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.

 

 

 

 

Armed

I hear one of the company’s partners hitting his desk, his ritual when he erupts in laughter or anger, but the banging strengthens, closing in from all directions. Construction perhaps? Perplexed and indifferent, I am too intent on satisfying my afternoon coffee cravings. 

“Attainingme, Attainingme …..get….. get out here.” My colleague’s sputtered screams. The words spit, distraught, terrified, fumes coming out of a broken muffler. Simultaneously, the building shook. The banging besieging our banal office. Chaos. An altercation, a fight? Between who?

I turn the corner from the dark server room that doubles as a faux kitchen– a safe serves as the table for splenda, sugar and that horrible powdered milk constantly hardened by San Juan’s humidity. His hands are up. He staggers backward. Unmistakable aggression in unintelligible words. My steps lead me and I expect to see two strangers pummeling each other on the ground of our second floor foyer.

 One more step. And no one is on the ground.

One more step and the hallway’s surprise awaits me. The barrels shine. Three guns point at me. The closest, within a foot.Two remain pointed at my colleagues. I hate that hallway.

“Who else is in the building??” the five of them demand. “No . . one. No one,” we stammer.

Our hands up. My coffee, left somewhere … I don’t recall.

Confusion. Death. Moments. They are all fleeting. I am no stranger to guns. Yet, I have never been confronted with one three staring at me with intention. In moments like these, an aesthetic detail to focus on doesn’t exist. The chambers, the barrel, a small dark one way tunnel–a game of chicken, with no competition. The bullet wins.

Theses moments are chaos. Dreamlike images only remain. A blur. I don’t remember much. The American in the red finally said to put our hands down. I looked to my right and noticed my hands  in surrender position. Embarrassed, I was. Their vests, continued action and commotion. The building reverberated as they attempted to clear the five floors. Dismayed to find just us. As if the closed streets, helmuts, two federal agencies were not so carefully orchestrated to find an empty building with four employees.

The fifth floor is locked. Their excitement mounts as they demand the keys… Which none of us have. We reach for our phones, our blackberries. Drop them. We are sequestered to a couch. The air conditioner does not breathe. And we sit. They run our ID’s. Our socials. Local and Federal. Where is the search warrant? “With the case agent,” said the one who later pulled it out.

Fear. Uncertainity. 

Tactics. Procedure. Intimidation. 

Blanket consent. 

Venezuela was safer. 

A circus. Agents everywhere as I peer through the second floor windows. 

Three hours. Jokes. Laughter for what else can you do. “You are strippers right?” It was our receptionist birthday. No such luck. 

“Thank you for providing some entertainment,” the very attractive, earlier dictator, commented as he checked my laptop, clearing me to finally leave, finally have water. Wahoo. Not quite. He walked me down to my car. I don’t give him my number. It is not the time. It is not the day. I am sure he can find me should he want. He is an agent, right?

Adrenaline. These moments. They linger. Your blood changes directions. Your cells change shapes. Something remains. Even should it be nothing, you are now different. Knocks. Bangs. Hallways. Take a different light. 

My body. My mind. Caffeinated. Drugged without substance. 

The evening was later drowned in Margaritas. We laughed. A company happy hour, we never have. The laughs are forced. There is a fear. A concern. 

I search my phone. My address book stares at me blankly. I send a text to Caballito. It goes unreturned. 

That morning, I had noted my gratitude for my drug’s week quiescence. But, the late hours of the evening stretch. My thoughts turn to anger as I notice  Caballito’s evasion. I comfort myself. With the only way I know how.

“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 . . . 

History Repeats

Written December 19th flying back to New York:

This is where I was a year ago. I know what happens next, because I have been here before. The difference is only that this time, I am only uneasy, not scared.

When history repeats itself, there is a common source. “The teacher comes when the student is ready to learn.” While, I may have always known the truth, this is the first time I am letting it in. This is the first time, I can entertain the truth, unbury it from the confines of my being. Despite this, I still don’t feel ready. My nerves heightened. My personality’s edge sharpened. An easy route is tempting, but the recurrence of events, cements that this truth, this conflict, is me. Not an egotistical boss or an inequitable situation.

I mention that my world may be changing to those close few. I refrain from saying, “It’s just like last year. “ It’s impossible to not feel as though I failed. I check my integrity. I check the truth. I scan my ethic. I dissect my focus. I review my hours.

I am good at what I do, but I still miss the mark. JR. The name, eh. A silly third party borker who dramatizes my faults, an act beyond highlighting. While his statements are an exaggeration, I suppose exaggerations are disproportionate truths. Even a lie, must have a conception. That seedling further validated by my ongoing review of my procrastination. . . .

And so it is. I know, this isn’t what I am supposed to be doing, this isn’t my passion, my career destination. At 25, err 26 in 27 hours, I have gotten so many things right, learned so much. I have adapted.

I review my last year’s resolutions, the majority of them, now true. Balance. Travel. My salary. My goals then are now the reality in which I live. If we all have a journey, a life that is aligned with who we are, I consistently get much closer. I know I am aware of the secret behind this elusive thing called legacy or passion.

Every event in my life has been a lesson that has lead me closer to such. Always a gift. Redirecting my path were it not the right one. Jim. Robbie. P. My disease. And the many lessons that have taught my empathy. I smile now for life provided me with my own equivalents for everything I couldn’t relate to:

My belief that my mother was weak, naïve.
My intolerance for drugs., alcohol.
My narrow world of ambition.

Life upset that of which I held true.

I now am intimate with loyalty, addiction, and distraction.

This flight is the first time which I have internally vocalized that there is a disparity between my career and my identity. I hate the typed words. Erase? Breathe. It is December 19th and I know something is going to change.

I feel different.

I drove home. The words in my mind sprinting, poetic. If only I could regurgitate them precisely here.

I feel full. Satisfied. Leaving Starbucks with a completion, satiated not only from my sugar-free, non-fat, extra foam latte, but deep within. I want to go home and run to my dog, kiss him, hug him. I love my dog, always, but I never display an extreme outpouring of affection upon walking in the door. Perhaps much like my father who would tune out to the TV at the end of the day, nothing left to give, depleted.

I have changed. It’s as if a part of me was missing and has been found. I am capable and calm. Knowing that everything is about to change. For the first time in a long time, I am able to work. Focused, motivated. Its amazing, The knowledge of what will come from a directed energy. I know our projects will come through. I know if I only I reach a little deeper, like an athlete running a race. The ability to dig deep, find an untapped energy is what sets records. Just working is not enough. Or rather, working, truly working, is the secret. I feel as if I hold the key. As if some internal conflict resulted in a daily war- distraction, procrastination, employee, not rainmaker.

Now the longer hours invigorate me. A second wind. The knowledge that if I take the helm, the ship will sail. I also know that I am failing miserably at writing my mind’s earlier sentiments-so perfect they were.

I try and remember what my mind was thinking. I was thinking of Yammy. A true friend, and I wonder if a woman, a true friendship is what was missing. And I think of “The Secret Law of Attraction” by Talane Miedaner. A book I started lightly reading. I stopped. Planned to revisit. Am yet to do so, however I did steal this concept—how we are limited and controlled by our unfulfilled needs.

As I write this, I am so content. I am sure I have felt this unstoppable before. However, I remind myself, “with every high comes a low.” Perusing my memories, my past highs were not so calm, they were full of giddiness, a “pinch me-I must be dreaming” feeling. I wonder if I have ever truly felt this . . full. Ironically, my life at the moment would suggest the opposite. Owed two paychecks. Spending ability of only the cash in my wallet (less than $40), bills unpaid, my mother, no love interests  . . .

Which reminds me this entry was supposed to be my list- but as I drove home I started listing in my mind, those items that I desire. Thinking about the law of attraction and the power of actually receiving that of which you ask for. Oddly, I questioned if this Mr. Right is what I want now. I thought so. I craved an intimacy, needed it. Perhaps, this was my unfulfilled need dictating my life. Maybe Yammy and Rediscoveringme provided satiety.

The corners of my mouth upturn, a smile forms. For some reason, I have a feeling that now that I just want, don’t need intimacy from a partner, that’s exactly what I am about to find.