I’m heading out to a Christmas party right about now. I’m not sure if that’s even the correct politically correct title for such event. Is it a “Holiday” party, or a “Friendship” gathering? I don’t know.
I guess I’ll find out. Here I go.
Latest Updates RSS
-
Q. Reyes
-
Q. Reyes
Sometimes I have a hard time dealing with myself. Why? Because I’m freaking crazy. I’m nuts. I’m not even kidding.
I truly believe that there’s a thin line between creativeness and craziness. I don’t talk out loud to myself or anything like that, but I sure do think to myself a lot.
I very seldom have suicidal thoughts or the such, nothing above what the average person would think about, because, if we must face it, we all have thought about what it would be like to kill yourself. Especially after hearing someone has done it. We try to figure out what they were thinking.
But enough of that, my crazy thoughts are a little different. More in the “what if” realm. What if this happened? What if that happened? From there the thoughts get more elaborate by the moment, and sometimes they reach a good creative conclusion, or other times they get more confusing and never end at all.
I feel like sometimes I abuse my own body’s chemical release system. Like I manipulate whatever chemical gets released when one’s depressed, at will. Other times whatever chemical when one’s excited.
It takes me so long to focus sometimes, and I can’t help but to work on more than one thing at a time. I can’t just pay attention to one thing.
Now I don’t think I have ADD or anything like that, because I’m really not hyper, or unable to complete something, and my focus, when disciplined, is there.
I feel like I get bored easily. I get distracted, willingly. I’m a prisoner to my own procrastination. Just wanted to note what I’ve been noticing about me.
-
Q. Reyes
I love taking Public Transportation because it literally transports you into a different world. A world filled with weirdos, weirdos, and more weirdos. It’s a gathering place for the crazy.
In my 31 years of God-given life, I have NEVER been on a bus or train where there wasn’t someone talking to themselves. Public transportation is like the Disneyland for schizophrenics. It’s like a fun roller coaster for people suffering from bi-polar disorder.
I’m sure that these people need mental health help, obviously, and most likely a home as well. But my question is, if you’re a homeless person with a multiple-personality disorder, where are you going on the bus? We know you are not going to work or home, so really, where are you going?
The other day I’m riding the Metro train, and I saw something I never thought existed… a Chinese lady talking to herself. I’ve seen most every other race doing this, but this was rather unique because she was actually speaking in Chinese. I assume she was angry with her imaginary friend(s) because she was yelling at them… and that’s when it hit me… we are all crazy!
Maybe we “sane people” are the crazier ones. Maybe we don’t see the imaginary people that are all around us, and that makes us stupid. They’re right in front of our faces and we just can’t see them. I never judge anyone because they talk to themselves riding public transportation. Sometimes you can overhear some of the wisest things, such as “ARGLKDS HDFHSJLJ DLFHDJKSHFJ SDLHFEUUW!!!!!”
Like the other day a guy yelled “I’m gonna kill everybody up in here!” And you know what? He’s smart. He’s thinking what we all are probably thinking, except he’s got the courage to say it out loud, and then proceeded to urinate in his pants. That’s true courage. I’m not at that level of human freedom yet.
But my question remains… why public transportation? …and why only the train or bus? You never see anyone acting up on a plane, and if they do, they’re catching a quick beat down.
Is there a secret society of public transportation crazies that identify each other by their “haven’t showered in a year” smell? I don’t know, but the dollar-twenty-five fare is sure worth the entertainment.
-
Q. Reyes
I fell in love. Thirty one years it took, but I fell in love. However this love is different. It didn’t take thirty one years to love my wife. I probably loved her before I was born. This love is more of a passionate infatuation. The culprit to have taken my heart, mind and body hostage? Wine.
Yes, I know that was anti-climatic. That wasn’t were I seem to be going, yet here I am. In love with a beverage that has very little nutritional value. Some abuse this love, and I can see why. I’m not speaking in alcoholic terms. I’m speaking in the complexity of such drink.
Please, understand, I did not grow up in the most privileged of conditions. The taste of Tang still lingers in my childhood nightmares. It’s pretty sad when I realize the juices I used to drink, were not really juice at all. Who would have thought that Kool-Aid doesn’t grow on trees. I would have sworn differently growing up.
Yet, here I am. Thirty one years of not understanding what wine was about. I hated the way it tasted. It was bitter and scorned. What I failed to realize, it wasn’t the wine that was bitter. It was my life.
Maybe I’m overly stating what my new-found passion is, but the truth is that now I understand. I understand why some people love onion. I don’t. I understand why some people love. I didn’t.
So again, here I am. Learning about one of the oldest beverages in the world. From the times of pre-recorded history, humans learned to make wine. It didn’t take long. I used to drink it just to get drunk. Get a bottle and finish it in five minutes. I didn’t understand the taste, or the headache the morning after.
I decided to give it a try. A real, honest to goodness try. It paid off. I learned how wine is made. The different types of wine. The different methods of enjoyment. What is wine? I learned that.
Little by little I started appreciating the flavors. The smells. The complexity of such gift. I found out a lot about me through wine. Each bottle is different than the next, and the complexity and variety of each serving is pretty similar to my life.
I can taste beyond the bitterness. I can smell beyond the alcohol. I can uncover hidden flavors, which were always there, but now I can appreciate them. My life is equally interesting, at least to me. My life’s a bold Cabernet Sauvignon, sometimes. Other times I’m as clear as a Chardonnay. Others, I’m a sweet White Zinfandel.
Wine is a work of art. It’s a painting dressed as a drink. The colors, the shapes, they’re all there. Opening the eyes, nose, taste buds. Just like life.
Yeah, I’m still new in my relationship with wine, so I am hoping it turns out to be what I hope it will. Now I understand a lot of things. Those that abuse wine, do not understand it. Those that abuse wine, do not love it. Just like life.
-
Q. Reyes
This past week was filled with many challenges. Some good, some bad, some still linger. Trying to work against the current is always one of the most difficult tasks human beings are constantly presented with. It seems the harder I try the harder it gets.
The current pulls me under and downstream. I must keep swimming to barely stay breathing.
