ralaguerre said:

What will you be painting if you have an idea already?

I did one of my favorite flower: Irises

so I’m gonna go with my mother’s next: Sunflowers ^_^

she’ll like to have some more art for her office. she’s got tons of posters I bought for her and people always ask her what my actual art looks like so I’ll make this for her it’ll be a nice surprise


ralaguerre replied to your post: yes i procrastinate

i wouldn’t call them flaws, more so idiosyncrasies or peculiarities that embody the individuality that comes with being your own person. It’s something to be admired, and appreciated, so procrastinate away,and enjoy the extra time.

thank you ! 

i didn’t think anyone read my random rants lol

I can remember coming home one day with my older cousin, back when I lived in an apartment building in the middle of Flatbush, Brooklyn. While I was a bit more sheltered, I wasn’t blind to life in the streets. My cousin, being four years older, grew up in a slightly different era of New York, he was tough. Like all cousins, we fought often just to pass the time (this was something all my male family members did) and I was the youngest and the smallest, but I always held my own. I enjoyed our sparring matches, I was a born fighter. These familial battle royals were my saving grace whenever I roamed the streets of Brooklyn on my own in my youth as scrapping was a part of growing up.

So one day, as we enter our building, two guys who were loitering about my cousins age at the time, square up on us. Fists are flying, for no reason other then we walked into the building, they’re not from here, and they’re carousing. We walked away fine, bruised them up a bit but that instance was a taste of life, and what it could be—it’s real out here. When we got upstairs to my apartment, I remember vividly seeing my cousin cry for the first time (where it wasn’t due to a beating from a parent). He voiced that he was sick of having to fight for everything, how it’s just hard to escape that living where we lived.

Those words never left me. As much as I loved to fight, I realized there’s a difference when you’re fighting because you want to and because you have to. What’s fucked about being a kid in the hood is no matter how good your upbringing, you still have to fight. Shit, I’m still fighting today, it’s just a different arena.


Closer and closer I get. Closer to tomorrow. Closer to meeting someone new. Closer to drifting away from someone old. Closer to leaving for New York (my home). Closer to reconnecting with friends. Closer to leaving them for Paris. Closer to realizing my dreams. But, the closer I get, the further away I go.

je ne suis rien

I am nothing. In saying this, I do not mean to devalue myself or to downplay my worth. It is merely a reminder that I am a container, and whenever I find myself overflowing or imbalanced (due to an unsteady mind); all that is necessary is for me to return to a state of emptiness. Also, I mustn’t forget my fluidity. In nothingness is the secret to everything for I can be infinitely adaptable. Tonight I center in meditation—je fais le retour au néant.

Writing Intensive: Nights of October 028

Who am I? My name is Rinaldy Alvarez, but what does that mean? I inhabit a country of which most cannot or will not say my name correctly. I am other but on the surface I am black. What does it mean to be black? Is it defined by my complexion? For some I am not black enough. Questions of where are you from? Brooklyn. No, where are you really from? On paper, I am a citizen of the United States, but I don’t identify as an American, my ties are to New York City and beyond. Both of my parents were born in Haiti. Does that answer your question? Does it qualify my otherness or my Haitian-ness? What if I tell you my father is half-Cuban and my mother half-French? Does that change me? Or how you see me? When you look at me all you see is black. English was not my first language, yet it is the one I think in. I feel comfort in French, it is the language I dream in, and Creole is home, it is the language I reminisce in. Colonialism has compartmentalized history and my self expression along with it. This country tries to compress all that I am into black, in an attempt to devalue my nuance, my cultures. My name is Rinaldy Alvarez. You will twist your tongue to say it the right way, for I will always be other.

les aveux d'un voleur…

Cease everything you are doing and look at me. Stop everything, save for relinquishing your heart. A heart that I will have stolen before you have read this. This is my confession. I am a thief. It helps to feed my carnal desires for your flesh. When I feel most alive is within the confines of my all consuming passion. Some want freedom from desire, but I find freedom through desire. The excitement sets me ablaze during our elegant exchanges where I tempt you so. We play with le fleuret knowing that eventually I will pierce you—your body collapsing into my embrace as you writhe in pleasure. Mine own pleasure derives from yours, and I would risk my life for it. Why am I this way? Who can know? The rush of our deadly dance allows me to forget all, and yet, to distantly remember all as well. Run and seek me not. But if you stumble upon me hold me, for there is nothing left to steal from you (we are both empty shells). When you have held me, kiss me. Love me. Fuck me. Save me. Are you the one that will keep me captivated whilst setting me free? The eyes of the divine have left me long ago. And so, if you will gaze at me, cease what you are doing. Stop everything, save for relinquishing your stolen heart. Let me know that I am enough. 

" In my past, you on the other side of the glass
Of my memory’s museum
I’m just saying, hey Mona Lisa come home
You know you can’t roam without Ceasar ” (à Rome, Italy)

A passing blur pulled my eyes from my book, and I watched as a beautiful lady sat across from me. Although, I returned to reading my book, for brief interspersing moments my thoughts were with her (and not the words on the page before me). In fact, I had to reread a few paragraphs. I found myself looking up sporadically. She discovered me doing the same as our eyes would meet and she would slowly look away.

Was it her curly hair—of which I have a weakness for—peaking out from underneath her hat? Or the way she swayed with the moving train? Perhaps it was the way she managed to glow under the harsh fluorescent light if the train car. Whatever it was, I am grateful I was able to witness her beauty in between the lines of a book during a short train ride.

Perhaps under a different setting I would have introduced myself, but something feels off-putting about approaching a woman when you’re both confined to a given space, hurling through space and time—plus this is New York City transit here. Alas, what is one to do?