My Favorite Place – Disneyland

Disneyland is my favorite place to be. Here I can see babies smiling like people who just won the lottery, Beauty and her beast dancing like a language spoken fluently, and places of pure imagination attract crowds as honey to bees. I can hear excited screams from passengers, intimidating rides pick up speed, and inspiring music that makes me feel like another naïve child. I can feel gummy cotton candy stuck to my face and the intense winter air while I sip and enjoy my sizzling hot chocolate from a Styrofoam cup. I can see, I can hear, I can feel, in my favorite place, Disneyland.

Meditation on a Shell

In front of me sits a sand dollar; simple and honestly a bit dull. But if you tilt your head to the left and squint your right eye, you’ll see China Man’s Hat awaiting explorers. (As I can imagine being an island that small must be lonely.) If you hold it in your in hand, you’ll realize it’s just a piece of sand paper probably damaging your skin at this very moment. Just by picking it up, you’ll find that it could make the most convenient salt shaker as it fits into your pocket. When you first see it, you’ll notice little slits. I figure after being pounded by the ocean’s unmerciful waves, you’re bound to have battle scars. Rotating it round and round, I flip it over, and it changes again. I see my grandfather’s aged hands that have been through a lot, struts around like a rock, but you know how delicate it really is. So you try to be careful and take one last look dead on. You see begging exhausted eyes. Knowing the feeling, you want so much to slip this sand dollar into the seemingly abysmal sea. After what’ll seem like forever, it’ll finally drift closer to the bottom, settle gently upon the cool sand into tranquility, never to be bothered again.

For Religious Reasons…

“Open your bibles to the book of Matthew, Chapter 23,” he says. I flip through the pages like a sailor learning to navigate the oceans. I prop my face up with my palm and my mind settles deeply into thought about a time when I once knew this book. The thin frail pages, the valleys and rivers in the navy blue cover. But now in front of me is an unfamiliar territory I wish I still recognized. I used to pray, I used to read the bible, I used to go to church. “Oh, what a pious little girl,” people would say never knowing the sight they just passed would be a once in a lifetime thing. I wouldn’t say I learned better. I kind of just… grew up. I grew up and became aware of facades so-called devout Christians would parade around in. I became aware of sinful actions committed on Saturday night that beg for redemption on Sunday morning. My hands won’t sit still and my body shutters. Hurting and throbbing from knowing there are just too many fake people in the world, I close this book like a coffin over words that no longer mean anything to me. Slowly and painly, a tear drops on the faded leather binding.

My Own Adult Figure

Waking up earlier than 6 a.m., waiting to watch the morning news, and drinking a cup of on-the-go Starbucks Via Coffee kind of makes me wonder what the heck am I doing with my life? I walk upstairs, in this ancient house slowly falling apart, and notice my grandparents doing the same thing. I look into the toothpaste spotted mirror and groan at the large, deep, dark circles under my eyes. Feeling exhausted and worn down, I try to recall past events leading up to this one right now. Ringing in my ear, I could have sworn I heard a harp playing and everything suddenly becomes a wavy fog. Reminiscing about my so-called childhood, a flood of flashbacks fill my head and I remember how mature I felt at school, in “The Circle”, and at The Villas.

After lunch, as the smell of freshly baked wheat bread and sour milk started to disappear from my nostrils, I would muster all the sophistication a third grader could and stride on over to recess. Majority of the time, I would sit and read by a newly built stage, a place where other children feared to be because of its forbidden nature. I would turn the thin dusty pages that felt like they were about to crumble beneath my fingertips – downloading information my classmates couldn’t care less about. The taste of freshly squeezed orange juice would settle heavily upon my tongue and burn my chapped lips. Albeit, I wasn’t a very loyal fan, I knew orange juice was beneficial to your health. Even at a young age, I realized things that are good for you don’t always taste the best. I would stare and watch others around me, with their grimy dusty faces and bubbles on their fingers waiting to be popped – thanks to the monkey bars. I notice my decision to not participate thinking to myself quietly that I’m too old to play any childish games. The bell rings and I can still hear in the distance fifth-graders barking orders to their frightened, younger peers. Still in deep contemplation, I close my book to let it rest upon my lap, and decide to not make the same immature choices.

After school, a place I like to call “The Circle”, played host to anyone younger than 15 living on Nahale Place. Dented, squeaky Mongoose bikes would be ^sc^at^te^re^d on sidewalks with their owners oblivious to suspicious teens walking by. Part of an afternoon cliqué, being the only third grader with everyone else ages 11 and up, I didn’t feel left out; more like a sense of belonging. Swear words would be thrown around like ^ping-pong ^balls being bounced back and forth. The Plumeria trees would often beckon me to climb up its rough, rocky, rigged bark but I chose to lay a rainbow colored quilt my grandmother made for me under its comforting shade and kept it company instead. As I sit, I could hear cars fly by back-and-forth, ignitions igniting with a mighty roar or a subtle growl. With my tastes-so-good-and-melts-on-your-tongue-but-needs-to-be-washed-off-after Hershey’s chocolate bar readily accessible in my hand, I start on my math homework. Division, multiplication, and what-not making my head spin but trying to practice this new concept I learned called responsibility, I decided to finish my assignment which I was expecting to earn three gold stars for the next day.

On early Saturday mornings, when the air is a little less sultry, I prepare myself for the long day ahead. I wake up in the morning, not feeling like P. Diddy, putting on my gelly-glittered sandals thinking I’m old enough to hit the city. After I arrive at the Villa Store, the main mission on my agenda today is to play clerk as well as manager, although still allowing myself more breaks than I should. I fry little flying saucers of oily goodness, or what my mother called Portuguese sausages, and while the smell of Kona Coffee densely fills the air, I can hear its cauldron-bubble about to do some serious damage. I have a sip, enough to burn my tongue, enough to taste the bitterness, and enough to keep me on the tip of my toes for the rest of the day. As I lay my brother down, because the weight of him is simply too much to bear,  I watch my favorite movie Cleopatra – filled with an abundance of passion, romance, and deceit, I decide this movie gives no mercy to the virgin eyes.

I notice the sun has finally risen, and my walk down memory lane has come to an end as my grandmother yells from outside the time I dreaded all morning. I look for a washcloth to try and wipe off some of the toothpaste stains. I rush down the stairs, weirdly a little bit more sturdy now that I know where to step. I grab my on-the-go Starbucks Via Coffee and rush out the door hoping I’m not old enough to forget something I need but secretly trying to hide from myself that I am. I guess my life has always been this way now that I recall the times I felt mature at school, in “The Circle”, and at The Villas.

Different Hands

Different hands,

Old, young, worn down, rusty, recently washed –

Hands with many distinctions among themselves,

 

All hands conquering the same endeavors,

All hands straining through the same struggles,

All hands reaching beyond what is prosaic,

 

They venture on obtaining their dreams, goals, and worthy pursuits,

 

Like a freshman in high school reaching for her diploma,

Like an intelligent, but deprived, quarterback reaching for that football scholarship,

Like an Algebra II teacher with no time in the world reaching for another teaching degree,

These hands get cut, bruised, and damaged,

Still they strive,

They rejoice and gleam with glory,

 

The awkward twitches, agitating creaks, and “Hoorah” motions,

Are side effects of their efforts

And they couldn’t be any more dignified.

Go Without Me

 

The clock struck 2:00

The ringing of the bells

Echoed throughout

My hopeful heart

 

The ringing of the bells

Tickling gently

My hopeful heart

Wanting to linger

 

Tickling gently

These worn-out books

Wanting to linger

In my hands

 

Through these worn-out books

Some knowledge was spilt

In my hands

They were saved

 

Some knowledge was spilt

Bus, please leave

They were saved

Only because I stayed.

Some Difference

 

There were two paths, you see?

It was either you or you and me

They both looked wonderful to the naked eye

But of course looks can’t be trusted because they lie

 

There were no stop signs to determine my choice

No commands heard from an unseen voice

I wanted to explore both but lacked the luxury

I made my decision after passing a weeping tree

 

I know which would have satisfied me most

Crisp, auburn leaves wandered down both as if to boast

I thought I was doing what was best for you

And for now, my love, I must bid you adieu

 

I took one step, and suddenly the air became colder

I felt a blunt shove upon my right shoulder

I stumbled onto this God-forsaken pathway

I felt completely alone much to my dismay

 

I tried so hard to keep us together

Because I know there won’t be anything better

You think my decision only hurt you

But I can assure you that mine was broken, too.

Some Limericks

 

The Wharf

Puerto Vallarta