The mind, a dormant stone

You made me, yet you disclaim me: relative sown in the blood shed the massacre made to relish over new religion the known god -- an unknown doctrine placed in the hands of egoists, exploring the new world in search of gold riches. fame fortune glory. The Spanish ego; but you made me -- blood of red tierra the Navajo, the one people of the sun. Fortune? Glory? You are part of a bigger being -- Mother Earth, Madre Santa, la tierra del soul. my earth. Don't seek gold when the hands you crawl on are filled with emptiness and lies fortunes left to drought alongside the thousands of dying soldiers this side and the next. Forever young, I'd mourn my blood wonder why I could never be pure enough... Mestiza -- you Mexican? You White? You American? You Black? You Indian? You Pocha? You Primitive? You Chicana? You Spanish? You Latina? Hispanic? Have culture? What are you? How about if we gut you and mix the pieces around until it makes sense to us? Tell ...

When you woke up today, did you think of yourself as performing for someone? Are you on a showcase for superstars? A new reality of your own to make shine... What if you reached up to grab at your knees pull them inside your chest, caving; the carving of anatomical complexities, just wide to imagine. Open your mouth and let the air flow in like a falling star from gravity entering beyond orbit into lungs, beating heart -- a hobby. I breathe, to make myself more useful. A hobbyist. Open large, exhale loud -- a hobby. Just an action to a reaction to an action, deliberate or not. A hobby. Talked on the phone today heard from mom and dad. They seemed to want to care today. Seemed to feel the need to understand their daughter, a living entity all on her own, a living victory of their mismatched seeds. A final exam of master-hood. Creation. Yet, still my breath to them -- a hobby. - Jessica M. Wilson