Omi, Subtitled

Pickle Juice Powerrrrr!

2012-02-26T16:33:00.000-08:00

So I was sitting at work sometime a few months ago, chatting with a co-worker/friend, and somehow we got on the subject of pickles and how his girlfriend despises pickles. I asked why. "I dunno," he shrugged. "But I think it might have something to do with the fact that her dad used to make her drink pickle juice before her soccer matches when she was a kid."

"WAT. Why?" I asked.

"It's supposed to prevent muscle cramps."

And so my mind was blown. My god, what. WHAT. WAT. It explains so much! See as a kid, I loved everything pickles.

I was constantly dipping into the pickle jar, and I was reprimanded every time I'd try to sneak pickles or their (what I thought at the time was) delicious, tasty brine. But all along, I should've retorted,

I think, subconsciously, I knew, as a little brown girl, that life was going to be a battle. The meek and cramped would never inherit the earth, so I was attempting to fortify myself in a way that Cheerios and rice and beans never could.

It must be why I sought out pickle brine so much, it must be. I somehow knew back then that I was going to swing a lotta fists, jump through many hoops, run a lot of miles, and pull out my hair a lot. But damned if I was going to get a honkin' charlie horse while doing any of it, because I was seeking out pickle juice as if the life of my emperor, The Pickle Lord, depended on it.

...Or maybe I was just a weird little kid who ate ketchup sandwiches and loved pickles but hated fruit. That could be it too.

What to Know When you Break Your Ankle

2012-02-23T23:51:00.002-08:00

Hi, awesome reader! So, I was out on vacation, and this happened:

And then, after a couple of days of me hobbling around with a cane, teary-eyed and bruised, I decided to go to the hospital, where they told me I had a fracture on one of my ankles, and might even need surgery.

Long story short, I needed a cast and crutches (but thankfully did not need surgery, after all.) My right foot was only bruised (thus the pitting and non-pitting edema) so I would not need a cast or a boot on that one despite the ugly bruising. I got to pick my color and, a lot more blue than before, I was sent on my gimpy way. Good grief, I looked like a mermaid with new legs on her first break dance, but wobblier.

I won't talk too much about how I have been quite the grump up until yesterday, or how I long for and dread the day the cast comes off or why, or anything terribly personal. What I would like to do today is give you helpful hints in case you are (Universe forbid) in a cast and on crutches (with a personal touch.) So, let's start.

The Wounding:

1) When you hear something snap as you land all wrong, you hurt yourself bad. Go to a doctor or hospital or clinic immediately; The most badass thing to do is respect what your body tells you.

And I think in the moment it happens, you'll know you done goofed. You'll feel and hear the snap/crunch/crack at the same time, and if someone tries to get you to stand up, no matter what you broke you will not WANT to stand up for a second or two. The pain of a broken bone floors you and takes your breath, even if for a moment. Also, don't feel terrible if you get all "Exorcist"-y for a minute...

Pain does make you lose yourself if it's sharp enough (just don't use it as an excuse to be an ass for much longer than the moment.) Apologize later.

2) Assert yourself with doctors and staff, but always be polite. Think Downton Abbey if you must get sarcastic; in essence, do it with class, and do it sparingly. Usually doctors will just tell you it's something minor before they even test, so while freaking out and being all "I HAVE BROKEN AT LEAST 5 BONES ALL OVER!!!" is not helpful to anybody, just tell them you should be checked out to make sure. And if you think you broke something that you usually use to walk, tell them to get you a dude or a nurse to wheel you over.

The Crutchening

So you're in a cast. Hopefully you picked the color you wanted, because you'll be seeing a lot of that thing, mostly when you look down to curse it. My condolences.

1) That fucker is heavy. If you are supposed to keep it off the ground at all costs, as I am, I would say it's an extra 6-8 pounds you will be carrying around. How, you ask?

2) With crutches, which you will grow to love and hate. Make sure the hospital adjusts them to your height, and for Pete's sake, don't let others play with them. If possible, take a couple of days to get used to moving around in them. I think everyone has strong points and weak points in their body they should favor, so those couple of days will be a study in that. The way I do it is, I stand up with my sort-of good foot (I messed up both feet, but only one is broken... I think?) using a crutch or two for support, and place the crutches about two fingers' width from my armpit. The end of the crutches are a bit away from my feet, and they feel a bit like they're splayed out, not quite tent-like... Pretend you're a tripod! I won't explain how to walk in them, as that is a singular experience for everyone I think. Just...

Do NOT lean into your crutches via your armpits; this can cause nerve damage and gradually increasing pain before then. Do touch the upper pads to your torso for balance. If you're a girl, this is not the time for lacy bras, unless you like the patterns to be rubbed into your skin. Just saying.

Although either way, you will gain bruises on your sides and the insides of your arms. Again, my condolences, you are not alone.

3) Take a day to absorb the fact that you are going to have a hard time moving around, and that the rest of your body will pay a price for compensating for the loss of use of your limb. It's okay to feel sad and angry about it. Sleep it off, cry, vent, whatever it is you need to do, just allow yourself that. And you might have more than one miserable day... Just surround yourself with positive energy and let yourself feel how you feel. It's tough.

You know what helps me, though? A treat. Have a day in your weekend when you don't do much, watch a movie, have someone pick you up a cookie, or breakfast, or order sushi. Have a glass of wine! Treat yourself nicely as often as you can. While it means letting yourself feel your emotions, it also means acting as your own cheerleader... no one can pamper you better than yourself.

4) Accept help! This one is the toughest one for me. I'm very independent, and hate the thought of owing anyone anything because I was weak at one point (that's how I think sometimes; it's a bit extreme and a lot silly.) But realize that that is not how "help" works for those who care enough to help you and come to you. Odds are that either they really care and want to make this trying time easier for you, or they're just kind-hearted people seeing someone who could get in trouble if they don't help.

5) Opening doors is going to suck for a bit. If it's a door you push in, put both your crutches underneath the arm on the side of the broken limb, grab a hold of the door handle with your other arm, and push, hopping forward as you go in.

6) Showering is going to suck balls, too. That will also be an individual learning experience. I do it in a terribly unsafe way, so I won't show you that. But a good thing to do would be to measure your bathtub and get a shower bench that will fit! That way you can dangle your cast outside the shower and still be able to wash properly!

7) Take breaks whenever your arms tell you to. Know your limits, and stop right before you reach them. If you commute, take some pain relievers (Advil, Motrin, Tylenol, whatever works best for you) half an hour before any extended crutch use.

8) Mornings might be painful. Your arms and the sides are bruised, your leg is broken, your other leg has been straining to pick up the slack... Have some Advil very handy.

9) You will encounter lots of people that have been or currently are in your shoes. The first day at the hospital, I was walking away from the pay phone and heading out to meet my ride. I knew my ankle was broken but the Orthopedics department was closed so I had to make do without a cast and walk on my broken bone some more (medical care. *snort*) But as I was walking by so focused on my pain, I encountered this...

Another woman, about my age, using the same exact movement aids. Granted, I was wearing a boot from an old fracture without permission (I thought it would help, but it just made walking all the more hellish, honestly.) But she and I were in a very similar boat, and we were walking almost into each other.

"Oh! Excuse me, terribly sorry," I said.

"No, please don't worry," she replied with audible relief. She looked right into my eyes and said earnestly, "You make me feel normal again."

I think I smiled sadly and said, "You are doing the same for me." As we walked past and away from each other, we eyed each other's gimp getup once more and told each other with true empathy to take good care and feel better soon.

Maybe not all encounters are that poignant, but you will encounter many who will go out of their way to tell you, in many ways, to keep your chin up, or offer tips on how to get through it because they've been on the same boat. And if this is the first time your mobility and independence is compromised, by Jove you are going to need those flashes of warmth and support.

10) It will get better. This is the one entry I am having the most hard time with tonight. To be honest, I just recovered from a bit of a hard night. There is a chance my other foot is broken, too, and the thought of another month in a cast, or a month in two walking boots, is very hard for someone like me, always going, always breathless from running from somewhere, always feeling like there is more to do to fulfill my purpose on this plane of existence. But I know, on more normal days, that a cast isn't all that serious, if we're to look at injuries and mobility issues. And so, it will get better. It's logical, and it's the simple and clean truth. They'll saw the cursed cast off, your leg will reek and look like Chewbacca (Rrrrrrruuuuuuuuurrrrrrrr) and you'll have a bit of a time getting used to walking again. But the worst will have been over... and you're more of a badass for it.

Seriously. Bad-ass. Own it.

Good night, and if you're a hobbler like me, the best of luck and good energy to you. You're not alone.

On My Gimpy Way

2012-02-18T08:41:00.000-08:00

Broke my ankle. Details? tomorrow.

To the Man Dancing at the Montgomery BART

2012-02-03T23:03:00.000-08:00

Dearest Dancing Man,

How odd, the way we pseudo-met. I was making my way to Oakland for some artsy fun times on a warm Friday night; I'd decided to take BART from Montgomery. My phone was blasting this

into my ears, celebrating some good news but emotionally listing from a tough internal day. I carried a Sephora box, pretty-ingredients inside unassuming but much more inviting brown cardboard. Maybe I'm biased. Anyway. I walked to the very end of the platform, and as I reached the last door marker, I spotted you, in a gray business suit that set off your silver hair and silver-rimmed glasses. You were dancing, eyes closed, hand to the sky we couldn't see, deep into a full pirouette. Then you shimmied to the left, to the right, threw your head back in a graceful, sweeping motion, along with your arms. Then you stopped and paced a little.

At first I thought I was seeing things. Montgomery BART station doesn't have any semblance of joy in it aside from the flower shop upstairs. It's a business stop, and businessmen usually look off into space, read a paper, chat drunkenly but reservedly with colleagues, or grouse quietly. The business women do sort of the same thing, only with more headphones. Nobody even looks at each other (which is how I know these things, because I do look) but most of all, nobody draws attention to themselves.

But there you were, dancing. And shortly after the smile you first brought to my face with how incongruous a thing you were started to fade, you broke out into dance again. Several spins in your pirouette this time, one foot gracefully to your knee, grabbing an imaginary partner and sidestepping with the lucky specter a bit, shimmy forward, back, flourish. Incredible! You were much more graceful than most people half your age!

Others ignored what was going on, or furrowed their eyebrows... one man even recorded you with his phone, chortling quietly. I just wondered who you were, and for more than a brief moment, envied you intensely. Until this moment, the only people I'd seen dancing alone and in public were ... not quite all there. It was obvious from their unkempt state, solo conversations, and staggering, erratic movements that they were not mentally sound. But you were, in all appearances, a working man who took care of himself, noted his dance steps in his notebook, and danced in a now-crowded platform. How free you were! You never glanced self-consciously around you, or stopped if someone passed a bit closer by you. I longed to even exist that freely, I'm embarked in a journey to accept I belong on this planet, and here is this man not only existing, but owning and beautifying the space on which he stands.

How beautiful to watch this.

Then we got on the same car of the train, and you quietly sat, writing on your notebook and looking out the window. I felt some hope. The unfettered man was doing the same thing I tend to do on these rides. And then you got off the train and stood at the opposite side of the platform waiting for your connection. The train idled, waiting as well. And once again, for the last time I could witness, you broke out into dance. I smiled widely to myself, not even caring that I might look unhinged (who smiles to themselves in a BART train? I just thought while writing that last sentence.) And then the train took me with it.

I know that was probably weird for you, dancing man at Montgomery Station, hearing your actions described so minutely. But I wanted to record the experience and share it, as well as thank you from the depths of my heart. For now I know that I might not have to go crazy to finally be free and stake a beautiful claim on the ground I tread.

Oh, hai, readahrs.

2012-02-02T01:34:00.000-08:00

Sorry, I'm obsessed with The Room.

I miss talking to you guys, and it's a new year, so you know what that means! A new attempt at not being a lazy ass. So new blog in two weeks, because it's written but I just need to illustrate it. Let's face it, you're here for the silly pictures. So just to tide you over, here's my calm-down-and-don't-be-totally-weirded-out comic from the first day of my second year at grad school. Feel the edginess!, and then gaze at the odd water-bovine and be sooooothed.

Oh bye, blog friends! (And if you can, check out a screening of The Room in some indie theater near you, and bring spoons. It's just so bad it's great!)

MJ (What, son?)

2011-12-01T21:39:00.000-08:00

I recognize what was

in your eyes now that I am not.

Blue-gray thought I could be a new M

If I just left on my hat.

Beanie on the brownie beaner

Will never compare to the Real M,

But falling petals are nothing

like crashing waves.

I don't blame you;

kittens never do

but play with a reflection.

But the beaner beanie

showed me why a mirror became a void

Gwen(ever) I was just Me.

I am not M. I am no Em.

Only a letter and a shade wrong.

__________________________________________________________________________

I'll admit it. I'm not a great poet. But I'm kinda goofily proud of this one for now; I was both thinking of some unknown girl who'd have a crush on Peter Parker while he was pining over the dead, or drooling over Mary Jane Watson. It's also one that talks about a theory I entertained back in days of pain, when I was confounded by romantic events (until now, when have I not been?)

Illustrated post in the next two weeks, if not this weekend. Thanks for reading, awesome reader from Awesometown!

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, a rant

2011-11-21T11:13:00.000-08:00

Ah, Thanksgiving. Time to spend with your family and eat away all your hard-earned weight loss or maintenance. Sarcasm aside, I love Thanksgiving, have since I was older and my father visited me in college with Thanksgiving food in tow. I'd eaten so much bland food during my time at college, that it qualified as a knock hard enough to teach me the ways of food. It's gotten stronger as I've gotten older and my palate has become sophisticated enough to really explore the wonders of Puerto Rican, etc. cuisine!

This newfound, nostalgic appreciation has come with an intense desire to replicate what I can and share it with my loved ones. I love to bake, especially, and whenever I offer to bring something to a potluck or a dinner, I get requests for desserts. I hope to someday accomplish that with entrees and side dishes (my couscous is atrocious, but my tuna steaks are pretty decent.)

I've noticed that many of my generation are appreciating food the same way and taking up similar endeavors, which makes me and my belly very happy! But I'm noticing an antagonistic, anti-matter-like trend: people who don't get how hard it is to really cook or bake. Usually I get a ton of appreciation so effusive that I become shy and bashful, shrugging it off like it's not a big deal (it's not, in the sense that I'm more than happy to do it, but more on this later.) Once in a while, I get the attitude that I can just whip it up in no time.

I think it stems from growing up with cake mix and canned everything, bottled caramel and frostings. I have nothing against that (except the health effects of canned food, but that's another blog.) In a couple of hours tops, with minimum armwork and sweat, you can have a pretty decent, frosted fluffy cake, dependable because it tastes the same every.honking.time. Caramel is loaded with preservatives and coloring to make it look appetizing and stay edible forever. Frosting is canned up in containers big enough for an English muffin to fit in... don't ask how I know.

But when I get the, "How does a flan take you almost an entire day?!" attitude and question, I want to shove a random, Betty Crocker cake in their face and challenge them to make a flan that tastes as good as mine, *Charlie Murphy voice* CHALLENGE them!! A'ight?!?

Good food cannot, cannot, CANNOT be rushed. It's not impossible to whip up something tasty quickly (spaghetti with chicken, PR-style, comes to mind, but even then I yearn for my friend Cate's pasta, made with love from scratch, mostly if not all.) But to make a good caramel sauce for a flan, you have to stand over the stove and stir pure, white sugar constantly for like 15 mins, most likely while burning the shit out of your hand from the heat waves coming off the saucepan (you can add water, but it doesn't have that smokey caramel taste if you do that.) You have to let the cream cheese become room temperature to ensure attaining a smooth, final texture... Chocolate butter cream frosting is messy, it's tedious, it's hard as fuck, and if you want there to be no butter lumps in it, GUESS WHAT?! You have to take time. There has to be a calmness within the maelstrom of arms and drips and huffing and stirring. There has to be love and tenderness. That is why I never offer to cook for people I dislike, no matter how socially awkward that may be. I've tried, and it just comes out wrong because I don't want to spend the time it takes to do it right. Other foodies who take time with their food get it... my sister took the time to help me find pumpkins several days in advance for my first jab at pumpkin flan and pumpkin bread. She gets it! Why don't other consumers of delicious, truly homemade things?!

So, yeah. I mean it when I shrug shyly and say, "Oh it was nothiiiing, I was happy to bake this!" I was. I love taking the time and expressing my love when I'm so horrible at it otherwise. But I am done rushing food, I am done dismissing my careful processes as just me "being slow, I guess." Respect me, respect my baking time, and don't you dare make me feel small or laughable for it... unless you don't want any, and I'll be more than happy to eat your share, and feel the love I put into that slice. Stick with the dough boy if you don't get it.

Everyone, appreciate those who are cooking for or with you on Thanksgiving, even if it isn't totally from scratch. 'Tis the season, after all.

The Burdens of One Curly Sue

2011-11-13T02:33:00.000-08:00

So, I'm a black Latina, with some Italian blood in me. That, plus my fixation with long hair, means I have a long mane of curly black hair attached to my scalp.

This is, sometimes, a great thing. For instance:

98% of people interviewed think my beach hair rocks their face. The other two percent were standing behind me in line for snow cones and trying to look at the menu in front of us.

Also, by "fanning out" the bun in my hair (curls don't really fan), I can fool people into thinking that I have luxurious gypsy hair bundled up in there. I can make it look business-like or pretty. Teh yay.

I can store paintbrushes, pencils, and small cities in my hair. It's pretty handy.

the problem comes when trying to make something out of the cloud I call my hair. You see, when my hair is left to its own devices for more than two seconds, it tangles. And you don't know how many "unbreakable" combs I've made my bitch.

Also, if I don't restrain it just right when I go to sleep, it does this...

And then comes the problem of blow-drying it. Most girls my shade of brown or darker flat-iron their hair straight, but I cannot. It dries out my hair, and I get a much bigger sense of satisfaction from having touchable, at times shiny hair than straight,dull hair. So I blow dry it, which works great! Until, of course, I step out into a fog, or a rainy day, or someone sneezes near me. Super-straight, glossy hair, instantly becomes frizzy dull hair standing at the roots.

Sigh. Damnit.

But you know what? Despite the frustrations I go through with my hair, I'm happy to have a curly head on my shoulders. At least I have the choice, and even when my hair is misbehaving, it gives me more personality than anything, unless I am really not doing anything with it.

Besides, Godzilla sings amazing lullabies.

Bob

2011-11-06T13:49:00.000-08:00

Message in a bottle

Floating in my water

Tied to a string

My pinky pulls it back

You can't ever see it

Don't read my eyes.

Telling gaze in a bottle

Burning away morals

Assuring indentured sexuality.

Waters tug harder

"There is no such thing

As a happy ending,

Doing the right thing

Gets you fog."

Message in a bottle

Bobbing in lonely silver

Tied to my pinky

Black string of posturing

Pretend to help

Hide the brightening scarlet.

Bob the bottle

Dizzy it, blur the gaze

Even so you recognized it

And saw me naked

Before I pulled away.

Message in a bottle

Floating in my water

Tied to black string.

Slate

2011-10-31T11:30:00.000-07:00

In a slate grey forest rests a cabin
Framed by sleeping trees
The warm glow of a fireplace in its eyes.
Snow shifting, crunching, turning under my feet
My gaze a gentle, proper fog.

Gentle cabin, I remember a time
When I stepped through your door,
Enchanted by your fire's glow
Seeking warmth not yet my own.
Wood shifting, crunching, turning under my feet
Your fire turned ash, smoke.

Leaves grew back once and fell again
This time I kept an autumn sunbeam in my cheek
And found my cabin, with a hearth
burning beautifully, brightly, just for me.
Child shifting, twisting, turning within my chest.
The fog burns off,shuttered away.

But on lone walks through the matchsticks
Snow shifting, crunching, turning under my feet
I remember the cabin
In the sleepy slate grey forest,
And I share some sun and summer-soft knowing with it.

In my months of shuttered windows lies no hate,
Merely acceptance, the sound of a book
Finally understanding its place on the shelf
And softly closing.
___________________________________________________
Listening to too much Bon Iver this weekend, and realizing I've made peace with a few things, but I can't completely act as if I have, if I want to keep what wonderfulness I've got. Is this maturity, or cowardice?

Illustrated blog in two weeks max. Thanks for sticking around, folks!

Comments Flaw

2011-10-09T18:37:00.001-07:00

Hi Everyone!

The comments on my blog are kind of messed up. A couple of my replies have gone missing, so I apologize for that. I'm looking into it!

.:Omi

What Receptionists Think But Will Never Say (if they're smart.)

2011-09-28T16:40:00.000-07:00

1) Enunciate, playah. I'm not kidding. Take the marbles out of your mouth and pronounce your words so that we can better assist you.

2) We hate when you throw away your banana peel/yogurt container/icing-tube-fulla-tuna-salad in our trash bin. Our job is to make you feel at home, yes, but damn, son, we are smelling the remnants of your breakfast for the rest of the day! Throw it away in the restroom!

3)Yes, we do really get the heavy-breathing, creepy calls on occasion. No, it's not sexy.

4) Is there a receptionist you think is cute and want to date? Do NOT, I repeat, DO NOT ask him/her out while he/she is on the job. He/she is in one of the most exposed places in the office, and even if he/she wanted to jump your bones right that second, he/she would most likely be disciplined by accepting (and might not be clever enough to slip you a note.)

5) Yelling at, threatening, or insulting the receptionist will not get you transferred where you want to be transferred most of the time. Sometimes our bosses just aren't in. Sometimes our bosses, the people who pay us, can't or don't want to talk to you; do you really think we'll pick the talking hemorrhoid having a conniption fit over the big kahuna? Hahahahahahfuckno.

5a) Along that line of thought, we remember you, once you disrespect us. And although we're hired to
transfer calls, we will not go out of our way as we do for everyone else if you've been a huge bag of
sweaty, wriggling dongs. We get a petty thrill of just offering you VM once again.

6) We love chatting with the nice regulars, but usually there are more calls coming in and packages coming in, and people asking questions. We're sorry. We love you nice regulars... but we can't tell you the details of our rare vacation because there is no time.

7) Maybe this one is more of a personal pet peeve. It is intensely distracting to walk up and ask a receptionist a question while she is taking a call. We will not hear you, we will not hear the caller, and we will not answer you until we've hung up. Why?! Because a caller is a person, too, and they called first. It's not like we walked up to you with the phone to our ear. Wait your f*cking turn.

8) We want to curse sooooooooooooo badly. But since we're the first voice and face people experience when entering our offices, we must play nice.

9) We don't know why that one sales guy/driver/attorney/gallery rep is no longer working here. And if we did, we're not really allowed to tell you. You nosy gossip.

10) We're sorry for the coffee.

11) Hm, that reminds me... Folks, we love enthusiasm. We really do, especially in the mornings when everyone feels like used toilet paper. But be mindful of how wired you are when you call in? Please? Because when you've had way too much java, you end up interrupting us and then asking us to repeat ourselves because you couldn't hear us over the sound of your own voice... We are guilty of the same thing too, however. In my case, because of the behavioral changes and the fact that my caffeine-induced cheerfulness scares my coworkers, I have switched to green tea.

12) This is to the condescending, older people who come in: the little receptionist is a lot older and more educated than you think. Usually we're working our way through school. We get the jokes you giggle about because they're so over our heads... we're just paid to smile and not serve your coffee on your groin.

13) Even if we know we're doing a good job, we despise giving our name.

14) Nice regulars... WE LOVE YOU. Thank you for being nice. Don't change. EVER!

15) Fellow companies that send us cookies, chocolates, muffins, food!: WE LOVE YOU TOO! We don't care that you're doing it to preserve alliances, you rock!

16) Most of the time, we are tethered to our desks. Our bosses want all incoming calls tended to; that is my main duty. Asking us to go fetch something or someone (usually not someone on the same floor) is not easy or at times possible. Please understand.

17) We're sorry we have to nag you with incoming phone calls, rest of the team! We feel very much like a small, annoying child tugging at the hem of your clothesbottoms of choice. But unless you tell us to hold your calls, we have to keep tugging... We don't like it, though.

More as I can think them up...

I wrote! Now with more video.

2011-08-01T23:39:00.000-07:00

I have many tales to tell! I took myself on a Kaua'i adventure and learned much. Also...

My frizzy-haired self jumped out of a freaking plane with a super-nice and handsome dude strapped to my back, and then proceeded to hurt my bewbs. Learn how I had a flash of wanting to hug a man who pushed me out of a plane, by Thursday!

___________________________________________

Well. Life has been one crazy ride, but hey, it's my life again. At least it became so, after I graduated.

A couple of days before Valentine's, someone wonderful returned, and my little heart, which had grown so jaded, cold, and small because of my prior romantic experiences re-expanded and became warm, generous, and joyous again. We're learning and growing together, and whatever happens, I will not regret any of it. Blissful smile #1.

I obtained my master's, finally. Blissful smile # 2, 3, and 4. Not only did I graduate, my family and my love watched me walk. I celebrated, and my dad saw me get tipsy on sake for the first time in his life. No more late nights travelling back from class, no more all-nighters reading and writing about Japan's (or China's, or South Korea's) economic policy, no more awkward hours in class (don't ask, for the love of god.) No more presentations for a while, and no more accumulating debt for a program that is giving me plenty, except for what I wanted (language courses.)

In the course of shopping for what goes with and under the graduation gown, I discovered dark red lipstick. Blissful smile # 5.

Okay, enough with the smiling. My cheeks, they hurt.

But there is plenty to smile about. As a celebration of all that hard work (working full-time, going to school in the evenings, having nervous breakdowns at the end of every freakin' semester) and of my birthday, I recently took myself on my first solo vacation... to the beautiful island of Kaua'i. I bought the plane tickets, I found really cheap lodging at airbnb.com with a guy and his awesome dogs, booked tours to what I wanted to see, and left.

So what did I want to see? Well, the BF had taken me kayaking and I'd loved it so much we are going to make it more of a regular thing. And I've wanted to go hiking in a rainforest for a while, so perfection! I found a tour where you kayak down the sacred Wailua River and hike through the jungle/forest to a beautiful waterfall.

I also wanted to fly. I don't mean like get on a plane. I'm a veteran at that. I mean fly through the air with nothing between my skin and the air (except some clothes, of course.) I missed the dreams of my childhood in which I flew swiftly through valleys and mountain ranges, and I thought flying through the air to my possible demise might give me some perspective that I'd long lost, so shortly before I left for my trip I decided I'd skydive. As I made my reservation, I attained the feeling of "why am I doing this, exactly?" It didn't go away until I actually... well, you'll see.

I wanted to remember what it was like to interact with people without thinking they wanted something from me. I am shy, and experiences during school hadn't really been the most reaffirming of my belief that there are many good persons out there. I mean, most of the people I met there are amazing and kind, but it's the select few that make an impression sometimes. And when that impression is made so indelibly in my mind, it's very hard to be good myself. Sad but true, and even sadder because I am unhappy if I am not kind.

So I made sure to not do the resort thing, to have to pretty much live with some guy I didn't know and his giant dogs, to just have a crappy map to guide me and my sense of direction so that I would have to come out of my shell and ask for directions if I lost my way. I booked the tour with people so that I'd have to talk to them and I'd have to present myself to people without looking absolutely perfect (and so I wouldn't get lost.) Skydiving was done in tandem, which puts me in very close proximities of, again, some random dude. I needed to not be afraid of people anymore, because I was becoming very much a prisoner in my own shyness. I wasn't living.

And I just wanted to... be, somewhere. For almost three years I've been struggling somehow, fighting against me (or just fighting against,) trying to prove something and then realizing how futile that was, how not essential that is to my happiness. This trip, I decided, would be the cosmic silence I sorely needed to clear my head and determine what really makes me happy. What better place than a quiet, lush, island much like the one in which I grew up? To sit and hear the waves for a couple of hours, not saying a word, would be just what this doctor ordered.

Anyway. I got everything I wanted. Hawai'i is just that kind of place, honestly. I've written before how I've felt like I can just be myself there, without artifice or airs. I can, and I was. I walked around without make-up, in shorts, curls untameable, and absolutely no one looked at me askew. I mean I wasn't walking around looking like the bride of Frankenstein's monster, but I was... me, in all my multifaceted glory. I found peace in the Wailua River, kayaking without using the pedals (which made for soreness for a few days after,) mental silence in the forest and in the arduous, slippery climb up to the waterfall and its basin.

And in skydiving...

I flew, just as I did in dreams. It was breathtaking (literally! Hyuk hyuk hyuk,) beautiful, and all too brief. I had never expected to feel as powerful in such a vulnerable position... maybe taking a lifelong dream and making it your reality, even if for a moment, even if recklessly, is that potent. But the most important moment for me took place when I was on that tiny platform waiting to be pushed off by Enzo (the fellow to whom I'm strapped) added to the moment in which we finally jump off that platform. Those moments, my kind readers and friends, are fucking eternity wrapped in a minute.

In those moments, after my brain finished whispering fiercely at me that I was going to die, I realized so many things. "I HAVE had a good run" was one of them. My life is nothing to sneeze at, whether I've been marching to the beat of my own drum or not at times. Another realization is that, while I've been right to act certain ways sometimes, I have been wrong to lash out or fade out at others. That was the scariest realization. However, my last realization assuaged the bewilderment that bloomed then, as well as filled me with a short-lived melancholy: sometimes when you are wrong, there is no turning back and making it right. Sometimes, your reactions are either set in scars dealt to others, or just measures to not make things worse for either party involved, or both. For me, live and let live will be a healthy food whose taste I have learned to love, because the bitterness means I'm doing something good. For me, for the other.

In short, jumping off a plane made my proverbial testicles drop. Then it rewarded me with a beautiful view before I landed squarely on my feet. I felt strong, wild, ready to fight for what I believed in and wanted. And I also realized that, shit son, what I do with my life has to yield this joy, it has to make colors pop this much! My art, in love, in me... That is what I want.

The only thing, though? MAN, that strap across my chest hurt the living daylights out of my boobs when the parachute opened. It was like wearing a corset times a hundred! It's the reason I sound so out of breath up there. I'm not a big girl, really, so I can't imagine what full-figured gals must feel like when they do this! That is the one thing I didn't like (because, as I mentioned before, I never thought I'd want to hug a dude responsible for me falling 13,000 ft. from a sound plane, but Enzo was such a sweet and soothing presence, I totally wanted to bake him brownies after that.) But skydiving rocked, and I recommend it to anyone. I also guarantee you you'll be shooting back your Scotch the night after, though (I did.) It is harrowing at the same time it is blissful.

And after that, it was beach time, getting back to my real color, and long nighttime talks with my host as I finished my bowl of póke and rice. Before I knew it, it was time to go home.

And somewhere between getting up and the airport, I think it was at a beach, watching the surfers do their thing, I was convinced I wanted to stay. I wanted to live here, in this place that had led to so much insight and so many adventures. I wanted this to be my life, feverishly. I had a sudden crisis: stay or go? Stay or go! Leave my job, leave the sad memories in California, leave the mounting pressures and expectations, leave!

LEAVE LEAVE LEAVE LEAVE

...my cat behind. My apartment. My co-workers, my art materials. Most heart-rendingly of all, my boyfriend. When it came down to it, my life may not be full of tropical beauty, but I was luckier than most because I could still experience that. The BF and I had talked earnestly about making it a yearly habit to travel there... and to have many adventures in our own area. In the airport, I recalled how colors had seemed bright with him too, when he came back, when we went kayaking and he made sure my life-vest was on tightly enough... and for the Bay Area to seem bright in winter, that is saying a lot.

The love I know is beautiful. The life I lead and will lead is beautiful. And so I went back, half-knowing this, and half-wild with sadness at leaving that island. But I'll be back. And I'll sky-dive again, but for the sake of my mushy arms and legs and face cheeks, I will do it in a ninja costume.

Walk

2011-04-23T17:32:00.000-07:00

The Broadway Auto Row was surprisingly quiet that night. She made her way down the street, inhaling deeply and feeling the quiet pulse of the city in the damp air. Slicing through a bit of Oakland, she felt that uncanny thing that she subconsciously, unendingly longed for since she was a very young child. That feeling of falling through many worlds, without an end to this sumptuous descent into the dunes of insinuated existences.

She had only concretely experienced this feeling twice in her life: the first time was when a hurricane had blown out all the lights in her hometown, and the Milky Way had shone in the absence of artifice. Atop her house's rooftop, embraced by absolute darkness, and made to glow by the light of stars alone, she had grasped this silver ring of a state of being. Approaching the edge of the house ever so slowly, she had felt like she walked on this earth alone, all flooded by nocturnal water, nothing left alive to threaten her dark, serene smile.

The second time had been when he had looked deeply in her eyes and smiled only for her, as they danced among many others in bustling, freezing Washington Square Park, for the very first time. He had seldom smiled when he was sober, and when he did it was hardly ever at her. Not that she blamed him; she seldom looked his way, insecurity grabbing her chin and making her look into its eyes instead, dancing her in the opposite direction. But that night and for a bit after, they faced each other squarely and danced closely with long-repressed curiosity and desire instead.

All that was over and done with now, so much so that the occasional memory floating by seemed a childish, laughable schoolgirl's fantasy. The only thing that reminded her that finding that uncanny feeling embodied in a curly-haired, dark-eyed boy had been real was the gnarled, pale scar running across her heart. That scar would throb hardest in sunny, spring-like days, and she would walk incessantly outside, her mind blaming her latent asthma, forgetting more and more the real reason her chest would ache in such a peculiar way.

This night, she turned up her face to the moonless sky, and listened to a gentle, haunted voice through her earbuds. Tiny drops of rain landed gingerly on her warm forehead and flushed cheeks, dewed lips that puffed forth clouds of breath as she briskly walked uphill to her apartment. She saw the silver water collect in droplets on her soot-black eyelashes, glistening with the light from cars that passed her by, and marveled as she noticed how the sodium-vapor streetlights made the falling rain look like golden, streaking meteors. And there, standing at a streetlight and waiting for her turn to cross that treacherous intersection, invisible hands spread cool salve on that scar and she felt herself falling safely into and out of mystical worlds.

Would she ever find that in a person again? The blissful expression left her face as she crossed the intersection, and she truly hoped the answer to her question would be no. If that uncanny, nighttime feeling was not her domain but instead the energy of another, it ceased being safe. To be entranced and left wide open was no longer an option. This sensation was only safe if it remained an imaginary realm that would peek over at times, as playful, solid, and real as pixie dust. This night, she determined that remaining largely unenchanted but safe was best.

One Four Six Zero

2011-04-14T22:22:00.000-07:00

So after my initial posting about "Doodling for Japan"... You, kind patron of the arts and kind human beings, have contributed a total of $1460 dollars to Japan's relief efforts. That is really something.

I want to thank you for doing such a wonderful thing. This brief note will be extended later, but I wanted to extend my heartfelt thanks.

Doodling for Japan!

2011-03-24T20:53:00.000-07:00

Okay, y'all. Japan has been a huge part of my life for ... well, for as long as I can remember. I have been shattered by the extent of human suffering going on over there, and so have decided I have to help.

I am selling postcards and donating all the proceeds to Japan's Red Cross. Please check out the Gallery at www.subtitledomi.com to see and purchase a pack of postcards.

Also, I'm taking request for doodles and short comic strips on any non-pervy topic and selling them for $5.00. Again, all profit will go to Japan's Red Cross Contact me through here, or better yet, through my Contact link at www.subtitledomi.com, and let me know what you want me to doodle! I can send it to you via .jpg in an email, or a pencil doodle on paper via snail mail.

Thanks for helping!

WTFBBQOMFG

2011-02-12T16:05:00.000-08:00

I know. I've been bad. I haven't posted anything in goodness knows how long (goodness or anyone with a calendar over the age of two.) But I'll post, I promise. I just haven't been funny about something in a long time, but finally I got an idea. Thank you again to those who gave me some food for thought. I promise I haven't abandoned this.

I have, however, taken up other projects. A graphic novel, the plot of which I've finished two years ago, and a new only-words novel based on some interesting events, which is significantly darker than what I'm used to writing (hence the "not being funny about something in a while" quip.) I really want to be published in some arena of fiction someday, so I'm gunning my engine just a little. Hopefully that'll lead to a full-throttle engine roar.

Anyway, happy graphite trails. See you guys soon.

Inspired by Tori Amos's "Silent All These Years"

2011-01-10T11:40:00.000-08:00

Only snippets, though... mostly the melody and the title. As usual.

In my void my voice echoes reproachfully:
"Why didn't you speak up sooner?
Why did you wait?"
And the echo knows not how to answer
Only knows the beauty and tragedy
of its own muteness,
and looks up with prodigal eyes.
But echo, your beautiful voice
Has been my lullaby for years
and its absence
has bled me out,
Leaving only a pain never before felt,
and I cry wordlessly and lash out.
Echo, you should've waved a flag,
shot a flare to the space
sparkling behind, between these windows brown.
...Why didn't you tell me
My wall was closing in on you?
In your silence I am lost,
chasing mirages,
drinking obsidian sand.

.:Omi

nodding along

2011-01-10T09:33:00.001-08:00

Happy Monday, y'all... I just like this song.

These lightwaves do not belong to me...

2011-01-09T11:39:00.000-08:00

This morning, I lay in bed, staring at the eggshell-white ceiling. My first thoughts in this fateful morning were a stark realization of my purpose, and my mistakes regarding it.

I have wanted everything in the past: success, artistic recognition, love, and comfort. However, I have failed to listen to my life. I have failed to take the time to really understand the uncomfortable stillness that hounds me. In the lucidity present almost exclusively in Sunday mornings, I listened, as I have been since spending most of yesterday in absolute silence. And the silence truly broke when I heard my own solemn voice in my head: "I guess I am an artist before I am a woman, after all. There's nothing to be done except give in, huh?"

It would certainly explain a lot in my life, from the time I was small until this very moment. Still, it is a hard thing to stomach, and currently feels a bit like a very sad fate. But I know that, until I have created enough wonderful paintings and drawings, until I have put myself out there enough to actually make a lot of people happy with whatever windows into whatever worlds I have reflected (for I do not create them... I just reflect them for others to see. The worlds I paint are not my creation, they are their own. To think otherwise would be extreme arrogance.) until all this... I will not be happy, and I will not have it in me to be anything else. And seeing as how I've been painting and drawing since I was three... I do not see myself being satisfied until I am very old. *Broad smile* Who knows? I may be reincarnated as a painter and continue this.

To what end? For what? I don't know. So people will not feel alone in seeing something... so they recognize a part of themselves in another being, and are comforted. We all share some things beautiful, but I was lucky enough to be born with the ability to put some of that into visible means. And I'm most myself, I am happiest, only when I am lost in seeing that thing and painting it. Granted, my art doesn't speak to everybody. Many people, if my undergraduate education in art served me, thought it naive and overly simplistic... crude. Some become bored with my subjects (mostly if not all women.) But I think... from my limited experience showing it to people outside of the art school environment... in shows, when sketching on a bus, in class, wherever... I think that the people whom it does speak to are very happy and grateful.

So maybe this is my true purpose in life, and I, in my pursuit of foolish daydreams of finding that one person who would understand and embrace me, or the job to fund a more leisurely life, or the best anti-frizz conditioner, have been neglecting it. But the Universe is willful and what I am meant to do, I will do, and the more I dismiss my true purpose the more tribulations fall upon the path I think I'm supposed to take. Running in roses. It seems beautiful, until you realize your legs are scratched and bleeding and starting to refuse stepping forward.

I meet the least resistance, no unhappiness, and find the most light, when I am painting windows to show the world. This must be my true path, so I will, in earnest, walk along it for a bit to see if peace lies within it somewhere.

Kicking the Old Year in the ding-ding.

2010-12-30T22:50:00.000-08:00

*Whooshes back in dramatically, falls draped across a couch, heaves great big sigh* Gawd! Sorry for that delay, kind reader. I have finished my semester, but gosh the holidays are so... go-go-go even if you don't go anywhere remote for them.

I'm not a Christmas person by nature, so don't expect future Christmas posts unless something hilarious happens that I can ridicule via the doodled medium.

To be perfectly honest, I'm not a New Year's person either. Never have been. In fact, I remember predictably breaking down in tears every time "Auld Lang Syne" would finally play, confetti and salt water everywhere.

My mother and father would ask why on Earth was I crying? And I'd either blubber something about the plight of the world or how wonderful it was that we were starting a whole new year (I was so emotional and WEIRD as a kid.) So when the holidays sail by, as an independent, single woman, I just don't know what to do. Sure, I'd like to welcome it and celebrate it. I've done the sleep-through-it thing... it's so lame, and doesn't tend to work, what with the fireworks and guns going off and what not. So what's a quiet but internally lively girl to do?

I guess I could go the route I was veered into by my much more extroverted mom and sister, and find some party to dress up for and go to. But I don't feel like being a tarted-up teen wallflower anymore (my mom and sis thought I should flaunt my curves more than I thought, or even think now.) Since I'm not the most outgoing person, all I did was stand around, bored, trying to make light chit-chat with people I didn't know, turning down champagne over and over again. Can we say "beh." Why yes, we can.

I could quickly get cable and watch the Japanese new year celebration like I did to welcome 2009...

But no. I am not keen on televised New Year's celebrations only because of the strong wave of envy it spurs within me. I can't go to Japan and partake in all the yummy food. I can't overcome my phobia of crowds enough to elbow my way into Times Square (I tried once... never again.) Envy and ennui are ugly things, and not a good way to start the new year, so let's not go there, ne?

Or! I could take my small cleansing routine and make it BIG like that one time I was young and wanted to bring "true love" into my life. See, this was during the dire straits/"holy f*ck" years I described in "Yo-yo ga." I was very skeptical that good people existed aside from my family and very close friends, let alone good men. But my mom had convinced me to partake in something she'd seen on the New Age channel (yay New Age channels!) to call forth my true match in life.

Okay, maybe she hadn't quite convinced me. But she was preparing the ingredients on the stove and once again...

I'm not sure exactly what was in that... But I think it had anise, cinnamon, honey ... yeah. That's all I know for sure. So, according to the instructions Mom had written down, we were supposed to douse ourselves, but mostly our hair, with this fragrant mixture at the strike of the new year, repeating something to ourselves if I'm not mistaken...

So I did.

It felt a little out there to do this, to tell you the truth. I don't believe the spiritual aspects of our lives can be coaxed to cooperate in matters of the heart. When it comes to finding the person with whom you're to spend the rest of your life, you're on your own no matter how many of those baths you take. And some people just don't find that at all. THAT is how on your own you are when it comes to finding a suitable partner in life. But hey, I wanted to believe then, and I did this. It wasn't completely empty, even though it didn't work. I felt a deep respect for love as a phenomenon, when asked to focus on attaining it while pouring stuff over my head. I can care for everyone in the entire world, and if I let myself I tend to... but I cannot love everyone. It's not in me. It's not in many of us. That knowledge was... somehow comforting (I'm not a complete sap!)

Plus, gee, my hair smelled terrific.

Anyway, I'm not too sure how I'll welcome 2011. Probably with a glass of Frangelico and heart-shaped ice cubes, after some Indian food, after some painting... after some packing. All I know is that I'm looking forward to this new year getting here already! 2010 sucked so much, and I know I'm not alone in thinking so. 2011 will be the year in which I start everything over, from a new position under and over the stars.

Happy New Year, kind reader. Whomever you may be, I wish you the best this coming year.

New illustrated blog before this year's end (sorry! Ski trip...)

2010-12-19T21:35:00.000-08:00

(this is what it sounds like when I draw for these blogs.)

Yakusoku wa. I owe you guys a couple of them already.

Brown Rice Procrastination

2010-12-11T16:55:00.000-08:00

Brown rice, like many other things in life, has proven to be an exercise in patience. On a stovetop, it takes about 50 minutes to prepare. And we're not even getting fancy. I'm talking about plain brown rice to finish off the rest of the leftover chicken tikka masala. 50 minutes, at a fast boil. Seriously?

As a Puerto Rican, I love rice. Love love love love. It's the only foodstuff I've resisted changing for the sake of my stomach. I figured, however, I'd better get on that before I reach a complete digestive meltdown. The rice I'm used to is white rice, medium-grain... and takes like maybe 15 minutes to prepare when plain. Make some of that, some good beans, some veggies, and a well-seasoned drumstick, and you're set for your get-through-the-days fuel.

But brown rice is all about patience. What is good for you takes time and effort. And I think that I'm not learning that as of late; that must be the case, otherwise the universe wouldn't be trying to teach me that even via my food. I think it's even trying to help me understand others...

I am not patient. I have had the experience of people losing patience with me, especially as of late (I can be a bit... trying, sometimes. I'm okay with that right now.) My stomach growling, mind distracted, I can understand both sides now. I want nourishment. They have wanted... I dunno. Validation, vindication, love, companionship, whatever. I have wanted those things, and maybe because of that I have had nothing to give anyone else. Who really knows? All I know is, I understand this hunger to acquire, through wanting this damn rice to be ready, damnit! *stomach growl*

I am also understanding, though, that if I just keep boiling this rice, fluffing it with a fork, I will get exactly what I want. I won't boil it away; if I wait, the rice will be ready for me. And that is something I will have to apply to absolutely everything right now.

*shakes head* I have some very Miyagi-like "wisdom" going on lately. Sigh. The quest continues.

One more paper, one more week, one more poems entry

2010-12-11T13:32:00.000-08:00

Apparently I get emotional during finals. I think it's normal; a lot is riding on finals for everyone, no matter at what stage of schooling they are.

In one more week, dear reader, I will be back to my normal self, slowly. I will draw funny blogs again. I will paint. I will be me again. Thanks for putting up with the me that extends her heart to the heavens on a regular basis. Or at the very least, thank you for not commenting "BOOOOO GET OFF THE STAAAGE!"

Anyway, I was looking through some old sketch books and found some poems I wrote while in Hawai'i. I think I'll go back there before next year's end, but anyway, yeah, thought I'd share.

I always thought
there is nothing wrong with my legs
That a little nature couldn't cure.
The casting of a stomach
Stronger at a beach than in a city
Mother's touch in sand
Strength of heart in mountains
Lover's eyes in the sky.
There's nothing wrong with me
that a little nature can't cure,
Love and accept.
The curls in my hair have found
a warm, unfettered home.

7/23/10

My time in Hawai'i, while short, was magical. Though I had a normal tourist's trepidation (which wouldn't go away even when I feared they were hindering my friend's natural ease with the unknown! So sorry, if you're reading this, luv.) I finally felt like I could wear my hair out in its natural unruly curls, like my skin was nothing unusual, I could smell like salt and sand and coconut, and YAY I could finally wear shorts without my normal self-consciousness. Also, I felt like I could be spacy and happy me, noticing and mentally embracing my surroundings, without worrying about someone with/behind me being in a hurry, or thinking me simple and unsophisticated. I could be me, and be taken in by this wilder land.
_____________________________________________

Away from home for much too long
Sea foam singing one forgotten song
A tale taken place after the time
my shoulders could bear the king Sun.
Can I truly continue laying claim to scales
while wearing alone this witch-battle scar,
shoulders red, hair and heart unruly,
and Atlantis long forgotten?
Survivor of two promises broken,
breath my sole reward.

7/24/10

I don't really know what was up with this poem. I think I was thinking of mermaids. Oh, and I known they're not in recognized poem formats, but seriously, it's a blog. Don't take it so seriously. I don't.
____________________________________________________

Functioning belly button,
My heart.
Something everyone sees
Only when I'm powerful
Or completely at a mercy.
By the grace of a god
I emote, love or grieve.
You can only have two.
By the grace of a sun
I live, I burn.
You can only have both.
By the grace of chance,
maybe you can have...
What I want.
How will you see my belly button
if you see it at all?
By the grace of hearts
Maybe we can have both.

7/25/10

Not explaining this one well after several edits. In a couple of months, maybe.
___________________________________________________________________

But she said it all best, in some parts of this:

Poetry from class yesterday

2010-12-08T19:35:00.000-08:00

I can't help two things: "letting it all out" even if I have gigantic papers looming over my head, and writing or doodling while listening to teachers/peers in class. People must think I'm terribly rude or inattentive, but I don't care, because I know I'm neither. And now you do too, kind reader.

Anyway. Here are three poems, or something-like-poems. They don't all deal with the same thing, rather, several different moments in my life, amalgamations of which make up one version of my present thoughts, but not quite... Argh.

(this was because I had the Telegram version of "Hyperballad" in my head.)

Hyperballad. "Safe with you."
Why? This mercury-vapor lit night
A child lying prone in a whistling backseat
Looking up,
Aware even in innocence
of the appeal of a darker,
fakestar shade of night...
of seductive velvet song.
"Safe again with you, safe again, safe again"
Little girl, do you recognize illusions?
The sumptuous warmth of dreams
never truly solidifies.
________________________

Play at love
Pretend you're smitten
Pray you'll become so
To make someone happy.
Force blooming hearts from your eyes.
The moment actual love touches you
it will know you're a fake
and wither.
How cruel, the fate of the overly kind,
simultaneously the patronizingly cold.

_________________________________

Feeling better, writing like a fiend

2010-12-06T22:10:00.000-08:00

Who knows what is truly false? I am me, and that is all I know.

Feeling very blue and misunderstood...

2010-12-02T23:34:00.000-08:00

_So no posts for a while.

But here is a pretty but very apt song:

I'll be home for Christmas, y'all. Don't worry.
___________________________________________________________________
Sigh, I can't disappear without at least explaining a little.

[aaaand redacteeed.]

The song also just sounds like my soul does, all that squishy stuff aside. I'm currently at odds with my family over what I viewed as something simple and happy (rare in my life), very doubtful of my future academic success, and I was also disillusioned by the longest friendship I've had in this state. In all but the academic issues, I just feel like people I trusted most to understand and/or respect me have not, then have gotten angry at me when I react genuinely. The difference from other times when this has happened, in all situations mentioned, I'm becoming painfully aware of my own contributions to the plights... by being so nice all the time, people think the wrong things about me.

I've decided to stay away until I can rectify all problems while standing up for what I know is right for me, and nothing less. I want to be able to answer to no one.

I'm thinking I should move to Hawai'i and become an interpreter there...

My everlasting list of Mahalo (in the spirit of Thanksgiving)

2010-11-24T10:07:00.000-08:00

My favorite word, in any language ever except maybe Elvish, is "mahalo." According to Wikipedia:

"Mahalo is a Hawaiian word meaning thanks, gratitude, admiration, praise, esteem, regards, respects. According to the Pukui and Elbert Hawaiian Dictionary, it is derived from the Proto-Polynesian *masalo.^[1]"

Oh yeah. Mahalo. I love saying it, and have had to stop so I don't sound even more like someone who is intensely bored with her own culture (Disclaimer: I'm not. I love being Puerto Rican. And I love being a turtle,) or, when I was in Hawaii, like a dorky tourist. But anyway, I say it in my head constantly, especially lately. Through ups and downs, I have been so grateful for the blessings and the lessons I'm learning, about myself and about everyone around me. Mahalo is the word that sounds most like true, unabashed gratitude to me.

And so, I have decided, for the sake of perspective, fun, and love, that I would start and maintain this list of things I'm grateful for in my life. Sometimes the items will be brief, others will be paragraphs and stories... whatever time and space allows me. But yeah. Mahalo to the Universe, and here. I. go:

1) Friendships, old and new. Within family and outside of it melding into a family. I have made so many good friends these last two years and had many adventures and laughs with them, and I am happy to know so many wonderful people. I'm still very shy with a couple of them, though, but that will change someday, I'm sure. I hope to keep them all in my life and have a place in theirs for years to come!

But perhaps the most surprising one (though it shouldn't be) is the friendship I'm fostering with myself. It's also the most difficult one to keep strong, for someone who's learned to internalize bad things and feels guilt easily. I'm grateful for the friends and family that let me know that I should give me more of a chance 'cuz I'm a pretty cool chick.

2) Hope. The disciplines of Buddhism I've studied (not too in-depth, I must admit) teach that hope is attachment to a particular future outcome and should be avoided as we know it. But unfortunately, I'm attached to hope. I think I'm happier when I'm hopeful in general (not in specific situations.) So I'm grateful for the hope that lets me strive and believe that I will be a-ok-chief no matter what happens. I want to believe, and so I've chosen to.

3) Laughter. It brings people together, it feels good, it's good for you! One of my favorite things in the world is to share a laugh.

4) Music! See above! And you can lose weight to it if you want to!

5) Kitchens. Another thing that unites people, in many different ways. All around the states, people will be prepping their turkeys (or ducks, in some cases!) and bonding; for me, kitchens are sometimes as big a refuge as my paintings. Nothing puts things in perspective more than baking something for people I care about.

6) Having full use of my eyes and hands. Seriously. I would probably fade into a catatonic insanity if I couldn't paint. Okay, maybe that's a little much, but I would not see the light in life at all if I couldn't draw or paint. Come what may, my true love is and has always been my art.

7) Being recognized at your lunch joint when you call in an order, AND being given free fries for it! Yeah!

More to come! And Happy Thanksgiving, kind reader! I send you big hugs, whoever you are!

Kindness

2010-11-10T10:13:00.000-08:00

I have always been the fortunate witness and, not always but very often, receiver of human kindness. This week alone has already provided me with so much light I am overwhelmed.

I won't go into all the examples of kindness I've experienced. But here's a couple.

Just yesterday, I was making my usual but unusual stop to admire the green chrysanthemums in the flower shop at the BART station from which I usually transfer. I don't know why I do it, every day that I'm in SF I stop at that same flower shop and gaze longingly at these green chrysanthemums, yearning to take one or two home with me but never having the cash handy. Well, it so happened I had the cash handy yesterday and decided to wait for the nice gentleman buying flowers to finish so I could buy them.

He finishes and the flower shop lady steps over, plucks a green chrysanthemum from the bucket and hands it to me. "How did you know?" I ask, feeling like I'm in The Matrix or some shit. She tells me the man had said he saw me often on his way home, staring at the flowers, and paid for it for me. Whaaaaaaat?

I'm touched, but feeling awkward with this flower, wondering why the heck that happened (which has been a constant state of mind in me since Friday, honestly... I'm still amazed at how life has such highs and lows, even at this age.) So I commute to class, and meet my wonderful school mates, one of them who seemed bummed out. I decide she could use the kindness much more than I could, and so I give her my flower. It's always good to keep the flow of kindness moving, I think.

And then just this morning, I forgot my bus pass but the kind lady that had asked me about the bus schedule paid for my way. If it weren't for her, I would've been late to work! I gave her my card and made nice conversation with her. And then today at work, someone praised me when all I was doing was doing what I'm supposed to do.

I just cannot help but marvel at how beautiful life is sometimes, no matter how confused and worrisome it gets, even at the same time it shines beauty.

Oatmeal! HUZZAH!

2010-11-07T01:45:00.000-07:00

Okay, folks. If there's one thing you will get to know about me is that I take great enjoyment in the banal aspects of life. I love taking showers. I like commuting sometimes. I like airports (so much there may even be an entry. Aren't you so glad you know this blog exists!?) I like washing dishes, folding laundry, and greeting people in the morning. I like waiting in lines for ice cream or other foodstuffs. I enjoy waiting for coffee in a coffee shop. I like the familiar, endlessly repeated aspects of life that most people seem to find tedious and boring.

Another thing you will learn about me is my newfound appreciation for good food. As a kid and as a teenager, I just didn't like food. Eating was a chore. I could be drawing shit, for Pete's sake, and usually I was while my friends clung to the fence by the sandwich truck. I went off to college, however, and influenced by curiosity and the food-loving company I kept, I tried various things and my eyes were opened (and my scale broken, yay freshman 20)... not only during the semester, but when I went home, too. Mami's cooking tasted even more glorious! The famine that followed after I graduated, moved to Queens, and earned just enough to live in a hobbit-hole and eat hummus, carrots, and pita bread for months on end (with the occasional reward of going out to eat, and lunch when I finally learned to sort of budget) only reinforced my appreciation for good food.

These two aspects of me bring me to the engrossing, ever-so-titillating topic of... oatmeal. More specifically, oat bran. I've loved Cheerios ever since I was a toddler, but always hated oatmeal. I enjoyed the scent of it; I liked to stand thisclose to my mom when she made it, taking great big whiffs that led her on to thinking I would finally eat the oatmeal...

(sorry I'm such a food tease, Mami.)

However, with stomach problems that ebb and flow and are right now at "I'm going to make your life hell" levels, I've decided to try eating healthy during the weekdays and leaving any indulgence for the weekend, if my stomach cooperates. The weather has been chilly, and cuddling with the cat is not cutting it for me (for her it's great, since I'm a lot bigger than her. ... I need a bigger cat.) And so, I decided to try my hand at making hot cereal. It's quick and easy, and I figured that if I have developed healthy water-drinking habits (I despised drinking water back in the day too... I was a damn cactus, I tell you) and can choke down shredded wheat and numerous supplements for my health, I can work with oat bran. You feel me.

Halfway through my walk home from the market, though, I decided I didn't want to settle! And I didn't want my friends and family to settle either! Did I want them to choke down oat bran I made? No! I wanted to be able to repay their kindness or surprise them with the most delicious hot cereal ever! Also... dude, I wanted to like oat bran. I wanted to crave it in the mornings. I wanted find a way to make the best-smelling, best-tasting oat bran ever!

I got home and poured out the cup of milk and half cup of oats instructed (although I think they may have suggested water initially, which I think is bad and they should feel bad about it) into the saucepan. Then I gaped blankly at my pantry.

I remembered however, that brown sugar and cinnamon make my home smell great. They are also what make snickerdoodles taste like smiling rainbows. I mean, seriously. Dude. Snickerdoodles.

So I heaped in two tablespoons of brown sugar and stirred it with a cinnamon stick. The aroma wafted out toward my face and I was in my own small heaven. It happens every time I cook something and it smells not just right but good. I suggest that when that happens to you, you take a moment and savor all that happens: from the perception of a good scent, to the sense of accomplishment buoying your heart, the anticipatory tummy growl, to the smugness curling your toes. It is awesome. For me, at least, it's not often I get to feel smug without some sense of guilt, so guilt-free smugness is something to be cherished!

Anyway. The moment of truth had arrived. I had to eat the oat bran. I put a spoonful of it in my mouth... and...

What is it with me and hot things, anyway? For that matter, what is it with me, hot things, and screaming about balls? I should probably stop that... my neighbors may think all the wrong things about me.

Anyways, I burnt my tongue, but while I could still taste things I determined I did damn well. It was really good, and I actually finished my small bowl of it! I was psyched; one more healthy item to add to my limited menu of quick stuff to eat for breakfast or even dinner (because breakfast for dinner rocks and you know it.) And one more item I could make for loved ones if I ever open my home and hearth to people, or if I want to thank them for opening theirs to me.

Now. Does anyone know how to get the damn oats offa my saucepan without bursting out in Elder language?

Done.

2010-11-03T19:06:00.000-07:00

The receiver I hold against my ear is damp, and a deceptive purr insinuates itself against my eardrum. Against the other, notes of a song burst as vulnerably as bubbles.

The purring continues, and I close my eyes, the corners of my mouth down-turned. I can see the phone on your dresser, vibrating or perhaps playing a soft song. You're not the type to have a generic ringtone; whatever is pulsating along with the beat of my yearning is probably just different enough to alienate. The phone spins slowly, intermittently, in my mind's eye, lighting up a small sphere in a dark and empty room.

I know you're not there anymore. Or if you are, you are amused and watching the Caller ID show my number. My name no longer precedes my voice, just a string of numbers that are easy to jumble, forget, strip of entity. Why you are watching a phone in the dark, I will never understand. Either way, you are not there anymore.

The faint spectre of your hand sliding onto the back of my neck brushes me, a memory that has become very much a fictional thing. You know, I don't think you were ever there at all.

The realization strikes me; my eyes flash, my eyebrows curl, and my lips part. How much movement in my face, when everything else me sits still, waiting, every single light on because I cannot handle sitting in emptiness as the phone purrs anticipatory comfort in my ear. The wires lie, and my face rests. You are not there.

The purring becomes the arrhythmia I had felt when it was still a joyous mystery to figure you out. Then, a silence very much like an inhalation. Beep, and I hang up. I don't want to hear it. I know you're not there to take my call, and I would rather choke than leave a brief desperation, so you can not get back to me.

The fathomless black of your eyes, the night of your hair used to be so beautiful to me. Now it seems a vampiric void, starless and unfeeling. I can't stand to be surrounded by you. That's why my lights are on even as I sleep. It's kind of hard to explain to the neighbors, so I don't.

_________________________________________________

Inspired by Frou Frou and sad Korean novels (OOH! And definitely by craigslist's Missed Connections section.... gawd.) Okay, now back to work on Culture & Soc. paper... sigh. I will have an illustrated blog this weekend, I promise!

Someday...

2010-11-01T00:44:00.000-07:00

I will touch hands with my equal, hear this in my head, and get a tingle in the corners of my heart saying, "This is your equal and complement." All this will happen in a fraction of a second and be pushed aside to favor weathered and guarded gazes, and slow, quietly ruthless evaluations. But I won't forget that sparkle in my heart, even as I slowly make sure I am safe and this person is truly who they seem to be.

Someday, after I find my answers, after I solve every puzzle that has popped up as of late and chased me via glowing streaks in deep blue, this will happen, and I will be cautiously happy, but smiling nonetheless (I'm always smiling, sheesh.) I look forward to it. Until then, I will work my ass off to make all my dreams come true. They're simple dreams. It shouldn't be too hard, ne?

Until then... it is enough to know that despite all the wounds opened, stitched, and re-opened, all the masks I've ripped off of voids in disguise, and all the reluctant and sad lettings-go of good men, I have hope for a bright, sweet future surrounded by equally bright, sweet people... and someday linked unequivocally to an equally devoted, bright, sweet person who is right for me, and I for him. Someday!

Minnnnd BLOOWWWN!

2010-10-25T22:50:00.000-07:00

If you feel like tripping out for a solid ten minutes, interactively no less, go heah:

The Scale of the Universe -erse -erse -erse

You are very welcome. You now owe me dinner.

Blur

2010-10-23T12:01:00.000-07:00

A snowflake melts on a windshield.
A dandelion has become bare,
The stark shadow of a tree upon this wall
Erased by sunset.

If I whip off my glasses
Anything can become a blur.
And lately your edges are fuzzy,
your memories a fairy tale.

The small of your back
is melting into a catalog photo
Of a couch never sat upon.
A voice once filled with nuance
Now white noise.

Virtuous Amnesia,
with your birth comes a smile
Warm, genuine once again,
despite the blood fresh on your hands.

If my peace comes at the cost
of the life that held things so dear
I do not mind the shovel
resting, waiting on my shoulder.

-Omi

I'm working on part two of a story I've been working on for almost ten years now. This is one of the options for the mindset of the main character... I'm reluctant to reveal what the story is about; only one man has "seen" part one, and even then I hid it from him when working on the graphic novel version.

I hope I have the time someday to make these stories come to some sort of fruition. I think people might like them. But anyway, in it, there is romantic interest (what story doesn't have it really.) And this may be the resulting feelings, we'll see. Just trying on this glove and wanted to share, while I work on school stuff.

Making Crépes (Crayyyypes.)

2010-10-17T10:32:00.000-07:00

I exaggerate my pronunciation of the word only because a good friend of mine once mocked how I pronounced it (crehps) while crowing about my accomplishing what I thought only possible in France: making paper-thin, soft crepes and slathering Nutella on them.

Meep: "Babe, I made crepes!"
Hige: "Wh...You did what now?"
Meep: "I made crepes! Isn't that awesome!? I'll make some for you."
Hige: "*snickering* Um, what was it you made?"
Meep: "Crepes! You know, people either put savory deliciousness in it or Nutella and what not?"
Hige: "Oh! Crepes!"
Meep: "That's not how you say it!"
Hige: "I thought you were talking about pooping for a second there, babe."

Seeing as how I'd devoured the Nutella-covered crepes right before he called, I was suddenly glad the exchange hadn't taken place in person...

Once I climbed and conquered the mountain of hilarious mispronunciation, my biggest hurdle has been making crepes that paper-thin, soft, and perfectly round again. It seems my kitchen has turned against me, feeling neglected and passed over in favor of school, work, and whatever face-hugger-drama-alien is latched on and trying to make babies in my face at the moment. Ew. Anyway.

Batter for these gifts from the Heavens and fuel for nymphs calls for cup-cup-pinch-huevo. In Human, that is one cup of flour, one cup of milk, a pinch of sea salt, and one egg. For some reason I cannot understand, when I'm done mixing, the result (and I) look like this...

If I'm making crepes, however, it is a writ-in-stone fact that I'm jonesing HARD for chocolate, so I just turn on the stove, prep the pan/skillet/whatever-is-handy-damnit, frostily look down my nose at the lumpy batter, and pour a bit of it into the unforgiving heat. This is where my next challenge comes in.

Yup, burning the crepe. You're not supposed to leave it there too long or have the flame on too high, but even though I'm standing right there, I start washing dishes or some other wifey thing and next thing I know I'm running cold water over my fingers and my cat is sounding the village bell.

Sigh. Maybe when I'm not juggling ten things in one day I will be able to focus enough to feed myself properly, or not lovingly offer people poop. And maybe then my overly nervous cat can rest more easily.

ZOMG a VISITOR Pulls up a chair, pours you tea AND coffee and bakes cookies and...

2010-10-15T15:31:00.000-07:00

Okay, you get it. I'm psyched you're here. Hello, kind reader! Thank you so much for stopping by. I'm Omi, your gracious but not graceful host. This is my *counts with fingers* umpteenth attempt at starting and maintaining a blog. I'm not exactly sure what I hope to achieve through this endeavor. I certainly hope to make you laugh; I think of and remember some weird shit sometimes. I'd like to share my poetry and art (my true loves!), as well as the thoughts that inevitably come with these expressionistic exercises that have taken up... oh 25 years of my life. You can be sure I'll also share anything that inspires self-expression; I love music, but because I'm no songwriter, I will probably post a lot of YouTube links of songs I like. I will share any culinary adventures I undertake in my kitchen! And lastly, and probably a bit more infrequently because I'm still shy talking about it, I'd like to record and share my spiritual journey, abandoned long ago and picked up tenderly only two weeks ago.

I realize life will get in the way sometimes (I do work, study, and paint, ya dig?) but I will try my best to post about once a week, unless life has proved so dull and unedifying that I have nothing to say... But my life is hardly ever dull, never ceases to school me, and unlike my in-the-flesh persona, I just don't shut up when the written word is my medium. In any case, maybe my musings, anecdotes, and pictures can keep people company while they eat their cereal in the morning, or teach someone something without the hard knocks through which I learn. I hope so. At the very least, I will keep my family and friends posted on my sanity (Hi Mami! Hi Papi! Hi Sis!)

While I am excited about sharing with you, I do hope to honor the practice of not sharing inner turmoil. In the past I've aired out too many grievances only to feel embarassment for my emotional outbursts later, not to mention it bit me in the ass too. If I have sadness or anger to share (as repressing myself is also unhealthy as fuck... o hai ulcers!) you can bet your sweet aspercreme there will be at least a doodle, something artistic, holding hands with it for your enjoyment.

Anyway. Welcome to what lies beneath my reticence. I hope it makes you laugh your ass off (don't worry, I have spares) or at the least, feel something that doesn't inspire eye-rolling. If you're compelled to roll your eyes, you're in the wrong blog, shug.

Omi, Subtitled

Pickle Juice Powerrrrr!

What to Know When you Break Your Ankle

On My Gimpy Way

To the Man Dancing at the Montgomery BART

Oh, hai, readahrs.

MJ (What, son?)

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, a rant

The Burdens of One Curly Sue

Bob

Slate

Comments Flaw

What Receptionists Think But Will Never Say (if they're smart.)

I wrote! Now with more video.

Walk

One Four Six Zero

Doodling for Japan!

WTFBBQOMFG

Inspired by Tori Amos's "Silent All These Years"

*nodding along*

These lightwaves do not belong to me...

Kicking the Old Year in the ding-ding.

New illustrated blog before this year's end (sorry! Ski trip...)

Brown Rice Procrastination

One more paper, one more week, one more poems entry

Poetry from class yesterday

Feeling better, writing like a fiend

Feeling very blue and misunderstood...

My everlasting list of Mahalo (in the spirit of Thanksgiving)

Kindness

Oatmeal! HUZZAH!

Done.

Someday...

Minnnnd BLOOWWWN!

Blur

Making Crépes (Crayyyypes.)

ZOMG a VISITOR *Pulls up a chair, pours you tea AND coffee and bakes cookies and...*

nodding along

ZOMG a VISITOR Pulls up a chair, pours you tea AND coffee and bakes cookies and...