tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-370846482024-03-07T11:56:03.923-06:00Boricua in TexasMy random, infrequent ramblings. Crucé el charco hace años.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger751125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37084648.post-37835466645939331942024-01-12T18:12:00.001-06:002024-01-12T19:00:49.103-06:00The year of Our Lord, 2024<p> I'm dusting the digital cobwebs away. Yes, I'm still here, bitches!</p><p>[Insert chirping of crickets here]</p><p>Blogging still exists, I'm not naive enough to believe it's completely gone. It's just not what it was back in the early 2000's. And that's OK.</p><p>I'm a fifty-something, not-quite-yet divorced, tired af but still plugging along at a corporate career because I have a college-aged/gap-year taking child, woman. I had to take a deep breath after writing that.</p><p>Since I last wrote I have been on a spiritual quest of sorts. It began in the pandemic years, a little over a year after my mom died from Alzheimer's. For most of the time this quest was a solitary pursuit, consisting of reading books and Tarot cards, with the ocassional study group Zoom meeting. It wasn't just the pandemic-related isolation. I was not ready to come out of the closet as a spiritual seeker.</p><p>In early 2023 I ventured out and attended a local shamanic event I found via the meetup app. I met nice people and learned that there's a Spiritualist church in Houston, where the shamanic meetings are hosted. I also had some interesting sensory perceptions that night of the sort that people would call supernatural.</p><p>This event was the catalyst that made spirituality something communal for me, something lived as opposed to read. It hasn't been quite a year yet and I have such a long road ahead, but the way I live my life and what I conceive as spirituality has changed in ways that are deep yet not readily apparent. For that I am eternally grateful.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37084648.post-84731960134861547242021-12-12T18:31:00.000-06:002021-12-12T18:31:16.066-06:00Yo soy de P-Fokin-R<p> No hay más nada que añadir.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37084648.post-39092848596073836712021-04-13T21:30:00.003-05:002021-04-13T21:30:50.678-05:00Seeking<p> My mother, atheist activist extraordinaire, passed away two years ago. Almost a year after her death, we were on lockdown due to the pandemic. Was it COVID-19 or was it freedom from my mom's judgment that got me on the path I am in? Probably the freedom one. COVID-19 got me baking bread, but after being committed for a few months, I have not made bread in a while. </p><p>I also have not been working on my quilting much lately, but that is because my sewing room turned into the overflow room when we did the home improvement projects last year. It's hard to move in there lately.</p><p>In the 1990's my significant other was into alternative spirituality. Through his mom I learned about Tarot cards. I even bought a couple of decks, but never really learned to read the cards. By the end of the decade I had a child and a broken marriage. The year 2000 brought the promise of a new beginning, a total Ace of Wands moment (though I had no clue it was such at the time). I crossed over water and moved to Texas, leaving behind my Tarot decks.<br /></p><p>Twenty years later, in early 2020 I purchased new copies of the same two decks, and resolved to try to learn how to read the cards. Of the two decks, one continues to be my favorite; the other one is more a memento. I have gotten several more decks since then, along with books and online classes. I use it as a way to understand my path and what do I need to work on.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37084648.post-21350800300375633582021-02-28T11:18:00.002-06:002021-02-28T11:18:45.987-06:00My Personal Code of Honor<p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Do not c</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">are so much about what others think of you</span></span></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Live and let others live</span></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Accept you know very little about life, the universe and everything</span></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Actively tell your loved ones that you love them, and demonstrate it with actions</span></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Work to recognize your biases so they do not control you</span></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Do not allow yourself to get carried away by "woe is me" emotionalism. Instead, try to understand what is at the root of your moods</span></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">It's OK to believe in the spiritual side of life</span></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Always be there for y</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">our daughters when they need you.</span></span></li></ul><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37084648.post-57701692464394948052020-07-17T20:20:00.002-05:002020-07-17T20:22:07.613-05:00Limbo<i>What are we going to do?</i><br />
<i>We've opened the door, now it's all coming through...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">"How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful", Florence + the Machine</span></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
Today I found myself sending LinkedIn invites to old college friends from the Honors Program at the UPR, members of my old tribe. I miss them, or rather the idea of them, the possibility of finding myself through their eyes. Who knows what they would think of me nowadays, if they remember anything at all. They'll probably take one look at my profile and yawn, and no lifeline will pull me out of the fog. They have all gotten PhDs and done interesting, even important things in the same span of time I have failed at two marriages, made a career out of Excel pivot tables and become a master at predicting the immediate past.<br />
<br />
As my eyesight has gone south, so has my memory. I can't be trusted to keep all this shit straight. I need friends to tell who I am. But I have no friends. Or rather, the few I have barely know me. I have done a great job of limiting access to what's really on my mind and curating my persona so as to avoid controversy. But the result is that nobody fucking cares, and I am slowly vanishing into the ether. I am becoming translucent. Not long from now, only my cats will be able to see me.One day this specific recipe of neuroses and idiosyncrasies will simply disappear. There will be traces here and there, pieces of a puzzle, mostly in the memory of my girls and my exes.<br />
<br />
I should have been paying more attention to building memories, maybe trying to practice some mindfulness, but instead two, perhaps three decades have been lived on cruise control.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37084648.post-3944823748491157052020-03-17T08:49:00.000-05:002020-03-17T08:49:36.540-05:00Social distancing is easy for semi-hermitsI had the flu at the end of February. I get the flu shot every year in the fall, as most people in high risk groups do. By the end of February, the vaccine's effectiveness must be minimal, as the influenza A hit me like a ton of bricks.<br />
<br />
I can't recall feeling sicker in a very long time, perhaps ever. It took me over a week to get back to a semblance of normal. It's scary to think that scores of people lose their lives to the flu every year.<br />
<br />
I'm scared of SARS COV 2. I'm scared of catching it and getting the disease. I am barely recovered from the flu. I am struggling with seasonal allergies. I have not done a breathing treatment for asthma in days, but every day is a struggle to breathe deeply. And that is with clear lungs. I don't want to picture the struggle if a lower respiratory illness is thrown in the mix. I've had pneumonia before.<br />
<br />
Authorities are asking people to practice social distancing. Our school district has cancelled classes through April 10th. The city and county have ordered bars and clubs closed, and restaurants to close their dining areas and only provide drive-through/pick up/delivery orders. My company has instructed all personnel to work from home, unless their presence in the office is required to perform their job (labs, manufacturing, some customer service roles).<br />
<br />
None of this impacts me greatly, except for the madness of crowds hoarding basic goods. My daughter, a teenager, is capable of amusing herself and knows better than to interrupt me during business hours. I've been working from home since the day before I got flu symptoms. I telecommute more than half the time anyway, and have my home office set up for this, so this is not hard for me. I also have a tendency to stay home for the most part when I am off work. Still, everything feels so weird when it is not by choice. It's scary to think every single outing puts me at risk of severe illness or possible death.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37084648.post-22757817762595147652020-02-17T11:13:00.003-06:002020-02-17T11:13:46.563-06:00WistfulnessWe want to be seen. We recoil at the idea of being invisible. Oh, but we are.<br />
Each year that passes we become lighter, shadowier. We become stronger and clearer about ourselves, just in time to dissolve in their eyes.<br />
<br />
Every wrinkle, every age spot carries the entire history of us, even the faintest parts. But only we can see. The book has but one reader.<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37084648.post-50282345428782180222019-12-28T08:17:00.003-06:002019-12-28T08:17:47.244-06:00By most accounts, I live a charmed life. I've worked for the same Fortune 500 company for 22 years (if you count pre-merger and post-separation entities as the same). I have health insurance. I still live in the house I bought 17 years ago. I have two beautiful, strong, amazing daughters who have brought out the best and the worst in me. I get along with both my exes. I get to share my life with an amazing group of cats. I make my own decisions.<br />
<br />
It can be exhausting, though, to always be the rock, the strong one, the reliable one. My dad taught me not to depend on anybody, to be self-sufficient. I am grateful for the power that has afforded me, but I sometimes I wish I could let my guard down.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37084648.post-26902832195889186902019-12-11T10:12:00.001-06:002019-12-11T10:12:10.863-06:00Nineteen years, eight months and countingThe other day I asked myself what ties me to this place I live in, Northwest Harris County, the farther suburbs of Houston, a Tomball zip code.<br />
<br />
What keeps me here? Is it my job, the longest tenure I have ever had, longer than my two marriages, older than my daughters? Of course it is. But is that the only reason?<br />
<br />
Paula is gone to Philadelphia, living with Pancho and Uqui, working and making music whenever she can. She told me not long ago that she is the happiest she's ever been. I am glad she's found a group of people she fits in with, and someone to love. I miss her a lot, but I am happy seeing her spread her wings.<br />
<br />
Home life these days consists mostly of Isabel, the cats and I. On holidays such as Christmas and Thanksgiving, and the occasional Sunday, Gabe and his mom come over for a meal. My birthday is this weekend and he asked me what kind of cake I wanted. <br /><br />Gabe and I are still legally married and I still consider him family, but we are not a couple anymore. I don't have any blood relatives here, and we lived together as husband and wife for 14 years, so that counts as something. But I wouldn't stay in this place on his behalf.<br />
<br />
That leaves Isabel. What will she do, where will she go when she graduates high school? I have told her I would like to be a part of her life in the future. Respecting her need to live on her own (or with a significant other) in the future, if she leaves this area I would seriously consider moving to be close to her. Hopefully she does not pick a place with cold winters to move to.<br />
<br />
I have spent over a third of my life here, 39% to be exact. Houston has been good to me. I have no complaints. But I will not hesitate to leave someday.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37084648.post-14124266816309857612019-10-28T08:12:00.000-05:002019-10-28T11:31:34.091-05:00Stuck in the SludgeThe part of me that thinks life is what you make of it wants to slap this sulking creature, tell it to snap out of it.<br />
<br />
Another part of me, the one that knows for most of us success in life is as much due to our hard work as it is the product of a series of accidents and lucky coincidences, fears luck is not on my side on this one.<br />
<br />
Chemical aid does not seem to be helping, although without the antidepressant who knows how low I would be right now.<br />
<br />
I am tired of the uncertainty and fear. I am angry and resentful. My life as it know it is most likely at an end. I am scared of what my future life will look like. I fear it's only downhill from here.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37084648.post-40301079156548592002019-10-21T12:46:00.000-05:002019-10-21T12:59:38.023-05:00CraqueáWhen I was a kid in Puerto Rico, people used the anglicism "craqueao" (or the female version, "craqueá") as a blanket synomym for the word crazy (cracked-up).<br />
<br />
As a kid and a young adult, I never stopped to think about that word, what it conveys. I probably thought it meant the brain was broken and did not work properly.<br />
<br />
Now I understand all too well what cracked up means. It means to lose trust in your ability to handle compounding stress; to know yourself to be fragile, broken. You're not whole as a person; there are cracks and your fortitude is seeping away.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37084648.post-75878608289232143062018-10-12T16:38:00.001-05:002018-10-12T16:41:31.129-05:00Masa amorfaDon't know who I am anymore.<br />
Can't recognize this person I've become<br />
She's brittle and bland<br />
So long away from home<br />
<br />
Translucent shadow<br />
Bloated and shrunken<br />
Stuck in a rootless present<br />
Home as I knew it long gone<br />
<br />
Tightly wound and<br />
Stuffed into a box<br />
Yanked from a dusty chrysalis<br />
Dissolved into a pile of cats<br />
<br />
This place I walk<br />
Has claimed a third of my life<br />
The place I crawled from<br />
Is someone else's now<br /><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37084648.post-44607215381427979172016-06-30T08:51:00.001-05:002016-06-30T08:51:16.622-05:00BORICUA, first and foremost.<br />
<br />
#promesaisajoke<br />
#colonialismexposedUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37084648.post-63054450885010317322016-06-24T10:23:00.002-05:002016-06-24T10:23:16.410-05:00Diaspora growth<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBBmg9aMb3cVz3PIRuQyLhy2ZYzf2diPxOsRpRXdoa8R8festAhAwhXojZcGD5tzkTIfsenefVixkzaetRLEVnRtx4RdIIO_2lTr7RPVPXuzFEu-jQMJHD-GV0wOV4D2V7SlBdOg/s1600/Diaspora.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBBmg9aMb3cVz3PIRuQyLhy2ZYzf2diPxOsRpRXdoa8R8festAhAwhXojZcGD5tzkTIfsenefVixkzaetRLEVnRtx4RdIIO_2lTr7RPVPXuzFEu-jQMJHD-GV0wOV4D2V7SlBdOg/s320/Diaspora.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I put this together myself from data publicly available here: <a href="http://factfinder.census.gov/">http://factfinder.census.gov/</a><br />
<br />
Follow this link for background on the history of Puerto Rican migration:<br />
<a href="http://centropr.hunter.cuny.edu/sites/default/files/past_events/Jorge_Duany_Puerto_Rican_Diaspora.pdf">http://centropr.hunter.cuny.edu/sites/default/files/past_events/Jorge_Duany_Puerto_Rican_Diaspora.pdf</a><br />
<br />
This quote stood out for me: <i>Almost 8 per cent of the Island’s inhabitants relocated
to the US mainland during the 1990s. Between the years 2000 and 2007, even more Puerto
Ricans (some 415,000) emigrated than in the previous decade (326,000). More than two million
people have moved from the Island to the US mainland since the mid-twentieth century. The
proportions of this exodus are even more staggering when one recalls that Puerto Rico’s
population had not reached four million in the year 2007. Aside from nineteenth-century Ireland
and twentieth-century Suriname, the magnitude of the Puerto Rican diaspora has few historical
precedents or contemporary parallels.</i><br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37084648.post-34317838204259062432016-06-24T09:26:00.002-05:002016-06-24T09:26:45.950-05:00The Honoree<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37084648.post-86295188405980427032016-06-24T09:13:00.002-05:002016-06-24T09:13:24.563-05:00The Graduate<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37084648.post-54350104856482341162016-06-24T08:42:00.001-05:002016-06-24T08:48:38.531-05:00RecapI have a kid who just graduated high school. I have a kid about to start middle school. I have a mother who is losing her memories. I have family members quarreling with each other. I have other people in the hospital, and people who are a pressure cooker ready to pop. Things are stressful; my body is telling me so every single day. And yet, I know I am better off than a significant number of people, <i>so suck it up buttercup</i>.<br />
<br />
Recently I traveled to Puerto Rico, after a four-year absence. I spent time with my brother and my nieces. I miss them. I saw my mom, and it pained me that her Alzheimer's is advancing so quickly. I am staring at my possible future, and it is hard to watch. She is still herself, losing her memories does not change who she is. If anything, the loss of some social filters had rendered her a truer version of herself: sometimes tender and generous, but often her usual emotionally detached self.<br />
<br />
I am always a different person on the island, in no small part because I am on vacation. This time felt a little different, though. I was an emotional tourist, a visitor in a rush to trigger remembrances from a distant life. It felt disjointed at times. Maybe it's the fact that it had been four years since my last trip and I am disconnected from the local cultural current (who the hell is that babbling on TV and singing on the radio?). Maybe it's because I have not been a direct victim of the disastrous economic debacle that has unfolded over the last ten years. Maybe I am getting old, maybe my almost 20-year tenure at a big corporation dealing with elevator pitches has caused me bypass flair and emotion in favor of bluntness and pragmatism. Maybe life in the diaspora for almost a third of my life has turned me into a different person. For whatever reason, I felt like an outsider, and I did not like it.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I wish I could split myself in two and live in two places at once.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37084648.post-35414628691919386232016-06-24T08:14:00.000-05:002016-06-24T08:14:23.682-05:00Nos están pasando por la piedraIn case anybody has missed this, here are some recent news on what's going on in Puerto Rico:<br /><br />
<ul>
<li>The PROMESA bill proposes different minimum wages for Puerto Rico and no participation on recent overtime law changes in the US. What kind of country do we live in where people sit idly while their fellow American citizens get treated like second class citizens? We're in Trump's America already and he hasn't even won yet. We have always been.<br /><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/juan-c-davila/promesa-puerto-ricos-rest_b_10615610.html">http://www.huffingtonpost.com/juan-c-davila/promesa-puerto-ricos-rest_b_10615610.html</a></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>More than 80% of children in Puerto Rico live in high-poverty areas, according to data taken from US Census studies. No worries, the $4.25 minimum wage will take care of that.<br /><a href="http://www.cnn.com/2012/08/01/us/puerto-rico-child-poverty/">http://www.cnn.com/2012/08/01/us/puerto-rico-child-poverty/</a> </li>
</ul>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37084648.post-3731383632857416052015-10-23T19:40:00.001-05:002015-10-23T22:34:39.602-05:00RecommencingYour sense of hearing can be the strongest altered mood trigger. Listening to music, specifically.<br />
<br />
Unplugged versions of messed up punk rock songs can be quite effective plunging one into a crying fit. If it's got a piano and a violin in it, if the lyrics hint at mental illness, if the singer has a plaintive voice, I am screwed.<br />
<br />
This is what I choose to write about after a long sojourn in the non-blogging world. Middle-aged female depression. I couldn't help it. I happened to catch the tune as I was re-watching an episode of my favorite dystopian TV show today. It made me tear up.<br />
<br />
Not true. I have been listening to it for days. This mood has been brewing. I downloaded four different versions of it, all covers. The original just never did it for me. I even made a playlist for my iPod click wheel. Wow, does that sound retro or what?<br />
<br />
The rate at which things evolve, change, become obsolete is increasing exponentially right as I march inexorably into an age where it takes longer to find my bearings. Make no mistake, though, I always find them. I have so far escaped every culling unscathed. But as I see the world I know change to the point of discomfort, as a new generation takes over, all of a sudden I find myself in a mentor position, a walking encyclopedia, a benevolent veteran. I'm not sure I want to accept this role I am being cast for.<br />
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This is what I choose to write about after a long hiatus. Me, myself and I. Depression is selfish by force. When you are trapped in your own mind it is difficult to step outside the navel-gazing.<br />
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There is so much more I could be writing about. The economy of my native island is falling apart, thousands of my compatriots are leaving the place every month, jumping the puddle into the mainland, looking for jobs and the dream of a better life. Texas, my adopted land, is becoming a popular destination, growing at a faster rate than the top two favorite destinations of the diaspora. Of course, when your volumes are small to begin with, growth rates can look impressive, but we got nothing on Florida or New York yet.<br />
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If you happen to stumble upon this blog because you googled <i>boricua in texas</i>, I am sorry that I am not more informative. Or relevant. Search the many groups on Facebook that have sprung up to facilitate a sense of community in this state. It is a big state. Get ready to do a hell of a lot of driving.<br />
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I am not THE Boricua in Texas. I am just one of many.<br />
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Sometimes I dream of going back, when I'm old, when the kids are grown. I think all of us do at one time or another. Nostalgia is a powerful trap. If I go back I will feel out of place. My slang is hopelessly outdated; I have no clue what a <i>yal</i> is. People were not being propped against the wall, dressed up as boxers, or staged at the domino table for their wakes when I lived on the island. There was no tren urbano. Filiberto had not been killed yet. A woman had never been governor.<br />
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I have been here for quite a long time. The experience of living here has changed me. Being a single mom, getting married again, having another child, all that life lived has changed me. My job trajectory has certainly changed me, in ways that surprise me sometimes. I used to love a clever turn of phrase; but living in the land of elevator pitches and corporate buzzwords, I often grow impatient with languid prose.<br />
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I would have changed just as much if I was still on the island. Make no mistake. But I would have become a different person than who I am now. We like to think we are a singular consciousness drifting through life, but this is an illusion. We all change, every single day, no matter where we are. However, on the island I would have had the fantasy of a continuity of self, a shared national experience with my fellow boricuas.<br />
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So I choose to maintain a tenuous connection to my past life by filling my Facebook friends roster with high school classmates; even the mean girl who spread rumors about me having lice in middle school is my Facebook friend. But these people don't know anything about me. How could they? It has been so long since we were classmates. Many of them have also left the island, and may have nostalgia issues of their own to deal with. And that's OK. We are all trying to come to grips with our evolving lives. Sometimes all it takes to find our bearings is to write.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37084648.post-83486492984688112272014-07-29T21:31:00.003-05:002014-07-29T21:31:50.140-05:00Tuesday NightTonight I have been obsessively listening to "November", by Max Richter. Beautiful, haunting.<br />
If I could have anything in the world, I would ask for my daughter and her school orchestra to play this.<br />
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Needless to say, if you have read my blog in the past, when I start with the excessive replaying of intense music it's quite possible I may be struggling with depression again.<br />
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So, this blog still exists. Not long ago a friend of mine asked me to blog again. She missed me. Over the last couple of years I have thought a lot about what it used to be. When I started blogging back in 2006 it was exciting to have a personal space for whatever I wanted to say. Personal blogging was all the rage back then. Things have changed since then. It's all about Facebook now for my generation, and Instagram (and Snapchat, Kik and who knows what else) for our kids. There are still lots of blogs out there, but for many of us, posting on Facebook has largely replaced blogging as the way to connect to others, to <i>express ourselves.</i><br />
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I'd like to use this space again.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37084648.post-32973331640134702312012-02-02T15:34:00.002-06:002012-02-02T15:34:51.798-06:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small;">I guess now you know where I stand on this whole Komen/Planned Parenthood issue.</span></div>
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I will never do the race again.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37084648.post-6931310739841248562012-02-02T11:15:00.002-06:002012-02-02T11:16:21.555-06:00BloggingIt has been entirely too long since I have played with my blog. I am sorry, whoever is left out there that still follows me in some way.<br />
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Anyway, all kidding aside, I miss my blog friends. I miss Selma, and Meleah, and Paisley, Ixia and Josie, and everybody else whom I interacted with when I started blogging. Some of them are Facebook friends, but I have totally lost track of others. It's hard; sometimes I did not even know their real names, so I have no idea what became of them.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37084648.post-3305602062367837522012-02-02T08:32:00.000-06:002012-02-02T11:11:07.662-06:00Rainy Morning<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">The last few days it's been rainy and gloomy where I live. This morning, on the way back from dropping off my kid at school, I was listening to "The Suburbs" by Arcade Fire. The song felt especially fitting, knowing it was inspired by The Woodlands, quite close to where I live.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I wished I had a camcorder with me on that short drive through my neighborhood. Everything felt dreary, from the overflowing trash bins sitting on the edge of every driveway (it's trash pickup day) to the line of cars in front of the school; the bike riders getting wet in the drizzle; a lone jogger in purple sweats, a black cat crouching in front of its house, a broken down Jeep Cherokee with a sticker advocating impeachment for Obama, the car that ran the stop sign in my street corner and almost hit me. I would have taken footage of all that and put it together with the song, its whiny melody the perfect soundtrack to a depressing morning.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Maybe I have SAD.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">A commenter on a forum I am prone to frequent commiserated. They sent hugs and said: </span><i><span class="ctedit">On days like that, it's difficult to remind yourself that the real joy is in the journey. </span></i><span class="ctedit">And that is true. O</span><span class="ctedit">n a different day the same things would not drive into a pit of emptiness and despair. There are days when I would see signs that life's quirks are all around us, even in what would appear to be the most common and mundane places. I would get reassurance that no matter what, life goes on and we are all in the same boat. My heart would warm at the sight of siblings walking together to school, or I would chuckle at the notion that a possum visits my neighbor's porch at night to munch on food she leaves there for the couple of street cats that roam our street. But I can't enjoy the journey today. Today I am too wrapped up in my own private dance with the Beast. </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_LpafryhVwQ8kCGhB4wOsdfXh7uU5pUfFlRu6uEwR3zizrm3q-MfN0WifdNuVOXm0jxTchSLUDgclHXdSqlup1o3GqMs_l35UCmpIg5lkjsrrK3XJO68wknOM0CasU80GY06kZw/s1600/IMAG0578-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_LpafryhVwQ8kCGhB4wOsdfXh7uU5pUfFlRu6uEwR3zizrm3q-MfN0WifdNuVOXm0jxTchSLUDgclHXdSqlup1o3GqMs_l35UCmpIg5lkjsrrK3XJO68wknOM0CasU80GY06kZw/s320/IMAG0578-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37084648.post-73000861978968189282011-01-30T19:18:00.000-06:002011-01-30T19:18:08.167-06:00Fire Station VisitIsabel's Daisy troop visited a fire station this week, Klein Ladder 36, in Tomball.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/boricuaintexas/5403130136/" title="Fire Station Visit 1 by icruzbonilla, on Flickr"><img alt="Fire Station Visit 1" height="358" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5139/5403130136_8055eda212.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/boricuaintexas/5403133384/" title="Fire Station Visit 2 by icruzbonilla, on Flickr"><img alt="Fire Station Visit 2" height="357" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5132/5403133384_d4bfc96832.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/boricuaintexas/5403131178/" title="Fire Station Visit 5 by icruzbonilla, on Flickr"><img alt="Fire Station Visit 5" height="357" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5213/5403131178_32cee78181.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/boricuaintexas/5403135686/" title="Fire Station Visit 6 by icruzbonilla, on Flickr"><img alt="Fire Station Visit 6" height="356" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5093/5403135686_445fac4f4e.jpg" width="500" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0