Una raya más al tigre

It’s Sunday night, which means the week’s volume has finally been bound together. I made it to 30 miles this week after a rough two months with injuries. This morning’s long run reminded me just how important it is to direct my attention toward preparation during humid seasons. I nearly thought about throwing in the towel at the two-mile mark, but my magic is seeing something all the way through.

I suppose the positive surrounding all these injuries is that I’ve had to solutions architect my body back to some sort of functional state. Through trial and error, it’s apparent now that slam ball explosive work is the new fountain of youth for me! I only wish I would’ve done this sort of work in my prime. Can’t look from the corner of my eye for too long, though.

Can I remain injury-free? That is always the question for me. Trying to sync my mind and body is like trying to pull together two helium balloons. As I age, you would assume the opposite of this, but my vocabulary isn’t as sharp as it once was. As a runner who thrives in solitude, I don’t fully understand what that means for me yet. Most runners won’t ever understand what it’s like to have a fall-off, but I have faith that I am, and that I have been less!

My confidence continues to blossom and dissipate. I’m gaining more perspective on the mural of my personal history. The more I dive into things that are of value to me, the more integrated my thinking feels. The conclusions of my mind feel true to me.

A component of this has been learning the bajo quinto. I love Nirvana, Elliott Smith, and Arctic Monkeys, but my heart is always with them norteñas. The language, themes, and musicianship of it all bring out the brownest, loudest, most extroverted expressions. It keeps me young at heart :) I spent about an hour yesterday mapping and riffing away to Duelo and finally getting the hang of the heartbreak rhythms and plucks.

What does all this have to do with running? Because it’s a form of re-learning what expression feels like. Integrating all that I love builds my charm. Tyger, tyger, burning bright!

And so, some other things:

I may take a summer art class at a local creative arts center. Something about a Wednesday where I work, run, and do an art night class sounds like I’d go to sleep pretty content. I’m thinking I may go for mosaics. Who knows—maybe this could lead to some sort of La Chapelle Matisse / Joan Miró future home interiors?

Most of my free time has also gone toward researching places for my solo summer travels. The three contenders are:

Portland, Maine (Acadia National Park)

Bergen, Norway

Oaxaca

When I think about Maine, I think about standing in the first place the U.S. sees the sunrise. When I think about Norway, I think about 19-year-old Mexican me saying, “Hei, hvordan kommer jeg til…?”, Trolltunga, black metal, and vastness. When I think about Oaxaca, I think about my heart.

Y pa’ presentarme, tengo que contarles,

Erik

No digas que no pienso en ti

Would you agree that the sound of surf is the most soothing form of white noise? Picture an early morning hike suffused with it. 

While we are on the subject of thinking & imagining, what is it about a sound with no words & always a slight variation to it that makes the mind start remembering stories? 

When the trail finally led me to the shore at Torrey Pines, & I looked out at the Pacific, I remembered something I had told M.

En febrero, después de no vernos por un rato, decidimos correr en la Katy. Íbamos a paso de tortugas, tratando de contarnos todo lo que nos habíamos perdido en solo treinta minutos. Era imposible. Me había preguntado qué había hecho para mi cumpleaños, y le dije que planeé un viaje a San Diego en vez de Maine. Me acuerdo que le andaba explicando que si tuviera que escoger entre montañas y playas, mi preferencia era montañas, fácil. Le dije que la arena era un desmadre para quitar de los pies. Me acuerdo que nomás sonrió y dijo que a ella sí le gustaba. 

Cuando caminé la orilla del mar, cambié de mente. Me valio madres el desmadre de la arena. 

But it looks like our time of sharing epiphanies & hearing what we wish to change about ourselves was something brief.

Probablemente, 

E.T

 

Por volver a probar a que sabe el amor

 About a month ago for my birthday I vacillated between two corners of the U.S., San Diego & Maine as the destinations for some much needed time away from Dallas. I ultimately ended up going with the west coast purely on the examination of the weather forecast. 

Day 1: March 27th. 

This hoodrat's first time in SoCal commenced with an ill-fated start. 

After sketching out how I'd spend my time, I showed up to the rental counter for what was going to be a much-needed set of wheels. Skrrrrt!

I flashed my ID and debit card to the car rental agent eager to get the day started at only 8:30AM. The daydreams of nature, food, runs, and perfect city walks flashed like anchovies through my mind as I let bro complete the rental process. 

¡Pero, zas, cabrón!

"Your card isn't going through, do you have another one?"

😐 typical card chip reader error that I always go through, I told him to try to clean the card chip because I definitely did not lack funds. I saw him try again, and again. 

"Your driver's license is expired as well by the way. Do you have another one?"

D'fuck?!?!!??? My daydream quickly turned into what felt like another hazy dream. I looked at my DL and saw the 2/14 expiration date. I kept looking at it, hoping the date would magically not be true. I fumbled through my wallet thinking I must have given him an old one, but no. All reality. Hijo de su reputísima madre...

"No. fucking. way" I said, bemused, laughing in disbelief. I told bro that I couldn't believe how I didn't see this. We both found it amusing. 

Thankfully, I am alive in modern times. The chariots-for-hire, known as uber, would be my primary mode of transportation. The first of many Ubz to escort me on my ventures was a lad named, Cuauhtlah. When I hopped in his car, there was a paper plate with kid handwriting that said, "#1 Dad". A simple proof of love. Fucking awesome. I couldn't help but tell him, "Oye, tu tienes nombre de Azteca!" We quickly bonded over the history of the Aztec & Mexica, about my fuck-up, San Diego, & family. Fuck the car rental. He dropped me off at the center of Little Italy where I devoured an egg & cheese panini. See pics of the day's unfolding:

Also, the plane ride from Dallas to San Diego made me realize that La Firma is our version of pop-punk norteño. More on that later. 

Mueres de ganas, 

Erik T.

Eres tú la droga de mi cuerpo

 
There might not be something better that getting untouched notebooks on a rainy day. I keep a zebra sarasa clip pen behind my ear during all hours that involve me being at my desk. There is nothing more joyous than reflecting on a problem, jotting ideas down, seeing a bunch of personal hullabaloo on a paper. Hieroglyphics for the future, no doubt. I'll currently be trying to feel these two notebooks out for the year. The last notebook I completed was almost 500 pages, containing several sides of my life between 2016–2019. It is my most prized, locked, possession. I'll be approaching my expression with these two notebooks a little more differently.

The Leuchtturm1917 will likely be filled with all sorts of wander. It will likely be the one I brainstorm, journal, and travel with. I am in desperate need of an executive assistant at work, so I have dedicated my first page reflecting on how to designing a system that is grounded on many, many layers of AI-Human collaboration research. Building that is likely what I will be dedicating my weekend too. 

The Hobonichi Graph Notebook will be dedicated none other than to my bajo quinto lessons / バホ・キントのレッスン . Ya tu sabe! The bajo quinto has turned out to be quite the challenging rhythmic engine. On top of that, tabs are scarce! I'm currently relying on Youtube Tios from 12 years ago to show me the way. My deepest respects to these lads, as learning by ear is a skill I have yet to hone. Current evening operations revolve around mapping out Eres Mi Droga by Intocable. I need to visit Zapata, Texas, and all these border towns that gave origin to these bands. What were these tios seeing & living to make such timeless music for the culture? Who's the muse? I'll keep the pen gliding crisply over this paper until I find the answers. 

'09 Farweezy err whaaaaaa, 

Erik T.C.

Aquí tienes las llaves de mi alma

Madrugué como a las 6. Fui al mandado. No tenían aguacates. Hice plática con la señora cajera. Nos pusimos de acuerdo en que las aseguranzas son una tranza. Nos reímos. Vio que me compré un Alani Nu. Dijo: “Ten, este no te lo voy a guardar para que te lo tomes ahorita”. Neta que sí. Me lo tomé en ayunas. No había tráfico en las calles. Desayuné cuando regresé a mi casa. Abrí mi computadora a las 7:30 a. m. Revisé mi semana y resumen diario. Me hice un té de limón y jengibre. Construí, le piqué, me senté con él y desplegué una parte de un nuevo sistema de automatización. Ignoré correos electrónicos. Tomé agua. Luego un té verde. Acabé el trabajo a las 5:30 p. m. Me calenté un sándwich de pollo, espinacas, mayonesa y queso. Me fui en chinga a la laguna para ver el atardecer. Llegué tarde para verlo. Me comí mi sándwich. Espanté todas las moscas a mi alrededor. Escuché “Las Llaves de Mi Alma” en repetición como por 15 minutos seguidos. Anocheció. Tomé el camino largo a casa. Canté en voz alta. Y ahorita me voy a dormir. 

 

Se me están cerrando los ojos,

Erik

Valentine's Baby: Quiero Decirte

 

February, el mes de amor, ends tonight. I wish my mind's mess was a little more sorted out than from the 1st, and although for a moment I felt like my emotions & thinking patterns were getting more organized, but recently, this zig-zag operation feels oppressing to myself. I can't seem to catch up to my own self. 

On Wednesday, I ran with M in what was likely the most beautiful afternoon run all month. It felt like the first one we ever did on NYE, when time & injuries ceased to exist for a moment because of the way she asked questions, the way she listened without hurry, the sudden look she gives me when I say something that peaks her interest. I keep thinking I should warn her about how disarming she is to me because people don't normally get me to talk that much. Es como si estuviera estrenando mi voz. A part of me wants to apologize because I don't feel I have matched her level of curiosity enough. If there's one thing I hope I'm wrong about, it's that I hope I haven't come across as selfish, because I feel like I have been. 

And so, unfortunately, my injuries do exist when I'm not talking. February proved to be el mes de desamor. I'm 99% sure I won't wake up tomorrow morning for the Cowtown half fully recovered from a week-long knee injury & a month-long feeling of shit. My plan is to still wake up early to test it out, so I'm seeing this to the very end. Currently letting a big aah bowl of pho settle down before hitting the hay.

Lastly, I went back for the bajo quinto because, fuck it. Siempre le sobre peinso. As I start to tame work's madness more effectively, I'll be spending a portion of my weekends learning music again. The thought of sunny afternoons maneuvering my fingers to Costumbre's Queiro Decirte in March also sounds life-promising to me. Ojala que me escuche todo el vecindario y digan, “ese pelado esta enamorado o que?”

February ain't over 'till I say so, cuuuh.

Dando un chingo de vueltas, 

Erik

East Dallas

Feb '26

Valentine's Baby: To Neve Never Never Wonder Why At All

Si tuviera hijos, no me gustaría que me vieran pegado a un teléfono.

Si tuviera hijos, los entendería por los ojos.

Si tuviera hijos, les encantarían los ritmos y ruidos de nuestra casa.

Si tuviera hijos, nunca se me acabaría la paciencia.

Si tuviera hijos, les haría preguntas sobre su vida.

Si tuviera hijos, me burlaría de que estoy viejo y corro más rápido que ellos.

Si tuviera hijos, les leería todo tipo de libros cada domingo.

Si tuviera hijos, les escribiría cartas largas para sus cumpleaños.

Si tuviera hijos, sentirían lo bello que es estar en la naturaleza.

Si tuviera hijos, me la pasaría preguntándome si lo estoy haciendo bien.

Anyway, sippin' on some lemon honey tea after writing all that hypothetical stuff. Today was possibly the most sunrise-sunset day ever. It's only 9:44 PM & I don't feel my attention span expanding out into haphazard directions. It looks like I'll be sleeping calmly tonight. 

Cowtown half marathon is another story, but only one that time will let me figure it out. 

Breathe in, breathe out, 

Erik

Valentine's Baby: Que si lloré, también amé

La primera vez que le dije a mi apa, "love you, pa" y lo abracé fue cuando tenía 20 años.

Me acuerdo que me sentí súper raro. Casi esforzado en vez de algo natural. Pero me acuerdo que era algo que planeé metodológicamente.

Cuando era niño, mi apa tomaba mucho. La mayoría de mi juventud fue observando que el alcohol era algo paralelo a lo que era él. Nunca me gustó porque cuando se perdía en la noche y no regresaba, siempre había peleas entre él y mi ama. Y cada vez me ponían en medio para solucionar sus cosas.

Me acuerdo que en esos años pensaba, "¿Por qué mi familia me estresa?". Llegaba a la primaria y me ponía a pensar, "¿Será que mis compañeros de clase pasan por lo mismo en sus casas?". Nunca pude concentrarme en la escuela sabiendo que la noche anterior había una pelea. En clases, en vez de escuchar a la maestra, le daba vueltas y vueltas a la pregunta, "¿Cómo estarán mis papás?"

Y como todo niño quieto y callado, me puse a observar y analizar las dinámicas de mi familia. Sentí que era mi responsabilidad averiguar cómo crear paz en mi casa.

Mi apa no era una mala persona. Nunca nos pegó, nunca nos gritó, nunca le hizo daño físico a nadie. Nomás que creó una distancia entre nosotros y él por años.

*I'm doing a breaking news interruption to note that a stranger just handed me some Japanese sesame rice crispy looking treat for watching her laptop. Hell yeah!

Sin haber leído ningún libro de psicología o escuchado nada sobre el alcoholismo, yo solito me hice una conclusión,

¿Será que mi papá está triste?

Miraba la forma en que sus ojos se ponían cuando llegaba tomado. El tono de su voz era diferente. Como que se aguantaba de decirnos algo pero no podía. Y las noches siguieron terminándose en peleas.

Como todo niño creyendo en magia, me dije, "¿Por qué el amor que tengo para él no es suficiente?"

Cuando mi cerebro se fue evolucionando hacia la adolescencia y empecé a sentir una tristeza que me tragaba igualmente. Mi corazón no quería guardar resentimiento hacia él, pero sentía que dependía de mí cambiar el rumbo de la dinámica de mi familia al prometerme que nunca iba a tomar. No podía aceptar que la vida de nuestra familia siguiera así. Tuve que sentarme conmigo mismo y entender todo lo que sentía en esa vida. Tuve que notar cómo mis emociones se correlacionaban con mis actos, cómo los procesaba, qué cosas aliviaban, todo por querer entenderme y ver los hechos de mí, para, en una forma, ver realmente y ayudar a mi papá.

No sé por qué mi intuición me dijo que ese era el camino, pero no me quedaba de otra. 

No estoy ni cerca de lograr todo lo que me propuse en aquellos años, pero ahora sé que no era ni es solamente mi responsabilidad. Mi apa sigue siendo algo distante, pero ahora dice “te quiero” sin que se sienta incómodo. Me acuerdo lo difícil que fue para mí decirlo aquel fin de semana cualquiera cuando salí de la casa para regresarme a la universidad. Sentía que las palabras pesaban toneladas.

Y todavía hay muchas cosas que quisiera que mi papá pudiera decir con más vulnerabilidad, abrir más su corazón, nombrar lo que le duele. Pero espero que el tiempo haga su trabajo.

Al final, cuando tenía diez años, elegí el amor para hacer que las cosas crecieran. Y a los 32, sigo eligiendo lo mismo.

In the words of Chente Fernandez, 

"Porque sabrás que un hombre al fin

Conocerás por su vivir

No hay por qué hablar, ni qué decir

Ni recordar, ni qué fingir

Puedo seguir hasta el final

A mi manera"

To feeling fully, 

E. Tristan

Random goats at White Rock Monday night. 

Valentine's Baby: De Fresa De Uva Y De Coco

Turned 32 yesterday.

As mentioned before, I have not been feeling the best in any way or form. So when you're down bad like I was, sometimes a little gift for oneself makes the day feel not as heavy. Being born on Valentine’s Day makes me an expert in all things love (not), and yesterday, I kept thinking to myself, “You know what? I would love to finally buy a bajo quinto!”

The bajo quinto is a 10-string guitar used by norteño bands with a much deeper sound than a regular 6-string guitar. It is the sound in a song that makes couples sway hand-in-hand on the dance floor to some of my favorite bands like Duelo, Intocable, Pesado, Estruendo & Costumbre. Fun fact: I’m currently listening to “Soy Como No Soy” by Duelo in the interior design corner of HPB.

It was always one of my many dreams as a kid to be in a norteño band, & clearly I never became one, but adulthood is the time for more intentional dream chasing. So I set off to Guitar Center, ready to drop cash on a bajo quinto—fuck it!

When I got there, I went straight to the acoustic guitar room & scanned the whole wall for one. I’m there looking one-by-one, anticipating the “finally found you” moment. Finally, I hit the corner of a wall & see a very norteño-designed guitar.

“Aha!” I thought as I approached it to get a closer look. Empiezo a ver a un morrillo medio takuache approach it as well. I’m thinking, shoot, he may be getting this too.

Since the instrument was locked, we both stared at it & my eyes went to the price tag. $1300.

“¡A su madre! 😬😬” I screamed internally. I was hoping to spend around $700, so this was about 53% more than what I wanted to spend. Given I had just bought my plane ticket and stay for San Diego, the investment didn’t seem fitting for the day.

We both pretty much walked off at the same time.

I’m walking around for another 5 minutes trying to see if I missed one, and I suddenly hear bro plucking something undoubtedly beautiful to my ears. ¡Corridos! Corridos at Guitar Center! I love to hear it. I go back to one of the other rooms to get a better listen & I see him jamming with 2 of his friends. I couldn’t make out the song; it didn’t sound like corridos recios. It was something more sierreño. Think of Los Diamantes de Sinaloa. Regardless of the subgenre, they were killing it. I was fighting the urge to say, “Man, can I jam with you all?!?!” or at the very least, since they looked to be about early 20s, “Don’t ever give up on your musical dreams!” But my shyness overtook me & I walked out.

I ended up just roaming around GC for a bit, looking at the guitar pedals & electric guitars.

Suddenly I hear el mismo morrillo walk behind me along with a store employee. I hear the store employee tell him, “I can’t have people constantly coming in and just banging up the instruments, man. You know? We have to sell these instruments.”

“Yeah, no man, I completely understand,” dijo el morro.

Shit didn’t sit right with me. I remembered the same employee’s tone with another kid when I had walked in (I don’t even have to tell you the race), & unfortunately, it wasn’t as policing.

Couldn’t help but feel a sense of regret for not saying anything to los morrillos minutes. Con ganas de regresar al cuarto y decirles:

“Oigan, ¡manden a este puñetas a la chingada!”

To be a tío & say, “¡Tocan con madres!" To be like, “I’ve been jamming hard as fuck to Los Hijos de García lately!”

Unfortunately, I left it at that & I don't have an answer, like many of the other things. I need to step up. If it has to be in my own quiet way, so be it. 

As I start off 32, I can't forget that little scrawny Mexican kid who heard Gerardo Ortiz for the first time. When people saw that music as naca & attached other negative connotations, I saw it as an opportunity to reshape people’s mental correlations. Perhaps the theme of this year is learning to defy everything that these social media platforms are telling us. All the norms, archetypes, advice, opinions... it's up to us to introduce new conglomerations. 

Díganme algo, perros.

Erik

We could do anything you want to do

I'm on a plane listening to Afro Blue by Rhyan Douglas back to Texas.

Y estoy viendo a una pareja como de unos setenta años al otro lado del pasillo del avión. Yo creo que los dos tienen mucho frío porque empezaron compartiendo una cobija sobre sus pies, y ahora, a medio vuelo, alzaron la cobija hacia sus pescuezos. Están bien acurrucados.

Algo me llamó la atención de ellos. Creo que fue la forma en que la señora miró y sonrió con deleite al señor, casi como en una forma de “ay, corazón, sigues siendo el mismo y te amo”, o tal vez como si hubieran compartido un momento insignificante y se vieron y, de la nada, se sonrieron juntos sin explicación. Un idioma mental que nomás ellos saben.

Me dio mucha felicidad ver las arrugas de la señora.

Minutos después, vi que el señor recargó su cabeza en el hombro de la señora mientras ella jugaba Solitaire en su iPad. Qué momento de amor tan chingón.

Me puse a pensar,

¿De qué se rieron?

¿A dónde van?

¿Cuánto llevan juntos?

¿Cuál fue su última pelea?

¿En qué creen?

¿Cómo se conocieron?

¿Qué les gusta compartir juntos?

¿De qué se hartan?

Do I captivate your mind?

Erik

En mi vida fuiste turista

As you can imagine by the title, my Saturday is currently decorated by bad bunny's bolero tune as I savior some cream cheese & strawberry toaster strudels for dinner. 

My stomach is fucked up right now. Not sure if I ate bad garlic bread earlier this week, but the body is currently experiencing a system failure. Not to mention, mentally I'm at my wits ends. Work has been absolutely demanding cognitively & I'm struggling with capacity to balance other life responsibilities. 

Y si todavia no vali verga en tu imaginación (LuisMi?!) I DNF'd for the first time at a race, no less a 10k 🙃

No manches. The body and brain feel heavy & slow. Please, please, please forgive me if I lack strong decisiveness. I'm not showing up as my best self right now. 

As I think about my last post, what then does being a slow-poke come across to people? 

I refuse to lose my magic in this algorithmic world. 

Anyway, I'll be flying out to Kentucky tomorrow to fulfill some professional development as a new AI solutions architect. Kinda ironic, right? That's the magic I'm referring to. 

Mirándono a los ojos,

Erik 

Skinny Love

Para mi morenita

Llegué a ti sin haber terminado de sanarme, y me veo como un cobarde frente a ti; me vi como un inútil, miedoso de pensar en agarrarte los cachetes, besar tus labios y que me consumas. Tal vez nunca vas a saber los planes que tuve en mi cerebro pendejo para sanar lentamente tu alma flaquita y profunda. Nunca voy a poder decirte: sí, sí sabes muchas emociones. Nunca voy a poder hacerte las preguntas que te harían pensar, como hiciste pensar a mi corazón en vez de a mi cerebro roto. Me duele un fin que nunca empezó. Nunca nos vamos a derretir juntos. 

No sé por qué pensé que iba a funcionar. 

Para mi morenita, tu conexión me sanó un poquito. 

Running has brought me so many beautiful things over the years. That was one of them. 

Sundays are so depressing, 

Erik T. 

La Patrulla

Just shy of 2 hours from arriving to h-town (who? Mike Jones?). It's the inaugural Mexica road trip in La Tahoe, and we've shifted from jamming to la Que Buena, to Houston's Eagle. What better time to write as the mind wanders out to the vastness of agricultural lands. 

I'll be running the half marathon after a string of injuries this past year. At the moment I feel healthy physically, but there's definitely quite a bit of residue left from a rough 2025. As I watch my comrades stress eat, can't help but be aware of my own nervousness as well. The evaluation part of me feels like it wants to consume me into the black & white abyss. Whatever happens tomorrow, I'm grateful to be able to toe the line again. Maybe I'll find the answers in these 80s rock guitar solos Guero is playing for us.

El aventurero,

E

Odiame - Live

 Brain feels a little foggy this week. Not sure if it's because of the weather change or what, but the strength required to concentrate lately is a little concerning to me. As I live day-to-day, there's noticeable differences in my attention span compared to a few years ago. Could it be the 30s exacerbating certain conditions? Who knows! 

Running has taken an equally sharp decline this year as well since the Dallas marathon. I lost all motivation to train due to constant injuries in the spring. Summer felt like I was about to get back on my feet, but around June I ended up getting a knee injury that I can't seem to fight off. That's why in a couple of minutes, I'll be heading out for another 16 miles on the bike now that the rainstorm has passed. 

It feels good to write again. 

Lately, I'm not as expressive as I used to be. I'm not as creative as I used to be. I'm not as fit as I used to be. I'm not as patient as I used to be. I also don't feel as smart as I used to be (don't think I ever was, but the feeling is there). It's a weird feeling when you think about it. Regardless though, I know, I'll find my way back to myself. 

I'm about to pop on some Grupo Vanguardia while I go out for a spin. 

Too much life is mood,

Erik

The Way I Are

The idea of the future self is a quiet presence with an undeniably certainty to me. Who I'll become on my last day has been shaped by the ability to absorb, process, and express an infinite array of experiences. Writing provides this profound pleasure for me. 

As I was attending to my library, I came across a collection of notebooks containing the most unvarnished journal entries of my tempestuous self. Given my interest in natural language processing (NLP), these personal writings crystallized an interesting problem, as you know, I'm interesting in how a runner's training notes could reveal insights into their mental model development and performance narratives, potentially illuminating the relationship between their psychological framework and physical performance. 

But let's open up the parameters to embrace a more personal perspective. Below is an experiment using layered sequential prompting with Claude for temporal narrative mapping. The idea can be seen as a way of creating deeper understanding of individual growth and development, particularly for people like myself navigating complex cultural and personal identities as a way to understand the natural rhythm of who we are becoming. 

Initial Setup Prompt:

"I have personal writing samples spanning from 2016-2024. I'd like to conduct a comprehensive temporal analysis to understand my growth, writing evolution, and character development. Please analyze these entries chronologically, focusing on emotional states, writing style, recurring themes, and personal growth. I am a first-generation Mexican-American male looking to understand my journey."

Temporal Analysis Sequence:

First Analysis Pass:

"Examine these initial entries from [YEAR]. What immediate patterns, writing characteristics, and emotional states do you notice? Pay special attention to:

• Writing style and structure
• Emotional undertones
• Core themes and preoccupations
• Personal challenges and growth areas"

Comparative Analysis:

"Now looking at these entries from [LATER_YEAR], what significant changes do you notice in:

• Emotional processing
• Writing sophistication
• Theme complexity
• Self-awareness
• Problem-solving approaches"

Cultural/Personal Context:

"Given my background as [SPECIFIC_CONTEXT], what unique aspects of my development stand out? How does my cultural/personal background influence my writing evolution?"

Character Development Deep Dive:

"Based on all entries analyzed, create a detailed persona tracking my evolution. Focus on:

Core personality traits and their development

Emotional maturation

Intellectual growth

Writing style evolution

Relationship patterns

Cultural identity development" 

Pattern Recognition:

"What recurring themes, challenges, or growth patterns emerge across these years? How do they evolve or resolve over time?"

Growth Trajectory:

"Based on this temporal analysis:

• What potential growth trajectories do you see?
• What strengths have developed?
• What areas still show room for development?
• How has my approach to challenges evolved?"

Synthesis Request:

"Create a comprehensive narrative of my development from [START_YEAR] to [END_YEAR], integrating:

• Major growth transitions
• Writing style evolution
• Emotional development
• Cultural integration
• Key turning points
• Future potential"

Also, there is only one song appropriate to begin 2025 right now. This one!

生々流転,

El Mil Colores

SOUTH OF FRANCE

Now that my marathon training is over, I can dedicate a few hours to writing down the corners of my memories before they gather dust. 

Let's begin the details of la chinga de mi vida. 

The week of the marathon began with a kind of mortuary care preparations at the barber's chair. The only proper way toward a metaphorical kamikaze is to have the crispiest fade for the farewell, eh? With the year closing out, the only worthy direction of the conversation was, "How was your Spotify wrapped?" The theme of endings is at the forefront this month. 

Before I could even begin thinking back on my Wrapped, she cut, eagerly, "Man, I've been waiting for you to come in so I can show you something. Look at my top songs." She leaned her phone close, and all I saw was Future. Future, Future, Future.

"God damn! 😂 You really are a Future fan!" I laughed. 

Now, since my middle school days, I’ve learned something important: the more trap music your barber listens to, the more seamless the mid fade becomes. And with the discussion of Future’s albums pumping hood ambition straight into the air, I could feel my barber dialing into her swagger. And there I was, sitting receiving the secondhand end of it all for Sunday. 

Friday found me trudging through the rain, phone hanging on by a thread with only 10% battery, my senses alive with the buzz of the expo crowd. I made my way to claim my race bib—thin, yet carrying the weight of my identity for the next few hours. This randomly generated number, 1711, would define my ambitions for a fleeting moment. 

After the expo, I had that sinking realization—the marathon was gonna unfold under less-than-ideal conditions. Forecasts weren’t cutting me any slack—8am, 57 degrees with 80% humidity, climbing up to a sweaty 67 by the time I thought I’d be crossing that finish line.  Historical data also shows that I tend to run several negative deviations from normal in similar forecasts. But one of the beautiful things about data is that, in some cases, the point is to steer off the trends. 

And the fact is, I was dead-set on embracing these imperfections: to be calm and die like a lunatic!

My alarm rang at 5AM. No hesitation. No weather check. I splashed my face with cold water, followed my usual morning routine: ate a bowl of oatmeal, chugged electrolytes, gathered my pre-packed things, and headed out the door. This was one of the first races in almost 10 years that I didn't feel weight from my own words. I realized I had finally conquered a haunting human experience I've written several times about on here. 

As I drove through a barely visible road, I played one song. Una Raya Mas al Tigre by Julion Alvarez. My people have the ability to paint perseverance, self-determination, resilience, and the realities of dealing with criticism so beautifully. Singing along, I let the words pour into my tiger spirit:

"Esto no me tumba y le doy pa adelante

No cualquier batalla dobla a los gigantes

Una raya más al tigre, qué más da

No le doy

Para atrás

Puro para enfrente, como los aviones

Si el barco se hunde, salimos a flote

Me caí ciento una vez al caminar

Y ciento dos veces me volví a parar

No voy a rendirme"

With extra time, I decided to hang out and stretch in an empty convention center. Observe the meditative space above . It straight up reminded me of an Arctic Monkeys TBHC era music video.

But when a big objective approaches time dissipates quickly. Around 7AM, I walked with my comrades to the bag check area and perform a few dynamic stretches before the gun went off.

The city air felt like we were invaded by a dense, suffocating cloud. 

"¡Necesitan que le bajen a la humedad, rápido!" Chaparro joked, twisting an imaginary stove knob.

“"Y sí," Guero replied, his eyes scanning the crowd. 

I could tell by the way my mates' eyes were wandering around that they were nervous. Not much comprehension between our dialogue was happening. I was trying to figure out where I could piss for the third time in the morning and figure out where I could locate a water as I felt my lips drying out from just standing there. 

We dropped off our bags, pissed, and walked to Corral A. 

And so, as I toed the line, I muttered to myself silently, "Sí puedo, sí puedo, sí puedo, sí puedo."

When the airhorn blasted, I eased into my pace, refusing to let the crowd sweep me along with them. Young Street opened up before me, and the views of the city were wrapped in a morning haze. We looped a mile around the edge of downtown before climbing up Oak Lawn for the first uphill section. The cheers were propelling. I found this section to be my most mindful and relaxing. The 3:15 group was around 15 seconds in front of me and I opposed to push the pace not knowing plot twists could rise up in the later miles. 

After the marathon and half marathon split, we descended down Gaston into the lake. The slope of the downhill was steeper than I expected and found myself creeping closer to the 3:15 pace group without trying. Around this point, I knew there were still four more small but steep hills waiting for me before the half marathon, so my plan was to continue to coast until then.

But surprise! 

As we ran up the first hill on W. Lawther Dr. I felt my cadence lower more than I anticipated. And then again after the next hill, then again, and then again. My legs in a matter of minutes felt like bricks. The fog over the lake was thick thick. As runners passed me and vanished into the lake's road, many more appeared after experiencing a similar feeling to what I had just felt. Among them was my comrade, El Guero, walking around mile 11. 

"¿Qué te pasó, Guero?!" I gasped as I ran past him, trying to keep my breathing.

"¡Agh! Me siento muy gacho. Me duele el pecho," he muttered, defeated, as I sluggishly ran past him.

By the time I got to mile 13, the pace decrease was unmistakable. 

 

Mile 16 held a significance all on it's own.  Family resides in the marrow of moments for me and in the 12 years I've been running, there has never been a race where I had several of my loved ones united for me. To see a mere 10-second fragment of my mom, sisters, and nephews' flailing their arms around and voices ringing through the fatiguing air for me was everything I needed. 

"¡Vamos, Erik!" "¡Go, Tío!"

Ah, the immensity of words from people you love.

And what perfect timing, because at this point, the physical was no longer enough; it was the mind that had to carry me forward. 

As we made our way out of the lake, and back to downtown, the devil of all hills awaited. The Gaston hill. The air, thick and humid, clung to me, and the world felt heavy. The eternal challenge was on. I pressed forward. Never looking down. 

As I was climbing up, I saw my comrade Alex holding out a water bottle for me. I unwrapped my salt pill from the aluminum paper, he ran next to me and was like, "¿Cómo te sientes?"

"Ya voy bien jodido." chugging down the salt pill. But as I passed the liquid down, I realized it had a carbonated sweet taste?

"¿Qué es?!" I gasped.

"¡Cafeína, para que le des más recio!" Alex replied as he took the water bottle back. 

"Ah chingao 😂"

"¡Dale! ¡Dale!" Alex screamed as he fainted back with the cheering crowds. 

As I reached the top of Gaston, a numbness settled in my quads. 

"I've been here before." I reassured myself. "You can go faster."

I grabbed two cups from the water station and poured them over my head, exhaling in relief. 

The last 10k -- downhill, but no less excruciating-- demanded the deepest perseverance. My legs no longer felt like the fluidity they had before, Each step felt like a monumental effort. I clung to the simplicity of mantras to detach from the physical feeling like a madman. 

The mind is the last to break, and so I told myself, again and again: 

"Mas, mas, mas, mas, mas, mas, mas, mas, mas. ¡Quiero más!" I demanded.

I distorted my reality, bending it into something I forced myself to accept:

"I'm not suffering. I'm not suffering. I'm not suffering," I thought, seeking safety in the repetition.

And then, the final verdict:
"I'm going to do it. I'm going to do it. I'm going to do it," I vowed to myself. 

And all I felt in that moment was the freedom that only comes from the tension between the self and the world being finally, mercifully resolved.

Posted on Reiger,  

El mil colores

I Dream of You

It's now standard to feel blasted by madness on a somber Sunday. 

I spent the remaining hours of the evening reading over an old book about huichols acquired from a dusty bookstore years ago. I gathered notes on some terminology they used that I hope to research, wrote a few personal sentences about today, and now I'm writing some more here. 

Before that I had the sudden urge to plan out a classification & clustering model while eating leftover Halloween candy. Didn't go too far besides the action plan. 

And if we rewind further back, this morning I concluded my last long run before the Dallas marathon. Perhaps the taper is messing with my neuronal activity. But the world feels consumable! 

All has been done. Every resource inside of me will be used to its full extent. I have no option but to exert myself with all my might. I have visualized what I will say to myself as I walk to the start line. I must not forget my own words. This is the first time in a very long time where I feel I have made progress in my self-confidence outside of running and I will do my best to channel that inside the race. My spirit feels calm. Like I'm talking to the sea on an airless night. 

Hydrate well, 

E.T. 

Primo

It's November and most days feel like a dim chandelier now that the sun clocks out pretty much the same time I do. I spent Saturday morning deep cleaning and in a battle of absurd proportions with a militia of tiny winged invaders known as gnats. Then pretty much buried my face in the evening reading poetry and experimenting with prompt engineering.

Training hums a long steadily. I've been circling the lake in utter darkness lately. Sometimes the only glimpse of life I get out there are the commuters near Buckner and Garland. The loneliness makes me a little apathetic in its initial phases, but I always find a way to solidify my purpose. 

Wednesday's menu was good. 

6 miles easy +

6 x 1km w/ 3 min. rest + 

3.5 miles easy. 

Averaged around 6:11/mi for the km repeats which I haven't been able to do with my achillles issues for more than a year, so I'll note that as a win!

This morning I had my final big marathon workout:

3 miles easy +

6 miles @ MP +

1 mile easy +

6 miles @ MP +

2 miles easy +

Only a few weeks left! 

Onwards forever, 

Erik

Dicen que cambié, pero sigo siendo yo

 The world is my idea. 

That's easy to remember on a stormy night after dinner, but the quotidian pursuits we must engage in... well, maybe I'm simply forgetful. 

Training has been going well. On Sunday I'll be up at the ass crack of dawn hitting the elusive Japanese drills before my half marathon. The forecast seems unfavorable, but as the Hagakure goes, any chance to choose between life and death as a samurai, choose death. And when you've been 100% defeated, you still have time for one more move to die with honor. That's how I'll be starting the morning. 

A few hours ago, I had a striking feeling occur to me as I grilled my chicken. There is a deep conflicting feeling in me that I am not working smart in the way the national environment I happen to habit in has been programming in us to work. Hence the above statement. There are days when I feel like I am synthesizing a knowledge architecture of my own that can help me alter the current state of the environment I live in for the better. New ideas in training, community, and living, to say a few, but there are days when I realize, yo... I'm .FUCKING. stupid wey lol. 

The other day, I mentioned to a colleague that I'm amazed at how fast people can deconstruct a problem and come up with solutions. I, on the other hand, sometimes feel like a crockpot, the rate at which I am "cooking" is so slow. It's like my brain goes too damn far, to the point where it's like, I'm way the fuck out here?! Perhaps a gift and a curse in this society. 

Another night learning to be myself.

Building the confidence to pursue what I find a meaningful life with my own traits, even when it clashes with societal expectations, is still a challenge for me though. 

There's no turning back now. 

Dime si soy o no soy, 

Father Karras Jr.

Myke Towers - Poder Adquisitivo

Have I Lived to See The Milk And Honey Land

 Just finished watching An American Crime on Netflix and I feel disgusted. A group of people turning a blind eye has to be up there in things that will leave me baffled. The conformity, moral disengagement, lack of empathy, and desensitization, tanto pinche cerebro y nada. While this was an extreme situation, I see it so often in the small understated scenarios life presents us with. Most days I feel Confucian, pragmatic, and optimistic, but when I see shit like this, I often think, am I not living enough to know what's really possible? I remember grappling with this feeling in my early 20s; it faded between 27 and 29, but now, at 30, I feel this frustration coming back. 

When I would bring these thoughts in my runs, I remember using mantras to channel this feeling. The looping sounded something like:

"I want to represent something good. I want to represent something good. I want to represent something good."

Each time with more fury and intensity in my inner voice. 

"Pinche, Erik. No estás sufriendo. No estás sufriendo. No estás sufriendo. No estás sufriendo. No estás sufriendo."

Do the right thing, 

E

Visions - Stevie Wonder

Los mares de la realidad

Last night I had, for the first time, a Moroccan dinner at a tiny spot in Dallas called Baboush. Picture the joint adorned with tear-drop lanterns with filigree detailing, mil colores like, sandy beiges, and burgundy reds, heavy draped curtains, and a gentleman in the corner riffing a mandolin so mystically. I couldn't help but feel like I was in an infinite loop in that part in Por Un Segundo when Santos says:

"Y ahora por un segundo me ahogo en los mares de la realidad,

Por un segundo acepto mi derrota, te perdí de verdad"

Sheesh! A dawg really fucked with the place!

Much love to those with the neurons to savor taste at a euphoric level. This feels like a first for me. How else can you experience the soothing melody which makes the soul waltz in jubilation, soften like twilight, and liberate itself like a drunken dance? 

Anyway, today, I spent the meat of the day trying to develop a thematic function for text data using LLM APIs. About 2 hours of work and ended up hitting a wall with the Google API. Grr. More on this topic later because I'm really set on figuring it out. 

Here's the training menu:

Sunday 

Marathon Workout

2 miles E + 8 miles @ MP + 1 mile E + 3 miles @ MP + 2 miles E

The workout felt much easier from a couple of weeks ago despite the humidity and increase in stimuli. Went out a little too hard on the 8 mile section so I think next time I'll have to make better efforts to control myself psychologically. Left achilles hurt a bit on the 3 mile section, but overall felt decent. 

Monday

AM: 6.8 miles E

PM: 3 miles E

Today we celebrated our labor efforts so no alarm was set this morning. Wanted to see how it felt like to wake up whenever my body decided to and have to say that it was the most refreshing feeling ever. Stepped out the door around 9:30AM and ran on the Santa Fe without a care for time. Evening run was equally enjoyable through my neighborhood hills. 

Tuesday

PM: 5 miles easy + 6 x 100m

Picked up my mom from the bus station pretty early so missed the morning. Afternoon run with El Guero in the rain. Legs felt really heavy so cut it short to be ready for tomorrow's workout. 

Wednesday

Threshold Workout

6 miles easy + 3 x (2 miles @ T w/ 2 min. rest) + 2 x (1 mile @ T w/ 1 min. rest) + 1 mile easy

Thursday

E

Friday

AM: 6

PM: 3.3

Saturday

6 easy + 6 x 100m 

Speak soon, 

E.T.

Standing with the fury that they had in '66

The hourglass for the marathon was flipped this week. Sand stops for no one, so avoid keeping your eyes on it. 

If I had to choose a singlet design for race day, it would be inspired from something like this: 

And from this!

Anyway, 

Week 18-till began with brutality:

Sunday:
1 mile easy + 6 miles @ marathon pace + 1 mile easy + 5 x 2km with 2/min. rest + 1.5 mile easy. 

Total: 16 miles. 

First marathon workout of a 3-week cycle accompanied by El Chaparro & El Guero. To have people just excited for an ass-beating like you is a privilege. Lost contact with Guero around mile 5 of the workout so from there to the finish was solo effort. Properly fueled this time so I didn't crash like the week prior. Thankful for the cloudy weather. Overall felt good!

Monday:

AM: Easy 5

Legs were so sore. Through the Lakewood hills with Abigail.

PM: Strength workout

Tuesday:

7 miles + strides 

More Lakewood hills with Abigail.

Wednesday

AM: 5 miles

Dark humid morning. Abigail joined me on the latter part of the run. 

PM: 2 miles easy + 4 x 1 mile w/ 1 min. rest. + 1 mile easy

First time doing a workout with morning miles under the engine. Wasn't sure what to expect, but did notice legs were completely dead at the warm-up. Surprisingly, once I got the workout started it was just a matter of controlling the threshold effort to the finish. Originally planned for 5 x 1 mile, but had to cut it do 4 =(

Thursday

Rest

Friday

AM: 5.5 miles

Hilly route. 

PM: 3 miles + strides

Saturday

5 miles

Swangin', 

El Mil Colores