Faith.

Blind faith is bullshit. The faith is in a smile, in a proof of happiness. A proof that can never be mathematical- well, perhaps for some. I believe because I see everything I believe in vividly. Give me day, with bright contours to offset the doubts of night. And give me night then, to soften the harsh angles of the day. Give me something I can believe in, a flash of joy. A smile is simply a physical result of a tiny switch turning on something wonderful within the soul.

And the people in my life... well, they have such beautiful souls. When they smile, all the happiness of the world beams and illuminates my life, proving that everything I have to live for exists.

And there is my God, in the face of my baby brother, a tiny angel. In his big blue eyes. In the voices of my friends, my pillars of strength. In the warmth of my family. In this struggle for existance, I can believe that perfection exists.

Now there is a faith that will never blind you and lead you astray.

I will not cry another tear. I will not become an Ophelia to a Hamlet, a toy to a boy who only wants me for some physical attraction. I am beginning to doubt that there is ever anything more than that. I threw away my heart but I never gave anybody the key. And so here I sit, empty, and afraid to trust, afraid to pick the shriveled organ from the sewer and give it to somebody to repair. This way, nobody knows where it is. I hold this key to my soul close to my empty chest.

When the streetlights come on and the fireflies flicker, we were walking back home making plans.

These plans never turn into action. And if they do... what am I supposed to say? Here's this black thing, try to love it.

It was once my heart.

I am so afraid.

It suddenly rained on us and for the first time I felt pure. As if my heart had been washed clean and made new, and I was ready to hand it away once more. But the key is still in my other hand and my hands cannot bear to make this pretty ornament wearable. My sin is creating gods out of men. Feeling too deeply. Trusting immediately. And having a key that can do nothing to protect my heart.

I can't trust you.

Like autumn turns leaves, winter will breathe, cold on our necks, snow in our paths.
Wherever she goes, all that I know about us is that beautiful things never last,
That's why fireflies flash.

Please be more than a flicker.

Aliens have taken over my body.

In third grade, a teacher told me that I would never be anything outstanding.

"You are not organized. You are impulsive. You are all dreams and no substance, all heart and no thought."

Dear Colleges.

I agree with her.

You are strongly mistaken.

Thank you for the grants. For the admissions. The honors offers that claim they will make my UC experiences the same as private schools. I appreciate them more than anything, but... I am still unorganized. I am still impulsive. My favorite thing to do in my pastime is dream, and listen to music, and have silly romances that go essentially nowhere. Sometimes I like to cry for hours just to get the emotion out of my body.

160 students. Out of 20,000. You picked me? I will never believe that this was not a mistake. I don't belong anywhere, I never have. I'm a bastard breed of two countries, and all of a sudden you want me? Is it because I'm a martyr for education? A pincushion for human rights? A mouth for the voices in this community?

That doesn't make me anything special. I still don't even know why I am here. I have dreams. I want to be a student at the University of Chicago, learn every available language, figure out what I want, find a boy who will make me want to stay. I can compromise, but you make it difficult when you offer me... what's it called? A dove in my hands, when I still have my eye out for the falcon flying overhead.

I think I'm a fraud. I'm sitting here holding a new acceptance letter, evidence of my existance. This paper represents all I have been for the past four years. I have lost friends, boyfriends, even family to this silly process called education. And yet I am so in love with learning. I have become a hermit within a society. But have I earned this... I wish I could tell.

Happy Valentine's Day

I don't want a prince Charming to come and sweep me off my feet.

I know exactly what I want: either to spend the evening alone, to spend it with friends and ignore this orgy of commercial love, or to find that guy I have in mind, who I am sure would never step foot in Southern California.

I can't stand cold weather but hey, if freezing is what it takes to find him, I'm fine with that.

We will only go out in spring and summer anyway. I haven't thought beyond those two seasons. Drink the sunshine like a drug, and lie out in the tall grass of Someplace, Somestate, Somecountry. We will talk in some language. About something beautiful. We will bathe in impresision. Perhaps tomorrow we will wake and find each other in our own imagination. He will know, as will I. But we will be artists, together, creating a moment, creating a future on an easel of nothingness. We won't be standinging in line waiting for a movie to open or cuddling in the backseat of a dirty car. Well, we'll see. I'm alright with the back of pick up trucks, but this depends on the warmth of the summernight and just how many crickets happen to be serenading the moon that evening. We will play music and sing. And the melodies will spin into the air and melt into everything natural. I'm still a kid, and we'll be children. We'll set a curfew for forever and plunge into innocence. Rebirth. Isn't that what love means, after all?

"I'm Yours"

Dreams have this funny way of building on top of each other like a mountain.

And they don't fall in the predicatable way. No, they just unstack quickly, and you wonder: where have they gone? They took so long climbing onto each other, figuring out functionality, begging, praying, existing... and then they leave so quietly you barely notice that you don't want to be a Hollywood actress anymore or that you don't love the boy you were willing to sell your soul for a few years ago.

How childish, you think.

And go on to wanting something else.

So practicality is a way to check dreams. To check how quickly they may vanish, to secure them in the chain of being. And I think I just found out that you are my practicality.

Is there really anything else to say?

I'm sorry I can't love practicality. I'm too much of a dreamer.

(Then again. Love tends to be an aquired skill nowadays)

Translation: Un Oso y un Amor

Un Oso y un Amor (A Bear and a Love) escritó por (written by) Sabine R. Ulibarrí de Tierra Amarilla, New Mexico

The Mountain Range

It was the end of June. The lambs had already been born earlier that spring and the sheep were sheared. The cattle was making its way up the mountain. Abrán was directing them. I followed alongside the donkeys, which were loaded with supplies. From now on life would be slow and tranquil.
I found a fitting spot. I unloaded the donkeys and pitched the tent. I cut branches for the beds. I began to prepare a meal for when Abrán would return. Already the first flock of sheep was arriving. Sometimes I would get up to stop them, to redirect them, so they could get to know their first campsite.
The grass was tall, fresh, and lush. The aspens, black and white, with shaking leaves, sang a trembling song of life and happiness. The fragrances and the flowers. The icy, crystalline water of the stream. Everything was in peace and harmony. This is why the Gods themselves chose to live in the mountains. The range is an eternal celebration.

The Banquet
Soon I heard familiar laughter and voices. I gave a shout. These were my friends from Tierra Amarilla, the Yellow Land. Abelito Sanchez, accompanied by Clorinda Chávez and Shirley Cantel. The four of us were in ninth grade. We were fifeen years old.
We unsaddled and staked out our horses. Momentarily, we began enjoying ourselves. There was so much to say. Questions. Jokes. So much laughter to resume. Now I shudder to remember it. How beautiful was that moment! We were young. We knew how to love and how to sing. Without alcohol, without drugs, without uncouth vulgarities.
When Abrán arrived, we ate. I had a tasty, delicious-smelling side of lamb, roasted on the coals. They had brought delicasies that we were not accustomed to in the range. The joy and good food, the joy of friendship and the idealic location transformed this experience into a feast to remember forever.

Shirley
Shirley Cantel and I had grown up together. We went to school together since we were children. I carried her books. Later we could bring the cows in together in the afternoons. We played in the stables or in the haystacks. We had horse races. In the school plays she and I always had the important roles. We would always compete for the best grades. It never occured to us that we were in love. This past year, we discovered our affection, I don't know how. Now things were getting serious. I see it now like an illusion of glory.
Shirley had a white dove which attracted a lot of attention. She always took it along while horseriding. The dove perched on her shoulder or positioned itself in the mane or on the rump of the horse. It grew to know me and love me as well. Sometimes the dove would come with me. It would fly away and come back. The dove was another bridge of sentimentality between us two. Today it recognized me. Right away it positioned itself on my shoulder. Its sensual 'crucru' in my ear was a message of love from its owner.
Shirley was a gringa but she spoke spanish as well as I did. This was normal in Tierra Amarilla. Almost all of the gringos from here spoke spanish. We were one single society. We got along very well.

The Bear
Jokes and annecdotes. Laughter and more laughter. Fleeting flirtations. Loaded questions. Unexpected replies. The celebration in its height.
Suddenly, the cattle is frightened. It whips from one side to the other. It comes towards us, as if in waves. Bleats of terror. Something has frightened the cattle.
I grab the rifle. I say to Shirley: "Come with me." We hold hands. Coming around the bush, we find a bear. He has drowned a sheep and ripped open the entrails. He has a bloody snout. We are very near him.
Ordinarily, a bear would flee upon meeting a human. There are exceptions: when there are cubs, when it is hurt, when it has tasted blood. Then it becomes fierce. Even a dog beccomes fierce when eating.
This was a young bear, maybe two or three years old. These are the most daring and dangerous. We interrupted him while he was eating. He was enfuriated. He came at us.
The others had approached and were nearby. They were watching the action. The bear circled us slowly. He stopped, shook his head and growled. We backed up slowly until we bumped against a fallen tree. There was no espace. We had to confront the animal.
Nobody did anything to help me. Nobody said anything. The girls were silent. There was no hysteria. I was dying of fear. But my girlfriend was at my side. Her life depended on me. The others were watching me.
I had never felt as much a master as I did now. Never so much a man, never so capable. My first instinct was to protect my woman. She and every other girl had confidence in me.
I raised the rifle. I aimed, firmly. I fired. The shot entered through the bear's open mouth and came out at the back of the neck. The shot echoed through the mountain range. The bear fell dead at our feet. Shirley hugged me. I wanted to die of happiness.
I skinned the animal myself. I felt the hot blood on my hands and my elbows. I felt like a conqueror.
Once I had given Shirley a ring that my mother had given me. Another time, I gave her a box of candies. This time I gave her the skin of the bear. She recognized it immediately. When she left, she took the skin with her, tied to the straps of her saddle.

Memories
Years passed. I went to one university, she went to another. This seperated us. Then I left for the war and this seperated us even more. When a river divides in two, nothing can join those two rivers back together.
I did not go to see her in those days. Sometimes somebody would tell me something about her. She had married, and her family lived very far from here. I remember with affection the childhood that I shared with her.
Recently, an old friend told me that he had seen when she lives and that he knows her family. He said that in front of the fireplace, she has the skin of a bear. She still remembers.

Translation: Leyenda

Leyenda (Legend) escritó por (written by) Jorge Luis Borges de (from) Argentina

Abel and Cain met each other after Abel's death. They walked through the desert and recognized each other from afar, because they were both very tall. The brothers sat on the earth, made a fire, and ate.

They remained silent, in the maner of those who are

tired at the end of the day. A star appeared in the sky, one whose name nobody can remember. By the light of the flame, Cain noticed the mark of a stone indented in Abel's forehead and the bread he had raised to his lips fell before he could eat it and he asked whether his crime had been forgiven.

Abel answered:
"Did you kill me or did I kill you? I already cannot remember, and here we are, together like before."
"Now, you must have forgiven me," Cain said, "because to forget is to forgive. I will, too, try to forget."
Abel replied softly"
"That's right. While the remorse lasts, so does the guilt."

Picture- http://ccphotos.taboca.com/images/life_n_things3/Campfire_at_Night/