The Kumkuat Korner

Have you ever seen that one movie or read that one book that fills you with so much emotion, you become a wreck by simply the half of the whole thing? The one that makes you feel so wrapped up in the characters, and you grow with them, emotionally attaching yourself to the main character because you feel you understand him... Or her. And then, as you are nearing the end of the story, you are a sobbing mess of emotions so thick you can barely breathe. You feel hot. Your heart pounds in your chest. You feel excitement, sorrow, broken, jealous, angry, content, annoyed, a wild tide of feelings that you can't  .... won't settle on one in particular. You are happy for the ending, but you begin to feel empty because you return, to your body, your own feelings, your own story. You wonder how you would act if it was you in the place of the hero... or villain, or monster. or foe. That feeling that there is something more . An ache in your chest, a sort of hollow...

When I was a kid, my summers would be spent in Mexico with my mother's family. I would stay at my grandparents home and we'd spend endless days spending with my aunts and cousins. My mother is the youngest out of six sibling s, you see, and the eldest is my Aunt Sylvia who pretty much lived to her title as the big sister, the ring leader, the head honcho, whatever you want to call it, she was it.  Now my Aunt Gaby, the fourth sibling, always invited the whole family over to her house. It wasn't mandatory for my Aunt to do this big meal for the whole 30 of us (very close aunts, uncles, grandparents, nieces and nephews) since, every weekend my aunts, Sylvia, Lupe, Gaby, and Yasmin, (sometimes my grandma too) would alternate, so the cooking wouldn't fall onto a specific relative, but it was my Aunt Gaby’s house that I remembered the most fondly. My uncle, a tall and kind man of a few words, was a truck driver, and he had more tha...

Once upon a time, there was a young boy named Allan. Allan was seven years old and everyone ignored him. His parents ignored him, at school his teachers ignored him, and he had no friends. He was a very lonely boy. One day on his way home from school, he found a small grey bird crying for its mother. Allan picked up the small bird with careful hands. The bird snuggled up in Allan’s hands for they were warm and it was the beginning of a harsh winter and soon, snow would come. Allan decided to take it the little bird to his house and take care of it. Months passed and no one knew about the slowly growing bird in Allan’s room.  It was a secret that only Allan and the bird held.  Everyday, when Allan would get home, he’d run up to his bedroom and lock the door behind him.  His parents never paid any close attention to their son’s new behavior. They were too busy with their lives.   But Allan didn’t care. He was the happiest boy in the world. ...

I am chaos, I destroy all in my path. I am stupidity, I affect everyone. I am devastation, I bring nothing but shattered dreams. I am war, I spill blood in your lands. I am misery, I will bring all of you down. I am anger, I can blind you with buried wrath. I am lust, I make you dizzy with desire. I am the plague, I bestow it to everyone close to me. I am poverty, I can be seen on the street everyday. I am sorrow, I can make you cry. I am greed, I make friends turn against each other. I am hate, I will exist forever. I am depression, I come after happiness. I am fear, I swear to be always with you. I am infidelity, I happen to everyone who want something new. I am starvation, I carry a weightless burden. I am jealousy, I fill your head with doubts. I am human, I make mistakes. Written by Lady Kumkuat

The life I remember from many years ago is still picture clear in my mind. The endless days of watching such as Cartoon Network, Nickelodeon, Animal Planet (the list could go on). On school days, I would be practicing my talent to look busy and when my eyeballs weren't glued to the television, I would hide myself from everyone and play with my imaginary friends, entering a world of witches and princesses previously seen in dramatic Disney movies. My efforts to go unseen were always short lived because of major interruptions such as my mother yelling at me for trying to skip my chores. Whoops! With in time, things changed unknowingly. Before there was no one who could have made me really read books.   I hated reading .  No way, no how, could anyone ever make me read a real chapter book.   I preferred picture books, like the ones on the second floor of the old Public Library, under the children section where one can always find mothers with their infants...

We have all been there. Shattered and left picking up the fragments of our hearts. And while people say "Time heals all" it really doesn't, does it? For example, its not that easy to get over a broken heart. You try to put the pieces back together after someone leaves you,  some one dies,  someone hurts you,  some one betrays you. You feel exposed. Raw. Vulnerable. You opened yourself so much to another being. You had kept no secrets from them. It was only you and them. But now its just you, after them. Because life still continues, even when we are stuck, slowly drowning in quicksand of emotions. Anger. Hate. Sadness. Regret. Guilt. Back to sadness. Back to hurt. And it continues all over again. Viciously sinking us to a deep dark place in all of us no one has ventured into. That place makes us see the ugliest part in ourselves that we fear show others. And when you finally surface from the pit of solitude, You start to see the world differentl...

A writer, who was also a philosopher, had to cross a big lake in order to get to his destination. As he waited for the ferryman, he read his notes from his lecture from the day before. During the lecture, a young man stood up and asserted firmly: “The poetry I know are verses and rimes from other times. We have been forced to read and learn them by heart, as the standards of literary good taste in style. Personally, I don’t see any interest in poetry!” His tone of voice was so convincing that Tagore felt that many of his listeners agreed with the young man. There was little time to think of a good retort. Our lecturer recited one of his own poems, stressing very expressively certain words in order to fully regain the attention of his listeners: “With a lute, the beggar’s song for you and me Out of tune, gray, high winds playing eons Sowing pauses and sighs His melody adheres as to absorb your soul and mine We may have borrowed one image or two from other childhoods ...