« January 2005 | Main | March 2005 »
February 26, 2005
this boy doesn't give love, this boy doesn't get love
I'm awake in the afternoon / I fell asleep in the living room / and it's one of those moments when everything is so clear
before the truth goes back into hiding I want to decide 'cause it's worth deciding / to work on finding something more than this fear
It takes so much out of me to pretend
tell me now, tell me how to make amends
maybe, I need to see the daylight / to leave behind this half life / don't you see I'm breaking down
Lately, something here don't feel right / this is just a half life / is there really no escape? no escape from time / of any kind
I keep trying to understand this thing and that thing, my fellow man / I guess I'll let you know when I figure it out
but I don't mind a few mysteries / they can stay that way it's fine by me and you are another mystery I keep missing
It takes so much out of me to pretend
maybe, I need to see the daylight / to leave behind this half life / without you I'm just breaking down
Wake me, let me see the daylight / save me from this half life / let's you and I escape / escape from time
come on, let's fall in love
come on, let's fall in love
come on, let's fall in love
again
Duncan Sheik
Posted by JudyLa at 06:00 AM | Comments (0)
February 25, 2005
take two when needed for pain
So she comes downstairs and mopes around in the office while I work and her brother plays Diablo. This is day two of a snowstorm-induced vacation and she has no idea, at this point, what to do with herself. She gets the Operation game out and drives her brother nuts by making the buzzer sound for about five minutes straight.
When he makes her stop, she wakes up Spike and chases him onto my chair, torments and teases him until he gets agitated and starts scratching me, whereupon I tell her in a very loud voice to Please Stop It, Now. Of course during all of this I am also distracted by testy e-mail exchange number nine thousand with her father, and I wonder if she's just got some kind of weird psychic connection with me that makes her act out always when my temples start to throb.
She says, lying on the floor and kicking her feet, I hate my life; you have no idea what it's like to be depressed! Her brother sneers Yeah, right; I'm depressed all the time. Jesus, it's the battle of who can be more miserable. (Personally I think I could win hands down, but that's just because I've worked longer at it, so it's probably not even fair for me to compete.) Up she jumps, runs out of the room, up the stairs. Faintly, I hear her bedroom door slam. Spike settles into the wire basket on my desk and closes his eyes.
Her brother looks at me. God, mom, if she's this bad now, just wait until she's got PMS. I think Maybe I'll be dead by then.
Posted by JudyLa at 06:00 AM | Comments (0)
February 24, 2005
What? I was kidding!
Scenes from a life spent playing to the wrong audience:
My sister (to me as we drive home from her graduation ceremony): "I noticed that Daddy wasn't wearing his thousand-dollar hearing aid."
Me (laughing): "Yeah. He says you broke it."
Her: "[silence]" (stony, all the way home)
Me (to a coworker at a part-time job): "Well, I guess we're not going to get rich making $8.00 an hour!"
Her: "I guess not. I make $7.50 an hour."
Me (about the squat machine, to a woman I'm showing how to use it): "It's also good for your thighs, and one of the benefits of having strong thighs is a great sex life."
Her (staring at me as her face reddens): "[silence]"
Me (to my boss): "Well, I met with [the project director]."
Boss: "Did you find out when he needs to have the art completed?"
Me: "God no. You practically have to jerk him off to get any information out of him at all."
Boss: "[silence]"
Me (to a woman standing waiting in line with me in the lobby of the Ritz Carlton hotel to get a seat at the chocolate festival): "Actually I can't imagine much better in life besides chocolate, except for sex and a good martini."
Her: "I wouldn't know. I'm a nun."
You: "I guess I'll be eating all the Girl Scout cookies myself because The Other One doesn't eat American food."
Me: "Even cookies? How come?"
You: "I don't know; I guess American food just tastes weird to The Other One."
Me: "Really? How about American men? How do they taste? I mean, as opposed to Asian men."
You: "[silence]"
Posted by JudyLa at 06:00 AM | Comments (0)
February 23, 2005
shit or get off the pot
I either need to be working toward--toward a stronger relationship, a stronger love, a stronger marriage with you--or away--letting go and learning to accept what's happened and what you are doing and the end. I can't do what we're doing, or at least I can't do it very well, no matter how hard I try--and I am trying so hard, and you aren't helping. Why won't you help me? We sat at the table in the corner and the sun came through the window the way it does when you know you will remember everything, and it was like vacation and we were really together and away, and we had drinks with lunch and said I Love You and it was so. But after, and for me there is always After and I am always not doing so well with After.
I can't be wife-but-not-wife. I don't want to share, I don't want to play nice, I don't want to be the grown-up, I don't want to be The Past, and I'm beginning to find myself contemptible.
You can't make up your mind what you want? I get that, and whatever. Okay. Okay, I can't make up your mind, either, I know that, and I guess I'm not helping you very much by being this. I need to help myself. I need to want to help myself, and I don't, but
I need something else. I. need. something. else. I don't know what, but something. Something else. Something.
Posted by JudyLa at 06:00 AM | Comments (0)
February 22, 2005
not in our stars, but in ourselves
Sunday
You're strong now and will remain so if you make it a point to shun all pity and sympathy, especially the kind you give yourself.
Monday
It's easier to follow a partner's lead than to come up with your own structure. And there's nothing wrong with that today, as long as you choose a partner who actually knows what he or she is doing.
Tuesday
Today packs a mixed bag of emotions. The teenage drama queen/king in you feels that your entire life is devoted to an elusive pursuit. Calm down. There's a different way to see things.
March
Addicted to love? According to this month's [March] stars, it could be time to break the habit. If you're trapped in a stale relationship, it's time to stop kidding yourself that things are going to improve. A full moon in your sign on the 25th helps you make a clean break--if that's what you really want. Be strong! Others have done it, and so can you.
If that's what you really want.
Posted by JudyLa at 06:00 AM | Comments (0)
February 21, 2005
oh, did I say that in my outside voice?
I can't stand to be in the same room with them. My shoulders ache. I come downstairs, sit down to write though I already know it will be pointless to try. I'm clenching my teeth. "Stop it!" "No, you stop it." Footsteps stomp across the kitchen floor. Chairs move. Cutlery against china. Her little-girl voice, raised to that sharp edge that drags across my auditory nerves. His my-voice-just-changed teenaged bellow. I think shut the fuck up.
I also think for about the one-billionth time since last week how much I hate my life. No, really. I hate it. I wonder all the time why I'm doing it, any of it. No answer comes to mind except that I get up in the morning and something, momentum I guess, carries me through until it's time to go back to bed. I never realized how well I could fake being a person. It's not even all that hard except, of course, when it is. Like right now.
Oh well. Whine and bitch, whine and bitch.
Posted by JudyLa at 06:00 AM | Comments (0)
February 18, 2005
full fathom five
Listen, I talk to you all the time. Pleading my case, defending my position, apologizing, arguing. Yadda yadda yadda. Here. On the phone. In e-mails. In my head. Like a tape loop, running even when I can't hear it, or don't want to. Except last night when you called when I didn't expect you to, and you said "I think I'll come down and see her," and when I got home there you were and I could finally Shut Up for a while and just be.
"Daddy's snoring," she said, happy, coming to my bedroom in the middle of the night. There was no room for her in her bed. "He took my pillow." This morning I sat and watched you. It's kind of funny, the things you do forget after spending years getting used to them. How you don't like to sleep alone. How you take over the entire bed. How you don't fall into sleep--you dive into it, all the way to the bottom, where it's so dark you don't have to worry about being found. Unreachable at last.
I lay my hand on your face. Lean down and kiss you, sleeping beauty, oblivious. But not unreachable--no; here you are. I let you sleep. Nice to be quiet for a while.
Posted by JudyLa at 06:00 AM | Comments (0)
February 17, 2005
when she's ajar
Cold men ... woo [women] with something personable that they bring out for show, something annexed to their souls like a fake greenhouse, lead you in, and you think you see life and vitality and sun and greenness, and then when you love them, they lead you out into their real soul, a drafty, cavernous, empty ballroom, inexorably arched and vaulted and mocking you with its echoes--you hear all you have sacrificed, all you have given, landing with a loud clunk. They lock the greenhouse and you are as tiny as a figure in an architect's drawing, a faceless splotch, a blur of stick limbs abandoned in some voluminous desert of stone.
... That is what is wrong with cold people. Not that they have ice in their souls--we all have a bit of that--but that they insist their every word and deed mirror that ice. They never learn the beauty or value of gesture. The emotional necessity. For them, it is all honesty before kindness, truth before art.
Love is art, not truth. It's like painting scenery.
Lorrie Moore, "What Is Seized," from Self-Help (Alfred A. Knopf, 1985)
Posted by JudyLa at 06:00 AM | Comments (0)
February 16, 2005
because the spark is not within me
Spike wants what he sees but can't touch. He sits between the keyboard and the screen and bats at the cursor as it moves. Ears up, claws in, he watches. Paws at the letters. Licks the screen, hopefully. Half-pounces. Stands on hind legs and tries to crawl in. I pick him up, hold him, look into his gray-green cat eyes and say "No," and put him down. He climbs right back up onto my desk and does it all again. Then he looks at me and yawns. Okay. Lies down and purrs. Dozes.
Yesterday on my way to work I wondered what you'd do if I called you and said "Meet me at the hotel around the corner at lunchtime and let's spend the afternoon together." I have an itch that makes me restless and makes concentration difficult. I want you. It's not so bad, a pleasant distraction. Spring is coming. But I know exactly what you'd say if I invited you to spend the afternoon making love with me, which is exactly why I do not do it. Better to burn.
That I don't call you even knowing what you'd say makes me sad; it means that I am resigned to It. "You can't feel like this forever" you said to me, and right about then was when I really started to Give Up. Forever is a long word, isn't it? Forever is back then; forever is up ahead. Right now is what I'm having trouble with.
Because if I do what you want me to, if I Stop Minding what has happened and where you are, then I am afraid I will also Stop Caring. And all the reasons why I keep on, why I try to be patient, why I still love you, will be moot. Just what you want. Is my indifference really what you want? Be careful what you wish for.
Posted by JudyLa at 06:00 AM | Comments (0)
February 15, 2005
I am half-sick of shadows
She got her first Valentine yesterday from a boy she really likes. He isn't in her class this year, but she has had a crush on him since second grade. She called me at work to tell me, called me when I was on my way home to tell me again, and when I got home she showed it to me--a plain piece of paper with a heart drawn on it and "I love you" and his name on the bottom. On the back of the paper she had written the date, time, and place where her beloved had declared his feelings.
She was so happy; it was nice to see after two weeks of slamming doors and crying and being angry--usually with me.
"Mom, did you get any Valentines?"
"Uh huh."
"Did you get any candy?"
"Uh huh."
"Chocolate?"
"Yup."
"From boys?"
"No, except for Daddy."
"Good."
It irritates me that in her mind, her father gets all the leeway in this situation and I get to hang around and wait, like the Lady of Shalott in her tower, until he comes to his senses and comes home. The rest of the world gets to go on with being in love, and I get to be the monument to a wasted decade and a half of my life.
But at work yesterday when a friend said "Are you dating?" I practically reeled in horror. God no. Actually having to muster the energy to be interesting is completely beyond me at this point. Right now, the only good relationship for me is a dysfunctional one. The one where I wait, like the Lady of Shalott in her tower, for you to come to your senses and come home.
Posted by JudyLa at 06:00 AM | Comments (0)
February 14, 2005
be my valentine
My Dearest Love,
I have barely completed my homecoming chores: feed the cat, let the dog from the cellar, fill their respective water bowls, microwave a cup of morning's coffee, change and neatly hang my day-worn clothes, before I must resist the urge to call you, as with every night before this since we have parted.
But before we go to bed tonight, I want you to know how much you mean to me.
...I could never go on without the thought of seeing you, touching you, feeling you, smelling you ... I want to be with you so much. Having your love is my strength and I am so glad you decided to trust me with it. With all my heart, I will never let it go or do anything to lose that trust. I love you; I want to make love to you. I will... My son is lucky to have you for his mother. I am so lucky to have you as my wife ... Good night my sweet.
DHB
Posted by JudyLa at 06:00 AM | Comments (0)
February 13, 2005
be my valentine
I thought I was flying like a bird
so far up above my sorrows but when I looked down
I was standing on my knees
Now I need someone to help me, someone to help me, please
Baby if you need me like I know I need you
there's just one thing I'll ask you to do
Take my hand and lead me to the hole in your garden wall
and pull me through
Jackson Browne
Posted by JudyLa at 06:00 AM | Comments (0)
February 12, 2005
be my valentine
When their mothers' fulfillment makes girls sure they want to be women, they will not have to "beat themselves down" to be feminine; they can stretch and stretch until their own efforts will tell them who they are. They will not need the regard of boy or man to feel alive. And when women do not need to live through their husbands and children, men will not fear the love and strength of women, nor need another's weakness to prove their own masculinity. They can finally see each other as they are. And this may be the next step in human evolution.
Who knows what women can be when they are finally free to become themselves? Who knows what women's intelligence will contribute when it can be nourished without denying love? Who knows of the possibilities of love when men and women share not only children, home, and garden, not only the fullfillment of their biological roles, but the responsibilities and passions of the work that creates the human future and the full human knowledge of who they are? It has barely begun, the search of women for themselves. But the time is at hand when the voices of the feminine mystique can no longer drown out the inner voice that is driving women on to become complete.
Betty Friedan
Posted by JudyLa at 06:00 AM | Comments (0)
February 11, 2005
be my valentine
Study Suggests You Can Die of a Broken Heart
Posted by JudyLa at 06:00 AM | Comments (0)
February 10, 2005
be my valentine
Man is sexually compartmentalized. Genitally, he is condemned to a perpetual pattern of linearity, focus, aim, directedness. He must learn to aim. Without aim, urination and ejaculation end in infantile soiling of self or surroundings. Woman's eroticism is diffused throughout her body. Her desire for foreplay remains a notorious area of miscommunication between the sexes. Man's genital concentration is a reduction but also an intensification. He is a victim of unruly ups and downs. Male sexuality is inherently manic-depressive. Men are in a constant state of sexual anxiety, living on the pins and needles of their hormones. In sex as in life they are driven beyond--beyond the self, beyond the body. Even in the womb this rule applies. Every fetus becomes female unless it is steeped in male hormone ... Before birth, therefore, a male is already beyond the female. But to be beyond is to be exiled from the center of life. Men know they are sexual exiles. They wander the earth seeking satisfaction, craving and despising, never content. There is nothing in that anguished motion for women to envy.
Camille Paglia
Posted by JudyLa at 06:00 AM | Comments (0)
February 09, 2005
be my valentine
All the bedroom lights go out as the neighborhood gets quiet / Everything in heaven and earth is almost right. But there's a wife who's wondering where her husband could be tonight / and when the phone rang only once, she took a dreadful fright.
Little things just seem to undermine her confidence in him. He was late this time last week. / Who can she turn to when the chance of coincidence is slim? Because the baby isn't old enough to speak.
There's been a long honeymoon; she thought too late and spoke too soon. / There's no moneyback guarantee on future happiness. / There's been a long honeymoon. If he's out on a date, then her life's in ruins. She never thought her love could ever be as strong as this.
All the movies and the papers feature the murders of lonely women. / If he isn't in by ten, she'll call up her best friend. Why doesn't he come home? Why does her friend's phone keep on ringing? / Maybe she should just pretend.
Elvis Costello
Posted by JudyLa at 06:00 AM | Comments (0)
February 08, 2005
be my valentine
I am learning so much about you. Ugh. ... You don't even have the courage to use your name and to show yourself without a mask. If you are ashamed of what you are doing, why do you do it?
And I who thought you were so beautiful and who believed in you.
I am worth more than you. ... Your heart ... doesn't exist. You're stuffed with phrases, and you're believed, and paid attention to.
...There is nothing real in you. What I used to love doesn't exist and I'm mad at you for having made me discover it.
Take care that I never run into you, for I would take off your mask in front of everybody.
Good-bye.
I no longer believe.
I no longer hope.
I no longer love.
Liane de Pougy to Natalie Barney (1899)
Posted by JudyLa at 06:00 AM | Comments (0)
February 07, 2005
but enough about you--
To a Young Reader, Part 2:
"The Other One reads your blog, you know," my husband said to me on Saturday afternoon (aren't coincidences amazing?). My first response was "Nuh uh." "Oh, come on," he said. "You mean you wouldn't read it if The Other One had a blog?"
You know, I think I would not.
Would I want to know about you? Not really.
Would I want to know what you think? Not really; anyway you and I are so much alike that I know what, and how, you think anyway.
Would I want to know about your life together. Shit no.
But you read mine, and now I am in a strange position of needing to explain myself about some things. So here's the deal:
1. I write my blog to keep from going out of my mind. I don't write it for an audience but there's something in me that likes an audience, and that's why I don't keep a journal that nobody could see. But mostly I write it for me, and I write it for him. I write what I write so I can remember what things felt like, even though most of the feelings have been ones I wish I'd never had to feel.
2. I don't make things up. I try very hard not to embellish. The things I say people said, they really said. I don't encourage conversations that I can quote from; that would be Cheating, and I don't cheat.
3. I write from my own perspective, about my own feelings (except for 2.) and my own crappy situation. I put plenty of mortifying information about myself in my entries, but I prefer not to mortify anybody else if I can help it. That means I don't set out to deliberately hurt other people. Partly this is because I kind of enjoy my position as The Innocent Wronged Party, and don't feel like jeopardizing it by being a jerk.
That said, I understand you read, and were upset by, the Cigarette Conversation entry.
I've got to tell you that 75% of me says "big fucking deal." On the other hand, as was pointed out to me on Saturday, in this case I might have used somebody else's words to put my own feelings out there. That's not such a bad thing, but the other person was my child, and that, while not such a bad thing, was not such a great thing either, and as much as I dislike being censored, or censoring myself, I think that I should not do that again.
On the other hand, now you know the lay of the land, so to speak. The natives are friendly if they have to be, but they've got teeth. Just like real people.
If I might make one suggestion as regards this, if you have a complaint about what I've written you need to talk to me, not to him; he can no more explain me to you than he can explain himself. Really, I'm serious. You know my e-mail address, you know my phone number--jesus, you know where I live, for heaven's sake, not that I think you'll show up at my door.
Posted by JudyLa at 06:00 AM | Comments (0)
February 06, 2005
Hey Attention is like publicity, wether its good or bad your still getting it
To a Young Reader, Part 1:
One of the things most of us tell ourselves every day is that we like ourselves. I don't mean we stand in the mirror quoting Emile Coue at our reflections (Every Day, In Every Way, We Are Getting Better and Better); I mean we live our lives so that we see ourselves mirrored back to us in the eyes of the people that we work with, live with, are friends with, parent, love. We like and are liked. We love and are loved.
I guess if we all lived alone with our mirrors and with the people who help us see what we want to see about ourselves, life would be great. But unfortunately life is a lot messier, and it's inevitable in the course of the one we've been given that we're going to have to deal with being hurt--and with hurting other people.
People hurting us ... well, there's not a lot we can do about that. Shit happens, & c. Us hurting other people ... that's a little bit more problematic. It's harder to actively pursue a situation that you know causes another person, or people, pain, and convince yourself that even though your actions might say otherwise, you're still the same great guy you see in the mirror. It's harder, but it's not impossible--people do it all the time. "I couldn't help it," they say, "You made me." "I didn't know what I was doing." "I have a right to be happy." "I'm in love." People tell themselves what they need to hear so that they can keep right on hurting other people and still feel worthy. It's what we need to do to survive, to live with ourselves, isn't it?
The funny thing about this is that we not only convince ourselves that what we're doing is justifiable, in the process we convince ourselves that it's (somehow) also okay with the people we hurt that we keep on hurting them. "They'll understand I can't help it." "They'll understand I deserve to be happy." "They'll understand that I'm in love." Now, the people in pain might very well understand, having felt the way at some point in their lives. But "understanding" is not the same thing as "liking," or even "accepting." Understanding only means that they aren't going to call you up every day and scream at you, or be rude to you if they see you, or slash your tires. Understanding protects the wounded; it helps them follow societal rules and remain civil. And if you need to badly enough, you tell yourself that they treat you well because they like you.
Because you've told yourself this pretty story--that you are liked by the ones who, ironically, have the least reason to like you--it's a shock to find out that who they are when they are in the same room with you is not at all who they are when they can be themselves. The people who appear so genuine and guileless while they are with you, accepting your presents, laughing with you, even showing affection, are the same people who sigh with relief once they are alone because they don't have to pretend any more.
Children are especially good at this, I think. Children are all about self-preservation, and they can--and will--adapt to any situation they have to if they think it will help them get what they want and need. In simplistic terms: If they have to eat broccoli to get dessert, they'll eat it. If they have to enthusiastically walk the dog to get their allowance, they'll have the leash out first thing in the morning. If they think they have to accept The Other One in order to keep their father's love, by God they'll do it with a smile and top it off with hugs and kisses. It's really remarkable, isn't it?
But I think you can see that eating broccoli isn't the same as enjoying it. Walking the dog with a smile doesn't mean you wouldn't rather be home watching television. And having to like somebody isn't the same as choosing to like somebody.
Posted by JudyLa at 06:00 AM | Comments (0)
February 05, 2005
casting call
I meet you outside my office building holding your backpack, which is redolent of Hawaiian Breeze air freshener and infinitesimally lighter than it was when you forgot it at our house the other night, due to the absence of a note that read "Have a great work out! I love you."
You watch me walk toward you and say to me as I hand it to you, "You look great--you could be a model." Right. I might prefer this in another model.
We walk to Starbucks, you talk about work, I listen. You drink a cup of coffee, we walk back to my office, you kiss me good-bye, and you leave. See you later. You send me an e-mail when you get to work: Thanks for having coffee with me. Right.
Lately every time I see you it feels like an audition. I know I probably won't get the part--it calls for acting skills beyond my range--though that doesn't stop me from wanting it. But I try not to be obvious. I try to be on my best behavior. I try to be pretty. I try not to relax too much.
Showtimes: Wednesday evenings, Saturday afternoons, the occasional cup of coffee, a phone call if you happen to be alone. It's only pretend, but it's what there is, and maybe the director will like me. Right.
Posted by JudyLa at 06:00 AM | Comments (0)
February 04, 2005
be my valentine
Women fuck ... because, like men, they are trapped in a biological universe where the species that do not propagate disappear; the traits the survivors harbor--lustiness, speed, canniness, camouflage--are soaked in these disappearances, these multitudinous deaths. Sex is a programmed delirium that rolls back death with death's own substance; it is the black space between the stars given sweet substance in our veins and crevices. The parts of ourselves conventional decency calls shameful are exalted. We are told that we shine, that we are splendid, and the naked bodies we were given in the bloody moment of birth hold all the answers that another, the other, desires, now and forever.
John Updike
Posted by JudyLa at 06:00 AM | Comments (0)
February 03, 2005
across the great divide
As I watched you walk up the path to your car, good-bye, I realized that I was exhausted. We wear each other out sometimes.
I let the dog back in, closed and locked the door, turned off the outside light, turned off the lights in the living room, went upstairs, took off my clothes, put on a t-shirt, and got into bed. I remembered I still had my make-up on. Oh well. I stayed in bed, listening to the state of the union address with my eyes closed and letting dubya's voice--usually an irritant--lull me into unconsciousness. I was asleep by the time you called, 20 minutes later.
She and I were awake at 1:30 a.m. I felt her forehead: hot. "Do you need some medicine?" "Yes." Downstairs I poured a glass of Coke, drank some. Brought the rest upstairs, took her temperature. Gave her ibuprofen, cold medicine, the Coke. "I can't sleep," she said. "You can watch TV downstairs if you want to. Jack and Spike will go with you. Turn on the lights if you're scared." She got out of bed, didn't come back until 4:30.
When I came downstairs an hour later I listened to your message. I guess you'd called from your car. Your radio was on, and your voice seemed to come from a long way away. I couldn't make out anything you said; the music and static scrambled most of it. Turning it indecipherable.
But it had been a night where I couldn't even understand you when we were standing face to face, hadn't it? I want to ask but I don't ask. I want to know but I don't want to know. I want you but I don't want who you are. And so it goes.
Posted by JudyLa at 06:00 AM | Comments (0)
February 02, 2005
butt seriously,
So Sunday afternon, she and her brother and I are sitting in the kitchen watching the snow fall, having conversation about not much in particular, and she says
"I'm going to talk to Daddy about not smoking."
I say "Why?"
She says "Smoking can kill you."
I say "But you know Daddy doesn't smoke; The Other One does."
Silence. Then "Well, The Other One can keep doing it."
Posted by JudyLa at 06:00 AM | Comments (0)
February 01, 2005
countdown to ecstasy
A couple begin to know each other because, first and foremost, they know so little of each other. Everything is surprise. When there are no surprises left, love can die. Sometimes love yearns to recover the wonder of its earliest moments but inevitably comes to realize that the second time around the wonder is nothing more than nostalgia.
Carlos Fuentes
Posted by JudyLa at 06:00 AM | Comments (0)