Think Before You speak

He was looking at the road out the window. His body the same casual brooding she had know so long ago; it was only hands that had always given him away. He never seemed to her to be in control of all the things his hands said. They used to tell of awkwardness and longing. Always reaching for her without realizing it. Or hanging nervously at his sides. That night they gripped the steering wheel while they tried to make small talk about the last 3 years spent not talking to one another. She wanted to tell him how she still hadn't learned when to keep her mouth shut. That she was sorry for everything she had done, everything she had been, all the times she had failed to be what he had wanted of her. She wanted to say that she still didn't know how to let go, only how to hold more and more inside.

But it was late and the car ride was only a couple of minutes long. "Take care," he said. "yeah... you too"

maybe they meant it. Maybe that's enough.

Sometimes courage and cowardice look exactly the same
it's hard to tell why we do anything.

It' raining outside.
beautiful drops of courage and cowardice,
or maybe just reflections
of not enough sleep
and too many words.

This is How I know

This is how I know
I am a writer:
When kissing
a beautiful girl,
I'm thinking of writing.

This is how I know
I really
really
like a girl:
When I'm writing,
I'm thinking
of making love
to her.

It could have been

I've been wondering lately about nature versus nurture. About the things that are intrinsically us, and those that are a result of our environment.

Things we are pre-disposed to. Things we can't help becoming. Things about ourselves we will spend our entire lives fighting.

And those we'll discover years later drunk or high or sick realizing we are not who we thought we were. Knowing this is who we've always been

I've only got a minute

"You forgot" He said standing back staring at her. Fuck him, she thought. Who the fuck does he think he is. "You forgot," he repeated calmly.
"In case you haven't noticed this bathroom floor is currently being occupied by me so kindly go fuck yourself somewhere else unless you got some blow" She was hugging the toilet. He was a blurry mess of awkward limbs, hands in his pockets. He walked towards the door turning at the end to look at her
"you forgot that we fall and we fall and we fall. but then we get back up again" And her eyes were closing and he was disappearing.

It's a beautiful day in my neighborhood

I’ve always loved my neighborhood; its streets and alleys, the nosy neighbor, the makeshift restaurant out of the woman’s kitchen down the street; even the corner church where people try to save me every time I walk by, “the world is going to end! Salvation can only be found in Jesus.” I’ve always defended it against almost everyone who claims it’s dangerous. I moved into it because I knew these here, these are my people and I was so tired of being the only brown face in a sea of white. I wanted so much to forget my race. To live where I didn’t have to be confronted with it every time I stepped out; I needed this place.
But today I wanted to hold her hand, to walk down the street to get some coffee and hold her hand. All I could think, with her fingers interlaced in mine, was what if we crossed the wrong person. What if my father is driving down the street, what if one of those men looking at us in that way she doesn’t notice, what if he sees me and remembers me next time I’m walking home alone at night. I held her hand and I held my breath.
The thing is that being Mexican and being gay is bad, you are weak and stupid and the scum on the bottom of people’s feet. But there is a gay community in México, gay bars, and gay rights. To be lesbian… is the worst kind of betrayal imaginable. A betrayal of your family, your home, your community, your country, and your people- pretty much Eve, Mary Magdalene, Pandora, la Malinche and every evil lesbian character in movies that must be punished for her betrayal all wrapped up in one.
I could move out. I could find some other place where I could be happy and queer and even *gasp* kiss my girlfriend in public, but I’d feel as though I’d be giving up on a part of myself, betraying my people in some way, submerging myself in this American culture, turning into one of “them.”
Here then are my choices. Leave my people or live with people who will never accept me.
If I could just find the Mexican-american, queer, woman, poetry, writer, sometimes politically active neighborhood, I’d be in heaven- or find something less depressing to complain about.

my sister says: I thought I was a lesbian once, turns out I just hadn't met the right guy.

I feel evil. what kind of monster tells someone they can leave and then squishes them when they try. I shake my head at me.

Had a long conversation with a spider this morning about how creepy it was. we agreed that if it went away, I wouldn't kill it. It moved, I panicked, it's dead.

On urban legends

my favorite one is the chupacrabas.

the most incredulous, I don't know.

can I say people's beliefs are urban legends when they contradict who i am or the realities of my life
and do people REALLY belief these things or is it just a way to feel comfortable about doing wack shit

have you ever seen 30 days? it's this documentary show by Spurlock, the guy who did Supersize me. I saw this one episode that really pissed me off about gays and lesbians being allowed to adopt.
this lady who was against it moved in with a gay couple who had 4 adopted kids.

anyway the thing that kept pissing me off was that she was so incredibly offended. felt so attacked and offended by these guys because they wanted to raise those kids. And I think people I will encounter in my life will be so incredibly offended, feel so incredibly attacked by me. I am queer. I am an immigrant. there are people I will meet and who will be so incredibly offended by my existence.
maybe I'm the urban legend. Told at bedtime to scare kids straight.

Because I know she's real. I see her all the time. She makes laws that limit the rights of people. she makes flippant remarks about some minority and thinks they're ok to make because that minority is not present. She is more real than me. The system was created and caters to her

I wonder if urban legends feel that way. If they sit around telling stories about us and wonder how we could be so stupid
The chupacabras is probably writing a novel about how a creature can't walk up to a blood bank and withdraw food because everyone runs away scared from it or is always trying to beat it up.
how incredibly ignorant of us.

"we've always attempted to deny the extra-sensory
the stuff that challenges our perceptions and make us uncomfortable
not realizing that denial is a form of assimilation" -Brock

and I challenge people's perceptions and make them uncomfortable.

which part of me is real and which part is the urban legend.

on leviticus

Leviticus 18:22 says "Thou shall not lie with mankind as with womankind"

I'm an atheist. I don't believe there is a god. but on this one quote, speaking as a queer woman, I must agree that I will not lie with mankind as I lie with womankind.

sunrise vs sunset aka, santa claus isn't real

So a long time ago, I used to be all romantic about sunrises*
I was all "ooooh sunrises, I want to see one" and "oooooh,I bet they're so cool"
ok only one of those oooohs is real
This may have continued my entire life until one day I'd watch a sunrise for the first time with someone I was romantically involved** with and we'd fall in love and live happily ever after.
Except I have been robbed of that moment. A few years ago I was riding the greyhound across the US going to a summer program at Cornell and I had to stay up. I saw the sun rise. All I felt was tired and annoyed at the way it glared at my eyes.
All I thought was "this blows, sunrises are the same as sunsets, except backwards and from the opposite direction."

The moral of the story is that Santa clause isn't real. I bet he never was.


*I mean romantic in a romantic period of literature where nature is exalted, not romantic in a let's talk about sex bay-be, let's talk about you and me, kind of way.
**Let's talk about sex bay-be, let's talk abou you and me

15 minutes before work

I've got this theory (I've got lots, just ask me) that I fell down some rabbit hole some eighteen or so years ago, and none of this is real.

I read this story once about this girl who realized she was in a story and didn't want to move because she didn't want the story to progress because she knew what was going to happen. The story she happened to be a part of was the one about the guy and the hook on the door. And she knew that if she opened the door the hook would be there and the guy would kill her.

So suppose this is all in my head. or in yours. suppose you fell down some rabbit hole eighteen years ago. would you move? take the blue pill or the red pill? to make a choice. every moment. to move or stand still. keep reading, or stop.

we write because we can't help it

I was talking to a friend after a truly awe inspiring performance of "I killed my mother" at the greenhouse theater (it's still going on and you should go see it if you can). And while we said many profound things, because we're so deep and smart and young and stupid, the thing that stayed with me is the we have this intrinsic acceptance that we are writers. Even when we (I) deny it at every chance I (I mean we (I)) get. He said that he finally had to accept it when he realized it was the one thing he was really good at (or something like that). But I think we both know that we write because we can't help it. I've got a desk drawer full of napkins and half sheets and random blank spaces on scratch paper full of words and beginnings and endings. I might never do anything with them like expand them or look at them again but I have them. Because I can't help writing things down. I can't shut out the narrator in my head that likes to live in the in-between.

My name is allthein-between.blogspot.com and I am a writer.

Things my mother taught me

I got this text from a friend and I thought it was hilarious so here you go:
My mother Taught me
PERSEVERANCE- "Sigue chingando y veras como te va a ir"
she taught me
RELIGION- "Ay cabron, pidele a Dios que yo no te agarre"
she taught me
ANTICIPATION- "Deja que lleguemos a casa pinche chamaco"
She taught me about
ROOTS- "Malagradecido, cuando yo era chica, no tenia ni zapatos!"
She taught me
LOGIC- "Como que porque? Porque SI cabron!!!"
She taught me about
INSPIRATION- "Si llegas con malas calificaciones te voy a dar con la chancla, cabron asta que aprendas!"
She taught me about
WISDOM- "Tu crees que sabes todo, aprende a limpiar el culo primero y luego hablamos!"
She taught me about
FINANCE- " Me lovas a pagar cabron"

I think Mary Wollstonecraft was queer. Bisexual to be exact.
I've been reading about her and there's all these references to her "friends" and "companions" who are all women. She does later in life marry a guy, get divorced, and marry another guy, but most of her life is spent with women "companions" Including this one chick that she moves out of her father's house to be with. She's kinda a badass lady.

Then again, maybe I just want her to be queer because I have a crush on her and the things she wrote.

Her

I miss her today. The only girl I've ever loved. I miss her smile and her laugh and falling asleep to the sound of her voice. I miss her skin and her smell and the way she said my name. I miss her. Who she is and was who I was when I was with her. I miss that person too.

This song

Tonight's sleepless night is all about music.

There is a song you gave me so long ago, and tonight I give it back. It has always made me think of you in that melancholy way we romanticize a time passed. Remember when we were so young and stupid (as if we aren't anymore) and we promised each other everything. A past to build a foundation on, a present to wake up for, and a future- moments to dream about.
But we're both gone now and among the few things you left me, this song is one of them.

Pink is kind of an amazing singer/songwriter/artist. It's sad how oblivious I've been to so many of her songs.

It's 5 am again.