I used to drive stick. The coordination of clutch, gas and stick makes the driving experience more realistic. More like I'm trying to get somewhere and I'm not simply driving an over-sized golf cart at speeds we should really never be allowed to move around.
It had been almost 2 years since I'd felt this high. Not a towering stature but merely chemical running rampant within me - a product of a natural process resulting from group exercise. And though I've had girl friends run up to me and give me everything from quizzical looks to flat out comments in the "you know these classes are typically for girls right?" vein, I'm going. Pseudo-religiously.
And if I stare at the instructors almost obsessively I do it because there are multiple forces at play. One - I need the instruction, my coordination from driving didn't translate to elegantly planned quasi-dance moves that mix muay-thai moves with katas and a little bit of brazilian jujitsu. Who would have known. So what if my core isn't strong enough to maintain my balance as I try to bend my leg and have my but touch the soles of my feet in the most naturally unnatural way?
But I also watch for their tells as though we were playing poker.
You see, they have a custom of attending each others classes. What might be viewed as professional, friendly competition is in my mind nothing quite so cynical. They cheer each other on in the best woo-girl fashion. They smile as they suggest we grit our teeth. They ask each other if they feel the fire as undoubtedly their engorged quads steep in lactic acid.
Their tell is the underlying happiness behind whatever their facial muscles or tense body structure might tell.
And that's what I'm there to learn.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Politico
Porque Serra que cada vez que vuelvo a México me dan aspiraciones de político. Y no de político como el de "revoluciondelintelecto" ni como el Nino verde o el Peje. Claro esta que todos son distintos pero a la vez, todos se pagan lo que quieran y trabajan poco y de manera ineficiente. Eso si, todos de camionetita blindadita y guarura.
Comencemos entonces con un comentario acerca del mitote que hizo el peje cuando se autodeclaro como presidente legitimo. Claro esta que su mitote en el zócalo con gente comprado, lonches y banderas amarillas fue una desgracia no solo para México sino también para el ejercicio cuasi democrático que ejercemos los mexicanos cada 6 anos. Pero detrás de su intransigencia encontré dos cosas importantes que podrían aplicarse a nuestro gobierno.
La primera: el sistema no funciona.
Cuando el cuerpo electoral es uno sin educación y que puede ser comprado por anuncios televisivos que prometen un futuro abstractamente mejor con expresiones populares y mangas arremangadas, el sistema no sirve. Cuando los funcionarios electos no tienen educación y de vez en vez se les ocurre hacer majaderías en el congreso, rentar jets para irse de viaje mientras su gente se muere de hambre o le falta luz o mandan a volar a su cuerpo electoral en frente de las cámaras de televisión, el sistema no sirve.
La segunda: falta trabajar fuera del sistema.
Esto no se refiere a la corrupción o las "mordidas". Esto esta dentro del sistema. Lo que pasa es que falta trabajar con funcionarios y mexicanos (que a veces no importan que no sean los mismos) que no estén moralmente corroídos por como funciona nuestro microcosmo - México. Lamentablemente son pocos y en peligro de extinción, salen a la naturaleza por la noche y procrean solo cada 25 anos. Lo que intento crear el peje fue un nuevo régimen. Un régimen basado en una verdad que solo el creía pero un nuevo régimen.
Falta que dejemos de pensar que el gobierno es solamente una de esas cosas que duran 6 anos a la vez. Que es algo que hace falta recrear y reconocer que a México le sobran falsas energías políticas.
O que, quien piensa que se puede arreglar este país cuando se reconstruye y reconstruye en un lustro mas uno.
Comencemos entonces con un comentario acerca del mitote que hizo el peje cuando se autodeclaro como presidente legitimo. Claro esta que su mitote en el zócalo con gente comprado, lonches y banderas amarillas fue una desgracia no solo para México sino también para el ejercicio cuasi democrático que ejercemos los mexicanos cada 6 anos. Pero detrás de su intransigencia encontré dos cosas importantes que podrían aplicarse a nuestro gobierno.
La primera: el sistema no funciona.
Cuando el cuerpo electoral es uno sin educación y que puede ser comprado por anuncios televisivos que prometen un futuro abstractamente mejor con expresiones populares y mangas arremangadas, el sistema no sirve. Cuando los funcionarios electos no tienen educación y de vez en vez se les ocurre hacer majaderías en el congreso, rentar jets para irse de viaje mientras su gente se muere de hambre o le falta luz o mandan a volar a su cuerpo electoral en frente de las cámaras de televisión, el sistema no sirve.
La segunda: falta trabajar fuera del sistema.
Esto no se refiere a la corrupción o las "mordidas". Esto esta dentro del sistema. Lo que pasa es que falta trabajar con funcionarios y mexicanos (que a veces no importan que no sean los mismos) que no estén moralmente corroídos por como funciona nuestro microcosmo - México. Lamentablemente son pocos y en peligro de extinción, salen a la naturaleza por la noche y procrean solo cada 25 anos. Lo que intento crear el peje fue un nuevo régimen. Un régimen basado en una verdad que solo el creía pero un nuevo régimen.
Falta que dejemos de pensar que el gobierno es solamente una de esas cosas que duran 6 anos a la vez. Que es algo que hace falta recrear y reconocer que a México le sobran falsas energías políticas.
O que, quien piensa que se puede arreglar este país cuando se reconstruye y reconstruye en un lustro mas uno.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Felipe
Estimado Felipe:
Déjame empezar disculpándome por apersonarme tan pronto y comenzar el tuteo desde el principio. Pero ya vez que me parece que nos hemos tardado en presentarnos pero casi siento que te conozco. Te veo (más bien te veía) tanto en la tele los primeros dos años de tu gobierno y escuchaba mucho acerca del famoso soldadito de chocolate.
Soy un mexicano estudiando en el extranjero. Soy parte del llamado "brain drain" o brein drein como dirían mis paisanos recién llegados a Laredo o Los Ángeles. Pero la verdad es que no sabrían de que se trata el asunto lamentablemente. Simplemente, no hace dos meses, yo estaba tramitando mi pasaporte en un consulado en el Noreste. Era temprano y había hombres, mujeres y niños todos formaditos según nos decía la secretaria. Un joven tratando de tramitar su pasaporte casi se saca los pelos cuando la amable señorita de la ventanilla le pregunto dónde estaban sus padres. "Porque?" pregunto el joven. "Porque se necesita el permiso de los padres cuando se trata de un menor buscando pasaporte" dijo ella. "Pero yo tengo 18 años!"
"No, usted los cumple el 4 de enero. Si gusta vuelva entonces".
No sabía leer.
Pero esta carta abierta no se trata de eso, así que antes de que continúe divagando permítame.
En estados unidos se burlan muchos de los soldados de carrera en el ejercito. Son aquellos que no saben de donde son, que se piensa que fueron producidos por el gobierno para el servicio del gobierno. Hombres y mujeres dedicados a pelear por el ideal que se les ordene. Jarheads. Hombres de guerra. De pocos o muchos estudios, son aquellos que ansían que se acabe su periodo de servicio para poder enrolarse en el que sigue. Pelo corto, camisas siempre verdes de algodón y pantalones camuflajeados.
Eso es lo que nos falta en este país. Una tribu de gente así. Una tribu guerrera que crea solo en la voz de uno o dos generales de baja o alta inteligencia que piensen solo en beneficio de la madre patria. Creo que hace tiempo los padres de la revolución lo hubieran descrito como patriotismo. Pero seamos honestos Felipe (te puedo decir Feli?) el patriotismo se murió cuando los presidentes de la "ivy" league se la robaron y un ranchero se lo cambio al pueblo por un sentido del humor desabrido y una mujer come-hombres.
Te propongo lo siguiente. Escoge una ciudad pequeña, de entre 50 y 100 mil habitantes. Llamémosle población y bauticémosle MEXICANIDAD. Pero así, todo en mayúsculas. Para que la crean. Todos los habitantes de más de 16 años serán acomodados en otra ciudad. O se les construirá una ciudad gemela que funcione como ciudad hermana, separada de los jóvenes pero unidos por un puente atirantado que cueste 20 veces más de lo que en realidad valga. Entonces, con los jóvenes aislados del mundo, que entren las lavanderas. No precisamente de ropa pero si de mente. Gente altamente preparada y educada en historia de México, economía, guerra, y sicología. Todo con el objetivo de obtener un buen número de jóvenes que griten un grito de guerra (como en nuestro himno que cantamos el 16) cuando se diga México. Que no sea un grito que salga de la boca entre aliento alcohólico. Que sea un grito poderoso y serio que diga: Hago lo que le haga bien a México. Y ese bien es lo que me diga Felipe (o yo porque no) a través de los generales.
Y luego los soltamos en Michoacán.
Sinceramente,
H.C. DHD
Déjame empezar disculpándome por apersonarme tan pronto y comenzar el tuteo desde el principio. Pero ya vez que me parece que nos hemos tardado en presentarnos pero casi siento que te conozco. Te veo (más bien te veía) tanto en la tele los primeros dos años de tu gobierno y escuchaba mucho acerca del famoso soldadito de chocolate.
Soy un mexicano estudiando en el extranjero. Soy parte del llamado "brain drain" o brein drein como dirían mis paisanos recién llegados a Laredo o Los Ángeles. Pero la verdad es que no sabrían de que se trata el asunto lamentablemente. Simplemente, no hace dos meses, yo estaba tramitando mi pasaporte en un consulado en el Noreste. Era temprano y había hombres, mujeres y niños todos formaditos según nos decía la secretaria. Un joven tratando de tramitar su pasaporte casi se saca los pelos cuando la amable señorita de la ventanilla le pregunto dónde estaban sus padres. "Porque?" pregunto el joven. "Porque se necesita el permiso de los padres cuando se trata de un menor buscando pasaporte" dijo ella. "Pero yo tengo 18 años!"
"No, usted los cumple el 4 de enero. Si gusta vuelva entonces".
No sabía leer.
Pero esta carta abierta no se trata de eso, así que antes de que continúe divagando permítame.
En estados unidos se burlan muchos de los soldados de carrera en el ejercito. Son aquellos que no saben de donde son, que se piensa que fueron producidos por el gobierno para el servicio del gobierno. Hombres y mujeres dedicados a pelear por el ideal que se les ordene. Jarheads. Hombres de guerra. De pocos o muchos estudios, son aquellos que ansían que se acabe su periodo de servicio para poder enrolarse en el que sigue. Pelo corto, camisas siempre verdes de algodón y pantalones camuflajeados.
Eso es lo que nos falta en este país. Una tribu de gente así. Una tribu guerrera que crea solo en la voz de uno o dos generales de baja o alta inteligencia que piensen solo en beneficio de la madre patria. Creo que hace tiempo los padres de la revolución lo hubieran descrito como patriotismo. Pero seamos honestos Felipe (te puedo decir Feli?) el patriotismo se murió cuando los presidentes de la "ivy" league se la robaron y un ranchero se lo cambio al pueblo por un sentido del humor desabrido y una mujer come-hombres.
Te propongo lo siguiente. Escoge una ciudad pequeña, de entre 50 y 100 mil habitantes. Llamémosle población y bauticémosle MEXICANIDAD. Pero así, todo en mayúsculas. Para que la crean. Todos los habitantes de más de 16 años serán acomodados en otra ciudad. O se les construirá una ciudad gemela que funcione como ciudad hermana, separada de los jóvenes pero unidos por un puente atirantado que cueste 20 veces más de lo que en realidad valga. Entonces, con los jóvenes aislados del mundo, que entren las lavanderas. No precisamente de ropa pero si de mente. Gente altamente preparada y educada en historia de México, economía, guerra, y sicología. Todo con el objetivo de obtener un buen número de jóvenes que griten un grito de guerra (como en nuestro himno que cantamos el 16) cuando se diga México. Que no sea un grito que salga de la boca entre aliento alcohólico. Que sea un grito poderoso y serio que diga: Hago lo que le haga bien a México. Y ese bien es lo que me diga Felipe (o yo porque no) a través de los generales.
Y luego los soltamos en Michoacán.
Sinceramente,
H.C. DHD
Friday, December 24, 2010
Log, day 2
To start with a story: my aunt bought my grandmother a new kitchen. They asked me for help installing it and I obliged. On my way to the hardware store - I needed a couple of screws and a drill bit - I saw a pair of cops armed with AKs run into a store. The kind of store that sells home appliances. Then I saw them run out in my direction, looking over their shoulder, and yelling at the rest of their squadron to run.
I wasn't wearing my jogging shoes. But I bolted too. Two blocks and straight into the hardware store. They eventually got into their humvee and skidded off. There were no gunshots.
I bought my supplies and walked home.
Later in the day, walking home, I crossed through the town square. There was a mass going on in the middle of it and a crowd rocking the baby jesus. The father kept praying as the crowd moved the baby in sync to an orchestral ave maria. Army men dotted the town square and we all prayed as the manger's spotlight was occupied. Though normally this was something done at midnight, with a much bigger crowd, and candles and fireworks. Today we did it in the middle of the day. No fanfare. Just business as usual.
This is what it feels like to live in occupied territory.
It's funny, you really start worrying when the hotel owner stops you before going out in the morning. Though we're regulars at this hotel - a turn of the century house, remodeled to service the 20th century traveler, along with 5 inch thick board ups in the windows and bullet proof glass to prevent attacks - I wouldn't say we're VIPs. We were offered a security escort today.
So now, we've had our Christmas Eve lunch (not dinner).
And all the while I'm wondering why the government doesn't do something about it. How is it that this para-military, pseudogovernmental organization has all the cards. And by cards I mean bombs.
Felipe?
I wasn't wearing my jogging shoes. But I bolted too. Two blocks and straight into the hardware store. They eventually got into their humvee and skidded off. There were no gunshots.
I bought my supplies and walked home.
Later in the day, walking home, I crossed through the town square. There was a mass going on in the middle of it and a crowd rocking the baby jesus. The father kept praying as the crowd moved the baby in sync to an orchestral ave maria. Army men dotted the town square and we all prayed as the manger's spotlight was occupied. Though normally this was something done at midnight, with a much bigger crowd, and candles and fireworks. Today we did it in the middle of the day. No fanfare. Just business as usual.
This is what it feels like to live in occupied territory.
It's funny, you really start worrying when the hotel owner stops you before going out in the morning. Though we're regulars at this hotel - a turn of the century house, remodeled to service the 20th century traveler, along with 5 inch thick board ups in the windows and bullet proof glass to prevent attacks - I wouldn't say we're VIPs. We were offered a security escort today.
So now, we've had our Christmas Eve lunch (not dinner).
And all the while I'm wondering why the government doesn't do something about it. How is it that this para-military, pseudogovernmental organization has all the cards. And by cards I mean bombs.
Felipe?
Thursday, December 23, 2010
WaW
According to some it might just be the spanish way of saying wow. I know better. I also know that to any half l337 gamer out there WaW means world at war. And that's precisely the one I'm talking about.
I always wondered what it was like to live in a war torn country. How the people in North Korea, or Afghanistan or Iraq lived or live for years with grenades and bombs and shooting going on all around them. What's their new normal?
I'm at a small city in the heart of Zeta territory in Mexico and somehow I feel like a war correspondent. The Zetas were originally a black ops type team trained by the government and meant to take out the drug lords controlling the southwest of Mexico. These were highly skilled, intelligent individuals taught not only in the art of war but also in relating to the culture and the people. They were successful in taking down the drug lords. They then quickly put themselves in charge and became warlords. That is, warlords in the traditional Africa sense - people with small armies and deep ties to the people. Except they might be smarter, they collect taxes, lead public benefit projects, build roads and schools and recruit everyone, from the children to the grandparents.
That's where I am. A deeply catholic country with a pseudo government that refuses to negotiate with the actual government (though I'll admit, even to those actually keeping track, the lines are blurred). The Zetas, to their credit, have made it clear that they will not stand for injustice, and they will not stand for backtalk. They do not reason but state their demands and punish those who step out of line.
There's a curfew on the city. 9pm. It's not coming from the government. Or the government elect I should say.
The roads in and out of the city have military checkpoints. A couple of miles after them come the actual checkpoints. Zeta checkpoints.
Tonight I heard 4 gunshots and what I venture to guess was a grenade. I've been carrying a hammer with me for the sake of feeling safe. I'm sorry if the following story scares me. The city itself is occupied by federal police forces and army soldiers. At this point both bodies are armed with fully automatic weapons, humvees with gun turrets and bread trucks. All bulletproof. The highest ranking commander of the military forces, with full escort, was ambushed and outgunned. Shot. Chopped. Delivered to government offices with a note of warning.
Same place where 10 federal cops (the kind that wear jet black helmets, heavy duty kevlar and carry tear gas bombs by the dozen) were delivered in body bags to the local courthouse. Why? The Zetas - who know simply go by the Family, perhaps aspirationally to their Sicilian betters - attached a note. They love their notes. It read: these were corrupt cops. Let this be a warning to others. The Family does not kill the innocent. We are the righteous.
Great, another false god for my people.
This is where my grandparents live. And where we are now celebrating Christmas lunch not Christmas dinner.
Because we've been warned.
I always wondered what it was like to live in a war torn country. How the people in North Korea, or Afghanistan or Iraq lived or live for years with grenades and bombs and shooting going on all around them. What's their new normal?
I'm at a small city in the heart of Zeta territory in Mexico and somehow I feel like a war correspondent. The Zetas were originally a black ops type team trained by the government and meant to take out the drug lords controlling the southwest of Mexico. These were highly skilled, intelligent individuals taught not only in the art of war but also in relating to the culture and the people. They were successful in taking down the drug lords. They then quickly put themselves in charge and became warlords. That is, warlords in the traditional Africa sense - people with small armies and deep ties to the people. Except they might be smarter, they collect taxes, lead public benefit projects, build roads and schools and recruit everyone, from the children to the grandparents.
That's where I am. A deeply catholic country with a pseudo government that refuses to negotiate with the actual government (though I'll admit, even to those actually keeping track, the lines are blurred). The Zetas, to their credit, have made it clear that they will not stand for injustice, and they will not stand for backtalk. They do not reason but state their demands and punish those who step out of line.
There's a curfew on the city. 9pm. It's not coming from the government. Or the government elect I should say.
The roads in and out of the city have military checkpoints. A couple of miles after them come the actual checkpoints. Zeta checkpoints.
Tonight I heard 4 gunshots and what I venture to guess was a grenade. I've been carrying a hammer with me for the sake of feeling safe. I'm sorry if the following story scares me. The city itself is occupied by federal police forces and army soldiers. At this point both bodies are armed with fully automatic weapons, humvees with gun turrets and bread trucks. All bulletproof. The highest ranking commander of the military forces, with full escort, was ambushed and outgunned. Shot. Chopped. Delivered to government offices with a note of warning.
Same place where 10 federal cops (the kind that wear jet black helmets, heavy duty kevlar and carry tear gas bombs by the dozen) were delivered in body bags to the local courthouse. Why? The Zetas - who know simply go by the Family, perhaps aspirationally to their Sicilian betters - attached a note. They love their notes. It read: these were corrupt cops. Let this be a warning to others. The Family does not kill the innocent. We are the righteous.
Great, another false god for my people.
This is where my grandparents live. And where we are now celebrating Christmas lunch not Christmas dinner.
Because we've been warned.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
The purpose of teams
A better man than me once said to stop chasing the paper and live your life.
I go to a demanding school. The kind where the students are the ones filled with self-inflicted stress wounds and where friends are hard to come by, lest they mess up the curve. I stand looking back and I see freshmen worrying about getting jobs and seniors chilling despite or because of their job situation. How does that make sense?
The concern as educators should not be on whether the students solve a tricky test under time pressure as they worry not about how they did but how their peers did and wether they'll still be better than about half of them.
There's an obvious disconnect between effort and performance.
But we all know you need a 4.0 to get a job. And at least 4 assorted extracurriculars in which you are both a board member, a president and a ground soldier. It's all suits and ties and vault guides all over the place before we stop them and ask them why they're doing all this for?
Of course I'm not talking about the kids born and raised with a deeply rooted desire to be a banker or a consultant. What 4 year old hasn't heard of Porter's 5 forces? Or 5 year old heard about Cialdini's 6 persuasion tactics?
Perhaps it's not only time to revamp the testing process but the learning process. It's time to realize that when we learn the most is in fact at 3 am in the fluorescently-lit hallways of our local universities but it's certainly not coming from the books. Though I'll admit that some of the insights we can derive from professors and from prolonged ours sitting in front of two computer screens and an open book are often cool - I still remembered the moment Finance, my programming class, Chem and Marketing all clicked together with my world history class. It was only a quick and brief and passing thought of clarity but it was worth it. But the truth is that the knowledge comes from the people, our peers, sitting around us, supporting each other maybe by sharing a cheat sheet, or a sample test, or explaining the paper.
It is also, I would contend, a process that takes place when students engage in dangerous and sometimes illegal behavior downtown and they take care of each other. Yes, it's disgusting. Yes, the next day, a saturday or a friday or even a Wednesday if you're particularly aggressive they walk like zombies for the first 12 hours of the day as they trudge from door to door dolling out apologies and looking for his/her cellphone, wallet, credit card and dignity.
It's what some business leaders would call experiential. Give it a little more structure and fewer percentages and you could actually be called a visionary and an educator.
Isn't that what teams were for?
I go to a demanding school. The kind where the students are the ones filled with self-inflicted stress wounds and where friends are hard to come by, lest they mess up the curve. I stand looking back and I see freshmen worrying about getting jobs and seniors chilling despite or because of their job situation. How does that make sense?
The concern as educators should not be on whether the students solve a tricky test under time pressure as they worry not about how they did but how their peers did and wether they'll still be better than about half of them.
There's an obvious disconnect between effort and performance.
But we all know you need a 4.0 to get a job. And at least 4 assorted extracurriculars in which you are both a board member, a president and a ground soldier. It's all suits and ties and vault guides all over the place before we stop them and ask them why they're doing all this for?
Of course I'm not talking about the kids born and raised with a deeply rooted desire to be a banker or a consultant. What 4 year old hasn't heard of Porter's 5 forces? Or 5 year old heard about Cialdini's 6 persuasion tactics?
Perhaps it's not only time to revamp the testing process but the learning process. It's time to realize that when we learn the most is in fact at 3 am in the fluorescently-lit hallways of our local universities but it's certainly not coming from the books. Though I'll admit that some of the insights we can derive from professors and from prolonged ours sitting in front of two computer screens and an open book are often cool - I still remembered the moment Finance, my programming class, Chem and Marketing all clicked together with my world history class. It was only a quick and brief and passing thought of clarity but it was worth it. But the truth is that the knowledge comes from the people, our peers, sitting around us, supporting each other maybe by sharing a cheat sheet, or a sample test, or explaining the paper.
It is also, I would contend, a process that takes place when students engage in dangerous and sometimes illegal behavior downtown and they take care of each other. Yes, it's disgusting. Yes, the next day, a saturday or a friday or even a Wednesday if you're particularly aggressive they walk like zombies for the first 12 hours of the day as they trudge from door to door dolling out apologies and looking for his/her cellphone, wallet, credit card and dignity.
It's what some business leaders would call experiential. Give it a little more structure and fewer percentages and you could actually be called a visionary and an educator.
Isn't that what teams were for?
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Short age
I've always been of age. Of a certain age that is. At first I was 0 years old and then quickly that became a question better answered by I am this (hand up) old. At some point in the 6-7 year range that changes but you still want presents. Then you turn twelve and people start running for the hills as you lurch up.
Then, a couple of years later, maybe a little bit of facial hair tells people a good guesstimate for your age. Then your little plastic id badge lies to people about your age. Then it doesn't. First in one country (16), then in another (18), then in a third (21).
From hereonafter it's not polite to ask. Unless you're making sure it's not jailbait. Just pay close attention to the wrinkles and white hairs.
A momentary musing regarding that which is often taken for granted. The passage of time.
Then, a couple of years later, maybe a little bit of facial hair tells people a good guesstimate for your age. Then your little plastic id badge lies to people about your age. Then it doesn't. First in one country (16), then in another (18), then in a third (21).
From hereonafter it's not polite to ask. Unless you're making sure it's not jailbait. Just pay close attention to the wrinkles and white hairs.
A momentary musing regarding that which is often taken for granted. The passage of time.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Pretend I'm on a podium
And there's a huge crowd in front of me, 2500 of them are dressed in all black.
It's not a funeral.
'm still steadfast on the decision to change the world. However, I don't know if I'll ever achieve the cult-like status of Jobs or the political status of a senator. Call this a trial run. Or is it a dry run?
The first.
Think of those times you stayed behind in a room in Huntsman working with your friends because they needed help rehearsing. Keep doing this. Today it was for them. Tomorrow, for you. It might not be a status report and your first big college level presentation but the combination of diffused lighting, lack of windows, camraderie of knowing that you are bearing what must be born, together, and structure you are providing each other will give you enlightment no teacher on this campus can hope to give you.
The second.
Go out with your friends. Now I know that this might not be a popular idea because of the negative connotations of drinking, dancing and doing mistakes. That's not what I mean I assure you. What I want is for you to work really hard at choosing your friends and pursuing a depth in those relationships that only college affords. Take a second to relax, stop working on the assignments you have due next week and enjoy the freedom of choice. No longer are friendships a matter of custom or tradition. You have at least 2500 options - all pre-screened for "interesting".
And speaking more generally.
These past 4 years have been some of the greatest in my life. I didn't understand the big ado about college coming from a small high school in Mexico and a family where my parents spoke no english. Sure - there was animal house and american pie but i knew these to be comedies. I watched the movie "Accepted" during application season. I hoped for something like Dead Poet's society without the suicidal tendencies. An inspired teacher a la Coach Carter that also carried a PhD in everything and could speak with ease about the grand world stage I was joining. The ride was supposed to be an ever increasing spiritual high. It turns out that it's part of the experience to have incredible high points and terrible low points. This semester, I've hit the sweetest one yet.
These past 4 years have been an education. It took me till junior year to figure out just how trivial the little number at the end of each semester was. How much definition it lacked. I focused on learning, not earning (a grade). It hit me that I was working hard to prepare myself, yes as an educated college grad, but also as a grown man living independently in the world. I have been working hard, inside and outside the classroom to make my story as great as possible. The 4 years of college are the greatest years of your life - if you commit yourself to making them so.
I did. I recommend doing the same.
*P.S. Maker's with apple cider make a good drink to mop up the tears.
It's not a funeral.
'm still steadfast on the decision to change the world. However, I don't know if I'll ever achieve the cult-like status of Jobs or the political status of a senator. Call this a trial run. Or is it a dry run?
The first.
Think of those times you stayed behind in a room in Huntsman working with your friends because they needed help rehearsing. Keep doing this. Today it was for them. Tomorrow, for you. It might not be a status report and your first big college level presentation but the combination of diffused lighting, lack of windows, camraderie of knowing that you are bearing what must be born, together, and structure you are providing each other will give you enlightment no teacher on this campus can hope to give you.
The second.
Go out with your friends. Now I know that this might not be a popular idea because of the negative connotations of drinking, dancing and doing mistakes. That's not what I mean I assure you. What I want is for you to work really hard at choosing your friends and pursuing a depth in those relationships that only college affords. Take a second to relax, stop working on the assignments you have due next week and enjoy the freedom of choice. No longer are friendships a matter of custom or tradition. You have at least 2500 options - all pre-screened for "interesting".
And speaking more generally.
These past 4 years have been some of the greatest in my life. I didn't understand the big ado about college coming from a small high school in Mexico and a family where my parents spoke no english. Sure - there was animal house and american pie but i knew these to be comedies. I watched the movie "Accepted" during application season. I hoped for something like Dead Poet's society without the suicidal tendencies. An inspired teacher a la Coach Carter that also carried a PhD in everything and could speak with ease about the grand world stage I was joining. The ride was supposed to be an ever increasing spiritual high. It turns out that it's part of the experience to have incredible high points and terrible low points. This semester, I've hit the sweetest one yet.
These past 4 years have been an education. It took me till junior year to figure out just how trivial the little number at the end of each semester was. How much definition it lacked. I focused on learning, not earning (a grade). It hit me that I was working hard to prepare myself, yes as an educated college grad, but also as a grown man living independently in the world. I have been working hard, inside and outside the classroom to make my story as great as possible. The 4 years of college are the greatest years of your life - if you commit yourself to making them so.
I did. I recommend doing the same.
*P.S. Maker's with apple cider make a good drink to mop up the tears.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Pub
It's an interesting sensation that I sorely missed from high school. Having your words printed not in the permanent ink of the internet but in the old-school style that Ben (Frank really) used to practice.
It's not a bar though. Or better yet it is a bar that you need to meet.
So writers write, most times, to be read. They slave away at sentence construction and word choice and grammar and other persnickety little details attempting perfection. That's not to say that everyone who touches finger to keyboard is in trapped in a permanent attempt to write Ulysses. In fact, I'd venture to say that the people who are published in the NYT best sellers know that 6 out of 10 times they have done just that. Sold themselves out in the best possible fashion shooting for a now true and tried mix of sexiness, scandal, new york and pseudo science to write a book that provides readability.
It's reminiscent of coors.
But some writers do write. Not dribble and not the quasi-intelligible writing that I often put forth as esoteric though I assure you my attempts are typically heartfelt.
Then they write letters - emails these days - and attach their work in hopes of getting a congratulations. It's college acceptance all over again but instead of a promising future you get affirmation for the present.
lished.
It's not a bar though. Or better yet it is a bar that you need to meet.
So writers write, most times, to be read. They slave away at sentence construction and word choice and grammar and other persnickety little details attempting perfection. That's not to say that everyone who touches finger to keyboard is in trapped in a permanent attempt to write Ulysses. In fact, I'd venture to say that the people who are published in the NYT best sellers know that 6 out of 10 times they have done just that. Sold themselves out in the best possible fashion shooting for a now true and tried mix of sexiness, scandal, new york and pseudo science to write a book that provides readability.
It's reminiscent of coors.
But some writers do write. Not dribble and not the quasi-intelligible writing that I often put forth as esoteric though I assure you my attempts are typically heartfelt.
Then they write letters - emails these days - and attach their work in hopes of getting a congratulations. It's college acceptance all over again but instead of a promising future you get affirmation for the present.
lished.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Id?
States of mind have been in my thoughts. Exploring the subconscious reactions of our brains. I'm sure that a quick google search and a slight in-depth analysis of one of those how-to books at barnes and noble would quickly tell me whether a protective reaction in a time of danger is either voluntary (the brain) or involuntary (the heart though scientists might disagree and burst my romantic bubble and call it nerves).
I had a great weekend involving single letter hostels, unions of squares (think of the quadratic venn diagram) and socarrat. That sweet tasting slightly burnt rice at the bottom of a paella pan. The 7 flavored rice that is my favorite spanish gets an eight when it clings to the blackened metal. There was also a gray, or blue dog and a hotel that aspires to be a ship in the sea of hipster.
But enough of this.
I've entered a business transaction. One without dollar signs on it but certainly a lot of hope. The kind that sparks from beginning an uncertain enterprise with no real visibility into success.
My older brother, not political, or unlawful or blood but my older brother nonetheless is part of a higher education now. An elite group of people I some day hope to join. He said that love is not a feeling but a decision. That "being in love" is a rush of hormones that actually disappears. You need to decide to love someone.
A priest told him that.
Two things. My body obviously doesn't function like their scientific studies. I don't know how much behavior we can scientifically define when talking not about reactions, or patterns but the subtle subjects we call emotions.
Originated in the brain. We still point to our heart.
I had a great weekend involving single letter hostels, unions of squares (think of the quadratic venn diagram) and socarrat. That sweet tasting slightly burnt rice at the bottom of a paella pan. The 7 flavored rice that is my favorite spanish gets an eight when it clings to the blackened metal. There was also a gray, or blue dog and a hotel that aspires to be a ship in the sea of hipster.
But enough of this.
I've entered a business transaction. One without dollar signs on it but certainly a lot of hope. The kind that sparks from beginning an uncertain enterprise with no real visibility into success.
My older brother, not political, or unlawful or blood but my older brother nonetheless is part of a higher education now. An elite group of people I some day hope to join. He said that love is not a feeling but a decision. That "being in love" is a rush of hormones that actually disappears. You need to decide to love someone.
A priest told him that.
Two things. My body obviously doesn't function like their scientific studies. I don't know how much behavior we can scientifically define when talking not about reactions, or patterns but the subtle subjects we call emotions.
Originated in the brain. We still point to our heart.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
J(a)une
That's roughly six months from now though anyone who knows me knows that the order of the months of the year is of little consequence to me. To me it is sufficient to know that from our limited perspective time flows mono-directionally.
I think that's what Kerouac and Eggers are trying to tell us.
Come June I'll be in a new city struggling to keep the friends I've left (once again) and juggling the big city that did its best on me last summer. I didn't feel squished. I felt energized and invigorated by such a large city in such a small place. By a city with a strong personality and unique character that carries it's B.O. and leaky, oozing wounds with pride.
There's a new priest in my local church.
Today he warned us to be alert. The book he teaches tells of a parable in the form of a rhetorical question. Do you think that the master of the house, had he known the time his house was going to be broken into, would not have stayed up during that hour to defend his house?
Though normally I attend for the white noise - and the entrance ticket is free - today I was reminded of something.
Six months from now certain things will inevitably change. I'm not looking at life mono-directionally for however many years I have left (and the question of whether or not thats 1 or 70 is absolutely terrifying though my genes indicate statistical longevity). From now on I'm parsing it in manageable bites - a practice I'm adopting for my eating habits as well.
The human body is capable of impressive things. Adaptability. As long as we don't get in our way.
I think that's what Kerouac and Eggers are trying to tell us.
Come June I'll be in a new city struggling to keep the friends I've left (once again) and juggling the big city that did its best on me last summer. I didn't feel squished. I felt energized and invigorated by such a large city in such a small place. By a city with a strong personality and unique character that carries it's B.O. and leaky, oozing wounds with pride.
There's a new priest in my local church.
Today he warned us to be alert. The book he teaches tells of a parable in the form of a rhetorical question. Do you think that the master of the house, had he known the time his house was going to be broken into, would not have stayed up during that hour to defend his house?
Though normally I attend for the white noise - and the entrance ticket is free - today I was reminded of something.
Six months from now certain things will inevitably change. I'm not looking at life mono-directionally for however many years I have left (and the question of whether or not thats 1 or 70 is absolutely terrifying though my genes indicate statistical longevity). From now on I'm parsing it in manageable bites - a practice I'm adopting for my eating habits as well.
The human body is capable of impressive things. Adaptability. As long as we don't get in our way.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Fraternally
I always wished for a brother. Not the half pleasant sweethearts intermittently in my life known cryptically as half brothers -- nature, age and a little bit of faith separated us in more ways than simply geography could.
One married a swede she met online.
Another studied engineering. Traveled (not went) to india and came back to doggedly become a doctor. Now he specializes in physical rehap for olympic athletes.
The last - but oldest - and hence the farthest, lived in the same city I did.
I used to wish to know them better. I wanted one of my own, not someone to keep me company but someone to play daredevil with. To solemnly swear I was up to no good was my only request. I wanted someone who could play me in one-on-one without heigh being much of an issue. If he was slightly older he would beat me to 21 every time until I outstripped him in our mutual search for height. We would be able to signal to each other when our parents were being illogical and blame each other for whatever was required.
This I explained to my parents who would smile and patiently explain to me that this was not possible. That this, request, of mine was not as simple as it appeared. There was more to it than just sex (though in all fairness my young mind conveniently took leaps of faith in an effort to ignore the question of where do baby's come from).
When my father's mother passed I saw chaos. Though emotionally my father is a calm and articulate man, what truly tore at him wasn't my grandma's forgetful memory in her twilight, it wasn't the extinguishing candle on her full life - it was his brothers and sisters.
I note: I don't speak from personal experience.
His brothers and sisters. Shared background growing up in the outskirts of rural mexico with little more than my fathers car, a small house and their wits. This ragtag group somehow climbed the mexican prosperity ladder and stayed where it most pleased them. Some in the same little town - el llano en llamas - where the prairies are dedicated to the planting of chilis that make the whole place seem alight with fire at sundown and some made it to a seven figure city where the standard of living is "higher" but a doctors coat still speaks god.
There was a struggle.
And now with new empirical evidence I still struggle to resolve what I would have liked and would I have changed anything. It's all up to me now, that's the scary part.
One married a swede she met online.
Another studied engineering. Traveled (not went) to india and came back to doggedly become a doctor. Now he specializes in physical rehap for olympic athletes.
The last - but oldest - and hence the farthest, lived in the same city I did.
I used to wish to know them better. I wanted one of my own, not someone to keep me company but someone to play daredevil with. To solemnly swear I was up to no good was my only request. I wanted someone who could play me in one-on-one without heigh being much of an issue. If he was slightly older he would beat me to 21 every time until I outstripped him in our mutual search for height. We would be able to signal to each other when our parents were being illogical and blame each other for whatever was required.
This I explained to my parents who would smile and patiently explain to me that this was not possible. That this, request, of mine was not as simple as it appeared. There was more to it than just sex (though in all fairness my young mind conveniently took leaps of faith in an effort to ignore the question of where do baby's come from).
When my father's mother passed I saw chaos. Though emotionally my father is a calm and articulate man, what truly tore at him wasn't my grandma's forgetful memory in her twilight, it wasn't the extinguishing candle on her full life - it was his brothers and sisters.
I note: I don't speak from personal experience.
His brothers and sisters. Shared background growing up in the outskirts of rural mexico with little more than my fathers car, a small house and their wits. This ragtag group somehow climbed the mexican prosperity ladder and stayed where it most pleased them. Some in the same little town - el llano en llamas - where the prairies are dedicated to the planting of chilis that make the whole place seem alight with fire at sundown and some made it to a seven figure city where the standard of living is "higher" but a doctors coat still speaks god.
There was a struggle.
And now with new empirical evidence I still struggle to resolve what I would have liked and would I have changed anything. It's all up to me now, that's the scary part.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Calendar Year
Inspired by the sophomoric endings brought to light by more senior visions of the future. I'm grateful for the lack of junior at the end of my name nowadays.
I was hoping to avoid metaphors but without them I'm left standing on my own behind nothing but a third wall.
What follows are a consolidated statement of accounts as of Dec. 31. 2009 in which the company saw a new vision of the world - the economic downturn and the events that led up to it have forced to reassess our primary focus and planing. We are now a stronger firm because of it and we are confident that with the help of our dedicated board members, stockholders and the cooperation of the "rational" markets we will achieve an explosive growth once again.
Begin with a divestiture. A forced one to boot - one of those situations where union reps tell the management that trust is lost. Management fires the union, picks up shop and heads to a downtown bar with a group of friends and strangers and drowns in Jose.
The CEO finds himself at a company rally at his house surrounded by his peers and friends. The wine (Milwaukee's finest) has been flowing like water out of a fire hydrant and as the leader, he's been trying to mop it up. One of his friends is doing laundry and holding a bottle that were he to be blind and have a difficult time distinguishing shapes and weights and sizes, one might confuse for a bottle. He drinks. His mouth is clean. Tide (Home expressions) is really too strong a drink. A minor panic attack later a girl asks him why he tastes like laundry detergent.
He asks for gum.
1030 am and a full day of work ahead begins. A quick visit to the Russia office, he's on the Concorde to the Caribbean. Rum-ba dancing and all that Jazz he is on a College campus for a speech. The Russians followed him and they brought his family (Tequila - the drink not the town) with them. A quick sip of orange juice - for the vitamin C - and cranberry - to clean the prostate - and the day keeps going. His shirt has changed colors but it's not his doing. The paramedics tackle him after his escape. The music pounds in sync with his fist and people cheer him on. 5 hours later, dehydration gone and his mack is on.
He spends the night alone in a sweet dance of cold sweats, dizziness, fainting and nausea.
You'd think he had enough.
Enter the iceberg stage left. He crashes. She pulls him down with threats and emotional blackmail Tony Sopranos' mother would be proud of. There's physical distance between them but only the nightly nightcap with his colleagues (soledad y verdad) help the 8 hour flight between here and requiem.
2010
Benjamin Button-like rebirth - minus the creepy psychological and sexual derivations.
I was hoping to avoid metaphors but without them I'm left standing on my own behind nothing but a third wall.
What follows are a consolidated statement of accounts as of Dec. 31. 2009 in which the company saw a new vision of the world - the economic downturn and the events that led up to it have forced to reassess our primary focus and planing. We are now a stronger firm because of it and we are confident that with the help of our dedicated board members, stockholders and the cooperation of the "rational" markets we will achieve an explosive growth once again.
Begin with a divestiture. A forced one to boot - one of those situations where union reps tell the management that trust is lost. Management fires the union, picks up shop and heads to a downtown bar with a group of friends and strangers and drowns in Jose.
The CEO finds himself at a company rally at his house surrounded by his peers and friends. The wine (Milwaukee's finest) has been flowing like water out of a fire hydrant and as the leader, he's been trying to mop it up. One of his friends is doing laundry and holding a bottle that were he to be blind and have a difficult time distinguishing shapes and weights and sizes, one might confuse for a bottle. He drinks. His mouth is clean. Tide (Home expressions) is really too strong a drink. A minor panic attack later a girl asks him why he tastes like laundry detergent.
He asks for gum.
1030 am and a full day of work ahead begins. A quick visit to the Russia office, he's on the Concorde to the Caribbean. Rum-ba dancing and all that Jazz he is on a College campus for a speech. The Russians followed him and they brought his family (Tequila - the drink not the town) with them. A quick sip of orange juice - for the vitamin C - and cranberry - to clean the prostate - and the day keeps going. His shirt has changed colors but it's not his doing. The paramedics tackle him after his escape. The music pounds in sync with his fist and people cheer him on. 5 hours later, dehydration gone and his mack is on.
He spends the night alone in a sweet dance of cold sweats, dizziness, fainting and nausea.
You'd think he had enough.
Enter the iceberg stage left. He crashes. She pulls him down with threats and emotional blackmail Tony Sopranos' mother would be proud of. There's physical distance between them but only the nightly nightcap with his colleagues (soledad y verdad) help the 8 hour flight between here and requiem.
2010
Benjamin Button-like rebirth - minus the creepy psychological and sexual derivations.
Friday, October 22, 2010
From a half-decent guy
Don't take that to mean the other half is indecent, or that from the belt down I'm little more than an animalistic being.
I'm the kind of guy that asks girls out on dates - I'll shell out the 50 bucks and a bottle of wine for the sake of entertaining conversation and the potential to get to know someone. Call me crazy since in this tiny little bubbly-filled world I live in that seems like a prohibitive cost. Especially because parties provide academically overachieving but socially awkward kids sufficient lubrication to let their inhibitions out.
The rise of the BOMO. Black-out make-out.
And I'll begin my argument by saying that my gender has thrown chivalry by the way side. Most no longer even consider letting a girl go first, standing on the street side of the curb when walking or offer to help them with their bags. Some, both guys and girls, would argue that this is not a sign of disrespect but merely an evolution of the times - feminism happened. I know, but respect never went out of fashion.
But guys can only get away with what girls let us get away with. See in a world where the Gaga soundtrack blasts and a guy and a girl grind their way into oblivion as they try to fuse their bodies into one while still leaving their clothes on (for now) all the while pretending to have a pseudo meaningful conversation which really involves exchanging first names and numbers so they can hook up later - a guy like me is fighting the odds. They sloppily make out and leave the party wondering if they'll have to be the first to text.
The guy goes home happy he hooked up but wondering if something more could have been. He might text but he'll be nervous about it and pretend to be cooler than he is. The girl goes home happy she hooked up (presumably) but she might only text if she's truly curious. "A guy should be the one to pursue" seems to be one of those tenets the times have not managed to change.
So where does the "date asking" kick in? Post hook-up? Pre hook-up, on the dance floor(That's a story for the grandkids)? Guys and girls are both looking for meaningful, loving relationships, and the notions on how to get to them are the same. But it's easier to put that off when there's a pair of willing lips at the bar.
I'm asking you, girls of the college dating scene, to hold off on the dance floor mating ritual for a week. See how many guys realize that maybe a night downtown, with a bottle of wine and awkward waitress has suddenly become the right approach.
A bientot.
I'm the kind of guy that asks girls out on dates - I'll shell out the 50 bucks and a bottle of wine for the sake of entertaining conversation and the potential to get to know someone. Call me crazy since in this tiny little bubbly-filled world I live in that seems like a prohibitive cost. Especially because parties provide academically overachieving but socially awkward kids sufficient lubrication to let their inhibitions out.
The rise of the BOMO. Black-out make-out.
And I'll begin my argument by saying that my gender has thrown chivalry by the way side. Most no longer even consider letting a girl go first, standing on the street side of the curb when walking or offer to help them with their bags. Some, both guys and girls, would argue that this is not a sign of disrespect but merely an evolution of the times - feminism happened. I know, but respect never went out of fashion.
But guys can only get away with what girls let us get away with. See in a world where the Gaga soundtrack blasts and a guy and a girl grind their way into oblivion as they try to fuse their bodies into one while still leaving their clothes on (for now) all the while pretending to have a pseudo meaningful conversation which really involves exchanging first names and numbers so they can hook up later - a guy like me is fighting the odds. They sloppily make out and leave the party wondering if they'll have to be the first to text.
The guy goes home happy he hooked up but wondering if something more could have been. He might text but he'll be nervous about it and pretend to be cooler than he is. The girl goes home happy she hooked up (presumably) but she might only text if she's truly curious. "A guy should be the one to pursue" seems to be one of those tenets the times have not managed to change.
So where does the "date asking" kick in? Post hook-up? Pre hook-up, on the dance floor(That's a story for the grandkids)? Guys and girls are both looking for meaningful, loving relationships, and the notions on how to get to them are the same. But it's easier to put that off when there's a pair of willing lips at the bar.
I'm asking you, girls of the college dating scene, to hold off on the dance floor mating ritual for a week. See how many guys realize that maybe a night downtown, with a bottle of wine and awkward waitress has suddenly become the right approach.
A bientot.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Life Block
A life block should be something like 20 years.
Like the sort of thing that a 40 year old man is told - you've just become half dead.
Though at the rate we're going and with people surviving without sunlight and limited air in gaeas womb for over two months - the number 40 might soon become 55. The French will obviously protest the logical or the sensical in favor of government institutions that bear little resemblance to the needs of a changing world. I tested 90th percentile for openness hence my slight condescension. You'll excuse.
Life block would be as curable as the writing kind. A simple excercise like free-writing for 20 minutes would provide solutions. Picture 20 minutes of free living. Whatever that means it sounds exciting, like you might have to be a tree hugger or a really good faker to actually experience it. The kind of person that has a sherpa story in his repertoire but also cares little enough to only tell it if he's really high and wondering how he's avoiding getting messed down. Messed up is a lot more fun.
Or that we could write an acrostic poem with our life. Something where we wrote a one line pseudocoherent text for every year of our life. The first year would be a one word brilliance - "Gurggle". The second year we would have almost two words "Ma-ma". And so on and so forth increasing the number and complexity until we hit 13. At this point we'd settle for three letters - "nvm" or "w/e". A symbol. I know. Crazy. Then, evolution again until we hit the 18-22 sweet spot where people have no names but instead go by "dude, bro and bitch".
At 40 we'd have some elaborate sentence decoding the socioeconomical, political and cultural demise that our nations youth and government are bringing unto itself. At 60 we'd settle for being quiet and loosening our belt after meals. At 70 we'd make a remark "I remember the good old days". The news organization better known by a delicious food staple would tell us that happened a long time ago and won't ever happen again.
At a 87 we'd say "Who are you?"
At a 100 we'd be quiet.
We can't rid ourselves of this. This writer block. So I'm drinking tea (iced, slightly sweetened) and waiting for it to pass.
Buenas noches abuelita.
Like the sort of thing that a 40 year old man is told - you've just become half dead.
Though at the rate we're going and with people surviving without sunlight and limited air in gaeas womb for over two months - the number 40 might soon become 55. The French will obviously protest the logical or the sensical in favor of government institutions that bear little resemblance to the needs of a changing world. I tested 90th percentile for openness hence my slight condescension. You'll excuse.
Life block would be as curable as the writing kind. A simple excercise like free-writing for 20 minutes would provide solutions. Picture 20 minutes of free living. Whatever that means it sounds exciting, like you might have to be a tree hugger or a really good faker to actually experience it. The kind of person that has a sherpa story in his repertoire but also cares little enough to only tell it if he's really high and wondering how he's avoiding getting messed down. Messed up is a lot more fun.
Or that we could write an acrostic poem with our life. Something where we wrote a one line pseudocoherent text for every year of our life. The first year would be a one word brilliance - "Gurggle". The second year we would have almost two words "Ma-ma". And so on and so forth increasing the number and complexity until we hit 13. At this point we'd settle for three letters - "nvm" or "w/e". A symbol. I know. Crazy. Then, evolution again until we hit the 18-22 sweet spot where people have no names but instead go by "dude, bro and bitch".
At 40 we'd have some elaborate sentence decoding the socioeconomical, political and cultural demise that our nations youth and government are bringing unto itself. At 60 we'd settle for being quiet and loosening our belt after meals. At 70 we'd make a remark "I remember the good old days". The news organization better known by a delicious food staple would tell us that happened a long time ago and won't ever happen again.
At a 87 we'd say "Who are you?"
At a 100 we'd be quiet.
We can't rid ourselves of this. This writer block. So I'm drinking tea (iced, slightly sweetened) and waiting for it to pass.
Buenas noches abuelita.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Borrowed
A new blue sweater that's both expensive (literally) and cheap (trashy).
I'm going to share a story.
Picture to friends racing each other across the northeast but one is predetermined to win because of his advantageous position. He sits on a train. She sits on a train. But he's on the 9'o'clock and hers was delayed.
But that's not a borrowed story, that's my own. Next to me on the train sat a Connecticut girl who could have been from Europe and giggled at the ad-campaign textbook she read. Face scrunched up in concentration I tried reading about thefacebook.com in the awkward weeks before the "the" was dropped. Someone should tell Betty White that "thetwitter" is no more.
A fraternity house where the floors are so sticky flip flops are lost all the time. A fraternity house lacking beer pong, beer bong and with a plethora of toilet papers and cleaning supplies. The kitchen is not a second grade science experiment on growing mold and the couches are shockingly clean - lacking all good things that come hither from human beings when they are their finest.
We made pancakes in all sorts of lovely forms - letters, swirls, mickeys and snowmen. ALL PG13. But best of all wasn't the plethora of chocolate chips or the brief game of "let me toss candy at your mouth and see if you catch it". I did.
It was a nice morning. One that felt familiar for a first time and one that allowed for jokes, inappropriate and witty and viceversa. A morning with an awkward encounter and lite cough syrup. A couple of "aw's" later I realized that it's one of those random college memories that make it an entirely unique experience.
Now shotgun a beer.
I'm going to share a story.
Picture to friends racing each other across the northeast but one is predetermined to win because of his advantageous position. He sits on a train. She sits on a train. But he's on the 9'o'clock and hers was delayed.
But that's not a borrowed story, that's my own. Next to me on the train sat a Connecticut girl who could have been from Europe and giggled at the ad-campaign textbook she read. Face scrunched up in concentration I tried reading about thefacebook.com in the awkward weeks before the "the" was dropped. Someone should tell Betty White that "thetwitter" is no more.
A fraternity house where the floors are so sticky flip flops are lost all the time. A fraternity house lacking beer pong, beer bong and with a plethora of toilet papers and cleaning supplies. The kitchen is not a second grade science experiment on growing mold and the couches are shockingly clean - lacking all good things that come hither from human beings when they are their finest.
We made pancakes in all sorts of lovely forms - letters, swirls, mickeys and snowmen. ALL PG13. But best of all wasn't the plethora of chocolate chips or the brief game of "let me toss candy at your mouth and see if you catch it". I did.
It was a nice morning. One that felt familiar for a first time and one that allowed for jokes, inappropriate and witty and viceversa. A morning with an awkward encounter and lite cough syrup. A couple of "aw's" later I realized that it's one of those random college memories that make it an entirely unique experience.
Now shotgun a beer.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Frogs
They say that to find your prince you're going to have to kiss a lot of frogs.
It implies that all men are french and therefore lovers of wine and the finer things in life. Or that we are green like childhood stories. Or that we are slimy.
It is a metaphor meant to relate the fairytale story to the reality of the basic nature of human existence.
But the problem to be studied here is one relating to frogs and witches cauldrons - I borrowed this story from a person much wiser than me.
If you boil water and then try to toss a live frog into the pot, the frog will jump out. And before anybody screeches at the inhuman treatment of our slimy little friends, consider whether or not you've ever eaten lobster. If, however, you place a frog in a pot of ambient temperature water and let it rise to a boil the frog will do nothing about it until it finally perishes into what is a delightfully gamey yet palatable dish.
Three words: Elite Higher Education.
It implies that all men are french and therefore lovers of wine and the finer things in life. Or that we are green like childhood stories. Or that we are slimy.
It is a metaphor meant to relate the fairytale story to the reality of the basic nature of human existence.
But the problem to be studied here is one relating to frogs and witches cauldrons - I borrowed this story from a person much wiser than me.
If you boil water and then try to toss a live frog into the pot, the frog will jump out. And before anybody screeches at the inhuman treatment of our slimy little friends, consider whether or not you've ever eaten lobster. If, however, you place a frog in a pot of ambient temperature water and let it rise to a boil the frog will do nothing about it until it finally perishes into what is a delightfully gamey yet palatable dish.
Three words: Elite Higher Education.
Monday, September 27, 2010
11:11
I think I've started writing at a similar time at some point in the past.
Time (and by extension clocks) are so repetitive it's boring. Not repetitive interesting like a tesselation or two opposing mirrors though - that should be clear.
I have friends I want to visit but dont know how to. In my mind they are brave souls who greet life with a smile and say charmed life as much as I am now prone to do. And while I worry about such petty things about school and people they should know I worry about them - friends. That although my back can't tolerate more than 10 hours in bed theirs might just have to for spells at a time. It's the thing about friendship, I see them once a week if I'm lucky but inevitably I'm the one who feels like the needy one though they should be the ones with a complete get out of jail card. Testament to who's stronger despite the fact that I'm over 200 pounds and 6ft6.
7 hugs. Some of them awkward, some of them real. One of them has that weird end of it where it's almost like you're reticent about ending it and your right arm outstretched lingers in the direction of her outstretched left arm. One given in a bout of emotion. So maybe it's more like a 14, I blame my warmth-driven culture and call it a day.
Blue October. Red October. And November is a day not a month and it's spent in celebration in some parts of my world while in utter concern about things that happened over 20 years ago (Tlaltelolco). And if you want an interesting thought then realize that if you are reading this you are most likely not a Baby Boomer, not part of Generation X but a part of Generation Me.
I'd like to think that the Me stands for Millenium because we were infinitely blessed with luck to be born at just the right time to see it. A sinking part of me has the rising suspicion that it's actually meant to point to our egotistical view of the world. Thank god for blogging, tweeting and bbery updates. Status messages. Away messages. Hotkeys and all that other good stuff. At least we can now stream live video onto the internet.
GenMe is one with a work to live focus but we also have a sense of self-entitlement. A sense that we are on the right path to success independent of whether there are cobble stones or pavement. We need more supervision. I guess that's why I study management.
And for now dear friend, i leave you with a long-winded departing shot that's more like a canon filled with ball bearings. Though I feel like I'm so blessed and so lucky I wish I could get a cleansing (not the magical kind) but one that would rid me of petty worries and leave me with those I care about. I hope the tangled mess of lines and dotted dashes that spells out the rest of my life will inevitably keep those I hold near and dear to my heart in a tightly wrapped cocoon of what I hope is love.
Paz.
Time (and by extension clocks) are so repetitive it's boring. Not repetitive interesting like a tesselation or two opposing mirrors though - that should be clear.
I have friends I want to visit but dont know how to. In my mind they are brave souls who greet life with a smile and say charmed life as much as I am now prone to do. And while I worry about such petty things about school and people they should know I worry about them - friends. That although my back can't tolerate more than 10 hours in bed theirs might just have to for spells at a time. It's the thing about friendship, I see them once a week if I'm lucky but inevitably I'm the one who feels like the needy one though they should be the ones with a complete get out of jail card. Testament to who's stronger despite the fact that I'm over 200 pounds and 6ft6.
7 hugs. Some of them awkward, some of them real. One of them has that weird end of it where it's almost like you're reticent about ending it and your right arm outstretched lingers in the direction of her outstretched left arm. One given in a bout of emotion. So maybe it's more like a 14, I blame my warmth-driven culture and call it a day.
Blue October. Red October. And November is a day not a month and it's spent in celebration in some parts of my world while in utter concern about things that happened over 20 years ago (Tlaltelolco). And if you want an interesting thought then realize that if you are reading this you are most likely not a Baby Boomer, not part of Generation X but a part of Generation Me.
I'd like to think that the Me stands for Millenium because we were infinitely blessed with luck to be born at just the right time to see it. A sinking part of me has the rising suspicion that it's actually meant to point to our egotistical view of the world. Thank god for blogging, tweeting and bbery updates. Status messages. Away messages. Hotkeys and all that other good stuff. At least we can now stream live video onto the internet.
GenMe is one with a work to live focus but we also have a sense of self-entitlement. A sense that we are on the right path to success independent of whether there are cobble stones or pavement. We need more supervision. I guess that's why I study management.
And for now dear friend, i leave you with a long-winded departing shot that's more like a canon filled with ball bearings. Though I feel like I'm so blessed and so lucky I wish I could get a cleansing (not the magical kind) but one that would rid me of petty worries and leave me with those I care about. I hope the tangled mess of lines and dotted dashes that spells out the rest of my life will inevitably keep those I hold near and dear to my heart in a tightly wrapped cocoon of what I hope is love.
Paz.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Writing about candidacy
I once wondered what it would take to make me a good candidate. A candidate for what you might ask (as I cringe at the Plato-ic stylings of my writing right now) and I would be forced to answer - a candidate to play in the field of life.
But faux deepness aside.
Imagine a dream in which you find yourself stranded on a single strip of land that runs for as far as you can see both in front and behind you. On one side are the calm waters of your favorite childhood lake (complete with orange guppies and the one corner of the lake with a patch of high grass somehow (magically) floating and thriving strictly on the water). On the other if your favorite childhood sea (the kind that took you under its wave, flipped you inside and out and made you lose a bathing suit but that you still ran for eagerly every time your parents finished parking the car and inflating your floaties).
An interesting excercise is not to judge a book by its cover but attempt to describe its plot line based entirely on the title. In some instances, like Oscar Wao's, it's easy to make something up. In other, like Suite Francaise or Relativistic Physics the problem gets exciting. The excercise is akin to the idea of coming up with a story for random strangers in the waiting room of a bus terminal.
My mind is a cat chasing the light from a flashlight, trying to untangle the tangled mess I've made of the ball of string without the benefit of opposable thumbs.
But I'm running.
not physically, dear god, never that.
But I am and I hope to tell you what it feels like.
But faux deepness aside.
Imagine a dream in which you find yourself stranded on a single strip of land that runs for as far as you can see both in front and behind you. On one side are the calm waters of your favorite childhood lake (complete with orange guppies and the one corner of the lake with a patch of high grass somehow (magically) floating and thriving strictly on the water). On the other if your favorite childhood sea (the kind that took you under its wave, flipped you inside and out and made you lose a bathing suit but that you still ran for eagerly every time your parents finished parking the car and inflating your floaties).
An interesting excercise is not to judge a book by its cover but attempt to describe its plot line based entirely on the title. In some instances, like Oscar Wao's, it's easy to make something up. In other, like Suite Francaise or Relativistic Physics the problem gets exciting. The excercise is akin to the idea of coming up with a story for random strangers in the waiting room of a bus terminal.
My mind is a cat chasing the light from a flashlight, trying to untangle the tangled mess I've made of the ball of string without the benefit of opposable thumbs.
But I'm running.
not physically, dear god, never that.
But I am and I hope to tell you what it feels like.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Je me souviens
Yo me acuerdo de una cancion en frances que cantaba el yo recuerdo.
I remember a song in french that sung the I remember.
Je me souviens.
The truth is that tonight I write in spanish because I woke up this morning and spoke in spanish for a second and thought in spanish for a minute before I caught wind that that was no longer the useful approach to life. You see I know my language inside and out and I like to think that I ellaborate complex puns with the same ease in 2 languages as I quote old wife's tales in three languages and say no in 4.
Pero la verdad es que de vez en vez extragno mi casa.
Extrano la letra egne.
Extrano noches de fogata con la luces de los carros, las ventana abajo para alegra el silencio con un poco de musica y chela. Donde no hacia mucho frio pero igual usabamos sudaderas. De buenos amigos que han cambiado agno con agno y mes con mes pero con los que igual se terminaba la noche explicando porque todos seguiamos siendo el rey.
Con dinero y sin dinero.
Y mientras tanto me trato de acordar de como sentia esa situacion en la prepa donde buscaba mi propio lugar que no encontre hasta cambiarme de pais. Veo el mapa de la ciudad semi grabado en mi mente, claro que sin nombres y no me acuerdo de muchas cosas.
Alzheimer de la memoria.
I remember a song in french that sung the I remember.
Je me souviens.
The truth is that tonight I write in spanish because I woke up this morning and spoke in spanish for a second and thought in spanish for a minute before I caught wind that that was no longer the useful approach to life. You see I know my language inside and out and I like to think that I ellaborate complex puns with the same ease in 2 languages as I quote old wife's tales in three languages and say no in 4.
Pero la verdad es que de vez en vez extragno mi casa.
Extrano la letra egne.
Extrano noches de fogata con la luces de los carros, las ventana abajo para alegra el silencio con un poco de musica y chela. Donde no hacia mucho frio pero igual usabamos sudaderas. De buenos amigos que han cambiado agno con agno y mes con mes pero con los que igual se terminaba la noche explicando porque todos seguiamos siendo el rey.
Con dinero y sin dinero.
Y mientras tanto me trato de acordar de como sentia esa situacion en la prepa donde buscaba mi propio lugar que no encontre hasta cambiarme de pais. Veo el mapa de la ciudad semi grabado en mi mente, claro que sin nombres y no me acuerdo de muchas cosas.
Alzheimer de la memoria.
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