dream log

Last night I dreamed that the world had no oceans. Just a beige loam stretched from top to bottom, speckled with a few flowing rivers. What would it be like to be separated by a vast land dotted with a billion people instead of a dark ocean?

I'm glad the world is the way it is.

another first, in stream of consciousness

dearest,

It's raining in Chicago. I've grown quite fond of the city over the last few days. Today I wrote a poem, just before the rain hit, discussing the split visions of my future. The more time I spend amidst artists of New York and Chicago, the more I want to be recognized as one. I find myself now forced to make the decision of following the art- or activist-influenced route, and all of these questions come to mind: Can the artist really affect social change? Or is the artist constantly limited by the will of the audience? Is the top down approach really any more effective or is the activist similarly always limited by the will of the politician...Probably, yes and yes, but do I honestly think I can get a job at the epa with a nose stud? Shaping your future can be quite difficult when you don't know what type of material you're dealing with. We shall see what decision I come to. In the meantime, I'm leaving Chicago.

untitled

The holes in my childhood home
are covered with picture framed yarn,
a southwest chicana scene
where the dark and beautiful guadalupe
is overpowered by masculinity
and I am sitting in a coffee shop in chicago
watching the hands
of an old man inch closer to me
sinking into the all too familiar home
of disgust and paralysis
where my own anger molds holes
of a different shape than my father's

Smoky Nights

Thursday was an anniversary for John and me. I must admit, it was probably the best anniversary. He told me that he had made plans and it was all going to be a surprise for me. We first went out to a late dinner at Bella Ciao. The server sat us, said happy anniversary and brought out wine and an appetizer (John had called ahead and arranged the whole meal). After the delicious appetizer, they delivered a rose to me and then brought out the main course. We left for a short walk and went to La Dolce Vida for brandy and cigars, watching my voice get as smoky as the atmosphere.

Brooklyn, dear brooklyn

There is something special about spending time with your partner's best friend. A very unique bond is made from knowing you love the same person.


Much of the time spent in New York was filled with "Brian hugging" poses.

..And my first time karaokeing (Bohemian Rhapsody, I am very serious about this song).

I must say, the trip was fan-fucking-tastic!

The Great Women in My Life

Two letters: KT. KT is probably one of the best known characters in the town where I grew up. We found each other five years ago in Costa Rica on a trip to study the rainforest, the scenery and pura vida lifestyle. The two of us were bathing in the hot springs of Monteverde when we simultaneously had the urge to sing the little mermaid's part of your world—and did. Later in the trip, due in part to Friday the 13th and in part to the ill will of the Caribbean, KT and I and a small boat full of small girls were met by a seven foot rogue wave which wrecked havoc on our crew but especially on my head. In the midst of the screming and whimpering of the other girls and the outright panic of our chaperone, KT held my hand. Her white shirt splattered with my blood, she was my rock as our small boat piloted back to shore.

She left shortly thereafter to study abroad in Thailand. Part of out time together before she left was spent walking to my house on the left side of the sole highway that runs through houghton. I would retrace this same path while she was away. The beginning of a long correspondence began between us. She would write to me of the oddity of Thai soap operas with disney music in the background and recount a story of hearing part of your world playing, 10,000 miles away from where I was, and thought of me and Costa Rica.

KT spent much of her child- and young adult-hood caring for her mother without much help from the rest of her family. With encouragement from her friends and her brother, and her own strength, she now has her own apartment, is going to college and will soon have a drivers license (I'm still working on this one). In a few years when she graduates her plan is to return to Thailand and teach English. I am incredibly proud of her.

with the lights out

Because of a miscommunication between me and my roommate, I will not have electricity in my apartment for the next three days. I've stopped blaming myself and my roommate and am now only blaming DTE. For most of us living in the western world, living without electricity is no small feat. It's actually not all that bad; the biggest fiasco by far is finding what to do with your refrigerated food before it goes bad. Mine is now partitioned up among other friendly fridges. The second is trying to convince yourself that you're really not all that poor as the sun falls below the horizon and you're left sitting in the dark in your living room eating dry bagel chips for dinner.

On the bright side, my eco-footprint is even smaller. Because I am a strict vegetarian, eat unprocessed foods, do not own a car—and now am living without electricity—everyone in the world could live like me and we would only need 1.1 planets*. But if everyone in the world really did live like me, we would all adopt our children and the population would decrease until everyone could live between the tropic of Cancer and Capricorn. Bliss.

Luckily, the rest of the world is flowing in an overabundance of electricity so I am now at a computer lab, able to entertain myself for the next few hours before bed. Maybe I'll finish the night with reading in bed with a flashlight reminiscent of so many childhoods.


*I was surprised to learn that living without any electricity only accounts for 0.1 planets when eating habits can account for 0.8 planets. I guess they don't mention global warming.

what's in a name?

It begins with the letter S. It stands between the first and last. It stands out, with all its curves, from the straight-edged figures that come before and after. It stands with such mystery like most middle names do. In the second grade, I forgot that my middle name was Stephanie. I wasn't sure how to spell it until the fourth. And although I've always had a hard time with any of my names, I've had the hardest with this part. Stephanie. She is (was) my great aunt; my name follows hers. And like great aunts she stands hunched over, somewhat forgotten, but very stubbornly set in her place. I try to distance myself from it. Because I do not find myself in the name, I try to omit it. And this is when the guilt begins. I was named from her; my other names were built from sound and custom, but this one was from a person. She was my mother's favorite aunt and in her time she owned a jewelry store. And while I think little of this from a person in my time, it was quite ambitious for a woman in her time to own a store, and that earns her my respect. I have inherited one of her pieces, probably because we share a name. It is a piece of amethyst no bigger than a cherry.

Amethyst, as it turns out, gets around from culture to culture. Known as the "Stone of Spirit" or the "Stone of Integrity," Amethyst has been long associated with purity. Katie means "pure". It is the stone of the Buddha, and in Tibet it is popularly used in the making of prayer beads called Mala beads which are used in the practice of meditation. I have always had a fondness for Buddhism and have recently tried to study it more seriously. The stone varies in color from pinkish lavender to intense violet with flashes of red.

Sparrow takes its origin from replacing the ostracized Stephanie with a name I could more easily identify with. It was a slip up, a simple nickname that evolved into a longer attachment. I'm quite fond of it now.

I toyed with keeping the connection to amethyst. A small tribute to the person whose name I am abandoning. But unfortunately, all of the english names to describe the color are rather cumbersome. Purple is in fact a very awkward english name. I have a particular liking for indigo but it just couldn't get along with sparrow. So, straying to either side from the amethyst I explored blue or gray. Gray remains a top choice for me. It is one of a few list of truly american words, modified from the english grey. Sadly, neither gray nor blue could represent all that I like about amethyst and least of all its queer nature. So from here I moved to another color with strong roots in my identity. Black, not from emptiness, not from sorrow, but from resistance from social norms. Here is where I take my refuge. It is here that the name was born.

it begins

yikes, i started my own blog!