Exiting The East

¿Si podríamos viajar el mundo por pie, siéntase la presencia del sol tan íntimamente, el dolor en músculos, la sed -- apreciaríamos nosotros la vida más? ¿Si podríamos andar de un continente al próximo, tomaría el vecino un nuevo significado? ¿Podemos nosotros, quizás, movemos de esa palabra al "hermano"?

Fascination with the ocean usually begins with admiration, even fear, but it ends with separation. The earth may have once been covered in water, but humanity has since held on to life under it, never feeling a desire to emerge with the land. Maybe the earth was never meant to evolve. After all, things aren't so rigid under water; there is no such thing as boundaries there. But man has felt the need to isolate himself, to constitute a "versus". We rose from the sea out of self-ambition. We thought we were greater than our Host. Even then we were not satisfied, and there was conflict among the earth's land. When the continents separated, they split the soul of man as well.

When we stand in awe at the edge of the waters, perhaps what we are really feeling is nostalgia for a world we once remembered but have long since forgotten. The fear we feel is emerging from a place deep inside of ourselves, mourning for the loss of self. The shells we collect and place in bottles are mirrors into a world where man was solid, content. We remember we have come so far from solidarity.

The ocean kept us from expanding our self-destructive empire by placing itself in the sky; and now, with the clouds, we are surrounded by water though we have grown so distant from its touch.

Enamorarse es de Sacrificarlo...

Three things I have learned this summer that are hard for me: 1) Most people like attention, 2) Most people like to boast, and 3) I will never be one of those people.

There are two things in life that frustrate me beyond what I feel my patience and morale can handle: 1) When people treat me like I am either a) stupid and/or b) like I don't know what I'm doing; and 2) When people thrive on thrusting their achievements and talents and opportunities onto everyone else. I'm sick of the same old conversations that begin with something like "I did this and I know this and 'this one time when I..' " and end something like "I can do this and I am good at this and so-and-so thinks I'm amazing"; and they always add the "not to brag or anything but..." which just frustrates me even more. You might think that exerting yourself so forcefully on others will make them like you more, or think more highly of you, but I just think you look desperate. I will never be someone to stoop to constantly trying to sell myself to feel good. Is this humility? Or pride? I just don't see the point in building oneself up. Why are we competing with one another? Community is about equality. If I wanted stratification I would be content with Capitalism. As I'm not, please don't use your "ladder climbing" techniques in conversations where I am present, I just might go choke myself.

...Y Yo Tengo el Nada Dejo Para Dar

Really this has nothing to do with love. But maybe it really does. I keep quiet because I don't like assumptions. I keep quiet because I don't believe in first impressions, stop sizing everyone up. I keep quiet because I hate pretentiousness. I know what I know, I know what I'm good at, and I know what I am capable of doing. I feel no need to convince anyone of this. I'm not living my life to please anyone. And if other people get recognition for something, or get praised for something because they were bluntly verbal about it, fine. One day I'm going to change the world....and no one is going to notice. 

Que Yo Digo

Sometimes I want to be a jerk. Sometimes I want to be really mean. It's very hard work keeping your not-so-proper emotions subdued, but I can't act any other way. I would be no better than those I get frustrated with if I let my mouth run. I guess what I am saying is.....I want to find someone that I don't feel like I need to impress; someone who will make up for the endless shallow conversations where I just repeat over and over again in my head that I am bigger than this and its not worth my frustration; someone that will tell me that all along I was doing the right thing. I need that.

 No...I don't need that. I retract my last paragraph. It was never written. It was never thought. I lit a fire now see me walk away...

El Viaje

I have passed through the states as if they haven't existed. They were barely colored prints that rotated on a track outside my finger-smudged window. I know the rain came with Missouri, the blood with Oklahoma, the lightning Texas; but I know nothing of these states. The state of our bus, however, I know well. We have formed our own commonwealth here, each traveling together in state-like fashion through a faceless nation. I've come to realize that my experience cross-country had nothing to do with the red sands of Texas or the windmills of Oklahoma, but everything to do with the people in this bus. THIS IS AMERICA. I wanted to know, and I suppose I found out.

El Ciencia de Viajar

The act of traveling by bus seems to be the most intimate means of all public transportation. We are total strangers who eat and sleep together, we gaze out of our windows listlessly and alone, we get confused and huddled together--relying on a collective ignorance to induce correctness--we say our goodbyes like old friends. My destination seems unimportant now; it's the getting there intrigues me. I have grown comfortable in my discomfort, and expect nothing more.

Mirando Hacia Atras de Aqui

And now, as I adapt to life life in a new state, I think back on the many people I have met; the lives that have been so intricately woven together, like silk tapestries draped on Egyptian tombs. And I miss those people I know so little of, but have come to know in the purest state of human interaction, at our lowest and most vulnerable.

I have learned that young black men otherwise classified as a threat in common American society were the individuals who made me feel the most protected. I have never met more fascinating young men whose intellect is ignored by a world that keeps them oppressed, mere laborers judged by their sagging pants and beaded hair rather than their brains. I have learned a lot from these young black men in regards to the justice system, society, family values, and spirituality. These young men were fathers and philosophers whose charisma and dignity had been overlooked by street cops with bad attitudes and business-tie men. And somehow they were discussing just behind my ear the kind of mental and spiritual strength it takes to become a man unchanged by societal oppression. I have been comforted to sleep by the sound of their slang.

I think often of the man I met in Albuquerque, his slurred nonsensical speech, his reddened eyes, his borderline offensive compliments. I was the only one who stopped to listen, and though his eyes gazed often at places they shouldn't, I enjoyed his company in a peculiar sort of way. His eyes got wet and glazed over (beyond what they already were) and he looked beyond me at some point I couldn't see, and knew he couldn't either, when he spoke of a fellow Native American who had been shot trying to escape the cotton fields of his imprisonment. He spoke of years and years of Native American discrimination, of a hard life lived in the country he loves. And it made me unbearably sad to know he was hanging around the bus station at four in the morning, drunk because he couldn't bear to face life otherwise. I will never forget his sad eyes.

These people have become a part of my life, their lives engrained in my memory--an intrusion I have readily welcomed.