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”.