22

That, my friends, is the age at which men enter the stage of ultimate arrogance. And I have to deal with one of for the next five weeks. God give me strength...

It took three years for the chives to bloom. After a couple of summers of barely there sprouts that were eclipsed by the parsley that is planted next to them, this spring the chives got a head start and now dwarf the meager parsley sprouts. And when I first spotted them, I walked up to them and they leaned to one side top heavy but jubilant, seeming to mock the parsley, "take that bitches."

Since then I have spent the last few weeks admiring and enjoying the purple blossoms so much that I have not clipped any to chop up and sprinkle over anything potato. I mean what else does one use chives for?

Every time I walk into the back yard I look at the chives and contemplate their victory. I think of my prima-hermana, a Taurus that takes pride in telling me that patience is a virtue. (Unfortunately, she's the only Taurus I know with more than a hint of patience.)

I know I'm suppose to be patient right now. Thing is I'm not sure why--its just what my instinct tells me. Well, besides trusting that the dishwasher I always wanted will eventually arrive with a big fat red bow on it, its also takes work to keep calm and have faith that everything will eventually just fall into place. In the meantime I'm just riding the waves. *smile*

the crisis moment: getting your low out of the way and moving forward

first i warned her that i was going to hit her with some tough love and then i said, "you can't always have everything you want." i dished the reality check to a close friend and explained how this is a part of life, that it builds character, how there is a reason for everything. and unfortunately i hung up before i could express, "if i got everything i wanted, i would still have my storefront right now." but i didn't get to tell her that and i shoved the thought away refusing to lament or linger in self-pity. sometimes its hardest to wrap my mind around my own advice.

and that was a bad idea. i've been shoving that thought to the darkest regions of my brain and not wanting to think about it since last december--rarely allowing myself to indulge in the words, "i miss the store." i usually get that feeling when i bump into old customers and that's always bittersweet.

i didn't allow myself to cry about it until late january--it arrived like my grief for dead relatives--weeks later. i was standing in line at the post-office filling mail orders when i saw a neighboring business owner who had purchased my old cash register--i had been so happy that it would be going to her and not getting stuck in storage in our dark basement. she had taken the plunge with an innovative business plan of her own and opened her store around the same time as me. "last night was our last day open," she announced and the news rattled me. long story short, she had been duped by her landlord and been paying electricity for much more space than her storefront and it really hurt her financially. like me, she was at the end of her rope. when i got into the car, the knot in my throat finally let up and i began to cry for her but more so for me. i moarned our misfortunes too briefly.

sweeping stuff under the carpet has never garnered good results for me and it manifests itself in unhealthy and self-destructive behavior. this week, almost six months later, i finally allowed myself to get sucked into the black hole. i let my toughest critic (i.e. me) take sucker punches at me and i'm left bruised and defeated. failure is a word i refuse to entertain but it creeps up, and i feel so angry for my optimism, for the people who took advantage of me, i think about mistakes and i feel stupid about it. and then there is the monetary situation, i'm broke and that magnifies self-doubt and then i seem to teeter on the fringes of an identity crisis.

and now that i've allowed myself to fall back--way down into the bottom of the well--there is only one way to go and that's back up. the only thing that comforts my confusion is to write. i do what i had no time for when i had the store. i've been writing a lot: on the laptop, in the notebook on my night stand, taking writing workshops but this is the first time i've actually written about these feelings. i know stuffs gotta get purged if its ever gonna get sorted but i've resisted. and i'm having that crisis moment and i'm desperately looking for the answers.

and i guess i can start by declaring that i really miss my store and curating the book selection, merchandise and art. i miss the family of supporters that created the heartbeat of that little dream of mine.



































i took these pictures my last day there, when i dragged a ladder into the back and decided to get a birds eyeview of the space before we started dismantling it.

The geek gadget, a game of myst and my quest for an organized life

I'm organizing: My home, the files on my laptop, and now my blog*. I'm purging from everywhere and wondering how stuff physically and virtually accumulates even when I consider myself a minimalist consumer? And then sometimes I pick up speed and do away with something that comes back to haunt me.

So, like a month ago I donated a couple of bags of clothes, vhs tapes, and other odds and ends to a yard sale that served as a fundraiser for high school scholarships--a real do-gooder and green act. As he was helping me load the car Mr. CD got his chonis in a bunch when he spotted a computer game of Myst.** I was giving it away because he never played it. He explained it was not compatible with something on his computer--blah, blah, blah. I shrugged and told him to to put it aside if he was not ready to give it up but he did not. And he verbalized his dissapointment at no longer having this game randomly--usually at moments when I was just enjoying life, yes, I never wanted to talk about it again--and then my prayers were answered and someone*** somewhere in gaming world released a Myst version for the I-touch**** and now he can pull knobs and crank levels to his hearts delight from the comfort of anywhere he takes his favorite new geek gadget: the lawn chair, the couch, the bed, and yes even the toilet.

*I'm deleting irrelevant and outdated files from my laptop. And I plan to tidy up and reorganize my blog. I know an update is in place but I'm not sure what that would be.

**Just to be clear I'm not the mommy dearest of wives. He owns the game because I gave it to him one Christmas after hearing him talk about it. Unfortunately, I didn't know to look for pc compatibility--apparently his computer was too high tech for the game version I bought and I can't recall why he never took it back. After that I got better with choosing games (i.e . gift cards.)

***Thank you gaming geek or geekette out there that designs games.

****In case anyone cares, my favorite I touch application is the level. It just made so much sense when I saw it. I would make a purchase around that app.

Lola at North Avenue Beach

I don't schedule these things. It just kind of settles like a fine mist on certain days. The need to retreat and be alone is crucial. Reflection has lingered in memory since Saturday's workshop. Not all memories are fun.

The grandmother is banging on the door for attention. The conversation in my mind unfolds a little like this:

I ask, "Why me? We hardly hung out. There are others that are older and lived with you. Have more memories."

And her reply, "Because of all of them, you are the only one that writes." And there is a tone in her voice, that suggest disgust and disappointment by this fact. Then she adds with a softer edge, "And because you get it."
























Lola on North Avenue beach before they made it pretty for everyone but us. When changing into your bathing suit in the open air locker rooms was terrorizing because of the neglect, the dirt, and the threat of a rat jumping out at you. The urge to claw my way up into my mothers arms because I couldn't stand the vulnerability of my bare feet on that dirty floor. That was back then when a day at the beach meant we had to tolerate messages that insisted that all Mexicans suck.

Chicana writer channels Chanclita's grandmother

Before I understood what was occurring I began to talk about something I did not plan on talking about--something I had not thought about in a long time--and then my voice cracked and I was crying.

I paused horrified. Someone sympathetically pushed a napkin in front of me. I wanted to run out of the room but the Chicana writer went into curandera mode and held me firmly in my chair with her gaze and asked, "What did she say? Tell me in your grandmother's words."

Wide-eyed I blinked, I was watching the whole thing occur from a place on the inside. I sputtered some words and I felt it was not really me talking.*

*The last time my maternal grandmother did this was about ten years ago when I interviewed a santero for a now defunct publication. One minute I'm taking notes on the history of santeria and the next he's telling me that my grandmother Lola had a message. He had mentioned earlier that he was clairvoyant but I had not paid too much attention to that fact, perhaps I had even been somewhat skeptical about it--I was still wrapping my head around the idea of eleguas and muertos when he dropped that bomb. But when he mentioned the woman and by her name, I instantly dropped my pen and began sobbing. Looking somewhat accomplished he pushed a box of kleenex in front of me and said he had just known he was going to need them during our interview. My grandmother's message: She loves you. She didn't know how to say it when she was still around, he said reassuringly. The same message that emerged today. I have no hangups about it, but I think my abuelita does.

Lingering ghosts in a photograph

I'm scheduled to take a memoir writing class this Saturday with a very cool Chicana writer. She sent an email instructing me to bring a photograph, and then think about why I want to write about this time in my life.

I ventured into the basement where my photo albums were packed away. I perused through old pictures from grammar school, high school and college. It struck me that it was all a lifetime ago. When I was done going through the albums I narrowed it down to three photographs: the one above, one with my grandfather right before he passed away, and a photo-strip of my prima-hermana and I in a photo booth in high school.

I decided on the photo above. Not because I appear just like my favorite kind of child --a healthy mix of the quiet but demonic Damian, with a touch of naivety like Caroline in Poltergeist, and with the hint of an angry Drew Barrymore in Firestarter brewing inside of me. The photo caught my attention because I'm not really alone and I'm not talking about my shadow.

I'm the only one that appears in the photograph but the the ghost of some very special folks linger in it. My paternal grandfather took the picture, I'm wearing a dress that my maternal grandmother made, and the house behind me belonged to Betty. My memories of that time are also very specific. I get a kick out of my tattered socks and scuffed shoes (those are some kick-ass mary janes and I remember getting fitted for them at Zapateria Canada on 26th street, that place is a pawn shop these days). The pig tales are definitely courtesy of my baby sitter, a mother to three boys, whom disapproved of my working mom and the short haircuts she kept me in. (We had a love-hate relationship and trust me I had some evil thoughts on many days when I was stuck in her company.)

I was amused by Mr. CD's reaction to the photo. Besides chuckling and then cooing at a younger version of me, he found it interesting and got excited for a completely different reason. This photo serves as proof that the brick pillar to our front porch has indeed sunk a couple of inches.

This will be an interesting exercise. I'm keeping other lessons in mind, that I picked up from conversations with other Chicana writers earlier this winter: when writing keep an open heart and compost the rage. Layers to uncover and explore, I'm taking a deep breathe and I'm preparing emotionally. I think its interesting and somewhat appropriate that I'm listening to Depeche Mode's song Precious as I wrap up this post, Precious and fragile things, need special handling...things get damaged, things get broken...and its okay because now it gives me something to write about.