That truth being that I do it, I write this crazy late and then change the date so it appears to have been written 'on time'. This particular post you're reading right now was in fact written today before the time I want it to go live, but the one for Monday, April 7? I'm writing it after I schedule this one. I don't even care. It's how I'm running things over here. Now you know.
That said, Bad Bunny did a great job at his Tiny Desk performance and I just want to make sure you all saw it.
But also, here's my favorite video from this latest album:
I love this song because, well, it's beautiful and melancholy, but also, it reminded me of this poem I wrote once:
How do you not run out of new things to say?
I fell in love with someone who was on vacation
He was observing fake routines—
Breakfast-gym-coffee-tours
That I’d mistaken for his true self.
He’d sit at the bar reading classic Poe
And presidential biographies, and I
Confused posing with intellect
He sipped red wine quietly
Ate steak neatly
Smiled at toddlers in the hotel lobby; bent
To pet dogs on his afternoon walks
And I took his actions for truth, when really,
He was playing a part.
He was playing at: Leisure Man TM
Who: doesn’t check his bank account before splurging
Is meticulously coiffed + dressed on a Tuesday
Appreciates the finer things
Likes himself
I fell in love with someone who was hiding from another life.
He pretended to listen and care and know
What it meant to love and be loved
He began sentences with, “Perhaps a better way
To look at it…” to mask half-cooked theories and advocacies
For a devil that never asked for his help
He retired every night at 10pm,
‘to catch the evening news’
And never asked for too much—
I confused him with a proper gentleman
From another era
But, in fact, I fell in love with a man who’d
Taken a break from reality
And here we sit.
Not knowing what’s true.
Except—this is the bed that we made,
And we lie in it every night.
You're welcome.
Love & Balls, Jaded ----- en mi vida fuistes turista tú solo vistes lo mejor de mí y no lo que yo sufría te fuiste sin saber el porqué
I've been contemplating resuming my now-defunct writing career. I mentioned this, right? Right. I mean, just look at my phone's home screen; it's been trying to drag me out of this funk for half a decade now, poor thing. Anyways, a few of the books I've read have reminded me about the joy writing used to bring; they've lit the tiniest of fires. I may have written a small synopsis or two. But so far I remain way too clogged with depression and anxiety and a general abundance of ennui.
So let's try a little experiment; play along. Long ago and far away, when I was known (on here) as THE Master of Fine Arts, friends and followers would tell me, "I don't know what to write about," and ask me for writing prompts. I still have a lot of them saved on my trusty red thumb drive. Maybe it will shake some of you up?
You wake up here, in Cuba. You feel groggy and sluggish, and don't remember how you got here. The last thing you recall is leaving your loft in Philadelphia to meet your cousin for dinner. Everything after locking your door is gone. What now?
Feel free to leave your response in the comments, or email me, if you'd like, but it's not mandatory. As long as this prompt gets you writing and thinking creatively, that's all that matters!
As a sports fan, it tickles me to know about athletes' good luck charms- the items they believe will help them win games. Things like a crucifix, a certain piece of equipment, or even a pair of lucky underwear. It's funny that these men and women, who have practiced until their bodies are beyond hurt, think a sock will make all the difference. Forget skills, precision, expertise. We've got SOCKS!
What's even funnier is realizing that I, too, have my little trinkets that helped me write, travel, and just get through the day in general, and without them everything feels wrong and out of place. My grandmother's ring; a novelty pencil from Jamaica that I dubbed Barrington Mon; a bullet on a chain given to me by a sweet Vietnamese suitor back in high school; my thumb drive, filled with everything I've ever even thought about writing. These are the things I need.
If I dare get on a train, plane, or automobile and am not wearing or carrying Grandma's ring, or my thumb drive, I freak out inside. When I used to perform at readings, I needed that bullet necklace in my pocket. When I would sit at the computer trying to conjure up a story and Barrington Mon was not nearby, I couldn't focus on what I was trying to write.
Of course it's silly to depend on them. After all, I have all this talent, I had all those stories that wanted and needed to be told. The lack of a pencil or a piece of jewelry should not have stood in the way of that. But it did. On the flip side, maybe there's truth to trinkets and totems holding a certain energy that can help, protect, and comfort, and then transfers that energy to us.
You know, my grandmother didn't get to travel (NJ doesn't count). As far as I know, she came to Brooklyn and stayed put, with just a few tiny trips to Lawrence, Massachusettes; Buffalo, NY; Virginia Beach; and maybe she went a cruise to Alaska? Am I making that up? I think I am... Anyways, that was the extent of it. But with me, through that ring, and in my heart, she's been across the Atlantic, across the country, and even parasailing in Key West. I need Grandma's ring with me everywhere because she's not here in body. (The thumb drive coming with me is just a panic response to having countless computers crash on me, taking with them countless raw documents I'll never get back. It's my emotional support thumb drive.)
And every desk I've ever had since 2005 has featured Barrington Mon; he was gifted to me by a kind, gentle soul I met during my MFA residency, who always had wise observations and a beautiful way of speaking and writing. This pencil reminds me to be easy and trust the light within (advice given to me by said friend), even though I abandoned my craft in 2020.
The bullet necklace? Well, I mean it's a bullet necklace. Like an actual bullet. It's cool as fuck and I will always cherish it and remember that kid from high school who took it from around his neck and gave it to me when I complimented it. I don't really know it's history, and I've given it at least three backstories from my imagination, but I do know that when I wear it, my confidence level is through the roof.
Does this sound crazy? Do you have your own little false idols? Or is it just this recovering Catholic + a bunch of MLB players? Either way, it's what I need.
Ahhhh, Beyonce. You'll never know how much I needed something else to focus on this week.
Her latest studio album is the official 2005-2006 Jaded Anthem Soundtrack. If I could re-divorce my ex I would, and play this album while signing my papers because YASSSSSS I AIN'T THINKIN' 'BOUT YOU (from "Sorry")
Of course my favorite Lemonade song is "Sorry" CAUSE I AIN'T SORRY THUG LIFE & FUCK YO FEELINGS FOR LIFE! *whew* that felt good.
So I watched this documentary that aired on OWN, "Light Girls," that was the sequel, I think, to the "Dark Girls" documentary that discussed the pains and perils of being #TeamLightSkin and #TeamDarkSkin (or so I gathered. Y'all know I only half pay attention).
(To my Caucasian friends: yes, those hashtags are REAL things that exist. Go on The Twitter, The Tumblr, The Facebook, or The Instagram and you'll see this foolishness firsthand.)
A lot of the people I follow on The Twitter who were live-tweeting the show (yes, that's also a thing. Keep up!) were not here for it. There were many jokes of course and the usual NOT ALL [fill in the common noun], so I thought FINE. Let me see what all the fuss is about. I want to laugh and give in to my righteous indignation, too!
However, the documentary was...well, I'm still not sure what the main idea of the documentary was, but when I figure it out I will be able to tell you that it didn't stir anything in me. Only one woman, who explained that her grandmother preferred her descendants to have light skin because it meant they'd have a better chance of SURVIVING in the Jim Crow south, made me feel anything. Most everyone else was just there to talk about their hurt fee-fees.
And also, I thought I'd maybe see myself in the experiences of these women, but I didn't. My family is welcome to chime in, but I don't recall a time when I was favored for having lighter skin. More than anything, I was praised for being obedient and bringing home good grades; that's what mattered the most in my Roman Catholic, Latino home. Respect your elders, do your homework. Don't embarrass us in the street.
And I can't recall being picked on or being liked more in school because or despite of my skin color. Again, teachers liked me because I was a kiss-ass who earned good grades and never acted up. And my classmates liked me because, well, I'm not sure, but I like to think that it was my irresistible charm and sparkling personality. STOP LAUGHING. I CAN SEE YOU.
Honestly, I didn't hear any skin-tone specific talk until I got much older and started spending more time around my mother's paternal relatives. But that's a story for another day that I'll never tell you, because despite their lofty airs, I love them and won't speak ill of them (too much) on here.
Do I think I've succeeded or received any advantages in life because of my skin color? HONEY, if being nearly $100K in debt, barely earning enough to pay down that debt, raising kids on my own and being the captain of #TeamForeverAlone means I've succeeded in life, then I need to buy a new dictionary. Clearly I'm living this Light-Skinned life all wrong. ALL WRONG. I've had no advantages with this skin. Not an ounce. *gives useless skin the side eye*
I'm trudging through this shit like everyone else- by the grace of your judeo-christian god.
In conclusion, the only things I really took away from the documentary were a) the origins and definition of the term QUADROON (which is still the funniest word to me ever), b) I had never had the discussion with N that she's (racially, for lack of a better term) Black and (culturally/ethnically) Dominican, and c) Byron Nelson should call me. Soon. Watch the documentary to see for yourself why.
Yes, I still think primarily with my loins. What was your point?
*smooches...in all of my light-skinnded glory*
---------- I mean, it's the only skin I have. #minuswell be happy in it.
My loves, my darlings, my old faithful blog readers!!!
Did you feel abandoned? Forgotten? Discarded? I apologize for neglecting you this way. I have no excuse, just been in my own world and not in the mood to share myself via this platform.
However, I could not let the year end without writing something.
Has 2014 been my best year? Not even close. Has it been the worst? NOPE. And that's what I'm choosing to move forward with: I didn't do it all, but I didn't fall apart, either. And if you're a long-time reader of this site you know that's huge for me.
This year's highlights? Getting more stories published, making my very first (kickass) sancocho & homemade sofrito, and my family vacation in DR over the Thanksgiving break. JESUS MARY AND JOSEPH all knew I needed that injection of sunshine and family. It was everything.
I know, I know: we're awesome!
I'm going to make (the) next year(s) all of that, and then some; have more fun. That's my one and only resolution.
You should all do the same.
*smooches...and hugs on this New Year's Eve*
---------- love someone and mean it, especially yourself
She's so feisty, I can't help but see myself in her and love her to death. And since her sister went off to college, N has become my shenanigans road dawg, and I do believe it's brought us closer.
I mean, listen, instead of telling me I'm uncool or embarrassing, she's usually the first in line to participate in my foolishness. How many moms can say that?
Happy Birthday, my Black Queen-in-Training! I look forward to being by your side as you make this world your bitch!
*smooches...just for my schmoo-pie today*
---------- ain't she grand?
Mari and I have been using this title ever since she came to stay with me for a couple of summers while she attended a program at Columbia, and now it's a thing we do.
And so I present to you the latest installment of Sister Summer, in photos and captions.
Mari's new pet, Smokey, who thought
we were BFFs. We're not.
My books and an empty bottle
of wine. Accurate.
I'm wider than I want to be; still cute, tho.
Super cute AND stylish: Jaded Babies.
I don't remember a time when we weren't a foursome.
*smooches...looking forward to many more times like this*
---------- what would I do without these gals?
A lot of you forget to check my site for appearances, and then pull the whole "you had a reading?" schpiel after the fact. Well here's a gentle reminder that I'm actively booking events where I host and/or read, and you need to be in the audience cheering me on.
How can you say no to that face?
That is all.
*smooches...gearing up for a busy season*
---------- it's about to be LOCO!
Friend: Do they make meds for "Shiftless Negro Syndrome?" Me: No. Scientists are too busy trying to control our wombs to worry about that. Friend: I need them up out my uterus. They can work on that. Me: All the way out.
Me: *walks into uterus, sees a bunch of scientists, clergy, and politicians* "Umm, hello? Do I know you? How'd you get in here?" Them: "The door was open..." Me: BULL. SHIT. Them: "It's for your own good"
Friend: *smh*
Me: (as Bernadine) "GET YO SHIT... GET YO SHIT, AND GET THE FUCK OUT!"
Friend: O_O!!! You know she set shit on fire after that. Me: Mhmm. I'm OK with that. I already had babies.
*smooches...ready to bring this show to Congress*
---------- they'll give me the floor, right?
When I say that, upon seeing a THICK envelope in the mailbox from the IRS, my heart was in my throat, I'm not exaggerating. My first thought was SHIT. I'M BEING AUDITED. THEY'RE GONNA SEIZE MY MONEY! Which, of course, is ridiculous because I'm worth about five pesos.
Still, a letter from the IRS can't be good, right? Not a thick envelope--that must mean they needed a bunch of pages to tell me how badly they're about to fuck up my life.
Except that's not what it said.
Y'all. There was an error in my favor. I overpaid the government in 2011.
THEY ARE SENDING ME A REFUND.
Happy Friday, my good people. It's raining freakin' pennies from freakin' heaven!
*smooches...already spending that money in my head*
---------- don't worry, The Voices and I are spending responsibly :)
ME: someone is trying to get me to watch "Fargo" on TV. K: Isn't that about wolves? And the wilderness? ME: No... there's a movie called Fargo with Steve Buscemi but it's not about wolves. K: Yes! That book, it's a classic, about wolves! ME (thinking really hard): You mean Call of the Wild? K: YES! Is it written by someone named Fargo? ME (googles): NO. It's by Jack London. K: There's something with an "F" about wolves and the wilderness... ME: You mean White Fang? K: Possibly. ME: How is that anywhere close to "Fargo"? K: There's a book about wolves! I'm going to find it!
Lord Jesus, help this child of mine. Freshman year has clearly stolen her brain.
*smooches...realizing my kids are me all over again*
---------- can you think of anything scarier??
Last night was one of those ONLY IN NY nights that, if you're not from here, you don't know what I mean or how awesome it feels. And let's be real- NYC is turning into one big touristy mall that sickens me to my core, HOWEVER, once in a blue Tuesday, it's old NY where the drinks are cheap and the laughs are plentiful and all the strangers on the street are your new best friends.
And so, to that end, here's a photo I found on my phone this morning, presented without additional commentary or explanation. I call this piece "Because Tuesday."
*smooches...loving NY again*
---------- at least until my bank statement comes in...
After my fabulous reading at Pacific Standard on the 17th, I stuck around with some folks and maybe, allegedly had one too many drinks. When it was clear we'd need food to sustain this level of drinking, we decided to leave the bar. And guess what was near the door? A bowl full of condoms and lube. FOR FREE.
So drunk Raquel decided these were MUST-HAVE items, despite the fact that 1) she's not having sex with anyone and B) she already has about 100 condoms at home (a gift from a cousin; a story for another day).
A week ago or so I had a foggy memory about trying to hand out these condoms and lube to some homeless people on the street, only to have my drinking buddies snatch me up and throw me in a cab with a NO MAS, GO HOME. #Rude.
And now fast forward to last night, I'm cleaning out my tote because it weighs about 15lbs and my back can't take it. What do I find at the bottom? Two condoms and two packets of lubricant. It took me a minute to remember how these got in my bag, but there it is. The story of how I found lube in my purse.
Also? JUST SAY NO.
*smooches...remembering why I stopped boozing*
---------- although the stories are pretty blog-worthy...
L to r: Authors Blu Daniels, Rebeca Lucret, Theresa Varela, Alicia Anabel Santos, and Raquel Penzo. (c) 2014 David Stewart
These smart, talented, GORGEOUS women participated in my Lit Crawl Brooklyn event, "When Brooklyn Was Brooklyn," and will be featured in the book next year. If you missed it you MISSED it, because it was one helluva show.
But at least I'm being kind enough to allow you to gawk at us. You're welcome.
*smooches...busy being a proud "momma"*
---------- for every four "eh" events there's one awesome, and that one makes all the others worth it!
i'm gonna bathe in this love you've left behind by the bed
i'm gonna use it to rinse my hair; maybe soak my tired feet
maybe soak my tired soul
i'm gonna carry it in a Tupperware in my purse
feast on it on my lunch break; maybe add some pepper
to taste
i'm gonna sit it next to me on the sofa and watch
our favorite movie with it; i'll pop some popcorn and we'll
eat and laugh and
if you don't mind
i'm not going to tell anyone i still love you
*smooches...offering this contribution to Throwback Thursdays*
----------
I don't even remember for whom I wrote this. I must not miss him anymore, whomever he was.
Read my first published story, Grey Matter, at Blue Lake Review online.
Also, you asked for it so here it is: click below to buy my book, My Ego Likes the Compliments...And Other Musings on Writing, for just $10 plus $2.00 flat shipping rate to anywhere in the continental US.
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