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.