I have been thinking a lot about secret wishes recently, not just about that, but mostly that.  After the obvious list of peace, happiness for all, the end of poverty, and the beginning of a profound new enlightenment, the thing I wish for most in the world, above any material “thing” no matter how shiny, or soft, or sweet it is to smell, would be blue eyes.  Big blue eyes that put oceans to shame and men’s hearts into their stomachs.  Blue, blue eyes that challenge the 64 pack box of Crayola crayons.  Eyes that can reach down into the souls of people and manage to find the good, no matter how negligible the good really is.  Blue reminiscent of Louis Armstrong and Charles Brown.  Blue like my lips when I’m cold, or my mind when I’m sad or the color of my tongue after a blue-raspberry Italian ice that costs $1.50 from the good humor truck in the middle of July.  They say that everyone wants what they can’t have.  Well, I have a lot of things.  I have a charming little room, a healthy body, a face prone to outbursts of smiling, a mom and a dad who are my friends as well as parents, and a door covered in letters from my beautiful friends.  I have an education, and food in my belly, and a boy who calls me pretty when I come home from school.  I have many things, but I don’t have blue eyes, and this is what I want.

I want to write

I want to write

I want to describe purple ardvarks, and glistening butterfly feathers.  I want to write of dear fathers abandoning little daughters, and oh of the way rain sounds when it kerplunks down on my head.  I want to write of the tickles in life; the tickles of kisses, the tickles of clothes, the tickles of itches, the tickles in your nose when you're sick or you do too much coke, the tickles of tickling.  For the shits and giggles, the things that squiggle, the way he sniffles, I want to write about nonsense, the lacks of common sense.  I want to write about us, for love,  this is who we are.  

Je t'aime France mais je deteste les devoirs de cours de francais

Chers,

Bonjour!  Comment allez-vous? Je ne vais pas bien.  Pourquoi?  Parce que j'ai un essai stupide pour le cours de francais.  Merde.  Je ne suis pas bien a parler et ecrire francais. Je ne suis pas bien parce que je n'aime pas etudier.  Bien que j'aime France.  J'ai envie de aller France.  J'ai besoin de vacances!    Poo. 

Je t'aime,

Maya

" Imagination, therefore, is nothing but decaying sense; and is found in men and many other living creatures, as well sleeping as waking." - Leviathan by Hobbes

photos by me

photograshmy

These are all by me, mulling around and about my school

Quintessential fall day.  I wish it could be fall forever.  

Sweater: Mamma's closet

Dress: From a little store in Rivera Maya, Mexica

Shoes: vintage from ebay

Watch: Swatch

Excuse the untidiness.  A messy girl leads to a unkempt room, always. 

silly thoughts with no meaning

My finger tips are sensitive, more sensitive than my mouth with hundreds of taste buds and a squishy tongue that is easily burned.  My finger tips have layers of skin in squiggly patterns.  They look like teeny knit potholders, so why are they so sensitive?  I can hold a sip of soup within my lips but the bowl cannot sit in my hands.  The touch ignites me, makes me howl and my mind go blank.  The human body is so mysterious, curious.  I could wonder about it forever.  

***

The girls I babysit are inherently passionate, so tiny are they that emotion fills their little bodies and consumes them.  If they are angry, they will yell.  If they are sad, they will wail and produce saline tears that don't roll, but rain down their faces.  If they are happy, they will show off their smiles which go out wide and not up tall, and reveal bones just millimeters long that they struggle to avoid brushing at night.  

While these qualities can be exhausting at times to them, myself, and their parents, I am quite envious of their ability to express emotion.  I want to throw fits when I am angry, knock books off of coffee tables.  To burst into tears whenever I feel like it, I want to be able to sing when I am happy no matter where I am.  I want to scream if a room is too quite.  I have much to learn from children, and this is one of these things.  I envy their unconscious inhibition.  It makes them important.  I am not important.  I am complacent, and coasting.   

Painted sunstreaks on bare legs. 73 and Sunny, Summer is saying goodbye. 

In two days it is International Day of Climate Action.  There are thousands of events planned for this, all over the world.  Check out this map at 350.org to see where one is in your area, and do your best to attend!  http://www.350.org/map 

Speaking of the environment, here is a political commentary music video by Modest Mouse (directed by Heath Ledger two weeks before he died!).  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DQLhWqek7i0&feature=featured

Also, if anyone could help me figure out how to directly put videos on my page instead of just posting the link, I would really appreciate it.  

Have a wonderful, sunny, environmentally friendly day, everybody.  

A Tale Without Fairies

A tale with no fairies.  

Once upon a time there was a boy.  He smelled of laundry detergent and cigarettes, and he had joy in his eyes unlike anyone else, I cross my heart he did.  Because there was a boy, there was of course a girl.  A girl who chuckled instead of laughed and always wore her hair in a bun.  They did boy and girl things together.  The girl tickled the boy's stomach and the boy held the girl's hand as she told him stories, stories filled with "ums" and "likes" and run-on sentences (because truth be told, the boy made her too nervous, too excited to keep her points on track).  

But remember this is a tale with no fairies. 

The girl lived here and the boy lived there and between them there was a car, a shuttle, two trains, two subways, and too many unspoken words.  Too many opportunities to not tell one another things and not enough time to enjoy blushing cheeks and sideways glances.  So that's the way it went.  What became of them?  They see each other sometimes.  That's all. But if they were together, this wouldn't be a tale with no fairies

Sleepy musings

I have escaped for the weekend, eloping with myself back home.  Home is not simply a room with a bed; it is a place of nostalgia and haunting happiness, or at least it is for me.  I will not call my dorm room home just because my things are there.  Home is the place where I dream.  

I have been dreaming a lot more since i've arrived at my home, my real home, where my time is less occupied. Sometimes I think that the meaning of life is dreams and dreaming.  Dreamt of's and dreaming of's.   I know my dreams and a few of my friends' dreams but certainly not everybody's, and even though I do not, I know they are there.  They exist, these dreams and that is all I can ever know of their prevail.

I say this because dreams are so personal, so utterly indescribable despite the capacity that language has for adjectives. The irony is that everybody is dreaming, all at the same time. We are dreamers, we are always dreaming.  We are dreaming in the same way that all of our hearts are beating together, and our diaphragms fluxing and our eyelids blinking.  Not just you and me, but billions of people; humans.  People we will never even see in our lifetime.  There is a rhythm in the world that I have been deaf to, although i am starting to hear it now.  The rhythm is so beautiful I don't know how I could've gone my entire life without noticing it, feeling it.  We will never understand one another but are still united by being human, by our dreams.  We are all so apart of each other and it is breathtaking. It shakes me.  It shakes me to my bones.  

"Crunch" say the leaves to my feet.

The clock on the bathroom wall is dependable, definite, decided.  

It will tick and tick and tick until it cannot tick any longer.  

The heartbeat of time, I can rely on this and not much else. 

 The seasons are rambunctious and wild; teenagers on drugs in the parks after dark.  Ever surprising are the seasons, they are the children hiding in closets.  The ones that jump out and yell "BOO!" when you open the door.  Yesterday I took a bite of an apple, which I don't even like to eat, and suddenly it was fall.  There are leaves beneath my shoes.  

In a few months I will be surprised by winter too. Snowflakes will fall on eyelashes and the cold will burn me, chill me to my bones. Wet socks and down coats, holidays, vacations, and then April rains.

 It begins again, and the bathroom clock remains the soundtrack. Tick, tick. Time is everything to me.