youve come full circle and now youre free

ive made the separation, he says, laying next to me in bed, his chest against my side, one hand holding mine and i feel defeated because this means im lagging behind, i havent fully separated and i thought i had. im surprised its so easy to hear him say.

if i had i would have made my flight back to santiago. i wouldnt be here thinking this was something to fight for, id have realized there was no longer a struggle, no longer a fight.

he says, we need to have a serious talk about this, words no one wants to hear and i can feel him in the darkness, brace himself, exhausted, (hes thought something through for once), im sorry im being so blunt, he continues, his hands still holding mine, but i stop him, remind him, this is how it has to be now, you have to say what you mean, i just dont know how you can mean it when you say it that way.

i dont cry for long or very hard, just tears that make a quick escape and are gone, wiped clean and absorbed into his sheets which smell heavily slept in but not just by him and its unnerving.

you still taste like beeswax, he had said, smiling, (my heart breaking) over drinks at the corner bar we had gone to my last night in BA back in april, what i didnt know would be our last night together, and i cant help think of when we used to smell like that, our kisses. the tin of burts bees he had given me on the ride to the airport in february, 7am and raining, youll need this, he had said. and i had, i used it all the time and it never seemed to get empty, to disappear, and i used to think it was magic, like us, filling up and keeping me safe.
when we broke up i set it in the sun on my desk, in the window, let it get buried in my abalone shell under jewelry and coins from all over south america. i tried to forget about it, about him, that smell, i let it go rotten in the sun and somehow that seemed appropriate too.

i finally got to touch you. something i have been thinking about for months, wanted to do so badly some nights my own skin ached and i scratched at my arms and struggled with the sheets and sweat your name in tiny beads down my back. i felt for the first time what it was to long for someone, my body felt that word for months. so many days i thought of what it would be like to see you and then there you were and it hurt to be near you. stomach churning, skin pricked up, eyes burning everytime they met yours, not longer than a few seconds at a time. it hurt to be near you, that was all i had thought about and now i just wanted to run. run. run.

my last day in buenos aires, i go to the zoo and holucaust museum while i wait for my bus back to santiago, the only two things i can think of that are more depressing than leaving my ex boy on the streets of a city we were last in together when we were still in love. i try to get distracted, feel sorry for the animals, try really hard to feel upset at the pictures of people, entire families, with such looks of desperation but i cant and i feel selfish which makes it all worse. i sit in the botanical gardens by myself and cry, big gasping hollow loud sobs until my chest aches, people stare and i just keep taking pictures of cats.

how is this my life, i keep asking myself? how did it all go away so fast? is the question i couldnt bring myself to ask. how did it just slip away?
i know i couldnt have done anything differently although i sure whould have tried if i knew, if i thought it would have made a difference or change his mind. its hard to tell its the end until it is, and then its just the end and its terribly sad.


the last night you had put a pillow on my lap, layed your head on it and slept. i ran my fingers through your hair, which is long now, longer than ive ever seen it, and i pressed my palm over your forehead, scratched your neck, massaged your temples and it was such a small, seemingly insignificant thing but it was so meaningful to me. how many nights had we layed there, just like that, how much did i love to touch you, to watch you sleep and smile and curl up closer to me. the ease in which two people who really know each other can just be, just be with each other is enough to break me. i pulled my hand back and went back to my book. you only stirred slightly before falling back to sleep and i didnt touch you again until morning.


i leave him again on some street corner in buenos aires but its so very different this time. i dont cry because im so desperately sad without him, or because i dont want to leave, or because i cant wait to see him again, because i love him so much i cant stand to be apart, or because i think what we have is so special and amazing and i cant live without it. i cry because i know it will be the last time i do this, the last time i leave him in BA, that this is where that love stays. i walk away and i turn myself off, my heart just snaps shut and everything inside of me changes.

i'll never forget anything, hes telling me, hands on each of my shoulders and the wind whips around my face and im grateful for sunglasses and the street traffic distraction as he searches for something better to say and there is nothing, its so terrible, were just memories now, were just old apartments and kisses and promises and stories well tell to other people. things well always remember but never feel again, things, that after time, just become things, spaces to be filled up by new memories, new people and so many things well most likely forget and it seems its already begun.

you used to say forever, remember that?

i can smell the strawberries from here

today i have a meeting with the grants and loans guys at chiles tourism, parks and recreation department to show them my photographs. i was nervous and sweating and sticking to the sleek white stools trying to keep my legs closed while peeling them up off in painful rips every couple minutes, that slow stick that makes noise and reminds you that while leather looks nice, its not always practical. its hard not to bite my nails and mess with my hair, which is still wet from swimming in the pool earlier at leos house, theres nothing better than swimming at 10am, he had said, grinning. im distracted today, everyone wants to know what happens next and im not sure what to say, "i dont know" doesnt seem appropriate. everyone wants me to know, like how could i not? if anything, these past two months have presented more options, things i never knew were available to me, things i never knew i wanted and so i cant chose, i hardly know which way is south, which way is north (that night j had turned me in the kitchen and said, no, this way is california and i just stared at him, tequila big blue blurry eyes, no way, no way i kept saying and he put his hands on top of mine and stretched my arms up out to my sides, north, south, slowly turning me around, eyes closed, see, see how different that feels, north, south). i can hardly distinguish what has been a dream and what has been reality, the lines so terribly inconsistent.
its too cold in the office and everyones staring at me, im underdressed, of course, my tattoos showing, bra straps hanging out and dress too short, mouth too big. im trying come up with a better excuse for why i dont have any photos to show them than they were stolen. robbed. that the house we stayed in, our little haven, first working toilets and a baby with chubby arms that used to fall asleep on my chest in the early evenings, and music, and thick mattresses, that little safe place where i first felt pangs of trust in another person, where i felt i had no choice, that these people were all i had, that i had finally been put in the right place, that maybe, eventually my heart would heal. how could i tell them that house had been robbed, broken into and trashed one night we went out for karaoke, stumbling in laughing, my arm around s's waist, pulling his shirt tight balled up in my sweaty fists, cheeks red, my feet aching but happy and how f had started to cry, all the baby clothes were gone too, and the mattresses we slept on sliced down the middle, big jagged knife cuts like you see in the movies through all the blankets we shared, cutting us right in half, thats how it felt anyway.
thats what this meeting is about you know, my photography, my plan, my story and now what do i have to show for myself? because i wish i had something more than the rocks im carrying around, the scratches on my palms, the short attention span, the desire to keep moving, the ache under the arches of my feet, the way my knees give out sometimes when i stand up, the dizzying memories, the hazy dream of it all. i wish i had more to show you, i want to tell them, believe me, everythings gone, all those photos, even the the rolls i developed in someones makeshift darkroom on chiloe, all those beautiful black and whites, all saved for the one, but its gone too, because i left it with him, the day i left, boat riding literally into the sunset and him waving frantically, if not desperately for me as i left the shore. i didnt cry, it wasnt a painful goodbye, but one i knew would come eventually and so i braced myself for it, talked about it incesantly, when i leave, when i leave. but i could tell it was difficult for him, and so it made it hard to be the one leaving, the one ending things, even though there was nothing beginning enough to end, not on my part anyway, i always told him that when he lingered too long over a sentence, when he took too many photos of me, when he asked me to dance and the song was always slow. its hard to ever feel truly sad about leaving someone when you still feel like youre the one who's been left. it gets easier really, to distance yourself, to live in the moment, to look at greetings like goodbyes. i had taken that particular role of film the night of the full moon festival. i had no idea whether the film would come out or not, if i had the right settings, angle, shot, photography was always more of your thing than mine, i was just playing around, it was too beautiful not to try. the photos came out distorted with light and water spots, blinked with sand. you could make out shapes of faces and outlines of trees or a bright smile in the background, a fire, the ocean, but they were a mess to a person who didnt take them. i thought them fantastically haunting and strange, full of heat and motion. the one i gave him, the only one i could bare to part with i took while we were running and all you can see if the outline of his head and his arm leading back to my outstretched one, so that we made one long pale line, connected and then foot fulls of sand swirled up as we flew to the ocean, to the ocean and the whole picture is an explosion really, except for that one long line that someone would probably never guess was a photographer and her subject, holding hands.
i gave it to him because i didnt want it, i never wanted to see it or him again. its not rude its just the truth, i told you i was being honest.
i never thought all the pictures would be gone though, i looked at them every night and tucked them safely away, i couldnt wait to show everyone, show you what i had done, what i had made. ive thought about trying to contact him, please send me that print, i would say, but he would think it means something and i dont even know his last name anyway. you dont go calling back for things you dont want, you know, you leave them if you want to leave them, you let them settle and rest and recover, alone.
the rocks ive been carrying around in my pocket i havent washed, the dirt comes off onto my palms and makes my hands red, pools at the bottom of my purse and scratches the surface of phones and compacts. im still waiting, theyre 30 minutes behind and im getting more and more fidgety, trying to form in my head a good excuse, ive got another meeting, a lunch thing, something came up can we reschedule? when my hand moves over folded up pieces of paper in a pocket of a purse i forgot i had. i hardly have to look to see what it is, i can tell by the yellow lined paper and the tears in your handwriting, addresses and words scrawled into the rips and i scramble to find more but theres only the two and how is it, months and months later, that now, in this cold office waiting for a meeting i dont deserve to have, using a purse ive worn countless times before and hardly thinking of you at all, do i find little pieces of paper you had drawn on, on that glass table in our rented apartment in buenos aires, the address of the church we went to on easter, the names and phone numbers of david and the cell he let you borrow, basco's address and the number of my editor in the states, your last name, drawn in cursive, and something i cant make out, ink faded and yellow cigarette torn, how is it that today, of all days, these show up and i hadnt noticed them before? i dont know whether to smile or cry, ive stopped believing that everything needs to be a sign for something so i dont freak out, i just use the back of one of them, the one with the least writing and write, i had to go and my number, leave it on the front desk with a girl whos teeth make me uneasy and walk out the front door.
its time to go.

winter, summer; spring, fall

he says, we're somewhere in between seasons, over the phone, his voice sounds so close, i havent heard it in so long and my mind spins off and i am three months ago and i could slip back into this too easily, i think, and it scares me so much it straightens me out. i look at the bed ive slept in for six months alone and i hear that catch in his voice, that confusion, that bluntness, and it all floods back, how badly ive been hurt, how many times i wanted him to call and he didnt and this one call wont make everything right, nothing will ever be the same as it was, so yes, we are stuck somewhere between seasons, and i am torn between listening to my head and feeling immensely with my heart.

but now i want to see him, i want to talk face to face, i want to be able to change his mind, just one more time. just once. c'mon, wouldnt that be fun?

o says be careful, d says, cuidado, and n just looks at me like his own heart felt just a tiny bit of the break mine felt, and so, in any language, in my own recent knowledge, i know better this time. i shut my computer and i walk away. time to go drink chicha in the park, relish in the sun with my friends, c'mon afton says, its a nice day, and take advantage, of this, this wild wild life.

adam says, live your life as if your waging war with death, or something like that, and it makes me glow. i have fought my way out of this cold winter, clawed at the walls i put up around me, that are there now for protection but not from isolation, i have pulled myself out of that dark place, ive learned to swim again.

book work

if i could bottle this breeze i would, it is the lightest most comforting, invigorating feeling, something that shouldnt even really be talked about or written down, but felt, because there are really no words. for me, this is a break through. for me, today, i lay in the sun and get a sun burn, get hot, feel alive, feel like, maybe im not in some country so far away from home, but maybe, just maybe, this country is strong enough to hold me, to allow me to make a home in it. or maybe im tough enough to try, to put some roots down, to stop acting like im running, because right now, i dont have anywhere in particular to run to.
i spend the day writing on the book and its hard work. im going somewhere that i thought i was outside of, some place i thought i had lived enough since, loved and fucked and learned enough since that i could look at it objectively but it is hard work. it is bringing me back to that person that i was, some of the hardest times i ever had in SF and i am not there, not physically, but mentally, im remembering and im embarrassed in a way, ashamed, disgusted even some times, that i was so cruel, that the world made me that way, that i lived so recklessly, that i wasnt learning. and then i notice that i AM looking at it objectively, i am different now, i can see how i was living as different than i am living now, and its not any place that i want to go back to. those dark dark depressing nights are being carved out, im giving them a place and however difficult it might be to admit them, to write about them and make them more real than i ever let them be, might do just what i want it to. free me from a lot of guilt, allow me to really live how i want to, and let other people know that they are not alone on those streets. san francisco is a glorious place, but i know at any given time there were many other people who were leaving their house as soon as the liquor stores opened up just to refuel, just too avoid the comedown. i know i wasnt the only one. but im writing about it now and its fucking hard.

so i play songs that are new, and stare out at santiago and think about how many of the people im writing about arent in my life anymore for whatever reason. i think about a time when i will write about right now, when i will be able to, if ever, write about how i got here, how i moved here, what im doing now, how incredibly high and low i feel here. that will be for the next book, i guess...lets hope i get there. lets hope this current work doesnt drag me down. its difficult, no, its nearly impossible, to stay present when you are sorting through the past. but its the work i must do right now. its calling to me and its coming and its been waiting to burst out and so i must give it a home. i know, more than anyone, how important that home is.

if only

excuse me, lunatic
i think ive made a
mistake
if i only i had
got on that return flight back
to SF
would we be sitting sweetly
with bells on our ankles
little heart bubbles
around our heads
no,
its doubtful my choices would
have affected yours

you really thought you were
doing the right
thing, like theres
rules for this
and you deserved a shoulder
slap
this isn't a hit and
run, oakland hills, its a
hit and love
complications, conversation
youre so good at hiding, planning
and backtracking

tell me about your broken
heart, ill
salivate over someone elses
mess
admit it
no one knows what's about to happen
except that fear is passing
and im getting out
of bed now
look out

you make me bend my
rules, question my
teachers textbook
saw you looking at my school
uniform
lets
get
explicit
black and white pawns
i joke, unconvincingly, he will just be
another move i make

but i can see our future, if not
just the first
kiss, how sincere i will be
(because ill mean it)
until i cant be anymore, because i
cant care anymore
and a perfect person then
played
wanders the streets again, tired, tired
love
it is a choice, right?

if you think you are sinking, you probably are

i crawl from the bedsheets, literally, scoot my body to the edge of the bed and tumble over, glad the floor isnt far, the fall, not long enough, not enough to hurt anyway. my limbs have gone limp, the energy i have in comparison to how quickly my heart beats is a miracle, a juxtaposition, an absolute opposition. how this happens every couple weeks, the hibernation, the confusion of day and night, the mixing of sad and feeling nothing at all is beyond me. i dont blame it on you anymore. maybe ive been like this all along and you were just this little distraction for a while. but in truth, really, as sun sets and sky blasts pink and curious and questionable over santa lucia, i dont think that this is how life is supposed to be. i dont think i am supposed to feel like this, there is supposed to be more.

you tell me the feeling is mutual, as an affirmation, your handwriting so familiar i can taste your fingers, feel them, rough palms and wide nails, sweet between fingers, that small canopy collection of the day. i remember the way your words curled in and out of love letters left on the kitchen table and it doesnt seem fair that same hand can write such contrasting words, can suck the energy right out of them. the hand that delivered love letters has turned ambiguous. how is that possible? the feeling is mutual does not in fact mean the feeling is mutual. it is a poor way of saying i dont feel the same way at all but im too much of a pussy to admit it. that i dont really know what i want at all. that im too scared to admit that to you, i dont really want to hurt you, but i know, you know (the feeling is mutual), that you will. you just cant help it right now.

ill tell you, i understand. and hope i said it with enough conviction, enough familiarity, that you believe it, as long as were playing this game.

i cant help but be surprised at these things because i never would have thought my life would have changed so drastically. you cant really predict a storm, its force. i was like this city without a disaster plan and no one came to help. but i know you, i know you so well, that its silly to hope, its silly to expect anything, its silly to think this time will be different. you are too proud, too selfish, too caught up to tell me even if the feelings were mutual, id never know it. if i wanted anything to change, anything to happen, id have to do it my self. and im afraid, my darling, that yes, the feelings are mutual, because now im too proud, too selfish, too caught up. and if i was feeling anything for you, youd never know.

bay to break(her)

i kind of miss a god damn baby, or youre

lookin good, ma, all

this spanish, banish, preciosa, guapa

thick whispered wachita like a

drive-by

got me all mixed up

its not my native tongue and that shits

offensive, weon

you have a way of making me feel dirty

fresh from the shower, and it takes

a lot

to make me squirm

careful what you say to me

im not your baby

i dont respond well to beautiful

if its not said

right

when its an expression of something

you dont know the meaning of

im getting wrinkles here

this special crease above my forehead, wearing

my age now

i dont even know im doing it until

i get home, through front doors, past concierge

hola, hola, buenas

elevator

low light, yellow light, mirror reflection

face relaxation and im getting hard

here

i dont wear your sunglasses anymore (id rather squint, thanks)

and im getting wrinkles

here

stressed out here, i dont apologize for bitch

here

but keep questioning why you make me act that way

(isnt this why we learn swear words and expletives in new languages first, and why they stick?)

it doesnt seem to matter

here

7am commute is the same as dark streets of the centro (aggressive, an assault)

alleys

back bars

clubs and dont you know its not safe here?

just another venue, another opportunity, another way to say

dontyoueverforasecondthinkyoucanrelax

come on now baby, you know i wasnt

always this way

cachai?

if you dont expect anything then you will never be disappointed.

i try to explain this to people but its like they wont listen. i am, in no way, what you want.

tonight i tell my guy friends whats up. theyre like, youre a girl, whats the deal, what am i doing wrong, why is this girl acting this way? why is she so upset? and im like, okay, ill tell you, but do you promise to listen? promise? really? put your beer down, ill tell you.

its simple really. we all want something. boy, girl, man, woman, child, mother, father, everything you can possibly be in between. we all want something. we are all craving some relationship that we can count on, something steady and substantial. we all desire to be desired. but on a more basic level, we all need validation, we all need to be needed, as much as you tell yourself you dont, you do. so remember, when you tell that girl, you dont want a relationship think about why youre testing yourself, why youre lending your time, quit wasting someone elses time. and when she tells you, like she will, that shes not looking for that either, that she just wants to please, shes willing, even for that moment, if not just for that moment, to get what she wants. shell worry about tomorrow, tomorrow. both these boys are 30 and tell me theyve never been in love. i ask them to define the difference between liking someone a lot and love, what is the difference, how does it feel? and they dont know, and so i know they are telling the truth.

they ask about me, how many times have you been in love they say, what was it like, how did you know? what was the difference between loving that boy and liking him a lot? did you ever think about kissing someone else, they ask. and i tell them, that, that is the difference. when you love someone, your thoughts of kissing other people, of thinking other people are attractive doesnt go away. you dont become numb to the population. but the desire to act on it goes away. it literally leaves your body. i tell them, its not even about that. when youre in love, you cant imagine harming that person, you cant imagine, for even a second, doing something that would make them sad. when youre in love, that persons feelings weigh as heavily as your family, no, as your friends, as your blood, as your own. you are careful, no, you are immaculate. you dont tread lightly, you dont tread at all.

afterwards they are silent and i think ive said too much, i wonder, i begin to question what i actually believe love to be, and if i acted accordingly in the surreal, real, intense times that ive been in love. and finally, dejav says, shit, thats what im talking about, thats why i didnt tell that girl i loved her, i didnt feel that. and he looks at me differently, pours me his beer, and says, how old are you? have you really felt that?

i leave their house and walk the two blocks home that everyone calls dangerous at this time of night but i have the words now to stick up for myself and when some guy touches my hip as i pass by him i slam by with a clenched fist and a no me tocas weon and he looks and me is nervous and the people around me at the bus stop yell and cuss at him in spanish, dont touch her, leave her alone. when a guy calls me rubia, speaks to me in english, i say, yo vivo aca weon, soy chilena and flip him off, this shuts him up and im not scared. this city, this country, this time away, being without you, doesnt scare me anymore. it makes me think, it makes me write, and when i come home and think about the love ive felt, the love i feel, the way my life has been changed because of this love, the way i can describe it, it makes me feel lucky. if nothing else, i feel tough. i feel strong. i have knowledge. i know love.

and you cant take that away from me.

first and last

i like being in love and i miss it. for surely, there is no greater feeling than being in love. im not sure how you feel it, how you wear it, hold it, use it. and im not talking about falling in love, im not talking about that uncertainty, that reckless abandon at which two people who are falling in love disregard all rational and think only from their bodies, their quiet collections, primal, heady, disillusioned. im not talking about falling in love, falling in love is unsure. im talking about being in love, that, that is safe.

it is selfless, it is brave, it isnt scary, youre never afraid its going to go away. its sunday evenings, walking in the neighborhood with him and the dog, summer, the air has cooled, it smells of charcol and the day has settled on the back of his neck, the sweetest smell, a place you could make a home in. its been hours since your last shower and you wear the afternoon in your hair, behind your knees, on the high lifts of your cheekbones. as you walk you are so happy, breathing in that summer, that smell. he looks tired, but young, better than the first weeks you knew him, because you know him now, you know his smiles, his voice, the way his body tenses up when run your tongue over his ear, kiss the day off his neck. there is safety in that silence, in that night, that the next day will be similar, but better, one more day of that kind of love. people wait their whole lives for it, and i miss it.

without it, nothing is the same. its just a long, cold winter.

i dont want to be part of the problem

today i walk hard down the streets, with purpose, with errands to run, with thoughts, pushing me, moving me, literally picking up my feet for me and forcing me to walk, walk anywhere. walk hard.
i dont like what i see this morning so i cut my hair into some weird sort of mullet thing and i stare at myself for 20 minutes with the blow dryer going and try to make the hum inside my head equivalent to everything thats moving, stirring, vibrating millions of miles away. it feels that far away at least, but i know, we know, its closer than we think.
last night i tell my dad on the phone that we are exactly 5, 937 miles away from each other and his voice catches, thats further than i thought, he says and we are both silent on the phone, and im forever wondering how to bridge that gap. to put all those words and letters and feelings and time into a smaller container, to make the distance less, to get closer, to feel connected again.
the wondering will kill you, i remind myself as i make up stories in my head, dangerous stories, stories i cant possibly tell the ending to because i just. dont. know. those w's...the where, why, what, who, when are the problem i think. i cant make a story without knowing the answers to any of those, i shouldnt even try. the wondering will kill you, you know.
so we just dance, spiraling, falling, curling and wishing, until we are exhausted, our brain settles, that low hum, ears ringing and the distance is just noise, just time travel and finally, sleep.

add and subtract

it used to be infatuation
captivation is
strange sometimes
strawberry sunglasses
and i miss you

smell of redwoods and tomato
dirt, earthy, she says
like a book i read, underlined
i want to see you
at lunchtime
over a sandwich
you eat too fast, never
linger
ive learned to go
slow

lets be responsible
quit saying everything happens for
a reason, right
were not in charge
until we are

tight memorization
that clear mind of yours, after
rain predictions
some massive evening
a super summer sunset
don't forget to hold her close
just when you think
she's letting go

passover passenger, let
me teach you something
about regret
try taking photos while
riding bikes

to answer your question
what type of expiration
do we have?
don't ask me again
i want so many things
and those freckles, they
never quite
added up

no one calls, no one writes

everyday that city is slipping from my reach, holding less and less of the people i love and more things turn to memories, filed away, dont open until christmas, dusty, basement/attic boxes, curled photographs and brown edged books, letters, things, just things that im starting to feel less and less about.
afton says when youre not physically there you just dont exist and im finding that very true.

one day you were my best friend, the next day you were gone. you dont exist in my life anymore. we are strangers. i cant remember your smell, its faded from most of my clothes, too many nights needed to be washed out. i close my eyes under the shower head in the morning and wish myself back to that place but i cant, i cant, there is a block in my heart, some artery, the vessel that rode the blood, the thoughts of you, the vein that drove you directly through my body, in my skin, in me, has closed. im sorry, i wanted to keep it open but this is the only way i know how. its sad, i didnt feel it. i just woke up one morning and i couldnt feel you anymore. and i cried for hours. not over you, but of the loss, the way my body closed itself off without me knowing. how this will affect my future, how this dulls my eyes and my skin goes dry and i lose weight in funny places and in photos i look old, tired. the magic is gone. you dont call, you dont write.

im learning not to give up. im learning to not take things so personally. some people just arent good at this sort of thing and i understand that. i know its not my fault anymore. i know its not my fault everyones to busy to keep in touch. i just feel that hole in my heart that was open for san francisco, that was filled with all of you, i feel it closing every day. and jo told me that would happen, she warned me. i just didnt realize this is how it would feel. forceful, final and claustrophobic. that city isnt mine anymore. without an address, a home, not even a piece of clothing, not even a book lingers in a room, in a house in that city. ive got nothing there.

but here, in this stupid fucking city that i curse everyday for the ways it pushes me, stresses me out and makes me feel defeated i am making a home. im accumulating things, collecting books, clothes, papers, friends that in months i will leave behind for a new adventure. here, ive got all i own in one room, all my things could fit into two suitcases. i can live on much less, i am living on much much less. and while i think of you everyday, every single day, i dont think of making a home with you. i try not to get nostalgic about the way our clothes used to mingle together in the laundry on weekends, how i used to wash dishes after you made dinner, how we showered together, same shampoo, face wash, soap, toweled off and id wear your sweats in the mornings and make you eggs. that doesnt exist anymore. some girl is living in that apartment now and she never calls and never writes so i dont really know what to make of any of it.

ive stopped thinking about you san francisco. sometimes on the tv a show will come on set in SF and i just turn the channel. you were always so hard to live with, never gave anything back, you took me for granted really. and ive got a new city to live in now. one that might fuck with me, might make me cry, in fact ive cried more in the last couple months than i have in my whole life but it challenges me. i dont feel dead here...not anymore. winter will be over soon and im ready to come out of hibernation i think. this city is trying to wake me the fuck up.

dont get too busy for me. i still need you. i still want you in my life. so please, dont forget to write.

i cant bring you back with memories

nights like these im exhausted but cant sleep, hungover and water logged, anxious and sentimental. my skin growing hot every time i think of you, starting below my shoulders, up through my neck and behind my ears, its dizzying really, and i think of water, cool, rushing water, how i want to submerge myself, how i want that silence, that drone, that liquid buzz and when i come up for air, everything will feel better. everything will be how it was.

nights like these i think of watching you dress in the mornings from bed, one of my favorite things to do. i think of you naked, of your skin after a shower, of falling asleep while you worked in the other room, coming in hours later, sliding in next to me, the way my bed feels so unoccupied here, i still get in on the right side, try to take up as little room as possible before the emptiness is too much and i spread my arms and legs out to the four corners and hope that sleep will come, but it rarely does.

nights like these im reminded of those first few hours, first few days, that hollowness in my chest opens up and i cant breathe, i dont recognize myself in the mirror and i hardly speak all day. i want to turn my brain off but i cant bare it, the thinking of you, the not thinking of you.

nights like these i know i cant bring you back with memories. i cant begin to understand how my life changed so drastically in one day, in 12 hours. one night im calling you darling, lover, dear and the next i can hardly get your name out, i can hardly look myself in the mirror, i cant smile, i cant see straight. nights like these i want you to take back all those terrible words, i want to go back, move back, leave, jump ship, fly to you, beg, cry and scream and pound on your chest, make some drastic gesture, put all my cards on the table, be reckless, do something crazy, but i dont. it wouldnt change anything, nights like these dont change anything about the past, they move you forward, grudgingly, forward.

colors

today daniel and i go shopping for a new guitar, my birthday present to myself, and its a beautiful day, warm enough to walk without a sweater on and let my tattoo breathe. daniel is the ideal male specimen but i am emotionally bankrupt and he has a wonderful girlfriend so our friendship is completely platonic and easy. we walk the streets of san diego, go into every music store and try different guitars for hours. the silence is welcome and comfortable and he always opens doors for me and talks to me in this sort of brotherly way that makes me feel safe and so its a perfect afternoon.
we stop for sodas, a coke for me and a fanta for him and i tell him as we pass the plaza de san francisco that fanta has at least 12 cups of sugar in one can. he seems alarmed but not overwhelmingly so and we continue walking. the architecture in this part of the city is my favorite, old crumbling buildings and broken out diamond shaped windows, towering balconies and bullgonia flowers spilling through cracks in walks, chain link fences and like weeds running purple and scarlet. we walk past one of the oldest churches in chile, dating back to the 1600s and we both get quiet for a minute as we pass before he asks me some silly question and i half punch his shoulder on the crowded street, making him bump into a group of girls, who scowl then giggle and he spills fanta down his chin and we laugh.
we go to tip top, the most talked about cookie place in santiago, which ive never been to before. he says to me, im kind of starving, can we get a snack. and i laugh at the juxtaposition of those two words. he says why dont we go over to this place thats close by and buy a bunch of cookies. this strikes me as odd. i never eat cookies. theyre just not my thing. but here in santiago, people are crazy for cookies, even eating them for breakfast. at tip top it is insanely crowded and like most places in the centro you get a number and wait for it to be called. it is fairly efficient and extremely annoying, waiting for the little red lights to flash your number, giving you five seconds or less to reach them before they pass on to the next person. but waiting with daniel is pleasant, we stand outside on the street and people watch, its friday afternoon and people are getting of work, leaving early for the weekend, buying hats and scarves and hair pins from street vendors and we just sip our sodas in silence and watch. i feel like im 15 and waiting for something big to happen, something grand, but with that underlying feeling that things will stay just the same.
when our number is called we wait for our pound of cookies anxiously, they put an assortment in and you get what you get although daniel asks for extra of a thin crispy brandy kind and the lady hesitates before he smiles at her and she melts, like girls do around him and puts five more in the bag, all stuck together, warm and sticky sweet.
we walk a couple more blocks just eating cookies, they are so good and doughy and fresh that we begin singing songs to our cookies while crossing the street. love songs, silly elaborate songs to our afternoon treats as we cross streets with names that mean something to me. santa rosa, paris, san francisco, serena, benjamin vacuna and so on and so on.
by the time we get back to the first guitar store we have walked the centro up and down and its getting dark. i go to the post office to leave some mail, packaged nicely and with care and daniel appreciates my hand designed envelopes, says he never gets any mail and we decide to find pen pals, but not each other, people we dont already feel we know so much about.
at the music store i go back to the first guitar i tried. a bright blue steel string acoustic and its just calling to me. he says, i knew you wanted that one all along and i ask why he let me walk all over the city looking at other guitars when the one i wanted was the first one i saw. and he said, it was a beautiful day to look at guitars, just to make sure, this is the one you want. and besides, we wouldnt have had the cookies.
he is right, though, i think, as we head back to my house, sopapillas for dinner and palta and wine and i cant help thinking that we have to make this journey, we have to do many things, see many places, play many different guitars to know what is right. even if we knew from the start. because along the way, there will be familiar street names, a lot of laughter and of course, cookies.

goodnight moon

its been an emotional day. being sick makes me more sensitive, more nostalgic, more pained. literally my whole body aches. i cant stop thinking about your skin. about your smell, your laugh, your hands, the way you sleep. all these little details we know about each other.

today we talk like strangers because somehow that is what we have become. the way people lose themselves in each other is the same way people lose each other by themselves...over time.

it has been almost 3 months since i saw you last. an entire season has changed. and so have we.

endings

at night i count
my bones
and remember where
your body fit against
them
i move slowly over
hips and wrists
get caught on elbows and
neglected ribcage
linger over last i love yous
and try to imagine
what forever feels like
on the body
where is sits
and how it changes
with time

the last time you kissed me
was on a street corner
in buenos aires
outside a cab waiting to
take me to the airport
and i watched you grow small
turn the corner
your shoulders slumped
and it would have been
romantic
if it hadnt been the last time
if there were more kisses
more plane rides
more
just more

it would have been...

what would it have been?

pre-party

im sitting down to write every day, sitting down to work.
its the most ive ever written in my whole life and its not even that much and so im excited about what i am about to do. it feels like things are finally coming together, at least in one area of my life, things are working, things are flowing.
its different this time, im giving it my full attention, im trying, im actually making efforts, feeling disciplined and hungry and in turn my writing is twisting and moving and giving back to me. something great has changed inside of me and it feels like im writing from a new place now.
and its not just wine fueled, night fueled rants. its so much more than that. i cant really see where its going, im in it right now but im writing, writing writing through it.
yesterday i flooded our entire apartment and i felt so stupid and incompetent and now every sheet and towel and piece of clothing we own is hanging from every possible place, door, ledge to dry. in the afternoon, with the windows up, edges of sheets ive slept on flap in the breeze little little flags.
today is the last day of my 24th year and it is melancholy. i walk for hours around providencia trying to find a store i once went into in the first months i moved here and i take turns and back track and get on and off buses and i cant find it, its like it was never there.
every day i think of you. for different reasons now. its not a constant, throbbing, blinding thought but a dull ache, it comes in intense bursts, and it is more painful this way. because for a couple hours i was fine and then, BAM, ill see a shop with handmade hats, scarves and ties and realize i have no one to buy them for. and there you are again and i feel guilty and sad and angry at myself for everything, for the way that it is, for the way i cant fix anything, change anything. for how my life is still happening, still moving without you.
tomorrow is my birthday and it feels like such a big deal. a birthday of many firsts. not a single person that will come to my party has known me for more than 4 months, some not even four days, but they are my family now. they are making a party for me and want me to know that i am loved. as lonely as i felt today, walking the grey dirty hustling streets, i felt loved.
i feel it, all the way from here, wherever and whoever you are that is sending it, i feel it.
thank you.

premonitions

every tuesday and thursday salome and i go for cafe cortados, mine with sugar, hers with whole milk, at cafe haiti, a cafe con piernes and the girls all wear short, tight dresses and too much make up and no matter what time of day it is, the bar is always full of men in suits, cleaning ladies smoking cigarettes or smartly dressed ladies gossiping at a table in the corner. there are no seats, no stools, no booths. the idea is to have cafe, get in and get out. if you want to stay and linger over the ladies you have to order more cafe. and you have to stand.

she is so lovely and always treats me to cafe and one of these days i keep saying i will do something nice for her but my personal problems, lack of money, lack of sleep and general disregard for anyone elses feelings right now keep getting in the way.

we are discussing regret in our lesson right now and its almost too painful to bear. she's going through what sounds like a messy divorce and her daughter doesn't seem to be taking it too well.
and im here, going through whatever i am going through and i haven't told her about it. she keeps asking about my boyfriend in buenos aires and what he says and have i talked to him. and im too afraid of how nice shell be to me. of what shell do to make me feel better. i cant bare to see her face when i tell her, no, actually, its all over. and shell worry about me i know it. she will.

today she tells me she has premonitions in her dreams. that she saw her fathers death before he died, that she envisioned meeting me. that there was a man who would show up in her dreams and then one day she met him and he became her husband and in her dreams he ends up stabbing her in the stomach. she wonders out loud why she didn't see this before. why she didn't trust her instinct, why she didn't trust herself, why she trusted him.

this makes me start thinking. when did i give away all my power? all of my love to someone else and leave none for myself? how do we ever fully trust someone? people always let us down, i don't know why i was surprised this time. i don't know why or when i thought things felt different. why, every time you called me darling, i felt safe and so i gave it all away.

i ask her to have a premonition for me. to tell me my future. i want to know how this ends. to save myself from anything bad, to detour, to make changes so this goes the way that i want it to. because i THINK i know how i want it to end. but there really isn't anyway to know what the end looks like until you are there. and then it will just be the end.
she tells me i have to open my mind. that i have to will these thoughts, these questions into my dreams, to know my future is to dream it.

i want to cry at this. in her limited english she has just saved my life.

i try

i grudgingly get into bed with the heart underwear i bought for valentines day on...they are my last clean pair and i would rather sleep with them on then naked. naked means too much, too comfortable. too safe, too sure. too our bed, too many nights, too much.
i remember buying them and thinking they were so cute, how you would like them, how on valentines day i had come home drunk from mimosas with the crew, i was the only one with a boyfriend, a place to be, how i couldnt wait to shower, to put lotion on and then these underwear, these silly little white underwear with red hearts. how i had never cared about anything like this, how i had never had a chance to do anything like this. to live with someone, to keep things exciting, to be fun, to be silly, to be in love.
i remember when i packed to move, i packed so carefully i thought, i brought only things that would remind me of you. my favorite underwear, your plaid shirt you had given me to sell at a sun sale and i had kept, a sweatshirt i only wore at home, with you, underwear you loved to see me walk around the house in, shirts i had worn on important nights out, jackets that still smelled of your shoulders, your arms, things that still smelled of that apartment. i had packed carefully i thought, and now, and now. now i have no hoodies, i dont have enough socks, i didnt bring enough nice clothes, i only have leggings and all my nice shoes are in storage, mingled amongst your things, somewhere in some storage bin between sf and east bay.
now i just have things i can hardly look at, things i can hardly stand to have on my body.
but in reality, you are everywhere. its not just my clothes. it is music, it is food, its my words, it is everything. i cant tell a story without you in it.
in the book, i just keep trying to write everything before, because nothing now makes sense, but it all just keeps leading up to the months before i met you, to where my life really began.
this morning im washing dishes and something clicks. i will never wash dishes in that apartment again, with vito sunbathing on the deck and ghostland observatory or au revoir simone or tv on the radio playing in the background while you work. these things, these tiny little things that were my life, will never happen again. and it is heartbreaking. i had a life with someone.
and now, and now, that life is gone. so quickly, so immediate. i keep thinking there is something i could have done. i could have stayed, i should have tried harder.
but i know its not that, its not me. its not us, its not you. its not that city.
so i just keep washing the dishes until theyre all done. i wear these underwear to bed and i hate it. but i try to remember and forget at the same time and hope that i will see you in my dreams and that things will be different. i try to sleep. i try to keep things simple. i try to just let underwear be underwear and washing dishes be dishes and you be you and i try, mostly, to keep on keepin on.

im only sad for a little bit today

and then i turn off all those sad songs and sing new ones.

and pretend thats enough.

heat, heavy heat

the heat comes on in the apartment sometime in the second week of june, simultaneous with an immense feeling of internal cold, so i suppose it is just in time.

now, weeks later, i can wear just underwear and tank tops to bed, sleep with just the sheets on over my skin while looking at snow on the andes 30 miles away.

the heat comes up from the floor, the tiles, certain ones are hot, heated and we stretch out against them to collect the warmth in our bodies, like cats, looking out at the rain and thinking. somehow i think were all, for different reasons, trying to plan our escape.

except it would just be a move this time. im not running from anything here. i cant say that about many places and so in a way, this place is safe for me.

last night it rains so hard the front door to my apartment building shatters. an entire panel of glass just blown to bits. the concierge wears thick wool coat, mittens, hat and scarf and when we say buenos dias in the morning his breath puffs out in smokey white bursts. i feel badly that hours before i had been comfortably half naked smoking cigarettes on my couch with the window open.

walking to work i think of all the things im grateful for. i count them, on my fingers, and the list grows longer until by the time i reach the revolving doors at 750 huerfanos ive run out of limbs and i feel lucky. not happy, necessarily, but lucky. i feel today, like i can do anything.

that feeling is rare but imma run with it.

count your blessings friends, no really, count them.

whoever coined the term "taking the easy way out"

must have been on the other side, looking back. because im in it right now and i cant see clearly. i cant see any possible easy way out of this. not alive anyway.

tonight i take the metro home with nick, my sweet friend from wisconsin who has been invaluable the last two weeks, at far as getting me out of the house, shamelessly smoking and drinking and appreciating my bitterness. he also tells me how pretty i am, and loves to read my poetry and talk about the united states and all the things we miss. and he never tells me to be quiet. he always has time for me. basically he has become one of my closest friends, something i am lacking as of late and really really need.

we walk and talk along lota to the roundabout by los leones, one of my favorite walks, past the old wooden fish restaurant built like a boat, past the castana, that always smells of pan y dulces and i always look in longingly, and pain stakenly, remembering the desserts for breakfast we ate in buenos aires, and they sit, with their sugary glisten, untouched. i can never eat one again, just thinking about it makes me sick.

nick isnt afraid to speak english loudly in the metro, normally im so embarassed but we speak freely and complain about our jobs, about our expectations for this city that we had tried to not have, but have nonetheless. it seems we always talk about going home, especially as of late, and we both seem disappointed tonight, in life, in love, in cities, in ourselves?

today you ask me what do you want? it seems that everyone loves this question lately, as if everyday since i was able to speak i havent been thinking about me, myself, what I WANT. as babies we cry for what we want, we lack the communication skills to ask for it by name, as children and adolescents we lack the tact or social graces to ask for things correctly and so we demand our needs be met, but by the time we reach teenage years and adulthood we have all but become silent. we have been taught we cant demand for what we want, to ask politely, to wait our turn and in this backwards regression we lose our voice. we continue to desire, to want, to need, to dream, but our ability to ask for these things lessens, we get so used to being denied that we become fearful, we forget how to desire, how to demand, how to achieve. we learn that to get what we want we have to sacrifice things that we need and vice versa.

that there is nothing easy about this. that we are not infants, we are real grown up people, with real, big, grown up hearts (although often mine still throws tantrums) and we cannot simply cry out to be satisfied, we must find the words to ask, albeit politely, of the people we love for what we want. it is not such an easy question but i suppose the way to answer it, is, like we have always done, like i have always told you to do: prioritize.

make a list.

the thing you want the most should be at the top.
and then
and then
and then

i guess my question is where/if i fit on that list.
and then well go from there.

talking about what we wanted, with each other, under the covers of your bed, on the front steps of the opera building on van ness, over beers and pool at jacks, on a freeway drive, on a balcony in buenos aires, in tiny quiet whispers over thousands of miles before bed, in love letters, was always easy. for me, that was easy. i know, i know just what it is that i want.
that is not to say that my wants wont change. im sorry you dont know what you want. i know that must feel awful.

i wish i could remind you. i wish i didnt have to remind you.

the good (?) thing is, im not sure about anything anymore. not today, not tonight.

time to make another list.
it is the how. it is the work, it is this time, that we are in right now, that weve carved out to make shit happen.
but dont you see? how can the rest of it happen while forgetting how we got here?
i guess, right now, ahora, i am lucky to be here. to be able to make a new list. it will be a long one.
there are a lot of things i want.
there are a lot of things im too smart to forget.

on timing

the lights of after office are still burning, casting blues and greens and reds across the walls of my room here in the centro and i always know its wednesday when i fall asleep with cascades of colors and flashing lights. just another way to mark the time. except i dont know what im counting down for anymore.
afton and i dance on our rooftop to "empire state of mind" and talk about our old apartments and feel sad and miss the views of our respective cities while in the glaring lights of another. and its not fair, its not fair to miss something that isnt yours anymore, that you cant go back to but that you cant help missing anyway. and every song she plays has a memory, i cant listen to MGMT without thinking about you (but you, you are constant on my mind) and tegan and sara are off limits and so we give each other new songs, songs introduced to us by some boy in spanish, some girl on the subway, some party at some house on some night and we try to make new memories but mostly tonight, we try to forget. and then we have to enact our old rule of no more talking about the states because it just makes us restless, anxious, we just get quiet and thinking and start to spin and ive been pretty good the last couple days on staying grounding, on being present, on moving on.
this is where we live now. this is our life, however we got here, whoever made choices for us to bring us to some roof, together in some huge, sprawling, light filled city full of tiny colored boxes and hills with stautes of la virgen. however we got here, we are here and so we live it, we dance.
we dance until were too tired and climb back down, scaling the side of a wall while holding beers in your hand is not easy and then into our warm little apartment and i try to distract for a couple hours, for some time, try to write, write this that youre reading right now, because sleep will come, just not with a hurry, just not when i want it to. and so i sit back, because there are some things i cant control and some things i can. and sleep will come, and you will come, or not, when it wants to.

be honest, she says

after a disgruntled shopping experience where everyone stares at me and i buy juice and bread and palta and wonder where my appetite went, afton and i share a plate of greasy fries at a little typical chilean restaurant where the tv blasts chile's recent win over honduras and i get to thinking.
the people who say traveling abroad will be the most amazing experience of your life are usually the people who studied abroad, who traveled with money, who were unattached, who were running from something. they are usually not the people who chose to leave everything they love to live somewhere alone. who move somewhere under a certain impression, with expectations, with promise. because i feel like there would be such a different story. i want to hear about the hard parts. the scary parts. the long, long nights. the attempts at a new language, at new customs, new friends. i want to hear about when you fell apart, when you questioned everything, when the people who were supposed to be your family, your support turn their backs on you. i want to hear about how living abroad is the most difficult experience in the whole world. thats the story you never hear about. i guess ill just have to keep living it and let you know.
today there are riots in the street at 10am and i sit on my window seat and take photos and smoke cigarettes even though i shouldnt and i dont want to but i dont have any reason not to. i cant breathe anyway. the streets are littered with paper and carabineros throw tiny explosions, making popping sounds echo across the courtyard of the university and when i do finally leave the house, the sting of pepper spray makes me sneeze for blocks. i feel anxious and restless, i feel lonely and ugly and like someone i dont know.
today i had plans and they all fell through when tanks rolled down alameda and made it impossible to run any errands. and its cold, like really cold, and i dont have the proper clothes as usual and all i want to do is stay in my apartment and look at santiago from above, like a cat and plan my next move.
all my plans have been ruined and i cant bare to face the idea of having to make new ones that only include myself. i shouldnt have been so sure, so giving, i shouldnt have. i couldnt have helped it though.
in my classes i am teaching about regret and i try to tell this woman who is going through a divorce and has a 6 year old daughter what regret feels like, that its such a heavy word and when she asks for an example i want to say, where do i begin.
but i cant regret. i can only adjust, i can scour the past two years for where, when, why things went wrong. how all my previous choices led me here and what i would have done differently but it doesnt change anything. i am still living in some crazy city where french fries are a food group and my heart is broken. i dont see any way i could have escaped this. the choices i made were ones i stood behind at one point, i thought i had gotten so good at seeing clearly, at thinking with my head and my heart. and maybe thats your problem, maybe things got too confusing in one area or another and so you just chose. you just made a decision. i cant judge you for that. i can be angry though. and confused. and i can only hope that at some future point youre not sitting in some far away country counting all of your regrets. or maybe i hope you are. i dont know.
people say when you leave you will change, that you leave to go find yourself. but i just keep thinking about the changes here. how as of late i am becoming someone i cant look at in the mornings. someone i dont trust alone with myself at night. it has been a series of days of waiting, of being quiet, of staring out this goddamn window. and this is not to say that i am not living. i am fully packed every day. i am embracing everything, i am trying here, i really am, i am sitting with myself, i am learning, i am growing, i am changing. but i am resistant. i liked the girl in san francisco. most of the time.
shell be back, in phases, in stints.
right now shes looking out the window of a strange city that shes trying to make her own. alone.
and everyone says san francisco will always be there...but you said youd always be there for me too. you said you werent going anywhere...and well, i dont see you. are you there?
so maybe san francisco will sink into the sea while im gone. and maybe i couldnt care if that city burned to the ground. its dead for me...save a few monumental places, face and streets i kissed you on.
but if anything, this has been good for the writing. but people dont tell you that, no ones honest anymore. no one tells you how this will really be. no one tells the truth.

with love, from santiago

tonight i walk to work and its freezing, but the air quality is better, i can breathe and it has begun to rain. i wish for something on all the tiny drops i feel against my face. one, two, seven, fifteen and i count how many i feel in the time it takes me to get to los leones from providenca because its the first time i have felt anything, anything at all in five days.

i feel exhilarated and guilt ridden all at once. i don't want to feel any of this without you. life is richer with you.

but here we are. here I am.

pop pop

today feels like last night
just different shades of darkness
i sleep only a few hours
restless on my back sleep
and imagine you, where ever
you are, resting peacefully
sleeping with your mouth
half open
like a little bow

and this makes my stomach
churn
a mix of longing
and disbelief

sleep doesnt come

this room will be the death of me.

i was always so grateful to move before. every couple months was like flushing away the old, the bad, the sleepless nights (you can only count the panels in the ceiling, the cracks in the molding, the ribs under your flesh so many times) of some apartment, some home i couldnt live in anymore because of the memories it held of you. and now this place, this place i couldnt wait to show you ( i dreamed of sleeping beside you in this bed, of looking at the castle view from my window seat of showing you my writing desk, dont you understand?) this place has turned dangerous for me. at night i count car alarms and bottles breaking and i try to will you back.

now nothing exists. plans i had made, a life i had ahead of me, my dreams, because that is what they were, my dreams, are gone.

this does not swallow easily. i like to get what i want. what i am promised, i like to be given.

im spinning out of control up here, down here, in here.

(in my head, this country, this room)

and even here you are in everything. so intertwined with my life. little parts of ourselves had begun to cling together, had begun to flourish. i thought we had finally found our spring.

nothing is safe. not music. not food. not words. and especially not night. long, quiet night, i cant close my eyes because there you are. there is the life we arent living. there is everything we made.

we are driving in the rain from bodega after eating oysters out the back of your truck, jumping off a dock in cape cod at someones private beach, you drying off and getting dressed after a shower, over candle light last new years when we had the perfect meal, we toasted 2010, waking up and taking vito on walks, the smell of your skin, the night you said i love you and could barely get it out, its summer and bike rides and buenos aires and love notes and making you a tea was one of my favorite things to do, looking at you from across the room at a party and catching your eye, it was like we had a secret, it was the safest place to be. and then there is everything we havent done yet. its just floating around in my head. still there, still desired, mocking me, some cruel horrible joke. some secret garden and i cant get in.

it is life. it is LIFE. i cant believe you gave this up. everything else will continue, but you gave up love.

i take more pills. i pace my room. i go to the bathroom and stare. i try to write. i try to watch something. i try to go numb and then my body starts aching. i am literally in pain from being without you. my limbs arent my limbs. my skin hurts. my eyes burn. the missing of someone you love is difficult but the missing of someone you love who doesnt belong to you anymore is unbearable. no, no, thats too nice of a word.

it is hell.

speechless

saying any of this out loud
to anyone
would be too illicit
the biggest secret
the most profound
lie
blasphemous, really

saying it out loud to anyone
would make it true
im not ready
for this
truth
i have been hiding from it for awhile
dont you think?

ever my muse
my inspiration
a subject matter i am familiar with
but hadnt visited recently
because its so much easier to write about sad
when youre happy
when you have distance, that sadness
isnt yours

but it will never be easy
to write about you
in past tense, like
when you were mine

my favorite game

my sister says im going to be okay.

and i know shes right.

because ive played this game before, and no one wins and no one loses.

soon, it will just be something i talk about in the past tense, like a lesson i teach.

loved, lost, lived

or something like that.

espera, espera

the waiting makes me want to puke

"mal practica" featured on medusa's kitchen

thanks to everyone at medusa's kitchen for featuring my poem "mal practica"

its got special sentiment...even more now that im in south america and the flying to paraguay is imminent.

they really do great work over there, satisfying the need for poetry in the valley, sierra and surrounding areas.

xoxo
gkitten

mountain man

your tail lights are out
mountain man
bubbles and plums
(inside my head)
and for you -
ill give you a way to see
at night
a
letter from the road
from, hollywood
were living our dreams, right?
i want you to know
im not hiding, nothings hidden

i
used to worry about you on days like today
where i feel like each moment
youre slipping away
life here happens on
elevators
the in-between, the going to
the leaving
the baby conversations and polite gesture of
ladies first
a veterans
launch party
reminiscent of our feelings
and i don't worry about you anymore
because theres nothing i can do
from here

in the meantime, I'll be thinking of you
your gucci sweatshirt
your shark kitten soft grey tee, your
skin in bed on sunday
could bring me to tears, rain
riding your bike at night
through boroughs
and new york
a million miles away

playlist

corduroy animal
brother creeper
dissident daughter
footsteps
im still alive

our last kiss was
outside a taxi
i swear i heard lightening crash
my heart seal up
my lungs collapse
the oceans are a
little stranger
the longer i run

lost angeles, ill
forget about you
under my skin, that one night
only trip, kept
us run run running
rallying

we had to
jump fences
love like a sunset
if i ever feel better
lets make a home
make a countdown until
you see your girl again

if you ever feel better
your summer days
will make mine a little warmer
some 1901 honeymoon
where everything is
everything

in the photograph
he loves you
you don't feel like one of
those
ugly people
less like a zombie
and so being without him
makes you want to die

i buy umbrellas from
some rude boy at the metro
and with so much
trouble in the world
all these serious women
crying for love
needing a lullabye

im comfortably numb
without you, if not just a
rusted wheel
its nice to know you work well alone
theres no substitution
for your lips
those hands, those hands
paint stained, careful
landslide

where is here

why are we not able to see when we are actually living our dreams...why does it take someone else reminding us? why, once we get to where we always wanted to be do we change our route, do we want to immediately be somewhere else?

why cant the destination be realized...why are we consistently searching? and for what? for how long? forever? why do we always want more?

as terribly troubling as this is, i hope it never changes. i hope i never stop wondering when i will get somewhere even after i have already arrived.

im just waiting for you to get here too.

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great expectations

i didnt expect to come to chile and to be sitting in front of the computer half the day...with a horrible cold every three weeks and listening to sad songs on repeat. but thats what im doing, my eyes going blurry late into the night, early morning and i dont sleep anymore, im nocturnal in this night prowling city. if i wanted to do that i could have stayed in san francisco, i keep thinking.

last night b asks if im glad i did this, moved here, came to chile and i feel badly that i have been portraying myself wrong. them im so sad on the phone with him, that i cant seem to stop the missing from getting in the way of the living. because besides falling in love with him (which wasnt really a choice) this is the best thing ive ever done. i feel bad if i havent acted like it. i need to stop acting like such a wimp. but i cant help it really.

the sad songs sound the best.

tarot reader

every morning im unsubscribing myself from emails of things in san francisco, i cant bare to look at all the posts from daily candy and ticketmaster, clothing store sales and bar promotions. that is my old life and im trying to be very present now. im trying to look forward instead of back. its easier than you think when sprinkled in the middle of those emails i unsubscribe to are love letters from you. my future, mi futura, i read them over and over before i fall asleep, i am having an affair with my computer, i cant put it down. last night i cant even look at you on the screen i felt so overwhelmed, this piece of plastic is infuriating. it isnt you, i cant touch it, i cant hold it, and so once again, all we have are our words, written over cyberspace and sent, to some mailbox that doesnt really exist, all this heady business but my words, yours, they have never felt so real. i have never meant anything more.

one of my closest friends finally has his beautiful baby and i havent met her yet but she looks so perfect, i get goosebumps even thinking about her, about being able to love someone so much, the idea of having that baby come into your life when for so long you have been waiting for her, is exhilarating. i cant even imagine what it feels like to hold her for the first time, to think, you are finally here.

today i walk around looking through plaza de armas, down merced and monijitas, one of my favorite parts of the city, it is so busy and bustling and smells of food and chatter and it seems that no one ever works because they are always outside of buildings, on steps, in the streets, smoking cigarettes, having coffee, eating completos with friends. there is always something happening here. the light by the fish market changes in early afternoon and it hits me, it is fall here, my whole internal clock is off. but the light, its unmistakable. the season is changing, as if i couldnt tell my the cold tiles in the morning when i get up out of bed. my roommates and i run around the house, trying to keep warm, piling on blankets and sweatshirts and non of us are prepared, i buy three pairs of knit socks for us for only 2 luka and think of you on every street corner, dream of you is more like it, and what it will be like to see you again, hopefully somewhere warm.

que rapido

i used to love the excuse
that were all just too
young and stupid
that our mistakes, our heartaches
our thoughtlessness could be blamed
on youth
maybe we didnt know any better
but im starting to feel old lately
and ive been told
im very bright
so i stop making excuses
on a wednesday
ive run all out

i thought you said
you believed in magic
how do I tell you
i love you
as much as i do without
it losing meaning
because every time i say it
i mean it more
is that possible?


you insisted you knew me, that
i knew you better
than anyone else
and its dangerous
i need a tour guide, a
map, ive never been down
these streets before
but im not scared, if
thats what you
think

we were just
young and dumb
she likes to say on sundays
when we close the curtains
and avoid eye contact
and only talk abut the things that
dont need to wait for monday, to
breathe, to get a little
distance, to forget
the sting

im not sure when i stopped
pretending
when this all shook me awake, midnight
isnt a bedtime
its a phonecall
across from my building
a cultural center is going up, designed
by the same designer
as de young
and so im never that far
from home
from you,
and never that far from
pretending

sweet inspiration

remember the lightning?
there was lightening, wasn't there?
blowing holes
in our
galaxy
you just sat by the
window smoking cigarettes
smelling like great
oaks, steady, skin like
eyelets, finger read me
like some war wounded soldier, some
black bound word filled
journal
yeah, yeah, what you said

i love boxed wine

you took me to a ghost town
with some of the oldest mummies
in the world
where we both shut up
and felt how
dead
everything was

this is not a flirtation, i remind him
youre just
hot for teacher
i hate what I've become, he says
put me out of my misery
and im all dreamy, loose fitting clothing
and summer shoes

my voice gets a
bit bubbly
with all his oceanography
talk, his
wolf howls
i made three sets of copies,
of reality,
when we need to be brought down

we hooked up last friday and
now
he gives golden
eyed ultimatums
"i will not write back to you
until you
swallow your pride"
that is how lazy people talk, i remind him
you watch too
much tv

check mate

he sleeps and
i wonder if
like some reverse sea tide
i'm going out and he's going in
I want to print out all the times he's
said i love you
and tape it where we met

captivated
church goer
i miss you like crazy
you think you've got me all
mapped out
next move, check mate, transcribe
this, baby
im so slick and
its only my
second time

you talked about your sunglasses
like a bagged lunch
and i knew wed never fall in love
well say "were over it"
at half moon bay
ill end up taking you to the donut shop
on your birthday
where youll apologize for being such a nice guy
and ill nod, understanding

i cant promise i wont write poems
to my daughter, to the
nurse who fed my IV
at the clinic, the dark
haired boy at the bar who had nothing
to be sorry for
but thats because ill write poems
about anything
im writing one about
you right now, while you
read these words
put your eyes back in your head
and
close your mouth

i am now accepting intern applications

we met over three years ago
(pause for escalated CHEER )
i: dreamer of thunder
you: jaguar love dance party
we might be an unlikely match
but im prepared to blow you
away
heres some relationship advice:
people are strange sometimes

I think of you like
clean beach bonfires, great
body of secrets
infatuation makes me (literally) sick
take a chance, stop
wishing for
a
third encore
we have a sold out show every night

its easy
for some pretty girl to show up
wearing flats and tights
or heels and good hair, whatever it is
that you like
but don't forget, that
pretty girl is just
bad art
eventually shes just wasted space
a flyer to the opening
i use to write
telephone numbers
movie times
addresses
and poetry

my first rain

its my first rain in santiago and im thinking about all my firsts here. my first empanada, my first piscola, first foods, first time saying hello and asking directions in spanish when i get off the plane and im freaking out and the adreneline and fear and sleep loss and missing you are all pumping through me, mixing into something like bravery, something new for me. ive never felt this brave. and other firsts, sleeping in a hostel alone, reading a map, taking the subway, and small things that were once so easy are difficult feats i attack, hungrily, in another language, nonetheless. my first apartment here, my first friends, my first night out, my first clothing purchase, my first full conversation with someone i dont know. and then more painful, more delicate firsts, the ones you dont tell everyone when they ask how you are, because when people ask that theres only a few things they want to hear. that question is such a set up. like the first time you sob, the first time you genuinely feel the loss of your family as you watch a mother smooth back her daughters hair on the subway, a father hold his childs hands, sisters sharing an ice cream in the plaza, the first time you get angry, jealous, bitter at people for having friends, lives, lovers, the first time you lock yourself in the bathroom and stare at yourself in the mirror, who are you, youre thinking, who are you, the first time, well not the first time, you question every single move you have made, every choice chosen or not, and wonder how you got here, how youll get out alive, if you are ready for all this, the first time you doubt yourself, really doubt that youre good enough, that you deserve all this, the first time you doubt the people you love, will they really wait for you, and not wait for you, but do they really love you like they say, will they really follow through. the first time you felt redemption, you trusted someone new because you had to, because whether you like it or not, you need people, you have to find new people to need, to rely on, because sometimes you cant do it alone. the first time i realize this it is earth shattering. i cant do this all by myself.
all these firsts, all this newness i was so afraid of is slipping under the rug, under my belt, im filing it all away, to remember in the future when all these firsts seem so far away. but right now i am still in them, my first rain, the most clothes ive worn here in santiago since my arrival a whole month ago, my first whole day spent writing, spent working, my first day where i feel like i have a schedule, a purpose, my first day where i actually think i am going to make it. i talk to my mom on the phone this morning and i dont even get choked up, not even as im writing this, id kill for a cigarette but i dont feel like crying. she says i really hope you can stick it out, and i cut her off, im going to be fine mom. i can do this. and my voice doesnt even shake, for the first time i believe myself when i say it out loud.
today i can breathe better, there arent pangs in my chest, my breath doesnt rattle on the way up. my eyes are clear instead of puffy despite hardly sleeping last night, sometimes my thoughts get the best of me. my brain goes on and on, stories form and lines of poetry make themselves behind my eyes and im finally listening to myself when this happens and getting out of bed and writing it down...because that shit, those words that keep me awake, that i say i will remember when i wake up and never do, are some of the best things ive ever thought, ever written, and so theres a first, im following instinct, im doing things that are hard, that dont make any sense, at the time, im listening to myself, to the core of myself. im finding out a lot about who that girl really is.
its terrifying to do it without you. horrifying. but i can talk about you now without gasping, without shutting down, i can talk about you now, i couldnt even form your name for days. i never would chose to be without you, i wake up and you are the first thing i think about, no matter where my dreams took me, i wake up, and its eye flutter, breathe, light, smell, reaching across the bed, you, you, you and then the rest of it tumbles around, hints of where i am and what time it is. but you, you, you are the first thought, with all these firsts i am realizing how hard it is to be without my best friend. and so these firsts, however painful, are proving to toughen me up. my head is filling with different things in the morning. for example, this morning i woke up a story, this morning i woke up with words, a line, and then you floated in some minutes after that first cat streach across the blankets. you will always be with me, jigsawed into my skin and deep, deep in my heart.
im telling my mom on the phone last night, i knew it would be hard, i just didnt think it would be this hard and this morning, when i wake up warm, and cared for and clear headed and i smell the air coming in from my open window, for a few small small seconds between thinking of you and that hazy where i am morning moment, it smells like california, like ocean beach, like first rain in golden gate park, like rain on your deck, like my apartment on irving, like rain in jackets, like my dogs wet fur, like home. and i am happy, happy walking down these beautiful cobblestone streets, recognizing people and smiling, first glances and first times. the other night the girls and i talk about our first kisses, and afton says, yeah but there are always first kisses, first kisses in new cities, first kisses on monday, first kisses after not seeing someone for a long time. and we are all silent for a few minutes, thinking, and i think about this city and falling in love, and how it felt for me, how it feels for me, how like falling in love, this city is confusing and overwhelming and hurried and scary and beautiful and the moments you begin to feel safe, to feel that love reciprocated are unforgettable, are firsts you remember forever.

uneven pavement

today i call my dad and can barely get through the secretary answering without crying. she asks who it is and i say gabrielle and even my name sounds different outside of my head. i feel like i havent spoke in days. i dont trust my voice, my thoughts, my hands. i can hardly hold a cup, two hands to hold the bottle to my lips as i lay sideways, watch episodes of sex and the city over and over and over until i fall into some sweaty lucid sleep, im still dreaming of san francisco, waking up dissapointed. i keep falling asleep hoping ill wake up somewhere else. ive never felt this way before.
and im addicted to the internet, the connection, the emotion i cant let go of, i dont forget about you as easily as you forget about me. i finally get myself to unpack today, close my eyes and do it as fast as i can, shove my suitcase on the top shelf of the closet and slam the door, kick my shoes around the room, rip the curtains off the wall, im pissed off more than sad, lonely and angry more than anything, ive started talking to myself, talking to inantimate objects as though they are people. i dont see any way out of this. no real way. i dont see anything here for me. its all bleak and upsetting and if my body´s any indication, this place is literally making me sick.
you think im being dramatic, that im not trying hard enough. and fuck, maybe youre right. maybe im being weak and dependent but ive never been those before so cut me a fucking break, give me a little space to be that. i dont know what else to do right now. all the streets are uneven, patches of dirt poke through and even though its april and people are expecting the weather to turn i still keep saying its hot, like a surprise and thank goodness, because all i brought is summer clothes, all my shoes are fucked up and i keep stubbing my toes and breaking nails and im just falling apart all over the place, this city doesnt agree with me.
at the newspaper everyone loves me and praises me and thinks im soooo funny and i smile for them and try to tell them stories about argentina and what i write for them is only half of what really happened, is only half of what i felt there, of what i feel now, that other half is secret, just for me, is locked up somewhere becuase im too afraid to look at it right now. too afraid that if i think about you anymore i will absolutely explode. so i keep smiling and when i leave i try to listen to music as i walk home but everything, no, really, everything reminds me of you and so i risk the noise of the city for fear of throwning up on the corner of what the fuck am i doing here and pull yourself together.

miercoles

today is not as bad...but i feel horible. something is not right. night sweats, night mares, night isnt even night with all the lights and sounds...its just a deeper version of day.

but i talk to josie last night and her voice makes me feel better and we find silly things to laugh about and she doesnt feel a million miles away like she is...like all of you are.

but i am one day closer to you...and that helps a bit.

storm trooper

today i hate the smog, i hate the heat, i hate that my apartment is always noisy, yet somehow, under that drone of alameda, is the most silent white noise, that i could sit in for hours, like the quiet solo act of looking at split ends, or scrutinizing ones face. today is long and painfuly slow and stifling. i cannot. fucking. breathe. here.

i try to sleep but it wont come, last night i toss and turn for hours until the moon becomes the sun over santa lucia and i force myself to take a shower. its pointless, im sweaty the minute i get out, my makeup ruined the minute i finished. i am losing water, i cant retain moisture. everything hurts today. my head, my legs, my heart, even my hair on the back of my neck hurts, your necklace, too heavy on my chest. i even try calling people. i call friends and theyre not home, force myself to walk to his house and call up to his window and hes not there, i am one person in this middle of this fucking storm. that is what this city is today. a storm and no where feels safe.

id kill to go home. but i dont even know where that is anymore. the space i left in san francisco is closing behind me, i can feel it, i can see the edges browning and becoming freyed. i used to think that where ever you were was home, but i cant feel you out there, i cant touch you, i cant see it anymore. its too far away.

maybe none of this is what i wanted. maybe the girl i thought i was isnt real. maybe i never really wanted this big dream, to live on my own, to travel, to teach, to speak another language. maybe i dont want to live so big. at least not today, today id be happy riding my bicycle around town, eat fruit off a tree. sleeping in grass, i need to feel a little bit more simple today. everything is swirling around me and i hate this city today. and its not about you or them or work or writing or sex or missing someone or food or weather. its just about me and something in the pit of my stomach that today says, you should lay low, youre not cut out for this, you are in waaaay over your head, and i want to punch it in the fucking face.

nothing is make or break (its that heady place in between)

today is incredible. the fog is thick when i wake up and smells like san francisco...i am seriously sick for five seconds, trying to remember that word in spanish my friend used to miss something from your guts. i miss you that bad. but i move past it, the sounds of people rising and desperate want for a shower. i eat breakfast, pan y housemade plum jam y huevos y fruta. que rico. y cafe, cafe, how i missed you good cafe. a girl from switzerland goes with me to la sebastiana, pablo nerudas sea house, we walk up a windy hill, get on a fast fast bus, i fear we might fall over the edge of tiny cliffs, he takes a lombard maze at fifty miles an hour. nerudas house is incredible, i cant believe im in his writing room, his bedroom, bathroom, where he took baths and could see boats coming in and out of the port. the view is just amazing. i feel so very inspired today. and yet, so insanely small in the scheme of things. how does one get like neruda? obtain greatness in his capacity? a life size picture of walt whitman in his study, once when someone asked if that was his father, neruda replied, yes, in poetry. i love that.
the houses are part of the mountains, no the houses are the mountains, stacked literally on top of each other, you cant tell the head from the toe, where one balcony began and anothers ended. the girl from switzerland is quiet and shy, growing up in the swiss alps, ive never met so many people before, from so many places and so i feel brave and confidant today. we walk down to museo cielo abierto, houses painted richly, every color, lots of bright greens and pinks, we take photos buy books, get my name made on a pin by a street artist, all before hopping a bus to viña. today is one of my favorites.
laying on the beach in viña del mar. the cities are so vastly different, and while its beautiful here, i am eager to get back to valpo and even more eager to go back to santiago.
i dont see the comparison between valpo and san francisco that so many people keep making, except the hills, and even then, its soooo differnet. this guy at the hostel, an ex junkie that used to live on jones and ofarrell has found himself here, of all places. what a wonderful world we are living in we had exclaimed, over breakfast. but i cant make any real connections...and then we reach the street along the port and it hits me hard. the smell, the sounds, the air, i close my eyes and it IS embarcadero, its pirates cove, and looking back behind me at the city, colorful and towering, if not trembling on its perch, there it is, san francisco. and in that moment, if not at la sebastiana by nerudas desk, i fall in LOVE with valparaiso. i am home.
it hits me for a sweet moment later, i am on a beach in south america, feeling comfortable, capable, sure of myself. how many nights did i dream of this? think it would never happen? cry out of frustration? how i thought... i was so good at thinking i didnt deserve dreams to come true.

times

thursday i wake up sideways on the bed, i had fallen asleep after talking to my sister, legs crawling up the wall, aimlessly. santiago is smoggy today and the clouds are patchy through the slits in my curtains over santa lucia. the night before i had been drinking cristal with basco, some of his friends, painters, artists of sorts. we sat in his apartment and smoked cigarettes for hours and when he walked me home past the strip clubs its still warm outside and we look at each other and giggle like children, bumping into each other along the street. i wake up groggy, dreams of ben and the beach and the wild ramblings of last nights mixed conversation...one sentence by benjamin franklin sticks out : art is long but life is short. for some reason this makes me feel good as i get dressed, ill show you art...i am living this life.
i try to pack little for the beach, five swimsuits and suntan oil, my notebooks and a book on chilenismos and my camera. i charge my camera and think about walking the hills of valpo. i might have to throw these chanel flats out soon...theyve seen their last day...like two months ago. i buy my ticket for the bus at the wrong station, miss my bus, have jumbled spanish with a cute young bus driver who has no idea what im talking about and finally allows me to get on the bus, i dont see what the big problem is, chileans are never on time.
the drive is incredible....at one point i fall asleep and we crest over a hill and come into a valley that looks just like napa...i think im hallucinating but im not, its real...its just not home. but its uncanny...fields and fields of olive trees and vinyards and then dry dusty slums and then palm trees and green green hills break way to brightly colored houses stacked on top of each other like blocks. i dont love valpo...not just yet.
driving into town and some guys arm hangs out the window, covered in tattoos, looking closer it spells
benjamin
in the most beautiful script. i almost weep.