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June 30, 2010

 

“You are worried about seeing him spend his early years in doing nothing. What! Is it nothing to be happy? Nothing to skip, play, and run around all day long?  Never in his life will he be so busy again.”  - Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Emile, 1762

 

“Get out of the way, kid!” yelled a heavy-set and smelly woman entering a public bathroom with her walker.  A small child no higher than my knee stood confused in a doorway to a public restroom in downtown Minneapolis.

 

I stood and held the door open for the smelly woman and the small child.

 

At first I watched his face as he got slightly startled by the mean lady. He backed up against the wall and stared at her as she slowly hobbled on over into a stall. 

 

I cut the air like a knife in a respectful and high pitched-sweet voice I only reserve for children smaller than four years old. “Do you want to come out?” I held the door open for the little tyke. Three women stood behind me and we patiently and respectfully waited while he made up his mind to exit the ladies restroom.

 

From around the corner I heard a man say, “I’m right here ___. Are you all done?” I watched this little boy ___’s face light up as he made sense of this large strange world only through what we recognized and understood as his father’s voice. His whole body relaxed and once again he was himself. I let out laugher as he walked passed me - the women and I smiled at each other.

 

Instinctively, most women when we encounter lost children in public our radar goes way up and we scope the vicinity for any signs of parents and information in the whereabouts of a child’s place in the world amongst natural caretakers.

 

I used to ride the “T” in other words the Boston Subway when I attended school in the East Coast and I was always amazed at all of the street savvy children with their parents and siblings riding the subway. It was obvious that some children were traveling to and from school in their private school uniforms. Some of the older children weren’t any more than ten or twelve while minding and watching out for the younger ones.

 

Instinctively, I watched many of the women as they would stand by these children and use their bodies to guard them (in any way they could) as a shield against the world and like-the-herd-animals that we are. The unspoken law on the Boston T was that if you so much as dared look at a child in the wrong way or make rude comments then most likely you’d probably have an entire morning mob ready to throw hot coffee in your face.

 

Children traveling alone on the subway - is - something we took very seriously as adults along with our travel mugs filled with morning coffee and the morning newspaper. No child was abused or looked upon as prey while a whole public community of women and men looked out for these children who always sat or stood near the conductor. Hooray for sane and caring humans in the world.

 

I was so proud to be a part of a subway community that if I had to – I would’ve jumped in and helped out any child in any way at anytime and anywhere in the world but more so on those bright and early mornings as we were all freshly dressed and prepared for school as we got in and out single file at the Copley Place stop and headed for the library.

 

I loved those children that we rode the subway with for several years. I’d never so much as uttered a single word to any of them but I watched with fascination as they travelled in an adult world and made safe like adult choices about being amongst smelly adults. I could tell that not only were they street-savvy but also they, too, were capable of handling themselves. I was so proud of them.

 

In Costa Rica children are above all else the most important aspect of culture. Children are revered in ways I’ve never witnessed in America. Children in public are never yelled at by strangers and much less a hindrance with their silly little noises and games. To tell a child to be quiet while they are at play or mumbling to themselves in line would be public suicide. Although, mothers in Costa Rica don’t-talk-at-their children to fill up space they direct their children through body language and eye contact.

 

Here, in America I’ve witnessed mother’s in public places who talk at their children to death and I’m not sure if it’s because the mother has a need to be noticed as a caring and wonderful mother or if it’s because the mother is lonely (it seems to be mainly a Caucasian cultural phenomenon.) I think that’s dangerous as far as instilling street savvy-intuition into a child only because if all a child hears is jibber-jabber all day long then it’s difficult for them to distinguish what is a real threat in the world and what is jibber-jabber.

 

In Costa Rica, culturally, speaking - if a child is in danger or disrespectful to any woman then in turn she at any time can say to a child, “Aye, Mira.” It literally means “Hey, look.” It translates to “Watch Out.” That’s all that needs to be said and children instinctively understand that a mother-woman has called them out on improper behavior and they must stop it. It is the right of any Costa Rican and many Latino women to assert themselves if need be as an elder and a woman to all things that are born to us humans. This is our God given right as mother-women to all. We raise our children as villages and not as islands.

 

I’ve met horribly rude children in America who’ve become horribly rude adults. Spoiled and rotten children, that made me internally weep at the sight of their tyranny, malcontent and rude dispositions. Children so unaware of the world around them that they thought they were on top of it. I've witnessed children so sarcastic and mean spirited that I’ve considered it an injustice to be born to adults without souls. I’ve considered it a pity to come across such devastating children who don’t get enough love, attention and kind words – it’s as devastating as starvation amongst children.

 

I once stepped into a domestic violent situation a Boston airport. A mother struck her child hard across the face and I yelled at the mother. “If you ever strike that child again may your god punish you for it!” I yelled with every fiber of my being in a controlled and still voice more like a whisper than a scream – but a scream nonetheless. She turned her anger against me and I was simply relieved to have her leave the crying child alone. I stood very silently as this woman yelled and yelled at me. Time slowed down for me and I internally-introspectively prayed for silence between us. At one point, honest to a God, I thought she was going to strike me and I would of chosen to stand still and take it, but if she would’ve struck her child once more I probably would’ve of turned from turtle into lion and then back to human. I can’t say what I would have done but I can imagine it with all of my literary strength and might.

 

{I don’t get frozen I get silent and standstill, but it doesn’t mean that I’m not a lioness roaring. It means that I know when I’m being haunted so I know instinctively to stand very still, otherwise what’s the alternative? Get mad and lash out? I did lash out as a teenager but it never got me very far in communication, so now I go back to my north shore East Coast roots. I get really alert and polite when I’m about to spit fire with more politeness. What else is there to be in a world lacking civil public manners and consideration for life? But to stand very still in any moment of chaos, prejudice and injustice. And quiet unless considerations are made in relationship to each other. Otherwise, there is nothing more to be said. I’ve been told that unfortunately I’m the contemporary female form of Mr. Darcy – whatever that means. If I’m hanging out with my close friends then I’m relaxed in speech and we meet each other there. It’s like this for most people of the world I believe. Peace. Moving on.}

 

She could’ve tried to slap me with all her rage but holy ____! I think I would’ve pulled a Van Gogh. I would’ve left her bleeding on the floor with an ear missing simply to rectify the abuse she created in the world against her own child. I can’t believe that parents think that it’s okay to strike a child on the face at all especially in public. Talk about having no class, no style and no respect for the world at large. Learning takes time.

 

I’ve met American children who’ve stolen my heart. I’ve met beautiful intelligent and kind spirited children who have very little as a means of opportunities and objects in this world oppose to insecure children who are too worried about what everybody is thinking of them and always looking for ways to either “up” one on others or become center stage by being the best at all costs or through the means of bullying others into a social standard. Yikes, I’ve run and I’ve run fast from these types of children because the story begins to unfold the day they are conceived. Yet the whole world is before them and any child can learn who they are and where they come from a place of love, respect and human recognition from something far more intrinsic than competition but rather awareness, mindfulness and thoughtfulness – of course, consideration. Bullies are the most insecure of people that I’ve ever come across but not the most powerful of people in my non-parental bias opinion. What do I know about being bullied? Are you laughing with me, because I know I am?

 

Not everybody is for you. I’ve been very cordial, kind and respectful of any child I’ve ever encountered even if children have lied, been cruel and disrespectful. By no means have I been interested in becoming a child’s best friend when I first meet them just like any other adult – because those are relationships that take time, will and spirit from both a child and an adult or an adult to another adult. It’s great to be discerning. I’m just learning that in my early thirties. I’ve always been discerning and I am learning to be even more so as I get older. Cheers for acknowledging light and dark in the world. Not everybody is for you nor do I feel pressured to have to adapt to others’ life choices, malcontent or challenges nor do I expect others to have to carry my life for me or my burdens. Friendships, close intimate and honest, direct and straight forward friendships are worth more than all the gold the Gods could muster up.

 

I’ve not, yet been granted with the awesome gift of parenting but I truly look forward to the day when I do become a parent. I chose an independent career that’s taken a decade to nourish, water and grow like any garden, so I haven’t made time for our own future children but time is passing my body by and I will plunge in when I’m ready and I will not look back at what could have been but rather on what is. Nevertheless, this does not mean that I’m not amused by the little ones in our lives. The children we know and love are dear to our hearts. I already know that I will be extremely protective of our children and that not just anybody will be allowed to enter their world because in those formative years they will require nothing but love and understanding. I’ve become my own mother to myself in this world. I enjoy the beloved ones in my life, everything else is simply apple pie and in our home it happens to be organic apple pie because I like it that way.

 

America, it seems - unfortunately is a society branded by the selling campaign of fear. If you know anything about Haiti or Cambodia then you’d know that we have very little to fear but narcissism, our present economy, homelessness, poverty and violent crime. America, has become a brand for anything that is remotely humanly made of organic tissue that encounters suffering and pain - which we can then in turn write slogans about human suffering and pain – Discomfort is a good one; write a commercial, package it and sell it to any schmuck who'll buy into any product so long as they don’t understand the root of their pain.  Just numb it and it’ll go away. You feel lonely, sad, discouraged, disappointed with life – take a pill. You’re human – take a pill. You fart too much – take a pill. You can’t stop eating – take a pill. You can’t eat enough – take a pill. Take a pill. Take a pill. Take a pill. Everything will be better in the morning when you wake up to take another pill. Okay, little pill! What a pill? I could go on but I’ve made my point so I won’t. Branding. What the hell is that? (It’s a rhetorical question, please don’t answer that.)

 

Furthermore, one more thought.

 

On a on-line social account there have been several expectant mothers who’ve posted about their pregnancies over the years and even though I more or less know every person in one form or another on my social on-line page – It’s so cute to read about their processes, joys and discomforts while pregnant. I rejoice with them even if they’re not close friends but rather old school mates. I rejoice in their immense joy, happiness and beauty. They are truly masterpieces and beauties in this world. I love looking at people’s beautiful family fotografias and pictures of their amazing children, lives, travels, pets, food and plants. People live out beautiful lives.

 

If you have nothing to hope for today at least wish for the safety of future American and World children.

 

To be a parent in the world is the most magnificent and awesome of jobs. To be a parent in the world is to create the most beautiful of all artistic creations. I look forward to it someday.

 

Cheers to you and yours.

Cheers to us and ours.

Cheers to all.

 

Gabriela

 

June 29, 2010

 

“All the adversity I've had in my life, all my troubles and obstacles, have strengthened me... You may not realize it when it happens, but a kick in the teeth may be the best thing in the world for you.” – Walt Disney

 

I couldn’t help but press my entire face against the glass or so it felt like – while I stood paralyzed inside all that beauty.

I wanted to smell the items if only I could’ve held them in my hands.

I was astounded to stumble upon them in such a place.

 

‘How on Earth?’ I wondered, ‘after all this time did these items make their way here and why hasn’t the paper disintegrated yet?’

 

I looked up at my husband and he nodded his head. He stared at the fascinated look on my face. “Did you know this was here?” I asked. He nodded again and gave me a smile. I could’ve easily spent three hours alone tucked away in that corner of the universe.

 

I gawked with sheer and pure amazement at Mark Twain’s writing at the Disney World’s American Adventure display cases. I was struck yet once again. I truly was. Right there before the world was Mark Twain’s writing!

 

Holy Mother of a Christian God the man was a real man in the human flesh and not only an American Literary God in the sense of the word “God!” Mark Twain actually ate food, slept and passed bowel movements just like every other living human born to this earth and had chicken scratch for writing.

 

I stood there with a stupefied look on my face.

 

I’ve been to Colonial Williamsburg in Virginia, I’ve walked the Freedom Trail in Boston and I’ve seen almost every kind of museum in the North East from the bottom of the Chesapeake Bay to the most northern tip of this continent. In that moment I stood there impressed by the items I saw like Lincoln’s pen and Edison’s cameras. I’ve seen many spectacular things from history – items that brought internal tears to my spirit and goose bumps to my arms. The greatest education my parents ever gave me was the luxury of travel.

 

I’ve stood in the places in Salem, MA where women were burned at the stake. I’ve been to Picasso’s adult home in Barcelona and I’ve walked through Frankfurt’s Classical Victorian Gardens. I’ve sat on the floor in Munich waiting for the Glockenspiel to appear in all its magical dancing form with the ladies and gentlemen waltzing around in a circle.

 

I’ve met face to face with larger than life portraitures of Sea Captains on display at the Peabody Museum. I’ve gawked at Ghiberti’s bronze doors in Florence Italy. I’ve walked through the MIA lost in the Egyptian section trembling at the larger than life tomb stones. I’ve shivered at the magnificent jewelry and African woven baskets.

 

I’ve seen many things in one lifetime as any human has, but to come so close to Mark Twain’s chicken scratch writing made it all so real for me. It made the life of any writer take shape and form in those fleeting moments while we waited in line to see Walt Disney’s “American Adventure”.

 

Two Nations: First to my Tierra Firma Costa Rica the lady of rich coast and to this magnificent America we are so proud to call home. I cried inside my skin and understood real pride – the kind of pride that only comes after truly acknowledging all those before us who’ve lived, created and died to shape our country. I was simply proud to be alive and in that line that day.

 

Walter Elias Disney is my hero.

 

That is the man that I look to for inspiration and to whom I respect whole heartedly in this world and the next. This is a man who started with nothing but a pencil in his hands. He and his brother drew cartoons out of their garage when they first got started making animation films.

 

They made films in their garage! How splendid is that! After everything the man has come to give us – his humble beginnings were worth it all. He made it happen so that decades after his death people would be able to go and press their faces against thick glass and gawk at Mark Twain’s hand writing.

 

I’ve wondered weekly for the past year about the many trials and tribulations Walt Disney lived through. At one point Walt Disney the man himself had a nervous breakdown and was directed to go on a grand voyage of Central and South America. He was greatly influenced by the many cultures, foods and languages of the many places he visited.

 

Walt came back with many ideas for drawings in the shape of their Latino influential forms. The Mexicano tale of “Three Caballeros” is the first that comes to mind. I like almost everything about Disney World. What is there not to like? The fact that it is a huge conglomerate – that’s not enough to hate. Not for me. I have no problems talking about money, handling money and making money nor does any other mature entrepreneur, economist or mathematician as did Walt Disney’s brother and Walt himself.

 

The man himself was indeed a genius and it wasn’t necessarily money that propelled him forward, rather it was creative insight, forethought and play that made him the very man he became. I adore him for his doggedness. Imagine, if Walt Disney had given up early on in his garage, Imagine how different the world would be today if he would’ve thrown in the towel, gone crying back to Kansas City, Missouri and buried his head in the sand.

 

Ha! What a marvelous human creature to become a million times-over more successful and creative than his peers wanted him to be. He did not settle for the insecurities, malice or malcontent of those who were very afraid for him in his business dealings when he first began. What a genius. I believe in the magic of Walt Disney the man as much as I believe in the magic of spring flowers and their natural growth. I believe simply because I do. I believe because I’ve always known that one human can change the course of the future and he did.

 

Ciao. Goodbye.

 

Gabriela

 

June 28, 2010

 

Quotes from 7 faces of Dr. Lao:

(Excerpt Quotes from the film)

 

Dr. Lao: Mike, let me tell you something. The whole world is a circus if you know how to look at it. The way the sun goes down when you're tired, comes up when you want to be on the move. That's real magic. The way a leaf grows. The song of the birds. The way the desert looks at night, with the moon embracing it. Oh, my boy, that's... that's circus enough for anyone. Every time you watch a rainbow and feel wonder in your heart. Every time you pick up a handful of dust, and see not the dust, but a mystery, a marvel, there in your hand. Every time you stop and think, "I'm alive, and being alive is fantastic!" Every time such a thing happens, you're part of the Circus of Dr. Lao.

___________________________________________________

 

Apollonius of Tyana: Tomorrow will be like today, and the day after tomorrow will be like the day before yesterday. I see your remaining days as a tedious collection of hours full of useless vanities. You will think no new thoughts. You will forget what little you have known. Older you will become, but not wiser. Stiffer, but not more dignified. Childless you are, and childless you will remain. Of that suppleness you once commanded in your youth, of that strange simplicity which once attracted men to you, neither endures, nor shall you recapture them.

 

Mrs. Cassin: You’re a mean, ugly man!

 

Apollonius of Tyana: Mirrors are often ugly and mean. When you die, you will be buried and forgotten, and that is all. And for all the good or evil, creation or destruction, your living might have accomplished, you might just as well never have lived at all.

___________________________________________________

 

 

“An old Chinese gentleman rides into the town of Abalone, Arizona and changes it forever, as the citizens see themselves reflected in the mirror of Lao's mysterious circus of mythical beasts.” IMDB Description

 

Good morning.

Buenas.

 

It’s a beautiful partly cloudy and sunny morning here in Uptown, Minneapolis, Minnesota.

 

The film “7 Faces of Dr. Lao” (1964) depicts the main character as a one Dr. Lao (Tony Randall) who plays seven different characters in the circus of Dr. Lao.

 

The film is deeply steeped in ancient cultural and mythological storytelling devices. The seven characters portrayed in the film are as followed in no particular order: The Abominable Snowman / Merlin the Magician / Apollonius of Tyana / Pan / The Giant Serpent / Medusa / Audience Member.

 

I will not be writing a film critique nor putting myself in the delicate position of authority as a critic of any kind except when it comes to my own work – I don’t pretend to know that much about anything I’ve never made with my own two hands. Plus, the higher the pedestal the harder the fall…

 

I did not attend film school to become a film critic, rather to learn-how-to-learn-how-to-make films and that did not come together for me until much later with my expensive one hundred thousand dollar film education in my pocket. (I’ll blog about that some other time. I have yet to make up my mind about its highly priced validity and worth when it brought so much grief to my young adult life which the grief no longer exists – so maybe it was for the better - I definitely don’t dog the opportunities I’ve had.)

 

I’m here to write about the sentimentality and the lessons I’ve learned from watching such a spectacular film such as “7 Faces of Dr. Lao”. In the film there are two characters which struck me in the heart and struck deeply they did. I was overwhelmed by their presence on the screen.

 

Barbara Eden’s character Angela Benedict is a school teacher / librarian who is highly guarded about her sexuality and desires for one man. The character of Angela Benedict is prudish and tight-laced in every literal sense of the word. When Eden’s character is approached by John Ericson’s character Ed Cunningham she is left breathless, curious and in denial about her true feelings for Ed Cunningham.

 

Immediately, I thought about the deep loneliness in the character of Angela Benedict. Her quest as a single mother and working woman all alone in a small town left to defend for herself against the mediocrity of her world.

 

I understood all too well. I, too, have shown the many prudish and standoffish faces of Angela Benedict in my young past. I’ve known loneliness in the way most people do. It’s difficult to make out its contour lines when you’re in the middle of such devastating loneliness.

 

I could see it in people’s faces that they thought I was a tyrant but truly I was a woman with dreams and no outlet to make them happen and at every costly turn it was my time, money and energy being wasted on lost causes – not people, but rather lost causes, literally. The more tightly wound I became the more I lost control of the deepest and most beautiful parts of myself – which that will not happen again for as long as I am alive. Men, please try to understand that women are far meaner to each other than men are to men, maybe something in the makeup of each individual’s genetics, psychology or behavior. Who knows?

 

At that time from 2001 through 2004 I wanted to be wanted. I wanted to find a soul connection to anyone (but again not just anyone; yes a contradiction because I am kindly-standoffish at times) and yet to no avail I did not find a soul connection in a certain circle of people. These feelings were fleeting moments but nothing of great consequence. Although at that time and two years afterwards it took some serious healing from the soul sucking vampires I’d allowed into my life. I’m once again strong, alive, without shame and on my way to becoming a pachyderm. Most everyone experiences difficulties in their youth and if you haven’t then that must be marvelous for you. Extraordinary, really and truly. You must be extraordinary if you’ve never encountered one single obstacle. Truly, I’d have to shake the hand of anyone who is well into their thirties and has never had any suffering or pain of any type.

 

“I’d rather be alone and by myself then with people.” I told my husband. He held me close and I understood that my trials and tribulations as a young woman were long over. “Why do you sometimes live there?” asked my husband. I responded, “Because I was deeply wounded and after all these years the wound does not cause pain but to look at it - is only a reminder of how deeply it went.”

 

No, I don’t need a shrink. I pass with flying colors in emotional intelligence according to my psychologist father.

 

There’s nothing wrong with me shedding my skin and fully entering adulthood which means accepting life as it comes with curve balls. I’m ready for the challenge of life and for the beauty and profound change it will bring as I learn to be wiser, stronger and keen as well as discerning. I’m starting to become a tropical flower, an eagle and a lioness all-in-all as I evolve into my female maturity. I’m ready to forgive and let go. More importantly to learn and to continue learning more silence, patience and calm attitude.

 

I’ll not repeat my mistakes. I’ve learned finally to decipherer a con artist from an artist.  I’m quiet, stoic and calm even though I have a verbose and bold literary voice. My alter-ego to want to lash-out and to do comic book heroics is right here in my literary penmanship, but I am also a woman like any other human who faces the realities of life with a brave face, patience and grace.  What else is there to be but a lovely woman? I’ve grown into a swan finally even if it’s not the fairy tale version. A swan simply in the manner of the times we live in. I was taught that writer’s took on a sounding voice of their era, any era they’ve lived. It’s only natural to write about the times we are living through.

 

I was a prude and a snob in my younger years as a way to self preserve, to keep others at arm’s length and to hide my loneliness – this is not to say that I did not have great lovers (Let us be adults about the subject of beaus, partners, significant others and lovers and sexually intimate close friends) but to say that I did not have a soul connection which is quite common in new or returning to old environments that we have lived in before is what I have found. It’s like a dream.  The same dream; returning to the same place but all the trees and wildlife are different but you know the landscape is the same.

 

My East Coast upbringing taught me that the more formal and Puritan-like my interactions with others then greater the insult because you’re being held at arm’s length. If I’m loose and hanging out with close friends then that’s the greatest compliment I can give because it means that I trust in them enough to be myself, tranquillo, relaxed and laidback. I’m not going to sound like Batman’s butler “How do you do, Sir?” I’m not a character in some comic novel. I’m a contemporary woman that has had to adjust and what else is there? When answering my phone to my closest friends most likely I’ll say, “Aloha, how are you? What’s happening?”

 

I understood this Angela Benedict character all too well. As she eventually allowed love to enter her heart I, too, found love in one man and in a great community of people I rarely talk about in open forums because they are far too precious to share with just anybody.

 

The things I don’t talk about are the things that mean most to me and there she was - Angela Benedict hiding away a tinge of my guardedness because I knew that the human animal was capable of striking hard blows to the soul. So, I kept her locked up but I always knew where the key was and she was a dangerous woman if she was deeply wounded I’m not afraid to let her out and rear her ugly head. Life is this way sometimes. It’s funny to me!

 

The Gods gave Angela Benedict to me and I have a great deal of respect for what we’ve gone through together. My Angela Benedict was a savior and Gods send her to me in a time of much confusion, mean-spirited people in my life and pure wicked cruelty that others have a way of using as a control device. This is not a pity party. It is what it is.

 

I was marginalized and minimized at that time in my life and I let it happen but like hell if that will happen ever again. I trust my inner and outer compass and I’ve met enough posers, losers and tyrants to last me a lifetime and that’s why I laugh rather than get mad about anything – I now laugh at people when they’re arrogant and stupid enough to think that I don’t know that their mierda stinks no matter how pretty or well packaged they may seem to be – especially those posing as holistic caretakers. Aye, corre. Run. No one can carry your soul for you except you.

 

I’ve met people who pass themselves off as preachers, know-it-alls and angelic pseudo intellectuals, con-artists as well as wannabe stars but these are the most dangerous of women. I know their faces all too well and I laugh as I am now just thinking about it. Oh, my Gods I’m laughing my rear off from here and all the way to the bank and back again with my own creations not anybody else’s! The Gods have a way of showing 100% pure caca humor to us. I was taught by Indianas to rejoice and laugh in the face of hardship, disillusionment in regard to others and their perceptions of themselves and their made-up authority. In business, normally whoever brings in the money is/are the producer(s), the owners and the makers, shakers and leaders – money produces (another blog for another day). Although I believe we could do away with all currency. In this century change is around the corner. I believe we should look to the visionaries and dreamers of science fiction. Science funding needs to be implemented into our culture once more.

 

I could hear people’s whispers as I approached them in hallways, greenrooms and dark theatres simply to observe what I was breaking my back on as a producer and people were ungracious and rude – this was most sad and not worth a producer’s time much less life because frankly it meant that people did not have respect for chain of command and I do, only because it should represent experience and know-how. I was not favored and I didn’t favor myself either in those days but I believed in what I was doing to bring another’s dream to life. Now, I don’t sacrifice myself anymore but I do produce where others could not. I’ve always been able to have product and that’s the greatest reward in life to have enough talent to create something from nothing as any producer knows that.

 

This remark leads me to the next character that made a great deal of impression upon me. The character of Merlin the Magician. In a memorable scene Merlin is introduced to the characters attending his magical circus show. The crowd comes closer and as Merlin creates his magic the crowd begins to make demands upon him to produce something spectacular for their amusement.

 

One character wants to see Merlin make a woman float while a whining little girl complains to her mother that she’s bored and wants something more exciting. “Make him do something, Mommy!” She complains and demands. Merlin asks the little girl, “Do you like flowers my dear?” and with a snap of his wand he miraculously makes flowers grow before the very little girl’s eyes. She is not impressed. She continued to complain and the crowd departed in great disappointment and in a silence louder than thunder. I laughed and I laughed hard at this whinny and complaining little girl for a character. Have you ever heard a child whine and complain when they have everything and are cared for in life? A most unpleasant sound to the ears. Funny as hell, though.

 

Merlin the Magician is left standing all by himself and wondering what could be more magical then creating something from nothing? He tells himself in a defeated voice, “But I’ve created something from nothing.”

 

I’ve felt like this many times in my life as a young artist. “Is that it?” I’ve had people ask me and I’ve thought: you heifer how can you not see the magic in the creation? I can write these things because I know the power of words. What do you mean, “Is that it?”

 

{I don’t mean to be mean nor negative but I do like to swear like a sailor to create a dramatic force in you. I swear because I know the value in it and it’s at times necessary to create an emphasis in the mediocrity of life. Perhaps, I like to swear because in the Spanish language there are many more accents that do not need to be spelled out but in the English language I find it difficult to find an “accent” unless it’s through the means of swearing. I don’t take swearing seriously nor should you but if you do that’s your own thing you’ll have to contend with. We’re all grown adults here and I don’t swear around children because just like an afternoon cocktail that’s an adult activity and I, too, have much respect for children and their lack of full understanding.}    

 

Anyway, I understood Merlin the Magician’s sadness, disappointment and hardship. A little boy approached Merlin and understood Merlin’s sadness and truly believed in his magic. It was through a little boy’s belief of magic – which made the universe that changed the course of the movie’s history. I, too, wanted to hug Merlin and say to him, “I believe in your magic.”

 

I believe in all magical human made forms from nothing.

 

It is the artists, inventors and thinkers in any contemporary period who give openly and willingly to a world who antagonizes them, ignores them and if there is nothing left to do then insults them and minimizes their efforts in creating beauty in a world that creates so much destruction.

 

I chose Merlin’s path in creating something from nothing and no matter how much people may not have time, resources, energy and willingness to wake up and see the beauty – I’m still the creator of it and the most powerful aspect of being alive lies in the courage of learning how to create beauty. I don’t create artistic beauty for today or for my contemporaries but for the seven generations of my future offspring’s offspring. May they recognize something of themselves in our feature films.

 

May they never be lonely in their quest for what’s real and true in their lives.

 

I pray for my seven-generations to come.

 

I’m a lucky bastard as I’ve said before.

 

I’ve become the very person I dreamed I’d become no matter how many people I may disappoint and no matter how many people may disappoint me - life is much greater than perceived notions of grandeur and judges who’ve never created anything with their very own bare hands.

 

The triumph lies in the struggle and how very sweet it is once you’ve won the struggle nothing will be as difficult as that ever again.

 

Gabriela

 

P.S. I’ve got a morning movie to watch and later on this afternoon some welding to do. Cheers!

 

June 25, 2010

 

“The bicycle is the most civilized conveyance known to man. Other forms of transport grow daily more nightmarish. Only the bicycle remains pure in heart.”  - Iris Murdoch, (The Red and the Green)

 

I’m psyched about the public bicycle sharing program launched here in Minneapolis on June 11, 2010.

 

I’ve read that the program is a financial contribution through $1.75 million from the Federal Highway Administration and $1 million from Blue Cross and Blue Shield of Minnesota.

 

‘Nice Ride’ costs a whole whopping five bucks for a twenty-four hour rental and a whopping sixty bucks for a year subscription which must be done on-line. The program is being recognized as one of the largest bicycle programs launched in America.

 

Denver is the other city to have invested in such a program. Wow! So progressive, thoughtful and capable are these cities, their leaders and environmentally aware citizens - now if only the city of Minneapolis would just spare some bright paint in huge sections of the city for bicycle and pedestrian ways then we’d be set.

 

I’m truly excited about this bicycle program because the one place I chose to have the courage to live as a grown adult is here in this Uptown, Minneapolis. The only real courage I’ve ever shown in my life was to find a place where I truly belonged and to contribute to it financially, emotionally and creatively. I found a bit of Earth to stand upon and to call home.

 

I like the Minnesota bicycle launch mainly for the convenience and economical factors as well as the tourism. In my neighborhood alone within a two mile radius there are four conveniently placed bicycle booths that I’m aware of. The bikes are not hard to miss they are bright green and blue.

 

Random Thought:

 

A little story, that my on-line social network of friends have already read or known about but for those of you out in the world of cyberspace and in other continents allow for me to share an acute perspective in history that insurmountably carved a woman out of me.

 

I went off to the East Coast to a private liberal arts college at the tender age of nineteen in 1996 and at that time I thought I’d acquire a degree, work for corporate (which I did for some years) meet a squeaky clean and cute boy (which I did), marry, settle down, pay taxes and have bambinos. That was the plan at nineteen. At thirty-three it is no longer a plan but a new found way of life, a way of thinking, a way of being and breathing. In the course of living out my young adult life it took an unexpected turn.

 

At nineteen, I had tunnel vision for the American Dream which no longer exists and possibly it really never did. At that time I was a little girl in my let’s-play-house-and-drink-tea-with-my-teddy-bears mode which is all fine and dandy but it doesn’t make for a good environmentally friendly aware nor grown-world citizen. In other words I grew up. I was never dreamy, per say but I was a day dreamer and willing to learn a new skill, task and always thirsty for more knowledge.

 

We went out into the world to acquire finger painting degrees that would serve us more as a hindrance than as a foundation. In the neighborhood which I grew up-in it was expected that we’d grow up to have money and now that I do have money I don’t spend it because I’ve always been frugal since the first time I learned that even though my stomach grumbled there was nothing to feed it even for days in a third world poor barrio and no amount of money ever can change the hunger pangs of my early childhood. Tangent: I never take food for granted or money and that kind of wisdom only came from knowing what it’s like to have nothing and everything – and I mean everything – food, what else is there? I don’t know how you equate monetary success but I equate it by mangoes, rice and beans as well as organic pastries and meats. Now, that’s rich. I know - I know, we can discuss gourmet food some other time.

 

I play a daily game to see how far I can travel on my skateboard throughout the city without spending a dime. I carry all of my organic lunches in fancy topper-ware with stickers on it and I’ll park myself on any park bench or public resting area and eat. All I need is food and shelter and I can make it in the world. I’m spoiled to afford a fancy-cheap little plastic hardware that takes daily pictures of the world as I am a witness to it and the very world that I interact with.

 

I’d grown up in a waterfront property community surrounded by sailboats, doctors and prestigious artists, educators, philanthropists and world leaders and travelers. I can handle myself in any marina in the world because in my blood there also is Lake Superior water and I know it’s furry while sailing out in the middle of the lake and as well as the oceans. I grew up in what I’ve been told is that-that is what’s considered the upper middle crust on the slice of the pie. Whatever that means, because I’ve been working since I’ve been fifteen and I’m still creating. Art is work. I’m not pretending to be independently wealthy over here in this corner of the universe, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t understand that social scene. Personally, I like to work. I like having intent, purpose and direction in life. My mind is not idle nor do I intend for it to be. I know relaxation, tranquillo and calm but I also have intention.

 

If you truly know anything about the north East Coast real estate then you’d understand what it means. Money. You’d either have to be grandfathered in just like Minnesotans are with their cabins or you’d have to dole out some serious dough and I mean serious – we’re not talking pocket change here to live in that area. A man taught me the vocabulary word for “dough” in exchange for currency and I like it just as I like the usage of “hoodlum” amongst the Irish, Midwesterners and other contemporary uses of the word such as those of futbol “hooligans”. What wonderful language.

 

The main reason why I did not stay in that part of the world was because there were no real places to walk or bike that I felt that made it easy to maneuver. Some of the old cobble stone sidewalks were just too difficult to walk and bike and it was truly out of the question much less trying to awkwardly skateboard.

 

I realized early on at the age of ten that the East Coast was very beautiful but not the most rollerblading friendly of places. Plus, my hips tend to hurt after an hour long walk on cobble stone. It was my body that repelled the notion of dealing with cobble stone streets especially into my aging process. I can’t imagine being eighty-four and lugging anything around across town on cobble stone sidewalks.

 

I’m grateful for my upbringing, educational opportunities and patience from elders. Nevertheless, not once did I consider other than my own childhood experience of hunger that people in America starved as much as they did in third world countries so I, too, in my adult youth ate powdered milk dustings from a substance that was barely recognizable as milk, shriveled up and dried up offensive looking noodles, rice and breads. I can’t remember my stomach not hurting from hunger in those three years of my young adult hood. Make it or break it, I guess. Not a pity party. Next.

 

The greatest thing that ever happened to me was to live in demanding poverty for three long years in my mid-twenties from January 2001 through May 1st, 2004 I lived in Duluth’s worst of poverty and saw some of the coldest and darkest days of my life. Some things I will never write about much less talk about. I’m that way by nature. You’ll never know.

 

I’d walk to the local food-shelf on second street and collect my humble and sad looking groceries I’d put them in a box and lug them home a whole mile away in the uphill battle of Duluth Streets. Try it in ten below zero. It leaves a frozen mass to the bone. It was back breaking work not to mention time consuming. For three years I ate like this and at first I cried, but later on I learned how to get creative with ingredients and furthermore I learned to control my cooking with timed chemistry and patience. That’s why I can cook anything and everything because of that experience a lifetime ago plus I learned from a fine gourmet chef in the east coast. Also I received no fruits or vegetables in that three year time period. Food shelves don’t provide that type of necessary dietary needs. So you go without because you have to when you’re that poor. I could not afford an apple. How sad is that? Not to be able to afford an apple in America of all places? Remember, the story doesn’t end there or I would not be writing this with calm, tranquillo and Zen description. I have no shame about my life and some awful things that happened, but to be human is not to be alone in this living endeavor.

 

I walked over drunks lying down and sleeping across the floor in front of my doorway, daily. Imagine what that does to your spirit? I produced live theatre while others snorted cocaine in a man’s bathroom from antique metal broken door hinges. Life is this way. It is what it is. I watched heroin addicts inject their poison into their veins which I did a photography series at that time although I promised never to exhibit publically – the experience left me chilled to the bone. I didn’t want to contribute to that aspect of society at that time in that place in that way. I knew that it was going to be a guinea pig project from the start to learn how to run a company with nothing, no direction and heavy-depressing drinking that made almost everyone ten times meaner and more melodramatic than necessary.

 

No resources, no money, no - anything – except for the trade-off on a theatrical space which the director had worked out with the theatre owner at that time. I was left alone at the age of twenty four to make money for others but never to reap from the rewards of my hard labor like getting paid for writing grants, sponsorships and donations made out to local start-up companies that did not pay taxes of their first two shows running or to their thirty-two performers and crew - yet collected money on two shows to audiences of five-hundred people each night for several weekends running and after and each show - yet every night after the tally had come in there was never any money to pay anyone out. I wondered, ‘why is that?’ I was crunching numbers left and right and somehow they never added up. Deeds not words.

 

I was furious. I was steaming. I thought; ‘What mierda is this?’ People sometimes view others as a means to an end, a meal ticket or a donkey’s ass to do the hardest work yet never to compensate a single person because of greed, mindlessness, irresponsibility or laziness. Sad, really to participate only to be perceived as an ox and I recognized it early on as a woman confided in me that her dream was to be a star at all costs and my skin crawled thinking of Baby Jane Hudson in the film “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?” I knew my days were numbered there from the start. I remember thinking ‘learn, connect, get through the hunger and sleepless nights and get the hell out before someone in this scene actually knaws on my soul.’ I made amazing friendships in Duluth, MN from January 2001 to May 2004 which I still hold close and dear to mi Corazon to this day. I got through the drug infested craziness and the melodrama of local small community theatre and movement. I wish I would’ve been on drugs at that time then at least the experience could’ve been as much fun as it looked and not so difficult with hunger pangs. Alas, that was not my calling. I did like my one-hundred percent Indian tobacco from time to time and I have no reservations about saying so.

 

Sometimes people treat others horribly wrong because they think they can get away with creating that type of injustice in the world and lying about it. They probably think that nobody notices and if, only - you could find a way to never give a producer an opportunity to speak about what was happening then everything could be swept under the rug. I got walked out of my own production once by a theatre owner because I was ready to discuss the injustice of what was happening to my cast and crew and the owner of the theatre told me to leave. So I did calmly and peacefully, yet with a tremendous sadness. How sad is that? No one wants to hear the wrong doings of others as long as they look good doing it. I washed my hands clean of it and demanded that my name be removed from the program even if it meant scratching my name out in pencil or pen. Whatever. Nobody needs to know anything about it so long as we can all pretend together in a big lie. The bigger the lie the easier it is to believe. Injustice. That’s alright Karma tends to byte people in the rear end much harder than expected.

 

The owner lost his theatre within a year of throwing me out and he personally asked me for his forgiveness three years later and said that he would welcome me anywhere anytime. He knew the truth of it as everybody always does. We hugged and he and I both realized that things between us would never be the same. It will always be respectful between us but never quite the same as when we trusted each other. My favorite part of the entire crazy experience was taking time to stop everything I was doing every night of each performance and watch a little boy dance his way across a stage and I was filled with pure pride watching him have his moment. Those intimate moments of beauty, trust and loveliness makes producing worth everything – finding the funding to create opportunities for others even when they don’t understand who is really finding the funding for them to continue to shine. I’ve seen this time and time again. Beautiful. We’re all human. Mistakes and assumptions get made. I don’t ever look back that’s why I don’t believe in crying wolf, threatening the livelihood of others or suing without some real evidence and just cause. Otherwise, chuck it up to experience. Need say more? Moving on.

 

This story isn’t about me anymore because I’ve been thoughtful-enough to let seven years go by before writing about it so that the misappropriation of funds are no longer subject in defense of any law suit. It’s never been about the money for me, because hunger is hunger and I figured at that time that if I was a hungry producer then most likely the cast and crew were just as hungry and as tired of volunteering year after year as I became tired of a circus side show. That’s why most of us left the city, anyway – no money to distribute amongst the cast and crew for whatever reasons. Figure that out? Many promises were made but never any money went into our pockets – never once was there one cent as I watched another buy a new wardrobe, car and took trips out of the country and every two goddamn weeks I’d walk my donkey’s ass down to a food-shelf for three years. Do you get it? You would’ve been pissed off, too. It’s called getting swindled, conned and mislead. Now, it’s only a joke to those of us who lived through it, moved on and lived to tell about it. It’s hilarious now!

 

So, I decided not to make young adult roots in Duluth, MN because well, the economy was bad enough to make you cry but some of the deeper and darker aspects of life did make me cry. No, Sir! I was not going to die or be buried in Duluth, MN even if you cooked me a nice meal. Because one nice meal now would not make up for three years of desperate hunger, starvation and maltreatment from my supposed artistic colleagues.

 

I have nothing against Duluth. I love Duluth. I hate Duluth. It’s my personal opinion. We’re all adults here. It’s like the opera. Love and hate are intertwined and beautiful. I have those strong emotions and I’m going to stick by them because I believe in them. I’m not a tourist campaign writer nor do I endorse or don’t endorse anyone city over another, rather I write about life and life has most certainly happened to me and so I record it like any wordsmith would. “You can’t eat the scenery” Said my husband about Duluth and he was right. I love Duluth for so many reasons I don’t have time to explain. I hate Duluth for a few reasons and I think you can understand them if you’ve ever starved while you’ve worked like a dog in any place in the world.

 

I write because I don’t live in the past. My life already happened to me so I’m hoping that with my moral tales you can veer from making the same mistakes as I made in my young adult youth. My writing is about a moral tale about life vs. life and America barely making it by the skin of its teeth.

 

Nothing prepared me for the underbelly and poverty of Duluth, MN believe it or not. I was well travelled and I had lived in large cities but I’d never been poor as an adult much less in a city without any real resources; there I was back in my hometown of six years from the ages of ten through sixteen and again at twenty-four to twenty-seven.

 

Duluth had been a place I’d grown up sheltered and lovingly on the shores of Lake Superior as I had on the shores of Crane’s Beach on summer night. When I returned to the Midwest as a young adult of twenty-four I was horrified and intrigued. It’s given me more writing material for a novel than I know what to do with. If I ever have the honor and the privilege of publishing then you can laugh along with me as much as I have while writing the first three hundred pages. I’d like to pull a Gabriel Garcia Marquez and write a mono-logy of the underbelly of a cultural contemporary world. We’ll see how that goes. I’m no genius, it might take a lifetime. I like to write because most of the time it makes sense – and logic is soothing to me.

 

I did not make adult roots in Duluth because of the tremendous poverty and decrepit economic plus the hills. When I first got to Duluth as an adult in January 2001 I was offered a whopping $6.18 an hour to be a Floor Director at KDLH News which no longer exits the station closed down.

 

Before we parted ways with a decent severance package – I was let go from one newsroom job in 2003 I made a whopping $9.20 as a Technical Director with five different occupational responsibilities pertaining to five different positions. I was worked to the bone and made nothing for a living. I sucked at my job I knew it and everybody else knew it, too the pace was god awful fast but I still had to fulfill all of my responsibilities. I literally had five positions, while everybody else only had one. Can you say, set up for failure? I can. I never became a drunk because I barely had any money to eat in those days but if I could’ve drowned my sorrows away… I may not be sitting here writing today if I had taken to the bottle.

 

I did not stay in Duluth because all I could afford was to live in poverty stricken areas along the central east-hill-side of downtown. A mile is not far but a mile with a box of god awful food shelf items in arms and slippery walkways uphill made me promise myself that I would one day live on flat land. I cried many times climbing 12th Avenue East in Duluth while freezing my tail off dreaming of a better tomorrow and tomorrow always came – thank the Gods of my Ancestors.

 

It wasn’t until I moved to Minneapolis May 1st of 2004 that my prospects started looking up and off I went into the world of human development, understanding and small daily successes measured by the delightfulness of the human soul rather than the human stomach.

 

In August of 2006 I met my Husband, soul mate and companion. We met working for corporate broadcasting as video engineers for large corporate advertisers and in one single year the work of three of us from one advertiser made my lovely ex-boss a $3.8 million dollars. I know my worth now. I’ve made some people a boatload of money so I learned I had the brains, smarts and ability to make myself some dough. Ha! I love that expression.

 

At that time we’d walk from the IDS Tower the two miles home - rain or shine. Quickly on cold winter nights we learned about the mass transit system of Minneapolis. I remember wishing I could put a coin into a slot and rent a bike and here we are four years later…

 

I now live in the loveliest neighborhood of town. I walk four daily miles. I shop at the co-op and farmer’s market. I even drive a new car even though I don’t need it anymore and I don’t have to deal with hills and cobble stone streets, so that’s the story of how I ended up in a progressive neighborhood with the largest bicycle program in America and damn proud of it.

 

I’m wishing you an amazing, slow paced, respectful and wonderful weekend.

 

Ciao. Goodbye.

 

Gabriela

 

P.S. Even though I can barely balance myself on a bicycle I do like to bike from time to time but not enough to own one so this new bicycle deal is just fine to me.

 

June 24, 2010

 

“Nothing would be more tiresome than eating and drinking if God had not made them a pleasure as well as a necessity.”  - Voltaire

 

I like to grocery shop at various convenient locations throughout the weekdays. I’m blessed to make the time when I pick up my husband in the evenings we walk two miles from downtown Minneapolis into Uptown and make it a point to stop for organic grass-fed meat twice weekly.

 

We live and shop within a six mile radius of our home. Yes, talk about supporting our local economy. I like our local co-op best because it is so close to my backdoor. I shop for all of my bulks, honey and organic grass-fed meats, hummus, goat cheese, and whole wheat tortillas, unsweetened almond milk and organic bulk spices at the co-op. I do not buy produce there unless it is in season and locally grown. The price is too hefty and I’m a prude Latina when it comes to my pocket book and I’m also not a member of any local co-op by choice.

 

In the warm season I make it a point to shop for my greens at farmer’s markets. It is a delight! I’ve been buying my produce from a local Asian family for four years now. They know me and I them. It’s a blessing and a treat to see their family from the children to the elders on a weekly basis from the end of April to the end of October.

 

My vegetables and fruits cost us a whopping $20.00 to $25.00 weekly and that’s that for that particular budget. I can make six different recipes and twelve meals with the produce that I buy at the Farmer’s Market. It leaves more room for organic ice cream budget on weekends, anyway. I’m not a total frugal twerp – I’ll spend money where I see fit and if it’s worth its value, otherwise I don’t even consider it twice. I’m picky, as most consumers should be; we work too hard for our money. I’d like to think that I would’ve made an excellent consumer analyst because I like to get right in there with the product and really take it apart and put it back together. I want to know its purpose, function and craftsmanship – no different with food. You have to know what you’re getting and sometimes the small local markets are better than gourmet shops with foreign distributors, venders and merchants. It all depends on how much homework you’re willing to do to be the best consumer that you can be for yourself, your community and your world. Where is the money going and where will it end up? That’s all you got to ask. Everything else is homemade organic apple pie.

 

I like the Panederia – Bakery for all of my sweet breads, cakes and flan and bakery goods that only Los Mexicanos know how to do it up just right. I like their Carneceria tambien. I like their meat section as well even though the meat’s not organic grass-fed but some recipes call for large amounts of meat with some – some cajones and I just can’t skimp out on that it seems. In the winter this is a great place to buy cheap greens like cilantro, basil and lettuce also tomato and a few other produce necessities.

 

I shop at El Mercado. I like mercados they have very different aspects of Mexican culture to offer. The Mercado on Lake and Bloomington has a ready-made and to go mini-food counters for foods such as Tamales (Mexican food).

 

I can buy ready-made Tamales by nine in the morning and take them with me for the rest of the day. The bakery and butcher are much larger on Lake Street than at other mercados but I don’t knock it they’re safe, quaint and I love talking to the Abuelitas while sitting by the cash registers staring at everybody. Oh, and the musica.

 

I mainly shop at the mercado so that I may listen to Latino musica in public and also to practice my Spanish on a weekly basis. I can also bargain which is rare in my neighborhood. I like the type of interaction that goes on between vender and customer when we bargain. It’s somewhat serious, partly kidding around and partly negotiating a comfortable price. It’s a skill and an art to negotiate in fluent Spanish and with Grandmothers who’ve been doing it all their lives. I tend to laugh a lot.

 

One block, down the street is Ingebretsen's Scandinavian Gifts & Foods which I swear has the best pickled herring I’ve ever had. I like their smoked meats and anchovies by the pound. The gentleman who runs the food section of the store is rather stoic and quietly respectful.

 

He allows for me to gawk at all sorts of things in his deli display that I’m beginning to learn to prepare. I like his stern face yet his eyes smile and I smile back at him with an expression that says, “I don’t know but I will learn.” He’ll hand out small samples of his smoked meats and oh, Gods – it’s all so good. So I buy more than I budget for every time because - what’s woman to do but to share with her amazing husband and friends?

 

Since I’m already in Midtown I’ll head on over to the International Market Square for no reason other than their mini-Asian, Greek and Somali food and snack bars which knock my socks off every time. I love the smell of incense and the Indian silk fabrics hanging on display as I first walk in. I can get lost in that place.

 

I like the Asian markets because there I can find odd things that require a great deal of preparation like chicken feet for an Asian stew, goat milk, pig lard for some cooking that’s required in old recipes, and fish eyeballs which are considered the most succulent of any animal body part.

 

At the Asian market I like staring at the lobster square in the face through the large fish tank glass, gathering foreign greens that can enhance any Pho soup in a cold Minnesota winter’s night. I like the Asian gelatin like desserts right by the checkout counters. The desert is a bright pink and green stripped colored gelatin like substance and oh I could eat it by the pound it is so good. So good!

 

I’ve been working on a food doco for over a year now. I’m enjoying the process of learning as much as the process of making food. I like it all. I met a woman whose been telling me about her Okefenokee relatives.

 

She says they’ll skin me a gator right there on camera and prepare it for me. I’m waiting to see what happens. I canoed the length the of Okefenokee as a teen with a friend and her family and alongside gators not once did I stop to consider them as a meal but I did consider myself a meal to them. Their beady little eyeballs sticking out of the water left me trembling and in a cold sweat. I understood the meaning of survival-of-the-fittest on that canoe trip.

 

I’ve had another gentleman in Texas tell me that snake meat is not too bad nor is armadillo. I’ve met people in the last year who’ve suggested trying grasshoppers and ants which have more protein in them than a large chunk of tuna or beef.

 

Right now I’m concentrating on food growth and development as part of my constructive learning and research process, but man-oh-man some of the meals I’ve had in the last year left me breathless and in love.

 

Food is not only important it is also a communal art. It is of the most importance and yet it seems to be a commodity that is so easily disregarded, thrown away and forgotten but always a necessity.

 

I’m wishing you a magnificent Thursday.

I’m off to the Farmer’s Market later on this morning. Hooray!

 

Here I go to grow some more corn and to take one photograph of many in my time-lapse sequence.

 

Ciao. Goodbye.

 

Gabriela

 

June 23, 2010

 

“Isn’t life a series of images that change as they repeat themselves?” – Andy Warhol

 

I internally wept recently as I watched a dramatic scene from “Toy Story 3” with my husband.

 

I held my husband’s hand as I watched a tender moment between characters on the screen. A true moment about life, adventure and friendship love and love in general.

 

I look to animation to say the very things we mean to say in the adult world but somehow never quite muster up the courage or the strength in reaching out to others because we know it’s the right thing to do.

 

It’s in animation that I find deeply touching sentiments hidden away in far away compartments of the soul. In that creative medium I sense that the taboos, judgments and negativity are dealt with as the story builds up to a conflict between characters and descends from its omniscient-narrative zenith.

 

It’s inside that visual creative bubble that I understand why this filmic medium is so vital to our understanding of human nature and the universe at large.

 

We are an intricate and complex system of communication and nothing makes it more evidently clear than through the format of animation cinema alone. This is not to say that I don’t consider other mediums of artistic forms, only to say that layers of emotion are seamlessly quilted together and delivered in a linear fashion contrast to how it is truly constructed in a non-linear form: (A Beginning, middle and end is ultimately conveyed on the screen).

 

Animation holds a special place in my heart because it conveys so many more aspects of life that I will never be able to convey as a documentary filmmaker nor as a writer. Animation is a medium of well constructed thinking and making storylines happen! It’s such a controlled medium that nothing is left up to chance. A figure is molded, constructed, drawn, composited, compressed and shaped to the thinker’s specifications.

 

Yesterday, while I set up the camera for the first frame of many in a time-lapse sequence I could not get the angle that I required for my one-single shot of the day. Either, the sun was in front of me or to the side and either angle was not particularly aesthetically pleasing to my eye anyway.

 

I wanted a controlled room, a controlled substance in that very moment. Yet, I stood back in all of my quiet frustration and remounted the tri-pod. I tried and tried again and to no avail I did not get the shot I wanted but I did walk away considering the animation of rotor-scoping my shots from time-lapse of corn growth into animated movement for no other reason than wind being my main obstacle in the sequence of still shots. I got psyched just thinking about the possibilities in post production.

 

I often think about the animators, storyboard artists, sound and lights, the director, cinematographer and crew as they begin the process of filming not to mention the thousands of hours of prep work before even taking out one single camera. I think about them and their families. I think about how the people in their lives must influence their work and what it means for them to be professionals in their field of animation.

 

We make it a point to watch at least one film per day. Considering that it’s my job to stay aware of film, media and broad topics of communication we’ll sit down around nine in the morning and watch a film. Much of my work consists of research, research and more research. Watching, re-capturing clips and watching some more – from time to time I like to freeze frame and watch an entire scene this way. I do it only when I’m alone otherwise this process could drive someone else nutty.

 

I’m constantly looking at animated shots, sequences and storylines even if it is well outside of my creative reference. I never know how one thought or idea will spark another in my work. So I carry a notebook with me and try to make notes that pertain to something or nothing.

 

I look forward to today’s time-lapse. I have one shot only and that’s what makes it so challenging, intriguing and time consuming.

 

I’m wishing you a spectacular Wednesday.

 

These summer days are treating me beautifully.

 

Gabriela

 

June 22, 2010

 

“Does wisdom perhaps appear on the earth as a raven which is inspired by the smell of carrion?” - Friedrich Nietzsche

 

“Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

We’re working on a feature-length documentary about food in general. Thus far it’s untitled and I call it “food-doco” for a lack of a better title. The creative process of filming a time-lapse of vegetables growing over a period of many months is time consuming, tedious and hard work, yet fascinating, beautiful and satisfying.

 

I’ve just dug up a parameter of 5ft by 8ft at a private garden. My friend has granted permission to grow a bed of corn or eggplants, zucchini, squash or possibly pumpkin – depending on what he chooses to grow (I’m not particular I’d just like to see anything grow through a time-lapse.) This time-lapse portion of the feature will take us into the second week of October – possibly by the first frost. Gardening cannot be rushed but endured with lots of hot cups of Mate and in silence.

 

I stared at the 5ft by 8ft hole and thought about the sweat that went into making it. It took me a whole hour and a half simply to dig up that hole. I wondered about the back breaking work that farmers and laborers do and used to do with old hand tools.

 

As soon as I dug the shovel into the earth I stood up and I realized that it was going to be much harder than I had thought and more than an hour passed before seeing anything remotely potentially like a garden bed. My hands and knees were completely covered with dirt and I had the utmost intrinsic satisfaction.

 

I’m hoping to place a contraption with a glass plate so that I may watch the seeds dance their number as they grow. Once the seeds break ground I’m hoping to take one photo a day at the same time of day. The sun is actually moving quite quickly across the sky just now. Three weeks have passed and I’ve been watching with a keen eye more so than usual. I simply feel as though I’m running out of time to film vegetables but that’s not true – I have the rest of my life if that’s what it takes.

 

That’s the trick – I must keep myself Zen and in the presence of patience. I know this sentiment. I’ve been here before. Time-lapse is a little bit like being pregnant. All the anticipation, worry and concern for the fetus to develop and not knowing how and if it sits comfortably in the womb yet making its presence clearly known to the mother’s body. There’s a trick to being pregnant as there is to filming a time-lapse. Time and patience for development and growth are key ingredients and that’s the trick.

 

A lot of preparation, forethought and patience have gone into this film, yet it is far from completion. I began with the intension to film a particular thesis but the film will not unfold as I had expected so I’m now listening to what the film requires for growth and it requires much time and quiet. So I’m sitting with the film by its side and watching it sleep. I’m watching the rise and fall in the rhythmic patterns of the film’s breathing and enormous capacity for something extraordinary.

 

I pray to the Gods to lead me through this all.

 

I pray to the Gods to bring forth the inner personal tools that I require to have the strength in patience and longevity to see this time-lapse through.

 

I’m giddy and worried with the anticipation as any new mother who has just found out that she’s pregnant for the very first time in her life. I want to grow something organic, spectacular and beautiful and have that be my contribution for the summer amongst the backdrop of many.

 

I want to film food as it grows and I want that to be my greatest contribution of the year. The Gods know - they see me and they see the worried look on my face. I don’t know how long it’ll take for corn to grow just as I don’t have an idea of what nine full months of pregnancy must be like.

 

I recently sat down and did some visual research of Walt Disney’s old time-lapse archives. In those vaults there are hours and hours of footage of Nature videography. I was astounded to find so many clips of the very thing I’m trying to achieve with simply one time-lapse oppose to the hundreds that Disney had his video department implement at that time period. What a genius.

 

I realize that we’re starting out late into the harvesting season, but it’s exciting to try nevertheless. I’m just excited to try. There is always next year. I’m beginning to think that I should just enjoy this process and push the film back on its premiering date. I have a few tricks up my sleeve.

 

I shot an entire film in 2003 and it’s never been edited, so I think I will edit that film and premiere in it in the spring while I continue filming food and start again early next spring and into next summer with Minneapolis gardeners and food lovers. I have one wise gentleman in mind that may be able to take me through the process of gardening from start to end here in Minneapolis.

 

I’m psyched.

I’m excited beyond my gourd.

 

Life is good.

Lots of learning happening just now.

 

Gabriela

 

June 21, 2010

 

Flirting Fascination

The science of flirting.

The capacity of men and women to flirt turns out to be a remarkable set of behaviors embedded deep in our psyches.

 

By Joann Ellison Rodgers, published on January 01, 1999

 

[EXCERPTS FROM PSYCHOLOGY TODAY]

 

"She was, so extraordinarily beautiful that I nearly laughed out loud. She... [was] famine, fire, destruction and plague... the only true begetter. Her breasts were apocalyptic, they would topple empires before they withered... her body was a miracle of construction... She was unquestionably gorgeous. She was lavish. She was a dark, unyielding largesse. She was, in short, too bloody much... Those huge violet blue eyes... had an odd glint... Eons passed, civilizations came and went while these cosmic headlights examined my flawed personality. Every pockmark on my face became a crater of the moon."

 

                - Richard Burton described his first sight of a 19-year-old Elizabeth Taylor.

 

It's no secret that the brain's emotionally loaded limbic system sometimes operates independently of the more rational neocortex, such as in the face of danger, when the fight-or-flight response is activated. Similarly, when the matter is sex-another situation on which survival depends-we also react without even a neural nod to the neocortex. Instead, the flirtational operating system appears to kick in without conscious consent. If, at the moment they had met, Dick and Liz had stopped to consider all the possible outcomes of a relationship, they both would have been old before they got close enough to speak.

 

Somewhere beyond flirtation, as a relationship progresses, courtship gets under way, and with it, intellectual processes resume. Two adults can then evaluate potential mates more rationally, think things over and decide whether to love, honor and cherish. But at the moment of attraction and flirtation, bodies, minds and sense are temporarily hostage to the more ancient parts of the brain, the impulsive parts that humans share with animals.

 

Successful as symmetrical men are at flirtation, it's only their presumably better genes that women really want. Women definitely do not prefer symmetrical men for long-term relationships. There's a definite downside to getting someone with really good DNA. Symmetry, Gangestad explains, affords those men who possess it to take a dastardly mating strategy. His studies show that symmetrical men invest less in any one romantic relationship-less time, less attention, less money and less fidelity. They're too busy spreading around their symmetry. "They also tend to sexualize other women more," Gangestad reports. "It may be that males who can have the most access without giving a lot of investment take advantage of that."

 

Enter creativity, humor and intelligence. Deployed in flirting, they disclose more about an individual person than all the antlers do about leching animals. "They are likely saying something important about our very viability," says Gangestad. "When we can engage in humor and creativity, they act as an honest signal that we've got a reasonably well put together nervous system. They may indicate there's some developmental integrity underneath our brain." And a certain ability to withstand whatever challenges life throws a person's way.

 

What's more, our basic social ability to "read" another's facial gestures and emotional expressions acts as a fact-checking system in flirtation. It enables us to glimpse the tone of a prospective mate's inner life and to check for the presence or absence of psychological weakness. And in fact, women are pretty good at doping out information about such important attributes-even when they get very little time to make a judgment.

 

After two people share the information that they are attracted, then, through the way they flirt, they may unwittingly let on more about themselves. "It becomes a testing ground as well as an information-revealing process," says Gangestad.

 

Good Morning.

Buenas.

 

Let me begin on the right foot, so that this is an inviting and constructive blog.

 

Let us not misconstrue nor pretend that we’re not wild animals at heart.

 

My point is this: We have rules, boundaries and standards by which we live. We have cultural understandings and misunderstandings between the male and female sexes. We’re at times very hard on each other because we judge our mare image in each other.

 

Yes, and even though we have animal-like tendencies we are a community of respectful and considerate adult folks towards others. I like to gawk at people only because I was taught that it was okay as a Latina-Indiana child and I re-learned it again as an adult while getting to know los Mexicanos. I love to gawk at women’s fashions, hairdos and style. I like to watch a man walk across a room it tells me everything I need to know about him, his mood and state of mind in that moment.

 

The Mexicanos re-taught me to gawk in my late twenties at their mercados. Los Mexicanos really know how to do it up with their family style foods and tamales y Fanta: Las Abuelitas, Mamas, Chiquititos y los Jovenes y los Hombres tambien cons sus familias. Me encanta todo de la cultura de communidad. Si. Yes. The Grandmothers, Mothers, Small Ones and Youth and the Men also with their families. I love it all in a community of culture.

 

On this beautiful Monday morning let us go inside this literary incubator and feel the warm and fuzzy effects of discussing the oh-so-well tabooed subject of flirtation. Please try not to lose your breeches.

 

“Hey Sexy!” shouted a young black youth at me about a month ago crossing Nicolette Avenue. I burst out laughing! That’s all I could do because it was such-a-not sexy moment and not very real even though the complement seemed to be. The boy was a boy and I thought “I could be your mother.”

 

I passed the youth in his baggy jeans and sideways cap on the crosswalk and turned back to catch him staring back at my back end. Yes, “my arse” at that very moment that’s what it was to him so that’s what it is here (on printed words).

 

It’s easy to sense when a man has made a woman out to be nothing but a pair of legs, breasts and buttocks. I crossed to the other side of the street and returned the compliment I bent down and pretended to fix my tennis shoe laces with my rear up in the air to practice my free will as a grown woman. I heard him holler. I could feel his hot eyes on the back of me. “Eat that!” I thought. You can look but you can’t touch this.

 

I continued to laugh down the street for another three blocks. It was too funny! Who does that? Who hollers at strange women in hopes to bed them? It must’ve worked somewhere in the evolutionary pattern of mankind at one time.

 

When I lived in Boston ten years ago it was quite common and frequent occurrence that the men would send over a round or two of drinks to a table of women or simply pick up the tab all together.

 

There is far more money made in the Boston area than in most of Minneapolis and the men there take it upon themselves to treat potential mates of their equal or below socio-economic status but very rarely to a woman who makes more than them.

 

Most middleclass men from Boston leave it up to the other men who run in higher socio-economic circles to pay for a woman who’s simply too rich for their blood. A fully potential middleclass mating man is not a man without his wallet in Boston and they’re not afraid to show the middleclass working women that they make money. In the East people are direct and not afraid to talk about money, contracts and exchange. In the Midwest it seems greedy and yet the pink elephant in the room seems to be greatly ignored when it comes to speaking openly about finances with whom it may concern. No one can take your money from you unless you give it away. It’s like anything else that is important to making a way in the world – the sacredness of communication about what’s really being proposed.

 

I sat at many of these tables and wondered about the potential manifestation of a mate. Many a times the men never approached the women, but let them know through the waiter that they were there and quite available.

 

My girlfriends at that time would giggle, huddle in close together and whisper trying to steal glances at the men to inspect which man each of them liked most.

 

At that time in my life I was grateful for the drink and happily went home alone to a novel and no I don’t read romance novels but I love a great romance film because I like to watch the way two-characters in a love scene interact with one another. My whole body trembles watching two characters right before they make “the” first romantic touch on the silver screen.

 

“I don’t mind watching you flirt with ________.” My husband said to me out of nowhere one night. “Yes, I like his intensity, honesty and energy. I’m attracted to people who have something intelligent to say and who lead alternative lives.” I raised my one eyebrow and matched his gaze while sitting on the couch. “I don’t mind because I know you and I trust you.” Eric said to me and all I could do as a happily newly married woman was to smile at the greatest compliment a man can make to any woman.

 

Four years ago when we first started dating I told my husband this: “If I want to go to bed with another man then I will first have the courage to pick up the phone and tell you my intentions. I will not be asking for your permission but I will notify you out of courtesy for your well being.” He looked me square in the face and Eric understood that I was for real. It was no joke I meant every word of it.

 

I’ve also told Eric this before: “Imagine making that call? I would be apprehensive and by the time I dialed your number I’d be on my way home. The physical act of having to call you would put me in check and hearing your voice would break my heart so there it is - an act of courage for you.”

 

“Have you ever seen me flirt before?” I asked my Husband and he shook his head. “It’s been a decade that I’ve been drawn to another man like this. I like him like a mentor but different and uniquely in intellectual conversation.” I said confidently because I meant my every word and I didn’t want to be misunderstood. “I know. I trust you.” Eric said again and I believed him.

 

While sitting outside late one night at my neighborhood park a married girlfriend and I discussed men at length. “Don’t you ever let anybody tell you how you should or shouldn’t feel about any man in your life? We’re programmed to feel shame when we romantically feel something for another as married women and that’s bullshit. Nobody has the answers and it’s a way to control people. Sometimes, attraction naturally happens between two people and the safest thing you have is flirtation. You’re grown! No one’s ever going to tell me how I should feel about any man.” She takes a hard bite from her fast food burger.

 

I laughed and sipped from my pink milk shake substance she bought for me. I understood what she was getting at. I grew up in a Roman Catholic orphanage for four years and Oh-Jesus! the guilt trip claws are still deeply embedded in me.

 

We sat silently and I thought about Bonobos. The apes that mate - make love and mate again and again to resolve any conflict and or to keep the peace amongst their hierarchy. I like them and even though I don’t live as Bonobos do I can understand why they utilize sex as a tool to happiness, health, well being and peacemaking negotiations. It’s quite and rather diplomatic of them.

 

I don’t flirt with strange men. I don’t know who they are. I don’t like to flirt with them but I do like to look at something beautiful. I don’t give that aspect of myself freely or to my male friends. There is enough confusion between the sexes that I keep my legs crossed and eyes neutral. I am the very woman that I am. I know how much sexual power I have and as I’ve matured into womanhood I seem to generate even more sexual strength and power than I require daily.

 

I’m the story of the Ugly Duckling.

I’ve become a swan and it’s taken a while to fall in line.

I have responsibilities, decisions and a life to uphold to as I see fit as most grown adults do.

 

Since I got married I dress more provocatively yet conservatively and simply but sharp. I love to strap on a pair of high heels and a skirt. Nothing says, “Woman!” louder than that particular uniform. When I have lunch meetings or outings I dress to be looked at and I don’t pretend otherwise. I am inviting people to glance at a sliver of my life a uniquely acute yet significant perspective on how I feel that day.

 

I wear heels for one of two reasons: If I don’t feel beautiful that morning when I wake up and the world is drab or if I have a function to attend. Yes, I am powerful in heels and so is every other woman who can actually walk in them, too. I call high heels “stilts” because if you’ve ever watched a magnificent stilt walker then you know that a woman who can man-handle her heels is just as graceful and as beautiful as a 15 foot stilt walker.

 

My point is this: We’re highly sexual beings and no I don’t want to be picked up while crossing the crosswalk, I don’t want to be mentally stripped naked in public, I don’t have a need to be a walking clitoris and I definitely have only been intrigued by seven intelligent and sharp men in my life thus far and that’s including my husband.

 

I’ve been a lucky woman to have known and to have been in the very presence of such smart men. I say, enjoy the beauty that surrounds you and there is a huge difference between looking and touching.

 

I’ve been so lucky to have known men who’ve climbed deep into my soul and left their thumb prints there. Thank you.

 

I’m wishing you a dreamy and spectacular Monday.

May you feel sexy, flirtatious and glorious in your beauty.

 

Pura Vida.

 

Gabriela

 

P.S. I’m off to learn about welding and to work with tools later on this day. How sexy is that? I feel like a tomboy lately more so than a lady but not any less than what I know to be beautiful. Ciao. Goodbye.

 

June 18, 2010

 

“People don't follow titles, they follow courage.”  – William Wells Brown

 

Thought I:

 

The stretch of road from Portland Avenue turning left on Franklyn Avenue came to a crawl yesterday evening around five thirty. It was slow going and I wasn’t in any rush for any reason in the world.

 

I listened to classical music coming from another woman’s car stereo. I watched the Latino and Black (not politically correct) children play on the sidewalks and sit on their front porch stoops staring at us stare back.

 

The mothers brushed their children’s hair and ate ice cream al fresco. It was hot outside, a bit muggy and definitely a let-us-sit-outdoors and enjoy a beautiful summer evening kind of a night. The wind was strong enough to fly a large kite, carry garbage down the streets and flip the hem of any skirt.

 

I let down my long, curly and jet black hair and let it blow about my face. I smiled at myself as my lips curled and felt free to be a part of this incredible city.

 

I shivered a little and felt safe, comfortable and focused on that stretch of road. I belong to this city this amazing city of Minneapolis. Like I’ve said before – I’ve come home to a spectacular place, an imperfect place, a city of real people with real difficulties, hopes and desires for a better tomorrow.

 

As I inched along the way I could see just ahead of me signs for road construction. Portland Avenue is getting repaired and I am ever so grateful and thankful that it is. I’m thankful to the Gods, men and women who put a little bit of effort and thought in taking action to repair the inner city and to bring safety and beauty back to her. I live here and I’m going to stay here for as long as I can. Therefore, I have a great deal of invested interest in the inner city of Minneapolis and Uptown.

 

Furthermore, the white lines on the road have been repainted on Portland Avenue and also on 26th Street South heading all the way into Uptown to Hennepin Avenue. There was not a single thing I could do but let my lips bring a smile forth, clutch to the wheel with my right hand and look at the immense clouds forming as the light began to change into grey matter.

 

Last week I started writing a letter to the city of Minneapolis and I was to convey that our Uptown road streets were in dire need of paint if not some reconstruction and better bike lanes and more visible pedestrian signs.

 

Here we are one week later and the streets are being mended and I am forever so grateful not to have to deal with drivers who weave all over the road because they can’t seem to see the faded road lines.

 

Thought II:

 

Last Saturday night there was a drive-by-shooting at The Red Dragon Bar and Saloon. It was a rare mishap but a mishap nonetheless. I was furious when I returned to town and read about it. “Get that mierda off our streets!” I yelled at the newspaper article while reading it over the laptop.

 

Yes, I get mad at violence as I rightfully should. The Lowry Hill neighborhood has many late night patrons at Rudolph’s, Mortimer’s and Caffettos right around the corner. At times when I can’t sleep on a hot summer night I skateboard around my neighborhood. That’s how safe and well I know this neighborhood.

 

There’s lots of bikers and walkers out late at night. This is a savvy metropolis with hard working professionals who like to hang out late into the night no different than Brooklyn, the Bronx and Jamaica Plains of Boston with its college-educated professionals, political activists and artists.

 

I don’t believe the drive-by-shooters have yet been found. Soon, something needs to be done. There should be no excuses in any city for that drive-by-____ otherwise hold elections I want a new different kind of a leader running my streets. I pay taxes and I pay a hefty price to live here so please clean that mierda up!

 

I’m swearing inside this literary incubator so that I may make a vastly smack-hard-on-the-face point.

 

In my opinion if that mierda’s going to go down then all I have to say: “Let’s carve out a no man’s land outside the city beyond the suburbs. A huge parameter of ten miles stretch of fields, roads and woods and fence it in where men go to kill or to be killed in “no man’s land” and I say let them die off.” I figure if we built the wall that closes off the Mexican border than we can build a wall that closes off the violence. If we’re going to build walls then let’s build them for something constructive like keeping our young and elderly safe and alive on our streets.

 

The moment any cowardly man creates violence in any neighborhood with any established body of citizens in any city he is no longer a man but a target by the judicial system and the victimized citizens. Get off our streets and take that caca home – quickly! I have no respect nor regard for those who create violence, destruction and victimization to any pocket of culture.

 

We have men, women, children and elderly in this Uptown neighborhood and not to mention we also have a thriving local economy. On Monday night I set out to walk my daily four miles through the neighborhood crossing into downtown.

 

I prayed every step along that stretch. I prayed to the Gods to restore peace where blood had been shed and I quietly raged as any concerned citizen of any city does when their livelihood, peace and establishments are threatened.

 

The neighborhood is calm yet once again.

 

Our people – Our Uptown pack of wild-calm wolves are settling back into comfort and safety. We’re a resilient people here in these parts of Minneapolis. We’ll fight back for our neighborhoods. This is where we live!

 

Mierda. How’d you like it if I brought a gun into North, Hmong, Indian or Latino fighting territories and started shooting my-rear-off? You’d take me down, mother_______ if I was that stupid with a weapon. I may not carry a gun but I have fighting words and these are them and I’m shooting them off with all of the violence and rage that was created here last Saturday night. WHOEVER You are: You left your dick hanging out and gun powder residue all over it. Go whack off someplace else. Nasty. Right? Right.

 

My sentiment of many is this: THIS IS our territory and we’ll defend it to the death because children and elderly live here and that means the world to us. So, step off and build yourself a no man’s land and bury a hole in the ground and go die off because you’re not doing us any favors, you’re not contributing anything worthwhile to the world and you’re definitely just sucking up air and wasting the world’s time.

 

Anyway, totally excited about Portland Avenue and its reconstruction!

Totally! Thank the Gods I’m an artist and not a gangster or a dumb ___ with a gun.

 

It’s all good for those of you who don’t know my writing voice – you’ll either get used to it or you won’t.

 

I’m wishing you an amazing and safe weekend with loved ones and dear ones. The world is an amazing place and there is nothing to fear but fear itself.

 

I’m going skateboarding on this magnificent Friday morning.

 

Ciao. Goodbye.

 

Gabriela

 

June 17, 2010

 

“First love is only a little foolishness and a lot of curiosity.”  - George Bernard Shaw

 

Las Ticas de San Jose de Costa Rica son beautiful women in all of their righteousness and glory.

 

The women of Uptown Minneapolis are beautiful women in all of their righteousness and glory.

 

I’ve seen many beautiful women all over the Eastern Sea Board and in several continents but the Uptown Minneapolis women are street savvy as in any large metropolis and very strong. They are no fools about weather, American men and culture.

 

These are intelligent women whose real conversations I’ve heard in restaurants, watering holes and shops. These are women who are not threatened by other beautiful women because they are grown women. Grown women instinctively know there is always more room for beauty in the world when so much destruction occurs.

 

These are courteous women and respectful to each other in the public arena. They’re not afraid of other women and people in general. Many women in this area keep sidewalk gardens. Anyone of them that lives in the neighborhood realizes that there is no need to be howl, bark or growl unless our older sisters and children are threatened which that doesn’t sit well in this neighborhood.

 

The men are also good to the women. They don’t seduce, man handle or are violent in any regard, but they too are wild wolves and who can’t respect that? The men keep a lookout for women in these parts. The men know what they have and they, too, are not threatened by other men. The men are smart, handsome and sensible men just like their female counterparts. It takes a grown man to run with a neighborhood pack of women like these. The women are independent and lovely and so it seems are the men.

 

This is a contemporary hippie, artistic, 80’s punk and calm neighborhood. If you’re not from here then we know you’re not from here with all of the one-way roads you’d have to know your way around this lovely neighborhood otherwise you look like an idiot going up the wrong way on the one-ways. If you’re from our neighborhood then you don’t speed while you drive because you share the road with bicyclists all year round.

 

You just don’t speed while you drive here because to be a part of this awesome neighborhood you’d have to be smart enough to realize that it’s owned by the pedestrians, bikers and skateboarders which are mindful, respectful and smart. I’d be afraid to see a biker get hit by a stupid driver in the heart of these parts – I think people would take to the streets and rally as I believe they should. We take our bikers and walkers seriously here as any mature metropolis does.

 

Uptown women dress sensibly as they make their way across the city by foot and or by bike. They have an edge and punk to their sense of style. Let us not forget that they are Minnesotan beauties, the land of the strong, smart and hard working women.

 

Uptown women don’t have their breasts hanging out of their shirts or their privates showing to fulfill a need to be noticed. These are real women who dress to be active in all sorts of weather.

 

In my neighborhood – many of these grown women are gutter punk bike riders, long-distance walkers, baby-stroller mothers and dog lovers and some lovely elderly beauties that make it a point to daily go to the co-op and walk their dogs.

 

These are city women who look where they’re going and who hold their heads up. They’re no fools and neither are the men.

 

Uptown women have a flare for scarves and earrings of many different shades, colors and designs. My favorite section of my neighborhood is on Lyndale from Franklyn Avenue to Lake Street. Anywhere on this stretch of neighborhood you’re going to find women in jeans, skirts and dresses to fit the weather. My favorite women to look at are those who bike in skirts and colorful tights.

 

Women here are not all six feet tall and bones. These are petite to normal women who are athletic and strong. Strong in bones, skin and body. What makes them so beautiful is their own sense of style in reusable materials, recycled goods, and creativity. Even though the women here are alternative vs. their downtown counterparts these are still yet chic and fashionable women who demand that their clothing come from 100% organic recyclable and reusable materials.

 

These are women making a change in the world by simply buying, making and restoring the very T-Shirts they wear. These women leave their scent behind on the streets and they manifest a free thinking enterprise of collective ideas. The street art, stickers and flyers are a great indicative of what we believe in: The Arts. My favorite aspect of a metropolitan area is the street art. We have yarn-artists whose work is non-destructive and I love finding it all throughout my neighborhood.

 

The women of this neighborhood are powerful. They can make or break the local economy. These are particular women with particular ideals, world views and needs. They are working middle class women who are very meticulous with their money.

 

It’s clear when I walk through the co-op and local coffee shops that these women believe in supporting Fair Trade products and local-in-season produce as well as organically certified items. The beautiful men and women of Uptown make this neighborhood run as they have for over two decades – if you’re not from here step aside while you gawk and shop we’re coming through peacefully, stylishly and confidently.

 

In the middle of fall these ladies start wearing their beautiful angora and light wool sweaters along with homespun mittens. I’ve come across many Uptown ladies who knit their own winter scarves, hats and outer ware.

 

I consider this a neighborhood of alternative, health conscientious-wild-natural women; many are vegetarian if not vegan but this doesn’t mean they can’t wear summer night dresses and strap on a great pair of vegan stilettos.

 

These are beautiful creatures who I love to nod to, say “aloha” or simply admire. I love the way the women dress, walk, smile and own the streets. I love being a part of such a mature grown adult neighborhood. I love being a lovely Uptown Tica.

 

I will grow old and die in this part of the world gardening hydroponics from my roof top greenhouse watching the seasons come and go. At the age of thirty-three I’m proud to make this my bit of earth to stand on.

 

I will continue to put my little bit of light onto the world from this Uptown neighborhood because I chose this to be my home of all the places I’d ever travelled in my life. The only real courage I’ve ever had was deciding where I’d belong geographically speaking.

 

I run with a pack of Uptown women and I do bask in all our beauty and glory.

 

I’ve come home!

Viene a la casa.

 

Wishing you a lovely sunny Thursday.

 

Ciao.

 

Gabriela

 

June 16, 2010

 

“Be courteous to all, but intimate with few, and let those few be well tried before you give them your confidence.” – George Washington

 

Smell is trust. Smell is the difference between life and death.

Smell is the very essence of intension. Smell is everything to me in life.

 

A girlfriend I’ve known for a short time and I stay up late into the night talking about what gives us warning and self-defense against the world we live in. For her it’s her ability to keenly hear well and that is one of her strongest senses. To her, sound comes sharply into focus and she can hear many different conversations, actions and movements in a space.

 

My friend, she is an alpha female whose lead I take in a crowded room or a strange place. In the city she is the queen of some urban interactions and concrete jungle smarts. We switch roles when we’re in the woods and then she takes my lead when it comes to wildlife.

 

The very first time we ventured out into the wilderness her husband gave her a machete to go off into the woods with. When she pulled it out to show me I could do nothing but burst out laughing. What on earth was she going to bush-whack in this part of the world?

 

The northern tundra is not like the jungle – different tools are required for distinctly various topography. I recently asked a man to please tell me where I could buy a hunting knife. Absurdly, he looked straight at me and with a screwed face he said, “But of course, Target Boutique.” I looked at him squarely in the face and asked, “Something that will save my life? I can’t seem to find machetes very easily in this part of the world at least not Target Boutique.”

 

He cleared his throat, gave me a straight answer and in that moment he understood that I was serious about purchasing a serious tool for a serious intension. In those short moments as he answered again I stood downwind from him and I could smell him perspire. He was a bit taken a back but also a little nervous. I could smell all of him especially in the rain after being soaked to the bone all afternoon: His smell clung to his wet clothes like a wet kitchen rag.

 

We stood outside in the middle of the city looking at the low clouds and suddenly her back arched ever so slightly and she said, “There’s a person out there maneuvering their way through the dark.” I knew exactly what she meant. I could make out the gender of the person and caught sight of their shadow in the darkness. Yes, your shadow still makes a shadow against the backdrop of night light you just have to let your eyeballs adjust.

 

It didn’t matter to me what I did or didn’t see. I honed in with my smell and I caught wind of a man. He made two quick hops across the darkness and into the bushes thirty feet to the side of us. I laughed. She didn’t. She felt played with. We heard the ever so slightly breaking of a twig and silence. It was too quiet – all other natural life knew that he, too, was hiding in the bushes.

 

I didn’t feel threatened because I didn’t smell a threat. Yet, this woman whose had some life changing experiences doesn’t let her guard down for one second and I think that’s dangerous as well. It’s difficult for people to know when a real threat is real or not if their guard is up all the time. That means that the body is tense often if not all the time.

 

We talked about smell and I told her “I can smell gender. A woman never smells like a man and a man never smells like a woman.” She nods and says, “It’s easy to smell when a woman is menstruating.”

 

I nodded in response and repeated what she said. “I can smell some illnesses in others. I think everybody can smell the sweetness of a diabetic – it’s nothing like honey it’s three pitches higher than that and it lingers a sickening sweet smell that for a few moments longer than necessary. I can also smell bronchitis and pneumonia in someone’s lungs. The smell is a fungi-musty-wet smell coming from their breath.” She nodded and understood what I was saying to her.

 

We heard silence.

Far too quiet for a city summer night.

 

Most nocturnal creatures are never quite as quiet as a deadly silence.

Only animals that are threatening, unsure or hunting their prey create a deadly silence in other wildlife.

 

Leaves began to rustle and the sound was manmade. To my awareness no other animal in this part of the world tends to have the type of dexterity and the daintiness of rustling leaves like a human – possibly a raccoon but I wasn’t smelling raccoon.

 

“Smell is easier to detect than directional sound to me. I can hear quite keenly behind me. Actually, I can hear better behind me than from in front.” I tell her as she focused her eyes directly into the dark. “That’s f______. Someone wants to be known to us. They purposely are making sounds.” She was uneasy and wanted to leave.

 

We left.

 

Not once was I threatened or in fear of what was nearby in the woods.

 

Later I told her that I made up my mind a long time ago about survival. “If I’m ever f______ with I’ll fight to the death and I may not come out winning but someone somewhere will be missing eyes balls, lids, a nose, and lips. I’m confident that I could bite a man’s face off without any qualm if I were threatened with my life. I won’t go down without a fight.” No healthy living animal ever does go down without a fight when threaten with its life.

 

She looked at me in the eyeball and she understood my soul-life intensity. She knew that this beta-alpha would self-defend to survive.

 

“I can smell alcohol a mile away.” I told her. “Me, too. It’s a turn on for me.” She said. “I can also smell sex on a human animal.” I looked away. She said it I didn’t.

 

“Yeah, there’s nothing like the smell of masturbation.” I agreed with her. There is nothing like the smell of masturbation or sex on somebody else’s skin. It’s not a turn on – it’s just an intimate smell between people and themselves.

 

“It depends.” I raised an eyebrow.

 

“On what?” She asked.

 

“Who it is.” I smiled at her. “It could be real hot or not.”

 

We burst out laughing.

 

I feel like an animal this morning and I woke up trusting what I smell.

 

Gabriela

 

June 15, 2010

 

Ambidextrous Kids More Likely to Have ADHD

 

“The ability to write and perform other tasks with both hands is called mixed-handedness.

About one in every 100 people is mixed-handed, or ambidextrous.

What makes a person ambidextrous is somewhat of a mystery,

but the ability has been linked to the hemispheres of the brain.

 

The brain is split into two halves:

The left side, or left hemisphere, and the right side, or right hemisphere.

Studies have shown that when people naturally gravitate toward using their right hand,

the left hemisphere of the brain is more dominant. In mixed-handed people,

it appears to be less clear that one side of the brain is more dominant over the other.”

                                                                  --- 

 

I have adult attention deficit hyperactivity disorder.

I was clinically diagnosed A.D.H.D. at the age of sixteen.

 

What does A.D.H.D. mean in relationship to being ambidextrous?

It means an entire world of possibility and ability.

 

I spend most of my falls and winters digitizing hundreds of hours of video clips, creating bins to keep all of the media organized and transferring files from graphic folders to video folders and vice versa. I write daily edit logs, create digital storyboards and import and export clips into a timeline and make non-linear cuts – all from the power of a laptop. Ah, the days of the computer programs such as, DOS.

 

All of this action requires the usage of clicking a mouse hundreds of times an hour. Over the years I’ve begun to develop carpal tunnel in my right wrist.

 

The pain is so severe at times that my wrist feels paralyzed with sharp shooting pains after a long day of work. To make matters worse I still write on an old 1938 Royal typewriter and also by hand. I clutch to pens for dear life and I pound away at an old typewriter.

 

As a child my first instinct was to grab with my left hand long before I even knew what a left and right hand was.

 

When I was adopted in August of 1987 at the age of ten and went off to an American school for the very first time my teacher would stand behind me and grab the pencil out of my hand and switch it from the left to the right. He only had to do this a few times until I got the hint that left handedness was not going to fly in his classroom. I could not speak a single word of English so I could not tell him to go to hell.

 

I felt ashamed for many years in wanting to use my left hand.

 

After a few years in school I made myself forget that I had done many things with my left hand and decided that I would not use my left hand because it was no longer necessary. I began to strengthen my right hand and became keen and quite capable with it. It wasn’t until my late twenties that I felt severe burning pain in my right wrist and decided to switch back to my left hand.

 

At first it was hell. I dropped things, flung things and broke things with my left. I’d found a treasure chest hidden in the attic of myself but I did not know what it was for any longer. I began to retrain myself. First, with my cooking, cleaning and laundry. Yes, believe it or not these are quite noble actions in a person’s adult life – personal responsibilities.

 

Thankfully, I never dropped a pot of boiling water on myself. I was careful and capable enough to bring a hot boiling pot of water to a cup, aim and pour. Now, pouring with my left hand is as natural as it is with my right. I can brush my hair and teeth, tie knots and use tools with my left hand.

 

If I have an awkward moment with my hands then I stop and concentrate on a point in the distance. I took six years of classical ballet and modern dance and if I came away with anything it was this: chose a point of reference and stare at it while I regain my balance and muscle control, so I do this if I fumble with my hands or I can’t seem to find my way through the mechanics and intricacies of something in the physical realm – martial arts are this way in some ways, also – but with different philosophies involved. Each lovely to their own.

 

When I choose a point in the distance I visualize the actions of my left in relationship to my right. In my visualization I make my left hand the dominant force and instinctually I work my way through it. It’s taken time, energy and patience to re-teach myself these skills yet it’s been worth it all.

 

Unfortunately, writing with my left hand is still difficult. Mainly, because I’ve never had the opportunity to write with it before in my life. The method of holding a pencil is what is difficult for me. My husband recently came home with pens for “Lefties”. It makes a tremendous and great deal of difference writing with pens for lefties.

 

I’m trying to save my right hand and wrist from surgery or further damage at this point. I’m grateful to have the time, skill and opportunity to relearn an old trick. It’s not very difficult, truly. I believe that anybody who wanted to be ambidextrous could.

 

I think it’s a skill like any other skill – such as learning how to ride a bike. Although I’ve always been wobbly on a bike even as an adult – it seems that I did not acquire the muscle memory to balance a bike, yet I skateboard like a bat-out-of-hell so I’m not complaining.

 

I was very fortunate to learn to speed skate in fourth grade. I gained balance control, ankle strength and weight distribution abilities. If I had not become tired of the sport I might have had some real ambitions with it. I won state a few years in a row and I had the awesome privilege of competing at Nationals at the tender age of fifteen – I placed eighth in my age category.

 

To this day I can still visualize a skating oval and lean left in the way I used to while rounding a corner. It’s an awesome feeling to clock in at so many speeding miles per hour which your body has generated in force, energy and speed. I’ve always been athletic because I’m a wild beta female and I like to run with smart and fast packs. This means I have to have control of my left and right side of my body at all times otherwise I’m prone to clumsiness and then injury and who needs that? It is my responsibility to learn how to control the many maneuvers of my body in any environment safety, calmly and slowly.

 

Once, I became open to the possibility of living with the many opportunities of the left and right hand function then I began to accept that this was something that I was going to follow through in life. The muscle coordination has taken about four years to regain but the need and the desire to do with my left hand is as strong as ever if not stronger.

 

I realized I was left handed for sure when a friend handed me a cue and told me to shoot the billiard balls he set out in front of me. Afterwards, he said to me, “do you realize you shoot left handed?” It hadn’t dawned on me and I smiled with the glow of pride in knowing that I had begun life with that instinctual need and there it was after all those years of hibernation. I also apply makeup and bowl with my left. I didn’t start getting “turkeys” until I began to bowl with my left. Oh, and tennis left handed is ever so sweet when spiking the ball.

 

I’m writing about this because there is hope for those people who feel like odd balls or whose health has taken a turn for the worse and the one side of their body is not responding as it should. With a little bit of effort, patience and time I believe the human animal can adapt to survive.

 

How lovely.

 

Gabriela

 

June 14, 2010

 

“It is necessary to help others, not only in our prayers, but in our daily lives. If we find we cannot help others, the least we can do is to desist from harming them.” - Dalai Lama

 

”Washing one's hands of the conflict between the powerful and the powerless means to side with the powerful, not to be neutral.” – Paulo Freire

 

My wise father, his lovely wife, my amazing husband and I sat under a gazebo on a cloudy Sunday morning.

 

“Conflict has been written about for thousands of years.” My Father said.

 

He looked directly at me and smiled. Significantly, I smiled back at him.

 

My Dada spoke at length about listening to the Dalai Lama talk about sex and violence in our media in unnatural amounts.

 

“It’s difficult as-it-is to contend with our everyday sexual desires to begin with and the added dangers of violence.” My Dada reiterated what he heard. “Media coverage of violence is more dangerous in pop culture and Television than any form or desire in sexuality.”

 

My Dada crossed his arms and looked far off into the distance. “The thoughts that we conceive in our minds are not necessarily real. We start to react to our thoughts before we think them through.” He spoke from his heart.

 

I’m proud to be this thoughtful man’s daughter. The feeling has nothing to do with pride but with tenderness for my Father. I’ve known my Father to be a man who’s only lost his cool three times in twenty three years that I have known him since adoption and with good reason. I’m proud to know many men who never lose their cool and patience with the many women in their lives nor manipulate them into violence because they have a need to be noticed or because they’re threatened by the very women.

 

I think about the way I think when I’m in conflict. I’ve had to teach myself to think before reacting. Over the years this has been a great challenge for me because I’m naturally impulsive due to the A.D.H.D and yes possibly due to Latina-Indiana tendencies in early childhood and a Roman Catholic orphanage upbringing. Impulsions must and can be controlled but it’s all mental discipline or so I have found out in my thirties.

 

I’ve never hit or thrown anything at anyone except words with sharp edges and stares. I’ve known better. I’ve known the difference between right and wrong since I could sharply focus my eyes on the world. As a child I’d been the victim of severe violence. In some ways I’m one of the lucky ones. I never got raped or molested but I did get the life beaten out of me early on and I learned what real great physical pain meant.

 

I told my family this, “When you’ve been pulled into dark rooms and had the shit beaten out of you then you know that you’re capable of surviving anything and then you lose all fear of violence and human-made dangers. You learn to take calculated risks because in some ways you already died that day as your soul hovered above you waiting for the blows to be over. You go after your dreams because there is nowhere to go but up and nothing will scare the life out of you ever again.” I looked at them in the face and their stillness was silence. They understood what I was telling them.

 

“Sometimes, people can get so mad that they see red. All people are capable of murder and violence.” My Dada mentioned earlier as we walked up to the gazebo.

 

“We think we know people, but sometimes we don’t even know our closest friends. We come to realize that people don’t show themselves for fear of being misunderstood and sometimes it’s the same fear of violence that creates that kind of shame in many of us.” He stared at me. I stared back.

 

I notice violence in films and the first thing that comes to mind is that either the director was a witness to violence or lived through those horrors or simply likes to fantasize about committing violence against those who’ve wronged them.

 

Some conflict which has truly mattered to me in relationship to people that I love has left me shaking for hours afterwards and almost in a good need for a strong vomit. I don’t like conflict but I will sail through a storm if I have to. My Father taught me to drop one anchor at the stern and an anchor at the bow of a fifty-five-foot sailboat when we sailed through the Atlantic Ocean’s fury. He taught me to hang onto the helm with one hand and to sway with the rest of my body as the winds and waves thrashed us about.

 

Over the last four years with much discipline, deep breathing, intrinsic meditation and prayer and some great reminders of others when they have lost their cool; I have honed the skill to participate in conflict and to really hear what is being said to me without being condescending or patronizing. Yet, it is never easy. Meeting at any table to deal with conflict head on means having no agenda, simply maneuvering as carefully, gracefully and as respectfully and kindly as possible without forfeiting your soul and spirituality to hidden meanings.

 

The only time I lost my cool this year was dealing with a petulant, self-centered and quite rude alcoholic who can keep his drink down but can’t keep his moods in check. Even then my eyes were smiling and I was making a mockery out of him because I didn’t take him seriously enough not to yell at him in the middle of the street. Sweet.

 

“We were taught at the writer’s workshop to create a climax in any storyline through a narrative arc and in that curvature there’s always a conflict that requires resolution before living happily ever after.” I say to my conversational mates.

 

“Do you know the real story of Cinderella?”My Father asked. I nodded at him. “It's a gruesome tale about Cinderella’s sisters’ who are willing to cut off their feet to fit into the glass slipper.” My Dada raised his eyebrow.

 

I raised my eyebrow, too, and laughed.

 

My Dada slid over on the bench and whole heartedly embraced me. I embraced him back and I understood what he understood. I understood that what people think is-not-all really a complete reality especially when they are angry and shouting.  I began to let go of my week and for the first time since Thursday I’m once again complete and I have regained my power as a woman and as a human.

 

Over breakfast my Father and his wife gave me a pin that says, “Never underestimate the power of a woman.” It’s come to me at a perfect time in my life.

 

I’m wishing you a calm and lovely Monday.

 

Gabriela

 

June 11, 2010

 

At the end of my long days the only place I want to be is laying across my husband’s lap while he gently strokes my neck and arms. This man’s touch is so powerful I revel in it. His touch feels like a prayer written across my skin.

 

My entire body shivers from head to toe and into relaxation. In the presence of this awesome man I’m never awkward, clumsy or closed off. This is a man that I allow to touch me completely in his entirety because four years ago he made me a promise that he keeps daily and for that reason alone I cherish my every moment with Eric.

 

I knew the moment I wanted to spend the rest of my life with this magnificent man and it was when I first walked into a room for a job interview at a post-house he works at here in town. I saw a smirk on his face and his lips were mocking something. I liked him immediately. I knew there was complexity in his personality and that he was no idiot.

 

Eric’s facial expressions are subtle yet written all over his face. I knew that if I was ever lucky enough to be in his confidence that he would change my life forever. Any beta female knows who the real alpha male in any room is even if it is the quietest and smartest of alphas and that was my husband that day defiantly turned away from everyone.

 

He turned to me, looked directly at me and we locked eyes. The soul connection travelled between the two of us and we knew that there were far more important things in this world than that job interview. Up till that moment I felt my entire existence flash before me and my skin knew it was in love with the man in front of me.

 

I could smell him across the room and it was coming from his skin. My husband is a non-smoker, non-drug user and a very occasional drinker – if that. Primarily, because we keep a vegetables, fruits and organic grass-fed meat diet he keeps his smell of honey all year round.

 

Eric’s skin smells of honey that leaves me weak at the knees every time.

 

My husband is the most brilliant man I’ve ever met and that will always be a turn on for me. I’m turned on by brilliance and gentle understanding. Eric is a lucky man in the sense that he is able to bridge his extremely high I.Q. and emotional stability along with the ability to be sensible at all turning points.

 

This is a man that I believe any owner of any fortune 500 company would keep as their little secrete and pull him out in times of serious consideration for change.

 

Eric is a man. Eric is a man who is in tune with weather patterns and changes. A man who keeps a close eye on world events, changes and the topography of the world’s landscape and how it moves over time. A man so intelligent he is open and receptive to anything but doesn’t necessarily believe that there can only be one way or one solution.

 

Seriously, Eric can fix anything with a shoe lace, glue and nails. Not only is he cerebrally brilliant but he can also work with his hands. Eric has built much of the furniture in our home. Now, that’s something that a beta female can truly trust in an alpha male – the ability to self sustain.

 

I trust Eric with my entire existence because children and dogs naturally respect and gravitate towards him. I told Eric a long time ago that “I’d rather die than tell you a lie.” So our lives together are very truthful, direct and straight forward. No stone is left unturned. The most important questions anybody has ever asked me have come from Eric and for that reason alone I adore this man. He’s posed questions that would have never entered my mind in this lifetime.

 

As I sit here now in this front porch Eric sleeps soundly in the other room down the hallway. A glow of warmth resonates in me for this man. Eric never raises his voice and I can take that seriously. At times, we’ll sit very quietly not because it’s tense but because it’s real and full of love.

 

Eric never dictates a conversation. He is open to me asking any question at any time even if it’s to ask - to ask a question. He knows perfectly well what I mean by asking to ask a question. He knows that I’m asking if he has the time. He knows perfectly well that I’m not asking for his permission to speak. Eric never tells me what I can or cannot talk about or if I can or cannot be serious. He does not dictate a tone or a mode in our lives. Yes! I did not marry a moody man. (I’m making the sign of the cross across my chest with my right hand just now. Broma. Joke. Chiste. I’m laughing at signifiers for “Ayee, dioses mios”.)

 

Mi esposo is not a social tyrant, power hungry nor an insatiable child. I’m unconditionally loved and because of that this man shows me immense respect, daily. The Gods have been good to me. I waited for a decade to meet Eric while it seemed that all of my girlfriends were getting married I waited. I could’ve married several times to several different men who did not love me but the ideal of me. I chose not to marry in vain early on because their smells were not something I could’ve lived with my entire life against my skin.

 

I like that my husband knows the very “girly” aspects of me and respects me for it. From time to time I like to wear high heels, a skirt and carry a bag as well as crocheted silk blouses. I love bright red lipstick (although I need to find an all vegetable base and organic lipstick line). I wear red lipstick because I’m a warrior in the world of men and because I bleed as we do in the world of women. It represents carnage, beauty and strength to wear red lipstick. It takes a confidence that only a grown woman can have. Let us be adults about the difference between men and women or cross dressers for that matter. Freedom of expression is the sacredness in the bloodline and roots of our American history. Religion has no place in the politics, arts and educational funding of culture. Period. Moving on.

 

If you want to debate religion in any of these sectors. Then I will personally not debate with you but tell you that I starved in a third world country in the late 70’s and that I will win one major cultural question every time. Where was all that religious funding going to if I and my friends of low-income mountain barrios starved in the late 70’s? The money never made it up the mountain tops and as many Indigenous cultures, people are used as selling tools but then what after all the cameras have gone home? Then what? I pray every day and I’m not religious as a western philosophy would have you believe nor an eastern one at that. I’m quite well read and studied in the many religions of the world. It’s been my duty to be well read, but more importantly to think.

 

When I do solo camping trips I take one of Eric’s shirts along with me. His shirt brings a great deal of comfort even if I can hear wild Lynx calls early into the morning; With Eric’s smell on me I can live and die through anything.

 

I never knew that geniuses came in gentle giant packages. What a gift the world has bestowed upon me. I’m one lucky woman to be married to a lucky man. The Gods smiled the day they brought us together.

 

I’m grateful for this life, my husband, close friends, close family members and most of all just to be alive on a beautiful rainy Friday morning.

 

I’m wishing you an amazing and rainy weekend in Minneapolis.

 

Ciao. Goodbye.

 

Gabriela

 

June 10, 2010

 

"I have made it a rule of my life never to regret and never to look back. Regret is an appalling waste of energy...you can't build on it; it's only good for wallowing in." – Katherine Mansfield

 

I’m the daughter of a Father who practiced psychology for over thirty years and who just recently retired last fall. While growing up my Father gave my sister and I a safe place to speak openly about anything and I mean anything. No topic was taboo in our home while in the presence of my Father.

 

Today I’d like to speak about bi-polar interactions. Recently I sat at a friend’s table who I deeply respect in which his roommate screamed and yelled at two lovely grown women such as my conversational partner and myself.

 

The lovely young lady and I had been discussing Shiatsu massage and the young man sat quietly listening only for a while. I sensed him as any animal senses another on the jungle floor both quietly observing each other but not moving a muscle.

 

Suddenly he entered the conversation in a hostile manner. His jaw was clenched, his back hunched and his face red. Eventually the conversation went from Shiatsu and the difference forms of communication from Spanish to English connotation in tone of voice to being put on trial and accused of preaching to this young man.

 

At length he yelled about being frustrated and angry with me that I interrupted him too often and spoke too much about myself and related everything back to being a Latina Indiana I hardly ever share this with people unless in a safe environment. Sure, I write about it but I’m not going to talk about it openly with just anyone and since I was at a friend’s home I thought I could. Wrong.

 

In my defense I tried to explain that in some cultures a grunt or a “yah-yah” was like a drum circle and so it was in the jungle where I learned everything I know in life about interactions with nature and to other Indians at that time.

 

I only make accents in a conversation as a signifier that I’m present with the rhythm of the conversation. I was told that this is considered an interruption and that I must NOT interrupt ever again. I said in a very stern voice, “I pick up the rhythm where you drop off.”

 

Then, I sincerely apologized for the interruptions and for speaking and preaching too much from a Latina Indiana perspective. Can you imagine having to apologize for who you are to a coward? I thanked the young man for bringing this to my attention and that I would make it a point in trying not to do so anymore with him. I told him that I would try to show him who I was rather than saying it. He seemed satisfied with my apology at first but then he proceeded to make the same point twice and twice more with a stern voice I apologized yet again. Nevertheless, by the time I reiterated my third apology I had become rather tired and bored with him.

 

I told him that I liked making racial and cultural distinctions in conversation with others. I made the evident point that I’ve had experiences in Finn communities in which the men have told me about the tools and varieties in carpentry skills of those different from and of any other culture.

 

I told him “Hell yeah! I often say to people, ‘please! Tell me as a Finn man of a certain age in wisdom what I need to know about your carpentry and its heritage pertaining to you.’”

 

I made this point to him because I didn’t pretend that racism in America doesn’t exist and because I’m forward about other people’s heritage I’m also extremely forward about mine so that there is no confusion and mistake in what I am. I don’t lose moments in getting to know someone’s skill set and contributions to the world.

 

He asked me, “What do you know about my interactions with other women or Latinas for that matter?” I answered that I didn’t know. “Do you even know how old I am?” I said, “No.” He looked up at me and said, “See. You haven’t even asked me.”

 

I thought ‘I haven’t cared to.’

 

Earlier in the conversation he tells me that I’m concerned with what I think he thinks of me. I burst out in laughter and asked him, “Are you asking me a question or are you telling me what I think?” I tell him that if he has the courage to ask me a straight and forward question then I would answer it with as much courage as it took to ask. I also made the point in letting him know that I didn’t even consider him once when I walked out the door. The gall to think that I cared what he thought of me was too funny. So I laughed some more in his face. This stranger was taking way too many liberties with his assumptions.

 

I stood up and I told him, “I’m going to walk away now and give you my back.”

 

Some people require more energy than they deserve.

 

They go about their lives sucking up all the air in rooms. I said to him, “I think you’re verbal interaction is cruel so I need to give you my back for now.”

 

“Basta! Enough!” My body gently lets me know it’s time to walk away.

 

The young lady and I walked out together and I said to her, “You’re a lovely lady.” And she said to me, “You handled that so well in there.” I responded with laughter and a sincere “Thank you.”

 

I’ve known close intimate friends, classmates and a short lived relationship to a fiancé in my early twenties who were diagnosed with Schizophrenia and bi-polar before some died, one became a farmer and the other went off to marry a girl no one knew and have Ménage à trios with others or so I did hear the rumors fly.

 

In my experience this type of negative and combative interaction is “common” in bi-polar dispositions. I don’t take it personally one bit. Everyone is programmed differently. Some people eat too much while others drink to lessen their pain and still yet others criticize everyone else around them because they’re too afraid to live out their dreams.

 

My people – my Indian people know these are fragile and hurt beings that have amazing powers to overcome their obstacles yet they’re not the people that we go to in search of _______________.

 

My beef is this with people of bi-polar dispositions: They may go from zero to hundred or from high to low and vice versa in a matter of moments but they do NOT lose cognitive awareness and responsibility in the difference between right and wrong. I sense that it’s an excuse to chip away at the world and let the walls crumble around them.

 

My beef is this: You can feel whatever you’re feeling and there is no room for insulting others just because you feel bad about yourself. It’s like the alcoholic that gets meaner and meaner by the drink until they mentally have undressed you and shredded your every bit of hope in humanity. That’s the type of person I’d like to throw a cup at their head and watch them react to a little bit of their own poison but again I’m not in the tendency of throwing anything.

 

I’m a grown woman and this type of human rage does not face me anymore because I truly cannot take anybody seriously who is not responsible and considerate of others while in discussion. I’ll talk about anything with anybody but never cross that boundary between insulting and judgmental. Not anymore, maybe when I was without awareness as a young person, but not even then was I so out of touch as to lose sense that I’ve got good reasons for believing most everything I think.

 

Here I go again talking about myself but for me It’s in logic, reasoning and mathematics that I understand the world around me and more so the social complexities in social physics. Whether two people will collide or travel parallel lines forever. It’s all in the mathematics of nature.

 

I apologized to the young man three times yet not once did he apologize for his cruelty and irresponsibility in conversation to us. What a burro’s ass! I don’t care if you’re bi-polar or not that’s just spoiled and without respect for others when you start yelling in the middle of a conversation to two mindful women.

 

He WAS insulted. He FELT preached at. He. He. He. That conversation definitely became all about him and not about the two lovely young women who wanted to discuss Shiatsu in the first place. He took it there and I went there with him, but only because I chose to do so.

 

Nothing harms us unless we let it bite still yet I never lose sight of the possibility that some animals are carriers of rabies.

 

What a pity. What a shame that some are so lost in the wood. Come back to us. Come back to civilization. Contribute.

 

Gabriela

 

June 9, 2010

 

“It is forbidden to kill; therefore all murderers are punished unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets.” - Voltaire

 

These are a few thoughts in the last two days while I’ve walked and driven Minneapolis by day.

 

The two points I will try to make are these: All city streets and parks must be recognized as sanctuaries and oasis in any city. They must be safe at all political and economical costs.

 

For many years Monday nights used to be a movie-in-the-park-night. As of this year the City of Minneapolis has cut that particular budget from its programming arts.

 

Now, there are only park sounds on Monday evenings as I make my way across the length of the park and into the Russian community section of the city. I love hearing people speak fluent Russian five days a week. I realize how full of cultural life this city truly is and its vibrations carry a certain Je ne sais quois that I find intriguing.

 

Loring Park is full of life filled with Russian retirees, young families, basketball and shuffleboard players, walkers, runners and animal lovers whom all seem to enjoy the clean and delightfully manicured park as well as natural tall grasses along the water.  The park no longer has a rotten reputation for public gay sex, drugs and muggings. Plus, the police are active and patrol the park frequently if not hourly.

 

I love what the park now represents. An urban landscape as beautiful as some parts of Central Park and Boston Commons where at the entrance of the commons stands the rather stoic statute of Paul Revere himself. I’m proud to be a citizen of Minneapolis Minnesota.

 

I’m proud to take the city parks back. Violence should never be tolerated in any city park across the United States of America much less elsewhere the people thrive, create and co-habitat as part of something larger than just themselves.

 

I like that many urban people are aware, considerate and smart just like in any other metropolis. I live in Uptown so my life is at the center of an urban oasis. I live in a neighborhood where I know my neighbors, I recognize the neighborhood kids and most people either walk or bike for transportation.

 

I drive South 13th Avenue and Franklyn daily as well. My two favorite libraries in Minneapolis are the Franklyn and Uptown Libraries although I have not been to either for some months. Some construction is taking place along this stretch of road and some requires construction. I love watching the black Folks and Somali women peacefully strolling about on early summer evenings.

 

At Portland Avenue I turn left and head for 26th Street South then head into Uptown. The speed limit on Portland Avenue is 35 MPH. On Monday evening as I drove past all the houses I noticed the young Black children and teens peacefully playing in yards and along sidewalks.

 

Portland Avenue is not what it used to be a decade ago with its drug houses and dilapidated structures. There are many young Black families settling along Portland Avenue now and as well as a community garden plus the lovely Swedish Institute of Minneapolis is located on Portland Avenue. I don’t mean to sound like a commercial but truly there are gems for buildings and historical landmarks throughout the inner city of Minneapolis. We have Uptown. We have Downtown. We have South Minneapolis, North, North East and West surrounding neighborhoods that do take my breath away and the more I research the architectural areas of such distinct places then I begin to have a deeper and more profound understanding of inner city architectural landmarks that teach us history in the beauty of her design.

 

I put on my breaks and slowed down to a 30 MPH. The part of me that is all woman instinctively told me to slow down for these children’s sakes; The part of me that is politically minded made me wonder why hadn’t anybody created new speed limit laws in that area of town something slower yet?

 

It’s a two lane street on a one-way yet that is not an excuse. An entire lane could be painted and used as a bike lane only. I realize that within a 10-mile radius all around Uptown and south of us that the neighborhoods are changing in positive ways. There are many more families and local small business owners than ever before traveling throughout these parts of inner city.

 

As our city grows and our young people inhabit and co-exist within city limits we must accommodate to any child and youth living in any area of our urban municipality.

 

In the last year alone I’ve heard too many accounts of bicyclists, walkers and other foot traffic personnel either getting killed or hurt by drivers. WTF is wrong with the drivers in our city and still more so with our political city keepers. There should be no casualties on our city streets. As a driver if you so much as tap a non-driver you should face the consequences of your actions. The cool thing is that if you know that if you slow down you get to see more of the world and no one gets hurt. Chillax. Everybody relax. Nothing is so important as hurrying, being tired and unfocussed then so much as to injure or kill another while driving.

 

I read an article about a city (possibly Portland, Oregon) in the West Coast that uses pink paint to signify wide bike lanes and the flow of bike traffic. Pink for visibility. Here in Uptown we’re lucky if we can even see the regular driving road lines.

 

I understand that over the long winters the lines fade and the potholes take over everything and that it’s difficult to upkeep the streets, but really how much does paint cost the City of Minneapolis?

 

Imagine hot pink bike lanes completely painted in? No one would miss a biker in a bright colored lane. Why don’t we progress to the future and structurally do a pedestrian friendly re-layout of the urban inner city and get hip to it. Not only bring more visibility to bikers but also do it because it’s the right thing to do when entering a new century. A decade has already passed us by of this century. What keeps us from making miniscule progress? Paint. That’s all I’m writing about, right?

 

We are behind the times infrastructural speaking here in Minneapolis. I’d like to see something be done. I’ll start with a letter to some politicians and then work my way up to e-mails. Just kidding but not completely.

 

I believe that there should never be one single death on the streets of Minneapolis due to speeding cars. There should be no bikers getting thrown from their bikes nor killed because some idiot can’t see them.

 

Shame on any city that feels bad about those casualties but does absolutely nothing to better the lives of their citizens. Any time a pedestrian or biker gets hurt or dies there should be a huge uproar by its citizens. Imagine when children die due to speeding or drunken drivers. I can’t imagine it - it’s tragic and all too real.

 

The point is this: All city streets and parks must be recognized as sanctuaries and oasis in any city. They must be safe at all political and economical costs.

 

The winds of change are coming and I hope to live to see it for the better of tomorrow for the next seven generations out. We must better our cities and streets or they shall crumble and we shall eventually perish.

 

We must learn the model of care from those countries that truly cherish their citizens – Finland, Costa Rica, Japan and Canada.

 

Food for thought.

 

Gabriela

 

June 8, 2010

 

“By three methods we may learn wisdom: First, by reflection, which is noblest; Second, by imitation, which is easiest; and third by experience, which is the bitterest.” - Confucius

 

Communication at its finest is still, yet, difficult to do at times.

 

Sometimes, being open and receptive isn’t enough.

 

Simply, because others can be difficult and closed off to what another human has to say to them. It’s difficult to want to (not to have to) but to want to communicate with such type of guarded human who is constantly oppositional and has already decided that they know all there is to know about the world and about others in their environment and presence. I can honestly say that this type of human makes for an ill suited friendship due to their egos and self centeredness (these are the kind of men I ran away from in my twenties while searching for a life mate).

 

People are indeed travelers in the world. People come and go and I do not take their journeys for granted because I have been a witness to those who’ve decided not to return and I myself have chosen not to return to others as well. Life is complex and I don’t pretend to assume as to know what is going on with others.

 

“I’ve seen and done all there is to do in my life.” A man once said to me quite proudly on our first and last date. I just about spit my ice coffee across the table and thought, “poor little man who doesn’t get laid.”

 

Anytime, I’ve run across this type of human a few things go through my mind quite quickly: 1. Lack of social graces. 2. Bitterness of growing old. 3. Having very little to show for in life (I don’t mean materially). 4. Having enough wisdom to know that you know nothing about the world no matter how much you may pretend that you do and there’s not a lick of a thing you can do about it. 5. Not enough physical touch or bedded by a mate that unconditionally cares for their wellbeing. 6. Complexes and insecurities that they will not outgrow. 7. Cruelty. 8. Immaturity. 9. Self entitlement 10. Privilege.

 

You may ask, “What does sex and touch have anything to do with the art of communication?”

 

It has everything to do with how people feel about themselves and the quality of interaction they in turn are willing to give onto the world. Whether it is a short or long lived interaction between two parties many things are clear and people give themselves away every second of the day. People are indeed transparent in many beautiful and ugly ways.

 

I don’t allow myself to be embraced by strangers or acquaintances. I give too much of myself away when I do. I request such touch only for people I trust. Touch is powerful. Yet, it is one of the most fragile and probably in demand commodities of the universe. Why do you think photosynthesis occurs? Plants lean into the sun for that touch of warmth so that they may grow.

 

The lovely thing about being open and receptive is that I take just about anything NOT personally at all unless it is a close personal friend whose being a selfish jerk-off. I don’t lose my calm unless my buttons are being pushed because someone requires a lot of personal attention rather than intellectual stimulation or if someone thinks that they are getting away with something because I’m showing kindness.

 

I like to watch people do conflict from time to time just to see how they handle themselves in heated situations. By no means do I play Mother Theresa and intervene nor do I make the conflict my problem. I just like watching it. I like being outside of that conflict rather than within. People’s true natures and dynamics come through in that type of interaction.

 

Last summer I spend time with a businessman as his apprentice and got to know his business partner. Early on they both got into a heated conflict over a decision that needed to be made. The business partner decided that it was too much for him and told his partner to please excuse him and left the room. He could no longer go on with that conversation at that time and needed a rest from the conflict and my boss gave him that space and room to do that – to allow for him to be who he truly was in that moment.

 

I was so impressed by both men. Immediately I had immense respect for both and I knew very well that my life was something I could entrust in their hands. I considered these men mature men from that moment on. I knew I had stood in a room where two men not only trusted and respected one another but also cared and loved each other very much. I was honored to have been a witness to that type of interaction.

 

I’m simple and yet complex. I have to admit that I’m a paradox. I communicate too much like a Latina Indiana when I open my mouth which is rare with and amongst strangers. Often I offer up too much “menial” information or intellectual conversation, but rarely do I speak of the things that mean the most to me. I keep them guarded and loved even if the words are written all over my face I do not allow for them to escape my lips.

 

A young man asked me, “Why are you telling me this?”

 

“I’m trying to convey something directly to you that pertains to your environment.” I calmly answered in a loud voice just in case he didn’t hear me say it the first time.

 

I have few words for this young man but many thoughts regarding his wellbeing. I’ve had this feeling once before this spring dealing with a severe alcoholic who’d sucked anybody’s soul dry if you let him.

 

“I try to live my life as Jesus did.” The alcoholic said to me. ‘Right. It’ll take a working miracle.’ I thought.

 

Cerebrally I thought, ‘I’ve been here before in the same kind of interaction and this time I won’t take it seriously. I’ll laugh it off in the face of misinterpretation and grandeur illusions of one snot-nosed boy who’s got the world figured out. I know all of this because even the slightest interaction with him becomes a chore. That’s definitely a boy and not a grown man.’

 

“Wipe your face!” I wanted to tell him. “Your whole life is hanging out of your nose.”

 

I turned my back and walked away.

That in itself is far more insulting as an Indiana than all the swear words I can muster up in the English language.

 

It means you’re not worth my time and I’m also turning my back to a living breathing entity.

 

I happily make my choices and live by them.

I’m proudly a grown woman – I’ve lived through many tough maturity lessons to arrive at this adult place.

 

Language is sweet.

 

Gabriela

 

June 7, 2010

 

I don’t like to touch nature.

 

This doesn’t mean that I don’t like nature on the contrary.

 

It simply means that I was taught early on not to touch it unless it was dire, life and death threatening circumstances.

 

Last summer a friend and I were gardening at his farm and we came across some form of toad. He picked it up and placed it on the palm of my hand and I immediately dropped it with a high-pitched squeal. Up till that point in my thirty-two years of life I don’t believe I’d ever held a toad before. I’ll never forget it for as long as I live.

 

This week a friend placed a butterfly cocoon on the palm of my hand and I had the same reaction. I dropped it with a high-pitched squeal. The texture and sensation ran a cold sweat up and down my spine. I’ll never forget it for as long as I live.

 

I don’t touch nature because in the jungles of Costa Rica an individual has to bush-whack their way in where there are no eco-friendly tourist stations set up or trails cut for sight-seeing – the wildlife is indeed wild.

 

I don’t have the terminology for many of these species but I can recognize them by sight and know their power and potential. I don’t take the jungle lightly or nature for that matter in any part of the world and ecosystem. The plant life alone can leave you vomiting and sick if it doesn’t kill you first.

 

Wild pigs are as they are in any bush around the world. When you smell that “muskiness” climb a good strong tree and wait a while. In my opinion never try to outrun wild boar they’re much stronger and quicker than you’d ever expect them to be with their round body structures. Monkeys do fling poop when they are threatened and raving mad, but they also warn the forest floor for black cats. The red ants have a loud and clear language if you step on their mounds – they will let you know that you’re intruding upon them quite clearly. I’ve had welts so large up and down my legs that I’ve been frightened for my sake.

 

As for jungle birds if they suddenly stop speaking then stand very still and quietly because something dangerous is nearby. When the monkeys get quiet that’s one thing but when the birds do, mierda! Some small and bright yellow frogs shoot white poison like substance and the snakes well say goodbye to your fancy backpacks, shoes and night vision goggles because most likely no one’s ever going to hear or see from you again. The mosquitoes do carry malaria and some plants instantly on brushing up against them will give off a rash harsher than sunburn.

 

The golden rule is “the brighter the plants then don’t touch it”.

 

The wisest of bush men know that’s just the way it is. There are no two ways about it in the bush language even if you’d like it to be in five “nice-n-easy” quick steps to becoming a champion of nature. Either one is truly smart about maneuvering through the bush jungle or completely oblivious and to a fault without the proper knowledge of their surroundings. The key is to find your food and get out as quietly as you entered the bush.

 

Now, there are many beautiful aspects of the bush jungle that still takes my breath away such as the tiny ferns on the forest floor that upon touch close up instantly. I love that! It’s their protective way of saying, “don’t touch”. I’m in love with a fruit called wisperos. It’s a small-round yellow fruit with a brown pit in the inside of it. I used to climb, sit and eat wisperos while spitting the seeds at the farthest distance from the trunk of the tree. I used to do that for hours as a small child. I’m in love with the flowers that have honey and water at the center of it - they’re a lifesaver if there’s no water nearby.

 

I love green mangos. I used to break right into them like apples. Oh, and the guallavas! Don’t get me started it’s the easiest meal all day. Pineapple is easy to spot on the jungle floor with its wild bushy mane sticking out from the ground. As for avocatos – well, that’s easy, reach up the branch and tear one off. As for sugar cane if you can machete away the outer bark then you can suck on the sweetest and most beautiful of tastes sweeter than refined table sugars.

 

Now, my body isn’t quite as it used to be when I was six, but if you’ve ever climbed a banana tree you know that you have to turn your ankles inward and use the flat part of your foot to climb up a slippery slope and quickly with your hands for suction cups. The upward momentum has to be timed just right because there are no branches to grab onto a banana tree.

 

Everything has its own language and if we want to settle amongst any living culture then we must learn and face the fact that we need extraordinary teachers because some lessons can be consequential to our health. Even NYC traffic has its own pace as well as the oceans and any other ecosystem for that matter.

 

To learn, study and co-exist peacefully as human entities we must not think of ourselves as the entitled ones because the human species is far more fragile than any other species I’ve ever encountered. We must care for our natural and wild brothers and sisters in the bush. Our mother earth and her warnings such as sink holes in Guatemala, erupting volcanoes in Iceland and forest fires is only a way of telling us that we are heading the wrong way. We must come back to ourselves and find new solutions to co-exist and play nicely with others amongst the earth.

 

I’m a citizen of the world.

 

I understood that soon after I was born even though I’d never travelled anywhere in my young life up till that point. I understood I was one citizen amongst many.

 

I’m wishing you an amazing Monday.

 

Pura Vida.

 

Gabriela

 

June 4, 2010

 

“Music is a moral law. It gives soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and charm and gaiety to life and to everything.” – Plato

 

Music and weather are the strongest influences in my life.

 

In the arts nothing comes close to what music does to my senses. I’m awake, open and alert. I’m transformed to a mental place and time in which I remember the people whose universal exploration and divine intervention changed my life forever.

 

As for weather I realized that I would have to interact with its fury and its calmness. I dress in layers like an onion and I like to be prepared for what may come.

 

I remember places, people’s faces and conversations I’ve held in certain weather. As for rainy afternoons I’ll never forget close intimate conversations about creation and politics as discussed in cafes, homes and at my kitchen table.

 

In my teens I gravitated to live music and alternative venues with people and their facial piercings and tattoos, mosh-pits and radical social changing lyrics. “Rage Against the Machine” taught me about total eradication in social movement and change. The “Smashing Pumpkins” created a sense of individuality and a freedom of expression in me. The “Beastie Boys” taught me about slapstick humor. “The The” taught me about the intricacies of lyrical poetry and “Mazzy Star” cultivated an understanding for yearning in young love. The list goes on and on and on.

 

It wasn’t until I heard opera for the first time that I was left breathless and in tears. I’d never heard anything quite so beautiful in my entire life. Never in my wildest imagination while bare foot and hungry in the jungles / barrios of Costa Rica did my young mind conceive such beauty in the world.

 

At the age of thirteen I came across “The Phantom of the Opera” and all I could do was to bring my left hand to my chest and hold it there so as to hold myself upright. I was fortunate to see this opera performed live at the Boston Opera House in 1992.

 

I’ve also been fortunate to know people who’ve granted me access behind stages and to quietly watch rehearsals while I disappeared into the shadows.

 

When I do solo treks into the woods I go there for one of many things. One, for silent prayer to the Gods and two, possibly to wail-chant if I’m mourning a close loss and third to cook over a fire and at night to stare into it.

 

I’ve cried hard in the middle of Lake Superior storms. The waves as high as fifty feet, the piercing winds at 50 knots and cold-cold rain. I’ve stood on top of dunes and let it rip without shame.

 

I’ve brought up sounds from my body that I didn’t know I could make in the middle of blazing storms. I’ve trusted weather like in those few moments or hours I could cover up my cries and had them carried off into a storm and disappear away forever.

 

I was taught to wail-chant as a child. I don’t know anything different so as an adult I find myself a quiet or stormy place where I can. A wail-chant is not for the faint of heart. A wail-chant is conducted so that from the deepest regions of your body-soul a human can detoxify and expel the heaviness and the burning of grief.

 

Weather and music create the same calmness and intensity in me that wail-chanting does. I’m held in the middle of its intensity and I like to turn my face into it because I’m not afraid of either medium. If I don’t understand its meaning then I most definitely understand its interaction with everything near and around it.

 

I don’t feel tiny in the universe as I’ve heard so many people say to me before. I feel immense and powerful in the same way that music and storms stir up something meaningful and beautiful in me.

 

Either force creates a whirlwind energy so unstoppable that all there is to do is to take cover and wait for the storm to be over or to go out in the middle of it and resign yourself to its power.  The Gods live in everything.

 

Ciao,

Gabriela

 

Wishing you a safe and amazing weekend.

 

June 3, 2010

 

“I don’t want to know what you’re going to do.” The young man said to me plainly and defiantly like I was his wet-nurse or something.

 

I stared at his shinny forehead and said, “Well, I’m going to tell you anyway.” And I did in two short sentences. I said what I wanted to convey and then I walked away. I gave him my back indicating that as a Beta female I had just shunned him for trying to stir chaos amongst a pack. His cutting tone came from the positioning and usage of his lips. He spoke with the movement of his lower lip and not his throat or diaphragm so I didn’t take him too seriously as an Indiana woman.

 

I wondered what made him think that I needed his permission to speak.

I must’ve asked a rhetorical question like, “Hey, may I tell you what I’m going to do?” I put myself in harm’s way by asking rhetorical questions rather than just saying what I wanted to share. It was a good lesson taught by the least of expected persons who is not even my master.

 

I was taught that it’s extremely rude to deny someone to speak in any culture. I don’t care where you come from – I’ve met far more chill and happy “savages” than this overly self-important spoiled-child.

 

What has become of the young adults in America – they seem so self-entitled and important? What a cursed society. The art of interaction, civility and conversation lost their way throughout the many parts of these lands. People just seem so important somehow. As a grown woman I don’t need a pet-on-the-head and a cookie-in-my-mouth rather I need civilized interaction.

 

When I’m the only woman amongst men then I’m the alpha female running in that pack. If there are other women introduced then I fall back to Beta and allow for them to take the lead. I’m never the omega because I have too much wisdom when it comes to hardship.

 

I like to set a tone when I’m interacting with men. I’m kind but not weak and I don’t assume anything about anybody. I ask many questions because I don’t pretend to know the answers. It comes from the wisdom of travel. People are so alike and so vastly different across the lands.

 

The first six years of my life were spent in the rainforest-mountains of Costa Rica. The next four were spent in a Latin Roman Catholic orphanage. I spent those first-six years alone and terribly hungry. My stomach had a language all its own and so did I – silence. I was in silence much of my days sitting under mango and avocado trees.

 

I don’t know where my mother went for hours, but I knew very well to stay put and so I did. Perhaps, that’s the reason why I ask if I can say something rather than just come out and say it. Also, I know my femaleness all too well. I’m bold, direct and without shame when I speak and I’ve learned that in the Nordic cultural interaction is not conducted in such manner so I give of myself freely by giving the lead to others but this doesn’t mean that I don’t have the skills to lead a Waltz myself.

 

We lived among other poor and hungry Mayan women and their children in a mountain barrio. They lived a few doors down in their tin-roof huts and tin walls. In the rainy season the metal would get so paralyzing loud it used to chill me to the bone. Have you ever sat in a tin structure for hours while its rained monsoon buckets? After a while you kind of become numb to yourself. It’s a way to self-preserve.

 

I ask questions in an old fashion sense that may seem like a need for permission to speak when what I’m really politely asking is “Are you open to hear me and do you have the time for me?” “Can I share for the sake of excitement and for the art of speaking?” I’m not asking for permission to speak I’m just being polite because that’s how my adopted people taught me.

 

I must waste thousands of words a day. Translating in my head from Spanish to English is a tedious process. Daily, in a matter of seconds I see two languages split like the trunk of a tree by lightening. It’s the same core but two entities stem from one.

 

I’m lucky to be so intelligent and to be able to process so quickly. Where I have not been so lucky has been the two decades spent learning to hear for tone in a subtle and monotone language such as English. Accentuation is everything in Spanish so I have to translate the sarcasm, cynicism and bitterness that I come across. Mayan women don’t speak like young American men, because they don’t have the same struggles for survival in each of their perspective environments.

 

The young man looked up at me with a slight smug look around the corners of his mouth and I caught it. I’ve seen that look before. It does not come from the eyes but from facial expression. Like the dickens it’s so subtle you’d have to know how to look for that type of body language – pick up a psychology 101 book.

 

I understand that our interactions are about powerful. I’m new to him and he doesn’t exactly know how to proceed with me, but it sure isn’t cautiously. I laughed inside myself because I knew all too well that the fury of the calm ones can be like an ocean storm just off the coast of Maine. I will proceed with compassion. Yet, I do not allow for young men to toss around their bitterness like a bouncing boom in a ship’s mast. I’m no fool I know my way around this vessel and I can sail it through any storm.

 

The worst flavor in my mouth is that of rude and bitter young adults.

 

They just don’t seem to know how good they have it in America. I’ve come to know through the awesome power of wisdom that these are some of the more insecure of the human animal - the bitter ones. They’re not completely dangerous but they are not exactly freshly baked apple pie and garden flowers. They’re in a constant flux of fluctuation. In search for intellectual approval and for a need to fit in but never quite knowing how to take their place in a pack – so they growl and I always turn my body away from this form of communication. I do not like to be growled at.

 

I love cocking one shoulder, flipping my hair over the other and turning away. My body language speaks volumes and sometimes more so than sarcasm, cynicism and even bitterness. I cut the gangrene from spreading all over my sense of reality otherwise I allow for myself to become poisoned with the sweet stench of a large chip-on-the shoulder routine.

 

Gabriela

 

June 2, 2010

 

“All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible." - T. E. Lawrence

 

I love coming across those individuals who are quietly doing many extraordinary things; especially when it takes place in their garages, attics and backyards rather than glass towers.

 

I’m finding out that over the years it’s the creative geniuses who peacefully live in the outer perimeters of culture and who invent, create and problem solve because they have a vision of a different-better more peaceful tomorrow.

 

It’s easy to dream by night; to lay in bed in the darkness and to have grandiose ideals about the world and of the self. The dreams conceived in darkness are such while the dreams carried out in the light of day are very different.

 

We all know the differences between the two and we must face the reality that comes with each. Dreams concocted in darkness tend to slip through our fingers while dreams worked during the light hours of the day create calluses, back-aches and sometimes disappointment.

 

I find failure and disappointment bitter-sweet. For me success comes in the “Eureka” moments of failure. If I have something to look at and deconstruct in front of me and I realize where its mistake lies then I know why it occurred. The success is that I still have something in front of me to work with regardless of my failure and disappointment. Something to deconstruct and to bring back to the shop for more trial and error runs.

 

The extra effort it takes to awaken all our senses to the world around us is what gives spark to that innate creative genius in us. The lantern must be kept burning for the entire flame of the world rests in our ability to have fore-thought, skill and action.

 

“Actions speak louder than words.” I heard an old Indian man say once. Those very words struck me like an arrow through the heart. I felt wounded yet lucky to be alive and to develop a thinking mind.

 

What will my dreams of tonight look like in the actions of tomorrow? Will I wake and go to my front-porch and write down these very words or will I simply think of them and let them pass me by because it’s too early still yet to sit down and write? Will I make a difference and why do I care if I do?

 

I care because I believe in rolling up my sleeves and seeing how far we can take “it”. I care because I know for a mare human-miracle fact that one individual can and does make tidal waves of impact in one single day. Have you ever ridden a tidal wave without the effects of its full manifestation?

 

I’m here to tell you that it’s not possible. The pull and the strength is more powerful than one might expect while surfing for the first time in those waters. It takes balance, guts and fore-sight to ride it out. No different than any other endeavor in life.

 

This isn’t award winning writing but I’m putting it out unto the world and now it belongs to you. Perhaps, I’ll never win an Oscar, an Emmy or any other fancy-(fied) award. Nor do I create with those intensions in mind. Perhaps, I’ll die without ever having anyone see a single one of my pictures except for my abuelita and some strangers in Denmark.

 

Regardless, of any of those topical notions of success – at the end of my run when my fingers snarl back at me from joint pain and I can no longer see focal length I will smile because I will know that I was a dreamer by day rather than by night.

 

I’ve been a lucky woman and honored to have met such powerful individuals such as the dreamers of the day. I’ve also met dreamers of the darkness who talk about fame, money and fortune and wish to have their faces seen by all on the Tele. Men, who believe to be gurus and pretend to understand the process of development in all of humanity yet they are the masters of their very darkness.

 

Frankly, these types of dreamers can be considered as the “high-flyers” of creators. (Like my husband refers to: The people who want to get all the credit for doing the cool stuff but they don’t want to have to work for it). Such dreamers annoy me enough to put a stop to their influence upon me. Darkness lies in them while they salivate at the very thought of destruction rather than construction.

 

The individuals I look to have a spark in their eye, a bounce in their step and global intention in their local purpose for human survival. These are the individuals who I know can move mountains because I’ve seen them do so before. I believe in them above all other humanity.

 

Gabriela

 

It’s 6:32 A.M. and it’s begun to rain.

It’s time for my morning prayers to the Gods.

 

Wishing you a beautiful day.

May you dream in the light of day.

 

June 1, 2010

 

“Everything in moderation.” My Grandmother used to say.

 

I was an awful student and no matter how hard I worked at my studies I flunked every class from the seventh grade through the tenth grade in High School. My GPA average in those days I think was 1.8 and I was constantly on academic probation.

 

I was often frustrated and bitter at my disposition. I was an incredibly social girl with my closest friends and had a way of escaping my studies by writing poetry, plays and secretly listening and “air-conducting” opera in my living room.

 

I was clinically diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder at the age of sixteen. It all came flooding in front of me and I was caught in the undertow being shoved around limb-by-limb in the torrent waters of insecurity and fear.

 

“What are you going to be?” Truly was the question that plagued most of my teens.

 

Secretly, I applied to an arts school in Minneapolis when I was a sophomore and to my surprise I was accepted to their literary arts program. Sixteen seats were offered that year in a rigorous selection process from hundreds of applicants.

 

In 1994 a letter of acceptance came to my house. I packed my bags and I told my parents that there was no other choice in the matter. I went off to this school in search of academic peace. I found it. We were not graded on performance rather the process of development and that’s something I understood quite well. I have always known instinctively how things unfold. By my senior year my GPA average was a 4.0 and I went on to College in the East Coast to average a 3.8 GPA. WOW! From flunking to a 3.8 GPA in a private liberal arts college.

 

In the process of learning about A.D.H.D. I learned to work smarter and not harder. My learning disabilities granted me time and a half for testing and learning tutors. I took all of my tests in a quiet room with a tutor reading to me and writing down my answers. Every time, I took tests without a tutor I would flunk and every time I took the tests with a tutor I would ace them. There was something about hearing a question rather than reading it. If I read a question then I began to deconstruct all of the possibilities of what it may or may not be, exponentially.

 

My mind is constantly reeling with new ideas.

 

My mind never shuts down for one single moment until I am fully asleep. It’s a curse and a gift to have a learning disability such as this one. I’m extremely disciplined in my working and living habits. I have to have order in my life so as not to get confused and then frustrated. For me, having the dishes done, the laundry folded and put away as well as the bed made every day is essential. It does bring a great deal of joy so that I may go on to the more important things in my life such as conceptualizing an entire feature film, investors, foreign and on-line distribution contracts.

 

I’m a perfectionist when it comes to my work and I believe in completion.

I believe in getting things done well.

I like the way I feel when I have accomplished something worth doing.

 

Nothing is a waste of time in my humble opinion.

 

Striking a fine balance between work and play is sometimes a difficult aspect of life for me.

I tend to work a lot because I find the joy in it.

Sometimes, I work so hard that I forget myself.

 

My hyperactivity is not like a little second grader’s bouncing off the walls.

I’ve always had a hyper focus.

Sometimes, I’ll look up and the entire day has passed me by and I realize that I’m sitting in the dark. I get up from my computer and run around the entire house turning on lights. I realize that perhaps I have not eaten or drank water in hours. Have to be more mindful about that.

 

This is when I know I have to pull back.

Breathe, walk, pray, meditate.

 

If I can break my concentration with physical stimuli such as exercise then I’m able to unleash the hyper focus and live more moderately.

 

I believe in moderation in everything.

It’s when I get fried that I realize something is out of focus or out of balance and then I must begin to swing back to the middle of the pendulum.

 

Life is indeed a constant state of fluctuation.

There is much joy in the balance.

 

I’m not only a filmmaker, an entrepreneur and a wife.

I’m human and my body is a temple that only gets better with age and wisdom.

I’m learning to learn how to heal myself from years of pulling sixteen hour days in my twenties.

 

That’s no life for me. I’d rather work less hours, makes less money and be happier in the process of life.

 

Gabriela

 

 

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