Ex-Covenento de Santo Domingo. Perched by myself at the stone steps, an enclave of the most flourished and adorned architectural triumph of the city. I, with such an active social retinue, today I feel a dreadful sense of loneliness.

…The devastatingly beautiful evening consoles me. The cleanliness of the clouds so strikingly in shades of blue-grey and against the flame of the sunset that it actually ignites a concierto inside the depths of me, and I can easily lose myself in the requiem lamenting inside of me. A disciple of the world. The inner symphony for an audience of myself alone, accompanies me, comforts me, a desolate yet significant odyssey for a private moment. The majestic clouds float in the stratosphere, a brilliant smoky dragon against the thunderous blue, wispy vapor edges fading into the velvet impressionist sky. Suddenly, then aware and self conscious of the music, I wonder, does no one else hear their own secret soundtrack inside of them? A symphony more subtle, more complex, more intricate than any I have heard in real life, one worthy of the sunset I see. Looking around, I think no one else…nevermind, nevermind… no one even becomes moved by the sunset. I feel like such a freak. A weird anomaly amongst all the Mayans walking around carrying on with their day.

Why do I sometimes hear music inside of me, the expression of instruments that I’ve never heard in real life? I start to think, to write, to try to describe it in allegory, to understand it, but the phenomenon withers away. And how limited is writing compared to its original glory, it is like my attempts to explain my dreams, it always falls short of what fullness of the experience it was. Maybe it was the sounds that surrounded the house when I was young, but that doesn’t explain this other phenomenon: the vivid things my mind’s eye envisions, the harmony logic and grammar it has that’s related to geometry, language, mathematics and art all at once.

Flashback: Frustrated with homework in advanced calculus in the university coffee shop, for the last few problem sets I’d immediately drawn graphs of a parabolic shapes and circles, some undulating waves, other very strange shapes, x to the fourth power divided by three. Pete is confused: “OK. How did you know that? Where is your work?” –“I don’t know, it’s common sense isn’t it?” –“No it isn’t. You have to show your work. Show the steps.” –“I don’t know how. I already see the answer in the problem. Obviously, this one looks like loop, and that one is a squiggled donut shape.”

Each time I try to explain it, visual patterns or solutions that come intuitively almost as natural as breathing, as a tenuous forethought or a fleeting image that’s there but impossible to grasp, even for composition of essays or sketches and mathematics. All of it has a holistic grammar and perfect logic, it comes from somewhere spontaneous, a secret synapse the way my mind is wired, the same one that connects these clouds to that spontaneous melody and then it makes a part of me fixate, float, over there to that region of the clouds where I can ‘see’ the earth’s majesty below. It is so exquisite I can touch it… is it true that it’s that rare to see things on a blank sheet of paper? To visually construct designs/sketches? To hear the logic in languages? I don’t know. These ideas stain my mind.

This week, Pete messages me: “Hey didn’t you go to the Pasadena Art Center as a kid?” –“Yeah.” “I just found out from a CEO that’s probably one of the best mechnical design programs in the nation.” “Oh really? But that was over ten years ago, my mom sent in a portfolio and I was in one of the art programs where they accept a few selects for apprenticeships.” “I was thinking about it, maybe that’s on our automotive team, our car was one of only ones that integrated curvatures and aesthetics…and you did it as a freshman in a bio major. How did you do it without software?” “I dunno, I just visualized it one evening and I drew it down.” “Look, it’s talent.” “No it’s not, you’re just not trying.”

Denial. Stoic denial. And partially, I wish other people would relate with me. We do live in a universe of wonder, beauty and magic. I tell myself that everyone is capable and they hear this… this symphony that materialized inside because the landscape was so beautiful, or know the essay in its entirety before they write it. I want to be normal. Every time I say it aloud, it seems to confirm what a strange specimen I am, in which I pep talk myself: you’re not weird, you’re unique. Your dreams can intermesh with reality. Listen, don’t wish this away, it may seem strange and freakish… but look what consolation it brings you in private, look at all the dimensions and possibilities with which you experience the world… it’s yours. Keep it your secret.

And somehow I feel comfortable in the conformity of the Mayan regions, mostly they’re none the wiser. They think I’m doing nothing anyway. And yet, if it truly is a gift, deep down I question if I’m living out some sort of denial of this potential.

“Si Tu No Vuelves” – Shakira y Miguel Bose

Spanish Words of the Day, borrowing from American Slang:enfricarse” to freak out | “rulear” to rule, to be awesome | “metalero” a die-hard fan of metal rock | “¡que cosa!” that’s crazy, really? | “no manches!” shut up! no way…

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