Cautiverio

Helping out a friend with her essay, writing her thesis.
I can help others, but never myself.

You'd think I'd feel good after reading this, but instead I feel SO. DAMN. SAD.

Like an animal living in captivity its whole life, and once it's released into the wild, rather than flourish--thrive... it just shrivels up and dies... Confused and scared out of its mind. That's how I feel.

I am so damn lost.

Write. Don't stop.

My dad's "cousin" was awesome.
Dad has always brought the dude up in conversation, since he remembers the guy quite fondly.
They met when Dad first moved over here, at 16 or so. Dad moved in with the only relative living in Vegas, his aunt. The guy, Daniel, was his aunt's husband's nephew.
Dad was apparently the introvert, who would not speak a word.
Dad's uncle told his nephew to spark a conversation with Dad, but Daniel complained "I talk to him! He just never answers back!"
And so, a friendship sparked from there.

Daniel is a total artist... what we've all grown to think of as an "artist"... just like they're depicted on film.
Daniel is a patient, quiet guy. His voice is... gentle... like a narrator in Mexican films... it's a soothing sound. He takes time to explain concepts and ideas... he doesn't force others to talk.
He sets this air of... comfort... ease... calm.

We spent out three days and two nights in a huge group. He's married to a total extrovert-- a woman who is clearly dominant, but not in a condescending way, but a firm... guiding way.
They don't force conversation... they just talk and laugh until finally, the people present feel comfortable enough to add to the conversation.
We'd all sit at the bars, restaurant tables, pool side, our kitchen, the bedroom, together. Laughing. Lounging. Sharing. And always with a cup of coffee in hand, or a glass of wine (I don't particularly enjoy wine, but I drank a total of two bottles on my own in those two days-- it took me half a day to get comfortable with the company).
It was SO strange... and comfortable. I can't stress it enough-- "comfortable."

He told stories of the oddities he used to do, like plan his vacations to coincide with rock concerts in LA so he could attend.
He talked about his years writing political pieces... and being advised by certain government officials to adopt a pseudonym in order to avoid any danger.
He talked about his years of study with numerous outstanding Mexican authors and poets... their chill time.
He talked about his "lowly" new job he adores-- photography.

Daniel: Jesse, why didn't you ever tell me you had an artist in your family? She writes. She paints. She draws. She plays an instrument. She's quiet and shy. She's... undoubtedly an artist.
Dad: Because I didn't know!
Me: Because you never asked.
Daniel: So, why did you go down the science route, if you don't mind me asking?
Me: Because... despite teachers telling my parents I was naturally gifted at anything art related, they told me it was a hobby. Since I had an ease for learning science and math, and I saw the difficulty so many of my classmates had with those subjects, I decided to take advantage of that "ability" instead...

The reason we even got into the subject of my writing, is because they were trying to hook me up with a job with one of their best friends, a French marine biologist currently studying... god, I think it's some whale, I didn't pay attention. The more they talked about hooking me up, already planning my relocation to the Mayan Riviera, the more I felt like passing out-- from the distress.
Daniel: Oh! He has been looking for assistants for so long. He's been having real difficulties finding anyone qualified for the positions. He'll be ecstatic to learn I just found one right now. He'll move you out here in a heartbeat.
SCIENCE?! NO NO NO. OH MY GOD. FUCK! This all sounds so wonderful and cool... but... I don't love it... and I'm going to be such a dick to turn it down... fuck fuck fuck... I'm about to get sucked back into science... fuck fuck FUCK! How do I say no?!
Just as everyone started getting excited FOR me, while I started feeling more panicked and suffocated, I had to speak up.
Me: That's SO cool... but... what I really love is writing... I... don't think I would be able to... you know... put my heart into anything else...

I could feel my eyes watering... and my body getting shaky. I fucking hate speaking up.
Then there was a shift in the feel of the room-- the mood. It was like I dropped the biggest revelation on... everyone.
Here I thought you were just a weirdo... but you're really just... an artist! OH MY GOD, AnoMALIE, I finally get you!
That was what I saw in my dad's eyes and my aunt and uncle's eyes.
And I guess it was a big secret to reveal... as much as I love to write, it's something I keep hidden from nearly everyone. I don't want anyone to know that shit about me... it makes me feel stupid... vulnerable and stupid.
I know I often over-share on here, it HAS gotten me in trouble numerous times, but in real life, I'm really very reserved and quiet. I hardly share facts about me-- I just sit there and patiently listen to others speak.

Dad: Oh wow, baby. Oh wow. I have a writer in my family... a poet!
Me: No. A writer. I write stories. I only write. I can't do poetry for shit.

And so there I sat, getting interrogated, from what I liked to write (short stories), about what I liked to write (mostly dark comedy), and when I learned I liked to write (umm... since second grade, when I was first forced to keep a journal).

Then we got into what it was like to be an "artist." How one feels our "work" is part of us, therefore, we have difficulty putting a price on things... usually resulting in us GIVING away our work... because it's so personal to us.
Daniel's Wife: Hence why artists are often destitute and living in poverty. They have great talent, but they don't know HOW to sell it. It's why I sell all of Daniel's stuff. He does the work, and he passes the clients to me. I look at the work, and put a price on it... never telling Daniel how much the piece sold for, because he always feels bad... like I overpriced his work, but I KNOW it was the correct price because I'm an art dealer. I know what his work is worth on the market.

It was like they all lived in my fucking head and read my mind.
I've never sold my work... well, with the exception of two photographs, but even then, I didn't put the price on them... I was shocked they sold at all.
The paintings I've given others have all been gifts... I would never put a price on them... precisely because they're so personal to me... they're a secretive, sensitive part of me I don't want to put a price on.
My stories? I write them up, edit, then never look at them again... I feel stupid re-reading any of my stories. That vulnerable shit I talked about earlier.

So, anyway, my days were spent talking about all this... my secret life of an "artist" came out (ta-da! AnoMALIE's big ol' secret: I'm not gay, I'm a lowly bummy "artist"), and I was given mad support... from everybody (this is where I was given all the information on the programs in Mexico and the fucking awesome opportunities Daniel has for me because writing is his forte. I just have to get my Mexican citizenship in order... and move out there... which... is cool... but... still makes me... hesitate).

Dad: I just want you to be happy, Mija. I'll pay any price for that. I'll take care of anything and everything.

I fucking cried with joy... like a total pussy.

And the phrase that was mentioned most?
"Don't. Stop. Writing."

PERFECT Sunday

When I have bad days, they're BAD days.
My good days? They're fucking amazing.
Today has to go down in AWESOME DAY history, though. It was... great.

This last week was good for the most part. Throughout the week, I smiled and laughed a lot... I even found myself dancing around for no particular reason.
I was just a happy girl.
Today capped it all.

The day started off... well, like any day can start at 5:30AM after going to bed at three in the morning, drunk.
I woke up still buzzing, but a blissful buzz that made me nonchalant about everything. I only cared about my pink eyes-- not the gross conjunctivitis kind, but the dry-eyes kind.
I also had a terrible stomach ache.
Yesterday's food, while viciously delicious and thoroughly enjoyed by my gustatory glands, was not appreciated as much... actually, it was downright detested, by my intestinal lining.
Fucking Jalisco food... deceivingly delicious only to damn near murder you the next day.
I sat through church, almost falling asleep during various times, but that damn alien fetus in my stomach kept me awake.
THAT was the only downer to my day.

In an attempt to feel better, once I arrived home I decided to run intervals and hill climbs.
Wake up and forget about your stomach being a weak piece of shit! Also, get 100% sober, loser.
My day became brighter.
I then showered, which always makes the day that much cooler.
THEN I saw how Manchester United received their trophy.

CHICHARITOOO!

CHIIIIICHAAAAARIIIITOOOO!

THEN I watched PUMAS get their 7th championship.

7, suckaaas! I love these guys!

I was just kicking back, completely elated.
Of the three soccer leagues I follow (Spanish, English, and Mexican), my three teams were champions.
No, I'm not a bandwagoner. I have proof of my lengthy fellowship for each one (ManU was thanks to Beckham... because he has ALWAYS been ridiculously hot. Barça because they had a successful Mexican on their squad, Rafa Marquez, then Gio dos Santos. And finally, UNAM I've liked since high school, when I had that university as one of my top choices. So those who accuse me of jumping on a bandwagon can go eat a dick). I've been there for the good and the bad. I refused to participate in the "empañolada" when I went to the Barça game. They were 3rd place that year, yet there I was, supporting the dudes in Camp Nou.

Visiting the place where magic happens.

Only slight distress is trying to come up with a team to support for the Champs League final. I'm cool with whatever outcome, because if ManU is to lose to anyone, I'm glad it's Barcelona. I'd go ballistic if it were Madrid. And if ManU wins? Ok, I want THEM to win... because they have Chicharito.

Anyway, the awesomeness continued... because I went shopping. Well, shopping sucks... but I did get some new shirts. New shirts are always applauded.
THEN, I wanted some raspberries, so I asked Mom if she could go to Sam's Club and buy a bulk package of them. When we went, we saw this for 10 bucks:

Oh. My. God!

I was on that in a heartbeat.
You have NO idea how... FELIZ cherries make me. I am not exaggerating when I say: Cherries MAKE MY LIFE.

But the REAL magic? The REAL awesome news that made me... freak out?
Ready for this?
Ok:
Thanks to my mom, I've been asked to be a regular columnist in a magazine!
NO. SHIT.
When Mom told me, I nearly fell over. I thought she was joking.
(Sister's reaction was: LAME! ... ???)
The magazine has a very... specific target group.
It's a magazine that will only be distributed here, LA, Chicago, and... I forgot the other city. I tend to go deaf when I'm excited.
It's for people living in the US, but with Durango roots.
Aha! The catch!
I'd write short-stories based on my experiences IN Durango, traveling TO Durango, being AWAY from Durango... just... memoirs of a Durango chick, I guess.

I haven't accepted... because I KNOW this will get me in trouble. I'm misunderstood as is, I can only imagine the bullshit I'll face once I start writing shit and my sarcasm/humor won't connect.
I don't care about getting paid. I don't care that the magazine will not be widely distributed... I just... dude, I get to write!
And the weird thing was that Mom was super excited for me and... she thought of me when they asked HER to write the column (she's a poet/essayist... although not professional, since she never pursued it. But she's INCREDIBLE with words).
My mom wants ME to write. Is that... does that sound crazy to anyone else?

Fucking perfect Sunday.
I don't know... I'm still... taking in the weird feeling that is being asked to write for people. It's so... bizarrely exhilarating.

... OK, I'll quit being optimistic now, since that always wrecks shit.
Shhhhhh! I'm not mentioning another word of this again.

TL

So, that movie "Good Luck Chuck," I've never seen it all the way through, but from what I've gathered before losing interest, I can pretty much relate.
I like a dude, maybe date him (or in most cases, I just chill with him... he doesn't dig me, but I totally dig him, so in order to still be in his presence, I'll be his friend and listen to all his stories as I feel my heart break little by little--melodramatic, much?), all the while, no other chick digs him... but as soon as I really start liking the guy, he gets all popular, and I get ditched.
If I sort-of dated him, his next chick becomes his wife.
Rad.

I've been thinking of this all day because:

1) I'm SO sick of seeing more than half the chicks on my FB list say something about CRonaldo being their "baby daddy."
Most of the time, these girls are well under the age of 19... so their vocab is often quite limited.
It drove me crazy today, since he played, and that was all anyone was talking about.
No, I'm not saying it's thanks to me liking him back in '04 that his fame skyrocketed exponentially- I'm saying I had the eye back in '04 to see him and think "Holy cow... this guy is going to be gorgeous in the next couple of years."
Sure enough, girls wet their panties when they see him, even if it's just him diving on the field- they love it (hey, I'm guilty of it too. I love it as much as the next girl... although there's a lot of eye-rolling and cussing going on when I see it).

2) The dude who introduced me to my love, creative writing, got married over the weekend.
We didn't date... it was this weird little tango bullshit we pulled when I was a college freshman. He was my English teacher my first semester... and things just got weird from there for the next year.
He was hilarious, sarcastic, witty, smart, only five years older than I, and he had the most killer blue eyes ever... ever! He liked me because he said I had a weird writing style he had never seen before (which, to this day, I don't understand what makes my style so weird), but he liked very much-- I made him laugh when he had to grade the numerous English 101 papers while still hungover on Sunday afternoons. I made him smile, and he appreciated it.
Anyway, I like him, he liked me, we hung out often since we both spent freakishly long hours in school (and he was new in town, I was one of the first to extend a hand in friendship), and we got into talking about his MFA in creative writing (among other things... like retarded seals and Ralph Wiggum)... and that was how I learned CW was out there.
The summer before my sophomore year, everything collapsed in the relationship, he found himself a chick he made his real girlfriend, and the damage was done. I was already enrolled for the fall semester in CW, I was going to leave to Mexico for the summer, and I thought fuck it, I'm already on board with this shit, I'll just try not to bump into him in the hallways... and I'll try not to think of him as I write my stories (huge failure. Something about him always made an appearance in my stories, always).
I showed up to class that first day of fall '04 semester, and I was smitten. Write what's on my mind, and get credit for it? And you say you like it? Oh. My. God. Thank you!

All thanks to this guy, who is now married to that chick he started dating after me (see, full-circle with my story. High-five!), introducing me to the art.
I helped him find his "true love," and he helped me find mine (writing. We all know I will forever be fucked up in the romance department. Boys don't like me).