25 of November 2013
This November afternoon, the rain hailed Mary in another virginal attempt to throw everyone behind the bars of shelter. I, barefoot and fresh from an impromptu soccer match, embraced the calamity. Rain is the epitome of effortless beauty- slender, pale nakedness that washes away the heat of the day. When it rains, I always whisper to myself, “And it was at that age, poetry arrived in search of me.” Papa said that once, aloud, and I echoed him with a simple, “I don’t know, I don’t know where it came from,” and we glanced at each other with Mona Lisa smiles and the knowledge behind the beautiful secret we shared. I told you Forrest Gump was a rite of passage, and it truly is, but that is a rite belonging to the world. Many believe watching that movie is part of growing up. But El Postino, the movie with those exquisite quotes, is a tradition founded in me from birth; a torch my parents passed to me and I’ll pass to my child and they’ll pass to my grandchild. It’s a foreign film vaguely chronicling a period of Pablo Neruda’s life through the eyes of his postman, Mario. In case you didn’t know- although I’m sure you already did- those lines Papa and I were referring to are the first two verses from one of Pablo’s poems, Poetry. Anyway, I recited those carefully crafted words as I danced in the rain. Maybe I’m crazy, or maybe I can pass for eccentric, or maybe I’m just an artist and we are always crazy. I wish I could be larger than life like my cousin Kristine though, so my crazy dancing in the rain wouldn’t seem so crazy. Instead it would seem like the only natural thing to do.
Today I gathered my wits and asked Sammy again if he was ready to listen to me. I told him that if he would stop acting so immature and have a proper conversation, then he’d understand what really happened at the Tepeyak party and maybe then he wouldn’t be mad anymore. My efforts were fruitless, but there’s no way I’m giving up on him. I suppose I broke his heart, since he considered us to be dating when I had my head in clouds about his feelings regarding me. As homeschooling looms closer and closer, a sense of urgency pervades me, though- I have to mend what I ravaged with misunderstandings before I’m gone and it’s too late. Sammy’s rejection put me into a mood for a while, but I bounced back. I was looking down at my shoes instead of picking my chin up and watching the world.
I stopped having fun for a while a couple years ago. I always talk to Mum about it as if my inner bland emotions were something of the past- long gone melodramatics- but in truth, sometimes it’s still hard for me to feel things. Maybe it’s because I have a hard heart towards things, a militant toughness inside me that only I know about, and Mum and sister, and whoever plays sports with me. Incidents happen, and my openness shuts up tight as a clam, not to show its pearls to anyone for a while, until I get my bearings. In those times, I feel nothing because I’m focusing all my energy towards forgetting the emotions that I felt before I closed up; mending my scars, pulling myself back together. Maybe my brain is trying to protect itself from another emotional collapse, and becoming void of feeling is my way of staying out of trouble while I’m recovering from the problems I hurl myself into. What I do feel during those stages of blandness is mostly infinite doldrums, tiredness, and elongated periods of headaches. Basically my lust for life is gone. It is in those long hours of boredness that I diagnose myself with potential insanity, and I commit acts of sarcastic humor and mild mayhem. I have no care for my safety, and I often wonder what it would be like to die. Dying is an awful curious adventure I think, and during those bland stages all I can see is the long years I have left on this earth stretched ahead, like grains of fine, irritating sand, until I get to fall into a slumber on a funeral parlor’s desert pillow with an eternal, glazed expression.
But sometimes I crack, and that militant, bored facade breaks a little. I’ve cried a couple times on the right side of the big king sized bed I share with my sister in the second bedroom upstairs in the house at Calle 44. I sobbed the night I got home from my narrow escape into wilderness with Daisy and Lily, and I’ve cried numerous times since the fatal party that determined my last couple weeks. I cried when I got into one of those moods because I thought I’m never going to be an artist and it’s time I woke up and realized that; I cried because even in Mexico, there’s California-cliquey gossip, and I cried because adults’ criticism of the one or two “normal” teenage choices I make never stop following me, even amongst the incalculable number of mature, adult decisions I make on a daily basis. I was being a crier, and no, it wasn’t PMS.
I hate when that moodiness creeps up on me. I guess it’s an immature part of me right now, but I am going to do big things, and I have a responsibility for the gifts I was given to help make this kingdom a better place. I always feel as if the only love I’ll ever really have- I’m not talking about boys here, haha- is life, so I hate getting into those ruts where you’re overly dramatic by not being dramatic at all, and life has no meaning. It’s a teenager thing- if you’re between fourteen and eighteen, people assure you’re pouting when you put on a big amount of black eyeliner, Dr. Martens, and clam up. We aren’t pouting at all- we’re coming to terms with ourselves. We don’t rebel to get back at the world, in most cases, we rebel to find ourselves. Teenagers are selfish- we wouldn’t do something to influence others unless it aides our social lives. Luckily, I just appear like a slightly gothic blondie when I get into those funks, not too bad, and the clamming-up part usually doesn’t last too long. I have too much to say, like Anne Frank, if you have read her musings. So my bland emotional states come and go, but mostly they go, because I’m too excited for life to stay down for long. It’s like when I play soccer- even though I’m one of the smallest ones out there and I get rammed down when I play too aggressively, I pop right back up. Determination, or whatever. Self-motivation and all that jazz. Sammy can’t keep me down, Juan can’t, Daisy and Lily utterly failed from the beginning of their attempts, and no one else ever will.
I have my family behind me, the people I love more than anything, and my best friend, Mum, so no matter what happens, I’m rooted in an overflowing community of support that will never let me go.