Month: April 2009

But Does He Smell as Sweet?

I’ve been called a metiche many times, by including but not limited to my mother, my lover and probably my worst enemy (if such a person should exist). I can’t help it, though some would say I could, I love getting all up into other people’s business. I’d like to think that its not for gossip’s sake so much as I just love stories. And when its happening all around you, its like HBO in 24 hour HD on only the finest greens. What’s so wrong with that? And now we have, or have had, this ever pulsating web of other people’s dirtiest, grimiest, most trantastic laundry that they air themselves and still its not quite as exciting as pulling information from someone right in front of you with just a warm smile. Sometimes on blogger you have to fish around a little before you follow, and even when you do, you don’t always necessarily go back for new posts right away. A blog has to be the one reeling you in, once the fishing is done. Well I dare say I almost feign to blush, but I have found a blog that has me hooked. And its about me.

Ok not me. But someone with the same name. My name. Our name I guess. But the name, that’s the true story I’m after, for the purposes of this blog anyway. And right there in Montevideo, Uruguay, a story is being told little by little, post by post, of someone named Dugaldo. And I’d swear the myth of hell itself would have frozen over if I wasn’t consumed by it with my foot shaking the whole read through. The Uruguayan colloquialisms posed some obstacle, but from what I could decifer, this character sent the author of the blog, a letter of complaint, which the author proceeded to post on his blog. How could I not be hooked?

So I did it again. I meddled. I commented, simply asking who this unrelenting namesake was and left it at that. And after a short, late night adventure with my boyfriend I fell asleep and dreamt in recycled poetry and when I woke up I saw the fruits of my meddling in the form of an anonymous challenge to post my i.d. card on the other guy’s blog to prove my identity as a true Dugaldo.

Its like I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole. Even as a little kid watering the animals for my dad, telling stories to myself and an audience of bovine, I couldn’t have imagined running into my Latin American namesake and being challenged over some virtual matrix of information. So sci-fi. Back then I was hung up on vampires and mermaids. Yeah I probably could have made this up, but I didn’t. And you know what, maybe this isn’t that great of a story. I might just be lost in my own head again. I often am. And perhaps this guy will never bite, and I wont get my sweet little scoop. But I know that one day when I walk the streets of Montevideo, and I will, when I look into the eyes of strangers I will be lost in every one of their stories, wondering which one of them is Dugaldo.

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I’ll stumbled upon this after further reading.

Hasta Luego Razzmatazz

A few days ago my brother Santiago called me and told me he had an itch.

“An itch for what?” I asked him hoping he wouldn’t need an ointment.

“To go to Spain” he said with crisp cellular clarity. And for some reason I didn’t tell him that I did too.

Last night, I dreamt I met a boy from Barcelona. He was thin, had tanned olive tone skin and his brown hair was clipped short but flirted with a fashion mullet in the back. He wore a white leather jacket with blue and red stripes and lettering on the chest that proudly announced his home town. He was a soccer player or in a band or something like that. No wait he was a designer, I remember now because there was this dress that some pretty girl friend of mine was wearing and he was happy that she brought it back to him in tact. He was straight by the way. But as soon as I heard him say he needed to take the dress back to Barcelona, I yelled at him about how much I love that city, even though I ever only spent 3 days there. And he seemed very pleased to hear that. We became fast friends talking loud into each other’s ears, with the commotion of the nightlife pulsating around us. We clicked our glasses together, or plastic cups or beers, but the eye contact was never forced. We even peed next to each other at the urinals, just to keep the conversation going. Outside the sky swirled above like paint upon a fresco the purples and pinks of a looming dawn and I remember him looking at me and extending his arm toward a dark alley that only promised the twinkle of bright lights around the bend. And of coarse I wanted to go, but before I could take a step, the dream shifted and the alley, the party around us and the boy from Barcelona flashed into some other reality that I must have forgotten, but I didn’t wake up. I just kept dreaming.

Te echo mucho de menos Barcelona… but I need to go somewhere I’ve never been.

A Swirl of Languages

November 28, 2007

I keep us there on that beach,blanketed in unfamiliar fog with only the black eastern horizon to gaze upon.

On a night when neither the moon nor the stars dared pierce our dark escape, our galaxies collided as silent as the playful tide.

There we spoke of movies I’d yet to see, and of books you’d yet to read,

of Hamburgers and Tapas,

of Oklahoma and Oaxaca,

of coffee and cigarettes,

of your oblivious father and mine just in denial.

We spoke a language not quite Spanish, not quite English, but vibrant with euphemisms.

And as the earth seemed to sift into itself underneath us, our fingers grazed, uninvited but welcomed.

Our eyes fully dilated but not enough to see the flush upon our cheeks, they convened.

And the beer on my breath, the tobacco in your saliva, they met and swirled about like the salt waters of the Mediterranean, and the sands of Catalonia.

The lights of Las Ramblas they flared behind us provoking the night sky before us to its reveal new-fangled endeavors.

But we hadn’t the nerve to trek such undiscovered waters with the unseen coastline such a welcomed distraction.

Darkness though, it always gives way to twilight.

Adventures, they always end in sacrifice.

And the impressions we left in the damp sand, well they quickly washed away.

Almost Legit

So I finally did it. I applied to school. ASU to be exact. And I’ll admit it was easy, but it took me a long time to complete the application. There was some nail baiting involved, a lot of pacing back and forth from the computer to the kitchen and the usual amount of trepidation that comes when filling out anything official. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve applied for schools before, too many times. But this time my hesitation didn’t come from the usual source. Self doubt. I found my self wavering every time I fudged the truth a little in say, proving my residency or failed to enter an entire semester of community college in San Marcos, California. Just things like that. You know, like you’d do in a resume.

I did those things at first just as I am used to; always trying to get one over on the man if I can. I entered information just so and omitted unnecessary details all the while convincing myself that it would make the application process easier for all of us, including the man. But every time I did it, clicked little white lies with my mouse, I don’t know it lacked the luster of the hustle that I have become accustomed to. I was at some what of an ethical crossroads here, and I needed guidance.

So I dialed my friend Xinthia, bonafide hustler slash trusted academic advisor. Straight to voice mail. Damn. I really wanted her permission to be naughty. So I thought to myself, why not just call the advisor I saw today. No, I really thought this. Maybe if I laid it all out for him, he would tell me that there was no need to tell the truth on these things. hmm… And you know what? I actually called, but luckily I didn’t get passed the department voicemail system before I was interrupted by my boyfriend’s work number popping up on the screen. I happily took the call and bypassed the small talk to make my case to him: Lie on application, expedite acceptance process, deal with consequences later.” He said what I knew he’d say all along “just tell the truth.”

Damn.

So I did. I went back and convoluted the application with as much confusing and red flag raising information about myself as possible. But it was all true. And it felt, like something I hadn’t felt during my educational career in a long time, it felt right.

And finally at the last page of the application, the one that warns that any false information might result in cancellation of enrolment, I felt ready to submit. And just at that moment, I lost my wi-fi connection. For the love of god! In the middle of giving myself a righteous pat on the back for accomplishing something that is expected of all students, I’d forgotten that I’d been stealing wi-fi from a friendly neighbor in order to do it. Will I ever be legit?

But I mean it wasn’t like I was ferociously masturbating on xtube when all of a sudden the video stopped loading at the point of climax. No this was some real life need for internet access; I had to get that application in post-haste. Without a second thought I clicked on someone else’s unsecured network and sent that baby on through.

Now that shit felt good.