tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22343526298211485962024-03-12T21:51:47.599-05:00The Pink CowboyThe Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.comBlogger114125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234352629821148596.post-27295903057229754212014-11-02T17:11:00.002-06:002014-11-02T17:17:50.960-06:00L’amitié, la tendresse, a short account of fellowship<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Some time ago I read a book titled Anam Cara written by an Irish monk. The Anam Cara is the Celtic concept of friendship. Not the casual friendship between co workers or acquaintances that greet each other in the grocery store but deep, intimate friendship. I am most at home with intimate friends. They provide me of the space where I feel most protected and secure. A friend, a true, loving and supporting friend is tender because he or she are deeply aware of the fragility of the human heart, the ever transitioning states of the soul and the profound and vital connection we all have. A friend, a most noble and loving friend, came to my help last week when I realized I did not have enough money for my rent since I'm currently unemployed. He provided me of some money to help me out. But he gave me a more precious gift when he heard of my desperation. He warmly embraced me and briefly kissed me in the mouth as he said good bye. Tenderness is part of friendship. As friends we protect the wounded and give our all to stop their suffering. His embrace was a healing embrace. Love being the greatest healer. I belong to the fellowship of intimate friends. My life makes sense because I am of service to my friends. Our relationship is secret. Our secrets are sacred. There is mystery in love. I live more when I surrender to the mystery of intimate friendship. It is there where I begin to comprehend what the French call L'Eternel, God.</div>
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<br />The Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234352629821148596.post-51248714101998409322014-10-10T16:06:00.003-05:002014-10-10T16:06:56.840-05:00Grey Clouds on a Sunny Day<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I find myself revisiting a familiar place. That dreadful dance of unemployment, of lack of income. The dance takes me through public libraries and coffee shops with free wi fi. It takes me to download free music and books to my laptop as if the world was about to end. I am filling up the pantry just before the storm arrives. These days I am entertaining Fear, that raw fear where you have a lost look. "Oh no I will need to admit again to my closest people that I am notable to sustain myself again." my soul shudders, it has not found its cozy home yet. It's Job in Dallas 2014, no pun intended. Like the Biblical character I often feel cursed by something outside of me as if the world I live betrays me in every turn my vivid imagination takes. Do not take me wrong, I acknowledge my gifts and my talents. The Divinity gave me the gift of Empathy, Music, Creativity and Word. And it seems that I live in a place that is not receptive to this. My past previous experience was with people that exploited me for $13.00 an hour for 4 long years and could not care less about me. They lied to me, they overworked me and when I finally mustered the courage to quit they did not even said good bye. A dry "ok, good luck" was the only thing I heard. The boss did not even got up her chair. Yes it all behind now. But you see I have lost a little bit of trust in humanity. My soul is seeking a cozy home. Why are so many people selfish and manipulative? It's a rhetorical question. What great anger do we all have that would do harm to another human being just to satisfy our needs? Not everybody is like this, I know. But in my personal job/Job life experience it has been one abusive relationship after another. They all seem to quickly identify my talents, intelligence, intuition, organization, decorum, the ability to speak 4 languages and then they want me to do their work for them. And I always try to satisfy. In the process I burn, I resent the abuse and friction takes place. My words sound ominous, they are what they are. One harbors hope. Specially when you have been adrift for so long. Is this Karma? I am tired of using esoteric concepts to justify everything in this world. These gray clouds shall pass, I know. But I still need to find my soul a cozy home.</span>The Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234352629821148596.post-59327413335453795872014-09-08T22:16:00.001-05:002014-09-08T22:16:26.364-05:00Omnes vulnerant ultima necat horas<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Listening to Catalan composer Ramon Lull <i>Cantabem els ocels</i>, medieval, haunting, whispering echoes of ancient castles in Occitania. Time, past and future, has a foundational character in my mindscape. It seems that I am constantly time traveling. The fluidity of time is common to my daily routine. I cannot live in the present, I will be missing the past. I cannot live in the present, I will be missing the future. Oh, don't shout Zen profanities at me. I am being honest. Do not live in the present. It simply does not exist. Try to grasp the sun with your hands. You will not burn. It is impossible to grasp the sun. As the birds from this old song sing their arcane trills I get to fly through music and rhyme into their universe. The hours of the current world wound me, I fly away to another time and era to hide from the last hour, the one that kills.</span><br />
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<span style="color: orange;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">All hours wound the last one kills</span></span>The Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234352629821148596.post-3616701615179097832014-03-09T10:50:00.001-05:002014-03-09T10:50:19.973-05:00A validation of sadness<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Where are they? Where have they gone? As I drive through those beautiful houses in Highland Park I can't but remember the way it was 30 or 35 years ago when I was part of a tight-knit family. Now mom and dad are gone. Mom died 6 years ago and dad died 16 years ago. It seems like yesterday. I feel lonely and displaced. I am visiting an empty neighborhood. My irrational mind feels lost. Which way do I turn to find my home with my family in it? Still winter...there are days, grey days that are so sad and deep in my heart. A beautiful stillness that makes you cry. As I drive my tears roll down, I try to be stoic to no use. They are gone and I do not want to hear platitudes or Hallmark quotes from anyone. This is my holy, sacred sadness don't you dare to destroy what is mine. Yes, I know it will pass and in no time I will be laughing with a friend or singing with the chorale or buying fancy marmalade from a French cook in Alsace on the Internet or taking the Pretz out for a long walk. I am getting old. I never expected it to come so soon, so uninvited. The other day I was walking down on Greenville and observing the young people being busy and bubbly all around me. I though about my sadness. This sadness is cozy and revelatory. The stillness of winter. The naked tree. My naked soul reduced to its minimum factor. No pretenses, no show-offs, no acting or masquerading. In this nakedness, noiseless and aware I find the divinity. Don't make me explain the divinity, please. It is a mystery. It is truth without the consequences. Those are human. I discovered, finally, unashamedly, that I am a voyager in a dream. </span></div>
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The Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234352629821148596.post-57189008961091203362014-01-12T09:50:00.003-06:002014-01-12T09:50:51.394-06:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Happy is as happy goes. After many days of bitter winter vortexy weather the sun came out today. A balmy 65 degrees. I went to the lower Greenville and walked around soaking up the warm sun rays and the smiles of attendees. And for a little while life seemed simple enough. Just walking and smiling. Got into my car and listened to NPR's <i>Ask Me Another</i> a sort of loony q&a quiz show. Listening to the radio (mind you while driving) is a more engaging experience than watching often overproduced, lamely glossed hyperactive pixels in the form of a network sitcom with unimaginative plots. There is some good TV programs out there but they are only the exception. Listening to NPR is an invitation to be part of a communal experience. When we laugh together we stay together. A beautiful simple day indeed.<br />
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I've had the worst writer's block in my life. It has lasted years. But now slowly but surely I am finding a great deal of pleasure in just telling my story. I had to battle with the demons of judgment and validation. I am casting them off. Once I thought I had to survive a tempestuous, melodramatic and sometimes sad life by seeking the approval of others. I wanted to be the most charming, adorable, helpful friend you ever met. And I suffered for it because I could never be myself and could never tell my side of the story because an irrational fear that once I was disliked by someone I would be abandoned. I have grown up since then, little by little I have began to really like who I am, my glitches and my epiphanies. I am a work in progress. Right now I am single. It's OK. I like the SING in SINGle. I get to sing a lot by myself without being interrupted in the middle of my joyful performance. I read and write. I play with my dog. I have friends, not many thankfully.<br />
I love saying hello and smiling. Just like the people I met today at the lower Greenville. I also love to hug. I did not hug people on the lower Greenville. I really love to walk to bring human scale, as opposed to car-scale, to my experience. I love to sing. I love to laugh. My friends, I do not have many, are so sweet, they say hello and they also hug. I am so fortunate.The Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234352629821148596.post-35052536924704777322013-08-29T21:40:00.000-05:002013-08-29T21:40:28.862-05:00<br />
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It's been over two years that the Pink Cowboy has not being in his homestead ranch. I miss it terribly. I'm coming back home after experiencing an amazing array of adventures. I am now singing with the Turtle Creek Chorale (full of cute cowboys) and at a full-time job that I do not really enjoy but pays the bills. I found the ranch a little bit abandoned so I'm going to clean this mess and plant some Texan blue bonnets and sip some Irish coffee while I make plans.<br />
This summer has been a bit sad, a close friend passed away from pneumonia back in July. So I feel a bit existential and still in total shock. Time precious time. I'm 50 years old now. A rather strange age for me. I feel old and young at the same time. I've seen so many people come and go in and out of my life it really makes me blue and angry. So I am a hurricane of emotions. One thing, I've learned to be at peace with myself and my world. I love more intensely now that I ever did. Now I know love, true love, is sneaky, quiet, indestructible. My heart melts when I recognize how much people are able to give for others to survive.<br />
Pretzel is doing just fine. He turned 6 last April. He my little baby. A little dog in my life and I'm changed forever. Animals teach us compassion. They don't judge. They just are. Pretzel is a daily remainder that there is hope in every living thing on this old Earth.<br />
<br />The Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234352629821148596.post-65496472027675181002011-08-31T23:11:00.005-05:002011-08-31T23:21:59.287-05:00A home in my heart<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MV7lsYeuz2g/Tl8IRQr70ZI/AAAAAAAABBM/EU0bzCKV2AU/s1600/untitled.bmp"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 300px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647241550375932306" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MV7lsYeuz2g/Tl8IRQr70ZI/AAAAAAAABBM/EU0bzCKV2AU/s400/untitled.bmp" /></a>
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<br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-size:130%;">It is all quiet inside the old house. I have moved more than 20 times in my life. I keep a beautiful and cozy house in my heart. It is rather small. One bedroom, an old soft bed, a cherry wood desk and hundreds of leather bound books. The living room has hardwood floors a burgundy sofa with golden pillows, a fireplace, an arm chair and art deco posters on the walls, Outside, a garden gloriously glistens in the sun. </span></div></div>
<br />The Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234352629821148596.post-15746661599005239122010-06-17T14:11:00.003-05:002010-06-17T14:35:22.929-05:00Why I believe in breathing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/TBp45xB_qdI/AAAAAAAABAA/OxlIbcFHEEA/s1600/getty_rm_photo_of_man_breathing_through_nose.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 272px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/TBp45xB_qdI/AAAAAAAABAA/OxlIbcFHEEA/s400/getty_rm_photo_of_man_breathing_through_nose.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483828430086580690" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The road has been unbearable many times. Many times I have lived under the expectation of others, so eager to please that I forgot what pleased me. Many times I have reached out because Love commanded me to do so. You see the understanding of Love has been the mission of my life. As a young boy I easily understood the power of Love when it comes to wholly transform a situation. Love and tenderness made a little defenseless asthmatic child be able to feel safe enough in this world to dare to take the next full inhalation of oxygen without fearing asphyxia. My beloved mother and paternal grandmother loved me relentlessly, with such overflowing love day and night. Sitting next to me in the wee hours of the morning, watching me tenderly grasp for air as the sun came up. Through their love I found my breathing rhythm again. This memory bring tears of joy to my eyes, because I realize that Love conquers everything, it transforms everything, it gives clean and pure oxygen to the ravished soul.The Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234352629821148596.post-77455404275966586722010-06-16T01:13:00.004-05:002010-06-16T01:22:48.870-05:00To collect again is to recollect<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/TBhtMheTaoI/AAAAAAAAA_4/tquK19yJE8c/s1600/2770123270_46f071b6e1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/TBhtMheTaoI/AAAAAAAAA_4/tquK19yJE8c/s400/2770123270_46f071b6e1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483252608234908290" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Recollections,<br />glitter in my eyes<br />after touching the Christmas ornaments.<br />I became, for a short while, magical.<br />I was 4<br />I was blond<br />I had a warm and soft body<br />that moved fast and clumsily.<br />It was then that I first experience music,<br />a little portable phonograph<br />playing "American Patrol."The Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234352629821148596.post-2003559478395183512010-06-08T23:25:00.003-05:002010-06-08T23:45:41.751-05:00Dreamland<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/TA8b_LRiZ0I/AAAAAAAAA_w/16-B83FYgyg/s1600/Three+Castles+%2709+-+Thursday+25+-+Penrhyn+Castle+by+Rally+Pix..jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/TA8b_LRiZ0I/AAAAAAAAA_w/16-B83FYgyg/s400/Three+Castles+%2709+-+Thursday+25+-+Penrhyn+Castle+by+Rally+Pix..jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480630043705239362" /></a><br />I believe we are constantly transforming, developing, changing. I am such a different person from who I was 18 months ago. Life, and its consequences, has a funny way of getting inside me. I am always searching for all the angles, different perspectives. Sometimes I take myself on a journey to a town called exhaustion. My dreamland reconnects me with my origin. My dreamland has nothing to do with me sleeping. It a sort of daydreaming reality that is far more vivid and deep in meaning than any alpha state experience. In my childhood I called this land Rotcehland , an ancient sounding name, an island kingdom between Iceland and Greenland. Politically diverse, more than 26 different languages spoken. A balmy southern island, Paalme; and a frigid north , Kuensalia. I have been the king of this dreamland. <div>There are days when my sadness takes me to a western beach in Rotcehland, there I sit with Pretzel and think of God protecting me. Or is it Mother Tara protecting me? Maybe the Universe or the Force, it does not matter who. </div><div>Lately I've met many people worried about loosing in the game of life. Life is not a game. Refuse to compete, it's barbaric, inhuman. I do not even want to compete. Compete against who? Nobody ever wins. It is forbidden to compete in the Kingdom of Rotcehland. I have declared it so. </div><div>Why do we diminish ourselves so? </div><div>Today I am thinking of the word DIGNITY, your worth, your reality. Be your bold self, refuse to play any games where fun is nowhere to be seen. </div><div>I just received a parcel from the Royal Rotcehlandish Post Service: Flowers for you!</div>The Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234352629821148596.post-82769730643368316992010-04-16T16:56:00.004-05:002010-04-16T17:21:36.127-05:00La vache a dit.....mu. The cow said..... moo.<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/S8jhX_rqUXI/AAAAAAAAA_o/KM7GK9rB22o/s1600/miro%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 312px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460862350534529394" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/S8jhX_rqUXI/AAAAAAAAA_o/KM7GK9rB22o/s400/miro%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/S8jhXQ8F0rI/AAAAAAAAA_g/4z5kRfT2hDM/s1600/flamenco%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 250px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 324px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460862337986974386" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/S8jhXQ8F0rI/AAAAAAAAA_g/4z5kRfT2hDM/s400/flamenco%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/S8jhWyDhC8I/AAAAAAAAA_Y/ac12LnNsUxU/s1600/intelligence%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 325px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460862329696619458" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/S8jhWyDhC8I/AAAAAAAAA_Y/ac12LnNsUxU/s400/intelligence%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/S8jhWhnhP3I/AAAAAAAAA_Q/atH7TPpGV3M/s1600/choir%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 340px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 321px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460862325284224882" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/S8jhWhnhP3I/AAAAAAAAA_Q/atH7TPpGV3M/s400/choir%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/S8jhWZVlLwI/AAAAAAAAA_I/_foJjIsSAyk/s1600/3930jumping%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 257px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460862323061501698" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/S8jhWZVlLwI/AAAAAAAAA_I/_foJjIsSAyk/s400/3930jumping%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div>This is a new post, after some 4 months. Lately, life is becoming vibrant for me. I have met more people than ever and even joined my church choir. So let's see if I can transform that vibrancy into words and images. Being laconic is not one of my traits. I'm an interpretative individual. I rather describe a event using metaphorical language, color and sounds. I'm the guy that's is always looking at life at a different angle. So this is how I feel today.</div><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:180%;color:#ffff99;"><strong>ELATED</strong></span>, <span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:180%;color:#ff6666;">VIBRANT</span>, <span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:180%;color:#ffccff;">WORRIED</span>, <span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">TRANSITIONAL</span>, <span style="font-size:78%;color:#ff0000;"><em><strong>FUNCTIONAL</strong></em></span>, <span style="color:#66ff99;"><strong>WHIMSICAL</strong></span>, <span style="font-family:verdana;color:#3333ff;"><em>OVERCAST<br /></em></span><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div></div>The Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234352629821148596.post-86505542062448796282010-01-06T12:51:00.004-06:002010-01-06T13:02:42.964-06:00Dallas Salad<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/S0TeLnR22nI/AAAAAAAAA_A/a6hJHBadH5E/s1600-h/dallas-introsmall.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 277px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/S0TeLnR22nI/AAAAAAAAA_A/a6hJHBadH5E/s400/dallas-introsmall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423704142364727922" border="0" /></a><br /><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >In this city of the southern plains people form a variegated net of ethnicities. I change stations on my AM radio and hear the lilting tongues speak in Vietnamese, Eritrean, Arabic, Spanish and Cantonese. Busy bees looking for nectar in concrete walls and mega stores. I bet there is honey somewhere, hidden, waiting to be savored by all hungry souls.<br />I also hover over this sprawled city in North Texas. It is a stretch of humanity. A city that is having open heart surgery at the moment. We all wait to see what will become of Dallas, a cloned city at the moment. I see the endless network of roads, overpasses and expressways. A circulation system of pure concrete. I haven't be able to find the face of this city. It seems that I have to look very hard. I only see hints of cohesion, mists of creative energy, friendly people ready to have a common cause.<br />I am Dallas. Not yet ready for prime time, searching for identity and relevance. But quite friendly to be honest.</span>The Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234352629821148596.post-60762832442034810862010-01-04T21:53:00.002-06:002010-01-04T22:02:38.308-06:00Impression on Everything New<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/S0K5h6IKuWI/AAAAAAAAA-4/ZjBMjXPMCuE/s1600-h/candle-041.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 304px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/S0K5h6IKuWI/AAAAAAAAA-4/ZjBMjXPMCuE/s400/candle-041.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423100893497833826" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:130%;" ><br />Renewal. Juxtaposing the old and crumpled with the new and promising, new beginnings, Have you ever wanted to feel the warmth of a lonely candle and burn yourself in the process? Startled by the evocation of times gone I burned myself my the deep abyss of nostalgia. Now I stand up and greet the old trees and the rushing people of the morning hours. I stare at the horizon and laugh with all my heart.</span>The Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234352629821148596.post-71995982419126302222009-09-22T22:05:00.004-05:002009-09-22T22:43:44.984-05:00It comes with the territory...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SrmY65uCisI/AAAAAAAAA-s/YmLTqdDgHms/s1600-h/961935-2-children-smiling-on-the-street.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SrmY65uCisI/AAAAAAAAA-s/YmLTqdDgHms/s400/961935-2-children-smiling-on-the-street.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384502967191898818" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Is the human condition one of constant struggle?</span></span> Today I've had a media overload. From the vitriolic speech of tea-baggers to the incessant crudeness of reality shows. I have to be very selective when it comes to watching TV. It's heartbreaking to realize that so much energy is put on sensationalism. But we cannot blame TV nor media for all our troubles.<br />It was Pride weekend here in Dallas, I volunteer to help at my church's booth. I belong to a very progressive church that is totally inclusive of diversity. It felt wonderful to celebrate our victories as an oppressed group and reaffirm our wishes for the future. On the way back to the car, I had to walk 10 blocks south from where the Pride event was taking place. I saw poverty all around me. Too many dilapidated buildings and houses inhabited by fellow Latinos. They seem particularly quiet, very quiet indeed in comparison to the party going on to the north of their neighborhood. They seemed to be lost in their thoughts. There were about ten or twelve people all together sitting in one yard watching a couple of kids play soccer. They looked tired and bored. They didn't make much noise either.<br />Some rejoice and others suffer. What a strange symphony. When I was a student of Tibetan Buddhism my lamas taught me to chant for the liberation of suffering and its cause. It is simply complicated. But I know hope transforms the lives of people. The worst thing a human being can be is hopeless. Hope is a call for love and realization. A loud and crystal clear call. I believe happiness exists, it might not be what you imagine it is. It might be even better.<br />I'm growing lots of hope in my mind-garden, so much indeed that I want to share it with everybody. I'm asking you, friends, <span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Is the human condition one of constant hope?</span></span><br /></div>The Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234352629821148596.post-41639597135914586212009-09-16T23:25:00.007-05:002009-09-16T23:48:13.608-05:00Mary Travers (1936-2009)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SrG7f0-Ut1I/AAAAAAAAA-k/_J2zARaJGpo/s1600-h/peterpaulandmaryalbum.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 301px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SrG7f0-Ut1I/AAAAAAAAA-k/_J2zARaJGpo/s400/peterpaulandmaryalbum.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382289185154840402" border="0" /></a><br />Mary Travers from the group Peter, Paul and Mary passed away today at the age of 72 after a battle with leukemia. It saddens me a great deal since PP&M has always been one of my favorite groups. The harmonious simplicity of their songs have always resonated with that part of my soul that celebrates life. Her voice was as sweet as honey. She was one authentic and soulful artist. She will be missed.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Wik2uc69WbU&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Wik2uc69WbU&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>The Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234352629821148596.post-15314170878005739022009-09-11T18:34:00.005-05:002009-09-11T18:57:58.339-05:00Rain<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SqrjkaPyDUI/AAAAAAAAA9Y/Z3z4607YvbU/s1600-h/rain460.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SqrjkaPyDUI/AAAAAAAAA9Y/Z3z4607YvbU/s400/rain460.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380362919507791170" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">One of those precious moments in life. Pretzel softly grunting at the downpour; Brownee, the new pup, asleep in my arms. I'm alone in the apartment, dusk has just hit the blinds letting in the last wet purple rays of the dying sun in the bedroom. I'm listening to CalmRadio, an Internet radio station that plays soft and glorious piano music. And I wonder how fast this very moment will melt away in time. So many worries these past months. What makes me a man? What makes me a human being? Is it my identity, my social persona, my likes and dislikes? A thunder clap has just shot across the horizon. Satori. A zen-like revelation on impermanence. Or rather a permanent impermanence. I love to play with words in the same way that a master painter uses shades, textures and hues to depict the landscape of his mind. Where has my depression led me? It has carved a groove, a distinctive groove in my life. But not always a bad one. Since childhood I've been melancholic in nature. I always felt I could time travel through space if I put my mind on it. If fascinated by certain age or time period I would submerge myself in the art, literature, geography and architecture of the period. I secretly long for eras I never lived: turn of the century London, Renaissance Italy, Athens under Pericles, Pre-Columbian North America.<br />The soothing tickles of the soft melodies of the piano and the dancing rain in my window bring me a rare feeling of solace. Quietly, I breath in and out the atmosphere that has manifested magically in this moment. Just that.<br /></div>The Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234352629821148596.post-44278303056798808572009-09-10T18:52:00.005-05:002009-09-10T19:26:24.156-05:00On the Elegance of Dinner Parties<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SqmY5bGItqI/AAAAAAAAA9Q/VqQtAonf35o/s1600-h/0204_reunion-table.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 304px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SqmY5bGItqI/AAAAAAAAA9Q/VqQtAonf35o/s400/0204_reunion-table.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379999342164227746" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><br /><br /><br />It was a particularly common Thursday. I did laundry in the morning and in the afternoon I prepared fish with white rice. A couple of days ago I went to see <span style="font-style: italic;">Julia and Julie</span> with some friends. As I ate I couldn't help but thinking about all the fabulous dinner parties I've seen on the screen throughout my life. From the philosophical <span style="font-style: italic;">My Dinner With André </span>(1981) to the riveting luscious 19th century banquet displays in <span style="font-style: italic;">The Age of Innocence </span>(1993). Who can also forget <span style="font-style: italic;">Babbette's Feast </span>(1987)?, based on a short story by Isak Dinesen. Dinner can be a dramatic counterpoint to a dull day. When people gather at a dinner table they participate in one of the oldest ritual known to man, sharing. Today I imagine wild red roses flowing from a aquamarine epergne; a tea stained Battenberg lace tablecloth, crisp and flowing at the same time; my long gone set of Fostoria Depression glassware featuring tall, elegant cobalt blue stems. Elegance is a perfect equation of joy and generosity. To aim for beauty has long being the obsession of mankind. Elegance is beauty presented as a gift. It has little to do with money or wealth. True elegance is about sharing. Who can be elegant and selfish? A fool no doubt.<br /></div>The Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234352629821148596.post-67341271290463976312009-09-08T16:57:00.009-05:002009-09-08T17:31:24.540-05:00It Was a Hazy Tuesday Morning...I Saw The Fire Within.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SqbZ9pVnEOI/AAAAAAAAA84/FxwxIUPnPXM/s1600-h/Art_Joy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SqbZ9pVnEOI/AAAAAAAAA84/FxwxIUPnPXM/s400/Art_Joy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379226458032378082" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SqbZ9DXQCMI/AAAAAAAAA8w/gAUVUkb02aY/s1600-h/Angel+Vatican+04+weba.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 268px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SqbZ9DXQCMI/AAAAAAAAA8w/gAUVUkb02aY/s400/Angel+Vatican+04+weba.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379226447838709954" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">The eternal flame wailing...the watershed of your defiance...your glorious tenderness...the hope of angels.....random poetic phrases. There has always been a fire burning inside of me....As a child I ventured with Homer into fantastic worlds of Cyclops and the golden fleece....the bravado of Red-Hot Riding Hood, a jazzy take in cartoon form of the traditional tale.....Japanese proto-anime Astroboy rocketing into space to save the world...Sparkling stars...endless Caribbean Ocean, dignified Palm Trees swaying in the wind like a mythical Isadora Duncan doing her expressionistic Wundertanz...I feel so much, so deeply, so metaphorical...so passionate...so atavistic...so vibrant and colourful...and yet I live in a mostly blind world...maybe I am the blind one, who knows? I crave for a place where art and music are honored as blessings in one's life. I crave for a commUNITY where dance and poetry can overcome prejudice and ignorance. Oh, yeah...I heard it all before, so many times...I'm so naive...so very naive....and silly, and a fool, and idealistic to the extreme, and a dreamer, and ethereal to a fault, and impractical, and a weak link in today's dog eats dog world. I have heard it all before.<br />I am burning inside, and its a variegated flame, some call it an eternal flame, I call it a life giving flame. I see its reflection in the artists that I meet, in the music that dares to to celebrate the human spirit amidst the honks and clangs of urban traffic.<br />The beauty of your embrace.<br />The dignity of your very special dance.<br />The triumph of your colours against the deadly gray.<br />The echo of your song that penetrates the walls of doom and bring hope to all.<br />The Love that you bring into this sea of humanity.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);font-size:130%;" >I AM AN ARTIST</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);font-size:130%;" >I AM AN ARTIST</span><br /><br />did you hear me?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 204, 51);font-size:180%;" >I AM AN ARTIST</span><br /><br />I want to celebrate with you.<br /><br /></div>The Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234352629821148596.post-19939987370897719502009-09-04T14:35:00.003-05:002009-09-04T14:49:34.515-05:00Waiting for a call<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SqFvSXMNk-I/AAAAAAAAA8g/hmXJZ5UKTCg/s1600-h/David%2BHockney%2BiPhone%2Bpainting.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 242px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SqFvSXMNk-I/AAAAAAAAA8g/hmXJZ5UKTCg/s400/David%2BHockney%2BiPhone%2Bpainting.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377701791310648290" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><br /><br /><br />A phone call away. I've been waiting all day long for a call. I've had two interviews in this establishment. "We'll let you know either way by Friday" she said.<br /><br />I'm in that place where you are hopeful and pessimistic at the same time. It's Anxiuosland. It's a land of the absurd, illusive (worst than Alice in Wonderland), where words are a game to be played inside your head and where expectations are like daggers through your heart. And yet I know I am much more than this nerve wracking moment. I can soar pass Anxiousland from a single leap forward. I am a human being that has followed a long and winding life path. An unique path at that. I have made this path for me using all the Love I could gather, all the hopes that a person has in her or his heart.<br /><br />In the meantime I keep breathing, dancing, loving.<br /><br /></div>The Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234352629821148596.post-61755639457140172009-08-30T19:47:00.005-05:002009-08-30T20:06:31.605-05:00Ted Kennedy 1932-2009<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/Spshc-Ru-mI/AAAAAAAAA8Y/4Zik5F1t8SU/s1600-h/ted-kennedy_398x299.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 398px; height: 299px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/Spshc-Ru-mI/AAAAAAAAA8Y/4Zik5F1t8SU/s400/ted-kennedy_398x299.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375927361834252898" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The first time I ever cast a ballot was for Ted Kennedy in the Democratic Party primaries in early 1980. I had just turned 18. Even though he lost his presidential bid I learned that there is always hope in the democratic process. I am one vote and so are you. We are powerful. I was taught from an early age that it was my civic duty to go out and vote. Dad was a lawyer and mom came from a very influential political family in Puerto Rico. A deep belief in the sacredness of the democratic process was paramount in our education. For some reason Ted Kennedy represented that process for me. I know he was part of a big intriguing political family and I also know of his less than perfect personal life but he represented what you could do with your own personal power. You can change the world. Some of us are way less influential but every step I take is a step forward, I'm heading somewhere, always accompanied by both my experiences and my values as a human being. I'm so grateful that we live in a democracy. I know is way less than perfect and that so many of us minorities have struggled to have our basic rights being respected. I hope we can come to a satisfactory conclusion in our health care debate and be able have true equality for all. Ted Kennedy championed these and many more causes. He will be missed.<br /></div>The Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234352629821148596.post-75860875521764990422009-08-22T15:47:00.009-05:002009-08-22T16:22:59.181-05:00Summer of 1978<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SpBgmQ3H4EI/AAAAAAAAA8A/_n79LgFWJhE/s1600-h/a_Clay_court_Palmas_edit3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 375px; height: 222px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SpBgmQ3H4EI/AAAAAAAAA8A/_n79LgFWJhE/s400/a_Clay_court_Palmas_edit3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372900565930467394" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SpBgtUX1YOI/AAAAAAAAA8I/obN6EZe_KdU/s1600-h/184456_1237664179602.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 212px; height: 159px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SpBgtUX1YOI/AAAAAAAAA8I/obN6EZe_KdU/s400/184456_1237664179602.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372900687132057826" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I have been thinking so much of the sea lately. It's no coincidence James Joyce called it "our mother" in his <span style="font-style: italic;">Ulysses</span>. It's been almost a whole year since I have seen the vast ocean. As a Caribbean man, the sea has always been my backdrop, my life's wallpaper so to speak. I often think of the magical summer days I lived in small villas or rented houses in Puerto Rico's Northeast coast. While I was growing up my family would spend two full months on the beach each year during the 60's and 70's. From resort-like Dorado with its white and peaceful coves to the raging surf of Humacao's Palmas del Mar. I distinctively remember July of 1978 at Palmas del Mar. I was about 15 years old. It was a summer of tennis and backgammon as I remember it. The soundtrack from Grease and an Euro-disco band Voyage was all the rage in those days. We were discovering that we fancied adulthood. Me and my beach buddies would do anything we could to imitate adults. We thought adulthood was about pleasure, pure and simple. We would smoke behind close guarded doors and sip rum and coke until we got nauseated. It was a cool thing to do back then. We would be on our bikes all day long with our swimming trunks underneath our clothes so we could rush to the beach or the swimming pool as soon as we wanted. These were formative years for me. I started to find my own identity in the late hours we stayed out by the Mediterranean style villas bathed by the Atlantic Ocean. I remember the mystery and seduction of the starry nights in the marina. Young golden men and vibrant women wearing blue eye shadow were the inhabitants of this world.<br />Memory is a fantastic editor, I must add. I also felt the angst of inadequacy back then. I had mild acne and was overweight, but boy did I dream back then...I imagined my future life to be full of love and happiness. I was too naive to realize the complexity of my world, present and future.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SpBgyCmVSxI/AAAAAAAAA8Q/NNfdhuIHCYE/s1600-h/hotel.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 288px; height: 183px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SpBgyCmVSxI/AAAAAAAAA8Q/NNfdhuIHCYE/s400/hotel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372900768260377362" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />But these summer days gave me the wonderful gift of <span style="font-size:180%;">discovery</span>. Now, the glaring sun had baptized me into adulthood. Indescribably sensuous adulthood. I could never go back again, my universe was forever changed, I began to dream like an adult, thirsty for adventure, hungry for love.<br /></div>The Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234352629821148596.post-60735206999821941842009-08-20T14:34:00.003-05:002009-08-20T21:19:16.683-05:00A Magic Carpet<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/So2lcCN_HpI/AAAAAAAAA74/vod7q2eymlY/s1600-h/Flying+carpets800px-Vasnetsov_samolet.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 220px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/So2lcCN_HpI/AAAAAAAAA74/vod7q2eymlY/s400/Flying+carpets800px-Vasnetsov_samolet.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372131831573323410" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />Trying to fly as high as I can. It's been a day full of promises, several job leads, one phone interview. How much would I love to ride on a magic carpet. Sweeping across the land. It's a strange world this one we are living. Speed is our new god. Acceleration is the highest virtue. It seems like that to me. We have gone insane. We are led to believe that whoever is slow or just takes his or her time will be left behind. I seldom feel I am rushing to nowhere. I crave an open green space where I can quietly sit with a book and a cup of tea. I read Arabian Nights when I was 7 or 8 and marveled about flying carpets. It would <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">definitely</span> be a cozy way to travel around.<br />I am a very visual individual, and I imagined to fly on a peacock blue Persian rug, what I later came to know as a birjan rug. Intricate patterns interwoven through thousands of silken threads. But isn't life like a magical flying carpet? You are the master weaver. You always carry your pattern with you. You have created this pattern, bit by bit, year after year. The colors are your joys, your tears, your epiphanies and your defeats. A weaver takes time to make a beautiful rug. Then why do we settle with a mass produced bland looking version of a magic carpet?<br /></div>The Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234352629821148596.post-84991073181271073412009-08-17T20:31:00.005-05:002009-08-17T21:05:43.294-05:00One morning at the Job Club<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SooMJCStyII/AAAAAAAAA7w/OowM34HEsM4/s1600-h/Roses-Yellow-Golda.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 393px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SooMJCStyII/AAAAAAAAA7w/OowM34HEsM4/s400/Roses-Yellow-Golda.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371118854966462594" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Merciful Heavens! I had a bit of a busy day today. I've joined a job club at my local church. It has proven to be quite good since you get support and help of other fellow<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">unemployedlings</span>. In this case 12 heads think better than one, mine. So your efforts in trying to land a job get multiplied by the ideas and feedback offered by others. This period of unemployment has been unprecedented in my life. It's goes beyond my economic situation. It's a feeling, strange as it is, that my soul is unemployed. Let me explain. This last year has been the most devastating year in my life. I lost my anchor in life, my mom, suddenly, without any kind of suspicion about her health. I found her lifeless in her apartment. I'm dealing with the loss in all ways that I can, still it hurts like nothing I have experienced before. Six months later, I made the decision to move to Texas with my brother. I needed to escape the loneliness I was feeling inside, I started to hate the very place I lived for so many years, as if it had something to do with her death.<br />I could not stand living in the island, maybe I was projecting my inner feelings and found Puerto Rico to be the cause of death both my mother's and my dreams. To some, probably many, it would seem childish to blame a country. Maybe I'm childish, who knows?But I cannot possibly tell you how isolated and hopeless I felt living in a place where I had very few friends left and where I did not relate to the beach culture of the Caribbean.<br />I saw an open door...Texas. And here I am . I do not know if it's going to be my last destination, but I'm trying my luck like everybody else.<br /><br />At the job club I mentioned the fact that I was shy when it came to introduce myself to people I did not know. They look at me as if I was from planet Jupiter. Shy? Are you insecure or something? Someone asked. What am I suppose to answer? For some reason I saw the humor in it, it was a most impolite question, it put me on the spot...but it made me laugh at the impertinence of the woman that made the question. She reacted the same way someone would react to something that was disliked like a certain color or a certain type of music. Maybe I'm too Victorian or Edwardian about manners but I think this blabbermouth of a person was rude. I displayed my humble panache in answering...you mean this is not the Insecure Anonymous group?, then I stood up in mock confusion. They all laughed. I have to go into actor mode to overcome my social shyness. Of course it's based on insecurities....may I say a big and loud <span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">DUH!</span></span><br />So I'm discovering the New World all over again. Injecting colors and forms into my Self to reanimate my quest for true joy. Who wants to dance with me? What are you doing to inject passion into your life? I would love to know. Bunch of hugs and kisses to all, you are succulent people.<br /><br /><br />I had to buy these yellow roses, I saw them at the flower shop in Bloggyville, they remind me of frindship and luxury.<br /></div>The Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234352629821148596.post-80208303727952342322009-08-16T19:57:00.005-05:002009-08-16T21:06:00.774-05:00Hey, I'm just human.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SoitZuZ9ihI/AAAAAAAAA7I/HtBuf0M5dFw/s1600-h/redroses2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SoitZuZ9ihI/AAAAAAAAA7I/HtBuf0M5dFw/s400/redroses2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370733213104572946" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I'm alive, thank you so much for sending me e-mails reminding me of how loving the blogging community really is. I've been semi-retired lately from writing due to a bout with depression. I often thought about writing but I could not commit my thoughts to the blog. I'm feeling better now and I'm planning to share the comings and goings of my personal landscape with all of you. I'm healing from this depression I just mentioned about. I am very idealistic, I think, and for that same reason I get disappointed by people and situations much too often. I know art, spirituality, colors, books and music can be healing agents too, so are flowers, sunsets and trees, and laughter, so I intend to keep on writing in spite of my depressive condition and unemployment. I beg you all forgiveness for abandoning my post during these hard times. Is good to be back. <span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Love and Peace to all.</span><br /></span><br /><br />I put some red roses here to enjoy their beauty and perfume. I am a hopeless romantic at heart.<br /></div>The Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234352629821148596.post-63937805055366055732009-07-06T18:33:00.003-05:002009-07-06T18:51:41.145-05:00TV Wasteland<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SlKNf44sXGI/AAAAAAAAA7A/Mrz8E4d54Vo/s1600-h/tv_junk_flat.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dq_tbTkLR3Y/SlKNf44sXGI/AAAAAAAAA7A/Mrz8E4d54Vo/s400/tv_junk_flat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355498485882575970" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">I've reached the point when I'm about to toss the TV set out of the window. Too bad it isn't my TV set. Michael Jackson is dying in front of us 24/7. I'm sorry he is dead. But I can't stand it anymore. It is a circus out there. Morbid curiosity is nothing new, but I am afraid to turn on the TV because all they are showing is revolting. All I see is reality shows featuring the most uncouth, selfish and narcissistic individuals on earth, followed by more reports on the death of MJ... I only feel safe watching Turner Classics and PBS. I might just as well stop watching TV and start to catch up on my netflix queue. To all TV programmers out there: If you give people JUNK all of the time they are going to get used to it and lower their own standards. Of course you know all about it, you want it to go thet way.<br /><br />I need my Bach, my Chagall, my Thoreau, my Tagore to keep me sane these days.<br /></div>The Pink Cowboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09006823919205286012noreply@blogger.com12