Fairytales of things that never were

I'm going to try to describe dreams. Not of the kind defined on a Pto. Vallarta beach with the word resort attached after a magical font type writes D.R.E.A.M.s (Resort). It's also not of the kind of dreams that you speak of in the "I have a dream..." style of thinking, the type that changes nations or at the very least our own personal sphere of influence (which may or may not be the same thing depending on how many of you read my blog, or follow the Mexican president's twitter account).

Dreams of the kind that wake you up with a sudden start (as you die if we are to believe Inception; and I do, down to the very fact that the initials of each of the main characters spell the word Dream). Dreams that you live through, asleep or awake and that you rarely transcribe not for fear of what they mean but because you struggle to recall the simples detail, because you find yourself in the middle without certitude of what the head or the tail of that particular snake is. The kind where you are as prone to live a half-remembered thought with a dash of fantasy as you are to imagine yourself sitting at the edge of your own bed contemplating your sleeping self.

So picture real life - all suits and ties and dark tones and hues with a single bombshell that draws attention only from those willing to take a moment to break their intent conversation/staring fight with the piece of ground one yard away from their feet to take in the air of faint superiority and confidence that masks the possibility of a truly wondrous creature.

That's my average day.

Lilium inter spinas.

I live in a world of fantasy where I have been blessed with friends with jobs and life's that are constantly searching for meaning and spirit. Where the term value-added is more than the lingo dropped during a consultant presentation and excel stands for both a program and a quality we hope to achieve in all our activities.

Where the horrors of the sinister lurk at just the right distance to afford us denial. Where we face truth only when it is sweet and drinkable (like Coors! or is Bud Light! Which one has the little ventilation marketing ploy?).

But when you walk around and see people with the flu because they haven't gotten their shot or dealing with their allergies either by sniffling or eating honey because medicine is not really necessary you start to wonder. And what that might be is whether or not we have the right amount of perspective. Or it could just be that the nightmare you're currently in is only a multi-million person city with hundreds of thousands running around with masks and fake (90% of the time) knifes and they could either treat or kill you.

And yes, we're back to discombobulated thought.

But in my previous life I never knew anyone allergic to anything that wasn't manageable. I've always been allergic to cats and I've always lived with them. I always thought shots were the things you either took at the bar, got from the doctor or used to have a pop off in the station. Not to avoid a cold. And lines were a suggestion for those willing to wait.

I'll admit the last one actually serves a purpose.

And a(non) fiction turns to reality. Or otherwise and vice-versa.

Not another Staind Song

Today I spent the better part of the morning transcribing old phone contacts from a decaying symbol of technology to one that still heralds the oncoming onslaught of technology as defined by the cool and not the technical. In other words I gave up on the blackberry in favor of the iphone. But you needn't worry - this isn't the story about how I finally broke down and got myself an iSomething beyond my Mac (iMac?) and my iPad (iTablet).

It's been a while since I've spoken - truly spoken - with someone from home. And I loosely define as the place where I grew up. Not the small town named Primavera (Spring) where I spent the better part of my childhood walking through forest trails, following gaming tracks that didn't exist and teaching myself how to survive in the wild by bringing sandwiches from home. I'm talking about the general collection of space between my town and my city. The two worlds I lived in, one of which was actually in Spanish and was more closely related to my family, nuclear and otherwise. The other was in English and equally confusing in its intricacy, the role it played in my dreams and the extent of the breadth and depth of my relationships within it.

The two worlds occasionally overlapped - particularly when I described a part of one world to a person in another. Talk about Dia de los Muertos to your liberally educated English teachers in 10th grade while at the same time revealing that the day itself was about a connection to stranger in a collectively painful mind day for Mexicans everywhere. Maybe you'd even get away with describing something that made you seem wise beyond your years and for the rest of the day you would walk around with an inward smile feeling much better about yourself than you probably should have.

So as of late I look for spanish music. And maybe it's because it terrifies me that as often as not I find myself thinking in English, talking to myself in English and wondering out loud about hopes and dreams that only had a Spanish verbalization before. Me hace falta el Espanol y el sabor Mexicano.

There's a reason I work my way through a canister of red pepper flakes on a weekly basis and its not that I miss the fire. I add jalapenos to most things and revel in the hidden flavor of a chipotle burrito not because the collective is reminiscent of home but because there are key individual flavors you can add to make them taste of culture and not of pre-packaged deliciousness.

And I think the moments of self reflection that my current situation affords me are dangerous as ever and I realize that I have always been afforded the opportunity to be a better long distance friend that I usually am. That the technology, both social media and phone wise has been miles beyond anything my parents, or my parents' parents had and they all, along with their coetaneous friends and colleagues managed to maintain communication. I flash back to all the friends I made in summer camps all over the world and the ocasional calls they would make to my little house in Guadalajara. I'd be surprised every time. It wasn't the why do they care but how much they cared.

And so now, I'm going to start to care.

More that is.