Acrobat

I sketched the drawing above years ago. It's titled "Un Acrobata al Borde de la Muerte" (An Acrobat on the Verge of Death). I found it in one of my journals this morning and scanned it. The writing on the ribbon is so right: "Mi vida es un circo" (My life is a circus), what can I say...I feel like the air is thick with misfortune. I'm just an accident waiting to happen. I'm the razor blade...use me.

April is gone. Another month passes me by. I try and stay strong, try and rationalize all the fucked up thoughts in my head. I feel like I’m slipping, like I’m loosing my grasp on what’s real and what isn’t. This is unkind. Yesterday, as I walked through the winding paths of park, the melancholy set in–a sweet enough feeling compared to all the other convoluted emotions. I feel like my heart has been set on fire, like all the streets lead to that same dank place. I am drinking the cup of my sorrows and it’s going down smoothly, cutting up my insides. I just want to sleep. I am giving and I have nothing left save for my stubbornness, my unquenchable desire to be bigger than life…to take Destiny down; kicking and screaming, to make Her change Her mind about me. I’m holding my breath, waiting, fighting. I am a woman possessed. My heart grows larger each day, weeps each day, screams a silent scream filling me with pain, making me stronger.

The sign says, “Don’t feed the animal.” I should have listened. Hopes of the future take the shape of day to day. I don’t believe what I hear, I don’t believe what I see. I only believe what I feel. You sure know where to hit. Oh I find myself dreaming dreams, illusions of love, hiding the face that frowns, laughing myself to sleep in the early hours of the morning, wondering where you are. Thoughts that I do not dare express in life wind up on this screen, shhh don’t tell anyone. It’s our secret.

I feel like an outlaw. Hmmm, interesting…Mabe the outlaw, the fastest shot in the West. A devil on a horse, a shadow. The last thing anyone sees before the world fades to black. I’m definitely not a serving wench in a saloon, or the rice lady in the general store nope…I’m the real thing baby; a cowboy. Indulge my little fantasy will you…play along. *LOL* I have all these little one liners from songs floating around in my head…if you would put them all together it would sound something like this: Fuck it, two tears in a bucket, it’s too late tonight to drag the past out into the light, I was wearing black on black with negative feelings, and I’m headed out West sucker cause I wanna be a cowboy baby. *Grin*

I’m losing it…but you knew that already. I need sleep badly. My body hurts…feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. Despair is for the weak, for people who have nothing better to do than lounge around on velvet couches smoking long-filtered cigarettes, pretending to have tuberculosis a la Helena Bonham Carter. You can only get away with that if you’re rail thin and have a cough.

I am not weak and do not appear weak, I am not rail thin, in fact I do not consider myself thin at all. I am too Cuban for that terminology, and as such I cannot hide my Cuban butt. Not that I would want to anyway. Whoever doesn’t like me for me can go elsewhere, but hey, there’s only one Mabe. *Wink* Funny how easy it is to get sidetracked. One minute you’re talking about depression and the next, well…I’m the Cuban cowboy with the big Cuban butt that sleeps peacefully knowing there’s a machete under the mattress. Speaking of Cuba, I wonder what sort of drugs the Clinton administration confiscated from the recent crack raid that took place in Little Havana the other day. Here I was complaining about how bad my Easter went and poor Elian was being seized at gunpoint from his house. I love how the media referred to Elian’s family (all American citizens by the way) as the “opponents” as if the SWAT team members were stepping into some sort of battlefield. Uh…hello? is anybody home? This is a family we’re talking about, a little boy, not some sort of war. I mean honestly I thought the kid should go back to his father, and I was already tired of hearing about the politics behind the whole thing, but come on, that was unnecessary. It was like a drug raid. That kid is never going to forgive his father or any of his other family members. Well at least Elian’s dad gets to keep his head attached to his body. That guy is Fidel’s puppet. Shit…the whole world is Fidel’s little puppet. I think instead of Saddam Fidel should have been Satan’s lover in South Park (the movie). I am convinced that Fidel is a vampire and he’s never going to die. Either that, or he’s already dead and what we see on TV is a clone, because as we all know…he is spotted in different parts of the world simultaneously. Cubans are convinced that Fidel has multiple body doubles, then again they’re convinced the CIA killed Kennedy and that Regan was the next Messiah. I make no sense.

I will leave you all with a poem I wrote yesterday in Central Park.

The willow blooms

Crying o’er the still waters of the lake

Thoughts return

Of nights under the full moon

Peaceful is the day

Lying here on the pine needles

Sunshine casting

Shadow

These incoherent thoughts

Are emotions sweetly displaced

Like ripples in water

As the stone is cast

My favorite spot in Central Park

The decorative elements for Bethesda Terrace itself were designed by English-born architect Jacob Wrey Mould. Reasserting the primacy of nature, Mould chose representative wildlife and seasonal design motifs. The sandstone carvings of birds and plants are so carefully rendered you can identify each species. There are also carvings symbolic of day: a rising sun, a crowing cock. Night is represented by a lamp and book, a bat and owl, and a witch flying over a Jack-O-Lantern. On the lower Terrace is one of the most photographed fountains in the world, “Angel of the Waters.” Bethesda Fountain, as it is often called, was the only sculpture commissioned as part of the original design of the Park. The artist, Emma Stebbins, was the first woman to receive a commission for a major public work in New York City; the fact that she was the sister of Col. Henry G. Stebbins, the President of the Central Park Board of Commissioners, does not detract from her accomplishment or talent. The sculpture, dedicated in 1873, is a neoclassical winged female figure who symbolically blesses the water of the fountain with her one hand and carries a lily, the symbol of purity, in the other. The fountain is meant to celebrate the opening of the Aqueduct, which brought fresh water to New Yorkers in 1842.