Departure. Passport- check.

The sun is too low today. Perhaps, it too is hungover. It teases me though- promising me more minutes here. My dog’s leash is wrapped loosely around my toe and the sand is kissing my bum. I am sitting cross-legged and I peer at my beach’s small expanse as I write this. The tractor’s combs teach me that perhaps they were on to something when they conceived the small zen-garden trays of sand.

This is my moment. It always is. I wish work didn’t await me. I could be more productive here. But, politics dictate otherwise—not to mention this is my last day per contract. Whether one more days exists escapes me. The topic only hovers. I haven’t pressed the point. I want to leave or perhaps, stay. More freedom, less pay. I don’t need a New York salary anymore. I have finally let go of my overhead, and have subletted by New York duplex. I hold on to memberships-Zipcar, Gym. I suppose the commitment phobe is procrastinating.

I am going to New York next week to ship belongings for the first time in my year here. Funny, how losing my job made me to decide to commit.

I fear that hormones and being amongst my “kind” will prompt me to change my mind. Ctrl-z.

I push that thought aside. I crinkle the sand between my toes. Stay.

The sun is coming to—so am I. I need more coffee though. Last night’s memories return. Restaurant Opening. Cameras. Never-ending glasses of wine. Black label for him. Two bottles always stored in his breast pocket—just in case.

A dinner after. With a girl from Spain, now living in Punta Cana. Exotic. From afar she receives a jealous woman’s criticism. Tight dress. Comfortable with her sexuality. These are things that should not be punished. I am the opposite. My back exposed. My dress long. A rich blue. We complement each other perfectly. And I am invited.

Private jet. Venezuela. I know nothing else. The plane leaves in a few hours. The invite teases me and makes me choose. I would leave the office how many hours early. And what is my excuse?

If I stay, my weekend will commence with Veuve Cliquot’s Rose Festivity- I must wear pink they say. Saturday evening, I will lace myself into a black corset. Stockings. Garters. A constraint- a far departure from my daytime hours where I will ride horses through the mountains and roll in the waves of the ocean.

I leave my sand. I now post this from my desk. The weekend’s options dance in my mind. 

The jet flirts with my spontaneity. The unknown awaits. Decisions. Fuck, I have ten minutes. 



I hope you don’t stay

I lay in my bed. Perpendicular. Every which way. My body, immobile. Unable to get up. It has returned. Clouds of indifference. A thick fog over motivation. I was asked about this unmentionable the other week. I happily noted, dormant. I suppose I said so too soon.

It has returned. With increasing attendance. The voice in my head to escape, a devil on my shoulder. I forgot how powerful he was. Its habits, seemed long removed. But, now they are here again. Sunday and Today. I dealt with the consequences. I fear that this voice will grow louder if I don’t stop it now. But, how?

Why am I so sad that I must escape? Why can’t I logically recall in those moments that the short escape has far worse consequences.

Addiction. It’s a curious thing. The fuel behind it is often not the chosen escape, be it drugs, alcohol, food, sex, etc. The addiction lies in the decision. The decision provides one with control, when life seems to be offering none. An addict is calmed before they reach their drug. Soothed by the option- the voice speaks and they imagine their acquiescence. The drug is support. Self-provided. You need not be vulnerable to someone else..

An ability to mute thoughts. Stand at the helm. 

Numb. Escape. Control. 


I think I would prefer tears.

Pet peeves intrigue me


I simply cannot understand why the cleaning lady must come clean my desk while I am at it. Every morning, without fail. She waits until I am in my office, to come. I must stop what I am doing while she takes her Fabuloso soaked rag across my desk. My papers moved. I must then get up from my seat . . awkwardly dancing with the phone cord while she does this and that. I just don’t get it!!! 

And I don’t get why it bothers me so so much.

I have a feeling that pet peeves can be a window to your fundamental beliefs. (Similar to how personalities we dislike often reflect something in ourselves.) So, I have decided to start paying attention to all things that elicit strong emotions one way or the other. I discovered this weekend, something about the act of “Waiting.”  I was six years old, stranded at daycare. Waiting, always waiting. As a adult, I simply hate being early . . . 

Happy Monday . . .

Mr. Marry

I suppose I didn’t respond with what you wanted to say. Your current words. Light, funny. You write the word “Phew.” and “I guess I was just trying to figure out stuff that was happening, so what the hell I thought I’d ask.” You also tell me you are going to DR, then Thailand, and perhaps, moving to Spain with the guys in July. WHAT?

Ok, so a note to all. I know what KidRobot is doing. His reactions would be fine had I wrote him I wasn’t interested, that I didn’t think about us as well. But, that’s not the truth. Clearly, my words were not what he wanted to hear. But, now his emotions are so indifferent he has sealed their fate. I want to say “Fuck you.” I know his indifference is a safety blanket, a retraction of the emotions, an attempted way to save the potential hurt. But, again, fuck you. If you are a man, stand by what you say until we discuss it and figure our own truths, together. You are proposing being partners and you cannot even do this?

So, it’s not that I am angry, but I write this as a note on the decisions we make and the games we play when dealing with the heart. He chose a route I do not recommend. I suppose perhaps, all routes arrive at the same destination, but I think less of him for his withdrawal. For his inability to stand by his words. His emotions. There is a reason I hate the words I love you and why I prefer my bouts with “unavailables”.

So, I thank you for leaving me empty, leaving me distrusting.

“The question is: what will you create?”

I am loving Mead’s words posted below. (Excerpts taken from “The Secret to Being Insanely Creative” by Johnathan Mead.)

You are already an artist.

You don’t have to create exquisite sculptures or breathtaking sonnets. You’re creating all the time simply by being alive. Every decision you make, every time you move, breathe, or speak you are creating. In fact, you couldn’t not create even if you wanted to. It’s simply impossible.

Just think about it: you’re the main character in your life story. Each day you develop and further the plot of your masterful performance. You interact with other secondary characters in your story that support your role. These are your friends, your lover, family and coworkers. They’re the supporting actors or actresses in your drama, and they also help mold your life’s narrative.

You can change the course of your story at any time by making new choices and walking down new paths. You can drop a secondary character and choose new ones, if they’re not supporting the story you’d like to create (except, perhaps, family members).

You constantly direct the play called your life; and that makes you a magnificent artist.  So if you’re creating your life all the time, wouldn’t it be more empowering to view yourself as an artist, rather than simply a passively living person? 

. . .

So what do you want to create? A film noir or a fairytale? You can choose a daring adventure or a comedy. It’s up to you as long as you accept that you’re the artist. You’ve got the brush, it’s up to you to put down the colors you like best.”

His words explain why I was happier with the prospect of losing my job. The situation was forcing me to switch gears and create. However, for some reason, my job is reclaimed– I, too necessary to unleash. Every hour last week sucked the life out of me. I know I can still choose to leave, but it was easier when the decision was made for me. Break ups are hard.

The initial knowledge of being fired allowed me to see a new future. I covered my ears to the “economy’s state.” I couldn’t be assaulted with the “if you have a job, you are lucky.” I had to believe I could change as easy as the wind. That something would be waiting to catch me. Invigorate me.

But then came the extension. And the exhaustion. Too tired to retire my days and create a new resume to bridge industries. The nights of this past week were a fog. A fog of somehow making it safely into bed. Not turning to that dormant addiciton. And my job continued. The hours were painful. I need to leave.

However, maybe the extension was also a gift–there was a reason in my story that the days have continued. I ended meetings last night that have the power to change everything. That could allow us to create something tangible as opposed to only the clouds of smoke that we now blow. Optimism Lies.  Parked outside American Airlines for thirty minutes, the other player and I, sat and created. Like two lovers who didn’t want to part. I bridged the gap and searched for why our companies were idle in their negotiations. I, am the only one that speaks their language. I will meet with my boss Monday and say I need to run the show. His answer, will determine my new path. 

And now, I am up, 7am on Saturday morning, happy to respond to emails and work. Tasks that require mind games to complete during working hours as of late. I suppose I lack focus when I know that I am simply pushing papers and stroking egos . . . 


I had reached the end of the highway. Before me, the options sprawled. The fear of the unknown. However, now my highway continues. And I am more exhausted than ever. I cannot figure out who laid the concrete and why. Don’t things happen for a reason? The fear, I prefer. I am bored here.

The remote chance of an us

I often post moments. Snapshots of my life. Perhaps, it is time to share more. Provide some links. Although, it will not be now. But, I will share this.

As I ride the emotional rollercoaster that is Caballito, many are riding the rollercoaster that is me. I will update the cast to this extent, but I am held awake, with an overdue response to a particular email.

KidRobot-the friend I have had for the longest in New York.

It was 2004, I was walking to my Vespa. The treelined streets of Carroll Gardens. Tall, dark, and handsome, he was walking a black lab. We passed eachother. Ten steps later. We both turned around. I was smitten. We dated. He was in the process of getting divorced and I turned my emotions off deciding we were brought together for “support.” I was dealing with an addiction and he, a newfound freedom. He loved me, he said. His emotions given, but met my deaf ears and walled heart. Drama was our parting. Reconnected as friends. He had fallen in love again. Then, I was living in Florida- a three day business trip turned into two months. We spoke and we flirted, shared. I dreamed. And fell.

Fell hard. Down. When I returned to New York, he was an emotional disaster from his break up. One I thought he had long before. Many years as friends thereafter. Last year, we went to Tulum, a group of friends. He told me he never stopped loving me. We returned to New York. And the foundation that was my life had crumbled. I shut off. Easier to fall alone. And took this job in Puerto Rico. This year he came to California with me for Christmas. And said, he felt like he came home for the first time. We slept in the same bed. Side by side for a week. An arm was not even placed around me.

And on December 30th I returned to PR. A package was sent. A card and Tuesday morning, the morning after my fight with Caballito, an email of which I will provide tidbits:

” . . . On one hand I feel tough, complete, whole but at the same time very vulnerable – especially with you. I feel so cliche, like one of your many guy friends “bearing his feelings” or telling you how “you’re the one” – I never really went that far because of listening to you and being afraid to end up just being another guy who bears his feelings  . .

I broke up with Julia and sabotage things not because I am relationship adverse or because I don’t want to be close to anyone, but because if there’s a chance somehow of us, I want to keep myself open – for that chance, however remote it often seems to be. . . 

I know this sounds like ranting but I say this because I feel like I am trying to run away from feelings, trying to avoid feeling a certain way because I am terrified. I am terrified by what will happen, by what will happen to us – and by what you will say. . . . 

I say this because I am terrified to discover the truth about myself and about you.”