Dreamless

When I was four I stayed up a solid 24 hours, dragging my poor abuelita past the midnight hour, storming through the blackness of 6 am. As a preschooler I despised nap time. To paraphrase Roger Ebert, I hated nap timed. Hated, hated, hated it. I was wide awake in a room full of alphabet clouds and big bold blues, greens, and whites: summer, winter, fall and spring all at once on the poster boards. The cosmic balance of the universe, the barrier forming order out of chaos, a thin black cross, kept the sun from melting the ice which would have caused an avalanche, killing the roses and the little boy skipping to school in his shorts.
It was me alone in that quiet, motionless sea of young bodies wrapped in corduroy. My classmates floated in dreams, I floated on a red mat firmly rooted to the carpet. My only dreams were of the day variety; they were the only stimulus I had for two hours--those, and the questions. I wondered if the teacher knew she had the most beautiful legs I had ever seen, and if she realized I stared at them when she taught us the days of the week. Would the cafeteria serve the best brownies in the world tomorrow, served up on white paper discs? Is papi coming home with surprises hiding behind his giant mustache which unfolds upon the world like a pair of giant batwings [note to reader: do you know the Spanish word for mustache? I'm looking for a particular term that starts with a "b" it might be slang, or possibly a variation created by a 4 yr old mind]--long, dark, and curly?

I tossed and turned and fiddled, very much like I do now as an adult. Fingers twiddling frantically, a glass ball of lighting in a madman's lab. My legs would open and close, flapping without purpose, rubbing...rubbing. My penis caught in the cleavage of my inner thigh and underoos. In these long waitings I discovered myself accidentally. I do not remember the first time I masturbated, all I know is it was there, and it would become a daily activity (and nightly) as I tried to surf through the boredom. I enjoyed the tingle but desired no one.

I've often wondered if these habits said anything about me specifically. Was my sleeplessness at this age a sign of a specific personality? Did it imply something about my home life? Was it a signifier for a learning disability or worse?(My sister was tested, rigorously, and found to have ADD. Papi has an anxiety disorder. Our grandmother wandered the halls of schizophrenia in an asylum). At the end of the day, was it simply the sign of a stentorian imagination, already cultivating my first superhero myth-life?

One time, I wet myself because I had nothing else to do.

Obama is testing my patience

At 5 am on Saturday morning I wrote a long tirade about the rape, the FISA bill that gives telcos retroactive immunity, and Obama, and then ...I did nothing. I decided not to publish it Part of it is my paranoia, but I wanted to give Obama a chance to rectify his colossal blunder, but it isn't a blunder. It's calculated.

Also, I didn't know if I wanted to tie rape/torture directly to Obama.

But I'm publishing it here. Maybe I'll publish it somewhere else in an altered form...probably not, but I went through the trouble of writing it so I'll just print it here, originally intended for the Dailykos:

Let me preface this diary with a clarification. I don't use "howl" lightly. This is not the work of a D.C.village idiot or a mercenary pundit or even a savvy front pager. My howl is a grunge howl, an Alice In Chains howl, a Lane Staley howl, blisters weeping heroine weeping blood weeping memory, scarred over, disfigured.

Disfigured by torture, real torture. For a solid hour, I was hostage as my girlfriend was raped. My body is fine, but my psyche? It has been cut open, exposed to the dangers of fresh air. There was nothing I could do. The barrel at my temple was cold and light, fate waited on the other side of the trigger. Despite our best efforts the perps have yet to be found, and I fear they never will be. Since then, I've developed a keen interest in terms like justice, gun control, power, you get the idea.

I'm not a vengeful person, despite the agony inflicted, I want justice, a fair trial,nothing more, nothing less, but as I said, we will never get that. And I crave justice, I thirst for it, and it has made me a bit impatient, even a bit critical of victims of sexual abuse.

A funny thing happens to me when I watch Law and Order: SVU. When the victim can identify the attacker and takes his sorry ass to court, I'm with 'em all the way; their bravery pleases my sense of ethics and my need for snack-food escapism, but if that victim should cower, should he or she fail to press charges? I hate them for their cowardice. I hate them because they have the luxury of cowardice; they fear their attackers will identify them or harm them further?? Ha! If only I could reach into their fictional brains and rip out the identity of their assailants, take that precious CHOICE away from them that the writers think make their cliches sympathetic characters. To me they are fools a few words away from vindication, they lack force of will to act. I'm quite willing to have my face plastered on the tv screen, mocked by O'Reilly, the butt of a thousand tv monologues, rejected by my friends, if only I could identify our attackers and drag them into court.

I was a hostage for a solid hour. I watched the act of rape once...twice...three times...I....lost...count......as they moved from room to room.

I will not be a hostage again.

I will not be held hostage by craven psychopaths, nor fear mongers like Roger Ailes, and I damn sure won't be held hostage by the Great Black Hope, his apologists, or the fear of a McCain Administration.

Despite the rabid dogs barking in my head

That's right I called Obama the Great Black Hope, and until he proves otherwise, that's all he is: the manufactured hero-myth of a desperate and abused liberal circle jerk. (I can feel some of you pulling away from me, you don't think I'm being fair, give me just a few more minutes of your time).

Ya see, some of you are held hostage and you don't even realize it. "Obama is our best hope we have to vote for him It's him or else" Or else what? All Obama had to say was "This bill is a farce. The constitution will not be held hostage by Bush and the Telecoms. No one is above the law. I, the democratic nominee, will not vote for it" That is all he had to say, but no, he equivocated. If McCain had been in a similar position he would have done the same thing, and if he would have done the same thing, well then, if they both would do the same thing, why should I fear a McCain Administration more than an Obama one?

They will both cave WHEN IT MATTERS MOST, so don't even try with that supreme court stuff. If Obama falters on Telecom immunity, if he confuses bipartisanship with wisdom, then what makes you think he can get a pro-choice judge on the bench when the heat will really be on?

No world, I don't HAVE to vote for the big O. He has to earn my vote by demonstrating exceptional leadership. Why? Because I AM NOT A HOSTAGE TO THE DEMOCRATIC NOMINEE. The future president of the United States works for US. We invest in his campaign. We cast the votes. Many of you roll up your sleeves and do GOTV. You need to remind him that HE works for YOU, not the other way around. If this is his idea of leadership, then quite frankly it won't matter who is at the helm. We might as well be in the Demeter drifting towards London as Count Cheney sucks the progressive blood right out of our bodies. If he doesn't learn that your vote isn't guaranteed, then you are authorizing him to behave as a coward.