santeria offerings

my hometown. when i get here, when i think of here, i wonder how it produced me. we were the worst enemies.

my story is purely anecdotal. miami made you think castro was the devil. like the satan worshipers i saw on episodes of geraldo, castro could quite possibly kidnap you and eat you. cuba was the saddest place in the world. they were a people trapped in a prison by a monster. no joke. and then one day in high school i made the connections: communist theory, castro, and cuba. and it all clicked. bullshit! and i looked around me again.

this city is a meatloaf of multicultural living, oppression, cultural preservation, materialism, and lies all wrapped in pink saran wrap and put out on the sidewalk on a 92° day, with 98% humidity. and in the middle of it is a hard boiled egg. don’t ask me why. it’s a latino thing.

in some ways, it’s strange to remember i grew up in this tropical, plastic flamingo, riot weather, short-shorts place. in other ways, it seems so obvious. it’s in my blood. this hot cloud, ocean rush, loud voiced, thunder clap, drum beat, mango meat town is home. i understand it the same way i understand my family. i am of it. and just like with my family, i had to rebel properly and fully before i could come back again and feel completed by it.

fuck. does this make me a grown up?

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About trying not to touch anything

living in a space where i am half packed, or half unpacked, depending on how you look at it; going somewhere else; wanting to write about my misadventures on a planet i don't feel like i should be on

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