I just want you to know...

...that I haven't forgotten you.
The thing about age is that you start to get saddled with the details of every-day existence, that you no longer want to make time to stop and properly frame it in your mind. You'd rather keep the original, paper-thin, unprotected printout of the things that came to pass because somehow, you've come to this realization that these moments aren't worth much anymore. Life's a little cheaper because it has gone on this long; you feel you've seen it all, grasped it all, are no longer reaching to set life's day-to-day happenings on a glorious dais. But that is where we are gravely mistaken, we - the growing-up grown-ups who are making transition out of any semblance of childhood. It's a pity that age means becoming bored with oneself. But the onus is on us to fight the trend; to stick out our hands and chests and fists and refuse to let any moment float away, unnoticed, un-revered. It's up to us to continue to see that passionate beauty in life, and I write this with purposeful fingers as a prayer and a promise to myself. That I will not let myself set limits. I will refuse to ignore. I will refuse to un-feel. I will feel it all. Cry, laugh, be dizzy with excitement - that's what I will reach for.

5 a.m. ... Because I Couldn't Wait For Daylight Anymore

Laying in bed didn't feel quite right anymore. I am likely wrong, but I felt that I could be awake and just call it an extra-early day at work so I can come home a bit earlier, hang out with Greg and my sister and practice a bit before voice lesson.

Again, I'm likely wrong and will want to pass out in...oh...ten minutes. In the meantime, I've taken to playing "Cathedrals" (because it feels good to be so melancholy and pensive at this hour/on this blog) and writing myself this little note:

I can’t sleep.

Sleep is for the weary.

I don’t think I’m weary yet.

Youth is fleeting

Meanwhile I’ve been staying

More or less the same as days when I’d forget

I can’t grow.

Growing is never easy

Shedding skin while keeping yourself intact

I tend to think too hard

I was never lazy

It takes time to get beyond regret.

---

I'm trying not to be too hard on myself... or too emo. I'm afraid it's been hard to emote properly the last few years. Ironic, I know. Being a songwriter and all. It's been easier to be scattered than thoughtful of the words I write and think.

One never knows how much work it takes to be creative and honest at the same time. Alas, these are the challenges God has presented me with since coming home from college.

I wish I could stop feeling like I had to figure it all out... BLAAHHH. Ok. Getting to the tired mark.

A vacation

It's funny watching people's mannerisms when they're coming home from vacation. When they're waiting at the airport, impatient and sunburned, their eyes half-glossed over and their steps reduced into mere stumbles. It's like they've forgotten to see as they walk around. They only look.

And they're rude. They forget their manners somewhere between the strawberry daiquiris and the overpriced excursions. It's like they forgot they were on vacation in the first place.

We waited at Cancun airport today after driving up from our timeshare near Playa del Carmen (we did not stay in Cancun. I'm not a fan of that city and avoided it like the plague, except one rainy day when we drove around its mega hotel-lined streets), and from the corner of my ear I heard a couple fighting. Rather, the husband was yelling at his wife. Something about her always being mean to him. His voice just kept creeping louder, but he was faintly trying to keep his level down. She responded with tight-lipped requests for him to keep quiet. It was a mess. They sounded like they belonged in divorce court. I tried to tune it out, but couldn't do much about the pit in my stomach it unleashed.

Don't people know how privileged they are to be able to take a week out of their lives, visit an underdeveloped nation where they live much better than the vast majority of the locals, pick and choose what they like in said nation and spend their money on needless souvenirs and sidetrips? Isn't that worth pondering over moreso than adding fuel to a petty argument in the middle of an airport? I don't get it. Maybe I'm the only one that sees the link.

I guess you don't need money or fancy vacations to be happy.

Across the borders between continents...

"In the cathedrals of New York and Rome, there is a feeling that you should just go home and spend a lifetime finding out just where that is. " - Jump Little Children

This song has been ringing in my ears and my heart and under my skin for the past 3 days or so. I'm not sure why I was reminded of it... a few weeks ago we listened to it on the car ride from Seattle to George, Washington (seriously, that's the name of the town where Sasquatch was held). I had heard it months before, when searching other Jump songs (I was only acquainted with "By the Way They Dance from an ex). Anyway... the more I listened to it on that trip and now, the more connected I feel with it. I feel as though this song can play as the soundtrack to my life over and over. I get a tingling feeling inside when I hear it... it feels as thought I've figured things out in life... by embracing that I haven't. It's just a beautiful feeling, and I don't know what else can replicate it. Except maybe last Friday, when I caught Josh Ritter at Summerstage with the NY Pops. When he brought Glen Hansard out and they sang a song together, something in me just felt so complete. Utterly, shamelessly content. It wasn't a feeling as though I'd solved all my problems or gotten everything straight with myself, but that there was beauty in the questions, in not knowing. And somehow, I linked all this with listening to two very honest, sincere musicians onstage in a world somewhat bigger than themselves... that they followed their hearts and somehow ended up on that wonderful stage, in front of thousands. Just something about it.

I'm not sure how I came to feel complete by it... but I did. And maybe that's part of why "Cathedrals" just kills me a little inside, and births anew inside me with each listen.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zsbQ2ZvFLn0&feature=related

How is it June already?

The times just kind of pass and next thing you know, the year's halfway done and it's just a handful of months til I turn 24. 

I read somewhere that Twenty-something women have a tendency to look towards their future and ponder on their past, and hardly ever live in the present. I wonder if that's the reason for my restlessness.  

Next thing's next.

There was a man in a fedora and thick-rimmed glasses clutching his acoustic guitar close to his white-shirted chest, a harmonica wrapped against his neck. When Joyce and I walked in we weren't sure what to expect - but we certainly didn't expect this: a thirty-foot room (maybe) with the tiniest version of a wooden stage and a man on a chair playing his heart out. I hoped the tiny part of his foot that nearly dangled off that makeshift centerstage wouldn't steal his balance. There were maybe six other people in the room, scattered in chairs that leaned up against the wall. It was dark. The brick was old, one part eaten away into a cave. There was no microphone. I wasn't sure what to think, but I soon decided that I loved it. The Postcrypt at Columbia University. I've already shot off an e-mail to the booker, after talking to a bunch of the organizers there. I hope I can get a slot... apparently there's a lot of demand to play in that acoustic place. I have a feeling it's the uniqueness that really gets people. Imagine that. A place to play in Manhattan that doesn't involved fumbling around with quarter inch cables. I think deep inside most singer-songwriters imagine this is the best kind of place to play. Those microphones are hindering, the monitors almost always lie and that sense of officiality almost takes away from that honesty we constantly long to deliver to the audience, in every sense of the term.

But we can't just invite people to our living rooms on a daily basis. Hence, I imagine, the Postcrypt was born. It's probably smaller than many living rooms... outside of Manhattan. 

Anyway, Tom Stall I think was the name of the performer, and I picked up a CD from him and suggested he play Sidewalk, since he'd mentioned he couldn't find a place in the city that didn't require a minimum draw. 

Mana met us halfway through, and we eventually made our way downtown to La Lanterna, where we absorbed some jazz from a quartet playing in the basement. The crowd was older but we didn't mind. I sipped my prosecco and wondered what it was about jazz that made people want to get so immersed in it. The group was decent - not the best - but they were very positive and laughed a lot between tunes. 

After that we made our way to the Dove Bar, which I haven't been to in a while. I was raving about it to the girls - about the decor, the vibe, the sophistication. Of course, the moment we walked in we were hit with a noxious wave of body heat, sweat, cologne and alcohol, and then hit with the packed crowd that covered up all the good stuff I'd just gushed about. Secret's out, huh? It'd been a while since I'd been there.

At some point I went to the bathroom and came back to find Mana and Joyce getting tag-teamed by a wing and his wingman.. it was pretty comical, until I got bored. Then some guy noticed that I was looking uncomfortable and started a conversation with me. He was fun to talk to though, and he didn't ask for my number afterwards... which was good. Though I did wonder if I should take that as an insult. ;)  

Now I'm home... and avoiding sleep.  Ah yes.... the luxury.

P.S.: Joyce reminded me on the ride home that I have a wonderful boyfriend. And that I should never forget that... sigh. She should join the Yahoo group. :)  

Sunsets only paint the sky at twilight.

We are designed to be creatures that live by redemption. We don't just fall and then stay down, but we learn to be resilient. As babies, we learn to pick ourselves up after shedding a tear or two. As toddlers, we learn to scale walls and toy blocks again, even after scraping our knees over and over. As teenagers we run with our hormones and then learn to scale back when we realize we've let ourselves be too vulnerable. As college students we try doing things we never thought we would, and later learn that we didn't have to do them to feel comfortable in our own skin. And as adults we just wade our way through the torrential waters of life, unsure what we'll step on, or whether we should take our wading boots off, but somewhere we figure out that what came to pass was part of what made the present exist - whole, utterly empty, but still worthy of living through. 

Sometimes I look at where I've been in the last 24 months and I feel that I've done nothing. I'm afraid this is a feeling I'll harbor forever - knowing I am only human, and no matter what I do it will never be everything I wanted to have done. But that's not the point... I don't think. Today I realized that the last 24 months yielded so much more than I allowed myself to see. There was so much life in the time that passed. I am not even that person anymore.  Yet, I didn't need to reinvent myself to find discoveries. I just needed to constantly move, to constantly grow...to keep writing even when it felt useless, to keep searching even when I felt lost, to keep living in the best way I could even when I felt like I was just doing the running-man in place and going nowhere. Because after 24 months I think I've learned that I covered a lot of distance. And not in the usual measurements that I'm tempted to these days - in record deals, superficial praises or gigs acquired, but in emotional growth, life experiences, healing, finding love, learning to love, work achievements, traveling, meeting new friends, finding new music, and other things that can't be put into words (I'm finding I can't put much into words of late). 

Isn't that the beauty of life, after all?  

Version B1

Just a bit contemplative today. I took a day off work so I spent the morning cleaning, a worry looming over my head like one of those cartoon clouds that follows you around. My mom had always told me there would be a crossroads one day where I'd have to choose music or a "Real life." 

I am always afraid I've hit that crossroads... I guess I shouldn't really fear it. It is inevitable, and what's the point of fearing something that's bound to come?

Or maybe it's just the definitions in my head that need to be fixed. 

Sigh.  

Tired. Irate.

Here it comes again: another moment of screaming "I just want to get out of here!" at the top of my lungs, in my head. I'm annoyed and irate because things are bothering me. Things like boyfriends that forget what should be fairly easy to remember...of wondering if I'm on the right track...of being fearful of getting pulled into decisions that will sink me in a hole somewhere and close doors that might be open. It once bothered me to have so many doors open, but there's a frightening feeling of finality when one or others close. That if one door closes, I should have figured myself out a little bit more. And the pressure of having to do that - even when I might be ready to. That hesitation of thinking, maybe I'm not at all...?

Just trying to breathe and remember that oftentimes, when we think we'll fall, we don't. And that there is still some greater being that sees beyond what I can. Maybe I'm just trying too hard to see it.

Privacy

How important is it to keep a sacred space where you can relax and not worry about other people's opinions, or thoughts, or their eyes on your innermost thoughts? Is it so important that even your significant other has no allowance?

It's a double-edged sword. On one hand it's vital to venting and creativity. Privacy creates the comfort of knowing you can say and write what you want with no judgments passed, no possibility of a future argument where a quote might be brought up, or emotions tinkered with. You can let everything hang out: the good, bad and proverbial ugly without consequence.
On the other hand, to your significant other, it can mean you're keeping a part of yourself closed to him.

I feel I've learned my lesson with blogs. I had a traumatizing experience with it, that involved sharing blog passwords with an ex-boyfriend, then subsequently reading private posts that divulged innermost thoughts and emotions in the months after the break-up. I knew it wasn't healthy, but it became an obsession to me. So much, that he had to change his password... it was a lengthy ordeal, and we both underwent the sad separation that changing a password meant. It was like a breakup all its own. I took a break from blogs for a long time after that. I've even forgotten the password to that blog, which I had also changed after he changed his. It took me a lot to start this, and I started with an agreement to myself that it would be a safe haven for me. One that not even the closest person to me could see... the only person I don't mind seeing this is my sister.

But it's two-sided for me too. On one hand, I want Rob to learn everything about me. I want him to figure certain things out without my having to study what I need to point out about myself in order for him to understand me better. But on the other, I believe that timing is everything, and that things eventually float to the surface when it comes to relationships.

I almost let him see this blog. I divulged the address.
But we spoke about it...and I decided I didn't want him to read it. If he saw it, it would mean an end to this sacred haven. And while he's worth it, I was scared to regret it one day. I decided it would be better for him not to read it. And I trust that he won't, even if he has the address on his GChat.
I trust him.

People telling me what to do

I don't deal well with people telling me what to do. Or, scratch that. It's all in the way they tell me.
It's not easy for me to waver in the face of someone who is so definitive in their approach, who acts as though what they believe is the only thing, who doesn't ask me what I might think. Although I'm not the best collaborator, when it comes to something that involves me, I'd like to at least be consulted on some decisions. Or if not consulted, I'd like to have my own suggestions approached with a sense of openness and consideration.
But really, I just hate know-it-alls.

All good dreamers pass this way someday.

Been on a Joni Mitchell kick since I decided to take the CD's Rob gave me down from their shelves and into the old CD player. I wonder why I haven't tried to get her music sooner... her first album is reminiscent of Jewel's first (or vice versa, actually).  Now the comparison is clear. 

I listened to "Both Sides Now" on Wednesday and just wept. There is no other song that could destroy me and redeem me at the same time. I don't know what it is. Just the honesty, the surrender to humanity, the kind and patient melody, the tired but emotive vocals. It kills me but it wakes me up too.  Fantastic.

Thursday night was Charlotte Sometimes' 21st at Angels & Kings. Oh what a night. It was a new experience, especially hob-knobbing with some industry people. Alex insisted it was my "good looks" that kept them hanging on. I'd like to hope it was my engaging personality, but alas... even I am not always a dreamer. As long as Alex has his point proven, I will continue to be nagged to wear heels and keep my appearance up, at least when meeting other industry-folk. I met the presidents of Crush and Sam Hollander, also Juan Patino and a marketing guy named Jeff Mann from Universal. The last two I spent a good chunk of the night with... Alex said he was impressed. He didn't think I'd last all 5 hours at the bar...he thought I'd be ready to call it a night after one. Little did he know. :) I think our NYC escapades are bringing back the social-butterfly/party-girl side of me that I haven't visited since late October 2007. 

We started the night with cucaracha burachas at Burrito Loco and closed it with watered-down espresso at Cafe Orlin. Yuck. I should have stuck with their fries.

Friday night I was out until 4:30 at Julio's goodbye party. My sis and I went to Fat Black Pussycat... I reconnected with Beda, which was new yet familiar. Yes, we still have the indelible attraction, but there were no more preconceptions this time around. We were just friends that were reconnecting after a long time. In that sense, though, nothing had changed. It was the coldest night this year, yet we were hopping from place to place. My sister, Beda and I drove up to the karaoke place and eventually got some Korean BBQ while waiting for the others. Somewhere in the night we also met some good-looking Colombian guys... too bad there was little we could say to each other, ha! We topped the night off with some silly karaoke and I wished my friends were closer, so we could also have nights like these. I went home and had a long talk with Rob.

I was supposed to go to Foxwoods with him and his friends. But, as Alex says, it's the suburban way... the men stay together and the wives... well, they allegedly hang out (not in my case).  Rob really wanted me to go... partly because he truly did, and also because he knew he had to prove to me that I could still hang out with his friends even when no other girls were around. I was upset with him Friday night, asking for assurance that it would be ok for me to go. I had been having second thoughts, worried some of the guys might resent me. But Rob couldn't give me assurance either...so we argued. And the next day, after a talk with my mom and in the midst of terrible grogginess, I told him I wouldn't go. He had texted me the night before that although he wanted me to be there, it would be "less painful" for both of us if I didn't. I think that more than answered my questions. 

He went on to tell me he just wished I had come; that I should have come. But he never offered me assurance beforehand... and no matter what he says, I know it would have been different had I been around.

Besides, I hate to gamble and I'd had enough of hanging out late..

though I did spend Sat. night out at some Teaneck bar with Joyce. Oh Bergen County clubbing - what an awkward ordeal. 

Anyway, that's enough about me. To bed I go...

Sunrise

It's probably the last week of the holiday madness. The goodbyes begin tomorrow when Dad leaves for L.A. Then Greg on Saturday. Then Mom. Then Julio goes to Japan for a year about a week afterwards. That post-holiday wear and tear will rear its melancholy head. Rob said goodbye to his apartment where he'd spent four and a half precious post-college years, stretching out the joy of youth and alcohol. I am saying goodbye to the paralyzed me of 2008. I'm reminding myself that the wheel continues to roll, and I'm better off driving its speed than just letting it take me with it. I always preferred being in control anyway. 

God's plan is the perfect plan. I am trying to stay on course. Even when it doesn't feel good, or when it's daunting and full of doubt. I have faith that at the end of 2009, this will all make sense somehow, and my restlessness will have its purpose - whether it is what I hope, expect or do not even consider for a second. 

Independence

After church today, I drove down to Jersey City to check out Rob's new flat. It's a one-bedroom near Journal Square that's about $695 a month. Sadly, a dream come true around these parts. I took the drive with a bit of apprehension - after all, I'm notorious for getting lost anytime I'm in the Jersey City vicinity - but I popped some David Ford into the CD player (nothing like some angst-ridden 90's singer/songwriter to get you through anxiety... they've always got it worse than you), and got my mind off things. I managed to get there with little drama. The neighborhood was quiet, and a long line of quaint townhouses stretched down the street. Christmas lights peeked out of one spacious window; cozy bedrooms exposed themselves from attics above. His apartment is in an old brick building on the first flight up, and the three rooms that make his abode are quaint, charming... they have character. He's got those old-school steam heaters and the walls look cardboard-thick with slathered paint - the kitchen is a pasty sort of yellow/orange and the bedroom is velvet red. We ate pizza and drank tea, letting the loneliness of living alone immerse us. We only spent an hour and a half there, but there was really little else to do. It was the first occasion that time passed slowly when we were together. I was fascinated by this and kept calculating the time from when I parked my car to when I began following his Volkswagon back to the turnpike. 

It'll certainly be an adjustment now that he's got some new digs. 

We sat for a time in the kitchen before he walked around the table to embrace me warmly. 

"I wouldn't have done this if it weren't for you," he said.

Though I knew this somewhere in my mind, the words were still startling. 

"What do you mean?"     

I meant it.

"Well.  You were the one who encouraged me to do this. If you didn't, I never would have."

I think it was his way of saying that my nagging actually did a bit of good. 

I smiled and kissed him again.

Somewhere in the recesses of my veins, it made me nervous to think that I had influenced such a big decision. What if I was wrong? And what would this mean for me anyway? In all my "encouraging" I hadn't yet stopped to think about it.

Maybe 2009 will be a year for many new beginnings. 

2009

Cleaning my room is like sifting through the pieces of a history museum. Here and again I find old writings that remind me how I once used to think, stories that remind me of that question, "Are you really the same person you were before?" I am detached in many ways, but I know I am still deeply entrenched because sometimes these pieces make me cry. Maybe I'm just sentimental. This being the case, it takes a great deal of courage to delve into the artifacts, nervously awaiting the instant I find a chilling photograph, or a memory I once tried to sweep into my consciousness. What I found tonight was moving. Aside from the fact that it reminded me how sentimental I can be (to a fault), I remembered that I was once a good writer. And I mean that. It takes a lot to recognize myself as good and perfectly talented, but indeed... I once was. Who knows? Maybe it's hindsight that allows the past to glitter. 2008 will seem a gleaming year, even though at the moment I allow myself to fill with "should haves" and "could haves." I also remembered Isabelle, quietly chastising myself for not having the gall to call her up and say hello. My petty excuse? I've yet to research the word for "newspaper" in French. Lame. 

  I think I really loved her those months I spent with her. It's the memory of that love that haunts me now. This is why my heart is heavy when I think of our short time together. Deep inside, I still hope she is the same. Or better... I pray she is still alive. Even if she waited for Jean-Charles patiently, those slow days she'd spend tending leisurely through her routines. Water the garden. Mow the lawn. Do the wash. Shower. Dry her hair. Sit with Pepette and watch the Jura in the distance. How did I not realize what an impact she'd had on me during that semester abroad? I noticed Grace Princesa's influence before Isabelle's own. 

  The point is, I've allowed myself to wallow in some kind of self-pity ever since the catastrophic-break-up-of-2006. That break-up that left me wondering if I was still a good person. The one that revealed how much I clung to a false self-imposed image of "goodness" and perfection. The one where I learned why Redemption is so powerful after all...so powerful, I couldn't bring myself to understand that it was available even for me. And since then, I've let things slide. I haven't been honest, I haven't written to the best of my ability... I've "let it go" in a sense. The tiny but daring observances of everyday had just wilted to daily routines. I miss the days of wandering through New York and finding inspiration everywhere, even through the sensory overload. I don't even watch things anymore - I just sort of see them. How pitiful, I think. I am so good at wallowing, these post-college days. Wallowing that I'm not in a good-paying job. Lamenting that I haven't figured my life out yet. Crying over spilled milk. Fear and self-loathing breeds stagnation. This was a life I would have once refused. And still can. 

  I think of Jon Nabo and how he inspires me. He reminds me what there is to live for. That even though we all die the same way, we are not here for naught. We are here to be human and to live utterly complete and painfully emotional lives. Not just to sail and be content; not just to let our pay stubs define our status and mold our self-images. We're here to live because we were blessed with life on this unique Earth. In 2008 I missed that somewhere. I let myself fall into remission. With my retreat into seclusion, I also retreated from myself. 

Not this year.  This year everything changes.

I don't think I'm meant to return to how it used to be.  But I know it can't be as it has been.

Waiting to leave

I tend to develop headaches at work, so I allowed myself some 15 minutes to wander around the building. There wasn't much to see. The second floor was completely abandoned. Cubicles left unkempt, as though the owners had simply stood and left. Chairs swung backward; no one had cared to roll them back to their places, out of the way. There was a rolling cart with a few postal service boxes, left like someone hadn't the time or care to place them in their respective place. It was like a scene from armageddon, or something from a Hollywood film - The Day After Tomorrow, or something. Maybe the Shining. It was eery, but I tried not to think about it. Fears bring fears to life.
The first floor was an open space where the printing presses used to be. It looked like an old-school factory, left abandoned in the throes of modernization. Like a picture straight out of Detroit or Paterson. The vents were unbelievably loud against the somber silence. I couldn't stand either floor for to long so I headed up, thinking to return to my desk. But I noticed more stairs up to the fifth floor. This wasn't the same stairway that led to a big newspaper room - sometimes me and Rob would spend time there - this was something new. The ceilings were adorned with mold that had grown over the years. It smelled heavily musky. I pushed open the door and there it was, the view of Hackensack at dusk. The Court House's stately dome and its statue were centered perfectly in the distance. I stepped out into the cold and wrapped my pashmina around me. To the left were the distant lights of New York City, just faint blinks through the fog. The clouds were overtaking now. I saw the bustling highway of I-80, cars speeding past, hundreds of feet above houses and buildings and more cars. Someone was speeding down River Street to my right. I could hear his engine roar. To my left were more windows in some other part of this building...this dilapidated, abandoned old thing. It is the life-size view of what is happening to the newspaper today. We are slowly becoming irrelevant. And so is this building. In a few weeks, we move.

In between wake and sleep.

One thing I know I have to improve on is relying on myself.

When it comes to big decisions, I have a tendency to turn to someone else to help me gain clarity. I don't stop first to consider my own thoughts. Or, I do, but I second guess them the instant they come. Alex pointed this out to me a few times. When it came to hard decisions about the record, I wasn't sure what points I'd want to change in songs... so I'd ask my sister, and my best friend, and other people and then get back to Alex with these thoughts. Soon he caught on. I was just picking things up from others - I wasn't relying on my own ears. 

Tonight I was reminded that I need to rely on my own heart, mind and soul too. It's not that it's a bad thing to consider other people's thoughts, it's just that when it becomes a substitute for my own, I start to lose myself, and second-guessing becomes second nature.  What will I do when there's no one there to tell me what I should? 

I'd gladly attribute it to the way I was raised, though I'm wary about sounding eager to find a scapegoat. I'm not. I just think that I've always felt compelled to follow the basic goals my mom and grandparents laid out for me: do well in school, stay close to the church, family first. It's not that these things are bad, it's just that it becomes the prerogative for everything I do just because I'm used to it. Not because I've learned it for myself. I'm proud of how I've turned out, and I know I've made a lot of mistakes, but for the most part I've been playing things safe. Given our financial situation in life, I've been given much. I've done little to risk this - not that I think I should - but I've never been compelled to just figure out all this stuff for myself. I'm grateful for the firm foundation of a religious family and an independent mother figure. But how ironic, I can follow the independence of my mom on some levels but not on others - not when it comes to making big decisions. Sometimes, I just feel better letting my mom in on things, as though she'll figure it out for me. 

It's not healthy, and I see that it could become dangerous for me. My grandparents are eager to keep me sheltered and thrust their judgment on me, but I can't let that sway me. My mom is trying to show me that she trusts me, but she still watches like a hawk. I can't let that make me question myself on my judgments and actions. Sure, I can be stupid and make dumb decisions. But who doesn't? And - not to fall on my face - but maybe I need to learn from my own mistakes too. In the process I can learn to take risks, especially in the music world. Risks that are good investments in the end. . . like this album. I need to understand that it's a little crazy, but I'm doing it because I have a resolve, and that's the end of it. 

And I need to trust that I've been a good person, I've tried my best in what I can and tried not to be too reckless with the serious stuff. But most of all, I've followed my passion and ultimately kept my ear to what God wants me to do with my life. . . that, I know I still need to polish up.

Home again

What a trip that was. I can't articulate where I am after it. It was kind of a whirlwind week, and while I was skeptical in the beginning, the time spent with family and the scenery and fun activities made this vacation memorable. I'm home, and I'm tired because of jet-lag but I can't really sleep. I was comfortable on the ride in (I was bumped to first class from Mexico City) so I didn't suffer any aches or pains after the ride. I constantly felt guilty, though, not being able to sit with Ate Faye. 

Anyway, I find myself in a strange emotional place after it. Maybe it's just a sligh displacement. I guess more than anything, though, I feel a stronger desire to figure myself out. Get things going, figure out my future, be a better person - more involved in my music and my art, less concerned with expectations or self-inflicted pressures that debilitate me. I just want to be - I just want to live, exist, and find freedom in being myself. I want to take the time to write and take everything in, and I don't want to gloss over ideas, just carving the outer layer to song ideas, or things that could be better-developed. I have become too careless with too much of this. I know I'm rambling, and I'm not sure how one topic is segueing, but I can't care. I'm tired and this is what's coming out! Maybe that's why I get so insecure sometimes... because I know that I could be delving more into things, instead of stopping before I've gotten my knees wet. And when I see that in others, I know deep in my heart that I should be doing the same.  

Here I go pushing myself again. . . 

Cabo San Lucas, Mexico

There is a vivid conflict in this place; one so obvious and omnipresent...it follows and haunts like a ghost. Here I feel torn between reality and built-up imagery. American bars and music, more white tourists than you'd think you'd see all the way down here, hawkers trained in just a few essential English terms: "Barrato...almost free." They've made sure Thanksgiving will be alive and well here, catering to the mostly Californian clientele, probably almost 100% American. They've been opportunistic with the local culture (who, the American capitalists or the locals - you decide). Mariachi bands that charge 50 pesos per song, tour guides with Mexican accents sometimes, I swear, that are exaggerated for effect, sombreros on sidewalks for sale to the novelty-seeking, a take on Mexican food that unadventurous putis can stomach. I can bet 100 bucks the food I've been eating is nothing like real Mexican food. Not the kind you'd find inland, or maybe off fishing villages on the Mayan Riviera.  

You have to strain to find the real things here. A sunrise and a sunset over the border of the Pacific and the Sea of Cortez, crashing waves and the rip tides that threaten mercilessly, desert canyons full of butterflies adapted to the dry climate, taxi drivers willingly sharing the stories of their lives - how they are paying their way through college, how many kids they have, who's depending on their hard-earned cash - a mariachi band member dozing off on a bench beside a local store, tropical fish - ones who aren't afraid to bite. I have a scar to prove it.  Floating hundreds of feet above the bay with lovers beach to the left, my feet dangling over a velvety blue water, the waves shrinking as I fly higher, higher. These things are there. But they're hard to see. 

I took a walk to the resort's edge, just by the beach, where the lights weren't as heady and the crashing waves bellowed in the distance, patches of stars peeking from a partly cloudy sky. I wanted to find some isolation; some peace in a place where it should belong. I heard them coming closer, four teenagers, two with cigarettes in hand, laughing, spitting, cracking open a can of beer. They were speaking loudly, to best the roaring waves, off on their own adventure. It was hard not to feel angry then. But I couldn't think I was any better. Wasn't I doing the same?

I think God's answers are always clearer in a place closer to nature. I wanted to just sit and listen; to speak into the howling wind for no one but Him to hear. I hope He did.  

One repose, just for a little while.

I don't know. I just don't know. Maybe things are getting more ominous because there's a vacation ahead... maybe I'm allowing myself to sink into such a negative state. Maybe I'm just too quick to let things get me down.

Or maybe it's this violent darkness overtaking as winter looms closer. I always sensed I was linked to the change of weather; I think it's only become more acute through the years. 

This Saturday was a blast from my past. I bumped into someone that was once a bigger part of my life for a few months...last year. Man, last year was a blur...back then, even now. I checked our history of wall conversations, feeling a little off-put by how our sentiments had changed. Where once was familiarity and casual talk was now politeness and a slight forcing of comfort. I see now that we really weren't meant to be, but that we were meant to be for that time. He was in my life for many reasons, even if it didn't work out or follow through. For a second, I thought that maybe I hadn't been standing still at all. If I look back a year from today, worlds have changed. Even though I feel the same, and have scarcely traveled as avidly as I did back then. Still, surely we can move while we remain physically unmoved. It's an amazing thing - time. It's a wonder that it will always defeat us; we are always merciless to how it shapes and makes us what we are.