Round

s** is a ball, curled.

drops falling keep rolling on

the circuitous edge.

Inscriptions

Inscriptions

They were laying on the concrete roof peering over the edge, the town siren ringing as they looked into my bedroom window and spoke into their walkie talkies-an unnecessary act given the fact that all three of them were just inches from each other. Any stranger, not familiar with their daily routine, would have thought the boys were trying to save my cousins and I from sort of impending danger. But they were not, so every morning that summer we would kick them off the property-our nine, ten and thirteen year old voices floating smoothly behind us through the hot humid air as we chased them from our roof onto theirs.

Every day was pretty much the same in San Francisco de Macoris, a small town in the Dominican Republic. Had I known where I’d be now then, perhaps I would have treasured the island, the leaves that swayed in the timeless air, the walks down the worn out curves, the drives up and down mountains.

In the town, motorcycles hum through the roads, honking as they dodge the people that spill over and onto the streets because the sidewalks are so narrow. Women sell pastries and fruits from large wick baskets that sit perfectly on their heads. Conchos crowd up to nine passengers at once, the ones at the end holding the doors that hangs on a few wires, while the rest of the passengers fan themselves or sing along to the radios of passing cars. A young boy shines shoes in Duarte Park in front of the municipal building, carefully resting the older man’s feet on his tin coffee can, his hands, smothered in shoe shinning grease, quickly yet carefully tracing every curve of the shoe. Little old ladies, children and families pour in and out of the Santa Ana Church, the large cathedral that towers above all else. And amongst its shadow rests a house, its small gallery decorated with poinsettia trees and marble tiles.

On one day the neighborhood kids gather and play in an inflatable pool. Splashing a mixture of euphoria and water onto the people walking on the sidewalk. One small girl, her skin whiter than the rest, had her mother pulling up her blue one piece bathing suit. Had an outsider been looking the would have seen the mother trying to plead with the four year-old to wait longer for the swimming suit to fit-they would seen the mother chase the child throughout the room, past another, down a hall, across a living room and out to the gallery, all with a bottle of sunscreen in her hand. A grandfather sits as still as the mango tree that stands planted out back, watching the actions of the world around him. The tree has stood there for years, providing smiles to generations of a family, a shade for the kids that play on the roof of the home. A tree that once gave off a distinct sweet mango smell that traveled through the carved out holes of a living room wall and into the nose of the grandfather that sat on a wooden rocking chair-a smell that stuck to the mouth that politely asked his family for favors.

A picture of Mozart still hangs above his chair, the chair that used to rock to the sounds of classical music, a chair that only the once a conductor, father, grandfather and husband sat in. A chair whose wood probably smells as much like mangos as the bark of the tree that rests in the backyard. He doesn’t call the little girl anymore, the granddaughter who ran in front of him leaving drops of sunscreen on the floor, the teen he tried to impress with his English, the young woman who wishes she could tell him all. He doesn’t yell at the boys that use to bother his nieces and granddaughter, nor at beggars who walked by so that he can give them money. He never carved the letters of his granddaughter’s name into the tiles of the home for her to see when she came back. Instead all she sees when she runs after her neighbors or every time the town siren ring and she runs past the hole filled wall is the rocking chair, all she hears are the sounds of the vehicles, all she smells is the sweet mango scent, all she tastes is the humid air and all she feels is the touch of the hot ground on her feet.

In the small town people came and went. In the small town she came and went, but the coming part hasn’t been the same. The town, the palms, and farms haven’t changed. Neither have the fragments of the childhood she looks back on. But the carefree wonder has, because now its all about the preservation and remembering. Its all about the carving, the place, and the details that left the mark. Her grandfather knew that much. But I guess he never found a way to inscribe it all for me.

texts from last night

from time to time really fun online crazes come around.
texts from last night is the funniest.
fuck "fml"

my all time favorite textsfromlastnight:

(541): I just hope this isn't happening Final Destination style
(1-541): Travis Barker would totally be Devon Sawa in this scenario

(214): Don't interrupt me, I have a limited time to be high and thus be remarkably good at Pac Man

(518): you kept eating the heads off the gummy bears and screaming 'euthanized!'

(214): Some 6 yr old girl just got on my plane in St. Louis. She was wearing an I Love Canada shirt. She eyed the seat next to me and I stared her straight in the eyes and shook my head. Fuck her. Fuck canada.

(559): Psycho is an understatement. U were running around the house screaming IM UNDER THE IMPERIOUS CURSE

(216): Where the fuck is Rob at, he hasnt answered his phone in like 2 weeks.
(440): Dude Rob died 2 weeks ago wtf?
(216): Holy shit r u serious? How?
(440): Just kidding, but im pretty sure he boned your gf and doesnt want to talk to you.

(704): You ran away and I found you three blocks later lying by a dumpster because "that's where your life belongs"

(515): Busta Rhymes just yelled at me! He cut a song off and I was clapping and he looked right at me and said "don't fucking clap." I was that white guy

(519): and then she said I drew a line on her forehead with my cum and whispered "Simba"

texts from last night

texts from last night

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Michael Jackson: The Last Legend

its tough to grow up and see the ones that made the journey worth while leave on an exit too soon. He recorded some of the best-selling albums in history and has left a legacy of his music and career-a token of memory for those that witnessed his journey and an inspiration for those yet to fall in love with the King of Pop.

Michael Jackson
(August 29, 1958- June 25, 2009)

A Musical Golden Age: Buena Vista Social Club

my favorite musical group

The Buena Vista Social Club was a members club in Havana, Cuba . It was a popular location for musicians to play and a locale that held musical activities and dances during the 1940s. The same place that had represented Cuba's golden age of music and that had closed down fifty years ago, inspired a recording between Ry Cooder and traditional Cuban musicians, some who had performed at the club during the height of its popularity. The artists who got together formed under the name of the Buena Vista Social Club. This is the link to the amazing award-winning documentary about the group: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ahuduPpZJQA&feature=featured

who made a book? and they're selling it too?

i made a book
(with pictures taken by me)
& thanks to blurb its for sale.

the book navigates the parallels between islands i've visited around the world and quotes that go along.

the link below gives a preview of the book and its prices...
so...
go go go go

http://www.blurb.com/my/book/detail/704589