The jungle that is the universe

Flying, again. These days a much less frequent occasion. Nonetheless, I return to a place long needed, but not long forgotten. My mind. It speaks . . . in a way it is incapable of doing so day to day. I am different here. I wonder if it is the expanse that lays below, the miles of land that are seemingly untouched, where a single being fails to make an impression, our creations, yes, but our physicality so insignificant.

A couple things happen. Two opposing emotions. One where my worries, my stresses melt into the selfishness from which they were bore, a realization that I am much too stuck in my own head. Ironically, the same head I don’t often visit. Quite, a preoccupying affair.

The other, a concoction. Emotions that should have been dealt and deserve to be felt. A hint of numbness mixed with a deep-seeded tenderness produces tears. Two drops. As in the horrible movie watched this weekend. The speed of which they took matched the speed I said was clearly fake. Either I am elementary in my emotional delivery or these tears were long waiting their speedy delivery, an escape from myself. Satiated with stresses. Time to let go.

And that’s where I reach a depth that requires words I don’t know. My mind dances around descriptions, defeating, failure, lucky, confused, undirected, and ultimately, what the fuck. Years ago I adopted an unfailing belief in the universe, the notion that things happen for a reason. That my life, the lessons learned were the greatest gifts. That hardships are signals to change. To adopt. Should you pay attention, wonderful warnings to follow, protection. Roads to the future destination much preferred. But here I am again. Transition, I feel. And all I can think about is exhaustion. That I am missing something for my heart seems at the end of its enduring.

The trip here was a recanting of many stories, while humorous and poignant and I, fortunate for them to be mine, to realize that I, such a simple individual, is really quite colored. I do love. But these stories tear. I feel for the girl who lived them. The feeling of stuck is definitely my biggest fear, capable of being my undoing and is my worst fear. I don’t want to have to untangle anymore. My strength is dwindling. And that’s why I write now. Because somehow, someway, here I am, again.

I felt that we sought the right things. Freedom. Passion. Ideas. And we are teased with that genuine success. From belief. From focus. But to me, who ponies up, takes the problems as mine to fix, I am zapped, I succeed but all while numbing. An unhealthy emotional dealing for I don’t take inside so well. More lessons, and my insides scream. I really am untethered.

And I want to say fuck. Question, why. I am not even sure if I believe anymore in a right path. I always thought the majority failed to consider, failed to listen to the lessons dealt. To grow, to change. That if we stayed persistence and real and had hearts that were kind, we would stumble upon our own unpaved path. Untamed, idiosyncratic, jungle adorned paths- both dangerous and beautiful, uniquely us. And most importantly, fulfilling.

So I am at more than a fork in the road. A fractured path.

N e x t  S t e p s

I believe we pay attention to that which we can control. So, my actions should I ignore, are to numb, to fix, to press on. Broken tires, A destroyed car. An experience, the result.

And if I attempt to listen. To believe in the universe would be to think the following. To believe in the need to stay persistent. That my dreams are being tested. Edison’s notion that so many great ideas die before properly explored.

Or conversely that I am meant to switch gears. The challenges that continue to confront are life’s directions. Reroute.

Or the option to change one’s mentality. A life that is much more simple. Smile. Dance. Laugh. And enjoy. Be simple. Discard this dialogue, this need to be someone, grow, challenged, the dialogue that is my worst enemy, I purport. This option the most unlike me. A character I don’t have. But I don’t believe in holding on to that of which doesn’t work.

The problem is how does one decipher?

Arrivederci. And a hello in 5.2 hours that I could long prolong.

I was not built to break

My breath cannot breathe. Suffocated by the inertia that surrounds me, the lies I have learned. A fog envelops me this morning, the bed beckons me. But it offers no true refuge, an escape escapes me.

I reach, I reach deep into my heart. And I plead, I plead for my inner will. I search for the strength so seemingly eluding. The mountain’s face continues to loom. I am so tired of climbing. Disbelief at the challenges that face me.

I think of my life. The world that I dance on top of. The black ferrari in which I sat as we flew down the FDR. The check. The meetings. The movies. The sphere of the influential and the famous building in which I now sit. The surface so vastly different than the truth and the maze in which consumes my heart. To be on the brink of something so great. My energies question their ability to continue. But, I know. I know that this is not forever.

And I return to working on eliciting the change in which I desire. The cement to the world my toes are immersed in . . .

And I listen to Whitney Houston’s, “I Didn’t Know My Own Strength.”

And I pick myself back up.

Hold my head up high.

I was not built to break.

Loving “me”

Passion, I lacked. Passion, I have now found.

A new company. Almost ready to cut the threads to the other. The job I have juggled and responsibilities that were often fruitless while hours of work for mine awaited me. My company has gone from 0 mph to 60. And I sit, in awe at all. Names that are in the press everyday. Perhaps, my photos as well.

A move back to New York. A sudden departure without a goodbye to Puerto Rico. Passion, cold and coats in exchange for the balance and the sand that my toes miss. The orbits around me now have threads from years past. Strangers and past admirers. And courtship. Interesting men. But, my mind is focused on the new company. What a healthy place to be, as I have this power and comfort to not be burdened by anything that is not effortless. I still find myself dancing with the men who paint such an amazing picture, the men I tend to not fall for . . .

From Copenhagen: “You wake up at a slightly silly hour and a flood of ‘oh I should have done that yesterday’ thoughts pepper your mind and wake you up further.. You get up from bed and walk to where I have set up your laptop, on the work desk next to everything one needs to work (muji pencils, papers, post-its et al) . Of course, like you its already on and you can walk to it in the dark as the swirl of its screen saver gives your eyes a beacon. I may have been dimly aware that you got up..when I do wake up an hour later, I don’t question your absence but raise my head to hear your fingers on the keyboard and I relax my face back on the pillow. When I DO get up, I respect your focus with silence. I put on my gown and put on the kettle.. I make your tea the way you like it (or is coffee that you like on a weekend? tell me) and bring it to you. You don’t look up but you know what is coming from the times before: I place the mug next to your hand as my other hand strokes and raises your hair from you and I kiss the back of your neck just where it slopes down to your shoulders, before gently laying your hair back again… You dont even have to thank me as I know that at some point, when you are done, I’ll see your smile walking towards me on the sofa, good morning hug at the ready”

Awwww, if only. I could fall. The man who penned those words truly gets me.





Who needs a boyfriend when you have a business partner . . .

He was my gay husband but really he is my business partner. I am not sure which one came first. But then he left me. He left for me New york and impassioned lust.

My gay husband no longer exists and those beach mornings, those dining room conversations, our intimacy, emotions and friendship seem long forgotten. And this was the hardest thing. An emotional abandonment. Threads of diatribes and outpourings of affection faded like faint swirls of smoke. The lasting memories so vague, only words . . . lost and meaningless without context.

And he never returns  . . . those words. The first night, Vieques, tears almost poured down our faces. The love. It seems ill-fated.

I do. Some days. With the misses. Or the come homes.

But he, says nothing. I can only wonder. And dream. That he cares so much he can’t say anything for fear that a hole of vulnerability and tenderness that can be cured would be created. But we move forward. With our passions and our working relationship. Like a marriage. Rules. Understandings. Aggression and frustration.

But I will never forget what started it all. The subways. The pennies. The dining room table.


I have encountered an unfortunate recurring problem. With each extreme high, I dance. Enjoy. And then sink. Today I drove. Thinking of how grateful I am for my life. In disbelief. And now, I sit. Empty. Shake it. I say. S. Work. Dreams. Stress. Balance. Moments out of movies. And then a lull. Mundane. And disconnected.


The sand sifts under my feet. A wind blows. A decision needs to be made. I am still at my company, barely making anything. 1/5 of what I was before. However, I would rather be working for free. Respected and appreciated for my sweat equity. My stipend affords me nothing, yet it serves to make my boss feel as if my work is paid for. I made more when I was 18.

At this moment, I am not living paycheck to paycheck. If I were, I would be tied to the paltry stipend, it would be my calories. In one month, that is where I will be. And I will be stuck, working and living day-to-day, unable to change directions and afford me any days to breathe.

Today, I have the power. I can walk away and not work for a few weeks. Line up my next venture. However, I am entangled in every negotiation and relationship, the reason I was not fired. I am the one that holds the weight. No one checks in, motivates me, or gives me guidance. I simply hold the key. I look at it and wonder why should I turn it.

I flirt with walking in and saying I am leaving. I don’t believe he could let me go. I don’t necessarily want to go. But I refuse to be here a month from now, strapped and dependent. I am not quite sure what to do . . .



The fallen flowers are hula hoops. A finger, come hither.  I should be dancing and swirling within. My hands (and  elation) should be in the air.

Yet, I am leaning against the taupe concrete, simply watching. The gray skies creating goosebumps. I had to come outside. I couldn’t breathe. Hollow. However, I met the death in the air.  There is no reprieve here. I pace. I stare at my reflection. I want to sit. Rest my head within my hands. Want to cry, but there are no tears, there never are.

We finally signed. The deal. The reason I stayed. I pressed forward and drafted my excitement. The to field taunted me. With each name I started to type, I pressed delete to each letter. There was no one.

No constant. No recipient for I already started building my cage. A cage to protect. Others.

But I am left ravenous. Craving a him to my her.  



“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 . . . 

Human Yo-Yo


2:38 pm I knew my termination was imminent.  The eyes of my colleague. His complexion, white. He walked by my office terrified, ghostly. All he could utter was the news would be told before 6.

My meeting was scheduled for anytime before 6.

5:45 pm. I enter. A paper in hand, a relaxed face, ease in my walk. I hand him a well-drafted document, complete with boxes and arrows, updates and Hope. Our company’s options from my POV.

The boss spoke and no defining news was delivered.  Relief.

Perhaps, it was the papers. Or perhaps, his nerves. 

I left. Able to breathe. But I wondered, would each day hereafter be the same? Prolonging, postponing, barely hanging on . . .

I met my colleague in the evening. He, two sheets to the wind. I sipped two margaritas con sal for dinner. My colleague, anxious and nervous, on edge. He informed me that while seeking approval for our new business cards, my boss took a piece of paper:

 A line was drawn–the paper divided in two.

Names were written.

And mine, solely, below.

An artistic way to break the news.

to my colleague, who walked into my boss’s door upon leaving



1 am. I go to sleep happy. My future uncertain. I don’t know where I am going. But this time, I travel without fear. One is never ready. I am most definitely not. I wish I had a cushion. Some pennies to get my through a month. Regardless, things happen for a reason.  I do know that I am not supposed to be here, not like this. As always, events transpire to disrupt that of which I myself have not. I procrastinate and lack lust. I forgot how to dream. I stopped growing. And I knew it was changing, not how or when. Soon. My thoughts in bed were to get through this month. And search. For what I don’t know.

7:30 am. I woke up today. Avoiding. Prolonging. Hoping, the news would wait. 

 The boss offered me a ride to work.

9am. Named me as Executive Vice President in an email.

11:55am. My colleague sauntered into my office, a mock-up of the new business cards in hand- Attaining Me, Vice President, 8 x 10. The contact info for me to approve. A small red order number written at the top- 500. My colleague’s face shines.

I am but a human yo-yo. 


1:25pm. My string was cut. I am here until the end of the month. 13 days. A miracle would bring a different future. But now, the energy is quiet, calm. No prolonging news. No waiting. I still don’t know what February will bring or if a miracle will come. I am not sure where I am supposed to go. I left a life in New York for this job. Do I return, release the hold? But I think of a slight dream, a dream borne with my colleague. And I know why his face was white. I also know the places you go are for a reason. Be it someone you meet or something you learn . . I did learn balance here. And there is a possibility of a continued life in PR, my colleague, a dream


13 days to decide. To move jobless to New York. Or commit jobless to PR. 

Whatever it is, I promise-

– 2008 was a year of balance and 

– 2009, a year will I will dream, an activity that shouldn’t be lost on children. I welcome the images. Colorful dreams. Technicolor. 


The waiting game

Come kiss me. Or even just wrap your arms around me. I need a hug. I know everything will be okay, but I am dying to flee as I wait in vain. In my office, the energy swirls. Words not be spoken for the truth to be heard. I sit here, waiting. My boss walks in. Come talk to me when you ready, so we can discuss where we are. No hurry.

Yes, no hurry. I will wait. I will be procrastinating, waiting in pain.