Super Dad

Few things in life change you quite as dramatically as having children. Boys still are the favored gender for men, even though we love our daughters. Like I love mom, sisters, aunts, cousins, friends...
If a child doesn't transform your life, you're not much of a father. You can have kids, and not be much of a father. Those types abound.
Recently, a girl friend came up to me and said what great shape I'm in. "That's what spending time at the gym does to you" I cockily, teasingly fire back.
Fire with eyes, stance, unimposing, unapologetic self. And so I went to Esteban's graduation, and saw him sing, clap and swirl with his arms and sit attentively. There, he had been challenged and he sure loved those people. A young assistant who Esteban apparently called his name out. I hadn't seen him. He had other people in his life who cared for him, and he found himself quite at ease, like a safe haven, a genuine home.
I had been so consumed with work and everything that I had slightly neglected our time together. I was grieving when others were inspiring him. And I stood by the sidelines, with a cynic outlook and quite depressed.
I was no longer his hero. The super dad that taught him syllables and vowels and bought him educational videos designed for children in the spectrum. The one who taught him how to read and call out numbers up to twenty in both Spanish and English.
Well, I've spent quite a lot of time lately with him. Quality time, that is. And I plan to do so more often and far more elaborate. I will challenge him with all sorts of toys (nothing too expensive), crayons, blackboards, books, and lots and lots of videos, music (he loves it) and songs. I will take him out and take tons of pictures.

About Lovers

I met Glen on the number 7 train. She was with a female friend and I naively made my mind up: whomever was left behind would be my choice. Never did I stop to think that, quite possibly, they could both get off on the same station; after all, they were traveling together. The Universe (what others call God, and some call Life, and, well, you can call it whatever the fuck you want) dictated that one shall exit first, and so I ended up asking her where they were from. I handed her a Penguin’s Nietzsche book to write her number, and explained that way I wouldn’t lose it. I called her the next day and we went out to grab a bite. A few weeks later I was living in her grandpa’s apartment in the City (New York, that is).
I didn’t think at the time how humiliating it would have been for her to go back to her grandfather’s place, after a few months back she had left the nest and claimed her independence. I didn’t stop and think maybe her rebelliousness took me with her and made me live with them and the old fool (may he rest in peace now) accepted. He only asked to be paid seventy dollars weekly. Boys we were and soon I’d take him a 22once Budweiser, and he’d sleep merrily.
The thing was, we had an agreement. We were an open couple. I’d go out with my friends and she’d frequent her friends and maybe we’d meet along the way. Of course, it never works out quite that way. Women tend to grow incessantly suspicious and bitterly jealous for no obvious reason. I mean, I told her about Chris and she never said about the guy she was seeing. Who cares now? Afterwards, when I was already living with Eli and she was going steady with the new guy, we still would escape to the not so distant park and fuck in whatever shadow we may find. As I was inside her, I’d tell her about my adventures and she’d spit back hers. It was truly self-fulfilling.
But jealousy is always stronger and eventually we parted ways. We’re still good friends. And that is something on which we both shined.

Restless

One of the theoretical fathers of the Internet hypothesized that it had to work like the mind in free association mode. That is, we as humans tend to link one thought to the next in an ever increasingly flow… what someone else once called Stream of Consciousness.
The relevance lies in that it tells a story about how we are. Thoughts are like the river of life, they jump up and down and we follow wherever they may lead us. Happiness in life generally depends on how close the relationship is between our actions and our thoughts. The closer we are to bliss, the more engaged and the more alive we seem, it is well because our minds and bodies, actions and thoughts, are in synch and aligned. It’s simple really: you just proceed according to plan. What you need foremost is a purpose, and it should have a dead-line and it should include plan B, C, and no more than a D. Focus on a few things at a time, or embrace the world fearlessly.
However, there are those among us who have done as they wished and yet still find reasons to make themselves miserable. And I say, let them be…. No, not in a sarcastic manner, just let them vent if they feel like happiness is in the pursuit, so be it. Deep down inside I suspect that if a person has an affinity towards madness, it doesn’t matter if you tie them down. Blocking that energy with moral arguments or pep talk may only infuriate them. Invest that energy in your own projects, and don’t ashamed to kick back and relax along the way. The problem is crystal clear: misery is in the extremes. Those who don’t strive for much and settle for even less, the depressed kind, the melancholic children… drama abounds, and others’ lack of enthusiasm can be quite contagious. Rid yourself of such epidemic. Smile politely and be on your way. Few are truly worth our time. Keep those close, and let them run free… for they respect your need for privacy and independence. The brief and quiet types are an endangered species. Let us cultivate some of that in us, if we are ever so lucky.
I've worked eighteen hours straight, and I feel quite sluggish. I am somewhat restless.

Before I Call It A Night

I've been working the late noon shift at work for the past six weeks. 4pm to midnight, day in and out. On Friday, I left at twelve and came back in six hours to pull eight hours more, filling in someone else's shoeOs, pick up a day's worth overtime. I've put off going out and limit one day biweekly to venture out and mingle. I ought to invest this time into building: gym, runs, errands, things for the room, new wardrobe, new everything. Already three very decent pair of jeans, 70% off. This store right across the street from H&M on 42nd street and fifth, called Zara. Cool, higher designer-like stuff, really.
A spotless shirt down to twenty dollars from seventy-nine.
Anyway, my routine seems pretty dull aside from running and going to the gym, cooking and taking food to work. Always bettering whatever surrounds me, whether it is people, situations or things. Cool to replace stuff around the old place, and leave a pint of Vodka or a bottle of Rum, or wine, sometimes even champagne.
You see, it makes economic sense to live with my mother's child. It just doesn't fair out in real life. Of course, I came around: I haven't cheated on her, that is, other than an inoffensive kiss, okay, maybe a make-out sessions. And no, I don't plan to continue with this celibacy madness. It wasn't meant to let time heal the wounds and maybe see myself back. I am looking forward, doing more with less and then some. I smoke a few cigarettes a day. I'm down to a beer per night. It relaxes me.
If I do go out, I drink more. Maybe six, seven drinks. Eat some, and then two more before I call it a night.

The List

• Continue to provide for my son.
  
• Get passport.
• Travel for vacation outside the country (Colombia or Dominican Republic) for two weeks.
  
• Put away ten percent more of my total earnings into a bank account to be managed by my sister back in Colombia.
• Go back to college, even if it is just to take a few courses.
• Learn to speak Portuguese just a bit.
• Spend quality time with Esteban.
• Exercise often.
  
• Write religiously and publish, and don't brag about it; carry around your polished words on a paperback.