| cuando solo recibo noticias de la muerte/when the only news i recieve, are the news of death |
[Oct. 10th, 2006|05:46 am] |
would you agree it's time for new beginings? now, while the sun isn't burning hard, maybe we can rest under the autum trees and I won't have to worry about wheter or not the mangos are ripe on the island. i think we can both agree that this is a time for you and me to close our eyes and shiver in the cold breeze and kiss for a long long time. before the sun shines again... so that my eyes can rest for a while.
no es que no quiera verte aparecer entre las tinieblas en tu caballo blanco, corazon. es que te veo como en una fotografia tomada desde muy lejos... casi ni puedo verte. la nostalgia aun me busca, pero yo me escondo de ella. ya no te lloro, aunque siempre te sufro un poco. ya no te busco, aunque no habra otro como tu para mi. |
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| at my table at my favorite coffee shop you want to ask for forgiveness |
[Jun. 9th, 2006|09:15 pm] |
the truth is i cannot count on you.
because there are oceans not just between the yellow desert of your eyes and the graveyard brown of mine.
because i cannot afford to fly round-trip from the capital city of my heart to the beach-side airport of your lies.
because you are bad for me, because you make me suffer, and because i cannot find ways to hate you for it.
the truth is i should not count on you.
i know that you see me and sweet words spill out like:
i have missed you and let me hold your hand and how nice that you are still wearing that perfume your father gave to you the summer we feel in love -- the summer i fell in love with you and your eyes how lovely that they shine with the same light let me buy you a beer let me light that cigarrette let me take you home -- to our home -- if you still remember it -- and i know i have been bad and i know i have hurt you but you look so beautiful even and especially in this goddamn heat and i have missed you.
the truth is i have to count on you.
because you are the only cure for this sickness that grabs ahold of the air i breathe when i wake up without you.
because you are the only one i want despite of the convictions i have to inflict upon myself.
because you are the creator of my battle scars
and the only one who will hear me tell their stories
and the only one who will reach for my hand with one finger and electro-shock me with your life-long promises of love and affection and marriage and beer and dogs and kids and friends and wild sex and growing old old old together just like you've always said:
every day dies with you by my side.
but now where do i go, with this scorpion sitting where my heart used to be? |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 3rd, 2006|05:45 pm] |
my father can open his eyes, but he cannot look into mine. When I talk to him his eyelashes quiver and the nurse tells me, "keep going, he's listening".
hector: has (finally) gone from being the love of my life, to being a way to kill time.
i have never made a bigger mistake than carlos:. the city is too small. the irony is too big.
what am i going to do? |
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| The word love still sounds hollow to me. |
[Jan. 15th, 2006|04:25 pm] |
The same waves slapping against the same two bodies under the same orange sun.
This is too close to paradise for a devil like you.
This is too close to love for a stray dog like me.
Let's not get excited, Chameleon Eyes...
You know how good we both are at breaking hearts and promises. |
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| Capicua 25, clear the table and get me some more rum baby |
[Oct. 9th, 2005|10:44 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | MIA - Pull up the people | ] |
Hey hey, Chameleon eyes... We go well together, (you and I) We do.
Hey, let's make a deal: You talk me to sleep into those nightmares i always tell you about ... and I'll kiss you awake from those dreams you say you never have.
You were made for story-telling from head to toe, no doubt. (We fit well).
And it'll be nice to see what color glances you throw my way between cups of black coffee and open-heart yawns.
And we'll see what kind of lies I refrain from telling you, Chameleon eyes.
'Cause I think it could work. It could (maybe). |
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| Love letter to my city. |
[Aug. 31st, 2005|03:32 pm] |
Santo Domingo, Summer of bad songs. The Cayenas grow out of cracks in the sidewalk and scream with yellow tongues: "Get inside! Get out of the sun!"
And I swear, it's never burned like this before.
Not much changes on a island. Time is trapped in the slap of domino pieces, coming down loud like open palms or belly-flops. Women put away their lives the same way they fold and put away clothes. Homeboy still kisses as hard as he hits. Rain comes down like spit on the sidewalk and the rum don't even burn on it's way down no more. Every day the same fight about the best way to cook plantains. Every day the same stray dogs looking sicker and ready to die. Poking at starvation with their ribs. Licking the salt off the sidewalk near the shore. And yet, every day there's more of them. Every day they're still here. Things don't change on an island. Right down to the smiles of the same children, bellies bloated with parasites. Right down to the way tears roll out sweet and heavy, to the fast and steady beat of that salsa he tought you to dance to. Right down to the way your Abuelo's desk has been left untouched, even a year after he gasped in the dark and grasped the edge of the bed whispering "I think it's a heart attack". Things never change on and island.
Santo Domingo, City of Dogs. The girl down the street gives birth to social dillemas. To the rosary I say, I'm still waiting on those miracles. Santo Domingo, yesterday I read that you sold your tongue for a knot of electric wire and two pesos worth of chewing gum. That you trim your wildlife fingernails with machete blades. That mosquitoes breed in your tear ducts.
The ocean licks at your resort-lined shores, and maybe if we dig enough holes you'll sink right back in.
There is something wrong with my island, where even the palm trees double over in pain.
Santo Domingo, these are very bad times to be writing you love letters. |
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| anything can burn if you know where to put the right spark. |
[Aug. 15th, 2005|01:53 am] |
I'd be lying if i said that summer in Santo Domingo isn't just a little bit emptier without you.
I need to remember to spare myself from believing that this is paradise everytime i come back.
Stay away from home long enough, and even the rats near the hot dog stand seem to smile.
I can dance salsa and play dominoes well enough to get by.
Me, the renegade daughter, cousin, grandchild, best friend, lover, worst-nightmare-of-an-ex, and so on.
I didn't mean to fall for his chameleon eyes, but I'm a sucker for masochism.
( Otro sol no es tu sol, aunque te alumbre ) |
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| Can you dance anything else, when your heart only drums to the beat of salsa and merengue? |
[Aug. 3rd, 2005|10:22 pm] |
A pair of hands find their way to my hips in the coolest corner of a dark house. His power has been cut, but he doesn't care. I remember how I used to not care. I think it's all coming back faster than I can disect.
A pair of hips and lips and feet dance a secret salsa in the name of un-paid electric bills... to the music of the neighbor's dog barking and the bittersweet screams of kids coming home from the ballpark.
Thanks for bringing this Habaita back to these sad-song roots. |
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| We let him fall between the strongest waves of the Malecon. |
[Jul. 31st, 2005|12:15 am] |
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And today Carlito's puppy died in my arms. He had been struggling to breathe for hours, and when I saw him cock his head back and start to hack, I figured this was it. His eyes just stared off, swallowing up the silence. Six pounds maybe. Carlitos put a hand on my shoulder, and at the same time we realized we'd never seen anything die before. |
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| I grew up in this shit-hole paradise. |
[Jul. 29th, 2005|12:23 pm] |
This city is heavy with every fucking problem I left unfinished, and everyone wants their little bit of closure. Like I can cut myself up into little pieces so that no-one feels cheated.
And everything about this hurts. And everything about this feels so incredibly and undeniably right.
And I guess I belong here more than anywhere else.
And I guess it would be wrong fall in love with here with him with now, when the rest of the world is still waiting. |
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| more dominican than a plantain. |
[Jul. 24th, 2005|10:55 am] |
The heat is the kind of heavy that takes you back to three showers a day. I was afraid I would be americanized. A week, and the girl frying salami and plantains in the kitchen for 10 people at three a.m. could be the same one that left for Arlington almost two years ago.
Same girl riding down the freeway at 100 mph with four or five good friends, a 3 liter bottle of Barceló rum, and the windows down to Guayacanes beach on a Saturday afternoon.
Same girl who'll wake up next to anyone these days... because even with this weather, dominicans don't know how to sleep alone.
Some people will be proud to know that I haven't seen Hector yet, even though he lives two floors down. Maybe this girl has changed a little for the better.
María and I (we have not left each other's side for more than 2 mintes in 7 days) are the temporary owners of two pittbull puppies, Jason/Salomón and Bolita/Jeremy (we can't settle on the same names.) They're the cutest, most annoying, most loving things in the world. Also, my dad's chiuhuaha gave birth to three puppies. My house is a zoo. I cut my hair some, it looks ok, i think. Also, there is this boy, but I don't know. He dances like it's just breathing and ... Really, I dont know.
I'm having the best time.
miss you guys,
Gaba. |
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| Volver ... con la frente marchita. |
[Jun. 29th, 2005|12:14 am] |
The Analysis of Return.
Tell the tamarind tree to stop waiting for me. Tell Carlito to bust out the domino table. Tell Portillo beach to stop creeping into my day dreams. Tell “Hot Dog” José: One chimi with everything on it. Tell grandma to start praying. Tell Eddy to fix the car. Tell Sam to COME HOME. Tell Flaco two bottles of Bugal Rum. Tell the lizards, the palm trees, the cousins, the Saint Thomas crowd, the Cayenas, the beisból players, and ORANGE-PINNAPLE ice-cream not to worry.
And save my spot on the parking lot wall.
I’m coming home.
Papi, you can write me 10 000 letters with jumbled answers to the crossword puzzle of your torture victim heart. It still won’t change the fact that I hate your silence just as much as you hate my distance. But I’m not the one that’s dying, so I’ll compromise.
All of a sudden, you look up from your papers and your face shatters into the biggest smile I’ve ever seen. You smile – and when you do, it doesn’t matter how old or tired or heart-broken you really are. When you smile, it cancels out every time you raised your belt or hand or voice at me. It cancels out all those years of bad blood, and how you raised me right in the worst way.
When you smile, the tears slip right into those deep and quiet wrinkles near your eyes, and I forgive you for every demon you ever tried to shake out of me, grandma.
Homeboy, you took way too long to come around this time. Maybe you just got tired of the same old magic tricks. The cards under your sleeve. Your disappearing acts. How you abracadabra your way out of the knots in my heart.
Maybe I just got tired of breaking my own damn rules. Of spitting out “last chances” … clean slates. Emotional amnesia.
You and me know how to talk like it hasn’t been months and miles. A while ago I woud've missed our stairway blues. Your hit-and-run heart.
But the nights are too hot for promises … and even though we’re both experts on vicious circles. It took us way too long to come around.
I like to see the way secrets pool in your eyes like very soft and sad songs. Maybe the kind you would hear on any Dominican radio station, late at night, when everything just hurts. I like to see the way you stare out the window, and the cigarette hangs from your lips, the cherry-red tip burning a hole into the silence.
I like it only because you laugh louder and longer than anyone I’ve ever met. María, no one ever sees you cry but I know what you look like when those long hot nights hit you with their sweet and thick nostalgia … and it feels good to know someone this well.
Who know what the hell this summer's gonna bring? |
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| jesus christ! where did you get that cadillac??? |
[Jun. 8th, 2005|10:31 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | Los Rodriguez - El Tiempo Lo Dira | ] |
SO this is going to be a massive picture entry, with bits and pieces of the following:
*Germany/Poland/Czech Rep. (I won't post the concentration camp pics, but anyone who wants them can ask me.)
*Senior Prom.
*Brendan's love affair with my chihuahua.
*Other random things.
I have been doing very very very well. My stepmother is coming up for graduation, and very few things could make life better than it already is.
( oh SNAP )
ps.: i am in love with the "container store", where they have every type of container imaginable. ever. |
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| ... |
[May. 25th, 2005|11:38 pm] |
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and even if i could find any words to translate how i feel right now, i don't think it would be fair to dissect the speed of my heartbeats when i think about tonight. |
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| straight and to the point, that is why i want a ... |
[May. 12th, 2005|10:04 pm] |
I'm leaving for Germany, Poland and the Czech Rep. tomorrow afternoon.
I'm going with my Holocaust course, to visit concentrations camps. Also, we'll get to know some cool cities. I haven't ever been to any of those countries before, so it promises to be incredible.
I could love A-town just as much as Santo Domingo when the weather is decently warm, like it is now.
Also, it helps if you have someone to tell you that your cheeks are soft and that your jokes are funny and that your eyes are nice, even if they are just dirt boring brown.
not that i like him or anything.
And also ... there is nothing to complain about on days when there is little to no school left, and the sun is out, and if it rains, it's run outside and get wet rain.
I should be back in about 10 days. Wish me luck with being the only stupid stupid immigrant in the group and such. I hope they let me cross borders without sucking out my soul first.
peace. |
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| Yo me voy de tu vida y tu sigues bailando. |
[Apr. 3rd, 2005|08:56 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | Elefante - Asi es la vida | ] |
It's funny when you don't really trust yourself to follow your own agenda.
And you know it's bad when you try to confort your worst enemy ... Trying to justify crimes and heartbreaks just so that maybe he'll stop making you feel like you owe him anything ... you hurt cause he hurts, but more out of reflex than love.
I try not to make promises, so that I don't break them halfway home ... but sometimes a second chance isn't enough for an Alma Rosa hood rat.
Today, I saw the New York crew in Boston, and it was ( sweet )
also, I got a new BIKE. it looks like ( this )
it's been nice and bright and warm lately. Leave your coat at home kinda weather.
This is getting good. |
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| tu le daba verde, y yo MADURO! |
[Feb. 28th, 2005|12:53 am] |
| [ | music |
| | Julian Oro Duro - Ella ta conmigo | ] |
truth is, i'm always gonna be the same Alma Rosa hood-rat, eating plantains and dancing in the rain in my underwear. the same Naco viralata. dominicana for good, with my taquiness and loud voice and invinsibility complex.
( weje, pariguayo! ) |
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