Dear friends,
You asked about my relationship with reading and writing. You know, it's a curious thing; I like the idea of reading and the idea of books and the knowledge being passed on through them than I like the actual act of reading. I was reminded of myself when the gentleman with glasses read his personal description the other day. He gave me the vivid image of stepping over and around piles of books on his floor. Yes, that would be me also, except I make little narrow trails to get to my bed and closet.
The difference between us, though, is that he probably has read a great deal of the books in his room. I have read less than five! Don't get me wrong; I certainly intend on reading all of them. In fact, I've started many. But within a week, they are near the bottom of a large pile of various things, with clothes at the summit of it all.
I began my fascination with books after junior year of high school; I'm probably a late-bloomer compared to the rest of you. On the way home from our annual road-trip to Wisconsin, my mother dragged me in to the antique shops that were the most "quaint" looking. I didn't care for them, until I spotted a giant bookshelf with so much knowledge and wisdom that I looked at every single title.
Yes, that's how it began. Long story short, I have quite the collection on many intellectual curiousities that stuck with me for a day or two. That's my problem, you see. I go to the library or the bookstore and get myself a hefty load, but by the time I get home, I'm on to something else; my interests seem to last only long enough to buy the book.
So, tonight, I turn my body in awkward positions once again in order to get to my bed. Someday, all of it will be gone, traded at Bookman's. For now, I'm just hoping that they are not collecting dust on my bookshelf in vain.
Well, my writing... are you still with me? Sorry, I just needed to let it all out. I can now look upon the chaos of my room with some hope. And, actually, this is exactly why I have come to like writing so much. Not the room, of course, but getting my thoughts truly expressed. I'm sure it's the same with all of you.
But for me, I have a terrible time articulating myself, or atleast the serious side, by speaking. I have noticed that I'm really not afraid of communicating exactly what I'm thinking when it is written. Anxiety might come from simply being in the presence of another person, and it's that anxiety that limits me in conversations.
For myself, writing is the best way to work through both logistics and deep feelings. These thoughts, of what to do with my day or why I'm feeling so down, would otherwise just remain on my mind, spinning around in different ways. They say that naming something can bring comfort to a person, whether it's an addiction or a feeling of emptiness. Writing is my means of meditation.
My journal got wet once, and some of the entries were completely washed away. I looked at it and decided that it didn't bother me that some poems and deeper thoughts were erased. My journal is so cluttered anyway (I decided I would just write everything in one place to save paper). But more than that, I'm not really concerned with being a writer, holding my prized possessions within those pages. They're just thoughts that are going to blur out eventually. I just find that I can move forward in my life with more clarity after I have written them down.
How about you?
Sincerely,
Tim
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Words to be wreckoned with
euphoria
infintile
scattered
gallows
revolt
relinqish
incognito
reign
fathom
blazed
flow
groove
dilated
pure
finese
exhuberant
nonchalant
gather
je ne sais quoi
impulse
infintile
scattered
gallows
revolt
relinqish
incognito
reign
fathom
blazed
flow
groove
dilated
pure
finese
exhuberant
nonchalant
gather
je ne sais quoi
impulse
Movimiento, a story about me
Tim couldn’t help but smile. It was almost like one of those moments of explosive euphoria he felt whenever he realized how much opportunity lay ahead, how little the details and frustrations in moments of social anxiety mattered. But he was so exhausted.
Minutes before, Tim was about to pass out. He had heard this overwhelming ringing in his ears and everything that had been veiled in darkness was turning lighter. Only the rocks piled in the middle of this “womb” that was the sweat lodge lit the figures of those gathered to cleanse their bodies and minds. He knew what it meant when his vision turned a different shade and he panicked silently. He breathed in as much of the heavy air, thick with steam, as he could. But it made him cough and snot streamed out of his nose. He knew this had to be one of the hardest physical endeavors he had ever been through.
He smiled at that thought too. You see, Tim knows the privilege he’s had in his almost 20 years of life. He knows the sacrifice his dad made, being a lawyer, so that he could provide his family with economic security. He sees his parents still loving each other after 27 years. He feels embarrassed about living in the foothills, being a wealthy white boy, but knows that his identity has given him a great sense of duty to improve his community. He’s grateful for the safe exposure and experiences he’s had to life in the different corridors of this town and society, including this one.
As he smiled and listened to the words of wisdom, Tim remembered, as if it was long ago, that he desperately wanted to crawl out of the temazcal, escape this ceremony, and feel the cool winter night again. The leaders, Chucho and Maria would speak for a while as water was being passed around the circle. Tim laid there limp and tried to focus on breathing and wiping the snot away. He couldn’t listen to them speak of “our people” and the culture that was lost when the conquistadores came to this land 500 years ago. He didn’t hear about “our strength” and how little there was in our society. He felt so weak. Prayers were being lifted to Ometeotl, the energy that created us and binds us together, but he only heard the subsiding ring in his ears and the slow steadying of his breath.
His lips touched the earth, making the rough dirt ground turn to soft sand. His hands, stretched in front of him, pressed down, turning it to mud. He was covered in sweat, but he felt so happy to be there, in the sweat lodge, celebrating the traditions and beliefs of the indigenous peoples.
Tim had joined el movimiento when he was a freshman at the community college. That was just a year and a half ago. To be more precise, he became a part of el Movimiento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlan (M.E.Ch.A, for short). Being white, and from the foothills, he felt surprised and grateful when he was invited by the others, most of them Mexican-American, to become more active in the club. One of the members, Claudio, brought the rich knowledge of indigenous history, of the Mexica people, to the group. He was involved with the Calpulli Teoxicalli, a group that practiced and celebrated the culture of the Mexica, commonly known as the Aztecs, through dance and rituals. On this winter night, the Calpulli and MEChA were brought together for a sweat, where Tim lay completely exhausted, but smiling.
Maria gave thanks to him for his presence in this ceremonia. She said, “Tim, you’ve joined us on the barrio runs and the danzas- and I thank you for your bravery. You’re different from all of us in a pretty clear way, and it takes a lot of guts to do what you have done.”
Another thought glided through his mind at that moment. He remembered the feelings of anxiety that accompanied him every time he was with his friends from high school and church. He remembered how much he wished he could contribute to the conversations about nothing really- phones, boyfriends and girlfriends, drama, school, old TV shows, video games, how drunk you were that one time at that one party. He remembered wanting to escape that as much as he wanted to stay. And he knew that those feelings would return, maybe even the moment he crawled out of the temazcal.
But all of that seemed so distant as the water was once again poured on the 32 rocks and they prayed together with carnalismo. It was now the final round of the sweat, and he couldn’t help but smile.
Minutes before, Tim was about to pass out. He had heard this overwhelming ringing in his ears and everything that had been veiled in darkness was turning lighter. Only the rocks piled in the middle of this “womb” that was the sweat lodge lit the figures of those gathered to cleanse their bodies and minds. He knew what it meant when his vision turned a different shade and he panicked silently. He breathed in as much of the heavy air, thick with steam, as he could. But it made him cough and snot streamed out of his nose. He knew this had to be one of the hardest physical endeavors he had ever been through.
He smiled at that thought too. You see, Tim knows the privilege he’s had in his almost 20 years of life. He knows the sacrifice his dad made, being a lawyer, so that he could provide his family with economic security. He sees his parents still loving each other after 27 years. He feels embarrassed about living in the foothills, being a wealthy white boy, but knows that his identity has given him a great sense of duty to improve his community. He’s grateful for the safe exposure and experiences he’s had to life in the different corridors of this town and society, including this one.
As he smiled and listened to the words of wisdom, Tim remembered, as if it was long ago, that he desperately wanted to crawl out of the temazcal, escape this ceremony, and feel the cool winter night again. The leaders, Chucho and Maria would speak for a while as water was being passed around the circle. Tim laid there limp and tried to focus on breathing and wiping the snot away. He couldn’t listen to them speak of “our people” and the culture that was lost when the conquistadores came to this land 500 years ago. He didn’t hear about “our strength” and how little there was in our society. He felt so weak. Prayers were being lifted to Ometeotl, the energy that created us and binds us together, but he only heard the subsiding ring in his ears and the slow steadying of his breath.
His lips touched the earth, making the rough dirt ground turn to soft sand. His hands, stretched in front of him, pressed down, turning it to mud. He was covered in sweat, but he felt so happy to be there, in the sweat lodge, celebrating the traditions and beliefs of the indigenous peoples.
Tim had joined el movimiento when he was a freshman at the community college. That was just a year and a half ago. To be more precise, he became a part of el Movimiento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlan (M.E.Ch.A, for short). Being white, and from the foothills, he felt surprised and grateful when he was invited by the others, most of them Mexican-American, to become more active in the club. One of the members, Claudio, brought the rich knowledge of indigenous history, of the Mexica people, to the group. He was involved with the Calpulli Teoxicalli, a group that practiced and celebrated the culture of the Mexica, commonly known as the Aztecs, through dance and rituals. On this winter night, the Calpulli and MEChA were brought together for a sweat, where Tim lay completely exhausted, but smiling.
Maria gave thanks to him for his presence in this ceremonia. She said, “Tim, you’ve joined us on the barrio runs and the danzas- and I thank you for your bravery. You’re different from all of us in a pretty clear way, and it takes a lot of guts to do what you have done.”
Another thought glided through his mind at that moment. He remembered the feelings of anxiety that accompanied him every time he was with his friends from high school and church. He remembered how much he wished he could contribute to the conversations about nothing really- phones, boyfriends and girlfriends, drama, school, old TV shows, video games, how drunk you were that one time at that one party. He remembered wanting to escape that as much as he wanted to stay. And he knew that those feelings would return, maybe even the moment he crawled out of the temazcal.
But all of that seemed so distant as the water was once again poured on the 32 rocks and they prayed together with carnalismo. It was now the final round of the sweat, and he couldn’t help but smile.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
There He Sits, a poem about me
There he sits, silent and smiling,
wishing so
badly that he could con-
tribute to the conversation
in this circle
of friends.
Laughter and loud
voices fill
the silence and the air and
he finds it
difficult to breathe
in all this pressure and anxiety.
Wishing he knew
all about cell phones, video games, old
tv shows, that "one time you
were so drunk"
too.
There he sits, desperate
to escape, but with all these
pretty girls around, why
would he? So,
there he sits, silent and smiling
and waiting.
And there he sits, sweat dripping out
of every pore in his body, loving
the earth as it provides cool air
to breathe while burning
steam stings his back and makes
the others in the temazcal
cough. They sing
in Nahuatl and breathe in
the burn of water
poured on rocks from
the fire outside.
He breathes in
the cool air as his lips
touch the dirt, turning
it to mud. He knows
the sacrifice of his carnales,
who use all their precious
stength to sing, and the struggle
becomes more real than the books
that convey it.
The struggle
of community, of ancestral pride,
of identity.
How wonderful,
there he sits, among indigenous
peoples from los barrios de la Tusa, far
from high school and
drama and
discussions
of insignificance.
There he sits, a white boy
from the Foothills
more connected with these
Chicanos than he could ever
wish to be with the
intoxicated circle.
Sweat dripping out
of every pore in his body.
There he sits, silent and smiling.
wishing so
badly that he could con-
tribute to the conversation
in this circle
of friends.
Laughter and loud
voices fill
the silence and the air and
he finds it
difficult to breathe
in all this pressure and anxiety.
Wishing he knew
all about cell phones, video games, old
tv shows, that "one time you
were so drunk"
too.
There he sits, desperate
to escape, but with all these
pretty girls around, why
would he? So,
there he sits, silent and smiling
and waiting.
And there he sits, sweat dripping out
of every pore in his body, loving
the earth as it provides cool air
to breathe while burning
steam stings his back and makes
the others in the temazcal
cough. They sing
in Nahuatl and breathe in
the burn of water
poured on rocks from
the fire outside.
He breathes in
the cool air as his lips
touch the dirt, turning
it to mud. He knows
the sacrifice of his carnales,
who use all their precious
stength to sing, and the struggle
becomes more real than the books
that convey it.
The struggle
of community, of ancestral pride,
of identity.
How wonderful,
there he sits, among indigenous
peoples from los barrios de la Tusa, far
from high school and
drama and
discussions
of insignificance.
There he sits, a white boy
from the Foothills
more connected with these
Chicanos than he could ever
wish to be with the
intoxicated circle.
Sweat dripping out
of every pore in his body.
There he sits, silent and smiling.
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