07-03-2011
Here I am. The last time I wrote here was a year ago. A lot has changed since then and I have changed. I’ve been to France and back, my mom opened a flower shop and I managed to dig myself a grave in my own head. But that was a few days ago. I miraculously feel better now. Crying lets the poison out after all. I hadn’t had the urge to write for a while, partly because in France I wrote everything in letters to my friends and now, I’m so busy with my life that I don’t have time to sit down and reflect on how I feel. Perhaps that’s the reason I crashed a few days ago.
I realized that since coming back from France, I had changed a lot, and I tried to force myself into the life I had before. I didn’t take into account that I have morphed into something different and that I don’t fit into this crevice anymore. I need to slowly form a new one. One of my very good friends is in Africa right now, and I can’t believe how much I miss her. I realized how free she made me feel. She was the one that I could propose any crazy idea, and she’d be right there with me without judgement.
The older I get, the more I realize that I want a second half to my life. That second half usually comes in the form of another human being, although some people manage to find that in literature, pets, or their job. I consider myself a people person, and so this second half must be human! Unfortunately, the more I look around and absorb experience from the people around me, the more I am disappointed in love and relationships.
Except for in movies, I have not yet seen a marriage or a couple who I looked up to and wished for a relationship like theirs. All of the couples that I have seen in my life, who I was able to watch over a long period of time, I have found so many flaws, that I could not possibly see myself living in that for the rest of my life.
The more I think about myself as a person, the more I realize that there probably isn’t a person that would be able to handle me for who I am. Most guys that have had any sort of feelings for me, have only seen very small fractions of my personality, and all the rest, I was forced to put away on a shelf and expose only those fractions that I thought would please them.
Although, with so many different parts of me, I feel like no all of them really are me. I still have to find myself, and when I do, I have to be proud, and show it. Then, if someone does have feelings for me, it will be for the true me, and not an illusion.
“You can’t stop loving or wanting to love because when its right, it’s the best thing in the world. When you’re in a relationship and it’s good, even if nothing else in your life is right, you feel like your whole world is complete.”
– Keith Sweat
Much love,
Dirty Beat
Time to get the feelings out. I’m turning 20 in a month and I have nothing in this life. I’m dashing back and forth between reality and fantasy. I am realizing that everything I ever wanted to do with myself is completely unachievable. The things that I love, are uncombineable. To be, what I want to be, I don’t have enough talent, and to get there anyway, I don’t have enough perseverance.
I’m not as strong as everyone sees me to be. I have a lot of attitude and a seemingly high self-esteem. I act like I know what I want back from life, but it’s all a scam that I have learned to put up so I wouldn’t get judged. In reality I’m just as weak as everyone else.
I’ve been living with the feeling that, if I tell myself “I’m strong”, I will be. But that is not the truth. It’s a semi-transparent screen I put between me and life that makes life around me seem bland and untouchable. And then, I complain that life is boring, whether it is because of my friends, family, or city.
Anyone who lives within their means suffers from a lack of imagination.
– Oscar Wilde
What do I love about life? What do I enjoy doing? I love dancing, acting, making movies, music. I love children, and I love helping them. And yet I have not taken myself anywhere with any of that. Dancing I abandoned for volleyball, which turns out is not a passion of mine at all. Acting, I don’t have the talent. Movies, it is such a foreign understanding for everyone around me, that they don’t know how to react. Mostly, it is doubt of any success at all. And me, being me, I rely completely on the opinion of other people. That is the only source of accomplishment that I get – when other people tell me I have succeeded. Music, yes I love listening to it, but I am not ever able to do anything with it.
I love children, and I wish I could combine all of the above, so that other kids have the opportunity to be introduced to that early, so they can figure out if that is part of them. I want it to be for any child, rich or poor. But in order for me to do that, I have to be rich and that is most definitely not in the cards for me.
How do other people break away and just follow a dream? It’s a risk. But if you think about it, no matter how badly you fail, there are still options for you to get back up on your feet.
Sometimes I wish I was alone, with no one influencing my thoughts so I could just DO something. But now there are too many other characters in my life that I have to think about and consider their opinions.
When will I find myself?
I am currently suffering from a lack of imagination.
Sincerely yours,
Dirty Beat
I have to make this statement. I have a lot to write about my trip to Cuba for the New 2010 Year, but this has to be written out separately. I lost my virginity. On December 30th 2009. When I was leaving for Cuba, it wasn’t exactly my intention. I always thought of having this great event with someone I was serious with. But then once I got there, I realized that there was no way I will be serious with anyone in the next 4 years. I can’t be a 24yr old virgin. That just isn’t allowed. But don’t you worry. I didn’t lose it to just anyone. I spotted the guy at the airport when we were in line to get our tickets. Then I saw him again at the gate. Then I saw him again at the club in Cuba and even though he was in a different hotel, we still managed to hook up. He was really sweet the first time we went out. He barely had his hands anywhere. Then we agreed to meet up again at the same club in a couple of nights, and he showed up! Saying that he always does what he promises. That night we went to the beach and I agreed to let it all go. Think about it. It is warm, we are in the soft sand, there is the ocean softly swooshing in on the shore a mere 10 meters away from us.
The guy I was with, Damian Tomaro, was the most amazing dancer. He kept up with me in grinding and was able to lead in a salsa and meringue. He was half Italian and half Argentinean. He was taller than me when I was in heels and was an amazing kisser. I found him to be very attractive, and he was a good sweet talker. Why not make love to him? I mean, he wasn’t EVERYTHING I ever wanted in a guy, but I decided that there was enough there for me to sacrifice the rest. He wasn’t absolutely built, but he was in construction and it was obvious he had a strong body. He didn’t talk much, but I made sure that his tongue was at least busy with something else.
He asked me a few times if I was sure. I was drunk, but I remember it all. I agreed. He kind of helped me through it, but it was awfully painful. I guess my friend Sam was right after all. I didn’t have very high expectations for the first time. It hurt like hell, and 5 seconds in I was no longer turned on. But it was done and over with. I came home to my best friend Sonya (I’m so glad she’s there for me all the time) and bawled for half an hour. I guess the whole thing was harder on me emotionally than anything else. I felt I didn’t perform well, because I was pain. And the whole thing just came crashing down around me.
I didn’t see the guy after for a couple of days. We didn’t agree on another date, so I assumed that that was it. I had gotten over him. I knew I would be attached to him because he was my first, but it was easier because I knew nothing about him. He said he would call me within the two or three days of coming home (Who says that? If you want the person, you call them right away, that should have been my cue right there… gr) and that is where we parted.
The last day before we had to go back to Ottawa we met again at the club. I saw him at the bar, but I ignored him, thinking that he probably doesn’t want to have anything to do with me anymore. But he grabbed me, and we danced again. Although this time he would keep pushing me away if his sister or cousin (there was like 20 of them that came with him and his two friends on the trip) went by. It was frustrating, but I let it go.
That night we ended up on the beach again, but since last time we had the sand all over us, we decided to stay on a lounge chair. What a bad idea that was. Because he made no effort to contact me, it was suggested that I give him blue balls. I turned him on and seduced him for about half an hour. He complained that no one has ever done that to him for that long. But then I gave in and we had sex again. FML. This time it didn’t hurt so much, and I felt like I did a much more satisfactory job of it. Turns out my learning curve is quite steep when it comes to intercourse. (But the lounge chair left me seriously bruised all over my body… with a few fingerprints as a final touch)
I wanted to watch the sunset, so I asked if he wanted to stay with me. It was the last night. He said he needed his sweater back because it wasn’t his (it was…..) and left me there by myself on the beach in the freezing cold wind. But he said he’d say hi and bye at the airport, but that I should “understand” since he will be with his family.
On the way back to the airport, his hello consisted of a barely noticeable nod in my direction on the bus to the airport. Then total ignorance of my existence the rest of the time. And his good bye was avoiding eye contact and rushing past me to the exit doors out of the Montreal airport.
I’m not stupid. I get that we had nothing. But the least he could have done was wrap it all up with a good bye.
Douche bag.
No longer innocent,
Dirty Beat.
I’ve experienced my first writer’s block. Who would have thought that it would come to someone like me who really doesn’t have anything important to write? I always didn’t understand how someone could have writer’s block if what they write is their life. I mean I completely understand writer’s block when you have to write an assignment for school or a presentation for your boss that you have absolutely no passion for, but for a writer? That is all the person has. It IS their passion and their inspiration within itself. I always thought it was a package deal. Now I understand what writer’s block is. There are outside factors that affect your writing. In my case it was spammers.
When I first started writing this blog, I realized that because it is completely anonymous, no one will read it. It is more of a memory/thought bank for myself. But then I started getting comments on my blogs, and I replied – thinking that people really did care for what I wrote about. Only a couple weeks later did I realize that they are spammers. Its an automatic machine that recognizes that I’ve written a new post and sends me a message saying that “Nice post! Keep writing!” How encouraging. I actually replied.
I feel like a five year old that got cheated out of getting some candy. It’s like a big tease. All of a sudden I thought that maybe my thoughts may be important to someone. And then boom! Nope, sorry. You’re just not important. You are just being used as a way for someone else to get some sort of sick pleasure out of putting a damn virus on your computer.
Oh how I wish I could meet a spammer. I want to know what kind of people these really are.
Well, I couldn’t get myself together to write a new post until I got this out of my system. It was like a bacteria. A cold. (Something I am currently suffering from in the real world unfortunately) But now that I’ve let it all loose. I’m ready for a new post. Be prepared! Whoever is human and actually reading this.
“Write to be understood, speak to be heard, read to grow…”
– Lawrence Clark Powell
Relieved,
Dirty Beat
Quick start to the metro. Destination – the Vatican City, with guards in funny costumes that were inspired by Raphael’s frescoes (wall paintings) in the old days. Once inside and past the metal detectors and x-ray luggage machines we, without a line up since it had just opened, went into the St. Peter’s Basilica.
This trip makes me overuse this word and all of its synonyms: majestic. The church is gigantic with beautiful sculptures of all sizes. It has many high ceiling separations with more statues in the walls. When you feel you have gone all around the main “mass” section (my lack of religious terms is revealed) you have only covered half. If you don’t already feel overwhelmed by everything around you, there is a statue there that is sitting in a gathering of fabric. The folds in the fabric are magnificently carved out of marble. It looks as if your touch can alter the folds of the stone as easily as it would silk.
Once out, a few blocks away is the Vatican Museum. A winding line up has already arranged itself by the time we got there and we started wishing we had bought tickets from the dozens of “tour representatives with ‘extra’ tickets” that are equally dispersed from the Metro station to the Vatican. Good thing we didn’t buckle to their marketing tactics and didn’t pay a mark up of 30 Euros per ticket on each 14 euro ticket for their services and an easy entrance into the Vatican museum. The line moves faster than it seems. A wait of only 15 minutes is not worth 30 Euros.
Inside the museum there is a designed “one way” path through the many galleries to avoid traffic jams of the opposite moving flows of tour groups. We skipped through quite a few galleries and went straight to the second half of the visitor path (which still contained at least 30 gallery rooms). Of course the effect of the murals was mesmerizing, but I am not a true art lover or really understand the genius in the paintings. I could, although, understand how much time it took to paint it all (sometimes lying on their back – to pain the ceiling) and cover every square inch of surface of a room with art/mosaic/sculpture/pattern/or painting imitating a sculpture. Those paintings are so well done that you don’t realize it is a painting until you are up close to it.
We admired the art of Michelangelo, Raphael and moved on to the Sistine Chapel – the so-called religious heart of the Vatican. A sacred place. It was nearly impossible for the guards to keep the visitors from capturing photos and video of the petite Chapel’s insides.
Vatican – check. Onto completing the tour of the archaeological gardens of Ancient Rome near the Colosseo. This time we had the ticket to get the full experience (not the free, mini-path on the first day) that came as a package with the ticket for the Colosseo. At this point our feet are aching and we are dead tired from the whole trip. We followed one path – the one without staircases. Of course everything is more or less deteriorated by time, yet still some parts of the old “downtown” were intact. I walked the paths that once were walked on by Ancient Romans!
Quick tip: Audio guides are great, but expensive, if even available, so download something beforehand to your iPOD. I saw a dude walking around with an mp3 with a loud speaker and realized how genius it is. History lesson as you go through it and see it all with your own eyes becomes that much more interesting.
For dinner we went to a restaurant on the other side of the river and found ourselves in a liveable neighbourhood. Graffiti took over any available surface, but the place was still extremely cozy.
We went to see more things after dinner, but it seems my body was already pushing through some reserves of energy I didn’t know I had. The ones that are kept for the time when I feel my knees will collapse at any second. My mind is in overload: “Another statue! Another bridge! Another building! Another fountain! Another! Another! Another! …Amazing! Wow!…” All that turned into: “Hm…cool. Do you think you could find a place to pee near there?”
Sleep. Last day tomorrow. An Arividerci Bus Tour of the city awaits us, as well as a long trip home. Home sweet home.
“I soon realized that no journey carries one far unless, as it extends into the world around us, it goes an equal distance into the world within.”
– Lillian Smith
Lovingly,
Dirty Beat
The morning started routinely with continental breakfast in the hotel. As we headed out the door, I realized how tired my legs are from walking everywhere, and turns out my “flat footed-ness” has been making my knees and hips act up as well as shooting pain into my heels. Note to self: comfortable shoes are a must on these trips!
We took the metro (Oh how I love the underground system and all cities that possess one) to the Caracalla di Terme or, in other words, the super fancy bathing complex for the ancient Romans. The thing had a “gym” room, a cold pool, a “sauna” type room, a hot water pool and rooms for things I didn’t understand. It took 9000 slaves five years to build the foundation of this building.
Each 3m thick wall was once covered by coloured, Egyptian marble with various statues looking over the visitors from the indentations in the wall. Of course it wasn’t without fountains and columns, yet hardly anything is left of the beauty today. 80% of the walls remain (which look so sturdy that another 2000 years probably won’t hurt them) and a few chunks of mosaic floors that once covered the entire inside surface of the baths under the open sky. Unfortunately, even the statues that remained had been taken away to museums.
The grandiose walls inspired me to build one just like it used to be (according to the layout drawings) and start a new business. (I wish…)
Next on the list was the inside of the Colosseo. Like all other buildings from those times, it is huge and everlasting. It is of course still a ruin, but a little part had been restored so tourists would understand that what we see today is actually the structure that once held up thousands of people watching prisoners, slaves or criminals (most were trained to become gladiators) meet their death sentence in the form of a hungry wild animal or in the form of another equally unfortunate human dressed in leather and a robe equipped with a couple of strategic weapons.
Once it got too hot from the heated rock surface, we headed out to the “Lido Roma” – the beach. A great afternoon spent on the FLIPPING HOT (!!!), dark sand and soothingly refreshing salty water of the Mediterranean Sea. Although it was confusing as to what your 10 Euros per person paid for, after a few wanderings along the shore, we found an English speaking life guard who explained that we get a lounge chair with orange stripes on “this” part of the beach (not to be confused with the blue lounge chairs 3m away). We settled down and enjoyed the humid breeze. But don’t underestimate the Italian sun. You burn faster than you think. It is only the Italians that can handle that much of their own sun, and mostly topless. (I understand now one of the characteristics of Latino male personalities. I mean, after seeing almost all females in your life topless, your brain functions differently.)
“Belladonna, n.: In Italian a beautiful lady; in English a deadly poison. A striking example of the essential identity of the two tongues.”
– Ambrose Bierce
Tanned,
Dirty Beat
Alarm. Shower. Peel burnt skin off face. Breakfast. And off we go to the medieval part of Rome. Relatively unexciting in my opinion. Cobblestone streets wide enough for one car, yet are able to fit a car, tourists, parked scooters around flower pots and a motorcycle weaving in and out of traffic. It was definitely one of those “don’t judge a book by its cover” moments. Streets are all extremely narrow, 40 m long at most and sporadically placed at random angles to each other. The only greenery is found in pots in the streets. We arrived at the Campo de Fiori Marketplace where all variations of fruits (dried or fresh), veggies, pasta, fish, meat etc. are found. The whole market is looked over by the solemn stone statue of philosopher Giordano Bruno.
We went on through the streets munching on cherries that we bought in the market and arrived at the Tiber River running straight through the city. A larger version of our Ottawa Canal. Majestic statues around the borders of the bridges and puke green water. Actually, more like puke green mixed with milk, since nothing reflects in the surface of the water. No boats. So really, an abandoned, dirtier and sadder version of our canal.
We decided to grab a bite to eat at a restaurant near the Pantheon. The Pantheon itself had no real effect on me. A huge, old building with religious things inside and a ton of tourists. The food in the restaurant was mediocre but expensive and the washroom had a functioning shower head sticking out of the wall like one would have a hook. No curtain, just a small hole near the wall leading to the sewage. I wonder why that would exist in a little room containing nothing but a toilet and toilet paper.
On our way back to the hotel we stopped at a fountain and had a drink. Apparently, all the fountains have spring, cold, natural water and they are found every 15 meters. No need for Evian or Dasani in this town!
After a quick nap at the hotel, we headed back out into town to see the “Spanish Steps” which are almost unfairly impressive and gorgeous. Not steep, but highly polished and slippery from their overuse by tourists and processions over the last 300 years, the marble steps stretch quite a long distance and plateau 2 times before reaching the top. From there we headed out to the Fontana di Trevi and I for once was astonished down to the very tips of my toes. It is located in a tiny piazza (a sort of square in the junction of 3-4 streets) and takes up more than ¾ of the area. The fountain itself emerges from a castle-like building like a sculpted tumour. Depicting humans as well as horses and other animals, it is a great contrast between the smooth lines of sculpted bodes and the ragged edges of the rock which was left raw. Through all of this, flows water. Sprayed up into a soft flower shape, pouring from the mouths of fish statues, beating on diagonals from underneath rocks and all eventually flowing into the white rock basin with coins. We did our part and threw in our coins with the right hand over the left shoulder (proper way to do it if you believe that it will bring you back to Rome) but right beside us was an old, homeless man with a foldout magnetic pole. Somehow, he was able to flip it open and fish out the coins from the fountain without the polizia guards noticing.
Later we went for dinner at Piccolo Arancio, just a block away and finished the night off walking down Via Vittorio Veneta and my father tossing me into a tree on the side of the street to fetch some clementines which turned out to be very sour.
“When thou are at Rome, do as they do at Rome.”
– Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
With Roman sincerity,
Dirty Beat
Here I am sitting on my bed, eating cookies and drinking juice. But it is not just any bed, or any cookie. It is a ROMAN bed with ROMAN cookies and ROMAN juice! You guessed it. I am writing from Rome, Italy.
It started off with a lengthy, overnight flight: Montreal – Rome. Thankfully uneventful, as most flights are, we arrived at 13:05 (Italy time) in one of the most ancient cities in the world. We took a train and the metro, since all the tobacco shops were out of bus tickets, and entered our unremarkable “Hotel Anfiteatro Flavio”. By European standards, our room was tiny, on the fifth floor with both a compact, dizzyingly long, winding staircase and a 2-person ‘lift’ leading to it. The ‘lift’ is an elevator. Not recommended for people who suffer from claustrophobia, since it is basically a metal box that barely wraps around 2 human bodies.
My father and I quickly went to grab some food at the not-so-super supermarket, where we distracted the deli workers from their watching a soccer game on a gigantic flat-screen TV hung across from their counter. Turns out it isn’t normal to ask them to slice 150g of cheese. After giving us a confused look and sneering with his fellow deli worker, the man took out a knife and gave us 4 pieces of 1 cm thick chunks of cheese.
Note to self: bring your own knife and slice your own cheese in a foreign country.
After a speedy snack in the hotel room, we went for a tour of out surroundings. It so happened to be that our hotel is five blocks (they’re so short, that it is difficult to even call them blocks) from the Colosseo (or Coliseum for those of us who don’t yet speak and understand Italian). For some reason it never occurred to me that there are streets coming out from the Colosseo like sun rays. I always thought it stood in dignified solitude in a field or, at most, on a hill top. Perhaps it is because in text books it is always pictured as itself, without the millions of tourists, cars, restaurants, shops, souvenir boutiques that would be engulfing it if it weren’t for the large street that, like a trench in war times, goes right around it and separates the old from the new.
Away from the Colosseo, in the opposite direction, is a sort of historic site with a path leading through the fenced off ruins of what used to be a completely different, but yet advanced civilization. The large chunks of marble and other stone, engraved with intricate patterns, are evenly spread in the mini grass-covered valleys created by the ancient walls.
The whole experience brought out memories of the pyramids, the Ancient Greek Empire, as well as the Romans. Made me realize how little I know about the ancestors of my specie. Read more books and learn more history!
“Man – despite his artistic pretensions, his sophistication, and his many accomplishments – owes his existence to a six inch layer of topsoil and the fact that it rains.”
– Author Unknown
Historically yours,
Dirty Beat
Who would have thought that being quiet when it is needed is the hardest thing to accomplish? My mother and I are babysitting my sister’s two year old son today. He is a little sick, so it is only logical that he gets as much sleeping hours as possible into the day. This is where the quiet part comes in.
I went out in the morning and as I arrived back home at my door, before I could reach my hand out to the doorbell, I saw my mother through the glass panels of our front door vigorously shooing me to the back entrance. He must be sleeping. I proceed to tiptoe through the door into the garage, and nearly piss my pants when my hand closes the door behind me. Turns out, I forgot that in order for the misfit door to shut, I have to swing it to its utter most openness and wham it closed, hoping for the slightly crooked, wooden door frame to give way to the metal body of the door itself. My body is so used to doing it, that even when my brain is in full on secret agent 007 mode, my muscle memory continues to do what it is used to.
I enter the house and understand that I am most definitely hungry. I haven’t eaten anything since I got out of bed this morning, and it is already two in the afternoon. I sneak into the kitchen, which is right next to the living room, where my nephew’s headquarters are arranged. I have to be extra careful. At this point, I really do feel like a secret agent on a mission. There is a sleeping guard in the next room with no doors and nothing but a cardboard-thin drywall veiling my forbidden actions in the kitchen.
I manage to sneak my food into the microwave and turn it on with the fewest beeps possible. It seemed like the perfect turnout until the time finished in the microwave and there was no stopping the six loud honks at its end. I whip the microwave open and snatch my read-to-enjoy meal. I listen in and hear the child scuffle around in his crib for a bit, but then after some murmuring it seems he settled back down to sleep.
Relieved, I set my plate on the table, sit down and ruin it all with the screech of my chair against the floor as I pull my chair up to the table. I try to put my fork down to see if my nephew is awake from it, but clumsily flip it off the plate and while trying to catch it, flip over my plate.
Of course, after all this commotion in the kitchen, my nephew is happily yelling for “Baba!” from his crib.
Why is it that when you want something so bad, the complete opposite happens?
“People who say they sleep like a baby usually don’t have one.”
– Leo J. Burke
Failure of a Secret Agent,
Dirty Beat
