(no subject)
I don't know a hell of a lot about anything anymore. I think this is a disease of aging, the older you get the less you filter- the less you know. Things start to pass as paintings and slide shows you don't pause to examine, you just squint your eyes and feign attention as they flash by. It's hard to know a whole hell of a lot about anything when you spend most of your time trying to convince people to kill lobsters and empty a house of dead fish and fill it with money. Since I don't really eat anything that once moved my diet consists mostly of the crusts and corners of ciabatta bread that can't sell, a lot of tartar sauce, orange mint dressing, side salads, chocolate bars, diet coke, coffee and almonds when I remember to buy them from Navarro and an endless army of Red Bull soldiers shooting poisonous, caffeinated yellow bubbles at my belly bungalos.
Navarro always harbors the longest line of old cowering Cubans, who are superbly charismatic and frustrating, I adore them- they drive me mad. They are such an anomaly to hectic, efficient American life, asking the cashier a thousand questions about coupons and the infinite potential of detergent, and dropping bold statements of shock at the exorbitant price of a stuffed toy abuelita. I agree, I wanted it too- not for my grandkids though- for my refusal to surrender childhood attachments- but 20$, who are those corporate giants kidding? Not me or the cackling Cuban queens of wrinkles and cortados. I have accepted people's ruthless ambitions of big business and real estate and decided it is just built into them like collar bones and spinal cords. I have also accepted the sparkle that fades and dissolves in people's vapid eyes like spinning tops losing juice when I tell them I might want to work for an NGO someday or own a flowershop or a restaurant that anyone and everyone can afford and only sells the healthiest, most miscreant food with premium desserts. I still love people, this fact is a little gold penny I am hanging onto. I keep it in my flesh pocket for good luck. I have made a habit of visiting hole in the wall bars with my babyboy Ron, a tall, unique, goofy gay man studying conducting at UM and Raquelita, a little 18 year old Mexican girl who moved here all on her own from Guadalajara with more dignity and wisdom than a timeless taoist sage. She is a small hero, I am sure of it. My sister writes me inspiring and glamorous letters from the wild green fields and mural caves of Chiapas, she is a small hero too.
I have become weak for old men with big bellies, shaved heads and beautiful eyes in button down shirts. I am saving a lot of money and think I may reach my financial goal come May so that I can survive in Boston in Septambra. Playfulness and empty flirtation keep me going. I have been working 55 plus hour weeks for the past month, last week I pulled 6 doubles, four of them back to back. I am a work-a-holic champion. I hope this is not fate for the rest of my life, I fear it may be. I should find something creative I can do well if that is the case. My only outlet for personality right now is my little black book, my eyelids and neck so I regularly change and cover all three with all manner of colors, twinkles and pictures, I have to keep the decor on my black book conservative, endearing and cliche to avoid my coworkers thinking I am more strange than they already imagine. What kind of logic allows her to make these gaudy decisions? And what is she doing here? Supporting myself, shaking the foundations of my environment- I suppose, escaping emotional confrontations, wrangling with my innate brutish indecisiveness. Who knows? I don't- I am just rolling with the cortaditos, blue hurricanes and good tips for now. It is hard to write about anything when nothing changes. The most exciting thing I have done recently is wander the gutters of the Calle Ocho carnival, boy was that something. I need to post pictures.
Navarro always harbors the longest line of old cowering Cubans, who are superbly charismatic and frustrating, I adore them- they drive me mad. They are such an anomaly to hectic, efficient American life, asking the cashier a thousand questions about coupons and the infinite potential of detergent, and dropping bold statements of shock at the exorbitant price of a stuffed toy abuelita. I agree, I wanted it too- not for my grandkids though- for my refusal to surrender childhood attachments- but 20$, who are those corporate giants kidding? Not me or the cackling Cuban queens of wrinkles and cortados. I have accepted people's ruthless ambitions of big business and real estate and decided it is just built into them like collar bones and spinal cords. I have also accepted the sparkle that fades and dissolves in people's vapid eyes like spinning tops losing juice when I tell them I might want to work for an NGO someday or own a flowershop or a restaurant that anyone and everyone can afford and only sells the healthiest, most miscreant food with premium desserts. I still love people, this fact is a little gold penny I am hanging onto. I keep it in my flesh pocket for good luck. I have made a habit of visiting hole in the wall bars with my babyboy Ron, a tall, unique, goofy gay man studying conducting at UM and Raquelita, a little 18 year old Mexican girl who moved here all on her own from Guadalajara with more dignity and wisdom than a timeless taoist sage. She is a small hero, I am sure of it. My sister writes me inspiring and glamorous letters from the wild green fields and mural caves of Chiapas, she is a small hero too.
I have become weak for old men with big bellies, shaved heads and beautiful eyes in button down shirts. I am saving a lot of money and think I may reach my financial goal come May so that I can survive in Boston in Septambra. Playfulness and empty flirtation keep me going. I have been working 55 plus hour weeks for the past month, last week I pulled 6 doubles, four of them back to back. I am a work-a-holic champion. I hope this is not fate for the rest of my life, I fear it may be. I should find something creative I can do well if that is the case. My only outlet for personality right now is my little black book, my eyelids and neck so I regularly change and cover all three with all manner of colors, twinkles and pictures, I have to keep the decor on my black book conservative, endearing and cliche to avoid my coworkers thinking I am more strange than they already imagine. What kind of logic allows her to make these gaudy decisions? And what is she doing here? Supporting myself, shaking the foundations of my environment- I suppose, escaping emotional confrontations, wrangling with my innate brutish indecisiveness. Who knows? I don't- I am just rolling with the cortaditos, blue hurricanes and good tips for now. It is hard to write about anything when nothing changes. The most exciting thing I have done recently is wander the gutters of the Calle Ocho carnival, boy was that something. I need to post pictures.