The Perks of Being a Cuban.

Ray Lamontagne

I think the world's biggest geniuses, the worlds most brilliant minds, are often deranged, wacky, or slightly off. Ray Lamontagne is the most brilliant songwriter ever, and he looks like a serial killer. His writing is raw, uninhibited, honest, and gut wrenching. He seems reclusive, quiet, but that is the sign of brilliance isn't it. Who's that poet that locked herself in her room and wrote the most depressing collection of writing ever? I forget, but it seems like being wacky and reclusive is usually hand in hand with brilliance. he's been on tour this summer with a band called Guster (pop rock with fans like the ones DMB would have. You know, the drunk idiotic frat boys). So, Ray has been getting no respect during his set. Drunk frat boys talking the whole time. Lately he has been storming off stage, mid-song, before the end of his set. Sometimes throwing his guitar and muttering things. The worst was a couple nights ago when he said (I kid you not) to some guy who was just laughing in the crowd: "We have a fuck in the audience. You must think the blues are funny. I suppose you'd rather be at home drinking beers, waiting for your children to get old enough to rape." So yeah, check out his CD n the comfort of your living room, where the brilliant artist can't scare you.

Maybe

Who am I to tell you
Where you should be heading
What am I to you
I thought I was more

I keep on roaming, I keep on treading
I keep on thinking worrying dreading
Doom is impending, we lose and keep moving
But I’m not ready to move on

Maybe it’ll stop burning
If I just ignore you
Maybe I should stop caring
About what he does to you
Maybe then I’ll start sleeping
Without dreaming of you
With me
Maybe then I’ll be happy

Where’d he take you to
How are you feeling
What can I do
How is he treating you

I keep on fearing I keep questioning
All the decisions that you’ve been making
What is that something your life is missing
I’ve missed you for so long

Maybe it’ll stop burning
If I just ignore you
Maybe I should stop caring
About what he does to you
Maybe then I’ll start sleeping
Without dreaming of you
With me
Maybe then I’ll be happy

I haven’t slept in days
Figuring out just what to say
To you

Maybe if I don’t let it burn
Maybe if I ignore you
Maybe if I stop caring
You’ll start missing me too

Broken

You’re still somewhere
I see pieces scattered everywhere I go
You’re everywhere
Taking over every thought I know

I know its forever
I’ll never see you again
But I can’t ever
Let the fact that you’re gone set in

I’ll keep you here
In my mind the memories are still happy
I’ll hold you near
I’ll keep the things you left here to remind me
That You
And Me
Are Broken

Do you remember
All the times we laughed until we cried
But now forever
The tears still comes the laughter subsides

Subsided, we’re shattered
I still don’t know why
Our memories scattered
My rooms a capsule of our precious time

I’ll keep you here
In my mind the memories are still happy
I’ll hold you near
I’ll keep the pain you left to remind me
That You
And Me
Are Broken

What the hell did I do wrong
And Why the hell didn’t I try
I see you everywhere I go
In my thoughts and dreams I am with you
I only wish that you could see me
Or maybe at least try to hear me
Crying out to you

I’ve kept you here
In my mind the memories are fading
I’ve held you near
I’ve finally had enough of waiting
You
And Me
Are Broken

And it took this long to finally set in.

The Fear part deux

i saw at orientation everyone had the fear. everyone had too much fear to eat. too much fear to talk. too much fear to sit beside on another and make eye contact. i was shocked that i , the shyest and most fearful of all, had the least amount of the fear. I still had too much fear to eat. but thats normal, i never eat

the fear

it's a good fear. it's firey, it's exciting. fear can often be good. sometimes we need fear to motivate ourselves, get our blood pumping and our asses up from life's la z boy. I'm scared, which isnt new, i'm always scared or unsure. but for once it's a good scared. as much as i hate change and disorder and all things unknown, this is good. moving forard is good. that rascall flatts song actually means something now, and damn if it doesnt always get me more scared. i like it though, it's poignant.
i think right now we're all scared. by we i mean my old classmates. the alumni. dun dun dun. i think we're all talk. All big men, excited to breakaway from mommy and daddy's cocoon, even though our wings may not have completely formed yet. we know they haven't, and we're scared. we would never admit that to anyone, somettimes not even ourselves. because we are men (like the mulan song). i don't feel like a man yet. sure all my bits and pieces work like a man's are expected to. but i'm still just a kid inside. unsure, awkward, sarcastic, with a secret sickening optimism.
the fear is good, we need the fear. if we didn't have the fear we'd be robots. we don't know what our future brings. where we belong. where we're going. sure we have dreams. then we'll have plans. then when all of that goes to crap what? then what? the fear. the fear doesn't go away. it keeps us going. it's a fire in your belly, its that feeling like you're gonna pee before you go ona rollercoaster. it's exciting.

Food

I'm slowly become a foodie. Blog updates will be few now because its the summertime and well, what do I have to complain about. I get to sleep, watch TV and "explore my new exotic pleasure " (credit: Shakira) COOKING. For a long while I had a kitchen phobia. I was afraid I'd never learn and when I did I'd be very bad. But I'm not so bad. Once in a while I do ruin meals, I have burned onions, and despite what some say burnt onions are not still eatable. (though they smell increible, Yum O). But burning and ruining is how you learn. And I'm definitely learning. Watching as much food TV as I do, I've learned technique. No it's not all about the eye-candy, and by eye candy I mean that sexy piece of arse Madame Paula Deen. I'm really learning, and I'm good at this. I like when I'm good at something, and I love even more when Dan is NOT good at the thing that I am good at.

Prayer

Robert Abud

Faber

Final: Part 1

In my experiences, I’ve noticed that prayer is a very important part of the Hispanic home. From very young, we are taught to revere, praise, and respect the Lord, because without him, we cannot be. My grandmother spends most of her day praying with her old, torn up and taped together prayer books. She is responsible for most of my early prayer life. The very first prayers I learned were in Spanish, “Angel de la guarda, dulce compañia, no me desampares ni de noche ni de dia.” Now that I know you know Spanish, I will not subject you to my bad translation. A child’s faith is much cuter and more simplistic than an adult’s. Christianity in children consists of guardian angels, Jesus hugging children, Jesus playing with sheep in a field, a literal belief in all the metaphorical stories in the Bible, and other cute representations of a very serious and complex religion. I must say I was very upset when I discovered the creation story was more symbolism than anything else. I still am a little, and deep down I still believe it happened.

As we grow, we realize that faith is a very complex, personal thing that we must learn to understand on our own. Each of us has faith in something, though I feel for those who have faith in absolutely nothing. My faith in God is very private, and the time I take to speak to Him is very introspective and personal. I used to love leading prayer in school, praying the Hail Mary at the top of my tiny little 8-year old lungs. As I grew to understand Jesus and the Bible a little better I began to pray on my own, privately. My prayers became serious, more personal.

I remember being very open and excited about my faith. I was an altar server from the third grade to the eighth, technically I still am one. I was the youngest in my parish, but Father Joe was very excited by my motivation. Father Fernando told me I’d make a good priest. (I still don’t think I have enough faith, courage or willpower to do so). I was very much in touch with my faith and with my parish.

I served every Sunday, sometimes twice a day. I was the only one who would get up early enough for the early-bird mass. We went to church with the sunrise, it was hard, but I liked the quiet. I enjoyed the lack of protocol, no singing, nothing extra, just good old fashioned prayer and Eucharist. I liked that at the early mass, every one was there for the right reason—to pray. No one was there to impress anyone, because no one worth impressing was up that early. Everyone there had a quiet and fervent reverence towards God, and I still think those early masses are the most effective and affective.

I loved being in charge of the book, because I felt important being able to read what the priest did along with him… I learned to read upside down. I liked the fancy lettering and how organized everything was. I sang loudly with all of my favorite songs, One Bread One Body, The Prayer of Saint Francis, We Are a Pilgrim People, Eagles Wings and so on. I responded loudly and tried so hard to extract some sort of lesson from Father Fernando’s horrifying Homilies.

His homilies never really taught much, they never gave much hope. They were not usually appropriate for a chipper family of 4 at 9:30 on a Sunday. Bright smiles on their faces, children climbing all over their backs, while being told that we are all hopeless, and we are all damned for eternity. Once, he decided to reprimand mothers who’ve had abortions while describing the actual procedure in horrific, gory detail. Children’s faces like pale stone, mouths agape; it was not a good day. He never had a way with words, but his homilies were better in Spanish. Maybe he just couldn’t express himself well enough, but at the Spanish masses, he always seemed to uplift the people. He had a wonderful grasp on the language that I continue to try to match. I live in Union City, a lower to middle class urban area with the second largest amount of Cubans in the United States. I remember one day, a hush fell over the often boisterous crowd. He made everyone think and made everyone nostalgic. “En donde sea que este su corazon, en Cuba, Miami, lo que sea, recuerde que Dios esta en todas partes, a todos lados, con todos nuestros seres humanos. Con los buenos, y hasta con los malos… ” All humans? Even Fidel? That’s insane, we thought. They looked confused, I was confused, finally a Homily that fulfilled its purpose.

It is presumptuous to expect to teach a lesson with each homily. What Father Fernando opted for instead was to make everyone think. Could there be good in the lowliest of humans? Could God be with Fidel, despite the fact that most of his family has abandoned him for the monster he became? Why do I have any right to judge? I’m as human as he is.

That day, I became more introspective, I understood my faith better. I began to think deeper about God and Catholicism, deeper than the cute religion taught in grammar school. I understood my humanity better, and my imperfections. I prayed harder, though I prayed faster. I prayed the Hail Mary less, opting for prayers of my own. I still pray the same prayers I did when I was 7.

In grammar school I ran to Sister Robert, excited that I had written my own prayer. “Good, lad, now you better not forget it!!” I still haven’t. Maybe because it means a lot to me, maybe because I was so afraid of Sister Robert.

Though by learning more about myself in terms of my faith, I began to pray faster and quickly. I began rushing through prayers and not really focusing on what I was saying or more importantly, who I was speaking to. This class helped me focus more on God in a time when I was sort of neglecting Him.

I stopped going to Mass a while ago. I thought I was a better Christian than them. I thought they went to mass for the wrong reasons. I still think one hour a week should not completely define my faith, as it does for many phony Christians. Some go six days sinning and giving into temptation, and believe an hour on Sunday guarantees salvation and redemption. The whole public angel private devil thing. But who am I to castigate or judge, I’m often no better. I went to Mass last week. It felt nice, it felt different. It was a communion, I really enjoyed the Homily. I enjoyed seeing these children believe wholeheartedly in the Lord, they haven’t been tested or tempted yet. I liked the Mass, it was soothing and comforting. Nothing’s been different since I’ve been gone, so maybe God didn’t miss me. I missed it though, and it took me a few years to realize. I’m really no better than the phony people I blamed for my absences. I have no room to judge. I’m still learning about my life as a pray-er. Hopefully I will continue to evolve, grow, learn, I pray that my hardheadedness won't get in my way.

writing prompt: describe a hot day

Keeps the juices flowing

Diego skipped barefoot thtough his paved backyard, whihch was'nt really a backyard as much as it was a 20 x 20 patch of brick and weeds. His mother laughed at him through a window in the kitchen, an ancient dusty fan buzzed and blew against the tshirt that stuck to her sweaty back. She laughed because Diego wasnt skipping like most kids do, he was doing it involuntarily, it was too hot to keep his feet on the brick for too long and "too hot to wear sneakers." In the yard, Diego could see his classmates and their younger siblings playing in open hydrants, getting yelled at by policemen, and then getting beaten by their parents for making them open the hydrant to begin with. A man was sitting in his car with all four doors opened, blasting a heavy-bass version of Hips Don't Lie by Shakira. He bobbed his head and wiped the sweat off his greasy brow, winked at girls who danced down the street to the songs infectious sound, flashed his gold tooth, and frowned as they laughed and ran away. "Oye Diente Midas" Diego hears from a distance, they're calling the gilded toothed one, "Vamos a freir huevos!" He jumps out of his car, Shakira still looping, and crouches down on the sidewalk. Three men gather around and toss eggs on the street. One man in a headband and wifebeater is holding the pepper. The egg however runs down the sidewalk, away from the men and slowly drips into a drain along the curb. "Caramba, queria huevos".

May tomorrow be sunny and bright

I can already tell that today will be the longest day of my life. and i think my classmates as a whole feel the same. the room is quiet. the usually loud and obnoxioius people in the computer room have absolutely no energy to talk. even ms. glazer isn't talking, and she's usually very loud and nice. I'm sleepy and cranky. I was going to go to sleep at around 9:30 last night, I was very excited. THe plan was to start my book (Color PPurple) around 9 and then just fall asleep. But that didnt work out. I ended up starting it around 10 45 and falling asleep around 11. BAH!!!!!!!

I'd Do Anything

... for this year to be over. Hm I'm sleepty, bad headache. Feel all wonky. Might see my wife tomorrow, might not. blah!! Progress Report in prayer-- tyhats what happens when you give a student TWO quizzes in ONE day after he's been absent for three days. Aren't Jesuits supposed to be smart? And nice? Priests are supposed to be nice! I try my best not to dislike priests, cause they're supposed to be respected. But I don't like this one. I bet he'll fgind my blog and talk to me about it, right Dan? I don't care. He probably knows hes an ass. Upside: My presentation went OK. Not great. It was about Santeria, I got many blank stares. It was sort of interesting though so.. whatever. I'm cranky

The Way to Pray?

What makes my way better than anyone elses? Why should there be a right way to pray? There shouldn't. God listens to everyobe and I believe God listens to the poor and homeless way before he listens to me. So because they may not be very educated and may not follow the so called rules of prayer, does that cancel out their prayer? I don't think so. We should not be tested and quizzed on the right ways to prayer as there is no right way. Prayer comes from the heart, it doesn't have to be well thought out, wordy and insightful, as long as it's earnest and passionate. That's my one rule, prayer should be passionate, heartfelt, you should be able to feel your prayer moving throughout your body, and really want God to hear you. But apparently if your prayer doesn't begin with "Oh God" or some other address to God, He'll ignore you cause you didn't say His name. I agree there is a wrong way to pray. You shouldn't go through the motions cause its te right thing to do. If you're not feeling it, God may not be feeling you. That's the only rule. Not all that other crap being forced down my throat by a dellusional priest. God doesn't care about how you pray just as long as you say hello to Him once in a while.

Janis Joplin's prayer seems more effective than the stuff we do in class, and that's not saying much. Oh Lord, Won't ya buy me a Mercedes Benz? My friends all drive Porshes I must make amends. Worked hard all my lifetime no help from my friends. So oh Lord, wont you buy me a Mercedes Benz? Oh lord, won’t you buy me a night on the town ? I’m counting on you, lord, please don’t let me down. Prove that you love me and buy the next round, Oh lord, won’t you buy me a night on the town ?

Writing Again

When i finally buckle down to write, do I write a new story. No. I decided to rewrite an old story. Emily and STeve, about an abusive relationship. It had a happy ending and I don't like that because that's not reality. The reality is most women stay in abusive relationships until they die because theyre too afraid to run away. In the case of Emily howerver in real life she did run away. Emily now however has become a composite of 2 people I know who've been abused. So the story is taking a really sad tragic and unkown turn. This story may never have an ending so I might end it in a very ambiguous unkown way.

I've got 3 stories on my computer right now asking to be finished. Teresita's story, Lupe's story and Teresita's husband's story (which has yet to be begun other than a few notes written in my moleskine).

On the Eighth Day

On the eighth day, once everything was very good

God wanted to relax, like any other hard-worker would

He took one last look around; it was all still very good

So He decided to stroll around His endless starry neighborhood.

Who would have imagined that on His return this God would find

His creation in infernal disorder and in a sad moral decline

He was discouraged and thought of leaving all of us behind

While He collects His unemployment and tries to rid us from His mind

Since then, some choose not to accept it

They only see it

When the want

They wait patiently and sit

Looking to match wits

With anyone one who sees as they do.

And since then this world keeps spinning spinning, shows no sign of stopping just for me

In the meantime we are down here being played with like a lady on the street

I’m not the kind of idiot who’s convinced that easily

I’m just frank and tell the truth. and these are things even the blind can see.

What if out of loneliness or lack of things to do

God stopped caring and moved on to someplace brand new

It would be our loss; we’d have nothing else to do

But worship Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, or Tom Cruise.

It’s probably hard being a king without a crown

Than being here in my small town

Feel for this God who’s so unrenowned

He’s not a model or singer, has no family of His own.

And since then this world keeps spinning spinning, shows no sign of stopping just for me

In the meantime we are down here being played with like a lady on the street

I’m not the kind of idiot who’s convinced that easily

I’m just frank and tell the truth. and these are things even the blind can see.

Leave Me Alone.... I'm Lonely!

I'm so schizophrenic. Constant back and forth, can't make up my mind, total illogical patterns of thought. I finally made my decision.. Chestnut Hill. It may be the biggest mistake of my life, I'm so unsure about every choice I make and step I take. I'm growing up, but would rather stay home, eat cookies for breakfast, snuggle in my bed and watch Disney movies. Other times, however I feel like being independent, going against the grain, going insane, going mad. Other times I drive myself completely bonkers with how inconsistent I am, and how illogical my loopy mind really is. I have no maturity level, as I write this deep adult meaningful blog kinda really want to see the movie with the talking animals that was just advertized on TV. I hate big changes, I hate not knowing. But then sometimes I hate knowing, I hate predictanility, but feel completely unssafe with unpredictability. Before I was scared not knowing where I'd end up, now I'm scared of where I'll be. I'm weird. I'm so excitd to break away and start a new chapter in my life, but I really wish I was more sure of myself and my decisions.

Still Awake

You know that strange numb feelin gyou get when you can't sleep, then you sleep for a few measly beautiful hours and try to get through a whole day? It doesn't bode well for the rest of my day that I'm numb and loopy before 8 AM. I've always wanted to write a dialogue like Meredith's little "As doctors..." speeches. So I will try one, it might be cheesy, and it might be fictional, but I want to do it.

As students we are supposed to be used to drastic change. We move on from year to year, grow older, assume bigger responsibilities, and have to cope with a new batch of teachers every single year. None of this is supposed to matter to us however, as we have no time to get caught up in petty changes because we are always thinking about the next step. The next chapter in our so far empty books. Maybe it's best we try not to get caught up in the mellowdrama, because then, maybe we will never allow ourselves to move forward. But maybe a little sappiness is alright, merited, should at least be expected. When is it enough though? Some take it too far, counting their lasts (our last lunch, our last report card) instead of the firsts (my first college acceptance, my first scholarship). These are the ones who have peaked. The on-top-of-the-world seniors. Their lives can get no better, they can't go any higher, they've hit the glass cieling if you will. They've peaked. They're the ones working as Gym teachers, or managing an Arby's. Maybe running into past classmates once in a while, "Those were the good ole days eh?" Then there are the ones who do not let the changes affect them at all, the introspective ones. Their future is much more unclear.

Anna Nalick

I really hate that bitch Shonda Rhimes for playing Anna Nalicks whole CD on Grey's Anatomy, and also want to have sex with her for a) writing such a great show and b) opening my ears to sch an amazingly talented artist. I'm looping her song Wrexk of the Day. It's a brilliant and passionate song, I love those songs that are so open to interpretation. Her heart is plopped onto the cutting board, and isn't beating anymore, she has tragically and beautifully given up on love if she cannot be with this one particular guy. She writes about destiny, prayer and the tragedy of a love lost. She's so hopelless and torn into pieces, it's so beautiful and sad. She's so lonely, I kinda wanna do her.

Sick of School or Just Plain Sick?

I feel crumby. i really have no energy or motivation to get through today. i want to go home and climb into bed. rewatch greys anatomy. watch a 30 minute meal and get so into it i think i can smell the bacon.... only to realize that my dad was cooking bacon and that glorious smell was in fact a reallity. bah! i'm over this. i want my bed. actually i want a new bed.. my new comforter, though nice, is stiff lie a rock, its not puffy or big, i want my sisters comforter. and her bed. its big, a full sized, and comfortable. I want to move in to her rom. but its too late i guess. right now though, any bed will do as long as im in my jammies with some chocolate milk, cold chocolate milk.

it seems the only thing getting me through my day is reading Love Monkey. It gets even more brilliant with every page and I am sad to say the book is better than the wonderful TV show (RIP). he writes in a very straightforward way, you really don't hae to think about what he's trying to tell you. Kyle Smith is the kind of author that would warn his reader or poke fun at himself as he offers a metaphor. His style is so self deprecating and raw. he's a brilliant writer and i cannot wait until his new book, Christmas Caroline, is out. Love Monkey might have been better as a movie. I really really hope the TV shows second life lasts longer on VH1. Theyll air anything, maybe they'll give it a whole season. pray.

i translkated another song, left it on my home cvomp. its actually succesful as it keeps with the rhythm and theme of Ciega Sordormuda by Shakira. I want to meet her. that'll make me feel all better.

Hot Hot Heat

With spring creeping in and making everything all sticky coomes the complete loss of motivation. I managed to make my steinbeck paper one page doubled spaced of complete suckking. Im just not feeling Grapes of Wrath anymore, even the characters suck. And I will admit I didenjoy writing about Steinbeck's chacters as they were always very complex. but Grapes is just... wandering. Its just them leaving their farm. I think i hear bats outside my window. Tandom but thats a vey strange sound. Like a dying chihuahua on helium? I can't describe it. Its a freaky sound. I don't like postingh mywriting on here cause it isnt good. But I don't know what else to post here. Im not very introspective or angry lately. I'm still cold and snarky, but no need to blog aout that. Now it seems I have o keep this forever, as an homage to a blog that was once my motivation to blog and has since been abandomed and deleted. RIP!

Writing A Snarky poem

This may be the first thing I've ever written that's remotely funny. First story is about Ross from friends when he gets stood up. Second is about some person I know..... I wated to try writing something with such a serious title that turned out to be really ridiculous and ironic and funny. I'm getting better at comedy, not quite FUNNY yet

Tragedy and Misery

She’s an hour late
As you sit and wait
You sit, drink and wallow alone
Doesn’t it feel great?
On your first blind date
Joe’s Pizza picks up when you call her phone

Maybe she came
Maybe she saw you
Maybe she left then and there
You’ve been fake-numbered
You pitiful fool
Get up from that table; they’re starting to stare

Your life is nothing but plain ole tragedy
You wallow alone in self-loathing misery
Well I’m sorry life sucks, but please complain to another
Truth is I set you up with my mother
She’s been kinda lonely, thought I’d throw her a bone
One look at that pitiful pile, she was done.

He was so lonely
And she was the only
One who would notice him at all.
She said “I love you” in a letter
She tried and tried, he didn’t let her
Now she’s worse than him and has no friends at all.

Her life is nothing but plain ole tragedy
She sits and waits for him, miserably
Sorry life sucks, might you have a brother?
Cause your lover’s type isn’t far from yours either.
Now you’re kind of lonely, and that was a low blow
But your little boy toy wants his own beau.

Call it irony, call it tragedy
But problems follow these ill-fated fools.
Try to feel sorry for their misery
Try not to laugh at how their stories unfold
Try to sympathize, try to feel pity
Don’t hold it in or you might explode.

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