories that I've heard from my own experience as a child of immigrants. Traveling four months through forests with only some faint idea of what might come to be, or in the case of my family, traveling for hours out to restaurant to apprentice and only be home with family on weekends on holidays.
The machinery they used was 160 years old from Lyon, France. The tasting room, basically the family's kitchen. Abuelito told us about how the machinery was French because the Spanish were scientifically behind, not smart enough to create such fantastical tools. This thought made me sad inside, that people are always challenged by their inferiority to others. At the same time, I know that people of color, LGBTQ folks, differently abled folks, and other different marginalized communities are challenged by their mere existence, and again, to achieve the status that this elderly gentlemen has is sometimes galaxies away from where I can see myself or what I consider my communities being able to truly reach.
It seems sometimes that it is jealousy driving the incessant comparisons I make, and yet, why should these comparisons not be made and unpacked? Our trip backwards through time to when the world is bustling full of those that do not know one another, where the importance of an individual seems to have receded into the backdrop of interpersonal violence. As we sat in our semi-camas and reclined slightly, we poured the last of the half bottle of Gran Reserva to lull us into the half bed that would carry us to bed.
In those last moments before the earth was swallowed up in darkness, I looked around outside, seeing the encroaching darkness and encircling clouds teaming up together to shroud the world in their embrace. As the light faded ever so quickly, I looked back quickly at the retreating Andes, unable to sprint up to me, thinking of the desert loneliness with which they have grown accustomed, and remembered that afternoon. Looking into the hills and crevices of this monumental mountain range, the sun stretched its arms forth, wrapping us all in it's fingers as best as it could, the snow-capped peaks slowly tearing away their wintery coats through the young green lumps. Beyond the hills, beyond those mountains, something lies in wait, and yet I cannot know because I have yet to traverse those great lengths to see with my own eyes what lies beyond. The last fleck of sun drizzled off the bus as the night sang us to sleep, even if it were a fitful sleep, as I hummed my tunes of sadness resolved only with the embrace of one who loves me, waiting for the sadness to be chased away so soon.
After a filling portion of the tastiest pork, we searched for the small wineries as the larger estates were mainly flush with foreign investment. It was more the fact that large estates served lower quality wines for a lot more money than the smaller ones that we made this decision. We found a small family winery that served us wine made in very Argentine fashion, fermented in concrete vats sealed with Poxy.
The old couple served us a tasting of three wines that they produced pretty much all hands on deck. While it wasn't any stupendous find, the old couple were super cute and talked about their own families' path to the western edges of Argentina as farmers from rural Spain. Their tale was reminiscent of immigrant stories that I've heard from my own experience as a child of immigrants. Traveling four months through forests with only some faint idea of what might come to be, or in the case of my family, traveling for hours out to restaurant to apprentice and only be home with family on weekends on holidays.
The machinery they used was 160 years old from Lyon, France. The tasting room, basically the family's kitchen. Abuelito told us about how the machinery was French because the Spanish were scientifically behind, not smart enough to create such fantastical tools. This thought made me sad inside, that people are always challenged by their inferiority to others. At the same time, I know that people of color, LGBTQ folks, differently abled folks, and other different marginalized communities are challenged by their mere existence, and again, to achieve the status that this elderly gentlemen has is sometimes galaxies away from where I can see myself or what I consider my communities being able to truly reach.
It seems sometimes that it is jealousy driving the incessant comparisons I make, and yet, why should these comparisons not be made and unpacked? Our trip backwards through time to when the world is bustling full of those that do not know one another, where the importance of an individual seems to have receded into the backdrop of interpersonal violence. As we sat in our semi-camas and reclined slightly, we poured the last of the half bottle of Gran Reserva to lull us into the half bed that would carry us to bed.
In those last moments before the earth was swallowed up in darkness, I looked around outside, seeing the encroaching darkness and encircling clouds teaming up together to shroud the world in their embrace. As the light faded ever so quickly, I looked back quickly at the retreating Andes, unable to sprint up to me, thinking of the desert loneliness with which they have grown accustomed, and remembered that afternoon. Looking into the hills and crevices of this monumental mountain range, the sun stretched its arms forth, wrapping us all in it's fingers as best as it could, the snow-capped peaks slowly tearing away their wintery coats through the young green lumps. Beyond the hills, beyond those mountains, something lies in wait, and yet I cannot know because I have yet to traverse those great lengths to see with my own eyes what lies beyond. The last fleck of sun drizzled off the bus as the night sang us to sleep, even if it were a fitful sleep, as I hummed my tunes of sadness resolved only with the embrace of one who loves me, waiting for the sadness to be chased away so soon.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Times of Tenderness
Trekking through the countryside in Mendoza has been quite the adventure. Getting to the correct areas for bikes, finding the wineries that we had planned on visiting, trying to balance our time at each spot, getting back to our hostel, figuring out what we want to eat and how to get there... And luckily, we were able to hit some places. The bike tour wasn't quite the ambitious 3-4 per day we had expected, but in the end, it was still a taste of Mendoza's finest. It was also an experience that put ambitions into perspective, what I could achieve with my friend, and taking the moments in one by one.
A drop of red wine lingered in my glass as I held it up to the trellis above, vines creeping along the interlaced wooden frame. The sun shone heavily down, and through the glass, I didn't know whether it was the sun's reflections or the clouds passing by as I passed it quickly above, savoring the last sip I took in. The complexity of the wine's flavors lingered momentarily as a sourness and bitterness rose in my belly to my palate. A shudder of guilt, pain, angst, and tenderness shot through as the drops rose into my eyes, knowing that I wanted to hug my special someone.
The dogs crept by, dragging along, waiting for me to share those precious bits of fat with them, but better sense told me not to just feed anything to them. Their idling and whimpering ways resurrected the pangs I had felt moments before, and it was all I could do to not let them spill forth and ruin the idyllic surroundings. My heart raced quickly as I drew deep breaths to calm down my feelings, because feelings are naturally inhibitive and bad to exhibit in public. I waited patiently the rest of the day to tell my pillow my true emotions.
The following day of biking led us further south across from the gigantic industrial Bodega Norton. Directly across was a shanty shack where we entered to rent our bikes for the day. A tio waved us in, showed us the bikes, and proceeded to give us tips on where we wanted to go; the tinier boutique bodegas (winery, not the NY style ones) where there was better attention and tours were not regimented in clockwork patterns a la Ford. We ordered a choripan and two empanadas for the road with him, knowing we wouldn't make the lunches at the bodegas. As we sat enjoying our choripan, I stared at the television and no one other than Psy was beating out his rhymes to Gangnam Style. I only hoped that the hyperbolic capitalist extremes came across as critique and not aspirational.
The day ended with only one bodega trip as we were turned around by high-speed roadways that were not permissive of bikers. Bonfanti, off a dirt path behind a tree-lined street which we had to ride under another freeway to get to, was quiet, old, and redone as modern chic. Olive trees were dispersed throughout the vineyard, a well-rounded approach to keeping the older Italian immigrants safe in case the vines failed. We went through the mandatory tour before imbibing happily of this smaller scale bodega. Apparently, as we've heard in more than one place, global wine capital has a heavy hand in the wine business, so we decided to support this smaller bodega with a purchase of 4 bottles each. Small business is always tricky as nativism tends to come hand in hand, but one can only hope that the lures of capital do not curdle what we are supporting.
We road back through the roads to the shanty shack to return our bikes to the tio of El Puesto Del Jamon, aching afterwards from our mules' work. On the way back to Mendoza, we drifted in and out of sleep, and retired to our room to nap before dinner once again. Monday will be our last trek out to wine country, and we've already arranged for the trip to hopefully go more smoothly. As with many nights, I look forward to ending with my boo, talking about the day, and drifting off to sleep with the memories of tenderness mellowing my palate as I enter the dark space with the absence of dreams.
A drop of red wine lingered in my glass as I held it up to the trellis above, vines creeping along the interlaced wooden frame. The sun shone heavily down, and through the glass, I didn't know whether it was the sun's reflections or the clouds passing by as I passed it quickly above, savoring the last sip I took in. The complexity of the wine's flavors lingered momentarily as a sourness and bitterness rose in my belly to my palate. A shudder of guilt, pain, angst, and tenderness shot through as the drops rose into my eyes, knowing that I wanted to hug my special someone.
The dogs crept by, dragging along, waiting for me to share those precious bits of fat with them, but better sense told me not to just feed anything to them. Their idling and whimpering ways resurrected the pangs I had felt moments before, and it was all I could do to not let them spill forth and ruin the idyllic surroundings. My heart raced quickly as I drew deep breaths to calm down my feelings, because feelings are naturally inhibitive and bad to exhibit in public. I waited patiently the rest of the day to tell my pillow my true emotions.
The following day of biking led us further south across from the gigantic industrial Bodega Norton. Directly across was a shanty shack where we entered to rent our bikes for the day. A tio waved us in, showed us the bikes, and proceeded to give us tips on where we wanted to go; the tinier boutique bodegas (winery, not the NY style ones) where there was better attention and tours were not regimented in clockwork patterns a la Ford. We ordered a choripan and two empanadas for the road with him, knowing we wouldn't make the lunches at the bodegas. As we sat enjoying our choripan, I stared at the television and no one other than Psy was beating out his rhymes to Gangnam Style. I only hoped that the hyperbolic capitalist extremes came across as critique and not aspirational.
The day ended with only one bodega trip as we were turned around by high-speed roadways that were not permissive of bikers. Bonfanti, off a dirt path behind a tree-lined street which we had to ride under another freeway to get to, was quiet, old, and redone as modern chic. Olive trees were dispersed throughout the vineyard, a well-rounded approach to keeping the older Italian immigrants safe in case the vines failed. We went through the mandatory tour before imbibing happily of this smaller scale bodega. Apparently, as we've heard in more than one place, global wine capital has a heavy hand in the wine business, so we decided to support this smaller bodega with a purchase of 4 bottles each. Small business is always tricky as nativism tends to come hand in hand, but one can only hope that the lures of capital do not curdle what we are supporting.
We road back through the roads to the shanty shack to return our bikes to the tio of El Puesto Del Jamon, aching afterwards from our mules' work. On the way back to Mendoza, we drifted in and out of sleep, and retired to our room to nap before dinner once again. Monday will be our last trek out to wine country, and we've already arranged for the trip to hopefully go more smoothly. As with many nights, I look forward to ending with my boo, talking about the day, and drifting off to sleep with the memories of tenderness mellowing my palate as I enter the dark space with the absence of dreams.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Danish on the Bus
On what was supposedly going to be a relaxing overnight trip on the bus to Mendoza, we happened to be loaded onto a sleeper bus with a tour of Danish folks. Therefore, what was a regularly controlled and simple trip, became a bus full of consecutive interpretation at 5 times the volume of the Argentine server and drunken Scandinavian revelry for an old Dane's umpty-ith birthday. Though believing firmly in the celebration of life and being able to enjoy one's later years (though why shouldn't we enjoy the earlier ones as well?), it was still a grueling bus trip for many reasons.
It's curious to see how a busload of white people in a mainly white country interact. The major difference being in language, and the Danes made sure everyone else on the bus heard that they were there. Well, I'll say that it was the tour guide who made it known. I jumped every time he interpreted as he found it important to speak 5 times louder than then Argentine, no rolls of my eyes could tell him how annoying it was. But if it were merely noise, I'd put it off to just that he was trying to help the old-timers hear him better.
What happened was that he broke out their own stash of wines, mixing the random reds with each other and urging the Scandinavian inclination towards drunken revelry. As the meal passed and red wine became whisky and rum, there was one moment that sparked me. The tour guide rang out with (in English) "and the bottle, Made in Chiiiiiina!!!!" He had obviously spotted me and Syd sitting right behind the massively tall frames of the Nordic bunch, so what could he mean by that declaration? Why did I even need to worry that he was aiming at us? The whole Danish kingdom roared with laughter, and the embers in my belly burned like a volcano ready to blow.
Obviously, being in a foreign country and trying to enjoy my vacation, I didn't bother. However, the fact that a bunch of white folks in some foreign country full of alot of other white folks (Argentines are very European, my friend was told that three of every Starbucks employee was actually from Colombia, and if race/skin color were not one of the main identifiers, I'd be surprised. And I do hope someone will surprise me with some historical smackdown right now) made me angry on a basis of race (you might argue ethnicity, but how the hell would he have known we were exactly Chinese) was messed up.
Then, I though about the fact that this tour was for one Dane's birthday celebration, a whole group of his old buddies able to traverse oceans and imbibe in peace with a large group of his buddies, and how this compared to my parents. My parents, who have been working since their early teens, through war, poverty, and struggling through lower middle class aspirations that their children would become oppressors in their golden years, would most likely find it hard pressed to enjoy their later years as these white folks.
The bus trip was eye-opening, and I only hope that it doesn't take such comparisons to see why our worlds are so fragmented and split up into inequitable divides. But then again, I'm the one with enough to venture as these old white folks and galavant in a foreign country, no? Sure. Minus my credit that I'm relying on and forcing my friend to rough it as much as possible so that I can do this. Whatever the reality is, I know that mine is not part of theirs, and that theirs is on some plane founded on oppression and exploitation.
It's curious to see how a busload of white people in a mainly white country interact. The major difference being in language, and the Danes made sure everyone else on the bus heard that they were there. Well, I'll say that it was the tour guide who made it known. I jumped every time he interpreted as he found it important to speak 5 times louder than then Argentine, no rolls of my eyes could tell him how annoying it was. But if it were merely noise, I'd put it off to just that he was trying to help the old-timers hear him better.
What happened was that he broke out their own stash of wines, mixing the random reds with each other and urging the Scandinavian inclination towards drunken revelry. As the meal passed and red wine became whisky and rum, there was one moment that sparked me. The tour guide rang out with (in English) "and the bottle, Made in Chiiiiiina!!!!" He had obviously spotted me and Syd sitting right behind the massively tall frames of the Nordic bunch, so what could he mean by that declaration? Why did I even need to worry that he was aiming at us? The whole Danish kingdom roared with laughter, and the embers in my belly burned like a volcano ready to blow.
Obviously, being in a foreign country and trying to enjoy my vacation, I didn't bother. However, the fact that a bunch of white folks in some foreign country full of alot of other white folks (Argentines are very European, my friend was told that three of every Starbucks employee was actually from Colombia, and if race/skin color were not one of the main identifiers, I'd be surprised. And I do hope someone will surprise me with some historical smackdown right now) made me angry on a basis of race (you might argue ethnicity, but how the hell would he have known we were exactly Chinese) was messed up.
Then, I though about the fact that this tour was for one Dane's birthday celebration, a whole group of his old buddies able to traverse oceans and imbibe in peace with a large group of his buddies, and how this compared to my parents. My parents, who have been working since their early teens, through war, poverty, and struggling through lower middle class aspirations that their children would become oppressors in their golden years, would most likely find it hard pressed to enjoy their later years as these white folks.
The bus trip was eye-opening, and I only hope that it doesn't take such comparisons to see why our worlds are so fragmented and split up into inequitable divides. But then again, I'm the one with enough to venture as these old white folks and galavant in a foreign country, no? Sure. Minus my credit that I'm relying on and forcing my friend to rough it as much as possible so that I can do this. Whatever the reality is, I know that mine is not part of theirs, and that theirs is on some plane founded on oppression and exploitation.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Soledad
One is the loneliest number.
But we're all, at the core, just one.
And that's why we come together,
and celebrate the oneness that we are,
the oneness that we bring,
the oneness that we add,
to go beyond what one means
because math says that one times one times one times one
is inevitably only one
but only if we stay in our own circlet
The rain didn't stop today, so my plans to run and explore the nearer areas never came about, but it wasn't a problem. There are those days when I don't want to leave my bed, when the endless amounts to learn, participate, and experience cannot pull me from the covers of my own self knowing that I'm here, and that's all that matters in some moments, that I still exist.
There are also those moments of silence and stillness when my existence questions itself, wonders if it's still here, or if it's only borne of it's own insistence on taking the space and breaths that belong elsewhere more useful, better, somehow more important. But those days have grown few, grown weak, and been transformed.
Along the way to pick up laundry, I got some snacks, grabbed some empanadas, and watched rain drops splash on the cobbled streets of Guchurraga. Bobbing umbrellas swayed assuredly through the sidewalks, careful to not collide. The swish of tires on wet roads squished by near and far, but the tip tap of rain drops never let that deter their jam session.
The soft glow of a hidden sun brandished along each stone of the streets as I swiftly made my errands in the neighborhood. In the evening, my friend returned from a day of work, and I was complimented on my good wifely ways. Sometimes I doubt the beauty and power of my domestic prowess, but I am proud of what I can do in the home.
The rain continues into the early evening, most likely here to rock me to sleep. Dinner is yet to come, but my day of solitude has been refreshing. I'm glad to have reveled in my own being, to know that I keep on existing, if to no one else at all, I'm here for me. And even then, I'm here for all my friends and fam, I'm here for my love.
But we're all, at the core, just one.
And that's why we come together,
and celebrate the oneness that we are,
the oneness that we bring,
the oneness that we add,
to go beyond what one means
because math says that one times one times one times one
is inevitably only one
but only if we stay in our own circlet
The rain didn't stop today, so my plans to run and explore the nearer areas never came about, but it wasn't a problem. There are those days when I don't want to leave my bed, when the endless amounts to learn, participate, and experience cannot pull me from the covers of my own self knowing that I'm here, and that's all that matters in some moments, that I still exist.
There are also those moments of silence and stillness when my existence questions itself, wonders if it's still here, or if it's only borne of it's own insistence on taking the space and breaths that belong elsewhere more useful, better, somehow more important. But those days have grown few, grown weak, and been transformed.
Along the way to pick up laundry, I got some snacks, grabbed some empanadas, and watched rain drops splash on the cobbled streets of Guchurraga. Bobbing umbrellas swayed assuredly through the sidewalks, careful to not collide. The swish of tires on wet roads squished by near and far, but the tip tap of rain drops never let that deter their jam session.
The soft glow of a hidden sun brandished along each stone of the streets as I swiftly made my errands in the neighborhood. In the evening, my friend returned from a day of work, and I was complimented on my good wifely ways. Sometimes I doubt the beauty and power of my domestic prowess, but I am proud of what I can do in the home.
The rain continues into the early evening, most likely here to rock me to sleep. Dinner is yet to come, but my day of solitude has been refreshing. I'm glad to have reveled in my own being, to know that I keep on existing, if to no one else at all, I'm here for me. And even then, I'm here for all my friends and fam, I'm here for my love.
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