Register of Actions, 1/29/26
I am finding myself ever pensive in these strange times. I was approached by a publicist for an opportunity—the fruits of which I am very excited to share, but for now hold close to my chest, breathing in and out the scents of this life that for so long seemed forbidden, and lulling myself to deep rest. This, I am finding, is my reality. I have worked hard as a writer since the infancy of this blog in January 2023, a simple chronicle of my travels, and then the past six months I have worked even harder—cold emails upon cold emails, early mornings and late nights, canceled plans and created plans, jotting notes at bars and coffee shops alike, an endless fueling of courage by either caffeine or booze, and drawing inspiration from the world around me, not always things you would expect. I find myself reading thrillers. How does it hook me? How can I learn from this? I walk the empty streets of Deep Ellum on an early Sunday morning, just mere hours after the clubs have been vacated and trash lines the alleyways, how do I capture this beauty? I get on Pinterest and pin vegetarian recipes and structured editorial fashion shoots, thinking about how to describe the taste of something, or the angles. I watch thoughtful movies, sad movies, bittersweet annals of grief. What in my experience do I find mirrored here most painfully? How can I capture it? I watched Manchester by the Sea, I think the most captivating and accurate depiction of what grief is like, what my grief is like, as I carry it with me daily. I saw my face on his, my thoughts in his brain. Grief is the subject of my memoir, an odd, bilingual narrative about navigating complex emotions through the lens of a second language—a topic I am trying to describe but struggling to find the words. I am recapping movies I watch in Spanish—describing them in Spanish—for TikTok. I hate TikTok. But this has been a lighthearted way for me to put words to this wordless thing, these amorphous forms taking shape in my head, spurring me on—one day, one day, you’ll get there. What is there? In some ways, I think there is now, with these stories I tell for the paper and these pitches I write for others—I am doing what I always dreamed of. But this other project, the memoir, is one that has been simmering within me since early 2021, long before blogging and journalism crossed my mind. Back then, I called it Elevator, and now, it is Ascensor. It is the future. I am not sure the blob of words represents the title anymore, it is but a fetus of a manuscript. But it is mine, my lived experience, my truth. It is a craving for belonging within me, and a confrontation of the apathy in others. At least, so I hope. Creating is such a strange thing.
Today I am sporting my new eyebrow piercing and wearing my Yves Saint Laurent blazer, my prized eBay find, and a small Keffiyeh-printed bandana tied around my neck. I am hoping no one at work notices the new piercing—I already have a nostril, a septum, and many more in my ears. I feel all at once classy, refined, and like a rock star—the goal, really. I am finding pathways toward embodiment, as I am ever more a stranger to myself, gaining some weight and finding myself out of breath on the stairs—my doctor telling me I need to lose 10 pounds and watch my cholesterol. But this piercing brings back the “me”, outside of all that. I am eating better now, attempting protein at every meal and picking out veggies and fruits. There is something meditative about cooking—I don’t know why I don’t do it more. I am missing precious friends I cooked for during my “homemaking” phase at my apartment, one I still feel like I am in. There are paintings stacked against my wall, still looking for a place. I don’t know where or if I want to hang them. They are relics of a past life. I would still love to paint. There are many things I would still love to do. Having a day job seems ever confining, though I am grateful, beyond grateful, to have health insurance.
It would be impossible to take a register of actions without mentioning what is going on in the world. A friend and I had a discussion where we disagreed about the role of artists in activism, and it was good to hear her perspective; I appreciate the discourse, because she is such a thoughtful, caring human being. For me, I can’t create art without acknowledging the environment around me, at least as a journalist, I can’t. Two dear humans were murdered by ICE agents in Minneapolis these past few weeks, patient and peaceful protesters who were active in their communities, helping those around them. ICE continues to detain and deport innocent immigrants—legal and illegal, separating families without due process. The president is full of big ideas and a gabble of foolish words and outbursts of what he thinks is power, such as wanting to annex Greenland, or, as we saw last year, demanding that Ukraine be more “grateful” for the aid the US has sent, cutting off funds from USAID via DOGE, and continuing to battle trans youth and athletes, citing skewed statistics and flat out lies. Religious curriculum is being rolled out in schools across the South. My art cannot be separated from the world I live in, a world that is hostile toward journalists, artists, and other civilians who tell the truth and seek to expose the lies and stand up against ever-growing fascism. I learn from history, I learn from Latin America, the Middle East, Europe, about wars, conflicts, coups, and freedom, or lack thereof, of the press. The events here in my country trouble me greatly. I do what I can, give money where I can, support immigrant-owned businesses, be kind to my neighbors, speak up on social media, attend protests, but somehow my impact seems small and insignificant. But one small person coupled with another, or another—when we band together, that is when our impact grows. As we help each other in whatever ways we can, and refuse silence and complicity, we can make a difference. Attending the No Kings protest last year was transformative. I realized I wasn’t alone. Here were over ten thousand neighbors of mine who believed similarly, standing up. I grieve my country in a similar way that I grieve my mom, though not quite to the same degree. I feel anger, denial, acceptance, at times. Sadness comes up too, in the form of grave disappointment.
I don’t know what the point of all this is other than to be simply a narrative about what has been going on. A window into my creative process, I guess. I am still marching on, like that great line in The Great Gatsby, a boat against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past. I am haunted by events of my childhood and young adulthood, as they are informing my art at the moment. But that isn’t all. The future shines in my face like soft moonlight. I see the stars peaking through the blanket sky. The present may seem scary, but we are stronger together.