Contemporary music, i.e. commercial orchestral music lets my mind go great distances. Whenever I watch movies that have contemporary orchestra I get inspired and transported into a world where passion eliminates war, and where rain is never ending, but where floods are rarely seen.
Every soft brush of the bow of the melodious string section, the grand French horn, the pompous drum, and the sweet voices of the violins form part of one orchestra, and not one individual sound will ring on its own.
Music, that simple five letter word makes my mind wander into all the possibilities of happiness. Rejuvenation, yes, that word too has many connotations. Music, rejuvenation, and to add on, nature, have connotations that have deeply changed my life into how it is now. I have many passions, but the most vital to my existence is MUSIC.
When people hear the word or simply read it on text, they often think of more “youthful” genres like rock or hip hop. Although I too enjoy these genres, classical and contemporary orchestral music are what triggers my imagination and takes me to where ever I want to go.
Nature, i.e. the ocean and forests, have become fascinations that have also inspired me. I am grateful for living on earth; its beauties and mysteries keep me alive. Its vital processes are what keep the world spinning. We as humans must learn to live with it and not over it. We have this idea that we have always been better than nature, yet we know that it can destroy us very quickly.
Love. People have confused it with lust.Yes, I know that if it weren’t for sexual interaction then we all wouldn’t be here. But love shouldn’t be just about the physical interaction; it can be love for substances that can’t be seen, it can be love for substances that are grand and mighty and beautiful, or it can be love for something so breathtaking and incredible that we perhaps would not be able to live without it.
Now I take these ideas back to the beginning and connect them to music. It all makes sense, at least to me. It’s not just about being able to play a chromatic scale with double stops; it is about feeling the music under your skin, inside your veins, crawling up your spine. I know this might sound painful, but it really is an enjoyable, extraordinary aspect in life. It IS life…not only the life of a musician, but the life of all creatures, both living and non-living. If all people would see the natural world like I see it, we would be in harmony with it.
But one of my life long goals is to change people’s ideologies about how they see and feel about nature. I’m sure everyone thinks it is beautiful, but what I’m not so sure about is if they feel the need to protect it. Yes, life goes on, we are born and we die…but there has to be more meaning to life than just the cycle of it. Music can do that; add more meaning. It can enter our systems, our souls and minds, and can mold them into positive beings.
WE are the future generation and must use our strength of “word” to nourish ourselves and those around us. Every note is a step closer to my reality. Am I being too imaginative? Too dreamy? Too optimistic? We can only improve, from now on we can improve. I know I’ll be long dead and so will many of the future generations, perhaps hundreds of future generations, but we will change. It will change. It will. Change.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
One call.
I feel the vibration in my hand as i slide it open. Area code: 323…but no name. Who might this be? is all I could think. You see I never really expect that area code because back home, there is no one who might call. There is no one who can be called family. Because a family is one who cares, who at the minimum shows interest in you and you whereabouts. One who just doesn’t call your mother when they need her financially or because there are problems.
Being cautious…I text back asking “who is this?” but seconds later I get another call..same number. I answer waiting attentively for that voice. That familiar yet unknown voice from home.
It’s him. Shocker. How long has it been? I think to myself. His voice is so….so….impenitent , so “as a matter of fact it’s your birthday today so I’d thought I just might call you today. You’re not going to believe that I just found your number this morning. Pity. This morning? Coincidence? Questionable.
One call. Lasts 135 seconds. Nothing said but a “happy birthday”. Not knowing that those words, those words mean little to me now, because happy does not manage to fit in the context of those 24 hours. Not knowing that all these years he has cut me, bruised me, played with my mind. These mind games that I can no longer take. Either he paints the picture or he continues erasing because I can no longer take an unfinished product with unclear messages and unfinished thoughts.
I am no longer a puppet willing to play his games for his security and his pride to lean on when he needs that sense of reassurance. He can no longer come back every time he needs to feel he has a daughter. A daughter is not someone you just call on her birthday when you JUST found her phone number, that morning. She is not just one you come to when you need money to get out of jail. She is not one you try to convince to tell her mother to stop child support. She is not one you just give a hug to and expect her to surrender to it. She is not one you should expect to keep quiet. To not say the truth. To not question your actions. And to expect your silence in return. And your wandering gaze that pretends to know where it is looking.
A look that follows that comfortable spot on the floor, the corner of table, an empty, cold wall. Whose direction brings a slump to the shoulders, neck and head. And whose meaning is more than any words can explain. Pity.
The number is unfamiliar. It changes. But then it doesn’t. it always comes from that same familiar place. That number changes so much, like you. They say a leopard can’t change its spots, but you, you change without notice. So insecure. So unexpected but expected. Expected from a person who shows no stability. Who has no knowledge of what having a daughter means. Who has no interests in knowing the value of a daughter.
They say I must not judge a parent. But you, what title can I put upon your name when you cannot stand up to the word father. When you think you can just come on father’s day and claim that position? When you think it’s that easy so receive something, tangible or not, from a person that is merely a biological trace of your existence? It’s not. It’s not easy. You cannot claim to be a father when the womyn you loved, if you did, has done all the work, and alone, she stays. You cannot claim to be a father when you showed no respect to the womyn you loved, if you did, and didn’t officially meet your daughter until she was the age of 5? 5? What is wrong with this picture?
So a phone call on the morning of her 20th birthday not only spoils the rest of her day but it reminds her of the constant physical and emotional struggle her mother, the womyn you loved, if you did, goes through every day of her life to care for her daughter, something you never did.
Those 135 seconds of brief, indifferent, pitiful dialogue a are mere reflection of the time you are willing to spend on her and her whereabouts, when you don’t even know where she is on that day?
That one call is enough proof of your insecurity, and selfishness that you have displayed all these years. These games are just calls. Calls that disappear in the airwaves of technology and that to the rest of the world mean nothing. ..
Being cautious…I text back asking “who is this?” but seconds later I get another call..same number. I answer waiting attentively for that voice. That familiar yet unknown voice from home.
It’s him. Shocker. How long has it been? I think to myself. His voice is so….so….impenitent , so “as a matter of fact it’s your birthday today so I’d thought I just might call you today. You’re not going to believe that I just found your number this morning. Pity. This morning? Coincidence? Questionable.
One call. Lasts 135 seconds. Nothing said but a “happy birthday”. Not knowing that those words, those words mean little to me now, because happy does not manage to fit in the context of those 24 hours. Not knowing that all these years he has cut me, bruised me, played with my mind. These mind games that I can no longer take. Either he paints the picture or he continues erasing because I can no longer take an unfinished product with unclear messages and unfinished thoughts.
I am no longer a puppet willing to play his games for his security and his pride to lean on when he needs that sense of reassurance. He can no longer come back every time he needs to feel he has a daughter. A daughter is not someone you just call on her birthday when you JUST found her phone number, that morning. She is not just one you come to when you need money to get out of jail. She is not one you try to convince to tell her mother to stop child support. She is not one you just give a hug to and expect her to surrender to it. She is not one you should expect to keep quiet. To not say the truth. To not question your actions. And to expect your silence in return. And your wandering gaze that pretends to know where it is looking.
A look that follows that comfortable spot on the floor, the corner of table, an empty, cold wall. Whose direction brings a slump to the shoulders, neck and head. And whose meaning is more than any words can explain. Pity.
The number is unfamiliar. It changes. But then it doesn’t. it always comes from that same familiar place. That number changes so much, like you. They say a leopard can’t change its spots, but you, you change without notice. So insecure. So unexpected but expected. Expected from a person who shows no stability. Who has no knowledge of what having a daughter means. Who has no interests in knowing the value of a daughter.
They say I must not judge a parent. But you, what title can I put upon your name when you cannot stand up to the word father. When you think you can just come on father’s day and claim that position? When you think it’s that easy so receive something, tangible or not, from a person that is merely a biological trace of your existence? It’s not. It’s not easy. You cannot claim to be a father when the womyn you loved, if you did, has done all the work, and alone, she stays. You cannot claim to be a father when you showed no respect to the womyn you loved, if you did, and didn’t officially meet your daughter until she was the age of 5? 5? What is wrong with this picture?
So a phone call on the morning of her 20th birthday not only spoils the rest of her day but it reminds her of the constant physical and emotional struggle her mother, the womyn you loved, if you did, goes through every day of her life to care for her daughter, something you never did.
Those 135 seconds of brief, indifferent, pitiful dialogue a are mere reflection of the time you are willing to spend on her and her whereabouts, when you don’t even know where she is on that day?
That one call is enough proof of your insecurity, and selfishness that you have displayed all these years. These games are just calls. Calls that disappear in the airwaves of technology and that to the rest of the world mean nothing. ..
Sunday, May 16, 2010
what is love?
what is love but a fantasy? What is love but an illusion created by society? What is love when the ones closest to you cannot reciprocate? What is love when your mother calls you a prostitute, a whore, a slut. When she kicks you out for falling in love? When cultures clash and life happens and she doesn’t understand? When you are the first to graduate in the entire family and she doesn’t care? “don’t do it for me, do it for yourself,” she says. What is love when her culture teaches her not to value education because tradition dictates a womyn can’t fall in love with those whom don’t belong to that culture? When her experiences dictate to put guilt upon her two daughters that love is a taboo, that they are dirty if they even think about it? What is love when they try so hard to make her proud and all she thinks about is money and maintaining that overpowering control, called pride and indifference? What is love when your mother calls you trash, shit, and worse, nothing? When she disowns you and throws you out of her heart? What is love when the one who is supposed to give you unconditional love and love you for who you are does not do that because it is a cycle that is being repeated generation after generation. When she herself didn’t grow up being loved by her mother because there was no “time” for that when she had mouths to feed? What is love when at age 16 she flees to look for love and for a better life and she gets raped? Twice? Abandoning her mother, who despite the lack of love, she would die for?
Yes I know her story. I know their stories, of love, or the lack thereof. I was born because of her loneliness. She thought it was going to work out. less than 2 years. They fought hasta sacarse la sangre. The blood flowed like her tears, but her pride was all she had. She grew strong , ever since her mother knocked her out cold and she fainted and fell to the ground. She grew stronger when they forced her virginity out. She grew even stronger when she fought his machismo and won her dignity, but lost the one she loved. As the years progressed, this strength has turned into remorse, into jealousy, into a hunger for manipulation. This sweet girl who all she wanted was to be loved couldn’t even get that, at any stage in her life. She has turned into the shadow of depression, where she does not allow herself to comprehend and support her two beautiful, strong, independent, educated daughters. Time is ticking. It’s wasting away. She is losing power. She is falling deeper and deeper into an enveloping remorse that doesn’t let her breathe. There is so much pressure. So much pain. So much hunger…. For love. For companionship. For understanding. For nourishment. For alleviation.
And here I am in the middle. Dodging the bullets. Como una espada contra la pared. Sin poder decidir. Sin poder hacer nada porque no se trata de una persona. Se trata de una cultura entera donde algunas veces el amor es secundario, y el sobrevivir lo lleva a uno a olvidarse de que existe el amor. When one must forget about love, and forget about maintaining that strong connection with the only two people you have. This is a story about a sister who is tired of showing love to her mother and trying to make her feel proud, and yet only receives dirty words in return. This is a story about a mother who never grew up feeling true love, not from her mother, not from the one she thought she loved, and not from herself. This is a story about a daughter who remains silenced and retains it all. In here and in here. And never speaks a word and only occasionally cries in silence to herself. Ashamed. Guilty. Powerless and inferior. Who always asks herself, what is love but a fantasy? And illusion created by society? A lie?
As this story continues, more questions are asked than answered as she strolls along the sidewalks of her life and the corners of her mind. As she struggles to break free from this emotional trend that consumes her everyday and prevents her from stepping out of that comfort zone… because guilt is all she can feel.
Yes I know her story. I know their stories, of love, or the lack thereof. I was born because of her loneliness. She thought it was going to work out. less than 2 years. They fought hasta sacarse la sangre. The blood flowed like her tears, but her pride was all she had. She grew strong , ever since her mother knocked her out cold and she fainted and fell to the ground. She grew stronger when they forced her virginity out. She grew even stronger when she fought his machismo and won her dignity, but lost the one she loved. As the years progressed, this strength has turned into remorse, into jealousy, into a hunger for manipulation. This sweet girl who all she wanted was to be loved couldn’t even get that, at any stage in her life. She has turned into the shadow of depression, where she does not allow herself to comprehend and support her two beautiful, strong, independent, educated daughters. Time is ticking. It’s wasting away. She is losing power. She is falling deeper and deeper into an enveloping remorse that doesn’t let her breathe. There is so much pressure. So much pain. So much hunger…. For love. For companionship. For understanding. For nourishment. For alleviation.
And here I am in the middle. Dodging the bullets. Como una espada contra la pared. Sin poder decidir. Sin poder hacer nada porque no se trata de una persona. Se trata de una cultura entera donde algunas veces el amor es secundario, y el sobrevivir lo lleva a uno a olvidarse de que existe el amor. When one must forget about love, and forget about maintaining that strong connection with the only two people you have. This is a story about a sister who is tired of showing love to her mother and trying to make her feel proud, and yet only receives dirty words in return. This is a story about a mother who never grew up feeling true love, not from her mother, not from the one she thought she loved, and not from herself. This is a story about a daughter who remains silenced and retains it all. In here and in here. And never speaks a word and only occasionally cries in silence to herself. Ashamed. Guilty. Powerless and inferior. Who always asks herself, what is love but a fantasy? And illusion created by society? A lie?
As this story continues, more questions are asked than answered as she strolls along the sidewalks of her life and the corners of her mind. As she struggles to break free from this emotional trend that consumes her everyday and prevents her from stepping out of that comfort zone… because guilt is all she can feel.
Friday, April 30, 2010
tainted imitations
pressed and compressed into this silence that must be indulged fully to acquire some sense of success. stressed and depressed because we fall into the holes into the cracks into the darkest corners of guilt. where must one draw the line between being up and being down. being more and being less. what must one consider as being less when all we've got is us. our two hands full of callouses and cuts. burns and scrapes. dirt and years of carrying the tears of our past. dressed in attire that contradicts our origin, but that must be expressed in order to fit in. to assimilate. to be considered more. must we imitate what is being dictated to us to impress those who messed with our dignity. our fervor, our great dedication to germinate the seeds of passion. we are painted, tainted and well acquainted but does this mean that we are betraying those closet to us when we have to explain why we do what we do? why we can't stay? why our comfort zone is no longer a safe zone to engage in because sooner or later it will turn its back against us and constrain our every chance of basic survival? should i break apart and decipher what it is means to be an educated mexican girl who despite being born here feels like she isn't worth anybody's time? where do these feelings of insecurity, inferiority, and insatiability stem from? painted, tainted, and well acquainted am i when the more i move ahead the more inconceivable my path seems to be...i am painted with the colors of red, white, blue, and green..i am tainted with the stars and stripes, serpent and eagle...with two histories that whether i like it or not, are merged into one being that must learn to imitate and take from both worlds, yet clash with each being and indulge in a bitter engagement of expression when one is seen as less? a piece of her breaks off when she cannot even pronounce words, phrases from the language her mother bared in her womb. she has become a mere imitation of nothing. she has been tainted with ideas that are not her own and in her state of confusion and delusion..her wounds grow deeper and deeper as her story gets longer and longer...as her story gets tainted and she sinks deeper in this pressed and compressed illusion of two clashing worlds...
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Blind is all we are
Like the little duckling who follows her mother, I have learned to follow blindly. Yes, that's how these corporations want us to be...blind. Blind about what events occur around us just kilometers away and around the globe. Blind about where our water comes from and where our so-called "food" comes from, how it's made and what ingredients constitute it. Blind about how our money gets spent and distributed. Blind about the truth behind closed doors. Meetings, conspiracies, bribes, profits, misleading talks, lies,social classes clashing, competing, fighting, resisting, charging against the flames of the opponent. Using every weapon imaginable. Raising their voices without yielding, with the sound of our loud stories comes the truth to the forefront of reality and as more and more people find out their is no turning back. We are living, breathing, testimonies of what the world is leading towards. It is up to us, we must educate our tongues. Do not forget that being blind will let fall deeper into the abyss.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Instruments of expression
wind. changing winds. trade winds. rhythms of winds. voices. voices of the past. calling. recalling. blending in distant time and drifting with the crowd. a whole turbulence of voices. chaos everywhere and yet one cannot pinpoint exactly where the center of it is. Light. what is light but a lie? time. what is time when the light is so far? repetitions. blending with sound. sounds. growing and growing and growing. keeping the right tempo at the wrong time. playing with unsound intervals that defeat all understanding of stability. let's break the rules for one moment. let's lean towards yang for one moment and shift towards yin in the next instance. let us not be surprised by the immense sense of balance. with the pluck of each string. with the shift of each key. let the winds carry your every humble wish. welcome the change with open arms. let the voices impregnate your mind and allow yourself to not be one and alone but one and whole. one and part of that earth gives you life. give it life. give it respect.
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