Sunday, March 28, 2010

Honey

I am back in the halls. Spring Quarter has officially begun and I am looking forward to it!

I need to be smarter with my money. I need to apply for a summer job and stop wasting my shit on things that are not important. I want a car.... I NEED A FUCKING CAR! I have a strong feeling though that my sister and my mom are going to get me my car on my birthday *crossing fingers*

These are my goals for spring quarter:
- 4.0 gpa
-Write for an hour a day
-Run every day
-Stop eating out
-Practice for the GRE
-Identify specific GRAD programs that I will be applying to
-Go to the Dentist every month
-Find a summer JOB!

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

words with friends

This is my first spring break in the past three years that I have spent it at home. For the past two years i would be in Leg Con and I would only be home for about five days.

I'm not running for AS elections, THANK GOD! I need to focus on going to grad school. I really want to go to Stanford or NYU. Those are my top choices, but LBR that shit is hard. I haven't even applied but i am already feeling stressed as fuck.

I am watching KEEPING UP WITH THE KARDASHIANS, Khloe is the fucking bomb! i feel understand why she angry, i myself i'm an angry person of color. Well, more like, I am a passionate person and Khloe looks like a passionate person herself.

This blog post feels kinda ridiculous so i will try to end it a deep quote:

"my lips are dry. yearning for moist. waiting for the right fluids to water my needs."

Monday, March 22, 2010

spring break

it's monday and i feel like spring break is almost over.

I need to write more. I am suppose to write an hour a day and read at like three books this break, i highly doubt it will happen.

I feel stressed and i don't know why i do. For some strange reason i have this strong urge to be back in school. I want to be in a classroom, in my chican@ classes.

I want to write like i use to write:

allow the fire to stay under me.

if you can't love yourself then how the hell do you expect someone to love you.

Need a moment of silence to breathe for the first time in 20 years.
Breathing the cold air from my body's breath in search of answers of my childhood.
Mami, porque tienes tantas canas?
Porque cuando te miro me siento como no estas?

the hollow from your eyes are seeking solace in my veins.
The blood running through my veins are needing your assistance to keep my body from falling apart,
Keep my skin brown because the coldness has frozen my pigments....

Many things in my head i have come accustomed to avoiding. but is it normal? is it normal to forget the lives of others for your own self love?

Allow me to introduce you to my hero.
Her name is Virginia and the villain in the story is her husband who attempts to kill her every time she is on the road.

Won't someone believe her stories.
Won't someone trust in her, HER own life?

Breathing in an out.
Breathing in her cold words because to be warm i must fist learn to care for her....

"loving the airs in its pressure and temperature."

Friday, March 19, 2010

so much

I feel so hopeless. Even though it is not happening to me, it is happening to the people that i love.

How could some people be so fucked up in the hardest of times? WTF?!?!? GOD!!! I have to take care of myself but the last thing i want to do is feed myself when the people i love are starving to death.

dios dame la voluntad para saber como ayudar.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Beauty:From Nightmares to Dreams

David Preciado
03/08/2010

SWAPA ANALYSIS:

“I write for my own self value. To take ownership of my skin color, sexuality, voice, body and story. My grammar is horrific. My passive voice is distracting and my vocabulary is limited. The disclaimer I just stated is my defense against the hierarchy that disempowers me. It’s meant to be evidence of my insecurities that are rooted in my own internalized oppression caused by homophobia, racism, sexism and classism. Here are my wounds and the pen I am writing this piece with are the healing herbs to my surviving soul.”
–9/30/2009 first SWAPA during Chicana Studies 151 De Colonizing Feminism

My progress. I have always been a poet and only recently did I realize that I am also a writer. I began to write after my father raped me. I was eight years old when I first picked up a flowery journal and wrote about my sexuality. I wrote about the false love my father gave me. How I fell in love with the devil. Love at the age of eight was nothing but a perverted/innocent/naïve/child that was thirsty for more fatherly love-even if the love was rooted with a heart of an alcoholic/rapist/mentally disabled man. I regret ever falling in love with the devil. Twelve years later I ask myself, why couldn’t I fall in love with the angel? And if not an angel, why couldn’t I remain in limbo and never experience love to begin with?

Father I love you.
There is not a day I go by that I don’t think of you.

Father I love you for the devil you are but I wish I would have fallen in love with the angel of you.

My life prior to my rape is lost.
I don’t remember how it feels to look at my body,
My hands,
My feet,
My mouth,
And remember a time when my skin was clear of scratches, from the cuts of your dick.

I am in this constant horror film in my head.
I am walking alone in the alley; the only thing visible is the reflection of the moonlight from the fog in the air. I’m rushing, trying to find the nearest payphone, store, person that could help me clear my vision so I could go home. I finally spot someone. Their back is facing me. I begin to run towards them, yelling, screaming for help. Once I’m close enough, I take a moment to catch my breath. Breathing for my life, I take the last ounce of energy to tap them on their right shoulder, but before my fingertips touches the coat, you, the devil, swiftly bite my hand off and rape me. Raping me on the floor, I lay frozen. And when you’re done, you pinch me so I can wake up. Then once again, I am walking alone in the alley; the only thing visible is the reflection of the moonlight from the fog in the air. I’m rushing, trying to find the nearest payphone, store, person that could help me clear my vision so I could go home…

The nightmare is in everything.
My SWAPAS,
My words,
My room,
Relationships I have with people,
It’s inscribed all over my body- in my spirit.

I want to run and hide.
Travel to the furthest city,
Most secluded neighborhood,
Driest weather,
Darkest corner,
And hide from you.

Hide so I can remember that I have a brother.
Although he is dead, he is still alive in my heart.

Hide so I can remember that I am capable of trusting another man with my body.

Hide so I can stop blaming my mami for never noticing the touches you gave me.

Hide so I can look at my sister in the eyes and tell her we didn’t deserve what was done to us.

Hide so I can stop writing about you.
Take you out of my pieces of paper and write of the dream I wish I had.

My progress. I have always been a poet. Che’s class gave me the strength to identify as a writer. Identifying as a writer has allowed me to write with spirit words, the same spirit words that have transformed the nightmare into a mestiza consciousness. Reading the Four Fold Way has allowed me to inhale Mother Nature’s healing oxygen and exhale the traumas of my past. Hiding is no longer an option because Che’s class has given me the courage to confront the nightmares, even if my body is too crippled to stand on its own. Gracias Che for reminding me that I exist. Gracias companeras y companeros for sharing your love with me, even when at times I was too selfish to share mine with you all. May you feel my spirit and heart whenever you inhale and allow Mother Nature to enter your body and heal your broken spirits, because to heal is to survive and all of you, my sisters and brothers are survivors. Con Amor! Tu estudiante/amigo/companero del alma.