Track the fractures in sounds and songs

I thought that 6 AM would always feel lonely without you
So I sleep through it
The cigarette burn and the lipstick stains
Thought I’d always be yearning for that wispy music
Rolling towards us
Running in slow motion
The children are sailing away
but moving words together
I am singing
We are singing the sound track of a hundred tea parties
Running, I am running
While my heart runs down the drain
In the fog of a six pack of Victory
I feel you
Erasing me and the memory
Your light, your love, is but a dream
We are laughing and touching
In the limbo of learning to let go

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Long and rambling update.

What have I been doing? That is a very good question with a long and rambling answer. 2018 was beautiful and grotesque.

Come, let’s chat.

Graduated. Went to a concert. Learning another new position. Went to more concerts. Worked over time. Went to more concerts. Went to the beach. Protested and screamed. I got emergency surgery, and deeply enjoyed powerful narcotics while taking advantage of the vacation time I earned, but had not anticipated using for recovering on medical leave. (I returned the majority of the pills they gave me to the hospital to be destroyed, no worries! But what I took, I liked very much and I understand how/why people get addicted to that shit and I see the quantities they prescribe- fucking RIDICULOUS.)

I traveled probably thousands of miles, some of them internationally to see Ghost way too many times. I’ve spent time bonding with some of the best people I could ever hope to meet. My favorite rock star knows my name and some of them throw me guitar pics (that bounce off my my face, whoops!).

I got a call that my dad had a heart attack in Mexico.

I went back home, saw my parents bitten by time. I cried in my bed, while feeling all sorts of memories and emotions overwhelm me.

I avoided the messages of toxic men that left me ravaged in the past. I have never felt weaker, or more powerful in the same breath in my life. I cried so hard my eyes were puffy the next morning, and I had forgotten that I had cried so hard the night before.

I reunited with old friends. Had the most difficult conversations I’ve ever had in my life with my parents. I laughed with them when I told them that they weren’t the ones holding me back from living my dream life, but poverty was.

This is only sort of true.

I’m living well, my complaints are few, and superficial.

I’m officially a crazy cat lady. I am the proud cat mother of a beautiful smol black panther named Lucy, but I baptized her as Lucy Purr. (Sorry, I found it quite funny…) you can follow my, errr, her IG here: It’s Lucy Purr

For 2019 I have basic, generic, boring resolutions: pay down debts, to eat a diet that is something that will keep me in high energy and filled with nutrients and to learn how to swim. I’m not looking for a Victoria’s Secret model body. That is not what I was born with, that is not what I will die in and I plan to spend a lot of time on this planet. I will stop hating this fine machine I was blessed with while I’m on this carousel around the sun. It’s all irrelevant if I don’t take advantage of this all access pass to living if I’m pent up with hate when I could be out soaking up good times.

Anyway- My fun 2019 new year resolution- learning to swim: I took swimming classes as a child, but I’ve all but forgotten the skills I picked up then. I am learning to learn again, with no ego, no fear, just an open mind and patience. What was once wired can be rewired. I can unlearn and learn again. I can hit backspace and I can delete forever. I can and will rewrite. I will cast out the bad, I will cast off the heavy things, and soak my heart in helium to feel it float and coast on sweet winds.

I have never been afraid take the straw, spin it into gold. I will call Rumpelstiltskin by his name and he will be my devotee.

2018 was not an easy year by any means, but it was the same 365 days that marked the year for everyone else, and I will not be ungrateful that I spent most of it in good spirits, with my wits about me and my heart full.

Immediate future plans:

A road trip to see the sexy sexies Interpol who are legends in my book. A high school friend of mine is going with me and we will see them twice in February. After two nights of dark and lusty tunes, we will be going to see Mexican rock gods Caifanes.

In other words, 2019 will be a continuation of living my best 16 year old life.

As I will it, so mote it be.

The taste of blood and sugar

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Tonight I leave you
Supposed kings, in tragic cahoots, children
Rats vile, scoundrels, shameless
This city is filled with cowards, dust and cactus
There is no more need to shower lights upon you and your weak brethren
The joy you feel deep in your sty is something I cannot change
No price I can pay in cash
or kneeled before you
will give me back what you took
I must ascend from the ashes
Standing strong
With my resignation
Void of confession
Reeking of your failure
And fear
Remember that women like me were born with a sovereign nation between their legs
And though I may have kneeled before
I bow now to no one
No man in this miserable place has made me come
Running
The exit is so close
The road here was perfect
Joyful and sorrowful
The taste of blood and sugar mixed merrily
Perfectly
But I’ve got to be going
Opportunity knocks but once
And spoiled pigs never grow tired of demanding attention
That ship has sailed and the vein has collapsed
Tonight I leave
You had your chance
To prove you were something better than a man child
My independence arrived
And I have decided to never to look back.

 

Stitching a picture together 

It’s been legit ages since I’ve posted. What can I tell you? That I got a promotion at work? A new car? That I heckled a piece of shit comedian so badly that he lost his mind on stage, and I was proud of myself? That I’ve been demonstrating against horrible, evil people? Or that I’m done with my first degree and am planning my next big move?

Yes. All these things are true. 

But I’ve just traveled the better part of 1,000 miles in the past two days and I’m spent. 

Come back and sit a spell. I’ve got lots of stories to tell you. 

For now, please enjoy this picture of me this weekend with the nicest cat with the most toes. 

I’m on the threshold of greatness, girl. 

My maternal grandmother only finished 4th grade. My paternal grandmother wasn’t allowed to go to school because her father said all she would do in school is learn how to write letters to her boyfriend.

I took the same basic algebra class three times. I’m neither proud nor ashamed of it. It just is. Third time’s the charm and today I finally passed it with the help and encouragement of an incredible old school math teacher and my crew cheering me on.

Special shout out to my friend Richie in Mexico who would help me via What’s App with my homework. Technology is amazing!


(Also, an indescribable amount of tea that made me a gold member at Starbucks. I appreciate the kind baristas, and their peach tranquility. Thanks!)

I struggled miserably with this class all three times mostly because it didn’t come organically to me. I would open the book, have to really work hard to make sense of the soup of letter, numbers, signs and lines and want to go to sleep.

This is lame, but true. If it’s not fun or I’m not good at it, I just get sleepy and want to pursue other things, for example a nap. Is that normal?

I’m one class away from finishing my associates degree. This, in the grand scheme of things is minute, but in this moment is monumental. I am the work of generations of women who were denied vote, voice, power and presence. I am the dream of every woman who bled for me, that came before me, beloved, repressed or otherwise. I am the prayer of my immigrant father, the darling granddaughter to my everloving grandmother Hortencia, the prized Hope Diamond of my mother Esther.

I’m not perfect, my roads far from linear timelines. I’m constantly late, but am still never convinced I’m not perfectly in sync with another clock.

Tiny crumbs have lead me to the first course of success. I’m starving for it. I shall have everything I want now, and nothing will stop me.

Barron Trump is an anchor baby. 

So people were tweeting mean things about Trumps youngest son, which TBH weren’t even that mean. Things like, he is super pale (he is, so what?) and he looks like he would rather be playing Candy Crush than be at the inauguration (then again, many of us would have rather been playing Candy Crush than living through his father being inaugurated…) so what is mean about that?


 I feel like people don’t know what mean is. You know what’s mean? Someone calling you an anchor baby. I’ve been called an anchor baby. Oh, you don’t know what an anchor baby is? 

So then, by this definition, I wouldn’t be an anchor baby, as my mother was born and raised here in the US but people have still used the term on me as my father is from Mexico.

 That said, in these days that have been filled with racism, homophobia, Islamaphobia, bigotry, misogyny and every other kind of hatred you can think of, I have been thinking- I may not be an anchor baby, but Not My President Trump’s youngest child Barron IS indeed, by this definition, an anchor baby. 

Trump doesn’t love anchor babies.
I’m just saying, if he can call them anchor babies, I can call his crotch dropping an anchor baby BECAUSE HE IS. 

Petty in pink, signing out.