Untitled

They called it child’s play,
imagination run wild,
a call for attention.
But my aunt could see ghosts
living
in their own
ever circling world
and they convinced her she couldn’t.

They called it grief, want, longing.
But my aunt saw her mother in the kitchen
Just days after she died, apron flying behind her
humming songs that toggled between
the life and death border but echoed nonetheless.
My aunt rolled over in her bed, shut her eyes,
and convinced herself that she was dreaming.

She heard voices, running horses,
in the ancient apple orchard she worked in.
Felt the ghost blow air into her ear
as she showered and was told it must have been someone
whistling outside.
This new land was scary enough without ghosts
so she chose to believe them.

And worlds of magic, psychics, what could have been,
twisters of colors that my aunts could have woven
fall upon my clumsy hands, my shrinking chest
and what I call my distracted intuition.

I don’t see anything,
but I convince myself I do.

I'm Known for Procrastinating

Sooooo I'm just going to post some old things tonight to make up for lost time. The first is a thing that was never meant to be a thing but rather a supplement for an interview of sorts. The first "draft" was pretty rough (I was tipsy when I wrote it) and even had some wrong word usage. This version has gone through one revision (looked at by Joshy) and will maaaybe be revised again soon.

I remember the way things would work while I was growing up. An hour or so before any meal the children would be outside playing, the men would be out working, and the women would be in the kitchen. The cycle would repeat itself three times a day, giving the women only limited time to actually sit around and talk as they pleased. I was too young to appreciate it back then, but I really do admire them now and the lifestyle they lead—that some of them still lead. Since I was the least tomboyish of the girls I would often get excluded and would run back into the kitchen and watch my aunts and my mother as they prepared the meal. One of them would always be stationed on a counter, taking small balls of dough and flattening them with a wooden rod into a tortilla shape. I would steal some of it and pretend I knew what I was doing.

Funny how years later, at an age by which cultural standards I SHOULD be able to prepare a decent meal, I find myself doing the exact same thing. I have declared that during this winter break I will learn how to cook something and my aunt readily volunteers to teach me how to make something simple—flour tortillas. The mixing of the ingredients to make the dough is easy; probably because I’m sitting back and watching my aunt do it. But trying to actually spread the small ball into a flat tortilla is harder than I thought. I’m no longer a child playing a game so I can’t pretend my deformed creations are something beautiful and edible. Not only do I lack the patience, I also have what I call “crooked hands” which prevent me from doing anything crafty—or making anything symmetrical, really. At the end my tortillas look more like amebas than anything else. My aunt is a sweetie and tells me that it is a good first try and that I should not worry too much about it. After all, I have other things to do than stay at home and make tortillas.

The second one is a VERY rough draft, written in the voice of one of my aunts. I like the way it shows how she, and most women in my family, talk but I will probably add more detail to it eventually. And actually revise it.

You did know that they murdered him, right? My dad’s brother? His only brother, actually—our only uncle. It happened while we still lived in Michoacán, that’s why you have all those second cousins over there. Well, anyway, he was murdered, but they never arrested the man that killed him even though everybody knew who he was. Well, they had a pretty good idea of who it had been. I mean, even afterward that family became enemies with our family. That is why we moved over to Matamoros, because they tried to kill your abuelito as well. Shot at him out in the field while he was riding his horse across the parcela. Thank God, they didn’t hit him, but it was enough to make your grandpa decide that we must move. Well, that and they were giving out land to the poor. The government, I mean. They wanted to populate the northern areas and create towns Back when it used to be good, but now, ha! No way they’ll give out land. They take advantage instead. That is why so many people are now moving from Mexico you know, you don’t get free land but at least you get more money to help family back there. Anyways, back to the story. Well, your tio abuelo was killed the week of this huge party in the town. It think it was la fiesta del Carmen. O de la Candelaria? Well, anyway, back then these parties were a big deal. I mean, even a bigger deal than they are now. Well, for these parties families would save money in order to buy the clothes needed. They were beautiful dresses made out of expensive cloth. I’ll have to get some pictures, or maybe we can get mis primos from Michoacan to send some. But you should see them, Nena, they are so beautiful. Back then very, very expensive. Especially for farm workers with low-income. My uncle bought all the outfits for the family, and my aunt had washed them and laid them out to dry overnight. The next day they were all gone, and well, that was a huge loss of money for the family. So, of course my uncle went over to the Delegado of the town. And they investigated and had a concrete idea of who it had been. They had seen him with the clothes. My uncle confronted him, he denied it. So one day my uncle went out to the parcela, like he always did. Usually my uncle and my dad went together, but not this time, my uncle went alone. He only took the family dog, I forget its name. Something with a B, I think. Anyway, that night everybody was wondering where he was because he hadn’t come back all day and he usually came to eat lunch and then was home for dinner. Well, the dog came back, and he kept tugging at my dad’s pants and whining. So my dad went out to the field to look for his brother. He found him. Turns out someone had stabbed him on the side. They figured it was someone who knew him, because there weren’t any signs of struggle. Even the delegado knew it must be the same man who stole the clothes. But there wasn’t any proof. Nothing save foot tracks that showed the two had been walking close together and talking calmly. No sign of struggle. No clues. Nothing they could do.

Psicofonia=EVP

I procrastinate a lot and so I didn't really write anything today. Nooot that my goal is to write something everyday (time doesn't allow it) but I should at least write something tonight right? Right.

But again, I had no time so instead I supposed I should talk about what I want to do and why I decided on this tittle.

My writing has always been mostly memoir and this time it's not going to be too different. However the things I want to focus on this time around are mostly dealing with my family and the past, not necessarily me. It'll be a bit of fiction and non-fictions since it will be mostly me making meaning of what I know and what I've heard rather than actually going in and interrogating my family.

But yeeeeah. Woo writing!