Close

Close

Cheek to cheek  

Smooth and coarse 

Combine 

Mouth to mouth

Breath for breath 

Lips slowly slip 

Intertwined 

Collect

I will collect

The weight of your smile 

The trickle of your voice

The warmth of your hand 

 and wrap them up 

To take them out 

On lonely days 

and feel you once again

Painting day 2

The drought is over

Well blog friends, I have some good news, I started an oil painting today! The first one in about a year :) 

So here are today's progress pics :

I am a fountain

I am a fountain
blue and crystalline
removed of leaves
debris left by seasons
of wind and storm

rippling softly
empty and pure
now water can flow
bursting forth
with movement and sound

Perfect Verse

Perfect Verse

I am entranced 

lulled into longing 

by the mere idea of you 

when you appear 

at the end 

of all my quirky 

yet sappy films

Lost young men 

locate themselves in you

and troubled girls 

find rest from their weary ways 

so deep

so engulfing 

you save

satisfy

ratify 

And in my cloud of thoughts 

I wander 

staring at my dashboard 

as buildings and cars

whiz past 

What are you?

Did Ben Gibbard 

peg you right?

Is all your bewitching beauty

just a lie ?

The best

The best

All I want is the best for you right?

Even if that's not me

I am a girl who will challenge 

push and shove

I will believe more of you

and see more in you 

But she takes you as you are

She wants no change

She looks at you

and sees what she wants

I see what I want you to see

So maybe old friend 

Right now I'm not what you need

And I certainly know now

you were not the best for me 

Negotiating Identity and Haircuts

Negotiating Identity and Haircuts

In my recent studying of literature, I have seen identity as a central idea. Whether its a people group, a country or a teenage girl, identity negotiation plays a central role.
In the never ending saga of defining and redefining myself, I have found that much of my symbolic identity is found in my hair.
As a young sprout I had a frazzled, unkempt head of blond hair. It was straight as a pin but always tangled, due to the fact that I couldn't be bothered to brush it. Too many fairies to find and dogs to ride for that silly business.
The older I got the darker it became, and I got closer and closer to BROWN HAIR!(Now brunettes don't take offense here). My older sister had been born with brown hair and it suited her lovely green eyes and commanding attitude, but I was a softer sort. My eyes were blue, my skin fair, I needed the blond. I needed to be different. And I was not about to change my favorite Disney princess from Sleeping Beauty to Belle.
Eventually with this dilemma close at hand I tried highlights. My sister pulled my long hair through tiny holes in a white dying cap. I felt golden, fun, light...fake. I let them grow out and vowed to stay true to my color, whatever it was.
The real fun came when I was old enough to care about styling my hair. Due to the aforementioned future bird's nest that was my hair, I had a bob with bangs pretty much all of my childhood. Until one day when I decided that grown up girls had long hair, so I grew mine out.
It reached a point of goofy narcism in the eighth grade, when I would swing my long perfectly straightened locks back and forth in class so I could smell my Herbal Essences shampoo. Yea I thought I was the shit.
A few years down the road I had a change of heart. I decided to give said hair to Locks of Love so some nice bald person could have a semi blond, semi not blond wig. Feeling charitable and bold I watched as the hairdresser whacked off my pony tail like an unruly weed.
When I gazed into the mirror at my new stacked bob I said "Oh my gosh! I look like Wesley from the Princess Bride!". After the first shock I calmed down, but I didn't truly love my short hair until I was in the shower that night. I lathered my scalp with a quarter of the shampoo I used to need and felt my hair slick against my head. It felt amazing. And it looked good too. Never a hair out of place, no need to uber straighten. I had been freed that day. I was converted. Short hair girl for life.
Throughout the rest of high school and into college I played with short hair styles, always sticking close to my classic bob and living it up. Until the threat of orthodontia began to loom over me. I thought to myself, "Well if you're gonna be a brace face you should slim up and let your hair grow or its gonna be a rough year." So down it grew, as I got an expander and a lisp. Longer and longer as my mouth was clamped closed with rubber bands. I hid away in it's length, my sadness, my insecurity rested amongst those long strands.
Until one day I awoke. I said enough. No more status quo, no more blending, no more shame! I will be myself. Back to my bob I went. And I felt lighter, smaller and happier.
When I had returned to my former hair glory, there was still something there, an itching, a yearning. So one day with a picture of Katie Holmes' pixie, I called my friend Hannah. She nervously but steadily gave me my first long pixie haircut and I fell in love. The haircut I had always admired and envied on ladies such as my beloved Julie Andrews or Mia Farrow was finally mine. And I pulled it off. I felt beautiful.
My confidence and joy was not and could not be perfect. Because if you're a girl with a pixie most, if not all guys in your life will ask you why. They shattered my self-contentment with "Has your hair always been like that?" "You should grow it out" and "I really prefer long hair". With comments like this ringing in my ears I came to a dilemma, a choice. Guys or me. Their preferences or mine. Selling out or standing strong.
Then I remembered why I cut my hair, to be different, special, me. When my hair grew long I felt my color fading, I sank into the background, I blended with the rest. So however silly it was or is my hair symbolizes me. It isn't normal, it is not long, but its unique.
So when negotiating our hair length or our identities, the opinion most important is our own. Because whether it's our hair or who we are, we are the ones who have to live with it.

I'm so glad

I'm so glad

I'm so glad I'm that easy to replace
like socks that smell
you so easily strip me off
and whip on another pair

like gum chewed up and spit in a wrapper
you gladly and immediately reach in
for another piece

Patience is a virtue they say
but evidently not in your case
So really what more is there to say than
I'm so glad

Dimensions and Girls

Dimensions and Girls

I have recently come to the realization, that despite my lifelong aversion to math, dimensionality has become very important to me and my understanding of my place in this confusing world.

I know what you're thinking, "Duh, Sydney the world is totally full of dimension." No, that's not what I'm talking about. Let's refer back to our high school English classes. Ok so in a book our characters have differing levels of dimensionality. A real simple character comes off flat, undeveloped one-dimensional. These characters almost don't seem real or at least they seem unimportant.

In life flat characters don't seem to get such a tough break. At least not the girl ones. There are two girls at a party (in focus), and bothare pretty and pleasant, but where is our difference? What is the distinction? Dimension. Because one girl is 1D, the other is 3-4D. 1D girl is charming and unchallenging. She laughs at your jokes, acts just drunk enough to be charming, and touches you just enough to leave you wanting more. Meanwhile 3D chick is a whole different ball-game. She asks you about your family, what inspires you, and who you want to be.

So who wins? What is the outcome? Well, truth is friends, 3D girls are amazing, they are the girls who inspire people to be great. But they do not quickly and easily fit into your car, your bed or your life. And 1D girls are as easy to carry around as they are to understand. (Or at the part of them they want you to see). So 3D girl gets passed up, goes home alone. Or she gets chosen just long enough to scare the crap out of some boy who thought he was ready, that he wanted the real deal.

So what's a 3D girl to do? Try to shave herself down to simplicity? No, take solace dear sister in the truth once discovered in high school English. The heroines, the relatable, most beloved characters are the ones that feel real.

Being a girl

Being a girl

Why is it that “being a girl” is a constant effort to not seem like your some terrible adjective. We try not to seem “needy” or “crazy” all the time. And yet it seems like guys are always trying to seem like they are something, like “masculine” or “confident” or some other crap.

So you’re a girl, you’re at home anxiously awaiting a hang out with a guy, and at the last minute he cancels. Immediately, in the wake of hurt left by said text/voicemail/facebook message, you swing into explanation mode. Like a car into a giant transfomer robot, you change from rational, feminist, confident girl into insecure puddle.

Because you brain is playing about 90 scenes from every girl centered romantic comedy advice movie you’ve ever seen. The phrase “He’s just not that into you” flashes in a bright red in your brain. Because despite the fact that dudes pull this shit all the time without skipping a beat we still respond the same way, by looking for a problem within ourselves.

Cause you ain’t crazy so trying not to freak him out you send what you deem to be a desperately passive aggressive message, that he must read and feel your pain and immediately apologize, for said insensitivity. Mean while joker over there, reading your message says “Oh, she cool” and rolls on out with his aforementioned bros and ditching plans.

So you sit and pout and wonder why he doesn’t understand you and doesn’t wanna hang out with you. And you aren’t crazy because those fears didn’t pop out the ground without seeds. A new one was born every time someone left you, every time a guy wanted you so desperately and changed his mind. You have learned that they all leave eventually no matter how good or kind you are.

Why is that being a girl is a constant act of self-restraint? Of maintaining the illusion  of dignity at any and all costs.

Gran Cafetería Santander

Gran Cafetería Santander

In a glass of coke
a building reflects in miniature
creme, blue and green
form little windows
and walls

Bubbles bounce up
to the surface
Not to be heard
in their soft subtlety
Over the whirr
of engines and wheels
honks and screeches

The symphony
to be found
on this corner

Sydney-Fear

Sydney- Fear

It is amazing that so many of our colloquial phrases about fear are so on the nose. “Scared shitless”, is a real thing, some people when frightened have to run straight to the bathroom. The fear shakes them literally “to the core” and they must relieve themselves. “Paralyzed by fear”, Sydney recently discovered is a real thing too. While traveling in Spain she had a first hand encounter with this brand of fright. She had gone up to Pamplona to visit her beloved brother and was quite enjoying her stay and her ultra, adult-like independence.

            No longer with her group from school, she had booked a bed in a hostel. By sheer luck she had a six-person room to herself one night and only one “compañera de cuarto” the second. Upon returning late to her room the third night Sydney saw a lump in one of her many beds and thought of course, its another girl. So she showered, and feeling sleepy, comfortable and warm she hopped into bed in some fairly large underwear and a t-shirt. It was at 3:30 am that ol’ Syd experienced the fright of her life

            She woke abruptly to the voice of a strange man in her newly found sanctum. Said man in the pitch dark was talking rapidly in a language Sydney did not understand. Her heart stopped. “How did a man get in here?” “What’s he doing?!” “Holy shit! Why am I not wearing pants?”

She sat so still that she could hear his every heavy masculine breath. After moments of lifeless fear and listening, She determined said man was speaking German, and he was sleep talking. While texting her best friends, so that someone would know why she had died, the light dawned on her.

            There was no other girl in this room. The lump had been a man all along. She sat still lifeless, until slowly regaining her faculties, finger by finger, she turned herself forcibly towards this body-less voice, so that she could engage in the proper fight or flight.

            After sitting/laying perfectly petrified and freaked out for about an hour, she drifted back off to sleep. The morning light and the comfort of pants, showed the scary German body-less man to be an extremely sweet Swiss-German boy. He spoke in a lovely broken English to his new silly friend and joked after apologizing for frightening her with his abnormal nocturnal speech patterns.

            That kind of irrational nighttime, boogey monster fear was and had always been a part of Sydney’s life and most often it resolved just as happily. Sydney took it as a marker and a fair trade for an active imagination. But there was another fear she was not so proud of, which had also reigned during a period of her life.

            As a girl in Texas Sydney had been shy but happy, content with her friends, family and life. Unfortunately, being uprooted from this group and place did not start off so well. Timid and clad in children’s hand-me-downs Sydney walked into Due West Elementary School, and from day one she could tell it wasn’t going to be a cakewalk. She was a stranger, an outsider and (a new term to her also) a dork. While trying to survive and make at least one real friend, Sydney adopted the “keep your head down” mentality, especially on the school bus. If she kept from standing out and sat close to the front, she escaped everyday, home to the safety of her dogs and family.

            It was during this self-preservation phase that she observed some of the worst bullying of her life. You’ve heard of the totem pole right? Well luckily for Sydney there was one kid below her, who’s weirdness was painted on him in the brightest neon yellow. This boy lived outside her neighborhood with his Mormon mother and Jewish father. He was white as paper and had dark circles so large, that he looked quite akin to the garden-variety raccoon. Adam might not have been doing ok, because he went to the school counselor a lot. And unfortunately he was incapable of blending in, in any way. Everyday when he got off the bus he bade everyone “Shalom”, to the ridicule of his wolf-like peers.

            One day this poor boy made a fatal mistake, having forgot his viola in the orchestra room, he abandoned his backpack to run for his instrument. One of his many tormentors did not let such a golden opportunity pass. He, meaning to go through the boy’s stuff, snatched his backpack from its place on the cracked brown leather seat. He didn’t have to dig any further. Behind the backpack a smaller bag had been concealed, it was the size of a 90’s backpack purse, and was decorated with a giant smiley face.

            Adam ran onto the bus, happy to have reached it in time with his newly retrieved instrument. It was a blood bath. The kids made fun of him relentlessly. To this day she remembers that poor boy crying and shaking, clinging to that tiny little backpack for dear life.

            In that moment she had neither been brave nor self-less. Instead of defending that boy, she sat back helpless as she watched the onslaught. Like a dog in a Jack London novel, she let her instincts win and watched the weak be attacked by the strong. She never did find out what became of Adam. Soon his parents pulled him out of school and she never saw him again.

             It was fear that had restrained her that day. Fear of ridicule, of the cool kids, of falling into an even lower rung of the food chain. That primordial fear allowed her to watch someone suffer needlessly, rather than risk her own neck. 

Gran cafetería Santander

In a glass of coke

a building reflects 

in miniature 

cream, blue and green 

form little windows 

and walls

bubbles bounce up 

to the surface

not to be heard 

in their soft subtlety 

over the whir 

of engines and wheels

honks and screeches

the symphony 

to be found 

on this street corner 

Lights and windows

Lights and windows

From my window

I see all

the lights that shine

Squares

little tvs

that show me

glimpses

A family

eats together

a man in a red shirt 

enters and leaves a room

turns the light on and off 

Every window

a channel

every person

a character 

All connected

in my constellation 

of lights and windows

Luces y ventanas

Luces y ventanas

Desde mi ventana

veo todas

las luces que brillan 

Cuadradas

televisiones pequeñas 

que me enseñan 

vistazos

Una familia 

come junta

un hombre de camisa roja

entra y sale de un cuarto

enciende y apaga la luz

Cada ventana 

un canal

cada persona 

un personaje

Todos conectados 

en mi constelación 

de luces y ventanas

Madrid

Madrid

¡Oye Madrid!

Tengo una pregunta

nada más...

¿dormís vosotros aquí?

No quiero ser "lame" o nada

pero...

la cosa es que....

levanté por los gritos de una abuela

y me acosté con los ladridos de un bar

Hombre,

la verdad es que...

sois súper guay

súper interesantes

pero joder...

no dormís nunca

Haunted

Haunted

He haunted her

not quite Healthcliff/Cathy style

but all the same

for a suburbanite it was pretty troubling

Happy in her relationship

which is consistent, great, healthy

she does not allow herself thoughts of him

But in her dreams

control is lost

she bobs from one wave to the next

and there he is

Not even the real, flaky, scared boy she knows

but a beautiful ghost

he taunts her to jealousy

calls her to his side

She dare not go

he is not real

he is not good

he is lost

And all her phantom boy

is looking for

is someone 
to drag down to the depths

with him 

Talking to myself

Sometimes love

I feel like I'm talking

to myself

I can see that

you hear me 

And you've told me 

you care

But half the time

I send you a poem

or hold you close

all goes quiet 

I am left alone

with my thoughts

with my fears

I hear no words

I feel no warmth 

I am glad to know you

I'm honored to be chosen 

to hear your deep thoughts 

your sweet songs 

And truly 

you are worth it 

the moments of doubt and fear 

But when you remain silent 

in the face of 

my eternal babbling 

I feel alone

Like I'm talking 

to myself

Safe

"Safe"

Do you remember that word?

What it used to mean

safe and sound

It always felt to me 

like the warmth of 

my dad's hugs

or my mother's presence

Yet as an adult

I see that 

this word in all it's beauty 

vanishes 

and is replaced with "strong"

I am a woman 

I am a feminist

I am an adult

therefore I am required to be 

strong 

Because safety requires 

dependence

it implies trust

without the limits of caution

I miss feeling safe 

because now every time

I let my guard down 

to look for it

I simply feel vulnerable

a turtle forced out of her shell

La librería

La librería

Querido poeta,

Hoy estoy en Madrid

en España

tu patria

Ya me siento

más cerca de ti

me hace pensar

que tú eres una persona

de verdad

y no solamente una idea

que vive en paginas y tinta

en vez de sangre y carne

Fui hoy por fin

a una librería española

allí pregunté por ti

y te encontré

después de García Lorca

vi tu nombre

“García Montero”

Y con gozo y emoción

saque tu librito

y lo acaricié

como un tesoro viejo

encontrado desde años

Pagué felizmente estos 10 euros

Y te llevé de este sitio

Sydney:Home

So chicos and chicas of the internet world here is my first shot at short storyesque writing. Let me know what y'all think!

Sydney: Home

            She wore dresses and climbed trees. She caught bugs and played with Barbies. Sydney never was the type of girl made to fit anywhere. Even her hair wouldn’t settle into a group. It was neither straight nor wavy, it wasn’t blonde anymore but it was also not truly brown or red. Every once in a while she would meet another “half-ginger” as she called them, and she would put aside any shy nature she had, and compliment their unconventional locks. She wasn’t technically “from” anywhere either. Her parents were staunch Texans, transplanted to Georgia with their four seedlings in 2000.  Sydney’s siblings took to this new soil over different periods of time, but Sydney always felt more like a cactus in a ceramic pot. Over 8 or 9 years Sydney finally connected with this place and it’s people. She knew she was half-georgian for the first time, on a drive through a tree tunnel, green with spring or orange, red and yellow with autumn. She was returning from college to the home of her parents, that “return” was the key word. To return requires a fixed location a “home” if you will. Sydney’s parents taught her one thing about home throughout her military brat nomad childhood: home is where we are together. It was in her freshman dorm bunk bed, that Sydney first realized that one day she would have to make a new home, of her own.

            Athens suited Sydney quite well, it was her favorite place in the entire USA (as she knew it). She didn’t feel like a sore thumb there, or a butterfly lost among giant moths. Much like Spanish, Athens was the cure for her natural shyness. Every waiter, cashier, or barista was an artist, musician or writer. You see Athens is a Mecca of artsy misfits (Sydney’s favorite kind of people). The thing is, that she hadn’t dreamed of belonging in years. Long ago, like the good middle child she was, she had set her expectations low, so as to not be disappointed again. She still freshly remembered her self-transformation from the miserable follower to happy weirdo, and she hadn’t planned on any group mentality since.

            In the fifth grade sweet little, hand-me-down, baby dove heart, Sydney had made her last official move. From Houston to Kennesaw, she was scooped and plopped with 2 brothers, a sister and a herd of dog companions. So what happened to our little yellow rose of Texas in Georgia? Well, she went from normal imaginary game playing kid to dork with only 2 friends. Thus, our girl entered a phase of good ol’ fashioned misery. A time of trying to fit in, of trying to be someone she wasn’t. Until, one blessed day chica clamped her eyes on some punk girls, it was the 8th grade. She fell head over heels for these half-ass rebels. Thus, our mama-lovin’, straight A’s girl put on her black eyeliner and her ironic t-shirts, and felt good about herself for the first time in years. Overtime, Syd found her own style and her own voice. Mainly she wore a lot of vintage and hippie inspired stuff and lots of colorful “unique” jewelry. And chica never looked back, not for a freakin’ second. In high-school she discovered Spanish and Art, her two tickets to specialness (finally). And in those same years she discovered The Postal Service and indie music. The freedom of not giving a shit of what people thought of her became quite an addiction to Sydney, sometimes to her detriment.

            But no matter what she said or did on the outside, she was still that girl who wanted to be a missionary since she was five years old and who could find beauty in anything. The girl who loved three legged dogs the most. So our girl found a home in Athens, a nest from which she could fly off to her adventures, and to which she could always return to mend a broken wing. 

Too young

Too young to know
who you are
who I will be
what love really is
what it truly means

How can I know?
how can I choose?
what is the litmus test
for forever?

You

I like...
Your curly long hair
and your tattooed arms
I like...
Your smooth fair skin
and your ever changing eyes
I like...
Your bashful text messages
and your soft kisses on my neck
Yea, I guess you could say
I just like... You

Sometimes...

Sometimes...
I like to play with my eyes
like a camera with it's focus
I focus on your face
your freckles, your wrinkles
the sparkle in your left eye
Then I zoom out
you go out of focus
I go beyond you
I observe the words
Apricot, Songbird Oolong, Peace Tea
I come back to see the light from
a display case play on the edge of
your enfolded hands
white against the warm brown
that is your skin
What do these hands know?
Are they hard or soft?
What have they touched?
How do they work?
Sometimes...
I like to play with my eyes

I care for you

I care for you
in a way that aches
like my stomach when
I'm so full I can't breathe

Thinking of you
makes me laugh and cry
fountains of joy
and rivers of sorrow
both find their sources in you

You see I loved you before
like a brother
a dear close friend
when I thought I lost you
it felt like I had been robbed

So today my feelings mingle
like the milk in coffee
sweet nourishing joy
white and pure
cuts through that acrid
brown sadness

When you look into the mirror
and your reflection meets your gaze
when the bathroom light
refracts and bends around your frame
I wonder what you see
and who you think you are

What if?

What if?
I have a problem with what ifs
they run wild in my brain
splashing their guilty paint
on every wall

What if I had gone out with you
instead of shutting you down?
What if I had brought a flashlight
on our trail instead of balancing myself
with my arms around your frame?

What if I had stood my ground
and refused your eager lips?
What if I had shrugged off
your youthful embrace
and the sparks and shakes
it caused up and down my spine?

You see I really do have a problem
with what ifs
because no matter how much
you tell me it's not my fault
I will wander and wonder
what if.

La luna

La luna
mi luna
hermana blanca
que vigila desde el cielo
todas mis noches
tristes y alegres

¿Qué piensas tú, hermana?
¿entiendes el deseo
de quedar en un abrazo
hasta que llegue el amanecer
de quedar en sus brazos
hasta que canten los pajaritos
de la mañana?

Hermana mía
no vives tan lejos
no eres tan fría
como imaginan los que no te conocen
Tu luz no es blanca
es medio azul
es medio lavanda
llena de magia y electricidad

Mírame con amor hermana
dame tus bendiciones sabias
tu energía vibrante
tu luz poderosa
la que inyectas en los ríos
en el mar

Y sobre todo hazme
dichosa en la búsqueda

Disappear

Disappear

I know that one day you'll disappear
like marshmallows in hot chocolate
or cash in my wallet
You'll be gone from my mind
but not in a flash
like a car zipping by
or the number of breaths in a minute
You are too good, too memorable
You will slowly fade in my mind
First the sound of your voice
then the warmth of your touch
till one day when i can barely recall
the feeling of your presence
the rhythm of your laugh
like sand between my fingers you'll slip away
But right now...
I feel you
I hear you
And not even the hope of forgetting
can ease the burn left by
the warmth of you

Remember?

Remember?
When our friendship was
easy and comfortable

When you and I were honest
without limits

When we laughed
every .2 seconds
because we couldn't help it

Remember?
When you chose yourself
over me

When our word filled hours
became silences

When our happy hugs
became awkward distances

....I do.

Rain boots

I like to where my rain boots
pink like freshly chewed bubble gum
and walk or hop from
puddle to puddle
and from
stream to stream
the ones that
pop up on gray steamy days

I wish that I had
a pair to fit my heart
so I could jump
without fear
into your sweet arms
into your warm heart
without the risk
of drenching my own

But alas these magical boots
I do not have
thus I am afraid to jump
I dare not hop
and I never walk
deep in the streams
that flow in
yours

Las hojas transparentes

The Risk

The Risk

I've heard it said
that in life
all things worth having
are worth
taking a risk for

Really?
Then why is it
that every time
I take a chance
I roll the proverbial dice
I just feel like
a fucking fool

What if
what you have to risk
is too precious to lose?
Is it prideful
to hold on to my dignity
like a gambler to a
promising lottery ticket?

What is more worth
the risk?
Saving face
or experiencing
something like
love?

Dearest Eleanor

Dearest Eleanor,

(From Sense and Sensibility)
Life's a bitch ain't it?
Excuse my fowl language
I know you're a lady
and a proper one at that
so you wouldn't express it
that way
But I feel like you
understand the sentiment

I wish I could be like you
strong, wise, reserved
reliable and good
But I am a Marianne
an utter fool
who follows her desires
and listens to her heart
Much like your dear sister
I love poetry and life
and honesty
I have no time or regard
for propriety

And thus like the Marianne
I am
I end up lookin' a fool
I am tricked
by the open nature of my heart
into believing the best of all
and perceiving my feelings
infallible

But unlike you
dear friend
I am not a work of fiction
I am real and live now
with no benevolent
Jane to guide my steps
and bring me to a righteous love

I guess I just have to
keep going like you did
and hope that my author
will guide me
to a lovely ending

Henna party :)

Got new henna today !

No me entiendes

No me entiendes

Hombre
mirandome
con placer y  deseo
no me entiendes

Para ti mis caderas
son cosas para tocar
son la diferencia entre
tú y yo
inconscientemente
(para ti)
esas caderas me hacen
capaz de contener
tu cría

Para mi
son la razón por la que
no podría llevar
los vaqueros de las jovencitas
y porque todavía
no puedo llevar unos
skinny jeans

Para ti mi pecho
no sé que es
quizás
algo divertido, extraño
interesante, misterioso

inconscientemente

(para ti)
este pecho
significa que
puedo ser fuente
láctea
para tus hijos

Para mi
es algo que no
me permite llevar
un montón de camisas y blusas
 y que me vuelve
sexualized
sin mi permiso

Por eso hombrecito
podemos ser muchas cosas
tú y yo
pero no voy a olvidar
que no me entiendes
(que nunca me entenderás)

Café con García Montero

Café con García Montero

Esta mañana
en un café
vi a un hombre de tu edad
con ordenador y gafas
calificando unos exámenes
o algo así

Imaginé que serías tú
escribiendo algún poema
susurrándote a ti mismo
en un lindo Español granadino

Y con mucho miedo y
trepidación
Yo intentaría hablar
contigo
"Hola... em mucho gusto...
encantada... de... conocerte
.... estoy enamorada de....
tu poesía..."

Tree Circle

We all went to the Globe and I gave everyone sharpie tattoos :)

Arm tat tree

:)

(Not) Your Saint

I am not your saint
so stop trying to put
halos on my head
and flowing sheer robes
on my shoulders

Do not bow your head
and pray
that through me
you will find
peace or salvation

I reject your votive candles
your rosary worn to bits
and the statuettes you have of me
all over your damn house

Look at me!
Smell my hair
See my movement
Feel the warmth of
the blood in my veins

I cannot be your saint
my dearest love
because
I am
human

The skin I'm in

Florence Nightingale

I cannot save you
so why is it
that when you tell me
of your sad tales
your fractured heart
your wounded soul

I long to take out
my needle and thread
to sow you back together
stitch by stitch

To bring out my laundry detergent
and bleach
to wash out all
the stains you see on yourself

Despite my "better" judgement
and my many failures
I still take your hand
I wrap my small arms
around your gaunt frame

And I try desperately
to transfer the warmth
from my body to yours

Women and pasta

Women and pasta

If women were pasta
I would not be easymac
you couldn't heat me up
and consume me
in minutes

I would be spaghetti
in a homemade tomato sauce
with hints of basil and oregano
time consuming
but delicious
and worth your effort

Two gardens

Two gardens

Whenever I see lamb's ear
I think of the magic garden
of my godmother

An eden in Houston Texas
full of flowers bright
smells sweet
and touches soft

My mother cultivated gardens too
but her eden could not be found
in flowers and plants
but in the warmth of her kitchen

In breads and pastas
steaks and potatoes
birthday cakes and cookies
my momma cultivated
our love

And every time she brought it
to the table
we smelled it
possessed it
and consumed it

Every night ended
with six bellies and hearts
full of goodness
and full of love

Trees on arms

Here's a drawing/temporary tat/ poetry combo

Arm art

I drew one of my trees on Chris' arm today :)
I think it would make a sweet tat

Dancing with a partner

Dancing with a partner

I don't want to dance
with a partner
sweet but stiff
Who moves his origami arms
throughout the night
in the same repetitive motion

Every step he takes
towards me
I take two back
until we have traversed
half of the dance floor

He is a lovely boy
I'm sure
But I'm not much for anchors
When I move
I want complete freedom
to sway my hips
and slide my feet
Feeling the beat pulse
through my muscles
As it manifests itself
in movement

So while he may be
a very sweet person
I'm afraid I don't want
any partners
when I choose to dance

El amor

El amor

El amor para ti
es una ola
Bella, grande, viva
Que te golpea
de repente
con fuerza y poder
Esta ola te envuelve
Casi te ahoga
dentro de ella
Pero al fin y al cabo
después de ser consumido
por ella
Esta ola pasa
se desaparece

Yo quiero un amor
como una pared
No que me bloquea
sino que me protege
Quiero construir mi amor
como una casita
ladrillo por ladrillo
Un refugio del mundo
Que me defiende
contra las lluvias frias
y el sol severo
que me mojaría
o quemaría
hasta la muerte

La piel

La piel

La piel
mi piel
blanca
transparente
rosada
llena de pecas

Que ajusta mi cuerpo
envuelve mis músculos
y protege el corazón

Es versátil
es capaz
de ser dura y fuerte
y a la misma vez
tan suave como
crema batida

Sabe como
dar golpes
y caricias
como absorber
y rechazar

Es linda
es lista
es cariñosa
es protectora
mi piel

Walk with me

Walk with me

Walk with me
In streams of cold water
that turn my feet pink

Walk with me
As we look at the colors
that pop and sing to our eyes
Oranges and reds
of the clay
 Greens, grays and browns
of our friends
the trees

Walk with me
As we dance from stone to stone
like ballerinas lost in the woods

Walk with me
And see through my eyes
Hear with my ears
the magic that
(has passed you by) (you've passed by)
would have passed you by

Drawing of Kevincito :)

Hand doodle of the day

La bañera

La bañera

Lugar de soledad
De pensamiento
De preguntas

Me gusta acostarme allí
Boca arriba
Con el pelo sumergido
Moviéndose suavemente
Alga marina

Y tentar
Las respuestas
A todas mis incógnitas
En las grietas
Del techo

This is a pen drawing I did of my friends Kate and Carlos :)
They are wonderful people.

La pregunta

La pregunta

La verdad es que
Sé quien soy
Pintora
Hija
Hermana
Amiga
Mujer
Mariposa
entre palomillas

Pero saber lo que
Yo quiero
Es una cosa completamente
diferente

La vida ahora es un bufete
¿Quieres carne?
Tenemos cincuenta tipos
¿Quieres sopa?
Bueno, tenemos cada color
y sabor que existen

El problema es que
Sólo tengo un estómago
Una vida
Un cuerpo
Un corazón

Por eso la pregunta sigue siendo
¿Qué quiero yo?

"Love"

"Love"

En inglés la palabra "love"
es una palabra muy trabajadora
La usamos para explicar
un montón de conexiones

Con una coca-cola
Con tu mamá
Con un perro
Con un sandwich delicioso
Con un amante

"Love" como dice los Beatles
en inglés es (supuestamente)
todo lo que necesitas
Estoy de acuerdo
cuando pienso
que "love" es amor

Amar
Querer
Gustar

Con estos significados en mente
Puedo decir gracias
a nuestro busy amiguito "love"