Stream of Consciousness

Thought I Was Mistaken

It’s not twelve. Not just yet. And I just put down the phone for the night; the girl woman I like has gone to bed. And I’m in the kitchen, getting a drink of water. And as I put the cup in the sink, I pass the refrigerator on which an image of you rests beneath a magnetic frame.

Grandparents PequenoThere are times, when the depression deepens, that you used to visit me in dreams. Where my subconscious took the form of you to reassure or give me advice. It’s been a year since we’ve spoken. Much longer in reality. When I started the antidepressant, everything went silent. The voices stopped. My mind became less clear.

Are you still there? Are you still there? Are you still there?

The echo is cold, dull.

It’s like a toy box, a twirling ceramic ballerina turning inside my skull. A brain on fire. And it slips out from a deep sleep. It yawns. It cracks a smile. And I’ve been running through the subconscious, screaming out for you. Because it’s awake again. And it knows.

Books · Writing & Writers

When did this start?

Pic Unrelated

It might have been a mistake when fellow writer Ronnie Garza let it slip that I was a “staple” in the local poetry community. Otherwise, I’m just being humble. I don’t believe anyone would agree with either or. I managed to go from hiding in the shadows to leaving them to returning to them in only a span of five years. It’s a feat that I don’t think anyone has managed before, at least not in my world. It started when René Saldaña, Jr. introduced me to Amado Balderas in April of 2005. Had it not been for that single moment, I don’t think I would have stumbled into the Nueva Onda Poet’s Cafe, or taken stage. Which would have led me to not have the balls to run for president of the local chapter of Sigma Tau Delta. I wouldn’t have taken over the poetry group, renamed The Nameless Poetry Group, during Amado’s absence. I wouldn’t have met great writers like Richard Sanchez or Dr. Anne Estevis. Nor would I have met Amalia Ortiz, Dagoberto Gilb and Richard Yañez – also great writers, but not local ones. El Senor and I wouldn’t have been friends and X-Cell One Would have just been a cell phone store to me, rather than the moniker of Donovan Maldonado. I wouldn’t have had the balls to approach the Pan American with the article for the cafe, which would have led me to never meeting David Robledo for a job with The Paper of South Texas, discarding my chances of ever meeting Reverend Adam Zuniga. I wouldn’t have made such great friends and acquaintances like the Abbies, Mike, everyone from EMO. Which means, I wouldn’t have heard of Mike’s bookstore and I wouldn’t have been one of his outstanding customers. And if it wasn’t for that fateful night in April, I wouldn’t have been even considered a staple of anything because I would be unknown and the name Guillermo Corona would just be on some roster. To say this started with Amado, however, is giving one man too much credit. Credit that is easily spread throughout every English teacher who believed in me. To my grandfather, whose tales inspired me to read and write. To my mother who fed and still continues to feed my addiction every birthday and Christmas by buying me books, notepads and whatnot. To the friends who held me up when life was getting me down. How do I get to every single person who has inspired me, supported me, pushed me toward some greater state of being, of thinking, of writing? And to ponder why I want to return to college is silly. I only would I like to work hard to get my work published some day, I’d like to be that first domino to fall setting off a great chain of events in other people’s lives. Is that so hard to understand?

Doldrums

For What It’s Worth

Some heroes were writers...

…Others were those  responsible for my upbringing.

It takes a village to raise a kid was pretty much the mentality my family held. Grandparents and a single mother, aunts and uncles – these are the people who provided me with the books I loved, the rides to school, the encouragement to follow through my dreams. And while they each play an essential role to the person I would become, I cannot acknowledge them all in one post. It might take several posts – each of their own – to fully show my appreciation.

At an early age, my father walked out of my life. This included the typical “special appearances” throughout my life in some half-assed attempt to be part of it. The only father figures I had were my grandfathers. My maternal grandfather, from which I take my name, tended the fields, pulling his family throughout the state in the means of work. You may not know the name Guillermo Pequeño, but back in the 60’s he was responsible for growing one of the first bales of cotton for the city of Donna, TXMeanwhile, my paternal grandfather opened the Corona Shoe Repair shop, which still operates to this day, under the management of my uncle. I bear both their names and heed to their message of hard work, work that means something.

Both male figures in my life were taken from me three years apart. I was in the third grade when my maternal grandfather and in the sixth grade, my paternal grandfather suffered a fatal stroke. I sought paternal figures in my teachers, in the heroes of the books I loved so dearly. And in the women that continued to raise me.

My maternal grandmother and my mother are true feminists, despite their not knowing it. And while they both subscribe to old ideas of a woman’s place, they also lived the life of women who knew when it was time to take charge of a situation. Until her death my ninth grade year, my grandmother was devoted to her gardening. She taught me that no matter what life threw at you, you kept going. Even with sutures in her throat, she focused on the only task that kept her busy. She knew no down time other than sleep and moments when her age caught up with her.

My mother, very much like her’s, never knows when to give up. From an abusive husband to raising three sons on her own, she never crumbled under pressure. My mother was very much like a real parent, allowing me to make my mistakes without too many restrictions. She guided me when I needed it, but left matters into my own hands – ever ready in the sidelines to help pick up the pieces if I should ever fall. She supplied the books on my shelf, the paper and notebooks, pens and pencils, typewriters and computer that I need to start my first thoughts. She collected every article I published, every letter I wrote, every magazine that featured my name.

[thought incomplete]