portáte bien Juanito

Ever since I began to publish my divagations, I have always attempted to retain a sense of privacy to which only I and a few others are privy to. For the most part, this has always been the case. I was once asked what drove me to have an online journal, what of my privacy? I did not know what to answer then. In retrospect, it is apparent that I did not have a problem with furnishing my life to others, to complete strangers even because it was not my life that I was discussing. No, what I made available were my thoughts. I have never published anything truly personal. When I “scribbled” for over a year, I hardly ever mentioned anything of my life. Of course, once in a while I would forget and discuss some triviality such as being tempted to drink Diet Coke (oh shall I ever discuss the denial of the self?). And I would ramble on about my addiction to caffeine and the puerile struggle to free myself from such a drug. Il se drogue! Il se drogue!

My journal, in all its incarnations has been a window into my mind, into its development. Thus, it has been the rational me dans le processus. The emotional me, the part of my person that I consider the private side, has always remained just that. On occasion, I will acquaint the reader with a bit of this self. But even then, it is limited and beguiling – an amalgamation of words and non-words, allusions and delusions.

I don’t know why I have never felt the need to share the most intimate aspects of myself. Perhaps it is because they are too intimate, too vulnerable and susceptible to emotional duress.

Why did I never discuss how I felt disgusted when I first made love to another individual? Did he love me; doubtful. Perhaps this is why I cried? It is possible that some part of me realized that he did not love me and that I had squandered that bit of me that was special. And even now, although I mention this ‘personal’ aspect, I do not say his name. He lost his identity when he lost himself in my eyes; he became a blurry figment of my autumnal fever. Naturally, I rubbed my eyes to clear my sight.

I feel the need to discuss Ryan. From him I learnt one thing, rather several things, but one especially, which it shames me to share. Though I am prone to suspect that it was a half-learnt thing, for there are many a time that would contradict this (again I am being unclear as to what I am referring. I am not desirous to be frank about this).

I remember the last time I saw him at Stanford. I had agreed to see him. I met him somewhere near his apartment, from which we proceeded to go for a walk. As we strolled through campus, we conversed about various things. From the things I said to him, he acknowledged that I had changed, that there was an air of change about me. I denied it of course, for such is my tendency with such a serious accusation. How could Juan change? I was the same person, I still held my somewhat lunatic fascination with olive oil glass bottles; I find them exquisite. Alas I had changed. I was more confident, I know this much. I was iridescent under the warm summer sun, inhaling the moving world around me, a world that would not hesitate to proceed without my presence. A world that had done this much! For some strange reason, I imagine myself with long hair at this juncture in my life, even though I know that I had short hair. I was wearing sandals, or as he calls them “flip-flops,” an idiom of his that I simply took as being a social convention, and as I my proclivity with most social conventions, I tossed it aside. Oh, how I recall the sun, the students riding their bicycles and the groups of students walking in every direction. My eyes were delighted with every stimuli imaginable and more.

Our destination was the building where he was to have class. On the way, we went through a building I no longer recall, perhaps it was the music building. And at this juncture, the history building stands out, but that is a whole different story, a completely different me, a me I absolutely adore and I suspect is the true me. As we made our way through the music building, proceeding down a flight of stairs, he tried to kiss me. He pushed me against the wall. I do not like to be controlled. I have always been quite defensive of my personal space. Yet, I did not push him away nor did I try to escape his hold. I simply diverted my gaze to the ground. My comportment was very un-Dostoievsky, so unlike me. I think I told him, “No, I cannot kiss you. I love someone else.” And he held me. He were both sad, his sadness cascading from his eyes. I don’t know if I was lying. Did I love someone else at the time? I remember that I had given myself to my abusive and pleasantly delightful other half, i.e., St. John’s. I divine that St. John’s nurtured that side of me I call Dostoievsky-like.

I do not recall what else occurred, save a bit awkwardness as we made our way to our final destination. I said goodbye to him, hugged him and walked away. I looked back but he was gone.

My affected indifference, for the most part, for Ryan was a result of my opinion of him. He was someone that had lost my affection, he was of no consequence to me at that point. I did not hate him and I never have. I did hold some resentment but it was justified inasmuch as this sentiment can be justified. I love Ryan very much.

So why am I sharing this particular bit of my private life? I suspect it has to do with the fact that he spoke to me to-day and informed me that he was going to be in my area. Sadly I am not there. I would love to see him again. I’m much more human now and I have this feeling that he would like this.

To-day has been interesting. I spoke to Michelle, one of my best kept secrets. On occasion I have mentioned her in this journal. But always with deference and with a touch of minimalism in my description of her character, for everyone in my world takes on the vestment of a character. I love her. I love her smile, her laughter. I love her and every bit of her! I think she is beautiful and not because she befriended me when no-one would. Somehow, she saw something in me, perhaps it was that thing Chris calls “spunk” in me. Perhaps a better word, though it shames me to say it, is “sass.” Hah! My freshman year roommate called me “sassy.” I thought it was hilarious, like Mr. Hand calling me rowdy in my Don Rag. Inconceivable! Inconceivable! Yet my opinion of Mr. Mann has improved drastically in my absence from the College. Perhaps it has to do with the fact that I can now admit that I think that he is hot and also, because he mentioned me in the school’s failed attempt at a newspaper. If I see him again, I shall have to hug him!

But returning to Michelle, most gay guys, when they admire a woman, it is because they want to be her! This is not my case with Michelle, I love her because she is awesome. I somehow found comfort in our friendship in high school, perhaps it was because we were both “Latino.” A word I have never attributed to myself, this is the first time. But I must admit that there was this affinity. Not too long ago, I had a discussion with her concerning family and its role in the American and Latino cultures, this was during my confusion; the confusion still persists. Ah I love her! She’s great. I can still hear her laughter!

And in our conversation, I discussed the type of life that I want. I described it as a Simple. But then I had to reveal my true colors, i.e., I said that simplicity is a user phenomenon.

Yesterday, but also to-day, I realized that I might have been born in the wrong époque. The activities I take pleasure in are reminiscent of those the characters in the novel I am currently reading revel in. I am too academic for most. But I cannot help but take pleasure in reading books and discussing them, in going for long walks and watching people, in having tea while I have a one on one conversation with another person. Ah to have someone else’s attention all to myself, now that is amazing. I love it. By the way, can someone please buy me this book, I must have it!

Oh how confusing! I have discussed various things and yet I am unable to grasp them all!

Would Michelle get along with my Johnnies? Doubtful. I think I have an ability to get along with most people because my personality is like my ethnicity; variegated. I can be anything (save Irish according to Sarah). My mother is Brazilian and my father is Japanese. Oh Uranian gods, oh Muse you have inspired me without my asking for your infusion of creativity! I am different things to various people. To Brian, I am the weak one. As he aptly informed me “Remember who is the weak one here.” And to be honest, I have no qualms with being emotionally weak, of being susceptible to Love. Eros rules my heart and mind. Somehow I have managed to contain all my emotions, which like an epileptic seizure take hold of me and bring me to my knees, weeping and desirous of escaping to the Kingdom described by Lucretius. To Miguel I am the one that does things, and without regret, falls into the abyss of depression.

Ah how I miss the List of Things Quiles Hates. How was it that it became the List of Things Quiles Loves? How is it possible that he can love? It boggles the mind and strains the nerves! Oh by everythign that is holy to humanity! Oh insanity that we are now bereft, there is a dearth of intellect here! Ah the apocalypse!

Oh how much I have said. I am tired now. Gad! Yet I feel that I can go on. Before I go, I must say that my “fans” as one of my friends calls them, are urging that I become once more engaged in that project that I left abandoned some time ago. It’s funny to think that there are people all around the world that “admire” me. That have found a source of inspiration in me. It makes me want to laugh for I find it rather distressing that I could inspire anyone! Not that I do not think I am incapable of inspiring anyone, but that I feel that to be inspired by me is counterintuitive! But what am I saying now! Bullocks! Absolute waffles! Oh dear sir! Hats off gentlemen! Hats off.

I confess it makes me giddy, it make me want to be myself even more! I shall go on writing, I shall go on analyzing for writing is my passion and I must analyze in order to write.

Hey Pretty!
Yes you good-looking!
Oh don’t be modest!
But I am not sir, I shall vituperate against your Nuremberg Funnel! I shall say that I am superior but in so many words that your mind will be unable to discern my well-camouflaged vituperation!
Oh dear, you’ve lost me my dear. Please elucidate.
Why do you mock me? Why do you steal my mots?
Ah you look god-like when you are angry!
But I am not angry! I am being human!
Oh yes?
How strange!
Sir, nothing human is strange.
Indeed, but you must admit that you are a strange fellow.
I shall and I shall multiple times. I shall never refute this accusation.
A calumny?
Ah such negativity but here I must say that if calumny be, then it is well received.
You’re so pretty!
And you are so daft!
Don’t be rude.
Then don’t be daft!
Ah! My dear, you look just lovely in black!
The color of my eyes!
Fool! Don’t tell me you still believe that?
I did once, but now I know better. I removed that doubt a dozen years ago! Oh how I miss my cinnamon-colored hair!
Yes, recall the desert?
Ah yes I was there too.
And the water?
Yes … we floated gently down the water.
Quite delightful.
Like breathing.
Or in the act of simply being loved. But….
Qu’est-ce que tu vas dire?
Before you interrupted, that I dare not dress in black.
But you look so beautiful in it, why must you make it complicated.
I must abhor the physical. I cannot trust my senses.
What of Love?
Love is intellectual.
Yes, but now you’ve made it complicated.
I simply can’t be pretty.
It’s quite complicated.
Do you think I’ve made it so?
If not, you shall.
That’s a bit complicated.
I’ve got hope that you’ll make it. You’ve got Love.
But you’re cute as a bug, tiny like a beeping.
I should be sleeping.
No. You lie.
That is true. I should be dipping my feet in water.
Why limit yourself thus?
Indeed, I should dip my entire body. Drown in the water.
There you go.
I love it.
Yes, but it doesn’t prevent it from being complicated.
Let’s just say it’s a pretty little thing.
A bit.
Look at me, I’ve adopted your idioms.
It’s more complicated.
I’m going to laugh. Touché.
I am to be Green and you are to be Blue.
I forget, which one loses?
Ah you fool, we’ve switched places?
What do you mean?
Hah! Don’t play the fool!
But I am a Saint!
And not every Saint is a Fool.
Ah how complicated.