Him or Her? He or She?

Before the world is split into multi-dimensional matrix – we begin with a simple pronoun.

Him or Her? He or She?

Are you a man or a woman? Can you imagine fitting into both, or fitting into neither? Or the very worst- being trapped inside the wrong body?

This following confession might sound wrong, but I pride myself on my collection of friends – my best friend is a mirror image of myself, family/background/etc, however she reeks of Type-A/Responsible, whereas I’m guilty of type Late/Laidback… One of my oldest amigos is gay, there is the wonderful woman who is a compassionate shoulder, and she is a lesbian, I have plethora of African-American, Chinese, Hispanic, black, you name the race- you’ll find it. Jewish, Christian, Muslim… Wheel chair bound and the most successful writer, I have the most loyal friend who has Asperser’s and he is a genius, a deaf friend whose photography is drop-dead gorgeous. A blind guy who’ll become a politician… A sensitive woman who opened my eyes up to autism, there are the young, the insane, artistic, logical, vagabonds, recovering drunks, overachievers, philanthropic and some a bit selfish – the accountants, the writers, the entrepreneurs, sports-nuts, or scholars. Each character plays a pivotal role in my life – they have challenged me to believe two things:

1. At inception we’re all the same – it’s after that the changes begin to determine who we will become.
2. There is nothing fabulous about not being special.

But in my life, and in my entire repertoire of relationships, I’m yet to trip across a transvestite.

Okay, and that term, well let’s stop beating around the obvious… is painfully an enigma, the three syllables are difficult to say, only because I’ve never been able to tie a personality, a character, a photograph or a friend to the title. It’s beyond my normal comfort zone, Friday nights and editorial meetings, classes and travels… I’m yet to meet someone who has the obstacle, nearly debilitating obstacle – reconcile your body with your brain.

But then again, each of us have methods in which to blend in with the masses, become one in a homogeneous sea of humanity.

And Michelle has done that with such grace. A thick mane of curly red hair, tall with a pink shirt and jeans- her puppy is calm and not annoying and nuts like the majority of the yappy dogs. Michelle tells me that her dog likes me, which is unusual since he doesn’t like most strangers, which is flattering, since I have an affinity for all things canine.

She moved to Denver on a whim two weeks ago after an explosive epiphany in Miami. A right-hand-man for Madonna, Paula Abdul and others, in LA…Michael moved to Miami where he decided to undergo irreversible procedures- invasive, a one-time choice, a decision forever. Michelle has been featured in documentaries, interviewed for features chronicling the lives of “transvestite.” And you’d never know by looking at her -

A man who decided to reconcile his body and brain – is now a woman, a happy, content, fulfilled and driven woman.

Poignant and empathetic, compassionate and kind, my heart reaches out to her – and my respect. I pray that she finds someone who sees her for exactly who she is –a durable, courageous, beautiful and accepting human.

Aside from giving me permission to write about her – she left me with a thought: “I love to hike… Life is one big mountain, we can all take various routes, different trails, see different things on the way up, but at the end, it’s the same view.”

Elway...

It’s half past midnight and I’m sipping a martini in downtown Denver.

Suddenly the crowded bar turns toward the entrance. Curious as to the commotion, my friends and I watch two tall black men walk into Earls. Aware that they’re stirring attention, Carmelo Anthony and J.R. Smith duck their heads and retreat to the back of the restaurant.

Several minutes later a loud group, not the normal patrons comprised of twenty-thirty something urbanites, but rather the gathering you’d see at a family birthday party. Moms and grandmas, uncles and cousins in sweatshirts and sneakers, pinstripes and leather, at the rear of this motley crew is the baldhead of Chauncey Billups. A guy whose dues have been paid starting in inner city, rocked it at the University of Colorado and since leaving the Rockies passed through Detroit, Minnesota, Orlando and Toronto. But finally this past November has come home.

Tomorrow night is the first playoff game for the Denver Nuggets, but more important than the playoff, this is the second time Denver has a hero with a #7 on his jersey.

I wandered over to J.R. and Melo (last January Denver Mag published an exclusive cover feature), while congratulating the two, Billups approached. Upon noticing the veteran player, their eyes lit up. I witnessed the proud and unfettered sports stars accustomed to signing autographs and speaking on ESPN become quiet with reverence.

Rarely does success reach a point when it’s no longer worth calculating.

Zeros and accolades stop adding value, and the challenge is no longer making it, but figuring out how to enjoy it. The antithesis of the “baller” basketball player, Billups doesn’t prove how cool he is by 24k gold chains, overpriced vodka, and women wrapped around tattooed arms. And while that description could be confused as a rapper, Billups has established his worth where it can be objectively measured, on the court.

A cousin in the NFL, Billup’s genes can’t be too shoddy, but I wonder if ever in high school, or after his shoulder injury, or when he was on the reserves, if he ever considered quitting? The image of Denver’s most celebrated athlete laughing gingerly over ice water, in the eyes of an older woman, probably his grandmother, reality hit me hard.

Success is when you can afford to live in the moment.


Flowers and IVs

I make reference to my color-coded day planner. Most nod politely, not giving a damn, and anyone who knows me chuckles tastefully knowing I’m full of shit. The chance of locating a colored pen in the trenches of my bag is as easy as finding the Lions at the super bowl. I bitch. Without doubt I’m the first to complain, or whine, or seek out empathy from an unassuming sympathetic ear. But the last words to leave my mouth are, “it could always be worse.” And, never has a painful event occurred, when it couldn’t, not, get better.

Ambulances are a warm and safe haven for me. Odd. However disgruntling the statement might be interpreted, the ol’ go-carts full of supplies have transported me from hospital to home on numerous occasions. Mostly during my stint as an invalid.

However, on a particular afternoon two weeks ago, the breezy, sunny, April springtime afternoon in Denver, returned from a sojourn from LA that morning, the rest of my day and outfit were wiped out. As quick as you can press the gas pedal, was I strapped to a stretcher with sirens screeching, recollecting my social security number while a needle was being shoved into my vein.

Family and friends were tossing silly jabs my way while awaiting results from the MRI. Attempting to capture the seriousness of the situation, I advised with a stoic expression “you know, this detour wasn’t on my agenda…getting my car totaled and canceling a party I’d spent weeks organizing was certainly not on my “to do” list.”

So what? A benign car wreck led me to wonder, what other interruptions aren’t clearly inserted into calendars and palm pilots? Heart attacks, cancer diagnosis, plane crashes, and god forbid worse. These are the unforeseen rollercoaster rides that screw up our existence as we so unknowingly expected it. So what is the answer: brace yourself? Hold tight to your loved ones because all hell will break lose eventually? While I wish there was a remedy to cure what hasn’t happened yet, I’m abandoned with a single deliberation. Live knowing there will be phone calls you don’t want to answer, and news you’d like to ignore, but among the handful of painful blows, there are unheralded interruptions that are capable of inviting joy, if you leave your eyes open.

BRACKISH

Mostly Caucasians fill the flat. It’s Friday evening and dancing to the pop music is bubbling alcohol, torte chips and digital cameras. All strategically organized, to flirt, record, and then share the glee with the rest of the world via facebook.

In the corner by the pantry is a woman who doesn’t fit in, visually anyhow. Course, dark, hair hides her soft, but calm expression. Twenty years older than everyone else, she seeks counsel studying photographs and nodding at conversation in which she hasn’t been included. Amiss from the cultish pack of precipitous partiers is one man who steps closer to the involuntary recluse.

Two people speaking in half Spanish and half English, but mostly via horizontal head motions and vertical hand movements. While I wasn’t privy to their shared dialogue, I discovered their conversation was anything but trivial, or effort-heavy chatter produced out of guilt. The few minutes brought reality back to my friend.

It wasn’t his reality, but hers that convinced him to see a light at the end of his own tunnel. It was as simple as a story about her son's graduation announcements. Graduation announcements were $35, and her cousin could not afford to have such a luxury printed.

In his world where $35 can be easily found and replaced, to meet someone where so little is so much, suddenly the fruits of our labor, however sour on a given day, suddenly taste succulent. The laborious strain that weighs down weekdays, tying muscles into painful knots, can never be as tragic as not having $35 to spare.

And my friend walked away feeling so profoundly affected by the realities of this woman, I don’t know if he understood what he unintentionally handed her in return is invaluable. In a life absent of influence, an office where she caters to the upper echelon of society, she was heard, simply because he wanted to listen.

In a room saturated with loud and obnoxious, unaware young professionals, a small Spanish woman found her voice.

Edible Time and how to effectively waste it.....

It’s a tremendous feat to reflect on youth and using wisdom against years, admit to regret.

It’s 1am and as someone unable to sleep and trying to get off ambien, I hit the elliptical glider with ELLE. I discovered a sassy, bordering on tragic article, “Failure to Launch- When Beauty Ends” by Elizabeth Wurtzel. The same author who wrote the bestselling tome, Prozac Nation and Bitch. Assuming I was going to get lost in psychological dribble intended for those who truly enjoy the illogical mood swings accompanied with PMS, I was startled.

This woman admitted she wasted the “pretty” years. The fragile window when men not only scrutinize your brain, but still check out your ass. And it scared me. People advise, “Auna, don’t waste your youth. Go play, get tipsy and flirt with the bad boys, you’re only going to get older.” And so I listen to these well-intended gnomes, in fear if I don't I'll attempt mini-skirts when my 401 kicks in. I try not to make the mistakes most twenty-something’s screw up on – navigate my way around failure, because there simply isn’t time to fall and fall and fall.

But Wurtzel makes a valid point – she has lived a colorful and rich existence. There are the thirty-somethings and forty-somethings women whose day planners are a true testament to raw, unadulterated fun, proof that mouthwatering success can be achieved, and spontaneous nights being wooed and gawked at were only possible sans domestic dues, but these women arrive home at the end of a decade of exciting memories, and still alone. And that deserves, hell that demands respect.

And yet, the war wounds these cougars use to counter-argue the need for babies is proof they can play with the big boys, but doesn’t seem to mend the missing time – the time that could have been dedicated to husband hunting. Seeking out and reeling in the few “good” guys – the ones worth brining back to Mom and Dad. The men who knock you up and rub your feet, forget flowers on occasion, but always remember how to make you smile.

“I don’t want to look back at what was, tell stories of once upon a long time ago, of what I used to do, of the men I once knew way back when, of 1,001 rapturous nights that were and are no more—I don’t want my life to be the trashy and tragic remains of a really great party, lipstick traces on a burned-out cigarette at the bottom of a near-empty champagne goblet.” Shy says….

To mitigate stupidity, laugh off the idea of settling down, barricading my feelings so my only obstacle is the career ladder in which I climb mercilessly. Right. There are so many essays and stories and novels and books written for us. The early-mid twenty professional who stereotypically seem to waste this precious window of opportunity, the years intended to build a foundation for the future, while taking tequila shots and dating .

These are the seconds and minutes that are golden and edible. The question begs for a pregnant pause: How does one spend this time, so when youth begins to fade there is no longer a need for it anyway?

http://www.elle.com/Beauty/Health-Fitness/Failure-to-Launch-When-Beauty-Fades

CHAMPAGNE FOR THE HOMELESS... it's a screwy world...

Exposed skin, matte with dirt, the debris from unending days without a shower, thin hair framing sunken dark eyes, eyes that have witnessed a world I cannot begin to fathom.

Not more than 23. But limp shoulders suggest weathered years far more challenging than her young body deserves.

Walking down the 16th street en route to the magazine, in a hurried pace. Cell phone glued to my ear with my Burberry bag swung over my Marc Jacobs jacket I reek of shallow, and rounding the corner I almost drop my blackberry. Normally greeted with the older men grinning and drunk with crooked teeth and shopping carts spilling with garbage mixed with sleeping bags. My morning has taken an unanticipated turn, encountering this woman who stripped of her ripped clothing would be mistaken as one of my own.

With no dog-eared cardboard scrawled with a pitiful message, she wasn’t begging for money, but curled up against the cold brick. Already stopped, it was too late to walk back around the corner, and pretend to whistle my way around her. Barking bullshit moments prior into my cell, every item carved into my brain, stressing my afternoon out dissipated when our eyes locked.

It wasn’t envy, it wasn’t jealousy, not a strained glare making me squirm with guilt, but her gaze was a simple, curiosity.

This awkward exchange transpired in seconds. Unsure if I should dig through my wallet for whatever cash I had, or if I should quicken my pace past her, I quietly said hello.

She said, hello. And similar to two strangers riding on an elevator, whose lives cross too quickly to care, she intercepted my day in a way I cannot shake. Her gaze shifted back to her feet, which were neatly tucked under her tattered jacket.

Our shared moment was over and I continued to walk toward my office. My warm and decorated office, overflowing with excitement and creative energy, and designer bags, a place where we plan extravagant parties with the intention to rid the world of homelessness.

My gut now emptied of stress was empty with empathy. Not pity, nor distraught with the burden of trying to figure out how to save one girl, instead of Starbucks my afternoon was interrupted with sadness. A reality I’ve easily avoided. But I couldn’t anymore, a woman close to my own age, whose existence is juxtapose to my privileged life, cold and hungry huddled on the pavement ten yards outside of my office right now, and somehow be okay with it.

Oh Drama is fabulous!

“If you’re bored – you’re probably boring.”

Just walked out of the drugstore and of course next to the gum and lighters were the standard Us Weekly and People. Those are glossies I veer away from (and sometimes sneer at), and while the juicy gossip (most of it fictional and apparently so) are delightful to indulge in – an outlet for the humdrum individual to tip-toe into a fantasyland where toned bodies and thousand-dollar handbags are the norm.

How does one separate the drama from our own lives and the drama in the magazines, the “FOX NEWS ALERT” some baby was born in Hollywood… the TV shows dedicated to excavating any dirt on the famous, digging through their rubbish and scrutinizing every ensemble choice… and how is that entertaining? Why couldn’t the energy we allocate to the energy we pay attention to these people… to something more, like ourselves? Or even better – the people we love?

Does one want to separate the drama off the big screen and now the music scene from the trivial drama that gives color and dimension to our lives (or mine)?
And then there is Obama and he was chastised for being a celebrity himself? When does it end… with us? Facebook and Myspace and Twitter and GPS cell phone tracking devices are only helping this addiction we have not just with each other, but a fierce addiction to ourselves. People now have the tools to create their own fan clubs (both real and virtual), but where is the line drawn, or maybe it’s better if it wasn’t… Is productivity a result of all this networking, or are these sites encouraging cultish behavior. Truly what is more alluring than being convinced by masses of people that our existence reeks of celebrity… which is really a screwed up way of saying we illicit curiosity... But I have to say that a spoonful of excitement never did any harm… in fact it’s a lovely, picture-friendly way to show you care about something, that you love them so much to get all dramatic.

I’m guilty: Opening the pages of the mag and when my eyes hit my byline, By: Auna Jornayvaz...A silly tickle starts at my toes and by the time it has snaked its way to my brain (Note: I don’t say ego- my managing editor puts me at my place with her red pen) … I’m focused on my next project, researching the next article, collaborating some sponsorship or scribbling some blog entry. The cycle of running away from the evil of boredom has already begun! And some have the nerve to call me a Drama Queen!

Musicians, Writers and Radio DJs the opportunity to code cryptic messages in lyrics, stories, or poems – privy to the mass public, so while strangers interpret and translate and entangle PERSON A's soul into their own life.... one wonders - what might happen if artists didn't let their soul bleed into the minds of the public? Those who seem to regularly read this blog (and readers who don’t- have voiced their thoughts- AND THANK YOU!!!). And without doubt I’ve exercised this blog in a myriad of ways, from dissing bachelors, celebrating Mark Cuban, missing Australia, but recently I admit the website has been a catalyst to voice my deep fears – not to navigate my way around serious conversations with people who are actually characters in my life, but because these emotional obstacles are ones I believe readers can identify with, and maybe won’t feel so alone when signing out. Emotions that we can rationalize our way out of tend to make us (me) feel isolated, and so if a twenty-something chic can feel the same way – maybe even if their is a solution, there is empathy? And while there is a bigger world out there full of “dancing with the stars” and the magazines and TV convince us our days pale in comparison to the celebs... The drama, the unanswered questions, and the confuisng choices haunt us just the same as any movie star (sans the medication and therapists).

The only thing to fear is fear itself, right? I disagree… my biggest fear is boredom, and what is the opposite of boredom? Not relaxation, not a catnap or a break from the grind, or a round of golf… I’m referring to the type of boredom that strips people of genuine curiously, pushes them into dark, repetitive corners where years pass so slowly without pain or change. Some might say a color-coded day planner bursting with meetings, coffees, spinning classes, football games, dates and exclusive activities is the way to negate boredom…. and while I’m also guilty of that… my fear resides much deeper in my psyche… what if there wasn’t another story to chase? A stranger to befriend? A food to try, a country to visit, a song to hear and later dissect the lyrics - only to try and relate to an artist who doesn’t even know I exist. Who I’ll probably write a letter to only to tell them how much I adore their brilliance….And what would happen if there were no more books to read - the drama of others I can vicariously experience (and learn from)? Could we go back and rehash the past, relive every tantalizing detail – knowing we’d given it our all and our memories can keep us company forever?

Are these times contagious
I’ve never been this bored before
Is this the prize I’ve waited for
Now with the hours passing
There’s nothing left here to insure
I long to find a messenger

Have I got a long way to run
Have I got a long way to run
Yeah, I run

Is there a cure among us
From this processed sanity
I weaken with each voice that sings
Now, in this world of purchase
Im going to buy back memories
To awaken some old qualities – collective soul

I CAN'T HEAR YOU DARLING!

Naked fingers delicately paint the air with earnest volition. A woman in her late thirties is sitting cattycorner from me in a coffee shop. She is deaf. The man across from her has dark skin, maybe in his early or mid-forties. His soft eyes move along with her hands, absorbing and translating. He is speaking methodically, enunciating each syllable. The sounds he is making are of no value to her, she can only understand his lips.

Tables are strewn with textbooks and the small space is littered with Saturday afternoon enthusiasm. People with running shoes and dog leashes are sipping lattés. But through the minutia of the busy coffee shop, his voice is the only one I can hear.

His language is universally spoken and her language is not. I wonder what it feels like to observe life quickly swirling around you, a quicksand of time drowned by silence, and not be able to say anything about it. And the same loud world is blind to her. I wonder if the glass wall is rose-colored, or does she even notice it exists? I wonder if the silence keeps her from her feeling chilly and isolated, as painful words have the power to do. Do voices make her feel invisible or maybe invincible because she might not know how many words, discussions, and feelings are wasted or neglected? Words are so easy to toss around when there is little effort in receiving them. Might there be any freedom in living a life mute of nonsense?

Did they both go to trouble to learn how to understand the other? All that for a date?

It’s odd. Typing and people watching, a joyful scenario any writer can relish, and recently I’ve run out of what to say. My paragraphs are mechanically imperfect and my thoughts lack structured coherence, but every sentence is woven together with truth as much as confusion. Each word inserted not for cadence, but rather for interpretation. Enough of a twist to separate myself from the text messages and emails and bored journalists, you have to reread, only if to forget. While not oppositional, truth and confusion are close cousins, one often resulting in the other, a by-product or a leftover… Life seems to be layered with uncovering truth and subsequently being confused knowing it now exists. Threatening or benign, truth can’t be deleted or recovered, it just is, and the only choice we have is to accept it, or walk away.

“I did let them know our plan was to quietly celebrate in the mountains, just the two of us. Or I thought I made it clear. ” He explained with frustrated scrawled on his face.
About five seconds passed where she deftly orchestrated motions into the air. Not placidity, but she was calm with a reassuring nod.
“I’m sorry. I know you didn’t want a bunch of people over to your place, go grocery shopping and cook, etc. with moving next weekend. Do we need to call a moving company?” His voice dropped an octave.

She didn’t sign back. Instead reached for both of his hands.

I hope I can pack all 171,000 Oxford approved words into my cranium. Extracting the appropriate idiom or synonym, inserting it into conversation, so the person with whom I’m speaking can accurately understand me. But dialogue is a struggle. Microsoft Word allows me to backspace, add and shuffle sentences around, so when I hit save, or send, it’s done with cognizance. Packaged, wrapped with spell check and removed of any extraneous blunders that otherwise would have weaseled their way into a phone call or after dinner cocktails.

And so I digress. This woman gently staring into the eyes of this man, understands exactly what he is feeling and with no audible exchange. I’m starting to wonder if maybe words can be more of a barrier than a bridge.

American Sign Language has 7,200 expressions. Does she desire such dexterity, intimacy with a convoluted vocabulary, 26 letters that if formulated correctly can create literature, masterpieces and lyrics, newspapers and opinions? If you don’t know how the words sound can your conscious talk to you inside of your head? Or is there just the peaceful silence I still fail to locate in my sleep.

Reaching for her bag, a strange emptiness swept over me. I guess these two people, who probably haven’t noticed I’m sitting across the room watching them gave me a silly hope that some things might be worth fighting for, had to go.

Before the two walked away, abandoning me with iTunes and a hundred images to dissect and reassemble. I saw him do something that I know every couple does. He lips parted and without a sound he mouthed, “I love you.”

Ran Away from Freedom

For miles yesterday I ran. I ran away from my to-do lists and piles of laundry. It’s so freeing to watch the world from a pair sneakers, never know what tidbits of life you can see from the pavement. The stories about the couples holding hands, the dogs walking their owners, the strollers being pushed by twentysomethings in maturity clothing, laughing together. Enjoying a moment they're never aware I’m sharing with them, but only for a second, until they're out of sight and behind me.

Viridian camouflage, unmistakable and identifiable from an airport, grocery store aisle, or the front page of the newspaper. The thick material soaked in variations of greens and tans, like a habit to a nun, concealing the body to hide it of its humility, or more likely when it’s a woman, her feminity.

With the bulky boots and stoic expressions, there might as well have had a botox booth set up for the returning army. Underneath the helmet I see eyes looking out to the bodies of civilians that have come to support the troops, arriving in their minivans, with toddles crying and bulky jackets. I’m at 16th and Wynkoop in Downtown Denver and there is a small group of soldiers and a smaller group of citizens, some PR attempt to bring the world back together. The soldiers and the audience are trying to make conversation, polite chatter consisting on anything other than the obvious.

One pair of eyes shadowed by the brim of a helmet catch mine as I run by. I feel guilty that I don’t stop, that I don’t wave, that instead of making eye contact I turn up my ipod and sprint farther away. Running from the eyes that have witnessed a world I cannot even imagine.

The November sunset makes the air chillier and suddenly the warmth of the afternoon has left and my pace is quickened against the gravel. My legs are fatigued and my lungs angry at the altitude. And even though the reality check of soldiers returning home from war is blocks away, I'm not ready to return to my quiet apartment. The soldiers now healed from the shrapnel wounds, the lacerations so horrific, leaving veterans strapped in wheel chairs, those are courageous ones. The ones I want to run up and hug and cry and thank for their strength and endurance. But right now I don't want to. I’m tired.

I reach out at every opportunity I get. I know this. I met a woman in an airport in Austin, she was taking her boots off at the metal detector and I tapped her shoulder, “I don’t know you, but I admire you,” is what I said. She had been deployed several weeks after delivering a baby girl. Can you imagine leaving an infant to powdered milk and instead of rocking and singing lullubyes, hauling a machine gun around the Middle East?

Whenever I see the uniform of patriotism I wince. A bit of guilt for not volunteering as often as I should, a bit of pride to be a native of the same country, but I mostly wince because I don’t want to understand the pain they know, they have felt and that will torture them. I prefer to run far away from the news stations and reality that our world isn’t really the dogs, and strollers and couples laughing over triple vent lattés, it’s a world outside our fictious peaceful American walls. A world where suffering is the norm and people’s only chance for freedom is running away....