Shadows in the clouds

As I was telling Diego yesterday during our live broadcast on radio global, only in New York I've seen the buildings project shadows into the sky. It's not usual, you need the right combination of fog density, light and tall buildings. I took this picture last summer, one night after Oscar and I left our favorite wine bar in Midtown Manhattan. We haven't been there in a while, as we haven't had our usual long conversations. Things are different now. The year is almost over and I don't have my new year's resolutions. Last year I painted my house, and changed the layout of my room entirely. This year I want to throw things away, I just want to keep the basics and leave room for breathing (and new ideas!). I also want to go back to my old habits of finding beauty on almost everything, like enjoying the sight of the fog covering the buildings.

while you read...

Victor is reading his book about Mexican caudillo and revolutionary Pancho Villa. He laughs, stops reading and mention that he is comparing this book to Sun Tzu's Art of War. I oppose war, but I have to admit that Master Tzu's teachings are amazingly useful. While he reads I play with my iPod shuffle, hoping the variety in music will provide me with enough ideas and inspiration to write. As I do so, Oscar arrives. We take a minute to discuss his day, Argentinean food and good news from Carlos, someone he dated last year. Dating for gay men seems as complicated as it is for heterosexual women. It's not hard to hook-up with someone, but it's hard to keep it going, not to mention to transform dating into a real relationship. My iPod jumps to a Coldcut podcast that uses Black Uhuru's dub as a sample. The last time I heard this track Capuchi and I were driving from San Diego to Tijuana on his family's purple van. This was about four years ago, and the only time I've crossed the US-Mexico border. I was surprised about how you can actually travel to Mexico without getting questioned. By definition, crossing a border on a purple passenger van without showing my passport makes me feel suspicious, and dub, as a perfect soundtrack, reinforced the feeling. Victor continues to laugh to his book, and TV sounds come from Oscar's bedroom. I'm cold, so I'm wearing a colorful Peruvian hat I brought from my last trip to Machu Picchu. I'm 31, and I feel glad that I can still afford to enjoy weekday nights listening to music, drinking Riesling and having a lover/boyfriend without having to look glamourous.

My Mom will meet her grandchildren for the first time today; as a matter of fact she might just be doing so as I write. The story of most families is not linear, nor is it easy to tell. There are so many reasons on why things go wrong and ties are broken, so many words unspoken, pride, fear and love; and suddenly there comes the need to get the pieces back together. Today will become her happiest Christmas story.

For me, this will be a forced New York Christmas vacation. My visa renovation is in process, so it’s not possible to leave the country at this time. Nevertheless, I’m happy as I've never got the chance to enjoy the city as a tourist with Victor. Also, I need some time for myself, to write this year’s recount, and start drafting ideas for the coming one. “2010 will be a great year,” Neil, the building manager told me today as I was stepping in the elevator. In the meantime, it’s just 4:30 pm and already getting dark, and I still got lots of pending tasks before heading home.

Loose ideas

Victor talks to his mom while I listen to an old song from a Mark Farina's album. I remember Lalis doing her free-style dancing to this song, red curls shaking and all, which makes me think that my hair is so boring. I need to have a hair-do that makes a statement; that makes people think about something interesting. Is that even possible? What will be interesting for me? Learning the new mathematical theorems, or how to break historical vicious cycles. I guess my hair could never spark any of these questions in anyone, but there's nothing wrong in trying it. It's very cold outside, and so windy that our window panes are banging. I've been eating kettle corn popcorn while I slowly drink a glass of Shiraz. I'm addicted to salty-sweet flavors, it makes my life easier as I don't have to decide between salty or sweet. Victor is reading out loud the names of Latin American countries in Japanese, " Chile takes only four symbols!". Maybe that's because it's phonetic. As he admires his paper Globe he notices a little island near the South Pole, between Africa and Australia, really south. "Do you think someone lives here?" he asks, "It's so lost in the middle of nowhere." I guess that our planet is just lost in the middle of nowhere. So many questions remain unanswered. As I think this my iPod shuffle moves to French hip-hop, and I wonder what kind of hair-do French-African women are using these days.

Happy Birthday

Yesterday was my grandmother's birthday. She didn't celebrated; she lost all trace of memory a few years ago. I started documenting her life at the same time she started loosing her ability to communicate. I guess it's my way to feel connected.

The office is very cold today; it usually takes a while for the building managment to get the thermostate correct. In the meantime we debate if it's too much to wear a coat indoors. Some days just feel like bad luck days, small bad things that keep accumulating. Today it started with the burned and extremly sweet coffee from the new guy at the coffee stand; not to mention that the bag of chips I bought for lunch exploded as I was trying to open it, leaving small pieces of cheddar and salt all over my black velvet pants. Now at 6:01 pm I got an email from my lawyer saying the US immigration department needs extra documentation to approve my visa. Some days you wished you had stayed home to avoid all kind of small catastrophes. On the flip side, I got an email from Agatha with some good insights about how she sees my future. Promising.

two years ago, before departing

My uncle Yemil, the last full-blooded Lebanese in my family, died last week. I never met my grandfather, but I spent some exceptional time with his brothers when I was a little girl. They migrated from Lebanon to Orizaba, Mexico, where they grew up to become Mexicans that never again pronounced a word in Arabic. We always talk about migration as a larger economic and sociopolitical process, but we rarely think ourselves as a result from it. It might help to read my grandmother's cookbook to tell the story of migration in my family. Some people get surprised that in my house no one cooks mole, not even enchiladas; sad enough, none of us knows how to make them. On the other hand, as a child I learned to prepare stuffed grape leaves, and cook rice with pine nuts. Most of my family's recipes come from Spain, although we eat plantain with almost every meal as my great-grandfather spent years in Cuba on his way to Mexico. Two days ago Javier, a Peruvian friend with Chinese, Italian and Spanish descent, asked me if I felt Lebanese to certain extent. Truth is I don't, as no one in my family tried to preserve that identity. I wish I could drink coffee at a coffee shop in Beirut, but also I'm much more fond to chiles verdes than any of my ancestors.

"You should write in your blog that she is pregnant," Victor said after spotting Amanda Peet at Bubby's in Tribeca this morning. We woke up earlier than usual because Victor needed to take a picture of the Wall Street bull. Maria came along; today is the first time that I make her leave the house without taking a shower. Our intention was to get to the bull statue before the hoards of tourists, but we were not successful. We waited for the right moment, but we got discouraged after a bus with a group of Japanese men parked across Broadway. We walked uptown by the river until we were too hungry to keep going. "This is the first time that I see a movie star in person," Maria said as Amanda Peet ate her omelet. She (Maria) and Victor talked for a long time about their families, proudly sharing the stories about their ancestors while I quietly stirred my coffee. In the late afternoon we devoured a chocolate cake on a bench by The Plaza before getting into the movies to watch Coco Before Chanel. "Women always have it harder," Maria said after leaving the movie theater, "they need to choose between love and a career." Truth is there is not an easy way to get either or both, but I agree with her, for women it seems always harder.

We are listening to Nina Simone, her strong voice fills the living room while I'm writing. At the same time Enrique, Oscar's friend, is taking a nap in the guest room and we can hear him snore; quite loud actually. It's 10:26 of a Saturday night, but it's cold outside and I rather stay home. I left the house early this morning and walked around Union Square's Farmer's Market before meeting Genoveva for brunch at the Blue Water Grill. It was a beautiful day; one of those crispy and sunny autumn days, perfect to walk around freshly cut basil, wild arugula and homemade rhubarb pie. I'm going back home where I was born sings Ms. Simone, First I planned to stay but I can't live this way. Victor is reading Crude World, a book about oil, and how it becomes a political and economical burden for developing countries. Enrique continues to snore. I'm sitting on a table by his bedroom so I'm keeping track of his sleeping pattern (he almost chuckles as I'm typing this). Try to understand, I think this city is grand. During brunch Genoveva and I had the usual girls' talk: men, love, work and other life dilemmas. Although she got married 7 months ago, we still share the eternal unsettlement feeling. But with all its charm, give me a little country farm. "It seems longer since you got married," I said, "I miss those days, before and after your wedding, and how that event bring all of us together." Things change and I'm an adventurous nostalgic; so I guess I'll be always missing something.

Thanksgiving in Little Italy
We came to Pellegrino's in Little Italy for Thanksgiving dinner. Bulent worked here when he first moved from Turkey. "They are like my family, these guys, they looked after me" he said while holding Cristina in his arms. Anthony, the manager, has been working in this place for more than sixteen years. "I grew up in New York City, I lived in every neighborhood, from South Seaport to Bensonhurst in Brooklyn," he answered when asked about his background. I expected him to be Italian, but being from New York and having Italian descent seems more than enough. "Cristina, why you moved here, and what made you stay?" I inquired. "All my friends were getting married in my hometown as a way of getting out of their homes and gaining freedom," she replied, "but I always knew it was not for me." Cristina found a new family in the city, with Rosy and Nestor serving as moral pillars all these years. On the other side of the table Nestor relentlessly fights the short ribs on his dinner plate. At age 85 he has lost most of his body fat and appetite. He still got his acid humor and the smoking habit. "Do you think New York has changed for better?" I asked Anthony. "It's hard to tell," he replied, "it is certainly safer, but I miss the character of certain neighborhoods. Take for example Times Square, it used to be filled with prostitution and hustlers and now it's sort of a Disney consortium." Nestor suddenly decides he doesn't like his food and leaves half of it untouched, as he murmurs complaints to Victor and me that are hard to understand. As we wait for our glass of Averna and expresso I think how happy I feel and how everything seems in its place for a moment.

Sitcom victim
I stare outside the restaurant window, I take a sip of my drink, and a UPS truck parks across the street. In the background Sade’s No Ordinary Love is playing. “This is exactly how I imagined it,” I tell Victor, as I’m clearly relaxed after drinking half my glass. I was a little girl in Mexico City dreaming about my life as an adult in New York, while staring at the limitless city lights from the balcony. My mom played eighties music and Sade was included in her playlist. Her voice transports me to that time when I was hoping to be here; and here I am. “I’m just missing the loft,” I added. “How did you knew about lofts as a little girl?” Victor asked suspiciously. “From an old sitcom about a young woman that worked at a music record label. She also had a brick wall at her apartment, and since then I’ve been crazy about red brick walls.”

Lalis left on Sunday afternoon, leaving us without her high-pitched laughter and her reddish and uncontrollable curls. After she closed the door and waved goodbye from the gypsy cab I felt so tired and sad that I slept the day away. She is so in love with Mario that she brought some kind of sunshine into our house. "I'm afraid to say so, but this man is the love of my life," she said in confidence Sunday morning while we were drinking a latte at Martha's Bakery. This is a huge deal for her; she has never let herself go this deep. She is the kind of girl that has a strong personality, so men tend to feel threatened by her. Mario, on the contrary, loves her all the way; even more so when she is firm and even capricious.
We are going to the Metropolitan Opera House tonight to see Turandot; the second opera in a week; we saw La Damnation de Faust with Lalis and Mario on Saturday. Some of my friends think opera is artsy-fartsy, not recognizing all the pieces of hard work that are involved for every single production. Anyway, after the opera we celebrated Victor´s birthday at Pio-Pio, a Peruvian chicken restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen eating pollo with aji, maduros, and rice and beans.

I met Sarah at Union Square after work today. She looked beautiful with her long straight blonde hair; she was shining. I haven't seen her for a while. The last time I saw her was during her book signing in Chelsea, though we had no time to talk personal matters. She was truly my first American friend; I met her while she was waiting for the loan approval to go to the School of Journalism at NYU. Back then drinking coffee in her living room was the only thing that felt sane. New York was still a unmanageable place for us, and we were young, poor and single (well, I was actually married for a while, but I got divorced later). She got married a year ago and is now completing a fellowship at Columbia University to write her second book on the downside of desegregation in the public education system. Her diamond ring shines as she moves her hands while speaking. "I haven't stopped wearing it since I got it," she said, "it's small but it's still Tiffany's." We've come a long way. For her moving from Kentucky to New York for graduate school, having already published a book and a second one underway is not a small achievement. I still recall drinking Bourbon, listening to old country records and cooking fish risotto at her place while wondering how to get a real job and some kind of real love. "I've made up my mind," I said. "I'm more inclined to study management and marketing. I'm not dreaming about going to film school anymore; I'm not that talented." "Oh no, you are talented," she replied. But we both know things are quite harder than they seem when you can't miss paying the rent each month. There is still a long way to go. "No one knows what will happen to journalism," she said worried, "newspapers are getting out of print." "Why don't you write a blog?" I asked. "No, I feel my mom will be the only one reading it." she said while holding her breath. Still her book Gangs in Garden City is available at any Barnes and Noble across the country.

Playing tangos in Miraflores

Lindsey and I are resting under the covers. The piano man is still playing in the lobby, we can hear him from our room on the 4th floor. He comes every day to Hotel Faraona and plays a wide repertory of Latin American music from 2:00 PM until late at night. He claims to have traveled the world; he speaks French and knows every song we asked for, from Nicaraguan revolutionary songs to Colombian tangos from the highlands. He must be sad that most of the participants from our training have left; they were his captive audience. It makes me sad too; saying goodbye to people always hits me, even when I had just met them. The hotel is now filled with new faces, afro-peruvian women that came to Lima for a conference. It's almost 9:00 PM and we need to get ready to meet with Sean, Sdenka and Javier for a drink. We are going to Juanitos, a famous old cantina in Barranco that sells pork sandwiches. The piano man is now playing a famous Oscar de Leon's salsa song. Lindsey is curled-up in her bed trying to use any extra time to rest and I'm trying to find a nice way to end this post. I should stop writing now, as Sean might call our room anytime to ask if we are ready to meet downstairs.

I've got writer's block, again. Lots of food for thought at work these days, but I haven't got any time to think about personal matters. Last night we went to Larcomar, a mall by the sea in the posh neighborhood in Lima. I'm disappointed by how Peruvians ignore their coastline. Lima gives its back to the shore, and it seems as if everything was built facing inland. Guadalajara, Mexico is even worst. They had a river that crossed the city north to south, until authorities decided it was better to tube it. As a result, streets dangerously flood every time it rains as water follows its natural path.

I like men who aren't ashamed to carry my handbag

Roma at a slow pace

Lindsey is doing yoga on the floor between our beds. I haven't gone to the gym for a while, and snacking between coffee breaks won't help me fit on those skinny jeans waiting at my closet. Today was a good work day and I hope it will keep this way for the entire week. I love making connections, so bringing activists and radio producers from across Latin America to share their experiences and find ways to collaborate with us and between them makes me very happy.
For anyone that is not from Latin America it might be hard to distinguish the cultural differences between regions and countries. For some people we all speak Spanish, practice Catholicism, eat rice and beans, and play music really hard; regardless if you come from the Andes, the Amazon, Patagonia, Central America or northern Mexico. I guess it's the same way my mom thinks about Asia, for her it's very hard to distinguish any difference between Asian countries. Colombia is my favorite from all the Latin American countries I've been to. Even when there is something unique and special about Bolivia, it is Colombia where I could move to right away. It's hard to explain, but there is something about its people that resonates with me, that makes me feel both comfortable and excited. It may be the way they talk, their style, or just the way they dance. For food, I'll have to stick with Mexico.

I'm working at the hotel room in Lima preparing tomorrow's training presentation. The television is on so I'm able to listen to the Yankees game (playing against the Phillies) in the background. Wraps of snacks and candy, empty water bottles and pieces of paper with our notes are scattered all over the bedroom. One of the things that I enjoy when I travel for work is having cable TV in my room. I don't have a TV set at home, and every hotel (even the shittiest) in Latin America has one. Last night I watched Fight Club for the first time in a very long time. The last time I watched it I was probably 24, when living a "single-serving" ordinary life seemed against all odds. It's funny to see how much things have changed, and how in a way I have become the character that asks which color better describes her as a person. Even when I'm not buying every piece of furniture from the Ikea catalogue, I can see how a part of me starts to feel comfortable without asking the tough questions. Still, I have to admit that there is a part of me that gets excited to the idea of throwing all I own outside the window and reinvent myself from emptiness. "I want you to hit me as hard as you can." Only with a purpose, and if it can help you feel alive.

We are leaving for Peru tomorrow morning and I haven’t packed yet. Days at the office are always hectic before a trip; especially after a one-week vacation in Rome. Hopefully I’ll leave the office in less than an hour to get everything I need, including a manicure since I really need some sort of beauty makeover to look presentable at the training next week. I should also do the eyebrow and upper lip depilation, but that is too much to ask from me today. Hairy I should be! As always, I wonder how other women find time to look beautiful when they work, travel, have babies and much more responsibilities than I do. I need a time management course, but ironically I don’t have time for that either.

Victor and I went to the Metropolitan Opera last night to watch (and listen) Aida. As always I got impressed by the production and I can’t help to wander, how they store all the stages? Going to the opera always makes me feel at home and cozy. The opera season announces the beginning of the cold season, when the sunlight, even when scarce, has a brighter yellowish color, apple cider is sold everywhere, and you get the chance to rethink where you are, and where you are headed for next year. Plus, I always enjoy having a reason to dress up and drink a prosecco while we wait for Act 2 in the red carpet lobby.

I’m having a panic attack at this very moment. As a result of the sinus infection my doctor recommended a strong antibiotic, but after reading about all the possible side effects I’m afraid to keep taking it. Should I try to battle the bacteria myself (and probably fail) or take a medicine that will at least give me a stomachache and insomnia? Oh God! I’m the worst at making this kind of small decisions! (I feel dizzy already)

“You have a terrible sinus infection,” my doctor told me today, “you are very sick.” Funny enough I haven’t felt sick, or at least I’ve been blaming any symptoms to the last hectic days. I’m leaving for Peru on Saturday for work, so I won’t have a free weekend until November the 14th. I’m so looking forward to November 13th at 5:00 PM to be able to finally do nothing. NOTHING, except for probably going sightseeing the autumn foliage; if any of it survives this crazy weather. If not, I’ll just sit down on my couch to drink hot apple cider and read one of the new books I haven’t been able to open.
Diego moves out of the apartment to Greenpoint in a week, so our little family is shrinking. On the other hand, Lalis and his boyfriend are coming to visit during the second week of November. It will be exciting to see her in love after so many years of not finding the right person. I need more of my friends inviting me to weddings; I want an excuse to get a new dress and get drunk on someone else's behalf.

I have a new boss starting today, and being jetlagged as I am makes it impossible to show any positive energy or ideas. I’m trying to smile to sidetrack any attention to my red-watery eyes. If worst comes to worst, having just returned from Italy makes it worth giving a bad first impression. How are you supposed to get back to everyday life after a good trip? How to adequate your travel learning into your everyday life? How to keep that glow you brought for a longer period than the time it takes to unpack? How to get used to American coffee after all those early cappuccinos and afternoon espressos? Where to find real fresh mozzarella? I was impressed by Rome and by the experience of an ancient, aged city, although I prefer Paris (and the French), it’s personality, the feel to it and how it connects with the new movements (at least on film and music). We walked around the city without any plans. By the time Victor and I got tired of tourists, we left for Florence to stay with Pili and Massimo. Florence was much more than the sightseeing, it was having long conversations at night about our family, the meaning of life, extraterrestrial contact, and religion. One night we spent a few hours looking through old photo albums: the goodbye party when they moved to Italy more than 30 years ago, their trips and the stories around them (Pili and Massimo were in India when my father died), and snapshots of all of us when we shared a family life at my grandparents house.

"Why do good people die first?" my mom asked me this afternoon. "I guess because people die anyway" I replied. There are few adults whom I respected when I was in my twenties, and certainly "el Chato" was one of them. I was married to his son, and he took me in as part of their family. "Everyone talks about Javier's father," I recall Zoe telling me, "he owns a house in the woods that is open to welcome everyone. He even has a notebook for his anonymous guests to leave him messages." I still remember when he took Javier and me to buy a refrigerator for our apartment, which we never bought (we decided to live at the annex at his mother's house), going to the movies with him every Wednesday, his jokes and the way he managed to live lightly. I remember his blue jeans, his white truck, his boots and all the stories Javier told me about him. But most importantly, I remember when I belonged to his family, and this idea makes me cry. There are ties that are hard to break, and some are just meant to remain with us for all of our lives. "He left happy," Javier said when I called him this afternoon, "I tried calling you to let you know, but I dialed the number of another Brenda on my address book", he said laughing.

The last summer image

Periodically I receive an e-mail from Understating Men, a self-help group intended for women to learn what men look for in women, and more precisely to understand why they are single. A few years ago my friend Sol took me to a conference on the topic and the only thing I can remember, besides the strange feeling of analyzing dating through a Gantt chart, is that men have a natural attraction to healthy long hair. Is this why we are sold all these products for shinny, silky hair? Apparently hair is a fertility thermometer. My friends are divided into two groups: the married ones and those who secretly wish to attend a workshop to understand love and relationships.

I've been sick for four days and I’ll be traveling for a month leaving on Friday, so I need to get better before then. Getting sick in New York is never fun; always makes you homesick. Nevertheless this time was not too bad as I spent the weekend with Diego, Capuchi and Oscar without leaving the apartment, only for a couple of hours on Sunday to practice tightrope walking in the park.

I got the writer’s block. Again. Words are not flowing the way they should; I’ve been quiet as I keep trying to resolve too many things, too many stupid pieces to unscramble: my hair is a mess, most of my shoes need repair, my check account is drying, my savings account is dying, my debt on credit cards is growing, I have cellulite for sitting down all day, I still can’t make enough time for exercising, my bedroom is cramped with my boyfriend’s suitcases and my Netflix movie has been sitting down on top of my desk for almost two months.

Diego is staying with us (and will be staying for at least one month), bringing to our home all his creativity, colors and ideas. Listening to his stories about living in a diversity of places in the last few months has been refreshing for everyone in the house. After his heart was broken almost a year ago he moved to Baja, where he spent his days living in a hut by the sea. During this time, he had no harder task than peeling a grapefruit each morning, after which he was free to do whatever he pleased. For most New Yorkers spending their days doing nothing, without a plan in their calendars (even during the weekends) represents an impossible dream. After Diego shared the story about the grapefruit, everyone in the living room remained quiet, wishing to have the nerve to leave everything behind; at least for a month (or a day).

While we waited for the rain to go away

Today felt like a lost day. Victor and I had tickets for the US Open women's semifinal match, but due to the weather all matches were cancelled. The frustration came as the organizers kept postponing the game every 30 minutes, asking everyone to wait until the sessions were officially canceled. I guess they just wanted us to spend our money on beer and burgers, while we patiently stood under the rain.

I like to think that everything happens for a reason, and as a result of our frustrated plan we went to the Queens Museum of Art. It was almost five years ago when I was invited to present a video installation at their biennial exhibition. My art piece consisted of 4 monitors that simultaneously showed the lives of 4 immigrants from different countries (China, Mexico, Cyprus and Serbia Montenegro), and their relationship with their new home in New York. Back then I used to work around the concept of belonging to a place, and which elements constitute the idea of home. After 7 years in New York it is my home; this is the city where I chose to be, and the place where I learned to survive by myself. Now is time to find a new subject for my art, a new inspiration that will influence my work.

At a staff meeting yesterday we discussed how the job environment has changed in the last twenty years. Back then, one was expected to remain in the same job for almost all of your working life. Ten years later, people were predicted to have 6 to 7 jobs during their lifetimes. Nowadays, we are likely to change careers at the same speed and number. This sounds both scary and promising. We could still choose to become filmmakers, environmentalists, restaurateurs or graphic novel writers. What scares me the most is our inability to stick with one choice, and make it the center our existence. Victor’s Mom has been a Classic Ballet dancer since she was a little girl. I can’t picture her doing anything else besides designing choreographies and training children with the techniques she learned in Russia during her youth. Everything in her life is inspired from her discipline and artistic elegance. Somehow it is monothematic. On the other side of the spectrum, some of us are still trying to define precisely what drives us. It might be that our mistake is looking for something in particular that probably doesn’t even exist, and our richness relies on our flexibility to adapt and find beauty and excitement in too many things. I guess one of our eternal dilemmas is to choose between digging deep into one specific subject, or superficially learn about a wide variety of them.

Cafe Sabarsky

I’m a little bit tipsy . Victor runs to the restroom after I forced one of my rings into his finger to try to loosen it with a bit of soap. He might return with an angry expression, but by the time he gets back our Sachertorte and Strudel will be served, and he won’t have any chance to complain. I feel fine, today is a perfect weather day in New York City. Before walking to the Neue Galerie we drank a bottle of Californian Chardonnay and ate a portobello and goat cheese pizza in Central Park. For a moment I feel as if I don´t need anyone by my side. I feel perfectly happy by and for myself.
Earlier we discussed about exposing our private lives in public. Victor is against Facebook and anything related to sharing his personal endeavors. I don’t agree with him, for me it is important to share my life, as I like to show myself as a subject of the art pieces and stories I produce. I think using oneself as a source is one of the most honest things to do.

I'm sitting on my desk as every day of the last four years, but today knowing that Victor is in New York without a return ticket makes everything look different. For the first time in a very long time I feel that I'm not taking all the decisions by myself; that we can start building our own story, here. As always, I'm afraid to bring my hopes to high, as things are still (and will remain for a couple of months) uncertain. Nevertheless, the idea of getting out of the office, going to the supermarket together, and buying everything we need for the week makes me very happy. It is the smallest pieces of my daily life that I enjoy the most sharing.

My Mom used to read to me The Canterville Ghost and other Oscar Wilde's short stories every night before going to bed. She is not an avid reader, but she loved to read Wilde over and over again. We lived in a two-bedroom apartment on the third floor of a red brick building, just the two of us. As an only child I grew up experimenting with insects, writing stories and drawing. I spent all afternoons doing homework and reading while my Mother cooked and kept our apartment tidy. She always tried to make me feel we were a bigger family, trying to make up for the void left after my father's death. Now we live hundreds of miles apart, but I guess we are as close as we used to be.
Pepa's mother died today. She lost the battle to cancer.

The old Greek lady who lives downstairs greeted Maria and me this morning while doing her usual incense burning ritual. I’m not familiar to Orthodox Greek traditions, but I love to be around people that follow strict routines with such a passion. She speaks no English; she just repeats “good morning” (pronounced as “goo monin”) twice with a smile before leaving the incense holder by the front door. I’m not so sure people living in Manhattan get this kind of experiences each morning. They have a doorman.

Tomorrow I’ll travel to Mexico City. I haven’t been there in quite a long time and a part of me feels nervous. I’ve been listening to old songs for a week, recounting the last 10 years and trying to picture a timeline of important events and people. Where I started compared to where I am today. Where is everyone that influenced me or whom I influenced? Many things have changed, and surely they will keep doing so. Are we all taking the right decisions?

8:14 PM
I look around my bedroom and I suddenly realize I’m living in part the life I wanted: listening to good Canadian jazz, surrounded by art (which I brought from different countries) and getting a light breeze from my window. A few days ago Catherine was complaining about how different her reality was from what she had expected. Most of her friends are now married and living in the nicest neighborhoods, or single but working their dreamlike jobs. She is living with her Russian (divorcee) boyfriend and working as an executive assistant at an international finance firm. For many people her situation sounds perfect, living in New York with her steady boyfriend and a job that pays the rent; but for her it’s very hard to conciliate her expectations with the fact that times are hard both financially and for finding the man that will fulfill most of her desires.

3:53 AM
We just got home from Rosa’s good-bye party; she is moving back to Madrid in a week. The celebration started at Yucca Bar on Avenue A, and ended up at the Speak Easy of Avenue C. I haven't been at that place for years. We danced for hours, a mix of salsa and African rhythms, until our feet were in pain. Oscar is not home yet, his good friends from Montreal are in town and they must be at gay bar in Midtown Manhattan.

4:01 AM
Too tired to be inspired.

My longtime friend appears to be in love with me. He didn’t said so directly, but he didn’t leave any room for doubts. In the past we always said “I love you” to each other, and that is true, as I love a few of my friends. But, how could I have known he had a special crush for me? Ironically knowing so breaks my heart as this means things won’t go back to our old ways, at least for a long time.


I’m drinking a glass of cold South American Sauvignon Blanc while sitting on my bed and thinking about my US working visa. I need to renew it before November, and I’m a little worried since my boss hasn't approved it yet. For the first time in four years I begin to wonder if he is considering firing me. In any case, I just prepared a list with the reasons on “why I’m a great candidate to keep the position.” Hopefully it won’t be necessary.

Today has been a tough day at work and I'm not done yet. Being a manager is not easy when you need to solve a conflict between different cultures and opposite ways of working. Definitely this is a learning experience that hopefully could be translated to other aspects of my life. Did I ever mention that I wanted to be a politician? Well, I don’t have the necessary skills.

Last night I bought my ticket to Rome. I will be there in October. I’m planning to visit Natalia and then travel to Florence, where my aunt Pili lives. She moved there at 18, after falling in love with an Italian leftist. As a kid I saw her and my cousin Stefania once a year during summer vacation, and was always excited to learn about their different way of living (and sense of style). I haven’t seen Pili for more than 16 years. For all I’ve heard she was very similar to my father, two aspirant communists against the rest of their posh siblings. I’m not a socialist, as most of the children born to Marxist parents. I’m influenced by their sense of justice, but it has mixed with existentialism, individualism, consumerism, (lots of other – isms) and certainly confusion.

While we are waiting to rinse off a facial masque I light up the hookah. Neither Oscar nor Maria wanted to smoke with me, so I'm afraid I'll have to finish it up all by myself. Today is a hot summer Sunday and we don't feel like going out, but just staying home and getting organized for the coming week. The windows are open, but the air is static, no breeze is coming in, just the noise of the air conditioners. I feel fine and calm. Today I felt inspired by two interviews I read; the first one, with Daniel Barenboim on his West-Eastern Divan Workshop where he uses music as a way to generate dialogue in the Middle East. The second, with Lars von Trier on how he managed to write and direct a movie to avoid depression. Maria, Oscar and me are now on our third facial treatment, drinking orange-peach juice waiting for the cucumber masque to dry. Maria is inpatient and wants to peel it off; Oscar keeps his hands busy by posting a new Facebook status through his Blackberry. We remain quiet as the tobacco slowly burns down filling the air with a sweet peachy smell.

I’m at my kitchen waiting for the Verizon technician to come and fix my Internet connection. I eat toast with sauco and awaymanto jelly, straight from the Amazonian Peru, and bought at Lima’s airport duty free store. As whenever I return from a trip, I keep the momentum going by eating and drinking everything I brought while away. This time I’ve been drinking coca leaves tea and eating coca leaves covered with chocolate, feeling a kind of stupid thrill for consuming something quasi illegal.

I need to make an important decision soon. How can you know something for certain? Does absolute certainty actually exists? As for today, I just know that I’m hoping for a good and relaxing weekend: gypsy music tonight, brunch and pampering sessions tomorrow, and moules frites on Sunday.

Last night we smoked Hookah for two hours by the fireplace, it was very cold outside and smoking seemed like a nice way to warm up after walking across town to get to the bar. Tonight is our last in Cusco as tomorrow Javier and I leave for Lima.  The past week has been beautiful visiting Machu Picchu and driving to Cusco at night watching the moon being reflected in the Andean snow.  

Just got to my hotel after having dinner in Mongo´s, and as always surprised by the diverse crowd that assists to that place. I really like La Paz, it´s a very unique and cosmopolitan place.

My trip to Bolivia is almost over. This is my last night and my stomach is aching as it always does when I travel. My coworkers looked at me suspiciously as I ordered skinless tomatoes and bottled water; still I´m sure I´ve caught some kind of bacteria. Today we met with Marcos, the scriptwriter of the radionovela we are producing and that will be broadcasted across Bolivia next year. I got excited as we talked about production matters: selecting music, dealing with copy-right issues, hiring a local producer, casting non-actors from rural communities and putting all the pieces together for the recording sessions. I miss being part of the creative process and not just managing the people and resources to make things happen.

An old lady approached me on the plane in Miami and asked if I could hold her bag during the flight. ¨Inside are my son´s ashes¨ she said in the most solemn way. The flight attendant came rapidly and asked me not to hold the bag and left me feeling that I could have help the woman anyway. I´m now in Bolivia for the 2nd time this year and the 3rd in the last 7 months. Probably that´s why when I landed in La Paz after being in Santa Cruz for a few days I felt as if I was returning home. A few days ago we were travelling south of Santa Cruz, near the border with Argentina and Paraguay. The driver explained how most accidents happen when drivers hit cows, sheep or goats. I´ve never seen so many vultures eating dead animals by the road. The clouds in Bolivia are closer to the ground, or so it seems, and it always gives me the feeling that I will be able to touch them if I try really hard.

Today is a typical humid and sunny summer afternoon. I'm at my place resting my mind before packing for my trip to Bolivia and Peru tomorrow. I feel absolutely saturated, my life has been spinning in many directions lately, and even when a long trip to South America seems like a good way to get myself back together I don't feel like going. I'm not the adventurous kind. I rather enjoy the NY summer, watching Kronos Quartet in Prospect Park, than traveling to 4 Bolivian cities in 4 days, riding on winding roads and flying on 10-passenger (and very old) Cessna planes.
Brenda "dreadlocks" is staying at my place. She will be here all the time I'm traveling, keeping the "Brenda" presence while I'm out. We met with Sandrita last night in Brooklyn for dinner at a cozy Italian place. It's funny how you can feel so comfortable with friends you haven't seen in so long, and for a moment pretend you've never left your hometown. "It's been my lifelong dream to be in Machu Pichu" Sandrita told me while taking a bite of her prosciutto, and I wished my trip was not a business one so I could take my friends with me.

These have been strange times. Natalia and Pepe, two of the most important people for me, left New York for good the past weekend. I'm now in DC participating at a conference on International Development, working on a proposal for a media project in India, and silently watching the Michael Jackson memorial on CNN.  My mother came to visit me along with her boyfriend. He is a man of few words and soft temper; I wish she was with someone with an opinion, or at least with the ability to hold a conversation. Still, she looks beautiful and happy.

Capuchi complained that I haven’t updated my blog in a long time, so here I am, writing so he can follow me from Tijuana. I might have told you already, but yesterday was my 7th anniversary in New York City. Lots of faces and names passed in front of me. I moved into the city with Javier, to whom I married and later divorced; and since then my life has changed several times in lots of different ways. Back then I couldn’t afford to spend more than $10 dollars a day, but I was producing biweekly documentaries for the local TV station, and many doors opened for me. I first fell in love with New York at the opening party of the MOMA in Queens. I went with my friend Diego. I was surprised about how such a diverse crowd of graffiti artists, art philanthropists, financiers, and undocumented immigrants could break-dance to Michael Jackson’s Billie Jean at the same dance floor. I came very young, a post-teenager wearing stylish t-shirts and converse; now I look like more like a grown-up, with red nail polish and black high heels.

Mr. Lupercio was talking last night about how he risked his life while researching about a prostitution ring in Guadalajara. He seems like the perfect man, someone that has rescued more than 800 young women from sexual violence, providing a shelter, a home, and a way to move on with their lives. People with high moral standards impress me. I somehow believe we all have a dark side, which we either learn to live with, or we endlessly fight. Who is incorruptible? We all live up to our standards, hoping to avoid anything that will give us a reason to be untruthful to ourselves.

Tuesday night Oscar, Pepe and I met at Joe’s Shanghai on 56 Street for diner. Chinese restaurants are kitsch by nature, several golden real-size animals, green velvet seats, plastic flowers, mirrors, a red shrine with Christmas lights and palm trees. Adding to the atmosphere, they played a wide selection of music from the 80s and 90s, Pat Benatar, Brian Adams, Toto, Sade, Billy Joel. We ordered clam and pork soup dumplings as we talked about our uncertain future (Pepe is moving back to Mexico in a few days as he was unable to get a new job). By the time we finished the two orders of dumplings and a plate of pan-fried noodles the three of us were exhausted, and we sat in silence for 20 minutes. It felt like a scene in a movie.

We ended at Happy Endings in the Lower East Side dancing inside an old steam room while the DJ was playing well-known songs broken into unrecognizable beats. I haven’t danced free-style for a long time, and it was certainly a good way to “officially” enter my 30’s. That is if you are official when you are over 30 and turning 31. My birthday wish/resolution is to stop the inertia to control everything in my life and just let things flow. Enjoy more, complain less.
My longtime friend Arloinne is getting married in less than a month even when she has always being opposed to the idea. She doesn’t believe that love comes in the shape of a sole partner for life. In her own words “you could fall in love with almost anyone; you can always find something to share, in common, or of interest in whomever you meet”. I find this is idea truly optimistic and good to share with all my single -but looking for someone special- friends.

Witnessing acts of courage always makes me cry; I get mixed feelings of beauty, sadness and confidence. I cry when I see old, sick or overweight people running marathons. It’s even stronger when these acts are performed on smaller everyday activities such as disabled people carrying their own groceries, old people making their way to the movies or the homeless man in my neighborhood giving out Chirping Chicken flyers to the passersby. Some days you need certain nerve to take small decisions, the same you need to change your life dramatically. My boss is moving to Rome with her boyfriend in a month, leaving behind her job, apartment and lifestyle in New York. I guess you wake up one morning knowing it is time to move on and modify your destiny.

The flying cockroaches appeared early this year, we killed one in Oscar’s bedroom a few days ago. One of my old roommates used to have the insecticide along with her sex toys on top of her desk; we joked about the possibility of spraying herself by mistake. Maria, who is the new roommate, has religious icons, folk art and flowers instead. I should make a wall with pictures of all the people that had lived in the house, from a Cypriot lesbian to a Science Christian and a British fashionista our place has hosted a diverse group of people in the last 5 years. This sounds like an interesting project for the summer.
I’m going to Ariana’s rooftop tonight to have a drink before she leaves for Spain for the entire summer.

I laid on my lama skin bed cover while Gabriela was leaving me a cup of tea on the bedside table and telling me her story of domestic violence.  I felt too privileged for a moment, almost ashamed, but she didn't seemed to notice. Here it was me, taking a sick-day off from work and reading the Wall Street Journal while playing with my soft alpaca skin; and there she was, tired of cleaning the apartment and ready to take the 1-hour train ride to Bed-Stuy in Brooklyn. She stood by my bed and talked about her boricua ex-husband, her three kids and how she manages to pay for the bills working night shifts at Penn Station's Kentucky Fried Chicken. 

I’m sick at home today, a common cold that makes me want to stay in bed. I walked to the Japanese restaurant and had Gyoza Dumplings, Miso Soup and a Shrimp Tempura Roll for $11.60. Now, I feel so bloated I wish I had stick to a chicken broth as the doctor recommended.
Somehow I feel uncertain and excited about everything coming. I knew this year was intended for new things, but the smell of the changing weather makes it evident and gives me goose bumps. If you ask me today, I will with you go anywhere.

I took an afternoon nap for the first time in years. Weather is getting hot and humid, and even when this is what I've been waiting for, it is always hard to avoid feeling tired.  I'm sitting in the living room and I can barely hear Oscar's music coming from his bedroom. This evening we are going to Saint John the Divine to listen to the New York Philharmonic; they organize a free concert every year on Memorial Day, and we are hoping to get a good spot, at least in the garden outside the Cathedral.  

I have writer's block. I can't think of anything to write about.

I'm in the kitchen writing down a wish list of at least 100 things I want to to. I'm supposed to let ideas flow without any constraints on whether they will be possible to achieve or not. A mouse is spying me from below the oven and I pretend not to see him, I don't want to scare him. Writing this list is harder than I thought. I start to search for old poems on my iPhone, The Road Not Taken comes first, then I jump to Whitman to finish with Annabel Lee. I take a bite of my ham and melted swiss sandwich, and play a 90's song on my phone while I decidedly continue with the so-called list. Trips, classes, new languages, lots of love, some discipline, my own business, a life filled with art and dance, family, health, the perfect job, time to spare. By item #56 I start being repetitive, now a trip to Turkey leads me to drinking a coffee at a coffee shop in Beirut, and from there I jump to participating in a film production. Suddenly I go back to a recent comment left on my blog that still strikes me: What are you planning Brenda? What is there beneath the surface? The truth is I don't know. It's not what you have, but what you do with it that counts. I stop writing and take another bite of my sandwich before it is too cold.

I used my iPhone as a ghetto blaster listening to a salsa song as I walked past an Irish Pub in Queens. A friend says that every house needs someone to play the music, so I guess that’s the reason I always bring mi iPod to all parties; everyone needs to have a role. When I was younger I hated when people answered “all kinds” when they were asked about their favorite type of music. Well, I’ve become one of those who like music for many other reasons than what it sounds like or what it represents in terms of “good music”.
Growing older is a humbling experience.

I’ll be 31 on June 10th and 7 years in New York on June 25th. The two anniversaries both excite and scare me. Who you wanted to be at 30? Who you want to become at 35? My friend Rodrigo laughed when he told me he finally understood why his dad gave up his ideals and relaxed, “we are entering the years of broken dreams”. On the other hand, Adriana believes we are in our peak, stating that women at 30 are at the best of their intellectual and sexual capacities. Either way, I believe this is a good year for taking decisions and moving forward. Stop blaming the economic crisis, the working visa, the longing for the family back home, the unstoppable tic-tac of the biological clock, the long-distance relationship and just focus on what I want and can realistically achieve. In the meantime my roommates are facing their own stories, Maria is in love with someone she shouldn’t be and Oscar met the guy that makes him want to commit.

As I walked uptown on Third Avenue I saw an Afghani turning off the lights of his newspaper stand, a recently homeless woman sitting on a bench eating a chili dog, a bank executive getting into his limo while sending an email from his Blackberry, a mentally ill man shouting “this is just like New Orleans”, German tourists discussing the best way to the Chrysler Building and countless of other unrelated stories in just one block. This is why I came to New York; as a story collector there is nothing else to ask than a walk during rush hour.

A girl from Morocco is staying 3 weeks in my apartment; we are having intensive French, Spanish and Arabic lessons and are already planning a gourmet fest of chiles rellenos and cous-cous. It’s her first time in America and she landed in a house full of Mexicans, which in a funny way, I think is very representative of this country.

Francisca’s father died this morning. With watery eyes and elegance she performed at Café Frida, singing her pain away. Her father taught her how to sing, or so she said, before dedicating a mariachi classic song to his memory. Meanwhile fajitas, enchiladas, tacos and guacamole were served at the tables, to customers avid of drinking hibiscus margaritas and breaking piñatas on Cinco de Mayo. Carlos’ father died in Paraguay two days ago, as Francisca, he cannot go back to his country; all prayers must be heard from a long distance. When Maria and I took a cab back to Astoria, we could see Oscar hugging Carlos under the rain, a metaphor to the catharsis he was experiencing after holding his breath for a couple of days.
As we crossed Central Park, Maria showed me a text message she had sent JD, a love song, an impulse after drinking a couple of margaritas and letting the passion rule over what she will commonly call a mistake.

I brought a stack of Mexican Luchadores from my last trip to Mexico and now everyone in my office has a kitsch figurine on top of their desks. Mine is wearing a pink cape and is standing between the post-its filled with pending matters and the pile of unread reports. My desk is filled with postcards and pictures of Bolivian landscapes, wedding dresses made out of condoms, Chinatown squids, art exhibitions, mariachis, strange beer labels and an “Arrest Bush” postcard. The last time Victor came he laughed at me, criticizing my accumulation of random things. I like having an eclectic collection and he is the kind of guy who only owns a mattress and a wooden table with stacks of The Economist, or even worst, a half-read copy of Greenspan’s The Age of Turbulence. In any case, I need to do spring cleaning this week and throw away all the unnecessary and never-to-be-read documents to give room to more new postcards.

Thursday: By the time we decided to go the movies it was too late. We tend to forget how crowded a movie during the Tribeca Film Festival can be. I’m now eating salted cashews and drinking a glass of Micante while listening to Drinking in LA from my iPod shuffle. The memories of being 19 and with a huge crush for Hayyim made me laugh. He was an excellent break-dancer, bassist player and graphic artist, with blond curly hair, green eyes and a stack of hard-to-find music; all the coolness in one cute skinny guy from San Francisco.

Saturday: (Sunday) Sitting on my bed drinking Micante and eating cashews. I just got back home after wandering the city without finding anything interesting. We had diner in Williamsburg, and then went to the G-Lounge, a gay bar on 19th street, where Oscar was meeting with some friends. Gay bars are good to be anonymous and dance shamelessly, but at the same time they make you feel everybody is getting something except for you. That’s how I’ve been feeling lately, that everyone has a somebody except for me. Victor is still in Mexico and after two years of a long-distance relationship I’m not sure if he will ever come back.

Is this David Shrigley?

The world seems upside down, at least for Mexicans even when we are out of Mexico. Swine flu paranoia seems out or proportion and every friend I talk to reminds me of the hidden data that is kept by the government to avoid fear. Others just prefer to stick to the conspiracy theories. I rather stop watching the news.
My office building hasn’t turned the AC on and we’ve been sweating since yesterday, writing progress reports with sticky hands and trying to breathe without ventilation.
On a personal note, I’ve been thinking about Javier’s thesis statement “be careful of what you wish for”.

It’s great to have a best friend. Capuchi and I went to L' Pettite Abeille for dinner last night and talked for more than two hours about our plans, project and script ideas, love and sex, movies, new media, meditation and the existence of God. “It’s not important to find out if God actually exists” he confirmed, “what really matters is what you can do for yourself.” Two glasses of Cabernet and a shared steak au poivre were enough to put me in the thoughtful mood. Capuchi has been reading Jodorowsky’s Psycho Magic and believes we should start focusing more on our dreams. “What about these mice matting by the table?” I interrupted. “Nothing, it’s irrelevant to think where they come from or what their purpose is,” he said laughing.

Central Park makes me feel good. A blond teenager takes his dog for a walk and I wonder if I will ever have a 12-year old son. It’s probably because of the weather, but there is a swarm of mosquitoes flying above my head. People speaking Chinese, French and Arabic. A young Hasidic couple walks by me, an old guy is sitting five benches away from me, a tourist asks me to take his photo by the pond. I can feel the cold humidity on my face, the fog covers the buildings, the ducks rest over the lawn laying their extended necks. I close my eyes and take a deep breath; it smells like spring.

The week started with bad cramps and allergies. I open my email a dozen times an hour in the hopes to find something that I’m not even sure what it is. I don’t even respond to emails or letters; I just like to be entertained. What was I doing before I had constant access to internet? I should change my habits, unplug the damn thing and just go for a walk even with the cold weather. I don’t want to wait anymore; I want to feel alive with what I have.

Paloma, Capuchi and Oscar are in the living room discussing Buddhist philosophy while I try to edit the video of Ira Sachs and Daniel Burman. I arrived last night from Mexico, my body is aching of tiredness, my nose is bleeding and I somehow regret drinking a glass of red wine. Paloma switched the subject and is now talking about mental disorders and how easy you can suddenly loose it and wake-up in “lala-land”. It scares me. The last time Paloma came to visit was almost four years ago when she was in transit from London. We had both experienced panic attacks without knowing how to name them. Sharing our stories made us feel better; I haven't felt one ever since.

My body is still aching; probably I’m getting a cold. A few days ago we were driving the 1959 Karmann along the Chapala Lake Riviera, I was wearing a long silk scarf and sunglasses, feeling like Isadora Duncan but drinking cold Mexican beer and sightseeing small huts selling fried trout and tiny fish called charales.

I found my weekly philosophy from a list of ten banking principles: what is fragile should break early while it is still small. Nothing should ever become too big to fail. (I love the Financial Times)

I walked as fast as I could on Park Avenue while repeating the same song on my iPod over and over again. I turned left on 54th Street and cross 5th avenue skipping tourists. Laura and Oscar were already at the Burger Joint; it was Laura’s last night in New York but it felt like any other. We are so used to change that these events stopped being surprising.
Genoveva’s wedding was very emotional. Martha and I were standing in front of her, with watery eyes, while she accepted her vows. We know her story and how important it is for her to build her own family. After the ceremony in Central Park everyone was invited to Ben’s apartment for the petite celebration; kirs and sangrias with empanadas and guacamole. I danced all night, until my feet were in pain. There’s no one to blame when someone knows the right steps.

I’ve been always nostalgic about driving in tropical rain; it reminds me of Guadalajara. I loved the sound it made on the car’s roof and how humidity evaporated making my skin wet. We used to drive across the old parts of town listening to Portishead drinking 1-liter beers. I just have one driving memory in New York. Sarah had just bought her old red sedan and we drove one night from Washington Heights to Greenpoint in Brooklyn. As we drove on the FDR we could see all the apartment buildings with their lights on. I multiplied each window by what it represented in terms of stories: love, success, loneliness and defeat. I had just divorced from Javier, and as each window had its own story I wished one new for my own. Now I have it.

Genoveva’s wedding is tomorrow in Central Park. I’m excited about it.

Ideas while riding the subway

I’m riding the N train to Astoria. I felt lost today; tired and out of myself. Let’s say you were born before Internet, with limited information, and you hoped to become an adult in a simpler environment. I wanted to be an adult when innovation gave you the chance to be part of the movement. I’m all about content and how it is transformed into form, but I don’t quite get the new forms. What I want to be? Where I want to be? I forget the description Rodrigo gave on Saturday about Generation Y. I think he said we are addicted to be excited. Is this the way I wanted to live my life? I spend more than 8 hours in front of a monitor. No. What kind of relationship I want to have? I want you to be drawn to me, fall for me, to come and get me wherever I am. I want to be chased. I’m sometimes afraid of the passion that drives me. I’m a predator.

My iPod plays Three Days by Jane’s Addiction: True hunting is over. No herds to follow. Without game, men prey on each other. The family weakens by the bite we swallow... True leaders gone, of land and people. We choose no kin but adopted strangers. The family weakens by the length we travel.
All of us with wings...

I met Ulysses and Carlos last night outside the building where I used to live in Manhattan. They were high as usual, sitting on the doorsteps holding Morris, the aging pit-bull. Ulysses had lost his front tooth during a fight and I could tell he was ashamed, trying to cover the hole with his tongue while we were talking; his face was swollen. Carlos was playing classical Spanish guitar and both were drinking cheap rum mixed with wild fruit punch. Ulysses is a warm-hearted guy, living a fucked-up life, sponsored by a former Jesuit who pays for his drugs hoping to compensate for all the terrible things that happened to Ulysses during his childhood. It’s sad and hopeless.

Laura is using silver string to make herself a ring and Oscar is speaking out loud while resting on the red sofa. We listen to a Chicano hip-hop song. Laura lost her job as a result of the economic recession and is moving back to Mexico next week leaving us without our home-based architect. Maria is moving in next Tuesday.

I read two inspiring art news last week: Ms. Ceballos earns $100 a month and owns one of the only truly independent art galleries in Havana. She has helped to launch the career of some of the most important Cuban artists showing their work in her own living room.
A collective art show in Damascus holds pieces from Iraqi artists that sought refuge in Syria. During an interview with the Financial Times Abbas al-Amar, the painter organizing the exhibition said, "If people start planting roses again, I will go home to Iraq. People who are planting roses are also thinking and dreaming."

For some of us marriage is rebellious. After years of being considered a free-spirit by your family no one expect you to do the things “normal” people do, and they show concern about this “new you” that actually wants to get a diamond ring instead of a symbolic tattoo. When I was younger I systematically rejected everything that represented following the norm, I even thought using a hairbrush was stupid (sigh!). Now, even when I still listen to my old mix tapes ranging from David Bowie to Tricky, I want to be with a man that can wear a suit without blaming the “system” for having dress codes. I feel like my friend Gerry, once he finally got out of the closet, he found himself in love with a woman and everyone was shocked because he was supposed to like men.

Last night I started my volunteer work with Cinema Tropical as I want to get involve in the art/film scene again. After recording a public conversation between two prominent filmmakers, one from Argentina and one from New York, we headed to the Washington Square Café for a glass of wine. In a way, Carlos and Lucila represent a certain influence for me. They are two well-respected film/art promoters who carved their work in New York after coming from Mexico 6 years before me. Like me, they chose to live in this city and call it home. - What is not to love about New York? - Carlos said repeatedly while biting pieces of garlic that tasted like olives. Lucila has it clear; she has never doubted why she moved here, “I always hoped to be taken out of Mexico”. As for me, I just knew I will live here, in the same way I thought I knew I will be a filmmaker. I’m not sure anymore.

I haven’t talked about my first months in New York for a long time. It’s funny when you remember places and events, and what it makes you feel right in the top of your belly. We used to live and work at an old building on 14^th street and 8^th avenue. Everyone living in the building had come to NY after graduation as volunteers to develop community projects; I was producing documentaries for public television. For all our hard work we received school credit and a $50 monthly stipend. It’s funny to think how we managed to build our way up in New York in such a small budget. I still can recall the squeaky sound of the wooden floors, the waterless sinks in every bedroom, the shared shower and how scary it was to touch its walls with bare skin, the cat living on the shelves of the kitchen, the pit-bull sleeping on the hallways, the rats on the basement and the homeless guys smoking crack on the roof. It was New York and we expected it to be tough. I miss the excitement of being new to the city, and the countless opportunities it might bring.