Saudade

When I was younger I fancied myself a writer, until one day I decided I no longer wanted to be one. In my mind, the writer's path was full of melancholy and despair, a pervasive sadness I was well acquainted with at the time. I did not want any part of it. I wanted a normal life. So I made the choice to stop writing, hoping the sadness would go away with it.

I oversimplify, of course. My decision to stop writing wasn't so conscious or deliberate. It was the result of a combination of self-doubt and procrastination. It also was influenced by relationship politics. My ex is a writer. He has published two short story books, good ones. Back then, so many years ago, he was still unpublished, ambitious and consumed with passion for his craft. Writing was his signifier, his thing. He would spend hours building the perfect paragraph, crafting the perfect sentence, choosing each word carefully. He told me once that he was glad I was there to ground him, lest he would spend his life with his head in the clouds.

Writing was just a fun, youthful game to me, a whim to indulge every once in a while when a clever idea hit me. It stopped being fun when I started comparing myself to my ex and his rigorous ways. I did not share his level of passion for writing. I did not practice every day. I did not spend hours thinking carefully about words before putting them down; my process was pretty much just spilling my thoughts on paper (or screen) haphazardly, tweaking minor things here and there.

The label of WRITER felt simultaneously self-important and constricting, a title I did not want nor deserve. When two of my stories were published in an anthology with other young writers, I felt both very proud and very guilty. Why was I being published and he wasn't?

Quitting writing did nothing to lift the sadness, of course. It was foolish to think it would, but magical thinking is not logical.

Friday

As I drove Isabel to school this morning, an unexpected wave of sadness engulfed me. The song I was listening to must have triggered it, the reference point was something real, but the train of thought went off in a fictional direction. I started thinking of harnessing the sadness and writing a story about people who would be considered ordinary, living what would most of us consider ordinary lives, who actually aren't all quite there. I thought of the main plot points, I even pictured specific scenes. But I struggle to come up with the actual words. I fear I am flat and laconic in my expression nowadays, and that I will struggle to convey the complexity of these characters.

Maybe I just need to stop whining and get cracking on the story. I have been dreaming up variations of this for some time now, and always stop short of actually writing the thing. I wish I could have some time off to write. Maybe I need to take a weekend off from house and family, or a couple of vacation days from work. Sort of like an accelerated writer's retreat, where instead of a long sabbatical to write a novel, you get two days off to crank out a short story. Could be a good idea, if I get my husband to agree to keep the girls. I would have to go away, though. If I stay in the familiar space of my home nothing will get done.

Summer 2003

It was the last days of July 2003. My 5 year-old daughter was spending the summer in Puerto Rico with her father. I was out with the old man on a Friday night, sitting at the bar at PF Chang's, having a drink as we waited for our table.

Out of the blue, the old man laughed and said to me "you are going to leave me in the dust." Those words, uttered seemingly in jest, have stayed with me years after we parted ways, the only salient memory of an otherwise ordinary evening. At the time I thought it was absurd. I wanted him so much I would walk through fire for him. Turns out he was right. He saw our relationship for exactly what it was, a May/December summer fling.

Saturday morning

It's been a while since I focus on my blog. The last posts have been published on autopilot, just so I would not feel guilty about completely abandoning the thing.

I have an aversion to pontificating, so I avoid commenting on political or current events. I have not been taking much pictures lately. And there's only so much exploration of feelings and moods one person can do. Thus, the quiet.

[...]

My Saturday morning blog writing was just interrupted by Spanish-speaking people brandishing a special booklet from Watch Tower (Por qué usted puede confiar en la Biblia) and intent on recruiting me. Though polite, I was a bit short with them, and they got the message and left promptly.

Bookmark

The short story I wrote got published yesterday.

Writing

It had been a while, but I just wrote a short story. I mean short, it's only three pages long. It is in Spanish and it is based on the same episode I once covered in this blog post. Like the blog post, it is composed of memory fragments that have been fleshed out and fictionalized. I have submitted the story for publication in an online newspaper in Puerto Rico, and if it gets published I will post the link here.

So many outlets, so little to say...

I have this blog. I have a Facebook page. I have a Twitter account. I am mostly silent, preferring to post pictures more than anything else.

Presently, I lack a burning desire to communicate heartfelt memories. I have no scintillating confessions to share with the world, no deep thoughts to regale you with.

There's lot going on in the world, as always. Fraudulent elections and popular protests. Rogue nations threatening nuclear war. Thousands upon thousands of people losing their jobs. All of this is discussed in various digital outlets, bypassing established media constrictions and, in the case of Iran, government censorship. All of that is more interesting than whether I had a bagel or an English muffin for breakfast, and what are my plans for the weekend.

Rusty

There may be an opportunity in the near future for me to write some texts in Spanish on a recurrent basis. This is still very preliminary and I have no idea if it will ever come to fruition, but it has stirred all kinds of conflicting feelings inside me. On one hand, I am excited at the possibility of writing on a regular basis. I seem to be the kind of person who needs prompts and deadlines to get something going. It seems ironic, but boundaries of form, content and time seem to fuel creativity rather than stifle it, provided those boundaries can be trespassed.

On the other hand, I am terrified. It has been quite a long time since I have written regularly in Spanish. At work almost everything is written in English, and when I have written exchanges in Spanish with my Latin America counterparts they are conversational and quite short. What if I start writing in Spanish again and it turns out I suck? After years of working in Corporate America and writing mostly in English, my writing style (if it can be called that) is direct, minimalist and devoid of sophisticated flourishes. This works in a business context and in this blog, but it may handicap me.

An old poem

You’re as mine as you’ll ever be
As close to my heart as you could ever be
Yet I keep running into endless walls
And I am tired of walking in the sand
Please come home

Adios, 2008

What a tumultuous year it was. Let's hope that things improve in the coming years.

In terms of this blog, 2008 was not as active as the previous year. I have posted about half of what I posted in 2007, and the last few entries have been photo and video postings. This year I did not participate in many writing challenges. The stresses of work occupied a bigger chunk of my time this year, and left me with little energy to attempt any creative endeavors, ruminations about life, or explorations of my feelings.

I do not know what will happen with the blog going forward. I have no intention to end it, but I have to find the spark again. I do not want my blog to be another chore I dread.

Untitled # 1

Last week a short story I wrote was published in a Spanish language literary magazine called Letralia. It is a magazine that has published texts by Paula's dad in the past. On a whim I unearthed something I had written a couple of years ago, gave it a few tweaks and sent it to the editor. I was pleasantly surprised when he replied they were publishing it. He asked me for a brief biographical note to include with the story, and I hesitated. I am not reallly an active writer (except for the the blog), so instead of providing a laundry list of published works, I put the link to Boricua in Texas on my biographical note.

This morning I found a comment left last night in an old post. A student from Puerto Rico wrote me to ask if I was the person who had written a short story they were reading in class. Their teacher had given them as homework to look for personal information on the author of the story. Since I do not have my full name listed on this blog, I believe the student found me through the link on Letralia.

I am not going to lie. At a time when I feel myself becoming increasingly invisible, it was damn good reading that comment and being reminded that there is more to my life than whatever it is I do at work these days. It is encouraging.

I hope the student found what they needed from the blog.

... and as easy as it comes, it goes.

Imagine you are a snowglobe. Now imagine someone grabs you and gives you a soft shake. All of a sudden thoughts and feelings shoot off in different directions, and you are unable to tell where they are going or to rein them in.

Imagine you are forced to walk all day wearing a veil over your face, completeley covered, so that your perception of the world is skewed by the gauzy material covering your eyes.

Yesterday I was in great spirits. This morning I was OK until I experienced the first stirrings of a dark mood coming. I am not in a dark mood yet, mind you. But it was strange, to be able to pinpoint the precise moment when a feeling of dread or uncertainty clouds your mind, unexpectedly and momentarily. It happened at 9:13 AM, and now I feel as if I have gotten out of the ocean. I am waiting to dry out, with the salt sticking to my skin.

I am still OK. I am not despairing just yet. This is just an attempt at recording this morning's occurrence in the best way I can express it. I keep a separate log of the physical symptoms and the hormonal cycle. I am reporting the emotional manifestations here.

Three Word Wednesday #93

The Three Word Wednesday words for today are: Indifferent, Pour, Reason

I woke up early again today. I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down at the computer for a while. It is nice to have this quiet time to myself. Then I woke up Gabe and brought him some coffee, and I woke up Isabel to get her ready for bed. It's Splash Day today at daycare, so she was excited. She wanted to make sure we brought Mr. Octopus to school, because he is her friend. Mr. Octopus is a baby towel, one of those with hoods. There is an Octopus design on the hood, complete with tentacles that graze her forehead when we put the hood on. She's had Mr. Octopus since she was born, and she loves him.

I suppose I could work from home if I wanted to. My boss is working from his home today and I could take advantage of that and work remotely. But I am indifferent about staying home today. I can tell I am not in the midst of one of my depression spells, becase I do not mind at all going into the office today. In fact, I am looking forward to being on campus today.

Days like this are evidence that my dark periods are not the product of reason, but are bio-chemically driven. There is nothing different about my circumstances today than what they were a few weeks ago. We are still dealing with the same stresses at work and daily life, but somehow the looming terror of being shamed and destitute is absent from my mind. I do not want to run away screaming if I go to the cafeteria. I just show up, do my job and kid around with my cubicle neighbors.

I am feeling happy today, and it is not due to anything specific. I just am. And it's a great feeling.

Fragments of a life

I lost my newfound voice in the mid-nineties. I had just started playing with words, breaking out. My stories gave me a sense of purpose and the ability to put into words the plethora of anxieties that plagued me all the time.

Then I met a man and it all went downhill.

What’s that old saying? Behind every great man there is woman. For me it was: behind every struggling male writer there is a wife suffering from writer’s block.

I found myself a fellow writer. He romanced me with a manuscript, stories that amounted to a love letter. I was hooked.

My ex-husband took his writing extremely seriously. He would spend hours thinking about story structure, crafting sentences, not a word out of place. I admired his dedication, his clarity of purpose, the way he would state "I am a writer" so categorically. I was also damn jealous of him.

I was messy in my writing, like I am with everything else in life. Whenever I got the urge, I would sit down and write feverishly, intuitively, knowing that somehow it would come out right. And for a while it did. But somewhere down the line, I lost it.

Living with my ex and his meticulous writing habits, I started to doubt my ability and question the seriousness of my calling. I was incapable of writing like he did; I was too restless to sit still for hours like he did. And I could not be bothered to construct a structure beforehand.

My stories were always rambling variations on the same topic, my neuroses projected onto thinly veiled alter-egos. Two of these stories wound up being published in an anthology of young writers. By the time the book came out, I had already stopped writing. Ultimately I was trivial, a footnote in the story of my ex's ascent to fame.

Once I concluded I was not real writer material, I concentrated on getting ahead at work, and I left the writing to him. Someone had to keep both feet on the ground.

Thus I drifted onto unfamiliar territory, playing at being a grown-up. Now all I needed was a child to complete the cliché. But try as we might, I could not get pregnant. I am convinced it was lack of love that accounted for our failure to conceive at first. We had been married 5 years, going on 20, and I could not remember a time when I had not been unhappy.

But on a fateful weekend, a window to the past was opened. I can’t remember the particulars, only that we spent the whole weekend inside the house, isolated from the world. We made love for the first time in so long. And I knew that if I ever was going to get pregnant, that would be the time.

When we finally got around to turning the TV on we learned Princess Di had been killed in a car crash while fleeing from overeager paparazzi. I had never cared for Diana before, but her death changed all that. I mourned her as I sat on my bed wrapped in a sweaty bed sheet. Shortly after, news of Mother Teresa’s death reached us. Great, we had to choose such a tragic weekend for our lover’s retreat.

Plot lines

For the longest time I have entertained the fantasy of writing a memoir, or a work of fiction with a heavy autobiographical bent. Recently I have started to ask myself what would be the hook of such a story, what would be the underlying theme, the quality that shapes and defines the narrative. And I have a hard time coming up with something remarkable, different or exciting for a reader.

Don't get me wrong, my life has been a monumental learning experience. I am proud of how I have lived it, mistakes and all. But I think that deep down it is a very ordinary life. Even the things that have shaken my core the hardest are pretty common. So many people lose a parent when they are young. So many women have had an abortion and struggle for years to come to terms with it. So many women go through the dissolution of a marriage they expected to last forever. So many single mothers have fought to keep their sanity. So many Puerto Ricans have left the island in search of a better life on the mainland, only to experience life as a dislocated self. So many Liberal Arts majors have a hard time navigating the job market. So many young writers lose the spark and spend years trying to get it back. So many mothers know their life is no longer theirs alone to do as they please.

What do I have to contribute? Is the story of my life worth telling? What can I say that hasn't already been said by someone else?

In all likelihood- a story

Alice arrives at a bar, where she is expecting to meet Drake for the first time. They have been communicating online for about a month. It started innocently enough, with Drake replying to her personal ad. As the weeks passed by, they graduated from e-mail to IM. They chat all the time, but have never spoken on the phone. Drake is ambitious and driven, but a little shallow; not the kind of guy she usually likes. Still, he makes her feel sexy.

She has lied about her looks; she's not really a petite blonde with size double D breasts. The photo on her profile is a fake. He will not be able to spot her in the crowded bar. That gives her some security and the chance to see him first and decide if she really wants to meet. If he looks like a creep/psycho stalker, she'll hightail it out of there. She worries a little about his reaction when he finally sees her. Will he be disappointed or mad? Will he like her? Will he think she's too fat?

Dan is sitting at the bar waiting to meet Ambrosia for the first time. He is crazy about this girl, literally gaga. After a month chatting, they have finally scheduled a meeting face to face, and he can't wait to meet her sweet hotness. Their chats have progressively gotten hotter and raunchier, and he is hoping that they will enact some of the sex scenarios they have been chatting about.

As much as he is wildly enthusiastic about meeting Ambrosia, Dan is afraid she'll blow him off because he has exaggerated a few things about his physical appearance. He doesn't really have a wide chest and hard-rock, six-pack abs; in fact, he's got a bit of a beer belly. At least he does not have man boobs, and he still has all his hair. She's gotta go for that, right? And while he does not drive a Porsche, he hopes she finds his Prius sexy. Gotta save the environment.

Ambrosia will be carrying a red rose, so Dan scans the crowd on the lookout for the telltale sign. He had said he would be wearing a red shirt, and at the time he meant it. But he figured he wanted to check her out first, in case she turned out to be a dog.

Alice sits at the bar right beside Dan. She catches a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye. He's not at all bad looking. She orders a drink and settles into her stool. The TV behind the bar is showing a Battlestar Galactica rerun. Weird. Bartender must be a sci-fi geek. Where’s Drake?

Dan takes notice of the newcomer. She's kinda cute. He says hi, asks her if she likes Galactica. Turns out she is a fan. Cool. If Ambrosia doesn't show up, he might have someone to talk to and share a beer with. Where is Ambrosia, by the way? Has she changed her mind about meeting him?

After thirty minutes, both Alice and Dan get bored and tired of waiting for their respective dates, so they strike up a conversation at the bar and Dan buys a round of drinks. He asks if she comes here often. They tell each other about their jobs, their hobbies and where they went to school. They talk about their favorite bands. Both lie about their reasons for being there; each finds it embarrassing to admit they are meeting someone from the personals.

Alice realizes she likes this guy a lot. Sure, he’s no hot stud like Drake; but he might end up being something much better. Not only is he cute, he's intelligent, funny, and doesn't take himself too seriously. She has blushed a few times as his eyes held her gaze a little longer than expected. In turn, Dan finds himself wondering what Alice looks like naked. He is fascinated by her. She has a beautiful smile, she is smart, likes beer and sci-fi. What's not to like? He can see himself bringing her breakfast in bed in the morning.

Once it was plainly obvious that they have hit it off, Alice feels bold enough to tell Dan the real reason why she is at the bar. As she does, his jaw drops open. Not a good sign, he must think I am a loser. She braces for the inevitable brush-off.

Dan is dumbfounded. It has dawned on him that this girl is his date, and she is every bit as much of a liar as he is. The absurdity of it all hits him full blast, and try as he might he can't control his laughter.

Alice is puzzled at first, then angry. What the frak is so funny? What a jerk. She should have known better than to trust a man she met at a bar. She gets up and turns to leave; but Dan grabs her by the arm. She turns around to slap him when all of a sudden he says: "Nice to meet you, Ambrosia." The color drains from her cheeks as she stands there, a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. So this is all a game to him. What a bastard; he's known all along and he's been baiting her, mocking her. Alice is mortified. If only the earth could open right then and there and swallow her. Oh God, just kill me now.

But Dan has stopped laughing. He holds her hand. He apologizes profusely for laughing; it's a nervous reaction, he says. A stupid guy thing. He's very sorry about that, and would she do him the honor of having coffee with him? After all, despite lying about everything, they still managed to find each other in a crowded bar. That's got to count for something, right?

She looks him in the eye; he holds her gaze, standing her scrutiny until she’s satisfied. "Sure Drake", she says. "I'll have coffee with you, if you drive me there in your nice red Porsche." "Sorry, I drive a Prius," he replies, smiling sheepishly. "Oh well," she says. "I'm not a blonde either. Let's go."

Thursday

Peel the layers of my heart
Dig deep
Take away the hype;
the should be, would be

Take away the flash and dash
Come on, peel another layer
Go underneath the glamour;
past all the excitement

At the core, there is no fantasy
No rollercoaster
Only the quiet voices of trust and loyalty
And a deep sense of belonging

Blog post fragments

Quite often I start posts and never finish them. Periodically I go through the list of my posts on Blogger and purge these out. Once in a Blue Moon I finish a draft, but most of the time I have already moved on and lost interest.

The last few unfinished posts intrigue me somewhat. Make what you will of them.

Date: 3/27/2008
Title: Rambling

Sometimes I wonder if this is what a midlife crisis feels like.

Lately I find myself going through the motions, living day after day after fucking interminable day, the monotony of it all slowly killing me on the inside while a poor diet makes my outside swell like a balloon. I hate my life sometimes. Having my family by my side does not mitigate the ennui. Sometimes they annoy the hell out of me. The girls and their drama queen fits drain me. My husband, who is generous and supportive but also a knucklehead, also annoys me.

At least I am not alone. If I had no one else things would probably be worse.

I am bored, I am restless, I am angry. So very angry. I am sick and tired of walking on eggshells, of putting up with the fucking politics of people who love to spend their time pointing fingers and engaging in pointless analysis. I hate being proper, docile and subservient so I can get a fucking paycheck.

I wish I could speak my mind with no concern over consequences. I wish I could tell my employer (the company, not my actual boss) to go fuck itself. I hate that I have to exhibit a positive attitude at work, be a team player and all that crap, while having absolutely no guarantee at all that my performance and dedication will help me keep my job. At any moment I can be laid off in one of the perpetual cost optimization moves that my company engages in. At any time some brain dead jerk with an eye on the balance sheet may decide that someone in India or Central America can do my job for a fraction of the cost. And then it's bye-bye, we no longer need you, thank you for letting us suck you dry for eleven years.

The same week I wrote this, my 11-year anniversary at Big Computer came and went without any acknowledgment whatsoever on the part of the company. At least I still have a job.


Date: 3/31/2008
Title: Okay Monday

It was a busy day today, in a good way. It's been a while since I have felt good at work, so it was a nice change. I can't really pinpoint why today was different, it just was.

I had an early appointment for an eye exam. Just as I suspected, I need reading glasses now. I am getting old. Oh, well.


Date: 4/3/2008
Title: My life, or something like it:







Date: 4/4/2008
Title: “I’m not sure”


Today's Fiction Friday challenge is:
Describe a time your character gave up; and how it affected them for the rest of their life.

That pretty much sums it up, doesn't it?

Fiction Friday- Slice of Life

Fiction Friday for April 11, 2008:

In honor of tax day (at least here in the US) write about how your character handles a serious bout of financial troubles. Do they take a mistress? Run away? Do something crazy? Or buckle down?


I had just come back from the unemployment office when the phone rang. I took a glance at the Caller ID. The hair on my arms stood on end.

The kids were jumping on the trampoline in the backyard, under the watchful eye of their mother. The kitchen smelled wonderfully. Myriam had made Sheperd's Pie for dinner. All I wanted to do was sit at the counter and take it all in, envelop myself in this goodness until everything else melted away. The piercing ring of the phone was ruining it for me, though. I did not want to take this call. Nothing good was going to come out of it.

Is there any easy way to say this? How do I tell them? How do you tell your family that you have failed them?

The phone stopped ringing. No voicemail. I looked out the window. The kids were playing tag now. Pretty soon it will be time for dinner. What I would give to be a kid again.

A goldfinch was sitting on a branch right outside my window. It trained its small, black eyes on me. We had a moment before it took off in flight. The birdfeeder was empty. Sorry, little dude. I did not mean to starve you.

I'm sure we can spare some rice.

Sunday Scribblings- Out of this World

For today's Sunday Scribblings prompt, and a list of respondents, click here.

When it comes to life, how can there still be people around who seriously believe we are all there is to it in this vast Universe of ours? We are such a small part, it would be a total waste if ours was the only planet where this experiment of life took place. The idea is also hard to swallow, statistically speaking.

Some people are highly offended by such thoughts. Some people steadfastly maintain that Earth is it, that there is nothing more. We are God's creation. Why? On what grounds do they assert this with such ferocity?

Why do we need to feel like we are the center of the Universe? Why do we need to feel so unique, so special? Isn't the wonder of life special enough in and of itself? Why do we need to warp what is large and unfathomable? Why do we need to hammer it down so it fits into the small mold of our mind?

I don't know if there is a creator or not. There are lots of arguments pitting evolution against religion. Who says the two need to be mutually exclusive? Science is not concerned with spirituality or morals. Why should religion concern itself with explaining the physical realm?

Science doesn't have all the answers. Science seeks to explain the tangible, the physical. It changes; theories are revised in light of new discoveries. Scientists seek to deepen our understanding every day. What is wrong with that? What is wrong with trying to learn more about everything? Why is pushing the boundaries of what we know so anathema to some people? Why are some people incapable of seeking answers outside the confines of a Book?