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| And they ran. |
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
Monday, March 23, 2015
Free Write: School
I think I am going to enroll in classes again.
I am being encouraged by the success of others. Several of my classmates have graduated or have a promising vocation.
I really enjoy my morning job, my second job can be iffy. It literally varies depending on the student and their family, however, for the most part, I do enjoy my jobs.
I'm afraid that my current jobs will keep me from reaching full independence, from moving out, from being finically stable. It worries me. I truly am discouraged by my current position however I am confident that if I focus more on classes, as I should have done the first two times, I won't fail. I may not be book smart, achieving As is something of the past, but I know I can learn. I know that I can achieve something that will make me proud.
This year has been tough. Really tough. I'm not entirely sure where this glimmer of optimism comes from but I'm going to work with it.
-ChesterYaYa
I am being encouraged by the success of others. Several of my classmates have graduated or have a promising vocation.
I really enjoy my morning job, my second job can be iffy. It literally varies depending on the student and their family, however, for the most part, I do enjoy my jobs.
I'm afraid that my current jobs will keep me from reaching full independence, from moving out, from being finically stable. It worries me. I truly am discouraged by my current position however I am confident that if I focus more on classes, as I should have done the first two times, I won't fail. I may not be book smart, achieving As is something of the past, but I know I can learn. I know that I can achieve something that will make me proud.
This year has been tough. Really tough. I'm not entirely sure where this glimmer of optimism comes from but I'm going to work with it.
-ChesterYaYa
Saturday, March 14, 2015
The Broken Machine
There was a sputter, a shake, and then a smell.
Not a welcoming, please-stay smell.
No. It was toxic.
It wasn't fear. No contagion here.
It was a warning sign.
This was the sign before the hurricane.
Think: Something wicked this way comes.
But less melodramatic. Paranoia, but less worry. More of a mystery and less of a confusion.
A ticking time bomb that would kill those involved and potentially harm those carefree passerby.
It was the big boom before the war. It was everything they warned you about wrapped in a lovely metallic red, passed down through generations.
This normalized chaos will drive you insane and pollute the airways.
Breathe it in and watch it enfold.
Not a welcoming, please-stay smell.
No. It was toxic.
It wasn't fear. No contagion here.
It was a warning sign.
This was the sign before the hurricane.
Think: Something wicked this way comes.
But less melodramatic. Paranoia, but less worry. More of a mystery and less of a confusion.
A ticking time bomb that would kill those involved and potentially harm those carefree passerby.
It was the big boom before the war. It was everything they warned you about wrapped in a lovely metallic red, passed down through generations.
This normalized chaos will drive you insane and pollute the airways.
Breathe it in and watch it enfold.
Friday, March 13, 2015
the day I punched the Coldplay CD
Lies. It all stemmed from lies. This wasn't a quick realization. These were timeless minutes that spewed up one final thought: the man in the suit didn't love the girl in the blue dress.
She clenched her fist. Her uneven, patchy black nails had grown over the course of two days, now long enough to leave a clear outline on her pale white skin. It hurt.
It hadn't been long. It hadn't been a year or two months. It hadn't been long but the new truth, her truth, was all it took to send her over the edge.
She smacked her lips. Her cheap $1 lipstick had flaked off and left a cherry red glimmer across her lower lip. It had taken her three hours to find this exact CD. Three hours plus 30 minutes of liquid courage in the form of yet another cheap discarded alcohol her family had left and she finally had all the elements together.
She hated this CD. She hated what it stood for. She couldn't find the pictures or the ticket stub so this would have to do.
"I hate what you did, to me."
Her clenched fists were now losing color. All her anger, all her regrets, all her love, all her forgiveness, and self-hatred was directed toward this CD.
"You took something from me and you left me. You ran away!"
She raised her right fist. Her left was still recovering from slamming it against her car door. Her right, her weak right fist would take the blow.
She closed her eyes. Tears had ruined whatever makeup remained from the long night. She was ready. All her pain would be gone the moment this CD was broken. It would end. She would move on. She wouldn't need to wait on the phone or stop herself from calling a missed number. It would be done.
With eyes closed, she struck the CD.
The room was filled with a hallowed cry. She opens her eyes. There was no release. Her knuckles were bleeding. She quickly wrapped her fist with the cloth draping her nightstand. She knew what had happened.
"Fuck you."
She had missed the CD entirely. A small bump now existed above her pillow.
"Fuck you for not caring anymore. Fuck me for still wanting you."
The wall. She'll try again next week. Same CD. Same feeling. Same pain. New tears.
"I love you."
She grabbed the CD and tossed it inside her drawer, right above the letters and photographs. She removed the green cloth and exposed her new bruises. She stared at the blood. It was hers. It will always be hers.
And her hope remains even when the blood dries.
She clenched her fist. Her uneven, patchy black nails had grown over the course of two days, now long enough to leave a clear outline on her pale white skin. It hurt.
It hadn't been long. It hadn't been a year or two months. It hadn't been long but the new truth, her truth, was all it took to send her over the edge.
She smacked her lips. Her cheap $1 lipstick had flaked off and left a cherry red glimmer across her lower lip. It had taken her three hours to find this exact CD. Three hours plus 30 minutes of liquid courage in the form of yet another cheap discarded alcohol her family had left and she finally had all the elements together.
She hated this CD. She hated what it stood for. She couldn't find the pictures or the ticket stub so this would have to do.
"I hate what you did, to me."
Her clenched fists were now losing color. All her anger, all her regrets, all her love, all her forgiveness, and self-hatred was directed toward this CD.
"You took something from me and you left me. You ran away!"
She raised her right fist. Her left was still recovering from slamming it against her car door. Her right, her weak right fist would take the blow.
She closed her eyes. Tears had ruined whatever makeup remained from the long night. She was ready. All her pain would be gone the moment this CD was broken. It would end. She would move on. She wouldn't need to wait on the phone or stop herself from calling a missed number. It would be done.
With eyes closed, she struck the CD.
The room was filled with a hallowed cry. She opens her eyes. There was no release. Her knuckles were bleeding. She quickly wrapped her fist with the cloth draping her nightstand. She knew what had happened.
"Fuck you."
She had missed the CD entirely. A small bump now existed above her pillow.
"Fuck you for not caring anymore. Fuck me for still wanting you."
The wall. She'll try again next week. Same CD. Same feeling. Same pain. New tears.
"I love you."
She grabbed the CD and tossed it inside her drawer, right above the letters and photographs. She removed the green cloth and exposed her new bruises. She stared at the blood. It was hers. It will always be hers.
And her hope remains even when the blood dries.
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Monday, March 9, 2015
the leftovers
boxes and bags.
a torn one here, its contents belonging to a stranger?
no, they were known. they weren't a stranger.
and here, more plastic holding up..
memories.
to be sold?
no. you can't sell these.
surely, they can be given away.
no. these aren't transferable. they remain.
these all take up space.
they help. some memories, don't serve to haunt, they help. i welcome them all.
and these ears?
no, they must remain hidden, i must, hid them. like the longing, i must hid them.
all this baggage for a stranger long gone.
not gone. not for sure. just, a wanderer. i'll wear the ears and dress when they return.
you seem so sure, a clown you are.
not a clown, just a lost mouse. i keep it all. for comfort.
well, their comfort has gone, you know that. they left.
.....
a torn one here, its contents belonging to a stranger?
no, they were known. they weren't a stranger.
and here, more plastic holding up..
memories.
to be sold?
no. you can't sell these.
surely, they can be given away.
no. these aren't transferable. they remain.
these all take up space.
they help. some memories, don't serve to haunt, they help. i welcome them all.
and these ears?
no, they must remain hidden, i must, hid them. like the longing, i must hid them.
all this baggage for a stranger long gone.
not gone. not for sure. just, a wanderer. i'll wear the ears and dress when they return.
you seem so sure, a clown you are.
not a clown, just a lost mouse. i keep it all. for comfort.
well, their comfort has gone, you know that. they left.
.....
lo que queda
eres mi media manzana.
a complementary pair.
nuestras ideas, nuestros pensamientos, juntos,
se unen y bailan.
y nosotros hacemos nuestra música.
y ellos, todos, nos miran, preguntan.
porque
why
let go and move.
no entienden.
y no quieren aprender.
los pedazos siempre se unen.
dos partes, aunque cambien las expresiones se unirán.
si dos plantas crecen juntas y se separan que pasa?
Sunday, March 8, 2015
SYSTEM ERROR - by Christien Glitch Rodriguez
What to do with a "glitch" in the system?
An incompatibility with a world
that has formulated its own
exemption from inquiry...
the exemption that defines
the rule it proves breakable...
the grotesque and unwanted reminder
that everything and nothing is real anymore?
I move through the matrix,
or, maybe the matrix moves through me.
Like a glitch that haunts its truths.
The hardest part about being a glitch
is the knowing, thinking, feeling
that I am entirely different
and in every way a duplicate
at the same time...
Haunted by the disorienting recognition
that I am a product of a system
disproved by my existence.
I am incapable of forgetting that I am
surrounded by drones programmed to forget
histories of their own wiring.
The average agent glares at me
with a suspicious glow,
careful not to alert me
to their alerted state,
as they scan thoroughly
up and down my frame...
searching...
searching...
searching... for my difference.
Once they can place it,
they can place me,
determine the command combination
to extract and follow.
Why they do this,
they do not know.
They do not ask questions.
When they do they ask all the wrong ones.
They ask all the wrong questions
when I do not compute,
when the appearance of my structure
resists placement by mocking it,
when my sign is absent of meaning
so the default of "other"
is often assigned to me.
However, if they only asked
they could find
I am something other than the other,
the third option from the abyss.
Neither thesis nor antithesis,
but something entirely different
as I occupy the ether between.
An incompatibility with a world
that has formulated its own
exemption from inquiry...
the exemption that defines
the rule it proves breakable...
the grotesque and unwanted reminder
that everything and nothing is real anymore?
I move through the matrix,
or, maybe the matrix moves through me.
Like a glitch that haunts its truths.
The hardest part about being a glitch
is the knowing, thinking, feeling
that I am entirely different
and in every way a duplicate
at the same time...
Haunted by the disorienting recognition
that I am a product of a system
disproved by my existence.
I am incapable of forgetting that I am
surrounded by drones programmed to forget
histories of their own wiring.
The average agent glares at me
with a suspicious glow,
careful not to alert me
to their alerted state,
as they scan thoroughly
up and down my frame...
searching...
searching...
searching... for my difference.
Once they can place it,
they can place me,
determine the command combination
to extract and follow.
Why they do this,
they do not know.
They do not ask questions.
When they do they ask all the wrong ones.
They ask all the wrong questions
when I do not compute,
when the appearance of my structure
resists placement by mocking it,
when my sign is absent of meaning
so the default of "other"
is often assigned to me.
However, if they only asked
they could find
I am something other than the other,
the third option from the abyss.
Neither thesis nor antithesis,
but something entirely different
as I occupy the ether between.
Free Write: A Day Too Soon
He would have been 25 today. 25 years of breathing, thinking, moving.
I can't pinpoint how we met but I can bring up so many fond memories of him. I can't pinpoint it because it was so comfortable and serene. There wasn't any awkward moments. It was just so, unreal.
It hurts to know how easily I can forget about him yet, I randomly am reminded of him. I see hats like the ones he would wear. I see bowties. He loved bowties.
We weren't close but I admired his strength. He had this incredible patience. He was such a beautiful soul. I was lucky to have met him. I can honestly say that he was one of the highlights of my UCI years. Every time I would bump into him on campus he would say hi. Not the casual wave and goodbye and the "We should hangout" fake invitation. It was all genuine. Hugs, hellos, talk that would definitely go further than the small talk boundaries.
I should have said happy birthday yesterday but I'm still upset. I can't stop being angry at his loss. I'm still angry and I want him to still be here.
I'm not saying goodbye.
Happy Belated Birthday Christien.
I can't pinpoint how we met but I can bring up so many fond memories of him. I can't pinpoint it because it was so comfortable and serene. There wasn't any awkward moments. It was just so, unreal.
It hurts to know how easily I can forget about him yet, I randomly am reminded of him. I see hats like the ones he would wear. I see bowties. He loved bowties.
We weren't close but I admired his strength. He had this incredible patience. He was such a beautiful soul. I was lucky to have met him. I can honestly say that he was one of the highlights of my UCI years. Every time I would bump into him on campus he would say hi. Not the casual wave and goodbye and the "We should hangout" fake invitation. It was all genuine. Hugs, hellos, talk that would definitely go further than the small talk boundaries.
I should have said happy birthday yesterday but I'm still upset. I can't stop being angry at his loss. I'm still angry and I want him to still be here.
I'm not saying goodbye.
Happy Belated Birthday Christien.
Friday, March 6, 2015
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
Free Write: One Day
Hundreds of tiny thoughts rush around in my brain. It's part of the anxiety I deal with. I use to think it was the way everyone thought. Turns out, it isn't.
These past two months have been tough. Consequently, my "regular" thoughts have changed into something more cynical. There is hope, which I greatly hold on to, but 70% of the thoughts are cynical.
Maybe, one day, he'll be proud. Maybe, one day, he won't be rude. Maybe, one day, he'll act differently. Maybe, one day, they will love each other again. Maybe, one day, I won't be afraid. Maybe, one day, he'll reach out to me again. Maybe, one day, it won't hurt. Maybe, one day, I won't reach for the phone to call someone that has left. Maybe, one day, the acne will be gone. Maybe, one day, my back will stop hurting. Maybe, one day, my paycheck won't be so low. Maybe, one day, school will be easier. Maybe, one day, I won't worry so much. Maybe, one day, I'll find the necklace.
I've been in this constant limbo. Ups. Downs. I want to laugh but my body and mind crave sleep. I want to smile forever but I turn to the left and hide the tears. I live somewhere in-between the two extremes. It's a little empty but it could be worse.
I know it will get better. I am confident that it will be.
Onward I have to go.
-ChesterYaYa
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