Posted in Almost Dorothy, Angel, The Mother

Ma: The Healer & The Destroyer

Sometimes ma is glowing in her fruity apron. Sometimes she is sad and sometimes she is a glowing lizard on a bed of velvet roses. Sometimes she is angry and sometimes she is awake when she is asleep. Sometimes she sleeps when she is alive and dead.

Sometimes ma is aware of her biceps and that she is the anti-Christ. Sometimes she is aware she is a vampire annihilating the anti-bodies that enter her canvas. Sometimes she is the quotient and the quadrangle triangulating the quadraphonic sound of blue whales. Sometimes she is a whale and the woman between me and her and sometimes she is the man between me and him. Sometimes she’s a clown.

Sometimes I know what makes ma unhappy and filled with darkness because it’s the same thing that makes me unhappy and filled with darkness. Sometimes I curse the healers who enter our home and try to destroy us with their crystals and incense. Sometimes I destroy the curses that heal us after the healers who have come to destroy us heal the room of wounds. Sometimes I curse the curses who heal the hell out of us for the hell of it because they don’t know what the hell they’re talking about when ma’s heart goes boom boom boom.

Sometimes I walk silently through the house of healers and destroyers, ma and me, and tell each room “I’m sorry” for our trespasses and transience. In sequence. In solemnity and solace. In slippers. In every room, a ghost wants to say “I’m sorry”, but the ghosts are rouses.

Sometimes I walk silently where angel once roamed the surface of the house where ma fears to tread even in her best Jacqueline Smith dress. Sometimes I am too much for ma and she is too much for me just like she was too much for angel and his medicine chest of chests. Sometimes I am too much and never enough even though I know I am a button and ma is a shoe.

Sometimes the knowledge of this differential is enough to heal the equations of the world, the wounds in the room of curses and moans. Sometimes the knowledge of this is forgiveness and sometimes it’s not. Sometimes this knowledge is just knowledge to note the difference between two unknowns. Between healing and destroying. Between practice and partition. Between ma and me. Freud and Jung. The curses between us were promises.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Culture Clash

Nerds want you to join Florida AIDS Walk 2012

What would a 12-year-old nerd do? After trying to feather his pretty hair, he’d help us raise funds for Florida AIDS Walk 2012. Join our team, donate and pass this link forward to friends and family: http://takeaction.aidshealth.org/site/TR?px=1008298&fr_id=1120&pg=personal.

Note: According to the CDC, only 9.6% of adult Americans have been tested for HIV. Furthermore, only 1 in 4 HIV infected Americans receive adequate medical care to control the disease.CNN.com reports that South Florida has one of the highest HIV infection rates in the nation. Although Florida AIDS Walk can’t fix these numbers, we are part of a long-term, multidimensional solution that will diminish the impact of HIV/AIDS on those living with and affected by HIV/AIDS.

Posted in Almost Dorothy

Bobo the Mutt Joins Florida AIDS Walk 2012

Bobo the Mutt | Photo by Neil de la Flor

Bobo the Mutt, the official supervisor for the Florida AIDS Walk 2012, asks you to donate money for the cause. The donations will be split among organizations that provide healthcare services, counseling support and peace of mind for people living with and affected by HIV/AIDS regardless of their ability to pay. Bobo the Mutt barks, “This is important because we still live in the richest country on the planet that doesn’t provide equal access to health services for all citizens (or mutts) regardless of income or employment status.” Since Bobo the Mutt is unemployed, he has time to march. If you don’t have time to join us, please support us with a few bucks. Some of the organizations that will benefit: AIDS Healthcare Foundation, SunServ, The Center for Positive Connections among others. Join my family or support us with a small cash donation that is totally tax deductible. I’m not sure what tax deductible means, but I suspect it has something to do with ducks who don’t pay taxes.

Visit my father’s fundraising page where you can make a donation: Florida AIDS Walk Fundraising Page.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Culture Clash

Almost Dorothy’s Florida AIDS Walk Fundraising Page

Bobo the Mutt, ma and I are going to raise money on May 2oth, 2012 for several organizations that provide healthcare services, counseling and peace of mind for people living with HIV/AIDS regardless of their ability to pay. Ma says this is important because we still live in the richest country on the planet that doesn’t provide equal access to health services for all citizens regardless of income or employment status. Some of the organizations that will benefit: AIDS Healthcare Foundation, SunServ, The Center for Positive Connections among others. Join my family or support us with a small cash donation that is totally tax deductible. I’m not sure what tax deductible means, but I suspect it has something to do with ducks who don’t pay taxes.

Visit my father’s fundraising page where you can make a donation: Florida AIDS Walk Fundraising Page.

Posted in Almost Dorothy

Dear Universe

Almost Dorothy | Photo by Neil de la Flor

Dear Universe, thank you for ma, marionettes, and marshmallows.

Dear Universe, thank you for pizza and patience, pasta and pizzazz.

Dear Universe, thank you for violins and photographs, black strings and tiger’s eyes. Thank you for lost things and for the places where we can’t be found even when we are in the plain sight of headlights.

Dear Universe, thank you for the demons, desire, and despair.

Dear Universe, thank you for angels, affection, and affirmation.

Dear Universe, thank you for sisters and dinosaurs, donkeys and daffodils.

Dear Universe, thank you for achoo and monkey see, monkey do.

Dear Universe, thank you for the language of the body and breath, the body and the breath, and baby’s breath.

Dear Universe, thank you for classic rock and classical music. Thank you for poetry and the trees we sacrifice to write upon. Thank you for the pimple cream that makes this giant pimple under my left eye fade away.

Dear Universe, thank you for Macy Gray, Macy’s and all the booty in the world. I mean beauty.

Dear Universe, thank you for Alanis Morissette, Morissey and Madonna.

Dear Universe, thank you for the mirage that is not a mirage but a mirror-of-age.

Dear Universe, thank you for entering my dreams, offering me 30 million $, a partial Botox session, a tour of the White House chandelier gallery and free food. And thank you for waving the $16 entrance fee for me.

Dear Universe, thank you for the sun, the sky, the birds and bugs and for the existence of Justin Bieber toothbrushes. Thank you for my house and socks and shoes. Thank you for the old man in the sea and the sea inside the old man and the young man, the old woman and the young woman.

Dear Universe, thank you for thankfulness and for giving me all that I need in me.

Dear Universe, thank you for “Last Friday Night” and the next and then the next.

Dear Universe, thank you for Einstein and the invention of kisses.

Dear Universe, thank you for observation and analysis, emotional intelligence and Ginger Ale.

Dear Universe, thank you for neutrinos and photography.

Dear Universe, thank you for Lasik eye surgery because now I get the answers when I listen.

And thank you for hearing me.

Posted in Almost Dorothy

Rhiannon

Suicide Bird | Photo by Neil de la Flor

Yesterday, just as I finish my post on Ma’s rough night working the suicide prevention hotline at the Switchboard, a tiny grey bird commits suicide against us. In the middle of winter in Florida, she slams into the house just outside our dining room window. At full speed and full of life until the end, she flies as if she were taken by the sky or love and blinded by the promise of heaven.

Like a freaking bullet, ma says. Then she finds the light. At least she tried, I say. Tries to find her path to heaven.It is such a beautiful day. We are listening to Stevie Nicks sing “Rhiannon” on YouTube.

Now she is the darkness, ma says. And she ruled her life like a fine skylark, I say. Now the sky is starless. The sky is insanely blue and the clouds are hiding.

Ma and I pick up Rhiannon–the cats lying in wait in the dark– and we prepare her final resting place beneath the palm trees in the backyard. The ants have already found her. We clean her off. Tuck her wings in. Close her eyes.

Interned | Photo by Neil de la Flor

Finally, ma says, I’ve seen a woman truly taken by the wind.

Ma kicks the shovel into the earth with her right foot. Then the left. Then turns the soil until there’s a six inch hole. The shovel is blue. Rhiannon is gray. The soil too.

Today, we will be her lover, ma says, and we will stay by her side forever. I believe ma, but I don’t believe in forever.

Ma lowers Rhiannon into the shallow grave and then covers Rhiannon’s body with soil. What were you thinking, ma asks Rhiannon. Love’s just a state of mind. Rhiannon doesn’t respond to ma from the depths of her final resting place. She can’t, anyway, even if she wants to. She just lays there beneath six-inches of earth. In peace. In solitude. And probably believes that she has finally won.

Final Rest | Photo by Neil de la Flor
Posted in Type-1

Dr. Wasid

The blue circle symbol used to represent diabetes.
Image via Wikipedia

Mommy and daddy took me to a doctor today who knows a lot about Diabetes Type 1. Mommy says he’s a “specialist” and that means he knows how to make me better. I asked her if he’s going to take the diabetes away but she says, maybe one day, but not today. The office was in very tall building with many offices inside. I was nervous.

The doctor’s name was “Dr. Wasid” or something like that. He was tall, very tall, and his skin was brown.  His breath stunk real bad like eggs. He wasn’t very nice. He told me I was very fat and that because I’m fat my diabetes wasn’t going to get any better. He told mommy and daddy that I need to stop eating as much as I am eating right now. I wanted to tell him that I’m not eating as much as he thinks, at least not what I like to eat and that it was not fair. But I didn’t say anything because my parents were talking to him, and mommy says that I can’t interrupt grown ups when they’re talking because that’s bad manners.

Dr. Wasid held my arm, and grabbed the fatty part around my wrist “When this goes away, you may eat the candies you want,” he said. I just looked at him, and held my daddy’s hand very hard. He also told my parents about how much insulin I have to get every time I have breakfast and dinner and that they have to keep a log where they have to write down how much sugar I have. He told them a bunch of other things, but I didn’t pay attention, because I was to busy thinking about the ice-cream man who I saw downstairs. I don’t know why, but all I want to do is eat and eat and eat everything I can’t.

When we got out of the doctor’s office daddy asked me if I liked the doctor. I told him I didn’t because he called me fat and he needs to brush his teeth because his mouth smelled really gross. Daddy said he didn’t like him either, but doctors are like that. He says that even if he’s not nice, he will help me. I just have to listen and do what he says.

Mommy didn’t say anything on our way back home. I know she’s worried about me still. She hates needles as much as I do. That’s why daddy is the one who has to pinch me. Every time it is time for me to get my insulin, she goes away. I don’t now if it’s because she hates needles for real, or she just can’t see how much it hurts me ever time daddy stabs my shoulders. I wish I could be better. I feel that because of me, mommy cries every night. I told daddy I was very sorry for getting sick like this, but he says I didn’t do anything, that this happened because it was meant to be.

I really don’t know what “meant to be” means, but if daddy said so, I guessed it ws okay. I also told him that I’ve been praying to God, so that he will take away my diabetes and that way we will all be happy again. But daddy didn’t say anything back. He just hugged me and said “I love you”. I love you too daddy, I thought, I love you too.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Type-1

My Pancreas is Broken by Paloma Gensollen

Paloma Gensollen

I know mommy knows something is wrong with me. I know it too. Every time I eat something, I start getting really thirsty, and I don’t see well that much. Everything is blurry lately, and it itches down there a lot. I don’t want to go to the doctor anymore. It’s scary and I hate the needles they poke me with.

“Paloma I need to talk to you”, mommy says very seriously. I know she’s been crying. I see her hugging daddy and asking him, “why her?”.

Why me? I don’t know what she means with that.

Now she’s kneeling in front of me, holding my hands.

“Do you remember when I took you to the laboratory to get some blood?”
“Yes, mommy, I don’t want to go there ever again. It was very scary.”

Mommy has rain in her eyes. She is sad and I think it’s my fault. I don’t want to make mommy sad or upset. I like it when she smiles and is happy. I even like it better when she’s upset than when she’s sad. When her heart is breaking and tears are falling down her cheeks, my hearts brakes too.

Mommy is hugging me one more time. She’s trying to tell me something, but the words are stuck in her throat with crazy glue and they can’t get out. She’s trying to hold back her tears, but they just burst like a waterfall.

“You have Diabetes type 1, Paloma. From now on you can’t eat any candies, ice-cream, chocolates, nothing sweet, ok?”

Mommy is not looking me in the eyes. She can’t. That’s why she’s hugging me very tightly while she is saying I have something she calls “Diabetes Type 1”. I think she’s is confused. I don’t have such thing as Diabetes Type 1. I don’t even know how it looks like, or what it is. I just know that sometimes I get parched and I pee in my pants without noticing. But I promise her I will go to the bathroom before I do.

“What’s that mommy? And, why can’t I eat candies? I haven’t done anything this time.”
“Diabetes is a disease. You know when you get a cold and you have to drink some medicine to get better?”
“mmmmhmm.”
“Well, this time is not a cold. Inside your body there’s something called a “Pancreas”, which is the one who gives you “Insulin”, the liquid daddy gives you when he pinches you. Somehow it’s not working anymore.”
“Why? Did I do something wrong?”
“No mi amor, you haven’t done anything wrong. “You just can’t eat anything sweet and you have to pinch your fingers every time you eat, and before breakfast and dinner daddy has to pinch you, to give you some insulin, ok?”

Mommy is hugging me again. Lately all she does is hug me and cry. I feel guilty and I want to cry, too. I don’t know what mommy is saying. I don’t understand. I didn’t say anything because I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t want to stop eating chocolates! I LOVE chocolate, and candies, and ice cream, and sugar! Why can’t I can be like any other kid? Why do I have to pinch my fingers every time I eat. Why? I haven’t thrown any toys down the toilet this time, or cut off the hairs of my sister’s dolls! I’ve been a good girl! I don’t want my daddy to stick needles in my arms! I’m scared! I’m so scared of what mommy said. God, why did mommy say that? Why did my pancreas stop working? I promise you that I will be always good if you make me better again. I promise I will pray every night and not fall asleep before I do. I promise you I will never break my sister’s toys ever again, or play with mommy’s things!

“I promise you God, just make my pancreas work again. I’ll be a good girl, but please, take the diabetes out of me…please.”

–Paloma Gensollen

Posted in Immaculata

A Flock Of Tobiuo

Elaphurus Davidianus | Père David's Deer

I turned 25 on Monday. I went and had myself a real good time at the Ritz Carlton on Key Biscayne. I ate some. Drank some, and then walked some. Then, I decided to stare at the ocean, and I was inspired. Inspiration has been a stranger to me for a while now, almost like it was this visible whatchamacallit that would come around the Pocahontas bend once in a while, give out this loud yelp, like if a Père David’s Deer accidentally stepped on its own foot, and always smelled good. It smelled good, but I couldn’t taste the good, like if I had a very nice cold. Then I couldn’t smell the good, because it would run away.

The ocean taught me a couple of things. I don’t get into the ocean, because those couple of things are dangerous. On the evening of my 21st birthday, I remember feeling off. I went to go eat at TGI Friday’s with a couple of peoplefriends, then took off to South Beach with four friendpeople. I remember the sweet n’ low comment, I remember walking past a fashion house and then I remember walking up to the edge of the ocean. The breeze was tough, the waves were horny, and the night was deaf. Then the realization of how much I despised the person, the soul, the heart of who I was, who I wasn’t, and who I wanted to never be, drilled into my skull. I hated Larry.

Four tigerbeetle sex years later. I was staring into the ocean. Recovering. Recovering from what took little time after that odious revelation to develop. Recovery takes alot of your time. It steals so much of your emotional embracement. It takes up alot of your mental suitcase, and physically it shows. I don’t know what to embrace emotionally now. A part of me is very proud of how far I have come, another part of me is very psycho happy, another is very mickey mouse sad, and then I’m very confused. Do I really want to get better? Of course I do. Do I really want to get better? Of course I don’t.

It is a constant tug-of-war.

By Larry Leiva

For Almost Dorothy, Larry writes his autobiography and documents his long-term struggle with Anorexia and Bulimia. Larry is not afraid to talk about life as a guy (or boy) (or  boy-to-man) (man) dealing with multiple eating disorders (ED). He is not afraid of dispelling the myth that ED only affects girls and that it’s easy to beat. Because it’s freaking hard to beat.