cafecito y conversacion al estilo David y Bathsheba

Sometimes together, sometimes separate... Cliffy spent last night. Her household was crazy and, with Delhi staying at my mom's because of late nights working or class, I really didn't want to go to an empty house. Usually I love the opportunity but not lately. As is often between Cliffy and me, we seem to help make transitions easier.

Truth is I have had relationships on my mind - I think I've done this discussion before on this blog. At this point i should just reference previous entries rather than reiterate my damage.

More truth: I was told goodbye by a new friend yesterday. He had great compliments and told me I was amazing. It's nice to know I have viewable traits but it seems to hurt me more than honor me when I'm left standing alone.

I didn't complete my art piece for Esperanza's queer exhibit. I don't know how much of a part of the queer community I want to be a part of here. It disappoints. Defines you on your behalf. Does not listen. I attempted creating a homage to my coming out as a 5th grader so long ago, including who it was I fell in love with (my mother's best friend, a potter), what I was having dreams about (marrying a woman with longer white hair (scares me to think it might have been my ex wife, Ya Vez!), becoming a full time writer and having children), and what I hoped for (freedom - yes, even then).

My childhood house was not so free - we were exiles in the city/state/country/male world. All this became too much in my mind and I could feel that blending of my creativity that I try to keep separate: sewing, writing, painting, furniture building, cooking, sex, emotional expressions - all one jarbled thing too hard to swallow.

So Cliffy, knowing I haven't been sleeping, followed me to bed. I tried going to bed early. I've always been the kind that gets tired early and, if i got to bed right when I feel it, I can sleep pretty well. But if that momentary feeling passes me, I'm awake again, hyper alert until, like right now, I'm awake at 1:30 in the morning.

Cliffy was so sweet, rubbing my head. I was able to sleep, even if I had the same dream I've been having all week: these men (mostly), Africans mostly, who were criticizing me. I thought they might be artists and that they didn't want me in their circle. I couldn't figure it out, especially since I get along great with those who are not from this country - some 3rd world woman connection.

Before I went to sleep Cliffy told me that I carried a lot of creativity, that that is what didn't let me sleep. It hurt because here I am feeling that I don't do enough with my talents while at the same time holding myself back because, partly, I really believe that I already make it impossible to be matched. And I'd be lying to myself if I said I didn't want family and a partner and this whole mad scene. No, it won't follow a typical relationship but it will be one - in my mind anyway.

I've been reading more about Edna St. Vincent Millay (Vincent her friends called her). I told Cliffy that was exactly what i wanted. that she could write feminist work and still write about her individual journey and her lovers and it was all powerful. Plus, she was openly bisexual, free to express herself with a man who was at a point in his life where he could put his work aside and help her. There's my dream. Yes, I'm jealous as hell. and I adore Vincent now.

Miguel called me as i was getting out of class tonight and I met him for coffee. We are starting to make the coffee gathering a regular thing. I'm glad for it because he'll be out of the country for a month teaching a class in Monterrey and he's great company. So he gets a beer (Dos Equis draft) and I get a black & white (condensed milk and two shots) and we talk about trading beverages since he needs to stay up with class preparations and I'm the one who needs to sleep.

We are planning to meet each other at the border when I go down to McAllen next month for mujerfest. I'm going to be reading my work. It's been awhile but I'm trying for more theatrics this time. I'm tired of my own confinement.

There's a lot of change happening - I am at a cusp once again. This last year back in San Antonio have made me look older and I find myself more easily upset or rather, less tolerant of those who are not emotionally available or grateful.

It would be nice to find freedom in this city. It would be nice to be with who I wanted, when I wanted. It would be nice to create the work I need to complete.

I'm going to bed. Wish me luck.

fajando con la poesia // fighting with poetry

I've started reading Edna St. Vincent Millay, a poet whose work I'd actually dismissed on more than one occasion. She's best known for her short, alerting pieces like "First Fig":

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--
It gives a lovely light!

which every high schooler read and said YES! about. I've often critiqued my own work negatively, thinking I spend too much time relating to the home, creating home, etc., while still trying for feminist defining. I have read Millay's work and now find some comfort in knowing she was able to do similar things and to do so successfully. Yes, I'm still on my quest to devote more time to my writing.

I get caught up in doing other things though and if it's at all creative, I lose my ganas for writing. I think that's why I like to be a little pent up too. Have a little denial in my life or someone who tells me no.

But still have freedom. Think polyamorous relationships or open marriages. There might be other options but no amount of meditation will remove that fire from me. I was having a simple coffee yesterday evening with a friend of mine. This was after my first day of class (yawn!) so I was now fully awake - and we talked about how another friend views him as shy, nice, even religious. I laughed because it only takes us minutes each time to start talking about how there's too much fire in the room or how it's sometimes good to stay good friends with an ex (yes, in the biblical sense). More fun is that we have most of our conversations in Spanish and some words differ in meaning between Cuban Spanish and Mexican Spanish.

When we did start talking about our exes, I mentioned always seemed to be in a fight (Siempre estabamos fajando) and he laughed. I realized that fajando meant something totally different for him... something along the lines of what you do after you fight. Either way, ours were physical exchanges...

I got off topic... within one blog entry! My god, my mind is everywhere instead of right here. Alright, so one thing I am aware of and actively trying to develop is less fear in my writing. I want to go all the way. And I mean less fear elsewhere too. Mami 'ta lista!.

seek release/From dusty bondage into luminous air

--Edna St. Vincent Millay