Meet Cute

Melinda was running late. She had told her friends she would be there at 5:30, and she left her house at 5:35, and still had to stop by the outdoor market to buy some fruits for the fondue gathering. On her drive to the market, words and feelings from last night's phone conversation with Angela kept spinning through her head. Angela, one of Melinda's closest friends, who had moved to the west coast nearly five months a go, had called to announce her engagement. She couldn't avoid think about what her friend sentenced last night: "Melinda, I swear, if you don't move to another city,  or at least make some effort to meet someone, you're never going to find  anyone right for you". Angela always wanted to set her up with her guy friends but Melinda hated this because of it's "forced" nature. Eventually, Angela got the message and stopped trying to fix her up with people. Even though Melinda wasn't as superficial as her friend, she had always wondered why there was such a scarcity of good looking men in Claremont. At 5:43, she was parking her small sports car at the market. She quickly took several paper bags and started picking green apples, peaches, bananas, pears, and mandarin.   She was almost ready to go when she remembered one of the best fruits to combine with chocolate was strawberry.  She turned around, and quickly walked towards the berries area to grab some. She aimed directly to the strawberry basket without realizing there was a striking young man in the same spot, with his hands inside the basket. Their fingers touched in the midst of all those berries and she looked up to find a pair of emerald green eyes and an adorable-dimple-smile looking back at her. A tall, ghost white, black hair beau apologized, for what seemed like no good reason, and she didn't know how to respond. Her jaw fell open in astonishment and then, in embarrassment after a few giggles, she managed to say "No, I'm sorry, I'm in such a hurry I didn't see you until....". The instant these words escaped out of her mouth she regretted saying them. They had killed any possibility of an interesting conversation taking place. "Oh, ok, I'll stay out of your way, then"... but she was fast enough to tell him "No, It's ok! I'm already late anyways". He laughed. She laughed. And then asked the inevitable "why so many strawberries?" "Oh! I have a get together with my girlfriends, we're supposed to drink wine, eat cheese and chocolate fondue and talk about our unexciting and non-existing love lives." He kept looking at her with a question mark on his face, so she explained "the strawberries are for the fondue". But apparently, the strawberries were covered, his puzzled face was for an entire different reason, "How come a beautiful woman like yourself has an 'unexciting and non-existing' love life?" Melinda blushed at the question, but felt completely flattered and excited he thought she was beautiful. She took advantage of the situation and told him "that would take hours and many cups of wine to explain". The stranger looked deeply in her eyes, smiled and asked her "how about over dinner, Friday night?" Melinda couldn't believe it. In what alternate universe was living in? How did this happen? She felt like she was part of a movie. She quickly smiled back at him and told him "sure". They exchanged numbers, smiled at each other, said their good byes. And Melinda forgot she was in a hurry. As she walked back to the car she still couldn't believe what just happened. She turned the engine on, speed dialed her friend. She couldn't wait to tell her what had happened. Almost immediately she hung up. Maybe she should keep this to herself. At least until the date takes place.

overblown/wordy vol.2: writing confessions

Many years a go, when I started writing in this blog, my father gave me a life-long advice. He said "Don't ever write anything on your blog that you wouldn't publish on a billboard on the highway, with your name on it". Point taken, I've been chary of what I publish here, but not as much as to change the essence of what I like to write about. 

I've tried my best not to make any gaffes because it's not in my nature and also because there is a definitive matter of everything that is published on the internet that makes your writing written on ink. Never on pencil. And the point in this is not to make a sap of myself. I have, however, accepted all kinds of comments (or feedback) in this site. Some come from acerbic people, others are subtle in their opprobrium, while some extoll me and others deliberately try to disparage me. I've learned that there is a succint difference between being critical, and being mean. Somewhere in the middle you have to draw a line. But I would never censure this page.

Some friends of mine that are very reticent about their personal lives, find the initiative of writing a personal blog with your name and last name on it, very intrepid. I've never really seen it that way, but I guess I can understand their points of view. The reason I'm sedulous in keeping this blog updated is because I want to be a writer. The best one I can be. And it is essential that I write everyday and receive some sort of feedback to improve. Some people think that the pith of writing is talent. But Stephen King would tell you, the pith of writing is discipline. One of my main objectives is to eliminate circumlocutions, and prosaic phrases or words from my vocabulary and writing in general. Also, avoid any sentences that obfuscate the true meaning of the story itself. While doing research for my novels, I try to be very nice and thorough as to avoid anachronisms. Also, learning neologisms, is a great asset to writing.

I have to confess, I feel propensity towards fiction when it comes to writing, but not always when it comes to reading. It's somehow fascinating to read about something that actually happened. But it's unbelievably fun to use your imagination to make up stories, and characters, and situations that could happen in real life, but who knows if they actually did. When your brain is the creator of a story, there is absolutely no limits as to what you can invent. Take JK Rowling, for example. 

I don't usually write about contentious issues. Even though sometimes I like to think of myself as a maverick, I've never been a fan of controversy. I am very zealous about the people I love and things I love to do. It's what makes me who I am. I'm not shy about showing ebullience and alacrity when I'm happy and proud of someone I care about, or whenever I feel like I've accomplished something in my life. Just as much as I enjoy stealing a furtive look from someone, or visit to read this page. 

Sometimes I fall asleep with a cogent idea. As I wake up, the morning after, I feel incipient inspiration building up, until I know it's the time to start writing about it. I start typing away without stopping until I know I'm done. I don't peruse the words I should say or use, and that I think is one of my flaws when it comes to writing. For some reason I've always had the mistaken idea that to think too much about something you write about is to take away it's soul and make it prosaic. Of course, this isn't always the case. Some times I need to go out and just observe people. Other times I brainstorm and end up wavering from one idea to the other. Trying to have acumen as to which is best.

A writer's block is the worse thing that happens to writers. It is a hindrance in the process of story making and sometimes it's very difficult to unblock. The first symptom of a writer's blog is when you start to shirk from writing and inveigle yourself that you just don't have time right now to write, or any other ridiculous excuse. Writing blocks stymie ideas from reaching your brain. The best way to stop these blocks is to be extemporaneous and just start typing away, even if you're prattling about anything.

To a blog writer, the single most important thing is receiving comments on your posts.  We burgeon at the sight of feedback. Somehow, we take them as an accolade, even when they're not positive. Criticism is essential for us. The majority of writers don't do it as a complaisance to their readers. We write what we have in our veins and we hope our readers feel stupefied the minute they read it But  most importantly, we need to feel satisfied with our work. That's always an exigent matter.  A writer that feels ennui about his work is frankly depressing because they start questioning themselves so much as to reach a perfidy in this particular art.

Tonic for the Vodka soul

His name was Jake. He reached the bar wearing spiderwebs over his eyes, and a deep wrinkle in his forehead. Everything about him smelled like defeat and as I looked at him through the glasses, empty bottles and lonely hearts, I could tell he was having a day from hell. Two of my regulars were in that night. And drinking like there was no tomorrow. I felt bad for Mr. newbie, who was still clearly sober. He just sat there looking like a lost penny. With my 'this is nothing, I've seen worse' expression in my face, I stared into his eyes while I asked 'What would you like tonight?', in my attempt to find out with what it was he wanted to drown his sorrows in. 'Anything. Give me anything to stop the pain'. As these words escaped his mouth, I knew I needed more information to prepare the remedy. 'Only if you tell me where it hurts and who is resposible for the pain', I sentenced. He gave me a tiny smile, that made happy I was there that night and after much hesitation, Mr. Newbie started telling me about the agony hidden in his scars...

Her name was Rachel. She was perfect: smart, pretty, nice, good person.... We met when I went to visit the Grand Canyon. She was there, by herself, had driven eight hours from San Diego just to look at the inmensity of the Canyon. I was there by myself too, and everything just fell right into place. Her smile, my eyes, it was like we were built for each other, you know? Have you ever had that feeling you've known that person from long before you actually saw her for the first time? Anyway. We clicked. And talked. And kissed. It was like being in a friggin' movie. Just perfect.

'But...' I couldn't help but say.

But -he continued- when the trip was over, she said she wanted to come with me to New York. I invited her to trust her instincts and come, and so she did. Two weeks after she moved in, walking back home from work I take a glimpse of this beautiful woman on a bar. I could only see her back. It looked familiar. I see this person talking closely to a man, who's whispering something in her ear, and seconds later, kissing her neck. Something in my gut told me to keep staring. Something was wrong. She kissed him back. I went inside the bar. Walked past the man. Turned around. It was her. And here I am.

I tried not to give him the "pity look". Even though inside I wanted to hold him like a little boy and tell him the typical"everything is gonna be alright. There are plenty of fish in the sea". For some reason, though I've listened to hundreds of sad stories, I never get used to them and always feel bad for my customers. My friends. So I didn't give him the "pity look". Instead, I poured the remedy -vodka, tonic, and lime- inside a frosted glass. And told him the truth.

'Drink up, buttercup. It's the only thing that will get you through'.

these R the thoughts..

..that pass by my brain more often than wanted. That I love 90's and 80's music. That I do actually enjoy watching movies. That Seinfeld is still the most enterteining to watch. That I hate men of the 21st century. That I love to write but hate to write about love. That I miss being alone, and now that I am I feel lost. That I love my job, even though sometimes I critize it. That I enjoy driving, specially highways with no traffic. That my mom thinks I see here like a monster, and I don't. I really don't. I actually love her, a lot. That I want to read, read, read. That I want to become a famous writer. That I fear starving to death. That I want to have a makeover, body and soul. That I want you to want me. That I hate writing this. That I feel stupid. That I know in the bottom I dont really give a shit. That im not even sure I like journalism. I just want a write a stupid book. Not so stupid though. An amazing book:). Many amazing books. That now I feel corny. And happy, and sad, at the same time. That I don't really feel like going out. That im listening to sad songs, who the hell knows why. Or why im writing in english for that matter. That I want to drink away. So many thoughts, so many things to say. Im getting that drink.

Just a kiss

It's been six days already, and I can still feel your arms around me. I can still hear you breathing next to me, and I can feel your hard pounding heart beating, just like mine is right now. Its amazing how you can make an instant seem everlasting. I know times are getting hard but please don't do this to me. One night could have been one week, if only you would answer my messages. Why spend such a magical night with me and then never come back? I can't help but wonder what went wrong.. for me everything just felt right. Your smooth lips against mine, reminding me of how lucky I was at the moment to be with someone as sweet as you. Now I doubt I was lucky. Unlucky is more like it. I don't know why I am even writing you this stupid email. ..

... after all, it was just a kiss.

delete.

Heartbroken letter to a now unknown recipient

I'm not sure how long I’ve been feeling this way, but it seems that each day that passes is a day that I am even more tired of everything and everyone around me. I can’t seem to get used of all the noises in my apartment. Even my cat is fucking exhausting. I try breathing in and out, try remembering that there are much worse things in life. What’s wrong in mine, anyways? Is it work, the never ending days of solitude surrounded by shallow sexual encounters that make an effort to remind me how much I miss you and how much I wish I could be with you again. Hours seem so long lasting. They drown me inside in ways that you could never imagine. I try dreaming of you. Too bad it only makes it harder for me to let go. Its been 3 months since we last spoke. You had to leave, you had to leave New York and me. And while in this infinite abyss we wait for the day in which we can just escape.. to you. Oh what I would give to just throw it all away, quit my job, abandon my cat and my apartment, and just live a life full of intensity and passion. Just leave everything behind in an attempt to find you. To live with you, and become the couple we once were. I cant stand this storm inside me. The city seems to be deserted just by my hard pounding thoughts. Weird people run without stopping, behind my door is this intense universe that can’t seem to stop. Days seem gray. Everything seems mute while I cry because of stupid reasons that just make me angrier inside. Its weird but Im mad at myself for letting you leave me, even though you did not warn me or said goodbye. How could you do this to me? After all we’ve been through. You told me how you don't like goodbyes. I get that. I really do. But after spending 4 years by my side, couldn’t you at least write a note? I wouldn't have minded if it was just a post it. What ever. At least it was something I could hold on to. Some prove of closure. But no, you just chose to leave me here, all by myself, drowning in desperation and loneliness. I have dated 4 or 5 men. I'm not going to lie to you. I suppose you have dated many women, too. They were ok, but really they weren't. Because none of them was you. I'm writing to you and I just realized I don't even have an address to send it to you. One would think that after all this time at least I would get an apologetic letter. But I didn't. I’ve thought about calling your parents, or your sister at least, and ask for you. But that only makes me sad, just to think I have to contact you through another person, when it used to be so easy, I usually didn't even have to call you, it was like we were connected and you’d know when I was looking for you, and we’d see each other right away. It was that easy. It was that simple. And now it just isn’t. And you just aren’t. It’s almost like you had it planned, its almost like you shook my hand and said “hey, I'm about to screw you over big time”, and what was I supposed to do? I was stuck in between you and a hard place, we wont talk about the hard place. But I don't blame you anymore there is too much pain to start with. Sometimes i feel like you left me half dead, inside my head. To be honest, looking back I see I'm not the girl I used to be. Its how you wanted it to be, its like you played a joke on me, and I lost a friend.. in the end. And I think that I’ve must have cried for days, and Im never going back .. to who I was.. And we will probably never go back to who we were. ...

Una canción para tí

Sometimes I cant let go,
Sometimes I move too slow,
I sware It's not a show,
I don't know if I'm tired or crazy,
Or If my blood sugar is dangurously low.

Sometimes I talk to loud,
But you got to hear me out,
You never need to doubt,
I've never been so fragile,
Now that's all I'm all about.

(Say you wont) Fade away.
(Say you will) Trust me.

I didn't see it coming,
I've been so used to running,
Love is something that,
I've never known before.

Forgive me if I'm crying,
I'm tired of denying,
Love is something that,
I've never known before.

Never known before...

So hard to say the things that want to, but I will,
I feel so open wide that it's pathetic,
It's silly to believe somethings are meant to be,
But nothing will ever be if we don't let it.

(Say you will) See me back that way.
(Say you wont) Lose your faith.

I didn't see it coming,
I've been so used to running,
Love is something that,
I've never known before.

Forgive me if I'm crying,
I'm tired of denying,
Love is something that,
I've never known before.

I grew up on my own,
Spent so much time alone,
That it's taken me awhile,
To let somebody in,
Show them where I've been,
And so whoa.

You know I want you near me,
My dreams are vivid and I,
Cant see anything but you so clearly.

(Say you will) Always be there.
(Say you wont) Fade away.

I didn't see it coming,
I've been so used to running,
Love is something that,
I've never known before.

Forgive me if I'm crying,
I'm tired of denying,
Love is something that,
I've never known before.

Someday were gonna be married,
And I know were gonna be happy,
Love is something that,
I've never known before.

Forgive me if I'm crying,
I'm tired of denying,
Love is something that,
I've never known before.

Never known before...

MoZella - Love is Something

Cuando Escribo / When I Write

Cuando escribo siento una sensación en mis dedos que me impulsa a seguir tecleando sin parar. Mis pensamientos se pasean desde el cerebro hasta las neuronas motoras, encargadas de hacerlos llevar hasta las puntas de mis dedos. Poco a poco voy emprendiendo en un rítmico tac tac que hacen las teclas al ser presionadas contra el fondo del teclado. Aparecen las letras que se van convirtiendo en palabras, oraciones y párrafos para darle colorido a los textos más absurdos y auténticos que he escrito. Las ideas van siendo escuchadas por las demás personas que, sin más ni menos, se dirigen a mi blog. Algunos por esas coincidencias de las vidas. Otros, porque son fieles lectores, y blogueros solidarios que buscan encontrar algún nuevo escrito. A veces los decepciono y muchas otros son sorprendidos por una sonrisa y un escrito que los espera con emoción. Cuando escribo no me importa lo que ocurre a mi alrededor. Sólo me importa lo que ocurre dentro de mí. Todos los sentimientos que voy sintiendo y las ideas que van pasando por mi cabeza son los elementos básicos que hacen de lo que escribo, algo auténtico y único. Las palabras se me escapan, a veces pienso tan rápido que la idea fugáz me circula por la cabeza, pero las neuronas neurotransmisoras no logran transmitirlas. No pueden cumplir su función por andar ocupadas en otras estupideces. Como regulando las ganas de ir al baño y controlando el sueño que a veces me da, como producto de la flojera y la ambigüedad. Hay veces que logro aislarme por completo. El celular suena, la televisión no se detiene ni por un segundo. El itunes da pié a un playlist infinito de canciones de todo tipo: alemanas, americanas, de jazz, de guitarra eléctrica, sonidos electropop, baterías y changa. Nada logra quedarse en mí porque estoy llena de estas ideas que intento captar en una hoja de Microsoft Word. Como por ejemplo ésta. Hay veces que leo lo que escribo y aunque reconosco que es auténtico y único (valga la redundancia, son sinónimos), me parece malísimo, cuando no un fume total. Sin embargo soy incapás de borrar todo aquello que pasó por mi cabeza así haya sido por un solo instante… porque cuando escribo trato de transmitirles esa chispa que sincroniza mis ideas con mis dedos en un vaiven de palabras y emociones que, sin saberlo, involucra a una gran mayoría de ustedes.

When I write I feel a sensation in my fingertips that makes me want to keep typing non-stop. My thoughts go for a ride that begins in my brain and is taken by my neurons to my fingertips: the final destination. Little, by little I begin to adjourn in a rhythmic world where the tac tac sound of the keys as they are being pressed tells me to keep going and going. Letters start to appear and soon become words, sentences and parragraphs that give birth to my most absurd and unique writings. Ideas that will soon be read by many people that come visit my blog. Some by random people who enter it as a complete and utter coinsidence and some by loyal bloguers that feel a touch of solidarity when they read my writings. Sometimes they come to see if I’ve written something new and unfortunatley I dissapoint them. But other times, they are surprised by a smile and a writing that awaits to be read by them with excitement and inpatience. When I write I care little about what goes around me. I only care about what’s going on within me. All my feelings and ideas that are going through my head are the basic elements that make what I write somenthing unique and authentic. Words sometimes escape my mind and the neurotransmitors cant seem to get a hold of them because they are too busy trying to wake me up inside. Other times I can really isolate myself from everything that surrounds me. Even though my cell phone rings nonstop, the television never hesitates to take a break menawhile my itunes plays an infinite playlists of all kinds of songs, non of that can remain within me because im just full of these ideas that I try to put into a Microsoft Word piece of paper. Like this for instance. Sometimes I read what I write and I find it completely useless and random, but even though I don’t like it Im never able to delete it. Any of it. I just cant. And I will never do it because when I write I try to transmit that spark that sincronizes my ideas with my fingers in a flow of words and feelings that, without knowing it, involve the majority of you guys.

Umbrellas over Manhattan

On Thursday everything seems different in Manhattan. There's a gray color in the air that surrounds us from the The Bronx to Brooklyn. No one is free of it. The rain comes pouring through the sky, and we all tend to think that we will drown. Sidewalks get wet, with the type of water that cover your toes and makes you cold all over your warm and gooey places. New yorkers pull their umbrellas out from their bags, and within a blink of an eye, they are open and covering their fashionable hairdos from the miserable water that has come to stay, apparently. Tourists are disappointed. They wanted a nice old fashionable sunny day. They get all wet because, unlike new yorkers, they don't come prepared with umbrellas on their bags. They stop to the nearest shop and buy a 25 $ umbrella when in fact, two blocks to their right there is a man selling them on the street for 3$. What they can't seem to understand is that Nyc has its charm, even when the city is covered by umbrellas. Kids run in the streets, not caring about getting wet, and of course, not knowing that they'll get a cold in a few hours. Women, that seem to be living in a dream walking between sunset and sunrise, parade them self through 5th Av as if it were a runway for Giorgio Armani. The homeless find them selfs wishing the weather was somewhat different so that it would work to their advantage. Suicidal s are more content with this weather. They feel identified with the drops that scream comprehension and that seem to console them, they look up to a sky that, for them, has never seen the sun. Umbrellas seem to cover the city from west to east. If you were in a helicopter, looking down from the sky, you wouldnt recognize Central Park 'cause its not green as always, its just covered by an infinite scale of colors that correspond to the thousand umbrellas that are over Manhattan.

Ana Cristina Sosa

lauren's retreat of the day

That day she came home to find herself exhausted. "Oh have I had a long day" she thought to herself. She went home to an empty house, an empty silence that matched with her empty soul and the horrible emptiness she felt inside. She didn't know what to do with herself anymore. She knew she was not content with her life right now. Had she stuggled through so much, for nothing at all? Life can sometimes be so odd, you do nothing at all and you could be the happiest person in the universe, but then in other occasions you do everything you have in your power and work for happiness, and even though you tried everything there is just no way to find it. Its a long way to happy, like Pink says in her new song. What the fuck, she thought as she entered the kitchen to cook dinner for one. She new she was lucky to be living in an era where microwave dinners are just as good as home made meals. She looked up her favorite lean cousin dinner plate? teriyaki chicken. And so she unwrapped the dinner, and desperately introduced it in the microwave, closed it, and pushed the DINNER MEAL button. There.. she didn't even have to think about how long it would take to cook the dinner, she now knew that in just 5 minutes she would be ready to eat her delicious meal She took a table cloth and put in the dinner table. Then, she looked for her favorite bottle of red wine and poured some in her fine crystal cup. She was hungry, but she new it was only a matter of seconds to eat. She ate what she thought of as a delight and then proceded to eat dessert, a perfectly baked flan she had in the fridge. She threw herself in the family room, even though she was the only member of that so called family. She might as well change the name to: Lauren's Recreational Room. She liked it more like that. Began to swap from channel to channel, not to her disbelief, nothing that she liked was on. So she went upstairs, undressed herself -slowly- and turned on her music in the bathroom where thee speakers gave birth to MoZella "say it aint so" and she turned the water on, just in the right hot temperature. She knew what came next: her retreat of the day: a hot, relaxing, bubble bath. She looked for her bathroom's goody drawer, and pulled out 4 vanilla canddles, her favorite vanilla bubbles, and her sponge. After 10 minutes of dripping water into the tub, she finally went in. Ohh, is this good- she thought as she indulged herself in the vanillla flavored bubble world she was submerged in. She tried not to think of anyone, or anything, other than her. This was her Lauren Alone time, and she liked it that way. She thought about her day, about work, about her life: her goals, her accomplishments and how it was all falling apart. Only one thought really comforted her: tomorrow will be another day.

The 411 of Dreams -Everything you need to know

Here’s the deal: You wake up to the buzzer of your alarm clock and snooze it off dying to continue that dream you had a few seconds a go, but the more you try to get back to it, the faster you forget what you were dreaming, and in a second it’s all gone. “Damn it” you say, and continue with your day as if nothing happened, whatever, after all, it’s just a dream- Right?
Hmmmm… No. It’s not just a dream. Although most often we are too busy with our every day preoccupations to think about them, there are many things about dreams that we should learn. By understanding why they are so important, how to remember them and finally how to interpret them, we can learn a great deal about ourselves and why we react to certain things they way we do, it’s a knowledge you learn about yourself that will help you better handle situations and there is absolutely nothing like knowing yourself better than anyone.

Why are they so important?

There are two main parts of our mind, the conscious and the subconscious, both of them are equally important, but while one gets all the knowledge (and the credit), the other one can only manifest itself at night, while we dream. In other words, dreams are our psyche speaking up to be heard and acknowledged by our conscious. They are messages in symbols waiting to be decoded. Everything we do, feel or think is in someway or another directly affecting our subconscious, and our subconscious also affects they we react unexpectedly to certain things; it’s what we have buried within ourselves, everything that we have repressed and hidden, which we don’t know, or realize.

The only way we can gain knowledge of our subconscious is by listening to what it has to say, that is at night, through dreams. That’s why they are so important and why we should do everything possible to remember and better yet - to understand them.

Ok, what can I do to remember them?

Remembering dreams may seem very hard, but it is really just a question of acknowledging their importance and really believing in your subconscious and how much you really want to listen to what it has to say. Although for many people this may seem corny or ridiculous, again you have to remember that it is something spiritual within yourself and it might help to try to detach yourself from the materialistic world that makes you belief that these types of things aren’t true or important, I guess what Im trying to say is that it depends on yourself and your faith in dreams.

According to the expert In-Depth Psychologist PHD JD Sosa, the best way to remember your dreams is by ritualizing the process:

1st Find a notebook that has sentimental value to you and to write in it as if you were writing to your subconscious; try to give it a name opposite from your own sex and every night before going to sleep write him how eager you are to connect with your psyche.

2nd We all depend on them, but they are the worst manufactured items that scare dreams away; try to wake up without an alarm clock, and you’d be surprised how you body is so used to waking up at the same time every day that you almost don’t need it unless you need to wake up at a different time. Just think about it, if we get scared when we wake up because of the alarm buzzer, imagine our subconscious; it gets terrified, and that’s partially one of the main reasons why the dream quickly disappears.

3rd Remember to keep your notebook in your night table, open and with a pen on top of it. If by any chance you wake up from your dream or right after it, you have it still so fresh in your mind that the best thing to do is write down every detail that you can remember of your dream. Keep in mind that if you wait, you will most likely forget.

And now, what’s next?

You are writing your dreams in your notebook, in a regular basis. What’s next is interpreting your dreams by translating the dream symbolism into meaning.

In your notebook, you should have written a clear summary of your dream detailing who, what, when and what was happening. Be sure to note the key symbols, the things or people that were most prominent and the emotions you felt most strongly. Note the action that was prominent in the dream. Were you driving, climbing, running? You may want to start with one dream at a time in the beginning. Analyzing several dreams occurring in a period of time may show a pattern and can help provide a deeper interpretation.

First of all, always remember that "The Dreamer Is The Only True Interpreter of The Dream." Dreams speak to us in symbols. There are hundreds of symbols definitions out there with accurate insights, and we have provided you with a list of the most accurate dream symbolism dictionary texts which you’ll want to refer your symbols to; but really, the ultimate meaning of the symbol is what it represents for you, personally. For instance, a person who is aware of what a Maypole is but has never actually seen one may interpret this as a symbol of spring and nothing more. A person who has danced around the Maypole at a May Day celebration may interpret it as a spring festival but adds meaning connected to the physical experience. A third person who has danced around a Maypole as part of a ritual to celebrate a religious holiday will perceive this symbol with the meaning associated with the spiritual nature of the ritual plus the physical experience. All three of these people will interpret the same symbol differently.
Since dreams come from the depths of your subconscious, you have to keep in mind that no one knows your inner and outer world better than you do. Remember also that some symbols may not be what they appear to be on the surface. For instance, your mother in a dream may not be your mother at all, but an aspect of yourself such as your maternal nature. Death in your dream more likely represents endings and new beginnings. The most intriguing and fun part of dream work lies in interpreting the symbols. It often helps to discuss your dreams with others. It's been my experience that anyone with an interest in interpreting dreams has valuable insights to offer. Several sources of input can be very helpful in learning dream analysis. Others who have been working with dreams for a while can help teach you how to interpret your dreams.

Ana Cristina Sosa Morasso

Not your typical street performer

Its 12 Pm, and a very sunny evening in Fanueil Hall. I sit in a bench and watch 27 year old street performer, Al Millar. Covered in tattoos from head to toes, he wears a spiky metal helmet over his head starts talking to the air: “It’s show time everyone,” – I laugh. “Don’t be foolish, you know you want to watch, please come closer”. I didn’t think he could pull it off, but amazingly enough, after 10 minutes I wasn’t the only one watching him, I was surrounded with heads of people laughing and competing to participate with the legendary Al Millar.

Perhaps what’s so breathtaking about his show is not only his sympathy with the crowd, but his physical skills- Al bends his body in a way in which he ends up in a position that probably, only he, in the entire world is able to do. “He’s a freak. How else would you explain someone that bends his legs behind his torso, pulls them over his head to the point were his feet touch the ground again? The man is made out of rubber” says Karla, a girl seating besides me while watching him perform. After doing the body knot, Al carries on to ride a miniature bicycle (smaller than the one you would give to your 4 year old son); he also balances on one leg on top of a 7 meter standing tube where he juggles with four sharp knives. “Every trick he pulls is even more un-expected than the previous one, I watch him – and I just can’t believe he’ll pull it off” another audience member says.

I listen to his pathos-driven speech as he says “Now ladies and Gentlemen, who you are watching today is a street performer from Australia. I chose to street perform because I think it’s an honest way to make a living; if I have entertained you even a little bit for this past hour, then I know I’ve done my job. After I finish here I will be collecting tips, [people start looking serious] so take out a few bucks of your wallet- and hand me the wallet” People start laughing, and taking out money out of their wallets; once again, Al sympathizes with his audience and after his show he manages to collect a total amount of 80$. Not so bad for one hour of performing right? “Sometimes it’s a bit, sometimes it’s a lot, I guess this form of art is very unexpected, but believe me most times it’s very rewarding” Al says “when people see street performers they think we live on the streets; it’s not always like that, at least not for me anyways” he says.

Then I understood why he said that. Al isn’t just any street performer that spends the whole day in the sun performing again and again until he has made enough money to go home – and where’s home? You see, Al has won about 10 street performing festivals all over the world, including the People’s Choice Award in Canada 2003, the first prize for the Golden Cobble in Holland; A sides from street performing he also done a lot of modeling, acting (he was an extra for the movie matrix revolution), he has a stage show were he performs magic tricks, a 3 page contract if you’d want to hire him to entertain your party, and Al is also one of two members of a band called Human Kind, which has a very promising future. But having it all now doesn’t mean he hasn’t worked hard to get it.

When Al started street performing he was only 17, he knew many people in the scene and so he decided to try it out by doing his body knot, he started training and learning juggling, but his main hook was always his body- bending phenomena. “There was just something about people watching and laughing at me that I loved, it was like they connected with me, like they got me. By street performing I was not only making money, but doing what I liked, and hell the more I did it the easier it was and the more I liked it.” After street performing in Australia for several years, while also modeling, acting and doing anything he could do to expand his artistic curriculum, he had met so many different artists and performers that he started to travel the world with his show. This perhaps isn’t as complicated as we might think, street performers have itineraries of street performing festivals all over the world “I live similar to those backpacking tourists: with a small bag, train tickets and very cheap motels in the few places where I can’t find a friend’s house to crash in.” It was when he started to travel that he realized he could make himself get known better, while making anywhere from $600 to $4000 in tips in different street performers’ festivals, he was also winning many prizes, and attracting the media. “While traveling and meeting so many different artists I took advantage of this and learned something different from each person, in every city that I went I looked for new opportunities and different activities that I could do to make more money, so I started my stage show, when I saw how people reacted to my show I thought it would be a good idea to offer it for private parties, and soon it became a success.”

One evening in Australia he met Bostonian street performer Jason Gardner, who can also be seen more frequently in Fanueil Hall performing his straightjacket escape trick. They both shared same interests in music and arts, so they started a band together (Human Kind). A band that is now recording it’s first full length debut CD at Well Spring Studios. “Humankind is like Stone Temple Pilots meets Marilyn Manson. Power punk circus rock with a spooky edge. This is ghost rock circus core played by sideshow freaks from desolate lands” says AL of his band in their portal www.humankindband.com. Al sings and writes the lyrics, while Jason plays the drums. Al is now in Boston mainly because of his music, while rehearsing and recording, he and Jason are preparing themselves for their concert upstairs in the Middle East to be held July 29th.

Although he knows he is a street performer and will always street perform, Al is open to new things, he likes experimenting and exploding his talents. For him, any day is a good day. “It’s not easy doing everything at once, but now I feel I am at the peak of my career, and I like not knowing what is going to happen next or where I’m going to be in a month”.

Ana Cristina Sosa Morasso