tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78901792946290350802023-11-15T06:31:30.591-08:00In Memory of SomethingAlejandro Tinajerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02658810909210485668noreply@blogger.comBlogger4125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890179294629035080.post-14325365780265011832013-10-29T16:38:00.000-07:002013-11-03T20:30:33.303-08:00This Coffee is Disgusting<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Let’s be honest for
just a second. We have all done some pretty fucked up shit that we regret.
Maybe </span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;">you've</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> gotten drunk and hooked up with some stranger you had only just
met. You find yourself asking, “Well, was it at least good? Was it worth it?”
No, it probably was completely terrible. Why would you think this? Because you
don’t even remember what happened. Were you </span></span></span><i style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 0.5in;">that
</i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">drunk? No, he just </span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;">couldn't</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> contain himself and finished before your mind
could even begin to process that something was happening.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Or maybe your regret
comes in the form of talking to someone you thought was absolutely beautiful.
She stood there, in the back of the bar, long blond hair flowing past her
slender shoulders, like an ocean of gold meeting the sandy shore. You </span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;">couldn't</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> help but notice the hazel eyes, curious and bold. She looked up at you, only to
look away, revealing her pearly, crowded teeth. Her presence radiated with a
soft glow, and it drew you in. You took the first steps, and you risked your
dignity. You plunged yourself into new territory. Eye contact was made, and she
smiled. You felt a spark, the hair on your arms stood, electrified. And you
thought to yourself, “something great is about to start.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">Turns out she’s batshit
crazy. She touches your arm, and whispers, “I <i>love</i> your skin.” You don’t know what to fucking do as she goes on
about her time in the Appalachian mountains, making moonshine. She tells you
about the time she held a séance for her dead hermit crab, Robert. You look
around for help, but you know you’re stuck for at least fifteen more minutes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">How about that time you
bought $40 boots at Target? You did find out that there’s a shoemaker in your
town who will reattach shoe soles. For $40.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">Today, I decided I
needed some kind of caffeine. I went to a crappy little café and ordered a Chai
latte, and completely ignored the young man who asked for my name three times.
I was summoned to pick up my beverage and soon discovered that they had
forgotten the chai in my chai latte. This would normally be fine, but something
prevented me from fully enjoying the coffee I had purchased: it was disgusting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">Coffee, and all drink
related to coffee, are incredibly vital in ensuring the quality of life of an
individual. Given shitty coffee, the individual will respond negatively, and
their whole day can potentially be ruined. Coffee is the oil for the gears of
society. It is important.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">I drank the shitty
coffee.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">“You </span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;">didn't</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> know the
coffee was going to be terrible,” you might say. No, in reality I did know. But
I took the risk and I made a pretty bad decision. Do I regret it? Absolutely.
Did I learn from this mistake? Probably not. Let’s face it, we often don’t
learn from our mistakes. Something compelled us to make the original awful
decision, and that same compulsion will likely manifest itself in us again. We
are flawed creatures, forever destined to repeat mistakes. It’s unfortunate,
but it’s bound to happen. Maybe it means we are hopeful. Or maybe it just means
we’re morons. Either way, mistakes are made, regret is created, and we are
forced to live with our decisions and their consequences. But hey, it </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">isn't</span></span><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> all
bad. After all, these regrets and mistakes give us something to talk about when
we’re sitting around in a crappy little cafe, drinking our disgusting coffee. </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
Alejandro Tinajerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02658810909210485668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890179294629035080.post-43496152863425335532012-06-08T18:19:00.000-07:002012-07-07T18:33:14.851-07:00Edge of NothingAdela decided to wander off the cliff that stood proudly over the thundering, violent sea.<br />
<br />
The inhabitants of the small little sea-side village, Portston, were fond of visiting the cliff and gazing into the distance. During the day, children would stare, creating nautical stories of whales, pirates, sailors, captured princesses, and sea monsters. They laughed at their ridiculous tales. Lovers would daringly dangle their legs over the edge, embracing each others bodies, fantasizing and concocting schemes to run away and get married, have children, and live away from other people, having only each other to keep warm during the chilly nights, their bodies shielding the salty wind. The ocean was hope to the inhabitants. <br />
<br />
The ocean was two-faced.<br />
<br />
The sun, growing tired of its daily arc across the sapphire sky, would sink, approaching the surface of the water that would soon extinguish its flames. Darkness gave way and spread throughout the air. Like moths to a light, men and women, boys and girls would all soon flutter back to their dimly lit homes, blow the candles out, and close their eyes to become one with the darkness. <br />
<br />
The edge of the enigma, once illuminated by the blazing light of the sun, was shrouded by a void. The sky and sea fused together, forming nothing. <br />
<br />
Adela stepped off the edge and fell into the enigma.<br />
<br />
Questions were asked after the discovery of her seemingly foolish and suicidal actions. Why? Why would she do something as stupid as this? What was she expecting?<br />
<br />
The truth is she wasn't expecting anything. What would one expect from nothing?<br />
<br />
As the sun set, as the men and women, boys and girls fluttered to their dimly lit homes, as the flames and smoke rising from waxy towers were extinguished, as eyelids protected pupils from the dark, Adela rose, walked towards the edge and took a fleeting step into the enigmatic abyss where she expected nothing.<br />
<br />
Well, doesn't that seem silly?<br />
<br />
Adela continued to fall. However, after several minutes of falling, she soon found herself slowing down. Pinpoints of light peppered the darkness, and Adela soon discovered that she was suspended in the dark. She swam through the ether that surrounded her. A burning sensation filled her and soon she grew uninterested and bored in exploring nothing. She remained motionless and felt the light within her warm her. She let the cool night time enter her and mix with the fire within her in a cosmic, swirling dance. She radiated.<br />
<br />
The following evening, as the sun was nearing horizon, the village gathered by the cliff, looking as far as possible, scanning the sea for any signs of a stupid girl. As the night approached the giant orb of light eventually sank into the sea. It was then the inhabitants noticed a new pinpoint of light, shining brilliantly throughout the salty, cold, night-time air. It radiated.<br />
<br />
<br />Alejandro Tinajerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02658810909210485668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890179294629035080.post-59246635913006398102010-06-13T21:01:00.001-07:002012-02-20T22:10:48.969-08:00Err.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span">He turned to me and said,<br />"I kind of regret it.<br />The fear, the anxiety,<br />And the sudden sense of solace,<br />The joy and disbelief<br />After hearing the desired response."<br />Fuck it, don't bother.<br />It doesn't even matter.<br />Put it in your pocket,<br />Let it ripen and grow,<br />Let it bloom,<br />Let it burgeon into something so terribly ugly<br />You can't bear to look at it.<br />Once it has matured, crush it,<br />Let the juices run through your coarse hands,<br />Watch it drip to the ground,<br />Creating puddles.<br />Then, gaze upon the spilt liquid,<br />And there you will see your reflection.<br />Smile, for you are solid and intact.<br />Then walk away and say,<br />"Fuck it."</span></span></span></span>Alejandro Tinajerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02658810909210485668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890179294629035080.post-45448643751308992742010-05-11T19:42:00.001-07:002012-02-20T22:11:05.746-08:00Frame.<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal"><span style="Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;">Growing up, I was a rather restless child. I would run past the cabinets, shelves, tables and desks, and occasionally, glance up at these pieces of furniture to quickly take a peek at the photographs that rested upon their wooden, polished surfaces. Many were of my mother and her sisters and brothers, or of me and my sister. I wouldn't spend too much time examining the photographs, and I would soon continue whatever it was I was doing. The photographs never held me back. <span style="mso-tab-count:1"> <br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>There was one, however, that I would stare at for a longer period of time. It was of a man. I didn't know this man, but he somehow looked familiar.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:normal"><span style=" Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;"><o:p><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span>I'd look up on the living room table, and upon the clear, glassy surface, I'd see that familiar face, staring right back at me.</o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal"><span style="Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;"><o:p> I remember not being able to recognize the familiar stranger I saw in the 5 X 7 frame that rested in the living room. I would sometimes consider asking my parents who the man was, but something told me I should know, and if I were to ask, I'd make myself look very foolish. So, for some time, I just assumed it was a photograph of my father when he was younger, or one of my uncles, for they had some of the same facial features. The man was familiar, so I assumed it was someone I knew. It made sense.<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span>As time went by, I eventually managed to muster up enough courage to ask my mother who the strange man in the picture was. Her response was simple, yet it was something I was not expecting. "Your grandfather."<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>It was at that moment I had realized that I had never met my grandfather. The idea that my father had a father never crossed my mind. I felt a little foolish. I later learned that he had died in a car accident. My father was about the age I currently am now when it happened, maybe a little older. Early 20's, late teens, I don't know, around that age.<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>So, things were coming together. The man in the photo frame, my late grandfather, was familiar because he looked a lot like my father and uncles. The more I looked into the photograph and into my grandfather's eyes, the more I realized that the familiarity wasn't the similar facial features I saw in my father and uncles. It was something else. It was at this moment that I felt an overwhelming sense of sadness rush into my body. I didn't know who he was, and I never would know.<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I'd theorize what he was like. I attempted to see him acting as my father did; good-natured, kind, benevolent, sarcastic and a little silly. I couldn't picture it, though. I did this with the rest of his sons and daughters to no avail. At this point, I would normally just give up and let it go, but the strange, mysterious familiarity of his face and his gaze encouraged and urged me to continue thinking about my lost grandfather. So I continued.<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>As I grew older, I began to mold myself. I got past the awkward stage that we all go through, and discovered myself. I was feeling good about myself. I had forgotten about the photograph. I had forgotten about my grandfather.<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I glanced at the photograph once more, and I stared at him. The same familiarity invaded my being, playing tricks on my mind. I felt so close to this man, who I had never met. I felt the same sadness enter once more. I wanted to meet him. I wanted to know him. I continued to think about it. I was tired and I felt a little sick. It was late, and I figured I could get some sleep. I walked toward the bathroom, and headed for the sink and washed my face.</o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal"><span style="Times New Roman","serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;"><o:p> I looked up at the reflective, clear mirror, and I saw that familiar face, staring back at me.</o:p></span></p>Alejandro Tinajerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02658810909210485668noreply@blogger.com2