My general attachments are always so unpredictable that I am always shocked when upon leaving something that seemed essential, my reaction is not to freak out but instead to feel calm. I think I’ve reached a different place, I for example didn’t feel any sort of desperation although I did feel a certain degree of anger. I was angry about the lack of transparency, about feeling entangled in a ritual of loss, and more concretely I was angry about always feeling like I was competing for my partner’s interest. The very interesting thing is the sort of emotional exhaustion that gripped me. The way in which rather than running and calling everyone I was ready to be content by myself. I was very intrigued by the way in which rather than talking about the break-up I was finally interested in talking about 2017’s shitty year in all entertainment. I feel a sense of distant loss, almost as if the person that I thought I was ceased to be. In a way this loss is relieving, I really didn’t feel like repeating October again. I wonder whether I truly took this relationship seriously again, or whether I was playing with something that was fun until the fun became another series of fights. I think that I in many ways was using this specific time to test all my hypothesis about the relationship. Once I found them to be true a sense of relief spread through me. Can you really be angry at someone for not meeting your ideal person? It’s not as if there is an ideal but I started to realize how unhappy I was with this person. I think last time due to my situation and all the social media entanglements it felt more real. Now it just feels like stepping on shit and waiting for the smell to die; an act which can only happen through time and by wiping off the little specks that stick to your shoes. I do this sort of defensive mechanism act of wiping my memory when things get too difficult, it’s as if the good past never existed. I’m not really sure what’s happening to my mental processing but this is a nice change. I very much appreciate not feeling abandoned and perhaps that was what I least wanted and avoided. Leaving feels right and although I’ll miss the person, I won’t miss the drama nor the constant sense of not being wanted.
The moleskin with the blue cover is lost; Relief is knowing that I don’t have to look at its contents anymore:
Mania gripped me
and as I grasped your hand
you didn’t care.
I dance again now and joke about the suffering I experienced, not out of anger but out of acknowledging that life is not static but rather a wavelength of dreams. I survived the nightmare world that surrounded me and now I’m searching not just for someone who is interesting or cute or funny but for the real thing. The real thing is not to be found but rather will occur so I am focusing on finding me. The last 6 years have been chaotic and that’s an understatement. I dated a myriad of people and don’t really know how or why. I’m tired of being an object or of using people as objects. I’ve been a really fragmented person and I have broken myself too many times. In the way my rapist held me at the beach only to walk me to my end, my eyes were closed as he entered in and out of me. I had so much anger I never expressed and I directed all that energy in frustration to the boy who often emotionally neglected me. There’s a connection to this romantic tragedy. I keep escaping one tragedy by clinging to people who can’t see me or who see me and run. Run girl run. I’m taking a seat and seeing life not for anyone to like me but for me. I spent too much of my energy becoming a concept for someone but then my little wall would crack and people abandoned me for another concept or else I abandoned them for some concept. I have been really hurt and likewise I have really hurt people. I’m not going to be responsible for all these bad feelings anymore. I’m abandoning this endless pursuit in the name of real love. Love is not made but found and you find it by being truly yourself.
Is this how it feels to die?
like a spinning nostalgia that isn’t just metaphorical but literal?
“i killed the ego”
is that the superego speaking?
the chemicals push out images of some form
a crippled fraction lingers in my head.
the crack in the back of the couch is pulling me away; my hands are holding
while this verbal mastication digests
the images of some night
i killed the gnat and
he said great.
As inspired by both flushing my hair down the toilet and this David Foster Wallace quote:
(The interesting thing is why we’re so desperate for this anesthetic against loneliness.)
The reality is that I wrote the poem first and found this quote afterwards;
some simple honesty relaying that I did not find hope in this seemingly distant case of mutual suffering.
You drop the hair into the spinning resin
Watching the slush of water
spin itself away,
Taking away layers of damage,
you hope at least, that the spin
is a delta adding the change from rise to run,
changing your interactions with the world.
When will your slope recline?
No longer do you hear or feel helping hands
instead there is frustration as you attempt to put out the fire
the fire that constantly haunts you,
the fire that drove you to hospitals, to hands, and
eventually confirmed your greatest fear:
if you push enough the lingering hope turns away;
so you are awake writing something-which can’t even call itself a poem
and scream casually into the void.
But still on your head the hair sits
so you await the moment when it will all end;
There must be some connection between hair and suffering
you always tried to align both metaphysically,
The only real metaphysical truth is that beyond society
we are alone,
figments of some imagination
always falling short.
so hush little baby, don’t you cry
How to be a Latin Lover seemed promising: Derbez was the protagonist and the premise seemed to have room for growth, but then precisely because of the premise the movie did not live up to what Derbez had previously made. Derbez playing a sort of emasculated man with very little regard for anyone, rather than work, finds old women and allows himself to be fetishized, exchanging his body directly for material possessions that very easily fall away. Perhaps I needed a movie where the main character realizes that happiness is not money, or at least that his self-worth is more important than having the sugar mommies that take advantage of him sexually. But alas this movie did not have that sort of plot and instead failed in so many ways selling the image of the lazy immigrant, the spicy Latino who projects his machismo onto his nephew. It seemed like a caricature of the Latino immigrant identity at best, in many ways reminiscent of problematic shows like Modern Family and Fresh Off the Boat. Being extremely white-washed and made for white consumption the movie hardly addressed the systematic obstacles in the way of Latino immigrant progress. Salma Hayek playing a hardworking single mom is only one step away from progress, pulling herself up from her boot straps. Yet again, with this trope the movie pushed the conversation away from the reality of racism, capitalism, and sexism and sympathized with the general issue of work progress versus experience: the neoliberal issue of the age. To an extent in the deep background there were clear moments of microaggressions but these were too subtle to be noticed by anyone except people of color who have probably experienced them at some point. The specific moments of culture mockery attempted to blur the image of the Latino as one that is culturally different but still the same: “whites we are not dangerous, our stereotype instead is really funny”. I wonder actually why the Spanish language was used at vulgar moments and the English was saved for serious conversations almost implying the purity of one culture over the other. I did not like this movie although it did have some moments that I really connected to and loved. One specific moment that I loved was the point where Salma and Derbez are singing together and dancing as a way to let go of sadness, but in the corner comes the very respectable and white-acting 10 year old boy (Salma’s screen son) to inform them that they are acting irresponsibly and should go to sleep. I resonated so deeply with this scene because at times when the white-dominated world becomes too engulfing I play the music of my childhood almost as though the apathy of the world can be hushed down with the rhythmic che-che-che of the music. The child of course was made to be white acting and even white passing to ensure that he can fit into the prep school that will ensure his progress into middle-class status; his identity is blurred into the sort of nerd trope as a way to show that it is the culture of dancing and singing that is vulgar, not the forgetting of roots. I have to stop here and think back to the sort of Enlightenment premise of cosmopolitanism. The way that cosmopolitanism is framed, as the white man feeling at home anywhere, already implies that the European tradition and language are preferred, whiteness being the standard through which cosmopolitanism is actualized. Is cosmopolitanism something that delegitimizes my sadness for the culture which I left behind but am nostalgic about? Back to Latin Lover though: there was hardly any real critique about having to leave a nation-state behind and accept a new culture as one’s own: immigrants can feel at home anywhere as long as they accept and internalize the new culture. No real critique about capitalism was made anywhere in the movie: the movie almost works in a world that does not recognize how it functions. Now here I know you may say: Laura this was a romantic comedy, what did you expect? But I expected a bit more than ableist mockery, the spicy Latino stereotype, the emasculated irresponsible man, and the acceptance of whiteness as fact. How to be a Latino Lover accepted the American identity as white and made Latinx identity a stranger that had to excuse itself and move closer to whiteness; After all: ” White is but a metaphor for power” (James Baldwin).
Being alive is not always a rhythmic feeling; sometimes someone gets shot and you have to pause for one single second and think about how a stranger’s death affects you. You will suddenly look up from your book that you had purchased from the Barnes and noble across from Applebees, and you will wonder about how much power your hands hold. You cannot hold a gun to fire it and you cannot control the way words reach the public. The news reporter barely has any tone when delivering news: the order of news is pre-thought. How much in life is pre-thought? The book that you hold was created by someone; approved by another; and publicized by an industry which reaps all benefits and leaves the creator empty. Words are created to fill your soul but the words on the television only fill your mind with emptiness… Are we beings of nothingness? Or are we slaves to some moral code that disallows the progress of those born in a lesser human state? My eyes look down to my ambiguity: Am I white enough to feel safe? Does this question matter in my ethnic and gender state? We like to say that power lies in military. Externally military power is pertinent but you hold a country together not with threats but with burning ideals. Am I destined to be a slave? Debt likes to poke itself in front of my face: “Buy all the pretty things.” Marx shakes his head but my hand swipes plastic: “Another sweater that I couldn’t turn away.” I’m not sure about who I will become. I was given the opportunity to join the land of the American Dream. Milton Friedman told me that capitalism, alone, leads to freedom. I like to turn to Simon de Beauvoir who stated that the man who achieved freedom from ideals by having financial independence was simply an adventurer who would not achieve true freedom. True freedom is dusting off the mentality that freedom has blocks which can never be challenged. If hell is other people, then I will have to burn in my lack of action. The news can push the person towards accepting a nihilist outlook: “But I will never achieve anything, I am too small.” Instead we have to mimic Wedekind by creating words that reach the ones oppressed by the ideals of their society. We have to be the masked figure who promises to go somewhere new. We have to make a play, not in a literal sense, that makes the world uncomfortable because the consequences of ignoring a problem is always human death. The shot fired on the television, rebounded around the world, and here I sit: Safe.