I got published

On some random online magazine.

My creative approach to a cover letter.

Dear Barnes & Noble,

I am not exactly sure who I should be addressing this to so I shall pretend I am speaking to the store. Well I visit you frequently for I have a compulsive love for books and words. I currently go to California College of the Arts for Writing and Literature so I plan to make words my life. I also have a strong desire to one day open a bookstore so working in one would put me on the right track.

This Barnes & Noble happens to be my favorite bookstore, because for one, it has everything I love: books, music, film, stationary, and coffee. Two, it’s walking distance from my house, and right next to BART. And since my CCA campus happens to be in Oakland BART happens to be my main mode of transportation so it would be convenient. And three, it’s in Tanforan, and I love the history behind Tanforan. (Did you know that it was Allen Ginsberg and Neal Cassady’s favorite racetrack?) I also love the feel that you get from being in this store (in you), because the atmosphere is so calm and somehow happy. Maybe it’s because the people who work here all happen to be so friendly. It makes me feel at home.

I am the sort of person that spends hours in bookstores discovering new books rigorously looking through books. It is astonishingly difficult for me to leave a bookstore empty handed. An odd thing about me is that every time I go to a bookstore and I see something out of order: I have to fix it. If a book is in the wrong category, placed next to the wrong author, or just left behind my some past costumer I have to return to its rightful place. If I don’t I feel like that book is being let down. See I really care for books. This enthusiasm and commitment to books makes me realize that a bookstore is where I should be. And I believe that your bookstore is perfect for me.

My resume and application are enclosed for your consideration. I hope to meet a manager soon and discuss this position with them in person at their convenience. Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,

Erika Delgado

Brutal Edit: Inanimate Eyes (and double spaced joy)

Inanimate Eyes

Once again I had to reenter the billion year old house where my Grandmother hides from everything. Waiting in her crypt, she slowly crawls out of her room, fixing the curtains as she passes. I say hello and kiss her soft falling cheek. In Spanish, she tells me how I should smile more. I give a fake smile and drift away. I sit in the wooden frame that is embedded with pillows. My Mother sits with my Grandmother in the moldy dining area. Next to them there is a small window that leads into a corner room where my mother says she was born, in the walls are rumors of forgotten caskets. My Mother and Grandmother start to gossip about the family. I try to ignore their Spanish batter and begin to slowly fall into tedium.

I soon fall back to reality and notice my Grandmother has turned on the television. Today there is a Mexican priest speaks about believing. I don’t believe him. I slowly sit myself back up. I need to pee. I decide to go to the restroom, not realizing how much danger this will put me in. I stand up on my tired feet. I move one foot in front of the other. Watching the cracked floor as I move, they catch me: the dolls, the old photos, the saints and gods, and even the eyeless stuffed animals. I move faster; ignoring them. I can’t look up. I just can’t. If I look at them I will be sure to panic. Those ancient dolls with their red eyes. Those vintage photos with their dead eyes. Then the saints and gods with their believing eyes. Even the stuffed animals that have no eyes.

They will all look at me the moment I look up. They know everything about me. What I do at night, and how I’ve started smoking. They probably even know about that one time I wore that revealing shirt, went to that ugly place, and did that one thing I will never do again. They know everything, because they have been following me since the first day I entered that house. Ever since I was less than a year old.

These dolls are the reason for my indescribable fear of all inanimate things that have or should have eyes. Well it is describable. But, because I am panicking about my (quite describable) fear of inanimate things that have or should have eyes, I run into the metal bathroom doors. I open those same, cold, metal doors. While there I do what people usually do in the bathroom, but, unlike usual people, I have to sit on my Grandmother’s old lady toilet seat. I pretend I am levitating.

When I exit, I remember not to look up, but I do not go back to that pillowed wood. Instead I take a right turn into my Uncle’s room. The room where I spent multiple nights in as a kid. In that bed, with ratty old sheets, I had attempted to sleep as the world outside the window screamed at me. I sit on that same bed, still not looking up. On that bed, with the same red old sheets, I became an insomniac. Finally, I look up, and there was the only photo I could never be afraid of. It was the photo of my late Aunt, a woman everyone said I looked like. She was my Mother’s best friend. She died before I was born. My Mother tells me stories about her that are always changing.

As I look at that picture, she smiles at me, like she always does, and I smile back. At that moment, I forgot about everything. I forgot the dusty smell of death. I forgot all the gossip and the rumors that echoed inside these walls. I forgot that one day I might just be a photo on those walls. And most importantly, I even forgot my fear of all inanimate things that have or should have eyes.

Here's a thing that used to be on my other blog, but it was annoying me with it's dapperness.

There was once a bird who sang a tune that never left my mind. A tune that kept me reaching for the clouds. While the rest reached for the stars.

My poetry depresses me.

Essays also depress me.

The End of Us

Anniversary

It was a good day

The Clouds were hiding

And the Sun was lying

But as Day left

Things began to fall apart

You wouldn’t smile

I was sorry I told you

You wouldn’t speak

I was sorry I spoke

Then you screamed

Crash

All I can remember was leaving

Then waking up

To the smell of smoke

In a car which was destroyed

I could not find you

But I saw people

So much noise

I tried to move

But I was paralyzed

Funeral

They would not let me see you

They said it would be better

If I remembered you the way you were

The way you were

Shy,

But loud

Short,

And thin

Mine,

But not

The last thing I said to you

I guess I should be glad

You left knowing

I told you

I meant it

I loved you

I

Love

you

Weeks later

I am forgetting your

Everything

Your smell

Your voice

Your laughs

And your personality

How you

Screamed

Laughed

And cried

Somehow

I don’t miss

Them

What took your place

Dreams of you

Haunting

Thoughts of you

Invisible

Guilt takes your place

I met someone

Someone unlike you

Someone I need

Someone alive

Monkey can't see, Monkey can't do.

I am totally about to post the new draft of this (aka click this).

Also what the hell is that facebook thing.

I hate facebook.

I will make it go away now.

So you may not know what I am talking about... yep.