Vous maux, mon coeur.

As much as I think it way more productive and contributive to be a practical blogger, as I like to call it (in other words, a blogger that contributes to the world of blogging with some sort of practical insight or perspective on a certain area of discussion or topic – i.e. photography blogs, how-to blogs, music review blogs), I’ve come to realize, I have not much to impart onto an audience of readers. Which may be why I don’t have much of an audience to begin with. I like it this way. I find it makes it easier to write. Mostly just me and the keyboard, free of judgment and evaluation, with the sole purpose of self-fulfillment and nothing more. Is it madly cliché and pretentious to say that my favorite moments during the week are those when I’m quietly snuggled up with my friend, M.Word, and my own un-caged thoughts?

Today I want to talk about something that I know very little about, the human heart. The way I have come to view my own human heart is, I think, synonymous to how a parent would view their child, I presume. It is at times wayward and foolish, it has managed to dupe and betray me on multiple occasions, and sometimes, it is simply more of a burden than I can honestly, rightfully bear. Yet, on other occasions, it manages to surprise me with the unexplained bliss and unprovoked happiness I can experience through it, the way it keeps me alive, both literally and figuratively, and the way that I, my very nature and being, am identified by it. A love/hate relationship, I guess, as it sort of is with all things you grow extremely intimate with.

What I hate most, though, is when your own heart keeps secrets from you. Here is a little conversation I had today:

Heart: [[[[[ERUPTION]]]]]
Me: What? What is this? What’s going on???
Heart: …Oops
Me: …
Heart: Sorry
Me: Bastard.

There’s a scene in the broadway musical Wicked, where Elphaba, the main witch character, has an encounter with Fiyero, the gallant prince of Winkie County and the man she loves. Convinced that he could never love someone like her, she sings to herself not to let her heart wander, not to even begin desiring him, because she knows the reality all too well.

Don’t dream too far
Don’t lose sight of who you are
Don’t remember that rush of joy
He could be that boy
I’m not that girl

Every so often we long to steal
To the land of what-might-have-been
But that doesn’t soften the ache we feel
When reality sets back in

Don’t wish, don’t start
Wishing only wounds the heart
I wasn’t born for the rose and pearl
There’s a girl I know
He loves her so
I’m not that girl…

Essentially, she suppresses what she feels for the sake of self-preservation, consciously lowering the level of expectation and hope, so as to endure a shorter and less damaging fall in the end. Isn’t this an all too common story of mankind?

And oftentimes, it can get to a point where you have repressed your heart’s message so much and so firmly that finally, you don’t hear it at all anymore. You’ve actually trained yourself with sheer vigilance and willpower to become deaf to your own self. This wouldn’t be so unfortunate, were it not for the fact that, just like how the longer you hold your breath underwater, the more explosive the need to surface and gasp for air, the deeper you smother a palpitating emotion, the greater the overflow when your heart decides to, for once, dismiss your direct order to shut the eff up.

It’s a silly cycle. The human heart is so elusive sometimes, yet so defiant and commanding. One day, I hope to come to a peaceful agreement with my own, but today, I’m busy cleaning up its mess. And quite frankly, I’m peeved and tired of its shenanigans.

Goodnight.

If all else fails, use umbrellas.

Three weeks ago, during my latest escapade to New York City, I was once again floored by the very feature of that place that has time and time again both amazed and freaked me out at the same time. I don’t believe there to be any other place in America, and consequently any other place in the whole world, that has a greater show of diversity and color than there is in NYC. I’ve concluded that if I were to sit at some coffee shop in a relatively well populated pedestrian intersection and simply devoted a few hours to observing passerby’s, which I find myself doing almost involuntarily, with growing fascination, every time I visit that city, I would most likely have crossed paths with a representative of every single category of age, gender, race, sexual orientation, religion, political party, social status, body shape and size, dietary preference, hair color, nail color, eye color, panty color, etc. And you think I’m kidding about the panty color – pink panties over a pair of sailor blue leggings, male, mohawk, emaciated, smoky eyes. Sauntered past me like his panties were no body’s business while I stood witness to this most glorious atrocity. Behind him? Beige cardigan, pearls, pixie-cut, blonde, republican [?]. Mother of two equally rosy and charming kids. I couldn’t help noticing that the children briskly trotting behind this abstract human mess stared at him like they had just witnessed a live train wreck straight out of an action film. Truly. The melting pot of the world. Next time you are unsure of what kind of person you want to be…head to NY for some prospective options.

I can’t help but be somewhat refreshed every time I visit the city, although usually in different ways. Sometimes it’s a fashion renaissance, sometimes a palate orgasm, sometimes a much needed broadway getaway. On this particular occasion…I think I just needed to GET-AWAY in general.

I remember seeing something on one of the days I was there that struck me in an interesting way. While walking along a street corner, I stumbled upon a most unusual contraption of sorts, made of umbrellas, blankets, dirty jackets, rope, etc. that bulged out from a gate wall. Confused at first on what this was all about (an abstract art project maybe, taken live onto the streets?), I took a closer look. There I discovered a sleeping man underneath all that hastily, but still tactfully made mess, covered in more dirty blankets and snoring away like a dog off duty, oblivious to the world of visitors that graced and just as quickly left his front doorstep. My god, I realized…it was his home. I’m not sure why this surprised me. Homeless people litter the streets of NY like dandelions litter an unkempt backyard – this particular dandelion was just adorned with a few more leaves.

Looking back, I think this afforded itself a second glance simply because I was impressed. Humans can be so tenacious, don’t you think? No money to buy a home? Why not string together a few umbrellas? It may be the silliest looking, most embarrassing social exhibit ever, but hey, at least you are shielded from the wind and the rain, at least you have an abode, a home, of sorts. And it’s fairly cheap rent. For some reason, this kind of uplifted me. In a subtle way, the after-thought of this image reminded me that there really is no problem out there that doesn’t come with a solution, no break in the road that can’t be fixed, even if you have to use tacky glue and duck tape, because after all, it seems like humans are just built to survive. I admire your shamelessness, NY homeless man.

Human ingenuity at its finest.

Kaelyn!

She’s here!!!!!!!!!

3:45am. Brain is jello pudding mush. More to come later…

She’s HERE!

The buzz goes on.

There’s a ring in my ear
A squeeze in my chest
And a sweet melody swims through the room
The buzz goes on.

Eyes closed, calm and steady
Expelling, erasing, freeing
What was, the now, and tomorrow
The buzz goes on.

I hear the laughter, I join the applause
Sing with me, the last song
A lullaby for one.
The buzz goes on.

 

To animal heaven.

I’ve buried an animal twice in my whole life. 

The first time was when I was in middle school, when I buried my pet hamster Macy after she had mysteriously grown silent inside her porcelain den for one too many days.  Macy was a golden white furball of curiosity and squishiness, no bigger than my fist, and at the time, I was thoroughly convinced that she was hands down the cutest hamster on the face of the earth.  Now that I am no longer bathed in bias, of course, I realize she was actually quite fat and ugly and had genitals the size of a large grape.  But still, she was my first real pet and I had as much love for her as any middle school kid could for another creature at the time. 

I was crushed when I realized that Macy had died.  Three days had passed since she had shown any signs of activity, and I was becoming bored and impatient.  Then, a fourth day of suspicious hibernation.  Poke, poke.  My finger met a rock hard resistance, not the usual warm, furry flesh that bounced off my fingers.   In horror, I watched as my dad gingerly lifted the den away from the layer of fluffy wood shavings to unveil a lifeless animal that had slept to its death.  The actual cause of death – unknown.  I conjectured all kinds of possibilities in the coming days.  Contaminated food or water?  Pneumonia?  Depression?  Heart failure?  Diabetes??

My dad decided he would wrap Macy in a paper bag and bury her along the outskirts of our small backyard, since we were on the first level of our condo unit — I helped him dig the hole.  I remember my dad holding my hand and telling me that he would pray for her, so that she can go to heaven and be at peace with Jesus.  But that night, I didn’t sleep very well.

The next morning, I returned to Macy’s burial site and discovered that Macy’s hole had been dug up by a fox, and the shredded pieces of the paper bag were littered throughout the yard.  I remember thinking at the time, very distinctly and with a soberness beyond my years, that the world was a very cruel place to live in. 

The second time came a few days ago, when I said goodbye to my rabbit of more than four years.  As you can imagine, rabbits are not the world’s most affectionate pets, nor are they terribly smart or entertaining to have around.  Some people say it’s like having a giant hamster that costs more, takes up more space, eats more food, and poops more crap everywhere.  Indeed, sometimes I could swear that I had the world’s dumbest rabbit who couldn’t even sniff out and find a food pellet just 3 inches from her face, or who would blissfully leap into the air, only to land straight into the wall or my coffee table leg.  On more than one occasion, I remember propelling whole assortments of cables, remote controls, even purses and shoes at her that she had chewed up and destroyed during the precious few moments she managed to escape my watchful eye.  I mean it’s amazing how destructive those tiny front incisors can be when left to it…amazing.  I remember angrily chasing her around the room like a heathen on crack, knowing full well that this little animal could easily outrun me even on my best day.  Eventually, reality would catch up to me, if I wasn’t already on my knees trying to catch my breath, and I’d resort to other forms of punishment, such as grounding her in her cage for a week, or revoking food privileges, or simply throwing her the most evil, hateful looks of death that I could muster with my facial muscles.  Truly, she was, sometimes, without a doubt, just a big ball of trouble.  At one point, I debated renaming her Excedrin, because I could swear my migraines were caused by that sneaky little furball.

But, a death of a pet is not easy.  Even though she was just a rabbit, Hazel’s death was much harder to swallow than I had imagined it would be.  Maybe because despite all the mischief and trouble she caused, she still possessed a certain sweetness that can only originate from the purity of animals.  Maybe because after 4 years of a life ridden with change, she was really the only tangible constant in my life.  And maybe because I was just unwilling to face yet another part of my life that I had to let go and yield into the hands of a force that I had no control over. 

With the help of a friend, I buried Hazel properly this time, fox-proof. 

I think I want to believe in an animal heaven.  Because that’s where Hazel and Macy would be right now, cage-free, happy, and properly loved.  I’d like to think so, anyway. 

Rest in peace, my Hazelnut.

A beautiful mess.

I don’t know what it is about the holidays that compels me to write. Something about the disturbance in the mundane and ordinary that sort of prods me into reflection. Something like that. Or I’m just bored as hell.

So it’s a new year, and I’m supposed to talk about New Year’s resolutions and all my hopes and dreams on how this year will be grand and how I will finally magically morph into this brilliantly perfect human being. I actually can’t remember the last time I made a New Year’s resolution. Wait, I lie, I made one last year, but only because for some reason, church people love to do group-y activities like going around in a circle and sharing your goals, ambitions, dreams, your whole life story…and New Year’s resolutions. I guess it’s supposed to make you feel closer and more bonded with each other and whatnot, although quite honestly, I’m pretty sure everyone is sitting there silently hoping the person before them will keep talking so they have more time to madly fabricate a resolution that will appear to be one they were awarded after weeks and weeks of pensive deliberation, and perhaps even some dutiful prayer. But in the end, they aren’t creative enough and end up saying something generic like, “I want to lose weight this year”, or “I want to be better to my family”. Last year, I got too distracted being amused (sarcasm) by other people’s generic resolutions that I didn’t have enough time to come up with my own and before I knew it was my turn… so I ended up saying, “I want to work out more this year”. Go me.

I remember a cliché quote a friend had sarcastically recited to me once after braving through my rant about how much my life resembled a pile of dog feces. It went something like, “Live every day like it is New Years Day, like it is a new beginning, a fresh start, a second chance at the life you wish to own.” Something you might imagine reading in one of those self-help books. Naturally, I rolled my eyes and told my friend to never give me advice again.

I’ve never been too big on the whole New Years hype, except for the excuse to wear shiny tiaras and short dresses and get foolishly intoxicated off of champagne. New Years, to me, was just another day in the calendar, a continuation of time and space, the day after the last with a slight change in its name. Crime rates do not decrease, bad habits don’t die, and diseases don’t get cured. Just another beginning to another end… Don’t hate the cynic.

Strangely enough though…this year, I find myself wanting to allow myself to succumb to the hype, to really actually believe that this year will be different. And that the idea of a fresh start, a “second chance at the life you wish to own” is not just a cliché phrase to scoff at, but a reality veiled under a curtain of doubt and pessimism. I suppose when you are in a place where change is so desperately needed and that shaggy winter coat has long been ready to be shed, a “new beginning” holds a certain appeal. To me it’s like a medium-sized box, set some distance away from me – it’s wrapped in the most dazzling and beautiful wrapping paper, like the kind you see in an upscale Macy’s holiday display, and it taunts me, challenges me with its loud colors and shiny ribbons, demanding to be unwrapped and realized, it’s mystery and glory unveiled. But, I wonder if it’s just a mirage, like the golden presents in the department stores, pretty on the outside, hallow and empty cardboard in the inside.

2011 was many things for me. 365 days of great moments that swell your heart with pride and joy at its recollection…365 days of horrible memories that you try so hard to squeeze out of your psyche, but still manage to, once in a while, squeeze back in and shrivel you down to the bone. 365 days of love and laughter, of regret and disappointments, encounters and hello’s, break-ups and goodbye’s. 365 opportunities to wake up and “live like it’s New Year’s Day”, with renewed drive to make the most of every moment, to salvage the blessing of being alive, healthy, fed. Yet, when I look back… sadly, so many of those opportunities fell wastefully down the drain. What was I passionate about? What accomplishments am I proud of? What did I learn? How did I make a difference? How much did I love…? It brings me sadness to think that so much of the year was spent in just that – sadness. Somehow, I allowed myself to be defeated by so many different things – family, friends, God, men. Sometimes, you strive so hard to be the person you envision yourself to be, to have the perfect life you think you should have, to be loved by those you want it from the most, that all the while you are trying so hard…you forget to enjoy it all.

So, if I had to decide on a New Year’s resolution, that’s what it would be. 2011 ended in heartbreak, but I’d like to start 2012 with a smile. Because despite it all, I am thankful for the people who were in my life and are in my life, in all the ways they have enriched it, and because I still believe that God can somehow turn all that mess into something beautiful. That is worth smiling about. =)