It’s not about you. It’s about me, always.
This is me: hopelessly lost, hopelessly self-consumed
in irrational ideas about how
if I knew you, then I would know myself.

It’s been hard pinning down my existence,
so I try to find a you to define,
someone to know forwards and backwards,
looking for the possibility I’ve been effaced
into the stare of glossy eyes that can never see me,
into the grip of hands that can never hold me,
into the warmth of a body that can never love me.

It’s not you. It’s always me.
every luscious and unpalatable
shade of my being.


1,000 miles: step 36

It’s been well over a week, but this June finds me settling into our new home at the corners of Alexandria city. This means a whole lotta less commuting from school to home.

There’s so much left to unpack, mostly because we don’t have much furniture. My books, those, have already made themselves cozy.  When I was ordering my books into neat piles, I came across one that was my summer reading when I was in high school:

from Elie Wiesel's Night

from Elie Wiesel’s Holocaust memoir, Night

The image of someone playing music around the “dead and dying” has never really left me. Last night, I found my favorite clip from the movie, Voces Inocentes, a film based on children-turned-soldiers during the 12 year civil war of El Salvador:

How sad

the rain sounds

on the cardboard rooftops

how sad live my people in cardboard houses

children the color of my earth

with its same scars,

millionaires of worms

look, how much suffering…

It’s the beauty and weight of hope that haunts me. Some people carry it through music. I carry it through poetry. Yet, I think everyone must carry it within.

It’s the only way to survive—second nature maybe.

I leave you with some images for this week:

2013-06-05 12.51.27

Perhaps my first sighting of a navy dragonfly (or a dragonfly in general)…

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A couple seconds after smothering this flower, it started raining on me

2013-06-06 12.50.00

Claudia’s favorite tint of purple

2013-06-06 12.39.14

Claudia after her visit to the U.S. Department of Education

1,000 miles: step 13

Like many “geniuses”, when it comes to the simple things, count me out. Cooking has been one of those things for me. It wasn’t until I tagged along with my college roommate last year, that I began to see that cooking wasn’t such a scary thing.

I no longer burn down the kitchen, which is not an exaggeration if we recall a young Claudia and disconnected plugs. From that moment on, I believe, I have never been trusted or trusted myself to survive in kitchens alone. I’m dysfunctional surrounded by ingredients and cookware. I told an elderly friend once, “I can’t cook,” and while I believe it is true, she told me otherwise: I have not given it enough patience.

The latter is far more true, so it came as  a shock to me when I managed to post the following via the Twitter:


And the tweet was in reference to the following (of course, not posted to save Twitter from its blinding awesomeness):


They look nothing like the box–don’t remind me. The pancakes sure tasted amazing though, so take that imaginary teasing reader. The pancake batter mum left for me to try my experiment allowed for 4 pancakes, and that was plenty.

Like all geniuses, I learn from experiences, and this morning I learned an important lesson: Melted chocolate is a gem of delights… and also, if you plan to conquer fear, apply yourself–yes, I’m coming after you next, calculus.