well i looked my demons in the eyes, laid bare my chest, said do your best, destroy me.

["empty/ ray lamontagne"]

...
I watched as your words tumbled into the atmosphere, pounding off of my world, as I sat there, trying not to look at you, paralyzed by an outer numbness that deeper down was split in two. 82 degrees on 82nd street, referring to the two things in my line of vision; a settled darkness interrupted by gently incessant orange glows provided by street lamps and transient white flashes provided by passing cars, both sources reflecting dimly off the two faces in question. A couple sits in a car to decide their future, an uncertain future since the beginning. Each member aware of its uncertainty since that beginning, though one's path was bolstered by belief and faith, and the other's by fear and trepidation. In this moment, each are given no choice but to face the reality of the other's path, hopefully in an effort to define their relationship previously mired in uncertainty.

Carolina sits, motionless, wordless, wishing she were emotionless. If she were emotionless, she'd be able to pressure open the door, slide out of the seat, and slide out of her path in this story, and thus be avoiding the hurt she’d intended to evade from months before. Instead, she sits. Her face prickles and tingles, her throat tightens (removing the chance for words she wouldn't know how to say to begin with), she silently fights the muscles in her face from tensing, eyes trained forward, specifically, not looking at him. If she looks at him, she'll get caught; caught in the fear and the faith of both of their paths, and the tears that each of these prickles and tightenings usually signify would win. So instead of fleeing, and instead of crying, she sits, without words, and watches his. Each one of his words having the indefinable ability of drawing her in, and pushing her away from him, reflecting her two points of conflict. She watches his hands, wrap around, and then pound the steering wheel. She hears his voice, before it even forms its words, interrupted by gasps of air, fighting past the same tightening-of-the-throat that she fought with her silence. Both his words and her silence fight against the same outcome: their collective failure.

I don’t remember what the air felt like. I assume the heavy humidity of the impending day was already sinking over the city, I assume the air was thickened and only slightly agitated by small breezes, otherwise standing still over our bodies as we sucked it in throughout our given manifestations of disbelief...

love is caught between the spoken and unspoken.

One way is Rome and the other way is Mecca, On either side on either side, Of our motorbike, One way is home and the other way is papa, On either side

on either side andPrepared to strike
("Greek Song"/Rufus Wainwright)
Oh hey.

So yesterday the city crushed me in sadness and I was beside myself in knowing what to do. I was entirely sniped in a called placed to my house. Papi picked up the phone and yelled at me, which kind skewed the rest of my afternoon. The scolding brought all of my current insecurities and uncertainties to light.

I was let out of work at about 1pm, but I didn't go home. I stayed in the office, alone, working. I didn't want to go home and do nothing, so I stayed and finished a project that I'd been given, feeling more productive.

Talking to Mr. Fernandez helped. Seeing him will help more, getting to talk to the students even more so. I love doing that, I really truly do.

I went through some drama with Chrissy, which she talked me through as best she could, but I don't like talking. So I left the office and went for a walk, letting my city pick me up from myself. When I finally arrived to ridgewood, all I could think about was how much I love this neighborhood. How familiar and at home I feel in it. When getting out of the subway I had a sudden memory of papa, which made tears well up and made me suddenly think "oh my god, I need to get out of this city!"

And then I thought, where would I go? My only options in my head were Buenos Aires, London, or Madrid. I internally panicked, trying to decide how I could get to one of these places, soon. And then I thought how sad this development is. I can't live the rest of my life on the run, because that's what's actually upsetting me to begin with. I feel lonely.

But once I walked out of the subway, into Ridgewood, my panic vanished with the Canarsie-bound L train. I know why I'm here. I'm here because I simply need to be. It's where I belong, it's my life happened, and where I intend for the grand moving schemes of my life to happen. I have best friends, family, and and actual tangible past here. I love it here. I do want a future here. I just hope a future wants me.

That's what I have for you. An angsty moment from my yesterday.

Yesterday actually ended extremely well. When I got back from my extra hours at work and pensive commute, I met up with Rosenys and Jovani for drinks and a talk, which was so lovely. I've so enjoyed having them with me over the last week or so. I appreciate their taking me in as a friend.

So I leave you with this mess of a post. A better one will come.

I'm currently on the Q55 bus, on myrtle ave, passing a castle-like building looming in the hazy Wednesday morning rain behind the apartment buildings, known to many as IS 77. I love that.

Love is when you talk

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She's in Love With the World, But Sometimes These Feelings Can Be So Misleading...She said "I must be fine, because my heart's still beating"

("Fell in Love With a Girl"/ White Stripes)

So, Miami, we meet again.

I must say, for being my least favored airport, I end up here a lot, and thus, know it like the back of my hand.

I just stood on line for about 7 min, staring at a staggering collection of pastries for which I'm pretty sure names don't really exist. This, while the attendants chatted quite risbley with each other and other patrons in cuban-slathered spanish. The trigena girl behind me punctuated her desires with amores, "un chocolate, mi amor....solo, eso, amor....amorcito, tiene alguno croquetas por ahi?"

That's my problem, I feel, I'm just not funny in spanish. I've gotten to the point where my spanish really isn't half bad. I actually impress myself sometimes when I speak, I can read anything put in front of me, and write up most anything required as well, but I'm just not funny. There's a certain sensibility and nuance to being funny, such blatant portrayal of one's personality, a sign of comfort and confidence in one's surroundings and with onself. I have it english, oozing out of my pores. I mean, I stake no claim at being a comedian, but I have a distinct character that I unabashedly wave in front of my peers and the world at large. In Spanish, I lose all of that. This has been a problem that I've pinpointed for a few years now. It's not that I don't get the culture or the humor, my family has some absolutely ridiculous characters that I've observed and grown up around, my father included. My father is quite outright one of the funniest people I've ever encountered, and most definitely more specifically when he's speaking spanish. My brother and I have inherited much of his stylings, mannerisms, and flare in terms of presentation, set up, and sensibility for a crowd; though, in English. My brother and my father have the same jolly-natured smile (only my brother's is punctuated by dimples, which make it all the more endearing and reassuring), same manual gestures and cues during story telling, same way of surveying the room and faces mid-telling. It's quite fantastic.

My funny is different. Stems mostly out of mockery of myself, saying unexpected things, usually use of ghetto sensibility or phrasing in juxtaposition with my entirely unghetto nature and demeanor. This personality and putting myself on the line between coloquialisms doesn't exist for me in Spanish, and it's so disappointing for me. Until I gain full personality to back up my Spanish, I'm still going to be left feeling just as American as my beloved black-sheathed woman in the LAX terminal whenever I wait on line for my cafe con leche. I'm hoping Spain will help with this.

The downside to being on the east coast right now, is that many of those with whom I communicate regularly are still asleep. Time zones. Lame. I've texted a few east coasters, only one has responded, she even called me back.

I told her how strange it was to be going to the DR, yet not really be going to the DR. This trip, this time, the DR will be more like any other one of those other countries: hotels, atms, paperwork, travel. There will be no Cibao, no batidas de lechosa in sajoma, no inoa, no hacienda, no grandparents. So, really, is this going to be santo domingo? No. It's going to be the Dominican Republic. I'm excited nonethless (borderline "very" in fact), with a little scared around the edges, just to keep those adrenal glands working. I'm going to love to see how this plays out.

Okay, perhaps I will get to my terminal now, as I have long-finished my empanada and cafe, and have observed 3 seperate rounds of people sit in the booth next to mine.

Love is in the "dios to bendiga"
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Tomorrow Never Knows What It Doesn't Know Too Soon

("Morning Glory"/Oasis)

So, let's play airport.

I'm currently tired out of my mind sitting in an American Airlines terminal in LAX. A late 20-something round-faced guy just announced strict new rules about carry-ons. Something about sizing, one-and-one items, checking bags otherwise, I don't know, nor do I really care, I decided long ago that none of these rules apply to me.

His hand, perched in front of his face as he spoke into the reciever; eyes shifter around, seemingly surprised to hear his own voice echoing out around us. He poked at the measuring bin as he sloppiky let down the reciever, sliding his hand against his forehead, moving his black curls back. To no avail, they just fell back to place.

He's currently shifting through some papers as a very american looking lady stand, legs shoulder-length apart, with a white beg wedged between them. And by "very american" I mean, very middle-american. Hair, and indescript shade of blonde and brown, with a little grey shading in-and-out to add to it's obscure plainness. Everything about her is strange, but unbearably homely. Her hips expand to a width of at least .5 more than her shoulder, resting stable trunks cushed over rubber pleather loafers. All of this cloaked in black jersey-knit pant and shirt. She looks back at the room, thinking no one sees her, but knowing she's all we have to look at. I think she is fabulous, but I'm not sure she know she does.

I met a cool guy over a beer earlier. He works as a paramedic in the arctic circle for a seismology group that works in oil. He's originally from Denver, one his way to Darwin, aurstralia by way of Sydney. He wants to go to Costa Rica within the next two year, and has a friend that went to the Dominican Republic last week. He aslo has a slightly twisted canine tooth that pokes just below his lip when he laughs. Small, circular black eyes that emote very little beyond hopeful exhaustion. Or maybe that's just me projecting.

I don't feel like my life is really happening right now, so pardon me as I look very much forward to 6 hours without any expectations or duties. I'm at an odd point, which I will discuss later, as in the process of posting, I've boarded the plane.

See you in Miami.

Love is the satisfaction of the journey
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I used to hover outside my truth, always worry of what I'd lose

["Nolita Fairytale"/Vanessa Carlton]

Development, Currency Boards, Peso Appreciation, Monetary Policy, Privatization, Masculinity, Fiscal Discipline, UNDP Millenium Development Goals, NGOs, Education, Productivity Gains, GDP, Individuality, I think, therefore I am. Today is a college day.

I was named after Princess Caroline of Monaco. You know, the tall, gorgeous, brunette, confident, sophisticated daughter of Prince Rainier III of Monaco, and Hollywood royalty, Grace Kelly. Grimaldi. Aquarius. Billionaire. Has spectacularly attractive progeny...yeah, her.

I woke up this morning at 4:40am, after going to bed at 2:30am. I slept on the couch, with my ipod playing, and holding my cell phone, to make sure i felt the vibrate before the alarm sounded, to make sure I awoke. I didn't. I mean, I did, at 4:40, 45 min after my alarm sounded. I ate Cheetos and drank Diet Snapple Peach Iced Tea, while I developed some sort of argument regarding about gender issues in global politics and another about education as a development as self. I then decided it would be a good idea to wiki "ticklish" in an attempt to figure out what my not being ticklish says about me. A few non-productive minutes later, i finished my "feminist" thoughts on politics, took a shower and got dressed.

I greased a pan and boiled some water. I figured, I'm actually awake, I should make breakfast. I laid some bacon trip on the pan and placed an egg in the boiling water. Hard boiled egg, I'd done before, bacon, I had not. The bacon laid there, I shoved each over a few times while the oil began to sputter around the edges, curling them. I watched as the pinkish fibers darkened and sloshed around in the oil around it. Yum. Brahms Hungarian Dance No. 5 pumped through my ears as i stared into the rolling water now bouncing the egg around.

I finished cooking. I ate. I washed my face, put on perfume, cleaned up the dishes, packed up my computer, and picked a pair of shoes from the pile of them which have accumulated next to my living room coach during the week. According to Ryan Seacrest, and his morning guest, Ashlee Simpson, it's going to be 85 degrees today. I miss the Z morning Zoo.

I left my apartment an hour early today, I just didn't want to be there anymore, it's so homework-toxic. As I walked to campus i thought about the work I'd have to turn in today, as, today is a college day. I'll be on campus for about 12 hours and I have something due for every class. Somethings I have yet to finish. I passed a university housing maintnence worker. I made eye contact, and i smiled. that's about all i was willing to do this morning. he said "hi", but when i did not respond, he said "HI" again, after passing me, with an attitude. i didnt feel bad. i thought about how curious it was that i'd already had verbal contact with three people since waking today, though I had yet to speak a word. So goes the world of IMs and text messages. oy.

and now, i think about the paper that i have to finish writing during my next two classes. but i just really felt like typing up a quick blog, lucky you. i'll have to walk to down to my Spanish class which starts in about a minute, hand in both assignments due today, participate at random, finish writing a paper that i should have written earlier, get my thoughts in order about my international political economy presentation later today, and continue my suspicions that i smell like bacon. dont worry, i already posted for IR.

more later, good day!

love is to die dreaming

Awake but cannot open my eyes...Crawl back into bed to dream of a time when your heart was open wide and you loved things just because

["A Better Son/Daughter"/ Rilo Kiley]

If you listen to the song "Dazed and Confused" by Led Zeppelin, you'll get a pretty accurate depiction of what I feel like right now. Not necessarily the lyrics, but the movement of the music itself: dragged lulls punctuated by bursts of calculated confusion, a thumping gallop, only to settle back through the confusion down to a tumultuous halt. Only, I feel like I'm standing still amidst these lulls and swells, my hair and skirt are getting blown about with them. I only watch. Wince.

Right, okay, I just needed to sit and let that stew for a little while. I wrote that about 2 hours ago. I thought it as I walked to campus this morning. I have these moments, which I've discussed before, where I narrate my life in my head, as if it were playing out in a book, being narrated outside myself. I've done this since I was a child, sometimes it happens more often than others, it happens constantly when I'm writing. When it happens when I'm not in the thick of a writing fit, it only flickers, a few times throughout the day, makes me lament for days when such narration would carry me through my day, and thus make my actions feel more accomplished, and thorough. Now, instead, I stand, and I wince.

I haven't been writing, but it's been happening in more than flickers. I just avoided deciding what to do with them. Though, I guess I have decided, as I'm sitting here.

I stood at the crosswalk this morning. Hoover & Jefferson. [I enjoy that I still live by a Jefferson, it makes it okay.] Waiting for the white walking man to flash onto the pole across from me, Led Zeppelin swirled around me shooting cold up my bare legs, swaying and tugging at the skirt Margarita bought me before going to Argentina, "For dancing", she said. She bought one for herself as well.

I shoved my Rapsodia jacket up to glance at my watch: 9:25. Class starts at 9:30, not yet on campus, still need to go to the computer lab to print…not bad. Three others arrived to class later than I, not bad at all. Our Chilean teacher called on one of them to read an example translation from our homework, "¿Querés que leo el mio o el tu{sh}o?", he responded slathered in Porteño/Buenos Aires accent. The accent has followed me since my trip, though I suppose, I, in reality, never noticed before.

I typed up and submitted the IR homework that I was too lazy to wake up for this morning, while raising my hand to read example translation sentences to the class, and sending morning salutations to my brother over IM. The day I realized that I could actually get an extra hour of sleep, and write up/post my IR homework during my Spanish class instead of before, was a bad day for my attention to my Spanish class. Though, I was bored senseless anyway, I hate grammar, so it's no real tragedy.

My morning was lived in large part in hot pursuit and longing for coffee. I seemed to have reacted a bit too harshly facially to something my IR professor said in lecture, as he made eye contact with me as I shook my head, scoffing, introspectively at his question, "Do you have something to say, Carolina?". "Oh, um, no, just…that it's not surprising at all, given the increased demand….etc. etc." Don't worry, I wasn't caught off guard with nothing to say, of course not...he just always ignores me, so I was surprised he noticed my expression. I satiated my brewed desire after running around campus, getting paperwork signed, approving health insurance, financial transactions, and other smatterings of responsibilities demanding signatures and attention for Madrid. Did you know that Starbucks has new cups? I noticed this last week. I like them. It's their attempt to reflect their "roots" as an organic corporation that cares about their coffee and the world, simple beginnings, with simple coffees. I just like the brown.

I walked around campus, dodging beach cruisers, skipping up steps, and taking sips from my brown-detailed cup with "Caroline" written on the side (they never get it right). Thinking about three things, primarily (now that my need for coffee was off my mind): Hong Kong currency board, strategy for paper-writing, and New York. The first two have obvious school connections, (and i will not bore you further with such things) while the last is in direct relation to my summer. Not that anybody who reads this anymore is someone that I don't talk to on a daily basis anyway, but I'll be in New York this summer, and that's a lovely, lovely thing.

I'll thump and swell along with the music when I get there. That's, at least, the idea. I'll have lunches and adventures with Irene, Ileana, and Maria. So many, it just sounds like the best thing of my life. I'll pick up where I left off on several things, projects, and friendships; walk through old haunts, discover new ones. I'm so intrigued by the different relationships, (some familiar, some not so much), I've forged that will play out in different ways, all in the context of this old New York. It's going to be the combination of all my trips since 2003 (post-move), plus whatever has happened in-between, and, as we all know, that's quite the "whatever". Things from these visits that I've lived with and interacted with only tangentially, in reality, since then. Though, you know, it could be none of these things. Until then, I will look at it through my daydreams and wince through the motions of schoolwork I have to go through to get there.

More on the above later, I guess, as I've decided to leave you with a mundane post of my day. Deal it with it. After all the mourning and other points that have overtaken this blog, count your lucky stars I gave you some mindless mundane day-in-the-life.

Love is what tugs and swirls.

you who were born there where beauty is existence

["Greek Song"/ Rufus Wainwright]

A year ago I was in New York, and my grandmother was still alive, even if only for a few more days. I'd just gone with a few of my uncles, aunts, and a cousin, to drop off my grandmother at JFK.

I rode in the middle of the back seat of my tio Pito's Isuzu, while it rained along Cypress Avenue. I rode wedged between my tía Amarylis, and my tía Mariana, we rolled passed Mt Judah Cemetery, under the Jackie Robinson Parkway, and entered the highland park area, as I thought "if we'd taken a right, we'd be going to my house," wishing it were still my house. My grandmother, all the while, sat quietly in the front passenger seat, slightly slumped, occasionally punctuating a chuckle with her handkerchief pressed lightly at her lips, gazing at the wet brooklyn whirring by. She thought of nothing I could ever truly know or imagine, though could assume it involved the yellow house perched upon green hills that she was headed towards. My aunts asked me about my life, my estudios. I lofted the idea of maybe going to Argentina to study over the summer, they commended me on my efforts to get my Spanish down after a childhood of refusal. i'm sure the rest of this story is nested somewhere in this blog, so i'll spare you the rest.

but, the point is, a year has passed, i dont understand this passage of time that has occurred. sure, a lot of has happened, but, jeez, when did it all happen?

i traveled the hemisphere a bit, that was nice, though, not entirely, earth-shatteringly, life-altering. traveling is definitely something i enjoy, and plan on doing at any given chance, but i'm no girl-woman-lady-person massively changed from the experience....it just felt [feels] natural, like it was [is] just the progression of where I was [am] supposed to be. Living in Buenos Aires was lovely. It was a very urban city with millions of people, subways, and spanish...you see, none of this was a vast stretch for me. it's much more of a burden for me to have to endure my remaining time in Los Angeles, than it was for me to be in any of the places I traveled to in the year that has passed.

unfortunately, traveling has only made me realize that I would rather be everywhere else, but LA. i mean, this place is fine, but everywhere else is better. I'm sorry if my words offend you, Los Angeles, but you've yet to give me anything to write home about beyond a few of seemingly enervated friendships, weather ive grown bored of, kissed toads who remained toads, a review of an uninspired population, and an education. I've gone out and tried, but, I remain dispassionate and aloof.

Santiago de Chile reminded me very much of Denver, if Denver were the 2nd cousin of New York City. It was Denver with an urban-like edge, which, I admit charmed me. The streets were neat and in many places, wide. Mountains loomed in the background, as brown air stuck above us in a haze, while the cold did little to deter any of its inhabitants' plans. But, in sections that popped up easily, yet unexpectedly, from subway maps and Irish street names, stood beautiful colonial and 19th century architecture, which satisfied my craving that was left only half satiated by Buenos Aires (which has beautiful 19th & turn of the century architecture, but no colonial architecture or anything like a grand cathedral that predates the Paris Push).

Rio de Janeiro was what i imagine the Dominican Republic would be like, if it had money. The colors, smells, and rythms were all very similar, but flourished within the busy, yet organized streets, of a comprehensive city....with favelas.

Costa Rica was an amazing trip in a different way, as it felt like a destiny very clearly being fulfilled, but still, slightly hollow. I note the slight emptiness because it was everything my grandfather would have been proud of, and so much of what he'd admired and watched in others. So, I only wish that he could have lived to see it, so that I could pick up the phone and tell him of my journey and responsibilities, and how his memory did not escape me for one moment. I know he's proud, and will be of everything else I plan on doing, but you know, it's a process, I suppose.

As for the blog, I miss it, I do. I miss the process of it, the way it makes me think. Mainly I miss feeling obligated to write this part of my life, because it's something I find I need to do, or all the beautiful words and details that I rehash at night or during the day just float out of my mind, wasted. and i hate being wasteful.

I dont know where exactly I am, or where this will take me, but here's to 3 years with Breathe and a 2008 to figure it out.


love is knowing that life doesn't just happen around you