The Sensibilities of Time

Yes.

It has been nine months.

No, I did not have a child.

I've never actually thought of my absence in those terms and it's strange now to consider that idea. My tokophobia aside- it's a good thought to revisit in order to battle procrastination. In my mind I'm still stuck in July, but the idea of being able to conceive and give birth to a tiny human being in the same reference of time now only makes me feel slightly incompetent and lazy. Think of all the piles of words I could have been nurturing in that same space. In that same vicinity of nurturing soon-to-be-mothers.

That's not to say I've been huddled up watching Law and Order SVU marathons for 273 days straight (although I'd be a liar if I didn't admit I was becoming dangerously close to that number). In nine months I've gone through just as many jobs and (probably) just as many failed romances. I've battled through a flood and have been sleeping in make-shift homes (a.k.a. office floors) for the last six months. I've fought off tonsillitis four separate times and am currently working on healing my first sprained ankle. I've traveled to seven separate states and to five different countries (two of them for the first time). I've turned a different age. I'm finishing up my second semester of the MFA (creative writing) graduate program at CCNY. What else did I leave out?

It doesn't matter. It's been a tough few months. It's been tough ever since I left my adventure abroad to return to America. That was in the winter of 2012. But that's often the way it goes, doesn't it?

Sometimes...often...I spend too much time battling the most epic of guilt trips over not accomplishing as much as I know I am either capable of or as much that I feel (or know) I am suppose to be doing within my lifespan. Yes, on paper it looks like I've been a cluster-fuck of busyness and my terrible health these past few months can attest to how I've maxed out my capacity for living the way I have been...but I am a stubborn person with a much-too-aware mindset and I have been trained to be this beast of a warrior. Or at least that's what I tell myself. I need to reclaim my thoughts. I need to DO. What I end up doing though is tripping over raised lips in the cement. I'm looking high to the sky and instead I keep falling on my face. Oftentimes literally.

I've been busy trying to live, yes.
I've been busy trying to find the right space I'm suppose to be in, yes.
I've been busy trying to not feel guilty about not being as busy as I'm 'suppose' to be, yes.
I've been busy trying to feel okay with what it is I am, who it is I am, and who it is people think I am, yes. I've been busy.

I've been spending many evenings hiding in places.
I've been spending many evenings biding time until the sun rises.
I've been spending many evenings in different places not called home.

When I do venture off to the places that were once called home I look at the ideas I've had written down on post-it notes. I look at the reminders I have left for myself. They sit by quietly informing no one of future projects. I look at all of my unfinished work.

In the midst of all of these half-written ideas, projects, paintings, drawings, and assignments there is this one image that is looming over amongst all of the others. It is the only thing of mine that appears to be complete.

A Tribal Bird?

                                                                                               
I would estimate that I was about eleven or twelve when this piece was created judging from the archaic cursive of my signature. Perhaps even younger. There is no title. There is no prompt written off to the side (Assignment: Draw Your Nightmare!). There are no clues to help specify if this was a product of a rainy day at home or if it was from an elementary art class. I have no recollection of this piece, but it is clear that it is a product of my imagination.

It fascinates me. It is a strange feeling to come into contact, after many years, with a small piece of yourself now long forgotten. If somebody had handed me this image and said "Look, I made this back when I was six years old!" I probably wouldn't fight them on the issue. Who am I to refute somebody's claims of ownership? Without my signature how would I know if it was truly mine?

I'll title it now as Tribal Bird because something about this piece appears derived from some imaginary tribal clan. 

I think of the Rainforest.
 Of Africa.
 Of small cannibalistic islands.

I was obsessed with these images as a child. I wanted to swing from treetops. I wanted to explore the depths of caves. I wanted to climb up high peaks until the oxygen ran out. I craved the unfamiliar. I don't particularly recall a fascination with birds per se and I'm not even sure if what I was attempting to create was bird-influenced...but, the name Tribal Bird seems to work.

In examining Tribal Bird I was inspired to examine another piece of artwork. It is the only other piece not hidden underneath boxes of papers. It is also, like Tribal Bird, in plain sight. In scanning the front side of this new piece I discovered a hidden drawing on the backside. I had forgotten that this even existed on the other side of the paper.

An Invisible Bird?

                                                                       
I faintly recall this draft. About five or six years ago I was inspired to start creating things again. I wanted to draw, paint, collage. I wanted to do it all and I knew if I were to ever branch away from my typical templates of lines and triangles I would have to start practicing. I wanted to draw an owl, but instead created this. Frustrated at not being able to map out on paper what I had so clearly envisioned in my imagination I quickly gave up and started a new draft on the other side.

Looking at this now I don't particularly mind it. I'd go as far to say that this is, in fact, a complete creation. Something about it has a strange and masculine aura. His personality seems hard-headed and stubborn. He seems to personify what I recalled feeling when trying to create him.

And again, this fascination with the winged creatures of flight escapes me. I do not recall the source of inspiration. I've never considered myself a bird person. 

On the other side of Invisible Bird was this.

A Time Bird?

I began by wanting to draw the profile of the owl I was still inspired to depict. Quickly the lack of my abilities began to show and, again, I grew frustrated. I decided to stick with what I knew. I decided to stick with what I felt comfortable with.

Lines and angles.
Triangles and squares.

I said to myself 'FUCK THE DETAILS. I just want to paint.' As much as I wanted to break the rules, experiment, and mess up while learning something new I was still resistant to actually making the first step towards that process. I didn't want to waste my efforts. I grew lethargic and put the drawing away for a night.

I returned to the piece on my second session wanting to complete the filling in of colors. I wanted to fill in all of the white space. I started to add the maroon and gold. My hand grew tired and I put the piece away again for a night.

The next time I returned to my make-shift owl I was already over the entire project. It felt as if it wasn't working for me. In a frustrated panic I wrote TIME on the bottom. It seemed that time kept getting the best of me. I was aware that I was allowing time to beat me down. I was too aware of it. I felt as if there wasn't enough time to become better at this game. There wasn't enough time to paint this creation. There wasn't enough time to complete it. Why would I think that I could?

I was going to paint the background green. I began paying close attention to each brush stroke and I noticed that each brush stroke just did not feel good enough. It all just felt like a waste of time. I was micromanaging an assignment that was suppose to be loose and expressive, but instead of relaxing I gave myself a guilt trip for not focusing on my brush strokes when I was eight years old. I placed the painting to the side of my desk. I would catch up on some sleep and pick up from where I left off on another day. I'd continue when I didn't feel so uptight.

But that day never did come. It sat in the same spot for the next five or six years.

Examining it now I am left with the the same feeling as when I look at Invisible Bird. I wouldn't necessarily mind finishing what I originally had in mind...but something about Time Bird feels complete to me now. It has this almost dark humor surrounding it.

Of course the face won't get completed. 
Of course the green background will abruptly end before it can properly fill in the blank spaces. 
Of course. 

Because that's how time works. We don't get to choose how time will work for us at every moment in our lives. We can only try our best. And while I remember that I had different intentions when I began the owl project I believe I can now look at this finished product and feel satisfied that that may be as complete as it will ever get. I still created something out of nothing. It doesn't have to be perfect angles. It doesn't have to be composed of the perfect brush stroke.

Perhaps that's why Tribal Bird ended up getting fully colored in.

Now, to say I have issues coping with unreasonable guilt is an understatement. It is a feeling and a lifestyle I've been grappling with since I could think...since I could streamline timelines of memories.

But perhaps when I was younger I still had the strong sensibility that I would grow out of that cycle of regret. Perhaps I was hopeful that I could defeat my weaknesses. Perhaps back then I was working alongside Time instead of against it.

But it doesn't matter. All of those creations are still products of myself. So, if it takes me nine months to write 2,000 words or if it takes me two hours to write 2,000 words it is all still okay. This I need to remember. Sure, when I am at my peak of productivity I feel the loss of all of those wasted days, months, and years of when I was too caught up into myself to even pick up a pen, but to not acknowledge the words, drawings, and creations I am able to compose (albeit tiny into themselves) would be a far greater disservice. I need to remember that.

I forget that despite the lack of plays, short stories, novels, blog entries, etc, etc to my name I still am composing. I easily write twenty page e-mails in underneath an hour to anybody who will listen (or read). And sometimes I receive an overwhelming response to my words when I do. Recently, as a reminder to myself, I began writing down key critiques from others to myself in regards to my penned (or rather typed) words. I don't often sleep in that space where they are hanging anymore but when I do visit I now have to face a door full of reminders informing me that I need to stop living in fear of myself. I need to stop living in doubt of myself. I need to just be alive and to be okay.

And sometimes those reminders are all that I need.

"Don't think you're not a writer- I have a novels worth of words from you. It seems you're often in doubt of your abilities. Just reminding you that you have nothing to worry about." -M.S.

As Dreams Are: The Commissioner of Clouds

Tonight I will be participating in the first Tribes Summer Reading Series dedicated to emerging writers. It is the first of its sort for A Gathering of The Tribes, an arts and cultural organization, as well as for myself. It will be my first time reading my own work out loud.


Seven minutes. 


Each reader is allotted seven minutes. It is the perfect amount of time for a newbie like myself. Yet, I am still nervous. Common insecurities like 


               'who am I to request seven minutes of an audiences' precious time?!' 


                                                                 or 


        'other qualified poets and writers will be critiquing every syllable and every word of mine'

begin to run rampant in the streets of my mind. I flip back and forth between
         
                                      'It's only seven minutes! What is wrong with you!'


                                                                   to


                                  'Dear God! It's seven whole minutes. What was I thinking?' 


to the embarrassed realization that I have allowed fear to hinder me from participating in small events such as this. I have been invited to poetry readings before and always, at the last second, have backed out. My nerves, my mind, become a bit out of control. I have that terrible feeling that


                                      I AM JUST NOT THERE YET 


and I trick myself into thinking that the elusive feeling of belonging, owning, and readiness will be mine one day. 


But those feelings never do come. Or if they do they only make guest appearances. They so desperately try to remind me that I need to push through. Everyone must push through. 


The Cycle Repeats.  


Stuck. Eager to become unstuck. Stuck again.


And then last night...I had this dream. 


****

Time limits.


Time crunches. 


Time is running out. 


A room with many halls. Many doors. The color palette switches from an iridescence gold to a matte white. 


I am running. 


I give myself an extra two hours to make it to my own reading. I will be reading a story about a dream I had once. There are windows in the hallway. It is very bright where I am but there are no hanging lights. I can see the grimy cityscape flickering as outlines every ten seconds when I pass by a window. 


I keep running and the lights dim. 


When I arrive to my destination it is empty. Half-filled wine glasses. Cookie crumbs on plastic plates. It is dark. Nobody is here.


                                               But I gave myself two extra hours. 


I check my phone and see many messages. Messages from friends who said they'd support me. 


"You are on first."
                          "Where are you?"
                                                 "You can read last."
                                                                            "Where are you?"
                                                                                                   "Don't be scared, please come."


I call my friend. He is a poet.

"You didn't show," he says. 
"I am still coming. I will be there. I am here...I think?" I tell him. 
"You didn't show," he repeats. "Were you scared?"
"No," I say. "I am confused. I have been trying to get here for four hours. I do not know why I am late."
"Everybody thought you'd be here."
"Are they mad?"
"They were waiting for you."
"But it was only seven minutes."
"You have to leave now."
"To where?"
"Go to your reading."


And then I remember that this is a dream. 


"I don't want to be late for my own reading," I say to him. 
"Remember to leave," he says. 


I am running. There are multitudes of floors. There are bodies in doorways. I am being chased by individuals employed by the government? 


A square room. 


A large gold diorama is placed in the center of the room. There is a girl. A poet with red hair. I've only met her twice in real life. I am aware of this but before I can ask her what she is doing in my dream she smiles at me. 


"Where were you today?" she asks me.


I take a seat next to her. I look at the gold diorama. There are only cards inside. 


"I can't do this," I admit to her. 
"Yes you can."
"No. You. Him. Everybody is a poet. But I am not." 
"Of course you are. Anybody can be a poet. They are just words. Put your words together. What are your words, Crystal?"


I open my mouth...but nothing comes out. 


I reach into the gold diorama and pick up a card.


"Is this your card?" I ask her. 
"It is," she answers.


The title 


                                 COMMISSIONER


is written in gold against the white card stock. 


I chuckle. "The word 'commissioner' makes everything sound elite."
"It is just a word. Put your words together," she repeats.
"Don't you see that I can't? You all are Commissioners. You all are Poets. You are all Something."
"Yes, we are all Commissioners and Poets. But so are you. Just try."
Exasperated, I scream. "Fine!"


I stare at the business card. I shake my head. "Commissioner of... Clouds," trickles out of my mouth unexpectedly. I look back at her. I feel silly. 
Her green eyes open wide. "Yes," she says. "Go on."
"Commissioner of Clouds," I repeat and already a sense of awareness seeps in. "Commissioner of Souls?" I whisper. 
"See..." She pushes on.
"We are all Commissioners, yes?"
"Yes," she answers.
"Even him?" I point to the doorway.
"Yes."
"Even you?"
"Yes."
"All of those bodies in the doorways?"
"Yes."
"Commissioner of Dreams!" I scream. "Yes, this is the type of poet I think I am. This is the type of Commissioner that I am."
"Good," she smiles. "You are now a Commissioner. Like all of us. Don't you see how easy and natural it is for you?"
"Have I always been a Commissioner?" I question.
"Of course you have. But now you have officially been granted the Commissioner of Clouds. You are Somebody. Own it."


I point to the gold diorama and there is a man sitting inside. 
A friend. 
A poet. 


"You are a Commissioner?"
"I am," he answers.
"I am a Commissioner also!"
"I've heard."


The two of them stare at me. 
"Remember to go to your reading tonight," they say to me.
"There is still time?" I ask.
"Yes."
"I will leave early. I will be there."
"Go," they say. 


"Go," they repeat. 


"Go."


****

As Dreams Are: The Kitten and The Boulder

I am standing in a large room.

No. It is not a room. It is more than that.

A building?

Yes. An entire building.

It is the type of building that has layers.

Floors.

Levels.

It is tall. I can see myself from above and I look incredibly small. I can see the entire building from above. I can look through the walls and examine the space as if it were a blueprint. I feel as if something lives here. The space is massive. It is massive enough for a leader of a nation to call home.  

The walls are sandy. It has an Arizona tint. The atmosphere is a slightly burnt orange. The colors remind me that I should feel hot. 

                                                   But I am neutral. I feel nothing.

The building is a large corporation. Similar to a Walmart or a Costco. It is a large supermarket for your everyday needs. I am one of many; stocking shelves that rise with no end in sight.

The products.

Ceaseless.

There is no ceiling. There are only escalators and they only go up.

I ride an escalator to what I believe is the top floor.  It is time for me to leave. To go home. I don’t remember working very long, but I have the sense that I have just spent a lot of time in this building. I run into my father and step-mother. They have a kitten in their hands.

“We just found it. You must hold onto her and deliver it to your sister. Hide it,” my father says.

They are very eager to pass the kitten down to me. I don’t understand why I must hold onto the kitten since we are going to end up at the same place eventually. We will end up home. 

I agree to take the kitten. I smile as it fits into the palm of my hand. It is silent and small. Black and white. Luckily, I have a large knapsack and she fits perfectly inside.

I walk across a large glass ballroom where all of the cars for the employees are parked. It is an enormous square plot. A giant used car sales lot. I find my car and it looks as if it will be impossible to move.

I am inside, behind the wheel. I throw my knapsack behind me. In mid-throw I remember the kitten, but when I search for her I realize she is gone.

                                                              Did she fall out?

                                                        Hide it. Hide it. Hide it. 

I hear these words. I panic that whomever I am supposed to be protecting the kitten from will find it.

I run across the lot and retrace my steps. I see in the distance a large crowd.

Commotion.

People wearing black shirts.

My kitten must be there. Crowds always gather around a kitten.

Black cats and kittens scatter immediately once I begin sifting through the sea of people. My kitten is not there.

                                                                    Crack

A rumbling from above.

I look up and I understand why I never could see the ceiling before. The roof has been replaced by a mountain. The summit is indistinguishable because it is that high.

                                                                      The Himalayas

                                                                            Everest

                                                                             Nepal

                                                                             Japan

                                                                              Fuji

The base is hazy. Rust and sepia. Wisterias somehow have planted themselves amongst the rocks and grass. They fail to climb to the peak.

A dusty clay-like boulder detaches itself from the hidden tip. It happens so fast and before I know it chaos breaks out. The boulder is rolling quickly. It is suspended in midair. I am not sure where to go. The boulder is on a mission to destroy.

                                                                            People

                                                                           Running

                                                                        Everywhere

The boulder knocks through people.

Squishes.

Rolls flat.

It is a bowling ball and we are the pins.

Strike.

It crushes the vehicles. I watch from afar as it flattens my car.

                                                                            Snap

I never noticed the wires before. The boulder has detached metal wires from their post and they are now whipping throughout the air.

           

A man with sandy brown hair, brown eyes looks at me from across the room. I am reminded again of the recently frightening gaze men seem to penetrate me with in my dreams.

“I have a splitting headache,” he screams at me from across the chaotic crowd.

“I have a splitting headache,” he repeats.

A group of three runs in between us.

It is loud.

It is so very loud.

I think back to the kitten and wonder where it is. 

Is it safe?

Before I can go anywhere or say anything another wire snaps and whips through the sandy brown-haired man. It slices through him. His body falls apart vertically. Into thirds. Evenly spaced pieces. He slinks to the ground. His heart is in pieces but his head is partially intact.

I am standing next to him. His face, from his chin to his eyes, is sliced apart but his brain, his skull cracked open like an eggshell, is still as one. His eyes. Slowly blinking. I watch him breathing.

“I have a splitting headache,” he says once again. His eyes. Never leaving mine. He never stops watching me. He never removes his gaze.

                                                               And now it is quiet.

There are still thousands of people running for escalators and elevators. They are all searching for a place to retreat to. They are all searching for a way to get away from the mountain. Running away from the boulder. Sprinting from the wires. They can’t find a way to lower ground. But it is quiet now. I cannot hear them screaming. I cannot hear them yelling out for lost family.

I think back to the kitten. I think back to when the boulder crushed my car.

If I had never lost the kitten then I would have been inside when the boulder crushed my car.

           

There is no way I would have survived. This realization makes me feel uneasy. I am appreciative for the kitten.

                                                                         Panic 

Just the tiniest change in events could have altered everything. I feel as if I will be stuck forever feeling as the woman who beat death by a second.

                                                  And then everything is different.

I am back at the beginning, but it feels slightly off. I am still me. It occurs to me I am living in an alternative timeline.

I am back at the beginning. I am back stocking the never-ending vertical shelves. I am back with a kitten in my knapsack. I walk to my car in the lot of in-tact, packed-in vehicles. The kitten is in my lap. Before I can start the ignition a spherical shadow is looming behind me. I see the mountain in my rearview mirror. I never noticed I had parked at the base of a 30,000 foot mountain.

I see the boulder. It is heading straight for me.

                                                                        Déjà vu.

This is the timeline where the kitten never left. This is how this short-lived life plays out.

I stare at the kitten and I am angry. I do not understand why my life is so heavily determined on such a small object.

                                                                        Darkness.

I am back at the beginning.  Restart. The kitten has left. The boulder has never reached me. Wires snap, flailing left instead of right. The boulder rolling, careening right instead of left.

“I have a splitting headache,” the man screams out over the hysterical mass. A wire snaps through him horizontally instead of vertically. He falls apart again, still in thirds. His eggshell skull exposes his now barely functioning muscle.

The amount of timelines are endless. I fear that I may never wake up. I am worried it may soon be my turn to fall apart into thirds. I panic for when my splitting headache may be too much. I do not know how to escape this cycle.

                                                                               It is loud

                                                                              The cycle

                                                                              It repeats

                                                                                It ends

                                                                               It begins

                                                                   It repeats all over again

I am angry for thinking about the kitten. I fear that my thoughts have instigated this repetitive sequence. How does it end? How to make it end? I want this dream to end.

But it doesn’t.

And then… everything is hazy.

And then…everything washes out to yellow.

                                                                     And then…it is quiet.

"Are You My Father? Then How Am I Your Grandmother?!" How Telemundo Made Me Feel Strangely Accomplished

For the length of 2011 and a month into 2012 I had the privilege of living and working as a volunteer English teacher in The Republic of Georgia. As to be expected with any international traveling there were challenges and cultural differences to overcome. How to properly refuse excessive marriage proposals or how to respectfully decline a fifth glass of wine were only a few of the How-To skills I picked up in a country abundant with oxymorons. One How-To skill I managed to borderline master was how to stay clear of engrossing myself into the drama of Spanish Telenovela's. 


I understand the soap opera's exaggerated worldwide appeal, but the steadfast determination Georgian women held to their 'stories' caught me off guard. It wasn't unlike the determination you may find with a housewife and her own daytime 'stories.' I was surprised to find that women in Georgia were looking for the same nonsensical drama in their TV sets as most women in America were also searching for. (Honestly, I was also surprised that most homes in Georgia had at least one television set.) In a way it made a lot of sense. In a country where a sexual revolution had yet to break free it made sense that Georgian women (and sometimes men) would cling onto their TV sets waiting to find out whether it was the muscle-clad businessman Carlos or the oily-haired farm boy Jorge that impregnated the innocent yet feisty Sonya. It was a cheap way to obtain all of the sexual drama so obviously lacking in a typical Georgian women's life. Telenovela's were exotic. 


It could be early or late. At home with my host-mother, fifteen minutes across town with my grandmother, or across the dirt road at my neighbors home. If I entered a room and a 'story' was on the television I would be instructed to join in and watch the fictional drama unfold. I usually did not mind since it always concluded with tea and chocolate. Not an awful set-up. 


I'd watch as five different Enrique Iglesias lookalikes would run laps around the scantily-clad Beauty chanting promises of fortune and happiness. She was almost always in tears. The tears would almost always cue the dramatic music. I could barely contain my laughter and eye-rolling. 


A huge family secret was just exposed, Beauty (or Sonya or...[insert generic name]) would break down hysterically, the weepy violins would begin playing...and commercial break. The first time I attempted to watch an episode with selected members of my host-family I thought it was a joke and I laughed. I was the only one in stitches. The others were stuck on deciphering the dialogue (the Spanish dialogue was still in-tact and at a medium volume while Georgian dialogue, dubbed over the Spanish, rang clear. It was common to hear both languages at the same time) and intentions of every character involved that they could not see through the hilarious nature of the ridiculous premise. I could only allow myself to sit for ten minutes of each episode before excusing myself to catch up on some reading, take a walk, or play with the stray dogs in the street. But it was at least an amusing ten minutes of watching both the Spanish and Georgians handle their dramatic love lives (or lack thereof). 


The only Georgian female I knew who wasn't sucked into the kaleidoscopic-like world of Telemundo broadcasting was my 15 year old host-sister Linda. She would comment on occasion how much she detested the Telenovela's and how frustrating it was to watch so much crying. 


"Everybody is always crying!" Linda would scoff. "Stupid girls!" 


Yes, Linda was a smart one. 


It was common for our television in the home to always be on. Every five minutes a commercial advertising a new serial of "Telemundo Presenta" would chime through the walls into the bedroom I shared with Linda. A deep-set voice would explain in Georgian the plot of next week's episode and end suddenly and dramatically with the words "TELEMUNDO PRESENTA!"


Eventually as Linda's English skills increased so did her level of humor, sarcasm, and wit. It was our tradition to sit in the kitchen late at night and eat sweets or drink a cup of hot chocolate. We were as silly as two girls could be at late hours consuming a bucket of sugar. 


"Linda, could you hand me a napkin?"
"No," she smiled at me.
"No?"
She shook her head.
I slammed my hand on the table. "Young lady! I am your father and you must do what I tell you to do!"
"Are you my father?!" She whipped her hair to the side and stared at me dead in the eyes. "THEN HOW AM I YOUR GRANDMOTHER?!"
"Wait, what?"
"TELEMUNDO PRESENTA! (Dun Dun Dun)"


It was the first time she Telemundo Presenta-ed me. 


"Oh, that's some good stuff," I said. "I'd watch that episode. Is there a lot of crying?"
"Of course, Gogo.* [Georgian for 'girl.'] She is his grandmother. There has to be a lot of crying."


Every now and then Linda would catch me off guard and run into our room screaming various one-liners:


"Quick, Gogo! A goat has escaped!"
"Wait, what?" 
"TELEMUNDO PRESENTA!"


                                                                 or


"My father has killed someone! But he was never my father! He was my sister!"
"Wait, huh?"
"TELEMUNDO PRESENTA!"


Eventually you could end any conversation with a "Telemundo Presenta!" 


One night Linda approached me with a proposition. 


"We should film Telemundo Presenta. I want to remember this when you are gone."
"That sounds like a great idea. What should it be about?"
"I have a story. Can you write down my words?"
"Of course."


And this is what she had me write down:

(I saw you in the garden! Don't you deny it!)

 (I just could not tell you what I wanted to tell you...)

(And our father is our brother!)

"Wait, so I was kissing my brother in the garden then?"
"It does not matter," Linda waved her hands in the air. "That was so long ago. Nobody will remember."
"All right, if you say so. This is your Telemundo."


After a couple of takes and one interruption from Meri, Linda's mother (it was after Midnight...), wondering what all of the screaming was about we finally got our 'picture.' It was also Linda's idea to set the alarm on her telephone so it would appear that the two-timing Alejandro was calling her. She's one for details. 

(Telemundo Presenta: Secret of Relationship)

It has been about three months since I've been back home in America. Looking at my papers and videos from Georgia and especially from this one night with Linda I am struck with a thought. Perhaps enough time has passed that I can now look at certain people, events, and moments objectively, but I was impressed with the level of creativity Linda had put into this tiny production. Eleven months prior to when this was filmed Linda knew very basic English. Words like "far" and "close" escaped her. After watching this I had this realization that I had a hand in helping this young girl build up enough English vocabulary, structure, and wit. All within a year. It left me feeling rather accomplished. 


It was quite easy to feel as if I wasn't accomplishing a whole lot in the classroom due to weather, school, and/or common structure restrictions, but when I look back on this little gem I am reminded that I did serve a purpose. And Telemundo had a strange way of helping me along to this realization. It's like that Albert Einstein quote (because no entry would be complete without a sappy quote!):


    "It is the supreme art of the teacher to awaken joy in creative expression and knowledge."


Yes, I suppose that's true.

As Dreams Are: The Man

I fell asleep. 

An unnamed city. It did not look familiar. But I knew the way home. It must have been Spring because I was wearing my light trench coat and I wasn't cold. It was night time but it wasn't dark. I was on the phone with a man. He was in the theater business. We decided phoning would be easier than skyping. The streets had the criss-crossed cobblestone patterns you find in old cities. 

There were bright colors on the low rise buildings. I noticed that there weren't many cars. A few people stood around on the sidewalk; outside of their shops. A few buildings were having work done and I stayed on the road because I recalled a friend once expressing fear from walking underneath the scaffolding. 


The blur of colors: blue, orange, black. 


I talked to Daniel on the phone and he gave me advice about the steps needed to take to enter into the theater business. He made me laugh. We talked as if we had been friends for a long time and for a moment I worried that I had confused him for my other good friend Daniel. 


I was aware I was speaking loudly. I could not hear him. There may have been music or construction work happening in the distance. It was hard to hear. 


"Can you repeat that," I repeated but he only spoke in low, soft tones. My wandering led me from the close-quartered city streets to an open space. I could see to the horizon: to the left, to the right and ahead.

The streets were wide and it had that feeling as if it was a street that should be off-limits to women wandering around at late hours, but that could just be hindsight. There were a few lit buildings at the end of the road. To the right was a field. A very large field and it was obvious that grass had just started to grow. On the field was a large abandoned brick building with broken windows. 

It was very similar to the buildings in the town I had lived in in Georgia. I was still on the phone. I was speaking louder to compensate for Daniel's quietness. He asked me if I wanted to meet him in person. To talk. I hesitated. I was confused, as I often am, about what would develop between us. 'Must keep things at bay,' I felt. Before I could answer a very tall Man, traces of Asian roots, khaki's, a white undershirt approached me. He had a dark car parked by the field at the end of the street. Things felt open. I did not feel threatened. He did not say anything but motioned with his hands, wavering his palms above the road. 


"I'm sorry, would you like me to be a little more quiet?" I asked him. 


He nodded and his eyes appeared to radiate a 'thank you.' I could feel Daniel waiting for an answer from me. I began to speak, to begin explaining my delay. "There is a Man here but it is okay. I am too loud," I wanted to say. But before I could...

The Man slapped me. My phone was in my right hand, I kept it on. I stared at it hoping Daniel would hear this and save me. The Man's eyes were fixated on me. He said things I could not remember. He mentioned rape and I recalled in my dream the previous dreams I have had recently where the men announced upfront that they were going to rape me. I usually keep silent in my dreams but recently I have been loud. I have kicked. I have screamed. 

I yell "Help."

My perspective changes as I imagine Daniel on the phone listening to the words of the Man, to my cries and screams, and I hope he contacts somebody. I know though that he won't. I feel as if he may think it is a joke. He may assume that he does not know my location so really how could he help? My voice is hoarse and I see a short man with dark round sunglasses, slightly balding, a green tattered shirt approach us. I ask him for help as the Man is on top of me and the green-shirt man looks at me and shakes his head 'no.' He looks disgusted. I get the impression that these two men know one another. The Man appears to be embarrassed. 


The streets feel very empty and very dark. It is quiet. The Man disappears. I don't remember how I got away. I run down the wide street and enter one of the abandoned buildings. There is an elevator inside and I run in. I think to myself "I must be in Georgia and there are only a handful of Asian men in Georgia." In the elevator is my friend Christopher who lived in a village near me in Georgia. He is getting ready for his flight back to America and he has a baby in his hands. 


"Let's take a photo together," he asks me and I receive a weird feeling that if I do we will get married and I don't want to play these games anymore. 


I ask him what one should do if she was attacked. He says 'no such things could happen here.' I ask him 'if I were attacked by a foreigner would it be easier to track him down?' and he does not answer. 


The Man, the attacker, enters the elevator and I jump. I make noise. I tell Christopher that it is the Man but he does not listen. The Man leaves. 


The elevator stops on the floor that is designated for flights but it looks very similar to Grand Central Station or a similar train yard from the 1940's but with a slight modern twist. There is grey. There are metal walls and very sharp angles. I follow Christopher into a room where his host family is and I ask again where I can find police officers to report an event. He does not listen. I leave to walk and I find guide books to the city. I keep entering different floors with receptionist desks and a faceless blond lady. Nobody can point me in the direction where the cops are. Nobody can help me. I look through windows and I see movie theaters. A lot of empty seats with a few people facing away from me. They are wearing blue vests with white writing but I can not make out what it says. There are people on a stage and they are preparing for a presentation. 


I re-enter the room where Christopher is and he has the baby still. I tell him that my attack was real but when he and his host sister ask if I was raped I do not know what to say. I can not remember. I am unsure. I tell them I think he was Asian and they insist it will be easy to find him since there are no Asian men in Georgia. Christopher takes me into a different room where there will be a movie playing. It is an old movie house and he still has the baby in his hands. He introduces me to a very large man and I fear that he is actually one of the dark fog monsters that always seem to track me down in my dreams. Christopher gives me the baby to hold and he says that we will have a family one day and the child cries. 

I am in a room of a big house. There are many levels and I think to myself that this may actually be a ship and it is going to sink soon. There are men everywhere. I can not see them but I can feel them. Every time I enter a room trying to find a way out I hear laughter. I am reminded of Christopher and I feel guilty for leaving him. I am reminded of the Man and I feel guilty that I may have lied. I think about how I probably will never get a job with Daniel in the theater business because he heard me on the phone and he will never be able to look at me the same way again.


I am broken. 


The house is bright. It is open with a lot of white space. I can hear a teacher. He sounds like a teacher and I think maybe it is a drama teacher of mine and he is testing me. I do not feel the surge of fear or worry and in a strange way I miss it because it is what I know. 


I am quiet here and I am confused. I think about the eyes of the Man and his power. People are running in and out, but nobody listens to my story.