Deirdre

Yesterday's night felt a stretch of eternal; spent between uneasy sleep and fervent prayer; accompanied by that terrible feeling when uncertainty becomes a constant.

This morning was no better, as tears flowed, inevitable, as the heart collected its dues.

I sat and thought, welcoming silence. It is hard to think of a combination of words that would sound right to convey a message upon the death of a child. Such event is unnatural, as life expects for children to out live us.

On a moment like this, an irrational feeling, neatly disguised as civility takes over. Yes, I still believe and my faith; the accumulation of supernatural experience I have gathered through my life instructs me beyond question. I know she is in a better place. I know she knows no suffering. I know that a God who embraces child like wonder welcomed her with arms wide open. But I needed a moment longer, a bit more grief, a window to understanding.

I wanted the morning to be gloomy and dark, with no birds singing. I cried, because it is what it is. I'm crying as I type this entry. If there is any consolation, it would be to think that I would have cried harder, longer,hopelessly, if it weren't Deedee I'm talking about.

Her parting hurts, like a blow to the chest and the pain assaults without mercy. But there are valleys; those coherent spaces within moments of grief, when memory rises up to meet us.

These are the things I remember:

The birth of a beautiful baby that captured our heart, a vibrant beauty with eyes wide, curious since her day of birth. A sudden illness, the resolution of loving parents, who defined the word by leaving everything and taking on anything for her. A series of adventures that forged stronger friendships and gave us the chance to be better, through Deedee, for Deedee. The coining of the phrase Viva la Deeva, which to the end of my own days will mean hold on to a moment, build memories, be happy, count your blessing and live to fight another day.

In five years Deedee was daughter, friend, champion, spokes person, sister to Kali and most of all, true to herself. That is more than what most of us can handle, yet something all of us should aspire to.

So, I walked out, just to gather my thoughts and met the sun framed by an almost turquoise sky, and the world exploded in sound and color about me. And I cried again, of course I did, but I also thought, God this is so Deedee. Strips of  sunshine, everlasting songs, that unstoppable need to try a brand new day. And I smiled, just a bit, enough to tell myself, in all conviction "Viva la Deeva."

http://www.alittlemageinthefamily.blogspot.com/

Barking at the Moon for all the wrong reasons

I am not old enough to say I've read it all, nor am I deluded enough to pretend that I can grill one of the greatest fantasy/horror writers of her generation with impunity. But I am an Anne Rice fan, and being a fan gives me the right to rant, when, where and about as much as I please.

And I've been a fan through and through. I read through my "pseudo goth" sensibilities in college, I stuck to it through it all and if given a chance, I can concoct a wonderful, fiery, passionate apology for Blackwood Farm.

Though I took my time to read the Christ the Lord Novels, when I did, I found an affinity for Scripture that would have made any weekend theologian jump for joy. I also could read, between the lines, the touches of social liberal theology that eventually would bring about the author's choice to renounce the Catholic Church. It didn't scare me. In fact, it engaged me, because that is what good literature is meant to do, shake conventions, show alternatives, question the establishment from the comforts allowed by fantasy.

I read Angel Time, and though I found the novel to be less of a risk taker with its theology -somehow Rice was shy about angels- considering that she was writing, not only about the pleasant spiritual guardians of the Catholic bible, but also about the kick ass out of this world Heavenly Police that Evangelicals and Jewish cannon love to look up to.

Still I read. I kept reading while the neogoths had abandoned her. I kept reading while those who didn't abandon her were waiting for Rice to go back to vampires. I read because I love her, and I still do, but unfortunately, I can no longer say she can do no wrong.

The Wolf Gift is a product from a completely different author. It is the book written by Anne of the Page. Don't get me wrong, I love to hang on the Page; it is a motley crew of  young and old, random evangelicals, atheists, deists, neopagans, weekend vampires, Catholics that want her to come back home and die hard fans.... I mean who doesn't want to experience diversity to that degree?

However, The Page is one of the two reasons to which, to my understanding, this book is not as hot as I thought it would be.

The thing is though, that as much as I love The Page, I noticed that Anne has submitted her own views a little. It is scary when someone starts asking "what do you think", instead of stating, this is my universe kids, you can come and play, but the toys are mine. She bent over way too much to please the demands of fandom. To a wild eyed college kid that is about the coolest thing someone can do, to a purist is the proverbial decapitation. Yes, I am old, but as I said  I have been reading forever. There is a certain amount of pandering to her expected audience that makes The Wolf Gift read as a piece of fanfic instead of the real thing.

Another thing that fails is the fact that Anne Rice cannot bridge the generation gap. This is something she didn't have to deal with when writing about vampires... sure, some of Lestat's lyrics in Queen of the Damned wouldn't have made it to the top ten if they were truly 80's music, but you see, Lestat had an 18 century brain, so if something sounded off to the hair metal crew, as an audience we could always say, well... what do you expect?

Same thing applied to the Jesus novels, the narrative took place 2,000 years ago and the rich lexicon, the poetic feel to it was more than justified, you know, it is expected for it to sound all King James and stuff.

However, when a 30 year old in a contemporary setting sounds like a man in his sixties, there is no amount of sex, sass or gadgets that can cover that. Yeah, Reuben has a smart phone and a laptop and an ipod...but I mean... have you checked his playlist? Of course all this disparity between age and appreciation is sorely patched by two elements: our man is obscenely rich and extremely "sexy".

I'll be cynical here for a moment. No, even better, I'll take the slippery road of cheap shot politics. A man with an incredible amount of wealth due to inherited fortunes, desperate for, yet unable to connect to the masses because of their perception of him, Reuben is the Mitt Romney of monsters... but I am digressing. Yes, Reuben is ridiculously rich and as people like Paris Hilton and the Kardashians have proved through and through, wealth equal higher aesthetics and keeps you safe from following trivial pursuits. That explains how a 30 year old somehow sounds like a senior citizen who had just discovered the magic that is Facebook.

Secondly, in a world dominated by ripped weres who fight vampires for girls, our man has to excel. It will not surprise anyone that I will be team Lestat in this one. Anne Rice's vampires drip sensuality and that is very hard to portray when your universe is restricted to certain physical no-no's. In my most frenetic fantasies I wonder what would Lestat do if he were to switch bodies with Eric Northman.... arrghh digressing again. Anyway, Reuben is a well oiled sex machine. He is such a good lay that after a single workout session with a random stranger, said woman decides to sign the deed to  a frigging mansion to the man. Did I mention he is insanely rich? Wouldn't it be a lot more credible and less trivial if he fucking bought it??? Anyway. I can deal with a lot of stuff, but honestly, there is a certain amount of gross factor involved in getting it on while on wolf man form with a willing thrilled fangirl... sigh. There are things Charlaine Harris will not do. Anne just went there.

Where do these fangirls come from? Did I mention jumping from building to building is the new swinging? If I were to give you the following premise, honestly, what is the first thing that comes to mind?

A young man is bitten by a creature while writing an assigned report.

In a matter of days, this young man finds out that this bite altered his

DNA to a point of no return. The young man experiments through trial

and error and eventually decides to use his skills to fight crime in the

city. But see, the young man happens to be a reporter and the new

vigilante is making headlines, so the young man is asked to cover any

sightings of the vigilante. He happens to get some unbelievable

exclusives, you know, 'cause he is the one they are looking for.

Somewhere Stan Lee is wringing his hands thinking about royalties, I know...

I will bitch about Louis, but Louis is her child and if she wants to abuse her children, so be it. But I have read the rants of Reuben's brother (who happens to be a Catholic Priest going through a crisis of faith) back when they were cool, just because they were fresh. And I have heard the story of the shifter kind, back when it all happened in Egypt and a certain spirit attached itself to a queen.

This has been long enough, and I am tired. Will I read the next one? Probably. Is Anne Rice out of the list of authors that can do no wrong? Definitely. Forever.

New Year's resolutions

I usually keep these to myself because at least half of them are tossed out mid February. However, since most of my resolutions for next year have nothing to do with L.A. Fitness there's a big chance I might see them through. Let's see...

• Yesterday I had the most inspiring dream. I was successfully completing an oil painting. My subconscious was kind enough to allow me to be am abstract artist, so I will stay a little longer, swayed by my imaginary world into all kinds of places before realizing I must be dreaming. And though I know that in the waking world my lines, colors and shapes will never reach the mysterious symmetry of the least understood of visual media, I guess I will give the brush a try. What is the worse that could happen? I'm old enough not to be disheartened if I don't see my work in a gallery... oh well, I am young enough to start a lifetime of addiction to turpentine,-ehhh- I'll just try to avoid that. Basically, I'll go to create something in the one medium I've never tried before.

• I intend, by all means to start a journey. For a person whose favorite saying is "Places to go, people to annoy..." that might sound like a given. I basically have a yearly trip, be it in small or grand scale. Journeys though, are those instances in which travel becomes a revelation, when I come back older and wiser or rejuvenated and wilder. I need to learn something about myself I cannot learn at home. I need to find a place where I've never been and yet I believe, with all my heart a part of me is hidden there, on a stretch of road, in a painting, on a piece of overheard conversation between strangers that turned out to be a life lesson, at the shadow of a monument that will make me cry or laugh out of sheer amazement. I need a new lease on life.

• I will keep delving in  Judeo-Christian Theology, just because it fascinates me how people have dedicated years of effort to try and figure out Someone who, among His natural attributes, reside the word Unknowable. One of these days, I'll present may thesis: The Platypus and many other Inside Jokes: Humor in the Deity.

• Just to complete the above and because I honestly believe His plans are well constructed and His ways are as awesome as they are mysterious, I'll keep on giving a shout out and showing His Love in a practical way because that beats thumping the Bible anytime, anywhere.

• I will write. And once again, It sounds like I'm playing a broken record, because I write on a daily basis. This time though, I have a wonderful writing partner whose level of mischief and wonder are way out there... enough to make me want to acquire a Spanish keyboard. Yes, you heard it well. Voy a escribir en español. Eriiicccc, a donde vamos a llegar?

• In general, I'll keep cooking with Angie, tasting with Izzy, doing the fine art critic thing with Michelle, having extravagant cups of coffee with my sisters, and finding creative ways to annoy my brothers in law. I'll celebrate Kendra's uniqueness, Lysanel's love of all things pink, Millie's outrageous take on life and Katya's adventures in all things college. I will find a way to spend more time with the elder peeps (because 24 hours is not enough time for mom and dad, gramps and titi).

• I will cheer and jeer movie trailers with Robin, scream Viva la Deeva as often as I can while sharing cyber victories with Viv, Mark and the girls. I will dedicate time to discover the mysteries of something called "Tumblr" so I can finally reciprocate half of the jokes Mariah sends my way. I'll keep on discussing every twist and turn on our favorite fantasy series with Mayra until Snow White finds her ever after and will write mini sagas for Ismael's awesome fantasy pics on the side.

More than anything, I'll leave a blank slate for the unexpected and make sure to do something,  at least one thing that scares me, and of course as I always do, I'll set some time aside to make friends out of wonderful strangers
LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE, take it seriously and life will be a lot easier.


The quote. as always, it is kick ass, deep and courtesy of the wonderful Mr. Gaiman. So here it is, a positive spin on one of those annoying things that make us all too human:

"I hope that in this year to come, you make mistakes.

Because if you are making mistakes, then you are making new things, trying new things, learning, living, pushing yourself, changing yourself, changing your world. You're doing things you've never done before, and more importantly, you're Doing Something."

A passport to Weirdland... my adventures with Team 126

Disclosure: One third of this is completely true, one third is an attempt at recording, without personal involvement the unfolding of one of the most successful social experiment to come about in the history of the Internet, the other third is comedic hyperbole... you choose.

Some people have been curious about my very secretive ways these past week or so. My presence in Facebook and other social media has been obscure at best- well, not really- I was in another page, conspiring with another people.

Certain members of my family were honestly worried, others were quite cooperative within their means and their abilities...(Batgirl, your identity shall remain hidden, I swear). As always, the midnight crew followed me into the mouth of madness, good soldiers of fortune willing to wake up in the middle of the night to follow a mysterious tweet or a furtive email.

I guess, close to 24 hours after the curtain fell, it is safe to say, being a puppet ain't that bad, when they make you dance tied to sugar string.

The Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen (GISHWHES for short) is my latest entry into the bizarre section of my Curriculum Vitae. Honestly, given the chance; wouldn't you want to add Guinness Record Breaker to your long list of WTF?

The whole concept is the brainchild of my top deranged celebrity, Misha Collins and the mysterious Miss Jean Louis, a capricious artiste from the school of Marcel Duchamp, you know, that nice French bloke, who in a moment of lucidity uttered: "All in all, the creative act is not performed by the artist alone; the spectator brings the work in contact with the external world by deciphering and interpreting its inner qualifications."

If you mix this particular appreciation of life with the wonderful Mr. Collins point of view; constant optimist that he is, the man believes the world can be fundamentally changed, one random act of kindness at a time... then you have the set up for an interesting game indeed.

Who is in the line up, you might ask? Did I mention Mr. Collins has over 318,000 followers, willing to sign into his beck and call,one tweet after another? You might call them followers, he prefers the word minions, you know all potatoes and potatos will end meeting the same peeler.

The thing is that quite a good chunk of people world wide said I do and jumped blindly into a game of art, community and creativity without having the slight lest idea of what was expected of them.

I was apprehensive at first, because all of us are happy in our own little world, you see and Mr. Collins does not believe kids should play by themselves, so what I thought would be just another night at the movies with the midnight crew was more of an act of casting our lots with seven complete strangers, from all over the globe.

As I opened my inbox the first day, I discovered I had two Germans, two Poles, three Canadians, one of them chillin' in the California sun. Well guys, the world just expanded. We bonded, immediately and it is ridiculous to think that a week ago our common denominator was a kind of obscure Sci-fi/Horror series in the CW network and a certain trench coated angel. Well, not even that, Izzy usually avoids all plots involving handsome crying men, so we had to fill him in, and quick.

Today I can say that we laughed, stressed, provided feedback, send frantic emails in the middle of the might, fueled each others whimsy and even managed to dance together. I know that Torben is willing to raise to the roof, Finja is really a fairy in disguise, Monika hates Facebook but was willing to sign up for our sake (she has also been granted my the amazing ability to bring order to Chaos) that Ula knows exactly how low can GISHWHES go, that Michele and Danna can out dance anyone and anything in any setting, that Tamara will get her fingers and toes in a sticky situation, just to help the team advance; that Michelle and Hisriel are willing to get into a fight in an extinct language and that I can both rock kale in salad and above my head to light the dinner table.

Thank you guys for an awesome experience. It was a chance to raise something out of nothing and make it worth everything. Out of all the crazy stuff we cooked together, our little secret society was the best.

What is left to say to those who didn't take part on this experiment? There's always next year. In the meantime, if you see some oddball in a monkey hat, perhaps skipping a couple of steps down the road, singing in Enochian or smiling wide without apparent reason; smile back. There's a chance you are crossing paths with an artist, or someone who is compromised with a random act of kindness... well this person might also be a weird little hobo, but a smile never hurt anybody.

Luuuuuuvvvv to all.

OHHHH... I forgot, in the meantime, if you feel like spreading the love and have some change to spare, get to know the not so crazy side of the coin: www.therandomact.org

En Spanish... Calle 13 mientras mas lo digas...

 Los Grammys llegaron y se fueron y Calle 13 le demostró a el mundo que no se necesita una casa disquera para conquistar la industria de la música. No es fácil lograr semejante hazaña.

Una vez más Rene predico su evangelio de la playera (viste que así se dice t-shirt en español, que monstra soy cuando quiero) dejando saber su pensar en 100% algodón. Dijo lo suyo ante el micrófono y nos dejó con una canción  que se ha de convertir en el himno no oficial de una Latinoamérica unida. Que bueno.

Mucha gente en Puerto Rico esta abanderada con este asunto y por lo general la división es de índole política. Aunque hay muchas excepciones a la regla, basandome en lo que he podido apreciar en los foros... si eres estadista es tu deber que  te apeste Calle 13, si eres popular o independentista,  entonces estas basicamente obligado a apreciar el estilo y el mensaje.

Advertencia: A mí me importa un comino el abanderamiento político sobre este tema. Por mi Rene puede expresarse como quiera en cualquier foro sobre cualquier persona. No es el primero ni el último que le ha dicho lo que piensa a un gobernante en una sociedad  libre. Por mí que le ponga un blanco a la madre de Fortuño en la espalda y que se raspe un Free Willy si alguna vez se da el Delfinario de San Juan hacia el futuro.  Si esa manera de expresarse lo hace feliz, una vez más, sea bienvenido.

Ahora, lo que me revienta de Rene, va más allá de mis 100x35. Me molestan las verdades a medias, la falta de compromiso del artista hacia las realidades de los pueblos. Me molesta que América Latina este corta de estrofas, que no se canten todas las versiones de la historia.

Yo tengo dos cuñados, uno Nicaragüense y otro Cubano, los cuales han vivido una historia que no aparece en las rimas de Rene, la historia que no conviene contar, porque no tiene que ver nada con los excesos del imperialismo Norteamericano, y si con el problema a el que enfrentan los disidentes de los gobiernos que Rene tanto protege y admira.

Oh sí, porque que bueno es recordar  la cara de un desaparecido cuando es víctima de Pinochet, si tú sabes, aquel que los gringos treparon y después no supieron bajar. Pero qué me dices de los que desaparecieron bajo Sandino. Nicaragua tiene su buena y larga lista. Si, háblenme de los sandinistas que tomaron sobre un país y ofrecieron oportunidad de educación para todos, igualdad para la mujer y acceso a servicios de salud para todos a razón de expropiar tierras y decidir quién se queda y quien se va de su propia patria. Cántame Rene de la gente que tuvo que salir de su tierra corriendo por cometer el pecado de ser disidente de una ideología política en el poder. Tírame una rima bien sabrosa sobre la política de apartheid calladita que existe en Nicaragua donde los indios no valen nada. Usa esa musa para escribirle un himno a las madres Nicaragüenses que salieron de su país con lo que pudieron y llegaron a Estados Unidos sin nada a razón de haber recibido la “cortesía y consideración” de todos los países entre Nicaragua y Texas en donde se cobraban todo tipo de multas e incluso se jugaba con  la noción de desaparecer tus hijos si no pagabas cuotas exorbitantes… esas lagrimas tienen valor también. Porque aquí en Estados Unidos están los que quieren, los que pueden y los que no tienen más remedio. Que esta de lo que hablo se quedó en los ochenta? Cántame de México y de lo considerados que siguen siendo con los “inmigrantes” Hondureños que ponen  pie en ese país. Allí hay para cantar un rato.

Y hablando de los que están aquí porque no les queda más remedio. Qué lindo es ver un cañaveral bajo el sol de Cuba. Felicidades a ti que puedes verlo. Déjame sugerir una canción sobre Cuba y los cañaverales. Cántame la cancioncita del trabajo forzado impuesto en los que no están de acuerdo con Fidel. Y no te hablo de los alborotaos que tienen la política corriéndole por la sangre. Te hablo de los que no participan  de la actividad política por causa de su consciencia. Cántame sobre la gente que como el padre de mi cuñado hicieron tiempo en prisiones cubanas a causa de que su religión no les permite tomar parte del proceso político… porque en Cuba la bella estar neutral hacia el régimen es tan malo como estar en contra.

Y si puedes, cántame de los que están en la cárcel por tirarse maromas como las que te tiras tú, querido Rene, porque más de uno le ha dicho hijo de puta a Castro y créeme, no ha sido celebrado como lo eres tú. Háblame de la situación de los cubanos que tienen que bregar tanto con el impuesto embargo como con la falta de humanidad de su propio gobierno. Que las cosas están cambiando con Raúl? Pregúntaselo a las damas de Blanco.

Que tienes guerra contra el Imperio… una vez más me importa un pito, este país aguanta esto y mucho más… que te vas a hartar con el billetaje cuando hagas la movida al mercado anglosajón, como lo anunciaste en Primer Impacto… probablemente. Aquí hay mucha queja de índole social a la cual sacarle punta. Es una pena que cuando te presentaste en Jimmy Kimmel perdiste el tiempo cantando en español para después reírte de los idiotas que te hacían coro sin entenderte. Sabes qué? Una vez más fue decepcionante, porque ese era el foro, ese era el momento, con la atención nacional para pararse y decirle a Jimmy al pan pan y al vino vino… this is what really bothers me about the politics of your country, that has mine by the balls, you know… pero tuvimos que conformarnos con tu camiseta y con tu lirica explosiva y con oírte mandar a los americanos a decir woooohoooo o algo entre coro y coro después de quejarte con un colorido puñeta de que no sabían español.

Sigue hablando de todo el mundo que de mí no recibes una ovación sincera hasta que no me cantes de las dos caras de la moneda. Latinoamérica es una canción hermosa pero le resta mérito estar  inconclusa.