Trust, trust, trust, trust, trust...
Mistrust can erode a relationship.
Trust, trust, trust, trust, trust...
I'm a flesh-and-bone person. I'm not a hologram. I'm not a photo on your screen.
Trust, trust, trust, trust, trust...
What happens when it's broken? The image we cultivated of our beloved also breaks.
So....
Trust, trust, trust, trust, trust.
Never, never, never, never, never!
Saturday, November 4, 2017
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
New Blog
I started blogging at https://guevaragema.wordpress.com
I'll leave this site up. I'm not ready to take it down. :(
Sunday, December 14, 2014
Why I Write
I don't remember the last time I didn't want to write. And I don't remember the last time I didn't want to read. Actually, I do remember. Three months ago. Austerlitz.
I can't decide why I want to write. There are simply too many reasons. I just know that this desire transcends the appeal and power I found in words. This urge to write was born of the powerful need to be heard. To tell stories. To be remembered. Because if there is something I fear more than death itself is the inevitability of oblivion.
I can't decide why I want to write. There are simply too many reasons. I just know that this desire transcends the appeal and power I found in words. This urge to write was born of the powerful need to be heard. To tell stories. To be remembered. Because if there is something I fear more than death itself is the inevitability of oblivion.
I write because I want to create characters that stand the test of time. I write to better understand our struggles, our ability to deal with them, and our decisions and consequences. I write because writing is a gateway to the divine. I write because writing is a way to empathize, to think and become aware of our limitations. I write because writing makes life brighter and warmer. I write because I wouldn't know what I'm thinking unless I wrote it down. When I write, for the briefest of moments, I have the sneaking suspicion that words lend me their power to do and be anything I want. When I'm writing, I'm invincible. I'm at once everything and nothing. That's the funny thing about words: something so small contains an immeasurable amount of power. The perfect sentence, a witty remark, a play on words, that's what I love. I fell in love with words. A pure, traffic-stopping, lip-licking, chocolate rich love.
I write because there are no rules in writing. Frankly, sometimes we need to let ourselves remember that rules need not apply everywhere. I write because I wouldn't know what happiness is if I didn't. I write to color the area between black and white. I write because writing restores hope and meaning.
Writing is licking one's fingers and patting one's belly after a scrumptious meal. Writing is thinking through our fingers. Writing is beautiful. Timeless. Magical. Writing is my sanctuary.
I write because there are no rules in writing. Frankly, sometimes we need to let ourselves remember that rules need not apply everywhere. I write because I wouldn't know what happiness is if I didn't. I write to color the area between black and white. I write because writing restores hope and meaning.
Writing is licking one's fingers and patting one's belly after a scrumptious meal. Writing is thinking through our fingers. Writing is beautiful. Timeless. Magical. Writing is my sanctuary.
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
The Magic of the Undead
Halloween is upon us, an we can't deny our lust for the dreadful, yet conversely beautiful, undead.Teenage girls and middle-aged women cannot resist the allure of vampirism. It is temptation in its purest form.
We dream of the tormented monster, the one who denies his very nature and strives to regain a thread of humanity. We wish him into our lives, into our hearts. We want to love the creature that doesn't want to be loved. Good girls want to change the bad boy. They want him to declare his undying affection for them.
It is true, vampires are the ultimate Doms.
Everything about them--from their looks to their imposing presence--is meant to lure us in. We're nothing more than the sheep happily trotting into the slaughter.
Why are we, then, so enamored with the notion of the undead?
There is no easy answer. Vampires force us to indulge in our overarching wickedness. We are inherently aggressive, sometimes driven by our basest instincts. Of course the vampire does not follow the rules. The undead can get away with everything, as they are not limited in the same way that we are. They've had several lifetimes to master stealth and wit, after all. We are covetous of the precious things they have: immortality, the cunning of the ages, their refusal to surrender their youth to Father Time.
This fantasy starts innocently: we want an emotionally available vampire, sweet and gentle, whose nights consist of pampering us and planting kisses on our forehead. But as we mature so do our fantasies. Sweet and gentle is not enough. We want passion, fire and excitement. Feelings and emotions cease to be important. The stereotype of the bad boy, seeking redemption, resonates with us. We want to save the bad boy. We want him to enlist our help.
This fantasy starts innocently: we want an emotionally available vampire, sweet and gentle, whose nights consist of pampering us and planting kisses on our forehead. But as we mature so do our fantasies. Sweet and gentle is not enough. We want passion, fire and excitement. Feelings and emotions cease to be important. The stereotype of the bad boy, seeking redemption, resonates with us. We want to save the bad boy. We want him to enlist our help.
But even more scandalous is the fact that we aspire to be like the bad boy. We want to channel our wickedness through sadomasochistic behavior. We want to employ the threat of fangs as a means to fulfill our needs and wants. Equally arousing is the man who uses his fangs to exert dominance.
The vampire is a womanizer. His old world charm is particularly irresistible. It's the perfect tool to mesmerize and draw oblivious young women to them.
There is no greater womanizer than Count Dracula himself.
His strange physical deformities (Hairy palms? Really? Think about the connotations) not only seem to work in his favor but make him all the more attractive. Heavy-bosomed women parade behind him, ready to pleasure him and tend to his needs. Hello, blood bags.
It also helps that he has a way with people and is able to magnetize them.
I imagine Dracula to be the sugar daddy of vampires. He pays generously for the services afforded him. (If you haven't guessed, the pay is immortality and eternal youth.) Who wouldn't want to offer herself up for a taste of immortality? Don't roll your eyes. We're all greedy, after all.
Everyone's dying, but you're not old yet.
We want to stir the monster beneath the surface. Maybe even slough off our good girl skin and indulge in hedonistic behavior. Yes, that sounds like a plan.
The sexual overtones inherent in vampirism flash like a neon sign. We associate it with the liberation of sexuality, a representation of our primal urges--all of the things that make us uncivilized.
The point is, all I want for Halloween is a vampire. (Edward Cullen is not an option.)
Friday, October 24, 2014
The Inner Critic is What Holds Us Back
Why do we let fear hold us back? Why are we so afraid to oppose it? Why...?
Do we believe our ideas are not worth expressing? Do we believe ourselves unworthy of recognition, praise?
It's time we unhooked ourselves from our fears. It's time we expressed our ideas loudly and clearly. It's time we sent out into the universe our wishes and desires. It's time we asked for its help. Only then can we eliminate the fear of criticism.
Do we believe our ideas are not worth expressing? Do we believe ourselves unworthy of recognition, praise?
It's time we unhooked ourselves from our fears. It's time we expressed our ideas loudly and clearly. It's time we sent out into the universe our wishes and desires. It's time we asked for its help. Only then can we eliminate the fear of criticism.
Criticism isn't meant to hurt us; it's meant to push us to do our best possible work. Our inner judge patrols the borders of our comfort zone, making sure we don't venture forth out of that zone. It doesn't want us to take the next big step, to change our possibilities into realities. But must we let it make decisions for us? We must be willing to venture out far beyond the border of comfort. We must not be afraid to act recklessly, because life isn't about playing it safe. It's about placing bets and hoping to win.
Our inner critic won't completely go away. Its mission is to fill our heads with mantras of "you're not good enough" and "this isn't right for you," and the best way to diminish its power of persuasion is to play big and dangerously.
The inner critic does not want to harm us; it wants us to live comfortably. This idea of comfort is what holds us back. We are afraid to explore a world of possibilities, because we've convinced ourselves we will never survive the jungle of madness. Ultimately, this is what our inner critic wants: to force us into submission.
It tells us that, if we don't listen to it, we will only make fool of ourselves and fail. If we don't peel back the many layers of comfort, we will never break the cycle of "I'm not good enough."
We are good enough, and even if we're not, we will be. Reaching a level of good enough takes patience and hard work. Are we willing to spend years upon years perfecting our craft? Creating beauty out of fear? Art out of chaos? We won't know unless we make an effort to ignore our inner critic and set out to do what we were meant to do.
Women are so damn afraid of criticism, but we ought not take criticism personally. Criticism reveals useful information about the person giving it, not about ourselves.
As a matter of fact, it's not such a bad idea to think of criticism as useful feedback to improve a defective aspect of our work. Without feedback, we won't be able to grow into our true selves. Let's keep in mind that feedback is not meant to hurt us, but to challenge us to produce high-quality work.
Feedback is another way of saying: you need to transform your diamond in the rough into an exquisite piece of jewelry.
Polish your diamond and the result will be gratifying. I promise.
Our inner critic won't completely go away. Its mission is to fill our heads with mantras of "you're not good enough" and "this isn't right for you," and the best way to diminish its power of persuasion is to play big and dangerously.
The inner critic does not want to harm us; it wants us to live comfortably. This idea of comfort is what holds us back. We are afraid to explore a world of possibilities, because we've convinced ourselves we will never survive the jungle of madness. Ultimately, this is what our inner critic wants: to force us into submission.
It tells us that, if we don't listen to it, we will only make fool of ourselves and fail. If we don't peel back the many layers of comfort, we will never break the cycle of "I'm not good enough."
We are good enough, and even if we're not, we will be. Reaching a level of good enough takes patience and hard work. Are we willing to spend years upon years perfecting our craft? Creating beauty out of fear? Art out of chaos? We won't know unless we make an effort to ignore our inner critic and set out to do what we were meant to do.
Women are so damn afraid of criticism, but we ought not take criticism personally. Criticism reveals useful information about the person giving it, not about ourselves.
As a matter of fact, it's not such a bad idea to think of criticism as useful feedback to improve a defective aspect of our work. Without feedback, we won't be able to grow into our true selves. Let's keep in mind that feedback is not meant to hurt us, but to challenge us to produce high-quality work.
Feedback is another way of saying: you need to transform your diamond in the rough into an exquisite piece of jewelry.
Polish your diamond and the result will be gratifying. I promise.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Lost in The City of Blinding Lights
New York thrums with energy, day and night. The city transports those who dare to set foot in it to places unknown, where pulsing lights and shadows converge to form a city of illusions. With its looming buildings and concrete streets, New York can be a jungle of dreams or a maze of confusion. The many avenues and turns and shortcuts can leave those accustomed to small-town life gasping for air. Literally.
It is easy to get lost in the Big Apple, and even harder to find our destination. When you no longer can rely on maps and you're starting to break out in a profuse sweat, you need only to fall on your knees and pray for a GPS. (Especially if you don't have reliable WiFi access.)
A few days ago, while in NYC, I spent two hours looking for the subway station. Exhausted, I was about ready to catch the first train out of the city. I was not getting paid enough to do this. As a matter of fact, I was not getting paid at all. I could not bear the heat of the underground station. I could not bear the stench of rotting garbage or the overwhelming sea of people. The fumes of the train made my eyes water, and sweat plastered my hair to the nape of my neck. It hadn't occurred to me that I was deep in the heart of the city.
I don't like to ask for help. I'd much rather wander the streets in hopeless desperation than confess that my sense of direction has once again failed me. I don't know what that says about me. Through the years, I've employed a simple learning technique: Look closely for clues and figure it out. Everything I need to know is around me; it's only a matter of being aware of my surroundings. Too bad this same principle does not apply to New York's subway system. While it is no remarkable feat to familiarize oneself with the underground station (as many a people have done it in the past), I was on a tight schedule. I could not afford to while away the afternoon reading pamphlets and deciphering maps.
Finally, amid swearing and sweating, I found the PATH--the transit system linking New York to New Jersey urban communities. Soon after stumbling into the PATH, I paid the fare, boarded the train, and sighed with relief. This process, unlike what I'd gone through, was both comforting and familiar.
New York is a playground for adventurers. The thrill of trekking through unknown land and discovering hidden passageways attracts tourists all year round. With surprise lurking around every corner, who would want to miss out on the opportunity to explore the big city? There is a reason New York is lovingly dubbed the Big Apple. Good things don't always come in small packages.
New York forced me to shed the cloak I was hiding in. It reinforced a sense of independence that, despite unseen threats, managed to awake in me a desire to make the city my playground. I longed to swim amid blinding lights and colossal buildings, to weave my way through the twinkling stars that surround the city in a dreamy haze of endless summer.
The New York I love is built on a field of multicolored lights and cosmopolitan dreams. The New York I love is above ground, where it lures the ambitious into dreams of success and fame, knowing quite well that it is but an illusion--hard to let go of, yet easy to shatter.
The New York I love is a complicated network of streets and buildings which, despite its seemingly welcoming aura, is equally indifferent to the faint-hearted as to those looking for adventure. But once it warms your heart, it is hard to untangle yourself from its grasp--even if it made you lose your way and tested your patience.
Welcome to New York.
It is easy to get lost in the Big Apple, and even harder to find our destination. When you no longer can rely on maps and you're starting to break out in a profuse sweat, you need only to fall on your knees and pray for a GPS. (Especially if you don't have reliable WiFi access.)
A few days ago, while in NYC, I spent two hours looking for the subway station. Exhausted, I was about ready to catch the first train out of the city. I was not getting paid enough to do this. As a matter of fact, I was not getting paid at all. I could not bear the heat of the underground station. I could not bear the stench of rotting garbage or the overwhelming sea of people. The fumes of the train made my eyes water, and sweat plastered my hair to the nape of my neck. It hadn't occurred to me that I was deep in the heart of the city.
I don't like to ask for help. I'd much rather wander the streets in hopeless desperation than confess that my sense of direction has once again failed me. I don't know what that says about me. Through the years, I've employed a simple learning technique: Look closely for clues and figure it out. Everything I need to know is around me; it's only a matter of being aware of my surroundings. Too bad this same principle does not apply to New York's subway system. While it is no remarkable feat to familiarize oneself with the underground station (as many a people have done it in the past), I was on a tight schedule. I could not afford to while away the afternoon reading pamphlets and deciphering maps.
Finally, amid swearing and sweating, I found the PATH--the transit system linking New York to New Jersey urban communities. Soon after stumbling into the PATH, I paid the fare, boarded the train, and sighed with relief. This process, unlike what I'd gone through, was both comforting and familiar.
New York is a playground for adventurers. The thrill of trekking through unknown land and discovering hidden passageways attracts tourists all year round. With surprise lurking around every corner, who would want to miss out on the opportunity to explore the big city? There is a reason New York is lovingly dubbed the Big Apple. Good things don't always come in small packages.
New York forced me to shed the cloak I was hiding in. It reinforced a sense of independence that, despite unseen threats, managed to awake in me a desire to make the city my playground. I longed to swim amid blinding lights and colossal buildings, to weave my way through the twinkling stars that surround the city in a dreamy haze of endless summer.
The New York I love is built on a field of multicolored lights and cosmopolitan dreams. The New York I love is above ground, where it lures the ambitious into dreams of success and fame, knowing quite well that it is but an illusion--hard to let go of, yet easy to shatter.
The New York I love is a complicated network of streets and buildings which, despite its seemingly welcoming aura, is equally indifferent to the faint-hearted as to those looking for adventure. But once it warms your heart, it is hard to untangle yourself from its grasp--even if it made you lose your way and tested your patience.
Welcome to New York.
Saturday, August 2, 2014
To Move or Not To Move
Third-party observers might be oblivious to the conflicting emotions clashing within me. But inside, a storm rages on. Without a warning, I steel myself as a wave of nostalgia crashes over me, tossing me against the rocks and leaving me floating face up. All the while the memories created through the years and the secrets whispered wash up on shore briefly, their essence slowly merging with the sea.
Packing has stirred memories I thought I'd buried miles and miles beneath the earth's surface.
The ghost of memories past floats around the room,
uncontrollably and recklessly, unwilling to absent itself and plunging into the conscious mind, where it plays a movie which I know all too well--life. (A room which bore witness to adolescent angst, raging hormones and baser emotions, now awaits a new occupant.) Lingering in this hormone-filled space is the formidable spirit of youth, engrained in the fabric of this perfectly imperfect abode.
The air is redolent of dirty laundry
and dust. A bookshelf stands in the far corner
of the room. A myriad of books sit on the shelves (most vampire fiction), their pages bent
and frayed—a sign they have been read one too many times. Their covers battered
and abused. A thin layer of dust covers almost every square inch of this dimly-lit
cave, no matter how many times I dust and vacuum. (Clearly a mischief from the god
of dust.)
The drawers of a single dresser are half open. Underwear and socks spill out of them. Deodorants, a brush, and sanitary napkins, along
with an undergraduate course catalog and my class schedule, clutter the surface of the
dresser. I've never bothered to arrange them neatly; I’m not as organized a
person as I've led myself to think.
Today, I packed a decade of books into
five boxes, careful not to damage their fragile exterior. A decade of
memories, of tears and accomplishments trapped in a room that witnessed my leap
from childhood to adulthood. I spent a decade memorizing the smallest details: the
pink walls, the popcorn ceiling, the chipped paint. A cobweb dangling above my
bed. The desk covered with textbooks and magazines. A lamp. More dust. A wooden door.
I weaved through boxes, knowing that in a few days' time I would be starting life elsewhere.
I weaved through boxes, knowing that in a few days' time I would be starting life elsewhere.
It suddenly occurred to me that I
expected our residence to be permanent. Change was slung at me like a boulder
from a catapult, and I can’t help feeling the brunt of the blow. It’s always
been inevitable.
There will always be more opportunities to create new memories, to collect the little shells that we carry with us always--wherever we go, whenever we go.
There will always be more opportunities to create new memories, to collect the little shells that we carry with us always--wherever we go, whenever we go.
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