2004-08-13

"And I wanna walk with you, on a cloudy day. In fields where the yellow grass grows, knee high..."

The sun just slipped its note below my door

And I can�t hide beneath my sheets

I�ve read the words before so now I know

The time has come again for me

Another day that I can�t find my head

My feet don�t look like they�re my own

I�ll try and find the floor below to stand

And I hope I reach it once again

So many times I wonder where I�ve gone

And how I found my way back in

I look around for something lost

Maybe I�ll find it in the end...

So the awaited hurricane was a no-show, and at most we received a large amount of rain, and some winds. I am thankful that there was absolutely no structural damage. However, I am very upset to hear that some deaths did occur due to this natural disaster. It started out as a category two, and increased to a category four with winds of about 175 mph.

The sky began getting quite gray, and the streets became sodden and deserted--absolutely no traffic or flashing lights. Most everyone had already evacuated, but ultimately, the hurricane switched paths. At times, the rain makes me quite nervous, and I absolutely dislike rainy mornings. I�m not one to give into superstition, but they posses a sort of ominous mood; and from the moment that one awakes and hears those piercing sounds of raindrops, it�s spine-chilling. This is precisely what I felt like today with this entire hurricane ordeal--once more, I felt nervous, and cloaked in fear. Many things make me nervous--the voices of small children, the blaring of car horns, people walking or chit-chatting behind me, etc. Mostly likely, this is why my ex-boyfriend called me a �scared bunny� when I spoke to him a few days ago. Perhaps I should have told him that opening his e-mails also make me nervous.

Despite the storm and the overwhelming feeling of apprehension, I have probably had one of the best days in months. Our house felt so incredibly warm, as it filled with laughter and stories. Grandma showed up with her cat, and in her usual custom, she placed her hand gently on my cheek and smiled as she kissed my forehead (usually, I�m also nervous about people touching me...with the exception of grandma). The tiles felt cold under my bare feet, as I walked around the house and played with the cat. My mother and my grandmother were laughing and talking in the kitchen and drinking Cuban coffee--black with sugar. She began recounting the tales of her youth, and remarked that I reminded her of her late sister--the dark hair and smile, for the most part.

Steam danced out of the pressure cooker in vapor-like swirls as my mom made the rice. Grandma was seasoning the salmon with cilantro and fresh tomatoes. With the warmth and laughter of my family, I feel incredibly comfortable and protected. Moments like these are wonderful and refreshing, and perhaps they are reminders of life�s more fragile and exquisite aspects. I would say that the beauty of this moment, with my family, somewhat resembles this particular entry, which I found rather pleasant upon reading. Particularly the instance with his parents, which seemed rather lovely. I think happiness should be a new message.

Still playing with the cat, I put on some Melt Banana to elevate my already cheerful mood.

Evelyn called a while later, and we joked and laughed, and it was wonderful to hear her carefree laughter after her devastating break-up of almost a month ago. Jokingly, the both of us decided that we would never toil with the idea of love or marriage. There were intervals in which we spoke in Spanish, then drifted back into English. I find Evelyn quite admirable, because she�s one of those sailors with ship floating about in the middle of a tempest. Despite the blaring winds and sharp rainfall, her vessel, with ripped sails, continues forward.

Deciding to paint these walls with the violet shades of melody and bliss, I put on Norah Jones, which was actually a gift from Brienne for my last birthday. This particular album reminds me of so much. I taste it as I would a teaspoon of honey, with the syrupy-sweet April summer memories that it brings back. With her Painter Song, I can close my eyes and gently envision the sky. At times, I look up at the dusky sky admiringly, and in my mind, I wish for it to swallow me. Let me live in your infinite, gold-colored dawn, or your silver somberness--my bare feet should tread on pure, vapor-silk.

This afternoon inspires laughter and the childhood desire to fly anywhere, so long as your fingertips caress the curry-filled air. Or, in some dim-lighted room, I want to snap my fingers, and hum to the sound of a melancholic jazz guitar. I want to read A Raisin in the Sun and feel the velvet words of Langston Hughes. The African-American writers of the Harlem Renaissance have a particular spot in which to splotch ink on my soul�s canvas.

If I were a painter

I would paint my reverie

If that�s the only way for you to be with me

We�d be there together

Just like we used to be

Underneath the swirling skies for all to see

And I�m dreaming of a place

Where I could see your face

And I think my bush would take me there

But only...

If I were a painter

And could paint a memory

I�d climb inside the swirling skies to be

with you

Take care of yourselves,

~~Lib�t

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aeka at 8:27 p.m.